a seedhead dandelion born in brooklyn

NEW WEBSITE & BLOG

2010-02-25T17:31:00.000-08:00

I want to just direct everyone and welcome them to the new site, which is still being worked on by a dear friend of mine from MVMT. Overall, things are settled and this is where I will be blogging from now. For all things regarding myself you can come to this site: www.ajamonet.com
After today, I will no longer be blogging blogspot. Thanks to everyone for visiting my internet home. Much love and many blessings.

always,
aja monet

Every Drop Counts Chicago video montage

2010-02-06T13:22:00.000-08:00

HAITI BENEFIT – EVERY DROP COUNTS from UR Chicago on Vimeo.

Come With Me by Nneka

2010-01-23T23:39:00.000-08:00

Heartbeat by Nneka

2010-01-23T10:13:00.000-08:00

Nneka - Heartbeat
Uploaded by FourMusic. - See the latest featured music videos.

Every Drop Counts Chicago

2010-01-17T17:34:00.000-08:00

In the wake of recent tragic events in Haiti. I have been working tirelessly with a group of other incredible individuals to organize a huge benefit concert here in Chicago. In the midst of trying to create this event over the course of a few days we have been incorporated and are now working to provide water to Haiti by fundraising as much money as possible over the next couple of weeks. It came to me that there was no way I could simply watch the horrifying news in the comfort of my home and not help in some way, shape, or form. I am asking all of my blog followers and friends to please follow our Every Drop Counts blog. Please donate to our efforts. Haiti can not survive this great devastation without our coming together... If you are in the Chicago area, please come out and support our Benefit Concert on January 31st, 2010.

Sade's NEW MUSIC VIDEO!!

2010-01-11T12:13:00.000-08:00

I am certain that many Sade fans across the world have been waiting for the release of her first debut music video as much as they are awaiting her new album release. Sade could have just stared at the camera for the whole video and I would have been pleased. I am truly a fan of her music and persona. She is gorgeously talented and miraculously full of soul and depth. Her voice is a rather peculiar instrument that confronts the spirit of sound and vibration. I am always moved by her music and she has been the soundtrack to my life. My mother was always a huge Sade fan and so I learned of my love for music through her having been raised with Sade songs playing in the background of my childhood. Often times people think of her somber tone as a downer but for so many reasons it allowed me to channel the voice of a soul, to understand the complexity of emotion in our existence, and to be grateful for true poetry. I am delighted and honored to be sharing her music with you all. I truly hope one day I can collaborate with this woman. Perhaps that is me dreaming exponentially but I rather to dream above anything at all. It sustains my hope and passion. For those of you that recall a couple of months ago, I posted a song that Charles Hamilton and I did together called "Rosado" using the infamous Sade-sound. Look it up. But for now I'd like to share with you all the link to Sade's new music video for her song, SOLDIER OF LOVE. Watch video here!!

my new anthem.

2009-12-22T01:03:00.000-08:00

i absolutely love this woman and her voice. i am sooo excited about her new upcoming album. she is my favorite. never fails to make incredible music.

share a poem

2009-12-13T14:31:00.000-08:00

A LITANY FOR SURVIVAL

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children's mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother's milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive

- Audre Lorde, The Black Unicorn

her voice is butterfly and moonshine

2009-12-01T00:21:00.000-08:00

To all my CHICAGO friends...

2009-11-27T16:11:00.000-08:00

Here's my first show out in Chicago this week on December 2nd. If you're around please support the show!!
2109 S. State Street
Chicago, IL. 60616
Doors @ 7:30pm
Show starts @ 8pm
17+ to enter/21+ to drink
ONLY $8.00

Tomorrow Kings - http://www.myspace.com/tomorrowkingschicago
Tomorrow Kings is a group of seven emcees and one DJ with a wealth of musical styles and artistic directions at their command. The central aim of the collective is to break the typical mold usually prescribed to Hip Hop artists through creative deviations that shed light on life in a globalized and postmodern world. With several distinct styles of delivery and cadence along with their own varied influences, each emcee plays their part. These roles range from traditional storytelling and skill rhymes to vivid hardcore imagery and avant-garde soundscapes and lyrics reminiscent of John Coltrane or Ornette Coleman. Tackling subjects like religion, social change and global politics, each member expresses themselves in their own unique way, yet display a colleagueship which results in multidirectional and electrifying musical rawness. You would need to witness it to get a glimpse of what's happening here. Composed of multitalented creative technicians known for taking the mold, shattering it, and representing several facets of reality for what they are, Tomorrow Kings is self destined to release an aesthetic ethos so universally transformative that life as we know it would fade into black if it failed to imitate their art.

BBU - http://www.myspace.com/binladenblowinup
BBU, the politically correct abbreviation for Bin Laden Blowin’ Up or Black Brown and Ugly. No Not terrorists, and not your average cool guys thinking of the latest band name with the most shock value. Rather,BBUis a Juke infused, B-More inspired, Punk influenced trio of Hip-Hop activists landing somewhere between MIA and Dead Prez in the middle of Chicago, IL. The group started in the DIY Leftist basements and underground spaces of West Chicago and have grown to find themselves on stage beside the likes ofDiplo,BurakaSom Sistema, Dead Prez, Hollywood Holt, DJ Sega, Wale, and more. Their viral hit “ChiDon’t Dance” was given an “8.0” of best new tracks and declared a “bonafide summer jam" by Pitchfork Media which garnered much praise from many other media outlets as well. BBU's approach to Hip-Hop digs deep into its roots, combining the old with new to bring the fans 110%.“We’re here to educate and celebrate,” says Epic of BBU. “We all come from harsh backgrounds, but we’ve stepped above that,” exclaims Illekt. When asked why BBU does what they do, Jasson Perez states that for BBU it is about “making a connection to the culture, to the movement.”

Black Orchard - http://www.myspace.com/blackorchardgroup
Black Orchard is a hip hop fusion band coming out the Southside of chicago. Bass, keys, drums, with a singer and two mad lyricists. You couldn't ask for much more. The band’s strong point beyond the music is simply the live show, something you don't want to miss.

Aja-Monet - http://www.myspace.com/aja_monet
Aja-Monet is a Cuban-Jamaican poet originally from East NY, Brooklyn, residing in Chicago, IL. At 22 years old, she is currently the youngest Grand Slam Champion of the Lower East side's legendary Nuyorican Poet's Café. Her work is classically surrealist, engaging altogether Hip Hop, Soul, and literary audiences. She dedicates her time and energy working with inner-city adolescence, providing performance poetry workshops and opportunities. Aja-Monet received her B.A. from Sarah Lawrence College and is currently working on her MFA in Writing at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Inkslam Los Angeles Poetry Festival

2009-11-27T09:41:00.000-08:00

Earlier this month, I was invited to conduct a poetry workshop for the 1st annual Inkslam Poetry Festival in Los Angeles, hosted and produced by good friend and poet, Shihan. The festival consisted of a series of workshops as well as a Poetry Slam. My workshop took place two of the festival days and it was an incredible experience. I plan to add along with this blog an audio clip that was recorded and sent to me from the workshop as well as some of the writing produced by the participants. First I think I should provide the description for the workshop to help you gain a bit of a clearer perspective on what it is I am working on and with, when teaching this workshop. It was created when I was asked to teach at Omega Institute a center for Holistic studies. The workshop has been extremely successful with people and their personal artisitic walks in life. It has been humbling to be reminded of what the workshop has meant to people over time, it seems to participate and function as a spark for life changing realizations where participants find themselves reflecting on the world around them differently. I do not guarantee any type of results with the workshop but it has proven to take a life of its own always. Because the work that I do as a poet and teacher is such a critical and crucial part to my own process as a bettering human being, I am often amazed by some of the results of certain artistic scenarios I often find myself in. Particularly with this festival, it was a cornerstone in much of my growth, and in spite of all the personal issues I was confronting during this time, my consolation came in the work, in the connecting with individuals. The workshop and performance, provided a framework and context for me and my life. I have come very far in the grand scheme of things and often times I am continually reminding myself, if the little 13 year old Aja from Brooklyn could see the 22 year old Aja now, my, would she be amazed. Often times I forget the range of my experiences and the conditioning it has provided me to be an all around transformative being. I am a testimony for many young women and men. I take responsibility for my art and hold myself accountable to the person I am. This is not a gimic, this is my life. For example: It would be hypocritical for me if, as a woman, I hope to inspire the greateness in other women and speak to them of never lowering their expectations in certain scenarios, and then in my own I prove to be an example of a weathering individual who continues to allow herself to be mistreated etc. I am always working to be a better person but am aware of my own flaws. This is a process and the workshop speaks to us surrendering to our own process while also learning how to find alternative processes. Poetry has always been for me, a means to get through, to understand, and to reliquish control. I have been horrified by some of the things I have come to share and open up about, but its real, its raw, its thorough. The expression has been where I have found freedom and this is where I would love to input Audre Lordes; "For women, then, poetry is not a luxury..." Anyway, here is a description of the workshop:

Surrendering to the Metaphor: A search for meaning
Humanity fears the void, fears the in ability to reconcile experience through communication. Through poetry, hip hop, theatre, etc. as a vehicle of traveling, we explore creative inhibitions and the human need to create meaning of experience, the importance of vibration, of sound, and the performing body. What is metaphor and how do we use it in these mediums? How does observation and emotional observation carry a poet into a realm of something utterly other? What do words mean to us and how do we exude meaning from them? These are some questions we will raise. Let us begin with the things we can say and remember the ways we feel them in spite of what we can not.
Here are two posts by particpants:
by April Rose Rojas:
this was after we did an energy exercise and read an excerpt of discrimination during the Surrending to the metaphor workshop at inkslam.

Maybe if I could feel like this I wouldn't be so numb. If every cell was alive in my life... Maybe I'd feel I deserve to live. I want to kiss you into existence. In the morning light lets shake and shimmy until we can breathe a little easier. Lets dance our way into a good mood. Lets yell out frowns until our smiles are resurrected. I want to feel anew. lets rebirth ourselves, live through me. because that is the only way. I will be, you can witness and draw from me. I am your life or your downfall. You chose what I am to you. Silence is not always bliss. The quiet unerves the locked doors hybernation is over, issues come out to play. The stagnant is making my scars and scabs itch. They never healed properly. I want to scratch them open and bleed problems. Maybe they will heal on their own. Meditate on nothing... so I can feel everything. Listen to silence, it has more to say than you think. Close your eyes to see... stop talking to be heard. Go deaf and dwell on what you know, to listen to what is really being said. Can you hear life calling attendance? Don't let distractions make you absent. Conscious takes effort. But something you have to let go to be aware. Create yourself. Not what the world is leading you to be.

The workshop was really great and vulnerable. Thanks to everyone who contributed to it and allowed themselves to be as open as they were. I am sure the Eye Exercise was something we all hold dear to our hearts and I appreciate everyone for being apart of it. Hope you all are well.

by Def Sound:
Some of this makes sense, some of this doesn't much like life, make of it what you will. I experienced an Aja Monet workshop on surrendering to metaphor about 2 weeks ago (Shouts 2 Ink Slam) I was prompted to write down the first 50 words (Which I capitalized in the piece) that came to my mind in 3 minutes then I was asked 2 piece together a piece with those 50 words in 5 minutes (Only 39 of the 50 were used) here is what was spawned. Enjoy.

Men Live Unrealistic Lack of Serious Lessons Create Casualties Everything Evolved Fast Q-Tip's Influenced Argentinian Instruments Fancy like Fiona Currently my Mind Sights Imus Splattered Vibrant Simply looking pretty ugly Idiosyncrasies Please Masonry Wack Collections of Noble Plastic Zombies twilight zoning permits permit Insurmountable Imaginations we Exercise Excitement Earthlings Click Ignore.

-Def

Here is an excerpt recording from the workshop:

Aja-Surrendering 2 Metaphor by Defsound84

I would like to thank everyone that participated in the festival and also a special thanks to Shihan who was incredible throughout the whole week. Much love and respect. I was also sent a link to one of my performances at the slam. It was a very unexpected poem written solely for the purpose of my own sanity and therapy. It was the first piece I had written in a long time that came to me like a running faucet. I do not plan to perform the poem again. But since I have received many messages, phonecalls, and conversations regarding what it has meant to other women and men. I figured I'd post it up here. It provided a strange source of freedom and healing at a very necessary time, when I believed I truly had given up on myself. Thank you to everyone that kept me together throughout the week. I am learning more and more about myself each day and hope to never be solely defined by any given moment or time. I am a compilation of experiences and I am learning to find my voice in the most oppressive of situations. My spirit has learned resilience and love in such profound ways. Enjoy...

....

Saul Williams writes for Essence Magazine...

2009-11-21T18:06:00.000-08:00

As an artist and alumnus of the historically Black male institution, Morehouse College, I was dismayed, ‘though not surprised, to learn of their recent decision to ban cross-dressing on their campus, along with do-rags, sagging pants, and headwear (grills?), as part of it’s new ‘dress code’. Morehouse is a private institution that has worked tirelessly at uplifting the image and esteem of African-American men for generations and thus has every right to enforce the codes of conduct and expression that it sees as beneficial to its’ student body, yet it’s conservative/traditionalist ideology is sometimes at odds with the progressive awareness that it would seemingly hope to instill, or even more importantly, nurture in it’s students. Furthermore, it’s stride to maintain a highbrow mystique seems to lie solely in its preparation of young men to enter the Fortune 500 or some ministerial fellowship, with little and waning interests in the arts or the importance of creative expression.

My first day at Morehouse was the last day I combed my hair. I couldn’t wait to twist and lock what my father had insisted I comb, while sleeping in his house. I knew that my time away from church and home was specially suited to be just that: My time. And I planned to use it wisely to express and explore all that I was on the verge of discovering. Here was where I ‘d be given the space and, perhaps, the inspiration to question aspects of my upbringing, harness new disciplines, pursue my passions, and, quite simply, mature. I didn’t find it particularly bothersome when, during that first week, my freshman brothers and I were told, “Morehouse men do not wear locks”, that I’d have to cut my hair to sing in their prestigious Glee Club (this about the same time that my father told me I should cut my hair to be in my sisters wedding), and that, although I would declare myself a philosophy and drama major at Morehouse, I would have to take all of my drama classes at another historically Black institution, Spelman College, across the street, because Morehouse (although it offered the major in it’s course book) had no drama department of it’s own.

No drama, no dreadlocks, did little to curb my enthusiasm or stop me and other classmates from expressing new growth through hair and hip. Young men going to school to find themselves, who, in turn, find themselves suppressed by the short-sighted mandates of an authority that has a simple task of nurturing rather than negating, will simply blossom despite rather than because of their administrative elders. And, although being pulled aside by a school dean and asked how we expected to fair at a job interview might officially intimidate some, for others, like myself, it simply confirmed that they were old school and had not yet come to accept the world that we were crafting. This was not new news. We had all grown up with parents who questioned our musical taste and renderings reflected through fashion and slang. A confidence and swagger that simply didn’t exist in the era of our elders defined our generation, so we were used to explaining La Di Da Di to frowning grandparents and professors.

I, personally, had no problem leaving my all-male campus to enter the all female institution across the street for drama classes. It was on Spelman’s campus that I acted, danced, recited poems, added formative layers to my creative process, and even received compliments on my hair. While Morehouse in both real and symbolic ways represented more and more of the world I had gone to college to escape; a world where I saw hypocrisy and tradition intertwined, then neatly placed under the bureaucratic robe of authority.

The fact that my college seemed unprepared for me and the generation of artists that I've grown to be a part of, says a lot about the social climate that followed my graduation. A time when Hip Hop aligned itself with bankers and gangsters and would be artists found greater merit in referring to themselves as businessmen than as artists. The transformative power of art was harnessed and used to knock down the walls of the music, fashion, and film industries, while the art itself suffered. Music no longer pushed against the status quo, rather, it upheld it. Movies amounted to soup’d up church plays. Public schools lost their music and art programs. Colleges and universities, such as Morehouse, found bank and business CEO’s to manage their affairs and became little more than product assembly lines turning out the latest in a conservative male model that simply saw art as escape.

Freedom of expression is Art Appreciation 101 and a tenant deeply rooted in American democracy. The fight for those freedoms has placed American arts and artists in a category all their own. The role that art plays in shaping American society is unparalleled and quite often unpredictable. And the role that African American artists play and have played in defining exactly what American art is, is undeniable. These lessons, which for me, came as a male visitor on Spelman’s all female campus serves as the basis of the sort of dialogue that has all but skipped a generation born after the Black Arts Movement.

So what happens when prestigious institutions, like Morehouse, overlook the value of expression and instead choose to align themselves with the merits of an elite business school? And what do the cross-dressing students that were recently made to change clothes by Morehouse’s administration have to do with my wild hair and me? Everything. Until these institutions acknowledge the inseparable links between freedom and expression, the same forces that suppress free thought and progressive change will suppress art and the evolving consciousness surrounding it. And when our universities align themselves with forces that suppress free thought and progressive change, they get more like churches and less like schools.

All this to say: I decided to wear a skirt to my alma mater, last week, and they weren’t too happy about it. Diligently Southern in its hospitality, the administration congratulated me on my merits and asked me kindly to leave its premises. They said that they had to enforce their new dress code on campus so that their students would follow suit. As I was leaving, an openly gay student government member approached me in a suit. He told me that he exemplified how a Morehouse man should dress because he was prepared. “Prepared for what?” I asked. “Prepared in case someone wanted to interview me for a job.” he said. Before speaking he had signed the waiver that the cameraman beside me was holding. He knew he was being filmed as part of a documentary that Afro Punk was making as we crossed the country. “Perfect!” I said. “You get the job.”

c. Saul Williams

i heart q tip

2009-11-18T15:46:00.000-08:00

wooord. shout out to Amanda DIva and Shanelle Gabriel!!!!

Random free rite

2009-11-16T12:56:00.000-08:00

As of late, I have been writing endlessly/am burdened by the games my mind plays with words/with ideas. I have let my hands loose on the page/I find myself quoting scripture again, returning to the gospel of my childhood/the other day I began a novel/felt the sentences cowering like sirens growing into song/there is a ghost that visits me in my dreams and offers me coffee and cigarettes/shows me secret passageways/ I am recognizing my strange source of freedom/how it can anger and confuse/makes it impossible for anyone to ever control a woman so in love with God/so amazed by the intricacy of our concentrated love, the construction of our existence/ I've been writing useless poems about our suffering, our loss of love which confronts our suffering/I have been creating magic, haunting these poems with the worship of love/I am no longer disappointed but remembering my own embrace/I store my laughter all around my home/in cabinets, on shelves, in the shower faucet, underneath the staircase, in the arch of my roof/ I'm not sure if people are intrinsically good or bad, am neither here nor there in my understanding of others/I am trusting that I know nothing and yet I know everything/I am okay with being a woman, both emotion and mind/I no longer fear the hysteria of our honesty, am disgusted by those who mock our fountain of intelligence/but I am a lover of men most honest with themselves, therein with us, those most intent on loving in spite of suffering and insecurity/I have always been a child most intrigued by broken things/and my poems are only dark to people that hide themselves in shadows and night/call my technique feeling and emotion/call my genre spirit and soul/ but remember me a woman who smiled/it is because I have spent time with my tears that I most love the way the corners of my mouth spread in joy, how the dimples deepen and sink into my cheeks/some days I am annoyed by the ramble of my yelling giggle but boy, is that girl beautiful when she laughs/more and more as I am writing, I learn that God is teaching me how to navigate this world of boxes and fear, the woman I am learning to become/surely I have never met a woman like the one I believe I am and will become but I have found her in the shadows of other women/I am trying to find an effective mode of communicating my strangeness/ but trust that I will be understood/i want to be articulate and strong but not at the expense of my need for support and tenderness/simply because I am wonderful in my struggle does not deny the mystery in my fragility/ if God is change than I know holy like a tornado narrative/somethings are absolute, should be less frightening than we make them/ I rather a more profound life but it is never in opposition to the comedy of our paradox/the writing is helping make sense of the horror/ it is the horror of our self affliction, of our loss and our undeniable longing/here is a woman transformed by her process and learning to be honest, no matter how brutal, no matter the revelation.....

