this is therapy, isn’t it?

i started a blog last night, but never published it. how good it felt to say those things.
i’ll leave those words in a space to be discovered by some college boy a million years from now. he will have discovered a way to pull bullshit out of thin air, i presume.

i’ve fallen in love again. i found words that fill me more than my grandma’s hamburgers with gravy and potato salad. i’ve fallen in love with toni morrison.
wet behind the ears, i’ve become again. i love it.

i found this:

“She is a friend of my mind. She gather me, man. The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.”
— Toni Morrison

and i thought about those who gather me, man. who put me back in all the right order.
and what i wrote last night was something to the effect of:

“the mourning may begin.

sometimes at 1:00am you have to delete a facebook friendship because days prior you tried to make yourself cry in the shower to rid your body of the excess bullshit that relationship gathered. it did quite a bit of gathering, didn’t it?

write while hurt. as soon as it happens. the shit that exists in that moment may never return. write. write. write.”

and i woke up. not mourning but thinking about my friend who encouraged me to wear the black today and hope for rain.
jill gathers me, man. the pieces i am.

i was hoping for tears, but they never came, so i just kept writing. i wrote letters and poetry and invisible words on those things our eyes see that our brains can’t.
this is how i mourn. not for as long as i can remember, but at least since my great grandmother’s husband died in detroit shortly after i purchased the journal with the red cover. i wrote in the church from the third pew.

this is therapy, too, isn’t it?

i’m hoping for you.

i’m hoping that one day, for you, something so beautiful will happen.
there will be no proof to share when the world falls silent.
and that will be fine because you will realize that this moment was the first lesson in letting go and living beautifully.

mondays in sudan (probably)

south sudan must have known such mondays.

incomplete thoughts that may not make sense. but something to piss off and discuss.

i’ve been thinking about this for the past few years. not every day, but usually when i walk between the brick buildings the government built to house the women who testify their conceptions were immaculate. there are no josephs in the projects. so this is going to come out in mental notes.

i sat in “the projects” yesterday – a monday – watching my kid on the playground. let this be note number one: since my son’s mother and i split, there was no question that he would spend as much time with me as possible. now that he’s in school, i scoop him for the summer months and the breaks. it’s sad when people are shocked that she let’s him spend that much time with me. what is that about? do you women not trust the men you decided to lay down with that much? i digress.

um…oh! so there was a woman sitting on the bench next to me, talking about she hasn’t seen the father of her child in weeks, and she was giving him one more day before she contacted his probation officer. i’ll bet money she knew he was on probation or probation-bound when she let him stick his penis in. the child they shared sat next to her with a sad look on his face, hoping his father would come, while she went on with the “aint shit” and “sorry motherfucker.”

statement: for the past twenty years the black woman has caused more harm to the black man than the so-called MAN has.
at minimum, they’ve been an accomplice.

if we children of the maury povich generation have learned anything it’s this: sometimes it’s not the men’s fault for not coming around. it’s easy to say “if he really wanted to see his kids he would,” but i was a witness to a woman getting a restraining order on her son’s father for no reason at all – other than spite. then she put him on child support when she found out he was sleeping with another woman, although he was taking great care of his child. then when it’s time to visit, she made it so each of his visit have to be supervised. (sigh) did all of that make sense?

let this be said: if this doesn’t fit you, then it’s not about you.

“no, my child’s father doesn’t help us out.” – woman getting food stamps.
“it’s just me going on the lease. there is no father.” – woman seeking housing.

the government set up the perfect system to turn the black woman against the black man:

-you can live in our houses for little to nothing with as many kids as you want. BUT you can’t work and he can’t live here.
-we will feed you and all your kids, but you can’t work, and he can’t help.
-oh! you need daycare? get him to sign over his custodial rights to you, and send us the papers and we’ll take care of it for you.

benefit: the women i’m talking about in this post LOVE the fact they don’t have to work, and would sell their childrens’ soul to keep that in the contract.

the sun was out, the sky was blue, my head was shaking and all the playing kids were laughing. nobody but me saw the tragedy in this.
south sudan must have known such mondays.

gather me.

(photo by kwesi abbensetts)

gather me : for toni morrison

he gather me, man
and i’m afraid to leave this house
in case he come looking for me
what’s left of me with the pieces he found
i want to be right where he left me
praying this old house wasn’t the reason for it all anyhow

here and there.

there are avenues and streets and alleys and subways
there are skyscrapers and piers and cobblestone walkways
rivers to jump into if i were brave and girls who smoke on corners in pencil skirts and stiff collars
and boys in jeans unsure of the season
i don’t frown so much here

but i still miss you and i’d come back.


what i did learn from a professor i do not remember was this: how to examine my pain.

it is very true what they write, say, scream about unexamined lives. (google that).
“you don’t know what i’ve been through” they shout in hopes you will accept their shortcomings. i never do. i don’t accept them because i know, and i’m sure i’m 100% correct, that they have not examined what it was they went through for themselves before presenting these occurrences to me.

what happened happened. they passed it off and moved on through time, denying that any further action needed to be taken. how does that pain feel and how does it differ from the other pain you’ve had? what caused that pain? what’s going to keep that pain away?

i do not know what you’ve been through. but neither do you.

we have to start being present in our own lives.

the house.

a quick note:

buying a house has not been on my list of things to do.
i have a life to live, stories to tell, experiences to gather.

caring for a house is not what you do when there is still life left.
caring for a house is what you do when you’re ready to plant tomatoes and sit between the bushes on the stone bench remembering the loves you’ve traveled the world with and the children you’ve made smile.
the house is what happens when there is nothing left in the world to see. when you’ve fallen in love for the last time.

but who am i kidding?
some of you will never see the world. some of you will settle for the man/woman at the grocery store at the end of your block.
so the house makes sense.

live on.