So, I was looking for something online and couldn’t find it. I found it in small amounts and not what I wanted specifically. So I created it. Now I’ve got a book of information, accidentally. I’m sure if I’m looking for this, someone else wants it. In fact, I know at least 400 people who are not my friends who want to know. The flip side is, what are they willing to pay for it?
Anyhow, I write so I put a book together. It’s instructions on creating certain crafts, so it has tons of pictures and examples. It was painful putting the book together. I have bought similar books targeted at another audience and adjusted for my needs.
Forgive me. Yes, I’m being intentionally vague. We’re all capitalists, you know. And if this works, it could fund my whole hobby. LOL!! Because I’ve been working just to collect. Lordt. I tell way too much of my business on this blog.
Anyway, the first book I made the binding was in the wrong direction. It was my dream direction if I was going to get these. Which I didn’t find out until I was trying to upload it on Amazon. I was so bummed, I actually took a couple days off.
I decided to order something similar to what I was making because I’d already used up the books I had. Again, they aren’t really for this purpose, but I know other people who use these in place of the thing I’m creating. Guess what, the book was a quarter of the size of the books I buy in person and the only one I could find online. This product inspired and motivated me to get back to creating. It affirmed I was on the right path.
So I formatted a new book. It took several late nights. It wasn’t as hard or time-consuming as the first time because I had already written all the directions. I just had to reconfigure the entire book and organize the pages so they were pleasing to the eye in the new parameters. I mean, I also needed to learn a new program. Then I had to switch between three programs and some online converters.
Then I find out that the paper quality I needed wasn’t available for some of the cut out pages. I research other publishers but there is too much upfront money. I mean, I’d have to buy several of the books, keep inventory and physically mail orders. With my address on them…or get a P.O. Box. I want to just create information and let it sell itself. I don’t want to be checking my inbox for orders and going to the post office. I’m an introvert. A good day when I can stay home. More importantly, I like to take breaks from the internet for extended periods of times. I’d hate to have someone waiting on their order for weeks, while I live.
So Amazon, the new Robber Baron, it is. First off, I was so excited when I could finally upload the book to KDP. I kept getting pushback about pictures and captions being outside the printing margins. I adjusted the bleed and it was still annoying af.
This morning when everything went through and I was able to preview the book, I couldn’t contain myself. I wanted to scream in victory. But it’s 3am. I’m just assuming my family wouldn’t be psyched to join me in celebrating. Soooo, I waited for my preview. It looks ok. It’s better than what’s available. If this goes well, I’ll invest in a different publisher because Amazon’s cut is rape.
Dude, they say that I’m getting 60%. Which is pretty high, when you consider traditional publishers pay you only 15% of the cover price and you have to split that with your agent. Not to mention, all the money you put out for your own editors to get your story up to snuff… Cause all first drafts suck.
The book costs 8.44 to print. Amazon requires me to sell the book for at least 21.00. I charge $25, though I wanted to be around 20. Somehow, 60% is 6.56? HOW THE FUCK? The math isn’t mathing. I’m going back and forth on the price. Because I’d like to make a flat $10 on each book. I was thinking that Amazon would take $2 on top of $8.44. Then I considered they may be offering free shipping. So I included another $2.
Similar books in the art store go for about $30. However, I have to see the quality of this paper and how well the visuals show up before I can charge that kind of money. We’re talking top-of-the-line products versus what I’m doing at home.
At the end of the day, I’m really upset about this Amazon cut. Jeff Bezoz made 7.9 million an hour in 2023. I’m just trying to make $10 a book. Ok. Rant over. If I have the energy and time I’ll come back and update you guys on how it went and I may even put a link to the book.
I have two other book projects going simultaneously. And I’m reading more… actually less if I’m being honest. I had read three books by 12/13 last month. I’ve been reading the same book this whole month. Anyway, I hope you are all well and chasing your dreams. Love and Light
PS: Iain editing.
I love my grandma’s vernacular, so I dip my toes in that sometimes. Peace
I am part of a teeming artist community. Two of my friends are working to become comedians. One is actually booking gigs and traveling to deliver the jokes. Another friend is a DJ, model, and yoga instructor. Now she’s got so much business she was able to quit her day job and be her own boss. Another artist succeeded at moving to Ghana and opening a studio. Sooo, I’m just so excited for them. A friend got married yesterday and I’ve been crying happy tears as she got closer to her nuptials.
Here’s the thing. People are weird when you are supportive of their success. One of my friends is so weirded out, I’ve stopped sending encouraging messages or congratulations. Now I just “Love and heart” all her posts regarding her accomplishments.
We say we want a different world, a better world, but you gotta be brand new too. Umkay. This new world we dreamed up together is awkward af. I mean, I don’t listen to one album. Depending on the day and my mood I need all kinds of music. Yes, there are Cardi B and Nicky Minaj camps. Still, I can appreciate them both without buying into the “us versus them.” I am grateful so many artists are producing new work. We need inspiration and more sass for our wounds. I don’t see artists as competition but as allies or comrades.
Being an artist is challenging enough without having to compete with each other. More importantly, I don’t believe in competition. We are all different, how can I beat someone at being themselves? It’s impossible.
Let’s be clear, I will compete for grants and artist funding. Even then, I know it’s about what moves those set of judges. It doesn’t always mean that one artist’s work was better than everything submitted. When I walk into a museum, there are things that move me on a spiritual level and others that don’t even pique my interest. Still, they all must exist, so we all have an opportunity to feel something.
Photos don’t do it justice, you have to be in the room with Jackson Pollock’s work. There is energy around each of his pieces.
I remember the first time I saw Kehinde Wiley’s exhibition. I was anchored seeing those large paintings of everyday people, a couple I knew in the community. It made the walls of the museum less foreign. Black men in bright colors, surrounded by flowers. It made a museum, with a permanent statue of Confederate General Bedford Forrest, feel less willfully ignorant. I’d never seen any art that large depicting Black people. Even though I love museums, I often feel invisible.
Rich dark browns, framing curious and content eyes. It was more than magic.
So, I’ve been loving all the different projects coming out. I even appreciate art I don’t like or understand. It takes nerve and commitment to create. You have to trust your voice, vision and skill to convey the message you’re responsible for delivering. You have to surrender to the moment. Don’t get me started on the painters, dancers and musicians who train for years, always looking for opportunities to sharpen their skills.
