affinity.

POETRY: 'Transcendence' By Larry Knight

2011-09-11T13:21:00.001-04:00

Transcendence

By Larry Knight

How can wedefine the invincibility of humanity?

Is it in thedeeds of the brave, their actions

Marked by theunselfish concern of heroism?

Is it in theindefinite nature of our fragile selves,

How we hidesorrow behind facades of strength?

Is it in ourtears, a deluge never quite washing away pain?

How can we showresilience in baleful hours,

In days, months,and years marked by hurt?

We embrace life,its promise, the existence of joy,

Moments definedby degrees of elation

Then juxtaposedto the heartache of a bitter truth:

We are mortal.

Our flesh andbone and blood

Are not immuneto the certainty of temporality.

Our breathpushed from lungs into space,

Never to bereclaimed, is without substance...

But not ourlove. Not the altruism we possess,

our unyieldingcommitment to life,

the light in theeyes of our children.

We are notpromised immortality,

Only theassurance of remembrance accompanying

Ourselflessness, our faith, our fealty to love.

Despite thelimits of race, or gender, or wealth,

Or religion, ouracts define us;

they encircleearth inspiring lives unfamiliar,

illuminatingsouls shrouded by misfortune's pall,

making us as vastas forever.

VIDEO: 'the everyman project' Performance at Players by the Sea (June 5, 2011)

2011-06-09T21:33:00.001-04:00

This is a video featuring a performance of the 'the everyman project' with Larry Knight and David Girard (with guest appearance by Jonathan Ross). The video was shot by Jefferson Fox at Players by the Sea Community Theater on June 5, 2011 during the Fringe on the Rocks Festival.

POETRY: 'Her Voice.' by Larry Knight

2011-04-12T16:15:00.000-04:00

Her Voice.
by Larry Knight

Her voice whispers the songs
of my mother.

Their notes, like soft razors
cut deep, draw blood, persuade
me to find my truth in her arms;

I am a dull blade moving against
my reason; she is a quarter note
of protest, delivering me and us
from the chains of our devise.

The tenor of revolution in verse
yields undefined complexity;
her notes, a rose plucked
from a mountainside is
a soft, fluttering passion
lost in the solemnity

She is the wind, I am a branch
on a tree bending with every note
shaped by the delicacy of wind.

Love is shared divinity;
we react, in motion,
finding quiet seconds;
reacting in harmony
against want,
against reason,
against logic,
against shared divinity
and passion and complexity.

We find hope in eternal springs;
she, enraptured by my commitment,
imbues me with revolution;
we dance eternally;
I, lost in her verse, fall;
she, like a sun rose, illuminates.

Copyright 2010 | Larry Knight

ARTICLE: Local Theatre’s Executive Director Gives Opportunities to Local Writers

2009-09-12T13:31:00.003-04:00

By Larry Knight
Published in Sept. 2009 issue of EU Jacksonville

To most, the main purpose of operating a theatre is to fill the seats; to adhere to the strict commercial viability of the work. But in some cases, the artistic merit of the piece and the opportunity to showcase homegrown talent are equal to or in many cases supersede the quest to fill the bottom line. Such is the case at Players by the Sea, one of several local Jacksonville community theatres providing local writers with a launching pad. Under the executive direction of Joseph Schwarz since 2001, Players, as it is known to patrons and actors alike, is a premiere community theatre in the region for local writers.

Like community theatres around the country, Players, which first opened in 1966, is equally concerned with profit margins, declining audiences and overall sustainability. As city councils across America continue to reassess the necessity of funding community arts programs, some theatres have abandoned taking risks on untested plays. In fact, the revival of classic plays on Broadway and in community theatres almost serves as a testament to the need to produce proven money makers. But to Schwarz there is always a place for local works. As he puts it, the inclusion of plays penned by local writers adds a certain quality to the theatre.

“I think they help define who we are as an incubator for local work,” said Schwarz. “It’s a very important component of who we are.”

The significance of showcasing local plays is in keeping with the theatre’s mission statement to celebrate the “values of innovation and inclusion, through premieres of local playwrights” and to “provide creative opportunities for the artists of today and tomorrow.”

That statement that he and his staff of volunteers strive to exemplify has been a longstanding philosophy at Players and Schwarz himself has been cultivating it for many years in his personal pursuits. A graduate of New York University in 1977, Schwarz worked in New York City for eleven years before relocating to upstate New York for five years where he amassed an impressive résumé working as the executive director of the Common Stage Theatre Company in Woodstock. As director of his own company, Schwarz’s only goal was to produce original works.

Many of the writers and actors he encountered—industry figures such as Michael Cristofer, Mary Louise Wilson, Lisa Loomer, and Wendy Wasserstein—were given the opportunity to showcase their works in their developmental stages.

“They were successful in New York City and were always looking for a place to try something out,” said Schwarz. “90 percent of it didn’t go anywhere, but that 10 percent that did were works like ‘Full Gallop’ by Mary Louise Wilson which I first produced in my theatre before it went on to a successful run on Broadway and in London.”

In the years spent at Common Stage, Schwarz adopted the very same definition of excellence that would come to characterize his accomplishments at Players. To him, theatre has a higher purpose of connecting the complexities of emotion with the art in the hopes of leaving an impression on the theatergoer.

Although Schwarz believes this, he claims Players does not rely solely on such a stringent formula when seeking new work from some of Jacksonville’s most promising playwrights. To him, there is no prescription employed, just the consultation of actors, musicians and patrons, the promise of artistic merit and the taking of risks.

“As a community theatre we service the entire community so we pick shows that are going to be of interest to everybody,” said Schwarz. “The criterion beyond that is that the work has to have some type of artistic merit.”

This kind of risk taking and offering of galvanizing, more provocative fare has in some ways come to define the Players experience. Past season selections such as ‘Cabaret,’ ‘Sweeney Todd,’ and ‘The Price’ have each possessed a type of progressiveness synonymous with the theatre. According to Schwarz, this sets it apart from other local community theatres and allows the theatre, and everyone involved to stretch both artistically and technically. However, he confesses that pieces up for consideration each season need to incorporate some level of marketability. To Schwarz, the key to a successful selection is a sense of balance. He feels the profitability and artistic quality of the play need to work in tandem.

“I don’t think one supersedes the other, I think that they are one in the same,” said Schwarz. “Something that is artistically superb is going to be marketable.”

