inside the mind of corinna delgado

The Mustard Seed

2012-02-03T08:40:00.000-09:00

and love ...

like the shore line
looses it shape with time
as tide and tried and fight and fury and winds of unfathomable change
render strange
and eroding shapes
against what we make

of love.

like pagan heathens - seething in there own glory
erecting false idols in the wake of their own euphoria -
we call the golden calf "love"... and lay our souls at it's feet.
destine for defeat / and destruction
you can smell the sulfur comin' ...
because we have a tendency to place faith in the physical
and just because you make my body shake
or i come so hard i lose all my protein ... makin' my head ache
doesn't translate

to i love you.

but we long for our false gods because evidence doesn't require faith.
it's easy that way.
it's not hard to worship the sun when you bask in it's light
it isn't difficult to build upon lust when the evidence is in your thigh
like the building pressure of an
arthritic knuckle begging to be popped.
i stopped
looking at love thru lenses of false pretenses
i ceased
my belief in a love that doesn't allow me to breathe
because i have to believe
that a love that is healthy for me requires stamina
deep breathes for the long haul ...
and when i purse my lips taking shallow breathes
as i drown in the depth
of your ugliness

it's not because i don’t care enough to argue
it's because i love you enough to try and reach the surface
flailing harder in troubles waters
will cause death by drowning faster than just floating.
hoping
for something better and having faith in it aren't so far removed.
but i too ... am looking for evidence.
i wait patiently for confirmations
something to put faith in
because despite what i've said in past conversation
i want to believe.

i want to be
that parishioner struck by the holy spirit ... flailing in the isles
i want denial
replaced with speaking in tongues .. and the language love
would only be recognizable to your ears

our here
and now
is like encryptions … glyphs on
the walls of our daily actions
appearing to others as interpretive dances –
but we know
that taking the garbage without me askin’
means you love me more than your own comfort or time line.
And right now
I don’t need the golden calf of an anticipated thigh
As evidence that I love you.
I am pursing my lip and clenching my fist - riding the shore to something more
Than meets the eye.
With fettered faith – I am riding the tide.

soldier song

2012-01-17T15:50:00.000-09:00

I set forth to write a song for you
Something that would see you through; keep faith afoot and perseverance in your lungs
…and when you’d exhale during the difficult part of your journey
Your labored breath would sound like hope
And song.

I dug deep … to the natural rhythm of my feet, and the sway in my hip
I looked for song in the nod of my head and the purse of my lips
Lyrics licked / like envelopes
I had hoped
To recount my own downward slopes and find the fuel
And tools
Necessary to compose your song …

but I’ve been singing too long.
hymnals … spirituals … and heart break anthems;
A triathlon of songs - pantin’
“I will survive” and “lord I’m coming ” –
the repetitive humming Creates a familiar buzz
no more noticeable than the whiiiiirrrrrrr of our computers. Whereas; once
A song
Could inspire nations to part seas, virgins to part knees, and the suffocated to breathe
But if you have been singing for survival every mile of the way
The melody starts to lose its taste

The over chewed cud – of we shall over come … begins to wear away at the tongue
I’ve sung
So many songs of survival
That my recant would nothing more than minimize your trial
My off key out of tune / is no redemption song for your doom
And soon
I started to feel that singing you lovely lullabies
Was a far cry / from what you needed.

Composer defeated …
I whispered “retreat” … and
somehow found no shame in it.

Once upon a time we were soldiers
And we were sold this
Idea that retreat was delayed defeat – and that rest was for the wicked – and a moment to cease…
And peace
Was only afforded to the weak.
Speak nothing wars and worlds of warriors and “rest” … in the same breath

Slave masters and over lords spun such webs … and we
We tricked our souls with songs of salvation
In order to fulfill unreal expectations.

There are no symphonies here.
No chorus that would trick the ear … or harmony to harp the heart.
Notes as sharp as spears, fallacy of falsetto
Tenor of thy tears, allow your vibrato to settle

And silence your song.
Retreat
and I will sing along in your silence to the chorus of only breathing the notes…

And somehow

The exhale will still

Sound like hope.

2012: A Resolution

2012-01-12T08:57:00.000-09:00

2012: A Resolution

It’s quiet here.
The weather is forecasting another foot of snow in an already overwhelming winter.
As the mounds of snow encroach on the roads, 2 lanes turn into one.
I feel that this is not unlike my life.
I’ve decided to be quiet.
It’s time to be still.

I can hardly believe this is Nino’s last year before he leaves for college. With graduation 11 short months away, I find myself feverishly eliminating excess from my life.

Despite my drive and “always” ambition, something is calling to me.
I’ve chose to listen.
I’m changing, and I can feel it.
As a woman does when she feels the call to motherhood, I feel myself shutting down. Shedding layers, and frankly … it makes me sad.

The muse has escaped me. My inspiration is fading. Determination is dissipating.
The need to save the world with blind benevolence is replaced with ambivalence.
I qualm more in my own mind over financial issues than I do with pondering the fate of the world. I am shedding the girl who once shamelessly shouted “REVOLUTION!” into a political convention. I feel like something brittle trying to bend and …
I hear who I think I am … cracking.

I’m snapping beneath the fated weight of constantly trying to BE the change I want to see in the world; I am losing the girl. This old woman is all that is left.

I’ve departed from myself.
I feel less.

. . .

I was standing in my kitchen reading letters from my father. In them he forecast Nino helping him walk when he becomes an old man. I feverishly put them away, not wanting to feel.

I implore “happy” music, and begin an art form I haven’t lost love for; cooking.
‘Over the Rainbow’ by Iz comes on and I find myself racing to turn it off.
My bend breaks, and I race to the bathroom to put my hands over my face and weep.

Yet I don’t pray for peace, or even that the sorrow subsides. Rather, I cry … and try to fully experience this pain … hoping that it makes me feel human again.

. . .

As I withdraw from the world, and minimize its access to me, I am hoping my self inflicted solitude will accomplish a few things.

In the coming year –

I hope to redeem myself to son.
For the times I gave myself to the world when I should have given myself to him, I will be available and ready.

I will strip away the pageantry and posing that I’ve been imposing upon myself for so many years.

I am willfully letting broadcast go.

I have been held captive by the fear that I am not enough without it. I have doubted and demeaned myself in the name of something I am good at for the sake of saving my ego.

Where do we go wrong? We build our own likeness in the form of our highest selves, in the hopes that our insecurity fades when we begin believe in the way we are SEEN.

Hoping other people’s belief in the dream … makes it real.

We become slaves to our reflection.
I am burning this perception, and starting over.

I plan to sit in my silence and listen closer.
Will I still write, create? Will I still paint?
Will I begin to care again?
Who am I without these things?

