where are the black people

I’m liking it well enough here, I guess, but where are all the Black people? There are very, very few, and most of the ones I’ve met are African immigrants to Germany, Senegalese and Nigerian men in Michael Jordan jerseys who sell me crummy weed at exorbitant prices because they are savvy and I am wide-eyed and high on novelty and fairly begging for the authentic! cultural!! experience!!! of being taken for a ride in a strange land, plus the bassist from the band from Madagascar that played at Carnival of Cultures, and one Jamaican rapper I encountered at same, the latter of whose black-and-green-and-yellow things I gravitated to for homesickness for Flatbush, one presumes.
I guess I’ve been looking for the Black people speaking and dressed more or less like this nation’s natives. African-Prussian Vernacular German, anyone? But how does a place come to have such a population if previous residents didn’t specifically travel overseas to the African continent and kidnap and bring back and enslave and force foreign names and language on enough African people that, over generations, a new dimension of civilization eventually comes into being? I don’t know enough about this. Someone told me I’ll see more Black people in the clubs, but who are those people, and where are they the rest of the time?

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not missing New York

Barely left the house today, but to sit in the crow’s nest thing in the little park nearby to write a bit, strum and change the lyrics of that song to be about not missing New York until a park guy asked me to leave because they were closing and I had to go back to the house. All of a sudden I’m sick of Friends — it was a sweeping shot of the Brooklyn Bridge that did it — why am I watching TV I’ve already seen set in a city I deliberately left behind?

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a bouquet of dogwood flowers

i love it so bad when one of my boyfriends gets along with another … … … … … no but really: what do you do when a bit of home is lying in wait on the other side of some daunting frontier and catches you by surprise just when, at last, you’ve submitted to being a perpetual stranger in a strange land? me, i tried first to explain the relationship between roanoke and the cumberland gap, to describe the smell of a bouquet of dogwood flowers. then i stopped; talking seemed not the point. sort of like now? there’s something important, i think, to be said here about the circular transmission of culture, and in this moment of video-trimming and caption-tapping i’m not up to the limnial task, so i’ll just keep taking pleasure in the listen.

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