Tuesday, September 22, 2009


sunday. 20. september. 2009.

moss green dress, coral belt, purple shoes, yellow earrings. blushed like crazy when ________________________________________!

didn’t expect that; not used to having incriminating things to fill in the blanks. nails cut too short, church too long—just a little. long enough for me to draw a flower in blue pen on my left thumbnail so mom thought i had a crushed finger. wanted to kiss the sparkling kitchen floors and the full, ample cupboards. delicious food and home, family, a thousand percent comfortable. me n gbeech jammed all the way back to ptown, christian rock and “ooohhh,” he said. “i’ve got the sickest gospel song for you.”

home to an empty, musty house. one day i think the mold will peel away the whole floor out from underneath us until there’s nothing left but a crumbly ball of green algae and potato bugs flailing—turned wrong side out, belly up.

the first day of fall

the first day of fall

is the last day that i kiss the sky

and i don’t know any more of the lyrics.

i always get that one mixed up with

your voice

was the soundtrack of my summer

and you’re unlike any other

(or something like that).

certain people are probly ashamed of me right now.

i see you over there, sky. didn’t rise up pink today—instead, a cold, slatey blue. it was frigid out. cold enough to saw my hands off when i was doing something as innocent as changing the song on my iPod. cold enough to drive me inside to class earlier than i have ever been there before. “Cold enough to wear a pea coat?” asked the girl in my Spanish class. Cold enough to wear a coonskin cap—I hope Marsha Lewis sports it tonight.

Cold enough that my fingers have been chilled all day and they are struggling and done.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Can’t you just picture it?

I wonder every single day why I was not born an ample, soulful, bright black woman, fit for singing all day long, and being effortlessly incredible, and having everything I touch turn to magic.

I’ll have to ask God that one first thing.


current idol: Kim Burrell. This woman has the gift.

Monday, September 14, 2009


fitting that it rained today.

Friday, September 11, 2009

the school of love


My humanities professor is a genius. She makes me think about the earth in a different way--I leave her classroom changed.

She is an endless well of shimmering knowledge. Scary looking, like Eezma, probably 60 or so--I quickly fell in love with her.

She told us about Thomas More's Utopia, how Utopia literally means "nowhere"--from the Greek; we can never achieve this perfection, only hope for such a bliss. Sentence after sentence of articulate brilliance streams from her mouth—she never stumbles.

She let me in on her personal life today, showing the class a picture of her parents in 1941. There was an audible gasp and how lovely they looked. She talked of Martin Luther: "Marriage," he said, "is the school of love."

Her parents: the first 30 years, hard and grueling. An ultimatum from her mother. Complete transformation from her father. The next 30 years, utopia. She cracks jokes but does not laugh at them herself--I am surprised she is willing to be so exposed and open when she is so tightly knit together, her bun and her suit and minimal jewelry. 

I remember the humanities does that to me, too, and maybe everyone if we do it right, because they attempt to teach us, simultaneously, our genius and our frailties—and then we realize we can't take ourselves too seriously.


I remembered that there is no ring on her left hand. I wonder about a vulnerability deeper than her father being angry with her as a child, so many years ago. I wonder, sheepishly,  if she cries alone at night, longing for this school of love she can quote so well; I wonder if she is fulfilled. She is so together I deem she must be...but I feel as though she has felt the sting of loneliness maybe more than most in this thriving metropolis of eternal companion hunting and gathering.

As she keeps being poised and never, ever saying the word "um", I wonder if she, in all her studies about being a human, has not had to brave that pain alone and a little deeper because this is what she knows.

She has done her job; I feel empathy and enlightenment about living and being a person, with hurt and joke-making and braving hard things and all that we come to know.


As I pass the people rushing on campus, I itch again to know their life stories. But lately I wonder about their pain, the times they were throwing-up sick and heartbroken with loss or the choice of another; when they were physically weak and exhausted; fitful from a nightmare or frazzled without a job, or visible love, or a dad. I want to grab hold of every person and hug tight when I think of this, that we all have cried and cried until we felt weak with headache and our noses ran out the tissue box.

Thinking of the tears of 33,000 people at once leaves me in awe of the weight of the suffering of the whole world, and my single heart stretches as I think of the One I love who bore the load willingly. As I come to know Him my eyes are open to the vast expanse of others--until my "we're all in this together" sense flames firing red and I want to get up and dance.

He has power infinite to lift the weight. He eases my aches every day--task enough to fill a lifetime. He does this, willingly, tenderly, for all of six point something billion anguished hearts and crying eyes--whether they know Him or care or don't.
When I think of this weight I cannot believe that one day I could be like Him.
I want to try.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


Here’s what I’ve learned about humans.

we can get used to anything.

Life without certain people, terrible smells,

bugs in your bathroom and not having a

shower curtain.

We are very good at this. But only to a

certain point,

after which all of the bugs and missing

people and the smells make a monstrous

pile that we set on fire with just a drop

of emotion.

They become a mountain of dry brush

that explodes,

and then gives way to ashes upon ashes—

but at least it’s a smaller pile now

more manageable.

This is the pile we sweep under that one

famous rug.