...................

demons demanding at the door
dark and smokey,

internal hurricanes that
fog up vision and sound,
leave nothing but screaming
past screams,
       screams laid down like old railroad tracks.

clickclickclick, worthless
rattacktack, waste

pin up imaginary curtains of ancestors never met,
     itsgunnabe ok, child.
wrap the thought around like linen,
gray,
like a baptismal gown, a shroud, a last thread

Open and pour out
the demons
like melody,
stroke of a paint brush..

I can't seem
to silence
my eyes.

78rpm: Reminiscing In Tempo, parts I & II - Duke Ellington & his Orch., ...

Art Tatum -- Yesterdays

Tango français - Joséphine BAKER !

Ethel Waters

is fantastic.....

And now for Something completly different!!!

Something Positive!

Here's a picture of strange people skipping.

I realize I whine in this blog a lot. So here's 10 good things:

1. The Gigantic bowl of spaghetti waiting in the fridge for me, right now.

2. The new canvas my friend- who helped me make, -and eat, said spaghetti- is going to drop off .

3. The acrylics/oil pastels, brushes, etc that was found today- that I had believed lost through moves, are out and awaiting this fancy new canvas.

4. The sound of Otis Redding radio on Pandora

5. The fact that I have finally broken into Jazz music- after years of knowing there was defintley good shit there- but only knowing a few blues/jazz singers- the NAMES- basically- I am finally being exposed and loving -Jazz. My Grandfather would be proud.

6. Uhhhhm..... I have legs. That is a good thing. Here's a random picture of legs.

Famous ones too, from Haight and Ashbury.

7. I got paid recently, was able to get quite a bit of work. Money's good.

8. I have food, clothing, shelter. I live in California- in a place many people vacation at. I can see 100 year old redwoods or the ocean or creeks if I so desire. 

9. God graced me with everything I need to survive, and survive gracefully if I so choose, which, I'll admit, I don't always choose.

10. All my dreams are still possibilities.

What do I want? 

The three top things are
1) Be a published author- screenplay into film, novels, short story, play, poetry. I'll admit my poetry leaves much to be desired, but I can write a play like a muthafuckah. And you wanna see script. Shit. I got some ready to go now. You couldn't hand;e the drama I write. I call it hardcore-drama. Like gritty real-life shit. Very inspired by Italian Neo-Realism- as well as French New Wave, and *cough* QuentinTarantino (and all the motherfuckers who stole from him,---and all the motherfuckers he STOLE from)

2. Be  a wife and mother.   

Seriously.

Don't hate. 

It's the truth. I've been very conscious of not bringing a child into this world - when I couldn't take care of myself- but someday- I hope to have children that I can give everything I didn't get- be that Mom that I never had.

And to be the kind of wife that I never saw modeled at home or in the hood. The rub your back after a hard day kind a woman.

3. Travel. 

Through the InCiters I have gotten to do this a little- Hope we do more Euro tours.

But I have other places I want to go.

Ireland, Jamaica, Rwanda.

I want to work in orphanages and stuff across Africa. THAT has been a dream of mine since I was ten or so. I used to have these crazy dreams about: rescuing a baby in some war zone- running behind a boulder- getting all shot up and dieing but being able to hand the baby into it's mother's arms.... hahaha. Ah, I guess you call that being a Martyr. *shakes head*

What do I want: Paint more, write more, dance more. I want a good camera and show the world what I see. I want to submit more of my literary work. I CAN do all this shit. I just have to actually DO it!!!

Two Songs for Some Good Men

I have numberless fathers. I have mentioned in earlier posts how Tyrone, who worked at the group home I lived in for three years as a kid was a better father to me than any man could have been. 

Tyrone wore faded shirts from towns in Africa he had visited. 

Tyrone was tireless at work, putting more into his job than any sane person should. Tyrone knew when I was "actin' a fool" and always expected better from me.

I remember his round face light up like sunshine with the care and love that he put into his work.

When he found something funny that a kid would do or say, like Kenyatta doing some goofy dance or something, Tyrone would kind of shake his finger like he was telling us off, while laughing and say "Ha ha, Only in America, Sam Cooke!"

Oh yeah, and I hated him. I HATED him at the time. He was so hard on me.  And I am a better person because of him.

The next person is a man called Derek. Derek Wycoff came from my neighborhood. 

My mother used her back SSI money for a house down payment. This was down the street from the group home I lived in. So, when I was released back into her care at fifteen, it was still in Oak Park. 

Derek grew up, in fact, had come from generations back from that neighborhood.

