trying to work it out

i am so turned around, mixed up, headspun right now.

my mother calls my lifestyle 'bohemian' - i reel. don't know what to feel. how to explain this intense place called growing. coming to some knowing. some sense of direction. through exploration and reflection.

over the past year my close friend has found me 'heavy' then 'lighter' now 'restless'

over the past year i am bless to have been immersed in community arts as a result of an opportunity to manage a space (no quickbooks, no incorporation, no personal income) that has truly enriched my everyday experience, connected me to artists i respect, exposed the hustle of grants and independent artistry in a busy gritty money mongering tdot city and allowed me to develop myself as an artists first a writer writing to publish now a writer writing to perform, to paint, to make muzak and installations and yes, publish. but also to heal, to share and to learn.

i have learned i can facilitate a workshop, collaborate to curate an art show, mediate dialogue on arts and issues, plan programming and much more. but still...

in my pockets are precious plans i hide while i try to manage the biz bit of this amazing project including w.i. sea - an international magazine, a cerebreal jourey from head to heart - a guided journaling activity, heartbeart - a chapbook and more... wrapped up in these plans or around them rather, cradling them in place, is a fear - a very real frightful concern:

the desire to share and publish is fused with the fear of the 'how' - the connect between the articulation and the action - do i pursue more academic credentials? when i do not want to perpetuate the idea grad studies and academia are necessary (as the are elitist and exclusive and a publishing pissing contest?) why don't i follow those examples i have encountered this past year of renegade guerrilla artists on a serious grind, walking that tightrope for funding and pushing their projects hardhardhard.

what greater fear lurks beneath fretting over the 'how'?

why do i fight focusing on my own projects in my pocket? why is it so easy for me to commit to another person's project one hundred percent? why can i wake up early for class but not for myself?

i am so afraid. i am in serious debt. my head hurts.

everything is nebulous and in the air and this may be over in july and that may not go down in september and this opportunity in june might pass me by but what will happen regardless?

what is the foundational purpose?

new plan - stop planning. forget the hows, whens, wheres and just focus on the why. put the why into action and forget the rest. for now.

thanks.

an honor, a privilege and a blessing -

grâce a l'univers
quel honneur
je te jure
c'est immesurable
comment je suis
heureuse

simplicité
intégrité
consensus

je savais
mais je connais pas
et
je sentais
mas je vivais pas
cette sorte de vie
ce type d’attitude
cars je travaillais
mon p’tit bulot
mais je n'ai jamais exprimé
ma raison d’etre
et alors
a ce moment
je vous remerci

whew

it occured to me today -
nobody knows more
about me
than me

(so no more listening to
anybody's presumptions
bout who i am or oughta be)

money

what is more arbitrary than money?

prices are never fixed
include overhead and other inputs
like labour (but who decides the fee?)
exclude environmental externalities
live in limbo with
such ephemeral phenomena as
supply and demand
inflation
interest
credit rates
slight of hand
illusion
tricky business
'ceterus parabis'
'they' say

but all other things are not equal

yes, hard work "pays"
but not always in money
still some people make a lot of money
but ain't it funny -
when you got big money
you don't really need to spend it -
honey,
you get swag, line bypass, VIP
free drinks, they all want you so
"buddy, it's on me!"

but when you ain't got no money
lord help you
(and me)
cos ain't nothing like tryna dig from out that hole
tryna get free
cos financial freedom is very far from free
it is in many circumstances very close to futile
out of reach, unattainable, costly to achieve
for he, she, you, me
for eighty per cent of all a' we

you can find money and money can find you
good or bad luck can bring you money
inheritance, insurance settlement, gambling, stocks, lottery,
but you can beg for money and never get it too
not for lack of trying - money can easily evade you

but

you can make money selling your soul, your body, your mind
you can make money killing, stealing, hurting, fighting
you can make money lying, conning, scamming, conniving

oil spills make money
cancer makes money
even money makes money

but mummies don't make money just being mummies
so you can't make money loving,
can you?

i'm going to give it a try
put love in to everything i do
and if i make money
the love would have been part of the reason too
and if i don't make money
i won't hang my head in shame
cos i know money is seriously arbitrary
i will not let it
-money-
make me.

like water i guess

those who know me know that i have spent the two short years since graduation (just a wee lil undergraduate type thingie) feeling more or less like water - spilled all over, impossible to hold, fleeting, transient, fluid, ... then when contained (read employed) i feel stale, limited, no restricted, on the edge of turning sour and discolored.

