Wednesday, September 05, 2012

She Decided To Stop Being A Woman.

Questions... Questions...
What does it mean to be 'a woman'... not a woman the body, but woman the construct...
Are we set up to fail?
I'm often surprised by the conversations I have with men - in 2012!... where women are 'creatures' to be despised, controlled or desired... I'm surprised by the narrowness of the views. Many of otherwise lively intellects fail to question their own misogyny, and in conversation, their ideal woman is revealed as being not much more than a corpse with a pulse... Pretty, mindless, pliable... Silent.    In 2012 you scratch the surface in conversation and get nails full of patriarchal sludge... I asked a friend the other day, I said, do you actually like women? Not, do you like having sex with them, but do you like them? 'I gotta be honest,' he said. 'Not really.' And this man a creative, a digger of the human condition - blind to half the population.
It got me to thinking. How can men be taught to love women when they are taught to suppress, ridicule and despise everything feminine in themselves? When women are characterized as merely receptacles of their values? The virgin that will save you, or the whore that will destroy you? Is anyone really having sex with anyone else - and by sex I mean communion - in this state of identity, or is it merely a delectable game of master and slaves...? Questions... questions...
I need to get back to work. But here's a free-write I did today for my Free-Write Wednesdays group on Facebook...
I dunno. So much of the progress we've made in consciousness feels superficial. Post-feminist when women are still oppressed ideologically, physically and socially.  Post-racial in a world still grossly inequal along colour lines. The mind boggles...
Here's the free-write. Much love and so on and so forth.
Being a Woman - Free-Write 05/09/12

The only solution -
she decided -
was to stop.

Being a woman.

Price too high,
victories pyrrhic.
She'd looked in vain
for her own reflection
and in man's eyes seen only
hunger for satiation
self-destruction or salvation
she thought
"F**k em!"

She would simply stop
being a woman.

to some a prison
to others a punchbag
Heaven, hell, mummy, siren, medusa
trophy, demon, naif, hooker, madonna
save me, leave me, fuck me, go away
take it off! Put it on! Put it in! go. Stay
give it, show it,
shake it, shave it...

shove it!

her own desires
a distraction - hindrance - her own thoughts
an inconsequential buzzing
her mind grew cross-eyed calculating
her virgin-to-whore ratio
she measured herself
the same others measured her
she knew not what she was to herself
only what she was - not -
not a mannequin - not perfect-smooth
not perfect-silent nor fully poseable
but completely
relentlessly real
waiting for the world to
expand big enough
for the breadth of her expanses
waiting for the world to catch up
to her running dance was
a waste

so maybe the thing to do was simply
being a

be an original -
something else -  anything - a comet a volcano
some intellectual hazard of a non-gender-identified person

NOT to be was the only solution.

(but very soon the panic was back
that other pesky idea
of her being 'black'...?)

Thursday, August 23, 2012

you are me i am you

you are me i am you

Thursday, August 23, 2012 at 12:20am ·
Be with me-
Be with me now please-
come on-
close the door-
shut the curtains-
be with me-
in my darkness-
in my small hours-
in my nightmares in my in my-
be with me in my-
sweaty clothes in my-
unworthy thoughts-
don't avert your eyes don't leave-
don't turn on the television-
don't check your phone-
just sit-
sit with me in-
in my box-
in my cage my dirty tissues
my running-
my standing still-
be with me in this room-
too small room-
my low ceilings -
my crumblings my peeling-
my fading- no no!-
be with me in my tunnelling-
must get out!
in my stagnation in my nowhere
in my going nowhere-
in my sickness-
no! no! don't be the cure
no no - hold the vigil
light the candle, sing the song
no no no no no
be with me in my chest-of-knives
be with me in my cowering
my fear, my jealousy my
be with me in my scars
no sorry sorry no
be with me now where I am
no escapes and no beginnings
don't even crack the window
be my proof
no no no
be my witness
see me see me
the kind of world the world
doesn't want to see
bury yourself
no no no
bury yourself with me
velvet, soft like a coffin
stay with me
no no no no
must get out
stay with me
until you are me
and I am you
and you are locked
and I am free

Thursday, August 09, 2012

End Station

First free-write in ages... Need to get back into the habit of doing it weekly as I first intended (part of my 'Free-Write Wednesdays group on facebook'). It's a good way to keep my courage up and stay in the habit of sharing. An antidote to all the creative hoarding that's become my specialty (piles of metaphorical decade-old mind junk piled up to the ceiling.) I would appreciate any feedback I might have.
I was listening to this when I wrote it.  Check it out.


