Security Blanket

I like it when my situation changes sometimes. And sometimes I hate change. I just plain ole don't like it unless it's the kind of change that involves large amounts of money being thrown in my direction. Let me preface the previous comment by saying, yes I know I can make a ton of stripper jokes, but I don't always like to direct my humor in the most obvious fashion.

My efforts at writing are sometimes affected by my inability to accept change and be okay with it because my mind and my ideas keep rotating one after the other and I can never really settle on a subject because I keep adjusting it; changing it; evolving.

I like the word "evolving" because it seems more mature and not so flaky and young.

Evolution to me denotes some adult-like skill to see change is coming and handle it; be steady; act like a grown up (this is what my father would say to me at 14 years of age which kind of pissed me off because the man was 39 and still didn't know how to handle his money and would ask me for bus fair...another time another blog post).

Placing the idea of change; its philosophic fabric in my mind's hand and trying to weave it into some kind of security blanket, never worked and the threads would stick out at weird angles and unravel into this big mess of cloth that left me; that leaves me crying and confused and inconsolable.
I want to patch things but I can't thread a needle or sew worth a shit and I can't always accept things and people and situations will not always be the same.

I've taking the sewing metaphor too far and I probably sound really stupid or like I'm trying to be overly smart or important and I'm really not. I just want to try and make sense of why I don't want to let go of things as they are.

Miles to Go ....

Sleeping would be a good thing to do right now since I’m tired from work, but I don't have the need to do so just yet so I am going to write. About what I have no clue so I will just try a stream of consciousness method and see where that takes me.

It's late Tuesday afternoon and I am waiting for a movie to come on. Namely, Repo Men with Jude Law. It's sad to even admit because that movie made all of $5.00 at the box office, but it is something to watch and I will get my money's worth of my $200 monthly cable bill.

I also have my ceiling fan on and the heat going at the same time which kind of defeats the purpose of the heat, but that's the only way I can comfortably sleep. But I'm not sleeping right now so having the ceiling fan on is pointless, but I don't have the energy to turn it off so I will just sit here in my bed and have the upper half of my body freeze due to laziness.

All these thoughts are words on a techno which I in small parts make my diary. I haven't had a diary since I was a teenager. It seems pretty silly and juvenile to have a diary so I guess when you become an adult they call it "keeping a journal."

I have something in my left eye and it's tearing up so I'm sorry if there are misspellings.  I also just chipped a nail. Tragic.

This stream of consciousness thing is pretty cool and just saying what comes to mind is liberating and since I tend to do that wherever I am, it’s also pretty common for me.

I am wearing different socks because I can't locate the matching pairs. I think elves really live in my basement even though it's finished and not creepy ...maybe that's why they live there. They need somewhere warm and nice to steal socks and bake delicious, delicious cookies.

My Heart Will Go On....With a Floatation Device



See this doesn't happen if you drown!

I can't swim.

I am the epitome of the stereotypical black person refusing to learn how to navigate the water by flailing their arms like a windmill.

I really don't care if it's good cardio.

I just have an unnatural fear of the water. I don't think it can hold me. I think I will drown and it will not be the romantic kind of drowning as there was in the movie "Titanic."

There will be no hot guy saying precious and loving words.

There will be no James Cameron telling me to look more forlorn and tortured.

There will be no Celine Dion singing passionately about my demise.

There will just be me with my hair getting really messed up and probably no one to save me. This is what I think about any time I see a body of water.

I want to say I blame this on my father as he almost drowned me (unintentionally) on a family trip to Wisconsin when I was a young child.

Let me preface this story by saying I love my father. He is a good man and husband. He just wasn’t very good at keeping an eye on me so I would get lost in a store or slam my finger in a car door. But, as a child, you have to eventually learn that you can’t depend on everyone – not even family.

When my father was “teaching” me how to swim, he said to let him know when I wanted him to let me go. I responded by saying, “OK dad. Don’t let me go, yet.”

Readers, we can all guess what happens next so I won’t bore you with the near death experience details except to say that my glorious glimpse of heaven at the tender age of eleven involved mountains of cupcakes and no school.

