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Stage Play / My Block (Analysis)
1972 was the year, January 22nd triple-double’s for the first born on the third day of Aquarius. Grew up in a green van with ex-fiends, rolling by currently future relapsing ex-fiends, leaning without touching the ground in mix matched, knee high, tube socks.
The van was always filled with songs of redemption, vocalized by those on the receiving end of newly found divine forgiveness and a well worn family distrust. You can’t sell the kid’s Atari, your wife’s jewels, and your momma’s TV and think a few popcorn testimonies will bring that ass back home …
But at my home, “you a stupid ass nigga” and “well, your fat ass is a bitch!” Yelling, pushing, scratching and … “you betta get the fuck outta my house!”
A dizzying transportation of internally diminishing child cargo Norwalk, Harlem, Camden, Harlem, Queens, Norwalk
It’s early A.M. and the same lips that cursed the fat, stupid nigga is now praying down heaven all over my face in attempts to purge my dark and sinful nature.
Was not too long before the two kids were packed with all the gospel records she owned and the combo 8-track, stereo, record player … she figured at least as much for time served with his funky ass. Even though it seemed like she didn’t really take much else. But who wants stretch marks and some other niggaz ankle biters? My sister and I were simply snot-nosed cock blockers “give that nigga back his kids and we might got something baby-girl”, in his plushed-out green and ivory seats, laundry mat stopping big daddy caddy. And every time my mind would make note when he came outside, looked around, and went to the trunk.
They say patience is a virtue – I say, patience is a virtue matured through layers of pain. Fighting to make sense of failure … and disappointments, realities altered, and innocence compromised. The years have polished over thick remnants of ash, the last testament to my volcanic rage, though I witness its simmer in the eyes of my childhood reflection. A child’s eye was never meant to recall in such sharp and vivid detail the liberties taken in under supervised and anointed environments – though we beg to forget.
But that was about the time my soul had a rhythm for the pocket. 1978 was the year and I secretly realized at the tender age of 6, my pre-pubescent gift to memorize all the shit them roach clip rockin’ niggaz kicked. Intrigued and captivated by the stories told, places the imagination of a lonely, frightened, and traumatized boy could escape.
She was so fucking selfish and he was soooo fucking bootleg – but for he, she popped out three all while praying for the day the other would “just drop dead!” It’s what their hearts say while faining misery’s bliss.
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I’m having a hard time envisioning this as a stage play because it’s one long narration. But it kicks ass. There’s a terrific and rythmic flow of imagery that’s awfully hard-hitting in places. Patience is “virtue matured” through pain, for instance.
In a stage production, of course, stage directions are important. I hear the narrative voice and see the things the narrator expresses, but I have no idea at all of where or how the character exists on the stage. Just a thought.
Good luck with this project.
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