Was I just attacked by a demon?

Today I tripped and fell on my way from the freezer where I keep my brownies; the brownie somehow dislodged from my hand and sailed across the living room, landing well out of reach. Immediately I began rebuking satan, and then set out to retreive the brownie and get back to my movie marathon.

But then, after I sat back down and fired up the DVD player I started feeling a strange presence in my mind. At first I thought it just might be that I ate too much brownie, but then I realized that I was actually hearing the audible sounds of potatoe chips calling me. Could this just be sugar overload / need salty cure? I felt so controlled by the tsunami of thoughts telling me devour salty potatoe chips that when interupted by the nasty sound of the phone ringing--not of my own might and power, this I now realize--I lunged from my easy chair and sprang 4 feet across the room to grab the stupid phone. Irritated and feeling completely overtaken by the potatoe chip voices I spat "WHAT!" into the receiver. After apologizing to my employer for the rude outburst I went for a walk to calm down, grab a beer from the liquor store, and regoup.

Do you think maybe I need to have my house blessed?

Pioneer

I realize how awful this template is but I feel powerless to change it. And frankly I don't give a shit that its ugly and outdated. Originally this blog was for to post photos, then my beloved cat Maui passed away and I stopped giving a shit about this stupid blog and my life ended that day anyway when Maui went away. On occassion I remember this old blog and just out of curiousity, I wonder if I can still compose a sentence.

Who are you? Why are you here? It feels very strange that anyone would actually read words floating in space written by a stranger in a strange land. We have no blood ties, no cyber ties, yet always we suffer dead disconnect. I will never know how things may have turned out. Our comments, like a wake perfectly content to know itself as dissipating behind a boat are the only clue life passed by over here.

I miss you and I don't know you. Would this be possible without ever expanding technology? In a split second, total darkness, dead technology...seperation. Seperation anxiety. The dead walk, nearly without coaxing from without, for their gods and Apples and Droids have cut the connection off clean through the throat; hyper hues of red warm goo, lights out. Corporations are not going to be able to repair humanity. We are all disconnecting. I would like to be the first to bare my soul and tell you that I am deeply frightened and alone.

harry bezalel

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waiting for Maui

gap, 2011

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Smoke

My reaction to younger people oblivious to the dangers of smoking is jealousy. Takes me back 15 years. Back when my only problem was getting out of the the gym and finding my empty pack pushed down between towles and sometimes not at all. Smoking after a work out...that first suck was the best suck. Sweaty, tired, high as a kite on endorphins, not a care in the world. Nothing mattered as long as I was lit up. Sweet rush of smoke after a hard sweat, I still remember. Colors were more vivid, wind was sticky or cool, and it carressed deep, oblivious places. Denial. My only friend. This went on for a few more years until one day death took an interest in me and we made a bargain; my lungs for his protection. But...Death is a big fat dick who never follows through on a bargain, which is really to say that he is a trustworthy killer, a hardcore fucker that Death, and so he entered and raped my lungs and crushed my spirit.

I finally got off the pavement and when I walked the 5 miles back to the bus station and I had mustered up the courage to look, it was then that I saw her face in my mirror; she was not the same kind, alabaster skinned innocent being, but a whore with a broken spirit and a broken face with shards of glass for teeth and she had made a pact with a Great Sadness.


For a few moments the jealousy teases me with threats of verbal violence and self loathing. I just laugh; the abstract theory of forgiveness, I don't fucking get it. Laughter, mockery, but only for a few minutes. I see the young kids sucking and sucking, and they see me through eyes of contempt. In a quick exchange we both know what we both don't want to know. There is no barrier between us and yet we're a million worlds of degradation apart.


I'm envious and I don't give a shit. They are merely my pain in younger packages. We'll all meet up one day.This time the walls will be the cement that bonds us together while we wait for medical care and hope.


I could edit but I like the brown shitty film Ambien knits together for such rare occasions. Blankets of comfort in the absense of cocoa.

