Real Talk Chronicles: Epistle 1 - Ghost Mothers of Ex Lovers

Dear Cold & Cruel King of Your Castle:

I was logical when I met you. I let you mess all that up for me because I fell for the same "it-could-happen-to-you" bs as other women who believe in smooth-talking men with panty-dropping ambitions. I loved you, but you were never worth that much of my attention. If only I could have seen it back then, when my heart was only semi-hardened, and I still believed in soul mates. Perhaps I wouldn't be spilling this letter on virtual pages for no one to read or take seriously. Maybe I would have been married by now instead of in disbelief of the entire institution and the possibility that I will ever find someone to love me deeply...without reservation. You sold me a dream, I brought it with hope, and now there's a no-refund policy on all the worthless emotion I've invested in your selfish, self-centered ways. I guess we both played our parts...well.

Your mother was a part of my insistence despite your obvious resistance as well. I got the sense that she really liked me. I respected her and would have loved the opportunity to have more conversations with her, but you and I broke up, so I was never allowed direct access again. And one night, shortly after I finally got the nerve to tell you to go to hell (after a year of you not letting me go, even though you were in love with and very close to marrying someone else), I had a dream about her. I never told you that. In the dream, she called and invited me to a party so you and I could talk. And when I got there, I found you with your new woman - she on your lap and you with your hand between her legs. I hated all three of you at that moment, but I went looking for her. I never found her before I woke up.

About a week later...the phone rang and it was you...telling your your mother had died and asking me to come to the funeral...where I came face-to-face with your new woman and your mother...in a very real, very different way. I believed (up until about a week ago) that the dream was her way of telling me something. Stupidly I thought she was trying to open up communication between the two of us...maybe even get us back together. It has taken me five years to realize that she wasn't telling me anything. IT WAS JUST A DREAM...but me in my "everything-happens-for-the-reason-I-want" frame of mind kept on believing.

Through clear eyes I see she took the best of you with her, and the only thing I was meant to see was that. You don't even remember me; I'm working on returning the favor.

Because you will never read this (as you are too busy tweeting and drinking), I realize I have wasted my time, but better I do it to myself than to let you continue to do so. I hold no well wishes for you; I do not forgive you, but I will try a little everyday to forgive myself for ever believing in your humanity and attempting to love you once you showed me you didn't desire it. No soul mates here; no soul mates ever.

Regards...but not high ones,

The Ice Cold Experience

? (Pronounced "Why Do They Get Off So Easily?)

Photo by Andraya Arrington

I told her I didn't love her the way I knew I should.

(I know I'm a monster who ain't no damn good.)

I told her I wanted her out of my life but that she shouldn't cry.

('Cause I won't shed a tear after this last goodbye.)

I told her to find happiness because that was my wish.

(Invite me to your wedding, but don't expect one to mine because I'm too cold for all that ish. And I'm sorry for everything, except meeting you, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't glad this mess was through.)

The very next day I met the one for me...a month later I was down on one knee. And as I send out invitations I wonder if she'll understand that when I was with her I was a boy, but my new love made me a better man...

Very "Interesting" People





So...I end up at a lounge on Saturday night and in VIP, of all places, because of a well-connected friend! I realize that the view from this much-sought-after place is exquisite because of all the insight you get here ("here" in this club meaning on a balcony where the dj sits...above the crowd). Here are some of my conclusions (as I sit here typing this blog and everyone else tries to look at me without staring, wondering why I am neither drinking nor half-naked):

• People come to these places to, simultaneously, be seen and to hide. They do so much (including pay $700 for what the club owner calls "a table" and wear clothes that, in the light of day, would toss most into either the "ho" or "bamma" categories), yet no one really sees anyone in the club. There is minimal lighting and maximum alcohol, both of which impair vision and judgement. Flashy outfits; blaring insecurities. Perfect coordination!

• VIP is so exclusive because everyone cannot handle being "very important." Some very interesting characters have just joined the birds-eye view. They are behaving like idiots. All have drinks and are excited by stupid radio music. But thats just me being judgemental. In club culture, these are the elite. They are in the place everyone wants to be...talking about nothing...loudly. And I'm sitting on a white leather couch blogging about them and bobbing my head to the soundtrack of this rainbow coalition of niggadry.

• (And this is a serious revelation). I'm in the wrong damn profession. From the VIP balcony I can see just how small this place is. I don't know much about construction, but this can't be more than 2,000 (maybe 2,500) square feet from front to back...and all these folks paid to get in...and the alcohol is flowing....at an additional insane cost per glass...and the dj probably bought his own equipment...so...why am I not a club owner? I believe that shall be my next venture (after I purchase a parking lot). Capitalism is great; even in times of recession, one can count on people dressing up in their finery and paying good money to buy drinks and dance in the dark with strangers they would probably have nothing to do with in the daylight.

Are there any important people here? Nope. Not even me, sitting here, blogging about it all and receiving all these stupid looks because I have on jeans and Coach chucks. WE'VE ALL PUT OURSELVES HERE...and we'll all leave, wanting to do it again...for different reasons.

