It's a new semester already. I am trying to recognize that for the rest of my life I will not deserve a summer vacation ever again, and that it is OK that for the first time I did not have one. Went on a soul journey pilgrimage to Dollywood, a little slice of paradise nestled between her mountainous titties. I rode a roller coaster that turned me upside down in exhilarating ways, and then slept in a haunted house. Then I went to Mexico.

I am already having an existential crisis at school. My professor photocopied my in-class writing as an example for the class, along with a bunch of other admittedly shitty paragraphs. While she critiqued most of the writing pretty harshly, she talked about mine last and said that, while it wasn't perfect, it was one of the only adequate responses. Still, I can't help feeling weird when I am the only white person in the course and the professor is holding me up as what my fellow students should aspire to. Isn't that one of the reasons that HBCUs are important, to be a place where minority students can feel what it's like to be a majority for once? It makes me feel like an intruder, like I am in a space where I do not belong.

I have given this plenty of thought in my time at this school. In most ways it is a very positive thing for me to be enrolled at NCCU. I pay my full tuition, which opens up financial aid for other students who have to have it to be able to attend college. I get an experience similar to what minority students must experience at any other college; when I look around a classroom I mostly see faces that do not look like me. However, my experience is completely different. Instead of being dismissed and silenced, when I do speak up in class my words still carry the privilege accorded to white people in America. I have had opportunities far beyond those of my fellow students; the poems we were discussing are by Natasha Trethewey, a poet I actually got a chance to meet at Governor's School. And while I take pride in the fact that I know enough to write a perceptive essay about black women's experiences, it also feels weird to be publicly commended for it in front of a group of them who a professor has just told that their writing is woefully inadequate. Yall, I am 23 and yall are all 18. If it takes you 6 years to finish your undergrad degree, I bet you'll be able to write a pretty solid Freshman English paper too.

Whoosh, apparently I had SOMETHING TO SAAAYYY.

Also, Ellie Greenwich died. To Ellie: thank you, for writing songs so beautiful and true.

This is my fortieth post. I mean, that's pretty good, right?







I finally found some quality images of Joseph Cornell's assemblages with parrots. These resonate so much with me, I'm always so amazed that they exist. I'm working on some kind of art thing; I think it's going to end up being a zine. I know that's tired, but I'm going to do it my own way, at my own pace. This means it will never be finished.

Anyway, I'm working on a few poems that may eat each other and some collages. Also something to do with Rimbaud in Africa and queers as participants in imperialism. There's something interesting about the way homosexuality was being constructed and its definition constricted as Europe attempted to annex the entire world. I need to reread Zami/Audre Lorde, my plan is to write my own biomythography. We'll see. I am hoping that it will write itself once the momentum picks up, but pshh.

The thing happened again where I went vegan and within two weeks I was eating both dairy and meat.

I am going to Dollywood, and then on to Mexico. It's finally summer.

My motherfucking guinea pig died. Her name was Princess. She lived a mostly fine life. The highlight of her day was when I fed her not only compressed pellets of hay, but also some actual dried grass. The best days were when I cleaned her cage.

Lots of stuff is up in the air, it is like mercury is in retrograde again, but all of my horrorscopes/whoreoscopes are A+∞+. I feel that I used to know what I wanted to change about my life, but now I'm just sort of lolling (LOLing?) about stoned at the crossroads (have been here for like 4 years now?)

I am auditioning some new girls for the spare room tomorrow. I'll keep yall posted.

I want a husband who will sing songs like this to me.

Hay yall

I need to stop with the haaaays, my google reader is advertising horse food to me.

I am on day 3 of my diet. My diet is called eat something other than cheese and drink something other than Dr. Pepper and beer. I'll let you know.

We have been talking a lot about the history of Ethiopia at school, which is really cool. The Falasha Jews came up, and then Whitney Houston's decision to visit the Black Jews in Israel to work on her Christmas album. As my professor said, "Who knows what she did, but when she came back she was STILL on drugs." Poor Whitney, you will always have my respect, or at least my love.

I'm going to see friendz and the baby in the mountains this weekend. It's her second birthday!

It is a momentous weekend.

Blog blog blog blog blog blog

I am reading a book called Turn the Beat Around: The Secret History of Disco. It's something I think about a lot, the way for one intense decade black people and gay people danced to the same music, in the same places, while doing the same drugs. I feel there is a lot to reclaim.

Also I have been thinking about Sara Baartman, the Hottentot Venus. Her life was rough, yall. Docile bodies, Foucault me in the ass, etc. Also, about how much of the knowledge in schoolbooks was written as a means of justifying European imperialism. I feel that, if I have a calling as a historian, it is connected to this. Will reflect on this next ~soul journey~ and report back.


I have been taking so many soul journeys. I mean, what else is there to do sometimes?

My mom is getting her PhD! I've been looking for poems to read at her graduation party, and I found this awesome one.


Golden Oldie

I made it home early, only to get
stalled in the driveway-swaying
at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune
meant for more than two hands playing.
The words were easy, crooned
by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover
a pain majestic enough
to live by. I turned the air conditioning off,
leaned back to float on a film of sweat,
and listened to her sentiment:
Baby, where did our love go?-a lament
I greedily took in
without a clue who my lover
might be, or where to start looking.

-Rita Dove