The street here is narrow, modeled like the eastern marketplaces, “Chinatown in Philadelphia.” I felt as comfortable as possible; the rare walks I did take, while under the wire of a novel deadline. I could not adhere to the growing number of discontented beings who had some form of lament regarding my choices, and nature; cleaving to a series of moments that buried the gold flakes floating in my blood, my veins and the sweetness of my inner child, which of whom I’ve shielded with everything in me. She’s been OK for a long time, but not now. I’m sad about it, but I’ve just got to get her safe again. I’d imagine her dancing on a cloud, and laughing. I’m getting older, and I am pleased; yet I am wondering, if life is truly a struggle. Maybe it is not privilege, but a mindset and conscious intention.
I, hope this Spring to see two hundred year old trees, reside in Victorians, listen to the ravens and crows have conversations. I remember, on my way from Aspen to Boulder accompanied by security who kept me in sight while I stretched my legs and tried to tell the difference between the Black birds sitting on the roof of a small cement garage near the convenient store we found reprieve from the 3 hour drive, not that the journey wasn’t relatively nice. Once I’d finished my intake at the hospital, my brother called to tell me the accommodation was of no form of kindness but my own influence. I could not, muster the energy to discern the facts of the matter, as long as the heavens, as long as, I was in tact.
And it is daring, for me, my days, I do not know with each sunrise how each hour will commence. At this age, I am at peace in some odd way; a peace I cannot describe. Maybe it is the peace of not blending in, though, of course, I never did, but the semblance of doing everything to create safe, loving environments for others, and now, focusing on the foundation of my soul. And admitting to myself, a molecule sized daily growth of the reality of being in love; trying to allow the layers of granite and melted ash that had cooled into harsh shimmering plates. This is not to say my capacity of unconditional care was not sincere. But love, during the horizon of middle age, does not resemble the simplicity of infatuation; that pain and frustration is piercing, love at this time is like overcoming complex barriers, blunt and numbing. And I wonder: the elaborateness of houses of cards that towered towards the outer reaches of earth, to make it clear he did not love me, had I asked, or asserted, I could have possibly foreseen or even comprehend what had befallen me and my circumstances.
Now, I am not the same, but I’ve been mined, discovered, while I am more concerned with his humanity; and the rejuvenation of my aura and happiness. And the miraculousness of the health of my cognition. Jordannah, who I’d like to reveal her facets, multifaceted like a kaleidoscope projecting pastel colors, that can resemble sepia, black and gold when dipped in the validity of doubt. It is all fair.
Jordannah Elizabeth is an award-winning author, lecturer, journalist, essayist and music critic. She began as a columnist at TERSE. in 2016 and served as editor in chief from 2019 – 2021. Her arts & culture journalism has been published in Village Voice, DownBeat, LA Weekly, Chicago Reader, NPR Music and more. She’s been an arts and entertainment reporter for the historical Black newspaper, New York Amsterdam News since 2013. She currently teaches music business at New School in New York City.