The 10 things I want to do or see happen before I die

Wake up in a good mood, without the horrible fear


Learn Hebrew


See my mother experience grace and mercy so she can show me some


Trace my family ancestry. I'm told they come from Isreal on my father's side. I don't know if it's true. My family has secrets


See my brother grow up into the man I know he wants to be, so I can watch him be happy


Go camping again


Be a cyclist again


Be a painter again


Love people again


I know, that's only 9. I can always ask for 10 more things with the last 1.
Right?

I saw her in a petsmart. i think i love her.

should I, or shouldn't I ... should I, or shouldn't I.
Do it. NO, don't.
Yes, do it!
Do it! Do it! Do it!
NO, shut up.
Those eyes.
Leave me alone, self.
But those eyes. So green, so loving, so full of almond shape ...
SHOO.
But you would love her desperately.
GO AWAY.
Your boy cat loves girls. You've seen how he gets. It's so cute. His desperate little male whine. He's so sweet when he gets like that. So sweet.
He's neutered. So. LEAVE ME ALONE.
But...

no.

I'll be going back to see her next week. I hope she's already been adopted out.

oprah's show is ending? who. fucking. cares. this blog is about me.

Karen says: oprah so sad today


Brenda says: huh?


Karen says: oprah is sad
straight forward


Brenda says: what?
who cares if she's sad? i dont get it


Karen says: omg
the show!!!!
lol


Brenda says: i've never watched her show. she's on tv, right?


Karen says: brenda


Brenda says: what?


Karen says: how do i describe this


Brenda says: describe what, your sadness?


Karen says: noyou
lack of something

Brenda says: empathy?


Karen says: no no no
lack of social something


Brenda says: skills?


Karen says: no lol
you don't do any popular social stuff that people do
like watch tv
or anything like that


Brenda says: and you want a word for that?


Karen says: yes
like how do you not know that oprah is on tv
you have empathy (Sure I do. For cats)


Brenda says: i figured out she's on tv because every sheep in the world baa's at her command


Karen says:lol
cause she's awesome
what's the word or phrase i need
without you screaming at me


Brenda says: i don't scream at you; you interpret screams


Karen says: recluse
withdrawn from society; seeking solitude; "lived an unsocial reclusive life"


Brenda says: wow, someone Googled today

But in all fairness? and to keep it real ...

Karen says: my brother works for a phone company

Brenda says: and

Karen says: i asked him how to get a number for my website

he gave me a google invite

Brenda says: google invite?

Karen says: for the google phone number things

Brenda says: oh

Karen says: it forwards to your cell phone

i need it for a business line

Brenda says: oh right, that

heard about it

Karen says: maybe this is more exciting to me heh

Brenda says: thats cool as hell

Karen says: anyway, know what number i found?

Brenda says: no what

Karen says: 1-234-PETBOOT

Brenda says: omg

Karen says: is that incredible?

Brenda says: its breathtaking

karen

Karen says: i know

Brenda says: !

1234 petboot

Karen says: you can pick an area code or a word

so i typed "dogboot"

Brenda says: karen, the logic of that number is psychologically breathtaking

Karen says: and got like (25d)og-boot1

Brenda says: 1234 petboot

Karen says: i know it was really lucky

LOL you funny

Brenda says: thats brilliant

no im not being funny, its true

Karen says: i know

happened to be area code (234). it was the only petboot available

Brenda says: why do people always laugh when i'm being serious

Karen says: cause you are just funny anyway

Brenda says: omg that number

1234 petboot

im just tripping out on the psychology of the number alone

do i need mental help?

Karen says: a little, but that's ok

Brenda says: well, i think you should let me explain why i think that number is the best thing you've scored in ages

Karen says: k

Brenda says: ok, so when i read that number i see a set of commands. 1 leads to 2 leads to 3 leads to 4; there can be no doubt that those numbers belong in that sequence. then it's followed by petboots - as if "pet boot" follows a logical progression.

it's like, there can be no argument against buying your dog boots; not in my mind anyway. i've already bought 10 pair and i don't even have a dog

ok, you think i'm nuts enough already.

Karen says: it's fine

i won't lol (No, you think I'm nuts and your not laughing is just a consolation prize I have to accept in leui of your taking me seriously. But I can take it ...)

