postsecret.blogspot.com

check out postsecret.blogspot.com

thanks to kieran, i found this site. the concept of it is simple: individuals from across the globe send postcards revealing their most titilating, scandalous, sad, humorous, or absurd secrets to be published anonymously on the internet. i was so compelled by this site that i stayed up 45 minutes later to read every last blog entry. each secret elicits a knee-jerk, gut reaction. the site is strangely yet obviously voyeuristic. i enjoyed reading the site just like i enjoy listening to the conversations of strangers on public transportation.

memory: on the A train, 2 twenty-somethings wearing glamour gold earrings gossiped about their "friend" whom they were on their way to meet. these girls were comedically viscious in that heather chandler sort of way. nothing was too trivial -- the "friend's" laugh, clothes, or that obnoxious way she threw herself at men.

nonetheless, here is my favorite postcard. it's evocative.

i want my mtv!

what did the world look like before mtv made it post-modernist? that is, what was the world before "mtv" became an adjective? examples: mtv-style production, mtv attention span, & mtv generation. what are we to make of this world where tacky meets cool and edgy, hip hop meets alternative rocks and saachrine pop?

get it?
quick, wait, pay attention.
the camera barely waits for your eyes to dilate.
tonight, i'll dream of eric nies between my thighs.

i'm nearly 20. but, for whatever reason, i'm feeling nostalgic for the early nineties; i'm nostalgic for that era when everything, for better or for worse, was new: HIV, rollerblades, pointy bras, safe sex movements, oil wars, crack/cocaine aftermath, jungle fever, "pot-smoking" presidents, the B-side of cassettes, & that true story about 7 strangers.

speaking of early nineties, my current read of the moment is the complete guide to the music of madonna by rikky rooksby. this pink, pocketed-sized collectors items catalogues madonna's career from '84 to '98. each song (yes, that's correct) has a short analysis. rooksby says of some of my favorite madonna tracks:

into the grove: "the lyrics are a simple invitation to dance but carrying a sexual undertone."

papa don't preach: "the chorus is puncy enough, and there's a pleasant acoustic guitar solo, but as a whole the song seems musically under-powered."

other favorites include: like a prayer, human nature, & secret

here's to popular culture as defined by an upstart television station in '81.

pro-choice.

well, of course. i, like, got an abortion so my prom dress would fit.

this summer, i will be an intern at the national organization of women. i am looking forward to the work i'll be doing & what is to be gained from these experiences. tonight, i went to a panel discussion in central square on the current filibuster and what it means for progressive politics. an aclu attorney advised that i read a "riveting" book about ideological differences centering around the issue of abortion entitled abortion & the politics of motherhood by kristin luker. this book attempts to explain the non-religious philosophical differences that make abortion politics so heated in the american political arena.

oh and, by the way, i strongly support a woman's right to choose. and, my boss reminds me of a cherubic lisa loeb.

miss b-rhaka.

white girls can rap. just ask miss b-rhaka, a 4'10 shirley-templed curled mc from south carolina. i met her at bill's bar on landsdowne. we shared cigarettes as the bar was closing. she had one of those deep, husky 'round-the-way girl voices. she guest starred with the house band creatively called the thursday night band. this band innovatively combined music tracks. for example, i knew they were good when i was dancing to a biggie beat with the lyrics of maroon 5 this love.

listen to miss b-rhaka.

inman square.

my new inanimate love is inman square. this weekend, i had the pleasure of eating at magnolia's, argana, and ryle's.

magnolia's has a colorful, inviting exterior. it is decorated with mardi gras beads and quasi-vodou artifacts. it embodies the photo-op. i had the pleasure of dining with a russ, a gentleman too cool for words.

on saturday, i've come to realize what is fun about youth. the original intention was to eat at dali, an authentic spanish restaurant. with lines out the door, we decided to try another venue. thankfully, we (max, alexandra, stephen, and samantha) made our way to argana. this restaurant has--quite possibly--the most beautiful interior. it is bold orange and yellow with plush chairs, a french-speaking waitstaff, and a middle-aged bellydancer with a smooth stomach (see picture below). oh, the dollar bill in her waistband is likely mine.

first, i must take bellydancing lessons. i did a little something only to be properly rewarded by the bartender. he came from behind the bar with a $1 bill. he remarked, "that [my shimmey] is worth more than a dollar." i highly recommend argana if for nothing more than the pleasantly flirtatious waitstaff.

on sunday morning, katie and vanessa--2 women i admire--and i went to ryle's, a jazz club that serves mammoth brunch meals while a live jazz band plays on stage. the concept is not particularly novel but innovative at the same time if that's possible. i was unbelievably satiated. for your pleasure and entertainment, is an excerpt from black star's astronomy (8th light). it relates, though tangentially, to ryle's because it mentions coltrane. by the way, naima is my favorite coltrane piece.

i've been there before
to bring the light and heat it up like la cocina
make without imagine happen but maybe i'm just a dreamer
i love rockin' tracks like john coltrane love naima
like the student love the teacher
like the prophet love khadijah

a bellydancer at argana, a morrocan restaurant in inman square.  

stilettos.

i wear stilettos. i am a feminist.

a photo display in the agassiz theatre. cambridge, massachusetts. the display is called "recycling my muse." each photograph is of the same man in different costuming and make-up.  

snowflakes.

you were better than any drug.

love,
shawna

knuckle down.

currently, i am listening to ani difranco's newest album knuckle down. my reason for loving ani is twofold--1) she is a lyrical poet 2) her voice screeches, yearns, and climbs the walls as if sexually satisfied. check out the soundbyte for "manhole"--a song she wrote about an adulterous man. according to difranco, "this man doesn't lie but he doctors everything." a chatty smile comes across my face when i listen to her.