I’m sharpening my pen here, blogging. I’m practicing communicating with an unknown audience. I’m using good grammar, kinda, some Black folk language and correct spelling. Text messaging and autocorrect is not going to undermine my skills. I’m also teaching myself to be understood by a wide variety of readers. Feel free to drop me a message and let me know how I’m doing. I love feedback.
Currently, I am working on how I phrase things. I’m trying to say the most in the least amount of words. My novel could have been better, if I used fewer words.
I’m a lifetime learner. I’m curious, artistically adventurist and I’ve got a ton of interests I’m finally allowing myself to embrace and explore. Most artists have a lot of passions and curiosities. I think of Gordon Parks every time I give myself permission to go wherever my heart is called.
Writing is my most consistent expression. So I regularly do writing exercises. I explore and attempt different forms of poetry. I love the Kwansaba, created in East St. Louis, Illinois. I go to writing groups and let other poets and writers critique my work. One group of Black elders broke me down. LOL! Like, I stopped writing for a while… well I never stopped writing, I stopped writing publicly. I meditated on their criticisms. They were right, I could write better.
On top of that, I read ferociously. Sometimes I can’t believe how much I’ve read. One of my literature apps, something like an online library, said I reached my checkout limit a week before September ended. How?
I’m gearing up for NANO, which means preparing to write my next novel. I’m excited and anxious. I want to make sure my next novel reflects all I’ve learned.
I shared all this to say, artists go through so much to show up and create. We work, have families and juggle all the life responsibilities like other people… Except when others are resting, we surrender to this deep passion to reflect our world or the world we’d like to see. We fight through our own self-destruction, fear and self-doubt to create. So when I consider all of this, I’m just so grateful to know people who keep moving, creating and accomplishing their dreams.
Whenever an artist I know wins a grant, gets a position to work in their chosen discipline, or makes enough to dedicate themselves completely to their art I’m beside myself with joy. I’m beside myself with hope. I recently realized that actors are artists. The shows we watch were created by writers. I know that sounds dumb, but I never identified with an artist being celebrated. Most of the artists I knew were struggling. Not just financially, but mentally and physically trying to find the time to work in their passion.
Families are more understanding if you can give them a lavish lifestyle, but when you work a regular blue-collar gig and want to spend four hours in the studio writing a poem. It’s seen as selfish. It’s like you’re in a dream you refuse to accept can’t happen. Most of the artists I know were dealing with low self-worth because the people around them felt their art was a waste.
Capitalism tells us we need certain things. Life tells us we need certain things. Of these, a house, health insurance, savings, reliable transportation and clothes that don’t make people follow you to see if you are stealing are not too much to ask. Feeling like the only thing you love is a waste makes you feel like a waste.
For years, most of the artists I knew were financially unstable. Which made them mentally unstable. A few killed themselves. Some physically, others metaphorically. They checked out, got on the hamster wheel to prove they deserved love and weren’t selfish. Others started doing drugs and are functioning addicts with some appearance of the American Dream. Then there are those missing, whose families are just relieved they are no longer financial burdens. One was killed. Another is living on the streets or living in some toxic abusive mess avoiding the arts. So, I bought into the struggling artist narrative. While dancing to Beyoncé.
Until a few years ago. One artist in the community was teaching how to live as an artist. This artist makes quilts. His quilts do tours on their own. He travels to different colleges to discuss his work. I love him for freeing me from my own mental limitations. He’s this huge burst of light and darkness. On his social media, he does yoga and explains how he moves through his darkness. For the first time, someone was openly discussing the challenges of being a sensitive human and a successful artist.
I’m not talking about the fragility we accuse each other of being. I’m talking about someone who actively listens to a person suffering, without becoming apathetic. Someone able to decipher and extract the full picture. Someone who is able to see themselves as a heroe, victim, and villain without judgment. Someone who vibrates from a place of deep love.
I felt Rwanda, in vivid nightmares as a kid.
I dreamed of being found and cornered by people who looked like me. It was the first time I questioned being an African in the diaspora. If my neighbors were coming to kill me, skin doesn’t make us kin or even connected.
Dreaming. Walking around daydreaming. Sometimes, I’d hear people being killed and I’d wake up hysterical. I imagined fields of large sunflowers, that used to be guards welcoming the sun. All of a sudden, they stood silent. While brown people with machetes snaked through their cultivated rows, converging in clearings where beautiful homes stood dark, pretending to be abandoned, afraid of visitors.
Sometimes, I’d be one of many hiding in the attic, cellar or barn. We’d be hushing each other, listening wildly for any unfamiliar sounds. For some reason, even though it is many of us, we never think to fight back. Only to hide and be quiet. Babies can’t be hushed. In fact, the more afraid mamas are the more anxious their babies are to be soothed.
We’d refused refuge to women with small children. Our own women. Our own nieces and nephews. Maybe that was better than being suffocated, when anxiety made us more animal than human. Maybe that’s why we didn’t survive.
My eyes are fixed on the form of a grieving mother in the darkness. I knew her baby’s body and blanket was soaked with her tears. Desperate, still I prayed she hadn’t lost her will to live. I considered killing her too, so she would not give us all away in the agony of her guilt.
Other times, I’d see panic-drawn-out eyes darting around aimlessly for an escape.
Once, I was sitting near a window, soothing maybe my own child, wrapped in a colorful blanket. For a moment, I believed, and I was relieved. Until a loud pounding downstairs rocked the whole sanctuary. Glass windows broke, muffled voices thundered inside and echoed outside. Gunfire exploded on both sides. Something falls heavy. Trampling stomps break into frantic shuffling serenaded by curses, prayers, pleas and the howls of defiant deaths.
From a corner, I felt the coolness of a large window not made to open. It framed the dark sky. Ravaged by impossibility, peace consumed me as soldiers hoofed up the steps like elephants, cramming in the narrow hallway.
They were demanded people open their doors and face their fate. Then, the ax would start chopping at the thick wood doors. Interrupted by boots kicking on stubborn doors clinging to their frames. Then desperate screaming and begging, extinguished by the sound of chopping.
I was grateful I didn’t lock my door. The savagery of how they broke in each room was as bad as the bodies scrambling for a way out of the ax’s path. For some reason, the hacking of the ax and the striking of their boot was more disturbing than the coming death.
