Renatta Laundry

living with wraiths

2010-04-30T13:13:00.000-07:00

'I’m not a good person. Would be even worse as a mother. And the most humane thing I could do is leave you with your father.'

Rayon-Charmeuse , unable to go further, would only read to this point. Too afraid the sobs racking her chest would crash against her ribcage and send splinters flying to her heart. An ordeal she has revisited every birthday since its arrival on her eighteenth. That was until she turned twenty eight and shored the courage needed to complete the task of reading. She knew it takes a specific amount of courage to come up against one's sadness, grab it by both collar and lapels and demand a cessation.

It was the rainy season in Iwokrama and as the droplets danced upon the galvanize roof, Rayon closed her eyes and inhaled the scent mingling with the rainforest. She loves her job in forestry and wildlife conservation, loves showing people how much this meager 7% of the earth does to sustain us all. Thirty minutes before midnight on the same date her mother, a twenty eight year old twenty eight years ago, decided commuting the streets of motherhood was a journey she couldn’t endure beyond birth, Rayon laid under the mosquito net staring at the blood red figures of her digital clock until it struck twelve. Imagined her mother squatting, as she was told, and with the aid of gravity introduced her to the world. Wondered if she kissed her, wondered if she too would one day walk away from her newborn. Hell, she couldn’t even stay away from the rainforest for too long.

With too loud an uproar of thoughts for the calm of sleep, she lifted the net from beneath the mattress, placed her bare feet on the greenheart floor, walked to her haversack and retrieved the letter that has been the sole evidence of her mother. Outside on the veranda of the lodge, she listened to the night sounds; an orchestra of cicadas, rain, toads and the thump of her heart before settling in the Nibi rocking chair with the aged leaf of paper. Deep inhalation, she read on.

'Women are socialized to raise babies. To never leave them. Ever. Not even to the father who in some cases is capable of doing a better job. What I am doing is unheard of in this village. They will bemoan my actions in calypso songs & even community parables. A squalor of a legacy will be mine, will live in my wake. Of these I am aware. But this is one of those cases where the baby is being left in the capable hands of the better parent.'

Rayon paused, dragged the backside of her hands across her cheeks. Once. Twice. Placed the letter in her lap. Thrice. Hauled the snot back up her nostrils. Held her breath. Exhaled and sobbed as she remembered her Prep A class drawing. They were doing the family and for the first time, she discovered the unbalancing weight of difference. Everyone had a mom and a dad, a sibling or two, a pet or three. She had her dad and her teddy Jomo. The child beside her had asked, “where is your mommy?”

She replied, “I don’t have one.”

“Of course you do. We all have mommies.”

“No we don’t!”

“Yes we do! Ms July tell Rayon-Charmeuse all children have mommies!”

She remembered the teacher’s face as she collected her thoughts and herself to explain there are different types of families. She remembered her dad’s child appropriate explanation and the way that day contoured the shape of her existence. Hands gripping the letter, she continued.

'Rayon, do you know why I name you Rayon Charmeuse Cole? I hope your spirit would be light like Charmeuse. Indeed a difficult fabric to manipulate but this life requires some stubbornness. Rayon, because it is neither synthetic or natural. It is just Rayon; high luster, beautiful sheen. Appropriate for you who are so dark as midnight that you shine. Smooth and resplendent with hypnotic brown orbs for eyes. Almost ignored your best interest to selfishly inhabit your presence. But such blessings are not afforded a woman haunted by devils. I am truly sorry. I tried to prevent conception. Even considered abortion but couldn’t because I discovered love at first thought was real. I loved you the moment I knew that December 18th. Panicked at first but loved you strong in spite of it, in the midst of it. Loved your daddy too and hoped he could save me. For a long time he did, but now I am afraid…afraid that his or a mother’s love isn’t enough to save me from the wraiths. See baby, your mommy- am I being pompous to call myself that? I’d understand if you preferred Sola. That’s my name, Sola Valentine . See, I have these images, these ugly thoughts and I think it has to do with the way uncle Jasper and his girlfriend used to love me. All three of us together in their bed. Started when I was two, maybe earlier but I remembered when I was two. Then he’d tell cousin Clifton, Jareem & me to love each other. Non of us older than three. If I breastfeed or change your diapers, I’m afraid that ugly would hurt you like it did me. You don’t need that kind of love. Can you understand that?'

the sovereignty of space

2010-03-07T12:37:00.000-08:00

"there is sound in space and a large part of it says: i love you in a lot of different ways"

~nikki giovanni.

he wants to rest
but she cares about him
being in her bed
at this hour
in a very negative sense.
she likes to live
void of male odor
and indentations.

there is the routine
of sipping hot java
then meditation
on what will make the news
the next morning
that she prefers
instead of this clasp
-this cuddling-
but there he is…

this could be the source
of her discomfort
but it’s not
and she won’t explain
since this is her space;
her bed, her toilet seat
down,
her room, her house.
and though she cares about him
genuinely so

“c'mon,get up
hey. wake up...
i'm sorry
but you’ve got to leave”

is her way
of protecting
the sovereignty
of her space.

what questions did you ask?

2009-12-29T11:24:00.001-08:00

After stumbling upon a blog (BBWII) on the dangers of the single story and Chimamanda Adichie's speech where she asserts "Our lives, our cultures, are composed of many overlapping stories...how she found her authentic cultural voice -- and warns that if we hear only a single story about another person or country, we risk a critical misunderstanding." I could identify with a lot of what she said. In that, many times, I encountered several Americans who were shocked that there was an English speaking country in South America and that I wasn't impoverished but receieved an excellent education from nursery to university, or that I had a good share of travel experience. However, unlike Adichie, my literature experience was quite different.

A writer/poet friend of mine who migrated from England to the US in her formative years once asked what poems or books were offered and taught in our (Guyanese) schools. I remember saying there weren’t many American writers on the curriculum; we studied mostly Caribbean literature such as V.S. Naipaul, Derek Walcott and others. But I forgot to mention we also studied the works of African authors too.

Several days later while daydreaming on the L train, a piece by Nigerian poet J.P. Clark came to mind… my brain fired in exclamation “i studied him too!”

It was the first poem that Mrs. Walcott gave in order to examine imagery. Ibadan! I remembered loving the feel of that singular word rolling off my tongue, how I felt reading the piece but mostly the feverish search for its meaning. My 10 year old self learned Ibadan is a place in Nigeria and was ecstatic to re-visit the poem and peel back the layers with a new perspective. O, how that piece of knowledge was pertinent to both my understanding and appreciation of the following and its inevitable influence many many years later:

“Ibadan,
running splash of rust
and gold – flung and scattered
among seven hills like broken
china in the sun.”

……………14 years came & went when I wrote out of betrayal

“dulcet

in the reticence of solitary
i heard the vibrations
crumble pretension into shards
of unwanted china.”

At the conception of the above, I was unaware that Ibadan played a pivotal role in its construction. More particularly, that image of broken china. Until deep within my daydream at the Wilson Avenue stop on the L train, where I remembered that poem and my friend’s question, when the parallel was drawn.

This would not be the only instance literature climbed through the fissures of my brain. Things Fall Apart was the template for my disapproval of the war in iraq. I remembered how occupation/invasion affected okonkwo and the characters of that novel. In moments like those i appreciate the richness of my education and how it shapes my political views, my womanist perspective, appreciation for Africa, and the pride in my tongue and South American/Caribbean culture.

From Chaucer to Achebe, Kincaid to Nichols, Salinger to Soyinka and the line that still walks with me: “the broken silence of the heart,” I love good literature!

Margaret Atwood said “The answers you get from literature depend on the questions you pose.” This leaves me wondering what questions did i ask, if any at all? And were they the right ones? I’d like to believe they were.

2009-12-29T11:24:00.000-08:00

beats of the heart

2009-12-27T18:15:00.000-08:00

I’m not easily given to love or its confessions- at least not like before. On becoming my present self, its ease was donated to the debt of youth; only holding close the memories since the act of growing up is unkind to such gorgeous opulence. Yet I readily give to intensity. Passion mostly…a paradox of sorts especially since love is desire is excitement is passionate.

These days I’m almost young again. Half way there again. Giving into a loving feeling is not as difficult. Confessing, on the other hand, demands greater effort. Words suffocate at the throat or escape severely altered. unrecognizable odd shaped lackluster syllables. sounds of the heart:

"you know I care about you…right?"

When what really needs to be said is how emotions have become speckles, heat, light, flame, expanding dots, banding around the heart. I want to say I ignite…unbend…find the best days start and end in your presence.

Divulge how the cradle of a spoon between roll & toss of night, the distinct man scent lounging on the pillow, the once despised litter of memories… Accumulating…Our coming together. The crescendo. The quiet. The moments of everything in doing nothing. The guileless exchanges of thoughts… all…have become mitigating reasons to overlook the annoyance of your shortcomings.

But how does one surrender this without dying from the exhaustion of apprehension?

love song # 1

2009-10-03T07:15:00.000-07:00

delicious
unforgivable forbidden fruit
promise of nothing
but everything under my skin
tip of aorta
base of ventricle
pit of my womb
swimming in my stomach
you,
make me happy.

self-determination

2009-08-26T16:03:00.001-07:00

i'd really like
all my before now
back again

the comfort of being
uninterrupted
within my person;
racing thoughts of books
food, wine & men i'd like
along with the innumerable
et ceteras and so ons
which have become
morse code communiques
dancing in & out of existence
at an unreasonable distance

drifting...
drifting into nothingness.

replaced with
you
lots of
and more of
you

always you!!!

