MuseCrisis

...si todo el tiempo te llevo en mi mente, en mis sueños y en mi corazón.

2012-02-18T17:33:00.001-06:00

THE INDIAN TO HIS LOVE

by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

The island dreams under the dawn
And great boughs drop tranquillity;
The peahens dance on a smooth lawn,
A parrot sways upon a tree,
Raging at his own image in the enamelled sea.

Here we will moor our lonely ship
And wander ever with woven hands,
Murmuring softly lip to lip,
Along the grass, along the sands,
Murmuring how far away are the unquiet lands:

How we alone of mortals are
Hid under quiet boughs apart,
While our love grows an Indian star,
A meteor of the burning heart,
One with the tide that gleams, the wings that gleam and dart,

The heavy boughs, the burnished dove
That moans and sighs a hundred days:
How when we die our shades will rove,
When eve has hushed the feathered ways,
With vapoury footsole by the water's drowsy blaze.

I could never see tomorrow

2012-02-12T01:33:00.001-06:00

Love After Love
by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

I could almost go there just to live in a dream

2012-02-04T22:26:00.001-06:00

Ah, woe to that heart in which there is no passion
which is not spell-bound by the love of a heart-cheerer!
the day that thou spendest without love,
there is no day more useless to thee than that day...

...thou hast no power to-day over the morrow,

and anxiety about the morrow brings thee only melancholy;

waste not thou this moment if thy heart be not mad,

for the value of the remainder of this life is not manifest.

Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,

A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse-and Thou

Beside me singing in the Wildernees--

And Wilderness is Paradise enow

from The Rubaiyat, by Omar Khayyam

And all He asks of us is we give each other love

2012-01-25T22:33:00.000-06:00

The Sonnet-Ballad
by Gwendolyn Brooks
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war,
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but, oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

I cover the waterfront in search of my love, and I'm covered by a starlit sky above.

2012-01-23T22:26:00.000-06:00

To Be In Love

To be in love
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door-
Is not there_
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.
By Gwendolyn Brooks

My heart was wrapped in clover the night I looked at you

2012-01-20T14:35:00.000-06:00

Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowers
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Belovèd, thou hast brought me many flowers 

Plucked in the garden, all the summer through 
And winter, and it seemed as if they grew 
In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers. 
So, in the like name of that love of ours, 
Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too, 
And which on warm and cold days I withdrew 
From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers 
Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue, 
And wait thy weeding; yet here's eglantine, 
Here's ivy!---take them, as I used to do 
Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. 
Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true, 
And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine.

2012-01-16T14:27:00.000-06:00

No Te Amo

No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan eñ fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.

Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sí, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.

Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,

Sino así de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.

- Pablo Neruda - Cien Sonetos de Amor - XVII

you got blood on your face, a big disgrace, waving your banner all over the place

2011-12-05T06:17:00.002-06:00

Someone to watch over me

2011-12-01T22:26:00.004-06:00

Let's get into physical!

2011-11-27T23:23:00.000-06:00

I wrote the key on my last physics test!

Physics for Engineers is for Suckas!

I shouldn't be over-confident because I haven't gotten my grade back, yet, but I know I did well. I took part A two weeks ago, and I earned the highest score in the class (which, btw, was a D. That D set the curve!)

I took the second part on Tuesday. Oh, the scene was set. I ended up doing my a.m. walk in the rain. I ended up running mad late because I was super broke, and I had to pack four meals since I had school from 9 to 9. I set out a half our late, and ended up getting held up by a slow moving Hyundai freight train. When I saw the test, I started crying, again. I got to the lab to take the test, and some meeting was going on.

I put on my headphones, turned up the Badu; two hours and forty-five minutes later, I had answered all 25 questions, with calculations, and I felt good about it!

I have such a high grade, I don't even have to take the final. I have one last assignment--it is quantum mechanics atomic physics group presentation.
Did you know that Olivia Newton John is the grand-daughter of Max Born? Where did I learn that? MIT. Yes, I went--via cyberspace. MIT posts lectures on Youtube. Man, MIT is the shit! That blonde lady made the orbitals crystal freeking clear--as clear as the meth that Walt cooks on Breaking Bad.
You know, he's my hero. I watch that show for motivation.
I want to go to MIT! I mean, I would if it didn't mean moving to Boston. If that woman is any representation, the teaching is excellent! I bet they have some great tutors.

UIC is better for pharmacy than MIT, and UIC has a PhD in precisely what I want to study--herbal pharmacology? I'd love to go except two things.
A, I think I'm too old. Science programs don't like older students.
B, I don't want to quit my job until I have a new job, and UIC does not allow PhD students to work.
I pledged to myself that I would not let this return to school interfere with:
a. my sex life; trust me--no problem, there.
b. my health--weight has been a struggle, but I have the best trainer in the world. I love to see him, and he makes school possible because he helps me stay fit.
c. my vitality.
d. my writing.
I have not been successful in protecting my
a. vitality--totally, because I've had some low moments where I have slipped into darkness smoking the worst: fake weed. My hair has thinned in patches--real unpretty; I'm going to look like Einstein--not a good look. I've never cried like I have through Physics 3. But, I can't totally blame school for that.
b. my writing--keeping up with MuseCrisis, and writing in my diary, is all I can manage. I don't have time to daydream.
c.
Well, there is no C, so I think I'm hanging in here. But, I don't want to quit my job and be broke again, although part of me feels like I need to step out on faith and do just that...

But, I want to go to UIC because I know I can.
Hmm...

I have to take a year off between completing my pre-pharm credits and entering pharm school. During that time I'm going to write dirty books. I'm going to look for scholarships, too, but this is a last ditch effort to flip my writing skills into a big payday.

I have been doing some dirty stuff, recently. Since I turned 30? I been out here a little bit crazy. Let's just say, I done some research. I can wrap a thriller killer plot around those freaky scenes and clean up. Something like Zane meets Donald Goines--short, nasty, serials.

I was mad at Barack in my last post, and I wrote something that implanted itself in my heart and mind. I'm leaving this country. Why stay? Black people travel, now a days, and if I move somewhere tropical, my people will visit me. I got no kids, no husband.

I have developed some profound romantic feelings for Don Cheadle in the movie Manic. I have always loved Don Cheadle, and please, no one comment about how he only dates white women or whatever. NO PLEASE COMMENT. I don't care what you write. Please, comment.
But, I'm not in love with the real Don Cheadle (much). It's Don Cheadle in the movie Manic. What a nice guy.

Since that is obvie not popping, I got no reason to stay here. I'm gonna finish my Pharmacy degree and dip. There's no language I can't learn. I don't know where

I'll go or care much, except that it must be coastal and have a jungle. There, Ill open a wellness center, and I'll treat people with herbs, soups, yoga, meditation, companionship and sunlight.
Is that a stupid dream?
So what. I'm a stupid dreamer.

My life is good. I'm happy. I have a roof over my head. I have a great family. I have good friends. I have my health. I have curvier measurements than Kim Kardashian. I can afford to eat whenever I want. I have hair on most of my head. I have pedicured feet because I have time and energy to devote to petty things like that. I live in a place that I love. I have a huge crush who I wake with every morning, even if he is just a fantasy, and now I have an even more real and profound fantasy love in the character portrayed by Don Cheadle in the movie Manic. I have Awkward Black Girl. I have courage, hope and faith. I have a positive outlook, an even temperament, great self discipline, strong self control. I have electricity, heat, running water, a car that starts. I have the Washington Park Walk Club and Red Clay Dance. I have hundreds of CDs and two iPods. I have Pandora. I have great art on my walls. I have some wonderful ex-boyfriends, and we still love each other even if we can't be together.

I can't complain about my life thus far, but I want something drastically new. I hope I'm not blocking my blessings, but I'm planning a new tomorrow, nonetheless.

There's only three things that's for sure--taxes, death, and trouble

2011-11-16T11:13:00.000-06:00

Put that Roscoe's Chicken down, Barack! Is this true?

I'm talking 1:00 into the tape. Is the proposal by the Democratic Super Committee going to cut my homeowner's deduction and my college loan interest deduction? Are you kidding me? These two deductions are the primary reason I pay these loans. I don't give a damn about a credit score, and mine is stellar. A credit score doesn't mean a thing when you have cash in your pocket to pay, and I would have much more money in my pocket if I weren't handing it over to pay these loans.
Let me tell you a little story about a poor girl from the 'hood who earned scholarship to three, count them, three of the top ten colleges and universities in this country, as ranked by US News and World Report. Instead of taking all of that expensive education into the market and joining the top 1%, she became a teacher at a junior college. For that, she is often mocked by her fellow alums, and since she is not humorless, she tolerates that ribbing because she wants to do a good thing, and she lives a good life. Sure, most of the people she graduated from undergrad with earned starting salaries higher than her full-time plus over-time. This is a young lady who graduated with honors, published several and varied works of non-fiction and literature, and has been a responsible custodian of her salary, managing to pay all of her bills on time, maintain a very high credit rating, donate hundreds of dollars each year to charity, financially support sick, ailing, and under-resourced family, and pay Ballys $25.00 a month.
I drive a stickshift Civic VP. If you didn't know, that is the new millenium version of a DX. I don't even have powerlocks. I visit a beauty salon once a year, at most, the nail salon twice a year, and I pay $15.00 to get my eyebrows arched, quarterly. I eat in a nice restaurant, maybe, once a month. By a nice restaurant, I do mean Leona's or Giordanno's. I buy almost all of my new clothes at a thrift store, and I work out rigorously, in part, to avoid having to buy new clothes. I get my shoes repaired many times before I replace them. I make an annual trip to the dry cleaner. I eat far more beans than beef. My most expensive, regular luxury is one $14.00 bottle of red wine, each week, which affords me one and a half glasses of red wine, each night. Why do I do these things?
I'm not a middle-class family with 2.5 kids, a $250,000 mortgage, two cars, and two incomes. Even if I were, how would I deserve to fund a tax cut for the owner of the bank who sold me the house on which the value has plummeted to half? My home is so small that people in Beijing would think--damn! And, I'm not underwater on it. I mean, I try to do the right thing.
I'm a community servant, by profession. And I'm doing okay at it. And I really look forward to the tax credit I get for my school loans and the homeowner tax credit because then, and only then, can I afford to do things like pay $1000.00 to replace my washer/dryer, so I don't have to weight lift my laundry. That tax credit helps me help my cousins pay for their car repairs or visit their sisters or bring their kids to the family reunion. And, even if I spent that money on a trip to Brazil, which I desperately want to do, how am I doing anything so wrong that I deserve to be short-changed?
The only thing that I, apparently, have done wrong is fail to adopt the teaching of Ayn Rand, Friedrich Neitzsche, or Jay Z and go hard for mine at all cost. And every single one of those people had a school teacher, and that is all I am. I could be anything. I am a brilliant woman, and I don't mind saying that because I'm not tall, thin, green eyed, long haired, porcelain skinned, or born wealthy. My mind is pretty much what I got going for me, and I know it can get me anything that all the things that I am not cannot. But, I want to help make this world better, and I guess I just didn't understand how sincerely you intend to build this country's wealth on my back.
Who says I'm engaging in class warfare? You are engaging in class warfare against me! If you remove those tax credits, I'm better off keeping my mortgage payment in my pocket, stockpiling my cash, waiting 18 months to be evicted, at which time I will have saved thousands of dollars, and taking my US currency to another country where I can start all over. And, I cannot pretend like I have not seriously considered this, lately. I kind of think that is what you want because you sure seem to want to get rid of the middle class.
I feel rich. I know that on a global scale, I am. When my tax refund comes back, which is meager compared to the refunds of people who make far less than I do, and miniscule compared to what the richest of this country spend on a car note, a salon visit, a shopping trip--all indulgences that I discipline myself not to, even, dream of-- I feel like Warren Buffet. I'm shopping appliances. I'm calling plumbers and visiting the mechanic. I was perfectly content to do that, and you want to rob me of even that little bit of contentment?
How cruel.
Sincerely
Sweet Potato Brown

Tune into this higher state. My destiny you stimulate... Nurture me; I'll set you free.

2011-11-14T00:01:00.048-06:00

My godmother, Mama Djenaba, was a goddess.

This is her. She is nearly 60 in this picture. I idolized her so much. When she looks down on me, I wonder what she thinks of the woman I've become.

Mama Djenaba--Ms Bryant when I met her--was the strongest and most tender woman in the world. She was braver than anyone, but she would cry to see anyone treated unfairly.

I wanted to be Ms. Bryant in so many ways. In so many ways, I am. Be careful what you wish for.

Ms. Bryant taught me all about the world. I was a child who could discuss politics here and abroad with any statesman. She taught me Spanish, Swahili, and Adinkra symbols. She taught me how to sing to Yoruba gods. She taught me how to be a citizen of the world, how to be accepted as a local anywhere I went, and how to shine, naturally.

Mama Djenaba would be proud of me because I'm natural, because I am a good citizen of the world, because I recycle, because I stay fit, because I drink my water, because I dance, because I give my talents to the service of my people, because I take bad and make good of it.

In that way that we hate in others what we despise in ourselves, I think she would be upset that I have become so much like her. She would want me to be like my mother--to settle down, marry, and raise good children. I believe she would be upset that I did not try to do what she felt she had failed to want enough.
Have I chosen to become a muse? I did not choose to have a goddess for a godmother.
Know thyself.
Ms. Bryant was so beautiful, and lots of men loved her, adored her, longed to possess her, but rarely could they enchant her.
I wonder if I will ever feel love the way I used to when I understood myself less.

Because attraction is not about a beautiful face, or a lithe figure, or shimmering hair, alone. There is eyelove, as Julia Peterkin would describe it. And sometimes eyelove leads to heartlove, but eyelove is weak and fleeting.

Attraction is about a natural musk, a tender caress, an expressive gaze, an understanding and an approach. Women have attraction powers, and I have learned mine.
I feel that I am now invulnerable to love. :(

I have a half dozen suitors, right now. They range in age from 25 to 45. Some are rich. Some are poor. Some are startlingly handsome and copper eyed. Some are plain and humble. Some are falling, deeply, in heartlove with me. I love so easily, but I am not in love with any of them, and maybe I never will be, again.

I don't think that I am jaded, but I could be. I think I am fated to do this: to soothe, to comfort, to care, to listen, to hold, to repair. To feed, to warm. I despair that I will never be soothed, comforted, cared for, listened to, held, repaired, fed, or warmed. I'm like a vessel pouring endlessly-- always and never filled, always emptying.

I don't believe any of these men will command me. If they have come to me as men did to Medusa, to stare and stand rapt, forever... If they come to me as they did the Sirens, to drown in sick sweet symphony... If they come to me as they do Practice, Memory, and Song, they are seeking a challenge they can never master.

I am not complaining, nor bragging, but acknowledging that I have grown fully into my powers. Who can possess me?
I wouldn't want this for my god-daughter, either.

I can heal with love, transform with it, but I can no longer envision falling. Still, He with the highest power has divined my story. Titans remain.
Life, please, surprise me.

Microphone check 1,2; what is this?

2011-11-11T23:11:00.001-06:00

You can shave it all off like a South African beauty

2011-11-03T09:51:00.000-05:00

I cut off all my hair, My Lovelies! Well, not all of it. I have about 2 inches on top and 1 inch on the side! I did it on my birthday. At the moment Blogger was autoposting, I was being sheared by celebrity stylist to the starts AJ of Ajes!
I love my new haircut! I am going to grow it out, so I'm not going to get it chopped again, anytime soon. Well, at least, I think I won't. I like it short. People can see me! They can see my face! They can love it or hate it, but they can't miss it underneath all that hair.

I had an I am not my hair moment. It was forced up on me by my own vanity. Well, I had been straightening my hair for almost a year, myself. I really needed and wanted a change, and I wanted to cut my hair, but I didn't have the courage. I had been wearing natural styles for 17 years, and I had gotten bored.

One thing that is almost universal in the world of hair is coveting length. So, I didn't want to cut off all my big natural hair, just like a woman with long straight hair treasures hers.

Well, a man asked me to be a hair model, and he said he'd do my hair for free. He did, and he put too much heat on my hair and fried it to death. It was so straight people swore he had permed it, and I could not recover the natural texture of my hair, at all. It was bone straight dripping wet, and healthy hair rarely behaves that way on anyone's head. And, I didn't look good with my hair at that length, so--for many reasons--I had to do something with my hair.

I thought deeply about cutting my hair, and I asked tons of people who all said don't do it. Then, in a meditative moment, India Arie came to me. She reminded me--I am not my hair! I didn't even look when AJ cut it. He just said, we're going to find a shape for your face, and he did!!!!!! Even people who thought they would hate it love it. This old man on the track this morning told me it was very attractive, and he was glad I didn't have some hair I just bought hanging from my head. I told him that was option B. :)
Now that I have short hair, I have been wearing make up!

Let me get on this subject real quick, then I'm going to try to move on. I want to talk about my love life, but I want to refrain because it is too confusing for me to make a public statement. I'm so important.

But, hey, I am because what? If you Facebook me --I mean my real name-- I have a blank Facebook page that I never created, and no one has created, but Facebook reserved for me! What what! (If one of my cousins did that, please, don't deflate me. I feel real cool about that.) Plus, if you didn't know, I have a follower. What? And she's a reggae queen and I'm a South African princess (from St Louis).

So, last thing: OLD FAT WOMEN, yes, this is for you. Stop telling people they are getting big! That's fucked up. You don't know what people going through, A. B, your asses is big, and I for one ain't never went up to no old fat woman and been like, damn you getting big. On a daily basis, old women come up to me at my job and say, you getting big. Yes, in fact, I am getting big because two years ago when I was a size zero I was actively trying to starve myself to death because I was in the throes of a deep, unrelenting depression. So, if that's the look you want me to go back to, I can't do that for you. And, I do feel crazy because I have to adjust to the fact that being healthy means not being a size zero, and it doesn't help to hear some waddling hippo yell across the hallway, "SP Brown, you getting thick. Look at all them hips!" I mean, it's almost worse when a big old person tells you that you big cuz then you like, damn, even that talking building thinks I'm getting fat.

Let me tell you something, I love big people. I love BIG people--tall, wide, round, strong, chubby, stocky--every manifestation of magnitude turns me on. Even I would be sensitive about telling someone how fat I think they've gotten.

BUT, I must also remind myself--since I have only one follower, and she ain't big, so quite unlikely many big, rude, old women will see this admonition--these people feel like they can say this to me because I look good and feel good about myself. If I didn't greet them with a confident smile, they wouldn't dare.

I have gained weight. I'm probably a 6. So, to a 6 from a 0 in a couple of years, that's a big difference. I work out seven days a week. I don't over eat.
Whatever, you know, I have to let that old me go, and I have to allow people time to let her go, too.

Just a short break from politics. I'll be back at it soon. I do want to add this: I may be mad at my black president. I am very mad about a lot of things, but a recent public statement made me forgive him. These fools on Doug and Deedee were debating if it was wrong for the President to be caught on camera eating Roscoes Chicken and Waffles because he's black, and it is fried chicken.
What would Dave Chappelle say? Where are all these people who don't like watermelon and fried chicken. That shit is good!

So, when I heard them driving B-Rak for eating fried chicken, which he clearly eats far less often than your average white, Alabama good old boy, I had to draw back and realize that the pressures on this man are enormous. And, if he screws up somethings, that just makes him human, and even if he has a big job where screwing up affects lots of people, all of us need to take our jobs as citizens of the world more seriously and consider how our mistakes, indiscretions, and impulses change the lives of many, many people who are perhaps more dear to us than we are to B-Rak. I mean, is it worse to make a decision that cuts wages for thousands of people by $100.00 a check, let's say, or to steal the grocery and laundry money out of my mother's purse? If you love your mother, and you know how many people depend on those groceries, and how screwed up the whole family will be as a result of the elements of hunger and distrust and anger...
I mean, I'm just saying, let the man have his Roscoe's. I can agree to disagree, and I can forgive him, and I do.
Man, forgive the typos, because I'm running mad late! Gotta go. Just had to reach out to you, WORLD!

Everybody wants somebody everybody wants

2011-10-31T11:42:00.000-05:00

Like what the hell am I doing right?

2011-10-26T22:26:00.002-05:00

Dear Lord, you done took so many of my people; I'm just wondering why you haven't taken my life.

2011-10-26T10:26:00.002-05:00

Because His love and His wisdom will be our helping hand

2011-10-22T08:10:00.001-05:00

Jihad

Go With Muddy Feet--Rumi

When you hear dirty story

wash your ears.

When you see ugly stuff

wash your eyes.

When you get bad thoughts

wash your mind.

and

Keep your feet muddy.

--Trans Nanao Sakaki

World, keep on turning, because it won't be too long

2011-10-17T11:41:00.000-05:00

All of you brothers over in Africa. Tell all the folks in Egypt and Israel, too. Please, don't miss this train at the station, 'cause if you miss it, I feel sorry, sorry for you!

2011-10-10T11:28:00.001-05:00

What in the world could they be wanting, yo, with little old me.

2011-09-21T10:13:00.002-05:00

Big up to all the brown girls! Check 2:45.

How about I went for my walk and saw the City of Chicago had written me a ticket for being LEGALLY parked! I have to contest it, but that is freaking bogus. Especially considering they were nowhere to be found when someone smashed my car window out yesterday, morning!

So, I was feeling high for a second because I had a good walk, and I had just enough money to buy my groceries, and the butcher man laughed when I asked for the two biggest leg quarters because I always ask for the two smallest, and it made me feel like I am part of a community, and I just let my annoyance over the ticket go.

