About medigitally

Writer

Speculating is something I know about.

From my favorite iPad magazine app, Zite, I frequently read articles from io9.com.  They are a site “that covers science, science fiction and the future” basically the types of things that interest me.  I came upon an article,

http://io9.com/5947122/the-black-fantastic-highlights-of-pre+world-war-ii-african-and-african+american-speculative-fiction

that spoke directly to the fiction writer in me.  Early in the article the author, Jess Nevins uses the word exhaustiveness. It is a word that makes me weary just reading it, but it also speaks to what I’ve known for most of my adult life.  I cannot give a full accounting of my past. There’s no documentation telling me how far back my lineage goes. I suspect there are some black women born in the U.S. that can trace things pretty far back.  I’m just not one of them.  My mother and father had no recollection (I asked.) of previous generations who were enslaved, though there surely must have been.  After all I am a black woman born in the U.S. to black parents born in the U.S.  Someone in my family was enslaved.

I can look back through that megaphone-shaped memory and check the shadows for bits and pieces of connectivity, but the far end will still be much more narrow then the edge nearest me because as I said, I am a black woman born to black parents in the U.S.
Jess Nevins writes about the Speculative Fiction genre as it existed prior to WWII. (Thanks Jess Nevins for doing this.) These works speak to the lives of those who came before. I hope one day to stumble upon some of the work.  I think I have some Frances E.W. Harper within a Norton’s collection of women’s literature.  I may have to dust off my copy and see.

For as long as I can remember the world of science and fiction has fascinated me.  So much so I began making up worlds in the bathroom of my grammar school. While other kids looked up at the sky and saw shapes in the clouds I was in the bathroom shaping stories from the paint drippings on the huge windows.

St. Cecilia’s, Greenpoint, Brooklyn, U.S.

I told stories to anyone who would listen.  So when I wonder about why I can make up a world easier than exist in the one to which I was born, I know the answer is simple. I don’t have the details.  My past is more of a mystery.

My sister works hard to pull the details together, find the connections.  Though she may never get all of the details, she is steadily scraping the walls of memory and piecing them together like the jigsaw puzzle it is.  I applaud her persistence.
While she’s doing that I’ll continue to make it up as I go.
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Not sure if I know: 9/11

Not sure I know.

Anxiety builds, I am still here 11 years since 9/11 became more than just a Tuesday.

Crystal isn’t blue, but the blue sky cracked like crystal into fragments left on air conditioners, on pavement, on rooftops, and in minds. I’m still here in the same company on the same floor doing a different job.

It was a crack that changed a planet, like a quake.  But where is the fault line now and where was it before?

I want to say the line came from a bush, but then I’d have to say which one and since both burned in a different way, I can only say I’m still here.  Glad of it these 11 years, but the anxiety feels like it’s filling up the blue balloon we live on.

It seems to be bursting from pin pricks of casings dropped from guns big and small.

What does it mean to still be here at all?

She dead

Intro:  A little girl sat on the lap of a woman who might be her aunt or her mother one evening as I rode home on the subway.  A look in her eyes, the smile on her face, the moment.

I want to speak to this from a child’s memory from a time decades before the moment.

My Aunt Annie, dead many years now, but loved in spite of time gone by.

I want to be the child on her lap bringing a smile to her face. I want to hold her hand as I walk to school safe in the knowledge I am her primary concern. I want to be the person she cares for in the world.

Will she lay down her life for me?  Take on the demons arriving embodied in officials who come to dictate the laws?

I want this like a baby wants to be suckled.  What I want matters little now, oh these many years later.

She dead.

Back then her braid hung long down her back past her shoulder blades, past the curves of a waist no longer held.  She, the woman holding me forward, holding me still in the face of pain, she strengthening me.

She dead.

Dead to the world moved on without her.

The black and white world filled with time and space.  Her arms no longer keeping me tight ‘cuz she dead like the looks in the eyes of those with unknown paths ahead.

She dead to this world and that.

Wrapping Up

There’s no real ending to the storytelling though every story has a beginning and an end. Whether we tell story through writing or anecdotes told over dinner, we stretch the end of the overall story to a place beyond time.

Storytelling as an art defined by the storyteller. Thinking about this today, I look back to share my favorites, digitally.
A recent find:
http://newdigitalstorytelling.net/tag/blog/

All of Ted (or so it feels right now), but this one in particular feeds the geeky part of me:

Connectivity

Story telling an art we do digitally.