Well, for starters I'm Black. A Black Male. A Black Male Ivy League College Student who writes spoken word poetry and blogs about nothing in particular. So, in that sense, I'm an avant-garde, contemporary embodiment of the Seinfeld show manifesto who speaks at length quite often in public spaces. I'm also a budding actor. A shapeshifter. I like to dance to everything from Soulja Boy to the Temptations to Nirvana and back. All the way back. Back to the beginning. To Genesis. To when I was merely a spark in my mother's womb. When I used to beatbox to the rhythm of her heartbeat and her laugh wrapped around my body like a hug made of wind.Yeah...those were the days. Way back when.
Nowadays, things are a bit different. I'm older. I got a bank account and a scraggly goatee that never quite looks right. People keep calling me a man, but i'm not quite sure I'm ready for whatever that entails. Time is too fragile for all this adulthood stuff, and so am I. I'm bad with goodbyes and really good with hellos. I love as hard as I can, and far too often for my own good. There's something strangely therapeutic about this. This sense of spilling one's soul out to no one in particular, knowing that some may read it but most won't, knowing that this is unintelligible to some and illuminating for others. Who knew this smile held so much angst, that this skinny body housed so much possibility. It's like there were gardens waiting to sprout from my fingertips this whole time; fields of tulips and jasmine that I never let carress the sunlight because I've been too busy writing, too busy trying to be memorable, to become legend. Maybe I should stop. Here. Stop trying to make it sound so pretty. I have a habit of doing that too. divulging too much. Masquerading the horrible as elegant. That's a large part of my identity, too. The performance. Maybe i should stop performing for you. Stop showing off.
What are most of these blogs out here but writers showing off their stuff, anyway? Right? Maybe I'm wrong. I'm probably wrong; there was no real research or critical thought behind that last statement. Still, i wonder if there's a line between the chaos in my brain and the imagery i put on the page, if there should be. What a chore it is, to police one's own identity. To decide what parts of you to let the world see and what to keep inside. I guess this blog is like a sieve for the soul. The hardest parts of me, the most complicated parts, are what you'll get here. Some funny stuff, too. Some political commentary, album reviews, book synopses, cultural criticism, all that good stuff. This first one is about me, though. About how I've been feeling lately, about how I feel tonight.
Tonight, I feel like a child trying to catch the moon through the backseat window of his mom's Volvo. I used to be that kid. I remember him vividly tonight. I yearn to be like him again most of the time. Like a 7-year old boy with the Milky Way in his eyes and a pocket full of hard-earned quarters, ignorantly blissful living in a world he doesnt know isnt quite ready for him yet; inhabiting a planet that wasn't made for people with dreams like his.
I'll catch that moon sooner or later. It's just a matter of time.
This is only the start, sports fans. There is much more to come. Stay tuned.