The Dreamsicle Ruminations

I loved Creamsicles, not to be confused with Dreamsicles. Personally, I can swing either way. One has ice creme and the other has ice milk over a orange sherbert shell. I was reading a health magazine and pointing out to a friend that "You know, no matter what you do you are gonna die."

His response was" You have the power to determine if you die sooner or later." And barring mad men and accidents that is true.

For the record, I am not advocating eating crap foods all day and all night. Veggies are essential. Water. Cut back on the sugar in all form. Be thoughtful in meat consumption.

You can plan for tasty and health. You can have Creamsicles without the yutz. This is Erika from a Little Insanity.





But really, we are gonna die. Before I go I will have another Creamsicle or a slice of Cherry pie.

I'm not proud but I'm ain't stupid either. The point of life is to live it.

How did I come to such a decision?

I met a woman who knew she was going to die. I spent some time with her teaching her to use the Internet. Often when I visited she would have a container of Ambrosia near her bed.

One day I read the ingredients, it was filled with sugar, artificial sweeteners, gunk and imitation marshmallows.

In my head I'm thinking "This mess will kill her."

In actuality, it was one of the few foods that she could eat without bring it back up. The woman did die but not from the pseudo Ambrosia.

Still, I'd be willing to list it as a minor contributing factor.

On a hot day with the sun beating down and life if good I see nothing wrong with my tongue and lips wrapped around the popsicle of my choice. Now some days that will be a 100% fruit ice bar. Or it could be shaved ice with some flavor on it.

One day I hope I could be that person that can take eat an olive and be completely satisfied. Behold, it would be enough and I would be in a state of grace.

Except that I am not that person and will never be that person. Ice on the tongue. The smile of lemon blossoms in the air. The patterns of clouds in the sky. Sucking on some sherbert.

Maybe it is how and what we decide to consume. I will give it more thought.

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This Is My 3rd Official End of the World

I have been busting jokes about each and every End of the World (EOTW) event that I have been exposed to; mostly involuntarily. I remember the one by that radio pastor that had his sheeple sell off their worldly goods to help him give us sinners one more chance.

That was kind of cool. Not the faithful selling off their stuff and giving the money to the pastor. It was their choice but I feel bad for them.

If I remember correctly, I was at a poetry reading. I remember CalOkie getting a call from his son Mark.

The conversation went something like:

"Hello?"
"Yes, I'm still here. How about you?"
"Yeah, (laughter) ...ok, love you too. Bye."

That was a nice way to end a day. This is not to say that I take all End of the World days lightly.

On September 11, 2001 I was listening to a talk from Jack Kornfield. It was on Roy of Hollywood's show on KPFK. It was such a good relaxing talk I didn't want to hear anything else so I turned off the radio.

Around 8 a.m. I log onto the Internet and saw the Google search page with a line about a terrorist plane crash. I didn't believe it at first but I came around to it as I turned on the TV.

At that moment I thought I was in the end times. I didn't trust Bush or Chaney to do the right thing. I thought for sure bombs would be dropped and then it would be a free for all Doomsday.

I was scared. I was so scared that I didn't know it. I went to the supermarket and there was nobody there but me and one cashier. Who was pale with fright. We both were on automatic.

I've never seen a supermarket totally empty during prime shopping time. It took a long time for that fear to go away.

I've had earthquakes. Rainstorms that dang near washed cars down the street. There have been fires in the mountains. I've seen humans acting badly.

So...



Yeah. I want to celebrate the life I have with what I got left. If Spirit wants me he/she knows where to find me. I don't think I'm wanted anytime soon cuz Spirit knows I've got a lifetime of questions and clarifications I need to clear up to set my mind at ease.

Probably why I was plunked down here in the first place. Spirit needed a break from the chatter.

I want to go to an EOTW party but my co-worker reminded me that I am not as young as I seem to think I am. I can't get into a club.

"One look at that gray hair and they will see their granny, not a customer."

Dang it. She is right.  It is not that I want to go to a swinging club. I don't. Never did. But if I wanted to then my hair shouldn't keep me on the other side of the door.

It is my own fault. I keep forgetting to dye it. I'm sucking up Coconut Oil to help with the brain fuzz. I think it is working. I remember to take the spoonful but that might be cuz I like the taste of Coconuts.

There is the reality that I can't fit into micro Daisy Dukes anyway. I'd cut my hips on those sharp angles. And you can't wear panties with those skimpy skimps.

