Love, Unconditional

I have been MIA from my blog for a little over a month now. Honestly, I have had so much to write about, but not enough quiet time to write it. Death and sickness in my family has had me in so much turmoil that the words to express how I have been feeling would not come. But today the thought heaviest on my heart is how much love we are often surrounded with, but often are too busy and preoccupied to notice until something happens. Since I was a little girl, my Auntie Clytie has been a strong pillar in my life. Her genuine kindness and concern for all are character traits of which I am in awe. She has been my rock, my prayer warrior, my conscience and my guide. Her life is rooted and grounded in biblical principal's and unlike many, she lives by the word; walking the walk, and talking the talk. When life has been too much for me, she is the one that has comforted me with the wisdom gathered over her 92 years of living. When my mother died she embraced me and assumed the role of my "surrogate momma" without me even asking. Even when the advice she gives stings, she follows it up with a good dose of love to make it go down easy. The word of God flows freely from her belly and each and every time I talk to her I gather strength, courage and wisdom. Since I was 8 years old, she has sent me a dollar a year for every birthday; never forgetting. My friends, my family, or my man may forget, but not Auntie. Even though she wasn't well this year, her card along with $36 dollars was in my mailbox prior to December 2nd. Just like clockwork. I have always been able to count on her card and birthday wishes. I don't know what I will do when they cease to arrive anymore. I have never known her to be ill. She doesn't like to go to the doctor, but right now she is laid up in the hospital recovering from major surgery. The thought of her mortality has rushed over me like a mighty wind of reality. How blessed I have been all these years. What a wonderful thing it is to be loved unconditionally. To know that despite fault or flaw, love still remains unchanged. She has been an excellent example for me to follow. I know it is selfish to say, but I wish she could live forever. There is a part of me that realizes that the goodness that is within her is rare and I just want to hold on to it; preserve it. Save it all for me. But then there is another part of me that realizes how tired she must be of serving. It is exhausting to always give without thought of what you will recieve in return. I find comfort in knowing that her reward will be great in heaven whenever she gets there. And knowing that God made it possible for me to benefit personally from her love, unconditionally, makes me smile today because I realize how blessed I am.



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Give Out, But Don't Give Up!

Today I got a phone call from the principal at my son's school. It seems my son can't seem to make it to school on time. This is extremely hard to understand considering we live two blocks away from the school. In addition to reporting my son's excessive tardiness, he proceeded to inform me that my son had an attitude problem that he could no longer tolerate. "Anytime I say something to him, he immediately gets on the defense." I didn't say anything to him, I just listened. But I was saying to myself, join the club. Lately my son has been smelling his underarm. Backtalking, sucking his teeth and challenging everything I say to him. For months we have been battling. Earlier this year he spent 45 days in the alternative school, stole some shades out of Target, and ran away from home (for only 2 hours). I have tried Big Brothers. I have tried arguing and cussing and fussing. I've taken away all priviledges. I've reached out to every male friend, platonic and otherwise, for advice, understanding and whatever else they could offer. To date, nothing has worked. No words have gotten through.

But this morning, I couldn't do anything but fall down on my knees and pray for him. It hurts so bad as a mother to see him slipping through my fingers. I look at him and see him trying to make the transition from boy to man. He's struggling to emerge into a set of shoes he ain't ready to fill and there is no one here to help him but me. For whatever reason, he doesn't want to accept my guidance. So when I was crying out to God this morning, I had to tell him that I give out, but I won't give up. I have given out all the advice I can give to him. I have given out more tears than a little bit. I have given my heart, my soul; anything and everything I know how to give. But I won't give up on him. I know it's hard for young black men out here. I know it's hard growing up without a father. But he is too gifted and too talented to just give in to the temptation of being a thug or another statistic. I said to him last summer, "Do you know that there are a million niggas in prison and only 400,000 make it to college?" He just looked at me. "Which number are you going to be in son?" He told me he didn't know. All I could do was shake my head. I have realized, with much dismay, if he doesn't want more, me wanting more for him is a moot point.

But you know, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, the hardest thing for me to deal with is that I am the one that caused him to have to grow up without a father. I think that's why it took me so long to let God have it. I was trying to fix him myself because I felt like I was the cause of him being broken.



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Wounded Woman (Drawing by Aida Correa)

I have found her seated in coffee houses and poetry lounges. She has stood behind me in the supermarket; beside me in church and we have fellowshipped together at lunchtime on the various jobs I have held. She is often African-American; visually sharing the same features, mannerisms, and characteristics as myself. But on many an occasion, I have found her to be of any and all ethnicities. She has been Catholic as well as Muslim. Baptist and Pentacostal. She is educated and well-groomed, or just as easily, ghetto and unrefined. She is the Wounded Woman and you can find her almost anywhere. To the average person, she may not be so readily recognized. But for one with a trained eye, she is easily spotted in any crowd. There are years of torment on her face and her eyes look to you for an understanding that she knows you can't give. So often she is hurriedly trying to cover up her scars before you notice they exist. Don't mistake her tough exterior as indifference, it's just a mask she wears to hide her insecurities. She is an expert at laughing instead of crying and if you look very closely, underneath the make up she is wearing to cover up imperfections that aren't really there, you may just see the tears of a clown. Hurt by rejection, wounded by friends and family and life; she is a broken soul longing for healing and freedom. As crazy as it may seem, sometimes she doesn't even know that she is wounded. She couldn't tell you where it hurts if you asked her, or who inflicted the wound, but it is quite apparant that some type of trauma has definitely occured. If you see her, don't neglect to read between the lines of her subtext. There you will find neatly printed between years of heartache and pain the message: FRAGILE - HANDLE WITH CARE!


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Diamonds are Pearls of Wisdom.

My father is a wise man. He gives me advice about work issues, relationship issues; how to discipline my kids. But the best piece of advice I have ever gotten from my father came when I was a junior in high school and not really taking my studies seriously. I had everything but school on my mind. I was resentful of his new family and can remember writing him a hot little letter giving him a piece of my mind. I thank God for the gift of words. I have always been able to express myself best on paper. In one of his responses he wrote to me, "The world does not applaud mediocrity." I didn't even know what the root word, mediocre, meant until I went to the dictionary. In short, I found that mediocre meant average. It meant as much to me then as a lump of coal. But I never forgot it. And over the years, that lump of coal that I tucked away into the far corners of my mind, has proven to be a diamond. In essence, what he was telling me was that I can't expect to succeed at anything if I blend in with the crowd. I have found that advice to be valuable in virtually every aspect of my life. Even as an African-American woman, I have come to terms over the years with the fact that every thing I do must be done with a flair of excellence if I have even the most remote desire of being recognized. In the workplace, the theme is very much the same. I have always felt the need and the drive to work harder, do more. Even in relationships, my aim is to set the bar high because the playing field of love for black women is far from being level. I found myself reiterating the same advice to my teenagers last night. As the words spilled from my lips I felt like my father must have felt the day he took pen in hand and tried to give me some words I could feel; some heartfelt advice that carried weight. I told them average black boys and girls don't get noticed, they get passed over. Mediocre talent is not recognized, it's overlooked. I wonder if they got the message. I wonder if they know my heart breaks for them each time I see them settle for less than their own personal best. I wonder if my words carried any weight; or if, like me so many years ago, they treated them like a lump of coal and just tucked them away. Only time will tell.

Beauty Is...

implied and not stated
simple not overrated
it is subtle and more gentle
than the softest touch
it is a feeling and not
a vision
an actuality as opposed
to a premonition
it is rare and subject
to scrutiny
from those that don’t
understand it and confuse
it with something
less significant
you can’t touch it with your
fingers
but you can feel it in your
heart
it soothes your soul
like hot coffee on a cold day
beauty is
intangible

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i was his woman

first of all
let's get one thing understood
i was never the other woman
to say that i was the other woman
would be characterizing me as a
cheap opportunist
a damsel in distress pleading
for the affections
of a taken love
i am so far from that
i was the woman
the woman that didn't take anything
from anyone
every secret
every kiss
every conversation
every orgrasm
was given to me willingly
without coaxing or persuasion
no invasion of privacy
this was love
on its highest level
and because i am a woman
i won't berate it by kissing
and telling
divulging or confirming
instances for the purposes
of scrutiny
no
you won't be analyzing this
comparing it to that
or downsizing it to make you
feel better
as far as
i am concerned you were the
other woman
the one that was never made mention
of we didn't think of you
or discuss you
for any reason
there was no room for you
in my bed or at my dinner table
there was only bliss
there were dreams shared
and tragedies exchanged
and fears comforted
and for a time
your man was mine
and i was his
and we were
and we are
and we did
everything we felt
obliged to do with the time we had
the time when he was my man
and i was his woman.






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Teardrops on Paper

these teardrops
on my paper
leave an indelible stain
traces of salt remain
as proof that
grief was here
my pen releases
the fear
the frustration I feel
it acts as the referee
between my words and
my emotions
I wrestle not to control
the anger rising up inside of me
instead I choose to set it free
to write like a mad woman
ranting and raving about
the senseless loss of life
unleashing and releasing
writing in red
symbolic of blood shed
another young black man
left for dead
and these
teardrops on my paper
leave an indelible stain
and no amount of
‘i know how you feels’ or
‘must’ve been God’s wills’
can erase the pain
retrace the stain
back from whence it came
five minutes before he took
his last breath
it was already too late to cry
too late to try to turn back the
hands of time
he wasn’t even a friend of mine
and yet try as I might
I can't seem to stop this
stream of sorrow
flowing from my pen
written evidence of these
literal tears that imitate
a mother’s cry
teardrops falling freely
onto my paper
leaving an
indelible stain
and only traces of salt remain
as proof that
grief came by here

My co-worker, Charlotte, lost her nephew last night. Ironically, I heard the story on the news about a young woman that drove into a McDonald's parking lot asking for help for a man that had been shot. No one knew the details at the time. News at 11:00, I guess. She lived. He did not. He didn't even make it to 25.

You Can't Move Forward Looking Back

Aida and I went to dinner tonight. Kinda like a waiting-to-exhale- moment. We both needed to inhale/exhale; breathe deep about situations and circumstances in our lives. Sitting in the cozy, relaxed atmosphere of Crush, sipping on some wine the color of a late summer sunset, we conversed, and vented and began to unwind and travel deeper into our friendship. It was clear to me after our first bowl of mussels, that we as women are more alike than we are willing to admit. I was finally able to share with her a part of my life that I had been surpressing for a long time. I do that when I don’t want to feel the sting of a particular situation. I push it down and get busy. Busy writing, busy working, busy being a mom. Anything to keep me from healing and dealing. She told me about Man; the thorn in her side. How she had loved him until it hurt and let him go because the time was not right. And even though she loves him still, she was adamant about pushing forward, bringing new love into her life without regret. We drank wine, listened to jazz music, and laughed like school girls over the silly things we have done in the name of love. My respect for her grew and after 2 years of cultivating a friendship, I was able to tell her all the details about the time I loved hard and blind. Re-living a time I wanted to forget proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated. I hadn't talked about it or him to anyone in months. It wasn’t easy letting someone into my soft spot. But I shared openly. Hell, a bottle of wine will make you give up your coochie, your ATM pin, email password, and your inner most secrets. It could have been that, or maybe it was that in discussing it, I was finally able to listen to myself for once. I heard me say I wasn’t loved totally. I heard me say that I was loved in secret and behind closed doors. I listened to myself clearly state, with much dismay, that I was wrong about something that felt so right. The benefit in doing this was coming to the realization that after years, months and days, I was finally at a point where I can say, I’m over it. There is no more anger. I learned the lesson and won’t have to take that class again. I like Aida a whole lot. She has read every self-help book known to man. The valuable resource I have in her is that I don’t have to read them because she is quick to provide quotes and anecdotes fit for any and all dilemmas. We were done eating and just relishing in the atmosphere when she dropped some of her book knowledge on me. “You can’t move forward looking back, Bridgette.” Even though I was a little dizzy from drinking so much wine, it made perfect sense to me. I had still been looking back wondering; Why this? Why that? The answers to those questions were irrelevant. What mattered most was that there is so much more for me that lies ahead. I was doing every person that has come my way since him a disservice because a part of me wasn't even ready to move. Anthony Robbins, world renowned self help guru, said it best when he said, " You can't drive a car if you are looking in the rear view mirror."





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We Got Khemistree (Wicked Freestyle from Overseas)

(k em i-stre )
by Soulflower

She said....

We got khemistree

Like honey bee’s got

honey sweet

Like Sunday morning got

Hog maw’s and black eyed peas

We blend

splendid

Easy

Our chemical composition is

Nice and easy like

Hennessy and coke

Sliding down your throat

Intoxicated

Get you high

Like good dope

We mix and mingle

This mutual attraction

Causing a mental metaphysical

Reaction

Our molecular structure somehow

Intertwined

I got rhythm

He got rhyme

We got khemistree

Like Diana and Billy Dee

Like the moon and the stars

We go together

Fit together

Like a key to a lock

We open

Put the joint to your lips

Old school

Cause we tokin’

Mind blowin

mind sex

Given birth

To brain child

First name: lyrical

Last name: verse

Go ahead and check the

DNA

You’ll find that we are one

And the same

We got khemistree

Unrehearsed and unscripted

Call in the FBI

Cause this shit is

Encrypted

Not all will understand

How one woman and one man

Could flow so

United

When in reality

By many seas and many moons

They are divided

See I never understood

Chemistry

I flunked it in school

But the second time around is

Always the kicker

Right

Right

Can we kick it?

Yes we can

Cause we got

Khemistree




Then He said...
by Carimflow

We got Khemistree


We are

Chemical reactions

Of sexual attractions

Arroz con asoulful

Flowered lyrics

Radiantly felt contractions

Throbbin walls up in brains

Until

Cataracts be fuzzed refractin'

In-spasm

Jerk Chicked

Mutually made

Concoted curried smoove contraptions

Spit

Then sprayed

On time

We be khemistree

Loyal

With B I am royal

She’s my loving concubine

My own lady don’t know

How she be up in my mind

Chillin

Pen dot connecting

All her flowin wit mine

My lines cum

XXX’ed grimey

Contemplating her grinds

Black coffee

A pack of sugar

Carimflow

On this rhyme

Can I kick it (yes u can)

Can I kick it (on a panamanian beach with an ass fulla sand)

Can I kick it (to the vibe of the band)

It's the mecca'd out one

Back 2 where we began

We be K-he-emm-I

Streamin cess in yo mind

Even if u try 2 mute us

Our shit’ll go pantomime

Brailed on cables

Across the seas

Like smoking ganja in rewind

Elevated

Toked fully

Naked

Truth

Spit

Hood

And

On time

We Khemists...












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What in the World???

My REAL friends wouldn't have let me got outside with my hair like this!


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The Best Sex I Never Had.

(First Draft)

It almost seems like fantasy
To good to be true I
Struggle within myself to just let go and
Feel
Experience the waves of emotions that
Are swelling
Rising and falling
To meet my hopes and dreams
on the shores of anticipation
You touch me and a chill
Begins at the base of my spine
And I feel
I feel tempted to ask you if you will stay
But I’m too afraid of the answer
So I opt instead to softly whisper your name
It springs forth from the center of my heart
and glides off my tongue
creating an unchained and unrestrained melody that
Drifts into your ears and allows
You to feel
The vibration of my soul
It is the soundtrack of our experience
Heartbeats and deep moans
A melody too sweet to sing
So instead we hum our tune
Of passion to the rhythm of
What we feel
It is hypnotic the way we communicate
Through hands and lips
Fingertips and arched backs
It’s almost as if no one and
Nothing else exists
And time stands still
If but for a brief time
I feel
Connected to you in such a way
Seems too deep to just say love
Too pure to call lust
It is infinite and indescribable
And unbelievable because
I haven’t had anyone make me
Feel like this in a very long time
Or maybe not at all
I wonder
Is it possible to make love to someone
And then at the same time not make love at all?
And if so then this has to be
The best sex I’ve never had.


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The Life and Times of Misty Blue....(a short story) Part 1

Diamond awoke to a beautiful Monday morning. Sun was streaming through her bedroom window and illuminating the entire room. She stretched lazily and smiled to herself as she thought about last night. Lamar had come by after his late night shift at the club and they had taken a bubble bath together and made love until nearly 4 am. She had met him at the door with nothing on but pink panties and a matching bra. She knew that was his favorite color; knew it would please him immensely. It had been the color she was wearing the day he walked into the salon to get his locks tightened. The color she wore on their first date. And the very color he chose for the first dozen roses he sent to her. It had been an exciting 6 months for Diamond. It felt good to be in love again. She was finally relaxing her boundaries and beginning to feel again. The smile on his face when he’d caught sight of the soft pink against her caramel colored skin made Diamond giggle like a little girl. He immediately wrapped those long arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him. Something about the way he slowly, but firmly gripped her waist made a sweet sigh slip from her lips and they kissed like long lost lovers with the front door wide open and the midnight air pouring in. “Hi baby,” she finally whispered. She was on tippy-toe, stretching to fold her arms around his broad shoulders, pressing seductively against his 6 foot 3 inch frame. He began to tickle her and they tiptoed and shhhed one another down the hallway; trying hard to contain themselves and keep from waking the boys up. Tre’ and Devon, ages 9 and 11, were not very receptive to any men in Diamonds life. She had to keep most of her relationships or indiscretions separate from them. They didn’t understand why she couldn’t wait for their daddy to get out of jail. But 10 years was a long time and Diamond was getting tired of coming home to an empty bed. Lamar seemed to understand her need for caution. He respected it and that made her love him all the more. He didn’t even trip when she insisted, no matter how tired he was, that he leave before the sun came up in the morning. Once behind closed doors, Diamond turned up the music on her stereo. Miles Davis was bouncing off the walls and sending vibrations through the air. They talked in whispers and sometimes not at all. Mostly they communicated with their hands and their eyes; lips anxious to tell of emotions and bodies ready to convey a passion that didn’t even need words. Lamar was a patient lover. It was nothing for him to spend an hour just kissing her. He called it becoming familiar. He would abandon her lips to become familiar with the rest of her and Diamond loved every minute of it. They must have been really caught up in the moment; truly engrossed in the task at hand, because neither of them remembered to lock the door and neither one of them had noticed when it opened.





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A lot like LOVE!

(for the one that slipped in unannounced.)

heart all a flutter
melt like butter
try to talk and i stutter
this feels a lot like love
smile when u near
anxious just to hear
petrified with fear cause
this feels a lot like love
always want to be kissing you
surprised when i find myself missing you
with a four leaf clover i'm wishing you
felt the same
knew my middle name
we'd would stop playing these games
this is too closely resembling love
mind in a daze
trying to come up with 1000 ways
into your eyes i'd like to gaze
because there is where
it looks just like love
the scent of roses fills the room
my heart is in full bloom
i think i'll have to tell you soon
that this smells a lot like love
heart beating, racing fast
can't remember the last
time i felt this way
call you
don't know what to say
ask about your day
just to avoid the true intention
each time i neglect to mention
that what i'm feeling
is a lot like love.........to be continued.









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Out of Time

In Memory of Lil Cuz

I remember summer
Playing around
Racing one another
Sporting Converses
In all different colors
You looking out for your
Little brother
The minutes were slipping away
Wasn’t wearing no watch
Wasn’t looking at no clock but
It was just a matter of time
Thought you’d be the Mayor
Or the President
Even at an early age your
Intellect was evident
I can still remember your smile
How we used to laugh a while
Taking chances and running wild
The hours were slipping away
Wasn’t wearing no watch
Wasn’t looking at no clock but
It was just a matter of time
You went left and I went right
Our lives, like two ships
Passing in the night
Days turned into weeks
Weeks turned into months
Got harder and harder
To keep in touch
The world was changing,
We in such a rush
The days were slipping away
Not wearing a watch
Never looking at a clock but
It was just a matter of time
Before you finally beat me to
The finish line
Your memory will remain in this
Broken heart of mine
Wishing I could turn back the hands of time
Go back to the summertime
Stop the time
Hug you tightly one time
Race you down the street for the last time
Tell you to be careful one more time
Say I love you for the last time
But instead I’m just checking my watch
And watching the clock
Realizing that
You have slipped away
and we have run out of time


RIP - Troy


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In Memory of Lafayette the King.

Thursday, August 25, 2005 12:57p.m.

You bring to life that which was
Dead
Every time you exhale
I take a deep breath of your presence
Fill my lungs with your essence
So strong I may choke
It makes me high
Higher than the mountain of potential
That stands between us
You give life to dreams that haven’t been
Dreamed
I close my eyes and remember
Soft touches in the darkness
Familiar
Looking deep into your universe
And even though it’s pitch black power
I can still see your light
It guides me
Calms me while the storm subsides within me
You speak life to me with words I never
Heard spoken the way they are spoken
When they are spoken from you
You give me cipher
Make me hyper
Excite me with your lyricism
Spellbind me with a wicked tongue
I come
Close to elation as you riddle me
With artful syncopation
Captivated for the duration of your speech
You thrill me
And I smile until the next time
I get the chance
To have a slice
Of your
Life.



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My Groove...

My groove
Friday, 1:05pm August 12, 2005

I slipped out of my groove
And can't find my way back in
It's been dislocated and like an elbow
That can't bend
I'm in pain until I find my groove again
My groove slipped through my fingers
Out of my reach
It tiptoed slowly down the street
Left me with nothing
But the memory of it's beat
Maybe it just wasn't
The right groove for me
Maybe it didn't suit me
Wasn't in my key
I need a groove that can move me
Make chills run up my spine
Connect me with the divine
I need a groove that can lift me
On the days when I'm too heavy
A groove that can support me
When I'm off balance
And not too steady
I need a groove that can transport me
To places I've never been
A groove that will give me the comfort
Of my closest, personal friend
I need a groove that can recreate me
Without making me over
A need a groove with a strong back
And a waterproof shoulder
I need a groove that can sustain me
Fill me up in places unseen
I need a groove that fills in my blanks
And all my places in between
I need a groove that will embrace me
Wrap me up warm
I need a groove that will encase me
Bring me shelter from the storm
I'm looking for a groove
I'm longing for a groove
I'm searching for a groove
I'm incomplete
Without
my
Groove


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Don't Make Me Over

For half a day I was excited to know that a part of my past was now living in Jacksonville. We found each other by accident online and after 14 years, I was a bit nervous about seeing him again. I can't lie, my mind ventured off into memory land and I thought about the nights we used to spend together. The things he taught me have blessed a few brothers. He introduced me to orgasm, ecstacy and elation. I knew nothing about sex until I met him. Suffice it to say, at one time,he had my nose wide open. We talked for three hours initially and caught up with one another's lives. In some ways, more than I cared to admit, he was still the same. Had he always been so shallow and self-absorbed? I noticed that I couldn't really get a word in edgewise as he rambled on and on about his favorite person, himself. I was barely 21 when I met him and I hate to even admit that I was so naive. The Bridgette he knew was wild and untamed, had no direction in life and lived in and for the club. That's where we met and honestly, it was my short skirts, coke bottle shape and my big butt and a smile that caught his attention. Not my intelligence. Not my inner being. I can't fault him. That's not what I showed him. But as I sat with him yesterday for lunch, it hit me like a ton of bricks just how much I have evolved and grown in the 14 years since we parted company. A body builder fulltime, he is fit, even for his 39 years. He rambled on endlessly about his competitions, awards and blah, blah, blah. And I guess he thought he was doing me a favor by reminding me of how fine I WAS. EXCUSE ME???? "I'm still fine," I told him. "I could be your personal trainer," he said. No, thank you. I'm straight. I have no desire for someone to make me over. I am alright with me. Too bad for him that he still can't see the real me. He dropped me off at work after our lunch and asked me to come see him later. I wouldn't dare. It was clear to me that yeah, he could sculpt me into his image of perfect. But as soon as he got me there, he would find something else that needed to be fixed. I thought I'd share my email to him.


-----Original Message-----
From: Bridgette Hogan [mailto:bhogan@cppcjax.org]
Sent: Tuesday, August 02, 2005 2:34 PM
To: XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Subject: Today



XXXX,

It was nice sharing a meal with you today and catching up with you.
Right now I am experiencing a wide range of emotions. A bit of
nostalgia, if you will. You remind me of a time when I was lost and
had no direction. You make me remember how very little I thought of
myself. And how despite the fact that my body was tight, my mind was in
disarray. I like me much better now. No, my stomach is not as flat
and I have gained a couple of pounds, but I am much happier with who I am
and I don't like feeling like you made me feel today. Like right now,
this very minute, I'm not okay. We are different. Our thought patterns are
the same, but what we place value on differs drastically. It has taken
me a long time to learn how to like myself. I spent so many years
feeling like I wasn't pretty or valuable. Like the only way I could
receive validation was through the stamp of approval of others. Living
that way left me wounded and it took me years to heal. I am not there
anymore and even though I recognize that I could make some changes here
and there; I am so alright with me. I guess I am writing this to you
because I got in your truck feeling glad to be me, proud of who I am,
happy to have connected to a part of my past. But I got out feeling as
if I weren't good enough and I like I needed to re-evaluate and re-do
me. I guess that’s why I told you I wouldn't be coming to visit you.
You want me to be like I was, but I can't. Even if I lost 20 pounds, I
will never be her again. Who needs to be reminded of a past you want
to forget? You like reliving those moments. But I don't. Because even
though I was fine, I wasn't fine. I allowed men to walk all over me
and all they were drawn to was a small waist and a big ass and I didn't
have sense enough to stand up for myself and say "hey, there is more to me
than that." I am just venting here. I needed to let you know how I
felt. Thanks for lunch today.

