Diary 17 February 2005
Still very much making...creating...collages. Using parcel wrap brown paper as a base. I love it's functionality but its texture seems to work on the screen. The collages seem to have made themselves and have gone beyond my expectations...now it's a matter of creating text around the image. Still woefully behind.
I sit and write this quickly as Folake is about to arrive. My computer software has crashed thanks to an infected floppy. My car has failed its MOT...those nice red coloured bills just keep tumbling through my door...I have just had to deal with yet more teenage angst...like why can't I stay out at my friends tonight without you talking to the parents...YOU ARE SOOO EXTRA! My ex hubbie has just bent my ear with major anxieties re errant credit cards...they just seem to spend all this money...all on their own!
And having emerged from my life...i don't know what i'm doing anymore.
Up until now my discussion re Bling culture and the MTV bikini was still an intellectual exercise to some degree. Now I'm re-evaluating it all and want to convey just what impact it has on me...not just as a black woman feminist but as a mother. Er in 20 words. How do you say beware of strange men bearing gifts in flash cars with sweet words? Don't get in those cars. And just because Snoop Dog markets himself as a Pimpologist...[there are even conferences!!...]is it all tongue in cheek, or am I the only one not getting the joke? Flicking through these Hip Hop magazines has been quite interesting...they could be spoof, parody, except they're the real thing. Pages of men decked in Bling snarling for the camera. You want to tickle one under the chin and say...'aw, go on, give us a smile...you know you want to...doncha...doncha...'
I keep feeling how sad this is. Oppression hurts our black men in more than obvious ways. The implicit irony of 'keeping it real'. What's real about looking hard...pretending you are immune to feelings. What's real about carrying a blade or a gun and killing your brother for stepping on your trainers. What's real about 'bitch slapping' your girlfriend. Show mw a black man hugging his kid any day. That's real...oops the old crone rants again. The ranting seems to go on like a humming radio signal in the background, while I make. Parallel frequencies of musing and making.
My mum came down for a few days, and was thankfully administering regular meals and other domestic support. Sad to see her go. Taking her to the station...no car...and en route to the bus stop...there we are three generations...my daughter with earphones intact...striding ahead, in that I'm too embarrassed to be seen with usual way...and my mum some way behind ambling at her own defiant pace. Then me in the middle trying to keep step with someone and no one. I am carrying her bag and protruding from the top are two finely shaved sticks.
'What are these for mum?'
'For anyone who bothers me' she replies.