I'd have a chance at the wet t-shirt spray-off but I'm thinking I'm not supposed to have a dangling gut seeping out from under the t-shirt.

There is a spiritual dance party happening that would be more my speed but it is Santa Monica. Too far away for me.

Maybe I should forget about the community dancing and singing kind of thing.  Dancing before dying seems like a good idea but I'll hold off until I loose some weight or invest in Spanx.

Maybe next time.

It is a good thing that the so-called End of the Word is going to occur around 3:30 ish a.m. Pacific Time.

The electric blanket will be on #7. I'll wake up just long enough to check the clock and for bursts of light. Then I'm going back to sleep.

I still gotta go to work the next day.

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Long Journey From Dreamland

I've been away from my blog. I caught a wicked flu and that sucker wouldn't let me go. The concept of being sick is not easy for me. For some reason I want to do things and be productive.  This is incompatible with being sick.

This last flu had me in bed for two solid days. I had no choice but to rest and sleep. I was cooking chicken dinners for people, riding in fighter planes and my usual intergalactic adventures.

It was surreal.

I'd have these active dreams then I would wake up sneezing up a storm, coughing and what not only to fall back asleep to another adventure.

Two full days of it and it was exhausting in both realms. This is when you need a good movie to try to put the breaks the dreams but I kept falling into dreamland. There was this 1930ish movie about the future where the two lead actors were pining over wanting old fashion girls.

By the time my subconscious had wrapped itself around the movie I had taken over the planet and declared free love for all.

I'm better now. Except that once again this morning I woke up from a dream where I was serving broiled chicken on demand to friends and strangers.

I have no idea what to make of it.

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Holding On To the Crack of Doom

The nasty azz dark night of the soul does not care how you got to that dark side only that you stay and keep it company. I keep finding escape holes but I trip up and fall back in.

What helps me to stay out the pit is knowing that a lot of blogging friends and friends in real life are doing great things. I'm happy for them and want to witness and support their efforts.

For example, Lania Dawes new book "What Are You Doing Here? on black women and heavy metal is coming out in September 2012. You can check out her Facebook page.

Liz Rizzo is working on getting funding for her directorial effort Missing Miranda via Kickstarter.

Other folks are starting new jobs, new families, traveling, inventing stuff. What am I doing? Not writing a book. Not directing a film. Not speaking to fascinating people. I blog. I go to work. I fight to stay out of the dark miasma and sometimes I fail.

I'm not the bright shiny penny I once was. At 54 years of age I can be bright but it is hard to accept that people will not look at me if they perceive I am old.

I fought freaking hard to be this age. I know stuff. I've seen stuff. Yet the invisibility cloak others extend is trying to hush me up.

I keep meaning to slap in some hair dye. Not as a way to stay young but to put a fuzz filter on other people's perceptions. Haven't done it yet. I will in a couple of days. I want to spend time with a little red in the hair to see what it is like.

Redefining Success

It is getting up out of the bed. It is doing work for pay. Not because I want to do it but because I am exchanging labor for money. And security. It will not always be this way I tell myself but I haven't found my path.

Part of my path is invisible and the other is down the road a spell. It has always been like that. It has lead me to good places if I remain open.

Redefining success is not judging myself by other people. That part is hard. I know some really neat, kind and spiritually (not religiously but those people emanating a light of joy. ) successful people.

I'm honored to know them. But boy, do they make it hard to be a shlub.

Redefining success is understanding that menopause just kicked my azz and the heifer won. She snatched some of my energy and super powers. I'll get them back but I have to look for new ways to access those powers.

I had to re-learn to write in my own voice. I have to allocate time and not over book or under sleep. I can do it but not all at the same time. Freaking resent that part.

So I am indeed holding on to the crack of doom. Which might come in December. Or a long time away from now. Because if Malcolm Gladwell is right that it takes at 10,000 times to master a skill then I got a ways to go before I can declare myself as an abject failure.

In a few weeks I will introduce myself to people I don't know. They will ask what I do. I will not actually say this but I want to say I'm majoring in survival with a minor in lunacy navigation.

Not far from the truth.

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Gaby Moreno at Make Music Pasadena 2012

With the current xenophobia running rampant in this country wrapped in patriotism it is hard to make the case that we need to listen.

Think. Reason it out. It does not matter now.

Either we unite under one nation or we splinter in to a pseudo sovereign void. Not about the left or the right anymore. You can't white wash a nation. We can destroy ourselves but we can't go back.

I get tired of trying to talk to people who will not listen. And the ones that do listen are just fed up. How much more can you take in one day? You can't keep ingesting negativity.

