One month after spending a good portion of a late attempting to navigate the grief, loss, and shock of Imanu Amiri Baraka's transition from elder to ancestor, I am ready to share this with the world. It is a raw first response. In respect for his family those who knew personally, I delayed sharing this. I'm compelled to today. Àṣẹ
I had an early introduction to Gil Scott-Heron's poetry and music. My father has a pretty decent sized record collection, and when I was a child, it was massive. By the time I was 4 or 5, I knew how to operate the record player and some of the basic functions on the EQ.
Last night, after my last excruciating 10 hour workday at the hotel, I changed from my cashmere suit into a pair of black shorts, a black & white polo, and a pair of low top CR's to match. I removed all things corporate, let the character wall I build as a hotel manager crumble to dust. The 6:41pm LIRR train pulls up, and I board with a few exclusive SoSoon tracks in my earbuds, messenger bag in tow. On the train, I unzip, and read a few more pages from the editing copy of Howard Treadwell's Dreams of Loisaida. I curse audibly because as I notice that I left the digital camera at home. No pictures with Ms. jessica Care moore. Now I will have to make a point of catching up with her again before she leaves for Detroit, or head out to Motown.
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