I was feeling miserable one day as I am aught to do. I went on Facebook, of course, to share how miserable I was. I complained about my lack of companionship or in other words my lack of life.
I don’t leave the house often and this inspired me to compare myself to the great Emily Dickinson since she was a poet as I am. The difference I immediately saw was that she wore white and I wear black all the time.
I’ve been thinking since then about that comparison of poets and fashion. The relationship between poetry and fashion. What do you think of when you think of a poet? A cursory search on Google brought me to berets! I myself think of something like this:
Reminds me of Keats for some reason!
I started to think. How would I as a poet like to be seen? I like the thought of being a ‘witchy Emily Dickinson’. (I legit said this to my friend not an hour an hour ago). What does a witchy Emily Dickinson look like? Stevie Nicks!
I even have my own color palette picked out. The base color is black (ofc!) but I want to accent it with grey, white, and red!
watch the wolves they know the test
and what they don’t they sniff out the rest
Lying at the foot of grandmother’s armrest
Watching the rise and fall of her breast
Readying themselves for a feast
I can see something in his teeth
A gleam, a pearl, a bone, a key
Oh I think it might be me
Why is it…that I am supposed to be a strong woman. A strong black woman supposedly. That’s all I hear when my friends–especially if they are non-black– tell me. You’re so strong! I can totally see you being a single mother! As if that’s a compliment.
Who wants to be a single mother? Does any mother really wish that on herself? Who would choose willingly to be a single mother? Certainly not I. I’ve watched my mother go through hell raising me. Always trying to scrape together money to pay the bills. Always worrying about money.
My mother essentially comes from a long line of single mothers or if you will women who wore the pants in the family.
My grandmother, god bless her soul, raised my mother and uncle on her own even when she was married. You know the old story. Cheating, abusive husband.
Her mother dealt with pretty much the same. Philandering husband. Eight children to raise.
Are they strong women?
Did they choose that life?
So don’t you ever in your life look at me and call me a strong black woman. I will gouge your eyes like the harpy I am.
I find myself thinking of home a lot. I’ve lived in four houses (one of them was an apartment) since I was born. Certainly not a lot, but the search for a home is something that I am constantly looking for.
The first home I lived in was the house my mother rented from a relative. I was born in that house and it was located right next to my grandmother’s house pictured at left.
We went to Cotton Valley today and my brother stopped in the driveway where our old home used to be. It’s not there anymore. It has been torn down.
He then drove next door to look at my grandmother’s house. It’s still standing, but the trees and grass have covered it almost. My great-grandmother’s house is right next door to her daughter’s. Both women have passed.
My brother is talking about tearing down both homes since he owns the property now and it has me feeling some type of way. I spent a lot of time with my grandmother at her home. She loved sitting out in the yard under the tree. We used to eat outside and walk around just throwing beans and waiting for them to sprout! She told me I had a green thumb, which while I don’t garden at the moment, I still find myself immensely fond of the compliment.
I probably feel emotional about the potential destruction of the property because of its link to my grandmother. A visible, physical link to her and once it’s gone…well you get my train of thought.
It’s strange. I don’t go to my birth town often, but I always know I’m home when I see my grandmother’s house.
Today is my twenty-seventh birthday and I couldn’t be happier. I once thought I would be upset about aging and if this were the younger me, I definitely would be.
But I heard or read somewhere that your thirties are better than your twenties.
I don’t know about that, but I’ve noticed that as I get older I’ve become more confident and secure in myself. Something I struggled with in my teenage years and through most of my twenties.
This birthday is also a little bittersweet. It’s my second birthday without my grandmother. Last year I didn’t really even celebrate. I believe I just slept most of the day.
But today I went downtown. My friend Kayla and I went to Artspace and looked at two installations. I liked both of them, but I really loved the art for Quake in Paradise.
I got some photos on my Diana Mini. It was one of my birthday presents to myself. So far it’s my favorite camera to shoot on though I haven’t had any film developed from it yet. I like the compact design and it’s easy to get used to! Once the film is developed I’ll be posting some pictures!
After my mom and I got home. (Kayla and I ran into her at the bus terminal.) I took a nap basically lol. I take a nap regardless of what happens.
Tonight my mother’s boyfriend came over and we all had birthday cake. I really like Louie and I feel like he’s my stepdad, even though they aren’t married at this time, although it’s not for lack of trying on his part!
All in all a good birthday. No spending the night in the emergency room or celebrating it in a mental hospital either. Hopefully, the birthdays continue to be as good as this one!
P.S. I’ve definitely got to do something big for 30!
I’m tired of being fucking reasonable
Of having to be calm, cool, collected
I want to be angry. I want to be mad.
I want to claim my birthright.
It has been calling to me for the longest
Through the ages from mitochondrial eve
Adam probably called her a bitch too.
I’m tired of having to smile. I’m tired of saying sorry
for things I didn’t do. I’m tired of everything.
I’m angry and I’m not allowed to be.
I must be the voice of reason.
The fucking mediator. A role I’ve taken since birth
Between two witches and a boar.
Or rather college daze I suppose I should say. I have once again begun a new semester. It seems…unseemingly, but it took a lot to get back including paying back federal funds through a mishap on my part that I shan’t talk about anymore. No! The important thing is that I am back where I feel I belong.
What of writing you ask? I’m trying. I have a story in mind. Well, I always seem to have some type of story fluttering around in my head. It’s the execution part that I am the worst at lol.
This week has been good. The new year seems bright!