The most important items at that moment. Intersections by Jack Herlocker is my favorite, though.
There’s nothing quite like reading a book that makes you laugh, reflect, wonder about what it’s like to find the VERY person with whom you connect on a level no one else gets, and sink into poetic goodness, too! Intersections: Stories, Chats, Truths, and Verses, by Jack Herlocker, has all of this and more! Jack and I met on Medium (maybe 9 or 10 years ago?), where we dove right into each other’s work.
He’s always been such a cool cat who doted on his wife, shared stories about his life in the military, being married and then divorced, and married again, and also about his career in IT and as a technical writer, etc.
When I found out he had published a book by familiarizing myself with his Substack bio, I jumped at the opportunity to get it, and I was not disappointed. I knew I wouldn’t be. There’s something in this book for everyone.
I had not been surprised when I beamed with elation and excitement upon the first few pages of Jack’s book. It’s classic Jack with a bit of humor, sadness, truth, and peace sprinkled throughout each page.
You’ll laugh out loud (I did so many times) from the section, “Chats with Deb”, be inspired by his short fiction, moved by his poetry, and locked in while reading the creative non-fiction. Jack is, as God would have it, a Jack of All Trades.
He doesn’t skimp on creativity, metaphorical blends, easy-to-digest scenarios, and entertainment. Reading this book made me remember how much I loved interacting with his work on Medium, and now, I get to do so again on Substack.
If you’re looking for a fun-filled quick read that will put you in a good mood, “Intersections” is truly the book you’ll want to get. It did not disappoint, and I knew it would not.”
For light-hearted reading with a splash of humor and reflection, this is the book for you. I know one day soon, I will pick it up again, and I’m certain I’ll find something new upon the next reading of it. It’s the kind of book one would never tire of reading, especially during these God-forsaken times in which we currently live.
The Man Who Sold America by Joy-Ann Reid. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt
I recently finished reading a book byJoy-Ann Reid, one of my favorite journalists and all-around politically savvy Black women.
The Man Who Sold America isn’t your average informative novel. It has everything you want it to have. All the tea with a bit of spice, and the dark tales of a past that Trump doesn’t share openly.
I took my time with this book, and I am so glad I did. I wanted to savor it, understand the recounting of a number of important events, and linger with the metaphorical language and wit, too.
It’s Exactly What I Thought It Would Be–Informative & Invigorating
Joy-Ann Reid pulls no punches in this book. She did her due diligence regarding research, and also weaved wittiness and metaphorical blends within every chapter, too.
Her journalistic history and editorial presence shines through on every page. Although incredibly informative, The Man Who Sold America isn’t boring. It is a book that will lasso you in, slap you on your leg, and bid you to pay attention.
It is a great reminder for a high percentage of Americans to remember “all that glitters isn’t gold.” Trump rode in on a golden horse, with a field of lies on his tongue, and shouted incessantly to a particular group of people who held the hem of his garments, and would not let go.
Reid does an incredible job posing different points. Bipartisan points were discussed and views and perspectives were shared from several people who were affiliated with Trump and found themselves in dire straits after their affiliation with him. Wherever he goes, trouble follows and it’s usually the monetarily destructive kind.
If you’re looking for your next favorite political read, this book is it! It has recaps of greed, lies & deceit, cover-ups, and a detailed overview of Trump’s past and claim to fame.
Make yourself at home with it. You won’t be disappointed.
And, you did NOT commit the crime of which you were originally accused.
Make It Make Sense!!!
I will share “Something To Think About” for the next three weeks on Sunday afternoons. It may be a quote, a picture, an interesting phrase I heard, artwork, etc. Whatever I share will surely be intriguing or involving enough to spark a casual discussion or in-depth conversation. Stay tuned every Sunday for this feature!
Have you gotten your copy of my new book: a collection of serial tales & flash fiction, Séduire (E-BookandPaperback) yet?
I recently signed up to write on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing as I speak aboutthe most recent events with my place of employment as it pertains to racism and discrimination. I welcome your visit.
For the motherless, childless, mothering mothers who still mother & always will
AI-Generated Image: A Black woman and her four children, two girls and two boys. They are all facing the camera with lovely smiles on their faces. The mother has her natural hair swooped to the side and full in the back. She is wearing an orange-ish top with a bold red lipstick. The children are leaning against her, two to each side.
Each year, I document how I mother while being childless, and I am inspired by so many women who are mothers in their own way. They have mothered the motherless, tended to the childless, cared for the wayward, and loved the newly orphaned and tormented. I know older sisters (myself included) who still mother their significantly younger siblings – they offer advice and pick them up in the middle of the night from clubs when they’ve had too much to drink and are far too inebriated to string full sentences together. They are Wonder Woman and Superwoman in ways I cannot fathom, while still managing to pull their lives together just in the nick of time to keep it from falling apart.
I have befriended aunts who have lived their lives centered around their nieces and nephews (myself included). They never miss a birthday, video call at all hours of the day to see their babies’ smiling faces, pop up at schools to surprise them with lunch, and will stomp a mudhole in an older kid bullying a baby of theirs and then ask that child, “Where is your mama so she can get some of this, too?” like it’s just a normal Tuesday during a regular week.
I know elder cousins acting as mothers for their younger cousins who have lost their way – the paths of life have worn them down to the nubs, and all they can do now is cry and weep and wail on their cousin’s shoulder. They are pillars in the face of adversity and can calm their blood-related loved ones down in seconds flat. I loved an elder cousin like this once. I still do, even though she is no longer here with us on this Earthly Plane. I admire these cousins – they are my suns and moons – light in an ever-increasing darkness.
Still, as the definitions apply:
Mother: The Definition(s)
I mother no one. I have mothered. I do motherly things. I can mother up and down the corners and edges of this world, but I did not give birth to a child. I have been all that I can be to my cousins, nieces, nephews, brothers, and sister, and so many more, but they are not mine. They do not belong to me. I did not vainly labor with any of them. I cannot recount delivery tales of anguish and agony, nor can I gloat about them taking after me when they do something of which I approve.
My ovaries did not contribute to society. My womb is barren – it is a prison cell for emptiness and passing hours. I have no desire to see it grow with a miniature version of me inside.
I am in awe of those who have taken the plunge. For the women who are mothers by definition and tradition, I tip my hat off to you. You have a job that never ends, and you receive no pay, no time off, and no vacation to rejuvenate your mind or spirit. You are often overlooked, cast into the shadows of endless time, and you do it all without complaint, although you want to. And you have your heart committed to this task until you or your child(ren) die. How heroic is that?!
I wait on the wings of hope, secretly wishing I could understand – gain just a glimpse of your life, then I remember . . . some of us are here to be what we can be, and we mother in other ways. I find a sense of solace within this reminder. You have my love and respect. You are to be championed every hour of each day.
AI-Generated Image: A Hispanic woman cuddling her two boys. She has a beautiful smile, and both boys are leaning into her, engaged with the camera. There is a blurred background of green and perhaps a playground out of sight, too?
As I sit here and type this message to each of you, I want you to know of your brilliance, of your patience, of your timeless selflessness that knows no bounds. If you are a mother and mothering the way you are meant to fit that role, you have my undying admiration. If you care when the word seems to fall off the tongues of menaces who have forgotten its meaning, I see you. If you are soldiering forward with $15.27 to your name and have prepared a meal for your children using $12.58 of that, I see you. You’ve got every other human being tracking you down and leaning against your chest yearning for a thirty-minute suckle at your breasts, yet you constantly put your children first and slam the door in their faces and verbally admonish their requests, know that I SEE YOU.
For the mothers who are not mothers, mothering in the face of time, barren wombs, lost hope, wayward siblings, and all of the missed marks of this world as you raise your gift of nurturing to higher heights, I see you. When the world says, “But you are not a mother,” I hear your cries in the middle of the night as you softly shout back to the women who hold the title only, “And neither are you!” I see you. When you’re stopped in the grocery store by a toddler who noticed your smile two aisles down and ran behind you to see it again, escaping his mother, you have a good heart, and that baby can tell, too. I SEE YOU.
