vintageBKlyn

2003-05-05T13:14:00.000-07:00

My, has it been a minute. Gentrification pushed me into a new neighborhood where I have not received cable or internet access, yet. Bear with, peeps. I'll be connected soon. Writing soon. 50 Cent is still packed in a box somewhere in my living room. And indeed I'm suffering.

2003-04-07T14:01:00.000-07:00

Indeed, sometimes it snows in April. Do you remember that Prince song from the Under the Cherry Moon soundtrack? Outside my window snow clings to tree branches, traps cars in their parking spaces, and hinders pedestrians who, by the way, just received allergy shots and medication, preparing themselves for the pollen of springtime. However, it is Kris Kringle and his gang of reindeer flying over these Brooklyn rooftops, early this year, minus presents and fa-la-la-la-la. Snow in April should mean minor flurries not urban icebergs blocking traffic and the growth of tree buds. But in these times I'm not surprised that the gods are angry.

Clearly the education system in America is flourishing more than any other institution. I can't see why the pentagon staff would model its briefings after kindergarten show and tell if it wasn't.

2003-03-30T09:55:00.000-08:00

I'm sure that you are aware that parenting in New York consists of using guerilla tactics such as teaching your child the subway stop and subsequent route to small Brooklyn apartment by the time he's 18 months. By 18 months your child should also understand how to perform small tasks like clearing his plate and putting it in the sink. He can carry the light bags when it's time to grocery shop. He can begin learning how to cook by identifying basic spices and distinguishing between various types of leafy greens. He should have, by two and a half, reached an understanding of working a toddler hustle. The other day my not yet three child asked me for some money. I gave him a couple of quarters. He looked at me with the most serious of facial expressions and said,"Dollars mommy. I want dollars." Like Rakim, Amir is always in a New York state of mind.

2003-03-27T10:04:00.000-08:00

Well, you would think in these bloody uncivil times I would listen to wholesome uplifting music, like Sweet Honey in the Rock, Cassandra Wilson, India Arie, or Erykah Badu whose cd's constantly rotate on my stereo. Nah, peeps. It is official:50 Cent reigns on my speakers, peaceful darlings. Not even Nas whose hiphop switches from exalting Nubian Queens and saving the original essence of hiphop to banging big booty ho's while getting high off haze in the Queensbridge center, wins the majority of my favor these days. I'm straight supporting the gully tip every morning after I drop my son off. 50 is the psychotic, yet clever lyricist of G-Unit whose violence and pathos matches Eminem's white boy serial killer ways. And they fit perfectly together lounging in exploited riches on top of Dre beats. I never got into Em. He's got lyrics, grinds personal pathology into catchy diddies, but that voice! That mean whiny truck engine he rhymes with has no bass. That irritates me. He just sounds crazy and pissed off. Well, on a bad day I can sound like that too. No props, E. However 50's got that cool lazy slur and he's not trying to be understood as anything but a bad guy who just happens to rhyme toting a weapons' arsenal the size of Fargo. He's been shot 9 times, has lived to tell the story 9 million ways, and makes interesting configurations of spilled brains, skullies, and a lot of bullets. Dre's beats as usual move slow through the dragon's belly rumbling smooth at the bottom of the trenches. 50 rhymes from the bottom flowing mostly destructive gratuitous violence through the country's streets and guess what, there's a whole bunch of us who like it. And what is that about? I can condemn Bush to burn against walls of fire, but then I'm bobbing my head to 50 Cent like what, Brooklyn, yo, word is bond-this shit is hot. I am a mother to a young Black boy in america. Have I lost my mind? I remember, at the end of the day, 50 is entertainment. He feeds the curiosity of the goody goodies who, like me, ban their kids from pulling the trigger on a water gun. OOh-what's it like not to give a fuck about karma and sing excitedly this gospel chorus:
I love to pump crack, love to stay strapped, love to squeeze gats--but you don't hear me though.
I love to hit the block, love my two glocks, love to bust shots--but you don't hear me though
Oh, I hear you, Mr. Cent and I confine my listening to the privacy of your cd. I will not be attending your concert and if I see you in the street, I will run. Fast. Far away from you. Why? Because as stated in the middle of this piece, you''re kinda nutty. But dude, love your romantic duet with Nate Dogg, 21 questions. I'm not getting attached to you, though, the way I did Biggie cause it seems like your main goal after accumulating big cash and bigger guns, is to become eulogized. In the meantime...Go shorty...it's your birthday.....