Brenda says: but its true tho, no? i mean about the number

Karen says: phone, brb

posted dec 10 or 11th, 2009

bye bye city. sort of.

I'm leaving the city. Sort of. I think sort of means that the city is close enough that I can get to it without a long commute...but far enough away from it to probably save my life. Or someones. People are driving me crazy. My current landord, a giant corporation operated onsite by a diminutive little cunt, is driving me crazy. If I don't leave soon I am going to sue her and them and make sure several people lose their jobs. Is that what I was put on the planet to do? Sue stupid people - that's what I've always dreamt of doing...combating unrepentant morons while my creative talents slink away into obscurity and then finish me off by strangulation.

The planes buzzing by every 10 minutes or so are driving me absolutely crazy. If I laid outside on my back just outside my front door I would almost even be able to read the model and make of each plane. Sometimes I sit around on the ugly chair near the window with the ugly view and I drift off to imagine the people in those planes. They cruise above me a mere thousand feet above and they are all pointing down at me screaming get out of the city. Other times I sit around and wonder what I might really do if one of those hunks of metal just fell to the earth. Would I survive? What would I try saving? What if I was really just one of those people who live their entire lives based on a moral character only in theory, one they've invented out of wishful thinking and lies...but then when faced with a real life disaster they panic and forget to snatch their animal up because that is really who they are after all.

I could kill someone. Sometimes I write little stories in my head wherein I plot my upstairs nieghbor's boyfriend's fall down the cement stairs. More so lately than ever I fight this urge to smack someone. People in Southern California cities are insensitive, desensitized, crazy and greedy and callous. My resident apartment complex manager is crazy and abusive. She chain smokes and she nearly always smells like an ashtray. Her tiny little office smells like an ashtray. The area around her unit smells like an ashtray. I should really just have more compassion for her as she begins showing signs of emphysema and cigarette related malaise. Shouldn't I? Isn't that what normal, sane people do? They have compassion...right? She's probably just jealous because I get to stay at home all day in my pajamas, and if I want to-I could put on real clothes if I wanted to-and still pay the rent, on time, every month...with more than some left over enough to drive back and forth past her tiny little office, shopping bags filled with shopping binges busting out my car windows. I'm pretty sure that nothing would make her happier than seeing me late on rent so she could stiff me with a lease clause. I have regretted every last dime I've spent on this stupid piece of shit fucking box. My language has detoriated into fuck this fuck that get out of my fucking way you fucking moron before I peel the skin from your body with a nail file; then a quick rev on the gas pedal to make sure my point is taken. The only good thing that came out of allowing myself to be raped and pillaged every 1st of the month while a chain smoking troll coughed up only verbal acknowledgement as my receipt is that these walls gave home to a shelter cat I named Gabriel Boojal Scraggsworth. He needed me. I needed him. When I say his name it brings me joy.

My mind races constantly moreso now than ever. The Indy 500 lives inside my head. So I talk to myself a lot more and brain impulses commandeer my body, literally, as the thoughts pound my skull. But, don't concern yourself with that chainsmoking power hungry troll because you know, she's going to end up smoking herself right off the planet; good, she deserves it; no stop, focus on something positive; I need coffee; that fucking cunt; what if I pour dish detergent in the jacuzzi, would that make you feel better; illegal and juvinile, totally non productuve and uncreative; I wonder which makes better suds, Dawn or Joy; Oooh, buy more movies on amazon; people can see the scars on my wrists; man a lemon muffin fucking sounds good; they can see them; order pillow online; fucking cunt; I'm proud of you for fighting for your life; Crimes of Passion: She Woke Up Pregnant...what the fuck movie title is that? get up go order it now; shit, the dishes; go for a walk. Get out, get out, get out of the city. You won't have any chain smoking neighbors anymore. No more neighbors above you fucking all night and then walking by your front window nearly shirtless with stupid smirks on their faces. No more 3 day covenant or quit's because you left a pair of flip flops out on your patio again, or attempted to ignore the morons above you by actually being proactive and erecting a japanese shade to keep them from peering needlessly. No more city celebrations blaring well past midnight. No more walking outside and finding 15 young boys partying in the jacuzzi.

