freelance


i write for xmag, the black juice, broke ass stuart & thsppl.com

On Surviving the Trump Era
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a piece on black cinema
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*a critique of Sex & Friends
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*theories of liberation
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*an article about Trumpmerica
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*a piece on moonlight & anti oppressive art
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ten. a.m.
3.13.17this room is in shambles and i can never keep the lenses of my glasses from blurring
& fog. my hands feel a bit better at the moment, which could possibly be the best i get.i’m ready for another blunt. when i woke up, there was no alcohol around; no stores
were open and i hadn’t gone to bed drunk last night. i used to enjoy rolling blunts, like
the opening notes of a Luniz track – you knew what was coming next – today i am not
what i was yesterday. people keep telling me to keep writing which – meant as an
encouragement, at the least demonstrates an unfamiliarity. my second ex wife said
the same, somewhat recently – for the same reason i have been drinking; to remain un
familiar. my drugs haven’t been working, time to change them. i decided to keep a diary.

blunt 1- it’s my birthday, i couldn’t think of anything but champagne and citrus when i
woke, mimosas are my primary hydration oftentimes. by the time i got back from the
store for a third time, without success- the blunt was already burning. matt lillard keeps
trying to act like a normal person onscreen, which always disappoints me. i miss the old
lillard, tongue wagging and eyes ablaze, inked up- raving and ranting across salt lake
city, cyberspace & the landscape of suburban horror. i’m living my dream life and i want
to die less than i used to- i have a joke about this, about quantum and the fear of mortality.

eventually, we do what works. i was reading today about how black men fail to ride for our
women- and i had to think back on all the ways i haven’t managed to look out and protect
the concerns of my community. i’ve spent the last decade looking for loopholes in capitalism
and usually it’s the folks furthest away who appreciate me the most. wonder what that means.

that first blunt took the edge off, blur of tobacco- wet eyed, unprepared. music drifts around me
as i consider the steps Linking me, like Zelda, down the path of an adventure i seem to have
chosen. years ago, i mapped out five goals and realized – years later – they had all technically
come true. recently, my goals are less defined and as nebulously qualified. the pot still works.

waxing philosophically, craving that mimosa as my only source of fruit and water. do you ever
sit for hours, wanting to move- reaching out from within your mind but unable to articulate the
wail rising unspoken through your spine? some days i clutch my phone and stare, knowing a
monosyllable i left in someone’s text box will be mistaken for indifference- other times i have to
ask myself why i can’t muster the appropriate emotional response to trauma. i’ve been talking
friends down from suicide for years- perhaps the secret is i want it just as much as them.

mimosa one – i’ve become obsessive with regard to freezers, multi layered frozen drinks for
art and sustenance. you can skip this ad in 3 seconds. here we go- if you chill a pint glass for
half an hour, your beer will be the best you can imagine. i leave mine in for weeks at a time-
rinse as needed. sometimes i leave two inches of water to freeze beneath my beer, it looks
pretty cool: i’ve watched water freeze as it runs down the side of my glass. when i go to pour
the mimosa, i lose time for a second and spill it all over the counter and down the cabinets.

i do pretty much what i want, but sometimes it’s up to gravity. after cleaning the mimosa, i end
up craving a second blunt almost immediately – maybe, just to know i can. mimosa back in the
freezer – i roll one up and watch lillard lose his mind. citrus is my motherfucker – fools don’t know
about mimosas … i know how to drink them properly. the champagne has to be practically frozen.

sometimes i end up covered in champagne froth, the timing is delicate but completely worthwhile.

perfectly chilled champagne, with a hint of pineapple and approximately one third orange juice
is freaking inarguable. i also invented a vodka cocktail and a warm drink called Sweet Mary’s
Vagina. i’ve been fairly productive, i guess.

years back, i was in san francisco at this coffee shop and i asked for pineapple juice. the barista
laughed and told me about some movie i had never seen. long story short, she hinted that i must
have fairly appetizing semen. i didn’t get it until later. supposedly, she’s dating her boss. i should
start another business.

blunt number two i tasted briefly and then snubbed it out. i’m on youtube, cursing their algorithm
out, demanding deep cuts. a glass pipe lays out on the bed, along with this freaking campfire
lighter and a white midget bic, plus the game controller, some napkins and wrapping papers. no
sheet. i haven’t had an actual lighter in about a week. one i can use with young arthritic fingers.

lit the blunt again and it’s gone, oedenkirk rhapsodically philosophizing w/ tompkins over whiskey
on his webseries. i have to leave soon for this podcast, thinking about what’s going well and what
isn’t. letting things go. at some point matthew lillard said some bullshit about how easy it is to make
time for a child, which seemed disingenuous. i’m feeling pretty good but i can tell the high is fading.

it’s 10AM.

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