2019 ChalkFest Marietta Georgia

TAKE IT TO THE STREETS

Sidewalk chalk takes over Marietta Square

Dap Tales and I have a daughter.  We call her The Bean, ‘cuz when she was born, that’s all she was; a tiny little bean, wrapped in a swaddling blanket in our arms.  She has her mother’s radiant smile and shimmering eyes.  Lingering there, behind that bright countenance, was a world full of curious questions and big ideas.  Even when she was little, the ideas were big, super-sized in fact.  Case-in-point:  Barely old enough to have started drawing, her mind would float from idea to idea like a butterfly from flower to flower, and her hand, from surface to surface, until her tags were everywhere; multiplying like locusts throughout our home. 

I know, every kid eventually earns their stint in solidarity for drawing on the walls, but this kid; the level or immediacy of the punishment couldn’t dam the flow; redundancy of punishment was a wasted effort.  It soon became evident that we were dealing with a brain experiencing ideas that simply were too big to fit on any page.  It seemed the way the world was around her, immersive and encompassing, so it was with her interior world as well.  Ideas were everywhere and when she wanted to express them, that’s how they appeared, from her big little brain onto our walls.  Then… it came into our lives; the magic that is Sidewalk Chalk.  Genius!  Finally, a medium that could match the size of our Beanie’s big dreams and didn’t require a home remodel afterwards.  So, you could say we have a personal connection with “street art” of this nature.  It was from this perspective that we planned a family day excursion to Marietta Square to witness artists, from Georgia and afar, dressing up the asphalt with splashes and dashes of colorful chalk creations of all kinds.

The entire event was a two day affair, with artists setting up and drawing all day Saturday, finishing and presenting to a panel of judges Sunday.  We went Saturday, so saw the works of art in their early stages.  Even at that stage of the game, there were some truly impressive things to see:  Concepts ranging from the realistic to the whimsical and art styles as varied as the artists themselves.

  

There was everything from art deco and graphic styles, to lush realistic portraits to glowing fantasy mélanges.  With techniques featuring striking sharp contrasts in edgy designs and soft, blended hues and shading bringing human faces richly to life.  And this smorgasbord was while the pieces themselves were still mostly incomplete. 

We stopped in at an ice cream shop there on the Square for some refreshment, which did not disappoint, and found some chairs out on the sidewalk to chill.  A live band started cranking out hits from the seventies, the sound rebounding throughout the Square over our heads and those of milling spectators.

Band: Brother Whitlock. They sang some Southern Rock Hits. (Photo)

We strolled.  Just in front of the bandstand was a park, littered with rambling, chattering children.  DAP and I perched atop a brick wall and watched Beanie frolic among the laughing throng of kids as the music played, until it was time to get outta Dodge.  We were not able to return Sunday for the finished works and the judgment of awards but we still had the chance to be wowed, as we invariably are, by the craft and dexterity of brilliant minds expressing the ideas that just won’t stay confined within the walls of their brains.

******

About al-Falaq (a.k.a. Phil Bates):
al-Falaq is a writer and illustrator living in Atlanta, Georgia. He loves cats and shares his home with an ornery fur ball with nine tales, at least!  His collection of poetry and short stories, Threadbare is available on Amazon. al-Falaq is also our resident blogger for our RGN on Location Blog.

The RGN visit the Black dolls and other artist event at the Omenala Griot Museum

Omenala Griot Afrocentric Museum & Event Center

Black Dolls, Black Art, Black Healthy Stuff & More…

Marketplace and Outreach at Omenala Griot Afrocentric Museum

A day is not formed, until it is lived.  Sometimes you’ve got to separate yourself from your notion of a day, unformed as it is, in favor of what is being offered to you, and let the day form itself while you, having bought the ticket, faithfully take the ride.  This kind of happened to me on the beautiful Saturday of September 8.  The Georgia Nutts Guild, consisting of our founder, DAP Tales, myself (alFalaq), Mia Maine and Yvonne Walker were booked to do some vending and outreach at the Black Dolls, Black Art, Black Healthy Stuff & More Marketplace being held at Omenala Griot Afrocentric Museum in west Atlanta.  Knowing that I would need to be ready to work all Saturday night, there was a part of me devoted to the idea of chilling at home in my jammies and having a nap; at least that could have been hatched as the plan, or like I mentioned before, my notion of the day.  I considered making a case out of it.  But it was early and the day was not yet formed, you see; just my notion of it.  And that’s how easy it would have been to miss out on, what turned out to be, one of the nicest Saturday afternoons of the whole summer.

