abdicating the blogstar status...in search of the artist formerly known as summer m.

maybe this'll all go away in the morning.

"today i played it safe, cards are in my favor..."

a couple months ago, nahmix kept it so holyfield with me: "you're like the kanye west of blogging," she said. damn. that hurt. she went on. something like, it makes her so mad to read my blog sometimes. another jab, "you're full of shit." fuck. i'm on the ropes. i can't disagree; i've no rebut. "you know what really made me like your blog?" (what's this? she's gone from opponent to my trainer in the corner? massaging my sore muscles? rubbing salve on that cut just above my ego? encouraging me to keep fighting in the sixty seconds between rounds?) she went on, "the entry where you wrote about losing your bookbag. i felt your pain, then. you'd captured it in your writing." it's as if she just put my mouthpiece back in, grabbed the stool from under me, and pushed me back into the middle of the ring. my legs tremble under the pressure of my weight, and the boxing gloves have made my arms much too heavy to lift. i realize the opponent in front of me ain't the mad rapper at all. (jeez. times like this i realize how my actual/literal weak vision makes so much damn figurative sense.) fuck.

they say you can tell what racial/ethnic/class group is at the bottom of the societal ladder by watching boxing. think about that shit. now tie that shit to what i just said. the dots connect, if you think about that shit a bit more... listen, i know i could've come up with a better, less cliche metaphor. but it's 230 in the morning, and i can't sleep. work with me.

"gotta get over, before the sun comes up..."

just a few minutes ago i was in bed, not sleeping. insomnia has returned. just couldn't turn my mind off--there's a lot in it, on it. so i got up and turned on my comp, hoping a fellow non-sleeper, or at least somebody in a totally different time zone, was also awake. nothing. checked myspace. changed my gmail chat status message. hmpf. technology does not conjure up an insurmountable desire for slumber. i need lizz wright to make a cd of lullabies. better yet, i wanna hold an inamorata as she reads me bedtime stories. something to alleviate the trouble in my mind.

"i search for answers often, paid the price for many..."

somewhere along the way, i lost my chi again. i'm nervous, shaky, nauseous, weak; i can't eat, and i obviously don't sleep. flu-like symptoms, yes. but it's all psychosomatic. i'm much too introverted to list the things that bother me. even if i wanted to share, there's no one to talk with. (note to self: establish and remain in consistent contact with supportive people.) so i am agitated and sleepless...cranky, unbearable, isolated. and i live such a life that my hibernation goes unnoticed. surely, i am the only one paying attention to me long enough to notice such shifts. this all comes together, i swear...

nahmix speaks truth. i am full of shit. for quite some time, the content of this blog has not been affiliated with the rubric under which it was initially conceived. i've created more than my own doppelganger. i've created a monster, a spectacle. what's so interesting about nahmix's choice for favorite fecundmellow entry is that it was the one where i killed fecundmellow in its nascent stage. though i later resurrected her, i claimed then that the theft of my bookbag compelled me to relate to writing differently. as a result, i didn't think i could write a blog anymore. when i came back, however, fecundmellow allowed a space for me to become reacquainted with writing. i created the character summer m. not to exorcise/embrace some latent, narcissistic, egotistical demons (ok, maybe a little), but to see how far i could stretch a persona, a character loosely based on the kid. yet somewhere, something got out of hand, out of balance, and it became less about the writer/writing, and more about the reaction of an assumed audience. in the process, i got lost.

"today might be the day, i put it in the pocket..."

i am full of shit. before i started this entry, i sat at this desk queasy, full of angst, and mentally confronting all that has changed in recent memory. i've felt this way before, but for a moment i can't remember how i got through. then the inner voice says: writing, you idiot.

an example: i kind of despise poetry, but i adore haiku. i write really bad haiku. i enjoy it. there is something alluring about having only seventeen syllables. such masochism attracts me. you have to be pithy, and choose your words wisely. you must stretch and expand your vocabulary. you have to manipulate the meaning of words. whatever you say, you have to do it in three lines. i don't write it to impress other people, as my efforts are generally much less than impressive. i write haiku because i enjoy attempting to be disciplined in that way. (there's a lesson for me in here...)

i don't write because i think i'm good at it, or because i believe some sort of brilliance will become apparent through my words. (i think quite the opposite, in fact.) i write to work out problems, to answer my laundry list of "what-ifs?". i write because i never really learned how to express myself through talking. i write because i let her get away. i write because it is the only thing i've never totally given up.

nahmix is right. as i violently slide into my berkeley moment**, still trying to find my footing and hoping to recover before it's too late, i realize the attraction of two paragraphs about a chick lamenting the ganking of her shit. then, i could give a fuck about an audience. shit, i didn't have one. now, i consider the idea that the sporadic blogging, the seeming self-destruction, the figurative middle-finger to an audience of people i barely know is perhaps a subconscious effort to reclaim this webspace.

in sports, they call this gut check time.

fatigued than a muhfuckuh, i just knocked out my doppelganger. i formally abdicate my self-proclaimed blogstar status. from now on, if i choose to blog, i will write what i want when i want. and i will write about whatever it is i choose to write. rumors, open letters, et. al. will appear if and when i see fit. i'm no longer interested in eliciting reaction from virtual strangers. i'm doing this shit for the love of it, for the fuck of it. if i lose what's left of my audience, it's cool. right now i'm only interest in moving the crowd of me. if you're checking for me, it's all good. if you're not, that's fine, too. i can only control where i stand. and i'm good.

i want to write of stolen bookbags again.

be easy.

sun shine in the morning, in the morning
make love in the morning, in the morning
pray to god in the morning, in the morning
get on in the morning, in the morning...


(despite feeling isolated and alone, i know that all the homies are in my corner: milf, young jeezy, nahmix, saf, rrrr, deshi, sweet, greg, keish, shon. yuh. i see y'all as friends interested in honesty, in not holding back, in sharing what you think and feel no matter how "highly evolved" the thought/feeling, and in steadfastly supporting me as i become/do me. i'll match your work. thanx for that.)

**berkeley moment: a phrase describing one's personal rock bottom.