And moreover … is that still who I want to be?
I have been screaming so long that it’s hard to hear that voice.

Good thing it’s quiet here.

Happy New Year.

American Sign Language Poetry

2011-11-17T14:26:00.000-09:00

Be Encouraged

2011-09-09T08:50:00.002-08:00

Thank you God for the pressure of the world.
As my muscles ache and my back brakes
I will take the time
to reckognize what it takes
to refine the human mind.

By design ... the diamond is created by the pressure of the world ...
by nature the oyster turns the pebble into the pearl

mold me god, at your will, make me your intended creation

I surrender to the rolling weight of the ocean / knowin' / that this much pressure can only mean ... the outcome will be amazing.

ithaca awaits

2011-08-30T08:58:00.001-08:00

one step closer to normal ... a half an inch closer to relief

one breath away from exhale ... one prayer near belief

peace in all the small places

it's quiet when no one's awake

I’m organizing some spaces ... to make some room on my plate

I’m looking at myself in the mirror ... telling myself I’m ok

the reflection is getting clearing ... when the fog of my breath dissipates

I relate to all the wrong songs

the melody of melancholy is seductive

like the sirens of the odyssey ... i am enchanted but reluctant

my Ithaca is waiting ... happiness is on the horizon

sailor silence thy sorrow, quiet your vile and violence

find true north in your constellation ... star gazin' towards your destination

your exhale is the wind of your sail ... peace is found in patience

be grateful for the struggle ... the odyssey is what you make it

you are one step closer to home ... Ithaca is waiting.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nL49yZNE4yk

The Rainbow Bridge

2011-08-24T16:58:00.000-08:00

“I aspire to be the person my dog thinks I am”

Even as parents we fall short in the eyes of our children … but never our pets.
Tito loved me from the start, without me having to pursue it. I didn’t have to convince him of my worth, smile when I was sad, or wear make up when I was sick. I simple was … and was loved.

Looking back, there are moments of selfishness and neglect. My heart boils over with regret trying to pick every last wound, trying to relive the pain I most likely inflicted. An equal exchange … pain for pain.

But even in my worst moments of abuse and anger, my dog would wait patiently for a change in my tone of voice, ready to forgive or be forgiven.

In truth, there was never much to forgive Tito for.
He didn’t destroy things the way some dogs do. He didn’t rip up carpets or eat my shoes. He didn’t have any trouble potty training, or behaving. He was kind and obedient, beautiful and brilliant. He learned quickly, and was eager to try … so long as there was peanut butter involved.
His only downfall … was that he loved us too much. He just wanted to be by our side.

. . .
Sunday was eerily sunny , contrary to weather predictions. Tito and I fell asleep the night before in a mound of laundry I was attempting to tackle. We three, Tito, Nino, and myself, had early morning Sunday errands. Tito didn’t resist, rather he waited patiently for us in the truck while we milled about wal-mart and fred meyer.
We laughed on our way into the city, and made jokes about how Tito wouldn’t stick his head out of the back window. He loved to look through the windshield and see where we were going; be a part of the conversation.
When we pulled along the side of the highway to search the median for our lost rim from the week before, the open window was the furthest thing from our minds.
Nino and I split up “you search north, I’ll look south.”
I jogged the length of the grassy median with my eyes to the ground. Finally I gave up. When I turned to jog northbound, I saw my son grabbing something from the highway and pulling back with cat like reflexes. It occurred to me to chastise him, until I saw him with Tito in his arms. I immediately thought the dog got out, and Nino had to carry him to corral him to the truck. It was until I ran closer that I saw my son’s face. My heart sank, and I screamed.
Eager to be with us ... he had jumped from the truck.

Gently Nino laid our beloved friend in the grassy median, no one stopped to help us, not even the person who hit him. Traffic didn’t even slow. My son held his head in his hands and sobbed, while I wept uncontrollably. I laid across my dog like a motherly blanket and cried … there was a heartbeat.

“Go open the truck, he’s still alive!”
I scooped my best friend into my arms and told my son to get in the truck. I handed him our dog and sped into town.
The length of the drive seemed like eternity. With hazard lights flashing, I raced at dangerous speeds. For the first time since my father died, Nino and I prayed together and asked God to save our Dog.

“Stay with us” we pled “you’re a good boy Tito”

When we arrived to the Pet emergency room I came to a screeching halt in front of the entrance. Nino handed Tito to me, and held open the doors.
“Please save our dog!”
There was nothing they could do. I fell into my son, who has always been strong enough to hold me, and wailed with grief.

Covered in blood and tears and dirt we sat, defeated, in a private room. From the lobby sounds of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” drifted into the room. I remember feeling angry at it all, even the music.

After they cleaned Tito and brought his lifeless body to us, we pet him one last time and said our goodbyes.
. . .
Later that afternoon, wearing the wreckage of our wounds … and Tito’s … we silently shared one another’s company with nothing but the sound of mindless tv to drown out our din.
Neither of us felt the need to change or shower or even wipe away a tear; we were adorned in our defeat and content to simply sit in it.
My son chose to leave me that day, a dismay I can never place blame in.
My life is a tapestry of tragedies; doomed by the frequent fallacy of undeserved disaster. The New Orleans of mothers … the hurricane of my life makes levies break. He takes sanctuary in the "fema" of his father .
. . .
Diligent in his hero work, Matthew forgets his pain at my peril. He soothes my wounds and does what he can to lighten the mood. Food and a movie … plenty of embraces. On the way to our home by the lake, I take in the suspended kaleidoscope of color … and wonder … if Tito was somewhere over the rainbow.

. . .
The past few days I have agonized over the minutia, digging through the detritus, looking for a place to lay blame. I tediously unfold the butterfly effect of the week seeking a solitary incident that caused the collision. My vision is blurred with what if’s. Finally … a gift.
I come across the legend of The Rainbow Bridge.

Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to the Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food and water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who have been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except one thing- they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind. They all run and play together, but the day comes when one stops and suddenly looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent, his eager body begins to quiver. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face. Your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then together, you and your special pet cross THE RAINBOW BRIDGE

And maybe it’s a lofty notion.
and maybe things Don’t happen for a reason, and we are all just leaves … fallen to earth, drifting on the breeze.
And maybe my heart is so heavy that it would let me / believe that even my empty / heart can be filled …
but then again…
maybe it will.

and maybe songs about rainbows accompanied by / beautiful colors in an empty sky /and legends of meadows where your beloved pets lie … are more than coincidence.
but in death we all question our existence. We know that we are not what happens to us, but rather how we respond.

Believing Tito is waiting for me beyond the Rainbow Bridge may be far-fetched, but Tito never thought any distance was too far to fetch, and though it sounds silly … I can only respond by trying to be as good as he was
And perhaps… one day…
as good as he believed me to be.

