Tuesday, February 18, 2014
S.S.
She traced the uneven scar that ran around her thigh like a coiled snake through her stockings. Every inch harkening a time long lost. She caught herself gazing out the window of her tiny, studio loft. It was dark even for a winter day. It was always on days like these that she felt herself reminisce, but she was going to be late. In a rush to get finished, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-size mirror next to her bed. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a red, frizzled mess. Dark stockings ran underneath a black dress. The outfit was contrasted against her pale, white skin. She hated everything about herself. She hated living alone...
Bound and ingratiated to you
Taken as a child and inside you I grew
Pushing at the glass ceiling pressing against my face
One day I'll break through and live in outer space
I didn't know how to feel at first
A love song that was backwards and perverse
50 shades of grey
Painting the very lines of the man you see today
They tried to tell me how to feel
They tried to define my reality yet it's all surreal
Support groups structured like classrooms
Burying individual thoughts in unmarked tombs
You loved me too much
You hurt me so much
I loved you for it
I loved you for it
The next social manifest written in 140 characters
Parables sung by charlatans in every neighborhood theatre
We're all in love with the vanity
Excess pushing the bounds of this universal sanity
The next prophet preparing his mass eulogy; euthanize
The next president preparing her national address; euthanize
The next preacher preparing his pulpit call; euthanize
The next teacher preparing her lesson plan; euthanize
You loved me so much
You hurt me too much
I loved you for it
I loved you for it
Time heals most wounds and 30 years certainly healed the physical ones. Her mini celebrity status kept her inside most times early on, but most of that has died down. There were the occasional looks but most of that was inside her head, she thought. It wasn't the looks she detested, it was what was behind them. They pitied her. They felt sorrow for her. She was just a girl when it happened. 30 years ago to the day. It was their anniversary. It was then she noticed one of the roses shudder under the clench of her balled fist. The sun began dipping behind the skyline signaling her to hurry the pace. She was almost there but the sunset was always our time. Making her way through the maze of stones, she knew the quickest route.
The sky now ablaze with oranges and purples, it was oddly the brightest it had been all day. Shakily, she dropped the roses next to the headstone that was now showing its age. She knew what it said though. It was painfully seared. "Here rests the body and soul of Charles M. Nelson." Absently, her hand began tracing the scar again but the trace began to apply more pressure and before she knew it, she was reopening her flesh with every repetition. The pain reminding her of precious times. Times they shared. His last living gift. The light dropped from the sky and her eyes. Hugging herself, she turned on her toes and began the trek back. They'll never understand...
SS
Saturday, February 15, 2014
iii. telegraph ave.
...The only one I know is you, so the fuck I'm supposed to do...
The last few bars of telegraph ave aggressively nuzzle their way against my eardrums. And as it drew to a close I thought, this is the last time in vain. And so it started for at least the 90th time in a row. There are just moments in life where a song perfectly aligns with my soul creating a bridge to a place I seldom get to visit. A place where intimate moments, thoughts, and expressions that don't mean anything singularly come together to create a tapestry of pure self. Here I can carefully take these threads and follow them to their source. One foot here. One foot there. In reality I am taking in everything for the first time. Words, signs, people all connect me to memories and thoughts so powerful it washes over like a tidal wave.
It was supposed to be a simple task. Procure food. An errand I've done a million times. I throw on a random pair of jeans, caramel-striped button up, and Oklahoma City Thunder-inspired Kamikazes. Next, earphones go in and I play crawl on the Gambino album. I know my order: crawl, sweatpants, 3005, and life: the biggest troll. Don't get me wrong. I love the entire album, those tracks are its highlights - or so I thought. Before I could leave, I came across the accompanying story that breaks down the concept album written as a screenplay.
becausetheinter.net
This is old. So old I actually had no intention of reading it. I thought I had a fairly good grasp on the album and its message. But suddenly with a jolt of curiosity I played along. I mean I devoted a whole night to a visual album of Beyonce's. Each song on the album sonically created the backdrop to the adventures of "The Boy" and the characters that make up his life. That's when it happened. My creative juices flooded my brain and began clamoring for an outlet. Now I just needed my sound scape.
Foot on the gas/I'm just trying to pass/All the red lights/And stop signs/I'm ready to go
By the time I left, it was well after the time I had intended to leave. My blood sugar was dropping fast and traffic was my consequence. The stop and go. Over and over. Cycles. Repetition. I feel safe inside it. For the majority of my life I've developed a routine that runs like a well-oiled machine. There's something safe and dependable about knowing what's next. I've never carried a large circle because there's safety in knowing the people you place around yourself. No surprises. And yet somewhere in the familiar march towards death it feels I've stepped out of line and been sentenced to run in circles or maybe I stopped to catch my breath. My ferris wheel seems to have stopped moving. It isn't the direction I'm concerned with, it's the speed in which I feel I'm traveling...
