Soul Mates (A story in 130 words)

I looked up at him looking down at me. For a second he was familiar, and I remembered when he used to smile up there. A slimmer, younger face. Happier eyes. All the feelings he kept inside all day rushing forward as he leaned down to kiss me full on the lips. Soft. Personal.

Not like that moment when our eyes met, briefly, before he buried his face in my collar bone. Hiding from the face he no longer longed for. Perched atop the body that would do.

Afterwards we slept as far apart as the king-size bed allowed, and he tossed and turned, snored and spoke like he knew he had a captive audience in the visitor's space. I closed my eyes and pretended he remembered I was there.

The Ordinary Hero

You know what? It is me...doing the same thing with you I did with the rest...only different. Acting like a typical victim of 23 chromosomes from a shadow of a man with nothing to give but DNA. Can you smell his absence on me? I know the rest did. My low self-esteem attracted them like pheromones, and they knew whatever minimal expression of affection would surpass what he did. I thought loving them was enough to make them see what duck-and-dodge daddy didn't. I was so full of crap back then.

I didn't love you, though. Not even infatuation, really. You existed in my imagination; your presence was a coincidental manifestation of all the things I missed in them. A gorgeous manifestation...but a reflection of my hurt feelings nonetheless. And I elevated you to the level of "different" while I stayed at "ordinary" in awe of my own thoughts. You were just as I imagined you..."different."

I recently realized that it's people thinking they're different that makes them exactly the same as everyone else. Desperate for identity. Wanting to be separately connected. Looking for a place of social solace on Facebook or trying to enlighten the masses on Twitter. "Different"... isn't.

We all do the same things; the difference lies in our personalities. It's how we interpret our actions. How we redeem ourselves from our mistakes. Good and bad, right and wrong, and all the other bookends we like to claim really only exist in the murky waters between our ears and the cavity between our shoulders that connects our vertical halves. I guess I really liked the way you rationalized your life. How you made sense of your pitfalls...and forged ahead in life with your sense of duty. In my ordinariness, however, I forgot that pattern of thinking is employed by the masses.

It's my fault you began to think so highly of yourself. I saw you as something as bigger than me, and I didn't notice it until you showed me you thought you were bigger than me. Bigger than my run-of-the-mill complexion and body type. Greater than my sense of fashion. Deeper than my thoughts. More descriptive than my words. Well...you are...you are..."different." And you made me see I'm not.

But here's the kicker. My pride lies in my ordinary behavior. I think. I write. I live. I love deeply. I appreciate the beauty in the faults of the commoners. I'm flawed in the best way because I recognize it. I'm selfish. Opinionated. Quick-tempered, at times. I'm competitive. Talkative. Moody. I've seen the height of my anger and the depth of my sadness.  My baggage isn't Dooney & Bourke. The path I travel isn't always tread in Nikes. I'm a mess in a manageable pile. But I'm enough to understand that I don't and never will have all the answers. Nothing special...except I'm me. And that's what I've been waiting for others to notice. I'm not different, as I once thought I wanted to be. I'm ordinary people. Just me.

Leave me lost; don't save me. Let me write my own epic. File me among the ranks of nobodies who came before me, for even they had epiphanies. That's a luxury the special...the different...will never be afforded. They are far too occupied with their "special-ness."

Read My Book!

"She may not be pretty to look at...in this kingdom of the blind." (James Baldwin)

The old addage, "Don't judge a book by it's cover," is more than just an insightful, wise saying that should be applied to more than books. It's an act of courage that forces us to look at ourselves first.

Dust jackets are for those who read  books but need to be attracted by the provocative. That's their purpose - to persuade us to dig deeper because we are, obviously, in need of motivation to go forward without ease of  an"all clear" warning, especially when it comes to reading. Dust jackets are supposed to provoke a certain feeling in a potential reader. Attractive, colorful, and splashed with titles that promise a different side of life, subconsciously enciting excitement. Beneath the cover, however, there's one thing quite clear about all books - they're all books. MOST require effort.