Nino is featured on ABC 13 & FOX 4

2011-07-16T09:49:00.000-08:00

Road Trippin' - F Magazine Article for "One Soul"

2011-07-15T08:40:00.004-08:00

Once referred to as “Traveling Mercy”, this band of performing do-gooders is liken to Robin Hood and his Merry Men. But there is no robbing from the rich involved, rather they perform their gifts in order to give to the poor. Be it poor of spirit, poor of heart, down and out, destitute, ailed, incarcerated, or just good ol’ fashioned poor in the pocket. One Soul is a collective of artists who come together under one epitaph for the greater good of mankind.

One Soul is the brain child of front woman Melissa Mitchell. Her riveting voice rivals Aretha, with all the soul of gospel, lips of funk, and feet of folk. Melissa’s stage presence makes you believe you’ve known her all your life, but then maybe it’s just the way her bellow makes the marrow of your bones vibrate.

From out of state, but baptized in below zero temps, Alaskan brewed beer, and 2am sunlight, is Spiff Chambers. Mellow and melodic, blue grass and green sky; Chambers is down to earth. He is a hand shake and a kind word, the friend who’s smile says “Hey man, tomorrow is a new day” … and his music is the same.

Also on the One Soul stage, is Shawn Zuke. Like many that would be cast into the “hippie” fold of society, Zuke is all “air” and “light” with lyrics about love within, but don’t let the sway of her hips lead you astray. Zuke is multi-faceted artists of depth and imagination, mastering the guitar, flute, and even the aboriginal instrument the digeree-doo.

Originally from the mountains of Nederland, Colorado , Michelle McAfee is no stranger to an Alaskan way of life. Her voice has a haunt that lingers on the stage, like a whisper in an Alaskan winter, it hangs there waiting to be heard. Her songs are potent with conviction, love, and testimony of a life worth living – a life that is simple and light. When she isn’t touring, individually or with One Soul, she is writing music from her cabin … where birds help compose. Doubt that it’s so? Just listen to the lyrics of “Sweet Song”.

Along the way, others grace the stage. Rick Nielsen on slide guitar and vocals adds a flavor of blues and dirty back porch funk. Spoken word poet Corinna Delgado sprinkles a seasoning that is one part hip hop, two parts gut wrenching honesty, and just a dash of fairy dust. Katy Adams joined the tribe last year at New Folsom to teach a visual art class, but her presence to the group is more than paint and pastels. There is an easiness about her that could easily be glue for so many passionate performers. Photographer and promoter Ellie Stefano can always be found in the One Soul crowd, along with percussionist Sean Rollnick.

It is likely that the band will continue to pick up hitch-hikers along the way, anyone with a talent to throw in the caldron, an earnest hope for humanity, and a little gas money can come along for the ride.

What started as a trip to New Folsom prison to perform for The Arts in Corrections Program, took root and bared fruit. According to Mitchell, her experience was so life changing that she just had to drag a few friends along. They have been traveling state wide the entire summer. From Soldotna to Skagway, The Girdwood Forest Fair to Katchemak Bay – One Soul has been road trippin’ for the cause across the state bringing singing water to all who are thirsty.

Quieting the Keep Sakes

2011-06-29T09:09:00.000-08:00

     In ripping the house apart, I always come across the 'keepsakes'.
     I am a woman of many mementos.
     I have filled boxes with the small things; a stack of fortunes from fortune cookies, movie tickets, thank you cards, birthday wishes, dried flowers, printed emails ... engagement rings.
     All things that mean more than their material value, yet worth their weight in gold - I hold tight.
     In my jewelry box, a keepsake gift from a lost love (Japanese inscription and custom music of Beethoven's Fur Elise), I have two letters my mother wrote to her grandmother. One is from when she was a child, the other is from when she first met my father. Aside from Nino's baby hair and wrist band from the hospital, they are the most precious items I own. I think it's what started the hoarder in me ... in fact I am sure of it.
     After she died, I felt I had a small piece of her, her very own words ... a window for me to peer through. They were so important to me, that I began hoarding my own words, memories, items of great import. I began to think "If I leave this world, I want my son to have this to remember."
     I have no doubt there will be things Nino will look at with a question mark in his heart ... but I think this is the magic of keep sakes ... the wondering. The opportunity to imagine something about the person that kept it, why was it important to them, what does it say about that person?
     A mother's heart is a deep ocean of secrets.
     No one person can ever truly acquaint themselves with every depth. The water of her emotion fill cracks that are not visible to the eye... only to the heart. There are parts of her so silent ... that they are but a whisper in the center of her iris. Her eye lids - are a mussel that muffles the tsunami of her em-ocean.

    I'm hopin' ... one day my mementos will tell my son the story that never had words ... and finally the keep sakes will be heard.

One Soul Performance In Soldotna THIS SATURDAY @ 7:30pm

2011-06-23T09:40:00.000-08:00

Remembering Japan

2011-03-15T14:41:00.001-08:00

I was five years old.

Innocence was far off even at that age, though I didn't understand violation ... only the shame
worn like a girl scout badge
accompanied by the patch / of "witness but not understand" / sewed to my sash
bubble baths were wide eyed sessions
of floating and finding shapes in the ceiling
while contemplating the feeling of flying
and falling
and drowning
heart pounding as I held my breath / and let the last bubble of air escape my tiny chest ... and yet
somehow I would still float back to the surface.

My grandmother took me to Japan that year.
Despite my despair my imagination still painted in the colors of crayola
I still ran with open wings against the wind with my coat as my cape ... I still tried to escape
.. and I arrived at this place / that even my cartoon candied imagination couldn't create.
buildings looked like they were licked into shape
and the language had a taste that stayed on your tongue long after you spoke.
I learned songs to sing when i wanted to rejoice
and i did
with my shrill child voice ... in a bath tub as big as an ocean

I was an island surrounded by stained glass fish.

Obachan (grandmother ) took me the palace for the cherry tree blossom festival.
I was wearing a navy wool pea coat and matching beret.
My cheeks were marshmallows dipped in pink icing
my distended belly ... a laughable protrude... prevents me now from remembering my shoes...
but I remember the trees

Lord in heaven ... how did you make pink trees?

In this place greater than my wildest dreams ... astounded ... I wandered into the trees and let the breeze
blow around me
the cherry blossoms found me,
and welcomed me to their forest of forgiveness
I closed my eyes ... started to make wishes / and opened them to brilliant pink petals blowing about my face
until Japan ... my mind couldn't create the thought of pink rain.

even in my greatest imagination...

. . .

