Archive for the ‘being told im creative’ Category

Have you ever wondered about the origin of words? We can research their evolution, but not the human element of choice in their inception. Imagine I hand you a fork as a child and teach you that it’s a “gun.” Something so simple would turn tales of family dinners into something unimaginable. And spectacular.

This makes me consider a word that, in its intention seems benign, I believe cannot be taught. Cannot be defined. Cannot mean in adulthood what it meant to us as children. “FAMILY.” This isn’t where I insert my recollections of creepy uncles and dark familial betrayal. I’m instead weighing my vocabulary against my sensibilities.

Your “mother.” In a dictionary we’re told it is a female parent, the woman who birthed us, or raised us. Your “father” is the male counterpart, sans birthing. Your “family” is the coupling of mother, father, their offspring and extended relatives. Sounds simple enough, but it isn’t.

Many times in my life, I’ve felt alien, neglected, misunderstood, abandoned and look upon with incredulous horror by those people. Granted, a majority of my Freudian damage is very First World and influenced by childhood perception, but to me those feelings and memories are real. They sometimes have weight, substance, texture, color, odors and temperature. Under oath, the defendants of my self-indulgence would enter my plea of insanity on my behalf.

My childhood trek and often dastardly adulthood have given cause to these questions and skewed redefinitions. I look back to kind hands of a friends mother when I suffered scrapes more heartfelt than knee-felt. A father of my boyfriend who ALWAYS laughed at my jokes, told me I was beautiful and had endless rolls of film on those days. The coworkers who appreciated my development and constantly reassured me that I was real, valid and worthwhile. The boyfriend’s mother who housed, fed & clothed me in the weeks before beauty school in exchange for pouring her single glass of wine at dinner.

My memory bank is full of far more recollections of my Mom and Dad. Events very often more significant. But in my lowest times, my personal victories, and most importantly, the transitional valleys, there were “others.” These “others” were the glue that kept me together when I felt shattered by “family.” These “others” taught me that I can take all the splintery shards bequeathed to me by “family”, and fashion a mirror that reflects the human being I am. I was. That is the obvious destiny.

In the past I may have lacked gratitude for my family. In the past I neglected to realize my misunderstandings that lead to me abandoning my family like aliens with incredulous horror. In the past, others from outside my family taught me gratitude for them by showing me that regardless of their intentions, my family molded a person who was witty, intelligent, creative, cultured, open minded and open hearted that’s well worth more than “A DAMN.” So as I prodigly return home, time and time again…”Home.” Home. Yes, home. That word has always been accurate.

To this day, I’ve never known what I’ve wanted to be when I grew up. Sure, I can drop some wonderful answer or answers that make me sound driven and focused, but those answers are just like my mind, dreamy. I have babysat children until they no longer needed supervision. At the movies, I was your ticket girl. Copy, collate, bind, laminate and things of these ilk saw me from Illinois to North Carolina. I’ve convinced you of how great you looked in over priced and under styled clothing. My day was filled with checking yourself and your mistress, dealer, gay lover or lonely soul into hotel rooms, no questions asked. Drink mixer, personal counselor, girl with the rack and bitch for hire blanketed my eyes for a few years from the giving end of the bar. I’ve help children stand straight, walk correctly, recover from injuries and colic as your friendly desk girl at your Chiropractor. None of these things, are who I am.

Before an age even the most egregious sweat shop would hire me, I have written. I have sang. I have crafted. I have loved clothing. I have gazed into distinctive windows of kitschy houses. I have strained my neck grasping for glimpses of the apex of sky scrapers. I have instinctively changed diapers, fed soft milky lips and patted soft spined backs. Is this who I am? My bank account would argue that, “No ma’am all evidence states to the contrary.” It kinda feels like me, left to my own inner thoughts, but does that matter?

Ever since I was a little girl I never understood why I felt directed to be something other than what I felt. I should want dolls, not Han Solos. My toys should reflect a future dictated by television reruns from a past that truly never existed. Likewise, so should my career and self-image. Wouldn’t it be great to be a teacher? Or a nurse? Or a softball player? Or thinner? Or have a bigger ass? Or the girl who makes boys fight for her affections? Or drunk? Or high? Or miserable to the point of being incapacitated for days? Wouldn’t it be grand? Think of the possibilities! And when you find yourself legally adulted, you’ll have no idea who you were, are, and will be. Instead, you’ll have a carpet bag of failures, diagnoses and vertigo. My name is Jennifer, and I am a…an uncertainty.

The funny thing is, if I look back, I can be resentful and angry and enraged that I was passed along from one person’s ideal to another. The momentum started before I realized my voice, opinion or self-knowledge had merit. Yet here I am, fine. Not “fine” in the teeth clenched, white knuckled grip of adult denial, fine like okay. I made it through all that topsy turvy undirected, yet pushed and pulled life. I’m not angry. I’m not sad. I have no regrets. I do have something all that made me aware of. I have a survival instinct that should instill fear in the black soul of my oppressors. Inside of me, there is a voice that will stay quiet as I bumble through life gathering lessons and scars and debt and vices, until it is time to go. And when that time arrives, I am a force of reckoning. There will be no discussion. I will not issue you a receipt. Exit stage left.

Rest, recovery time, reconstruction, reparations will follow, some times quickly, some times slow and laboriously. Then I stand. I resume my universal walk about. Looking back is only to recall the origin of my acute  inconvenient pains and use those memories positively, usually to make you laugh at my jokes or wallow in my poetry. With my constantly evolving and patched up soul, I glide through my days gazing into distinctive windows of kitschy houses, strain my neck grasping for glimpses of the apex of sky scrapers, I  instinctively change diapers, feed soft milky lips and pat soft spined backs. Then I write it all down, in some way shape or form. As only a person who has lived is capable of.

There are parents who put their kids in front of the T.V., my parents, mainly my mom, put me in front of the radio. My love for and addiction to music has always existed, without fail, without choice. Though my dad, for all intents and purposes, is a musician, this hunger and appetite comes from the woman who loved him. It is the biggest gift anyone has ever given me.

My mom once said, “I know you’d go crazy without music. That’s why I always made sure you had stereos and radios.” And she did. From transistor walkmen to turntables to boom boxes to shelf units, she’d supply the needle for the vein in my soul that throbbed and begged for the sticky, thick, melodic dope. When I’d stumble out of my self-constructed fortress of musictude, I’d be in the midst of hers.

Cleaning, cooking, driving, showering, sitting. Music was her white noise. I’d see her moving about in the trails of her mundane activities with a look of warm, emotional, vacation. What was she thinking? Who did she miss? Where was she? How did she end up here? Very often, my dad would be simultaneously concocting his own cacophony in compulsed madness just ten feet below us. Though you could hear it, we didn’t. Not really.

Life had dragged her and I over, around and under the country, following his dream. Seedy bars, dirty hotels, Colorado ski resorts, Ohio beach houses. It’s rumored I slept in a mostaccioli box in the back of van. Kentucky commune, faceless roadside motels, lake cabin in Wisconsin, all interspersed with stays at gramma’s, music watched over our souls.

My dad’s dream never came true. Or so I assume. Everyone grew up. We started staying in one place and sleeping in our own bed every night. Music keeping it’s position,  yet now more of a follower than a leader.

I once read that music activates the same brain activity as math. Math being a thing I excelled at without effort, I attributed science to my attraction, just like any other junkie looking for a justification. But that’s a lie. Music is my mother’s milk, my history. It is the home movie chronicling a love story. The story of two teens who fell in love, got pregnant, got married, chased after and ran from each other, leaving their blue eyed, towheaded baby in the care of what brought them together only to tear them apart.

dashed

Posted: January 23, 2012 in being told im creative, clarity, facts, hope, love, me

“I do wanna say that seeing u cry tonite was amazing…believe it or not…it comforted me so much…u were absolutely beautiful in that moment”

sometimes life writes words more powerful than i could ever fathom penning.

i tired of the pomp and circumstance

and my need for constant costume changes

i tire of the polite audience

and their apathetic opera clap

this show is neither starring you

nor is it bound with dedication

the tears that smear my perfect paint

they come from my boredom

and my madness born of this monotony

the script has been long since abandoned

this is me

ripping away this frock made of cheap indifference

no longer am i bound by stings much like a puppets

i am front and center

no longer my own under study

the house lights are up

the walls are crumbling

and the score  would insult the definition of cacophany

yet all your bloody mouths taste of me

and  i am your intermission treatsie

and as i dribble down your lips

as i churn in your innards

i am poisoning you

with the presence of truth

i am starving you

with the absence of facade

i am choking you

with the fat honesty of my being

and as your hearing fades

with the screams of my liberated soul

your eyes will burn

your guilt and lingering ignorance will bury you

as you lay among the rubble

blind

deaf

gasping

 i shall not ascend like a phoenix

i will devour you

piece by necrotic piece

and shit you into the depths that i only just escaped from

this will be a tragedy to no one  

this will be the comedy found in your folly

i will walk away

donned in blackness

and finally be free

for im finally left to self

there will be no encore this time

the fool is now the playwright

I often feel bad that I have no idea how to relate to women AT ALL! I am not the one to look to for comfort. There are many situations I can handle “down to the white meat”, but when you become irrational…I’m out. Not to sound sketch…but would so many dudes be cool w me if all I did was look for validation and cry about my pussy aka my feelings?!?! NO!

This is the sane curse I’ve suffered my whole life…I’m Alpha. In all honesty,  I never give a fuck if you are as well, as that is so fleeting, and far between. My claim is not perfection, but I’d be the LAST bitch they would send to a hut every 28 days. I’m the girl that would issue “red wings”.

This is always the shit that kills me, my bitches…Why in the fuck do you decide to hate me for the same reason you love me? A man can at least love and hate me fuck me for the same reason and does not have to say a gatdam word. You think I should entertain a text that could rival a doctoral thesis…”WHY I DO NOT THINK YOU ARE A REAL FRIEND…” SCHNARF SCNARF muthafucka…you’re the reason humanity proposed the most pussified form of Feminism ever know to MAN!

Do me a favor m’kay: Get an education. Get a CAREER. Get a GULLIBLE man. MAKE him love your cat you’ve had since juniour year…Then get an IUD. We don’t need any more of your shenanigans.

Until then, I’m gonna read my comics, play w my new phone, drink beer with witty boys and listen to metal as we watch The Venture Brothers after I baked brownies in a white wife beater…braless.

Is my life chaotic? Like you bitches would know. Sometime you need to lay in the cut and receive and shut. the. fuck. up. Grab a controller…up up down down left right left right B A  start…

im glad that you now feel the responsibility. there are people we affiliate with that are unwell…as if we should speak, but we have the misfortune of outwitting our emotions, at times. i have cleared the shit for anyone who may have gotten victorian and need their moment. i will do it again. i always query why im so burdened, yet the first to be discarded…..sorry i think i wrote a poem there or something. im half buzzy, and now question if im allowed more than 4 hours, in humanities time, to feel joy. i feel each second that surpasses that, one is taken from the next incident. i feel so entitled to a moment of pleasure in anothers comany. sorry…i feel flowery.  could it be im raw and sincere and poetic?!?! if forced to answer, id protest too much. i maintain my relentlessness and integrity. proceed with the crucifixion and martyrdom. i accept. i am defined.

i will ignore the fact that my mom ignores my connection to my brother. he is me and i am him. he is funnier than shit. i fear and love when he requires me. you just dont share a bunk with anyone…in the days that dont ask dont tell didnt exist. my dna denies me being more connected to anyone. he is my hero and villian. i love fighting about who loves eachother more. im here for a few days. im gonna rub some lotion on his bosses grey bush ass and get a haircut. then imma hug that fucker til he tells me all the things i never want to hear. hes on board with the writing deal. i am committed to being his hype man. dear andy: i love your brain. we survive. kudos. you ARE my favourite person. all is well. i know where my people are…HERE! it doesnt get any whiter.

I believe that creativity and mood alteration go hand in hand. It does not have to be rehabbed by substance per se…just whatever muses you into that floaty dreamy space, where all that is not your creation, ceases to exist. It is simply you and your scourge of a media. The fact of the matter is, in TRUE creativity,  you need a barrage of these things,  and that makes it tiresome. Up until recently, I have often felt cursed like Sisyphus. My self fulfilling prophecy of a hotel career reeks of  a beggars need for validation. I am a hospitable killer. I require the whetting of inspiration. The times it eludes me, I am befuddled. Chasing the dragon is my toil. I am primed by conflict and  I am readied by music. I am cured by love…and solitude. Love plays a big part. I crave more. I admonish it. Yet, far be it from me,  to circumvent the human idolatry of “LOVE” as a place we’d like to visit but do not want to live. I am the whipping boy of empathy and artistry. I never chose this. We live in a world that people sing about “licking it before we stick it.” There are many ironies in my writing about creative ironies. Oddly, I am inspired by a 2 Live Crew song…”If you would lick my soul, I will suck your funky emotion.” I see beauty in words…I hate when I find them, especially if they are good. The last thought I have is:

“Dear music,

cc: writing

You are my penance and and resurrection.

Could you be gentle to me?

I only want you to hold me up.

This human girl needs you to hold my hand.

I’d rather not part…

Or i shall TRULY lose my birthright.

Normally…

I hate your face.

Tonite…

I want you to hold me and tell me stories about when you grew up.

It’s your turn…

PLEASE…

Release me with your grip.

**looks down…shuffles feet and mumbles about my compulsion to be heard…and abandoned….and the fact that I got a lot of lotion for Christmas**