kaiser.

I let him nibble on my ankles, play with my string, lie with me in bed, and hold the remote control. And what does the lil' shit give me in return?

SLEEP

inconveniently true.

A man can be happy with any woman as long as he does not love her.

- The Picture Of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

how to be.

The other day in a bookstore, I picked up this little book on how to be happy. I was curious, so I read a couple pages while waiting for Walter Mosley to arrive and read to us.

Page 1: Show up.

Page 2: Follow your heart.

I ended there. That was enough. True stuff, but nothing novel. And, I didn't need to read that on the pages of a book, did I?

I put the book back in it's place on the shelf. Got a latte, took my seat, and Walter began.

(I think I'm gonna talk a bit more about Walter later in the week...but I have no idea what I want to say.)

so last friday...

...one of my favorite bloggers posted a short-and-sweet entry. It made me smile. TAKE A LOOK-SEE...end the week on a positive "note."

my girlfriends make me laugh.

From this here silliness (she's way cuter than that dog), to Kai's crazy Bed-Stuy date from hell (sooooooo glad you got the f*ck outta there alive!), to Geri's very odd crushes on Putin and Ahmadinejad (Geri, you should have never told me that!), to Hans' joy over her discovery of pretty pink cigs (I want one!). I LOVE these girls--and credit much of my joie de vivre to them and their whimsies.
photo by Hannah C.

can't wait.

This weekend is all about cleaning out my closet, weeding through all the stuff I never wear, and saying "adieu" to a lot of junk. Mustard Seed, Goodwill, and Chyna here I come!

Rule 1: if I haven't worn it in a year but keep insisting "i might wear that oneday," it goes.

Rule 2: if it doesn't fit me exactly the way it should and if it's not worth it to waste money on tailoring, it goes.

Rule 3: if i don't love it, it goes.

It's a good feeling--letting go of all that extra baggage and clutter...and finding the special things I forgot I had.

road trip.

i sit beside you.

i hold your thigh. you hold mine. then the clutch. then my thigh again. i squirm--i'm ticklish there, but i like it.

i smile at your profile--the perfect curves that still feel new to me. the tiny mole on your neck, just beyond your ear.

you wrap your fingers around mine.

i sit beside you.

you listen to hip-hop 80s, rock 70s. i can't get my way--so i listen to my ipod--R&B 90s, soul 60s. i take little breaks to chat with you and eat your Grandma cookies.

between naps, i stare out the window at Fall leaves and country markets. between smiling at my naps, you stare ahead at 64 and 295.

you curse the post-weekend gridlock--"Damnit...I should've stayed on 60." i curse the weather--"Damnit...It's too warm for Fall!"

"look at the cows!" you say, because you know the Virginia child in me wishes i could have one in my backyard.

we steal fast kisses at red lights and in between stalled cars.

you drive. i Google-map. you pump gas. i browse the aisles of Sheetz.

you slide your hand over mine, and wrap it around yours.

i sit beside you.

oh, I liked "Writing"...

...by Charles Bukowski. And since you liked his quote from "Women," and someone else liked it too, I've decided to post it here. Maybe it will help, or provide an answer, or give some sort of meaning to someone else. Or maybe they'll just "like it" as we did.

Pain is strange.
A cat killing a bird, a car accident, a fire...

Pain arrives, BANG, and there it is, it sits on you. It's real.
And to anybody watching, you look foolish. Like you've
suddenly become an idiot.

There's no cure for it unless you know somebody who
understands how you feel, and knows how to help.

"i'm mad. you're mad."

painting by Jacques Hans Gallrein
****************************

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Alice remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "We're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said Alice.

"You must be," said the Cat. "or you wouldn't have come here."

-Alice in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

i am...

...READY. ready to go. ready for a change. Soon is too slow.

my little brother.

at age 4, what did you know about pain? desperation? wanting? but you weren't supposed to understand, were you?

that day you walked in on Mommy in the bathroom, you weren't supposed to, were you? you were supposed to be playing with your teddy in the bedroom or playing with your puppy outside--"Don't run out in to the street for anything! Stay on the sidewalk!" that's what you were supposed to be doing.

but you didn't listen. at age 4, sometimes you don't listen, or you just forget to because you're thinking about all the other things you're supposed to remember: "Don't run out into the street. Don't talk to that man who lives across the street in that gray house(he's mean to children), Don't pee on yourself, Careful not to fall down, Come here and let Mommy comb your hair, ok?"

but you didn't listen to "Don't come in the bathroom," and you saw what you didn't understand, and maybe it wasn't real, like the cartoons you watched every Saturday. but this was different, because you couldn't unlearn it, and many many nights many years into the future, how could you know, that you would beg God to take it away. to wipe your memory clean. if only. you could go back and not see what you saw that day, when you were 4:

Mommy crouching in the bathroom. bare feet. cold tile. body lurching forward. face contorted like a monster. wire hanger in twitching hand. ripping away her own flesh. my own flesh. she screamed something, but you don't know what it was. you couldn't hear, you could only see. you wanted to move, and to scream, but you were frozen. bare feet. cold tile. eyes widened. you don't remember when you walked away. it was more than you could ever understand. and more than a child's heart could hold.

