The voice of reason
A Jacobin susurrus
Yielding the billhook
That ablates a diverting moment
Of my feeling alive
The seasoned gaffer
Doling conformity
An ebony period
In this satire called a life
Rarely lived in the ellipsis
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I am sure most of the nation has heard/read about Officers Wenjian Liu and Rafael Ramos of NYPD who were murdered over the weekend. And while I sincerely wish that I can say that I am surprised that this has happened, I am not. As word of the officers’ deaths hit the news Facebook and Twitter went berserk as the immediate bastions of gut reaction opinions flew. What I am surprised at is how quickly battle lines have emerged because of this.
While few argue that the killing of the NYPD officers was wrong, posts/comments/private messages along the lines of “I guess you’re happy now” that popped up over the weekend gives a definite sense that some who are against the protests in Ferguson and NYC seemed to think those who protest and/or support the protestors are somehow engaged in Schadenfreude over this weekend’s killings. Are you fucking kidding me? I was so aghast that anyone would ever think such a thing of any protestor, let alone me personally. I unfriended them without even bothering to engage in debate. From what I’ve since gathered from the handful of mutual acquaintances among us it’s just as well, but as the kids say “I can’t…”
This is not an either or situation. The support of #BlackLivesMatter does not negate support of #NYPDLivesMatter.
In a previous posted I asked “Or Does It Explode?” The fuse, already lit in the aftermath of the Ferguson and New York City grand jury decisions, has the general vibe between police and minorities at a high level of tense. Both sides were walking on proverbial eggshells. Things have yet returned to anything near normal levels of tense – whatever the hell that is; the killings of Officers Liu and Ramos this past weekend have not helped at all.
Just as at our cores we know that it is #NotAllPolice are out to get us, we hope they equally know #NotAllBlacks are out to assassinate them. The LAST thing we need is for a black man to be accidentally taken out while jogging on the street or while walking a dog because he got too close to a police car because the officers inside perhaps felt threatened.
I am praying and praying hard that the actions of Ismaaiyl Brinsley have furthered that ignition along the fuse.
#AllLivesMatter
Today’s The Daily Post is a good one:
You get to choose one gift — no price restrictions — for any person you want. The caveat? You have to give it anonymously. What gift would you give, and to whom?
No price restrictions? For me, this prompt is such an easy one as I literally had this conversation with another friend just yesterday.
My best-friend lives in a one-hundred plus year old, five-story walk-up that is owned by her and her family. Its age has caught up with it and the building has been in some date of construction/renovation for the past three years or so. Every apartment unit in the building is in or needing some state of repair. Not to mention maintaining the building structure itself. It’s all necessary work, but lack of funds and family like her 90-year-old mother still living in the building during it all it has been a really stressful few years for the entire family trying to get anything done piecemeal.
In an ideal magical world, everyone would move out en masse, she would gut the building, have it renovated bottom to top and then everyone could move back in to an issue free residence. The major problem being where would everyone live during it all. Without the magic of one hell of a mega/power ball type lotto where she could afford to arrange temporary housing for all the tenants and the rebuild itself, the ideal magical world is never going to happen.
Essentially, the gift would be move-in ready, elevated apartment building. Every one in the current building would simply move in to the new one. It has been a dream of mine to do exactly this for her if I ever hit that mega/power ball type lotto any way, so it is absolutely perfect. Yes, I know this benefits more than just her, but family is everything to her. The ability for her to be able to provide a stable, issue free building that she would not the daily worry of Oh God what now? for her and her family would be such a tremendous gift. Even though she would never know I had anything to do with it, the ability to remove that worry from her would mean so much to me.
Come see how others are slicing it up for the week at Two Writing Teachers
Slice of Life – Two Writing Teachers
I can see my personal quest for inner calm is in direct defiance of my continual reading of news regarding the lack of a grand jury indictment in Ferguson, MO.
