the bliss project got a makeover.

see the new fancy look here. i’m not quite finished, but it’ll do for now. so WRITE SOMETHING, dammit! submit entries here . . .

vamp.

i’ve never been one to do a lot of red. i always thought big girls ought not rock colors that bright; i always used to want to be left alone, to my own devices & business without drawing attn to myself. i already stood out physically. why add to it?
then one day when i was in high school my grandmother, mother & i were in the jc penney outlet. & there was this shirt i wanted. i loved it. i wanted it in navy, but it only came in red. with simple white piping around the collar. my concession, since momzie & mommy thought it looked so nice was, well, to get it in a 3x (just for the record, no part of my body has ever been a 3x ANYTHING, even at my heaviest). so i had this tent-like shirt. it was part of my “going away to college” arsenal. so, i only wore it when everything else was dirty. because it was red. & my simple ass didn’t realize that more fabric = bigger clothing = more attention.

as i’ve aged, i have more or less stayed away from brights. red, green . . . as accent colors only. i have print clothing that tends to be on the docile side (w/ the exception of a cocktail dress here & there). . . & the only bright i ever really stuck with was bright pink.

then i found out that i’m omo sango. his colors are red + white. when olaomi told me that i was like “dangit. that means i’ma HAVE to wear red at some point or another. i don’t do red.” i kinda panicked. red hair is one thing (auburn is my summer color of choice), but red clothing? eh . . .

but i’m getting better. tryna grow into who i am. baba’s got me. yeye & my ancestors have got me. most importantly, my ori is doin its thing. i even own a red dress(!!!)

at 26, my first red manicure. hmm. i kinda like it.

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i call bullshit on the following:

~ the idea that michael vick is essentially about to be strung up by his balls because of the dog fighting that went on in a house that he owned, but did not live in. it sounds fishy to me. everyone has ignorant ass cousins who do stupid shit & embarrass the family. unfortunately, michael vick’s ignorant ass cousins might land him in jail. seriously, tell me some of y’all out there on the interwebs don’t belive that you’d have every triflin criminal record having relative knocking down your door if you came into some money. i don’t believe that he knew what was going on. how base are this guy’s cousins though, to be dog fighting in the basement of someone else’s house? family or not, if you’re living in a place that you don’t own there’s certain shit you just don’t do. & i’m pretty sure animal torture & causing bloodshed are at least in the top ten of that list. lock those fools up, absolutely . . . but don’t throw the baby out w/ the bathwater. i think vick deserves to have his situation examined more closely. furthermore, if he were as guilty as his kinfolk et al, wouldn’t they all have the same 5-member legal team helping them? i’m just sayin.

~ this bullshit on the def jam isley brothers’ page. you mean to tell me that on july twenty-damn-fifth you ask the internet to pony up support for ron isley in the form of asking for a presidential pardon? do y’all even know who the president IS? he hates black ppl, & from what i recall of his tenure as governor of texas, he’s a fan of jail & the death penalty. y’all are barking up the most wrong of trees. especially at this late date — the sentence begins august 7th. not that the gov’t would bend on that shit. income tax evasion isn’t gonna be an easy rap to beat. plus he’s already been convicted. tsk, tsk. does this mean that is wesley snipes gets a similar sentence that blackamericaweb.com is gonna be leading the charge to help him out? negro PLEASE. ** let us also recall that ron isley is good buddies w/ arruh “piss on you” kelly. why doesn’t r. release one of his patented “i’m in trouble so lemme saing sumfin about god” songs to help mr. biggs? hmmmmmm?

