Raison D’être | The Daily Post



Raison D’être

Why do you create? Publish a post about your artistic raison d’être.


I create and in creating give Praise to the Master Creator!!  All that I have and all that I am comes from God!!

I also give Thanks to my most excellent parents Edward & Mable Palmer who encouraged my creativity. Growing up during the 60s/70s I was a very active child. Actually if I was a kid now I’d probably be diagnosed with ADD or ADHD.  During the PTA conferences the teachers would tell my parents that I was a very smart child but I kept finishing the lessons too early, going ahead in the books, helping the other kids in the class and reading the books in the small classroom library. My parents only heard or chose to hear the words smart and intelligent. Mom taught me to read, spell and write at an early age. I believe by the time I was three or four I was reading above and beyond grade level. By the time I was seven or eight I had created my own special alphabet/language and using construction paper and markers made a book about a character named Mr. X.

My parents encouraged me to read. Thank goodness there were no cell phones, PCs, tablets or computers back in those days.  I read voraciously!  I was a lean, mean reading machine!!  Still am!!

My parents and my paternal Aunts all felt I had artistic capabilities. Therefore Dad lavished me with all sorts of art supplies, drawing implements, sketch pads and when I became a teenager a drawing table. The ones that angle.  I also received many arts & crafts projects like Latch hook rugs and various other art kits.

Now along with my brother Stephen I create Photo Collages. Stephen and I are working on a joint collage project.  Below is one I created in 2012 as a solo project.

Then during High School I decided I wanted to be a writer specifically a poet. I created many poems. After I got out of the Army in 1981 I took video classes at a local arts center and made my first and only video poem.  Somewhere either in storage or among my messy room is a VHS tape with me acting out the poem.

Fast forward into the future after my beloved Dad passed away in 1995 at age 36 I returned to college. Attending and earning my B.A. in English at Marymount Manhattan College in May 2002 at age 43.  Over the course of eight years the professors at MMC worked me hard. The class work was demanding but I thrived on the challenge. My writing really began to bloom. Of course if you had to constantly write 25 page research papers on a regular basis you would either bloom or bust. I bloomed like a flower in the desert. My professors nourished me. I made the Dean’s List in 1999 and was recommended by then Dean Joan Brookshire for a special program called Women in Urban Leadership.  Dean Brookshire kept telling me that I had a gift for writing. I was honored but did not take her words seriously because I was moving up the career ladder. Not until I was laid off from my great managerial job and found myself in a much lower paid and lower position as a museum guard at age 49 did once again did I not only return to my writing but found that with all my trials and tribulations my writing had matured.  I suppose when you are struggling and barely getting by that gives you plenty of fodder and a new way of seeing the world.

No more fancy vacations. No more zipping around in my car. No more TV. Lost my apartment but at least I do have a place to live and my room-mate is an artist.  On the surface it all seemed like a loss.  But not so. I’ve gained more spiritually with each layer of material goods that has been removed. Everything happens for a reason and I believe the reason in my case was so that the following Bible Scripture Verse that the Lord gave me back in the late 1980s could come to pass.

Habakkuk 2:2-3

New King James Version (NKJV)

The Just Live by Faith

Then the Lord answered me and said:

“Write the vision
And make it plain on tablets,
That he may run who reads it.
For the vision is yet for an appointed time;
But at the end it will speak, and it will not lie.
Though it tarries, wait for it;
Because it will surely come,
It will not tarry.


Also my genetic gift and talents for photography has been growing by leaps and bounds. My Dad Edward G. Palmer was an amateur photographer. I still have his Kodak Koda Chrome slides from the 1950s up to the 1980s.  My genre is Street Photography. Please take a look at my photography blog Roaming Urban Gypsy.    https://roamingurbangypsy.com/


You’re My Praise!! You’re the Song My Heart Keeps Singing!! You’re the Reason why I’m Living!!

