NaNoWriMo – Nyah! Nyah! Nyah!

NANOWRIMO-2011

I walked in my door after hanging out Wednesday evening. I did not leave my house again until I left for work this morning. During that time I pumped out over 9,000 words, including working on Thanksgiving Day, to get this award.

I now return to my regularly scheduled life. Pass this gal a drink and bring on the holidays!

WOOT!

===== Full Epilogue 11/30/2011 ====

NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) 2011 was a great experience and I am so glad to have participated in it. For those unfamiliar with it, National Novel Writing Month is a challenge to write 50,000 words of your novel within the thirty days of November. There are no prizes other than a fill out and print-it-yourself certificate and the bragging rights of knowing you did it! For me, who had yet written Word 1, that was more than enough.

30 days seems like plenty of time to pen 50,000 words until you BS half the month away. On November 21st I had 41742 words in and only 8 days to meet the 50k challenge with Thanksgiving weekend square in the middle of it. Naturally, temptation rears its ugly head. I am invited to two events, I really wanted to attend and the weather this past weekend was freaking beautiful for late November in NYC! BEA-U-TI-FUL I tell you! It was so unfair!

I looked at the sun through my window, watched the clock past toward and beyond the event times, sighed and typed away. I had no choice. At one in the morning of Day 28 I hit 51441. Enough for NaNoWriMo, but my personal challenge was 52k, so I still had work to do. Twenty-four hours later, I officially validated my work on their website at 52,640 words and received the certificate posted above.

I know I would have gotten off my duff and eventually started pounding out the novel that has played in the far recesses of my mind for quite a few years now. Still, the NaNoWriMo challenge to write 50,000 words in 30 days was the perfect kick-start and learning experience. I am nowhere near having a manuscript I would email to good friends, let alone a publisher, but I I am considerably more on my way to that goal than I was thirty days ago.

Now, 57012 words in, I can already see the first couple of chapters I planned in my original outline are likely to be trashed. They are only marginally informational to the development of the core characters and I can do without them. I have already gone in side plot directions, I had not thought of before, and oh! -I’ve killed off a character! In addition, I have also learned some scenes are better told in narrative, while others are best done in character dialog.

Most important, I’ve learned I’m verbose (I KNOW – whodathunkit?!). I am going to have to take an editing weed whacker in the first drafts to fine-tune this when I’m ready.

Geesh! And I though writing poetry was difficult!

The plot sickens, eh? 😉

First Snow

I went to sleep in a foul mood and it has followed me to my waking hours. No, not foul because it denotes anger, I’m not feeling angry. I’m feeling inexplicably… hurt. Okay, maybe not totally inexplicably now that I’ve identified the correct emotion, yet I’m feeling it nonetheless and the weather is not helping in the improvement of it.

I’m staring out of the window watching the first snow of Winter 2011/2012. The artist in me can’t help but admire the pretty, pristine fluffy whiteness as it gently vales. As for the rest of me? I am not happy. It’s still officially early autumn. Snow? In New York City? In October? Any snow after Veteran’s Day but before December gives me pause, but it’s in November so I can accept it, but this? There is something innately wrong with this super early snow fall. Granted, I already know it’s not going to be much of a snow fall and it will melt quickly. Still… It’s snowing and it’s actually sticking to the ground, in October. If this is a sign of what’s to come, I am NOT looking forward to this winter at all.

Looks like it’s going to be a long, quiet weekend inside the house and my thoughts after all.

And I can’t keep holding on
To what you’ve got
When all you’ve got is hurt.

U2 – One

Why I’m Adipositive…

I’ve modeled for The Adipositivity Project, for about three and half years now and again today I am asked why. Thankfully, I know from those who’ve asked, the question is not the why of TAP itself, but why me? Why do “I” shamelessly participate? And quick answer is “Why not?”