~ lindsay lohan’s proclamation that she was wearing someone else’s pants. a “black kid.” & they had the coke in them. right. also, that she wasn’t driving the car. someone is most likely going to kick her ASS when she gets locked up. let’s get this straight. you were neither driving nor wearing your own goddamn pants. so if she wasn’t completely trashed, we’re supposed to believe that she was sober & wearing someone else’s pants? come on. (i didn’t really have to call bullshit on this one, it’s obvious, but still…)

~ this new thugged out looking alvin & the chipmunks movie. you can’t be fucking serious, dog. you just can’t. jason lee, as freshalina would say, needs more people. i’m disappointed. i like my chipmunks old school & fully 1960’s middle america friendly. attitudinal chipmunks don’t sit well w/ me. are the chipmunks gonna do all the latest negro dance crazes like the soulja boy, the batman, & the jump rope? oh, wait. there’s a song but no video: the chipmunks crank dat jump rope. i am loosely amused, but mostly annoyed because i’m tired of black folks embarrassing themselves in the name of “self-expression.” i’m all for innovation, but this is becoming a lot more ridiculous than it is anything else. besides, the soulja boy pooh clip is 20x funnier.

i’m back to

where i was about three weeks ago. only my thought process is fueled by a conversation i had w/ some sistas the other night.
i know there are systems in place to stop us dead in our tracks. literally, even. i know that it’s sometimes so impossible to even see the top of that mountain made of disappointment, disaster, dreams, & desperation that climbing that motherfucker seems like a really sick joke. baby, i know what it’s like to have someone smile in my face & wish to hell that they could call me a nigger but instead just say “sweetie,” “honey,” or “girlfriend.” & i used to ache to know what it must have felt like to be acquainted w/ folks like my self, not just folks who looked like me. that ache grew.
the resentment, the annoyance, & the overall feeling of being fucked up in the game . . . those things were winning. i wouldn’t let them, though. & i won’t now.
because if i look myself in the mirror & decide that every fucking moment of my life is a war — a war that i don’t even think can be won — then i may as well pack it up . . . particularly if i come out the front door swingin on everyone i can w/ my machete or cutlass.
by virtue of biology, i am a woman. by virtue of biology, i am black. & by virtue of biology, we have become targets. we remain targeted now. everyone with a lick of sense & deductive reasoning skills knows about the prison industrial complex, COINTELPRO, the big tobacco plots, & everything else on this entire planet which has been put together to snuff the poor, non-white, &/ or female.
yes, baby, i know.
but for me, that venom cannot be turned in on myself
it will not be the weapon i use to slash every hand that reaches out to give to or help me
i will not blindly love what looks like me exclusively because of that fact
it is not okay to hate
ever

cuz if they do it to us, & we do it to them, exactly what the blue fuck is that gonna get anyone?

it’s not gonna give us any of the shit that’s been taken from, beaten out of, drained from, or confused about us. we will not get back yoruba, igbo, twi, akan, hausa, fongbe, kiswahili, xhosa, or any other tongue. our wombs will not take back in the children of rape, nor will they serve as a place to hide the children that we don’t want to be a part of this shit here. hate will not extract what makes you lighter skinned, her hair wavier than it is anything else, that baby’s eyes bright green, what made malcolm’s hair red . . . we can’t undo it. mahatma was NOT playin one bit when he said that an eye for an eye would leave the world blind. cuz if we hate on them, & they hate us some more, & we all go back & forth when will we have time to love ourselves? how do we build ourselves up if we’re wasting energy tearing someone else’s shit down? believe it or not, there has to be room for everyone . . . if you believe in a creator, then how could you not think so?

i must ask this, because i like where i live
i love my people
& i’ve been in that position before where when i say i’m DAMN good friends w/ white women, i get that sideways look. & i have to brace myself for the cries of ‘traitor,’ or worse yet being shunned or pitied because i’m ‘confused’ about who’s really got my back & who doesn’t.
cuz the same sista i want to help with her parenting skills already thinks something’s the fuck wrong with me since i don’t dress like she does. the sista who has the same nappy hair i do, the same ntozake shange books i do, respects the gangsta of kathleen cleaver the same way i do . . . she’s still poppin shit because she don’t think hers stinks. because she’s taking in superficial things about me & deciding FOR me what i should/ shouldn’t be a part of. what part of the game is that?
& the biology isn’t enough for any of us anymore. we don’t respect each other by virtue of blackness, because we are not all in the same neighborhoods by virtue of such. we are all over the place because legally, we could be . . . & the status shit is SERIOUS in these streets right now. fuck the white folks gentrifying all over the nation, niggas is fightin niggas over what some niggas appear to have, be, do, want, or feel. & that, my dears, is fucked up. screw standing up for anyone who’s willing to cut your ass down — black, white, yellow, peach, beige, blue-black, brown, red, or other. i will not, under any circumstances, support destruction of others by virtue of my own dislike for how they carry themselves. not unless it’s fully crucial to my survival.