When I first read about the verdict I literally threw up my hands in frustration. That action immediately put to mind the classic Marvin Gaye song “Inner City Blues” which I posted to my Facebook.
I wake up this morning to the snippets of the evidence presented at trial all over the news and social media. If what has thus far ben released to the public as a way to substantiate the grand jury’s correctness in their decision, it has backfired greatly my eyes.
I’ve seen some of the photo evidence of Office Wilson’s “injuries”. They range from what looks like razor burn or heat rash to a simple scratch. I’ve marred myself more popping a pimple.
MORE: Photo of Officer Darren Wilson released tonight as part of the evidence presented to the #Ferguson grand jury http://t.co/hQaql0fwKu—
CBS News (@CBSNews) November 25, 2014
And as I angrily posted this morning upon seeing the above picture:
That was his personal evidence? THAT was worth someone’s life? NO!
I know. I KNOW, I was not at the trial. I have not perused all the evidence that was presented to the grand jury – now released to the public. I have seen several snippets that have thus far been posted to news and social media. Those alone, at least to me, make it worthy of a trial.
All I can think right now is: Has the value of black lives, which were always of questionable value in this country historically once we stopped being chattel in the country anyway, lowered so far down the scale that the death of one in such fashion is not even worth a damn trial?
Last night’s outbreaks of violence in the aftermath of the verdict, reminds me very much of what happened after Rodney King. And to be honest, while I understood the anger that drove it, I did not understand the point of the LA riots in 1992 any more than I understand these outbreaks in Ferguson now. Being afraid to step foot in or out of the door of your local business because your own neighbor may have a Molotov at the ready, does nothing to help the situation. I’ve lived just long enough to see that while the details change, it still all feels a harsh ring of deja vu with history repeating itself.
Here we Americans stand some two hundred and thirty plus years of freedom from England. We blacks stand some one hundred and fifty years free from slavery, but sometimes I feel like we’re still bound. The Civil Rights Movement has done much for the outer trappings, yet we are still such a long way from the inner heart of the dream of Rev. Dr. King. And it seems every generation or so, a match gets lit to a powder keg to remind of us of just how far we have left to go before that dream comes true. In the interim, it still remains a dream deferred and Langston Hughes best explained the possible ramifications of such…
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode?
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It’s a pretty pissed off Raivenne slicing here – come see how others are slicing it up today:
Slice of Life Weekly Writing Challenge | Two Writing Teachers
the canvas laughs at me knowing
I hold the image of you,
sipping water from the fountain, in my head,
ready to transfer it from my memory to my canvas.
the cobalt and pthalo greens along with the terre verte
of the background foliage
the mixing of warm and cool grays for the fountain
were all easy choices
but now I’m down to you.
the canvas laughs at me knowing
ivory black, burnt umber and raw sienna?
for glossy dark locks of your hair,
the sweep of your brow, the curve of your lashes – yes.
oh, but where do I begin
for the deep rich tones that comprise all of your complexion?
burnt sienna might imbue the shadow in the curve of your dimples
maybe some yellow ochre deep to highlight your cheeks, hmm
the canvas laughs at me knowing
some titanium white to capture the hint of teeth showing as you smiled
won’t capture its mischievous gleam
but a touch of naples yellow light is perfect
in that the arc of the water drop reflecting sunlight
against the alizarin crimson
that is but one scant shade of the lushness of your lips
lips still wet from the water drank
not even seconds ago
an errant liquid drop is about to fall.
and the still unadorned canvas laughs at me knowing
there will never be a man-made hue,
that can rightly capture
the soul of you
I pick up my pallet anyway
What Makes A Person Photo by Andrew Wilmot
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At dVerse Victoria challenges us Word Artists to Grab a Brush and Write! something related to art technique. The attached photo is from Andrew Wilmot a painter, award winning screen-writer, author and above all a person I am honored to consider a friend, is the inspiration for my write.
dVerse ~ Poets Pub | Word Artists, Grab a Brush and Write!–dVerse Meeting the Bar
<trigger warnings – bodily fluids>
I am going mad.
