Found my way home

Tonight I truly took heed to omens..many I didn't know were there. I listened with my third eye. I even lied to be alone tonight. I needed to  hear a message. That I wouldn't have heard had I been with my friends. I had to come home.I had to be Home. I had to be here: to read things that that touched my heart from  Elizabeth Bishop.  Words  touched me to the root of my sOul. I was so discouraged by not being hired for summer. I knew that that was not the place that I belonged (but I did).  However, Ihumbled myself not to make it easy. It hurt my feelings and made me feel like well good luck to you this summer.. And then I read Elizabeth Bishop, and she awakened my soul to what I always knew. I write. I feel I trace the linings of my penmanship like Braille.. She allowed me to feel like I always felt. She said everything  I could never say and even the words that I did say everything that I've always felt and understood and I know about me in this world-  in this life, and the people in it- confirmed everything tonight.  And, so I am truly blessed with the knowledge, the acceptance to persevere, the determination, the writing on the wall, the feelings of the writing, the thought into the writing.  The everything. To stAy true. To be a friend, an ally. And still be true to self. Emma said to me today she didn't need any more kind words. I don't want to be kind. I have to be real while still being empathtic. "You know it's hard out here for a pimp."

“The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seemed filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster” 
― Elizabeth Bishop, The Complete Poems, 1927-1979

The way we're raised

I raise my children to respect the people in their lives..most importantly, which is the hardest for them is to love each other as siblings. Jahli went to Mexico today and tried Who give Lola her, and she was not receptive. I told her if anything were to happen to either one if you did you didn't hug each other that you couldn't live with for the rest of your life. Love you immediate don't love anybody more than you love them because if you don't want nothing else matters hug them kiss them except them ride with them when they're right there so right and even when they're wrong have their back correct them but have their back

Manners - Poem by Elizabeth Bishop

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For a Child of 1918

My grandfather said to me
as we sat on the wagon seat,
"Be sure to remember to always
speak to everyone you meet."

We met a stranger on foot.
My grandfather's whip tapped his hat.
"Good day, sir. Good day. A fine day."
And I said it and bowed where I sat.

Then we overtook a boy we knew
with his big pet crow on his shoulder.
"Always offer everyone a ride;
don't forget that when you get older,"

my grandfather said. So Willy
climbed up with us, but the crow
gave a "Caw!" and flew off. I was worried.
How would he know where to go?

But he flew a little way at a time
from fence post to fence post, ahead;
and when Willy whistled he answered.
"A fine bird," my grandfather said,

"and he's well brought up. See, he answers
nicely when he's spoken to.
Man or beast, that's good manners.
Be sure that you both always do."

When automobiles went by,
the dust hid the people's faces,
but we shouted "Good day! Good day!
Fine day!" at the top of our voices.

When we came to Hustler Hill,
he said that the mare was tired,
so we all got down and walked,
as our good manners required. 

Elizabeth Bishop

Listening to her speak of all those we have lost. -Elizabeth Bishop...

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks that cross the sky from cinder star to star, coupling the ends of streets to trains of light. now draw us into daylight in our beds; and clear away what presses on the brain: put out the neon shapes that float and swell and glare down the gray avenue between the eyes in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs. Hang-over moons, wane, wane! From the window I see an immense city, carefully revealed, made delicate by over-workmanship, detail upon detail, cornice upon facade, reaching up so languidly up into a weak white sky, it seems to waver there. (Where it has slowly grown in skies of water-glass from fused beads of iron and copper crystals, the little chemical "garden" in a jar trembles and stands again, pale blue, blue-green, and brick.) The sparrows hurriedly begin their play. Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke. "Boom!" and the exploding ball of blossom blooms again. (And all the employees who work in a plants where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death," turn in their sleep and feel the short hairs bristling on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off. A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line. Along the street below the water-wagon comes throwing its hissing, snowy fan across peelings and newspapers. The water dries light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern of the cool watermelon. I hear the day-springs of the morning strike from stony walls and halls and iron beds, scattered or grouped cascades, alarms for the expected: queer cupids of all persons getting up, whose evening meal they will prepare all day, you will dine well on his heart, on his, and his, so send them about your business affectionately, dragging in the streets their unique loves. Scourge them with roses only, be light as helium, for always to one, or several, morning comes whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed, whose face is turned so that the image of the city grows down into his open eyes inverted and distorted. No. I mean distorted and revealed, if he sees it at all. Elizabeth Bishop