Dope Penmanship

There are 6,713 words after this. Words that may one day resemble a book.

The piano girl on 114th loved to play her black and ivory. Ivory keys on black bought by her father. Her father who’s never there. Everyday, she practiced. Repeated. She practiced, the piano girl Kendra from 114th. Long, thick black braids down her back, she lived in a brownstone with her mom, and her mom told her the piano would get her nowhere. Her father was absent. There, but never there. He came and went, brown hat and slacks, khakis, was all she saw of him because he came and went. Drank his coffee black, came and went. Every morning before school, Kendra played her piano. Started off with Beethoven’s Ninth—placed her hands over the keys, listened, and drifted off to a place. Kendra in the morning did this until her mom yelled stop. Time to go. She was the child of the house, the piano girl Kendra from 114th who’s 14.

Just keep trying and trying
It’s just a matter of timing
Though the grinding is tiring
Don’t let ‘em stop you from smiling
Just keep trying and trying
Sooner or later you’ll find it
It’s surprising how inspiring
It is to see you shining
Cause in the dark of the night you’re all i can see
and you sure look like a star to me

“In the middle of all this gossip and speculation that permeates peoples’ lives, I still think they know the difference between real news and bullshit. And they’re glad that someone cares enough to get things on the record and print the truth.” -Russell Crowe’s character in State of Play

Check out my guest blog for Aliya S. King. I like to rewrite so I wrote about rewriting…

The Constant Gardener

I’m an obsessive rewriter. Some writers can sit at their computers and pump out a story in one sitting. I can’t. Correction: I’m able to. But I prefer a few days or weeks to work on a lengthy piece.

The first draft is never the best in my eyes, especially if it’s a long story. The more you can revise a story, the better.

When I get to the point where I say: “I HATE this story!” that’s when I know I’m nearly done rewriting. Nearly. I realize that doesn’t work for everyone. But I enjoy the process. More…

The Lucid Dreamer: Part 1

He was ugly, and he was short, and so she knew that this was not one of her lucid dreaming sessions. He cocked his head, arms stttretched to hold the top bar on the subway. She exited and he followed.
“Excuse me!”
She hastened her steps.
“Hey girl!”
She turned around. “I’m not a g—“
He was holding up something of hers, wearing a smirk, and he scoffed. “You left your scarf.”
“—irl.”
She grabbed it, face softened. “S-sorry. Thanks.”
She turned to leave. He grabbed her arm. She looked disgusted. “Um, ’scuse me?”
“You’re beautiful…”

“You’re beautiful,” said Jaleel. “But you could lose a few pounds.”
She turned toward him in her queen-sized bed with pink satin sheets in her huge penthouse. Her waist length hair moved with her head. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just sayin’. You should do some yoga. Or something. We can do it together.”
He said the last word louder. TOGETHER. He was buff. She could never resist him. But not in this regard.
“No thanks, J.”
She awoke in her own bed back in Hell’s Kitchen.
Ugh. Lynn did say I’d be able to do this at home now. But this isn’t what I signed up for…

“But I’m supposed to control everything, right?”
“Yes, January. In time. Some things won’t be exactly as you like. But in time, you’ll learn to control—
“Stop telling me that!”
“Sorry January. It’s protocol.”
“Protocol, huh? He should tell me I’m beautiful, not beautiful, but!”
She grabbed her coat and left the office, slamming the door, rattling the framed certificates on either side.
She was on the train again, sitting alone. Mr. Scarf entered her car. He looked at her, recognized, approached, sat, smiled.

“You again?” She groaned.
He cocked his head to the right. “You’re beautiful.”
“Again??”
Her face registered confusion.
Just then, his face started changing, distorted at first, and then…changing. She closed her eyes and then opened them and then closed them and opened them, shocked. Now he looked just like Jaleel. Just like…
But… h-how? Am I lucid?
He extended an arm.
No, this is real.
“Hi,” he said. “Jaleel.”