People get off
people get on
train speeds blind towards end station
we sit in dumb acceptance
of the technology
hurtling us forward
we read quietly
we chew over more immediate concerns

but moments
when reality separates
when you, through tired human eyes
steal a glimpse of sweetness
near terrible

hugs exchanged between children
man opposite reading a newspaper
he is somebodys boy

a heaviness in the chest more
honest than sentiment
an awareness - in your crossed legs
in the roots of your hair
in the noise of the underground
blood knowledge that
everyone is born
and everyone will die
between those
a heady constellation of
thoughts and practices

all these bodies - fragrant - churning
growing , degenerating
renewing themselves in
the bridge of smiles
the bridge of tears - the bridge of gazes
and knees touching
empathetic shrug and grin

sometimes - sometimes
we are doors left open to each other
we glimpse the uncleared kitchen table - coffee stains
and bills
and all the paraphernalia
of a repetitive yet
uncertain life
the train speeds blind toward it's destination
we sit in dumb acceptance of the miracle of technology
reading quietly
chewing over more immediate concerns

Saturday, July 07, 2012

Love takes off the masks...

James Baldwin is a huge inspiration to me always - because of his great compassion - because of his ability to maintain a ruthlessly steady gaze - piercing right through the beauty and ugliness - into the heart of what it means to be human.

There are no shortcuts. It's a way of living, to cut yourself no breaks, to live with an expanded heart, to pursue - personally and creatively - what's true instead of what's easy. To see beyond the daily transactions of our own needs into who we are and who others really are. To not edit the complexity and the mess, but to embrace it instead. Whenever I start feeling a bit too excited about myself, I read some Baldwin and get a dose of humility. :-D ("You thought you were getting good, is it? Ha!") ("How did he learn so much in his normal-sized life? Mystery!")

Love you, James.


Wednesday, May 09, 2012

The burden of making sense.

It's after 2am. The T.V. is on and I'm not even watching it. When did silences start making me so nervous? Silences and the dark. I'm going to eco hell. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of.

I tire of the burden of making sense. I keep waiting for things to be neat in my head. They will not be.  I'm swindling myself.

Life is not particularly reasonable. I'm scared of what will happen if I stop being scared of not making sense for at least as long as it takes me to put hand to laptop. If I just let go.  If I just leap full-weight into the gumbo of memory and trauma. If I just tell my stories. If my thoughts quit stalling and finally get naked. What forces in me will be unleashed?

I'm a little bit embarassed about my recent posts, not because of my opinions, which I'm pretty sure are the same, but because they're about my opinions. Opinions are important but they seem so small once they're out of your head. And then you're just waiting to see who'll agree. Which is also important, but small. Everybody thinks this and that about everything.  I'm so tired. I want to write about more than that. 

People aren't their opinions, are they? The opinions are just clothes, and underneath a mysterious, miraculous body firing with thousands of simultaneous processes, histories, tics, insecurities, projections, terror. I'm more interested in that.  I look at my son's face sometimes and I can't fathom it, how much design there is in that face, and how that compares to the anaemia of my thoughts.

If we could just look at each other like that, see that design, see that beauty and terrible vulnerability, what kind of world would it be, if we didn't see what people thought but what they were?

Monday, April 23, 2012

'Thinking Like A Man' Is Not My Bloomin' Job.

If You Don't Act Like A Boy, Maybe I Won't Have To 'Think Like A Man'.

