The Brilliantly Untalented

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 I’ve had this book for awhile;  loaned to me by another  sister. I never completely finished reading it, and as I scrolled my library for a neat snack, it wasn’t too high on my priority list. But as I now found myself flipping through pages, Chapter 10 caught my attention:

 

“Writer’s are people who tolerate a high level of anxiety. We have a talent for holding up well under tension. Anyone can start writing. To keep on creating and to grow as a writer you also believe you suck. You question everything you write. I know writing students who really do seem to believe they are great, they love writing, they write a lot, they seem blandly cheerful….they spew out words. They have no doubt, they reveal no anxiety. I think that is great. But my students who are doing really fine work, really committing themselves to writing honestly, deeply, and truly—-they have anxiety. They doubt themselves all the time. Writing stuff that is going to affect other people intensely is walking a fine line between anxiety and pleasure—-its a vibe you ride.”

I actually love this advice. I find it present not just in writing but other forms of art as well. Some of the most nervous, most introverted people are the most talented: the “Brilliantly Untalented” and Undiscovered Geniuses. This is not to say you party goers out there should worry. Nor is this to say the introverted are overcome with intense fear, for fear and faith cannot coexist (one will rule out the other). But they have a kind of humility that seems to balance out the negative components of anxiety. They know that there is talent present, but they also believe that they suck. Is it contradictory? It may be, but yet this contradiction keeps them writing and keeps you reading. Every time I’m on stage to recite a poem my stomach turns into butterflies and it feels like everybody in the world is depending on me to deliver them from a crisis. It is a feeling of great pressure. Its an understanding that though I’ve been given a gift to bestow upon my audience, I am simultaneously aware that this gift is not mine; that it belongs to one greater than myself. Then I notice, that in such anxiety, I’ve tapped into a kind of depth people could really feel. I did not have to think too hard about it. Did not think so grand of myself that I would begin editing my soul I just spoke, hoping the butterflies won’t make it so far up my throat. My belief that I am nothing, that I suck, and that I am Brilliantly Untalented, has in the end seemed to always produce the greatest work.

 

Addiction

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It surrounds me and takes a hold of my mind
(It has me thinking about it all the time)
Sometimes I have to repent cause the feeling’s so good it has to be a crime
Taking me back and forth from past slavery days to my time
(to support it I think I spent all of my dimes 😦 )
I am addicted to poetry
It sits and wraps it words around my thoughts
It sits somehow waiting to be taught
Somehow attempting to read my mind
Finding itself inside of my dreams, my back is bent over and I’m searching the floor like a fiend
I mean, this poetry stalks me!
It wants to know the secret to the life that I live
And then devour these set-apart words that I spill
Nevertheless I am addicted to it
Searching the corners of this blog, I long for words that can satisfy these fluids
Wrap the pen around my wrist and forget it let’s do it!
I am addicted to poetry!
With it I spend all of my time
Hungry, mouth dry and thirsty (nothing seems to satisfy my stomach but this poetry)
I become another person when it’s in me you see…
May hair is all over my head
My voice tends to rise from the dead
It is no longer shy but loud instead
See,
No one can control this state that I’m in
Defending my knack for poetry till the end
Itching to scratch on this paper and pen
I am determined to tie that knot from—wait, I think my husband may count that as a sin
I am addicted to poetry
I am forever exercising my mind
Looking up and finding the new definitions to words
Excitement rushes through me as I wiggle my toes
Ink fumes reaching the far back of my nose and forcing out words that are untold
I think I better stop before my skin looks old and my body frame is way too thin!
I can’t seem to stop this state that I’m in!
These walking wonderful worlds of many words planning a feast in my head
Allowing me to feast on its beauty instead
Biting my nails I am starting to get paranoid
Because
T-t-t-there s-seems to be a-a void
a thing called writer’s block that is blocking my thoughts
its forcing me to say things that I don’t wanna say
(dragging my feet I am now in PA class)
Surrounded by brothers and sisters who are also addicted to words
Looking around like they see flying birds (they call them metaphors though)
It’s now finally my time to be heard
But I’m looking around I don’t know what t-to say
I haven’t had my s-s-strong d-dose of words all day
And the bloggers are urging me to speak
But instead I’m shaking my leg and chattering my teeth until finally I admit
I AM ADDICTED TO POETRY!

Guest Feature – A Modern Day Slave Plantation by Laura Dimon Part 2

*Note: This article was not written by The PBS Blog, it is featured as part of the continuation of an ongoing series and is written by Laura Dimon. Please view our Guest Feature or Article Section for Part 1*

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In 1972, the prisoners were virtually all black. Merciless guards — all white men, called “freemen” — worked the inmates like slaves. Sugar cane was the main crop, King said. In the documentary film In the Land of the Free, it’s stated that the inmates labored all day every day for a measly $.02 per hour. The abuse didn’t stop there. As NPR reported, “There was a prisoner slave trade and rampant rape; inmates slept with J.C. Penney catalogs tied to their waists for protection.” King was one of three men who formed the famous Angola 3 group, leaders of the Black Panther Party’s Angola chapter. King said they were fighting for equality, but he later realized their efforts had been misaimed: “We were focused on civil rights, but we didn’t have human rights,” he said.

