Goodnight, Year 52.

It’s been a good year for me. Welcome to my early to mid 50s. Seems like I need to consider expanding my creative voice a bit more and truly publish it much more, as well as complete what I need to send out into the academic ocean of voices. Love woke me from the slumber of despair, and it fuels my drive to continue my work. “Love is the law, love under will.”

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Digital Community ENGL 470 –30 Sign up for Fall 2019

Digital Community

15237 ENGL 470 –30

English Program at UDC

Sign up for Fall 2019
ONLINE COURSE!

@drturpin twt & insta

 
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Digital Community will teach you how to build a professional online presence, and that will include blog building, social media interaction, online reviews, and podcasting. If you are already out there using social media this will be taken to a scholarly level, and even if you have not considered the usefulness of building your own digital community this course will help you much more marketable as humanities majors as you prepare for the workplace in the DC community and in higher education for those of you moving towards graduate studies.
 
 
*Pop culture and social media politics
* Content development
* Community management and politics
*How to use your digital voice and presence as digital humanists
Digital Community flyer-brief

Writing for the Web: Digital Humanities Class – I did my class live today on my podcast channel!

Writing for the Web: Digital Humanities Class – I did my class live today on my podcast channel!

Writing for the Web: Digital Humanities Class

http://www.blogtalkradio.com/at-the-edge-thinkculture/2019/01/25/writing-for-the-web-digital-humanities-class

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A word of wisdom from a literary ancestor I met briefly during grad school

“For the poet, the world is word. Words. Not that precisely. Precisely: the world and words fuck each other.”
― Kathy Acker

It was my first conference, my first time presenting a paper at an academic conference, and my first time in California. San Diego was almost overwhelming to my senses, but upon listening to this heavily tattooed woman with face piercings, electric blue leggings, and short blond hair, I began the process of understanding why I was drawn to Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Erica Jong–and ultimately Audre Lorde, Alice Walker, and Toni Morrison.

I love Kathy Acker, God rest her beautiful, subversive soul and her penchant for being so raw, so fierce, so raunchy, and so unafraid of putting it out there for us to see. It was my first time meeting and listening to a writer who showed me how to embrace my own penchant for not giving a fuck about what people think about me writing about erotic subjectivity or writing about desire.  Imagine that, given the assumptions about religious, racial, and social class similarities and differences regarding women in America.

If you are reading this, go click on my podcast with Ronald Mason–I didn’t mention all of these writers during our podcast talk, but the ghosts of Nin, Miller, and Lorde were in the room and on the phone as we spoke. I think I’ve been holding back, a bit of a wound that has not healed from the trauma of grad school and worsened in the business of academia. Mason and I did talk on that a bit. He gets it as a writer as well as an administrator in academia.

And no, it is not an accident that my confidence as a literary scholar and as a creative writer revived itself when he came to UDC in 2015–sometimes a change in leadership from mundane and normalized misogynoir in academia can liberate the marginalized from the corners, even it wasn’t necessarily intentional. A pause so to speak, so that one’s passion for the word can flourish. He called me a scholar in a previous podcast I posted this summer–something I don’t hear often from colleagues.

To be Black and female in academia (even at a so-called HBCU) is to be constantly challenged as to whether one is truly a scholar, or even someone who is qualified to teach. Unlike the previous leaders at UDC, this man who is our leader actually calls me Dr. Turpin and means it. In this political climate that’s worth mentioning more than once–and bookmarking as a reminder every single time a cloud of worry or anxiety about my worth as a writer emerges.

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Follow up from last night’s show with Ronald Mason

Ron will definitely be back on my show. Meanwhile, check out his spoken word links:

https://youtu.be/-yUU7C04Ctg

And

https://youtu.be/odB6erYmlN4

Who is the “you” and “I” in my poetry?

So, if you happen to know me, you may be wondering if I’m talking about you, or someone close to me or you. The answer is no. Yes. Maybe. Maybe not. Who gives a fuck? I’m writing about human experience and what we endure while living on this planet. I do include my twisted imagination and twisted reality and twisted feelings. I’m pretty strange in my flesh n blood world, so if my writing makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, welcome to my world. I might write about you one day. Let the world beware, said Catherine Tramell.

The Month is almost up. Not sure I feel like doing this in June. Holla at me and tell me.

Oh, and I’ve been holding back a bit. Look for me to just get straight up weird these last days.

Stained Glass

It was in a nondescript flat, wooden box in the basement, a leftover from previous tenants now long gone. Or the tenants who came of left before the last couple who lived here. Rosalind couldn’t really tell, nor was she particularly interested in dragging that heavy box upstairs to take to the corner for trash day. Something about the box piqued her curiosity, though, especially the light that seemed to shine through one of the uncovered edges.

It took her an hour to pull and drag the box up the wooden stairs.

After finding a hammer, she flipped it to the prong side and began pulling out the nails, carefully tossing them in a neat pile. The wood seemed old, and gave way to her strength as she pulled out a large, round pane of stained glass. Looking at the wooden walls in the living room and dining room and the square window panes, it occurred to Rosalind that this could not have been installed in the house because it was too big for any house. It belonged to a church, perhaps a church long gone.

As she studied the design and colors, she noted the familiar image of the Virgin Mary and Child, how the pane seemed to capture the sunlight coming into the kitchen as if to store its ray like a solar panel. The room began to fill with a warm glow, and the air was suddenly fragrant with the smell of fresh roses. As Rosalind began to fill with a certain and familiar quiver of her state of “tipsy,” it occurred to her that no church would have commissioned such a work for their sanctuary, for it would not have been deemed acceptable for the masses.

What was once thought to be basement junk was now a center of attention in her living room as found art to outsiders who visited her as it hung on her wall seeming to have its own source of light even as the sun set outside.

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