He's the real thing... not just inspiring talk and rhetoric.. his ideas are real and do-able. Check it out

YES, I CAN...

It's Time
Mood:  on fire
Now Playing: The Winans' It's Time
I literally sobbed when I watched this. I believe so hard in this man and what he is inviting us all to transform into. Here's my chance. Here's our chance. Support him with your ears, your heart, your intellect, your talents and your money. Yes, you can. Yes, I can. Yes, we can!

Party time!
Mood:  a-ok

I am so emotionally engaged in the lead up to the upcoming presidential election that I've done something unprecedented: For the first time I went to the Democratic Party's website.  

I've been a registered democrat by default all of my voting years, but I've never really taken the in depth time to look to see what I had declared myself to be a part of.  Recently I've been hearing a lot about the lack of spine that democrats have, but when I actually read their platform, their charge, I agreed wholeheartedly.  Honest government.  Who doesn't want that?  Imagine a government that told you the truth even when it knew you'd be upset about it.  A government that sought to serve you, acknowledged that it worked for you, made itself transparent and accountable to you, took the time to ask you how you felt about issues, and informed you of all of the necessary information so you could make an educated decision on your own behalf, to which they would adhere and uphold... wow... that sounds like... I don't know... democracy.  A government that had no interests of it's own... perhaps that's the problem.  The government actually has no interests, it's the people that run the government that have interests.  A government of the people/rich special interest minority, by the people/rich special interest minority and for the people/rich special interest minority...perhaps it should be amended that way for accuracy's sake.  Independent Energy.  I am for my country getting away from oil, and out of other people's countries!  I'm for finding a way to treat the planet better.  I don't know why we just don't go ahead and transfer everything to solar and vegetable power.  We (excluding the fossil fuel industry) wouldn't have to loose anything.  We could keep all of our stuff (Americans love their stuff) and just use windmills to run them instead of fossil fuels.  I'm even willing to give up a few of those electrical amenities to know that the world is benefiting.  I'm for energy independence.  Just think, we'd have no one to fight.  We could be like Canada.  Or Switzerland.  Or Costa Rica, with no army.  Who am I foolin'...  Prosperity and Progress.  The Democrats are talking economic abundance in the form of opportunity and access, and the forward motion of those things not monetary that improve the lives of all.  We're talking universal health care, not capitalist health care.  I just got prescribed medication that was SOO wrong for me (i got so sick!), and I have the sneaky suspicion that the doctor was pushing it so hard because he gets a kick back.  Shady.  This is my health we're talking about here!  Overall, with the Democrats were talking about a government that supports your vision for yourself, provided that that vision doesn't hurt anyone else.  I'm for that.  And I'm for money.  Security.  C'mon.  What is security? That's another blog.  They were talkin' Real security that comes from telling the truth.... and honoring troops when they come home by taking care of them.  Election reform... did you know that Russia has more of a direct election than we do.  We don't need an electoral college to baby sit us... the electoral college made it possible for Bush to steal the election in 2000.  I'm down for a party that acknowledges and honors Martin Luther King, Jr. as a great individual worthy to be praised, not because he was a great Black man, but because he was GREAT.  I am down for a party that is not intimidated by otherness, but values otherness as the diversity that makes us all stronger.  So, I can say, I'm down for the Democrats...how could you not be for a party that gives both a woman and a Black man an open avenue to vie for the highest office of the land?  I am, however disappointed in their effectiveness especially in ending the war... I do wish they were more bold and courageous with their stances... I wish they were willing to let things be rocky in efforts to stand rooted in their charge...it's better to rock the boat and get to our destination than to be anchored on a cushy ship named The Titanic, ... 

To be fair, I had to visit the Republicans as well.  I have opposed them most of my voting life, but really had no specific reason to for myself.  I admit, I was a part of a certain banwagon-ism... the stuff that lynch mobs, and Vanilla Ice fans are made of.... folks caught up in a nasty storm.  As soon as I went to the Republican website, right on the home page it declared, "Barack Obama is the wrong kind of change".  Wow.  No cosy, "Welcome to the RNC, we're glad to have you."  Just hate from the beginning.  (Barack must really have them shook!)  There were no pictures that resembled any kind of happiness or diversity.  I'm surprised they hadn't devised a way to electronically identify my otherness and block my access.  I perused their site, and clicked on "Vote fraud updates".  A map of America appeared and I clicked on FL to read about what they would say about the voting discrepancies identified in the 2000 and 2004 elections.  After clicking, a page appeared and informed me that there was no record of voting fraud in the state of FL.

....... 

