Nik Nicholson's Blog, page 4

9/15/2020 AM Journal

I woke up and began reading a book I’d ordered online. I think I may need to go back to paper. I use to have Nook until someone gave me a Kindle for my birthday. The Kindle could be a great tool and opportunity to have all your books in one space if it were not for all of its distractions.

When I first open my Kindle, it had tons of ads. I’m easily distracted and impulsive. Not to mention, they are pitching to me with all of my search history and buying behaviors. I love books, I would buy all the books if I could afford it. So it’s not stretch of the imagination when I tell you sometimes I go to read and end up looking for more books to not read.

Knowing that I’m impulsive and easily distracted I try to remove the ads. Kindle insults the person who gave me the Kindle by informing me it was bought at some discount, so I’ll need to pay an additional $15 to remove the ads. I do. That’s been years ago, the ads are back, I can’t remember if they ever left honestly. Maybe it’s something I need to investigate, if I don’t get distracted.

I said all this to say, I keep trying to read and I’d been beating myself up because I used to read often. Now I’m binge-watching Sherlock Holmes. I’m also looking for other shows to binge watch because I’m in the 5th season of Sherlock Holmes. I need something to escape in when it is over. I should probably research if the show was cancelled or if there will be other episodes. If I don’t get distracted.

I love a good rabbit hole. One of my friends nicknamed me the Queen of Non Sequitur. I’m going to name a collection of poetry this. I know tons of random facts I don’t know how I know, but when researched are true. The way my brain works, I can make all kinds of weird analogies. Another friend says this ability to break things down by analogy would make me a great preacher. Yeah, Jesus did that with his parables and you see what that got him, I digress. Also, I love digressing.

Anyhow, I started reading at 4am or so. It’s about 6:30 am or so. I’ve finished an entire book. This is the old me I remember. The me who read ferociously. I liked reading so much I read a book on speed reading, so I could read more… And then one day I just stopped reading. I’ve stopped writing and reading, except for the occasional poem.

I wouldn’t say I have writer’s block. You actually have to attempt to write to get blocked. I like had no interest in writing any more. After promising readers a second book. After releasing and withdrawing a book on religion, or my experience with religion. I’m back on that, the book about religion. I’m also working on my first comic with a beautiful friend.

When I was younger I wanted to write a comic. I put together an entire world with characters. A friend of mine edited comics and wrote for a black comic in Atlanta. For days I was into it and then one day I didn’t care. I’m weird like that… I have a lot of huge ideas but no drive to complete things and that’s my biggest failure.

I’m full of ideas. I’m also full of shit. I’d like to have less shit in my life which brings me back to my original promise to talk about my mental health.

I think they got my meds right. Mental health in America is so challenging. One, there are only like 10 psychiatrists for the whole population. Eight of them, no, seven of them are capitalist. One of them hasn’t realized they could make so much more if they stop taking insurance. One of them is too lazy to get into the billing, they just one to come to work and let someone else worry about that. They don’t want the responsibility of their own business.

The last one, well, they actually became a psychiatrist to figure out their own mental health issues… Some of the capitalist did this too, but they don’t care why you’re crazy. The tenth one is altruistic. They don’t need all the money. They’re ok making $500,000 a year.

At the end of the day, none of this matters because they are all booked and you’re playing Russian Roulette with mental health diagnoses and literal mind altering drugs. If you lack self awareness, are incapable of communicating, don’t do your own research and don’t have any mental health goals things are about to get bad fast.

On top of all this, depending on where you are in the country, how are you going to pay for this? What’s also important to mention, and I didn’t even know this until I actually worked in mental health, you should be getting labs every three months when you start mental health medicines. There are tons of side effects, weight gain, nightmares, hallucinations, diabetes, insomnia, exhaustion, suicidal ideation, suicide and heart disease. Not to mention, taking a lot of meds do a number on your kidneys so stay hydrated.

I’ve been on and off meds since maybe my late twenties. So that means it’s taken about 16 years to get medication that actually works. I was trying to explain to a friend why I stopped taking my meds so often once I was clear something wasn’t right.

There are a lot of barriers for getting your meds… The main one being your mental health. I am still not sure what day it is and these meds are actually working. I am still losing track of time. I’m writing a lot in these 15 mins though and I’m excited about that. I’m thinking clear right now.

