bahhhh

my gpa passed away yesterday. it seems so funny to say passed away... so gentle. he died. my pop pop is dead.

it hasn't sunk in... when we saw his body laying in the hospital bed, it looked like he was sleeping. like he was breathing slowly. his eyes were still open... they looked watery and sad. he looked so sad. his hands were white and swollen.

he was an engineer, a northeastern grad, a sax player, a mason, a dad, an uncle, a pop pop.. he rarely ever had a complaint, and would always tell you that he was super, never better.

after watching his hands turn whiter and more rigid, i started to hate the feeling of my own hands. they felt heavy and temporary. they felt like flesh.

i want to come back to this. i want to give myself the space and time to cry for my grandfather and then come back to this.

notes from class

hey all.

here are some one-liners that i really liked and wrote down from my class. prob won't make a lot of sense to anyone else, which is fine by me:

"she invites people to deconstruct her"

"commodification of history"

"a weeping audience that doesn't agree"

"we only have language for what we are comfortable with- but what about the moments when we lose language?"

"to define Self, you need an Other."

"Dont be a menace to south central while drinking your juice in the hood" (lol)

"all of our American narratives are formed through the lens of minstrelsy"

d'awww.

"you gotta remember that not a lot of people do div 3s that involve working with other people and i think its awesome that you are doing that. but it means that you gotta count on people you dont even know to show up to an audition. its like youre building a house or something, you gotta lay the foundation then put down the floor then put up the frame and add the roof and at first you look at the ground and youre like theres no way in hell theres gonna be a house here but eventually you look up and theres a fucking house that you built with other people."

- Sarah R.

this made me feel so much better abt div, you have no idea.

tired & uninspired

its been really hard to do much of anything lately. i feel so emotionally drained, even though i barely go to class, i barely do my work or even go to work... i sleep a lot. but even sleeping doesn't feel the same. not as good. more and more, i find myself not wanting to be here. i feel so much happier when i'm writing, but i haven't been able to get it together enough to write about anything. this is affecting my div 3 in huge ways.. the main one being that it's unfinished, and there's nothing that is inspiring me to write. when i get into these moods, it feels like i'll never write anything ever again. or.. i feel like i cant even remember what inspiration feels like. i read over my old work and it feels so weak. and feeling uninspired just heightens my feelings of lonelinesss... :/

right now i'm at home for break, hoping that i might be able to seek some inspiration... somewhere. maybe. i'm going to see if i can find my mammy statue tomorrow. i'm just hoping that a break from hampshire will be good for me, especially since my family drama has calmed down a lot (although, we'll see what happens during the rest of the week.)

damn, i wish someone would just send me a book of writing prompts or something. this is fucking ridiculous. it took me way too long to even feel up to writing (and finishing) this blog post! :(

another love poem (by someone who is in love with being in love)

you are looking at me
like you want to know me. biblically.
you smile slow and show
your shark teeth and i am melting.
you.
are.
so.
fine.
do you know it? damn.
my eyes have
found you in the crowd again. how do they do that?
like there's some
magnetic attraction between them and that spot
between your shoulder blades. right below
the nape of your neck. i see that spot and
i want to tell you everything.
share every dirty thought i've had since fifth grade
till five seconds ago. like how
i'm imagining how soft your hair is.. everywhere.
or that when our eyes meet, and you get quiet,
your silence always sounds expectant. as if
you are waiting for me to... what,
exactly?

when you drag your feet,
i want to tell you that it's okay to stay.
that i want you here. that i am waiting for you
to whisper truths into my mouth.

man, it's been a long time.

Wanna see my div 3?

Well, you can't. Because I'm not done writing it. But here's a new scene I wrote today. Will I use it? Maybe, maybe not. Just as some heads up, it's after Claire & Adanne have a bit of a fight in bed. Claire got a little overemotional. Now they're in the living room, drinking some tea.


(Claire and Adanne are drinking tea.)

Adanne: you feel better now?

Claire: mm. (sips at tea) that was so embarrassing.

Adanne: (pause) shit happens

Claire: yeah...

Adanne: you gonna tell me whats wrong?

Claire: (pause) nothing... its..

Adanne: you know im here for you, right? (pause) claire, i lo-

Claire: don't.

Adanne: (pause) okay. (pause) did i do something? i mean, i shouldn't have-

Claire: (laughs) it's not you. i promise. (adanne looks concerned) you're so cute. (kiss on the nose) like a little momma, concerned for her baby. (adanne stiffens) you're so good to me. (claire starts to cry more, catches herself.) im sorry.

Adanne: come here. (holds her, kisses the top of her head) its okay.

Claire: (claire relaxes. sighs into her) you smell so good.

Adanne: mm.

Claire: your skin is so smooth.

Adanne: (laughs) its called moisturizer. you should try it sometime.

Claire: (reaches up to her hair) your hair is soft.

Adanne: (on guard now) you sound surprised.

Claire: why dont you ever let it down during the day?

Adanne: well, i work in an office...

Claire: yeah. if you let it down, id be so distracted. my fingers would be stuck in your hair all day.

(adanne gently removes claires hand from her hair, claire thinks this is an intimate thing, grasps her hand)

Claire: i used to want hair like yours. You know, when I was younger. I dreamed about having an afro- like pam grier or something (laughs) and like... i wanted dark skin so bad. look at me.. i feel so washed out sometimes. see? (holds their hands out together) you're skin is so beautiful. so colorful. im just some plain white jewish girl from jersey. nothing exciting about that.