Finally, a man in fatigues swings my door open. He’s so surprised it’s open, for a moment it felt like he remembered his manners and might offer a greeting. He steps in, holding the hook of his stained machete like an invitation, more than a threat. I put my child down and I stand to die. Knowing he won’t take mercy on them, some part of me still hopes he will spare them.
Then, I became both predator and prey. Then I was just playing a role. In some way, we’re both victims. We surrender to each other. Neither of us ever leave that room. There, every part of us dies.
These are the dreams I can only share with another artist. When artists meet up, we move from the sacred to the sacrilegious. We compare conspiracy theories and teach each other facts. I believe we experience the world on more levels. If we completely surrender to spirit we are but vessels for reflection and truth… molded and cut out by our biases. The most earnest artists are serial killers, seeking opportunities to butcher and sacrifice the versions of themselves crowding the spirit’s path to speak freely.
Knowing this, I see other artists as disciples. Our rituals are unorthodox and individual. I love gospel music. Still, for generations Jesus never came for my ancestors. I’ve stopped waiting.
I love the community of church, so I’m considering committing to one so I can join their choir. I’ve met many artists practicing religions for routine, to affirm and build social connections while fulfilling opportunities to help and serve people. As a result, some artists are my chosen family. I consider Nina Simone and James Baldwin my ancestors, though there are no blood ties. They did, so we could.
I listen to Carmen McCrae, Nina Simone and Josephine Baker like my favorite aunties. I laugh at the idea of Nina Simone shooting at a record executive, years before Prince took on the music industry. I mourn their spirits walking through so many fires. I celebrate and smile listening to big bands led by Count Basie or Duke Ellington. I get lost in Coltrane and Davis. I find myself with Alice Coltrane’s harping. I reexamine things after listening to Dick Gregory’s sets. I also realize comedians are teachers and some of the saddest people, and yet they make us laugh.
Sometimes I mourn Robin Williams and Anthony Bourdain. Wondering what it means to reach all your dreams and still feel hopeless?
I love artists. I love people.
I celebrate everyone challenging themselves to be better. My spirit is full when they are rewarded for their hard work.
I am such a huge supporter of this St. Louis quilter, I enthusiastically suggested him to a body of Black poets curating art from local artists. I explained how his work is rooted in African-American tradition. More than one of the elders insinuated I was sleeping with him. When I dismissed the implication, they insisted. I spoke pf him too favorably not to at least be attracted to him. He is beautiful I admitted, but that wasn’t the reason I pitched his work. It was like they had never seen another person love someone or support someone without having some personal interest. Which was hard for me to grasp, when being an artist means you belong to the people.
Back then, I wasn’t as clear in my thinking as I am writing now. So I felt ashamed. My knee-jerk reaction was to justify wanting his work in the gallery.
Meanwhile, he was being invited to universities and giving talks at Harvard. He had a living space separate from his studio, which I deeply admired. He had figured out how to make enough to not only support himself but to support a space to create. I imagined he might be who Baldwin became to Black culture.
I gave someone jeans to take to him for his Saint Louis Blues piece. I imagined he would bring a lot of people to their exhibit. I imagined they would one day brag about meeting him.
Anyway, he inspires me. He gave me new dreams and goals. I pray that one day I am able to have a space just for creating. I want to make my parents proud answering this calling, like I see his parents beaming from his Paris exhibit. Let me note, my dad says he’s already proud of me whenever I tell him this. Anyway, I am experiencing other artists’ achievements with my mind blown, my ego checked and the impossible becoming tangible.
So, I guess, writing here I’m realizing there is something in it for me. When artists accomplish their dreams my disbelief is challenged and it’s like witnessing a miracle. Now, everywhere I look, artists I can call and text, are making it. I’m getting teary-eyed just considering their triumphs. So yeah, I’m yelling and pumping my fist. Yeah, I’m celebrating as they excel in their craft. Plus, I want my friends to be happy and successful. I want them to have joy, and whatever else their hearts desire.
Lately, I’ve been filled with a lot of gratitude. My life and my circle has changed, I guess. Not just artists, but everyone around me seems to be evolving. One friend chose sobriety. He’s lost all this weight. Another friend started a business helping people clean up their credit and manage their finances. Another friend opened a place to provide mental healthcare in an under-served community. Another friend is becoming a landlord… I think she’s bought like eleven houses. So I’m getting to hear about renting from a landlord’s perspective. Plays are being written and casted. Paintings are being made. There are so many dark things happening in the world but somehow all these people I love are finding light and being lights. YES!!
I’m out here, in awe of these amazing folks. Seeing the possibilities. Seeing the importance of art. More importantly, seeing that people can change and excel at any point they choose. It’s pretty awe-inspiring. So I’m their cheerleader, but, man, folks are not feeling cheers. So I’m not sure how to move forward. It feels icky to be viewed with suspicion for helping or being supportive.
I dream of a community where we help and support each other. So I help, support, and get in where I fit in. I believe this creates more opportunities.
Maybe this is an opportunity for folks to work on negative reflexes to positive stimuli. If I’m honest, there are definitely artists who feel threatened. They aren’t nice though, more cordial. Like acknowledging me as we stretch on the starting line before we take our position and the gun blasts. There are reasons to be cautious. So I get the fear. Still, for the most part, I tend to expect the best from folks. Based on experience, rarely do they intend to cause harm. We’re all just human.
I guess, I’m pushing my own agenda. I want to create a space where we can enjoy and support each other without fear. Plus, a good amount of my favorite muses are collaborations. What if being extraordinary was the standard. At this point in my life, it feels like everyone has something great about them. We are all created equal but not the same and that’s what makes us all valuable.
Recently, I watched Kanye’s documentary. One man believed so deeply in Kanye, he filmed him all the time. This guy was literally Kanye’s hype man. Fast forward two decades or more and he’s curated this amazing documentary of Kanye’s rise to infamy.
I’m learning to be more vocal about my intentions. After asking a friend about her craft, I explained I didn’t actually want to try it myself. It was more of me being amazed and wanting to hear her process. Also, creative processes can be adapted. Like praying or working out before starting a project could help artists in any discipline. I sometimes write before I write, to get rid of anything in my head not related to the project. Anyway, once I made it clear I wasn’t interested in going into her discipline the weirdness disappeared. We actually talk more frequently and she started sharing different projects.