Always,
Aja monet

(i am experimenting on a new media approach to spoken and written word for an independent project I am working on in my masters program here in chicago. being that we are working on bridging the gap between the spoken and written fields, i am now planning to provide audio of me reading all and any of my written work on this blog. and would appreciate if people could perhaps comment on what the audio does that the words dont and vice versa. hopefully that is clear. feel free to speak freely and openly always.)

random free rite 11_16 by aja_monet

i think robyn is so flyy...

2009-11-12T12:53:00.000-08:00

share a poem

2009-11-12T12:51:00.001-08:00

Continual Conversation With A Silent Man
by Wallace Stevens

The old brown hen and the old blue sky,
Between the two we live and die--
The broken cartwheel on the hill.

As if, in the presence of the sea,
We dried our nets and mended sail
And talked of never-ending things,

Of the never-ending storm of will,
One will and many wills, and the wind,
Of many meanings in the leaves,

Brought down to one below the eaves,
Link, of that tempest, to the farm,
The chain of the turquoise hen and sky

And the wheel that broke as the cart went by.
It is not a voice that is under the eaves.
It is not speech, the sound we hear

In this conversation, but the sound
Of things and their motion: the other man,
A turquoise monster moving round.

missing home...

2009-11-12T11:32:00.000-08:00

SHOUT OUT TO BROOKLYN!

strength

2009-11-08T17:48:00.000-08:00

Rihanna proved to be incredible in this interview on 20/20. I admire her confidence, her discernment, and her compassion....

i performed in Bermuda!!

2009-11-02T10:20:00.000-08:00

Okay, so around a little less than a month ago, I got the incredible opportunity to perform in Bermuda, thanks to an incredible Bermudian fan of my work, ms. Yesha. She was a complete sweetheart and took care of everything while I was out there in Bermuda. She also booked friends; Shanelle Gabriel, Rafael Casal, Mayda del valle, and Jason Reynolds. The entire experience was pretty incredible and I really enjoyed myself. Shanelle kept a video camera with her the whole time and put together some footage so I am going to post that along with some photos from the trip. Shout out to all my Bermudian friends and fans! You guys truly know how to treat a lady... (fyi thanks to shanelle I plan to get my video blogging game up. keep posted for those soon) all my love, aja

FOR MORE PHOTOS ON OUR TRIP IN BERMUDA, CLICK HERE

shes my alter ego singer-self. word.

2009-11-01T22:02:00.000-08:00

bullet!! lawda mercy.

share a poem

2009-11-01T18:53:00.000-08:00

Do Not Ask Me
by Pablo Neruda

Some people ask me that human affairs
with names, surnames and laments
not be dealt with in the pages of my books,
not to give them space in my verses:
they say poetry died here,
some say I should not do it:
the truth is I do not want to please them.
I greet them, I tip my hat to them,
and I leave them voyaging in Parnassus
like happy rats in cheese.
I belong to another category,
I am only a man of flesh and bones,
therefore if they beat my brother
I defend him with what I have in hand
and each one of my lines carries
the threat of gunpowder or steel,
that will fall over the inhuman,
over the cruel and over the arrogant.
But the punishment of my furious peace
menaces neither the poor nor the good:
with my lamp I search for those who fall:
I soothe and close their wounds:
these are the chores of the poet
of the aviator and of the stonecutter:
we should do something on this earth
because we were born on this planet
and we must arrange man’s society
because we are neither birds nor dogs.
And so, if when I attack what I hate,
or when I sing to those I love,
poetry wants to abandon
the hopes of my manifesto,
I’ll follow the letter of my law
accumulating stars and armaments
and in my steadfast duty to America
one more rose does not matter:
I have a pact of love with beauty:
I have a pact of blood with my people.

i love her.

2009-10-30T16:37:00.000-07:00

alicia is beautiful, as always, in this new music video of hers...

support the GET BACK movement!

2009-10-24T12:44:00.001-07:00

shout out to my boy Rafa!! And to the whole First Wave crew! Yall are dope!

"woman is slave to the slave"

2009-10-23T11:38:00.000-07:00

TRUE STORY!!

National Day of Protest to Stop Police Brutality...

2009-10-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

Today was an important day for many reasons. I have waited for a while to release some important images exposing a group of Harlem police officers. October 22nd has been acclaimed as the National Day of Protest against Police Brutality and so I decided that perhaps today would be best. I'm sure not many have heard of this day and that it has not been publicized very much but I have decided to post specific photos I took some months ago. As a poet and citizen, I believe I have license to articulate my frustrations with the current state of the New York City administration but with the advice of good and loyal friends I have had to wait a while before writing this blog. Before moving to Chicago, I lived on one of the most notably beautiful blocks in Harlem better known as Strivers Row. Although I've moved around a bit in the past through out Harlem, this block was particularly special to have lived on because it reminds me most of my high school days, when I used to visit the Sugar Shack on the corner of 139th street and Fredrick Douglas for late night poetry. The Sugar Shack poetry nights were in its prime back then, I remember some nights were so packed we'd be standing out by the door leaning our heads through the bodies so we could get a listen to who ever was on the mic. In those days I was traveling from East NY, Brooklyn and I'd get in so much trouble for staying out past my curfew in Harlem. But I remembered the block as though it were a fixture in my childhood, it is a whimsical tree lined block where brown soul plays like the saxophone that used to hum me to sleep in the humid summer of New York. Harlem was never as intimidating as my mother thought it to be, it became home, like a walking talking picture book I flipped through so often the edges aged with my finger prints. The neighborhood was in the beginning stages of its gentrification so I needed not worry too much, it meant white folk were around, so the police I'm sure wouldn't be too far off. This is my issue. Harlem is losing the very vibrancy of its past and though I am aware of time and its many weathering ways, it seems that it is fighting almost every day for its right to be sanctuary to the stories it holds most sacred and secret. If the streets of Harlem could talk, I'd bet they'd shout, they'd shout like a storefront Baptist preacher on Sunday fighting to keep hope alive. And so this brings me to one late night evening in Harlem this past summer where I witnessed a situation much like a "high tech lynching" in the back of my building. Strivers Row is unique in that they are a few of the only blocks with alleyways in Harlem which arent many. From my apartment window I was able to take photos of an entire abusive police situation with two black brothers drinking liquor together and joking. At the time, I was on the phone with my homegirl from California, sitting on my couch with my back facing the window. In the middle of our conversation because my window was open wide, I heard a bunch of loud men talking outside and as they proceeded to get louder my friend asked me what was going on. That is when I turned around and propped myself up to the window ledge where I saw two black men trying to have a conversation with four police officers. I immediately informed my friend of the situation and she quieted so that we could both hear what was taking place. In listening to the discussion I quickly learned that the men were brothers, one was a bit more drunk and loud than the other, which made the more sober brother assertive and on the defense to try and calmly explain that they were residents of the near building and were simply engaging in a brotherly drinking session in their back alley. The officers asked for the men to show their ID's and this is the moment I believe the situation escalated because one of the brothers, the more loud and drunk one, began to exclaim that he was doing nothing wrong and therefore was not required to give him ID, that as a resident he believed this to be harassment. Though he were loud, I believe his articulation and presence immediately "alarmed" the officers. He simply believed that two brothers in an alley way drinking and enjoying a nice evening was harmless. I thought this man seemed to have forgotten that he was a black man, that he was "a large black man" and this above all things has been known to "threaten" the presence of whiteness. It seems the other more sober brother were more aware of where this scene was heading because he kept yelling for his brother to shut up, insisting to the officers that he just had a little too much to drink. At this point the count of officers quickly increased from four, to six, to nine, turning in to a mob of over fifteen officers surrounding these two men. I described the scene to my friend in a whisper . As I looked around to see if anyone else was looking, I watched as a white woman directly across from my building wearing a silk robe on her balcony looked down on to the scene with me. I was suddenly in awe of her composure, her shoulders were comfortable and relaxed, at ease with the visceral image at hand. She took a cup to her lips and sipped while her other hand rested on her hip. It angered me that she was so complacent. My shoulders tensed especially when the count of officers went from four to nine and while on the phone with my homegirl I picked up my newly given Nikon camera off the coffee table, began taking pictures, and because I had a lens best suited for close ups and portraits unfortunately I wasn't able to zoom in or out. However, the pictures were good enough to point out that there is something entirely wrong with over fifteen cops tackling two unarmed black men. While the men were already down on the ground under fifteen bodies one of the cops sprayed one of the men with mase which was completely unnecessary while what appeared to be the captain, stood aside throwing his fists onto the sides of these men.

Now in order to address my reason for holding these photos I need to articulate what took place in the coming days after. When sharing them with a friend who worked for the city council member, Inez Dickens, he saw incredible wrong being done and informed me of options for action with photos like these. He remained mostly neutral and protective of my safety, after much back and forth he suggested that there may be more use made of them if Dickens handled them and addressed the issue with Mayor Bloomberg. Although it seemed to be a sketchy political move, I figured that perhaps giving them would get the officers of the Precinct reprimanded, thoroughly investigated, and forced to apologize to the men and community. Because I did not want direct or really any involvement in the sharing of these photos I chose to remain anonymous. The photos were shown to Inez Dickens and I was then informed that Dickens immediately scheduled a meeting with Bloomberg and another of his representatives where she showed the pictures to the Mayor and apparently he was to take action in investigating the entire Precinct and the situation of arresting these two black men. Now I am not sure how much investigating Mr. good ol' Bloomberg did into this precinct but all I know is that a few days later, word around the block was that two "agents" (men in jetblack suits) went around knocking on doors, trying to get window view from people's apartments as to assess whose window were the pictures taken from. I assume they wanted my "testimony." Luckily, that no one in the neighborhood seemed to have seen or known anything. Not shortly after I spoke with a friend of mine who works for the Malcolm X Grassroots movement and informed him of the situation, at the time he was concerned with my safety and with also getting the pictures so that the movement could archive them etc. Unfortunately, at times like these you don't really know what to do or who to trust because these are issues of politics nowadays more than injustice etc. It is possible that these photos will not matter to anyone but particularly because I find politicians to be most dangerous to any cause other than themselves, I think its crucial to speak to the fact that we as a people need to create agency for ourselves where we can expose wrong without the fear of disappearing or being silenced. I am terrified of having to watch people in my neighborhood bow to the abuse of power exercised in communities where people of color are struggling to survive and afford their homes. They deserve protection and should not be treated as predators. There is no excuse for a mob of over fifteen police officers to two black men, no matter what they were doing.

It is a privilege in many ways to be deliberate with race expression and representation and though the many instances of police brutality in NYC may not be indicative of the entire police department, it addresses the hampering habit of practicing racial intimidation and the abuse of authority. This is not meant to impose or support an inferiority complex within the black community of Harlem, rather to express the social and political dilemmas that leadership must address. In regards to the two black men who may have been drinking publicly, let me say that our flaws and foolish actions are never a reflection or explanation of an entire race and simply because our physical presence has historically terrified whiteness we have always had to be apologetic. It was disheartening to watch as one of the brothers tried desperately to negotiate a conversation with officers, apologizing profusely for his brother speaking negatively of the police approach in hopes of avoiding a brutal aftermath. What makes this worse is that some of the police officers involved in this arrest were black, if I'm not mistaken so was the Captain. This means that whiteness is not just a physical embodiment but can also be a state of mind. It is a problem that a black person is almost readily even feverishly intimidated by the presence of a police officer more still that we are convinced we have done something wrong even before we have done anything at all. The contemporary black harlemite seems rather all-enduring conflicted by the change this country longs to see and the very real manifestations of white entitlement, to be but also live where they please. It may be in part true that black folk have given Harlem away to move elsewhere, I do not blame the aged of us that choose to leave a community where "safety" didn't become a concern for the police department until a specific type of persons moved into Harlem. Harlem, the cornerstone of Black Arts and movement, the home of where I've fallen in love with poetry and storytelling, has become a different neighborhood altogether. The Sugar Shack that I loved so very much in my high school adolesence is no longer existing and is now an up and running pizza/deli. The Strivers Row block that so confidently speaks of beautiful history is also witness to the horror of discrimination, abuse, and belittlement reminiscent of the early 1900 racism we've only heard of in textbooks and watched on black and white television screens.

This discourse can be applied to any gentrified neighborhood across this country and for those of us in much more remote places, in parts of this world where these cases are rarely spoken of because there aren't as many eyes watching, we should hold ourselves accountable to document these injustices taking place within our community and must voice our issues. I do think it is primarily important to be concerned with our own safety thus why I have been careful up until now with who I've spoken to about this situation. As for these two black men, there is no way to be sure of justice being served but perhaps this is ordinary to their expectations of the police department. I'm not sure as to what step should be taken next, if these men have even bothered with filing for a complaint but this is not okay and policing neighborhoods in this way is not ever called for. With the advancement of technology we are given agency, we have seen what cell phone cameras can capture, cases such as Oscar Grant and Derrion Albert, we must learn to be aware. And we must hold our leaders accountable to addressing these issues. Dear Mayor Bloomberg, what are you doing about the abuse of authority under your administration, about the loss of decency and respect, integrity and honesty? Where is the accountability for these men? These photos are now open to public view. I have so many of them that I wont post them all. I hope above all things that this blog helps to awaken the consciousness of us as a people in light of all that has been happening within our country. "We are the ones we've been waiting for" We must demand positive change and attention to the issues that concern us.

Share a poem

2009-10-21T07:45:00.000-07:00

Inheritance—His by Audre Lorde

I.
My face resembles your face
less and less each day. When I was young
no one mistook whose child I was.
Features build coloring
alone among my creamy fine-boned sisters
marked me Byron's daughter.

No sun set when you died, but a door
opened onto my mother. After you left
she grieved her crumpled world aloft
an iron fist sweated with business symbols
a printed blotter dwell in the house of Lord's
your hollow voice changing down a hospital corridor
yea, though I walk through the valley
of the shadow of death
I will fear no evil.

II.
I rummage through the deaths you lived
swaying on a bridge of question.
At seven in Barbados
dropped into your unknown father's life
your courage vault from his tailor's table
back to the sea.
Did the Grenada treeferns sing
your 15th summer as you jumped ship
to seek your mother
finding her too late
surrounded with new sons?

Who did you bury to become the enforcer of the law
the handsome legend
before whose raised arm even trees wept
a man of deep and wordless passion
who wanted sons and got five girls?
You left the first two scratching in a treefern's shade
the youngest is a renegade poet
searching for your answer in my blood.

My mother's Grenville tales
spin through early summer evenings.
But you refused to speak of home
of stepping proud Black and penniless
into this land where only white men
ruled by money. How you labored
in the docks of the Hotel Astor
your bright wife a chambermaid upstairs
welded love and survival to ambition
as the land of promise withered
crashed the hotel closed
and you peddle dawn-bought apples
from a push-cart on Broadway.

Does an image of return
wealthy and triumphant
warm your chilblained fingers
as you count coins in the Manhattan snow
or is it only Linda
who dreams of home?

When my mother's first-born cries for milk
in the brutal city winter
do the faces of your other daughters dim
like the image of the treeferned yard
where a dark girl first cooked for you
and her ash heap still smells of curry?

III.
Did the secret of my sisters steal your tongue
like I stole money from your midnight pockets
stubborn and quaking
as you threaten to shoot me if I am the one?
The naked lightbulbs in our kitchen ceiling
glint off your service revolver
as you load whispering.

Did two little dark girls in Grenada
dart like flying fish
between your averted eyes
and my pajamaless body
our last adolescent summer?
Eavesdropped orations
to your shaving mirror
our most intense conversations
were you practicing how to tell me
of my twin sisters abandoned
as you had been abandoned
by another Black woman seeking
her fortune Grenada Barbados
Panama Grenada.
New York City.

IV.
You bought old books at auctions
for my unlanguaged world
gave me your idols Marcus Garvey Citizen Kane
and morsels from your dinner plate
when I was seven.
I owe you my Dahomeyan jaw
the free high school for gifted girls
no one else thought I should attend
and the darkness that we share.
Our deepest bonds remain
the mirror and the gun.

V.
An elderly Black judge
known for his way with women
visits this island where I live
shakes my hand, smiling.
"I knew your father," he says
"quite a man!" Smiles again.
I flinch at his raised eyebrow.
A long-gone woman's voice
lashes out at me in parting
"You will never be satisfied
until you have the whole world
in your bed!"

Now I am older than you were when you died
overwork and silence exploding your brain.
You are gradually receding from my face.
Who were you outside the 23rd Psalm?
Knowing so little
how did I become so much
like you?