& though losing grip of my resolve
is a beautiful crazy

i definitely want
to hold the reigns of my thoughts again
own the space within my head

yet i wonder

what if i surrender
succumb
submit
admit
it just might be easier....

a small belch

2009-08-23T22:09:00.000-07:00

i'm rushing 'cross the protuberances of calm and calamity. stopping to observe the beautiful violence that is love capsize all over itself. my skin goosebumps in awe & rebellion as i surrender in the still....the silence...the aftermath...of moving mountains....

i don't miss the loud screech of thoughts halted when my heart stops but i miss seeing the memory replicate itself like a recurring decimal. stained like batik on plain fabric. expanding like yeast...rising like a thought. being out of breath in the moment of laying under fireworks.

still. i'm alright with right now. mostly because it is what is...

and 'cause i believe in better tomorrows. happy endings & bumpy in-betweens...

inspite of everything, the loudest thing in my head is: the universe has been kind.

and it really has...

it really has been.

this plan & this place

2009-06-02T18:41:00.000-07:00

Like all, or should I say most writers who moonlight at their day job, I have questions about making it as a writer…and when I say make it, my meaning is to have shelter, daily bread & recreation from writing. However, I don’t wonder whether I should write. Writing is a must. I will. I have to. But whether it will sustain my living is another question whose answer fails to come with the same assertiveness. I question this to the point of being a tidbit aggravated. Sometimes asking self; if this never happens would you be disappointed enough to deem the career aspect of life a failure? I guess this is the quarter life crisis where you ‘if’ many things…examine and re-examine career etc. Then these eclipses occur and medication is taken in the bores of routine; Wake up. Work out. Go to work. Come home. Yoga. Go to sleep. Yuck!!!

LIVE!!!!

Every time I catch myself simmering in monotony. I scream; LIVE!!! it’s a reminder that living is necessary is not an existence is an experience. And to be quite honest, since the last scream I’m kinda giddy and a quarter angst about it. The other day I wanted and decided to have raspberry tea and red velvet cheese cake at midnight. Called my girlfriend, asked if she wanted to go downtown to do this with me. She said yes and so there we were taking a pause in the beat of monotony. The moment: wicked & indulgent with all its high caloric value. Yum to simple excitement.

—Insert random segue but a seemingly relevant thought ((at least in my head))—:

I remembered this Janet Ward poem posted on the wall of a subway car.

change

there are some, unafraid to show
how life has beaten them up.
or down:
they sit on the street
head in hands
or stare anesthetized
into dumbfounding space, crowds
rain.

others
choose familiar artifice
and carry their defeat
like money
they don’t have to spend
yet

Recently I shared this piece with someone who asked me what does it mean to me.

Me: i know both types. i am the former and small bits of the latter and the other type she didn’t mention. the type that writes it out in bitch & moan poems while purposing to truck…to always keep trucking…regardless, in spite of and words like it.

S: i can’t see myself in either.

Me: i can. i’ve stared into crowds, rain and such. it soothes it really does. And a lot of times I am unashamed to say where and how it hurts. Especially when it becomes too much and i have carried it truck with purpose as forlorn tries to beat me to a pulp. Almost pulverizing the flesh of my perseverance. Yeah. Sometimes you’ve got to stare.

—Exit random thought…back to living—

I’ve been editing my latest book 'Emotions & Expletives.' Honestly speaking, it has been three (3) years since my first book was published. After a few mornings, it was taken off the market because of gross disappointment that followed the initial excitement. I can be very critical of my work so as is expected, I read it and wanted to edit the entire body. So I did and have been doing so on and off for three years. Yes I know it is ridiculous!!! Nevertheless, I feel ‘Emotions & Expletives’ won’t be that way. I’ve been diligent and have more confidence in the substance unlike its predecessors that are in the file dubbed ‘under editorial review.’ More so, I am burdened with the weight of giving birth to this particular book. Maybe gestation is over.

Also, I’ve been thinking about summer. I’m a tropical daughter and I love how this city transforms during the warm months, however, I do not look forward to the oppressive heat waves and the blistering days of minimal to no breeze. But it must be said, New York beats differently in the summer and I enjoy bopping to the pavement music. So in the name of living, Central Park Summer Stage’s “Definitely Poetry,” Alvin Ailey at The Brooklyn Academy of Music (BAM), the Afro Punk Festival, the Martin Luther Concert Series, the numerous Street fairs, a particular Comedy Series at the Symphony Place and the documentary screening of “Pray the Devil Back to Hell” are among the event bound to find me in their mix. This aforementioned documentary begs the question Does a bullet know Christian or Muslim and is “a story of sacrifice, unity and transcendence…honoring the strength and perseverance of the women of Liberia who came together to end a bloody civil war in their shattered country.” Here’s the trailer and please do visit the website for a screening near you:

Other than that, I’ve been thinking about the next five (5) years until thirty and though I am not quite ready to divulge the details of that plan, I will say this; Living looks promising. And on days when the knowledge of being a writer who doesn’t actually write for a living slams against my resolve to continue on in the efforts of making it as a writer, I’ll remind myself of this plan & this place.

uhmmm

2009-05-23T10:11:00.000-07:00

So I am doing a lot of writing about emotions and romantic feelings. And though I get tired of writers who do that a lot, I know the importance of just getting the crap out… brain farting, emotional laxative taking, heart defecating type of spit, spew, coughin shhhhhhhhaving cream.

((insert weak smile)) lol...lmao

Anywho, was in a conversation with a friend discussing Alice Walker, Rebecca Walker, their estrangement, children, feminism, its effects on their relationship, Alice’s role as a mom, Rebecca’s adult responsibility and or the lack thereof and the sum collective. When the conversation took a detour and ended up down this road:

Me: when you met your ex-husband were you concerned that maybe you wont get pregnant?

C: not at all: although i did wonder what was taking so long…LOL

Me: how old were you when you met him

C: it was 94...so i was....(doing the math in my head) 26… yeah i turned 26 that year but i was 25

Me: awwwwwwwwwww you found love in your mid twenties

C: omg… you're a FOOL

Me: love is a b!tch!!!!

C: no, he’s a b!tch...love is beautiful…LMAO

Me: hmmmm... I’m not just talking about him. I’m talking 'bout loving men period. i wish i could love a plant instead. but then that fucker would die in the fall. hahahahahhaha..

C: lol

Me: lol…you still believe in love?

C: of course. love isn't the problem...humans are

Me: and how the hell do we handle that? i cant commit to the plant

C: just love the crazy ones from a safe distance… LOL. that's the best advice i can offer; for instance you know i still love ((what’s his face name)) but if we lived in the same place, i'd be in jail right now from trying to kill him because his dysfunction was too close for comfort

Me: lmao…homicidal thoughts huh?

C: lots of them.

Me: you need a plant…LMAO!!!!

C: I certainly do…lol.

breaking the monotony

2009-05-07T09:23:00.001-07:00

a good friend who i met during those monumental adolescent years and i have the most dysfunctionally functional relationship possible. we greet each other with newly coined phrases that we've dubbed "bringing the hate." and to some this may seem like a weird form of retardation; a vain attempt to be stuck in the giddy moments of puberty sans the real concerns of adulthood. but that's not the case. my friend [with the most unconventional but awesome name] and i, can be found on any given 45mins break from work hashing out bill payment, career change, graduate school options, love, the lack thereof or giving advice to each other in the rare but precious moments we meet, sip, lay on his bed and laugh at ourselves or one and other.

we don't need to speak every day. but if one too many days go without conversation, a phone is dialed until the other picks up. sometimes it's a tedious stint. but it is done regardless. i love him. not with the delicacy in which i love my girlfriends. but with this rustic earthy aroma. i love him. and have hurt him. and he loves me. which is hard for me to say. at this point i find it hard to admit any male genuinely loves. though i know they do. even if it is non-romantic. but he does. i believe so. even in the harshness of his words when he has been hurt. by me. all being unintentional. isn't that the way the story of love goes? when your heart's involved you can, and more than likely will, be hurt? yup!!! that's the way the story goes.

anyway, we crack the harshest jokes and laugh the loudest. encourage each other with the intensity of several monsoons...just raining down. and reprimand one and other like the onslaught of a dozen ginzu knives. no pretense. just reality every time.

so all of that preamble is a gateway to telling you about an ongoing project he and i have been engaged in for a couple of years called "escaping the generic." each day, an attempt must be made to do one thing that breaks the monotony. one thing extraordinary. one thing that may appear 'out there.' one thing that probably scares you. mind you. breaking the law or harming oneself is not escaping the generic. but it can be the simplest to the most extravagant thing. and we've done quite a few things;

one serenading the other in public. observing the crazies. midnight requests to go to atlantic city. and so on. those little eclipses infuse what can otherwise be a boring or bad day. pushing the average to the state above that. cracking smiles at the corner of lips. adding new meaning to the statement "living out loud."

i havent really escaped the generic in a minute. too caught up in the myriad of issues that have graced my plate for the past 6 months. and yes, i have had those brief moments when life did its own breaking of the monotony. but never on purpose. always a serendipitous thing happening. however, i'll make an effort to remember to do one thing that cracks the humdrum of my daily bores. one thing...'cause living is beyond going to work, a little play, and bill payment.

maybe i should call up said friend so we can do that one thing together. hell if our time coincides....with or without. it starts now....

buried umbilical cord

2009-04-25T11:28:00.001-07:00

for a moment
as a hurricane
in your bosom
where forlorn no longer
stretches me
between sleep and nostalgia,
i’d rescind
the very beat
of my circadian

exhale
let my belly go
run wild and unruly
between the rows
of sugar cane
in your demerara.

be the broken portions
of fertile soil on either bank
penetrated deep stroke
beneath the shade of a coconut tree.

