Diana Ross singing her dance hit "Take Me Higher" on the Ed Sullivan show during the nineties. It's a song I work out to every morning. You will not be able to watch this and not want to dance along! She looks incredible, sounds incredible, and whats more awesome is that her effervescent spirit just radiates during the interview. Werq Miss Ross!!!
Read Smoke!
My latest book, "Smoke: poems of love, longing and ecstasy" is available for purchase on Amazon in e-book and paperback. Click book for link.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Wedding Dress of the Week
This stunning mermaid gown by Pnina Tornai is designed exclusively for the Kleinfeld Bridal Salon in New York City. It's for the bride who desires one of a kind glamour and doesn't mind the 'exclusive' price tag. It will accentuate a svelte figure, particularly on woman with lovely arms and shoulders. To learn more about this dress visit the Kleinfeld website or call 646 633 4300.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Midnight Stream of Conscious: A Love Supreme: A Dénouement
* A writing ritual I do at each year's end. Personal, cathartic-- and for some reason I feature it on my blog. Feel free to skip. Or better yet, try it yourself.
First off, I don’t know how smooth this will be or how writer-like. I was prompted to repeat this yearly ritual when I entered Starbucks today and saw that the red holiday cups were back, as was the gingerbread loaf that I adore. Oh, I ate so much of that at Yale because I used pastries to lift my spirits amidst dizzying rounds of depression. As they say, stressed is ‘desserts’ spelled backwards.
My life has taken an auspicious turn, and I’m seemingly light years away from the wet streets of Elm City, where I meandered during awkward hours of night, munching on croissants and piping hot coffee, anxious about cramming a 30 page paper into 48 hours or how my demonic Arabic professor would love to fail me. Yale is over. Shove a fork in a really dry, over-cooked piece of filet mignon.
To be honest, it does not feel like an incredible accomplishment. It just feels done. Sort of like I ran so hard to finish that I’m too winded to smile for any pictures at the finish line. But having had seven months to reflect, it is a tremendous victory and I should not overlook that.
As a student, I was unfulfilled. I felt that I’d made a huge, incorrigible mistake for the first three years. In spite of having an opportunity to study at one of the world’s finest institutions and a fellowship with a media company that some students would kill for, I wasn’t convinced that I was walking along my gilded path, the term I have coined to mean destiny. I tussled with the idea of dance, and longed for those yesterdays of skinny legs and freed point shoes but I would learn through trial and error that the life of a ballerina was merely an avenue not a destination. If I can compare my relationship to the ballet with a torrid love affair, it was and always will be the most difficult lover with whom I’ve had to part. But I did. And when I look back I smile.
Somehow it was my journey to Africa during the summer of 2007, right before my senior year, that put the sequence of events, also known as my life, into pristine order. It’s awesome how part of a blessing is the ability to know when one has been blessed. I believe that my indifference toward life came from that failure to see.
Today, I understand that the knowledge I gained, the camaraderie I shared and the mistakes I made in college were part of a long-term growth process that I needed to endure in order to be the woman that I am. When I see my reflection, when I entertain my private thoughts, I am so proud. Diamonds are formed under pressure, and one only gains that type of sparkling bearing, scintillating wisdom, through life’s horrific challenges. This I believe to be true.
I endured a hellish senior year. At no point did I know how or if I would finish until I did. I felt like I was stepping through thick brush in pitch black darkness, hoping the end was near. And that was only half the battle.
After graduation, I had a clear goal. I wanted to be a television journalist—let me be clear. Not a producer, not a writer, not an assignment editor, but a reporter. And I would go anywhere and accept any amount of pay to do so. This in my heart I felt was the only job at that moment that I could be passionate about and what is life without breath and passion?
I was insecure about how this goal would be realized. For months I sent out dozens of demo reels to no avail despite a few broken promises. Everyone told me that I was crazy to be entering the industry. It was too hard to start off as on air-talent and even if I did, I’d be in the boonies and broke. I should be reasonable. Sensible. Safe. I’d be wise to go to law school or settle for job similar to what most Yalies do post-grad- what ever that is. The economy was bad. "Nobody's hiring" they warned. They said my aims were entirely too high. It seemed as those around me were trying desperately to break my fighting spirit but even in the absence of promise, I held onto my will for dear life.
In July, on a whim I decided to travel to Chicago for the Unity Conference of journalists. I would use my charm to hustle some new opportunities. This is where I met a news director who told me she believed I had great potential, but I needed just a year in small market before she could consider me. I had to lose my being ‘green’. The problem was my feverish search for a job in a small market had turned up nothing.
Months later, after several ghastly disappointments, it happened. It was Ramadan. I was fasting and praying every day, exercising my faith excitedly and entering new spiritual terrain. At this point it was coming on four months without an offer but there was a peace that had blanketed me. Somehow I knew that in my midst was an open door and I would not stop until I found it.
