APPLICABLE MARVIN GAYE LYRIC: What's Going On?

AP News
Federal Police, Inspectors About 1,000 Slave Workers Freed in Brazil, Media Reports Say
8/31/03 3:30AM


Federal police and government inspectors in the past two weeks freed about 1,000 slave workers from two farms in northeastern Brazil, media reports said Saturday.

Authorities on Aug. 19 freed about 800 men and women working in conditions of slavery on a coffee farm close to the town of Barreiras in Bahia state, about 1,100 miles north of Rio de Janeiro, the newspaper Correio Brasiliense said.


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UNSCHOOLING

"I am beginning to suspect all elaborate and special systems of education. They seem to me to be built upon the supposition that every child is a kind of idiot who must be taught to think. Whereas, if the child is left to himself, he will think more and better, if less showily. Let him go and come freely, let him touch real things and combine his impressions for himself, instead of sitting indoors at a little round table, while a sweet-voiced teacher suggests that he build a stone wall with his wooden blocks, or make a rainbow out of strips of coloured paper, or plant straw trees in bead flower-pots. Such teaching fills the mind with artificial associations that must be got rid of, before the child can develop independent ideas out of actual experience." -- Anne Sullivan


I'm so glad I clicked over to her site and found this. It's so encouraging to know that there are others questioning this whole notion of "right education." Like Jackie, I'm searching for other ways, definately not sure about the homeschooling option since there are so many things I want to do for myself and homeschooling is a major committment. But Kid 1 and I had a delightful time learning this summer and I found myself incredibly patient with her in ways I wasn't during the past school year. Was I crazier then because I was balancing my writing life with a full time job, a first grader, a spouse and a part time preschooler? Or is that I'm improving and learning that learning has more to do with stretching the mind than conforming to the rules? There's so much pressure around this whole American education system, it's just pathetic and downright tiring. There was a co-op school near me a while ago but they're now defunct. I know one thing, there's got to be a better way. There's got to be a third option somewhere, something better than public and nowhere near the cost of private.

*** Deep Sigh ***

ANGEL

SCHOOL DAYS

Is there something wrong with your browser? Can you not see my champagne glass raised high above my head toasting to the glorious joy of this first day of school?


Please adjust your settings, take a glass, sit down and enjoy this moment with me.


Kid 1 started second grade today. Last night I was struck with all the first day jitters I’d had when I was a child: will the teacher be kind? will the bullies be back? And the usual parent jitters: will Kid 1 get to sit in the front row? how many children will be in the class? will she “get it” this year with math or will I be forced to put her in Kumon? have all of her supplies been properly labeled? does she have everything, everything she needs?


School is a big deal for me and as I see it, the problem in many schools today has less to do with funding, supplies, teachers, ADHD and more to do with what I call TFCP's: Twenty First Century Parents. Parents today are strangely unrealistic. Many expect teachers to work miracles (turn Susie into an A student when she’s really a solid B) and do the work they as parents are supposed to be doing. Teachers have the arduous charge of being teacher/social worker/nurse/disciplinarian. Let’s face it: your child’s education is a two way street, a forked road and to send your child to school expecting that they will come home at the end of the year knowing and mastering everything they’re supposed to know and master at any particular grade level is downright ridiculous. School is for teaching but home is for reinforcing, assessing and teaching again. My problem with TFCP’s (Twenty First Century Parents) is that many are working hard not to pay legitimate bills but to fund all the necessary trappings that keep them up with the Joneses, the Smiths and the Harveys. Many are living in homes they can ill afford, driving cars that cost more than some people's mortgages, necessitating both parents working longer hours and leaving little time to check Susie’s homework, introduce new concepts and assess just how she’s coping with school in general.

School is the equivalent of a job for children. It’s where they spend the majority of their day, where they are subjected to all kinds of pressures both educationally and socially; where they are expected to perform and if they don’t they are penalized and often ostracized. School is work. School is a mental work-out on many different levels and children often display their coping (or failure to cope) in ways that if a parent is not present (mentally and physically) simple molehills have the potential to escalate into mountains. Parents today are simply not present in many regards. I’m not talking about quitting jobs to become stay at home parents. If one can do that, terrific! But for those who cannot, I am talking about minimizing the things that distract from the child, assessing whether or not the climb up that corporate ladder is really worth it in the short AND the long run, determining whether the SUV that sucks up gas and makes our air smell like rotten eggs is really worth the time, money and effort.


Another problem with many TFCP’s is that they are lazy; they substitute tried and true techniques for learning and socialization with complicated, ineffective toys, games, computer programs and after school activities. Play dates, in my opinion, are pathetic. And I wish I had come up with the idea of the Leap Pad – an expensive, overrated computer “toy” that requires Leap Pad “books” be inserted on the surface of the computer so that the child can use a computerized wand, point it to the words in the story, and a computerized voice pronounces the words, thereby “teaching” the child how to read. Right. The books average $14.99 a piece, even at Wal-Mart and Target.


I haven’t met a parent yet whose child has successfully learned to read with that appliance. The wand breaks easily, the books are not challenging after the initial read (in fact, they’re boring), the voice inaudible and hey, who wants to spend $14.99 every time you need a new book? I recently came close to begging a relative to try out the $3.99 Dr. Suess books that have existed since the Earth was formed, that my daughter felt so good reading because she was quickly able to read and understand the rhyming words. No luck. Why? Because that would involve sitting down with the child, helping pronounce letters, sitting through almost a half an hour of trips and dips over mispronounced words while the child tries to read. It requires time which many parents don’t want to invest. It’s much easier to plop the child in a chair, put a computer on her lap and let the computer do the work. There’s nothing like a free library card, a tank of gas, and a couple of plastic bags to carry home some free books. But there again, that requires effort that many don’t have or want to expend.


Lastly, from my soapbox, I say that too many TFCP’s don’t do the necessary disciplining that children need. I’m no advocate of beating or spanking but I am equally not down for children wanting to negotiate every single thing; children hitting, kicking, pushing, biting and bullying other children. I’m not down for children having fresh mouthes, talking to adults in the same manner that they talk to their school mates. I’m about parents being parents. My motto: We can be friends later. Right now, I need to be your parent. I need you to recognize that some things are not up for discussion. If it’s ten degrees outside, you HAVE to wear your coat. If it’s a hundred degrees outside, you CANNOT wear those red cowgirl boots that grandma sent for your third birthday. Likewise, I know you’d love to spend the night at your friend’s house but since I don’t know her parents and I don’t know their politics, I cannot in good conscience allow you to sleep in someone else’s home. I cannot give you the keys to my car unless you show me that you’ve got respect for a moving vehicle and the necessary restraint to handle yourself on a road full of crazy people who will cut you off for keeping the speed limit. I need to be your parent first. We’ll be friends later. A problem with TFCP’s.