A honk jars me back to reality. I gave a flick of a wave expressing my apology. Still in a half trance, I park when I get to my destination just to absently grab for my wallet that is almost always near the handle of the driver's side. I've long since thrown caution to the wind regarding this subject. I'd rather chance someone breaking into my car and stealing it than me losing it. And if it isn't in one central place, I will lose it. But it isn't there. I play the "when did you use it last" game. Philomena the movie the day before. I'm wearing the jeans and jacket I was wearing that day so not there. Grimly, I stare down the possibility of the fact that I've lost my wallet. Either way it was back to the house and back through the traffic. That bowl of Kix now seemed to be eaten years prior instead of hours.
Everything, that I needed/Now that I got you in your feelings/Everything you won't say, you tweet it/And a nigga don't like that shit at all
The sun was starting to mock me as it was getting low by the time I reached the house. It took a minute to find it on the kitchen counter under the movie stub. Relief mixed with consternation. Do I really want to go back out there? A quick overview of my current groceries produced a meal of oatmeal or eggs. Stubbornly, I hurried back into the car and set off again. Right. Left. Right. Straight. Retracing your path just taken, creates an odd sense of regurgitation. How many times have I taken a specific route to go anywhere? Being born and raised in one place creates more deja vu moments than I'd care to admit. I've thought about moving. Where would I go? Austin? Brooklyn? San Diego?
In Oakland...In Oakland...
Everything has always been here. My family, friends and more importantly the routine. Starting over. Flashes like light bulbs going off behind my eyes take me back. I see people I haven't talked to in decades. I see places that seemed so important so long ago. Monuments of memories that once shone so bright have since been eroded by time. A cemetery that has long lost its undertaker. A beautiful tragedy now befalls this secret garden. A million experiences that lie dormant individually breathe life into me.
Yeah, we can try/So let's try
After claiming my food it's this line that keeps sticking out. And on the way back it's the line that has me digging. It was at this moment I got a sense of deja vu that was altogether different. Instead of it revolving around a time or place it was the act of self discovery through music I developed at a very early age. I can remember my sister's Panasonic CD Player like it was yesterday. She was much better about saving her allowance for technology so when she got that CD Player I was enraged with jealousy. I don't know how many times I stole it to her chagrin. I was determined to get one as well so when I finally got my first CD Player the real anticipation was to use it was in the car.
More aptly -- the van. A beige Econoline van with a tire wheel cover that read Sassi Chassi. Appropriately it was dubbed the Sassi Chassi by friends later on in high school. But by that time it had been remodeled into an ice cream van. Another story for another time. Anyways, my excitement lie in the fact I had a strange fascination in laying down on my back in the very back of the van and peering through the window trying to guess where I was by the tops of houses and power lines. It was fun. I was somewhere else - a different world. It was always difficult to fall completely because of the chatter of the family most times so when I discovered the music could be the blanket to insulate these dreams, it was a genuine breakthrough.
It was especially transcendent at night so as I found myself pulling up to house I decided to pile into the back of my Toyota Camry which readily brought two things to mind. The car was much smaller and I was much bigger. Nevertheless, I gave it one more spin and let everything go. Yeah we can try...so let's try. I think about my brief trial learning how to play the tenor saxophone given to me by my cousin Michelle. I think about my trials playing JV basketball until 8th grade. I think about the trials of growing up black in a significantly white state that is Oregon. I think about you. I never know if I try hard enough to say what I mean to say. I picture you standing two feet away with hurricane winds shuttling between us. No matter how hard I shout, the syllables swallowed and spat out on deaf ears. Eyes open and stomach stirs. Answers for a 29 year old summing up this decade of transition aren't coming easy but on days like these, the questions become clearer.
I don't really mind the drive/
But I think I'd rather die/
In Oakland, in Oakland/
With my hands on two and ten/
So I guess it all depends/
On Oakland, on Oakland/
And I'm nervous, truth be told/
I never saw me growing old/
In Oakland, in Oakland/
And if I married you tonight/
It would probably start a riot/
In Oakland, in Oakland/
The last few bars of telegraph ave aggressively nuzzle their way against my eardrums. And as it drew to a close I thought, this is the last time in vain. And so it started for at least the 90th time in a row. There are just moments in life where a song perfectly aligns with my soul creating a bridge to a place I seldom get to visit. A place where intimate moments, thoughts, and expressions that don't mean anything singularly come together to create a tapestry of pure self. Here I can carefully take these threads and follow them to their source. One foot here. One foot there. In reality I am taking in everything for the first time. Words, signs, people all connect me to memories and thoughts so powerful it washes over like a tidal wave.
It was supposed to be a simple task. Procure food. An errand I've done a million times. I throw on a random pair of jeans, caramel-striped button up, and Oklahoma City Thunder-inspired Kamikazes. Next, earphones go in and I play crawl on the Gambino album. I know my order: crawl, sweatpants, 3005, and life: the biggest troll. Don't get me wrong. I love the entire album, those tracks are its highlights - or so I thought. Before I could leave, I came across the accompanying story that breaks down the concept album written as a screenplay.
becausetheinter.net
This is old. So old I actually had no intention of reading it. I thought I had a fairly good grasp on the album and its message. But suddenly with a jolt of curiosity I played along. I mean I devoted a whole night to a visual album of Beyonce's. Each song on the album sonically created the backdrop to the adventures of "The Boy" and the characters that make up his life. That's when it happened. My creative juices flooded my brain and began clamoring for an outlet. Now I just needed my sound scape.
