SPARK 55 – SPARK

Tora Estep and Andrea Dye

tora — Fri, 02 Jun 2023 12:19:02 +0000

Tora Estep
“Tribute to Lady Day”
18 in. x 24 in., acrylic on watercolor paper
Response

To Be a Singer
By Andrea Dye
Inspiration piece

If I didn’t make myself cringe that would be a more plausible goal. I don’t care for big concerts. All the drunk people and the fanatics are a drawback, not to mention the parking! But intimate venues with a charismatic and talented singer are a precious experience. There’s much to say for a single performer who controls the microphone, has everyone’s attention and delivers magnetic entertainment. What a gig! If I could sing, I’d dress up in flamboyant costumes and wear over-the-top makeup. I’d adorn my hair with feathers and dance in glittery shoes while flirting with the audience, tip jar in tow.

On my last trip to Paris, I stumbled upon a quaint little… I’m kidding I would never write a sentence like that. A friend who lives in St. Michel took me to a bar on one of those cool side-streets you only ever see in movies and I fell in love. She wanted beer, I wanted chocolate cake, and we both wanted to smoke outside under the heaters. Our waiter was Frenchly attractive, a bit dirty and by American standards only familiar with the idea of customers being the ones doing the waiting. Lucky for us, we didn’t care. Two hours and forty Euros later we decided this was our favorite spot for nighttime girl talk.

A few nights later, with her husband watching the baby, we returned to the same spot, got the same table and the same waiter. Music from inside spilled through the windows and it was the perfect French cliché. The later it got the more people arrived and by midnight there was a line of people waiting to get in. It’s fun to watch tourists drink and weave their way down cobblestone streets in heels. What is going on in there? How did we pick this unusual hot spot? Aren’t we just genius! As far as I could tell there was a woman singing and someone playing piano. They could have been Nazi songs for all we knew and then we heard a familiar Beatles melody. When a crowd of drunken Parisians are singing Let It Be it’s time to go home.

Another week went by and my boyfriend from Denver flew in for a few days to join me on vacation. Imagine my glee when I got to gloat about finding a sexy night spot with warm gooey dark chocolate cake. We abandoned my baby-ridden friend and bee-lined for said spot. Since someone doesn’t smoke, unless he’s really drinking, we went inside for a table.

The noises we’d heard outside didn’t do it justice! Reminded me of a Baz Luhrmann movie. Our waitress was dressed for a night in Las Vegas, there may have been 150 people in a room that should hold 50 and the piano player was a carnival caricature drawing come-to-life. I like to think his name is Philippe. He stomped and spat as he sang, flopping and bouncing on the bench he had undoubtably drenched with sweat by the end of his first song. To say Philippe was animated is an understatement. And to say I was jealous is probably overstating the obvious.

While enjoying the romance of our 12-inch table and the freedom of being English-speaking (so you may as well be invisible), I couldn’t help but imagine it was Mademoiselle Andrea singing and keeping all those drunkards’ arms swinging in the air with pride. If I could sing in a bar like this, I could be discovered and hanging platinum records in my Malibu mansion in no time. Philippe could do it all: sing, play piano and make slapstick faces without looking absurd. He was pure entertainment if I ever saw it…until… (we’ll call her) Jacqueline started her set.

I’ve never been gay, but I can succumb to a spell every now and then. I was lured into thinking she was the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. Ohhh, Jacqueline! We both have long curly hair that frizzes in this humidity, we could understand one another with no words between us. The language of frizz has far deeper a meaning than any words derived from Latin. No, don’t look at me Jacqueline, I probably have some creepy look on my face. Remember to smile at the boyfriend or he’ll ask what I’m thinking about. What a great singer, isn’t this fun? I’m so glad you’re here, honey.

I give her credit; her voice was impressive until she tried some American songs, and I was shocked back to the reality where calling someone a lounge singer is a universal putdown. When I could hold it in no longer, I mentioned she was beautiful and got the obligatory “No, babe, she’s not for me” response from across the table. All the more to fuel my fire. She had me hooked and I couldn’t look away. That brings me to my favorite point in many nights where I realize that no one knows I’m not drinking and anything goes.

We sang along loudly to Beach Boys and Beatles tunes. Nah nah, I know the words and you guys are all messing it up, what a silly thing to be proud of. In retrospect, not bad for people who don’t speak English. The tide pulled a U-turn and Jacqueline turned over the floor to an older man I could not lust after. Although Philippe was still playing, his energy was dying and I could tell Jacqueline was tiring with feigned enthusiasm and too much wine. Not wanting to let the perfection go I thought it better to leave than see the truth. They were just people at work and we were dumb American tourists lapping it up. Why is the world so harsh? And when can I see her again?

