ish like this only seems to happen to me

it’s been so long since i’ve posted that i almost forgot my log-in password. work and travel have consumed me and spit me back out. i am typing this from Paris where a series of events have landed me. it’s a blessing to be able to sift through pain and misfortune to find all the light buried beneath. i plan to resurface soon; bear with me.

love thru truth,
cyu

As I approached the beige brownstone there in the middle of the block, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The landlady’s instructions were to enter through the lower side door, a level below the brownstone steps. But there, on the ground, in front of this very side entrance, were bright droplets of freshly spilled blood.

My eyes left the blood on the cement and followed the lines of it that trickled down the front of the building then further, up to the second floor window. There, on it’s ledge, stood a tawny white and brown hawk. As odd as a hawk in the middle of Harlem is, the hawk in and of itself wasn’t what amazed me most. The source of the spilled blood is what did it. The hawk stood upon what was left of a pigeon, massacred as its prey.

With it’s back to the street, the hawk continued to feast, crunching bones, pulling feathers, and tearing meat.

I remained motionless as a woman walking down the street paused to see what I was staring at.

“Oh my woooord. Is that a hawk??”

I didn’t reply. I just stood there. The landlady was sure to think I had flaked and even though I was right outside her home I couldn’t bring myself to take my phone out of my pocket to call and make her aware of this.

The hawk started on the pigeon’s chest. More blood ran. If this was not an omen, I don’t know what one is.

The longer I stood there, the bigger the crowd grew.

Three dudes with nothing better to do with their time:

“Das a eagle, son. You see dat shit??”

“Yo, dat ain’t no f%$kin’ eagle, d%ck. Das a vulture. You idiot.”

“Both yall mufukas is wrong. Damn yall dumb. I need new friends.”

A busybody woman in a suit who appeared to be very corporate:

“Oh gawd. That’s horrific. I suppose everyone is just going to stare at it? Is someone going to phone the Humane Society? Someone to get that thing? Don’t they nest?? Ugh, nevermind I see I’ll have to do it.”

“Yo, ma, it keeps lookin’ atchu yo. Laughs”

One of the three stooges was talking to me. And as dumb as he was, he was right.

The hawk paused his meal three times, only to look directly at me for odd lengths of time. I knew I had to let this lady know I was outside. But the hawk was telling me something to the contrary. It was saying turn around and walk the f&$k away.

I finally took out my phone but dialed my brother instead. I needed to let someone who knew my connection with birds know what was taking place.

“Qimmah, why the hell are you still there???, he says. “Run!”

I hung up the phone and quickly snapped a picture to send my brother. Then, turned slowly to make my way away from this beige brownstone in the middle of the block that was clearly NOT supposed to be my next residence.

Just as I began to walk, the front door opened and there stood the landlady, puzzled by the crowd and wondering where her potential tenant could be. I spoke up.

“He..Hello, Mrs. Whitaker… I’m um, I’m…”

“Oh goodness dear, I thought you weren’t coming. Who are all these people?”

“I was going to come in through the um… But you see uhhh…”

I pointed to the bird of prey.

From where she stood, Mrs. Whitaker was much closer to the hawk than I. Atop her steps she cranked her neck up, adjusted her spectacles and took in a much closer view of the massive bird on her ledge.

“Oh my god! What the…?? Well, here just umm, just come through the top, dear. We can walk downstairs from inside.”

“Ummmm, noooot quite sure that’d be the wisest thing to…”

“Yo, lady, you might wanna chill B, dat thing is like all in hah grill. I mean she fine and all but like I ain’t think birds go fah girls too!” Stupid #1 daps up Stupid #2.

I blocked out the stupidity taking place around me and tried to clear my head to explain to the landlady why I was going to have to pass on this apartment without sounding completely weird. She continued to motion for me to come up the stairs but the hawk’s determined stare was much more convincing. I decided to show Mrs. Whitaker how serious my “warner” was about me not entering her home instead of trying to piece together words to say the same.

I took two steps toward the staircase and the hawk immediately made a full turn and cranked it’s neck down to stare at me more intensely. His gaze said “Really?? The blood in front of the door?? That wasn’t enough of a sign for you?? Seriously? LEAVE.”

I mumbled something about being terribly sorry that I had wasted Mrs. Whitaker’s time and took off speed-walking like I was heading for a finish line. In the distance, I heard, “Yo ma! He still got a gaze on you! I can make sure you get home safely!”

I was already halfway home. I made it back in three minutes, breaking my own record.

I stood with my head against my door thinking out loud, “They’re back. And bigger than ever.”

