Happy Birthday, Talkative Stranger...

I drifted into sleep among the coughing, snoring strangers, wishing I had a medical mask and ear plugs in the bottom of my Dooney. Civic duty my right buttock! This is someone's definition of hell, proper. A hot room filled with strangers. Fancy flat screens, turned off before and after the orientation (to hell) video. Everyone scrutinizing and staring. All uncomfortable. All wondering when (the hell) we will be set free. All unwilling jury members. My sleep was short-lived because no one can never really sleep here, just as I imagine, one could never really sleep in hell. Our natural tendency toward spectacle, would never allow it. Too afraid to miss a name being called or the opportunity to watch someone else meet his/her fate. I woke up like most who sleep in public places: wiping the side of my face to avoid the awkward situation of performing "the highest call of civic duty and responsibility" with dried saliva or sleep lines on one side of my face. No one seemed to notice; people continued to cough and snore like this was some sort of dream they could sleep off or escape by slipping into a coughing fit. I put in my eye drops like a pro; hell had dried them to desert level.

Once the refresh tears took effect, l noticed the room had filled up since my unintentional slumber and showed no sign of stopping. This meant trouble. I knew it wouldn't be long until I had an immediate neighbor. (I had chosen a seat on the end of the row to avoid having two.) My first neighbor left a seat between us, which left me with an ounce of solace; the second knew her and took the seat between us, and...he...started...talking.

Within the first five minutes, I learned he was a fan of Christmas and that day, December 13th, was his birthday. He was loud about it; everyone around him was trying to avoid his gaze. Too much time on my hands, no one to monitor me, too sleepy for a filter, and under the protection of court officers, I met his gaze and gave him what he wanted.

"Happy Birthday," I said with no enthusiasm (in true me-ness).

"Thank you," he said, with the "swag" of an O.G. from the 70's. He was old enough to have been one during those days.

I was glad he seemed to be overall unimpressed with me, even though I gave him birthday wish he was screaming for. No, it wasnt my civic duty; it was attempt for me to impress God enough to be released from the Juror's Lounge (and freak the stranger out enough to think me crazier than he). Good Karma up...dismissal down. Guess God was on the bench leaning on his right arm  watching someone in the court room exercise justice or had dozed off during my birthday wish, because I was there ALL DAY. 

When I left the courthouse for the day, I saw the talkative stranger again and wished him an unnecessary "Happy Birthday!" He pretended he didn't know me. I'll see you in hell again, in two years, I thought. It's my civic duty to make this exercise interesting.

Reality sets in...

Well...another literary magazine doesn't want my writing... How do I deal with this when all I want to do is write...? Guess I should just...keep writing.

Flying the Freak Flag

Funny how similar the entrances and exits look...

I got excited and dreamed aloud today. Don't worry...I was quickly brought back to earth with a well-meaning nudge . And even though I shouldn't have, I felt stupid afterward. These are the moments when I'm figuratively naked, looking in the mirror at the body my mother promised, and scrutinizing and pinching every inch. I hate this feeling.

All day long, I walk around like everyone else. Grounded. Hell, borderline defeated. Pretending to accept my fate like a lamb on the slab for slaughter. But that, honestly, isn't me. There's a world of possibility between my ears. Anything goes. I could get up from my desk, walk out the door, enter the parking lot, get in my car, and drive until I run out of gas...in my mind. In reality, I sit in a cubicle, drowning in the unrealistic expectations of others (because they don't want the responsibility of efficiency or effectiveness), feeling like a victim of bait and switch, listening to my radio stations on Pandora. That isn't the me I want to be.

I'd much rather indulge in all the possibilities inside. But we aren't exactly raised that way, are we? I guess having low to no expectations makes any small victory, any crumb of success appear as hearty as a club roll...and we thank God for giving us what we never expected to get ourselves. But what if we expected, even got excited, about our dreams? And I 'm not talking the well-composed adult dreams where our ducks are in a row, and we have resources to play with when the day is done. I'm talking about those out-there childhood dreams of owning a double-decker bus that also serves as a rolling pizzeria (this was my cousin's dream as a five-year-old. She also wanted to park the bus periodically to paint houses). What happens to those when the reality of human-implanted limitations sets in? Do we subconsciously begin to accept low-level losses? Begin to invest in the inevitable instead of the unexpected?

Consider this: the NOTORIOUS B.I.G.'s debut album was titled Ready to Die, and, evidently, there was nothing wrong with this in the eyes of BAD BOY ENTERTAINMENT or the label that backed it. It made a 24-year old who had limited experience with the world (and I mean as a planet) believe he had "seen it all," "done it all," and had nothing left to do with life put push it to the edge of reason. Party...and Bullshit! Party...and Bullshit! That was his dream (because it all was); now he was "ready to die"...on his debut album. Why didn't anyone stop calling him Big Poppa long enough to notice his predicament? Or did he one day have dreams of owning the block instead of hustling on it and someone close to him act as gravity to send him crashing down to earth with such force that he gave up on Catholic (or private) school altogether to become the "hip-hop legend" he's been marketed as since his death in 1997? Sometimes I wonder...if it wasn't so acceptable to turn each other into legends in death, would we focus on doing it in life?

