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It’s just not an era for challenging anyone’s thinking in the least, which means just being Black. So, I have to take refuge in endeavouring, intrepid understanders, because my identity like my thinking operates by a challenge to thought. And I could also just move back to my home.

I committed to celibacy this morning, but then I started scanning through a high IQ society journal.

That my mind was quiet is the take away. These people are often not as metaphysically-minded as I am and they are so academically out of my league. My academically gifted days are mostly behind me and the few ahead are already so tarnished and mostly there for career prospects. I just cannot write properly and I cannot read poorly. Nonetheless, my mind can be quieter, which is better than it all.

Gymnastics is wild to me. Like you practise everyday all the time, you're the best in the world, the best of all time, and you still fall down. I'm definitely just appealing to the basic ingrained notion that one does not want to fall down literally or figuratively, but it does go to illustrate how there are different benchmarks of quote-unquote failure for different fields.

It really is a job, too, the one that I am quitting.

I was home and I welcomed the threat of violence that used to affect my body as a child. It was less dreadful. I don’t know anyone from my home country whose house has not been broken into at some point.

Maybe I should not talk about race and culture as much as I do. I joked to a white Quebecker to whom my Chinese-British friend introduced me. I said, “I’m gonna learn Chinese in a summer,” and laughed, to warm up his inexplicable dismissiveness. Flatly he vanquished me: “That’s impossible.” That was that. He continued joking with my friend, who was really his friend. They were so playful together. He was learning Chinese.

I can’t continue talking. Just know there is no reason for me to communicate with white people, especially if there is dwindling reason to connect with everyone else, who boldly stands up for them in the face of me. Even this is too tiring. I quit.

I remember the moral of all the anecdotes that were to intervene, though: Maybe I should not talk about race and culture as much as I do, but the immediate conclusion, then, is that I do not need to be talking to these people, because whereas they are general subjects, I, as a dark-skinned Black man, have hardly proved to be in my adult life!

No more white friends. I quit.

flyandfamousblackgirls

Wendy Williams (2003)

oleg-mishin

Attic red-figure amphora, c. 490 BC, depicting a youth singing and playing the kithara.

Metropolitan Museum of Art.

To be honest, it’s never been worth it to be truly vulnerable as a black man. Be hard. That wasn’t a real reprieve. That was fake. It may be worse than it was even, because isn’t this honesty a type of vulnerability?

Soft, then, seem it.

details2decern

OK, I'M GONNA GIVE U A MIRROR, AND UR GONNA NAME UR REDEEMING CHARACTERISTICS. *LEAVES ZOOM CALL*

mahoganymamii

Flo Milli for CLASH Magazine (August, 2021)

Photography by: Brandon Bowen

Styling by: Jenna Tyson

Hair by: Monet Bearden

Makeup by: DRVCO

Now, don't think I'm gonna get me another pair of my Flo Milli limes right away just yet, no, and if anything it's these Skull Candy's. It's they that would provoke me to lay the cardboard out on the sidewalk and get to pop and/or locking to win the American Civil. As in they raise my freaking hackles, dag. I was using them just before I was on the ward and the meds made music completely flavourless. Like this is a potent bodily memory, do you understand? It's the Skullies. Like I'm so anxious/manic/psychotic that I'm cleaning my room and I'm reading paragraphs of text. It's giving every bit Ulysses S. Grant! 🗽

I just read from an old exercise book rushed childhood school scribblings. The content was the scribble, the penmanship was excellent. I must scribble more in Hebrew and Greek, and guess more at moderns. I am unsure if at the moment I’m more motivated or more making a manic go, having assembled a list of 30 or 40 philosophy books in French and English to read within a year and having purchased about 20 books of classical music.

I just finished a poem I started writing in prose a year and a half ago is what it is. I love it and it is complete. Seeing the elementary alliteration exercise in the old book makes me want to make more starts. Those were from two decades ago. I have three or four decades to get good at Greek and Hebrew and write complete things in them. The questions that that poem posed on the eve of the mental breakdown that led to a traumatic hospitalization that was on the eve of the pandemic are being answered.

In the name of a substance one might find murky, dru99a

itsbeon

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