I don't want to. Not today.



Which is why the spirits and or random DNA cells allow for music. This is just a short clip from a performer named Gaby Moreno. She was busting serious vocals at Make Music Pasadena 2012.

I was across the street at Samy's Camera getting a new memory card. I walk out the door and I hear this voice booming from half a block away.

I mosey on over to Memorial Park and there she was blending that Guatemalan voice around blues licks from some African from long ago. The ugliness, stupidity and mendacity of the world no longer mattered.

We who heard her were bound in a place of music. No ID card required. For more information about Gaby you can visit her Facebook page.

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Flipping Out on Yoga

The sun is shining bright and luscious. It is not too hot or muggy. This is my kind of perfection. The doves are cooing. The crows respond with death threats. All is right in my world.

I'm still working my way through the magazine. I  know I am in magazine land because in the table of contents they have more skinny legged young women in skirts blown with the breath of angels that cause cascading curls.

There is picture of a plate of brownies but there is a tag line about avoiding temptation. The brownies are dull, brown and unattractive.

Phflibt. I should go to Mad Magazine to look up the correct spelling.

The good news is that I am almost out the the ad copy area because there is a brown hair big ole eyed girl with caterpillars for eyelashes.  Very shiny, crystal clear peach color puffy lips.

Seriously, you can count the folds and the ridges. No cracks. No jagged bits of flesh. No teeth marks when you accidentally bite your lip.

I'm thinking her lips were shot with a Hasselblad camera. $26,000 for the cheap version and god knows how much to trick that camera into digital still perfection.  Must be a full size sensor...

Wait, this isn't about cameras. Dang it.

Moving On. 

Page 13.  Actual words that lead to stories.

Take a naked yoga class. There are naked yoga classes? I have taken yoga classes and everybody had clothes on. Even the ones that looked like their tights were spray painted on were dressed.

Not sure I'd want to do the Extended Fish pose with boobies dangling as I'm trying to balance my head and feet. And my thighs? I got dents and ridges and splotches and freckles? They move too although I wish they didn't.

And what is the etiquette when you accidentally look up and see another persons labia? 

Page 14. Men use hyperfocal thinking.  This means that their brains can only handle one task at a time.

Naw, that is not true. I've seen them eat and watch sports, eat and watch porn or eat and cuss out the guy who just cut him off in traffic. 

You just got to get their attention in between bites. No biggy.

Page 15. More caterpillars around eyes, this time laced with green sparkles.

Page 16. More women raising up their dresses to show off their shoes. They are wearing mini dresses? What is there to raise?

Page 17. The letter page. "Thank you for showing me that guys like women with make-up." Thank you for letting me know I was an orgasm virgin."  "Thank you for showing me how to dress so my date doesn't run away in horror."

I Am So Confused. 

Page 20. The survey responds that guys want to wait five dates before they have sex with a woman. Oh, hell no, somebody is lying!

This part is straight up fiction. 54% are turned on by a woman's butt. Yet none of the women displayed in the magazine have an ample fanny. Almost none of these women have bumpus in rumpus.

Words fail me. Actually, I'm still stuck on naked yoga. And the reason I am stuck on it is because I think I have a VHS tape called Naked Yoga.

I didn't buy it. I think I inherited it in a move or two many years ago.

If I remember correctly there was a mountain top, lush green lands and a man and a women doing poses starkers. This was back in the 1990s so I'm not sure if there was true nakedness or not.

The dude might have worn a diaper/thong kind of thingy. I'll get back to you.

I'm curious how they did the Downward Dog.

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Once More Into the Daylight

I really don't want to go outside. Because once I do I have to commit to facing another day. I have to go through this day in order to get to Saturday and Sunday.

I have to put on the big girl panties and deal with people, rules, conflicting rules, being held accountable by the conflicting rules and then taking a huge breath and remembering it really does not matter.

Not one bit.

I bought a magazine called Light of Consciousness. I think it is for folks that want to apply Buddhist principles in everyday life. I'm not a Buddhist but I'm willing to learn anything to help suppress my desire to beat stupid people with a wet noodle.

A wet noodle attached to a Cat-of-9 tails.

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Confirmed - I'm Not In the One Percent

The appointment was for 4:30 p.m. I get there at 4:10 p.m. and wait for about an hour or so. In the meantime I get to read a 1% magazine. I am sure that the 1% folks read this magazine because there were ads in it for jewelry that crested around the $367,000 level.

