Now to say that this draggle-tailed gutter snipe was nearly at Death’s door when I opened the box would be an understatement. Sadly, her little sister (we assumed) only lasted three days before she quietly went to sleep never to awaken.  Farrah, spent her time, hiding in nooks and crannies, under the couch and anywhere she could to stay away from us.  Somehow my son snatched her up as she tried to whisk past and he held on to her for dear life.  Tre carried her in his pocket, feed her from his hand, slept with her curled underneath his chin. And within two weeks, she was thriving.  Now I fear that she has thrived too much. She has gone from Interloper to Empress.

18 months later, Farrah owns the house, the neighborhood and all the other animals that abound. She is the reigning queen. Still she remembers her roots and pays homage with an occasional bird or mouse or something dead on my pillow. She rules this roost with an iron paw.  No one moves her once she has situated herself in the center of the unmade bed, lest you find your paperwork shredded, your yarn tangled, your glassware “accidentally” broken. Worse than spiteful, over-indulged children!

She definitely doesn’t like me. Even now she is staring at me from across the room. I feel her plotting and planning. I am in deep trouble.  And now she is moving closer to me, rubbing against me and purring. Surely she is trying to put me at ease. I can’t let my guard down around her.   One never knows what to expect.

Yeah, she’s up to something. I’ll keep you posted.

I reach on my nightstand and grab my laptop while simultaneously sitting up in bed.  Something has rested its way to the forefront of my conscious and I am compelled to write. I can’t stop until I get it out of my head.  There are days when I look at the night scribbles and wonder who that person could have been that set pen to paper and left what is there.  My other selves come out to tell their stories – sometimes funny, sometimes painful, very often reflective.

Sometimes, I blog days in advance. Other times, it’s a short story or a description of a memory.  The further back my memories go, the more painful it is to raise them. I know that it is a necessary process.  It has to be done so that I can heal. I have always been a writer.  I picked up a pencil at two or three and  I honestly don’t remember a time when I haven’t had one near.  Of course, it helps that I have had insomnia for as long as I can remember as well.  And there really isn’t alot to do at night unless you want to catch up on Jerry Springer reruns or Cheaters.

Some nights, I don’t write about my dreams or anything for me. I have several projects that I am trying to complete while this manic phase has it’s fingers wrapped around my braincells and I want to get those as near to completion as I can before I fall into an abyss of depression.  One night I stayed awake writing a pattern for an amirgumi butterfly that I couldn’t get out of my head. Recipes and To-do lists are big night thingies.  Oh yeah, I usually finish my group therapy assignments and notes for my doctors and therapists.

On this night, I went back far into my past and wrote about some things that often keep me awake and stifled. I felt better afterwards, but then sleep eluded me even more than it had before.   So now I’m getting out the markers and crayons and I’m going to work on a Dungeons and Dragons campaign for my nutty family.  When fantasy world takes you there, it’s best to hop on the Pegasus and fly off to parts unknown.    Besides, I’ve got at least an hour before Cheaters!

I will spend the day trying really hard not to be depressed.  I can’t eat the candy- diabetic AND I’m trying to lose weight.  Flowers, nope.  They only remind that it’s WINTER.  I think hubs and I have been together too long to worry about all the outer trappings.  That’s stuff you do when you’re trying to impress each other. We are so way beyond that.   We have trapsed the globe in search of the perfect gift, spent beyond our means, created elaborate plans that included getting rid of the kids, taking off work, losing weight.  We have surprised each other. We have planned together.  At this point, there is little we can do that is above and beyond.  We’ve become old people.  We’ve grown into old people who are comfortable and secure.

He is the love of my life. I don’t think I”ll ever be loved like this again. And I certainly don’t believe that I have the capacity to give more than I do right now. Isn’t that what it’s supposed to be about?
So while you all are running around buying flowers and eating candy and reading cards that I probably wrote and sold in my downtime, we’ll be sitting here reading and rubbing each other’s feet or spotting for the one that’s doing sit-ups (that would be him), or laundry or something that we do together.  It might not seem romantic on the surface, but  when we are done, we still know we love each other.  And we saved money too!

Still some of you aren’t satisfied unless I do something reasonably VD related.  So here’s my favorite song of the year for lovebirds.   Hubby doesn’t understand it, but he likes to watch me be happy.    Luv Song

Walking around with the knowledge that you know more than the people around you and that they don’t seem to mind is just downright painful.  I have become a Xanax-Valium-Prozac junkie because of these people.  They don’t “get me”.  Sad thing is that I wish I had known this BEFORE I moved here.  When you’re looking in the Forbes “Best Places to Live”, one of the categories that they need to score but somehow forget to is “collective intelligence” and perhaps community common sense.