i enjoy being a girl.

this photograph is a pictorial compliment to vanessa's poem entitled self-critique. for the complete project see my 5/11 post entitled "vanessa's project."

love.angel.music.baby.

just a thought: when is someone going to recognize that gwen stefani is exploiting those 4 japanese girls she totes around? and yes, their names are love, angel, music, and baby. the harajuku girls are an ode to japanese pop culture. harajuku is a trendy, shopping district in tokyo where club kids gather in a "kaleidoscope of culture" according to stefani. i find the living prop concept pleasantly bizzare.

that notwithstanding, love.angel.music.baby is well-crafted as it combines 80s pop-punk, hip-hop, and pop. i purchased the album back in november at the virgin megastore so hollaback girl can't help but sound dated to me. this album is eclectic with its easy listeners and dance tracks. i read a village voice review that called debbie harry and madonna gwen's "spiritual mommies." i would agree.

vanessa's project.

v. pratt does amazing things. check out her protest lit project:

self-critique

we wear rings of public plastic
yellow, purple, green, rainbow
taking back the night
saving darfur
living strong
we carry nalgenes,
un-well behaved women making history
kissing girls
masturbating for peace
we don t-shirts to our knees
loving being black
uniting potheads
priding marriage

we know that the war was staged
that genocide did not end with hitler
that in urban areas, more black men are incarcerated than in college

we believe that the right to choose is a woman's
that institutionalized commitment should be for all
that the survival of public education is democracy's only hope

and stoned we sit prophesizing about what we know is right
about equality and beauty and change
about progress and racism and political chocolate

we take to the streets ordering bush out of our vaginas
demanding salaries that allow sustainable life
hoping on a rushed dandilioned breath that this time we will again escape the handcuffs of the jail that isn't ours
we are cosmopolitan and eloquent and youthfully arrogant
inspired and inspiring and so so young
energized by sunsets and kisses and injustice
but can our button covered backpacks,
our propagandized words,
our sloganed bumpers
do anything?

while our fingers type essay-form creeds on thousand dollar laptops,
how can we expect that our 10 will change the world
that our bit of progressive preaching will affect policy?
how can we justfy $42,000 a year for theory and kegs when teachers make half that?
when that is three times more than a single mother working full time at minimum wage earns?
when her children are present-less at christmas and hungry in bed?
how can we rant about housing discrimination as we lounge in dorm rooms the size of 2 family inner-city apapartments?
would we deny ourselves comfort? privilege? would we give up jeans sewn by 4 year olds, blood stained coffee, or our beloved system of promotion based on wealth that will always put us on top?

are we doing enough?

door knocker earrings.

all i want for christmas is a cheap pair of 1980s, salt & pepa style door knocker earrings.

when i was 14, i got down on my knees because he said i would if i loved him.

dawn saylor is a spoken word poet. i happened to run across a dawn saylor soundbyte on kazaa three years ago. below are my favorite stanzas from her poem entitled "isis." the link provides the full poem.

when i was 14, i got down on my knees because he said i would if i loved him
what did i know then when i first betrayed my body
sold it for a kiss and a smile
taught to please at any cost, left to fight for independence
in the backseats of cars on stained leather interior
dank with expectations.
i traded integrity for security and called it love.

....and i heard myself say "no"
over and over
he didn't hear me, wouldn't listen
when he called me a whore and took
the only innocence i had left

i was searching still for purity

....and three years of vengeance passed
while i was that woman despised,
coveted
while they begged for plastic perfection
found in the temptation
inches from their faces
i could feel the longing, the lies when they said,
"you're so beautiful"

it wasn't enough.
he loved music more than me.
loved work more than me.
loved money more than me.
loved her more than me.
and i loved him more than me.

backpack rappers.

backpack rapper ('bak -"pak 'ra-p&r) --according to hashim (a guy i met from the bronx), a "backpack rapper" walks in the village, is on that conscious tip, wears tight-fitted jeans, converse sneakers, headphones, and a backpack.

below kanye references backpack rappers.

kanye west//breathe in, breathe out

golly, more of that bullshit ice rap
i got to 'pologize to mos and kweli
but is it cool to rap about gold
if i told the world i copped it from ghana and mali?
first nigga with a benz and a backpack
ice chain, cardi lens, and a knapsack
always said if i rapped, i'd say somethin' significant
but now i'm rappin' 'bout money, hoes, and rims again

navels.

womanist theology: black women's voices by delores s. williams

"color, like birth and death, is common to all people. like the navel, it is a badge of humanity connecting people with people."

black feminism.

i didn't come to admire, appreciate, or extol the values of modern black feminists--walker, hooks, giovanni, and morrison--until my first encounter with the confused pecola in the bluest eye. until then, my feminist model was the sandy blonde curly-but-not-kinky haired jessie spano (elizabeth berkley) of saved by the bell fame. this chatacter typified my grade school self: smart, self-righteous, and at the head of her class. in reality, lisa turtle was my favorite character because of our shared brown skin tone. i made no bones about my admiration for lisa. she had an eye for fashion forward accessories, kept the boys at bay, and was--quite frankly--a sista.

lisa batted her eyes for football jocks but jessie, well, jessie held protest signs. she was strong but feminine, assertive but graceful--a fairy tale revolutionary in the mind of my suburban black girlhood. it is clear: jessie spano is the first feminist i ever looked up to.

my motherboard, myself.

undoubtedly, my motherboard, myself is my favorite sex and the city episode (satc).

on the sly.

i want him to hate me
so you can love me
on the sly.

by metric.

technicolor.

ironically, this was an otherwise dreary day. brussels, belgium.