I was awoke by devastation
like much of my life / the island of my youth was ravaged by a tide / born by the shaking of the earth
I watched horrified at first ... then I swallowed a deep sorrow that sank into my belly like a prescription of reality with a chaser of tragedy
tragically, the zion of my dreams / made of pink rain and buildings like ice cream
was being devoured by the raging sea ...
there was no singing...
only screams.

. . .

Obachan and I sat beside one another with bated breath
I shuddered at her helplessness ...
even as a grown woman, somehow - my grandmother seems invincible
she over comes her frailty with a surly gumption
that would require a recipe of somethin' / like
one part impossible, two parts dignity
a pinch of never surrender, season with "no quit in me" ... often served with a side of careless ignorance...
but helplessness
is not Ii flavor I favor for my grandmother, no ...

yet we swallowed it whole
and waited for the phone to ring
knowing it could bring / good or bad tidings
just like the tide brings
unto the island an' / we hold out breath and wait ...
come what may.

. . .

the phone rings sunday night
and my grandmothers voice sounds giddy ... childlike
and she delivers good news that our family is safe.
We rejoice and congratulate and exhale.
. . .

Right now... the shore line is non-existent
but like a child chasing butterflies ... I will gather all my wishes
and cast them from the net with furious insistence
that God allows Japan to emerge amongst the stain glass fishes
singing in the pink rain

_______________________

if you can find in your heart to give to Japan, please do so
salvation army link

ghost whisper

2011-01-27T13:55:00.000-09:00

a cold fog of breath hangs still in a january morn...
an exhaled whisper looks like a ghost being born
from my dry and cracked lips...
i lick / death
and breath
into billowy shapes ... and wait
until the bitter cold aches against my face
it's quiet when no one's awake
...
and ghosts are here.

Day 1 @ Folsom Prison ...

2011-01-14T16:41:00.000-09:00

I’m familiar with the razor wire.

A low fog hangs beneath the trees, and a dear peers with curiosity at the joyful sounds at the foot of the hill, where joyful sound doesn’t exist… until.

We are laughing in a place that doesn’t always welcome laughter. I smile at my peers and reel into myself, like a line cast out unto treacherous waters … trepidation for my catch … fisher’s of men
I do not laugh.
long since
have I been a fish.

We do our dance with security, I know the waltz well. I wait patiently gazing at the windows of cells and recollect a time I gazed out narrow windows that forbade grass or sky and I
wait.
We passed the gates and made our way to the arts room, we are greeted by kinsmen of a different brood, yet kin still the same. And in sharing our art, our love, and pain – we witness weapons melt away and armor falling down.
Behold the soft white under belly.
A piece of me feels defensive for them, as they bathe in the love and light that has been brought to the alter. I falter and fathom my conflict. Nature versus nurture … thought versus reflex and I have to make meditated effort to not try to protect them from what we all came to do.
Heal the wound.

They smiled. They sang. They laughed as we laughed … and when we cried … they adjust their eyes … and I … held my own tears on their behalf.

I began to swell with the pregnant sorrow in the room, and like a woman who gives birth too soon – I prematurely labor in my own sadness. Melissa sang a song with Ken
” I hope to get over you again”

and as I mourned for my own memories of love and love lost, I am reminded of a common train of thought – regardless of the path we walk -
we love
and we grieve at it’s loss

today we love again.

Folsom Bound: Mission Work

2011-01-04T20:10:00.000-09:00

Tomorrow I leave to head back to the west coast for a trip back into Folsom Prison.

Just a few short years ago, fate delivered me on the door step of the prison where the inmate greeted me with reverence and respect; an honored guest to perform poetry.

I return again this year with the a band of kindred spirits. Collectively - One Soul - we will go back in to Folsom to spread a little love, light, and hope.

This coming Sunday I will conduct my Writing As Therapy workshop.

If you would like to support our mission, feel free to click the pay pal button!
I will be blogging about the trip ...
Thank you friends!

The Ink Seed: Writing As Therapy

2010-12-31T11:52:00.000-09:00

Please check out my second book - The Ink Seed: Writing As Therapy
This work book is a creative writing approach to cognitive behavioral therapy ...

static

2010-12-07T16:25:00.000-09:00

I laid beside my father's withering frame ... in twenty minute inervals the horrors came... he would awaken in fits of agony ... i would lull interval tragedy / with the christmas carols that haunted through radio static from the hall way...

"im dreaming of a white christmas... just like the ones we used to know... where tree tops glisten ... and children listen to hear sleigh bells in the snow"
i would sing off key until the pain would go...
and place his body in a comfortable postion only his daughter could know... familiar with his peaceful sleep
one hand curled beneath his head ... one between his knees - a small token no nurse could possibly appease...
these small things rush to me in photographic memories...
and time slows to a crawl @ the recollection of it all...
...
alone - i play bing crosby and nat king cole ... i let what was once music to my ears ... now pierce my soul
in a masochistic ritual ... habitual grieving ... i let the music note salt the wounds that are seething...
believing in the pain
something tangible that remains... and while friends explain that happiness is equally real
reliving this moment feels ... closer than the dream ...
see
the problem with the traumatic ... is that nothing is left but static
no scars except the ones on your heart
no evidence of the awful ... no proof left in part ... only pain left in whole...

and a father shaped hole.

i know ... in all his days ... he wished happiness for me ...
and when i play music of his memory ....

my heart is screaming through the beating...
and fills my ears with
static ...

King David's Motto

2010-09-30T08:27:00.001-08:00

a poets life is not measured in applause
rather
how close each stanza brings him to God
Divinity
Deities
by whatever the name
each super natural loves sonnets all the same
loves the song of the siren
the bow of the dancers back
loves the fingers of the pianist
loves the drummers high hat
the brush stroke of the painter
and the kiss of the mother
the hammer strike of the carpenter
the stroke of the lover...
every motion
and act of devotion
demonstrations of edification
not for the applause or standing ovation
but for the love

and if ever once
you thought you weren't enough
imagine what it is you do best
and don't do it for the applause...
do it as a gift.

Featured Art Work ...

2010-09-29T11:11:00.001-08:00

I have set forth on a new goal to be more dilligent about my painting.
Please peruse the online art community & check out some of my work

click here for deviant art

Mind Over Matter or What Matters Most?

2010-09-16T10:05:00.002-08:00

It has been proven that the mind can over power the body.
"Mind over matter" is not just a cliche. It rings true in life. When the body tires, heart and soul can motivate the mind to push the body forward.

It's quite amazing actually.
In my life I believe my mind has allowed my body to accomplish some amazing feats. But at what point does the body say "No. that's enough." ?

I'd often challenged my work ethic by holding it up against great people. High standards of what is humanly possible. Pyramids have been built, railroads, coliseums, even this very nation. My mistake; I held up dedication without emancipation to a standard of greatness beheld only by slaves.