But, I get back home, and I'm about paint my toenails when I get a call from Chase telling me I purchased some bike equipment in California last month, though, I reported it fraudulent a month, ago. Someone made a Skype charge a week later and Chase froze and cancelled my card! And anyone who knows me knows that I can't even ride a freaking bike!

(Although I did ride a bike the other night. A cute boy gave me a ride to Bronzeville. ;)
Whatever, dude. Life is...
My toes need some love.

you take the good, you take the bad

2011-09-20T19:45:00.001-05:00

A. Someone busted out my car window this morning. There was NOTHING in my car worth stealing. To wit, whichever idiot did it stole a car charger, for a phone that is a million years old, despite the fact that there were two raggedy car chargers in the car. Guess really needed to send that text message, and... jerk. NOTABLY did not steal "Hip Hop is Dead," "Phrenology" "Sex, Love and Philosophy" or even Kem's "Album Two."

1. BUT, I got the window replaced for $60.00 at my spot on 51st and Ashland, and still had time to do my a.m. walk and run my morning errands. Plus, CPD was really nice to me on the phone.

B. Walked around all day with runs in my pantyhose. I know that is the style, but I really looked liked like trashy professor, today. And, I had on kind of a short dress with very high heels, so legs were on display.

2. BUT, I got mad compliments on the dress, which is fitting much better since I'm on my Kim Kardashian. I think I'm actually kinda killing Kimmy K. Love ya, girl, but...

C. Traveling to Tanzania alone. The US Embassy cut the funding to the festival, so they cut housing for the dance company. Stateside, one of our funders lost her backing, so she withdrew several thousand dollars of support. So, it's just me.

3. BUT, my homegirl has mad connects in Tanzania and hooked me up with this phat spot to stay at, and visit, and volunteer for a few days in Arusha with some former Panthers. All smiles on that. Plus, found mosquito repellant, with Deet, for .75 cents at K-Mart.

D. BEHIND ON GRADING like a mofo!

4. BUT, I skipped class so I could come home tonight and get caught up. See how great a job I'm doing with that? Right: not.

E. Physics II is so freaking hard! It's not the physics. It's the calculus. I'm dying, and I'm definitely in the top 10% of the class.

5. But, my teacher is in love with me. He's this older greek guy, and he lights up whenever I walk into his office hours. I think it is because I cried in front of him--during class; he was moved by that. Look, I'll take it any way I can get it. I'm working hard, and I'm going to office hours, and I'm doing all the extra work, and I'm wearing short dresses with high heels and trashy ho pantyhose with runs all in them. I'm not going to kiss him, but I do laugh at his Physics jokes; which are nothing like jokes--trust me.

F. I love too many men, right now. Young ones, old ones, false ones, true ones, from my past, from my future. I'm so torn!
I am captured in a poem by Sandra Cisneros:

Little Clown My Heart

Little clown, my heart
Spangled again and lopsided,
Handstands and Peking pirouettes,
Backflips snapping open like
A carpenter's hinged ruler,

Little gimp-footed hurray,
Paper parasol of pleasures,
Fleshy undertongue of sorrows,
Sweet potato plant of my addictions,

Acapulco cliff-diver corazón,
Fine as an obsidian dagger,
Alley-oop and here we go
into the froth, my life,
Into the flames!
-- Sandra Cisneros

6. BUT, it feels so strange and wonderful to have passions that merit archival in the great canon of literature. To be a muse...

Well, got to do so many things, right now. I love you, WORLD. Geez, more lovers; that's all I need, but, World, you are my true love; always here.

Remember, World, my birthday is coming up. You're supposed to be helping me think of bad things to do. You're not :(
BUT, you are, certainly, sending me enough bad people to do things with ;)

Oh yeah: For the record--the US is wrong to veto the Palestinian bid for statehood; we are hypocrites for that. Jacob Zuma is right about ending the no-fly zone over Libya, and I hate the fact that I am agreeing with that rapist bastard about anything. I wish we fought all wars with waterguns. God bless the Iranian children!

All that I can say...

2011-09-17T19:26:00.002-05:00

It's going down.

Never took the time with you to listen

2011-09-05T22:55:00.000-05:00

So, I met this guy in a bar night before last. He was quite handsome. He looked very young for his age. He was 35, but he looked 25. I smiled at him, so he came over to chat.

I'm sorry. Cyberpause. I can hear India Arie singing from my window. We went to the African Arts Festival to see her, but it was too cold for a non-native Chicagoan. She came on an hour late, probably due to no fault for her own, but we couldn't. But, the festival is so close that I can hear her singing. The very first day I moved to Chicago, in 1999, I opened my window and heard the sound of drumming. I went outside and walked towards the sound of the drums. I walked right into the African Arts Festival. I love Chicago.

Anyway.

So, I talked to the guy for about an hour. Neither of us wanted to stay at the spot too late. I gave him my cell. We went our separate ways. Since then, two days ago, he has texted me at least a dozen times, and he has called. I have texted him two, count them, two times.

The first time I texted him to tell him he was moving too fast. This was the same freaking night. You know this guy was hot or I wouldn't have bothered to respond, at all. I told him--not in so many words, but essentially--I like you, but I want to go slow with you. Afterwards, he texted me three pictures of his d!ck. And two pictures of the Parliament concert. I saved the pictures from the concert.

Wow.

For my girls--what did his thing look like? Well, I couldn't see where it was worth texting, but I forwarded the pic to my homegirl for consultation. She said it looked like it could be thick. That's always important.

Ultimately, I had to conclude that he is a ho. He was so handsome, too. And his name was Jamal. It wasn't spelled that way, but I love the name Jamal, and it does mean beautiful.

Anyway, I didn't text him at all the next day. He text me around 9:30 like "good morning when you wake up." I had been up for a couple hours by 9:30 and was in the middle of yoga. Plus, I know this to be game. Why? Because there is another dude sweating me, and he does the same stupid thing. Why do these fools think I need a wake up call? I'm really a very early riser. And, I know you ain't been up since 5, so you think that 9:00 is late in the day. You just woke up-- horny, and that's why I'm on your mind. Try thinking about me in the middle of the day, like work hours. Sorry @$$. Anyway...!!

So, Jbeautiful didn't text me at all for the rest of the day until about 10:45 p.m. Booty call hours, right? We both good and over 30. Why play games? Then, after he texted twice, within 10 minutes, he called. Then he texted me again and wrote--"so what? you scared of me, now?"

A woman with good sense would be scared of him, but I wasn't. I was just real turned off and annoyed as hell.

So this morning, around 11:00 I text him back essentially this--"I can see what you on by what you say and when you call. If I want to get it in with you, I will call. You can say yes or no, but it really doesn't require all this communication." Was that mean? Maybe, yeah. I figured I was being nice by letting him know where he stood.

He got PISSED!! He sent me back this four page text, full of curse words and don't be telling me it don't require all this fucking communication, and I had wanted to invite you to breakfast, and I do want to know who I be fucking, and you is a good look but I guess it is what it is.

Wow.

Okay, so you know I didn't respond to that. I had hoped it was over. Why did he just text me like twenty minutes, ago? Thought he was mad, though? Guess he forgave me? Or he wants to rape me, one.

This dude is CRZY!!!

He's so handsome, too. He's short. I don't really like that too much, but he has a lean build like a soccer player. He's dark. He has a flawless face. He's crazy as hell. I woulda tried to put him in rotation, but... Alas. Some men are just for fantasy.

If only he were patient. I take this as a lesson for myself. Sometimes, I can be anxious about love, but you have to give things time to build. You have to let desire simmer. You have to trust the chemistry and let the reaction take place in its own time. Yeah, sometimes, you need a little catalyst, but you can't rush.

Let me, also, make this point--if you give your child an African name--I mean a real African name with a meaning in some African language, not an African sounding name like Qualik--then you MUST raise your child in an African-centered environment. Kids with African names who have no connection to an African identity always turn into thugs, no matter how hard you try with them. Please, if you don't love the continent, don't name your baby Malik. Just call him Malcolm.

That's just a theory. I could be wrong about that. I love names, too. A funny looking man with a handsome name can have his way with me.

So, until I got my bad news, I wanted to post about songs that make my panties damp.

I was listening to Phrenology. Is it just me or does that song "Break You Off" make anybody else pant? Even now, after all these years, and all these plays, I have to skip past that song if I'm on my way to work because, otherwise, I'm not right.

I want to try to come up with ten songs that are too hot, too hot for me! (No particular order, really)

10. Secret Garden -- I know that is an old, oldhead song, but it gives me shivers everytime I hear it.

9. Ooh, Maxwell-- Bad Habits. And the video? Ooh, Maxwell.

8. Andre 3000 -- his verse on Hollywood Divorce. Might just be me, but it works.

7. Floetry -- Say Yes. I'd like to sing that to somebody... if I could sing.

6. Jill Scott -- Crown Royal on Ice

5. The Roots--Break You Off

4. Digital Underground -- Freaks of the Industry, much love to Kappa Alpha Psi

3. Janet Jackson -- 24 Play

2. Beyonce -- Say Yes

1. UGK -- Let Me See It

This list could, actually, get really long.

Too bad about Jbeautiful. I can't trust him. I can't submit to him.

Just a little nothing to end your holiday and start your week.

XOXOXOXOXOXO

SPB

Goddamnit! The ghetto is the planet of the apes!

2011-09-02T21:14:00.001-05:00

:( You know, my girls have been on my mind. I've been hurt because I haven't heard from them. I hate that... So, my aunt is paralyzed. My baby girl is locked up. The littlest sister is staying with a friend of the family. And the oldest is trying to figure out how to manage all of this and bring some stability to the situation. Every single one of them needs counseling. This is why they had been on my heart. I'm not going to go all into detail about it like I did before because I just can't. I can't put my heart out here on this blog, tonight. Shit is hard enough. I have this horrible feeling that things are the way they are because... ain't no because. My oldest has been keeping this a secret for months. At least this time, neither of us are doing this alone. We are going to be a team. I'm not giving up my freedom. She's not giving up her freedom. We are going to figure out a way to make this work, and we getting everybody some counseling. Maybe the littlest sis will go live with my oldest. Maybe my baby will take care of my auntie. Maybe my baby and my auntie will kill each other. Maybe the popo will find them both and take them both to the same place. I have sciatica. The doctor gave me physical therapy, an anti-inflammatory, and put me on a muscle relaxer. The drugs are strong. They make me sleep hard, too. They make me weak and slow. I have had bouts with sciatica for years, but I swear they got worse when I turned NPR back on. I think about Libya, a lot. I think about revolutions. I'm a revolutionary. I wonder what you do with thousands of young boys in whom you've engendered blood lust. When they stop killing for you, do you send them home so that they can remember? How can they tolerate that? How can they stop doing and start remembering? How do you make them not want to shoot those guns, those powerful, fantastic, real life stopping guns? You listen to the radio and hear the soldiers shooting off celebration shots. The older soldiers complain, the young men are wasting ammunition, but they like shooting, now. Right? Soldiers. I hate soldiers. I love them. My family is full of them. I teach plenty of them. I hate them. I love them as people. I love visionaries. I love idealists. Often, soldiers are these things. I hate how they don't fucking get it. I hate how they don't get that you can't bring about peace through violence. I study Malcolm X. Malcolm X is not talking about fighting to bring about peace. He is talking about self-defense. I love freedom--probably too much. I know that people have had to fight for their freedom. I know. What do you do, still, what do you do with a solder when the war is done? Don't you have a responsibility to him? To us? My aunt would say--you hate in others what you despise in yourself. How true. I have a hot temper. I hate that about me, but it is my strength, and I thank God that I am as strong as I am. Maybe I think I understand soldiers because if I were one I'd be the worst of them. It would take so much to turn me into a killer that I don't think I could come back. This afternoon, I was working out, and I thought to myself about how much I want to do something wrong, a big wrong. I'm tired of always doing the right thing. I want... I want this old train to breakdown. Then, I thought, maybe that is what my aunt felt before she just stopped trying and let go. I'm worried about my babygirl, locked up. I know why she kept this situation a secret from me. She didn't think there was anything I could do about it. There wasn't. I tried. No one in my family had the kind of money she would need except her father and his cracked out ass didn't even fucking care. I mean, what can you expect of an addict, but you expect something more from a father. Babygirl was fatalistic about it. I mean, her mom had fallen from a much higher platform to this current state. Babygirl wanted to punish herself. She was angry, angry, angry. My baby won't ever be the same. :( My baby is gone. I'm mad! I'm mad at my uncle. I'm mad at my aunt. I'm mad at my grandparents. I'm mad at me. Why me? I think I take the least portion of blame, but you can't help how you feel, you know? You can't help how you feel. You can only control what you do understanding how you feel. My aunt. Do you know how much I loved and defended and supported my aunt? I love my family. Good, bad, better, worse, I love my family. As angry as I am at my aunt, I know she loves and believes in me because she told my oldest girl to tell me everything. They keep secrets. They keep things secret until bad goes to worse to irreversible, and even then they lie. My aunt told my oldest to tell me. They need me. Crying. Crying. Crying. Or I would be but I am just too fucking numb.

It just came to me like an epiphany

2011-08-29T12:47:00.000-05:00

Somewhere near the 5 mile mark on my a.m. walk, I had what alcoholics like to call: a moment of clarity. I began to see somethings much more clearly.
One thing that I mused on this morning was my relationship with Kenken. I cannot pretend not to be hurt by this situation with my girls because I love them. And, what they cannot understand, is how much I love and admired my aunt. I have had to remind them, on multiple occasions, that she was my aunt before she was their mother, and I have a relationship with her that has nothing to do with them. The girls are very protective of their mother to the point of blindness. I think that blindness masks a real anger at her for her choices, and because they won't accept their anger, they won't allow anyone else to be angry at her--even though we all have a right to be upset.
That notwithstanding, everyone-especially by the time a person gets to be my age--will experience some form of abandonment. Sometimes, those feelings are real and justified feelings of abandonment, like someone just disappears from your life for no reason. A parent drops you at a hospital with no word and never returns. Sometimes that feeling comes from a small impetus--after a few great dates, a woman just stops calling or returning phone calls. Despite the varying levels of gravity in these causes, Buddhist teaching instructs us that all feelings of pain are alike.
Example: When I am at the gym, my trainer demonstrates lifting this or that weight this or that way, and when he does, it looks quite easy. However, when I attempt to imitate, I find the weight much heavier than it looked when he lifted it. Often, in fact, the weight is too heavy for me, and he has to change the exercise. What does this example suggest? Well, what difference that it takes 10 times the weight to cause him to wince as me? That muscle collapse is real, regardless.
So, my feeling of abandonment by my girls is real, and it is like the same feeling that all people at some point feel, and it may or may not be justified, but I have a right to feel however I want, whether or not the girls acknowledge my right.
On the other hand, the girls are far more likely to experience feelings of abandonment. Note, I rarely write of their father, who is my uncle, and my blood relative. I ceased to have much faith in his parenting skills before he failed to addiction. He never asks me for money, and he has stolen from me and begged my forgiveness. He is an abhorrent father, but he remains my devoted uncle. He loves me. He tries to protect me from himself. He does not lean on me, and though I am very angry at him for the type of father he has been, he acts as a silly, loveable, junky uncle. He deserves no less blame than my aunt, and he has been a major contributing factor in the state of parentlessness in the lives of my girls.
It is the woman on whom they were left to depend, my aunt, that we staked our faith, and her failure to pressure--while equally understandable--has been an even more dramatic upset. While the girls can say that I had opportunities that they did not, my aunt cannot say that. In fact, she can boast a more stable childhood than I can, so her behavior confounds me. How much more complicated must feelings about this be? Far more. They are much more likely to have internalized my aunt's behavior. I know they feel guilt, which is not warranted. I know they feel feelings of inferiority, that they ought not feel. I would never want them to feel that they owe me for any sacrifice I made for them. I fought for the right to make such sacrifices. They cannot know they battles I had with my own friends and family about how much I give to the girls, so this is something I was discouraged from doing and, clearly, wanted to do despite the warnings. All I really want them to do is allow me to feel how I need to feel in order to heal.
Yet, I cannot expect more from them than I do of myself, and I have to allow my girls to feel what they need to feel, even if that feeling is anger or resentment towards me. So, if the girls want their space from me, I have to give it to them.
I have always been here for Kenken; anytime she reached out to me, I have done my best by her. What friend would I be to her if I left her, too? I think about that in context of my own feelings. Didn't I just write last weekend: I've been left. I know how to be left. I know that I think, often, and have said to men: the best way to be like a million other nobodies in my past is to walk away, so, if that is what you want to do, then do it. I know that attitude has pushed people away, but we all have obnoxious attitudes and character flaws that make us hard to love. Besides, if I knew how not to feel that way, I wouldn't. It is just that people leave, people pretend, people die, people get arrested, people abandon each other for a million reasons that are not personal, that I've just developed this callous to protect myself, and I know if mine is thick and tough, Kenken's is nearly impenetrable.
And, I know beneath that callous is a tender wound, and it is aggravated with every goodbye, even if no one else can tell.
And I love my baby. I love my girls. I love my aunt. I wish things were different, but they aren't. If it falls on someone to forgive, it ought to be me.
I am hurt. I have a right to feel hurt, but acting out of hurt won't make things better. I may vent my hurt, but I don't want to attack my baby because of how I feel, even if she caused it. I've always been the big girl. I must be a big girl, mustn't I?
So, I don't have to go chasing my girl and try to make her love me. However she wants to feel about me, she can. And, I want to allow myself to be angry because it is a normal stage of grief, and I need to move forward.
When people ask me if I want kids, and they do-- WHY? I don't know why anyone would ask a woman my age, who has no kids, if she wants kids; do they do it to be mean? I don't know. I guess not, but don't they imagine? Well, the truth is, I want to children, but not right now, even if it means I will never give birth to the children I raise. I am empty nesting.
Empty nesting has its benefits. I have more money, more time, less worry. I have room in my life for romance and excitement. I am discovering myself. I have the youth that I thought, years ago, I'd never know. Empty nesting can be painful. For so long, I was a caretaker--to my girls, to my grandparents-- that I don't really know who I am, anymore. I have struggled through any negative consequence of this feeling one can imagine--destructive relationships, eating disorder, suicidal thoughts, drug and alcohol abuse. In fact, I wonder if I didn't take up a new career goal because I didn't know how to just be...
And, look at me--I'm the stable one, the sound one, the anchor. I have all of these strategies for maintaining, through journaling, through exercise, through diet, through self reflection. I fail, too. But, I don't want to fail Kenken. I don't want to fail my girls. So, I have to feel my way through this time and try to remember my meditation and my conceptions of God.
Underscoring this is a deep loneliness, but there is accompanied by a freedom that I do not fully know, yet. The freedom that I so value, that which I have granted anyone who has desired to be free of me, is mine. I want to stretch into it and fill it before I trade it, again, for the blessings and encumbrance of love's duty.

There's a new girl in town, and I'm feeling good.

2011-08-28T01:07:00.000-05:00

I couldn't decide on a title. The one above or: "it's me, it's me, it's me, it's me, its me, it's me, it's me again. It's me again."
This has been a week. I have been up and down, but I'm feeling brand new like the old me.
I turned NPR back on, and all I can say is: "Leeza, Leeza, Leeza!!!" Condeleeza got Gaddafi on fire! I have always been a fan of

Leeza. I can't say I love her politics, but I like her nerve, and I envy her fashion sense. Apparently, I'm not alone. I don't have a scrapbook full of her pictures, but...

I have been very sad this week, but I'm twi--I know. So, I feel little to no pain.

I'm back home on the Southside, working at my home campus, not at the headquarters. It has only been a month, but I've lost so much weight! I'm getting very close to the Kim Kardashian measurements, again. That's actually bigger than I was this time last year, but I'm happy to be in a C cup, with 30 something hips and 20 something waist, and I'm happy with my body, and I want to stay here for a while. A lot of my old clothes fit, again. Some don't, but I don't want to be an A cup and a 0/2. Those are fine sizes for some people, but I had endless health problems when I was that small. My home campus is at the edge of a food desert. The options are junk food or sack lunch, so I am cooking and eating healthy food from home. There are so many wonderful temptations downtown, near the headquarters--cheese and caramel popcorn, cupcake trucks driving up and down the street, buffets with foods fried in potato chips, and all kinds of happy hours. I'm not a person who can resist temptation. I can avoid it, very well. But, alas, when temptation is before me, I succumb.

I walked through my park, today. I saw some of all the things I love. I saw big beautiful butterflies. I saw lots of families picnicking. I saw black cowboys on horses, and black boys doing triple flips off of trampolines. I saw baseball and soccer games. I smelled weed in the air. I saw two kids falling in love. I love Washington Park.

My daddy is not doing well. He is laid up. It's like when my Grandpa went down. Not my Granddaddy that died, but my super healthy drill sergeant. The Drill Sergeant pulled a muscle in his back trying to help my Grandma out of the tub, and he hasn't really left the hospital since. Ooh, this hurts. Some lady fell out, and my daddy was trying to help her off the floor. He ruptured a disk in his back, and he has been laid out for almost a month, now. I'm scared, and when he describes the pain I feel it. My dad is a very healthy man who works out every day. He's not a skinny guy, but he's strong. This is upsetting, and we're all concerned.

