Monday, December 21, 2009

Ain't Letting No Fat Guy Steal My Thunder

In our house, Santa's gifts are unwrapped. There are two reasons for this decision. First, the child/ren can see exactly what Santa thought of their behaviour this year. Second, less work for Mama.

Imagine the scenario....

it is Christmas morning! Happy excited child races down the stairs to see what Santa brought. There is a lot of the very same, exact wrapping paper. But there is - within immediate vision - cool and fun things to look at. These are the gifts from Santa. They require no assistance. They don’t need to be unwrapped. They are ready to play with! They pass the time whilst the coffee brews. But how do we justify this?

Santa is unsure about the effect of his increased travels on the time/space continuum and the ozone layer. Due to science, the population has increased exponentially. However, the forces of European colonialism have increased the number of children needing to be served every year. Both Santa and the elves have an unprecedented workload. They are trying their

very, very special children choose to do their part by accepting the "not wrapped mode" of delivery. The elves are grateful that these children are willing to apply decent and respectable labour laws to include them - as non-humans. Therefore, all "unwrapped children" get an extra gift.

Finally, as a home school family, we use Santa as a tool. Santa brings the cool “school supplies.” He brings the pre-packaged science kits, the tanagrams and logic puzzles. He knows who is naughty and nice. He lets children know where they may have “more self-directed and less accomplished” than they could have been that year.

But, let us not forget that the Elves have been pushed to their limit. After hundreds of years of massive technological break throughs, they have to spend all of their vacation time cramming our new technology into their brains. Target can deliver a PSP or a Nintendo DS with ease. An elf who makes this item gave up wandering the dwindling Alaskan tundra and observing frolicking penguins in order to learn new technology....just for your child.

After so many years of playing this game, I’ve grown tired of some fat guy taking the credit for all my hard work. Because, eventually, they discover that Santa isn’t real. They move on. But, somewhere, they never make the connection that their Mama was busting her a$$ to make it wonderful for them.

This Santa does not add to the landfills. This Santa takes her glory and her due. This Santa isn’t hiding behind any man.

Friday, November 27, 2009

International Pretend To Be A Time Traveler Day

Well, it's been awhile....but my husband, Norman, but a bug up my nose this morning.

For the rules, go here:

Feedback is VERY welcome!

I want to pretend to be a time traveler on Dec. 8th...location to be disclosed.

Norman and I were talking about the fact that there are so few African Americans in time travel literature. (The only one I can think of is Octavia Butler's Kindred)

It struck me, what would the effect of African Americans be on this event? What different choices would we make? And given that it is done in public, how would people respond to Black time traveller's? Given the historic nature of the past election, what would African-Americans from a dystopic future be here to "correct." And what would ones from a Utopian future be here to encourage?

The current scenario with which I am working is that a series of catastrophic events leads to the extinction of the White Race. My character comes from a future where there are no White People. I live in a world where I've never seen a living White person - only ancient photographs. I've returned to prevent that from happening.

So, I plan to walk around a good portion of the day marveling at the curious wonder of White People. And, I’ll be asking White people the same questions White people ask me everyday in the supermarket.

In order to be safe, my character must look opulent, regal and unthreatening. Her tone must always be soft, cajoling and co-operative.

Sample Scripts

In reverse to the "How long have you been growing your hair." For short haired people, I plan to use "It was kind of you to give up your hair for The InCureables. You look like the kind of person who would donate. I'm right, aren't I?" (with a great big smile and nod as if they are the best ever person in the word.)

For a person with very straight hair. "How long does it take to do your hair? I've never seen hair so straight. May I touch it?

With an incredulous look on my face followed by great concern, "You are so pale, are you safe outside at this time of day?"


Approach a random person.

“It is the time of Satiation. Where is the Community Cook Pot?”

Likely response - HUH?

Where do you gather to celebrate the gifts of nature?

Likely response - Huh?

Make the sign for eating. If they catch on, listen intently for directions. Then thank the profusely.

In the food court -

Ask a person “Which of these Community Cook Pots is for the scientists?”

Likely response - Huh?

(Gesture at all of the lines.) Which queue is for the scientists?

Likely response - Huh?

Where am I allowed to dine?

Likely response - Anywhere.

Stare at them in disbelief. Then, walk around a long time staring at the menus.

Hold up the line.

Ask the cashier -

“What is my allotment today?

Likely response - Thanks for choosing X. What can I get you?

What is my portion today?


What is my rightful allowance of food today?

Huh? Have whatever you want.

That’s is unacceptable. I have not earned anything I want. What may I have?

What do you want?

(Joyful!) A test! This is a test of my honesty!

Rummage through very small purse. Pull out pesos, dollars and pounds.
Order the smallest thing on the menu.

Here is my offering, what do you choose?

Let clerk pick up the dollars and give change.

I have done well!

Take food to a table. Bring out a candle, a lighter, some incense. Light the candle and incense. Open arms and give a great LOUD prayer of Thanksgiving.”

Eat....relishing every single bite.

To insinuate the Time Travel motif - What is the year?

Likely response, “2009.”

Who is the Nations Elder?

Likely response: Obama

(joyful response) Then we still have time! Oh! Oh! We still have time.

More ideas
Some help with costumes. Flowing, new age-y, ethnic-y clothing. (A cloak in the event I don't choose a mall.)
A cohort ( or a court)
Witnesses in the event that a Black Time Traveler is way too scary for some random people.

Anyone interested?

Video of White men who have done brilliant applications of this are here:
and here

Monday, March 16, 2009

Watching Stacey Waite Open For Dr. Bernice Reagon

behind me was a murder of cackling elders.
during the entire evening, they crackled their candy wrappers;
tittered; giggled; sucked their teeth and said "Oh, no!"

