Last Stand

First off, this will be the last time I mention True Blood in my blog. I mean how pathetic right? It's a television show. But the thing is I don't really watch television. This is the only show I watch every single week without fail so it's pretty special to me. And that seems to be the case for me with all of Alan Ball's shows.

When Godric dies, the allusions to The Crucifixion are pretty obvious but the fact that he is a thousand year old vampire is all about Alan Ball's obsession with death, immortality and the endless questions that surround the meaning of life.

With Eric as his brother, father, son, there are also strong allusions to the intense bond between Jesus and Judas, and a clearly homo-erotic subtext.

And as for Sookie, if there was ever a moment to fall for someone who she believed was cold, conniving, blood thirsty and ruthless, this was it. Personally I was quite moved by the entire scene on the roof and am constantly amazed at Ball's ability to take the corny campiness of supernatural lore and make it so translatable.

"I Will RIse Up"

It's been while since I wrote anything about True Blood. I really had no idea that it was going to get this good. I mean the first season was like a guilty pleasure but in my experience Alan Ball has never produced anything for mere entertainment. I have trusted him ever since "American Beauty" and after he did "Six Feet Under" for HBO I watched anything with his name on it. For me, "Six Feet Under" was the series to end all series. Until now, "True Blood" has merely been skirting the edge of depth, with sex and gore and violence, and no shortage of commentary on inequality, prejudice, and injustice. But this weekend's episode, "I will rise up" has raised the bar several feet.
I watched the last 15 minutes or so of it speechlessly. I wish I could post the last few minutes here but there is no way HBO would ever let youtube get a hold of that. And yet I do manage to watch it online every week illegally. Sometimes, it just feels better that way.

HOLY SHIT! I NEED TO FELT!

I was at the "Fashioning Felt" Exhibit at the Cooper Hewitt Design Museum today with my cousin Elsie and I was totally blown away not only by the felting process but how freaking DIY friendly it is and how personal a felt piece can be, especially as a garment because it can only ever fit the person for whom it was designed on. You have to got to the site to watch this process! I am Googling for raw wool as I write this! It really makes sense why it's so expensive, since so much work goes into making it. But the results are this gorgeous, sturdy, soft, multi-purpose, eco-friendly fabric that's not like any other fabric because it's not woven, or sewn but fused together by water and friction! It's incredible! I just need to figure who they fashion the actual garments after they make the material. Strangely enough, that was the only process that was not demonstrated.

But...uh, I will be delving into that straight away.

Nervous Conditions

"Freed from the constraints of the necessary and the squalid that defined and delimited our activity at home, I invested a lot of robust energy in approximating to my idea of a young woman of the world. I was clean now, not only on special occasions but every day of the week. I was meeting, outside myself, many things that I had known existed in other worlds although the knowledge was vague; things that had made my mother wonder whether I was quite myself, or whether I was carrying some other presence in me.

It was good to be validated in this way. Most of it did not come from the lessons they taught at school but from Nyasha's various and extensive library. I read everything from Enid Blyton to the Bronte sisters, and responded to them all. Plunging into these books I knew I was being educated and I was filled with gratitude to the authors for introducing me to places where reason and inclination were not at odds. It was a centripetal time, with me at the center, everything gravitating towards me. It was a time of sublimation with me as the sublimate."
-"Nervous Conditions"
by Tsitsi Dangeremba

This is one of my favorite passages from the book so far. I've been engrossed in it for the last few days. I've had it since the end of Fall and most of the summer. One of my Professors lent it to me. Shame on me for picking it up from the head of my bed for the first time only last week. It's brilliant. I'm sort of wary of giving book reviews but if you're interested you can view the description of it here. I just really like the way the passage above attributes the education of someones being to having been opened up by books because in many ways I came of age with my face in books as well.

A Hair Story

Friday morning I went to get my hair cut by Ketlie a student at the John Atchison Salon on Madison Ave. My relationship with my hair in its natural state has been very unbalanced. I have had a hell of a time finding any current or stable resources for exactly how to take care of African American hair that is not processed,relaxed or in a weave.

The woman who gave me the card for J.A. referred me because she had a short natural like my own. I was flattered that she would dig around in her bag for me and really liked the shape of her natural cut so I called to make an appointment right away. Plus, it was free and I’ve needed a trim for a while now since my go to Barber Shop, West African Barbers, closed months ago.

Ketlie at the John Athchison Salon


Since this was a student cut, it took a few hours and was done very thoroughly because it had to be monitored by John Atkinson himself, a tall older African American man who did the hair of at least two other older women while Ketlie was cutting my hair.