Yes, I own a full length mirror at home. It may be old and has started to be spotty in some places, but it is no way near being so old that it can fool my eyes into not seeing what’s there. Trust me, I see every roll, lump, bump, crease, crevice, varicose vein, crows feet, laugh line, cellulite, splotch, mole, scar that I have gained over my forty-eight years on this earth quite clearly. I also see the tan lines from the bikini I wore at the pool in Las Vegas this past summer. I see the beauty mark my on breast that my late-husband was drawn to kiss as a moth is drawn to porch light after dark. I see the wrinkle I have over my right eyebrow only, because I am constantly arching it in sarcasm, amusement, anger, delight and yeah seduction. I see the body that used to be able to do sixty-crunches in sixty seconds, but fully owns that the only crunch I’m interested in now is usually Nestle’s. I’m simply a human female who happens to be fat and refuses to be cowered in the booth, in the back, in the corner, in the dark, by a society that constantly sees me as less than average simply because I weigh more than average.

I can’t lie; I didn’t always embrace my size. I always had the broad shoulders, thick thighs and big ol’ booty that drove my poor mother crazy when clothes shopping as a child. Even before I crossed that magical line that classified me as fat, many years before the dreaded letters BMI became a part of our health lexicon, I was never small enough to be considered a “plus-size” model even by current standards. My current state of fatness seemed to take only a few easy years to develop. As my friend Lyn is fond of saying “God made me and I helped out”; but the acceptance of that fatness and the phatness of me was a much longer, harder struggle that (in retrospect), even I concede was not as hard as it now for my fellow sisters-in-fatness. I have a special empathy for all the young fat girls and women coming up in this age where the constant bombardment of images of beauty and health do not reflect the beauty they see in their own mirrors each day.

Dot Golberg, a fan of The Adipositivity Project recently posted a YouTube clip on the Facebook page of Substantia Jones, the amazing photographer behind TAP that makes it the fat-de-force it is. Technically, the clip is a project for her college film course. In reality, the clip is in fact “a love letter to Adipositivity” as one commenter to the post aptly stated. While Ms. Goldberg speaks solely for herself, her words, her self-discovery and awareness of her own beauty are words I’m sure every woman of size, wherever they are in their personal journey, can relate to. As I posted on my own Facebook wall when I shared it, the reason why I continue to participate in The Adipositivity Project is For the unspoken fat women out there who have felt or want feel this, but can’t put it into heartfelt words as beautifully as Dot Goldberger has.
Thank you, Dot.

Watch Dot Goldberg’s love letter here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oTzfBws7JWg

“Yes, I am fat. Yes, I am curvy. And yes, I am beautiful. I am all of those things.”
– Dot Golberg

Here goes…

Why is my brain so scattered this month?

I barely, and I do mean barely, seem to be able to focus on any specific artistic pursuit to save my life and goodness know I have more than enough things on my to do list that needs to be done. Someone asked what’s up with this blog and I was actually shocked to realize that I had posted nothing since September 8. Granted part of lack of content, as all who know me in real life are aware, is the celebration of my birth month of September. Between preparing for vacation, being on vacation and the various activities surrounding my birthday itself, September is always a whirlwind so no surprise there of the lack of content. However, the dearth of activity in October is another matter all together.

It’s not that I haven’t thought about it. I have. And then … crickets. No new blog entries, not even about my stay in Oregon (and I did have a wonderful time there). No work on about a dozen partially started ideas I have in the queue. I’ve written no new poems; nor have I worked on anything in progress in that realm. The blinking cursor with nothing in front of it has been a very haunting and daunting thing these past couple of weeks as I try to kick-start a muse that seems to still be on the vacation that the rest of me has returned from for already.

It really irks right now me as I am seriously considering entering NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) to finally put to pixels an idea of mine that has floated on the outskirts of my mind for several years now. I don’t know if entering NaNoWriMo will be a dismal failure if I can’t shake whatever this is that has my brain so scattered or if being forced to concentrate will be the jump-start I need. NaNoWriMo officially starts November 1, I have less than a week to decide. I will say this though, if I do plunge in, unfortunately this blog will be what suffers the most. So, for you few followers/subscribers who’ve patiently stuck through this dry spell with me thus far, I thank you so much and kindly ask for just a little more patience as I tackle this. After all nothing beats a failure, except to not even try right? And when have I not at least tried?

Hmmm, sounds like I’ve made a decision there doesn’t it?