Derek met my Mom and dated her off and on for many, many years. 

Derek has the kindest heart and has walked through some of the hardest stuff a man may ever have to live down. And since he was around when I was fifteen, he's one of the few people that knows me from that long ago. 

He was there when I shaved my head. I remember him warning me that I may not want to do that, because then you have to deal with what the shape of your  head was under your hair. I think he was talking about his own experience. Haha! Peanut head! 

Really though, he never had much to give, but he cares about me and that is priceless. 

I can't seem to reach him right now and it scares me. You don't know rough like he knows it. I pray he is ok tonight. Safe, clean, warm, well fed. 

Sometimes I am sick of being in my skin, with my fucking shit. You know you've come up from the gutter- you know this for real- because the demons never really leave your eyes. You just learn to function around them, and try not to inflict your crazy shit on people. And do what you can to work-work-work-work (always fucking working) through them. 

So, how could I ever be mad at my genetic father? 

He called on Christmas. 

I can't call him back. I just can't. I recently was homeless and struggling just to eat, had to drop out of school and when I called he said he couldn't help. Didn't hear from him after that phone call.

But I did hear from a mutual friend that he took my sister's kids (all 4) to Disneyland for their bi-annual trip. Every six months. Like clockwork. While she drove around town having fun (not working- hasn't worked for yeeeeeaars) in the PT Cruiser he gave her.

I'm not mad about these facts. I'm mad that he called like everything is just fine. 

I have had some amazing father figures in my life. My genetic father has never been one of them.

I remember Ralph. Ralph was awesome. He was a big, cuddly bear of a man from Haiti. He had a wide, generous smile, all covered with a shortly cropped black beard. Pretty white teeth and a booming laugh. One of the smartest men I had ever met. He worked as an aid in the junior high class I was in- affiliated with the group home. He was a truly wise and warm spirit. The kind of man that makes the world a better place.

Eventually, he went back to Haiti to help some family member with bad health problems. That was after I returned home and went to the local High School, McClatchy. When the earthquake devastated Haiti, I though of him, as I do from time to time. I pray he and his family are ok.

I remember Dwayne, light skinned with a thin little black mustache, who took me aside and, when every other staff was giving me the bullshit about "using your words" and "tell staff" when the other kids would beat on me, he finally said, "Stop being a victim- Hit them back!" I was amazed. Permission to fight back? You mean fight? We weren't supposed to fight. He looked around, made sure no other staff were listening then reiterated, yes, he meant what he said, hit them back. The staff say don't hit back but they don't expect you to listen, get what I'm saying????!

 So, I did. I gave as good as I got. I learned to fight pretty damn good too. All my life I grew up being beat. From infancy on. That is what I knew. To turn around and start throwing punches back was a huge deal for me. That was at about thirteen. I would still get jumped, but I didn't always lose, and kids would move on if they didn't think you were easy pickings. But I continued to have to fight up to the end of my group home stay. Mostly I stuck to myself, kept my head down, and my fists up. 

I never did develop an attitude that made people not be rude. 
You know, the kind of ladies that carry themselves like Queens or princesses. I was never a Queen, I was always a warrior. I know it and that's fine. I like who I am.

So for those who have had a hand in making me who I am- for giving me the tools to survive- 

These two songs are for you.

Bessie Smith (Nobody Knows You When You're Down And Out, 1929) Jazz Legend

Like A Page Out Of My Journal...

is how this one will read...

I'm reading a book on Billie Holiday right now.

It's very well done, gives a kind of impressionist portrait, using a multitude of interviews of the people that surrounded Billie, as well as a grounding in the history and culture in which she lived.

Worth reading.

I love her.

But I especially love a human with that deep- street wounding that fills a person up so fully, like a terrible, invisible infection, until they have to find some outlet- they must or it destroys them.

Like through song. Or painting. Or poetry.

Langston Hughes was like that too.

Some ache so etched into the core that the rest of the person forms around it.

 That passion is a desperate scrambling, for survival, for life . There is no other choice but to sing (or...)

And, hopefully, a deep gratitude that the voice was able to carry the soul, or the hand was able, or the words...

When I got to the part about the famous song "Strange Fruit" I remembered reading someone's Facebook status awhile back.

It said something like "cleaning my room and jamming out to the song Strange Fruit. Alright!". Someone put "You DO know what that song is about, don't you?' They didn't respond.

I could launch into a long diatribe about white privilege here, but I'll spare you.