I’m open to suggestions. I want to be a safe space for my friends and artists. I love seeing something first. There is something sacred about the moment you share your piece with the first person. It’s an honor to experience raw pieces. Before the world judges it or the artist. Before it is compared to other pieces or another artist’s work. I love to hear an artist’s thought process as they are naming a piece or trying to get to what the piece means… I feel chosen.
Especially since there are people, who I would never share my art with while it’s being born. That’s another reason why I’m so supportive, too. I’ve abandoned paintings and writings because they were torn down in the womb.
I’m sorry for rambling. I’m working through all of my feelings as I write. I’m examining both sides of the coin. I want to be supportive but I don’t want to feel like a creep. I also don’t want to compete. I’ve got my own lane and tons of ideas I have yet to explore. I am never bored. I am already interested in things I can’t do well. I’m actually trying to get someone to get interested in some of my interests so I have a partner in crime, cause, baby, I am lost in the sauce. Don’t get it twisted, I find it fun to challenge myself and teach myself new skills. It would just be doper to have company on the journey.
Over the years I’ve witnessed folks become themselves. Now that my perspective is cropped wider, I’ve noticed how people have transformed in a few months. It’s true, anything you want to do, you can. All you have to do is show up for yourself. Surround yourself with people accomplishing their dreams. Help them when the opportunity presents itself. Work the door at their show. Cook in the kitchen. Help them clean up after an event.
To anyone here, reading this, I’m not into empty affirmations. Sometimes an affirmation can be a band-aid on a bullet wound. At the same time, I’ve been really hurting, feeling deeply wounded. When the right words made it clear, it was just a paper cut. In other cases, where it was more serious, I was affirmed. Which made me confident I could navigate the storm. So, yeah, it’s great to acknowledge and celebrate people reaching their goals.
The Harlem Renaissance wasn’t one person, it was all kinds of artists working individually and collectively. So, yeah, I’m rooting for you, me and us. We can all make it. There is room for all our art. I don’t care that there are more books than I could read in a lifetime, yours still needs to be published. Someone needs your voice. That painting wants to travel. Let’s go!
It’s 11 here. I’m wide awake. I’ve been working on being in school this fall. I have a lot of regrets. I have a lot of fears. I don’t know the path to do what I want, and I fear I might have started too late.
I’ve been sick since last Wednesday or Thursday. I don’t know, the days seem to run together. I’m trying to remember to take my meds and take meds for sickness… And get enough fluids (IT SHOULD BE WATER) so I don’t kill my kidneys and bladder. I take so many meds.
I’m struggling, at the same time for privacy reasons I’m not open to sharing specifics. What I will say is my heart is broken. I’m healing. I can tell because I’m moving to action, I’m writing again, I’m getting back into the things I love.
Still, I can’t push myself to be held. I’m fragile. Too fragile to play interpersonal games. You know how we stay connected to friends who are our chosen family even after we are devastated by something they’ve done. They’ve apologized or they aren’t technically wrong. See they checked all the boxes, but you’re still disappointed.
On top of that, I don’t seem to understand things that seem like basic instructions. In life I’m literal. I follow instructions to the letter and get in trouble because they were just a suggestion and not the real rules. I need help interpreting and comprehending human behavior. What rules are real, which ones are suggestions.
I’m lost and found.
I’m sad and hopeful.
I’m moving forward and it feels, like getting nowhere at all. I just want to disappear and be famous, too.
I don’t know why I’m just getting stir crazy. All of my friends have already had a breakdown. Maybe because I’m an introvert. Maybe because I have more hobbies than the average bear. Maybe because my mental health meds are a nice cushion for life. About a week ago I woke up anxious. I wanted to do something, anything. I missed the family I created. I mean, we’ve all been real cautious. Which means there haven’t been any get-togethers or anything since this global pandemic was acknowledged.
I’m an artist, writer and performer. I’m not to into the performing, but I love seeing other poets perform. I love late night meals and conspiracy theories. I like history lessons at 3am in the morning. I like discussing solutions to oppression and racism. I like laughing until I’m exhausted. I like getting to know my people in and hearing their stories unedited for a trusted audience… So next time they perform a piece, a few of us will hear it on a deeper level. A few of us won’t internalize their words and search for ourselves… We’ll see each other deeper.
So, I called Keith, a man we call The Griot in poetry circles. He created this poetry space that has existed I think 3 decades. During the pandemic they even tried to make it virtual so people could still get their fix. Still, it was hard. We were afraid. Wearing masks. We were grateful to see each other, but we were also afraid.
Since we talk about everything, we couldn’t help but talk about who we knew that died of Covid. Yes, we discussed the conspiracy that too many deaths were attributed to Covid. Still, I don’t know how much we believed this. As we each gauged how to interact with each other. Some of us were so terrified we stayed to ourselves. Others, as always, were hugging and eating at different tables…
After that we didn’t get together any more. We didn’t talk about getting together. We, artists, aren’t big phone or even social media people. We all buried ourselves in each of our individual tribes. We focused on our loved ones who shared our household. We didn’t text. We didn’t do check ins. Someone would send a group text of a project and we would exchange supportive comments.
Then it happened. The cure was finally here. I hate needles. I remember Tuskegee, COINTELPRO and J. Marion Sims. I wanted to see how this cure would be received. Also, since I don’t like needles, I was going for the Johnson and Johnson version so I didn’t have to take two shots.
Weeks rolled by, precautions were removed and many of my loved ones returned to life as they knew it. They were vaccinated. They were travelling and celebrating the end of this… But then, the numbers of infected people started climbing again. We learned the vaccine was a cure like other vaccines that eradicated diseases. Vaccinated people, living their life like we weren’t in the middle of a global pandemic started getting sick too.
My city, whose economy centers tourism opened up to the world and said we didn’t have to wear masks if we were vaccinated. Now we’re a hot spot for Covid and a hot spot for vacation.
I still live like we did in the first months of Covid. I don’t hang out or go over people’s house. I wear a mask with everyone and everywhere. I stay to myself. I cringe when people coughed and weren’t wearing a mask. Sometime I gave them the look of death… IDGAF if you are vaccinated covered your nasty mouth. Haven’t you heard people can be carriers without symptoms? Haven’t you heard people are dying?
So I like I said, I called Keith, The Griot. I just wanted to sit with someone I loved. I was willing to wear a mask. I realized that at work I was seeing strangers every day in a mask and I hadn’t caught Covid. So I wondered why I couldn’t hang out with a friend. But now writing this, my friends are probably not doing Covid cleaning like my job. They aren’t wiping door nobs or sanitizing everything after they touch.
