meeting

professional word
left by a fellow artist
could mean something big


Yesterday, I read a comment on a previously published The Grieving Room newsletter that was left by a fellow writer who is also an entrepreneur and visual artist that said, “Adore your ✍🏽 when you are serious about the “dream” publishing gig let’s talk.” Many of you know that I dream of working professionally and full-time as a writer/editor/content creator. This same writer and entrepreneur approached me a few months back, and I hadn’t had the energy to take on anything else that would drain me as it was right after Chrissy had passed.

She expressed her thoughts about the vision she has and I had definitely been a listening ear. The beginnings of it were still bouncing back and forth in her head. However, she stated she would have everything sorted and closer to fruition by late summer or early fall. So, here we are …

We have a call today at 11:00 am. My response to her upon sending a follow-up email to her comment was, “I am interested in a full-time writer/editor/content creator position, and I am extremely serious about this.” Phone numbers were exchanged, call time and date noted, and in less than one hour, I will speak to someone who has been reading my work for years and is interested in helping me help them take their brand to higher heights.

I pray there will be good news. Whatever occurs, though, I will share it with all of you.

Peace and blessings.

A Cornered Gurl Has a New Look

ACG’s new logo. Created with Canva. Tremaine L. Loadholt

I had been meaning to switch up A Cornered Gurl’s look and feel for a few months now. I wanted something more permanent—something that spoke to who I am and what I have been experiencing of late. I am sure it’s no surprise to anyone reading. I am exhausted. Life is doing its best to sucker-punch me at every turn, but I live on. I fight on. There is still much more to be done. We are about to head into the year 2022, and we still have a raging pandemic at our heels. THERE IS STILL A PANDEMIC!!! When I look at those words, something in me crushes. My soul is in a constant state of unease. Why are we still here? How are we still here?

Several shifts in my mental state, my line of work, and my life overall led me to realize that the exploratory uses of artistic images from other incredible artists just aren’t enough for me. Sure, they all have given the site a fresh and sleek look with a great deal of appeal, but this new logo is me. It says it all. It gives you exactly who I am: “I am more than breath & bones. I am nectar in waiting.” And, it depicts an image of how I see myself these days with the woman created with digital line art. I am here—not here. I am living—not living. I am . . .

We are all struggling in some way of our own. Nothing about this situation has been easy. Loved ones are dead. Friends’ lives have been changed forever. Many of us are cabin fevered out, but it is for our own safety—our own health. But for how much longer? I am sick and tired. SICK AND TIRED! The audacity of the privileged or the ignorant or the arrogant or the people who have been “othered” a lot more because of this virus laughs heartily in our faces. We have the power to control this thing, however, we have chosen a different path.

A Cornered Gurl is my personal space in this humongous World Wide Web and if I cannot be comfortable anywhere else, I must be comfortable here. I have to be comfortable here. I am not ready to go or be anywhere else.

Peace and blessings

spent

a lamentation

the work comes — it goes
every call is torture to the bones.
we communicate with vigor, yet
with ease. 
patients want to know 
listeners can schedule their appointments
and offer empathy too.

a doctor’s office landed in
my teammate’s queue — their issue
crept in without cause.
a 3-month-old showing symptoms
of a virus meant for adults and the elders
in the early stages, but really
did they know who it 
would attack and who it
would leave alone?

when we start scanning babies
with machinery doling out
radiation because their lungs
are about to collapse, the world
is truly at its end.
I shout at the screen housing 
messaging tools and the software
we need to scan through 
thousands of accounts.

it doesn’t shout back.

I can tell my days are beginning
to blend — Monday is Friday.
Tuesday is Thursday. 
I don’t know what weekends are anymore.
and the lovers of this world continue
on, sampling pain in
little festive bags — afraid to share
their happiness.

who will appreciate it?

“I am spent,” I say this to 
my mom as she breathes on the
receiving end of the call.
she’s breathing . . . breathing. 
how often have we taken this for granted?
breathing . . .
she hears me — pauses for effect.
she tells me she is afraid to
go outside and I understand.

I understand.

I spend many of my days
arguing with God — telling him how
I really feel. he knows. I know he knows.
but, I tell him anyway.
I want to wade through waters
less choppy and with each
passing moment, the hardness comes
and my face has bruises I
no longer hide.

“I am spent,” I say to anyone
who will listen.

I am almost at my end.


Originally published in my new publication soliloque via Medium.