Then I went on thinking... (yes, it was long boring day at work- I was mostly working on my own)

One, feeling like a serious misfit in this town.

It's never helpful for me to live my day to day life keeping separate from people, simply because of the way I was raised. It's isolating and unhealthy. People are people; we all have wounding of one kind or another. It only pops into my head how strange my background is when I brush up against someone else's background here in this town.

Like, I remember having a heart to heart with one friend or another.

They start talking about being upset (this really happened) with their parents because they didn't get a car at sixteen. ( or seventeen or something)

Or, with another, they would say mean things to them growing up.

Say mean things? Shit, I got the shit beat out of me. Regularly!

Poor? You were "poor"? Give me a motherfucking break!

Poor is eating government issued rice everyday,  and only rice, for months.

And we weren't Asian! (ha)

There are no awards for winning the worst childhood contest, only a sense of isolation and a prolonged frustration that ends up holding you back from enjoying life or moving beyond your history.

If I really, really tell it- I get the "wow, how did you survive? I can't imagine"

But in the end, I am the one who has to wake up in my own skin the next day with the same old ghosts.

I'm the one who's a bit strange about confrontation in social settings (def violence trigger from my group home days- fight or flight)

I'm the one who has to fight to not lay down and let the world walk all over me (violent home) until I let it get to the place where I can just start swinging. I know how to use my fists. I know how to fight. I find it so hard to stop shit from snowballing to that point.

Because quiet is so often read as weak.

Next, I started feeling like I wished I had a nice- what I call "noodle salad" story.

You know, some nice little wounds like, controlling mother, or overachiever siblings, or an alcoholic father, or depressed sister. Something nice.

Or just one doozy. I can deal with just one gnarly emotional scar. That would be alright too.

I don't mind noodle salad people, I just can't handle it when they try to compare shit with me and tell me they can relate. Or want me to pity them. Or worse- they pile a shit load of judgment on me for one reason or another.

Then, I thought- jealousy is such an ugly, ugly emotion. 

I don't want to be stunted by it.

So, I'm jealous.

Jealous some little children were fed, housed, clothed, protected, loved and I wasn't.

I'm jealous.

There it is. The ugly truth.

So, I can be angry. That's fine.

But naming it for what it is.

It's not about the noodle salad-ers. It's about the injustice of my own experiences. Poverty, abuse, violence, addiction, etc. It's about not being provided safety as a child.

And beyond all this- accepting that it is what it is. It wasn't right, but it can not be changed now.

And recognizing where I am re-inflicting this shit on myself again and again.

Billie Holiday acted out her abusive upbringing through prostitution, loving abusive men, abusing drugs, and so on. She continued to try to chase the draining and unloving relationships of her mother and father. She surrounded herself with pimps and hustlers.

So, since Santa Cruz hustlers look like weathered homeless men with crooked backs and missing teeth, I'll say I'm safe on that account.

There's prostitution here. I mean, its everywhere, even if the yuppie's here can't see it.

The point is, I thought a lot today- and my brain hurts. It's all shit I've thought before.

Basically, what do I want to DO with my life?

Gawwdamngawwwdamn!!!!

Jesus, its still a great song after all these years...

Used to be Cousteau--- then Moreau....

the singer of both
(Liam McKahey) still puts out music...
check him out

I Like Black Coffee

Peggy Lee


Ella Fitzgerald


Sarah Vaughan


Julie London


Sinead O'Connor

Rant

I apologize for inflicting this on my readers but I don't know where else to put it.

I got NO TIME for princess syndrome bitches.

If someone wants to talk shit- please have the balls to do it to my face.

Otherwise- shut the fuck up.

You have no idea what it's like to be
A) on your own -fer real-real since you were 17
and to have no real recourse when times get hard after that

when I say I am broke- I am broker than you could ever fucking imagine.
so
check yourself
you could never. ever ever ever
handle
walking in my shoes.

I don't mind having compassion for your wounds.
everybody has them.

But when you go around talking shit about me-
Bitch, please.
You have no idea how TRUTHFUL I am- how real I am being when I say something.

I could be the most loyal- down muthahfucka you ever met

But instead- by the proof of your actions
you done created an enemy.

2 Of My Favorites

#1 Favorite of all time.... Cry Tough


Runner-up

Music That Will Keep Me Going Today.

Experiencing another breaking point kind of time. Flat, (and I mean flatflatflatflat....flat!) broke. Got a couple cans of hand-me-down fruit, one can of black beans, and some small packages of instant oatmeal. Last me until Thursday. No car, no money, no work until next week. 

