Kenya "KT" Mitchell is a contributing author to the June Issue of the Review with her story "Migration of the Roach." A world traveler, peruser of irony's libraries, and partaker of the poet's pyre, KT is a true seeker and a welcome addition to Seahorse.
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KT Mitchell. Writer. Poet. Explorer of Forbidden Places.
Artist Statement
A couple of months ago after a long journey to forbidden places abroad, I visited an acquaintance
for a week. They gave me full reign to do as I pleased, so I did; I spent the days dancing on the
porch to downloaded European house music, taking pictures of random rainbows and following
butterflies with my eyes. You know, imbibing poet food.
Said acquaintance came home one day to find me snacking on cheese and crackers, drinking
moderately priced Cabernet, while watching Japanese cartoons. This prompted them into a line
of thinking that destroyed their preconceived notions of me as a serious scholar and sometime
essayist. Then they blurted it out. They called me immature.
Ah, “immature.” The generic insult of our day. Typically people are incensed at being labeled as
such. I took it philosophically. For you see, immaturity isn’t a bad thing in and of itself. The
word means “something that isn’t completely developed. Maturity is the last step before we begin
the process of (gulp) dying. I’ll take continuing growth over rigor mortis any day. Especially when
it comes to creating written works.
Twenty years is a long time to write. Sometimes I hear creakiness squeaking in my mind. That
sound heralds the bone rattling of preconceived notions, stereotyped ideas about what
characteristics make up a scholar, a writer, an adventurer, an artists, an African, a woman, a
New Orleanian and a barefoot dancing yogi.
Right now I like to sink into the depths of stereotypes and the tired dichotomies they are predicated on like good/evil, harlot/mother, working stiff/artist. When I write I like to grab those two magnetic opposites in each hand, stick my foot in the middle of the pole to bend it, fuse the ends together then let the positive and negative energies spin the circle I’ve created. Then I sit back to see what kinds of sparks the entropy spins off. Yesterday I wrote a play about Tupak’s aunt, Assata Shakur. Today I wrote a report on English teaching in Saudi Arabia. Tomorrow I’ll write a story about a deranged socialite who talks to horses.
I used to want to become a famous writer but I don’t think I’m mature enough to be that serious all the time. I like to put peach cobbler in the oven, not my head. All I want to do right now is write and teach so I can make enough money to hold summer long hug-a-thons at women’s shelters, children’s orphanages and baby elephant orphanages. Cross your fingers for me.
www.kenyamitchell.com
www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org