i know what you’re talking about, but maybe you’ve never experienced what i have.

i was born fighting,
i will die fighting
but in between, i will choose my battles.

omi, i love you

but i am going to have to fight you for introducing me to tay zonday & his special brand of music. wow. like . . . wtf? no, really. i am DYING over here looking at chocolate rain. god. whaaaaat? & he sang the rainbow connection. this shit . . . man, i don’t even know. it drove me to drink. no lie.

when i wrote that i’d update on monday

i was lying.

because i am too gotdamn tired to even think about recounting the whole trip.

i’ll get w/ y’all on the retro tip as soon as i can get my thoughts together. first, i need food, sleep, a bath & some prayer.

there’s a new celebrity gossip site for me to drool over:

it’s called what would tyler durden do?
if you haven’t yet seen fight club then you probably have zero understanding of the hilarity of this site’s name. it’s nearly as dope to me as my regular trash blogs, but it’s named after one of the best films in history. love that. what a fresh lil blog!

speaking of fresh, i found this tripe on crunk + disorderly. TERRIBLE. just plain horrible. claims of being a “natural beauty” aside, khia appears to be borderline illiterate & i think maybe she’s got, to quote one of my favorite movies, that nasty women’s disease. i won’t even waste my time linking to her video(s). no way, man. i think i have a tapeworm from even looking at the mess. lol.

anyway

i’m out this wknd,
updates monday!

being up on time for work

can be kinda depressing
cuz deep down inside allllllll i wanna do is piddle around my apt. figure out how to make better beans & rice, make one of my infamously random iced tea blends, or maybe even turn on the tv for a few minutes before cheaters comes on. i just want the space
to breathe
stretch
get up & be happy about where i’m going during the day.
not that i’m ungrateful for this job — so many wonderful things have happened in the past 5 months alone, things that have given me the tools/ resources to go where i really wanna.
but sometimes i wanna throw up my hands & say “listen, i really can’t stand you folks anymore . . . maybe we can all have dinner together one day & laugh about it but right now i wanna curse nearly every one of you out for some reason or another & that’s a true problem. so, i resign. effective immediately, i quit. kiss my black ass. have a good day. i’ll be back when i feel like it for my personal effects & every blank cd-r in this bitch, since nobody here has a burner on their cpu.” i fantasize sometimes about that.
but until then, i’m struggling against lateness & general apathy. i like my division manager. i like a few of my coworkers. the rest i can take or leave, with a few insufferable completely inept fucking lunatics interspersed throughout. i don’t like the bulk of my duties, but i’m trying to plow through this shit so i can get to the good stuff. division manager has something she wants me to do.
but the papers are piling
my supervisor is a lame duck & doesn’t wanna help me out
so i gotta do it alone.
that shit is daunting.
i’m takin a mini-break this weekend.

so maybe i can come back refreshed & renewed, after communing w/ my ppls.

i certainly hope so.

today i am grateful for: travel, money, water, pretty dresses, & summer.

oh, wow!

angela bofill.
i try.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?!!!?

i’m too through.
i almost called my mom & woke her up out of her sleep for this one.

