tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270706082024-02-27T20:47:33.626-08:00Azulraiku Rain Energybbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-41347163755471139402017-08-28T09:09:00.003-07:002017-08-28T09:09:52.317-07:00Master Teacher<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirAnJxaFLY9WUZUpMQhNdfpr3WbutK2Bke13iuiqpUwmegaaybbbSrLoc7-Y6y6M_AByhyphenhyphen3obf7j5gGMSR_egVN1qRwQBQWgp9gJV_xgsM7cpXL_d9uQmCJtyVXHkL874D0Z1h/s1600/share_temporary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirAnJxaFLY9WUZUpMQhNdfpr3WbutK2Bke13iuiqpUwmegaaybbbSrLoc7-Y6y6M_AByhyphenhyphen3obf7j5gGMSR_egVN1qRwQBQWgp9gJV_xgsM7cpXL_d9uQmCJtyVXHkL874D0Z1h/s320/share_temporary.jpg" width="180" /></a></div>
My lesson begun in silent observation of his choice of Yes or No. Awakened to form, color, tears and his goodbye......where sleep was once an infinite bed of love created between the two of my parents. I knew not where his footsteps led but always prayed they would detour to still find me waiting for his return. In days of no him, he taught me the power of imagination to assign life purpose and direction when there seemed to be none. He helped me to understand that all life was valuable and to identify its correlation to my own. Everything I extended, invested and offered life, I offered him. None of which could pay for 17 years behind bars and coping mechanism to refute the pain that came with cages and distance. "Hi Dad..... It's Kelly." "I'm sorry....I do not have a daughter." I don't remember how many times I repeated "It's me ...... Dad. It's me." Waiting for him to remember the tone in my voice to ignite heart strings fragile and worn. I would be physically before him less than 24 hours later to prove I was real and breathing. The tables turned....he now waited for my footsteps to return to him. My footsteps found him blending into buildings of city blocks hungry. My footsteps walked beside him for short stints of time to days where there was no him. In our synchronized walking he warned of energy vampires and made queries of my happiness. Other times there was no walking just him hiding before me where I remained still out of reach. Detoured footsteps became deliberate decisions to stay away because he did not want my help. For my own mental health, I don't know how many more times I could leave him on the corner Webster Ave and 14th street because homelessness was his choice. A messenger was sent whispering my father's name enough that I picked up the phone after 5 years of no communication. He knew me this time and wanted to see me. I oblige his wish to find him withering away where there was no love or concern. Thank God for a childhood friend that showed up in my absence while I deliberated what to do. On everything I knew love to be I kidnapped him. This choice brought all the lessons I avoided about deep connection and the imbalance you can suffer. To rage war in his defense was a thoughtless act if it meant his health and his happiness were at state of compromise. This love demonstrated the responsibility life demanded concerning everyone involved. As I struggled to battle systems and culture that feed off the weak and poor, depression lingered in as my father took up the sword to fight for my health and happiness. His adamant strokes of fierce clarity would not allow me to be swallowed whole. He demanded I master me first in this unfamiliar terrain of wanting more for him than he wanted for himself. No help would be received as he awaited for a report of my alignment. His eyes scanned over me reading my energy and assessing if I had learned. With a simple head nod, I had passed only after failing. Outside of love being this energy that binds, it also the energy that affirms while teaching. We have a choice to love fiercely while accompanying others on our journey. Even in the times where we may be out of view or out of reach, love is strong enough to deliver us exactly where we want to be. For love is the Master Teacher.bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-33150776259267304232016-04-27T14:46:00.000-07:002016-04-27T14:46:49.816-07:00Ninguna Mujer Ningún Grito<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLDdMoEdhWgUO4vW9pc3qC9dJz3OaR1bH4E2fZoD2LGRBq5XipxQeCcyC45S9dIVUABepFhcGzErxhSfH4m8HcvlgDPJbX8SXuZEzj-i5Vblg-LoDt1TONbeaqr85KHRZrRbb/s1600/PH161_021.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494398865020711554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOLDdMoEdhWgUO4vW9pc3qC9dJz3OaR1bH4E2fZoD2LGRBq5XipxQeCcyC45S9dIVUABepFhcGzErxhSfH4m8HcvlgDPJbX8SXuZEzj-i5Vblg-LoDt1TONbeaqr85KHRZrRbb/s400/PH161_021.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 128px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 170px;" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">She sat at the base of the elongated mirror. Legs wide as if preparing to birth the root of her. She told herself the story one last time to hear the weight of truth it bore. Woman lesson come fashioned not in the wisdom of a grandmother's tongue but on the back of a loud whisper stating "When people show you who they are, believe them". She had come to believe a number things. Her hand searched the darkness for the scissors. In her grip, she clearly and consciously inserted the blade into the life line that connected them. Eagerly freeing herself. What the blade could not master, her hands entered the center of the heart chakra pulled the remains from her thoracic. Left hollow she emerged into the oil scented water bathing her spiritual wound with lemon, "Ancestors help me." She returned to the warmth of the enveloping sea.</span> </div>
bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-11705396191334751862016-04-26T16:35:00.000-07:002016-04-26T16:35:20.567-07:00Powerful Warsan Shire<br />
