.070 day 58

i don't do holidays. 

especially american holidays. 

and rather than grab soapbox to place beneath feet and stand upon views, 

i'll simply say this:  its only ignorance when you deny what you know.

that being said...

i have a one (almost two) year old that i am in love with. 

an edible ball of aquarian quirkiness, my child, my heart, my 'toots' causes me to do things i, otherwise, would not. 

the costume, a gift, suddenly the most adorable thing, and the thought of her in it, much too precious to resist...

.69 day 57

dear hurricane sandy: hasn't haiti dealt with enough?

i ventured outside today. cabin fever settled in and my emotions moved faster than this storm's sudden wind. saw toppled lawn chairs, and trees, but nothing alarming to signal a hurricane had passed. i suppose i am lucky. i am blessed. i am fortunate. but for sure, i am grateful. i am dry. my child is safe. worst residual lying within the confines of shady internet and cell phone service. i say a prayer for the soul's who have passed, and the souls left behind to mourn them. then, i look to the trees, and smile, for they are resilient. standing strong through the worst of weathers, worst of life, while holding secrets and history in the palm of their branch. they keep me hopeful. they keep me striving. they keep me strong. my silent theme music, my goal in life, to simply learn to live life as a tree. 

.068 day 56

"run just as fast as i can to the middle of nowhere 
to the middle of my frustrated fears 
and i swear you're just like a pill 
instead of makin' me better,
you keep makin' me ill"

pink. 'just like a pill'

.067 day 55

"hop in the water plug, just for old times sake"

will smith, 'summer time'

.066 day 54

best. strawberry. juice. ever.

.065 day 53

i. hate. this. pic. 

but...adhering to my personal ethics, i posted it, as it was the only photo i took today. and - queen of procrastination - i decided (at 10:50 pm) to submit to "philly photo day". by then, going someplace, practically impossible,  and taking the most mundane shot of the daily news paper (solely as proof it was taken today) was it for me.  (pffft) how's that for inspiration? ho-hum...

.064 le sigh

"and she succeeded, on the second try, in hurling herself out of the world"

(the virgin suicides)

.063 day 52

my second set of keys. as, toots threw my first set out of the window, on the highway.

.062 day 51

seasons change seasonally. its redundant. we feel the shift of leaves, breeze and trees and yet, we still feign surprise when it happens. but my question is, is it really "change" if it happens repetitively? pffft, whatever. change is good and all, but sameness ain't so bad either...

.061 day 50

the story that rest behind me shooting a half naked woman is far more appealing than the actual photos of said woman.

and yet, i'll never tell.

.060 day 49

toots ripped this from the bible...cause she's gangsta like dat.

.059 day 48

.058 day 47

she's a full fledged toddler now. says whole phrases and repeats every word you say...even the bad ones. thus, mommy has learned to become more creative when cursing random ish out in her life. "if you don't move that fraggle-rockin' car out of my way, i swear to beans, trouble will be had". ha! guess the ass-whoopin' that follows this foolery will have to suffice for my daily dose of gangsterism...you know, as, my child has made me full fledged PG, and all.

.057 day 46

 monie love. special ed. dana dane. chubb rock. kwame = "the alumni" 

no flash. and way too busy having hip-hop flashbacks, to care. memories of every inch of my brother's room covered in YO! Magazine rap posters (i was a girl. my room, girly - courteous of a 'how a lady acts' type mama). camping out in sibling's room, on weekends, just to get a cultural fix. pulled my mattress off of bed to sleep on floor, just to be surrounded by music and mix tapes and big casio keyboards. memories of high-top fades and gumbies. of colorful clothes, gold herring bones and door knocker earrings. of  o.p.p. jackets (mines was pink) and finger waves. of wanting polka-dotted babies and slick rick, narrated day-dreams.

this night was nice. spent with my siblings, all of my father's children, who have never been in the same room, simultaneously. until his last day here, and who had, yet, to be in the same room since. pop-locking and rhyming in chorus, we released our shared grief, forged a new bond, and decided to do this once a month. daddy is happy.......

