Is it love, is it hate?
Is it hate, is it love?
Is it Lote
Is it Have
What is this anguish,
this stupid repetition
of insanity?
Is it have,
is it lote,
is it hate,
is it love,
is it sick?
It ought to be.
©2005 P.T. Love
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Precious Doe aka Erica Green
It is unsettling to find myself bursting into tears as I attempt to read the accounts of how, finally, the perpertrators of the heinous crimes committed against the tiny little girl we here in Kansas City had affectionately named Precious Doe were finally uncovered. I didn't realize that I had emotionally inhaled during that horrible time in 2001 when first her decapitated body and a few days later her severed head were found in local woods. I didn't realize that I wouldn't exhale emotionally until her murder(s) were brought to justice. I only thought that I was just a local citizen, appalled by yet another atrocity carried out against an innocent child, and that her's was just another senseless crime that I personally could do nothing about.
I didn't attend any of the prayer vigils. I didn't take stuffed animals to her makeshift memorial site. I didn't hand out flyers asking for information. But I did take the time one afternoon months after the crime to drive by the location where she was found and to say a quiet prayer. I did caution everyone I knew to make absolutely sure they didn't let their babies out of their sight -- even for a moment. And I did hurt inside out wondering what torment that precious baby might have suffered before her life was snuffed out.
That her own mother confessed to being intimately involved in her savage murder defies my ability to comprehend. Her own mother, not some sex crazed over the road trucker, not some sick tormented serial killer, not some racial hate driven maniac --her own mother. Her own mother watched as a grown man kicked her four year old baby in the head for crying and refusing to go to sleep. Watched as her four year old baby fell into unconsciousness. Did nothing while life ebbed from her baby's body for days because she was concerned about her and her man's own welfare because they were both felons? Her own mother watched her baby die then carried or at the least accompanied the man who carried her baby into the woods with a pair of hedge trimmers to cut off her baby's head and to dispose of her like garbage? The betrayal, oh my God the betrayal that tiny little heart must have felt in the last days of her life breaks my heart in two.
Something is wrong - the world had gone mad. I'm sorry y'all I'm postive the...
Lights Out!
I didn't attend any of the prayer vigils. I didn't take stuffed animals to her makeshift memorial site. I didn't hand out flyers asking for information. But I did take the time one afternoon months after the crime to drive by the location where she was found and to say a quiet prayer. I did caution everyone I knew to make absolutely sure they didn't let their babies out of their sight -- even for a moment. And I did hurt inside out wondering what torment that precious baby might have suffered before her life was snuffed out.
That her own mother confessed to being intimately involved in her savage murder defies my ability to comprehend. Her own mother, not some sex crazed over the road trucker, not some sick tormented serial killer, not some racial hate driven maniac --her own mother. Her own mother watched as a grown man kicked her four year old baby in the head for crying and refusing to go to sleep. Watched as her four year old baby fell into unconsciousness. Did nothing while life ebbed from her baby's body for days because she was concerned about her and her man's own welfare because they were both felons? Her own mother watched her baby die then carried or at the least accompanied the man who carried her baby into the woods with a pair of hedge trimmers to cut off her baby's head and to dispose of her like garbage? The betrayal, oh my God the betrayal that tiny little heart must have felt in the last days of her life breaks my heart in two.
Something is wrong - the world had gone mad. I'm sorry y'all I'm postive the...
Lights Out!
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Straight up, Straight Out!
Nudgies® Greeting Cards©
Marriages have resulted from these cards. Square business! There are 48 cards in the line and they say stuff nobody has ever put on a card -- stuff that makes things happen! You think I'm lying? I'm not. They are called Nudgies® because they nudge the emotion, the feeling, the action across.
Nudgies®, remember you heard it here first! Check them out at Nudgies® Greeting Cards!
Lights out!
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
To What Avail?
I could say what's on my mind, but to what avail? Who really cares what I think? Heck, folk don't even care what they think, half the time they don't have the foggiest what's on their own mind. And that's a problem.
Life now exists in 2'x3' foot spaces in front oblong screens that are sometime no larger than a 3"x5" index card. Flick, flick, click, click, have replaced all meaningful existence. And slowly, surely we are becoming sub-human. The properties that made us human are evaporating, they are becoming rudimentary, paramount among them our sensibilities, our feeling, our ability to care.
So, how long have I flick, flick, flicked, click, click, cliked this day? Darn near 20 hours! You know what... heck I'm turning these --
Lights out!
