This is not a world for noise. It’s not a world for speed, this is an Earth of health and space.

What was the morning, is now the afternoon and the sun sits high above the freshly manicured lawn and intricately planted flowers in the park.

The night time is more peaceful as intuitive squabbles spark in my mind’s eye. Yet, they have nothing to do with me. I know this to be true as I say nothing but notes to three beings of imperfect light.

I love the world as it is.

I love life as it will be.

It’s done. His name is now the point of contact for one of my two investment accounts. It was through calamity and default. He’s my beneficiary through the sheer spinning of the wheel of fortune. It is not a matter of the amount, but a matter of sadness and happenstance that my kin can no longer reap any fruit from my small yet diligent hands because of aggression, impatience and greed.

He doesn’t have to do a thing. My step son will be the beneficiary of the other account, my husband that of my joint and checking, and it is done. It is with a weary heart pumping through the treachery of loneliness, as this life is not for everyone – the life of long quiet nights functioning as an entrepreneur, expanding my wealth and wingspan.

Do not play chess, or gamble with me by arriving with a sour temperament because everyone is now outside of the trust. No one receives royalties, or old journals that could be published after I am gone except for the tried and true. He fights for me and professes his love when I am not around, therefore, I have very little knowledge of how much he truly loves me, but I have an idea, and an acute intuition.

A small circle. Brown skin, now he’s my next of kin because my blood could not learn how to not boil, not my blood, my flesh and blood. So, the one with whom I share my flesh has gotten luckier than old ex-friends professed we both were to have found one another.

Good on him. Very well.

What is summer without the darkness of the cold?

It would not exist, it would just be day.

There are days when I wish the nightfall would cool

the soft shades of my eyes so that my dreams would be

crystal to see you all the more.

To see more, of you, inside. 

Inside your heart and mind.

What is winter without the damp dregs of the noontime 

on a hot August day?

I wish the seasons would balance, sitting in the middle

of the pendulum of your soul. 

My love is never droll, never lost, never gone.

You hold the wand as a magician; holding, simultaneously

in your left hand the sword in the stone.

You are all that the world could ever want. 

It does not make sense.

But, yes, it actually, certainly does.

Publik / Private founder, Jordannah Elizabeth will sit on a ‘Traditional Publishing 101’ panel for the high school, middle and university age authors of CHARM Literary Magazine.

I can feel you with the contours of my navel.

We are both concerned, feeling the same emotion.

I’m only able to write it. I barely had enough time to share that my doctor discovered a minor heart condition, or that I applied for a new apartment, and expanded my business. It wasn’t about time.I was afraid to express how exhausted I am, and how life has worn me down though I stand upright and show no signs of distress.

He thanked me for an act of vulnerability recently, so I was encouraged enough to send a couple of electronic notes, sharing my silent pain, and my sincere needs. I’ll stay home and cook. I’m that tired. Nothing feminist about it, or against it. It is just possible that I have come to need the security of a domestic life.

All the while it took hours after sending the confessions to allow myself to trust him. I don’t quite trust anyone. It is nothing against the innocent and those who love and admire me. I guess I trust him enough to ask him to help me survive. I didn’t ask to survive, I asked because I am growing tired, and I need to lean on him.

And so it goes, yet, my ambition will sit neatly in a remote form that will never disrupt the flow and peace of the house. I’ve never written or spoken like this in my life and would have never imagined it 10 years ago.

Middle age, or the dawning of it, does things to you. It can go either way: radical self reliance or surrender to a companion.

I spend my life describing any and everything but when I write about us, my mind just gets quie We wade in an unspoken pool of balance, time, sharing, bartering and debt. 

And we always pay our debts, one way or another; willingly. 

He makes me want to be stable after losing everything. I could have given up and continued a pattern of a rolling stone, rolling over countless small pebbles so that my trajectory, though forward moving, was anything but smooth. The coolness of my stride and the peace behind my eyes is real, but he knows I can’t do it on my own. Not anymore. 

I’m not young anymore, I’m not old either, but no one can call me a child. I was paying bills at 17, and now 20 years have passed and somewhere within this timespan, I incurred numerous petty bills, and privileged habits that I have to stop. I have to close my bank account (which in good standing), and ask him for help. 

This is not a feminist quagmire where society has bamboozled me so that I had to trust a man for support, no, this is all me. 

I had a certain lifestyle when we met and now, the scales have tipped and I’m paying quadruple the rent I had been and it is to be so, that it is time to learn, for us to both learn, how to morph me into a being who is provided for. 

I still work like a St. Barnard in the height of winter, but there is no need to diminish the fact that I have been weakend and likely for some good esoteric cause because being the breadwinner is a role I know too well. And it’s just simple quantum mechanics, I’ve subconsciously grown tired, physically; to make enough money to escape and not assume responsibility. 

If I am to assume responsibility, for this past decade, I am to stay still. My many pursuits will be tended to, when I write “stay still”, I mean stay-ble. Maybe even stay at home; as if I’ve finished a race, won three medals, and get to try something completely different after 20 years of a way of life. 

I am barefoot. Grounded. I’m starting a new bank account. I’m writing all my books, and I am deciding to receive the provision I requested the most vulnerable, honest version of myself yet. 

I solve problems. I’ll sit for hours, or search for several moments to bring a mystery to completion.

Today, I took a novice dive into numerology. I already knew my life path number from my studies from when I was a girl but that’s as far as I’ve gotten. Much like expanding to incorporating the moon and rising sign into one’s general sun sign readings, I learned to research my destiny and karmic debt numbers. Apparently, mother and lover have no karmic debts to pay.  It’s possible why I keep them close. No matter any flaws, their past life hands are clean. And I’ve learned that in my past life I had too much freedom, and now I need to rein it in and come home more; yet my destiny number denotes leadership, stability and stoicism while my life path number echos the free-spirit ethos my karmic debt was warning me of. 