<a name='more'></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpmKBAhzhEWHZoRHdsmA1bEJxGXKGxUZGzFPg5TVDIF-3lkIk8GDKKA_bEyGPp5aJZs6tLSSirCIPM09Zw2y-4mDSAbzB0uQSZZaGTH_1wuTFG8HCkFTspWGdMK573MEOcImH/s1600/w.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqpmKBAhzhEWHZoRHdsmA1bEJxGXKGxUZGzFPg5TVDIF-3lkIk8GDKKA_bEyGPp5aJZs6tLSSirCIPM09Zw2y-4mDSAbzB0uQSZZaGTH_1wuTFG8HCkFTspWGdMK573MEOcImH/s400/w.png" /></a><br />
<iframe seamless="" src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2370451667/size=small/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; height: 42px; width: 100%;"><a href="http://warsanshire.bandcamp.com/album/warsan-versus-melancholy-the-seven-stages-of-being-lonely">warsan versus melancholy (the seven stages of being lonely) by Warsan Shire</a></iframe>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-54554583678764214642010-08-19T03:57:00.000-07:002016-04-26T17:32:21.083-07:00A Man's Pain<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXLPleJVJ6JET8SM6Mld7UCGzhkSfavaA2wuejhTnawyRG9LFRWrO1K21l8d6M5zh8ViVd-ViYskOgGhQf1vo1-OlLFXxyJmyt4n3dWJ8Tpn626nA00Qe0KwkdLC7L2baoYOP/s1600/black+boy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507074821352345698" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNXLPleJVJ6JET8SM6Mld7UCGzhkSfavaA2wuejhTnawyRG9LFRWrO1K21l8d6M5zh8ViVd-ViYskOgGhQf1vo1-OlLFXxyJmyt4n3dWJ8Tpn626nA00Qe0KwkdLC7L2baoYOP/s400/black+boy.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 310px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">I have lived my greatest dreams and worst nightmare out here in these streets almost free though almost out of here today my heart is absolutely cold and free you read the words of a stranger someone you use to know i've contacted u for my own reasons in the morning we are still enemies weather u believe it or not i want to covey a message some last words to give a glimpse to my son where i'm at where i've been though i know he will never be able to know what it means to live them it is my hope that in some strange way he will catch a glimpse of who i was. how irreparable my life has become its always the last day of summer and i'm left out in the cold with no door to get back in i've had my share of great moments life passed most people by while there making grand plans for it through out my life i've left peaces of my heart heart and there now there almost not enough to stay alive i still smile knowing that my ambition far exceeded my talent there are no more wild horses or pretty ladies at my door.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">The winds of change blew a hole thru my head scattering all my dreams its all goddam mean and strange i'm going outside in cant you see i'm blind walking on stilts you tripple crossed my mind and rode into my heart. you say your looking for a saviour i'm just a begger counting change do you remember the when the world was an ocean of dreams and every ride was a wave. ill always burn in the sun while you stand in my shadow its sunrise and sunset where every taboo is holy before and after its glow.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">May the wind always be at your back the sun upon your face and may the winds of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">A bud has burst on thee upperbounds A leppeard sang in my heart today i know where the pale green grasses grow by a tiny runnel of the way the earth is soft and wet a cucu bird whispered to me not yet not yet they are wrong what they say about me they are wrong. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "times new roman";">By Marcus I. McCall</span></span></div>
bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-80177072812915995412009-12-03T19:04:00.000-08:002009-12-03T19:48:29.977-08:00Solace<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqR5_8clMX4IugzfiGHqaR-0xPbRe61896NrDhX1WQ1err3AbHBj4UuYOtI04o5FRoSGBmDCbniEJHdtQXEmnoWZJ1MfetqWwNBwaREib3Fy7jVOz0eS64Vy9BaHOFbLn_G5mG/s1600-h/PAA356000016.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqR5_8clMX4IugzfiGHqaR-0xPbRe61896NrDhX1WQ1err3AbHBj4UuYOtI04o5FRoSGBmDCbniEJHdtQXEmnoWZJ1MfetqWwNBwaREib3Fy7jVOz0eS64Vy9BaHOFbLn_G5mG/s400/PAA356000016.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411222846979048866" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtpQOWb9dJRkQbHtTheqWM8AtmLhWjXHnwydJdQGULcjnP-Mf89QCAVzse7aoY7GCSJII5QX34L7mW9BqMdOF3Sr7WpB8c9BjaLdiwUV6ey941twH4OTVSN-adBc2b2p1lTkd/s1600-h/PAA356000016.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 132px; height: 62px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKtpQOWb9dJRkQbHtTheqWM8AtmLhWjXHnwydJdQGULcjnP-Mf89QCAVzse7aoY7GCSJII5QX34L7mW9BqMdOF3Sr7WpB8c9BjaLdiwUV6ey941twH4OTVSN-adBc2b2p1lTkd/s400/PAA356000016.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411211961653914626" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">"This moment won't last forever" was his statement of comfort to a woman-child who desired to be rescued by her father from her mother. Needless to say a father teaching impermanence to a woman-child who only understood separation, distance and difference was unsuccessful in providing solace. The moment didn't last forever and she continued to record the moments he left her there in this space fighting not her mother but her fear. In her difference of opinion, the separation between where she was and where she was trying to get to, the distance lead her to a vision in her mind. This fight...this fear... this fertile ground she found no numbers of people to affirm only what she knew to resonate as the courage to be individually human. There were mental constructs of places and times she was joined on the tangents she navigated. Not all prepare for death despite the fact it resides in the same place of the living. It didn't last forever but she welcomed what came. The messages, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">reflections, random pages of books and even he... her father in his own way advised to live dangerously with compassion because all you really have is right now.