This balance of quality, entertainment and the prospect of profit are often applied to the three plays a month he receives from locally based writers. Many are in various states of completion, but once the plays or their treatments are received, he and selection committee members read them. Schwarz acknowledged there is no ‘magic formula’; instead they rely in part on the theatre’s philosophy of excellence to guide the decision.

“We encourage people to bring their works to us, especially local playwrights,” said Schwarz. “If their work has merit, if it passes our definition of excellence we want to produce them, we want to give them a chance.”

In recent years, he and the selection committee have chosen a number of innovative pieces penned by local talent. Writers David Sacks, Barbara Williams, Derek Coghlan, and Al Letson have had their work produced by Schwarz and each has seen measures of success both at Players and at other theatres around the country.

“Al and Barbara walked in here seven years ago, I read his work, and said ‘Essential Personnel’ is something that we want to do,” said Schwarz. “I am sure Al would have found his way whether we did it or not, but I am proud that we are a part of his story.”

Letson’s host of other works is in league with fellow local writers who have also enjoyed similar success showcasing their plays at the theatre. David Sacks has seen success with multiple works produced at Players and Barbara Williams, the theatre’s education director, has enjoyed a successful run of her one-woman show ‘Life on the Diagonal’ both at Players and in New York City. Derek Coghlan’s two one-man shows, ‘Repainting Larry Cooper’ and most recently, ‘Tog Out. You're On’ were both recognized as a blend of humor, wit and satire. Coghlan, a full-time English teacher at Landrum Middle School in Ponte Vedra Beach, attributes much of the success of his two shows to Schwarz’s trust and fearlessness.

“Joe gave me carte blanche to do whatever I wanted. He trusted me and that made me want to do more for him,” said Coghlan. “Joe gets what a community theater should be. He’s not afraid to take risks and he’s not afraid to trust people.”

As Schwarz prepares to enter his eighth season at Players, he says he is firmly committed to not only strengthening the city’s talent pool, but also delivering quality, original works to patrons and fellow members of Jacksonville’s theatre community. In defense of the theatre’s tendency to take risks on new writers, he feels Players is trying to do what many theatres in the city often overlook.

Schwarz doesn’t see Player’s involved in a rivalry with the other theatres in the city. According to him it is a good thing other theatres make dissimilar decisions and that the differences in the pieces selected are beneficial to everyone. As he puts it, this will ultimately lead to the growth of Jacksonville’s entire theatre community.

“It’s not about competition with the other theatres,” said Schwarz. “The more we work together and help each other, the more theatre there is in Jacksonville, and the more theatre as a whole grows.”

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COLUMN: The Politics of Protest

2009-09-12T08:11:00.001-04:00

Today is the Tea Party Express protest in D.C. and yes I believe as Americans we have a fundamental right to freedom of speech (so long as no one is hurt). But, I do have one major concern: who defines patriotism?

Patriotism is NOT political. Watch the number of people who wrap themselves in the flag and claim to be 'real Americans.' Like Obama? Then you are not a real American. Think Obama is a U.S. citizen? Then you are not a real American. Want health care reform? Then you are not a real American.

When someone tells you that you are not a real American, chances are you are.

birth.

2009-08-27T22:18:00.000-04:00

Camille was born on last Friday. And to my enjoyment, I have cherised every second since.

If Looks Could Kill...

2006-03-07T14:33:00.000-05:00

In Glances
Written By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

She pretends not to care,
though there’s truth
in her eyelashes;
they revel too much,
communicate in code
her heart’s intent;
indifference overpowered
by tiny wisps of hair
that bat when her eyes
are strangely fixed upon me;
the rawness of her restrained smile,
the language of her silence,
the verbiage defined within her
stare, speaking a million words
resonating without a syllable;
she’s quiet,
I’m cool,
she resists,
I decipher her look;
translate the message
hidden in her reluctance to speak;
transcribe the cryptogram
that’s her expression:
a tiny curl of the mouth
becomes discontent;
wandering eyes
become avoidance;
a tilted neck,
a search for comprehension;
she looks, curiously,
eyes seeking some shred of reason,
I translate:
her heart beckoning her to love,
her brain, diluting want with logic;
she’s quiet,
I’m cool,
she resists,
I decipher her looks;
she knows that tomorrow
is nothing more than mythology,
fantasies promised to those
willing to embrace the sanctity of chance;
realizes more than anything
love’s a chemical,
that it poisons
if taken too much;
she’s always consumed mine in moderation,
taking only as much is needed;
she pretends, if only for now,
that she doesn’t care,
doesn’t feel,
doesn’t want to love me;
she’s quiet,
I’m cool,
she resists,
I decipher her looks;
study the concealed lexis
existing beneath the surface
of her faint, vacant expression;
needing some answer,
some insight
to quench my curiosity,
and know what truth she hides
yearning to break free.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Memories

2006-03-01T14:36:00.000-05:00

An Elegy
Written By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

I’ll miss your innocence;
the way you danced
by moonlight,
without a song,
down St. Charles Avenue,
carelessly,
whispering into the night,
tracing your fingertips
on the trunks of trees
as you moved pass them,
your arms outstretched,
like wings,
balancing you,
giving you flight;

I’ll dream of your baptism,
when you were immersed
within transient waves of jazz;
the way you floated
down the River Walk
on its notes,
effortlessly;
how you, and the waves
of the Mississippi,
moved synchronously
in that spring air;

I’ll miss the glow
of your white satin dress
at midnight,
the curve of your figure
and your smile in a seamless tandem,
your eyes reflecting
the moon;
how your Southern gentility
charmed new souls
with just a glance,
they fell in love with you,
as did I.

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Finding the Right Words

2005-10-25T22:04:00.000-04:00

What Matters Most
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

As most of you know, Rosa Parks, an icon of the Southern Protest Movement, died last night. She was 92. All day today, I thought about what I could say that would encapsulate how I felt about this woman. It just seemed as if no words would suffice; that was however before I read the tribute postings on The Detroit Free Press' website.

As I read each of the poignant and intimately written postings, I found my words. Sure, I can be verbose at times, but in light of everything that Rosa Parks stood for, I felt that simplicity was best. In this case, minimalism would win. It is a widely known fact that Mrs. Parks was humble in her greatness; that she felt that what she did way back in 1955 was not some grand gesture, but more of something that just had to be done. As I considered the sad truth that we, not just African-Americans, but the entire world population, had lost a revered, loved, and honored citizen of the human race; a person who single-handedly changed our world, not to mention the world's perception of African-American women, I found my words, and I began to type...

