photo by Larry Knight
Thursday, December 30, 2004
'Ghosts of Eden' Review
'Ghosts' is Beautifully Haunting
by Larry Knight
Life is a beautiful thing. It is often simple and special, providing us with a multitude of memories that, when taken as a whole, makes us laugh and smile. On the other hand, life is also filled with precarious situations and events that often inspire us to make sacrifices and decisions; both giving us the impetus to preserve what we love and hold dear. To some, it’s that special part of a loved one’s voice, to others it’s the fondness of a kiss. To writer, musician Mark Williams, it’s the beauty of the world and the emotions that exist with in it.
From the moment Williams’ independently produced CD, Ghosts Of Eden begins, listeners are instantly catapulted into a place of beauty and emotion. The opening track, ‘Crawl Across The Holyland’ provides a subtle, yet powerful introduction to a project that has taken years to make. With the haunting strum of his guitar, the warmth of cellist Linda Minke’s cello, and noted musician Bill Pillmore’s lap steel guitar the track sets up a beautiful collage of feeling that somewhat resembles a classic folk album, without the obviousness of cheesy imitation. In fact, Williams has assembled a cast of musicians that breath originality into the project, partly because each has amassed a breadth of individual work that gives them instantaneous credibility and respect among local Jacksonville artists, as well as industry executives. And with Williams at the helm, the CD takes on a multi-faceted appearance that automatically appeals to avid music lovers and first timer listeners alike.
Many of the tracks on Ghosts appear to do just that; provide listeners with a wonderful array of sounds and words that connect them to the soul of a master guitarist. On ‘These Things Happen’ a track in heavy radio rotation in Pennsylvania, Williams gives a sardonic view of the world through the eyes of a pensive, yet optimistic observer. The stark images found in this track offer the impression that the artist has endured much in his lifetime, and each time he seeks to channel those experiences through his music, the end result is a sarcastic piece on the acceptance of life’s ills.
Williams’ enlistment of a cadre of seasoned musical veterans has enabled this freshman effort to attain an almost classic status. Whether it’s Bill Pillmore, former member of the 1970s band Cowboy, and frequent collaborator with the legendary rock group, The Allman Brothers; Landon Walker, acoustic bassist, who has played with a number of jazz legends including Dizzy Gillespie; or Craig Barnette, former percussionist for Jacksonville based group Mofro, the album achieves a mood of heartfelt sentimentality, a testament to the tireless efforts of its creators.
With so many collaborators on Ghosts it would seem as if each musician would succumb to ego and seek to surpass the next, whether it be in their playing or their communication of beliefs. Not the case here, the themes of life, death, redemption, and struggle, to name a few, are masterfully delivered without a hint of sermonizing. In fact, the most socio-politically charged track on the album, ‘Witch Hunts’, is delivered with as much fire as a Sunday morning minister, while at the same time allowing Williams’ lyrics to share an open-minded view of the world. In it, he gives a scathing overview of the world we live in, a world that is rife with political systematizing, technological dependence, and the eventual isolation of dissenting freethinkers. But as Williams leads this charge to change worldviews, he also finds time to inject the ubiquitous theme of love into his effort. Though many musicians include love-themed tracks onto their albums, he seems to use the related themes of passion and loss as a basis for his. On perhaps one of the most beautifully constructed track found on the album, Williams and guest vocalist Michelle Barry, provide listeners with a striking look at an old theme. ‘South Of Savannah’ is a breathtaking treatment of adult love that is more about a taste of adoration and the craving of obsession, than that of the typical message of love portrayed on most albums. That theme is continued, though intensified, on ‘Erased In The Dark’, a track that solemnly conveys the emotion found in the loss of a loved one, in this case, a father. Williams’ projection of this hurtful acceptance is a loving tribute to his father battling Alzheimer’s. Although this track seems to connect to a very personal experience in the musician’s life, the listener is not isolated from its sentiment.
