1. if you had only one thing to tend to/keep alive what would it be?
2. this week was filled with tired and momentum - sometimes the stretch is the holiest part. i grew excited watching myself build, finding a sense of home in the direction i’m taking, knowing that with this kind of graft something is paying off
3. then this magic happened and i’m grateful and gratitude is the underbelly of the full
4. i wanted to make a fritatata today with sabzi, i wanted to take the spices out and cut some fresh herbs and replenish the greens. but the flatmate ate everything that was left in the fridge and i drank coffee instead
5. i treat myself to new lingerie like i said i would, i shave my legs, oil my skin, put on a new set, wear things that remind me i’m grown and that’s the best thing - to not be 16 or 18 or even 24 but 26
6. we go out to the theatre on monday and split things, i fall awkward about monday and overpay for everything. i am my mother’s daughter, like her - money (how little or how much) can ruin a day/moment. the play is intense and painful, i try to explain how the most important moments are ruined by this all white audience. i want to grieve, i want to sit quietly and grieve and a white woman next to me (who was performing a spectacle) grows audacious and turns to touch and smile at me in the end. i am sitting there grieving, aching, in sorrow but she wants to show us (me and the black man sitting next to me) that she gets it. my grief turns to rage. the play - the most difficult and important part of the play is a telling of the denial of black humanity, the moment the famous boxer realises that there are folks trying to kill him - he grows in his vulnerability, fear, loss. his sister tells him not to win against the white boxer for fear of collective retribution. his friend gets murdered in a bar and the white woman turns to touch me
6.ii and the white audience asks the questions that make me laugh wildly. i open up my favourite passage in kiese laymon’s long division and show him. he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t
7. the journey home is tiring. it feels like a chore in the car. he doesn’t know how to drive and it shows with his poor gear changes. he grows frustrated with my questions, i desire someone who is affirmed in their critical point of view, in their melanin. i do not want to have to ask about how many black women he has loved but i explain who and how we love is political. we sit in the car like two teenagers until we realise we are adults
8. a few days later i get out and run for weeks. in forty minutes i strategise the next three years in my mind, identifying mentors and coaches, a career development plan, what the next steps are. it feels good to be good in myself like that and suddenly i grow even more bored of the guy
9. my best friend/twin/only dude i can be my full-self with holds me perched on his knee. he tells me he worries about me, how i’ll meet someone if i get bored like this, how maybe i should give a little: ‘you can’t marry the revolution you know’ he says. i tell him i’m realising i need to if i want to do this work. we talk about his girlfriend, he confesses that i’m like his intellectual mistress, how if we were together we’d grow sick of each other everyday. i want to say i don’t think i could be with someone everyday, but this - i couldn’t grow bored of someone/something that makes me want to be better, build better
10. we stand on the platform for ten minutes talking about j.cole and kendrick, about folks having real skills, how we feel someone who can work with their hands are more useful than these tired bloggers, social media careerists, representation obsessives. i get on the train home
11. i make it home.