Feed Your Head

So.

Once upon a younger Trey (back when Dude Ranch was just a tiny, big eyed baby), I stood up at a black ass block party to perform karaoke for the first and last time. Ever. I stood there, in front of a slew of black neighbors that I didn’t know (mostly young) and picked a song I knew by heart.

White Rabbit. By Jefferson Airplane.

This decision would hit me as a terrible one almost immediately after I started singing because:

  1. It is a hard song to fucking sing.
  2. I was in front of a crowd of people who had no idea who the fuck Jefferson Airplane was.

I powered through. To this day, I have no idea how I did it. It’s one of those moments that you get stuck in and can’t really stop, so you just go and go and go. I sang it terribly. As soon as it was over I heard a loud ‘THE FUCK WAS THAT WHITE SHIT’ and then just complete silence. I slunk back to where the young sir was and stored it in my ‘you are weird as hell but that’s okay’ painful memory bank.

I’d still get up and sing this song, that’s how good this song is. Grace Slick singing it makes me feel like I’ve just drowned in a pool of super strong coffee. Black with very little sugar, very little cream. She sings this shit like her soul is crawling out of her mouth.

Have I ever mentioned how much I absolutely, positively, ADORE and LOVE Grace Slick? I do. Whenever I wear straight hair it is usually in her signature style.

 

But yeah, listen to her singing this, vocals only, and tell me you don’t end up pregnant within the hour.

 

Vibe.

I can get into this peace.

At least for the time being. Today was full of sneaky rain, quiet skies lighting up with thunder, chillhop and lists. Even just sitting outside while Dude Ranch walked around, hiding his shoes in various dirt piles and chipmunk homes, felt like forever. The old lady that I have convinced myself used to live here really put her foot into this garden. It’s a template that I 100% intend to build upon, to make my own.

For a long time, I convinced myself that I didn’t have idols. Because ‘edge’. But one of my idols, that I can admit was an idol now, posted a link to her magazine feature and I felt my heart speed up. As long as she’s posted and invited people into her life (much less so for the past year or two), I’ve been watching and reading and absolutely adoring her. I find myself sifting even more comfortably in this vibe when I see her transforming. She’s become someone new, someone who also sifts and floats, and I know what I want when I look at what she’s achieved.

I like to think I’ll be able to do something similar to what she’s done, maybe not from a big city point of view. I don’t have the travel bug as much as she does (I more so yearn for somewhere to settle down and evolve), but I imagine I can find beauty wherever I go. Building a brand is the hard part for me. The biggest part of my personality that never seems to die out is that part that wants solitude. It wants to hide underneath the covers. It wants to smell flowers in my own backyard, to drink in the vision of my own furniture collection. I’d love to line my walls with my own books, craft a wonderland out of the kid’s rooms, and make any place I live a true escape. I dream about this type of stuff more than I dream about being cool, wanted, desired. I dream about this more than I dream about escaping via other places.

I’m sure there’s beauty out in this world. I know it. But I’d love to be able to make my own spaces beautiful first. To know that I can make this a world worth living in no matter what’s going on beyond those doors.

So I’ll try.

Inhale.

It’s time to get up.

I mean that in a variety of ways. A bonfire of variety.

One way is that, well, I’ve been physically unable to do anything all day. That depression thing. Where you can’t do anything but sit and daydream about characters interacting with people you’ll never meet but would love to. Astrid being able to show her hallucinations to people, to a room full of people, and everyone being amazed. This is what your violent, overly sexual, terribly plagued brain is like? And plugging other people up to it and realizing that no one else has quite the same brain.

 

Is it a parasite? The ocean? Love, hate lust, etc? I’ve gone through this one quite a bit and it’s morphed in just a day. Chaunce hasn’t been in the most recent version of it but Joji and all those others have, regardless of me trying to keep real people out of it. I think it’s time to sit down and start writing and vomit my creativity somewhere.

It’s a start. Shit, it’s a save. I haven’t been up to anything but working lately, but even that is a bit of a save. Even that is more than before – I’ve been overworking but it’s kicking my ass into getting up. I actually made writing playlists today. I actually earned my keep this week.

I need to learn to draw, most definitely. I have a vision but I can’t keep telling myself I need other people to do it. There’s no one else. I’m not getting married. I’ll never be with anyone, not seriously and not long term. And I doubt I have a whole lot of time left.

So I’d like to draw, to learn to code, and to actively write again. I want to go ahead and take the amazing parts of me out of the trashcan and exist again.