While many albums possess a certain charm that captures the moment in which it was conceived, Ghosts has the allure of an old record while maintaining a freshness that only seems to grow better with each listen. The vibrancy of each track, along with its flawless chronology makes this album one for the ages. The last track, ‘Snow Falling’ is perhaps a fitting end to the album, giving the project a stark realism that is accented by the piercing otherworldly shrieks of Linda Minke’s cello and Pillmore and Williams’ guitars. In addition, the vocals give the track a meditative quality that is very reminiscent of Alice Coltrane or The Moody Blues at the height of their careers. It is a resolution piece; a very beautiful, euphonic closing to a story that seems to drift off into vastness of space rather than fade into the nothingness that is the ending of a music project.
In the end, it is important to note that even though Ghosts was recorded in Pillmore’s studio in St. Augustine with the aid of grant funding, the album sounds as crisp and as rich as any multi-million dollar produced recording. It has a texture that is very difficult to acquire, especially on the first attempt. The only drawbacks however, are that for now, the album can only be purchased from Williams’ website and at Haven, a small gift store in Jacksonville Beach; and that the album tends to make the listener long for more, and since he spent a very constructive year recording his magnum opus to life, there will be a great many eager souls anticipating his follow-up.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
System Overload 2.0
Control Alt Delete
by Larry Knight
The world,
malcontent,
spinning on an axis,
inhabited by humans
conjuring wisdom,
seeking ideological sustenance
within life,
a conflict between haves and have-nots;
Subscribing to want,
acquiring material goods,
haves sit on the threshold of power,
siphoning gladness from misery,
relishing in the exclusivity of their post.
Thriving amidst chaos,
have-nots learn bleakness,
choke in tearful lamentation,
stand steadfast,
survive without relenting.
They clash in conflict,
with their philosophy of necessity,
justifying it in their actions,
living in the same world,
looking for the same ardent fervor
that sends them towards bliss-
their interpretation of success,
their vision of need as a conduit
leading to a declaration of intent,
a decision which yields an action,
resulting in one being left empty-handed.
The haves subjugate,
improve their status,
fatten their coffers,
achieve political powers
so that the will of free men
can be crushed in a blind act of patriotism;
use computers to cross-check files,
cross-reference names,
build a database of intel,
keep an eye on the enemy,
forge a digital war against a featureless face,
while children, looking to blue skies
growing dim with the prospect of hopelessness,
inundated by scare campaigns
discouraging smoking, sex, and obesity,
forge their own war upon an enemy-
their peers,
their teachers,
their community,
the establishment
responsible for their repression;
children face problems
not theirs to solely claim,
parents who acquiesce to their
child's every whim are responsible,
the village turning its back is responsible;
a whole generation of haves and have-nots
are being affected by an apathetic view
of the world around them,
and parents relinquish parental duties
to a 200 satellite channel omnibus
broadcasting from seven continents
providing a constantly switched on window to the world,
seeking us for its prey,
becoming a technological Venus fly trap
to fulfill its animalistic desire
to feed,
luring us with images of wealth,
making us believe in its splendor,
implanting us with base ideologies,
all the while, teaching us that to have
is ultimately better than to have not,
forcing us to except the realization,
despite what we may feel,
that life is the conflict
between the haves and the have-nots
and that the only true dilemma that we face
is figuring out to which side we belong.
Copyright 2004 Larry J. Knight, Jr.
by Larry Knight
The world,
malcontent,
spinning on an axis,
inhabited by humans
conjuring wisdom,
seeking ideological sustenance
within life,
a conflict between haves and have-nots;
Subscribing to want,
acquiring material goods,
haves sit on the threshold of power,
siphoning gladness from misery,
relishing in the exclusivity of their post.
Thriving amidst chaos,
have-nots learn bleakness,
choke in tearful lamentation,
stand steadfast,
survive without relenting.
They clash in conflict,
with their philosophy of necessity,
justifying it in their actions,
living in the same world,
looking for the same ardent fervor
that sends them towards bliss-
their interpretation of success,
their vision of need as a conduit
leading to a declaration of intent,
a decision which yields an action,
resulting in one being left empty-handed.
