M. Lambrechts took this picture at a gay pride parade in Brussels 2009. This was a little kid of a gay couple coming to check those curious pins on his jacket. He pulled the punks jacket and the punk went sitting on his knees, when the 2 men called their kid back the punk got a little kiss from the kid [Photo and caption via]

Don’t speak too soon: I’ve been reading this clown for months now and this is probably the only time he doesn’t soak a discussion about Civil War history with melodrama about slavery.

Dog forbid one should clog up discussions of Civil War history with “melodrama” about slavery.

No link. I did some looking around the forum where I found this (following a link from a link to something I was interested in) and it’s not a place I would send either of my two readers to, or anyone else.

Oh, the “clown” he is talking about is Ta-Nehisi Coates of The Atlantic, who has been having some amazing discussions on his blog about Civil War history, the characters… and what I think makes these folks hopping mad – the primary cause.

STOP WHAT YOU”RE DOING AND APPLY FOR —>PBS Diversity & Innovation Fund

Didn’t I tell you to stop what you are doing? I meant it. Stop what you’re doing and sit down and get to writing. In fact, we might just shut down this blog from August 15th through September so that each and every one of my readers or group of readers will have time to submit their proposals to the PBS Diversity & Innovation Fund. They are handing out $375,000 an episode to develop a new prime time series for PBS and I want Black women all up under and THROUGH these proposals. Every time they open a new proposal I want a Black woman’s name attached.

So quit yer yapping about how crappy Debra Lee’s content is over there at Black Exploitation Television and get ta drafting you application. I’ll be submitting at least a half dozen ideas. Did I mention they are going to hand out over a QUARTER OF A MILLION DOLLARS PER EPISODE? So no more bootstrapping. No more being camera operator, lighting crew audio crew, editor, craft services et al. I could actually HIRE PEOPLE! HALLELUJAH!!!!!!!!!!!

Sounds exciting! There is more there, including offers to help find partners to work with and such. Are you going to try for it? Am I?

Tumblr! I’ve discovered that a lot of people I know but who haven’t been updating their sites have apparently moved over to Tumblr. I have a page there, too… but since the service is not intuitive for me there is nothing on it. Plus, I am shy. Anyway, though… some stuff friends have found.

When I first started reading/chatting with feminists online, I noticed that some would often use book titles and authors as shorthand for a set of beliefs or theory or whatever – mention Suzie Bright and right away those in-the-know have an idea of where you stand on this or that; a mention of Gloria Anzuldua leaves a completely different impression. Anyway, all of that, of course, leaves non Women’s Studies people (like me) scrambling to figure out what folks are talking about.

Well, no excuses now not to become familiar with this famous text, at least, as it is available for download, woo hoo! Via Donna, from The Silence of Our Friends :
Book: This Bridge Called My Back

First published in 1981, This Bridge Called My Back has been out of print since the expiration of its contract with Third Woman Press in 2008. Hopefully the digital copy will find its way to those who will circulate it and possibly build up pressure to have it printed again.

URL Set:

Introduction: http://www.mediafire.com/?e2taou2lzzl

Children Passing In the Streets: http://www.mediafire.com/?metyjnzwmji

Entering the Lives of Others: http://www.mediafire.com/?immkmkzzyzz

And When You Leave, Take Your Pictures With You: http://www.mediafire.com/?hn4fuom1q1b

Between The Lines: http://www.mediafire.com/?wn3x3zl4zau

Speaking In Tongues: http://www.mediafire.com/?zgtlrycmjyn

El Mundo Zurdo: http://www.mediafire.com/?mwdd2wz2oyh

Biographies: http://www.mediafire.com/?j5mymwunezy

Front/Back Cover: http://www.mediafire.com/?zumnmytgkgt

enjoy,

chris

I have more cool stuff but they’ll have to wait for another post. I need time to write thoughts about them and I have none now. No time, that is, not no thoughts – got too many of those.

Well, that was me – with any number of things (like long, rambly sentences), but this particular thing I knew but didn’t get was the First Commandment of writing – show, don’t tell. And then yesterday I had my “Oh! Well, duh!” moment.

