Today I’m leaving on my first ever solo vacation. Can you believe it? Twenty-six years old and I have yet to experience a trip on my own. I wish I could explain how important this is to me. Some of the most simple things are the hardest.

I have a lot to think about, and some writing to do. And then more thinking. The summer is ending and it was not an easy one. Things have to change and I want to come back beginning that shift within myself full force. I am tired of wishing the best for everyone around me and wishing the worst for myself. I need to get the best for myself as well. Nothing in my life will work out if I can’t be who I am and quit apologizing for it.

Sometimes I think my fear of being left or of others leaving me stems from having already abandoned myself for so long. The life ends up living me. I have to live my life.

Here is to getting on the good foot.

I have tried not to miss the things I never had to begin with, and the things I had but halved and gave away to better suit another someone’s taste I have caught a sunset bleeding through the pines coming back from Canada. I have breathed deep to entertain the concept of the contact high. I have taken scissors to fistfuls of hair; I have ground the blades through the follicles, snipped and swept away from eyes in hiding. I bit my lip until it bled. I wrote until my hand cramped into a full minute claw with spasms like little roses popped and blooming in vein vines to the elbow, the upper. I have read my name in print, and printed my name, and signed my story, erased it, scribbled again. I have caught squints of timber splinters in my thumb. I have wasted things like food and words and time. I have bled through hospital gowns, and I have taken my seat gingerly for six weeks, until I stole away to come under my own hand violently–alone, and healed. I have carried objects that were too heavy in the snow and I did not drop them. I have perhaps too much faith in other people and I have too little left over for myself and perhaps this is what keeps me going or maybe it is what stands in my way. Either way. I have watched the older women whip their mouths to crow out tongue and touch their cheeks and foreheads to pew seats still warm from asses, and I have watched them beg for Jesus like they are afraid and lonely and scared of this place, this Earth, their personal hells. I have been the age of seven. I have slow danced to Motown and held a baby and I tried to remember being that small and held and looked after. I have run out of things to try to be. I have waited for my heart to give out and pretended to be asleep. I have let conversations unfurl millions of limbs that seemed restless and endless, tributaries with medusa roots for flowing manes of twig and twine. I stayed up all night just to keep talking to my roommate, just to hear her slow drawl on syllables. We had so many similar instances—battles in our bones and rapes at parties. I have never been allergic to cats. I have held hands that struck me. I have tossed my sheets to the floor and left beer bottles on the windowsill. I knocked them over once every other day. I have snarled at mirrors. I have sad shoulders, rounded forwards that reveal everything about bad posture. I have a spine that is a little off center, a little to the right. I have fingernails that like to stay dirty, and scars that bumrush my pigment, when the melanin is out and blasting like a boombox in the blazing sun—they come out like pinpricks of stars. I asked for a glass of nothing with two cherries stabbed on a plastic sword, and received it. I have no idea what happened to that bartender; I hope it was something good since he was so into doing thoughtful things like that. Not many bartenders will make the time to give a glass of nothing with cherries and a sword. Maybe he knew that I was in trouble.

I have a heart that hurts me, a heart that I adore, a heart that I let cut in front of mind all the time when standing in turn for decisions. I have a strange dedication to that. I have a habit of talking too fast and out of turn. I speak before I think when I feel on fire, and it’s not fair to be sorry about such a thing. I have moments with pain; it’s chronic. I have tremors after the bad ones—if it’s morning I hide them around objects and in pockets, in my lap or on the cat. I have lied to be left alone and there were times it did not work and more times I did not care. I have been held and pushed away and I can do both with one in each palm, serving them into home overhand.

This is a satellite picture of Hurricane Dean, which is heading for Jamaica.

I am reading news stories about locals who refuse to leave their homes, some say Kingston is just too violent. There are tourists who refuse to leave as well. Some insist that they will be on their knees praying, in the Sandals resort.

From the Jamaica Observer:
In addition to bottled water and non-perishable food items, Jamaicans bought water tanks, ply sheets and generators.

“Mi no have no money fi dem kind a shopping deh,” she said of the heavy buying being done by others. “All I could buy is a lighter and a candle. Mi no have money fi do no shopping.”
From as early as seven o’clock yesterday morning, a large crowd of people started gathering outside the National Bakery store on Half-Way-Tree Road waiting to purchase bun, bread and biscuits. At one point the police had to be called in to maintain calm.

from the government site:

The ODPEM is advising the public to take the following precautions:

1. Stay tuned to the news and weather reports and listen out for emergency instructions, if any should be given.
2. Remain calm. Do not panic. Your ability to act logically is important during stressful events like a hurricane.
3. Wrap important documents such as passports, deeds and titles, birth certificates, ID cards, insurance policies in plastic and take them with you.
4. Ensure that adequate water is stored for domestic purposes.
5. Move furniture away from windows.
6. Check your arrangements for household pets. If you have made arrangements for them to be kept elsewhere, take them there now. If they are staying with you, make sure they have adequate food and water.
7. If your roof should come off and if the house or building shows signs of breaking up get in the closet or the bathtub and pull the mattress over your body for protection.
8. If you are away from home remain where you are until the storm has passed. Many people lose their lives trying to get from place to place during a hurricane.
9. There will be a brief period of calm weather. This is called the eye of the hurricane. It usually lasts for only a short while - from a few minutes to half and hour or more - and the winds return from the opposite direction. Please do not be fooled into thinking that the storm is over. Remain inside.

the latest:
The center of Powerful Hurricane Dean is now just 70 miles away from Kingston, Jamaica. Hurricane-force winds are now likely in full gear especially across the southeastern portion of the island nation. Waves are battering the southern and eastern shore and torrential rains have begun.