The haves subjugate,
improve their status,
fatten their coffers,
achieve political powers
so that the will of free men
can be crushed in a blind act of patriotism;
use computers to cross-check files,
cross-reference names,
build a database of intel,
keep an eye on the enemy,
forge a digital war against a featureless face,
while children, looking to blue skies
growing dim with the prospect of hopelessness,
inundated by scare campaigns
discouraging smoking, sex, and obesity,
forge their own war upon an enemy-
their peers,
their teachers,
their community,
the establishment
responsible for their repression;
children face problems
not theirs to solely claim,
parents who acquiesce to their
child's every whim are responsible,
the village turning its back is responsible;
a whole generation of haves and have-nots
are being affected by an apathetic view
of the world around them,
and parents relinquish parental duties
to a 200 satellite channel omnibus
broadcasting from seven continents
providing a constantly switched on window to the world,
seeking us for its prey,
becoming a technological Venus fly trap
to fulfill its animalistic desire
to feed,
luring us with images of wealth,
making us believe in its splendor,
implanting us with base ideologies,
all the while, teaching us that to have
is ultimately better than to have not,
forcing us to except the realization,
despite what we may feel,
that life is the conflict
between the haves and the have-nots
and that the only true dilemma that we face
is figuring out to which side we belong.
Copyright 2004 Larry J. Knight, Jr.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
A Thousand Words... [ARTICLE]
LJK in Baltimore, MD (February 2004)
photo by David G. Pugh
Pictures
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.
Pictures can communicate a number of things. Some present the emotions that are acquainted with despair and heartache, whereas others present peace, solitude, and introspection.
There is an axiom that says quite simply that ‘the eyes are the windows to the soul’. While there is some truth to that venerable saying, one must truly reflect upon the words, for as we seek to glimpse into the very essence of humankind, that thing that inspires us, propels us to do great things, we must continue to ask the questions that when answered will bring us closer to a true understand of the things that makes us...human.
For a very long time now I have sought out the beautiful places and things that exist in this world. Tried to find those comfortable niches where I could truly gaze upon the beauty of humanity. And as I sought those things and places, I have always felt that capturing them with the camera is the closest possible way that I could preserve their beauty. Sure, words may achieve the same thing, but photographs have the ability to communicate within the clarity of the image itself.
When one takes a glance at a picture, that thing which replicates what exists in the physical world, he or she is often glancing at the very essence of the human soul. And whether the image is in black and white or color, there is always a pronounced conduit that leads the viewer directly into the image’s content.
For example, on my coffee table, lies a book of photographs from Afghanistan that have been amassed over the past 50 years. On its cover is a poignant, though unnerving, image of an older Afghani man sitting at a table having tea with a young girl whom one could only assume was his daughter, while an AK-47 assault rifle lies on the table between them. The image speaks volumes. Within the covers of this book are images of joy, war, strife, degradation, deprivation, and humanity. Each image is a source of emotion. The pictures of children running through cobble-stoned streets, women wrapped in the traditional head dressing, or Afghani soldiers in combat with Soviet troops provide some form of linkage to a sentiment. A sentiment that provides the viewer with the basis for the question…’what makes me human?’
To be a photographer, means that one possesses the intentions of documenting the world. And whether that photographer documents birthday parties, weddings, or war, he or she is recording the events that shape our world. A few years ago my father, whom I consider the first photographer in my life that I truly had the chance to meet, gave me a camera. Now to some, this may not seem out of the ordinary, but one must consider this small fact…he had owned this camera for at least 28 years. To think of it, this simple man-made device had captured some of the most special moments of our family’s history. It had been there to witness countless birthdays, family vacations, graduations, holidays, births, and even deaths. Through its lens and within its inner mechanisms, it had captured the essence of our family. Today, I cherish that camera. Keep it safe. For it, like the old griots of West Africa, is a story teller. However, instead of using words, it has used images.
To be a photographer, means that one cherishes the moments that make life beautiful. So in short, take pictures…document the world.
Monday, December 20, 2004
A Work in Progress (Part 1)
Writing is a very unique process. It involves several steps that need to be mastered in order to achieve some semblance of perfection. Most people simply feel that the process involves only sound writing and publishing. They couldn’t be more incorrect.
I feel that in order to be a ‘good writer’, one should conceive some personal process that possesses more than an inkling of editing. This means that it is imperative that writers edit and revise their works before they are published. Mind you, it can be a laborious process, involving self-criticism and internal conflict because the decision to eliminate words from one’s work is often a difficult thing to do.