2003-03-26T12:40:00.000-08:00

I try not to be numb because then you can't act, you won't think forward. But I am facing difficulty in not capitulating to the murky waters of grief and sorrow. My brain has unraveled and fallen on my shoulders. Keep ya head up, Tupac would say. But I can't. I have no eloquence, no elegies, no parables, no old Negro spirituals to lift over to Basra or Bagdad. I have no words for the mothers who weep far past their own deaths for their children instructed to kill other mothers' children and anyone else standing in the way of oil fields. I thought I had been inoculated against american absurdity a long time ago. I thought I possessed enough pessimism to ward off the arresting shock of raw imperialism. However, this fictitious war, in the words of Michael Moore, has taken my breath away. Cause that's the thing; this war is not fiction. Brought to us on the stage of technology via satellite and digital cameras the bombs drop like DMX and Jet Li are on the set deflecting them with fancy Kung Fu kicks. Nothing deflects, instead the air swiftly guides, the bombs, missiles, F-16 fighter jets delivering Fed-Ex death to the marketplaces, the homes, the hospitals, the water systems, the bloodlines. The rubble and dust that were once a city called Badgad float on hunger, dysentary, dead cells and blood. That the Iraquis would defend themselves makes Blair and Bush instruct their spokespeople/puppets/mimes/talking heads to respond to accusations of inhumane tactics with indignation. "Why didn't you hear me make the point earlier in my speech that this is the 15th anniversary of Saddam using chemical weapons to kill thousands of his people...there is a pattern of cruel behavior and I don't know what to call them, these people-paramilitary is too positive- these thugs- I call them- set up military targets within meters of civilians...do you see how cruel they are, how inhumane they are...We have our army putting out the oil fires as we speak...As we said we want to preserve the oil fields for the Iraqi people" Who are these people, these bull headed thugs who refuse to do what's best and hand over their country to Daddy? And remember our military is doing everything it can to direct missiles towards targets with clarity. There have been mistakes but we are perfecting the trajectory of the missiles, the new and improved Tomahawk ones. "We're not sure if it was an Iraqui or Coalition missile" that bombed the highly populated Shaab district of Bagdad while it slept and the pentagon staff ate lunch. But rest assured we're going to figure it out because our tanks, machine guns, and nerve gas murder only to liberate the Iraqui people."

Birds chirp outside my window right now, holding a delightfully animated conversation. I wonder for how long?

2003-03-24T21:48:00.000-08:00

I've been rereading a lot of june jordan lately. i only hope to one day write with her power, her artistry. she gives it to you straignt, no chaser allowed. june 14, 2003 marks the first year anniversary of her death. read Some Of Us Did Not Die, honor her communal and spiritual intent, get to know her words, her strength and discover your own.

She Knows What Time It Is

the world's seas and rivers parted
when news of june jordan's death
spread through earth's underground
splitting solid surfaces
the news stopped the planet's heart
halted the flow of air
all matter stilled

her humble smile disguised
no conviction
no fighting word
spared no necessary critique
to the death she checked
fake wars racist projects
brutal regimes confines of gender
wings plumed from her
back in blue green gold
orange and red
flames
brilliant feathers of fire
she embroidered rhythm
shook loose metaphor into
spiral dances
if he had known, Jay-Z would have said
she was sick with words. pleeze.
she remembered
paul laurence dunbar spoke in the genius
tongue of the Black poor a tradition that
travelled through
the talkling drum in her poems
she rejected
jailed english
chose language that restored
power to the people!
wrote Poetry for the People
cause she understood
poetry be the people
she measured the fatal cost of silence
against the high value of voice
and
raged woman black against
our blithe murder
imposed mule order

like louis messiah wrote of toni cade
bambara
june jordan made
"revolution irresistible"

