There’s just so much.

I wrote my memoir in 2017 and it covered my life up to that point. 50K-ish words.

Since then 3 years went by and I could write another 50K just for those. So much happened. So much was felt.

We’re wrapping 2020 with the biggest infection and death rates we’ve seen so far. It’s beautiful out there in Cali, as usual. I’m up for sunrise and sunset, trying to catch that light, that softness. Christmas songs on the radio on my way to the playground where the rims are now locked (while tennis players are chatting with no masks on next to it, just normal things at this point). I keep shooting. Made a few threes through a rim reduced by a third, not bad.

Gentrification is in full bloom and killing me, displacing people and transforming neighborhoods in searing ways. I wish I could CTRL+Z that shit every single day. I’ve witnessed heart wrenching situations this year. I so want to protect things, mostly peace and black joy, and I cannot.

The way Google did Timnit is so hurtful. Juxtapose this to the millions of people in the streets protesting racial injustice for months earlier this year, how social media is nothing without black folks,  and gentrification. Implications are pretty clear. I came to the same conclusion in my book.

Clarity bitch-slapping me and it’s not really that I don’t like it, it’s more like I need a 48-hour long hug.

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