Doesn’t really matter, Keith wasn’t up for hanging out. In fact, he was in quarantine when I reached out. He noted, he’d been vaccinated but had still caught Covid. More importantly, he was still very ill and was still recovering. On top of that, his wife had tested negative but she was in quarantine as a precaution. He was so ill he couldn’t even text.
After he informed me he was waiting until this was all over, because things were not working out how he anticipated it kind of broke my spirit. I followed all the rules. I have hand sanitizer everywhere. I’ve started to think more about how I interact with the world. A friend posted that she washes all her grocery before putting them away. After I carry all my groceries up the stairs to my place, I celebrate actually putting them away before the ice cream melts. Now I’m expected to wash everything before I put it in a cabinet or in the fridge? I’m going to DIEEEE!!!!!
I started thinking about how I worked in grocery with gloves on and touched all sorts of things while putting up canned and jarred foods. I think about how sometimes weird things spilled in the cooler and probably poisoned the packaging on things… Then it felt like the world was closing in on me. Every where I went all I could see were germs. I’m a pretty upbeat person, so this negative perspective that we’re all capable of killing each other wore my spirit down.
I’m up at all times of the night. Tired of watching entire series… I didn’t actually start watching TV until like 2018. So streaming all these different shows made me feel lazy and like I was letting my life slip away. Isn’t there something I should be doing? I’d get up and pace all over thinking of things to do and then being to tired to do them. And then being angry at myself for not using all this time at home to get my life together. So I have to berate myself. It’s only right. Then I have to remember I am my own best friend and then I have to be nice and understanding.
So I treat my lazy ass to some ice cream, even though I’m lactose intolerant, I’ve gained back some of the weight I’ve lost… But then I soothe myself with promises of joining and going to the gym regularly once this pandemic is over. I avoid all mirrors. I wonder how something so delicious is not good for me. Then I make a mental not to buy pills to take before I eat dairy… I actually buy those pills but never take them because I don’t like taking pills. Then I find a lactose free ice cream. I haven’t tried it yet.
All this ice cream I’m eating reminds me of my editor, Claudia, who loves ice cream. She’s naturally slim and has to work out to gain weight. She use to eat a bowl of ice cream every night before bed. She’d call me to talk about whatever project we were working on and I’d hear enjoying that ice cream, and it’d piss me off. The word ice cream puts weight on me. Not to mention, no one enjoys anything like an artist. I mean we really love things and express it in “oohs” and “ahhs.” Don’t be in person, we’re a whole commercial for whatever we are in love with at the moment.
Anyway, I called Claudia, to see how she was doing. One of the things this pandemic has got me in the habit of doing is calling all my love ones who are not in the same city. I try to have a couple long conversations a week. Well I did initially. The problem is when I call, they are bummed about the pandemic too. In the beginning, I would cheer the extroverts I love up. I’d be telling jokes and giving all that bullshit new age advice… Now, I’m up on a ledge imagining I’m a ballerina. Up on my toes. Arms out. I’m looking over the edge and wondering if the shock of dropping will kill me before I have to feel the impact.
So now when my friends call as I’ve gotten them use to… I’m avoiding contact because I’m too sad to lift anyone’s spirit. I have a dark humor for folks I’m forced to see for survival… That’s work and the grocery store. OMG!!!! Walmart is using this pandemic to make us all volunteer cashiers when they aren’t punishing us for using cash. GAWD!!!! Cash is the devil now, but I’m broke. So I take out my allowance. Once it’s gone it’s gone.
Now when I was a kid allowance meant fun things, like movies and pizza with friends. Now, allowance is what I buy my basic necessities with. Yes, I’m poor. So I’m buying grocery with my allowance. I’m buying gas to drive to the job that makes sure they don’t give me enough hours to qualify for benefits. Yes, I’m looking for a job, but not aggressively. I mean, I’ve got all this stuff around my house to do that I’m not doing. I don’t have time to harass employers. What? Between my sleeping, moping and eating ice cream when should I look for work, huh?
So anyway, I wrote all this hoping you could relate. I wrote all this because my heart is heavy and I needed to release. I wrote all this because I’m too anxious and sad to cry.
Oh, let me not forget this… So Walmart has 15 checkout lanes, but only two or three cashiers. But here is the worst part, they have tons of self check outs but you can only use them if you are paying with a card. So I’m standing in line with my two or three items, behind eight families doing their grocery shopping for the month. Oh and another thing. One Walmart I went to a month ago outside of my area, didn’t have a single cashier. They only had self check out. There were disabled people and elderly people struggling to check their own selves out. I mean the staff was so light I asked what time they were closing. Now as a person who works retail, it’s crazy to get off work and then go work somewhere else…
See how I’m complaining… This is why I don’t talk to people. I wanted to use the self check out but I could’t because I had cash. Then I found a Walmart that only has self check out and it pissed me off. I should mention, I was doing my shopping for two weeks. So I had a lot of grocery and I had just got off work, then checked on a sick friend. All I wanted to do was have an actual cashier ring me up and bag all the stuff I purchased. On the positive side. Less hands to worry about infecting me with Covid because I don’t wash my groceries off.
Anyway, thank you for staying to the end of this long rant. My heart is still heavy but it’s a lot lighter than it was when I started this post.
I hope your family is well. I hope you are cooking really great food since you’re home anyway. I’ve been making some really good unhealthy shit. So yes, I prolly won’t get Covid, but diabetes and high blood pressure are seducing me with ice cream, microwave popcorn and dipping lobster in hot butter. I’m hungry… So I’m going to go.
My favorite publisher, who shall not be named, has deserted my pedestal. Years ago, a blue-blooded white woman got a degree in creative writing. Blue blood means she came from old money. She didn’t need a “real” degree. Her parents didn’t care if she became a doctor or a painter, or did nothing at all. Her living was already made. Can you imagine, attending a college and just paying tuition? No loans or eating cups of instant hypertension. A beautiful loft in Manhattan with large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city as you do yoga and get in touch with your chi.
Sorry, I digress. I started imagining a life where I owned my time. A life where I’d never starved or wished for things. A life where I never realized I was poor. Or that all the little foods I thought were cultural were really ends meeting.