---

Yeah. I think Claire might be cheating on Adanne, the bitch. But we have to wait and let the characters speak for themselves, or something. Writing a play is hard work, yall.

ahhhh

this feels weird. can i have a retake?

This is my horoscope for today and I like it alot:

"This time is usually characterized by self- confidence and assurance. You are able to see where you are going now and to obtain help in getting there. At the same time you are very concerned with knowing yourself on a deep inward level, usually to facilitate achieving your ambition.

This is a time when you try to rely primarily on yourself. You will not refuse help from others, but it is more desirable to go it alone or at least on your own. You need to prove yourself to yourself and, to a lesser extent, to others. It is also necessary to establish patterns in your life now that will lead to accomplishment later on. You must develop disciplined work habits and learn specific ways to deal with situations that arise. Here too you must rely on yourself, because you will be able to judge your effectiveness only if you know that what you are doing is entirely your own.

Most people are rather conservative in their ways of doing things at this time. You may be rather reluctant to experiment with new ways, but that is a pitfall. This should be a time for making careful and considered changes. Such changes can be made voluntarily and without much difficulty now, but later they will be forced upon you in a manner that may be quite unpleasant. Getting into a rut now will ensure the survival of inappropriate behavior patterns, which will create trouble later on.

You should specifically examine your attitudes toward authority figures, work and achievement, responsibility, change and most important, although somewhat abstract, your attitude toward reality. If you are trying to live by attitudes that you have been told to have and that are not really yours, you will feel tense and uneasy when you think about them. Normally you suppress these feelings because you consider it important to maintain your attitudes. But these are the attitudes that have to be changed, because they signify that your thinking is divided about that issue and that you cannot really put energy into making that part of your life work."

Thanks, astro.com

strange wkend

i spent most of my weekend so far in hiding. i stayed in my room friday night till 7pm on saturday. then i went to the library for a couple hours, and then to 60 to hang out with steph and jocelyn, which was fun. but my favorite part was definitely the hiding. im sad that i have work tomorrow- if i could, id do the whole thing again. it was weird having most of my friends gone this weekend, and cyree im afraid to bother because she has so much work to do, being a final semester and all.

i think this is when hampshire starts to feel lonely- when it gets too cold to stand outside and look up. i am really starting to feel like a waning moon. plus i got sick (damn.) i still need to make a div 3 calendar- take my own advice and keep myself busy and out of trouble, till the brits get here.

lessons.

there are a lot of lessons that i need to learn this school year. i'm a tad bit hardheaded but i think i am starting to "get it".

the first one is that unless i change my actions, i can't expect different results. i need to repeat this to myself, so that it can really stick.

the second is that i wont get what i want(need?) unless i ask for it. which means that i need to figure out what exactly it is that i want (which is more intimidating than it sounds.)

third, i am really blessed. and i need to constantly stay aware of that. school has been amazing so far, and even though it hasn't been the way that i thought it was gonna be, everything has worked out better than i expected.

finally, when in doubt, just do your homework. instead of stressing or getting caught in drama or whatever, i need to just remember that i am first and foremost a student. and doing homework is the best distraction from everything else.

Love poem.

"Love Poem"

Speak earth and bless me with what is richest
make sky flow honey out of my hips
rigis mountains
spread over a valley
carved out by the mouth of rain.

And I knew when I entered her I was
high wind in her forests hollow
fingers whispering sound
honey flowed
from the split cup
impaled on a lance of tongues
on the tips of her breasts on her navel
and my breath
howling into her entrances
through lungs of pain.

Greedy as herring-gulls
or a child
I swing out over the earth
over and over
again.

-Audre Lorde

*Dear Ms Lorde- you make me so happy to be young and black and gay

(queer blacks unite!)

new friends, night adventures.

When Tzitzi and I walk, we discover forgotten places. In the middle of the field, she twirls her body around, arms spread out and eyes shut, like a distraught baby bird. She finally stops, and for a moment, I am sure that she will collapse, dizzily, onto the grassy floor. Instead, she points forward, and we follow the direction of her fingers (me, stomping- and she, tripping) through what used to be a corn field.

Behind the book center, everything is still. In this blue-grey light, I can imagine what Pompeii must have looked like, when all the dust settled and solidified everything in ash. Many of the rooms are still dimly lit, and I am afraid to look into the large windows, not wanting to see a spectral face peering curiously back out at me. "You scared?" Tzi asks, and I laugh, trying not to show my chattering teeth.

We continue walking, past the pristine bushes and trickling fountain, to find a floor of what looks like linoleum tiles. This pale, beige floor looks out of place here, against the bright night's sky, but this is what we have come here to see. "..the best part." I look up to catch Tzi's last words, and watch as she prepares herself for her next task. Suddenly, she is kicking hundreds of little rocks onto the tiles, and the noise sounds like the rattling of hollow bones. She orchestrates a show of stones for me, and the notes echo off into the woods, and I feel happy and safe and pleased.


-----
When Tzitzi and I walk, we discover forgotten places.
In the middle of the field, she
twirls her body around, arms spread out and
eyes shut, like a distraught baby bird.
She finally stops, and for a moment,
I am sure that she will collapse, dizzily,
onto the grassy floor. Instead, she points forward,
and we follow the direction of her fingers
(me, stomping- and she, tripping)
through what used to be a corn field.