For the motherless, childless, mothering mothers who still mother and always will, this is your day. And with it, do what you will. You have earned it, and with it, may I embrace you fully and wholly and center you when everything in this current realm is burning to the ground. Find love and hope in the eyes of a child you mothered and look at your reflection in their eyes.
You are more than what you think you are to them. Believe me.
Our first date was on a cold and blistery winter’s night.
WordPress Free Images
It was a cold, winter’s night in December of 2005. I had just moved to North Carolina in June. I settled into the new life surrounding me and laid my cares and burdens down to pick up another day.
I ran away from Georgia the first chance I got. I was always running away from something, someone, or somewhere back then. Ran from Georgia to the Bronx. From the Bronx to Long Island. From Long Island back to Georgia, and then . . . the final marathon saw me running from Georgia to North Carolina.
And this is where I have been since 2005. And although I’ve lived in two different cities, I haven’t found the gumption to speed away again. Not yet.
The first few months in my new home were magical. It seemed as though this life was designed for me. At that time, the woman in my body loved everything she had to offer and yearned for others to see it, too.
I met him online. Facebook, to be exact. It was wild how we connected, clicked, and cautiously approached each other for digital conversation and the goings-on of getting to know one another.
My best friend was my roommate at the time. She was great “company to keep”, but I wanted more. And he was the more I was seeking.
After a few weeks of shooting the shit, we decided to meet in person for our first date.
WordPress Free Images
Which brings me back to that cold, winter’s night. I do not remember the time we agreed on nor do I truly remember what we did. My bones tell me we planned to do movies and then dinner. So, let’s say we did exactly that.
When he arrived at my apartment building’s front entrance, I smiled at the sight of him. I walked outside to our stoop because he called to tell me he was turning the corner and would be at my place shortly.
He was a perfect gentleman. He ran up to me, scooped me up, and hugged me as tightly as he could. It was a full embrace –a Grandpa Hug. I melted in his arms.
To this day, whenever I see him, I say, “You give the best hugs.”
It was lip-biting cold and we were freezing our asses off, so we decided to get into the truck and escape the monotony of the night. He guided me to the passenger side, peeled back the door, and held it with one hand while he led me inside with the other. Once I was seated, he had to summon the strength of The Hulk to close the door with both hands.
This truck was old. Nah, it wasn’t just old . . . it was ancient. It made a loud, clanking sound while we rode up and down the hills of Winston-Salem. I panicked the entire ride. The heat worked. It sputtered and coughed and he had to tap the dashboard every few minutes to keep it from going cold.
I sat in my seat and prayed we would not get stranded anywhere in this still new-to-me city. He reassured me, “It gets me everywhere I need to go.” While I thought to myself, “Yeah, but how safe is this vehicle, really?!”
He was the best date I had since an old high school-to-college love of mine. He was respectful, a lover of music and writing, the eldest of four children, and was soaking in the newness of recently burying his father.
Something in me cried for him. We dated off and on for about nine years–breaking up and getting back together. Finally, I told him, “We are so good to each other but we are not good for each other.”
Because no matter what we did, our schedules failed us. His grief failed us. My intent on writing, connecting, and running to other people failed us.
He traded in that clunker of a truck for a Jeep Cherokee one year after it finally died on one of our major highways. He traded in the recklessness of who I was for a lovely sweetheart of a woman who knows how to stay put.
We had an amazing life together. We just weren’t amazing together. You sit with that for a while. It’ll come to you.
Every time I think about my first winter in North Carolina, I think about him and that old clunker of a truck, and the strength it took for him to close the door to his broken down and beat-up vehicle, and the heart it took for him to finally walk away from me.
And honestly, I smile. Because really, everything was perfect but the truck.
I posted my last piece on Medium for the time being. I am sharing that same piece here as well.
Every day, there is a new form of pain to sort through
Sister Death Intro via Netflix. Photo Credit by Tremaine L. Loadholt
I want to say I am moving through every day without problems. I want to say I am moving through every day without pain. I want to say . . . I am moving through every day without leaning into the fears that stare at me at every turn. The truth is . . . I am hanging on by a string.