Ha! In the face!

I wish I could go back and paste that reply on all the retarded posts I've seen where men detail what women have to do to trick them into committing. The irritation I've swallowed! The exclamation marks I've bottled! The expletives I've deleted!

Oh, yes. Typing that felt good. I would have to do some kind of jig to express adequately exactly how good. DAMNED good. Kicking-too-tight-shoes-off-at-the-end-of-an-extremely-long-day good. In fact, I'm going to type it again, just for the warm 'n' fuzzies. If You Don't Act Like A Boy,Maybe I Won't Have To 'Think Like A Man'. Yeah I said it. I ain't even read the book and I'm telling Steve Harvey to shut up an go shine his head. Yep.

Go shine your head with a rag.
A couple of nights ago I was talking to my friend on the phone(red, cordless and jammed between my ear and shoulder) when we hit one of those points of mutual clarity, and my face went hot as the dinner I was cooking. "What IS it with that way of thinking anyway?!" we screamed at each other, "CHOOPS!" (the sound of lucian irritation) and that's when the killer line (lovingly typed above) gushed forth. Sometimes from a rather mild temperament not unlike a British sky, a Caribbean storm rage-th. I had come to a boil, babies. My voice went up a full octave, I'm pretty sure.

Every so often, you feel like you need a mental colonic after all the crap you've been hearing. And there is a lot of crap flying around that one is not allowed to call 'crap' lest one be labelled bitter. Especially as a 'black' woman. If a 'black'woman is angry, it is always a problem with her and never a problem with the world. (Ironic, huh? Being on the thorny side of both race and gender, one is immediately pathologized instead of examined in a social context). The Black Lady Must Not Protest! But I am sweet not bitter. I am a joyful smiler, a romantic, and the type who cries when watching even a mildly emotional film. A secret dancer of the highest order. A handwriter of letters and love poems. The type of mum to go racing through the park on her boy's scooter. No. I am not saying this because whatever needs of mine have been frustrated and so on and whatever and all that and so forth. I am about to blog some rant right about now beCAUSE:

(about me)
I am 1) not retarded and 2) not deaf/dumb/blind and 3) will not act as such by failing to comment on a trend I find deeply upsetting and 4) I come from a long line of women with both moxie and self-worth in abundance and I am determined to act like it. Right.

(about the issue)
The film. Subject matter? Boo! Michael Ealy? Yum!
5) Feminine identity is regressing like a mofo (yes, that's the scientific term) and  7) male self-entitlement in all its toxic (to everyone) glory is going from strength to strength! Let's run the track:

"Chick you better learn to do stuff to keep your man!"

"Girl, you better learn how to compete! "

"You better know how to cook a steak naked while balancing three pints of beer on your head!"

"You better not have sex until three months into a relationship or until marriage/menopause/death so he knows you're not so whorish as to actually ENJOY it (perish the thought!) and then when you do have sex you better be a living porn movie or don't blame your dude for subsequent disappearing acts."

"Cheat, lie, wrangle, manipulate, hypnotise and finagle that ring out of that man by any means necessary and Who You Really Are and/or What You Really Feel Doesn't Matter."

"What's wrong with you? You want to be some worthless career girl artist or world-changer? Naaaaaaaaah. You ain't diddly jack squat without a man! And furthermore, a man is the prize to be won. YOU are a poor worthless beggar in high heels. Ya dig?"
Excuse me?

Wake up gentlemen. You are better than that!
Ladies, let us not be complicit in our own demise!
Let me make it clear. I LOVE love. Love is a powerful transformative force - a glue that cements families,mends wounds, provides incentive and inspiration for ever higher levels of achievement and self-actualisation. It is practically useful, allowing the pooling of resources and duties. It is how we learn to be vulnerable and compassionate. It's how we learn to share. It is an invaluable source of stomach flutters, smiles and laughter, great songs and even better-er orgasms.
Through the lens of this revolting paradigm, love is a game where a man expects a woman to be grateful for the merest attention, where he 'concedes' to settling down/marriage and - most chillingly! - where a man is expected to use, abuse and disrespect any woman who doesn't know 'the game' (without he himself having any accountability or responsibility for establishing a  moral code of conduct (as every grown up should!)). 

