That Holiday

I don't quite know who is at fault. Each year I never know who to blame when it dawns on me that my entire (and most immediate) family has absolutely no idea who I am as a human being and I, despite the faith that I continue to renew in them, have no idea exactly who they are. However, since this is actually my own personal "blog" that I am in control of, please forgive me as the following my be slightly swayed in my own favor. I trust my family to clear their names or slander mine in any sort of web publication of their own.

I'm not going to turn this into any sort of holiday rant. The ones that pseudo-intellectuals like to go on once a year in whatever the format may be. I just have a few things I need to get off my chesticles.

Thinking back, it could possibly come from years of stifling my true identity while surrounded by my family, but, well, let's just say that the older I got, the louder I got. It's just that someone is clearly not listening.

Opening up any back-issue of Jet or Ebony, one may be able to see the unfortunate trends that black men have been through over years. This is due, in part, to everyone's friend Dr. Heathcliff Huxtable and TDS (Those Damn Sweaters). Discovering that these sweaters actually do still exist and are for sale in several major department stores is, yes, quite scary. What the hell am I supposed to do with these?

Next (With Old Issues)

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I said I'm sorry.
I didn't feel anything.
I didn't mean it.
It wasn't real.

He said he knew me.
He said he needed me
there in that moment.
Then he would go.

I'm trying to plead.
I am begging to stay.
I would crawl on my knees
if you asked me to.

And all I ask is this...
That if it really is
over...
you say it's over.
If it's over
then you say it's over.

I didn't love him.
You know there's only you.
Watching you lifeless.
Baby, you want me too.

How could I tell you.
How could I even know.
I didn't notice
you'd already let me go.

Day 3 - waking up

There have been several conversations lately with friends regarding things (usually men) that used to be in our lives. The topics range from jobs, to relationships, to roommates. I think it has something to do with the end of the year. I'm kind of tired of spending every December the exact same way. Reflecting.

When I was a kid I couldn't wait to grow up. Couldn't get old fast enough. Everything was about what I could do when I was older. "When I'm 16, I'll get my driver's license!", "I can't wait until I'm 18 and out of this damn high school!", "Well, when I'm 21, this is what I'm going to drink."

We were in such a hurry to get to everything in the future. So, why is it that now that I have all of those things, I spend so much time in the past? Now that I have my own car, or after diplomas and degrees, after several Ketel One martinis (straight up, with a twist)....Why NOW am I not happy unless I'm spending time sifting through the past?

"He used to do that.", "Well, we slept together [a year ago] so it's alright to drunk text him, right, girl?", "Can we still do this...like we used to...and not get too attached?"

This is one of the happiest times in my life. I spent a large portion of the last year quite depressed. I had been out of work for the longest time in my life. I finally accepted an office job with a company that I rapidly grew to realize was one of the least inviting places for anyone with even one shred of creativity in their system. At the moment I was ready to tell my 4' 11" boss (who was about 6 years younger than me) where exactly he could go, I was offered a job doing the one thing in the world that I can't seem to live without. A job that would take me all over the country for the next year; to cities I'd never been to; meeting people who's talent, generosity, and spirit make me strive, daily, to be a little bit better at what I do. People I genuinely, and already in such a short time, enjoy.

In the midst of this "happiest time in my life", somehow I've still made time for all things past (or passed). I go through so much of my life alone. It does seem strange that if, for example, some "man" (or any other person for that matter) who was "there for me" some 2 years ago, wouldn't be there now. I could see the initial shock of that departure being relative. But, if he (or whoever) were that important, where were they during that really ugly 365 day period? And why are you still texting? And why are you still, in some cases, "sex"ting?

Alone. It's not a bad place. I've handled my shit. And sometimes I've even handled it well. No one else is responsible for the joy I have inside. That is such a pleasant feeling. I am not ignorant of my surroundings or situations that may have changed and given me a new view.

If I am "by myself", living with just me, dealing with just me, taking care of me when I'm sick, cooking for me, taking me out for a night on the town, taking me out to see a friend in a show, taking me out to meet with friends for drinks; If that qualifies, then YES, I am learning to love alone. I'm learning to rejoice a little bit more than I reflect. I am learning to love, alone.

Day 2 - on this new space

I have an overwhelming urge to clean. Well, not just clean, but completely throw almost everything I own into the trash. I am creating space. The space I came home to wasn't clear enough and I'm trying to make it clearer. At least it's warmer...Now that my land-lesbians have actually done something about the heat in this apartment.

This clutter-removal process has brought up some things in the few short hours it's been going on. Letters, notes you write to yourself to remind yourself about yourself; Pictures, some you took of yourself, but mostly by yourself of other selves to remind you of yourselves; Books, some you read, some you just made notes in the margins. When do you actually go back and re-read the margins? I do. I actually do. I think that makes me strange.

Something I found that everyone should read.

There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening
that is translated through you into action,
and because there is only one of you in all time,
this expression is unique.

If you block it,
it will never exist through any other medium
and be lost.
The world will not have it.
It is not your business to determine how good it is;
nor how valuable it is;
nor how it compares with other expressions.
It is your business to keep it yours, clearly and directly,
to keep the channel open.

You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work.
You have to keep open and aware directly
to the urges that motivate you.

Keep the channel open.
No artist is pleased.
There is no satisfaction whatever at any time.
There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction;
a blessed unrest that keeps us marching
and makes us more alive than the others.

- Martha Graham to Agnes DeMille

I think it's a great day to clean the house.

Day 1

This is the first one. It's weird. I'm tingly even. I feel like I'm trying to hide behind a telephone pole. Only a select few will understand that last one. I don't even know what sort of superficial, bloated-ego, only child bullshit I must be going through (at age 32) to make me think it's actually socially ok for me to have one of these childish things up and running. We'll see how long this lasts. If it's anything like my sex life it'll be a distant memory soon enough.