Stream of Consciousness

Ok, let’s see if I can do this right.

I haven’t written anything particularly long recently and that’s because I just haven’t¬†had the discipline to sit down and write. ¬†The prospect¬†of writing more than a hundred words and thinking of¬†sitting at my computer pecking away is depressing and deflating. I’ve been reading a lot more, which is good. And of course Twitter is 140 characters. I’ve written¬†more poetry. It allows me to be as cryptic or clear and¬†¬†brief as I want, without the focus that a think piece or rant or anything else would require. The words usually come easier too.

But I do have plenty to say, it’s constantly running through my head. Bits of prose, lines or verse, scenes, dialogues, witty/sarcastic/funny (at least to me) turn of phrases, whole goddamn essays and short stories! Words which pop into my head from seemingly out of no where just begging to be shared (does that sound as schizophrenic? I feel like I need help sometimes). Often I stop and ask myself why I feel the need to burden my corner of the internet¬†¬†with my shit and the answer almost always is “Fuck if I know… I just know that I’ll feel better after I write it and share it.”¬†But then sometimes I don’t want to. Sometimes I think of something so delicious I squirm and then immediately want to hop on whatever social media outlet I’m currently using to share it, or blog about it. And then I know I don’t ¬†really want to. I want that to be mine.

Oh by the way, you should know as you  read that:

  • this was inspired by¬†one of those famed devil-hot black woman showers, during which I twerked aggressively to my favorite playlist of Future, Migos, 2Chainz, The Weekend , Yo Gotti , Lil Wayne and Young Thug. ¬†It. Was. Glorious. ¬†Plus I needed fuckboy music recharging so my next Lemonade listening session has sufficient angst to work on.
  • I feel guilty about how much water I wasted in the process. I did it for the culture. Sorry.

 

My best thoughts come during showers. Unless I am¬†in a hurry, my showers are one of the best parts of my day. Usually music is playing and depending on my mood, I’m either dancing wildly or just rocking. ¬†The ¬†stream of hot water hitting¬†my skin feels ¬†like a warm, firm, comforting hug ¬†on some days and on others like a massaging hand, running down my body much like a lover’s¬†touch – sure and familiar. And I let myself go, I let my mind drift to whatever corner it wishes to drift to. It feels like giving a toddler¬†¬†a paint brush, a palette of every color, every hue, every shade possible and a canvas and allowing her to wild out. First you’re afraid of the potential damage ¬†to her clothes and the surrounding furniture but then you’re oddly curious about how much damage is possible and something about the¬†kaleidoscope of colors that will result from her efforts appeals to you (I probably should never have kids).

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Sometimes it goes to dark, painful , scary, frustrating, angry places. Sometimes I cry. But often, even when I’m deep in the pits of depression hell, I go to this space where all my energies, all my capacity , every ounce of my being is focused on me in that moment. What I’m feeling – the ¬†stinging warm wetness of the water, what I’m smelling – usually the deliciously scented soaps, gels and oils I can’t seem to stop buying, what my mind’s eye is seeing, what I’m thinking, whatever luxurious¬†fantasy I can concoct,¬† whatever words spill out of my mind, what I’m hearing, the words, the beats, the melodies, the symphonies. The way my body responds to them all even¬†as it adjusts to obtain optimum exposure of every bit of it to the stream of water.

I know it sounds like the most exhausting shower ever but it is LIT.

So at some point during my mind’s MetroBoomin’ inspired ramblings today, I decided to try to capture that stream of consciousness. It’s really special. And I know there’s someone out there who knows exactly what I’m talking about.

But right about now, I’m deciding that those thoughts during that time are mine. And I really don’t feel like sharing them any more.

Cheers to the amount of self-absorption this required.

LMAO

Peace folks.

 

Things they left behind

imageA fondness for Future

A better relationship with  beer

Interest in middle eastern art

Tape deck for the car

Otterbox for the phone

An enduring love for Led Zeppelin

Mostaccioli, beef stroganoff

Umberto Eco

Coldplay  (I know. IDGAF IDGAF )

A deep appreciation for great cunnilingus

Great book recommendations

A love for chocolate  with tea

An out of control love for cinnamon rolls

More interest in comics than I care to admit to

Coronas in margaritas

A better understanding of self

A weed addiction

Courage

The beauty that is sleeping pills

Clothes I pilfered

That one pajama bottom

ACDC jokes

A bad ass LinkedIn Profile

Kitty cats!

Red velvet cake

Tolkien

They leave so much behind, don’t they?

 

 

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Learning to live with scars

imageThe thing I learned early about scars is that some never fade.

