Greetings!

Some good news on the Wash Front! Lavanderia is the Winner of the 16th Annual San Diego Book Awards Association for Best Anthology! SO a special thanks goes to all of you for the part you played in making the anthology a success!


As a heads up, we are in the process of creating readings from anthology contributors occurring in various cities. (So far LA, San Diego, Chicago, and Philadelphia); we would love to have your presence at any one of these locations! But more information will follow.

Once again, we are truly humbled to have such amazing writers honour us with their work!

Congratulations to you all!

The Wash House Collective

Liz Dolan
How to Fix a Second Floor Clothesline

When it snapped Mama yelled
across the yard to Mrs. Mc Mullins who pulleyed
the new line tied to the old
back to Mama, who untied
the flittered and secured the new.

Then she parted the sea
of clothes, light from dark,
into the steaming water
tossed a cube that blued it,
such alchemy blanched my soul.
On the ribs of a board she scrubbed
til knuckles bled and back screamed.

After a cup of tea and a biscuit
she ferried the washed to the window
in a willow basket, leaned it
against the S-shaped iron guard.
Like a shoemaker tonguing nails,
she teeth-snapped clothes pins and flapped
my father’s shirt, pegged it until it floated
on Bronx breezes. Our lives swung
from that line: cabbage rose aprons,
crinolines, Hopalong tees, railroad overalls.

On school days, from my classroom window, I read
my family’s story writ against a witless sky
and knew Mama was okay until
the weight of our daily lives rent the line again.

Jules Gibbs
OVULATION IN TWO PARTS
I.
She’s shrunk and slipped into my pocket again
where she’ll keep shrinking amidst lint and the residue
of pulverized paper scraps worked cloth-like.
I finger the dark seam but she’s too small to hold,
an egg riding a wire, message
un-received, a broken code.
It will all end in crushing, as it always does.
She might fall, pea-sized, out of my embrace,
roll across the linoleum, blown, a dust mote
swept away. Or become lost in my mouth,
mistaken for a grain of rice. I may find her
like a faceless flea, drowned in the wash bucket, a gray sea.



II.
If it’s not this dream it’s my battle
with the orange giant who’s on a killing spree.
I ride his monstrous thigh, thinking my small sex
and new breasts can save the villagers. I’m no more
than a newborn sparrow, a cricket, a bee,
something he could flick away, a trapped voice pleading
the impossible: Giant, down here, c’mon—
you know you want to fuck me.

From 1959 to 2009, women have been struggling for recognition. Recognition that household labor is work that merits compensation, or in the words of the 1860 Hasting's labor strikers, Britain's laundresses demanded, “less work or more pay.” The Wash House Collective's third eye is fully dilated and Lavandería is about to be birthed. The tedium of layout & design (big ups to Will and Otim), revision and line editing is complete, and (save for the faux pas of the U.S. pony express) ready for the final phase of publication. So...we are back and want to extend our apologies for the lack of material appearing on our blog, but our energies were completely focused on selecting and organizing the work published in the anthology. We are grateful to all of you who responded to our call. We received over 500 submissions, but were limited by space and were forced into a grueling selection process which took months to complete. Michelle and Lucia flew in to L.A. from Chicago and Philly, respectively, and we read non-stop (save for Vodka Martinis and Afro-Mexi-Caribe gourmet) for 10 straight days. Still the task wasn't finished, because we had a cacophony of voices and were limited by space of what we were able to publish. Although our hands were bound by these constraints and some voices were shelved (hopefully for part two of Lavandería remixed / remeasured), in hindsight we connected with the many voices who are out there in the universal spin cycle representing--thinking, writing, challenging, revising; all the while doing domestic work that must be done in order to "keep it together," while inventing creative ways to raise families (neck-bones simmered to pot liquor perfection, garden greens glistening in their ju-juice, rib-sticking arroz con frijoles y tortilla or pepper soup to wash down whatever ails you) where ends stretch like fitted sheets but rarely meet the so-called lives of the working class-poor reclaiming their right to dry. We acknowledge all of you in national and international spaces who gestated, and took time to ponder the 4th power of words to lift mind and heart above and beyond the fray of dirty deeds. In the process of compiling your voices, we leaned over the bent back of epistemology, and deciphered how we know what we know (what's the best way to remove blood stains?) and how this knowledge informs our actions in a warring world of power moguls, diamond dealers and coltan collectors, precious stones and metals valued more than the lives of those who harvest the minerals that fuel our devices from the deep bowels of the earth. Those of you who consider words at their smallest energy level—a grunt, aiiieee, a field holla, deep breath, silent moan with the potential to resonate, to make melodies that change square behaviors into round ones washed clean with the sweat and tears of washer women reaching forward and nudging us through history to continue their labor of love. Aluta Continua, the struggle continues....