Bridgette Hogan
Administrative Assistant
The Community Partnership for
the Protection of Children



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Big Shoes on Little Feet

I love engaging in conversation with my tight girlfriends. There is nothing like it. My circle is wide, but we all have kids and jobs and hobbies and men in our lives that keep us from connecting as often as we used to. But on Sunday I had a long talk with Sharon. A new mother for the first time at 31, she is the last of the crew to experience motherhood and it is a joy to watch her fall in love with Jana Nicole. We talked about me: who I'm seeing, is it working. We talked about her: what's going on with baby daddy, when she goes back to work. And somewhere in between, we began to ponder the false expectations we as women so often have and the ways of escape we make for the men we want so much from. I've seen her go through so many relationships and she has seen me through all kinds of situations. It was quite funny. Because we have known each other for so long, we actually KNOW each other. No hiding from those who know all your hiding places and have no trouble finding you. Might as well keep it real. In her tiny, high pitched voice she said to me, "we have to stop making excuses for men." I agreed. I am guilty of such a crime. A repeat offender even. Then she said something to me that resonated within my soul. In that same tiny, high pitched voice that some times drives me crazy, she rang like a bell when she said "we've been walking in their shoes for too long, and their shoes don't fit us." I was stuck. Instantly, I got a visual of me and my size 6.5's clomping down the street in shoes twice my size. Just imagine. I'm stumbling, can't run, people looking at me crazy and they ain't matchin' nothing I got on. That is the way I feel about my life as a single mother. I have arms that can't reach and shoes too big on my feet and ain't no need in trying to disquise it or take them off because I have no choice. In order for me to get where I have to go, these big shoes are a requirement. They come along with the uniform, and the many hats that I have to wear. But I can't lie. I am so ready to take these bad boys off and slip my tired feet into some that fit me. Unless you have walked a mile in them, you can't know how it feels to try and wear big shoes on little feet. In some ways I feel less than human. A second class citizen that has been reclassified and labeled as an oddity. There are other women out there just like me who slipped out of their burning beds and put their feet right into shoes that weren't made for them. And the nigga they belonged to ran off barefoot. Ain't even bother to come get his shoes back because coming back to get his shoes would mean coming back to face the responsibility of the bed that he had helped to make. I'm shaking my damn head now as I write this because reality is a mother. No pun intended.


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Playing My Sexy

There’s a melody
between my thighs
waiting for your lyrics
My soul is humming
a harmony
and my volume is high
in anxious anticipation
waiting for the day
you arrive and bring
your instruments
so you can play my sexy

No other musician
could play my sexy like you so
I guess I’ll sing this solo
this lonely blues song
until you come along
and make
my rhythm and blues
Playing sexy
all alone
ain’t no fun
and yet
it will have to do cause
No one can play my sexy
Quite like you

I imagine
as we blend
in unison
there will be thunder
and the earth will tremble
because my sexy
combined with your sexy
will cause an eruption
a cataclysmic
catastrophic chain of events
neither one of us
could prevent

My soul
is open to your music
I hear you coming
footsteps racing
through my mind
trying to find
the right key
so you can
play my sexy for me
no rush
I’ll be waiting love
right here
my lonely blues song on pause
cause my sexy is all yours
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The Origin of a Soulflower.....

as a seed
she begins to grow
and feed off of the world
you would think she was a weed
growing wildly
yet still absorbing
and consuming life
and love
and the sun shines on her
and sometimes overcast skies
pour bitter rain on her head
but she is strong in will
and blooms ever still
with soft petals like the wind
sweet nectar within
she blooms
she blooms
through every season
cause there is a reason
that god put her in this field
surrounded by other flowers
yet still she stands alone
sticks out like a sore thumb
among the others
absorbing life like a sponge
rooted in the earth
that gives her life
she grows
she grows
and blooms anew
as each sun shines
many moons have glowed upon her
this soulflower
but she is strong in will
and blooms ever still
soft petals like the wind
sweet nectar within
she blooms
she blooms

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Blues Mister

Listen
can you hear?
Blues Mister is playing my song
he's blowing my horn
hard and strong
each note pierces my soul
unlocks my rhythm
and I am free
to dance like
Josephine
Blues Mister is playing my song
and with each note
he's caressing me
tender
with fingers
that remember
the song of the unsung
Blues Mister is playing my song
instrumental
but I hear the words
in my heart
and the song comes to me
easily
it's my jam
and I just close my eyes
and groove
by my damn self
cause Blues Mister is playing
my song
and it ain't nobody else's
but mine

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I am SO excited about the ad concept for the show! Janell, the lady who came and took the pictures last week, just finished up the design.

Tickets will be available here it at the Ritz in the next few days, but they are available RIGHT NOW on ticketmaster.com or at the Times-Union Center (beside the Landing), the new Veterans Memorial Arena, and by phone at 353-3309. Prices are $12.50 ($11.50 for groups of 10 or more). FYI, if you go online to purchase, the price is higher, so try to encourage people to either come to the Ritz, or go the Times Union Center or the Arena.

The official ads will hit the streets at the end of next week, and all of you will be provided with the official posters and flyers to distribute in your individual circles. In the mean time, here's the basic info:

Friday, August 26, 2005, 7:30pm
Saturday, August 27, 2005, 2:00pm (with "Talkback with the Cast and Director" after the show--Matinee show only!)
Saturday, August 27, 2005, 7:30pm

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The Closer I Get

I have a tendency to be overly sensitive sometimes. It works for me and against me. When it works for me, I am my most compassionate self. Sensitive to the needs of others, in tune with the vibrations of those around me. I find that I can be watching the news and hear about a particular persons' distress and immediately have empathy for what they are going through. But there are times that I wish I weren't so sensitive. Particularly as it relates to receiving criticism or the opinions of others. I am working on being delivered from the stamp of approval from outsiders, but honestly, I ain't there yet. Last night, I was at an event to benefit foster youth, a cause I am passionate about. I spent most of the day with my co-workers setting up, organizing, arranging and planning to help ensure that everything went smoothly. By the time the night was under way, I was feeling pretty confident that the overall message was clear to every guest. My part in the whole evening was but a minor piece in comparison to the cause: to raise funds to keep our agency going. I wrote a poem that we used as a basis for a new campaign. Save our seeds. I gave it the energy and care it deserved because I wanted the people there not to focus on me, the poet, but the words that were given to me. Afterwards I had an elderly lady come to me and tell me that though she loved my words, she felt that she should tell me that I was sending the wrong message with my clothes. I immediately got offended. First of all, I thought I was looking cute. It's Florida, a midsummer night, so I bought a nice spaghetti strap blouse with a skirt to match. I still can't see what was wrong with it. She went on to tell me that she was going to by me a dress for the next time I speak. I smiled graciously and held my peace out of respect for her. But I was vexed for the rest of the night. But I thank God because the closer I get to him, the more I am able to see the changes he has made in me. There was a time when I would have given her a piece of my mind and told her where she could put her dress and her unwanted opinion. But I realize that my gift is not for everyone and not all people will receive me no matter how deep and profound my gift may be. The closer I get to God, the more he makes me see that there are alot of folks out there caught up in religiosity that are looking the part of a "christian", but missing the mark altogether. Some ankle-dress-wearing-bible-toting-shirt-buttoned-up-to-the-neck hypocrites are gonna bust hell wide open with the closemindedness. And why? Because they are paying attention to the messenger as opposed to the message.



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Journal Day 21, No strings attached.