Dean could be the strongest hurricane to strike Jamaica since 1950: stronger than Hurricane Gilbert in 1988 which was a category three when it crossed the island from end to end.

What is it about Sundays–they are devestating or they are amazing, and when it’s raining and feels like early October in mid-August like it did today, they are kind of an obvious timeless. You can’t make that kind of day up, even with the best charcoal and spit.

I didn’t want to deal with wet pant hems so I threw on a dress and boots for the puddles–caught the 54C to Oakland. Caught David Cherry’s reading at the library. Hugged my lady Renee–I needed that. And why do they have tattoos on fruit roll-ups? This is another something that reminds me I’m getting older. Anyway, David was inspiring as always. Bought a book, had a conversation on the front steps about what creativity might mean these days. I waited for the 54C again, and thought about this some more. I keep pulling into myself when I need to be inspired–the moments when it’s most important to be the exact opposite of a conch shell. If I see something missing from the stages, then I should get back to putting it there. I know there are hungry people in this city–I know who you are and I know that you want nothing more than to work hard, and write. We need to take good care of ourselves, take good care of each other. Keep our fellow narrators in good health and hope, because they are living the stories you are telling.

I come home to get smacked with it again–Brad and Jeff are hard at work putting together the third issue Of Urban Velo. I love the merch page right now because various bike zines are available–a zine collector/bike fiend wet dream, my friends. Talk about inspiring–they’re running their own gig right now. I’m surrounded by crazy creative people doing things.

Today was very very good. It left me pretty damn punchdrunk.

My apologies for not doing a better job with updates. My reason is that simple kind of difficult–I haven’t been able to write. I make numerous attempts on a daily basis–I get up early to hit the keys and sure I get sentences but it’s slow coming. There is nothing worse for me than not being able to write(besides migraines but at this point that’s a given).

I finally calmed down about it and put my nose in the books. Lots of poetry. A strange little collection that works. It reminded me that it will come back, I just need to be patient. Life will get in the way which is quite alright. What else am I gonna write about anyway?

I’m writing about my father. I can’t believe I haven’t said more about him before in that medium. Maybe here or though but complete thoughts are brand new and now that I’m getting older, I’m figuring out a bit more about who I am, and where I come from. I see a lot of him in me, and I’m proud of that. He’s never been anything but proud to me. I downplay how incredibly lucky I am, having a father like him. He raised me–without him, I would not have made it. He taught me a lot about having heart behind the things that you do, and he never made me feel crazy during my low times and mistakes.

I called my mother for the first time in almost a year earlier this week. She didn’t answer, but she called back and left me a voicemail. I have yet to attempt contact again. I’m so scared to do it. I’m not sure what kind of relationship I can forge with her, and I’m tired of being let down by the hope that maybe this time will be different. At the same time, I cannot be twenty-six years old and still pouting about what I could never change, what I never had control of to begin with. I’m still not sure what I want. I’m not sure what re-establishing contact would create.

In other news, I’m reading up on a drug called Namenda. It is alzheimer’s medication that they are now testing as a migraine medicaiton. The results of the studies are pretty promising. It works best for migraine sufferers who have tried other methods with little or no success. I may post some of my research on the subject here, for archiving purposes and for anyone’s interest. I’m definitely interested.

Giant Lego man found in Dutch sea

AMSTERDAM (Reuters) - A giant, smiling Lego man was fished out of the sea in the Dutch resort of Zandvoort on Tuesday.

Workers at a drinks stall rescued the 2.5-meter (8-foot) tall model with a yellow head and blue torso.

“We saw something bobbing about in the sea and we decided to take it out of the water,” said a stall worker. “It was a life-sized Lego toy.”

A woman nearby added: “I saw the Lego toy floating toward the beach from the direction of England.”

The toy was later placed in front of the drinks stall.

Video here

and another wonderful news story:

WELLINGTON (Reuters) - A New Zealand couple is looking to call their newborn son Superman — but only because their chosen name of 4Real has been rejected by the government registry.

Pat and Sheena Wheaton say they will get around the decision by the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages by officially naming their son Superman but referring to him as 4Real, the New Zealand Herald newspaper has reported.

The Wheatons decided on the name after seeing the baby for the first time in an ultrasound scan and realizing their baby was “for real.”

They decided 4Real was the best way to write it, but the name was rejected because the registrar said a name had to be a sequence of characters.

Pat Wheaton said he was considering appealing against the decision through the courts, but whatever happens he won’t be budged on his choice.

“No matter what its going to stay 4Real,” Wheaton told the Herald, “I’m certainly not a quitter.”

A spokesman for the Department of Internal Affairs, which operates the registry told the Herald discussions with the Wheatons about their son’s name were continuing.

The baby is now two months old, after the Wheatons first applied to register his name in later June.

film to see:



Today was the first light that made it through the clouds. It fell on weeds that have grown on me recently. Strange little things that require the lack of photosythesis to thrive.

A four day migraine. And depression, or whatever is that’s always been a bit down in me(from the beginning), putting a hand into everything including this tepid brain o’ minestrone. Over the past few weeks I’ve wondered why we can’t just detach the head, set it aside in the privacy of our miseries for a new manmade room to breathe.

I had the most frustrating trip to the doctor earlier this week(even if you have insurance, good insurance, expect to get jerked around. It’s the american way).

There is a light slicing through. I just need to take my time, trust my feet, and let the eyes adjust. My life cannot live itself, and I love it too much to give up.