So school has begun. The welcome silence spread over me like a nice warm blanket today. It was only half a day for today (full day tomorrow); only enough time to work on an essay that I’ve waited too long to start but hopefully I’ll meet the deadline. Initially, I’d passed on the submission call, rationalizing that it was only another distraction and wanting to focus on my novel and my chapbook manuscript. But the subject matter keeps tugging at my heart. In fact, I’d written an essay about the same topic (motherhood and art) previously that did not get accepted for Brain, Child but did get returned with a nice letter from the editor stating she loved it but could not use it because the same topic had been covered in an issue just months earlier than the time I’d submitted. Oh well. Nothing’s ever a waste, I figure, so I filed it and here it has come around again. So hopefully, I’ll do some good on it and get it completed by the deadline. If not, it’d be great just to purge my thoughts about the subject matter.

The good news (after all this ranting about schools, etc) is that Kid 1 has a front row seat, brand new glasses that I picked up at the eleventh hour last night (molasses-slow optical lab) and there are only 18 second graders in Kid 1’s class. Miraculously , the ones who were causing the most disturbance last year have gone off to other schools. That’s another problem with TFCP’s: it’s never, ever their child that needs a little improvement or discipline --- it’s always the school’s fault and thus the nomadic trek from one school to another and yet another.

So yet another Life lesson that things always, always work out. The things we worry about the most are the things we least need to concern ourselves with. Another step along a very long, very interesting journey. Another reminder to me that this thing called motherhood is a very scary looking, but oddly cute, little alien with a pointed red finger leading me the way to a greater part of my Self.

Be Good,

ANGEL

STORYTELLING

Ah, the perils of outlines. Indeed, we are never alone.

MAMA

Coming down to the home stretch. Mom turns the big six-o in two weeks. I can't believe it. I was talking with a friend last week (over triple scoop chocolate chip cookie dough in way-too-big waffle cone) about mothers --- what we know now and didn't know when we were growing up. She was telling me about a conversation she'd had with her husband about women and orgasms and sexual pleasures and whether or not her mother had ever discussed matters of sexuality with her. I wasn't surprised to hear the answer: No. Neither did my mother. Nor any of our friends' mothers. We shared our stories and laughed about the similarities in our lives: neither or our mothers ever sat us down and had that "woman talk." My mother never taught me how to size myself for a bra (number is the width, letter is the cup), never discussed anything that had to do with my physical development into a woman. The message was simple and it wasn't up for discussion or debate: keep your dress down, pants up, go to college and don't think about bringing any children in my house. When I had my babies, Mother never sat me down and told me how much my life was going to change. We laughed of course, at my low lying belly (Girl, you look like you've got TWO basketballs in there) and about the labor pains (Chile, it's the worse pain you'll ever have in your life, get ready sister) and the endless periods of wakefulness, but never did she tell me, with seriousness, how my Life would change. How irrevocably different things would be. How no matter the fact that one day they would be grown and gone off to live their own lives, I would forever worry about them as if they were two days old. She never told me about the synchonicity of things: that at the same moment my children were born I would forever see the world through different eyes; that I would become capable of being both pessimistic and optimistic at the same time---believing and doubting in the same breath. She never told me about the ways in which children cause you to both rise and stumble; how children, in many ways both good and bad, are a mirror of yourself. She never told me how many friends I would lose along the way---either by virtue of other women not having children, having children and not sharing my similar beliefs in how children should be raised, or simply how lives take on different meanings and roads inevitably divide. Mother never told me how different my marriage would be; how my Spouse would love me more but in a different way. Mother never said how I would see their eyes in his everytime I looked at them and that I damn sure better love the man deeply that provides the seeds for my future--for he will be a forever presence. (Thank God I do). Mother never said that my body would take on amoeba like shapes: that one day I'd feel like Carrie (SATC) and the next day like the blob on the underside of the ocean. Mother did not tell me how hard it is to balance the need for comfort (read: sweat pants, tee shirt) with the desires of a husband that wants his wife to look good and desirable. Mother did not tell me. Mother did not tell me that I should pull down my chandelier because Spouse and I would rarely get a chance to swing from it again.


What my friend and I discovered also, the catalyst for *her* decision to self-publish her collection of poems and short stories, is that she never recognized her mother as a REAL person. A person with dreams and hopes and desires and sexuality and interests and regrets. Did she not recognize it or did her mother fail to reveal it? For me, my mother didn't reveal it. I knew that she had a passion for designing and sewing her own clothes, she loved gardening (and still does, a magnificent artist!) but I never knew what her dreams were, her deepest hopes (other than professional success, home ownership and self-sufficiency for my siblings and I), her sorrowful regrets. Most of her inner life seemed a closed door. Off limits. My friend, who successfully published her book five years ago, says that outside of birthing her two girls, self publishing has been one of her greatest achievements simply because it serves as a chronicle of her life; a recording of her hopes, her dreams, who she IS as a person --- beyond the role of Mother.


We rode home together, she and I, Kemistry playing softly on the radio, agreeing about how we want to change that cycle--- that closed-door-ish-ness. I shared with her, too, that one of my greatest fears is drowning in the minutiae of Life such that my children do not know me. Sure it's great to read them stories and give them hugs and kisses but the greater gift, I would argue, is giving them a sense of knowing you as a person. Seeing you as a real person who sings in the shower, paints, designs widgets, and moreover, a person who has feelings. I find this especially important during those teen years when children, especially girls, feel like "You just don't understaaaaand!!". Which is why I refuse to work full time. There's nothing that I need so badly that I need to sacrifice driving my kids to school, picking them up, accompanying them on field trips, sitting down in the evening to talk about their day.


