Archive | Categories

Dream Overkill

I know, I know. Sharing dreams is the ultimate self-indulgence, and yet I continue to do so. I download so much information while I’m sleeping, not only about my life but about my clients and friends, Congress, the cosmos, and kairos. Try keeping a notebook by your bed for writing down your dreams upon waking. You’ll be amazed by what come through, and we need all the wisdom our guides, ancestors, best selves have to offer right now. Also, when transcribed, dreams offer such shifty little prose poems. Here’s last night download–the somnambulist’s equivalent of a literal fork in a literal road.

I’m in a national park-airport rounding the corner from Upstate New York to Japan, a connection that in this dreamworld is easily fused. As I head toward the Tokyo gate, I see Mr. Everybody walking toward me–burly, big-armed, big-bearded. So many Bs. He’s as handsome as ever but something is unfamiliar, less defined about his appearance. I can’t place what. Then he sees me and even in this incredibly random run-in suppresses his surprise. I squeeze his shoulder and slip my arm through his. “Come on,” I say. “You have to admit THIS is kismet.” I actually use the word “kismet,” which I regret even within the dream. In return he uses the same jive turkey line he tossed at me last month: “I experience multiple synchronicities with people, Lisa.” He shrugs off my arm and goes on his merry way. Watching his back disappear into the crowd, I say aloud, “Let this man go.” As I wake, I realize what has changed about his physicality. He isn’t wearing glasses.

Stick a metafork in me. I’m done.

Pics: Shara Hughes (left); René Magritte (left).

Always Forward: ‘Luke Cage’

Sadly, I wake with the sun no matter how late I go to bed, and today am both PMS-ing and hungover from Mothers Day. But even if I weren’t a hot mess, the montage of black men flaunting bullet hole-riddled hoodies while cops watch and Method Man spits Bulletproof Love, his homage to Luke Cage, would make me cry and cry. How am I just now watching this Netflix series? It’s a brilliant articulation of race in America starring Alfre Woodard, Mike Colter, and everyone I loved on the The Wire save String. It upholds the tenacity of the African diaspora as our country’s true superhero saga. And in Season 1’s last sequence, the late Sharon Jones brings it all back home in a shimmery sheath and her eternal big voice. Powerful stuff, powerfully shot on every level.

Dear Delia: A Reading List of Dissent and Love

Recently, my fourteen-year-old goddaughter, Delia, asked for a reading list. I knew she was serious because she sent the request by snail mail – the millennial equivalent of engraving a message in stone. “I didn’t even vote for this president and he’s ruining my future,” she wrote. “I need books to get woke.” Obviously, an equally serious response was in order – one that acknowledged the gravity of our national turmoil without exacerbating her fears. So with the help of far smarter friends, I assembled a primer of essential “consciousness-raisers” that are neither condescending nor obtusely phrased, and I organized them into three categories I thought might appeal to her. I think this list will support resisters of all ages, for one of literature’s greatest services is to re-rear the scared, angry kids we each carry inside us. But in the spirit of James Baldwin’s epistolary essay, “Letter to My Nephew on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the Emancipation,” the “you” to whom I refer is my goddaughter in the wake of the first 100 days of the Trump presidency. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy