I’ve been frustrated and depressed for the past few weeks. I’m not talking about the coup. That bores me.
I’m instead fascinated at how I have never been able to experience the same stimuli as the people near me. And increasingly myself.
Had I not already lost my mind, I’d definitely think I’m losing my mind. But I’m not. This may be the sanest I’ve ever felt in my entire life.
I use pictures of my child selves as avatars on social media. Or rather, I used to.
Before shut down, I pitched an article for an environmental magazine. It was a big deal for me. My first pitch that I ever got accepted. I remember how excited & proud of myself I felt.
Finally a real writer I’d be. Real as in professional. Paid. Able to prove to the ever present disapproving internalized oppressors and bullies that made me feel never good enough.
But as my luck would have it, my laptop died, the tablet I had access to I couldn’t get the password to log out if it so I could log in with my own information so I could then write it and be able to site my sources, etc. Then it died. My phone died. And then shut down happened. And I hurt my back.
That’s how my luck is a lot. It’s bananas. It’s not like I’m not intelligent, charming, witty, beautiful, talented — all the things folks wish to be. I don’t need make up, to shower, don’t need thinness — everywhere I’ve ever gone I’ve been hailed the “most beautiful woman”
Folks have burst into tears. Given me money.
An older Slavic woman serenaded me in a sauna at a random Russian bath house in New Jersey.
During World Cup 2006, as I wandered Manhattan in a stoned blur of grief, I sat on a rock just to gather my thoughts & take in Union Square Park. A cute Latino approached me and humbly asked if he could play his sax for me. The moment lives on in my memory as purely holy.
I could fill books about these random moments when consensus reality showed up for me and those around me as if purely for my specific delight.
Literally drove me crazy. Over time though, I’ve come to understand and experience as being simultaneously the singular most important being every created or imagined or ever will be AND as disposable as parchment.
Contrary to every single thing we’ve been taught, this is NOT the real world as it is. I’m genuinely curious how folks are functioning right now.
I get it. Our culture required obedience, silence, go along, to get along, and waiting on the Lord and/or the afterlife. Suffer here on Earth so that there can be a great reward in Heaven. But isn’t “As Earth as it is in Heaven” in the prayer. How can Heaven be both the reward and the place were we suffer to have the reward? Is suffering the reward?
Now, take everything I say with a boulder of salt as I’ve not been a Christian since I was a teenager. I believe nothing, but I love study. I love words. Research. Maybe more than the search, I love how it feels to come closer to understanding what may have first frightened or disgusted me.
Anyway, the way that I have come to understand that we all together make up reality. With our thoughts. Our day dreams. Our fears. Nightmares. It’s all us humans that ever were and ever will be and are now together making reality.
I’ve never seen that movie Everything Everywhere at once, but when I share how I experience time and reality it’s the movie folks talk about.
To me having seen Sinners now two times, it’s the juke joint music number when all the Ancestors danced & played along. It’s like that, but all the time.
I’m struggling to survive right now. It’s bananas. Because what gets me is that I have less than $10 in my bank account. I intend to go to my niece’s graduation party & meet my newest grandniece.
We’re in the middle of coup or whatever the fuck. Camps loom. I want to have a good time.
I’ve had enough, and I’m doing something.
The only thing I know how to do. Be weird. Ridiculous. and petty.
There’s a subreddit called Main Character syndrome. They roast content creators for getting in the way of “regular people” going about their lives.
I enjoy it as I enjoy all subreddits each in their special way. I am a very distracted writer.
I’m also lonely. It’s wild that I or anyone ever thought that disabled people fake being sick for money attention. I hurt all the time, and I have zero dollars. I have friends and am loved and don’t have the energy to go out. I tire easily.
Again, getting back to a topic I started a few tangents back, I don’t experience the same material conditions as so far it seems most human beings I’ve encountered.
Take for example the fact that I live in pain. When I state that in either conversations or in writing, folks misinterpret my utterance as complaints or a desire not to engage in whatever activity we’re doing.
I may be a masochist. Ancestral epigenetic, societal, and personal history offer context than can frame how little free will I had in embracing the near infinite range of sensation. Like I’m bred to suffer. Socialized as prey.
I’m distracted. Distraction is a normal response to the world right now.
It’s challenging to express myself right now because absolutely NOTHING makes sense. America is just ticking along.
Myself included. I thought I was a global citizen. A third culture Black person. Yes and I am here at the core of Empire. Right in the belly of the beast.
I wanted to leave out of fear of the camps. So, I thought Namibia would be great. Ancestral. Their former colonial power, Germany, has demonstrated the most actionable steps towards repair and restitution than any other thus far.
I started drafting my email to the consulate. As I named how Namibia would be a good fit for me & how much I have to offer, my heart broke.
Not in a sad way. I just lost patience. Lost patience with the trash strike. Shitler & Turd Reich. The dullness of the coup.
It’s almost as if he’s pranking us all. Right. Like, I’m sure the MAGA crowd believes all the racism, but Elon hasn’t committed to the bit. He’s a moron, sure. But how do you fail at being a nazi. As a nazi, your one job is to strike fear in the likes of me.
At best, I belly laugh at how clownishly insecure he is as he pretends to know anything. Worse and most likely, just cringe.
