she messaged me: it’s almost been a decade.

were there sparklers?

yes, she said, and i cried.

jokes about the end of the world.

we went for lunch at the owl, she reminded me, and it was so quiet there.

that was my first week at j-school, i replied. what i didn’t say was: when everything changed on every level.

***

i remember freaking out about my family travelling. but that was almost ten years ago, and i’m a very different person now, even though movement is always coloured.

***

i feel like i need to explain my absence. need to let you know why i haven’t been here. i can’t, yet. just know that the reasons are many, personal, and not mine to give.

***

i haven’t been in this headspace in a while. but i’ve lost so much recently and gained so much, too.

i’ve been living within parenthesis, but this space… is for text, commas and semicolons. it’s for lightness and incomplete darkness. but where i’d been had been very dark. not Dark.

i thought this year would be about austerity and it’s not. it’s about tests.

i’ve known something since january. i voiced it for the first time today and in response, was asked if it was what i wanted. it is. is so very much is.

i’ve messed up so many times. in fact i keep on messing up and trying to ignore the consequences. i’ve paid for things i didn’t even know i was paying for, got dinged twice this month. a phonecall reversed one set of charges but the second set’s number keeps on coming up disconnected. i have to protect myself, still.

***

golden called me by my nickname once, electronically. triggers of another time all beauty.

what’s the opposite of g(u)ilt? growing up is hard, b.

you are what i want.

today was beautiful the bodies the music the colours. infinite shades of blackness walking talking dancing singing. all ages under a groove. they sing, here. and smile and ask you how you doin’? without expecting a response. first time i had relaxed in a long time.

footsteps move to the rhythm, keep step with the old lady in front and the men flanking. can’t help but add a switch to my step, my usual strut converted to sashay. and still more conservative than most. i followed a man who moved so beautifully i grinned watching, detoured for blocks because the way he moved his body brought joy. lost him when a woman joined a band and sucked everyone’s attention into her. next to the tuba player a man walked who handed the musician a gallon jug of water at intervals. men who looked like my uncles and women who looked like my cousins. older couples moved closer, arms around waists when the band played slow jams. clapped cheered and sang along in loud voices. the best fried chicken i have ever tasted.

outsider status moved me around in a bubble. the deejay made an announcement, asked the crowd to sign a sympathy card they left donations. they cry for each other here. they have each other here. a child in a crowd toddles away from her father, and a line clears between child and parent. a little boy stumbles, immediately three people stop around him and reach out, scanning for his adult. a father rides by on a motorcycle at the slowest possible speed, while little man accompanies on a child’s atv. up north, we don’t respond to children the way they do here, and it’s beautiful here, closer to home.

***

“Sometimes being a brother is even better than being a superhero.”

given a chance he would give me all that he had, starting with his blunt. i smiled and declined, he upped the ante. all that is mine, he said. canada’s not that far away, he said. oh, you’re sudanese? took his hat off and bowed. i just have to say, i identify with your struggle. at my response, he retreated into dated notions and afrocentric nubian queendom. bon appetit, but you can’t have the coleslaw as he ushered a drunken man in green away. d’accord ma chére, how you doin’? encore. in a cowboy hat zoomed in outsider, he called. scanned from head to toe, smiled at sweetheart, take it easy. don’t forget it’s a conspiracy eyes narrowed, stay safe. y el sordo tambíen don’t walk past here at night, take care of you. bredren from yard interrupted our music conversation to tell his sistren they were beautiful as they approached. thank you they dragged the vowels out and smiled into eyes. told me his daughter looked like me, beautiful too.

(encounters understood in context, recognise that their value lies in their source, my reflection).

i’m not good with goodbyes, endings. i don’t respond well to death, have a hard time accepting it. when things end, i spend a little time compressing, packing everything into a tightly sealed box. i turn inwards, until I can lock that pain into that sealed box. it means that i never get to mourn. but then the box starts cracking in places, leaking sadness. one of the (many) things i need to work on, the acceptance of death, the physical finality of it. this is all related to needing a safe space for comfort, and learning how to create it or find it. so i can really mourn and honour the memories. so i can talk about those i lost.

a teacher passed away recently, and her death had a bigger impact on me than i had expected:

boulder, 2008. a writing workshop. i’ve written about it before, elsewhere. the workshop was called ”Taking a Solo: Prose & Interdependent Consciousness”, and was taught by akilah oliver, replacing thulani davis. akilah was there as i transitioned as a writer, artist and most importantly, as a black woman.

thich nhat hanh and inter-/intra-/inner relationships. being black. expression and emotion. universality and the odyssey.

within the classroom and beyond. in her home. my first american fourth of july experience was at akilah’s invitation, lying on grass, fireworks through trees. words she spoke weighted. in her multitudes of poet teacher artist black woman.