We are visual beings, aren't we? Anything that looks good, from food to the opposite sex, we make up our minds to pursue. Different things are attractive to different people. Variety is, after all, the best part of life, but what about really varied outliers? If we are honest, we'd admit that it's okay for people to be different as long as "different" fits into available categories. Whatever we misunderstand we classify into categories we understand...but don't want to understand.

The emotionally illiterate read seedy titles with sexy pictures, believing all female protagonists want to be the damsel in distress or need their attractiveness or sexiness validated through typical comments like, "Hey, Sexy," "You gotta boyfriend?" and my favorite, "Can I be your friend?" (while committing eye-rape). Most women handle this with social grace - they don't like it, but they brush it off with a smile or kind look. Any outliers earn hasty, negative titles and are dismissed with no further thought. I'm an outlier.

I have accepted that, to the emotionally illiterate, I'm "scary."  "Scary" is a judgement call on my dust jacket, which I honestly don't put much thought into. I'm far too busy writing the book. My title is, "Me...Uncensored." I claim no pseudonyms. I'm no artist, so I don't paint my face or nails. I guess the cover art suffers even further because I don't concentrate on showing my teeth to every person who crosses my path (or showing them just in case someone crosses my path). I think a lot. Perhaps, I think too much, but I have accepted my story for what it is...a damn good piece of literature that isn't for those who don't like a challenging read.

You can't buy me; I'm not for sale. You can't bid on me; I'm not on e-bay item. I'm not cheap; Amazon didn't farm me out to discount sellers. In fact, I'm out of print and only available in hard back.

I guess all this is to say we sometimes put our feelings about ourselves and what makes us comfortable on others, placing a value judgement on the covers of others because we don't really understand what we're looking at. If she doesn't smile, she may be pensive instead of mean. If' he's tatted up, he may be a man of conviction and commitment, inking whatever he holds dearly in his skin to connect him to it. Open the book. Flip through the pages.

Reading is still fundamental. It teaches us about ourselves. It makes us examine the writer. It feeds us. Eat heartily...

Started as a Tweet...Evolved into a Movement

(This entry is based on actual tweets...)

I'm not sure if this is appropriate or not, but I just saw someone shout out AAliyah in a trending topic named for her.  My first thought was news flash...she can't hear you... But then I started to to wonder why Black people do strange things like "shout out" dead entertainers on Twitter or make obscure statements about dead entertainers with no explanation (someone on my timeline retweeted, "Aaliyah was to young girls what Tupac was to young men. RIP Aaliyah.") What was Tupac to young men? He was in his early 20s when he died; he was a young man himself, so all he could be to them was what Wayne is to them now (and I'm not sure what that is either). Tupac was just trying to find his way through. At times he was profound; at others, he was volitile. In other words, he was human, so let's not canonize him (The Book of ThugLife).

I've got a point here, and it isn't to mock the questionable words of people on social networking sites (although that's fun too). I guess I just wish if we were going to "shout out the dead," we would shout out the dead who really weren't even "shouted out" (I don't think it's "shout outted") when they were alive.

Here's my installment:

Shout out to MLK for all the marching! I appreciate it man! I'm a dreamer too!

And while I'm at it...shout out to James Baldwin for contributing to the academia of American culture that all the "Wayne-iacs" ignore.

Can't forget my girl, Zora. When Janie watched God, so did I.

And Ralph E. - You're still invisible to the masses, but no one could ever mass produce you. Can't say that for a lot of "novelists" these days.

Sojourner - you really are the truth.

L. Hughey - I'm what happens to a dream deferred. Thanks for the motivation.

Oh, and I can't forget Mark Twain - the Eminem of the game. I heard what you were saying to us, even if you used their words and rules to say it.

That's all for now GOOD PEOPLE. BE EASY...

Echocardiogram (A story in 89 words)

“…Hyper trophy…”

“Which means?” I know I sounded rude, but I was afraid.