Behind the book center, everything is still.
In this blue-grey light, I can imagine Pompeii,
when all the dust settled and solidified everything in ash.
Many of the rooms are still dimly lit,
and I am afraid to look into the large windows,
not wanting to see a spectral face
peering curiously back out at me. "You scared?"
Tzi asks, and I laugh,
trying not to show my chattering teeth.

We continue walking,
past the pristine bushes and trickling fountain,
to find a floor of linoleum tiles.
This pale, beige floor looks out of place here,
against the bright night's sky, but this
is what we have come here to see.

Tzitzi prepares herself for her next task. Suddenly,
she is kicking hundreds of little rocks against the sandy tiles,
and the noise sounds like the rattling of hollow bones.
The notes echo off into the woods,
and I feel happy and safe and pleased.

feelings?

I am feeling so many things... but I don't really know what they are or why or how...

I have been feeling anxious, as usual, in that place right above my bellybutton, and inbetween my ribcage. I try to breathe into it, and exhale the stress, but it dosent always work.

I have also been digging my nails into the fleshy parts of me: my palms, hips, thighs, lips, shoulders.. to remind myself that I am in and of my body. If that makes sense.

I think this stress has to do with div, and with preparing myself for the next stage of life, and meeting new people who look at me like im supposed to be some role model or something... I keep having the missing teeth dream, although this last one was a bit too graphic for me to recall here.

at the end of the day, i kind of have too many feelings and wish i had either a pillow or someone to curl up with and fall asleep next to (once you realize you cant sleep alone, its hard to go back!)

what's goingon in my life, i guess.

So many exciting things have happened, and I barely realized it!

On Thursday, I handed in my Div II portfolio. I am terrified that I failed and will have to stay a semester longer... I need to be out of this place as quickly as possible.

The Brits are coming in mid-October, and I have no idea what I am supposed to do with them. I am going to work my best on being a good hostess, but I don't have much money, either, so we will have to do fun and *cheap* things.

THERE ARE SO MANY FLIES! They are everywhere and I hate them. Everyday I kill about three or four, and everyday, more appear. I hate flies so flipping much.

There are so many new faces at Hampshire. I have been hanging out with a different gorup of people, which is exciting because I get to make new friends, tiring because sometimes I just want to hang out with people my own year, and sad because I wont be around to watch people grow into themselves. A lot of the first years that I met are so sweet and kind, and I am curious to see what they do at Hampshire in the future. But I guess we have until May to find out!

I have a plant. Her name is Baby Paprika and she is an ornamental pepper plant. She grows white flowers and red, purple & white peppers. I love her already, and after the death of Red Maple, I am going to do my best to take care of her.

I have found some great ways to tackle my anxiety/stress. I remember to look up- the stars have been great here. I also go to the farm and pick flowers and basil and mint.

Tomorrow, I meet the little boy that I will start babysitting! He is 2, and already a multi-linguist. Hopefully, he likes me... :/

That's all for now, I guess. I have a lot (at least 4) letters to write, which I might do today.

character studies

#1: as soon as you were born, you were bundled in a nest of joy, the arms of living ancestors cradled you to sleep. your face retains the shape of innocence, your cheeks rosy and full from smiling too much. you are quick to laugh, although your brows betray your volatile temper (one can easily imagine that you are no stranger to tantrums). your curiosity can easily be mistaken for silence, but your eyes shine with eager involvement. you hold your body like a child whose father held her, as a baby, in one all-encompassing palm, and gently stroked her face with another. in short, you look like one who has known love.

#2: often your voice sounds as if it is breaking. your hands chip away things, a nervous habit. you seem to set yourself up to be broken.


* I will come back to these.

back at hamp

im back and have my gma b on my mind. im rly sad i didnt get a final chance to visit my gma but i think im gonna write her a letter and see if we can do a big family get together for thanksgiving. i will also ask her to pick up the phoen when i call PLEASE.


EDIT: this poem is not worth having up. but i like the beginning and the end:

1: she did not cry
when they put him in the ground.

2: do not be afraid, child. ghosts are the pasts of the living.
the safest place to be is
among the dead.

the rest can all go to shit.

but srsly tho

oh decemberists, you guys are such debbie downers.

dreams

all of my recent dreams seem to be about some apocalyptic queer brown revolution. everyone seems to like this until i tell them that in my dreams we are dying. we are forced to live like scavengers, only coming out when we can cloak our blackness with the heavy darkness of night. but for the first time in a long time i had a nicer dream. i met a woman. she was beautiful and her house had the most lovely garden, filled with all of my favorite yellow flowers. we talked about i dont remember what- but i do remember that our conversation left me feeling exceptionally happy. i left her house tasting like lemon bars and despite myself, i ran. was i running to the store? i can't remember. but i could run, for once in my dream i didnt feel like i was being weighed down by my body. i passed my old philly neighborhood, waved to the old friends and neighbors who cheered me on as i ran. i turned the corner and saw an old high school peer riding his bike. he gave me a big wave, toppled off his bike, and was thrown into traffic, where he was run over by the nearest car. and i didn't even have time to avert my eyes.

justwrite.

okay, im stealing an idea from a friend. i feel like i need to just.. write. maybe this will help me get over my fear of divplay. so- philly.