O essequibo
drip delicious
the sticky
of spice mangoes
around my lips
and let the cow’s moo be music.

crash violently
into East Flatbush
the currents of kaiteur

still me baby
lull me
bring the rapids
of whitewater
and somehow
siamese mend your hilly sides
to my valleys

switch the once sour
now sweet
of five finger
turned star fruit
preserve
‘cause i yearn
with passion immeasurable
to be home
in your arms.

wash away the petals
of these forget-me-nots
around the temple of my familiar
be my undoing
my becoming
my get it together

O bourda
where are your sweet figs
and sapodillas
for the angostura
swiming in my america?

good god guyana
suction every droplet
in your lamaha canal

bring back
the warmth
that brushed
me cinnamon
in ink
permanent

weird

2009-03-11T01:46:00.000-07:00

12:56 am.

awoke drowning. breathless. panting for air. trying to swim to the surface. but helplessly submerged in this sea of something is direly wrong emotions.

looking around everything seems okay. covers covered my very naked body. no intruders. deep intake of breath. jamaican fruit incense of yesterday still lingers in the air. no smell of smoke. soft music still humming from the radio. book i was reading now my companion on the other side of the bed. everything seems normal. so what is wrong?

in a semi-calm-sort of panic way, marched to dresser to retrieve tank top and pajama. same march led to the kitchen. everything is as yesterday. door of apartment still locked. good god. what is wrong?

back to bedroom. abruptly disrobing hoping the feeling would follow suit. subside. anything but linger. but there is nothing like wishful thinking. what is wrong? is it my mom? are my siblings okay. my father? where is my phone? GOD! where did I put it? nakedly walk to coat closet. found in right side coat pocket. where is that damn phone card when i need it.

a groggy mother whose warm south american voice asks “honey, is everything okay” is greeted with “no…i woke up weird. are you okay. is everybody okay?” she replies “yes. we are all fine. what about you? you don’t sound yourself.”
“i’m okay. i was just worried about you. is my father okay?”
“yeah, your poppa is as fine as an old man could be…you know ?” ((heavy laughter)) and when her usual teasing didn’t get the grown accustomed to reply. she asked “what’s wrong sweetie?”
“nothing. i love you.”
“i love you too baby but you’re beginning to scare me; i made fun of your father and you said nothing. you know i was only joking. as usual…right?”
“yeah. i know. i didn’t mean to worry you. i’ll go back to sleep now. talk to you tomorrow. love you oodles. ”
“love you too booger. i’ll call you tomorrow.”

gazing at phone in hand. the feeling is resilient. refusing to dissipate. not wanting to get gone. so i’m still drowning. except now my breath is steady. ingesting big gulps of something is wrong solvent. small pockets of fear build beneath my pores. in turn i goose bump everywhere. what is this?

1:44 am.

“i found god on the corner of 1st and amistad…” filters from the radio. the fray are a good band. i enjoy their music. i tell myself this in hopes of drifting with the lyrics. with the sound. away from here. it proves to be a difficult feat. maybe i was dreaming. it has to be a dream. what was i dreaming about? gosh…i don’t remember. no…no it is not that i don’t remember. i wasn’t dreaming at all. is this a gotdamn panic attack?

intense anxiety: check. cognitive symptoms: check. fear; check. well i’ll be damned. i’m having a mini-fuckin-panic attack and i don’t know what’s the trigger.

“…the space between the tears we cry is the laughter that keeps us coming back for more. the space between the wicked lies we tell and hope to keep safe from the pain…” catches my ear. i love this song. heard it tons of times. never got sick of it. but it resonates in a different way today. “…these fickle, fuddled words confuse me…. these twisted games we're playing…all we can do, my love is hope we don't take this ship down…the rain that falls splash in your heart ran like sadness down the window into…the space between your heart and mine…”

the next song dances in. i don’t pay keen attention. still mulling over the previous. until it dawns on me. something IS wrong. and i know what it is too. i miss love. just genuine love. no games. no betrayal. no hurt. semantics. rules. and all of that. just love. only that. i buried that need in my subconscious. denying it matters on a conscious level until it forced its way up…forced its way to the surface…forcing me awake to face it in a panic.

relationships I

2009-03-04T01:04:00.000-08:00

i simply hate
how crippled
wilted flower
brushed against
a rim of wind
tangled amongst
the thorns of itself
perched on yet
another random fence
you make me…

always almost tentative.

save for last night
when crashed surely
in sequence
you then i
upon specks of euphoria
bursting open
in certainty
we were together.

i seldom hold
onto these pieces
of roller coaster

seldom hold
anything
for that matter

‘cause i
want to be safe
‘cause i purpose
not to
be
come
or go
berserk
under spasmodic
floodlights
of affection

yet i do.

cataloguing
brownie eating
with cranberry apple
juice flavored lips
sewing frills
of conversation
on comfort’s frock
at 3am wednesday
weekday morning
knowing the days
are best started
this way
with you…

then next day
outer body watch
the careful mental replay
in order to keep safe
this priceless keepsake
of you & i.

i simply hate
the big beautiful
luminousity
of our/we/us
when it makes my
once very righteous stand
in bymyselfisalright
present tense dull
and left wondering
if you coagulate too
if the threat
of impromptu darkness
worries you
if you worry at all
if you feel as i do
why won’t you
show you do
if you if as many things
if you
do any or all of these too.

sitting precariously
between feeling
and self-preservation
i demand to know if
-no-
i accuse you of
not caring
whether good friday
falls on a wednesday

calmly you say
“i went to the barber today”

and only then do i notice
the difference that pushed
flapping gums through
trap doors of silence.

“i do care… do think of you
even when i shave my beard.
isn’t this the style you said
would look good on me?”

head nod big smile i reply:
“yes it is & you look handsome”

letting it out

2009-02-10T20:59:00.000-08:00

11:59pm.

pliant in tank top and short shorts upon brown sheets listening to Wendy St. Kitts' "So Good Yeah." the dim of the room rings with the honesty of this song. her voice is rich. sultry. mellow. washing over me with cool i allow.

12:03am

ahhhh that knocking interrupts me again. the rastaman downstairs entertains visitors at ungodly hours. not like it is any of my business. save it wakes or interrupts my mental float 'cause these hours are best for rest or for thought. tonight with every tap tap the visitor makes upon his bedroom window. the very window directly above my own. i wink. imagining it like congo. like djembe. like heart beat. it stops. i guess he opened the glass. i'm neither disappointed or relieved. some things in life require neutral litmus reaction on the pH scale of concern.

12:09 am

meshell ndegeocello's faithful barrels through dell speakers. and i remember piercing words said. and though i meant each and every one. the weight of a single ounce could prove too hefty for the shoulders of its recipient. for this. i waiver a flailing rag of regret. it was cruel. probably harsh too. but it was true. sharp and pointed weapon that truth is. i won't say sorry for what i said. that is exactly how i felt. then. but i would apologize for the hurt. if it did inflict any. i am terribly sorry. especially since i was treated with compassion. ghetto flawed and all the treatment was genuine. sweet. relaxing. homely to the umpteenth power...

12:28am

drifting ashore after being lost in a sea of thoughts.

12:29am

i slightly miss you. already. too soon.

12:30am

and your damn food!!! how dare you be good at that too!!!

12:34am

tonight. doesn't quite feel as luxurious as its predecessors.

12:41am

phone's ringing. a glance at the ID reveals it's not you. but if you call. i will apologize. in the sideways way people do when they are guarding against the elements of interaction. touch. and such.

12:43am

long term friends have learned to deal with my honest. however. for new friends. this is quite a feat. the sometimes nasty abrasive nature of aries' judgement can be cruel. damn! now i feel my own beating upon my person!

12:52am

tomorrow. what do i do with it? i've got 24 hours all to my lovely self. it's supposed to be warm. i'm dialing that number against good judgement. voicemail kicks in. no message is left. i believe and am almost sure of being ignored.

i really should say something. even if it isn't an apology. for example: "hey. it's me...could you give me a call when you get this message?" nah! my number registered twice. that's enough! hell!!! i am reaching out in reconciliation here.

12:56am

i feel so bad. i'm signing off this machine to read a book...

at the cusp...

2009-02-08T04:24:00.000-08:00

maybe it has something to do with listening to india's upcoming album; loving and sensing kinship in "therapy," "he heals me" or simply appreciating "chocolate high" and the sweet of my own desire. or recognizing that i am the beauty of my thoughts... the pleasure of my woman core.

