Today,I awoke

September 6th.2019

I woke up this morning after dreaming I was in prison with Ice Cube wearing a cask around his arm. He punched me after I somehow caused an issue but for the life of me, I can't recall from the dream what I did. I mean, after all,  it was a dream, fleeting and ever distancing itself from my consciousness. After he had right hooked me, I said, "I guessing that whole friendship thing is off the table." in true cinema fashion. Of course, I began to realize that I was dreaming when it did occur to me how I was going to explain this to co-workers on Tuesday, completely forgetting about the prison bars, surrounding convicts and the small issue of not being allowed to leave. Then before you know it, I wake up in my bed to the sounds of my computer playing back YouTube videos and my dog Zero snoring. It was insane that I had to catch up to why I wasn't in prison.  I had never even been to jail and hardly watch films or shows that are set in place like that. (Except Shawshank Redemption, because that movie was awesome.)

Not the strangest dream I've had but the freshest on my memory still intact by the time I made it to somewhere I could write about it. But I digress.

Hello readers,

I am glad to announce that I am officially graduated with a Master's degree in creative writing. It is on this day, I should be walking across the stage,  looking out to my mother and mouthing the words, "I love you!" to her.  Today the graduation ceremony I had postponed until I gathered enough money to travel to Florida. But I didn't really think it was that important considering that a huge   Hurricane had hit Florida and my mother car had been acting up putting a real doubt on if we were going to make it safely. So I'm over it. The only thing that matters is that I got the degree. Right?

You might be thinking to yourself, " That's sad he can't attend  or won't." Perhaps you don't really care. But I do and yet, I ok with it.

I trying to be better this time around with my level of education. Better and more prepared. Last time, when I get the bachelors, my friend accidentally broke my laptop the same month. ( I know!) I that left me unable to write for months falling into such a writer's block.

The Day Toni Morrison Died.

I wasn't ready to write this. The feeling of sadness I feel couldn't possibly relate to those of Toni Morrison's family. Still, I find myself lost by the lost. I find myself hopelessly depressed by the realization that a person I have never met is gone from this point in time. The fact that she won't have the ability to experience things in this world anymore saddens me. The connections she must have made personally as well as publicly. The moments she shared with people she loved, hated, remembered and forgotten. I wish I had one of those moments. In passing at a book signing or a respected award ceremony. I wish she had one of those moments with me. I'd wish I'd have given her a chance to meet another young person influenced by her stories. She had a certain way with words when describing things a simple as buildings while simultaneously giving the plot what it needed, what it deserved.

My favorite chapter, the one that really got me, was the first chapter in Songs of Solomon.  First, read in my 11th graded high school English course under Mrs. Brown, I found the world of Macon Dead and his family gave birth to my imagination to unbelievable heights. "Not Doctor Street" was a property in a town introduced in the first few paragraphs with a history behind the name so lovely, a blind man could visualize it. (I know I'm exaggerating, but hear me out.) This was a coming of age story about a character that goes deep into his family history. Often time, Morrison explores family in her stories so that's no surprise, but she chooses to give the history of the Dead family while presenting the attempt of a man trying to fly off the building. All leading up to the birth of the main protagonist; Macon Dead.

I was hooked. Yes. I also was confused and had to read it several times over to get this. (I was seventeen, SUE ME.) Understanding it after a while really sold me as following the characters further into this world of betrayal, conspiracy, friendship, family, love, and so much more.

I watched videos of her interviews often while attending college remotely. She kept me from doubting what I was doing studying writing online. Toni's smile while remembering one of the many stories she created while explaining what we perceived as storytelling kept my spirits up sometimes. It said to me that I am a storyteller. Someone who creates worlds in other peoples imagination. 
My dream is mine and I decide what it will be.