Me Likey

Confession: Recently discovered guilty pleasure of mine?

You know that hollowed out spot just under the hip bone, but before the crease of where the leg meets the thigh, that defines the curve of the lower abdomen? I love that spot. It’s a visual erogenous zone for me especially on a male. We see it a lot on females because of bikinis and low-cut hip-hugger jeans and trousers, but it’s a hard find on the average male unless he’s a) shirtless and b) wearing his pants slung low or c) completely nude (don’t do it dude – also totally ignore the previous four words 😉 ).

I didn’t realize just how much I like that spot until an online friend posted a picture of himself and my eyes were immediately drawn there. Not his toned pecs, not his nicely muscled arms, not even the hint of “happy trail” all of which was very delectable eye candy indeed! No, my eyes were drawn to that spot just enough to be drool worthy over his pants line. And no, I most certainly am not sharing the picture here because he’d probably kill me!

In the case of that picture, the photographic angle was perfect. (To me) It looked like the deities themselves chiseled the perfect contours. It’s the duality of being a not quite public, but not quite private spot on the anatomy. Oddly enough, I prefer the visual tease of when they are clothed or half covered by a sheet/towel whatever. It always makes me want to have the pleasure of removing that obstacle from my view. It’s that last and final bit of modesty before, well — you know…

I’ve found myself looking for hints of that spot everywhere during the summer and enjoying it immensely when I do. Alas, autumn is on the horizon and all casual live shots will be gone until next spring. As to my friend who awakened this — thanks a lot for adding to my perv list dude as if I didn’t already have enough!

But for the next few weeks please excuse me while get my new-found perv on 😉

Oh Hair We Go!

A male friend (who wears locs), commented on a New York Times article regarding US Surgeon General, Dr. Regina Benjamin. The article titled “Surgeon General Calls for Health Over Hair” was commentary on how studies revealed a third of Black women exercised less because they were concerned it would jeopardize their hair. That of these women, 88 percent did not meet the CDC’s guidelines for physical activity, which is 150 minutes of moderate intensity exercise each week, or about 20 minutes a day. What pissed me off were his ending comments…


Are you one of these sisters? Real talk. Whether you rock a curly hawk or a sew-in special, we honor and respect you. Now get your sneakers and go sweat your perm out! With such an awesome task ahead of her, our hair should not have to be on Dr. Benjamin’s radar. And let’s be clear, this is not a School Daze – straight hair, natural conversation. This is a show-your-daughter-that-sweat-is-your-swagga-and hair-ain’t-your-dagger-conversation. A new priority. A paradigm shift.

I am not commenting on the merits/demerits of the surgeon general’s or the journalist’s comentary (Black women are fat ’cause they got their hair did), but on his.

You have NO idea how it pisses me the fuck off that it’s always the people with wash and wear hair and others who don’t have to deal with our hair every day always telling us what the fuck to do concerning it.

I don’t know any woman who goes to the gym regularly and only does twenty minutes of “moderate” exercise. For those of us that go to a gym to work out, WE WORK OUT. For me, if I’m not doing at least forty minutes on the floor, it’s not worth the time of changing into my sweats. Once my hair gets funky from sweating it’s funky for hours until it eventually peters out or I wash it. I planned my gym days around when I had time to at least damp wash (which is an extra maintenance time unto itself), if not to fully wash my hair.

My hair is thick, when I had it permed bone straight it took three hours to dry naturally. Yes, it only took about an hour with a blow dryer, plus whatever additional curling time if desired, but no woman in her right mind, is going to damage her hair by blow-drying it two or more times a week, every week. Not if she wants to keep her hair. And here’s the irony, even women with a weave need to have some hair to weave it to, so we can’t damage our natural hair underneath by blow-drying it constantly. Even a loctician will tell customers not to heat dry the hair, because it’s damaging. So I need to wait it out.

I currently wear braids, once wet it takes considerably more time to dry than when straight, especially if I want it curled. Even the weather affects drying time. I have washed my hair at 7pm on cold damp days and woke up the next morning at my usual 5am only to find it still damp. Every spring and fall, I risk catching colds for this reason alone. I’ve asked and a lot of my sistas wearing whose hair is long in twists, dreads and locks have similar drying time issues.

