the countdown begins...

i didn’t know what my “new and fulfilling experience” would be for november (not eat myself into a stupor at thanksgiving, for a change?) and i’m still not 100% committed to any one thing but something sparked me today and if i’m still thinking about it tonight at midnight when november 1st offically begins, i may register and go for it.

it’s called national novel writing month (http://www.nanowrimo.com). every year in the month of november, they crank into this “contest”: thirty days to write a 50,000 word novel. that’s something like 1,660 words a day, more or less. i figure, why not? it doesn’t have to be any good. no one is judging it. they just want you to finish it.

what do you get besides bragging rights? your name in their winners circle and a certificate that’s probably suitable for framing. but i don’t care about any of that. the thing is, i’ve always wanted to write a book. maybe this is my chance to get my idea out of my head and onto some paper, in some form of yes-i-finished-it completeness…

See more progress on: enjoy Fall 2007 by having one new and fulfilling experience in October, November, and December

All Hallows Eve in the Big City

when i moved to new york city, i was as green as spring corn.

to protect me, my brothers would arbitrarily spew weird bits of flotsam about how to conduct myself in the city, for safety's sake. i distinctly recall promising them a thousand times over that i would never leave our harlem apartment on three particular nights -- new year's eve, the fourth of july, and halloween. and although i said it so they'd stop hassling me about it, in time i realized that staying home on those nights was a very smart thing to do. oh, sure -- there were moments when some friend would invite me downtown to some party or something. i almost always regretted it, though. i'd rather be at home watching a marathon of movies or tv shows or documentaries about ghosts or whatever.

when halloween falls on a weekend, it's especially hellish. this year, i got a reprieve. sort of.

on my end of the ghetto, children dress up and stay in the buildings that they live in and roam the hallways, knocking on doors and screaming. they are adorable. one year, i forgot that it was halloween and when i heard a knock, i threw the door open and all these little munchkins were all dressed up and staring at me. hard. i had to tell them that i had a gig and i forgot it was halloween. in spanish. (they probably thought i was a witch. or an idiot. or both.)

and then of course, there was the year that everyone got a kinderegg (my favorite!) because my german friend joe sent a box of them from berlin. i went a little overboard with that one, but after that no candy debacle, i had to redeem myself somehow.

(actually, my favorite chocolates are richart. but i digress.)

this year, my friend and i are going to get all american candy that he likes so he can enjoy munching on whatever we don't give away. fun.

halloween falls on a wednesday this year, so there was a lot of costumed revelry to wade through last weekend. all of it was tacky, racist and stupid. remarkably, i didn't see any children parading around. evidently, the stats say that this has definitely turned into an adult party event all the way across the board, with an anticipated $5 billion in revenue this year ($2.2 billion of that is candy, folks) and right behind the superbowl and new year's eve in popularity. why?

i always thought that the costume was a reflection of the inner self. after this weekend, i think everybody ran through the back end of ricky's when they realized they couldn't get into the party they were invited to without a costume and grabbed whatever wasn't too picked over.
white girls in their street clothes wearing afro wigs with fake gold teeth and talkin' "jive" -- that's like having a sign on your back that says please bitchslap me. and that goes double for the mexican costume that has you on a donkey, like juan valdez. seriously.



this is called "funny mexican costume". too bad they didn't have any drunken white girl/boy outfits. what do you think those look like? then again, my friend says that one year when he was bartending at the slipper room, he dressed up as a preppy drunken frat boy with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, so i guess you can always d.i.y.

if anyone asks me where my costume is, i'm going to point at my clothes and say, this is it. and i'm going to mean it. (you should dress up like a kitty, my friend says. maybe i'll get some ears and surprise him.)

can you imagine running around looking like a "funny mexican" in spanish harlem? they're not that stupid. they save it for the neighborhoods they feel safe in. like chelsea. and times square. and the upper west side. and to be totally honest with you, this reminds me of when i was an undergrad at UT (Austin) and i lived in west campus. i was literally surrounded by greek houses and jillions of well-manicured and priveleged frat boys and sorority girls. it seemed like every weekend, they were having keggers and getting dressed up for some racist theme party or another. many is the day when i would wake up on a saturday and walk through the neighborhood to see frat boys curled up on somebody's lawns, wearing a sombrero or an afro or God knows what all, with those freaking crappy docksiders on, and covered in a moist blanket of their own vomit.