We got to the place amid a bustle of vendors setting about getting their tables and wares in order, and proceeded to do the same.  Old School soul music was bobbing along through the air around us:  Maze andFrankie Beverly, Earth, Wind & Fire, Prince.  Bright sounds like traces of the late morning sun following us into the warmly welcoming interior of the museum space.  

Flags of African nations quilted together were hung in one area of the ceiling like a parlor canopy.  

Various ritual masks and carvings stared out tacitly from their homes adorning wall spaces and corners, observing the action noncommittally.  

A separate room lined with shelves of books pertinent to African and African American history and the diaspora housed a chair basking in the glow of sun-soaked windows, lacking only a reader to fulfill its promise of shared knowledge. 

Backed by a brightly painted, thematic mural, an empty storyteller’s stage issued its silent address to a waiting array of folding chairs.  People chattered and muttered busily around their tables.  Lisa Stansfield was bemoaning her love, which she still hadn’t found, despite having been all around the world.

We were just finishing our table setup but already I was feeling a homey vibe about this place.  Something about it just felt like it was a good time to be there; I decided to wander about and mingle a little in what I would soon come to regard as a garden of talents and tastes, with some true gems tucked away among its varied offerings. 

At the GNG table, DAP’s clear bell of a voice and glimmering smile were introducing people to the concept of our writer’s guild.  At least, that’s when people were around… more on that in a minute.  

Displaying each of their own lines of uniquely crafted, hand-made jewelry, Yvonne Walker’sArtistic Kitten and Mia Maine’s Elegantly Twisted labels adorned that mesa as well.  Other vendors, like PaparazziAccessories and Tiana’s Jewels, had partnered with wholesalers as a point of sale retailing operation of their own. 

Each table had a mother and daughter tag team, not just businesses for the moms but setting the stage for the young ladies, as well.

Making my circuit, there were a few gravitational hot spots for me; one of the first was House of Enchantment.  

This vending station was swaddled in an invisible cloud of aromatic diffusion.  The brisk, refreshing scent was emanating from one of the many hand-made candles on display.  Natural crystals, chakra balancing kits and smudging sage were also available. 

I couldn’t help being drawn in also, due to their beautiful designs and craftsmanship, to the hand-sewn dolls of Paddlefoot Dolls andCrafts.  

The dolls’ tiny clothes were all so well made, but here’s the thing:  the dolls themselves, though all representative of African American lineage, displayed a wide diversity of complexions and hair styles.  In some ways, Paddlefoot’s doll collection is a quiet comment on the diaspora as can be seen today in the community, which is one of the central themes of the Omenala Griot museum itself and one of its essential educational ideals.  I thought for a second how easily the issues of the present day can gloss over our days past, if the conversation is not kept alive, which I think is part of the whole reason for this beautiful museum.

There was so much more to see, but it would be remiss of me to mentally walk us out of the vending space without calling out one of the true gems of the day:  the young gentleman at the table next to us, Anthony Badila. 

He was selling small charms he had made by hand, sculpting them in clay, then molding them in a plastic or ceramic.  Food items, like donuts or slices of cake, transformed into friendly characters by the addition of happy little faces.  Prototype dolls he had designed and sculpted and was seeking to bring to market ready production, were on display.  All African American, but all different, the fine quality of them was obvious and marked this young man as a real talent in development.

I spoke with Gina-Rey, from New York on my way outside; there was no way around it, actually; she had populated the entire patio with her lovely crocheted apparel items. 

She was a bright, fun personality, who had come along way.  A lot of the vendors had, in fact.  There were folks from NY, Florida, even from waaaaay over in California, here to vend.  This is what they do. 

