note to self

one comp down

two to go

and keep in mind that

even if you don't pass

at least you're taking them before

"delores umbridge" aka "the blooming onion" does...

which is, indeed, gratifying

in and of itself

your revolution

i was teaching my women's and gender studies class today

and one of my students was giving an oral presentation on

women in the music industry

this student's presentation lead to a general class discussion

over what it means to be a woman in an industry that is

insidiously white, male, and (big surprise here: heteronormative)

then the converstation shifted to not just issues of gender but

also race...what are the terms for women artists who are not white?

as my class was productively mulling over the issues related to race,

gender and the music industry i couldn't help but think of audre lorde

and the speech that she gave at medgar evers college in 1980 and the kind

of critique she was developing through her experience as an activist within

the civil rights movement...the struggles of being a woman, african american, feminist, womanist,

and lesbian that made her participation and even her subject negotiation within

the political formation of civil rights groups difficult and highly complex...

she spoke up to a heteronormative, male dominated paradigm that required her particpation

while at the same time demanding that she remain silent...to espouse as best she could

the violent restraints associated with that of an image of "straight woman, african american

woman"

she fought against this pressure

she established place within a third space territory

she was unapologetic for it as well

lorde was not concerned with just interested rights

she was concerned with the flow of power and the assignment of value

she wanted to change the ways in which we all consume otherness

she demanded oppression be addressed at all levels...not selectively

she demanded that perception change not just laws because laws are always

"interested"

this brings me to sarah jones

in the clip below you can hear her perform a spoken word piece entitled

"your revolution" from hbo's def poetry series...

fast forward through moss def's intro and cedric the entertainer's piece (although

his piece is worth a listen as is the interpetation of gwendolyn brooks' "we real cool" at the very

begining) and you will encounter the goddess that is sarah jones...



Sarah Jones “Your Revolution” lyrics


[Intro]

Yeah yeah, yeah this goes out to all the women and men from New York to

London to LA to Tokyo struggling to keep their self-respect in this climate

of misogyny, money worship and mass production of hip-hop's illegitimate child,

Hip-Pop.And this especially goes out to Gil Scott-Heron, friend, living legend

and proto-rapper who wrote "The Revolution will not be Televised." Much Respect.



[Verse]

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Not happen between these thighs

Not happen between these thighs

The real revolution ain't about booty size

The Versaces you buys, or the Lexus you drives

And though we've lost Biggie Smalls

Baby your notorious revolution

Will never allow you to lace no lyrical douche, in my bush

Your revolution will not be killing me softly, with Fugees

Your revolution ain't gonna knock me up without no ring

And produce little future emcees

Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not find me in the backseat of a jeep

With LL, hard as hell, you know doin it and doin it and doin it well

doin it and doin it and doin it well, nah come on now

Your revolution will not be you smacking it up, flipping it, or rubbing it down

Nor will it take you downtown or humpin around

Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs

Your revolution will not have me singing, ain't no nigga like the one I got

And your revolution will not be sending me for no drip, drip VD shot

And your revolution will not involve me, feelin your nature rise

Or helping you fantasize

Because that revolution will not happen between these thighs

No no, not between these thighs

Oh, my Jamican brother, your revolution will not make you feel bombastic

And really fantastic

And have you groping in the dark for that rubber wrapped in plastic

You will not be touching your lips to my triple dip of french vanilla,

butter pecan, chocolate delux

Or having Akinyele's dream, m-hmm a 6-foot blowjob machine m-hmm

You want to subjugate your queen? uh-huh

Think I'm a put it in my mouth, just cuz you made a few bucks?

Please brother please

Your revolution will not be me tossing my weave

And making me believe I'm some caviar-eating ghetto mafia clown

Or me giving up my behind, just so I can get signed

And maybe having somebody else write my rhymes

I'm Sarah Jones, not Foxy Brown

You know I'm Sarah Jones, not Foxy Brown

Your revolution makes me wonder, where could we go

If we could drop the empty pursuit of props and ego

We'd revolt back to our Roots, use a little Common Sense

On a quest to make love De La Soul, no pretense

But your revolution will not be you flexing your little sex and status

To express what you feel

Your revolution will not happen between these thighs

Will not happen between these thighs

Will not be you shaking and me *yawn* faking

Between these thighs

Because the real revolution, that's right I said the real revolution

You know I'm talking about the revolution

When it comes, it's gonna be real

It's gonna be real

It's gonna be real

When it finally comes

When it finally comes

It's gonna be real, yeah yeah

note to self

if you continue to freak out

over the start of comps on thursday

your head will explode

please for the love of all that is sane

stop and

remember that if you touch the ground

now and then

the world around you will stop spinning

it hardly seems possible

that a year ago today i made an early morning sunday

trip to stl and met my baby kangaroo

for the first time

we spent the day together and we talked

and now it's a year later

and i still breathe easier when he's around

poem for the week

Forgetfulness

by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

delays

comps had to be rescheduled for thursday

the person in charge of scheduling double booked the room

will i ever be done with this?!?