See, I wrote a piece yesterday (and what a slog that was) that casually referenced back to a little thing I wrote last year. I liked it when I wrote it, but when I re-read it yesterday my first thought was – jeeze, this is terrible. No life at all, or very little anyway and when I put my finger on why, that’s when the lightbulb went off (on?) – I was doing an awful lot of telling and not very much showing.

Woohoo, was I happy! Not happy I am such a bad writer, but that I am beginning to recognize why and what to do about it. I set about fixing the story right away (examples below). Even the fixes are still bad writing, but that’s okay – I still like my little (true!) story, so I will revisit it from time to time, as I become more aware of all my bad habits and fix it again and again, until I don’t cringe anymore when reading it. At least I’ve broken through one logjam – it’ll still take a lot of work to break the bad habits but now I can go back to some of the writers I love reading (books and blogs) and look with new eyes and understanding of why their work is so compelling.

Anyway, examples:

Original:

The black cat that lives on my patio doesn’t belong to me. Or to anyone else – although he seems remarkably well cared for, for a stray. With his thick glossy fur, strong hefty build and very clear green eyes, you’d think he was fed and groomed daily.

But, no. While he’s an accepted part of the landscape no one admits to feeding him. I’m not sure I believe that, though, because he was just a kitten when he arrived and who can resist a helpless kitten?

Still bad, but better, revision:

The black cat that lives on my patio doesn’t belong to me.

He doesn’t belong to anyone – although he seems remarkably well cared for, for a stray. The thick, glossy fur on his large, muscled frame alternately reflects and absorbs all light as he wanders, strutting through his half-wild life as a part of the neighborhood he’s foraged in since he was small.

As I said, still bad, but anyway… I can at least see where I need to go. This cat (who is still around and still hangs out on my patio) is big. Not bobcat size or anything, but still pretty hefty, especially compared to my scrawny old cat. What I want, when I’ve revised this paragraph until I am satisfied, is – in a few descriptive sentences – show his bigness and black furriness and healthiness and independence, though he belongs. But not so awkwardly as I have done now.

I’m going to have fun revising, I think!

Okay, and then also there was this:

There is nothing special about my patio; it’s just like all the others in this 8 plex – sort of a pebble stone paving, and open to the courtyard. The elderly woman across the way has all sorts of interesting things on her patio: hanging plants, flowers in pots, wind chimes, a bench and a bbq. Me, I have a small 3 legged table that I shove into the corner so that it will stand up, and a folding chair that has a cushioned seat.

Well, I guess I should say I had a chair, because that is where the cat that lives on my patio sleeps each night, keeping an eye on the neighborhood and occasionally hopping down to torment my old indoors-only cat through the patio door.

Okay, and then the quick revision:

There is nothing special about my patio; like all the others in this 8 plex it’s a small square with pebble stone paving, and open to the courtyard so that we can look out at the bushes and any flowers the neighbors have planted. The elderly woman who lives across the way has the best patio, by far – all sorts of interesting things: hanging plants, flowers in pots, a bunch of different wind chimes, a bench and a bbq.  Me, I have a small 3 legged table that I shove into the corner so that it will stand up, and a black folding chair with a cushioned seat. She is not as fortunate in her view out of her window as I am in mine.

And I guess I should say I share a chair, because it no longer appears to belong just to me.  If I peer through the patio window at night, sometimes I can make out a dark shape on the chair, almost blending in until he lifts his head to give me an unconcerned stare out of brilliant green eyes.

Again, still not good, not compelling or evocative or very descriptive – hmmm, and wordier but not necessarily better. But at least it’s giving me a brief glimpse of where I need to take it in order to be satisfied. And the best I could do in the few minutes I had to spare on it yesterday.

I’ve not touched the rest of the piece yet, but I’m going to go over the entire thing, line by line and word by word and see what I can come up with. And then compare the original to the finished product as an example, for me, of what paying attention can do.

It’s funny, when I look at narrative stuff I wrote years ago, as opposed to in the past couple of years, I was far more descriptive. Still bad, but you can’t have everything right away. I am not sure why I moved away from that – I think because I felt I needed to do more analytical writing or something, for some reason, but it turns out I’m not too good at that either.

