IMAGINE THAT

When you find yourself wanting to complain today about all the things you have to do, the work that your co-worker left behind, the kids who need help with homework, the dishes that need to be washed, the errands that need to be done, the Spouse who's getting on your nerves, I want you to stop and imagine this:

Imagine that you have reached over and turned off your alarm clock. It's six a.m., time to get ready for work. You look over into the eyes of your Spouse, the person you've been married to for 34 years, and say "Good morning, babe." You trudge into the bathroom, do your morning thing and head to the garage to jump into your car. Before you leave you think for a moment and tell your spouse, "How's about we eat out tonight?" Sure, your spouse responds, "Where do you want to go?"

"How about that Italian place over on 15th and Dale?"
"Nah," your Spouse says, "let's go to Rosario's, across the street from the post office."
"Okay," you say, "I'll meet you there at six."

Imagine that you kiss goodbye and you head to work. You get to work, park in your usual spot and head to your office. You pass the same people you see every morning at the water cooler. You say hello, think in your head how much valuable company time they're wasting, but instead of making a fuss you head to your own office to get to your own work. You've got a stack of things to attend to. You're healthy -- a runner -- and you eat healthy foods because you know the value of keeping yourself in shape. You reach in your desk drawer for your favorite snack: sunflower seeds.

You munch on your sunflower seeds as you're working. Your secretary comes in, full of cheer, brings you some letters to sign and walks back out. A minute later, somewhere deep in the recesses of your body, your heart begins to do things that you're not even aware of and before you know it, you're out cold, slumped over your desk.

Your secretary comes in, sees you out cold, rushes to call EMS. Somebody, a person standing by that same water cooler, knows CPR and detects that you have no pulse. Suddenly, someone remembers the defibrillator in the office but, to your misfortune, no-one knows how to use it. EMS is called. It takes four to six minutes for them to arrive. Each second that passes is the loss of thousands and thousands of brain cells. The folks at the water cooler, the same ones you passed on the way in, are the same ones struggling to save your life.

You're rushed to the Emergency Room. You have no pulse. They shock you not once, not twice but three times. They give you Epinephrine and Atropine to jump start your heart. They get a rhythm. They put a tube down your throat. You're on a respirator. You're rushed to the ICU.

Imagine that two days later after drugs and antibiotics and I.V. lines and all the things that any prudent trauma center can provide has been provided, a board certified neurologist orders an EEG and a CAT Scan, both of which have declared that you've suffered severe anoxic brain injury. You are in a vegetative state.

Your family has one of two choices: let you live on the respirator or take the respirator away and watch as your breaths become agonal, watch the nurse hang a morphine drip for your comfort; watch as you slowly slip away from this life.

Imagine that the same Spouse who you had planned to meet at six p.m., the person with whom you have shared your bed for 34 years, the person who knows you better than anyone else in the world, the person with whom you have created ANOTHER LIFE, stands at your side, holding your flaccid hand, watching every slow, deep, labored breath suck up into your mouth and pass from your chest like a heavy load. The person you have loved and who has loved you through the Good, The Bad and the In Between, goes home for the very first time to sleep without you.

This is a true story. This is not Hollywood. This is the story of the patient I took care of last night. For over ten years, I have held my finger to the pulse of life and it is scary and amazingly enlightening at the same time. In the trauma/critical care unit every breath is a miracle.

This morning I left work with a knowing that I have never had before that Life is Serious folks. This ain' no dress rehearsal. The degree you are waiting to get "once the kids get a little older," the trip to Paris you want to take "once the bills are caught up," the places you are going to go, "once you get married," the book you're going to write "as soon as you get a chance," ....... IS NOT GUARANTEED. Who's to say that when the kids get older you will even be here? Who's to say that the "husband" will even come? Who's to say that those bills will ever be paid in full and not be replaced by yet another bill?

Look at your life right now and ask yourself, with a seriousness, if today were your last day, is there anything, ANYTHING, you wish you had done? Is there someone you need to call to clear up some petty bullshit that's been festering too long. Is your child's father in need of you to call up and say, "Hey, let's call a truce." What about your child's mother?

Sure, maybe things are over, but showing love and living in peace ain' never out of style.