Like so many of my literary heroes before her(August Wilson, James Baldwin) another storyteller has gone on. But I must say, my knowledge of Morrison was well versed by the time of her death this year, unlike Wilson & Baldwin. By the time I had heard of either work, they had already past before the time of technology and social media big boom. But with Morrison, I wasn't around during her rise to where she was,  being only born in 1989. But I imagine those times where somewhat similar to the current political atmosphere today. Distrust in leadership, police brutality, the threat of foreign hostilities. She has seen this world as we did growing ever more active, ever more moving inside of our story as a society in this nation as a whole and yet, somehow retelling a similar(more current) story again.

I had realized a film my mother watched when I was a child called Beloved, starring Oprah Winnphey was based on her book. The same film that scared me and gave me nightmares after viewing. So I guess in a way you can say Morrison had influenced me at an even earlier point than high school. (If you don't count the emotional scaring, courtesy of the filmmakers) So why write this? You may ask. Is it a blog saluting my fellow fallen writer? My online confession of how much of her work influenced my decision to be a storyteller and follow my dreams of filmmaking? All of those and none. I'm writing this to mark this day. This one day I sat in front of my laptop, sighed in sadness, and type the words I wasn't ready to write this. And I suppose I wasn't, just as none of us were when we woke up and realized that powerful voice that gave us so much had been laid to rest.

 I love stories. I love her stories, and I'm sure that if you ever read something she wrote, you've have experienced "it" too. The moment Toni Morrison made you forget you were reading a book and instead placed you inside the room with her characters. Giving you every private moment slowly, intimately. Ending chapters using the same number of characters began but different, altered by a truth, or a moment of emotional intensity.
Before you know it, it's over, you put the book down, turn the audiobook off and know what you read was meant for you. Toni, Thank you for the gift of inspiration you gave.  Though we never met, you'll never hear of my blog, or give me the pleasure of telling you how much you made a book mean to me, I am proud to be a part of the generation that loved and respected you.

Lost work found and shared

Poem 11

Robbed me

Young mutha fucka robbed me.

Not far from my home in an afternoon.

Little mutha fucka pulled out a piece.

Coward ass little bitch decided to burn down my day.

Out of greed?

Either it was out of necessities?

Or fiendish things dreamed up by hip hop dreams?

Little fools don’t know what’s right.

Funny.

You’d think the world will remember you.

Your foolish acts.

The small moments that will never make you great.

Poem 12

In sitting here, watching ducks glide across the lake water.

While people walked past me.

I knew what the world wanted to hear.

About love.

Holding each other at the waist.

Loving our loved ones.

Ripples of waves across the water.

And what does the world want to hear about?

Smiles.

Happy endings of poor storytelling jumped to elaborate fantasy.

The world wants to hear singing.

It wants to hear voices over piano keys.

Soothing out their problems.

Only time will tell.

Only time can change.

Only thirty minutes for a break.

Employment was too long.

Eating baked fish leftovers,

Lucky like four-leaf clovers were I to have a job.

Was it me that choice?

Was it me that soften my voice?

Was I the one who discovered inner love.

Poem 13

Wonder put the darkness.

Strive for light.

Search for some glimmer.

Some moment within my body.

The muck of my sin shall not have me.

Poem 14

I was young once.

Now I’m young today.

Another year that passes along.

Another time that moves me.

Gets me to my next day.

Blowing out birthday candles.

Giving me only hypothetical wishes.

Hope can only feel this.

But he’s so cute.

Staring at me.

Knowing how I think.

I’m lost in being young.

Good moments seems empty all over again.

Poem 15

Freewriting.

Something I’m doing for the first time.

Classical music and caffeine to mix out my old rhymes.

Today was a lazy song sung out on Mars.

Sitting in my home feeling good and grown.

This is who I am.

Solider of love.

Damn.

Time slows for no man.

Time only goes forward.

Fleeting from my sights.

I've simply torn out the fabric of reality.

Soulfully deserted in the wilderness of self-loathing.

Feeling empty some nights.

Feeling alone.

Freewriting.

Never let me write in such nature before.

Never seeing the levels of intellect.

I have to be scorned.

Yet, I love all things.

All things can change.

