Some Times

I wrote a post for Juneteenth. Worked on for a few days prior. Deleted it. I just wasn't saying anything useful or interesting.
I wrote a post for my birthday. Worked on it for a few days prior. Deleted it.
Father's day is always hard for me. Long story. Actually more than one story. I didn't even try to write about it. I mean. I wrote a whole book about it. It's in a box in my closet.
I knew going into my birthday that I wasn't up for it. There's just too much going on in the world. Too many nooses. Too much hate. Too much nonsense about mask wearing. Too many numbers.
Since I've been in the Hood I've had nicer birthdays than I usually do. I swim. Get a massage. Eat at a specific restaurant. There's no swimming now. My massage guy has been out of commission since even before the pandemic. My restaurant wasn't open and I would not have wanted to go anyway.
My birthday and its proximity to Father's day is problematic. It's a day that jams me into my psychological structures. All of which I have thought deeply about and feel like I understand. I even have a sense of humor about it all some times. But there are other times ...

There are wounds that stir up the force of gravity. 
A cold that will wipe the hope from your eyes.  -Rickie Lee Jones.

We are all living through multiple traumas. It's hard to even know how these things are impacting us. We might need to unpack it later. I think I will. At random moments I find myself overwhelmed with fear. Not because of something I'm watching or hearing or reading. Random. My eyes fill with tears. My heart pounds.
I've been reading James Baldwin. Library of America has put together three compilations, two fiction and one non fiction. I have two of them and have been bouncing back and forth. I just finished Giovanni's Room, which I read a long time ago. I remember that it confused me. I was younger and thought complexity was confusion. I was frustrated by stories that didn't resolve. It is such a beautiful and heart breaking book. Reading Baldwin now is wrenching. Some of this writing was done in the fifties and sixties. All of it could have been written yesterday. Reading Giovanni's Room during a Pride month somewhat overshadowed by ... everything else ... was wrenching. I'm not even sure why.
I just scratched my arm. Not that hard. It started to bleed. It happens all the time. I've talked to my doctor. She says my skin is old.
My skin is old.