The Remarkable Discovery of Me

"Cherish your solitude. Take trains by yourself to places you have never been. Sleep out alone under the stars. Learn how to drive a stick shift. Go so far away that you stop being afraid of not coming back...."

And so begins an amazing quote from noted American playwright and feminist Eve Ensler.  Although her words were perhaps more inclined towards women, I find myself reading them and taking note at their profundity.  I certainly cherish my solitude at times.  And while I haven't taken any physical trains lately, my mind has a dedicated itinerary of unvisited places that it travels to.  I enjoy walking outside among the stars alone, but sleeping outside would take some getting used to.  The inner workings of me seem to be as far away as a person can go.  Once you've been there, fear of anything is pointless.

(Yes, I realized I skipped learning to drive a stick shift.  Some adventures are better left alone.)

In my daily wanderings, I find that I am becoming more enamored with those times when I am alone.  Take today, for instance.  I often walk down to the local library, in order to have writing sessions away from home, and today was no different.  Even in a public library, I find I write with less distraction.  It is getting there that has become what I enjoy.  The walk over is always this magical moment where I am free to be alone with my thoughts. My inner self and I have deep conversations on our current situation.  We unwrap our hopes and dreams, like Christmas presents.  I share my secrets and he does the same, and we promise never to mention them to another soul, except when enticed by awesomeness.  We even brainstorm over solutions to our life's most noticeable problems.  And of course, we laugh a lot together.

Perhaps it may be a bit disturbing to some that I keep referring to myself in the plural sense, but that's fine.  I am not insane (at least no more at this moment than I have ever been).  I simply feel like there is a part of myself that I am still in a state of discovering.  Much like being introduced to a new friend.  It might sound absurd, but I think we dissect ourselves in stages, brooding over various layers until, once completely  unwrapped, we see ourselves in full.

How long does this actually take?

Beats me.  I never said I had all the answers, or any of them, to be quite honest.  I am just one of the people who enjoys asking the right questions.  Hopefully, when my journey is complete, and I make that remarkable discovery of me, I will like the man staring back at me.  I'll understand his story, recognize what motivates him, and delight in the experiences that led to his being.  And then we'll have deep conversations on our current situation.  And laugh.  A lot.  Together.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Desert Flower

This looks like it will be such a remarkable and inspiring film. Based on the autobiographical novel of model, actress and human rights activist Waris Dirie.  A great story of perseverance, triumph, and the responsibility in each of us to fight for what is right.  I will definitely be looking out for this one.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

The Occasional Crazy Rare Quote # 3

"People say they're lost.  I'm not lost.  I just hate it here."

                               ---  from A Wild Heart Can't Be Broken

Just a Bit of Randomness (Maybe)

You have to admire not only the artistic vision in this, but the insane amount of concentration and commitment.  For all of those who have ruined cassettes or simply switched over to CD (um...it's about time...lol), here is an innovate idea for recycling.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

To Become the Poet that I Know I Can Be

I have always loved poetry.  It is an ingrained portion of my emotional and mental well being that has always brought me great joy.  But I don't want it to become some inveterate task that I aimlessly reach for when an idea comes.  I want it to be more.  Because of my love for it.  Because of the passion that moves me whenever I read my own words, as well as those of others.

Which is why I was happy when I came across this wonderful post from fellow poet and oft inspiring blogger, Angela Felsted of My Poetry and Prose Place.  Reading her words invoked me to challenge myself.  To look for new plateaus in order to raise my poetry to the level that I feel it should be at.  And I think this begins with vocabulary.  There are words out there, beautiful, supple words, just waiting for me to reach them.  I will seek them out.  Befriend them.  And my poetry will benefit immensely.

(Upon closer reading, I realize that these words are actually by guest blogger Laurel Garver, also an equally amazing writer and blogger.  Check out Laurel's Leaves, as well)

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Black History, and the Shortest Month of the Year (Part 3)

For those interested:  Part 1 and Part 2

And this is where it gets personal.

Black History Month or, more specifically, the way that most Americans approach it, regardless of race, has always felt like a bit of an enigma to me.  It is shuffled about, in the manner of pop trivia, only to be called upon during occasional coffee shop discussions or momentarily spotlighted on well-intending blogs.  We peddle it out in 28-day patches, neatly tucking it back into its casings as soon as March 1 arrives.  We mention names and note accomplishments, smile for a few moments, and then go on our merry way.

And yet, when April comes, and then July, on to October and December, the truth still remains.  Tomorrow, I still wake up, black in America.

There is a pride in this realization, instilled in me from the time I was a child.  There is also a strong malcontent awareness taken from this realization, as I grow more as a man.  I see what I am not intended to see.  It makes me stronger, but it also makes me sad.

I am not what America intended....


This is the beginning line of a poem I started writing, and am still living out its stanzas.  My people's history is so deep rooted in forced servitude and the raping of wills that there is a stigma we may never shake.  Most people came to this country seeking a new beginning.  My ancestors were yanked from where they slept and ushered into bondage.  American slavery was an institution will ramifications that are so far reaching, its effects are still seen today.

I witness them when I walk into a room, and all white faces greet my own.  There is a moment.  Thickness in the air.  Eyes reflecting hearts and minds, quickly searching for a side of the line to stand on.  In some of them, I am threat long before I can present myself to be one.  Which is sad, in 2011.

The effects are present in the mindsets of too many young black men, unwilling to give a damn, because they are so certain it will just be snatched from their grasp.  There has become this trained acceptance of failure that is damaging our community.  It is for these brothers that my heart weeps.

The effects are present in the makeup of the modern black woman, who is often the byproduct of what happens when, for centuries, governing bodies attempt to cripple the black man, while telling the black woman that she is better off without him.  She is forced to become independent.  She is forced to become self-serving.  Unfortunately, she is also often forced to be skeptical of the black man, instead of embrace him.  We, as black men, need to bridge this gap, before total disconnection is achieved.

It is interesting that in society, simply because I am black, I am categorized as bitter, angry, or complaining.  That I am too busy seeking apology for something I don't deserve.  That it seems like I will find myself forever holding a grudge.

Thoughts flood my mind in response to this.

And they dare ask what my problem is?

In a nation that still seeks ways to remove me from my blackness when it is convenient, yet remind me of it when it does not fit their plans, I find myself tired.  Tired of having to explain why.  To white people, to other black  people, and even to myself.  As if being black is something I need an excuse for.

To me, BHM would serve a much greater purpose if it allowed these commentaries to be opened permanently.  A white friend made the point that history should just be history.  I think that's a quaint idea.  But until we as a society reach a point where black and white are equal labels, then this idea will never reach its fruition.  I guess because of the things I've experienced, I doubt this day will truly ever come.  While there are many of us, of all races,  who can coexist and desire true unity, we are still in the minority, which is perhaps irony at its finest.

I am not what America intended....


But I am here.  And my country is forced to take notice.

I hope that these three posts have helped a few gain a bit of understanding.  They are just a few of the issues still prevalent in the African-American community.  And I hope that BHM grows into an awareness of more than just a few inventors and contributors, but instead of the black experience in a nation that never intended for us to be a part of the conversation.

Much love to everyone.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Rare Groove, Feb. 23, 2011

It seems that I have neglected the music lately.  Which means I had to come with some rare awesomeness.  And while the artist is not new, I'm sure you'll enjoy.




Adele --- Set Fire to the Rain

Her voice just moves me.  Plus somewhere deep within me, I can remember the feelings this song evokes.  I remember that fire, even if I keep washing it away.  A beautiful song by a very talented singer.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet