Archive for the ‘grass is greener’ Category

i knew this would come

stifled by the space

and darkness

familiar streets

the same old faces haunting the same old haunts

blocks i could circle with my eyes closed

the heaviness

the sadness

the cheese in the acme rat trap

i am not here

though my fingerprints scar the neighborhoods and predictable street signs

i never was here

she was me but i was not her

and here i am

unable to fill her shoes

and unwilling

smothered by the need to drive and “find something to do”

knowing the steps to its funeral march

i am paralyzed by my coordinates

suffocated regrets of never leaving and always returning

i am not her

yet it cleverly calls her name

and the emptiness in my heart

is programmed to respond

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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.

sinking before you learn to swim
crashing before you learn to fly
defying reality in hopes to control
or prayer to be swept away
outer body out of your mind
delicious sleep just never comes
forced to instinct you sink
how could you know anything else?
eyes and heart battle scarred
you disappear
inside of you
no longer in me
its death a wilting
no pomp just circumstance
distance perceived as shrinking
all is heavy
all is dark
truth evident in the temperature
cold and invisible it consumes you
you are not here
youve faded
slipping through the hand extended
fingers missing that touch of life
as blackness grows strong
the light now extinct
memories
hopes
givens
promises
sunrises
smiles
faith
truth
gone
all gone
without explanation or justice
eyes turned to the away i must walk to
drowned in their own tears
i am not here

DOB

Posted: April 30, 2012 in brother, destiny, family, golden rule, grass is greener, love, me, rant

Being 38 years old and childless, there is a chasm between myself and mothers. My not being a mother was a choice regarding birth control for health that spanned decades and became a choice regarding my present and my future. Ask me today, I’d still have the 5 kids I wanted at 20, if I could.

I noticed the difference in me with my own mother first. My adulthood marked the beginning of her failing to relate to me. At 17, she was a high school drop out, a mother, and the wife of a 21 year old ginger haired musician. By 20, she lost her own mother. We hit the wall on demographic commonality before I had sex for the first time. But me, I never stopped looking for it. Or craving it. Empathy.

As my friends began having kids, there’s that phase of baby doll dress up, baby daddy drama, and them realizing the golden age of the mythical stay at home mom had ended. They were more tired than I was. Their financial resources went elsewhere. I felt like a braggart with my bars, boyfriends, nights in the city and 12 noon alarm clock setting.

Friends married, produced more spawn, I had a miscarriage. Friends divorced, remarried, more kids. I moved back home, switched jobs, suffered depression and often felt I was just surviving.

My brother married before me. Within a year, almost to the date, he had a daughter, my niece. I’ve never really told anyone in my family, but it took me 6 months to feel connected to her. Even through some testing and a trisomy scare, I was unaffected, apathetic and surprised at my personal coldness. She wasn’t mine in any way. And she surely wasn’t that baby that would’ve been her 8 year old cousin.

As I dated into my 30s,and saw my brother’s world and marriage unravel, I  saw parenthood in a whole new light, a masculine light. I saw my brother, a few boyfriends suffer the absence of their children. It was devastating. Their identity was replaced by their position as appointment keeper and automatic teller machine. Their children would cohabitate with strange, adult men that they didn’t approve. The women they dated, including myself, were judged as over bred harlots, or unequipped lowerings of the survival of the fittest, too flawed to breed.

My mind is now clouded by two decades as a spectator in the world’s failings and successes in parenthood. Yet every child that passes me, catches my eye. Every child I share words with or run my hesitant fingers over in moments of “they’re so cute” burn my heart and the cavity inside me that’s laid dormant for so long. I never made a decision that I didn’t want to be a mother. I never judged you if you did. The only thing that I decided, was that I wouldn’t become a jaded mother or grandmother. That means I’ll make my decision when I have a formidable partner I am looking forward to making that decision with. If that never happens, it wasn’t my life’s plan. I see 20 kids a day I can smile at, be kind to and preserve the Earth for. Don’t pity me. But don’t expect me to pity the plight you may have in being a parent. I won’t be jealous. I’ll just keep doing what I do. The world needs the childless just as much.

It isn’t that difficult to seem tough or unaffected if you know what to expect. This is even simpler if you don’t expect much. The teetering between the great void of feelings and the flood gates… well, there I be.

Lately I feel like a toddler. I’m learning not to repeatedly touch the fire, make sure to look both ways, recognize good and bad people, tell the difference between truth and lies. My standard reaction to this process had been HOW THE FUCK IS THIS MY FUCKING LIFE?! HOW AM I HERE?! AGAIN?!?!