.056 day 45

...and in the end, all that remains, is ones heART (so be true to it).

.055 day 44

.054 day 43

i do not remember the last time i was in a laundromat. but due to an over-sized blanket, much too over for my own washing machine, there i was. washing, while toots and a gang of children ran wild, roaring loudly anytime they conquered something daring, like climbing tables or chairs or wheeling stolen carts across the floor. washing, while a spanish woman, with belly full of laughter and lays potato chips  joked about how 'strong' my daughter was. so strong, in fact, she'll be able to easily slap the lights out of any man who gets out of line later on in life. i chuckled then cringed. that her mind could fathom no brighter future for my girl child, was saddening. wondered, too, what kind of man she will grow her son to be (i presume the sort of man who deserves to have the lights slapped out of him). drying, while a pretty faced, african woman, pregnant with hope and possibility walked, repetitively around aisles of machines, doing her best to "work dis baby outta" herself and giggling every time she passed her lock-haired lover, who winked each time he saw her nearing. folding, while natural haired, jamaican woman, whose age i over guessed, ranted regrets about perming her, ten year natural hair, and how her present style of ear length coils, a simple by-product of starting over. and me, reassuring her beauty, and sharing my own natural woes and loving the bond that two "five minute friends" can create...in a laundromat.

.053 day 42

.052 day 41

watching the olympics is one thing. seeing an eleven year old, with dreams of reaching such, on one leg, atop her tiny bed post, quite another...

.051 day 40

.050 day 39

.049 day 38

eleven year old, tatiana, attempting to teach, toots, heart & soul (the infamous song from 'big') on her piano.

as i watched my baby hit whatever keys that tati, first played, then directed her teeny fingers towards, my chest tightened. she was bred in music. piano's, saxophones, drums, trumpets, voices, all heard up close, and trembling ever since she rest inside of me. her father, his band, sometimes playing into the wee hours of the night/turned morning, lips to my stomach, singing to our unborn soul while i slept. her very first night on earth, as we acquainted ourselves with one another, john coltranes, naima, serenaded us until daylight.

i smile now. toots still delights at the sound of music. raises hands to sky, stomps her feet, sways her quickly growing body whenever it's around her. and all i could think about, in this o' so serendipitous moment, was how very proud of her he would be...

.048 day 37

confession: i took this a week ago.

work. exhaustion. motherhood. m.i.l.f'ism has taken up my time. true to the challenge: i do, indeed, take a photo every day, sometimes even more than that, yet, these past few days, uploading has evaded me. not going to beat myself up (i do that), but i am going to re-commit to the entire process from this point on and commend myself for what i have done thus far. seriously, anyone who knows me should practically be in awe that i lasted one week, not alone, 37 days. 

and i still have 328 more days more to go. 

.047 day 36

.046 one yourself.

everyone believes that their special (cause they are). everyone believes that no one can understand them (because they can't). everyone believes that they are all alone in the world, in how they feel, how they think, how they love (and they ARE, for there is only one you).

but...here's the thing, beloved: there is only one 'them'...too. 

humans are naturally self-absorbed. the sooner everyone gets that they are not the only one to feel this way, and validate any and everyone else who feels this way, the sooner we can all get the fuck over ourselves and be of true value to the world. when god created you...and your gifts...he created others...and their gifts...as well.

lessons for today:
- you cannot tell someone who thinks they know EVERYTHING - anything.
- if you constantly tell the people around that you are all alone, they will let you be just that.

.045 day 35

lady of the night, mother by the morning. 

body still housing residuals from labor. heart full of love for the two babies that followed. twelve years later and i still watch her with awe, with envy, with admiration, with pity. she gave her all. she deserved it all. she had it all. she lost it all. bedtime stories and horrid fairy-tales, like magic, strewn across her very skin. i read her, i see her, i bleed her. i free her...

.044 day 34

kind of a blah day. kind of a blah photo. 