Let me also mention. One of my greatest fears was that I’d get on meds and become someone else. Like, I’m super creative and I love the way my mind works… most times. I like that I can usually see the silver lining. I like that I’m slow to respond… and process. I like that I’m always thinking about people in layers. Like a first impression isn’t really true for me. I actually don’t know who people are no matter how they act the first time. If they are generally rude I stay away but I observe them curiously from that distance.

I know everyone has a story. I know, most people are not horrible to the core. Some of my favorite people are meanies, who turn out to be sweeties. I literally love people. I love to make them laugh. I love to hear about their lives. It’s like no matter where you come from people have all struggled with something. Some of the happiest people I know have been through so much. Which reminds me to prioritize joy and focus on the things that make me happy.

Anyway, where did I go before I digressed. I was explaining the barriers to taking meds being mental health. There are no social workers for adults unless you attempt to or kill someone, or survive killing yourself. People who ask for help aren’t a priority. So the way our society is set up in America, we just put out fires… We ignore people trying to give us their matches. Sometimes, we ignore there is an issue and pour gasoline on their dreams so they have nothing to lose.

I never knew I had mental health issues. I wasn’t comparing myself to other people. I knew that I was extremely lonely because my parents worked and the rest of my family was thousands of miles away. I was pretty responsible even though I didn’t want to be alive. I went to school without being told, I did homework without being told. I understood it would be bad if I didn’t graduate high school and I was bored at home, so I asked to go to summer school two years in a row so I wouldn’t have to take math during the year.

I was quiet in some classes. I wanted to fit in with cooler kids. I loved to make jokes and laugh. I use to imagine I was somewhere else, someone one else with a family where we hung out and did things together. I never wanted to be an athlete. This really bothered my mom. I didn’t like doing anything that required me to stand up in front of people.

I liked taking the late bus with all the kids who were in clubs, detention or who played sports. I loved the library. I liked being on the campus when it was almost empty, planning. I joined clubs. I’ve always had a lot of ideas. I’ve always thought I could make the world a better place. I still believe I can and maybe I’ve figured out how. That’s a different story for a different day.

A couple of years ago now, I checked myself into a hospital. My life was spiraling out of control. I was doing everything I could to hold on. I’ve never been able to keep a job. Between not knowing what day it is, struggling to get started, being easily distracted and losing track of time my attendance was terrible.

At the same time, I’m a workaholic. I excel at jobs where I’m given autonomy and specific responsibilities. I am meticulous in my organization. I’m early on deadlines. I’m passionate about my work and I’m always open to help others. I recently realized not to get jobs where I need to clock in. I need a job where I have a general expectation of which I should be there. For instance, if everyone should be in by 8:30 am, because I’m easily distracted I’ll probably be there around 6:30 am. I need to get situated, go over my tasks for the day, track my own progress.

Over the years, I’ve learned my shortcomings and make a lot of allowances for myself. One of the things I know, I’m easily distracted. If possible, I like to work with headphones on. Most times there isn’t any music on, just the feeling of something blocking the sounds around me helps to keep me focused. I’ve learned to set boundaries and ask for deadlines.

Most importantly, I’ve learned to ask what is the priority. I prioritize based on what is the most difficult. I like to start that project first and work on it early in the morning. Then put easier tasks toward the end of my day when there are more people in the office and more interruptions. With my last manager, I learned to keep a list of tasks.

I’ve always had a horrible memory. In fact, my memory is so bad I sometimes forget what I’m saying mid-sentence. And I’m like, how did I get here, what is the question again… If I’m interrupted, I don’t even remember my train of thought. I tell myself, if it’s important I will remember and this is true, sometimes.

After I started therapy in my twenties, I learned I had to allow the other person to talk. ADD IN THE HOUSE!!! I mean I didn’t realize I was cutting folks off. I also learned how to listen attentively, which means being present and not thinking about what you are going to say next. So when it’s your turn to talk you don’t have anything to say… And this makes people think you are listening too… I’m literally reading a book on validating people’s feelings, so I can teach myself this habit.

