.438 here we are, reflections of a god gone mad

so much has been happening, i won't dare bore you with the details.

but for now,  toots' father penned a book, a rather great one, 
and on this day he bought over a shipment so that we could all open them and celebrate said accomplishment together.

("a poem for ronnie's daughter" a dedication to my father)

get your copy here: www.tevsmith.com

(p.s: i've been focused a lot on video as of late. 
this promo teaser is just a drop in the ocean of what i'm presently working on)

.433 toddler life

the first year of toots life was rocky. her mommy's brain was sick and then she was healing. her mommy's faith was shook and then she was praying. her mommy's father was sick and then and she was grieving...(a deep, seemingly endless, still springs up out of nowhere, type of grief).

so, on days when her 'terrible two' takes a turn for the worst, i remember that she's dealt with major emotional change since the day she was born and simply expresses it in all the beautifully draining ways that toddlers can do: tantrums. stubborn defiance. coloring on walls or floor boards or windows that her mommy sometimes colors on, too. 

she's my child in every sense i could imagine. creative, emotional, dramatically expressive. and on days like these past few ones have been, i take stock of all that makes her a ball of goodness in my eyes, because sometimes she's a just tiny stranger with a tornado in place of her emotions.

but, she knows her birthday, her abc's and all the letters to her name. knows, too, that a diamond is a rhombas and happily declares it when spotted on stain-glass windows or on sides of milk crates stacked high against concrete storefronts. she counts to twenty effortlessly and can now recite a tiny poem in sign language. she loves books and libraries and telling me bedtime stories rich with dragons and princesses and flying frogs on flying carpets. she'll choose an apple over candy and drinks water before apple juice all on her very own accord. 

i am extremely proud...and in awe...and overwhelmed...and in love...and, sometimes, drained, but, always grateful, that i get to be the mother to this little girl. with eyes like my father and the spirit of her grands, i am learning that all of me lives in the very core of who this sweet, amazingly beautiful soul is.

  

she told me to draw a picture of her. in her eyes, this was a masterpiece.

she drew me, too, but erased it immediately as she was inspired to draw a spider, instead. 

(pouting because it was too cold, and too late, for the playground)

.181 day 157

i was bred through books. every grandchild of my mother is bred through books. my parents, fond of concrete thought and lucid language, assured we all respected the power of the written word. tis' why her recent, sporadic, gift to me is one i shall cherish beyond...words.

my very first novel, 'roll of thunder, hear my cry' was read to me by 6th grade teacher, miss ruth. a stark look into the antebellum south through the eyes of cassie, a nine year old brown girl with a spitfire spirit, this book set my young mind down a premature path of black nationalism. every day, 30 minutes before the final bell was set to ring, miss ruth pulled out that book like the holy grail. our class room, full of rambunctious, mischievous pre-teens quieted on cue, for no matter how cool and aloof we acted, every one of us became mesmerized when she began to tell the ugly tale of racism, oh so beautifully. adorned with a vast variety of voices and dramatic facial expressions, it was easy to forget you were being read to, as the story played out in our charmed and growing minds cinematically. i was in love with it all and devoured every word. would go home and re-read the chapters over and over again. and by the time we collectively finished reading our tale, my mother had already bought me the sequel ('let the circle be unbroken') so i could remain in that place of educational thirst. from that point on, i eagerly sought and found myself within the borders of a really...good...book.

my mother's gift to me is an original, hard back copy of that beloved first novel. and just like that i am transported back into a time when summers and silence and sunshine and words filled me with only the sweetest parts there is of bliss...

 

“good friends, good books, and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life”

mark twain

.129 day 112

i love it. the shied on the front reminds me of my childhood fantasies. witches and ghosts and man killing mermaids. all the time, living in my imagination, a world of twisted enchantment traipse through my head. these pages, clean, crisp, bare, new. (i haven't the faintest idea what to put in here). these pages, pre-filled with invisible works, like blank promises i've made to my art.

there is a certain type of passion that exists on the bank of possibility. a tangible desire, an inexplicable thrill, that travels through my finger tips and settles in my pretty parts. mmmm, these pages, clean, crisp, bare, new...(are exciting me).

.099 day 84

i've kept a diary since 8th grade. filled with pain and prose and promise, they are an awkward glimpse into the lunacy of my legacy. daily dialect. they will be my daughter's history books. penned prayers. chaotic confirmation of all she questions. while pregnant, i wrote sporadically, leaving unknown gaps between each entry. after birth, i barely wrote at all. barely wrote at all until vulnerability spilled out the night before i said goodbye to my father (in this realm). 

my day 84 photo fell into place solely because my latest diary fell into view. scooping off floor, i ran fingers along the edge of ridged pages and worn tape. tape that symbolically shut out a part of my life i tried not to look back on. the last 5 years of my twenties. finding what works, shedding what doesn't. full of grown woman naivete and silly girl notions, secular secrets and nympho like remedies, thirty-something me cringes at the scribbled insanity of it all. 

but it isn't finished. and obsessive compulsive me has to finish it. but to do so, to continue telling the tales that brought me through the madness, i must un-tape the past...

.06 as it was written

sooo...this month was national novel writing month and i tried unsuccessfully to take part in it. i had good intentions, wrote about 1000 words within the first hour of the race. but as time went on, life got harder, and time to write became one big mock at my initial attempt. (sigh) but i suppose all is not lost. i, at least, am on my path to finishing my novel (that i also started solely for the competition) so i guess, on some level, nanowrimo did exactly what it was supposed to do: push me.

i want the next great literary novel that oprah raves about to be my work. i want the type of book that gets worn from over-reading, that you take to the bathroom with you, that you sneak pages in while at work, or school, or church. the type of book you take a picture of even though no one else can actually see the words...

yeah, i need for my book to be that good.

  

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