blackgirl on mars: notes on a life in copenhagen (or how my alienation brings me closer to people).

As the old year crumbles into the new, there is just one thing I can't shake & that's the idea of support. There are so many people who, throughout the years, have believed in the madness of Lesley-Ann. I for one, think that is a VERY GOOD thing. Why? Cause it keeps me afloat. It's a great solace to know that there are people out there who believe in me. So, the first props goes out to Mother #1--My mother, Beryl Ann-Rose Brown. She always told me I can be a writer and guess what? I am! My sister--Shelley-Ann D'Anna Balbirsingh--Always there when I need her and she's like creative genius #1. If you guys think I'm a lot with my hats, publishing venture, blog and music, well you should see who inspires me! Shelley, You have been through a LOT these last couple of years. I know losing Anthony was like losing your heart. He was the love of your life but he has left you with the greatest gift ever: That of believing in yourself. He believes in you, I believe in y...

I'm trying to clean the apartment now so that the New Year will find me in a clear space both mentally and physically. It's dragging though cause I keep on starting to clean the bathroom, leaving that mid-way to wash the dishes, forgetting about that as I sit transfixed staring at my fish (one of them is about to lay eggs or croak--I'll keep ya'll posted) then I print a book, write an email, strip my bed, go back to the bathroom. What should take an hour tops turns into a whole day event. But I love it cause I'm chilling while I'm cleaning and I'm getting all these great ideas (like I need more!) and then I'm sorting my son's stuff out and find a piece of paper that describes this book he is writing: Kai Bomholtz's Town Hall Square (that's the title) subtitle: With curse words and wise stories. Illustrated by Kai, and he even numbers it. In the book reads, "This was started in 2007 and ended in 2008". And he continues, "How I w...

Blackgirl on Mars is about to land!

Bandit Queen Press was founded in 2007 by Brooklyn-born writer Lesley-Ann Brown. Bandit Queen Press is born out of the need for writers to exercise a symbolic and practical ownership over their work. Bandit Queen Press is born to wipe out feelings of alienation between the creator and the creation. Bandit Queen Press is born in protest to the publishing establishment. Bandit Queen Press is proud to announce its first title The Organist’s Daughter by Lesley-Ann Brown. Created on a Copenhagen Kitchen table, The Organist’s Daughter is a tribute to the unglamorous grittiness of life. Bandit Queen Press is a movement that you can be part of. All you need is access to paper. Please submit all new title ideas to banditqueenpress@yahoo.com for a copy of our manifesto which must be adhered to before use of the Bandit Queen Press seal of approval. Blackgirl on Mars can be heard at Homegrown's Myspace Merry Christmas!

I've been walking around thinking about you a lot lately. I've been really thinking about this example you set, which imparts a pretty good lesson once I get strong enough to take it on. The lesson is this: Just be yourself. I know you, like every one else, have always been open to criticism all your life. You have made decisions that many have disagreed with, whether it's your choice of a partner, how you parented, your career--sometimes the loudest opponents to your decisions have even been me. Always someone else telling you how they think you should do it, always someone else telling you where they think you did wrong. And in the face of this you have always remained steadfast and stubborn. "So?" You'd retort, "Every one can't be the same!" You'd admonish and suck your teeth. You finally learned how to fight back later in your life and sometimes it's even me you're standing up to. Since I've spent so much of my days telling yo...

One of the perks of living life is that sometimes you experience the delight of being proven wrong. I had one such experience on my recent visit to London. I don't really know what I was expecting, but it didn't even come close to the overwhelmingly positive experience I did end up having. Woman breaking down on the underground, crying, screaming into the phone to her ex/lover, "But how could you sleep with her? , how everyone tried to ignore the phone call, but by the end, someone asking her if she's ok, and the fact that she is allowed to break down so completely and totally OUT IN PUBLIC...hmmmm....I thought that was cool. The brown hands reading The Heart is A Lonely Hunter and as I hitchhike a read, I find she is in the midst of reading that brutal rape scene... Discovering bookmark-- the socialist bookshop right on the same street as my hotel!), buying a copy of Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita and so knowing that McKinley was there, winking down at m...

I not only find myself thinking about Glenn, but you, Arthur Flowers, Herb Boyd-too many to name, who paved the way for us. Where would we be without you all? So I find this socialist bookshop and this literary gem all you conjurors spun out cause you HAD to. Thank you all for taking the road you all did- especially given the struggle it continues to mean. You all are my heroes.

