The beauty of the betrayal Baton Rouge. An AOLAB blog.

The name Baton Rouge means Red Stick in french. It refers to a red stick that Americans native to the area used to mark off tribal territories. It was also originally a military post for the invading French…settlers. The first image that rises up to me is a bloody nightstick … one swung at the original inhabitants to ‘make way’ for the then new world era, one bloodied now by the splatter from the straddling and unnecessary point blank shooting of a black man who,  if he was selling Cds, had possibly been blocked from any other gainful employment, mounted Like a pig by the outright justification of bad cops clothed in blue being written off as nothing more Than Pigs.

It’s a horrific image that the initial naming of that “territory” was seeded with from jump. The space betrays the abuse those indigenous to the area then and now have lived subjected to.

…and yes,  I’ve “been” there. Once. Baton Rouge is the only city experienced during  the AOLAB treks whose energetic quality had me flee. The oppression in the air there was heavy, hurt my heart. &they were GOOD People. It just didn’t feel like a place where ‘good  people’ weren’t routinely sacrificed in some way or another,  speaking from my heart.  And the many times I’ve cut through to go to other cities it was always oddly with held breath. Once,  fleeing Hurricane Gustav the volunteer team I was with were to be sent there or Jackson, MS. We prayed & unequivocally picked  Mississippi. 

The spirit of that city hurts. It hurts for its people,  it hurts for the atrocious acts that people don’t realize often occur there right in line with the vibration of all this. 

I think that’s what I always felt. 

I ran because I’d never felt the spirit of a city hurt for those who lived within it, a spirit of a city in despair.

This anger we’re seeing betrays its  long broken heart. 

And it…its angry lament  raised the strangest question this morning:

But what was its  original name?  What did those native to the area call it, before the brutality of foreign invasion reigned ? 

The original peoples were the offspring of the moundbuilders. Istrouma is  the only word I could find. ..and they(historians) claim they don’t actually know what it really means.  “Possibly  a corruption of this or that choctaw  word~”

The weird thing that arose is a reference to red sticks that the Native population used to carry… to count days up to an event.  Like a calendar.

“The Muscogee tradition of carrying a bundle of sticks that mark the days until an event occurs. Sticks painted red symbolize war.”

What if they let the invaders find those red painted sticks in the first place to symbolize they knew they-as the manifestation of war-were coming?  
…and energetically speaking, how does that inform  the energies at play today? If the nation’s focus hadn’t been pinged away from Baton Rouge TO Dallas, had actually been stayed with,  mediated, worked through earnestly,  maybe the cops who died yesterday would not have had to die, be sacrificed to this madness.  Their blood is on the hands of the media machine  that did that consciously. 

The time is now. The energetic aftermath of #philandocastille &#altonsterling


Us 70s, 80s &90s babies are just…being shocked out of our laziness. Across the color scale.  We thought what our granddaddies did, what mom & dad marched With John &Becky for was the final answer. We were lulled ìnto a dream that, though not killed, the beast had lost the taste of us. &we spread our wings, touting the changes that did manifest like wind beneath them. 
We forgot…that beast was happy to kill them too for standing with us.

We need to understand… alot of#goodpeople Didn’t forget that.

It is easier to be #ledandfed  no matter what your skin color is. &it leads to an empty life. Which is the goal.  Controlling empty lives. 
The people i went to high school with have kids coming of age now. &there IS a diff clip to these kids because even though WE didn’t recognize it as such…we dealt with a brand of pissed off systemic racism that would’ve  bewildered our grandparents to be given the chance to face down.  Making 6 figures doing the job is your dreams yet being called a nigger- we defiantly went into schools that didn’t want us unless they could brainwash is, saw the racket that was, kept exploring. These kids…scare me with how proud they make me.
We know how we got shit done. &we gave birth to a generation that has the potential to To HELP US END this madness. But we don’t get to stand down.  Our multiethnic, multinational friends don’t get to stand down, either.
Regardless of what the System induced/introduced multiculturalism for…THIS TIME NOW is when we show them Why WE took to going beyond small town borders into each others arms. What WE knew was blatantly  revolutionary about it as we did it. 
This is our Revolution, #fureakingHippies #generationX #generationY #generationZ

We can’t let these wily #millenial offspring go this alone. We went through shit believing it was getting better. &it has. Which is why the beast is showing out. It’s in its #deaththroes.

