Queen Returned to Throne

      Artwork: Edward Bowen

Architect of Impossible Physics Series of Drawings.
If you look carefully while thumbnail, you might 

see a king or a queen with crown. it is as if he or she 
in a coat. Jacob's Coat? and their hands are planning 
architecturing tools; if not an edge.

this is what i am trying to do: unravel the mystery of observations and things

what a failed experiment

went to bed at three

up at five

having been to the bathroom and laying here in mental conversations, confrontations and self-cross checks for a half an hour.

truly amazing

and in the midst of that the sleep i was in was deep and stirring

it is like i was at the threshold of great emotional turmoil and like my higherself broke the process, meta, me looking at me, to ask, are we really going there. so it awakened me. and so begun a therapeutic look and inquiry - am i breaksing from truly confronting my trauma?

i then started reviewing how everyone focuses on the childhood and will tell me "i dont think you acknowledge how much it impacts and impacted you" and that is the most hilarious thing, it is absurd actually.

then i get to what has really happened, that i am so mature, centered and right anchored that the shit was processed long ago, even perhaps while i was still young and living it. it was like i was given the gift to thwart it, to unpack it, to deal with it. what my therapist now calls my 'aged wisdom insight'.

but the bigger thing that is laughable to me is that people focus on my childhood as if trauma has not continued unabated through my life and up until last year, perhaps. my trauma never ended. it just ocntinued.

so that go me to itemizing what has happened going backward.

like my father disinheriting me/robbing me a black woman of what was not his to begin with but his mother and grandmother, also black women, to give to an indian woman harlot, who manipulated and seduced him. she told me so herself.

then i pondered how to deal with that. should i write him a letter basically asking him one thing: are you really going to impoverish me to make some indian women rich? or write it in a card. one of my artpost trinidad original blank cards.

then i thought before he dies, ic an write this in the paper, have a series or long story done about me and let the world know. then i wondered how many black women have been robbed of their inheritance in this small land? of black men their fathers, to other women, non-africans? then i was struck how men make transfers of what they really do not own. how amazing

then that got me to thinking of other women i have reached for. like dennise demming, ingrid jahra and asha javeed. the last i knew the least. but that was weeks ago when i was thinking how to break my cycle and what if i put my life story in the papers to have the public help me break this code that is my life, a riddle.

then i thought of how she tried to take the conversation to whatsapp, which i did not stop to process at the time but now that strikes me as ood, and i wonder what that is about. then i remember these people and their chat logs and copies.

but i got down to how it is I have only one weapon. my story. and my truth. and the only way to wield it is to tell my story. to tell my truth. let it be public record what my eyes have been made to see, store and carry.

then i thought to make this a national story. how many black women have been robbed by their fathers? seem to me it is far better than any legal suit. then i thought about how my personal story might unfold. and telling the nation that my father's wife, nine years my junior, the indian woman who seduced him to steal .from my mother, from me. from the heritage of ruth and analiza, did so under a marriage of bigamy. and lay the best mapped plan to waste, long before anyone hits the grave so that they are made to contend with their deeds.

all this because folk want me to confront my trauma.

they talk of trauma of when i was seven, but none see the trauma t forty seven, how peculiar. and that is the thing i see. these people are peculiar. they are black but want to charge the whitest one , tar. color politics aside.

so here i am at a failed experiment for sleep.

in the inner upper room contending with the other experiment of what am i going to do with all of this. these stories. these truths. sigh

what makes it all worse. in the midst of all these squares, i ponder how there has never been a soul throughout my long journey, all my ports and travels, sojourns and stops, to tell any one or part of this grist, never.