Happy Anniversary Mom and Dad!

Timely fodder for this month–stuff about love…
Plus today is my mom and dad’s 43rd wedding anniversary.

(Imagine that)!

Anyway, it seemed as good a time as any to share a soundtrack of some of my favorite love songs.  It’s hardly an exhaustive list, but these are definitely among my all time favs.

What are some of your favorites?  Tell me in the comments…
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1.  Is This Love – Bob Marley

This song is classic.  There’s nothing more to say.

2. U & I – Emily King

Awwww.  Cute.  This is like puppy love and grown folks business all wrapped up in one–which I think is critical to sustaining love (says Sixth Month Sally).

3. As – Stevie Wonder

Stevie is a masterful lyricist and this cut is proof positive.  The lyrics transcend romantic love; you can play this for your “chirren” without sacrificing a shred of its meaning or the urgency of the message.

4. We Got a Love Thang – CeCe Penniston

Secretly I thought of this as me and my high school boyfriend’s “song.”  Until we broke up.  Then I wore out a couple of her other songs.  But this song still captures the fun part of being in love without being goofy.  Okay, maybe a little goofy.

5. For Real – Amel Larrieux

The quality of Amel’s voice lends itself to love songs and she consistently delivers.

I like this one because of the message.  Another person can’t make you whole–you gotta be that by yourself.  But a person can make you “love/feel/be better.”

6. Groovy Kind of Love – Phil Collins

The clean simple lines of this song make it all the more poignant.

7. Somebody Loves You Back – Teddy Pendegrass

“It’s so good/loving somebody/when somebody loves you back.”  Yes, Teddy I agree.

8.  No One Will – Cody Chestnutt

This is soulful and sexy–a nice balance.  (And perfect for a nice dance too).

9. Ain’t Nothing But Love – Vivian Green

This song is so giddy; I appreciate a love song that is not dripping with fake rain, brushed snares, generic sax solos, or other requisites of modern love music.

10.  Forever Mine – The O’Jays

Even the remastered versions make me think of vinyl records and Soul Train!

This cut is sexy without being sexual–a hallmark of old school jams I guess–and one of the reasons it has found its place in my get-it-girl rotation as well as my multi-generational-wedding-reception mix.

11.  My Woman Now – Buju Banton & Beres Hammond

I didn’t just choose this one because it has two of my favorite artists on the same track.  Both of them have made some really nice love songs independent of one another.  But let’s face it: the balance of Buju’s grit and Beres’ honey is dead on. This female would feel like her man’s “queen and a lady” if he played this (even if the title does sound a little cave-mannish).

12. I Love You – Gyptian

I dare you to find a sweeter riddim.  Double dog dare you.

13. Make You Feel My Love – Adele
This is a Bob Dylan remake; I actually like Adele’s version best among his and all the other remakes.

Even when she admits “I know you haven’t made your mind up yet,” it sounds tender and not desperate.  You know there’s a fine line between the two–being willing to “crawl down the avenue” and “go hungry” for someone could be perceived as a little of both.  But ain’t that love for you!

14. Kiss of Life – Sade

You knew Sade had to show up on here somewhere!  This is one of her jazziest numbers but it still delivers the sensual groove that made her a legend.

15.  The Truth – India.Arie

The Truth: Mr./s. Perfect doesn’t exist.  But Mr./s. Perfect For You just might.

The song addresses that (she admits her love interest is imperfect) and manages not to dis love in the process.

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Whew! I could go on all night.  But now it’s your turn–tell me about some of your favorite love songs in the comments section.

Monthly Meter

Photo: Slig77  DeviantArt.com

My log for the month of : January
Writing/Residency/Fellowship Submissions: 2
Writing/Residency/Fellowship Acceptances: o
Writing/Residency/Fellowship Rejections: 3
Books: Joe Turner’s Come and Gone – August Wilson
Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury
Secret Shame: My keep in touch skills–actually lack thereof.  Umm, my bad?

Say Something

One night, actually it was Valentine’s Day, I heard a couple arguing outside my window.  I lived in a club district, so that night though it was a week night, was pretty active.  I had been watching the couples, mostly laughing at the obvious newbies and the bored but diligent oldheads.  I had turned my attention to some particularly interesting part of my phone conversation when I heard the two.