Today started out like any other day. Nothing out of the ordinary or spectacular. It seemed I would breeze through this day with the ease of a professional gymnast. But not so. In rehearsal tonight for the play I'm in one of castmates fell on me during a pretty emotional scene. I was so stunned I just had to lay there for a minute. Practice came to a screeching halt and I'm sure the director was worried about a lawsuit. My arms are sore, my head is hurting. Tomorrow, I imagine, I will feel like I was in a car crash. He's a pretty big dude. Then afterwards, this dude I have been sort of dating/not dating comes to pick me up. Now earlier, I called him out. Chalk it up to female intuition or whatever, but I knew something was up. He had been acting strange for the past couple of days. Out of the blue I asked him," what's up with you, you got something to tell me?" For a minute, he was silent and then he fumbled over some lame ass excuse about having a lot on his mind. mmmhmmm....whatever nigga. I let it ride then, but when I got in the car after rehearsal, it was still on my heart to press harder. I said, "Are you going to hurt me?" I don't know where that came from. Well, yes I do. It was God. He isn't going to let me get too far into anything without letting me know what the deal is. So anyway, he takes a deep breath and hits me with..."so and so called me today, she's pregnant." Now so and so is his supposed to be ex that he claimed he didn't want to be with anymore. Yeah, right. She is also the reason we were dating and not dating. Feel me? I don't need no drama, I have enough of my own. So we had been taking it slow. A movie here and there, dinner a couple times. It still shocked me to hear, so I just sat motionless and in silence while we rode. Another one bites the dust. He tried to pitch a curve ball to me and tell me he didn't know what he was going to do. blah blah blah I slammed that ish out the park and was like what do you mean you don't know what you gonna do? The last thing our society needs is another single mother. I told him if he didn't go to her and at least try, I wouldn't have any respect for him. How would I look taking up time with a dude that will leave a woman high and dry that's having his baby? He would be dancing to her song and she would be pulling his strings from here on out. His heart strings, his emotional strings, his pocket strings. I'm like, bump that. As I got out the car, I told him don't even shut the engine off. I don't need their drama. "Handle your business." My man is going to come with no strings attached. I came inside and immediately deleted his number out of my phone. That's something me and Aida do religiously. When we know it's over with a dude, the first part of exiting his ass out of our system is to delete his number out of our phone. I ain't even mad. In fact, I am thankful because God knows exactly what and who I don't need in my life. And every day I am learning more about how to trust His judgment.
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Journal Day 20, Dedicated to the Little Girl.

I grew up around a bevy of strong black women. My mother, though weak in some ways, represents strength to me now that she is gone because I am able to fully comprehend the different demons she fought as well as the obstacles she overcame. There is my grandmother who raised me when she didn't have to for the mother and father that couldn't. I have aunts and godmothers and mother figures that were placed strategically throughout my life that showed me strength. But at times in showing me their strength they neglected to let me know that it was okay to be weak sometimes. In learning how to be strong, someone should have shown me that it was okay, and necessary, to breakdown and cry sometimes. My grandmother doesn't like tears. If I had money for everytime she told me not to cry, straighten up my face, and that crying wouldn't change anything, I'd already be a rich chick. I have conditioned myself to fight back tears even when they have threatened to spring forth from any open orafice of my body. "Tears are a sign of weakness," my Auntie told me one day. So instead of letting them out, I held them in because I didn't want to be weak. But in doing that I have caused damage to my own emotions. Long supressed sorrow/anger/rage is bubbling just beneath the surface of my calm exterior. "People say I'm the life of the party, cause I tell a joke or two..." The contradiction is too much for me to even comprehend. I bring this up because I came face to face with the little girl in me today. She was crying so hard, and I didn't know why, but just seeing her made me cry. Realizing that she was here and had been here all along needing someone to listen and not tell her to be quiet. I cried for the child in me today that is still missing her momma. I cried today for a strong sista that just wasn't feeling very strong. I dedicated my tsunami to the little girl forgotten. After my eyes were dry I realized that they were not tears of regret or remorse. They didn't represent weakness either. Instead, right now, I feel relieved that I was finally able to let go, even if it was in private. And you know what? I feel twenty pounds lighter.
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Journal Day 19, Untitled

He's
not too
heavy for me
my back
strong enough to carry
three times
the normal load
arms fit to hold
hands made to mold
I'm
not so weary now
got bout
five miles to empty
done caught
my second wind
I just keep climbing
keep striving
and just cause you
might see me
sweat
don't mean
he's too heavy
it just mean
i'm working hard
to reach
my destiny
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Destiny to Reach

Journal Day 18, happy birthday nigga.

Yesterday was his birthday. I won't mention his name. But I'm vexed because as much as I want to be over him, I still wanted to wish him a happy birthday. Too proud to call, I chose to email him a greeting. There were so many to choose from, but I chose this really sappy one. I played it two times before I would even personalize it. I couldn't help but laugh because none of it was even true. The irony was too great to resist. It told of a mutual love, complete with wonderful memories and special gifts. It would have been perfect, if he were someone to me and I was someone to him. In fact it was so sappy that I know when he opened it he was like "what the f???" I deliberately sent him a card that said more than I ever could; and if he has any common sense, he will read between the lines to what I am really saying. Like "damn nigga, happy birthday, but how come you ain't never spent a birthday with me, if you loved me?" Or, "damn nigga, how come it's been five years and I still have to remind you when mine is, even though it come the same damn time every year?" The card was like the nail in the coffin for me. There was never a relationship. He was my imaginary friend and even though it was very real for me, I was all alone in my thoughts and alone in my love. Am I the only sista that this has ever happened to? I have been trying to reconcile my emotions; in search of some kind of solution to the condition of hard heartedness that I came down with shortly after my eyes were opened. It's hard for a brother 'round this camp. I ain't in the mood to give love and oddly enough I ain't trying to receive it either. Playing it safe....watching the game from the sidelines.
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Journal Days 15, 16, & 17 Writer's Block - Times 3

For the past 3 days I have been blocked about what to write. There are things I want to say; always something on my mind, but the words have escaped me. This isn't uncommon, there have been weeks and months at a time when I couldn't write a thing. I haven't written, but I have been dreaming. I've dreamed some crazy stuff these past couple days and for some reason the number 3 just keep popping up. Three dreams about my dad. A dream with 3 baby boys. Oh, and one really wild one featuring a tri-colored rabbit. Don't ask me for the interpretation....I haven't a clue. I know it means something. Just like I know that my 3 day writer's block is significant as well. From a spiritual standpoint, the number three represents many positive aspects. The triad is a symbol of the unity of mind, body and spirit. It is also the number of siblings I have, the number of children I have, and the amount of times I have been in love. Christ died at 33, after Peter denied him three times, and then rose on the 3rd day. Some say bad luck comes in threes, however, I can't subscribe to that belief. Instead I choose to embrace the idea that I myself am going through a resurrection experience of sorts myself.
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Journal Day 14, As is

My girl and I had a conversation once about what we wanted from a relationship. We were on our way to work and just naming our desires if we could manifest our own ideal mate. There probably was no difference in our list and the list of the next sista. But as we got deeper into the conversation, we began to get more specific. One of the things we both agreed on emphatically was that we needed a brother that could follow through. It seems like it is so hard to find someone that will just do what he says he is going to do. Someone to be exactly who he says he is. Don't tell me you are going to be somewhere and then don't show up. But even more than that, can I get a brother who will accept me as is? Me....with all my wonderful attributes AND the ones I am working on. Me....with my bad credit and the little pooch in my belly. Me....with my bad breath in the morning and my three kids. Brothers sometimes have this fictional woman already built in their minds. She is wonder woman. A great cook who always is in the mood for hot, kinky sex. She is docile and agrees to everything he says. Her hair is always done and in place and she never has a bad day. She is drama free and of course has no issues from her past. She is quick to jump when he says how high and never questions anything he says. She is also............NON Existent. Just like we sistas have to learn that no man comes to us perfect, brothers must realize that as well. There are no perfect people. There will be days when I am not feeling or looking my best, but I still want to be loved on those days. There will be days when I say the wrong things or don't feel like getting my freak on, but that should still be okay. Is it too much to ask for to be accepted as I am faults, flaws and shortcomings?
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Journal Day 13, I am not aMUSEd!