Need to sign up for school but can't do that until I pay a $150 previous bill. Can't afford to let go of the one dream I have- an education- even if I am the only one paying for it- the only one cheering me on- the only one who gives a damn if I sink or swim- without my dreams I have nothing.

Lord, have mercy. No where to turn, no where to go, nothing to do.

And still, despite this year's awesomeness in trying to take me under- all the way- I am still hoping that if I persevere- I can accomplish great things. I still hope. I still believe in my dreams.

As per usual- it is the music that pulls me through- to see the next day. I can not eat melody- but I can hope and stand strong for just one more sunrise.

2 versions: House Of The Rising Sun

Daughter

"Crying Child" by Susan Auchincloss

Three decades is long enough to see.

I'm cutting my losses on all fronts.

I can't stand the heartache.

You can always come back and claim your daughter, 
but I can not sit here and wait for it any longer.


Goodbye Father.
maybe you will call before the cirrhosis calls your body home.

I could understand if you were not able, but you are, for the one child you chose. And she will drain you into death for all your inheritance. The other two have hearts choking on dust. At least the baby has a good family and is only partially bitter. But I have to cut these chains or continue going down into the undertow. With me, as always, it is sink or swim. I love you. I choose to swim.

and Mother,

maybe when you understand
that you can not give birth to have someone to feed on.
Children are not acceptable free rides out of poverty.
Inconvenient punching bags in the corner, 
too frightened to ask for food,
and left in the care of Satan.
Again and again.

And now I am old, and tired. 
Few can understand how long and quiet I have waited.
But, I am done.

Pat Rhoden

Is good. Believe That.

Damn

and I'm the fool.

Waiting for a

sure to come.

Everything coming to me

has been like

That chick Precious ain't got nothing on me.

I'm waiting for

the ball to drop

the memory to fade.

the crown to crumble.

I'm waiting for

the streets to open up and swallow me.

Strength of spirit

and

artistic heart

has nothing on fate.

So,

tell me about hope.

I'll whisper about survival.

sell me on gratitude,

I'll sing about solitude.

Preach about blood

I'll scream about the suffering.

tell me the stories

and

I'll tell you

I don't believe

in

good

things

for me.

I got blues in my skin.

It ain't from privilege.

I earned my right to sing the blues.

Wish you were smart enough to tell me

when I could go back

to not believing

in good things again.

Summertime

Summertime is a mountain of a song. It has a heavy, lingering ache to it, that survives no matter how many times it is covered, by countless varying artists. Not even the folky-pop artist Jewel could kill the inherent sorrow laced throughout the song, and believe me, she gave her best shot at, totally butchering the classic. This is available to view after Paul Robeson's version in the Youtube menu after the song finishes.

          The song Summertime was written in 1935 by George Gershwin for the opera Porgy and Bess, lyrics by Dubose Heyward.

The opera Porgy and Bess premiered in New York in 1935. It was based on the novel Porgy, with a storyline of the African American experience in the real-life Cabbage Row in Charleston, South Carolina, in the early 1920s. The opera featured an entire cast of classically trained African-American singers. Not until 1976 did the American audience accept this work as a legitimate opera.

On a personal note, my Grandfather, who was a jazz musician (piano, voice) would sing this song to my mother when she was little to put her to sleep, when he was home. He died early, in an alcohol related crash, thus creating even greater significance with this song. I remember my mother singing this song to me and to my little brother in the same manner, but, when she did, it was not a soothing experience. It was punctuated with desperation. Playing out the foggy childhood memories of her father on us, she sang to him- at us. With poverty and violence looming around us, we would dutifully remain silent as she "sang us to sleep". 

Later, when I lived in a group home, the staff Tyrone would introduce me to jazz and reggae greats, and that was when I heard Summertime, in a way that touched me, down to my bones. It was Sam Cooke's version. I have never forgotten it. And through this song, I have my own connection. Tyrone was like a father to me. He was hard, and had high expectations of me. And I now know it was because he cared. He looked at me with pride, when I dove into the music/culture he exposed me to, when I stood tall and held myself like a strong young woman. He was the father I never really had and I will be forever grateful to him. May he rest in peace.

Paul Robeson


Sam Cooke


 Billy Holiday


Ella Fitzgerald


Nina Simone


Miles Davis


Charlie Parker


The Ravens


Janis Joplin


The Zombies


Lloyd Clarke


Lloyd Clarke (again)


And Sam Cooke again

Nina Simone --The Pusher

Fucking Great Song. Deserves its own post

Modge Podge in Blue