I'm not into polished rocks but I have to say there was not a cubic zirconia in the entire magazine. Fire stones and ice laced with golden circles. There was skimpy food served on porcelain . There were rich guys on private islands trying to keep the natives from encroaching on their land.

There were men in pinstripe suits so tight they couldn't pass gas. You could tell they steamed those male models to make sure not a fleck of dirt got near the cloth of the hem of that suit.

Truth be told I was focusing on the men because if you see one blonde woman wearing an evening gown on a surf board you have seen plenty.

No ads for plastic surgery or lap bands. No ads for ED. There were a lot of stories about exclusive hotels that have rooms for $2, 500+ a night.

Photographically the place looked magical. Until it got to the food. If I'm paying $100 a meal there has got to be some food on the plate. I like impressionistic paintings but I just can't do impressionistic dinning.

I read that sucker from stem to stern and not only did I learn that I am not worthy of the finer things in life I am content in my undesirability to swig up on high tone white rum. Unless you are going to mix some in rum raisin ice cream or rum water ice.

See, pedestrian. I know it.

This is not to say that if my long lost Sugar Daddy, or as I would prefer it, My patron and artistic supporter, happen to show up and offered me a weekend on the island I'd refuse.

I would not.

But we'd be stopping at the market to pick up some real food before we board the flight.

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Passing Through June Gloom

June Gloom here in Los Angeles is when the mornings are really cloudy. It is cool outside. It is blah. As the day moves on it get sunny and bright. The warmth hits the body and life is good again.

But you have to pass through June Gloom.

Not only a weather condition but a reality of life. You can BS yourself into saying you want make a change or you can just up and do it.

Most folks would rather not. People change because they are in trouble and they have no choice in the matter. I am of the opinion you should not wait for life to kick your tushy in order to make it happen. Life kicks kinda hard and it is usually the same lesson I thought I learned the last time.

I know I have to put new things in place. I am ready. I've been ready but that fear monster creeps up on you. The "woulda, coulda, shoulda's" are hitting me hard now.

I am being cryptic and I don't mean to be. I would like to take different kinds of multimedia storytelling classes. That can happen; I just need to find one that I can afford and I don't need to drive to get there.

I need to clear out old unused ideas and how it use to be.  Those days are gone. What do I want to do now?

What I know is that the world I was prepped for is almost gone. Since I am planning to be around for a bunch more years what do I do? With what skills?

How many tribes will I have to hook up with that will have me? 

I'm thinking hard about it and it is still the June Gloom that envelopes me.

I know it.

I am not a patient person. I am still working on that lesson. I still am rubbing my tushy.

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You Are Still A Young Man - Idiot!

I have to straddle a line between retaliation and just let it pass. I haven't told you the story yet. There is always a story. It is not apocryphal. It is tough out there in the brick and mortar world.

I was on the train. Young man and his friend enter the car as they start talking about girls. I have dubbed him Dumbstruck and his sidekick, Goofy.

So Dumbstruck was yacking on how he could not find any chicks. It was too early and the girls were not liquored up yet.  It was around 5pm so I could kinda see his dilemma. It was all I could do not to want to hit Dumbstruck upside the head.

Goofy co-sign with an understanding head bob to Dumbstruck's assessment of the situation.

Dumbstruck then continued conversing how he could find nothing but ugly women all day long. He had a need to find pretty girls.

I'm taking a quick look. The body seemed to be between 18-20 years of age. Rail skinny. Could not detect any form of rump on his behind. It looked to be all bone and not much of that. A strong draft beer in a tea cup could knock him down the street.

He wasn't ugly but I can't seen anybody rushing to lock lips on him. You couldn't do it anyway. The main feature was his mouth. Damn thing would not stop moving unless he was coming up for air. 

Goofy had a half pound more meat on his frame but his main attraction is that he doesn't say much.

Anyway, Dumbstruck goes on and on and on until a woman ask him "where he is getting off the train?' He responds "MacArthur Park."

She gets up and moves to the far end of the car.

Normal people might have taken that as a clue but Dumbstruck starts to harp on her that if she didn't like what he had to say "she shoulda put on her earphones". He rags on her for about three minutes about his right of freedom of speech and then goes back to his subject of choice.

Girls.

There are ugly women. There are old women.There are pretty girls.

These can be divided into the ones that will talk with you, the ones that won't (forget them, he told Goofy) and the ones that will do stuff. His job, as he sees it, is to locate that female objectified possessive noun and do what he wants.

Not his fault if they are stupid. 

You know just typing this I want to smack him for all the girl children on the planet. 

I didn't trust myself. I would have smacked him on behalf of the decent guys too.

I tried tuning him out. I had my mediation music. I'm trying to go to my happy place but Dumbstruck's voice carried louder than I could safely turn up the volume on my media player.

My understanding is that he was heading home to get ready to go to a party or series of parties where he could find and "do something" with some liquored up young girl.

Goofy was down widdit widdit. Non-verbally speaking.

Now, maybe it is me. I haven't been around a young man in a long time.  It is one thing to brag about your imaginary skills with the ladies.

It is another to announce to captive train audience that you need to have the object of your desire incapacitated before you can get anywhere.

I don't think you can be that drunk to let Dumbstruck touch you let alone "do something"  but I don't know what the heck is going on with young folks now days.

Eggad, I've crossed over. 

All I know is that by the time the clowns got off the train I mentally turned in my imaginary cougar card. I was thinking about guys in the 30s or 40s but it would take 20 plus years to clean out the dreck in that kind of head. At that rate I'd be 75.

No. If they are making the current crop of young men that stupid, that selfish, hate based and penile directed then whomever wants that slab of bones can have him. And Goofy too.


As for me, I gotta find better headphones.

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Learn As If You Will Live Forever

Just learned about that quote. Once upon a time I had a fantasy about reading every book in a library. What I am saying, I still have that fantasy. Being open to new things and concepts is essential for me. I try not to let a day go by without learning something.

Anyway, I'm taking an on-line class on how to create a search engine. It is a basic introduction to a computer programing class. The students come from all over the world.

 So why would a 50+ something woman with a checkered arithmetic and math background take this class?

I'm brain starved. Learning helps keep me healthier. My day job doesn't do it for me and until I transition into something that does I need to diversify my skills.

I don't necessarily want to be a programmer but I do want to learn how to create different types of stuff that isn't being address by this current group of programmers.

I can't encourage women to take up tech if I won't step up and learn a bit for myself. I took a introductory class in the 1980s that was designed to weed out those of us that couldn't make heads or tails of the acronyms coming out of instructors mouth.

I wanted to learn but there was a techno - lingo barrier that the instructor felt we should have traverse from osmosis. Most of us got mercy C's in the class and my interest ended until the personal computer revolution.

So I take my fears and my curiosity and walk it down the hall to the frontier. I feel good about week 1 but who knows what I'll feel like in week 4.

Gotta try.

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Trying to Understand Shamrock Socks in February 2012

I have no love for Valentine’s day. In this case, I mean I do not have any guy I’m going to be snuggling up to come February 14th. I am okay with that reality. At peace with the world. Tra, lah, trah, lah.

Okay, not not really.

It is Black History Month aka African American History and Heritage Month. The flag waving permissible issms are at a all time high and show no sign of dipping below the legal legal of sanity. The only grace I can take hold of is the the debates for the Republican contenders for the White House are taking the month off.

For the record, I am not associating the GOP contenders with Target.  The fact that the GOP contenders have tried to make people that look like me targets for their bile is beside the point.

And I do have one.

I was in Target. Target has black hair care products that I generally have to ride a bus three hours to get to a store that has the same stuff at a huge mark-up. I can get it $15 cheaper at Target.

Target has food, mostly processed food but the one near me has some fresh items. Target has clothes that fit potions of my body in a price range I can afford.

They have Valentine’s day stuff that is just about to go to half price. They have St. Patrick socks. Well, socks that have shamrocks on them.

I know what they don’t have. A decent affordable stand alone .mp3 player. A topic for another time. They also don’t have anything about celebrating African American History or Heritage Month. 

There are no banners. No placards. No streamers.  Not a balloon. Not fond of balloons anyway so that could be a plus.

I’m looking at those St. Patrick influenced socks and I am trying to figure out why are they putting the shamrock stuff out in February? I’m standing there internally scratching my head. 

Then it comes to me. Beer. 

On St. Patrick’s day everybody wears the green. Folks having no genealogical peeps from the island will be fixing corned beef and cabbage or at least reading about a heart healthy version in a magazine or newspaper.

There will be big parades that will be inclusive and exclusive. At least here in California. There will be beer drinking and some will even drink beer that is colored green.  Oh, and there will be green peppermint McFlurries and shamrocks on cookies.

You can sell St. Patrick’s day. 

You can’t exactly sell Black History Month. It is problematic.

If this was the 1970s you could move red, green and black socks.  It is not the 1970s anymore.  How about some “Remember the Dream” socks?  Well, perhaps not.

