2:22 Rebellions

2:22

i still see time, but i rarely write it down anymore.

recognizing how effortless so many men are assholes and some, not a few women. someone writes a plea or his friend who has lost his job, some big web designer, who also had a really bad accident and not mobile anymore, writing to ask for his support, jobs and opportunities. he was just given a first name. and a cell. so knowing I am looking for an expert web designer, software and app creator , i texted him and asked him to send me his CV. that was last night late. at 8:54am the asshole texts me back and says, I sent what you asked but i am not in the business of communicating with people whose name i do not know. i scrolled back up to my original message and hoping i was not remiss to sign my name. i was not. there it is. the last nine letters, a signature. i wrote him and repeated and said this which you see above is a name. not a code. patience for me to get to email and respond appropriately would have been a virtue. I told him the message written for him merely listed a sean as if there is not another 10K in the country. and told him have a great day. you think i am going to deal with that cunt? and know what i know. I scanned my message , know what he responding to, besides being an inherent ass, my address. that has lady in it. it is no joke and not a blithe how males, broken, respond to women. how dare me be in a position to screen he. but it gives me a bigger lesson: try my best and not be a jackass. carry no chips on my shoulder.

the other thing I was going to write about was a personal recognition of how much people in general,all around the globe, not just in trinidad, are very content to stay where they are. they are not bothered to pursue anything beyond what is necessary, what is comfortable. they are good in the spot they sit or stand in. no need to reach. it is one of the very seminal differences between them and me, where as, because I have no comfort, I am constantly reaching , stretching.

when i woke up, it was from a dream . i was in my home. white tiles on the floor, so it is like i was renting an apartment or house. and there was a snake on the floor. running about. one who bit, trying to bite me but in its mouth was art of its tail and body. and i too could not stamp it out, i kept trying to mash it and hit it but kept missing. i wonder and am bemused by this. me and an opponent and neither of us winning, just having to contend with mutual resignation to the presence of the other. formidable.

the other thing I wake up to. recognizing a dynamic in my family.

i stopped talking and bitching about them. i have gotten over them. just minding my business and doing the work every day to escape my current life and conditions. but it hit me. these bunch of all women really. just one male cousin who tries to come for me. but they all decry me in one way or another but from over a decade ago, know what i realize? they have children who grow and come to challenge the ugly they tell themselves about me. my first niece, came as a tyrant, having serious violent for us, tantrums. and i thought then it was her rebelling again the weak mother and absent father she had. it is like a righteous indignation of children who neither have words or power to express in any other way. and now, after a family meeting to talk about me, the eldest cousin, the eldest daughter of this generation, the one who has accomplished more than the whole lot of them, to decide to send me to therapy. and i am enjoying it. pissing my therapist off when I alert her from material on her shelf, that I can follow the nyc jewis 60s tradition of/to offer said services, the qualifications back then was the enrollment to one's own therapy. kind of like your own sessions are your training and apprenticeship. she was not happy. she threw shade and it showed me again how fragile and territorial the trinidad brokenness of person, yes, even your therapist . who we are as humans are never escaped/ and how we look down on women. for she would have never acted like that if i was male. she from this society would have given me that privilege and entitlement to choose for myself. but the point i am making, I now have a niece, the last of her generation. at seven I think, giving her mother thunder. all of a sudden at the new year, started going off on her. yelling and carrying on, bawling. and i was struck. it is like sister girl is losing it. enraged. and what is happening? rebelling again against a mother who has abandoned her. who feels she wants to live a life and my child or anything else be damned. the older sister has gone off to college which was the shield to the mother's abandonment of the home and children. so now this little seven or eight year old is left in a huge house with a catatonic grandmother who on the edge of sanity and of zero usefulness, not even for company of a lonely child, tells her along with the housekeeper, a kind of grooming attempted, of how to wine. all this the mother told me and my sister. the only good thing is that the mother recognized this was critical and she needed to act. so child going to therapist. I am sure the mother gave no thought, pause or research to find out who to send child to, proper therapist for case and a child. adult therapying is not children's therapying. even after we agreed to exchange information she has not responded. more dismissal again.

it reminds me of something I wrote last night about black women from black men. ignore a black woman at your own peril. on this storyline it is like i am seeing , my family dismiss and mistreat me, and they reap it back in their children, in circumstances and stories we never before experienced. dyslexia, illiteracy, internal rebellions. even the adults, in alcoholism, stress, hidden lives. but they all have time to judge and make me the topic of conversations. how poetic. they have me as a pathology and a problem but it is their children, and wives who rebel against them

 

yeah