A feeling not entirely out of the realm of possibility given the circumstances, truth be told. Surely if any place could inspire the fragmenting of one’s mind, this dark abyss would be so. The ongoing series of low moans seeminly reverberate about the cramped space further emphasizing the horrendous state.
When was the last time we had fresh air? Saw sunshine?
Normally a gentle roll, the summer storm turned the normally gentle rocking of the ship into anything but a comforting lull. Several found their insides unceremoniously gushing out as a result of the lurching. I tried not to think about it, but it was more near silent susurrus, a subliminal messaging of sorts to which I would not pay heed because this sin’t happening to me… This isn’t happening to me… This isn’t happening to me…This isn’t…
The man directly behind me starts speak when I feel hi body convulse and warm liquid strike my head and trails down my neck and back. I realize the first words were the beginnings of an apology he now completed, his stomach empty, butI ould not offer him the comforting words of understanding asthe stench and sheer repulsionstarts to overwhelm. Feeling itI reflectively try to back away from the warm body in front of me. But like the man behind is bound to me and the stranger in front of me is chained to the man before him, I am just as shackled and cannot move when the ship lurches.
“I am sorry my brother”
And release…
Click for full size
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Ready, Set, Done! is a ten-minute free-write where you tap away on whatever comes to mind, no filters attached. You are free to edit later, or do as I have and just publish as-is. I have NO idea where this came from. I typed the first sentence, kept going and this was the result. The image was found after the fact.
Over at Cee’s Photography I’ve discovered a weekly challenge to “Share Your World” via random questions. While photos are not required, I agree they do enhance things. Here are my responses:
What is your favorite color?
Black. I know part of my love for the color is because of my aversion to all things pastel as a child. As a teen and adult, the appeal for me is the mystery attached to it. The color of darkness; the touch of badness; the hint of the illicit and the simple perversion of liking something girls are not supposed to like. I was Goth and Metal and Leather, a good decade before those terms existed in my lexicon. Back when it meant something rebel, mysterious, dark not to be the near casually tossed out adjectives as used today.
In what do you find the simplest of joys?
Macaroni and cheese – with bacon!
Music! Music! Music!
Food and music. A bowl of mac & cheese in general, but especially with bacon can bring out of just about any foul mood and put a smile on my face. It makes a good mood feel even better. In either case at least until the bowl is finished. * Big Grin * Such simple ingredients at its base – yet so complex in how it just works. There is a reason it is high up in the list of Comfort Food for so many.
And as much as I am a logophile and bibliophile and appreciate the ability of words to reach and touch me to the core, music gets me there deeper and infinitely faster. I can hear the opening of certain songs and/or music pieces and feel my mood shifts on the first note of recognition. At least in my head I have to do the call backs of Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” (bom-bom-bom <– see?! I just had to, had to include it!), and unless I am carrying a very heavy load, I still cannot resist the urge to drop everything in order to “air drum”, the drum solo in Phil Collins “In The Air Tonight”. I have clutched my heart and been brought to tears over a piece of music as book has ever done so – yet. I am not always eating, but there is always music -or easy access to it- around me.
Would you prefer a reading nook or an art, craft, photography studio?
Oh, the art studio hands down. I can make a reading nook out of just about any where I choose to sit and read. I do not work on a lot of the art things I would like to simply because I do not have the space to pursue such within the limited confines off my apartment. I am pretty sure my landlord would very much object to a kiln for glass blowing or a pottery wheel in my living room, not to mention the mess acrylic and oil paints can make. I already know should I hit the big lottery; whatever home I build will have a studio nearby where I can work on any of my various artistic pursuits at will as well as a library.
What is at least one of your favorite quotes?
“Everyone is born an original; sadly most die as copies.”
“Doing what you like is freedom; liking what you do is happiness.”
Bonus question:
What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?