You could have posters in the stores with photos of historical ancestors but I’d be kinda worried which ancestor’s poster would wind up hanging in the toilet paper section.

Then you would have those folks that would complain. There is always somebody to complain but these particular people would complain that "there isn’t a White History Month so why should anybody recognize Black History Month?"

These same folks will be also be complaining through Women’s History Month, Latino/Hispano/Chicano/Mexicano Heritage Month and Asian and Pan Pacific Heritage Month. Some of those whiners will be debating again in March.

Really Not Picking on Target

We are told that everybody wants to wear the green for a day. Watch your local papers and advertising  circulars. A stereotypical green having nothing to do with living people to be sure but it is celebrated and sold with enthusiasm.

It involves food and beer and, well, that is about I know about the day.

Authentic Irish and Irish American history is fascinating, complex and is woven into the building of this nation. That isn’t what the commercial St. Patrick’s day is about but we do a strange form of let’s pretend.

Authentic African American history is fascinating, complex and is intractably woven into the building of the nation. It seems that folks would rather let the days go by.

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Layoffs and Musings on the Stoop

There are life events that are keeping me away from blogging. I don't like that because blogging has been good to me. Helps me stay on this side of sane. So many people are having troubles.

I know that other people's troubles can look worse than your own. In a way, that makes you feel better.

But there is a toxicity to sucking up too much bad stuff. Any bad stuff. What I can tell you is that a lot of my friends and acquaintances are losing their jobs.

My j.o.b. at the Salt mine is not looking that secure. It never was but there have been some rattlings that have me saying affirmations and gratitudes for what I have this day for I may not have it the next..

I'm not unemployed. I'm fine. No worries. Well yeah, but not that one as yet. 

I remember the last time I was long term unemployed. It was painful and dangerous. Nobody wants to live like a refuge in her own country but there is a point where you start to feel like you are not connected any more to normal life. Never in my life do I want to experience that again.

Never, ever, ever.

I remember that having fat assed politicians calling folks spoiled and lazy. Nothing has changed. You have people constantly questioning are you trying enough? Doing enough.

Some days that is a legitimate question because the last thing you want to do is face another day of not bringing home the prize. You have to find your way to your answer. At the same time trying to be open to good ideas and tuning out the less than helpful bromides that will be forced down your throat.

There are people who believe that you are on your own and you should just suck it up baby. No promises, guarantees or assistance.

To those people I say fuck you and I do not mean it in a pleasant, loving way either. You can have money in the bank and discretionary income one day and a fire, flood, windstorm or illness can take it all away. You are indeed sucking life up.

Yet some man or woman will stand on their faith or party line and tell the world you are a hippie, shiftless and not worth the time of day. I can hear their little minds going; "If only they could be like me so they would know how miserable they are."

If you are truly a so-called superior person you do not need to kick a person when they are down on his or her luck. You have the choice to help or not to help. There are times when you shouldn't provide assistance. 

But to kick and demean people on hard times? Nasty. And yes, your soul will rot in hell and I don't necessarily mean some distant place but in the core of your being where you know you are wrong.

I mention no names. Just saying. Let's stop making hate the unemployed a national sport.

Last night I was watching Liz Henry's tweets and retweets about Oakland and San Francisco Occupy protests that ended badly.

I couldn't watch people get beat again.

So for this Sunday what I have to offer is the one step, one breath at time thing.

Move forward a bit, breath.
Move forward a bit and look around that snatch another breath.
Repeat.

That is where I am. There are bigger things to worry about but the things that are close to home that call your name. That and Google Chrome keeps locking up on me.

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Broke Folks Eye Candy or Hold On A Little Longer

It is like having poison ivy on the back of you knee. I know that I have wailed about buying cheap stuff (Don't do it!) but there are exceptions.

Very limited exceptions. Before I prattle on check out this video from tech site, TheVerge.com, about another Android tablet from China.



When I was a teen I wanted with all of my heart a Nikon camera. I felt that I should have one because it was top of the line and my photos would be sooo much better if I had one. It would have meant that I was not as poor or broke as my reality dictated at the time.

I had to find a way to be connected to a community that I wanted to belong. One of the things that kept me going was reading photography magazines, the torn cover 25 cents versions that I could buy four for a dollar back in the day,

Photographers seem to do things like travel the world, eat strange food and do stuff. I was all for the doing of stuff.

I saved and earned money that eventually I bought a Yashica twin lens reflex that had a 35mm attachment so I could take 35mm snaps. I still have it.