Sometimes you know there aren’t words. just emotions and memories

Michael Jackson, 1958-2009

The beans were rotten. So I had to take them out. I’d left the bowl of black beans in the fridge sitting for about a week, too busy, or rather lazy, to pay them much mind. They’re called black beans but they’re really brown. I had left my apartment earlier in the day and when I returned, finally smelled them—and I know this is bad—I knew this was bad so I took the bowl out and lifted the lid. Pungent. A white layer of film atop the beans coated them and made them unrecognizable. I held my breath and threw them into a plastic bag. And into another plastic bag. And into a shopping bag. And another shopping bag. I put the bowl in the sink, soaked it in Joy. I grabbed my keys and left to take the bags outside to the garbage.
On the way to the trash hub at the side of the building, I saw a woman standing in front of the center garden. She looked Middle Eastern, was generously clothed despite the 70-plus degrees, in her 30s probably, petite with shoulder length jet black hair. Looked like she was waiting for someone. I passed her and I looked at her with no smile. Indifference is a New Yorker’s best defense and never smile at strangers. The black beans where they belonged, I headed back to the building. I passed her again.
“Nice shoes.”
She had an accent. I turned around.
“Oh thanks.” Smile. They’re black gladiator sandals I got for free through a Steve Madden hook-up; been getting lots of compliments.
I said thanks and turned back around, keys in hand. Got work to do.
“Do you live in the building?”
I turned back. “Yeah.” I switched to friendly mode, all smiles and nods, eyes squinting in the sun.
“What apartment? I’m in 8A*.”
“2C,” I said.
“I’m in 8A.”
We exchanged names.
“You should come to the apartment,” she said. “If you want to. You know, people in this building… There’s not really many friendships. People don’t speak.”
I stared at her. “Yeah, I know…”
“Do you live by yourself?” she continued.
“Yeah, studio.”
“I live alone,” she said. “In my apartment. Studio.”
“Me too.”
“I used to live with my husband but we got divorced.”
“How long have you been—”
“11 years,” she said.
The divorce, she meant. I meant living in the apartment, but that’s what she wanted to tell me.
“Oh. Ok, I’ll drop by.”
“If you want to,” she said, neither prying nor overly eager. Just wanted to talk. “I’m there any day, night, I’m there. If you want to. Today my mother is coming.”
She looked off to the side.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Bangladesh. I was studying fashion design but…” I don’t remember what she said. She extended another offer. “You should come to the apartment. If you want.”
“Yeah I’ll come.”
“If you want to…”
“I will.”

Here’s that Mary J. Blige song from the Precious trailer. “Destiny” from No More Drama…not only the soundtrack to our lives but also to movies

Download

A coworker sent me the trailer to this movie Precious, out Nov. 6, and it looks nothing short of AMAZING. It’s a Tyler Perry and Oprah Winfrey production based on the novel Push, by Sapphire. I heard about how great the movie was when it premiered at Sundance in January, but the trailer…The “Nobody loves me”… The one-on-one scene between the lead actress Gabourey Sidibe (Precious) and Paula Patton is powerful stuff. I hope I see this girl on the cover of something. It’d be so inspiring.

p.s. I’m gonna need to find that Mary J. Blige song playing in the background… and it goes without saying that I’ll be reading the book, which was the talk of my high school but which I never got around to

Here’s a review I wrote for TheRoot.com on Ciara’s new album, Fantasy Ride.

Where Does Ciara Fit In?

Ciara can wear the hell out of some Louboutin pumps and YSL booties. She could possibly rock a Glad trash bag. Her pop-star façade, on the other hand, is ill-fitting. R&B singers tend to come wrapped in a nice, predefined persona— for better or worse—but Ciara’s was always vague and undefined.

She wasn’t a Bohemian earth girl like Badu, a dashing pop diva like Beyoncé or a sultry seductress like Janet. Instead, she introduced herself as an innocent Aaliyah-ish chick who wouldn’t dare give up her goodies. She’s one of the ones who can dance really, really well. More…

I was in a failing relationship, just went through something that morning, got on the train, played this song, buried my head in my lap and cried these exact sentiments. Brandy never had a great voice and I always thought “The Boy Is Mine” really highlighted the distinct difference between her and Monica’s more trained vocals (her albums I also adored. it’s a ’90s thing) but I did love Brandy’s songs and Afrodisiac is one of my favorite R&B albums ever, crucial to my life

Don’t know why I can’t find this video on YouTube

“Almost Doesn’t Count”

I can’t keep on lovin’ you
One foot outside the door
I hear a funny hesitation
Of a heart that’s never really sure
Can’t keep on tryin’
If you’re looking for more
Than all that I could give you
Than what you came here for

Gonna find me somebody
Not afraid to let go
Want a no doubt be there kinda man
You came real close
But everytime you built me up
You only let me down
And everybody knows
Almost doesn’t count

Maybe you’ll be sorry
Maybe you’ll be cold
Maybe you’ll come runnin’ back, babe
From the cruel cruel world
Almost convinced me
You’re gonna stick around
But everybody knows
Almost doesn’t count

So maybe I’ll be here
Maybe I’ll see you around
That’s the way it goes
Almost doesn’t count