as a student it's easy to pick up purpose from a program or a project
as a friend it's easy to pick up purpose for a time
as a woman it's easy to pick up purpose from a man (Zaki Ibrahim, Computer Girl "Will you ever need me just like i need you, make my life smooth, show me what do do")

as myself, I have some simple sense of purpose (live, learn, teach, write) but much confusion remains as to how to get to the doing in an active, consistent way... in reflection... maybe i make it too complicated... i'll figure it out. trust.

either way, this article, resonates with me like a old brick dashed away into a bottomless pond.

mad mothers and black daddies

in the same weekend i heard a new track from this girl that opens

"Aint' no daddies where i'm from, it's just mad mothers," (that line dropped on me like a ton of bricks. it's interesting to me because my absent father story is an anomoly compared to the current context...)

i met a fellow named brandon hay who has organized The Black Daddies Club here in Toronto. i must say i was pleased and pleasantly surprised.

they are a new and growing group, so please tell the young and old black fathers you know (i'm told the former ask the questions and the latter answer and reflect on the new yet familier realities) as well as black mothers of sons - i argued vehemently that they need to be included (and met no opposition - thank you brandon.)

yes, some daddies are absent, but some daddies are trying - big up brandon and all the black daddies club daddies.

new york city - a lovely time and...

an opportunity to take a look at my situation - distance always allows for greater perspective...

the experience of my life lately is an acutely heightened experience; expectations and insecurities have reached a critical state and I am faltering slightly, wavering, teetering precariously in a what-to-do-now kind of limbo, overwhelmed by options, tracking choices and alternatives, weighing all possibilities (which are in fact endless).

nyc ruffled my feathers. disturbed the cool facade i convince myself/others of. unsettled my spirit. and presented me with new possibilities.

as the plan was landing i wrote this:
I cannot re-immerse myself without heeding this discovery - I must hold it close to me against my chest and look closely at its raw, blank neediness - it is calling to me, "know yourself, be yourself, first see yourself"

there are two kinds of people in my life. there are many people who tell me how it is, how i am, how it will be, why it was, why i am, why it is so, what i should do, when i shoulda have done it, why i should do so. there are very few people who respond to my questions, commentary and madness with thoughtful questions, humble glances, curious suggestions and warm silences. i am thankful for both.

missing premise - i believe everything happens for a reason

If i we spoke on Sunday evening you may have noted as one friend did that i sounded "spiritually overwhelmed"...

On Sunday the last two, three, four... all 25 years of my life came to a head in one conversation.

Though I have not included this point on my resume, I effectively run communications for a friend's organization. Perhaps I don't flash it because it feels so informal, casual, non-labour intensive; generally we chat, process her thoughts together and draft a format/ vernacular/ structure to convey the messages. It occured organically this way as we were/are friends and I was among few in her life with whom she could discuss her ideas and I was among fewer who gave her affirmation and the only individual to collaborate on the words with which to share her gift. Her work/ philosophy/ methodology can be described as focused on self development, communication and transformation but not really as those words connote in a conventional way.

There is a slight push and pull here, as we work I am cognisant I fear responses to her work that denigrate her wisdom by labelling it flaky, new age, overly sensitive... the workshop was fantastic because the feedback was positive, but generally the participants were already accepting of these types of ideas...

I fear that as a society, globe, community, we have become socialized to dismiss the power of energy, thought, spirit, vibration... yet these facilities have produced the most mystical aspects of religion and philosophy since the Beginning; ideas that explore our existence, interactions, transformations, healing, believing, feeling (please push from your mind the commercialized, fantasized, over simplified The Secret - bah...) these are the concepts that explain the existence of God, Big Bang theory, quantum physics - i believe these are the most mysterious and powerful of humankind's gifts to ourselves.

The worrisome part is where we find ourselves today, our minds bombarded, assaulted, invaded by the evils we have created and infantilized, hyper-sexualized, desensitized by the mediums we have created to convey and transmit our evils and thereby prey upon people without purpose.

I think the pendulum is swinging back. I think something special is happening in spite of name calling and labeling. I think there are communities of people who believe in their own power to understand themselves , express themselves and transform themselves. And I think I am on the cusp (of some such journey.)

I am blessed to have been exposed to eastern religions as a child (perhaps the origins of my openness.)
I am blessed to have been a part of this process with my good friend.
I am blessed to have stayed long after the workshop speaking with a participant, a healer.

