Category Archives: Wannabe Hoochie Mama Garden of Realities

Many good reviews! of “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code”

Beginning with the video poem that is the source of the title of this, my 11th book, a video that is on youtube by the way:

 

 

 

 

Offering a peak at reviews of which  have positive  consideration of “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code

 

first of all to hear me read three of the new poems, take a look, a listent o these:

Melissa Faliveno has uploaded my readings of poems  from “Wannabe “ here:

https://www.pw.org/content/wannabe_hoochie_mama_gallery_of_realities_red_dress_code

  1. Blue Coming (in response to Bob Holman’s “What You Can’t Understand Is Poetry Is Connected to the Body Again”
  2. The Glory Prelude
  3. Me and Bubble Went to Memphis

and a simply stellar review here:

 

https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/book/wannabe-hoochie-mama-gallery-realities-red-dress-code-new-selected-poems

 

I will be reading at Literati Bookstore in Ann Arbor, on 18 November, details here:

http://www.literatibookstore.com/event/poetry-literati-thylias-moss

 

And a really big reading at Columbia University on 30 November 2016, details here:

http://arts.columbia.edu/events/fall-2016/moss

 

as it says on the Columbia website:

 

Thylias Moss
Poetry Reading: Thylias Moss
Series organized by Timothy Donnelly, Writing
Wednesday, November 30, 2016, 7 pm
Dodge Hall, Room 501
________________________________________________________________________________________________

Thylias Moss’s most recent collection, Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code: New and Selected Poems, will be published this fall by Persea. Her eight previous books of poetry include Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler, a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist, and Slave Moth, named Best Poetry Book of 2004 by Black Issues Book Review. Moss is the recipient of a MacArthur “Genius” grant and a fellowship from the Guggenheim Foundation, among other honors. She is is Professor Emerita in the departments of English and Art & Design at the University of Michigan and lives in Ypsilanti, Michigan.
_____________________

 

Coming up in 2017, details to be arranged, I will also be reading at Poet’s House in Manhattan; when I know the specifics, I will post them of course.  Looking forward to all of them

 

and let us n0t forget this marvelous review:

 

 

 

 

 

 

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TRUTH! –ABOVE ALL

SORRY, but I begin this Sunday aware of the meaning embedded in OPTION CLAUSE #20 

 

OPTION:

“20. In consideration of the covenants of this Agreement, the Proprietor agrees to give the Publisher the first opportunity to obtain book-publishing rights in his next book-length work.  The Proprietor shall submit the manuscript of such work to the Publisher before showing it to any other publisher, and the Publisher shall thereafter have thirty [30] days to notify the Proprietor if it wishes to publish such work, and if so, to propose terms and conditions (provided that the Publisher shall not be required so to notify the Proprietor until the expiration of ninety (90) days from the date of the first publication of the Work).  If within thirty (30) days after the Publisher’s having proposed such terms and conditions, the Publisher and the Proprietor fail to reach agreement with respect thereto, or if the Publisher does not wish to publish such work, then the Proprietor shall be free to arrange for publication elsewhere provided, however, that the Proprietor shall not enter into an agreement for publication of such work with any third party on terms and conditions equal to or less favorable than those terms and conditions offered by the Publisher.”

Song of the realization about the lies from my so-called”friend” wearing two hats as my publisher, and as my agent, my agent lied to me, did not mention Option #20

clearly on behalf of the publisher, not the writer, 

Mark Morrison’s “Return of the Mack” –for the line “You Lied to me”

 

In the photo, I am illuminated by honesty; see how it glows! Maybe I shouldn’t say any of this, maybe I should pretend to be ignorant a little longer, but when a dead rat is found, action is required no matter when it is found.  And I have found one. Two hats, my publisher and my agent; those hats can not be worn well simultaneously.  

I feel like a fool for beliving anything.

Then again, you know what is said about “Smiling Faces” (1971, UNDISPUTED Truth):

I know! The TRUTH!

want to drive me to litigation?

This is a way to do it! 

AND I’VE BEEN DOWN THIS ROAD BEFORE!

A suggestion: throw out the existing contract and send me a new one, without Option clause #20 and get me a bound galley immediately, “Remember, I’m your FRIEND”! –HARDLY; I DONT THINK SO.  “True friends” do not treat each other this way!

They just don’t. Too much conscience.

And a need to live with themselves.  

TRUTH will get you in the end.  

TRUTH ALWAYS PREVAILS.

I feel sorry for those who prey upon the little poet, those who have that need.

I do not, and I am glad; I can live with myself without regret.  

No bound galley?  Really? I recommend putting a bound galley in the maiil immediately; prepared for publishers and not for me?

Send me yours then.  

Send me yours.  

You must have one or can get your hands on one.  I deserve at least that.  

Write that into the NEW contract also, for YOUR book evidently, not mine.

I will not sign it until someone without  a hat reviews it!

Hat brims can cloud vision, and pull wool over eyes. The mask has come off.

You know my address.

My poetry is my truth! –I do not play with truth. 

I am exposing a “black” truth behind your white lie; I am rememering what was said about rejection of a blurb; it is the reason that disturbs me more than the actual rejection.  I have the email with that content in it, and I will never forget what was said.

Also your reasons for preferring that I not post the PDF of the Wannabe”jacket, and this is a quote, this is the truth:

“We would rather that you not post the pdf.  They are made specifically for reviewers.  We don’t want them to be pirated, sold, reproduced, poems taken, etc. etc.  All of these things affect your income (and ours), and contribute to incorrect versions floating through history….  Please don’t do it.

Truth is Sacred! 

Friend as defined in Wikipedia: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friendship&gt;

Friendship is a relationship of mutual affection between two or more people.[1] Friendship is a stronger form of interpersonal bond than an association. Friendship has been studied in academic fields such as sociology, social psychology, anthropology, and philosophy. Various academic theories of friendship have been proposed, including social exchange theory, equity theory, relational dialectics, and attachment styles. A World Happiness Database study found that people with close friendships are happier.[2]

Although there are many forms of friendship, some of which may vary from place to place, certain characteristics are present in many types of bond. Such characteristics include affection, sympathy, empathy, honesty, altruism, mutual understanding, and compassion, enjoyment of each other’s company, trust, and the ability to be oneself, express one’s feelings, and make mistakes without fear of judgment from the friend.

While there is no practical limit on what types of people can form a friendship, friends tend to share common backgrounds, occupations, or interests and have similar demographics.

