Manifesting Destiny.

We’re about to go on a quick trip from attachment to detachment in one post.  Ready?  I’m not sure I am, but here we go.  Ever since I was … a zygote … I have lived and breathed for the approval of other people.  I have existed to make people proud of, in love with, or enamored of me.  It is an addiction that lives in a house in my chest with all my other addictions (active and otherwise).  I have fed these addictions with actions done in expectation of the reward, the pay off, the acceptance, not realizing that  it’s a temporary thing and soon … likely very soon after the pay off the other person will move on to the next thing.  The next focus. They will return home and feed their own gluttonous needs and wants.  When you are not serving up the soup of the day that their inner glutton craves, they move on, or worse, they get angry at you.  They may even hate you.  These little monsters are ravenous and they don’t have time for you if you’re not feeding them.

I know I’m rambling.  I didn’t say the ride would be easy or coherent for that matter.  So, this morning I got a phone call.  A simple enough phone call, it was my Mom, there’d been a miscommunication that was in the grand scheme of things pretty minor.  I was yelled at and as per usual accused of being selfish. This is a recurring theme in our relationship by the by, and part of the reason why no matter how successful I’ve been or may become why I find it so hard to enjoy.  My choice to be a writer the majority of the time has felt ephemeral, insubstantial, and extremely selfish.  There’s this little fucker that runs around in my head saying: “How dare you go around here pretending that living this dream is ok, living this life you’re living is fair to anyone else! How dare you be enjoying life on your terms, you selfish bitch!”  And I would gladly smother him with a pillow if I could find it in my constitution to consciously and subconsciously disagree with him consistently.  He’s my absorbed twin that never got to manifest in body. He has lived with me since I was that zygote.

If I am to have the life I want, and honest to God I can’t even figure out exactly what that is cause he won’t shut the fuck up, I have to abort.  I have to abort all people, places, things, thoughts, and ideologies that implant doubt in my ability to achieve anything an everything I want to believe in this life. Even if that means I have to create distance from those whom I love very much. And that hurts, it feels like a literal ripping apart of myself from myself.  The person I knew myself to be and the person I am becoming cannot live in the same place.  One must die for the other to live. Because it’s not about whether or not I’m a good or great writer. It’s about what I believe  myself to be, and I will never ever ever ever believe in myself if I continued to be caught up in the sub par desires and expectations others have for me.

I think we’re almost there. The twin wants to have a word to ensure that I don’t isolate people … always the worrier he is.

None of this is to say that I’m cutting people off or doing one of those obnoxious “Facebook cleansing” were I get rid of my haters/detractors.  I don’t think I’m that pretentious … yet. What I am purging is the value I’ve placed on people’s expectations of me and my limited thinking. The fear that I have of aspiring to whatever the fuck I want to because it seems some how “wrong” or unattainable,  is a cancer, and if I have to gut myself with knife and rip it out  along with every fucked up thing I was raised to believe or told to believe about myself I. Will. because goddam this is my life and I’ve only got one shot at it. It’s hard enough trying to be somebody without being simultaneous made to feel like the somebody you want to be is wrong or unfair to others.  Fuck that.  Yes, I do think I’m good enough to achieve any accolade you could name for my writing, but I won’t even have the capability to be in the running if I don’t cut all this self defeatist bullshit out of my life. And none of the accolades matter anyway if I’m not doing this for myself because I must, because it was implanted in me to be this person before I was a zygote. It’s my destiny. Yup, I’m over here manifesting destiny.  It’s harder than childbirth, but it is the only true freedom.

Ok, we’re here. I’m done. For now.

Rosie.

 

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She wanna or In Trans-it

She wanna
Eat a man alive
Make him
S C R E A M
cum
vibrate
On his
In
Sides.
She wanna
Conquer
unnavigable waters
S/W/I/M
in
FORBIDDEN
seas.
She wanna
ramp wid him
inna rubba dub
STY-LE.
She wann-
Attention
And her
Name
Mentioned
In a list of lovers that he will
Never
Ever
Forget.
She says all this
With the
Flick
Of a sour straw gainst
Her tongue ring.
Sour seduction,
Lookin’ for trouble.
She gonna
Find IT.
If she wanna.

My Grandpa: The Vetting Process

My Grandpa was not a perfect man.  He left my grandmother with a daughter to raise. He inconsistently kept up with his established family afterwards, and he was fiscally irresponsible. Despite all this, my grandfather remains one of my favorite people of memory. Maybe it was  because of the mystique of his strong silent demeanor. As a child, even when I was sitting right next to him, I found myself wondering who he was, but never quite found the courage to ask.  I knew the basics, he was a World War II vet, he’d received a purple heart for being injured in combat. This injury was evidenced by the pins and screws in his leg (an injury which I now, coincidentally, have in common with him). He never drank (at least not that I can remember). He had an affinity for baked goods, The Peanuts, photography (of the living and the dead) and Cadillacs. Oh, and he played the clarinet which he got to do with Benny Goodman one time, per my Nana.