Recently, I started two new journals (I now run four separate journals). One is for me, one for my daughter, one for my son, and one is my gratitude journal. Once a month I journal in my daughter's journal and once a month for my son. The two others are ad lib. I'm trying to wean from this blogging and do more in my written journal. My gratitude journal is just that: entries that reflect what I am grateful for. My own self therapy and my way of keeping the Funk Feelings at bay. There is always something to be grateful for and the down days are a good time to go back and read that particular journal. Oh, and one other journal that's ad lib is my Wish Journal. In there I paste pictures of what I hope for. I record the way my next home will look, the ocean at my back door, pictures of Cuba and Costa Rica where I want to visit ---- all of the things I wish for. But the journal entries in my children's journals are like direct letters: where they are at that present moment, which tooth has fallen out, what crazy thing they've said that made me and Spouse laugh. This month I wrote to my son the hopes I have for him as he becomes a man. My hope that he will live a life of honor, a life of fearlessness. My hope that he will be a man of his word because, after all, what good is a man if he cannot stand by his word? Writing in these journals is my way of ensuring that they know me long past the time that I'm gone; that nothing will come as a surprise when I am eulogized. My plan is to give each of them their respective journals along with their scrap books on the night before their weddings (if they don't marry then I'll find a suitable time).
These journals and my decision to self-publish my book of poems and short stories is much the same (which incidently, I've had to rework the ENTIRE Butterflies story b/c I've seen where it doesn't work, falls flat, and could stand revision. Can't send work out in the world that isn't ready).


So Mother's sixtieth birthday is fast approaching and I'm the official party planner. Not a party party but a formal dinner with cake. I'm looking for a nice seafood place since Mom is *not* into Thai and Ethiopian and all the other kinds of foods I'd choose. I'm cool with it. I've also asked each person to write a personal letter to Mom -- short and sweet -- about what she has meant to them over the years. The blurbs will be read over cake and coffee. I will take photos of each person and put their picture in an album and their blurb on the opposite page. Something for Mother to treasure.

What I realize too is that our mothers raised us with the tools that they had. They gave us, my friend and I, the best that they had to offer. They gave us more information about being Strong Black Women than about sexuality because in the sixties and seventies, that's what was most important to them. That is the framework of their lives. They raised us the best that they knew how. And that is good enough.

So the charge is not for me to worry about what was missing, but to search for the answers to pass along to my little lady and for her to do the same for the generations to come. And hopefully, just hopefully, we'll know more about ourselves with each passing generation.


Be Good.

ANGEL

JIMMY

I'm not mad at this country anymore: I am very worried about it. I'm not worried about the Negroes in the country even, so much as I am about the country. The country doesn't know what it has done to Negroes. And the country has no notion whatsoever---and this is disastrous---of what it has done to itself.


Interviewer: Can we expand a bit on this, Jim---what the country has done to itself.

Baldwin: One of the reasons, for example, I think that our youth is so badly educated---and it is inconceivably badly educated---is because education demands a certain daring, a certain independence of mind. You have to teach some people to think; and in order to teach some people to think, you have to teach them to think about everything. There musn't be something they can not think about. If there is one thing they can not think about, very shortly they can't think about anything.

Now, there is always something in this country, of course, one can not think about --- the Negro. This may seem like a very subtle arbument, but I don't think so. Time will prove the connection between the level of the lives we lead and the extraordinary endeavor to avoid black men. It shows in our public life. When I was living in Europe, it occured to me that what Americans in Europe did not know about Europeans is precisely what they did not know about me; and what Americans today don't know about the rest of the world, like Cuba or Africa, is what they don't know about me. The incoherent, totally incoherent, foreign policy of this country is a reflection of the incoherence of the private lives here.

Interviewer: So we don't even know our own names?

Baldwin: No we don't. That is the whole point. And I suggest this: that in order to learn your name, you are going to have to learn mine. In a way, the American Negro is the key figure in this country; and if you don't face him, you will never face anything.

.................James Baldwin, Conversations with James Baldwin>, University of Mississippi Press.

Look for me by my mailbox next week, waiting with baited breath. Thank you, my wonderful public library.

Be Good.

ANGEL

HOMEWORK

Good news! My entire novel as it exists has been placed in outline form. Part of it was written out, part of it typed. But now, it exists in one (too long!) outline. So my work at rewrites officially begins with a study of plot. I've done POV and the SHOWING and TELLING. Now it's about understanding Plot.

Here's a few notes about the issue of PLOT excerpted from one of the best books on the subject: Plot by Ansen Dibell.

What is Plot?

Plot is built of significant events in a given story—significant because they have important consequences. Taking a shower isn’t necessarily plot, or braiding one’s hair, or opening a door. Let’s call them incidents. They happen, but they don’t lead to anything much. No important consequences. But if the character is Rapunzel, and the hair is what’s going to let the prince climb to her window, braiding her hair is a crucial action. Taking a shower is, in Psycho, considerably more dramatic and shocking that the left of a large sum of money, both in itself and in terms of its later repercussions.
It’s a cause that has significant effects. Cause and effect: that’s what makes plot.

Plot is the things characters do, feel, think, or say, that make a difference to what comes afterward. Thought or emotion crosses the line into plot when it becomes action and causes reaction.

Plotting is a way of looking at things. It’s a way of deciding what’s important and then showing it to be important through the way you construct and connect the major events of your story. It’s the way you show things mattering.

For a reader to care about your story, there has to be something at stake—something of value to gain, something of value to be lost. Paul Boles, in his book, Storycrafting, called it “wrestling.” One of the forces may be external to the main character or both forces may be within the protagonist (inner struggles).

Showing, in fiction, means creating scenes. You have to be able to cast your ideas in terms of something happening, people talking and doing, an event going on while the reader reads. If you’re not writing scenes, you may be writing fine essays, or speeches, or sermons—but you’re not writing fiction.

Definition: A scene is one connected and sequential action, together with its embedded description and background material. It’s dramatized, shown, rather than being summarized or talked about.

VERY IMPORTANT: A scene can convey many things: moods, attitudes, a sense of place and time, an anticipation of what’s to come, a reflection of what’s past. But first and foremost, a scene must advance the plot and demonstrate the characters. You may not fully know what a given scene’s job is, whether simple or complex, until you’ve written it. You may need to go back and cut away the things that would mislead a reader, and add things to support, lead into, and highlight that scene’s special chores in the context of the whole story. But when the story is finished, no matter how many rewrites it takes, you ought to be able to name to yourself what each scene brought out, how it developed the characters, how it showed action or led toward consequences.

Any story needs to be founded on an effective and strongly-felt conflict, in which the opposing forces—people, ideas, attitudes, or a mix—are at least fairly evenly matched, enough so that the final outcome is in doubt.
Struggle, conflict, dissatisfaction, aspiration, choice: these are the basis of effective plots.



HOW TO TEST A STORY IDEA

Is it your story to tell?

Is it something you really care about, something you partly understand, something that seems to want working out?


Is it too personal for readers to become involved with?