I’ve never attempted to learn how to swim since that time.

I just use the old psychology trick of blaming a parent for my shortcomings as an adult. It’s an American thing to do – and most convenient.

Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

A friend of mine complimented me on my hair this week. It was freshly done; dark and sleek. I knew I looked good. Then again I always believe this.

Curious, my friend asked if I think about wearing my newly relaxed tresses in their natural, kinky form. My diplomatic, soft answer was, "Hell no!"

She wasn't taken aback by the tone in which I answered, but laughed and asked why. Honestly, I had to actually think; delve deep down and wonder why I had such a strong answer to this question.

It's not because I'm ashamed by my hair's natural rough texture or its proclivity to kink up at the mere thought of any kind of rain or moisture.

I simply believe I look better like this. But is this my belief or one of a society that deems me prettier the longer and straighter my hair?

My mom came up in the time of the afros; black power fist combs entrenched and entangled in proudly nappy, dark black and brown manes.

I was raised in the era of  hot combs and Motions chemical relaxer. Long, luscious tresses flowing freely just like in those commercials with, well with white women.

I didn't see very many women of color on shampoo commercials when I was younger so my sense of beauty was somewhat shaped by European standards. I will admit that.

However, I also had my own ideals of African-American beauty and true pride in my appearance. I reveled in my darker skin and preferred my fuller lips. I loved my wider nose and shapelier form. I just didn't like my hair. Not because it was nappy and I was embarrassed. It was just really a pain to comb and style when it wasn't straight.

As a young girl from five to 10, it sometimes took three women to do my hair. My mom washed my hair; my Aunt Dee Dot straightened my hair with a hot comb; my Aunt Rochelle would French braid my hair.

When I was 11 and got my hair relaxed, it hurt like hell. It hurt like walking barefoot on hot coals while eating jalapeño peppers covered in hot sauce, but damn if I didn't look good afterwards. My first major lesson as a pre-teen girl: Beauty is pain.

I don't think anything is wrong with how one wears their hair. Like decisions about whether or not to watch reality television, it's a choice.

I choose to straighten for convenience. I'm not necessarily making a statement about my race and beliefs of maintaining some invisible ethnic code of morality.

A subject no matter how trivial to some can be given power purely off the importance placed behind it. My hair and what I do with it is my decision and no one else's.

The Dream ...

The work never matches the dream of perfection the artist has to start with.  William Faulkner

 
Writing gets so overwhelming for me at times -- actually most of the time.

Doubt is that little shitty devil sitting on my left shoulder (it's on my left shoulder I think because I'm left-handed) telling me how my writing sucks; my thoughts are puerile and trivial.

I believe it sometimes so I'll start writing and then stop.

To sleep perchance to dream -- about ice cream!

I haven't written a book yet. I keep starting and stopping. Nothing I'm writing is good enough. I'm trying to find my voice through my story and my voice is raspy and weak.

Writing is the only time my massive ego folds and becomes small and goes into a little corner in my subconscious and refuses to leave.

I believe this happens because I don't want to be delusional in my abilities or fool myself into believing I'm better than I actually am. I am not trying to be that girl on American Idol swearing up and down she can sing when she can hold a note no better than Rex Grossman did a football in Super Bowl XLI.

This means I feel I have to approach my writing humbly, but in my humbleness, I allow doubt to creep in and it becomes this self-defeating spiral from which I have to claw my way out every time.

Sometimes I fail -- miserably. Other times, I find a way to make that voice, at first raspy and weak, get a little stronger and a little louder and a little clearer. I go step by step, word by word, thought by thought; stacking my collective paragraphs into stories and anecdotes that might make you all think or chuckle.

I always hope it makes you do both.

I also should admit I lack discipline which is a big part of being a writer. To sit down and still write and compose and not get up while that damn cursor blinks at you -- laughing, taunting -- it's, well it's a bitch, and I hate it.

When I don't force my way through, this laughing, taunting little bastard, he sometimes wins and I leave my computer and go eat or watch television or read a book and become jealous of the author who actually had the courage to not stop and work through their petty insecurities. That courage I lack, but I am trying to possess it, to own it.