I’m always trying to improve and be a better person. I want to be my most authentic self, which is a foreign concept for Black Americans. Due to racism, we are required to wear masks. Culturally, we communicate and behave different. So you have to learn white standards and follow them even when white people do not. Me, I’m setting my own standards that are rooted in me being the best version of myself. So I’m embracing my grandmother’s dialect and remixing it with the King’s English.

So when I was diagnosed as Bipolar 2, I accepted it. I researched it. I took my meds… Until I had a bit of a break down and drove into oncoming traffic and then up a ramp to get off the freeway. At that point, I didn’t want to kill myself but all of a sudden it felt like everyone I ever loved had passed. Like I had an awesome job, a great place to live, I’d lost more weight than I ever imagined, my spirit was good, I was dating, I was the slimmest I’d ever been in my life and I wanted to die.

I drove to a restaurant after I exited the freeway the wrong way with people cursing at me and endangering everyone’s lives… I locked myself in the bathroom and cried for hours. I was afraid to go home. I was afraid of what I might do to myself. When I finally came out of the bathroom stall, my eyes and skin were beet red. I was exhausted. I was anxious about walking out of the restroom I’d been in for I don’t know how long. My face was wet from crying. My head was hurting and I was embarassed to call anyone. I didn’t even know what was wrong.

I’d started a business, on top of working full time, I had money in the bank, my apartment was beautiful and I actually liked the way I looked for the first time in life. Then, I didn’t know a side effect of the meds I was on was suicide.

I cleaned my face, went home and went to sleep. I was so out of it, I left my lunch bag and purse in the car, in plain view. I just wanted to make it upstairs. I took a long shower before passing out. The next morning, I got up like clockwork. Made breakfast and realized I didn’t have my meds, I’d left them in the car. I didn’t feel like going to the car and getting them. I told myself I’d take them when I got to work. I didn’t. They sat in the hot car all day.

Meanwhile, I was off focus. I took something for my moods and another something to deal with my ADD. Internally, I don’t notice that I’m different. People ask me if I’m ok. I’m super quiet and daydreaming. I’m thinking about how horrible I felt yesterday emotionally. Between calling clients I call my psychiatrist’s office. He only works three days a week. If it isn’t an emergency they’ll set me an appointment standby next week. Can I get there?

I love routines. I have a strict one. Monday through Friday, and I don’t work a traditional week, my Monday is maybe Tuesday. I work every Saturday, but I don’t care, I don’t have children or a partner. Plus, Saturday’s are chill and slow. There are only a few of us there and no supervisors. Then, I use to fantacise about every work daying being like Saturdays.

Back to my routine. Every morning I get up at the same time. I have a good large no carb breakfast. I take all my meds. I make my lunch from leftovers. I chop up some fruit and give myself snacks. I put one diet soda. I pack my gym back. Then I shower, get dressed and go to work. After work, I go to the gym. After the gym, if I need anything from the grocery store I do that. If it’s Monday or Wednesday I cook enough food for a couple of days of dinners and lunches. Every Sunday I go to church and then out to brunch with my best friend Kevin. If we aren’t too tired we go shopping.

On Sundays, after shopping and hanging with Kevin I come home and do laundry. Make a pretty big dinner that will only last a day. I make sides. I have a friend I work with and I pack him a lunch too.

Within this routine, I call my grandmother a few times a week. Usually when I’m grocery shopping. She thinks I’m using her to get recipes, but really I don’t initially know what to talk to her about. There are a lot of years between. I’ve learned in therapy, people have different concerns at different ages.

My grandmother gives me advice. She loves to laugh. I put her on speaker phone while I’m cooking and let her tell me everything going on in the family. I’m gay, an only child with no siblings and I live in a city where I have no family. So, I’m always out of the loop. When my mother calls every other month, she’s amazed by how well I am informed.

It isn’t until years later and my grandmother is literally dying, does she realize how often we talked. I also talk to my grandmother’s sister, Theatta. I realize there is a whole world going on between them. I ask my grandmother strange questions that tickle her. “What was her best friend’s name in high school?”

My grandmother doesn’t like to discuss the past. Still, I push. Sometimes, she’d imagine another world on the phone. Tell me about working for this or that white man. Every February for as long as I can remember, black and white footage of Black people being beaten and hosed in the south is aired. Talking to my grandmother, I realize this was her life. She tells me how heartbroken she was after they killed Kennedy and King. Now, I’m realizing she never discussed Malcolm X. I’m remembering how afraid she was Obama would be assassinated. I was proud she lived to see a Black man become president after being born and living during post slave law for a good part of her life.