I’m one of those people with scar prone skin. I also have sensitive skin and a tendency to not leave things well alone, so my whole body is covered in scars.¬†I’m not even kidding. If you counted every single blemish, they’d likely number in the hundreds.

If I was waxing poetic I would say they are a road map to my life, each spot a monument to some time when the figurative hard knocks of life crossed into the realm of the literal, leaving a reminder that shit will happen and there’s not a fucking thing I can do about it.

But really they’re just scars. Black, brown or white and shiny blemishes on my skin which remind me of every mosquito bite, every fall, every beating, every ¬†iron burn, knife cut, boarding school trunk ¬†accident, hot water spill, scratch, surgery, bite, fight, adult acne break out, skin infection ¬†that I have ever had, with the promise of more to come, a morbid documentation of my fragility. After all anyone of those wounds could have been fatal.

I did, after all, grow up in Cameroon.

And they never fade.

They never fade.

I’ve tried it all. Creams, pomades, treatments, vitamins, scrubs. Serums, oils, peels, washes. The appearance of some diminished somewhat but I can still see the line formed by the hot coals that fell on my lap from the iron. I should have known better than try to iron my birthday dress myself. My mother made me wear a horrendous track suit to school. The one day I got to not wear the school uniform, I wore a track suit. I was crushed. I was 5 years old.

I remember the taunts. Form 2 and 3 in Saker were hard times.

“Nice legs…”

The gasps.

The girls ¬†at the tailoring shop. The one who couldn’t contain her dismay.

“Mamamiye, na weti chop me this pikin e foot them so?”

Blurted out in that genuinely harmless but still tactless way us Cameroonians have about us.

The guy friend who apologized to me after loudly complimenting some random girl’s legs.

Bless your heart.

 

I’ve learned to live with them. Make peace with them as best as I can. I don’t find always beauty in them although some days I trace the lines and jagged edges and chuckle, wishing I had that minimum of fucks to give that would let me just forget they’re there or do something radical like turn them into tattoos, a random pattern unique to me. I’m still self conscious about¬†them. I still wince when I wear a mini skirt (but I will wear the hell out of that mini skirt). I still wish I had smooth blemish free skin. I still wonder what my partners think. I still linger in skin care sections longer than I need to and ¬†will read up on the latest skin care fads.

And I tell myself it’s ok. I’ve made it this far with them. And the show must go on, I guess.

 

Glass Beads

imageGlass beads around her waist

Rhythmic rattles

Whisper soft

Beat soft

Skin soft

Skin bare

Skin brown

Back arched

Head back

Eyes shut

Thighs wide

Booty primed

Bass lines

Strong as a beating heart

Stronger than a beating heart

Rhythmic rattles

Whisper soft

Beat soft

Glass beads around her waist

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Road to my village

Road to my village
Where father’s house stands
Where ancestor’s bones lie
Where sister’s body rests
Strange land
Bone of my bone
Flesh of my flesh
Mine but not mine
Of foreign tongue
Fitting awkwardly in my mouth
Yet which would spill from my lips
And feel like home
Like mother’s embrace
Like father’s smile
Like cousin’s laugh

Road to my village
Where I planted
Flowers on my sister’s grave
Delicate pink lilies
Providence smiled on me
Birght as the sun that burned
As I sat for a while
Crying till I was dry
Groundnuts in my mother’s farm
1 line and a half
15 beds a line
2 at a time
2 nuts in a hole
They will have fresh corn soon, too
I will have a caramel macchiato soon, too

Road to my village
How long have you been here?
How long will you be here?
Will you wait for me?
Will I return?

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Bush Faller Lament

It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?
“Bush” is supposed to be safe.
“Bush” is supposed to be comfortable.
Predictable even.
You clean enough shit and “put your head for book,”
Play your cards right and don’t be too much of a crook,
And one day, you too can be a bushfaller,
With a fast car and money to blow in Limbe at Christmas.

It’s not supposed to be like this.
Your mother couldn’t have warned you about the quiet white boy who kept to himself.
Or the police officer who thinks you inferior to himself.
Or the Pakistani boy who’s not been himself, since the day he held his fathers lifeless hand and cursed the people who would kill a poor farmer and not the pashas.

It’s not supposed to be like this, is it?
The rising tide of fear.
The question niggling the back of your brain.
The one you push down, as you try to assure yourself it will all be alright.
That you and yours are too small, to be of any consequence in this fight.

It’s not supposed to be like this.
And yet here we are.
Crying more than the bereaved.
And what do we really mourn?
The lives lost?
Or the death of the illusion of safety we’d allowed ourselves to buy into?