I know my 21st century counterpart wants an iPad or a Galaxy Tab or something. He or she needs it for school, for work or creativity purposes.

This morning I found an Android draw/paint program called Sketchbook Mobile from Autodesk

If I had a craving for an tablet application like that and couldn't by a tablet that would make me obsessively crazy. Like I was about that Nikon.

Anyway, tablets from China and parts unknown are about to come in a bum rush for folks wallets.

Like the video said, the build quality isn't that good, the camera is wonky but sometimes broke folks that do their research before buying and understand that this is a training wheel  to the good stuff should consider buying something like this.

Because you don't want the itching to go away. I'm not saying buy just for the sake of wanting. That is not good and it waste money.

But the itching to know and explore, at any age should not be denied.

So I guess I'm saying if you have no money you can save up for the pride and joy hi-tone version. This would be preferred path

But if you truly can't afford to wait and you sniff out the best of the schlocky tablets then go for it. Get the best of the not so good and learn as much as you can.

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Not Writing The Prescriptive White People Letter

I have watched and listened as privileged white men tried to help the nation understand the problems and worth of poor black kids. If I am understanding correctly, which is impossible because I use to be a poor black kid, I am incapable of going to work, thinking long term and handling my responsibilities as an adult.

It seems I am unable of understanding my current and future situation in life. I did not know that I require intervention to help me move past my impoverished blackness of being. The fact that I had to use technology just to find out how incapacitated I am is beside the point.

I can't make this stuff up. This is Newt with his view on poor children. Excuse me, very poor children. Like poor needs a superlative.



Gene Marks article at Forbes understands the totality of the inequality but wants poor black kids to know that there is a way out via web apps, sites and technology.

I'm thinking Gene does not have a good grasp of the concept of being poor. There is no money. Food is dicey. You might not have a place to live. There are other concerns at the top of the list. Buying a computer is not one of them.

I have a mind to write a letter called "Dear White People..." I am motivated. These past two weeks have really lit me up to put pen to paper.

Hey, wouldn't such a letter be irresponsible? Would it be extremely biased based upon my limited understanding of the totality of the European American experience. Even thought that experience is pumped into my consciousness each and every day by media, literature and commerce.

Yet I feel compelled to try again.  I have a tremendous amount of anger at the embedded racism that is structured in this society. Not only is there embedded racism but if I, as a black woman dare call somebody out on it I get accused of playing some goddamn race card of victim-hood.

I have no race card. With the shit coming out of (some) white folks mouths these past three years I don't need any. Do you hear the ish coming out of mainstream political discourse? Against women, the LGBTQ communities or anybody that is not a white Christian male?

Yet I am suppose to give a calm, rational nuanced response some of the most noxious public thinking that has been romping around the country as political commentary.

Bullshit.

Hmm. Not really where I wanted to go with this. Still too much anger.

I want to write that I am a human being with inalienable rights provided to me by the Constitution of the United States and the 15th Amendment.

Naw, that don't get it either. Bunch of extreme constitutionalists want to revert back to the original constitution. They don't recognize my right to existence anyway.

I can't do it. If I can't write it responsibly, with accuracy, historical perspective, real life experiences and independent documentation to support my point of view then I should not do it.

I can't seem to write without wanting to toss in a couple dozen cuss words. That isn't good.

See, I know that such a letter would hurt people I love, care and respect. It would even hurt people I don't like. There is enough hurt in the world. I have no desire to add to it.

Still that isn't a good reason not to write a prescriptive letter to white people.

Yet people I know might might take offense that I am telling middle class white folks that they don't know how to raise their kids, that they are structurally defective as parents and I, being the 2nd cousin, twice removed from God, have got the scoop on how they could live their lives better if only they would listen to me.

The poor white folks are probably doing the same things as poor black folks, trying to take care of their families the best way they can in these days of denial. Denial being telling folks to get a job but that job has been exported oversees years ago.

Then again, if I am so all powerful knowing that I can solve the problems of millions of people perhaps my time could be better spent fixing the state or federal budget.

Or laying in the infrastruction of a national high speed rail line. Or full high speed Internet access for all, even in the most pastel sections of the country.

You know,  If could lay in that rail line by June then I wouldn't have to get in an airplane or spending time in TSA lines.

Change of plan. I need to attend to my areas of interests.

White folks will have to muddle through without my assistance.