It was during this month that that same news director got in contact with me. A reporter had quit, there was an opening. She explained that her instincts told her to give me a shot. To remind you, this is a lady that had met me over two months ago at a conference with about a thousand journalists. I’m convinced that instinct was God. Within two weeks following that phone call, she’d checked with my contacts, I flew down for an audition and landed an incredible position.
I was suddenly a reporter and not in a small market either, but a mid-sized market where most reporters were on their second, third and fourth jobs. I had surpassed the vision that I formed for myself and that is an exhilarating feeling. You know what it feels like? Like with faith and iron-clad fortitude anything is possible. And it is. We have a new president, my degree hangs on a wall at my parent’s home (they can keep it) , and five days a week folks turn on their tv’s and see yours truly! How lovely. Really, through God all things are possible. That maxim says it best.
So during this holiday season I am most grateful for how closer I have grown to Him. Certainly it is a sign of my maturity.
I think about love and how It’d be nice, but not necessary. I remember how while in college I so desired that affection and felt that amidst a few half-hearted liaisons, I was missing out. Reflecting, that search was not for love but rather validation. It can be confusing.
I think I was another fly girl that did not understand her inherent value. I had the grace, but not the dignity that accompanies that. So when I cried over Prince Charming’s dashing disappearance or put up with Scorpio’s madness, I was really appealing to these men for confidence. When I felt as if I were stumbling in the dark, their affection seemed like a bough to grab on to, if only for a moment.
But today I am experiencing total self love. (Many of us are in partial). And that feels like the smile that spread across my face when I see a baby laugh, when the sun shines in my face, or when I slide into a warm bubble bath and sip a glass of sweet champagne. And it feels like prayer, because to know God and to love self is to feel—complete. Blithely complete.
Sometimes, I must admit, I still think about the craziest instance of kismet and the man who went away but I no longer take pity or punish myself over this unfortunate turn of events. Nor do I still try to make sense of the nonsensical. I can only let my light shine. I can not dim it for others or allow others to dim it for me. The wind of serendipity never stops blowing so perhaps he and I will meet again on a chilly day. Perhaps this time, with me a complete woman and him a more complete man. Or perhaps, we shall not. I realize that these matter, like all matters, don’t happen on human account. We just convince ourselves that they do.
It is Christmas time and I feel the joy of the holidays running to the end of my garnet tipped fingers. After work, I remove my disco ball earrings, wipe my face clean of all the glamourous make up, the concealers, powders and the high lighters and I still glow. Walk past my house and you may hear me belting Diana Ross’ “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” at the top of my lungs or possibly John Coltrane’s ‘Love Supreme’ simmering. Truly, I have found my Love Supreme.
The last time I wrote holiday manifesto I secretly hoped that a certain someone might read, it, but this evening I wrote this all for me.
First off, I don’t know how smooth this will be or how writer-like. I was prompted to repeat this yearly ritual when I entered Starbucks today and saw that the red holiday cups were back, as was the gingerbread loaf that I adore. Oh, I ate so much of that at Yale because I used pastries to lift my spirits amidst dizzying rounds of depression. As they say, stressed is ‘desserts’ spelled backwards.
My life has taken an auspicious turn, and I’m seemingly light years away from the wet streets of Elm City, where I meandered during awkward hours of night, munching on croissants and piping hot coffee, anxious about cramming a 30 page paper into 48 hours or how my demonic Arabic professor would love to fail me. Yale is over. Shove a fork in a really dry, over-cooked piece of filet mignon.
To be honest, it does not feel like an incredible accomplishment. It just feels done. Sort of like I ran so hard to finish that I’m too winded to smile for any pictures at the finish line. But having had seven months to reflect, it is a tremendous victory and I should not overlook that.
As a student, I was unfulfilled. I felt that I’d made a huge, incorrigible mistake for the first three years. In spite of having an opportunity to study at one of the world’s finest institutions and a fellowship with a media company that some students would kill for, I wasn’t convinced that I was walking along my gilded path, the term I have coined to mean destiny. I tussled with the idea of dance, and longed for those yesterdays of skinny legs and freed point shoes but I would learn through trial and error that the life of a ballerina was merely an avenue not a destination. If I can compare my relationship to the ballet with a torrid love affair, it was and always will be the most difficult lover with whom I’ve had to part. But I did. And when I look back I smile.
Somehow it was my journey to Africa during the summer of 2007, right before my senior year, that put the sequence of events, also known as my life, into pristine order. It’s awesome how part of a blessing is the ability to know when one has been blessed. I believe that my indifference toward life came from that failure to see.