I finally remember to take my meds, because even though I didn’t physically feel anything before, I’m having withdrawals. However the meds have been in my hot car and I’m too stupid to know I shouldn’t take them. I do. I’m sicker than I’ve ever been. I vomit. My head hurts and the withdrawals continue. I call the doctor, but it’s still not an emergency. By this time, it’s a weekend. The following day is Sunday.

I don’t go to church. I don’t go to work for days and when I finally do, I’m a mess. I don’t go to my psychiatrist appointment because all I can do to hold it together is go to work and come home and sleep. I’m detoxing from the meds. It’s so painful. Then I didn’t know, I already suffered from anxiety and PTSD. The meds working their way out of my system cause my nerve endings to burn. It feels like I’m being electrocuted without warning.

I never go back to the doctor. I never get a refill. I stop taking the meds. I get fired. And I can’t afford health insurance, help or shit, even my life.

Polyamory

I dove head first into all things poly years ago to do research for a book. I didn’t want to write about something I didn’t know anything about. Also, I knew a lot of people who are poly. I didn’t want to use them, if that makes sense. I wouldn’t want someone examining my life to figure out how to write about it… Well, that’s not true. I wouldn’t care. I feel like if you can’t ask questions you can’t learn… I ask my white friends all kinds of shit and leave the door open for them to do the same. We’ve had several conversations about my hair and personal hygiene based on their assumptions. I’ve had a lot of hygiene questions for them too. I mean, we’re people we think shit.

Anyway, I planned to write a poly novel. So I joined a few groups. I even dated poly not intentionally. It happened organically, outside of any research motivation… In fact I didn’t realize I was poly until a friend years later pointed out that I’d had two partners for three years. Ethical non- monogamy just means being honest about all your intimate relationships.

As a result, I’ve kind of become a poly advocate. I hate when folks say it’s about cheating with permission. Or claim jealousy and the idea of sharing one person is why they are against polyamory. News flash, poly folk are humans who were raised in a culture where toxic monogamy is the expected and imposed norm. They deal with all the feels everyone else does. Loving more than one person, being loved by more than one person doesn’t save them from feeling. What they do with those feelings is different, but that’s a different discussion.

A post came up in my feed, from a group on Facebook where someone posted condemning polyamory. The group is mono centered like almost every single thing that exists in American culture. So I felt obligated to give some insight.

Days later, I’m thinking, I gave a lot of energy to that post… Which helped, but it shouldn’t be lost. So I’m sharing it here.

Also, some people are wired to love more than one person, and some are not. I’m innately monogamous. So if I were ever poly, I’d have to be in a hierarchical relationship, because I can’t intimately love multiple people at the same level. I don’t have the energy for it. I currently identify as ambimorous.

Art Center

I grew up at the West Las Vegas Art Center. I have performed there and hosted events. It feels like home.

I sometimes drop by to see what’s going on. Usually, a friend is working on a project they will be presenting.

Not to mention, it’s connected to a library with rare books.

Facebook: THIS IS A STICK UP!!!!

Facebook began allowing us to keep up with erbody. On my writer page, I pay to advertise because those posts are shown to people who are interested in what you’re sharing where there isn’t a connection. This seems fair.

This is also the reason why I think there should be some kind of button to let the algorithm know when they’ve gotten it wrong, and you’re not interested. I sometimes search for things because I’m curious, I’m fact-checking an article, or because I know somebody is lying. Anyway, in these cases, I may never want to see anything on those subjects again.

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA – JULY 08: Former U.S. President and Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump smiles before he delivers remarks at a Nevada Republican volunteer recruiting event at Fervent: A Calvary Chapel on July 8, 2023 in Las Vegas, Nevada. Trump is the current front runner for the 2024 Republican presidential nomination amid a growing field of candidates. (Photo by Mario Tama/Getty Images)

For the most part, I’ve successfully blocked all ptrum news. Like, my algorithm won’t even show me posts where he’s mentioned. His existence makes me feel hopeless, powerless and apathetic. I can’t believe a man with such horrible behavior was voted into the highest office in America. I mean, I shouldn’t be surprised because slavery was legal, Black people are still Christians (when the Bible condones slavery to the point of defining how much one can legally beat a slave. And there are scriptures about being obedient to cruel masters. And if you’re against human trafficking, biblically, men can sell their daughters, or offer them to be trained. Remember Lott in Sodom? And you thought that was about homosexuality, silly rabbit… or sheep. Doesn’t the Bible call you sheep?

