Holiday post

At this point I'm just avoiding learning music. Rock on, ladies and gents. The Rockefeller tree is up, the holiday shopping began three weeks ago, and the season is almost here!

I'm feeling the holiday cheer, or maybe that's just my secondhand inhalation of the holiday weed smoke in the room.

Happy Festivus!

_____________________________________________________

Differences

I like staying in, alone, listening to the radio

Putting on a few records, pretending I’m in the 1940s.

At times I shovel too much on my plate,

And love the wrong men for no reason.

And most of the time I don’t know what love is.

I think that I love everyone.

Just because I want to be myself

That doesn’t mean I hate everyone else

There are plenty of square pegs in this world

If you want to hold me tight

Embrace my differences

I don’t care for big, fake parties

I long for quiet gatherings

I can preach about anything,

As long as you give me the stage.

I need to feel needed,

I’ll give you the stars if you want them,

But don’t leave me behind.

You’ll never know kindness like mine.

Just because I want to be myself

That doesn’t mean I hate everyone else

There are plenty of square pegs in this world

If you want to hold me tight

Embrace my differences

My mind plays in movies

With casts of a million multitudes.

I play out sickly sweet scenarios,

and dramatic daydreams.

I think in music, and see in art,

I memorize faces that are set apart from the rest.

I bet they are special.

Maybe I’m too quiet,

Maybe your too loud,

Maybe I like to disappear once in a while.

Maybe I’m fickle,

Maybe you’re right.

Maybe I’m just bored too easily.

Or maybe you’re boring.

Just because I want to be myself

That doesn’t mean I hate everyone else

There are plenty of square pegs in this world

If you want to hold me tight

Embrace my differences

A forgotten poem

I guess this poem is more important now, in the face of current events, than it was before. So now I'll post it. Before I do, here is a little background on why I'm so damned riled up.

I grew up in a city where I was around black people all the time. It wasn't an issue to me, until someone told me it was, until someone tried to teach me.

It wasn't my parents. My mother and father taught me to respect everyone equally.
But at every big family reunion, there would inevitably be the hatred, the racism, the "jokes". They weren't funny. This isn't what my mom and dad taught me. How did my parents learn to be different from their families?

When I was little, all I wanted was for my hair to be in braids, to have those pretty pink clips and twisty beads. I wanted a head full of twists and braids! They looked so wonderful. To me, that was the cool thing. That's what a lot of little girls had. But my hair lay limp like a noodle, almost unable to be curled at all, even with tons of hair spray! That desire for pretty braids was not "exoticism", but a child's admiration of something she could never have. (To be fair, I'd never encroach on someone else's fashion or culture to make my own empty fashion statement. The grass might look greener, but it's not my fucking lawn.)

Then, as I got older, and went off into the world, I became obsessed with diversity. I met all sorts of "white" people, and "brown" people, and "black" people, and so many colors in between, from so many countries, with so many languages and cultures. It was hard to tell if one color could define a country or language or religion. They all left behind invaluable memories, good times and great conversations.

When I returned to my home town, my own friends from high school were there, unchanged it seemed. Except, I noticed something I never noticed before--- they were horribly racist. They dropped slurs and curses about race like the words fit into normal conversation. Even the most LIBERAL hippies, dropping words I never thought I'd hear from such free thinkers. I didn't know what to say. I felt different. I felt like I had read the end of the story, and they were still somewhere around the beginning. I felt good that I knew the truth, but also horrible that they thought their reality was truth.

Still, I take measures every day to not buy into it-- because even those of us who don't feel racist, who don't involve ourselves in it, are subject to racism's mind-altering effects. I have felt the reactions myself. I take an aggressive stance toward any thoughts that leak in from those negative, horrible, poisonous people who HATE so completely. Get those ideas out. If you were afraid or angry, figure out why. Test yourself. Sure as shit, you were feeling that way for no reason, or because someone said you should. Now you just feel like a sorry piece of white trash. Breathe. The poison is leaving.

What I'm telling you is that even with your eyes wide open, you can be fooled. It has happened to me and it will continue to happen, and I will continue to swat away the parasites who feed on my mind.