</span><br /></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-26068759237602899712009-08-12T06:28:00.000-07:002009-08-12T07:12:49.089-07:00Ne Me Quitte Pas<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgW0MJJu8yvhC8O0tKlNaSxJQC0BvCUKCvIBiP5tQZkNFYUdoVfn1FOBQQCaq-1Rw7AfHYOleU3eSDb12wSpKoQqrUWZwdzevy9l3k-L1jBDA_cLETWKtZqSpaEA7yI1zVQIzx/s1600-h/1569R-9026252.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369078783317271010" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgW0MJJu8yvhC8O0tKlNaSxJQC0BvCUKCvIBiP5tQZkNFYUdoVfn1FOBQQCaq-1Rw7AfHYOleU3eSDb12wSpKoQqrUWZwdzevy9l3k-L1jBDA_cLETWKtZqSpaEA7yI1zVQIzx/s400/1569R-9026252.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;">He had already left and there were no more tears to betray her hidden emotion. There would be no more waiting or hoping. She did not cave over from the piercing that penetrated her heart. Her breath shallow near absent. She placed the phone at the base of the bed and walked out onto the endless possibilities of her life. There on the ledge of her death and birth she whispered "Ne Me Quitte Pas" as she held tight to the night. In the midst of unbareable silence she heard a soft knocking then the opening of the front door. She listened for the traveling of footsteps but detected none. She turned her back but Courage whispered "face it". She failed to move Courage whispered "face it". The wind restless touched her, gently tugged causing her to look over her right shoulder. There as if her mother gaped open breathing hard, she saw herself whole, complete and loved.</span></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-56707144078777785542009-08-03T07:15:00.000-07:002010-11-13T05:11:15.211-08:00Deep Waters (hear the song)<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uQN5dGvU_uU"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365745715402408242" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 113px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRFc6KkNt7jehorl2gO0Ppw7w17oxwQmNiCCmsrlJr3lQp6hhNIVguimgYlKlqh87YkLpMGwuD8c2IrmVP-GCjY1oHEjm7h-d0GCWe4Bpl3_k4bnXGI_QaPfCp6aU9S2FPTZvb/s400/ITF004003.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">Her love was.... </span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">always in that place where they merged</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">she open and vast</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">invasive whispers held tight to the sounds made</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">strumming mirrors reflect the yearning that walked in</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">reachning for anything and everything that space made no room</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">for in places defined as logic</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">mositure gathered to affirm the living</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">this place boundless</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">peeling back skin of moments spent</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">to never be more than what is</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">duality searching for where one ends and the other begins</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">submerged in liquid air.... breathing </span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:85%;color:#33ccff;">wind waiting to be acknowledged as visible</span><br /><span style="font-family:times new roman;color:#ff6666;"><strong><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gnh-JdzDv9c">her love was</a></strong></span>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-29811163461692269962009-07-28T01:57:00.001-07:002009-07-28T02:42:39.207-07:004 AM<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSI2dLFa_c4ypsH95XTlYwhOjt8_LoinlIQLBRHB4Sf7moYPFYm0A4mzxCXu3RwTBHHFmBRc2eCYNGV-WjhjMxnxTt2cS7-GMEndRP3F0XnrUAEiuE9OEBs0nZk-gkUcCzvCQ/s1600-h/Rain's+butterfly.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSI2dLFa_c4ypsH95XTlYwhOjt8_LoinlIQLBRHB4Sf7moYPFYm0A4mzxCXu3RwTBHHFmBRc2eCYNGV-WjhjMxnxTt2cS7-GMEndRP3F0XnrUAEiuE9OEBs0nZk-gkUcCzvCQ/s400/Rain's+butterfly.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363434511900623522" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Awoke alone on a bed of wavering words, the city lights blinked in the distance from her window while passing sirens spoke of the alarm just outside. They sent words using cell phones as a conduit to reach her, not tribal rhythms that evoked her spirit into dance. She wondered which of them had the courage to love her<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> beyond the quest of touch and did their minds lurk of enough imagination to her anew. "Love me".... " I want you" .... "Have a good night"..... She could appreciate the lyrical vulnerability that was offered but without action it sounded like the distant clanking of a wavering flag. It doesn't go unacknowledged but who concentrates on it for long. She was complicated and head strong. Old women would warn such disposition would leave her like them, old women remembering spent moments that were not as infinite as their life spans. She was not any different in her longing but her love was KING.