I met Redd eight years ago when I was still clubbing. My and my crew were out on a Sunday night doing our usual; walking around the club, profiling. I never really liked meeting men in the club. Something about it just didn't sit right with me. I guess I knew if I missed the following week, the same men would be in there shooting some other sista the same line of bullsh**. But on that particular night he caught my attention by grabbing my hand as we passed him by. A little chit chat and before I knew it, we had exchanged numbers. He ended up surprising me. He wasn't the thug I had pegged him to be and turned out to be quite intelligent. Score 10 for him because conversation is and always has been big with me. Since he was in the military and moved to another city shortly after we met, conversation over the phone and through emails has been the bulk of our existance. In between we have tried a relationship, but I am a firm believer that long distance love does not work. Besides, where I have evolved from the "scene", he seems to still be stuck somewhere between the nightclub and the stripclub. We do however continue to have a solid friendship that is strengthened by the fact that we can talk about anything. Politics, education, religion...you name it. I love that about him and a part of me may even love him. But it seems he gets his mental stimulation from me and fulfills his other needs elsewhere. I have email conversations between he and I that go back three years and as I was reviewing them today I realized that I have been his muse for far too long. He knows not to even try me with anything physical. I draw the line with stealing cookies out the cookie jar. But honestly, I think this mind sex we're having is much more detrimental. We debated about that today. I told him I feel like he engages me in conversation because there is a part of him that needs that stimulation just as much as I do, however, none of the sistas he deal with give him that. But the reality is a connection like we have; one not based on or driven by a sexual foundation, are few and far between. At the end of the day, what will sustain you? I am rethinking our little whatever you call it. Opening my mind to him without a plan or direction for where we are going, is just as detrimental as laying down and opening my legs. To me, both parts of me are just as precious. I'm asking myself is it worth my time. Eight years is nothing to shake a stick at. That's a lot of time wasted. And you know what they say, a mind is a terrible thing to waste.
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Journal Day 12, Final Round

It's funny how when you are in a situation everybody on the outside of your situation seems to be able to tell you what and how you need to do things. I can't stand that and if I am wrong, Lord forgive me. But I am just about tired. I feel like for the majority of my life I have been in a boxing ring. My opponent has been whipping my ass round after round, but I have been holding it down to the best of my ability. Only because in my corner their has been God. Wiping my tears and fixing me up in between rounds. It has been His strength that enables me to go back and fight each and every time. Were it not for the hope I have in Him, I would have laid down and stayed down back in round 3. There are all kinds of people outside the ring shouting what they would do and how they would do it, but ain't nobody but God stepped in the ring to help me fight. They are content to run their mouths from the sidelines, watching me take blow after blow. It's sad to say, but they don't even expect me to win. In fact, I'm sure their money is on my opponent. I don't look like a winner on the outside. I may not have trained in the best gym, and my robe ain't all that fancy, and I'm a little run down. But I am a champion in my heart and I have what my dad refers to as intestinal fortitude. GUTS. I'm complaining today, but the reality is, I don't really want them to help now. Hell, the fight is just about over, I'm in the last round. My opponent ain't knocked me out yet, so I have just as much of a chance of winning as he does. Maybe it's foolish pride, but when the last bell sounds, I don't want anybody but God to get the credit for my victory. Cause you do know I will be the victor right? See, I am what you could call an Underdog. I'm that opponent you didn't bank on losing to. The last person you thought could even run a marathon, let alone win it. I'm the ace in the hole. The ram in the bush. I am what you would call a Million Dollar Baby.
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Journal Day 11, Stretched beyond limits.

There are just not enough hours in the day. No matter how much I try to manage my time, I can't seem to squeeze everything into one day. Take today for instance. The bulk of my day is eaten up by work. I leave there to go to play rehearsal for 3 1/2 hours. I personally think that is too much time. But maybe I think that because I have yet to learn all of my lines. By the last hour, I am hungry, tired and running on empty. Too late to drink coffee, I'd never get to sleep. I come home to my kids who need time and energy that I am in limited supply of. I ended up skipping dinner and opting for an hour long bath. I felt quilty the whole time I was soaking the day away because I should have been talking to my kids about something or asking them something or sharing something with them. But I am flat out busted. No energy for anything but sleep. I haven't read the newspaper, washed my clothes, read my mail, cleaned up my room, or polished my toes. ~Sigh~ None of those things are as important as my kids, mind you, but I still feel that if I don't do better they will be deficient. I'm not giving them enough of me. But for lack of a better excuse, there isn't much of me to go around. Stretched beyond limits in every area, I am searching today for a solution to a problem that all single mothers face. Balance escapes me and my arms don't reach far enough. I feel like I am extending myself in every direction as far as I can and I still ain't touching nothing. My job is pulling on me, my dreams are pulling on me, my kids are pulling on me and I'm just like..."hold up now, pretty soon, I'm gonna snap!" I'm exhaling now. About to say my prayers and ask for some strength. A little bit of get up and go so I can face the day tomorrow and start all over again.
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Journal Day 10, Black Music Feminism

Black music is
a mother
Bringing forth rhythm and blues
Giving birth to
Ghetto hymns and anthems
More drama than the evening news
No matter what your emotion
Black music has your song
If it’s loneliness you’re feeling
She’ll hold you all night long
Black music is
a sista
in your stereo playing loud
she got that junk in her trunk
bump bump bump
and she came to move the crowd
she got quad between her thighs
and a vibe for every mood
she’s a bridge over troubled waters
with a funky jazz interlude
black music is
a pimp
moving up and down your streets
a stone cold hustler baby
supplying all your musical needs
she’s all up in your pockets
you spending all your cash
she got you feenin got to have her
fo you know it you addicted to her ass
black music is
a vessel
transporting you to bliss
instrumental in your journey
in regular rotation on your play list
you hooked on all her melodies
you singing all her songs
her harmony all up in your soul
thumping bassline pumping strong
black music is
a voice
speaking preaching loud and clear
a vibration resonating
turn up the volume so all can hear
she says we shall overcome
she says what has this world become
she said sssssssshhhhhh ol massah sleepin
come on y’all its time to run
black music is
a beat
popping fingers bobbin heads
she is tambourines and drumming
she is hand clapping and humming
she is remixed and rehearsed
she is complex and diverse
she is the quiet storm your feeling
she is the remedy for your sexual healing
she is that connection to your past
sometimes slow and sometimes fast
she is a lullabye
a battle cry
a hymn before you die
she is your inner peace
your mind at ease
don’t turn that dial please
and I love her so much
and I dare someone to
touch my radio
my stereo
my video
my mp3
while my black music
is
playing
loud
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Journal Day 9, Alone in the Darkness

When I was a little girl I hated going to bed at night. I would fight sleep with all my might because I knew that along with sleep came darkness and nightmares. I would make sure that my bed was pushed all the way against the wall and sleep as close to the wall as I could, just in case the Boogeyman was under my bed. I would see what I now know were spirits floating in the air towards me and because of this spent the whole night with my head under the covers. Many nights I would sneak into my aunt Penny's room and sleep on her floor because they seemed not to bother me when someone else was around. I bring this up because I realized today that in some ways, I am still very much afraid of darkness. Not the darkness that envelopes you while sleeping. But the darkness of traveling through a valley of unknown spiritual terrain. Oddly enough, God does his best work there. I saw a sign one day that read "God is in the dark room developing my positives into negatives." It stuck with me and I know that it was His way of helping me to understand this process. "Trust me," He says. I can't see my way through and it is scary to have my eyes wide open and still not know where I am going. I feel like I am fumbling around in the dark searching for a light switch that isn't to be found. And there are times that it seems like the Boogeyman is hot on my trail, breathing down my neck. He is teaching me how to use my third eye, trust not only in Him, but my own intuition as well. I write about this even though I know not everyone can fully understand what I am talking about. It is definitely something you have to go through alone. Funny thing, as much as I am afraid of this darkness, I am just as apprehensive about the light. One of these days the light is going to chase away this darkness that surrounds me and I will be exposed for all the world to see. I just hope I am ready.
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Journal Day 8, Treasure Hunting