So, this poem is about the word. It also concerns the meanings associated with the word and the physical color "black". I feel that "black" gets a bad reputation in Western mythology as being dangerous, scary, evil, and unknown. That is part of the reason why calling an entire race "black" can be damaging. So, let's flip that reputation a bit, shall we?

I hope you enjoy it. Please send me any thoughts, positive or negative.

___________________________________________________________________

The color black
Is admirable.
The color of undisturbed night.
The satin veil of starless beauty.
The unknown, the perfect fear,
The movie theater
After the final credits roll.
The end.
The beginning.
The everlasting.
The color that shows respect
For the valiant dead.
The hue of none.
The lack, and the filling.
The ombre, or the deepest sea.
The closing of the lid.
Everything held precious inside.
Enveloped by
Consumed by
Comforted by
Completed by
The natural quality of
Blackness.

3 May 2014

A new poem called "Intravenous"

Good morning, Friday. And goodnight. I had too much energy from rehearsal, so I started up the phonograph-multimedia thinger and tuned the radio to NPR. (I would listen to my Christmas LPs, but it's still too soon!)

Here it is. The fruits of my brain labor. Blargh.
(Before you ask about the title--- no, this is not about drugs.
It's about how inspiration and ideas rush in your veins when you can't sleep.)

 ______________________________________________________________________

 Intravenous

I am independent evolutionary scrap metal from ancestors who bore me.

I crave intellectual stimulation from people who attract me.
I need interpersonal relations with humanoids who enthrall me.
I want interrelated characteristics with friends who excite me.

I despise interrogation by loved ones who disbelieve me.

I love interpolated dialogue from like minds who challenge me.
I desire intercourse of ideas with gentlemen who fuck me.
I refuse interdependency with people who deprecate me.

I decide to internalize feelings from those who have damaged me.
I try to interpret the auras of strangers who SEE me.

I avoid intervention from nonbelievers in the divinity of art.

I have scars from men and women who needed me.
I make landscapes from dreams that spoke only to me.
I move mountains for oceans that should be.


December 12, 2014

Rant for "Images of Women in Theatre"

This was from 2013, for "Images of Women in Theatre" class at NYU. We were asked to submit a memory, monologue, rant, or prayer, like the Eve Ensler book.

If you know me well, certainly a rant was my medium of choice.

A Rant by Francesca Erni

Dearest loves of my heart, people that I care about: fucking shut your mouth. Wait, understand that I don't want you to be silent. That is the opposite of my desire. I want you speak freely and without shame. That is why I ask you first kindly to shut it, and learn my purpose.

You are all beautiful. You are all ugly. So am I, both together. You can be brilliant, and ignorant as hell. So am I, both together and it cheers me to say so. Tell me if I am wrong! I like nothing better than to learn. Honored is the person who allows herself to be as ugly and multifaceted as any man.

When I ask your opinion, promise you'll never again give this reply:
". . . I have nothing to say. I don't know anything about it."

This is foolish! This is so goddamned tragic that it burns in me with frustration.
This answer is easy, and lazy, and false! I know. I've given it myself. But never again.

You put in time in this world. You were raised in a way that molded you permanently, like feet bound to fit into a smaller shoe. You arrived at this point, partly by chance, partly by circumstance, and partly through your own decisions. To claim ignorance is to erase, to waste, and to lie.

I thought I was not the type made for academia. I thought I would never be the type to make serious decisions, or take risks. But here I am. I'm in the high place, that special, blissful state of accomplishment -- the place no one in my family has been. And freedom hurts, and I love it. And I'm with you, so I already have some idea of how you got here. You worked hard. You had purpose, and means, and a certain amount of luck. You know what exists in the future for a woman, and you decided to find out why. And guess what? You have the opportunity to get that answer.

Please, think enough of yourself to realize you have an opinion. Please remember it's fine to be wrong, and even finer to be right. But the greatest gift of all is the ability to have an opinion, a thought in your head. Of all the people on television, and radio, in magazines and newspaper columns, published in academic journals and seated at congress, who are allowed to spew opinions, how many are worthwhile? You would think we 'ordinary people' would be more outspoken. We live the stories told in the news. The ordinary are the inspiration.

