ATL Woodie. . .
I'm on a absolute, natural high tonight. I had a splendidly well weekend in Atlanta and can't stop living off of the mental pictures now permanently etched into my brain's palette.
For starters, I saw a tremendous show, performed by my boy, Kelsy Davis. In my mind, I was not only seeing the performance that he was orchestrating in Atlanta, but the show I plan on putting on for him in New York, as well. His songs, which have become all too familiar to me now, take on a different feel with each new performance I see.
As a second course, was spending time in Kelsy's home with his mother. It is uncanny how similar she is to my own mother. I felt as if she found one solitary crumb left on her dining room table after a meal, I, too, would get in some sort of trouble that only men approaching 30 could get from a mother. Her ingratiating smile made me feel welcomed; welcomed to be myself, welcomed to be in her presence, welcomed to be one of her son's true friends. I ate up every minute of it.
As a third course, I enjoyed smelling fresh cut grass. It is amazing what the smell of nature being groomed does for the aura. In its purest form, it is a representation of life after death. Sprung from the violence of killing off something once alive, comes a breath of new life creating itself. How barbarically cool.
As the final course, and thus the most enjoyable, I fell in love with black crowds again. Now that might sound awkward to some, but over this weekend on several ocassions, I was present during gatherings of black folks. Unlike a couple of my past experiences, everyone behaved. No pushing. No shoving. There were drinks, smokes and wonderfully created music by. . .yep, you guessed it, black folks.
I felt like a W.E.B. DuBois dream. Or like peppermint in a sun-drenched pitcher. I felt like spirits on Easter and like little black boys and little black girls under 6 years old celebrating their birthdays. I felt like the wind blowing through Granny's hammick in South Carolina and like home cooked, newly handpicked vegetables. In a word, I felt fresh.
If I had a glass to raise at 12:00am, I would. I would toast my fine, black people from Atlanta. Thank you for helping me feel connected again!!!
For starters, I saw a tremendous show, performed by my boy, Kelsy Davis. In my mind, I was not only seeing the performance that he was orchestrating in Atlanta, but the show I plan on putting on for him in New York, as well. His songs, which have become all too familiar to me now, take on a different feel with each new performance I see.
As a second course, was spending time in Kelsy's home with his mother. It is uncanny how similar she is to my own mother. I felt as if she found one solitary crumb left on her dining room table after a meal, I, too, would get in some sort of trouble that only men approaching 30 could get from a mother. Her ingratiating smile made me feel welcomed; welcomed to be myself, welcomed to be in her presence, welcomed to be one of her son's true friends. I ate up every minute of it.
As a third course, I enjoyed smelling fresh cut grass. It is amazing what the smell of nature being groomed does for the aura. In its purest form, it is a representation of life after death. Sprung from the violence of killing off something once alive, comes a breath of new life creating itself. How barbarically cool.
As the final course, and thus the most enjoyable, I fell in love with black crowds again. Now that might sound awkward to some, but over this weekend on several ocassions, I was present during gatherings of black folks. Unlike a couple of my past experiences, everyone behaved. No pushing. No shoving. There were drinks, smokes and wonderfully created music by. . .yep, you guessed it, black folks.
I felt like a W.E.B. DuBois dream. Or like peppermint in a sun-drenched pitcher. I felt like spirits on Easter and like little black boys and little black girls under 6 years old celebrating their birthdays. I felt like the wind blowing through Granny's hammick in South Carolina and like home cooked, newly handpicked vegetables. In a word, I felt fresh.
If I had a glass to raise at 12:00am, I would. I would toast my fine, black people from Atlanta. Thank you for helping me feel connected again!!!
posted by JayGee at 5/01/2006 11:36:00 PM
1 Comments:
Well, it's about 12 pm (close enough) and I'm one of those fine black people from Atlanta, so you can toast me! I don't mind.
Post a Comment
<< Home