Your hunger for rectitude
blossoms into rage
the hot tears of mourning
never shed for you before
your twisted measurements
the agony of denial
the power of unshared secrets.

interesting australian ad

2009-10-21T00:02:00.000-07:00

one of my favorites

2009-10-17T22:02:00.000-07:00

unforgiveable

2009-10-16T22:55:00.000-07:00

sorry

by Ntozake Shange

one thing i dont need
is any more apologies
i got sorry greetin me at my front door
you can keep yrs
i dont know what to do wit em
they dont open doors
or bring the sun back
they dont make me happy
or get a mornin paper
didnt nobody stop usin my tears to wash cars
cuz a sorry

i am simply tired
of collectin
i didnt know
i was so important toyou’
i’m gonna haveta throw some away
i cant get to the clothes in my closet
for alla sorries
i’m gonna tack a sign to my door
leave a message by the phone
‘if you called
to say yr sorry
call somebody
else
i dont use em anymore’
i let sorry/didnt meanta/& how cd i know abt that
take a walk down a dark & musty street in brooklyn
i’m gonna do exactly what i want to
& i wont be sorry for none of it
letta sorry soothe yr soul/i’m gonna soothe mine

you were always inconsistent
doin somethin & then bein sorry
beatin my heart to death
talkin bout you sorry
well
i will not call
i’m not goin to be nice
i will raise my voice
& scream & holler
& break things & race the engine
& tell all yr secrets bout yrself to yr face
& i will list in detail everyone of my wonderful lovers
& their ways
i will play oliver lake
loud
& i wont be sorry for none of it

i loved you on purpose
i was open on purpose
i still crave vulnerability & close talk
& i’m not even sorry bout you bein sorry
you can carry all the guilt & grime ya wanna
just dont give it to me
i cant use another sorry
next time
you should admit
you’re mean/low-down/triflin/& no count straight out
steada bein sorry alla the time
enjoy bein yrself

(from For Colored Girls Who have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is enuff)

________________________________________________________________________________

One of my favorite pieces of literature is this choreopoem play by Ntozake Shange. If you havent read this or seen this production already you MUST. This choreopoem play has meant a lot to me from the moment i was introduced to it in high school. It has ultimately taken a whole new meaning in my life recently. As you experience this life as a woman of color, you learn... I heard that Tyler Perry recently bought the rights to this and I'm a little anxious to see what he plans to do with the play, after much criticism, it seems Perry is hoping to make a move towards developing a bit more range in his productions. I do appreciate his efforts in ALL of his films to in reveal some truth of a black woman's hardship, however we are much more than our pathos and are transformed daily in our colors...

here's another....
____________________________________________________________________

somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
not my poems or a dance i gave up in the street
but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
like a kleptomaniac workin hard & forgettin while stealin
this is mine/this aint yr stuff/
now why don't you put me back & let me hang out in my own self
somebody almost walked off wit alla my stuff
& didn't care enuf to send a note home sayin
i was late for my solo conversation
or two sizes to small for my own tacky skirts
what can anybody do wit somethin of no value on
a open market/ did you getta dime for my things/
hey man/ where are you goin wid alla my stuff/
to ohh & ahh abt/ daddy/ i gotta mainline number
from my own shit/ now wontcha put me back/ & let
me play this duet/ wit silver ring in my nose/
honest to god/ somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/
& i didnt bring anythin but the kick & sway of it
the perfect ass for my man & none of it is theirs
this is mine/ ntozake 'her own things'/ that's my name
now give me my stuff/ i see ya hidin my laugh/ & how i
sit wif my legs open sometimes/ to give my crotch
some sunlight/ & there goes my love my toes my chewed
up finger nails/ niggah/ wif the curls in yr hair/
mr. louisiana hot link/ i want my stuff back/
my rhytums & my voice/ open my mouth/ & let me talk ya
outta/ throwin my shit in the sewar/ this is some delicate
leg & whimsical kiss/ i gotta have to give to my choice/
without you runnin off wit alla my shit/
now you cant have me less i give me away/ & i waz
doin all that/ til ya run off on a good thing/
who is this you left me wit/ some simple bitch
widda bad attitude/ i wants my things/
i want my arm wit the hot iron scar/ & my leg wit the
flea bite/ i want my calloused feet & quik language back
in my mouth/ fried plantains/ pineapple pear juice/
sun-ra & joseph & jules/ i want my own things/ how i lived them/
& give me my memories/ how i waz when i waz there/
you cant have them or do nothin wit them/
stealin my shit from me/ dont make it yrs/ makes it stolen/
somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff/ & i waz standin
there/ lookin at myself/ the whole time
& it waznt a spirit took my stuff/ waz a man whose
ego walked round like Rodan's shadow/ waz a man faster
n my innocence/ waz a lover/ i made too much
room for/ almost run off wit alla my stuff/
& i didnt know i'd give it up so quik/ & the one runnin wit it/
don't know he got it/ & i'm shoutin this is mine/ & he dont
know he got it/ my stuff is the anonymous rip[ped off treasure
of the year/ did you know somebody almost got away wit me/
me in a plastic bag under their arm/ me
danglin on a string of personal carelessness/ i'm spattered wit
mud & city rain/ & no i didnt get a chance to take a douche/
hey man/ this is not your perogative/ i gotta have me in my
pocket/ to get round like a good woman shd/ & make the poem
in the pot or the chicken in the dance/ what i got to do/
i gotta get my stuff to do it to/
why dont ya find yr own things/ & leave this package
of me for my destiny/ what ya got to get from me/
i'll give it to ya/ yeh/ i'll give it to ya/
round 5:00 in the winter/ when the sky is blue-red/
& Dew City is gettin pressed/ if it's really my stuff/
ya gotta give it to me/ if ya really want it/ i'm
the only one/ can handle it

jayz speaks on lil mama

2009-10-11T16:55:00.001-07:00

For those of you that saw the MTV awards "Empire State of Mind" performance where Lil Mama awkwardly interrupted Jay Z and Alicia Keys' Here is an interview with Angie Martinez where Jay Z responds....

This is a mandatory read.

2009-10-08T16:31:00.000-07:00

For every thought I have ever had, every feeling I have ever felt, to every emotion I have ever suppressed for the convenience of another, I am sorry. Truly, it is a loss I mourn. There is a forced reflection that comes with loss. For every volatile reaction I have been given in return for authentic expression, to the very nature within me that forgives, may I forgive myself for what I did not know then and now know. It is our responsibility to hold ourselves accountable and responsible for the language we can not find and must find in order to dismantle the very judgments that bind us. Emotional integrity and "feelings" is our intellectual reward, our gift, in the same way life is given, subsequently, it is our breath. Even when a man does not wish to share in the interest of a woman, denies its essential purpose, the erotic connection serves to articulate that very thing which we all fear so very much, the "feeling" of being alone, to reconcile our physical isolation. It seems to me that when we share our feelings we dare to transcend this idea of "separation," of difference. It is important to be intrigued by our feelings, rather than agreeing or disagreeing with them, they are not always to be understood--and most definitely can not be argued. Thus, the question "why" seems most appropriate but of course if one can not answer, can not intellectualize the psychic knowledge of ones self, they should not be burdened with one's frustration. Rather I am fascinated by the magic in our connections, in our seemingly different nature. The inclination I may sometimes have to be angered or frustrated, is not a judgement on another, but speaks to some integral perspective, internal perception. Do not settle for convenience. It is important to be challenged in our efforts. Let us imagine each individual created accidentally perfect by some God, in that the intention was to design each of us with some internal truth that calls to us, most when in love, in the doing of love.

Poetry serves as a voice for this spiritual need within me, through performance, I can share "feelings" that often transcend my words through the sound of my voice and movement of my body, in the passion of my expression. Even in my most "aggressive" of performances when I am competing with the presence of a screaming male body, there is an emotional intelligence that carries through. I must learn to be angry, gracefully. The suspense comes in the fact that as a woman, performing, my presence defies the societal projections of how one can and should be "lady like," seen and not heard. My presence in those moments, when I'm on stage and even when I am not, is an anomaly. It is discomforting and is often seen as a threat to male dominance but in this there is the "erotic" attraction that Audre Lorde speaks of. Men are stimulated by this presence, are even envious of its nature, but mostly critical and judgmental. Often, even when people do not understand what it is that I am saying in my poems, they can "feel" the internal truth of my spiritual self. Something speaks to an audience that can see truth, it is perhaps the happiest moment, when there is the most authentic and shared experience. But also in me, people, particularly men, have had to confront some of their own horrifying truths. After performances, after the allure of me has settled down, men seem to expect me to retreat into some form that fits their romantic idea of whoever it is they imagined of me in relation to societal expectations, often sexualized and objectified, when I am verbal and articulate it angers, even provokes them or worse it seems to surprise and amaze them. My emotional and spiritual intelligence is all beautiful and exotic until of course it challenges their complacent maleness. I am done with suffering, with feeling inadequate because of what others fail to do for themselves and am also done with having my feelings used and abused. I have made it my job, it is my passion, I am driven to understand this expression, to create and find the words. I have been writing a lot about this because if and when I do pursue my PHD, it will perhaps speak to these ideas. I have been reading a great deal and experiencing a whole lot in regards to these "feelings" and "thoughts" I've been having and have begun to find the words for. I hope to help my male audience as well as my female audience to recognize these issues within themselves, the intimidation of "feeling" and its expression, to be better in my own efforts, so that we may get in touch with the erotic, "The need for sharing deep feeling is a human need.".... Audre Lorde is often misquoted, misspoken for, and it is a dangerous thing. A very dangerous thing. May this essay speak to something recognizable within you, may you be moved, a new life evoked. More importantly may you not miss her message. And women-- dare to be empowered, to be terrifying in that effort, please.

always,
aja-monet

ps. thank you, Tamara.
________________________________________________________________
Audre Lorde:
The Uses of the Erotic
(Cool Beans)

There are many kinds of power, used and unused, acknowledged or otherwise. The erotic is a resource within each of us that lies in a deeply female and spiritual plane, firmly rooted in the power of our unexpressed or unrecognized feeling. In order to perpetuate itself, every oppression must corrupt or distort those various sources of power within the culture of the oppressed that can provide energy for change. For women, this has meant a suppression of the erotic as a considered source of power and information within our lives.

We have been taught to suspect this resource, vilified, abused, and devalued within western society. On the one hand, the superficially erotic has been encouraged as a sign of female inferiority; on the other hand, women have been made to suffer and to feel both contemptible and suspect by virtue of its existence.

It is a short step from there to the false belief that only by the suppression of the erotic within our lives and consciousness can women be truly strong. But that strength is illusory, for it is fashioned within the context of male models of power.

As women, we have come to distrust that power which rises from our deepest and nonrational knowledge. We have been warned against it all our lives by the male world, which values this depth of feeling enough to keep women around in order to exercise it in the service of men, but which fears this same depth too much to examine the possibilities of it within themselves. So women are maintained at a distant/inferior position to be psychically milked, much the same way ants maintain colonies of aphids to provide a life-giving substance for their masters.

But the erotic offers a well of replenishing and provocative force to the woman who does not fear its revelation, nor succumb to the belief that sensation is enough.

The erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, and plasticized sensation. For this reason, we have turned away from the exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information, confusing it with the pornographic. But pornography is a direct denial of the power of the erotic, for it represents the suppression of true feeling. Pornography emphasizes sensation without feeling.

The erotic is a measure between our sense of self and the chaos of our strongest feelings. It is an internal sense of satisfaction to which, once we have experienced it, we know we can aspire. For having experienced the fullness of this depth of feeling and recognizing its power, in honor and self-respect we can require no less of ourselves.

It is never easy to demand the most from ourselves, from our lives, from our work. To encourage excellence is to go beyond the encouraged mediocrity of our society is to encourage excellence. But giving in to the fear of feeling and working to capacity is a luxury only the unintentional can afford, and the unintentional are those who do not wish to guide their own destinies.

This internal requirement toward excellence which we learn from the erotic must not be misconstrued as demanding the impossible from ourselves nor from others. Such a demand incapacitates everyone in the process. For the erotic is not a question only of what we do; it is a question of how acutely and fully we can feel in the doing. Once we know the extent to which we are capable of feeling that sense of satisfaction and completion, we can then observe which of our various life endeavors bring us closest to that fullness.

The aim of each thing which we do is to make our lives and the lives of our children richer and more possible. Within the celebration of the erotic in all our endeavors, my work becomes a conscious decision - a longed-for bed which I enter gratefully and from which I rise up empowered.

Of course, women so empowered are dangerous. So we are taught to separate the erotic from most vital areas of our lives other than sex. And the lack of concern for the erotic root and satisfactions of our work is felt in our disaffection from so much of what we do. For instance, how often do we truly love our work even at its most difficult?

The principal horror of any system which defines the good in terms of profit rather than in terms of human need, or which defines human need to the exclusion of the psychic and emotional components of that need - the principal horror of such a system is that it robs our work of its erotic value, its erotic power and life appeal and fulfillment. Such a system reduces work to a travesty of necessities, a duty by which we earn bread or oblivion for ourselves and those we love. But this is tantamount to blinding a painter and then telling her to improve her work, and to enjoy the act of painting. It is not only next to impossible, it is also profoundly cruel.

As women, we need to examine the ways in which our world can be truly different. I am speaking here of the necessity for reassessing the quality of all the aspects of our lives and of our work, and of how we move toward and through them.

The very word erotic comes from the Greek word eros, the personification of love in all its aspects - born of Chaos, and personifying creative power and harmony. When I speak of the erotic, then, I speak of it as an assertion of the lifeforce of women; of that creative energy empowered, the knowledge and use of which we are now reclaiming in our language, our history, our dancing, our loving, our work, our lives.

There are frequent attempts to equate pornography and eroticism, two diametrically opposed uses of the sexual. Because of these attempts, it has become fashionable to separate the spiritual (psychic and emotional) from the political, to see them as contradictory or antithetical. "What do you mean, a poetic revolutionary, a meditating gunrunner?" In the same way, we have attempted to separate the spiritual and the political is also false, resulting from an incomplete attention to our erotic knowledge. For the bridge which connects them is formed by the erotic - the sensual - those physical, emotional, and psychic expressions of what is deepest and strongest and richest within each of us, being shared: the passions of love, in its deepest meanings.

Beyond the superficial, the considered phrase, "It feels right to me," acknowledges the strength of the erotic into a true knowledge, for what that means is the first and most powerful guiding light toward any understanding. And understanding is a handmaiden which can only wait upon, or clarify, that knowledge, deeply born. The erotic is the nurturer or nursemaid of all our deepest knowledge.

The erotic functions for me in several ways, and the first is in providing the power which comes from sharing deeply any pursuit with another person. The sharing of joy, whether physical, emotional, psychic, or intellectual, forms a bridge between the sharers which can be the basis for understanding much of what is not shared between them, and lessens the threat of their difference.

Another important way in which the erotic connection functions is the open and fearless underlining of my capacity for joy, in the way my body stretches to music and opens into response, harkening to its deepest rhythms so every level upon which I sense also opens to the erotically satisfying experience whether it is dancing, building a bookcase, writing a poem, or examining an idea.

That self-connection shared is a measure of the joy which I know myself to be capable of feeling, a reminder of my capacity for feeling. And that deep and irreplaceable knowledge of my capacity for joy comes to demand from all of my life that it be lived within the knowledge that such satisfaction is possible, and does not have to be called marriage, nor god, nor an afterlife.

This is one reason why the erotic is so feared, and so often relegated to the bedroom alone, when it is recognized at all. For once we begin to feel deeply all the aspects of our lives, we begin to demand from ourselves and from our life-pursuits that they feel in accordance with that joy which we know ourselves to be capable of. Our erotic knowledge empowers us, becomes a lens through which we scrutinize all aspects of our existence, forcing us to evaluate those aspects honestly in terms of their relative meaning within our lives. And this is a grave responsibility, projected from within each of us, not to settle for the convenient, the shoddy, the conventionally expected, nor the merely safe.

During World War II, we bought sealed plastic packets of white, uncolored margarine, with a tiny, intense pellet of yellow coloring perched like a topaz just inside the clear skin of the bag. We would leave the margarine out for a while to soften, and then we would pinch the little pellet to break it inside the bag, releasing the rich yellowness into the soft pale mass of margarine. Then taking it carefully between our fingers, we would knead it gently back and forth, over and over, until the color had spread throughout the whole pound bag of margarine, thoroughly coloring it.

I find the erotic such a kernel within myself. When released from its intense and constrained pellet, it flows through and colors my life with a kind of energy that heightens and sensitizes and strengthens all my experience.

We have been raised to fear the yes within ourselves, our deepest cravings. But, once recognized, those which do not enhance our future lose their power and can be altered. The fear of our deepest cravings keeps them suspect and indiscriminately powerful, for to suppress any truth is to give it strength beyond endurance. The fear that we cannot grow beyond whatever distortions we may find within ourselves keeps us docile and loyal and obedient, externally defined, and leads us to accept many facets of our own oppression as women.

When we live outside ourselves, and by that I mean on external directives only rather than from our internal knowledge and needs, when we live away from those erotic guides from within ourselves, then our lives are limited by external and alien forms, and we conform to the needs of a structure that is not based on human need, let alone an individual's. But when we begin to live from within outward, in touch with the power of the erotic within ourselves, and allowing that power to inform and illuminate our actions upon the world around us, then we begin to be responsible to ourselves in the deepest sense. For as we begin to recognize our deepest feelings, we begin to give up, of necessity, being satisfied with suffering, and self-negation, and with the numbness which so often seems like the only alternative in our society. Our acts against oppression become integral with self, motivated and empowered from within.

In touch with the erotic, I become less willing to accept powerlessness, or those other supplied states of being which are not native to me, such as resignation, despair, self-effacement, depression, self-denial.

And yes, there is a hierarchy. There is a difference between painting a black fence and writing a poem, but only one of quantity. And there is, for me, no difference between writing a good poem and moving into sunlight against the body of a woman I love.

This brings me to the last consideration of the erotic. To share the power of each other's feelings is different from using another's feelings as we would use a Kleenex. When we look the other way from our experience, erotic or otherwise, we use rather than share the feelings of those others who participate in the experience with us. And use without consent of the used is abuse.

In order to be utilized, our erotic feelings must be recognized. The need for sharing deep feeling is a human need. But within the european-american tradition, this need is satisfied by certain proscribed erotic comings-together. These occasions are almost always characterized by a simultaneous looking away, a pretense of calling them something else, whether a religion, a fit, mob violence, or even playing doctor. And this misnaming of the need and the deed give rise to that distortion which results in pornography and obscenity - the abuse of feeling.

When we look away from the importance of the erotic in the development and sustenance of our power, or when we look away from ourselves as we satisfy our erotic needs in concert with others, we use each other as objects of satisfaction rather than share our joy in the satisfying, rather than make connection with our similarities and our differences. To refuse to be able that might seem, is to deny a large part of the experience, and to allow ourselves to be reduced to the pornographic, the abused, and the absurd.

The erotic cannot be felt secondhand. As a Black lesbian feminist, I have a particular feeling, knowledge, and understanding for those sisters with whom I have danced hard, played, or even fought. This deep participation has often been the forerunner for joint concerted actions not possible before.

But this erotic charge is not easily shared by women who continue to operate under an exclusively european-american male tradition. I know it was not available to me when I was trying to adapt my consciousness to this mode of living and sensation.

love is sacrifice

2009-10-06T23:14:00.000-07:00

last night I dreamed of my grandmother laughing,
her hands reaching out to me.