This woman watched my eyes, breathing and posture as I spoke and then began to share her knowledge and understanding.
This woman saw in me a fear and sadness that I had not quite broached in words... words that i always employ so eloquently, engagingly... so deliberately.
This woman pointed me to parts of myself I hid away somewhere deep sometime long ago, parts of myself that I assumed were addressed by my education, formal, informal, environmental and self... parts that i presume to dominate with my reason and rational self, my neck up self... parts that she suggest I merge, meaning to merge heart and head, meaning to be whole, accepting all parts of myself.

By the time I walked away (after admittedly long embraces - thank you Daria, Nadia and Sabita) my breathing had shifted to somewhere under my belly button. I repeated the same words all the way home and I will continue to do so.

I know this is truth. I know I am on my way...

Thank you (universe).

Don't call me flaky, new age or over-sensitive; I am on my way...

performance

there is a moment, a hallowed moment, when a stillness follows your speech and your eyes raise towards the crowd to indicate the close and their eyes meet yours to indicate understanding. here lives a pause, a perfect silent pause (save breathing and heartbeats,) wherein you and they are all that is and stand in awe of each other. the fleeting moment in time is in itself a deeply moving show of mutual gratitude is broken by an abrupt uproar of applause. this moment is sustenance for the soul, it is balm to a open wound, it is an embrace for those feelings that are long-gone, lonely, fearful of exposure. i want to live in this moment.

Jamilah Malika

to young artists

I wrote the post below and went to bed only to awake shortly thereafter with a wicked fear in my heart; my room seemed to be filling with swirls of smoke in the dark, like the air was moving about, rustling, animated by some energy but there was no fire. I wasn't certain if there was call for fear, but I was afraid nonetheless, something was amiss, and I promptly called my mother.

This is what she was reading at that moment and shared with me this morning:

I have not labeled myself yet. I would like to call myself revolutionary, for I am always changing, and growing, it is hoped for the good of more black people. I do call myself black when it seems necessary to call myself anything, especially since I believe one's work rather than one's appearance adequately labels one. I used to call myself a poet, but I've come to have doubts about that. The truest and most enduring impulse i have is simply to write. It seems necessary for me to forget all the titles, all the labels, and all the hours of talk and concentrate on the mountain of work I find before me. My major advice to young black artists would be that they shut themselves up somewhere away from all debates about who they are and what color they are and just turn out paintings and poems and stories and novels. Of course the kind of artist we are required to be cannot do this. Our people are waiting....

-Alice Walker In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens: Womanist Prose (1983)

Last night my mother cooed softly and assuaged my childish fears.
This morning and always my mother pushes me to face myself.
this is love. i could write endlessly about her. i have already begun to...
thank you mumma.

Jamilah Malika

origins

my mother.

my mother made it known to me
immigration was the manner of evasion
that saved us from a precarious fate

some are born there but somehow get here,
though most are condemned to stay
who stays? who goes? who is left behind? who grows?

citizenship is a crap shoot, one in 6 billion shot. As a child, new to this Canada, my mother's words weighed heavy on me each time we hurried past a weary woman pushing a squeaky cart of worthless belongings or a barely conscious beggar muttering madness, my mother would say these words with the hallowed reverence of a benediction, a mantra for our protection, "Om Sai Ram. That could have been us, child, that could have been us."

Instead of envisioning a life of impoverishment in Canada (how odd it seemed here in these paved streets, how entirely incongruous to the reasoning which I understood had led us here) I pictured my mother and I clutching at faded scarves under our chins with one hand and each other with the other by the roadside outside the quiet compound in Qatar that we fled upon returning home to find it empty - no daughters, no husband, no sisters, no father, nobody.

Or sometimes I'd try to conjure up buried memories of the country of my birth and imagine the two of us squatting in stationary silence with lowered eyes as the nameless Lagos market bustles all around and we are lashed over and over by dust and dirty looks of pity, disgust or vacant disinterest. "That could have been us, child, that could have been us."

It wasn't until years later that I began to understand what my mother shared with me in the same breath: compassion, empathy and humanity and a deep understanding that we are all susceptible to, vulnerable to, can fall victim to life, to this very life. It holds as much pain as joy but it is yours to live and change and mold and grow.

i love you mumma.
Jamilah Malika

What to do, what to do

Last night I was literally tipsy... let's just leave it at that, certain individuals know this and may divulge if asked, but I will go no further, not here. You wanna know? Holler, give me a call, I'll tell you bout the red wine.