2003-03-22T17:48:00.000-08:00

I came home to two children tearing my house up. One girl who is five and a boy who is almost three have usurped rule from mine and their Dad/Uncle's hands. They hold court by fighting and hugging in alternate sequences. Constant thumping, yelling, laughing, and crying because one pushed, hit, sat on, stole candy from the other livens the house and puts the adults in a good mood. I say to myself this is kind of fun. My son is occupied and I can write without him clamoring for my attention by climbing up the side of the computer. Maybe I should have another one. They compete by trying to out giggle each other, by finding the best places in these tiny living rooms to hide. They run, scamper, bang into doors, slide across floors without one thought to their mortality. I laid down the law when I walked in the door: only mild bruises allowed; it was a beautiful day, I'm not spending the night in the emergency room. They call out their names when one is more than three feet away from the other. Neither wants to be abandoned from the glorious activity of play. They are in back of me scaling the roof of Amir's Flintstone like automobile appealing to me for help. "Help me! We're falling apart!" Panting, they nosedive into the many piles of laundy that pad my floor. I hear the ominous sound of legos crashing into other toys and it is sweet. Their energy is as frenetic as OutKast's "Bombs Over Bagdad", crazy, buzzing with electricity, charged with orange and white bolts of focused heat. They lap each other up. They squeeze each other in joyful suffocating embraces. Each time the cousins meet it is a cause to blow trumpets and sing. That is how wide their love stretches for each other.

In Bagdad loved ones try to reconnect whole children out of burned limbs scattered throughout the city "It has been a strategic war. It has gone according to plan." What kind of fear awaits the knowledge of a bomb coming to level your birthright. Did the soldiers carry OutKast's cd as they trooped through the desert towards the cities whose gates they're instructed to storm with machine guns? The bodies of children lie bloodied in a Basra hospital Relatives wait for officials to bring news of the missing heads. Doesn't Bush own children of color, the ones his father referred to in 1988 as "the little brown ones?" Doesn't his stomach cramp when he slaughters children like sheep?

The last two days have seen hanging buttered suns and warm air thaw tight frowns frozen from the winter that just left. People were naked in the streets, living in the moment hoping there will be no third bombing, no completion to the trilogy. People inconspicuously watch the sky for missiles. New Yorkers try to keep their edge from breaking their cool. No one wants their jitters leaping from their chests. The Anti-War Affect. People marched through Manhattan protesting the oil killings. Rumsfeld on Friday seemed at a loss to explain the egregious nature of Iraquis to the U.S. Would they really torch the oil fields burning up the best resource the country has? "It would be a shame to lose those fields. We certainly don't want them to burn." He nearly wept at the prospect. "Tear down the Regime!" meaning Bush not Saddam, read signs of the marchers. He sends the babies to kill mothers. His military trains them to traumatize the busdrivers, teachers, tailors, cooks, doctors, merchants, lazy asses, lovers, brother, grandmothers, children, the growth of flowers, the thinkers, the writers, the gatekeepers of their indigenous thought. He trains his army to colonize eating and shitting habits. What kind of bloodthirsty soil was I born on? Beneath the earth dead bones drum to welcome the bounty of dropped bombs.

2003-03-21T10:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Condoleeza,

I'm sure you are too busy to read this, being that you spend most of your waking hours sequestered in killing meetings. Your big bad beady-eyed boss men (they all have suspicious insane eyes) got you on lock. How can I call you sister as you prepare to eat my young? Black woman, where did you acquire your soul? I demand you disclose the location so I can obliterate it and destroy the malignancy metastacizing in your consciousness. Who are your people, your family? Do they dig your position, your mammified power move? I write to you in hostility because you gave up the fight to resist internalizing the violence wrought upon us. My dear, you do know this situation is only temporary? Your days of eating pig feet and collard greens in the oval office are numbered. You dismiss me and say I don't understand how complex, how complicated the grid of american politics. All I need to know is that your job is to strategize daily how to drain the blood and memory of our ancestors from our children. And when it gets real rough, you will be asked to leave your precious white house through the back door. You will not be asked to return. It will be your children prepared next to roast on the spit and I and my sisters will have to save them. So I'm telling you to stop getting off on racist ritual death 'cause I guarantee you'll need the roots you run from.