 Yep.  Just like there's no record that the government conspired to kill JFK or MLK.  Just like there's no record of the Chicago police MURDERING Fred Hampton or Philadelphia police dropping a bomb on MOVE residents in 1985 or the FBI savagely dismantling the Black Panther Party all, by the way, under the guidance of President Hoover - a Republican.  I would like to know who keeps their records... they're doing a terrible job... it's probably because they've outsourced the job to some poor person in another country for pennies to avoid paying social security and workers comp to an employee from, uh, let's say FL... anyway... one of their bloggers claimed pride at the 'progress' Iraq is making because they have record of a Chinese restaurant opening, and we all know that were there is a Chinese restaurant, there's progress... The blogger went on to say that the Chinese restaurant made Iraq look more like America, and that was the best sign of progress there could be.  So the goal of the republican party is to get every place to look like America, and play the marketplace game like America, so that America has the advantage, since it made the rules, and can control the board.  My older cousin used to do that to me all the time.  She'd learn some game she, no doubt, sucked at with her peers, but antagonistically forced me to play, without providing me the means to be on equal footing, just so she could beat me and oppress me and subject me to all of her dirty work.  That's what the republicans are after, someone to do their dirty work.  Ownership is a strong point on their agenda... why, because for them property rights serve as a proxy for human rights.  To republicans you actually have no rights unless you have some assets - some stocks and bonds, a couple of condos, a home, a business, a 401K and some oil.  They are also big on morals and values... like the autonomy and honorability of family, sex only in the context of marriage, God's presence in schools.  But it all seems to be for show.  They have the same family issues as everybody else, they just don't want to talk about it.  That's why it Reagan - a Republican - took so long to admit that HIV/AIDS was a national problem... all because he didn't wanna talk about sex and homosexuality and drug use... as if the act of not acknowledging it in conversation meant it would go away... how immature, short sighted and selfish.  They all have pre-marital sex, marital affairs, and post-marital sex as much as anyone else.  They want to acknowledge God in schools as much as anyone else.... they just want you to do it their way.  That should be their motto:  Republicans - Do it our way, or else.  So, all of this values and morals stuff is just for show... they have no desire to actually have the real conversations and make the real policy that will strengthen families, honor the blessing of a person's right to choose where, when and with whom to engage in sex and it's outcomes or allow the benevolent presence of God in all forms into the fabric of every American experience (wasn't this country founded by folks fleeing religious oppression?).  I realized that republicans have no appreciation for dissent or diversity.  And most importantly I realized that if they had no one to oppose, they would have no agenda.  That's why I can't support them, because they've based their ability to thrive as an organization on the concept of war... and when war is your agenda, there can be no peace.  And I want peace.  So I can't be a Republican.  I've accepted this.  Really, I'm okay with it.

 In actuality, I realize that neither of these groups really care whether I'm at 'the party' or not.  They care about the people/businesses who pay for them to get elected.  Black folks never pay for anyone to get elected (although we certainly have the purchasing power to).  And women sometimes do, but not enough to be relied on.  So, as a Black woman, I'd basically better hope my interests and concerns align with some white men who buy politicians 'cause that's the only way I will be addressed.  And then when you think that politicians don't serve the interests of the people, they protect the economic interests of those who paid for them to get elected, then you understand the flaws of capitalism.  There are many advantages, but even they, like everything in a capitalist society, have a price, and like humanity on an auction block, will be sold to the highest bidder.

Nevertheless, I refuse to be overwhelmed by the kind of petrified cynicism that lulls my tear-stained, blood-covered vote to sleep.  Right now, I unapologetically proclaim that I am a Democrat... and, as an artist,  I simultaneously pray that neither McCarthyism (he was a Republican, ya'll), or any of it's ugly cousins, will ever wag their pointer fingers my way.... 

 

Scattered Thoughts
Mood:  a-ok

How can I want to be famous without first wanting to know my neighbors.  How is it that I want to impact the world, but skip over the impact I can have right now in my community... in myself.  There is a divine order to the world, and there are steps in the process of evolution of anything.  A flower isn't sprouted in bloom.  A baby isn't born a woman.

 

I have no idea where those words just came from. LOL!  None, whatsoever.  I think I've been reading a lot of spiritual books in my life so I start to think in the tone of them.  Sometimes I think like this:

All that remains of my baby hair

Is right there on the side

All the rest is nappy.

It's not in the form of the Haiku, but that's what it is.  These little tidbits of poetry just come to my mind and I regret that I don't have my notebook and pen close by to capture them most times.  IT has always been a desire of mine to write a book of poetry.

 Yesterday (or so) I was on the NJ Path train and I saw an older Asian man enter the train all bundled up.  It was brick outside, so cold that you could not only see the mist of condensation coming from your mouth as you breathe, but even the thin streams of warm air escaping your nostrils had the same effect.  He stood in front of me in his down mermaid coat, tightly hugging his body down to his knees and did the most revolutionary thing.  He reached down and unzipped the coat from the bottom all the way to his waist and sat down in that typical male "my legs aren't really big but they need to spread way out anyway" pose.  I had never understood the purpose of the double zipper until that moment!  It made so much sense.  Sometimes it's better to unzip from the bottom.  Who knew?  

I can't believe it's already 2008.  My passport expires next year, as does my California Drivers License and I wonder if I'll make the effort to hold on to it any longer.  I've taken trips back to California just to go to the DMV and renew without suspicion (don't tell nobody!)  I've used up all my my time to renew via mail... and the last time I did that the office called me out by refusing to place my old L.A. address on the license!  So I have a California license with a New York address!  I get challenged for it all the time when I go to clubs, or need to pick up my packages at the post office.  I always find myself explaining the circumstance with that pseudo-laugh that tries to get the other person to find it amusing, but they don't.  It's quite evident that I'm not going back to live in Los Angeles any time in the foreseeable future, but, then again, the future wasn't designed for me to see, so who knows?  I thought about the possibility of transferring it over to a New Jersey license and this overwhelming feeling of demotion sat on my chest.  New Jersey!?!  From California to New Jersey!?!  I'm such a Cali snob! LOL.  It's true.  No state is as great as my home state in my mind.  I think California is so great, that it actually pains me to return because I know that there's a possibility that the actual life there won't live up to the 8mm memories I've archived in my mind.  In my mental California  the sky is crisp and clear and pure in it's blue.  There are dolphins playfully jumping and portentous whales spraying water with their blowholes.  There is warm sand, yellow sun, and a silght breeze from the north.  There are family reunions, and barb-b-ques  right next to taquito stands and mariachi music.  There are brothers on the porch lookin' so clean in their dickies and tank tops, and women so colorful in their sun dresses.  No one is working in my mental California.  There's no smog in my mental California.  There are no mudslides or forest fires.  There's no superficiality either... or any hardship for that matter.  

