What's It To Ya?

I woke up thinking about the same thing I went to sleep reminiscing on...September 11, 2001. I would be hard pressed to forget where I was and the immediate inundation of shock, anger and thirst for vengeance I felt every time the horrific images flashed in my mind. I also will never forget how my chest and eyes swelled with pride at the images of how Americans of all manner of diversity came together like a tightly clinched fist to heal and help one another.

Several weeks ago, a friend of mine shared a video with me that she and her sons appeared in (time marker 1:08) entitled "Being An American Means...". As an American (an global citizen) I hope that compassion, tolerance and respect abound within and outside the invisible lines we staunchly insist on protecting or regaining depending on who you ask (I just want to know from whom are you recovering your country?).

I won't belabor the point. Check it out below.

BLUNT: Being an American Means... from GottaLaff on Vimeo.

Was it Good for You?

I guess you do what you have to. Whatever makes it all make sense (kinda).

Venture Capital

I have never been one to shy away from taking (moderate) risk. Now when I say "never" I should say that is true when the risk does not involve employing a more vulnerable self. Specifically when it comes to sharing the things I've written. I mean those things inked in blood (metaphorically, of course) and are a Windex cleaned streak-free window to the secret parts of me only exposed in the dimmest of light. I like to keep a little bit for safe keeping.

In my head it is high noon and I am standing outside of the saloon a few paces from my more timid persona (to be likened to Beyonce's Sasha, only mine makes it okay to be less of who I am).

I want to be bare. Naked. "Nekkid," as my grandma would say. I am leaping into the kind of vulnerability one (presumably) feels the first time they disrobe for the first "session". In that unguarded state just before you climb between the sheets it's the tenderness of lovemaking that warms like a wave with the sense of welcome, intimacy and security. My mama told me once about my writing, "God's gifts are given without apology. Certainly, there is someone somewhere that needs to hear what you have to say." I was twelve. It is certainly okay to be THIS open...this honest...this raw...this real...this risky with my passions. It IS okay to be this nekkid.

I Know You See It

Sometimes clarity comes in a warm wave and is underwhelming but you just get what it came to deliver. You see, instantaneously, in Technicolor the principle that eluded you as craftily as the Roadrunner managed to do consistently from Wiley Coyote. The thing is when you get it --and you will, you get it. Involuntarily, it feels so, your lungs draw in a long hard deep breath. It’s solidified –you get it. Grasp it and hold on with white-knuckled determination.


Love does not equal necessary. Nor does it equate to health and well-being. Picture a tree --yes, that analogy…the one about roots and leaves and all parts serving a specific purpose for the life of the tree. Some parts are intended for the lifetime, others for a season.

Recognize!

Like You've Never Been Hurt

Happy Make A Scorpio Day

She Isn't Really A Bitch

I'd heard that Karma's bitch
I found her harsh disposition not so cold
I understand that she only comes where the mat doesn't necessarily say "Welcome" but it does say, "Come In"
My interaction with her was civil
I was waiting for her
Greeted her, to her surprise, with a smile
Told her I'd been expecting her
Set her at ease immefiately
letting her know I didn't believe what had been rumored of her
I knew full well why she was darkening my door
Only to bring me what I deserved
Hand delivered the harvest for the seeds I'd sown
Thank you, Karma
You are not, at all, a bitch to me
'Cause I deserved your presence

World Citizen

I am hard pressed to not be moved by the catastrophe that occurred in Haiti on January 12th. My compassion is stirred. Images are permanently etched in my memory. Immortalized right next to those of my fellow human beings choosing to take leave of their standing surely spreading wings lifted on whatever faith they held dear, choosing their death from the Towers. I scarcely watch the news, local or otherwise. Accordingly, I have kept my viewing of Haitian coverage to a bearable minimum. Not from uncaring, rather because I know how easily I see myself in the skin of others. How easily my eyes well from the sight of a two month old baby with multiple wounds and broken bones that could easily be mine, from a mother pleading with rescue works who've been at work for seven hours to try one more time to pull her ten-year-old daughter from the rubble because she is sure that she is alive.

Through tears I am incensed that there remains a "bottom-line" for certain aid organizations in the midst of this tragedy. I have been reminded that some don't know the history between the U.S. and Haiti. I countered with the fact that some choose to forget entirely or employ selective memory. I am increasingly malcontent with the idea that I am constrained to the borders within which I was born. If, in fact, I am a human being I am of the opinion that membership to this species is not limited to hemispehere, continent, nation or even timezone. Am I not a citizen of the world? Thusly, am I not obliged my global compatriots respect, compassion, civil rights and just plain courtesy. Rather than preach to you I will pass along the information I have availed myself to.

Namaste.

http://www.theroot.com/views/haiti-historical-timeline

http://www.uptownnotes.com/haiti-in-context-voices/

http://www.uptownnotes.com/haiti-in-context-history/

Changing Stripes

Dear Dad,

It would seem that it is far easier to change your number than it is to change your stripes. Even easier to tell me that you are going to change your number and neglect to give it to me. Of greatest ease to resurface and then quickly disappear...as quickly as dawn chases away the night. Unfortunately, for me it will not be so easy to console the young version of me that is very much alive in the most vulnerable part of me that still believes in you. That still vehemently grasps tightly to the fairy tale of daddy...the fable right behind Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. As the eldest child I am used to picking up the pieces. I can not afford to remain open. I forgive it all. Even the sins you think I hold against you. Imperfectly perfect, daddy. My heart is closing only because it cannot sustain another injury on top of injury on top of injury, more and more injury. I love you endlessly...The End