I am currently at that point. As I continue to write and rewrite my current project, a three act/part play tentatively entitled “A Yellow Summer”, I am faced with the daunting task of having to edit certain aspects that just don’t work. Sure, the work needs it, but it is definitely hard to undertake. It is however taking shape; right now I am working on the third act/part which seems to be the most difficult, for no other reason than because it is the end of the play.
So here I am, writing this new work, and I can’t seem to find an ending. I love the characters, they’re well rounded, and most importantly, their personalities give them the possibility of becoming dynamic characters, meaning they will undergo some significant change. In addition, I feel the story is solid; it is both timely and relevant. I regard it as a modern domestic tragedy, in that the central characters are of a social class that most people can find some relation too. However, with all of this, I still am experiencing some difficulty with the writing of the play.
Sometimes, I feel that each story that we seek to tell is somehow connected to an inner spirit that wants to channel all of the experiences that we as humans face each day. The way, in which our characters speak, carries the voices that we writers possess inside of us. In short, being a good writer means that one is able to articulate the voices of those characters in a way that truly captures the essence of humanity.
But if this connection between the writer and their characters is to exist, or for that matter function within the context of a work of literature, it is important that there be some form of revision. No one, I and I mean no one, is able to clearly capture the voices of characters in one draft! Now don’t get me wrong, I know that there are a great number of writers in this world that have honed their craft to the point where there could achieve in one draft that which I speak of. But despite that fact, I still feel that any writer, regardless of their abilities must take a second, or perhaps even a third or fourth look at their work before they publish it. Doing this (among a few other things) will only help them to get one step closer to that which we all want...to be called a ‘good writer’.
I feel that in order to be a ‘good writer’, one should conceive some personal process that possesses more than an inkling of editing. This means that it is imperative that writers edit and revise their works before they are published. Mind you, it can be a laborious process, involving self-criticism and internal conflict because the decision to eliminate words from one’s work is often a difficult thing to do.
I am currently at that point. As I continue to write and rewrite my current project, a three act/part play tentatively entitled “A Yellow Summer”, I am faced with the daunting task of having to edit certain aspects that just don’t work. Sure, the work needs it, but it is definitely hard to undertake. It is however taking shape; right now I am working on the third act/part which seems to be the most difficult, for no other reason than because it is the end of the play.
So here I am, writing this new work, and I can’t seem to find an ending. I love the characters, they’re well rounded, and most importantly, their personalities give them the possibility of becoming dynamic characters, meaning they will undergo some significant change. In addition, I feel the story is solid; it is both timely and relevant. I regard it as a modern domestic tragedy, in that the central characters are of a social class that most people can find some relation too. However, with all of this, I still am experiencing some difficulty with the writing of the play.
Sometimes, I feel that each story that we seek to tell is somehow connected to an inner spirit that wants to channel all of the experiences that we as humans face each day. The way, in which our characters speak, carries the voices that we writers possess inside of us. In short, being a good writer means that one is able to articulate the voices of those characters in a way that truly captures the essence of humanity.
But if this connection between the writer and their characters is to exist, or for that matter function within the context of a work of literature, it is important that there be some form of revision. No one, I and I mean no one, is able to clearly capture the voices of characters in one draft! Now don’t get me wrong, I know that there are a great number of writers in this world that have honed their craft to the point where there could achieve in one draft that which I speak of. But despite that fact, I still feel that any writer, regardless of their abilities must take a second, or perhaps even a third or fourth look at their work before they publish it. Doing this (among a few other things) will only help them to get one step closer to that which we all want...to be called a ‘good writer’.
