An over accentuated morning gray sky hung high.
Tight and wide on the horizon.
Suspended indefinitely, no intention, no pun, still; surrounded.
The ambient gray sunlight silhouettes past moonlight light.
Morning in all its glory.
Noble trees played brave notes of Music`s diversity.
Here I am again, standing proud loyal to their heir.
Extended branches, stalwart !
Slick iron arched lamp posts embrace.
The heavy, empty, gray wind wrapping around its shadows of light.
Dancing like a cold invisible man.
The silent morning was new with the same streets.
Gray numbered some black some white.
Named with personalities owning silence.
Day in and out, night after night.
Private mews of characteristic stories.
Flashback, a dream:
My eyes rolled back.
Tightly like a smooth fitted membrane.
A soft velvet glove inside this complex.
A web of trillions of nerves synapses firing away simultaneously.
In the cavern of my brain spaces and places.
Holding beautiful memories like a wet colorful oil painting.
Constantly rolling pictures of my son’s .
This movie flickers on the screen,
Like a swiss watch going off in my head.
What is this wonderful urgent inspiration?
It is that, you?
That urgency when I attend your every need.
The unconditional love.
Seeing your smiling innocent childress boyish face.
Then the wonderment, the nativity in the moment.
Absent answers now, only the mirror is.
Cracked into thousand of pieces.
As memories glued together like some nightmare of an old jacket lost
Hanging in the back of the closet collecting dust
The broken glass, lies on a gray street,
With a heavy gray sky constantly hoping
Waiting for the sunlight to shine again…
Waiting for the sun,… waiting’.
I miss you guys every day that passes… Forever in love…Fathers 4 son`s.
A serial of summer experiences is what I plan to share with you followers of my blog, in the days ahead. Having had some interesting and exciting summer days, which is now at an end; at this last summer day of August, knowing fall is around the corner tomorrow. I thought by giving you a little insight, we might manage to extend that emotional feeling of what a joyful summer can bring. I hope you will might enjoy reading just a little of what happened. It`s been a vibrant and creative travel experience, one for the memories of a lifetime, for the books to keep, and for the pictures to repeat.
Just reestablishing and rebuilding this story, and putting words to these emotions, these feelings, this experience; is and has been an experience of great importance. I hope by sharing some of them with you, I can make you go back in time and maybe make you rekindle with your own experiences, from childhood/early teenage years of what you might have had with your own fathers. What these moments means for the bond between sons and their father. Memories of love, joy, lessons of life and learning. Enjoy!
The Summer vacation of a lifetime with my son !
Bergen seen from Mount Ulriken, about 600 meter above sea level
Five A.M., it’s another morning, a hot summer. The sun’s blazing heat creeps into my window. It’s July, but no ordinary morning, this was real special. It was a long awaited important event, for my 15 year old son and I. We were about to have our first real summer vacation, only us two, together for the first time, and for 4 entire weeks. .
The energy in the air was filled with excitement, we didn’t really sleep much the night before, knowing we were travelling outside of Norway for this first time. This journey was going to be the beginning of a great summer for the future, one for the memories. This was a dream come true, to travel together. We packed our things for camping, a tent, sleeping bags, some basics, we’d be roughing it. Most importantly being together, while spending some nights in our tent under the moon and stars of the northern Danish sky..
The Port of the City of Stavanger
The journey from Bergen to Denmark and Copenhagen, with Bergen famous Fjord Line, a coastal shipping route, known as a part of the “Norway in a Nutshell” tour, a journey synonymous with Norway’s deep pristine fjords and scenic coastline. The overnight journey took us to the port of Stavanger, a small city on southeastern coast of Norway, the major base for Norway’s offshore oil productions. By 10 p.m. we were on our way for the long crossing of North Sea, scheduled to arrive at 7:30 a.m. in the Port of Hirtshals, Denmark.
During the long crossing my son had I had plenty of time sharing stories, eating pizza, playing games, filming and documenting this wonderful feeling of freedom, experiencing the world together as father and son.
“Dad, we are finally traveling for the first time in my life”. “I am so happy!”