Am I?
The answer was yes.
The mind acquiesced, and the body began to quit.

Yet with failing health, and dwindling wealth I forged forward with an ultimate goal in mind.
But Sometimes -
the light at the end of the tunnel is a fucking train.

I think I need to derail. Reevaluate. Where am I going? Where have I been?
I feel I am a feather carried by the wind of my own ambition -
I've floated the distance / in the same direction / without query or question / except that
acceptance that FORWARD was progress.

I stopped an / saw that -
it's not...
if you're longer content.

I accomplished so much more than I ever set out to. I just couldn't understand why it didn't make me happy.
Those who know me well might say - insatiable; content is not an option.
To that, I would reluctantly agree.
Sadly, I started to think - if not for satisfaction, then is it all for not? Success for the sake of succeeding is self defeating when only accomplished to be applauded.

I've wanted / for so long, that I forgot what I was asking for.

. . .
In the midst of this - I managed to raise an amazingly focused and talented young man.
He amazes me.
I look at him daily and where I once asked "What have I done?" I now ask "What did I do to deserve something so wonderful? "

He is bright, and beautiful, and funny, and confident, and against ALL ODDS inexplicably well adjusted.
It must've / been an angel.
More likely two. Thank you mom & dad.

. . .

What's important?
In the end ... what REALLY matters?
What good is all the hard work for a goal if in the end - you missed it all because your face was against the grind stone?

Birthdays and milestones, weddings and graduations, even my own relationships / are passing me by.
I
don't want look at myself or my son and say: "I missed it"
.
.
.
This isn't the last you'll hear of me.
I'm simply stepping out on faith and off the tracks to see what it is I really need. Where is it I want to be - and am I receiving all I deserve.

If you are living your life off course of your moral compass, find your true north.
If you are accepting less than you know you are worth, you are in agreement with it.
Find the courage to disagree.

And when the world creates a locomotive in a tunnel to envoke fear at your integrity ...
rebuke the world
and step off the tracks.

Book Review: By The Way - by Jaime Kay Chase

2010-08-12T10:50:00.001-08:00

'By The Way' is an exercise in humility through the practice of confession. Extremely carthartic in composition; this biographical tale is a rollercoaster of ‘rise & fall’ from start to finish.

Chase is fearless in her approach, as she - almost wrecklessly - opens the cap of her memories and spills the contents on the table. It’s a lot like passing a car accident – you can’t help but rubberneck at her story.

What I enjoy most, is Jaime’s ability to be beautifully human. The addmision of her own vulnerability, mistakes, and falible fraility is a breath of fresh air, and easily relatable as you embark upon her journey of absolution toward personal redemption. p.s. I read it in under 3 days! A must read!

Bringing Home The Belt: Alaskan Boxers Place at Ringside World Championships

2010-08-10T10:41:00.000-08:00

Coveted as the largest boxing tournament, second only to the Olympics, The 2010 Ringside World Championship Tournament took place August 3rd – August 7th in Kansas City Missouri. Fighters from across the globe came to compete, including Switzerland and Canada.

Lead by 2008 Olympic Alternate David Carey of Anchorage Alaska, and Asian Pacific Champion (once ranked #2 in the world) Daniel Choi of Daniel Boxing, 2 young fighters arrived wearing “Alaska Grown” sweatshirts and left wearing a Prize belt, and second place metal.

Nino Delgado swept the entire tournament in his weight class and won the title of Ringside Jr. Fly Weight World Champion. Delgado has previous placed as the Jr. Golden Gloves Regional Bantom Weight Champion, as well. He arrived in Kansas City, MO with only 4 fights under his belt.

Kerns, on the other hand, hadn’t seen a single tournament. With only his training from Carey & Choi, and the heart to win, he took home the 2nd place metal for Bantom Weight Class.

Kerns & Delgado are cousins, and train twice daily at Daniel Boxing. For details on the Annual Ringside World Championships log on at http://www.ringside.com/

2010-07-20T13:29:00.001-08:00

I made it to the Top 100 Women in Radio on Regis & Kelly!
Keep voting & post your comments on their facebook!

click here to comment on Regis & Kelly Facebook!

Help me get on Regis & Kelly!

2010-07-14T11:07:00.003-08:00

click here to vote now

The Foot of the Mountain

2010-06-11T15:40:00.001-08:00

even at my peak, i stumble over my feet -
and fall to defeat, spinning on my axis -
at times i feel like atlas -
i want to put the world down.

i smile instead of frown,
and the fallacy of this fiction feels like the friction of indian burns

and the heels of brand new shoes...
i loose
focus from the soles / souls

and work on creating the callus
i will learn to balance - so at the next peak
I will have feet fit for standing

elegy for an iris - i.e. pretty is as pretty does

2010-06-09T13:50:00.002-08:00

beauty is in the eye
of the beholder
her holds her
in still frame photographs
and epitath
on a life looking back -
cocoons to metamorphesis
seeds to photosynthesis
hypothesis
to revelation
she's creatin'
waves -
in the pools of his iris

32 & Counting

2010-06-06T10:07:00.000-08:00

My intention was to take the morning to be alone with myself, and contimplate all that the year has been - and all that I hope the next year will be.

Instead I ended up on facebook.

So easily distracted
we fill our days with things that don't matter
in order to prevent our own greatness
belated
and procrastinated - I've waited on myself for a very long time.

Dreams on pause... let me press rewind
so that I might remember who I wanted to be
before I became so damn busy.

So here I am blogging - because I know that writing is the only thing that keeps me linear.
Really, this is a letter to myself - as a proclaimation, because I know if I say it in a public forum I will hold myself accountable.
And isn't THAT something all it's own?
We always have so many goals, so many ideas, but only feel driven to accomplish that which we are held accountable to.

Well, at least I do.
I admit to myself that the truth of it is - if it's FOR ME... it'll get pushed to the side.
A back burner bride, I've
put myself last so many times.

Why are we built to believe that it is more nobel to fullfill everyone's need, and not your own?
Why do we bare the cross alone, and tell ourselves it's the only thing that makes us worthy? Hurting / and martyred for the cause of selfless service, purpose driven and givin' unto the status of a servant

... seeking only the thank you.
never recieving.

But God forbid we do for ourselves.
How dare you? Who said it was ok to do THAT?
What I want to know is this -
"When was it decided that when a woman cares for herself - it's called SELFISH?"

*siiigh* but I digress.
I'm getting away from myself here.

Here's what I will do this year -
start by USING all the salon / day spa / shopping gift certificates I've recieved for MYSELF instead of storing them away to give to others as gifts.
I will spend mornings with myself.
I will write again.
I will go to the gym because I want to be healthy and fit, not because society & pressures of the media ( which i work for ) has me convinced that the body god gave me isn't good enough, not because I am punishing myself for indulgence, but because I deserve it.
I will NOT let ANYONE make me feel guilty for taking the time to do this.