They're playing Kanye...gotta go...

You (My Drug of Choice)

Another Andraya Arrington creation. Thank you!

Enter detox...

to make the addiction go away, it must be confronted.

Sometimes
it has a face you used to kiss and enjoy
hands that used to smack you
or make you too uncomfortable to sleeparms
that used to embrace...sometimes

a lying mouth that led you astray
told you things you wanted to hear; none you really needed
a furrowed brow you caused to do so...sometimes

Sometimes
it bites
pinches
kicks your insides
makes you nauseated.

When you don't choose an acceptable poison
your only choice is the reality of it all -
you wasted the only life you'll ever have chasing a dream
that wasn't yours to see...

To make it go away...it...must...be...confronted...

The Consequence of Mind Games



Me...before I learned
 the mind games. : - )

 Regardless of how proud my family is of what I've done with my life, my education hinders having a significant relationship with them. I'm not ashamed to be smart. Sometimes I feel like I was born to pay attention; people who don't pay attention to behaviors they don't like are bound to repeat them. I saw a lot of things in my life that I hope never to relive in any way...so I paid attention, read, wrote, talked to others, listened to them and tried to help the pain I felt growing up in a home that was silent ...except for all the yelling that solved nothing. I'm not proud to say I still yell too much, and I'm angry about a lot of things. I'm trying to move forward, and it's hard to do that on my own. Regardless of how much I pray about something, it helps me to talk about things with the people at the root of the problem. This is a problem in itself, however, especially when they don't believe they have done anything "wrong" and that my intentions are to "control their minds with my superior intelligence." LOL! But I'm serious...

A perfect example is what happened with my father. See if you can follow this interesting branch on my family tree. The man I call my father is actually my stepfather. When he and my mother married, he probably thought I had more to gain than he. I am, after all, the product of (to quote my mother) a "junkie." Yesterday was the first time I ever heard her say this. I knew my sperm donor was a hustler, womanizer, coward, liar, selfish momma's boy and all-around deadbeat, among many other things. To hear him called a "junkie," however, gave me a feeling of finality that I never felt before. There is no helping a junkie. Their addiction and the selfishness and self-centeredness that comes along with it leave no room for help because a junkie believes everyone else is the problem. My junkie sperm donor believes me and my mother are the problem...so that's the end. I guess I'll see him at the next Bruce family funeral...and eventually...at his own. But I digress...

My father (stepfather) is nothing like him. He is a fairly intelligent man, which I considered a gift. Finally someone to talk to about things that mattered to me. Perhaps he could understand me...help me. What I found, however, is that he thinks I'm "runnin' game" when I try to tell him about the things that bother me. Even though he is a great man, he is overbearing and not very open to experiences that do not fit into his personal philosophy of how life should be. He is quietly judgemental, usually voicing his diapproval in his tone and/or word choice. It's aggressive and whenever possible, I avoid talking to him about issues that would cause us to disagree. It angers me that someone who has "seen so much of the world" can be so close-minded and defensive.

I couldn't avoid him yesterday, though. My mother told him I wanted to talk to them about a very important decision I had to make for my future. She lied. I didn't want to talk to them about the decision because I really didn't want their opinions. My parents don't understand letting their feet dangle. They're security nuts, like most parents. They don't understand that every child has his/her own motivations, dreams and ambitions. They don't understand me in general, which I accept. I have no other choice because they are done growing...and as long as God is pleased with what they do, they couldn't care less for anyone else's opinion (I say that with a tone of uneasiness). Anyway, I feel like I got suckered into talking to them about what I plan to do and my father, with his usual tone of "the smartest man in the world," says something along the lines of  Okay. If that's your decision, you have to deal with the consequences of it. This was a powerplay, and it pissed me off. He knew just what he was doing. As the "child' in the situation, I was just supposed to let it slide, but it pissed me off. Parents know that most obedient children hate to disappoint them. His tone was disappointment. He used the word "consequences." The word "consequences" carries such negative undertone. It connotes punishment; "rewards" is the word people use when they want to express positive outcomes. In church, you rarely hear a preacher say, "Embrace the consequences of following God." The undertone is all wrong. My mistake was telling my father this. I told him that the word "consequence" carried a negative undertone (and that meant he wasn't being supportive, but I didn't say that part). His response was to tell me I was playing mind games with him, and that I can't play him mentally. What? I'm talking language here, not psychology. That was the moment we lost each other. He didn't like me calling him on what he was doing and tried to place that blame on me. I hated that I ever came over. The conversation did not end well.

It was the education that hindered the communication. I guess I shouldn't have stood up to his bullying, but I wasn't going to be railroaded anymore, so I pushed back. And though he threw the first blow (mentally) he accused me of trying to play him (the second blow). Truth is, I have never had and never will have the power to play mind games with my parents. My mother worked hard to give me the education she knew I needed (though now I'm criticized for it); my father did some other man's job and helped to raise his kid. I owe them too much to ever have power enough to play them.

I guess I should just keep my education to my damn self. And from now on, I'll only discuss the "consequences" of living my life from the winner's circle.