If I were younger maybe I’d audition for American Idol. Maybe I could move to Paris and get a job as the American singer and the French could adore me the way I adored Jacqueline. There aren’t many times in life you remember with such fondness, as I do, that night. And there aren’t many times you can ever recreate that sort of thing. That’s why it’s called love at first sight.

If I were a wealthy French banker I’d sweep Jacqueline off her ballet flats and pay for her anti-frizz conditioning treatments. I’d bring cafe and croissants to her in bed on Sunday afternoons and sing to her until she begged me to stop while laughing and spilling jam on the bedspread. It’s hopefully clear I’m not going to move to Paris, graduate from finance school and do that, but it’s fun to pretend that someday I could be with Jacqueline again and I could do for her in return something wonderful she did for me. I’d love to be a singer.

——————————————————
Note: All of the art, writing, and music on this site belongs to the person who created it. Copying or republishing anything you see here without express and written permission from the author or artist is strictly prohibited.

Betty Nichols and Amy Moffitt

Amy Souza — Fri, 02 Jun 2023 02:23:58 +0000

Betty Nichols
Response

Middle
By Amy Moffitt
Inspiration piece

They don’t mention the lists…
the fluttering, cluttering memorials
to obligations and dreams,
the false hope of control…
they don’t say you’ll be chasing and chasing
and will never catch up.

They don’t say how your body
…..starts to shift
………. starts to s l i d e,
and how many mindless movements
become nervous tightrope walks,
how the wolf is always at the door
and its name is Pain.

They also neglect the role of Regret
(pain’s howling sister),
whose teeth gnaw and nibble,
and clack and crack
at the edges of consciousness
daily.

So, unprepared,
we dance with distraction.
Some favor addiction,
others favor contraction.
We withdraw from ourselves,

and get lost in blind action
so the grief
doesn’t hurt
quite so much.

When really our grief needs the touch
of attention.

Move through the middle, love,
there’s nowhere else to be.
Move through the middle,
and come dance with me,

to the click and the crack
of our knees and our backs
as we weather this fading
let us not just stand waiting for death…

take my hand, and together,
take a deep breath.

Eve Hyde and Amy Souza

Amy Souza — Fri, 02 Jun 2023 01:34:05 +0000

Eve Hyde
Response

Time and Its Kin
By Amy Souza
Inspiration piece

High noon, no shadow: How you know when a duel begins

A street lamp at midnight: How you know you’re still here

Once someone asked why I liked to play board games

They might as well question my brown eyes; I had no answer

When nature feels too removed, I ask the internet for reminders

But I say hello to dandelions and baby ducks when I pass

Surprised to see them every Spring

Quinzee the Artist and Darice Jones

DJ The Griot — Thu, 01 Jun 2023 05:47:38 +0000

Quinzee the Artist
“The Download”
Inspiration piece

In the Time of You As Me
By Darice Jones
Response

The day I accepted that you were me, and I you
The path broadened
Power accelerated, and the river found the ocean again
Oshun sang soprano, alto, and tenor
Causing Olokun to open his eyes in a tender baratone
That shook the sea floor and motivated new sealife pairings
Leading to new species – more of this ancient fluidity

The day you accepted that I was you, and you I
Trauma transmuted into a true calling
Destiny entered the crossroads and humbly listened for an answer from Elegba
Causing the wind to reach down and cover our faces with Earth
That tasted sweet, like the red clay eaten by children in the South 5 decades back
And in tasting that sweetness we finally understood the intersection upon which we stood
The fact that the four directions went back, forth, side-to-side, up and down

The years that followed our discoveries were the stuff of legend
Our creativity and collaboration was more of a vibration than a linear story, easily told
Instead we manifested things folks could feel – whenever their hearts were open
We generated dark, cool beauty that caused even the most stoic to release their need for control and give in to their greater need for Marimba
And because of our willingness to learn, and to act on what we learned, the whole world danced anew
From shoulder shakes, to head bobs, to twirling-swirling heavy hips, to rock-rock snap, rock-rock snap
Earth people remembered the power of spiritual rhythm, the necessity of everywhere unity
And because of you, me, you – that indivisible love that is grounded in the dance between doing and being – reigned once again supreme.