Cramming to understand,
a black sister in struggle

2003-03-21T08:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Brown Women I Watched Fleeing the Bombs,

I was surprised to see your brown faces in a quick second blip across my t.v. screen. My surprise changed to sadness as I thought about this sweeping fire and death you run from, the sand and wind making your escape difficult because you carry the weight of your children. You seek refuge in flimsy tents with frayed seams hoping to prolong the pulse of your babies. A gold sun, in the midst of bullets and missiles, forces you to squint towards muslin clouds in the sky when you plea to any god to grant mercy. Nothing is more cruel than outliving the laughter and vibrating touch of your own child. Outliving your children signals your own destruction as it would signal mine.

Sistren shrouded in terror, I too, can smell the smoke filling your lungs. I light white candles, set out glasses of clear water, fill charm bags with herbs and stones. I wear protective amulets to bond with your spirit and send protection from the orange blasts mingling with dusk, on your side of the ocean. Brown women should not be so well versed in mothering on top of land mines or facing black barrels of tanks rolling over their destinies. I feel useless, powerless in this new psychotic forced fight. State of the art technology ignores the news of your deaths. But I know who's killing you. My eye muscles are the only part of me that have strength from holding back tears. That last reads false since I weep often in foggy shadows where no one can see me. I want to appear unaffected, erect, steadfast. I link with you in my desire to mother in peace, in my desire to see our children grow together as brothers and sisters who remember how we rescued the planet from permanent poison, resowed its seeds and kept it green, breathing, and alive.

My heart beats in time with yours.

Peace and love,
your black sister in struggle

2003-03-17T15:33:00.000-08:00

Yes, I clink flutes of sparkling haterade when I speak of Oprah. But I am a woman perpetually embroiled in battle with my contradictions. So, at times, I do watch her show, the full hour, curious, mesmerized, hooked and indignantly crooked. And this is how you know she's a pimp. She lures you into her high bling stable as a viewer even when you are vehemently ranting your opposition towards her. Don't fear, people, I'm not turned out. She has not bitch slapped my consciousness into submission. I am still thoroughly resisting her pull, however, I'm out of town, on vacation. When you are taking a reprieve from real life, you escape into Marie Claire, Elle, a Dean Koontz novel (even though you don't make it past the first 15 pages), soap operas, The View, Oprah and Dr. Phil.

Oprah's show on Monday featured newly minted celebrities post appearances on popular reality t.v. shows, The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, and Joe Millionaire. I had never seen any of these shows. Nausea threatens at the thought of watching them. Watching Oprah gave me a condensed version of each show and lo and behold, I got into it. I learned about Ryan and Charlie, the last two men on The Bachelorette. Ryan is a cute, sweet poetry writing firefighter from the mountains of Colorado. Charlie is a financial analyst from some city with a gregarious personality. Ryan is shy and reticent. He is marrying The Bachelorette, whose name is off my brainmap but whose IQ I remember as remarkably low. I actually think Ryan is too good for her and that she doesn't really love him. Now for Charlie, he was being incredibly supportive and encouraging of Ryan and Bimbo's impending nuptials. But I could tell beneath the flashy smile, the gelled hair that swished just right over his forehead, the go get 'em attitude, he was seething. For six weeks that woman gassed his head up and then he got played. He was probably listening to Norah Jones singing songs of love and the forest from where she receives inspiration for those Grammy worthy folk songs and now he's listening to 50 cent. And while Ryan was reciting yet another poem on national television with his shy self Charlie was humming the break to Wanksta through his tight-lipped smile. How did reality t.v. become such a phenomenon? Cruelty and deception seem to be major factors in a successful reality t.v. show besides all the disclosure that really should remain behind closed doors. Seems that through all the puritanical right wing touting of morals, many Americans (and I'm sure most are committed republicans) are just tricked out freaky voyeurs. Thank you, Oprah, for expanding my world view.

2003-03-15T22:52:00.000-08:00

I'm not quite sure where to begin. It has been an enlightening and disturbing day but i'll get into that later.

