tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55027170509940619392024-02-21T00:09:53.413-06:00Coming Soon! Early Blog Posts & ThoughtsJackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comBlogger58125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-10069987870027066442022-06-22T19:32:00.007-05:002022-06-22T19:33:20.769-05:00<br /><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKT3E9P1_JCwxBa6Yww7QtC514pIZzu9GHdNMzidIMkslns7kvJFkRHbOdTwA3PCHHMnVHZk0wL9vVJ_9DvncNS-dg2M2gc62ZWFYbyUO6Yxwd8PkSe4ZcDidfQdBaEstntrvy49xwpEXKrj_t-99DyHNN3mRgICglEmgd3bwAxSBlu01rS8i19syKZA/s1798/Jackie%20D%20Rockwell%20Early%20Blog%20Posts%20and%20Thoughts%20June%2022%202022.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1798" data-original-width="1514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKT3E9P1_JCwxBa6Yww7QtC514pIZzu9GHdNMzidIMkslns7kvJFkRHbOdTwA3PCHHMnVHZk0wL9vVJ_9DvncNS-dg2M2gc62ZWFYbyUO6Yxwd8PkSe4ZcDidfQdBaEstntrvy49xwpEXKrj_t-99DyHNN3mRgICglEmgd3bwAxSBlu01rS8i19syKZA/s16000/Jackie%20D%20Rockwell%20Early%20Blog%20Posts%20and%20Thoughts%20June%2022%202022.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br />
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Namaste. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. I can make you good at it. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell | All Rights Reserved © 2008-2022 |</span></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-21936343364863087102022-01-10T16:20:00.011-06:002022-01-10T16:40:00.831-06:00No Better Stigma Than A Cane<div style="text-align: center;">If you see me walking down the street, and I’m using a cane.. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Walk on by...</div><div style="text-align: center;">Walk on by... &</div><div style="text-align: center;">Let me tell you why..</div><div><br /></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZQ5JhpNK__m9x77REvqcnwhzgSm5eP23VFLIlvj2Yu6i9kzdo66haEmp6QYUHmKFvLhC7CT9jR8QB5QqyIzo1m3uU1yLojnmN_rgOLkcYify3SrF0yDSQywscJWjWu9aThsqP1Mt1s2DisIvw2xmYmNcxizgnkMX3CKbFkLcUDM_1siHj0JECB_FB4A=s1284" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1284" data-original-width="764" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZQ5JhpNK__m9x77REvqcnwhzgSm5eP23VFLIlvj2Yu6i9kzdo66haEmp6QYUHmKFvLhC7CT9jR8QB5QqyIzo1m3uU1yLojnmN_rgOLkcYify3SrF0yDSQywscJWjWu9aThsqP1Mt1s2DisIvw2xmYmNcxizgnkMX3CKbFkLcUDM_1siHj0JECB_FB4A=w378-h640" width="378" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">First let’s talk about why someone, no matter her savoir-faire, her style, her status, her seniority, would not use a cane if she needs to. In my mind it would only be a matter of pride, or differently put, she’s in her feeling and fears about appearing old or disabled to others.. (Pride).</div></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As for me and my beautiful ass and brain, we intend to remain upright as best we can, whilst in a pedestrian flow. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">My skull hit the bricks once, and my tailbone, too. This fucking TBI has invaded my entire ecosystem, and I’m just not that cute to not take my cane with me to navigate large spaces and long walks by myself.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">#iAM interviewing heroes for escort duty. <a href="https://www.jackiedrockwell.com/p/bio.html" target="_blank">Email me</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"> Namaste.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;">Anyone can teach you about love. I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"> </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000; font-size: large;"> | Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2022 |</span></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-82246120485069826012021-11-17T16:19:00.017-06:002021-12-01T03:12:54.006-06:00Profound Sadness | Stepdad Love <span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdST9Paiw-UuPoybSKp5XQX6yffMUYOeoeXXnP56AZgAHGSF003Nlm4IY_i-YMAfuw8ONIj961WYas2qF3nRrEmCbNNVgeHeugxKtauNPOZjdL8IuR5RfWx1GJbN4kxolIsX8AttWODwe/s2048/The+Unicorn+That+I+am+Cryng+My+Eyes+Out+JackieDRockwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHdST9Paiw-UuPoybSKp5XQX6yffMUYOeoeXXnP56AZgAHGSF003Nlm4IY_i-YMAfuw8ONIj961WYas2qF3nRrEmCbNNVgeHeugxKtauNPOZjdL8IuR5RfWx1GJbN4kxolIsX8AttWODwe/w480-h640/The+Unicorn+That+I+am+Cryng+My+Eyes+Out+JackieDRockwell.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">H</span>e's been like a well-tailored suit with “Gentle-Man” embossed on the hangtag.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">He set the bar high for Black - men well-groomed with no unnecessary vices. Since I met my stepdad, when I was about two years old, he was without effort, the most unaffected and funnest stepdads of them all. To me, in early childhood, if there was anything he was neglectful of, it had nothing to do with me, my mother, or their boys, my two brothers -who came after me.</span></div></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, #iAM not in the mood for naysayers regarding my ownership of my stepdad at this difficult time. Because if he should die before I wake, I will live the rest of my life in certainty that #iAM his full daughter, too. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Never desperately in need of my bio dad while my stepdad was in the picture. I don’t recall early childhood trauma, but stepdad must have been tsunami relief for my divorced mother and me. Their union was of common law, but noble and ordained by The Most-High-Sender of second husbands, stepdads, time-spenders, promise keepers, life-makers, and providers. When they were over in my teens, I felt the impact of separation just like a young daughter of married-on-paper-parentage.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A few days ago I learned of his stage four cancer diagnosis. He is frail and would be unrecognizable by me, they tell me. His candle at 89 is burning out. I am extremely grieved. He’s been remarried and far from my lives life for years. I’ve yet to understand why.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">His wife is recently deceased and I</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">ve seen her online obituary. To my susrpsise, Stepdad has a type. She </span>resembled <u>my</u> mother! Because of these things, my post-concussion brain, defiantly denied room for him when he went into surgery (pre diagnosis).<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;"> NOW. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">His nonexistence all these years, does not matter as my heart is still irreversibly broken. It is just time for me to move through my new grief from an <b><i>immortal</i></b> perspective. Even though I cannot sleep, I sing Iko Iko with Cindi Lauper, in my baby girl voice, and weep like the unicorn that #iAM.</span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div><br />
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<br /></div><div><span style="color: white;">George Henry Beckham , George H. Beckham</span></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-15386566596515652122021-11-11T02:45:00.001-06:002021-11-11T10:19:15.648-06:00Veteran’s Day is Today , November 11, 2021<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">As I think back, it must have been a divine and predetermined appointment for me to help train the warriors. Even during peacetime, wearing a uniform meant you were a target of an enemy. A bold and revolutionary move on my part to be sort-of adventurous -because I could. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_GZ0ISrHIS-oE2MV5JH6AkP9H4EKfKnVkR4WU6ukO_aFrWkya7C4Lcx_qlLMN5Jk2Y0VG8t9eHzMPv4KUUES1v-v3wwKiZ8OOdgwegCWDUaS3asJSgi1hqkKdC5rVx-IVP6LRo-RDUMT3/s1286/JackieDRockwell+Veteran%2527s+Day+2021.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1286" data-original-width="1008" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_GZ0ISrHIS-oE2MV5JH6AkP9H4EKfKnVkR4WU6ukO_aFrWkya7C4Lcx_qlLMN5Jk2Y0VG8t9eHzMPv4KUUES1v-v3wwKiZ8OOdgwegCWDUaS3asJSgi1hqkKdC5rVx-IVP6LRo-RDUMT3/w502-h640/JackieDRockwell+Veteran%2527s+Day+2021.png" width="502" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">THANKFUL FOR MY SERVICE. </div><div style="text-align: center;">It was a love-hate relationship.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Namaste. </span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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<br />Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-2409495597347174742021-11-03T05:31:00.008-05:002021-11-03T20:29:32.430-05:00An Imperfect Sphere. For ImPerfect Peace.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaU8GR-iuerIAjSU_jTgAt7oac75J-sZPXpPDh1h70OJFtVbOGOY0fiBvrFaedgzv3ddbsq2cI50O5TVvgcOPqkBjsfIPwAKopByz581lpunprl2eGVGajzydXTSasFM24nmePBPr82Zw/s2048/JackieDRockwell+Peace+Blogger+Nov+4+2021.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaU8GR-iuerIAjSU_jTgAt7oac75J-sZPXpPDh1h70OJFtVbOGOY0fiBvrFaedgzv3ddbsq2cI50O5TVvgcOPqkBjsfIPwAKopByz581lpunprl2eGVGajzydXTSasFM24nmePBPr82Zw/w640-h640/JackieDRockwell+Peace+Blogger+Nov+4+2021.PNG" width="640" /></a></div><br />Mass, weight, and inertia: One of ten lecture videos required of my art college physical science class. A resilient brain I have indeed, but with scars. PTSD from junior high school days. -Not complaining. If I could remember that teacher, I’d thank him/her for the attempt. I delight in recalling. Post Concussion Syndrome is good for dissolving short-term memories, though. Most of week1’s course readings and assignments (including labs) forced me to try and concentrate and learn this stuff again. It was extremely hard, and my test score proved it. I opted out of the do-over for a potential better score. I’ll take the first go for 40 points, Alex.<div><br /></div><div>The gentlest of reminders from this assignment was that <a href="https://www.nasa.gov/audience/forstudents/5-8/features/nasa-knows/what-is-earth-58.html" target="_blank">earth is not a perfect sphere.