They really are polite!

Used to be this Korean restaurant my girl Karen R.Good and I used to frequent. It was in the East Village and we used to joke that if you felt like having a dose of bad attitude then go there, cause those waitresses were notorious for the shade they threw. But we still went cause in the end we both knew that Korean food is like soul food and that's what I'm thinking about now as I sit in some Korean restaurant in London-my girl Karen R. Good, waitresses with bad attitudes and seoul.I do really love kimchi.

This is my first time in London and I'm loving it. Oxford Street transports me back to Downtown Brooklyn and I eat roti at a Jamaican restaurant with the best pepper sauce I've had in year (and they don't sell it!). It's rainy and the multitude of shoppers jam-packed with umbrellas poking each other's eyes out gives me a buzz: Over there a car drives through a puddle and splash! That pretty girl is now all wet! Like New York, London is full of transported souls, all seeming a vital part of the pulse of the city. As I walk down the streets, I start thinking about Glenn Thompson. Glenn Thompson used to work upstairs from Marie's at 625 Broadway. He owned Harlem River Press, Writers & Readers and Black Butterfly Books. He flirted shamelessly with me and everytime he flew to London, he'd bring me back a box of chocolates. At this part of his life, his brother had reentered, and we: Marie, Glenn, his brother, myself would hang out at Gonzales Gonzales downs...

My great epiphany of last week - Give up the fight. I realized that when I am defending/arguing even explaining or justifying really just comes from a need to convince the other person that my way of thinking is right, which actually shows that underneath I feel unsure of my right to have my own opinion or that I doubt myself in some other way. Soooo-- I deducted that by giving up and letting the other person figure out their own moral codes means not to be weak or afraid, it just means I can have more fun and give up the crusade of trying to change the way others see things – i.e. giving them back their responsibility to figure out how to do the right thing, act or respond in the right way etc (and when I say right – I mean right for them – whatever their overall learning experience embraces). This means I am free to “know” my way is right for me. We do not need to carry the moral welfare of others on our shoulders but can sit back gently secure in the knowledge that our intentions a...

My grandfather was a handsome man--Strong jawbone, high cheekbones the color of terra cotta. We grew up hearing that he was orphaned after his parents traveled to Canada in search of a better life. The plan was, like so many other West Indians, to earn enough money and then "send" for the rest from home. Unfortunately his mother passed away, the family lore always saying that it was the "draft". Now, when Caribbean folk talk about the draft, they not talking about the military, they talking about that North American and European cold, that cold that gets down to the center of your bone, that cold that wraps itself around all your vitals and asphyxiates whatever warmth you have out of you. Apparently, the story goes, his mother sewed for a living and one day she ironed something, a handkerchief actually, and then went out into the cold. I'll never forget the picture that conjured up in my mind as a child: A brown woman with a blur of a face heating an iron up ...

Dear Daddy, Sometimes when I sit at my kitchen table in silence, a cup of tea in front of me, I envision you sitting right opposite me. See, during moments like these, you never died four years ago. Instead, you battled your depression, reclaimed your health and decided to come visit me here in Denmark to see your grandson. He looks like you. It's something about his eyebrows and the slight buck-toothed laugh that remind me of you when you used to call me "sweetey girl". He's got your fight too--and it's a challenge when he gets mad. Once he took my clothes and was about to throw them out the window! Yes Daddy, Kai reminds me of you. I remember those days when I'd come visit you. It was when I was in college and I'd come by after a night of partying and we'd hang out, listen to Roy Ayers and I'd take a nap on your bed. You had a big ass tv and still liked to watch your gameshows. You wore worn denims and canvas sneakers. You were still vain abo...

My mother´s maiden name is Balbirsingh. It is a Sikh name and aside from our family in Trinidad, there is only one other family with the same name. But they are Indian and so don´t mix with us--we are a family of pot hounds, mix-breed. So in Trinidad there are only two groups of Balbirsinghs, my family, the mixed bunch, and then another bunch, with the doctor as the head, who again, wants nothing to do with us. I find this funny. My family finds this funny. My family, much to my chagrin, likes to talk about how mixed we are. In truth, I am just as East Indian as I am African and this comes from my father´s side as my mother´s. My father´s grandmother on his maternal side was a pure East-Indian who married like 7 times, all to creole (black) men. She lived in Sangre Grande and I met her when she was in her 90s. What kind of woman owns her own house, marries not only 7 times, but marries only to Black men when she herself is pure East Indian? I come from this line of women. On my mother...