It's all a matter of finding our entrances and exits, I suppose. My reality and greater reality aren't the same. It excites me to think I'm that woman that Eric Roberson is singing about in "SHE" and "Picture Perfect," even though I'd be hard pressed to find that in anyone's reality, especially mine. That doesn't stop me from believing there is some great guy who could actually fall in love with my mind or that I can write a new version of the great American novel and/or love story. I exit my march with the sheeple when I feel the inclination to sing the love songs to myself that others couldn't be bothered to sing. Or write a piece of flash fiction that a 20-year-old gushes over because she understands how moments shape a story while publishers reject me. I'm accepting it all.

This pensive, and sometimes brooding, overworked teacher is flying her freak flag, even if no one salutes.

Picture Perfect...

E. Ro. & I
before the concert

I went to a concert at the Birchmere Music Hall on October 5th. Eric Roberson LIVE. I have a flare for hyperbole, but I'm gonna say it anyway - it was the best concert I've ever been to. Better, even, than the Jill Scott concert I went to 10 years ago. It was intimate, entertaining, and enlightening.

He said if there's anything you want to do, you should. He was living proof that living one's dreams paid off. Man...did I need to hear that. I so very much want to get out of this rut I'm in. Break out is more like it. I still haven't written a book. I haven't traveled abroad. I HAVEN'T LIVED...

And I really, really want to...like...just drive and see where I end up. Travel Route 66 and eat and take pictures...and WRITE...about whatever. And listen to good music...music that makes me feel as beautiful, appreciated, and inspired by everyday life as E. Ro.'s music makes me feel. Or get on that plane to Italy, even if I have to do it alone. I'm smiling right now...at the mere thought of just being...and being left alone by all the other obligatory bullshit I find myself surrounded by.

I'm 30-years old. And I don't mind being 30 at all. When considering all the dumb things I've done in my 20's, I'm glad to leave that decade of learning the basics behind. But if I really want to leave it behind, I can't pick up any new issues that come along with this decade. Like believing I have to settle into domesticity because my eggs may evaporate. Or settle into a career path that makes me rage against a system resistant to change. Or lower my standards for companionship because of the sad statistics attached to my dark skin. My post-adolescent idealist phase isn't over yet, and though it helps me not buy into the crap with any decade or DNA coincidences, it needs more focus and fortification. It needs support. It needs me...to live.

Well...Eric Roberson and his willingness to be so human and honest is the reason I talked to him before and after the show. I'm happiest when I see that the mess that is my mind carries some validity. I'm happy when I see people happy to do what they love. I want to be in that number...and be able to keep a roof over my head. I don't want to choose between the two. So I guess the next step is to use my brain power to figure out how I don't have to choose...

In the meantime, I'll keep my inspiration up...starting by filling my ears and spirit with whatever it takes...like E. Ro.

"I couldn't draw you better, baby,

Neck was made for me to kiss on..."

Picture Perfect - Eric Roberson

E. Ro. & and I after the concert...
I was starstruck, but he's very human

Eric Roberson - Picture Perfect - October 5th at the Birchmere

Frustration Killed the Revolutionaries

Today's Dictionary.com word of the day is "copacetic," an adjective meaning very satisfactory or fine. Dictionary.com is the the first widget I put on my phone because I wanted to have more words within arm's reach of my thoughts, which are quickly outgrowing my vocabulary. Truth is, we develop vocabulary through conversation and the discussion of our thoughts, which isn't a popular practice anymore. Intellectual dialogue has been sacrificed to keep everyone in a false, copacetic state of existence. Notice I didn't say life. I'm honestly not sure that most of us have ever experienced the fullness of life. We simply aren't willing to fight for it. But we don't want to talk about that. And if we don't talk about it, we don't hurt anyone, right? Well...

I found myself openly crying last night in front of a close friend. I didn't feel embarrassed about it, but the tears weren't necessarily for me; they were for everybody who didn't know they should be crying for themselves...because we don't talk about it. I have come to accept that I'm supposed to be doing something in life much bigger than my current job. I simply care too much about educating and helping the youth in this country to take it back from the hands that only want to run it into the ground. I want us to have a voice again. I want us to TALK ABOUT IT! Our silence is retarding our children, so we should put talking at the top of our agendas.

Aren't we moved by anything anymore? Are our homes really that great? Is the liquor really that potent? Is the kool-aid really that syrupy that we volunteer to drink it down now? Should we trust anyone to leave change in any hands other than our own?

I'm at a point where I'm so frustrated with my people that I shed tears. I'm sad for the youth being brainwashed with "no hands," and the thrill of a drug life that is force fed to us by an uncaring media. I'm sad that we still kill each other over sneakers. I'm sad that we embrace Tyler Perry films and plays more than we do documentaries about the state of the country in which we exist. I'm sad we don't know what it means to live. I'm sad that we don't thrive. I'm sad about the Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial, built by an Asian and sculpted more in the likeness of a dictator than a revolutionary. I'm sad that we always leave Malcolm X out of the conversation, when we have a conversation. I'm sad Barack Obama is called a "nigger" everyday without the word "nigger" (publicly) spoken; I'm mad that we haven't marched about it. I'm sad no one talks about education. WHY AREN'T WE TALKING ABOUT EDUCATION? I want to do something about it...I want all of us to do something about it.