First off: I'm still working on R. Kelly. I have barely scratched the surface of my thoughts on this serious issue. I do want to clarify the sentence I wrote about Mark Anthony Neal's rage not eclipsing his desire for Kelly's music. I meant to highlight how he is trying to figure out what to do. Does he follow Pearl Cleage and stomp and crush every cd he owns of R. Kelly as Cleage did with Miles Davis' tapes and cd's? Can he separate Kelly the artist and Kelly the abuser and write a review of the Chocolate Factory? Neal decides to scrap writing a review in protest to Kelly's inability to admit to his sexually violent exploitation of young Black girls. Neal envisions a different world for his four year old daughter which does not include listening to R.Kelly as he drives to work. By the end of the article, Neal is convicted and clear about his position and I apologize for implying otherwise.

2003-03-11T21:25:00.000-08:00

Why is Jay-Z singing love songs?

2003-03-10T13:54:00.000-08:00

After many years of watching sometimes snippets, patches, and on the odd occassion, entire episodes, I, unequivocally scientifically postulated that Oprah is the real "Where's my money, Bee-yatch!" nigga. No one pimps a product like that woman. The eager citizens of white and black United Plantation States of America are flat on their backs, legs wide open like "Give it to me, Daddy." She wakes up in the morning with Jigga style bravura and says"Fuck all you ho's." During the 2000 election she did have Gore and Bush on her show, staking their claims on the infamous presidency, right? In a sense, the two were asking her permission to run, right? I guess Ms. Winfrey said, "Charles Ogletree and Randall Robinson, y'all can talk all you want about how we have to unite for reparations, I'ma do it my way, the money, power, respect way, the exploitation highway way. You dig, my niggas? Now, If you don't mind my freshest ho, Dr. Phil is in the house and my ass needs its fix of a little kissing."

2003-03-07T23:00:00.000-08:00

Tonight I trekked to Harlem to see a film called NO! about sexual violence against Black women. It was not an original idea. I arrived at the Schomburg Library fifteen minutes early thinking I would get a seat. The joint's walls were splitting because there were so many people. Almost everyone was Black except for William Upski (Bomb the Suburbs and No More Prisons) and one other white woman I saw. There was probably a smattering of Latina and Asian inside, but I never made it past the elusive velvet rope. We, the people, were bohemian shiny- perfectly styled and twisted locks, fly boots, leather jackets, lip gloss, luminous skin. We came to analyze, criticize, schmooze, and be seen. There were also a few older women. Parents came with their young children. It is heartening to know that as different communities of Black people we will come out in the cold to learn about and discuss the rampant sexual abuse of Black women. However I did hear someone, who had just elbowed and shoved himself to the front of the line after the security guard told everyone "Sorry, no more seats. Clear the lobby area.", say, "I'm on the list." That was a little much. The intellectual hiphop glitterati now have guest lists for when they're appearing at a library near you. It doesn't matter the venue, as long as we're important somewhere, be it your local library, club or bodega. Enough with the hate. I'm just disappointed that I didn't make it through because I really wanted to hear what Black Men In Support of the Film "No!" had to say. Some of the speakers were St. CLair Bourne, filmmaker, Marcus Reeves, writer and publisher of Romarc Media, Michael Eric Dyson, professor, and a host of others. I didn't see any Black women slated to speak, but again who knows what happened on the other side of the velvet rope.

2003-03-07T13:35:00.000-08:00

First off, because this site is extremely rustic people who read it and would like to post comments, cannot. I'm working on something more tech palatable but in the meantime join me in a little web improv. I have an email address that you can send comments/questions/suggestions/hatemail, lovemail et al. It is bklynvintage@yahoo.com.

