Ten months: Done. Two more left: cool. ________________ My top ten for the first ten months of this year. 1. The Lion King (finally), Fela!, and Aida (my first opera). 2. publishing (more in a year than I have in the previous 2 years combined) 3. Kindred by Octavia Butler & The Four Agreements by [...]
Author: darlene anita scott
...yeah, the one you met the other day in the grocery store. She made you wanna say something to her. You did. And now you can’t remember her name. But that wasn’t really the important part of the meeting anyway.
I'm an excellent tryer and dedicated if not so-so runner. I’m probably too old to still play on the monkey bars. But I do. Maybe too young to groove to Sam Cooke. But I listen to him. I'm powered by plants, a pacemaker, and anything creative.
I like making collages, making up my mind and sticking to it, and making up recipes; almost anything by James Baldwin; almost anything with black beans in it; and probably more than is healthy for the average human: I like alone time and homemade popcorn—not necessarily together.
I daydream constantly. I write poetry and prose. Sometimes I teach it to people. Sometimes I read or recite it to people. And even less often I publish it.
I could be more tolerant of overpriced grapes, people who drive with parking lights on, and deafening car stereos.
I like to laugh but don’t do it as often as I should. Some people think I'm shy. Some think I'm a mute. I'm happy to be here and try to make the most of it.
As promised, I’ve been working out this obituary. And I got a new idea while writing it. I’m developing a collection of poems on Jonestown and I’m thinking I’ve found a format: a series of obituaries of the people in the pictures. Well as I imagine them since many aren’t identified. Just a thought.
But the obituary you shall read today is actually my own. As written by me. Morbidity aside, the exercise was fairly useful in reminding me why I feel like an alien beamed here for the sport of the gods.
And it jumpstarted that Jonestown thing that’s been in the starting blocks since August. Whew, good save. The world really does not need any more of my bad oil paintings and y’all know how I get to gluing and painting when I get stuck in my writing.
Okay so before the obituary, a disclaimer of sorts: Deification…
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Monthly Meter: October
fellowship/publication submissions: 0 fellowship/publication acceptances: 0 fellowship/publication rejections: 2 books: 0 Secret Shame: 1. This month's meter. 2. My truck is still dingy and the tires need air. Mantra of the Moment: All things are in perfect order.
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Dear John (for the brothers)
Dear You, I told myself that it was because of my father that I fell in love with you. I loved him in the unconditional way children typically love—without acknowledgement or understanding of flaws. My father’s flaws became part of my definition of all men. Once I stopped loving you all by default, I started [...]
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There was no title
...and in October of 2002 when I wrote it, I can assure you that this man did not exist (erehem, in this form). So why is this not-so-great snippet worth a mention? Well, from at least 1998-2000 (the MFA years) I was mostly strictly and defiantly autobiographical in my writing. My thesis advisor (bless the [...]
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Rainy Days and Mondays, or, a Message from Hurricane Sandy
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Damned Hoodies (Again)
On the day the Sharmeka Moffitt story broke, I worried aloud to one of my students that I was bringing my memories of the Tawana Brawley case to bear on my assessment of the case. I refused blogs and looked strictly to news sites for my details. In the days following my fears were realized--the [...]
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The Common Denominator
I’m surprised you’re not married. And no children? Wow. He sighs and gives me an approving once over. The obvious attraction bores me. First of all it's old--15 years of this conversation and your balls remain so shriveled that you cannot act on it? Boy, bye. I am tired of being interesting and beautiful; not [...]
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Manifesto #2
Say It, Say It Any Way You Can by Vievee Francis He hit her in the back of the head. Truth—finds its own coarse measure. Not long out of diapers I wore purple hot pants and danced a funky chicken. There was the boogaloo, and my aunt’s red wig that went over her hair. I [...]
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Manifesto #1
Instructions to the Double Tess Gallagher So now it’s your turn, little mother of silences, little father of half-belief. Take up this face, these daily rounds with a cabbage under each arm convincing the multitudes that a well-made-anything could save them. Take up most of all, these hands trained to an ornate piano in a [...]
darlene anita scott 