A few years ago, I wore my hair in an all-natural Afro for three months one summer. I’m not going to comment on all the societal-political ramifications from such, that’s a blog for another day, but it was the most miserable time I’ve ever had with my hair. If the wind blew strong, it was messed-up. If I leaned back in a tall chair or on the subway, it was messed-up. If I wore a hat, or pushed my sunglasses up, it was messed-up. And like most women, different parts my hair grow and behave differently than others, so sometimes it was just messed-up. I felt I was always in a mirror checking it, making sure it was nicely rounded and I don’t have time in my life for that kind of vanity.

I’m single with adult children, so I have no demands on my after work time except the ones I put on me. However, I can tell you from experience that there are not enough hours to work, commute, run errands, be mom-wife-girlfriend-lover as is, in a day. Going to the gym meant something else was being put off until another time, or I was in for a very late night. If I just spent half of my day (usually a Saturday, twice a month, when I should have been doing something else), in a salon for four or five hours and spent serious dollars for the privileged to boot, you’re fucking right I’m going to try to maintain that look for as long as possible. Even women with locs/twists have to take time to get to a loctician every couple of months or so for maintenance and I guarantee you, they are not likely to be doing ‘moderate’ exercise, let alone a full-on work out for a few days after that until it sets.

Should our hair not be an issue (read excuse), for exercise? No, it should not be, I fully concede to that, but let’s be real. Even for the regular exercise enthusiasts, the majority of the day is not spent in the gym and we have to deal what we look like when we’re not in it. We may not care what the average stranger on the street thinks, but it’s bullshit to pretend the average woman is not, on even a subconscious level, thinking about how she presents herself. And it’s equally disingenuous to pretend we’re not being measured, if not outright judged on it, down or rather up to our hair, even by the people whose opinions we may care about — our own friends, co-workers and families.

To him I say: You are not the one having to take more time out of your schedule because of return trips to the salon (or home maintenance), to get that do back in order for the next day. A month from now when your comments are relatively forgotten and you’re greeting – hugging – standing next to a woman and her hair is smelly as all get out, at that moment, you are not going to be thinking check out Sistagirl taking care of her health. You’re going to be thinking damn her hair’s funky!

We’ve all scrunched-up our noses at the woman who otherwise looked fine, but the hair wasn’t up to par and that was before we were close enough to smell it. In a perfect world every woman would look fab in whatever style that washed and dried in no time, but it’s not a prefect world. These are our realities and belittling it down to pithy sound bites because it’s not your hair apparent reality doesn’t help (our hair or our fat asses for that matter).

My Father

Family Tree Image from Google

My father is the earth

    dark, deep, rich soil
    soil tilled and turned
    from the sunrise
    to the sunset
    sometimes in sweat
    sometimes in blood
    from the day born from it
    to the day returned to it.

My father is the earth.

My father is the root

    of the mahogany, the ebony, the oak
    drinking heavily of
    the sweet rain of the clouds
    the salt rain of the tears
    drenched deep in the soil
    of my fathers before them

My father is the root.

My father is the trunk

    rough on the outside
    sometimes ripped by nature
    sometimes stripped by man
    but in the story of each ring
    hidden deep inside
    is the smooth beauty
    known only by those
    born of him

My father is the trunk.

My father is the limb

    raised forward in the wind
    raised forward in the rain
    raised forward in the snow
    raised forward to the sun
    because you can’t teach
    fathers to look forward
    by having fathers
    looking back

My father is the limb.

My father is the branch

    the extensions of faith
    the stretch of hope
    the breadth of a promise
    made long ago

My father is the branch.

I am the twig

    the latest incarnation
    of that promise deferred
    planted deep of the earth
    rooted of the past
    trunked on to the present
    out on a limb
    branched to the sun
    and if I seem to live
    off my fathers before me
    it is not to deprive
    my fathers give willing
    knowing I must survive
    for it is their dreams
    that are my dreams
    coursing through my veins

and in that I am the twig

  the branch
  the limb
  the trunk
  the root
  the earth

and in that I am my father.

