Essays , Stories and such
ECHO | A Lovecraftian Prose
Echo, the physical amalgamation of this thing I’m at war with. A creature I may have created. She's an outline of me, but that lining is blurred. She moves in sync. Just a few seconds behind and beyond. Some fourth dimension type shit.
Writings of a political, social or cinematic nature
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Echo, the physical amalgamation of this thing I’m at war with. A creature I may have created. She's an outline of me, but that lining is blurred. She moves in sync. Just a few seconds behind and beyond. Some fourth dimension type shit.
love is a powerful, unmistakable action that requires sacrifice, none greater than the one assumed by a parent
Now I'm just laughing at the absurd nature over it all. How apparent and repetitive it all is. I'm blankly curious where the tipping point is anymore. It's not in the sanctity of the church. It's not in the pre-k classroom. Certainly not in the predictable banality of shopping on a Saturday morning.
One of my friends immediately pointed out the fact it was my anniversary. They had been there for it, driving me to and from doctor appointments and surgery. Watching me pull myself across the backseat of their car, struggling to find a way to lift a leg with a ruptured tendon. I read their message, carefully crafted from several miles and a few time zones away. They wanted to make sure I recognized all that an anniversary could bring. And gave their message a heart react and I thought I got that. Fast forward to about a week later when I’m telling another friend that I spent my 8 hour day at work fighting off a panic attack
Were we so busy looking for the marginalized to eat the rich, for an American made apocalypse lead by mystical horsemen that we missed the maternalistic double agent we were happy to give the keys to?
The issue with all of these scenes of racial complexity is not their existence but that it’s hard to tell whether these moments are intentionally awkward or if it’s the byproduct of the white male gaze.
There’s an implied hope then that BlacKKKlansman can therefore also make a lasting impact on its audience. I believe it will for some folks.
But I know it won’t for those of us already doing the work.
"[H]ow do I explain at my jovial workplace that I woke up crying thinking about Killmonger again?
You don't.
You just tell them “it was good” and try to drop it.
But I almost called in black on Friday."
I sometimes find myself fascinated with certain women. How they move in the world, completely aware and yet still at ease. I hesitate to call them “strong women” because we have such an immediate concept of what that must mean. Ripley firing a huge gun with a child in her arms, yes, is an image of a Strong Woman™ but it’s not the only one and not the type I write almost 2000 words for. I’m drawn to strength because of femininity, not in spite of it. Strength in tandem with vulnerability. Strength through unapologetic honesty. It’s that duality in that I see in Eris Eady, who I’m sure was not expecting all of this when she asked me to take some photos of her getting a new tattoo last Saturday
He saw me that day I stepped through the river and saw the portal to this nothing land. This Beyond is a chaos pit of screams and cackles; a dim iridescent sky that stretches over a bright, breathing landscape. The hounds of Tindalos barked and snared all around us. Cthulhu, Azathoth, all your favorites were there. And so was Howard’s pasty nervous ass.