</a> Remember, last November 4th I <a href="https://www.jackiedrockwell.com/2020/11/lets-save-our-home-lets-make-peace.html" target="_blank">said the eart was flat</a>? A truth bomb exploded in my head during PHY1020-0 labs.. so on went my peace crown. As it’s that time of year again. November 4th approaches. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/peacebloggers/?multi_permalinks=4439993962715769%2C4436083793106786%2C4424361000945732%2C4427881843926981%2C4427466880635144&notif_id=1635469570339917&notif_t=group_activity&ref=notif" target="_blank">Peace Bloggers unite</a>. I’ve been hankering to create <i>thoughtful and</i>... <i>contemplative. Not sure if I’ll make peace bloggers smile with this one, though. </i></div><div><br /></div><div>Imperfection being the forever case for the shape of and state of our cosmic home, is indicative of our forever humanity. Meaning, there will always be blood. No matter who’s Pope. No matter who’s POTUS. There will not be the peace the peace mongers expect and seek. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am just the messenger. And all is not hopeless. As babies are still being born. </div><div><br /></div><div>Pay attention to the evolution of them.. spiritually, sensually, soulfully, intellectually. Start with the mindset of the millennials. First, get off their backs. Then think back on the baby-boomers. I’ve got a third eye that can see through bull-shit like you would not believe. And God is not offended by me in my fairy fetish and studies in metaphysics.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a peace blogger, I get to speak out and speak up for peace on earth even as a veteran still infatuated with flying and floating warships. My daughter wants to have children someday. They will need someplace to walk on. She’s an Indigo, but I am certain her babies won’t be born with fins and gills.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><div style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><i style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a;">DONA NOBIS PACEM.</i><span style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a;"> </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a;"> </span></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Prose and Photo by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; text-align: start;" /></span></div>
<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-7399422149069425532021-10-19T18:05:00.003-05:002021-10-20T00:59:02.211-05:00For Síocháin and Colin Powell<br /><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3wh8_BCcVbynYAINFv4ZAJc3jQy8DUX_HAEEMJcT8_enZCihI7ujuh4DUorL79_RaGwttkEuMapGhYrhWKTOuwe2UkFJwkUu1pHOuS1L8ijQMFRWFrQQXkK5W0GU8-qgsR9vooZ8K4R3/s2048/JackieDRockwell+Don%2527t+Compare+Apples+to+Oranges+in+honor+of+General+Colin+Powell.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1575" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz3wh8_BCcVbynYAINFv4ZAJc3jQy8DUX_HAEEMJcT8_enZCihI7ujuh4DUorL79_RaGwttkEuMapGhYrhWKTOuwe2UkFJwkUu1pHOuS1L8ijQMFRWFrQQXkK5W0GU8-qgsR9vooZ8K4R3/w492-h640/JackieDRockwell+Don%2527t+Compare+Apples+to+Oranges+in+honor+of+General+Colin+Powell.heic" width="492" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">You don’t realize how precious and protective immunity is until you’re in recovery from something epic that crushed huge parts of your physical strength, your personality and your existence during a pandemic. So while I indulge in soundscapes to find myself, another good person dies from Covid-19.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then some weasel has the audacity to compare apples to oranges? Colin Powell to Herman Cane?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Seriously, y’all?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Colin Powell did not want to die from complications of Covid. Nor did he want to die from cancer and whatever else was ailing him at 85 years of good life. I am of the mindset that the sickest people live the longest. Unless you are immune comprised and doing everything you can to live well during a deadly pandemic in the bless-ed 21st century. The era of American folks not giving too many fucks about others. Herman Cane’s end of life was tragic. Put aside HIS politics and he’s still dead from Covid. He was a Trump-pet and anti-madker, pre-vaccine. Would have probably been an anti-vaxxer. And he’s still dead from Covid. Did he care? Who nows? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">Today I cradle in the aftershock of the loss of General Powell from Covid, even though every once in a while I think about the tragedy that was Herman Cane’s right to die. And I can’t thank my good sense enough for keeping me well in this turmoil. Getting tamed by a new normal has always been the story our lives. How did our great grandmothers get along without tampons? We know how they got along without condoms. Those didn’t exist for their benefit. But now we do have remedies and feasible protections from Covid and so many who give little fucks are carriers and spreaders. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"> </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">Nothing or no one is pure. Not even if you’re White.</span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;"> Not even for the cause of Siochain, “Peace” (pronounced </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">she-ukh-awn </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0); background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); color: #202124; font-family: Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; text-align: left; white-space: break-spaces;">in Irish Gaelic). </span>We must not scrounge. We must protect each other. I must care about other people who are immune compromised and allergic to the spreaders. The General was vaccinated and still died. Not because he got Covid. But because someone gave it to him.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">No place is safe anymore. Everyone is scared. Everyone is scarred. And so it is. Taming the wind for self preservation is not going to save us. Take your own foul breath and life, let me keep mine together with my focus on wellness for self and others. Sick people want to live, even if your well walking dead-azz doesn’t want to. I’ll inhale. You'll exhale. Right is not my point. Nor are your feelings. </span></div><div><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br /></span></div><div><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">And do not compare apples to oranges. </span></div><div><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br /></span></div><div> ...</div><div>
<br /><div style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: left;">Namaste.</i><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Prose and Photo by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-33180358614858870852021-09-24T21:29:00.006-05:002022-01-15T17:07:15.711-06:00Wombed | Jackie | Used Of GodOut of deep respect for myself and all my sisters under the skin, I choose for me only as a Texan, American, Black American of African-descent.. in 2021. #iAM of the life-giver faction standing in the gap for women who need and want to <b>choose</b> for themselves. And another thing... <a href="https://www.jackiedrockwell.com/2021/09/gtfo-of-our-womb-jackie-used-of-god.html" target="_blank">GTFO of my womb</a>!<div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span></div>#wombed | OneLove | #gtfo of my womb | GTFO! Of My Womb<span style="font-size: x-small;">™️</span> JackieDRockwell<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYNupzq_7-3a5rnoC7MisiIfEh1NpxqdkqtB_6JZArgDeA38qTgVsSBWk_tL72G5b1KJS856JDG1aonVn5TVqFTYNVPz9Va6mcwF_p3miFPywCALY2jTXeV_tUGjmLLDloL_HTQmNNvWY/s1323/GTFO+Of+My+Womb+Rug_JackieDRockwell.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1323" data-original-width="635" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYYNupzq_7-3a5rnoC7MisiIfEh1NpxqdkqtB_6JZArgDeA38qTgVsSBWk_tL72G5b1KJS856JDG1aonVn5TVqFTYNVPz9Va6mcwF_p3miFPywCALY2jTXeV_tUGjmLLDloL_HTQmNNvWY/s16000/GTFO+Of+My+Womb+Rug_JackieDRockwell.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px;"><i style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; text-align: left;">Namaste.</i><span style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; text-align: left;"> </span><span style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; text-align: left;"> </span></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Prose and Photo by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div><div style="font-size: 16px;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div></div></div><br /></div></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-40938941346171713472021-09-22T18:47:00.008-05:002021-10-19T15:08:16.873-05:00GTFO! Of Our Wombs | Jackie | Used of God<div style="text-align: center;"><span>Women have been about the busy-ness of pleasing men for ten thousand+ millenium.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span>Proof? </span><b>#this</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Sculptural ceramic ceremonial vessel that represents a woman masturbating a man. <span>1250 BC - 1 AD</span></span></p></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/sculptural-ceramic-ceremonial-vessel-that-represents-a-woman-masturbating-a-man-ml004443-salinar-style/jAGGrqndPGCpww" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1192" data-original-width="1252" height="610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFea-eQs2iv9zOQ3mCZHvFdfg3MY9CoTmVMGE2TzDuvH9W6Q6yJa6-pFJ5JMWFVFoCCLke26fb61Z0fsqiELsnyhlQIjvN7q04LXyDKrUAiqkwJcZik2mdjIJA_U3fZtWQLXoLD8-pW3CW/w640-h610/Ancient+Artifact+Found+at+Museum+in+Lima+Peru.png" width="640" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and #this</span></h2><div style="text-align: center;"><span> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ain Sakhri lovers figurine -10000/-10000 (10000 BCE)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://artsandculture.google.com/asset/ain-sakhri-lovers-figurine/dAGj4Fm78RIlpw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1116" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMECrFnpshMlygs-9XBao8Qnctg_oy8D2FNS0u3hSW1ocZstugLRLaruLHpuG7YpVIS6DXj0GwRKo966J6ecZ6gFbBP_uEul8XvjrPVHLFBiBk2mZKN_wLu5vSvGoGXTPU33qjPd_Zz-TH/w516-h640/Ancient+Lovers+Figurine.png" width="516" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span> </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span>Get the Fk Out of Our Wombs.