But from what I understand a lot is changing.  The area I most love - Leimert Park, Windsor Hills, Crenshaw district, View Park, Baldwin Hills - is being gentrified, ya'll.  White folks in my all-black utopia of home.  I don't hate white people, but the thought disturbs me greatly.  White folks at the Slauson and Crenshaw shopping center!?! That don't even sound right.  Why don't they just stay in Hollywood and the Valley.  White kids going to Crenshaw High!  My heart hurts to think about it.  I wonder if white people think the same thing about us?  Of course they do.  Everyone wants everyone else different to stay out of their home towns.  It's one thing to go visit "others", cuz then the "foreigner" is an interesting tourist attraction.  But at home?  You want your own.  Everyone does.  We're socialized to like it that way.  The Mexican's think?  The Asians... those Samoans or Koreans..  We're all trifflin' segregationalists when it comes to homebase.  According to Paulo Coelho a warrior of the light knows that everyone is afraid of everyone else, but she eases those fears by reminding herself that others have the same issues, problems and insecurities and fears.  Knowing that, why am I so hurt to the core about gentrification in Windsor Hills or in Bed Sty?  I'm more than resistant.  I hurt.  It pains me.  But I know that if the tables were turned I'd be appalled to see a person express discontent with my presence.  I'd be up in arms if I had been challenged at the laundry-mat about why I had moved into a neighborhood (as I have done out of curiosity and disdain).  I guess it's because I know the power dynamic at play.  White folks are not coming to join us in prosperous living.... their presence displaces us.  We are being collectively shuffled around and moved out when it is decided that what we have is valuable.  And that just doesn't happen the other way around.  Do the black people in Windsor Hills and Leimert Park and View Park and Baldwin Hills not appreciate what they have enough to politely, but definitively refuse?  Don't they know that it was extremely helpful for me to see successful, prosperous black people in my home life.  Don't they know how important it was for me to see them wrap their palm tree in tin foil and a Christmas wreath for the holiday season.  Don't they understand that it was important for me to knock on their doors and say, "trick or treat!" and peak beyond them into their living rooms to see their warmth and abundance?  I needed to see them mow the lawn and leave for work in the morning and come back every couple of years with a new car.  I needed to see them running the library and the fire department and the deaf school.  I needed to be invited over for cookies and prayer.  It would hurt my heart to go back to my old neighborhood and not see anyone that looked like me.  Maybe that has more to do with me than with anyone else...

Rock Attack

I'm reading this book on the post traumatic stress disorder of African americans...it's not as clinical or as boring as I just introduced it...  just go with me.  The woman who wrote the book told an anecdote about her son getting verbally attacked by another little black boy, and she said she lamented (and I paraphrase) "Couldn't he (the boy) see that he (her son) was black like him?"  As if, by virtue of being black, there should be solidarity.  I would have never thought critically about that statement a couple of years ago.  Of course we should close ranks around our skin... but upon talking to my Caribbean acquaintances and African friends, people that grew up seeing other black people everywhere and were not necessarily giving the "what up" nod or sneaking in brother or sister in the small talk every time... ... I wonder if I'll see a day when I the 'what up' nod is a gesture that celebrates our humanness, and not just our humanity, but our aliveness.

  Then I'm sure, even in that utopia, we'd rise up as a human/animal/plant nation and attack all the rocks.

 

LOL... 

I sit and listen to the steady swishing of the second hand revloving around Malcolm's wall clock.  Have you actually ever heard the second hand?  I never knew that it made any sound until I was faced with the emptiness of my lack of creativity.  I'm completely dried up and all I can manage to think about is everything going wrong in my life: all of the failures, all of the almosts, all of the reasons why I should not ever be able to write anything.  How I can't manage to get a measley four pages of I story I already know written in any satisfactory way.  I'm not full of anything and every word, every sentence, is like pulling a cruise ship anchor ashore... painstakingly impossible.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.  Do you know how much I've written in my life?  LOTS.. LOOOTTTSS.  Pages and pages of useless inner reflection and observation for absolutely no one, and the moment I have the ability to use my joy for something productive, I have nothing to say.  I wonder if I'd be this disturbingly neurotic if I had a job.  Probably not.  

The funniest thing just happened:

I can't tell you how much energy I expend battling myself and my own demons.  At my worst I have constant chatter about why I can't have or do whatever I want to have or do, about how everything's going wrong and will never go right; how I'll never be loved or accepted or whatever other destructive thoughts I have.  I try to keep each of these battles to myself, but they undoubtedly spill over and become the predominate subject of conversation with my friends and loved ones.  I'm sure they are tired about hearing about my difficulties and my worries and my fears.  That said, what do I do?  Do I continue to jeopardize my relationships by constantly dumping on my friends until they avoid my phone calls and talk about me as the weak link of their clique.  Do I accept my role as the whiner?  Do I stop releasing these thoughts in hopes to receive assurance and comfort?   Absolutely not.  I just diversify my dumping ground.  

