Artsy Bucketlist and books and things-sort of

Well oh hi hello.

Before I get emo about stuff n things a few announcements.

Y’all might have read this piece I had published in Wear Your voice Magazine.  Along with some really nice thanks, a lot of White people said a lot of shit. So I wrote this piece as a follow up.

What else?

I’m working on my arty bucketlist. I’ve been digging, no let me be as hyperbolic as I feel, I’ve been blood letting and working on some of these and fuck y’all shit is so hard. Sometimes after such joy working on the Daiyuverse or writing new poems (new poems up here) and then I sit down (currently the best way for me to work is a pillow/lap desk situation because of my lower half) and I work on these bucketlist shits and I just gut myself.

I’m doing a lot that is that sort of confessional, narrow, all in my tin orbit type of writing and then I’m also writing about how, even when that was like the shit a lot of POC especially Black women couldn’t/can’t get that published. It’s a very particular type of writing, it is often expository and deeply naked and emotional but doesn’t necessarily need to engage with the big bad world.

What else?

My first paid review is up over at Roar. Y’all, that book just is everything. Please read and share.

It has been an awful day. A terrible weekend and I’m so angry I can’t do anything except be mad.

So I think that’s all from this corner of the world.

I am an Impatient Student

One of the things I am discovering I’m terrible at is being my own student.

Over the years I’ve developed a particular style of learning in order to teach myself how to write about things I want to write about. For years, I blogged about a lot of personal shit and then I figured out how I like to write a personal essay.

I will read the fuck out of a type of thing, write hot garbage about the thing, rewrite, read more rinse repeat until I feel like I’ve learned about it enough to confidently write the thing the way I want to write it.

This has mostly worked out very well.

However, I am an impatient ass asshole. I have been taking notes. I have pages in my Pash Planner dedicated to my bucketlist of writing related shit. Most of my bucketlist writing shits are things I’m heavily interested in and also heavily invested in writing about them my way. I want to find ways to use my lil voice to talk about subjects/things I traditionally might think are over my head.

bucketlist
[image description: blurry image of planner pages with multi colored writing]
I am really excited but, I want to be done with the learning. I want to stop writing hot shit about these things and get to the good stuff.

It is very frustrating to me.

And I have to laugh a little, when I was a baby potato trying to learn stuff I was the same way. I’d have baby potato rage because okay good example.

When I was in the fifth grade, I tried to read Romeo and Juliet. I couldn’t and it made me so angry I studied Willy Shakes for a FULL year teaching myself the syntax, the vocabulary etc. I did it out of spite and then out of love.

I’m at the point where at least one of the bucketlist things has been tentatively begun. A memoir flavored story about how JT Leroy and that whole thing fucked me up, a bit of a reader memoir, a bit of me questioning why it is that POC especially Black folks are never allowed a certain flavor of confessional work without being expected to finish it out with a connection to the world/issue and some teaching.

I’ve started it five fucking times and I think this last start was probably the best one. I have to sit back and laugh a little. I always ask, WHY AM I LIKE THIS….

This is how ambition functions in me and how my human competition streak goes. I’m not fighting y’all. I’m not trying to outrun y’all. I want to satisfy myself. And I am the hardest person to deal with.

That said, I am enjoying how it’s going.

I think that’s all I have energy for right now. I’m fighting some intense nausea and just not barfing is pretty much taking all my energy.

Later taters.

Thank you.

HI folks.

Y’all.

Your support from my please help post really floored me. With your support this is what is happening right now:

  • I ordered almost 110$ (AFTER COUPONS Y’ALL) worth of groceries for the house. I got a lot of staple items, huge jars of peanut butter etc. They will arrive tonight.
  • I got a new pair of shoes that won’t hurt my feet.
  • I bought about a week and a half worth of work food which means I didn’t have to lug from home to work.
  • I was able to pay off two bills early which means that my check that pays my rent for next month won’t be quite so destroyed.

The effects:

I’ve been able to take some time to relax. I don’t have that ball of stress in my gut. I got a little bit of sleep.

I’ve also been able to have that jump start/reboot. I have a good solid doable plan that means that I can provide for my lil family, we have some breathing room and shit.

OKAY so my groceries came last night and I cried a little. I haven’t had that much food in my house at one time in a long time.

What else?

Mainly, I feel like I can breathe.

What am I actually up to artistically?

Patreon is going amazingly well.

I’m dabbling in a bit of freelance. 