There’s something eerie about a place that seems to have more concrete than people, something chillingly distant—as if it is a place that gives birth to seriel killers. But I am sure Lyngby is a charming little town with a warmth present which I was not imaginative enough to find. I am also willing to admit that it is not fair to judge a town through early morning eyes. However, let it be known that even after a few hours of work, after being slapped awake by the maniacal fluorescent lights of my job and the sharp smell of cleaning liquids, I could never seem to stop thinking that Lyngby seemed to be plugged into artificial resuscitators, and why for chrissakes, couldn’t somebody just pull the plug? But let’s keep the perspective here—again I admit it’s not fair looking at a town from the sleep deprived eyes of an early morning cleaner—someone who takes the train in the semi-comatose state one finds oneself in at 6.30 am and have but a still sleeping city to greet her. But as I exit t...

People always ask me what Danish people are like & a few years ago, while I was caught up with my own issues of unhappiness and sorrow, I probably would have answered with a shake of my head and say, "Well, they're Danish." I knew I was generalizing, and hated doing so, but it was easy to do and as far as I could tell, I wasn't hurting anyone--or so I thought. When my son and I returned from New York City this summer, he said a few things to me that made me think. First of all, you gotta understand, when we stayed in New York, we stayed at Marie's on 154th Street--a beautiful brownstone full of books, amazing artwork and people. At Marie's Kai met play directors, writers, painters, editors, agents, sales directors, actors--All of whom just happened to be Black. And he loved it. He loved it, I suppose, cause he got to see others who looked like his mother and who, from what he could tell, valued his mother highly. What child doesn't like to see that, ...

I grew up Catholic so when I was a little girl, I read all these books about women and men who willingly let themselves burn at the stake out of their love for God. I read about beautiful women who rejected wealthy, handsome men because they would rather be bar-b-q'ed than divulge in earthly pleasures. I grew up with this crazy story of this woman who gave birth without having sex (HUH???) for a God who not only didn't even ask her, but didn't even have the nerve to show up himself and announce that hey, you know what, you're gonna be having my baby. Nah. She just kind of had to carry the burden of being pregnant and luckily, as the story goes, she had a guy to protect her, you know Joseph, the carpenter (every one loves carpenters!) So it's no wonder I got this Catholic Girl complex. I even went to Catholic School in Trinidad. I mean, I swear, the other day, I was looking at this picture of myself and I was ADMIRING my flawless forehead. I mean, I was amazed at ...

Chillin is... listening to Beastie Boys and watching your son break dance. Chillin is... Sipping a good glass 'o wine...(it makes mommy smarter!) Chillin is... thumbing through your brand new copy of Sable that just came through the mail, and reading all about Nawal El Saadawi & Gwendolyn Brooks (Thanks Kadija!!!) Chillin is... blogging while your son gets inspired to write a song. Chillin is... thumbing through the new books you just bought: (while L.L. Cool J's I'm the Type Guy plays)... C.L.R. James "Letters from London", which you discover was written while at Bloomsbury which is coincidentally, the neighborhood you will be staying at...and Samuel Selvon's The Lonely Londoners...cause you know what? Chillin is living and seeing the world Brooklyn, Trini style...In other words, I jus' limin... I'm out, the lab

Yesterday evening I sat at my computer and attempted to type up a novella I had written while in Lisbon. It's one of those stories that just spilled forth, where I stayed up all night wrote straight into my journal, and woke up early to continue. Not out of discipline but because I had to. But then last night I finally had to admit to myself that it is this aspect of writing I like the least: Moving my handwritten text from my journal by typing it up into an electronic file. The problem is that this is an integral part of my writing process, a part of the revision and also a step towards getting it out there, to you, the reader. This is where the discipline is needed. So anyway, I'm really struglling to type up this story and focus, which I did a bad job at, cause of course at some point I checked my email, so EAGER for a distraction was I. And I saw that I got an email from my brother. I'm psyched because my brother Gerry is really cool. He's like the quintess...