("He punched you in the face? Well bwoy, don't blame him. He was perfectly in his rights since you were standing there like that. You shouldn't have been standing there! Don't do that next time.")
This revolting paradigm says of men - they are immature, simple-minded beasts. And of women it says, your only power is that of manipulation and your only worth is the man on your arm and whether or not you 'convinced' him to 'put a ring on it'. ("Here comes the aeroplane....! Come on boy! Eeeaatup...!" (please)).
(No (wo)man is free while others are oppressed - if you're fighting for racial equality but don't take gender equality seriously, shame on you!)

I'm a lover not a fighter - but I WILL fight for love.
I expect a man to be able to look at a woman and know his own heart and know that - with the right woman - he will become better, deeper, stronger, more generous and more prosperous than he could ever be on his own. I expect him to know that. I expect him to respect women as having intrinsic value as human beings outside of their role as romantic or sexual objects.
I expect a man to Think Like A Man so I bloody well don't have to.
*drops the mic*
(smooches, innit?

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Zen Exhaustion or Help! Idealism Is Making Me Hate People

One is in a very off-key mood today.
The official (not-really) scientific term for this particular brand of angst is Zen-exhaustion. One finds through serious study that liquorice allsorts do not help, and neither do macaroons. (what is my obsession with coconut, anyway?) One has the urge to send angry text messages, or make tearful, impassioned phone-call speeches that begin "Why are you being this way! All I ever try to do is be decent - *sniffle* - and fair and kind and decent and it's not fair because....!"
Ah, fairness! Why are we born with this expectation? Sigh. One can only ever reach real maturity when one realises that the world is Frequently Unfair but it is an uneasy admission. Where does one draw the line between calm and activism, between acceptance and the drive for transformation? Between holding ones peace and speaking up? Between biting your tongue and punching someone else in the gob?
And how far do we take the idea that we are creating everything in our lives?
Is it possible... gasp... just sometimes, that other people are being BastardAssholes?
I am of that unfortunate group who makes themselves accountable for every thought in their heads and tries to keep it spotless in that old noggin, sunny and sweet and clean and clear of all debris. By debris I mean: irritation, annoyance, loneliness, anger, boredom, frustration, envy... all the uglies. When I say 'unfortunate', I don't mean to say that such mental/emotional hygiene is a bad idea. When I say 'unfortunate', what I mean to say is that for such a person, Zen-Exhaustion comes along and makes one very, very uncomfortable. And when I say Zen-Exhaustion, I mean the point at which a relaxed, rumi-guzzling, hippie-type female Finally Gets Pissed Off.
It descends like a flood. The crap the landlord hasn't fixed yet. That Knob who won't return your calls. The book that won't get finished. The crappy weather. The chores that must be done. The chicken that must be seasoned. The forms that must be filled. The selfish family members. The crappy weather. Did I say 'the crappy weather' already? Let me say it again: The Crappy Weather. And Other People! Why are other people such bastards all the time?! Ok, some of the time? (another sypmptom of Zen-Exhaustion is chronic hyperbole) And beyond all of this the great ontological questions which are usually abstract and candy-floss-like that suddenly densify into something far more tooth-shattering - questions like: What the actual f**k is this all for? Why is everybody so weird (including me)? Why don't people all just say what they're thinking? Why are all the really evil people doing so well? Why are all the sweet-hearted and vulnerable people suffering so much? Why are so many horrid things allowed? And what Can I Do About It, anyway? Everyone has a theory on everything but - for goodness sake - which are the right ones and what is fixable and what should be fixed and what should be left alone?
And one is so used to being the person everyone can rely on for a smile that the least bit of angst makes one feel... well... so dirty inside. And then one feels guilty and annoyed that one must always be smiling, even though no one has explicitly asked for such a service. And the great irony of it all is that the times one most needs to talk to people are the times that one is least inclined to do so. Because one is Pissed Off, and has not much sweetness to share. Especially when God Knows if anyone is Really Interested in Listening. Yeah, I'm capitalizing a lot of words right now. So sue me! (no, actually, don't do that. I really don't have the extra).
Anyway, the big problem with trying to Be the Change You Want To See in the World and all that positive crap is that, invariably, one raises ones standards of behaviour and then - inevitably - begins to expect more of other people. And then it all become somewhat counterproductive when you start to think...
Help! Idealism is Making Me Hate People.
If any of you can figure out what I'm trying to say, please give me a shout!
Love you all! Please be nicer to people, you bastards.