Share a Poem

2009-10-06T21:38:00.000-07:00

A Poet in Harlem
by Willie Perdomo


That night he went looking for
a poem
he left his electric typewriter humming
on the kitchen table
and ran out to the wide
sidewalks of Lenox Avenue

Aunties sat on their stoop box seats
mixing cheers and gossip
beers on the down low
With arms thrown to the sky
I celebrate a touchdown

A poet must look at the whole picture
One man’s victory is stalked by another man’s loss
The voice inside my head began to whisper:
         Damn…
         One of them youngbloods might grow to
         be a poet in Harlem
         Or the little brother who caught the
         game-winning touchdown might have to
         sleep in the street one day

That night he went looking for
a poem
he found two colors of love
A teenage couple embrace
by a bus-stop
I read his lips as they whisper
a sweet something into her smile
and that voice that never goes for a walk
comes to visit again:
          I hope
          their dreams
          come true

In one ear and it stood
as the poet turned the corner
He bumped into an ancient argument
Two fallen angels with scratched throats
pull and push each other
Ain’t enough for both of them to
get high tonight
Use to be
he would serenade her
under a clear moonlight
and that voice meets
him in front of the liquor store:
            Ain’t no room for kissin’ and huggin’
            In the middle of the night
            When luck is hard to find

The poet came back to his
kitchen table with the last
voice that sounded like the blues
so he turned the electric hum into
this poem:
            Show me a woman
            who is strung out on love
            I want to support
            her habit

voice

2009-10-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

i have a huge interest in Arabic song and prayer, partly because I wish I knew Arabic fluently. This woman, Oum Kalthoum, was shared with me because some songs she sings were written by sufi poets. she has incredible charisma and stage presence. the crowd seemingly roars with excitement for her. i have been spending days listening to her and recitations of the Quran. I will also share a little boy that i came across. His voice is absolutely beautiful. I am amazed every time I watch the youtube clip of him. its truly inspiring. enjoy.

as we soar the brooklyn sky

2009-10-04T00:09:00.000-07:00

Inspite (dedicated to us)

2009-10-03T16:41:00.000-07:00

Upon my first encounter with the windy city around two years ago, I was enveloped in romance, shielded and even blinded by the magic of love that seems to evolve from the kindred spirits in this country town. The native Chicago friends had opened their arms to me attempting to reconcile that "big city" mentality us New Yorkers often exude. Even having hung out in the hood of south side Chicago after hearing all sorts of intimidating type stories and expecting the worse, I was grateful for the real and genuinely hospitable people that I met, the laughter we shared, and the stories we were able to communicate across cities. However, I think what caught some of the Chicagoans off guard and seemingly continues to catch them off guard, is the nature by which I am figuratively blown away from the general beauty of this lakeside Midwestern city. Although most Chicago natives have an incredible sense of hometown pride, in my experience, to be from NYC is an altogether otherly fascination. Now, I can admittedly say I am here for grad school first and foremost and in part made plans to come to this city with the intention of sharing its wonder, but I think it was most easy for me to feel of purpose in NY because I've been able to help many a young people through the non profits and half way home mentor ships with the intent of extending myself to kids from similar backgrounds, and when I speak of similar backgrounds, you can see that in one of two ways--figuratively or literally, that is open to your interpretation. I am a product of similar programs and have made it this far through the mentors I've found there. In coming to Chicago I don't think I was prepared to realize that maybe I was brought here, maybe even called here to be of some use. New York has its fair share of violence and neighborhood issues but it seems to be no where near as visceral as Chicago, nor segregated and isolating in struggle. It seems in New York, neighborhoods spill among each other and with gentrification killing the very spirit of any non-white/european centered neighborhood which so defines the melting pot I once so confidently called home, our hoods vary largely in that they have become "softer" ... In the midst of heartache, parental disillusionment, childhood revelations, financial struggles, and educational transition at some point I've always felt most at home with those most troubled in themselves, have always found myself a poet particularly because of the way I have seen and engaged with the world in spite, have rekindled some deep reservoir within me through the vibrancy that is our young people of color. I am the best of lovers when I seem to be of use, am important, am vital and a deep rooted hand in the soil of our bettering, when I can be an example--a resource. Although much of this can be argued as guarded insecurity, my love for helping people see the light in themselves, has been excuse to find it within me, is also perhaps what first called me to religious affiliation at such a young age because in spite of myself, my "background" so to speak, there has always been some random act of humbling spiritual encounter that has made relationships profound cornerstones in my upbringing. In spite of all the love I've lacked in the place you first learn of love, the home, I've found it in others most beautiful of finding it in me. My existence has been a patchwork quilt of sorts. In most recently confronting the lack of a father in my life and its affect, I have learned of my own anger towards men, the emotional violence I have burdened myself with, and how every man I have ever met has had to be my example, has left an impression of the best and worse qualities I would hope to find and I have met some great great men. Also, that in spite of all my mothers efforts and though I am in part, shaped by her, her efforts could only extend but so far. she has been my undoing and so--to quote Audre Lorde, "Every woman I have ever known has made a lasting impression on my soul." My connection to every woman and their story is particularly important because I find us most mythical, most baffling, most magnificent and yet, we will bow, we will retreat, and often times we will do so willingly, gently, almost effortlessly. And yet we do not know the strength of our power, how vicious we can be until of course we are vicious to ourselves, how our power can be brutal outwardly but inwardly it is a war many of us never return from, it is where we bury casualties daily. We know that we are great but we are afraid no one else will recognize our greatness and that may be an issue of vanity. However, it is horrifying for a woman when because a man does not see her greatness in light of how she'd hope him to understand it, she begins to believe she is not great, to act in ways that defy her greatness. It is most troubling when this man is her father, has left or altogether abandoned her. She forever fears abandonment and misunderstanding. The truth is I pity a man in many ways and admire him just the same if not more and perhaps it is fair to say we simply speak in different languages. And because language is how we arrange the world around us, is how we understand and articulate, and thus how we know--we may always feel different.... A man does not seem to ever truly know his own greatness and because his mother is perhaps the first woman he has ever loved who has ever taught him of it, he will always be scarred and confused, he will love her in ways his father never could. Because a boy is most gentle when young, is most sensitive at his mothers bosom, she will know him in a way most women never will. His mother will have done for him in spite of what he can not do for her, praying against what the world will make hard for him, the ways in which her idea of love will later be impossible for him to give, the way she once gave to him, as sacrifice, with belief--regardless. That is a mothers job. But as for a son, he is not his mother. he will live to be the best, better than his father, in search for a love that may even stumble someday on his doorstep and because he has been taught to hold a rage for so long, this man will slam the door, will one day look out his window and cry when no one is there to see him. we are more similar than different. and maybe this is why i've been most intrigued by working with young men as a mentor and teacher, young black men in particular, the struggle is human, is all relative. and i hope to be an example, a woman that can inspire the best in the men i come across, am terrified if ever i bring out the worse. i am not sure i agree with freud that a boy is subconsciously in love with his mother and a girl with her father, rather i believe a son loves who he was most when he was with his mother as a child and that perhaps a daughter loves most who she was when she was with her father as a child. that maybe we love people for who we can be when we are with them, the ways they inspire us in light of what we have learned through out our existence. that perhaps in our relationships as adults we long to be that way again. to engage with our future partners based off of that initial love relationship....but in our being touched by the world we have adjusted, changed, transformed, been hurt, been troubled, and carry burdens. i have learned this most from young black men i have worked with in NYC who have held bitter grudges against this world and blamed most themselves, turned violent in outrage. then there are those that have forgiven, that have learned a love even i am shy of, am always amazed by...i have met many of these men as well, the ones whom I owe much thanks, who teach me how to expect nothing but the better of a man, to account for their beauty in moments where it hurts most, when pain and heartache is so close, it becomes reflection, identical enough to realize they have the same eyes. Because this is a free write and comes most naturally to me without trying to be concerned for gender theoretical arguments, I will not write with them in mind, I will not even respond to such reactions because in part we have lost ourselves in these discussions, have gotten so wrapped up in the theory of being, that we dont know what it is to simply, be. I am guilty of these discussions, am tempted by how enticing they can be, but am done with them, with arguing for any view because I know nothing of creating a decent argument, rather I know what it means to be a woman and to have loved a man, thats all i need to know for now...

In fact, I started this blog with the intention of addressing something seemingly separate of a gender discussion---young black male violence in light of Derrion Albert whose funeral proceedings took place this morning in Chicago. I planned to write this blog in light of discussions I've had with young black men from this city and women, particularly regarding violence within young black men whether it be domestic or domestic. And because I feel as though I am here trying to help in any way I can whether that be through a poetry workshop or a conversation, I am troubled by our inability to empathize with these men. I wanted to respond to the idea that we should react to the case of Derrion Albert and many others like it, with violence. Because firstly, I find that to be a ridiculous idea. And secondly, I think policing to be an even more ridiculous idea. I came to writing this blog with the idea that the violence we are seeing particularly in young black men right now, should be no surprise, that it is not some random mode of being. And though, this does not excuse the violent cases setting afire across the country.Violence isn't "our" issue only it should be "everyone's" issue. However, I am hoping that people will see some type of correlation between the first black man being put into office and the outbursts of violence taking place within black communities internally. Maybe this is a discussion better left to the theorists, to the psychologists, the sociologists etc but I am a poet and though I may not have license to theorize on these things, though I have not been trained in the literature of these politics, I can very well articulate a suffering when I see one. I can recognize myself in that, not only as a woman, as a person "of color," or one in struggle etc but simply as a human being. I can recognize the conflict within a people that sees the best of themselves in light of the worse of themselves. I wonder, does anyone think to question what it must mean to be a black man on the south side of chicago struggling in all sense of the word and still being told you should be better because of the potential of one man. And we thought a black man in office was the answer, was perhaps a solution but we forgot that he was also part of the issue. That people hope to forget racism and not deal with racism, to address the horror. Obama may be the answer for some, may even inspire the best of us, but he is still intangible for many and especially for the poorest of Chicago. This city is extremely segregated and in light of that it is troubling to see how different Barack Obama lived(s) in Hyde Park verses not so many blocks south where there are boarded up buildings and gross poverty. This is not a blog to insult Obama but to simply articulate that I am frustrated with wanting to hold him accountable as a black man but also understanding that there is only but so much he can do. That is of course until both Michelle and Barack Obama decided to make it a point to advocate and support the Olympic sports chicago bid verbally and aggressively as of late all the while shying away from acknowledging and advocating for dealing with the youth violence in chicago. I know Obama had a spokes person comment but this is his "hometown." How impersonal it seems to me that he has now made an issue of speaking on this. In light of Derrion, I will say it is very disheartening. This "young black male violence" issue within the Chicago community has gone on for a very long time, continues to go on, here, nyc, and across the country. There needs to be more examples here, still here. We need to stop with the band-aid solutions to black male violence and must account for how complex the issue is, I've read and seen youtube blogs with black people who are quick to disown the men that beat Derrion to death and yet, they are a part of us. We are quick to embrace the best of us and neglect the very fact that the "worse" of us is still a part of us and we are accountable to each other. I know this blog may not be coherent in thought but it is raw in its expression and by making this public I assume my thoughts will therein be open to criticism. Okay. One can see holes in any "argument" but consider this a brain fart, rather a cry for help, for connection, for a love maybe, a love that reminds of us who we can be in spite of who we aren't... hopefully no one reads this.

always,
aja-monet

for your information:

how sweet it would be

2009-10-02T20:34:00.000-07:00

saul williams writes...

2009-10-01T04:16:00.000-07:00

(in the past year, I have gravitated towards saul as a strong hold and reference point.and am grateful to call him, friend. his perspective is certainly always a very intelligent one. However, what amazes me most about saul is the emotional integrity of his words, the affect of its influence on ones spirit, and his ability to recognize himself in light of experience in so many profound ways. his insight has provided confirmation and more times than not his aloof nature in moments reminds me i'm not alone in this process of living and growing. even in our difference of age and experience, i find myself connected, understanding. more importantly i feel understood, which for me is not something that happens very often. yesterday he posted a note that seems to echo my place of person. his tranformitive situation is similar and his support even in the midst of his own confusion is an amazing testament to his humility and personal glow. I thought I'd share the note with you all and perhaps it would serve as a beginning for others to articulate similar feelings, ideas, or thoughts. He titles it "The Art of Transformation" which seems fitting and relevant mostly because I am amused by the idea of it being an "art" so to speak. I find it horrifyingly beautiful in that way and respect it for the seeming vulnerable moments. I often find myself, saying "amen" when reading or speaking to saul and this in no way is meant to subtly comment on his pastoral upbringing having had a preacher for a father, but it is to say that this seems more like a calling and gift than random talent. it seems saul were being made for this type of recognition. that in his experiences both "good" and "bad", it is always still good. he can therefore speak from a real place where one can identify, a place of also having gone through. saul once corrected me about using the word "random" in a conversation where we spoke about how precise the universe has been in my placement, even my places of despair and heartache, how perfectly setting it has been for me and where it seems I am to go, how aligned things have worked their way to be. "nothing is random" and though random is not the word most worthy of my meaning, it seems ironically fitting and yet unsettling. things are working themselves out. it is all magnificently ordained, what is meant to be will be. grow always, aja monet)

The Art of Transformation (Vol. 1)
by Saul Willams

I am in a process of transformation, despite myself. Even with a clear understanding of God as Change, I sometimes fight and resist the changes that are essential to my being and growth. I fixate upon the challenges of accepting greater and greater responsibilities. I begin to desire results without maintaining the discipline that is required to manifest the necessary changes of heart and of mind, of balance, and inner harmony. I lose patience. I acquire doubt and debt.

The silent b
in doubt and debt
mutates our right
to be.

They crave control
of how we think
of how we feel
and see.

We learn
to shroud
self-mastery
with mystery
and fail

to understand
that even
within fate
is the power
of the will.

If freedom
needs a sanctuary
history needs
a cell

with bars
to keep
it’s hands
from reaching
out beyond
what mothers tell
their young.

We are
songs

in fact
anthems

unsung.

I am in the process of creating a masterpiece. I am not referring to any album, book, film or creative endeavor, rather, I am referring to the process of self-realization that aligns one with their highest and innermost ideals and values and renders them fully alive. It is a process of overcoming the obstacles imposed upon self, by self, perhaps society, and a fearful mind that refuses to accept the upward spiral of being. What I have chosen to embrace within myself are the very values I caught glimpses of as a kid when I questioned how a world so beautifully diverse in it’s simplicity could be made violently complex by the check-points and regulations of man in his quest to control and manipulate the forces of love and nature for the sake of individual gain and power. My decision to live my growth outwardly as an expression of my artistic being, and to earn my living as such, has forced me to engage with a reality that I might have otherwise evaded and has put me up against a cultural perception of entertainment as escapism, which has only enhanced a once non-existent desire to escape. There is no escape. Even my most recent move to Paris has simply shifted something deep within me as I wander through the ancient artifices of ambition, the dome-like cathedrals of clarity, and walled in worlds of art, I feel startlingly closer to my truth and a greater urgency for disciplined transformation. I am growing and have chosen to do so consciously and creatively while remaining engaged with both my inner and outer audience.

I am a reality show, tuning into myself on a daily basis simply to see which emotion tattled on which unchecked ambition. My mind gossips about the actions of my heart. My fears attempt to seduce the cameras for airtime. My soul would vote them off the show. I am checking my habits, re-acquainting myself with age-old disciplines. I am meditating and staying focused (which is a bore for that overactive mind which wishes no more than to follow a trail, any trail to more thoughts, pretty pictures, and inevitably inaction). I am starring in a spin-off of myself where I sing and dance and dress in pomp and costume. I am evolving while simply playing my part. I am staring myself in the eye without flinching or blinking, standing still while moving beyond what holds me in my place. But mostly, I am dancing, everyday, and sleeping perched above the skyline. And I awaken to a new day, a new season, the latest episode….

the season of letting go

2009-09-30T21:17:00.000-07:00

i'm not sure if yall remember but a while ago i posted the trailer for an upcoming film called "Good Hair" starring Chris Rock. Today Chris was on Oprah promoting and talking about the film. The film has been coined a "docu-comedy" and it has recently created a stir with the mention of its soon to be release. I enjoyed watching Oprah and Chris Rock talking about hair issues within the black community and their personal hair issues. I'm not sure I agree with Chris when he says black men don't care about what black women's hair looks like because most if not all teasing that I've ever heard and experienced about black women and their hair has been said by men or boys who find "kinky" or "nappy" hair to be unattractive and comical. I know men that, will not, and clearly state that they will not, date a black woman with kinky hair. Now, I do agree that most women relax their hair with out much thought to attract men but much more driven by a subconcious need to look "prettier" to themselves or to have easier management of their hair. Chris and Oprah also talked about this fascination with blonde hair and people dying their hair blonde. Ironically, a week ago I had this moment of needing a drastic change. Around two years ago I began dying my hair honey blonde and somehow I believed it made me look "prettier," maybe even more attractive and striking. I recieved many compliments about my hair and therein decided to try to upkeep the hair color. I've flirted with the idea of wanting to cut off all my hair and someone i dated joked that he'd leave me if I did, friends thought it a ridiculos idea, not that I was ever seriously invested in the idea, but to hear such strong remarks for even the inclination made me cringe. It was most interesting to me on Oprah's show when Solange (beyonces lil sister) came out and talked about having shaved all her hair off, and in a twitter response to soo many thread discussions she talked about black women being in bondage to their hair. The word "bondage" struck me as most appropriate. I say all this to say, last week, I decided to run to the local store and buy dye to color my hair dark again. I couldnt remember myself before my lighter hair color and part of that has to do with a bunch of personal things and transitonal situations but I didnt even realize how much my hair affected my self confidence and image and even my growth or lack thereof. The decision to dye my hair back to a darker color had been in my mind for a while, I figured the fall would be an appropriate time for this change for so many reasons. But with the final push of some really close and awesome supportive friends I made the move and I feel really great about it. I feel like "myself" as weird as that may seem, as though before I were someone else. Though I think it looks just as great curly as it does straight, I've been blowing out my hair and have been enjoying the new look. I think Chris Rock's point about women having the freedom of choice is important, whose to say a year or two from now I won't go through a phase of wanting to change my hair color again. However, right now I am happier with my hair and can feel the difference in myself. I appreciate Chris for taking it upon himself as a black man to investigate the issue of "good hair" and though it is not an issue exclusive to black women, it means a lot to women all over to have this brought into an open discussion forum. I can't wait for the film to come out and I plan to post some pics of my new hair color. Hopefully, you all find it as lovely as I do. much love. always, aja

in case you missed the trailer for "good hair"

CHANGE FEELS GREAT...

share a post on LOVE

2009-09-27T00:49:00.000-07:00

Love is by far the most important thing of all. It is the Golden Gate of Paradise. Pray for the understanding of love, and meditate upon it daily. It casts out fear. It is the fulfilling of the Law. It covers a multitude of sins. Love is absolutely invincible.

There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer; no disease that enough love will not heal; no door that enough love not open; no gulf that enough love will not bridge; no wall that enough love will not throw down; no sin that enough love will not redeem.

It makes no difference how deeply seated may be the trouble, how hopeless the outlook, how muddled the tangle, how great the mistake; a sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all. If only you could love enough you would be the happiest and most powerful being in the world.

- Emmet Fox

as posted by mayda del valle

MYA

2009-09-25T13:24:00.000-07:00

these music videos make me miss a very specific time in NYC especially "best of me". i remember all my brothers friends use to tell me i looked like mya and they had the mean crush...it was cute. especially since i was all about mya...she was super big for a minute on like every song. i miss jay z's ol swag too... the "lock you down" song is my ish. as for mya, where is she at nowadays? i hope shes plannin a dope comeback soon. im all for it. enjoy.

Mya ft Lil Wayne- Lock You Down

welcome to chicago!!

2009-09-23T23:34:00.000-07:00

i saw what these men and women in chi town can do with their bodies, damn. my chi town girl friends tried to teach me some moves, uh oh watch out nyc im getting my game up...

hilarity.