Last night I finished up A Natural History of the Senses by Diane Ackerman (see previous blog entry). This book is a literary drug which awakens your senses to life and aligns artistry with nature. She writes: "It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery. However many of life's large, captivating principles and small, captivating details we may explore, unpuzzle, and learn by heart, there will still be vast unknown realms to lure us. If uncertainty is the essence of romance, there will always be enough uncertainty to make life sizzle and renew our sense of wonder. It bothers some people that no matter how passionately they may delve, the universe remains inscrutable. 'For my part,' Robert Louis Stevenson once wrote, 'I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel's sake. The great affair is to move.' The great affair, the love affair with life, is to live as variously as possible, to groom one's curiosity like a high-spirited thorough...

"When you consider something like death, after which (there being no news flash to the contrary) we may well go out like a candle flame, then it probably doesn't matter if we try too hard, are awkward sometimes, care for another too deeply, are excessively curious about nature, are too open to experience, enjoy a nonstop expense of the senses in an effort to know life intimately and lovingly. It probably doesn't matter if, while trying to be modest and eager watchers of life's many spectacles, we sometimes look clumsy or get dirty or ask stupid questions or reveal our ignorance or say the wrong thing or light up with wonder like the children we all are...Or a neighbor, fetching her mail, sees us standing in the cold with our own letters in one hand and a seismically red autumn leaf in the other, its color hitting our senses like a blow from a stun gun, as we stand with a huge grin, too paralyzed by the intricately veined gaudiness of the leaf to move." --A Natural...

Look who I bumped into on the train this morning! Lennox Raphael...writer extraordinaire. He was on his way for his usual bath in the sea and I, to work. We got so caught up in talking, I didn't hear when the conductor said the train would not be stopping at my stop...GREAT start to a busy day and then on my way home, I bump into the lovely Elene Jawara, mother to three, who, as I listened intently, told me all about her recent creative breakthroughs! Both Elene and Lennox have been invaluable friends & critics...not afraid to tell me when they agree or disagree with my musings, creative or otherwise. It's the best sort of company to surround oneself with: People who encourage you to grow and are not afraid of walking to the beat of their own drum. I am lucky to be in such company. Seems like many are on the very same wavelength as I seem to be...Very good. peace, the lab

When I was 15 I was involved with the War Resister's League on Lafayette Street. I was a Junior at Irving, and through a teacher there, had been introduced to the Non-Violent activism of this courageous group. The building is still there, I think...it was an old building that housed a medley of personalities who shared one thing in common: A commitment to end war. I had recently arrived from Trinidad and was thankful to fall upon this place. There was Carl, the gray-haired Communist who, like so many others, chose jail over War. There was Ralph, a just as gray gentleman, who reminded me of Karl Marx. I loved how the building smelled: of old cigarettes, decaying books and coffee. I was invited to work on Spew II--the follow up zine to, you guessed it, Spew. I got to interview Daddy-O from Stetsasonic . It was my first interview. Enjoy the video! Peace, the lab

I can't tell you how many times I have googled my father's name hoping to find some information on him. You see, I grew up hearing my father's Hammond in our Ocean Avenue living room. Sometimes my mother would say, tinged in typical Trinidadian modesty, "Your father has talent, you know." But she didn't need to tell us children. We were surrounded by it. My father made everything from multi-bulbed lamp shades made from graters to our fake leopard print couch that we were not allowed to sit on. He made a spherical fish tank (I kid you not) and once, in order to cool the motor of his Hammond, he even built in a fan. When I lived in Trinidad I would always hear from my mother's family about how talented he was, but they would always add jokingly that he was from "behind-the-bridge" as if that was supposed to mean something. Although I was young I had already been exposed to the ghetto and was privy to the creativity inherent in living in poverty. I ...

Upon entering the streets of Lisbon, the first sensation to engulf me is its warmth. It immediately pushes me back to a time in my youth when walking on the pavement in such heat was the norm back in Port-of-Spain. I will later learn that it is unseasonably warm for this time of the year and I find myself engaged in the sacrilegeous and tabu act of secretly thanking Global Warming. Lisbon is like a sleeping giant who is gnarled yet beautiful and gentle. Walking its steep cobble-stoned inclines I am again transported to childhood hikes up Covigne Road in Trinidad to visit a friend who we'd gently tease should buy a helicopter, so high up in the hill she lived. The faces of all were familiar--old wrinkled brown-faced peasants summoned my grandfather, Ewart G. Balbirsingh, while the broad-buttocked yellow woman, my aunt. Old ladies with strong legs dressed in flowered smocks recalled my grandmother, Mummy Hildred and Yoruba black women my Aunty Audrey. Seeing the tips of castles atop ...