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too deep for the intro:
(that one compulsive thought i’ve had in my mind all week that’s never short and sweet…)
Two major thoughts hit me (and kept whooping my ass) all week: I miss who I was in NYC and I need a tighter trust circle. I’ll revisit that first mindfuck next week, but let’s explore that second one, shall we?
Remember when J. Cole rapped, “If they don't know your dreams, then they can't shoot 'em down”? I used to live by that. I would stay pretty tight-lipped on my dreams for fear that even a hint of doubt would make me second-guess myself. Then, at some point, maybe as my confidence grew in my ability to make my dreams come true, I would willingly share the things I still want for myself, personally and professionally. In the past few months, though, there have been too many “I believe in you, but” responses from folks I thought created safe spaces for me.
Listen, I don’t mind some questions on logistics. I’m sensitive about my shit, but I’m open to critique. And yes, I’m a bit stubborn, but I welcome advice and learning new ways of getting to my goals. What I can’t take, though, is too many shots of “be realistic.” I feel those are less words of caution and more so the energy people use to project their own fears onto you. I’ve always known the biggest dreams to require great imagination, and I’m of the mind that what you want can be attained through hard work and talent. I’ve never been one to settle for Plan B over Plan A solely because others don’t get it. And, good or bad, I never will.
Thank god for the convo with my friend, Kenny — who is an amazingly talented photographer, btw —because it reminded me just how special sharing dreams (or goals, or next steps, etc.) feels with people who get it. It also reminded me that I’m actually closer to my vision than I’ve been in years. But I just need to remember to take heed to Cole’s words and keep shit much closer to the kevlar. That’s all.
never again:
(things i’m letting go of…)
Twitter is really giving Facebook these days as far as me moving on from it. I’m not deleting my account yet or going completely ghost, but I’ll certainly post a lot less, about certain topics, and, eventually, only for this newsletter.
As someone who has been tweeting since 2008, went on to work for Twitter, then got laid off by Elon, I’ve witnessed just how crazy Twitter has fallen off. I’m not deciding this because of the 2FA bullshit or the newfangled features behind a paywall, though those things certainly factor in. I’m just tired of how everyone’s super sensitive! and progressive! and defensive! It’s exhausting consuming all that noise 24/7.
Shoutout to the funnies up there and the opinions I enjoy, even if I don’t agree. You’ll be missed when I finally chuck the deuces. Like I said, it won’t be today, but the state of Twitter and the shifts in my own energy, tell me that it’s coming pretty soon.
sound and color:
(new or old, the songs playing in my mind this week…)
read my mind:
(a snippet of a story i’m working on, or the full story, or a poem. pretty much what’s rattling around in my head…)
“dragonflies”
It's funny how life forgets a thing, but the body never does. For two decades, I pushed down the thoughts of my molestation as a kid so far that it seemed as if it never happened. It wasn’t until I hit 30 that the memory began to sharpen. Attached to my body like an extra limb, heavy with anxiety, sitting with me in boardroom meetings, present when I blossomed for men, riding shotgun while I drove to buy groceries.
Now, here I am at two a.m., and my thoughts once again jolted me awake. I leaned forward against the porcelain bathroom sink, trembling, and gripping the edges for support. I gaze at the woman looking back at me in the bathroom mirror and beg God to let me cry for all her suffering and cleanse myself of the filth I’d kept locked away. But I can’t. It’s always the same: The woman staring back at me is happy, warm, and successful but mostly shattered if anyone cared to take a closer look.
As I slid back into my black jeans hanging from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, Jordan appeared in the doorway, admiring my figure. At 5'2", I could stand to lose a few pounds, made known by the newly emerged stretch marks winding across my hips. But he never complained about the thickness of my thighs and less-than-slim waist. He only saw a dark-eyed goddess in human form drizzled in a kind of sadness he couldn’t pinpoint, all while wanting to simply love her.
"You OK?" he sorta whispered as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and gently leaned against the door frame to gaze at me. His voice, deeper than Lupita Nyong'o's Kenyan roots and smooth like agave, calmed me instantly, if only momentarily. Though I could sense his concern, he was used to my nighttime anxiety.
"Yeah, I need to get going," I said.
I clenched a bobby pin between my teeth to re-pin my hair, then dug around my purse sitting on the toilet lid for the one tube of lip gloss I hadn't lost yet.
"I hate that you never stay."
He chewed at the bottom of his top lip and traced an invisible line on the cool, tile floor with his toes.
"You know I can't stay anywhere longer than I need to," I tossed back with a smirk to lighten the mood. Plus, there was no use in crawling back into bed, into that torturous nightmare. "If I stayed, ya ass would be trying to get rid of me by next week."
"You right! Hurry up and get out," he joked, pointing down the hallway. As badly as he wanted to press me about lingering in our cocoon of bliss forever, he never pushed. Once, he steeped green tea for me to extend our chemistry for a while longer, but he ultimately understood that he only had access to me for an abbreviated time.
I walked over, leaned into him with my chin against his chest, and slowly traced his backwood-tinted lips with my nails. Like a magic trick, his right dimple appeared, and I drank him in as he quietly stared down at me, longing to see for himself what I'd concealed deep inside. His perfectly white teeth, the sliver of skin that he nibbled when he was nervous, his heart — all mine if there was enough of me to want it. He looked down at me as if I'd evaporate the moment he let go, and I felt my yoni mimic the stormy weather of Curacao in April.
These sensual, silent moments have steadily brewed between Jordan and me since the first day we met. His smoldering personality and relaxed demeanor made it easy to swap my hectic life for his simple world, if only for a few hours every week. He's a high school teacher, a chaotic career at times, but one that brings him home most nights in time for the six o'clock news. Doesn't hurt that he's a deep, conscious dude who'd entertain my ramblings of la Santería and New York hip-hop. Some nights his tall frame would envelop me as I bitched about a business deal I couldn't close, and on others, he'd take me out for beignets when I craved a vacation with him I couldn't take. He dressed as if he could attend a dinner date or a PTA meeting at any given moment and could make me weak with just a glance at his light brown, almond-shaped eyes. Once a week, I'll come over, cuddle a bit, doze off rewatching episodes of Atlanta, then head back to reality in the middle of the night.
He was my safe place, and given my fucked-up rearing from my parents and cruel interactions with the world, I always made sure to have one. Because as much as I mentioned my family, I never had a real home.
Sure, there was a place where I was born and two people who slipped up and procreated, but my address was never a cozy abode. By the time I was old enough to drive, my family’s secrets had broken the levees of our family bonds, and I realized I was nothing more than the product of generations worth of parental deficiencies. Because of that, I ran away as soon as I got legal, and at every stop, I created a haven that housed the affection I'd never had. In NYC, Jordan was a stop on the emotional underground railroad I built, and then some.
This time, as always, he hoped I'd stay till morning before fleeing our little version of Love Jones, but I didn't trust myself to watch the daybreak and enjoy breakfast with this beautiful man. Only the strength of God has kept us from consummating our situationship, and I'm enjoying our uncomplicated flow of platonic playfulness.
The only thing keeping me just out of his grasp is the diamond engagement ring I always tuck away before crossing his threshold.
I pull away from him and look over my reflection in the mirror again. At 32, I still look like a recent grad, as if I'd just walked across my alma mater’s stage into a life with Jordan. We lock eyes in the mirror as I slide my ring back on, both drinking an ice-cold shot of reality. Not sure if taking it off is a courtesy to him or a way to quell my guilt. I've never been good at staying present anywhere anyway, but touching those diamond-dipped circular reminders that I belong to someone else remains the most sobering feeling I've had in years…
thank you:
(a salute to the people and characters who get me…)
thank you, angie!
No matter if a Black female character is making silly decisions for love, annoying me, or playing the villain, more than likely, I’m rooting for her if she’s on my TV screen. But it’s the ones who are super confident and over-the-top who I tend to adore the most. That’s why from the second Angie (played by Shoniqua Shandai) — in all her sexually liberated, loud, filter-less, dark-skinned, unbothered, natural-haired glory — was introduced on Harlem, I’ve been glued to her story arc.
Admittedly, I’m not thrilled that for most of the first season, her storyline mostly consisted of random guys and a terrible off-Broadway play. I get it, she’s the Samantha of the bunch. She’s witty, clever, loyal to the soil, and all of the things. Still, I wanted more depth. I know from experience how hard it is to be as magical as all that and hold onto joy in a world that typically casts women like her into the background, so I wanted to see how Angie became, and remains, Angie.
Thankfully, in episode three of season two, I got my answer. She visited her family, where anyone paying attention immediately recognized that Angie’s been poured into since day one. And that’s why I love her: She represents all that Black women can be and how fully we can exist when we have the love we deserve from all aspects of our lives.
my obsessions this week:
Harlem on Prime Video. Obvi. Not only for Angie but also because we’re going deeper with each character. Camille and her mama, Quinn’s depression, etc. It’s still a funny show with lighthearted moments, but the writers are adding more color to the big picture, and I’m into that.
If you’re into watches, check out girlsoclock on TikTok. Creator Trang Trinh features celebrities’ watch collections, points out watch trends, and shares budget-friendly alternatives to big-buck items. I got hip to her when she highlighted Tyler the Creator’s insane arm candy, so now I’m saving up for an investment piece. Wish me luck. Lol.
the shit that really matters:
(a highlight of important stories, events, and subjects i’ve come across…)
When Relationships Fail, This Museum Keeps the Stuff Left Behind
Louis Vuitton, Pharrell Williams and the loss of fashion magic
On Rihanna, Her Super Bowl Halftime Performance, and a Mogul’s Reality
The magic and the pain behind Method Man and Mary J. Blige’s ‘All I Need’
Solange and Saint Heron Are Honoring Black Innovation at BAM