</span> </span></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-9375142413105860532009-06-30T05:24:00.000-07:002010-03-17T04:12:54.684-07:00Awoke<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWbgh1NWVWNeMuXfAPWE64Eq6bYlTVAzxP7XfuejiAmaFs4QRnln3Uqtlvla8MRE1DYKgcyr0CwGjWgr2AL_IujahkGDIgxmu7MvbVLGRGN-PEWqJ9BQThgD_SHGllSPk7262/s1600-h/sunrise.jpg"><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353100489596877954" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 125px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 83px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWbgh1NWVWNeMuXfAPWE64Eq6bYlTVAzxP7XfuejiAmaFs4QRnln3Uqtlvla8MRE1DYKgcyr0CwGjWgr2AL_IujahkGDIgxmu7MvbVLGRGN-PEWqJ9BQThgD_SHGllSPk7262/s320/sunrise.jpg" border="0" /></span></a><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:85%;">She awoke stretched across morning<br />skin bare touches fuchsia<br />her reach summoned Hugh Masakela makin'<br />that choo choo sound of Stimela way in South Africa<br />She thought of her land, the tongue of James Baldwin<br />He found her girl, strong, determined and ready to fly<br />Mama never told her she had wings<br />Papa had no say when never there<br />James, he found her dreaming<br />while Coltrane meditated on Naima<br />and the magic of light aroused from darkness<br /><br />See she awoke stretched acrossed morning<br />skin bare touches fuchsia<br />Her mental reach left her sometimes dangling<br />between the space of the moon<br />and the spell it evoked over the sea<br />She Ogun's daughter<br />Her spirit a jewel men marvel<br />but tire in the quise of loving minning<br />while Billie's heart still aches<br /><br />She bare skin fuchsia touches<br />Stretched .... Awoke<br />said "Good morning, I'm glad to be here."<br /></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;">(Written by Lorraine McCall 6/30/09)</span></span>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-6147696999651217842009-06-01T17:48:00.000-07:002009-06-01T17:49:20.205-07:00My love... for James Baldwin<object width="320" height="265"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/N7Of0Abi10A&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/N7Of0Abi10A&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="265"></embed></object>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-57984305576048374932009-05-12T15:49:00.000-07:002009-05-12T15:53:06.156-07:00Hugh Masekala - Coal Train<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/AgYhTTZXP4g&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><span style="font-style:italic;">"allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/AgYhTTZXP4g&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><span style="font-style:italic;"></span></span>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-50104780889694340152009-01-17T04:28:00.000-08:002009-01-17T06:03:25.994-08:00Your Fear vs. Your Love<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV80ALrNuxAcJSca4WbHlDpBzVDz1mu-14vFdAq3JOtB8YeoYOy3g8XtMenik1J6mS2PBR-WsuIZJx7GbRTP8YgMuUteI1ex6SEZ1_gS7vGQnnOmmFGm36CTTBzGL6idRRVy8u/s1600-h/images-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 129px; height: 76px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV80ALrNuxAcJSca4WbHlDpBzVDz1mu-14vFdAq3JOtB8YeoYOy3g8XtMenik1J6mS2PBR-WsuIZJx7GbRTP8YgMuUteI1ex6SEZ1_gS7vGQnnOmmFGm36CTTBzGL6idRRVy8u/s200/images-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292242483634520674" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WQbJ1fpCK4-z43pN5-uAVt9JMsQT5aIHFR5a_TBSADLleyVZ55HHr65bS6HEzBpWA7PBURhl___xYikvVxewODMfJO04cVlJZZ7U_sONgRyMavmtzVfdH6TxdvYSqt-6LDCf/s1600-h/images-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 143px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5WQbJ1fpCK4-z43pN5-uAVt9JMsQT5aIHFR5a_TBSADLleyVZ55HHr65bS6HEzBpWA7PBURhl___xYikvVxewODMfJO04cVlJZZ7U_sONgRyMavmtzVfdH6TxdvYSqt-6LDCf/s200/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292242413294135410" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I was scared too but I never let my fear abandon you. I turned my fear into the protection I would give when you could not. I made it into a balm to offer comfort when you were wounded. I was scared too but I never let it stop me from believing in you and your potential. I faced you after I lay with that white man in order to save your life. I willed my milk to be the poison that nursed his youth. I was scared too but not enough to release my memory of you as King and commit to adore you as such. I scared too while shackled about the neck and wrist wishing my death yet living for the seeds we brought forth. After all this time, I still find you running. Did you not hear me crying? Did you not witness my tears? Did I not express my need? Am I wrong to love you? I question if I should continue to for what I have accomplished in this love than aiding you to walk away and never look back in concern about my plight alone. I scared for the generations of our babies that act out because you were missing. My sons given false Gods to measure themselves to because you were not there for them to model after. Please tell me of this love... your love that your tongue confesses but the absence of actions contradict. You suffer from the lost of courage... how unnerving to hear you stopped fighting once you were caught. My heart does not curse you. It prays for you. It prays that you shall always have the courage to never surrender.</span><br /></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-87589821286259870012008-10-23T10:23:00.000-07:002009-01-17T06:08:07.462-08:00His Pain<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxPOlCr7b97gawyMaR82ghJ2i-QQzMFhNn2RNOZHhmZFyOWYaMzqyjspMHh3X4gG-pGcD-wPLrqdgX1LuF1W7P-QfqlDJNdZazAIqjF4cdyhBjRwcydtrFy5IOYtgaw5_4eai/s1600-h/boysnthedoorway.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrxPOlCr7b97gawyMaR82ghJ2i-QQzMFhNn2RNOZHhmZFyOWYaMzqyjspMHh3X4gG-pGcD-wPLrqdgX1LuF1W7P-QfqlDJNdZazAIqjF4cdyhBjRwcydtrFy5IOYtgaw5_4eai/s400/boysnthedoorway.