All I'm saying is this: right now, there is a woman sitting by her husband's side trying to deal with the very fact that LIFE AIN' NO GUARANTEE. She is trying to deal with the hard core fact that the man she has loved for 34 years --- THIRTY FOUR YEARS!!, do you know how long that is? --- will soon pass from this Earth.

Know that you have nothing, not one thing, worthy of complaining about.

Know that you are truly fortunate because you are here, reading this, right now when things could very well be different.

Imagine that. And while you imagine, please say a prayer of indwelling peace for Mrs. M.
I think God will know who you're referring to.

ANGEL

BIRTHDAYS

I guess it's only natural that God would choose that I be born during this time of the year. This is the time when I feel most alive, most aware of the Earth and it's beauty; it's the time when I feel as if the world is aglow. I am so affected by the colors of the trees, many of them looking as if they're literally on fire. The oranges and yellows, burnt ambers and chocolates -- make me feel so grateful to be alive and it reminds me of God's intent of diversity.

Yesterday my husband invited me to bed. Not for sex, but for a much needed respite. Despite having worked all night (him), he said to me, after I dropped both kids off to school, "Why don't you come home, get back in bed and stay there. I'll pick up the kids. And I'll get dinner going too. Please, forget about everything for just one day." He tucked me in, closed the door and met all the challenges of the day without one question, comment or complaint.

I feel so fortunate to have someone in my life who need only look in my eyes and see what I truly need; who sometimes seems to know me better than I know myself. I am the kind of person who sets a goal and will do just about anything to achieve it. I make and accept few excuses. I abhor people who make excuses but can sling off a long list of wants in the blink of an eye or who tell me they are "walking by faith." Well, the last time I checked faith had legs. Faith is an action word. So I sometimes (correction: oft times) push myself to near exhaustion for the sake of completing a goal. I guess my biggest fear is not disease or sudden accident but drowning. Drowning in the minutiae of life such that I reach the end without accomplishing those things I'd wanted to do. Drowning in errands and laundry and field trips and floor mopping and stamp licking. Drowning. And sometimes I work so hard not to drown that I wind up drowning anyhow; drowning with exhaustion. My absolute nadir.

So this week, I'm on a self imposed fast for seven days-- the seven days that precede my birthday. I'm fasting from conversation. Each day, just as with Kwanzaa, I am lighting a candle and sitting in silence to pray and meditate about this past year -- what I've accomplished, what I'd like to do better, faults I'd like to overcome, goals I'd like to carry over into the new year (my personal new year). I am also taking time to evaluate my relationships. A long talk with my second oldest sister revealed that I've been carrying a not so great mentality about friendships. To make a long evaluation short, I've basically been putting up with a few people and holding onto a few friendships that do not really feed me mentally or spiritually but holding on much like a woman does with a bad man. That mentality that says "Hey, something is better than nothing." I've missed New York so much, and all that goes along with New York and somehow I've replaced something with nothing. I know it's difficult to understand but suffice it to say it's now time to release those relationships that really are not going anywhere and that are really more taxing to my emotions than they are of benefit. And so rather than spend this week chit-chatting and falling into the abyss of conversations about other people, their children and their problems I am choosing to spend the week in as close a place to silence as is possible with two little children. I am spending time listening to me, that little voice within where all the answers lie.

Last night, after lighting my candle and sitting down for my siesta, I picked up my copy of Coastal Magazine and started to dream about the waterfront property I want to own one day. I literally placed myself in the house I love in the Sept 2002 issue that I've been saving. I started to write down the research I need to start doing, the financial changes I need to make to start saving toward that goal -- even if it ain' but twenty dollars a week. Basically, spending time with me and my own thoughts.

At the end of this seven days I will have my 34th birthday and I am celebrating it with a dinner for my kiddies, Spouse, and my two sisters whose birthdays precede mine. I shall pray for all of those in California whose priceless memories have been swept away by the hands of carelessness and those who have passed from this life because of the same. I will pray for the people of Iraq who are literally caught between a rock and a very hard place. And I will pray for the Palistinian children who see no other hope in life but to blow themselves up in the name of foolish martyrdom. I will pray.

And then I will thank God that no matter what I've achieved, no matter what I haven't, no matter how many unpaid bills, no matter how far off the waterfront property....I am alive.

I am alive. And I am loved.

Be Good,
ANGEL

THE JONES ...