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span>Click the Gallery link to see my <i>curated</i> collection for an Art History assignment. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span>I’m actually proud of the statement this makes.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;">Theme: Feminism | Ancient to Contemporary Proof<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;">Title: GTFO! Of Our Womb Collection (ca. 10000 BCE – 2019) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;">Gallery: <span color="windowtext" style="text-decoration: none;"><a href="https://artsandculture.google.com/favorite/group/hgICFDjMjhp7IQ">https://artsandculture.google.com/favorite/group/hgICFDjMjhp7IQ</a> </span> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;">Description:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #121212;"><o:p><span style="font-family: times;"> </span></o:p></span></p><span style="font-family: times;">Humanity is forever using women and leaving us behind. For too long our purpose has been about the male gaze. This collection illustrates a woman’s ownership over her womb, dictated by divine order and the placement of the vessel. With that, we insist on healthcare, not punishment, theocracy, or shame. To <b>contemporary </b>eyes, this collection evokes support for pro-choice. Not as a revolt against morality, but like the divine birth right afforded none other than Eve. The inclusion of <b>early photographic art</b> amongst <b>ancient artifacts</b> of her progeny’s mastery of technique & purpose in intercourse for pleasure & childbirth, proves we are not new at this. <span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.15pt;">The remaining paintings & </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.15pt;">graphics are <b>modern forms of expression</b></span> that <span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0.15pt;">symbolize the unfinished business of women in revolt, even in </span><span style="background-color: white;">2021. Our prolific history should more than provide our freedom of choice. For some reason it does not.</span></span><div>.<br />
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; line-height: 16px;"><div style="line-height: 16px;"><i style="text-align: left;">Namaste.</i><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" style="text-align: start;" /></div>
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<br /></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-58308574837438429052021-09-14T18:47:00.002-05:002021-09-14T19:05:37.838-05:00Body Image on The IG | Jackie | Used of God<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div style="text-align: center;">Is every woman sexual and sensual by nature?</div></blockquote><p style="text-align: center;">... </p><div style="text-align: center;">It is no one's business if you think so. Or even if you do not. </div><div style="text-align: center;">An Instagram selfie is not her - asking you what you think.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">My daughter & nieces know that Instagram is not real.</div><div><br /></div><div><br />
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<div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; line-height: 16px;"><i style="text-align: left;">Namaste.</i><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(58, 58, 58); color: #3a3a3a; font-family: Lora, serif; font-size: 16px; text-align: start;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div></div></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-35698132622871644802021-09-12T19:30:00.009-05:002021-09-12T19:53:56.121-05:00A Woman’s Choice | Jackie | Used of God<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Only the self righteous know better how to live amongst the living? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">...</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Options are not just practical considerations for the unwilling. They <i>are </i>spiritual.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0nnEsaCWfs_wjlRjk9jl9-uX8DxvGRrBQKj0yIvuU8-xWRODZsDtHkYfnHrlV9T_uGJNQGFZOdNAhwQvInownd98OUhT2owrcdc-5xHRIXTaBIFE5IOZOmkMRHVhWToZxBMZcgraFPtZ7/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1761" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0nnEsaCWfs_wjlRjk9jl9-uX8DxvGRrBQKj0yIvuU8-xWRODZsDtHkYfnHrlV9T_uGJNQGFZOdNAhwQvInownd98OUhT2owrcdc-5xHRIXTaBIFE5IOZOmkMRHVhWToZxBMZcgraFPtZ7/w549-h640/A+Womans+Choice+to+Choose+JackieDRockwell+Sep2021.PNG" width="549" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> </span><i style="text-align: left;">Namaste.</i><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div></div><div><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-60449642348517715272021-08-31T03:54:00.003-05:002021-09-12T18:32:20.442-05:00Jackie | Used of God<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GlXWvXdbYDQCYFvuzwjEcaEkMk9F1EfAdlp1RVAh3uB06eTHA8tbtKiTog4AqlUcKBHBJPAUIkGYBi3T-fUD3UyL1df4vGSSb04J0mLn2EFeK6Btz8IugFKtCvymDU_7zwaE134Dv7Rw/s1030/Jackie+Used+of+God%252C+JackieDRockwell.com.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1030" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0GlXWvXdbYDQCYFvuzwjEcaEkMk9F1EfAdlp1RVAh3uB06eTHA8tbtKiTog4AqlUcKBHBJPAUIkGYBi3T-fUD3UyL1df4vGSSb04J0mLn2EFeK6Btz8IugFKtCvymDU_7zwaE134Dv7Rw/w321-h400/Jackie+Used+of+God%252C+JackieDRockwell.com.JPG" width="321" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>In a brief quietness before composing, I asked and answered myself this way.... “I never get what I ask for. I only get what is intended for me.”</div><div><br /></div><div>Particularly true. Because I have never really wanted more than I already had. </div><div><br /></div><div>The strangest thing about myself in my opinion of me, is that I actually joined the U.S. Navy right out of high school. I have no real idea why. And here I am fifty-something, still fascinated with the old Navy as well as the new. But I want it out of my blood, so I can try and be somebody else to the world besides this repressed patriot. <a href="https://peaceglobegallery.blogspot.com" target="_blank">I am a peace monge</a>r, after all. </div><div><br /></div><div>And as beautiful as all the people I've served with are, I am just so exhausted with handing over to the government my sense of pride in Americana. That alone, at this point in time, belongs only, as a descendant of slaves, to my ancestors.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I’m trying to understand about me, is what do I want? </div><div><br /></div><div>When I was a single mom I didn’t have anything compared to say, the likes of Renee. I remember back in the early two thousands, her asking me why I hadn’t bought a house. I also remember her telling me she was fulfilled by overtime pay, and has had up to the three jobs at a time to give her children everything they needed. I have never envied people like her. I always wanted to be rescued from that slavery.</div><div><br /></div><div>And so it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>Concussion Recovery Syndrome for two plus years, now. </div><div><br /></div><div>A war has been waged between my heart and my brain about what to do with the other half of my life. A losing battle for my heart, as traumatic brain injury tends to debase and even cripple creativity, desire and motivation. I’m telling ya’ll it is worst than constipation.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not employed and not ‘legally’ disabled, I could use some wealth. Cash. Excessive amounts of it. Which is supposed to represent freedom and choices. My brain has told my soul, “I am not doing any inauthentic and or laborious shit for income.”</div><div><br /></div><div>That rules out marriage for the sake of marriage.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>And <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-xL67En_38" target="_blank">working hard</a> is only worth discussing at this point.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>My body, my libido, my soul, my senses, my energy and heart are thinking -on the contrary. They want to do all kinds of rebelling and selling and telling and making and traveling for a living. "We’ve got to eat," they say. And they prefer organic. </div><div><br /></div><div>So God. Take everything away that makes no sense for my existence. The politics, my empathy and organized religion. Wait. Not religion. Leave it. I need something fun to fester over. And do you mind if I keep caffeine? I haven’t had much lately, 'til tonight. I needed to be up late to write. </div><div><br /></div><div>Plus, the ideology of wokeness requires awakeness. The past two years, I’ve abided in brain healing slumber. My oft drug treated dreams conjure nightly acts of terror that exhaust me to no end. Yet being awake during this pandemic has plunged me into deeper boredom. Just enough to get a little healing done. But the one nice thing is, when you are rested, you can also hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not for me though. I don’t want any of that hope for myself, either. #iAM exhausted of wanting and hoping for something more or better. I am closer to content than the world seems to want me to be. Write that book! Here’s a call for entry!