Lord. would someone please tell me what's so great about those stupid boating shoes?

don't get me wrong. i like halloween (when i can remember it). i just don't like being surrounded by white people who dress up and behave like racial stereotypes because they think it's a fun thing to do.

it's so much easier to stay home.

if this doesn't sum it up, i don't know what does

this is a spoof of monster.com's "when i grow up, i want to be a..." campaign that was used at the ADDYs last year/some time ago/i don't know when. since then, no one wants anyone to see it, because it's funny and cynical and blisteringly true -- so of course that means it's gone viral and everyone is seeing it online.

i work at an ad agency and it's a little wierd how dead on this stuff is.

kismet?

i’ve always been able to write. i get an idea and words spill out of me like running water. i wonder what it would be like to have writer’s block?

once upon a time, i used that skill to create one person shows for myself as a solo performer. writing screenplays seemed possible but farfetched, somehow. my friend carrie used to encourage me an awful lot. i’d write things and we’d bat them back and forth and dissect them. but all of it ended up percolating in the back of my mind after she passed away, and time marched on like it always does.

while cleaning out my apartment, i found a script that i wrote for a screenwriting class i took at the new school in the early 90s, to finish my BA degree. it was a treatment and less than 10 pages of dialogue—but the teacher wrote encouraging words all over it, and i remember my initial intent and what i wanted to say and why, and i got excited all over again.

what’s the worst that would happen if i got that extra special fancy screenwriting software and simply finished it?

that’s what my friend carrie would ask me if she were here, by the way. she would say, why don’t you finish it for fun? and my answer would have to be why not? i really don’t have a reason not to – she and i both know that. it’s all about time and effort and that doesn’t cost money.

what a cool way to encourage someone – especially me, the world’s biggest procrastinator.

God, i miss her.

See more progress on: write a screenplay

A story about "Elizabeth: The Golden Age"

Elizabeth: The Golden Age

joined the director’s guild this year. figured i’m in s.a.g. i’m a blackgrrl on a budget. i may as well get as much bang for my buck as i possibly can. i’m doing the math, so i figure with the price of a ticket hovering somewhere around $11.50 or so in the city these days, i’ve got to see every movie they’re showing this year with my friend to make it worth my while. i couldn’t sit through 2 1/2 hours of “into the wild”—i’m sure it’s glorious—but i did see the latest richard gere flick, whose name escapes me.

my friend knows the drill. we show up, we stand in line, we get in, we grab good seats, if we can. no smoking, no food, no drink. seriously, not even water or gum. it’s worth it, to see first run movies before anyone else does.

enter “elizabeth: the golden age” with surprise! everybody’s favorite british manly man clive owen as sir walter raleigh. i got so lost in how lush this movie is, how it told the story visually, how the costumes were so overwhelmingly beautiful at times, how the lighting set the mood at every turn. every frame, so sumptuous and bursting with the feel of it all. just beautiful.

that being said—elizabeth herself is flawed and human and alive, so full of fear and intelligence and beauty that it took my breath away. the first “elizabeth” made blanchett a star. this one will probably get her an Oscar. she gave a great performance and totally commanded the screen in all the right ways.

i can’t say wonderful things for the storyline, which wasn’t meaty enough for me but it told the story that it wanted to tell, so i went with it. it didn’t get into the specifics, just the historical highlights as we glimpsed some personal moments. it was worth it, to see blanchett’s performance, to see those costumes, the whole set up. hey—this is what i do. this is the business i’m in. i have to see these movies.

lovely, lovely turn for samantha morton as the queen of scots. her tenderness in the end at her beheading was sweetness and light.