One thing about me is that when I jones, I really JONES. I remember seeing Goapele on a late night talk show, I think it was Orlando Jones, and what drew me to her was her voice and her beautiful, beautiful locs.

Three months later, sitting down getting my own locs retwisted, I see her name in last month's Essence. Jump over to Amazon and see she's got 52 outstanding reviews and is, of course, from the Bay Area. Got to be good, I figure. Listened to the samples and I'm like, I've *got* to have this CD. So, here she is and here's a bit of a blurb about her. And since I have some credit over at Amazon I proceeded to the checkout.




In an industry that advocates monotony, Goapele, perhaps because of her cultural heritage, is a non-conformist. Her New York-born Jewish mother and exiled South African political activist father met and married while in Nairobi, Kenya. "What those two cultures faced historically forced me and my brother to be sensitive toward various cultures and social issues. These issues were not only important, but the focus of our everyday lives. Our musical tastes were diverse. We listened to Sweet Honey in the Rock and Nina Simone, as well as South African music such as Hugh Masekela, and Miriam Makeba whose music was banned in South Africa during that time of Apartheid."

For a woman whose name means 'to go forward' in Setswana, the South African language of her grandmother, Goapele lives her name. The Bay Area native's debut album, Closer, a 9-song promotional disc was distributed to various industry executives and music outlets, yielding an overwhelmingly enthusiastic response. Adding 5 new original songs to the debut, resulted in her highly anticipated sophomore effort, Even Closer, a 14-track album on SkyBlaze Recordings, the label she co-owns ("I enjoy being a part of the whole process every step of the way"). The poised artist delivers testimony-driven, emotionally aching yet uplifting and candidly charged classic cuts to soul music junkies who fiend for organic gutbucket vocals and raw bass lines.

I'll keep you posted.

A.

REAL REALIZATIONS

But then there's the need to grab your spoon and join me in a little Ben & Jerry's Karamel Sutra because I, yes me, semi-sorta completed my outline yesterday. I say semi-sorta because I woke up from my slumber thinking about nothing but that outline. Plugged in my Kem CD, tuned to Track 3 which always motivates these charachters, particularly a climactic scene where my protagonist's pregnant mistress says she has had enough and he's begging her to stay saying "Please, N, please just give me time to make this right," and she refuses, insisting "You don't love me. Don't you see? You love what we do together. You love escaping your life in mine. And you've been running all this time, all your life. D it's time you face up to your life. And stop running."

These, of course are not the exact words, but a variation on the theme because here's an unhappy, disgruntled guy that gets tangled in a risky embezzlement scheme and an affair. It's a tale of greed, deception, payback and ultimately two tragic deaths that lead this man and everyone around him on a strange path of self discovery and ultimately, personal change.

So anyhow, I hashed it out. Yea, honey chile, I scribbled like the police where knocking on my door; as if it was my last moment to get this done. And done -- at least preliminarily -- it is. So I'll go back to the file and type in all the changes I've made in long hand (yea, I do long hand) and see where we stand. But suffice it to say there ain' a damn thing like saying you want to do something and doing it. No matter how lumpy it may still be, you know you've got something solid in your hands, something workable. You've got something more than an idea, more than a fleeting thought. You've got a breathing organism in front of you and you are worlds apart from where you were a year (or in my case, two years ago). And suddenly it becomes so clear and so real and so worth it that it's taken this long because you realize you're a better person today than you were then and that you see the world where these charachters live with clearer eyes. You've had time to let the story just *be*, to fall flat as a pancake on the page, stick a Sticky Note on the top that reads "Come back here later," knowing that soon enough you'll figure it out but you do need to keep going.

And you realize that writing is less about classes and workshops and critique groups and more about being present for your life, showing up everyday whether you want to or not. You realize that writing is not about living in a hole but outside of that hole where you can hear the voices, the sounds; where you can see the nuances that make people people, so that when you return to your hole you have something to write about. You realize that all those days you lay spent on your couch, inhaling Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough as if it were air and watching reruns of the Cosby Show were not wasted days but time spent well – giving your mind the respite it needs so that when you return to the page you’ve cleared out the noise that does indeed cause “Writer’s Block.” You realize that the mind is not some infinitesimal machine that can just produce, produce, produce but an organ that needs just as much rest as the heart, the lungs, even the feet which are constantly and assuredly abused everyday.