Each blog post I write and complete, I get a little stronger, a little more confident. With each little bit of feedback, I grow; I improve; and I am grateful.

My frustration, my self-doubt, my fear I will chip away at and overcome. I will continue to write and laugh and cry and doubt and pick myself back up and do it again.

Protect and Serve?

My brother, being the hardworking black man he is, decided today to go back to the school from where he recently graduated to do some follow up work with former classmates.

He gets on the train and proceeds to go to another car while the train is moving and while doing so is stopped by the police (two black officers).

Not because he’s selling drugs or assaulting a helpless, old woman and snatching her purse, apart of a Bernie Madoff-like Ponzi scheme, or even listening to his music too loud -- he was simply moving to another train car and he gets slapped with a $35.00 ticket because apparently this is illegal and these cops are just starting to enforce a law I see regularly broken on a daily basis.

Now no one I have seen doing this has EVER been stopped by two cops and given a ticket, but unfortunately my brother is big and black and a target and these cops are out to show to their superiors they can be just as complicit in attempting to cause their own race undue grief. They’ve got something to prove to what they feel is a superior race and in the process make their own people’s lives hellish.

It's what I call "Plantation Negro" syndrome. You know,  the ones who didn't want to leave the plantation (though the horrors there were too inumerable to count), and said, "We have a good life here. Don't mess it up." Yeah, those people.

I see it daily. Some African-American cops are going to be harder on blacks because they don’t want to be seen as giving us an unfair advantage and what really happens is they feed into the stereotype blacks have that all police “are all out to get us” and that isn’t true.

I do believe with those cops and others like them there is on some level a deep-rooted self-hatred of their own race for them to be able to break down when building up is a far better option.

I do believe those cops can do better and help the community they are trying to oppress. I do believe there are genuinely good police officers out there of all races and colors who strive every day to show us who the good guys are. However, I believe these two cops when they gave my brother that unnecessary ticket gravely undercut their honorable colleagues’ actions and that I find is tragic and sad.

Power to the People!

It is so hard for me to admit when I’m wrong. I know this is a downsitting of mine and, well, I do want the whole world to know this about me. Well the world that consists of the few people that read this blog.

Now as much as it’s hard for me to admit when I’m wrong, it’s even harder for me to sit down and let something be when it’s just plain wrong.

When I have exhausted every avenue to let a person know I don’t agree with something; when I have questioned, debated, argued, shouted and stomped and screamed and I still don’t get a result, I have to learn to leave it alone.

If I leave it alone, I will be nicer; sleep sounder; live longer. I will just BE better.

However, there is a part of me that hates, downright detests letting something go when I know it can be better. I believe Dave Chappelle said it best in one of his hilarious episodes of “The Chappelle Show.”

I’m what you call a “genetic dissenter.” In effect, I tend to greatly disagree with established patterns and ways of doing things – especially when I’ve developed a better method.

It is part of my DNA to be this way. I think I don’t think I get it from either parent. Perhaps this characteristic skipped a generation. Perhaps I’m adopted. Perhaps I just like being a difficult. Either way, if “the man” says “up,” I say “down.” They say “right.” I say “left.”

I’m not making apologies for this part of me. I’m actually happy I have it. I thrive in being contrary as messed up as it might sound to others.

I guess to know me is to love me. To try and force me to do things your way, well that’s just not a good idea.

I sometimes think because I am black I might be more predisposed to this particular trait, but my loving mother quickly squashed this notion and said, “Baby, you just want to do what you want to do.”

It’s true. I do. So I will continue to question and argue. Maybe less shouting and screaming and I might get a better result.

Weight For Me

I guess I should tell people I am all about healthy living and that cardio is the best thing for a fitness regimen. Nah, I'm not gonna say any of that because I don't believe it and truth is one the main tenets of me even having a blog.

I guess I am writing this because someone mentioned that I was eating breadsticks again for like the third day in a row. She asked me if this was "carb week."

