Originally posted on mslindadupree:
Hi my name is Linda Dupree. You probably know me on Facebook and this is my new blog. I thought we could have some adventures to brighten boring days. As you know, I am a writer and very creative. I am sure we can find some things to surprise you and I will add snippets of my writing too.
Be grateful for everything you “get”. Be grateful for everything you don’t “get”… It’s the only way the Universe can really do with you what is limitless and magical, from the infinite. You can’t take only the “good” and reject the “bad” as defined by a finite mind… Rejoice in ALL results, because they are the loving way of God.
There’s really nothing to “GET”. It’s an illusion. None of this life is “MINE”… I’m a caretaker, a custodian, given the privilege of looking after it all with loving gratitude. I receive as much as I’m willing to use on behalf of love & service.
I, despite the odds, have never stopped believing i could fly, the way children do imagine themselves to actually be living the lives of superheroes, secretly, patiently awaiting the perfect time to take to the sky. It’s more fun, that’s for sure. I think a…
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1986 was a pichet de bière, a pigidh leanna, a bucket of ale in a quiet pool room at 211 Union street, Seattle, a worn Kerouac paperback, a black pompadour, a beat leather jacket, a steaming manhole cover, a littered alley, a homeless Lummi drunk named “little Jesus” a ferry ride just to be somewhere water-bound, an acoustic night in a sweat smoke cabaret, a laying sprawl in a downtown doorway for the night with my boon, bum parties in Pioneer Square, and a theatre of plays un-played, where i was taken in by the visionary red jesteress, and the ride began with a crashing momentum, hitting the shore years later and washing it all under, beating me with my own devices. I hovered there still, in vapors and called to the sea.
Alastdare’s ghost dragged my soul up from infinite grains of sand, re-shaping me, infusing to me his sight, seeing finally, we, out of body, quickening, sprung up from the muddy core through a time tunnel, onto the wet banks of the river Beauly and Glass, alongside a “Beaulieu” stock bridge in Easter Croihill, where the living and the dead pass, one hour before cock crow and the “silver water” flows for capture, and in Gaelic incantations, his towering 7 foot spectre whispered to me his instructions for my direction, like a verbal machine gun, I could barely catch it all in the excitement:
“Turn your eyes outward, seek, turn your heart’s desire aloft, listen, give good care, love, tolerate, wait quietly, without complaint, return to the water, watch the waves, count out the sets.. 20 will clear, 14 will roll slowly, 11 will come to take you out and rise, and you can carry on longer and higher than any that came those short years lost in the mists. The tide be your ride and guide… Be patient with yourself and others. Take time for respite where the waves enter the earth, take the cave for internal reflection, withdraw to hear the Mother’s heart blood coursing and racing around you, and in you… Remember the Bruce, watch the spider piecing the geometry of his web, the spider knows the friend in time and consistency better than you. Note the design of creation’s spiraled rocks and shells like ears to hear the winds words…
Now, you know your fight, so let’s have REAL fight, a fair fight, and don’t short change the great promoter in the heavens… be a thrasher in the ring, give ‘em a good show, but WIN, land on the ropes, but WIN, take a chin check like a champ but WIN… listen to this old wrestler, and make good on my investments. None of this is for you anymore, what comes to you is your debt to me and the Father, you only get to keep care of it for us, and each one of the golden gifts you’ll manifest is for us, for “them”, for “her” for “it” for others, and you’re the lucky custodian, greenskeeper and caretaker of the House. And if I catch ye astray frae duty, i’ll lay me foot down hard on yer tail, laddie, and tolerate no more mischief than what we all would bear in the spirit of fun… hear me now…” In Norman French he weighed in more, “Vous êtes prêt mon cher fils, me rendent fier et à travers vous, je vais me sentir vivant à nouveau” (You are ready my dear son, make me proud and through you i will feel alive again.”
So grateful & privileged to have all of these gents stand with me. Thank you, Brent David Fraser #BDF7 Sep
So grateful and privileged to have all of these gents stand with me. Thank you, -BDF
Pamela Corey shot these and more, see more of her work at
Originally posted on Afroculinaria:
An Open Letter to Paula Deen:
Photo Courtesy of: Johnathan M. Lewis
Dear Paula Deen,
So it’s been a tough week for you… believe me you I know something about tough weeks being a beginning food writer and lowly culinary historian. Of course honey, I’d kill for one of your worst days as I could rest myself on the lanai, the veranda, the portico (okay that was really tongue in cheek), the porch..whatever…as long as its breezy and mosquito-free. First Food Network now Smithfield. (Well not so mad about Smithfield—not the most ethical place to shill for, eh, Paula?)
I am currently engaged in a project I began in 2011 called The Cooking Gene Project—my goal to examine family and food history as the descendant of Africans, Europeans and Native Americans—enslaved people and enslavers—from Africa to America and from Slavery to Freedom. You and I are both human, we…
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