See more about Elizabeth: The Golden Age

i did it!

as i was leaving my building with my 21 speed mountain bike this morning, i stopped to say hello to the lady in the window, this older dominican woman that i’m friendly with. she's there all the time, cooking or chatting on the phone or babysitting or something. i was wearing this bike helmet that makes me look like a ritalin kid and i thought she was going to say something about it but instead, after exchanging social pleasantries, she looked me up and down and, with her hand propping her head up as though she were weary, she smiled a little and said, “you fat.” she said it in a real laconic matter of fact way, in this low dull voice, with this heavy accent and this wierd inflection that happens so often with people who don’t speak english as a first language. they stress all the wrong things, thus illuminating whatever they’re saying in this whole other way.

she sounded like she was telling me that i was made of blubber.

i know that black girls and dominican girls are bigger. i know she’s used to a bigger girl. but she’s known me for years. she knows what i’m supposed to look like. i know i don’t look that bad, i’m not that far off. but if the weight gain is noticeable enough to warrant a statement of the obvious from her, then i definitely need to do whatever i have to do to lose it.

talk about motivation.

we rode from my place on 137th and riverside into the park and headed to the little red lighthouse and then we found our way across the george washington bridge. the view was nothing short of spectacular. once we reached the jersey side, we veered onto river road which was harrowing and dangerous and a total freak-out roller coaster ride straight down, at first. somewhere in there i almost got hit by a bus and my friend flat out pulled us over and suggested that we go back. remembering the downhil ride and thinking of the uphill return, i adamantly refused. we forged ahead to the ferry, which let us out at 39th street on the west side for $7 (plus one buck for the bike). “what a rip-off,” my friend said, half-laughing. he was right. we should have gone down to hoboken and taken the path for $2. but in the midst of the heat and all that traffic, the bottom of the island was a million miles away.

the next thing i knew, we were on our way up the west side highway to the cafe at the 77th St. pier, where we shared a cheeseburger and fries and took in our little trip. we made it home from there in less than a half hour. and just like that, it was over. the lady in the window was right where i left her. was i still fat? well, sure. but at least i did something about it.

by my mapmyrun.com guesstimations, we only did about 15 miles. it felt like 30! if i rode my bike to work, i'd do 12 miles round-trip everyday. wow. that would be 60 miles a week. now that would burn some calories!

okay, maybe this challenge was a little too easy. sure was fun, though. how about i go for that pesky learner’s permit? it’s high time i learned how to drive.

See more progress on: enjoy Fall 2007 by having one new and fulfilling experience in October, November, and December

and so it begins

this isn't the part where i whine about how hard it is to get my body together. i'm tired of whining. this is the part where i tell you that i got so sick of myself, i'm actually doing something about it. the pressure's on: pilot season is coming on strong, i need new headshots and postcards, and the season is changing so there's a whole other set of clothes that i can't fit in. and i'm too cheap to buy larger things. i'd rather lose weight and get right back into what i've got.

oh, sure. i was doing something about it before every so often. now i'm doing something about it every day. i've chucked my gym membership with the place in the nearby park and joined NYSC, which has locations everywhere (even 24 hour gyms), so its way too convenient.

i went out the other night and had a boxing lesson after a fairly severe upper body workout. it had me limping for days. on my way home that night, i felt my body buzzing. i remembered when i lived in that SRO on the upper west side and how once upon a time, my body felt that buzzy way on a regular basis. i was at my physical best when i was a member of that gym. i ate right and i pushed my body a little more everyday and in return, it never betrayed me with illness or major surgery or minor breakdowns, or any of the other things that seemed to plague everyone else. in my time in the city, i've had that buzz for the most part. but now i've lost it for all the usual reasons and i want it back badly enough to work out every morning to get it.

nothing comes without sacrifice and discipline.

the hard part isn't getting there. the hard part is maintaining it. the boxing is hard on me but it's fun, i have to admit. evidently, i'm a pugilist at heart. after the first lesson, i went home and soaked in the tub for as long as i could. the all over ache was relentless. too bad my friend can't come with me. on saturdays, we ride our bikes for 10 or 15 miles or more. tomorrow, we're going to ride across the george washington bridge and explore new jersey.

to tell you the truth, i go through this "get in shape" thing every other season. and so it begins -- deja vu all over again. if i were rich and famous, this wouldn't be any easier. i'd still have to put one foot in front of the other and do the work. it gives me some small comfort to know that gwen stefani struggles with her weight, and every day is a fight to keep it off.

fat: the great equalizer.

how was the gig?

friday's gig at the upsouth festival at the gatehouse was stellar. there is video and audio, too. it's going to take me a minute to get that together. until then, read all about what happened here.