By Darice Marcella Jones
In the Year of Octavia Butler ©2023

Darice Jones and Quinzee the Artist

DJ The Griot — Thu, 01 Jun 2023 05:38:20 +0000

Quinzee The Artist
Untitled Pencil Drawing
Response

15 Horizons in Ultra Space
By Darice Jones
Inspiration piece

These two beautiful beings prefer to be called my daughters
In all their manifold non-binary glory
I named them Kenya and Cameroon in honor of two countries on the origin lands
My other three daughters are Benin, Niger, and Ghana
My 2 sons are Medu Netur and Haiti

All of my children carry with them the languages associated with their names
They all dress in bright colors, like me, and love singing and dancing in the roads
They all look just like each other and you have to engage them to know who they are, how they are, what they want, and what they can do
We left assumptions and short-hand on the dying planet Earth
One of the gifts of this current move to the far reaches of space is that humanity gave up gender and race as ways of identifying each other
So my children are free from the burden of prescribed lives in ways I’ve only just begun to get used to for myself

I am Alkebulan, named for the original land of humankind, the largest land mass on Earth from which Kem or Black people spread out to populate the earth

We traveled to all the lands of the earth and developed different physical features, shades, and cultural practices depending on where we landed
We understood ourselves as a part of nature, so we lived in harmony with life in most places on earth even after the lands broke apart

Then, some of the more immature souls on Earth spiraled into a consciousness of scarcity and became obsessed with controlling others and amassing more resources than they needed
They rejected the core principles of sharing and taking care of everyone
They rejected the knowledge that we all came from the same source
They killed, pillaged, and hoarded for generations using the technology they learned from Kem to exact violence upon their siblings around the world
They retold histories and erased their teachers, making themselves the only curators of knowledge
They rejected spiritual knowledge and replaced it with absolutes, rules, and rewritten texts to subdue people everywhere under the lore of an invisible god who judged, punished, and hated
Their plans worked for them for a long time
But ultimately created an uninhabitable planet
And an illness swept the places where the hoarders and power-obsessed lived
Suddenly, within a week of its onset, they were all gone

And only we, those with average resources who still felt connected to nature and each other, remained
We immediately banned together with the ethical scientists, healers, and light workers
Incredibly it only took one year to develop the migration plans from Earth to Zumi
When we moved to the 23rd planet from the Sun, where hilariously, it was little green beings who welcomed us there
Just like in the old American fairytales about what people on other planets were like “little green men”
These beings were not men, more like a combination between humans and glowing green fish
They moved easily between the lush green lands and the sparkling green waters on Zumi
Since they only practiced naming very few things, they allowed us, the earthlings to name the planet
We voted to call it Zumi, because that’s what the majority of the children wanted
And one of our new core tenets by which to live is “Listen well to the children.”
Our new way of being brings forward the best of what Kem had created with their Black skin and brilliant minds all along the Nile river which once stretched from the top to the bottom of the continent, connecting all of the peoples to the source of life
As we prepare our new home on Zumi with the help of the Fro (that’s what we call our green hosts)

I have invited all my children into a process of visualization
We will consider what ways we will engage in our family, our communities, and as stewards of the bountiful resources of Zumi in order to expand life and leave beautiful things for future generations to enjoy
They are very excited to do this as a family, and then to do it again with their friend groups, then again with the Fro
“Visualize and embody beauty” is another core tenet the remaining people of Earth decided on before our migration
We were all stunned to realize that without the power brokers, global thieves, hoarders, and killers, the rest of humanity fell quite easily into reason
We moved quickly from reason to curiosity
Then, from curiosity to visualization
Collective visualization led to collective action

And now here we are on new, lush planet, joined in permanent family with our green hosts and with each other
Enjoying 15 daily horizons in ultra space as the suns move around, each with its own color scheme and its own impact on human emotions
There is one that puts you in mind of the Arora Borealis
Another that looks like the red rose petals blowing in the wind
There is a horizon that resembles the water rushing in on a west coast beach from the Pacific ocean
And yet another that looks like rainfall in the lush green hills of Thailand

We have grown as a species and shed so many of the petty things from before
There is beauty created and exchanged without commerce
There is connection without competition
There is building without individual ownership
There is collaboration without the exercise of power
So, we live a lot longer and get to see no less than 18 generations do their thing
We are so much stronger and healthier because we now study sciences, land-based healing, and spirituality all under the same umbrella
We’ve released the density of the way we thought and moved on Earth and, because of that we have healed ourselves and each other
I can hear my children coming now and I can’t help but giggle
They could never sneak up on anyone because they are so often in collective song
The call and response traditions from Kem
I hear Kenya, Cameroon, Benin, Niger, Ghana, Medu Netur, and Haiti
Singing in perfect harmony
I can feel the many colors they wear and the warmth of their hearts
Their liberated living is a dream my ancestor Nalo had many millennia ago – and I laugh out loud, here and now, on her behalf

Written By Darice Marcella Jones
In the Year of Octavia Butler 2023
©2023

Dale Leffler and Jonathan Ottke

Amy Souza — Thu, 01 Jun 2023 00:43:38 +0000

Jonathan Ottke
“Matteo”
Inspiration piece

Mateo Muchacho Words
By Dale Leffler
Response

He waits for you like a lover
attentively sad on the couch.
His eyes convey his longing,
loneliness, as his shoulders slouch.

