uhmmm

May 26, 2009 § Leave a comment

So I am doing a lot of writing about emotions and feelings etc etc etc. And though I get tired of writers who do a lot of it, I know the importance of just getting the crap out… brain farting, emotional laxative taking, heart defecating type of spit, spew, coughin and shhhhhh!

Anywho, was in a conversation with a sister friend discussing Alice Walker, Rebecca Walker, their estrangement, children, feminism, its effects on their relationship and Alice’s role as a mom, Rebecca’s adult responsibility or lack thereof and the sum collective. Eventually, the conversation took a detour and ended up down this road:

Me: when you met your ex were you concerned that maybe you wont get pregnant?

C: not at all: although i did wonder what was taking so long…LOL

Me: how old were you when you met him?

C: it was 94…so i was….(doing the math in my head) 26…yeah i turned 26 that year but i was 25

Me: awwwwwwwww you found love in your mid twenties

C: omg… you’re a FOOL

Me: love is a b!tch!!!!

C: no, he’s a b!tch…love is beautiful…LMAO

ME: I’m not just talking about him. I’m talking ’bout lovin men period. i wish i could love a plant instead. but then that f*cker would die in the fall. hahahahahhaha..

C: lol

Me: lol…u still believe in love?

C: of course. love isn’t the problem…humans are

Me: and how the hell do we handle that? i cant be with the plant

C: just love the crazy ones from a safe distance… LOL. that’s the best advice i can offer; for instance you know i still love ((what’s his face name)) but if we lived in the same place, i’d be in jail right now from trying to kill him because his dysfunction was too close for comfort

Me: lmao…homicidal thoughts huh?

C: lots of them.

Me: you need a plant…LMAO!!!!

C: I certainly do…lol.

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keeping it in perspective

May 18, 2009 § Leave a comment

you haven’t done anything to deserve my heart. nothing particularly amazing to sweep my feet from beneath me. just little things that seem juggernaut size upon remembrance.

and I hate that…

hate that your memories creep on the floor of my mind. or exist like ticking sounds of time and the space of our sharing making thuds upon my cranium. songs I don’t like but now listen to because they played when we were…or they played while in your…and they played…they always seem to play…somehow…because you litter my skin with memories.

although they say one must never say never, i promised to never immortalize a man in my heART. ever again. but like the saying goes; never say never. ‘cause here I am rebellious to my own rules. etching you in the legacy that will outlive both author and her runaway train of emotions.

i like you. an ordinary specimen of man who upon coming into me, normalized my erratic lady cycle. there is nothing special about you. really. I swear by it. I tell myself this. regularly.

you

are

just

reg-u-lar.

but somehow with dazzling effects; smiles. laughter. untouchable bliss. peace. all in tow. just for me. in that presence of yours.

but I don’t want to love you. fear of it hurts like sadness. I mean what would I do with love for you? what could I possibly do with that or myself? seriously. what could I do with my self if it’s loving you? after all, you did say you want my heart. my love. yet regularly ignore the very beat it makes.

then again…what should I expect from a ‘regular’ chap?

life

painting by: Xan Xi Bethel

part of the problem

May 13, 2009 § Leave a comment

i think
his heart is a nomad
she pursues
hoping one day
it’ll stop
and break beat
with her

but moratorium is a difficult feat
for him
and that heart of his.

so i tell her:
most humans don’t deserve all of you
just bits and pieces
of your excess.

she chalks this golden penny
of thought to some sort of bitterness
on my part.
and i am willing to admit being
a part jaded, one quarter cynical
once jasmine honeysuckle & magnolia woman
now unwilling to walk through
the charade of plucking petals
chanting
he loves me he loves me not.

the thing is; we don’t agree on a lot
and i never minded that much
but this time
i really want her on this
’cause its hard to move forward
when the two sides of me
are warring about the direction.

loquacious

May 7, 2009 § Leave a comment

Catch me in a really good conversation and you’ll notice I have a disposition to talk. Yup! I tend to babble. And then I have these pregnant silences. Loud. And deafening. No…not the kind that are made for heavy effect and pondering. Just silence. Pure. Because I am done and have nothing more to say. I am usually quite okay holding the phone as the minutes distance themselves from the hour with nothing to say. By which time I wouldn’t have noticed how much time elapsed since you and I broke word. Welllll that is, until you say you have to go or some random stuff crept through in the form of an idea and we’re picking apart the fractions of another topic. But I like being silent with people as much as I do conversations with smart, witty and eccentric personalities. As a child, I spoke to myself. A lot. Whole conversations. Responses and all. Probably part of the only child syndrome. As an adult, I keep it at a verrrrry minimum. Exercising discretion. Save for the occasional reprimand, soliloquy, reminder or thought spoken out loud. However, select adults are greeted with the child of my bygone. Yeah…I think that’s what happens. The ghost of my inner-child comes to visit every so often.