I mean, the U.S. federal government just passed a law saying Blacks could wear their natural hair to work without discrimination. Meanwhile, Black children are still being expelled from PUBLIC schools as recently as last week for braids, afro puffs and locs.

For some reason, I still had hope that people who use Colored would be against a man who publicly longs to date his own daughter, brags about walking through a teen pageant dressing room gawking at naked 13-year-olds. Not to mention, saying you can’t rape your wife would never be president. But I guess, as I suspected, most of his supporters are actually cousin-aunt-sister-moms and dad-uncle-cousins. So instead of being repulsed, they felt kindred.

What I’m saying is, we live in the twilight zone, so it should be normal to have mental health challenges. So everyone without one isn’t adaptive, you’re rzayc too. I said what

I said. Sorry… I got crazy right there. Drump makes me spiral, that’s why I removed that mofo from all my feeds. I have to actively search to read about his RICO case, which I appreciate.

You want to show your kids to your grandma? Pay me, Natalie!

Now Facebook’s algorithm is requiring us to pay to talk to our own circle. I mean, if I wanted to talk to myself, I could do that in my head. No password is needed, I stay logged in. Helloooooooooooo

Spanish Flu Pandemic

What historical event fascinates you the most?

I studied the early 1900s. Specifically, 1895-1935. I read over 200 books and it never came up. Which is bananas because it killed 1/3 of the population. Turns out, they intentionally omitted it from most books.

Rooting For You

We’re winning.

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!

My Soul Aches

I’m having intrusive thoughts. I can’t fix myself. I waste too much energy.

I need to be more intentional.

I Hated the Barbie Movie

The Barbie Movie Was Brilliant, But I Hated It (Spoiler Alert)

Five minutes into the Barbie movie, I couldn’t believe it was doing so good in the box office. If I didn’t have an excited 6yo and hadn’t bought $30 worth of snacks, I would have walked out.

I must admit, it was dope seeing other people decked out in pink. It was like we were in a private club. We smiled and nodded at each other. My lil one was wide-eyed seeing other lil girls wearing similar outfits. I wore a little pink, too, cause I’m a festive muthafucka. There was some initial remorse, I didn’t get these amazing powder pink heels earlier that day, because the pink was too light. But Barbie is about being you in all the ways you are and I think she would have appreciated the nod. I wore flat sandals, cause comfort if I can’t be festive. Once we finally sat down, after a twenty-mile walk from the car and all over the casino to find the theatre, I was grateful I didn’t have on heels.  

The execution sucked. The plastic world, the overacting and underacting. The flat-foot drama that forces Barbie into an existential crisis, yawn. Which can only be resolved by finding herself in the real world. Ta-dah!!! That’s the plot and it’s dope. So, in theory, this movie was awesome. It changed how I looked at Barbie and Ken. Like, I never thought about Ken not having a house or car. Lol! It literally was girls’ night every night. It wasn’t so much about matriarchy, or Barbie being misandrist as some folks have accused her since this movie release. Ken was just boring.

Ken’s hair was plastic, a large part of doll play is combing and styling hair. Ken usually only had the outfit he came in, so you couldn’t change his clothes.  More importantly, he didn’t have any jewelry or accessories. Barbie had a phone, purses, bows, she came with brushes, and different shoes. When my girl cousins and I played Barbie together, we worked to see who could make their doll look the best. If we had a Ken we didn’t even bring him cause, why? Nothing to do with his sex or gender.

At the end of the night, the question is posed where do the Kens go? On top of that, Ken didn’t really have a role unless Barbie allowed him to join. This is how it was. Us girls, dressed up, didn’t need a guy with the same outfit and plastic hair tagging along. This reminded me of a time before I knew about dating, sex, love and marriage.