"Thank you, Mrs. Parks...from an entire generation."

As I stated, simplicity was required.

Catharsis...

2005-09-18T03:02:00.000-04:00

photo by the Associated Press (copyright 2005)

South of Paradise, Home of the Dispossessed
Written by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

-for the children of New Orleans

Remember the summer exodus
of southern heartbreak and diasporas
moving across the nation;
fleeing from rotting corpses, left to decay
in sewage and oil,
beneath a merciless Louisiana sun;
will families once solidified by community,
now split like breached levees
continue to be embraced with open arms
when the collective flood of evacuees
reach an impasse,
when America, forgets;

New Orleans,
will TV record your fate,
will AP photos document your future,
will the winds of change
blow cold, once altruism
is replaced with indifference-
the skeletal hand of charity
and humanism, methodically drawn in retreat;

Will hunger pangs and dehydration,
and shrieks for help
receive any remembrance
as the bones of drowned children
lost in the tidal surge of a swollen lake
crumble to dust;
will memorials for the dispossessed
be erected when the migration
marks an anniversary;
who’ll honor the disaster,
will scores of visitors flock
to the convention center,
to stand, or genuflect
where the poor were left to die;

Remember New Orleans;
its tree lined boulevards,
its putrid smell,
its pulsing jazz,
its people,
their joi d’ vivre,
their mulatto and Creole faces
contorted, in anguish,
forced from their homes;
who’ll remember their exodus,
mothered by hurricane,
inseminated by civic disparity,
the offspring is relocation,
people, moved from shelter to refuge,
sleeping for the first time
under unfamiliar skies
and unrecognizable stars,
Africans in Utah,
Nebraska,
Montana,
Oklahoma;
who’ll call them home,
remind them that red sunsets
never fell across their rooftops;
that the thick, grey looming shadow
of a chemical plant’s smoke trail,
cancerously rained down on them;
who’ll tell them that airborne carcinogens
aren’t tolerable as long as a government check
arrives at the end of the month,
discuss years of ecological ruin,
remind them, of the smell of poverty,
an inescapable odor trapped in memory’s grasp,
still, pungently, afflicting senses;

Remember New Orleans,
its orphaned children
scattered into the four winds,
lost in the wilderness,
adopted like human pets
only to be left behind
when they’re of no use,
when philanthropy withers,
when other children need bread and clothes,
who’ll champion their cause then;
will we still write songs about the bayou,
sing to the low moon over the Mississippi,
and dream, of the Crescent City
submerged under 20 feet of water;
what’ll become of compassion then,
when the attention is drawn elsewhere
and the city, is finally
and truly, left to fend for itself;

Where will the press conferences be held,
will we hear the sound bites
over the echoed screams of single mothers
who sift through the mud soaked remnants
of their lives;
when a son learns his daddy
was washed away with the flood;
when the ghastly sounds of the funeral dirge
rise, and hover above the city,
will we remember;

When empathy dries and tears subside,
will anybody count the hours
brown toxins spewed
into the poorest parts of the city;
who’ll speak of the death
that swept over them
as whispers of convenient resignation
and the guise of compassion
recount impoverished suffering;
who’ll worry about the affliction
fostered by the middle class, and sustained
by the continued poisoning of neighbors,
the slow extermination of strangers;
will they remember
that the rich and the poor
never intersected before this,
their lives too polarized;
abject poverty on the left,
needless excess on the right,
in-between them, a gulf that can’t be filled;
will they see this city,
New Orleans, as an oasis of corruption and greed,
proof of the lasting power of Jim Crow,
where the poor live deep in the barrel of shot gun homes,
cursed, like the wandering dead,
while in comparison, the affluent live like gods;
both divided by race, class, and education,
essential ingredients for the roux,
used to make a lethal gumbo of disproportion,
fed to the victims of gentrification
staining a nation when it boils over the top;
but who’s hands are marked,
who’ll clean up years of brewing antagonism;
a community displaced, or a society
that cares as long as the cameras are rolling;

Remember New Orleans,
its disease infested bowels,
its squalid ghettos,
its abandoned homes,
its deserted avenues, left to the dead,
will anybody recall the families, pulled apart,
stretched across a nation,
separated, given little, if any hope,
children and parents both
clinging to a myth of tomorrow;
will the fabric of the American dream
be ripped by society’s eventual indifference,
will the wounds on the feet of trekking masses
of dispossessed Southerners fester, and rot,
will their bodies succumb to the infection,
crippling them, for generations to come?

Who’ll remember?

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The Myth of Tomorrow?

2005-09-08T09:27:00.000-04:00

photo by The Associated Press (copyright 2005)

The Myth of Tomorrow
Lyrics by Larry J. Knight, Jr.
Arrangement by L. J. Knight, Jr. and V. S. Major

Sleep precious children sleep,
our lives in the next world ain't far ahead,
Rest little children, rest your weary souls
for the Lord's a comin' soon
to take our spirits home.

Remember the land of our mother,
sweet land of our mother
take our spirits home

Remember the bend of the river,
to the bend of the river
take our spirits home

Dream precious children dream,
close your eyes and believe in sweet deliverance
Pray pretty children, kneel before the Lord
for salvations train's arrivin'
so climb on board.

Believe in the life everlasting
true life everlasting
take our spirits home

Believe in our life's redemption
our redemption is a coming
take our spirits home

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The Beginning of the End of the Beginning [ARTICLE]

2005-09-04T12:45:00.000-04:00

photo by The Associated Press (copyright 2005)

Week One
By Larry J. Knight, Jr.

This past week has been something close to a nightmare, as I am sure is the case for all natives of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama who are presently living abroad. Each time I turn on the television, access the web, or listen to the radio, I am constantly overcome by a feeling of helplessness and loss. I, like many, have cried several times this week, and this article is my catharsis; my attempt to heal myself through the only thing that I seem to be able to control...my words. Many of my friends and their families were affected by this storm. Many of them have lost their homes, their possessions, even their loved ones. Being from Louisiana doesn't give me the right to claim this as 'my tragedy' or the tragedy of my people for that matter, but there is something about this event...something overwhelming.