–in case a refresher course is needed.  Seems to me it is. Note, please that “honesty” is part of the definition, as is “altruism“, “understanding“, “compassion“; thank goodness I know these qualities, essential qualities to life, elsewhere, a barren, empty existence without them…

 

thylias_wall-street-journal

 

thylias_wall-street-journal

Distress and Agony

Just when it seemed that everything is going as well as it can, I become aware of something that has been true for a very long time, but this time, perhaps more ruinous to my career as a writer, as a poet,  I mean…

Not my intenton to jeopardize my forthcoming book, about which I remain excited, but I do want it known that Thylias Moss is available for another publisher for my books of poetry; out of my 11 books, 9 of them are collections of poetry, counting Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code“, soon to be published in September 2016, by Persea, a publisher I’ve belonged to since winning the National Poetry Series in 1991, with “Rainbow Remnants in Rock Bottom Ghetto Sky“, a book that Persea published, and since then, all of my collections, in book form, of poetry, with the exception of “Small Congregations” published by Ecco in 1993.

 

Here are newspaper articles about this event, that came about because I dared to be honest; I told the truth! squabbling publishers-cropped copysquabbling publishersthylias_wall-street-journal

 

thylias_wall-street-journal

 

And here is the problematic bit of my current contract for my forthcoming collection:

Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” September 2016, causing concern; this contract was prepared by my publisher, and  I did sign it without anyone advising me not to (I trusted the publisher who identifued herself as “my friend” (as she did with previous litigation to make sure that I would not go to jail; I recall that phone conversation distinctly; well, I am no longer that gullible child, and for another thing, I am resentful of “advice”  I was given but do not need, about “being careful in my relationships as long as they are not hurtful to me”, well my relationship with my publisher IS  hurtful to me, as my publisher wrote the contract, and I am dead set against maintaing that contract since that very relationship is the only “hurtful to me” relationship I have, I’m going to take the publisher’s own advice

 

OPTION:

20. In consideration of the covenants of this Agreement, the Proprietor agrees to give the Publisher the first opportunity to obtain book-publishing rights in his next book-length work.  The Proprietor shall submit the manuscript of such work to the Publisher before showing it to any other publisher, and the Publisher shall thereafter have thirty [30] days to notify the Proprietor if it wishes to publish such work, and if so, to propose terms and conditions (provided that the Publisher shall not be required so to notify the Proprietor until the expiration of ninety (90) days from the date of the first publication of the Work).  If within thirty (30) days after the Publisher’s having proposed such terms and conditions, the Publisher and the Proprietor fail to reach agreement with respect thereto, or if the Publisher does not wish to publish such work, then the Proprietor shall be free to arrange for publication elsewhere provided, however, that the Proprietor shall not enter into an agreement for publication of such work with any third party on terms and conditions equal to or less favorable than those terms and conditions offered by the Publisher.”

Some of that history of litigation here again:

squabbling publishers.jpg

thylias_wall-street-journal copy

I am seeking a publisher for my volumes of poetry after “Wannabe

 

Another poet friend asked me why hadn’t Norton  (of course, Persea is an affliliate publisher of Norton, as indicated)or Knopf gobbled me up, after so many books and so many awards, and all I could think of was the contract itself, when this dreadful passage was pointed out to me…   

 

Perhaps this will be addressed when my romance novel does indeed sell.  I know it will; I admit that I am impatient, but that book means even more to me now, and I cannot talk about it… Not yet.

 

 I hope that today will be the day…

 

One never knows..

 

But today IS the day that I announce that I am available for another publisher for my poetry.  Ideally the same publisher who oversees publication of my romance novel, but no clause like the option clause prepared by the publisher acting as BOTH my publisher and my agent. If this announced availability causes more litigation, so be it.  I have been down this road before… A road covered by the New York Daily News and the Wall Street Journal in 1994… 

 

I wouldn’t mind going to jail for poetry, something so dear to me.  Poetry tells a truth! Poetry is a truth!   My poems do not tell lies!  They never will!

 

I insist on such purtiy, even though that seems to be becomng so rare and precious, doomed by the injustices in which humanity festers, injustices such as Option clause #20, a clause I did not write and one I wish I had read better but the writer, my publisher, was also claiming to be my friend: 

a familiar or helpful thing, 

a person who is not an enemy or who is on the same side

“Remember,” I was told, “I am your friend.”

 

But another publisher is essential.  I am not new to poetry at all!

I will not crumple under litigation should any happen.  I didn’t before when I was served a subpoena in my office where I was a professor until I retired, at the University of Michigan…

and I already have a couple of lawyers investigating that clause, seeking an honest and legal way to break it; my friend indeed.

but we all know this, “Smiling Faces Sometimes”

as it says on <http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=friends#favorite-4924077&gt;:

 

 

friend

A friend is someone you love and who loves you, someone you respect and who respects you, someone whom you trust and who trusts you. A friend is honest and makes you want to be honest, too. A friend is loyal.

A friend is someone who is happy to spend time with you doing absolutely nothing at all; someone who doesn’t mind driving you on stupid errands, who will get up at midnight just because you want to go on an adventure, and who doesn’t have to talk to communicate with you.

A friend is someone who not only doesn’t care if you’re ugly or boring, but doesn’t even think about it; someone who forgives you no matter what you do, and someone who tries to help you even when they don’t know how. A friend is someone who tells you if you’re being stupid, but who doesn’t make you feel stupid.

A friend is someone who would sacrifice their life and happiness for you. A friend is someone who will come with you when you have to do boring things like watch bad recitals, go to stuffy parties, or wait in boring lobbies. You don’t even think about who’s talking or who’s listening in a conversation with a friend.

A friend is someone for whom you’re willing to change your opinions. A friend is someone you look forward to seeing and who looks forward to seeing you: someone you like so much, it doesn’t matter if you share interests or traits. A friend is someone you like so much, you start to like the things they like.

A friend is a partner, not a leader or a follower.

The word “friend” comes from Old English “frēond”, which is actually the present participle of “frēogan”, which means “to love” and “to honor”.

I quite agree!  This post is for all of my true friends, and you definitely know who you are, and so do I, always.  There is nothing more sacred than a friend who can be trusted; a freind who will not cheat you, a friend who will not deceive you, and as far as I am concerned, there is no clause #20 in my contract.  

Still Waiting for word about my romance novel & Believing in LOVE!

On this summer afternoon, I still wait to hear about the status of my romance novel.  Yes I guess I am impatient, still working on selling my house, and having the terrific life that a very good friend of mine, a Mystery Man  (with whom I am in love –ouch) told me I am going to have.

Whatever this post is, it is also a post to a Mystery Man

It is also  a post to you, whoever you are; I will never tell.

I have no idea where I am going to live.  Just that I will be moving –and I am looking forward to beginning this new life, with or without you, but preferably with you. Definitely my preference,  but I can’t say that it will ever  be yours. Wish I could say that.  Because I love you.

