The first day in February kicks off Black History Month. I always like to post poetry, biographies, art work, and writings of African-American artists on my Facebook page. It's a way for me to connect (and possibly help others connect) with artists that they may not have heard of. I also like to concentrate on historical artists mostly but I like to included local artists and artists who are living now but may not be high profile artists. I do include a few Nationally known artists like Maya Angelou who I featured on my Facebook page on this first day of BHM. For the blog, I've decided to introduce you to a local musician, Jahruba Lambeth. Jahruba has been kicking around Norman-town since way back when. Well known in the area as a percussionist and singer. He plays a lot on Main St. during our monthly Art Walks. He also teams up with a local guitarist, Chris Christo. If you live close to Norman or in Norman but never got out to Art Walk, come on down next Friday (February 8) and checkout all the local artists. Jahruba may be there.
Saturday, February o2, 2o19
I believe God has stolen the beautiful hair that once nested on the top of my head for purposes that are truly beneath His rather glorious position in my life. Yes, He's taken my hair and from it has fashioned a voodoo doll of my likeness, and He has since I turned 70 years older stabbed at that likeness of myself with a long, thin holy sewing needle. He doesn't just hit, poke at one spot, but multiple spots on the inside and outside of my body. God can, at times, be not only cruel but extremely vindictive. Yesterday, as I sipped a Smoothie and ate a sandwich at one of our more expensive restaurants in Norman-town, I had a sudden headache, a piecing headache right in the middle of my frontal lobe. It burned and just kept aching for at least five minutes . . . and then it was gone as if it had never been there in my brain at all. However, the memory of that stabbing pain remains inside my memory closet. And that brutal memory scratches at the door. It wants out so it may torture me some more.
And then today, I just felt little punches in areas of my body where I never thought I could ever feel pain. Organs here and there in little hideaway places inside my flesh took turns cramping and twisting themselves into invisible, horrible pain monsters. It appears that God not only likes a sharp stabbing motion to inflect his physical abuse on me . . . I'm sure He has a pair of weighted gloves that He loves to wear as His giant fists punch every part of me that can be punched.
Sunday, February o3, 2o19
A slow day. Me moving in slow motion. The air from the air conditioner- yes, it was warm enough today to turn the AC on- drifted like invisible smoke, like a transparent ghost haunting the living room with its cold breath. The day is drained of whatever colors might find there way through the winter's gray mood. My life? Black and white, a negative stain that no amount of scrubbing can wipe out. I hear Lady Macbeth had some the same kind of problem. But my sadness, my insanity always finds a way to cure itself . . . unlike Lady M., I have a silly sense of hope that somehow it well all turn out just right. Just right. TGS . . . The Goldilocks Syndrome.
Monday, February o4, 2o19
I'm out of the shower. Hair still wet. Body clean . . . hope some of it rubs off onto my inner-self, the constant light that flickers inside keeps the pilot light lit . . . A spark of life. Water at the right temperature and the just right ratio of hot and cold can change a person . . . if not forever, for a while. Peace, rest, a shy smile on my battered face. . . for a while.
Tuesday, o5,2o19
Wake up call for David at 11am. No answer. Left a taunting message on his answering machine. Hung and called again. He answers the phone . . . but says nothing. "Hello?" I said. "Mageratgredogagadot!" was the answer from the other end of the conversation. I shouldn't have called the second time. I knew from the sound of his voice that we weren't going to go anywhere today. "Call . . . back . . . in . . . an . . .hour." Yeah, sure. That's what I did. He didn't even bother to answer the phone at when I called at 1pm. Wrote this around 11am today:
Tuesday, February o5, 2o19
I wake up depressed.
I wake up happy.
I wake up. I wonder.
I dream, I know I dream.
I feel. I feel those dreams,
they run through my thoughts
on ghost legs . . . disappearing
behind that thick wall of fog
now standing guard outside
my apartment's west window.
I know I dream. I know not
what I've dreamt. I know I dream.
The news reminds me:
Today is Trayvon's birthday.
He would've been 24 years old.
I wake. I wake up. I . . . wake.
Wednesday, February o6, 2o19
A nice day. Started off with a foggy morning. So thick the energy building (with it's 25 or more stories) couldn't be seen. Really cool! A gentle morning and day. My mind not filled with a lot of the depression junk I consume while watching the news. Particularly depressing was Watching Trump's State of the Union speech. But NO! I'm not getting into that. I don't want to feed the demons thrashing about inside my thought processor.
David did get out and about today. We went for coffee at the Stella Nova where Aquaman is a Barista! No, I'm not joking! Yeah, I am. He's a young bearded hipster kid with long hair . . . he's always smiling, which is a bit annoying.
So, me and David, we just sort of hung out for a bit and then . . . home we went. It remand foggy all day and slowly it got colder and colder. I was so glad to be in my apartment where it's nice and snuggly warm.
Thur., Feb. o7, 2o19
Cold today. that windy coldness . . . slices through the flesh. Was okay out in it a bit, just a bit, from David's car to the Stella Nova. A nice gourmet cinnamon role . . . very tasty. Ice tea instead of coffee. Why? who knows. Got home about two hours after we left. David wanted me to go see this musician I really like . . . whose name I can never remember. Anyway, I decided not to go because it was so cold and the sun was still out and if the sun was still out and it was cold . . . well, I didn't want to think how cold it would be at night. So, I said I didn't want to go, got in the house and . . . I just got sick, so sick. I don't know what was wrong with me . . . But I was so glad I didn't go out.
So, here's the end of the first week of Feb. and I wrote a lot in this blog. I'm not sure it's worth reading but here it is anyway. {
smiles}
No comments:
Post a Comment