Suddenly you realize that those children that you’ve always moaned about being such a “distraction” to your work are more of an impetus for the work itself; somehow, in a way you’ve never suspected, you begin to see your own mortality in their eyes and you understand that like it or not, one day you will not be here. And so you struggle to get the work on the page so that you’ll have something to leave behind, some evidence; something like, say, a fossil. Yes, a fossil. Some tracing of your inner self; something that will show those bones that lay deep inside you – your truth – that lies beneath the skin that the rest of the world sees. You see that in those children’s eyes lays your own hope – hope for peace, hope for healing, hope that somebody will soon realize that at the very least – at the very, very least – food and preventative healthcare should be free. No one should have to pay for food. So you keep writing because you know that you are doing something right. You know that you are leaving something in the world; something that didn’t exist before. You know that you are not just taking but you are giving as well. Because this is what writing is: writing is giving to the greater Self, the one Universal Mind from which we all draw, to which we all pray. You realize that writing is first and last, a prayer. And you keep going, no matter how long it takes – no matter how many false starts, no matter how lumpy the clay. You know that soon enough it will be a sculpture, a completed work. And you promise to keep showing up, everyday, not only to your work but to your life.

And so, how pleased am I that my sisters up in this place have written back that they too abhor smalltalk. I thought I was the only one. But I admit, my thing goes a little deeper. I am, admittedly, a snob. I avoid people who think reading the paper is reading. It is not reading. I am turned off by people who do not have a perspective; whose idea of breaking news is a new development in the Kobe Bryant case. I avoid, like the plague, people who do not have any interests – knitting, writing, a sport, a hobby of some kind; people whose feet have never stepped foot inside a museum. I steer real clear of people who don’t travel and have no aspirations of traveling. If you have never been outside of your own state, well, there’s little we have to talk about. I avoid them all. And why? Because 99.9% of the time I will find, more sooner than later, that we have nothing in common and I have wasted my time. And since I have no time to waste, I realize early on that these are the types of people I need to avoid.

Which brings me to my current dilemma: a girl’s night out with a group of women that I once enjoyed being with but suddenly realize – we have nothing in common. A group of women who, when we’re together, talk about nothing but what the kids are doing or not doing. Maybe one or two will talk about a walk she’s participating (Breast Cancer, etc) but rarely more than that. None of them know that I’m a writer because they’re all the type of women who believe in going to college, getting a degree and getting a “real job” so that you can really be happy because, as one of them said, “ain’t no joy in being a poor dancer.”

When you find you have little in common with people that you once enjoyed spending time with, what do you do? And how do you do it without being an overt snob?

And lastly, if anyone out there can give me honest feedback on Goapele, an artist from the Bay Area with a relatively new CD out, please give me a shout. I just didn’t have the heart to lay down $14.99 plus tax last night after striking out twice in the last two innings.

Be Good,

ANGEL

DAYS LIKE THIS

And so for the moment, I am feeling very much like my girl, sukaynah, asking myself why I am still here. Ran into an old coworker who used up fifteen minutes of my time talking about herself and a friend that is more of a friend of hers than a friend of mine who had a baby back in July and is spastick-ing out because this woman hasn't come and seen her baby yet.

Big fucking deal. Get a grip, I want to tell this other person, LIFE is going on here. Ain' nobody sitting at home with unlimited time on their hands just waiting for you to call and say "Come see my baby." And so right now, despite the fact that my locs are looking more beautiful than I could have ever imagined after this first wash and re-set and I should be immensely happy, I'm feeling like I *so* want to live around some people who got more to talk about than themselves. Tell me how you feel about Howard Dean who's revolutionizing the way presidential candidates campaign. Tell me what you think about one of the largest systematic labor force strikes in recent history, going on in California and all these other states. Tell me what you have read lately and please don't tell me it was the Bible on Sunday. Please tell me that you listen to something other than gospel music. Tell me what was the last musuem you went to and what exhibit you saw. Tell me something! But please don't use up my precious time talking about nothing and not having the good sense or sensibility to even ask, hey Angel, how is life treating you.

I tell you, that farm life is looking better and better. Necessary solitude.