Because I want you to love me too.  I even told you that I know I am your “Side Chick” (at best –and I’m okay with that?  What is wrong with me? –willing to be the side chick just so I can have you?  Why don’t I want more for myself? –yeah; I already know you are the best possible lover, and I probably should not have told you that, but I did because it’s true, and I realize that I am too public for you, Mystery Man, but I don’t want the light of what I feel hidden under a bushel.  I light it just for you, light of my world.  Do not let the fire that warms you go out, already dimmed a bit by time itself, but I am making up for that. I am blowing on the flame; my hot breath is working that fire, fanning those embers, restoring the hot potential, living up to my blazing name… 

 

I also said some other things that the pressure of all this forced me into saying, trying to get my house prepared for sale, worrying about my sick mother…and taking it out on you.. I’ve been accusatory, saying things I know simply aren’t true… about when I was in the perfect world of your arms… I wish I didn’t have to apologize but I do.  Mystery Man, I didn’t mean it, what  I said about boats, especially.  I was, am under the duress of all of this; and I’m too afraid to tell you. I am not sure you would even listen to me, and this is my unadorned apology. I am sorry Mystery Man –I just ask you to please understand. My mind is going in circles, round and round your sweet clockwork face –you know I look at your face and love it, can trace every crease in both my mind and heart…

 

and this version:

 

 

but mostly it’s “If You Stay in my Corner” (The Dells):

 

 

I know I have a volume of poetry coming out every soon now, I can wait to see the galleys, my 11th book! “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Relities’ Red Dress Code” –and I am so excited about that! –words cannot begin to describe the joy I feel just thinking about that book, cracking the spine, smelling it, even licking some of my favorite pages, photographing myself holding it, traveling and reading from the book! –I cannot wait for such moments;

Here is the cover, and it is available for pre-order right now on Amazon dot com :

 

 

wannabe_front copy

and the author photo (taken by graphic artist Ansted Moss):

 

Red Dress Code-02

Now of course, I’m looking forward to Wannabe, but I do admit to being even more excited about just the possibilty of this romance novel, because I get to partcipate in such ideal love and passion through my characters, eveything I may want, the characters experience; how could I write it and deny the protagonist the experience I would want for myself?—if I could have it– maybe someday, because this writer believes in love..

 

I will always believe in what love can accomplish with that Mystery Man (you), or with any man; I am not the kind of woman who will be happy without a flesh and blood man –who  knows who  I am, a woman who wants a man who will be hers, and I will be his.

 

I sure hope it’s you. I know I don’t have to tell you again, but  I sure like saying it, get caught up in the refrain of it.

But even more disturbing right now, is the increasingly deteriorating condition  of my mother. She is losing her grasp of reality… Her diabetes is out of control; she’s been falling and not telling her doctor.  She’s not taking her medicine and using profanity the likes of which I’ve never heard her use.  Glaucoma, Thyroid trouble, Heart disease, Out-of-Control Hypertension 

Her situation is so exasperating, she is not taking her medicine, and this sick diabetic woman is now about the same weight I am, this has never been the case! –always since I can remember, 40 pounds heavier than me.  I understand that her backyard lawn has not been cut in a couple of months; my father died on 13 July 1980, and when I called to remind her that it was the 36th anniversary of my father’s death, she didn’t know what the day meant, nor did she know me –I had to explain who I was… 

 

(She is 86 years old, and I am 62 years old)

Thylias Rebecca Brasier Moss and Florida

 

A little later,  some pictures of my mother and my mixed race father, and my non-black paternal grandfather, with Caucasian, and Native American Heritage and Ancestry from India

(includes some artwork by my mother; she was born in Alabama, a tiny town not on most maps, and was very senstitive about her color; when she was more lucid she told me that she was always called the “Little Black One” –this casued her to use “Nadinola” all over her face, arms, legs, neck, to lighten her skin –this was very important to her! She hated being dark skinned, had high yellow dreams, I was not high yellow at all, but  did have the prize hair,  all my life, but even more so now –she encouraged me never to go into the sun; she is so embarrassed by her hair that she always wears a wig, and even did so for my wedding (you can  see that Nadinola glow [somewhat radioactive, it seems to me] in her face. My father was already sick; what was he really thinking?):

 

My parents at my wedding.jpg

Bride Thylias, with my father and just with the bouquet, 25 August 1973:

I had a tremendous amount of hair then, the teenager that I was.  

 

I made all the dresses for the bridesmaids and flower girl  in my wedding (sewing based on what I learned in a single semester of home economics in seventh grade):Wedding Party, women i the dresses I made.jpg

and if my mother  could understand it, she would be shocked that I walk in the sun, anyway, and yes, even flaunt my “good hair” –I’m glad I have it; I will not lie, and this 62-year-old woman with multiple sclerosis, who almost died on 29 July 2011 when a cranial aneurysm ruptured, and my head was partially shaved, but the hair has grown back profusely! –in a straighter and natural texture; I’ve even gone walking in the rain! (trusting that my hair would retain its length, and not revert (to what it never was):

–I have quite a thing for my hair, I admit that, and I also admit, in my mind, at least, that I walked to that elusive Mytery Man –but I fool no one, and certainly not you; I fear I will always love you, and you are certainly most deserving of love (there is no better lover; nothing compares with being in your arms –I admit that I just want you to love me back; that is all I want… I can’t even sustain any anger toward you… I’ve tried and it doesn’t last.  What is it about you? –I fear I’ll never be able to let you go! 

Mystery  Man, just love me back; that’s all; just love me back! –now I’m begging you… I liked much better when you were chasing me; you know how to persue better than most men..  What more do you want from me? –please don’t say nothing unless that is the truth

 

–I learned this from this Mystery Man, from you, that I am in fact beautiful, you always told me that, and no one else ever did, not even my ex-spouse, I was so lonely and hungry for compliments, just wanted to know that the man I was with liked how I looked, a shapely and sexy little package, and was happy to be seen with me; my ex-spouse said he didn’t tell me because “my head would swell”; Mystery Man , you didn’t care how big my head was; when I told you, Mystery Man, that you were the only man who called me beautiful,  you could not believe it, so I told you, which was true, that outside of catcalls, whistles and other unsolicited reactions,  it was only your opinions that matter to me, and this is more true now than ever (with what I’m experiencing with my mother and those well-meaning souls around her, I need “The Comfort of a Man,” the Comfort of you, Mystery Man. 