(doesn’t she look like one of those paintings of yemaya or ochun? lol)

my first cell phone blog . . .

hopefully this won’t come out all janky looking. i was on the beloved el (that’s the blue line to you non 215ers) and thought a picture ought to be taken of moi. mira que bonita soy. :)~

i wasn’t gonna write

about the whole n-word funeral thing that the NAACP had last week. but then i read in the little brother blog how phonte feels about it. i’m in agreement w/ mr. c oleman for the most part. that is, black folk will not magically be better on the whole if/ when everyone stops using this word. most importantly, it seems like treating the symptom instead of curing the disease. the subversion of language is pretty much the norm nowadays. case in point: “she’s a bitch” by missy elliott, “o.g. bitch” by esthero, “the baddest bitch” by the ever-relevant trina. . . like, what about THAT word? everyone’s all super emo after the don imus thing, as if his racism should be the sole catalyst for change around here. he blamed hip hop for the “nappy headed hoes” thing because he knew he could cop out to that. that motherfucker knows full well, just like any other thinking being, that the idea that black women are automatically whores &/ or have bad (read: nappy, kinky, etc.) hair came from white folks. some of us are reclaiming that terminology as well. so what, are we choosing which words we wanna flip for our own empowerment? has there been an international black folk conference about that?

cuz, yeah, there’s been the store called niggas
& if i go to ghana some folks may mistake me for one who likes being called “bitch” or whatever,
but yo . . .

burying any of these words doesn’t mean shit to me when the babies are dying the way they are. don’t blame that on the word nigga. unemployment & desperation will not magically cease when we stop calling ourselves and others niggas, bitches, hoes, or anything else.
because even if i don’t use the word, i know what i mean when i say “that motherfucker ain’t shit,” because i mean to insult or harm someone with my words. that’s not contingent on the verbs, nouns, pronouns or adjectives. it’s on me & the power that the person hearing them gives the words.
i don’t know . . . let’s not put a band aid on a severed limb, okay?
if we don’t respect or love each other, the words don’t mean shit
the acts mean everything
& who’s to say there won’t be another word to offend?

(i might come back to clean this up later)

*quick addendum: if i had written here about don imus as a cracka ass cracka, then what? ofay? honky? oyimbo? like . . . are we gonna bury those words too? cuz if we are then maybe i can clap my hands to the burial of nigga. otherwise, get out of my face w/ that bullshit & go DO something in the streets instead of being mad at what the streets are doing.

hey.

i heard that you’ve finally gotten the opportunity to do some of the work you’ve wanted to for a long while. congratulations. i hope it takes off & does everything you ever wanted it to do. i wish you great success, for real. i had always hoped that you would go ahead & follow whatever path you wished to — independent of me & everyone else on this entire earth. i don’t know if you ever realized it, but all the energy you poured into worrying about wtf i did with myself was ideal for your shit. maybe you did, or perhaps because we’re not in touch at all, it’s easier for you to do that. either way, good for you. keep it up. the forward movement is soooooo important. i do wonder if we’ll cross paths again sometime, but that’s nothing i can really consume myself with. if we do, we do. & if we don’t, then we don’t. i haven’t forgotten you though. i still remember the slick, slightly crooked smile. the smirk that came across your lips when i’d see you & you said my name . . . the playful way in which you’d greet me on the telephone, as if we were best friends & could always pick up where we left off. & we could sometimes. other days, it seemed like the estrangement was inevitable so i wouldn’t even try to make it pleasant between us. formalities. & you tried to play like there was nothing brewing under the surface, as if the elephant in the room weren’t sitting on both our laps.
oh, well. i noticed early on that for all the mouth you had, you never wanted to go toe to toe with me. that’s fine. it always made me wonder wtf you were so afraid of. i’m reasonable. i can be sweet when i want to, but my tongue does cut like a machete. words were always my forté, you said. you knew i was as dangerous with a pen as you were. only you drew. you painted. your images accomplished the same things my phrases did. i felt that you were jealous somewhat. let’s face it: in everyday dealings we do not create visual art to express what we want. in situations. when your dinner is cold at a restaurant, you do not sketch dissatisfaction. i peeped that. & that’s okay, too.
i just wonder wtf you’d say to me now if we saw each other.
would it be another greasy smile, with you asking me a grip of questions when it’s not your damn business to begin with? would you really be tired enough to try to pick up where you dropped the ball?
i wonder.
but at the same time, i don’t have the patience to even sweat you. you know how to get a hold of me.
this is a belated father’s day letter.
hope you had a dope one.

