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:


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))


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