So. I go.

Herself

She’s not herself anymore. I checked. Somehow, she’s gone.

So maybe I’ll be her, instead.

But then who will be me?

… … …

 

Sleep is becoming an annoying thing. It’s always either too much or too little, too soon or too late. I’m sitting here awake at 12:17am with no intention of going to sleep in the next ten to twelve hours. It’s really 1AM – I’ve been on Eastern time my entire life and I’m having trouble letting it go.

My head is always an hour in the future, an hour in the past. It’s tomorrow when it’s today.

It’s amazing how something as simple as hair can create a new attitude. Or unleash an old one. I haven’t felt so normal, at least normal by my standards, in years. But having these sides cut somehow makes me a real person again. It makes working easier. Even makes thinking up stories, reading, and enjoying solitude things again. Real, livable things. I like it. My weight may be way up there, my posture shit, my teeth eroding and dying in my mouth, but I am as close to being myself as I’ve ever been.

Age and hurt and lots of clippers, yeah?

I’m trying not to be so afraid, though. It’s stuck in me. I fear having the headphones on at night sometimes. That I’ll take them off and Urijah will be gone, snuck away by some unavoidable circumstance, some selfish person. His organs sold and his life meaningless. I literally worry about that, him or Rajesh being killed and having their organs sold. I don’t typically worry about myself. Not that I don’t find myself valuable, but I’ve lived.

Tons.

I’ve lived as a black American, at that, which is culturally the best you can be, though not emotionally if you really want to get down to it. A black woman, which definitely hurts emotionally but is such a win. I’ve been on the outside of a lot of fences.

Why am I listening to something as smooth and lulling as FKA Twigs right now? Sleep is tapping at me, poking, and I find myself wanting to slowly crawl over to chaturbate or something and distract myself with bodies. r/jacking or something. Obscenities and the people who love and share them seem to make me even sleepier, though.

 

This world is getting smaller and smaller for Urijah, for me, but it’s also getting fuller. I guess.

 

One would guess.

Trust

I don’t trust the world. Not to love me. Not to entertain me. Not to keep giving me chances.

Not for anything.

… … …

 

Three of my windows are broken. They have simple cracks, but deep enough to shatter the whole things if pushed. They sit out there, reminding me of the fragility of this world I am building, and I worry about them. Cracks. That cracking sound.

I’ll call maintenance tomorrow and try to explain how it happened, but I honestly don’t know. Tai pointed them out and I looked and said, ‘oh’. I really don’t pay attention to much lately, honestly. If it’s not something Urijah is learning (or not learning), one of our moods, our hair, our stories, or Rajesh’s texts, I’m blank on it.

But I’m back in the mood to watch and write things. To vibe. The daydreaming has been kept at a minimum, and it’s mostly lesbian stuff – I’ve managed to keep all the white celebrities out of them (very disappointed in le whites lately and, honestly, I think I want to stay that way). I had another heartbreak from ANOTHER racist gamer, who I thought was amazing and grand and beautiful right up until, and it really just…it kicked me in the stomach.

It led me to watch some Black girl gamers today and they were so fucking REFRESHING. All the ‘BIIITCH’ and ‘YEAH GuRL’ and all the sarcastic responses. All the mixture of accents and levels of hoodness – from trill to blerd and everything in-between. I loved it. So I’m going to make that a practice from now on. I notice that a lot of black girls don’t show themselves but that’s okay – I like the screen being fully dedicated to the game.

 

I’m procrastinating. I have a PowerPoint to complete and I hate doing that shit, but not as much as I hate Marge’s work. I’ll do it, and keep at it, and go from there. And I understand, today of all days, that I’m amazing and I’ll get this (and so much more) done. That I’m worth the suspense, the wait, the love I’m giving myself. That I’m worth this funky ass hawk that dropped a white woman’s jaw at the Piggly Wiggly today.

That I’m worthy of Urijah and Rajesh, of Chris sometimes, of a future that isn’t linear and isn’t regular and isn’t really all that planned out. That the Earth could crumble around us and I’d make something beautiful happen, somehow. Some way.

And even if I wasn’t, I understand that nothing fucking matters anyway.

 

I’m procrastinating.

 

Deep sigh.

Boxes.

I shaved my head again. Well, the sides. Cut this hair, this hair that is longer than it’s been in years, and shaved in down to the lowest point possible without being scalp. Just the sides.

I didn’t leave my tiny sides this time. And now I have this odd samurai puff on top of my head.