I will say I was at a wicked event, My City, My Story. A group of young photographers showcased their art - all very talented. Highlights include red painted africa on black woman's back, lil black baby boy getting off his tricycle looking vexed, very pregnant woman half dressed in a bboy stance, a mess of nike, addidas, puma shoes... some great pics. I think they may be up at the Parkdale Drink (west of Queen and Dufferin on Queen) for a minute, it's well worth checking out.

(please note I love parkdale to the fullest; wedged between a mad house and a rehab/detox center, it is low-income and "ghetto" some say, but it was my first neighborhood in TO and I will rep dem streets til i die, wanna fight about it? We could fight about it, I'll throw down...)

But the crowd... this young, ethnic, artistic community in Toronto is so damn cool, so good looking, so stylish - me a tell ya, me cyan lie - one fine-looking bunch.

So friend, I believe I signed in with a singular purpose: explain the header/banner words at the top of the page. I don't know if it requires complete explanation, but I'll give you some of the significance around hanumanji...

Lord Hanuman is my favorite deity in Hindu mythology. I went to a Sai Baba temple (recently vilified as a cult!) for years and years with my mother when we first immigrated to Canada (she was looking for the sounds and feel of a Trinidad pooja) and as a result every sunday was spent at the temple, an entire afternoon, beginning with a sort of sunday school where we learned the values and morals in ancient scripture and stories, followed by prayer and at the end of the night, mummy and i would head over to the Hare Krishna temple to catch the tail end of service but all of free dinner for all who came to worship - prayer requires sustenance, folks.

Hanuman comes to the rescue of Lord Rama whose wife Sita has been stolen away by the evil demon king Ravana - long story short, Hanuman only finds his power when he is called into the service of others. My sweet mumma gave me a little book on Hanuman when I was home in Vancouver recently and the writings on his significance really moved with me, helped me understand why I was so drawn to this monkey character as a child and reminded me of the person I'd like to be.

Hanuman's story teaches that "however well we render service there is always more to do and that life's greatest adventure is in the doing." Greene, Joshua. Hanuman, The Heroic Monkey God. Mandala Publishing, 2003.

Bless, jams

Presenteeism

Presenteeism is defined as the act of being physically present at work although mentally absent.

I have found this phenomena to be surprisingly widespread in office work places, people have all kinds of ways of avoiding work... i mean hey, it's 2:48pm and I be blogging.

By day, I "work" in the dizzying and illusive world of finance... money flows around the planet everyday, liquid, transient, in phenomenal quantities and "consulting" is an economic offshoot that really has little role other than to explain the ins and outs of that money whizzing past you, which they can't cause the market simply does not operate as they teach in Economics 101, ceterus parabus, latin for all other things being equal. All other things are increasingly unequal these days, not just where dollars are concerned but also access to rights, opportunities, respect, freedom, life, security, peace... and with those inequalities on the rise, isn't it funny that somehow we all come back to money - I'm taking repatriations here; saw a BBC clip on Tuvalu, islands off Japan that span 20,30,40 feet wide and are disappearing due to climate change and the inhabitants are suffering with heavy rainfall and flooding (which leads to some very fundamental development issues including access to clean drinking water, rise in waterborne diseases, etc.). Here this - the government of Tuvalu is demanding repatriations from developed countries who have contributed to (or caused?) climate change through nasty emissions and industrialization and all that good stuff - not a joke, they are asking that a fund be set up at the UN as they require enormous capital to rebuild their shores and address recent damage to ecosystems and infrastructure. I believe that some indigenous groups in Northern Canada have recently made similar claims as herd migrations and their natural habitat in general have been adversely affected changing temperatures, rising sea levels and flooding due to heavy rain...

I studied poli sci and int'l rels and I tell you, there's nothing more that I love than a good grievance, not that I enjoy injustice, but I love when people react and rebel and articulate what they are owed as human beings - beautiful.

Whaddya say black people, should we get back in the game? Maybe it's not too late, but then again, climate change may be too current, too cool (excuse the pun) to compete with...

Perhaps people of excessive privilege (significant consumers and contributers to climate change and therby alienation, destabilisation and oppression worldwide) are over-saturated by guilt to the point of numbness and apathy? Or maybe I'm being naive to assume their collective consciousness is disturbed by the enormous waste of getting their tropical produce in January (or the general inhumane fallout of western consumption and market laws - think subsidies - around the world) or by rising gas prices or failing public school systems or the death of the news... maybe they're laughing over the futility of hope and change up in their ivory towers, big belly laughs, fat from expensive french cuisine and the sedentary lifestyle of a flippin lush.