and I learned to believe you.  My ex never told me that I was beautiful, but now, I KNOW I AM –so even if nothing else happens between us, I learned valuable things from you, endless pasion; I was loved by you as every  woman, as every prerson should be loved, the heights of pleasure, heights of desire, there is no denying this, and if nothing else, I learned how to express this love to you… You were patient with me, realizing what I didn’t know and realizing what I was able to feel with you… and I have nothing but thanks for you for that, sort of similar to

this thank you  to my ex 

But I was older than the writer of that thank you to my ex ; I experienced my first real adult love afffair with you.   In most ways, I have to admit that you Mystery Man are my first love as the adult woman I am now, and there is no wonder that I want physical love, all forms of love with you again… Should come as no surprise at all. You are the Right Kind of Lover!  as in:

 

It is that good being with you whoever you are, a man of my dreams fully fulfilled   A man I will never forget and, truth be told, do not want to forget.  Ever. I just want you to want me so much that you won’t mind admitting it, that I won’t have to be a side chick or a friend with benefits.  I want the comfort of a man, the comfort of you Mystery Man  –there is nothing else like it, no one else like you….

 

Side chick 

 

 

and ideally not just secret lovers, though I cannot lie to myself I would take that; you are such an exquisite lover, well, Atantic Starr can say it better:

 

No secret to that wonderful, dammit! Mystery Man that as Luther says, I came here for you to love –for you Mystery Man, all for you! 

 

Luther Vandross, “For You to Love”:

 

 

 

So “My First Love“, and “Comfort of  a Man” for you, everything for you… –“I Will Always Love You

 

and I will Always Love you

 

Mystery Man, I just pray that you will Love Me back; that’s all, Mystery Man –and I am not as high maintenance as I must seem to you.  

 

 

Lord help me, I so love you, Mystery Man,  and Lord help me, sometimes I wish I didn’t, but I keep wishing and hoping, as in this Dionne Warwick rendition –I am yours,  but are you  mine?  –are you kidding? I know you like long hair, and I didn’t buy mine; if hair were all it takes, you would be mine… but if even the long hair fails, this 100% natural butt-kissing hair, you can play with my hair all day, all night and it will not come off, I do not have to worry about “weave sex” as discussed in the film good hair what can I do?  And if my hair won’t do it, nor any of my other natural looks that I so want you to desire… My tiny waist, my shapely hips, those peachy breasts that ripen whenever you are near, if these things don’t entice you, what will? –and why do I care so much? it isn’t as if you’re the only man in the world! –but you are the only man I want in my world.  

 

Trailer from Chris Rock’s “Good Hair“:

 

 

 

 I do want to be in your heart! (so embedded that without me, you’d have no heart)–no lie there!

 

 

So there you have it, waiting for “Wannabe“(that’s definite), hoping like crazy for my romance novel in which the female character is loved back, and then some, my dying dementia-ridden diabetic mother with hypertension that would have already killed the more ordinary; she has already given up on life, and is just waiting to go home to Jesus, while her house that my father bought in 1963, and where she still lives rapidly deteriorates… Oh I remember being in the south, and my father able to go into stores that my mother could not enter; I remember hiding in the car, being so frightened, because in that tiny Tennessee town, there were some who did not feel that the races should mix…

I cannot explain exactly how my paternal grandfather could even exist… Caucasian, Native American, and Indian (as in “India”) and my own problems with not only finding the right man –which I’ve done– but having you willing/able to love me back… Unless you have married… I do not know.  

 

If you are that deeply in love with somone other than me, I would like to know so that I can begin to adjust, but let me tell you, there is no man on this earth I would rather kiss, and there is no man on this earth I woud rather touch, and there is no man on this earth I would rather have kiss me, no other man on this earth I would rather have hold me, and no other man on this earth I would rather hold —

 

But I do need a love of my own!  as in:

 

 

If you think I’ve confessed to you Mystery Man how much I love you in this post, I assure you that I’ve confessed this to you even more in texts… I so want you just to notice me… I so want things you said in the past to still be true… This is not the first time I’ve said any of this, and I fear that sometimes I should keep my blabbermouth shut, but if you can love me for what I am, I should be able to say anything to you… I even asked you to tell me if you thought you could ever love me; I asked you to tell me that you’re sure you never want to hold me again, to never touch me again, to just tell me,  because I can’t wait for you forever, but if you know you can’t ever love me, I want to know that…

 

but if it’s possible, as much as I say I wouldn’t, I would take you back–not you you’re gone, still BFFs–, so rather elevate both of us from BFFs to lovers… –which is what I want, but if you don’t?  Too bad for you, but, for now, I love this Mystery Man! –I love you–even if I shouldn’t.

 

I have never loved a man the way that I love that Mystery Man: you:

 

Now some pics of how I look right now, and what this Mystery Man  (you) seem willing to give up.  My hair: no wig, no weaves, no hair pieces, no extensions, 100% natural hair, waist-length and rooted in my scalp; 98 pounds, no plastic surgery anywhere; I have never had to diet.  Everything about me is natural except for some hair dye from time to to my hair.  No bleaching or skin whitening creams.  My own “yellow” teeth (I will be going to the dentist). I was told that I have dense breasts in my most recent mammogram (a week ago), but no abnormalities detected dense breasts –as I’ve had since I was a teenager in triple D cups –really got me noticed, and may have helped that deacon decide to rape me, but they are natural, no implants –never,   As that you Mystery Man, know better than anyone…

 

I love you, Mystery Man.  I honestly love you. You know I do.

 

For the record, this is just too much for me, trying to prepare to sell my house, a son I love dearly who isn’t that cooperative, and then his partner who lives with him in my basement (so far, I haven’t received even a penny from my tenants [who aren’t that tidy]), the romance novel, trying to find my way on my own, without a car, too difficult for me to feel that I can drive safely with my optic neuritis, a consequence of my MS–but I can walk six miles most days, three miles to a  locaton where often I find so many geese, and amazing sunsets:

–and yet I must still shop for food, and I want to do these things for myelf, and see what might happen (don’t I hope) with that Mystery Man (you), and if not you, then someone else.  I hope it can be you   –please “I say A Little Prayer”

 

and this version of saying a little prayer:

 

First task is to sell this house and be free of a house too big for me to take care of by myself, without help from my tenants, as it currently is, one of whom is my own 25-year-old son who has psychological problems, that I don’t believe he inherited from his Bangladeshi sperm donor paternity.  Such donations and family backgrounds are screened.  Sperm donations are kept for six months before being used.  I was lucky in that one visit was all it took for me to conceive… the difference a good sample makes, I was told, by the fertility clinic’s doctor.    