… … …

 

I’ve been writing a lot lately. Just not in stories or any sort of fiction, really. No, I’ve been writing for work and in journals and on here. I’ve been writing about me and my life and my thoughts, writing email campaigns, writing press releases. I’ve been writing any and everything.

I’ve been researching as well. Reading about the past and present and future and never. All from my l-shaped desk. Or my bed. All from my back ‘porch’. All around this house, in this house, over this main floor. I’ve been existing a bit more.

In that existence, I realized I wanted to shave my sides again. And I realized I am pretty good by my dolo. And I realized I want to approach Urijah’s education a bit more…realistically. A curriculum. The one I want costs around $600, but it’s an investment I will make to ensure he learns both what I want him to and what he needs to.

I have narrowed my vision to the people in this house, these two intricate humans: Urijah and Mashu. Dude Ranch and Trey.

I have narrowed my goals to writing and business. Writing and skills. Writing and learning. Writing and writing.

I’ve become a person on the outside of the box. The beautiful outside of the box. The details are swarming me and I’m ready for it.

So here I am, outside this box, in this box, with this little boy, with our futures, becoming something new. With the sides shaved off my head. With the scale finding less and less of me.

 

I’ve been writing a lot lately, you know.

Oi.

Tornado warnings and wine. I’m for it.

Right now, I’m a bit buzzed whilst watching David Mitchell’s Soapbox (the youtube series) and finishing off a bottle of wine. I started this bottle earlier today and knew I’d be done before bedtime. Any time I indulge and decide to drink wine, I finish within the day. So this isn’t terrible, it isn’t new, and it isn’t worrisome. I’m not exactly sad about anything, so it’s even less so.

I do feel like watching Submarine. I’ve been using The Mitchell and Webb Look, and That Mitchell and Webb Situation, to lull me into a pleased and hilarious sleep for the last week or so, so I’m good on that. But Submarine-type dark humor is what I’m into at the moment, and so I’ll probably watch it tonight.

I’m in a inbetween mood. Not happy. Not sad. Not up. Not down. But very amused and very in the mood to succeed at something. I figure I’ll write a bit in Astrid, The Devil or The Circuit before the night is over, as well as get these two blogs for one of my clients done. Shit, I might do even more than that, who knows. I might actually get business done – CAN YOU IMAGINE THAT?

Submarine is not on Netflix anymore. So I’ve opted for The Fundamentals of Caring. I’ll probably end the night with a bit of K-drama if I can.

The Fundamentals of Caring is interesting because, when I first started watching it, I was on a business trip. It was the absolutely worst time to watch it. And yet, it was the funniest thing I had seen in quite a while. Too heart-warming for a business trip where I was having God and Jesus and religion thrown in my face a lot, but not exactly hating it. It was a woman thing – lots of older black women there who may have been more religious than me, but were absolutely more experienced in life and into trying to get me up to speed.

I don’t experience women being more experienced in life than me a lot. Not at all. The stories they told around the campfire were enthralling and full of terrible experiences. It was amazing.

Note: Slim Jims are actually awful, no matter what any character in any movie tries to convince you. Absolute yuck. And ill-humored people aren’t actually interesting, they’re just ill-humored.

 

Today was not anything special. It’s nice, though. The panic of a tornado, the thrill of being slightly drunk. The normality of today.

 

We’re functioning.

Stranger Woman

This month has been ambiguous.

It’s been terrible to me financially and romantically. It’s been amazing to me emotionally and mentally. It’s been record breaking in terms of happiness to finance ratios go. This month, I watched two amazing shows that put me back in the mood to write:

Man Seeking Woman

Stranger Things

I don’t think I’ve EVER seen anything as awesome, in totally different ways, as these two shows. I’m enamored. I’m drooling. I’m fucking waiting and wishing for more and I’m so happy to live in an era where these things exist. This type of abnormality and obsurdity (Man Seeking Woman) and this type of just grade A story-telling and acting (Stranger Things). Those babies are fucking AMAZING in that show. The adults are amazing. Every single aspect of Stranger Things had me screaming.

It had me peaking around the corner (seriously) to check to see if anything without a face was lurking, trying to get my Dude Ranch.

It had me missing The Boy Chin Wonder so badly. Man, I want nothing more for my children than for them to be complete and utter dorks. Nothing more. I imagine The Boy will ease into this if allowed – I need a car bad. I want to pick him up on weekends and support this outcome. The Young Sir will ease into it well enough if I can figure out a way to communicate better with him. And then get him on that damn toilet once and for all. And find a place for us to plant ourselves so he can find friends who are like him and rule the world.