So I thought to myself, who ELSE could I call to talk AT as I try to work out the issues of my life.  I thought I could call my manager and express my worried under the guise of a discussion about the market and our goals as business partners.  Then I'd subversively sneak in the fact that I'm a failure, and broke, and unwanted.  Then I thought, "What are you thinking about!  You can't show her your weakness!  If you show her how much you've lost faith in yourself, how can you expect her to demonstrate any faith in you?"  Then I thought, "Why should I hide the real me from her.  LIfe ain't always a box of chocolates, sometimes it's shit."

And just then, the phone rang.  It was Cyrena.  I greeted her with as much optimism as I could, "Tell me something good," I said.  "Everything's going to be alright," she said without missing a beat.  I threw my head back in tearful laughter.  How perfect that she responded that way.  That's why I love her.  Then she said, "No, seriously, you have an audition for a film EVERYTHING'S GOING TO BE ALRIGHT for the role of Nicole."

And we fell out. 

Everything's going to be alright. 

I'm back

            I’ve been dating.  Dating?  I’ve been building a relationship with a man.  A great man who treats me like precious platinum.  Malcolm… as in X.  That’s his name. 

That’s one of the reasons I’ve been away.  That and the fact that I’ve literally been away: back to southern Africa for 2 months.  I went back with IN THE CONTINUUM to share it with the citizens who didn’t get the chance to see it last time… people who weren’t able to get to the cities and pay the money to get into the theatres… the people who don’t necessarily have cars and wouldn’t fathom catching a kumbi (a shuttle service of sorts) to go all the way to the city to see some show the theatres hadn’t even bothered to market to them, all for an hour and a half of entertainment, as informative and impactful as it may have been for many audiences, it just wasn’t conducive for most of them. 

Up until the point that I went to Africa the tour had really been sort of handle-able.  I was living out of my suitcase, but I knew that for at least a month I could unpack a few things.  I could cook.  I could hook-up with people I hadn’t seen in years and meet some new folks and actually have time to hang out with them once or twice before I had to go again.  I could share my experiences and take in some sights and plan and register a business and network and make connections.  But this time, in South Africa, there wasn’t time for any of that because everything came at me so fast.  It was like riding that ride at Disneyland in the dark.  You zoom up and down and flashes of light come at you and disappear as quickly as they came.  There wasn’t even any time to unpack because we were traveling to another city or township every 3 or 4 days.  I would wake up in the mornings and have to lie there for a brief moment to orient myself to my surroundings.  Which bed was this?  Do I have to exit from the right or the left to get out of the room?  Where’s the bathroom?  What city is this?  Country?  What day is it?  There was no time to sit at my brand new MacBook and record the intricate transitions of mind and heart that resonated with me throughout my day.  There was no time to record how much I was learning and how much was changing and how exciting everything was, and how homesick I became.  And there certainly wasn’t any time to tell you how I had fallen in love.  Yeah.  In love.  There is actually a place that you fall into.  It’s a womb of pink rose pettles and warm water.  It cradles you.  It gets dangerously close to sharp objects and you fear that the bubble will burst, then it gently gets blown in the direction of even more goodness.

At the risk of sounding cliché, I’ll tell you that it happened so fast and came out of nowhere, this relationship.  Yet, at the same time, it was no surprise at all.  It’s what I prayed for.  What I specifically asked for from God, and you know what she says: ask and it shall be given.  Believe and you will receive. I wanted to write about it earlier.  But I think subconsciously I thought that I would jinx the relationship by permanently recording it for all to read, then when it failed, my punishment for jumping the gun would be the relentless reminders from nosey people asking, “Whatever happened to that guy, what’s his name, oh yeah, Malcolm?” And then I rationalized that if I spent all of my time writing about it, then I wouldn’t be totally submerged in the experience of living it.  I’d miss it altogether.  I’d ruin it by not being inside it.  As if there was anything I could do, or not do, to stop the motion of God.  What an ego I have sometimes.

We got together officially in March.  Something happened that caused him to loose the other girl he was stringing along, and caused me to drop my “dating persona” early on.  We decided to give it a shot, both of us tired of getting half-ass relationships from our half-ass commitment to them.  At least this time we could both say that we gave it all that we had at the risk of everything being exposed.  I ay why not.  I’ve learned that that kind of vulnerability always seems scarier than it is.  No, you shouldn’t open yourself to everyone, but if you do, and it doesn’t work out, you won’t vaporize.  You won’t die.  It feels like you might, but you won’t.  And I think your intellect understands this.  Just like if you stand on the 110^th floor of a bulding and you walk to the panoramic window to look out, your body flinches and locks up, even though, intellectually you know that you’re not going to fall.  That the building’s foundation is strong.  That your safe.  You know that, yet it doesn’t matter.  You body flinches anyway.  That’s just instinct.  A bult in protective mechanism.  It comes standard with every model.  But you have the power to stand and look out, despite that reaction.  I’m doing that now, with Malcolm.  I’m standing on the edge.  Sometimes I’m scared.  But for moments, I actually get to enjoy the view.  And the longer I gaze out, the longer those moments of joy become.  Perhaps, one day, he and I will get to the point when that’s all there is.

I'm 28 now.  Yep.  How this happened, I'm not sure.  I started this whole touring thing when I was 24.  And now I'm 28.  Crazy.  I don't really feel any different.  Things are happening around me... all of my friends are getting married, having kids, moving, and changing.  But I don't feel different.  Perhaps more mature.  More sophisticated.  More authentic.  More confident?  I guess that depends on the day you see me.  I wear my hair natural now.  I had forgotten what I looked like and wasn't sure that I'd like who I was under the perm any longer.  Would I still be pretty and sexy and desired - since those things are the 'real' measure of a woman's worth, right  (smirk)?  I feel sexier than ever.  More beautiful than ever.  More myself than ever.  Amazing what a little thing like hair can do.