Though I’m from Baton Rouge, I know those people in New Orleans, many of them have stood right next to me as I participated in the Mardi Gras, Bayou Classic, New Year's, Essence Festival, and Super Bowl festivities, or visited their homes on innumerable occasions. I can see their faces each time I look at an Associated Press image that is shown repeatedly. I always say to myself 'I know them', they are not random strangers in some photograph on in some video footage, they are my former neighbors; and in some ways, it is my tragedy, and their tragedy, and everyone's tragedy. But here I sit, in Jacksonville, reduced to relying on third party communication; sickened by the network news coverage, but at the same time totally dependent upon it as the only source of information. As a former student and now teacher of journalism, it is hard to sit through the bold computer graphics, intentionally somber music, and asinine editorial commentary, just to see one glimpse of the 'city of my father', to find out if the areas where friends of mine once and presently reside are inundated with water. But as I have found, even the networks have had difficulty understanding, let alone covering the immensity of this event. And their difficulty only pales in comparison to mine. They have satellite phones and video communication links, whereas I have my Sprint cell phone, that most of the time just doesn't seem to be able to connect me with people in the 225, 504, or 985 area code regions. They are able to speak with the Governor, the Mayor, and even the President, but I can't speak to people that mean more to me than an elected official. The pensive waiting game feels like an eternity. For example, over the last week I've tried to get in touch with two of my dearest New Orleans-born friends who now live in Baton Rouge and their parents, who undoubtedly lost their home out in New Orleans East. I call, get no answer; call again, still get no answer; the lack of communication becoming a rhythmic exchange between me and nothingness. But each day as I try to reach them, I have to ask myself, what do I plan to tell them? How can I convey sentiments over a telephone, especially when I'm safe, dry, still have all of my possessions, aren't worrying about the safety of any immediate family members or what tomorrow will or may bring? Each time I dial, and that now ubiquitous operator voice comes on to tell me that the circuits are busy as a result of the storm, I painfully avoid the inevitable.

We cannot begin to understand what it's like to experience what many of them are at present experiencing. Over the past week, I have somewhat come to find out details of the event that are not being presented in the press. Details that have come to my attention thanks largely to the network of Louisianans who can't reach anyone by phone because of poor communications, but must rely on some unreliable, yet essential version of the old telephone game. One person finds out some piece of information, then that person communicates it to another person, who then does the same thing, and so on. Over the past seven days, I have been informed of suicides, phone calls from flooding attics, people braving the elements on their roofs, lost homes, mass migrations, people paddling through flood ravaged streets, arduous two day treks from one side of the city to the other, and a lost niece, who was recently discovered in Texas after being missing for more than a week. It has been somewhat nightmarish, but hopeful, because each day also brings signs that things are going to be okay, for example, a good friend, who now lives in Richmond, told me on Saturday that most of his family is safe, and that the signs of relief and aid, amidst the firestorm of criticism seem to be materializing.

After 9/11 I felt a deep feeling of sadness and loss that punctured the fabric of my day to day life, but this is different, this was 'home'. And though I am not from New Orleans, my father is, and my friends are, and I have slept, ate, played, danced, written, cried, laughed and smiled in the Crescent City. It IS my home, and now it is a virtual ghost town, left for dead, its vibrancy gone, and its people's joi d'vivre dried up in the humid Louisiana heat. It pains me to consider that things will never be the same way again, that the city of New Orleans, and the American Gulf coast, will never be able to recover from this. I think, in some ways, that this mass exodus of New Orleanians is in some way a form of tragic irony. There is a saying that has been uttered by scores, upon scores of that city's residents...'I was born here, and I am going to die here'. Thankfully, for the thousands who were able to escape the grip of death and despair, for now at least, that axiom did not come true. But for now, we can only pray that the life that awaits the evacuees and the victims in Mississippi and Alabama will be one filled with hope and fortitude, for it is often said that in the face of great adversity, we human beings are often at our best. I only hope that the creator of that great maxim is right.

The Reclamation of Faith

2005-08-22T19:20:00.000-04:00

photo by R. Gutshall

Larry Knight as David Keaton in the play The Exonerated written by Jessica Blank and Erik Jensen, and directed by Al Letson at Player's By The Sea in August 2005.

A Life Supreme Show Review [ARTICLE]

2005-07-24T16:02:00.000-04:00

Poetry Show Review
By Janice Mather, The Tribune (Nassau, Bahamas)

For lovers of lyrics and fans of thoughtful rhythms, A Life Supreme proved to be the most satisfying poetry event of the season. Visiting artist Larry Knight, and his smooth spoken word works, many of which came from his CD, also entitled A Life Supreme, lived up to every bit of promise the album had suggested.

Knight’s delivery – confident, impassioned, and powerful – was flawless, from the first note of The Myth of Tomorrow to the final poem, which evoked an encouraging message of spreading wings preparing to take powerful flight. Mirrors Beauty Therapy and Spa, where the show was held Sunday night, may seem like an unlikely venue for the summer’s first solid show. But, with a commanding voice that needed no microphone, and words that demanded – and received – complete silence from listeners, Knight transformed an ordinary room into the wide crossroads of an old Southern road, painting word-pictures of a piano-playing, soul-singing queen – and of hose and dog-controlled civil rights uprisings, and lynched black boys “slung from southern trees/rhythmically swinging/like macabre metronomes.”

Before Knight took to the stage on Sunday evening, home-grown poets set the pace in an open-mic segment with a level of quality that would have suggested that performers had been scheduled. Bodine Johnson, a comedian-style poet, got the audience grinning with rhymes about a hypocritical church deacon whose sins find him out, while Nadine Thomas-Brown bent genre boundaries, straddling poetry and reggae with rhythmic chat. Carlton Watson mused on the shoddy state of “black love”, then spanned the globe with world-commentary poetry that questioned why Rwanda’s genocide has been largely forgotten while 9/11 remains pre-eminent in many minds.

Then the lights dipped, and, from the back of the room, a sonorous song reminiscent of old spirituals began the performance. Taking listeners whirling through the American South, Knight used words to pay homage to musical greats Nina Simone and Miles Davis and to evoke painful pictures of activism and Civil Rights struggles. Interspersing spoken lyrics with bouts of song, he tackled the haunting lines of Strange Fruit, which bitterly describes lynching, then later teased listeners with just a few lines of Eyes on the Prize.

Between power-packed spoken – and sung – word spat out with a fervour often only seen in the Sunday morning performances of many a Baptist preacher, Knight also spoke of love, and of growing up in Louisiana, assuring audiences that while his work is strongly grounded in the US South, his themes are no stranger to the Bahamian shores, or to anywhere.

Speaking about the poem On Being Black in America, he told the audience “The title could be erased and it could be applicable in the Bahamas... Because I’ve been here for two weeks and I’ve seen a lot of stuff . . .”

