Thinking Out Loud – A Lonely Girl Away From Home

I have an urge to write the way some people, I imagine, have an urge to get high. When I have the need to and don’t do it, my thoughts get all jumbled and backlogged and I can’t think about much else. I’ll start typing parts out of choronological order on my iPad, or making an outline on my computer at work. I’d just tell someone, but telling them to a friend just isn’t the same. There’s something to be said for the act of typing, even if it’s just a long email to Kewon. (He gets a lot of unedited, error-filled emails about stuff I have to get “on paper.”) This doesn’t happen too often since I make time each day to write. But I wondered what happens to people who have the same urge, and don’t write or don’t have the time. What do they do when they need to get it all out?

I woke up in the middle of a weeknight from a bad dream. I was up from 2-6AM afterward. I was scared, totally out of sorts. I could describe further, but I won’t today. After some much needed sleep before work, this was the first message I saw when I woke up in the morning exhausted.

As you know by my erratic posting sometimes, I let the blog slide when I’m caught up. Sometimes I debate quitting it. K.Reagan can be time consuming and a responsibility that I can’t always afford to have with my demanding work schedule. I get a fair amount of e-mails and texts when I miss more than a day and frankly, it can be a lot of pressure to come up with something to write daily. There are times when I think all the good stories I have to tell have been told. Other times, I’ve got something to talk about, but the words aren’t coming or I want to tell it, but feel like I can’t. It’s tough to be judged. To write about fuck ups in the past, well, I learned and grew. But current fuck ups? It’s hard to have thousands of people reading (even if I don’t know most of them) and thinking I’m an idiot. It’s not just the story you judge or comment on, it’s my life, it’s me.

Always having “what am I going to write about?” hanging over my head can be daunting. I don’t want to not meet expectations by not producing anything or worse, doing something sub par that I struggled to get out and then you think it sucks. I’m an artist and I’m sensitive about my shit. (Cue Erykah.) So to tell my stories and have someone find sustenance in it…. It amazes me. It gives me a purpose when I’m not always sure there is one. Words are powerful as I know from writing here almost every weekday and I’ve bruised a few feelings, sometimes my own. Thank you for telling me that they have an impact on you, even if you’re reading for the drama or even if you’re taking something deeper away. Your words made a bad morning, brighter. I keep the email that alerted me of your comment in my phone.

“You make me want to burn my notebook.”—MistyBlue

She (assuming, since most of the readers are) told me where the line was from, but she didn’t have to. love jones is one of my favorite films. And I remember the scene vividly when Nina said it. It was the first date and she was talking about Sonia Sanchez. I’ve never been a big Sanchez fan, or a big poetry fan. (Ace is though. She extols Sanchez’s brilliance.) So I know she’s great and I respect anything that passionately moves people.

Writing has always come easy to me. Most (but not all) posts just pour out along with the ways to set the story up and the metaphors that come in them that make what I write so called witty and funny. I get an idea, I punch it out on my IPad during my morning duty at work. Because it usually comes so easy, I question sometimes if it’s good. I mean the good stuff is supposed to take hard work, right? Tons of revisions, and a few days to think on it and edit properly? Some stuff I’ve put my heart into and it gets a blah response Other things I bang out in an hour and it gets 30 comments. Go figure. As long as you keep reading (an indication that it’s good to you), then I’ll keep writing. Misty Blue, I’m honored that you would evoke those words to me. I needed that. Thank you.

Texhibitionist spent a part of her Saturday night reading K.Reagan. With all the options of what to do for a young woman (again assuming) on a Saturday night, I’m humbled and honored that you spent time here. I don’t always think what I do here is that good. I read some other people’s stuff (like Terry McMillian) and sometimes think “why try?” She makes me want to burn my notebook. I remember reading Waiting to Exhale in one sitting when I was a kid.

My Mom had bought the book home, and I saw it on the counter. One Saturday afternoon I was bored and picked it up, laid on the couch and started reading. I laid on the living room couch consuming McMillian’s words the entire day until I was done. (In retrospect, I have to wonder why my Mom let me read that. It’s totally inappropriate for a kid.) In my recollection, it took about 10 hours. If Texhibitionist read for the time her comments were clocked, it was 40 or so minutes she spent with my story and my words. You will never know how much that meant to me, especially tonight.

Thank You.

Sigh – My Truths

There are truths in this life, that I guess we sometimes don’t want to face.  Weaknesses that we know we have, and those god awful qualities that need some assistance.  It’s like that broken record that keep playing the same damn verse in your life over, and over.

I’ve known for so long my weaknesses.  I figured it out a long time ago.  I guess I thought TIME would make me stronger, but in reality…time doesn’t always heal things or make things better on its own.

There are certain things in this life, that need full service of the heart, mind and soul.  Changes need to be made, by no one else but myself.

The TRUTH HURTS

There I said it.  THE TRUTH DOES HURT, ESPECIALLY MY TRUTH.  My truth hurts because there is no control over it other than to close up and put protection walls around something you thought others would appreciate.