Other things have changed too.  I’m unemployed now. No one is paying me to do anything for or with them.  So I employ myself.  I am paying myself to do what I want to do.  Which means, that I have saved money to dole out to myself for the next couple of months in exchange for deep soul reflection, research and creative re-interpretation in the form of novels, plays and screenplays.  I am a writer.  Not because I co-wrote a successful play that amounts to about 60 pages of writing of which I am only responsible for 30, but I’m a writer because I’m good at it… so I feel, and so I’ve been told by people who love me and some people who could care less.  I am also a writer because stories keep coming to me looking for a place to be birthed.  My brother-in-law always reminds me in jest that my “clock is ticking” and asks, “When you gon’ have some babies?” perhaps not understanding that I’ve given birth to a big ‘ole baby, and I nursed it for 3 years, and now it’s off doing it’s own thing living on it’s own.  It still amazes me to think that I created something like IN THE CONTINUUM.  And that it’s living on without my daily interaction with it…and that it will forever.  There are productions at the University of Ill., in Cleveland, in Coral Gables, Florida… at Rutgers… it’s out there doing exactly what Danai and I, it’s parents, wanted it to do.  I also know – with the kind of knowing that surpasses all understanding – that I’m supposed to keep going.  Everything in me knows.  And circumstances are perfect to do so.  So, here I go.  I expect what I write to make me money.  I pray that it comes out with grace and ease.  I want it to help people.  I hope it makes my mother proud.

I’m working on 3 things:  IN THE CONTINUUM the novel - turning the play into a novel where I can delve into the thoughts and specifity of each character more.  I can paint the picture of the given circumstances more.  REPAIRING A NATION where I explore the effects of the institution of slavery on today’s generation of African Americans and addressing the need for internal healing by dealing with the issue of repairations, that one is for my community; and a story about a woman who falls in love with her father…that one hopefully deals with women coping with absent fathers, and looking for them.  It’s Oedipal, and mythic while being mundane and everyday.  That one is for me.  That’s plenty to work on, and I’m completely uneducated about them all.  So I get to learn.  I don’t know if they’ll be screenplays, plays, novels or short stories.  I have no idea about anything really, but I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to manifest them in the form that they need to have.  Pray for me.

I’ve already thought about all of the reasons why I can’t do this. I also know all of the reasons why I can’t have or do what ever it is I want in life:  I’m too tall, I’m too black, I’m too unexperienced or uneducated.  I don’t know the right people, I don’t have the right connections.  I have too many bills.  No one cares.  But I’m going to pursue this anyway, and use this time as a faith-building time.  God has put this in my heart and I know that if I act on it, the entire universe will support me.  I know that I am a performer.  I’m good at it.  I have the empathy to give characters and the innate talent for the dramatic and I’ve crafted my technique so that I have the capacity to give it to an audience in a way that they can digest and make use of it for themselves.  I know that I’m a writer… no I never went to school for it, but I’ve been telling stories all of my life, and I believe the gift of communication is a gift I have been given to develop and to give. Thank you God. 

So, that said, now that I am equipped with a man who treats me like precious platinum, a family who believe in me so much that they would bridge mountains with a human chain to make sure I had what I needed, all the time in the world, money in the bank to handle my affairs, and a new laptop, I embark on the newness of this moment.  I make this transisiton.  I let the past go, and I don’t worry about what is to come.  I’m writing.  I’m a writer.  And that’s good. 

Back to the Motherland
Mood:  energetic
I’m a sucker for the coastline of any country and Senegal seems to be no exception. Our plane landed in Dakar, the western-most coastal city of the African country, to refuel, pick up passengers headed to Jo’Burg and drop off these loud-ass kids that were sitting to the right and in front of me. Loud. I always attributed that nagging, ‘fake cry’ that children make in America to the spoiled trappings of three-year-olds who know that it is they who are actually in charge. But it seems that the same annoying dog-like whine that upper-west side rich kids consciously employ when faced with the potential of a dream deferred is familiar territory for the young of Senegal as well. It’s good to know that not only is love universal, so are the manipulations of children.

I looked out of my window trying to process my first glimpse of African soil on this new adventure and one of the first things I noticed was the sky. The sky is as reachable in Senegal as it is in Zimbabwe. There’s a distance that I feel between me and the sky in my tinsel hometown making the adage “reach for the stars” an insurmountable and mockingly ever-present quest. But here, when I look out of the 8 by 12 inch double-insulated cut-out plane window, I feel like I can bridge the gap between us… in fact I am certain of it. I can touch the sky in Africa. The sky is grey and the movement of clouds seems to be more vigorous than I’ve ever seen with my own eyes. In Chicago Malcolm and I went to the Planetarium and saw a demonstration of the movement of the atmosphere, the swirls and curls of clouds and sky-stuff that streak lines across the earth’s surface when looking from the outside in. But today, in the slightly dilapidated Dakar airport, I feel like I’m looking at the same dynamic from the inside out. The sky just moves and hovers over you. Perhaps some of the mysticism of the experience comes from it being just before the sun brings burning clarity to the day, but it’s definitely the stuff of the Gods to look up at this sky.