Knight, who said in an earlier interview that he expected his material to be applicable to Bahamian audiences despite its very Black-American content, wove local references into Chaos in E Minor, a powerful rant that contrasts classics like John Coltrane and Nina Simone with the contemporary “roar of an audience as they sit/ waiting, with guts churning, hearts racing, palms sweating/ for announcer to sing ‘ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present for your listening enjoyment this evening, the one, the only/ Brittany Spears.” The original version then describes a young, undiscovered black girl, in contrast, singing somewhere in a house in Jacksonville; for the Nassau audience, it was aptly – and successfully – adapted to “a young girl in Fox Hill stands in a bathroom and sings heavenly into a hairbrush”. As well as describing classic Black American musicians, Knight broke out with a recollection of “Ray Munnings making Nassau a little bit funkier, singing ‘Nassau’s got rhythm, Nassau’s got soul!’”

“I know the fourth verse too,” Knight laughed, to approving whoops and claps from the audience.

“[I wanted] just to connect with the audience and to let them know that no matter where the piece was written, it’s still applicable wherever it’s being performed,” explained Knight, after the show. “It was just to give the audience the opportunity connect, and establish that link.”

Even without tangibly reaching out to Bahamians with familiar names, his content and strong delivery guaranteed that the audience would relate. If the applause was anything to judge by, the audience was pleased with the power-packed performance that combined fury at the past, passion for positive fights, Miles Davis-style ear play, lyrical story time, and old-style spirituals with new-time commentary. Only one question remained after the show: when next?

That remains to be seen. But, says Knight, “Definitely, I will be back.” And, if word spreads, it’s likely that next time will be another well-attended treat for ears, heart, and mind.

Published Wednesday, June 20, 2005 by The Tribune

Bahamian Literary Minds and the American in Transit

2005-07-23T15:02:00.000-04:00

(from left) Michael C. Pintard, performance poet, storyteller, author, and motivational speaker; Bodine Johnson, Island 102.9 FM radio personality and poet; Dr. Carlton Watson, professor of physics at the College of the Bahamas and poet; Janice Lynn Mather, Tribune reporter and poet; Larry Knight, (the American); and Nadine Thomas-Brown, Nassau Guardian reporter/columnist and poet at the A Life Supreme show in Nassau, Bahamas in July 2005.

A Life Supreme Review [ARTICLE]

2005-07-13T17:41:00.000-04:00

Poetry: Louisiana Native’s Sound on A Life Supreme
By Janice Mather, The Tribune (Nassau, Bahamas)

Expect lyrical twisting and turning and conscious speech spoken in confident tones at this weekend’s poetry event featuring American artist Larry Knight.

Knight, a Louisiana native, hits the local spoken word scene Sunday night with his show A Life Supreme. He brings an American-South-inspired sound that, he says, will provide Bahamians with something new.

“I want people to feel something that they’ve never felt before,” says Knight, who is also a teacher, photographer and avid jazz fan. He is visiting the Bahamas until early next week.

Providing emotions and sensations never experienced before may not be easy; many poetry fans are familiar with expressions of hope and oppression, ancestry and lost ancestry, violence and a struggle for cultural meaning, themes that are evident in the spoken word tracks on Knight’s latest album, also entitled A Life Supreme, which presents poetry and music from his longer upcoming album entitled Affinity.

What he does bring is the perspective of a 1970s and 1980s product, tackling poignant memories of the civil rights movement, making sense of a past he experienced second-hand but still struggles to come to terms with. That’s clear on his album, a 12-track trip from slave ships to current day beer-clutching head bobbing Saturday night partying. And while the sentiments he expresses may be familiar, he offsets carefully crafted poetics with background sounds that range from mellow music to beats as sultry and deliberate as a slow-walking woman, to wailing sirens, rioting crowds and the haunting bark of police dogs.

A Life Supreme starts out with Knight’s pure speech, which he uses to paint a verbal picture of a guitar-playing griot singing into the Southern air. Music eases its way into the album with the evocative ‘Motherless Child’ before the auditory journey continues with the heady beat that backs ‘A Blue Southern Night,’ a spoken performance that’s humid and divine. Again, Knight uses tongue as paintbrush, and paintbrush as pen to spin a narrative.

By the time Knight reaches ‘Chaos in E Minor,’ where he laments “the raspy vocals of Nina Simone overpowered by the low tech drone of some / pre-manufactured studio siren / a 21st century diva wailing against the background beats of an old-school sample / a form of recycled culture, instantly packaged for the masses”, the ear has been lulled, wooed, won over and entirely hooked.

“It’s not only an American thing,” says Knight, of his work. He tackles emotional topics with a controlled tone of voice and deliberate words, doling out rhymes skillfully but sparingly, pauses poignantly interjected into the performance.

“I was a product of the ‘70s and the ‘80s, I didn’t go through the civil rights movement… but I’ve taken my blindness away and (am) seeing what it would have been like to be in that position,” says Knight. He is hoping Bahamian audiences will, through his work, do the same.

“The 17th (of July) is going to be my first experience with a Bahamian audience, and an international audience,” says Knight. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat nervous about how it’s going to be received.”

The poet, who has performed in Louisiana, Georgia, New York, Washington DC and Florida, decided to try his work out in Nassau after talking with a friend at Mirrors Therapy and Spa on Solider Road, where the show will be held. And if his album keeps its promise, that show will be a treat for those of any background.

Published Wednesday, July 13, 2005 by The Tribune

The Comfort of Presence

2005-06-22T10:26:00.000-04:00

Oblivion's Love Affair (Haiku)
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

our lives are moments
dissolving into nothing
glad you are with me

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Don't Believe the Hype...PLEASE! [ARTICLE]

2005-06-21T16:52:00.000-04:00

The Internal Filter
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The 2004 Presidential election will perhaps be remembered as one of the most polarizing events in our nation’s history. The contest between incumbent President George W. Bush and Massachusetts Senator John Kerry has divided the country and created an atmosphere of bitterness, contempt, and guileful attempts to sway the opinions of voters. It seems that with all of the attack ads, talking points, and scathing reports from both Liberals and Conservatives about potential Election Day misconduct, it would seem that the one group of individuals that could provide some semblance of open-mindedness would be our youth. However, it has become increasingly obvious that this once venerable group of free thinkers has now become an assemblage that only soak up what is created by an ‘independent’ media that at times seems to be on a relentless campaign to convert and recruit. The end result of this constant barrage of political information is clusters of teenagers who are virtually unable to filter what they see and hear. In essence, these young people ingest rhetoric created by a political candidate’s press team to spin an agenda. And it is that agenda that is duly articulated to everyone; friends, peers, family members, and teachers. An agenda that spawns an ideology that in most cases is ill conceived simply because no internal filtration process is used to differentiate between fact and fiction. It would seem that any person living in a world as technologically advanced that ours, would take every single opportunity to use that technology to research the information that is being disseminated by our elected officials. For example, when Senator Kerry told voters that President Bush only gave tax breaks to the wealthy, it would seem logical that any person who has access to the myriad of reputable research materials would want to confirm that information before he or she subscribes to the purported ‘fact’.