There are about 300 people living in that canyon. They're very friendly as if they're on something. This should delight me, but for some reason it scares me. I would probably die and go straight to heaven if I found out that people can really be that happy without being on drugs. Or I could just accept them as is and let them be themselves and accept that I'm close enough to being an addict as it gets without really...no, I'm close enough and the thought of being at peace horrifies me.

Last night the smell of dog and horse and cow lingered. I could have showered it off but I couldn't focus long enough to bother. Or maybe the lingering smells reminded me of the fear I feel and I froze. I am scared shitless. What am I doing? My "bathtub" is going to be a doggy tub. No really. It's a tub used to bathe large dogs. There is no tile on the bathroom floor and the water pressure will never be enough to get my hair clean. The disorentation from the elevation kept me teetering back and forth while I was viewing the place. I think I nearly fell down those steps a few times. My rental is on the side of a mountain, not a flattened and paved parcel with convenient access to a comfortably appointed "cottage" - but a shack on the side of a mountain that looks more like Grissly Adam's vacation lodge.

I have heard almost every reason from every person in my life why I should stay in the city. Too dark at night. Too many unknowns. Too much isolation. Howling things and spiders. Steps too steep. Our mother's might fall down...you need to build a railing for everyone to be able to get inside. It's too dangerous. What if someone comes by at night and rapes you?

When I was 16 my mother called the police because a "blonde colored dog" was running up and down our street. I came home and walked in and there was my mom, hysterical on the phone telling the police officer that it was only a matter of minutes more before she couldn't bare any longer the thought of this blonde dog. "Yes! he is running up and down the street and I am afraid he might enter the house and get upstairs and maul my son. What if this stray dog kills him...or worse. He's sick and in bed with something and only 12 and defenseless against a big dog. Please come at once"

I have a few painful memories of my mothers dramatics...but none so telling of my future now, or then, as my having to run around for 10 minutes cleaning up the wine bottles so that the officer wouldn't think my mom was a crazy lunatic drunk. The most interesting thing about my mother is that her dramatics were never a result of alcohol at all; she was eccentric and that tore her apart because it wasn't allowed if you're raising two children alone. There was no place for fancy or frolic.

I have to get out of the city. The walls are closing in and I need to try to save myself. If there is an earthquake and my little shack falls off the side of the mountain then I am going to die brave and happy, knowing I did everything possible to save myself from myself. I am going to sit in the dark with a candle and write to the sound of my heartbeat. I am going to watch horror movies and let myself be scared, and then wake up and be OK. I am going to wrestle with spiders and snakes and mountain lions and horse shit and dog shit and my shit. I am going to be dirty a lot and roll around in the dirt. I am going to carve out something in the side of the mountain, maybe my name, I don't know, I haven't gotten that far. All I know is that my life is at stake and I plan on keeping my phone off the hook for as long as I want.

Photos of the shack

sep 15 2009. i know that for sure

It's inevitable ...

like mother, like daughter

posted july 31 2009

gabriel boojal scraggsworth

Gabe's face

Gabe's food in Maui's Bowl

Gabe doing nothing, very well
Gabe's ear Hair
Gabe, edible

july 27 2008

nothing like ambien part 1.

It hits me like heroin. True, I wouldn't know what heroin hits like but when Ambien hits me hard I feel like a junkie looks in a polished Hollywood epic - and they look just like the curl on tip of my smile.

Ambien aficionados, those who swear by the cathartic powers of the drug will report bizarre side effects ranging from an overwhelming craving for fatty foods, a sudden desire to reconnect to lost loved ones, or telepathically conversing with people who aren't in the same room, to finding that a zero gravity chair is no longer to be just a sanctuary for fatigued backs and tired asses in need - but a living breathing bellows, to feeling invincible, overly confident and capable of acheiving elusive goals ... swimming, using a body only conditioned well enough to walk the distance of the wading area to attempt swimming the 100 meter butterfly, carpe diem, being born again, I'm a child, birthed by a mind meld between a warm, cobalt sky in tandem with a back flip.