I actually don’t recall landing in Senegal. I awoke to Danai’s curt, “Salter!” I opened my eyes to see the most handsome sight… a gorgeous Black man in an airport security outfit complete with rubber gloves standing over me. Kinky. Apparently it is custom that the flights that land in the Lehor airport outward-bound to some other (better) destination are inspected for terrorist stuff. The man had been trying to determine if my backpack was a national threat in a decaying student’s disguise. “Nikkole, wake up,” Danai jabbed with her words. “Is this yours?” “Huh?” was the extent of my articulation ability. Life for me these past days has been traveling at unrecorded speeds. Between Malcolm visiting in Chicago, followed by my mother, coupled with age-old college friends, topped by eight-performances a week of lending my humanity to a young, overwhelmed urban youth diagnosed with AIDS, stretched even further by the deadlines of my new freelance writing career…I don’t think I slept much. The fact that we almost missed both planes that got us to the continent also imprinted it’s own kind of emotional exhaustion. When I arrived at LaGuardia airport, I was on-time thanks to Malcolm’s defensive NY driving. We figured that the first leg of my trip was only to Atlanta, so, as per most domestic flights, check-in time is an hour before. WRONG! Or, in the nineties L.A. tradition, I was moded! Since our final destination was Johannesburg, our actual check-in time was two-hours before, so we found ourselves in an inchingly inefficient Delta airlines check-in line an hour late. There was a man pretending to be helpful giving a last call for flight 513. But since he was only able to help people he instinctively felt were worthy of his assistance, Danai and I were left standing in line with the time ticking down and our plane boarding. She left the line to work her magic on another indifferent Delta employee, and through her equal mix of charm and slight desperation, she got us to the ticket window. In all of my wisdom I grabbed her passport, unsuspecting placed onto the counter while Danai was busy trying to decrease her bag’s weight by 3 pounds so as not to have to pay $50 more. I saw it lying there and my imagination fast-forwarded to what I thought was the inevitable outcome of it’s presence: we’d run off to the security check point without her passport because the Delta-lady didn’t really hand it back to her. Not on my watch, I think, and grab it from the counter. I am so my mother’s child. When it looks like all that’s left is for the woman to hand Danai her boarding pass, I rush off to the security check to work my magic so that we can be expedited through the line. That’s right, I have magic too. The woman at the line chirps, “Boarding pass and ID,” and I hand her ‘my’ passport and boarding pass and explain to her that we have to get to a flight asap. She looks at it, she shifts her eyes to look at me, she looks back at it, she aligns the ticket with the picture page and inspects the names for a match, and she looks at me and says, in her broken attempts, “You can- uh, it has to, uh – no you can’t.” No I can’t? WHAT’S THE FUCKING PROBLEM! WE HAVE A PLANE TO CATCH AN IT’S BOARDING RIGHT NOW! That’s what I thought. I take the pass and ID back and look at the picture page only to see that what should be the picture of my 19-year-old self is Danai! Then I look around and realize that Danai’s no-where to be seen because she, in a panic, went back to the ticket window looking for her passport. That was scare number one. Scare number two was born of our propensity to chill. We arrived in Atlanta with the false-knowledge of a delayed connecting flight. We assumed we had time to grab a bite, shoot-the-shit, pontificate about the inner-workings of men, and solve the world’s direst human relational problems. Strolling through the terminal looking for a postal mail drop box, Danai in all her brilliance, decides to check the departure boards to see what time our flight was really leaving. Not listed under Johannesburg, a friendly-flyer next to us, seeing our dilemma, informed us that we were going to Jo’Burg via Dakar. We looked up to see the flashing “BOARDING” and realized that our flight wasn’t delayed at all (fucking Delta lady), but was scheduled to leave on time at 4pm. It was 3:50pm. Running, running, running, running, carry-on bags slamming into our backs, running, running, running. What scared me the most was not that we would miss the flight, for I had two things on my side… athletic lungs, and Danai’s sweet-talking good luck. What pained me was the idea that I wouldn’t be able to negotiate for a window seat at the boarding desk since we’d be boarding so late. Imagine: a 16 – 18 hour flight in a middle seat. Oh hell naw, I say. Hell to the naw. Luckily we didn’t have to fight very hard. The flight attendant flippantly said, “Well, I’ll see what I can do, at this the eleventh hour…” “Whatever, man,” I thought. By any means necessary is my cultural heritage. Any means necessary, make it happen.

With that, our journey began. It’s still amazing for me to think that something that I wrote has shown me so much. I mean, I’ve been able to go to Africa twice because of IN THE CONTINUUM… and not just to go, but to be paid to go. This time will be different in that we won’t be touring the show for commercial city venues. We’ll be going to educational institutions and townships, meeting the average-joe’s of the land and getting a better picture of life. I hope to meet life-long friends. I hope to be inspired. I hope to find connection. I tried to find a legitimate reason (a job) that would bring me back sooner than I anticipated. We’ll be done with work on August tenth, and I was hoping to book some gig that would segue me out of the work I’ve been doing for the past two years into something new that validates that I am viable in this business and that someone wants to hire me. But, that didn’t happen, so I know there is a specific reason that Africa is my path for now. There’s something here I am supposed to do. There is something here that I am supposed to witness and digest. I can’t wait to see what it is.