And as I cried, my friend talked to me about the frustration she sees in me...all the time. I couldn't argue. Once you open yourself up to the idea that things could be different, you break hinges. Nothing shuts. You can't just settle for "good enough." It's almost like you connect with times in the past where people understood that life could be full of opportunities...an were willing to work for them. In 2011, we seem to believe the VH1 shows...we believe that's reality...and that because a few of us have cars, houses, and easy sex, and don't mind throwing around the word "bitch" as if it doesn't send a huge message of self-disdain, that we've "arrived"! If we have arrived, where the hell are we? Where are all the revolutionaries?

Dead. Killed by the frustration of being the only ones who give a damn. Buried by generations who think their visions to be nothing more than idealism. Mourned by no one but the bodies their spirits haunt...or waiting to be inspired. Oh well...no time to cry...I have a lot of work to do...

Baldwin, Bruce, and Borders

When I found out that Borders was closing its doors for good, I thought about the abstract to my master's thesis. You think it could have been partially my fault? If so, I owe them one hell of an apology...one day.  ENJOY!

      

          One Sunday after church, I stopped by a local Border’s bookstore to purchase graduation gifts for a few of my students who accepted leadership positions in a college preparatory program I teach.  I thought of the many great pieces of literature I had read throughout my secondary and post secondary school years and decided they would be the perfect gifts for such promising young people.  Among these was my favorite book, If Beale Street Could Talk, by James Baldwin.  Forgetting that I was not in Barnes and Nobles, I headed for the section of the store marked “Literature.”  In Barnes and Nobles, literature of all kinds is alphabetized by author.  I was not in Barnes and Nobles, however, so when I went to the “Literature” section and didn’t find Baldwin among the “B’s,” I stood confused.  After spending quite some time making sure I wasn’t losing my mind or my grasp of the alphabet, I headed for the “Information” desk. 

            I waited my turn and asked a timid White teenager where Baldwin might be.  He pointed to the right and said, “In African-American literature, ma’am.”  After recovering from the initial shock of appearing old enough to be called ma’am, I followed the direction of “junior’s” bony finger until I found the small secluded section marked “African-American Literature.”  I stood appalled.  Literary geniuses like Baldwin, Hurston, Ellison, and Morrison were intermingled with titles and cover art depicting sex, drug use, “street life,” and tired clichés.  Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Invisible Man sat next to The Rolexxx Club, The Bitch is Back Part 3, Forever a Hustler’s Wife, and Gold Diggers.  In addition, a nice black sign that read, “Titles may contain mature content. Parental supervision advised,” graced the shelves. 

Did the sign African-American Literature mean literature written by Black writers or for Black readers?  Was the store organized in such a way that only those seeking insight into Black America would congregate around this section?  If that is so, is this how mainstream American culture views Black America – mature content and explicit topics?  My dismay quickly became offense.  African-Americans, a heterogeneous racial group in America, are marginalized by greater society, which is no new news to me.  The reach of the marginalization, however, is offensive.  Our literary classics have not been wholly adapted into American culture; in many markets, we still reside on the fringe of literature because of the hyphenated tag “African-American.” 

            Why, in 2008 and among the mounds of academia that many Blacks have contributed to American culture, is this still so?  Will Baldwin, Hurston, Ellison, and Wright ever be officially canonized into American literary culture and placed into the “Literature” section of every bookstore beside other classics?  There is a difference between Baldwin and Zane, an African-American New York Times Bestselling author.  Their Black skin should not bind them together on the shelves.  Could it be that the mainstream culture’s view of African-American culture is so strong that it influences members of the Black community to ignore the sector of African-American literature that does not reinforce the widely-accepted, pre-conceived notions held therein?  Or is it that African-Americans create the perfect context for marginalization by embracing the stereotypical attributes of their culture instead of the meditative, speculative legacy of their rich literary and academic culture? Unfortunately, I believe the latter. I left Borders with a heavy mind and burning desire to figure out how such a travesty could be allowed to occur in a community known for fighting for equal regard, treatment, and consideration in this country?   How could popular African-American literature moved from the infinite realms of thought in intellectual arenas to the finite circles of book clubs? How could we allow it?

Adam's Apple

"Adam's Apple?"



Love how the plant on the inside
 is admiring the plant outside
and the plant outside
 is checking on the one inside.
Lady friends...



"What?"

"Adam's Apple. Women don't have Adam's Apples; only men have Adam's apples. The first night that you came to town, I noticed that you had yourself an Adam's Apple."

"Then...then you know?"

"I know that I'm very fortunate to have a lady friend who just happens to have an Adam's Apple."

-------------------------------------------

If you're a little lost, prepare to find yourself in the middle of one of the strangest, but curiously thought-provoking movies of the 90's - To Wong Foo (Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar). Patrick Swayze, Wesley Snipes, and John Leguizamo (all in drag) drive from NY to Hollywood to a national drag queen competition. Drama ensues (of course), none of which I'll get into here except the expected car failure. The car failure leads them into a small rural town reminscent of Tex Avery (in Ms. Vida's/Patrick Swayze's) opinion. There they meet a host of colorful characters, including Stockard Channing, brilliantly playing the role of the battered wife, Carol Ann. The quote from above came from Carol Ann, who Ms. Vida mistakenly assumed didn't know she was really a man in drag. It made me think about friendships among women.