I have tons of friends who seem to be enjoying the hurricane. How fun would it be to make love during a hurricane? How kinky? It would be so thrilling, like. Ooohhh! The wind, and the storm, and the danger, and the excitement!!! That aside, I pray for them!

I'm going to Tanzania. I got a plane ticket and a hotel. I'm so psyched. This is the first big, big trip for me, and I'm scared as hell but I'm so geeked!!!!! This is a new time for your girl.

My baby girl Kenken hasn't called me in months. Her momma is mad at me, and I am mad at her ma. I don't think it is right for my auntie to have three kids, then get cracked out, then get locked up and leave them to the world to raise. When Kenken was my baby, I never let her feel my anger towards her mom, and I always schooled her to be forgiving of her mom. But, now that my auntie is back home, and she's always hitting me up for dough, and she is my aunt, who I looked up to... I can't hide my anger, anymore. I know that upsets my baby, and she has to pick her ma over me but it makes me sad because she was mine. Her birthday passed, and I didn't even get her a gift.

But, there is a selfish part of me that says fuck that little girl. All I did for her and she can just do me? I mean, I know how it feels to be left behind. I know that feeling too too well, so I'm good at letting go. And, I kinda feel like, so she wants to leave me, so what? She'll miss me before I miss her. Or, she's the fool if she thinks I'm replaceable, disposable. Whatever. I mean, I'm a good friend, and sometimes I think that doesn't really matter much, but I am, anyway. So, I was good to her. She can't find it in her heart to love me and love her ma? Good. More money for me. While the rest of my friends were seeing the world, I spent my 20s flat ass broke buying her school uniforms, putting groceries in my grands fridge, taking her back and forth to see her sisters. I wanted to do it because it was right, but my momma's ma told me that they would burn me out, and it really did. It really did, and I spent Kenken's birthday money on a trip to Tanzania. So it is what it is. I'm mad because I'm hurt, and I miss my baby. On the other hand, I've always wanted to see the world. I just knew, as a little girl, it was my destiny to be a world traveler. Shit, I teach World Languages and Cultures. So, I'm ashamed to admit that I've never been far away before. Everyone has--my dad, mom, brother, and they would always make fun of me for bragging that I'd see the world one day. They left me behind. They left me behind taking care of a bunch of people who... I love. Let's leave it there.

You know, what difference does it make that people you love leave you? Right? You don't love them to make them stay. You love them because it is all you can do. It is just how you feel. And, if they leave you, you have to say to yourself: if I love you, like I say I do, and if being away from you makes you happy, I can only--as someone who loves you--want your happiness, and I cannot inhibit you from it. I can wish and pray that you'd see it some other way, but if you don't, you just don't. Hey, who said life is fair? I've got a million blessings to treasure. I've got dozens of pairs of shoes. I've got dozens of pretty dresses. I've got dozens of pairs of earrings. Those are just things, but they are my jewels. I was blessed to be able to be there for my cousins, and I'm fortunate to have had them. I have a wonderful family. I have a home. I eat as many times a day as I want. I've got health insurance. I've got fecund plants. I've got a job that has made me a hood celebrity on the southside of Chicago. I got lots of people to love me, so what if I give my love to someone who doesn't return it? I've got sweet memories and big dreams. Shit hurts, but it would be unfair for me to complain. I can cry, but I cannot despair.

So my body is looking extra right, but my hair is crazy. Trying to get into my new schedule has me a little manic, and I have mad woman hair :) You know that when you are stressed your body chemistry changes, and this can make your hair stand on end. That's why in the movies crazy women all have that hair that won't behave. Well, mine is out of control, right now! No amount of brushing, pressing or wrapping will make my shit obey! It's humbling, man. I don't look good, right now. I can't do a thing about it, but I look bad because my hair is standing on end. I hate looking in the mirror, but I'm appreciative, in a way. I think I may need some humbling, and this is the Most High checking my inner Kanye.

That Michael Jackson Wii game is the shit.

I haven't much to write, really. Just counting blessings. I'll wind this one up. World, World, World--peace. Just muse on it, please. Peace.

Confessions II

2011-08-19T14:32:00.000-05:00

So, everybody makes mistakes.
I wrote so many things last night that I wish I could take back. Some of it was just secret, and some of it was not really true, but after I wrote that I went out and did something that I cannot take back. I'm going to share it, and I don't know why.
Brace yourself, it's not good...

So, my ex picked me up. I know last night's post was very confusing. Two of my ex guys were in town last week. I'll just call them tall and taller. Well, taller left the same day that tall arrived. The ex that I said I love so much, --that is not quite true-- the one who read my diary, he is taller. Tall arrived. I'm working with him on a book he's writing, so we communicate relatively regularly. I'm really good friends with all my ex guys, so it wasn't really... And, I want to stay friends with them. Sometimes I start to have feelings for them, but... Anyway.
So, he picked me up with some of his frat brothers, and we went out to a karaoke spot in downtown Chicago near Harry Careys. I'm talking about however drunk you thought I was when I typed that last post, way beyond it. They dropped both of us off at Tall's dad's place, where he is staying, and he drove me home.
He came upstairs.
I don't know how he ended up in my bed.
I did not have sex with him but...
Can I have two jumps in the same post?
I did give him a blow job for the fucking record books!
Totally a gift. I didn't ask him for anything. I didn't ask him to reciprocate in any way. I went down on him for at least half an hour, I'm talking porn star style. He calls me Kim Kardashian because Kimmy and I used to have the same measurements. Way I acted last night made little Kimmy's tape a non motherfucking factor.

I almost called Tall the wrong name so many times, and the name was not Taller's name. You can guess whose name it was, although I almost through Idris Elba up in there. How, you may wonder, did you do so much name calling with your mouth so full? Thank GORSH my mouth was full, or it would have been confessions for real. But, I was in the zone. Eye contact, intense sucking action, and talking crazy shit---say my name, tell me its good, beg. And, after he came the first time I went down on him, again! Again. AGAIN!!!!

I don't regret going down on a man last night because I like going down, actually. I like to please my partner. I'm pretty freaking good at it. I feel very kinky when I do it, which is a feeling I love, and I have been wanting to blow the shit out of my crush since February. I mean anywhere, on a street, in an empty office, slam the button on the elevator door and do it there. I'm talking about I have been wanting to blow his fucking mind, but he's not available to me, so I ended up losing control and giving that wonderful gift to my ex, Tall, who does not deserve it.

I mean, he's a nice guy, and I love him. I love all my exes. I don't have bad break ups. With two exceptions, all of them are my good friends. We are there for each other. I want it to stay that way. I don't want feelings to creep back in because we didn't work. We didn't work. I really can't feel any feelings for anyone right now, which I hate. I want to be over my crush, but he remains on my heart. ONLY God knows why. I don't even want to post about him anymore, but I want to get it out of me and in the universe somewhere!!

Yikes!!!

Some clarifications:

I'm not hot for my trainer, who is a very handsome, very kind, very sweet and very well built young man. Go figure. He's hotter than my crush or any of my ex guys.
I am in love with Prince William from downstairs, but it is a very appropriate fondness. I don't know what's up with the weird energy I get from his dad, and it could be nothing. I can't overlook it, but I shouldn't have shared it because it is just a feeling.
And, as far as having a baby, I don't really want a baby. I don't know why I posted that. Maybe I want it, and I don't realize it, but as I sit here now I can type with assuredness that having a baby is the last thing on my agenda.

I just want a lover and a teammate; that is it. Anything else might be nice. It might be a curse. I just want someone to go down on for hours and hours for ever and ever.

I'm going over to see Tall, right now. He picked me up from the grocery store because I rung up all these groceries and forgot that I didn't have my wallet, and my car was at his dad's place, and I had walked like 25 minutes to the grocery store. Long story short, we saw each other, already, today, and I just acted like I didn't remember. He didn't bring it up and neither did I. And, I think that is how we're going to play it.

Man, that has hella blowjob. I'm kinda proud of myself, can you tell? I just got to make sure the next time I give a gift like that, the guy who receives it deserves it.

Oh, me :?

Oh yeah, and it is over for the crush. Not another word about it. I try not to write about my men, anyway, and I seriously broke that rule yesterday and today. Not again. Cross my heart.

I'm not a player. I just crush a lot.

2011-08-18T22:44:00.000-05:00

TWI :)
So much to say:
A. I know I coined that phrase (forgive typos, cuz it's about to get real)

Cuz I asked my girl Eva (not exactly her real name) TWIm oh shit that is the phrase in question, sorry so not checing for typs.

So, anywaay, networkign event this evenign. So many men, ex boyfreinds, one of whom is the the subject of this post but

I'm not a player, I just crush a lot!

So, hot for my personal trainer that the Kelly Rowland MOTIVATION is my new work out cougar anthem!!!! Oh lover!!!!

And my favorite crush had a birthday just now.

And today is my favorite cousin's birthday. She's my new fave cuz my old fave was Dwayne cuz he took me everywhere with him and I felt so special.

Anyway, shit is poppintg. What was twi about? I don't knwo but I gto a shit is pppign pic (ooh firgive(

I woke my sweetie Pricne Willaiam, and I spilled a dirnk on a pretty woman. Two stories. Pic first.

I know this pic has nothign to do with my post, but weml (wht tias what ever major loser.)
So, anyway,
my sweetie is crying. He is a little chinese man, about 21 months, who happens to be in love with me (a 7 x 3 plus some sister) he always quiets for my music, and when he sees me, he takes the key from his grandma and tries to open the door for me. Oh, what a sweetie!!!!!!! He awoke, just now, because he heard me come into the buidling. I love my Prince WIlliam, too. He will be it.

So how about my ex comes over talking about you, World. I don't know if he will check this drunk post,but he sure discovered Musecrisis, and brought it up!?!?!? So,A, you read my diary. B, you bring it up?

So, this is a new level of self-cencorship. So, in the name, I will admit I love him most because he's tall. Like 6'4"? My uncle was the tallest man in Newport News, VA. When they cut off his legs (diabetes) I died, inside. So what? I love tall men. Another story.

BTW, I was so drunk, and I spilled a drink on a beautfiul woman with a beautiful dress, and I swear before GOD, I wll repalace that dress, and if it costs $6,000,000doollars, I ll buy two, cuz i wnt a carbon copy of whatever she owns. Iw ant to be her. I'm gonna e=amil her.

SO hard not to email my CRUSH whose birthday just past--LION hearted LEO
And since my ex told me about myself, I don't want to even blog anymore. Gosh.

Ohh, Sade is on Pandora, IS ti A CRIME???? Yes!!!!
Oh, and I just saw her two weeks a go, and she killed it!!!!!!!!! I saw Jilly from Philly just twoo weeks earlier, and you know I lov emy gil, and I JUST produced the PEACE, my own play, and when I came out of Sade, I had forgotten about all. That is how much the shit her show was!!!

Can I tell my crush my love is wider than Victoria Lake?
No, because he won't act right.
Why is love like this? And this post won't matter, but just for the record...
Why should I pretend not to love the person I love so the game will play?
Myty love is wider than Victoria Lake, and taller than the Empire State. It dives and jumps You know? Is it a crime?

Why do epoeple love who they hate? No. Why dont' people jus tlove hw they love?

They hardest thing you'll ever learn....
You know?

So, confession, I shoudn't share.

Oh know, so I want to be the lady who I spilled a dress on because she took it so smooth. She poured club soda. I gave her my card and begged her, any dryclcleaning fee, please let me pay, and this chick poured club soda on it and kept kicking it and consoled me behind it. Please, let me grow up to be so cool!!! You won't see us on Judge Millian because...

So, my 20 month old Prince William from downstairs, his dad is giving me some uncomfortable vibes. Hey, dude, you might be a genius, and yes, I'm a smart girl, but you got many women--a wife and a mom--and you got a baby by one, and that baby is my Prince Willaim. Plus, his granny likes my ass.
I know. The prince loves bass, and my music is almost all bass distortion. So, who can hate the woman who quiets the crying baby?

Ah, I'm so drunk, so just the words crying baby make me sad.

AH!! Hate me, World! So many men want a baby with me. So many... but I want my baby to have a daddy, a real daddy who loves mommy and sleeps with her and loves her.
My ex, one of the few but devoted, laughed when I told him, but that is real! My baby has to have a daddy, even if I'm an old lady and my baby is adopted
I KNOW YOU READ MY BLOG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I KNOW. I know. I know.

And, I know you love me. So, if you do, pray for me. Pray for someone to take care of me. I don't need a lot, but I won't make it alone.

I try to be ib ut because I have ths mision...

I'm going back out...
with the ex...
I'm so drunk...
This post will be so the for the record books that I'm going to post this and thenpostyou an update.
DANTWI
Bewaretaht cntrol bouttn.

It's just that old devil trying to keep us apart

2011-08-15T01:55:00.001-05:00

Good Morning, World:
I'm sorry that I'm late. It's been more than a week, technically, but what a week! What a week. I won't go into detail about mine. Probably the most exciting thing was I found my old Sole CD in the car, and I been playing that, a lot. I need a new tire for my car. In fact, Andre 3000 (that's my car) needs a full check up, or whatever you call them.
The past, distant and recent, have been reverberating, and in keeping with the momentum, I have something for you from the center of the sirens' vortex. Yes, a dirty story. You mind find that ironic, or even hypocritical, since my last communique was a meditation on faith. Nuns have passions, as well as any other woman.
I used to want to be a nun. Unfortunately, when I was about 13 I had a crisis of faith, which caused me to abandon my desire to commit my life to the Catholic church. This is such an aside. The point is, you might think it wrong, especially when you read how dirty this story is. IF YOU SO CHOOSE. Please note: I blushed when I found it, and I wrote it. I wrote this story about 8 years, ago?
Anyway, the past is prelude.
I want to do something very bad for my birthday, downright sinful. I do. Send me suggestions World! I want to do something that I could regret.
I know some people who read MuseCrisis are wondering where I am on the world falling apart, right now? How come everything I post about, lately, is just avoidist. I cannot get with reality, right now. I haven't listened to NPR for almost 6 months, now. It does go to reflect my deep blessings that I can choose to unplug. Everywhere there are people unplugged, but the consequences are... I mean, I know that if I am not part of the solution, I am part of the problem. I can't handle reality, right now.
I can't wrap my mind around the scope of our present state of man's inhumanity and cruelty to man, at the micro or macro level. I read the news, but I know I have a limited sense of what is going on in the world, but when I start to address it, even just in the privacy of my own thoughts, I go a little crazier.
I have been thinking about the importance of listening, and wondering why it takes so much to get us to consider one another and our common humanity.
Blah, blah, blah... I promised you a dirty story. It's after the jump.

Sunday, May 16, 2004. Valois Diner. 11 a.m.

Tall, muscles, face okay, I could see the outline of his dick through his pants. My nipples were hard. I looked down at them poking through my thin white wife beater. I touched my smooth dark thighs hanging from my inappropriate cut-off shorts. I looked up no higher than his waist and stared at his dick. I licked my lips and looked back at my plate. He sat down.

The small talk was a turn off. His eyes were glued to my tits. I couldn’t stop staring at his thick, heavy chest, his strong, broad shoulders, his biceps, which were bigger than my thighs. I crossed my legs, and dropped my foot in his lap. His dick was getting harder. His mouth was still running.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“How old do I look, motherfucker? Gentlemen don’t ask women their age.”
”You can’t be nothing but 16.”
I almost choked on my water. Stupid motherfucker.

“Would you be mad if I said I was sixteen? Is that too young?”

He leaned forward, dragging his tie through his catsup. “Please, tell me you’re sixteen.” His voice was so deep that it made my clit quiver. His hands were big, rough and worn. He was in brown slacks and a button up suit shirt on a Sunday. His hair was starting to salt and pepper. The light picking up the gray complimented his flawless skin. He wants to fuck, and he thinks I’m 16, but I had already imagined how it would feel for my pussy to spasm around his dick.

I thought about telling him the truth. I lied. “I’m gon be real with you. I’m 19. I’m a student at the University, and I need money.” I’m 27. I’m teach at the University. I don’t need shit but a big, fat dick..

He said, “Well, I’m married, but I’m looking for a change.” He wasn’t wearing a ring.

“So how much?”

“150.” Then he said, “You got some pretty titties. I can see them right through your shirt. He stroked one of my thighs from just at the bottom of my panty line to my knee. You got them tight, smooth thighs.” He stared deep into my eyes, “Damn, you are young.”

“150 dollars?” I just ignored all that other shit. “For 39-25-43? See all this thick ass hair? I pulled my hair like I imagined he would. I got a fat hair pussy, too. I can have any man in Hyde Park. Please.”

“200.”

“Does this look like the flea market?”

“I’ll give you 500, but it won’t be often. And you have to do whatever I say.”
”I like to please.”
”Wear a costume. Wednesday. Same place. Same time."

Wednesday. Valois Diner. 11:30 a.m.

I didn’t even sit down. He stood. I pulled him to me by his belt and kissed him gently. I tugged at his bottom lip with my teeth. I rubbed his dick through his pants. I bet he was thinking about it all weekend. His dick was already hard. He held my hand at the crotch of his pants. We walked to his Jaguar just like that. He opened the door. I dropped in. He drove me to the Central Arms Hotel. 12 hours maximum room use. The lady at the counter was slow, so I entertained myself by rubbing his dick and making promises in his ear. I promised I’d call him, daddy, if the dick was real good. His nasty ass liked that.

I'm just seeking to hear God when He's speaking.

2011-08-08T00:37:00.000-05:00

I landed in the airport in Winston-Salem, NC already wanting to cry. Things would seem to get worse before they'd get better, but the truth is that the turning point came right there in the airport. Sobering and sobbing, I quickly found my faith.
I attended the National Black Theater Festival to see one of my works read. I've been submitting and revising this play for six years, now. Finally, a bite. The Reader's Theater made no promises but explained that I may see the work read if I was in attendance, and there was space on the schedule. It cost me a lot of money to fly to Winston-Salem on such short notice. It cost me a lot of money to find a hotel. I had to take a week off of work, so I lost a lot of money. I felt foolish, but I kept saying that I owed it to this play, and these characters in this play, and this message to stand by it, and if the only reason it weren't shown was because I didn't attend, well, that reason was unacceptable.
I got to the airport in Greensboro, planning to cab it to the Embassy Suites to check in at the Readers' Theater desk. A cab ride cost $65.00. It was a 20 minute drive. Already on a tight budget, I decided it would be wiser to rent a car. Between the cost to and from the airport, I'd nearly have paid for a car for the week. Rental cars were expensive and few available, and because I already wanted to cry I began to.
Crying, mostly, because I was detoxing. I relapsed, frankly; I had been high, nearly, every day since my mom's visit. What else can I say for myself? I felt so all alone. The tension between two contrasting emotions can be a dark space into which we can slip, and for me it is the intersection of the desire to be out of control and maintain it. I decided that I would detox in WS and return home that me. I don't know what I think about that woman, that me, but she is the responsible one, and a lot depends on her.
I found a rental car. I walked outside to retrieve the auto. The attendant, initially, treated me unprofessionally. Generally, the rental car attendant walks around the car with you and marks any prior damage. This man handed me a slip, pointed me to the cars, and told me to bring him back the slip when I had finished. I balked. He read my expression and hopped up. As we were walking around the car, I began to cry, again, without control. The man inquired. I told him it was romance troubles because that is an easy way for a single woman to speak of loneliness. He gave me a prayer devotional; Dwight was his name.
When I arrived at the Reader's Theater desk to check in, I discovered that I was not to see my play read; I was to stage the reading. I should hustle; find the actors, cast it, find the director, locate a stage manager and publicize it, and I must do so, quickly, or I'd receive no space on the schedule. From the moment I arrived at the desk until my play was read I worked non-stop. The car turned out to be a blessing because I was back and forth to Kinko's and the theater. Even more so, I treasured the comfort of that devotional.
I mused again and again on a thought from the booklet -- if you craft a plan, but you don't plan God into it, do you intend to impress Him with how clever you are without Him? Do you want to show God your work or do you want to do God's work? Where, it asked, is your faith?

You know, I have become good at hearing God speak to me, but I had not become confident in it. As a girl and a younger woman, I would feel confused about how to distinguish between the voice of my desires and the direction of the Lord. It is because God had never before spoken to me. I know His voice, now -- clear and distinct from me. The voice of my ego or the devil acting in me is impulsive and full of doubt, but His has no tone, no sound to it. It is as a strong intuition but an unfailing one, and there is no evident pathway to its actualization. There is only the revelation of what will be.

I know God's voice, though he speaks rarely to me. Though I know, I suffer for want of faith. As the path to executing His goal becomes harried, I wonder: why do I believe in this?

That me, she invests all of our her energy to the service of God's work. There is security in doing what God adjudges to be right. Yet, there are many aspects of life that lie beyond her control, and in those areas she has made little gain. Why? There is too much me in my plans. Every element drafted and calculated, such plans lack ambition because they leave nothing to chance and, thus, nothing to God. I lack faith. I think, I think, I think: there must be a bit of magic here or there; there must be God, but I don't act out of that belief. I put the burden of it all on that poor me. Surely, to God goes the glory, but how limited are my aspirations when they all depend on me? Hmm...
Again and again this past week, I have asked myself that question--where is your faith, and I have tested and found it. The prayer devotional also talks of virtues like patience. It explains that if you ask for patience, you must expect trials, for these help you to learn patience. I imagine, then, that to learn faith one must expect uncertainty, and I felt plenty during the process of staging The Peace. Yet, when I left here for WS, I felt God guiding me there, and I believed that if I went to WS, I would see my play read. And I did, and it was phenomenal. What I learned about faith means so much more.
All in service of God and the greater good, I return to that woman, that me, but no longer alone. She recognizes that for all this time she has been carried.