O, to feel so awaken.

embracing the weekends. craving them even. as if life begins friday evening and doesn't break breath until monday morn.

immersing in the condensation. the rush of sensations in every bead of perspiration nightime makes. the steady thump thump of my favorite 3 inches of ascension against the floor. the heady vibration of exquisite but minimal fabric against sappodilla sweet skin. and music. and wine. and cocktails. and sweat pooling at the waistline of black fishnets riding shotgun on its owner's hips.

and speed. and pace steady. and breaths held deep. and hips gyrating. and calm. and rush. and my body.

constantly whispering thank you. for renewed muscles. for basking in arousal with joy and wonderment. for consideration. for capoeira tokens. for living fully in it. in the ripen moment.

maybe. it has to do with giving personal permission to combust at will. upon impulse. maybe. it has something to do with sleep late mornings on luxurious sheets and plush pillows smelling of left over burberry perfume and laundry detergent. or the pamper goodness of gourmet dishes served. not hot. not cold. not warm. not cooked by my hands. but just the way i like it. fork full of decadent orgasm goodness.

and one spring-like day in winter with girlfriends that are like lovers never had. but worth having. so we share chunks of whole heart.

i'm powerless to this joy i wish will never end. this well-spring of happiness i pray will never dry. this coming to life i hope wont die.

now standing at the cusp of 24 looking into the window of 25, i'm delighted to be alive.

until the jug's empty...

2008-12-31T16:49:00.000-08:00

there is an ongoing struggle to rise above the funk of missing home. one that i am losing miserably. so much so that it has found a function. this funk that is. created a space within my body. just to make me unhappy.

grew itself into an organ. an unhealthy cancerous one at that. atrophying my other emotions. at very inconvenient moments.

sometimes. i wonder if the art is worth the sacrifice. if these psychic lacerations would leave ugly scarring. like a complete disdain for humans. being in such a cold place for so long. being betrayed so often. being away from the kiss of the place that understands me most. is the art worth the pain. i really want to see these theater productions through. want to inject a new wave of art into guyana's cultural scene. these things i am sincerely passionate about. and this new york sojourn is necessary. for that purpose. but sometimes. and there are a lot of sometimes these days. i wonder. for once love. can't you just quit. then self is chastized. and miserable remains. every time that thought surfaces.

as a result. my pen hemorrhages ink of the sad sort. this bothers me. to hear that low unhappy squeak from the ball of my pen. bouncing off the keyboards attached to my life. to be quite honest. i'm slightly ashamed of my sad.

.was in a conversation expressing the shame of my pen & wanting yet not wanting to be butt nude for the world. and so part of it went.

ME: hey. that's my next blog
AO: as well it should be. i understand.
ME: i am not gonna blog that
AO: why not?
ME: too nude
ME: i've been writing too much *woe is me po me poetry* and the likes
ME: my pen sounds depressed
AO: i thought the pen was the extension of the poet and not otherwise.
AO: or vice versa rather.
ME: and so i must spread my vagina lips for the world?
AO: no. not what i am saying at all. how you purse your vagina lips is solely your own decision.
AO: but as you are so shall your pen be.
AO: quincy jones said pour the jug out until it's empty.
AO: i'm sorry...i shut up.
ME: no. no need to shut up

pour the jug out until it's empty. huh. well. a spurt of me is:

.severed.

.i want to mend time. the infinite-like space between the last time and the time i will be home.

but. in the meanwhile. just give me back. the peace & passion of my pen...

.severed.

2008-12-30T23:16:00.000-08:00

tear away the pieces of sinew
from the pieces of me
unclothe the pieces of my pieces
and i’ll roam
brooklyn to broadway

losing myself
in the ridiculous
tangerine greens
reds and blues
of neon city.
climbing to the top
of the rock
hugging the possible
crash;
imaginary flight
into that vast expanse
of cold concrete
beneath.

spread my everything thin
Brownstone[d] upon this urban sprawl
degrees & memories
burned as effigies
to the god of forlorn

‘cause
something
must be greater
than my lonesome.

hey new york city
it’s me!
jaywalking across
this manhattan conspiracy.

tear away the pieces of sinew
from the pieces of me
unclothe the pieces of my pieces
echoed in 3 inches of leather ascension
click clacking the sidewalk gossip.

yes new york
city of wraiths
hang upside down
that i might have these feet
dipped in sky
locs wet in prisms of moon
emanating from
the belly of the Hudson

beloved
tear away these pieces
of my humanity
i'd rather not feel.

STAND UP TO CANCER

2008-09-11T09:12:00.000-07:00

as one who loves fashion and music, and supports NGO's and charities for the work they do in the community/ for humanity, it was only natural that when the three blended for the fifth FASHION ROCKS broadcast, i was glued to the television.the following STAND UP TO CANCER ,collaboration had me bobbing my head while dialing the 1-888 number to STAND UP ...cause i've got a womb, ovaries, a cervix, colon, two breasts where cancer can reside. Take a peep and see if you are inspired to STAND UP TO CANCER or just want to bob your head and feel good for good music.

caring for an extrovert

2008-08-26T14:55:00.000-07:00

dear lonely

bookworm stuck between the stubborn

double lined, two and a half inch margin

of poetry and fiction

embracing the sum of your experiences

in the solemn breath of vicarious living

and wish I’d done it encounters;

may you discover hope in your own person

and solid ground in the weight of your name.

**signed**

The person who used to leave her person behind
when she entered the room.

quit.

F&%^&$^&^%$&K !!!!

2008-08-23T07:21:00.000-07:00

Painted a blood red graffiti

love whispered in a pained tone

this hurts

dulcet

2008-08-15T12:03:00.000-07:00

in the reticence of solitary

i heard the sounds of pretention

crumble into shards

of unwanted china.

after ones self.

2008-07-22T08:08:00.000-07:00

I’ve lovers and ideas
buried in the finesse
of my bygone.
and if I unearth
the few still wrapped
in themselves
and our pubic fiber,
blood and sulfur
would be the result.

For I have loved
the lot of them
like crisis with a hard d!ck,
written poems as homage
in ink caustic
then Li Po’d them with diesel
'n' matches upon saline liquid
and cold sides of the
once upon a time warm bed.

Some I’ve bitten and bled
in the throes of passion,
even been submissive to one
dominatrix to another
but powerless to the one
who called me equal
and so the questions began.

Some that I minded
and others such as;
why would a non-drinker
own a percolator?
that was answered:
I once had a grand idea of
cafe au lait and beignets
on no church Sundays
right after love making Saturdays
or Cuban cappuccino
on any given day
for the lover
who consumed java
like I did my art and him
and whose love
was Cryptic like tea leaf readings
but never ever reserved
for only me.

But I won’t uncover
the nakedness
of those relationships
and the ideas birth from them.
I just needed this crack
for some steam to pass
before the pressure blows
the whole lid off.

Afro Punk Festival

2008-07-18T02:32:00.000-07:00

The Stage

Color is beautiful

Line for my way too small free afro punk tee

A sista @ her booth

when Brooklyn comes alive

2008-07-16T06:28:00.000-07:00

It is not the green that emerges from the fright of the once upon a time frigid days of winter, or the high pollen count and the almost sudden spill of color from Japanese Cherry Blossoms during the Spring solstice that marks Brooklyn coming to life. Instead, it is underneath the oppressive heat that bounces off concrete walls as it exacerbates the smell of Wednesdays' garbage awaiting pick up on pavement broken-in by timbs, pumps and sandals of every persuassion when this borough literally takes her first few breaths out of hybernation. A voluptuous siren carved curvy with hipster neighborhoods, clothed flamboyant by a dense immigrant population, feet shod with Manhattanites and yuppies in search of cheap rent and the trendy spots littering her expanse, she is the tastiest gumbo in New York City. A living breathing organism that lives her best life during the meagre days of summer; Brooklyn is pregnant with ferocity and calm, dynamism and verve. A chilled Mojito; she quenches summer boredom with citric taste and a kick that takes the edge off what can be a frantic New York existence--all done without breaking the bank. And if you don't believe, the Afro Punk Festival is always a prime example.

On July 13th, Clinton Avenue morphed by DJ Rush Medina, Kudu, J*Davey, The Carps, The Thirst, The Ceasarz, Afrocentric fashion designers, arts and crafts, and a plethora of beautiful people found my old college friend and I riveted by the scent, sounds and energy reverberating through the air. For some, the street became the roda for capoeira. For others, it was the stage where b-boys and girls flaunted their skills. Altogether, we danced to funk, punk, reggae, salsa, reggaeton and every sound that emanated from the speakers. Often times, my friend and I found ourselves riveted by the coppertone, earth brown, sappodilla sweet and chocolate rich slew of beautiful people sporting mohawks, afros, dreadlock, bald heads and even perms...embarassingly diverting our gazes when caught staring. However, this was not all that we did.

Noree[my guyfriend] networked with a brother that makes crochet hats, bought a tee with the afro-punk logo and another with an anti-religion statement made by another brother who founded the Clothing Company Coup d'etat. I, on the other hand, stayed in the line for free Afro-punk tees. Sadly, by the time I got to the table and after scorching in the unforgiving heat, they were out of ALL adult sizes. This is what happens when you're cheap! So I begrudgingly settled for the extra small child size of which I personally vowed to give a young one. Somewhat parched from the heat and my disappointment, I headed to the free bar with no queue of people for bottled water [still cheap] before consuming one of the best corn on the cob I've tasted [which Noree bought from a vendor.] Don't get me wrong, I did spend money.