Just rolled in to LA from San Diego about 9 a.m. Cruised down last night with Otim to make our  presence felt at the 7th Annual Illfonix soiree (KSDS 88.3 FM)  hosted by DJ Sachamo and crew. We arrived right before midnight and entered Kadan's on 30th and Adams in Normal Heights. The joint was jumpin' and we made our way over to the sidebar to get Sach Boogie's attention. A big smile lit up his face when he realized me and Otim were in the house. Later

...back at Kadan's ranchero, I hugged Sach ( ain't seen him in a coon's age) and he pointed over to a spot near the dance floor where Michelle was standing. I went over and in one swoop grabbed her and hugged her tight. She had just blown in that evening from Chicago O'Hare for the weekend celebration. No doubt, she was h-a-p-p-y to see me and Otim as we she--and we did our best to dance the night away, which you couldn't help but get your groove on listening to the dope dj's Sach had assembled. We caught up and got down on the dance floor along with Tinquer, Kanesha and none other than Zach Kolo from Cameroon--sportin' a Cameroonian national jersey and (you gotta love it) white patent leathers. Sandra was cuttin' up the dance floor and later that night I told her when the dj's play she becomes the music. Much flava that gyrl has in her petite mainframe. Yukimi strolled in looking like Oxun in an ankle length tank top dress. The talent in the room was overflowing and all the party people got their groove on until the bartenders shut it down.  Lovely...

We got a few zzzz's before getting back on the road. I drove (so Otim could sleep) listening to Toni Allen's Lagos No Shaking and Laila Hathawy's newest joint thinking about the beautiful things we do with our hands: Snap shutters, draw designs, vibrate vinyl, caress keys, create change. At our highest we are creators in and of the universe. How is it then that the world is mad chaotic? Our challenge, as the great late artist Romare Bearden said of his fragmented assemblage technique, is to "order chaos." I believe that and take up the challenge to compose and produce from the ashes. Think bird: Charlie Parker, fried chicken and the Phoenix rising from the cleansing fires that have direct purpose in transcending madness. Look at your hands. Create.

Delila hovers seamlessly/drapes over crowded streets

in twilight dance/burgandy brown

face stoned/a burden revealing 

unknown/ silent lines

slumped sillouette singing

window pains/catches morning corner stress

she 

hums away the weariness

in stuttered sound and

muted beat

song slips around periphery/discordant sounding

un able to pass

subtly seeming

she says 

what 

of this tension teasing her

back to this place...

 

l.g. kanga

*Yu Gef fo Creep befo yu tenap: Krio for You got to crawl before you stand

I thought I was going batty until I hung out with my gyrl LG and threw back some Hennesey on Baltimore Ave in the Illadelph. I was feeling a bit disoriented because the faces in the city of brotherly love seem bent and broken. She taught me the Krio phrase "Don't look me by the looking," which is similar to "Don't judge a book by its cover." Maybe its the fact that for two years in a row Philly heads up the list of urban centers in 'merica with the highest murder rate. Why are black folks killing each other? This is especially true when it comes to young black men in Africa's diaspora. This time back home I realize I am "just come" another Krio phrase for people coming back home from studying or living abroad. I also realize the true meaning of the words home is where the hatred is...for more reasons than not it's good to air our collective dirty laundry, even if it means breaking fragile bonds that hang by a single thread on a sagging clothesline, then reordering that chaos into an artistic expression that gives shape, form and meaning. Me, LG and Michelle met online today and discussed the forthcoming anthology. We are trying to contain the excitement and channel our energy into the work. If you stumble across this page and are inspired to write your poem, your story please send them to lavanderiazspot@gmail.com. Sometimes love's so downright dirty dirty that it repeats its own name. But if we ain't lovin' then how we livin'?

Anthology, Lavanderia: A Mixed Load of Women, Wash and Word seeks submissions: fiction, poetry and creative non-fiction signifying the metaphor of sorting, washing, ironing, folding laundry and life. www.cityworkspress.com for submission guidelines. Deadline: December 15th. Maximum 5,000 words or 5 poems. Include a bio. Email word doc submissions only to lavanderiazspot@gmail.com. 

"Take me to the dirty depths, show me a fresh face amidst the hollow masses decayed in dampened dirt, musty smells discarded as she cascades down narrow steps. I need the red dress to hand to her as she passes by, whisping away the only hope I have left, as my smile disintergrates into a dusted oblivion."

- Michelle Sierra

"Dangling Darlings" is a poem submitted by Michelle. Whimsy is the first thought that came to mind when I looked at the text and picture side by side. It reminds me of laundry days and the freshness that only sun and wind can bring. Or of times when I'd lay on the lawn as a kid and watch clouds morph into patterns. That's how I knew without knowing that whoever lives in the sky had to be an artist's artist.

@ Michelle's we rehearsed the timing of the poetic narrative and slide show. Yukimi had this picture (which I dubbed "Two Men") blown up into poster size. I had written a poem that fit perfectly with the image. It begins with the line, "He folds her French cut panties on a table at the laundrymat..." and reflects loss and longing as the unknown man in the frame folds his lover's garments. For further reading check out Lavanderia.