i love it here. i feel so comfortable walking and exploring- everyone seems so friendly. my neighborhood is the type of place where people see you on the street and say hello, ask how you're doing. i tell my brother this and he laughs at me, says that i have the cloak of blackness to hide my outsiderness, at least until i open my mouth. if i stay quiet then i can probably pass for so and so's neicedaughterauntycousinsister. south philly isn't the part of philly that i'm used to. here, the streets are so narrow that drivers have to park on the curb. when we moved in, it took helyx about twenty minutes to finally lift the wheel of the car onto the sidewalk. two neighbors mentioned it to us the next morning, about how they laughed at the whiteboy who couldn't park right. sometimes when we leave the house, men call us ladies. of course, being called a lady is a lot better than being called other things- it's respectful. but i have to admit that i get jealous of helyx's ability to pass for a boy sometimes, even if it was only a trick of the night. i am beginning to realize that i will miss large amount of black people that i see everyday. black and brown bodies just being. yes, i will even miss the men&women on street corners, on subways, on bus rides, in corner stores, on park benches, who praise my body with their eyes and their mouths. my self esteem has been beat up by hampshire's stupid standards of beauty for so long that after a while, every cat call feels like a blessing, a thankyou to my brown thickness.

but i think i am ready for trees again. i forget what a million little stars look like from inside of a cornfield. i am ready to spend my days lounging on the grass, pushing off all thoughts of the real world, at least for another year.

being selfish for once

i am lonely in this place
filled with people who
call me by the wrong name.
or the right name. i can't
remember which one.

it has always been hard for me to
use my voice here.
in the real world, so many
parts of myself seem fake.
contrived.
it is hard for me to tell
when i'm dreaming.

najee gives me words of wisdom through texts:
before you can find someone
to love, you
should get a plant,
have a pet for a few years.
give it some time.
find yourself.

i am impatient. i want
to have fun, to
have someone pay for my popcorn and
hold my hand during the scary
parts of the movie.

cyree tells me
you already have that.
how are those things different
from your friends?
what do you truly need?
take your time and
think. really hard.

i am restless. i want
to be somewhere else
doing something new.
i have dreams of
new people and
new places.

my mother tells me
you are living above your means.
what is your back up plan?
i will not always be here
for you to fall back on.
slow down.
live your politics.
think about what's really important.

i don't want to listen.
i want
to get away from here.
i want
to be selfish for once.
but what am i running away from?
what do i need?
i don't know.


*pretty old, but always relevant.

Lemon Rosemary Scones

Ingredients

2½ cups unbleached, all-purpose flour
2 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon table salt
1 tablespoon lemon zest
1 tablespoon chopped fresh rosemary
6 tablespoons unsalted butter, cut into ½-inch cubes, room temperature
2/3 cup buttermilk
1 large egg
2 tablespoons heavy cream (for brushing)

Instructions

Preheat oven to 400°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper; reserve.
Place the flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, zest and rosemary in the bowl of the Cuisinart Hand Stand Mixer. Using the flat beaters, mix the dry ingredients on speed 1 to combine. Add the butter and mix on speed 2 until mixture is shaggy. Reduce the speed to 1. With the mixer running, slowly add the liquid ingredients until just combined; do not over mix.
Pour the mixture onto a clean counter/large cutting board. Form the dough into a 10-inch disc, about 1-inch high. Using a sharp knife, cut into 8 even pieces. Place on prepared baking sheet. Brush each scone with heavy cream. Bake in preheated oven for about 30 to 35 minutes or until golden brown.
Let cool before serving.

(http://www.cuisinart.com/recipes/breakfast/839.html)

Oprah's Legend's Lemon Drop Martini- THANKS OPRAH

• Juice of 6 lemons
• 4 tablespoons sugar
• 6 fresh mint leaves
• 4 shots vodka
• Ice in shaker
• 1 sugar-rimmed martini glass

Directions:

Mix lemon juice, sugar and vodka in a martini shaker filled with ice. Shake well and pour into sugar-rimmed martini glass. Garnish with mint.

(http://www.oprah.com/food/Oprahs-Legends-Lemon-Drop-Martini)

Oatmeal Apple Cranberry Scones

Ingredients [ View Metric ]

	2 c All-purpose flour
	1 c Uncooked rolled oats
	1/3 c Sugar
	2 ts Baking powder
	1/2 ts Salt
	1/2 ts Baking soda
	1/2 ts Ground cinnamon
	3/4 c Unsweetened Apple Sauce;
	2 tb Margarine
	1/2 c Coarsely chopped cranberries
	1/2 c Peeled; chopped apple
	1/4 c Skim milk
	1/4 c Honey; plus
	2 tb Honey; divided

Preparation

Preheat oven to 425F. Spray baking sheet with nonstick cooking spray. In large bowl, combine flour, oats, sugar, baking powder, salt, baking soda, and cinnamon. Add 1/2 cup of apple sauce and margarine; cut in with pastry blender or fork until mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in cranberries and apple. In small bowl, combine milk and 1/4 cup honey. Add milk mixture to flour mixture; stir together until dough forms a ball. Turn out dough onto well-floured surface; knead 10 to 12 times. Pat dough into 8 inch circle. Place on prepared baking sheet. Use tip of knife to score dough into 12 wedges. In another small bowl, combine remaining 1/4 cup apple sauce and 2 tablespoons honey. Brush mixture over top of dough. Bake 12 to 15 minutes or until lightly browned. Immediately remove from baking sheet; cool on wire rack 10 minutes. Serve warm or cool completely. Cut into 12 wedges.