From Sewra, I bought a three strand gold and yellow waist beads dubbed, 'i love me some he' of which I plan to sashay nude in-- for him. Weeeeeeell, I also plan to wear it under my clothing. In addition, money was well spent on a lovely afrocentric necklace and pair of matching earrings that stirs my world before returning to the root of the entertainment. Unable to control the sensations budding in my muscles, I joined the swaying crowd beneath the stage . There I rememebered Bob's lyrics; "One good thing about music, when it hits you feel no pain." Several right hooks, left jabs and uppercuts later, I was still in the fight as the brighest star in the galaxy became the spotlight at high noon. We pounced the bitumen in elation with every hip, hand and foot movement until 8pm where we were urged to leave. No one anticipated leaving so soon but upon the promise of the festival's annual return next year, left in an orderly fashion.

It is my intention to breathe with the borough in which I live and as she inhales I'll do the same...exhaling with every night cap until the next breath comes with the sunrise. Upon this hatha journey, I will document every event [free or otherwise ((smile)) that brooklyn and I experience.

Peace is peace of mind!

-the blues-

2008-06-17T08:22:00.000-07:00

Don’t nobody know blues
Like the somebody singing the blues

a semi-tone sung so low
it limbos beneath the major scale
in flattened thirds, fifths and seventh scale degrees
Of a twelve-bar series
pushing through and across the concentration gradient
of your person.

i don't sing for expressive reasons

for the blues
is music that comes into you
like the sweltering heat permeating galvanized sheets
and it feels like
it stays days unend without end even after the disc ends.

i don't sing for expressive reasons

for the blues
remain a song sung with so much soul
you'd think it's a living thing
but i sing
and that's the thing about it

Don’t nobody know blues
Like the somebody singing the blues.

have you ever sing you a field-holler
a call and response
when breath comes hot like vapor?

blues I

2008-06-15T12:30:00.000-07:00

((days pass on end...will pass on end ))

but tag of girl that needs too much and whines a lot shall never be mine

Instead, I give thanks for a Saturday spent at the spa, building a business that is my own and dinner with family. In those short moments, one can realize self love hugs back and a moment of vicarious living is sweet.

words than need an outlet

2008-05-22T23:38:00.000-07:00

I love him more than I let on during the [some]times that he angers or irritates me. Other times, I want him more than his mortal body and human responsibilities would allow; in those times I want him snuggled with his man smell in my aura having conversations, or taking up residence on my bed which sits thousands of miles from where he lives. I love him more than I let on when we are on good terms. For there are only so many times and ways a woman can tell a man 'i love you sweetie' before it becomes monotonous to his ears. But if you want to know, I really do love him and he never complains when I say it over and over until we both loose count of how many times I've said it in one day.

this man I love lives too far away, so from time to time, I whine about proximity and missing him.

Although it is not my first stint at love or love from a far for that matter, it is the hardest on my heart and the strongest sense of knowing this is it....knowing he is who I am supposed to be with while the breath of life permits. Yes, I have had that spin my world dizzy with emotions in slow motion replay type of love from a man who knows how to love a woman and I loved him near and a far. But never did I have this deeply seated awareness growing and consuming me to build a family with him or the crippling feeling distance brings

and seldom do I discuss this, except in my head.... but after several lost battles with the voices of reason within, I do so now in this blog; there are times I envision being his wife and wish he'd just go right ahead and ask me the damn question. The distance is cruel. But the superego tells me to learn patience even if it kills every epithelial membrane atop my sanity. Truth be told, whether I am really learning that patience or dilluding myself as a coping mechanism, it matters not. I love this man. At one point, a womanist surge almost moved my lips and tongue to utter 'will you marry me' instead of waiting on him. However, the knowledge of how much asking that question means to him silenced those unspoken words and now I am right back to square one. Be patient; you will have each other forever, in due time.

But for a loving heart overflowing at its rim, in due time can seem like a very long time...

Masticated

Ribbons of ecstasy

Come loose

As tomorrow threatens

To embrace the open road

That builds the divide

Between our cities.

Fighting to hold it together

To hold back an instinctual reaction

Towards the agony of loving him

Against proximity against his absence

Proves to be as futile

As the kite ruled by the wind.

Almost out of time,

I can only savor

The minute by minute replay

That forces tears to drown

In the very well they form

In my throat, upon my spirit

And my face.

He doesn’t know,

And may never conceive

How wide the seat he inhabits

In the stomach of me.

Leaving to return

Is such a bitter tube

That suctions the marrow

From the bone of

My once upon a time in reality.

It’s so real the missing of Chicago

When New York houses me

rambling

2008-05-13T09:03:00.000-07:00

another great pair of shoes joined the wardrobe family / but i appreciate even more the beauty of Candace / and she is beautiful / found new belief in my mother who faithfully believes i am a fine human being / accepted intuition as magic / somewhere stuck in my memory are the five guys that asked me out on my most recent bus ride / along with the Hebrew one drumming on the train that made me smile / i am constantly centering my being / but exist off kilter sometimes / love and savored that slice of apple crumble pie / even though i had three consecutive nightmares two nights ago / and two good dreams too long ago / i love toolsie and smiling people / but not so happy people have a cozy place in me / want to try something new / before that boat sinks at the dock too / Renee has matured / he has pubic hair and muscles / where did the years go / a question i would never ask him / these are some of the contents of my head / a lover and i once adopted an awning / filled the cracks and painted it bright pretty pinkish purple / common shelter / now we are like orange in between the broken neon lights blue / fire and ice / past tenses of past times / like the someone that slipped the key to the thief / smile / I did just now / dining out is fun / I remember / but cheap cheese pizza and expensive wine on sunday is even better / i am rambling…

hunt

2008-04-15T21:06:00.000-07:00

Beres banded his melody
with their circadian rhythm;
So 3 am was no time to be asleep.

Gazelle sleek dipped in
I want you all over me
Pushed past
The Lion coated in Somali rose
And the essence of the wild.

he noticed that she
pretended not to notice.

Three songs
2 Mojitos
1 double shot of greygoose

And the lion
Maneuvered through the jungle of people
protectively swaying between
The gazelle and him

Smelling a faint murk
Of danger in oxygen
She slipped through the
Crowd to the safety of
The other end of the woods.

Unrelenting,
he wandered the forest
On a prowl until he cornered
Her in her own safety net.

Trapped,
They wrestled
Hips clashing hips
Shoulders grazing shoulders
And Locked gazes.

The predator wants his prey
The prey refuses to fall victim
So the dance continued.

Enthralled by her grace
He shook his mane and roared
For her to see his strength.
Unmoved, she stood her ground.

They rocked roots like reggae
Ignoring the rising sun above the
Canopy trees because music
Wrapped them in a fight like sheets.
Delicate marijuana
Escaped his breathy lips
which she captured
In her nostrils
And breathed:

“There's one good thing about music
When it hits you, you feel no pain”

He prodded:
“So hit me with music
Hit me with music”

They fought fist full of moves
Until light swallowed the darkness
And the chase ceased.

The gazelle outran the lion
Who left with a whet appetite
And winded breath.
She sauntered her way to the exit
Thankful to be alive

Nag: lay the fuck off me!

2008-04-05T04:34:00.000-07:00

I forgot half a bell pepper
And some string beans
In the crisper

They begin to rot
Like perishables do;
So what?

Yeah it’s the second time
But once again
So fucking what?

Aint you ever forgotten shit?
Had something slip your mind?
Made a typographical error?

Is it really something
To gwaan bad about?
I mean really...is it?

I strongly suggest
You lay the fuck
Off me!!!

Yeah
That’s what I suggest you do!
lay the fuck off me!

sibling

2008-03-27T10:08:00.000-07:00

She loves him linoleum cold
Blue flame hot
Lost left side shoe found
Right hand close
Heart to soul deep
Continuum with no end
Continuous
Like last night lonely
He’s too far
That-a-way becomes a divide
Too wide to bridge across.

She loves him our song special
More than a man loves his wife
Just like Christ and his church
Lay down your life
Treat you the way I treat me
Unconditional.

She loves him Tom and Jerry silly
on cartoon sunday
like Saltfish and bakes
on breakfast saturday
revolutionary righteous
artistically beautiful
sappodilla sweet
sink your teeth in
snow cone and ice cream
with every day heat
missed on wintry days
and long nights

She loves him pure
Across seas, greater time zones
And tectonic plate shifts
From the same womb
Out of the same piss hole
Comfort in the same boobs
Of that one earth brown woman
they both call mom.

She loves him
The way Renatta
Loves Renee

the vagrant searches for home and warmth among the chills

2008-03-24T13:58:00.000-07:00

In too rare a moment, I appreciated the setting sun, the arrogance of the man in line behind me, the “Tropical Paradise” at the corner of Utica Avenue where I got the cup of apple cinnamon tea that caressed the chill of me in freezing cold winds that were no match for the chill in the house I was trying to avoid. Human relations can be so amphibious when they don’t like much of each other. And so I took one gulp of tea to shake the chill of the loved one that I can’t stand that can’t stand me. Another to efface the thought that I’ll have to inevitably try to stand her since there are extenuating circumstances that insist upon it.