When I was a high school teacher, I would cringe when I heard girls say they "didn't mess with females" because girls caused too much drama. They would rather hang around "dudes" because "dudes" weren't "with all the drama." It's a sad statement on so many levels, the most fundamental of them being that one would disregard an entire sex (and their own sex at that) because of popular (and ultimately self) perception.  

One of the best things about taking a new job is meeting new people. One, in particular, shed similar insight on this "female-on-female" criminal act of not trusting one's own sex. She said that women often judge others by what they do to others. Simply profound. And this made me want to pay homage to the women who play important roles in my life.

The first way I plan to pay them the utmost respect is by first acknowledging them as women. They are not "females," a title that offends me more than the word "bitch," but we'll save that for another post. The women who play important roles in my life deserve that much. The next point of tribute is to highlight how they contribute to my life as "lady friends," as dear Carol Ann calls Ms. Vida. It's a title that transcends being "girlfriends." Lady friends see each other beyond the many layers they put on. Lady friends ignore the "adam's apples" and hurt feelings. Lady friends appreciate and embrace one another's strengths and flaws. Lady friends rock!

I've already written about my lady friend with the bowling hand, and lifted a half-filled mug of orange juice to my friend since first grade. There will definitely be more to come...

My Cup of Tea

"Well that's what we do, we fight... You tell me when I am being an arrogant son of a bitch and I tell you when you are a pain in the ass. Which you are, 99% of the time. I'm not afraid to hurt your feelings. You have like a 2 second rebound rate, then you're back doing the next pain-in-the-ass thing. [...] So it's not gonna be easy. It's gonna be really hard. We're gonna have to work at this every day, but I want to do that because I want you. I want all of you, forever, you and me, every day..."

It's just this simple...just love me...for me. I promise I'll do the same to you.

Lady Friend with the Bowling Hand

Smiling!

No idea I took

the picture already!

(For KP)

Honestly, I thought I was a bit out of pocket to even hint that I knew anything about her business. She didn’t know me.

We bowled in the same league for years, and I’m sure she knew my face, but besides a passing, “Hey,” which was probably more a product of courtesy than interest, we had never spoken. I respected her, though. She was a bowler, not just a chick in the alley. She kicked ass, beating men and women with no apologies. And though you got the inkling that, after she was done on the lanes, having murdered the competition, she was gloating on the inside, she had true swag – confident humility. She is the bowler I hope to be “when I grow up.”

I was used to seeing her in the highly competitive fall/winter league we shared but was surprised to see her in summer doubles league last year, and (to bring this back to my first point) I guess that’s what made me actually say something to her.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I remember how I felt. I was going through “a thing.” Every day during that time, I woke up feeling my insides churning with anger and frustration. And because I was emotionally ill, my health was failing. What can I say…I had been hurt (and that’s an understatement) by yet another one of them. And I heard she had been done even dirtier than I. Her conspirators surrounded both of us, flaunting their offenses. For enduring that with a smile on her face and her focus on the lanes, she was the epitome of class in the "Bruce Book of Bad Bitches." A lady, shown best in what she didn’t do. Not that she couldn’t have done something. She just chose to deal with it in her silence about the whole situation and corrected people who needed it on a case-by-case basis. (I was privileged to witness one of these encounters.) Watching and evaluating her situation from an extreme “outside-looking-in” position made me feel free enough to walk up to this woman I only knew from her reputation of being called over the front desk microphone in the alley to come and collect all the money she had won from beating the hell out of people on the lanes and tell her what I already thought she knew – that she handled herself in a manner that rivaled that of Jesus’ treatment of the Roman soldiers who beat the hell out of him in that brutal 30-minute sequence of Passion of the Christ. I didn’t use those words, but that was the sentiment. She smiled about it and told me something I already knew – it wasn’t easy. We spoke more often after that, and I made it clear that I was working on my game so we could bowl together (one day), but we still weren’t “friends.”

Fast forward in our bowling lives and we’re back in the summer league 2011. I bowled against her, bowled the best I could, and she was impressed. A few weeks later, I cracked under some family issues, and she was the one who put humpty-dumpty back together again. Gave me her number. Told me to call her so we could talk. Was she serious? My full-scale weirdness isn’t for everyone. Didn’t know whether I should expose her to it or not…

And then I remembered what having lady friends is all about. Acceptance…PERIOD. You don’t put on airs with your lady friends. You let them see you in all your embarrassing ugliness. You let them see you and judge for themselves. And nine times out of 10, they don’t see the pathetic “you” that you see in yourself. They see beneath it all. There’s no other reason they would bother looking.

Having a lady friend with a bowling hand is an added bonus for me. Truth is there aren’t many ladies to be found in the alley, let alone friends. The alley truly exposes the consequences of the problem of Eden. It being “a male world” in there, a thought that permeates through the entire place so heavily that even the pots (bets in the bowling alley) are segregated, females often find themselves clamoring to be noticed. They use various tactics and tricks, but only the ladies with the bowling hands know that none of that is necessary. It’s a bowling alley. If you want to be known, understand the sport, play the game placed in front of you, and, no matter what, only let them see your passion for it. In simple terms…bowl. Nothing else there really matters.