 

Prison Horses

In our most recent conversation, I asked King, “How’s it going?” “It’s … ongoing,” he replied. It’s easy to see why: Little has changed at Angola. It remains a time warp, a living, breathing relic of a shameful past. Of about 6,000 inmates currently in custody, roughly 70% are black and 30% are white. In October 2008, NPR reported, “In the distance on this day, 100 black men toil, bent over in the field, while a single white officer on a horse sits above them, a shotgun in his lap.” The context of this modern day slave plantation is unfortunately appropriate. Nola.com wrote that Louisiana is the world’s “prison capital,” with 1 in 86 residents serving time — nearly double the national average. The racial skew is extreme. One in 14 black men in New Orleans is behind bars; 1 in 7 is either in prison, on parole or on probation. Louisiana is “notorious for racial disparities in its justice systems,” Andrew Cohen wrote in the Atlantic.

 

One highly concerning aspect of Louisiana’s judicial scheme is that, unlike in 48 states, a unanimous jury decision is not required — only 10 jurors have to vote to convict someone, even for a life sentence. Oregon is the only other state with this system, but it doesn’t have the same tremendous racial component. Cohen wrote, “Prosecutors can comply with their constitutional obligations to permit blacks and other minority citizens to serve as jurors but then effectively nullify the votes of those jurors should they vote to acquit.” It is one of “the most obvious and destructive flaws in Louisiana’s broken justice system,” he wrote, arguing, plain and simple: “Louisiana is terribly wrong to defend a law that was born of white supremacy.”

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A Duke University study examined more than 700 non-capital felony criminal cases in Florida and found that, in cases with no blacks in the jury pool, blacks were convicted 81% of the time while whites were convicted 66% of the time. The researchers concluded that “the racial composition of the jury pool has a substantial impact on conviction rates” and that “the application of justice is highly uneven.”

 

Image Credits: AP, Peter Puna, Robert King, Google Images

The Power of Purpose

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“The obstacles you encounter rarely have a coherent purpose of their own. They are just there, inconvenient and troublesome to be sure, but with nothing of substance to sustain them.
You, on the other hand, have the extreme advantage of being able to choose and follow a definite purpose. By so doing, instead of randomly scattering your energy and efforts, you can sharply focus and powerfully concentrate all that energy, all those efforts in a consistent direction.
Soft, gentle raindrops falling over a wide area will always yield to the contours and obstructions of the landscape. Yet when those tiny drops of water are concentrated into a mighty river, they have the power to cut through any obstruction.
In the same way, when your thoughts, feelings and actions are centered around a clear and consistent purpose, nothing can hold you back. The random and disjointed exertions of circumstance are no match for a living and unwavering purpose.
The problems, the frustrations, the challenges and the difficult situations come and go. A steadfast, meaningful purpose will carry you successfully through them all.
Give your life a decided advantage over all the burdensome circumstances you encounter. Live each moment in the service of the highest and most positive purpose you can imagine.”

— Ralph Marston

There’s a Poem Somewhere

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There’s a poem somewhere waiting to be heard.
There’s a child out there confused and afraid so he waits and she waits to be heard.
There’s a man out there who wants to know truth
but this world is so tempting that his dreams he’d rather pursue
there’s a poem out there somewhere that speaks to you.
There’s a student out there who refuses to sit still in class because he refuses to accept that his people are at the bottom of the social class,
he refuses to accept that his history goes no further than the days of slavery’s past
there’s a young lady out there whose virginity didn’t last.
Because see,
somewhere,
there’s a young woman who was taught that her materialistic was much more precious than her body so she sold her body,
for cash.
somewhere out there a young man’s innocence didn’t last…
Somewhere a young boy is told that it didn’t matter who he shared his love with
that it didn’t matter if he sexed ‘em young or old for the rest of his days…
there’s a young man out there who can’t understand why and how he’s got AIDS.

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There’s a false prophet out there waiting to get paid.
There’s a couple out there who just can’t get along
there’s a father out there who can’t leave his home, the home occupied with bars for far too long.
There’s a mother out there who can’t sing her song,
her song of new life that has lingered in the air for far too long.
And a grandfather who can’t take depression for much too long and a…
there’s a…
poem somewhere…
out there……that sings these songs.
There’s a brother out there who’s tired of being alone.
There’s a sister out there in search for a home.
There’s a nation out there that just does not belong,
in this world.
But there’s a Power out there who hears these cries
and a Truth out there that squashed those lies
and there are many prophets, they too have cried.
Somewhere now,
somewhere……
somehow …..
somewhere here,
this poem right now
There’s someone out there who hears these songs…
and their poem is right now,
so to say somewhere……
I guess
I was wrong.

A Writer’s Art

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A writer – and, I believe, generally all persons – must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.”
― Jorge Luis Borges, Twenty-Four Conversations with Borges: Interviews by Roberto Alifano 1981-1983