all of us, dressed in black

i got an email from stephen this afternoon, telling me that black folk all over the country are going to wear black tomorrow. (needless to say, i've got just the dress.) there is to be a march and a rally in jena, louisana -- and the organizers asked that everyone who couldn't attend dress in this way, as a show of solidarity for the jena six.

every black anybody that i contacted already knew all about it. unbelievable, the way forwarding email amongst us nowadays is basically like beating the african drum to pass along pertinent information. its moments like this one when i can't help but think that, in spite of what the media says -- and in spite of what we tell ourselves -- we really are much stronger and more unified than we seem to be able to grasp.

okay, i have to say it: all these bling-bling african-american millionaire knuckleheads out here on shows like mtv cribs bragging about their solid gold toilets and the swans in their expansive backyard ponds and all the tacky crap in their 50 room mansion and whatnot -- and who steps up with a $10,000 donation for the defense fund? david freakin' bowie. what's sad is that his gesture is probably all that most people know about what's happened.

i'm sure that a lot of people think that it's business as usual in the south -- like racism lives down there and no place else. sean bell would disagree, if he could. so would yusef hawkins. and amadou diallo. one would think that in these media saturated times, we'd be hearing all about the jena six. believe me, the world is watching -- and reporting -- even if most americans don't know anything about it yet.

no one will ever be able to convince me that there aren't two countries called america: one for white people and another for everybody else. we can drink from the same water fountain, we can use the same public toilets, but we can't get the same level of justice. now, that's progress.

well. if you want to protest tomorrow, here's a few suggestions:

1. wear black. because absolutely everyone should.
   
2. register to vote -- and then when the next election rolls around, get out of the house and do it, no matter what.
   
3. sign the petition to the louisana governor
4. sign the petition to the justice department
5. call your congressperson. seriously, ring their phone all the way off the hook -- because this whole situation is nuts, and no one with any real degree of authority seems to care.
6. better yet, email them.
   
7. make a donation, if you've got it like that.
8. and last but not least, mychal bell has been in jail for no reason since 2006, so if you've got the time (and an SASE), write him a letter
   

and if you want to know what the deal is, this video pretty much sums it up.

the next gig

here's the invite for the next gig this friday at harlem stage/the gatehouse. i wanted it to look modern, yet vaguely edwardian. my friend made it for me.

i'm really looking forward to this. the upsouth international book festival is a beautiful thing. it's happening all week. it's not just words -- it's all kinds of live performances. dance. performance art. music. it's in a great space, too. what's especially sweet is that they've dedicated the entire festival to sekou sundiata. his name will also remain on the program as a speaker.

i'm the only music on friday night. i'm hoping for a strong performance on video.




unfortunately, the phone number in the flyer is wrong. bizarrely enough, i got it off the web. if you want to come, you have to call 212 281 9240 x 19 or x 20.

...the plot thickens...

Torture victim may have visited before
Neighbor on Big Creek says woman asked for help last month

By Gary Harki Staff writer
By Andrew Clevenger Staff writer

BIG CREEK — When Megan Williams was kept against her will in a shed beside a Logan County mobile home, it may not have been her first time at the residence.

Police say Williams, 20, was tortured, raped and beaten by a group of people for about a week. The group was led by Frankie Lee Brewster, who lived in the trailer, and her son, Bobby Ray Brewster, according to police. Six people have been charged in the case, and more may be arrested.

(here's the kicker: she said she was dating one of them. for the rest of the story, click here.)

It Happened In Big Creek, West Virginia

This is the kind of news that explodes in the black community and no one else in the world seems to know about it. I certainly didn't wake up the day after I read this in the Amsterdam News and hear any of it mentioned on The View. So -- if you haven't heard about what happened in Big Creek, West Virginia earlier this month, you might want to read this. Be warned: the article is fairly graphic.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

6 arrested, charged in woman's weeklong torture
Authorities believe racism played role in ordeal

By Gary Harki
Staff writer

Carmen Williams doesn’t understand why her 20-year-old daughter was tortured, raped and tied up in a shed.

Police tell her that what happened was probably a hate crime, that it happened because Megan Williams is black.