~ fin

A friend of mine always feels more comfortable in homes that have lots of plants. My parents always feel better around the water. Me? Well, I’ve always had a special connection with birds.

Once, as an infant, my mother placed me in a playpen to finish setting out the food during a family BBQ at our most frequented park. I have no recollection of the day, but the story as she tells it is:

“You couldn’ta been any more than one year old. I sat you down in the pen and turned around to the table. The next time I turned around your playpen was full of birds. Just sitting there. And you just found it so funny; you were giggling up a storm. I panicked that first time. But after the second or third time birds came around, I realized this might be something I’d just have to get used to it.”

At the earliest age my matured mind can allow me to remember, there were birds. I had a pet pigeon named Harriet that would visit me at my window every day. I could always tell it was her from the purple on her chest. Later on, robins began to come around. They would never outstay their welcome, however. They would come one at a time, as if on duty. They’d land near me, puff out their bright red chest, turn from side to side and fly away. The same routine. Every time.

One winter, a blizzard hit New York. There was at least six feet of snow outside. I remember being upstairs in my bedroom and being startled by my mother yelling over our house intercom that I had a visitor at the door. I wasn’t expecting anyone. Least of all in this weather. I jumped up and ran down the stairs shouting to my mother “Who is it?”. I pulled open the door and saw no one within the shoveled section in front of it. For a while, I stood, lost in the freshly fallen snow’s gleam, until I heard a small chirp. I looked down and there she was, at my feet. A plump robin stood there with its red chest puffed and proud. Turn. Turn. And off she went.

I usually got a visit from a robin right before each turn of events in my life. Births, deaths, new schools, my first period, my first boyfriend, so on and so forth. One day, after a series of events had taken place without warning from my little friends, I realized the visits had stopped.

I knew it was my fault. I was embarrassed, at times ashamed. What was so cool to me when I was young, when only my opinion mattered, now became weird to others and in turn, to me. I had visions of growing old and becoming known as “The Bird Lady”. Childish fears ironically plagued me more with age.

Eight years of self-absorption, ended with my college graduation and spit me out on the other side, a young woman earnest to dive into the spiritual path life had buried specifically with her in mind to find.

I became reacquainted with the part of me I had neglected, my inexplicable connectivity to the “mysteries” of this world… the type of stuff most grown-ups are not at all used to and therefore, in efforts to protect their grown egos, cast-off as weird.

With my reawakening, came the return of my aerial friends. But this time around, there were no cute little robins. No. Life had thickened my skull and skin and simultaneously dulled my intuitions. My ladies and gents, this more serious age required a more serious group of birds.

This holds true still. Which brings me to present day. Just the other day, as a matter of fact. If you’ve been following Qomplesso, you know all about CeeCee, my sanity-challenged neighbor. Well, as you will soon see as the saga continues with upcoming parts of her story, things have gotten a bit, shall we say, out of hand. So much so, that I recently decided to apartment hunt. You know. Just to see what’s out there.

I’d gotten a lead on a brownstone studio not far from where I currently reside. I had no other obligations that day so I decided to mosey on over and meet with the kind woman who was renting out the studio.

“It’s the beige building in the middle of the block, you won’t be able to miss it.”

Easy enough. Pictures online looked decent. And she seems like a really nice old lady. This may be it.

I gathered my things and hurried out the door as the renter had a prior engagement to keep and was showing me the space quickly as a favor. I speed walk, so I had no problem getting there within five minutes flat. I followed the numbers down the block.

1119. 1119. Okay. Odd number… should be on that side of the street.

I crossed the street. Hurriedly at first. But each step grew slower, and slower.

1119. Beige brownstone.

She was right I couldn’tve missed it. Not if I wanted to. What I saw, left me immobile. Staring in awe.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

To Be Continued…

The chants for Prince’s return continue. Not one person in the crowd has left. The band starts to leave the stage one by one. Prince’s drummer prepares to leave last.

She’s B.A. They’ve all been. His drummers, that is. They’ve all been female and they’ve all rocked out on the drums harder than any male drummer I’ve ever seen. From Sheila E. all the way down. I wonder if she saw me starin’ so that I can mimic her moves when I finally learn to play. I wonder if she gives lessons.

My mind wanders into a dream sequence. Cue smoke and wavy vision effects. I’m on stage rockin’ out on the drums. Prince stops the song and calls for me to do a solo. “Hit it Q!” I bang those drums like they cursed my mama. Effortlessly. Masterfully. Prince is awestruck. Percussion. Snare. Repetition, repetition. Boomdabip da boom bip. Cymbal clash. I toss my drumsticks in the air for effect. The crowd goes wild. Just make this catch…

The smoke disperses abruptly as an actual drumstick comes falling toward my face.