(http://www.bigoven.com/recipe/116696/Oatmeal-Apple-Cranberry-Scones-%28Motts%29)

And Cranberry Apple Martini

Drink Recipe Ingredients:

• 1 oz. Smirnoff Cranberry Flavored Vodka (25 oz. per bottle)
• .5 oz. Smirnoff Green Apple Flavored Vodka (25 oz. per bottle)
• .5 oz. cranberry juice
• 1 slice(s) apple

* I'm thinking about things that I can make that are season appropriate and also use the resources that we have at Hampshire. Fall brings lots of apples- I'm thinking that I can make my own applesauce. I doubt I need to by Smirnoff vodka, either, but can definitely use Hampshire apples for garnish.

i'm gonna bake a lot this fall- just you wait.

Marbled Pumpkin Cheesecake Muffins

Filling:
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Muffins:
1 3/4 cup all purpose flour
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup light brown sugar, packed
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 ¼ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon cinnamon
1/8 teaspoon each nutmeg, allspice and cloves
1/3 cup vegetable oil
1 large egg
1 1/4 cups canned pumpkin (not pie filling)
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F. Spray top of a muffin tin with cooking spray and line the 12 cups with liners.

Prepare filling. Beat together cream cheese and sugar, then stir in egg and vanilla. Set aside.

In a mixing bowl, thoroughly stir together flour, both sugars, salt, baking soda, cinnamon and spices.

In another mixing bowl, blend oil, egg, pumpkin and vanilla. Add flour mixture to pumpkin mixture and stir until combined.

Fill muffin cups about 1/3 of the way full with pumpkin mixture. Spoon cream cheese mixture over pumpkin, dividing evenly between all 12 cups. Spoon a drop of pumpkin batter on top of cream cheese. Pumpkin batter will be thick and will not cover entire top, so the appearance will be similar to a bulls eye.

Bake for 23-25 minutes. Let cool on a wire rack.

(found at http://www.cookiemadness.net/2007/10/marbled-pumpkin-cheesecake-muffins )

...and a drink to go with it!

Ginger Brandy Tea!

2 oz. Ginger Brandy - (more Ginger Brandy drinks)
2 tsp. Honey - (more Honey drinks)
1 cup(s) Tea (Lemon herbal tea) - (more Tea drinks)

Instructions

Brew the tea and use an extra tea bag. Fill a coffee mug with 3/4 tea, 1/4 brandy. Stir in the honey.

(found here: http://www.barnonedrinks.com/drinks/c/cure-for-what-ails-ya-6660.html)

i miss you.

the girl with the sneaky smile
and the butch hands is pretty cute.
but maybe i'm only interested because
she reminds me of you-
the first thing i noticed was her long mess of hair
and of course i offered to cut it.
i can't believe i'm saying this, but-
i think i'm jealous.

one of the best writers i've ever read:

http://www.nowmove.blogspot.com/

babe, i hope you write a book one day. she's got such a way with words.

to the man

to the man who sees ghosts
during daylight:
the world is out to get you.
stand up, you get restless
sit down, you get robbed
of your pride.
you're still a man, don't
let anyone tell you otherwise.
you can hear people's secrets, see
their thoughts form into words
so real that you can
touch them,
taste their color.
you read so many people, but
to them, you are invisible,
so you shout.
you scream their hate back at
them, laugh
when they finally see you,
watching you anxiously,
surprised that they too
can be judged
by someone as lowly
as a man who makes a home
out of a park bench.

oh heyyyy...

it's been a while. so here:

"to the woman"

to the woman
sucking on an unpeeled mango
like a woman's teat:
you squeeze out the fruit's juices
like a child
drains it's mother of her milk
until she is empty, a shell
of her former self.
you look at her, your
sleeping daughter and wonder
where your own mother is.

--

"valley forge"

nature is never quiet.
even here, i am surrounded
by the sound of cicadas dancing
in the trees.
these creatures sound like the ocean.
they sound like wet sand being rubbed
between earthy brown fingers.
they sound like rain hitting
hot asphalt and evaporating into steam.
nature is never quiet. it is restless,
and sleep-depraved.

"please don't leave me here"

i have forgotten
how easy it is to love someone
so much. you are
miles and miles away and yet
i can feel your hands
pushing on my chest,
your nail-bitten fingers tugging at my mouth,
pulling my lips apart until vulnerable words
flow out slow like honey, sweet things like
“i miss you” and “please don't leave me here”.
your responses drop in my open mouth like stones,
and i struggle to swallow them all,
until they fall heavy into my stomach.

(not quite sure who this is to exactly)

summer lovin 2010

its been a while since i've written here. i haven't forgotten about you, dear blog. i think i will force myself to write creatively every day, in order to prepare myself for writing a play. so...

my grandmother's hands are rough and leathery, from years of hard labor. she keeps her broad nails short, and cut straight across, rather than an effeminate arch. there are two heavy rings, one on each forefinger. the ring on her right hand is a silver and gold lion with diamond eyes. she took it off her son's limp hand herself, before they buried his body in the cold, hard ground. these are not a typical woman's hands. i study all of the details of my grandmother's right hand, suspended in the air, seconds away from crashing down on my ten year old head. i look from my grandmother's hand, to her small, slanted eyes, to the eager eyes of my older cousins across the room. the two of them are trying hard not to laugh. i turn back to my grandmother, who by now has left the room, as quickly and silently as she came. i sit up from the couch, blanket still wrapped around my shoulders, and ask no one in particular: why? because, my cousins answer. it's not proper for little girls to sleep in the same room with boys. go to bed. but instead, i defiantly keep myself awake, trying my hardest to be a part of their conversation. the oldest one talks about the women he's fucked. the oldest one was almost twice my age, he brags. no way! the younger cousin is impressed, but tries not to show it. you liar. it's true, he continues to brag. but what would you know of women, he chides the younger one. i bet the only pussy you've seen has been on a television screen. they soon get into a heated discussion about why women watch porn. maybe, the younger one suggests, just seeing a penis excites them. i try to chime in too. or maybe- they remember that i'm in the room and quickly change the subject. lauryn hill is crazy, huh? what's up with her new cd? i like her, i say quickly. her new cd is good. of course you would, the older one drawls. you are a woman. you all love that emotional bullshit. the younger one snickers. she is just trying to find herself, i say. as an artist. my cousin looks me straight in the eye for the first time tonight. how can she find something that is not lost? look at me, he says. if you ever think you have lost yourself, come talk to me. you are damali ayida jackson, my cousin. and you always will be. don't you ever forget it.