And now the philosophy…if everything does indeed happen for a reason, perhaps the band aid over my twice broken heart is proof that there is someone who understands where I’m coming from and is an example of what I can do with my experiences. Perhaps a broken heart can end in (as she calls her “him”) an "other half." Perhaps not. But knowing that there’s someone on the other end of my sarcastic text messages to reply with a smile and a kind, reassuring word (or a well-placed tough one) makes it easier to face myself with hope…and become more comfortable with being me…even if that is…this. Thanks, KP!

Once she knew I was taking the picture,

she tried to act like she wasn’t flattered and gave me the half smile. 

She was saying to herself, “Take the picture lil girl,”

as she likes to call me…



THE DREAM DEFERRED!

Okay...so I'm in the process of writing an essay about the Dr. King memorial...actually, I've been in the process of writing it since last July when I picked up Black Enterprise Magazine and saw an ad soliciting funds to build the memorial. I was inspired to write then, but became too angry to do so...and let it go...for a while. 

I'm getting into it now, but others feel the inappropriateness of aspects of the project as well, and because they have jobs that allow them to write all day, they published before me. So enjoy their commentary until mine is complete...whenever that is!

Dr. Boyce: Why I Won't Be Attending the MLK Memorial Dedication Ceremony http://yourblackworld.com/2011/08/25/why-i-wont-be-attending-the-mlk-memorial-dedication-cermony/

Maya Angelou Upset over MLK Memorial Inscription http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/headlines/2011/08/maya-angelou-upset-over-mlk-memorial-inscription/

Me: Scenes from Black History Month 2011
http://toomuch-bruce.blogspot.com/2011/03/scenes-from-black-history-month-2011.html





Took a picture; Now all I need is a thousand words!

 

( ) (pronounced "Embrace")

It amazes me how easily she slides into my hands in the middle of the night...like she knows exactly when I'm wondering where she is. And my hand touches my sex...and she's there, where she's always been. Held in my hands, between my pride and my shame.

And without opening my eyes, I slide her up...down...stop. Up...down...up...down. Stop. Up. Down. Up. Down. Soon the directions blur together. Never mattered anyway. She can do whatever she wants to me then. I'm clay in her hands.

And she ends up a mess in mine...

Chapter 2... (Chapter 1 - March 29, 2011 post)

The Death Notice

People are in your life for a reason...that's it. Screw that "season or lifetime" add-on. That gives people too many options. Too many opportunities to reminisce and over-assign their feelings to (often) unwilling characters in their lives. To define "season" and "lifetime" subjectively. To assume that they were just as integral to someone's life as they made others in their own. Having too many options leads people astray. So simplify it...a reason...ONE reason...and it doesn't have to be grand, deep or profound!

I always have these fantastic thoughts too damn late. Like that cute guy who held the door open for me as I approached the door to the bank. He was just there to ensure my entrance. That's it. He wasn't meant for the long conversation I ended up having with him, and definitely not the exchange of numbers that followed. Of course, the possibility of him only being a hot ass doorman never crossed my mind until I found myself (once again) out on a date wishing I was at home watching a “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit” marathon. It just wasn’t right. The chemistry just wasn’t there. Or maybe it was me…as usual…not…there.

Haven’t been “there” for a while. You know…in that place where your hands are open and empty and you just can’t wait to receive whatever the hell the world decides to send your way. The last time I felt this way, I messed around and fell in love with someone I was just supposed to meet for a reason…to read my father’s eulogy. That’s it. He wasn’t meant for me to love…evidently, because he isn’t here now. Hasn’t been for a while. And just when I was getting used to the idea that we were one of those fluke relationships that happen when you think you’re grown, but are actually too immature to realize that real adults don’t “think they’re grown,” our paths unnecessarily crossed again and brought me to this sick, reflective blog post (which I’m writing, coincidentally, 10 years to the day I met him). This time, the intersection was deliberate…and painful.

Suddenly, I’m 20 again. Trying to find a way to bury my dead issues. Trying to get over the man who hurt me most. Then it was my sperm donor. Now, it’s Vaughn Stokes. (It’s been years since I’ve written his name…and it still stings a little.) Back then, I was damn sure a reason-season-lifetime person, believing in soul mates, “meant to be,” and the planets aligning. About to graduate from college, head all in the clouds, and stupid enough to believe that a male really understood how to love me just because he knew how to spell all the words in that trite phrase, “I love you.” (Hmmm) He even said it first. And when you’re young, you think that means something…

But in the light of too-damn-old-to-believe-in-fairytales, perhaps it was just a serving suggestion. You know, like on the front of a box of Stove Top stuffing. It’s chicken-flavored, so (naturally) there’s a picture of the stuffing next to a nice, juicy chicken leg and a green vegetable. And the buyer believes that’s the way to serve it instead of one of many alternatives that may not even include chicken. That’s how I view his love – a serving suggestion for a processed side dish. An experiment of words first with hope that actions would follow. Maybe the phrase ended in a question mark, and in my pre-blogger days, I ignored the punctuation and the emphasis. I love you? I love you? Maybe I should have paid attention and evaluated the reason for the quick proclamation. Perhaps it was my wanting to believe it and his wanting to mean it that caused our self-destruction. Maybe we let each other down…