Wtf??

It falls to the ground and I scramble to collect what’s mine. I give the earnest fool who was on stage with me just moments earlier the gas face to let him know he done lost his damn mind. He releases his grip on the stick. I stand back up and come face to face with Prince’s drummer. She’s exiting the stage.

“Yea, I saw you checkin’ the technique,” she half laughs, having witnessed the tussle for the stick. “You should have the stick.”

I stand in disbelief holding the stick with the same dumb look on my face that Leroy had in The Last Dragon when he’d finally attained his glow. I stay that way until I’m snapped out of it by the crowd cheering. Is Prince back? No. The crowd had bullied Dave Chapelle into impromptu stand-up comedy. He had finally complied and was taking the stage.

“I don’t know what’s wrong witchall. This AINT my show dammit!”

The crowd laughs. I think he was serious yall. He continues unwillingly.

“Aight what the hell yall want me to talk about? Yall gon’ get me killed. Prince don’t play. I ain’t even s’posed to be up here.”

“Tell us about Africa!” someone yells from the crowd.

“Africa?? What the… alright fine. I will tell you this… and I don’t wanna offend anyone in the audience.”

“Just tell us! C’mon!” The crowd continues.

“Alright. Alright. Damn. Yall worse than a lynch mob. Anyway, something pretty damn funny did happen to me in Africa. But let me preface this by sayin’ I love my Latino people.”

Laughs.

“But I went into this African restaurant and I swear to GOD, there was nothing but Mexicans in the kitchen!”

More laughs.

“And all I could think was gotdam! Is America really THAT fuc…..  hol’ up … lemme watch my mouth cus Prince don’t play that…”

He looks around to the back of the stage and the back entrance and whispers the rest.

“Is America that EFFED up that the Mexicans are migratin’ to gotdam Africa and ish????”

Everyone cracks up.

“Oop hol’ up…” He looks to the back. Then whispers, “Is he comin’ back… Is he…hunh? …Oh shoot. Gottagogottago.”

He jumps off the stage in time for the band to climb up in his place. The crowd cheers. Prince’s background singers follow closely behind. The music starts. The crowd goes crazy as Prince saunters from the back. But this time, he doesn’t climb on stage. This time, Prince, the man, the icon, the living legend, takes his guitar and sits on the very four stage steps that I am less than one foot in front of. He sits. And he plays.

Everything around me becomes dark. It’s just him and I. It feels like he’s sitting on my stoop, playing just for me as I stand in front of him soaking it all in. I am close enough to see his gaze behind his sunglasses. He looks at me and gives me his signature flirtatious smirk as if he knows I’m pretending there aren’t a couple hundred other people in the room. He plays for a while with our eyes locked. He’s perfected the art of melting women’s knees Qimmah. Keep your knees locked. Stay cool, stay cool. Ice cold.

After about 10 minutes on the steps he finally takes the stage for what turns out to be another hour or two of emotional sound and powerful melody.

“Don’t front on me. I can go all night,” Prince says smoothly. “I got too many hits yall.”

As the set winds down, Prince decides to sing “Purple Rain.” For some reason the diehards seem to find this underwhelming as they were itching for new material.

But for me, this being my first live Prince experience…

…for having had the chance to not only attend his private concert but to be in the first row near the stage…

…to have danced behind him on stage…

…to have his drummer’s stick…

…to have hugged, laughed with and danced alongside Dave Chapelle…

…to have looked Prince in his eyes as he played his guitar one foot in front of me…

…this: him singing “Purple Rain” the way he is, right now, in this space in time

…this moment is magical.

I close my eyes and sing out the last notes of the song with the rest of the crowd.

“Oooh ooh ooh ooooooooh, Oooh ooh ooh ooooooh.”

I reopen them to see Prince’s backup singer wink at me as if she knows how this moment is moving me.

I feel my father standing beside me. He’s with me in this moment.

A tear rolls down my face as I experience life with him.

Electric word, life.

It means forever.

And that’s a mighty long time.

~finition

I suppose the point of several people telling you the same thing over and over again is for you to heed the advice. I took my first piano lesson Friday and it turned out to be much deeper than I thought a piano lesson could ever be.

My teacher, a Buddhist who also happens to have several degrees on his Karate black belt and who was a child prodigy on the piano at the age of six, broke the piano down for me like it never before had been broken down. I decided when my father passed that I would master the piano. He had always told me I should make that one of my goals. Initially, I thought his suggestion was rooted in our shared love of Nina Simone. I explained this to my instructor in response to him asking why I had chosen to take lessons. Now, I wonder if my father knew that his daughter who was just like him would need exactly what the piano could provide.