Now that the election of 2004 is a distant memory, and we citizens seek to embrace the policies of the Bush administration’s second term, we are left asking questions that seemingly have no answers. Even now as the bitter divide that reared its ugly little head in 2004 has appeared to have subsided, we still see people being affected by what can only be regarded as mis-information that is disseminated to the masses. Why are American citizens so willing to give in to what is served to them through both the print and electronic media? Several answers can be 'suggested'; one, they are unwilling to find out the truth for themselves; two, they do not possess the means; or three, they simply don’t care. Sure, it's hard to believe that in this day and age, when so much 'stuff' seems to be taking place all over the world at any given second, that there are people who do not take any opportunity to dig deeper into what is truth in an attempt to separate it from what can only be characterized as a falsehood. For example, I wonder just how many ‘scholars’ of the Fox News network took the time to find out about the backgrounds of some of the Watergate characters who so viciously branded W. Mark Felt as a traitor? I found it odd that some Americans took the word of Gordon Liddy and Charles Colson, two individuals involved in the Democratic Party headquarter break-in as well as innumerable Constitutional violations. These patriotic, yet ignorant citizens, could be found on blog sites, and call-in shows all across the country screaming for Felt’s blood, simply because two individuals who were complicit in the crime said that he behaved ‘un-American-like’. And when the news polls came out, asking whether or not Felt should be regarded as a traitor, many people answered with a resounding ‘yes’.

The point is, why do so many Americans, in this age of access, place so much trust in the internet, television, and radio, instead of using other means to verify and support their beliefs? I feel that we've lost a bit of that which made us a great nation, and that my fellow Americans is the both the determination to seek the truth and to filter out the nonsense and embrace facts. I only hope that in the coming years leading up to the 2008 Presidential Election that we can somehow restore our internal filters and look weel beyond that which is ceremoniously fed to us in the new troughs of the 21st century...24 hour cable news networks and internet blog sites (insert irony). Perhaps we should use the next two or three years to try to reinvigorate our desire to eliminate our apathetic attitudes to things that are being fed to us like lobotomized bovines. And that doesn't mean that we should take the position of Coporation for Public Broadcasting chair Kenneth Tomlinson who along with members of the CPB want to 'change' public broadcasting's tried and true legacy of free speech. Attempting to use a sword to cut out the splinter of that which affects us today is asinine, let alone dangerous.

Simply put, I feel that the powers that be should employ tatics that will seek to unite and form a political coalesence, rather than deepening the divides that already exist. However, it is safe to assume that we adults will ultimately do everything within our power to selfishly think of ourselves and never consider that which is most important..the futures of countless children who will live in this world long after we have expired. Quite honestly, the only way to restore that which needs restoring is to start teaching our children, who are quite impressionable, to acquire facts and evidence through meticulous, not superficial, research, before they make a decision. And if not, if we have grown tired of the 'same ole same', well, there’s always 2012!

Death Before Dishonor?

2005-06-21T16:13:00.000-04:00

photo by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The Reclamation
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The subway station at Myrtle and Union
is quiet after dark,
only the converged sounds
of late night blue collar workers
and mechanized Metro card readers
play in the vacuum;
the neighborhood has changed since the early days,
now young punks run rampant
through cavernous underground tunnels
with reckless abandon,
dodging transit cops and rival crews,
tagging everything,
stealing anything;
late nights are the worse,
the stench of carrion and opportunity drawing
scavengers, marauding through tile encrusted corridors
and the ad covered bellies of trains;
ain’t nothing sacred anymore?

Standing on the platform
like some predator waiting for prey,
is a middle aged man,
hairline slightly fading into oblivion,
face worn from city life,
his breathing, white and furious;
air exiting the confines of his chest
in short slow successions…
first the inhale (long and labored)
then the exhale (slow and reluctant);
in the silence
the repetition plays like an organic metronome,
moving back and forth,
in and out,
rhythmically,
until a hush settles
and he is calm-
though possessing the presence of life
he’s devoid of humanity;
instead the primal urge to fight,
the instinctual impetus to clash with an aggressor
the code kill or be killed
plays in his mind like a symphony;
he thought, this was how it was on his block…
no remorse,
no thinking(too late),
just action;
he could hear the number 3 train
pulling around the last dark turn,
the rush of air growing,
thoughts of future actions comforting;

On the platform, near the MTA map,
tracing their fingers along the number 3 line
in search of a final stop, three teens;
who they were didn’t matter
this was vengeance,
for all the beatings his son was given,
for the stolen bike,
the looks of intimidation,
the community;
they were the enemy.

He remembered the first time
he moved into the building,
new wife, a son,
first home;
life then was good…
the prelude to a perfect story
regrettably and progressively
mixed together with years of tragedy:
apartment broken into,
wallet stolen,
wife harassed in the elevator,
child threatened;
he thought, people shouldn’t have to live like prisoners
in their own home,
shouldn’t have to open windows to smell freedom;
fear was a part of the lease,
etched into the fine print of their landlord’s
agreement to provide them with the basics of inner city life-
bad plumbing, broken elevators, drug traffic,
violent crime, terror;
but not anymore,
he was going to do something about it,
settle the score,
make things even;
take back his neighborhood,
restore its glory.

His nose pressed firmly against the bicep
of his outstretched arm, long and lean,
like a missile ready to strike at the suddenness of a command;
his brown muscles twitched and strained,
their woven cords lay beneath the ink-stained flesh bearing a picture:
one heart, two roses, thorns piercing, blood drawn, and a name…ROSALITA;
one eye squinted, lids tightly closed, lashes intertwined;
one eye open,
carefully, premeditatedly
looking across the barrel
through a sight
at a target in a jersey;
his finger wrapped around a trigger,
death set within his eyes-
the roar of blood through veins,
deafening.