“This is the best day of my life.” “I am never going to forget this, for the rest of my life”; he said.
“Yes”, I answered. “This is just the beginning”…
We looked into each other’s eyes, smiling shaking hands, accompanied with big hugs.
It was late, as we settled down for the long night crossing, from Norway to Denmark. Was this a serendipity moment? A magical silver moonlight guided our passageway, while the serene silence of the sea sent us into a deep sleep. A dream of our life to be together, traveling as father and son, was finally happening. I was humbled and thankful, and privately my heart pounded with pride, so much love and joy.This was a dream come true.
Morning arrived greeted by a blazing bright sun with not a cloud in the beautiful Danish blue sky on a glorious summer morning..
Welcome to Denmark!
The Port of Hirtshals, Denmark.
All smiles, gathering our bags as we navigated the summer crowd, we were fast and first at the disembarkment door, ready for the adventure ahead of us. We took a 10 minute bus ride to a local train that we took for 30 mins to another train, that was departing for the Copenhagen at 9:00am. A ride which took us on a 6 hour journey into the capital, through the flat terrains, scattered with some small hills of moraine ridges, passing through small villages, backyard roads and stopping at a couple of towns with many red bricked houses. The weather was exceptionally beautiful on this summer morning. We took our first bite out of Denmark, Danish cakes and coffee. Hmmm…, my son suddenly pulls out his Gopro camera, with a big smile on his face, he says: “Smile!” and laughs out loud.
I would like to share with you a small segment of my upcoming book. My story has an uncanny significance and is a frightening and factual detailing of the long-hidden day-to-day realities of American life for black and brown American men. These harsh circumstances are finally being exposed to the public at large, primarily via 21st century social media, and enraging truth-seeking peoples everywhere, jump-starting a global outcry for justice and equality in the black diaspora in 2015. This excerpt is about police violence in America in the early 1970’s.
I was a young man on the move, bursting with wild hopes and soaring dreams. This is my personal account and life experience of racist police brutality and hate for men of color. 40 years later and right until this day I clearly remember the scene, the faces and the names of the white New York City police officers, one Irish-American, the other Italian-America, as if it was yesterday.
I knew I had to tell this story. I could have died that night, but for some reason I’m still here, with the memory of this event that has haunted me for the rest of my life.The irony of what is saturating the global media today, of black men being assassinated by white police in America in 2015, has not escaped me for an instant.
Violence and brutality directed toward men of color has been the gold standard of “law enforcement” in America – it is undeniably not something new. But perhaps there is now a new climate for meaningful change. I was a young Black man – proud, ambitious, hungry for knowledge, athletic, brimming with hope for the future. It was my first year at Hampton University, Hampton Virginia. A native New Yorker, home on semester break, I was going to see my sweetheart. My girlfriend was studying at Long Island University. Her family were hard workers, first-time purchasers of a condominium in the very early gentrification of New York’s East Village, at Avenue C and 10th street.
We were the lucky new Blacks, having somehow clawed our way out of low-income housing, heading to University, with sparkling hopes for the future. Abruptly, on a cold, wet October evening, an event occurred that changed my life forever! I would lose hope, trust and faith in the corridors of equality, justice and the ideals of democracy forever and it left me with a scar for the rest of my life. I was a victim of racist police brutality and hate.
Here is an excerpt from my upcoming publication. I share this with you in classic screenplay (a little rewritten to fit the blog) because I`m working on that as well.
10th street avenue: CAMERA PANS:
Jacquelyn’s condo, as Michael walks toward the corner of Tenth Street and Avenue C, where he routinely waits for a bus. It’s pouring down with rain, it’s a dark, wet mid-October night, suddenly Michael reaches the corner and sees his bus approaching, about 500 meters in the distance. Like the great sprinter, his powerful legs gallop with grace and speed, as he races to catch his bus.