two: (first) the act of witnessing. what does witnessing mean? what is the role of the witness? how do you (avoid/escape) witness? what should witnessing result in? who is a witness and who is an actor and who is a victim and who records and recalls the scene? testifies? etc. (second): tashkeel, or the process of forming. a project, discussed, dissected, noted, challenged. shelved, only recently returned to.

in my transient nomadic world, elders are rare. for my generation, their wisdom is hard to come by. sometimes they’re not there, sometimes they’re not available, sometimes they’re in conflict. (i’m not the only one). every opportunity to learn is seized on, every word cherished. i don’t have access to many black women older than myself who take the time to talk and listen and understand.

i wouldn’t profess a closeness or growing intimacy between akilah and myself. there is a tragedy to her passing at such a young age, a sadness at the loss of her gifts as a person and an artist. akilah is a significant person to me, because she was generous, patient and giving, and i’ve always been grateful to her for that. i grieve her passing.

ashé.

Akilah Oliver (d.2011)

***

writing this has been difficult, largely because i’m alone. part of the reason i find death easier to block than deal with is that i can’t talk about the joy of having known and the pain of no longer knowing, which is always keenly intense, too intense for most casual spaces. writing this, i’m nowhere i can be held. but i’m learning to create my own safety, to carry it with me, and to reach out when i need to.

i’m going cross-eyed from reading student papers. my back hurts from an ergonomically-incorrect desk set-up. my printer’s decided to stop printing. my head’s full of theory, so much so i can’t sustain a normal conversation.

ran a disk utility maintenance on my mental. memories being compressed for archiving, would prefer delete but don’t have the time to be out of commission for that process. 43 erase passes. but with the neat compression, space is being freed up, and a queue of tasks are getting worked through.

neglected relationships being recovered, re-examined, re-instated, more firmly this time. i won’t push you away again, this i promise.

three chances, always. i’ve fulfilled my own expectations, i can walk away at ease as others demand my arrention. i’m transfixed with these new colours that scratch away the gilt.

he couldn’t hear home in my voice. i heard the homesickness, longing in his. he pointed out degrees of being and entitlement. he took loss and melancholy and performed them in a tragedy of being caught up in false beliefs and destinies. is destiny a choice? rhetorical question. as much as complacency, i guess. there are things that i can’t be, don’t need to try to be. in the same vein i’ve stopped questioning this desert blood and its memory magnetism.

there are rituals i find solace in that result in alterations. this time (third go), i completed them automatically, had in fact begun them unconsciously. i support revision my body bears the proof.

my everyday’s consumed by the major endeavour. moments of doubt alternate with the certain knowledge that this is exactly where i want to be. like magic, reinforcers show up, special rewards for effort. pieces of my past keep on reaffirming my ideas of my future, and the collection of supportive gestures i have grows as i prepare to launch through hoop two of several to jump through. fingers crossed.

automaton building back on. external interest in another production. projects planned, out of my hands for implementation. the summer’s set aside for my heart’s work. a thank you love letter, artefacts. also, the beginning of a journey that i had once believed i was actually on.

here’s to transforming the potentielle into the actuelle.

- this is for c., because he spoke beautiful when i needed to hear it most.

i’ve been thinking a lot, these past few weeks. about where i’ve been for the last two years, what i’ve experienced. right now, i’m letting go of a temporary case of bitterness stemming from the desire to blame another. but bitterness doesn’t become me ergo i won’t become it. i have too much love joy good things in my life. i choose forgiveness of self. this is conscious conscience.

late nights introspection train slamming me down on the tracks over and over and over again. dreams where dried shrivelled up hearts are eaten chewed slowly flavourlessly. recounting of my own flaws not for self-flagellation but for the mandatory post-mortem. i’m young so how else do i grow wise. one day the retelling will be for someone else.

i’m selfish self-absorbed spoiled impulsive naïf. i don’t know how to give space without taking some. been learning how to not ask for the pound of flesh because it will cause bleeding. i’m not a mean-spirited person there is good in me. empath to a fault will take on a love’s pain just so they won’t. give up a pound of my own flesh instead blood and all. but love doesn’t ask for that it throws its hand between my skin and the blade i’ve seen it do that without being asked to. i don’t need that done for me. but even after that, love calls back.

i can live with my flaws because patience forgiveness work ethic will prevail. my sense of security isn’t false it’s external internal. sometimes, i make wrong choices. other times i choose right/to write.

and in the moment, i (can still) hear beautiful.

a meeting, over three years ago. both strangers in this city, introduced by another stranger third. a connection i didn’t expect, didn’t foresee its outcome. i left on a short trip returned to that connection.

we talked, a lot. the music threaded. intrigued, you pulled me in with your attitude and charm. a time of whirlwind, then noneventful parting. fond memories, revis(it)ed. electronic communication.

your voice is not one of those memories.