And since I am in a talkative mood, it should be said; I moved into my new place [sometime in October] and haven’t had a television. 6 months and every now and then I am wondering if I should just relent and visit the electronics store. My sister friends have grown accustomed to evenings at my house or sleepovers where we sit, eat, sip, laugh, talk, listen to some music, dance, but no television. My male friends too. This ‘no television’ business isn’t an entirely new stint since my mom refused to buy a television until I was a junior in high school. Yup!!! I was the only 14yr old in my group of friends who didn’t have a television in her home. It was 1999…the world panic stricken about the millennium, the religious preaching doomsday messages and the geeks pondered the millennium bug and being Y2k compliant while my mom leisurely decided to make a pact with “Sharp.” This may seem a tidbit extreme for some but it did me good. I’m still singing her praises. My only bone in this getting a television contention is sports. I love sports. Love watching the games and what not. Lack of television doesn’t go well with that. But even in the past 6 months I was still able to watch the super bowl and some other games without the television. the debate continues…do I really need one? Do I?

So I am going over my books. All the unpublished but complete books. Forever tweaking and editing and being an impossible perfectionist when I stumbled upon an old poem. The simple and organic type. I swear I read it and heard white noises. And that is big! At least for me. Very few, probably 3 pieces or so, if that many of my pieces I’ve ever really enjoyed or have had such a reaction/feeling to. More times a piece is written to get to a place, to exhale, take a breath, just because…etc etc…and when it’s out. It’s out. Then I hope someone, at least one person, digs it. So to look back upon a piece and that sensation wash over me, was really nice. I guess it’s because it reminds me of a time when the effects of oxytocin & testosterone had me bonding and believing in all kinds of chemical stuff. O how I have changed from that person. Here is said poem:

Reciprocity

She is an enigmatic oeuvre,
The reminder of things best kept secret,
The maestro behind the jazz
His sonata
That reverberates from
The tiny forced-open pores
Sitting on the skin of life.

And when he looks,
He sees her and takes her all in
Like the next best thing
Since the last best thing
Dissolved by the tangible
To a state of being incorporeal

And it feels like magic.

I read this smiling at my innocence. Hump…smdh… thank god I never believed in santa clause. I wonder how long it would have taken me to get over his non-existence. Uuhhhhmmmm. I met a guy. A boxer. We’ll leave his name out…don’t believe in name dropping. but he’s fun. I purposed not to write about him. Shoot!!! I purposed not to immortalize any more men in my writing. Except my brother. But…o well. So I met this boxer and he has the tightest rear end {male readers I apologize} and the best chest …okay as you can tell he makes me lust. Which is rear…rear I tell you!!! REAR!!! All this openness is going to get me in trouble. My god!! Somebody please shut me up!!! ((talks to herself…just write it out girl…write it OUT!!!)) the conversations are feather light and airy. I laugh a lot. Belly full of roaring sounds. Of which I’ve been in need of for a while now. We’ve sparred a few times and it has helped my body be in better shape. However, there is just something about his presence that is fun & soothing. We don’t have heavy profound conversations, almost on purpose, though it runs the gamut from sports to careers. Nevertheless, that last line “it feels like magic” kinda reminds me of him. No it’s not like that but something about him feels magical. I guess he’s one of those people and I appreciate the energy of his presence. BUT it should be mentioned; he has been placed on my blocked list a few times. Boy does he annoy me too!!!!

On that note, let’s shift gears. Last night I was at this rustic, artsy fartsy lounge on N6th & Berry Streets in Williamsburg Brooklyn. It was “Reggae Tuesday” and I have NEVER, I repeat, NEVER heard so many nice smooth reggae songs flow one into the other like that….except at this place call “Sip & Chat.” On the outside, this location looks like a regular building…quite discreet but inside the bartender whips up a mean ‘sex on the beach” and the deejay spins like he learned the trade at a few Stone Love dances or some other Jamaican dancehall for his very diverse and cool crowd. My gracious that white boy knows his old reggae like it’s some genetic predisposition. So my body swayed and hips rotated in their sockets to the smooth rhythms of Beres Hammond, Cocoa Tea et al and for that moment, I was home. In some backyard dance under the moonlit, star blanketed sky, with a skimpy white skirt gracing my thighs and breezy yellow halter holding not too generous but generous enough breasts ransom in year round summer heat waned off by the sea breeze and good vibes. At the end of the night, my thighs hurt, my heart was light and bowels free. I needed to pee!!!

((here’s that silence spoken about earlier))

dialogue in commute

May 4, 2009 § 1 Comment

watched myself
pass by
in the mystery of shop windows;
going unnoticed
between books & people
pushing pass
surface emotions.

i tell myself i can do this;
can introduce my self to people.
‘ll Probably say:
“i’m a girl
turned woman in commute…”

((leaving that statement half finished to ask;))

“do you listen
to the road rage
folding itself into
the horns of anger?”

((rehearsing that))

Until…
once again i’m at that park
in Brooklyn
crawling out of my skin
& Rorschach’s test won’t convince me
that hanging it upside down on a branch
to be nude in moratorium
is lunacy

ByTheWay,
i changed my mind
about that girl thing;
i’m just a person.

you know…

enamored with colors and images
falling from the lips of men
with madonna whore complexes.
& i’ve been in therapy enough times
to know what that is

& in case you didn’t know
there is intellectual comfort
in reading odd books
and cereal boxes
— maybe you don’t need to know that—
cause that is the normal stuff
but I’m telling you anyway…
…a just in case kind of thing.

however
u might find this particularly interesting:

i was once diagnosed a lot of things

until they concluded
my ego states are normal fragments
of a healthy personality.

some still think i’m some sort of  functional crazy.
but anywho,

what’s your story?

Where Am I?

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