I’ve got a poetry book coming out this fall.

My passion project SCLAB has been chugging along at the Self-care blog.

I started and mostly completed another poetry book.

I’m not super invested in getting published right now.

I’m getting my shit in order so I can level the fuck up as an artist. I’m stacking my bravery because I have some more bucketlist level stuff to do.

Okay now, I got work to do. Shit to make. Tea to drink.

Thank y’all again so much.

 

The Support I need Right Now

At the suggestion of some fellow poor artists, I figured I’d update some stuff and tell everyone in the world what support I need right now.

My current situation:

  • I have a slight cost of living (not fancy living just living) increase that I can do nothing about.
  • Partner and I are both in dire need of some basic shit that we just don’t have money for right now. I’m talking underwear that fits, socks. A few pairs of jeans/pants each. Camis/tanks/tees. Basics.
  • We need to stock our pantry. Non-perishables, heavy stuff, because my partner has mobility issues and getting a good stock up has been impossible between that, my schedule and the cost.

So really what we need is help. We need a chunk of cash to explicitly use for this shit.

I also have some creative projects in the works but have decided on putting them away for now until I can get our household a little bit more stable in our current situation.

So that said.

What I need right now is signal boosts, paying work that isn’t like a job (I will talk about that in a second), and donations/tips/sales.

Here are the many things:

My Gofundme. 

Venmo. Cashme.  Paypal. Etsy.  Patreon.

If you aren’t down with cash and want to do something material. Here’s my amazon list. I have some stuff I need but most of it is for funsies stuff.

Now the job thing.

I have a full time job still. I make just barely enough to cover bills if we eat poorly etc. I was considering (again) a part time job but, just recently I’ve worked 6 of 7 days in a row a few times and I am paying for it heavily. I just physically can’t anymore and there’s that.

Also, real real talk. I really want a chance to have some stuff just taken care of so I’m not spending my little savings or just having a chance to feel secure enough in that we have a bunch of shit we need so I can continue to work as i have been.

And that’s it. That’s what I need. Like my Gofundme says, my lil family just needs a leg up.

Yeah, Write #324. Black Pharaoh in the Morning

Black Pharaoh in the Morning

The air is strange against my skin. The current carries damp salt, cold sea and warmth like the breath of a stranger sliding up the back of my skirt, uncomfortable but not entirely unwelcome. The night passed too cool and quiet, my sleep was too thin and loose. I don’t feel rested but my body feels anticipatory anxiousness.

The way the dim sun struggles to make a show of dawn feels ominous. I’m nervous.

In the street, things don’t feel much better. Construction workers and street dudes all mill around looking pensive and trying to hide it behind wilted banter.

Everything is so strange and slightly off. I can feel my baby hairs fuzzing up and the urge to free my hair and run gibbering secret words is so strong I have to stop and breathe. Remind myself why I am here. Reassign the feel of the air from tenebrous to only another lukewarm summer morning.

This is not when the stories say it will happen. In the tales, it comes in the deep of night. There is madness and incantations. The Stygian alienist should awaken the chosen with his strange words and the air should reek of the void.

The stories lie.

I was born or made with the  R’lyehian mark already in my flesh. with the sweet malodorous putrefying  blue candy smell in my mouth. I move through the world with my human face and I wait and work and hold some tiny sliver of hope that my knowledge will come to use.

I am not afraid, but I am tired. This damp that ruins my hair and makes my body ache only serves to remind me how far from Hadoth I am. I am forlorn. I am singular. I am Nephren-Ka, I am the Crawling Chaos and mine is the duty to do the will of the Outer Gods. I know this. I am also Black and woman. I am dangerous on the Earth and beyond it, mornings like this I have to remind myself that I am no victim of weather and messy edges.

“Mornin’ Cactus.”

I don’t like strange men speaking to me. I smile and I know he calls me Cactus because he thinks it is a cute way to comment on my hair.

“Fm’latgh.”

As I step away, his screaming overtakes the traffic noise and he runs into the street clawing at his clothes until he is bare chested. His skin turns red and starts to bubble, he looks like a hot dog and I smile more.

I, am he of a Thousand Forms. I am in flesh what drives White men to gibbering madness and terror that tightens their trigger fingers. I am The Nightmare.

Around me, the morning erupts in chaos. The man burning from within writhes and sings the song of the damned, people are running around the intersection like confused insects and the crash and thump of cars running into each other and the tired damp morning is rendered glorious.