to the skull lying on the bush btwn 51 & 52:

the last time i was home,
there was a dead cat lying
in front of my neighbors' doorstep.
it's not there anymore- in its stead is
a large stain, like a grease spill or a portal.
my mother pointed it out to me as if to say,
"see. look how disgusting."
but death seems to lay in front of
all of our stoops. the television tells me
that a young black girl was shot down
the street from my home, and
my mother ignores it, telling me nonchalantly
about her latest ailments.
"when i cough too hard water comes
out of my sockets." i look at her with sad eyes.
"do you feel these lumps here? and here?"
i probe at her throat with my fingers. yes, i feel them.
she looks at me for a long time.
"what? you should have been here
last week. things were much worse then."
i want very much to look away. this morning, while we
move my things back home, i search for the cat,
half-expecting it mangy black body to still be
rotting in the sun. instead, i see my mother
strain to make her way up the stairs, and i wish
that i was somewhere else entirely.

Div III Blog!

Hey All

Here's a link to the blog that I am doing for my Div III, "The (Sexual) Liberation of Mammy, Pt. 2". Right now, there's nothing on it, but it will be basically the images, texts, etc that have been inspiring my div. Maybe a couple of writing samples? I'm not quite sure what I want to use it for yet. But either way, here's the link:

http://sexualibprodteam.blogspot.com/

I am encouraging other people on my production team to write on it, too, so it (hopefully) won't just be me. YaY DiV LiFe!!

baby bird.

dear mommy:

do you regret that yr daughter is a fat genderqueer hipster dyke artist?

i think these are things that i am starting to like abt myself, but maybe they dont translate the way i want them to in a place like this.

frstrtd

today we saw
a baby bird, fallen out of
its nest,
the little black feathers puffed
around its small frame.
tiny ball of fluff, we
almost missed it in the grass.
we came close to inspect and
it opened its yellow beak, and
screamed for its mother.
we could not help it,
could not touch it without
ruining its chances for survival.
"its mother will
reject it if she smells you on the child."
it reminded me of
that 15 yr old girl's ghost,
who decided to die rather than
let them rape her over and
over and over again.
how many times did she scream, and
lose faith in god?
"her own people would stone her anyway,
if they knew she had been raped"
their only excuse for breaking her spirit.
when we went back
a couple hours later, the
bird was still there. still screaming, but
no sound could escape its throat.
i will scream for you
i will cry for you
i will fight for you
i will keep screaming
FUCK YOU
to the world
until my throat goes dry, because
i have to, at least,
keep hope alive
somehow.

for my grandmother (w.i.p)

to ms. b

this is for my grandmother,
who, as a little mixedgrrl, would
throw bricks
at the other children who
would make fun of her
chiney eyes
and coolie hair.

this is for my grandmother
whose white mother
had a colonizer's tongue and
sexual appetite, and
had to taste every
continent.

this is for my grandmother
whose own siblings
spat at her, the possibility
of her having any black blood
so unappealing to them
that they shunned and
disowned her.

this is for my grandmother
a strong jamaican woman,
who buried her first two children, and
made sure that all 6 of her remaining sons
were born black.

this is for my grandmother,
who my mother swears i resemble.
she says it is in the hunched, broad shoulders, the
wideness of my foot,
the heavy hands that often find themselves
cradling the lower part of my back.
it is in my taste for spicy foods and chilled beer,
in the shape of my mouth, and the
protective look in my eyes.

this is for my grandmother,
whose firm hands caught me
the moment i plopped out of my mother's womb,
who looked down on me, a newborn,
smiled and said, "mine."

what it means to be a man

i'm a man, who
carries his
penis
erect
like a knife,
ready to tear
into the skin of
white america.
i'm a man, who
holds my head
high, and
my back
straight, and
looks down on
anything
that tries to
hold me down.
i am a man,
a black man,
who walks over
the bridges of
my black sister's
bodies, forgetting
the times when
i sucked on her teat,
drew out her power
through her womb and
called it
revolution.

i want

i want you
to look at me like
i am worth something.

i want you to
look at me like ive got
a honey pot around my waist, like
i am every religion wrapped up in one
and you are looking for salvation.

i want you to look at me
like you weren't ashamed of looking,
like you thought i was worth fucking,
like you thought that you could touch me
without cringing, like looking at me
woke up all your chakras, like

when you looked at me you didn't see
a mother. a confidante. look at me
not like a confessional but
like an equal.

no, like a goddess.

heartbreaking.

"When she possesses her followers she dances, flirts and then weeps- because no one can love her enough and the world is not as beautiful as she knows it could be."

what i do in class...

i need to work on these more... a lot.