I will take the time to be healthy.
I'll go to the doctor/ dentist... and not feel guilty about the bill.
I will help my son understand that women are more than servants.
I will do this by saying no.
I will spend less time WORKING and more time with the people I love.
.
.
.
.

I will tell myself everyday that I am enough,

until I begin to believe it.

. . .
I guess I just needed to say it out loud.
thanks for listening, and thank you for all the birthday wishes.
I plan to make 32 a really great year.

Love,
Corinna

honey child

2010-05-13T11:01:00.000-08:00

i feel the need to force myself to be still / will silence & let the quiet fill

even stationary - i feel
i am a bee hive.
though perched i am swarming,
buzzing at an alarming / speed - i need

a little peace today.
i need the busy bees to cease today.
the incesant hummmmmmmm could bring me to me knees today ...

i pray
for still... the honey can wait.

window

2010-04-26T13:37:00.000-08:00

There comes a day - at least once a month I want to open my wrists like windows painted shut

ventilate my veins & stain the window pane
the anguish will like red rain...
and I will write my name on the window ... like when I was a child
and gaze outside of myself for a while
pondering at the misconception of cliche's told

... is obvious
not eyes,
rather open veins
are the windows to the soul

DELICIOUS RADIO - EPISODE 2 LOG ON!!

2010-04-17T09:30:00.001-08:00

Delicious Radio on Blog Talk Radio

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/corinnadelgado

Today at 10am - JOSH BOOTS & SOILED SEED

music to move you

2010-04-11T13:58:00.001-08:00

Say Anything

2010-04-06T11:25:00.000-08:00

"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice EVERYWHERE." Martin Luther King Jr.

She is one of the kindest women I've ever met, and infact I once had the hope of calling her sister. Sometimes, I do anyways.
She is the sister of my ex-boyfriend.
She is my friend.
She is half Tongan.
Not that the latter matters... but somehow it did last Friday night.

Her voice is like an angel, but you'd never know it because she is just that humble. It was her 30th birthday and we wanted to sing.
The plan was to gather at Asia Gardens, a medium sized group with a mix of family and friends.

When I arrived, admittedly just a bit late, I found my friends in a huddle under the awning in front of Asia Gardens. My face must have formed a question mark because its inquisition was met with one of the most absurd answers I've ever heard in my life:

"They won't let us in because we're Polynesian."

You have GOT to be kidding.
She wasn't.

There was a bustle of confusion, comments mixed with anger, frustration, and humor. Sometimes it takes a little humor to get through something so reprehensible.

I approached the manager, who was standing outside with his arms folded across his chest. He was a caucasion man, a bit doughy, wearing a white shirt and his fitted baseball cap backwards.
Diplomatic in my approach, I showed no sign of anger. Rather I simply tried to appeal to his business sense, assuming he actually had some.

"Hey," I touched his right arm, "look, we're just trying to celebrate a friends birthday. We're patrons trying to spend money in your establishment. That's all."
I was cut short by an abrupt retort of
"Why the fuck are you touching me?"
"Whoa. Wow... Ok, sorry I was just trying to reason with you."
"Well don't. Just leave."

At this point my dear friend puts her hand on my shoulder and says
"Corinna, don't bother."
To which he replies
"Yeah, listen to your lesbian girlfriend."
"What? Wow. What the hell guy?"

I shake my head and walk back to where the crowd is gathered.
The man calls into the crowd saying that we're "evil bitches", and goes inside with who I assume is the owner.

Moments later a man literally stumbles out. He is intoxicated beyond belief. The crowd makes comments lilke: "Oh but THIS guy is welcome" and "It's obviously safer to have DRUNKS in the club."
But a greater concern emerges when he pulls his keys out and approaches his truck.

"Someone stop that guy." a voice calls from the group
Two females approach him, and lead him away from his vehicle. Another one of us call the police.
The manager returns, and we (of course) bring to his attention that it's illegal and unethical to serve someone to this point of intoxication and release them to their vehicle.

He replies with belying concern, yet blatant rudeness. "Oh shut the fuck up, he was getting in a cab. Get out of here already!"
The police arrive. I follow a female officer inside. She excuses me and tells me to wait outside. I inform her that WE were the reason they were even called, this gentleman was going to DRIVE in this condition, and that we were witness to it as we were gathered outside because we were denied entry based on racial discrimination.
To which she replies "Businesses have the right to refuse service to whomever they choose. Wait outside."

Now, I'm not one to hide my emotions. In fact, I probably couldn't even if I tried (and I don't... try that is ) but if I did - my face is an open book. I gave this police officer such a look of disgust seasoned with confusion, that she took a step toward me.
I shook my head and walked out the front doors of Asia Gardens.

*** sigh***

We left in defeat that night and headed to a friendlier place; Bernie's.
DJ Ariel was spinning, the music was awesome, the atmosphere was great, and we proceeded to have a great night.
BUT
this pang burrowed itself in me; a splinter in my heart. A feeling not unfamiliar to me. A feeling of overwhelming injustice.

Let this be known, I am not polynesian.
With that - some have suggested that I shouldn't take personal offense to this occurence.
But I do.
The fact of the matter is - it's wrong.
It's unjust.
It's Racist.
It's hateful.
And it shouldn't exist.
But it does... and leaves you begging the question "What do I do now? How do I change this?"

... and I don't know the answer to that anymore.

Just a few short years ago Carolyn Mitchell suffered racial discrimination in our city and decided to oppose it in court.
She won her case and was awarded $1.
And if that wasn't insult enough, the judge then demanded she PAY the municipality $48,000.00 for the cost of processing her trial.

In a community that sends such a CLEAR message that says "Even if you WIN; you lose" ... what do you do?
and frankly, I don't know anymore.

. . .

I don't blame the police officers on site that evening. They were called there for the purpose of protecting the citizens on the road from a potential drunk driver, not for the injustice we were suffering.

I don't blame the manager for his ignorance.
He's an asshole. That's what assholes do - shit all over people.

But in the first decade of a new millenium, with a president who is of MIXED race - a living reflection of what will soon be, I blame hatred and those who spread it. Those who teach it . Those who enforce it ...
it's evil and I call it out by it's name.

To the ignorant, I say be enlightened
To those who hate, I say be loved
To those spread malice, why not spread joy?
... and to the assholes at Asia Gardens

Every asshole can be wiped clean.
Recognize what you're doing is wrong - and fix it.

. . .
For the rest of us - this is what we have.
Our voice.
Our Vote.
Whether you make your message heard with a letter of complaint, or whether you are heard through NOT spending your money, or casting your ballot today at the polls
SAY something...

