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

classroom scribble by Diab, g. 6 Life, it is has always been said, is the ultimate creation and I have recently thrown myself into it like there will be no tomorrow. Instead of beating myself up for projects still unfinished, I realize that every interaction I have is, in the end, the ultimate expression. What if what occurs between two people, whether on a train during rush hour, or in the comfort of their own home is tantamount to experiencing the true essence of what it is that life has to offer? That said, I really attempt to treat each and every interaction as an authentic expression of myself. This means not acting out of frustration, anger, or hurt but out of a higher plane of recognizing the magic inherent in another human being. I am not always successful. But I try. This means acting with grace when someone asks me something like, "Why do Black women spend so much time on their hair?" This means not wanting to slap the crap out of someone who rushes past m...

a great miracle happened here a festival of lights a casting of lead upon children an army feasting on epiphany i know nothing under the sun over the wall no one mentions some must die wrapped in floral petroleum blanket no coverage i have come to every day armageddon a ladder left unattended six candles burn down a house a horse tied to smoke some must die to send a signal flat line scream live stream river a memory longer than life spans the living want to die in their country no open doors no open seas no open hands full of heart five daughters wrapped in white each day jihad each day faith over fear each day a mirror of fire the living want to die with their families the girl loses limbs her brother gathers arms some must die for not dying children on hospital floor mother beside them the father in shock this is my family i have failed them this is my family i did not raise their heads i have buried them my family what will i do now my family is bread one fish one people cut into p...

Dr. Roi Kwabena --bringing it all home. (July 23, 1956, Trinidad — January 9, 2008, England) A Special thank you to Guanaguanare and One Day for the Watchman

There's a lot going on in the world right now that puts me at a loss for words. I often wonder how the world would be if we dropped bread instead of bombs. People call me an idealist but I would rather be that than receive a note, floating from the sky, telling me that I must leave my home because soon, the entire area will be bombed--yet there is no place to go. I know shit is complicated. All I am saying is: violence begets more violence. Whether you talking about domestic, social, cultural. It's not higher math. Anyway, I received the following from poet Suheir Hammad, and was very happy to receive it: famalam light i wish for you health love family music light dance heart poetry justice love all year. below links i've been reading and researching. i've received emails from folks wanting to understand gaza, hamas, this current time. i'm at a loss, deep. i keep thinking this is all my family has ever known. i tried to find articles esp written by women. i'...

This from my very wonderful friend in New York City, John McGregor: Have You Ever Wondered How History Is Made? I'd like to take a brief moment to fill you in on something we're doing here at McNally Jackson . We're doing a display with an accompanying panel discussion, which we think is quite special. No one has done or is doing anything quite like it and I’m very excited. It's called "How History Was Made” and it's a comprehensive look at the books and the writers that shaped the intellectual core of our President-Elect. Culled from extensive research that digs deeper than the “favorite books” or “Barack’s reading list” collections that are so popular. "How History Was Made" is a bird's eye view of how a wide range of reading honed the world-view of a president that values the life of the mind as not only interesting and laudable but vital and necessary. Barack Obama is preternaturally well read. And to look at this collection of work is fascina...

Yesterday was my first day at my new job. Suddenly Copenhagen is a diverse place. These kids kick my ass but I so need it. Would you believe that they remember me?!? Lesley, where are you from? Brooklyn, New York. Brooklyn? Isn't that a cool place? Tonight I read The Organist's Daughter. It is funny what time can do to a poem. The beauty of spoken word is the way it gets better and better every time you read it. It starts to wrestle itself from your grip and insists upon a life of its own. Before it was me reading the poem, now? The poem reading me. What I can't stand, is that drone many people insist on reading their poetry in. Why kill a poem with a bad rendition of Ginsberg? Hang it up--find your own voice and say it loud! I should do a spoken word workshop here. As I walk through the cold I enjoy it--I'm alive to feel it, so why complain. But it is friggin cold! Also, I must admit that it is quite unnatural how little sun there is. I'm trying to remember my vita...

I think everyone should read this: A Mother from Gaza

When people talk about Williamsburgh, I hardly recognize what they say to me, although it all makes sense, seeing that I was part of the gentrification process that came as a tidal wave among the then, unsuspecting, working-class inhabitants. I mean, to say that we were the first college-grad scavengers on the hunt for low rent to come into Williamsburgh, Brooklyn would be a colossal untruth. But anyway, by the time I had moved to Flux, I had already lived in Flatbush, Trinidad, Chelsea, the East Village, the West Village, Borum Hill. I had fallen out with my then roommates and they kicked me out! (I had a bad temper back then!) Leah, one of my bestest friends in the whole world and my roommate at the time, moved out in solidarity with me. It was not a small sacrifice--our pad in Borum Hill was a charm. We rented the entire house, had a backyard--in short, every New Yorker's dream home. Where could we go? Leah and I did what every other smart thinking person would do: We called Bet...