#philandocastille &#altonsterling & the 121 other Black men &79 Latino men did not die in vain.

it is finished… the “NOBLOG 1YR PERSONAL PROTEST.”That it actually happened boggles the mind.


…after that last blog on Michael Brown I had to step down. I was frustrated with the focus of all of it…and felt that the only way not to fan the flames was to remove myself from that particular fire, absently sure it would burn itself out and the media would not get what they wanted. Take a year off from blogging. Sabbatical.

Fast forward a year.
So much good interspersed with cruelty and stupidity, terrorism and malice.
Sandra Bland…

…madness attempting to erupt again and again…but the difference this time was that the true nature of said madness was so flagrantly available for all to see each and every time that the entire energy of the push changed.

We didn’t get worn out from dealing with the symptoms of their disease. They did. We embraced all who embraced us and let the beast be the beast, to its chagrin…which took the brunt of its energy.

It stopped being a victimization of a people with outmoded oppressive propaganda loops being consumed with every breath, seeding more insanity. We started using the system they pinned us in with the re-direct the gaze and the flow.

Everything changed in Baltimore.
When the cops tried to cyber-bully that flare-up into existence and people from within it shouted out the true deets in real-time…

When the gang members who were trying to be framed turned out to be in meetings with the spiritual leaders of the community at the exact time the press was trying to say devils nigh was surely going to explode…

The beast wasn’t ready for the minute shifts and it was the most beautiful thing i’d seen in a while. This current generation they keep trying to have a reaping over…showed why in ways many may have missed.

The true madness was over not being able roughly shove a class of people seen as separate due to the way melanin resides in their skin over the brink INTO a matching madness that had been a silent prophesy in racist , twisted, fear-based camps since We the people got pushed into equality for all. The We the People they didn’t want to recognize was surely going to rear up and make their offspring pay for what their ancestors enacted…that is how this game was designed to roll out and go down.

But We did not. Even when cops used a stupid hick kid as a pawn to off the Senator that made them have to wear body cameras to Police the fn police…when surely that was going to be the end result of all that. The moron said it himself. He was going for the glory of a race war that, at 20 in 2015, had no real denotations in comparison to the civil rights era.

Why didn’t all this mess work?

Perhaps… because in a very basic sense, whether we realize we are walking it out or not…we people of color in 2015…in the midst of secular inanity and insanity… are already living out the lives of the Avenged. We do not have to be Avengers…because we have the opportunity every day in this country people are still dying to sneak into…to live as the blessedly avenged and just go for the things of import in our lives, no matter the color of our skin.

…let than sink in for a minute.

At any given moment, we can and do rise, as individuals, motivated by the loves God has put in our respective minds and hearts..two seats of thought we’d all been told we as a race were too base to utilize in pragmatic fashions.

The strange beauty was in knowing…
and seeing the sickness that was all over the #SANDRABLANDSACRIFICE, and #CHARLESTON… #THEHOMELANDTERRORISM for what it truly was…yet living unafraid, in light of that truth. My heart went and still goes out to the her family. But I pity those who killed her, not for the meanness of their hearts…but the fragility of… their so-called power base.

A beast is its wildest, sickest and most violent when it knows it really is bleeding out. Pay attention to that.

We are in the midst of the death throes of many monsters that have ruled this world… principalities are falling down… due to the love inherent in the color-FULL outcropping of us, no need of the paltry quip of colorblindness, no need to cast off skins we breathe through in order to be seen as one.

& I don’t reference the meek, wishy-washy love of this system, that fleeting bullshit that is emboldened by consumptive desires just like the ones at the root of all this american race shit.

I reference the active, god-given love that makes each of us DO things that bring light and life into the dreary corners of this gorgeous plane. I speak of the violent taking Heaven by force…being read in a wholly different direction.

We are FINALLY becoming badass in the displaying and flipping of the two and five and more talents we’ve each been entrusted with. Even the one talenters have learned not to dismay the one who gives them something to work with in fear of losing it.