Whenever he’d surface for one of his impromptu visits it was like the Red Sea of my normal existence had been parted and I’d been liberated to a land of endless McDonald’s and paint by numbers kits.  Grandpa never seemed as entrenched by his existence as the other adults in my life. This alone made him a living wonder in my eyes.  When he wasn’t around, I always pictured him cruising around in his latest Caddy listening to Stacy Lattisaw. This was the internal image of him that endured through my childhood.  As I got older and sought out people to blame for my fuckupedness, my thoughts went back to my Grandpa and my questions became more complex.

Why did he leave? If he played the clarinet and loved photography, was he an artist? If he was an artist, why didn’t he chose to make that his life?  Question after, question came until I stumbled upon a theory, contrived though it may be:  My Grandpa was a suppressed artist.  He was suppressed by himself and the world he lived in.  I mean, picture it, The United States of America circa 1945-46.  You’re a black WWII veteran coming home to a country that you’ve fought for believing that your service in war would equal greater peace at home. You find out not only is that a lie, but the divides within the country have grown deeper.  You’re on the wrong side of a battle for civil rights that’s on the horizon while all that swims around in your head is the expanded view of the world you got to taste while you were living abroad. The disappointment is heartbreaking, but there is no time to stew in. Real life responsibilities; a wife,  a child, and the pursuit of an American Dream that cannot be achieved are constantly beckoning with needs that keep you up at night.

Maybe my Grandpa felt there was no time or little opportunity to explore his creative side?  Maybe he didn’t even know he was an artist. The questions always seem to lead to more questions, but in the pursuit of answers I find myself that much more closely bonded to who my Grandpa might have been. Please, don’t think I write this to provide excuses or make apologies for Grandpa’s behaviors but rather to try to get a better understanding of who he was that I might get a better understanding of who I am. And I am very much my Grandpa’s granddaughter.  I struggle with many of the same issues plus some whole new shit of my own invention. The awareness and nurturing of my creative side is the slight advantage I have. I hold on to it for dear life and strive to be the artist that my Grandpa and all my other unannounced artist ancestors never got to be.

Happy Veteran’s Day Grandpa – ❤ Junebug 

Private John Milton McCall

Private John Milton McCall

Come together. Peel apart.

You expose me to myself.

I am unfamiliar with your brand of respect

and human decency.

So it’s funny that I almost beg

you to violate me so it can feel right.

Oh to be able to stand in the quiet grace of

our greatness and let it just be that.

Oh but if I could silence her little cries for

validation

and

wholeness

and just BE

with us in that moment.

Even if that’s

All

We

Have.

Greetings from purgatory!

I am now approximately 4 months from moving to NYC and everything seems to be moving at a snail’s pace.  It is the perfect environment for me to develop a practice of patience, but who the hell wants to be bothered with that shit, right?  Instead I choose to entangle myself in every manner of self-destructive time filler I can find from useless men, to midnight jelly heart binges.

Why does living right have to be so damnable hard!? Ugh! Well, I am scoring tiny victories like … 45% follow through on my budget, working out in some capacity one day a week and limiting my social networking time … wait how long have I been on WordPress today? Does WordPress even count as cheating? (nah, it’s sorta like getting head from a hooker, right fellas!)

Anyway, let this lil news brief be a literal, if not quite literary, representation of me “keep on, keeping on.” One day very soon, I shall be writing lofty blog posts about the beautiful misery of graduate school live and direct from my 5’x12′ foot apartment in Fort Greene. In the mean time, if you’re in a waiting place like I am try your best (and BELIEVE me I know it’s hard) to shift focus inward and stay grounded, knowing you have a sistah (that would be me) in the fight *fist raised*.  My tiny bursts of discipline and self nurturing have actually kept me  just around the frays of sanity.

That’s all I got.

Rosie.

Vote, and shut the fuck up. Please.

ImageOn the eve of this evening’s final Presidential debate, it has become painfully obvious to me that I’m over it.  All over it.  Social networking battles to the death containing little or no semblance of truth, the ending of friendships over comment strings all serves to do what exactly?  Send you to bed pissed off, or worse, out into the world pissed off looking for a release.  Here’s a little bit of insight that hit me the other day. Voting is a very self-centered thing. Our current democratic system plays on every fear, real or imagined, that we have THEN asks our paranoid, self-obsessed crazy asses to go out and select someone to lead the entire nation.  We go, and we vote our own needs and rarely the needs of others.  If you say that’s not true then you’re lying to someone you should never lie to … you.

I know I’m not going to vote in a way that may necessarily benefit a rich corporation more than it’s going to benefit my poor black artist ass.  Why would I? It’d be self-defeating.  Are there solutions that would be mutually beneficial to all American citizens?  Hell, probably.  But, that’s not what I’m here to write about.  I mainly just want to say that the odds of anyone’s minds being changed by endless online banter and diatribes, t-shirts, bumper stickers, etc. are slim to fuckin’ none. So hush.  Go do something more productive, like volunteering and being as selfless as you are with your vote.

Me?  I’m plotting my campaign for 2016. Since world domination is clearly just one rageful tweet away. Governing an entire country can’t be that damn hard.

Rosie.