Foot on the gas/I'm just trying to pass/All the red lights/And stop signs/I'm ready to go
By the time I left, it was well after the time I had intended to leave. My blood sugar was dropping fast and traffic was my consequence. The stop and go. Over and over. Cycles. Repetition. I feel safe inside it. For the majority of my life I've developed a routine that runs like a well-oiled machine. There's something safe and dependable about knowing what's next. I've never carried a large circle because there's safety in knowing the people you place around yourself. No surprises. And yet somewhere in the familiar march towards death it feels I've stepped out of line and been sentenced to run in circles or maybe I stopped to catch my breath. My ferris wheel seems to have stopped moving. It isn't the direction I'm concerned with, it's the speed in which I feel I'm traveling...
A honk jars me back to reality. I gave a flick of a wave expressing my apology. Still in a half trance, I park when I get to my destination just to absently grab for my wallet that is almost always near the handle of the driver's side. I've long since thrown caution to the wind regarding this subject. I'd rather chance someone breaking into my car and stealing it than me losing it. And if it isn't in one central place, I will lose it. But it isn't there. I play the "when did you use it last" game. Philomena the movie the day before. I'm wearing the jeans and jacket I was wearing that day so not there. Grimly, I stare down the possibility of the fact that I've lost my wallet. Either way it was back to the house and back through the traffic. That bowl of Kix now seemed to be eaten years prior instead of hours.
Everything, that I needed/Now that I got you in your feelings/Everything you won't say, you tweet it/And a nigga don't like that shit at all
The sun was starting to mock me as it was getting low by the time I reached the house. It took a minute to find it on the kitchen counter under the movie stub. Relief mixed with consternation. Do I really want to go back out there? A quick overview of my current groceries produced a meal of oatmeal or eggs. Stubbornly, I hurried back into the car and set off again. Right. Left. Right. Straight. Retracing your path just taken, creates an odd sense of regurgitation. How many times have I taken a specific route to go anywhere? Being born and raised in one place creates more deja vu moments than I'd care to admit. I've thought about moving. Where would I go? Austin? Brooklyn? San Diego?
In Oakland...In Oakland...
Everything has always been here. My family, friends and more importantly the routine. Starting over. Flashes like light bulbs going off behind my eyes take me back. I see people I haven't talked to in decades. I see places that seemed so important so long ago. Monuments of memories that once shone so bright have since been eroded by time. A cemetery that has long lost its undertaker. A beautiful tragedy now befalls this secret garden. A million experiences that lie dormant individually breathe life into me.
Yeah, we can try/So let's try
After claiming my food it's this line that keeps sticking out. And on the way back it's the line that has me digging. It was at this moment I got a sense of deja vu that was altogether different. Instead of it revolving around a time or place it was the act of self discovery through music I developed at a very early age. I can remember my sister's Panasonic CD Player like it was yesterday. She was much better about saving her allowance for technology so when she got that CD Player I was enraged with jealousy. I don't know how many times I stole it to her chagrin. I was determined to get one as well so when I finally got my first CD Player the real anticipation was to use it was in the car.
More aptly -- the van. A beige Econoline van with a tire wheel cover that read Sassi Chassi. Appropriately it was dubbed the Sassi Chassi by friends later on in high school. But by that time it had been remodeled into an ice cream van. Another story for another time. Anyways, my excitement lie in the fact I had a strange fascination in laying down on my back in the very back of the van and peering through the window trying to guess where I was by the tops of houses and power lines. It was fun. I was somewhere else - a different world. It was always difficult to fall completely because of the chatter of the family most times so when I discovered the music could be the blanket to insulate these dreams, it was a genuine breakthrough.
It was especially transcendent at night so as I found myself pulling up to house I decided to pile into the back of my Toyota Camry which readily brought two things to mind. The car was much smaller and I was much bigger. Nevertheless, I gave it one more spin and let everything go. Yeah we can try...so let's try. I think about my brief trial learning how to play the tenor saxophone given to me by my cousin Michelle. I think about my trials playing JV basketball until 8th grade. I think about the trials of growing up black in a significantly white state that is Oregon. I think about you. I never know if I try hard enough to say what I mean to say. I picture you standing two feet away with hurricane winds shuttling between us. No matter how hard I shout, the syllables swallowed and spat out on deaf ears. Eyes open and stomach stirs. Answers for a 29 year old summing up this decade of transition aren't coming easy but on days like these, the questions become clearer.
I don't really mind the drive/
But I think I'd rather die/
In Oakland, in Oakland/
With my hands on two and ten/
So I guess it all depends/
On Oakland, on Oakland/
And I'm nervous, truth be told/
I never saw me growing old/
In Oakland, in Oakland/
And if I married you tonight/
It would probably start a riot/
In Oakland, in Oakland/
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