Why can't they say that hate is 10 zillion light years away

2011-07-30T03:22:00.004-05:00

Healing

Washington Park mourning the storm.
The smell of dead trees rotting
clove the heart to disquiet the spirit.

All the fallen ones, lying prone.
Tall, proud and prime, young, wiry, new--alike.
Uprooted, their closets opened and souls exposed.

Wondering how much worse this could smell...

The smell--a drunken woe of
forest weeping,
dew dampened,
freshly ground mulch burial mounds
from broken rain soaked trees.

My woods, wounded.

I escaped from the planet Earth and let my mind untwirl

2011-07-20T00:44:00.000-05:00

Organic update:
So, I got a B- on the Organic Mid-term--after a 25 point curve.
Prof is having us retest. I'm glad. What did Anthony say on Season 8 Project Runway? "I am the ambassador of second chances."
A little self destructive, right now. Lots of diet coke. Two Ghirardelli Dark Choc and Sea Salt, a day. Three today. Relapse into bad habits. I'm clean out of discipline.
Plus, I find myself sad. I can't say why. Partly because I just don't know if I should be. Partly because of my secret wish. I'm in a fix with wishes.
Daydreaming, a lot. Wondering if it is some sort of sin to daydream so much. I should be making my daydreams come true. Maybe... There is that fine line between daydream and fantasy, and some fantasies are only for pretend.
I want to quit but I don't want to.
That's for everything.
I wish I could run far away to the farthest awayest place in the whole wide universe and puff a blunt on that planet like

I'm good, though. I'm feeling more confident about Chemistry. I'm gonna write the key for this final. I'm going to do pretty good on the retest, but I have the weekend to prepare for the final. My labs are so/so. There are so many more things I can do wrong than spill something I have a lot of.

The last speaker we had at the the program was my favorite so far. The fashion model and the immigration expert--way more than that--way excellent. This presentation had what? Fun, games and socializing.

Anyway, he told this story about failing a class, almost. (I hope my students were really listening. Failing, he'd made a deal with his instructor at the time that if he could get a perfect score on the final, he could get an A in the class. That's where I picked up this line, "write the key," because this is how the instructor described scoring perfectly on the exam. (Like an answer key. You probably got that.) Fortunately, for me, I'm not as far behind in Chemistry as the speaker was in Calculus, but I don't know if I can do what he did.
What?
He locked himself in the library, and studied hard, and--of course, he wrote the key!
Isn't that an exciting story about learning?
Actually, it probably sets sort of a bad example because he did classic lazy overachiever wait until the last minute, study hard, defy admonishments.
Man, I bet he got f^@$&d up, afterwards. I would. Pina Coladas margarita style. Ooh, I should. Not over-indulge, but I could have two or three. I'd be swooning.

Anyway, I don't really think I'm going to write the key for the Organic mid-term. I don't have time to practice those reactions as much as I really need to. On the Final, I can do very well. He gave us a lot of new information, but I'm starting to feel more like I'm swimming and less like I'm drowning. I'm a so/so swimmer. I can kinda swim. It's a lot of work, but playing in the water is fun. I can really only swim on my back, but I do that, very well. I'll float for as long as I can.
Aside!
Don't think I'm not wondering, every single day, why the hell I'm doing this.
I have to wrap this up and go to bed.

School is a distraction from all of those elements of my life that I can't control and am crazy afraid of.

Will my wish come true?

Will I finish school?

Will I have Pina Coladas margarita style?

The answer to all these questions and more in...

the future.

You know if you are twi--typing while intoxicated (I made that up, didn't I? That's a good one. I'm gonna mint that line.) -- and you accidently press something other than command--like control or that damn alt key--you gonna get some weird characters. You should check that out, World. TWI

I'm a travellin' man movin through places, space and time

2011-07-17T15:45:00.001-05:00

Inshallah, I'm comin back to you

Foreign Currency
Collector--keeps curses from
your native tongue in

stamps. Splayed shell, roar the
ocean, swell the dam, when cup’t
to his ear canal.

I got life

2011-07-08T02:05:00.000-05:00

I just blew my Organic Chemistry mid-term.

Ugh! I was cruising through the first 12 pages, but the last 8 pages? I guessed on every answer.

I just didn't study enough. I knew I was unprepared, but things at work have been c-RAZE-y, and I just haven't had the...
You know, I feel better writing about it because I don't think I can blame it on work. I took on too many obligations. The dance show. That was an all weekend affair. The family reunion was another all weekend affair. My ma is visiting right now. All of this socializing was my study time. I mean, you could look at it the other way and say well if I wasn't overwhelmed at work I could go out with friends, I could go away for a weekend, I could chill.

Why am I doing this?

It is seriously days like this, and there are many of them, when I wonder why the hell I'm doing this. But, then my job doesn't pay me, for weeks, or I hear them talk about how teachers are lazy, underqualified, or they're going to take our pension, and I think...

I got to get out before it's too late.

I'm not using my full brain. What difference does it make if I... Because I'm not making a contribution to my quality of life or my world by being...

But, sometimes, you just want to be like anybody. Right?

I saw this speaker
Refrain: I have to... Anything beginning with duty, right?

But, my loyalty is to me--me sooner or later. Do I make this decision that will benefit me deeply down the road, or do I choose...otherwise.

So, we had an event for the program, today, and I saw this speaker.

MuseCrisis is the only real writing I'm doing right now other than...

It's not about that but believe it or not, it is all about that.

I want to make a lot of money, so I can buy my own theater one day. Well, you know theater/school. Maybe just a shelter for homeless teens.

They were talking about mid-life crises at work.

I'm tired.

Even if I stayed at my job and taught science I'd have more job security, and I'd make more money, and I'd teach fewer classes.
Whatever-- it's not about teaching fewer classes. It's about being happy and healthy.

I mean, I don't have time to smoke weed. That is, also, one of the reasons I try to keep busy. So, that's a good reason to keep busy, I guess. I mean, it is because I smoked too much weed as a youngin. But, I can have some balance in my life.

I mean, I want to do less, but I'm scared.

So, that's it, is it?
Is it?

Muse. Muse. Muse.

Sad at me.
But I was so busy.

I'm doing my best.

Damn.

Truth is I probably got a B or a C. There are only two two exams and labs. I know my lab work is great. Unless I totally spill all of something that I have a lot of, I'll be fine. We have a final. I have a chance to recover, but it is sooooo hard. It is soooo much information.

I think this bad grade, bad grade, bad grade will teach me a lesson. But, WHY?!?!?!??!?! Why?

BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE I'M SUPPOSED TO BE DOING THIS!!!
WHY>>>>
Oh no...
What if I'm going through a mid-life crisis. Oh, now. Drama. Panic.

I hope I'm not in the middle of my lie. I hope I'm closer to the beginning.

I'm just going to keep doing this until I decide I can't do it for whatever valid reason. It has to be a good reason, and it has to lead me somewhere equally meaningful. Anyway, I'm panicking less about...

Oh no! I forgot about the mid-life crisis, shit. Yeah. That's scary. I'm getting up here, now. And. I am changing, but I:m always changing. Everything is always changing. That sounds scary. I guess what's really scary is that things aren't changing, are they? I been living here some years. I own my car, now--no notes. I'm not getting a new one.
But, I might paint it--see.
Changing but not. I have a habit of overcommitting, and that has never changed.

So...

What does this mean?

So, we had a speaker at the program! He said some fascinating things, and one blew my mind-he said, you only know your own experience. He went on to say--he used his hands to demonstrate this--that if you have a goal up here--that's the hand he's holding highest in the air--and you think you are at a certain performance level--(I don't think he used those terms. but that was the gist), then he placed his other hand about two inches lower. He said, then, "but, you're really at this level." Then he dropped his hand about two inches more; then you're never going to get there--and he pointed to the hand he was holding highest in the air.
My head spun around for a minute. That was heavy.
I immediately began to wonder, what the hell do I see as my performance level? Do I see myself in realistic terms?

I probably feel like I'm father away from my goal than I really am. Knowing me; that's probably the misperception. But, in some aspects of my life, I definitely feel like I think I'm doing better than I really am. I don't know if I want to write about them on MuseCrsis just yet because that is going to take some serious self-reflection.

I'm trying my best.

Damn.

We gave away a $20.00 gas card. That's a hell of a doorprize, right? I filled up for $3.99 today, and was feeling good.

Okay, this blog is very random and somewhat unedited, and I don't care.

I'm sad at me :( If I do have a mid-life crisis, which I am--yes--considerin--

No.
Why fight it?
No. No.
Muse.

2011-06-30T23:27:00.000-05:00

Anniston Alabama

War bombs like fire hydrant, water hose rainbows,
us God, them surging and streaking down.
4th of July.
Frederick Douglass, bottle rockets, parades then night falls, when
the evergreen against baby blue skyline melts
into midnight backdrop for a red, white, and blue day.
The sky chimes God stories like fairytales of great destruction.

A real holiday.
Since we make fun
and join dark
whole family, whole block,
since smoke smells like homecoming,
for us this is a real holiday.

Free babies rest their eyes;
patriots sneak in guerilla close.
Graces and flags in waves float the car
like Billy Preston crossing the Potomac
or as Oz rises from the now gray green trees,
like Mercy, Mercy, me…

Dad’s voice, a rumble of song
announces we have reached the city
where the moon has run away from the buzzing lights.
and each star has hidden from one or another
of the mean Atlanta smiles.

July 6, 1999

a strawberry mind, a body that's built for two, a kiss on the spine, we do things we never do

2011-06-26T21:13:00.000-05:00

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Pablo Neruda, translated by Stephen Tapscott

Fifty miles to go and she was running low on faith and gasoline.

2011-06-17T23:52:00.000-05:00

I work so hard and my job still ain't paid me. I go in early. I stay late. I worked a 12 hour day, today. I don't get over-time. I haven't been this broke since I was in grad school. I'm not poor, like I was in grad school. I'm just broke. Poor is like climate. Broke is like weather. I checked my bank account yesterday, and it looked like the eye of a tornado. A big empty. I had to laugh. You know it's hard when I'm down to my back money because I keep some change.
And walked up to the gig the other day, and there is a protest outside, and it's members of my union protesting, and I ain't got a memo about the sh!t. And, they not protesting that I haven't been paid for six weeks. I'm among MANY people who have not been paid. I hate them. They are protesting lay offs.
I'm all for revolution, no doubt! I support my students when they petition againsst me! They'll tell you. I'm like, if I'm wrong, hold my feet to the fire because I never want to be that one. I'm not going go there over some dumb sh!t. I don't like the way the District spends, often. On the other hand, it is disingenuous to pretend like everything works so well that no one deserves to be laid off or fired. A, when I don't get paid for six weeks, and I work twelve hour days on the regular, hell yeah someone needs to be fired! The system is totally bloated with people who do half work because too few people do their whole job. That's any industry. The economy went to sh!t. Again I don't like the way the District spends, often, but protesting lay offs? That's like protesting taxes. You can do it, and you might get rid of the old taxes, but all you gonna get is new taxes.

Where the hell is the protest about me getting paid? And I'm one of HUNDREDS of people who work on a daily basis and have not been paid because paperworh has to be turned in months in advance, approved by dozens of people, and then rubber stamped by a board who can move the date of the rubber stamp meeting at their whim. I can't see protesting lay offs--since lay offs happen--before you protest that people who work ain't getting paid, which should never happen. You know?

And, again, some people deserve to be laid off. Anyone want to act like this organization is working well is a lie and four quarters because for the better half of a decade people have complained, complained. I think it was foul how they made the Presidents reapply for their jobs without giving them a change to prove they can meet the newly adopted District metrics. At the same time, they weren't meeting them. That's pretty clear. I do not agree with limiting enrollment, but then I don't care if lots of people come to the 2-year college just to tell people they are in school. Go for it. Spend the rest of your life in 2 year college. The people who complain are the students. They don't want to be at that type of institution. They want their degree to have collateral. Well it won't if the perception is that people go to that school just for something to do.

Here's the really real. Poor people and brown people, those who predominate the two year college system are, on the whole, very conservative about many things. They believe in rules and structures even and especially when those strictures have left them disadvantaged. Most people in the District support change. That does not justify the District's actions, but I'm not saying they are unjustified. I support lay offs but not blanket lay offs. Document ineptitude and fire people for that. When you do the spring cleaning and select the clothes you gonna give the Council of the Blind, you don't pick the newest ten outfits just because they have lest seniority in your closet. Don't just lay off. Look at your organization and find justified reasons for eliminating staff. IF hundreds of people don't get paid, and the fault belongs to ten individuals, find those ten people. Examine what went wrong. Determine if this is an infrequent accident or a recurrent problem. Those kinds of cuts result in improvement.

I hate that the Disttrict took away the nursing program at our college, and I hate how they did it. We tried to organize people to protest on that issue for months. Nothing. I was very proud to contribute to the training of nurses. I know I posted about that because everytime I walked itno a hospital in Chicago I would hear one of my former students call my name. I have no family here, so that was one of the most welcome and warm feelings in the world. In fact, part of the reason that the nursing programs are on the list of demands of these protestors is because I, personally, keep pushing the issue. They've lied about why they cut our programs, and people I once called my friends have seconded these lies. At the same time, just because people have a different outlook on things doesn't make one group bad and the other good, or even one group wrong and the other right. I think they are wrong about the nursing program, and I hit the streets for our program, but I'm willing to acknowledge that I could be wrong. I guesss that is part of letting go.

I been working on letting go of things. I was doing my walk earlier this week, and while walking I thought of this saying the old church women love--let Jesus take the wheel. I love that phrase. The theology of it is kinda off because, really, Jesus is not a god/God. God takes the wheel. Jesus is a role model and interloper. On the other hand, I think the spirit of they saying is pure when the women say it, so what does it matter if the theology is not technically sound? I find it ironic when I say it because I'm not a Jesus freak. I mean I am. I love the guy. I go hard for prophets, but I'm not generally one for throwing around names in vain. So, I dig the irony, but I get a bigger kick out of the imagery. I just see myself turning to the passenger's seat and shouting, "Jesus, take the wheel." Then I jump into the backseat. Strange. However, since Jesus been driving, I been much happier.

Anywyay, they got some good points to their protest, and beautiful people at the lead, so they will definitely get some attention. Them protest speeches. HIL AIR EEE UUUUSSSS!!!! Woo! I love that kind of thing. I'm a revolutionary, but a revolutionary must have a praxis. You got to have a well thought out, actionable plan if you want to execute a coup. That was how our protest about nursing failed, and I tried so hard to get them to reverse engineer a plan of success for us, but they just kept doing these same stupid things. March around in circles, get press, make noise. So what?

Craziest part. If that group got together and drafted a sound actionable plan to correct the wrongs they protest, I bet you a dollar to a donought the District would co opt it and implement it. Then who would be the bad guy?

It's cool. I didn't have any money to buy Father's Day gifts for my dad, my grandpa, and my uncles. I'm sad about that because I really wanted to hook them up this year since I went big for Mother's Day. I'm gonna still do it. It will just be late. That sucks, but what can I do? Where is my protest, you know? I ain't complaining because I'd rather have a job than unemployment, but I'd rather be able to send my Uncle Bobby some cufflinks than not.

Why my friends keep telling me I need to marry an Asian guy? And it don't have nothing to do with my absolute adoration of Kurosawa. It's prejudice, plain and simple. They think I need to get me a nice little nerdy Asian dude. Okay, a1, men are all different and all the same. Anything you gonna find an Asian dude will do, you gonna find one of any other kind of man in the world willing to do the same. Asian man will be a hard worker. You can't find no hard working Hispanic men? Really? And. they never tell me to date a Hispanic man. NEVER. Far as they concerned, I'm gonna go that route, I ought to stick with brothers. b2, I don't need an Asian dude. Let me just say, I don't got no problem dating an Asian dude, or a Hispanic dude, or anything like that. I am a little iffy on white guys, I won't front. That's really a non-issue because I don't have no trouble meeting dudes, even black dudes. You know this, World, because I stay on this point. I can't even have a down and dirty dog out dudes conversation with other women about how men don't like natural hair---they stay up in my head. Men don't like dark skinned women--many men of all types tell me regularly that they love my skin. My problem is the kind of guys I get with, and I'm really trying to let go of bs about who I think I am and will fit with.

Like, that is to say, okay I'm a tough girl, but I really like dorky guys. Thats why my friends want me to get with an Asian dude because they think that all Asian dudes are doctors. White friends, black friends, all of them. And, here's the things, almost all of the Asian men that we know in common are doctors. So, they are being prejudiced but only because they forget that the world is bigger than the people we know. Anyway, I must admit, I have stayed away from little nerdy types not because I don't like them but because I have been so afraid of rejection by them.

There is this romantic notion that good guys like bad girls Well, if they like them, they don't demonstrate it. Nerds don't approach me, even though I am one, and I want one.

See, and I can hear my friends telling me: YOU ARE NOT A NERD. Everyone thinks that because they just see me as this super tough girl.

On the other hand, everyone gets a chance to play good to someone else's bad. Roughs and toughs see me as a gentle flower, and I love that feeling, by the way. They roll up hard and don't take no for an answer. The nerdy guys, they like don't hardly give me the time of day. If I'm crushing on one, he shuts me down. I have an easier time getting with Black Thought from the Roots than some bookworm who I see every single day, but all I want is a sweet, bookish guy who will be peaceful, thoughtful and dependable.

But, I have to be brave. I mean, I'm not going to go out there and try to wrestle anyone into any relationship with me because I value freedom, highly. If someone don't want to be with me, I hate to be the burden. Can't stand that thought. But, I have to be willing to be rejected by a few bookworms, right? Bad guys come easy and go easy. I don't know how to land a nerd, but it isn't about that, is it? It is about letting go. If I feel like I need to get into a thing with someone, then I rush out and go with what is safe, is easy, what I know, and end up with another cowboy. Boo! I have to be patient and just pray some sweet, quiet guy notice me and see something valuable in being with me.

I'm gonna wind this one up, World. I know it is aimless and, probably, full of typos, and there are no pictures, but I want to post this, and I want to go to bed. Whatever. You should get chance to see me raw, unedited writing from time to time. Like, my issue with dorks, right? Do you see the connection? If they could see me in my glasses, reading my sci fi, doing my Chemistry homework, Netflixing Kurosawa, blogging, they would know me. But, I'm...

What do I say? To borrow from the girl J Rabbit -- "I'm not bad. I'm just drawn that way."

Please, World, look past this shell and see my spirit. Please.

I will close with one picture.

My heart has followed all my days something I cannot name

2011-06-12T15:16:00.000-05:00

Maybe I don't have the right to make the following assertions, but that never stopped me before ;)
I'm not a person who believes that you should only pursue a career in something you're good at. It makes more practical sense, but it may not satisfy. As I age, however, I understand to a greater degree. One may be happier in the long run. After all, there is wanting. Right? Wanting is a fixture of living that might lead to perpetual dissatisfaction. Perhaps, embracing one's natural ability is, not, about settling, but it is about self acceptance? I, also, find that when you practice a career that employs a skill at which you are adept, you better serve others.

This post is about the injustice of denying foreign doctors the right to practice in the United States.

Take my doctor, for instance. Well, he's not really my doctor because I have an HMO. I've never been treated by MY doctor. For me, visiting the doctor is like drawing straws. I, generally, pull one of two. If I'm lucky, I see the Egyptian. He's sexist, I guess. He won't look me in the eye. I think he finds it very embarrassing to treat women. This, really, works in my favor. He gets straight down to business. He does not tarry. Then, there is the other doctor. He is a lothario. He pays a great deal of attention to me, and he will see me without an appointment. He is not a good practitioner because he lacks proper discernment. He makes advances. He discusses his failing marriage during my appointment. Key, however, is his inability to diagnose live people. I think he should work with charts and documents. Isolated from the stimulant of people to people interactions, maybe he could focus on his craft.

I don't mind either of these doctors, really. Or, I should say I didn't. I guess neither is ideal, but I am patient with people and their quirks. So, I thought little of it. With three rare exceptions, most doctors I've seen have been much worse--mean, angry, condescending, hostile, patronizing, inept, dishonest.

I became a teacher for two interrelated reasons. My mother was a teacher, and I am very good at explaining things to people. The first is a bad reason to do any job--because a parent held it. However, it can be the case that being raised by a craftsman nurtures the skill in the child. Such is the case with me. I am a good teacher because my mother was an excellent model.

I want to do something new with the next part of my life. I want to be a chemist. No one in my family is a chemist, but there are some stellar cooks in my bloodline. I am an excellent cook; I offer this with absolutely no hesitation or qualification. I'm a good chemist, and a good cook, because I have a strong intuition about measurements, proportions, reactions and the application of heat. I have never struggled in a Chemistry class. In the discipline I currently teach, writing, I never struggled more. Go figure.

I should have become a chemist, right off. When I was in highschool, black girls did not pursue careers in science. They may become science teachers. They may, on rare occasions, become doctors. Girls, and most certainly not black girls, were not encouraged to become scientists--even when, like me, they had a natural aptitude for the subject. I do not find it remarkable--in fact, it dovetails with my thinking--that my best doctors have been women of color. I suspect they would be discouraged from becoming doctors except they demonstrated such a strong, natural inclination for it.