"i will...try...

...to contain that eternal loneliness that seems to eat away at you."
painting by Valery Milovic

(about hair) i posted this on another blog.

And then I thought, "wow, I really overdid it on this chick's blog." I mean, I posted a blog entry within a blog entry. But on the other hand, sometimes I like when I overdo it, cuz some topics merit wordiness. i.e. this wordy comment I posted about hair and women and preference and men that I'm sure a lot of women can relate to:

"I think hair beauty is in eye of the beholder, and while what you do with your hair should not matter, I know from experience, that to many of our people, it does. And some, not all, black men have a “thing” about hair. Some call it a preference, others call it a bias. To each his own, I guess. I’d like to add that some white, latino, and asian men have a "thing" about hair as well, so I think this preference/bias "thing" crosses over to every culture and race.

I’ve had my hair in every style there is to have: the short “toni braxton” cut, a shaved Sinead O’Connor head, the long and natural, the short and natural, relaxed (straight) and long, highlighted, dyed, a straight bob, and now I have a mid-length natural style that I’m growing out (because I’ve found that relaxers are so damaging and I have less and less time to put into maintaining it). Over the years, I’ve had varying reactions from men. For years, when I rocked the short ‘do, men would say "I love a woman with short hair. It truly shows off your pretty face." Very nice. And I now I get compliments about my natural hair, and guys always want to touch it (lol). I guess I cannot speak much about negative comments I've received from men about my hair, except that a number of men I’ve dated, both younger and older, have actually asked me, when my hair was short, to grow it long because they preferred longer hair. Maybe they were just old-fashioned. Maybe their mommas had long hair, and they like women to look like their mommas. Maybe they just like touching, caressing, or running their fingers through long hair. It is what it is. People have preferences. Some men like long, others like short, (my current boyfriend likes mohawks…lol) some say it doesn’t matter. Some women don’t want to date an overweight man, or prefer a tall man. These are ALL personal preferences.

Now, if men are making negative comments toward you, that could be a reflection of the type of man he is and his overall views about women, and not about who you are or how you wear your hair. If a man is coming from a place of respect, how he relates to you shouldn’t matter if your hair is short, long, natural, or relaxed. And it’s one thing to prefer one hair style/length over another, but JUDGING someone because of their hair, even if it’s a positive judgement (i.e.”My queen, I love your ‘fro”) is still just what it is –- judging a book by it’s cover. A ‘fro does not maketh a queen, and a relaxer does not maketh a ho.

I wear my hair natural because I think, of all the looks I’ve had, it’s the easiest to manage right now, the healthiest, and the most flattering. I’m absolutely the same person I was when I had straight hair with highlights and my short razor cut. How people look at me is there own “thing.” I’d just hope the people who really SEE me, would look past my hair.

P.S. Sorry for the extra long comment…and this is also my favorite Honey blog.

today on my afternoon caffeine run...

...the sidewalk vendor, grabs my coke from his cooler, cleans the top of it with a napkin (like I'd normally do for myself), wipes the excess water from the can, and neatly wraps three napkins around it with a straw. Then he thanks me and bids me good afternoon. It's so rare to encounter a gentleman, you kno. I must be courtesy-starved to make such a big hoo-raa over a guy wiping my coke can down with a napkin.

fortune cookie part 2

I posted a similar entry last Friday, but I like this one more -- posted last Thursday. If only all that could fit on a tiny strip of paper!

wear the blue one, cuz red is the devil's color.

She loved to draw and paint, and she was good at it. It made her someone else. She could add a "real, grown-up" arm to my stick figure. Her sisters said she would have been a "real artist" had she had the proper training. But she had no time for that, "with the kids and all."

Her art only graced the red walls of a dark, old basement kitchen, and the pages of her spiral notebook. I saw them there in that notebook: the art that makes me squeeze my eyes shut and creeps into my head when I'm alone at night. demons. devils. warlocks. cat eyed and horned and winged mythical creatures. black, inky eyes pressed deep into the pages. red eyes. eyes with no faces. "Who are they?" I ask. "Our neighbors," she says.