moon

april snow...

it snowed today....

blah!

april has been really

disappointing me this year

poem for the week

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World

by Sherman Alexie

The morning air is all awash with angels . . .
- Richard Wilbur

The eyes open to a blue telephone
In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,
Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

Who is most among us and most deserves
The first call? I choose my father because

He's astounded by bathroom telephones.
I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,

I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps,
And then I remember that my father

Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"
I say. "I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.
"I made him a cup of instant coffee

This morning and left it on the table—
Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

And I didn't realize my mistake
Until this afternoon." My mother laughs

At the angels who wait for us to pause
During the most ordinary of days

And sing our praise to forgetfulness
Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

Those angels burden and unbalance us.
Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

Those angels, forever falling, snare us
And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

comps

well, the comps have been set

they start on the 22nd of the month

and end on the 6th of may

the final leg of this ph.d. journey has begun...

i hope that i have the strength

to follow through and finish

annoying teenagers, going to bookstores these are a few of my favorite things....

well, i must say that i woke up feeling a tad bit sorry for myself



i was feeling weighed down



walking underwater



slow and labored



but only me



everything and everyone around me was moving



normally which appeared to be fast to me...



however as i was walking across the quad to teach my 10 a.m. class



i was surrounded by teenage joggers



yep...some intellectually gifted track coach must have thought that it



would be a good idea to set a bunch of teenage joggers loose on the



quad during peak time...



and these kids would hardly move out of the way



hogging up the sidewalk and expecting people to move



for them



i didn't move though because



1) i was annoyed



2) i was still feeling heavy



3) i was annoyed



although it did give me some kind of sadistic pleasure to make them



move...and i think some of them even pouted....nothing says

have a bright and sunny day than

a tennager's distain...



after class i was talking to a student



and i spilled an almost full dunkin donuts coffee



on a desk and consequently the floor...



fyi: that stuff is a bitch to clean up



after i finished up with that fiasco i decided to go to borders



bookstores always give me a sense of peace...i like them



i like to be surrounded by words...potential stories....



there is always a sense of discovery whenever i go into a bookstore



and discover i did



i found a memoir/illustrated book by chip kidd (the famous book designer)




while i was leafing through...taking in the images i saw this....


wendy brown's book!!! i love wendy brown and this book is not only an important piece

of scholarship it is also a book that changes lives

well mine anyways...

if i ever get published or better yet become the kind of scholar that

would get me chip kidd to design the cover of my book

i would be overwhelmed by the sheer awesomeness of it

seriously...it wouldn't have to be that great of a text

because good or terrible, boring or pithy...

chip kidd would certainly make your text sound better

after i was finished browsing that book i meandered over to

the psychology...actually the death and dying section...

i know grief but i still feel lost...so i picked up this book:





and i read a little...

very practical and lois ackner's writing is quite good

but something in me was not interested in getting it or reading any further

dissatisfied...slow...labored

maybe another book will call to me

or maybe a poem...

i just don't know

comps

well it looks like my third and final comp synthesis will

be approved by tomorrow

and my comps will be scheduled by the end of this week

note to self

redefine my purpose

amidst the feelings of

pointlessness that now seem

to be weighing on my mind

i would like to be thankful that revisions for

the third synthesis have been sent and

a meeting tomorrow to work out the kinks has

been scheduled

i must be patient with my

self

because this i

has changed and

the grammar of which to organize

this rhetorical chaos so that this i can surface

is up

for negotiation

spring

i saw my first robin yesterday

i smiled and

then started crying

note to self

think of spring and try to smile

appreciate the love that surrounds you

find peace in a really good song

this is grief

how do you narrate grief?

do you start with the object...the material...the flesh and bone

and then follow its progress into the abstract and

disembodied? while crying?

where are the words for that kind of story?

what metaphor could you possibly construct?

derrida was right to critique

sassure...

language is more than just arbitrariness

it is inadequate and yet

there is nothing more adequate or less arbitrary

nor heart breaking

than this erosion

i will start to write this grief

but in the very act of my writing it

it is being rewritten