I know my audience, but I didn’t know myself. I am not arguing with Dr. McEnerny’s brilliant points, but he assumes a given which is just not true for me. In most cases, it really doesn’t need to be, and in those cases, I really have thrived. I just don’t know what the pronoun I is doing here though.
I’m starting to miss working… definitely starting to miss money. Not that I really need it, but I’m afraid the economy is going to dry all this up pretty quickly, and I should get all this while I can. I spoke to my ex last night, and he seemed to be of the same sentiment re:market inflation and securing our assets.
There are invisible wolves that chase us, through our whole lives. These are the wolves that raise us. They are our pack. And these are the wolves that will hunt and kill us, howling in mourning while they do so. Of course, my Father doesn’t see it that way. He doesn’t see anything at all. He is going blind.
What does it say about us, that we’re both Black, and yet we rinse and repeat through white significant others like paper towels, but keep consistent contact with the side piece, who always knows how to get right out of the way when either one of us decides to go hunting for some social standing.
I wonder what the fuck is going to happen to me when I get old. My Grandmother was like that. What happens when your memory fades and you can’t remember what you were were hiding from, and what you were hiding from yourself. Was it a real fear, or something you just made up? Either way it is so scary finding out – either you find out that it was real, and now you have regrets, or that it never was, and now there are so many more regrets.
My family in NY (we all have family in NY) just landed in the group chat to say that all their friends are dying. My family in London (we all have family in London) said the same. I am so fortunate that they are alive to tell me this.
Because now I can work without distraction, because I don’t think he’s coming back. It’s ok. He was complicating a situation. He was making me question what I was doing here. He was jeopardizing my current empty relationship and forcing some very difficult conversations with other people. He was too much stress on my body when I really should have just obeyed the rules of my medical leave (I loved it). He made me want to do things out of order. He made me feel guilty about talking with my ex. He made me feel afraid to tell him who I actually was, or the fact that really, I’m someone else entirely. That I am a fraud, a liar, and one more word that I have not wanted to use, but as I am here, now, I will. I am a whore.
All the while I knew there was a corpse hidden on the property, and I had to get away before it rained and that rock fell out of the wall again. The skull had been unusually white, and substantial, more like a sleeping stone face. I remember owning a ring with a face like that (as many people have, it was a standard rock cutting design for gemstones in the late 90’s, I should bring those back, especially if they’re going to suspend tariffs on Chinese imports) I don’t remember putting it in there, just trying to hide it. There was moss on the rocks – how long ago had I put it there?
Despite waking up with my dreams fresh in my mind, at a reasonable hour to handle some necessary things, and a few things that I probably could have said, I rolled over and went back to sleep for several hours.
I’ve been writing, unrelated to this, more. Finally. I like seeing this unguided writing practice, though the words are almost unimportant overall. What I see unfolding as I write is a rhythm and form, a shape and sound. I don’t know where it comes from, what makes me feel a certain beat when I get my fingers going on a keyboard, what makes me breath and feel the emotion behind the word that has the right syllables to fit in after the next. I don’t know how different it would be if I went back to pen and paper, and like everyone less than middle aged, I’ve been typing my whole life at this point. I know that whatever I have to say will fit in with the architecture of the piece, on the page.