At the next table, a bi-racial couple engages in the proverbial fight about society ‘s refusal to accept their love and how she can’t tell her strict Caribbean parents about him. Her reason being that slavery is still fresh on their mind. His retort; “I can change that. Just let me meet them and they’ll see that I am not racist; I love you.” Saying it with the conviction of a Spartan war zealot; convinced that loving her is evidence that in him lies no bone of prejudice. On her face is the visibility that she isn’t convinced that he could convince them. He hates to be a secret. She hates to keep him secret.

I think everybody’s got their issues.

The little girl coveting the lavish scoop of vanilla ice-cream on cone as she passes by outside the window, distracts me. I am astonished. A bit envious of her total disregard [except for the coat] for the winter-like first day of the Spring solstice. The very weather that presents one of the chills that has me seeking warmth.

Wanting to remain distracted prompts the idea to listen to “The Very Best of Macy Gray” - an $8.99 deal I snagged from Barnes & Noble- talent should not be this cheap but who’s complaining? This ushered in thoughts of my wanting to solicit an agent after stumbling over in surprise at the stated ‘fact’ that there is a slim to non-discovery and picking up by mega publishing houses of writers who do not have agents. True, I love the creative freedom and ownership that self publishing provides. Also true, is that I want to live off my writing.

The war rages on.

Gazing out the window once more, I notice the neon lights have come alive. Night begins to fall and the inevitable chill looms like a heavy presence. I wish I didn’t have to go there in that house which doesn’t feel like home. But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. So I think of the day my name would be in a marquee and smile. Everyone deserves to dream big; it minimizes our ghouls, demons and fears. Anything less is cheating oneself, right?! Hmm hmm! That’s Right!

A random young woman with a Bible in hand, passes outside the window, flashes me a wide smile and it warms me. I smile in return for this other piece of evidence that supports my theory that it’s not all bad out in the world. But she drops said smile and mumbles something with the look of disdain when she assumes I’m not looking.

((sighs))

Plastic is everywhere. Doesn’t anyone like natural stuff anymore. Even people have become Polyurethane-like. Fake! Oh so fake!

This time I remove my laptop from its bag, order a glass of merlot and begin typing this blurb as Macy Gray sings “I’ll still be loving you baby…”
On my insides, the Sanguine colored liquid warmed on contact. Three consecutive sips and the richness rests on my palate with a somewhat fruity after taste that brings to mind the memory of home. A secondary wave of warmth follows. At which point, I adopt Maya in saying “like every human being I long to make home wherever I find myself.” I have been longing for almost five years. Frost said it best, Home is not where you live but where they understand you most. This is true. But for now, I must return to the chilly place that houses me. Tomorrow I will continue the search for warmth to chase the chill of cold days, for home, and for those that understand me most.

Peace until I see you on the next page -->

Real life and Earth's Axis

2008-03-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the world tilts off its axis a degree or four- of this I am sure because the weirdest things can happen all at once. I’ve been trying to escape my day mares in the nucleus of one of my favorite reprieves- that being my lover. We make fun of each other or wax philosophical, the latter being his favorite past time. I love the way he gets spirited about discussing Rand, his daughter, the community, the temple, hip-hop, a technological discovery, Heroes and genetics. But today when I wanted to take flight into the distraction of his speech, real life was happening to him. The nature of it was unknown for he didn’t say. On my side of the lens he seemed to be in a funk. He’s allowed to have those every now and then but if you only know how much I want to scream; “just don’t have them when I need you.” Selfish I know! But that is only in a momentary thought. I left him be because he wasn’t really interested in conversing and gave a reason to be off the phone. The sovereignty of his space I respect.

And so my weekend began.

Friday found me plugged into Theology as taught by Sinead O’Connor while logged onto my laptop and buried in spewing free verses in the tiniest corner of the Rugby library-- far enough away from those harrowing day mares. Words tumbled, sentences staggered, musings collapsed and stories held their ground as I forgot wanting to engage him. Writing has that effect. Another bout of inspiration visited soon after where my MasterCard swiped songs anew in the Express store. An impending summer can do this. Two pairs of strap sandals, one white pants, one khaki shorts, one halter top and the desire to shop some more later, the world was once again leaning towards being right side up.

Then Saturday came.

That morning began with a call from London inquiring why we never worked. I dated him for a few moons that I can vividly remember changing. New moon was the best, first quarter was the happiest, full moon was the brightest, last quarter was what he claims to remember the most. Citing that it’s still hard to come to grips with the fact that earth has changed orbits. I retorted, earth still revolves around the brightest star in the universe, but sometimes she tilts a few degrees off the usual axis and likes that new rotation better. I couldn’t give him what he was looking for; he wanted to hear that diluted romantic thing that exes tell each other to sustain the amicability of their present. Truth is we didn’t work because we don’t work. Simple. These once in a blue moon communiqués are unnecessary but ones I must admit I don’t mind. People I have dated are of the interesting persuasion. Nevertheless, a cool shower later I was in a rush to meet with a cousin. Lunch time found us in a small sandwich shop sipping tea. Building with loved ones can be so invigorating; it would be worthy to highlight that it is a belief of mine that not all relatives are loved ones. Real life taught me this.

Later that day the second call came from another ex.

He wants to know if I put him aside because he’s not into all of those artsy stuff. He wanted to know if it is because he didn’t want to go to those galleries and plays and what not. A nice guy- I won’t lie. For him I wrote the following poem.

In Conversation

Tried to interest him in investing
his sneakers money into stocks
...it caused hell.

Invited him to a picnic
just us
...he said that’s corny

Then the drumming circle
....but he was too busy.

Wanted to go to the museum
he wanted to finger fuck

wanted to go to a cafe/lounge
...he wanted to club

wanted to be naked and tell him
intimate things:
shit I never told anyone:
Fears, concerns, passions

He said I think too much..
Education messed me up.

I tried to let him know
things turn me on:

He had his music too loud
couldn't hear a word
coming from my mouth.

The above answers most of his questions. Makes me question out of which woodwork is all of this creeping out. I mean seriously, the earth must have tilted off its axis wrong side up this time.

Then Sunday morning came.

Souad Massi sang Raoui and I jived to the continent of my ancestors on Putumayo Presents: Women of Africa, then made plans to attend the Lawrence Fishburne one man show about the life of Thurgwood Marshall. Somewhere between living my own life, giving my lover space and missing him I ignited the urge to call and inquire about his wellbeing. He claimed to have been tired, had a lot on his mind and even a lot more to execute, but asserted that he was now well rested and a whole lot better. The part of me that wondered if some of that lot on his mind had anything to do with us, asked if we are fine. Real life has taught me it’s healthy to inquire. He replied; ‘we’re good love.’ I believe the authenticity in his voice and not the part of me that wants it to be fine. I was ready to give him some more space to deal with real life but before long he was in a spirited discussion about House music, the summer he met the Urban bush woman that could really dance, the sangria and his own dance prowess. Ahhh, music to my ears and earth once again began to tilt off her axis, leaning towards being right side up.

Dilapidated

2008-03-11T06:52:00.000-07:00

Dilapidated never quite looked this pretty

in rain soaked aquamarine turned white washed walls

Held togetherthrough storms and seasons

marriages and move ins

Divorces and move outs

and their in betweens;

children who lost their first tooth,

played hide and go seek

had dreams

lost hope

home births and buried umbilical cords

records and ghosts

that etched insignias on these walls

or thread these floors.

Dilapidated never quite looked this good

in rain soaked aquamarine turned white washed flakes

on wooden boards not quite held together

by mold and mildew

boarded windows and doors

wooden floors

hard wood fists

splintered lips

tear stained tiles

cracked concrete like cracked cranium

like crack[ed] pipes and the other things

people try to forget in nightmares

and building code violations

Dilapidated never quite looked this good this pretty this magnificent!

Note: I do not know who is the photographer

writing to say something

2008-03-10T10:27:00.000-07:00

"Free your mind. We think that the gospel is joining a church building and that is deception. The real gospel is repent; which means let go of all that crap that is killing you. Life is supposed to be pleasurable experience, not this torment..."
- Lauryn Hill. Unplugged!

In my upcoming book When the Door is Not enough, like its predecessors Excerpts of a Metamorphosis and Sovereignty of Space, I lashed out irrationally for the incarcerated things that my superego refused to give an escape, told stories that embrace the politics of me, the sweetness of loving, the joys of being with the right person, the impenetrable ache of passion gone awry, the bitter of anger left to ferment, and in a large sense plainly told on myself . Sometimes encoded and other times bodacious and bawdy. Regardless, I erased the line drawn in the sand by that particular grain of sand, then wrote in the box, color out of it onto the whites of the page then unto the desk, the floor and out the room. I couldn’t help doing this because I write for sanity sake. Anything less would be insane.

Writing is a craft that consumes my ways of being and seeing the world so much that I believe alongside being a whole person, I must be written. Even if it’s a single syllable word etched in indelible ink or a sentence in temporary; one I swear to re-write every time it is erased. You may ask, how does one relegate to simply being a sentence or a few of them especially since I couldn’t for the life of me capsulate a fraction of who I am in Excerpts of a Metamorphosis and so whined that said story was too epic to be aptly told on 125 pages. Or more over, could not totally relay how much space is needed for one individual, one artist, one woman, one writer, one me, in Sovereignty of Space. So much so that I had to write this new book.

