Haddock and Sweet Potato Fries

My Ketchup did this all on its own...

Does this mean anything really is possible?

Punctuation Rules (Part 1) - The Way We Choose to Live....

How one punctuates a group of words is telling. We punctuate sentences with what we know about reading, writing, and thinking. In a similar way, we punctuate our lives with decisions and live with the results thereof. "The Way We Choose to Live."

Each "slice of life" is titled with a punctuation mark, but the punctuation mark is pronounced in the subtitle beneath. The subtitles are the ideas the marks represent to me, either in form or feeling.

(  ) 

(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...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.

(pronounced "End")

When it begins, I can't help feeling finished. I suddenly remember my age. Ponder my marital and parental status. I'm an emotional little girl on the inside; an undeniable woman on the outside. There is no lady in sight.

I remember Adam. Wonder if he doesn't love me because of this...if he feels more sinful because my body is out of order but looks operational and enticing. I want to cry, but the Eve in me is strong...and knows the truth.

So I sleep instead, contorting my body throughout the night to relax the pain I'm too exhausted to address. My mind flashes scenes of life many moons ago and tries to predict many moons ahead. When I wake up, I'm still in the middle of my own mess. I pull myself up and attempt to wash it all away. It only works temporarily before the flood returns, the pain crashing through me like tidal waves, yielding only temporarily to pharmaceuticals.

When it goes, I am relieved. I eat and sleep better. My purse is lighter and often smaller. Eve has disappeared, I'm left to deal with me, her distant ancestor, shaking strange fruit from our family tree. My caverns don't swell and flood. They are dark and empty. I am bit sad for it. Like it or not, it was the only reminder of my femininity, which dwells deep in my heart, but is held captive by my pride. And when it never returns, I know I will struggle with what it means to have an impact on the world if I have not made a significant dent in those prison bars.

It makes me eloquent when others deem it a curse. It is what could have been, thrown away so I can live healthily. It is the first half of an "us" that isn't likely...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Picture by Andraya Arrington

,

(pronounced "Pause")

You forget for a minute...

You forget why you're on the wrong side of the bed,

facing the window instead of the closet.

And then you hear breathing in the dark that isn't yours.

The bed dips beneath him.

For a second everything is as you imagine.
Quiet,
comfortable,
frozen in the moment of sheer happiness,
but the alarm breaks his sleep and your dream.

He rises,

no shine,

no kiss,

no idea that for a split second, he had it all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-

(pronounced "Attached")

As I stand here in "virgin-white," I think I'm being gypped. Hyphenation with minimal representation. 

But...this, indeed, may be my last chance at that power move so important to that piece of the pie Willona sang about in the opening of "The Jeffersons." The agreement that makes me honest while swallowing my bloodline in a goulash of uncertain ancestry. I mean...he doesn't even really know his father, yet he clings to the surname as if there is any honor in blind bastard-naming. (And this pomp and circumstance is supposed to be making me honest.) 

I blame his mother as she sits there weeping in the front row because she's losing her son - the instant ally made so, in utero, as a then-lover turned his back her and their tummy bug. They outnumber me and my logic, using King James' version of God's proclamation to make me feel Eve all over again. (She was coerced too, ya know!) I'm not judging his family; I'm a bastard in my own right, last-named because my mother couldn't stand the alliteration of my first name and her last name together. Daddy's name was the only suitable option (even though he wasn't suitable for anything else). All that aside, it's still MY name...

In my Adam's pursuit to offer his name to this single gal, he offered it with a ring...and I accepted. Now I'm wondering if that was just bribery - a shiny bauble in exchange for a lifetime of memories as someone else. And though my birth certificate, diploma, and degrees boast my bloodline, every accomplishment henceforth will include his.

My successes are now ours, and his success is...me...

I do?

Sign o' the Times...

So...is this what it's come to? This is an actual sign on a gas pump in Southeast DC. Once again, the oil companies passed on a great opportunity to employ the art of sarcasm while driving home the importance of punctuation. My revisions follow...

• Gasoline is harmful or fatal if swallowed? Since when?
• Long-term exposure to vapors has caused cancer in laboratory animals, but what the hell does that have to do with you?
• Avoid prolonged breathing of vapors; we've already been warned by Biz Markie.
• Keep face away from nozzle and gas tank, for there are easier ways to measure how much gas is in your tank. The gas gauge, for example, is an excellent indicator.
• Keep away from eyes and skin; safe for hair.
• Never siphon by mouth; choose a better method.
• For use as motor fuel only. The term, "fuel your excitement" is a complex metaphor. Lucky you! Your excitement doesn't really require gas. You'd be perpetually depressed at these prices if it were.  

As always, thanks for your time and attention. 

30 for 31

I just turned 31-years old...HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME! Because my birthday is so close to New Year's Day, I choose reflection over resolutions. Here are my 30 lessons for 31. I resolve to revisit them daily, if necessary, to continue my life in a positive direction.





Having dinner like a rock star
on my birthday...


1. 30 is not the new 20...I was a different dumb at 20 than I am now.
2. Grown is sexy.
3. One's level of expectation must match one's level of patience.
4. Great things come in extremely unappealing packages; sometimes you just have to hold your nose and take a look...
5. What's yours is always yours, always has been, and always will be. Nothing can change that.
6. What's not yours may have looked like yours, but ultimately, was never yours and can never be. Nothing can change that...
7. When a woman understands her position in life, desperation is not an option.
8. The minute you feel like you should let go, do so...immediately.
9. Making friends is so much more satisfying when one has a firm grasp of who one is.
10. Speak your desires...loudly.
11. God...is...listening...with Godlike ears...which means there's always a catch to the answer.
12. True love is attainable.
13. There are no "levels," only lessons. Life is not Super Mario Brothers.
14. What one "deserves" is no one else's call. Everyone always gets what he/she needs to move to the next lesson.
15. Everything I once thought about success is and always was bull. I have to do what is for me.
16. Parents are people first, which means they are prone to the same pitfalls as anyone else.
17. The things questioned and criticized in everyone else are the issues with which we are ultimately confronted in ourselves.
18. Therefore, drama comes from within.
19. No one requires a pedestal. They are overrated and dangerous.
20. Identify dead issues.
21. Embrace newness.
22. Know when to make plans; know when to throw them away.
23. Live YOUR life...
24. Talk everything out.
25. Write daily.
26. Speak your mind to those with minds. Anything else is an excercise in futility.
27. Seek adventures.
28. See more movies.
29. Read more books.
30. Have meaningful conversations; have senseless ones too.

Thirty-one is looking very promising...

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.