 

I recall that when my ex-spouse found out about this pregancy he did not want me to have; I remember that he said, “Didn’t I consider AIDS”? -and he would probably say that my son’t psychological problems stem from the donor.  I do not know.  I want the best possible outcomes for everyone.  

And yes, you better believe that I want you, Mystery Man…   But, I want you to want me too.

Do I really ask for too much in asking for love? 

So this is my crazy life right now, but it is life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way… 

 

Thank you for reading this.  

Sorry that I rambled on and on… I have so much on my spilling plate… And that Mystery Man 

is not here.

I am never giving up on love, even if that makes me a fool for love, fool, fool , fool for that Mystery Man ; fool, fool for you.

I hope I am able to report something better about you, that one day, you are no longer a mystery man because we enter a better relationship, one that isn’t all me, for now, my impossible dream, but I really pray for more than that…

And here’s Frank Sinatra, saying it better than me, The Impossible Dream becoming possible:

 

This is more than enough for one night; I love you   Mystery Man enough for a thousand and one nights, for a million nights, for every night. –I can’t help what my heart feels, one thing that is for sure, Mystery Man, “You’ll Never Find Another Love Like Mine

 

(Lou Rawls can help me with this one, and I do need help, loving this Mystery Man [you) as I do):

 

Good Night, Mystery Man; don’t let the bedbugs bite

 

Coming up “Other” and more

Tonight, Good Times Writer’s Buffet!

 

at:

PUBLIC POOL ART SPACE

3309 CANIFF AVE, HAMTRAMCK, MI, 48212

313.587.9572

FROM PUBLIC POOL’s about us page:

About Us

Public Pool is an art cooperative formed in 2010 that was designed to create and support a wide range of contemporary art experiences. Founding members include writer Steve Hughes and his wife, artist Anne Harrington-Hughes, author and Team Detroit creative director Toby Barlow, Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit (MOCAD) board member Jessie Doan, advertising-industry creatives Mary Trybus and Jim Boyle, who is also a former Detroit Institute of Arts executive, artist/curator Tim Hailey, who’s also the former co-director of New York City non-profit gallery HEREart, writer and musician Walter Wasacz, and artist/musician Jennifer Paull.

My image reflects how I look after having my butt-kissing hair done at Penthouse Hair Design, 561 N. Hewitt Sy. in Ypsilanti, MI, and  I am wearing the hat of a friend,  at   

I m 62 years old, and unretouched in every way, okay, my stylist Pat Freeman used some hair coloring to hide the little bit of gray hair I have.  Although it is fine to adorn hair any way that you like, indeed, hair is no more than an accesssory now; but it is fine if you must  have a feast in the mirror that way, but I don’t have to do that… Not than anyone is asking, but I weight on 98 poiunds, and I’ve never had to diet.  

Also upcoming: a reading from my new book, “Wannabe Hooche Mama, Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code“, on 30 November 2016,  7:00 pm at Columbia University.  

will have more details about that later in the years, for now, just know how excited I am to read there, and hope to see all of my friends at the Columbia Reading. Huge thanks to Timothy Donnelly for inviting me… I will be reading, among other pieces for Wannabe! –my signature poem, soon to appear in “The Fiddlehead of Canada, “Higginson Matters in Magnificent Culture of Myopia

Here’s what the Persea Page says about my 11th book:

wannabe_front copy

Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code: New & Selected Poems

Thylias Moss

Thylias Moss, one of American poetry’s great innovators, is a national taxonomist and secular preacher who catalogues our culture and responds in gorgeous outrage to its injustices. This career-spanning volume conveys the hypnotic spectrum of her full poetic output, from Hosiery Seams on a Bowlegged Woman, her 1983 debut, to Slave Moth, her acclaimed 2006 novel in verse, to more than fifty pages of new poems. Whether in early or recent writing, Moss makes no promises of smooth sailing: even when her poems begin with beloved cultural icons (Robert Frost, Doctor Who, the Statue of Liberty), they insist on new perspectives, truths, and realities. She is a fearless reimaginer of poetry’s possibilities, a writer who seems made for (and by) the digital age—its blitz of interactivity and reinvention—a futuristic archivist always compelled by the current moment.  Arranged chronologically, this volume offers us Moss as she has evolved through the past three decades, recognizable yet unpredictable, ever “a poet of fierce intelligence and radiant intensity” (Martín Espada). Wannabe Hoochie Mama of Realities’ Red Dress Code is in indispensable book, a record of who this essential writer has been and where she may be heading.

Praise for Thylias Moss

“Thylias Moss is a permanent American poet, canonical in the old, authentic sense.”—Harold Bloom

“As if the muse of Wallace Steves were transplanted into the body of a black, female pop-culture maven.”—David Yaffe, Village Voice

“It’s tempting to confuse Moss with the characters she describes, so deeply does she appear to inhabit their lives. . .[with] her trademark intensity and ferocious intelligence.”—Jabari Asim, Washington Post Book World

“Reading Thylias Moss is always dangerous and exhilarating, because one never knows exactly when the poem might explode and leave its reader marked forever.”—Raphael Campo, Parnassus Poetry in Review

“Thylias Moss names the black truths behind white lies. She is a writer who speaks bitterness and makes her own music of it.”—Marilyn Hacker, Women’s Review of Books

About the Author

Thylias Moss is a multi-racial Professor Emerita in the departments of English and Art & Design at the University of Michigan. Her eight previous books of poetry include Last Chance for the Tarzan Holler, a National Book Critics Circle Award finalist, and Slave Moth, named Best Poetry Book of 2004 by Black Issues Book Review. Moss is a recipient of the fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur foundations, among other honors. She lives in Ypsilanti, Michigan.

There will be even more readings as time moves on, and I will be moving also, as soon as my house sells.  Time for a change, in every possible way.  Time to let go, as the commercial goes, and discover other possibilities, wherever that may be.  

Shout out to Thomas Higginson wherever he is, I will not pretend; I love that man, even while the world falls to pieces, as in:

“Of course, I read your Fb post about “Orlando” –and I even left a comment, but this longer message is about “otherness” itself, something I’ve been writing about practically since I started writing when I was six years old. And I even sent you a sort burst of a text message saying “The Pulse” Orlando. Not just the ‘Magic Kindom‘ anymore, or rather there is an”other” kind of magic now… 

I have two friends and former students who live in Orlando, one of whom has offered that I come live with her right after my house sells. She is lesbian, and the “other” is HIV+ and gay and one of my dearest friends, other than you, but after hearing your poem, I suspect that I am more to you than “just” (as if that is diminishing), “just a friend” –no matter what we do or do not become, with you, Mystery Man, I have the greatest friendship-love affair in my life.  Something I know you already know –an “other”-worldly romance. 