Yes, with all the aforementioned limitations I still want to be written. I do because these words, be it profane or abstract, loving or laced with angst, are the crumbs, the jig-saw, the montage of the life that I live; vicarious or actual. They are the experiences that wrapped around me and the things I carried sometimes longer than is expected in any one lift, especially in the wrong direction or down the road less traveled. So yes, with all of that said, I think it safe to arduously pursue being written and to continue the process. Seriously, what other legacy can I leave that is my own- one that is uniquely me?

Some would say I have the cliché sickness of a writer; an over extended, over active ego that can’t stop masturbating. Reality is, my sickness, my ego, my writing and I are all far from cliché. Some of you will say, the audacity of that statement in itself proves the cliché to be true. Others may assert, if I am guiltless why not write about other people, tell their stories and things that happen in society? Hello!!! I am happening in society and as the old adage says, nothing is new under the sun so I am sure that that which is happening to me is also happening to someone else. So in writing for my myself I am writing someone else’s story. I’m pregnant with characters dying to come out and shit that should be told that I feel like a clogged up colon. So pardon me as I excrete my insides on the pages of these few books; trust me, being constipated is not a nice feeling. I am sure you’ve experienced this state once or twice before and know that statement to be quite true. Plus I am not saying that I will never write a story that has nothing to do with me; I am currently in the process of writing a novel and it has nothing to do with me. Well, besides the fact that I wrote it and it is partly set in the country of my birth. There goes me again right!?!

Anyway, back to When the Door is Not Enough, I guess the inability to capture it all led to this slap you in the face new book. And yes I think it is a slap in the face or at least it is for some folks. In a large sense I intend for it to bruise some faces and that intention was made obvious in the book’s dedication; “For those that placed ammunition in the barrel of my pen.“ and the disclaimer/quote that followed on the next page, which is NOT an apology but a statement of fact reads “if you’re in my life, you’ll be written about” is for each muse that gets the brunt of my pen. One of them being my mom’s sister.

I have never had so much repulsion towards one human being as I have towards this woman. That sounds mean right? If you know the half you’d agree with at least ¾ of my resentment. It took me a very long time and a whole lot of writing around the topic, cushioning and frilling and lace and niceties to be able to openly write that I dislike her. Talk about family betrayal! It’s as if there is a magnetic field of revulsion that encamps around her like the ozone does the earth; instead it doesn’t pull things to it like gravity does when an object falls into earth’s orbit. Matter of fact, it’s quite the opposite reaction. She has made co-existing with her a nightmare of the most disastrous order! So I wrote the following in the book as an ode:

The sister of my mother as told by the protagonist

is an antagonistic muscle attached
to the body of my familiar,
a catalyst for annoyance with
an overwhelming sense of right
And cantankerous way of being
that suffocates my writing right hand;

the words choke and gasp for air
at the tips of these five flailing fingers
pushing escapism to inhabit
the angry corners of my mind
and those corners in turn
contour the corners of my shaping
where even the mundane tasks
become symbols of captivity.

It is my staunch belief that
she should be bound like Legion
cast out of man by the son
and into the swine
and over the perch.
Who can forgive the thief of peace?
Even Jesus couldn’t do it!
One should not expect it of me

Mind you, this book is not an all out angry lynching of all my family members- just her. Just kidding!! On a real, it has a healthy serving of love, my own fight with personal demons and just life and dreams and beauty and sleep and some more anger. Basically, I hope this burp encourages you to read more of my rants and partake in the gospel of my writing. And I hope in writing the former statement, you don’t find me guilty of the writer’s ego; such a sentence can crush a sista [smiles]

Much love, kisses and light!

Woman

2008-03-06T08:56:00.000-08:00

She said that you’re not woman until you’ve had your heart broken / by a man / - So I went in search of the one that would break mine –But only encountered boys who squandered my wealth / plundered my jewels / then boasted about it over masculine gossip fences / All I ever wanted was to be woman like she says / and she said it real loud / I wanted to be bold like her when I say / I am woman / And in hopes of mustering that kind of strength I looked back upon all the bruises I bore;

Kapil was the first male that called me out of my name and I loved him distortedly / Jason touched me in awkward places and in awkward ways so I squirmed and moaned until pleasure sounds became wails and screams of pain / Darren opened doors / painted my toes / washed my intimates that carried the stain of the things I miscarried / pulled out chairs / understood fragile months and painful days / until unambiguous nights gave way to retreated days and absentee months where I haven’t heard from him since his birthday / The romantic dinner from 3 years ago still sits covered in the refrigerator / except for the candles of course / and the love I had for him then / but should he come by today / I’d serve him that fungi filled food with dessert of a slightly bitter taste /

I told her this and asked; don’t you think I’m woman now...I had my heart broken and got the scars to show / she assessed them and said / you still haven’t come of age / So I began to look at how much I wanted to be woman / against how much I’ve been through / then went back in search of the man that would break my heart and make me / only to stumble into more boys that took the youth from my skin / aged my heart to a tiresome shrivel of chewed sinew spat from disgusted lips / but never breaking it / taking drips of my essence and replacing it with an abhorrence that built a fortress around my heart / and when I met the many more who took and fortified my wall of hatred, I counted until I lost count on the day I met my first man /

Excitedly I shared the news of his arrival / 'cause he loved me better and harder than the boys who loved me / stronger and deeper than the mens I’d been lovin’ in my head / and sweeter than the hate I had for ‘em boys / but I had too many scar tissues built around a bruised heart / a stronger than his desire fortress of hate around it / along with too much mileage on an in-service vagina / I just didn’t have enough space for the space that love requires / Sad thing is / to have your heart broken you must love / and to love you must make room for it / I had non / No more space for the space that love requires / so I ain’t ever gonna be woman I thought / I know you’re thinkin’ da same thing / right?

I went back to her and said / now I ain’t got what it takes to be woman / I’m maxed out like Shawn’s credit card / the one that I paid when the collectors called / but way too consumed with more bruises and defenses of hatred to love the one man that came my way / and my heart still ain’t broken / it’s too protected / too hardened to be kaput / and she said I meant to say you’re a woman after you’ve come of age / a certain age / had your heart broken by a man / and dealt with it really well / the right way /

But I’d had it up to here with all the semantics / And life being the cruel teacher that she is / taught me / unlike the lady who said what not / I’ve been woman a long time and it ain’t about non o’ dem tings / I’m woman regardless / in spite of / I just am / Not because I have been around a few decades and some loose years / been voluntarily violated by beauticians and ob/gyns because they / whoever ‘they’ are / deemed it a norm / and yes / I flush when mens and boys notice the slight twitch of my hips / Indeed I command respect with a daring silence and learn everyday to sit more comfortably in a skin that is mine / the type of learning / like most / that may never end until the grave / have got a few things figured out and don’t know squat about some others / including men or mens and the right color pantyhose for my skin / and in some eyes these things make me woman / but they really don’t / because what makes me woman is not the acceleration of earthbound years reflected in digits / or the politics of love and pain in man-woman relationships / being woman is knowing you’re woman when you are woman / I know this / some things just need no proof / and this is one of it.

New York Address

2008-02-25T06:57:00.000-08:00

“New York can look inside you, take all your secret shames, fears, Neuroses- all the skeletons from your closet, dressed in your dirty laundry- and parade them up and down the streets so it’s all you see when you’re here. Or maybe, if you aren’t a mess, if your soul is pure, New York can take all your giddy ambitions and hopes and reflect them back to you in a city full of green lights, thumbs up, and pats on the back. I think I’m right about this because I’ve been on both sides of the coin here many times over. Cumulatively, I’ve spent years convinced that the city was literally trying to kill me- and I’ve even tried fairly hard to help it to that end- and cumulatively, there have been yeas here I’ve been sure that the sidewalks were all basically red carpets that led to total wish fulfillment- which is sometimes harder to believe than a massive Manhattan-wide conspiracy. Anyway, it often changes from day to day, if you live here; you know what I’m talking about. You’ve felt hunted here and then you’ve also felt touched by the hand of G-O-D. Don’t lie. You have.”
- Jesse Pearson, I Love New York; Some things Never Change.

At nature, I’m not a liar. So Jesse, these are my truths. Never have I found it difficult to move from one curve of the earth to its twin arc on the opposing end, because this [earth] is my home. I can live where ever I want. I can make home and move it to and fro, just as long as my heart remains earthbound. Or so I thought. Today, I find those sentiments to not quite be true and that home never migrated with me wherever I went but stayed in South America and that I, unknowingly to self, built another home or a home built itself around me in New York. So, now that the time has come for me to leave these shores, I find the same trepidation and sadness experienced upon first migration.

Forget the food, the landmarks, and the language. In reality, New York is no more and no less the sum of its parts. The people who fill it up define what it is, and that’s why it’s so incredibly unique. Unless, you’ve spent some time getting to know… it Might be hard to fully comprehend the pleasures of a bagel[1] , the artistic beauty of the lower east side, the subversive air of Brooklyn, the fine dining of the upper west, the cultural hobnob in Harlem and so on. But to the local, the delight is nearly indescribable. I have loved this city passionately and passionately hated it all in the same breath. It is in New York that an earnest 19 year old found her poetic voice, the desire to masturbate, encountered racism, learned to curse like a Mo’fucka, raged, cried tears of frustration, laughed the once uncomfortably loud laughter of her mother, became homeless, lost and reclaimed her napturality, undressed and fought for the sovereignty of her space, had her rites of passage into womanhood, saw her business flourish, capsize, then begin to regenerate and so much more.