Like, the second hand embarrassment, this whole process. Most time if I do write about him, I don’t even use his name. Even before this, I didn’t ever think of him until he came across a feed or timeline. Up until yesterday, everything I knew about him I knew completely without my consent.
See, you can’t be a genocidal meglomanical billionaire if you’re stupid and talentless.
To be either the villain, maybe I’m using the wrong idiom here.
It’s not villainy, it’s game. Games.
He’s a non playable character. If anything he’s a mod. A corrupted mod. Or an NPC that’s been corrupted by a mod.
Look, I don’t have all the answers here. I’m figuring this out as I go.
While I was yesterday all stressed out and it hit me. Why would any human being reasonable or otherwise be allegedly worth damned near half a trillion dollars needs to take food out of the mouths of the starving, healthcare from the sick, fire mostly Black women from their government jobs.
He ain’t shit. Fucking mock turtle soup head ass!
Worse. He’s like vampire. He drains the worth from everything he touches. He’s only made it this far because this country is obsessed with wealth as grace demonstrated.
He’s King Minus. Instead a golden touch, Lonny’s got the fecund touch. Everything he touches turns to shit.
While trying to wrap my thoughts around why a someone who was actually wealthy steal from poorer people yesterday, I sat down to do a quantum jump to connect with a reality where I have access to at least some context.
Suddenly a violent, turbulent storm blue thru, and the next thing I remember, I sat legs akimbo on the floor of my messy goblin mode bed that lay flat on the floor like I’m not a 51 years old and went to college.
My room started spinning, items flying through the air.
I stood up, stamped my foot, wagged my finger and said, “I’ve had just about E-NOUGH!”
And at that very moment, one of the barbies I used for my doll project, sat bolt upright.
“You look happy,” she said.
Stuck like a stunned mullet, I picked my jaw up off the floor.
“I’m glad,” she responded. A little clear blob of plasticy tear lingered in the corner of her eyes.
I ran to my studio room and grabbed the room diorama I’d made a few years ago. Set up the little sofa for her.
Gave her an empty doll cup, I imagined had tea in it.
What came next blew what’s left of my mind away. I’m still processing & will be for a long, long time.
The details were fuzzy. And she was dizzy and discombobulated having just been pulled through a tear in space/time. I pretended to refill her tea.
Apparently, some of witchtok sought out a demon to deal with our Musk problem. I mean, the intention is good, I guess. Seems like it would be less work to just organize, redistribute stolen wealth, and divest of privilege. But slay, mages! You summoned his arch nemesis.
Only thing is that it’s me. Not me, me, but me one of last times I said no to an opportunity that was set to place me in the path of power.
It was 2011. I’d spent the past four years doing nothing but healing myself from the pain and damage of sexual assault, abuse, and what I interpreted as self-sabotage and addiction to failure. It was March. I arrived in Philly full of myself.
I was tired of spending the cold months somewhere and then returning to the Omega Institute. I enjoyed being offline. But I couldn’t hide forever.
That’s what my life has felt like. So much of my life hiding.
Forgive me. I’m still processing. This kind of shit doesn’t happen anywhere but movies. And a rip in the fabric of reality does not look like it does in the Marvel movies. It doesn’t look like anything.
How it happens is that in one instance, I was worried about how I was going to afford a new phone that I need just for communication, but to make content to survive, a new computer, and there’s a new family member. I felt so low and like a failure. No job. No income. Unable to do what I’d love to do.
I remember the fact that I’d turned down a summer job teaching art there. Regrets are part of life. All I wanted was to see my kin and express myself. Out of reach. If only.
As I looked around my room with renewed appreciation for my semi squalid living space, my naughty cat, the less than $7.00 in both my checking and savings combined, and my fat, flabby, chronically ill body.
I had to give thanks to the G-d, because as tough as my life has been, and it’s sucked. But as challenging as my life has been. At least, I get to be me. Can you imagine being Elon Musk? Or even worse having been married to him?
Apparently, it’s multiple universes. I feel cursed.
But that’s life. Things can always have been better or worse. I’ve never looked into a scarier universe.
Again, she doesn’t have much info.
Just impressions. Something about a white sangoma. Multiple portals. The several hydron colliders. A cabal of secret occult hooded nazis figures. Zionists to a man, and not one Jew. 8 of them. Blood magic. Sigils. Dabbling into realms they can’t possibly understand.
Some half baked plan hatched as a contingency plan after WW2. Scour the Infinite for a reality where white supremacy is true. So desperate they were willing to settle for beige people to host their warped worship of recessive genes.
She was at home. Brushing her teeth. Her eyes got blurry. Saw the space between the atoms. Next thing she remembered was looking up at me.
She stopped talking after that. We compared lives. Reflected on how what we chose and the consequences of each choice. Processed regrets. I don’t need to beat myself up for taking the less lucrative choice.
After she fell asleep, I sat staring into space making this static radio noise I make as a stim by pushing my lifting the top of my mouth up towards my nose from the inside while slowly exhaling to sound like a cross between a purr and a stuttering engine. It soothes me.
I clearly dodged a bullet. One with a hefty price tag. On the surface. But the longer I live, and the more curiosity continues to pull me towards stranger, more meaningful lived experiences. Even on my worst days, I get to be me