========
Submitted to

Theme Thursday
Thursday, August 11, 2011 – Tree

Nice Knowing

Semi-long day at work, I’m getting home two hours later than usual, yesterday evening. For the last third of the train ride I suffered through the shenanigans of a group of five late-teens/early twenties females who were being, well, the near stereotypical archetype of hood rats. The attempt to simply out loud them via my iPod was futile unless I was willing to risk hearing loss on my part, I wasn’t. Between way too much intimate detail of sex acts than what is proper for a subway during rush hour and the volume, I was really hoping the next stop would be the one in which they disembark.I really hoped that for several stops. As Murphy as his blasted Law would have it, I’ll let you guess at which stop they finally exited… Yes, the same stop as mine.

Grouse. Grumble. Grimace. Groan.

As I’m walking down the stairs from the elevated trains, a few steps ahead of them, I feel this odd tingling that stops me in mid step, but is gone just as fast, so that I barely break stride and continue. I can tell they felt it also because whichever one was cackling at the moment went silent and I heard another let out a “Whoa!”. Before I can even begin to fathom what that could have been, a mighty roar of thunder rolls overhead. If it was four seconds between the tingle, the stop in mid-step and the clap of thunder it was a lot of time. The bark of thunder was so loud, fierce and sudden that a couple of young women screamed in surprise. Every now and then my mind surprises even me with how fast it can extrapolate information, process it and come to a conclusion. The girls screamed; I on the other hand was, without an emoticon, laughing out loud.

Note to self: Bursting out in laughter in front of a group of ghetto girls that just screamed because of thunder — bad move.

Girl A: What the fuck are you laughing at?

Me (I turn quickly already knowing the answer): Are you addressing me?

Girl A: Yes, what the fuck you’re laughing at?

Me: May I ask you young ladies a question? Why did you scream just now?  (You know the saccharine was dripping quadruple time, right?)

Girl B: ‘Cause the lightning scar- suprised us. (I give this one points for catching herself before letting it slip that it scared her.)

Me: Was it the lightning? Any of you really see the lightning or was it the sudden thunder?

Girl A: Okay it was the thunder. Big fucking deal, ain’t sayin’ nuttin’ on whatchu think be funny.  (I know the expression on my face slipped for one second at the butchery of our native language; I know it did.Luckily, they either didn’t notice or more likely had no clue that was the reason.)

Me: Okay, you are all younger than I so I am going to presume you remember more of basic science than I. What comes first, thunder or lightning?

Girl C: Duh, lightning! Light travels faster than sound, so most of the time you see lightening before you hear the thunder unless it’s like right on top of you. Then it looks and sounds like one. (Plus points for the NYC edumacation system – yay! Minus for the tone of voice that was obviously proud of knowing something most primary schoolers learn by first-grade and thus missing the entire point of my snark).

Girl A: And the lightning hadda be like right ova our heads to be all loud like dat. We gots all dis metal ’round us we coulda like died and shit. That ain’t funny.

Girl D (obviously not wanting to be left out of the conversation: That’s why it made me yell.

Me: So those of you that “yelled” did so because you thought you could have died? Right?

Girl A: Yeah and?

Me: If you hear thunder and you have enough time to scream about it, however close it was, and I agree this had to be right on top of us because we all felt a piece of it, that means we survived it. (I literally see the epiphany dawn in Girl C as I speak.)

Me: You screamed because you were thinking “Shit! I could have died!”. I laughed because I was thinking “Shit! I survived!” See the difference? (Girl C and the up to now silent Girl E nod.)

Girl E: See (Girl A’s actual name)? Lookit you all ’bout to start some shit and the lady ain’t even thinkin’ ’bout ‘choo! She just happy she ain’t dead. Now let’s go ‘fore it start coming down.

Me (turning to go): Goodnight ladies, stay dry!

Two of them, I think Girls C and E respond. I hear one say (Girl E?, presumably to Girl A) “Don’ hate, ’cause you know you wrong”.