Sunday, April 01, 2012

Black self-worth? C'mon... I'll race you...!

Okay - so I've been doing a lot of thinking about race lately. Race and gender. Why now particularly? Well I guess I've always thought about it - after all, what first-generation Caribbean woman in the UK has the luxury of NOT thinking about these things? But now my awareness is sharpened by the experience of watching my son grow up in the world, watching his ideas and perceptions be formed right before my eyes. Layer by layer. In trying to figure out how to raise him, I'm being forced to figure out what I reallty think about everything from religion and music to economics and the tooth fairy. How can I best equip him for his life? How can I give him the least amount of baggage and the most mental agility, emotional strength and solid self-awareness? How do I improve upon myself? How do I give him the truth, rather than perpetuating in him the ugliest aspects of the society we live in? And more fundamentally - what is the bloody truth, anyway?

Today, I'm going to scribble about one of the big paradoxes that keeps me foaming at the brain which is - how do we transcend race without disregarding race? Meaning, how do we repair the horrific legacy of racial inequality without simultaneously perpetuating it? Race is a political construct - an ideology that holds in it's every fibre the key to it's survival, like the information contained in DNA. It is divisive, misleading and oversimple. Despite it's artifice however, the damage race continues to wreak on billions of humans is profound and very real. There can't be medicine without diagnosis. I must identify and acknowledge myself as 'black' before I can begin to challenge how that label has shaped my identity. But to do so is to identify myself as an 'other', to take on a narrow identity that in most instances obscures my human-ness, reduces me to a stereotype, a cause, an exotic, an 'issue', a collection of narrow behaviours, a role that ultimately affirms the status quo of white privilege and whiteness as 'default' (black literature is Black literature, white literature is just literature etc.) I don't like to talk about these subjects much. I keep waiting to know more, and holding my tongue - often because I don't want my desire to transcend race to be mistaken for the desire to ESCAPE race, which is very different. Transcending race means to have an understanding and pride in cultural origins without subscribing to the centuries-old system of divide-and-rule tactics. To escape race, on the other hand, is to try and pretend the system does not exist. To deny one's own personal beauty and and give it up for another's. To give up one's vision for another and thus, look upon oneself as an alien. Escaping race means to pretend that one has not sustained injuries and attempt to annihilate one's past, and one's pain by absorbing oneself in the dominant culture. In that route lies a much darker peril, because then, we carry poison without the hope of a cure...
But sometimes we try to cure this ailment with remedies that are dangerous in and of themselves. What set me off thinking about this is that I took little man to his first protest today for an unjustly murdered black teen and listened to some very inspiring, emotionally arousing speeches. However, during one of these, a community leader launched into a line of indignant vitriol I've heard over and over again - one that has always made me uneasy. Soon after I got home, I posted this on FB:

'Opinion: Black leaders need to stop trying to motivate the black community by saying things like 'black folks are ignorant' or 'the reason for the sorry state of our people is...' and such. It's not useful. It plays to the very same stereotypes we're trying to debunk. There are a lot of fantastically educated people and well-brought up kids in the black community and that should be highlighted. We don't need more negativity, no matter how well-meaning, directed at a group who's already been under such a sustained ideological/emotional/psychological/financial (etc.) attack in society. What's needed is persistent challenging of the systems that lock us in a dynamic of inequality. What's needed is emotional/spiritual support so that people understand their rights as HUMAN BEINGS. There is a great value in understanding black history, but our achievements as a 'race' are not what make us worthy of dignity and fair treatment. We don't need to do anything to deserve that except be ALIVE.'
I posted it because it seemed to me that for many, the solution to racial injustice is to entrench themselves even further in the ideology of race, to create a new 'blackness' in order to liberate 'blacks' from the old one. To create an identity that is more positive, but just as stifling - appealing to us with a narrow definition of what 'blackness' means; imploring all brothers and sisters to start acting like 'real' black people, like the 'kings and queens' we really are! But a) I hate to point out the obvious, but we can't ALL have been kings and queens, can we? And when exactly. And where? What country on the vast continent of Africa housed this Utopia? This is not very often made clear ( especially given the diversity of origin within the diaspora) b) Highlighting our contributions to world knowledge is a natural and understandable defence to being told we are worthless, but still a reactive rather than proactive means of creating identity. Sketchier still when the list starts getting reeled off highlighting all the ways that black people started everything, invented everything and are best at everything. That is an attitude that only minority consciousness can support (how unnattractive and downright vicious would it be in a dominant group?), and thus, ironically, an attitude that relies on a position of victimhood to thrive. Instead of screaming how much better we are than everybody else, we should fight to be recognised as equals who deserve fair treatment, fair portrayal, fair access to opportunity and fair representation in the media and history books (and the right NOT to have our hair squeezed by sweaty-palmed strangers. Sheesh!) That is our right. We also need to recognise the depth of injustice and inequality on all levels of society and fight all of it - most notably gender and class inequality as well as race. As I said earlier, human value is not something that needs to be defended. It is is intrinsic. I don't want my son to ever doubt that his worth is infinite or feel the need to hitch his worth to anybody elses accomplishments but his own. A child is a child is a child. A man is a man is a man. A woman is a woman is a woman.

If we feel the need to try and prove or defend our worth... then we don't truly grasp it in the first place.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Goodbye Whitney :-(

The night gets a little broken and
a little of the stuffing comes out

the first thing you feel is old. The second thing you feel is robbed
some people are more than people -

an era -
a cocktail of longago moments
a snapshot of you in pastel-coloured legwarmers
earlyyouth and innocence
her death is not
one nervous system stopping
its more like giving up
your childhood walking into your present and
saying "i give up"!

(But wait! Before you go - tell me
where do broken hearts go?)

Whitney was the one
who taught you about love!

from whom you memorized every vibrato
every voicecrack of heartbreak
before you'd so much as held a boys hand

taught you what it meant to lose
what it meant to long
in a way that seemed beautiful - in a way that felt
safe, as if being a woman would be no different than being a girl
but more fun!

mountains of curls
a face impenetrably happy,
a face too pretty and not beautiful enough to be tragic
the face of a girl who's voice knows everything

Every line from the top of
how do I know! to the bottom of I wanna dance
made you want
to feel that quality of pain - because love
would be worth it!
that was the promise in that voice
that voice that always seemed to have a whole lifetime buried in it!

not the type of voice that dies at 48 -
before you know what happens to broken hearts!

Its a voice that's been holding your hand
since before you knew what music was

it mattered not if she was a genius
not judged and critiqued like MJ
just complete and whole and far away
like childhood

you shut your mind to what she had become
as far away from herself
as innocence to cynicism -

the stuffing gets knocked out of the night a little bit
you are thinking of how sad it is
you are thinking of her daughter

but you are also thinking of yourself

in her songs
both of you
are the same forever

Thursday, February 09, 2012

Euphoria Skank!!!


When I get a good idea

going like this.. MAN! Ah - just like this

all juicy in my head like some kind of bomb - some kind of bomb made out of good shit like penny sweets

when I'm like this i gotta tell you - I have to do a funny dance!

I'm gonna tell you about this cos it's time I start sharing this stuff cos real talk

I am peculiar! And if I don't tell you about peculiar stuff pretty soon I won't be saying anything at all!