With clocks ticking across the Sun fading away.

Poem 16

Chocolate cake and coffee charmed by half and half

Sweet sugar on my tongue.

Smooth feeling for my soul.

Love me again the inspiration.

My muse to my dedication.

My moment has arrived once again.

My song has to be heard.

Listen to it.

My soul is full of smiles.

Full of smiles with crooked teeth.

Brushed and cleaned.

Smiles.

Only me to be responsible for it.

Lost Work Found and Shared

Poem 10

The story of a Dreamer.

Where do dreams go to be reborn?
Where can he find them?
For I sing to thee of Douglas.
Who fell at the hands of all injustice.
Who knew no blue skies,  only bruised black eyes.
But now those days are gone.
He thereafter held a part of himself with guilt.
Guilty as wrong.
So He walked by with such honesty.
So He walked by with such pain.
Running through the streets.
Trying to outsmart the rain.
So he failed.
As the heart swelled.
He grew rebellious.
Knowing nothing passed his own mind.
He searched subconsciously for memories he struggled to find.
Nickles and dimes mattered not.
Nor did credit or any amount of financial stock.
His wallet had been empty.
Empty as broken piggy banks and overdrawn accounts.
Dreams were all he had
It was his craft.
The only half that refused to die.
Refused to stay dead.
He'd never abandoned his dreams
So it seems.
Not forgotten, not thrown in a hole
like damage goods that has rotten.
Many things go through his logical brain.
His only claim to wealth was that he'd had no blame
for dreams had been kept safe.
The dreams had survived the fall.
The story of Douglas, his dreams I present to you all.

Lost work found and shared

Poem 9

This Hole

See I made myself this hole you see.

This hole where I.

Where I throw my problems down.

Throw my pain down, my sorrow down.

My coldness with boldness I threw that down.

Depression with no hesitation to toss with all intentions.

No regret for my conciseness.

Hope and bliss are all I want as a result.

See, I thought that if I place the negative and the hatred down this hole.

They could no longer hold me.

Who sees me?

Like tossing a coin in a well and making a wish.

With each quarter I kiss like it was my last.

Except this is me hoping it’s my last visit.

I throw my regret.

Not a spec left in me.

Drop it off my shoulder, grant me release.

Feelings of grief fell in all too easy.

That itch was destined to go.

Like blonds on horror picture shows.

My load will unfold and roll down the cylinder design before my eyes.

Tears that are cried.

Drip drop and won’t stop pouring down a cup with no bottom.

They just flowing past each other.

In this hole.

My feelings were null and numb.

That habit of sucking thumbs in panic.

Logically, I asked to be free of the load.

I hold.

I roll.

I tuck.

Hating the fear of being trapped behind bars.

Destination to the stars happens every full moon.

With you who follows my advice, don’t think twice.

Tell it to each other.

Tell another.

Let the world be passed amongst you.

I dropped it in the hole.

Lost Work found and shared

Poem 6

Death is no beginning to spinning tires screeching

Across the “Do Not Enter” signs

Death isn’t no lighting striking trees

Over local family houses.

It isn’t the day we would wonder our whole lives about.

But would fear true knowledge of the same day.

It isn’t a day when families grieve nor have yet to know

In bliss of a passing member.

It’s that moment before we hear it.

They stand still, long enough to cry before the apologies

And hugs of support come to catch me in my sorrow.

Broken heart’s hold each other in broken sorrows and despair.

Poem 7

Why does the moon show during the day

but during the night the Sun is now where to be found?

Is it too bright?

Or is it too big?

Is the moon just a shining rock?

Orbiting across the sky, flying high, looking back at us with gloom.

Showing all it’s faces, full, half and quarter and sometimes not at all.

And then the stars.

Poem 8

Mother of the project homes on section A

Living in buildings made of crumbling bricks,stone, and clay.

With screen doors that slammed

Harder than the life that Gina lived.

Mother of two, One more on the way.

Depressed by sounds of a phone call from the school.