Anyway, she opened a publishing company. She already knew other blue bloods. So naturally she had all the right connections. It wasn’t like all of us poor writers opening our own publishing companies to get into competitions that didn’t allow self-published writers. No, her publishing company had an office space in New York, staff, letterhead, a website she paid monthly without feeling the guilt of throwing money away on a dream when reality and survival demanded all of her resources.
She gave voices to Black and Latino writers. She produced their work through major distributors. Then got tons of copies out to press and larger-than-life critics. She had the resources to create audiences. Which landed complete unknowns in major bookstores. Not to mention paying them a wage for teaching their craft to other hungry writers. She sustained writers who would have abandoned their dreams for survival. She was a wild magic I didn’t know I wanted or needed.
I stalked her company’s page for opportunities. They were printing important literature, literary fiction. In a time when publishers were downsizing and choosing soft sex short reads, or trash by well-established celebrities… Her publishing company was writing to our souls’ deepest desires. This was light in an otherwise bleak writing reality. You could submit entire manuscripts without an agent or a call for submission. I thought this was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.
I started to collect the books out of her publishing house. I followed the writers on Twitter. They were all literary gladiators. The writers were tangible, their freedom palpable.
Surviving, I didn’t have a whole book to submit. I’d already self-published. So I promised myself I’d start making time in exhaustion to write. I swore, the next manuscript I finished I’d submit. I dreamed of going back and forth to New York. I dreamed of meeting writers I’d grown to love.
Then today, I checked the submittal page. It was closed. You need a known agent now. They are not looking for new unrepresented writers. They are like Random House or any other established publisher.
They are no longer giving opportunities to nontraditional artists… Well, unless someone already established represents them and says they are amazing.
I’m salty. Hopeless. And a little inspired to dream about something else now.
It’s been a minute since I came through and wrote a blog. I don’t know who reads these if anyone.
I have time. I have the internet. My energy is through the roof. I’ve been spreading all this joy around, so I decided to capture a little for myself.
I am grateful for new paths. I am grateful for new friendships with old acquaintances. I am grateful for enlightenment (I know this is cliche) and being surrounded by love.
2019 was horrible. It had a few fun moments. The highs were beyond this universe… So when I came down, I was beneath rock bottom. I cried and hurt more than I have in years. It was so excruciating, there were moments I didn’t want to live. There were a couple good moments. I felt safe for a minute for the first time in forever. Then, I got freer. I might say anything these days. I am clearer about what’s important to me.
I had the best New Year’s celebration I’ve had in years. No planning, it was totally unintentional. Sometimes good things happen when you float, but I gotta stop floating and pick a direction. I realized I don’t make long term plans. I’ve been planning to survive. Which keeps you in survival mode. At the same time, I thought I was living with intention. Last year taught me, I needed to be more centered on self. I needed to look further ahead. I needed to seek more joy, more fun, move love, more laughter and do more than survive. I need to live. To thrive.
Now, I’ve got bigger dreams. Not the new year new me stuff. I’m always changing. This is challenging but I adapt. I’m always seeking knowledge and better understanding. At the same time, I’m late to a lot of things that are common knowledge to other people. I know more than my parents knew at my age, but what is that really saying?
I am between a few different projects. I love being busy at my crafts. Creating… the process of making something is always so grounding. It reminds me I’m powerful.
I meditated yesterday for the first in years. My spirit had been asking for it but I couldn’t bring myself to sit… As soon as it was over, I immediately knew how much I needed it. I also realized how we know the way we should go, but we don’t always take that road… I’m not sure why I’m so resistant to my own greatest good.
I’d been saying, I need to meditate. My body has been asking for stretching, exercise, more water, more veggies, meditation and three pages to start my day… My spirit has been asking for more quiet creative time. I’ve been I don’t know… Not avoiding myself or thoughts, because I’m comfortable in that… I just haven’t had the energy to do the work. I don’t really know what that’s about.
Then an older woman offered to meditate with me. She was after time, calling and checking on me. Offering to pick me up. I went to her home and we started meditating. She gave me some books… I LOVE BOOKS! She gave me a moment to flip through them, like a whole ten minutes or so just to quench my curiosity. Then she informed me there is a meditation every day Monday thru Friday at 6:30am. Now I plan to try to catch them a couple times a week maybe until I can meditate on my own… Maybe forever. I’m still struggling to sit.
After I read some, she offered to take me to see her favorite elder, if she was available. She called and she was. We hopped in her car and went over. This elder will be 93 next week. She’s beautiful, funny, loving and free. She led the chant. After we meditated she shared a story. Narratives are shared when you go to an actual temple, but we were in her home… Her personal temple and we had service. I needed it. I needed her honesty. I needed both of them. I love black women. I am grateful for them.
They gave me so much to think about. I was buzzing inside. I love that the elder was so open. I sometimes feel I am too open. Hearing her story reminded me of the people that I free. We all have struggles and shortcomings. Hiding them only isolates us from ourselves. And anyone who delights in our suffering is actually delighting in their own shame… Because they have to hide their struggles fearing someone like themselves.
I had a long drive home… I’m always trying to multitask. So I thought to put my headset on and catch up with friends who’d called. I struggled with this because I really wanted to ride in silence. I just wanted to process. Think about all the things I’d just learned, read and experienced.
Not to mention, I am not a phone person. I am not always available. I live with my phone on silent. So, I am grateful for people who remember a time when we could be present and folks had to wait until you returned or got near a phone to call. I am grateful for people who leave messages and don’t take my absence personally. I am grateful for text, because it allows me to keep orbiting in my energy while honoring them reaching out. I am grateful for friends who don’t guilt me for needing to be with myself.
On top of this, I don’t always want to speak, listen and share energy. Some days, after a project, work, and life all I can do is exist. I planned to make the first call short. Just long enough, to sort through their expectations and needs. Then to determine and explain if I could help.
I was already dreading the call. They’d started to leave weird messages and send passive-aggressive texts. It had only been two days. Apologizing for calling too much, but trying to make me feel guilty. When that didn’t work, they didn’t hide their frustration. Since you never know what people are going through, I didn’t want them to feel like I was blowing them off. I’ve randomly had suicidal people reach out.
I always wonder how someone you barely know needs you. I don’t consider myself part of this person’s support system. Honestly, I wouldn’t even call us friends. Work, art, spiritual practice and community introduce me to all kinds of energies.