…and these thoughts flooded my mind because I received an invitation to his wedding. TODAY! Of all days, he would choose this day to deliver his coup de grace. Would someone who ever loved me do something like that? If he knew me at all, wouldn’t he have known that I wouldn’t want to be there? We aren’t friends anymore, but this aggressive blow went straight to my heart…or what’s left of it. I left most of it with him when I walked away from our twisted romance five years ago. He was not kind enough to return it, unless, of course, it was pulverized and left at the bottom of the envelope. I didn’t check. Once I saw his name next to another woman’s and connected to the phrase “witness the fulfillment of their love and commitment to one another,” I dropped the envelope and walked away. I have no intentions of picking it up until I’m ready to throw it in the garbage. But for now, I won’t even be in the same room with it. Not that it really matters because he’s here again…with me…disturbing the peace of mind I was trying to believe in…just like I tried to believe in an “us” that was really only supposed to be “me” and “him.”

I turned a reason into a season, hoping it would end in a lifetime…and in one way it did. A lifetime of trying to forget him who forgot me long ago.

And that’s...the Truth…For Now…
Stormy S.
August 10, 2011

Aruba, Aruba! (In My Marley, Welcome-to-Jamrock voice!)

A vacation was just what I needed. Here's what I realized on the beach...

I AM NOT A TEACHER ANYMORE; I'M A PROFESSOR WHO NEEDS A PLATFORM, NOT A CLASSROOM...

I need to find another job...already...

I am a person of many convictions...and won't compromise the good ones.

I need to take a vacation every year...and deserve it...

I can go without social networking and phones for a long time...and not miss them...

I need to delete contacts from my phone; I don't need too many people there just to be "there."

I'm still trying to figure out what this world is really all about...

I'm more fun than many think.

I'm a writer...

I have writer's block ...  : - (

I need more sleep and a healthier diet.

I like strawberry coladas!

I love my family...well...the members I actually interact with...

I want to help kids, but I also want to be well-paid.

I have many eye issues, but I'm thankful I can see.

God is most present for me in places like Arbua.

I look good in a bathing suit!

I need to relax much more than I do.

I truly have a love-hate relationship with America!

If I have kids, they are not going with me when I return to Aruba! And I will go back!

N.Y. to D.C. Direct

She called me because she was frustrated about him. Well, actually it was about not having him there, but she didn't admit to feeling any kind of way really. Just annoyed. The type of "annoyed" that prompts you to pick up the phone and call your close friend in D.C. all the way from N.Y. to say, "I'm annoyed." And the more she talked about nothing in particular, the more I understood the root of her feelings, so I waited to hear his name. 

Didn't have to wait too long before she said his name and expressed frustration over him not being able to clearly express wanting to do things apart. And on top of all that...he didn't call back when he said he would. I understood this feeling. It wasn't annoyance or frustration. It was love.

The part of love I cannot forget is wanting the subject around, just because you love him. When you love someone just because they are who they are, you want them to be able to enjoy life without you...but there are times you just want an inkling that they feel the way you feel and enjoy life best with you. And when they aren't around and don't bother to call you (or call you back) to show you they feel the same, it's "frustrating" and "annoying." You know that you truly love someone when they can throw off the entire balance of your day by not being a part of it. I remember that. I remember love. It was so long ago for me, but that feeling of heart flutters and warm bellies at the thought of just seeing him will never be far enough from the present to help me rest well. But I was happy that if someone didn't love me that way, I could at least receive assurance that feelings like that existed. That I wasn't crazy for loving my subject that way all those years ago. And just because that love was never returned, it didn't mean it wasnt good love.

And understanding how she felt, I kept her from jumping over the cliff I fell from when he fell out of love with me, and assured her that she was overreacting. And that he loved her the same. And that he wasn't stepping on her feelings on purpose. And soon he called to confirm how right I was...

What they share is rare in the days of settling, loving the one you're with, and making it work. It's no-bullshit...raw...appreciation for one another and respect for the possibilities therein. It's love...in the age of everything but...

Narcoleptic Nightmares

One week he crossed the line, talking about how much he thinks about the random reckless act of idiocy we committed three years ago. The next week he was back to reality, acting like what he said was normal and telling me he was narcoleptic; I was mad I cared. I even sent him an email expressing my concern. That's the dumb side of me. I can't turn off my concern for people, even when they show me it isn't necessary because they don't care either way.

Men often let themselves "off the emotional hook," and act like there is no such thing as taking responsibility for what happens when they open their mouths. His defense when I confronted him about what he said was, "I didn't know you would take that so seriously..." Seriously dude?

Do you really think changing the subject to your health problems wasn't going to allow me to question your intentions when you verbally vomited your "in-the-moment" feelings all over the front seat of my car? Or was I just supposed to think that because you have elsewhere obligations that you're allowed to play with the single girl who writes the interesting stories because...she writes, so she understands fiction? Yeah...I know...I'm, you know, "too serious..." Whatever... I'm always crystal clear with my desires, and I'm not one to have those played with by anyone. Why would you light the fuse of a fire cracker and then act surprised because she had the nerve to explode? Seems kind of stupid to me.

