Love.
What I have known from previous visits becomes more vivid now. It has never left my mind my surroundings and my conscious that I am a young black male in America. That I am a young immigrant black gay male in America. Currently unemployed. It does not escape me. Sometimes it freezes my insides and I find that I am catatonic. I cannot move, I am unable to do anything. I am afraid of opening the front door.
Then other times, it dissipates and momentarily fades away. I know what it is to be a young black male in America. However, it seems that my experience of it is infantile. It will grow, mature. I am afraid that with this growth, it will turn me into yet another hardened, jaded black man in America. The kind that will continue to lay the blame of mistakes in my life on the front door of racism, social marginalization, sexism/queerism/homophobia. I am more afraid of the latter than the former.
The idea of interacting with other people is great. I am exploring how I can do that. I am reaching out to the networks that I have created and wanting to engage. As you know, the older one gets the more challenging it becomes to “re-form” oneself to “re-create” to fit into new spaces. Every now and then, my form, my creature, my spirit and even my body wails, hungers, yearns, cries out for the familiar comforts, spaces and conversations. That void sears through me like a hornets sting. Frequent source of inertia & catatonia. I am aware of the incapacity of my beloved to offer comfort.
For some time, I knew that my body, mind and spirit were not in sync. I cannot explain it in any other way. My body knew the house, knew where to get things and what I need to do - how to follow the basic day-to-day routines. My mind was on alert to ensure that the body does indeed follow rules, trying to create a routine. My spirit however was never quite here. I would get into the car to go to the grocery store and when I get there, it would surprise me that it is not a Nakumatt. I would want to have coffee and try to figure out where there is a Java coffee house. And when I finally retune to that it is Starbucks it would still irritate me when I get there that the colors are not Java colors. I know that maybe you have gone through this. I want it to end. I want synchronized dimensions. I want a routine. I want a settlement. Mixing the familiar with the unfamiliar is shaking my universe.
I am looking for the space that might offer a space for documentation of this experience. That is how it interacts with my experience. Like you, I find video-blogging a herculean task. I can write and I wonder if video blogging would offer the same catharsis that writing offers for me every now and then. I find that I put a lot when I speak with you {in writing especially, or to my younger sister}.
I have never left. I am still here. I love you. Still.
What I have known from previous visits becomes more vivid now. It has never left my mind my surroundings and my conscious that I am a young black male in America. That I am a young immigrant black gay male in America. Currently unemployed. It does not escape me. Sometimes it freezes my insides and I find that I am catatonic. I cannot move, I am unable to do anything. I am afraid of opening the front door.
Then other times, it dissipates and momentarily fades away. I know what it is to be a young black male in America. However, it seems that my experience of it is infantile. It will grow, mature. I am afraid that with this growth, it will turn me into yet another hardened, jaded black man in America. The kind that will continue to lay the blame of mistakes in my life on the front door of racism, social marginalization, sexism/queerism/homophobia. I am more afraid of the latter than the former.
The idea of interacting with other people is great. I am exploring how I can do that. I am reaching out to the networks that I have created and wanting to engage. As you know, the older one gets the more challenging it becomes to “re-form” oneself to “re-create” to fit into new spaces. Every now and then, my form, my creature, my spirit and even my body wails, hungers, yearns, cries out for the familiar comforts, spaces and conversations. That void sears through me like a hornets sting. Frequent source of inertia & catatonia. I am aware of the incapacity of my beloved to offer comfort.
For some time, I knew that my body, mind and spirit were not in sync. I cannot explain it in any other way. My body knew the house, knew where to get things and what I need to do - how to follow the basic day-to-day routines. My mind was on alert to ensure that the body does indeed follow rules, trying to create a routine. My spirit however was never quite here. I would get into the car to go to the grocery store and when I get there, it would surprise me that it is not a Nakumatt. I would want to have coffee and try to figure out where there is a Java coffee house. And when I finally retune to that it is Starbucks it would still irritate me when I get there that the colors are not Java colors. I know that maybe you have gone through this. I want it to end. I want synchronized dimensions. I want a routine. I want a settlement. Mixing the familiar with the unfamiliar is shaking my universe.
I am looking for the space that might offer a space for documentation of this experience. That is how it interacts with my experience. Like you, I find video-blogging a herculean task. I can write and I wonder if video blogging would offer the same catharsis that writing offers for me every now and then. I find that I put a lot when I speak with you {in writing especially, or to my younger sister}.
I have never left. I am still here. I love you. Still.
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