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260415814437645650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidB7_kBo6rI0G3MyHF-rRZSfDzw-AJ_hLKcz-Xl4wiESAzT2pMPueLI_CvLonuFykH_oTI-ZmV85ZmtOPnRvnbpk8g6DUgtLY-ZXZa2KaeC01HoyHMC0er7teLi_v1I7rGiJ0A/s1600-h/0078-0510-0507-4455_TN1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 67px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidB7_kBo6rI0G3MyHF-rRZSfDzw-AJ_hLKcz-Xl4wiESAzT2pMPueLI_CvLonuFykH_oTI-ZmV85ZmtOPnRvnbpk8g6DUgtLY-ZXZa2KaeC01HoyHMC0er7teLi_v1I7rGiJ0A/s400/0078-0510-0507-4455_TN1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260414614215837762" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjxVLtDozPeKhe9xWSh5bWwvRA6EKnmCf0zDiWeqdipaMqGtgyIkMVrI7RaI_HWJyEQwFb1LhlyBuadAsQiAwFH9AgHdptZpS6wk-gd7qqOZPuWrAqiikzR3TYo4T-C5P0C7S/s1600-h/0078-0510-2007-2145_TN1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 63px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjxVLtDozPeKhe9xWSh5bWwvRA6EKnmCf0zDiWeqdipaMqGtgyIkMVrI7RaI_HWJyEQwFb1LhlyBuadAsQiAwFH9AgHdptZpS6wk-gd7qqOZPuWrAqiikzR3TYo4T-C5P0C7S/s400/0078-0510-2007-2145_TN1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260412616677185858" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsS-1127URhVmgD6BErQ_eX6OM85tsMkY94XUzyD8Lj5G0bGV389AeosiGYi2MrCieYAIlcWGvc-NNweZ8COBpVveBzqDri1otkLz4lPa1pNFhzHO_Ik8VCTXeBpmyv4L5qQY/s1600-h/0078-0510-1805-2255_TN1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 67px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzsS-1127URhVmgD6BErQ_eX6OM85tsMkY94XUzyD8Lj5G0bGV389AeosiGYi2MrCieYAIlcWGvc-NNweZ8COBpVveBzqDri1otkLz4lPa1pNFhzHO_Ik8VCTXeBpmyv4L5qQY/s400/0078-0510-1805-2255_TN1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260411637845170322" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">The echo of his cry ran down the street of Martin Luther King's childhood startling all who heard. Yet challenging all things known or believed to be understood. I sat there questioning if I should move and when I did I found him in a fetal position, face swollen as mucus abandoned him in a moment of needed solace. My hands moved along the length of his back whispering to him to breath but I could not provide resolve to the pain that divided his heart. He began to yell "I lost my son!!" "I lost my son!" As children we all so clearly remember who we wanted our parents to be for us. But the cries of fathers who love us seemed to live somewhere in the distance near the Sun. We never imagined who our father's might want to be for us, especially those absent from our lives. His son was being raised by another man. A man that did not mirror his son's DNA and did not share a family lineage that pumped fiercely through his veins. He yelled "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" a sound gifted with fear that one did not want to acknowledge scared that ones own personal demons might emerge from the shadows. Malcolm states Black men are not willing to bleed for their children. Some Black men respond why when I'm already dead struggling to learn how to live for them</span>.<br /></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-58456499656788850842008-07-12T19:06:00.000-07:002009-01-17T06:05:21.660-08:00He Said<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">He called to say that he was leaving for a destination that he must occupy alone. He said he was tired of talking about what he was going to do. He said there would be no more words to fill the space between us. He said he was throwing away his cell. He said don't worry, we will speak again when our next season comes. He said don't worry that he would be okay. He said he only called to tell me that I would not worry. He said he wasn't asking for my permission. He warned that I should not waste my time on anything less than what i truly desired for myself. He said are you going to ever leave? He said out there would be easy compared to where he was now. He said he would return being able to help.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">I understanding that out there would become where he was now. Once he reached that place to find the only thing that could be different between here and there was himself. So, I said okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow.</span><br /></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-80879511928071540312008-06-12T20:43:00.000-07:002008-06-14T05:17:23.089-07:00He Wrote<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14tb9ILVMqxVGSt7V9v8v5Q0VXpC2Dw4egFqlMuhyphenhyphenn3LokM-wrGLdCbp_sGmjwUrAZP-dkqzkl-Ua0QUO3rSN5KKIduqONWOe3MJpCtlAkJvRjL8y7S2wVbS2rnKXS0vi5riq/s1600-h/l_eec7d61a70f67d7cc6927730eed9493f.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj14tb9ILVMqxVGSt7V9v8v5Q0VXpC2Dw4egFqlMuhyphenhyphenn3LokM-wrGLdCbp_sGmjwUrAZP-dkqzkl-Ua0QUO3rSN5KKIduqONWOe3MJpCtlAkJvRjL8y7S2wVbS2rnKXS0vi5riq/s320/l_eec7d61a70f67d7cc6927730eed9493f.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5211206700712479810" /></a><br /><br />Show your courage, it means everything that is something.bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-29867090521400179562008-06-07T06:23:00.000-07:002009-01-17T06:05:44.220-08:00Sunny's Smile<a href="http://http://www.wardancethemovie.com/trailer/qt-large.html"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4iDxwPh7uH5tYOZVHx-Dns9uBwJ0AFh0fLHI5y7AdnRPDOk_oT4ZxldJxMsTKDqDjLREaAKYJALqD4PQMpvYSzdAqX9Rd8o59BkiCq-X2Q14StLdwipQD6FOOGr4bWf968k_i/s1600-h/Sunny'smile.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4iDxwPh7uH5tYOZVHx-Dns9uBwJ0AFh0fLHI5y7AdnRPDOk_oT4ZxldJxMsTKDqDjLREaAKYJALqD4PQMpvYSzdAqX9Rd8o59BkiCq-X2Q14StLdwipQD6FOOGr4bWf968k_i/s320/Sunny'smile.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209129989662898642" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">I sat in the taunting heat refusing to seek shelter in the comforts of shade. I consciously wanted to “absorb the effluvia of the universe” as Frantz Fanon once described the gift of being Black. Surrounded by faces that mirrored me, we listened for the thing in music that made our spirits whisper to us, “That’s it”. It was like awaiting direction that you can now be moved to a destination of joy, expression, and a feel good moment. In that moment of sitting … standing, it could be a note or phrase alone, and you find yourself back there. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">But there was loaded with who was present and who wasn’t. There was about how you came one person and hopefully walked away another. There could be as colorful as the warm Caribbean ocean and as sullen as the state of homelessness. Sometimes there is confused and/or out right not accepted as here. This there was named Sunny who was known for his bright smile, ability to move, reach, and even translate what others felt but could not dare discuss. There before me was a man with his personal inscription of an ankh had been placed on his worn Nikes. His head was crowned with the words “Pharaoh Jesus”. I had not heard the whisper yet, not enough to rise to my feet and demonstrate my spirit’s mirth. But he… he heard it or maybe not, yet he danced like his life…. my life…. your life depended on it. As this man danced, I attempted to imagine the movements of my father and the peace that would wash over is face as he implemented his religion.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">It is not until now that I realize that I come to this place because my eyes yearn the sight of Black men dancing. It’s almost like watching them remember they have wings, when they’ve spent so much time forgetting that their wings were there. This man who lifted his arms, expanded the landscape of his chest had a place here. He was clear who needed and had to be in that space & time. He paid no attention to those who witnessed his singular performance. He looked inward, for his eyes never met the stare of those who chose not to exercise such liberties.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">I have never seen Sunny, my father, dance; I just heard about it that I might know why I must. I did witness the brightness of his smile. He gave it to me when I was there</span>.<br /></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-61710660424879471862008-05-26T08:36:00.000-07:002009-01-17T06:06:09.268-08:00The Gaze of Mandela<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DE442adWPH7vVozuqIDL9WxsAQPt1qzeQrQoe0OEpfpHktTzoyXCAvSmzrrL-hJxe0gkuxIN7UOAIlFa5ajpbmveiajO3UvFKql3Nc1zWZpuBs0XlAGoVT5c7MRsNg8XvGdE/s1600-h/Slide1.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7DE442adWPH7vVozuqIDL9WxsAQPt1qzeQrQoe0OEpfpHktTzoyXCAvSmzrrL-hJxe0gkuxIN7UOAIlFa5ajpbmveiajO3UvFKql3Nc1zWZpuBs0XlAGoVT5c7MRsNg8XvGdE/s320/Slide1.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204740665248061474" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Written By Lorraine K. McCall May 14, 2008<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">All rights reserved to Lorraine K. McCall. Copyrights 2008<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">The gaze of Mandela watched over her in her awakened moments and slumber. From the bed she slept in alone, she considered the 4 walls of his cell to awaken to what Robert E. Hayden described as “Freedom… this liberty…. this beautiful and terrible thing.” What made freedom terrible? The answer was simple yet somehow extremely complex to achieve. Freedom was terrible because it did not belong to everyone. Freedom was like this fast evolving door to the other side. With the quick questioning of one’s own timing, one could miss the opening opportunity to unload the burden they had been chained to for far too long. Slavery had changed and disguised its face even to the most conscious of men. The war between man’s potential to be free and enslavement was staged in his own understanding of I AM while not being conquered by dreams deferred or limitations set by boundaries designed by other men who failed to escape their own.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Freedom was terrible because men who believed themselves to possess wings could not hear anything below the vastness of sky and white clouds. It was woman who contorted herself into the Wind in which he proclaimed his love for but never realized that he grew heavy from dreaming. Her war was no different outside of she believed freedom was beautiful while she fought for idealism to be true. Only for freedom to become again terrible because she believed in man, and what did man believe in? No matter how many times she was instructed or life lessons would teach she should not expect, she gave to man what she wanted him to offer back. What made Freedom truly terrible? Man forgot Freedom was not found in the vastness of space in which he could materialize things that he controlled. Freedom was found and could only exist in the context of love as its foundation.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Gazing back at the eyes of Mandela, she considered death, its grave and the trumpeter who would play in its recognition to pay for Freedom. She imagined the sound to be soulful yet somehow sweet in taste as it escaped the life that released it. Man was finite in his belief that death was the opposite of life versus birth. In turn he struggled in his attempt to live freely, fiercely, and fearlessly because he knew not how give birth to himself after dying.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Who would save his soul? Unknowingly Mandela knew not she thought of him and what he considered his truth to be in the face of nothing was new under the sun for any man. His people were still fighting for Freedom but she questioned whether he had raised his white flag in quiet surrender. Mandela was not the only one who surrender to the instruction of others. There was Eldrige Cleaver in his non-threatening announcement of being "Christian" as a guest on the TV show Tell The Truth. Huey P. Newton's surrender to a dream deferred via the use of drugs. Conscious men fighting for the serenity believed to be found in peace and freedom. None of which is right or wrong and why judge men who utilized their fighting spirits for the betterment of circumstances of their communities. But the trumpeter still plays at the foot of the open grave because many Black men will die unknowingly never to experience the true embrace of freedom</span>.<br /></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-32318063879172050052007-08-18T19:19:00.000-07:002009-01-17T06:06:37.072-08:00Love Us Back<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOP5Bstg4qFJkcDDHcIVJw8zAW4P8UynkNGKg6qWMHjsv6A44FJ3hsLL1_WtE96HmD0nEFblMujwF-GLbsGyvSLMI0WzkqPG3SZMryGD7CVSBgCOQXSjiy6z2WT496K8n62J6/s1600-h/Woman+Is.gif"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCOP5Bstg4qFJkcDDHcIVJw8zAW4P8UynkNGKg6qWMHjsv6A44FJ3hsLL1_WtE96HmD0nEFblMujwF-GLbsGyvSLMI0WzkqPG3SZMryGD7CVSBgCOQXSjiy6z2WT496K8n62J6/s320/Woman+Is.