Chairs breathe. Computers breathe. A hanging towel in a bathroom inhales once slowly. Then just as slowly it softly, coyly, exhales a dopamine rush command. The first time my living room chair breathed was one of those breathtaking split seconds caught between fear and shock and holy divination. Like fatty food amplifies the effect of this drug, certain bands and sounds also intensify and prolong the high. Ambien tripping isn't for everyone. Like any drug, it messes with your mind to the degree of mental weight carried at the time you drop. I don't recommend Ambien tripping for those just off a bad relationship or anyone with a bad FICO score - unless you're a professional self loather and, for personal or religious reasons, absolutely insist on obsessing over your credit rating. I speak from personal experience.

Ambien is a muscle relaxer, too. It's a powerful multi-use drug. In my opinion it shouldn't be given out freely. Nevertheless KAISER is a terrific organization if you're looking for physicians who freely (and in my opinion irresponsibly) dole out your poison. If you're the type who doesn't torment over morals or ethics then for you there are a few key words, subtle suggestions, and stratagem to obtain relief: Ambien, Soma, Valium, to name The Three. For powdered Dilaudid you may need to arrange for badly broken leg.

"I've been feeling so anxious lately, for weeks. I'm trying some deep breathing but I'm still having a very hard time getting to bed. My neighbors do things above me with power tools. I think they're adding a nursery - and they're not married either!"

Translated: I'm writing a blog post but I feel bone dry. I need a hit.

"We just broke up. She took the cat ... I really loved that cat, too. I want to adopt my own but the grief and sadness seem insurmountable. Is having a hard time breathing over a period of a week or so considered anxiety?"

Translated: Xanax is good stuff. Would you be so kind?

"I used to swim competitively. Ok, like 15 years ago. I swam the 100 butterfly this morning at 3am, hopped up on Ambien. It's the only thing that takes the edge off the shoulder injuries. Anyway I sprained a few mucles around the thoracic, atlas, and a few muscles elsewhere. Never again. I spent 3 hours in the ER and they gave me this bland flexiril stuff"

Translated: I'm in a lot of pain. I understand Soma is great for muscle spasms - and it's one of the few drugs of its kind that do not make you feel like a drooling mental patient. 3 days of this stuff and I'm due for something a bit less depressing. I don't want to sleep 20 hours at a time. Soma. Can I try that? that Flexiril stuff put me in a bad space. Look at my back? see how the right scapula is so obviously, clearly sitting higher than the left, still? I'm having a spasm.

"Is it normal to feel like you're suffocating whenever you're done grocery shopping? - really, is that normal? It starts off quietly enough and then BAM it's as though black, hard talons are coming at my throat...like in that movie Aliens. I was fine until those two guys in black masks started appearing on the hood of my car, holding an Amway name badge with my name printed on the thing. Of course I'm just teasing about the hoods and talons. But if you were an artist then what I just said wouldn't seem so alarming, in context of course-it's about context-you know, the Alien stuff. Context; mine, not yours. As an academic, you might just say to your colleagues: 'I've been experiencing some rather interesting somatic episodes; perhaps this evening we can convene at Starbucks to discuss this in a more intimate setting'. We, you know artists, we just phrase things in a more unique context ..."

Translated: I'm not crazy. I'm a shrewd functional junkie. I only need a sample, really. Thank you. Yes, of course doctor, I will certainly call you if any of this persists. Always do.

I think I'm getting closer to spilling my blood all over the internet, where it belongs, safely away from the few people whose feelings might be wronged. When it happens, I honestly don't give a fuck if you or mother Mary find it offensive.

posted july 22 2am, i'm almost sure of it

reprieve

may 15, 2009

mother

"Hi, I love you. Happy about to be mother's day. Do you know how much I love you?"

"Oh, that's nice. Honey ... I'm having another ant invasion, can I call you back?"

"...yeah. ok. how many invasions does this make this week?"



"They dead again, mom?"

"Yes, I hoovered them but I think I see one alive, can I call you back?"

"um yeah (guess I have no choice)"



"I love you mom, have I told you that? really, I just want you know to how much you mean to me; I love you so much that sometimes I cry"

"Oh dear, that's nice. I appreciate it"

"Mom, can you just once, ever, just let me love you?"