“Balance,” said my instructor. “The one thing you will come away with through your years of struggle in mastering the piano is Balance, Qimmah.”

I repositioned myself on the bench. This was getting to be ridiculous. Did everyone have a private phone conference to discuss what they were going to drill into my head?? Did someone mail out a class curriculum??

“In life,” he continued. “There is the ying and the yang. Note the black keys and the white keys. They are in an eternal battle. Both strong and beautiful. Neither stronger nor more beautiful. They complement each other in the battle of life like the sun and the moon.”

I feel like I’m in Karate Kid. If he calls me Daniel-san I’m breakin’ out.

“The balance every pianist masters if they are to ever master this instrument comes with the necessary duality it takes to play it.”

Deep.

“Position your two hands at A on opposite sides of center C.”

I placed my hands as instructed, with an idea of what the instructor was going to say next.

“A pianist must play two versions of the same song simultaneously. Have each version fight and complement the other. While your hands are doing two different things, you must be excellently aware of both, Qimmah. Pulling your mind in several directions and then… Then–if that is not enough to handle– one must offer his/her heart. Putting your spirit behind the duality. And paying special attention to that as well.”

Silence.

“A lot, yes?”

“A lot…. I believe I can do it though.”

“Ah, that is because Qimmah…”

Please don’t.

“You are destined to attain balance. You Will attain balance. And the piano, as you have come to it, has found you.”

I sighed, readjusting to carry another layer of the already weighty and continuously reiterated message.

“Your father my dear, was a wise man.”

Yes. Yes, he was.

~

Allah places His message in the vessels of His choice.

They, His messages, come through any and every one of His creations.

To any and every one of His creations.

I sat at my desk holding back tears. Typing like a mad woman. Attempting to explain my mental and emotional state to a friend via instant messenger. I was multi-tasking. IMing, controlling tears and fact-checking. I typed out my feelings of overwhelming emotion and solitude surrounding the passing of my father to a friend who has become my go-to impartial party and simultaneously dialed a number on my desk phone to fact-check a quote.

fiest says: i dont know. no one understands

2:46PM

anonymous friend says: understandable

2:46PM

The phone rings and a woman answers.

“Hello?”

“Uh, um, hello. Hi, this is Qimmah from ______ calling for…”

I look down at my paper. I had forgotten who I was calling and why.

“Oh.. for Sonia Sanchez, please.”

The renowned poet responds “This is she my sister, and how are you?”

Wow. Sonia, I’m not well at all.

“Fine, and you?”

“I am well, my dear sister. And what else may I call you? What is your name again? I apologize.”

“My name is Qimmah.”

“And how do you spell that?”

“Q-i..”

“Q-u-i…”

“No ma’am, it’s Q-i…”

“Oh, Q-i, mhmm okay”

“Q-I-M-M-A-H”

“Ahh Q-I, yes, what language is that?”

“Arabic.”

“Yeesss. And what does that mean?”

I flinch. I remember having this exact conversation. A hospital room. My father’s. A tall man in a suit standing by his bed. A man I’d already been shown the night before. The one He sent. These exact words. He asked me my name just like this and what it means. Then….

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name.”

“Oh, it means the pinnacle.”

You’re going to say “that’s right” as if you knew that already.

“That’s right. The pinnacle. Yes. That’s a special name.”

“Yea, it’s tough. It means there’s nowhere to go but down,” I laugh awkwardly.

You’re going to remind me of what it truly means. As if you know. How could you know Sonia?

“Oh noooo sis. That means, that you must perfect balance. You must perfect balance to stay on that very tiny point there at the very top. Balance of the ego, the spirit, the heart. You, my sister, yes, you…”

Will perfect balance.

“…will perfect balance.”

Silence.

“Yeess, beautiful name,” she continues. “Thank you for sharing it with me. That name. Sharing that name. Opened my eyes. How ’bout you?”

“Yes ma’am. It did.”

“Now, what did you need from me again?”

I think I just got it.

“The reference for a quote.”

~

Three weeks of peaceful dark hours have passed on this fifth floor of this five floor building. Qimmah, cozy in her nest of down bedding, has almost cast the inhabitant of the only other apartment on this fifth floor fully into the depths of her mind’s storage room.

Underneath her mind’s plastic bins of painfully embarrassing incidents and half-open boxes of equally painful first-day-of-school outfits, Qimmah has placed Cee Cee. Away. Tucked very carefully, far, away. It is not exactly out of fear that she does this–the tucking away–but more so out of the need to clear away one more out-of-season item to make room for more season-appropriate troubles. Qimmah has since stretched out in this new space that Cee Cee’s absence has created–quite comfortably so.

