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.

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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.