(especially when Jan was reading.)
they harumphed, groaned "uh, uh, uh"
and muttered about poems in which no cock protruded.

when you took the stage, I heard them shifting;
settling; roosting. You spoke.
and they didn't.

I saw a bridge building itself
that, in death, not even Sakia Gunn could erect.
under the eyes of frozen painted muses

these women recalled
passing; chewed on choices;
and were finally brought

to peace.

Sunday, March 15, 2009


Some people say the universe sings a song. If you listen closely enough, you can hear the moon in its orbit. Perhaps I am wrong, but it sounds something a calimbas, xylophones, violins and a small wooden drum.

I have heard the Earth’s heartbeat. Sometimes it is a reassuring sound ~ something deep ~ like the moment my brain finished forming and I noticed the heartbeat pumping nutrients into my forming limbs.

Whether these things are real or not, I do believe everything has a song.

As the weather warms, our thoughts turned to the garden. Winston was so pleased with himself last summer. So, no cajoling was necessary. He has big plans this year. He knows what he wants to plant. Milkweed is high on his list because he wants to attract butterflies. But, he also wants pumpkins, beans, broccoli, basil, mint, corn, and the list goes on and on.

Last week, we planted seeds. The little peat pellets are a magical thing. When you pour water on them, they expand. It was his favourite part of the planting.

But, my favourite was observing how clearly he could hear the songs of life all around him. As he placed each seed in its little hole, he sang it a growing song. Plant and sing and plant and sing - until all of the seeds were snug.

With each packet, I read him the germination time. He seemed a bit disappointed that it would take so long. But, lo and behold. Not three days after planting, his seeds sprouted. He was so proud that he had given them such a good start. And he sings to the seedlings almost every other day.

We’ve discussed the science of why plants enjoy having a soft song every now and then. As much as he understands and nods his head. I think, he knows there is something deeper. He believes in his songs.

And I believe him. He hears the world's music. And I hope he never forgets how to listen for it.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009


NOTE: These are exact utterances made by my son while he played a game called Noby, Noby Boy.

Scene 1

I learned that Boy could climb up anything when he climbed up a rainbow.

Cat can climb really well. Just like boy can climb up anything.

Boy has to stretch to feed girl so they can go to Saturn.

Look at the human girl standing on the floating turtle.

The people are always up.

I’m never leaving down here because of the people.

Look at the people running away because I want to eat them.

Scene 2

Want to see me go up to the clouds?

I’m flying.

I’m not flying, I’m falling. That doesn’t count for me. I tried to tell you, but, you wouldn’t listen.

But, I am mad at Boy because he is the cutest little doggie

He’s really a boy not a girl with little hearts coming out of him.

He’s not a girl. He’s a boy.

He can only eat when he stretches.

Boy is missing! Oh! There he is, he’s right down there.

Okay, eating face. I call Boy eating face.

Scene 3

Want me to show you how I feed Girl?

I have to report my length to Girl.

Girl swallows the heart I gave her. It’s 879, 345,823 meters long. She grew! See!

Scene 4

Look Grandma can float. Run for your life, I’m coming for you Grandma! Grandma is by my house, but she can’t see me coming for her.

I got you Grandma.

I figured out a sneak attack for eating her.

Grandma come back, I just want to eat you.

Grandma won’t see me up in the clouds. She won’t be expecting me. I’ve been following Grandma all day. But, still she’s not running. She’s not hiding.

That sneaky little Grandma. She went into her house!

But, now, I’ve knocked her out of her car.

You can’t run. You can’t hide, Grandmas. I’m going to eat you.

Stupid old Grandma.

Where is she? In my tummy! I got you inside my tummy!

Better run. Better hide. I’m gonna get you inside.

Come here, darling!

Boy, come down, Grandma knows you love cookies. Come inside for cookie nookie tookies.

Bye, bye Grandma. I ate you all up.

Scene 5

I’m done with this.


this young man rummages through your
top drawer, fingering knickers, bras,
personal things I used to fold, put away

in that cloudy dark universe I painted.
to sleep you sang through insomnia.
and sunny days began to slip

into hunted nights. no longer owl
but snake busy chasing tail.
you’ve left behind

the blue moon bedroom,
the soprano bow with its quiver,
the hounds and heart pumping

deer. dryads are simple,
fragile, easily burned like mist;
tattooed by men and felled

with rings carved around their trunks.
at the edge of every limb, roads
with racing cars, gun shots,

mutilated virgins, crumbling temples.
and consider these forests: they have never
been forever. not the way you think

they should be. but, sit
upon your own scale
if you can find it.

in their own way,
sirens have always been
beautiful. still. stride your night;

sing down sailors;
or fade like your temple.
but, look before you cross.

NOTE: My daughter just broke her other wrist after completing rehab for the first broken wrist. I trust her to choose wholeness.

this heavy house

observe them drinking the laughter out of the air, smell
their vowels; taste their assonance and echo. I still feel

my favorites drinking my sweat, biting
my tongue, sucking alliteration and active verbs

from my pussy. the words keep coming ~
see this wrinkling brow; caress this grey hair;

fuck these fingers which keep typing. I am
tired of dead poets around my dining room table.

FRIENDS: I've been absent for awhile. Living life, observing deaths and evaluating the future. I wrote this thinking about the passing of my friend Brenda Moossy.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Today I Will Sit | After Mo Willem's "Today I Will Fly"

Today I will sit.

No, you will not sit.

Yes, I will sit.

You can not sit. You must fix lunch.

Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit.


Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit. Sit.

I will get help.

I will sit.

I will get Daddy.

Good, I will sit.

Look! Chocolate and shortbread cookies for lunch!

No. I will fix lunch.

No, you sit.