The Last Straw...

Forgive me for this disjointed entry, I just didn’t want to get up @ 1:30 in the morning and type all this in…
So I was @ Java Head yesterday, and it hit me…not all at once, but in waves. The feeling like I was losing touch. Of course there were mad people at the J.H. that I share a mutual love with, but I just felt out of place. It was weird me being there because I had already made up my mind that I’d be going home instead of staying out for any poetry sets because I knew I had to get up to go to the DMV the next day as it’s almost time for me to renew my license. SO…I get there, and the homies Shae and Atahza are being interviewed for some reason…come to find out that this cutie with the a lovely frame is interviewing folks for Sir’s birthday. Okay, wow, Sir has his own documentary team now, whoa. Cool, I eye shorty, and she holla’s @ me moments later asking me to do an interview…which was all of three seconds it seemed. I clown Sir on tape, talkin’ about, “Do I want to wish Sir happy birthday, nope…but he can wish me happy birthday since I’m older.” She didn’t seem amused. Okay, my flirting with this chick isn’t even getting a slight smile, perhaps I should never speak to her again.
Okay, the vaunted “Virgo Bash” is really a celebration for Sir and Kom…which is groovy because seeing them is the only real reason I climbed out of my whole, that and trying to let King hear this piece I penned with him in mind. Okay, this is the third time cats have a list where they know me, and assume I’m not spittin’…okay, I guess I’m not spitting. Cool. I’m trying to leave, but I want to wish Sir and Kom a happy happy before I roll, though. Sir rips his feature (of course). Great, now I can roll. Before I do, come to find out aforementioned cutey is Sir’s fiancé! Okay, I have to talk to this cat so he knows I meant know disrespect…never saw shorty a day in my life…won’t happen again. I shoot the breeze with young master Wel and talk about my writer’s block when “IT” hits me, this quietly looming sense of detachment.
I feel disconnected from everything and everyone I hold dear. It’s almost as if I’m in limbo. I’ve gone through phases like this before, at times it leads to sex with some sexy vixen and me finding out it was more than sex to her, which makes me feel bad like, damn it’s not that deep for me… What triggered this realization? I remarked to Wel that I have noticed that I really don’t write anything about me in my journal, which kind of defeats the purpose. I just hate leaving it untouched for too long. Then I wonder, what if this writer’s block is self inflicted? Traditionally, I never have to try to write a piece, they come to me. In fact, when I try to force a piece, I almost always hate it, and can tell years later which piece was forced and which piece came naturally. SO I just let them come when they may. This way, I never get judgmental of my poems, unlike my rhymes, because the poems come to me in that moment, y’know? So the question is: Do I wait for this affliction to pass or try to write through it? I love structure, but don’t want to resign to a routine lifestyle. Eat. Shit. Work. Play. That will not bring me any happiness. I need to really reflect on what the fuck I’m doing. Reevaluate relationships, be they social or familial. Figure out what I’m going to do on the poetry scene, with work…etc.
I do know, if I come back…which I’m sure I eventually will, it ain’t going to be nothing nice. I’m personally tired of people playing me to the side like I spittin’ some hot shit. Not to be vain or arrogant because those that know me know that’s not my get-down, but damn…these cats are going to have to learn to respect my shit the hard way, y’heard.
You’ll have to forgive me…I’m kinda jumbled up right now trying to make sense of all this. It just seems like I try to do some positive community oriented type shit…thinking I’m doing a good thing…and somebody’s always trying to steal my joy. Drama with doing this CD. Drama putting together the shows. Drama when I tried to sell Babylon Songs and shiesty ass KCR sold me books that fall apart as soon as you open them; all of which took momentum from selling what I still feel is one of the hottest books of poetry EVER. Not because I wrote it, but because of how it was designed and what and who it targets. There’s a lot of science to that book and I’ve had cats that I lyrically respect tell me they haven’t even started reading that shit…even after I made a point of giving that joint to a lot of folks for free. Mainly folks who I felt might not be able to cop it, but I still wanted them to check it. Still, that shit costs damn near $9 per book to print. This is the love reciprocated from cats I’ve supported multiple times… And because of how I am, my oft stolid demeanor, one may think I don’t feel that shit, but I do, word is bond I do. I peep how cats can be on their soapbox, or listening to somebody else on theirs, and into it deep man. All emotional and supportive, but applauding the speech that is damning them in many ways… Shit, I’ve heard some rather ambiguous shit as of late, and it feels like some of it is indirectly pointed at me.
Newsflash- one of the many reasons I stopped coming out to sets is because cats ain’t really on the love they say they on. I can see that shit in their eyes, and I’d rather not deal with it than allow myself to feel a way about something that I love so deeply like poetry. Not just that, I can see when cats make judgments of shit I do and say… Granted, I can be silly at times, but often that silliness comes from discomfort. I pick up a lot of funny energy from cats that are quick to hug you or dap you up…judge you. Some of these people, don’t get me wrong, are good people. But this shit is fuckin’ blowing me. But dig it tho’, I’m cool. I got this All Seasons project I’m about to wrap up…shit is blaze. And then I’m really going to be in reflection mode. This being dependable for cats who are all take and no give….I can’t do it no more.