So for the love of women, please do something besides listen. True love is in a stunning sentence, a thought connection made, an understanding. Show some love.

Spring 2013

Untitled poem

May-June 2014

Patience.
It's important.
Like most worthwhile traits,
The getting feels painful to wear,
But the having fits perfectly.
I play the game for you,
Though I despise the wait.
The between times sicken my soul,
Fill my lungs with longing.
But the worth!
Oh how worthy the prize.
How I detest you for being so worthy.

Transaction: A new(ish?) poem

This one's from June 25, but I just found it on my phone.

(I highly recommend the "Writer" app for you Android fans.
It's clean and neat and lovely.)

Transaction

Transaction.
You give me time;
I have an ear to bend.
I'd trade you a heart for a mind,
But I'm out of parts I can lend.
Each instance in which I bitch,
You switch your mood.
I alter myself, color and pitch,
My body canvas, thought for food.
I become what I think you wish,
You think you'll be becoming soon,
Becoming a font of tones delicious, which
Make food of my psyche, lick the spoon.

25 June 2014

Celebrating Freedom

On Independence Day,
I decided against going to see the pageantry out on the water.
The East River banks were bloated with tourists and townies alike.
Instead, I stayed at home, in Ridgewood, waiting for the noise to begin.

I followed the sound to find the bright burning colors in the sky.
I was never much of a patriot;
Then again, I never fought for my right to exist.
I left home, taking the road with my ears open.
Every family sat outside, smiling, prepared with sparklers.
In the road there were soda bottles, plugged with rockets!

On every street the fireworks crackled.
They boomed, banged, clanged and rang out
On the usually quiet suburb streets.
Fizzles and hisses,
But also great explosions!
The cops got to see them just as soon as I did;
Shortly after, the lights were gone.

I kept walking from one light to the next, and each boom
Brought me further away from home.
I added harmony to a drunken chorus of "The Star Spangled Banner"
Come from a nearby house; they were laughing all the while through.

I walked in silence past an enormous, peaceful cemetery
Full of large and ornate headstones.
Today I didn't feel fear. They celebrated too, I think.

And then, I arrived.
The trees blocked my view at first, but then I saw it --
The East River, at a distance. Piled in front of a large, fenced in area,
Were dozens of families, peering eagerly through the chain links
To see the fireworks, likely a mile away.
I was in the Mexican neighborhood now,
And their fireworks interested me more than the
Explosive extravaganza of our Manhattan friends.
The reason I admired their show is mixed
Somewhere between their fresh patriotic love
And their superior party-throwing skills.
Most of all, they still have hope that
This country will provide if they remain faithful.
I wish I thought so, too.

What a beautiful and strange sort of party.
What a wonderful night.

Creation

Latest writings are sort of tumbling out one by one over the next few days. I've been lacking a reasonably fast computer for a while. Though I have a lot of new things to say, I'm trying to compensate by adding my own suspense (bottle-necking output).

There were days of absolute sadness,
The sick feeling that someone has emptied out your belly.
Depression has stolen your constitution, the abstract wonders of your soul.
This sadness demands answers without asking questions.
Sadness gives the ultimatum, and you follow, because you are dependent.
Because you are weakened by the thought of weakness,
Emptied by the notion of greater emptiness to come.

There were days in the middle with lagging mind, the defective attention.
This may be one of those moments, evolving into ages.
The silent minutes,
Inspecting the minute differences in pixels on a screen;
The endless seconds,
Picking at something small and distracting on the wall,
Or scraping at the bottom of your foot.
These days are usually spent alone.

Then there are days of all-encompassing joy.
Oh God, the feeling of joy.
When creativity and inspiration combine
With a feeling of mindlessness, of effortless creation.
Generation of new, crispy ideas that excite
And pop! in the mind like air-bubble-candies.
They release and regenerate perpetually,
And bring a person total completeness,
Which expression through words cannot recreate.
And yet, expression triggers that memory.
And as expression does,
Coaxes the deep breath of motivation.
Inspiring inspiration, until the last expiration.

