Monday, July 28, 2014

Voices From the Row: The Intro to FFLOW


I’ve been co-coordinating death row’s annual b-ball tournament since 2K7.  One of the first things I implemented was the theme-based team identification.  

Any team with a die-hard mission should have the appropriate identity to match.  It condescends the team spirit to be identified as a mere number.  E.g.: Team1, team 2, team 3, etc.  Your team may as well be nameless. 

Under the direction of Ms. Lynden Harris, a quintet of literary expressionists have joined forces to silence the misconstrued cacophony of death row, by means of voicing different perspectives in the most symphonic fashion.

This team is much like a fine tuned orchestra – rendering a pitch that goes far beyond the reproof of our existence, while distorting the tedious rhythms of capital punishment.

This harmonious union is comprised of Rodney Taylor, Lyle May, Michael Braxton, James Thomas, and myself; Leroy Mann, better known to the blogosphere as MannofStat.  Numbers cannot definitively identify our place in this realm.  Our identity is now timeless; ongoing.  We are now, FFLOW (Fanatical Fists Lights Out Wordplay).

Lyle May will be this month's Voices From the Row guest writer.  Come back Wednesday to check it out.

MannofStat
Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Crab Meets Lion: Year 2


Hotep,

My granddaughter, Tear, has reached the two-year benchmark of her physical existence. The powerful connection I feel toward her goes far beyond this earthly realm.  

And no benchmark could measure or judge that.  But since the Manns are currently occupying this earthly space, it’s only right that we share some of our earliest experiences with the up and coming fruits of our family tree. 

Baby girl, through your existence, a ‘Tear’ literally has significance in my being.  I will now, metaphorically, take a seat at your bedside to ease the tension of the distance between us with an experience from your G-dad’s past:

I was about 10 years old when my parents took my cousin Zay and I to Alabama to visit my Moms’ cousins.  The land they lived on was vast; trees were everywhere. I could remember thinking, “Cousin Alice owns her own forest.”

Now, in my youth, children were taught to stay out of grown people’s business.  So as my parents and adult cousins socialized, Zay and I were directed toward the front door of the house and into this landscape of wilderness.  For two kids from the city, that is an open invitation to be adventurous without regard. 

A dirt road speckled with gravel separated the house from a huge pasture.  In the distance, Zay and I could see two horses.  I can’t give you an accurate description of their color patterns, Baby Girl, but I can tell you; up until that point, I had never seen a horse exude independence. 

I mean, Zay and I were accustomed to seeing the mean-spirited police horses in the city.  Huge horses with a blue blanket draping their backs that read, “Police.” Whenever you saw one coming, you instinctively got out of their way.  But, the two beautiful creatures before us were different.  We were intrigued by them –wanted to touch them.

They moved freely – without saddles and a loud-mouthed rider, wearing a leather jacket and swinging a baton.  These horses walked when they preferred rather than gallop.  Zay and I were convinced that they were just as curious about us as we were about them.  So we decided that we would mount and ride them.  SMH. 

Two kids from the city can really get creative when they think as one.  We discovered a shed nearby, and found some grain to feed to the horses.  We poured the food in a trough, situated at the border of the enclosure.  The liberated horses slowly made their was toward us.  Zay and I could barely stand still; we were overwhelmed with excitement.

The plan was to wait until the horses became so occupied with the feed, that we would be able to inconspicuously climb the wooden enclosure, and then mount the horses before they realized what was happening.  SMH.  Originally it struck me as a great plan, but I did have one reservation.  I asked Zay, “How are we going to hold on when we start riding?”  For the life of me, I can’t tell you how my cousin Zay convinced me that he knew so much about horses. 

He responded in a true ‘horse whisperer’ fashion, “just hold on to his mane.  If you want him to go left – just pull left; if you want him to go right – pull to the right.  If you want him to stop – pull backwards.”  Needless to say, these horses had no intention of being ridden.  They came just close enough to the enclosure, to entice us into jumping that wooden fence.  I’ll just say this: the vigorous legs of a city kid are no match for a horse with a free spirit.  It wasn’t about to happen, Baby girl.  Feel me?

When we trekked back across that gravel-speckled dirt road to return to the house, we were instructed to stay outside.  Not because the adults were still socializing.  It had everything to do with the fact that Zay and I were shin deep in mud and manure.  Real talk.  Everything was brown from the shins down.  LOL

Just another side of your G-dad I thought you should hear, “straight from the horses mouth.”  I love you, Tear.  Happy Birthday, Baby Girl!!