I looked at her and said, "No. I eat what I want when I want."

I have no shame or guilt about what I eat. I don't run (unless it's to catch my bus). I think people who pass judgement on others because of weight can take their opinions and eat those because judgment I'm sure is high in fiber.

I don't think this person meant anything by what she said at all. I just don't like this whole obssession with weight and looks especially when you are already attractive (like me).

I'm all booty and breasts and curves and there are a ton of black women who are just like me. We are an army whose legs are not made for skinny jeans or skinny anything.

They made Lane Bryant for a reason so I will go and shell out a few extra dollars for the jeans that make my behind look oh so nice!

I think (within reason) do what you want, eat what you want, be who you want. You'll be a lot happier like me. And I will be even more happy tomorrow afternoon when I go get some cupcakes!

Nobody Puts Baby in a Corner ...

It’s funny to think, I mean really think about some of the things we allow Hollywood to feed us on a big ole celluloid platter and how we devour it; we eat it right up!

I am most certainly including myself in the above statement.

I can sit and watch the Twilight Saga without so much as blinking for a couple of hours. Yeah, I feel bad about myself afterward, much like the person on a diet who sneaks a piece of chocolate cake in the middle of the night. However, that still won’t stop me from looking at an emo teen with necrophiliac tendencies and a werewolf sidekick friend who, let’s face it, is like Duckie from Pretty in Pink.

I said all of that to say I think I am getting to a point where I am starting to hate myself just a little bit for my lack of discernment or suspension of belief in the ability to write a good story but not have to sexify it up (Ummm, “sexify” is a word. Look it up. Well don’t look it up, just trust me on this one).

We fall for the same story written over and over again.

Common Theme: boy from the wrong side of the tracks falls in love with the pretty girl and there may be some dancing (or an iceberg) involved.

Movies: Westside Story, Dirty Dancing, Say Anything, Footloose, Step Up, The Notebook, Titanic

We fall for the same kind of music.

Songs/Soundtracks: Pop music mixed with big vocals

Soundtracks or Songs: Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing (Armageddon), Lady Marmalade (Moulin Rouge), My Heart Will Go On (Titanic), It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp (Hustle and Flow -- Oh wait, wrong list, but that song did win an Oscar)

You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?

I guess what even prompted me to write this was the trailer for an upcoming movie “The Source Code.” In the trailer, Jake Gyllenhaal asks this woman if she had eight minutes to live what would she do and she answers (with a smile on her face mind you) that “I’d make every second count.”
Yeah so let’s back this up for a minute because I will let you know EXACTLY what would happen if I was in the same situation.

I'm going end this hilarity with a promise, maybe not a promise, but a concerted effort to not look at any and everything Hollywood puts in front of me and I shall do so right after I finish looking at the last Twilight movie coming out in November oh and the next year.

After that, I'm all about legitimate storytelling and stuff.

Pop Quiz Hotshot...

If there is one subject I can go on and on about (besides myself), it's movies. I'm not loyal to one genre. I have multiple favorites and respect for old standards. I can talk to you about White Christmas and White Heat, but I can also tell you I loved the new Green Hornet movie and even admit that 'Yes. I do like Point Break.'

With movies you learn about yourself or at least you feel like you do.

I mean I know what I'd do if someone talked about faking orgasms in a crowded diner or leading 300 Spartans into battle against Persia.

I know what I'd do if I was caught in a street brawl with Gary Busey on Danny Glover's front lawn.

I know what I'd do imprisoned in castle with a grumpy beast who just needs love and DEFINITELY know what I'd do if I was on top of a speeding subway train with Dennis Hoper and fighting for the trigger mechanism to a bomb!

More than likely, none of this would ever happen to me, but it's always good to be prepared for extreme situations. It's good to just escape for a couple of hours and not think (unless you're looking at a Christopher Nolan movie).

What I love about movies is they give me a love for storytelling; an eye for what works with an audience and what doesn't; and hope that one day I can inspire with words and have those words made into images with people I only read about while waiting for the clerk to get a price check on the Oreos that were supposed to be on sale!