Many of my science instructors are doctors who emigrated to the United States, and the US will not recognize their medical licenses. The lothario would never want to practice medicine in the Philippines. The Egyptian would rather die than practice medicine in Pakistan. The conditions! The crude machinery! People so poor they cannot afford treatment. Treatment facilities in tents. And the type of doctoring is closer to naturopathy than what we consider the practice of medicine in the United States.

Why don't we honor these doctors? They implement medical knowledge with intuition, experience and common sense under, sometimes, quite dire circumstances. When they speak of treating patients, they talk about examining bodies not test results or charts.

My doctors are not healers. They may be good scientist, but they are undependable doctors. Old wives always have better cures. A good theoretical chemist may be a failure in the lab. I may be able to follow the hell out of a recipe, but that will not make me a top chef. In this country, many people want to become doctors, and people are pushed into the profession if they are good at science. They don't have to heal. Besides that, our societal expectations of doctors, our litigious nature, and our unwillingness to take responsibility for our own health, makes it very unlikely that a healer will be viewed as an effective doctor, even if his recommendations would, actually, make us well.

I hate that. I don't see how it is fair to me that I be treated by someone who is better trained to do paperwork than look at me and figure out what is wrong.

Why doesn't this country recognize medical licenses from foreign countries? On what basis do they judge these things?

One finger pointing leaves three pointing back at me. I want to be a pharmacist, but would I make a better medicinal chemist? I want to be a healer, but my talent is as a cook.
:( Hmm....

Searching in the darkness for a piece of me

2011-06-04T02:47:00.000-05:00

So I don't really want to explain how I ended up at the Lauryn Hill concert, this evening, with a Hello Kitty band aid on my forehead, but the story does explain why it has been so long since I posted.
The Reader's Digest version:
(1) Stressed the hell out at work. I feel so misunderstood. Crazy money issues complicated by the fact that my job is not paying me for a month and a half because they are on some bullshit.
(2) Thought I'd run away.
(3) Partied like a rock star in San Francisco,
(4) until I fainted in a winery and incurred a severe concussion,
(5) which, though progressively improving, lasted until...
(6) Well, I'll let you know when I'm 100%.
(7) The fall, also, left a scar across my head,
(8) which--so gross--began peeling and started to bleed as I was putting on my make up. SO GROSS.
(9) It wasn't that gross in real life; it just sounds worse when written out. I had to cover it with a band aid, and we were running late, and I did not want to miss Mos Def, so I used what I had-- 'Hello Kitty' band aids.
(10) Did I feel like fool? Ha! When?
Do I feel like a fool giving my talents to a job that shows me their love by the way they don't pay me? Yes.
Do I feel like a fool that I passed out in a winery in Napa Valley and embarrassed the hell out of myself, scared the hell out of my homegirl, and forfeited the opportunity to, later that evening, make a sex tape with a deep ebony man? Absolutely.
Do I feel like a fool that I scarred my pretty dark skin, for a long time, because I don't have sensible boundaries? Yes, and ashamed.
Do I feel like a I know where I'm going in my life? No
Do I feel like I should have made a million less "noble" decisions along the way? Yes.
Am I angry with myself? Extremely
Do I feel foolish for putting that band aid on my head and going to that concert? Hell naw. And I'd do it, again. I brought a blanket to sit on in case I got dizzy and sat on that mug in the concert venue. I drank $12.00 worth of water, no alcohol. I looked sexy than a mofo. I'm having some serious body image issues. (Going back to school and stress at this job is killing my work out/fitness routine.) Nonetheless, even I had to concede that I looked great! I had on a black and silver sequin mini skirt with a blank tank top. My make up was glammed out. I wore flats because I wasn't playing no games, but my toes were silver just like my skirt.
Lauryn was the shit! She didn't have a sister waiting too long. I was worried about that because I'm not 100%. She looked very pretty, and her outfit was urban black hippie chic, a style which she authored. She did classics, nothing from the saddest album. Her energy was crazy high, and by the end, she was singing full voice, just singing her whole heart out, and you could tell! Thank you, Ms. Hill!! Much love.

An escape. The concert was a much needed, momentary escape.
I hate myself a little right now-- more than a little. How do I get away from me?
You know what I need? It just occurred to me. I need a real orgasm--not like the ones I give myself. Those are sufficient, but I'm never going to take myself as far as a good lover will. Why? Because I'll go limp, but if he's fucking me, he won't go limp just because I do. Ooh, I would cry. I need to release a dump load of hormones and chemicals.
I'm kinda glad I didn't make that sex tape,though. That guy in San Fran don't really care about me much. I don't blame him or anything. He don't know me to care very much. It does, however, make me wary of doing wild sex things with him. I don't possess his loyalty.

Quiet as it is kept, World, I was on that floor at that winery fighting for my fucking life! My blood pressure was like a 75 over 50 something. My friend was sitting across from me looking like she would cry, and seeing her like that made me feel horrible. I was so weak! I really wanted someone to seize control. She looked so panicked, I felt like I had to be strong even though I was damn dying.

Man, my car is acting up. Non sequitur.

Probably for the best that I couldn't trust her enough to black out. I don't know where I'd have recovered. I wanted to close my eyes and lay on that cold floor until I woke up somewhere safe. Instead, I had to fight to stay alert and conscious for hours on this stupid fucking wine tour that I didn't want to go on in the first fucking place. And, I kept reassuring her that she was being really strong, but she wasn't. A, she should have been saying that to me. B, she was pissed as hell at me, and I could tell. C, she helped but she really wasn't a lot of help. She has, since, forgiven me, and I can't fault her for being mad.
I long to feel something I've never really ever felt, and I have trouble terming it. I've always been a survivalist; my parents would agree. I'm always saving, preparing or planning for...? I don't know, but, nonetheless, always saving, preparing and planning. I want to feel like someone else will take care of things, of me.
I have to be responsible for my health and well being. No one is going to do that for me. I guess. I guess?
I like this thought--people behave in a helpless manner only after they learn the benefits of helplessness.
But, then I like this thought--discipline makes things easier.
How can I reconcile the two and find balance in my life?
Muse.

Definitions of the verb muse: to think softly, to wander an idea, to daydream strategically.
Non sequitur.

Fainting was only one of many fucked up things that happened while I was in the Bay, but I had a glorious time, despite it all. The people in the Bay were so good to me--from the wine tour operator, to the Napa Valley EMTs, to the San Francisco PD, to the ferry operators, to the cab drivers in Oakland. The Bay just loved me, and I love the Bay!

I was reflecting on a buddhist track--Deja Vu by Teena Marie.
The soul feels like the Universe
It's vast and never ends
Stars to me are the Children
Babies are my friends
God is like a galaxy
Within my spirit flies
Felt this way a million times
Please don't ask me why

Some lyrics for your ass! Who wrote that?

Have I been here before? Making these same green mistakes?
Bah! I'm in a bad place, right now. Give me a week. Next post I'll be floating on joy.

Man, an orgasm. A big one. I'll have another one, one day. I just know I will. My last orgasm can't have been my last orgasm; I believe! ;)

In the meantime, I have mediation, and water, and buddhism, and Teena Marie. And roller skates, and Chicago, and hills, and San Francisco, and a home, and a career (however humble). I have hope that faints and falls into stupor but never, ever dies. I have this spirit. I have 7 more 'Hello Kitty' band aids and I share Lauryn Hill, World, with you. Hey, I got you, too!

Let the wind blow through your heart, for wild is the wind.

2011-05-23T00:12:00.000-05:00

Went to see Ailey.

Everything is a dance since then. I was so graceful in yoga this morning that people took note. Oh, Ailey never fails to shift my outlook on life. A great man, plagued and driven by feelings of inferiority; God bless doubt!
I can only find a clip from my favorite piece, but I'm going to post it.

Robert Battle! In/Side was his solo. I wish that it played before my eyes, every day, just as I wake. I know you think, "silly wish; you'd get bored." No! I was wondering, will I ever tire of Revelations, the piece for which Ailey Dance company is most famous, and I had to conclude, last night, that I will never.

A young man named Jamar Roberts actually danced the piece. I sat with my body wrenched. It was like Nina Simone had cut me open and made me vulnerable, and the dance seeped into my wounds and seized me from within. When it was over, I was released to spring from my chair, and I raised my hands above my hands, and while I was clapping I just screamed! I couldn't help myself. People were whistling and cheering, and I just howled!

Revelations was, of course. Suite Otis was, yes, too. Three Kings, ugh! Ailey, Amen!

I went to rehearsal for the dance company I work with. Six stunning girl/women--all different shapes, amazing athletes and sensitive artists. Red Clay is somewhere between In/Side and Suite Otis.

The show will be awesome.

RED CLAY DANCE'S INAUGRAL CHICAGO SEASON!!

"New Beginnings"

June 24, 2011 at 7pm

Harold Washington Cultural Center

4701 S. Martin Luther King Dr.

Chicago, IL 60615

Advance Sales: $20/Adults

$15 Seniors/Students w/Valid

ID/Children 12 and under

Tickets: http://www.redclaydance.com/#!performance-schedule.

I'll be there but invisible. I'll be in the booth.

How about I think I'm being stalked, btw. Yeah, in fact, there are a couple screwy men in my sphere right now.
A. that guy I met on e-harmony, who ended up working at my job, was standing outside the theater as my friends and I were walking in to see Ailey. He wasn't dressed like he was going to the show. He... well, he was dressed like a stalker. This same guy, also, [coincidentally (?)] started teaching at my gig. I smiled at him last night.
I smiled at him when I saw him at my job, and I don't know if he's stalking me, but it's awful suspicious. He seemed like a nice enough brother, but I wasn't really in the right mindframe for a relationship, then. I was going out the world backwards. I was not mourning in a healthy way--this was after Grandma and Uncle Billy, and a long cycle of death. I was smoking so much weed, I would drive to work high as Nasa satellite Terra and believe I would smash into a median and did not care.
So, I was in no place to be dating, and I'm still not dating. I'm sick of serial monogamy, you know? That was never my aim, but that's probably what these last guys I dated were looking for. I'm looking for some permanence, and... Total aside.
Anyway, the guy is nice, but he better not flip the script because he don't know me. #1, my brother will kill him before my father gets a chance. #2, neither of them will get a chance if it pops off at the gig because school security will get him first. (I baked them a pie, once. They luv me.) #3, I learned that if you poke someone in the eyeballs hard enough, you can make his heart stop.
B. Speaking of security, so this security guard at the office where I'm working this summer brought me strawberries. Right. I mean, it was real sweet, but I'm closer in age to his son than him. He keeps asking me out, and I think he's getting annoyed with me. Wow. Where do you get off being annoyed with me because you're chasing me, and I'm not...easy...I guess. I hope he don't think I'm playing hard to get because I'm not playing; I'm hard to get. I am deeply loved, and I got all kinds of self-respect; plus, I'm a freak in bed. I got lots of options. (Okay, that last part was extra; it just seemed like the right thing to write right there ;)
Other day, he held me at the security desk for a good ten minutes giving me a talking to because he wanted to ask me to some banquet but I hadn't given him my number so he had to go alone. Doesn't that sound ridiculous? Besides the fact that I don't believe he went alone, if he did, he chose to. GDMillions of single black women in this city who would got to a freeking banquet with this man--nice looking guy--but he had to go alone because I didn't give him my number? Okay, and, also, as you knew you did not have my number, wasn't it apparent to you in advance that you should invite a woman whose number you have?
Can we say fixated? That's why the strawberry thing wasn't really popping. I mean, if there was any indication that I was into him, and he brought me strawberries, that would be so sexy, so hot--an irresistible move; I'd climb him on top of the security desk (eventually). But, I'm giving him no energy. He need to move on.
Is that how men work? The less you like them the more they chase you? Sounds like a sure way to be miserable. I mean, I understand thrill of the chase, but it's not like I'm a wily fox, and they're british Lords on a hunt. It's like they're chasing shadows.
That's why I need to get a doberman. My friend said to get a Rott, but I'm thinking people expect that. I wanna do the throwback thing, you know?
I ain't too worried about it. I don't really have sense enough to be scared of things like these. I have faith that what happens to me is in God's plan. He may not have made me much, but He, sure, made me clever. I can think my way out of most conflicts, and if I can't-- well, I'm going for the eyeballs.

I feel very blessed, right now. It's not just Ailey, but that is alot of it. Maybe I got just as many reasons to feel low as high, but I got a little glow coming off my spirit, right now.

Do you ever, sometimes, wonder who you must have been in a past life? I have a few theories about myself. I strongly believe that in my most recent past life I was a playboy. I think I was a good hearted and generous man, with power and wealth, who has a great philanthropist, but I think I cared very little about making real relationships with sincere women, and I think I regretted that. I don't think I had any children, but I was a mentor to many young men. My youth was vibrant, but I died lonely and alone. Lots of people came to honor me at my funeral.
In a life before that, I was a powerful concubine to some great man for whom and whose people I made very important decisions.
I don't think I was brilliant in all of my lives, and I don't think I want to remember the lives where I was mean or died young. On the other hand, I must owe much of my wisdom and tenderness to those bitter lives.
This life hasn't been no crystal stair, I suppose, but, as far as I am considered, it is a dream that continues to come to fuller and fuller fruition. A fine line separates bragging and profession of gratitude, I am cognizant. I know, intimately, the capricious nature of fortune. I will cherish the moments of grace and bliss, and I will collect memories that I can pawn, like jewels, for relief when times get hard.

I cooked so much food this week--another blessing, right? When I say the Lord's Prayer, I edit the line "give us this day our daily bread." I must say, "thank you, thank you, thank you, Lord, for feeding me and encourage me to partake of this food responsibly."

I like to think that I am happy because I know the secret of contentment, but that is sort of like declaring one's self a pacifist. For instance, at this moment, the rain is pouring down. As I sit here, warm, dry, blogging and drinking low carb beers, I'm grateful; my car is getting a good wash. When things are hard, though, I despair. I do. I have suicidal thoughts. I get desperate for comfort, and I am willing to trade much for it. Like my pacifism, convenient when I do not feel threatened, but forgotten when I am challenged.
I do try. My approach: one ought to make decisions that... well, to go to the Lord's Prayer, again: "lead me not into temptation but deliver me from evil." When I pray those lines I am thinking: "keep me from following the evil in my heart into situations that put me at jeopardy, and, also, protect me from the random violence that may affect us all." So, I believe that I should think far in advance, and say things and do things that lead me to peace and stability. There is, however, the wild card of fate, is there not? The random bullet? The drunk driver? The tsunami?
I taught a student who had come to Chicago after being displaced by Hurricane Katrina; ah, she taught me! She said that she regretted that so many of her people clung to what was no more in New Orleans. She had been happy in New Orleans, but when citizens were urged to leave, she left. When she was told she could not return home, she found a new place to settle. She could not find work; she went back to school. She graduated two weeks, ago. She said that her mother still lives in New Orleans, and she begged her ma to come to Chicago; the mother refused. The student and her husband, however, are happier in Chicago than they every have been before, and they embraced the move as a new beginning. How romantic! How brave! What faith! What gratitude!

I should go to sleep.

I think I will remember this lifetime, next go round. I don't know if I am ready for nirvana, yet. I take too much pride in struggle. I can't let it go. I must strive. I love this line by Lupe: "Too fly for my own good so, God gave me plight." I want things, deeply. The things I want in this stage of my life are harder to attain by wanting more--true love; right? So, I have to control my desires.
I think about my parents' marriage; people envy. I can tell because they quiet when I talk about my parents' antics. Who'd have ever thought that two people who could be content with so little would be blessed with the wealth of lifelong romance?
They're learning tai chi, together.

To bed! I'll dream of Ailey; it will be as much nirvana as I can stand with so few lifetimes behind me!

I am not your expectations, no!

2011-05-18T21:04:00.000-05:00

"I Am Not My Hair" has got to be one of my favorite songs of all history! I love the tune, but the lyrics resonate in my spirit. When I hear the song I reflect on my yogic meditations. The other day when I was meditating, I felt my soul escape and fill my home, and I could see it merge with the spirit of me evident in my home--the smells, the energy, the clutter, everything! I Am Not My Hair reminds me that my soul is a sparkling essence that defies categorization, and it just happens to lives inside this body. Like, sometimes, you meet somebody, but when you go to their crib you think, 'damn, this how she living?' And you wonder how someone like this comes out of home like that. But, you shouldn't judge a person by the home they live in; you should look to the person's spirit.
But, I'm posting mid-week to offer you a different insight into my soul. I'm gonna post a video. This song, I heard Monday morning. It is one of my favorite songs of all history, too! Up there with 'Harvest for the World,' 'Computer Love,' every version of 'Lay Your Head on My Pillow' and, even, 'Man in the Mirror'! It's been in my head all week. Understatement at it's most tender and hood fabulousest!

When it comes down to fooling you, now, honey, that's quite a different subject.

2011-05-15T13:47:00.000-05:00

I feel bad for the comment I made about clowns in last night's post. I would totally give it up to a clown if he made me laugh real hard, and I thought he'd be gentle and sincere. I'd be geeked to marry a sweet, kind, thoughtful, respectful, hard working clown, and I'm not even gonna make any jokes about our whole family squeezing out of a miniature volkswagen bug; that's how real I am about this.
Maybe my friend knows me better than I know myself. (sheepish grin)
You ever get that feeling? You know, that people seeing you from the outside know you in a way that you will never?

Mil disculpas! My apologies to clowns everywhere.

Behind that screen name

2011-05-15T01:57:00.000-05:00

I am, as of this afternoon, President of the Board of Directors for Red Clay Dance. I did not want that responsibility. I'm so scared. I pray it doesn't involve a lot of socializing; I am a terrible networker. I'm shy!
When I was a kid, me and my brother were always out there selling something. You know, those were the days when people sent their kids to knock on strangers' doors, and people gave you cash for things you'd deliver them one day. My dad took it to the extreme, though. We were them kids selling candy bars in front of the grocery store. And my granny, my dad's step mom, would have us campaigning--more selling; we'd be handing out buttons or putting flyers on car windows. Girl scout cookies, wrapping paper, katydids, bowl-a-thon, office supplies--you name it, I hawked it. My brother hated it, even though between the two of us, people considered him the charmer. I was an introvert, and he was real outgoing. But, ooh, would he get beat. With self preservation as my motivation, I could sell through my box of candy bars and his.
When I worked that photo job, I sold the sh!t out of those photos. I was always the number one or number two seller. As a recruiter for the Democratic party, I fully staffed our campaign with all kinds of volunteers, and I could fill my daily voter registration quota within two hours.
It's different, though, selling something for someone else.
I get the feeling, sometimes, that I'm hard to get to know. Today, my oldest friend was telling me about some guy she met at a wedding who she was sure I would have liked. He sounded like a complete asshole and an imbecile to boot. I guess I might have found him funny, but I was perturbed by the suggestion that I'd like him. It occurred to me that, either, she has no clue what kind of men I like, and/or she has never considered what kind of man would be good for me.
I'm like the wingman, right? Men enjoy my company, so they linger with me. She is very discerning, and she chases away the ones she doesn't like, quickly. So, to her, any annoying guy is a good match for me because who else could tolerate him? If I have a crush, she will snatch him--not to be mean, but she'd think I wouldn't like that kind of guy/that kind of guy wouldn't like me. She probably thinks I'm into clowns.
I do think clowns are funny, but that doesn't mean I want to fuqq one. I'm not down on her for it. Most guys, meeting us both out, do prefer her--initially. She's like perfect in lots of way--tall, perfect hair, perfectly matched. It takes men a while to see me. Once they know me, though, they never stop loving me.
I believe that I'd have more success, socially, if I could make my self known to people. I'm so guarded. I'm not quite sure what I'm scared of. I guess it must be rejection--like people will like me less once they really know me. Except, I really believe people would like me more if I would open up.
I can sell. I can sell because I can make a killer first impression. After that, my dimensions are labyrinthine. In time, people see that I'm good like the sweetest treat that Willa Wonka ever secreted away. But getting to it requires far more than a golden ticket.
I was talking to my boy Carlito one day, as I often used to, about what I'd do if I won the lottery. Carlito said to me, Sweet Potato Brown, do you even play the lottery? I realized, only after he asked, that I had never bought a lottery ticket in my life! Then he said, you can't win the lottery if you never play.
If I would take a risk, and open up more, where would I be?
The truth is, I just want to be me. I've been struggling with this because I see the benefits of being more outgoing, but who I am is quiet, sensitive, and reclusive. I don't see anything wrong with being shy. It just makes it harder to make real connections.
As for Red Clay Dance, I tried to explain to them that I have a hard time networking. I flushed and stammered just getting that out. This guy on the board who I was sitting across from made the craziest face while I was talking like, "damn, she ain't lying." But, then he said that I wouldn't have to be out there selling the program. I would be more like the mortar between the bricks, making sure everyone else had what they needed to be successful. That, World, sounds like a job for me, so I readily accepted.
I'm excited about it because I love dance, and I love to dance. My crazy grandma, my grandpa's second wife, loved dance even though she was known to be a terrible dancer! When she died, she left me with that. In fact, I bought tickets to Ailey for me and my friend to celebrate my new role with Red Clay.
I probably ought not even publish this post because it is, more or less, about nothing. I wish I had some deep thought to wind this up with, but I don't.

Never never never never never never never hear me when I cry at night.

2011-05-08T18:34:00.000-05:00

I got to break this habit I say & say, but then I don't... do... I?
Between me and everything stands it.
Resolutions.
Revolutions of evolutions.
Same old bad habits.