I loved the innocence of Barbie. No responsibilities. No fears. No expectations. No disappointments. Barbie could do anything and look fabulous. Not to mention, she had a huge house that was open. Unlike all the lock doors in the real world. Barbie’s world was safe. Friends just came over and sat in the chair on your balcony.

This brings me to the larger point of Ken being pushed in Barbie’s world. He’s there because a girl doll can’t exist without a boy? At the same time, Mattel didn’t make space for Ken in Barbie’s world. He’s nothing more than an effigy reflecting the attitudes and customs of the years in which he was made. Surfer Ken, with actual hair, no shirt on and in shorts. Versus the first Kens, casket sharp, three-piece suits and sometimes even a hat. It’s adult ideas being forced on children, more specifically girls, just playing.

No one ever tried to force a woman or girl doll in the world of GI Joe. They didn’t make a hot pink car for hot wheels. There were no pink Rock’em Sock’em Robots. Barbie didn’t even consider fighting, or competition. Barbie was a peaceful toy. So peaceful, even when military Barbie came along there were no guns. Still, entire male universes existed without forcing a girl doll into them. Why? How?

Nothing brings home Ken’s awkward placement more than when Ken identifies himself as Barbie’s boyfriend. Therefore, she should let him spend the night. To which a confused Barbie asks why, what would they do. Turned out, Ken didn’t know either. Brilliant.

I’m an adult doll collector. So I’m on several Barbie forums, where the Barbie movie is being held as the best movie ever. I scrolled over at least ten posts a day, not wanting to rain on anyone’s parade. All the while wondering how I missed the magic.

Then a woman fellow collector posted, Barbie’s hatred of men was almost unbearable. A few men Barbie collectors agreed, but the majority defended the movie. Men, collecting Barbies, having more Barbies than Kens and explaining why they didn’t feel hated by Barbie piqued my interest. Then, I was grateful I watched to the end.

Not to mention, I recalled a simpler time. I remembered my childhood. For a moment, I was unencumbered with life. For a moment, I was sitting on my bedroom floor with a Barbie wardrobe case. Trying to decide what to put on my Barbie. For a moment, I only had to worry about myself and my Barbie. I was safe. There were no bills to pay. For a moment, anything was possible. For a moment, I was free.

Then, Weird Barbie reminded me to embrace my differences, celebrate differences, and inspired me to challenge patriarchy?… but mostly people who rag on me for being artsy and crafty.

The subjects tackled were revolutionary. Maybe they could have been presented better. I don’t know. I loved that every Barbie was Barbie. I loved how they greeted each other with cheer, “Hi, Barbie.” I loved how they were a whole world of women working together in the perfect world. That was my Barbie world.

Barbie has definitely changed over the years, and is finding herself again. Now she has an Afro, freckles, she’s super tall and petite. Now Barbie has red textured hair, different curvy bodies, muscular lean, and flat chested frames. God, she’s even got flat feet, which sucks. I know, someone really wanted this… But shoes for ages are heeled. There aren’t many flat foot options.

Now Barbie competes in the Olympics, works at NASA, is president, and green. There are Barbies made out of recycled plastic. Now Barbie is honoring women ancestors. I love my Ella Fitzgerald and Maya Angelou dolls.

I don’t know what I expected. I don’t know how I missed when Barbie actually did meet my expectations. I didn’t expect a plastic world. A beach without real water blows.

I didn’t expect patriarchy to be the antagonist in a movie about Barbie, cause I don’t think about Ken as men. When I think about Barbie, she exists in her own realm with its own rules.

I didn’t expect Ken to feel like he was in a matriarchy. I’m still like, Ken feels oppressed? “Kenough” and “kenergy” were cute anecdotal conclusions that didn’t really address Ken’s position. Which is awesome.

Male dolls need to go be GI Joe. Barbie isn’t trying to get in their worlds. Other Barbie collectors and I have been teasing, saying Ken is enough. It’s the first time we are considering Ken.

In a world where my imagination is free of all the stuff I learned later in life, there was a whole world where boys weren’t missed. Barbie was driving her car, walking the red carpet, leading a band of girl rockers, and chilling by the pool.

Let me also admit, I’ve never watched other Barbie movies. There are several but in cartoon.