Maybe slavery just isn't as marketable, not as gut wrenching after all this time... any ideas? a catchy phrase? a fresh new motto?

speaking of slavery, i gotta get back to work!

be easy, jams

what comes at the beginning of something big?

Evening friends,

I have expressed nothing but disdain for the new advent of "social networking" sites, but after skirting with the idea I have set up this blog... big tings fe real... "Why?" you ask yourself, well plenty of reasons, to rant, release, express, but also to share (and perhaps be held accountable?) and to start writing regularly. At the end of 2007, I made the very philosophical (and very onerous) decision to create more meaning in my life in 2008. So this is part of this bigger journey and I will use the technology to record it, to post manifestos/hypotheses/revelations/concepts I scribbled in journals for years and generally shoot the "ish" on whatever moves me... which is most everything... hmm..

Livity/love you're wondering? Well, sometimes I am cynical, sarcastic and judgmental and other times I am full of praise, affection and faith but I would like to cultivate a level of tolerance and love regardless of the situation that cannot be shaken... hence livity/love.

Below is a piece I wrote at the end of last year which will give you a glimpse into my "real scene" - the latter term I use often but the depth of the trini term is lost in this hemisphere - the real scene is your the most honest description or explanation of wha gwaan - wait, is this jamaican patois lost on you? you know, wha gwaan, as in what's going on or what's good... check it out, seen?

I must say I'm quite excited bout this, how bout you?

lovelovelove jam

----

I have stories… I tell you, plenty stories, real stories. But I think a part of me finds it easier to tell them as opposed to write them. This could be the reason why I have hoarded an unfair amount of unfinished notebooks, journals, and diaries… something to do with the ease of telling, a touch of humor here, an exaggeration there, separating myself from its truth, from my truth. It becomes like hearsay, more like some alleged claim, something retold... a familiar blanket, soothing in its cadence, words from my mouth dissipating into the air, released… good bye. Not like word on a page. Concrete. Evidence. Staring back at me. Taunting; hard edges in black and white.

I haven’t written for some time. But I continue to accumulate notebooks… now they taunt me, mock me with their presence, on the table, by my bedside, waiting – waiting for what? Inspiration? A push? A giant leap? Towards? Myself.

You see I planned a path, or thought/think I did, and followed it straight – went to class, wrote the exams, scored high. At this time – life happens all at the same time, doesn’t it? – at this time, I cozied into another path or joined my path with another’s rather. But that doesn’t always work. So after years, I opted out. I got out while others close to me delved deeper… now I feel I am trying to re-build, grow, nurture a fledgling course that is genuine and myself…

Do you know change can sometimes make a whooshing sound, like a gust of wind, blowing up around you, taking things with it, leaving a quiet with the emptiness. Emptiness has no direction. It just stays where you are. Begging for purpose and meaning, passion and hope, begging for feeling nowhere, everywhere, anywhere.

And now, I am alone with myself. I am beside myself. Wondering why. What happened when. Tracing my steps back to the place where I began, maybe five, six, seven, eight years ago, when I began asking these same questions. Who are you? What will you become? What will you choose? Asking myself consciously and unconsciously, implicitly and explicitly. Considering lessons to learn, unlearn, re-learn. Deciding what kind of person I’d like to be ideally. Coming away from an experience with a sense of what to take away (understanding, peace, and forgiveness) and what to leave behind (regret, shame, sadness, anger, and pain). Or at least, trying to do these things…

Then almost becoming consumed with self-reflection, not to the point of vanity, to the point of paralysis really. At times feeling an enormous pressure to deliberately think a certain thought in order to make reality my thought materialized – can you imagine that? Trying to think deliberately… don’t imagine it as tedious, superficial things; I mean big, big, big things, thoughts, truths, plans, ideas… constantly, questioning and debating their validity with myself… but in truth, to afraid to live, to do, to enact anything really risky, really out there, really me… madness. Isn’t it?

Still looking for external affirmation, are we? Am I? No. Just looking for some truth. Some concrete truth to hold onto. Some eternal, real, honest truth.

This life, every experience is wrought with love and goodness, hate and badness, but only if you feel it – if you can bear to feel it. If you are brave enough to feel it. Sometimes, I am. Other times… other times, I am afraid. I am afraid to mess it up, do it wrong, make it worse… fail. Be embarrassed. The real question is the origin of this fear. That is the real question. One cannot overcome what one does not understand… right?

Sunday, December 30, 2007