My   Mystery Man wrote a poem about me, the most beauitiful love poem, I have ever heard, and I found him reading it online, and it changed my life again; because of that poem, I know how deeply —in his own voice!— this man cares about me; I know that this man loves me, and I insert a photo right here, to show that I listened myself; “cream in my coffee“, he writes a cup of coffee (Latte I had at B-24’s in Ypsilanti) thinking of his poem:

 Cream in my coffee

he calls me, among other things the: 

Cream in my coffee” 

swirls of me right there, I appreciate the caramel coloring, the blend and lines of multiple races, because that is who and what I am; cannot separarate me into parts successfuly, without destroying me , and this world does enough of that… Hiatus on destruction, please.

(my current Facebook profuile image): 

UNITED AGAINST HATE CRIMES

I cannot say more without possibly exposing his identity, and I like being involved with a mystery man…

And if you look through most of my books, Mystery Man, you will see that the poems deal with the “other”.  I was born as “other” –official census reports refused to acknowledge “official” existence of citizens not fitting into “neat” boxes of race. But not killing us physically; only diminishing us with that “one drop” rule, and some of the things I want you to notice about me also make me “other”… When I go walking momentarily –to you Mystery Man — as I do most days, it is an “other” who will walk through this neighborhood, and I guess it is an “other” who cares about you so much after seeing you such a few times –not normal; still qualifies me as “other”. My neighbor knows an “other” when she sees one. And I know that you know that in my mind, I always walk off that bridge to you, my ass-kissing hair really kissing my ass…

Now, for intelligence, my “otherness” was recognized in first grade.  Nothing but trouble because of this, and the dreadful things that happened at Syracuse University  (I was there only from 1971-1972, world was so different then…

I was from one of those “other ” worlds,because I was “other” , because I am “other”… And who knows, Mystery Man, maybe part of what you like about me?

–Lord knows, I will never completely understand nor ask about your taste in women, and although I’ve been faithful to you, I have never assumed that you have experienced similar faithfulness to me. I also know that no human man can perform the way it seems to me that women accuse you of, making you an “other” in your reputation…. Mind you, I like that reputation about you, because I benefit from that reputation whenever I am (lucky enough to be) around you –my how that reputation glows, Mystery Man

I now refer you to my poem, “Lessons From a Mirror” published in “Pyramid of Bone” originally in “Callaloo“, a poem that ends (as you may know, within the knowledge you have of me, more than anyone else; yes, I knew I was privileging you deliberately… The things you said to me, the things this “other” will never forget because you said them, and I believe whatever you say, because I trust you Mystery Man , as no “other” woman will ever trust you…); “Lessons from a Mirror” ends:

“When you look at me,

know that more than white is missing.”

And the end of, on the facing page, “The Wreckage on the Wall of Eggs

that contains and ends with:

“The easiest thing was to keep looking east and west

and hating girls who couldn’t control ancestry.

On the wall, all we ever want is easiness.

Egg shells keep turning up on the path, the humpty-dumpties

spill from me and die like so many babies mercy-killed

out of slavery.

My life on the wall is anything but easy.

I want to but can’t hate Heidi well.

I can’t maintain tragic responses to breaking eggs.

When I look down at the wreckage on the wall of eggs that

cane out of me, I see that what’s inside is as white and

gold as Heidi.”

Same book: end of “A Reconsideration of the Blackbird“:

(Also see this YouTube video in which my first name is mispronounced [should be THIGH-lee-us or THY-lee-us]; but that is highly unimportant –he found usefulnes for the words; that is what matters, usefulness for the words, beyond the usefulness I felt in writing, arranging them –in the arrangements, even in DNA –those arranegements say everything):

“Problem: No one’s in love with the blackbirds.

Solution: Paint them white, call them visions, everyone will want one”

Oh, and my poem, same book,”There will be Animalsto teach us

What we can’t teach ourselves….

Then once and for all we will know it is no illusion:

the lion lying with the lamb, the grandmother and Little Red Riding Hood

walking out of a wolf named Dachau.”

 

Same book, Pyramid of Bone, poem “To Eliminate Vagueness” –all these examples from my second book, 1989, “instructions: substitute irreversible damage for black wherever it appears”

In the red-legged locust’s black raids upon midwest soybeans,

in their illicit transmission of tapeworms and parasites

to quail, and Guinea fowl,

in all the black calendar days that are supposed 

to indicate the ordinary.

In operating rooms body parts black with gangrene

are excused and trash can seen to fill with dead crows.

There’s a black crust two miles thick in Soweto, some on bread,

some around eyes, most on streets where blood dried

into its own monument.

Then my mother’s black face nothing can soften, the sweating, 

the forgetting to sleep, the solidarity with anytime troubling,

the compassion only I knew she felt hugging a radio, singing 

spirituals, sequestering herself in her widow’s bedroom

praying for women unable to pray.

And what of Asians and Latins who are irreversibly 

damaged, whose gangrened minds should be excised but who are

  not black?

One day I noticed my mother’s face had poured onto mine

and had given me spirituals and lullabies.

I sang them when baskets of black clouds dumped

their transparent flowers over the convent

and the nuns’ basic black didn’t get wet

and they carted the flowers home in wheelbarrows

and arranged them like lullabies

and wept silently

as we were weeping, mother and daughter together

in my father’s old rocker, the damage already done.

                             for Gary and the English 401 staff, (the University of New Hampshire)

–where I was most definitely other, told by some that I was the first black person they had ever seen.. The only brown female grad student, the only!

The Durham police officer was convinced that I had to come from Harlem, NY, though at the time, I hadn’t been there… And one student who was genuinely curious, and asked me all kinds of things, and told me of his rituals at Wendy’s every Friday night, and his adventures at the mud-pit with his truck; he lived in an isolated section of rural New Hampshire and quite possibly had never seen a brown person in real life… I told him that he was lucky he was asking such questions of me, a non-threatening multi-racial woman [more than 2 races, so not ‘bi’], and some persons of brown heritages would not be as accepting of his questions, but I was, and enjoyed talking with him, and responding to his genuine curisity as best as I could; wish I remembered his name…

And the dorm where I was asked if I were Egyptian?  Yes, I said.  Sri Lankan? Yes, I said. From Peru? “” I said.  Colombia? ” “again.

Of course, I also heard a student, I did not know,  remark that blacks were the only people to have pubic hair on their heads; only you know what I have on my head and elsewhere, Mystery Man;  only you, you Lucky Devil .  

The Durham police officer wanted me to validate for him that  the stereotyical big city police life was the way it was portrayed on “Hill Street Blues” and I assured him that show was much more a documentary than fiction.