The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir -You’re My Praise













Evolution of Childhood InterPlanetary Dreams



Evolution of Childhood InterPlanetary Dreams

Underground Railroad

Grandmas Reign Quilt

Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer -- Grandmother
Eva Sophronia Gordon Palmer — Grandmother

Epoch Heydays beat rhythm time Tempo bringing Glory Days and Golden Age into Earth, Space, time Continuum alignment around my being. Spiritual Discernment begins the convergence of planets, Moon-Womben Star-gazers endlessly birthing heavenly bodies and floating orbs.

Underground Railroad_2

Mother Africa as Creator Goddess singing Reign Blessings upon her children.

My World, the ones I saw in my Grandmother’s Quilt and the ever expanding Galaxies beyond Earth, Sky, Sun and Moon-Daughter Wishes, Hopes and Desires.

Ancient hand stretching finger Ancestor Dimensions reaching forward into time and eternity bringing revelation knowledge of history long past yet made fresh daily.

Troubles beating bloody fists upon my pate.

Belladonna into Nightshades.

Tethered by an unholy umbilical cord to a dead albatross. Dreams deluge.  Green metal Frigidaire Fan blowing air opposite it’s promised heat relief. Stub toe late shift Dad curses Castro and his Convertible. Bucolic heat wave summer in the city. 25 cent Ice Cream salvation dispensed by Mr. Softee. Martha Reeves and her Vandellas gyrating to Dancing in the Streets while kids follow her Piped Pipers.

Kool-Aid libation sugar screams ensue while transistor talking heads Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson called Shea play by plays. Bygone days of Tri-Corn braids.  Fletcher’s Castoria Beef Iron Wine cocktails.   Childhood freedom beckons signalling release from adulthood chain gangs. Teeter-totter bring unbalanced superimposed idealized memories to double-doubted times past. It’s 1964 and my Dixie Peach anointed head snuggles with Panda pillow transcending time once again in the loving arms of Grandma Eva’s patchwork quilt.

Color Him Father. Color Him Love.

Memories of Daddy


Edward G. Palmer Korean War
Edward G. Palmer
Korean War

Proverbs 13:22 English Standard Version (ESV) 22 A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children…….

My Dad was that Good Man. He fought the good fight of faith. Daddy persevered during his short stay on this earth always putting his family first and taking joy in our accomplishments. An inheritance is more than money, more than genetics or DNA. Our Dad left us an Inheritance of morals, values, good character, faith in ourselves, love and concern for our fellow humans and animals. Yes, speaking for my brother as well as myself, Stephen and I are truly proud to be our Dad’s Legacy into this world. Edward G. Palmer ~ Feb. 11, 1930 – May 13, 1995.

Stephen, Me & Daddy at my 1977 High School graduation.
Stephen, Me & Daddy at my 1977 High School graduation.

Edward G. Palmer was everything that his name Edward embodies: Edward is an English given name. It is derived from Old English words ead (meaning ‘wealth’, ‘fortune’ or ‘prosperous’) and weard (meaning ‘guardian’ or ‘protector’).

My Dad Believed in us!! And today my brother Stephen and I are all the better for Daddy’s faith in his children!

Tears of sadness for I will never on this earth Dance with my Father again. Daddy our next dance is in Heaven.


Our Florida vacation around 1986
Our Florida vacation around 1986

Our Dad was the Guardian, Protector and Provider for our family. A Loving Husband and Father. Dad’s middle name was Gordon which means “Beloved”. Truly he was a Beloved Father always looking out for his family. 

First Dance with My Father
First Dance with My Father


Edward Gordon Palmer_early 1950s

Optical Illusions

Angels Falling
Angels Falling

When I was a little girl during the 1960s my mother had a love affair with Better Homes & Gardens and House Beautiful magazines. However try as she might and my Mom was an excellent decorator (I believe she missed her calling) with two kids, a husband who smoked and various dogs our house was never as clean or as orderly as those pictured in the magazines.  Periodically my 4’11”  95 lb mother would move those big heavy 1950s furniture from one end of the living room to the next causing my father great consternation when he tripped over tables or chairs that seemed to magically appear usually around Midnight when he got home from his late shift.

