knowing the truth is good, but knowing the self is better. i realize that – as much as i want to know the truth all the time, i realize that knowing the self, and the fluctuations of the self, the up and down syndrome, the hormonal conflicts, the mental deficits, custom made blues, manic joys, and love shit; it’s imperative that one know one’s own strengths and weaknesses because most of us don’t find that information in no schoolbook. we (i) get it from the school of hard knocks, from making a fool of one’s self even when no one else knows it, and from standing up, when forced by one’s own moral compass, for what we feel is right and just, and so i begin this letter to him. julian. exhibitionism…i am, perhaps always begging to be seen, or else held accountable for the words i seldom speak, but feel so desperately/so feverishly, the need to record in a way that feels ultimately rewarding…public even/maybe. i digress before i even begin but i know you’re used to me.
things. things are not much different than the last time we were, except (y)our father walks, now, and moves in ways more unseen than ever; one could not honestly say how he really was. we have deeply humorous and satisfyingly risque conversations as of late, always delving into politics and bullshit, but skirting politely, however, the issues of his cancer. mom is surviving, hanging on by a thread, and laughing all the while like. i do some, and wonder little if i should do more. she is still tough as nails…effervescent in her evanescence, condescending in her convalescence; i told her finally, he is moving in. she said, so yall gone be shacking up, huh. i agreed, thinking/perhaps saying, yep. it has a nice ring to it, don’t it? and i believe it does. i don’t spend 3 full % of my time trying to figure out if that part of it is ok. i am well. it is right. but for her, the 61 year old divorcee, any relationship of mine which is like or unlike marriage is an occasion to scoff. she leans back, spitting her metaphorical snuff, waiting for the wrong next move of my wrong next man, and yet she likes him, this one. (she liked the others, i think, just as she probably thought them monkeys in their own rights…) i know for a fact she can find no fault with him. who can, that is her? he gave her blues CDs and called her mam. he added a miss to my name for months and made me wait so many moons to…mentally masturbate; this man must be truth. and yet, knowing the self is the power tool. but i’m ok. so mom’s and her shackles just exasperate.
ju. i’ve said too much. and know too little. write me back, and let’s get this thang going again. i’m bringing your kids to see you soon. i have a man that makes me swoon. i write poems, dress z. in dashikis and locked her hair, i feel them stare, i say too little, joke with white girls, distribute gossip, support barack… i feel your pain, hate your sentence, will be back again… love your sister, for i am she…memories of you envelop me.
Nonfiction Woman 