2009-09-22T23:05:00.000-07:00

share a poem

2009-09-19T18:15:00.000-07:00

The Talking Back of Miss Valentine Jones: Poem # one
by June Jordan

well I wanted to braid my hair bathe and bedeck my self so fine so fully aforethought for your pleasure see: I wanted to travel and read and runaround fantastic into war and peace: I wanted to surf dive fly climb conquer and be conquered THEN I wanted to pickup the phone and find you asking me if I might possibly be alone some night (so I could answer cool as the jewels I would wear on bareskin for you digmedaddy delectation:) "WHEN you comin ova?" But I had to remember to write down margarine on the list and shoepolish and a can of sliced pineapple in casea company and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's gaining weight and don' nobody groove on that much girl and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before the laundry hit the water which I had to kinda keep an eye on be- cause if the big hose jumps the sink again that Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs and brain me with a mop don' smell too nice even though she hang it headfirst out the winda and I had to check on William like to burn hisself to death with fever boy so thin be callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?" "Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not wake enough to sit beside him longer than to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/ his shirt and feed him orange juice before I fall out of sleep and Sweet My Jesus ain but one can left and we not thru the afternoon and now you (temporarily) shownup with a thing you says' a poem and you call it "Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?" guilty po' mouth about duty beauties of my headrag boozeup doozies about never mind cause love is blind well I can't use it and the very next bodacious Blackman call me queen because my life ain shit because (in any case) he ain been here to share it with me (dish for dish and do for do and dream for dream) I'm gone scream him out my house be- cause what I wanted was to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my self so fully be- cause what I wanted was your love not pity be- cause what I wanted was your love your love

a ramble

2009-09-15T15:06:00.000-07:00

i must say, God has definitely done something right when it comes to those I call, friends. In my stubborness, in my selfishness, and the overwhelming list of flaws-- two very special people specifically have remained patient and humble with me and in their listening, i am able to listen to myself, to discover my own mistakes as lesson landscapes. When they speak, it reaches me deep, in the heart of my ear. I owe many apologies for the ways in which my ignorance may have hurt others and at 22 years old, I have had many expectations to fulfill. At times, in my own conviction, they have believed in wisdom far more than age. Most times, this is a blessing. Except of course when people I love and even I, forget that I am still learning. At this very important time in my life, I recognize a transition in thought, the motion of perception. When you are a child and when you think as a child, the world is at once, always happening to you and then there is this budding of new light where one becomes aware that perhaps you can make things happen. This is where I find myself more times than not, a lost girl convinced of womanhood. Yet, in moments I am secretly rebellious of terms and societal projections. I do not want to be a traditional word found, woman or person. Rather, I delight in the thought of trans formative power. The science-fiction fan in me, imagines myself another woman, in a world of magical understanding and precise encounter of otherly modes of engaging with the world and relationships. But then, of course, I am a woman of this world. And I was raised by a heart broken woman, an influence that continues to teach me, just how vulnerable I am to the touch of this earth. There are things I wish I could defy, ways of existing I truly believe I can enact. Yet and still, I am clumsy for attention, for spite, for everything inadequate and so controversial. I love the vulnerability in myself I used to despise in my mother and other women. This is my dilemma, my sickening disgust. I will maybe push away everyone I have ever loved, subconsciously, believing that they have left me somehow, abandoned me, that I am alone. I used to be more certain of myself, of the way I saw this world and our relationships. Now, I feel as though I know nothing more than my soul and even then, I am confused in its expression. I want to convey so many things to those I hold most close and they'll never know, how simple I am in my need to love above all things. At some point, I do hope though, to find a love as grand and confused as mine, as atrocious and whimsical as this. Maybe even teach me new ways to see this, to learn this, I am willing to learn--but I am definitely compelled by what I know. I simply want to believe in the crazy communion of warped love, in endless possibility...I want to know what it means to live as though every day is another chance, each day is a new prayer to each other, to the best of us, in each of us...I have lost many things in this life, have had to put many lives to rest, and I am still trying to figure out how to mourn and cope while growing and celebrating potential. May i continue to meet people who baffle my understanding of existence. May those I already know continue to teach me how to love differently, always. I hope to be something new for people, something fresh, and reminiscent of home, of life and joy.....

always,
aja-monet

a dedicated poem.

2009-09-10T18:49:00.000-07:00

i carry your heart with me

by ee cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

self update

2009-09-01T11:28:00.000-07:00

hello dear world,

it has been a short while. i have been settling into a new home, neighborhood, city, state etc. things are going very well and i am grateful for the transition especially at this very moment in my life. new york city will always be home, but i am glad to have left. the big apple doesnt seem to be where my heart is right now. in fact im not quite sure where it is. i assume it is here, with me. i've been getting to know it rather differently. having grown up in front of so many people, i dont quite think i've had the space to learn self in a more profound way--without seeming limitations and claustrophobia. it hasn't even been that long, maybe a week or so and here, i feel like i can breathe. i feel like a little girl all over again, like the possibilities are endless, like dreaming isn't over. the impossible still seems attainable now and as a writer and artist, i assume this will teach me new things about my range. perhaps this has little to do with chicago and more to do with where i am at personally in light of the change... the months leading up to this big move have been a challenge, rather depressing. i found myself feeling stagnant, stifled, confused, and anxious... its difficult to speak to people about such issues with self because most people look at you in contrast to themselves or to who they assume you to be, few people are okay with taking a person for absolutely who they are in any given moment, we are so bent on trying to make people who they aren't, projecting ourselves onto who they are and should be etc...sometimes, with all the people i know, its most difficult in social settings, i feel most alone in these moments. and i guess alone isnt always a bad thing...its not that i am ungrateful for my blessings, the things that have brought me this far, its that far too often i feel much older than i actually am, and find myself a chamillion of sorts with interests and intrigues, i feel like i havent enough time for everything i hope to do, i am impatient, frustrated with people who are humored by my age assuming i have all the time in the world when it comes to this desperate need to do and experience all that i hope to, for self...it took me a great deal of re-programming physically to come to an ultimate realization, it is truly important to understand one's self and how to love that entity. do not go trying to save the world before ever truly confronting the world within ones self, perhaps that is how we rescue each other, by dealing with the whole as the self and the self as the whole. seeing ultimate reality as endless possibility within ones self. i understand this may all seem too mystical and perhaps even rhetorical.... but i am taking each day at a time, trying to understand what it means to simply be...i know women have essentially been told to love everything and one but them selves and so this is in no way a bash to men, but rather a direct conversation to the women: please, take the time to be what you need and with all your might and force, consider your own hearts complexities before others...this is not just in regard to the men in your life, but to the mothers, sisters, fathers, grandmothers... so long as you are contributing to healthy positive environment for yourself, continue to prosper in the beauty of all that you are capable of, because quite frankly, life is too short. theres always so much more than where you have been and what you have been through, we must grow from being victims, to actualizing voice and presence. be faith. be growth and wise in truly confronting your flaws...if there's any time to live, its now or never...

always,

aja monet

ps. im still learning how to love myself in spite of all the things i've done to change myself with the intent of impressing any one but myself. i assume this is not a lonely path because many can atest to it and so to the God that has protected me and guided me through the beautiful relationships in my life of support and growth, i am undeniably grateful. and to those who in some way, shape, or form can see themselves in my likeness, it is great to be reminded of our possibilites in and through each other... i have found a love here, in this here body of a soul, that i can't help but share and hope it is to be returned with interdependent graciousness. until next, time. stay up.

I am moving to CHICAGO!

2009-08-15T11:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, so for those of you that don't already know, I will be moving to Chicago in a week or so in pursuit of my MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. And though, I am very excited and anxious for all that is in store due to this major transition, I am definitely scared. I know that it will be a wonderful experience for me but I also know that I am so verrry NEw YORK. This transition will mean a lot of necessary discovery in a new way. Being that I am moving right after my birthday, I will also be celebrating my going away and birthday together this upcoming Saturday in my hometown borough of Brooklyn, NY. I am anticipating seeing as many beautiful people there in support of my future endeavors and I am hoping those of you that are available will make your way down to share in all the fun and spectacular joy! Please feel free to fwd this flyer and repost to those who may want to end their summer with a huge blast of great performances and dope music! see you guys there!! much love always,

aja monet

"Good Hair"

2009-08-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

So I first saw the trailer for this movie on the Wendy William's show (okaaaay!) and when I saw the trailer it reminded me an awful lot of a documentary by Daphne Valerius "the Souls Of Black Girls" it may not have had the backing of Chris Rock, Nelson George, and Sarah Jones. It also didnt have to do only with hair texture...but it was an incredible documentary and I am wondering if the soon to be released "Good Hair" documentary references Daphne's film at all...hmm? The film is dealing with an all too familiar subject in the black female community "good hair vs bad hair." I wrote a poem along with a fellow poet in 2005 about this very dilemma. I especially dealt with this conversation on a regular basis when living in Atlanta, GA. I didn't quite understand what "good hair" had meant until then. The whole "light skin" vs "dark skin" complex. I dealt with a lot of name calling in Atlanta and a lot of girls that were compelled and moved to touch and play with my hair because of its "confusing" "good" texture. I remember the boys loved me and the girls envied my hair...Funny thing is I recall my younger years sitting in a tub with a frustrated mother's hands grappling my hair and the familiar smell of the "Just for Me" hair relaxer kit which I am sure has had a lasting affect on the softer texture of my hair now. I have so many stories around my hair but thats a whole other book of poems... Any who, I look forward to this film that is said to be in theatres in October. Check out the trailer. I'll also put up Daphne's trailer and maybe you guys can see the similarities...much love, enjoy!!

Share a poem: sorta

2009-07-30T19:52:00.000-07:00

The Second Sex (excerpt)
By Simone de Beauvoir

Men have vied with one another in proclaiming that love is a woman’s supreme accomplishment. “A woman who loves as a woman becomes only the more feminine,” says Nietzsche, and Balzac: “Among the first-rate, man’s life is fame, woman’s life is love. Woman is man’s equal only when she makes her life a perpetual offering, as that of man is perpetual action.” But therein, again, is a cruel deception, since what she offers, men are in no wise anxious to accept. Man has no need of unconditional devotion he claims, nor of the idolatrous love that flatters his vanity; he accepts them only on condition that he need not satisfy the reciprocal demands these attitudes imply. He preaches to woman that she should give---and her gifts bore him to distraction; she is left in embarrassment with her useless offerings, her empty life. On the day when it will be possible for woman to love not in her weakness but in her strength, not to escape herself but to find herself, not to abase herself but to assert herself---on that day love will become for her, as for man, a source of life and not of mortal danger.

"may all beings be happy"

2009-07-30T17:46:00.000-07:00

for those of you wondering about the random posts of "O.I. Poems," I have been away upstate at Omega Institute, a center for Holistic studies, teaching and experiencing self in the most complex of ways. While away, secluded and focused, I have been trying to journal everyday consistently and have been writing a series of poems while I have been here. They have no theme, no thread. None of them have been edited or looked at for more than a few minutes, they're copied directly from my journal onto my blog (with corrected typos of course) and I guess its a pretty vulnerable thing because I am trying to get myself to write concise and articulate poems in a matter of minutes. This is why I have so many of them. I have been here a little less than a week and it feels almost like a month with all that I have been experiencing here. Its like I've been living lifetimes while away. With that being said I've written a little under thirty poems in a matter of five or so days that aren't all quite finished pieces, mostly the ones I've posted I think can be worked on in many ways but share them mostly cause they're the shorter ones. And also many of them are extremely personal and I havent the courage to yet share. But I am trying to get a bit more comfortable sharing written work via internet. I'm a bit intimidated by all that is out there and even still I am working through many things internally, while also battling a whole host of elitist writers in my head that believe form and writing should be dealt with in a certain way. I am aware of a very subtle form of discrimination within the literary world, see it with performance poets i particularly find far more outstanding than those with published books. But I digress, I would like people to experience my words more than read them and I've been trying to take the written form into a different place. Mostly, I write with words I like and put them in order as I think they should sound coming off my tongue. I enjoy not quite making sense to anyone but perhaps expressing some image in my head. While up here at Omega, we've been discussing in my workshop this "anguish with language" the difficulty in trying to use words that essentially stand as symbols and boxes for ideas, feelings, thoughts, emotions etc--had a lovely discussion with a man named Arthur today, we played around with different words and the sounds that exist within those words, it almost seems that "anguish" is in the word "language." The English language is a coded language and when attentively dealt with there are many hidden meanings within single words and their sounds. I've also been challenging myself to write about things most little brown girls from East NY, Brooklyn would never be expected to write about. I have had a wide range of experiences and it is important to me that I know how to write a verse over a beat and yet and still have studied language and its written capabilities...blah blah blah..Any way, maybe I will decide to continue posting up some of those "O.I. poems" But for now, I plan to enjoy a fudge brownie, the first sweet thing ive essentially had up here at an all vegetarian, healthy center....im so excited!!

O.I. poem #8

2009-07-30T17:13:00.000-07:00

the screen door could not hush itself from squealing,
the rain snaps against the wood,
mosquitoes decorate the lantern
while night sits outside like a porch swing, humming.
the trees are hissing against the windows
and tear ducts press their faces to us
as we finish penning the grandiosity of nature.
This is a natural phenomenon, to be a bystander of earth
transforming, summoning the chorus of its worship
in the wind.

the city does not learn to love the land like this,
does not teach the foot how to kiss the ground gentle
and steady. We feel our way home through forest
and train our eyes on how to listen to darkness.

O.I. poem #7

2009-07-30T15:31:00.000-07:00

who ever said god wants to save the world
and what if the world needs no saving, thank you very much.
maybe god doesn’t want to be your witness,
doesn’t really like your prayers, didn't really trouble the water.

what if god is writing a book
and we are his childhood, some Freudian past he can’t escape
maybe he tries to write his trauma away,
into a really great novel, and maybe
we’re all metaphor and prose.
who ever said god was a great writer anyway,
maybe he just uses fancy words.
maybe god wishes we’d get out of his head
like an embarrassing moment.

what if he had Alzheimer's and forgot all our names,
misplaced our memories,
maybe he just forgot.

And god doesn’t have to love us.
what if he wants to grow toothless
and die of old age, forgotten, just a name.

O.I. poem #6

2009-07-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

Carol is a middle-aged white woman,
a wounded conch shell weeping
come ashore from the sea.
Her heart was a cliff where she jumped,
her soul was a valley where she washed her feet.

We will not focus on Carol’s shortcomings or why
I chose to write about her
but I have watched her vague as the breeze,
frail as the leaves. I have taken a liking to conversation with her
about life, and universe, and spirit, and healing
and I have understood that pain is all-relative.
Carol has come here searching for an answer
for a priceless cure to her consciousness, for her existence.

I have learned to cry with those most different from me,
have even practiced how to hug such persons.
In America, I have learned the art of privilege
and have empathized with it’s ease.

Dear Carol,
thank you for your passerby concern.
I am grateful for the power in your conviction,
the seemingly colorless, classless laughter you share.
However, I must return to a middle-aged brown mother
who knows better.

O.I. poem #5

2009-07-30T08:45:00.000-07:00

I want to destroy all “supposed to bes” ever said
you either are or you aren’t and even then, you are.
there is no “I was supposed to be”, “you are supposed to be”
its like the shoulds of our language: shoulda, woulda, couldas
I can do with out these american trickery words.
suppose you simply exist in the way you are to exist
and that is all fine and well with the rest of us,
you do what you say, you will what you may.
I am not a fan of hypotheticals but understand,
I am a poet born in america,
and hypothetically speaking, I always mean what I say.

O.I. poem #4

2009-07-29T19:42:00.000-07:00

note to self:

you are not alone and
i
love
you.

always,
yourself

O.I. poem #3

2009-07-29T19:13:00.000-07:00

He is a Mandala inside me somewhere
there is sage burning in my abdomen,
a small child dreaming on a branched vein
my body is a city of indigo children born in his eyes
my nerves wear feathers in their hair and dance around the campfire of passion
they are chanting for rain, for storm, for thunder blooded waterfall.
the mind wakes every morning, kneels and prays south to the heart.
the mouth gives thanks, says thank you, gives blessings, says bless you.
the eyes sacrifice light, the arms sacrifice warmth
the hands are altars, is where the fingers worship
the thighs are scripture, are law, are holy
the legs are divine language, is written.
and heaven, that strange realm is my unbuttoning, is deep in me
is where a medicine woman rattles and drums,
a Santera is there, cleaning a soul,
a high priestess preparing an offering,
a goddess making love,
heaven is where we meet,
is where we lay to rest and are reborn
inside of me.

O.I. poem #2

2009-07-28T12:14:00.000-07:00

there is a woman whose spirit is paper thin on this phone
the plum of her lips is hugged dry, chapped
death is inching at her god and the "i cant do this anymore"s
linger in the air like an awkward silence gathered humid thick
she is a novel beauty struggle story living where life is an absent-minded gift
a miracle is fucking wild in her blood,
torturous insane magic murmuring in her needle plucked veins
and she should die the way life dealt with her
like this, like some victim.

Where the hell are these angels
conjuring these mornings she lives to see,
who are these cosmic forces pinching at her skin?

Her heart is yelling at me a deep shade of blueberry blows
and i feel the confusion stretching in her shoulders
window broken self-esteem,
can hear the deriving tear yawning on her cheek
her hands are gutter, drain spouts
I wish I knew how to hold a home this broken, together.

This woman is where I curb my face, the only coiling power person
that can bend my shape, so backward, so straight.
I am sudden struck affected at the soft sheer peel of her words
and it will always be so, no matter the lift or draft.

This woman on the phone is my mystery flaw, my compliment beauty mark.
I know the tender “I will do whatever it takes for you” love of her being,
still staring into the brown of my no good father’s shaped eyes.

A woman that owns her heartbreak and raises its child,
Is an all too strong spine of a life
I wish there were words I could offer this woman
beautifully disastrous as her love
in these splitting fragile moments,
each billow of her pain hovering in my chest like a celestial ohm.

O.I. poem #1

2009-07-28T11:42:00.000-07:00

i am made, lightening
fire-cracker sharp, crackling
in a mushroomed clouded sky
the colors are chakra bright tonight
and i am made here, in this break of sound
the morning is my lover and he is waiting
i keep him waiting
love him waiting, patience
all bodies arise
in the wake of us.
i am made honeydew
awe tasting sweet smeared lips licked sun rise smiling sweet tooth wide.
let me show you magic, look.
in here this here body i am made endless flesh and land and earth
and water is my bedroom, is where i sleep, is where i make love
am born each day, i am made.

The SOUNDCHECK @ Santos--AUGUST 7th, 2009

2009-07-21T20:48:00.000-07:00

Hey Yall,

So I haven't performed in the NYC in a minute and was contacted by a dope musician that I am a huge fan of, John West, to perform with him this summer at SANTOS here in NYC. Later found out that my homies, Oveous Maximus and Shanelle Gabriel were added to the list of performers and am glad to be a part of this show. Hopefully, those of you in town can make it!! Check out John West's dope music video for "Loved you tonight" :

Brave New Voices 2009... is over.

2009-07-21T18:39:00.000-07:00

Now that the debris has settled, the youth have flown back to their hometowns, sunken into their own beds-- the city of Chicago has wrestled the windy silence of itself. Brave New Voices 2009 was a very interesting festival to say the least. I am proud of the Urban Word Nyc team for breaking some resounding boundaries and extending themselves to so many teams. Shout out to all the teams that supported each other and kept true to the vibrant light of BNV comradery: Philly, Chicago, Denver, DC, Jersey and countless others. The energy of the festival was a bit awkward in the first few days, many of us from previous years, veterans of sorts as well as current competitors, were thrown off by a slight tension in the air. No one could quite put a word on it. But it was most troubling for me when speaking to new comers that had never been to BNV and had heard of all the wonder and magic only to find themselves trapped in a closet of misplaced expectations. I must admit that there were some profound moments of exhilarating joy and spirits were definitely moved by the poems of many of our young poetry competitors. But I would be lying if not to speak on the lack of organic and creative inspiration. Many of us, in the hours and days after finals were disappointed in some of the contrived and forced emotional content of poems. We were lead to wonder, what has changed? What has happened to the spark in originality, the nurturing of innovation that the youth poetry nationals had been so acclaimed for...many could not help but reference the fault to the recent popularity and exploitation of youth poetry by HBO and found that the same systemic ego-centric virus of the acclaimed adult poetry scene had seeped into the core of youth poet consciousness, that no longer were young people concerned with their own truths, but the truths of others, perpetuating stereotypes in their poems and often resorting to simple and unoriginal subjects. The highlight of the festival surrounded an invigorating boost of positive energy by the Bringing the Noise showcase featuring Saul Williams, Beau Sia, Queen Godis, Iyeoka, Lemon and a few others. This showcase reminded me, as well as countless others, of the hope placed in our young people, the power they have to influence, and the moments of community that ignite us all to set afire so many dreams and aspirations. It was a definite boost in the spirit of Brave New Voices.