"the wood for the trees"(w.i.p.)

i have dreams
where i lose my teeth,
pull them out of my mouth one by one, while
new teeth push themselves
from my swollen pinkgums
making me repeat the process,
spitting them out, pushing them out
with my tongue
until they fill my mouth
with the hard, bitter taste of enamel.

i have dreams
where people die,
the words "revolution" on their
lips, eyes heavy and clouded
with sleep and delusion
as i watch them get carried away
and forgotten.
I could have told you
not to die for something stupid-
yr head is not hard enough to
withstand the fall
yr back is not strong enough to not bend.

i have dreams where i forget to wake up.
dear universe,
i am ready to wake up now,
to still my tongue, to bow my head,
to listen.


---

*i dunno where this one came from.. totally fabricated. obviously.

"do not touch" (w.i.p.)

do not touch me with yr hands
soft,
forgiving and forceful
prying, questioning, ready to catch or
comfort.
do not touch me with yr eyes
steady,
peering, goading, promising
good stories or sad stories or
made up stories
for us to laugh abt in the future.
do not touch me with yr mouth.
don't spoonfeed me carefully thoughtout
words of reassurance
i don't want yr support, dont
need yr mouth on mine or yr lips
whispering secrets in my ear.
i want to wallow in self-pity
swallow all hope of me
everloving you.

i am

very tired and achy.

the wood for the trees.

the mammy statue revisited.

midas.

here, i will
write you a poem.
i will whisper it into the ground,
cover it with soil let it grow and blossom
and when the wind blows,
golden reeds will hee and haw like a mule,
sharing secrets with the sky, and say
"here
is a poem filled with
my love for you."

i dont know what to do

when you look at me like that.

early morings//late nights at the bridge

i drink my coffee black
with a hint of honey, just like she liked it.
sip on the bitter brew, condition myself to like it.
i hold my cigarette in the corner of my mouth, like she did,
practice smoking it to the nub like she taught me to.
i ignore the rain outside,
imagine cold spring sunrises on the porch
and try to finish my work,
all the while dreaming of sleep
(where you will visit
simultaneously cursing me and
asking for my forgiveness).

stokely green eyes

bad poetry. whats new.

i wrote you a poem today.
i lovingly sketched it out by hand,
crafted you beautiful images of the sounds and smells
of a hampshire spring night.
i wrote you a poem and then i threw it away,
decided to stick with safer words already written.
i wrote a friendly message at the beginning of the note
and another line of encouragement at the end
folded up the piece of notepad paper ever so carefully,
made sure the creases were perfect, the lines matched up.
i put it in my pocket and went to go find you,
only to find that you had already left.
and so i tore up the note in tiny little pieces and
walked home in the cool, spring rain.
oh well, everything happens for a reason.
thanks for curing my writer's block.

20 things that give me joy right now

in no particular order:

1. a full, bright moon rising.
2. counting stars on my way home.
3. crushing pine cones underfoot.
4. hearing all the different types of laughs my friends have.
5. constant dancing.
6. constant singing.
7. writing poems for people in my head.
8. waking up and getting out of bed before 9am.
9. not eating meat aka eating spinach all the time.
10. being present and prepared for all my classes.
11. therapy// being more open and honest.
12. 52's living room.
13. listening to reggae while i get dressed in the morning.
14. listening to the music i liked in high school when i fall asleep.
15. calling someone and having them pick up.
16. making new friends with people who are still happy & excited about hampshire.
17. holding my elephant necklace to my ear when i am sleepy//nervous//sad//happy.
18. a well spent weekend.
19. tequila.
20. sleep.

ziza

so i have a friend that i have been keeping in my wallet. i found them looking lonely on a lamp post near a bus stop in london, while walking to my friend's house. there was something about this little guy that was really comforting, and so i took it, put it in my wallet, and kept on walking. currently, it lives on the front cover of my moleskine. here is a picture:


ive spent a lot of time today studying this picture, everything from the tear in the left eye, to the firey sideswept mohawk, and the collar of watercolor petals. the picture is also so gender neutral- i have no idea what the gender of this picture is, which is what also makes it so beautiful. and i noticed for the first time today that on the collar are four letters: z, i, z, a. ziza.

i thought that this might be the artist's name, so i googled "ziza street art", "ziza london", anything i could to get more info. but i didn't really find anything. so then i looked up the definition of ziza, just to see what i would get. and this is what came up:

Ziza

splendour; abundance. (1.) A Simeonite prince (1 Chr. 4:37-43). (2.) A son of Rehoboam (2 Chr. 11:20).

it's a biblical name. a prince, in fact. but it also means splendour and abundance.

i find all of this to be so very fitting.

oh hey, janterm

everything about this month so far has been healing. even being sick... because it got me to go to health services. i am so glad i cam for janterm. its exactly what i needed to ease me back into spring, and help make me feel like a real person again.

there are just some friends i havent seen, which makes me sad. other than that- perfect janterm.

first night back on campus was spent nursing 40s and talking loudly about popcorn and other non-important things that i can't quite remember.

first morning was spent productively. got an appt for therapy, talked to linda abt moving off campus (although that's still in the air. if she says no then i have to leave hampshire. im still praying on it). TAed a TO class, and am very tired. worked on the script (or at least thought abt working on it). soon am going to dinner with an old high school friend who i haven't seen in years. i am very nervous. i'm definitely not the same person that i was 4 yrs ago, and i doubt he is either.

here's a monologue i'm working on. i still need to create mammy's monologue, but this is the main character, Adanne (meaning resembling the mother- playing around with the names :-/) talking to the human-sized mammy statue abt relationship type stuff. also sort of talking abt issues with expressing femininity. obviously semi-autobiographical.

