I’ve been working on a visual art piece about my meaning of home. Since the boxes from DC arrived, the work has been halted indefinitely.
Last night, I was really struggling with unresolved relationship issues. It was one of those nights when I was struggling with something I couldn’t name. I was sad but not sure why. I sat with it. I didn’t go to the club. I didn’t call a friend. I sat with it. I thought, stop acting like a dumb blonde and get over ya’self. And as I lay me down to sleep, it hit me. ‘Damn, I miss my dad.’ I smiled and fell asleep in my happy place.
I talked to both my parents today. They both hustlers.
My cousin and I were writing (facebook chatting) today. She got drive that matches my drive. So, I had to tell her that she has the right to enjoy her accomplishments before she races against a non-existent clock to get to the next plateau. You can never see the same sunset twice.
All this brings me to something I wrote in 2008 with her (and me) in mind. It’s edited here, for your reading pleasure:
I’ve peed on dirt roads with knocked knees, shaking with fear that fire ants would rise up to rebel against my necessary libation. We went outside because (Great) Grandma Mammie’s bathroom was unnecessarily filled with products our childish curiosities were bound to knock into the toilet bowl. We developed a finely tuned skill: peeing on the dirt roadside and missing the jeans necklacing our ankles. It was better this way for every one involved. Our poor childish nostrils could not possibly survive the overwhelming stench of ancient skin, ben gay and tiger balm that engulfed the indoor throne. Now wherever I go, I can release expertly. I pour one out for Sumter County. Thanks for this perpetually useful life skill. Watering flowers supports the permanence of roots.