once, three years ago, you told me a story; i asked inkredulous: “why would you do that?” you replied: “it made her happy.” c’est pas compliqué.

another time, you told me another story i voiced a desire you responded with a promise. i didn’t hold on to it, thought that it was made carelessly, whispered #roxette. winter was left on the ground. we both moved (on) in peace.

out of the blue, a message. three years later and you weren’t careless.

a thank you letter, on film.

this morning, i woke up with no voice. not a surprise, my throat’s been threatening to close for a while in anticipation of sickness. today was the worst day it could have possibly chosen. i felt like a literal diva, refusing to speak as i drank cup after cup of hot water, honey and lemon. today was the first time i would present my graduate research work professionally at an academic conference.

voice came back on temporary. walked into the room, and two former professors were in attendance (one of whom had played a significant role in the path that led me into that room), as well as an academic whose work i admired, and whose book i had in my bag, autographed. like i needed anything else to add to my nervousness. i suffer through public speaking.

anyway, i made it through, and felt a new high. an affirmation of my work and abilities, my talent and my intellect. professional hoop jumped through.

affirmation hasn’t only come through in the language of my own achievements. new acquaintances, and dope deep conversations renew aspirations. i’d set an anchor down, thought i was past my ships passing through the night stage. corrected, but i’m a work-in-progress.

i’m in winnipeg. the last time i was here, i had to cut my visit short to head west for an interview. i like this city despite its dirty snow ugliness. i like it because i’ve seen it green, seen how the trees hide its plainness, seen how architectural gems shine so bright mute everything that is subpar. i look forward to coming back, know that it’s going to happen, not saying goodbye.

the place i’m staying at can only be described by the word glorious, but more on that later.

recap for the day: presented my research, rewarded by discussion, after-talk, promises of exchange. met someone who embodied a goal and realised that i still wanted it. witnessed a media production that provided an example of how to do what i wanted to do. email conversation with my sister, who keeps on running into rarely-remembered fragments of my past – people, professions and places. dinner with an old friend and new acquaintances, conversating about people i love and music i love. not that i needed a reminder, but i am so grateful for the people in my life.

my voice is deeper than normal, but at least my throat doesn’t hurt any more. tomorrow, i return to toronto, and for the first time in a while, i’m not returning to a particular something. and this is okay. over a year ago i wrote: “i’m ok with failing, as long as i’ve tried.”

stet.

When you are loved, wholly loved, she said, you never feel alone. When someone commits to you truly deeply, they are unable to walk away. If only because they cannot bear the thought of you feeling alone. If only to spare you that. And if they are able to walk away, then it was not love they felt, but something more shallow.

She paused, and each wrinkle etched on her face deepened.

Never accept less than love. If someone wants to leave, let them try. Wait, for a few minutes, hours, just in case. But no longer. That waiting space is deadly. Leave it.

^apt passage.

roundabout dizzying makes me want to hurl - an emotional response upchuck the gravel travelling through bewilderness without a machete. that constant hiss reminding me that i had always known but chose not to prepare for.

but it’s all good though. because (speaking of always-known):

1.

He chuckled through the phone when I told him. You said that last time too, remember?

I couldn’t help but laugh back. This time, I’ll take bets. I won the last one, do you remember?

<flashback> a kitchen confession of love in a different timezone our second together, unexpected. while i tried to respond, i realised that i had always known. his admission had done nothing. i guess i’m supposed to say i love you too? i asked him. whatever, i know you do, he replied. too true. </flashback>

2.

A sci-fi reference had the guardian checking for my humanity. He listed all the reasons he doubted it: sometimes I was really cold; I would wear crooked glasses; I knew things machines knew; I was building an army of robots.

I countered: I wasn’t building an army, I was building one automaton and I was doing so with his assistance; I also knew things machines didn’t know; I liked the Sadies; they were his crooked glasses; and when I cut myself (accidentally and often) I bled and even though it tasted metallic that didn’t mean I wasn’t human. Besides, some machines were human too.

Fine, he said. Now we have to go and find the other three.

3.

There’s a Prince song for everything.

A different kind of knowing all along. To rephrase: lonely never alone love removes the real.

i reached into my dreams at least twice today confusion.

i woke up with a smile, reached out to confirm. voided, empty space crashing down on top of me flashbacks trying to tell me something i didn’t want to hear. three more hours until i could move, and only then after i traded one form of numbness for another. a chair pulled out footprints in the snow re-adjustments.

a conversation had me speaking falsehood with certainty, only to find out that what i was speaking about so surely had never happened. embedded memories. so we agreed to take the space a pact broken within hours distance intolerable. are you fine? sure.

i make it through on autopilot. i have to be careful, more careful than others. the only thing that keeps me from going under is that i’ve been there before, and anywhere-but-there is better.

today’s lesson: you knew damn well, tender woman/wouldn’t have changed a thing.

and now, a return to regularly-scheduled theory.