When A Black Man Loves - a romantic journey

Getting the Writing Feeling

Zachary M.C. Harris
Wednesday, August 12, 2015

I think maybe it’s time to write the next chapter in a never finished book, which is “When a Black Man Loves.”  Some of it will be through another website of mine in which I will seek to deify the Black Woman, but it’s also because maybe the spark is coming back, or just the harlequin romantic has resurfaced who can look, imagine and dream the possibilities in my mind and it’s time to just let it flow.

Maybe it’s the combination of certain things happening, like Louis York’s “Clair Huxtable,” Jill Scott’s fine ass releasing her latest album, and Maysa’s “Keep It Moving” resonating through my soul.  Could be that I feel adrift and alone amongst all of the tomfoolery that I see within my generation of African Americans, some of the generation above and some below.  It could be that looking at what could be a certainty for me – prostate cancer, as my father is terminal with it and it runs in our family – that I am getting back up to where I was before.  I can love at my past loves, know what and who I miss and why; look to my left and my right, and know what I can’t settle with; and look around, and wonder about the possibilities.

It is the lovely voice and honesty of someone somewhat distant that pluck at my heartstrings and makes the engine rev again, like a cat revving up and continually backing up its rear legs only to leap forward and pounce at the object of its attention.  Damn the small things, and in some cases the large ones, as the true beauty of the person has shone through.

I think in poetry but am still writing as prose, allowing the lightning to slowly transition across my body like a ripening second orgasm heating up my spine vertebra by vertebra until I am literally praying to God to let it all come forth.  The music beckons and the sirens sing, drawing the inner me that has been restrained for so long.  I not only see my writing, but my visions once more emanating out into a number of different mediums, barren to the world and fine with the assumptions and false conclusions.

One year ago, I realized that the next thirty years of my life would be devoted to wine.  I might not even have that long, but wine and the extensions of it to life that I see and envision, I seek to make the most of.

It’s coming.

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