My frustration gives birth to nothing but more frustration, however. Men always win. There's always a woman waiting in the wings. Their minds allow so much distraction during a typical day full of their own issues and problems that there's no room to think about how their actions affect the insignificant people in their lives. I understand this now, so I'm placing all this at the feet of the culprit and walking away. I accept that he will not follow me... AND NOW THE TOAST...

...I lift this mug of moroccan mint tea to "amazing, radioactive" you. I'm glad one of us can retreat to the sweet bed of memory without wishing for the chance to do things differently - to show some self-respect and not send the message that it's okay to be treated like a fleeting fantasy with no substance. Knowing what I know now, I would definitely have done things differently. I would have signed out my email and pretended I didn't know you for a while. I wouldn't have shared my thoughts or writing with you. But there's nothing we can do about that now...so I'm letting myself off the hook for caring for you a little too much. Not that it was love, or anything close, but even the little bit of the damn I gave was too taxing...

Sweet Dreams...

"Grateful for..." Saturday, July 2, 2011

This week was a rough one. My car was hit. Had to shell out money I didn't have. Found out that professions don't always promote professional respect. Remembered how angry I am. So...as I type this at 4:00 in the morning, I'm grateful for...well...honesty...because that's all I really got at 4:00 in the morning. I wish I had someone to hold...

Vanity...Named "Copperhead"

This was me...the schoolteacher...   

and my hair        up close and personal.

Nice...but the way I've looked for a while.

This is the new me...

...the "Copperhead."

She's sassy......not sure if anyone is ready...

"Grateful for..." Saturday, June 18, 2011 (This is a little late... : - 0 )

FISH TACOS AND FRIENDSHIPS...

We sat in my living room yesterday watching Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives and decided we would have fish tacos (homemade) for dinner tonight. I'm sitting on Bo's couch right now (the following day) waiting for them to finish cooking. And I'm having the best time I've had in a while. I'm grateful...and HUNGRY! :-)

When I Reminisce Over You...

Memory is the best backstabber known to humanity. Makes you think fondly of a person you shouldn't have met. Forget he hated you, or she always thought she could do better. Forget you never tried to work at it. Make you "remember" that you "gave your all" and it wasn't right because "y'all" just couldn't get along."

It's the ultimate penis-pleaser. Slaps you softly until you see things its way. Romance your stubborn insecurities. Slide its hand in your pants...caresses your soft parts. Calls you master...king...diva...make you love yourself too much. Gives you the part of the hero or martyr...instead of the villain. Lies to you so damn well...

...calls you the nice guy even though you know you're a bastard. Calls you "Sweetie" when you know you're a bitch. Your best friend. Your best enemy. Your interpretation of how things should have gone. Your cowardly perception. Your secret wishes. Your apologies, without acceptance.

Memory (or lack thereof) helps you sleep at night forgetting the love...loving to forget the object...

"Grateful for..." Thursday, June 9, 2011

Only one thing today...DETERMINATION to move forward. I have had the urge to cry all day while thinking about how I have allowed someone to have his way with me for so long...he cares nothing for the person I am...and I cared way too much for him...and, as a result, he's just fine...and though I'm not fine, I didn't and won't cry today...

Baby steps...

"Grateful for..." Wednesday, June 8, 2011

1. Janae Jones, who stopped me from jumping over "the cliff"...
2. A great bowling night last night
3. My mother's face
4. Thoughts
5. Laura Scott, who smiles through it all

Toast to The Grown Ass Man

Yesterday was your 30th birthday. I remembered, as usual, which made me mad at me. Why can't I just forget about you? You, who were never honest. Who never cared about who I was. Who snuck inside my heart, stretched your limbs and split the still-fresh stitches. You knew what you were doing...and had no problems moving on...

Well...honestly, I really don't hope you had a happy birthday, even though I know you did. With your wife and new family bending over backward to make everything great for you. It's things like this, and people like you, that make me wonder if God was really paying attention when the gifts were assigned, and you ended up with the convenient little package with beautiful bows and lace. It's also because of you that I understand why Karma, as a priniple, is so messed up (for lack of better words).

Karma was supposed to be the ultimate deterent for wrongdoing. A gas chamber for the soul. Just the thought of something done to another returning at a later time was supposed to make every interaction fair, honest, and good because everyone is supposed to want that in return. But nothing ever works they way it was designed. All it took was for one person to have no fear of punishment before the entire principle developed one big gaping hole...of ...well...unfairness.

The flaw in the design of Karma or Reaping and Sowing or The Golden Rule or whatever people like to call the exact same principle is there is no provision for how the action will return. Is it direct or indirect? Quick or delayed? An act comparable to what one has done or the exact same thing? Or is the return simply in believing that there should be one. And which acts yield a positive return on investment? What is being "good" to another anyway? One person's "nevermind" is another person's disrespect.

Well...whatever the answer...after the first brave soul decided that he or she didn't give a damn about the future and decided to live "in the now," Karma was unleashed in a huge, uncontrollable wave...targeted at one person but affecting every person. The first douchebag's Karma may have been direct, but not as bad as expected, so he or she could have kept right on going...and the second set affected his or her seed. And of course the children had no idea they were paying for a parent's mistake. Some could have grown angry and passed along the bitternes...and so on..and so forth.

