Often when I write about things, people, or places, it’s in hindsight, having crept miles from the interaction; now (then) swimming in distant thought.
It would be rude, of course, to pause mid-hang, mid-hug, mid-meal, for me reach to for my pen and begin to write. I want to write not in memorandum, but in the moment, the emotional moment – though I’m no longer there, I still feel the warmth, the joy, the love.
Today I woke up with an ache to write. This ache synthesised by my dear friend Udoka. Udoka is an angel, a writer, a thinker, a feeler – their entrance into my life was part of God’s response to my desperate plea in a Taipei park for Black, queer friendship when I got back to England. My wish was his command.
Yesterday, after matcha (first iced drink of the season) but before and after making an incredible pho that readjusted both of our spines, Udoka shared their poetry with me. Their dining table collaged with books stacked into piles of three, encircling pieces of unlined paper baring delicious words; sharp words, long words, some words I hadn’t seen in a while, like ‘miasma’. They pointedly read to me, words written the night before/day of in preparation for a performance next week. This poetic offering reminded me of a promise I’d made to myself – share your writing.
Here you go! (The correct formatting isn’t being shown but walk with me nonetheless)
California Girls
I remain intact more together than ever before you wake from your rough and tumble, high and dry, leg over my thigh, eyes glazed over, soft mumbles slipping through teeth, sleep state I was together, still am together at once commanding the sun, moon and stars, clouds and rain, earth, wind and fire, the boy that bends the air; the blue people stay home though.
The blue people stay home wherever, whatever ‘home’ is to them; they are not welcome here – hard pass.
May my place of rest remain untouched by the enemy.
Aunty said the nightmares are caused by all the bodies I let in my bed what she doesn’t see is the look on their faces when they see a bunk bed with a slide attached, freaking them out so hard that they leave.
To stay and play was not part of the preordained, pre-calculated, pre-measured recipe for a quick fuck. I see in you many of the obscurities that lay heavy on my chest, hips thighs, breasts; I shouldn’t like them but I do these obscurities.
This custard malaise, never quite sweet enough to sate the palate but it looks like the stuff of dreams, your dreams. A figment of your child-like, mum-like, sad-like, need-like, love-like, please-don’t-go-like imagination.
Curse the sailor and make HIM walk the plank. Leave me, a silent stowaway, out of it. Leave me and my dreams to reach the Promised Land alone. Let dreams of gold coins and slot machines live forever.
Do they have claw machines in Las Vegas? Can I use my fortune figuring out the exact technique to grab a plushie, keychain, discoloured Pikachu, coupon for a pizza place – they don’t have vegan options – how will I survive?
May I? May I use my fortune in the Las Vegas gumball machine? I hear the gum is good in Vegas, real good. That type of juicy that lasts at least seven minutes before melting into a ‘sweet, syrupy sap’, it says it on the machine. That’s what I like about Vegas, they’re really descriptive there, never shy of a detail. All of the rumours are true, they confirmed in writing. I’ll send you a postcard from Vegas ‘wish you were here’ or perhaps, a love letter ‘wish you were here beside me holding my hand like you used to’, except I only have three wishes.
Even my Las Vegas fortune cannot afford me a fourth wish so, I put the postcard back next to a rack of keychains with diverse names; Monique, Rashaad, Delilah. All three swing alone on their prongs, a little dusty, seemingly untouched. Maybe they’re the last ones left, perhaps every Monique, every Rashaad, every Delilah – bar 3, the three who are being birthed rightthismoment– maybe they are all owners of “Las Vegas Diverse Name Keychainz” – keychains with a ‘z’.
“Can’t find your name at the regular store? This is not a regular store. Here, we serve the People” (capital ‘P’), “Our People” (capital ‘O’, capital ‘P’.)
I found my name a long time ago, back when I retrieved it from the mouths of unsavoury lovers. I found my name though it was not etched onto a denim patch, in threads coloured green, gold, and red; Karma chameleon, Rastafari revolution, my best friend’s Ghanaian flag, a column of traffic lights keeping me safe.
Red, reminding me to stop.
Listen to: Fire Excape by Zsela
it was a beautiful thing to read this and hear your voice this morning. love you! 🥰