So let me tell you about this dance man -

i get a GOOD IDEA and I start walking like a

chicken all the way down the hall to my kitchen and I jerk my shoulders up and down

shuffle side to side and cackle to myself

and I might clap my hands in time to some rhythm of my thoughts coming down like the kind of rain

you make with a xylophone - I might actually spin round like some kind of Michael Jackson

one-woman tribute (bandless) band

I might do something really mad and

make a cuppa tea with two bags - one ginger and one black

and NOT EVEN MEASURE THE SUGAR - just drop it in! Just WHATEVER

cos something is HAPPENING TO ME!

And its the feeling I'm always waiting to feel - when I am

finally delivered of that promise - always idling away inside me - ticking -dividing cell after cell - the promise that I might make

something beautiful - real - that I might grab reality by its head - and hear the scream

and cut the chord! - that I may fling myself across my floor and

with pen and notebook and throw my chest wide

wide open like a skylight and the heavens might come crashing

through me - this poor wretched funny-dancing little single mothering bag of peculiarities - that all this stuff - this stuff that's TRUE - and real and human might come through - might coming crashing through me like a mob

a tumult - a chaos - a hurricane - a riot - an apocalypse of diamonds!


Oh yes. And I'm bout to go hit that page again like some fool that owes me money.

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

I'm painting again!

Talking heads says it best in that track 'Artists Only':



That cry of euphoric weirdness and doom... Just substitute 'painting' for 'writing'.

I'm painting, I'm painting again.
I'm cleaning, I'm cleaning again.
I'm cleaning, I'm cleaning my brain.

Pretty soon now, I will be bitter.
Pretty soon now, will be a quitter.
Pretty soon now, I will be bitter.
You can't see it 'til it's finished

I don't have to prove...that I am creative!
I dont' have to prove...that I am creative!
All my pictures are confused
And now I'm going to take me to you.

Sitting in bed in two pairs of trousers and two tops layered up and been sitting here for the straight 5 hours that constitute my workday (there is also the 3 or four hour worknight later once maternal duties have been taken care of). I am quite wolfishly happy with myself. My hair is a mess.

I have much project at the moment, probably more than even discipline can get me through, but we'll soon see. I am simultaneously in a sturdy frame of mind and also away with the mystics. I am all emotional about everything. The snow. D'angelo being back. My boy having lost a tooth already. All kinds of crazy-eyed joyful and also Caribbean-ly practical. I am still fully of happiness that 2011, that dirty old smelly vagrant of a year, is over. Oh yes. 2012, bring it on. Whats the worst that could happen? The apocalypse! Pfffft!

ANd I am writing a book (2nd draft) and a play (first draft) and an album (just to keep shit impossible, the way I like it).

I can't share actual text from any of my official projects (that would be crack-ish), though I shall no doubt be back to whinge about them. Instead, I shall share this little free-write (that of course has nothing whatever to do with my life or anybody I know or have ever met) I posted on facebook today during my break:

You and I are eternal
eternally leaving
stuff behind hoping
we'll have a chance to come back
trying to outwit the days that faster and faster
push us along
wrenching us
from one adventure
to the next so fast the road tangles
up in itself
and trips us
into each other

and we are wily as hansel and gretel
traces must be left
so tomorrow remembers yesterday
a pair of glasses - a scarf - a book
a bracelet left idling behind the broken television
we are forever
forever leaving ourselves places
so we can come back
to the times we were loved
that we smiled all over
and felt home

we leave ourselves behind and go
with a smile
and a kiss that has medicine in it
a prescription for loneliness

a silent request that you
keep me close against your dreams
wrapped tight in all your corniest
white picket fantasies, so you don't pick up one
without the other
I am forever
forever leaving
myself with you
in the hopes
I will one day
be free
to stay -

In other news: Some people have angelic timing, don't they?

Back soon with a blog that's actually, like, coherent. Promise.

Huge gigantic whale shark-sized love,