Oh, and how pissed am I that I struck out with both new CD's: Tony Rich and Raphael Saadiq. I totally thought the Saadiq was going to be better than it was (All Hits in the House of Blues). Don't waste your money. But I can say that Me'Shell Endege-Ocello's Comfort Woman is slamming. I love her voice. I'm going to jump over to Amazon and see if I can sample Goapele (described as a mix of Indie Arie and Macy Gray) and see if I can find Susheela Raman, both of which were featured in last month's Essence as options for those in need of some new music. That be me.

Argh!

ANGEL

AND SO, LIKE I WAS SAYING ....

....before I was so rudely interrupted by Life, I held my second poetry reading this past Friday night and something's got me a little disturbed.

The venue where we hold the readings is a small, very quaint cafe in a suburb-y strip mall area in the same county where I live. The owners are great and the few women I've met that work there seem to be really warm and eager to assist with getting the vibe just right for our readings. The problem, as I see it, is twofold. First, there isn't much pedestrian traffic in the area. In other words, like any other boring suburb, folks are in their cars passing by and they have to be inclined to jam their foot on the break and come inside. Therein lies the second problem: coming inside.

You see, all of the poets thus far are black, which in my mind is not a problem. But in the suburbs, where many caucasians live and breathe, it can be very offsetting (is that a word? I'm so tired I don't know.) Case in point. At our first reading several white people came to the door as if they were familiar with the place and were just stopping in for their routine latte. Until they saw one of the black women poets standing in front of the mic reciting and then, in what seemed the blink of an eye, their hands released the door handle as if they had touched a flame. I watched the body language of one man who walked up with his wife, looked inside, mumbled a word or two to her then came inside by himself while she stood outside. It was almost comical, as if he told her "hey look, I'll go inside. You keep watch here. If I'm not out in five minutes, call the police." Once he came inside he looked at my girl that was reading, walked to the counter, then turned and walked right back out without ordering a thing. This past week, there were a group of whites sitting inside the cafe but once we got going with the poetry, they stayed for one or two poems then, they too, jetted out the door.

And let me say this: we are not reciting slam poetry. These are experienced poets, writing from various sensibilities. This is not your routine protest poetry and it's definately not of the Love Jones variety. These poets are creative writing instructors, musicians, PhD's and cash register clerks.....I mean, you know what I'm saying? And so the thing that's been working on my mind (and my friend who is sharing the responsibility of hosting) is this: what happens if the owner gets a sense that we black poets are not good for his business? What if someone complains? How long will we have this venue if white folk turn the other way?

And so my friend and I were talking about this the other night because as host she had planned to open up the night with a quasi theme about freedom and war. Well, she had a poem she was going to read by Frances Harper "Bury Me In A Free Land," that she quickly discarded once she saw the whites sitting up in the establishment. I have a piece I've been working on, sort of a Requiem for Israel as I reflect on their continued aggression -- a piece I KNOW I can't read up in that camp. Why? Because I know there'll be some Jewish person that'll come along and swear out that we're antisemetic. (Cause you know, they're the only ones to whom the right to free speech applies. Anyone else wanting to free their speech had better watch what they say -- just ask Baraka) and this is an area quite well populated with Jewish Americans.

So anyway, after the group of whites left, and all that were black patrons, my friend said she immediately felt a sense of freedom; that it was then okay to really read the pieces she'd intended to read. And I can't help wondering why is this? Why are we people of color always in a position of reckoning? Why must we always concern ourselves with the outcome of our decisions as they pertain to white america?

Should I loc my hair? Gheez, I don't know. You might not get that job if you do.

Should I wear my kente cloth scarf to the company ball? Gheez, I don't know. Don't want to seem too ethnic.

Should I say I'm against the war? Gheez, I don't know. Don't want to sound too militant.

Should I read this poem about my black man and the sweetness of his love? Well, I don't know. Again, better not be too ethnic.

And so late into the night on Friday, my friend and I were talking about this very bottom line: why is it that any affirmation of black love or black heritage or black condition is interpreted as negation of the larger, dare I barf as I say it, mainstream culture. Why is it that unless our poems are dripping with some nebulous rhetoric that no one understands and our short stories end with that same flat bland effect that leaves you asking, Okay so what was the point of that story??? (you know, the same feeling you get when the guy comes too fast -- gheez, was that sex or push-ups?) unless we are doing and saying what we do and say in a way that glorifies "mainstream" culture, then we are not worthy of being listened to, read, supported.
That is, unless you live in an area where the people believe in and support freedom of artistic expression. Some place like, ahem, San Francisco. (yea, yea, I'm still jone-sing especially after I heard Rafael Saadiq on the Tavis Smiley Show talking about how cool the Bay area is.....deep sigh).