Anyway, a fun project for me that I am really looking forward to.

i am accused of tending to the past
as if i made it,
as if i sculpted it
with my own hands. i did not.
this past was waiting for me
when i came,
a monstrous unnamed baby,
and i with my mother’s itch
took it to breast
and named it
History.
she is more human now,
learning languages everyday,
remembering faces, names and dates.
when she is strong enough to travel
on her own, beware, she will.

Lucille Clifton

I wish I could say that I’ve known about Ms. Clifton all along, but that would be a lie. I found out she lived – and wrote and inspired and made people laugh and cry and hope – mainly because she died, and many of the people who did know her or her work have been writing about what she meant to them.

She is gone now, but I still have the work of a lifetime to get to know. 

Anyway it’s called The Book of Louis and while it’s still a bit scattered, it is open. I’ll pull it all together soon.

homework by Harry Herman Roseland

I wonder if anyone has invented, yet, a screen lock for writers and others who may need it. I know there is various software that mimics a typewriter (some with no backspace) and others like jdarkroom and such that claim to eliminate distractions (I tried that for a bit, hated it) but what I need – and I’m sure I’m not the only one – is something where I can voluntarily lock myself in, so to speak. Open the writing thing (Word, blog, whatever) and click something to lock the screen there. Maybe for a set period before one can opt out. No wandering off to check email, or to google this or that or to read blogs or news pages or anything, just for that period of time, until the lock releases (or, if you’ve gone past times up, you release it yourself).

I think it could work, but those little netbooks are so small and light, I think more people would be tempted to throw them across the room in frustration, after being locked in, so maybe not.

Besides, there is still nothing (beyond willpower! yes) to stop one from wandering into the kitchen for a snack or checking the tv and watching some insipid show for “just a few minutes” or deciding the cat looks lonely all curled up there napping by herself or a gazillion other things. Sigh.

It’s the vein thing I have the most problems with, I think. You know -

“ There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.”
- Walter Wellesley “Red” Smith

(Whozzat?)

I am notoriously closed mouthed, keeping my own counsel and not really letting go. There’s nothing wrong with that (says I) but well, veins carry life’s blood and to get to where I need to be to do what I need to do, I need to let loose of a little of that. Maybe I can start with pricking a finger, then work up to the whole wrist slitting thing.

Okay, here’s a drop – though I am fascinated with this era and can’t wait to read more and more, I started on this journey down histories pathways very reluctantly. Very reluctantly. I wanted to start reading/writing about what I knew about my family anywhere but here. It’s just that my Uncle Louis kept bugging me; for months, he just would not leave me alone, telling me over and over that if I wanted to understand this particular person or thing and their actions, I first needed to understand him. And more.

Now, we all have importunate relatives who want to direct our lives and our work but, see, Uncle Louis is just a tad different, seeing how he has been dead for over 200 years and really, how may have relatives like that? I sure didn’t, before this.

There’s a story there, this should be written but have I done it? Well, sort of – one of my many, many “drafts” which never get finished. I’m tempted to delete them all and start fresh. Might keep the titles and make notes to remember what it was I wanted to write about in the first place, like index cards, but there are always new ideas and things that want writing about.

Like stories of growing up, something Amy Tan (and others) recommended to do. I wonder if it’s an easier subject when one is younger and thus closer to the time period? There are some memories that have stuck with me over time – others are completely lost, though some may return if I do start writing the stories down.

We’ll see.

*And, of course, the “blank page” part is no longer true either, because, well… I have written.

“I decided, if I’m going to be poor and black and all, the least thing I’m going to do is to try and find out who I am. I created everything about me.”

The quote itself suits me to a tee, so I’ll probably do a bit of navel gazing (would I be me without it?) but not exclusively. There is so much involved in finding/creating yourself or anything else that the topics are limitless.  I’ll have no problem tying it in to my history type blogging or to Human Beams stuff, if I want to, but giving myself a focus will make it easier to just sit down at the blank screen and type. None of this wandering off looking for photos or something to excite my imagination. Besides, when scuffing about for a photo to fit this theme I noticed that, according to photographers/saying-putter-0n’ers only white folks dream, find themselves or create themselves.