Weather wise, while other places were pelted with hail, we didn’t get a drop of rain in our area last night. The entire storm for us existed of that one hell of a bolt of lightning that we felt but didn’t see and the ensuing thunder. I personally think the entire exchange was a message from the universe to the two of us (Girl A and I). Girl A and I felt the exact same tinges of current and heard the same loud thunder, yet we had two very different reactions to it.

Of the two mindsets, I have to say – it’s nice knowing where my head space is at these days and I like it !

It Will Never Be Funny

“Nazi’ing”?!  Nazi’ing? Are you fucking shitting me?!

I saw the above on a friend’s Facebook page and had to comment.

You want to ask yourself if they have no idea of what they do. For a split-second, you’re praying they really were just that ignorant as to what they do. But the fact they created a tumblr blog page for this is indicative of their blatant complicity in it. There is no reconciliation of how culpable the Bang Bang Blog and TUKS FM radio station were for this. The non-chalant way in which this was displayed was appalling to say the least.

“Planking” and “Owling”, be they ever so marvelous examples of how inane some of us humans can be, there is relatively no harm to any one other than the individuals engaged in the stupid acts. These acts of nazi’ing insulted millions of people in one fell swoop. Millions. We have come so far in humanity and then shit like this rears its ugly head to remind us of just how far it is we have to go. We will never be far enough removed from such atrocities of humanity as the Holocaust that this will ever be in the most remote way possible humorous. The term Nazi became something foul as a noun due to the acts of many who wore that title proudly, it should never be a verb.

The good news is apparently enough people were as outraged as I about this. I did a Google search and the above page is gone. It is replaced by rexing (I’m guessing doing something that impersonates a T-Rex by the photo). Rexing is something as equally stupid looking and relatively harmless, as planking and owling, but not as reprehensible as the above.  There is some hope for us, after all, but the shame of it is that this ever existed as a source of humor (however briefly), in the first place.

For Amy

The first time I heard Amy Winehouse’s voice was on the Soundtrack of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, with her mellow, but nonetheless beautiful cover of Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow.


I loved her then, strictly on the merits of her talent. It was a good year before I learned about Winehouse’s first LP Frank, cementing my love of her voice even more.  Then came Back to Black. I had You Know I’m No Good on my personal replay the way every one is now currently loving/bitching on Adele’s Rolling in the Deep. Amy was somewhere in a world only Janis, Billie and Ella could touch previously and people had taken notice. Amy could have taken that talent anywhere. Regrettably, as it seems with so many of the really great ones, she had her demons and they took her first.

Learning of her death Saturday gave me pause. I have learned, for the most part, not to read the comments section on most online editorials. Somehow, the shock of it made me temporarily forget and I was quickly reminded why I avoid such. The public never fails to disappoint in how vicious it can be at such a time. For every heartfelt RIP there were numerous “well no surprise there” type comments. And I have no words that would fully encompass the anger felt for the anonymous douche(s) that chose such a time to lay blame to Amy’s parents for not doing enough and to riff on “Rehab“.

Was the way she died a surprise? No. Was still a tragic shame? Yes.

I read various online articles. I was a little dumbstruck by it at first. I was waiting…for the retraction…waiting to read that it was a mistake, a hoax.  I really expected to someday relatively soon to read, hear that she was getting better.  That she was in the studio recording. That her new single/CD would be out. I was waiting…

From my Facebook, after I read the news, on Saturday:

Oh Amy, I was really pulling for you to prove all the naysayers wrong and come back swinging. May you now rest in peace in the afterlife that you were not able to find in the too short 27 years of your life here on earth.

I really was waiting for her to take that one cleansing breath. You know the one, when you know you’ve hit rock bottom, it can’t possibly get any worse, so you just breathe. In that breath comes a clarity that gets you to do nothing more than take another breath, but that first breath is the cleansing breath of hope that says you can do this/get through this as long as you’re breathing.

Alas, days later, I sit here with my iPod, breathing through various Winehouse singles, duets etc shaking my head at the loss of the woman, the talent, the potential that could have been Amy, who I will still love tomorrow and I can’t help but think…

Just one more breath Amy, it might have been the one …