“The artist works no matter the sleep.”
– Jericho Brown, The Tradition
I’m from Seattle where people drown in the rain, heads tilted back, eyes cloudy with the grey of the sky. In Seattle, we cry so many tears that they evaporate on our face and turn into clouds and produce the rain that is responsible for everyone being so depressed and crying on the back of the bus all the time.
Every American winter I sink into an American depression that sneaks up on me in a lazy way. I forget that my body needs sunshine to thrive. I forget that there are people in Africa fighting to survive. I forget because I’m trying to survive, too. I forget that I want to survive, sometimes. I forget to try, sometimes, too.
I forget myself, when it might be more effective to forgive myself. But what is there to forgive? What grudge am I holding against myself? It’s hard to believe certain things about yourself. I wish this was morning so I could just write until I got sick of it.
Then I’d go home and feel accomplished and tired and I’d pray and grab some Subway and eat the whole sub and feel even more good about myself and then jump into bed.
Middle of the day, jump into bed.
Shut the blinds, into the bed. Covers over my head, inside of my bed. Transport to another plane of existence, one where time doesn’t mean anything. Where the darkness consumes me and I am okay with that. Where I can just be like the nothing I feel inside me sometimes. A chronic emptiness that often resurges at the worst time. A lingering sense of incompletion. That I make myself forget about. But things like that won’t let you. They won’t let you.
Let me go, I wish they would have let me go. I wish they didn’t drag me into King County Correctional. Wish I didn’t have to do two years of probation, tricking my PO. I wish that I didn’t have to keep my thugging life on the D low. All the drugs I done sold. Even more went up my nose. All the friends I left froze.
Where I’m from, we call that overdose.
All the times I thought I was better off dead. Thought I was headed for it, right? Thought wrong. Thought to the left. Listening to the same old song. The same old Nacho. I said where’s my gun? My gun said you don’t own one. I don’t own a gun.
I meant my trigger finger. The finger said I don’t owe you nun; not a damn thing. I know that I have things in me that I wish I could change, but this is not me being sad. This is me indulging the things which make me who I am. I know people who say they would be happy to call me a friend. I believe that about myself, sometimes, but not always. You know what I mean? You dig what I’m sayin?
I have a family who cares about me, and I them, on most days. I mean, love is unconditional, right? You can’t walk away from family. Might still be mad at me. But we still blood, thicker than, had to be. Uhh. Water.
I have a lot on my mind and everything I write feels like a warmup to something else.
I’m from Seattle where people drown in the rain, heads tilted back, eyes cloudy with the grey of the sky. In Seattle, we cry so many tears that they evaporate on our face and turn into clouds and produce the rain that is responsible for everyone being so depressed and crying on the back of the bus all the time.
In Seattle I cried so much that I stopped crying and pretended to be a quote/unquote real nigga. I mean, I’m real, but how real am I? Just then, I heard someone yelling from the bleachers: “YOU AIN’T REAL, SON!”
In Seatttle I would sit in the back of the bus, stumbling in my seat. In Seattle I would watch my reflection in the windows, and the mist on the outside of the bus, leaving drops of condensation on that pane like the pain in me, like the tears on my face. Like the tears of a clown.
In Seattle I used to eat Pagliacci, like the theater clown. But life is no game, ain’t no time for play-play. You hit that Dougie? I hit that Sheneneh.