Finally, I’m glad I get to call my buddy. I’d been concerned but knew she’d reach out if she needed me. So I’d been giving her space on her family trip. It’s challenging being other: gay, butch, poor, free, well-read, critically-thinking, healing, supportive, compassionate, honest, not Christian. A lot of my friends have strained relationships with their families. Some because of their sexuality, but mostly because they are choosing to heal. This new generation is not passing down toxic family patterns. Some of us are creating and enforcing healthy boundaries. Others are walking away completely and starting from scratch. Strangers are becoming kin and kin becoming strange.
I wanted to make sure her soul was intact. She regularly enters hostile territory because she wants to be accepted, loved and connected. Just like the rest of us. She’s super forgiving. To her detriment at times.
Sometimes it can feel like we are drowning in our emotions… Or that someone is suffocating us with theirs.
I was grateful to hear everything went well. I listen with my whole being. Sometimes, the people we love spare us their suffering. They’ve been taught their feelings are a burden. So they make themselves small. I want to know about everything going on. That’s how we are undoing how we were raised as black girl children… Where we were expected to be invisible. I’m holding space for her to fill if she needs it.
I drive lost, prying into her life, asking about all the people she’s mentioned. Not wanting to interrupt the recounting of her weekend, I explain apologetically that the white lady on my GPS is competing for attention. As a result, I keep asking her to repeat herself. She obliges, repeating herself to my satisfaction without attitude.
As I’m listening, I am thankful for her support, love and patience. She was there as I worked through heartbreak, disappointment and all these shifting feelings. I am grateful there is no heaviness. I am grateful to be lighter and hopeful. I am grateful to tell her a lot of good news… She grins in the phone with me and I feel her joy. It’s a beautiful thing to feel a friend deeply happy for you…
I don’t tell her how much it meant to me when she refused to hang up, then sat on the phone as I struggled not to cry. I don’t tell her thank you for allowing me to take up space. I don’t tell her how much it means that she sees me. I just try to see her and support her.
I’m grateful that I have returned to myself. For a moment, last year, I was completely lost. When I’m really hurting, I avoid contact because I don’t want to depress other people. I believe in being responsible for my energy, but also, I wasn’t going to pretend. I wasn’t going to deny myself space to feel or opportunities to sort through and make sense of those feelings. I don’t want anymore unresolved emotional or physical trauma. I’m still healing. But it’s all downhill now. I’m grateful to be on the other side of suffering. Considering the lessons. Lost in myself. Naturally numb, or disconnected, not pretending.
Today, I got up before the sun rose. I began reading and researching for a project. I read and experimented with a new style of writing. Then I listen to a tutorial on that type of writing from Youtube while making breakfast. I’ve got words, poems, songs, dance sequences, rhythms and hooks floating in my head. I love this space. Anything is possible here. I know I wrote longer than an hour this morning, I could have written forever. I’m grateful for honoring my creative energy as the beginning of my day.
To be centered and successful, two elders told me to dream and make a list. They encouraged me to dream big. And read my goals daily so I will start moving toward accomplishing them. They warned me to avoid thinking small or doubting myself. Don’t let self-doubt in they kept saying. Sharing that the only thing they regretted was not walking in their power sooner. Wrapped in their wisdom, I felt some of that regret. I can literally do anything.
Still, I’m already afraid, I think… To write down my dreams. To live a life with direction. To plan for the future. To plan to do more than survive, but to live and thrive.
I am avoiding writing goals. Just like I’m avoiding meditation. I should have meditated today. I should have done my three pages… There is so much healing in writing and meditating. Why am I punishing myself? I don’t know why I can’t give myself what I know I need. If it were my little sister, I would have her strung up until she wrote out her goals. Why don’t I love myself enough to show up? Just some thoughts I’m ruminating on.
I don’t know why I mentioned the new year, because I am always learning and changing as a result of daily lessons. I am stepping into knowing daily. You know, heeding warnings I once ignored. I don’t recognize myself some days I’m so different from who I was even a couple months ago. I love differently. There are new people and tons of new opportunities… I’m laughing differently… I even did spoken-word a few days ago… And read something new. I took up space and remained present through the discomfort of being in front of an audience with a piece I didn’t have time to practice and polish.
I don’t know that I’m a performer as much as I’m a writer. I write so much, I don’t want to be held hostage in old poems, old thoughts. I’m grateful to be always writing. I’ve got to find the balance.
I am grateful for courage.
I am grateful for support.
I am grateful for all the creative juices flowing.
I am grateful that I might have found my path.
I am grateful for so many amazing friendships, that are decades-long.
I am grateful for closed doors. So I know what is not meant for me.
I am grateful for my guides.
I am grateful for clarity.
I am grateful for healing.
I am grateful for deep laughter.
I am grateful for emotional peace.
Love, Love, Love and Light
I live in an alternate reality. Where the president, is friends with child molesters and sex traffickers. He tweets national secrets and has classified conversations in public restaurants. Where he comments if his daughter wasn’t his daughter, he’d be dating her. Where there is a recording of him bragging about walking through a teen pageant dressing room and seeing naked teenagers. He’s been accused of rape, but there is some weird clause where he can’t be tried for crimes while in office.
The news stations are owned. So they don’t give you the news as much as they give you their opinions on what is happening in the world. No one is doing anything though. I’m not doing anything. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to begin.
I stopped writing. I’m going to stop writing for a year. I’m not accomplishing anything in my writing career. I want an agent. I also want to go back to school. I need more money. I need more of everything. More space. More… I don’t need more calories. In fact that’s about the only thing I could use less of…
I need more silence. More time to think. More laughter too, though. I need more hugs. I need more friends to invite me to places even though I don’t want to go. I need more money, to see more beaches, shorelines… I almost died a few months ago in the ocean… It didn’t deter me from my love of the ocean horizon. Seeing the ocean is like running into God… and staring at him brazenly.
I live in a world where there are levels to everything. There is health care for the rich and then for the poor. The rich pretend they don’t know things are different for poor people. And poor people are so busy trying to survive they can’t be concerned about existing longer in this place of survival.
I live in a world where people hate each other and call it faith. Where we poison our water and air for money. Where poor people who are deciding between eating and medicine, get suggestions to budget so they can get out of poverty. I live in a reality where if you say you are hurt you enjoy being the victim. If you say you are numb, maybe people will worship you and pity you in private.