---

when i was in high school, i was in love with my best friend. it's not a very original story, but it's true. i feel like every lesbian is in love with her best friend at one time- it's a rite of passage. anyway, she was beautiful. blue eyes, thick brown hair. big boobs. she taught me how to roll a joint, and how to apply eyeliner without looking like a hooker. she also taught me that itwas okay to be myself. that liking girls was okay, and that it drove boys crazy. one day afterschool, we sat in her attic listening to the dead kennedys on cassette tape. she turned the volume real high and asked me if i had ever kissed a girl before. she told me that she had- lots of times, and that it felt good because it was softer, and sweeter. the night she told me she thought she might be a lesbian, i wanted to tell her that i was in love with her. but i didn't. she also gave me my first nick name. Mama Danne. she said that i was always looking out for everyone, that i made her feel safe. like a mother. like a "mama". that nickname followed me through highschool. when i got to college, i felt good, like i might have a fresh start. i met my first girlfriend, sarah, in my american lit class first semester. the first thing that comes to mind when i think of sarah is that she was really nice. the second thing is that she was hairy. it was like her body was covered in a soft, mousy-brown fur- her arms, her legs, her upper lip, the space in-between her eyebrows. even her stomach had a trail of brown fuzz that i liked to sniff at and follow with my nose, mouth, lips. we didn't last long. sarah said i was too caring, too protective, too safe. she said that being with me wasn't adventurous enough. that it was like being at home. no one wants to date their mother. so after that, i cut my hair real short. i wore cut off jeans andbound my chest. i took up smoking and af am history classes. i got angry. and white girls flocked to me. i went from mammy to mandingo. and they loved it.

can you tell me please

what makes a good poem? what makes a bad poem? what makes a good poet? i ask myself that when i search for poetry- i guess there is a part of me that just expects to just come across something wonderful when i search for poetry, instead of the same 20 names, all or mostly dead, writing in an old school rhyme or writing abt nature and snow and rosy cheeks and other things that i don't really care abt or can't actually understand/translate. there are so many poets and poems out there- who decides what the 100 greatest works of words are, and are they old and dead too?

what makes love so good (or even, so bad)? what makes us want to write abt love so much? i am tired of writing grrls long, sad love poems, none that i will ever show them, or admit to writing for them. i want someone to feed me love poems, and i want them to full of humor and happiness, and most importantly, love.

this poem isn't an example of the kind of poem that i want, but the first line made me lick my lips, and the first verse made me think abt something very personal that i had written a short while ago:

Movement Song

by Audre Lorde

I have studied the tight curls on the back of your neck

moving away from me

beyond anger or failure

your face in the evening schools of longing

through mornings of wish and ripen

we were always saying goodbye

in the blood in the bone over coffee

before dashing for elevators going

in opposite directions

without goodbyes.

Do not remember me as a bridge nor a roof

as the maker of legends

nor as a trap

door to that world

where black and white clericals

hang on the edge of beauty in five oclock elevators

twitching their shoulders to avoid other flesh

and now

there is someone to speak for them

moving away from me into tomorrows

morning of wish and ripen

your goodbye is a promise of lightning

in the last angels hand

unwelcome and warning

the sands have run out against us

we were rewarded by journeys

away from each other

into desire

into mornings alone

where excuse and endurance mingle

conceiving decision.

Do not remember me

as disaster

nor as the keeper of secrets

I am a fellow rider in the cattle cars

watching

you move slowly out of my bed

saying we cannot waste time

only ourselves.

HOLY FLIPPIN STICKS, TWENTY TEN!!!

I have entered the beginning of the third decade of my life.

Well, sort of. I mean, if you want to get technical, it's the beginning of my fourth decade, since I was around for the last half of the 80's, OR rather, I finished my two decades halfway this year.. but whatever. It just sounds cooler the first way.

Right.

I'm thinking about who I am, who I want to be, what I want to do with my life, with this amazing decade. And I think after going to Londy, I have a cleared idea. I want to travel. I want to move around and explore. I want to push my boundaries. I guess I want to grow up. I talk a lot about needing security, continuity, stability. But I think I don't need it fiscally or physically, but more mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I am bad with Jan resolutions, but I still do have goals for myself. I want to at a certain point with my body, with my self, with my work, and my relationships by the time I turn 21. That would be nice. I will try toward those goals, but I know that overall, they might be a bit idealistic. I won't beat up myself for not reaching them, though. Maybe that will be my resolution- to be more confident and trust in myself more. Not freak out so easily. I have faith, and it will get me through life.

My big brother called me one of the biggest hustlers he knew. That really made my heart happy. Not just because I really like Cassidy's "I'm a Hustla". But because I work my fucking ass off just to get by (yeah, I like Talib too). But I felt acknowledged. The fact that my 29 y-old brother respects and recognizes the struggles I go through to get what I need to get done made me feel really good. And it made me want to do even better, bigger things. This year is gonna be about hustlin, cuz I definitely feel like I've been sleeping for the past two years.

Also, I feel like this year is going to be filled with a lot of love. I really do. And healing. But not the licking of wounds that fall of 09 was for me. I do admit that this past term was like a band-aid on a wound that kept opening. But I think I can finally move on from events, from people. I'm genuinely excited. I even made this.



Happy New Years, everyone. I am truly grateful for all of you. Let's work together to make this year flipping fantastic.