Here’s a little clip of the TV series:

This was also the place that my biracial student J whose father was a professor of African American history at Harvard Uiversity, as I recall, but had married a white woman, learned that her father did not think her beautiful because she had none of the assumed, and stereotyical  markers of biracial heritage, not the complexion, not the nose or mouth, and most importantly, she lacked the hair, that evidently, her father preferred.  Oh the scathing essay she wrote as she became  aware of this knowledge.  

She was totally rejected.

No one would date her; most of the black males were recruited for athletics, and just like stereotypes had their pick of white women, leaving J and other black women without dates.  

I was  the only brown female graduate student , and I was married, so I was asked to lead a series of meetings between the very popular black male athletes  and the dateless black women, including J (who with her mother, M wrote a book about biraciality –it’s on Amazon).

In these meetings, I shared sections of Toni Morrison’s “Song of Solomon“where Hagar nearly dies for want of Milkman who prefers hair color of a penny, who does not like, she says, hair like mine.  In a frenzy and desperation, Hagar rushes out and buys the clothes that she feels might make Milkman notice her and possibly want her.  The black men laughed, and the females were devastated; these two groups could not communicate.  Not human rejecting human, nothing like that, with “otherness” well-established.

(what a Google search of “other” reveals):

oth·er

ˈəT͟Hər/

adjective & pronoun

adjective: other; pronoun: other; pronoun: others

    1. 1.
      used to refer to a person or thing that is different or distinct from one already mentioned or known about.
      “stick the camera on a tripod or some other means of support”
  • the alternative of two.“the other side of the page”
  • synonyms:

          • those remaining in a group; those not already mentioned.“they took the other three away in an ambulance”
        1. 2.
          further; additional.
          “one other word of advice”
  • synonyms:
          1. 3.
            PHILOSOPHYSOCIOLOGY
            that which is distinct from, different from, or opposite to something or oneself.

verb

**verb: other; 3rd person present: others; gerund or present participle: othering; past tense: othered; past participle: othered

        1. 1.
          view or treat (a person or group of people) as intrinsically different from and alien to oneself.**

As Anne Frank writes (in “The Diary of  a Young Girl“):

In spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart. I simply can’t build up my hopes on a foundation consisting of confusion, misery, and death. I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.

 Diary of a Young girl

I care about this  Mystery Man very much, but he belongs to himself,  and if there’s ever anything else, he  will have to decide.

There is no mystery there.  

All his descision.  

PDF received! –of “Wannabe”

Happy to report that there is progress toward my 11th book! — “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code”!   –to be published in September 2016… Not yet on the Persea site, but it will bewannabe_front

 

I have received a PDF of the book, my eleventh,  from Persea! and a fine photographer I know very well has taken some high resolution  photos of me, one of which will be the author photo for this new book!

 

I will attach a low-resolution photo since that is all I have at this time, but I am  of course, wearing a “Red Dress”, the same dress I wear in the high resolution versions (it’s been so warm in Michigan this winter, that it was easy to go outside for the high-res photo shoot):

 

RED DRESS CODE-04

 

Of course, I cannot share the PDF, but seeing it is so wonderful, as this means that the book is progressing –can’t wait until I can actually hold a copy in my hands, crack its spine, smell it, use all of  my senses in exploring the book –perhaps I will even lick it –can’t say for sure.  Taste it, listen as I fan the pages, capture a few selfies of my indulgence…. I will immerse myself in “Wannabe” –I will be thinking about just what it is that I wannabe… Perhaps I’ll reveal some of what I wannabe at readings to promote this book…  

 

I haven’t had a new book since “Tokyo Butter” in 2006, also from Persea Books, with a 40X USB microscope scan of a flower form my cousin’s funeral on the cover.  Her death was so shocking to me, so devastating — she was more like a sister to me than anyone…and so I began a search for her, some forms of her still had to be in the world, I reasoned in my grief, and the poems in the book are an outcome of my search for my cousin, called “Dierdre” in the book, but that of course, is not her actual name…  a collection of Limited Fork Theory poems.

 

Tokyo Butter cover

 

 

I will continue to enjoy the PDF of “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Galley’s of Realities Red Dress Code” (I have a you tube video poam of the same name, and I will post thet video here:

 

 

 

 

–I don’t feel quite as dramatic a connection with the PDF as I will with the actual book, but I am so enjoying it!  My new book does not yet appear on Persea’s website, but I’m sure it will, as we get closer to publication time.  The link I’ve made to Tokyo Butter  is to its Amazon location.

 

 

 

Coming next month, however, is a visit to the Pulitzer Fine Arts Gallery in St. Louis, MO where I have a video poam (“poam” is a “limited fork theory” term : Product of Act[s] of Making” in the Ellipsis show (15 April – 2 July 2016): “The Glory Prelude to a Widow Shrine System”will also be one of the new poems in “Wannabe” –and it was also published in “The Offing” (link takes you to my print poem: “The Glory Prelude“)

 

and here are some video stills from the video poam: The Glory Prelude to a Widow Shrine System“.. I will be at the Pulitzer for the opening of the show by the way… Perhaps I’ll see you there.

 

Ellipsis brocheye announcing Ellipsis Show, featuring work by Thylias MossTHE GLORY PRELUDE (to a widow shrine system)enlarged-Hi_RES_03

Tressy Doll and Baby Flo

Piano Hair, video stilll from "The Glory Prelude"

“Toy Piano” on which “Piano Hair, the music of the Glory Prelude soundtrack, was both composed and performed by Ansted Moss (this link takes you to some of the short videos he’s made and posted on Vimeo).  I provide all vocals of the sound track which includes some performing of a version of the print poam

THE GLORY PRELUDE (to a widow shrine system)enlarged-Hi_RES_05-2THE GLORY PRELUDE (to a widow shrine system)enlarged-Hi_RES_17-1THE GLORY PRELUDE (to a widow shrine system)enlarged-Hi_RES_06-1THE GLORY PRELUDE (to a widow shrine system)enlarged-Hi_RES_07-2

That’s about it for this update right now!

truth

Getting close to the Detroit Lit Walk sponsored by ML Liebler! I will be performing: “Higginson Matters in Magnificent Culture of Myopia” and I couldn’t be happier about performing this poem!  19 September 2015. 1:00 pm N’Namdi’s in Detroit!

