forge ahead. or Anita Wills, or as the cops call her - crackhead.

for those of you who need details: winter, Nov. about 2:15pm. 
(some of this taken from my journal)

Take me to the water .  .  .

- traditional.

"There is so much i want to tell you."
that's what she said.

so i handed her a cigarette. I've come to know her because i like to stand outside, and since i smoke, and since its the law - i tell myself - i like smoking outside. she, Anita Wills is addicted to crack, and since this addiction comes with its share of ghosts, demons and habits - she will look for a friendly face, and ask for a cigarette, money, gum - she does not have sex to support her habit. Anita makes a point the second time our paths met.

"There's so much i want to tell you." we puff. there are some people, in suits entering the Cafe at Arts Collinwood, we nod. they do not notice. Anita continues,

"when i was a little girl, my daddy had this pipe he would chew. i never saw him light it, but it was always in his mouth."

yeah, i take another cig out of the pack, she nods and waves her hand at me,

"he was very proud of his ability to read, and since he was the youngest of twelve, it was a big deal. alot of us can't read that well, even now."

i know, its kinda sad, but its not just us, a lot of folks can't read, or don't like to.

"my daddy was proud, and so we always read together. Little House on the .   .  . ray chandler, malcolm x book he wrote with the Roots fella. my daddy loved mysteries, and history books."

is he still alive?

"no. no. you black men don't live long. you better watch out youngin', we ain't made to do all this stuff. when my old man first came home with it, i knew it was no good. like i had a feeling, like i'd seen a ghost pass right across my face. and i knew, but he was excited, and he hadn't been feeling too good bout things. that was 1987."

wow, that long?

"what you mean WOW? nigga, can't nothing kill a woman, but a man. and we bury you mothas all the time. you don't realize it yet, but its not gonna be much longer for you to sit on the side and just judge us. you think you protected huh? i've been watching you. you too good, ain't gonna say nothin' huh nigga?"

not my place. i make art, i'm not a politician. how? what am i suppose to do?

"i guess nothing. i mean you ain't no shy ass nig that's for sure. you speak, but you ain't gettin' your hands dirty. no, no. not workin' in there. you could .  .  . well, nevermind young blood. you just keep on with that art thang. it work for you, just ain't help nobody else."

i'm not sure that's fair. i mean .  .  .

"that's what i was gonna say, my daddy worked all his life, was proud of books, like you. but you ain't know him so you don't know he made it for you to sit up in there art and all. ain't shit fair. not one thang. you old enough to knows that."




*      *        *
Postscript.

since booker t. and ole' W.E.B. the debate of the doing, and the thinking. harlem rebirths, hughes, the panther and the lash. art for arts sake .  .  .

Baldwin, he talked about being a witness. that a writer's job, her/his only mandate was to testify, to witness us in all the painful, joyous swatches of this being HUMAN. and in it all, from booker to beyonce, fred hampton to obama .  .  . the poor, is the poor. is the poor. thinkers be damned. makers be ashamed. preachers and leaders be stoned. ain't fair, no one damn thing.