Morphological Confetti

I'm sitting at home this evening listening to some CDs from the 80s and 90s. As I am typing, I'm listening to Jazz saxophonist, Najee . I used to play this CD as new and hip music when I was a DJ at my college station, WHCJ - Savannah State University (90-94). Back then, guys would come up to me and ask for me to make a tape - you know - cassette tape. It was the 90s. Anyway, back then, I could put together a very romantic mix of Contemporary Jazz. Today, it offers me some comfort to listen to it. It's as if I am conjuring some memories from that time in my life. It's all good - all good feelings and memories of my youthful days in the late 80s. Anyway, play it Najee!

Photograph: Erhan Dayi / Alamy/Alamy Note: This is a post that I wrote 10 years ago on writing. When I read it again, I realized that the same feelings are true 10 years later. I wouldn't change a thing. There is still power in the pen! It is a peculiar thing… this desire to pick up the pen. Perhaps, it is born out of the desire to interpret or create life through the people that we’ve met or people that we’ve imagined. Franz Kafka spoke of his torment in writing and how difficult it was to produce a story at times. Ralph Ellison would write for years just to produce one American classic, Invisible Man. Zora Neale Hurston continued to write long after her celebrity had faded; there were dozens of manuscripts found in her personal trunk after her death. This congenital impulse in me was conceived through the Black oral tradition. My grandmother, Eunice, was the family griot. I would listen intently to the stories that she would tell me as a child. These were stories passe...