Last week was seeing the first New York Festival of Light and getting to spend some time with my eldest son in the process. The Festival was in its inaugural run and it was sweet being at the very first of something new. Years down the road from now, there’s going to be a certain cachet in being able to brag, I was at the first one. I took pictures, unfortunately not a single one with me and my son in them as proof we were there – d’oh! I am already looking forward to next year’s Festival – I know it will be even bigger and better! As for this week that is already more than halfway over, I am looking forward to the “Color Play” opening reception at La Maison d’Art in Harlem. Like the Festival I rarely get to many such events on their opening day, not to mention hardly attend any events in Harlem any more – to which hang my head in shame. That is a slight I plan to rectify starting with this exhibit.
Come Share Your World at Cee’s Photography.
Watch this first:
He smacked her like she cussed out his dear mother. Like a mother smacks her child for using a really bad word. Like a soap-opera actress slaps her paramour after discovering an affair. Let’s just say he slapped her – hard. So hard I said “Damn!” and rubbed my own face.
The initial reaction most have had he didn’t have to smack he like that, but I also add – she had it coming.
I have no idea what instigated the young woman clowning all over the young man, but clearly she had been running her mouth for a bit before the start of this video. Yes, she was talking much mess, but it was all words. She was all in his personal being stupid and he was mostly ignoring her. With instigating of her girls as Greek chorus riling her up to spew even more bullshit, she was getting worse by the minute. The additional audience of some of the other passengers laughing did not help and realizing she was being filmed on a cell phone only made it worse; escalating the situation rapidly.
When the target of her tirade had enough, whether he had reached his stop or not, he had started walking away from her. Let me repeat that; he was walking away from her. When you do hear him speak at last, it is evident he has an accent, but she tells him he sounds stupid. I bet she did not give one thought to what she must have sounded like to him while she was going off. He took all her bullshit pretty much wordlessly, but he had enough and called her out of her name. Was he wrong in how he chose to call her out?-yes. But was he wrong in calling her out?-no. After all the crap she spewed to him, he earned a call out. That she did not like it –too damn bad– she had no business slapping him in the back of his neck because of it.
She clearly took a couple of seconds to think about it before she punched him – that was an intentional response. Granted, he had no business smacking her in retaliation period, but he just as clearly did not think about it; immediately turning back to slap her – that was a gut reaction. He did not beat her, he did not punch her. He did exactly what she did – slapped and stepped back.
Some females count on the adage that a man will never hit a woman and misuse it to berate men. She had a public audience; she had her girls as back-up and she was surrounded by other men aw swell. She was so secure in the knowledge that she could mouth off, being all Betty Bad Bitch and get away with it knowing he was not going to be stupid enough to touch her. Or so she thought. To quote Lincoln – “Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt” and that girl was acting “all kinds of fool” as the old folks say. I think he was trying to be a gentleman and let her act like the clown she chose to be. As I said at the beginning of this, it was all words. However, once she slapped him all bets were off. Even in the imbroglio that followed, it was less about the other men protecting the female from the one guy, and more keeping the females off the one guy.
As Mama always said: Keep your hands to yourself.
I feel no remorse whatsoever for her, it was not right, but she had it -and all the memes that are now spinning from it- coming.
Across the bar, I saw you standing there
Just out of the light’s glare partly shaded
Struck by your beauty, all I could do was stare
And you stare back with intent, but I was jaded
From the same flowers, different weeds
We were a pair of living contradictions
Your alabaster skin versus my well tanned
But you aim your look at me with conviction
You started to say something to me
But realize the music is too loud
So you mimed to me your destination
And wound your way through the crowd
I follow through the din of partying bodies
To the bathroom down the end of the hall
You didn’t hesitate for even a moment
As you reached around me to lock the stall
I was filled with words, yet could say nothing
High as a kite from the essence of you
You smiled like the cat caught with the bag
And proceeded to make dreams come true
In a desire that so overwhelmed me
I mulled but one thought, to get inside
Of your heart, of your soul, inside of you
Totally stripped of that thing called pride
I was afraid you would think I was crazy
But your kiss removes all other thought
Tipping a pretend hat, as I reciprocate
In your kiss I’m held, entrapped, caught
I was so beyond any reason or caring
Held in your grip of the perfect feel of tight
By the time you spring your truth upon me
I was more than ready for your bite
I roared with the shock of the transition
And an ecstasy that blew away the rest
One swift move, I impaled you to the door
And gave you a nice dose of what I do best
Someone banged the door just as you moaned
And moan with each recoil as my retort
Still riding hard, I bring the banger into my fold
Knowing I’d just passed some test of sorts
It’s been decades since that glorious night
And I only smile when I’m having fun
My true enjoyment? Adding to our guild
So if you ever catch me smiling – run!