My team, the Urban Word NYC slam team, had a particularly moving and startling breakdown at our semifinals bout after a poet, Jorge, completely broke with disappointment in the lack of support and positive energy showed to the New York City team. One of our core focuses as educators and cultivators of young voices at Urban Word NYC in the slam, is we expect each team member and Urban Word entourage member including coaches and mentors to support every team we compete against. We shake hands and introduce ourselves to other team members and after giving standing ovations to each team we competed against we therein realized that New York City received unmotivated claps and a few supporting screams, Jorge was flooded with rage and tears and proceeded to throw his fists in the air with frustration-- we had to walk him out the room and decided then that the best way to handle the hurt of the team was to confront the issue at hand. Jorge closed our semi final round with a poem he dedicates to his grandmother, dealing with the gentrification of Harlem. Prior to reading this poem he opened with a brutally vulnerable introduction and disclaimer. His confusion of the lack of support resonated with us all and he wore his heart proudly on that stage, admitting the feelings shared with other teams, the need and want to be supported and the frustration with those caught up in the competition and forgetting the importance of uniting together at this festival not as teams against each other but as young people coming together against and simultaneously, for the world. He admitted NYC having felt so alone at BNV this year in an emotionally wrecking way, he then continued into his poem and overwhelmed with self stumbled across words, displaying an incredible source of organic unpolished vulnerability that spoke to a universal truth we could all experience and understand. After the scores were disregarded by our score keeper, Lauren Whitehead, to which she responded, teary eyed to Jorge that he was not alone and that none of the young people at BNV were alone, reminding young people that it was not HBO against them or anyone else but rather they were the forces of light the world has been pushing for. I was particularly brought to tears after witnessing the depth of growth in my team and overwhelmingly proud of all of their efforts and their incredible bravery. The bout was simply put, magic in so many ways, a work of God, truly. So much gratitude to QUEEN GODIS, who supported the team through each bout though only a few of us will know truly the depth of her wondrous spirit, I am in awe of the incredible ability she has to awaken the best in our spirits and the source of life in our selves. My personal thank you to Queen, I am humbled by your presence and am particularly grateful for the healing you have provided in the simple nature of conversation...

Although, we did not make it to finals stage to compete, I think my team learned an incredibly valuable and humbling lesson. We all share in that. It was particularly awakening for me while sitting next to Beau Sia during finals and witnessing the crowd screaming to see New York City's poem "Switch" go up on finals stage. At that moment I saw the joy in their eyes and felt each cell in my body screaming the excitement of having won something far greater than a poetry title or score...the team had won the support of their peers and it far outweighed any other expectation...after running down the stairs to the front row to scream and cry and hug them, Saul Williams and I looked at each other and simply smiled, he had hoped to see that poem again after coming to our bouts to support the team and we discussed the hope to see it on finals stage, to share it with as many people as possible...everything has a way of working itself out, and overall the festival ended on a note of community building and love. After most teams gave up on the competition, we found out that Hawaii had won and by that time no one had even been concerned with the ranks of teams but more so with the last few moments to share before everyone was to leave the next morning... There is so much more that can be and should be said about this years BNV but I am done for now....

To Jorge, Giselle, Kiara, Tia, Carvens, and Ceez-- thank you for your stubborn beauty, i love you all very much and look forward to the inspiring hope you bring to this world. You are all incredible human beings. Remember to remain present and responsible to your voices and stories. Each of you have incredible spiritual and emotional truths, may they keep you grounded on this journey in life...As for Enmanuel, Jamila, BLACK CRACKER, and Cirelli-- Thank you guys for being the best support system, had it not been for each of you I am certain this organization would have been lost a long time ago. You guys are the reason I found a home at Urban Word NYC.

Much love to all the fellow BNV 2009 teams and coaches. May you all embark on a wonderful year.

FOR BRAVE NEW VOICES 2009 PHOTOS by Nelson Caban: CLICK HERE!!!
__________________________________________________________________________________

for some lovely laughs and some great inside jokes, here were the two theme songs of the crazy UDUB Brave New Voices Ciphers and street corner dances, many laughs are owed to these two Youtube clips (shout out to BYung, Alexis Marie, KAyan, Jasmyne-Nicole, and all the others that continually showed love to 2009 before and throughout BNV--thats true love and family type ish. love yall)

Share a Poem

2009-07-13T12:31:00.000-07:00

I met an intelligent and introspective man at Da Poetry Lounge in Los Angeles, CA around a year and a half ago. His name is Donny Jackson. His support and appreciation for my work and other poets alike is flattering and often I am grateful for his insightful comments and interesting conversation. over recent months we've had a series of existential type conversations and my curiosity for certain therapeutic approaches has inspired further engaging conversations being that he has a PHD in Psychology. Donny has also shared poems, some inspired by conversations and others purely brought about through experience but I've always admired his sense of humility and the keen observations of relation that he shares. We are always sure to ask each other of our writing process and in recent months it seems he's been sharing more than i have, I enjoyed this poem he sent me a couple of days ago and after asking him for permission was moved to share it with fellow bloggers. I hope that it speaks to some of the women and men that read this blog and over all that the poem resonates to a specific kind of relationship, one that is aware of surrendering to moments, to the gentle and precious sanction of time and detail, before it is too late and we have forgotten what it is all truly and really worth...The poem is beautiful because of its use of dialogue and imagery. It resonates with some woman reserved in me and empathizes so well with the voice of a woman. I've had many of these conversations with members from Omega Institute that have taken my workshop "Surrendering to the Metaphor," to my best friends Meghann Plunkett and Nelson Caban...we continue to practice in the moment of now, the art of being, to be aware of every thing we mean to each other simply in the carelessness of living and laughing and loving, because we won't be young forever and we most definitely are not guaranteed tomorrow let alone the next minute or hour... This is definitely a love poem, a type of love poem that is not typical nor unoriginal and I appreciate its romanctic yet realistic approach. with that being said, I am certain I will have more blogs about this idea and related conversation at some point but for now, thanks to Donny for sharing. May you all read and enjoy a poem by him:

Sittin’ in a tree
(July 2009)
by Donny Jackson

sometimes we think we have forever
to find what we want
but maybe God made you gifted
so you would have more to share
for longer.

(this isn’t because if you don’t
someone else will
this is because no one will
like
you.)

she has already told you:
if i magic a party for you
i won’t care who shows up
if you don’t.

you may be a chameleon instrument
she’ll say
but your singular scent
makes my blood
iridescent: i know you.

pressed further
she will confess:
i love you
not because you are not a mirror
but because you are an echo:
you entice me to shout because
i hear my scared voice shaped back to me into breezes by the
solid of you.

if you can just
find her smile
in the mural of your day

i am sure she will say
i can tame my porcupine mouth
to your rice paper hush
while you merlin in the dark
cuz that’s what faith loves like.

and she’ll continue:
since we’re talking about talk
maybe and if only for our children
we will gently pull ‘nigga’ from our language
like stitches from a wound that is finally healing on its own
cuz there is future in how we history.

and she will savor
how you art your way into self
as long as you want to remember to say:
let me kiss you until it explains the origin of kiss
and that feline ink
lifts from your hip
just so it can watch us
sabretoothed and stalking in envy
as we become hunger.

and if she giggles out of the moment
be magnetic and divinely opposite and pull her back
and say
twist while i let these
chocolate fingers
freestyle your caramel
undoing your sweet
until you melt me in.
you didn’t know we were dessert?
sugar
we are the only reason belly-full angels dine.

so this is when you say:
i’ll forget that we ever snickered at
schoolyard fuck yous
at the moment we are
sculpted from midnight
and your heat disconnects my will
and i say
fuuuuck: youuuuu…

and with this
she will admit
that you were always
the only one
and behave accordingly at last
she will say
i want the inkling of the thought of the wish
of your dynamite grip to
big bang scatter new worlds
into my pores
until i swirl like the blue Jupiter sees in Earth.

and this is when you tell her:

on our first time
the first sound you make
i will snatch from the air
and peel the note open
like tangerine
and taste the wet of you for me.
tell her
i am just getting started
baby
i am about to become
unspeakable.
but
no matter how you put it
she will hear it as a whisper when you say:

i will lick you like my tongue is turning the pages of your life.

you have her attention.
and she may not recall when you said it
but tell her:
while you sleep
i clang swords
with the gods of lust and reason
just to create sparks that will compete to be
the light in your eyes
when you wake to me.

but in spite of all this
know that
she doesn’t need a poem from you.
just your presence when you are present.
we have no awareness of bone until we are broken.
no sense of lost unless we’ve been home.
she is not waiting
she is b e i n g.
as you approach
hope that she will say
it is very possible that
i am the missing ingredient in your potions
so
just to make sure:
stir.

brave new voices 2009 national poetry slam

2009-07-12T18:28:00.000-07:00

Over the past few months I have been coaching the Urban Word NYC 2009 youth poetry slam team. It has been a journey of necessary reflection and endless confrontation. The team consists of six vibrant and distinct personalities: Tia, Kiara, Carvens, Jorge, Ceez, and Giselle. Each of them are incredible writers in their own right and have continued to grow as people. Even though I am sure there will be and have been internal conflicts we face, I am proud to say that they have really forced the best in all of us, each mentor that has come our way has had to be reminded of what Urban Word Nyc truly means and has meant to youth poets. I came into Urban Word NYC at the age of 16. The mentors and friends I have made there continue to be a driving inspiration and motivation for me in my everyday life and I have learned the testing of time, the pressure of media, and the struggle of community. Urban Word NYC is critical in its approach to youth activism and community organizing in that it continues to look to our youth for voices of influence and continues to not only build but support young people that have faced a myriad of transgressions, trauma, and the complexity of everyday life reflection. Growing up in New York City is a feat all of its own accord, it has built well-rounded and vibrant personalities. The things we face and encounter on a regular basis could simply prepare us for nothing short of greatness, that is of course, if we apply our experience to our learning and relationships. I am amazed at the breadth of knowledge and talent my team has and i think sometimes they forget how awing they truly can be for the rest of us... My Brave New Voices experience in 2005 was something utterly galactic. It encouraged the romantic in me and nurtured the undying love and faith I have in the potential of humanity, the expectations I have of all whom I've encountered and have loved in my life. I truly believe you call to you a certain type of individual and I am grateful for those whom have exchanged in this process. I am getting ready for Brave New Voices, hoping to be a sense of support and a level of grounding for my team because I know how powerful this experience can be, how transcending our ability to relate can move us... We have had our testing and trying times, but the most important thing for them to remember is that this is a self journey as much as it is a group journey and that through the self we can experience the whole vice versa. Our team has dealt with their fair share of judgements and lectures, they're growing individuals that deserve all the encouragement Urban Word NYC can offer and so I want them to know we've never given up on them, that we've only expected the best for and of them, and more importantly that we hope to help create individuals that will continue to spread a message of youth activism, of community organizing, and true all-encompassing love. No matter what happens in this coming week at Brave New Voices, I have watched the splendor of them and enjoyed every waking moment between then and now and thereafter... This week we will head off to Chicago, a new found family, a starlit sky of hope, and we will explode our hearts on each stage always aware of our affect and our impact, of our purpose and our abilities...more importantly learning our flaws and not being afraid of their influence on and in ourselves working each day to better the self. each day.

For those of you that will be in Chicago from the 14-19th for the Brave New Voices National Poetry Slam, I look forward to seeing you there!! Hopefully, I can make sometime to post updates throughout the week for those of you who can't make it. But either way shout out to the Urban Word NYC 2009 youth slam team and also to the Chino, CA team coached by love Kat Magill. Shout out to Enmanuel and Jamila, to Black Cracker and Michael Cirelli and to all the other mentors and previous udub team members that have offered their time and insight to this years team. See the rest of you guys soon!!!!!

always,
aja monet

FOR MORE INFO ON BRAVE NEW VOICES 2009, CLICK HERE!!

i really love this song...

2009-07-01T21:29:00.000-07:00

share a poem

2009-06-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

Juke Box Love Song
by Langston Hughes

I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.

pretty wings

2009-06-28T20:16:00.000-07:00

this song, omg...no words. is this man even real? maxwell, let me write you a poem...

we will miss you, Michael!

2009-06-26T10:39:00.001-07:00

Unfortunately, I never got to see Michael Jackson perform live, it was a wish and goal of mine for a very long time. He was of course THE greatest performer and entertainer that this world has ever seen and his influence is fluid. The man behind the music had many troubling issues and cases as many of us know but I truly believe that a man of his stature and with his popularity was bound to be conflicted by much more than his art. In the past 24hours I have mostly heard the beautiful affect Michael has had on people and then slowly but surely there were disgusting and rude comments made about his death in reference to his child molestation cases.
I want to make sure I say this, Michael did not mess with them kids, and if these sorry disgrace of human beings cant see that in the midst of all the media frenzy, I am utterly ashamed and completely disgusted. Michael loved children, he was simply a man that lost his childhood so that he could make music for us. He gave an ultimate sacrifice and because of this, the poor man revered childhood in the most magical of ways, truly he reminded us that children are simply little people that deserve to be listened to and appreciated. I believe that many people have taken advantage of Michael's kindness and his innocence. Michael fought for children's rights and believed that children deserved a special day devoted to them much like mothers day or fathers day. His children were the heart of his life and I can not understand how anyone who has ever watched Michael speak of children could find anything different in his true love for the spring of youth.
I am aware that Michael has been an extremly controversial figure but it seems that all of these accusations have held no water when confronted by legal officials. It seems that many of these accusations were falsified and fabricated truths. I believe that Michael may have shared his bed with children but I strongly do not believe he has ever dealt with children in any violating way. Michael believed that sharing your bed, the place where one lays their head, is one of the nicest and most childish things one can do. He handled it as a gesture of love and concern rather than how the rest of the accusing world did, they portrayed this image as a very distasteful and perverted gesture.

I truly hope that people look at the depth and complexity of Michael Jackson's life. Michael was a mystery to many of us and his dizzying response to the world has confused many. But all in all this man grew up before the world and his life portrayed celebrity tribulation at its best. His self criticism is perhaps the most disheartening, i think as much as people loved and revered Michael, there was a lot he did not feel and that did not resonate with his self-image and internal conflicts. People need to come together in this time and remember an amazing and incredible force in the lives of many many individuals. Michael Jackson's music has played as the soundtrack for many generations. His creativity was luminous and his music was uplifting and inspiring always. He will forever play as an example of greatness and incredible work ethic, his passion and drive is nothing short of exemplary. Michael was neither "good" nor "bad," he was human and a highly complex individual who represented the best and worse in us all. Not to mention that Michael Jackson has transcended generational barriers and racial barriers. What saddens me most, is that such a great and amazing icon died in debt and alone in his home, the idea of such a lonely death for such an incredible world force is perhaps the most heartbreaking. Also, let us not forget how much Michael did for people, he provided numerous scholarships for people and did an extreme amount of charity work. I think he was an all around beautiful humanitarian and hoped for the best in us always. My prayers to the Jackson family. I am touched by his affect and the power he has had to move people, to inspire smiles and more importantly to spark the child in us all.

Here was a recent cartoon made by Mike Luckovich about his death...please feel free to respond:

One of my favorite Michael Jackson music videos, oh there were soo many...

In Memory of Neda Agha Sultan

2009-06-24T22:04:00.000-07:00

There are many things I wish I could say about having watched the startling and horrifying footage of Neda Agha Sultan's murder. Unfortunately, I feel words may fail me when it comes to this. But it is completely outrageous and Obama's response, "heartbreaking" barely scratches the surface of a necessary US response. It is easy for many of us to turn our heads and Americans have never been subtle about such an embarrassing gesture more like a trait. I hope to share this footage and that it creates some sort of response and activism within the community of concerned and empathic individuals. This footage has been circling the internet from what I gain, hours after the shooting and since last saturday has caused an outpour of further protests and blog site responses. With all the work I've been trying to do here as an American citizen and as a poet, its not hard to feel helpless miles away when witnessing such horrendous imagery. In these moments, mostly I am brought down to the knee-buckling truth that my words can only do but so much, at the very least may they document the spirit of human condition in a time where I am not certain we remember what humanity looks like, feels like, loves like... The romantic in me will write the ugly into some beautiful thunder cloud of an image. However, this blog does not serve the purpose of helplessness rather may it inspire some type of inkling human compassion that quarrels the soul and awakens the fighter in us, the passion and drive of human concern. I do not know what it is to hold my daughter as her breath leaves, to watch the blood flood her face, to see a spirit flee in the midst of hope...but I know that this should not be the price of equality, of free speech, of basic human right to live and speak against injustice. My prayers, though they are a frail reminder of loss, may they reach the hearts of those in Iran and the family of Ms. Neda Agha Sultan and may they also offer some small morsel of consolation that there is a God somewhere fighting along with us, in us, always...there are moments I am torn to pieces with the doubt of this, yet and still, in the whirlwind of human terror and injustice there is always something utterly other being born and blooming, protecting the best of us. may Neda Agha Sultan's death not be in vain....

always,
aja monet

ps. please be advised that the footage is graphic.

click here for more info

she may be weary

2009-06-19T22:28:00.000-07:00

cool music video

2009-06-19T20:11:00.000-07:00

i caught this video from Novena aka Baby Stone's post and I really loved it. Thought I'd share with you all...

young women on violence

2009-06-11T12:43:00.000-07:00

I participated in this event organized by Nadia Lopez and Michaela Angela Davis and it was a beautiful testimony to sisterhood and community organizing. I am honored to have strengthened a friend ship with Ms Michaela Angela Davis in the recent year and she is an incredible force. If only people knew the work this woman does to reach out and bring sisters together. She encourages and inspires the best in us and I am honored to know her and call her a friend. take a look:

dedication to the 90s LADIES!!!

2009-06-10T15:56:00.000-07:00

Alright so I had to dedicate a blog to the 90s female R&B groups. I had like an ol school jam session with one of my home girls last night and it ranged from diana ross to stevie wonder to swv and when i heard their song i was like damn i miss the feel of music in that time...it was like one of the best times to be a little girl with the range in images of black female groups. so here's an ode to all you ladies out there!!!!

always,
aja monet

i can not begin to explain how much i used to love these ladies...like i was totally one of those little girls in the mirror singing my heart out to Xscape songs, i couldve sworn i was gonna be a member when i grew up...haha, yea rite. imagine little aja with a brush in her hand, thinking i was getting it in to a mic and i coulda sworn i was hittin them notes too...lol hilarious

I used to the love these girls...they were the ish, the baggy clothes, swag, and beauty.

and of course the infamous TLC...them on stilts in the water is forever a lasting image ingrained in my mind. mad love for these ladies...

these ladies defined female sexuality in the 90's. they're always gonna be the classic female group, no denying it...

ahhhh, EN VOGUE!! these girls used to work the shit out of their vocals...

do yall remember these girls?? no one brings them up anymore...