That is, until the jingle of Cee Cee’s keys working to unlock the locks on her bent-in door jerk Qimmah to a full upright position.

Oh no.

Qimmah wonders if…no, perhaps prays that, the person occupying the hallway on this fifth floor at appropriately this fifth hour of the early morning is in fact her Super, Ray.

She knows, however, exactly who it is.

Her knee, apparently, does as well.

It jerks involuntarily causing her creaky mattress to release the small yelp that both Qimmah and her knee have purposefully held in.

The keys stop jingling.

Shit.

Qimmah can almost feel Cee Cee’s glare shoot through her front door and into her bedroom in response to the mattress’s small creak. The door of the storage room in Qimmah’s mind bursts open causing Qimmah to be so very thankful that her actual door does not.

For two whole minutes her bedroom transforms into the Serengeti. Qimmah sits atop her tree stump so very still as if giving the wild animal on the other side of the bush absolutely no reason to find her appetizing.

After several intense moments a frozen Qimmah liquefies into a sleepy retreat and blames her imagination for the jingly key sound she “thought” she “may have” heard. She also realizes how she never before realized exactly how convincing she can be.

The next voice she hears, however, after 42 minutes of sleep, is indisputably real.

“Okay, no problem,” Ray says in a monotone voice, from her building’s hallway, clearly disguising some unsettling feeling.

“No really, Ray.”

And just like that Qimmah is board-straight up in her bed again.

Cee Cee!

Cee Cee continues in her usual far-too-calm voice. The kind of voice that drunkenly tiptoes between yoga and strait-jackets.

“I just wanted to say sorry for how I acted a little while ago. I’m so embarrassed,” she almost flirts.

Qimmah presses her ear to her cold wall.

Wait.. WhaAt? Is Cee Cee apologizing? Did they fix her? Did they give her some like get-right-anti-crazy juice? Maybe she’s been drinking her “water”.

“Okay, no problem,” Ray repeats, revealing that those three words are clearly all he’s prepared for this encounter.

And then, with all effort he can gather, “See you later.”

Qimmah hears Ray’s worn construction boots clump down the stairs rejoicing with every successful step they take away from Cee Cee. And when the boots are two landings away, Qimmah hears Cee Cee’s calculated response.

“Much sooner than you think Ray. Much sooner.”

Qimmah’s eyes spring wide open.

Cee Cee’s door closes and five minutes later reopens. She closes it behind her and pauses before proceeding down the stairs with, Qimmah is sure of (even from the same spot in her bed), her usual approximate five pieces of luggage. Qimmah waits for the sound of the slight suction of air that occurs when the building’s front door is opened and only exhales after the distant echo of it closing.

She lets her feet dangle off the side of her bed to feel around and locate her house footies. Then, shuffles in a daze to her bathroom mirror grasping her lifeline in her hand. She illuminates its face.

F^&k. 15 minutes to get to work.

A steam shower, a call from a friend and a cute outfit help Qimmah shake off the bold and italicized words that had left Cee Cee’s mouth and velcro-ed themselves to Qimmah’s body.

She’s so successful at the said “shaking off” that moments later, as she waits to cross Frederick Douglas Boulevard toward her train, she fails to recognize her infamous neighbor across the street awaiting to cross it in the opposite direction.

Her neighbor, on the other hand, recognizes Qimmah instantly.

The traffic indicators glowing red hand becomes a white walking man. And the two women approach each other. One very aware. The other, not at all.

Qimmah looks up after fishing her Metrocard out of her city-sized bag just in time to see a wide-smiling Cee Cee four feet away.

Time slows down to the speed of a scene from The Matrix. Clothing billows and wind is all that is heard. The up-and-down of the two women’s strides are exaggerated. And would-be glances are prolonged to stares by the stretch of time.

For the first time Qimmah gets a good look at Cee Cee.

Light-skin. Dark caricature-like glasses. Short hair, tellingly self-cut. Mid-to-late 30s. A smile that would be lovely in the absence of insanity but made scary from the crazy.

Cee Cee’s eyes don’t release Qimmah’s.

Finally, sound penetrates the wind tunnel effect and resumes time’s normal speed.

“Hello there neighbor,” Cee Cee almost whispers when the two are aligned in their passing.

Qimmah’s words clog her throat, prohibiting any type of response.

Cee Cee, curiously enough however, is not in search of one.

She continues to walk at a normal speed, chuckling as if she knows something Qimmah is unaware of.

Chuckling as if Qimmah will soon find out.

~ to be continued ~