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209373532173501746" /></a><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Lately I have been elated with the internal beauty of brothers and their chosen vehicles of expression like Arizona, Mos Def, W. Henry, Saul Williams, Sunny, James Baldwin, Daishu Ikeda, Marcus Ian, Zubair Iben, Torrence Anthony.. Thinking of them... their words... their actions have become my happy thoughts. In my appreciation of their existence and what they contribute to life, I offer these words of sentiment.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">I question the sincerity of all life that emerges from the corridors of women named to become who in regards to what purpose showing how much respect giving when needed at all times to be conscious, complete, whole, divine and undefeated in the accomplishment of life. I wanted to tell the story of earth as woman. I wanted to travel the streets of the mind’s of men to witness where the fire burns and cool waters flow. I wanted to relay how beauty appeared within the eyes of man and translate the vision in understanding. I want someone to explain how and why some men kill, rape and destroy in a language and insight I have yet to discover. I tried to imagine the first woman here on earth and then just the 39 women responsible for my existence. With untold knowing we all have loved, prayed, cried, pleaded, nurtured, held too tight and let go of you … man. Our fathers, brothers, sons, husbands, and friends to leave you running away, walking to, standing beside, falling behind, crawling first. For us to be there wherever that may be breathing, fighting, yelling, securing, surrendering, celebrating, loving you.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">Love Us Back<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">I wanted these words to be spoken by none that you could acknowledge that I see all that is divine in you. I wanted my love for you to be considered rare, an unknown species that we only share. It is not a love which ignites fires of lust exposing covered skin. Yet one where I whisper “all we have is right now” praying your imagination is active enough to give direction in what we should share in this now. It is not a love where I may find myself in the shelter of your arms or tongues that touch between breaths. It is a love where our minds met in the exchange of language. You prayed out loud a vision I shared without you knowing.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'times new roman';">All rights reserved to Lorraine Kelly McCall. Copyrights (c) 2007</span>.<br /></div>bbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-1149007278666499742006-05-30T09:41:00.000-07:002009-01-17T06:06:58.275-08:00<embed src="http://img144.imageshack.us/slideshow/smilplayer.swf" width="426" height="320" name="smilplayer" id="smilplayer" bgcolor="000000" menu="false" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" flashvars="blog_service=QmxvZ2dlckFUT00%3D&blog_id=MjcwNzA2MDg%3D&blog_user=Ymx1ZXN1bm4%3D&id=img144%2F1279%2F11490048600oq.smil"></embed><br /><br />A Homeless Lifebbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27070608.post-1146102950071771902006-04-26T18:48:00.000-07:002006-05-30T09:43:38.386-07:00A HOMELESS LIFE<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/416/683/1600/relief2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/416/683/320/relief2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Life Magazine November edition of 1968-cover page illustrated a portrait of Abolitionist Frederick Douglass. A man born 1946 in a time where he remembers schools would not open when it was cotton-picking time in Mississippi provided this magazine to me. As I sit here imagining a time where injustices were more obscene than those transpiring in the year of 2006, I battle images of men like Nat Turner revolting against all that tried to capture his life essence. To the nomad I watched stand on the corner of an intersection of Grant and Cherokee. He walked in one direction a few steps and returned to his initial position. Next, he walked south stepping out into the street and again returning to his origin. He turned and looked north but he could not determine his destination because his feet failed to follow direction. Or maybe no direction was given because he was missing the instruction from a leader for all Negroes. The article on Frederick Douglas was entitled “For all Negroes, Frederick Douglas was THEIR LEADER.” The title in the magazine actually capitalizes THEIR LEADER. Douglas describes a scene from his young existence as “kept in a state of nudity. My only clothing – a little coarse sackcloth or tow linen sort of shirt, scarcely reaching to my knees, was worn night and day and changed once a week.”<br /><br />I’m sure the man I watched from my vehicle considers his existence no crystal stairs or probably think he never climbed up from any place to another. But I question if he would base his circumstance due to the color of his skin. Douglass wrote “The fundamental and everlasting objection to slavery is not that it sinks a Negro to the condition of a brute, but it sinks a man to that condition”. In attendance at the Men Are Human Too Part II panel discussion, I proposed the question of how imperative is it for Black men to have passion about their lives and if they lack it what is it a sign of. Brotha # 1 (research name) swiftly refers to the Willie Lynch document, a letter that provides slave masters instructions on how to establish economic wealth via the demise of enslaved Africans. Brotha # 1 reads what Willie Lynch wrote “<br /><br />I have a fool proof method for controlling your slaves. I guarantee everyone of you that if installed it will control the slaves for at least three hundred