Unfortunately, the ratio of vendors to customers was far out of proportion.  I don’t know the full extent of the promotion for this event, but it seemed such a shame to have so few customers for these business operators and so few visitors to this fantastic cultural center.  

I haven’t even taken you outside with me yet, into the wonderful vegetable garden cultivated alongside the museum. 

Or to the outdoor storytelling space, with its carved tree stumps surrounding the old oak trunk, where I planted myself on a bench in the early afternoon sun and smelled the vines all around me and heard the whisper of the breeze-blown leaves above. 

I considered my feelings about this place, with which I had kind of fallen in love, as I made my way back through the tomatoes, peppers, melons and flowers planted in rows and down into the grassy parking area.  

I stopped to shoot a couple of photos of the giant Kwanzaa kinara there, seven street lamps dressed as candles, painted in the traditional red, black and green.  

I imagined them lighting in the evenings, one by one, in the days after Christmas.  I felt a sort of gratitude as I left, that good fortune had allowed us to stumble onto this gem, hidden away in a west Atlanta neighborhood.  And an accompanying sense of surprise when I discovered it wasn’t the only one.  I saw from banners around the area that this community is called AshviewHeights.  

It seems they’ve got a lot going on, progressively speaking.  Not only is it the home of the Omenala Griot Museum, just up the street is the Truly Living Well Collegetown Farm Center for Natural Urban Agriculture. 

I ran into this place just as a fluke while leaving the neighborhood.  It’s a huge space, growing just about everything; vegetables, fruit trees and decorative flora. 

There is a play area for children inside.  They conduct community outreach and educational programs on urban farming and self-subsistence. 

A broad space, full of sun and nature and fresh growing natural foods right there, in the middle of the city.  And I had no idea.

See?  Sometimes you just gotta go with it.  You never know which day is just ready and waiting to blossom into something special.  You might have plans, or notions but when life extends the invitation, leave your jammies behind and say “Yes”.

The GNG at the Happy Tabby Cat Cafe

Getting Furrified!  

Relaxing Vibes at the Happy Tabby Cat Cafe, Atlanta, Ga.

Ever considered taking your lunch break in a tea-house boutique where half of the furniture consists of scratching posts, rug-covered pedestals and a set of bunk beds and half the patrons spend their time in a mix of napping, carousing and tumbling around together on the floor?  It might sound a little unorthodox, I know, but if you’ve got stress (and who doesn’t?), maybe it could be worth a shot.  It sure worked out for Guild members Yvonne Walker, Mia Maine, Dap Tales and I (al-Falaq) on a warm Saturday early afternoon in April. 

From under a sky draped in bed sheet-like clouds, we walked into the Happy Tabby Cat Café and were greeted with warmth by a young gentleman under a menu of teas hand written on a chalkboard.  Placing an order for our drinks and muffins included a moment wherein we were given the house rules:  No Loud Noises or Sporadic Activity, No Rough Play or Mishandling of the Denizens.  You see, as the name very clearly suggests, Happy Tabby’s collection of customers is not only categorized by the human interlopers seeking steamy cups of tea and snacks, but more essentially by the fluffy, furry felines presently observed by us roaming about the place or reclining on one of the many pedestals or in fluff coated cubbies just the right size for these mini tenants.  Mostly rescue pets, some of whom are permanent residents and others available for adoption, these kitties enjoy the glowing warmth and cozy charm of this little bistro.  Or maybe those qualities are actually being infused into the place from the carefree comfort of the critters themselves? Hmmmm!

