For a while I stopped blogging. I have the guidebooks to college coming out and I was concerned about what potential purchasers would think once they ran into my blog. I wanted it to be just as squeaky clean as the book. I took a break from blogging because all of the topics I felt like writing about would have pissed to many people off, rubbed them the wrong way, made them uncomfortable, caused them to blush, yada yada ya….
I came to the realization that I don’t care.
I am an artist. I paint my pictures with words. The moment I start caring about what people think in an outlet as uncensored as a blog…I lose my soul.
In reality I like making people squirm. It brings me joy. As a journalism student I loved asking the question everyone else was to scared to. I went to the place subjects were scared someone would go. Feel free to call me coach because I am not afraid to be the whistleblower. I will call you on your bullshit. Throw a flag on the play. Replay it on the big screen for the world to see. I am a journalist.
Along with being a journalist, I am a poet. I don’t know what type of poet, but why should I care about having a genre. If I had any sort of delivery or a memory that was worth something, perhaps I’d be the hottest spoken word diva this side of the Mississippi has ever seen. Well I don’t, so I won’t. While some pieces could possibly be nice to listen to from some soulful chick with a bongo, I fit more into a book of poetry like the greats. Unfortunately, my content isn’t so tame.
I believe curse words give some sentences the extra POW! they need to gut punch dat ass into a zone of : I digs dat. I don’t see anything wrong with openly speaking about topics people feel uncomfortable about. I say what you think, but would never dare say. From the response I get, people love it because they feel me. If you want to read the dull crap you’ve been reading then feel free to close this tab on your Internet Explorer, Mozilla Firefox, Safari or AOL browser.
“I Cant’t Continue Reading This Crap” Instructions:
Mac OS X users – Click the X found on the far left side….PC users – Click the X found on the right side
I respect the artists who pushed the envelope without meaning to. They were just being themselves. I always say my vagina is haunted by an old lady who doesn’t hold her tongue and is too old to give a damn. In the 1920s when the very same grumpy old bitch haunted Zora Neale Hurston’s kitty…Zora just ran with it and did her. She placed characters like Janie of Their Eyes Were Watching God in overalls and let them run away with men, find love, and do whatever they wanted without the restrictions of society. I remember the first few pages introduced Janie by saying she her butt looked like two melons. Back in the 20s that was really pushing the envelope.
Roughly fifty years later the old hag set up shop in Ntozake Shange’s wild monkey pleasure place. Shange gave us for colored girls who consider suicide when the rainbow is enuff. I still don’t know what a choreopoem is, but I know it was the baddest stage play to ever hit Broadway. You had a grouping of women, only going by colors, airing their shit about men & what being a Black American woman entails. Between that and Alice Walker’s, The Color Purple, Black American men were pissed. I wrote a 15 page term paper on it.
These women were Richard Pryors of Literature.
They didn’t make excuses for their thoughts. Their actions. The actions of their characters. Their content. The only reason they pushed the envelope was because nobody before them had the balls to do it.
Approximately 35 years after the old lady finishes with Ntozake Shange, she jumps her ol wrinkly self in my clitoris. My center of creativity. Where all my anger, raw emotion, and the magically imp of PMS reside. For now I’ve only published this blog. My book series is G-Rated but once I get those out, I will be publishing a book of my thoughts and musings. Possibly a mix of blog entries and poetry. It will be a type of book that has never been done before.
And after the old vagina haunting bat has her way with me and pimps me for intelligent literature that manages to get an entire group of people pissy over….she’ll move on and in 40-50 years will grab hold of another blessed Va-jay-jay. I will then become a literary mother as Ntozake Shange is mine and Zora Neale Hurston is hers.