Bottomline...bad stuff happens whether we "deserve it" or not. And perhaps that is the allure of evil or sin or wrongdoing... bad stuff was supposed to and will happen anyway, so...why bother being fair? And that's where you came into my life...the thunderstorm that rained on me, perhaps because of something my father did to some woman. Or the curse that one of my late grandfather's baby's mamas unleashed when he left her high and dry. You were the proof that the very thing you don't need is dressed up like the very thing you want. You made me a Karma-carrier.

So...now that you're a grown ass man, I hope you're prepared to watch all you have unleashed returned through your own personal Karma-carrier...consider it a gift from me...

The Paper Plea

I don't have to tell you this sign is in the women's bathroom; I've heard men don't use toilet paper...unless in dire situations (I'm sure you can figure out what I mean). In any case, this is a weird sign for ANY bathroom. What other paper would anyone put in the toilet? Okay...I'll allow the occasional paper towel. Some people, for whatever reason or another, might flush a paper towel, but other than that...? And if paper towels are the problem, why not just say, "NO PAPER TOWELS IN TOILET!"?

Signs like this are meant to combat a habit or practice identified as a problem. "NO LOITERING" signs, for example, are usually posted in places where folks linger about and make property owners uncomfortable. So...what kind of paper is a problem in this particular restroom? Post-its? Loose leaf? Graph paper? If anyone decides to post a sign like this, I think it should be much more honest, catchy, and unforgettable...like...

"TOILET PAPER OR DIE!"

"ARE YOU SERIOUS, BROAD? DON'T FLUSH THAT!"

"WOULD YOU PUT THAT ON YOUR HOME TOILET? OKAY THEN..."

"IF YOU ATE PAPER, WOULDN'T IT BIND YOU UP? THEN THINK OF MY FEELINGS!"

Poor toilets. Sat upon. Used. Taking everyone's...crap. Flushed and often abandoned. When will someone stand up for you? I'm just saying... 

The Powder Room (2011)

What the hell was going through the mind of whomever decided to order this sign? Seems like a clear case of information overkill, plus political correctness, multiplied by poor connotation. The end result - a sign of sensory overload. My issues with this:

• Since when has a bathroom needed a room number? I've never heard anyone respond to the question, "Where's the ladies' room?" with, "Oh...room 278." Usually I hear something like, "Last room on the right," or "Down the hall, look to the left, and you'll see THE SIGN." And that sign usually has a stick figure with or without a dress and/or some gender-specific word to tell whether to expect urinals or not.

• "Women's Toilet"? Really? Not "restroom" or "bathroom"? I don't think I've ever heard someone ask for directions to the "toilet." The connotation sucks; it gives me the uncomfortable image of one toilet for everyone to use and no sink or mirror, which is gross.

• The wheelchair is very close to plowing down the woman in the sign. While it makes me laugh, it also makes me feel like an insensitive jerk for doing so. I'm not laughing at the wheelchair; I'm laughing that the stick figure is about to be kneecapped. Does it really have to look like that? Besides, aren't all restrooms handicap accessible? Because it's, you know, "the law," why the need for the ostentatious sign?

I bet no one even thought about this as they rushed to relieve themselves. Guess that's why the world needs me.  : - )

Lessons My Mother Taught Me - Mother's Day 2011



Mommy then...before motherhood.



1. I don't need make-up to be beautiful.
2. Pretty girls don't have to tell everyone they're pretty; it's evident in everything they do.
3. It's not what you say; it's how you say it.
4. It's okay to say, "I deserve better."
5. I wasn't an accident, even if I was totally unexpected.
6. Life really does go on.
7. "Generational curses" don't have to be.
8. You cannot save everyone.
9. The best mothers don't want to be your friends until you're old enough to understand what that means.
10. God can take us places we never expected.

The first 30 years have been great, Mom. Can't wait to see what the next 30 will bring to us. Happy Mother's Day!



Mommy now...with her big baby.



Worth Your Time (A Toast to My Favorite DMV Artist)

It's funny how I've come to need him EVERYDAY. And I'm not embarassed about it at all.

Phil Ade - Don't sleep on his skills...
(picture from adventoutpost.com)

He rides shotgun with me to work every morning and controls my road rage. Now I shake my head when those VA tags cut me off. "Life is too short, we ain't got time to waste..." he says. His perfect timing amazes me. By the time I reach King Street, I feel ready for anything. I take the key out the ignition and say, "Yes, Phil..." because we're in agreement.

I love him so much I share him. When someone is in the car with us, I never tell the unsuspecting passenger that he/she is about to love him too. Instead, I wait until the conversation is heading for a dry area, and I introduce him into the background. I let him speak for himself. He's thorough enough to do that. By the time that ride is over, I've gained another follower. He leaves with them, but I'm not mad. I can always get him back. "You're always there, in my love..."

He loves MD like I love DC, and I hope he never goes Hol-ly-wood! That would be a waste of a young one. He's Unusual...an old soul... a Rapper Eater...Like Dat. He started on JV; now he's The Letterman. He's Hip Hop over rap beats. He's Phil Ade...google him...download him...support him!