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January 22, 2006


When I was trapped in Brooklyn, when I was homeless, when I was 29 years old; I used to listen to Jose Feliciano's rendition of CALIFORNIA DREAMIN' over and over again. I'd tell myself it was true; that all the leaves were brown, and the skies were gray; but that I'd be safe and warm if I was in L.A. I could close my eyes and drift back down memory lane, to times that were a lot happier for me; even though one thing is true - as true now as ever before - I was never safe, except when in the arms of danger; when the Angels would intercede and protect me from flying bullets, metal blades sharpened to slice through flesh, broken glass in motion, and burning rings of fire. They've been there for me so many times, I can't count because I can barely remember; is it a dream or is it De Ja Vu? I've been here before. And if anger is your friend, don't you know? When you die you'll come back again.

I ain't comin' back no more. I thank God. I can feel THIS for sure.

Angeles had an instore today on Pico; some new spot called 33Third. Original name, huh? Used to be Martin's records. I remember going in there when everyone had label jobs, slanging boxes of waxes and CDs and DVDs; hooking up there to meet the Japan connex to move the shit overseas, with ease. Not me, you know I never had no label job in L.A. except helping a lot of cats who had label jobs make it look easy. Wait, maybe I AM one of the Angels. Maybe that's why I can see it so clear. I couldn't choose what to wear; sometimes I get confused about what era it is - then I remembered I can wear Red now, anytime and anyplace I want to. Oh yeah, I used to wear a flaming red Cardinals jersey and matching lid to the hood with bright red matte Shiseido lipstick when I was at Venice and my man was from Sho'Line. So I wore red velvet.

Chace sent me to We Jammin for Jerk Chicken and Chicken Patty. All the Jamaican men can never get enough of me. The cook brought out my order special, no passing it through the window like everyone else's. The Jamaican women all hate me, even though I greet them and smile and give them a lightweight compliment. I was carrying my Haitian pocketbook, the one I bought from the woman on the beach in Puerto Rico who only spoke French Criyol except for the word "Flatbush" as in Brooklyn. The woman on the pocketbook is Black, made from brown-red leather; but her eyes are Chinese. Except for her complexion/leatherface, she looks exactly like me.

It hits me when I bring him back the food. Exactly where I am. Mid City. Pico and Meadowbrook. Went to the lickastowe. Lime Perrier 40 oz. Used to be O.E. back in the days, or Crazy Horse. I was alone. Used to be with Problem K.I.L. he lived on Cochran and he was my boyfriend until he fucked that nasty whitebitch Marika with the flat ass and the blue eyes. I took him back, but just to live in my spare room in Oakland with his Son after he had a baby by Lisa the Latina stripdancer. He left to live at Mystic's but he had another baby, so I hear, with a methaddict snowbunny; she brought the baby to the funeral when he hung himself in Lisa's parents garage. A few blocks down was where someone, either some Mansfields or some By Yo Self Hustlers, or some Bloods, or maybe even some Crips, shot and killed G-Nice K.I.L. when he was sitting in Smuge's parked car infront the lickastowe. G-Nice was the first gangster rapper I knew. Who wasn't really a gangster. More like a comedian with a marker or a spraycan. But shit that m'fucka could really really rhyme. Since's he's resting in Peace I'll say the truth; he raped me at a party on the Westside, tore my clothes and put his hand over my mouth while he did it...the whole nine. My brother JASE was there but I could never really tell him what happened.

When I look around I see all my family, my extended family, my Angeles family, around me. Chace and his whole family, it's his Mama's birthday and there's three generations in front of me. He used to tell me I was too fat, too white, not his type...but his daughter's mama sure does favor me. I know now that everyone's conflicted, not just me. I know he's really my friend, and my brother. And the same way I grieve every single day, and every single night, for my cousin who's resting in Peace; he grieves for his. We miss them.

We don't ever say it out loud, but they're with us. When I look around and see everyone with their kids, it hits me. All of my babies are dead, they never saw the light of day. And all of the men I ever truly, really, truly loved; they're dead too. They had babies, just not with me. It overcomes me and I have to go outside because I don't want to cry in front of everyone. But if I did burst into tears, no one would ask me what's wrong. They know. I know most of the time no one really sees me even though I'm standing here, and I know most of the time I talk no one really listens. It's after I'm gone that they realize I was there, and I did what had to be done; or that I spoke, and I said what had to be said; the thing that no one else wanted to think or hear, much less speak. I look outside and I know that G-Nice and Problem and Scout are there, and I know Bigga B and Josiah are there. And a lot of the other dead homies.

I've never said it to Chace, or to anyone besides Lord Scotch 79th...but it's true. Even when there's not a lot of folks at a show or an event, you still have to rock - 'cause there are a lot of dead B-Boys and B-Girls in the house; and you'd better give them a good show. They deserve it. After all, they died for our sins, so we could live on.

When I'm gone, I'll be right here. Always remember me. Know my name. Belive that I was never out for money or fame. It was always love. And the dreams of finding the Lost Angels, and the hopes of learning the lost-found jewels. Even if I go back to the essence today, IF I SHOULD DIE TONIGHT, I know my soul will live on. And on. And on. And if I never told you before, I love you...with all my heart. Don't let my love be in vain. With an ice-cold heart, and a life full of pain, simple and plain...

I Love Allah,

Miranda Jane


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