Life now exists in 2'x3' foot spaces in front oblong screens that are sometime no larger than a 3"x5" index card. Flick, flick, click, click, have replaced all meaningful existence. And slowly, surely we are becoming sub-human. The properties that made us human are evaporating, they are becoming rudimentary, paramount among them our sensibilities, our feeling, our ability to care.
So, how long have I flick, flick, flicked, click, click, cliked this day? Darn near 20 hours! You know what... heck I'm turning these --
Lights out!
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Cracking Up!
Well, yeah, I was rolling on the floor laughing out loud about something I wanted to share with you, but when I pasted this little fellow in all his friends showed up too.
Oh heck, I forgot the joke.
Lights dim!
Monday, February 07, 2005
Black Out!
Wow, I had really messed up! Fooled around and tries to paste some HTML into my template and presto! everything was gone - I mean for real gone. That was January 27th and I'm just gettting things back up and working. But at least...
Lights on!
Lights on!
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Literature or Genocide
The current drama of African American literature has set teeth on edge in many quarters. Questions range from what can be legitimately described as literature to whether new genres referred to as Urban or Street Fiction are tantamount to genocide. This blogger's response is that it is all relevant and subjective. Relevant to the conditions under which the questions are being asked and subjective as to who is doing the asking.
Literature has been at the seminal core of civilization since the first etching was scratched on the first cave wall. Its objective then was to convey the stories, the experiences, the fears, the joys, the warnings and the expectations of the etcher. The recipient of the message, then and now, must interpert what is presented based on their knowledge and its relevance to them. Man's inalienable right of free will, and, if you are an American, the right of the First Amendment to free speech, puts the onus of responsibility squarely on the consumer, i.e., the reader, rather than the producer, i.e., the writer, in my humble opinion. An economic reality for any writer or publisher is without readers, with very, very few exceptions, the message intended is dormant.
With that acknowledged though, it is a valid issue of concern to any culture or society when the economic spinning wheel starts to spit out barbed-wire in its name and pretend it is silk. This is where relevance takes hold, and this is where the thought that the preponderance of books that hold no viable redeeming value to the majority of the African- American reading public must be recognized solely as it is. It has nothing to do with literature, nothing to do with entertainment, and absolutely nothing to do with you or your culture. It is merely a profit center designed wholly for the purpose of increasing someone elses' bottom line.
The argument that the stories being told are in the language of, and the experiences of, the street as it unfolds day in and day out is hallow. If this is true than what ought to be written by this new pletora of young writers are non-fiction accounts of the lives they are living, books that chronicle for all the world to know what real life is under the circumstances and conditions of their reality. True-crime sells hands over fist, so why not this market, rather than one that romanticises their daily hell and insults those compelled to live it for real.
So, you be the judge. Is it literature or genocide? What would it be if the wrapper was removed and it was marketed as non-fiction? Would the profit center hold up? You do the math.
Lights on!
Literature has been at the seminal core of civilization since the first etching was scratched on the first cave wall. Its objective then was to convey the stories, the experiences, the fears, the joys, the warnings and the expectations of the etcher. The recipient of the message, then and now, must interpert what is presented based on their knowledge and its relevance to them. Man's inalienable right of free will, and, if you are an American, the right of the First Amendment to free speech, puts the onus of responsibility squarely on the consumer, i.e., the reader, rather than the producer, i.e., the writer, in my humble opinion. An economic reality for any writer or publisher is without readers, with very, very few exceptions, the message intended is dormant.
With that acknowledged though, it is a valid issue of concern to any culture or society when the economic spinning wheel starts to spit out barbed-wire in its name and pretend it is silk. This is where relevance takes hold, and this is where the thought that the preponderance of books that hold no viable redeeming value to the majority of the African- American reading public must be recognized solely as it is. It has nothing to do with literature, nothing to do with entertainment, and absolutely nothing to do with you or your culture. It is merely a profit center designed wholly for the purpose of increasing someone elses' bottom line.
The argument that the stories being told are in the language of, and the experiences of, the street as it unfolds day in and day out is hallow. If this is true than what ought to be written by this new pletora of young writers are non-fiction accounts of the lives they are living, books that chronicle for all the world to know what real life is under the circumstances and conditions of their reality. True-crime sells hands over fist, so why not this market, rather than one that romanticises their daily hell and insults those compelled to live it for real.
So, you be the judge. Is it literature or genocide? What would it be if the wrapper was removed and it was marketed as non-fiction? Would the profit center hold up? You do the math.
Lights on!
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