And that will overpower any beast.
Be who you are to the bone and you can never be alone …because to be that.. to live that out…you gotta get Vayo con Dios about the shit.

We got this.

And the blog IS back.
But there are some modifications in the pipeline.

MANY things have happened in the year that has passed. GREAT things. Including the completion of the Artist in Residence gig in New Orleans and a relocation to Miami to build out the Publishing Imprint in earnest.

…but enough about that.
I just… hope you missed me.

God Bless,
{…and prepare for the overflow}
Angel Brynner.

Chancers. AOLAB 4JULY2014.

So I’m sitting there. And the one who thinks he likes me is sitting next to me as I scroll through imagery of the one I love with someone else in his home presented as his heart, with another couple present. And he’s watching me. Wondering if seeing this will be it, be the feather that finally knocks me over and out of this unsuitable insanity. So that he can get his chance.

Which is all he cares about. His chance. This is all going on beside someone who isn’t aware I realize he has no love for me at all, only wants his chance to tag something that has been in his face for a long while now. He may have even liked me in all actuality once. Once. But he doesn’t know that I see in his eyes that is not the case at all these days as we hang. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it himself. But I am grateful to God that this time I do.

THIS is the first time I have been free enough in my heart and mind to really see the guys who HAVE been attracted to me in a better light, without the amplification of wild sex covering all missteps and eye shifts. I’m an unique female energy, so it doesn’t happen to the full very often. Most who are not about shit in life do not come around me dropping trough as brazenly as they would with the next.

But this has been surreal.
If he had shown up a year and a half ago, when all that was in my mind regarding love and hope was spilt across the floor, he would have easily ended up in my bed. Even after all these literal years of celibacy. He’s that much akin to what aspects of me used to happily gnaw on without decimating due to the cloth they were cut from, as long as it was short-term. Absently noted, he is a version of what my body pulls and my mind rolls with on default, platonic and otherwise, where my Ohioan comes out in full-force, something that hasn’t happened in decades.

But he didn’t show up 18 months ago. I don’t even remember when he did show up, but its been a while. & there have been breaking points in my life as of late that he’s been there witnessing the silent ripples OF across the surface of me with no clue as to what I’m actually walking through due to my violent privacy in real-time. But I know the truth is that he wouldn’t care anyway. The truth that hurts the most is knowing why I don’t share.

Because I can’t deal with the “chancers” anymore.

The pastiche of me has been healed and all of a sudden I am a very real woman who can’t find the stitches anymore that held me together before God did.

In the choice between make-believe in my head that I actually have enough faith to see it could one day become true and the choice between make-believe in my face with someone who glares at me when he thinks I don’t see, who doesn’t realize that every thought of his for better or for worse flits across his face…who doesn’t realize that I see he still has a hard time liking himself, even…
I’m going to choose the fantasy that gives me hope.

That didn’t use to be the case.

I used to give myself short-term respites with these guys. I cant anymore. I have no need to lick my wounds while straddling them anymore because God is the head of my healing team now and directs me towards things so as not to need to come away as scarred as I once did.

And it’s a opulent head to wake up in on Independence Day.

It was a dream.
That first bit.

But so is the last.
And if I am going to choose between dreams, I may as well choose the one that encourages me, that keeps me hammering out what it means to be blessing focused for this bodymind in this day and age.

But I can’t deny…the desire to kiss him, even conscious of all that, waits on me like a skittish hipster at a café sometimes. And maybe one day I will. Just to get it over with. Because I’m tired of him glaring at me, knowing I’d punch him if he leaned in again. Then again, it has happened with some who turned out to be the best of the platonic ones over this life. Some who are still actually in my life after the “oh-yeah, oops, sorry about that~” bad game buzzer sound aspect of kissing the one who’s supposed to be your friend, not lover.

But what it just registered to me as now is I gave up everything in a professional sense once to get the chancers out of my life there. I’ve done it in a friendship sense. And the moratorium on lovers has made it a non-issue in regards to relationships for much of this adult life.

Which is why it is appearing to be handled here. Ahead of time.
Which is kinda cool.