“Every time they stabbed her, they called her ‘nigger,’” her mother said.

But whatever the reason, Carmen Williams wants people to know what happened to her daughter. She agreed to talk to a reporter from her daughter’s room at Charleston Area Medical Center General Hospital.

She said a man and a woman — who Megan Williams thought were her friends — took her to the house of Frankie Lee Brewster in Pecks Mill, Logan County.

Megan Williams was held in the house for about a week, police said.

According to criminal complaints filed against six people in this case, she was beaten, stabbed, choked, sexually assaulted and threatened with death.

The details are even more horrible. According to the complaints, she was forced to eat dog and rat feces and to lick up blood. She was made to lick parts of Brewster’s body, under the threat of death. Her hair was pulled out. She was made to drink from the toilet. She was sexually assaulted while hot water was poured on her body, and while a man held a knife to her.

A woman allegedly cut Megan Williams’ ankle and said, “That’s what we do to niggers around here.”

(If you want to read the rest, click here.)

An African safe sex ad...

This is a South African safe sex ad for kids, according to a friend to sent it to me -- though i know way too many adults who would get a good laugh out of this. I especially like the pink fringed curtain as a progressively diseased vulva in the first four panels.

Queen Esther Gets Paid

a few days ago, i got a call from ed durante, the director of the indie black black comedy jake gets paid. this was my first substantial film role to date -- although i have some blactress buddies that think my moment in that grand farce marcy x (a medium/semi-close up shot of me, in a kente cloth headwrap no less, yelling "get that bitch off the stage!" in reference to a pink chanel-suit wearing lisa kudrow) was a pretty good one. ed sounded a little giddy, as usual. he decided to have one last rough cut showing of the film before he submitted it to sundance, to get some feedback. that's got to be a crazy trajectory, drumming up support to get your film seen there. because it's not about independent film anymore. and it doesn't necessarily matter how good your film is. he had put it up for "public" consumption somewhere on nyu's campus (his alma mater) on the same night as sekou sundiata's memorial, so i figured i was destined to not see it before the rest of the world did. but here was ed's phone call. i couldn't say no.

ed pulled that shoot off in april by scheduling everything on the weekends. in retrospect, i can't believe he did it. wait a minute -- what am i saying? film is a collaborative effort. we did it -- the cast, the crew, all of us. we really did.

he said 7pm, so i'm thinking he'll click the light switch off at 6:55pm and of course when i show up at about 6:20pm or something i'm the very first person there, which is embarassing and wierd. i got to thinking, maybe i should give up on this whole "punctual" thing i've got going. it's totally working for me but not really. ed was at his rosy effervescent best -- wisecracking and wine-sipping his way through it as he rearranged furniture with his brother paris and answered the door and greeted the guests and poured the vino. there were a dozen of us or so. it was very much a listening room.

i have to say, i really liked the movie. it looks so warm and lush. and there are moments that feel immediate and familiar because of the camera angles, the rhythm in conversation and some fairly straightforward funny moments. there were moments when i wouldn't look at my face but i didn't look as fat as i thought i would, so all i could really feel was sweet relief. i didn't know that ed would bookend the movie with my songs. that was a beautiful surprise.

the first was "stand by your man" which rang out stark and weary as the main character Liza, a brunette white girl, runs out of the bedroom towards the camera completely naked in slow motion a la peckinpah (at least that's who i thought of when i saw it) with her black boyfriend jake's freshly removed condom. the next shot has her in the tub, emptying the contents of said condom into her vagina and tilting her hips upward, in an obvious effort to impregnate herself, all the while chatting casually with the boyfriend through the closed/locked door, who thinks she's simply washing up. obviously a psycho, right? there's more but i really don't want to give it away...
later when it was time to ask questions and toss up opinions, i remembered out loud an article i read somewhere about desperate modern women who say they don't want to get married or have kids but who poke tiny pinholes in their condoms and diaphrams or stop taking the pill, or whatever, to entrap whoever they're with. conception by deception. it's supposedly on the upswing in urban areas, especially new york city -- but no one had ever heard of such a thing. how cool was ed, to tap into something so topical.

he ends with the song "get it right this time" which totally worked. it was almost as though the lyrics were saying what jake was really thinking.

i remember walking to the subway and thinking, okay, i'm over the hump. i've done three national commercials, i've done a supporting role in a film. i've finally got on-camera stuff that shows that i can act. now what i need is a role on the "law and order" franchise and my transition to film/tv/commercials will be complete -- relatively speaking, naturally.

i got a callback!

yeah, that's right. i guess i look pretty good fake sleeping and snoring. who knew?