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The Body is Weak or Very Sleepy

I have been up since 3 a.m. I don't know why. I have been ripping and roaring around downtown Los Angeles for BlogWorld 2011. I have posted videos of the participants of Vlomo2011 and like a fool I thought that I would squeeze one more hour and put mine up.

Ain't gonna happen. Lady MacBeth is going to bed.

Dig you cats later.

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Being Myself Is Hard Work

Somebody has to do it and I guess it is up to me. But the mail that gets stuffed in my mail box is disheartening.




One ad to lose weight. Another for Dish TV. Two ads for Pollo Loco. More ads for losing weight. As near as I can figure it I'm supposed to sit at home all day watching TV and not eating anything.

This is my Day 2 video for International Videobloging Posting Month aka Vlomo2011.

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My Spray Candy Experience

Hello friends and assorted relations. It has been a day. A full day. Not like yesterday because all I remember is coming home and crashing at 4:30 in the afternoon. Waking up at 2:30 a.m.the previous day might have contributed to the experience.

There is a bit of sleep desperation going on. I mean deprivation. It could be a good thing. Really. I'm taking the short cut to everything not requiring deep attention.

I apologize in advance. The reason I'm apologizing is that I watch a man doing the dishes in one of the Vlomo 2011 videos. I was about to make every water based sexual innuendo in that post and then it hit me.

Nooooo! You don't know that man. It is wrong. It isn't funny, it is tacky. This is record of participants, not your boy toy catalog.


Now mind you I was only saved by what little rational mind I have left. I can't blame that on lack of sleep but I can try.

Finding The Story

I was rushing to the store thinking I was going to buy clothing. I didn't buy clothing.

I bought food. And being a good shopper I look up at the top shelves and the bottom shelves. Eye level is for suckers. On the top shelf on a clearance rack was a bunch of spray candy.

I am here to testify, One spritz is all you need. Three or more and there will be trouble. It is a fruit juice concoction with Xylitol, Citric Acid and other stuff.

I am not hating on it. Nope. It will bring you back from the afternoon sleepies. For those of us that really can't drink Red Bull this might be the next best thing.

Unless you had a full night's sleep.

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Sleep Is But An Illusion - Pre-Vlomo 2011

Not that I am comfortable at this time. I am not. But I miss being creative. It seems that my time is being spent informing folks of stuff, which I really like to do, but I don't get to create as much as I want to.

I have been watching the Tate Shorts on iTunes. There is also a Tate YouTube channel. Those things blow me away. All kinds of artists, some pompous, so to the bone authentic. There is a wack job or two but I like them as well.

So long as I don't have to live with them.

The implied point of watching those videos is do it.

So I am going to try to do a video today and for the next 30 days. I'm not an artist. I don't necessarily make great videos. But I like doing it.

That should count for something. I'm rambling. It is the lack of sleep. But not right now cuz I gotta go to work.

I am also going to gather other folks doing the same and post them on at http://vlomo2011.tumblr.com because having a centralized place to see other people's work seems like a good idea.

Where am I?

Whoa, gotta go.

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The Edge of Night and Memories

Before blogging there were web sites and e-newsletters. I started an e-newsletter to keep my computer students and my friends up to date about software programs and the Internet. My friends at the time didn't understand what the Internet was or why I was so jazzed about it. They thought it was something like CB Radio.

I made so many mistakes back then. Spelling, typing, factual; you name it I did it. I kept plugging away at it and I got better. I learned from other people. I learned I didn't have to write a book each time I hit the keyboard.

I didn't want to make money, I just wanted to let people know what was going on and how things were changing. It was a form of self expression. There is nothing wrong with that; despite what other will say about journal writing and blogging.

I was exploring, learning, laughing and connecting with other people who had interests other than what was on the soap operas. Not that there is anything wrong with soap operas or the people that love them. No disrespect intended.

Much love to The Edge of Night



A day in September 2001 changed that. I didn't know if there would be a tomorrow. I didn't trust the Bush administration. I didn't know if the war hawks would bomb first and figure out later.

I knew that I wanted to be of service and help. So I wrote about elephants in the room, emergency preparedness and looking out for each other.

The truth of the matter was that I was alone. I could call people and e-mail folks but for many hours I was by  myself.

It was my edge of night in that I could be scared but if I was going out I wanted to do something positive. So, that is what I do.

There have been earthquakes, floods, fires and riots. There have been dark nights of the soul.

Lots of them.

So my memories and lessons about that time carry forward. Be of service. Keep learning. Make more contacts and friends. Limit the negative voices. Live in the day.

I still make mistakes.

It is all right.

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