</div><div><br /></div><div>All else I think I want aside from the aforementioned future from modern enslavement and being just over broke, is more book shelves, a gourmet kitchen, a spa bath, an indoor pool, and a huge sound proof room for drumming with my drum circle friends. -And my masters of art degree. -for the hell-of-it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Equally crucial is safety and rich experiences for my Indigo. <b>The</b> reason why I am truly here. Every aspect of her scholarship has been evident since early childhood, and I won'’t have her betrayed.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is 3:33AM, Tuesday August 31. #iAM a new radical for wanting nothing more or better - for enrichment. I can live in peace, in gratitude of this consciousness. #getyousome</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Namaste.</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div><div><br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-52523837123158186212021-06-26T14:41:00.005-05:002021-11-09T20:37:16.170-06:00Testing My Limitations | TBI , CTE , Post Concussion Fear Anger Impatience <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbtP6rr5qfbssEKZsYTjxkLB2qE9wZxShtvEFp-rDoIA4qBVZSmrkTpytPrzevw_zXKHWhTNcQtfBpiHV2Fsc8C9oeujNNwlUNXThnRY2IfxNXB003HMvos9DPeTpuuatEhoRZolWPGekZ/s1212/CAD8C3F5-A93A-49D2-859A-93747A7FB047.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="708" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbtP6rr5qfbssEKZsYTjxkLB2qE9wZxShtvEFp-rDoIA4qBVZSmrkTpytPrzevw_zXKHWhTNcQtfBpiHV2Fsc8C9oeujNNwlUNXThnRY2IfxNXB003HMvos9DPeTpuuatEhoRZolWPGekZ/s16000/CAD8C3F5-A93A-49D2-859A-93747A7FB047.jpeg" /></a></div>The day before yesterday I thought I was in this boat by myself. <div><div><br /></div><div>But, yesterday… </div><div><br /></div><div>in the pulmonary (stress) testing waiting room at UT Southwestern, they called my mother’s name. I stood up as well. She’d asked me to come with her. </div><div><br /></div><div>A crashing sound startled us all.. My laptop! hit the floor, glass and something wet splattered around my feet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Where am I? I was thinking? Why are these lights so hot?</div><div><br /></div><div>My mom left the room telling me to just stay put. I remember saying to her attendant, “ Can someone clean this </div><div>up?” She wants me to go with her. I was trying to move in her direction, but she was gone before I knew it, so I sat back down. </div><div><br /></div><div>A half second of sitting, I remembered .. that wasn’t my laptop but a bottle of Sicilian lemonade leftover from my birthday the day before. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thankful that’s all it was.</div><div><br /></div><div>The attendant returned with a garbage bin and towels and to my surprise the others in the small waiting room joined in to pick up the huge chunks of glass and examine my toes and ankles. I was wearing sandals.</div><div><br /></div><div>Waiting room patrons were now talking louder than before and to each other... </div><div><br /></div><div>My spilt lemonade had broken a sortof desperate silence that needed an out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could feel the need of it by looking in the eyes of my strange new roommates.</div><div><br /></div><div>One woman assured me my mother would be alright without me. “They’ll take good care of her.” I knew this. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div>I repeatedly apologized for creating such a stir. There was no need. These were servant people. They weren’t bothered at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sitting quietly, solemnly again, feeling horrible that I’d missed being with my mom like she wanted me to. I’d been scared my mother would be carted off to heart surgery straight from the treadmill.</div><div><br /></div><div>Damnit! -All because of this short term memory loss due to concussion, this breakage situation happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>Mad at myself and sulking about the second they’d called my mother’s name, and the moment I stood up… CRASH!! -I’d </div><div>forgotten where I was and what was in my hands?</div><div><br /></div><div>Scared to death for my future if this post concussion syndrome shit doesn’t get better. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nauseated as well as embarrassed, my eyes tearing as I fought the urge to vomit. How will I manage this? God don’t let me throw up.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’m at a hospital.. duh.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I approached the counter and asked for anti nausea pills. Saying .. “I’m post concussion and I don’t feel good.” </div><div><br /></div><div>My face was melting beneath my sunglasses and that hot ass cloth mask I had on. The sunglasses slid off my face and sitting was my immediate recourse.</div><div><br /></div><div>They (the hospital) couldn’t offer me anything but water and love, and paramedics- that I refused. I sat down again, being watched over with concern, meditating and just breathing to control the nausea. I wanted to lie down and go to sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div>By the time my mother returned, I’d gotten acquainted with four masked strangers, two of whom battling stage 4 cancer waiting their turn to be stress tested? I’m not sure why they were there..</div><div><br /></div><div>In a matter of minutes I was being encouraged by a retired </div><div>professional footballer who -along with his wife, shared resources on concussion recovery, including adding me to a concussion recovery FB group for athletes. </div><div><br /></div><div>And another retired gentleman whose grace was beautifully paternal, told of his stage 4 diagnosis and expressed gratitude that his late wife wasn’t around to see him so sick. </div><div><br /></div><div>I regret I didn’t get their names and numbers to keep in touch. I found our bond was sudden but uniquely sincere.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know this level of sharing had to be pandemic related as I sensed how lonely we all myst have been to see and talk to others besides out immediate housemates. If any.</div><div><br /></div><div>We vibed freely and it was nice. Seeing their eyes in masked intimacy was strange though. But I was no longer embarrassed or felt isolated in my own recovery circumstances. </div><div><br /></div><div>There’d also been quaint references to Jesus and blessings were invoked. Not at all imposing. I’m not agnostic, but most often irk at random or disingenuous praise talk. But I felt in the presence of God then, and in my thoughts of them, now.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mother did well with her stress test, the nurse told me. Then we went straight home. </div><div><br /></div><div>The adventure of driving and tender chatter with beautiful souls had been quite overwhelming to my senses, though.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’d love to do it again, but I don’t think my mother’s going to let me after she reads this.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;"> I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Prose & photo by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021|</span></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-26299777807669837492021-06-19T00:17:00.000-05:002021-06-19T00:17:26.625-05:00#iAM Juneteenth | 1865<br /><div><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s1"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTgY17eWQB-iUXqVYvAJ1C9U0z-49zVnY0lgbfJXn1Al2p4_2-H3bartK6p-zUmB6nACgk1fZTLWUk06JygPsZFQgX_Qb0DqjLMlAOZFvsSl7M6SoG-vzToL781G4TqAZVnKOH1AO6ERX/s1094/AAB5642C-EE9C-4486-B29C-7311241661C9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="828" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTgY17eWQB-iUXqVYvAJ1C9U0z-49zVnY0lgbfJXn1Al2p4_2-H3bartK6p-zUmB6nACgk1fZTLWUk06JygPsZFQgX_Qb0DqjLMlAOZFvsSl7M6SoG-vzToL781G4TqAZVnKOH1AO6ERX/w303-h400/AAB5642C-EE9C-4486-B29C-7311241661C9.jpeg" width="303" /></a></span></div><span class="s1"><br />#iAM #Juneteenth</span><p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">If you are not a descendant of slaves you have no idea how it feels to be a descendant of American slaves. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">My grandmother’s mother and grandmother were enslaved. My grandmother knew/loved them both. Her maternal grandmothers were enslaved.</span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1"><br /></span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Unfathomable.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">You cannot know how it feels if you are not a descendant of slaves, the abuse they lived with, had babies with ate and bathed and slept with. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">That is what slavery was about. Abuse of power. Abuse of human beings by other human beings. Abuse bred into my ancestors. Abuse that registers in the DNA of their progeny. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I’m not over it yet. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">For now I rejoice that I knew and remember my grandmother. That my mother knew and remember her grandmother. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I enjoy their teacakes and cornbread and potato salad and fried everything the way the original mother fried everything. I feel no pride that their hands nurtured their own families not first but secondary.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">Pre Juneteenth. June 19th 1865. My people were actual slaves. Make centuries of that lifestyle make sense to me. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">You can’t. </span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I’m not celebrating freedom from bondage. </span></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">#iAM remembering my grandmothers and granddads and their brothers and sisters and children and all my cousins who came up from that sickness.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">What Juneteenth means to me? It’s a new medicine infused with a little magic that gives Black American descendants of slaves an even bigger stake in the US legacy. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>We shall remain in your awareness. Live with it. Every ounce of abuse shall remain in ours.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I am Juneteenth. June 19th 1865. The day that untold the lie.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;">And we celebrate?</p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I’m too angry about that still, this Juneteenth 2021.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px;"><span class="s1"></span><br /></p><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s1">I’m happy for the people having parties and cookouts though.</span></p></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-5624833031168550152021-03-20T13:59:00.000-05:002021-03-20T13:59:25.657-05:00It’s A Whole New World of Hope Out There | Get The VaccineTo have an educated Black man I was interested in romantically tell me he was not getting vaccinated because of Tuskegee, was personally embarrassing. I hope he changes his mind, but I know I cannot change mine, about him. Not just because of that. But he seems to lack contentment with me. Bye. But I digress. Our health and lives and the ability to help mankind are gifts we have. Doing this is so simple. <br />