Watch more No Doubt videos on AOL Video

an old L Boogie interview with Howard Stern

2009-06-08T14:24:00.000-07:00

There are many troubling things with this conversation yet and still Ms Lauryn Hill keeps composure and addresses questions openly...take a listen, what do you think?

off duty black cop shot.

2009-06-05T10:16:00.000-07:00

Omar Edwards and his wife along with his 1 1/2 year old son and his 7 month old son

In the last minutes of his life, Omar Edwards lay handcuffed in the middle of Harlem's East 125th Street on Thursday, felled by bullets Officer Andrew Dunton fired after Edwards turned toward Dunton without lowering his gun, police said Friday.
Emergency Services officers cut open Edwards' white shirt. They found a Police Academy T-shirt and a shield and identification in his pants pocket.

"10-13!" an officer at the scene screamed into his radio. "Officer down! Officer down!"

Edwards, 25, a two-year rookie, was rushed to Harlem Hospital Center, where he died.

I am certain this hasn't been a national story because it is rather normal for police faults to be hushed and swept under the rug. Last weekend an off duty black cop was shot by a white cop on 125st in Harlem. Particularly in Harlem as of late I have seen my fair share of injustice when it comes to the police department. It is rather a horrifying truth of this community and the lack of concern for anyone not white in this gentrified state we are currently fighting. There are more cops in Harlem than ever yet and still they are not protecting any of its citizens it seems but rather intimidating and instigating problematic situations and something has got to be done....

always,
aja-monet

Rangel: Comment about Obama in NYC after fatal cop shooting 'was entirely inappropriate'

By Associated Press

2:30 PM CDT, June 1, 2009

NEW YORK (AP) — U.S. Rep. Charles Rangel says it was "entirely inappropriate" that he made a comment about President Barack Obama needing to be careful when visiting Harlem, where a black police officer was fatally shot by a white colleague last week.

Rangel said in a statement Monday that it "was entirely inappropriate to bring the president and his wife into this discussion." He also says he hopes his "off-the-cuff comment did not cause embarrassment to anyone."

Rangel was answering a reporter's question about what Obama should do on his trip to the city Saturday with the first lady. He was apparently alluding to the fatal shooting of Officer Omar J. Edwards on Thursday in Harlem.

The shooting is under investigation and sparked concerns about whether race was a factor.

really? do you see yourself?

2009-06-02T13:59:00.000-07:00

my sistah-friend, Tamara showed this to me the other day and i thought, wow. people never fail to amaze me....this is a damn shame and completely inappropriate---who finds this sexy? do you? cuz this is disgusting, ugh, i think i just threw up in my mouth a little.

what is freedom?

2009-06-02T09:24:00.000-07:00

it's rather interesting that i have taken the title "poet" and most days in my personal life, words rarely ever seem to do justice to the very thing I'd hope to communicate. how do you explain, describe, articulate a feeling? i'm not sure it is possible but perhaps we can recreate those feelings in how we express ourselves in the motives and methods used to share experience...nina simone is obviously an incredibly moving woman, and i am more intrigued by her inabilities in this moment. there is something quite humbling about that, and beautifully human. words are merely symbols in moments...some things have no representation in this language...what is freedom to you? Do you agree with nina? and what of love? what are these words?

motherwit

2009-06-01T17:44:00.000-07:00

it was in the summer cricket of her voice
the gentle hug and hold of words
where i found a mother in her heartache
in the truth of bodies making love and falling apart into each other
theres truly no way to unlove this memory of us, she tells me of my father
of missing him in my smile--some days it hurts so bad
that you can never forget, never melt away this love no matter the fist thrown, the belt buckle flung, the boomerang of insult lightening
there is no fire flammable enough to burn a heart given to him into ash, into a past
and she gave me the kind of advice, the kind of listening i believed never capable
deemed impossible in moments i remember most yelling into the telephone
walking over a highway, streetlight of tears shimmering on my face
i've adopted abuse like a step-in dad, worn its dimples
like a favorite shirt.
its a shame it took so long to hear her call me beautiful, call me a work of art
for her to see the mirror in me, the careful fracture and bend in my soul
to realize, i was never a mistake.
and even so
i am not a mistake.
i do not come in and out of your life for the sheer nature of passing moments.
we are not meant to be reminders of what we do not have
but what we make together, in the midst of what is not ours
and i will love you like a listened-to heartbeat, will learn how to love you
the way my mother never learned to live, to be captivated and held
to be treated like a memory worth having...

what would biggie think?

2009-05-26T22:38:00.000-07:00

really lil kim? computer love? wow! please, folks share your thoughts, feelings, and ideas...because is it just me or is this allll bad, like i understand the lady has gone through a lot but this seems rather embarassing, where is she trying to go, like what purpose does this song serve in furthering her career because i simply dont get it...who was on this womans team and decided this was relevant and also where is the growth, im confused by this one yall...ONE-what happened to her face? TWO-what happened to her flow? THREE-wtf...i used to love her flow.

please dont let my feel good go away...

2009-05-17T15:27:00.001-07:00

so a friend of mine put me onto this man...he's my new ish!!

being human rules

2009-05-12T12:21:00.000-07:00

10 Rules for Being Human

by Cherie Carter-Scott:

1. You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but it’s yours to keep for the entire period.

2. You will learn lessons. You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called, “life.”

3. There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of trial, error, and experimentation. The “failed” experiments are as much a part of the process as the experiments that ultimately “work.”

4. Lessons are repeated until they are learned. A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it, you can go on to the next lesson.

5. Learning lessons does not end. There’s no part of life that doesn’t contain its lessons. If you’re alive, that means there are still lessons to be learned.

6. “There” is no better a place than “here.” When your “there” has become a “here”, you will simply obtain another “there” that will again look better than “here.”

7. Other people are merely mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects to you something you love or hate about yourself.

8. What you make of your life is up to you. You have all the tools and resources you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is yours.

9. Your answers lie within you. The answers to life’s questions lie within you. All you need to do is look, listen, and trust.

10. You will forget all this.

(found via facebook note tag by zaven embree)

share a poet: SONIA SANCHEZ

2009-05-03T10:01:00.000-07:00

milkshake turned spoiled milk...

2009-05-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

SO it seems the rumors are true and verified to be such, the lovely dynamic HipHop couple is filing for divorce. Kelis allegedly is the one who filed the papers siting "irreconcilable differences" a close source tells reporters that Kelis was tired of Nas' cheating and that he was also extremely abusive. I guess it doesn't surprise me so much as I was routing for their team and now i feel like its wack to see them part. I never truly got what they saw in each other but it made sense, they looked like they would last forever. With Kelis' spunky, firey swag and Nas' laid back, knowledgeable flow it seemed like they would "balance" each other out. I guess you never really know until you're in it and it seems no matter how much you'd hope itd work out, some folks are simply put, incompatiable. Of course this doesn't mean that they don't love eachother but I am pretty sure there are a great deal of things two people in a relationship go through, where love manifests in more concrete ways that I assume we don't always expect. It seems to me there is this shift in the universe right now, I know at least eight couples that have broken up since december and the strange thing is, that these are couples that have been in long term relationships too, the ones most people envy and wonder how they've lasted so long. There must be something in the air. I have no clue. But I hope we are relearning the value of relationships in this process and the types of things we should be cultivating in those relationships, just cuz we're both cute and successful--don't mean we can be together, it takes a bit more will power and understanding then that. I assume celebrities must have it pretty hard when it comes to finding compatiability because you can never truly gage someones intentions when you are being catered to regularly whether it be for your money, fame, or status etc. I wish Nas and Kelis all the best but more importantly it has also been rumored that Kelis is seven months pregnant with Nas' baby--i hope the baby makes it through alright, that should be the focus at this point. normally, i'm not one to care enough to blog about this but as i said before this whole "break up" shift thing seems a lil sketchy to me...im sure some of yall have noticed the trend right now, havent quite figured out what it means but I assume it has us reevaluating our relationships and connections with people in our lives...i'm all for the necessary. anywho, peace out. always, aja-monet

100 days in office

2009-04-29T22:06:00.000-07:00

obama speaks...

easing into this... piece.

2009-04-29T17:56:00.000-07:00

alright, so i was in LA earlier this month and wrote this prose poem as the response to a writing prompt given by a professor and in part served homage to some reserved and frightened girl within me. i wrote a lot in LA about childhood and dreams I remember having as a child. some of the free writes focused on these places i wish to see in the complexity of screen memory, specific moments we remember and recreate according to our emotions reflecting on them. i think i've learned a lot about the fracturing and reworking of self in recent months. i'd like to think there is this grand philosophical idea of how i see self as self and in relation to others, the "othering" that takes place in the situations of most conflict. because we've been almost programmed to fear conflict and yet conflict is how we come to resolution, to understand each other. specifcally to the context of this idea--in contrast to who you are not, i believe you learn who you are.i say all of this to say, in applying a past conversation with a professor, when someone is recounting a memory or an experience one should always be aware of the construer. in fact when someone is most angered or moved to emotion in the telling of a story or situation, one should always look to the construction and not the situation or person being talked about, you can tell an awful lot about a person through this, their usage of certain words, gestures, emotions. it says much more about the person than the people or things they are speaking of. in reference to this poem, perhaps it will help you to know that I hope it reveals more about how i construe verses what it may be that i am saying about the person/s in the poem. it is a work in progress, maybe not even a prose poem, may even change entirely, it came to me more like letting the faucet run. in this sense, treat it like fiction, like some other womans story, which i am certain it is. poetry has allowed me to experiment with self in this way and the engaging of others in this respect. a person's narative should never be disregarded or ignored if you truly are concerned with them, in fact it should create a great deal of understanding about how one exists. i assume i am speaking to a much larger discussion than this poem, but i figured i'd share it and also the wandering in my thought process pertaining to my writing...i feel like i'm rambling incessantly. so let me just share ... any way, enjoy. (fyi:the formatting was changed thru the copy and paste)

always,
aja-monet
____________________________________________

Pieces

My mother kept torn photographs of her and my father behind her bed frame. When I was three years old I found them and gathered the broken village of them into my hands. She caught me one clumsy evening trying to put their pieces together, hoping to find an image that resembled a man with my face. I imagine some God kept her from whooping the skin off my backside. She simply stared at me like some fresh-born creature, some ghost of their past. I remember through the creases and wrinkles of ripped parts, her smile sprinkled across her body in his presence. It made me wonder of that man, the one she rarely spoke of, only when she cried and her lips would turn into a maroon crescent while her face spread like the night’s arms gathering me up into lullaby. Her sobs taught me womanhood too young.

When I was six years old, I sat on a subway bench next to the man whose face remains a distorted portrait of my DNA. I have spent the rest of my life searching for the joy I felt sitting next to him under flinching fluorescent light. I wanted to know the simplest things about him: his favorite color, food, smell…and I remember wondering where he worked, what type of magic he made of the world. He smiled and told me he was a construction worker, said he built things—playgrounds. I felt a tiny wiggle of pride sprout in my belly, pretending my daddy made great things. Of course by this time he was my daddy, again. Suddenly, it did not matter to me where he was, when he was gone, or why he rarely ever seemed to miss me, the way I sat by the windowsill beneath the dust of night, speaking to him through the lit eyes of some God in the sky. I was with him then-- imagining my father a glorious conductor of light furling in his hands. And the next day when he dropped me off at school I entered the halls, a sparkling gold star singing from the throat of a fragile pride--there is no dance like the dance of a daughter twirling on the thought of a father’s love, to be a princess of this kingdom. It is no wonder I became a shattering fairy tale when I later learned the language of liar, of tales and myth.

The first letter I wrote to my father while he was in prison was more like a suicide note. The words were scarred wrists and a strange freedom was born there. The small reach of light rusted in my body, grew in my eyes like a last breath. I had grown into a self-righteous teenager, and I learned of the” street medicine” my father sold, more explicitly of the several habits he couldn’t kick. There was no childhood magic beautiful enough to ignore the emptiness in his mouth. The eleven or so teeth that had fought to be there, survivors of war, resembling soldiers with horrifying stories—poor, unappreciated veterans sitting in his gums, mourning the loss of their friends. Last time we saw each other, I remember most, the smell of alcohol on the laughter of his breath, the sillyness in his drunk stumble. And it was then, that I saw him tear into the pieces--photographs my mother kept around the corner of her bedpost.

this is my new ish

2009-04-27T16:40:00.000-07:00

ohhhh, ne-yo...

Share a poem

2009-04-23T01:32:00.000-07:00

A Week Later
by Sharon Olds

A week later, I said to a friend: I don't
think I could ever write about it.
Maybe in a year I could write something.
There is something in me maybe someday
to be written; now it is folded, and folded,
and folded, like a note in school. And in my dream
someone was playing jacks, and in the air there was a
huge, thrown, tilted jack
on fire. And when I woke up, I found myself
counting the days since I had last seen
my husband-only two years, and some weeks,
and hours. We had signed the papers and come down to the
ground floor of the Chrysler Building,
the intact beauty of its lobby around us
like a king's tomb, on the ceiling the little
painted plane, in the mural, flying. And it
entered my strictured heart, this morning,
slightly, shyly as if warily,
untamed, a greater sense of the sweetness
and plenty of his ongoing life,
unknown to me, unseen by me,
unheard, untouched-but known, seen,
heard, touched. And it came to me,
for moments at a time, moment after moment,
to be glad for him that he is with the one
he feels was meant for him. And I thought of my
mother, minutes from her death, eighty-five
years from her birth, the almost warbler
bones of her shoulder under my hand, the
eggshell skull, as she lay in some peace
in the clean sheets, and I could tell her the best
of my poor, partial love, I could sing her
out with it, I saw the luck
and luxury of that hour.

there's never too much Zora...

2009-04-23T00:59:00.000-07:00

I feel like I must share this essay of all essays.

always,

aja-monet

"How it Feels to Be Colored Me"

by Zora Neale Hurston (1891 - 1960)

I am colored but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother's side was not an Indian chief.

I remember the very day that I became colored. Up to my thirteenth year I lived in the little Negro town of Eatonville, Florida. It is exclusively a colored town. The only white people I knew passed through the town going to or coming from Orlando. The native whites rode dusty horses, the Northern tourists chugged down the sandy village road in automobiles. The town knew the Southerners and never stopped cane chewing when they passed. But the Northerners were something else again. They were peered at cautiously from behind curtains by the timid. The more venturesome would come out on the porch to watch them go past and got just as much pleasure out of the tourists as the tourists got out of the village.

The front porch might seem a daring place for the rest of the town, but it was a gallery seat for me. My favorite place was atop the gatepost. Proscenium box for a born first-nighter. Not only did I enjoy the show, but I didn't mind the actors knowing that I liked it. I usually spoke to them in passing. I'd wave at them and when they returned my salute, I would say something like this: "Howdy-do-well-I-thank-you-where-you-goin'?" Usually automobile or the horse paused at this, and after a queer exchange of compliments, I would probably "go a piece of the way" with them, as we say in farthest Florida. If one of my family happened to come to the front in time to see me, of course negotiations would be rudely broken off. But even so, it is clear that I was the first "welcome-to-our-state" Floridian, and I hope the Miami Chamber of Commerce will please take notice.

During this period, white people differed from colored to me only in that they rode through town and never lived there. They liked to hear me "speak pieces" and sing and wanted to see me dance the parse-me-la, and gave me generously of their small silver for doing these things, which seemed strange to me for I wanted to do them so much that I needed bribing to stop, only they didn't know it. The colored people gave no dimes. They deplored any joyful tendencies in me, but I was their Zora nevertheless. I belonged to them, to the nearby hotels, to the county--everybody's Zora.

But changes came in the family when I was thirteen, and I was sent to school in Jacksonville. I left Eatonville, the town of the oleanders, a Zora. When I disembarked from the river-boat at Jacksonville, she was no more. It seemed that I had suffered a sea change. I was not Zora of Orange County any more, I was now a little colored girl. I found it out in certain ways. In my heart as well as in the mirror, I became a fast brown--warranted not to rub nor run.

But I am not tragically colored. There is no great sorrow dammed up in my soul, nor lurking behind my eyes. I do not mind at all. I do not belong to the sobbing school of Negrohood who hold that nature somehow has given them a lowdown dirty deal and whose feelings are all but about it. Even in the helter-skelter skirmish that is my life, I have seen that the world is to the strong regardless of a little pigmentation more of less. No, I do not weep at the world--I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am the granddaughter of slaves. It fails to register depression with me. Slavery is sixty years in the past. The operation was successful and the patient is doing well, thank you. The terrible struggle that made me an American out of a potential slave said "On the line!" The Reconstruction said "Get set!" and the generation before said "Go!" I am off to a flying start and I must not halt in the stretch to look behind and weep. Slavery is the price I paid for civilization, and the choice was not with me. It is a bully adventure and worth all that I have paid through my ancestors for it. No one on earth ever had a greater chance for glory. The world to be won and nothing to be lost. It is thrilling to think--to know that for any act of mine, I shall get twice as much praise or twice as much blame. It is quite exciting to hold the center of the national stage, with the spectators not knowing whether to laugh or to weep.

The position of my white neighbor is much more difficult. No brown specter pulls up a chair beside me when I sit down to eat. No dark ghost thrusts its leg against mine in bed. The game of keeping what one has is never so exciting as the game of getting.

I do not always feel colored. Even now I often achieve the unconscious Zora of Eatonville before the Hegira. I feel most colored when I am thrown against a sharp white background.

For instance at Barnard. "Beside the waters of the Hudson" I feel my race. Among the thousand white persons, I am a dark rock surged upon, and overswept, but through it all, I remain myself. When covered by the waters, I am; and the ebb but reveals me again.

Sometimes it is the other way around. A white person is set down in our midst, but the contrast is just as sharp for me. For instance, when I sit in the drafty basement that is The New World Cabaret with a white person, my color comes. We enter chatting about any little nothing that we have in common and are seated by the jazz waiters. In the abrupt way that jazz orchestras have, this one plunges into a number. It loses no time in circumlocutions, but gets right down to business. It constricts the thorax and splits the heart with its tempo and narcotic harmonies. This orchestra grows rambunctious, rears on its hind legs and attacks the tonal veil with primitive fury, rending it, clawing it until it breaks through to the jungle beyond. I follow those heathen--follow them exultingly. I dance wildly inside myself; I yell within, I whoop; I shake my assegai above my head, I hurl it true to the mark yeeeeooww! I am in the jungle and living in the jungle way. My face is painted red and yellow and my body is painted blue. My pulse is throbbing like a war drum. I want to slaughter something--give pain, give death to what, I do not know. But the piece ends. The men of the orchestra wipe their lips and rest their fingers. I creep back slowly to the veneer we call civilization with the last tone and find the white friend sitting motionless in his seat, smoking calmly.

"Good music they have here," he remarks, drumming the table with his fingertips.

Music. The great blobs of purple and red emotion have not touched him. He has only heard what I felt. He is far away and I see him but dimly across the ocean and the continent that have fallen between us. He is so pale with his whiteness then and I am so colored.