The Adventures of Ted and Nikkole
When I went to South Africa for the first time we were taken around by our 'producer', Clifford, one of the reasons we were able to make the trip. He was seemingly very well-off, and he went out of his way to make sure that we saw the best that South Africa had to offer. He took us to the rich neighborhoods, where every house was a mansion, every resident had hired help, every home had a tennis court and Land Rovers parked next to Mercedes Benzs in the hand-crafted cobblestone drive-ways. He pointed out the direction of wine-country and took us to, what was at the time, the most beautiful landscape I had ever seen: Cape Point. It was magnificient. Vibrant in color. Crisp and clean in smell. Untouched and pure. Pristine and meticulous in detail yet wild and free. It was amazing. (what was ugly)

I had spent alot of time comparing the things I saw in South Africa to the things I had known in the States. It was the only way I could truly process it all. It was the only way I could talk about it. Yet, here on the Oregon coast, I find myself doing the opposite. I look at the way the mountains leave their silouhette on the horizon as I look up the coast at an ocean I thought I knew so well, and it looks just like South Africa. It's pure, virtually undeveloped, and not a boat in sight. The water rages the same way it did in South Africa, so you don't see any swimmers or people frolicking at the water's edge. There are a few dare-devil surfers being swallowed by currents of waves crashing into one another, but for the most part, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but the land. You could still see remanants of the way the coast used to be... lush with trees and foilage right up to the coastline... My father says that that's what the beaches in California looked like when he was younger. There was grass and bush and then a strip of sand, and then the water. But, in my lifetime, I've never known the beaches of southern California to tolerate anything green that wasn't at the top of a palm tree. Yet, here in Oregon, there are massive trees so close by, and specks of life refusing to be shoo-ed away or deterred by the massive 'forest flight' that seems to have occured. There are huge tree fossils that wash up to shore supplying the residents with plenty of firewood, and endless nights of smore-making seaside. The sand closest to the water is brown, like it has rich soil still mixed into it, and it's grainy from the shells and rocks that haven't broken down completely... makes for a good body scrub. There are in-tact rocks as well... rocks that look like they belong on a lake... and huge rocks, boulders, sticking out of the water just past the part of the shoreline that is covered in foam. Speaking of foam, at the more remote parts of the beach, it seems like the rage of the water causes a wave-crash-line that is twice as long as any I'd ever seen. I stood and watched the few brave (or crazy) surfers try to get beyond the froth so that they could catch the waves, and I felt like they had to swim almost to the middle of the ocean to do it. And the waves! My god! I'm no surf-expert, but they've got to be right up there with the Hawaii ones... a surfer's paradise. There are seals that call this beach home, just like in South Africa... which makes me wonder if there are great white sharks lurking around as well. There were sand dunes all along what my father assured me was a beach getting smaller and smaller every year. Apparently, when he first "discovered" Pacific City there were only 2 or 3 scattered beach-front homes, but now, driving through, it looks like a up-and-running beach town...and it had the condo developments to prove it. We ran into a man who patted himself on the back for buying property blocks away from this up-and-coming beach town just 5 years ago. He said that, with all the building and renovating that's been happening there, his home quadrupled in value. Talk about a good investment!

My father had something even more special for me to see.. but they required work on my part... there were two large mountains, one made of mostly rock to the left, and the another, much bigger mountain to the right, made mostly of sand. We climed the rock first and looked out over the water and down into the gullys where a part of the earth had broken away to reveal all of the layers of development that made my climb possible. It was breath-taking...except for the foam. I guess because it mixed with sand and soil, it combination of elements made it linger once it it washed up and it looked like dirty suds in a backed-up tub. Yuck! There were steep drops off of the rock, so I tried to resist my urge to go to the edge and look over, for if I did fall manage not to to crack my head open by hitting a rock on the way down, there was certainly no way out except by helicopter. There were interesting landscapes that my bare feet got to explore on the way up... some of the rock was like what you'd expect a rock to be like, but there were points where it was clay, and parts where it was like lots of little rocks pressed together... then there were parts that used to support life. There were graveyards of trees where you could see how their roots were exposed by the wind, and how they starved to death and were blown over just to add insult ot injury. We took in as much of God's beauty as we could and walked back around to the sand dune that created a higher mountain... the promise of an even better view. There were several people climbing up with us... climbing up a mountain of sand so steep that it was natural to be on all fours. In fact, once I reached the first ledge, I looked down and couldn't even see my father. Talk about a workout! There were a couple times where I thought, "What if, as I climb, the sand gives way beneath me and I tumble down the mountain taking people out like a bowling ball!" But as difficult as it was to climb, it was worth the view. My God, what an amazing panorama of ... of... Life. There was so much to see and take in, and if it hadn't been for the high winds blowing the sand into my eyes, I could've stayed there until the sun went down. As hard as it was to climb up that big dune, I'd take the rigor of going up to the terror of going down at any time. Being the tall person that I am, I'm always amazed at how scary things can look from my standing perspective. I remember when I was young, I used to love to climb onto the concrete wall that separated my grandmother's back yard from her neighbor's... it always looked like such a short wall... such an easy wall to climb.. but once I got up onto the wall, and stood up, it seemed so much taller than it appeared. And I'd get stuck on the wall, because I was too afraid to come down. And that's how I felt at the top of that sand dune, looking down at what looked more like a cliff than a hill... But I knew I had to get down, and there was no elevator, so that meant I'd be walking. I took a step, and my foot began to slip and I thought, "Daddy help me!" Then I thought, "what's he gon' do? He's worried about his damn self."

Hum.