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What can I say? It’s almost Halloween…
Because I had a yen for mediocre barbecue, a friend and I were dining at the epitome of NYC eatery, Dallas BBQ (metro NYC dwellers familiar with the chain are giggling at that statement right now, if that’s any hint). A woman, who looked to be my physical age, but may have been older given allowance for the “crack factor” was sitting at nearby table with her dining companion. As he went to go feed the meter, she had a sudden outburst of several panicked “Oh no!”s, while frantically searching her purse, her coat pockets and the table for something clearly important. After a few moments she points at a busboy with an accusatory “He took it! I know he took it!”.
Was it a ring, her wallet, credit/debit cards or even cash? No, it was her teeth.
Yes, you read that correctly. Her teeth.
As her decibel and tear levels increase, it is learned that it was her birthday and she had removed her teeth while she dined, placing them on the table beside her plate, wrapped up in paper napkins. Personally, I never quite understood the point of removing one’s dentures, bridgework et cetera in order to eat. I mean, isn’t the point of most dentistry is to provide the wearer the ability to masticate one’s food, but I digress. According to her, while waiting for “doggie bags” (and as my dinner companion asked “Who says that anymore?”), the busboy cleared the remaining refuse on the table, thereby trashing the at first valued at $500, but by event’s end increased to $700 in orthodontics.
Clearly when being taught Table Clean-Up 101, the busboys missed the section that states they must carefully inspect every single piece of balled-up tissue or napkin discarded at a dinner table for possible teeth, because the owners of said teeth are not responsible for their belongings. Essentially, she accused the man of doing his job – that bastard! She was in turns having a pouting, table pounding, smack condiments to the floor in frustration, foot stomping, with intermittent outcries of “My teeth!” hissy fit.
Her dinner companion addressed her as “Ma”, as in a poignant, earnest, but definitely loud request to “Chill the fuck out Ma!” as her wailing increased. Attempting to gauge his age in comparison to hers, in order to determine whether “Ma” was a title or a term of endearment was never established. The woman was just short of keening for her lost teeth, much to the amusement of a table of four twenty-mid-twenty-somethings, all of whom pulled out their respective cell phones to record the proceedings as managers and other wait staff were pulled into the melodrama.
All this time I was facing the events, doing my best to not start outright laughing in the woman’s presence, even if I could barely keep a straight face of my own. Some forty-five minutes later, the birthday girl and her dinner companion leave the restaurant, still distraught over the loss, but with their meal comped for their troubles. It was the general consensus of my dining companion that the point of the entire production was getting the meal comped. While I not necessarily agree to that in regard to the lost teeth, it was clearly the intent of a woman who sat a table over from the going-ons, claiming the event upset her so, she suffered loss of appetite and she and her dinner companion should be compensated for such. The beleaguered manager, understandably flustered from the craziness, was not hearing it.
My friend looked me dead in the eye and proclaimed she did not care how desperate I wanted ribs, we were never stepping foot in that place again. Can’t say that I blamed her. After all, if hjbvl c this was a simple rainy Wednesday evening, early dinner crowd can you imagine the shenanigans on a Friday? During Happy Hour?
On the second thought, don’t.
Raivenne-lations 