I let down my hair and fluff it until it is a dark halo around my head. All is right and beautiful.

A warm current kisses the backs of my thighs under my skirt as I turn to spread my effulgent accursed joy. As he is loaded into the ambulance, the boiling man holds the EMT close and speaks between clenched teeth, his breath hot and fetid with the terror of one who has been touched by my hand.

“I failed to see Nyarlathotep has come.”

###
**

For those not familiar with Lovecraft see here for vocab help.

I Don’t Know How To Drive

idontkno
[image description: a kitten in mid leap on grass. Text reads top: I don’t know where I’m going, Bottom reads: but I’m on my way.]
Things I don’t know how to do:

  • Drive
  • Do perfect eyebrows
  • Network without feeling like I might piss myself.
  • Not be a sweaty weirdo when I meet writers I admire (HI ROXANE)
  • Not creep on writers I really like (pretty sure I creeped on both Daniel J. Older AND some other folks at AWPLA. Sorry y’all)
  • Legit submit chapbooks.

So I’m almost done with my second book of poetry. Unlike Gasoline Heart this one is not on anybody’s shopping list as of yet. It just sort of happened. I’m just about at the point where I start pulling the poems from my phone and put them into Word for formatting and then…yeah y’all I dunno.

The other thing I don’t know how to do is figure out what technology exactly I need to make the most out of my time.

My little cheap older tablet with the keyboard is kind of okay but, unfortunately is just a little too weak to deal with how I work. I’m looking at saving up for the Sentio Superbook.  I want the deluxe version. What sold me was that I can work from my phone and that is super ideal for me. Also you can work windowed which I can’t do on my other tablet and my laptop is just too much of a beast to lug around.

The Windows surface was close but I just can’t afford the one I want so ya know.

Also okay.

Real talk I’m having a situation that will fuck up my whole July.

So if you’ve got a few dollars burnin a hole in your pocket, come buy some lit. Want to get lit from me on the regular? Come get into my Patreon. Just want to help? Paypal, Venmo, Cash me.

That’s all for right now. I got hustlin to do.

Later taters.

Wherein the Poet dreams of the most lit release party.

 

There will be a lot of video links here.

I’m dreaming of my ultimate literary event. My event. So also things might get NSFW.

Picture it:

An assemblage of grown ass folks because I don’t write kids lit. First the house lights come down and there’s a stage and a pole. A THICC stripper comes out, her act starts with this song. Thicc means: A descriptor meant to designate a woman with a shapely figure and is typically somewhat chubby.  They often will have an hourglass or pear shaped body with emphasis on the shape and size of their buttocks and thighs. It’s my party, I want fat strippers.

Start with some slow grind.

Maybe if I was dressed right we could do a little duet to something like.

And I would run it more like a burlesque show. No live tipping just some rapt attention for some amazing stripping.

Then a little break and a reader. Possibly someone who writes erotica or something else super sexy. Then we’d need to bring things up a bit and I would have my own personal twerk team. I’d really need a multi gender, multi sized twerk team in all black and everybody in booty shorts. And I would need a lot of my people who love twerking as much as I do to be up front to cheer.

Post twerk team, I would need to have another break. Maybe for a little twerk contest? Poets twerk. Readers twerk. All butts all skills welcome.

We’d wind down the stripping and twerking and I’d read. I’d read some poems and maybe some porn. I’d do an ask me anything. Or maybe I’d read from the work being launched and tell a story. I tell funny stories.

Actually wait, I think after twerking there’d be an intermission. Time for folks to pee, smoke, grab a nibble or something to drink or medicate.

THEN I’d read and storytime.

After that, I’d post my chunky ass at a table and sign shit. I’d likely stay put because mingling at these events never fails to freak my whole shit out.

And I’d have the most fabulous witchy art hoe outfit. Titties out. Face beat for the Gods. Very glam, a bit creepy.

I mean………..if I’m gonna fantasize.

If the world was my oyster I’d have some live music too. I’d invite artists I love and have them have tables of stuff to buy or trade. I’d invite zinesters and sex workers. Have a big ole bazaar of awesome and sexy.

I’d ask friends with patreons and things who couldn’t be there to send me business cards to tuck into swag bags.

I wouldn’t want it to be only about me but about us.

That’s how I dream about the literary life I want.

The literary life I imagined is full of sexy beauty and me having the ability to support my community by providing events or just space to say, hey you like my shit, check out this shit here.

That’s where my brain is at right now.