The N’Namdi Center for Contemporary Art

52 E. Forest Ave.
Detroit, MI 48201
Phone:  313-831-8700

Email:   nnamdicenter@gmail.com

 

“Thylias Moss: Artist on the Cutting Edge”

ONE OF MY POEMS (“A RECONSIDERATION OF THE BLACKBIRD”) READ BY SOMEONE ELSE

Thylias Moss: “Out of the Blue”

 

Actual Detroit lit walk poster2

“Higginson Matters in Magnificent Culture of Myopia” will be in my new & Selected collection of poetry: “Wannabe Hoochie Mama Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code” scheduled for publication September 2016 by Persea Books.

 

I couldn’t be more excited about this book, and certainly about this poem!

Update to this post: A small declaration of even newer life:
What I said day before yesterday:
I am steadily working on building a new life for myself. Despite what hurts, what helps, and what sometimes does both. I was stupid to stay so long in a relationship I knew wasn’t right practically from the beginning! He was cheating on the teenager me right from the beginning –I found out two weeks after the wedding, and yet I stayed –for forty years, Just glad to be out of that marriage… And now… My own poetry is suffering, my new and selected volume due out in the fall of 2016 will contain a poem written while I was married and my “signature” poem about myopia seems to be about him, and I can’t allow my new book, first book since 2006, to appear to center on him… I have submitted a revision, and at least it was true at the time of the revision. I can live with more recent –temporary– truth, than I’m willing to live with old truth no longer true at all, and not in my poetry where truest forms of me reside… I remain hopeful that newer temporary truths will prevail so my 2016 NEW & selected (emphasis on NEW) will steer me towards newer forms of life that I become able to find….

THE UPDATE:
I have learned that my poetry editor agrees with me concerning the revision; a version of the revision WILL BE! in my new collection, my editor said the re-vision is “a ‘very’ impressive poem. Amazing work, you!”
–I could feel it as I wrote it! Embedded in the words and my need for those words to be heard! –and they were!
That tremendous music!
I really had the sense of surviving all of what I’ve been through!
Poetry indeed has such power!
Poetry is saving my life!
The truest forms of me can learn how to breathe again through that poem! My editor read them and felt it too!
A surging of current!
A form of merger between multiple ways of trying to understand, trying to see “myopia!”

 

7:05pm
As I attempt to live my new life without baggage, I specifically mean without the lies. I WANT TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH! I AM NOT LIVING BACKWARDS ANY FURTHER. Sorry if this direction disconnects you from me. Absolutely necessary. My name has been “Moss” for 42 years! –all of my books have been published by “Thylias Moss” –yes; at the divorce, I was offered the chance of resuming my maiden name, but as all of my professional life was as “Thylias Moss” I kept the name! I like MY NAME NO MATTER HOW I GOT IT. –AND I WANT NO DISCUSSIONS ABOUT MY KEEPING THE NAME! –the name is mine! –whether or not I remain married… My post! –make a post of your own if you want one; say whatever you like on your page, just as I will say whatever I like on my page… Every official document I have says: “Thylias Moss” is who I am, because that’s true! –THYLIAS MOSS IS WHO I AM! –if MY name is baggage, this is the only luggage I will continue to carry. Be careful how you respond. MY LIFE, MY PAGE, MY “BAGGAGE” with a luggage tag for “THYLIAS MOSS” because that’s who I am! Period.

Some TRUTH I try to live by:

My words to live by (with thanks to Linda Hedrick whose post led me to them). I am not going to allow either my MS or my traumatic brain injury to rule my life. Period!
Billy Connolly is refusing to let Parkinson’s disease bring him down.
The 72-year-old comedian was diagnosed with the brain condition in 2012 – in the same week he was told he had prostate cancer and had two hearing aids fitted – and although it has prevented him from playing the banjo he doesn’t dwell on the degenerative impacts.
He said: “I am doing as well as can be expected. Some people get grim, but I do not.
“Funny doesn’t go away it just changes slightly, maybe some people get grim but I don’t. I think it is an attitude – you say screw it, let’s get on with it.
“You cannot sit at home wondering about your symptoms. It is not going to go away.
“It has never crossed my mind that I am gonna die. What is dying anyway? It is just a light going out?”
‘The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies’ actor admitted the disease is a constant reminder of his late friend Robin Williams who had the same condition before committing suicide.
During a radio interview promoting his Canadian tour, he explained: “It depressed me terribly. You don’t find a way out of it. You find a place to put it where you can access when you want it. Like your mother or father’s death you never get over it, you just find a place to put it.
“We were both angry about things.
“For instance the guy who gave me the final diagnosis that I had Parkinson’s said it was incurable. Now I think that is terrible; he should have said we have yet to find a cure … Leave me a little light on in the corner for Christ’s sake.”
From: http://www.irishexaminer.com/breakingnews/entertainment/billy-connolly-on-his-parkinsons-diagnosis-funny-doesnt-go-away-it-just-changes-slightly-694531.html

 

_______

No matter what, it is the truth I want, the truth I need, and that means no longer pretending that the niece of my ex is my daughter, or that he child is my grandchild or her grandchild, my great grandchild.  THIS IS THE TRUTH!  Her biological mother is alive, a sister of my ex! –her child has a living grandmother, a biological grandmother! And her grandchild has a living, biological great grandmother, and it isn’t me! –THAT IS THE TRUTH! 

I learned yesterday that my ex had led his sister to believe that he was the biological father of my only biological son, but NOTHING COULD BE FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH! –MY EX IS INFERTILE! –he did not father my child, he COULD NOT FATHER MY CHILD OR ANY CHILD! –he also led his sister to believe that I had more pregnancies (that he fathered)  after my son, pregnancies that ended in  miscarriage, and this is A BALD-FACED LIE, when all I want it the TRUTH! –I’ve had only two pregnancies in my life, the first when I was fifteen and raped, becoming pregnant as a result of that rape… I did not have that baby; I was in high school… my only other pregnancy occurred when I was 36 and so ready for a baby!  I revisited fertility centers I had visited with my ex in Cambridge , Massachusetts where we lived, and the outcome was always the same, and of course, the woman was always blamed for the childlessness…  We even tried in-vitro fertilization three times, my eggs and my ex’s sperm in a Petri dish, and nothing happened… When asked if we would consider a sperm donor –as was recommended,  I agreed, but my ex said: “ABSOLUTELY NOT” Nothing I could do right then, but I was not about to give up my only opportunity to be pregnant because of that selfishness and inability to accept his infertility, a protection of an outdated sense of manhood.

So I returned to a fertility center, and requested a donor, and I became pregnant right away, and I was told by one of the fertility clinic’s doctors, “What a difference a good sample makes!”  I WAS NEVER THE CAUSE OF THE INFERTILITY… SEEMS SOMETHING MY EX JUST WILL NOT ACCEPT AS TRUTH ABOUT HIMSELF.

I JUST WANT THE TRUTH!