Ask yourself about any story idea, whether it’s something that’s too personal, something that’s very important to you but would justifiably bore a stranger sitting next to you on a cross-country bus. That’s the problem with autobiographical or fact-based fiction. You have to be able to distance yourself. You have to be, in some meaningful sense, free of it before you’re ready to write about it. You have to be willing to look at it through a stranger’s eyes—the eyes of your potential readers.

Is it going somewhere?

Ask yourself: is this an idea with a dynamic? A motor-powered bathtub is still a bathtub. Does you r idea divide itself into a vivid opening, one or more specific developments, and a solid ending? Can you block out in your mind a beginning scene, intermediate scenes, a final confrontation or resolution of some kind?
Make a poster and put it up where you write: PLOT IS A VERB.

What’s at stake?

Finally, ask yourself: Is there something quite specific and vital at stake—not just to me, but to one or more of the characters involved? Any fiction, however literary, still has to possess some dynamic tension, even it it’s one of irony or a surprising contrast. Somehting has to be seen to matter, and to change—even in a mood piece. The story has to move. If you choose not to have a traditional plot, you may have to work twice as hard to make your chosen alternate work as compellingly.
Ideally, you should be able to express the core plot in a sentence or two, in about the same space and style as a program listings in the TV Guide. Example: The police chief of a New England vacation community, although terrified of the ocean, sets out to destroy a huge killer shark—Jaws.

Excerpt from: Chapter One of PLOT by Ansen Dibell.

More to follow.

ANGEL

PROGRESS NOTES

As I was driving home from work last Friday, the thought came to me to approach the manager of a local coffee shop about hosting poetry readings. Café Jolie is a quaint, very warm little coffee shop in the same shopping center where I purchase my groceries and my heavily discounted books. The manager, Martha, is a wafer thin, young Polish woman with piercing green, cat like eyes. I don’t know why the thought came, but knowing what I know about timing and intuition, I figured hey, better listen. I’d been in this establishment only once before and during that once I didn’t have enough cash to sit down and make it a pleasurable experience so I promised myself I’d get back over there as soon as Soon came around again. What I remember is soft music (Sade if I'm not mistaken), soft lighting, a very non-Starbucks feeling (read: non-commercial). There were no mugs and spoons and mousepads and coffee cup holders demanding my money so that I can serve as a walking advertisement for some mega-corporation. Simply, Cafe Jolie.

So I approached the counter, ordered my latte and waited for the last customer to be served. Once it’s just Martha and myself, I ask her if she’d be interested in having poetry and prose readings at the café. Instantly she’s interested. Her eyes light up. Oh yes, she exclaims, but I don’t know how it works and what I would have to do. I explain. Sign up, readings, discussions, book sales for local writers. She’s hooked. Another customer comes in with a complicated order that pulls Martha away. We promise to meet again sometime next week (which was this week) when we can discuss the details further. I came home elated.

Feeling very writerly, I headed off to a poetry reading at another local café later that evening. Small venue, outdoor setting and a diverse group of poets from varied backgrounds with varying levels of skill. I ran into my very good friend T who teaches creative writing and runs a performance group at her home once a month. The group consists of poets, her jazz musicsian husband and a few dancers. Anyway, turns out she was hosting at this other locateion. She saw me, embraced me, pulled me in and demanded I sign up to read.

“But I don’t know these people. And…and…I’m a virgin. I’ve never read my poetry in front of people. My poetry has always lived on paper. Not my poetry. Maybe my fiction but not…not my poetry.”

"Sign up, girl," was her only response, one lip curled to the side in True Black Woman fashion.

I shed my virgin skin that night. I read my stuff. I read my stuff. My stuff. My poetry. Not my fiction. I’m talking my poetry. My insides. And then I read an excerpt of one of my short stories. I can’t describe how good it felt to do it, to get past that stage.

Virgin no more, I talked to my friend T about the other café and the possibility of having readings there. She was on board immediately. Tuesday night we went over there together for ice cream and for her to get a feel for the location. We both agreed it’s perfect. So after driving home from work this morning, I make a detour to Cafe Jolie, to see Martha with a typed draft of the plan in hand. Martha’s on board. She talked to the owner who thinks it’s a great idea both for business and for us. Martha and I talked about how she came to the States (she won a green card lottery while living in London) and her love affair with New York (who doesn’t love New York ?) and her desire to have babies one day. She wanted to know about my career (the one that pays) which I rarely talk about and my novel. She’s got family back in Poland and we talked about them and freedom (or at least, what looks like freedom here in the States). Cool conversation for someone who’s been up all night long. We’re going to shoot for a start date in September and to keep things cool, I’m thinking we’ll run on the opposite Friday nights of the other place. No need for competition – the more venues there are for creative expression, the better.
I’m psyched. Updates to follow.


On another note, I had a long, long conversation with my girl N on Tuesday night.
She straightened me out and it was the best 4 hours of free therapy I’ve ever had. We talked about a great deal, including but not limited to my warped concept of time. The next day, during my meditation time, I realized that my problem is a real basic fear that time is going to run out. That I won’t reach my goal and some untimely death will creep up upon me. Too often, I look at where I am and wonder why it’s taking me so long. I often find myself wondering what do others think when they hear me say that I’m still working on my novel. Why is it taking so long? N helped me realize that “so long” is a relative term, a comparison to something or someone else’s time. A self-destructive notion which has no place in the creative world. Things don’t operate that way. Things don’t flourish when you’re weighted down with those kinds of shackles. So I’m working on purging that out of my system. Allowing myself to travel this journey as it’s supposed to be. Doing the work I need to do to serve the story not my impatience.

Lastly, as I was twisting my hair on Wednesday afternoon, I put in a tape of an old C-Span interview of Toni Morrison and propped myself up on the couch. Toni in my livingroom. She responded to quite a few call in questions, one of which I found particularly interesting. One caller asked how she balances her writing with her activism. Toni responded that it’s not a matter of balancing; the two are intricately woven together.

She said “I think that art should be political, representative and absolutely and irrevocably beautiful at the same time.”
Beautiful.