.043 day 33

the playground is a battlefield. i've seen children go from sharing to sparring over beach toys and sliding boards. sandboxes, like territories, guarded by crusty-faced two year olds refusing to let the "new to toddler life" babies come in. i've been given the evil eye by mothers, there with fathers, if i so much as glanced at their husbands, and damn near fly-kicked if i dared to help their child on the monkey bars. i've learned that brown mothers will tell their whole life story: how good or bad their child's father is or how she hasn't been out with her girlfriends in three years and that breast-feeding hurt too much to continue on. learned, too, that beige mothers will tell nothing of their personal lives, (almost dramatically so), will forget to ask you, your child's name, will recommend the best places to, both, entertain and educate your 'littles' and have no problem breast-feeding well into their child's adolescent years. i've been invited on play dates by women i'd never befriend and other dates by sneaky, slimy, whispering men.

but it's worth the battle scars.

i've watched my child conquer the toddler slide, make friends with babies who looked different than she, and learn words simply by playing and listening to peers. she flourishes outdoors, kicks her shoes off and feels the sand in her toes type flourish. i watch her come alive, among smiles and a choir of teeny squeals, and i melt. every time we walk through these wooden castle gates her entire soul just opens up. so a few times a week, i slap on war paint, plaster a smile and make the wretched journey to a place where insecurity and culture clash reign, slinging boogie wipes and sippy cups in my duffle bag. dear mommies: it's on. and i takes no prisoners. 

.042 day 32

this reminded me of the south. of southern homes, with dulling paint, and squeaky porch floors from all the years of wear and tear. of oak trees in front lawns collecting memories of the children of the children of the folks who first planted it. of a father who worked in places that left dirt in nails and a mother who hung clean clothes on laundry lines. of children who trekked through familiar woods where branches hung and wet moss stained bottoms of feet.

but in reality, it was just the side of a first floor apartment, a few short feet away from trains tracks. home to, i imagined, a single mother with two children who shared a room and got bused to school each day. who wore keys around necks and ate top ramen after school while doing homework and watching cartoons and waiting for the sound of mom's keys to open the door. 

.041 day 31

melrose station. the place i went from child to teen then back again. where i walked train tracks, and sat beneath platforms, alone, when adolescence became unbearable. where i flattened pennies and smoked weed, and played chicken with on-coming trains.

this photo was purposeful. transitions becoming commonplace, as of late, i went there, to the place where childhood said goodbye, to simply say hello again. felt a jolt of sadness when i saw how much 'change' had settled in. there were steps now, and foreboding tracks below and glaring yellow warning signs on newly built platform edges. this place, my space, no longer feeling familiar, yet, still housing secret parts of me. proof, that even if you want to go backwards, the past no longer exists, and 'forward' ones only true option. 

.040 day 30

he didn't believe in technology. wrote all his works by hand. shunned my offer to buy him a computer. he'd only been behind the wheel once in his lifetime. a bike, his feet, his wings taking him here or there and back again. played tennis practically daily, and sweetly sung peace to anyone who passed him. every summer he'd buy bushels of crabs for his entire block while blasting reggae loud enough to make it a party. and most importantly, he never, ever, stopped listening to vinyl. his record collection, large and diverse, taking hours for me to go through, dissecting every album cover when i was a little girl. on the weekends, we'd listen to gregory isaacs, gil-scot heron and teena marie into the wee hours of the night, the smell of oils and his "special cigarettes, our ambiance.

this record player is the last thing i bought him. and now it sits in the garage, along with his record collection, his bike and a dark, rare picture of a disheveled billie holiday awaiting to make it's home where ever i finally decide to make mines. 

.039 day 29

and this is were my soul now dwells...

.038 day 28

technology. both, blessing and curse. the invention of instagram, both, bitter and sweet. 

sometimes wishing i'd captured shots with camera, not phone, just to see if i could produce the same energy. 

my day 28 photo is a recapture of a cell phone capture: raw sugar 



the original hipstamatic capture.