Writing is getting easier and easier. I feared I’d drop back off the face of the planet because of the Ael fiasco – nothing like your sudden motivation for diving back into the writing world using you to take his virginity, hating it, and then stuttering his way to the blocked section of your life. Nothing like wasting a bunch of time and sending him a bunch of stories and trying to find permanence in temporary situations. Nothing like planning for your business and home decor only to never talk to him again.

Nothing like finding a cool place and not being able to go back to it because now you might run into his ass.

But somehow, SOME FUCKING HOW, this was a blessing. It was something I needed. And now I’m binge watching beautiful shows, lonely but so content, broke but somehow rich with emotions and feelings and just wanting to do these things. The Young Sir actually sat with me for a second, sleepily watching these awesome kids doing things kids could only do pre-90’s.

Who knows where we go from here. The Young Sir and The Boy Chin Wonder (sometimes) and Mashu. But I love this little family. I love my little complicated life. I love being stuck in this house, being stuck in my head, being challenged from afar.

This is where I’m supposed to be.

Lives.

I’ve been so many different people.

Just like everything else, that’s been crossing my mind a lot lately. I’ve been so many different types of person, lived so many lives, experienced so many different emotions. I’m 29 but I’d been about twelve different people by the time I turned 21.

A whore.

A saint.

A liar.

A thief.

A lover.

A lesbian.

A bi-sexual.

Adored. Hated. Molested. Raped. Beaten. Cared for. A mother.

I’ve been all types of Shaquana, all versions of Trey. So many best friends and boyfriends and girlfriends and duties and jobs and everything. It’s wonderful when I really just sit and think about it without crying about it. It’s a lot, so much, but it’s perfect.

I sit now and wonder what I am at this second. You never know until it’s over. You never understand your place in the world (at least I don’t) until you fit in a different way. When I look in the mirror now, I’m happier than I ever was – even at a weight bigger than ever, even with no relationship (and a bunch of failures under my belt), I feel immense happiness. I see myself filled with life and love and honesty. And I find myself dangerously attractive, which is a giant change.

But what life is this, now? And where will it lead me?

I wonder and I smile.

Trouble

Sometimes I realize I’m not worth the trouble. A lot of my interactions, especially with men and potential friends, boils down to that. It’s not worth the headache for one reason or another, cool ass personality or not.

I’m getting that.

I hear over and over and over how great of a personality I have. How I’m ‘cool as hell’. How I’m interesting, how someone has had a better conversation with me than they have with anyone else, ever. I hear that so much I should get it tattooed in my ear.

You’re amazing, Trey.

You’re so funny.

You’re quick, you’re smart, you like the coolest stuff.

And then they follow it with all their buts and uh’s and um’s and I blank out a bit.

… … …

 

I’m not so bothered about being trouble anymore. Not in a real sense. It might jerk a tear of two and then I just kinda sit with my back against the wall and laugh. I’m too much or too little or too big or too small or have too many kids or not enough manners or this or that or the third.

I can’t make you cum or I can but that’s all.

I make you feel awkward or I make you feel nervous.

I’m ‘ambiguous’ or ‘intense’.

I get a lot. But I give a lot, and I’m kind of tired of regretting that giving. I’m starting to think I like giving a lot. And being a lot.

I’m starting to think I run people off for a reason.

 

And it’s okay, I think. Being trouble. Having those long gaps of time when I am no one and nothing and if a Trey falls in isolation, does anyone hear it? And if Urijah closes his door again, am I alone in the house?

And if Rajesh loses his phone again, am I not his mother?

And if everyone forgot I was here would anything be any different?

… … …

I’ve been going through water bottles. They’re everywhere. I drink them like I’m a worried alcoholic and they’re whiskey, and they’re scotch, and they’re buzzing in me. I’ve never had so much water in my life. I think about breast cancer and cervical cancer and liver failure and I sit with my back against some wall. There’s a lot of thought involved in this.

But I really like mirrors again, all of a sudden. And cameras. I like smiling really big and picking Urijah up and showing him that he can smile, too. I like listening to lofi hip hop and complaining about my life to myself. I like seeing that door as a wall, these windows as walls, this isolation as an opening.

I am okay with being trouble.

Maybe I am not enough. And it will always be just that way. But it’s really okay.

I’ll live until I don’t.