"I don't know why you'd love me so much."

"But -"

"I don't deserve all this love. I was a bad mom."

"Ok. Let's try this: yeah, you were a really shitty mom, then my life turned into an expression of your shit, blah blah blah. Now, get over it already, I did. Ok?"

"Ok, I'll consider that, and I love you too, dear."

may 8, probably. 2009

lyin' librul

I would have continued walking by the Greenpeace dude outside whole foods but his hair was a force to be reckoned with. All Greenpeace dudes have great hair—that's how they get signups from women (so you know)

"Hi ma'am ... we—"

"Yes? I (can't take anymoreleavemealone please) don't have any cash on me, sorry"

"Oh no we doneirjweiwer aspodi wpoie nrwjer blah blah asdjfrew beeraposdd signup"

"Wow. Your hair..."

"signup asljjblah asdjf sdd fskj we machalambachimba it easy"

"Is your hair real?"

"Yes it's real - jfk aks wjker Greenpeace skaskfds kldlakd green trees lskdfkd blagsmoke mmd out hugging"

"Wow. That hair"

"Blad huhjiji askerididi signup askjfkj oasdj war asjj end ljasjd, no money needed"

"I already did this at Trader Joes; they got me there. The guy had good hair"

"Oh okbutt hjkj wlkhjipahass aspijuj canibisulu ek sdkff they're there too? skdj woiehhd Obama"

"So, that's some hair. Wow. How much product do you have to use to get it to do that?"

"None! it's like that on its own. I just wake up and it's like thatlieblahj aslkjhdf oijlk asksk" (then, honest to God almighty above, he did one of those farrah fawcett flip things. My eyes bugged. He should have stopped right there)

"Hunh. Well, great hair. That's the only reason I put up with this cr— "

"Haha right onbama dkha ekka d; have a good dayyyddj likedudenma'am"

He lied.

No one's hair does what his was doing without a lot of product.

My hair happened to be behind my head and shoved up into a beanie, so he didn't see it, but I suspect he knew I knew he was flat out lying about his hair when I slipped my beanie off and pretended to air my hair out.

A republican in the same situation would have told the truth, but then bragged at length about the number of different products it takes to acheive such a volume of hair.

Mar 3, 09

i adopted an 8 year old cat, and god

...how i am starting to adore him. (update: No, I do adore him; in fact I love him! love love love, soft as an easy chair...)

His AVID chip says "Dixie" but I call him Gabriel Boojal Scraggsworth, or Gabie Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby Sweet Pretty Baby Baby for short. He is worth a blog of his own, but for now I just want to make sure his every day is filled with warmth.

He is growing on me like lush, green ivy.

When he turns his head a certain way his lines form distinct memories of Maui. They resemble each other in ways I wouldn't have welcomed consciously. I'm surprised by this wonderful old cat. I'm smiling for the first time in 2 years.

Gabie Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby.

3 (not very good) photos of my devastatingly pretty boy - he looks like a wildcat!

march 2, 2009

short rant about fucking

I know most people consider fucking to be wonderful- but when it's happening above my bedroom every night, sometimes 3 times a night, in a cheap bed with rusty box springs then it's not good. Plenty of banshee wailing, what sounds like a dog whining atop a spinning washing machine (visualize that one, go ahead-add the audio) and the fact that I'm already paying too much for this place, well this makes for a bad mood. Some people have no class. I hope they're using condoms. The last thing I want to hear 9 months from now is their baby crying all night. I can tell they're doing it in missionary position. Don't you think the fact I know this says something about these people's lack of discretion? not to mention lack of creativity. I wonder which of them is going to grow bored first? And...I'm curious if people who limit themselves to missionary only might be suffering from some sort of religious persecution complex?

I've seen him once. He is never going to marry her. Any man who runs up and down stairs 10 times in half an hour in leui of actually tending the BBQ is a lout.

Great, there they go again.

Mormon's live downstairs, right next to me. I'm thinking the vacant apartment above them will do nicely. I'm tired of just living in the living room.