We took our snacks to a table in the main room, bathed in the diffuse light of the day outside the wall to wall windows.  In one corner of the plate glass, a cat with gray fur sat roundly on the windowsill, gazing lazily out at passersby on the sidewalk.  What judgment he may have assigned to these random figures we will probably never know; who can fathom the mind of a cat, in any case?  Formal looking felines in tuxedo-ish fur (black coats, white necks and chins) acted anything but formal, as they rollicked around on the floor in a spastic frenzy broken by brief spells of dazed, wide eyed breath-catching.  This is the stuff that mind ensnaring YouTube videos are made of.  We of the Georgia Nutts Guild munched our snacks, sipped our beverages and conducted our meeting, writing our exercises, discussing our projects while repeated glances around kept informing my sense of this place’s ambiance more and more deeply.  People from all walks of life were comfy and smiling warmly. They were chill; feeling relaxed and happy.  Some folks were petting or holding the little fur-balls (encouraged) or whispering gentle nothings, as they stroked the fur-lined nappers that were recumbent on the cat towers or bunk beds (encouraged). Some of us engaged in play with the more frisky of the kitties (cat toys provided in abundance), while others, furry and fur-less, shared the space together with a permeating sense of calm and joy. 

Cats sleeping in cave like cubbies, napping among the verdant draping leaves of houseplants like lazy jungle silhouettes, curling slit-eyed on top of the bunk beds.  People lounging easily, happily and, at least for a short while, carefree in a small, private, fur covered world removed from the mundane stresses of the daily rat race routine.  Happy Tabby?  Not only can I say, if it’s like this every day, but on this overcast April afternoon, “Happy” applied to everyone.

RGN on Location at Starve Wars with the Archdiocese of Atlanta

          I like to eat and eat well.  I savor food; it is true it usually takes me longer to eat than those around me.  Hey, Flavor is important.  The experience of food is more than just an act of consumption.  There is something about good food that is satisfying in more than just a physical dimension.  Good food nourishes the soul.  Good flavor fosters good feelings and good times.  Access to good food is access to a reinforcement of our sense of security.  Enjoying good food freely is a reminder of our innate right to health and happiness; it is the first step toward any sense of comfort.

          Yet, over three billion souls worldwide live daily without direct access to good, wholesome food.  Living in conditions where the logistics of delivery may be compromised by crumbling infrastructure or open warfare; or where paucity of agricultural production may be so under-recognized that help is not at the ready, many people dwell constantly under the shadow of doubt as to where their next meal will be coming from.  Many children are growing up in this state of mind and body.

          The Archdiocese of Atlanta on Friday, June 3, hosted the Starve Wars meal packing event at the International Congress Center in College Park.  Session 1 was from 9:00 - 10:30 in the morning; session 2 was 11:00 - 12:30.  The goal of the event was to get 650 good hearted folks together and pack 100,000 meals to help alleviate starving conditions in the country of Burkina Faso in Africa.  DAP Tales and I, along with the strapping young Mr. Adrian came on in for Session 2 at 11:00.  We're not necessarily morning people; you won't catch us milkin' no cows as the rooster crows nor collectin' the morning eggs.  Those eggs would probably be hatched, if it was riding on us.  Still, we wanted to do our part, so thanks to the Starve Wars planning commission for having the were-with-al to accommodate us late risers.  Even with the later start time, though, we didn't quite make time beforehand to eat anything ourselves, so as time slid forward, it became something of a starve war on more than just one front.  But we were there to do what we were there to do, so that, my friends, is just what we did.

          We donned ID stickers (expected) and hair nets (necessary for food safety and quite dashing, at least on Mr. Adrian) and were shown to our work station.  Upbeat music echoed through the cavernous conference hall, where dozens of rows of tables had been staged for the assembly line-like operation.  I don't know how many people of the intended 650 were there but it seemed like it was probably pretty close.  And everybody was already going at it, full tilt so we joined in.  Working together in small groups at the tables, we put vitamin packs, soy flour, seasonings and rice in the packing bags, each bag being one ready to cook meal.  Runners busily scooped up full trays of bags, delivering them to the weight-check tables where they would be weight-approved, then sealed for shipping.  We kept the packs rolling.  Runners appeared from nowhere, refilling our rice bins and other supplies, adeptly whisking away to other tables, keeping everyone stocked up and topped off.  Counters processed the sealed bags for bulk packing in preparation for their long journey and tabulated the team's progress; each 1000 bags processed elicited a strike of a gong from the head of the room.  The reverberations of the brass gong spread out shrilly over the sounds of Michael Jackson, Frankie Beverly and Maze, Justin Timberlake, Selena Gomez, Kool and the Gang, Flo Rida.  Runners were running around like crazy, weight checkers were raising their hands for more bags; hands were scooping rice and seasonings like nobody's business.  And everybody was just smiling like it was Christmas.  I had been a supervisor at a few production plants for a number of years; where had all these happy workers been hiding out all my professional life?  Oh, Well...