Well, needless to say, we may need to find another venue. Not because of the owners but because of ourselves. Because being a censored poet is being a liar. And I will not lie. I have to feel free to read what I've written and write what I feel I need to say and examine. Without that I may as well weave baskets all day long.

And a progress note before I retire for the night:

Hair: Third week of locs. Still looking good but going for my wash and retwist tomorrow. Still confident with my decision.

Chapbook: All of the poems that are going to be in the book are in there. I finally finished editing the Butterflies in Brooklyn story which as I said before was much too predictable in the middle. So all told I've got about 18 poems and three good short stories. Good news: a friend who is a creative writing instructor at Morgan State University is writing the Introduction and agreed to give me a blurb on the back. I'm also thinking of sending it off to a really prolific poet in Washington whom I've met before and ask if he'll give me a blurb on the back cover as well. It's gonna look good. I talked to the artist today. She's ready to get started but I've hesitated to send her the complete manuscript because I wanted to wait until my friend completed the introduction. The artist said she'll take it as it is and we'll just insert the introduction when it's done, just before we go to print. I still have to apply for my ISBN number ($225) so I've got to rearrange some things in the budget and try to get those Benjamins together. I've decided that this is not something I want to do, it's something I have to do. I've stopped submitting my work anywhere (haven't submitted since the beginning of the summer) because I'm determined to be the mistress of my own destiny and I will not leave my thoughts and my creative work on some dusty shelf because some asshole in a too tight suit and a plaid shirt tells me "it just isn't quite right for our publication."

Whaddyou know? You're ugly and your mother dresses you funny.

And finally, the novel: I'm cleaning up the last set of chapters before the ending. I suspect that if all goes well this week, I'll have a complete and tight outline by the end of the month with which to start my rewrites. I'm determined that I will not touch that manuscript until I've got this outline looking exactly the way I want that novel to flow. In my mind, no matter how organic writing may seem, there is no way you can keep rewriting a novel and making revisions if you don't have a clear, very very clear sense of where the story is going and where (and how) it's going to end. And so I'm content to follow this necessary path until I've got it where I want it to be. I'm hoping that Nov 1st will be the beginning of the rewrites. But knowing Life, I'm sure she'll be back with her big foot pretty soon.

Be Good,
ANGEL

Oh, and by the way, Kid 2 made "doo-doo in potty" tonight. And Kid 1 is five for five on her spelling tests. Every single word spelled correctly on five of five spelling tests. Girlfriend is kicking some serious butt in second grade. Yes, there is a God.

IN THE SPIRIT OF NEWNESS

I, with my non-html-understanding self, am trying something new. Please bear with a sister. And since I can't find what happened to my comments I shall say this: if you feel so moved to comment, hit me on the email. Click on my name below the post. Meantime, give me a minute to get this place straightened out.

Be Good,
ANGEL

MAMA NEVER TOLD ME ....


....there'd be days like this.

Too much to say. Too late to post. Sometimes blogging feels just like how it sounds: blog. Another thing to do on a long list of things to do.

Don't mind me. I'm just ass kickin' tired.

Oh, and by the way I did manage to hobble my butt down to the grand opening of Akwaaba D.C., Ms. Monique Greenwood's third B&B, with a literary theme. (Former editor at Essence and author of, Having What Matters - The Black Woman's Guide to Creating the Life You Really Want). Big beautiful brownstone with individual rooms dedicated to Langston Hughes (oh goodness, you should see how beautiful the rooms are and honey, thank God I wasn't alive when Langston was cause I'da sho' nuff gave Ms. Zora a run for her money. Bruh was fine!) and another room named for Toni Morrison, one for Walter Mosley, a poetry room and others. Huge turnout and I had the pleasure of speaking with Monique who is so very down to earth and her sister in law who did the interior design. Good people. Really good people.

Anyway, more to tell as soon as Soon comes around here. Right now, it's time for a hot bath, good book and some "me" time.

Be good,
--a.