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.

wierd audition number ten zillion and two

so i went to telsey to audition for a tylenol pm commercial. i was told to not wear any makeup but of course i wore concealer. its that made up look that makes you look like you're not made up. how would they know the difference, anyway? they've never seen me without it.

of course they're running behind. of course i have someplace else to be. of course some hard-faced middle aged looking white woman told me no way could i ask someone else if i could go ahead of them because she was running late for a film audition and she was ahead of me anyway, so no way could i jump line. and wow, i wasn't even talking to her. i came very close to saying, if someone else agrees to let me jump in front of them, it's none of your business. but i didn't get into that. i looked at her drawn, saggy, sullen face and i let it go.

things moved very quickly after that but i wasn't sure why. everyone went in and out, in and out. eventually, i lost track of miss saggy-faced sourpuss. she just didn't matter anymore. sharon wilkins showed up, of course -- she was auditioning for an american airlines commercial a few kiosks down -- and she gave me wonderful words of support, as usual. she looked so pretty, she was glowing.

i turned to survey the room at one point and caught a glimpse of kate rigg, the comedienne/writer/performance artist. i so admire her. when i introduced myself, she blurted, you're my friend on myspace! i thought that was just adorable. she went in before me and filled me in on what i'd have to do. then she decided that the commercial we thought we'd be auditioning for probably cast the kids first, so that was probably not an option. and, she continued, she probably didn't get this one because she looks horrible when she's sleeping. i wanted to say, how would you know? you can't see yourself, you're asleep! the fact that she's pretty didn't help her argument, either. oh, well.

when i got into the room, i realized why everything was moving so fast. all i had to do was lie down on a sofa and pretend to sleep. and snore. it felt strange, faking an r.e.m. dreamlike state. i lay there, my arms across my torso just so, and tried to imagine what i'd sound like if i had to explain all of it.

sounds like the kind of stuff that only happens to me. heh.

i left thinking, whoa -- i'm not getting that one. i probably looked like i was drugged. or comatose. and that can't be what they're going for. i mean, how strong is tylenol pm?

sorry about that...

sorry i haven't been here in the past few weeks. daily living in the city makes me feel like a hamster on a habitrail. the weather seems to reflect my inner life, as of late: there are days when it has been as soggy and unseasonably cold as london-town at its abysmally gray and rainy best. when the sun is out, it feels like san francisco -- bright and crisp, like a perfect autumn day. except i'm in a backless sundress and it's august. today is no exception.

there is good news, as always, if i choose to see it: i'm getting my body back, i've written even more songs, and i'm climbing out of debt. and no, i'm not al dimieola by any far stretch of the imagination. not yet. not ever. but i'm sticking to my little guitar lessons -- and shockingly, bar chords are easier. progress always gives you something good to hold onto, no matter where it comes from.

i'm totally reconfiguring my apartment. in doing so, i'm throwing away things i've been holding onto for years. old clothes. paperwork. you name it. i'm quite the pack rat, so there's a lot of stuff. i just realized the other day that i really am grieving. i think that clearing everything out and rearranging things is one of the ways that i'm dealing with so much death. it's giving me something to wrestle with, when my mind wanders.

thankfully, there's always room for live music -- sunday night at the knitting factory's old office, marvin sewell shared the bill with jef lee johnson's trio, featuring ronny drayton. at one point, all three of them were onstage, jamming with jef lee's rythm section. that was nothing short of incredible.

sekou

well...

sorry i've been so absent. last wednesday i found out about sekou sundiata. then my play-momma passed away the next morning. later on that afternoon, there was a volcano in midtown, three blocks away. the next day, i took off with my friend for charleston, sc to be with my granny. i had to hit the ground running when i came back to the city, so i still haven't caught my breath. there is too much to think about all at once and it's still coming at me all the time.

stay tuned.