CURSIVE WRITING… A Lost Art Form.

CURSE THE WRITING!

CURSE THE WRITING!

I’m addicted to office supplies. I love pens, pads, stationery, paper and cards. Did I say I love pens? I buy plenty of cards to send to people.  I don’t send them. I’ve gotten extremely lazy in my handwriting as well.  I went to Catholic school.  I’ll never forget the outrage I felt when Sister Joseph Leonor gave Andy Keys (who I had a crush on) permission to write in pen before I.  Andy sat next to me and his cursive was chicken scratch.  Come on, 1. He’s a boy.  Everyone knows that boys write sloppily in fourth grade and up. 2.  I’m a girl.  Everyone knows girls write less sloppily than boys in fourth grade and up.  Little girls print larger, rounder and neater than boys.  It was drawing in my young mind, art. I’m raising two boys now.  I don’t need to argue my position, they prove me right daily.

Today, I admit I just don’t care how my handwriting looks anymore.  I even leave out vowels to shorten notes to myself. When did this happen?  When did I lose pride in my swirls and stars as periods and dots?  I’ll tell you, when I got married.  I went from the name Jones to Gulivindala… yes that’s right, GULIVINDALA.  I don’t think I’ve ever taken the time to hand write that name out neatly or completely.  Would you?  Go ahead, hand write it now five times.  Didn’t even want to start did you?

Once I started dashing down those letters, it was a downward spiral from there.  I can’t remember the last time I wrote a letter.  Wait!  I do like to journal… handwritten.  I obviously haven’t been doing it lately or it wouldn’t be an afterthought.  I’ve journaled since I was a young girl and kept most of them. Once in a while I take a trip down memory lane and read some.  I haven’t changed much.  I really am addicted to sugar!  I’ll buy a nice copy book at Barnes and Noble, begin my introspective ritual of emotional writing and never finish the book.  I have many half-finished copy books.  I also have many beautiful blank copy books waiting to be written in.  Like I mentioned, I like office supplies.

I’ve succumbed to the online card service Birthday Alarm. When I send a card out for no reason just to send to a friend, I feel happy. When I send one for a birthday or holiday, I feel like a slacker. Birthday Alarm has made it extremely easy to not handwrite a card. They tell you when a holiday or friends birthday is coming up, so you don’t have to remember and they have an app which I have on my phone.

Am I really so busy I can’t sit pen in hand, writing on paper and address an envelope with a quick message or send a hard copy card?  My insurance company keeps me supplied in address labels, it’s a Christmas gift, so I don’t have to write that out.  Oh, and the stamps! That’s always a great excuse until last week when I found out my local CVS store sells them. I’m there about three times a week. I have many excuses but none that are truly valid.

I’m going to work on this. Here, I’m typing about it.

THE BLUEST BIRD

Dedicated to Alexia Rees
Inspired by Arensky Trio in D Minor

THE BLUEST BIRD

THE BLUEST BIRD

Your destiny lies in the wind oh Bluest Bird you must begin…

This journey of new life begins
A clean slate bares unknown
Out of the nest to fly or crash
To find and make a home

In darkness there is sin choose light
Begin to test your strength and might
Flap your wings yes flap your wings
Enduring tests in course it brings

The wind yes it does come along
Chaos, power, scary
Sweet Blue Bird your are not alone
Ride out the storm don’t worry

Branches snapping breaking near
Oh who can hear your song?
Frightened heart and soul knows fear
Again you’re not alone

Whipped around upside down
You can’t see through the trees
Look to the light yes there you see
A nest to rests your wary pleas

It’s in this nest safe warm and known
The storm is rolling on
You tweet tweet tweet your song your own
The Bluest Bird that’s ever flown

The sky is gray you venture out
What was that scary storm about?
A lesson testing your resolve
Your gifts don’t doubt oh Bluest Bird

The gray turns bright you flap your wings
Your course Blue Bird you sing, sing, sing
The sweetest tune sounding so true
You are the Bluest of the Blue

Come out to help another bird
You hear a panicked song
A different sound yet understood
It cries it’s all alone

You’re flying through the sky to help
The other birdie by
Flap, flap, flap wings worn and weary
The wind raptures the sky

Time is different you know what’s known
Survive the wind sing while you’re blown
And as you sing you rise in power
Your strength grows strong this is the hour

The greatest lesson you have known
Is Blue Bird your are not alone
Yet greater still a Whisper’s heard
Relax and trust your inner Bird

Stretch out your wings and flap no more
Now’s the time that you shall soar
Soaring to the highest heights
The song you sing is in the flight

You’re destiny lies in the wind Bluest Bird you did begin…

The Bluest Bird.

Anton Arensky – Piano Trio No. 1 in D minor

Inspired by Arensky Trio in D Minor

Inspired by Arensky Trio in D Minor

 

SPOKEN WORD POET… Me Mary G.

SPOKEN WORD POET... MARY G.The first time I saw a spoken word poet was in New York City. I knew nothing of it and I don’t know why I went. The Beacon Theater on the Upper West Side. The 1st EVER Def Poetry Jam, Russell Simmons and me. It was a sign. That day I went alone and sat in the balcony. I was hijacked, attacked, whacked by words, rhyme and meter. I didn’t know what spoken word was but knowing rap I was a leader, I related. I couldn’t predict the future of my history. My past was no mystery. My culture was “SUBURBAN teenage white girl listening and dancing to the underground am radio station W-HAT Saturday morning rap program with host Lady D.” Before rap was mainstream. That’s right, white girl me.

Fast forward 25 years later. Writing rapping poetry was to be my therapy. After he left me with two boys, toys, and noise, theirs… and mine in my head. Spitting violent, angry, broken, rhymes, confusion, disillusion was raping my mind. It had to flee me… getting it out with pen and paper. It was there I could shout rant, scream, cry, release… I purged my demons out.

Intimidated by Def Poetry Jam, how do you get to poetry land? I feel inadequate no Master’s Degree, I’m a high school drop out with a college degree, in dance. I home school me with verse imagery, read the best Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, 18th century?… Study youtube artists Mayda del Valle, Big Poppa E, Taylor Mali, Gemineye, and of course it always comes back to rap music moving me.

Who am I? Do I have a say, Do I have a voice? Is it a requirement to teach English to claim the label poet? Emotional intellectuals do I need a MFA? I think not that’s what I say, criteria is in Liberia. Anyone here have a degree from Liberia?

I looked up spoken word poet… on Wiki because I’m a scholar poet…without a dollar, Holla. By the way, did you know the Poet Laureate earns $35,000 dollars a year? No Holla. The dynamics of tone, gestures, facial expressions, performance, I got that down. To MEMORIZE, I want to hide, I told you I was a dancer. The fear of that skill alone will paralyze me into a zone of failure, not willing to try. Fuck that, keep falling forward. Set an example for other wanna be’s, because we are.

I’m a poet, I know it. I just say what I say about today, tomorrow or yesterday

It comes from my soul and moves through my heart out my mouth expressing itself in words information, communication, investigations of thought, emotion, observations

How do I get to The New Yorker, Tin House, Ploughshares and The American Poetry Review?  I trust the Maker of my destiny, it’s already mapped out what is meant to be will be.

To answer my questions, I do have a say, I do have a voice, I claim the label POET. Who defines Mary G? Me, I validate me. I have stuff to say. I’m a spoken word poet, practicing, just for today.