I live in a world where ICE, created fake schools steal money from Indians and deport them.
Where black people are starting to finally embrace their culture. Where the realest person I know is a Jehovah’s Witness.
Where Walmart can lock up their black hair products but it’s not racists, it’s driven by statistics… But they keep selling guns to white men. There is a mass shooting almost every day, but no one discusses it. Google that, see what we are up to now. There are only 365 days in a year. my
The news is depressing. But I can’t bury my head.
I tell my family, my mother and father, that I’m going to stop writing for year. It doesn’t matter to them.
I never go a day without writing even if I’m not publishing.
I tell my family I’m holding my breath for a year and they say we all have to do what we have to do.
And I wonder if they’ve ever been passionate about anything. Not enough to ask. I guess not enough to care.
I guess I’m still selfish. Wishing people would see my wounds.
Sooo, I realized I hadn’t blogged in a while and decided this would be a good day to start.
It’s almost ten, after work and I still have some energy.
I went to work sick and felt better after I’d been there a few hours.
Now, I’m trying to decide what to do with the rest of my night, since writing is out.
Nicholson’s third book and the second collection of poetry.
I’m on the phone with my mother, it’s 2am. We both have colds. I’ve been sick since last week. She is worried and keeps saying I don’t sound like I’m getting better. She interrogates me about what I’m taking. She tries to force me to get up and make some tea.
She’s trying to boss me around from Vegas. She tells me to hang up and go lay down. I’m like, the cold medicine makes me drowsy, so I’ve actually been sleeping all day. I tell her I don’t like the way being sick makes me feel.
Looking back on the conversation as I’m typing now. Does some part of me think some people like feeling sick? That seems silly to say out loud, it’s like stating the obvious. I’m angry I’m not doing more, while I’m sick.
Moments like this, I wonder if I shouldn’t be more guarded. Should I really write everything I’m thinking? I miss words when I’m typing this fast. Maybe I type faster than the cursor and it doesn’t put out all the words? Nah, I’m lying. I totally miss words.
My mom and I are building a new relationship. She’s changing as a person. I still don’t feel like I can tell her everything I’m thinking. Maybe our relationship means we should have secrets. It’s weird how many times I switch the subject. Some part of me knows not to go down certain paths. I don’t know how I know either. It’s a block that forces me in a different direction than I’m thinking.
It was almost 5am my time when she practically hung up on me. I was telling her about my dad. I was telling her how I let him read some of a draft. I tell her we started comparing scriptures to what he thought. How as a result of this exchange, he no longer attends church. How that wasn’t my purpose with this book. I just want people to consider what they really know about their beliefs.
Now I’m thinking about how he wasn’t there for my book release. How he completely forgot the day. How he brags on me but loses track of days. How sad he was he missed my book release.
I’m thinking about how I wished I could have missed my own book release.
I’m writing through the layers of my fears. The layers of all the things holding me back. I’m writing through my thoughts and letting them materialize on paper so I can strangle them in ink.
I have more to say than I’m willing to type at this moment.
I spend a lot of my days defying odds, breaking rules and ignoring objections. This sounds horrible. I am trying to be in a space where I don’t feel obligated to explain myself and just be… At the same time, this is a blog, so I can’t just be like, “I don’t follow rules” without speaking to why.
Everyone is afraid. Everyone lives in what they believe to be true. I ask tons of questions. I want to know who told you we couldn’t do it. I want to know who made each rule someone is trying to enforce. Believe me, I feel like an asshole when I’m asking a million questions of someone just doing their job. I stress people I love out. At the same time, I make them proud. I force them to see the entire world with different eyes and in a way, we’re all getting free.
So, I want to know how the rules I follow are valuable. I mean, at one point it was normal to own people, trade and sell them like cattle. This was legal. I’m mentioning this, because laws don’t always make sense. Like in some states it is still illegal to have sex in any position other than missionary. At one point, women were considered burdens. Which is why the father paid to give her away. Through out history, women were also property to be used as leverage. It was normal to beat one’s wife or have poor women sold into harems. My point is, just because something is culturally and socially accepted doesn’t mean it is right, or that it’s conducive to us growing.
I’m obsessed with religion, it is one of the most fascinating creations of man… It’s complexities give hope we will one day get beyond superficial superficial boundaries. Religion actually challenges the status quo by inspiring people from all walks of life, on every economic level and from any cultural or historical background to see themselves as familiar. While, unfortunately, dividing the more common bonds native to man. Which means, people who look alike and speak the same language may not see their similarities while being completely at home with foreigners. Belief makes people feel at home with strangers and treat family strange.
I don’t follow what I’ve been taught to believe. Instead I follow my knowing. God still speaks. The ancestors are real. I meet people in several different religions who share my faith and practice. The knowing bridges us over superficial boundaries. I was lost following some written set of rules, denying myself and spending my days preparing for death. As I’ve embraced life and found what I was initially taught isn’t true, I’ve started questioning everything. Turns out, there a lot of other untruths that go unquestioned.
Now, people look at me like I’m crazy. People have fought me tooth and nail over a false belief. Observation and rational conclusions are met with hostility, even when there is proof… Side note: Googling shit is like the best thing that could have happened to my generation. I have to be careful with saying this though, cause we can’t believe everything we read. There are already tons of books that have no credibility being held as an authority, way beyond their usefulness and our evolution.
I like writing because it calls me to critically think. When you can Google anything, when your sentences are finished for you and you stop speaking to people… We lose so much. I’m trying to find the balance between technology, common sense, spirit and scientific proof.
Life for me has changed drastically. Everyone around me is changing too. All of these changes are a result of an unconventional way of existing. I’m constantly self-evaluating and questioning.
I am so grateful to be moving within life instead of outside of it and against it.
Nicholson’s third book and second collection of poetry.
My third book and the second collection of poetry, Even Deities Evolve: When Me and God Were Atheists will be available on August 4th. I am being published by a small press out of St. Louis, called Apple and Pear publishing. I’m really excited (nervous).
What does one serve? What does one do? I’m sick just thinking about it. This will be my first official release. Looking forward to sharing and reading… and loving on folks.
places even though I don’t want to go. I need more money, to see more beaches, shorelines… I almost died a few months ago in the ocean… It didn’t deter me from my love of the ocean horizon. Seeing the ocean is like running into God… and staring at him brazenly.
Even Deities Evolve 