The number 3,
like some silver earthworm
boring through an underground labyrinth
snaked through darkness,
only two sounds existed -
his heart and the train,
each syncopated
within the vacuum
like some terrible combination of sound,
each servicing the next;
hand muscles tightened,
life moved in slow motion,
his targets seemed to freeze,
their bodies swaying in suspended animation,
rocking back and forth;
their arms appeared to levitate offensively
to surrender, or to attack,
thoughts of his wife and child shuffled through his mind
like a slide show projected by insanity, or conviction;
and then, he thought of the code: kill or be killed,
their characters, inscribed upon the absence of reason
formed new logic,
this was how it was on his block,
no remorse,
no thinking,
just action;
his finger tightened,
ropes of bicep muscles flexed and reacted,
and he looked across the length of the barrel
grit his teeth
and thought, Bernie Goetz ain’t got nothin’ on me!
then fired…
short bursts from a pistol erupted like a volcano,
the lava flow hot;
four bullets slicing through space,
then the echo of death
the sound of pierced flesh
the gurgle of blood
the thud of corpses,
the end;
this was how it was on his block,
no remorse,
no thinking,
just action,
and vengeance.

The subway station at Myrtle and Union
is quiet after dark,
only the converged sounds
of late night blue collar workers
mechanized Metro card readers
and pissed off vigilantes
play in the vacuum;
late nights are the worse,
the stench of carrion drawing
scavengers, marauding through tile encrusted corridors
and the ad covered bellies of trains…

ain’t there anything sacred anymore?

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

A Life Supreme Ad (#1) [ADVERTISMENT]

2005-06-03T21:04:00.000-04:00

designed by Ryan P. Knight

"...his performance shows a range of talents from vocalist to profound writer." -Liz Valentine, Entertaining U Newspaper

After two years of waiting, literary and spoken word fans alike can now experience the newest works by writer and performer Larry Knight as he returns with a collection of poems and music taken from the forthcoming album 'Affinity."

This collection of 12 tracks entitled "A Life Supreme," including poems such as 'Overcome,' 'Chaos in E Minor,' and 'Saturday,' was released in conjunction with a feature of the same title. It contains original music by Ryan P. Knight, a young, talented musician; Ryan Sinclair, an accomplished percussionist; and Kandace Jacobs and brother Brandon, two brilliant classically trainied vocalists. Each artist lends their individual talents to the overall project and creates a cohesion that is hard to find on most projects of this type.

Fans of Larry Knight will enjoy the seemless fluidity of the tracks as they move between themes such as race, music, oppression, and hope. Produced by Knight, James Hardeman, and Ryan P. Knight, the entire collection sounds as crisp, clear, and dynamic as a live performance.

In addition, listeners are also treated to exclusive liner notes that include the full text of three poems featured on the CD. This well designed package is a collectors item that is reminiscent of the old LPs of the Blue Note jazz era.

For the low price of $10 (plus shipping fee), fans, as well as newcomers, are sure to enjoy.

To purchase go to www.paypal.com and send $10 (plus $4 shipping charge) to ljk93@aol.com. The signed CD will be shipped out after the order has been received.

Those wishing to purhase the CD may also go to www.ebay.com.

For more information send an email to ljk93@aol.com or call (904) 728-1369.

Griot 3 and the Legend

2005-05-04T00:20:00.000-04:00

(from left) Larry Knight, Al Letson, Russell Simmons,
and David Pugh at Hotel Edison in New York City.

In Love and War...

2005-04-04T15:08:00.000-04:00

Our Quiet Conflict
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

The opening salvo was a quiet one.

There were no warning signs, no open declarations,
or speeches, just the sound of nothing;
Ours is a civil war of wordlessness,
you play the north, and I play a southern fool
enslaved by my roots, unwilling to abolish my antiquated ways,
waiting, pensively for you to free me;

The boundaries, clearly marked, grow faded;
each passing day a new skirmish,
casualties add up; wounds are made,
then heal, then are made again-
a cycle of hostility in words and glances;

Politics seem pointless, conversation becomes banter;
fortified walls penetrable
collateral damage incalculable;
we never talk, we just sit
staring across a vacuum
that has consumed our will to make peace;

We spent years forging a war,
both knowing that a victor would claim no glory,
just a realized understanding of human hearts,
how they hurt, bleed;
our negotiations less than courteous,
our conferences, brutal;
no parade marched in cadence,
rockets did not explode in celebration,
only silence when you breached my last defense.

Copyright 2005 by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Coming Soon in Fall 2005 [ADVERTISMENT]

2005-04-04T00:11:00.000-04:00

A collection of poems written by poet, actor,
spoken word artist, and teacher Larry Knight.

Rocking the Vote '70

2005-04-03T23:49:00.000-04:00

Birthright
by Larry J. Knight, Jr.

This is for Thomas Mundy Peterson,
for 1870,
the genesis of sovereignty;
this is for the moment,
a lifetime spent in anticipation,
hands raw from pensive waiting,
sweat beads forming at the corner of brows
burned by high noon sun,
nostrils opening to bring more air to lungs
choking in silent nervousness;
the air smelling sweeter than the day before,
like freedom,
like a great expanse of space, opened
for no one else,
and at the edge, is the thing so longed for,
spent sleepless nights pining for,
went days in starvation and
left the confines of enchainment
to head North for
because the sustenance from what
was truly craved was more promising than a few
granules of nutrients that burn away
days after they are consumed;

this is for the recognition
that life was connected to this,
everything ever loved depending
on this very moment;
for deliverance,
its flavor,
a sweet ripened taste
born from desire,
cultivated by longing,
harvested in one singular action
that will define,
shape,
matter to the ages,
encapsulate the very essence of being an American
in voices speaking in absolute terms;

this is for the boycotter
and the slave,
their resistance emboldening,
their spirits, speaking through history’s misery,
summoning lessons of self-determination
within a choice;
this is for the future which lies ahead,
each splinter of time
connected to what has been
and what will ultimately be
a legacy to the world
born in the acquisition of liberty,
flowing through veins
through communities
through us;

this is for the revolution
within the vote;
for that first scribbled ‘X’
that signified new beginnings,
for promise and hope,
things to come…
this is for ‘54 and ‘64,
the lives of unborn men and women;
for little southern girls
not yet conceived
killed
in the basement of an Alabama church;
this is for Mississippi’s past and future;

for unwritten history,
souls still stirring
in the depths of the sea,
lost in transportation
never to return home;
for breaking free
the sought glimmer of Eden
in the eyes of a few who escaped
years before;
this is for scarred backs
unhealed welts,
for diasporas,
lost children,
families divided;

this is the symbol
of a culmination of things-
the coalescence of thoughts
born in societal ostracism
enacted in this moment
when bronze hands touch quill
and make a mark;
a custodian’s ballot
affecting an embittered nation,
rocking New Jersey to its core;
when a slave’s son
sought firmament
in the power of an action;
this is for 135 years of possibilities
birthed from legislation
granting rights;
this is for that moment
when an inconceivable idea
manifested itself
on a spring day,
beneath sun and sky
and heaven;
contemplations of tomorrow
bearing change;
this is for Thomas Mundy Peterson,
for 1870,
for us.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Griot Ad #1