CAMERA SHOT / SLOW-MOTION:
Like two dark evil shadows, two white policemen, draped in long black raincoats; wielding nightsticks and sporting silver badges (the light reflects as the water drips like the blood that’s about to be spilled) converge, intercepting Michael as he is in his final stride for the bus stop. He is met by yelling, screaming wild, foul, dark evil forces, descending upon him with great force, violence and abuse. The policemen pound him in a flurry of verbal abuse, nightsticks pounding his head and upper body melt into a gleaming blur of polished wood and fast, furious blows. All the force of their heavy armor and anger is unleashed on Michael, as he is crushed by the force of this ambush, this unwarranted beating.
Now he is bleeding profusely from the crown of his head after being struck several times by these dark forces with a black billy club. Michael now has experienced this unprecedented act and the violation of his civil and human rights. It is the hallmark for the person he will become later. The two white policemen, in their 30`s are out to brutalize, beat and dehumanize anything that gets in their way that is not like them.
POLICE DESCEND ON MICHAEL:
We see Michael being beaten and handcuffed. He is now in police custody. The police now call in a patrol car to take him down to the 6th Precinct police station in Greenwich Village. The Patrol car arrives and the two cops force him into the car.
INTERIOR SHOT/ Police Car: With hands cuffed behind his back, he sits between the two policemen, as one punches him in his face. The racial insults and humiliation turn into Michael worst nightmare.
First Policeman:- “What’s, your name nigger?”
(Humiliated and violated; Michael’s face is swollen. He remains silent under the unjustifiable violence he has encountered from these men).
First Policeman:- “Oh, we got us a smart nigger!!”
(Michael remains silent, completely shocked and stunned by what is happening as the police car arrives at the 6th precinct station house.)
Camera Shot:- Michael is dragged into the police station house. Interior Shot: East Village 6th Precinct Police Station House: Desk Officer O’Brien (The desk officer looks at the two arresting officers and knows they’ve made a mistake. He knows immediately that Michael is not the type to be arrested.)
“What’s the charge?”
(The arresting officer’s eyes shift to his partner. They are silently propping one another up in rationalization of their wrong doing.)
First Policeman:- “Uh I think…??”
Desk Officer O’Brien:- “Charge him with resisting and harassment arrest, and next time cover your ass!!”
Michael is held in a jailhouse for the night and arraigned the next morning. So is there any difference between the U.S and Norway? Check out my next blog post, coming up soon!
At a request from someone who made a comment on my blog, I wanted to try to give you a small insight to my writing.
The writing process is sometimes perplexing, at times daunting, arduous even challenging. Then there’s the process of who, what and why I write. The who; the audience, I wish to provoke, cajole, and communicate those enormous scales of emotions to. The infinitesimal drama and perplexity of storytelling that allows for substantive discourse as the writing process finds life.
The what; “The Journey” of everything that has happened through the eyes of the beholder, being a father, going through the conundrum of fighting the survival of the fittest. Exploring and being a pioneer in my field. Through the daunting task of trying to give my sons a future, when all of it is at stake; being allowed to be a caring father, having a home, a career, a financial stability, being an immigrant in a foreign country. Where the signature on a piece of paper, or the lack of it, a few letters, changed absolutely six human beings life forever, and where the ripple effect has caused a tsunami of emotional tragedy that still has not settled.
I had been writing for many years, starting with poetry, then keeping journeys along my travels around the world when I was an international model. It took many years before my writing had transformed or developed into something that I became to enjoy and love. Over time the hard work, the ups and downs, often the juxtaposition never knowing where the creativity took me while I was writing, it all became a part of a change, it became an endless exciting rewarding, learning process. What has changed my writing process is the development of appreciating it in its true art form. The time and the exercise you give; allows mental agility, new pathways for objectivity, style to relationships of subject content.
The process, itself, similar to a painter with all his color’s knowing how to get the right value, textures, the subtle detail, that creates style which make the painting special synonymous to a signature that defines an artist. I needed the tools for this trade, like the painters needs, paint. Refinement, imagination, observation, self examination, lots of research and reading, literally everything, I could get my hands on to read.
As I have struggled through the mindfield and merritt of emotions, intellectual masturbation, self analysis, to find my voice, or style of writing this continues to be an exciting exploratory way to creative freedom and expansion. To be a writer can sometimes be scary at the same time extremely liberating.
I must say over the years writing has been not just a process, but therapy that has giving me freedom to be more..