I guess not everyone was taught the same?  I guess not everyone treasures the same things.

I guess we all have our work cut out for us.  This is life is just a test as I’ve said many times before.  Today I am failing miserably.

Spare Me…

Part writing exercise (cause I just write for writing’s sake sometimes.) Part blog. I edit a monthly news article back home that always gets bumped back to me for revisions. Frankly, I’m not used to being edited so hard. I’m learning a lot. But fuck if growth isn’t hard. You’re just going to have to read more randomness as I intentionally practice more at putting jumbled thoughts into cohesive expressions.

“We BeBe’s kids.  We don’t die we multiply”

-Robin Harris

I was in the nail shop around the corner earlier getting did right for the week. It was pretty empty—just me, a Jewish woman and her two kids—appx. 3 and 2—and the staff, 3 Hispanic ladies and the Asian owner. The Jewish lady was on her cell phone and her kids were roaming free. The older one went to use the bathroom, then complained she couldn’t wash her hands. The mom paused the call to ask the owner to turn the facet on for her. Then the little girls came to stand right up on the woman doing my pedicure. All up and invading the woman’s space—and her ability to focus on my feet (which after 3 weeks with no pedicure were jacked!) I finally, very nicely, told the oldest girl that she should go sit next to Mommy because Mommy missed her. The woman was oblivious to all of this. The oldest one tells me no(!), but then I add some bass and some firmness to my voice and the little girls finally leave. They wander around the shop knocking shit over, which one of the Hispanic ladies cleans up. Then they wander to the front of the store. Mom= oblivious.

I speak functional Spanish, but not enough to say ‘this bitch is tripping.’ However, facial expressions are near universal and that was enough for me and the Hispanic ladies to have a mutual chuckle at how recklessly absent this woman was in paying attention to her kids.

I tried to go back to reading my magazine, but I couldn’t. (When the hell did I start getting protective of kids? Is my biological clock ticking?) There are a host of dangers that kids can get into in a nail shop and well… I felt like I needed to make sure they didn’t harm themselves. It’s not their fault their mother isn’t raising them right or paying attention. When I look up, the 2 year old is playing in the trash can (germs!!!!) and the older child is pulling on the door to get outside the shop (danger!!!). The mother still hasn’t noticed.

No one else in the shop speaks enough English to alert the woman to her gross errors in parenting, so I take it upon myself to yell at her loud enough to interrupt her phone call. “Excuse me, Miss! You need to watch out for your kids!” I point to the door that the older child is still holding open while she stares at the Black lady yelling at her Mom. The younger one is elbow deep in trash and unfazed by my shouting.

Mom beckons the kids over by offering chocolate (yes, let’s reward bad behavior. No need to wipe your filthy hands, little one.) They pay her no mind. Maybe the fifth time she says something, they walk over for a treat. They eat, are momentarily still and silent, then go back to their antics. Mom never does end her call.

The littlest one climbs on a chair near where the polishes are displayed. She’s grabbing at them, using the plastic display case for leverage. The older one is sitting next to her flipping through nail magazines. Mom is all into her call. Still. I try to ignore them. I mean these are her fucking kids; I’m not a got-damned nanny. If she doesn’t care about the safety of her kids, why should I? Because they are kids and they don’t know any better. She’s curious. Not bad. Just has no home training. It’s not her fault her mother’s an idiot.

I get a vision of that display case giving way, and a 2-year-old tumbling off a chair and onto the wood floor head first and broken glass and nail polish everywhere. So I yell for the mother again. (My logic is not yelling at them is that if I can get the Mom to show some act right, then maybe she will learn some. It all goes back to feeding a man a fish and teaching a man to fish. Think on it.) I stop myself from shouting rather demeaning, “hey Lady” and go for another, “Miss! Your daughter!” and point. She looks at me in the mirror like I am annoying her by saving her baby girl from busting her head wide open.

More chocolate for the kiddies. Yes, let’s feed hyperactive mofos (yes, I just called kids mofos) more sugar. This woman needs a damn parenting book. Or at least some common sense. I can’t help, but to say, “Are you fucking kidding me?” out-loud. The woman scraping my heels laughs. Evidently she understands more English than I thought. Or maybe she got the tone and didn’t need the translation. The other two women are just shaking their heads. The owner has put us all on ignore. I’d be lying if said there wasn’t a part of me that wishes I should have just let the child fall. Then Mom might have learned her a lesson. But what a thing to do to a kid just to spite the Mom.

I think about what my Mom would have done if I did that. I can’t even picture it. She never would have let me get that out of hand. I would have been sat in a chair next to her with a toy and it would have been made clear that I was not to move and I was to be quiet. When I tried to get up, cause I know I would have, I would have been stopped in my tracks. Mommy didn’t play that.

The woman never made her kids sit still, just like she never got off the phone. When she left the shop, I was relived. And then I sent up a prayer for God to watch over her babies. Someone needs to.