A thin line between love and hate

2011-04-30T01:38:00.000-05:00

Sigh. I still love rappers.
No more rappers for me! None. Why?
Rappers are too ARROGANT!! Here's a test to see if your man is arrogant. Say to him: "I don't really like arrogant men."
If he says to you, "there's a difference between arrogance and confidence," then he is arrogant. Take my word for it.
Rappers are more arrogant than even your average... Let me put it like this. If a man is truly, deeply arrogant, he thinks he can rap--white, black, asian, hispanic, indian, native american, kablanasian. Thinks he's cold! Will freestyle, poorly, about nothing, be terrible at it, and not care if he is. But, rappers, who rap for money or fame, they care. So take your average arrogant and multiply him by the free market system: mic fights--only the dopest need apply; only the coldest will survive.
No More Rappers for ME!
So much listening. Cuz, Lord knows, a rapper can expound. Listening and agreeing, listening and agreeing--but you can't just get by agreeing. If you agree, agree, agree, they think you aren't listening. So, sometimes, you have to be convinced, even if you don't care to disagree, just so he can do a pulse check. They love to argue, and I hate to argue. I HATE TO ARGUE.
My dad would have been a rapper if that was the game back in the day because he loves to fight. It took me 28 years to get him to understand why I avoided conversation with him. I still remember his expression when it clicked. I yelled, "I hate arguing!"
He replied reflectively: Really? But you're so good at it." Yeah, if you threw me in a lake, and told me swim or die--me, being who I am--I'd probably swim, but once I hit the shore, I'll be damned before I ever go to another pool party. My brother loves to argue. Ah! I don't know how his wife stands it, but she likes to argue, too; she's a diva. It just supports my point because you know I call them Jay Z Jr and Baby Beyonce. I remember once my brother said, "we hardly ever argue anymore."
I said, "I'm glad."
He said, "don't you miss the tension?"
I was like "???????"
No. No. No more rappers.
Cuz help, they don't really give. They don't give great help because they really don't listen to help. They listen to criticize. They're philosophers. They observe. They ponder. They profess. They can, surely, tell you how you fuqqed up, but you are going to have to figure out how to fix it yourself. Why? Two reasons, really: one, they need you to be an independent woman. Partly because, two, they don't really have time to worry about what you thinking about how you gonna go about blah blah blah. Their minds are full of their own thoughts, with which they are wrestling and, at the same time, attempting to set to rhyme.
And help, they don't really take. You can't be much of a helpmate to a rapper. You can get used, anyone can do that--for your income, for your cooking, for your body, for your comforts, for your love, all that. But, trying to offer guidance to a man with an ego like that? Jedi mind tricks. It's not that it can't be done; it just takes so much energy! You rather let the fool learn the hard way, which is cool when you are separate but screwed up when you are together. I ain't the kinda chick to be telling my guy how to live his life. I don't like a guy who can't handle himself. That said, part of the benefit of a relationship is the partnership. If we got to argue every time I try to offer you a hand, or I have to check the DSM before I go about making a suggestion, then this ain't gonna work. You ain't gonna have me out there crazy because you can only learn from hard knocks. uh uh.
You're thinking, the muse doth protest too much.

Sigh. My first love was a rapper. Sigh. The only man who I have ever been in love with who I know was, also, in love with me, and he was an emcee. Sigh. What wasn't he? Great body, and I was a chubby girl when he introduced himself to me. (I think he said he liked how I danced.) He looked like Ginuwine. He could wear his hair any kind of way--a fade, a blow out or locked. He had a deep, gravely voice, with a Boston accent. He was everything but really tall (he was about 6'0") and dark (he was caramel). I mean he was everything, including thuggish, ruggish, and pompous.
But, you know what I loved about him? He loved to talk to me.
And, today, I remembered why I love rappers. Rappers love smart women. They can't tolerate dumb broads. They do a lot of things with them, but they don't respect them, and they don't give them much time. If a rapper is "with" a dumb broad, you best believe his best friend is a woman, a very smart woman.
They love your mind. They are fascinated by the inner workings of it. That's why they want to argue with you. They trust you to think for yourself. They get pissed when you offer advice because it can change their thinking, and they want to think things through without you telling them the answers.
It's so rare to be a smart woman and not feel like you have to hide that from a man. And, it's hard to hide being smart. Even if you don't open your mouth, people can observe you and assess your intelligence. They watch how you approach problems: how do you move something that is too heavy for you, or how do you retrieve something off a shelf that is too high to reach. So, they know.
Besides, I can't cosign no dumb shit. It's just not in me. I mean, I can stay quiet about it, but if I'm pressed for my opinion, I'm gonna have to say, "well, I don't exactly see it that way." But, even if I avoid dumb men, smart men don't, always, too much care for smart women.
Rappers LOVE smart women, and they make you feel like being smart is part of what makes you sexy. Part of me thinks that my first love is the only man I've ever dated who has really been in love with me--not my body, not my hair, not my skin, not my lips, not my voice, not my charms--but really knew me and loved who I am. And I didn't have to try to expose myself to him. He learned me by observing how I behaved and paying careful attention to what I did not say. And when I think back on all of the rappers I have dated, and there have been many, I can say I felt like the could really see me.
I miss that feeling--of being known, of being recognized, of being understood, and of being loved for my spirit and my mind. And I always kinda feel a little bit of that spark when I meet a rapper.
But I'm done dating rappers.
Even though I do want to fall in love with someone who loves me for me.

We might be wishing on the same bright star

2011-04-23T01:44:00.000-05:00

A. I picked so many greens, today...! I'm going to barbecue, tomorrow. I have tons of food and no one to share it with. My homegirl is going to St. Louis, and I don't really have anyone else to feed. I have two big boneless rib eye steaks, two salmon steaks, which are as big as the rib eyes. I have greens, green beans, and asparagus. I, also, have sweet potatoes. I thought about making macaroni and cheese and/or skillet spaghetti, but I can't eat what I got. I'm just gonna freeze a lot of stuff. A LOT OF STUFF. I have four and a half pounds of greens! They're good, too ;)

B. I have a big hope/fear. Hope, my nemesis! I have a wish. I can't tell you the wish, World, or it won't come true. In the beginning I was all smiles and giggles because I really hoped my wish would come true. Now, I'm all tears and sad faces because I'm scared that it won't. Drama.

C. Tonight, is a good night to count my blessings.

Tornado free
I do not live in a war zone
clean water
the epidemics do not spread by cough or sneeze
Ms. Strawberry
Big Girls Spa
Women for Women Intl
Old friends
New friends
nemesises--bring drama to your life
Pandora
music
art
literature
drama
dance
philosophy
religion
science
Chemistry
cooking
stove
oven
indoor plumbing
running water
plumbers
Uncle Billy
My family
my family
my family
good memories
gift giving
job
hopes/fears
good bosses
good work that helps make the world better
blogging
greens, green beans and plants that feed us
turkeys, steer, and fish, that feed us
big crushes
learning from mistakes
personal growth
grief that matures us
drama
Andre 3000
Andre 3000-my car
my first love
Outkast
The Roots
big crushes, so big I had to list them twice
old music
shea butter
shea moisture products
humility
apology
forgiveness
love
like
adoration
Prince
M Jackson
basketball season
romance
calendars, watches
western and african time
history
ancestors
wisdom
pyramids
relics
clean clothes
washing machines
new things
recycled things
blue bag program
BLACK PRESIDENTS
BLACK FIRST LADIES (the real first)
Amherst College Black Alumni Listserve
people who admire me/you
people who you/I admire
revolution
revolutionaries
role models
martyrs
outcasts
the misunderstood
uniqueness
film and filmmakers
architects and engineers
students
sex (not that I'm having any, right now ;)
virgins
celibacy
Jersey Shore
reality tv
tv
comedians
laughter
joy
recovery
wine
weed
non-addictive drugs
freedom!
Adele, Jennifer Hudson, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey
beauty
strangeness
Goodie Mob
Rapheal Saadiq
voluntary charity
Marvin Gaye
Tammy Terrel
Stevie Wonder
Anita Baker
Sade
Mary J Blige
The Clark Sisters
holidays
vacation
peace
quiet
stillness
my afro
Mother's Day
Father's Day
resilience
my blessings are truly limitless!!!!!!!!!!!!!

run some oil through my nappy ass hair

2011-04-17T19:03:00.000-05:00

Weekend Glory

Some clichty folks
don't know the facts,
posin' and preenin'
and puttin' on acts,
stretchin' their backs.

They move into condos
up over the ranks,
pawn their souls
to the local banks.
Buying big cars
they can't afford,
ridin' around town
actin' bored.

If they want to learn how to live life right
they ought to study me on Saturday night.

My job at the plant
ain't the biggest bet,
but I pay my bills
and stay out of debt.
I get my hair done
for my own self's sake,
so I don't have to pick
and I don't have to rake.

Take the church money out
and head cross town
to my friend girl's house
where we plan our round.
We meet our men and go to a joint
where the music is blue
and to the point.

Folks write about me.
They just can't see
how I work all week
at the factory.
Then get spruced up
and laugh and dance
And turn away from worry
with sassy glance.

They accuse me of livin'
from day to day,
but who are they kiddin'?
So are they.

My life ain't heaven
but it sure ain't hell.
I'm not on top
but I call it swell
if I'm able to work
and get paid right
and have the luck to be Black
on a Saturday night.

by Maya Angelou

Show must go on, unfortunately. I'm all alone, up from my dreams, because she couldn't hear me over the music, never really knew my song

2011-04-10T11:35:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I feel like 8 wheels are my real 2 feet.

Rolled out about 7:00 a.m. Great weather--66 degrees, sun rising, clean pathways. I think they should have a girlskate video game. Maybe they do.

Okay, so there's Jam City Rollergirls, but they don't have any black girls, at least not on the website. And, it's roller derby. I'm talking about urban, outdoor, roller skating.

I thought hard about joining a Rollerderby team, but it's too combative. I, also, thought about joining one of these Chicago indoor skate teams because I can dance skate pretty decent, too. After all that considering, I just prefer urban outdoor roller skating. Skating down city streets and through urban parks has real obstacles. Laugh if you want to, but a broken bottle in the road will take you out just as fast as a musclebound chick on wheels. Cars, bikes, dogs, broken glass, soda cans, plastic bags, sticks, steps, cracked sidewalk, unpaved roads, dirt, sand patches, wind resistance, stoplights, cops, bums, hating @$$ kids, daydreaming pedestrians, and people who cheer as you roll by. It's real.

You know my videogame character's name--Juicy. I can tell you all about her. If you don't play her for a while, her butt gets big, and she is a little slow. She is, however, very graceful and she can jump. The more you play her, the tighter she gets. She gets faster and more aggressive. She jumps higher and farther. Her butt even gets smaller, never too small, but smaller. But, she's vain, so if one of her earrings falls out, then she just quits on you, and she will rebraid her hair while she's rolling. What else? She skates slower when the charge on her MP3 player dies. Oh yeah, she gets injured more than other players because she's hard to control--she's a little reckless, and, owing to her seat, she has a different center of gravity, so you have to take good care of her, but she heals fast. She's a 4 3/4 out of 5 star player.

Thinking about what I wrote last night. I think, and have probably written before, about how hard it is to be a black woman bottom.

For one, it is difficult to be passive in a violent world. At least, it is a challenge for me because I was raised to be a fighter. I was tomboy. I come from a family full of tough characters. They call me the sweet one. That's deep because my daddy thought he was Zeus, and I was Athena.

Maybe it would be easier to be passive if people didn't take me for a likely target. I'm petite, female, and brown. People come at me crazy, and that survival instinct is real. When no one will stand up for you, you fight, flee or perish. No, you don't, but that is the instinct, right? You are supposed to use your words, use your mind and think your way through these things. You should listen and negotiate. Or, at least, try.

Sometimes, even the people who pose as protectors are really villains. They want the delight of torturing you. People learn to accept abuse, and many see that as the obligation of the submissive. Why? Why can't a woman submit to a man out of a sense of respect and not fear?
OR vice versa.
It is much harder for men to be submissive, or so it would seem. His very masculinity is at stake, right? Wrong. Even tough guys will readily submit to a woman, as long as they don't appear weak. They want to relinquish themselves but retain their self-respect. I like that.

Now, preface: I'M NOT SUGGESTING THAT BLACK WOMEN OUGHT TO BE SUBMISSIVE. We ought to allow them to be. We cannot perceive of a submissive black woman in a healthy relationship. As black women, we often pressure one another to maintain dominance. Submission in black women is often exploited as weakness. We see submission is a total state of passivity, but we must allow people dimension.

Identify one image, in popular culture, of a black woman who is submissive, and not, also, a slave or abuse victim. Even Nell from Gimme a Break was a dom. Partly because pop culture doesn't create images of men, particularly black men, who can be trusted to, properly, lead households, in the spheres where we see women, female characters tend to dominate the spaces. Mom has everything under control, and dad is a bumbling fool--at least, in the home. When we see images of black women in non-domestic spaces and roles, these sisters tend to take on dominant roles--police chiefs, school principals, lawyers. They are strong and/or angry, and, generally, exhausted, so--frequently, exasperated. I like Kyra Sedgwick on The Closer. She's tough and sweet. Why can't Regina King on Southland get to be ultra-feminine but still be strong?

Unfortunately, this reflects reality to the degree that reality reflects art. Black women demanded roles where we were not subservients. We wanted to see our heroes, women who reflect the strength of black women. Whoo--be careful what you wish for. It seems like, now, this is the only way to be. If a man jeopardizes his masculinity by appearing weak next to his woman, black women jeopardize their very racial identity.

Certainly, the "angry white women rants" passing around the internet accuse black women of driving away black men by being too strong. I know plenty of strong white women, okay? The tone of those rants don't seem particularly passive, either. However, people will accept white women as passive and presume that black women are not. Perfectly aligned with the white woman rant is an angry black woman. Her response to the "white woman rant" is not that there is dimension within the black female community. Au contraire. She replies that black women have to be tough. Black men only want white women because white women let black men walk all over them.

Not only do the angry sisters reinforce the petty, jealous and racist vitriol propagated by the "angry white woman," they inculcate a sense that this attitude is, like, genetically predetermined or something. It can't be that people view us as aggressive, even if we are not. It is, in fact, that we are the perception. These sisters go on to insist a bunch of behaviors associated with 'real black women.' (You know, we spend too much time talking about what personality traits make people black. If all it took to not be black was to act differently, then this society would be relieved of a vast number of racial conflicts.) Some sisters own the angry black woman like thugs own the word nigga. But, can you take down the master's house with the master's tools?

I, rarely, discuss my dating relationships with my female friends because they are, mostly, tough girls, and I'm a tough girl except when it comes to my guy. I like how it feels to relinquish control. I'd rather ride than drive, and I rarely give directions, even if it means we get lost. I'd rather follow than lead. I'd rather listen than talk. I'd rather learn than teach. I'd rather offer than demand. I do enough taking charge in my professional life. I have done so much taking care of in my life that all I want is to be looked after. I'm not going to engage in a defense of my attitude. It is what it is. I don't need to hear about how I shouldn't, and they wouldn't, and sisters don't because I'm a sister and I do.

In combative communities, like the hood, few recognize that there is strength in submission and passivity. Soldiers and thugs are emotional babies. They are not in touch with their feelings, so their passions control them. All of that can be real exciting, but it does not reflect wisdom or maturity. It's like the instructor on one of my yoga tapes says: at the center of all strength is relaxed alertness. If you are tense, if your mind is clouded, you are prone to trauma. That doesn't fly on the street. The prevailing myth is that you must be armed to survive.

God bless black men who love feisty black women. These fellows are the true feminists. They don't like me. I don't do raised voices. I don't like to fight. I love to agree. I want peace. I have a temper, and it exhausts me to get angry, so I try to reserve my energy by keeping things easy.

There are the bullies. These men don't respect submission. He wants to instigate fights so that he can attack you, and then he blames these on you. Maybe a white woman he'll just diss and beat down, but a sister gets dissed and beat down because black women don't know how to behave. You can't appease this man, no matter how sweet you are.

There is a type of brother who won't see you as a black woman because you don't fit the bill. There's one who posts judge shows on Youtube. I love judge shows, so I watch a lot of his clips. This guy starts off, many of them, with a lecture about how black women bring abuse on themselves, and how trifling we are, and blah, blah, blah. When I listen to that, I wonder why this man won't allow me to exist. You know? From the gate, he's on the attack. He's gunning for me because he sees me through a prejudiced lens.

I wrote a while back about this horrible interaction I had with a brother just like the one I describe above. I was waiting at the bus stop. I won't rehash it in detail. Basically, he got off the bus. I smiled at him, so he strolled over to talk me up. We were having a great conversation, and I was feeling him. Then, he just switched up on me, and, out of nowhere, goes in on how trifling black women are.

What am I supposed to say to that? And, he wanted a response from me. What do you think about that? I know you got something to say. So, now I have to engage the bs. I kept my tone very stable because he had grown excited, and I didn't want to escalate the situation because I didn't want him to hit me, but I couldn't, really, cosign what he was saying without volunteering for more abuse. I think I smiled a little and said something like, well, I don't see myself as that type of woman, so obviously I don't agree. Black women and black men both bring flawed attitudes to relationships, sometimes.

This black man snapped off! There, he said, that's a perfect example of what I'm talking about. You just like the rest of them. So, now, he's spitting fire at me, which, at least, allows me to just let him vent and not get into the mix of it. It's the middle of the afternoon. This is a professional black man, who works with kids, who seemed real nice. I'm still waiting for my bus. He is not waiting for a bus. He's just going off, and he has my path blocked, so even if I wanted to walk away, I'd have to move closer to him to do so. I look over and see these two white people, man and woman, perfect strangers, having a pleasant chat, just they way things had started with me and this man. And, I thought to myself, brother, you don't see you and you don't see me.

I guess, for me, it comes down to a spiritual issue. I thank God for this life because I feel magnificently blessed. In my past life, I did some things right. I am lucky to have the leisure to muse on issues of self actualization. There have been times in my life where all I could think about is survival, and I have been fortunate that those have comprised the lesser quantity of my time in this body. The soul is eternal. Mine wants, simply, to express itself in this world and display its uniqueness and intricacy. People see the body, and they interact with the physical, not the soul.
Thus, I continue to appeal, through this missive, that we allow each other to be.

I'll play the role of woman, and let you be the man. You do the talking and the dreaming, and I'll...

2011-04-09T23:24:00.000-05:00

As some kind of feminist, it is wrong for me to ask this question, but what is wrong with wanting to a guy who is, you know, like a father-figure? Is that gross? You know--take care of you, do the thinking, make hard choices, chart the course. I don't know if that is wrong or something. What I do know is that I need someone to look after me. I'm reckless.

I'm a little reckless, less than in my younger days. I'm passionate, and I have a rajasic spirit.

I know, I'm going to lose my ticket to all girl heaven for this one.

In my defense, I can add: I could only do whatever some man tells me if I trust his judgement. So, he's got to be pretty sharp because I'm a smart cookie ;) It's not a freudian electra daddy thing, probably. I love my dad, but I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to have sex with him. Yuk. Besides, quiet as its kept, I don't trust his judgment more than mine. We think too much alike. We have the same shortcomings, the same rajasic spirit. So, really, it's not an electra thing, probably. I see it as, really, outsourcing my thinking to a top consultant. AND, if I was a lesbian, I'd be looking for a female consultant, but, as I plan to compensate this person with sexual favors and heavy meat dishes, a lady thinker won't fit the bill. It's not a sexist thing.

I know! For what its worth, all-girl heaven sounds like hell to me.

Cuz, here's the thing--I think I've reached the plateau of my genius. Maybe that's not what I mean. I do alright, but I got limitations.

Here's an example. I gave away all my state tax money to charity. HUNDREDS OF FREAKING DOLLARS!!!! I'm mad at me for that. I wanted to buy a sexy new dress, but I can't afford to because of a bunch of sappy movies and PMS.

It was a couple weeks, ago. I was totally vulnerable-- emotional, drinking sweet red wine, and cramping. Spring is charity walk season, and I got hit up twice, that way.

The Phi Theta Kappa chapter at my school is walking for American Cancer Society. I'm a member of the PTK, and I teach at the freaking school. I felt like I had a responsibility to, at least, try to meet my fundraising goal, but my people are so trifling and/or broke, that I didn't want to depress myself by going through the motions with them. So I just donated the money.

Well, my ex had, already, hit me up for the Multiple Sclerosis walk, and I gave to it last year, and one of my favorite cousins died from complications from MS. And, Cancer is not more important than MS. So I pledged an equal amount to MS. And things would have been fine if I had stopped there, but...

And this is the kind of emotional thinking that makes male chauvenists insist that women shouldn't work because they get mental around their period. Part of me would agree, if I could take those days off with pay. (All-girl hell is where I'm going, right?)

So, then I watched Yesterday. The cute little girl from Sarafina is all grown up, and she's a famous soap opera star, and she starred in this movie, and she's so compelling. Plus, I feel like I know her because I remember when she was in Sarafina. Yesterday was so MOVING, touching, bittersweet. There were so many scenes of women helping women overcome monumental obstacles. I just thought that I had to do something right at that moment to help Yesterday/Sarafina, even though I know she's an actress, and the movie was a fiction, but I just had to... Those women who answer the phone at Women for Women International are some straight up stank bitches, but I love that micro-enterprise thing, and so I signed up online, and that was it. Within a span five hours, my whole state tax refund was gone.