addendum: this is a continuation of this post, but is primarily addressed to my father. i googled him today. i find it bizarre that he’s worked on a parenting initiative that deals w/ child support . . . when there’s at least one errant sibling i have. when he’s gonna be in arrears until i’m 30+. this shit is crazy. but the parallels between him & the other person i’m thinking of are real scary.

i guess it’s my turn now

to declare it, once & for all, so everyone can know:

i wanna get knocked up. i want to be pregnant one sunny day & know that soon, the life in me is going to come forth. i want to smile very coyly at my man & giggle when he talks to my belly. i want to be secure enough to trust enough to get pregnant with a man & know that he’s someone whose seed i’m not afraid to sow. i want to brew me a warrior child w/ pacifist leanings, activist tendencies, & a great love of life. i want the initial shock of finding that i’m pregnant be the prelude to gloriously blissful feelings. i want to welcome motherhood. i want to feel the baby turning around and getting excited when i’m excited. i want to sing lullabies in different languages & give thanks to the most high every single day for the blessing of carrying a life into this world. i want to take henna to my belly as it grows & make it look extra fly as an extension of me. i want a home birth with a nurse-midwife (hi, aba! can’t wait until you’re fully legit, girl), a doula, & an ob-gyn i trust on standby. i want my man to be there & as involved as he wants to be in the actual delivery. i want my mom to quit trippin long enough to appreciate how differently i’m finna do it; i want my sisters to be the best aunties ever. i want my maternal grandfather to be around to see, appreciate, love & acquaint himself with his first ever great-grandchild. i want my dear, dear girlfriends (all 834 of them) to send love & good energy more than i want them (or anyone else) to buy fly gifts. i want pretty dresses to wear once i’m too expanded for my regular clothes. i want to give birth in what will be the baby’s room. i want to make baby food outside of my body. i will breast feed. period. i want to travel with my baby. i want to teach my baby ASL. i want to make the transition as pleasant as possible for my baby. i will not be in anyone’s stark white florescent hospital room with people yanking & talking loudly; it would drive me crazy & i know it would be traumatic for baby. i want a peaceful situation during the gestation. i want to know for certain that i’m safe, loved, & secure in my home. i want to feel free enough to do it, & aware enough of what’s going on around me to make informed decisions about mothering.

i’m just sayin. i want to do this. i’m not as ready as i know i need to be (i don’t mean just financially), but i’m getting closer. i’m comfortable with the idea. i’m not rushing into motherhood.
but i trust my highest self enough to know that the time is coming one day soon. it’s more realistic than it ever was before, & i’m making myself ready.
may my unborn child(ren) know that i’m not doing this alone. send your daddy my way, okay? don’t rush, dearest. but send him along so we can do this.

i think myra, omi, atlanta & myself need to start a club or something. lol.

oh, my damn.

samwell has a new video. awwwww, shit! i didn’t even know! are you ready? are you? get ready, dulces, for “shoes r on fire.” pepsi keep me near the cross!!! (that’s an inside joke which i will explain at another time) i don’t know how i missed this.