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Clarity
Right now I am in Baton Rouge, LA visiting my parents. The reason that I am here is quite simple, first, to celebrate my youngest brother's graduation from college, and second, to celebrate the holidays. This is my favorite time of year, for more reasons than one. The whole idea of family coming together to celebrate is beautiful. I believe that people are at their best when they are together. I guess it is a testament to the old axiom ‘strength in numbers’. Coming home has always given me an opportunity to seek what I like to call ‘divine introspection’. There is a certain peace that is associated with coming to my parent’s home. Something in the air that just makes life seem perfect, like nothing can go wrong. I often lose myself in the solitude of home, but it seems that recently, my notions about the city of my birth have begun to evolve. For as many years that I can remember, I never looked at Baton Rouge or Louisiana for that matter as a place where prejudice and social/racial indifference ran rampant. In fact, it never crossed my mind until now. I must admit, I do possess a certain naïveté, but I’m an artist, and a liberal, so I guess I am a faithful follower to both doctrines. In any case, coming home this year, has allowed me to gain some type of knowledge that can only be attributed to my time spent away. It’s somewhat like the prodigal son in the Bible, mixed with a good old fashioned dose of stepping away from something to achieve clarity. There are two events that served as a source for this clarity; one involving an incident in New Orleans, and the other was somewhat of an epiphany.
On Thursday, Dec. 16, I flew into New Orleans and was picked up from the airport by a good friend of mine. Upon leaving the airport, he and I stopped at a Po-boy shop in Kenner so that we could get a bite to eat. As we ordered our food, I asked to use the establishment’s restroom, and was promptly told by the very kind lady behind the counter that it was ‘closed’, she however, quickly informed us that we could ask the woman who was mopping the floor. When we asked the second employee, she told us that the restrooms were closed, despite the fact that the business was still serving food. Now I don’t know much about the law, but I do know that if a business is serving food, it must provide working restroom facilities for its patrons. As my friend attempted to convince the employee to allow us to use the restroom, he was told that the person who possessed the key to the restroom was ‘out Christmas shopping’. We were inclined to wait. Now you have to understand a few things about the scene, first, that we were dressed in ‘professional’ attire, and second that we did not make a scene, in fact we were polite, used humor, and were most respectful. When the possessor of the key arrived, we quickly noticed that she was obviously upset over something, because her demeanor exuded an unhappy attitude. Using the same tone, same humor, and dressed in the same professional attire, we asked if we could use the restroom, and were swiftly told ….NO. Now this baffled me, here we were, two professionally dressed patrons of this establishment, asking for one of the most basic rights that a human being could request, being told no. There is however, one fact that I seemed to have forgotten…we were African-American, as were all of the employees, and she was white. We asked again and she along with the conception of a litany of excuses, said no again. When my friend asked why…she said (1) the floor was wet and she wouldn’t be responsible for any accidents, and (2) there were fumes in the bathroom, and she wouldn’t be responsible for anything happening to us. It seemed as if she was determined to give us more reasons explaining why we couldn’t go, rather than why we could. Then it hit me….could it have something to do with our (I dare not say) race? Of course not, not in 2004, and not in the ‘progressive’ South. When my friend finally got her to buckle, mind you under her stipulation that he sign a ‘waiver’ relinquishing all possibilities of law suits, she acquiesced. When my friend motioned to me that I could go, given the fact that I had just arrived in the city after being on a two hour flight, the manager vehemently protested. When my friend asked why I couldn’t go she said, “He didn’t ask, you did.” She continued by saying, “This is always the problem, if I let one person go, everyone wants to go.” I sat there mortified and promptly told her to just forget about it. Now at the same time that this was going on, two young African-American teens were waiting for their orders. The mere fact that they had to bear witness to this was appalling. Then it hit me again…these two young men, were unbeknownst to them, being affected by this scene. There they were sitting, watching two articulate, professionally dressed, highly educated men, being told that they could not relieve themselves in a place that they had just patronized. It made me think of the events of the Black Freedom Struggle (AKA Civil Rights Movement) and how young boys would watch as their fathers or men that they respected were called ‘boy’ by people sometimes younger than themselves. To me this whole affair had become more than just a case of allowing me to use a restroom; it had become a case of affecting the minds of our children. A case mind you, of classic ‘divide and conquer’. As these boys watched as we were denied, I feared that somewhere in their minds was the thought that no matter what you achieve in life, you will still be denied for the most nonsensical, irrational of reasons, but more importantly, that achievement means nothing when stacked against prejudice. However, what compounded the event was the fact that the women who worked behind the counter were forced to watch this in silence. These women, who obviously saw an injustice taking place before their very eyes, could not speak out in protest simply because they would be reprimanded, or even worse, fired. And fired mind you, over an issue that was obviously a case of the denial of civil rights. In fact, as we left, the woman who was mopping was summarily led into the manager’s office like a child behind led to the back of the tool shed.