I guess I was born with some tools to help me make a change. I am a disciplined stern leader, able to complete anything I begin, yet I hate routine. As long as I’m working on the same project in unique places, I’m good. For instance, I’m spending a month in DC while my life in Baltimore is perfectly fine. But one must think deeper, of method and logic — being strong, or influential it’s not smart to reveal a predictable pattern. I expose myself to anyone who may want to harm my body, soul, success or productivity. I am not a massively public CEO, of course,  but predictability is a trait to be taken into account when it comes to safety, accessibility, well-being and creativity. 

An artist should not do the same thing every day for years. Doesn’t matter if you have kids, or responsibilities. You can take the train to the next town for the afternoon once they’re in school to mix things up; walk around, think, get lost or find a coffee shop or library immediately and get straight to work with an entire change of scenery. There are no excuses for the creative mind. My mother and lover love adventure, sports, travel, concerts and so on. So, in that regard my brief sabbatical doesn’t seem so irresponsible. My artistry and entrepreneurialism is just a product of my nature, nonetheless, I want to be careful about making excuses.

It is important that I hold myself accountable and consider the mystic advisement so that I do not return to this world with a more severe karmic debt of stubbornness or rigidity.

I think the most important thing about working with karma and past lives is humility. You have to admit that you messed up and went a bit overboard last life and now it is your task to balance the extremes of Earthly movement and choices. For instance, I’ve worked at the same newspaper for 10 years, yet I’ve spent a massive amount of money on two chai tea lattes and splurged pastries and decadent green salad and sandwiches for lunch. I also walked 12 miles back and forth (twice) across town to go to the pharmacy because I spent too much in my daily routine.

Today, I forced myself to stay home. I hope maturity is the remedy for imbalance and karmic debt because I feel mindfulness and self-correction is key, and I don’t know, maybe it’s happened with age or I’ve lived by Kenny Rogers song, ‘You gotta know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.’ Being a Libra keeps a natural pendulum swinging within the deepest confines of my motivations as well. 

All in all, I find that staying in was fruitful regarding self-education and accountability. 

My karmic debt must be paid, therefore, I will walk with conviction and improve over time.

Front cover art by Eden Girma, expansion of the heart

This anthology was made possible by generous support from Nancy and Joe Walker and mediaThe foundation. Support women and non-binary musicians and their stories.
DONATE TO M³

M³ Summer Solstice 2020 Cohort One Collection

FOREWORD

Last year, I was approached by acclaimed musicians and composers, Sara Serpa and Jen Shyu, to join them on their new journey as founders of Mutual Mentorship for Musicians (M³). The mission of this organization, which supports performer-composers of underrepresented gender identities, gave me an opportunity to further my personal mission of creating new spaces and platforms for voices that do not fit the traditional mold and status quo of what jazz and creative musicians should be. 

There is beauty to the act of creation. It is the opposite of destruction which degrades and pulls down the pillars of happiness, contentment, and stability. Though creation can still have its challenges,  I was intrigued to witness women and non-binary beings pour their hearts out amid the uncertainty and strain of the COVID-19 pandemic.

With this said, all of the cohort members of M³ have achieved much in their own right, but I believe that they deserve much more recognition, community and encouragement, which this organization’s important work addresses and provides.

I had the pleasure of guiding and editing the writings of this inaugural M³ cohort, which featured Eden Girma, Anjna Swaminathan, Erica Lindsay, Caroline Davis, Maya Keren, Sumi Tonooka, Lesley Mok, Romarna Campbell, Tomeka Reid, and Val Jeanty, along with Jen and Sara. These artists are not primarily known as writers, but they gave their all while contributing to this anthology, and offer insightful, intelligent and beautifully written pieces that are inspiring and mesmerizing. 

There is no glass ceiling hovering over this project and platform, and the cohort members were able to sail through the artistic and literary skies to find their voices. I could not be more pleased with the work they’ve done, and I look forward to continuing to see these human beings grow and evolve after experiencing such a healing communal safe space.

Women in jazz and creative music fight through the disparity of representation, and it takes bravery to work in such a medium and male-dominated realm. This anthology is a testament that art must prevail within the prison of other’s perceptions. They made work that pushes back and weaves stories and visions of their own perceptions and understanding of the world. I honor and thank them for their strength. – M³ Editor and Chief, Jordannah Elizabeth

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Poem, Eden Girma, ‘To speak in memory’
2. Essay, Anjna Swaminathan, ‘The Sun Itself: Expanding my Horizons as a Queer Multidisciplinary Being’
3. Prose, Erica Lindsay, ‘Sonic Creation’
4. Essay, Sara Serpa, ‘Motherhood in Music in 10 steps: The Invisible Work of Mother Musicians’
5. Poem, Caroline Davis, ‘Aretes of the New Cyrene’
6. Essay, Maya Keren, ‘Reminder to Self’
7. Essay, Sumi Tonooka, ‘Remembering Philly Joe’
8. Essay, Jen Shyu, ‘Zero Grasses and Fertility: Your Backstory Is the Real Story’
9. Essay, Lesley Mok, ‘Liberalism in Music: The Limits to Representation’
10. Essay, Romarna Campbell, ‘Stream of Consciousness’
11. Essay, Tomeka Reid, ‘Tomeka’s 5 Favorite Quarantine Recipes’
12. Essay, Val Jeanty, ‘Sonic Ritual’ Continue reading →