& if you don’t actually know WHO samwell is or what the deal is w/ him, you have to begin at the beginning, with “what what (in the butt)”. . . it’s a classic! lol.

but wait.
i was fuckin around, tryna find some footage of jc chasez (i love that man’s voice) & found this: dale goldboldo, jc, timberlake, & ryan mollyfockin GOSLING singing jodeci’s “cry for you.” they are even DRESSED like jodeci or shai or something.
jc i still love you, even if that was fully contrived.

mira:

having loosely prophetic dreams

messes with me.
because i never remember that i had the dream until some shit’s about to go down, or already has gone down. i can’t stand how unaware i am of my own brain & what it does. with more frequency, i’m remembering the dreams. i don’t know, though, if i’m having the dreams because my subconscious wants me to know what’s coming so i won’t be as shocked. it feels like i’m being chumped kinda. because i remember this stuff at the last second.

i dreamt the whole fiasco with _____. i TOLD him that. he thought that was a good sign. i told him i didn’t know if it was, but i also think that having dreamt about it prevented quite a bit of foolishness. i.e., i’m not sitting here blogging about having some man’s baby on the side.

i dreamt that my sister married some lil skinny, nerdy white dude. she’s currently dating a skinny, nerdy white dude & says that my dream was most likely prophetic because she feels really good about him.

it’s happening a lot more
but i just remembered dreaming that a friend of mine lost her father (or came very close to it) & that i had to try to comfort her through internet chats & text messages since we don’t live in the same city. that weighs heavily on my heart. very. i’m praying that she & her family have peace of mind & cool heads throughout the situation. but i’m also praying that the death thing wasn’t for real. i don’t know. the worst part: i don’t remember which friend it was, & i have quite a few girlfriends who live far away from me. this is harrowing. it’s almost like my ori is trying to show me some shit, but the earthly part of me is blocking. really hard, even. so i dunno what i’m doing here.

waiting, i guess, until i’m more in touch with that part of myself. so maybe i can be clearer the next time around.

somma y’all need

to hire your girl as a stylist.

see, i was online bustin it up w/ my good buddy fredara the great & she was like, “i gotta figure out what to wear to this wedding.” so, being who i am, i asked her what color she wanted, & if she was into tea length dresses/ skirts.

next thing i know, i’m on anthropologie.com ogling this lil beauty.
then i decided that she needed some peacock feather accessories from j. jewels, a gold clutch & gold shoes. fortunately for me, that’s just what fredara was thinking about.

but the point is, i think i could really pull the stylist thing off
not because i’m more fashionable than anyone else, or because i’ve got more swagger or anything like that.

but because i pay attention to folks. everyone likes to be accomodated. but let me not give away my secrets. cuz i’m tryna make some money while shopping for others.

in case you’re not on my

facebook or myspace:

here’s a shitty (and rather large!) cell phone pic of my sexy back . . . & my first ever tattoo. meaning/ significance can be found here. now i’m off to work in this nasty weather. adios.

another obligatory heat related post:

bill went away at 8:38:29 PM.
bill (8:59:06 PM): MUTHAFUCKA IT’S HOT!
bill returned at 8:59:22 PM.
bill (9:01:04 PM): oooh
bill (9:01:08 PM): law & order
bill went away at 9:02:05 PM.

apparently, the man’s brain has been fried by the heat. lmao.

mp3 of the week:

flirtatious, by carol riddick.

the album as a whole isn’t particularly my favorite. the arrangements are good, the lyrics aren’t by any means mind blowing. but i love her live performances & there are some songs that i really love. if you get a chance to see her, do it. this is probably my favorite song on the whole album . . . a real summer song. she’s a philadelphian who kicks ass at what she does & therefore the sista is worthy of my support.

enjoy!

it’s the fuck hot outside.

(aka: the obligatory heat wave post)

so what if i have an air conditioner w/ a 2nd one on its way?
& who cares if i drink an obscene amount of water anyhow & am far from dehydration?

i don’t like sweating unnecessarily. if i’m working out, fine. if i’m screwing, GREAT. but lying in bed? noooooo.

the good thing is that the weather has inspired me to do a bit of fasting. so this week it’s no meat, no eggs, no cheese. mostly fruits and liquids. i had some hummus for dinner & a modified version of the pb & jam smoothie that i make… next time it’ll be w/ unsweetened almond milk, no honey, and probably more pb for protein. but whatever. it kept me from gnawing my own arm off last night.

i already feel better.

except for the sweat.

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