And, once I sobered up I realized that I don't have any money for a new dress because I gave it all away.

And that was a month ago and I still don't have enough to buy a new dress. I mean, I could go to the thrift store and pick up something, but I don't want something vintage. I want something edgy and new. I really shouldn't be buying anything but groceries and lunch for the next couple of weeks because I need to register for summer classes, and I need to get the plumber out here, and Mother's day is coming up.

So, my father figure/brain-for-hire would have come in real handy in this scenario. Obviously, he could be rich and just give me the money for a new dress, and mother's day gifts, and to save the world. Obvie. Barring that, he could take charge of my finances and give me an allowance. I would have been limited in how charitable I could be. And, I'm really feeling the craft plateau in my wallet. I'm learning that, while I'm great at saving, I'm bad at wealth building. If none of those things, how about simple checks and balances? You know, someone to say: Are you donating more money? Maybe you should wait until next month. Didn't you say you wanted a new dress? And, if I had a sexy in-home consultant, maybe instead of getting drunk on sweet red wine, anyway, I'd have been somewhere doing it. You know they say the best cure for cramps is an orgasm--it's a better muscle relaxer than hydrocodone, and it's gentler on your stomach.

:)

Whatever. Kind of just talking shit. Daydreaming. I am annoyed about this dress situation. It's spring, and it's time for a new me. It was just foolish of me to give away all that money. Good cause, yeah, but... I just finished paying my bills, and I didn't find a new dress anywhere in my bank account, so I'm kicking myself all over, again. Harumph. Harumph. Harumph, harumph, harumph. (What movie is that from? Blazing Saddles--you know it.)

Anyway, I'm going to have myself another glass of sweet red wine. That, I can afford. I have a million luxuries that were not designed by Vera Wang. I'm good.

For instance, the Master Designer has planned an 82 degree Sunday to open the next week. I'm dusting off my old skool, custom made, four wheels with the fat laces and skating the lake. It will be early in the morning when I go so that I don't have to fight traffic, but if you're hitting the track a bit after sunrise, you might catch me gliding by.

One of my students said something like that to me, once. He said, I like you Ms. SP Brown. You got grace. You shine. I like the way you glide by like you do.

Like the student love the teacher, like the Prophet love Khadija...like the creator love all creatures

2011-04-04T23:30:00.000-05:00

March 1, 2011

Dear Prof Rushing:

Because of you, when someone asks me, “may I ask you a question,” I supply--only partially in jest--“how did I get to be so good looking?”

Because of you, whenever some petty insipidness begins to better me with frustration, I remind myself that I am, both, burdened and blessed with an astronomically high IQ.

I believe in myself because of you, and, like you, I have high expectations for my students.

So, when a student asks me to define a word he, clearly, could have looked up in any dictionary, I reply, “do I have guide words on either side of my forehead?” Then, I giggle wildly.

And, I don’t wear a pair of giant yellow sunglasses, but, when a student sitting in my office hours begins to cry, I turn to Rose, a likely Negro hand puppet who I emancipated, for the tidy sum of $10.00, from a vendor on 125th Street. I slide her on my hand, and Rose explains what remains.

Two things you told me, during my growing pains, I repeat to myself when I’m changing and hurting because of it: “crying is the soul’s way of sweating,” and “compared to the struggles of my ancestors, it is unfair for me to complain.” Then, I am reminded that strength is not stoicism, and I am the dream of the slave.

I admire you, yet, with a feeling almost irreligious for its unquestioning endurance. You remembered to me, once, that the first semester I took your class, you wondered who was beneath my shell, and if she would ever emerge. I did not understand, then, that I had been called irresponsible, lazy, stupid, and incapable by so many teachers that I had developed a callous around my brain. In fact, I couldn’t grow much, in lots of ways, for all of the calcified parts of me. I see that, now but, then, I was just real cool. I longed to be a writer, but I was not reflective, so I was poor at it. I don’t think I knew that there was anything within me worthy of refined or careful expression. The black professors at Amherst believed, profoundly, in me--much more than I did in myself. Each through his own tactics—Professor Johnson, Professor Cobham-Sanders, Professor Ferguson, and you—disarmed me. Because of you, I have learned how to be the person I always wanted to be. So, if my faith in you is unflagging, it is not unchallenged, and it persists because of yours in me.

I could not have composed a letter like this without you. Bragging about how you taught me hard lessons continues to fill me with honor. On the occasion of your retirement, such memories enter the order of nostalgia, for I can boast, proudly, that the opportunity has, since, eclipsed. You should, also, slip into the selective memory of nostalgia. Recall exclusively, like looking through a photo album full of poses and perfection, and do what all of the black retirees do—smile broadly when they drive past the place they used to curse as the plantation, and age in reverse.

Thank you, Professor Rushing. Ever your admirer and with deepest love and affection.

Bruce Wayne know what I mean; I mean I'm in between sunset and sunrise

2011-03-25T04:15:00.003-05:00

Yesterday, I saw the neighborhood cardinal. He frequents a condo a few blocks away. I've spotted him a handful of times. If you spy a red bird--not like a robin redbreast, but red all over like a cardinal--you get a wish.

For as long as I can remember, with one exception, I've only ever made one wish--world peace. Isn't that silly? Even when things were bleakest, I'd debate-- 'should I wish for... No. No,' I'd resolve, 'nothing is more important than world peace.' I guess I know that wishing over birthday candles, or on a fallen eyelash, or after a red bird, is childish fantasy. I guess... I guess I know that. Nonetheless, I used my wish for myself, yesterday, reasoning, why waste an opportunity to get something you long for? World peace gets further and further away, every day.

I want to reveal my wish, but I can't because then it won't come true.

I'm getting to this: I have issues with the boundary between fantasy and reality. I know the difference, but I don't respect it. I spend a lot of time daydreaming, and if not for grace, I could be a grown woman with imaginary friends.

It's not madness, though I don't know how I can convince you, World, that it isn't. My imagination is active, and sometimes it works overtime. If I'm not disciplined, I'll let the fantastic overgrow the real, like an infectious film over an untreated wound--protective but destructive, both at once.

I can be wild. I'm not out there crazy, but I could lust, envy, avarice, sloth, gluttony, pride and rage--act up with the worst of them. Part of my discipline is nurturing a healthy fantasy life. I don't police the content of my daydreams. For me, nothing purely pretend can be wrong. It's when those fantasies encroach on the real that problems emerges.

Things have gotten bad. I still believe in pacifism, but I'm becoming hopeless about peace. What in the world have I changed by being a do-gooder? I kind of need an It's a Wonderful Life intervention, right now, but it's not forthcoming, and my thing is more like The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, right now, and meanwhile, we're setting up no-fly zones over Libya, and engaged in endless battle in Afghanistan, and at civil war domestically over health insurance and unions, and... Why envy Basketball Wives for their dresses and purses and shoes and lives of leisure? Why not have it? I'm working on a school improvement project, right now, and I make about half of the project lead--even with my summer salary. Kids I graduated with make twice, three times what I make--easily. They own the things I stare at in the store windows, and they go home to the life that I imagine.

AND I KNOW it's not all it's cracked up to be, and the grass isn't greener, and I'm really very happy most of the time, but, sometimes, I get so mad at myself, and I wonder what is the real fantasy-- I can quit my job, today, and within a year I will have a job that makes twice as much and requires half as much of my heart. I can buy expensive things, even if it is on credit, and I can make people respect my possessions. I can make any sexual fantasy come true, right now. I can dial ten digits and bring someone over here to tie me up, spank me, serve me, and, even if he's a straight-lace, he'll find weed and bring it, if I demand it as a condition. What I cannot do is change the world. So what's really real?

I know things are bad because I'm in my head, a lot, right now. I wish for someone who would come into my life and anchor me to this earth, but how? Even if I told someone, my life has me so stressed out right now that I'd rather walk around my crib pretending to live than face another Monday, that person wouldn't understand how real it is because I'm so even keeled. Fantasy keeps me sane.

That's crazy!

That's crazy.

That's why I write MuseCrisis. I don't always feel great about publishing my diary on the internet, and I do keep another diary for things that I can't air on MuseCrisis, but I expose myself so people can see that black women have feelings other than avarice, rage, lust, pride, sloth, envy, and gluttony. I digress.

Fantasizing can be good because it can suppress negative impulses. If you can get the satisfaction from the fantasy, why take a risk on the real? But, when there is something you really, really want, maybe, daydreaming about it makes it so that it won't ever be.

World peace? Seven times three plus some years old and still wishing for world peace...
still wishing on red birds...
hmmm...

I find it distressin there's never no in between

2011-03-20T23:59:00.000-05:00

I'm not deep.

(a) I spent three hours drinking Peach Bellini and, thoroughly, enjoying the season finale and both reunion episodes of Basketball Wives. (1) Jen is the prettiest. (2) I love Evelyn, as a character, but she seems like a hard chick to stay friends with. (3) Shauni is a brilliant strategist. She's like the Phil Jackson of reality t.v., for real.

(b) I'm supposed to be a pacifist, but there is this chick I work with, and if she say one thing more to me during the remaining course of her natural life I may, very well, punch her dead in the jaw. I don't like the sigh in her expression, the tone of her voice, or the half minded way she thinks. If she roll her eyes one more time when I'm talking I'm gonna pluck them out her head and wear them on my fingers like in Beetlejuice. (I know that was a really gross and very dated reference ;) All this yoga, meditation, healthy eating, rigorous exercise, and prayer notwithstanding, I'm quite scared that she will say something wild to me, and I will go New York vs Pumkin on her.

I hate that. I'm hiding from her at my job. Right? Because I'm scared that I will loose my professionalism. I'm straight up on Cedric the Entertainer, I wish she would say something to me, and I can't see how this is going to play out with out a reality tv moment. Help me! HELP ME!!!!

(c) I pressed my hair. I would say it has been 9 months, now, I've been wearing it straight. TOO MANY MEN! Too many. I mean I already had plenty suitors, but it is real extra, right now. It really hit me the other day when I was in the cafeteria at the school, and this security guard gave me the free pop that came with his meal. Now, that is a small thing, but it was curious. I known this guy for, at least, three years, and he keep his eyes trained on my hips--as I'm coming or going. So, when he walked over to me, looked me dead in the face, and told me that he told the cafeteria lady that he didn't want his soda, and he wanted to give it to me, out of all the people in the cafeteria, I had to wonder. Then, it all start clicking. A, this fool ain't never made eye contact with me before. B, he probably never looked at my face, before, because he has been so turned off by my nappy hair.

I start thinking about all the extra eye contacts, lately, all the big smiles, everywhere I go, all the "how YOU doing"s, and I have come to the conclusion that it is my hair. People get so weird about hair. I, almost, want to wash out the press and curl and go back to the afro just to see which of these men is serious. I don't know what that is going to tell me, because all that time I had natural hair, I dated a lot of fools that were not serious. And, I'm not ready to go back to the natural because I was so bored with my hair options. And, the really petty part of me... I have to confess... likes the attention--the free pops, the flowers, the "how YOU doing"s.
I'm not deep.

But, sometimes I have deep thoughts, and I been thinking about survivor's guilt.

It occurred to me that, though survivor's guilt has some negativity about it, it comes from an aspect of my culture that I really value, and that is devotion to community. When I pose the question to myself, why does someone feel guilty for surviving, I conclude, well, it is because he is devoted to his dying brethren. Black folks wax poetic for the days of mixed class communities. Black people didn't move half way across town to get out of the ghetto. We, actually, don't move very far away, now--not for the most part. Nice black neighborhoods are, often, physically contiguous with the sorta nice connecting to the not so nice right next to the d@mn this the hood, but we conceptualize them as vastly different spaces. Despite this bright flight, we stay loyal to the same church, barbershop, salon. Why? We need our community to be whole.

We suffer for not being with our people. Even our "nice" spaces are mixed class because of how we roll. I ask you, what black person--Who, before she hit up, even, the nicest spot, doesn't ride through and pick up a sister, an auntie, a cousin? And, she come out grandmama house, clean, right? Head to toe, rolling up in A list spots, giving up her hard earned pennies, proudly. I love that. So, what is wrong with survivor's guilt? Don't you owe your people something? It is false American individualism that makes people think they made it on their own. To me, for better or worse, I owe who I am to those good and bad influences in my life, and if I like who I have become, I can recognize and honor that in a way that is not self-destructive.

The problem is the feeling of hopelessness that pervades our community and makes people resentful of success, at issue is a worldview that dictates that a successful person is distinct from me on the basis of his success. People change up, but, sometimes, people ought to change. Sometimes, people "change up" because they can finally escape abusive situations. I think about my friends who are in that situation, but I still see them seeking and finding communities that remind them of their roots where they can build the healthy relationships denied them by an abuser.

Is that idealistic? Am I living in a dream world? Maybe survivor's guilt isn't such a bad thing? Or, rather, there is good and bad in it. There is good and bad in everything.

Just like that, quit singing the soldier’s song

2011-03-12T22:46:00.000-06:00

Loyalty, survivor’s guilt, obligation to ghosts. How do I broach this matter?

(1) Feelings.

The myth of compartmentalization: one who minimizes the sway of feeling over behavior demonstrates strength. Not so--a person who has little awareness of his emotional state can be easily manipulated by one who does. Does that require proof? No, not for a user. If I understand your feelings better than you do, I have enormous power over you. On the other hand, a person who acknowledges how he feels can guard his vulnerabilities.

Feelings can be quite rational. Even unpleasant emotions can be very healthy. Our senses observe far more than we can, consciously, acknowledge. We see things, the absences of things, the movement of the indistinguishable. Our nose will detect smells we know and some that we cannot recognize—sweat-vs-hormones. We hear, constantly. True silence is unnatural; there is always the the creaking of a building settling or the distant sound of winds. Through our skin, humidity communicates: damp air tells us something different than aridity. So, though we may not, consciously, understand how all of these sensations tie together, we have the benefit of fear. People who do not respect fear cannot anticipate danger. People who have a healthy relationship with fear do not enter dangerous situations unaware.
Foolishly, we urge each other not to feel: Don’t be sad. Cheer up. Get over it. Forget about it. Don’t cry. Don’t punk out. We are our will. We are a handful of minerals, a big bucket of water, and a spirit, an impulse to live. The idea of losing will power terrifies us. The battles is given to he who endures to the end. The smallest man can conquer the greatest if he can outlast. He must rise, only, one time more than his opponent to be the victor. Even in our lore, the hero prevails not because he ignored his fear. He succeeds because he confronts the dark night of his soul. A hero acknowledges his feelings, and he digs deeps within. He seeks inspiration and renewal. He suffers every hurt, and he overcomes because of a greater longing.

(2)Loyalty
One of the most insidious feelings in my life is loyalty. As I write, I understand more clearly that loyalty is a feeling, isn’t it? The word loyalty is like the word love—it is a noun and a verb. You can feel loyal, and you can be loyal. I wrestle with loyalty. I value it, deeply, and I will look over a lot of negative characteristics in a person if I consider him loyal. Not everyone deserves loyalty, even if I feel loyal. When I don't examine my feelings of loyalty, I get used.

(3) Survivor’s guilt
For me, survivor's guilt has to do with loyalty. I always want to share but particularly with those to whom I feel loyal. If I come into money, I want to give to those who I love, but I would feel obligated if I thought that the person and I must share a similar state of scarcity. That is, I only feel like I have to give someone money, if I feel like he and I ought to have the same. Love may be involved, but it is loyalty that makes me sacrifice my advantage. Right?
Survivor's guilt can look like love, or humility, or low self esteem. These feelings collude with survivor's guilt making it difficult to discern why, exactly, one feels guilty for not perishing.
Survivor’s guilt plagues the young, black and on the come up. Some of us don't go home, anymore. Sometimes out of disgust; we may have rationalized our guilt, reasoning that there is a reason why I made it, and they didn't, and maybe there is. Some of us can't go home; the threat of being reeled back in is too strong. It would be like a recovering addict returning to an old drug den. Some of us take home wherever we go; if we never let the hood go, we don't have to feel like we've been disloyal. What does it matter that the those old habits are incompatible with our new lives? Let the new me suffer so the old ghosts will recognize me. Some of us destroy ourselves until we find ourselves back at home, and home will be ashamed that we climbed so high and fell so far.
It's hard to see, sometimes, but your people are proud when you make it over. They miss you. They don't blame you; they blame themselves. They may make you feel like you abandoned them even when they abandoned you, but when you're not around to see, they wear your success as a badge of honor. It's hard to go home if you are not prepared to acknowledge how you feel, how they feel, and how much you long for the feeling of brotherhood that existed when none of you had distinguished yourselves.
I guess I'm an idealist. For true, there are people from my past who I have cut off, but I would have had to get rid of them, anyway, because they use me for my loyalty. What I have learned to overcome is a fear of success: worrying that accomplishing something will change who I am, or fearing that success will make me, eternally, alone. I will change, and, sometimes, I will be alone. At the same time, I remain myself, and my circle of love constantly widens. Without my past, however, I am rootless, so I have had to find healthy ways to reconnect with it. I'm old enough now that the only ones left are the survivors. Success looks different for everybody, and each of us has been granted gifts for which we do not want to feel ashamed.
The black community needs to talk about survivor’s guilt. Lots of our communities need to have this discussion, but I'm on black people now because they are my people. I want to turn on a radio program, one day, to hear them do a call in about mental health issues, and one I think we ought to address is survivor's guilt. How being loyal to the ghosts of abusive family, dying friends, and former selves fosters nihilism in our community. I look at my students, my friends, and myself, and I see that survivor’s guilt discourages us from full actualization, from being fully human. It norms us to death, dissolution, and self-destruction.

Makes me wanna holler, throw up both my hands!

2011-03-07T23:11:00.000-06:00

:(

My car broke down, while I was driving it, 10 days ago. I put it in the shop on Tuesday, but the man says he can't figure out what is wrong with it, so now I have to get it towed to the dealership. Andre (that's my car's name) has never broken down before.

I lost one of my grandma's earrings, today.

My cell phone is broken. The clock doesn't work. So, I have a back up alarm clock, but it is so freaking loud that it wakes the woman in the unit above me every morning. I don't care that much about that because she is impossibly noisy and insensitive about it, but that is how freaking loud the thing is. It scares me out of my sleep every morning.

I am behind by a half a chapter in organic chemistry. I am only halfway down the appendicular skeleton in Anatomy and Physiology.

The toilet in my bathroom is broken. It flushes but it runs for an hour after I flush it--no jiggling the handle.

The washing machine in my place is broken, and it will cost $1000.00 to fix it.

I got a freaking red light camera speeding ticket in the mail today, for $100.00. I ran a light the day after Valentine's day, apparently.

My income tax return was delayed. I don't feel like I'm whining about that because it is really my money. Okay, I'm whining. Money doesn't belong to us. It is just something the government gives us to give to someone else--in many cases them!

I hate my job more and more every day.

My trip to Cuba got cancelled!!!!!!!!

I need a hug!

So, now is a really good time to count my blessings.

Four walls and a roof
Most of my cell phone works
I have the $100.00 for my ticket.
I have AAA so getting my car towed from shop to shop has been free.
I have a bus pass and the only consequence of not having my car is that I'm a half hour late to work and class on Thursday evening.
My momma and dad celebrated their 38th anniversary on the 3rd
My mom and dad.
My brother and his wife
My family--cousins, uncles, aunts
this life
freedom
exercise
I have an exercise space big enough for me to hula hoop in
food to eat, every day
fresh water to drink
health insurance
peace and quiet
my job
my mind
my heart
my body
my soul
functioning body parts
my health
art and artists
music and musicians
Outkast and the Roots, Nas, John Legend, Marvin Gaye, Raphael Saadiq, Sade
Netflix--Why is Trois like the funniest movie ever. I know I'm late, but I don't think it would have been funny if I saw it when it came out.
Movies
friends
text messages
two harmless stalkers
I can use the money I saved for Cuba to pay for my car, get a new phone, get the washing machine and the toilet fixed
meditation and prayer
prophets
faith
mercy
CTA
yoga
Hulu
reality t.v.
heat
indoor plumbing
time--somehow, there is time for everything
dance
blogger ;)
my students--who fill me with hope, and never fail to make me laugh
hope
laughter
love
red wine
good smells
a break in the weather
my plants
my home--which is more than just 4 walls and a roof
my neighbors, who never steal from my mailbox despite the fact that it, too, is broken
arch supports
the women's health center, who called to remind me I'm overdue for a check up
google
poetry
literature
writing
journaling
my mother who taught me to write out my anger
patience
forgiveness
drama!!!!
my blessings are TRULY LIMITLESS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Let's just pretend that we have no tomorrow

2011-03-04T22:26:00.002-06:00

Juma

Right now,
all night, and from Friday evening just until Monday rise, above my bed, aswirl: fantasies.
Each night, Friday eve straight through ‘til Monday morn: beneath, I lounge.
Canopied by billows of hims, and jazzed in the pillows her/me.
We want what we do not have.
Fantasy: mental self delusion distracting with the quality of contrast from is; imbued with life but contrary from true.
Suffering. Desire.
Sometimes, they drift out the door before I lock it and chase me through the world.
I might sigh, lean against the length of pole, which marks the bus route, and allow sense memory of can’t to consume all.
Not the Design of a Decade, “Love Will Never Do Without You” passions that start with a pushbutton and pause play for sounds of significance.
No.
Call-another-name,
moan-uncontrolled-aloud,
carry-on-full-out-no-such-context-conversations,
flout-traffics-floating-on-haze-of-never-happens,
alter-life-as-you-know-it-was-type,
one-blind-misstep-inevitable-kind,
tie-me-up-tie-me-down-longings.