Though the houses and rooms were beautiful, they were only beautiful in an anti-septic, unlived in way.  Pure white living rooms untouched by jumping muddy dogs, kids with drippy Popsicles, or cans of Rheingold and Schaefer beer cans making little rings on the end tables.

Everything is arranged, after all those pictures are photo shoots put together for maximum impact to the readers.  Kitchens where nary a fried chicken or pork chop popped grease or soup boiled over.  No cans of Crisco sitting on the counter-top. No spilled glasses of Kool-Aid, Orange Crush, Coca-Cola or Pepsi.

No smells of fish and chittlin’s being cleaned or bugs flying in from the holes in the ratty screens we put in the windows during the summer because we had no air conditioning.  The pop and sizzle of the steel straightening comb being pulled through my Ultra Sheen saturated nappy kinky hair on a Saturday night in preparation for Sunday school in the morning.


Too perfect and we all know that life is not perfect.  I like furniture to have character. Those little cracks, dents and chips give an openness and appeal that utter perfection cannot rival.

18th Century Masonic Chair
18th Century Masonic Chair
Perfect sterile Kitchen
Perfect sterile Kitchen


My family’s lives were not perfect. We were and are real people with real lives. Nothing is staged. My mother was a functioning schizophrenic alcoholic, my Dad was in a job that he found not fulfilling, my brother was born with Autism, I’ve battled depression since my teen years. No there are no picture perfect lives here. But now I’m no longer afraid or ashamed of my battle scars. I wear them proudly.  I’ll take the nitty-gritty, those who society has deemed damaged goods, the unloved, the unwanted, the back alleys and the under belly of the business district at night, inner-city over Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous any day. I’m Blessed to be a Broken Angel.

Broken Angel
Broken Angel


As for disability Jesus said it best, John 21:18
Common English Bible (CEB)
18 I assure you that when you were younger you tied your own belt and walked around wherever you wanted. When you grow old, you will stretch out your hands and another will tie your belt and lead you where you don’t want to go.”


Mable Elizabeth Palmer — A Memoir (an excerpt)

Mable Elizabeth Palmer
Mable Elizabeth Palmer

My father’s family has attempted to demonize my mother but though she was a woman troubled by the many demons schizophrenia forces into residence inside your head she loved us more than she loved herself.

Despite some of the trauma I went through as a child over all I had a good childhood. Funny how when you get older you put things in perspective plus some of the illnesses your parents have visited your doorstep.

Mable Elizabeth Palmer — DeBorah Ann Palmer

How do you quash a lie that seems to gain new life and resurrect with every generation? The Past, we often seek to bury it but only succeed in hiding it but like the undead its gnarled dirt encrusted six fingered rips off the death shroud, tears off the lid of the casket and pushes through layers of earth to reveal itself.

Out of the smiling photos of the 50s and 60s I’m a mini-me of my Dad with his full toothy grin and that twinkle in his eye always reading to play a practical joke or mimic the scary monster from Chiller Theater but I’m internally composed of my mother’s keen powers of observation and dry humor that served her well in dealing with challenging situations.

Betrayed by the playmates of my youth Condemned to an endless purgatory search for love, acceptance & belonging.

Wandering A Wasteland Of sorrow and disappointments, seeking and desiring a bond that never truly existed. 
We who have been cast out from the tribe abandoned only to know longing but never fulfillment. Trapped by lies and falsehoods that should have long been discarded. Caught in an emotional web of deceit hoping for escape, a kind of salvation, a type of redemption. Oh where is my savior who will rescue and mend my broken soul. Locks shorn, sitting in sackcloth and ashes I await the delivering Angel of Death.

