notes

the words ‘fool time administrator’ have been stalking/taunting me every time i look at this blog. reminding me that i haven’t written shit for it in the last 90 days or so. so be it. such is life. i read somewhere (always reading more than writing, thinking more than talking, telling more than saying, hearing more than listening…) that real bloggers (confession – unreliable narrator here, if you didn’t know) commit to biting the bullet. no, that’s redundant. real bloggers blog. they put that shit out there, commit to it, post, walk away. put it out into the universe and let it do what it does. open themselves up to commentary, scrutiny, criticism, and praise–all of which can ruin a writer in the wrong doses. as my multiplicity of parentheticals might indicate, i am deep in a spell of second-guessing at the moment, over thinking, editing, clipping, pruning, dicing, chopping, killing all manner of unborn child of thought (words)… can’t help it. won’t apologize. it’s where i’ve landed. a wretched world of survival. attempting to shatter the black (hey, am i middle class yet) caste… (it’s not about race, it’s about class: a mantra…)

where was i?

elocution. not quite. introduction. perhaps. i sat down to write about the end of a year. my daughter turned 10 and told me we were now exiting the decade of love and entering into the decade of peace. (oh really?) i just pray she remembers that when she’s 15 and rolling her eyes at me when she thinks i’m not looking. i’m still riding the wave of that love, though. she is a fabulous child and i’m still looking at myself in mirrors, store and car windows, anywhere i can catch a reflection, to see what people see when they see us. am i her mother? do i really look the part? general consensus is i do not. but even odder, i feel as young as i felt when i had her, smarter than when i met her dad, and quite similar to my 21 year old self, physically and in spirit. i was quite open to experience for the sake of experience then, and also, i bit my tongue about things that mattered (never that anymore). the other day while sprawled on my couch and chatting in gmail with my cousin, i checked the criminal records of my closest friends from high school. shocked and appalled as the things i’d heard in hushed tones for years glared (blared?) at me objectively on my screen in the modern day equivalent of long ass rap sheets. how is it that my best friends were drug addicts and– ~interrupts self to note: the thing about not writing is the fucking censorship going on in my head right now… i’ve hosted this conversation with my modern day best friends several times in the last few days and maybe one or two get the gravity of my discovery… but i barely get it myself. it happened (the crimes). nothing more to see here. show’s over. so why am i still lingering by the chalk outlines of a past life? i guess because i feel as though i could (self-righteously) never go (as far) down the roads they went–after all, i am the one who severed ties with these girls when our paths finally split. for so long, we were walking the same walk at the same time. smoking the same blunts, sharing high heels and cigarettes, lighters and secrets and excuses for not succeeding, talking the same shit, saying the same words, calling the same dudes, and listening to tupac on repeat in ’96 in the same hoopties driven by our fathers (if we had any). and at the same time, we were cursing our mothers for not being the women we wanted them to be, vowing to never become them, but making the same mistakes at the same time… maybe the only difference was most nights after our escapades, i came home and wrote everything that happened in my diaries, the same way i wrote all my secrets and hurts from the time i was 13. and then, of course, when it came time for me to have my child, everything changed irreversibly because even before she was born, i had given up any inclinations toward danger or harm or plain foolishness. yeah. 10 short years ago, my young womanhood made way for motherhood and things split deeply between my girlfriends from those days. on the rare occasion that we do see each other now, i am still somehow the more practical, weirder but more conservative, down for what i choose (quite notably NOT whatever), shit talker who does not think jail time, arrests, cocaine, domestic violence, cheating, or lying is cute in the least. plus, my hair (locks) seems to affect everything. appearances, appearances…that’s a black woman thing–a discussion for some other night.

as for tonight though, the year begins its end. i’m no longer the ‘fool time administrator’, thanks be to jesus and allah. geez, that was some bullshit (that job!). BUT. no turning back. i made it out. obama was elected and i got a new job in the midst of some fuckery recession, global warming, armageddon nearer than ever (says moms), bailout bullshit, unemployment, sky high black youth killings, foreclosures, grim reaping kind of living, folks giving kids away at the hospital, santa claus killers, you name it, we live it, we see it, we smell it, and it won’t quit society. fresh out of school, two years in may and things are settling nicely for me in the midst of it all. except. i. haven’t. written. much. that plagues me. i call myself a writer on random surveys! college graduate. highest level completed: graduate degree. (i sport my mfa proudly, i ought to tatt it on my back: “1KMFA,” along with OBAMA on my butt because when i leave this world, let it be known, i paid for my degrees in blood and sacrifice (melodrama) (and bristol’s baby daddy’s mama slangs oxy WTF?!) i should end this. i’m not sure i made it back to my points about the girl child, the fabulosity and awesomeness that emanates from this slim and sassy blessing, oh! the things she says! oh! how can it be almost time for her to go to college already!? where did the time go? why do i suddenly feel like it’s running out? what if she is the last one i bear? how can i live with that? what is my intense fascination with babies about? shall i investigate nursing (like, in a hospital. not at my bosom. not at this juncture.)? mustn’t i complete my manuscript(s) before i can even consider such? is meandering writing in vogue? is anonymity working better for me? is this really a better place for me to be, worlds away from the finger-snapping kudos of yesteryears on myspace? dare i utter that word? what of this time next year? have i really managed to write this many words and not mention my love? can one ascertain that i am actually spilling over with the rare privilege of connection? am i rightly uneasy about the spilling over of cyber language into my precious hand-written diaries? is there really a time and place for every thing? do you, the reader, hear how the last word of every question is getting h i g h ? do you know how i wish that you could hear how i tappeth mine keys, hoping to dear heavens you can feel the crush of my heart strings under pressure and all over HIM?

life ain’t half-bad. even with a monkey on one’s back.