How about that Laura Ingraham? Her name, her face, her television show on cnn conjures bile. The literary world bestowed upon her a book deal and now ruining our pleasure of perusing book titles is her book, The Hillary Trap. Who are these conservative nutjobs? And why do they smile so brightly? Just because the answers to these questions are commonly known doesn't mean I can't be incredulous. The biological properties that brought Laura Ingraham into conception and propelled her from a fetus into a wacked adult demand rigorous examination. This would probably mean quarantining her parents. But really, would we miss them? Look at what they spawned. Criminal negligence if you ask me. Ingraham's book razor slices Hillary Clinton's cloyingly "liberal" politics. Oh that Hillary and her village raising up all the children. Did she come up with that all on her own or do I smell something, God forbid, African in the senate? I remember Hillary during her campaign, rocking from side to side, along side the multitudes of church choirs she visited, learning the words with verve to all those old Negro spirituals she could never decipher while listening to her maids when she was growing up. Since her election has she fought tooth and nail for those church choirs and their family members who possibly have little access to adequate money, healthcare, fulfilling jobs, as our anointed senator? And believe me, Black folks anointed that chick, laid their hands across mama, making her Black Queen Supreme. She was Cicely Tyson to Bill Clinton's Miles Davis. So what is this "Hillary Trap" that Laura Ingraham rages will decimate her nation's moral fiber if the people don't BEWARE! Why can't rich white women with opportunistic politics just get along?

2003-03-07T11:27:00.000-08:00

Do not continue to read if you disagree with the upcoming statements. They will only serve to agitate and accelerate your heartrate and I don't want no one emailing me about their pressure.

Toni Cade Bambara mandated, and Kazembe Bulagoon recently echoed, "we must rescue the planet from the psychopaths." Indeed, my dears, all people are in grave trouble. There is a doctor named David Hager who believes women can win the war against PMS by praying. This man is not a random ranting lunatic. He is a ranting lunatic who also has a position on George W's Reproductive Health Advisory Committee at the FDA, according to Richard Goldstein in this week's Village Voice article, Stealth Misogyny. He will not discuss contraception with his female patients. Do you think he discusses it with his male patients? What if an anonymous insurgent located Mr. Hager alone and held him up at gunpoint? Assuming that our anonymous insurgent is Black Mr. Hager would probably give up his wallet instantly without pause or protest. Ah, that Mr. Hager and his cloistered colonized thought process, underestimates our anonymous insurgent, that for the purposes of this particular "what if" we assume is Black. Indeed, the insurgent wants something, but she/he works in between just and necessary assignments. No need for Mr. Hager's cheddar. No what the insurgent wants are some medical instructions. 'Cuz, you see, the insurgent has a partna and the partna's job is to cauterize Dr. Hager's penis. After said job is completed the white house administration en masse can pray for their beloved health official's desecrated dingaling.

2003-03-07T11:25:00.000-08:00

On the cover of this week's New York Magazine is a small picture of essayist and poet, Lucy Grealy. She wrote a wonderfully sensitive, moving, and witty memoir titled "Autobiography of a Face" It is her story of being diagnosed with cancer when she was 9. The cancer resulted in her lower jaw being removed. For the rest of her life, until her very recent death, she would undergo painfully brutal surgeries that promised physical wholeness and acceptance but only left her wanting after each surgery eventually failed. Most of her body's bones were carved, shifted and melded into her jaw in hopes of providing it with a solid structure. Always after unbearable hospital stays, a series of drugs, and dreams of prettiniess disintegrating, her face, too would dissolve. Her memoir is written in searingly beautiful and smart prose. She describes the vicious name calling she endured as well as the isolation of hospital wards and endless recovery periods all cushioned by addictive painkillers. She immersed herself in books and writing poetry to assuage her pain and layer it with beauty. She insisted on remaining in unhealthy relationships for their meager offerings of romantic love and connection. Sex and a heady social life covered, tenuously like a soft scab, a fierce and unfulfilled desire for intimacy and companionship. Still, despite the huge wound lonliness opened, Lucy's magnetic personality and brilliance attracted many women and men who wanted to be counted among the chosen in her life. Beyond the pages of her debut triumph, her second book, a
collection of essays called "As Seen on T.V." was not favorably received. Her money was gone, she agreed to more surgeries craving peace from pain, swelling, scarring- physical difference. Lucy's death breaks my heart. I read Autobiography of a face twice. The second time I had forgotten how much of it I'd highlighted in bright yellow wanting to remember her passages of humor and universal truths circumscribed by the tyrannical threat of women never knowing love based on their physical appearance. She was human. And she did more than her best, exhausting every resource of herself until she called on her friends and followers to sustain themselves in the rich texture of her poetry and memories to share and retell. Please, forgive any awkward sentence structures and grammatical errors. I just had to write about this woman's powerful struggle that in the end was too overwhelmingly painful to continue.