My father and I traveled so much this weekend that his girlfriend calls our experience, "the Adventures of Ted and Nikkole". I really feel like he tried to show me the best the Oregon has to offer. We went to see Mt. Saint Helen's.. the famous volcano that blew it's top in 1971 killing everyone who was dumb enough to "stick it out"... in fact the entire Portland area is surrounded by large volcanos... Mt. Hood, Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helen's.... I think that's it... Apparently, when you visit Mt. St. Helen's you can still see where the lava poured out and streamed down the mountain destroying everything in it's path. Unfortunately, I didn't get to see it. That's right, we drove all that way, only to discover that the roads to the view points had been closed due to snow. We drove in the direction of almost every viewpoint there was only to be welcomed by a vacant parking lot and a deserted visitor's center. Nobody was there. NOBODY. It was scary... At one stop my father got out of the car to look at the map to see where we were and jokingly started making the Jason 'Friday the 13th' movie sounds... you know, "Chichichichichi... hoahoahoahoahoa..." I didn't get out of the car any more after that! I was appalled that we didn't see NOBODY. Not a police officer, not a park ranger, not yogie the friggin' bear... nobody. The Oregon state department of parks should be ashamed! I still get chills up my spine just thinking about that emptiness. One thing we did see on our way to Mt. St. Helen's was the Lewis River. I think it's the most beautiful river I've ever seen. It's turquoise. Well, not quite turquoise, but definitely a vibrant blue-green. The day was overcast, but even in the dull sun, I could imagine how spectacular it would be on a clear day. I had always thought of myself as a ocean girl, but it was then that I realized that I love water... clear Caribbean waters, raging rivers, vast oceans... as long as their clean and I don't have to get in them, they give me so much peace... the sounds they make unwrinkle that place on my forehead between my eyes. I don't like to get in the water... cuz I don't wanna run into any weird, slimy, biting creatures... but I like to look at it and allow myself to be reminded of God's greatness.

Okay, so we did Mt. St. Helen's, we did Pacific City, and Lincoln City... oh, and, how can I forget! We went white water rafting! Yes, I did! My no swimming self sure did get into a plastic raft and fly down the White Salmon River at speeds anywhere between 8 to 15 miles per hour! Talk about fun! It was so fun! Scary and fun. It was like that ride at Disney Land, Pirates of the Caribbean, only the real thing! When we first go there, I was nervous. We had past the main road where there were a bunch of rafting compaies...reputable looking, experienced-looking rafting companies. But did we stop there? Nope. I, in all of my rafting wisdom, chose the rafting company that was off in the cut...where we had to turn down some dirt road and pass a old man's wandering chickens to get to the rafting company I chose at random from an internet search. "Oh Lord," I thought. "How did I end up pickin' the bootleg company?" But the people turned out to be real nice and knowledgable, and serious about staying safe... so that was cool. Since my father and I were the only clients they had for the excursion, our guide was real serious when he gave us the rowing lesson/safety speech. I cracked a few jokes, to lighten the mood (I was nervous!), but he didn't take my bait at all. He was not playin. We went over some very offical commands ("Forward!" "Stop!" "Paddle back!" "Stop!" Right paddle forward!" etc...) and taught us the "Flop and Giggle". If you found yourself in a positon where you had to rescue someone who had fallen into the river, you were to grab them by their life vest, stablize your feet in the crevices of the boat, fall back into the boat allowing your body weight falling to heave the person to safety, and then giggle at them because they're laying on top of you... the Flop and Giggle. Little did I know that I'd need to pay attention to the victim's scenario a little more closely... that's right... I fell into the water!!! What's even worse is that I didn't do it battling the rapids...no, I did it simply trying to get into a non-moving raft. Yes, yes, go ahead and laugh. And then I managed to do everything he told us not to do if you fall in. I paniced. I flailed, I grabbed for his arms, feet, whatever I could grab so much so that he had to dodge me in order to get a handle on my life vest to pull me up. So the whole ordeal lasted about 20 seconds... but I think it may have been the most shockingly cold 20 seconds of my life. Ice cold. All river water is is melted ice from the mountains... ICE cold. Actually, when I first fell in I was just perturbed at myself. We had gotten out of the water to bypass a waterfall that was too dangerous for us to attempt to conquer and as we were re-boarding the raft, from this path, I stepped onto a rock that had that slimy green moss on it, and just slid right into the water, missing the raft altogether. Then, when I tried to get myself out, I went to step on what, in my mind, should have been some kind of land. But there was no more land. I had fallen off of a ledge. Then I began to panic. Imagine, steping where you think there is land and there's nothing but water. Call me a wimp, but I paniced. I hit my booty on a rock too... and it still hurts today. I froze my ass off for the rest of the ride. I'm talkin' Elmer-fud teeth-jittering cold, but I tried not to make it my focus. I looked at the banks of the river, the random cows we saw... the mountains the rare harlequin... the clear water... the rocks... the sound shifts the river makes when it speeds up and slows down. The moss and trees. I tried to take it all in and store it in my memory, since I relinquished my camera to the woman on the safety boat that followed us the entire trip just in case somethng awful happened. She got some amazing shots of us, but not everything that I wanted to remember. After all of that, we climbed into a warm van, hoisted the rafts, and went back to homebase in the cut. We took off our rented wet-suits, dried off, and drove home. It wasn't until we got half-way down the hill that it sunk in... I JUST WENT WHITE WATER RAFTING!!! AND I FELL INTO THE WATER!!! HOLY S@#T!! So, after all of that would I do it again? Abso-fuckin'-lutely. Call me crazy. But I would. In a heartbeat...