Another caller asked her about the whole notion of black writers writing about white characters and Toni’s response was that people should write about whomeever they want to write about. The charge is to do it with respect for the culture of the people you are writing about; to do the necessary research so that the story may be presented respectfully and with empathy. She opined that only black people are asked to transcend race. No other group of people (writers) are ever asked why they don’t write about white characters. No other group is ever asked to transcend race and her question is, why must race be transcended? Why must writing (by black authors) transcend race in order to be deemed valuable? My girl N and I were talking about this very issue during our long, long call and we both agreed that surely W.E.B. DuBois was right about the problem of the 20th century being that of the racial line, but as it pertains to art – only, only when we are able to take race out of the equation and look at the work alone, meet the needs of the work first and foremost are we ever going to achieve what art is supposed to accomplish in the first place. If a black thug character is needed for the story, the plot, then by all means put a black thug character in the story. If a physician is needed for the story and he needs to be a black male, by all means do so. But to start out with the heavy burden of making someone a black male physician, with a Lexxus and a four car garage home simply because one feels the need to make a political statement that blacks are doing well too, is too heavy of a burden (unnecessary burden) to carry. Likewise, to omit a black character simply because one feels that to do so would be to ease themself into the canon with greater ease is also a burden (unnecessary burden) to carry. Similarly, to write black/latino drug thug movies and black woman prostitute-trying-to-get-myself-together and can only do so when white man comes to save me types of movies simply because that's what sells is a major disservice to both the reader, viewer and the writer.
It’s got to be about the story. It’s got to be about the art. Anything less is a smokescreen, a fake, a phony and most of all a disservice. Anyhow, good vibes....good conversations. I'm learning. I'm absorbing. Moving forward.

**** School begins in four days. Melancholy and happiness. Need some space but damn sure don't want to start waking up at the crack of dawn again. Oh well. It's been nice. L'il Mama's got a Hello Kitty backpack and all of her supplies. She's happy as a clam. L'il Man's got his Clifford "pack-pack" and he's good to go too. ****

Be Good.

ANGEL

LESSONS (A New Fall Series)

Part One


"Hui-tse said to Chuang-tse, "I have a large tree which no carpenter can cut into lumber. Its branches and trunk are crooked and tough, covered with bumps and depressions. No builder would turn his head to look at it. Your teachings are the same--useless, without value. Therefore, no one pays attention to them."

"As you know," Chuang-tse replied, "a cat is very skilled at capturing its prey. Crouching low, it can leap in any direction, pursuing whatever it is after. But when its attention is focused on such things, it can be easily caught with a net. On the other hand, a huge yak is not easily caught or overcome. It stands like a stone, or a cloud in the sky. But for all its strength, it cannot catch a mouse."

"You complain that your tree is not valuable as lumber. But you could make use of the shade it provides, rest under its sheltering branches, and stroll beneath it, admiring its charachter and appearance. Since it would not be endangered by an axe, what could threaten its existence? It is useless to you only because you want to make it into something else and do not use it in its proper way."


Part Two

As we have likely recognized by now, no two snowflakes, trees, or animals are alike. No two people are the same, either. Everything has its own Inner Nature. Unlike other forms of life though, people are easily led away from what's right for them, because people have Brain, and Brain can be fooled. Inner Nature, when relied on, cannot be fooled. But many people do not look at it or listen to it, and consequently do not understand themselves very much. Having little understanding of themselves, they have little respect for themselves, and are therefore easily influenced by others............The way of Self-Reliance starts with recognizing who we are, what we've got to work with, and what works best for us.

....................Benjamin Hoff, Author of The Tao of Pooh


I've come to realize several things as we (my family and I) near the end of summer. Season endings are always the perfect time for measuring, evaluating, planning. First of all, I've had a great summer. I've spent it exactly as I had intended---not rushing to get anywhere, do anything, meet anyone. I'd said at the beginning that I wasn't going to fall into the deep dark belly of Camp. Payments, packing lunches, rushing to get there. No. I wanted this summer to be open. My kids have a great time just relaxing, playing, going to swimming and gymnastics, trucking off to the library and coming home with two bags full of books, going to the pool, the beach....family stuff. In regard to the novel, I reached about 75% of the goal I'd set. I wanted to have the whole novel outlined by the end of summer. Well, the outline is not complete (that is, it isn't cleaned up in it's entirety) but I have successfully managed to read the whole thing through and outline the contents of every single chapter. In other words, I know what every single chapter contains and I have it down on paper. That's a good thing.
I've started the publishing process for my chapbook and I've revised the second story that a few editors and readers have told me was really good but too predictable around the middle, leaving little motivation to read the rest. Okay, I can work with that. All of my poems are tight and ready to go. I've begun discussions with two local women interested in starting a co-op. I don't know where it's going just yet but I'm open to at least a discussion. I've read the books I wanted to read and I've come away with new ideas for the rewrites of my own novel. I've decided to keep the third person, distant narrator but I'm also going to intersperse chapters of first person from my protagonist's wife's POV. I've decided that she needs to have more of a voice in this story.

Another thing I've realized, after talking with my friend last week during a break from her conference: I am not using what I have to its best potential. We were talking about the boom of Black and Latino authors getting quite sizable book contracts. Many that we both know (some I know personally, some she knows) are not working other jobs. They've been blessed to write full time. Though all are writing different kinds of stories, the one common denominator is that all of them did a great deal of self promotion to get where they are. Some self published. Some sold books out of the backs of their cars, others spent long hot summers sending out mailers about their books before they came out. The bottom line for both of us, as we sat at that lunch table, we are not doing enough self promotion. My excuse? My novel's not done yet.But my girlfriend has two books and does a lot of speaking regarding her books, but she doesn't have a website and honestly, she doesn't self promote. When I examined my excuse further, I realized that sure, I don't have a novel in my hand just yet, but I do have a collection of poems, short stories and essays. I do own this blog. I have a love for teaching young people how to write. I do have quite a few venues in my area and even more down in the Capitol that I can go to to read my work. After all, I don't live in Boonstown. I do live near the Capitol of the United States. What I'm saying here is that I do have resources and a means to get my name out there. To self promote. There are many things I can do to increase my presence AND build an audience before the book is done. Change is in order. And so, rather than use this as a space for my own personal ranting and views, I am going to use it as more of a creative space in which to showcase my work, talk about my life as a writer, what I've learned, maybe even do a few book reviews. Perhaps I'll generate a newsletter of some kind. And maybe I'll even post a few pictures when I go to readings. I don't know. But I do know that where I am right now may not be a builder's tree but it is a tree nonetheless. And I need to do the most that I can with what I have.

Day before yesterday I was hit with the Worm that infected systems nationwide. Spouse and I couldn't figure out what was going on and spent hours trying to re-config this machine. But as the good Lord, Protector that He is, would have it I was driving down the road and heard the announcer mention an error message that was similar to mine. I raced home and sure enough, there was Dan Rather explaining what it was and how to get rid of it. I'm back in stride again. And in the spirit of moving forward, I've become the owner of myname.com. It should be available in a few days.

