“watch me lose my acquired manners
see me run wild woman loose skin
stop asking me to be still
kill me if you will
I intend to run circles
round these tight white drawers you
have put me in”
-Staceyann Chin
Five Women at a Bus Stop
by Martin Klimas
http://www.martin-klimas.de/
Ten minutes was all the time they had to truly laugh
Allowing early morning crispy breezes to whip their hair
Their chuckles glided down the street
As they alighted buses and trains coming from north, south, east, and west
They bared brown-teethed smiles, eye corners curled in greeting
They chatted about nothing
In a language their country of residence shunned despite population numbers
For ten minutes, they freed thoughts of lacking identity cards and social security
For ten minutes, ailing children and needy relatives across borders evaporated
Like dew
They crossed the street
Cackling louder, it seemed
Their place of temporary employ hovering at the bottom of the hill
Temporary until their boss shrugged about the visitation of immigration officers and mumbled about
Having to let them go
Everyday was a risk they took with little hesitation
With disjointed English, and familial connections, they would find something else
But for these ten minutes, they could be women
Banding in a small group of five
These ten minutes was for sharing dreams and whispering about younger men in the neighborhood
For gossiping about new culinary recipes
And the ridiculous homeless man who calls all of them Maria
At the same time
They enjoyed the vibrant blue-ness of their thrift store purchased jeans
Under shy rays of sun peeping through 7am clouds
It’s summertime, one said to another,
When are you going to show some skin?
The eldest among them hugging tighter her now colourless shawl,
Until you tell your son to stop sneaking around my home at mignight!
My daughter doesn’t like the smell of his deodorant.
They laughed in broken voices
Mere strings holding together implications of the unbridled affections of offspring
One crooned, abuela, and they fell out in fits of teasing back-poking
Sun rays strengthened blue vibrancy and warmed their faces
Ten minutes was the medicine they needed to make it through the day
A blonde jogger passed them by in thigh-baring shorts
They fell back into the well of their cackling
For no particular reason
Blossom Tree
Beef Bulgogi Bibimbap with Kimchi and dumplings
I suppose every now and again, if I find a cozy spot worth sharing, I will do just that. But don’t expect reviews on chain restaurants like Red Lobster or little Jamaican restaurants on the corner (the menu is usually the same everywhere). I will only blog about little spots I find that serve up something I’ve never tried, places that hold a unique ambiance. Like this Korean fusion cuisine I found on Peachtree.
I have probably said this a million times to different groups of people, but I am always in awe of how well Asian cuisine has found its way to originating dishes fused with other cultures…something palatable and attractive to even the conservative foodies. I have yet to see African food, specifically Nigerian cuisine, break such bounds. Plantains do not count!
Nevertheless, I present Blossom Tree! Depicted was the dish I ordered. It was appropriately portioned and delish! The restaurant had a low key ambiance: you go up and order and they come out to your seat to serve you; you serve your own drinks (their sweetened green tea was niiiice!), and grab your own cutlery. It has that atmosphere that’s a step above coffee shop: artsy and earthy, yet commercial; low-key and low-maintenance, yet tinged with elegance.
I definitely recommend!
—–
64 Peachtree Street Northeast Atlanta, GA 30303
(404) 223-7500
Remembrance
In honor of all the ancestors who died during the Middle Passage, Grenada
There are historical incidences that ought to be remembered. We often omit the terrors on the Middle Passage. I was glad to chance upon this image. It’s silently powerful…chilling, even. It reminds us that of a bleak time in human history. It reminds us how far we’ve come. It reminds us how much more improvement and progress is needed.
On Writing by Stephen King
I’m a little over two-thirds done the book and it’s been a pleasant read so far. Perhaps I’m not at the brilliant part, but I will give the book an easy 8.5/10 so far. Initially, I got confused about the book’s overall direction. It seemed autobiographical. But considering this is only the second book I will be reading by Stephen King and I’m not enough along, I will give it my attention. My relationship with Stephen King is that of awed fear. I love his writing style. It’s vivid and vibrant and thus when I read Cujo, the book haunted my teen years. The rabid dog and the child and mother slowly suffocating to death in their car in the sweltering heat was too much of a powerful image for me. But this book is about writing. I like when writer write about writing. There’s always much to learn, especially since I love this craft. I found the PDF version of the book online. Let me leave you with an excerpt from the book. Add it to your reading list! Why not? It is Stephen King, after all!
You can approach the act of writing with nervousness,
excitement, hopefulness, or even despair—the sense that you
can never completely put on the page what’s in your mind
and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched
and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down
names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry
you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any
way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to
the blank page.
Physical Activity
There’s something about physical activity that frightens me. Perhaps it’s the one thing I truly feel guilty about committing to. Or maybe it’s really that the most physically fit like to growl and their bodies look unreal. Nevertheless, I have decided to put all fears aside and actually commit to a healthier body. In order to challenge myself to keep to this psuedo-regimen I have going, I would like to pledge to keep my blog abreast my thoughts and progress on losing weight.
First, it makes sense to start with a measurable target or goal. I have none. Right now, I’m literally taking my ass out running as soon as the sun sets. I don’t think about it, I don’t dwell. I just go. Because I generally hate jogging long distances (I’ve always been a short distance sprinter), I feel that if I think about it too much, I’ll find reasons not to go. So I don’t think. I go. Just like that. Perhaps I should be more methodical in my approach… I have considered setting a target weight or target dress size. While I have ideals at the back of my head, for now, I’m more interested in being healthy and not panting when I walk up a flight of stairs.
I have considered reaching out to the Black Girls Run! running group in Atlanta. They have half a million running groups everywhere, but I’m literally just breaking into this new confidence, so I won’t wound myself too much by running with women who run marathons every other weekend. My self-esteem is still tender. However, I have heard about a boot camp near my house on Saturday mornings. We’ll try this …whyever not?
At any rate, here we go. More running. More creative ways to use 3lbs weights (YouTube is great for at-home workout routines you can do even while you watch TV). No soda. No crisps (yes, I said crisps). No fast food. Let’s do this!
I AM A MALE-FEMINIST!!!
The first time I made this statement in public was at Ukamaka Olisakwe’s first book reading in Yaba Lagos Nigeria. You should’ve seen how all eyes were on me like I was some Tupac singing “All Eyes on Me” He he he… The host confessed that he’d never heard such a thing before. Ukamaka professed that I was a radical. I was impressed that I’d surprised them.
These are the kinds of conversations that need to be had.
Writing Prompt: There’s No Place Called Home
Tonight’s writing assignment is taken from Saaed Jones’ blog, a space I follow regularly. I often write about home …in a disjointed kind of way sometimes. With this writing assignment, I’m hoping to capture my thoughts perhaps more succinctly …address my emotions perhaps more directly. Or not at all. Writing, for me, has never been about the final product. Maybe I’ll share this piece. Maybe I won’t …nevertheless here are the details for the assignment.