The other thing  I don’t understand about Oklahoma is the number of brilliant minds that come here and stay and try to fight.  Remember that old computer game Centipede? That’s what it’s like for us. We are trapsing through ignorance and bigotry and unbridled hatred and misdirected anger and trying desperately to make sense of it all.   So much talent is wasted here because we are Black or Gay or Muslims or Democrat…  It just breaks my heart.

The cost of living is really good here.   It’s a near perfect microcosym of the rest of the country.  The rich continue to become ever richer while the poor continue to hurt and hunger.  This is truly a RED state, almost a police state.  Too many live in fear of the what they do not understand. And there is no attempt at understanding.  Perfect, right?

Why don’t I live if this is such a desolute, wretched existence?  Well, it’s not as simple as I would have thought to explain.  When I drive out I-40 towards Yukon, well when I drive in any direction heading out of the city, I see the God.  There is a cleanness to the land. I see hills and pseudo-mountains. The skies are clear and crisp and blue. The stars hang so bright and so low that you can touch them.  The weather changes at a drop of a hat.  If you stand in just the right place, you can see for miles and miles and miles.  The air is breathable.  The birds chirp louder, the squirrels frolic more.

If you are really lucky, you get to meet the Jim Roths and Tony Perrys and Floyd Martins.  It’s not uncommon to catch a Thunder player in the park, or to see Trish Yearwood in Walmart.  There are little things that bring you laughter. Kids play   catch in the street.  Even me, the world’s most self-exiled recluse can enjoy a mud puddle, tracking in red earth and making my own clay.

So who cares if most of my neighbors are mental midgets? I suppose I’ll have to teach them how to think for themselves. It can ‘t be that hard, can it?

Rest in Peace, Whitney Houston.   I have missed your voice for a long time.  Now it is real.

There was a time when I would have been embarrassed by my locs.  They sprout across my head like an untamed lion’s mane.  They won’t lie flat, though my hair at the roots is so straight that one would think it was treated. It hasn’t been. I become uncomfortable with the looks I receive from some people.  Like a pregnant woman with an overly swollen belly, they draw attention.

Hands reach instinctively to touch them.  Other’s just stare with admiration or contempt or both. Black women often make fun, not understanding my reasons for my hair choice.  They are the ones that I find most pathetic. More often than not, they have spent a car payment to twist and  damage their hair into some unrecognizable fashion faux pas that emulates a culture that is not their own.  The comments are formed in their insecurities. I know. I was once where they were.  I have moved beyond to a different place.   Their men seem to understand that it doesn’t take me 3 hours to get ready for a date (two hours of which is dealing with my hair). 

Honestly, I don’t give a rat’s butt what anyone else does with their hair. I try to look past the outer shell and look into the soul, to the person.  I was raised that way. I think everyone who grew up with me was raised to look past the packaging and get to the contents.  Some of the best friendships were formed based on that simple rule. It’s too bad that others weren’t taught the same life lessons.  They see wild, unruly hair. The have bought into the assimilationist dogma that gives an entirely different idea of beauty.

I anticipate at some point, my wanting to shore my locs and perhaps start them over. I imagine them falling around my feet detached from my head, no longer a symbol of my self-love and cultural appreciation.  And then I know I’m not ready to release myself from their hold on me.  Nope. Not today. I love them too much.

If my mother was alive, she would say that this lack of enthusiasm is due to white folks being tired of Obama (she would never add his title).  Four years of a black man in the White House should make us happy.   That’s enough Black history to last us awhile.  In fact, it’s not just my mom that would think like that.  I’m finding that in my new old age, I am tending to agree.

I think I’m tired of it because well…. white folks are tired of it.  And honestly, I’m tired of them. Not all of them mind you.  Just the ones that behave as if all the ills of Black Americans are resolved now that Obama has been elected.  You know the ones who espouse the views that there can be no more racism in America and we are all on equal footing, now that we have a Black president.   They don’t realize that one has absolutely nothing to do with the other.

When one really analyzes the life of our president, we would see that he has more in common with the majority ethnic culture than he does the rest of us.  How many Black folks have lived in Hawaii let alone visited there?  How many Blacks know their ancestry?  How many attended Harvard? You get the idea.  As a black man, our president led what one could consider a charmed life.   And what he represents for most of us the idea of possibility.  For others of us we see a well tanned white dude.

When we can be accepted with our dreads and our natural hairstyles instead of behaving has though there is something wrong with someone who doesn’t want weave down our backs or the “creamy crack” roasting our brains, when our educational pursuits are not only to be used to showcase our way into a major sports league,  then we will be on our way.

So this Black History month, while I celebrate the achievements of the rich and powerful, I will also recognize that we still have a long, long way to go.  We have forgotten that it’s not just the physical advances, but now we need to be mindful of mental and spiritual progress as well.