Anyhow, I'm going to try to scale back to blogging only once a week, more if there's something I really want to say. For now though, I'm doing the things I need to do to push my career forward. Two good friends have given me manuscripts to read and another and I are looking for venues to get out and read our stuff. I'm going to be doing a lot of reading up on Plot once I start these rewrites (target date: Sept 2, 1st day of school for Kid 2) and other general reading on pacing, etc. And finally, treat of all treats: I found a guitar last night for $25 bucks! One string is broken which I will have fixed but it's in pretty good shape. The kids are so excited to play on it and Spouse looks at me like I'm more of a bohemian than he'd ever bargained for. But he squeezes me and tells me he loves me anyway.

I love you too, babe. Happy Anniversary.

Be Good.
ANGEL

GUIDANCE

.....forwarded to my email box from a friend....



G U I D A N C E

When I meditated on the word
GUIDANCE, I kept seeing "dance" at the
end of the word. I remember
reading that doing God's will is a lot
like dancing. When two people
try to lead, nothing feels right. The
movement doesn't flow with
the music, and everything is quite
uncomfortable and jerky.

When one person realizes and
lets the other lead, both bodies begin
to flow with the music.
One gives gentle cues, perhaps with a nudge
to the back or by pressing
lightly in one direction or another. It's
as if two become one body,
moving beautifully. The dance takes
surrender, willingness, and
attentiveness from one person and gentle
guidance and skill from the other.

My eyes drew back to the word
GUIDANCE. When I saw "G," I thought of
God, followed by "u" and "i."
"God, "u" and "i" dance."! God, you,
and I dance. This
statement is what guidance means to me.

As I lowered my head, I
became willing to trust that I would get
guidance about my life. Once
again, I became willing to let God lead.

My prayer for you today is
that God's blessings and mercies be upon
you and your family on this
day and everyday. May you abide in Him
as He abides in you.
Dance together with God, trusting Him to lead
and to guide you through each
season of your life.

This prayer is powerful and
there is nothing attached. If God has
done anything for you in your
life, please share this message with
someone else, for prayer is
one of the best gifts we can receive.
There is no cost but a lot of
rewards; so let's continue to pray for
one another.

I Hope You Dance !!!!!!!!!!!!

----author unknown.

Be Good.
ANGEL

HONESTY

What is honest survives. What is untruth perishes.

A very good friend met me today for lunch at a nearby hotel. A journalist, artist, and most recently, filmmaker, she called me because she's teaching a workshop at the Mid Atlantic Creative Non-Fiction Conference in my area. We embraced. I caressed her locs in my hands, shoulder length ropes of soft auburn, the texture of my purple wool. I was delighted and encouraged at how beautiful she is becoming as she ages. She is well into her fifties with skin that is still as taut as a twenty year old's. She is graceful, her teeth -- having been released one year ago from her braces -- are perfectly straight. When I'm with her I feel like someone has pulled the clock down from the wall, jimmy-rigged it to spin at warp speed. There is so much to share, so little time.

She told me about a book idea from a man she recently met. He is the founder of a group of single men who are raising daughters alone. The idea promises to go beyond the discussion of "how/when we talk about sex and periods," and expand into the realm of "how we have made peace with our daughter's mothers so that we can raise them to be confident, strong, intelligent women." She discussed the idea with a former colleague who said it's a nice idea but the market is too narrow: how many people are willing to read about single black men raising daughters? I say, there are plenty and I directed my friend to shoo off the naysayer as quickly as possible.

The problem with tunnel vision is that it only leads you where everyone else has already been.

Having had the pleasure of hearing Dorothy Height this morning on NPR's Diane Rehm show while driving to the hotel, I can only imagine what our fate would have been had Dr. Height not followed the honesty burgeoning in her heart. Her work with Dr. King was groundbreaking, as was his vision for the country in which he lived. I think, again, as I have said many times that we artists have to first commit to honesty. And I am expanding my view of just who Artists really are. Not just those who paint, write, make music .... but those who envision something that does not exist and work to bring it into fruition; that something being in service of Change; Change that seeks the greater and higher Good. As writers, how dangerous is it for us to only consider the well trodden path? To not consider the thicket, chop through it with our scythes until a new path is cut? I, for one, would be the first to purchase this kind of book because I want to hear more from the Black man. I want to hear of his travails, I want to see his face in all of its ugliness and pain and heartache. I don't want him to "be a man, hold a stiff upper lip." I want to see the human who happens to be male and black....who grieves, who struggles, who wants what I want without needing to be first in line for the receipt of validation from the mainstream. I want to hear what he has to say about rearing children and I want others to know that there are black men desirous of the monumental task of childrearing. I want honesty. I want honesty. And I want truth.

It's interesting that last week, from my stack of 5-for-a-dollar library sale books, I pulled two Pulitzer prize winners: Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison and The Pickup by Nadine Gordimer, a South African writer. I know Toni, so I challenged myself to read Gordimer to see what she has to say. The story is intriguing but what I am most encouraged by is her willingness to challenge form, structure......RULES. Her telling of the story in its own way, the way that best suits the story. She opens up with an omniscient narrator that gives a bird's eye view of a woman stuck in traffic, car having broken down. The narrator gives only sparse details and then switches to a 2nd person sort of voice/view:

There. You've seen. I've seen. The gesture. A woman in a traffic jam among those that are everyday in the city, any city. You won't remember it, you won't know who she is. But I know because from the sight of her I'll find out --- as a story --- what was going to happen as the consequence of that commonplace embarrassment on the streets: where it was heading for her, and what. Her hands thrown up, open.

This doesn't happen in everyday fiction. Fiction -- most these days at least -- conforms to what will sell. Don't change the rules or no-one will buy your book. Don't make it difficult for the reader. Don't make the reader have to work. Give it as straight and easy as possible. And in non-fiction, I suppose, stick to an established audience.

I say, to myself and my friend, there are those in search of truth. And all art must first seek truth if it is to survive, if it is to stand on its own two feet, if it is to have any breath at all.

Be Good.