years. Take the meanest and most restless n-word, strip him of his clothes in front of the remaining male n-words, the female, and the n-word infant, tar and feather him, tie each leg to a different horse faced in opposite directions, set him a fire and beat both horses to pull him apart in front of the remaining n-word. The next step is to take a bull whip and beat the remaining n-word male to the point of death, in front of the female and the infant. Don't kill him, but PUT THE FEAR OF GOD IN HIM, for he can be useful for future breeding. Take the female and run a series of tests on her to see if she will submit to your desires willingly. Test her in every way, because she is the most important factor for good economics. If she shows any sign of resistance in submitting completely to your will, do not hesitate to use the bull whip on her to extract that last bit of b-word out of her. Take care not to kill her, for in doing so, you spoil good economic. When in complete submission, she will train her off springs in the early years to submit to labor when the become of age. Understanding is the best thing. Therefore, we shall go deeper into this area of the subject matter concerning what we have produced here in this breaking process of the female n-word. We have reversed the relationship in her natural uncivilized state she would have a strong dependency on the uncivilized n-word male, and she would have a limited protective tendency toward her independent male offspring and would raise male off springs to be dependent like her. Nature had provided for this type of balance. We reversed nature by burning and pulling a civilized n-word apart and bull whipping the other to the point of death, all in her presence. By her being left alone, unprotected, with the MALE IMAGE DESTROYED, the ordeal caused her to move from her psychological dependent state to a frozen independent state. In this frozen psychological state of independence, she will raise her MALE and female offspring in reversed roles. For FEAR of the young males life she will psychologically train him to be MENTALLY WEAK and DEPENDENT, but PHYSICALLY STRONG. Because she has become psychologically independent, she will train her FEMALE off springs to be psychological independent. What have you got? You've got the N-WORD WOMAN OUT FRONT AND THE N-WORD MAN BEHIND AND SCARED.”<br /><br />After Brotha #1 references the letter, he makes emphasizes on the Black Man being scared. Scared was the operative word and 2 years ago it was relayed to me by a student, 13-years old, and a bully “ You can’t be different here” she stated. She was right and wrong. She was right for those men who dared not be anything more than the expectations placed on them by a system not designed for their prosperity, liberation, and/or happiness. She was wrong for the men who didn’t care about being out numbered, who empowered themselves with truth in knowledge applied, and dared to think and act consciously outside the box of provisions made in this country. Brotha #1 also made the point of us….African American, Black, Colored, Negro….not having a nation where all other nationalities have physical continents and governmental systems to lobby and negotiate on their behalf.<br /><br />Benjamin Banneker, a scientist, architect of the White House, inventor of the Grandfather Clock, and political philosopher argued the contradicting nature of this country when he wrote Thomas Jefferson “How pitiable it is to reflect that you should at the same time…be found guilty of the most criminal act, which you professedly detested in others…”. This living contradiction that stands there in the wing waiting for its debut in the Black man’s life because one day he gambles the Black man will falter and dismiss or give up everything other than himself. But what is left of Black men who do not have the passion to fight for their lives or the lives, securities, and provisions of the Black woman and child? Do they become men that have no homes? Homeless?<br /><br />My father is homeless, literately. Three times he attempted to establish a home with women who loved him and chose to bare his children. Each time for reasons unknown to me, he left. As I write this article my father sleeps in the doorway of copy machine business on Webster Ave and 14th Street in downtown Oakland. To be homeless was a conscious decision for my father, a man who lived 15 years of his adult life behind bars. He’s not on drugs and has been labeled a schizophrenic because he hears voices and can see spirits. My father has been deemed crazy by his own brethren because they remember not customs of Voodoon, Yoruba or Ife. I never considered my father scared of anything or anyone. He seemed to always be going somewhere and I knew very early in life that he was only stationary enough to serve his purpose. Still I have made attempts to seek permanent shelter for him but he declined. He would accept over night stays in a motel to get a hot bath, wash his clothes, and catch up on current events. After, I reaching my economic limit on what I can expend for his motel stay, he silently requests me to return him to the corner where I found him. Painful is what I described this reoccurring scenario of me saying “I love you” as he walks away. I became that psychological independent woman that Willie Lynch speaks of because I don’t know how many more times I can find my father to never really know him at all. The hope of him rescuing me as a child I had surrendered lifetimes ago. When Donny Hathaway sings Giving Up “My light of hope is burning dim but in my heart I pray that my love and faith in the girl will bring her back some day”. Come back Black Men to your natural uncivilized whole and completely loving selves. For there are no homes for your women and children to dwell in without you and the villages have been abandoned. <br /><br />Written By Lorraine K. McCallbbehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01614382284899913100noreply@blogger.com0