Today, I understand that the knowledge I gained, the camaraderie I shared and the mistakes I made in college were part of a long-term growth process that I needed to endure in order to be the woman that I am. When I see my reflection, when I entertain my private thoughts, I am so proud. Diamonds are formed under pressure, and one only gains that type of sparkling bearing, scintillating wisdom, through life’s horrific challenges. This I believe to be true.
I endured a hellish senior year. At no point did I know how or if I would finish until I did. I felt like I was stepping through thick brush in pitch black darkness, hoping the end was near. And that was only half the battle.
After graduation, I had a clear goal. I wanted to be a television journalist—let me be clear. Not a producer, not a writer, not an assignment editor, but a reporter. And I would go anywhere and accept any amount of pay to do so. This in my heart I felt was the only job at that moment that I could be passionate about and what is life without breath and passion?
I was insecure about how this goal would be realized. For months I sent out dozens of demo reels to no avail despite a few broken promises. Everyone told me that I was crazy to be entering the industry. It was too hard to start off as on air-talent and even if I did, I’d be in the boonies and broke. I should be reasonable. Sensible. Safe. I’d be wise to go to law school or settle for job similar to what most Yalies do post-grad- what ever that is. The economy was bad. "Nobody's hiring" they warned. They said my aims were entirely too high. It seemed as those around me were trying desperately to break my fighting spirit but even in the absence of promise, I held onto my will for dear life.
In July, on a whim I decided to travel to Chicago for the Unity Conference of journalists. I would use my charm to hustle some new opportunities. This is where I met a news director who told me she believed I had great potential, but I needed just a year in small market before she could consider me. I had to lose my being ‘green’. The problem was my feverish search for a job in a small market had turned up nothing.
Months later, after several ghastly disappointments, it happened. It was Ramadan. I was fasting and praying every day, exercising my faith excitedly and entering new spiritual terrain. At this point it was coming on four months without an offer but there was a peace that had blanketed me. Somehow I knew that in my midst was an open door and I would not stop until I found it.
It was during this month that that same news director got in contact with me. A reporter had quit, there was an opening. She explained that her instincts told her to give me a shot. To remind you, this is a lady that had met me over two months ago at a conference with about a thousand journalists. I’m convinced that instinct was God. Within two weeks following that phone call, she’d checked with my contacts, I flew down for an audition and landed an incredible position.
I was suddenly a reporter and not in a small market either, but a mid-sized market where most reporters were on their second, third and fourth jobs. I had surpassed the vision that I formed for myself and that is an exhilarating feeling. You know what it feels like? Like with faith and iron-clad fortitude anything is possible. And it is. We have a new president, my degree hangs on a wall at my parent’s home (they can keep it) , and five days a week folks turn on their tv’s and see yours truly! How lovely. Really, through God all things are possible. That maxim says it best.
So during this holiday season I am most grateful for how closer I have grown to Him. Certainly it is a sign of my maturity.
I think about love and how It’d be nice, but not necessary. I remember how while in college I so desired that affection and felt that amidst a few half-hearted liaisons, I was missing out. Reflecting, that search was not for love but rather validation. It can be confusing.
I think I was another fly girl that did not understand her inherent value. I had the grace, but not the dignity that accompanies that. So when I cried over Prince Charming’s dashing disappearance or put up with Scorpio’s madness, I was really appealing to these men for confidence. When I felt as if I were stumbling in the dark, their affection seemed like a bough to grab on to, if only for a moment.
But today I am experiencing total self love. (Many of us are in partial). And that feels like the smile that spread across my face when I see a baby laugh, when the sun shines in my face, or when I slide into a warm bubble bath and sip a glass of sweet champagne. And it feels like prayer, because to know God and to love self is to feel—complete. Blithely complete.
Sometimes, I must admit, I still think about the craziest instance of kismet and the man who went away but I no longer take pity or punish myself over this unfortunate turn of events. Nor do I still try to make sense of the nonsensical. I can only let my light shine. I can not dim it for others or allow others to dim it for me. The wind of serendipity never stops blowing so perhaps he and I will meet again on a chilly day. Perhaps this time, with me a complete woman and him a more complete man. Or perhaps, we shall not. I realize that these matter, like all matters, don’t happen on human account. We just convince ourselves that they do.
It is Christmas time and I feel the joy of the holidays running to the end of my garnet tipped fingers. After work, I remove my disco ball earrings, wipe my face clean of all the glamourous make up, the concealers, powders and the high lighters and I still glow. Walk past my house and you may hear me belting Diana Ross’ “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” at the top of my lungs or possibly John Coltrane’s ‘Love Supreme’ simmering. Truly, I have found my Love Supreme.
The last time I wrote holiday manifesto I secretly hoped that a certain someone might read, it, but this evening I wrote this all for me.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Cheerleading Dad Commercial-- Fatherhood.gov
This PSA commercial by fatherhood.gov warms my heart. Not only does it remind me of my own father, but this is a slick way of articulating what it is to be a 'dad' and really a 'man'. And to my SINGLE DIVAS-- this should be the standard for selecting our future husbands.