I went to find things to do that would bring me personal joy. I didn’t want the happiness that I feel when I bring happiness to others.  I wanted to be selfish and have this all to myself.  For the longest time now, I’ve been melancholy. I feign happiness and contentment.  I pretend to push away the dark clouds, but somewhere deep down, I feel it is an act.  I want the realness of it.

In one of my group sessions a few weeks ago, we had an assignment to name what we liked about ourselves.  I listed that I liked that I was a survivor.  I’m not sure that it is still true.  I wanted to get out of my head so I decided to walk and take some pictures. I was going to create a gratitude book for those times when I’m really becoming unglued.   It’s hard to take a picture of the heavens when you’re constantly looking down.  As it turns out that’s not where I was supposed to be.

I saw me forcing my way through the concrete, pushing past all the obstacles that have been thrown in my path.  I know what it’s like to be told that this space is not for you, that this space has been commandeered for someone else who we feel has a better claim than you do.  I know what it’s like to push my way through anyway.

I’ve been working on creating a group session for Bipolarians to help us all get through our drama and learn more about ourselves and our illness.  My plan (while in my manic phase) was to present it as a teaching tool to be used at our community mental health center. I have taken copious notes, done research, sent emails, asked questions to the point of interrogation in the hopes of seeing this come to pass.

We all have the capacity to survive. I am so beyond that now.  I don’t know when it happened, but during the course of sitting on the curb next to this “weed”, I decided that mere survival wasn’t enough.  Now I want to live.  I want to live and all the hope and joy and wellness that comes along with that.   Tough challenge? We’ll see…

How many times does one have to explain to people that no matter how many times you create a law, or pass a law or make policy within your organization that if that nonsense goes against what is written in the constitution, it is illegal?  The idea that they are exempt from constitutional law is mostly among social workers and DHS people. They hate me. Well perhaps “hate” is too strong a word.  There is no love lost on me.  There is a part of me that believes that the powers that be send their   newest indoctrinees to me in order to be tested.  If they can get past me and my family, then they get tenure.

The issue began last October.  My son decided to go through one of his phases again. This usually involves, at some point, the police or DHS or both and sometimes a few others.  Just picture lots of mayhem and drama and many, many police cars at whatnots.   So it is DHS policy to talk to everyone and enter your home.  However, they can only enter under two circumstances.  1. a court order or 2. by invitation.  In fact, they can’t even be on your property without invitation.  Don’t misunderstand. They will coerce, intimidate and in some cases outright lie to get into your homes.  You have to stand your ground.  I always do.  Make the bastards work for it. Lord knows that we do.

We answered a few of the workers questions and sent her on her way.  Three months later, the geek squad returned WITH BACKUP.  ’Backup” in this instance was two more social workers who thought they had attitudes.  Did  I mention that they were huge social workers? Yup…  I know why there are kids starving in Oklahoma. I’m not saying which one was taking the food, but I have my suspicions.   Anyway, they got the same treatment only a tad more attitude.  You give what you get,right?

So Tuesday, a car pulls up to the house.  This time it’s ADULT Protective Services.  This time, they’re there for ME!  The Geek Squad decided that they could gain entry to my house by going through the back door.  Nope. Didn’t work.  Now they’ve finally gotten a rise out of me.  This is truly harassment.  No wonder they can’t keep kids alive in Oklahoma.  They should be worrying about the babies and leave me alone.  I am becoming familiar with the Inspector General.  These tards are going to force me to up the ante and actually file a complaint. I don’t know if anything will come of it, but I’ll keep you informed.

Don’t bring no drama, won’t be no drama!

One year has passed and the earth still turn on its axis, the sky is still blue, the world is full of its oddities. Yet in my world, there is a gaping hole. I am not complete. I don’t believe that any of us are.  Even now there are questions as to what happened to take her away from us.  Why are we denied the presence of the most annoying, getting into everyone’s business, Jerry Springer bound member of our crew.  Boy! She really knew how to rattle a cage.

Darlene, Miss America, as our mother named her because of her flamboyance and general need to be the center of attention, was to me larger than life.  She laughed heartily, could cry at the drop of a hat.  Her personal life was complicated and messy. Still that did not deter her doling out advice and basically making a nuisance of herself.  Still I miss her.  I miss her laugh, her wit, her style.  I miss her trying to ambush me into some sort of makeover.  I miss her telling me all the positive qualities that she thought I had.  I miss her believing in me even when I was too sad or depressed or melancholy to believe in myself.

During her last years, we had danced the dance of go-away-come-closer.  But we were settling on closer. Actually, I was settling on closer. She had always been where she was waiting on me to make up my mind.

I am still the youngest of my siblings. I suppose that I will always have that honor. But where there were seven, now there are six.

Rest in Peace, Darlene Swift Craver.   You are loved and you are missed.