Which is silly, of course, because if anyone has had to create themselves – their history, their cultural markers, their family structures, literature, art, their just about everything – out of whole cloth, from nothing – it’s U.S. Black folks. So, maybe as part of the finding and creating I’ll create some graphics as well and put them out there somehow.

Anyway, that’s the plan for the month.  We’ll see.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I want to I am going to write a book and, today being the first day it’s been only me and my mom in the house, I decided to get started right away because scenes are writing themselves in my head. And that’s what I sat down to do, earlier today.

Only, I realized that in order to write what I want about the period of time and in the way I want, I’m going to have to do a lot of research (and no, not into proper comma placement). No wonder some people take 10 or more years to write a book! And then can’t get it published, which I am not even worrying about right now because, well… for one thing, nothing has yet been written. And, for now at least, it’s just great fun planning out the stories (a series, even – aren’t I ambitious?) and figuring out what to research next. If nothing else I’ll become fully versed in the history (or at least part of it) of my people (both family and others), which will not be wasted.

Anyway, that’s something added to all the other things I plan to do. When I have time. And money.

What I really need is a “Freedom To Be Me” grant, sigh.

Un milagro diario el amanecer junto al mar

I don’t really like the ocean. Well, I like to listen to it and look at it, but I don’t particularly like to be in it. I can’t swim, you see, even though the rest of my family swim like fish. Me – one too many times getting almost drowned, as a joke or something, when I was young or something, but I simply do not like to be in water. (Admitting this is almost considered sacrilege, for a native Californian).

A lot of my childhood memories deal with the ocean, though. I guess either we didn’t live too faf from Santa Monica beach and pier, or that was just a favorite get away spot. Especially when the amusement park was there, POP.  Not pronounced pop, by the way, but pea oh pea, for Pacific Ocean Park.

Anyway, I seem to remember us spending a lot of time there, one way or another, mom just stuffing us into the car and heading west. Many of the rides terrified me (I was quite young) but I loved the roller coaster – at least until I almost fell out of it while it was moving quite fast; the only reason I stayed in the car is because my cousin, who had climbed down into the well of the car and who was the reason the bar didn’t lock in the first place, held on tightly to my dress whenever the roller coaster started to go down and I started to fly up.  This, as you might imagine, left quite an impression on me.

I also had a love/hate relationship with the round, glass sided ball thingies that you would sit in and travel from the shore over a portion of the ocean to some sort of structure on the other side. Great view, but they’d swing with the wind and jerk and stop and, in general, reminded me more of those images you see of people pulling in laundry from a clothesline with a pulley than anything else.  There were always stories about this or that tragedy happening with those. I have no clue how true any of them are – probably not very, I think they were mostly told by older siblings to their smaller sisters and brothers.

Sometimes we’d go to the pier and look at starfish clinging to the posts, but often we would go to the beach itself and play in the sand and the water, collecting seashells and so on. I would wade out a few feet into the ocean, but it would invariably knock me over and try to keep me. I really, really hated that feeling of grabbing on to the sand and attempting to move forward while the tide tries to drag you back in. Still do, but, man that situation, could apply to so many things, no?

My favorite ocean memories are when we’d just drive out to sit on the shore and wait for something – either a tidal wave that had been warned about (thank the heavens none ever came) or to see the seals or dolphins pass by or maybe just to watch the sunset.

So, sea memories. The title, something about the sea, came about when I found the photo that is accompanying this piece. The caption, in Spanish, is the original photographers. I read some Spanish, but not nearly enough and all I really know is that it says something about the sea.

The attractiveness of the photo itself (at least for me) changes with – I dunno, whatever mood I’m in? I really liked it when I first saw it, thought it looked refreshing and artistic, a lovely sunset. I look at it now and it looks a bit sinister and threatening.

Maybe the  caption says (or should say) something about the many faces and moods of the sea.

(photo from cuellar’s flickr stream)