Every day, there is a new form of pain to sort through. As soon as I have made my way past that form of pain, there is one waiting just at the edge of my uneven breaths for me to fight as well.
I am not alone in this. I know. The world is steadily crumbling around us and fire and brimstone are piquing at their hottest points. When human beings choose between whom they can lend their empathy to, the world is already at its end.
I do not condone any form of violence taking place at home (in the US) or abroad. I also hate that our tax dollars are being used to fund what I believe is a nonsensical massacre at large, with no apparent end in sight, and authoritative figures bent on greed and boosted by their egos will be our downfall.
Numbers have never been my favorite thing to assess.
I am thumbing through and clicking on so many news sites and platforms of educated people honed in on what’s happening. However, I am also questioning many trusted sources, too.
When I read phrases like, “What we know,” I am moved to pause. Do we really know this? How do we know this? Who found out the information and when? Who have we paid for the facts and why? When will this senseless bloodshed end?
Israeli officials sent tanks and infantry into Gaza overnight, where they remained Saturday. Officials said that with the air and ground campaign, the “ground shook in Gaza.”
Most communication in Gaza has been knocked out, and U.N. Secretary-General António Guterres said it is “facing a total collapse with unimaginable consequences for more than 2 million civilians.”
Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu warned that a long and difficult war awaits.
More than 7,000 people, including women and children, have died in Gaza, according to Palestinian health officials. In Israel, about 1,400 people have died.
At least 229 people were taken hostage during the Oct. 7 terrorist attack — including infants and young children.
NBC News’ Richard Engel, Raf Sanchez, Kelly Cobiella, Josh Lederman, Matt Bradley, Ellison Barber, Meagan Fitzgerald, Jay Gray, Hala Gorani, Chantal Da Silva and Alexander Smith are reporting from the region.
When we assess the numbers, what more does Israel want? How much more can the US benefit from the atrocities occurring? Because be very aware, the head officials are benefiting from this.
Hundreds of demonstrators from a Jewish activist group made their way into Grand Central Terminal’s main concourse and staged a sit-in during rush hour.
The group, Jewish Voice for Peace, demanded a ceasefire in Gaza on a day Israeli military forces increased incursions.
It also led me to the Instagram page of theJewish Voice for Peace to watch a clip of their demonstration while they were all either being handcuffed or handcuffed. The chant, “What do we want?” “Ceasefire!” “When do we want it?” “NOW!” will stay with me for many weeks to come, perhaps months — maybe years.
Police officers arrested 200 protestors for this cause. 200!!! For what? Freedom of Speech? This doesn’t exist anymore and really, maybe it never did.
As all numbers relating to this event continue to spike, I blink my eyes, and the Democratic Republic of Congo is dealing with its plight. Death seems to be what’s on the menu of late. And it’s only going to get worse before an inkling of betterment arrives.
Balance during these times is crucial to my health.
To tune out the world around me, I am reading. I am writing. I have begun a new shift at work, which allows me more time in the morning to meditate, cook a hearty breakfast, and go for longer walks by myself or with Jernee. I am finding things to keep my mind busy and preoccupied with peace.
Earlier today, I watched Sister Death on Netflix, and the similarities between this movie shook me versus the constant turmoil in the world today.
Sister Narcisa felt the torture and pain that layered the halls of the convent from buried secrets from the other sisters years before her arrival. Raping, pillaging, and the deaths of women and children occurred during a war that befell their country’s doorstep rise to the surface in her presence.
After a miraculous childhood, Narcisa becomes a novice and starts teaching girls in a former convent haunted by a disturbing presence. — Netflix
The ending left me with my mouth agape and my heart aching for what Sister Narcisa had to experience to uncover the truth. What will we have to do to uncover the truths of this shaken-up world?
There is a time for reflection and a time for truth-seeking. There is a time for peace and a time for meditation. There is a time for love and a time for allyship and solidarity. Could it be we’re all see-sawing through every event of such times cyclically without our knowledge?
A Cornered Gurl 
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