Day 6: Mouth Wide Open - Literary Open Mic, 6/8!

Looking forward to reading some fresh new flash fiction at this event on Wednesday at Jimmy's No. 43. I'm grateful that the organizers are kind enough to include me. This feels good, all this writing I'm doing -- not just songs, either. I'm revisiting essays and short stories I wrote and sifting through them all over again and that's bringing forth a slew of new ideas. They spin out of me in this effortless way and I pick them up, like seashells on a beach. I've never had writer's block, thank God.  I was and still very much am a procrastinator, which is probably why I love a deadline. Quite often, that's the thing that gets it done.

I love words. Writing came so easily to me when I was a kid, I took it for granted. The rest of my life has been running me over for so long and in every direction imaginable, that I never thought I could lean on writing, that it could be as promising or as fulfilling as performance.

Having a chill downtown literary moment will be the calm before a very busy weekend of Black Americana at Jalopy on Friday night with my beautiful band The Blue Crowns and of course singing my heart out at the Jazz Age Lawn Party on Saturday. I have to go back on Sunday to dance -- and of course try to win the pie contest..!

Maybe I'll read Chicken Lips...!

NEXT: Mouth Wide Open - Open Mic at Jimmy's No 43, 11/9!

I've been telling stories before I ever knew how storytelling was supposed to work.  Somewhere in there, a protagonist, an antagonist, a boy loses a girl and an apex comes and goes and comes again.  I fell in love with the idea of unraveling a story from the inside out, of seeing things from someone else's perspective, of getting lost in the possibilities. I couldn't help but wonder: what would happen if things went this way or she made this choice or those people didn't follow his rules.  I can let my imagination wander in any direction, in every direction, and I can shift things however I want.

It's high time I do something with all of the things I've written, so I'm applying for workshops, readings and grants for 2016.  When a friend invited me to participate in this reading at Jimmy's No 43 on November 9th, I figured, why not. Anything to get the ball rolling.

I know, I know -- they'll probably be expecting music, songs.  Either way, I'm a storyteller.  Writing is just another way to spin a yarn.

ah, graduate school

i'm going to the campus of my alma mater, the new school, for their graduate school open house today. i'm not sure what i'm looking for, exactly. i was accepted to their media studies program a few years ago, but i couldn't afford to go. they gave me a scholarship and a grant but they didn't make enough of a dent. the attendance grace period expired and i forgot about it. so what i really want is for someone to tell me how i can come up with the money to pay tuition without taking out more student loans. that's what i'm looking for -- a way in that won't have me making payments in my golden years.

why do i want to finish a master's degree program from the new school? i'm so glad you asked!

a rather wise lester bowie once told a somewhat clever kelvyn bell: "don't be in new york city for 15 and 20 years and have nothing to show for your time." although i never met mr. bowie, i clung to those words for quite awhile, and in the telling of that little antedote, kelvyn gave me a precious gift. both lester and kelvyn are musicians from st. louis, missouri. they well understood the sacrifice that happens on this whole other level when you want to live in new york city, much less accomplish anything of merit here. when you're not from new york city, you don't have the luxury of not knowing exactly what you want and how you want to go about getting it. everything around you constantly says, time is of the essence. you don't have the luxury of a home court advantage.

and yet even with the best intentions, you can spin your wheels ad nauseum and end up with nothing that's tangible to show for your time.

what mr. bowie said caught me early in my time in the city. it changed the way i thought about my art and my life in general. i became much more focused in a different way. doing it wasn't enough. i wanted results. and i got them. i went back to college, finished my BA and became a working professional. but that wasn't enough. so i started writing and creating work for myself and i haven't looked back since.

i've got a decent reel but i'm still transitioning into film/tv. i've got two music projects to finish. i'm working on another one person show. and blood wants to make another album. so as usual, i'm flying by the seat of my pants. graduate school would be another log on the fire but it wouldn't be an impossible thing to do. it's a two year program -- and anyone that's lived here for more than a month knows that time moves differently here. two years goes by in new york city in about six months. i would have a chance to study semiotics in theory and in practice. i could take an audio component and finally learn pro-tools. concentrate on screenwriting and develop some ideas. make little art films. think and grow in another direction. i'd get to explore certain theories and ideas that would make me a better rock star. basically, all of that reading and writing and free expression would augment who i am creatively in a profound way.

the thing is, their graduate degree program isn't anything that i'd have to stop the world to do. that's the beauty of it. all of the coursework is offered online, so i could do it anywhere, at any time. and i suppose i could just take class here or there but ultimately, i want something quantifiable and tangible, and that's where the degree comes in.

it feels quite sane, to fly by the seat of my pants.

that statement reminds me of a story about james "blood" ulmer. early in my time in new york city, he used to sit me down and make me tell him everything that i was doing. i can still see him in my mind's eye, sitting at his kitchen table, leaning to one side towards me, smiling at me sideways, holding my hand and listening to me tell him all about it. one day he told me that i was a harmelodic person. that's why it was so easy for me to do everything all at once. he said that people wouldn't "get" that about me, that this was a difficult thing for most to understand -- especially certain free jazz musicians, ironically enough. i told him that i didn't know enough music theory to understand harmelodics, so i didn't really know what he was talking about. i was just being myself, really. but that's just it -- you don't need theory, he laughed, you've already got it!

evidently, he was right.

sekou's big night

i wore southern funeral clothes, a circa 1950-something elegant black crepe dress with a draped bustle and matching jacket that i found in a vintage clothing store in montreal. it was soggy and miserable so i sloshed through the streets in black cowboy boots and toted my black high-heeled sunday-go-to-meeting pumps in my oversized bag. i was dizzy with grief and longing and joy, and a wierd nostalgia for the future that would never be. i was happy that they asked to sing and i was sorry that they asked me to sing. i was terrified that i would lose it onstage and burst into tears like a three year old. i could do better than that. sekou deserved much more, in tribute.