“The muscles are enlarged,” she said casually. I understood she was used to this process of delivery results, but I wasn’t receiving. I didn’t take her nonchalance personally.

“Okay…have you ever seen this before?”

“Honestly, no. I have never seen the left side of the heart enlarged in anyone your age. Are you stressed? Are you worried about something?”

“No. No stress. No worries,” I lied.

The left side of my heart must have been yours.

Hollywood (A story in 94 words)

From all the muffled expressions of excitement I’d heard for months, I expected bright lights and celebrity – life. I was ready for it all. Out of nowhere…

I was duped, however. I got darkness and a smack on the bottom. That’s when an overwhelming wave of clarity washed over me. And, out of nowhere, I wasn’t ready for it all. I screamed.

If this is the “epitome of it all,” there’s no place to go but down.

“It’s a girl,” he said.

But not a leading lady, I thought. There’s always another star waiting to be born.

The Tweet Life of Ghostwriteme

So...against my better judgement, and at the prompting of an avid "tweeter," I opened a Twitter account. After the account-setup rigmarole, I looked at my "timeline" and tried to figure out  how it all worked. It was explained to me that I needed "followers" and to "follow" others if I wanted to make the most of my Twitter experience. Now, of course those are my words, but that was the gist of the tutorial, and there was emphasis placed on the process of following and being followed. The goal was to be interesting enough to stalk and be stalked. I have a sarcastic tone (most times), so I really like to dialogue with people to see if I'm not the only weirdo on the planet who allows sarcasm to steer her social ships. On to the Twitter frontier!

My 1st tweet: "You probably think this tweet is about you...don't you?" I thought it was a pretty good start...but I received no response. I figured if I keep the natural me rolling, I should have no problems being a virtual social butterfly. People will follow me. I will follow others. Smashing fun!

My 15th tweet: "Why would Usher make a song called 'Daddy's Home' when most Black women have 'Daddy issues'? Trust me...u don't want me 2 call u that dude!" I thought this was ingenious, but once again, cyber-silence.  Capricorns are stubborn goats, however, so I wasn't giving up.

My 20th tweet, which was in response to a "trending topic": "#idontappreciate People soaking up my sunshine!" I thought that would surely get some conversation going...or at the very least a stereotypical "sister-girl" snap in the air. Nothing. Then I got frustrated and started searching for people with interesting thoughts. Maybe they would want to follow me...or I would want to follow them.

And then I had a religious experience; I found someone with the Twitter name "Jesus," and this person was hilarious. His version of tweeting was to offer the side of "Jesus" that most people refuse to believe really ever existed - the human side. Though most people would have found this sacrilegious, I found it an interesting commentary or the classic question, "What Would Jesus Do?" or more specifically, "What Would Jesus Do with a Twitter Account?" The answer - "be followed." He or she has over 100,000 followers, yet followed no one. Okay. Now I get it.

A lot of people just want someone to pay attention to the (often mundane) details of their existence. It's understandable. It's human nature to want each individual experience to be interesting and unique, but relevant. But what does it take for me, an aspiring writer, to help draw attention to my words? Who will talk or listen to me if I just want to be funny, profound, or start intellectual dialogue? Sure, someone like "Jesus" can get people to follow him/her and enjoy and anticipate the next utterances that leave his/her lips, but I'm no Jesus. Hell, I'm not even Twitter Jesus.

So...I've realized that the Tweet life ain't so sweet for someone like me. I'd love someone to take enough interest in my thoughts to follow my links and dive deeply into the things in my head. But maybe I can't peak any one's interest because the observations I make about life are far more important to me than all my twitter fame coming from telling cyberspace about my day without purpose or prompting. Not judging anyone. Just trying to get some understanding for people like me...and I'm going to keep trying.

My 114th tweet: "Most teenagers I've encountered in class would rather take a stab at making it through the Middle Passage than to read a text of merit."

*crickets chirping - tumbleweed rolling - awkward looks all around*