During the movie, I suffered. I struggled not to disconnect. Thanks to a certain 6yo who kept pointing out things she loved and jigging with joy in her seat. I was so relieved when the movie finally ended. My 6yo was skipping and talking faster than I could process about what she loved. Which was deeply satisfying. Introducing her to Barbie was dope.

I started collecting Barbies a few years ago, because I saw myself in her. It was unintentional. I bought several for my friends’ birthdays. Every year, I’d have one left.

Now, I’m part of a global network of collectors. A collector in Ukraine keeps me posted on the war. I got into it with a Russia Barbie doll dress maker about the war. I am speaking a little Portuguese to a collector in Brazil.

We have all found ourselves in a doll who found herself in a German sex toy for men. Barbie has become an opportunity for girls to dream. While becoming a canvas for adults to exercise their creativity.

I’ve tried sewing, architecture, and building furniture. I can read a dress pattern. I haven’t given up on my sewing.

I dress my mini me in all my favorite things and colors. She inspires me to walk in all my fire.

When I wear my cowboy boots, and it’s 105 outside, I won’t be shamed by loved ones teasing me. Cause I love my boots. I love how I feel walking in them.

Maybe, I’ll yell at them, “I DO WHAT I WANT!! BARBIE FOREVER!!” Or maybe, I’ll just say people where boots in Texas year round.

Love and light

You Asked About Self-Publishing

Peace, this is a long post to answer some questions I’m asked often. Also, info I wish found all in one place.

First. Whatever genre you’re writing in, at least peruse books in that genre. Know who the bestsellers are and why.  This is also the first step in finding an agent if you want to be traditionally published.

Two. To build an audience research call for submissions on projects in your genre. Many large publishing houses do subject collections, like erotica short stories and accept submissions from new unrepresented writers.

Submitting also allows you to network in your genre. This could also lead to traditional publishing or a small press.

Three. Self publishing doesn’t mean do everything yourself. Even your favorite writer has a minimum of three professional editors.
Budget for at least three. Don’t ask your friends unless they are English teachers. Even that’s sketch.

Yes, you can edit your own work. In fact, you must do the best you can before you send it to your first editor.

Friends can beta read when the book is done, but proofreading is not professional editing.

Four. Three editors
1.Content editor. Addresses plot holes, pacing, character development and sentence structure.
This is the most intense edit, and the longest process. Most importantly, you should make your own corrections.
First, editors don’t always know what you mean. These changes are suggestions. Not to mention, going through every word with a content editor
makes you a stronger writer. By teaching you how to flesh out your own story. It also allows you to see how an audience would comprehend what you’ve written. Sometimes what we think we’re saying isn’t what is heard. This editor may correct some spelling and grammar by nature, editor and all, but their purpose is helping you convey and write the best story. For nonfiction, pace of story, order of events, removing repetition and irrelevant information that doesn’t serve your goals for the  book. For poets, they help pick and organize the poems by theme and flow. They also edit.

Poets. Read your whole book out loud before and after this edit.

After you’ve reviewed all the suggestions, made your story tight and nothing is moving, it goes to its next editor.

2. Grammar/ line editor. This editor can make the changes because the writing is set. I still think you should, because writing is a process and you learn a great deal from your mistakes. However, this depends on your budget, the skill of the editor, and how much you trust them with your voice. If you can afford Angela Y Davis’s line editor, let them make the changes. If you’re cutting corners and trying to save money, you need to know what changes are made.

Some people who claim to be editors don’t really know how to edit. They rewrite in their voice. Or rewrite to fit the King’s English, erasing character voice differentiation and colloquial language.

Story is tight. No spelling or grammar errors. Line edits are done. The book is so good you can’t wait to share it.

But wait. There should be no issues but people are human, and you may still be mixing the magic and misspelled or left a word out.

This is when you print copies for beta readers or friends. Give instructions.

How is the pace?
Please check spelling/grammar.
What were your favorite parts?
What did you hate or want more of?
Did anything not make sense? Writers working with writers/editors, may have too high of an expectation for their readers’ comprehension . Was the language understandable?
Did you have to look up any words?
How often?
Which chapters were hardest to read?
Do any other writers, books, movies come to mind? (This question helps with your marketing and tag words)

You need all your reader packets back. You need to address all your readers concerns.  Whether you change something or say, “whateve, girl, this is lit.”