Oh no, not on Valentine’s Day!  My phone partner and I both laughed.  I watched them argue for a while—not long really—when he snatched her up.  Her flimsy little cardigan was all askew on her shoulders and she kind of slid from the melee in her cutesy kitten heels on the brick sidewalk.  He walked away as she recovered from the imbalance fussing all the while.  He turned around to go back to her, headlocked her, and proceeded to drag her between two cars in a parking lot.

What had been a tragic-comedy was about to turn all tragedy in a second.   I called 911 to report the beating that was taking place.  She emerged from between the cars and started chasing behind him as he tried to leave the scene.  Before the police arrived, he had gone on to take her purse and remove cash and a cell phone throwing the emptied bag at her body.  She finally crumpled on the sidewalk in tears but was adjusting herself when the police got there.  He was gone.

I heard Drake’s new cut “Say Something” recently and (though I have to wonder what the world is coming to when Drake triggers me to intelligent thought) was reminded of this incident.  The song has nothing to with domestic violence, but the hook is something I’ve certainly thought a million times in my head: I’m gonna need you to say something.

I admit I can shut up and shut down without much effort and in the blink of an eye.  I’ll call it my turtle shell defense.  But I have to be clear when, as do we all, crawling into a shell is not an option.  Sometimes, silence doesn’t only give consent but it perpetuates the worst stuff you can imagine.

I don’t advocate policing the world but damn if you have a right to sit around and watch it head to hell in a handbasket.  In fact, if you’re part of the world, expect to head to hell right along with it.  Therein lies your responsibility to it. When you get down to it, it’s also a responsibility to yourself.

Since today is being heralded as a National Day of Service I figured this would be my lazy-arsed version of service: a PSA:  Say Something.

Safe (Vent Ahead–You’ve Been Warned)

“Well behaved women seldom make history.“

Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
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I was running this morning, doing H.I.I.T.E.

H.I.I.T.E. is High Intensity Interval Training.  The goal is to max your heart rate for 30-45 seconds, recover, and do it again a few times in order to improve general performance and burn reserved fat stores. I hear it’s The Truth so I’ve been adding a couple of sessions to my regular routine to decide if it’s worth the hype. Plus, since it’s new (to me) it will ward off boredom (I get bored if I don’t keep things fresh).

By the time I got to the end–the sessions are 20-30 minutes–my legs were resistant and I was leaning.  My sinuses were on fire (I have another cold) and all I could think was really, girl?

Partly incredulous but not in a negative way.  See, athleticism–ummm, let’s just say it’s never been my strong point.

So where recent years have found me sweating on purpose (even in spite of colds that defy Tylenol Multi-Symptom, ginger tea, and what I thought was my general wellness) I am still convincing myself that this is me.  She’s good people, I think, but sometimes she can be a shrinking violet and has a hard time, erehem, asserting her presence.

This morning, I wasn’t sure I should even go to the gym at all.  I figured I was asking for trouble running with a cold in the petri dish of germs that a humid gym can be.  Besides, I didn’t wanna hear about it from the well meaning if it turned out that I got sicker after the endeavor.  Here would be the fitness fetish I usually wish would blend into beige on front street wearing neon pink.

Oh well.  Even this sometimes shrinking violet knows that playing it safe is a sure way of getting the same results.  I’m not interested in the belly I had a month ago nor the stats I had last year.  Sure they’re good enough, but enough is too often a euphemism for mediocre or worse, an excuse for laziness.

I know when enough is enough.  An overflowing closet or a stomache are not really cues; they are alarms that give me headaches I don’t need.  So I’m careful to be conscious of enough.  But there are times in life, like today, when just doing enough is, if not lazy, a surefire way to get that.  Enough.  Just enough.  I can’t settle for that.  Especially not when I’m capable of more.

Settling?  Ummm, not part of my vocab.

Yeah I admit it’s usually easier. Maybe in some distant (or not so distant) future I will regret dying my hair orange and piercing my nose, HIITE’ing with a cold, turning down the job offer and the guy–all of which would’ve been safer moves for sure.   But when you want something else (dare I admit, something more) you can’t just play it safe.  And I do want more.  Gosh I do–I do, Universe!  Are you listening?