ANGEL

THE THINGS WE MISS

.....But at that earlier time, I realized that Cassie was right, that she'd parsed it well: Miraculotta was me, me and Dana combined. That when I was dreaming her up in the dark with Cassie, I was talking about all the feelings I had about that time, the sense of magical possibility embodied for me in Dana's energy and passion, in the openendedness of my own life, in the curious momentary hallucination we all shared then---more important to me, I think, than to anyone else in the house---that we could make of our lives anything we wanted, that all the rules we'd learned growing up did not apply. We didn't know what would happen next: that was our great gift. The gift of youth. The thing we miss, it seems to me, no matter what we've made of our lives, as we get older. When we do know what will happen next. And next and next, and then last......While I Was Gone by Sue Miller

I've come to find out that a very special young lady in my family is pregnant and I can't help but grieve for her, the child, the soon-to-be-grandparents. My heart has been filled with a heaviness for her, since I know that she's been searching for herself beneath a cloak of smiles, I'm okays, and everything's lovely. By outward measure, this is a child one would have thought would be on an MBA-JD track by now. Private schools from the day one, suburban comforts, parents who bought a half million dollar home tucked behind miles of corn fields. Who would have thought that two years worth of college would yield continued indecision, anger, staying out late at night, lies, partial untruths and now a pregnancy after two previous terminations. Not I.
I understand, with an increased awareness, how the maxim came about: Youth is wasted on the young.

The argument can be made that lots of people have babies when they're young and they turn out to be quite successful. True. But a lot of people jump off bridges and live to tell about it, paralyzed and in wheelchairs. What I can't help wondering is where do things turn? At what age do children delve off the path, lose track, stumble? What advantages did young adults like Tiger Woods, Serena Williams, Venus Williams have that others didn't/don't? What and where are the tools for raising successful children? (The partial definition of success, my own, being the ability to support oneself financially in the line of work one finds most pleasing.)

I grieve for this young woman because I know that she has grooved her path with hot coals; she has asked for the hardest assignment there is. She has pushed her youth and all it's indescriminate pleasures aside. And try as one might, it never returns. As I watched Kid 1 swimming her heart out this morning, having mastered the arms and the straight leg kick, and now swimming with only a two-float belt, I can't help smiling at the pride, the joy, painted in broad strokes across her face. It's the same expression I see at gymnastics on Thursdays. I can't help thinking of the warm comfort between us as we sat up late last night stringing beads onto wire to make Bead Bracelets. I can't help thinking of the Jazzy Phatnastees blaring on my radio, me and Dad in front and she in back, singing at the tops of our lungs, off-key: ".....you're getting all up in my face!" What comes to me, there at the side of the pool, is that children need something to hold onto, something to hope for, something to master, something to cut their teeth upon. In parents, they need us to guide them, but they also need to know that we have something in common with them. That we are them, only older. They need to know that we are interested in them beyond the call of discipline. They need to know and moreover, BELIEVE, that they can make anything they want of their lives. That they can be anything, anyone they choose to be. I want to swim because she swims and I can only imagine it pulling us closer when at sixteen I can say, come on, let's go swimming just me and you. We are very close and right now, we do have a lot in common which I cannot say of this young woman and her mother. Her mother has no interests other than decorating her home and swapping stories with her neighbors. She doesn't have any hobbies nor did she introduce her daughter to any. Their life together has been an ongoing series of arguments, fights, disagreements, etc. And now a youth that is quickly waving goodbye, boarding the four o'clock train to St. Elsewhere.

I grieve for the young ones who lose their youth prematurely. I grieve.

Be Well. Be Love(d).
ANGEL

IDEAS, IDEAS

I declare I'm getting off of here, but this is such a cool idea I couldn't help but post it. I think, once again, this speaks to my co-op idea.

I'm out.

ANGEL

HOPELESSLY ADDICTED .....

..... to the idea of designing my own wears. I should not admit to this but I will .... instead of working on my outline today so that I could meet my goal of completion before Kid 1 and Kid 2 return to school, I, yes I, sauntered into the yarn shop today and walked out with my nappy head high, twists blowing in the wind, shopping bag in hand, trailed by Kid 1 and Kid 2 with two skeins of 100% wool in the prettiest purple you've ever seen and a set of bamboo size tens so I can practice this purl stitch. You know me .... ain' no purl stitch gonna get me down.

And guess what? Got 10 rows of Purl, Purl, Purl down pat. I'm too psyched. And admittedly addicted to knitting. But now I wonder, what's it gonna be: books or yarn? Poor Spouse.

Outline tonight, I swear it!

Be Good.

A.

CONTEMPLATIONS

What a truly profound question:

.......is there a place for falling? can peace be made when we are no longer preoccupied with living long because we have been careful to live well?


I need to think about that.

ANGEL

THE NECESSARY

There is no Godly reason for me to be up at this hour, thinking, blogging, brainstorming, contemplating, vibing. I know it's got something to do with the fact that I just found the kind of station I've been searching for for a long, long time. KCRW's tagline reads: streamlining innovative and eclectic music 24-7. Tonight my booty has been shaking something fierce to both The Latin Project and Q Burns Abstract Message. And just where do you think KCRW is located? You got it, California. Santa Monica if I'm not mistaken. There ain' no KCRW around here .... there ain' even a wannabe KCRW around here. Shoot, take it to the next level, there ain' even anybody THINKING about creating a KCRW around here. And this is what I'm talking about. The Latin Project will not be played on any of the radio stations around here. And neither will Q Burns be heard. I'm still waiting for these stations to play Jill Scott and India Arie in their entirety but I know it's not gonna happen. The revolution will not be televised. And it will not be on the radio over here.

Over at KCRW's site, I discovered another little something I consider quite progressive (since it too is not happening here). This is what I am in search of and, inadvertently, every time I discover things like this happening, going on, in the works, it is always, always going on somewhere in California. Someone said to me the other night, when my jones was kicking in pretty hard and we were talking about my desire to shift west, that Californians are "strange people." This girl chick was saying that Californians seem to be "in their own world." Well, people say that about New Yorkers too, I'm sure for very different reasons, but in my mind that's a good thing. A necessary thing.

You see, I want to live someplace where people are "in their own world." Why? Because it tells me that they are thinking. They are living. They are dreaming. They are protesting. They are speaking out, speaking up. When I think of San Francisco, I think of what a sisterfriend told me about her experiences. She said, "Girl, those people out there RUN that city, you hear me? You can't go up in there trying to change their stuff and get away with it. If they don't like something, they will shut your party down." She described newspapers that are not filled with ads that read, Car For Sale. Rather, ads (that people pay for, mind you) that ask you to "Vote No! for Question 18" or "Vote Yes for Prop 22." How progressive is that? I think of independant bookstores on every other corner; open readings where people like me are trying out their works on folks that love a good story or a good poem. People who know that the novel is not dead, not a thing of the past. People who are talking about the next hottest thing at MOMA and talking about it with some degree of sensibility, not just wielding a Starbucks coffee and trying to look cute so they can get a date. I think of people who wear clothes that don't match. Sisters that are not so hair obsessed that every strand has to fried-dyed-and-layed-to-the-side before they can even open the garage door to set out the trash. I think of people who give a damn about natural resources and can articulate why it's really a jacked up proposition to even think of drilling in Alaska. I think of all these things. People who are in their own world.