SAY ANYTHING.

Thank you for reading

ATLiens

2010-03-19T12:14:00.000-08:00

ATL is beautiful.

Last night we went to Morehouse Campus to an Open Mic,
There was more AMAZING talent in one room than I have probably seen in my life. And there is something yo be said for that considering I've been to nationals twice.

Musicians. Vocalist. Poets.
It was inspiring.

I will say this...
I felt old.

They say you're only as old as you feel...
well I felt about 50 with these college kids.
And even though I am in The A... I got to do something that never happens in my life, and no one probably finds glamorous

I got to sleep.

Tonight we perform at Tiempo Privado.
Pix to come manana :)

Georgia Bound!

2010-03-09T10:24:00.001-09:00

Oh When The Saints...

2010-03-08T14:12:00.000-09:00

I simply stopped speaking about it once it ceased to sound triumphant
Trumpets don’t sound for mothers who work 12 hour days
Battle on high ways / to chauffer children born of their breast
To opportunities to be their best
Delivered upon the doorsteps
of their dreams …
Not because we believe
dreams do come true
But because children do
And we believe in our children.

Trumpets don’t sound for high heals in snow storms
Making it to the pump 5 miles after E
Or balanced check books
No horns will be heard for clean dishes or mornings without argument in a home that houses teenagers, smile from boys becoming men, or tears for the mothers who love them

Symbals don’t clash for lack of revolt,
held tongues, They don’t
assemble the drum line
for the hundred times
you regret who you open your heart to

Piano keys won’t appease at the fact you still do.

I stopped speaking about it
Because paychecks, sagging breasts, and little to no rest - couldn’t attest to my survival
The everyday trial
didn’t sound so much like a war cry
As it did a slow sigh / at the alarm clocks warning.
Mornings /
filled with finding the least dirty thing at the bottom of the laundry pile
Doesn’t quite strike me as accolade worthy of applause.
Nor does the back strong enough to hold a millions straws…

No standing ovation for infinite patience
No violin or hymns for ‘not a moment wasted’
No trumpets
No trumpets for every day heroes

Warrior of the work load
Barer of the burden, keeper of the secret – this song is for you
This is for the ugly truth
Those who are scared to tell it, but still do
This for the early bird AND the worm, this is for knowing it’s your turn
And taking it
This is for faking it UNTIL it FEELS real
This is for hating every moment
And showing up ANYWAY

This is for NOT calling your EX pathetic and just LETTIN IT
BE WHAT IT IS
This is because they gave you your kids, and THEY are the best thing you EVER did

This is for putting the bottle down -
This for barer of the bus pass,
The treader of the least taken path
and the checker of the spelling homework and the math
THIS SONG IS FOR YOU

Sister of sovereignty, Do over veteran
Champion of begin again
Soldier of the second wind

Saints…

It is triumphant - even if they say it aint
And I will blow my trumpet for your day to day

Just for being here

“Oh when the saints / go marching in / oh when the saints go marching in / oh how I want to be in the number . when the saints go marching in “

Excuse me while I kiss the sky

2010-03-02T09:01:00.000-09:00

"Excuse me while i kiss the sky"
a daughter of the earth, i grow toward the light
my ashes to ashes symbolize flight
descendants of phoenix -
there are flames in my veins
i set fire to my reflection only to see what remains
slash and burn the crops of this harvest
and let the sediment of my soil fertilize a new garden

2009-11-02T12:17:00.000-09:00

I killed my dog.

Perhaps it was justified.
Perhaps it was the reasonable thing to do.

But I am feeling, today, that reason & justification can't wash away consequence.

Here is what I know:

I am a woman who has spent her entire life trying not to be her mother.
I have overcome unthinkable obstacles.
I have endured great torment that has resulted in triumph, and I also know that these triumphs - as signs of hope - are celebrated by many.

These triumphs to me... are empty.
As I am empty.

A bottomless well, believe me when I tell you
I am a woman incapable of being satisfied, for after all ...
I am a woman not unlike my mother.

Here is what I know:
My mother could make an entire room fall in love with her in an instant,
but couldn't keep one person in love with her for very long - at a distance
people could, and did, worship her glow but those close enough to know her - were often destroyed by the fury of her flame.

My mother broke things without realizing it, drove people mad, and drove them away... it is safe to say
she was a terrible driver.
She was surrounded by people who loved her company, yet she was devastatingly lonely.
She was kind.
She was good.
She was generous without reason.
She was magical & special, and she never meant any harm.
She always eventually caused harm.
She suffered an untimely death ...

and she killed her dog.

According to my father, who was forced to love my mother from afar until the day he died, my mother killed their cocker spaniel.
He had no reason to lie, and besides - why would he? he loved her in spite of her treachery.

As the story goes, she'd grown tired of the dogs antics. She shot the dog & threw it in the dumpster... still bleeding, she left it for dead.

My dad said he received a call from the convenient store owner, as his name was on the dogs tag. Hurt beyond repair, my dad put a slug behind the dogs ear and put it out of it's misery.

. . .

A friend once told me a saying that will stick with me always.
He said "I strive to be the person my dog thinks I am".

My dog thought I was wonderful.
Both my dog & I, now, know better.

When retelling my story, and outlining my justifications, I can easily show reason for killing the only being in the world who looked to me with out judgment.

She was clever beyond control, vicious, and destructive.

Front seats of vehicles, couches, miscellaneous furniture, whole rooms, carpet, and countless shoes fell victim to her tenurein my life. Other dogs were attacked, and finally a child was bitten.

Did this make Chica a bad dog?

In retrospect, I have come to accept that I am a bad master.

I was negligent, often too busy to spend time with her, loved her when it was convenient for me, and punished her for acting out towards my abuse.

Did I love my dog?
Without question.
Did I try everything I could think of to keep her?
Undeniably.

Did I create the very problem that I, inevitably, could not fix?
Absolutely.

. . .

Today, in my solitude - I am crushed by my loneliness.

I am sitting in silence with myself holding my own feet to the fire of the mistakes that I've made. Forcing myself to feel my own flame... the way I expect others to. The way my mother expected others to.

I have reasoned many of these mistakes away with justifiable reason ...
but justified or not
righteous or condemned...
it doesn't seem to matter.

The end result is the same.

And even if I'd set out with malice in any of my actions, were she alive... my dog would still love me despite my treachery -
the way my father loved my mother
the way I am now alone
because I killed my dog.

. . .

I have wished for many things in my life. I have many regrets, too many to try and share with you here today...

but of this list of wishes, as I lay awake in my empty bed, deafened by the echo of an empty soul, drown in the silence of an empty house - no children, no laughter, no scurrying feet abound...

I wish I wasn't like my mother.

... and

I wish I didn't kill my dog.