Wow, now I hear hammers. Idiots.

feb 16, 2008

happy mauentines, boy.

Me loves you long time.
That's all.

mausted on jan 14 2009

december 15, 1996 - He lives

Hi Maui ...

I'm writing your book. I'm so sorry it's taking so long.
You know how I is.

posted december 15, 2008

no, they like to be called black!

When I was 13 I met this black girl around my age. We played in the pool and talked about how short my hair was; she was nice and told me that I didn't look like a boy and that anyone who says so should be ignored. I told her "I like you, wanna be friends?" and she answered "I'd like that, come by next time you're in town and we can play". Later that night I thought about telling my father that I met a new friend. I may have told him about her, I don't remember, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway because he was a pothead and had no time to listen.

A month later I was back in town and scared shitless to go knock on her door. I didn't know why I'd be so scared, all I knew was she was the only friend I had in that sorry town. My knees wobbled when I walked, and the closer I got to her door the more my heart pounded. By the time I reached out my little balled up hand and knocked on her door I'd already figured out what her being black would mean in relation to me being me. 5 minutes later and a few more light taps and I still stood at her door, trying to hold back my stupid tears. I swallowd my heart back down my throat all the way back to my fathers house. I never dared to go back and knock ever again, and I never saw my little friend ever again, and I never spoke too directly about any of it until one day I couldn't hold it in anymore so I asked my mom if black people didn't like white people. She told me black people don't like being called black, "They like being called Negroes these days". I said

"No they don't, mom ... they like being called black"

"No ... dear. Today, we call black people negroes, or negroid; they do not like being called black anymore"

"Where did you get that, mom? they like being called black!"

"Well, these days everything has to be said so right and if you don't say things just right then you can really get in trouble with people; I think they're actually calling themselves afro american these days"

I wanted to cry and scream and just blurt out how hurt I was that I didn't see my friend that day and ask my mom straight up why she thought my friend wouldn't come to the door, and I wanted to talk to my mom about why white people are white and why black people are black and why this is such a problem and really just find out if this might only have had something to do with my haircut making me look like a little boy, but instead all I heard was nigger. Nigger, nigger, nigger; us them, those niggers.

After that, I dropped it and decided that not talking about anything always worked so I'd keep not talking about anything, especially negroes or niggers.

So then my life just went on same as it did for any other white kid in my part of town. I had mostly white friends; well except for Keith and Carol, a brother and sister. I think Keith was pretty cool but I couldn't tell because every time I wanted to find out, all I heard was my mom. I never talked about negreos with either of them, as much as I really ached and longed to finally get it out. One day I felt like I really wanted to cry on Carol's mother's shoulder, but instead I just came across like a timid stone. Carol's mother liked me and knew something was deeply troubling me, I could tell, and I liked her and I needed her desperately. I liked Carol and Keith too, but every time I was around the family all I heard was negroe; they like to be called negroes. Niggers.

About a year ago I wandered into a hair salon. Before I could push my wildly beating heart back down my throat I noticed that everyone in the shoppe was black. They were staring back at me through the reflection of fear in my own eyes, and before I could open my mouth, one of the younger women asked me what I was doing there and before I could choke out an answer another young woman informed me, very formally, that she didn't think this was the salon I was looking for and suggested another salon might better serve my needs.

Negroes. Nigger. No, they like to be called black!

A few months after that incident I was shopping over at the Trader Joes and I wanted to go and buy a cup of coffee at the coffee shop a few doors down from that salon. I don't know what it was that day, it could have been that my big hat and the magnitude of my even bigger curly long hair had blinded me, preventing me from seeing straight, because when I next looked up, I noticed the sign posted above their shoppe had morphed:

"INTERNATIONAL HATE GALLERY!"

It took me a minute to calm down and I think I even may have stopped dead in my tracks to catch my breath, but as soon as I could think straight again I looked back and up the sign had just as quickly morphed back into "INTERNATIONAL HAIR GALLERY".

Years would pass before I finally understood that my little friend couldn't come to the door because she wasn't at home that day.

Oct 18, 2008, er I mean Nov 2008... help