In the end, the lesson learned was one that is antiquated, though useful. If there is an intention to overcome the social and civil ills that continue to plague our society, a consolidation must occur. People, regardless of cultural, religious, or racial affiliation, must seek a commonality, and be willing to speak up when things are not right. Those young men, who may or may not live in an impoverished community, need good role models, people to aspire to emulate, and without them, there is a chance, though fleeting, that they will disassociate themselves with the philosophies of achievement, and subscribe to the philosophies of apathy. Trust me; I have seen it occur in the microcosm of the public school setting.
So as I celebrate this holiday with friends and family members, I’ll try to espouse the virtues of the concord that must exist in our community…it just might change things.
On Thursday, Dec. 16, I flew into New Orleans and was picked up from the airport by a good friend of mine. Upon leaving the airport, he and I stopped at a Po-boy shop in Kenner so that we could get a bite to eat. As we ordered our food, I asked to use the establishment’s restroom, and was promptly told by the very kind lady behind the counter that it was ‘closed’, she however, quickly informed us that we could ask the woman who was mopping the floor. When we asked the second employee, she told us that the restrooms were closed, despite the fact that the business was still serving food. Now I don’t know much about the law, but I do know that if a business is serving food, it must provide working restroom facilities for its patrons. As my friend attempted to convince the employee to allow us to use the restroom, he was told that the person who possessed the key to the restroom was ‘out Christmas shopping’. We were inclined to wait. Now you have to understand a few things about the scene, first, that we were dressed in ‘professional’ attire, and second that we did not make a scene, in fact we were polite, used humor, and were most respectful. When the possessor of the key arrived, we quickly noticed that she was obviously upset over something, because her demeanor exuded an unhappy attitude. Using the same tone, same humor, and dressed in the same professional attire, we asked if we could use the restroom, and were swiftly told ….NO. Now this baffled me, here we were, two professionally dressed patrons of this establishment, asking for one of the most basic rights that a human being could request, being told no. There is however, one fact that I seemed to have forgotten…we were African-American, as were all of the employees, and she was white. We asked again and she along with the conception of a litany of excuses, said no again. When my friend asked why…she said (1) the floor was wet and she wouldn’t be responsible for any accidents, and (2) there were fumes in the bathroom, and she wouldn’t be responsible for anything happening to us. It seemed as if she was determined to give us more reasons explaining why we couldn’t go, rather than why we could. Then it hit me….could it have something to do with our (I dare not say) race? Of course not, not in 2004, and not in the ‘progressive’ South. When my friend finally got her to buckle, mind you under her stipulation that he sign a ‘waiver’ relinquishing all possibilities of law suits, she acquiesced. When my friend motioned to me that I could go, given the fact that I had just arrived in the city after being on a two hour flight, the manager vehemently protested. When my friend asked why I couldn’t go she said, “He didn’t ask, you did.” She continued by saying, “This is always the problem, if I let one person go, everyone wants to go.” I sat there mortified and promptly told her to just forget about it. Now at the same time that this was going on, two young African-American teens were waiting for their orders. The mere fact that they had to bear witness to this was appalling. Then it hit me again…these two young men, were unbeknownst to them, being affected by this scene. There they were sitting, watching two articulate, professionally dressed, highly educated men, being told that they could not relieve themselves in a place that they had just patronized. It made me think of the events of the Black Freedom Struggle (AKA Civil Rights Movement) and how young boys would watch as their fathers or men that they respected were called ‘boy’ by people sometimes younger than themselves. To me this whole affair had become more than just a case of allowing me to use a restroom; it had become a case of affecting the minds of our children. A case mind you, of classic ‘divide and conquer’. As these boys watched as we were denied, I feared that somewhere in their minds was the thought that no matter what you achieve in life, you will still be denied for the most nonsensical, irrational of reasons, but more importantly, that achievement means nothing when stacked against prejudice. However, what compounded the event was the fact that the women who worked behind the counter were forced to watch this in silence. These women, who obviously saw an injustice taking place before their very eyes, could not speak out in protest simply because they would be reprimanded, or even worse, fired. And fired mind you, over an issue that was obviously a case of the denial of civil rights. In fact, as we left, the woman who was mopping was summarily led into the manager’s office like a child behind led to the back of the tool shed.