Never sure how long you’ll be gone
never sure when you’ll return
missing you all the while
it’s your presence that he yearns.

Knows not the meaning of time
only the hollow of your absence.
Lying near where you always sat
comforted by your body’s scent.

He hears the ripple of rubber tires
a car pulls up the drive
ears attentive for door-lock clicks
and it’s you who arrive.

Now his face becomes a smile
delight returns to puppy-dog eyes.
Snipped tail whips in staccato beats
you’ve come home, his inamorato prize.

Marcela Kogan and Jennifer Fendya

Amy Souza — Wed, 31 May 2023 23:59:18 +0000

Jennifer Fendya
Inspiration piece

Footsteps
By Marcela Kogan
Response

I spend most of my days alone peering out people’s legs from the wrought-iron window of my daylight basement room. The room, which faces the sidewalk of Q Street in Dupont Circle, Washington D.C., smells musty and the floor is uneven. My closet consists of a rod stretching across two walls outside my room, blocking the downstairs entrance of this 3-floor Victorian brownstone that I share with three roommates, all college graduates like me.

I wasn’t always a recluse. I often visited the National Gallery of Art, hiked in national park trails, gone to rock concerts, and eaten at ethnic restaurants. But then I got laid off from my job as a newsletter writer for a low-income housing organization. After browsing through the newspaper want ads for months to no avail, I gave up.

I could not see a future for myself.

I stopped meeting friends for happy hour, cancelled my gym membership. Looking out the window became my favorite pastime. I saw people’s legs and imaged what they looked like, where they were going. I told myself stories about their life.

This morning, for instance, is typical of most. I am slouched on my bed (can’t fit a chair in the room) facing the window and hear two people talking in quiet, intimate tones, finishing each other’s sentences. They sauntered by my window wearing sneakers and loafers. Maybe they’re discussing the weather or sharing their plans for the day. Maybe she is an illustrator and he a writer, and they are out on a morning stroll before settling down to collaborate on a book project.

Will I ever share my life with someone? I look away from the window.

Next, a clip clopping sound outside my window catches my attention and the legs of a woman striding by with pumps comes into view. I imagine she is a professional—a partner at a law firm or CEO of a corporation—with a wedge haircut, skirt suit and button-down shirt. Maybe she is hurrying to catch the metro so she can get to work on time for an important meeting.

I remember colleagues congratulating me on my presentations during staff meetings. Was I competent or did I just fake it?

The room is quiet. I lower my cup of coffee to the floor and put on Joni Mitchell’s album, Court, and Spark in the record player. The needle skates across the surface of the record slipping out of the grooves. I affixed a penny to the needle as an anchor to ground the needle to the vinyl.

A little girl clutching a doll under her arm appears by the window, galloping to keep up with the pace of the adult holding her hand. She is wearing shorts and a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and carrying a backpack. She looks up at the adult, her eyes squinting from the sun, and says something. Maybe she is asking if she could watch tv when she gets home from school or have a play date.

But the person cuts her off. “Hurry or we’ll be late for school.”

The little girl looks down, her small world now smaller, and walks faster to keep up, her legs a blur.

My heart sinks at her careless response, and I feel helpless to change anything.

“Gag me with a spoon,” says a girl, followed by chuckles others, possibly teenagers. A rush of feet in a wild stampede parade by my window, multiple legs stumbling over each other, ankles twisting. They must be schoolgirls, I imagine them with long hair in ponytails, ripped jeans, and short skirts.

I long for what now seems like long careless days of high school and feel that the best is behind me.

The room is hot because I have no air conditioning. I crank the window open.

I hear the tap, tap, tap of a cane, and see someone wearing blue trousers and Oxford shoes shuffling by. Then a thump and the man plops on the ground. I freeze. Is he hurt? I should go out to help but I feel trapped in my room, afraid of going out.

Can someone else help? I jump to the window and crane my neck listening for footsteps but hear none.