I feel like the more I search, the deeper I get, and the closer I get to a treasure within. It's something God placed inside of me a long time ago. I didn't know it was there until He told me. He spoke to me one Saturday morning and told me. He gave me a map. And on that map are the directions to my hidden treasure. Now I am the only one that has possession of this map, but the treasure is no secret. There is a big X on my map to mark the precise spot that the treasure can be found. It would seem to be a cut and dry expedition. But what I didn't know is that on my way to this treasure, I was going to have to travel through some dark places. My hands and feet would get dirty. My mind would play tricks on me. My back would threaten to give out and not support me anymore. My body would turn on me. I never imagined how tired treasure hunting can make you. Each day you get up digging and digging with nothing but a promise as your guide. But at the end of the day, even though you didn't find it and you are empty handed, you can still rest easy because you know that progress is being made. As long as you keep digging, the hope in your heart tells you to face the next day as if it were THE day. I didn't know that there would be pitfalls and other people trying to get my treasure too. Seems like they knew about the treasure before I did. Luckily, God only gave the map to me. So not only am I having to battle with myself, I have to deal with the others that know there is gold beneath them hills! But I am knee deep in this thing now and carry on I shall. Ain't no turning back. I've come too far to let someone else get what is rightfully mine. Each day I rise to search some more, dig some more. Each day I get closer and closer, so close sometimes I can see the shine of it, feel the weight of it. I think I may need help lifting it. Might be too great a treasure to carry on my own. We'll soon see.
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Journal Day 7, Top to Bottom

I've gotten close to one of the foster youth that volunteers at my job. I communicate with all of them on some level, but Marcus is different. I don't know the details of his story. I just know he and his brother ended up in foster care. At 21, he's already been so many places and seen so many things, my heart goes out to him. I mean, I have had my share of lumps just like the next person, but I can't imagine growing up in foster care. The system can't love you like a mother, teach you like a father. So I find myself constantly playing the role of big sister, or li'l mamma. There's something about Marcus I can't quite put my finger on. Sometimes he'll call me just to talk and last night was one of the rare occasions that I wasn't sleeping. He didn't have anything particular to discuss, so I just listened as he told me about his relationship with yet another female. "Why doesn't it work out," he whined. I wish he could have seen me shaking my head at him. It's not like we haven't had this conversation before. "Because Marcus," I had to take a deep breath, "you are starting out from the bottom to the top instead of going top to bottom."
If you start your relationship between someone's legs, it's bound to run it's course quickly. What else will you guys have to do? I suggested he try getting to know someone from the top to the bottom. Most likely by the time he made his way half way down, one or the other party will have lost interest. Start by getting to know their mind. This is time consuming, no way you can have a one night stand if you're delving into their thought process. If you like that, begin to look into their eyes; eyes are the window to the soul. I don't mean just stare blankly into their eyes. I mean find out who or what they are connected to. If you like what you find there, move on to the mouth. What kind of conversation do they have? If you make it this far, you are doing real good and you could possibly have a good catch. I had to learn all of this the hard way. I guess that's why God continues to place me around young people. As often as I can break it down to them, I can, I will and I do. They need to start teaching common sense in school. Sex education is not enough. I remember when I was in high school, we had a class called life management skills. It should be something along the lines of that class, just tailor made for the children of this day and age. Loving from the bottom to the top got me three babies before I had even had or knew what an orgasm was. Loving from the bottom to the top got my heart broke and my head split. Loving from the top to the bottom ain't easy by a long shot. But it is much less complicated.
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Journal Day 6, Anger Management

If you haven't seen the movie Diary of a Mad Black Woman, I would suggest you do. It's not just for women you know. There are actually a lot of messages in there for men. It also isn't just about a black woman. The lead character, Helen, could have been any woman. I would suggest that you watch it the first time for the sheer entertainment of it. Then watch it again. This time, grab and retain what you can from it. Without giving the story away, it's about a wounded woman that remained silent for far too long. Years of neglect and mistreatment by her husband cause her to ultimately go over the edge. Anger is a funny thing, you know? It will sleep for a long time, hibernating deep in the corners of your heart, mind and soul. You can do your best not to awaken it, but oh baby, once it's up, it's up in the worst way. I'm looking around me now at all of the angry sistas I know. Some of them don't even know they're angry; walking around with grimaces on their faces. You can't miss them. I see my grandmother, who has been angry for as long as I can remember. She's been angry so long, she probably doesn't even know what she is angry about. Come to think of it, anger is more like a virus you pick up somewhere without even knowing it. The incubation period can deceive you into thinking that all is well. But then the symptoms begin to manifest, little by little. It's wide awake now, there is no hiding. You have to deal with it. Treat it like the sickness that it is before you infect someone else. I'm searching my heart today to make certain there isn't any misplaced anger lurking anywhere within me. Anger is like a repellent. It will keep anything good from coming near you. Something sweet could be trying to get close to you, but the minute it gets a whiff of that anger oozing from every pore in your being, it's going to avoid you like the plague. In the movie, Helen's mother gives her the remedy to help manage her anger. One simple word. Forgiveness.
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Journal Day 5, Amazing Grace

Seven is the number of completion, five is the number that represents grace. So when I realized that today's date was 7-05-05, I got happy because it was like an encrypted message sent to me by God. I am most definitely in a cycle of completion, and a double dose of grace will suit me just fine, thank you. It made me think of the rainbow that I saw last Thursday. My boss and I were driving down the highway and I just happened to look up in the sky and there it was. Most times you just see a small portion of a rainbow. But this was the whole arch, from beginning to end. Then if that wasn't enough, right above it you could see another, fainter rainbow. A meterologist will tell you that this isn't actually another rainbow, but rather a reflection of the first one. Signs and symbols may not excite the next person. But to someone searching, a sign or a symbol can make your day. A rainbow is God saying to me, "I haven't forgotten you." A rainbow always shows up just when I am at a point of feeling at the end of my rope. Sometimes I need reminding. It's like no matter how many times someone tells you they love you, you never get tired of hearing it and you can stand to hear it some more. No matter how much you witness something beautiful, you never get tired of seeing it and you are always willing to see it again. Each time, it's just as beautiful. I wasn't looking for grace today, but I got it anyway. I didn't even have to ask for it, it was just there waiting for me to acknowledge it. For that, I am grateful.
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Journal Day 4, Freedom Ain't Free

In the 4th grade, I had to memorize Patrick Henry's "give me liberty or give me death" speech. A budding thespian at even that young age, I put my soul into it. With my hands on my hips and my neck rolling, by the time I got to the end of the speech, you'd have thought I was running for office. But like most politicians, it was a good memory and much rehearsal that helped me to bring life and passion to the words of another. I didn't even know what I was saying. But I'm analyzing those words today from a different perspective. I'm thinking how real Mr. Henry's desire for freedom must have been for him to say freedom or death. No one in their right mind would want to be bound figuratively or literally. I'm feeling the urge he had within him and I am on the verge of shaking my fist at the universe and shouting the same thing. The need and desire to be free cost Kunta Kinte his foot. It cost Nelson Mandela the bulk of his life. There ain't nothing free about wanting to be free. In fact, at the onset of making the decision, one must resign themselves to the notion that it can and will be quite costly. Fat pockets and a bank account won't suffice. It's going to cost you things you don't want to give up. Things much to valuable to consider. Things that can't be replaced. Time, blood, effort, tears and sometimes the very thing you hold dear, life itself. Who's to say if it's worth it or not? I'm searching for a sista within me that desires to be free above all else. Free to live life to it's fullest. Free to love hard and strong. Free to give until it hurts. Free to trust without reservation. And no matter how long it takes, or how much it costs, I know it will be worth it.
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Journal, Day 3 Fill in the Blanks

My Pastor opened my eyes today and made me see that the reasons we do some of the things we do that are detrimental to our well-being is because of voids that we have within ourselves. I have been contemplating her words for the better part of the day trying to detail just where my voids are and what I am filling them with. I guess I have also been wondering what caused my voids. Asking these questions causes me to go deep within myself, within my past to some places that I don't really want to go. In all honesty I can admit that I have filled in my blanks with one-sided relationships, alcohol, weed and any other temporary thing that helped me to get through. But I guess now in retrospect I have grown mentally, physically, and emotionally tired of filling in my own blanks. The things, people, or emotions I have been using as stand ins for the necessary healing are not working anymore. My nights are restless, my days are restless and my sleep doesn't satisfy me anymore. In acknowledging the fact that I am operating at halfmast, I am praying that the Creator will direct to me to the answers to the questions my soul is asking. Remember when you were in school and your teacher would give you a test asking you a question about material you should already know? There would be a blank space beside the question that you were to fill in. If you had studied and knew your subject, you could easily fill in the blanks. But if you hadn't paid attention, or hadn't studied, you were out of gas. I feel that there aren't any questions to go along with my blanks. I don't even know where to look for the answers. Is this an open book test? Am I being graded on a curve? I see the voids. I know they are there. I will go so far as to say I know where they came from. But now what?
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Journal, Day 2 Hide and Seek