Ayiti: L’âme se fortifie Béchons joyeux, béchons joyeux…

May the fields be fertile/And our souls take courage

(from the Haitian National Anthem: La Dessalinienne)

Tonight I send white light to Jessica’s dad, Pierre’s family, Edrice, Edmus, and the Danticats who remain…

Haiti is a country whose history is one of fiercely fought for—and earned—independence.

While in the face of such unspeakable and overwhelming tragedy, it is easy to feel helpless; to lose sight of the power of the human spirit, the aid needed for Haitians and their families abroad is not solely tangible.

The African slaves that decided they wouldn’t be denied their humanity and wrested their destiny from their captors are the ancestors of those who are surviving in Haiti in the turmoil it has faced in recent years and today.

It’s easy to feel helpless at a time like this but your hands aren’t ever tied so long as your spirit is free.

Send your aid to Haiti, but remember who we’re talking about here—the descendents of proud warriors!

So send your energy too. Sometimes, it’s the only thing you have; just as often, it’s the best thing you can offer the world.

Remember you can subscribe to this blog by selecting the box at the bottom of this entry that reads “Notify me of new posts via email!”  C’mon you know you wanna read more!

Why yes! darlene is a poet (or, Duh-h-h-h)

I have a relationship with publishing like I generally have with men.  Fairly selective and therefore mostly nonexistent.  Hehehe.

Yeah, so like I’m always on the market but I don’t necessarily go around advertising it because, hell, what’s to advertise?

Like those old fighting words don’t talk about it, be about it I am always on my grind.  The work of the grind is apparently not what some have imagined it to be.  Therefore, the question—or really statement—always comes up, “So Darlene’s still dating/writing?”

I kinda hate that.  Kinda a lot.

I know I shouldn’t be annoyed.  Humans are visual creatures—we wanna see what’s up.  So y’all wanna see me out with random and sundry men; texting my meantime away huh?  My name in the front window of your local Barnes and Noble; check me out at your local library; come to my readings and signings in your best bohemian chic outfit?

Sorry I won’t be able to help you on either front, homie.

But a little about this grind thing you might not have understood or just never thought about…

Sometimes I have no idea where a poem comes from or why.

I start with intent these days probably as often as I start with that compelling enigma of artists wherein we claim to be “spoken to.”  Sometimes, like last night, I can feel the urge but just can’t make it happen.

Lately I’ve given myself over to the discipline of intent; it’s my best defense against the raging insanity nipping at my heels.  I schedule my day, meals, work out because I know I’m teetering on a breakdown and structure is a pretty good glue to hold my pieces in place.

Anyway, I hate to admit that the worst shit produces the best writing.  I guess it’s kind of like the cow dung fertilizer they use on the fields around here.  Ahh, the smell of spring planting!  (I hope my harvest is worth it).

Production is, of course, only part of the deal.  The work of publication is easy enough, but I’m not Master P and don’t have the wherewithal to sell a book from the trunk of my car.  Besides, let’s be honest: who buys books and music other than musicians and writers and the family and friends who love them or wanna show them off to their friends?

Publishing is competitive for that reason among many.

But writers, musicians, artists are who they are regardless of public recognition or even titles.  And I am darlene **swallowing hard** a poet.  Short publication list, made-up words, and all.

And I will always be regardless of how sporadic or cheesy my production and/or publication.  Or here’s an analogy that might help you understand better: it’s like being Black—it won’t change; I can’t change it (and for the record, wouldn’t change if I could)!

Exhibit A: www.diodepoetry.com

Exhibit B: www.depoetry.com

Exhibit C:  www.torchpoetry.org

See?

rethink: Reasonable

rea.son.able (adj) governed by or being in accordance with sound thinking; not extreme or excessive
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I was in 6^th grade and I had to interview my uncle, a psychologist, about his career.  It was a science project.

I’m not sure why I was so nervous because I saw Uncle Alvin nearly monthly at family holiday gatherings.  He was cool and laidback and lead what I deduced was an interesting life: girlfriends, travel to exotic places, guest commentary in Jet, and a motorcycle.  At Christmas he gave our family bags of foods with stuff like real maple syrup and Belgian chocolate, and one year, even, my first Victoria’s Secret bath gel (before bath gel took over the soap market—and before ol’ girl’s secret was no longer secret thanks to mass marketing).