The old man is now struggling to get up, panting. His face is contorted with pain.

My heart pounds against my chest. I bolt out of my room, run up the steps and open the door.

“Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?”

The old man shakes his head and stretches out his arm so I can help him up. I hesitate at first: His hand looked withered, with age spots and brittle nails. But when I grab hold of him, his hand feels soft and warm, and I do not want to let it go.

“Thank you,” he whispered, gazing into my eyes.

His face looked scruffy, wrinkled, graying with wisps of white hair, but his eyes were bright, with a sparkling expression.

He wobbled past me and continued on his way.

I head back toward the house, but then turn around and survey the sidewalk. I see a couple walking arm in arm. A teenager riding on his skateboard. A mother pushing a stroller. A homeless person asking for money. An old man holding a little girl’s hand.

I feel a surge of excitement, of life unfolding before me.

A warm breeze brushes against my skin. It’s a perfect day for a walk.

Amy Souza and Cristal Brawley

Amy Souza — Wed, 31 May 2023 23:45:32 +0000

Amy Souza
Response

Listed Sh*t
By Cristal Brawley
Inspiration piece

A few months ago, I wrote down all the things that are wrong with me.

The notion came after a particularly hideous hot flash at 2 a.m., generally the time for such things as of late. This time, I’d awakened in a panic that I had a tooth ache, and I would soon
need seek dental help (with all the needles and drilling).

Cue hot flash cycle:

1. Overwhelming feeling of dread (20 seconds)
2. Rapid heartbeat (duration)
3. Fast-spreading waves of heat (2 minutes)
4. Sweat pools on head, neck, torso, and back of knees (2-5 minutes, depending on access
to folding bamboo hand fan)
5. Wondering when I would die (final stage, 1-5 minutes, depending on fatigue level)

For the final stage, I rolled over, turned on my phone, and opened the notes app to start the list, titled, “Shit that’s wrong with me.”

Hot flashes/panic attacks (3x per night, 10x per daylight hours)
Glaucoma
Psoriasis
Hearing loss
Raynaud’s Syndrome (right index finer)
Left hand, tendon pain
Knee pain
Wart on right hand
Hair loss, top of head
Dental issue

The list was overwhelming and scary. Surely, I would die soon. Cue second hot flash (2:15 a.m.). That same morning, three hot flashes later, I made an appointment with a dentist, and within 2
weeks, I had a shiny new permanent crown. As I write this, I notice that more than half of these things are fixed or no longer an issue. The others, I’ve been consistently managing with things like eye drops, exercise, and meditation. I’m 60 now. Shit happens. Take care of it.

Years ago, an old friend told me: The idea of things is usually worse than the reality of things. I keep that list as a reminder of that.

Here’s today’s list, titled, “Shit that’s awesome”:

I’m married to my best friend.
My family is curious and close.
Each day is a gift. Even the bad ones.
My body still works well.
Easy friendships are my most meaningful.
Music gives me goosebumps.
I work with some of the most genuine, loving, compassionate people I’ve ever met.
I truly love who I’ve become and where I’m headed.

Cristal Brawley and Amy Souza

Amy Souza — Wed, 31 May 2023 23:39:56 +0000

Cristal Brawley
Response

Home Not Home
By Amy Souza
Inspiration piece

A childhood surrounded by water
Mayflower offspring, Azorean pioneers
I didn’t belong (or did I?) to the city
Of cobblestone streets with
Widow’s walks topping every captain’s home
And a museum dedicated to the mammal
So cherished yet brutalized
There was always a line for donuts
Always a thin blue sky
One cousin owned a shop where I bought
My mother a present
The first with my own money
A miniature cast iron pan, fake antique
Embossed with a man’s silhouette
Maybe a pilgrim – he wore that crazy hat
She used it to hold spoons while she
Cooked from that day on
Until she couldn’t and forty years
Passed, easy as turning a page
When my sister packed the house and
Shipped me boxes and bags to sort through
She included every towel my mother ever owned
But not the pilgrim spoon rest
Its iron coating had faded
And it must have looked like junk
Because no one knew its worth
Except my mother and me

Marisa Bevington and Kathleen Finn Jordan

Amy Souza — Wed, 31 May 2023 22:26:41 +0000

Marisa Bevington
Response

Breeze
By Kathleen Finn Jordan
Inspiration piece

The Breeze like tiny wings
lifts wisps of hair on end and
Sips the heat from sun screened arms
As the sea breathes salt into my nose
And wellbeing swirls from air to toe
To deepest soul
Joy refreshes spirit
Summer, sea, and sand
Love.