Today I came face to face with my ugly. I spend so much time self evaluating, I am almost ashamed to write this. But I have to be true to the reason I am writing this blog in the first place. No point in searching for me if I can’t be honest, right? A guy I used to work with stopped by my house today. I have gone out with him a couple of times, but never really saw him as someone I could seriously date. I’m crazy like that at times. There is nothing wrong with this guy. I just met him at the wrong time. He wants my heart, but I can’t give it to him because I don’t actually have it right now. Pieces of it are still in Mike’s pocket. Mental note: I need to get those back. Instead of sitting in Lee’s face listening to his conversation like a good host would have, I was rude and continued to do the chores that I was doing before he dropped by my house unannounced. I actually hate that. Someone coming to my house without calling me first is the ultimate no no. I gave him all of my back and part of my attention as he rambled on about this and that. Blah, blah, blah. He finished his masters degree, got a new job, moved into a townhouse. I caught some of it. Then he started in on me. Why didn’t I call him? He had left messages, but I had erased them. I told you I didn’t consider him seriously. I began to feel bad about how I had been dodging him. Hide and seek. There wasn’t anything wrong with him, it was me. I say with my mouth that I want love. But when it comes my way I hide from it. At times, it lingers in my mind as a fleeting thought. But it doesn’t stay long enough to unpack its bag. I guess I don’t make it very welcome so it soon hits the road. I have so many doubts and so many fears. The scars from past relationships still have yet to heal. “We could have been married by now.” His statement caught me off guard. But I quickly retorted with, “You’re too young for me.” I know its weak, but that was the only thing I could come up with. The age difference is something easily overcome. My soul almost wants to shout, “Come out, come out wherever you are,” to the love that is hiding. It is standing right before me. But the thick armor that surrounds my heart blocks out light and sound. It can’t hear and it can’t see. I can be so ugly. I could at least give him a fair shot. There is a part of me that is missing being in love. I can taste the memory sometimes, remembering the satisfaction I felt when I cooked my man his favorite meal and he was pleased. Massaging feet and watching ballgames and Blockbuster videos. Falling asleep with my head on his chest on a rainy day when the house is still. I must do something about this game I am playing with myself. I have grown tired…..Ollie, Ollie oxen free!!!!
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Journal, Day 1, $2.01wasted

This morning I stopped at my neighborhood store to by my usual cup of coffee. As I was getting out of the car, I noticed a homeless man stooped near the phone booth. He saw that I was limping and made some kind of comment and I thought to myself, "I don't even feel like getting into it with him about why I'm limping or how I hurt my foot." I said nothing to him and proceeded into the store and bought some hazelnut coffee...$1.19, one black and mild(I really am trying to quit)....$.89. It all came to a total of $2.01. Since this is my daily routine, I had already counted out the exact change for the cashier. I gave it to him and left before he could ring me up. Once outside, I made eye contact with the man squatting by the phone. He looked to be in his late forties, but the weather of life had beaten him down. He was dirty and his hands were rough and ashen. I never judge people when I see them living on the street because I have been homeless before. I was blessed not to be living under a bridge or sleeping on a park bench. But I was homeless. In a flash, I remembered being 8 months pregnant and walking the street at 1:00am because I had no where to go. I was cold. I was penniless and I felt like the weight of the world was not only in my belly, but resting on my shoulders. It was a chilly February night in our nations capital and I had riden the bus as long as I could. I sat down near a Metro stop and a car pulled up. There was a young man inside who asked me if I needed a ride. I had him take me to a hospital because I knew that I could buy some time in the ER and perhaps a meal before they realized there was nothing wrong with me. In retrospect, I am thankful to God for Chuck (the guy who picked me up). He could have been anyone. A psychopathic killer even. But instead, on that chilly night he became my angel in disguise. As I looked at my brother stooped by the telephone, I was reminded of how far I have come from that cold February night and how right when I needed someone to offer me a helping hand, it came from no where. "Can I get $.50c my sister?" The moment he asked me I felt selfish for having spent $2.01 on the caffiene that isn't good for me and nicotine that, if I don't quit soon, will surely kill me. I gave him the fifty cents willingly and deliberately touched his hands as the change passed from mine to his. I wanted him to feel me. To know that I didn't judge him. That I saw past the dirt and the smell to the humaness of him. I needed him to know in the moment of passing that I could relate to him in a way that even he couldn't understand. If he had caught me 13 or so years ago, I wouldn't have had the change to give him and we probably would have been sharing a bench together, hungry, broke, and cold. As I rode away from him to my job that I now can't think of complaining about, I couldn't do anything but thank God for a memory, a flashback of where I have been. I thanked him for Chuck. And I thanked him for my $2.01 lesson in humility.
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How Do U Like Ur Love?

I like my love unconditional
Somewhat traditional
Actual and factual
And in no ways fictional
My love
is
best served warm
Over trials and tribulation
It listens
when I speak
And gives me a tingling sensation
I like my love
honest and fair
I like love that can see me
Even if ain’t nobody else aware
How do U like Ur love
Whips and chains?
or peaches and cream?
I just like my love to be real
I like my love
everlasting
Love that gives answers
without you asking
Love that’s great at multi tasking
That’s the kind of love I like
I like my love to be eternal
On going and persistant
When you’re in the fire
It’s love that’s flame resistant
How do U like Ur love
I like mine shaken
but not stirred
My love is in stereo
Louder than any song you ever heard
I like love that bends and moves
Relaxes and soothes
Love that makes you
dance to no music
love so good
you can’t help
but accuse it
of being
the best
you
ever had


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A Better Woman

i have to thank you
give you your props
high five
big ups
cause it's all because i met you
that I'm better
better than before
stronger than before
i now know
i know exactly what it takes to please a man
because i stretched myself beyond limits for you
reached way beyond boundaries
dug deep within the farthest
recesses of my mind
to find
a love
a love that knew no limits
it was reckless abandon
caution to the wind
it was careless and pure
irregular and unsure
but for me
it was love
love that made me better
wiser
love that made me cry
harder
love that made me want
more
love that made me die
and then live
and that's why
i have to thank you
because you taught me valuable lessons
molded me and shaped me
forced me to
look at myself and realize
that
i
am
better

Beautiful music

blended
splendid
we make beautiful music together
love laid over tracks
of soulful melodies
drifting into bliss
our tempo synchronized
and harmonized
funky like doo wop
controversial as hip hop
we make beautiful music together
in unison
we sing with no lyrics
a chorus with no hook
and no verse
acappella
from our diaphram
deep
we summon the voice of love
rock and sway
snapping fingers
tapping feet
we rhythm
we rhyme
line after line
we make beautiful music together
a song remembered
heartbreak
from a past forgotten
no other love but this one will
duet
we adlib
peak at the bridge
and crescendo
fade out into
jazz ensemble
saxophone
pounding bassline
wrap us up warm
in
beautiful music

wishful thinkin.....

i wish
a man could see me before hand and not after the fact ....i wish niggas would acknowledge my love recognize it as prime stock instead of treating it like it's black market....i wish i could stop loving so hard... i wish i had money for every nigga i prepared for the next female....i wish i could be a bitch so this shit wouldn't hurt as much....then it would be me hurting them instead of them hurting me....i wish i didn't have to sleep alone....i wish i could stop writing poems about a man that isn't even thinking about me....i wish i had a man and me and him could fall in love and be somewhere at the precise time he was so he could see that he doesn't have my heart no more...i wish my eyes didn't leak water everytime i think about how much time i wasted....how much good loving i gave away....how many dreams and secrets i told ......how many late nights i answered the phone from a deep sleep but pretended i was wide awake just because it was him...and just because i wanted just a little of his time.....i wish i could have a full glass instead of a half a cup...i wish....

Him

I saw him yesterday
he was looking the other way
and even though I tried to say
hello
he didn't see me
he couldn't see me because
he was looking at her
and she was looking at him
and I felt foolish
for trying to get his attention
in the first place
and as I drove away
tears streaming down my face
I was reminded
this was not the first time
I saw him
and he didn't see me
in all reality
he had never seen me
and never heard a word I said
to him
I was invisible
disposable
a casualty of love and war
I saw him
pass right by me
I was speaking loud enough
but he still couldn't hear me
and even when I was right in his face
he couldn't see me
but he didn't have the courage
to tell me he didn't need me
or didn't want me
and had chosen another
I saw him for the first time
and the last time
wishing each time
had never happened.