Crossing the line

Something in me snapped and got me wanting to write about Palestine again. I don't know what happened. Maybe I realized that I was just sitting around and not doing anything but writing about myself, which is useless. Maybe I realized that I have a potential -- a real potential -- publisher for it, and I know about being handed a baton and knowing to run at full speed as soon as it lands safely in your hands. I consider the first publication to be the baton handed over to me, and I have some work to do.

I started listening to this podcast. I don't have a TV, don't judge me. Anyways, this podcast is called "Crossing the line" in which it seeks to give voice to the voiceless. You can find it here: http://ctl.libsyn.com/index.php?post_year=2008&post_month=07

Anyways, so something powerful happened to me about 2am while I was listening to this. I was interested in the interview that was going on about al Naksa (or the 6-day war or the war of 1967) and what happened..trying to write a poem about it, right. And at the end of the hour or so segment, they were reporting on the War in Iraq. And it made me think of Aracelis Girmay's brilliant poem, "Arroz Poetica" in which she speaks on the atrocities of war, and how the civilians in any country that is being attacked will never be called out, their names, I mean. And there's this turn that she makes where the poem starts to dig into your center, and she says:

....The radio will go on, shouting
the names &, I promise you,
they will not call your name, Hassna
Ali Sabah, age 30, killed by a missile in Al-Bassra, or you,
Ibrahim Al-Yussuf, or the sons of Sa'id Shahish
on a farm outside of Baghdad, or Ibrahim, age 12,
as if your blood were any less red, as if the skins
that melted were any less skin, and the bones
that broke were any less bone,
as if your eradication were any less absolute, any less
eradication from this earth where you were
not a president or a military soldier.

So anyways. This radio podcast...called out the names of the people fallen that week. Including Iraqis. And I thought, how powerful. How sad. How sad, even, to think of the American soldiers dying -- almost all of them that week (of June, 2007) were between 20-30...many of them from places I've been. And you find yourself listening for a name you recognize, though I know no one in the war. But you still listen. Then you realize some of these people fighting are younger than you are. And I'm not that old. And then you get enraged. And you want to stop listening, but you feel like to turn off would be to disrespect the dead, because they fell and all we got from other news stations was/were/are numbers, and no names. And you listen. And you hear the places they left from, the cities they lived and loved. And the families. And I wonder if the families know that this exists? That there is a place where their name is being called out, and remembered. And people will hear it.

Until the callouses form

My fingertips are sore. Only on the left side. My friend play guitar and came over, and played my guitar (whose name is Olive) and it got me to thinking: I've had this guitar in four years, and you know -- I still can't really play it. I need to fix that. I am blocking it for some reason, and I can't figure it out. I'm not sure what will or can be released once I play it, but I think that ambiguity makes me a little scared to unlock it. Crazy-sounding, I know.

I'm going to play my guitar every day for the rest of my time off. Who knows what will happen?

clearing clutter with feng shui

The longer I have dreadlocks, the more I learn this idea of energy and placement of energy and how energy can get "stuck" places. I believe I have a lot of energy in these dreadlocks...

So anyways. I moved to Harlem a couple weeks ago, but I've been away on retreats and things that I never really unpacked. Today I woke up and tried to write for a little bit, then I thought: I should work on unpacking my things. I bought this book, _Clear your clutter with feng shui_, and i've had this other book, _Organizing for the Creative person_ and I'm putting these two books to use. It's crazy how many books I've accumulated. Really crazy when you begin to unpack them really (I always kept some shit in my car when I was in Jersey) and I've got essentially 3 smallish bookshelves of books. Yep. and this is just my "portable library" -- I still have books in columbia that I don't think will ever make it with me where ever I end up living.