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<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesROZZS9LnvOP5LWyYhpFSZiykqagQl83q8SR_k6rfkNd2DZZ7QkF0M_KM3ZabvJZhyphenhyphenxBlgJQv1bjVFAOOdqMDXh0_8JLtpxrx9vie6PlCaeYZ9bFKJIMg12iJ1CakelOIAMJ3fkDRu3A/s2048/ItsAWholeNewWorldofHope_PandemicArt_JackieDRockwell_March+2021.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesROZZS9LnvOP5LWyYhpFSZiykqagQl83q8SR_k6rfkNd2DZZ7QkF0M_KM3ZabvJZhyphenhyphenxBlgJQv1bjVFAOOdqMDXh0_8JLtpxrx9vie6PlCaeYZ9bFKJIMg12iJ1CakelOIAMJ3fkDRu3A/w480-h640/ItsAWholeNewWorldofHope_PandemicArt_JackieDRockwell_March+2021.PNG" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Doing The Needle | PandemicSolvation | March 2021 | JackieDRockwell</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell | All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-86036263805882935872021-03-16T19:56:00.011-05:002021-03-17T20:15:12.700-05:00Kirk Franklin, His Son and Jesus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Dx4FzNzPZHKcgJivhwiEZM1LB66pQXhQjNw_Gzo9x7hCcM51O0vr5ixOEWYD6bHsNRlgXZQkn3SCmoZKwsVQb-ZHrLFbQdd3UIz_Nt34VNdd5C8QfDoKwMZCnskizxdLAPkNqywfleIO/s1094/KirkFranklinandJesusJackieDRockwell.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1094" data-original-width="828" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Dx4FzNzPZHKcgJivhwiEZM1LB66pQXhQjNw_Gzo9x7hCcM51O0vr5ixOEWYD6bHsNRlgXZQkn3SCmoZKwsVQb-ZHrLFbQdd3UIz_Nt34VNdd5C8QfDoKwMZCnskizxdLAPkNqywfleIO/w485-h640/KirkFranklinandJesusJackieDRockwell.JPG" width="485" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Kirk Franklin is not perfect. Him using the language in that trash-pile of a recording posted by his son, is part proof of that. Imperfect Christians have permission from God to lose-it sometimes; seems to be the mantra of his fan base. Delighting in the fact that Kirk's son needed a good cussin’ out, anyway. Even suggesting an ass whipping would be in order. *eye roll</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don’t care about how Kirk is referring to his verbal abuse toward his adult son as a private matter between adults. There are some of us who are just always and forever too enamored with our <a href="https://www.jackiedrockwell.com/2013/06/note-to-teenagers-of-scared-and-angry_16.html" target="_blank">can-be indignant and oft defiant offspring</a>, to treat them less than ... say... Jesus would? This <a href="https://www.theroot.com/why-some-reactions-to-kirk-franklins-leaked-phone-call-1846481140" target="_blank">article</a> at The Root makes clear that the Franklin family situation has triggered conversation in the Black community about toxic speak and behavior in our families. It’s just the way we’ve been doing it. -Since slavery days.. And we keep falling back on the narrative of hurt people hurt people. But that b.s. about, cursing out and beating our children will make them better, is a lie. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I don’t understand a prolific anointed vocalist as Kirk Franklin, being so moved, even in private, to speak that way to a son, who is obviously not as independent of his dad as he needs to be at his age. But ministers and mature Christians who curse people out and want to fight it out with other people, are problematic to this on-looker. There is something the matter with that behavior. There must be secrets in his heart that I would weep to see. He is about to lose me as a fan if can’t explain this thing better.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or, I could ask if he’s just another hypocritical Christian? But I’m not trying to go down that rabbit hole with some troll ... or cousin, who would love to call me an atheist or anti-christian. But the truth is, religion has done a lot to mess us all up. Especially Black folks. I know.. we obviously need spiritual structure with affirmations from a written Word. -Nothing wrong with that. But for me, convictions should be treated as sacred. If you say you love Jesus so much. ACT like it. If you want to show me how you handle adversity, as a Christian? Don't get mad enough and talk shit to someone - at all. I am the one who will pass hella judgement on you for that. It is unacceptable. It’s a deal breaker in friendships. It breaks my heart to know you lack self-control.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">You see, the music of Kirk Franklin has had a very strong presence and is therapeutic in my spiritual walk. Now. And I cannot un-hear his vulgar passion in that audio. I know he was pissed off at his boy, but the thing is this: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><i>Before shooting, one must aim. </i></b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i><b> </b></i></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Kirk aimed with intention or hope to achieve something with that message to his own child. what was he thinking? This won’t ever get out? No one else will know? Even with our adult children, diplomacy is wise. He’s ruined my trust, and further damaged my efforts to reconcile with organized religion. Seriously, Kirk. You owe me an apology. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I use swear words. And not in that context. Well.. let me think. My thing is, people seem to enjoy the attack. How nice would it be that we allow ourselves to truly and consistently walk in the beautiful light with each other. - just sayin'</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-35991287437299227492021-03-14T20:06:00.005-05:002021-03-15T01:05:14.983-05:00My Magic Cornbread | Soul Foodie <div><p class="p1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 35px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px 0px 3px;"><span class="s1" style="font-weight: bold;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="s1" style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhTdtyq2hGZJuIkxbmGulrgyComcmctBU2v-eHD4zqIJThqe2Zyu5C0F-NmX0ln8VGh5pZjYosAp6Uoiircox-8SmfR-3QaQC0_FfLhGxXaClfqaT14cveno8hvJuHBdv00cU-tj3wb60/s2048/52009502-5716-44CE-88B2-552E4EC19FE8.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1246" data-original-width="2048" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzhTdtyq2hGZJuIkxbmGulrgyComcmctBU2v-eHD4zqIJThqe2Zyu5C0F-NmX0ln8VGh5pZjYosAp6Uoiircox-8SmfR-3QaQC0_FfLhGxXaClfqaT14cveno8hvJuHBdv00cU-tj3wb60/w320-h195/52009502-5716-44CE-88B2-552E4EC19FE8.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span class="s1" style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="s1">In the south </span>cornbread represents the soul of the dinner table. Magic happens when cornbread appears. And I - - just hate making cornbread. From scratch or jiffy-wise. </div></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="s1" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><br /></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">“Oh well.” She said when I told her I didn’t make any with the rest of the regale I conjured in less than an hour. I do cook fast. </span></div><p></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px; text-align: justify;">My cooking techniques are fused with magic and.. focus. I’m usually starving when I cook and this kitchen gets really hot. I don’t rush. I just create with intention. Because cornbread is not my favorite and I don’t have to have it with every spread, it feels wasteful of my last two <i>Junius Heights</i> eggs and the cow’s milk reserved for recipes that need milk. But my mother loves her some cornbread. With everything. I was hoping beyond hope that she wouldn’t mind that I didn’t make any with dinner this time. I’m ready to eat!<span class="s2"></span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s2"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s2">Situation number 9. See Jackie show some love. She makes the cornbread. But differently.. WAITWHUT!? and Mother should like it. A little bit of this and this and that.. and especially that! - ingredients not customary for cornbread around here... poof! Jackiesmagic </span><span class="s3">🪄</span><span class="s2"> cornbread.</span></p><p class="p2" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 25.1px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s2"></span><br /></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="s2">My relationship to Source, God, Universe, Creator.. reminds me to remember my relationship with my earthly mother and all that’s she does for me. -Just this morning she woke me up from a deep sleep to ask me if I wanted her to cook me an egg. My “No thanks” response was code for “no ma I’m alive.” While cornbread is trivial food to me, it’s soul food for her. And I loved making it tonight. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span><span class="s3">😋</span><span class="s2"> y’all! it smells good in here! </span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2"><br /></span></p><p class="p3" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-size: 21px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span class="s2">AND stay tuned for more food posts and videos. </span></p></div>