A sisterfriend, Jamey, commented on my last post by writing:

"....people usually look at me strangely when i tell them how drawn i am to a particular city. for me its new orleans. i love it because it's not cookie cutter, its one of the few southern cities to me that still has its own character...i love that there can be a mansion next door to a shack...a spectacular garden hidden behind a gate...a city that still belives in its own magic, music and food...memphis, my city, my home is a dying city...it was once a center of music and magic...it no longer believes in its own myths...i am dying within its walls...cookie cutter strip malls and edward scissorhand houses make me ill and memphis is full of them"

And so I ask myself, why are we creative people living in places and spaces that are making us ill? That are starving us? Why haven't we made the connection that Place has everything to do with one's creative expression, one's ability to turn the nothing into something? Why have we stayed where we are for as long as we have? What is it that we're afraid of? What are we waiting for? What needs to be done to move us from where we are to where we want to be and why are we not doing it? Again I ask, what are we waiting for? I mean, if "If" where a fifth we'd all be drunk. Am I wrong?

Posed to myself, my answer is that I lack a plan. And I lack the ability to just pack up my MotherShip and figure it out when I get there. I'm sorry, that kind of thing is what you do when you're twenty. You don't do that at 33. And you don't do it when you've got kids. Kids need (and deserve) stability. They don't deserve to wonder where the next meal is coming from while you sit trying to figure out where things went wrong. I'm not that selfish. The other thing is, California is ghastly expensive and though I know that in most cities, it's all relative, I wonder if that's true of California? I don't know. I know that I'm not willing to pay $300,000 for a house that sits in Mr. Scissorhand's backyard. And I'm not even remotely interested in condo living. I like my privacy just a little too much. So research and visiting and talking and more research is in high order right now.
The other thing is, I'm truly getting concerned about Bush. Though I didn't feel any pain cashing that tax rebate check that came in, I worry about which side of his brain is turned on, if any at all. How can you be giving money back to folks and expecting them to spend it to "boost the economy" when folks don't have jobs? I mean, this ain't rocket science, man. The economy is in free-fall mode in my opinion and this is no time to be rocking your boat trying to be adventurous. Lastly, much of my problem surrounds the very hard core fact that I believe in working outside of your passion as little as possible. In other words, if you're trying to be a musician, you keep your debt as close to zero as possible so you can work as little as possible so you can save brain space for your music, your jones. The main reason it's taken me as long as it has on my novel (aside from the daily distractions that accompany childrearing) is that I worked full time while trying to write that first draft. Nine to five. Nine to insane. By the time I'd get home and get everything settled in order to write their was nothing left to give. My body was worn down and my work a vast mirage. And so I've learned that the only way to do what I love to do --- create --- is to work as little as possible. So that's my five and dime excuse, which ain't worth the keys it's been typed on but an excuse nonetheless. An excuse I'm going to have to put to the side because living here makes me ill.

The other thing Jamey wrote was:
"....so today, on paper i am going to make me a world...a life filled with music and food and dinner parties and gardening and sewing and travel and seasonal celebrations and real letters (with paper and stamps no less!) and yoga and travel and conjure and of course writing, the constant of the word and hopefully lots of love, in the city that i love..."

And I'm feeling her on that too. I'm wanting everything she said and more. I'm imagining friends with furniture that doesn't match, clothes that are handmade, books that are self-published, and underground CDs that are blowing up spots like a mug. I'm imagining nappy hair get togethers and latina sisters teaching me and my girl Spanish while we all throw down on some serious arroz con pollo, tres leches, capirotada and sip frozen margaritas. I'm imagining belly dancing classes after yoga and learning how to paint....I'm imagining....being in my own world....finding the necessary....I'm imagining....and I'm working on that plan.

Thanks, J.

ANGEL

I'LL MAKE ME A WORLD

Good energy, good energy. Met with the graphic designer yesterday who will be designing my bookcover. An artist to the core. I gave him the concept and my vision of the cover. He promises to get back to me in a couple of weeks with some designs, illustrations, etc. I need to work on my bio and I need to tighten up one of the stories that's going in there. Not the story posted in the My Work section, but another. I'm pleased. Really, really pleased that I'll have a collection ... a book ... to put in my daughter's hand. And if don't nobody else love it, I know I will and she will. She's always excited when I tell her I'm working on my book. Spouse says we're the two goofy artists in the family.

Also, I've been feeling a real need to knit. To sit in silence and use my hands to create. When I read Red Head's Wednesday post about the homogenization of our culture, how every city has the same strip malls filled with the same stores and same styles, it sparked something in me ... I began to think back to my junior high school and high school days, when I dreamed of being a fashion designer. I went to a vo-tech program in the mornings (yup, my grades were that good) and studied fashion illustration, pattern making and sewing. I thought I was going to write and design clothes. No need to tell you all the details of my derailment, but suffice it to say that I remember that time as being a very happy time, when I felt truly alive, when I was defining myself for myself. For a while now I've been thinking about just how I can create more time to go back to that. To have time to write AND design. I've been looking at Nakachi's work (I'm sooo impressed) and some of the links on her site which I'm too tired to link here right now---just go to nakachi's knitting site and check some of the links. I'm amazed at the garments these sister's are crafting and I want to know how to do that. How to make something that's truly unique. I'd love to knit some pants, a duster and a hat to match. Wouldn't I be too fierce?? And since I'm a hat fanatic I'd love to know how to make all kinds of hats. But right now, all I know is the knit stitch, reading patterns is confusing as all get out, and the stockinette stitch has got my head spinning. But I'm going to give it a whirl this afternoon and see what I come up with. Right now, the best thing is that the desire is there and that is indeed a good start.

Much more to tell about all the positive energy coming my way about my beloved San Francisco. It seems as if God is saying, come here, let me help you make up your mind. All kinds of information coming my way about both San Francisco and San Diego and it's a tough call that I'll seriously have to weigh. For a long time I've asked myself about this jones, what is it that's pulling my heart that way? What is it? And the answer came to me the other day: I realize that I will never be who I'm meant to be if I stay here in this town. And that's a tough pill, a horse-sized pill, to swallow. A pill I can't live with. And so, it's time to break out the calendar .... design me a time line for all these things my heart desires. Establish a one year, five year, and ten year plan. Put my goals down on the table and figure out which box each needs to go into. It's time for some serious introspection, some meditation about what my heart really wants. It's time for me to make me a world.

Be Good.
ANGEL