So now I have a work desk in my room. Which is revolutionary. I haven't had one of these since....man. living in the dorm? I always professed that I can't do work in my room, and if work were to be brought back into my room I'd do it on my bed and that would last all of 5 minutes or so because I'd soon just go to sleep. But I think if it's one thing I took from Soul Mountain, it's my ability to do work in my living space...and I don't know if I'm thankful for this ability yet, but it's there, and I have a desk now, in my room and it's got poets and writers magazine and its got a little thing for bills and for writing supplies and some books on there, and a lamp, and my name tag (yes i kept it) from working at the bank. I inherited a wine rack from the girl who moved out of the room I moved into. I'm going to have to fill it. Is it bad to keep a wine rack in your room? Ha. Here it is.

What else? Oh -- I've hung up some pictures I printed last summer. I have to go print out more pictures...and hang them up. I think the pictures and the books make my room feel most like home. Here is my home. My clothes are finally up in a closet again and not in a bag, although on Wednesday they'll be taken back down again, and taken home for about 10 days.

Anyways, come uptown and visit.

Tonight I want to work some on an essay. Maybe a poem. I've done a lot of work today.

school daze

i am finally unpacking and cleaning/organizing my room by way of "clear your clutter with feng shui". upon unpacking, i found this booklet that my ap english teacher my senior year of high school put together. he also wrote on the back which has gone through some water damage. what is most important is this last sentence: "I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes." I remember reading that, and thinking *gasp!* what an expectation he wishes to see filled. And now, just think. Next year, it's quite possible!



My teacher wrote:

DeLana,
Thanks for your poetic musings and conversations ...(water mark)
I've enjoyed getting to know you. Thanks too for your athletic contributions and achievements! You are a talented young lady. May your college years be just as ....(water mark). I expect to be teaching your published work in future AP classes.
Analytically yours,


and then my poem.

Lessons

We were strug'ling through these years of schooling,
building, molding a new identity.
Hours drift away while in the school building,
searching for strength from insecurity.

We went through twelve years of conditioning.
Parents stressed college as soon as we leave,
hear, "College! don't negotiate!" wond'ring
when we will leave the shadows of their tree.

Now we find we are ent'ring a new tier
of society, on our own, we tread
using each lesson we've learned through the years
mem'ries in our minds we now embed.

We find: we live, we die, through trials, we learn
through school to reach the dreams for which we yearn.

(c) dd 2002.

People?

So each time I try and venture out of the house to interact with the world that is outside of my window, I get out there and think I should have stayed home. I think this is a result of being so secluded for 3 weeks. I've reverted back to myself, my old self, the self that enjoyed solitude...or rather, preferred it. Then I get into groups of people and go inside myself. Like, I'd rather be looking outside of the window at the passing cars than be active in the conversation. Or, I'd rather be listening than participating. Great. Now I've somehow managed to make myself start over at ground zero. And maybe this is a good thing. Since I'm so used to finding the good in everything, the lesson. Maybe this means that I will remain a bit more focused. I know this will not be possible when I go home in a little over a week. Everyone will want to see me. I will not be able to get away with not talking to people, so I might as well take advantage of it now, especially in this world that doesn't require you to even say much to anyone.

work work work

Yesterday I started and finished Janice Harrington's "Even the Hollow My Body Made is Gone." I am thinking about writing a review. Well, I am going to write a review. This time here in NYC needs to still be spent working, I've told myself. And by working that means, still writing, still editing, still producing. I've got on tap a couple of essay ideas to play around with and hopefully place somewhere soon. I've got some places I need to contact for reading gigs. All of that stuff.

On the flip side of the work....I'm still finalizing dates, but I'll be reading at UNC Chapel Hill in April. Yup. Yup.

Look out!

Passing Strange

I came home early from my residency to see this broadway play, "Passing Strange". My really good friend is in town, and I hadn't seen her for a year (we used to be roommates for two years) and she's staying with me, so I said, let's go and see this. She said, sure. So we got there relatively early to get student tix (what little good school is still doing for me) and had decent seats, considering the price we paid. It was the last day of the show, which had been going apparently for six months, which is long, and they showed out! boy did they show out. I've been singing the tunes in my head all day, and when I get a little bit of money, I'm going to buy the album, I believe.

Then Raina and I met up with Evan and had dinner and then trekked it back uptown for some spirits and some musica nd good times. Yep. More days should consist of this greatness.