Then I breathe. Then I look at the opulescent shine of my scars. Then I feel grateful. Then I remember love. Then I vaguely recall trust. Then I detect the faint existence of faith. Not faith in a godly sense. Faith in myself, as a machine. I am a machine programmed and designed to LIVE. Even in spite of MYSELF.

This is when I crave freedom. Buttnaked, guiltless, primal freedom. Instantaneously…I AM free. I AM strong. I am all. I am me. I am here. I.AM.HERE.

Rip Cord

Posted: January 10, 2012 in clarity, destiny, grass is greener, hope, karma, lonliness, me

As I tried my damnedest to mentally check out of an emotional situation tonight, I contemplated the dandelion. Remember being a kid and blowing off those tiny, puffy, parachutes?
Make a wish!
I’m highly allergic to dandelions, and even though I knew I was playing with fire & spreading the seeds, I NEEDED that wish.
Tonight, the thought crossed my mind: why? Those wishes never came true. I was blatantly perpetuating something that made me extremely ill. And those fluffy balls of seed were the only way I could get near a dandelion. They were beautiful. Left to their own devices, they’d do a better job existing & flourishing than my self-paining exhales could ever assist.
When I pass a lawn full of those delicate little Eden flowers now, I slow my gait, take it all in, think of those childhood wishes, and keep along.
Left, right. Left, right. Left, right.

Everyone wants somebody to say hello, goodbye, good morning and good night to. You may refute this, but at one time you did, or will.

The rub lies in transferring residual feelings on our new acquisitions, conquests or victims. That person, too, has had a life, loves, and a past. If we unjustly punish them or drown them in attention or affection, is that love?

I say no sir, no sir. As a human being, it’s our personal obligation to get right. There comes a day & a time where reeking havoc on others is no longer an option.

It’s okay to mourn. It’s okay to heal. It’s okay to go to therapy. It’s okay to get a cat. It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to be scared.

What isn’t okay, is cheating yourself or other people from the beautiful dance & warming comfort of love. Disguising a flawed neediness, predeliction for co- dependency, or validation is even worse.

Be honest. Be genuine. Be brave. Be gentle. Be scared
Be excited. Be joyous. Be daring. Be affectionate. Be loved. Be you.

Of somebody doesn’t like it, someone else will LOVE IT!

“You gotta love me or leave me alone.” – Brand Nubian

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…

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**

In my haste I never bother to read signs.

I have always been on my one way ticket to ignoration.

Here I go again.

I revel in the mystery of my destination.

Lost maps please me.

I am resigned to the fact that my journey will lead to greener pastures.

FUCK…I hate grass.

I want sandy beaches and touristy swap meets…indoors.

A gently gloved  hand is required.

Though I’ve been here many times, I’d like to see it in your eyes.

That’s why I am the court jester of love.

Amuse you I will.

You will laugh…

I’d like to dance and skirt but my voice fails me in my life song.

I breathe in…

Breathe me out.

Make me whole and dated.

1 billion served…Unless you are captain DIFFERENT…

I don’t know metric.

My hope is timeless in it’s anniversaries of events.

Don’t change that.

I count it all…

I keep score.

1 2 3 4…

I’m tired.

Carry me for once….

until I see the cobbler.

I dare not vie for your affections. Life has given me the brass to earn my own medals. I forge them myself,  from the solids of the earth. I am not the sword makers son, nor do I care to defeat you. I am also not seeking apprentices. My worth is in the fact that I am woman. Standing alone is not in my lineage, but if it must…I shall pioneer. There are many before me who haven’t fallen to the need for false community, and alas..  I am not a casualty. Here I stand…Forthright. Perfection has never rested on my palate. That would not suit a creature of my devices. In my journey I shall surpass you. My endurances exists to surpass your families’ lifetimes. Though I do not judge, I also do not expire. I do not end. My existence is infinite. Your failure to learn is of no consequence to me. There have been Gods. Monuments have been built. I am exasperated in thinking my time here is to help you. My time is to be exemplary. Choose your path wisely and reevaluate what another being means to you. I may have words to scribe things of this this ilk, but I will no longer be bothered by you. When you can choose your righteousness you shall see me. I am here…in peace…for reconciliation. For now, this is all I can say. Judge not, lest ye be judged.. If you have worth, you will be here for a bit. ❤

My mother used to tell me that not making a decision is often the biggest decision you can make.  I wasn’t raised to be passive. Unfortunately, I have these moments of weakness when I’m in love…or want to be. It’s very paradoxic. Then, there are the moments when I say “FUCK THIS! I WANT…or I DO NOT WANT…”  So here I am again…mind made up! Less then 24 hours later I doubt and question everything. I wish I could lobotomize that stupid, whiny, bitch ass part of myself. I don’t want to waffle, sit on the fence etc…Always dipping my toe into the greener grass.