          We met Mark for the first time as a member of our work station crew; an extremely nice guy there with his family.  His wife and daughter were at another table but his son, whom was no taller probably than my knee and soooo eager to help, was right there in the mix.  I kid you not:  Mark knew every church by name and address and every priest by name and SSN.  He is an environmental scientist, which made for some good conversation for Dap Tales (she's all about the green, Green, Super Green).  I took a look over at Mr. Adrian at his adjoining table; he and his crew were all into the work, man.  Everyone was just pushing out the packs.  My stomach was grumbling.  The seasoning kept sending wafts of tantalizing aromas up my nose -- Starve Wars, man.  Starve Wars.

          The ringing call of the gong seemed to get more frequent as the pitch of progress became more intense, everyone driving their best towards getting 100,000 meals ready to be delivered to those needy people overseas.  At this point, what with not having eaten and my head swimming with delicious seasoning smells, I was sympathetic; like, strongly sympathetic to my brothers and sisters across the pond.  Let's get this food made, man; let's get this food made.  Gongs were going off; an announcer was calling out tallies and offering motivational sentiments over the PA.  Music had everybody bobbing and swaying and working.  Supplies started running scarce. A runner came by to get some of our bags.  A crew member from another table came through to bogart some of our rice.  Things were gettin' tight.  We needed some bags; someone gave us a handful from another table that was closing up shop.  We weren't stopping for nothin'.  Gong.  Just a few more bags…  Runners running back and forth; rice and stuff going back and forth…  Seasoning aromas, back and forth… Gong.  Suddenly the voice of the announcer called out "That's One Hundred Thousand!  Thank you, everybody!", and a cheer went up from the crowd.  Great!  We did it!  And I never saw so many smiling faces on an assembly line before.

          As happy as we were to eat, (once we left the event) I honestly wasn't any happier than we had been to know someone else would now get that same chance, who might not have.  We get to eat, to feel secure, to enjoy that calming of the hunger pang and other folks would too, now, because people wanted to make that happen.  It doesn't take much; a little time, a little exercise; a few happy feelings among happy people on a Friday morning.  The world gets happier and more fulfilled -- one bag of rice at a time.

          Click here to find out more about Starve Wars and the Archdiocese's programs to combatworld hunger.

Victory Over Starve Wars:

Ranchero, Ranchero, Mucho Bueno!

          So, if you've read the post on our adventure at the Archdiocese of Atlanta's Starve War event, you know how desperate we were to get something succulent into our stomachs once we had left the place.  We had chipped in to help combat hunger halfway around the world, now it was time to combat hunger here at home, beginning with us!  We called out a couple names of places we may have wanted to go but some were canceled out of consideration due to prohibitive traffic zones ("We need to eat now!") or whatever (hunger can make you forget stuff).  For whatever reason, it seemed a taste for Mexican was glued to our collective palates, so we needed something close to home and south of the border.  Once, in a similarly desperate situation late one evening we had ventured toward Ranchero Mexican Ristorante on Highway 138 in Stockbridge but the place had been way too packed and we would have ended up waiting, like, 45 minutes for a table, we were told.  We bailed in favor of another option that night but today, with hunger cramping out innards and the promise of potentially a beat-the-rush type of lunch hour, we decided to give it a go again.  This was not a mistake.

          The Ristorante is tucked into the end of a small strip plaza on Hwy 138, just south of its junction at I-75.  The ambiance and the people are cool and inviting.  The tables and booths are adorned base-to-top in decorative artwork demonstrating the agave harvest which I can only presume must be a traditional theme in Mexico.  Hand-painted bas-relief mixes with full coverage wall paintings to produce a storybook sort of illustrated atmosphere.  A TV mounted overhead displays a soccer match with the volume down low.  The table is soon laden with the traditional salsa and house tortilla chips.