2005-01-21T19:46:00.000-05:00

Gods and Legends (Part 1)

2005-01-06T22:27:00.000-05:00

photo by Francis Wolff (courtesy of Blue Note Records)

God's Acknowledgement
by Larry Knight

What was it like to listen to Trane?
The Village Vanguard, New York, 1965;
it was a rainy night,
the smoke trails from burning cigarettes
formed grey spiral columns in the air,
the delicate flicker of votive candles
created shadows on eager faces,
and the quiet chatter of voices
mixed with the sound of ice cubes
striking the insides of drinking glasses in the semi-darkness,
when suddenly
and without preface
Jimmy began to play
this sonic boom in four chord progression:
boom boom boom boom,
boom boom boom boom,
boom boom boom boom,
then Elvin added percussive soul,
and McCoy added gentle serenity,
and then the sound of God's acknowledgement
slowly drifted in,
melodious chords of poly-rhythmic intensity,
the sheer absolutism of love-
it was glorious, pure, and perfect in its own simplicity
because it was all emanating from the inner depths of one man,
a saint, master of spirituality,
architect of the hierarchy of jazz,
also known as ‘the new thing’,
the messenger of universality,
the philosopher of impressionism-
he was the emperor of the blue note-
a saxophone deity pulling atoms from the farthest corners of the galaxy
to form a raging comet of intense freedom
streaking through the cosmos
crossing the ocean of our dreams
to arrive on the soft shores of our most tender moments-
he was a super colossus standing among the planets
reaching far into interstellar space
to capture the sound of God in each note
formed by breath pushed from lungs,
pushed through teeth,
pushed into the consciousness of humanity-
moving in sentimental moods
guiding us on wild exploits through love movements
while chanting softly in four syllables,
'a love supreme,
a love supreme,
a love supreme'
finally delivering us
like cradled children in infancy
into a rebirth-
and then, like a deafening explosion,
the piercing shriek of a howling whirlwind
plays soundtrack to the dissolving sun
melting into the earth
casting an effusion of brilliant shades of purple
on a canvas only he and God can see
while three apostles,
with drums, with bass, with piano,
all explode in unison as he, Coltrane, stands center stage
reaches out, seizes us,
and pulls us into his soul,
as he nurtures us
as he carries us on his seraphic wings
as he guides us towards heaven
to kneel in reverence
to the universe
to the sky
to the oceans
to the four winds of the earth
to the rock and the tree
to Buddha
to Allah
and to God...
...and the Vanguard became our heaven,
our sanctuary for resolutions-
he was the messenger,
and to listen to him
to explore with him,
to venture to the beyond with him
simply meant
that you had to be willing to die with him.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Desolation

2005-01-06T21:18:00.000-05:00

photo by Larry Knight

Deities and Demons

2005-01-05T22:07:00.000-05:00

When The Revolution Stopped On The Dime
by Larry Knight

Lost in the madness of our society
are the children of our time,
withering away, becoming cultural zombies
while their consciousness is dying
amongst 21st century egotism
that places value on material things
that tarnish as time moves on;

And as life continues its circuits of evolution,
they seem to grow more disaffected by the limitations
that they impose upon themselves,
and struggle to make sense of the senselessness
that exists within a world
that they claim to be apart of,
but in truth, are nowhere near.

Worshipping the idols created by media deities
who issue proclamations of 'in' and 'out',
they flock in hordes to marketplace sanctuaries
that provide them with their only source of spiritual sustenance-
a commercially pre-packaged lifestyle
that costs more than their souls are willing to pay.

And while the vicious campaigns are aimed
at the pockets of urban dwellers,
they are continuously branded by irons
that serve to enlist their service
in a global conspiracy to create mindless auction block creatures,
vessels of enslavement,
enslaved by the very thing that they sacrifice their lives for.

When did self-indulgence
mysteriously mask itself as individuality,
when did being cool
suddenly mean missing the message,
and when did the voices
of past leaders of the movement
suddenly become silent screams
of convoluted nightmares
that exist as testaments to the end of the struggle for change,
and the birth of the era of complacency?

And now they crawl upon the backs of the revolutionaries,
dig their nails into the flesh of those dedicated to change,
ask for the system's recognition,
but accept its reluctance;
our children are being seized by time
and its minion, apathy,
as they both drag them from their youth,
gnaw at the fibers of their being,
and transform them into ghosts
kissed by the curse of forever.

Copyright 2005 Larry J. Knight, Jr.

Nature Divine

2005-01-04T23:09:00.000-05:00

photo by Larry Knight

Peaceful Waiting

2004-12-30T20:57:00.000-05:00

photo by Larry Knight

'Ghosts of Eden' Review

2004-12-30T13:03:00.000-05:00

'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.

System Overload 2.0

2004-12-29T02:20:00.000-05:00

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.

A Thousand Words... [ARTICLE]

2004-12-21T13:39:00.000-05:00

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.

Introspection

2004-12-21T13:38:00.003-05:00

photo by A. L. Letson

Rockafeller Center, New York City

2004-12-21T13:38:00.002-05:00

photo by Larry Knight

Empire State Building, New York City

2004-12-21T13:38:00.001-05:00

photo by Larry Knight

Macy's, New York City

2004-12-21T13:38:00.000-05:00

photo by Larry Knight

42nd Street, New York City

2004-12-21T01:37:00.000-05:00

photo by Larry Knight

A Work in Progress (Part 1)

2004-12-20T11:46:00.000-05:00

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’.

Clarity

2004-12-19T17:27:00.000-05:00

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.

True Hollywood Stories...

2004-12-19T16:09:00.000-05:00

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.

Affinity....the beginning

2004-12-19T15:49:00.000-05:00

This is it. The beginning. My first official blog. Enjoy.