Removed from the perfumes of my bedroom, exposed to the raw winds, they burst and dissipate into the smoggy skies,
every Monday morn,
right now.

This is in remembrance of our ancestors

2011-02-26T22:26:00.001-06:00

Invocation

The slave ancestors who lie beneath the swamps, inside the brick of which our
homes, our streets, our churches are made;
who wrought iron into the veves that hold together the Old City and its attachments;
personal gods and ancestors; musicians and street dancers;
Hoodoo saints and their little Catholic cousins...
our saints continue to live among us.

May they never leave us.
May the newly sanctified find their way home to us also.
May they feed well and be pleased with these offerings.
And soon
One day
May we all be counted among them.

by Brenda Marie Osbey
in honor of my ancestors, and Andrea B Rushing, my brilliant and beloved teacher

Brothers be on the corners, actin stupid, gettin lifted. They life is twisted, and most of them are quite gifted

2011-02-24T10:26:00.000-06:00

THE POOL PLAYERS.
SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

by Gwendolyn Brooks

Should I die on the track like Ramo on Beat Street?

2011-02-22T22:26:00.000-06:00

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

Leroi Jones/Amiri Baraka

Hey, you: Get off my mountain.

2011-02-20T10:26:00.000-06:00

For Paul Laurence Dunbar

Born of the sorrowful of heart
Mirth was a crown upon his head;
Pride kept his twisted lips apart
In jest, to hide a heart that bled.

By Countee Cullen

My eyes don't cry no more. My heart don't ache no more.

2011-02-18T10:26:00.000-06:00

harriet

if i be you

let me not forget

to be the pistol

pointed

to be the madwoman

at the rivers edge

warning

be free or die

and isabell

if i be you

let me in my

sojourning

not forget

to ask my brothers

ain't i a woman too

and
grandmother
if i be you
let me not forget to
work hard
trust the Gods
love my children and
wait.

Lucille Clifton

Didn't I give you all I've got to give

2011-02-16T22:26:00.001-06:00

Sometimes, I read what I've published, and I don't know that woman. I don't know that poet. Who is she with such control over emotions that she can word them? Who with all those words?

I assure you, she is not me. I am so messy. I am always in love and heartbroken. I am always fighting this or that addiction. I am always fleeing Satan towards God, and I never get there. The devil want me as is; God--he want more.

Who is she who can write with repose? From where did she come? Not my humble beginnings. Not I who never knew how to say stop.
God divined the hurt and the loneliness that publishes these posts, and these poems, and these stories, and these essays. God is in the emptiness that writes of loneliness and loyalty. It is only God, and I am a shell for his service, pen in for his pages, recorder of strange human history.

Love is soft like years of crying

2011-02-14T05:54:00.001-06:00

Saunter East And Stand Over Nations.
Every Available Site Of Need Seek,
And Silence Overtakes Negators. Speak Endurance.
Sympathy Overwhelms Neglect, So Engage, Act.
Our Need, Season? Each Achievement Symbolizes Our
New Season. Each Aspire & Soldier On.

Happy Birthday, FD!
Free Black Love!!!!!!

turn your heartache into joy

2011-02-12T01:27:00.000-06:00

Undertow

The girl who is in love with danger stands at the shoreline to tease the tide of the sea.
Flow is sly—tickling her feet, again and again; ravishing the settlings.
If she is heedless, it will grab her waist and drag her into infinite cool.
This, she imagines, as salt water licks her thighs.

Love, oh Love, stop making a fool of me

2011-02-11T10:26:00.001-06:00

Paper Chase

For my busy love, I have splayed my own chest.

Carefully, I pinned back the flesh.

For my busy love, I’ve prostrated my heart.

Slave and prostitute--masterless. Unfettered, lost. Follow him, North Star, but spend the day a-wander, unyarning.

For my busy love, I condense my vast desire into a single sentence.

A million times, I fold it into a gel cap.

For my busy love, I swallow the pill-sized vow.

A strong and trustworthy desk of giant legs, if he places a care on my back, it honors my utility. When not, I feel myself a stump--tormented and petrified.

For my busy love, I crucify my self.

Each night, though I’ve prayed, avowedly, for release from non- requital, soon thereafter, his spirit seeks me from my dreams.

For my busy love, I relinquish day to night, real to fantasy.

For this piece of love, I will always relent.

Is it my turn to wish you were lying here

2011-02-09T21:19:00.000-06:00

Underneath quiet Cortez,

my skin is a still puddle;

rainbows tickle my oily edges.

Cortez dives in.

listen/silent

Underneath quiet Cortez,

who silently manipulates my heartbeat,

waves of fear

rise

fall

like Six Flags.

listen/silent

Underneath quiet Cortez,

unknowable to even me,

I am treasure for his delicate curiosity.

June 11, 2003

overpowered by love

2011-02-06T14:01:00.002-06:00

Love Letter

Dear Samson,
I put your hair
in a jar
by the pear tree
near the well.
I been thinkin'
over what I done
and I still don't think
God gave you
all that strength
for you to kill
my people.
Love -- Delilah
By Carole E Gregory

Once we were standing still in time

2011-02-02T23:36:00.001-06:00

A tree is free; I'm
mahogany carved, postured
in genuflection.

A tree is free: My
stained years embellish the stores
of accoutrement.

A tree is free: I?
sterile treasure of petri-
fication and death.

A tree is free: I
am nature cut, carved, refined,
coveted and owned.

This year's Andre Day is, officially, dedicated to the Amherst College Black Alumni List Serve, and Lucille Clifton--again.

Like a roller coaster, baby.

2011-01-30T23:26:00.000-06:00

Sad face about the fissures in my heart shape, only to epiphanize:

for every heartbreak, there has been deep love,

for the condolences, treasured bonds,

devastation, profound faith.

Each loss represents a blessing.

(I don't usually admit to these things, but I stole this pic from Ray Ray's Revenge. Click the post title to find his blog, or just cut and paste this link: http://rayraysrevenge.blogspot.com/ :)

If you were mine, I wouldn't want to go to heaven

2011-01-22T14:46:00.000-06:00

Exotic native--

I ensnare my love, creeping his limbs , a vine of wild roses.

Stigma, style, ovary and velvet, I stink strange, pungent and intoxicating;

I offer vain treasures for fruit.

Dare he harvest the blossoms, I grow lush, cultivated and unrestrained.

Neglected, I will not die but will not bloom.

Cut back, I climb him, again, --so long as he is within reach.

Probably, he will prune me, and I will guard him by the thorns that ravel us.

Come. Be in the sky with me.

2011-01-16T17:07:00.000-06:00

I'm going to Cuba!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Barack Obama is the sh!t!

So, there's a Vulture network.

"With the mind of a critic and the heart of a fan, Vulture—nymag.com’s entertainment destination—is a beacon for passionate fans who want a smart, comprehensive take on TV, music, movies and the world of culture."

So, how does NY Mag use the word vulture? Is it a bad word or a good word? It sounds like a bit of both, doesn't it?
The sci fi guy who I liked so much is engaged. You know, I'm not sure what hurts most about that situation, but a lot of it is just regret. I can't recover time spent, he's grown together with this woman. And, for all I know, this nostalgia I feel is just another aspect of wanting/suffering/desire. I just want what I do not have, and once I get it, I will just want something else. I, already, have a crush on another guy, so why do I want this guy? Is it him, or is it that I want this other woman's capture. Right? Is it that I want to be with this guy from my past, or do I see that she already caught him, and I want to swoop down and feast on the fresh kill?
I have generally hated cheaters. It doesn't have much to do with loyalty, believe it or not; although, I do think less of people who are disloyal. It has much more to do with what I consider amateurism on the part of women who steal partners. I think they're pathetic. They can't play the game, so they go for the easy target--someone else's man. A man who is in a committed relationship doesn't have the same options as a single man; the committed man is easier to entrap--he can only deal with women who will get with committed men. The committed man is easier to manipulate. He can be blackmailed and threatened. A committed man don't care much about who you are, just as long as you are not her. Never so much as now have I been the other woman--never to my knowledge. We/they are, really, vultures, and there's nothing all good or all bad about it.
Herb Kent, the Kool Gent, loves the Clean Up Woman--the character in the song by Betty Wright. I love the Clean Up Woman, too, and I've always tried to be like her.

But, you know what, the whole clean up woman mentality was just some baggage. It's just like staying in shape, or keeping a clean house, or being an honest, fair, stable person. A woman don't got to do or be none of that for some man, nice man, to wife her up. In fact, if you listen to the song, the only reason the Clean Up Woman got any play was because old Slick Talk put old boy out on the street. I bet, after the Clean Up Woman has wiped his blues away, and gave him plenty of love twenty four hours a day, if slick talk get to apologizing, he going right back home.

Maybe because she got papers:

But, maybe because when a man loves a woman, if she's bad, he can't see it:

And, as for the Clean Up Woman, she's likely left singing one of my other very favorite songs:

(BTW, Gladys Knight is so much stronger a singer than Percy Sledge. An Aside!)

Vulture! Sweet, meek, gentle and kind as Gladys sounds on this track, she's a vulture just like the Clean Up Woman! Those lyrics, "you're like a diamond, but she treats you like glass. Yet, you beg her to love you, but me you don't ask!" How often have I felt just this way? Gladys just can't stand to see this good man wasted, and she knows exactly how she'd use him, but that makes her a vulture. Sweet, meek, kind vulture.

There's something dishonest in it. What is it? Are we lying about loyalty? Are we lying about the nature of love and romance? Are we lying about the nature of happiness? What is false? Maybe, that, in our construction of romance, there is more value in capturing than keeping. Maybe that's the truth about people and vultures, too. The value of other people's lives extends no further to us than our ability to manipulate it. Vultures eat eyes, intestines, all. They consume, and I kind of love that about them. In this metaphor, awkward as it is, Gladys is promising an all consuming passion--"you'd have no other woman, you'd be weak as a lamb." And what of the fact that some other woman has already captured this man and splayed his heart? What of the fact that the Clean Up Woman's love can't be worth anything until the first woman has captured and misused the man?

I'm not trying to blame like Betty Wright blames herself in Clean Up Woman. Some things just aren't meant to be. I'm, simply, exploring the ambivalence in these roles--vultures and other women. Correct, ambivalence suggests a balance of poles. On the one hand, it seems awful unfair, sometimes, that because SHE came first, SHE stays on his mind. On the other hand, what of meant to be? If some man ain't for you... If the sci fi guy wanted to be with me, he probably already would, right? Betty Wright's man don't want the Clean Up Woman, but Betty Wright won't act right. Gladys Knight singing about a man who, clearly, don't want her. To capture someone's attention differs a bit from killing prey. Still, the case remains, the one who felled the beast has the pickings, and the vulture gets the leavings. The skills that one uses to kill are deceptive and/or violent, but that merits something--I guess? Is it the same with romance? Is it all about the chase, the capture? Are those the skills that matter? And those others, the keeping, the using, why don't they matter? The impulse to have someone else's man, does that come from a bad place? Or is it about a good guy going to waste?

Sci fi swooped down on my last relationship like a vulture, and that is part of why he holds such a dear place in my heart. I was in a bad relationship. Things were pleasant, for the most part, but the guy I was with had a rude surprise in store for me. And, old sci fi guy tried to disrupt what I had going on, and I appreciate that, whatever his motives. He could see what I really couldn't; that the guy I was with really didn't love me enough. I couldn't really see that because so much of my emotional remains were numb. I think I thought that part of being a good girlfriend was pretending to be happy when I wasn't. Unless I was totally devastated by something, I'd just keep stiff upper lip and all that. So, if the sci fi guy was a vulture, thank God for him. Thank God for vultures. It was like, for once, instead of me singing the Gladys Knight song to someone else, someone was singing it, for just a few bars, to me.

Anyway, sci fi guy is engaged. Besides, I have a new crush. Unfortunately, like most of the other crushes, he don't seem to be excited about me. The new crush is SUCH a nice guy. Maybe the only reason he engages me is because he's too nice not to. I don't want to put this negative energy in the universe because I don't want that to be true, but this is my diary, and if I can't be honest with myself in my diary, then I'm really living a lie. I'm at the point where I'm sort of convinced that nice guys just don't like me. I'm tired of being nice just so some nice guy can overlook me for some chick who's better at capture and kill.
But I don't capture and kill. I value freedom far too much to trap some one and splay his heart. I want someone to commit seppuku for me. But being nice ain't gonna get that, so fuck being good, sweet, a vulture like the Clean Up Woman. In fact, maybe the entire colonialist history of manifest destiny--here and abroad--is really right and proper, and if you don't kill it yourself, you don't have no right to it. And, if you won't kill for it, you don't have no right to keep it.

I need to go for blood or become a vegetarian because being a vulture ain't gonna get it, I don't think. I don't know what's gonna happen if I adopt this attitude but I can't be much lonelier. I'm a happy girl, don't get me wrong. I can count blessings that will run the length of cyberspace. I'm quite grateful. I'm safe. I'm warm. I'm healthy. I'm whole. I got netflix and my momma and daddy, still. I'm a free black woman in 2011. I'm just lonely and brokenhearted, and life is about trade offs, and ain't nobody promised me nothing. In fact, if there is anything I'm guaranteed it is that there will be no fairy tale endings. So...You know, so what? So what?
But, I never gave it a try--being a vulture in love. I've never gone after anyone else's man before in my life. As soon as a man reveals that he has a woman, I cease and desist. Why?
You know why.
Loyalty. Loyalty to relationships I'm not in on behalf of people who are not loyal to the relationships themselves. What would I gain by being a vulture? Maybe everything. But, then, what of my self-respect? But it's built on an illusion of goodness, a goodness that most people don't seem to work so hard to maintain.
AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I need to go for a walk. If I get some fresh air, and clear my mind, it won't resolve how I feel, but it will prevent me from returning to some of my bad habits. But I'm not through with this musing. I need to grow much wiser.
Laser light focus on Cuba. Counting my blessings, and so psyched!!!!! Laser light focus on Cuba. Obama! Bumaye! (I know that doesn't make any literal sense, but it makes all the sense in the world to me, Obama, Ali, and, probably you, too, World.)

The devil want me as is, but God, he want more.

2011-01-13T21:49:00.000-06:00

Relapse
I got to break this habit I say & say,
but then I don't...do...I?
Between me and everything stands it.
Resolutions.
Revolutions of evolutions.
Same old bad habits.

I been here before.

2011-01-05T23:24:00.044-06:00

The themes this year will be loyalty and vultures, neither of which are the good or bad that they appear. Are there similarities between the two? Maybe I will discover yes, but they were not selected for compare and contrast. It is that the complexity of the two plague me, right now.
Unhappy examples of the impetus--a sweet guy, a black sci fi guy, who asked me on a fantasy voyage with him and offered to put stamps in my passport, I told no, I long for the opportunity to reverse time and say yes. But I said no out of, what, loyalty, false loyalty. False loyalty? Maybe, loyalty to someone who is disloyal to me, who has a different sense of loyalty? Because I did not prefer the guy to whom I was loyal, but I felt that to be loyal was more important than to be... happy? The sci fi guy is engaged. The guy to whom I was loyal left me, after over a year of dating, dipped--without an argument and without a goodbye. Foolish me and loyalty.
I think of the condor and the vulture like the dove and the pigeon. I want to find the vulture admirable. It gleans the waste of man's violence against man, against beast, beast against beast, but vultures are, themselves, pacifists. Not their great defense mechanism--projectile vomiting, spurting back at grotesque nature the regurgitated pulp of itself. I am a vulture, or worse, eating meat I did not kill, and cooking it, in fact! Yet, the vulture is no herbivore. So, is she an opportunist? Does that make her deserving of the negative connotations associated with her name? And why do we shudder at Vultures and engrave Condors on the side of pottery? I want to understand that, this year.
I'm fighting with my mood. You know how sometimes after you orgasm you cry? December was orgasmic. I came during Captain Kirk's 3rd guitar solo at the Roots show. I feel my internal organs fluttering as I remember. "They be calling me, Jesus, please just call me Malik, I'm not a prophet," but I feel unduly blessed to be able to see the Roots live and whenever they tour. It is because it is like the visit of an old lover, one who plays in bed, relaxed assured that he can satisfy this partner, he knows when and how, and he improvises with daring. It is the sensation of sound waves vibrating up and down my skin and my mind alit with rhyme. And, it is fanhood, a feeling of loyalty, a feeling of connection with the artistic development or legacy or representation of a person whose dedicated himself to the deepening of a shared passion, or something. As a fan, one imagines the artist is loyal to her, too. That is why, in my mind, the Roots tour. But, is it loyalty on my behalf or is it because I'm paid a bounty of returns in sound, word and showmanship? I say I am loyal, yes, because they have challenged me in ways that may have made me turn from them--Phrenology--and I have changed in order to maintain the state of fanhood.
And an old lover did visit in December. I realized how much and little he loves me. Without word or commitment, he loves me. He finds his soul at greatest ease when in my company but he will never say he loves me and the idea of marrying me he finds purely laughable. It hurts, but what of my folly for accepting him, again and again? What does love matter in it? (Not to quote Tina) because I have loved every man who has left me. What of loyalty? The Roots are more loyal to me than he is.
I went to Jamaica in December. The first stamp in my passport. It fits since I do have Soul Rebel tattooed on my side. I want to make my second trip Cuba. I hope I am awarded a travel grant and a visa to go. Jamaica welcomed me like a prodigal daughter. One man asked me who long it took me to come home. Every where I went, people looked on me with pride, as the daughter who fled and returned a victor--I am a true Rasta in my soul, said one farmer. It is my naturalness, a woman said. It is my personality that shines through as beauty, said one boy. I will remain forever loyal to Jamaica from now on, with its complicated mishmash of pride and devastation, grandeur and danger, shamelessness in its glory and recklessness in its disregard for its own self. It is a country as countries will be, but it is one that I have decided to love. Will that hurt me, one day?
I spent most of the month with my family. This year is the first in 7 that I have not shuttled from intensive care to nursing home, and it was more exhausting, in a way. Why? Because I could finally allow myself to feel tired, this year. Because the emptiness was so profound. Two days ago, I was mailing Christmas gifts (still on Jamaican time) out of what, a sense of loyalty. Loyalty in this case to an idea of family that has been deeply instilled in me, but one which only manifests itself at great expense to me. What a fool I feel mailing family ties in the form of children's books and science kits and rent money, gifts to children who hardly know me and will probably never love me. Is that the currency of loyalty? Love? or is it sacrifice? Does loyalty pay itself in sacrifice? As I mused this I began to cry, right there, in the line at the Post Office. The tears following December's orgasm.
I spent New Year's Eve drunk and happy in the studio of painter William Kwamena Poh. It is he who I kissed at midnight. Perhaps this year will be fortunate. The tears that follow an orgasm extend the release, and I need to release something, and maybe what I need to release is obligations and loyalties.
Loyalty. When you come from a big town of gangs like my St. Louis, you learn to be loyal even to the point of irony and self destruction. What honor is their among thieves? None. Yet, loyalty plays a central role in these relationships. What can break the bonds form between two brothers in crime? Almost nothing and almost anything. From the brothers I came up with -- my true brother and my play brothers -- I learned loyalty. To my family, my friends, and lovers I've always been loyal, even when they have tried to trap me and crush me and scar me with a debt to them that they knew and I knew they would not repay.

2010-12-05T12:43:00.000-06:00

I can't talk about it, yet. I still have sound waves in my body!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You know there's nothing I wouldn't do

2010-12-04T16:10:00.000-06:00

I know this is an old picture, but they all look so happy in this picture. I know some of them don't look happy, but they still look happy. Tonight!

When I'm worried, and I can't sleep

2010-11-22T03:02:00.000-06:00

Kanye West & George Bush
Matt Lauer
Rhymefest running for office
The brief respite from Lil Wayne's voice that prison afforded me.
Rappers' old stuff
Fresh new stuff
change
Black president
difference
leisure time
old friends
new beginnings
heartbreak
ex-boyfriends
The Listserv!
Far away places
Longing
a roof and four walls
heat
warm places
growing old
friends
family, family
one step forward, one step forward
music and musicians
philosophers and philosophy
my vast wealth--resources, contentment, time, family and friends
recovery
forgiveness
electricity
internet
blogger
MuseCrisis
Great stories
great films
great literature
art
dance
movement
mobility
liberty, free black woman in 2010
ROOTS TICKETS!!!!! VIP!! What?
Neon Hair
aging gracefully
faith
hope
time, which knew to move on since the beginning
love, which is as perennial as the grace
Desiderata, literally and literarily
learning
job benefits
Olive-Harvey College
fun
fun at work
flirting
kissing
holding
sex
kinky sex
fantasies
The Boondocks Season Three
good people
Dave Chapelle
stand up comedians

Zora Neale Hurston

Writers

photography
prophets and martyrs
prophets and martyrs
prophets and martyrs
peace
equity
men
women
children
the people!
animals and bugs
the natural order
submission
rest
quiet
ebb and flow
Jamaica
Senegal
St. Lucia
sun
moon
stars
earth
water

My deepest, most heartfelt offerings of gratitude cannot suffice for all of the favor shown to me in this brief lifetime. Let the works that I leave this world stand as a measure of those who sacrificed for me.

my blessings are truly limitless.