old truths

i blog.

i write shit floating around in my skull when i can’t hold any more or when i feel a good line or 7 floating around or when i think about the fact that i am a writer who has not published any of my real shit and it gets harder and harder (well, not really – oh, i’m also big on parentheticals and add-ons and interruptions, i guess, i am a girl interrupted. black though. very, very black. but in a completely colorless way… because at the end of the day, i’m black yeah, but there’s a bunch of other shit that matters more. and maybe the fact that black is so everything and nothing at once, like how is it that i’m a solid brown and i co-what’s the word? made a baby with a solid fudge-colored man and my child comes out like honey, or a caramel macchiatio (and fuck starbucks, right? but crayola is sleeping on a whole brown nation…maybe crayola and the naacp and starbucks should talk…) – so at the end of it all, i’m like, what is black? and do i care? i have nappy hair, locs to be specific, and people still ask me dumb ass questions because they just don’t know, so yeah, i gotta deal with blackness, but my shit, is… something other than because though i’m down with DP, i’m also in love with my kid’s biracial siblings and my mulatto niece and nephew and is that offensive? probably, but this ain’t about PC, it’s about language and my love affair with it and i take that back because i ain’t trying to step on nobody’s toes because after all, i keep the peace. never been arrested for disturbing it. i don’t fuck with people. don’t even like most. not on a personal level. i’d rather watch you than know you. maybe that won’t last forever. but let me ease up out of this corner…) to just keep that stuff in there floating, flailing, flinging – that, that just ain’t cool…

i blog and i want to meet my maker. i want to close my eyes and communicate with myself and others… on a cellular, nanotechnological (if u will), spiritual level… i want to know almost everything i don’t–ALMOST; not all. not possible anyhow, but just to be clear in case something or someone greater than me (as myself) (sometimes i over-punctuate. puncture. play. pee. piss and whistle. take pictures of bugs. myself in mirrors. look at the back of people’s heads and tell their futures. eavesdrop. answer my phone like a man. avoid conflict. vacillate. dilly-dally. ignore. push it. fall back. and so on…) is listening… i want to remember how i felt when i was 3 and quiet and 11 and curious and 29 and passed out (this is the last month of my 20s, right here and now. imagine that. no, dig that.). i want to remember what i felt my first (untoward) time for real (not, for fake). i remember the before and the after but nothing but aerobics in between. i want to remember what it felt like to be kissed the first time. i fucked around and lied about the first time and then over the years confused the real with the fake. i want to remember what it felt like the first time i didn’t speak up. i want to remember the last time i came, all day long, forever. i wonder if it’s different each time? lemme see.

(i’ll be back.)