2009-09-24T10:56:00.000-08:00

Methodman - Redman Review

Preamble:
I was 14.
Baggy jeans & a body suit that snapped at the crotch.
A Pennelton & Nike Cortez.
It was easy to see I was fresh from California. What I was doing at someone's house whom I'd never met, I'll never know. I was with my friends, that much I can say.

His name was Mikey Fernandez.
He was from New York. My girlfriend Claudia Loera had a crush, personally I hadn't really found much interest in boys yet. I was acne ridden, 5 foot nothing, and all of 92 pounds. In truth, boys hadn't found much interest in me, though I've had people say later in life they had their crushes - I balk at such admissions, mostly because I have pictures that make me cringe as proof.

He was staying with his Aunt Salty. New Yorkican and known for kicking people's ass, she reminded me of Rosie Perez. I'd heard war stories about her jumping on people's necks & hittin' them over the head with beer bottles, so I just kinda slunk into the couch and didn't say much.

Mikey had mix tapes.
This was the only thing I found interesting about him.
I didn't understand his size 42 jeans with the legs resting on the tongue of his Timberlands.
What I did understand was that this music

was dope.
A cassette single : METHOD MAN

The Review:

I was juiced!
"You want tickets to see Red & Meth?"
"You bet your sweet ass I do!" - My new boss chuckled at my excitment, and hooked me up.

I'd had the sheer delight of seeing Wu-Tang at The Seattle Center during BumberShoot.
A
MAZ
ING
!
In truth, Ghostface Killah has always been my favorite WuTang member, but that night I found out that Method Man was a fucking ROCK STAR. A stage diving, crowd surfing, microphone throwing, dancing ROCK STAR.
I couldn't wait.

As so many of you know, The Mayweather Fight was that night.
My man & I had been invited to a BBQ before the concert. They had ordered the fight, had beer, brisket, and ceviche. Perfect.
The concert was to start at 7pm. Our group left at 20 minutes after, missing the fight. The logic behind this was that there was sure to be little to no parking.
The Lion King was going on just a block away, which meant Denaina Center and Performing Arts Center were going to have to fight for parking spaces.

We still had to park six blocks away.
When we got into the Denaina Center we headed straight for the bar. The opening acts were still doing there thing, so we perched at a table and proceeded with favorite a passtime: people watching.
A parade of peacocks passed from the restroom, to the bar, and back; a familiar dance. I found myself idly wondering which scantily clad females would be vying for the "groupie" role. I'd later see them ushered stage left in pairs, like A Noah's Ark for tramps.

To my great irritation - the show started 3 HOURS late.
We had finally wandered into the concert area to check out a local act. They were filling the void when all of a sudden they had to stop short for Red and Meth - who, apparently, just arrive whenever they feel like it.
After the group had been torn off the stage, there was a numbing silence for about 10 minutes. The group could have easily finished their set.

Then, a familiar voice.
Was it to be a phenomenal intro? Perhaps one like you'd see on TV?
No, they proceeded with their sound check.
"One two, One two - turn my mic up"
What went through my head?
"Isn't soundcheck supposed to be BEFORE the show? Assholes."

At this point my boss, Fat Guy, who was the emcee, is instructed to tell general admission to take down the stantion between them and VIP. A gate hits the back of my heel, I am bombarded by a rushing crowd, and in one fail swoop - about 125 people who paid $30 extra dollars for their VIP tickets (because they didn't want to stand shoulder to shoulder with teenagers ) lost their hard earned money to the mob... my brother included. His investment in Red and Meth? A total of $195.00

The first songs were mediocre.
I stood with my arms crossed and bitched to my boss
"This is the most unprofessional shit EVER. It's Bullshit!"

Then - A Rock Star emerges.
A familiar beat from 1993, and my inner '14' year old looks to the stage.
"Hey you get off my cloud!"
He does his moniker song justice, stands on the gate, and jumps into the crowd.
My hearts begins to soften.
Yet to my surprise, despite my love for Methodman, it's Redman that melts my icy folded arm stance, as he hops dances across the stage like a rhythmic little leprechaun. I even think I saw this fool do the fucking pony! He is bone thin with a big meatloaf head. He removes his hat to reveal a receeding hair line and an aged face. Somehow he looks like a little kid.

"wow - idot"
and just like that - the Tom-Foolery two pot heads makes me forget all the afore mentioned unprofesioanlism.
Their energy was great, and they even had some 5 Heartbeat-esque choreographed dance moves.

Close to the end of the show they mention that they were watching the fight.
WHAT? THAT'S WHY YOU WERE LATE?

You have GOT to be kidding me?
I laugh at their blatant disregard for the rules and chuckle out a 'Fuck you'... to which I'm sure it's only response would be

"I'll BE dat"

2009-08-19T11:32:00.000-08:00

Can we talk for a moment about morale?
Nothing will kill motivation quicker than being under appreciated & under paid.

My Trade is in Journalism Broadcast & Public Communication.
This [seems to be] publicly acclaim - yet is a professional pariah...
why does media pay so little?

Whether as a graphic designer, freelance writer, or public speaker -
repeatedly I see my profession low balled. On job listings, interviews, Craig's List postings that read:

"We seek an experienced Graphic Designer, proficient in CS4, Dream Weaver & HTML. Must have degree & 5 years of related experience. $10 an hr"

ten
dollars
an hour?

fuck you.

And the sad thing about it is - someone will take this job.
This inevitably sets a precedence for mediocre work & menial pay.
Companies get away with paying designers at such a nauseating rate because there is ALWAYS someone out there who is willing to accept it.

Some poor [literally poor] writer is accepting less than $25 for a 400 word cover because in a world of bloggers and rss feeds content is not at high demand, nor is it of value.
Video streams are available by feed - and why [in a world] would anyone read when they can point & click?

Sickening & Sad -
and in truth I have just as much culpability as those who have lowered the pay scale
because I too accept less than I am worth.

I search tirelessly for side jobs while some slob holds a cardboard sign that reads:
"Honestly I just want a beer"
Cheering, jeering, and amused - most will cough up a cent or two, and in less than an hour pan handlers will make more for a pathetic sign written by hand than writers will receive for an AP style 500 word essay about building clinics in Sudan.

and I am
no different than those who have lowered this pay scale by proxy, as I fall in line with my own hypothesis of "supply & demand" -

standing for less than scale at $15 an hour to manage marketing & mass produce mediocre billboards - paid 3 CENTS a word for blurbs about my musical opinion

because I have another mouth to feed
because I am trying to realize a dream
because I need to write
because I breathe life when I create something beautiful...

but beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and the beholder signs the pay checks

so until people can respect this profession of expression & creation, we are bound to this cycle

starve for art
or survival

... and I have to eat.