Friday, September 12, 2008
SPOTLIGHT: Diana Ross, No One Gets the Prize , Ceasars Palace, Las Vegas, 1979
Clip from her legendary concert at Ceasar's Palace following the release of "The Boss". This song, along with The Boss, and Ain't No Mountain High Enough was produced by the awesome duo Ashford & Simpson.
Fly Alert: Diane von Furstenburg "Natasha" Skirt
I think this is sooo Mary Tyler Moore! This a-line skirt is universally flattering and the rows of double buttons are a cute nod to the sixties. Pair with a pair of updated spectator pump like this one from Gucci and a simple black top for a knock out outfit. Purchase here for $325. Actually, these Gucci pumps deserve a pic. They're fabolah as well.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
SPOTLIGHT: Keith Olbermann, Republicans Hi-Jacked 9/11
This "Special Comment" by Keith Olbermann aired on MSNBC on the eve of the 9/11 Anniversary, condemned the Republican Party for using the event as a tactic for political control. Fear Mongering would be the appropriate term. Anyways, this commenary is incredibly poignant and well-argued.... it is certainly worth your watch.
-Ike
Monique Lhullier, Spring Collection, New York Fashion Week, 2008
Monique Lhullier is synonomous with the modern bridal gown, but her latest showing in Bryant Park demonstrated that she is also well positioned to be a tremendous force in evening and day wear. Her Spring Collection, which she described as a "tropical island get-away" was safe, but nothing short of fantastic. Sandy haired (I would have liked to see Jourdan or Chanel) models walked the runway in vibrant Mediterranean pastel hues, sultry chiffon and tulle, and scintillating details such as gold embellishment that are trademark Monique. Monique, under 30, is definitely one to watch, and not just if your planning a wedding. Enjoy the selected pics.
Ciara Poses Nude for Vibe...At what cost?
Ciara poses in the buff for the latest issue of Vibe Magazine. My thoughts: a gimmick to promote her latest project. Let's call a spade a spade. I hate to dismiss a public figure for posing in the nude, but I do question it.
One of the primary challenges that young Black women face is body consciousness, that is the manner in which we, as Black American women, conceptualize our bodies while growing up in a society that has historically sexualized us. When media images implicitly places value on the Black woman's sexuality, sensuality... her "vixenhood"... how do we develop a sense of respect for the divine gift that God gave us? When a notable star, an icon for young Black women, takes it all off for the sake promotion, it adds to this conflict.
Do some research on HIV/AIDS statistics. Black women between the ages of 15-24, the age group most influenced by media outlets like Vibe and the likes of Ciara, are contracting the disease at the fastest rate in this country, and primarily as a result of unprotected heterosexual intercourse. This means that there is a grave number of Black young women who don't feel strongly enough about their bodies to negotiate condom use and to not give themselves liberally to men who probably do not deserve them. We can not isolate the prevalence of promiscuity and unprotected sexual activity amongst young Black women from the culture. I'm not being holier than though, or puritanical, but seriously ladies... let's look at the picture. It's bleak.
Black women of all socioeconomic echelons are waging a battle for their sexual health and losing. We can no longer afford to be irresponsible about the mass messages that we dissiminate . Ciara's display treats the nude black body as a commodity. And let's face it, she is doing this to sell albums, sell magazines, and increase her star power. Her body, in this sense, is a commodity. Look at the second spread... it's not even 'artistic'. It's blatant, parted-lips, XXL, King-Style, sexual nudity intended to tittilate and suggest. When someone of her star power conducts herself in this manner, it says to her vulnerable fans that the exhibition of the body at whim is normal. It is okay. It is cool. It implies the sexuality is a viable path to notoriety and success. And as young women yearn to be popular and feel good about themselves, and many will model themselves after their cultural icons in doing so, it is no wonder that you can go to a Myspace or a Facebook page and see a half dressed young woman screaming for attention. It is no wonder that for many young ladies of color, their greatest aspiration is to dance half naked in a rap video for a paltry sum. And it is now wonder that there are countless Black women who would give of themselves and not even think twice about protection.
Please, let us as Black women and especially Black women in the public eye be sensitive to the plight of our young females for self-respect and sexual health. Let's be responsible. We owe at least that much to ourselves.
-Ike
Still, No Justice for Sean Bell
Al Sharpton will appear before a New York court today on allegations of disorderly conduct and obstruction of road ways during protests that followed the Sean Bell verdict. Fathom the irony. Sean Bell was fatally shot 50 times in Queens, New York back in 2006, by a gang of New York cops. It was the eve of his wedding. This incident sparked national controversy over the continuity of police brutality inthe urban streets of America. All of murderers were acquitted of their charges.
-Ike
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