jenn freeman | po'chop | chicago dance | chicago burlesque
edition xvii | vol. ii
welcome to Ed. XVII. i've began this year renewing an old vow. to be on my side. to feel my feelings. to dispell fear. to trust my words. to trust myself. i impatiently ask myself "when will you fully embrace the self that you can't deny?"
patience. breathe.
take a dose of compassion with your breakfast.
fitting that i start this first edition of the new year a bit introspective. don't cha think? i am grateful for these pages and hope you are too. thank you for choosing to spend your time online on The Brown Pages. as always play, explore, go off the road. click where you think you shouldn't. the juice is in the details. i pray to Lorde that you enjoy 'em.
sending love & light,
trembling
spokes to splinters.
forget the time together.
tender and burning.
let go.
i breathe memories into objects.
this rocking chair was a physical remberance of my grandfather. built to disassemble into 62 linear inches. we've gone to seattle, des moines, stL . together looking for an anger that only a black man who was a small town's first black cop could know. truclent. grass stained whites. the wailing of the blind boys of alamaba as we bobbed down backroads of gravel. we called him dynamite.
this performance of dynamite at ICUQTS will always be with me. within minutes of starting my rocker broke. continuing to slowly crumble underneath me. frustrated and supported by D'Angelo's 1000 Deaths i broke the back of the chair over my knee. slamming into an era's edge.
you late, late, LATE if you don't know about dynamite. i'll get cha where you trying to go tho'.