At certain times I have no race, I am me. When I set my hat at a certain angle and saunter down Seventh Avenue, Harlem City, feeling as snooty as the lions in front of the Forty-Second Street Library, for instance. So far as my feelings are concerned, Peggy Hopkins Joyce on the Boule Mich with her gorgeous raiment, stately carriage, knees knocking together in a most aristocratic manner, has nothing on me. The cosmic Zora emerges. I belong to no race nor time. I am the eternal feminine with its string of beads.

I have no separate feeling about being an American citizen and colored. I am merely a fragment of the Great Soul that surges within the boundaries. My country, right or wrong.

Sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It's beyond me.

But in the main, I feel like a brown bag of miscellany propped against a wall. Against a wall in company with other bags, white, red and yellow. Pour out the contents, and there is discovered a jumble of small, things priceless and worthless. A first-water diamond, an empty spool, bits of broken glass, lengths of string, a key to a door long since crumbled away, a rusty knife-blade, old shoes saved for a road that never was and never will be, a nail bent under the weight of things too heavy for any nail, a dried flower or two still a little fragrant. In your hand is the brown bag. On the ground before you is the jumble it held--so much like the jumble in the bags, could they be emptied, that all might be dumped in a single heap and the bags refilled without altering the content of any greatly. A bit of colored glass more or less would not matter. Perhaps that is how the Great Stuffer of Bags filled them in the first place--who knows?

(1928)

"i love myself when i am laughing"

2009-04-21T20:05:00.000-07:00

I am currently working on a series of poems to and for specific people. There is this new poem I am working on that plays almost as a letter to Zora Neale Hurston. For those of you that don't know, Zora is one of my writing loves. She is completely nothing short of brilliance and beauty. I thought I'd share this letter of hers to her editor that was shared with me recently. Enjoy:

Mr. William Stanley Hoole Birmingham-Southern College Birmingham, Alabama

Dear Mr. Hoole,

I think I must be God's left-hand mule, because I have to work so hard. Thats very funny too, because no lazier mortal ever cried for breath. But the press of new things, plus the press of old things yet unfished keep me on the treadmill all the time. Thats how come I havent answered your most kind and flattering letter before now.

My next book is to be a novel about a woman who was from childhood hungry for life and the earth, but because she had beautiful hair, was always being skotched upon a flag-pole by the men who loved her and forced to sit there. At forty she got her chance at mud. Mud, lush and fecund with a buck Negro called Teacake. He took her down into the Everglades where people worked and sweated and loved and died violently, where no such thing as flag-poles for women existed. Since I narrate mostly in dialogue, I can give you no feeling in these few lines of the life of this brown woman with her plentiful hair. But this is the barest statement of the story.

I am glad in a way to see my beloved southland coming into so much prominence in literature. I wish some of it was more considered. I observe that some writers are playing to the gallery. That is, certain notions have gotten in circulation about conditions in the south and so these writers take this formula and work out so-called true stories. For instance, one Russian lady got hot under the collar and walked out of a party because I wouldn't say that I had suffered terribly down home. It seems that she had helped arrange the party for me to expose my suffering and the "real" conditions in the south and when I said I lived pretty much the same in New York and Florida, she used that back-house word and walked out. Being poor myself I am heartily in favor of poor people getting hold of money but I fail to see the difference between an under-paid cotton-picker and an under paid factory hand. So why stress Alabama? The under dog catches heck everywhere. Nobody would love to see ideal living conditions for everyone more than I, but I sense insincerity when only one section of the country is held up for example. But I do feel that the south is taking a new high place in American literature. Caldwell, Peterkin, and that new-comer David C. Cohen (God Shakes Creation) and Bliss Carmen?(Stars Fell on Alabama)are definite contributors to life. Not to mention Sherwood Anderson, whom I think is almost equal to Caldwell, if not equal. T.S. STribling is a monnyark, thats something like a king you know, only bigger and better. I love him.

You asked for a paragraph and this is a pretty long one that I have on this page. But I was trying to give you a peep into my mind. I thought hard and tried to make a statment about the literature in a sentence, but I couldnt make it.

Sincerely, Zora Neale Hurston

P.S. I come of an Alabama family. Macon County.

this woman's voice is magic fairy dust

2009-04-13T20:25:00.000-07:00

this past weekend was the infamous soundbites poetry festival hosted by Mahogany L Browne and Jive Poetic. It was a weekend of raw inspiration and soul riveting metaphors. In particular there was a beautiful firefly of a singer featured on sunday. Her voice is something to witness, like catching the holy ghost of love, pure possession. I wanted to share her info with you guys and encourage you to support her music. Her name is Grace Kalambay. I actually have known her for a while, at least two years and have never heard her sing until this weekend. I bet you can imagine my surprise when I heard her blow like the sweet wind. You can find her working at the lovely Bowery Poetry Club somedays or at a local venue playing her guitar. Check her out HERE

milton!!

2009-04-11T23:59:00.000-07:00

this is absolutely hilarious. hands down ridiculous. grow the hell up, robert.

brave new voices on HBO

2009-04-03T22:07:00.000-07:00

this week I was able to attend the Los Angeles premiere of the new HBO television series. Shout out to Tanya Young who was extremely welcoming and warm with love and support and of course Shihan ;-) whose subtle awesomeness is often under rated. As for the screening, they showed the first two episodes of a seven episode series called Brave New Voices. I am in the first episode at the NYC Urban Word FInals where the making of the 2008 New York City Urban Word team took place. It was a beautiful evening and always brings me back to my year of slamming in 2005 at Washington Irving high school. I found the documentary-style film to be interesting and I look forward to seeing where it goes. It brought back many memories from my year of slamming in the Youth nationals and in many ways made me think of all the youth slammers before me, who will see this series as their mouths drop in awe of how far this movement truly has come, all the banging on doors and ears and walls praying that we would hopefully be heard by the masses... Had it not been for Brave New Voices in San Francisco and the experiences and friendships I made there, I honestly don't think I could have ever even imagined pursuing my aspirations and dreams so vehemently. I really believe there is some type of energy harvested at youth nationals that is incomparable to any other space or time. It is something to see it on television but what I hope this series inspires in people is the motivation to support and visit these types of events and poets.

Poetry has been a movement long before this show but what this show unveils is its depth and ability to express what only emotion endures and these young people are willing and open to the possibility of exploring their repressed emotions which then makes the educational process rather accessible. Spoken word and performance poetry has its own internal logic as with many arts. In light of this, I hope it helps to look at the art form as a means of healing. Surely, that is what it has been for me and countless other young people. I grew up before many people, performing and sharing my experiences as openly as I possibly could through language and stage presence and it has proven to save my life and at times to even explain a small part of my purpose and existence. I truly believe we all long to be understood and maybe simply, only to relate, to engage with each other. This series will hopefully open a small door where Def Poetry did not to the people behind poems, behind the audience and stage, to the growth and process of development.

Coming up through organizations such as Urban Word NYC has fostered a type of creative and work ethic in me that has made attaining my dreams and goals seem tangible. With mentors that give often so much of themselves it is incredibly magical to witness. Shout out to Queen Godis, she is truly a gift from some heaven where we store our hearts. Also, shout out to Celena Glenn, my personal inspiration and the reason why till this day the Urban Word NYC 2005 slam team is the only reigning NYC team to win Brave New Voices nationals (hopefully that changes this year ;-)

Some people may not know how necessary it is to be validated when you are young let alone period where often you are made to feel as though your voice does not matter and has no relevance to the adult realm but what I hope this series will do is invite people to see a bit of what has been taking place at Brave New Voices competitions with young people for years now...Be weary, the teller at your local bank, the teacher at your local public school, the student at your private college, the man sitting next to you on the train, and even the prison mate at your neighborhood facility... they may have all very well been a youth poet participating in competitions much like Brave New Voices, stirring souls of thousands and these voices may never get the recognition they deserve but they have inspired some life changing experiences. They are the real people that made Obama possible and even an expectation. Change did not simply occur overnight, no, it was a long before written poem scribbled in the notebook of some kid you never even thought twice to pay attention to... May we learn to listen to our youth differently and to read our spirits through their stories. With all that being said, check out the series. In spite of all the beauracracy behind the series and the commercial realm of things, I think this can be something positive for us to look to. I have my issues with certain individuals who have made it a point to monopolize off these young people's stories but let you be the judge and hopefully you will remember us not for our emotional vulnerability but for the fire it has ignited and the passion we have made with its embers...

always,

aja-monet

____________________________________________________________

HBO presents

Brave New Voices
A 7-episode series highlighting the voices of 21st Century America

Narrated by Queen Latifah

Airing on HBO ll PM ET/PT Beginning Sunday, April 5th

"Without language, we are nothing." -Jamaica Osorio & Ittai Wong

All over the United States, a new generation of poets is emerging. This new HBO series captures teenagers picking up the pen and taking hold of the microphone with passion, intelligence, creativity, honesty and power. These voices of 21st Century America transcend race, class, gender, orientation, and red state/blue state politics as they show us all what the next generation of leaders looks and sounds like.

Brave New Voices is a new seven-part series that features teenage poets and their mentors from San Francisco, Philadelphia, New York, Santa Fe, Ft. Lauderdale, Honolulu and Ann Arbor as they prepare for Youth Speaks' 2008 Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam Finals.

These young poets represent a growing national movement featuring thousands and thousands of teenagers writing and performing spoken word as a way to have voice in their communities and in the nation as a whole. These are the Brave New Voices and the organizations that support them.

The youth represent an amazing blend of spoken word, hip-hop, poetry, music, power, voice, imagination, and more. Brave New Voices sheds light onto this largely unseen world, putting an honest spotlight on some of the most dynamic young adults in the country.

The 2008 Brave New Voices Festival (BNV) was held in Washington, D, just three months before the presidential election. In the shadow of the White House, America's youth challenged each other with words and ideas.

For five outspoken days in July 2008, over 500 talented teen poets and spoken word artists from teams around the country joined together for workshops, poetry readings, late-night cyphers, political organizing, and of course, to vie for top honors at the National Youth Poetry Slam. They came from urban, rural and suburban areas, from the Deep South, Native American reservations, Hawaii, college towns and even from across oceans. Their backgrounds were diverse, yet they shared a passion for opening minds and hearts - starting with their own..

For many of the poets, the BNV festival was an eye-opening, life-changing experience. They left their family, got on a plane, performed in front of a crowd of thousands and found new opportunities for growth and friendship beyond borders. Equally life-changing was the four-month journey to get ready for the festival.

Eventually, one team rose above the rest to become the 2008 National Youth Slam Poetry Champion. But all were winners.

Join us for this unique four-month journey and listen to the Brave New Voices of today.

ClICK HERE TO SEE THE FIRST EPISODE ONLINE!

goldfish memories?

2009-04-01T01:20:00.000-07:00

this little girl is nothing short of adorable. enjoy.

Watch Cute Girl Flushes Fish and more funny videos on CollegeHumor

today was a good day.

2009-03-31T11:53:00.000-07:00

i remember the one person who always made me secretly wish i was from LA was of course the infamous Tupac. And then there were the classic South Central films (South Central, Boyz in the Hood, Don't be a menace to South Central while Drinking your Juice in the Hood etc). And let me just say it looks exactly like the movies...being a hard core New Yorker there are many issues I find with the city of lost angels, the main one being its over bearing car culture. But let me just say that I have got some good friends out in this government experiment of a city...(no offense) it seems entirely too "put together" for me. But the weather....oh, the California sun. Beautiful. and what of the beach front homes and canyon houses, wow.

Let's just say Los Angeles will always have a special place in my heart if even only for its incredible weather...But since I spent part of my spring break out here thought I'd share my hilarious self photos. The randomness of LA is what I love and in particular, the shopping cart culture out here is certainly a sight to be seen. I've seen many-a-decked-out shopping carts with rims and paint jobs (lol)...and although there are many many homeless people in LA it seems you have to search for them, its not like NYC--they make home of any and every where. If you're homeless in LA, I'm sure its not too hard to feel invisible and if not at the very least an abomination to the city. But then there are the great street performers in places like Venice and Hollywood BLVD. I think those places remind me most of the creative talents of NYC's homelessness. Since NY forces the hustler in most of us, you find that your entertainment mostly comes from the subway performers and homeless street rants. In LA its like people get offended if you are homeless, since its so spread out and everyone is mostly in their cars, they are rarely forced to interact with different types of people on a regular basis and if they do, the racial tension is so thick, you could surely cut it with a machete. Of course this is all my perception of the city. But it is not limited to this view. I think LA is just as complex and dynamic as any other major city but I am reluctant to call it a city. The palm trees and near by mountains make it a hard phrase to squeeze out my mouth. Not to mention the relaxed and largely spread out suburbs. And the funny thing is, coming from NYC, even their hoods look like the suburbs to me, I mean in comparison to NYC's red brick project buildings and vacant boarded up brownstones, the hood South Central and Inglewood homes and front lawns look like a good deal. I mean you might mess around and trip up in a hood in LA if you're from NEw York, of course untill you see a gun to your head or a sketchy 1984 monte carlo pull up beside you at the stop light bumping good ol school cali hip hop beats filled with mean mugs and jerking necks movement. Don't get me wrong, Los Angeles does have its not so great apartment complexes but mainly because of earthquake threats they can't have the big, tall prison-like buildings that we have in New York.

(Nathaniel Ayers aka "the soloist")

All that being said, Los Angeles has its own swag and charm. If you manage to get pass all the waiters/actors/singers/dancers/producers/artists/directors/photographers you will find some incredible people with vibrant smiles and warm hearts and such cool type presence that life always feels good around em. quite an awesome trait. much love, Los Angeles...much love.

always,
aja-monet

where the wild things are MOVIE

2009-03-25T23:29:00.000-07:00

Hey guys and gals, some of you may have heard the rumors about an upcoming film bringing to life the all time favorite childhood picture book and it is true... Where The Wild Things Are is scheduled to premiere in theaters this fall of 2009. I'm particularly excited to see this film , Take a look at the trailer and let me know what yall think. It looks like it just may do justice to the picture book!

"hey dick, you're great"

2009-03-25T18:35:00.000-07:00

ohhh, sly stone... this footage is priceless.

shout out to baby stone.
much love.
always,
aja-monet

Blah Blah Blah Poetry series!!

2009-03-25T11:08:00.000-07:00

Blah Blah Blah Poetry Series TOMORROW NIGHT 3/26
featuring Ishle Yi Park and Ainsley Burrows
@ the Bowery Poetry Club 8pm!
308 bowery st
take the f train to 2nd ave
take the b,d train to bway Lafayette
take 6 train to bleeker st

OPEN MIC
5 dollars with student ID
7 dollars without

Be there!

Rosado

2009-03-24T17:53:00.000-07:00

Hey Yall, So I am sure some of you have heard of the recent and controversial internet and industry success of mr. Charles Hamilton. Surely, he has amazed many with his lyrical skills and creative production. He is truly a musician in all sense of the word but more importantly owns the title of an artist as a badge of honor. Charles and I go way back to the high school days with late night conversations and debates about Eminem and Nas even before I had my own apartment, when I was living with a then best friend at the time in Harlem, wouldve been homeless had it not been for her and her wonderful family. Charles and I had mutual friends and was a fan of the Youth poetry scene where myself, Kesed Ragin, and Jaylene Clark had particularly taken his interest. We won Brave New Voices in 2005 where we represented NYC.

Charles has always been a brilliant and intellectual dude with a relentless drive, passion, and hunger for his music and as he will tell many openly and honestly he has dealt with his fare share of trials and tribulations. Up until two years ago, Charles was a Harlem neighborhood friend who frequented my room mate and I's couch and living room where he'd fall asleep after spitting for hours on end. Charles was that dude. My then room mate at the time and I use to hold small artist get togethers at our apartment which consisted of many poets, rappers, photographers etc. I remember visiting him a few times at the local Harlem public school studio where him and his friends would spend days working on music. I was one of the only featured artists to perform with him at his feature performance at the Bowery Poetry Club and didn't realize until much too late how important that meant to him. He has taught me a great deal in his silence more so than his words. I think he has a lot of incredible energy flowing through that mind of his and I pray the right people are around him to help cultivate that energy positively.

In reference to this song, "Rosado." It's actually quite funny that I ended up spitting on this song. Because I remember (correct me if I'm wrong, Charles) calling him one humid NYC summer with all anxiety of a little kid after listening to some of my favorite Sade songs, telling Charles that it would be dope to read poems over her music and I was surprised that people hadn't sampled much of her work, but I later found out that this was her choice when I spoke to Erick Sermon about it. then Charles called me sometime last fall asking that I come through midtown Manhattan to vibe with him in the studio. We had some good laughs and catch up time after his recent success and we ended up recording this song "Rosado" together. I think its a song that makes me smile, a nice laid back feel, and I think it also explains a bit more Charles' infatuation with the color pink which is not a blind infatuation. I understand that his admiration for the color pink has been the nitch for most rappers to throw at Charles in a means to call him "gay" which is a very low blow, because all it does is confront Hip Hops all too familiar homophobia. Although, I may find some of Charles comments or ideas a bit awkward I commend him for throwing it out there and allowing himself to be artistically vulnerable in ways that most rappers deem "too gay." it has nothing to do with his sexual preference rather he challenges the performance of identity and its therein all too troubling interpretation. God forbid i forget to throw a "no homo" in here and there. I encourage you all to listen to the track and share it with AS many people as possible. The metaphor of pink is far more elaborate than many rappers' minds seem to be able to think and I guess Charles had it coming with the lyrical punches he's been throwing at emcees as of late. But if you ask me, it is neccessary. People shouldn't be threatened by a challenge rather I think it should stimulate creativity and get artists on their game. If anyone sees Charles as anything you should at the very least commend a young man who is trying to reinvent form and the discussion surrounding Hip Hop. It is necessary. As for all these nostalgic Hip Hop folks, aint nothing wrong with ol school Hip Hop lets encourage the New Ol Skool...

CLICK HERE TO CHECK OUT THE NEW SONG:
on my MYSPACE
or download
"ROSADO" by CHARLES HAMILTON feat Aja-Monet

brown-rihanna reinactment

2009-03-23T23:57:00.000-07:00

I'm not sure how I feel about this. What do you guys think?

virgin america got soul?

2009-03-23T01:15:00.000-07:00

haha so today i had a flight into LAX via Virgin America and let me just say upon boarding this plane I could've sworn I had just entered Soul Plane, I was expecting Snoop Dog to appear from the cockpit in a cloud of smoke. I didn't mind the bright neon pink and purple lighting, in fact, I found it quite hip and appealing. I was amazed by the touch screen tvs and the individual remote controls that every passanger gets that can be used to play video games, navigate through music, and movies. The leather chairs were comfortable too. But what did it for me, was the wireless they had during the 6 hour flight, not to mention the outlets for electronics which totally gets me cause I often run out of battery power when trying to watch movies or write with my laptop. Overall, the attendants and pilots were very welcoming and nice. My only criticism of Virgin planes is the seating is incredibly tight. Especially when I have gotten use to the incredible space on Jetblue planes. I hope that Virgin America doesn't get ridiculous with their prices because I would hope to become a frequent flyer with them, they get a good review from me.

always,
aja-monet

(bye bye new york city.)