09 1 / 2014

"He was the sound of a slow train leaving, a boat rocking in a stormy port, like something that could take you away or bring you home again."

Youngblood, Shay. Black Girl in Paris. 2000.

pg.141

09 1 / 2014

"A bomb can kill you instantly, love can make you wish you were dead."

Youngblood, Shay. Black Girl in Paris. 2000. 

pg.7

09 1 / 2014

Hi, ya’ll.

I’m back :)

29 12 / 2012

"Wind whipped the tips of our ears and stole a plastic bag right out of Manny’s hand. He thought it was a sign and fished through our supplies until he pulled out a tight, fat roll of twine and three black plastic bags. We made kits: trash bags on strings. We ran, slipped, the knees of our dungarees all grass stained, we got up, ran, choked ourselves half to death with laughter, but we found speed, and our trash kits soared. We flew for an hour or so, until daylight fully buried itself into night and all the light sank back, except for the stars and toenail clipping of moon, and the kites disappeared, black on blackness. That’s when we let go, and our trash kites really soared —up and away, heavenward, like prayers, our hearts chasing after."

Torres, Justin. We the Animals. 2011. (p52)

28 12 / 2012

"Heaven is a room without air,
tinier than you would expect.
Their harbors summarily discarded,
souls are smashed upon souls,
writhing, lit neon with overwhelms of holy.
Here names, crimes, and choices
are forgotten. There is only one door,
and the harried souls hurtle through,
bargain for space, pulse gleefully.
The fickle, traitorous heart is a need
no one misses. In heaven,
they keep one beating
in a cage, purely for show."

Smith, Patricia. Teahouse of the Almighty. Excerpted from “Boy Dies, Girlfriend Gets His Heart.”

28 12 / 2012

"

Beneath the door, I could practically see
the wretched slither of tobacco and English Leather.
Hiding on the other side, I heard Mama giggle
through clenched teeth, which meant potential
husband sitting spitshined on our corduroy couch.
The needle hit that first groove and I wondered
why my mama had chose the blues,
wrong, Friday-angled, when it was hope
she needed. I pressed my ear against the door,
heard dual damp panting, the Murphy bed squeal,
the occasional directive,
the sexless clink of jelly jar glasses.

What drove me to listen on those nights
when my mother let that fragrant man in,
banished me to the back of the apartment,
pretended she could shine above hurting?
I’d rest my ear against the cool wood all night
as she flipped through the 45s—
looking for Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder,
somebody blind this time,
something crawling on this knees toward love.

"

Smith, Patricia. Teahouse of the Almighty. “Listening at the Door” (poem).

27 12 / 2012

Though vastly devoid of color, save for Emily Raboteau and Chinelo Okparanta, it’s still an interesting list of books and authors. Nice to see Lou Howey’s “Wool” mentioned. My book club met him at Miami Book Fair International. The story behind his novel is very impressive.

27 12 / 2012

"Listen, if you choose to believe nothing else that transpires here, believe this: your body does not have a soul; your soul has a body, and souls never, ever die."

McFadden, Bernice L; Gathering of Waters. 2012

26 12 / 2012

21 12 / 2012

"In the beginning, people would say, ‘Do you regard yourself as a black writer, or as a writer?’ and they also used the word woman with it - woman writer. So at first I was glib and said I’m a black woman writer, because I understood that they were trying to suggest that I was ‘bigger’ than that, or better than that. I simply refused to accept their view of bigger and better. I really think the range of emotions and perceptions I have had access to as a black person and as a female person are greater than those of people who are neither. I really do. So it seems to me that my world did not shrink because I was a black female writer. It just got bigger."

Toni Morrison (via kassandramarriellee)

(Source: kassandra-marriel-lee, via kimajones)