This is my creation story.

May 2014

The 'Show' -- The Reveal

All for the glory of a moment

All the time

All the quiet tears

The full-throated sobs

The years of stress, and

The instant of unequalled joy.

The moments of intensity

Every ounce of artistic energy

Every instrospective interrogation

The moments of questions

Of why

And of how?

And of what am I doing?

All the delectable

Blissful seconds

Establishing communication

Voice to hands to strings to keys

Loving conversations

Between other people's eyes

And souls and psyches.

All this for a moment

Already gone.

All this to create 

A collective memory of Beauty

For a room of strangers.

Outro

Dearest dear ones,
My family, my friends, my life...

It’s not that I don’t love you.

I admire you, I need you to be a part of me, wherever I go.

I love every nuance of your smiles, the harmonies and melody of your laughter.

I love that you all love each other so completely.

I adore the way you have set up your lives, each with the other, to live and die as family.

When I come to see you, I come to observe your way of living.

I am enthralled. I cherish your devotion to each other, each and every one of you.

But I am not like you.

I cannot simply plant myself in one place, like a tree to be watered,

And grow up high with my feet in the earth.

I cannot wither, I cannot lose my leaves.

I must always be moving.

The futures you wish for yourselves, your dream come true,

That is like a death sentence to me.

While many perceive me as an oddity,

I feel satisfaction in my wandering.

I am not a spectacle,

I am a person, with problems of my own.

I pay my monthly mortgage in stress, endless workdays, self-scrutiny and loneliness.

I give more than I take, to somehow apologize for the way I feel.

But I will not apologize anymore.

My work is my love.

I am free.

For post V-Day

Here, a little message from a recent,
confirmed believer in genuine happiness.
This is for everyone who hated Valentine's Day.
(I didn't mention the V-word on social media
until the day after,just to be safe.)
I think that Valentine's Day and
all holidays need to be revamped
like music needs to be revamped (wa-waaa vamp, music... get it?! Oh well.)
Music and holidays used to be an excuse for community.
Now we dedicate both to the spending of money
for temporary happiness for only ourselves.
Well I reclaim Valentine's Day for the community.
EVERYONE can sing. EVERYONE can love.
NOT just those who get flowers can sing.
NOT just those who get flowers can love.
Since its HISTORY is obviously sordid, so let's make history again.
Making history.
Speaking of making things...

_____________________________________________________________________


Make a table out of
cardboard scraps
Make a life from
parents' broken dreams
Make a happy day out of
grey morning slush
Make my own path from
whatever I damned well decide
Make music from nothing
or from the past repeating
Make love and money,
both just to the point of satisfaction
Make space in your mind, un-clutter,
and scrub all the corners clean
Make a life with a partner
out of a history of confused choices
Make the decision to be loved
when you feel undeserving

15 Feb 2014

New Ideas

I have decided to dedicate this blog to poetry and other writings instead of art. I've all but given up art for music and work, but I'll get back to it soon.
Writing is something I do often, and more often with the intensely long subway rides. So, here is one, and more to come.

On the M train

Last night, around midnight,
I stepped on the M train
And found I had a car to myself.

The whole car, just me.

A woman stepped on briefly,
But probably took
My sounds of amusement
As crazy ramblings
And left to a more peopled car.

So I sat for one whole stop
In the silence, the hollow
Echo of a ghost town.
I could hear the groaning
Of the weathered metal
On metal
On tracks
And the wind around the car,
Pushing as went.
The silence was so obvious
And so strange
That I had to laugh
To myself
In amazement.
That bubble of undisturbed

Calm

That came not only from the quiet car,
but the quiet Monday night
At Myrtle Ave. and Broadway.

The noise I can handle,
I can block it out after a while.
Stillness, no; I'm no longer able
To adapt to that quality,
The quality of absence.

A woman and her baby carriage got
on the train car
At the next stop.
Just one.
I, just for fun, though that I
Wanted to offer her my seat.



Francesca Erni

Please do not steal my stuff... copyright blah blah legal waste of time...