In the end, the lesson learned was one that is antiquated, though useful. If there is an intention to overcome the social and civil ills that continue to plague our society, a consolidation must occur. People, regardless of cultural, religious, or racial affiliation, must seek a commonality, and be willing to speak up when things are not right. Those young men, who may or may not live in an impoverished community, need good role models, people to aspire to emulate, and without them, there is a chance, though fleeting, that they will disassociate themselves with the philosophies of achievement, and subscribe to the philosophies of apathy. Trust me; I have seen it occur in the microcosm of the public school setting.
So as I celebrate this holiday with friends and family members, I’ll try to espouse the virtues of the concord that must exist in our community…it just might change things.
True Hollywood Stories...
Hollywood
by Larry Knight
My father and I sat silently in the shadows of a movie house;
eager to see images of celluloid fantasy
stretched across the screen,
I waited in anticipation
waited with childish impatience
brought to life by the wonder of my ten year old imagination
that moved between reality and the world of illusion;
my father, proudly glancing down at me,
his eyes fixated on a child’s smile,
hardly knew the feeling of seeing
a proud black face on a silver screen;
the curtain drew open,
my chest grew tight,
eyes opened and tried to focus,
the sound of the projector’s inner mechanisms
began in the darkness overhead,
light from the lens shot a streak across pitch black,
sliced through the emptiness and illuminated the screen
that spanned the wall in the distance,
music erupted from the speakers to the left and right of us,
its triumphant sound heralded the start of the picture,
and suddenly, the world around us, the people,
the theater, everything...disappeared,
but the images of the picture
were crisp, sharp and in focus,
each shape crystal clear;
I saw vast fields,
fields stretching as far as the eye could make out,
filled with tanned black husks
swaying in the afternoon sun,
hunched over, backs bent like arches,
fingers blistered,
sweat tracing a line across brows,
Hollywood was a plantation,
silver haired servants poured oceans of lemonade on porches,
buxom, bug-eyed mammys pulled tightly on yards of corset strings,
barefoot children gulped mountains of watermelon
while a fiddler, picked at strings made from ropes
pulled from hanging trees,
I closed my eyes
the images seared through,
the imprints formed perfectly
moving us through time;
I could see the toothy grin of chauffeurs
holding doors open for blue haired socialites,
their hands callused and sore from clutching the wheel,
faces melancholy,
stretched from self-inflicted over exaggerated smiling,
my father and I sat,
our muscles atrophied,
the scenes changed at random,
but the faces remained the same,
I saw the expanse of an African coastline appear,
its blue water and golden sand drew comfort,
the lush foliage, green and full of life
consoled me,
I moved through the dense canopy of forest,
moved into villages,
hovered above straw and mud huts,
black faces gazed skyward,
I saw uncivilized men and women
standing amidst what seemed like a forest of spears
held tight in their fists,
bathed in their unintelligible utterances,
all while the settlers from the Western world
stand like gods among them;
I saw them navigate through the native land with ease,
speak to animals, take life indiscriminately;
time lurched forward again
and I saw stately vaudeville theaters,
palaces of decadence,
their halls filled with smoke and sweat,
the pronounced smell of burnt cork wafted through
as a rakish duo of dancers
scattered across a stage in blackface,
their clownish mannerisms cut through the deepest part of me,
their imitation, brutal,
an ill-conceived mocking
of what they perceived was the best parts of a culture
and then suddenly, they were gone,
lost in a blinding flash of light,
and we moved into great urban cities,
saw sky scrapers that rose from earth,
their glass and steel frames gleamed,
and in the distance
clad in black leather and anger,
the brother,
ready to seize the world
burn it to the ground,
around him an army of black,
their fists stretched to the sky,
their eyes filled with malcontent,
I bathed myself in their rebellion,
time wouldn’t stop,
the images wouldn’t cease,
I conjured the future,
saw new images of Hollywood
where old school stereotypes morphed
into new school ticket sellers,
and new school blacks
became images stretched across a screen
trying hard to escape their past,
more akin to it than they really know;
my father and I sat there,
the screen grew black,
darkness faded to light,
the images lingered,
my heart moved by the presence of truth
felt the sting of unprejudiced reality
which somehow said in no uncertain terms,
with a certain casualness,
that it is art which truly imitates…life.
