Sunday Morning

On this second day of 2011, I am fervently forcing myself to do what author Walter Mosley suggests in his “how-to” book for writers .

I should write every day. If you are one of these persons of interest, this is not always an easy thing to do.  When I was younger and more idealistic, I wrote with the most unconcerned abandon!  I didn’t worry about what others would have to say about it because it was my point to produce whatever was going on within my psyche.  During my more devil-may-care moments, I had no hindering negativity and no pressing desire to impress anyone with my clever repartee of word sculpting.   Whatever prose or poetry was available came together almost under its own devices and not my human misgivings.  Afterwards whatever was magically scribed on paper, I would find a trusted soul who offered me the utmost objectivity, and presented my words to him or her as a token of appreciation.   All I knew at that defining moment I had purged whatever was in my subconscious floating about  like a white, fluffy rain cloud.  For me, it was utter relief ..

I am in my room, my current writing space.  How I  miss my den!  It is now occupied by my almost 25-year-old son.  He moved back home a few weeks ago, his essence and mess completely taking over my spot.  My sturdy, refurbished desk, which I had rescued for $5 from a yard sale,  is crammed in my bedroom.  aligned along the same wall as the dresser.  I have two bulletin boards slightly above the desk, displaying various photos, a North Carolina lottery ticket, stamps, college paraphernalia, my “before” picture – me at my heaviest weight, and other visual knick knacks casually strewn about on both surfaces.  I am furiously pecking  on my 10-inch lap top.  In my mind, a would-be artist makes the best of the most horrendous conditions, and so I try.  My husband’s blazingly-loud flat screen is playing “Avatar” again.  Across the hall, Nick’s television is murmuring, adding to my audible chaos.   If I lean slightly to the right, I can just see him sitting cross-legged on his bed.

Hubby is still in the bed, curled up on his right side.  Kovu, the Wonder Dog is laying at the foot of the bed with his eyes closed comfortably.   Outside, the weather is miserable, rainy and damp and chilly.  This is the type of weather which tempts me to return to the warmth of my bed.  Not that hubby hasn’t tried.  He’s desiring warmth too, but not the type I am worried about a the moment.

I reach over to the left, grabbing the box of Goody powder off the dresser.  Pulling out a powder, I wash the bitter stuff down with a sip of cold coffee.  At the right of my keyboard is a bowl with discarded orange peels.

In the past, I would try to go elsewhere to work.  There is hubby’s computer in the living room.  If I tried to go in there, he would interrupt me.  I am not in the mood to fight his ego.

Getting back to Walter Mosley:  he is the creator of Easy Rawlins, the protagonist of “Devil in a Blue Dress” and various other books.  In an issue of Jet magazine, he had suggestions for burgeoning wannabe writers.  The cut-out is another item on my bulletin board.  Mosley suggests to the timid scribe:

1.  Write every day

2.  Learn how to write without restraint

3. Avoid false starts and dead-end thinking.

This is my (unofficial) resolution.

Read Full Post »

Jo Jo’s

I was once a seasoned blogger at MSN Spaces.  I have a main place where I happily shared the title with my dog.  After much practice and an itchy drive for a more artistic spot, I created a jive called Jo Jo’s.   Jo Jo’s was my literary lover, my joy  In essence, Jo Jo’s was a place to find the deeper recesses of me.  It was a place –  a speakeasy – where fellow poets could share their words.  I could hear the low, toe-tapping melodies and the bee-humming murmurs of the patrons.   There are attentive, knowing  bartenders and smiling, white-clad waiters.  There there are cigarette girls, ladies with questionable reputation, and dangerous-looking men.  Wooden  tables were scattered about the hardwood floor.  Each table had a low lit candles placed directly in the center.   Most of them seated four, sometimes more if a larger group came in.

Surrounding the floor were wall-encrusted booths.  It was east to spot the lovers: they were sitting arm-to-arm and staring into each other’s eyes, occasionally stealing kisses.   The married couples usually sat across from each other.  Now and then, an agitated woman with eyes narrow and angry would burst in, strided throughout the room trying desperately to catch her philandering mate.

The gray hue which hung in the air burned your eyes and burned your visions thanks to the heavy veil of cigarette smoke, its insolent tendrils curling upward and dissipating in the air.  The tinkling of wine glasses punctuated spontaneous bursts of laughter.   A quick gulp of water helped to wash away the  stench of too many bodies and the wall of heavy cologne.

In numerous history books, dictionaries, and other pieces of literature, a speakeasy was basically a joint that provided illegal alcohol.  This a one-dimensional summary and it did little to spark my vivid imagination.

* * * * * *

It was a mystery for a good girl.  She would’ve been warned by her mama, her daddy, and even her worldly, know-it-all cousin not to go there.  It would lure you in, capture your soul, and you would never want to stop coming back, Karen had warned.  So one day, with her best friend reluctantly by her side, she would peek into the nearest, snappiest one called Jo Jo’s.  She was all of sixteen years old, and wanted a little excitement in her life beside cleaning up after her family, and staying home because her daddy could not work anymore because of injuries he got in the war, and a weary mama who was the bread-winner by working at the mill.  Her dreams were just that.  Dreams.

So, she and Tracey peered into the smoke-hazed scene in front of them.  There was a rumble of activity.  The music was sweet. maple syrup in her blood.  The waitresses dodged and weaved all around tables full of three or more party goers laughing and nodding their heads to the jazz music. To the left, in a small area where there were no tables, were couples doing some mad bogeying, and hugging up that was just plain indecent!  To the right, was a large, shiny, mahogany bar where men were tossing back some strong drink, whether to cheer them up or forget something was unclear,  and empathetic bartenders only too happy to oblige..  Slam!  A ruckus erupted between a young buck in a charcoal suit and an infamous Tuskegee airman.  A burly bouncer grabbed the boy by the scruff of the collar and took him to the back.

The combination of heavy perfume, unwashed bodies, and liquor nauseated the wide-eyed girls.  Tracey was pulling her gawking chum towards the street, when a low, melodious wail came from the make shift stage slightly above the dance floor.  The crowd silenced as the songstress, draped in a silk sheath, allowed her feelings to her long-lost love, to lay at the feet of her audience.  Not quite a keen, not quite a seduction, the mood shifted as she expressed various times she wanted to have again.  As a tear slid through her tightly close eyes, she caught everyone, even those drunk at the bar, with her sadness, anger, and regret of not saying goodbye.

As she released her last haunting note, an explosion of applauded echoes throughout the room.  Her piano player bowed, and held out his manicured hand to Lady Soul.  Not quite Lady Day, but a very close second.  She nodded her head, and looking at the eye-catching girls at the entrance, threw a kiss their way.

A few years prior,  she was standing there, feeling the same apprehension, not at all sure she should do.

Maybe her kiss will give them permission to take a chance.

* * * * * *

Do you think haunts such as Jo Jo’s was the earlier settings of what we now call “Spoken Word” competitions?  Poetry Readings? I think so.   So many still haunt me with the allure of mental imagery.

I hope you will join me in virtual wine, tea, coffee, and other imaginings in Jo Jo’s. Feel free to drop your work here anytime, as will I.  DO place your copyright with your work!

Read Full Post »