I equated psychology with Uncle Alvin’s lifestyle and took a not-so-passing interest in psychology partly because of all that.

But the reason the occasion stands out so clearly in my mind is because it was one of the first times I consciously remember considering suicide.

I couldn’t think of any “reasonable” way to get out of the interview.  It had been scheduled weeks in advance, the tape recorder borrowed and the cassette tape—which I kept for years after—purchased, the questions scribbled and re-written neatly on yellow steno paper with space between each to “take notes.”

I was so-o-o-o nervous.

To try to understand my sixth grade anxiety is to try to understand the very cogent fear my niece, a 6th grader, expressed last week regarding a chain email she received that instructed her to forward it to 10 people or expect a visit at 10:22 p.m. by a one armed, one-eyed dead girl.

To understand suicidal thoughts one must understand the very tangible fears from which they come.

Often, maybe too often, it’s not clear from the outside looking in why there seems no other way out for the suicidal; no “reasonable” alternative.  Even if there are other, “reasonable,” alternatives.

“Reasonable,” you already know, is relative.  So is fear.  While a chain letter would not scare me, my niece was visibly shaken and no efforts at humoring her out of it or presenting logical arguments as to why the letter wasn’t worth her fear would work.

A reason that counselors and the otherwise well meaning often cite to discourage the suicidal is that the passage of time will clarify the muddled, maybe even rash, reaction that suicide seems.

Let me tell you that the passage of time has not diminished how palpable is that Sunday, heck the entire weekend, all those many years ago.  When I think about it, even as I write this, I can feel that heart pounding anxiety I felt that day.

And rash?  I was a praying girl, had gone to church, eaten dinner, watched t.v., gone about the entire day with a very clear vision of my way out of the feeling.  Right up until my uncle knocked on the door.

Whatever your religious belief system instructs regarding suicide, you might consider these five reasons many suicidal people do NOT commit suicide:

1. They have low self esteem and are unable to take a definitive stand on their own behalf.

2. Their Judeo-Christian socialization—even if they do not practice an organized religion in that tradition—guilts them into believing that to do so would be wrong.

3. They are not convinced that they will succeed in their efforts and fear living with trauma in addition to or worse than that which has led them to consider the act in the first place.

4. They have not been convinced that the experience on the opposite side of life (death/afterlife/reincarnation) is any better than what they currently experience.

5. They are more interested in the romanticism of the act than in its reality.

Which is to say there are a lot of suicidal people walking among us.  NOT to justify or defend nor—and I’ll probably earn slack for this—criticize or attack the act.

I think the list also underscores that the ways in which we are most accustomed to watching it committed are limited and as a result give us limited, if not selfish, ammunition with which to discourage the suicidal from their act.  There are, if you pay attention, people who commit suicide as deliberately but yet over time, rather than in one fell swoop.

If there is a bottom line to this discussion I admit I don’t know for sure what it is.  Other than to rethink what you consider “reasonable.”  I think options exist just because reasonable, like so many things in life, is relative–selfish in that it uses the self/personal as a gauge for normalcy.  Imagine that.  Suicide is generally condemned as a selfish solution.  I, for one, am not convinced it always is.

Look for more rethink blogs in the coming months including rethink: Freak and rethink: Good Girl!

Official Notice

I do not intend to tiptoe through life only to arrive safely at death.

Monthly Meter (with Year End Tally)

Photo: Slig77  DeviantArt.com

My log for the month of : December
Writing/Residency/Fellowship Submissions: 2
Writing/Residency/Fellowship Acceptances: 0
Writing/Residency/Fellowship Rejections: 3
Secret Shame: an addiction to marshmallows
Books: 0

Year End Totals:
Submissions: 30  = 2.5/month
Acceptances: 4 = .33/month
Rejections: 26 = 1.17/month
Books Completed: 14.5 = 1.2/month
Secret Shame: This confirms it: my year sucked in more ways than one. *Sigh.*

Be good. For something.

Be not too moral.

You may cheat yourself out of much life.

Aim above morality.

Be not simply good.  Be good for something.

Henry David Thoreau