When I've to get out of bed to do anything that doesn't please me I find it challenging because I'm mentally spoilt. It's always been this way with me. I've very little ability to do what I don't want to do. Which is why I really admire people who somehow find the drive to stick to situations they detest. I know people such loathing for Mondays who look at me as if I have two heads when I tell them I, in fact, love Mondays. But what is more interesting is how often their explanations suggest they have nothing against the day or any other weekday; it's what theydo on Mondays that they are averse to. My friends often say I am self-dependent and in many ways they're right. I owe this independence to an imagination that loves to find beauty in everything. I do always often find beauty in things. Sometimes it happens in a flash and sometimes it takes decades.
If you're someone who doesn't care for Mondays because of what you have to do with it, you …
Warning: I am in a very very good mood as I write this. Which means that the tone of this "review" is affected by the very very good mood of mine. There must be a ton of reviews on this book, so if you are reading solely for academic reasons, I will look elsewhere. Let us get to it then!
Maybe it is a metaphor, I do find it satirical. And I am confused. Not because One Hundred Years of Solitude is complex, but because I feel it is the representation of something else, my guess is humanity and civilization. But I am not sure as to what aspect of our evolution I ought to compare it with. It feels like reading a pop culture novel: you can only really appreciate it if you are well versed in the culture of the time it references. All the same I am enjoying my first reading of Gabriel García Márquez. Right now, my favorite character is Aureliano (who is at present channeling Nabokov's Humbert Humbert (don't you just love that name, Hum-Hum?)). But young Arcadio holds prom…
I went to La Maison d'Art in Harlem for the Sugar Hill Market. I was
early and spent some time outside, just looking about.
Then I thought I would capture what I noticed.
Few people walked by and they all made eye contact and
smiled. They said things like "How are you?" and "Have a beautiful Sunday!"
Pleasantly surprised but happily responded in the same manner of friendliness.
I did not use to visit Harlem much.
I did not know they were so nice up there.
The above pictures were taken at the lower entry of the brownstone.
They are tinted in how I felt
as I waited.
Some of the documents that came today
Were fastened with beautiful staples
The color of dayflowers
For me who had known nothing but gray staples
Their color was fresh and new
Their elegant color made my heart
As heavy as an overcast sky
Just a little lighter
The purpose of staples is to fasten
No need to worry about their color
But somewhere someone dyed them that lovely hue
Somewhere someone chose those staples
And one of them
Made the journey to me
I feel as if I have joined hands
With those strangers
Through a dayflower
It is not just flowers
That calm human hearts
Even small, dangerous things
That cut a finger in a moment of carelessness
Can set our hearts at play
When the sky runs with sunrise or sunset
When the sky is dyed any color but blue
We are filled and stand transfixed
Translated by Jeffrey Angles
via Connotation Press
Listen to my reading of "Beautiful Staples" below:
Up is blue
clouds are waves
birds swim under
Up and it is blue
Rising into sea
down down below
it is only i
a little dot bopping
a world in brown eyes
The other day I run into a friend of Mother's, our eyes met briefly, about three yards from one another. She looked away in that way people act sometimes, signaling a pretense of lack of recognition. We were walking towards each other. When we got closer I said hello, and wondered about her attitude. I had run into her a few days prior, and she had acted the same way. But there had been a greater distance between us and I thought she had not seen me. Now I realize I could have been wrong. This older woman's reaction brought to mind my first years in NYC. I remember how I would run into my classmates in town and start waving, only to see them look away as if they did not know me.
Over the years, I have become better at seeing people I know and playing that game of lack of recognition; unless I am surprised by the encounter then I betray myself and do a double take. They say when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But as I walked away from Mother's old friend, I wondered if I ou…
I was glad to come across "Gray," a YouTube series (through Afropunk). In this video, the question is "why do you think it is so hard to talk about race?" I find it interesting how the answers quickly escalate to discuss racism. Mostly because I live in my own bubble, I did not know much about racism for a long time. Then I started to read about it and then I notice it and I was really surprised by it. Yes, I think it is difficult to talk about race. There are so many stereotypes and there is so much we do not know about other races, so I never know what the right thing to say is. Even amongst the same race it is hard to talk about it. Recently a friend who is Madagascan, wrote to me and said she did not know what it all means; the many identities amongst people of African descent. Why is it that some of us only want to be identified as Brown, others as Black, others as Afropolitan, or as African, or as African American, or as American, or as French, or as Briti…