copyright 2004 Larry J. Knight, Jr.
by Larry Knight
My father and I sat silently in the shadows of a movie house;
eager to see images of celluloid fantasy
stretched across the screen,
I waited in anticipation
waited with childish impatience
brought to life by the wonder of my ten year old imagination
that moved between reality and the world of illusion;
my father, proudly glancing down at me,
his eyes fixated on a child’s smile,
hardly knew the feeling of seeing
a proud black face on a silver screen;
the curtain drew open,
my chest grew tight,
eyes opened and tried to focus,
the sound of the projector’s inner mechanisms
began in the darkness overhead,
light from the lens shot a streak across pitch black,
sliced through the emptiness and illuminated the screen
that spanned the wall in the distance,
music erupted from the speakers to the left and right of us,
its triumphant sound heralded the start of the picture,
and suddenly, the world around us, the people,
the theater, everything...disappeared,
but the images of the picture
were crisp, sharp and in focus,
each shape crystal clear;
I saw vast fields,
fields stretching as far as the eye could make out,
filled with tanned black husks
swaying in the afternoon sun,
hunched over, backs bent like arches,
fingers blistered,
sweat tracing a line across brows,
Hollywood was a plantation,
silver haired servants poured oceans of lemonade on porches,
buxom, bug-eyed mammys pulled tightly on yards of corset strings,
barefoot children gulped mountains of watermelon
while a fiddler, picked at strings made from ropes
pulled from hanging trees,
I closed my eyes
the images seared through,
the imprints formed perfectly
moving us through time;
I could see the toothy grin of chauffeurs
holding doors open for blue haired socialites,
their hands callused and sore from clutching the wheel,
faces melancholy,
stretched from self-inflicted over exaggerated smiling,
my father and I sat,
our muscles atrophied,
the scenes changed at random,
but the faces remained the same,
I saw the expanse of an African coastline appear,
its blue water and golden sand drew comfort,
the lush foliage, green and full of life
consoled me,
I moved through the dense canopy of forest,
moved into villages,
hovered above straw and mud huts,
black faces gazed skyward,
I saw uncivilized men and women
standing amidst what seemed like a forest of spears
held tight in their fists,
bathed in their unintelligible utterances,
all while the settlers from the Western world
stand like gods among them;
I saw them navigate through the native land with ease,
speak to animals, take life indiscriminately;
time lurched forward again
and I saw stately vaudeville theaters,
palaces of decadence,
their halls filled with smoke and sweat,
the pronounced smell of burnt cork wafted through
as a rakish duo of dancers
scattered across a stage in blackface,
their clownish mannerisms cut through the deepest part of me,
their imitation, brutal,
an ill-conceived mocking
of what they perceived was the best parts of a culture
and then suddenly, they were gone,
lost in a blinding flash of light,
and we moved into great urban cities,
saw sky scrapers that rose from earth,
their glass and steel frames gleamed,
and in the distance
clad in black leather and anger,
the brother,
ready to seize the world
burn it to the ground,
around him an army of black,
their fists stretched to the sky,
their eyes filled with malcontent,
I bathed myself in their rebellion,
time wouldn’t stop,
the images wouldn’t cease,
I conjured the future,
saw new images of Hollywood
where old school stereotypes morphed
into new school ticket sellers,
and new school blacks
became images stretched across a screen
trying hard to escape their past,
more akin to it than they really know;
my father and I sat there,
the screen grew black,
darkness faded to light,
the images lingered,
my heart moved by the presence of truth
felt the sting of unprejudiced reality
which somehow said in no uncertain terms,
with a certain casualness,
that it is art which truly imitates…life.
copyright 2004 Larry J. Knight, Jr.
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