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| Photo & prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021|</span></div>
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<br />Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-86708037676181682992021-03-09T13:29:00.019-06:002021-03-09T21:59:00.574-06:00The WAR of ART<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO81lu363mvq9dARLSC5M3GBFZESbuZrbs0B2fZgXjNn3HEBrfDKwAom6_NaNGCgYLkGi8h7-dnxCo_Z60NmygUtDlfNB5vcci3zD4PKBmH3ccrHb-p6n7R7CJYwgDXyCSS5rzOZXQTIt5/s789/Jackies+Magic+Photography+Crazy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="My Very First Photo Shop Project: At War With Art, JackieDRockwell, 2012." border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="789" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO81lu363mvq9dARLSC5M3GBFZESbuZrbs0B2fZgXjNn3HEBrfDKwAom6_NaNGCgYLkGi8h7-dnxCo_Z60NmygUtDlfNB5vcci3zD4PKBmH3ccrHb-p6n7R7CJYwgDXyCSS5rzOZXQTIt5/w640-h496/Jackies+Magic+Photography+Crazy.jpg" title="My Very First Photo Shop Project: At War With Art, JackieDRockwell, 2012." width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">My Very First Photo Shop Project: At War With Art, Jackie D. Rockwell, 2012.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The book, <i><a href="https://stevenpressfield.com/books/the-war-of-art/" target="_blank">The War of Art</a></i> is a gift. Esquire calls it “A vital gem... a kick in the ass.” The book by Steven Pressfield was recommended by a friend. I’m only thirty-nine pages in and for me, as an artist, it is the rod I have been waiting to be struck by. <b>However</b>. As beautifully written as it is, I am certain it is bound to piss me off and or get seriously on my nerves; with all of its “Break Through the Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battle..” propositions. Like the part about Resistance and Self Medication. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">For context I’ll get raw: This morning I allowed myself to go ahead and increase my recommended dosage of an antidepressant by 20 mg. I've resisted this for nearly a month, since my provider prescribed it. WAITWHUT? Another pill? But every night before entering the universal welcome of slumber, I struggle with some kind of sadness. I struggle with knowing why it is there. I struggle with getting rid of it. I struggle with the solution to it. As we all know, the rabbit hole that sadness can lead to, can be tragically heavy -worst case scenario. The knowing I am sad for fifteen-twenty minutes before I finally doze off, is frightening. So much so that I always resign to taking the increased dosage tomorrow morning. When tomorrow morning comes, I am a stranger to the conversation I had with myself the night before. I’ve forgotten how sad I felt. I can’t stand the idea of another pill that might not work, anyway. And then, for the record, this sadness will hit me in the middle of the day, for no good reason. Because of that<span style="text-align: left;">, I took the damned extra pill. Believing that falling asleep in a sense of peace and not sadness, is well worth it.</span></div><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>The War of Art</i> discusses briefly the supposed marketing ploys of attention deficit, anxiety, seasonal affect disorders, depression. It’s similar to the <i>if you build it they will come</i>, concept. Tell the people there is such-a-thing as depression, and they will believe it, and buy what you are selling to cure it. What also stands out in this for me is the statement: “Depression and anxiety may be real. But they can also be Resistance.” "<b><u>Can</u></b> also be.." That’s an important aspect of this conversation. Meaning, in addition to; indicating can possibly not, as well as possibly can. -Does this make sense? The point I’m trying to make is, treat diagnosed depression and anxiety as real, don’t speculate about its ulterior motive.. Treat feeling depressed and anxious as something that needs a diagnosis and or treatment. I’m of the belief that those marketing ploys exist to invite people to ask their doctor. #Endrant </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It’s important for me to say as a real person and artist experiencing depression recently, I am not trying to block out my soul’s call, as suggested by the author. Especially not to get some kind of relief a pill <u>might</u> offer. Just as depression is merely a symptom, medication is not an organic cure. It is just a manipulator of brain chemistry and systems. Albeit meds are seriously helpful relief, my brain disallows total faith in them. Which is why, I read, have a therapist, plus, am finally taking the recommended dosage increased. There is no orgasm. No conversation. No divine compensation for acute or chronic sadness when you are trying to fall asleep or be quiet and still.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">Until the medicine of therapeutic healing of my sadness breaks through, I’ve decided to be better off taking the meds. At this stage of my artist journey I need to <b>Be</b> <u>out</u>side the nostalgia of my comfort zones, AS WELL AS <b>Be</b> wary of the ensnarements of helping everyone except myself. </div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;"> I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell | All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div></div></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-89877253004593437242021-03-08T03:49:00.005-06:002021-03-08T10:06:58.727-06:00My Embarrassing Submission to the 2020 CADD x Maddrey PLLC Artist Prize, for Black artists living or working in Dallas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>It’s been an eventful four months and I have not heard from anyone that my submission for the CADD x Maddrey PLLC Artist Prize, for Black artists living or working in Dallas, did not make the cut. No email. No text. No postcard. No nothing. I did sort of expect to be notified with a "<i>Thank you but another Dallas artist is our inaugural recipient of this $5000+ Artist Prize. We appreciate the courage it took to submit your embarrassing entry. <a href="https://www.caddallas.org/events#/cadd-prize/" target="_blank">Here’s a link</a> to the deserving prize winner. Enjoy.”</i><div><br /></div><div>Everyday I have been afraid to confirm what I already knew was true. Before myself and God, I feel embarrassed that I dared to enter in the first place. I wasn’t ready. Not as an artist. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_eKVNYzeE4QD8SaYKV71G1EW4hOil82dpqRXtXfiuBp_zlmfWtqQO8eZVgwzTMMf7P2ppW0lZs8Ev1u9VJ2q3ySU4gmSRjx3MqdPhWILZuo_HtWGs8aiy8ViJgDSVyWGwEjQza77uHDP/s746/IMG_6377+2.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_eKVNYzeE4QD8SaYKV71G1EW4hOil82dpqRXtXfiuBp_zlmfWtqQO8eZVgwzTMMf7P2ppW0lZs8Ev1u9VJ2q3ySU4gmSRjx3MqdPhWILZuo_HtWGs8aiy8ViJgDSVyWGwEjQza77uHDP/s320/IMG_6377+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The journey it is going to take for me to feel worthy, I am still on for a long while. I suppose someone out there is saying, this experience, Jackie, is part of that journey. Yes, that’s true. But there is more at stake here than winning a prize or not winning a prize. What I am feeling right now is the humiliation of my submission being the victim of a wannabe artist. I should have known my feelings would be this hurt, but I didn’t. Entering took courage I really didn't have. But not winning is not as serious as I make it sound. I didn’t want to win. I wanted to be acknowledged. Truly, the experience of <i>trying </i>is suppose to be my prize.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Proverbs 18:16 reads, "Your gifts will make room for you.” For the past few years, my celestial movement through this space and time unfold my gifts, and it has been hard work. And during this unfolding, I’ve raised and met my <a href="http://www.jackiedrockwell.com/p/digital-cinematography.html" target="_blank">inspiration</a>. Not all of them in person. They are teaching me to blaze new trails of my own. Being a creative is such a mind-fuck, and it hurts sometimes. But I like it. It lifts my depression at the end of the stress. Even though I know I haven't failed, I cannot lie and say I’ve enjoyed the process.</div><div><br /></div><div>And do not misinterpret this; Now that I’ve seen the work of the prize winner, I feel so much better about myself as an artist. Our work is comparable. We are equals, not competitors. Her excellence is my joy, and I support her in her artistic expression. What was I afraid of? Not of being a loser, but of not being acknowledged by a jury of my peers, and not knowing what I was up against. Ego crisis averted. </div><div><br /></div><div>Congratulations to my sister, <a href="https://www.ciaraellebryant.com" target="_blank">Ms. Ciara Elle Bryant</a>, Artist. Inspiration.</div><div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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<br /></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-57214981486874853872021-02-23T11:48:00.005-06:002021-02-23T19:30:55.798-06:00What HE Said: “BLACK WOMEN ARE LOSING INTEREST IN BLACK MEN"<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3byC9vz0LSsZajkVryg1x5nxwscE-yIVsGgDvmG-SfmDMW_GCSQUs05C7gMQqKkcmJ1B0owTQCuhyphenhyphend1A6byxz9HV0D23fYtIokL5LAWxZ310-meszuJpq5wLC3PuVueFL9ByQXgaOtxbi/s1026/Seeking+Max+Cherry+JackieDRockwell+Black+Men+Black+Women+Relationship+Goals.