Loving You,

G-dad
Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Sunday, July 13, 2014

I Witness


“Witnesses told investigators that two males were shooting at each other from across the intersection.”
Philadelphia Daily News

Hotep,

Recently, I was asked to expound on the word ‘witness.’ So, here’s what came of it:

This opening quote is a portion of numerous eyewitness accounts pertaining to a shooting that took place in the city of Philadelphia.  All too often, these eyewitnesses’ accounts will change with the repetition of questioning about the circumstances at hand.

When I was originally asked to expound on the word, ‘witness,’ my first thought was of the square shaped box carved from the finest oak, hickory or pine trees.  The shellac treatment given to this box leaves it with a shiny finish, and is ever so smooth to the touch.

In the center of this box, is a leather seat, accompanied by a microphone, and at times, a Bible and maybe a glass of water.  This well customized box is always the center of attention whenever someone occupies its space.  

Even though it is believed that this box is synonymous with truth telling, oft times it’s simply a seated podium where a person chooses to mislead others about particular circumstances or events.

Thinking of this box is a scar on my mental that doesn’t heal.  Whenever I look at pics of my grandseeds, this scar bleeds.

Talking to Moms through a stained Plexiglas partition infects this bleeding scar.

And seeing the pain of living without me, in my lady’s eyes, gives this infected, bleeding scar all the reason to become an open wound that bears the impact of a shackled existence.

I WITNESS THIS ON A DAILY BASIS!

Still Livin,’

MannofStat
Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The Thrill of the Hunt



Hotep,

Let me ask you a question, Blogosphere: Do you think a writer should know the content of his/her expressions before they are actually written?  Marinate on that for a minute, before we proceed. Okay.

For the record, I won’t deny the validity of the cliché, “Failing to plan is planning to fail.” I am in total compliance with the direction of always having a plan.  However, I do experience a certain thrill whenever I stare at a blank piece of paper, without the slightest hint of knowing what is going to be written between the lines.  Watching those lines fill up with words – conjugating perspectives and emotions that reach all corners of the globe – is a thrill well worth the risk of being labeled as a failure.

My creative writing class instructor, Jonathan Wison – Hartgrove, came up with an accurate analogy that best defines this literary tactic of learning the significance of your words.  Mr. Hartgrove views the writer as a hunter unsure of what he/she is hunting for.  The hunter delves into the wilderness with an inexplicable hunger that leads him/her to capture whatever is needed to satiate his/her appetite, in this case; a literary appetite.  Feel me?

Sometimes I write as a means of looking for something within myself.  The mystery of not knowing specifically what I’m looking for is easily solved by the responses others have toward my work.  

That may sound strange, but it has proven to be nothing but the truth.  E.g. I didn’t realize that I was speaking for the vast majority of N.C.’s death row, when I wrote, “Blood On My Sleeves:  the shade of reproof.” (http://word2themasses.blogspot.com/2013/12/blood-on-my-sleeves-shade-of-reproof.html )

It was the acceptance of the expression after reading it to others that helped me to understand why those particular words were revealed to me.  Because of this, I have no qualms about debunking the troubled philosophies that support the usage of capital punishment in today’s modern era.

Capital punishment is a subject matter possessing grisly overtones that often subjects the messenger – whether the argument is in support of, or opposed to capital punishment – to societal furor.  So, in following Mr. Hartgrove’s analogy of being a literary hunter, I would have to say that capital punishment is the grizzly bear of topics.  This is my life’s work, so I will always be equipped to tackle the big game.  Capital punishment defines my literary huntsman ship.  Word is bond!

I had no idea today’s class (4/15/14) would inspire my latest literary expression.  I feel that I can write about any subject matter within the grasp of my knowledge.  If the topic requires basketball commentary, then I’m capable of giving my audience an in-depth depiction of basketball particulars.  Just keep in mind; a rudimentary task doesn’t change my characteristics as a literary hunter of the judicial grizzly bear; capital punishment.

My hunt will always display that tactics of a hunter well aware that he is the hunted.  Whatever is to be found in the wilderness is incapable of eluding my disparagement for capital punishment.  Ya heard?

Always 100,

MannofStat
Copyright © 2014 by Leroy Elwood Mann