I have to be honest, as long as I’ve had my hair short; I still get really nervous when I go for a trim. I get scared that I’m going to have to start all over again. It’s like so many things about myself I need to maintain. Taking care of yourself is not easy, and I feel as if the diagnosis of my hair is always the same: damaged. It’s dry, there’s breakage, and I need to deep condition more often. I feel like I’ve done all these things to no avail but perhaps I haven’t been patient enough with myself. Washing my face and moisturizing every night is really paying off. Perhaps the hair regimen Ketlie recommended for me will pan out as well.

My Latest Shape
Since it took literally hours to have my hair done, shampoo and conditioning included, I picked up a magazine at some point and wouldn’t you know I stumbled upon an article written by a white woman who cut her hair really short as well?

She said her boyfriend was pretty clear that he didn’t like it and although they broke up they are still good friends. It was clear that this bothered her but also that she wasn’t willing to change her hair for him. Every once in a while I would look up into the station mirror watching as my hair got shorter and shorter. I told myself, this is me. Why am I so afraid to see myself?

Ketlie told me that she was getting ready to cut all her hair off as well, that she’d been growing out her processed hair in preparation. She said she really liked the look and thought it was very feminine. I thought it made me look a little bit like Max Headroom or Grace Jones but instead of being pessimistic I decided to indulge in her genuine enthusiasm. I really trusted her and I could tell that she knew what she was doing. When she was done, she gave me a list of all the things she had recommended I use.


Fortunately, having had short hair for a few years now, I no longer go into shock over getting a haircut. I realize that it is something others have to adjust to but for me it’s just a slight change. Ketlie asked me what my fiancée thought and I told her he was very open minded and thought it was cute when I cut my hair. I realize that I get a lot of my hair confidence from him. I honestly think I’d be a wreck if I were with some guy who associated femininity with long flowing locks only. Because of Francis, this part of my self-image is greatly altered. He really only wants me, not some idea of me. I can’t tell you how liberating that it, how rare. I still struggle with a lot of aspects of how I look and feel, to almost a crippling degree at times but being with someone who accepts so much of me gives me the idea that all of that struggle is a waste of time.

Taking care for ourselves through exercise, eating right, getting fresh air and bathing frequently is a basic requirement but for women so much of the extra maintenance of “beauty” can be a slow ride to insanity because it is based in so much illusion. Knowing that, however, doesn’t always make it any easier to deal with.

A Doll Story

Me and Baby Checkers

Last night on the drive upstate to Fran’s place in Rockland County, the names of all my old dolls started to stream back into my memory. They are long gone; mostly because of the house fire we had in the Bronx years ago. I could have kept them but there were a lot and I was just so messed up over the whole disaster that it felt foolish at the time to try and keep them. My Barbies, baby dolls, Cabbage Patches all went in the dumpster. I can’t even imagine what I would have done with them all if I’d kept them. I think it was for the best. But I guess what’s gotten me started thinking about it is my present obsession with Blythe dolls and just dolls in general, what they mean and how they influence our development racially, emotionally, socially.

Thinking about my dolls’ names made me realize that my mom may have been a bit of a doll collector in her mature years as well. One of my first dolls that I received from her for Christmas was a black doll in a wedding dress. Her name was Isis. That was what we called her although I realize now that I didn’t give her this name. That was all my mom and the influence of her interest and studies of ancient Egyptian history.
There was another black baby doll I had that I loved. She was all plastic and had a speaker in her chest so I imagined she actually spoke at some point but I certainly don’t remember when. I called her Checkers. No mystery there. I just liked the word Checkers.

Denanda was another black baby doll I loved, with a soft stuffed body with plastic arms, legs and head and eyes that closed when she was prone. Mom and I named her mutually, after a Buddhist chant my mother taught me as a girl. We used to sing it together like a song. Ananda means bliss. The chant is a sort of Buddhist meditation about God and following your own conscience.

Om tat sat sit chit ananda

It means absolute Consciousness, absolute Existence, absolute Bliss.

Mom also made me a doll out of brown velvet with no facial features. My brother and I called her Brown Baby. She had real hair on her head, though I forget whose hair it was. We cast her as the hero of countless doll adventures.

When I think about this stuff now, I realize that much of my self-esteem, self-image and curiosity about other cultures was grounded unconsciously by the way in which my mom integrated her own multicultural interests in the naming of my dolls. Somehow, the diversity in their names (They had traditional Western names like Mandy, Judy and Eve as well) informed my easy acceptance of differences on a wider scale. Somehow, even as a girl I knew that the way people played with dolls was very telling about deeper aspects of their personalities, home life, learned preference and future development. So much can be learned about people from the way in which they play, not just dolls but toys in general. As we get older, toys may change take on various new definitions, but for me, a lack of play is a lack of life. I had so much fun playing as a girl and I have never really stopped.

New Old Polaroid Spectra

A camera recommended by one of my classmates at ICP. Polaroid film is no longer manufactured so I ordered mine on ebay. It should be arriving next week. Yea!