My Mom passed away in August 1998 but with all the 2012 drama I’ve felt closer to her than ever before. I believe she is speaking through me charging me to tell her story. Her spirit and mine are one flesh, our souls are reconciled one to another, the veil of death lifted for a time such as this.  The small town girl born in Davy, WV, raised in Jim Crow, Dayton, Ohio who marries the big city boy (my Dad Edward Palmer) from Harlem, USA.  The battle began when a small town country girl vs the sophistication of the Harlem Niggrati or what we now call Ghetto Fabulous.  She was the cornerstone rejected and misunderstood by her husband’s family.
Way back then they was not knowing that cells have genetic memory. The in-laws tried to make the simple girl from Dayton, Ohio into a pariah after the birth of their disabled son but the reality of the discourse was not to be. I’m here to cease the motion of 15 years of lies, fable, tall tales and innuendos. I exist to give validation to the voice that was never heard. The child Stephen fertilized with essence seed from without the boundaries had come to save us. His is the seed of many generations back, the DNA that coalesces make believes with reality. His earthly soul is subject to the confines of this life’s limitations but Stephen’s spirit soars with the Angels whose quest is to serve the Lord.

Mable was held in a panorama spun by coveted lovers, who were harlots through celibacy making death a closer journey to Heaven.
With this confession my Mother’s Soul residing within me is at rest. She rages no more, her anguish has been extinguished.

My mother and I share broken lives, shattered in similar places we cut ourselves on shards of pain, our fractured lives seeking to mend.

Now I attempt to retrieve the scattered pieces, seeking to restore the jigsaw puzzle of Isis, long in disarray, bent and twisted from misuse, abuse and false accusations. Fraying the edges making impossible even imperfect fits.
Sitting across from her flesh & blood ghost, linking hands we grant each other absolution long sought from others outside our circle but only possible for us, from us.
In retrospect I have become her, a woman of strength, fortitude, courage, virtue and character; strong willed and loyal to a point.

My mother taught us basic human decency, a trait sorely lacking in many children and adults.

After I graduated from college at age 43, actually even before that I battled depression. I’ve been hooked on all types of anti-depressants, pain killers and have an off and on dalliance with drink. By the way doctors and therapists knowingly make drug addicts out of their patients. I stopped taking all my anti-depressant medicines in 2007. As you know medical science has since proved those medications turn you into a zombie and cause depression/suicidal thoughts. I’d rather be depressed and a functioning human being than a suicidal zombie.

Now I not only understand but know what my mother felt. Even though my Mom had been gone for years I’m closer to her than ever before, because I’m more like her. In a way I am her and me at the same time.

In the ensuing years since that incident I too have battled depression. I have attempted suicide several times as recently as earlier this year. The demons are forever with me. However they are held at bay through faith in God, prayer and my brother Stephen.

Stephen has become my earthly salvation, my reason for being. How can I leave my beautiful brother alone on this earth knowing that for him the earth, moon, stars and sun revolve around me? Whenever he sees me his whole face lights up. When the workers at his residence or his teachers at his day treatment program ask him Stevie who’s that? He proudly answers my sister. One day I was feeling really down, depressed and discouraged and Stephen’s group home called to tell me they were coming by for me to sign some paperwork. I met the van outside and before the worker could place the papers into my hands Stephen leapt out the van and gave me a big hug! I was pleasantly surprised because people with autism are not really physically expressive. Stephen hugs but usually gingerly. This time he gave it his all. Somehow he must have known or God told him that I needed that hug.

To any of the doctors who might be reading this today and originally diagnosed Stephen back in 1963, Stephen has a job which he loves, enjoys living in his group home, participates in many social activities, has had girlfriends, etc… Yes Stephen has broken barriers. The barriers of doubt and labels from the medical community and from society.

My Mom Mable Elizabeth Palmer finally received the medication she needed in 1995 after my Dad had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. My father Edward Palmer passed away on May 13, 1995. Mom and I were left with each other. The medicine cleared her mind so we could really get to know one another. I asked her why. She said I was overwhelmed. I understood. By then I was an adult woman in my 30s. My mother and I made peace with each other and became good friends. Alas this paradise of togetherness only lasted three years. Cancer claimed Mommy August 2, 1998 sending my life into a tailspin from which I’m just now beginning to recover.