Zeitgeist

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I actually somehow woke up at a reasonable hour, but still rolled over and went back to sleep. What can I say, I was tired. I still, in the end, got up earlier than yesterday.

I was going to say something about baby steps (wow) but I know the truth. It never works, I get right up to the edge and then when it comes to that last step… I run back.

Kind of like quitting smoking. I swear I’m not going back to it. I will not. But I kind of have. If I’m honest with myself. Despite every sign, even one arguably from God himself, that I should stop. That I have to stop.

Something’s weird with the internet today, and it’s fucking up my streaming. So mad. I’m trying a random playlist. I wish Spotify was a little easier to browse through, I want a weird mixtape feel. I don’t know if this is worth getting out my physical notebook and writing down, I’ve got so many projects in the works.

It’s feeling weird today.

I have so much to do, amidst this general stillness in society that makes it feel like nothing ever needs to get done.

I remember this feeling, and honestly have missed it and remembered it fondly for many many years. In the 90’s, with riots in the streets, angry underground publishers, no money, and tons of ambition, with the system slowed down to the point where the cockiest of kids could actually convince themselves that they could outrun everything and win this game. I miss being one of those kids, I miss knowing kids like that.

For someone like me, the time of overall flourishing in the mainstream means nothing to me. I have no choice but to exist as a counterculture, like it or not so you better learn to like it. I should be getting to work, and you know what, I don’t feel like stopping myself right now.

There’s people on my phone. I hate thinking a out people… generally because I usually think poorly of them and I don’t want negative thoughts in my mind.

Race is on my mind lately, and while I’ve been trying to keep it off of this blog for the most part (I am so much more than My Blackness, it should be apparent – besides, what a distinctly American problem, it’s embarrassing to the rest of my family worldwide and I am embarrassed daily for staying here – it feels like someone has grabbed the front of my ribcage, a hand on either side right at the curve, fingers curled in to the diaphragm, now grab the three bottom ribs and pull outward and up to the ears, like a French Rack on either side). I want to talk about it, but I’m sure I’ll get plenty of opportunity.

I’m pretty sure no one wants to hang out at the beach with my friend today because they know I will be there, and they know I am Black, and they don’t want to talk about it.

Is that why no one will do anything for me? They figure that they’ve just *done enough* by being my friend?

My ex treated me like that.

My uncle, who has just died, had good words to say about that last time I saw him, which was almost exactly a year ago if not exactly on this day, as it was a Thursday in early June. He was talking about my brother, who was dating a white woman with racist parents. I’m paraphrasing –

All the time, they talk about how much they’re taking on, bringing you into their lives.

But what about what you’re taking on, bringing them into yours? They don’t even see that, they don’t even think of what life you’d have had without them.

My uncle was a great man, I will miss him.

Like seeing my humanity is some kind of great fucking feat that they have fucking accomplished and they deserve any kind of praise for being good, when they have actually not even been average at best.

Like having a black girlfriend gives you a right to beat her. Like see guys, look what I have to deal with? and wouldn’t you believe that the bitch makes me do dishes too? Ungrateful bitch.

My grandmother had to deal with that. My uncle hated it, my Mother keeps thinking that he abandoned her family, couldn’t figure out why he never came around, he was mad at my grandmother.

Yes, he was. He was mad that my grandmother married a fucking racist. Is that unreasonable?

I am living proof that you can be a racist and still fuck Black Women.

And I’m rich because of it.

Every white woman can be a courtesan, every asian can be a Geisha (that’s a can of worms I’ll leave for someone more qualified – ouch), but as a Black Woman I am just a whore.

I have to go back to work, my shoulders collapse and I can feel my rotator cuffs tear as is my arms were up like Atlas trying to hold the weight of a world that doesn’t want me touching it. I have to go back to work. There’s a lot of white guilt to profit from right now, they’re all running out looking for a way to make themselves feel better so that they can forget about it for another 20 years. A few hours of fucking a black chick and indulging in an “intellectual” (omfg you idiots are half me) conversation, making a minor donation into the reparations fund (for some reason so much less than they’d pay a dead white fish) and thinking that they’ve just done a fucking good deed by recognizing racial equality.

Recognizing racial equality. Like seeing things for what they are is a talent, an achievement, a superhero skill. Like ignorance isn’t the problem, but rather this divine enlightenment is the goal. A lofty fucking goal, and look at how far we’ve come!

I should’ve just skipped this and gone straight into the grind, now I’m pissed off.

There’s a lot of people I should call.

My ex should be calling me.

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