I thought I was losing my numerology. One of the very few traditions a la superstitions I have is making sure I enter the New Year in good spirits. The intention is that the way you enter the new year is the way the rest of the year will be. I always try to enter the new year in good spirits and with a dollar in my hand. It has always been this strict spiritual practice of containing all of the bad shit that happened that year... in that year. Screwing a lid on that jar, if you will, and not having it escape into the next year.
However, somewhere around the fall of last year, when I was on my knees vomiting a few pills I had ingested in memoriam of any sense of stability, sanity, income, and family that had been molested and killed, it occurred to me that certain concepts of time and "fate" are complete bullshit. Like, my mother, my brother, my friends, my job, and my career plans would still have been slaughtered regardless of the time or any of my impotent attempts to try and capture and control it. No amount of good feelings or dollar bills will reverse my family and friends turning into ancestors and stories in the blink of an eye.
Needless to say, I got off the floor (my old friend), looked around, and tried to reconcile what was left. I found it almost impossible to remember who I was, what I wanted, and what I was doing before the "deluge" happened. I actually had to look at old social media posts and journal entries to remember. That's right... I used to be a whore! I drank A LOT and vowed never to drink again. I covered myself in the discontentment I had for my past lovers like lotion. I mismanaged my money then blamed circumstance for not having enough. I happily acquired my fair share of antagonists, enemies, and haters. I shared every aspect of it in public forums. It was a fun and functional little life.
However, we're back at square one again... before the liquor, lovers, and villainy. It's quiet. It's a quiet I always imagined would drive me nuts, but surprisingly enough, it's equivalent to drinking gallons of water and then using the cleanest, most immaculate bathroom. It's been somewhat... blissful. And I have heard a million times that everyone needs to listen to the universe; if we just stop, we can hear the creator themself speaking to us. I've always tried to hear that voice. I now realize it's not a VOICE necessarily; it's the SILENCE behind all the other shit coagulating in your head and heart. And as I have joked for decades, but I now say again, with all the seriousness and solemnity a drunk whore like myself can come up with, we are all in need of an aura enema. Flush all that shit out. Hear the silence afterward.
I now say again, with all the seriousness and solemnity a drunk whore like myself can come up with, we all need an aura enema.
Then New Year's Eve came, and my spiritual muscle memory came into play. I needed to be in good spirits for the New Year... with a dollar in hand. Only this time, it felt less like some numerological superstition that would alter fate and more like a cleansing of the spiritual palette that would help you go with the natural flow of time. People are going to get infected with the viral disease of poverty. We're going to test positive for some physical ailment or another. We're going to lose our family, our friends, our "do or dies." It's a freight train we can't stop. We can only try our best to be prepared when it comes.
So, I decided to enter the new year with a good spirit in my heart and a dollar bill in hand. And I did get a little of my numerology back. If there were ever a time to flush that shit out, it would be December 31st. 12/31. 1231. 1+2+3+1 = 7, the sacred number.
I'm not 100% on reporting every aspect of my life for public consumption like I used to, but the record has shown that those moments have actually inspired and helped people. So we'll crack open the vault a little bit. Keep in mind that I am extremely exhausted from foes and friends alike taking those cracks and trying to create a narrative about me like they have done so many times in the past (e.g., "I read you tried to kill yourself; just checking in since you all suicidal," or "Why you getting mad at me? You said yourself you a drunk whore!" or "I told them not to do business with you right now since you are in your suicidal drunk whore phase."), but the silence reconfirmed that I am a writer... and write I must. And energy attracts energy. THAT I remember before the deluge. So I'm putting my energy back out there, confident I will connect with the same energy through the creator with grace.
So I'm putting my energy back out there, confident I will connect with the same energy through the creator with grace.
And most importantly, I don't have my mom and brother around anymore to hold my intentions and tales of my excursions. I harken back to that Joan Rivers documentary when she intoned that all of her loved ones had passed away, and she no longer had anyone to reminisce about those good ole days. I completely understand that. I feel exactly the same way. And I don't want the memories and feelings of those good ole days to be forgotten or maligned. I mean, we'll still in the good ole days for heaven's sake.
So, this year, we'll crack open the vault of "Breeze's Thoughts and Excursions" a little bit and start blogging again, at least for those who care. It's human to want to be remembered. And I will always remember the finest humans I have run into... Ron Peery, Maurice Phyffer, Calvin McFadden, Tuan N'Gai, Ivan Daniels III, Tony T Howard, Darius Barnes, Dan O'Marrah, Roy Wooding, Edith Wooding, David Wooding, Evelyn Polk, Ruth Farmer, Ruth Anderson, Phyllis Cooper, Robert Cooper, Ruth C Cooper, Martin L. Cooper, Jr., and one of the dearest friends I have ever had on this planet, Lisa Smith, who transitioned three days ago. Whatever time I have left, I'll do my best to represent you well, and I'll see all of the guys when I see you...