          We ordered a spinach and queso appetizer, some steak burritos, soft drinks to wash it all down.  I'm not sure what source they are using to purchase their drinking cups, but if you ever need to eat in a place where you can have a whole gallon of tea in front of you, this is your place.  This is only a mild exaggeration.  Man, those cups were huge. 

          When the grub showed up, we were ready.  The burritos were piping hot and laden with cooling guacomole, sour cream and pico de gallo.  The steak nestled tantalizingly inside the tortillas was succulent, juicy and well seasoned.  We ate, we drank, we were merry.  Maybe we were just extremely hungry, but I doubt it.  If you're ever in the Stockbridge neck of the woods and you feel the need for a down home, low-key, tasty, neighborhood ristorante style lunch or dinner, give Ranchero a try.  Your stomach may thank you.

Free Writing at the Georgia Nutts Guild (GNG) Meeting at Hodgepodge -- Read Georgia Nutts

                So there it was, Saturday, June 4th 2016 and it was time for the first Georgia Nuts guild Free Write event.  It was sunny and hot under a blue sky littered with various forms of lethargic cloud-shapes.  Infrequent breezes tickled their way through low hanging foliage and shrubs; love-bugs flew around at just the right altitude to wind up almost in your eye.  Summertime in Georgia.  And the perfect kind of day to take up residence in the sunny space just inside a big picture window and explore the thoughts necessary to piece together a story, poem, song, what-have-you.  This is the goal of the GNG Free Write.  Normally, at guild meetings we use pre-planned exercises to stimulate word play and sharpen our verbal skills, taking advantage of the meeting space-time to focus our energy into the act of generating material from a common idea or theme.  The Free Writes, however serve as our chance to take advantage in a different way, using the meeting to delve into the ideas and themes of our own personal projects; a kind of vacation from the usual grind of errands and stuff, just long enough to get some things out on paper (if you're a traditionalist) or into your Save As (if you're new-fangled).                For our first ever Free Write event, we chose to huddle up in Hodgepodge, a friendly neighborhood coffeehouse and art gallery located at 720 Moreland Avenue Atlanta, GA 30316 only about a mile or so south of Little Five Points.  A hip urban space, Hodgepodge can be spotted easily by its hip, urban, totally deliberate graffiti adornments.  And this is where we were heading.  As usual, getting there was half the fun; on any given Saturday, Moreland avenue is essentially a 1920's style Gran Prix, complete with aggressive speedsters, jarring stops and starts, grumbling salty old eighteen wheelers and slip-shod road maintenance.  And it's Summertime, so everything is just hot and everybody's feeling it.  

                Once there, we stepped inside its cool interior, warranting nary a glance from the hip, urban crowd, patrons leaning askance conversationally holding cups of java or hunched over their laptops.  We staked our claim on a sun-bathed table right by the large front window then grabbed some snacks: beef patties, fudge brownie, slice of cake; some iced green tea and hot tea.  I didn't try everything on the table but the brownie was gooey and chewy enough to make me happy and the iced green tea was briskly refreshing.  It was time to get down to the task at hand.  We took a minute to share our goals for the free writing time: Each of us basically focused on our own long form fiction pieces.  The table then fell under the silent cloak of collective concentration, each of us traveling the roads in our own worlds, observing the events within distinct, special places populated by characters known only to each of us individually.  Amidst the hushed conversations floating past, our table only produced the sounds of minds at work:  scribbly-scribble (traditionalists) and clickety-click (new-fangled).  Thoughtful glances while working sometimes resulted in eye contact followed by distracted smiles among us Nutts.  Sometimes my eyes would land on one of the pieces of art hung on the brick walls around the gallery space in which we were seated.  The pieces themselves ranged in style from the sparse to the intricate, from the stark to the colorful, from the Pop to the Post Modern.  A showing of the art was taking place at six o' clock, for which we were promptly shooed out of the gallery space a few minutes beforehand.  It may have been just a short spell in which to dream and work, only a tiny respite from the routine and though I am reluctant to speak for the group as a whole, it seemed to me it was just what we needed.