Oana

(c) 2011 by Oana    For years now my unborn son has followed me I don’t need to see him I know he is there He just shows up Been trying to explain to myself and to him certain things He never wants to listen He covers his ears He ignores me He follows me in the most unexpected places Hugging my pillows, hiding behind me when I go on dates Dismissing all men as unfit and stupid “Look at this one,” “He looks like Death, how can you like him?” My son cries “You can do much better than this” My baby won’t stop crying ...

© 2012 by Oana Some people are to the writers’ community what Jehovah’s Witnesses are to our neighborhoods. They want you to know more about them and they want to be your friends. You don’t. They want you to hear the good news. You don’t. They think their message is important to you. It is not. I have no idea who their “marketing guru” is, but flooding a person’s inbox with messages about your book is a little bit of a nuisance, to say the least. And I wouldn’t be so turned off if the messages were bubbly appealing, and original. Let me give you an example:        Hello Ms. Oana,        I just wanted to say hello and thanks for the connection.       (?)       It is so good to be part of the greater family of writers      Cheesy but nothing wrong so far      I've been extremely busy lately      Hmm… no bueno      with my book, Passionless Connections II      Oh, NO!      Guess what? My book received thirty-three five star reviews and it‘s been on the market for just two days.      Bullshit!      Please buy it right away! Also, do not forget to visit my author’s website at www….      I need to get my nails done!       Warm regards and keep the ink flowing!      Ivan Lotsa Kitsch      Author of acclaimed novels      My Depression Is Not Yours, Your Depression Is Not Mine, and  Passionless Connections I and II Well, I’d better...

To Benny Special thanks to E. Joyce Moore whose help with starting this project was priceless.  Special thanks to Corey A. Burkes for inspiration, support and permission to use his work. Special thanks to my friends for trusting me and sharing their pain with me. (c) 2012 by Oana    The Black Man’s Body It started with a picture. Actually, it was more than a picture it was a three dimensional view of a nude black male drying himself with a colorful towel. A friend of mine, the artist, was working on the image and shared it with me. There was no overt nudity in it. The towel was covering parts of the body, yet the visual impact was strong. It was sensual…and beautiful. I suddenly realized that in over ten years of living in the United States, I had never seen such an artistic, highly erotic image of a black male. However, even with America being notoriously and ridiculously Puritan, I would see all sorts of white male nudity. That very image did to my brain what a deep noise does before an avalanche in a snow-heavy mountain valley. My conscious search for the beauty of the black man’s body in American art had just started. I sensed something was wrong when I was visiting with an African American friend a few years ago. On the walls, there was an image of a girl carrying her little brother on her back on one of those beautiful African open fields. I...

Excerpt from the upcoming Romanian Rhapsody © 2011 by Oana. This is a book about my sister and me growing up in the midst of oppression and censorship. Freedom Bucharest, 1979      I was older, and my presence was probably easier to tolerate than that of my sister. My father would sometimes take me to his office with him, which was also a way of separating me from Sorana, since our exuberant and noisy duo gave my mother and my grandmother severe migraines.      Dad would stop at the taverns to have a drink with his co-workers or friends on his way back home, and I would sit there with them sipping my juice, and making mental notes of the tavern. It was during these afternoons there, that the ten-year-old in me realized that men were very different from us women.      I was fascinated by men. They smelled different. They moved different. But I rarely found their presence entertaining, even as a kid. Very few men I met in my life later had actually interested me as human beings. However, when they touched my hair or picked me up, it was a whole new sensation. I liked being around them and just watching them. I liked their rough skin, and the fact that they were trying to be gentle with me, which made them appear clumsy and funny.      I told Sorana about my findings. We were a team, and from complicated late-night seminars on the elusiveness of human nature...

Yes, my body still craves you But there are those other women …                                                                                 I know I will not fall in love....