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1026" data-original-width="828" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3byC9vz0LSsZajkVryg1x5nxwscE-yIVsGgDvmG-SfmDMW_GCSQUs05C7gMQqKkcmJ1B0owTQCuhyphenhyphend1A6byxz9HV0D23fYtIokL5LAWxZ310-meszuJpq5wLC3PuVueFL9ByQXgaOtxbi/w407-h504/Seeking+Max+Cherry+JackieDRockwell+Black+Men+Black+Women+Relationship+Goals.jpg" width="407" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">You know the story.. Max is smitten w/Jackie Brown & proceeds to prove it.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />First, let me tell you that the Bible says, "Your gifts will make room for you." Here’s why this statement belongs in this conversation.<div><br /></div><div>My daughter is a scholar, a researcher, a scientist. And, an empath. - Like her mother. Congratulations are in order because she’s just been admitted into a doctoral program of life-changing proportions. Not only life changing for her, but for the world. Specifically, the USA. And here’s why.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since her undergrad days, this young person has learned to interpret and translate information that is evidence based, to help people. Not shocking to me, even though before college, she was a respected lights and sound and stage technician. All through her growing up years, however, it was clear she was extremely thoughtful. You could always expect her rationale. She could always back it up with facts. She was the little child asking adults, “.. but you know what?” From kindergarten into grad school and clear into her chosen profession, her elevated states of learned thoughtfulness is not a fascination, but an experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>This post is not to humble brag about my daughter. This is a preface to a truthful and entertaining video I am compelled to share and I hope I will and it, will be heard via this medium. A video, not of my making, but, I just happened upon it. And I need to share it in the context of my own evolution as a mature Black woman who is <a href="http://www.jackiedrockwell.com/2021/02/she-wants-her-husband.html" target="_blank">Seeking Max Cherry</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>At 2:22am, I finished touching up a creative project, but was still in the <i>zone</i>. When I saw the time staring at me, I paid attention to the vibe of the last five hours of creating. It was an orchestrated score. The birth of my new blogpost playlist, dictated by my current mood, from my new “Living Room.” Before I could shut-it-all-down, my mind was racing and going deeper and deeper, becoming more, profoundly composing what to write about (play) next. Do I want to speak it? Do I want to write it? Do I want to podcast it? </div><div><br /></div><div>It’s late. I’m tired. What time is it, again? 2:22. Shut it down, Jackie. Sleep with it. And I must have done just that. Seven hours later, a voice in a video speaks a ring of truth. Facts. No lies. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don’t want to ramble. I’m here to share a message, as told by a young Black man on his YouTube channel. I am not a YouTube junkie, but I do go there for entertainment and news from time to time. All things considered, I don’t think it was random that this video found me. </div><div><br /></div><div>His roll is a little slow, but it <i><b>is</b></i> going somewhere. So watch the entire thing. I mean, if you are a single, unmarried, Black American dude, 25-65, marriage or relationship-minded, it might help keep you from prematurely returning to normal <u>un</u>conscious <u>un</u>awareness. It might not. The dude did not cite academia, but there is indication he and his cohort in the picture inset, studied somethings (of some kind). And I, a fifty-something Black woman of sound mind and body, resonate with most of their commentary. Call it divine intuition. I’m just saying.. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can hear a chorale of certain brothers and sisters finding and unfolding disharmony in this conversation. I cannot help ya'll get beyond that. I can imagine all the social media posts responding to this video originally posted about a month ago. I won’t seek to harvest those. All I can ask is that if you are thoughtful, you will appreciate the message. This is <a href="https://youtu.be/3Kj6rxIPj00" target="_blank">TheShumakeWay</a> and me being supportive, not directive. Watch. </div><div><br /></div><div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3Kj6rxIPj00" width="560"></iframe></div><div> </div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Original Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell | All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-79948012825917913382021-02-21T18:56:00.005-06:002021-02-21T19:10:09.674-06:00She Wants Her Husband<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0im9hud8UdLKlfhhdBikPEuz1bB261PB9mlXQShFkR9QxsbLJAHUDckt-YGAveGQaPirhsEmCr0fHzZ5SX4hpHZWtyZ8wvwdS0bIWFVZSh5UKwNTDj0hB5je2JPHRAqM46XZWeJIEX7K/s1280/EFEBCDE6-A3C4-42AB-9F51-202AD9C6E4DF.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="955" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv0im9hud8UdLKlfhhdBikPEuz1bB261PB9mlXQShFkR9QxsbLJAHUDckt-YGAveGQaPirhsEmCr0fHzZ5SX4hpHZWtyZ8wvwdS0bIWFVZSh5UKwNTDj0hB5je2JPHRAqM46XZWeJIEX7K/s320/EFEBCDE6-A3C4-42AB-9F51-202AD9C6E4DF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></div>Don’t even pretend like you don’t see it. Those lords of two realms. The past and the future. A cluster of wisdom aged to perfection, escaping dead pigment bondage. Strands of silver-gray seekers, revealing her here and her now. Long have been the strands as nights deemed magically wise, with the stroke of a brush. A hairbrush and a dab of styling gel. Laugh out loud at this first crack of b(lack) - of melanin in a sample patch. Bringing on a new identity. A new verse. A new take on life with the loss of an addiction to the youth of her racquetball and bowling days. When she had no inhibitions about most things including selling Artistic Impressions, Annette2 and Mary Kay.. But she does not want her bravery back. Or does she? “Just call me Ava, darling,” she says. She’s a new occupation. Not some withered leaf. So indulge her and overprotect her while she’s still orgasmic and her vision is 20/20 (corrected). Everybody fears death. She never did, though. Paternal great grandmother was the inspiration they’ve prepared her for since she was twelve.. Thighs, and long silver locks forth-coming, they always wailed. Age gracefully. Age beautifully. But she is kind of scared. She doesn’t swim that well. The ice is melting. Lava exploding. There’s no more inland in her dreams. She flies and gets lost amongst others who know more. But in life- awake <div><div><br /></div><div>Look to a woman whose <i>mystery</i>- is her wisdom, who was never new here, and appreciates stillness and quietness and admires patience. She can feed you well and love you to death.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is no other woman, here. She is not another woman. There is only this woman. She wants her husband, now.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></div><div style="background-color: white; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-88787791462419445742021-02-14T04:05:00.001-06:002021-02-14T04:06:23.781-06:00My Full Sail Story, Narrated for New Media Tools Project, Wk2A new woman with mauve eyes, lips and cheeks is unbound from people trying to run her life in the background of a concussion. For a while she let them. This is another story of how the Universe releases us from false security. <div><br /></div><div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Ac7sxr8Fwe4" width="560"></iframe><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><div><br /></div><div><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;"> I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| This original video created for an art college assignment by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div></div></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-38753767381380319892021-02-10T07:02:00.004-06:002021-02-10T07:02:50.552-06:00WK 2 EXPLORATION: A STORYBOARD OF VISUAL METAPHORSI had the task of two things yesterday; housekeeping and this assignment that was due by bedtime last night. The reality is, while tending to home, I totally forgot about the course assignment until about two hours before the deadline. I didn't rush. I knew there'd be no point to that. It is now 6:51a.m. the next morning, and I've just had my first yawn.. <div><br /></div><div>This was the best ten hours I've spent completely focused on what is important to me. Sure.. with this injury, I can totally forget to do things, temporarily. Not fun. But what can I do about it? Ask for forgiveness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Here is my finished project:</div><div><br /></div><div><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/aBfgrPlHYko" width="560"></iframe><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;">I can make you good at it!</span></div>
