My grandmother (Babchi) sent Nya a gift for her birthday, this is a video of her opening it.
httpvh://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGFf1UVnV2w
Whenever I wake up
Written November 17, 2004
.:Original’s location: with Tamika:.
New Poetry!
This is what happens when someone who already views the world optimistically is given something that would make the average person insanely happy.
Everything else is gone, and I just glow…
.:edit: I decided to write this poem out in a tiny little book, phrase by phrase, each page the size of a postage stamp. I’m giving it to her today. 
It will be the first piece of poetry I’ve given her. :.
.:edit: I added the sefl portrait as a preview. :.
“Woke up this morning, you were the first thing on my mind
Don’t know where it came from, all I know is I need you in my life…” India.Arie
“Nothing even matters… at all…” ~Lauryn Hill
Each morning I wake up
And whether you’re there or not
I always see you when I wake up
Before I even get up
I see you when I wake up
Before even my lids arise
I see you
I see you
I see you smile
Because you’re there in front of me
Because you’re there along side of me
Because you’re right inside of me
Whenever I wake up
Because you’re here inside of me
Because you know the insides of me
Because I knew that you’d be there
Whenever I wake up
Each afternoon I rest
Whether you’re there or not
I always feel like you are here
Before I even touch you
I feel like you are here
Before I’m even sleeping
I feel you
I feel you
I feel you near me
Because you’re imprinted near me
Because your scent surrounds me
Because you’re what I think of
Whenever I wake up
Because you’ve shown you love me
Because you’ve known I love you
Because I’m dreaming of you
Whenever I wake up
My sister makes Art
Not that that’s really a surprise to anyone… but she’s been doing a portrait a day which is really cool.
Ikea Dinner!
I love Swedish food! Fortunately, so does my family. 🙂
Looking for places to stay during our trip to Schefferville
Tamika and the kids and I will be driving up to Kawawachikamach in 1 week. We could really use some places to crash on the way up, if you, or anyone you know, is open, let us know!
Here’s our intinerary on the way up.
- Dec. 2 – Driving to Philly – Staying with Tamika’s parents.
- Dec. 3 – Driving to Vermont, or somewhere close – We need a place to stay!
- Dec. 4 – Driving to Quebec City – We need a place to stay!
- Dec. 5 – Driving to Sept-Iles – We need a place to stay!
We’re staying at my parents house for a week in Schefferville, then driving back (here’s that itinerary).
- Dec. 15 – Driving to Quebec City – We need a place to stay!
- Dec. 16 – Driving to Norwich, Connecticut – Staying with my grandmother.
- Dec. 17 – Driving to Philly – Staying with Tamika’s parents.
- Dec. 18 – Driving to Baltimore.
Thanks so much!
Persistence
Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.
– Calvin Coolidge
Every day I’m hustlin’.
– Rick Ross
Tamika sings Window Seat
Tamika has been singing with local pianist Aaron Rhines and is group Groove Unit. A couple weeks back, they did a recording of Erykah Badu’s Window Seat. It’s really good!
The sons of Cain
Sitting in a rest stop on our way back from visiting Tamika’s grandparents.
I’m going through a reading plan that takes you through the bible in chronological order. I was curious about the two Lamechs in Genesis, so I looked them up.
Never thought of translating the actual NAMES of people in the bible before. When you do, Genesis 4 reads something like this:
God’s servant took two wives, light and darkness. The light brought forth the shepherd, who was the father of tent-dwellers, and herdsmen, and his brother was the musician, who was the father of harpists and pipers. But the darkness brought forth the blacksmith, the forger of brass, and of iron, and his sister was pleasure.
Very interesting…
Disconnected.
I feel disconnected.
I feel disconnected from my family.
I feel disconnected because it’s hard for me to talk to them. Because the deep stuff I probably should and probably need to talk to them about scares me. Because it doesn’t feel natural, because it feels awkward. Because I don’t know why I can’t start doing it.
I feel disconnected from my home town.
I feel disconnected because it’s so far away. Because nothing and everything about it is the same as I left it. Because some people told me I should leave, even though they later changed their minds. Because I was hurt so badly there. Because it’s so much a part of me, and still, I can never go back. Because there is no place else gives me the solitude and openness I once knew.
I feel disconnected from my people.
I feel disconnected because no one here talks they way they did. Because nobody thinks the way they did. Because none of the earthy, familiar smells exist for me now; the spruce boughs, the simmering tea, the musty canvas, the thick warm hide. Because no one looks at me with pride the way they once did. Because I still dream in their language.
I feel disconnected from my God.
I feel disconnected because I worry too much. Because if I don’t fix it myself, I feel like a failure. Because nothing around me is quiet, nothing lets me hear that still, small voice. Because my dreams are no longer alive. Because I drifted away. Because I don’t know how to get back.
I feel disconnected from the people around me.
I feel disconnected because they don’t understand who I am and where I come from. Because I don’t understand where they come from, or why they are the way they are. Because they’re far too busy to care. Because most people won’t even read this. Because fewer people will do anything once they do. Because people don’t think to listen deeply. Because listening like that doesn’t matter to them like it does to me.
I feel disconnected from my art.
I feel disconnected because it no longer feels like something I am inside of. Because when I create something beautiful and meaningful, I don’t have time to sit and wonder at the gift I’ve been given. Because I don’t sit and just muse any longer.
I feel disconnected from myself.
I feel disconnected because when I am doing something. Anything. It feels like I am on autopilot. Because I can’t remember normal things that most people can remember. Because things get switched around in my brain, and yet it still feels like fact. Because I complain aloud how people can do certain things, then realize I myself am doing those things. Because my own history is blurred, mixed, tangled; not a solid line like it should be. Because I can’t figure out if I have always been like this, or if this is something new.
But what does it mean to be disconnected? Does it means that you are solitary, alone, an intrepid nomad? Does it mean you get to figure out things and reinvent them as you see fit? Is it bad to be disconnected?
I don’t really know. But feeling like you should be connected?
Hurts.
Sketchbooks
I like sketchbooks. Leather-bound, hardback, crisp white paper. I try to always have one around, simply because I’m a firm believer that if you carry something everywhere you go, you’ll be able to use it at any given opportunity.
That being said, there is always something that unnerves me about them. Not a lot, just a little… but enough to make me think about it.
A couple years back, I started putting the date and the place at the top of every page; and it’s this feeling that compelled me to do it.
Everytime I start to draw or write; I always have this feeling like I’m being watched. Not like someone is there, but that some is reading this page far in the future.
And it sounds a little egotistical. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t feel like my work is worthy of future historical relevance, I just feel like someday someone is going to try to read these things and understand who I was.
Maybe that person is me as an old man. Maybe it’s my kids. Maybe my grandkids. I guess it’s weird to think about that, but I’m wondering if everyone who writes a diary or journal thinks about that. Or is it writing only for yourself? For my writing, it’s not just for myself. It’s meant to be read, to be enjoyed, to learn from.
If someone, maybe my descendant is reading this down the line, know this: I think about you all the time.