Four years later, it seems like eons since that girl embraced JFK with her nothing can break my stride bullshit filter on high attitude. Truth is; New York was a major growth catalyst. And how disrespectful of me not to see that this city brought succor as much as growing pains and reared and housed me like any home would. It is ludicrous of me to even conceive the thought that this city did not build a lavish home for me. But I told myself, I have left many lavish homes before and called the airline this morning.“North American Airlines, Kathy speaking; how may I help you?” “Good morning Kathy, when does the next flight to Guyana leave?”Kathy inquired: “Where would you be leaving from?”“Jfk.” I responded“Our next available flight leaves on December 29th. Would you like to book that flight?”“Yes, thank you.”“Would that be a one way or returning trip?”

((Silence))

Kathy: “Hello. Ma’am, are you still on the line?”
“Yes I am. Sorry about that. One way please."
"Could I have your name and address?”

And I could easily lie and say, the emotions that followed were the result of giving my New York address for the last time, but that won’t be the absolute truth. New York did more than house me. It gave me poetry and poetry gave me love for I met him through poems of a free kind. Indeed leaving New York means goodbye to the easy disposability of cabs and trains but it’s also adieu to the easy connection to the love that made me walk and smile in the rain, giggle to myself on trains when a thought of his darted by. It’s farewell to the ease of long hours of conversation without worry of a long distance bill, or a morning poem in a text. And the welcoming of the fact that instead of paying undivided attention to the beauty of the words of a writing man, some must wane to keep abreast with the clock and the reality that few relationships survive long distances. So, on a phone line with an absolute stranger who may have left our conversation with the thought that I am a psycho, I cried and gave my New York address through those embarassing sobs. And probably did so for the last time.This, I Love New York musing is an expression of the difficulty I now find in moving from one curve of the earth to its twin arc on the opposing end, because although this [earth] is my home, I can not live where ever I want. I can not make home and move it to and fro, regardless of weather my heart remains earthbound.

This I Love New York is an address to the politics of migration, the politics of this city that made me give up my New York address. This I Love New York musing is a thank you to the city, the people, that built my second home, gave me love, taught me that I’m a lame, a nerd [a thought that never crossed my mind before], called me abnormally precocious and gave me a swagger I haven’t quite mastered but taken elsewhere would gain me cool points. But above else, I love New York because it situated me for, gave me tools (poetry) for, love... a love that I feel in the sweetest caramel ever created.

To New York for housing my emotions. I Love you!

*[1] UNIQLO Paper No.3- Ways of Seeing.*

For my lover

2008-02-20T08:14:00.000-08:00

For my lover,
I have thoughts of running these hands
On tenterhooks and bated breath
Up the full length of his body
All in the name of leaving traces on discreet places.
Once, in a moment of "I miss you,"
I penned a disjointed single line letter:
"beautiful...you're so beautiful...a man... but so beautiful..."
He keeps it in a safe in Yorkshire.

For my lover:
I think of nestling alongside, wrapping my legs around
Pelvis and feeling hardness penetrate my soft wetness.
I think of leaving imprints of butterscotch flavored kisses on
Shoulders, knee caps, the slight curves of neck and lips
To bring insects of remembrance to my sticky sweet aftertaste.
I've learned the rhythm in the rise and fall of his chest
As he breathes and the cadence of his speech
(All sound like music.)

For my lover:
I create mathematics.
Knowing that we'll solve simultaneous equations and matrices
When he enters and rides the full extent of me.
We're science when he diffuses Armani code
Or Burberry touch and pheromones
But Osmosis is what we do when 'I love you' is whispered
And returned in a whisper across varying gradients
Of concentration.

For my lover:
I have dreams.
And in my dreams, not the day dreams...the ones at night,
We make love and other times we fuck;
Both done passionately!
In these moments when we cum together
(And WE ALWAYS COME TOGETHER in my dreams...)
Its liberation and libation.

miserablist. in. cold. play

2008-02-15T08:55:00.000-08:00

troubled. eyes. see. the world

through graffiti stenciled angst

on metropolitan walls

shaped in the frame

of life. painted. like death

on Canvases. like art

Holding close the belief that

we. should. never. be. broken.

always remain longwinded

but never winded

ever holding to the breathing space

of the art in heART

but. they. Punctuated that. like a period.

in order to stop the sentence

of tenacity. from running --

only to congregate around

the common fate

of being idled by despair.

Where I painted my tired. my discomfort

my self. covered in rain.

folded knees. suffocated yellow-green-ish-blue

for passersby who visit[ed] my gallery.

[theonlyonethathostsmymelancholy]

and gaze at both of us. and say. Beautiful

ur like ur heART

beautiful.

at which point i graciously bow

and cynically thank all 'em morbid

son uva bitches for finding

Beauty in my suffocation.

a. one. side. dissected. reality

Wayward way Forward

2008-02-13T09:14:00.000-08:00

Fancy discussing me for a minute and thought Since this is my first blog, it would be good to begin with something personal; plus I feel like rehashing some proud and not so proud moments…here we go:

Felt my life spiral in and out of control and somehow find a rhythm towards the direction of the best one, which in turn makes every footstep feel like divine purpose [didn’t always feel that way although I knew that even in chaos the universe is an ordered place] but it’s really hard to throw up confetti in hell or at least it surely seemed that way. The heat singes the beauty and fun to soot, smoke and ashes.

((ouch! That sounds so dark and morbid. I swear I am a peach))

On and off [the operative words here are On and Off] during a three years span, some decisions were pondered upon, made, lived with and then fought over after they were made [now don’t go confusing that with regret]. For a number of moments within those said years, this cycle made me unhappily-functional. I loathed that! Then one exquisite day during a not so exquisite moment I broke the line before it came full circle. Again:

Almost got married to the wrong man. In my gut I knew he wasn’t right for me but I went along because of because and because of some things I’d like to keep private. Well, keep private until I write about it in a book on the day it’s no longer an itch of mine. Anyway, he proposed and I almost got married against all good instincts. How dumb! Intelligent people sometimes do some dumb things!!

((Yes I called myself intelligent. I get two finger snaps for confidence. Lmao!]

Anyway, I ended it and for those of you that are wondering about his well-being, he’s both emotionally sound and well. There’s no animosity except that he tries to connect on another level every now and then.

((That’s facts speak. not ego))

During our last communiqué I decided to respectfully close that door and sever all ties.

Since we’re on this tide of me telling on myself, I should not fail to mention the relationship I emotionally checked out of. He’s a good guy but good lord I was not stimulated and it had served its time within that moment of time. It should have been a few dates, laughs while the heat prevailed and goodbyes when the fall winds came. Instead it became a summer thing that lasted one too many summers. However, I should have had enough ovaries to tell him just that [I hate should have’s] instead, I left it stagnated and like water of that nature it began to stink. If you know me, you’d know that I am allergic to obnoxious odors. So I began to have reactions to the relationship. I was bored out of my wits and other times busied my time with work, writing, et cetera, et cetera.

He cheated with a sister [or so he thought he did, but I won’t call it cheating since I was already gone.] After the fact, he informed me of this ‘indiscretion’ somewhere in a pseudo-apology and claimed it was because I refused to have sex with him. That was cool with me. I was not upset. In a sense, I was relieved that breaking up won’t come from my lips because I didn’t want to hurt him by saying that one summer several summers ago was all I intended this too be and it should not have gone on for this long. Now I am under-stimulated in this relationship and can’t stand the fact that your world only extends to your backyard.

Then again I probably did inflict some pain during those months I was ‘busy.’ Apparently he and this sister are together now. I am happy for him. Ever since then I have purposed to be woman enough to say it’s over when it’s over. I am not for games or breaking hearts. Really I am not. Even though I have played a game or two.

((If you’re reading this or someone who knows you is, pardon me.))

Well, I shed that skin. Embraced my financial hiccups. Began the accumulation of wealth process. Faced some fears. Became worried. Shed worry. Laughed a whole lot. Got together my business plan. Roared to the wind. And took each day in stride. Holding fast to Hart’s motto; it’s darkest right before the dawn.

Then moving to Europe tickled my curiosity and I began the preparations needed to hop to the other side of the world. One mitigating reason for this desire was my wariness of American policies and how that made life in New York a tedious task. Then I got a second wind, appreciated this city a wee bit more and found that I had shit to complete.

Then it all broke loose when I thought it was finally coming together. But it broke loose ‘cause it was put together wrong. Then one by one the scattered pieces attached itself to its neighboring fallen piece and made the mosaic that littered the pathway of now.

And I spiraled. Got inspired. Walked towards the higher me. Gained a pound or two that I love on most days. Finally put that business plan into effect. Dumped a few more green ones into my account. Took a soul vacation. Laughed. Loved. Wrote a new life plan. Chose to be in a relationship with a man that I love and know within my spirit is good for my spirit and that is just dope!

((I’m really trying hard to resist the cliché of writing all the poetic flowery things a creative soul is expected to say when she is besotted.))

Nevertheless, with all the energy of my potential I roar to the wind each day I make a stride towards the best life and I will try my best to keep you abreast. Respect!