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| Prose & Video by Jackie D. Rockwell | All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-73639316007592530082021-02-05T02:33:00.008-06:002021-02-05T13:24:27.388-06:00Week 1 Project: My Full Sail Story Expanded | HOLDING UP THE SKY<br /><div><br /></div><div><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="MsoTableGrid" style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none; color: black;"><tbody><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://theney.org/104-2" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1756" data-original-width="1758" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRpgcUHsHFjmvjiUgyzh-Jjw6MO1PTGe-Rw8dLzXzuBBltijHq2u9-vNSgl56JRhs3rxhLFqzormErZe7O_04PH2x-B6fCGv60dDMJTJy1-pBINOAiVdPN1Lux57xMBdeS8lcAoyK6D4hQ/w640-h640/Women+Hold+Up+Half+The+Sky%252C+2019+-+Jeanine+Michna-Bales+.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Women Hold Up Half The Sky, 2019, Jeanine Michna-Bales</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><strong style="color: #640c0c; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.2800000011920929px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><em style="word-wrap: break-word;"><a href="http://theney.org/" style="color: #640c0c; font-family: proxima-nova; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: 0.2800000011920929px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;" target="_blank">SUFFRAGENOW: A 19th Amendment Centennial Celebration Exhibition</a>, Elisabeth Ney Museum</em></strong></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Before I started Full Sail, a traumatic brain injury wreaked insanity and uncertainty on my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Albeit a mild concussion, this ghost in my brain was the effect of something unknown and seriously the matter with me for the past few years.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">I always thought I wanted to work by day and create by night.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">As a single mom, providing was my primary goal, while creating and entrepreneurship are in my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">But then, I returned to work as the doctors ordered, and my injury worsened.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Denying my better judgement and forsaking my well-being to be this team player my company needed.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Because of that, I was forced to resign from the harassment of management and their wretched “work or be disciplined” policy.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">My patience with them was lost when I opted for self-care over the audacity of corporate oppression.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Because of that, I was losing my <i>creative bent</i>- working with people who didn't care two-cents about my well-being.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Uninterrupted sleep, ER trips, Morphine drips, and antidepressants were daily obligations to survive my new inabilities.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Because of that, a friend sent a link to FSU where she was enrolled, suggesting I consider the Creative Writing degree program.<o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">She’d been the confidant who knew best that creating was the quickest way to my recovery.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">Until finally, I decided again, that investing in the cost of art school at fifty, was more rewarding than surviving in the kraken -that is corporate America.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">We agreed that even if I got better overnight, the betrayal of my former employer had radically redefined me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">And ever since then, I am focused on my healing, whilst curating the <a href="http://www.jackiedrockwell.com/2020/08/womenvotechallenge-woman-empowered.html" target="_blank"><span color="windowtext">#spiritjewelsofmamashouse</span></a> photo series, whilst embracing my studies and prospective career in Digital Cinematography. <o:p></o:p></span></p></td></tr><tr><td style="padding: 0in 5.4pt; width: 467.5pt;" valign="top" width="623"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">My network of creative and artist friends inspire me to create, teach and learn - and hold up the sky with purpose. </span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;"> I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Photography by <a href="https://www.jmbalesphotography.com/exhibitions" target="_blank">Jeanine Michna-Bales</a>. Pose & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell | All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-37995742273225047752021-02-02T03:10:00.010-06:002021-02-02T20:05:22.065-06:00WK1 Exploration: Start A Blog & Tell A Story<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyI7lxzkgWJ9HGK3Q3MbT9In8bLZaGpbkna6A_A7Gb9vex-q4eUXlHRCpgAHoUeKkPajoq0txn3c0p8eVL1yI3RVXgA7DDZHBapPZ_C1mss_YUj-ggIRoZhgrh1UHfTIV3hS4TVxnLXFZh/s1121/JACKIEDROCKWELL+.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1121" data-original-width="816" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyI7lxzkgWJ9HGK3Q3MbT9In8bLZaGpbkna6A_A7Gb9vex-q4eUXlHRCpgAHoUeKkPajoq0txn3c0p8eVL1yI3RVXgA7DDZHBapPZ_C1mss_YUj-ggIRoZhgrh1UHfTIV3hS4TVxnLXFZh/w371-h510/JACKIEDROCKWELL+.jpeg" width="371" /></a></div>Before I started Full Sail, a traumatic brain injury wreaked insanity and uncertainty on my life.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I always thought I wanted to work by day, and create by night.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But then, I returned to work as the doctors ordered, and my injury worsened.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because of that, I was forced to resign from the harassment of management and their wretched 'work or be disciplined' policy.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because of that, I was losing my <i>creative bent</i>- working with people who didn't care two-cents about my well-being.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Because of that, a friend sent a link to FSU where she was enrolled, suggesting I consider the Creative Writing degree program.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Until finally, I decided again, that investing in the cost of art school at fifty, was more rewarding than surviving in the kraken -that is corporate America.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And ever since then, I am focused on my healing, whilst curating the <a href="http://www.jackiedrockwell.com/2020/08/womenvotechallenge-woman-empowered.html" target="_blank">#spiritjewelsofmamashouse</a> photo series, whilst embracing my studies and prospective career in Digital Cinematography. </div><div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;"> I can make you good at it.</span></div>
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| Photo & Prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5502717050994061939.post-53090997604528669592021-01-14T01:44:00.008-06:002021-02-02T03:58:54.487-06:00Optimism Can Save UsI like the way Quincy Jones said it, “All my life I’ve had this almost criminal optimism. I didn’t care what happened, the glass was always going to be half full.” That’s the way I feel about 2021. As a matter of fact, it’s how I felt about 2020. Despite the self assurance of the-donald, and the death toll of Covid-19, the majority of us were blessed to maintain our habits of living.<div><br /></div><div> So this year, just like the-Q, I am maintaining my own portion of criminal optimism. While I do have my antidepressants set to auto-refill, I feel innately empowered by any fears that creep up, to only look forward. As bleak as times may forever be, it behooves us to behave as if we want to have things more better and more lovely- more excellent for our progeny. Their future is not an impossibility, you know. Most broken things are fixable, and we are adaptable. #justthemessenger</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is why I feel that if you have a lawn and young children, you should plant a tree for them. This 30’+ Magnolia evergreen was planted by my step granddad when I was 7 or 8. I love this tree! As shown <a href="https://fb.watch/2-FtGv6sRn/" target="_blank">here</a> in a video I made for Earth Day 2020.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over the years as Maggie outgrew me and outlived my grandparents, habitually withstanding the hellacious Texas summers and neurotic winters, I never really gave her any thought- because... she was- there. After my grandmother left us in 2016, the tree, among other things attached to her house, took on a prestigious new purpose, in my view: Heirloom.</div><div><br /></div><div>And envy! .. because she’s got enough room to grow another 40-50 feet where she is and will likely live up to a century and a half in these obviously perfect growing conditions. This Magnolia has been thriving five decades. I never imagined I’d be writing about this when I was a little girl watching the gentle nestling of the seedling into a hole twenty five feet or so from the front door. Then came the constant attention and nurturing over the years to ensure her long term survival. I’m feeling this old neighborhood, let alone the planet, can survive hundreds more years. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so it is, the optimism I feel for the future of planet earth, our humanity, for my only child and her offspring are based on my love for a tree. For they deserve to see her 50 years from now, and bless this planet with their lives and the trees they will plant.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOFJ24XPVh22DUOgJu5LQCs448FMoCfKiDIIpLMDCUWHz7LFgv2mc8zYDxFTrtqwwSXgek98lXoPRYXCLLb_IOJ0Q3FNoUspTHtocK2IhEGvEDMUNRy0uIvLMajEWE0nbCBIDtAeEfFj6W/s1278/684A321D-3AF8-4190-8963-FE85D36D8B86.jpeg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1278" data-original-width="776" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOFJ24XPVh22DUOgJu5LQCs448FMoCfKiDIIpLMDCUWHz7LFgv2mc8zYDxFTrtqwwSXgek98lXoPRYXCLLb_IOJ0Q3FNoUspTHtocK2IhEGvEDMUNRy0uIvLMajEWE0nbCBIDtAeEfFj6W/w389-h640/684A321D-3AF8-4190-8963-FE85D36D8B86.jpeg" width="389" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"> Anyone can teach you about love.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #cc0000;"> I can make you good at it!</span></div>
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| Photo & prose by Jackie D. Rockwell |All Rights Reserved © 2008-2021 |</span></div>
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<br /></div>Jackie D. Rockwellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13240285813898568280noreply@blogger.com