I leave Barnes and Noble, on a great high...books about business and marketing...im feeling inspired, ready to get shit done...walk across 23rd st to the magazine spot...pick up a few pieces to do some research...the list includes blackbook, oyster, w, trace, fadar, and a few others. proceed to sit down and write some things down. apparently this isnt allowed, so says this weird looking dude eating halal meat. 'you cannot write from the magazine, this isnt a library', which interestingly enough he doesnt even know how to pronounce, 'you cant read it', repeat that please you fucking cock, i cant read it, then what the fuck is it here for....he begins to start a scene...we yell at each other. cuz i was fucking pissed...like your really gonna try to tell me some shit about not being able to read the fucking magazine. the white people stare.his skin is dark. darker than my own. but he has a look in his eye that reeks of entitlement. perhaps, its yemen, or afghanistan, maybe pakistan or iraq. i don't really give a shit where because you come here, to the place i was born in, can hardly speak the language and proceed to try to tell me some shit about a fucking magazine. perhaps i shouldnt have attempted to write from it. and this much i am ok with accepting. but the question during this 5 minute scream fest that lingered so close to the surface of my thoughts, was, what if i was white, you wouldnt even have the nerve. you wouldnt even think twice about speaking to me that way. and yet, you sit there smelling of bad food, bad clothes, reeking of a higher self worth than myself, as though to say "NIGGER" like i cannot see if written on your face, like i cannot feel that vibe. i write some shit down just to pick at the situation, he huffs and puffs literally, cracking his knuckles. i stack the magazines up real nice and neat. 'now you can put them away, you fuck.' i dont use the word fuck but it was close i had to pull back. 'no you put them away, you took them out.'i dont even hear him anymore as i walk away every so lightly.
and as i write sit and listen to amy winehouse, i know i have to get this out. i have to tell the story, cuz if i dont i will walk around with this hateful feeling in my gut. ready to hurt someone or be bad, that dark side is there.
anger has its place. frustration and angst, fuel that fire. cant do this, be this live this life...not today not no more...and so i push..break..beat...and crush the barrier.it cannot hold the fire. it cannot contain the force.
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