Then read your own manuscript twice. Once for a final edit. Then aloud.

READ IT OUT LOUD. This is so important because it verifies your voice. It smooths out the flow.

3. Last editor!
Editor/formatting
Book should be in final print format. Final editor proofreads heavy. A little grammar and spell check. They should make sure each chapter starts on the right page. They will make sure the opening and closing pages are correct.
They may look at type settings and making sure everything is fully justified.

Note: Smaller print exhausts readers’ eyes. Short paragraphs make them feel like they are moving through text fast.

Don’t use fonts difficult to read. Anything that looks like cursive. Even if it’s not a traditional book, you need to find three fonts and stick with them.

This edit should verify the books format fits publishing standards.

I forgot. First and second edit should be double spaced so editors can write in lines.

Beta copies should be fully formatted, single spaced for print but on full printed pages so that they can write in the margins.

Last edit can be an actual proof of the book.

Review: Title on binding, it should be centered.
Does the cover look like you expected? Should it be darker or lighter? Is the title clear? Is it spelled right?

This way every page is checked. After you get it back and make necessary changes, you should be good to go live and order prints of the finished book.

Five. Friends and family are not your audience. Cultivate an audience. Research how.

Six. Why do you have a website if no one knows your name? If this is your first book and you aren’t Beyonce, use KDP so you will be suggested to people you don’t know looking for books in your genre.

Seven. Copyright that first manuscript draft, no matter how horrible it is, before you send it to anyone. Then send in updates as you edit. Create a copyright of a collection of your work.

When you’re going to publish buy a new copyright for that specific book.

This should have been like number one, but I wrote this in a rush and would have had to change er number to correct that. So… Bam! Here it is.

Eight. What is the difference between self publishing and traditional publishing?

And

What are the pros and cons of self publishing versus traditional?

These are two different questions. Google can answer the first one. It’s technical.

The second is more nuisanced and depends on your goals, network, platform/ audience and commitment.

And traditional publishers can create an audience. They publish unknown writers all the time. But that’s a whole other post of whys and hows.

Nine. I’ve used several types of publishers. Smashwords. I loved the idea of the word grinder. I published with a vanity press, which sucked. KDP is the best of all the self-publishing options outside of traditional printers.

Traditional printers base their prices on page count, paper, color vs. black and white, the type of cover AND how many books you’re printing. This is why you can’t just call and get a price. If I order your same book but get 1000, and you are getting 100, I may pay $1 per book, while you may pay $3.50 per book.

Printers don’t care if it’s copyrighted or if you have an ISBN. If you’re going to sell them out of your trunk, at your poetry shows and off your website, an ISBN isn’t necessary.

If you want book stores to carry it, or your local library you need an ISBN. You could buy your own but some places are weird about this, which limits where your book is sold.

Also, you can’t give your library a copy because they need library copies. These books are made more rugged for heavy use. Last time I checked, only a library can order them. Which they usually do directly from a publisher.

Ten. I don’t want to do everything myself. Do you? So I like that KDP ships my books. I like that they keep track of sells for taxes. I don’t want to house tons of books. I don’t want to be going to the post office all the time. Or checking to see if I sold some. Idc. Don’t send me notifications either.

And tbh, I’ve sold more books online than in person. More importantly, KDP makes your book available to be carried every where, even internationally.
Local printers don’t, and you still gotta make that ebook.

Eleven. Never buy reference books. Use the library. Go to book stores and then get books at your library. You can request the library order books and be first on the waiting list to read it.

Between Google and the library you have tons of free resources. Only buy books you will return to throughout during every writing project.

I own sooo many books.

Lastly, what number am I on? KDP has formats for several different types of books you can use for any printer. You don’t have to know how to format. When I started publishing I had to do it manually.

There are publishing standards for books. It’s not just what looks good. Get someone to format it if you don’t know the standards. Or you don’t want to fill in the pre-made formats. Some writers just write and pay for all the other parts to be done by others.

It’s ok to hire help. Your book will read better and look professional.

List your editors with cover designer.

I wrote this off the top of my head to share with folks. Forgive my imperfections. I pray this is helpful.

Grateful