earlier that day, i called john f. and asked him to do me the huge favor of being my lovely date for the evening, because my friend had to work late. and like the true friend that he is, he said yes without hesistation. of course he knew who sekou was. he had one of his records on cassette. (wow.) i also asked him to bring me some black cloth. i wanted to look elegant and ladylike. i wanted a headwrap.

on the way there, i found myself drifting back and forth inbetween strange and loving memories of sekou. ever mindful that these things exist as i choose to remember them, i tried to be objective, anyway. still and all, there was always his calm demeanor and the smooth, unruffled sound of his voice. there was his southern countenance, the look and expression that reminded me so much of home and everything that i knew to be decent and real and good. and always, there was always the hint of a smile on his face whenever he spoke to me, a look of contented bemusement that took hold of him whenever he was near me. it was ever so slight and it was sincere and it was as bright as the sun. he liked me, he respected me but more importantly, he got me, as an artist -- in all of my urban heartland glory. no wonder it made me feel so good to be near him. no wonder i was always so happy to see him. no wonder.

i had known sekou for practically my entire time in new york city, almost as long as i'd known kelvyn bell. and although it really wasn't all that long ago, it felt like forever. was he really gone? it didn't feel like it.

so there i was, running down the street in the rain in a vintage dress and cowboy boots and that big bag of mine, my hair all over the place, headed toward the memorial at tishman hall, knowing that singing that song would be hard for me, and wondering how hard that would be.

i went backstage and i found marvin sewell, who had already transcribed the song because i cleaned my apartment and i couldn't find the sheet music. and after we went through it, i went out into the back end of the lobby from the "back stage" door where there was coffee and tea and soft drinks. i walked into kelvyn, looking shorn and vulnerable. and i cried. and he threw his arms around me and chided me, smiling. and i couldn't stop crying and crying and crying. i don't know why. it hurt so much to see him. it hurt, and it felt so good. i remember saying to him, when i finally regained the ability to speak, i said, i'm not wearing this dress to your funeral. he tried to laugh. and i tried to laugh. it felt like i was dying, or something. later, i think i told him, if anything happens to you, i'll kill you. and he said, i know. and he laughed his head off, for real on that one, probably because he knew that it was true.

there was a blur of people that i hadn't seen in a long time. lots of guitar players and musicians and actors and poets and on and on and on. ronny drayton and freddy cash and malik yoba and amiri baraka and danny glover. as i stood waiting for john f. in front of my alma mater, nona hendrix and vicki wickham rolled up in a taxi and breezed past me with a friendly hello in stereo. sure enough, john zipped up in his snap-on roller skates like a black superhero. of course his immediate remark was, what were you talking about? your hair looks great! we popped backstage where he pulled out three kinds of black fabric from his backpack -- a slippery satin, a cotton lycra and something much stiffer. i took the latter and, with much resistance from me, he cut the other piece to fit our creation with an exacto knife out of his leather bag. ("are you kidding me?" he quipped. "i can get you a bolt of this stuff for nothing.") this is the guy that made my dress when i sang at the white house, so i could look spectacular for the president and first lady. 'nuff said.

as he cut the strands of string from my headwrap with the exacto knife, i listened to the performers onstage and i started to get choked up again. it was all so overwhelming. so i told john what i was afraid of, what i felt. this is his true gift, i think -- he said the perfect thing to me, the thing that completely chilled me out and gave me all the objectivity that i needed to do my best. he said, now is not that time, to weep and moan and flip out and throw yourself onto the casket. now is the time to remember and celebrate and reflect. and pow! it was like a switch went off inside of me. just like that, the waterworks shut down completely, and i was as serene as the queen mother herself.

the rest of the night went by rather quickly, in quicktime, but slowly. there were so many beautiful moments. it was lovely to see everyone standing in the wings, clumped together because there was absolutely no room, just to watch and hear what everyone else was doing. the theater was packed and there were three or four large rooms on the fourth floor that had video simulcasting. people spilled out into the hallway to see what was going on. just standing there, peering in, looking over someone else's shoulder, laughing and clapping and carrying on as though they were in the main room.

at the end, his brother put together a video montage of his baby photos and childhood years and such. there was a video from the 70's of him onstage, going for it at some outdoor festival with a live band and these afroed back up singers. they looked like a bunch of black hippies. and of course they included clips of him from hbo's def poetry jam. i was genuinely surprised to not see ani di franco on the bill. it was so beautiful. everyone loved him so much.

oh. and about my little number...

i sang a song that sekou always wanted to hear from me -- the most popular country song ever, actually -- tammy wynette's stand by your man. (i had to find someone when i got there and tell them that it wasn't patsy cline's song because that's what they had in their speaker's notes. oh, boy.) i could tell that the audience was pretty wary of me because they had no idea who i was or what i would say and it's a country song, which isn't supposed to mix with black people, and certainly not black people who live in cities. but because sekou loved my rendition so much, they were genuinely curious as to why. before i ripped into it, i explained that i always thought the song was a black girl's anthem and i also told them that it went over massively well in the ghetto, for some strange reason -- which got a roar of applause and approval from the audience. thank God i know what to do on stage in front of an audience. i got through it with laughter instead of tears. later at the end of the song, they seemed to be just as surprised as anyone else that they themselves were singing along -- and loving it. i can't even tell you h0w many black people came up to me, smiling and shaking their heads in wonder and saying, i will never ever hear that song the same way again because of you. sekou just loved it, someone said excitedly, clapping her hands, you know he did!

mission accomplished.