Given the amount of times I stick my foot in my mouth I think it’s safe to say a few things about me.
I love music, I do…but let me let you in on a secret. I need it more than I want it. If I have no instrumental to drown out my thoughts there is cerebral echo. My thoughts don’t just speak, they yell and repeat in an annoying round like a song at a Girl Scout campfire. The music competes with the noise and wins eventually. My heart beats to baseline, my mind follows the melody. The harmony would be my conscience’s ad-libs.
I’ve been conditioned to genres. Heavy metal is my anger while jazz plays coy in the background when I’m shy. Yes, I have shy moments. Classical is the echelon of organized thought I seek to attain. It’s my precursor, my mentor, my intellectual prototype. I stride in salsa while breathing the blues.
Music is my security blanket and enabler. It’s the friend that passes me another shot knowing I’ve had enough. I throw it back to prove I’m not a lightweight. My ears flood, my speakers blow and my mind goes…
Healing hurts and it is uncomfortable but necessary to get back to normal function. You know when you put alcohol on a cut and there’s that initial burn? The best thing I could compare my advice to is alcohol. It stings at first but when you really let it settle and get in good, it can clean all the mess up. If you want protection and covering, I can do that too. Sort of like a bandaid. However, I will NOT put the bandaid on before I clean your wound. Don’t ask me for my opinion, thoughts, or advice unless you can handle the sting.
I am extremely familiar with the soundtrack for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and Jay Electronica’s mix tape over its music score. Today I actually watched the movie. Ehhhhh, not sure if it was a wise choice. Great movie and all but now I am consumed with the concept that there is some clinic that provides its clients with selective memory loss through object conditioning.
If art imitates life, why can’t such a place exist? I can’t say that I’d dedicate my days in search of but now I have something to hope for to serve as a distraction to the memories I want to erase.
Maybe that was the point of the movie all along. Life provides salve for all of memory’s ills, just no actual cure.
From the beginning of life as we know it, each gender is given cues to the role they will play in society. The males are established as the protectors and providers, females are the homemakers. Little boys are given weapons or tool-like toys to play with so they can save the world from “bad guys” and fix/build things. Meanwhile, girls are off somewhere playing with their ”babydolls” and tapping into the idea of motherhood. Before we even know the meaning/purpose of our own lives prospectively we are encouraged to give or nuture life. Not knocking it, just an observation. I digress. We are subconsciously playing house before nasty lil boys come around and confine “house” to mimicking grown up activity. Don’t lie, you played house and got grown too. ;-)
Taking into account the current “sexual revolution”, I would say that a rough 80% of the world subconsciously divide and/or define themselves by their gender role (my own personal stats of course).
When having a conversation with my “Lyddiebug” yesterday I shared my thoughts on how we as young woman view the role of the man and how the man actually views his role. With men, it is a very narrow scope. They just leave it at physical protection and monetary provision. That is a part of it and most time the beginning but that’s not where it ends. Women are multi-faceted so of course we need different things for different parts of our being. We need emotional, mental, sexual AND physical protection. Don’t just take a bullet for us, get tested and know your status to keep us both safe. Don’t just move on the side closer to the street, let us know that you’ve heard our fears and concerns and address them accordingly. Protect our minds, hearts, as well as our bodies. If it’s a thirsty chick somewhere being extra and not respecting the fact that we’re together…protect the relationship, make us feel like you have seen a potential attack/infiltration and have moved on our behalf. Don’t just protect with your stature, your posture really starts in the mind so if you want to protect us…think a little more…and a little harder.
Now provision, depending upon the woman she just might want your money. For the scope of this post we’re not talking about gold-diggers, just regular everyday women trying to make it on their own. For the self-respecting female, provision isn’t just monetary it ties in a lot with protection. Provision can be as simple as helping to maintain an atmosphere and environment that’s conducive for happy living and growth. To let you in on a little secret, foreplay doesn’t start in the bed. For women, it can start when we’re walking down the street. For me personally, if my husband and I are walking and a man looks at me as if he likes what he sees…the sexiest response from my husband would be to grab my hand and hold it tight. Men don’t quite get the gravity of something that simple but trust me it goes a long way. Not only did you stake your claim and showed affection at the same time…you actually reacted to something *gasp*. You’ve showed us that you CAN be affected by something and though it’s not as emotional as we would like, we notice and we appreciate it. We know that you still want us and have acknowledged that someone else might too. This motivates you to value what you have a little bit more than before. That’s protection AND provision with a cherry on top. Simple enough right?
Instead of tallying up our “complaints” or ”concerns” to equal it to nagging, just stop and think about the potential cause. Everything we ask for stems from: protection and provision. If we are not happy in a certain area of the relationship, I’m willing to bet it trickled down from some area left undone from those two aspects. Don’t get smart with us, be smart with us. Learn the woman you love and I promise things will go a lot smoother. Don’t give her what she wants, girls throw tantrums for what they want. Give that woman what she needs. Please and thank you.
We long for past things because we’ve had them before. Yesterday is a point of reference so it is safe to us.”It’s done, I did it”, we say. It provides a sense of accomplishment. Makes us proud and even puts us at ease because we have overcome a frame of time.
Today. We can’t be as confident about today because it is still in progress. There’s nothing to compare it to except yesterday.
Tomorrow is the optimist. It’s always coming and will never be late. Mysterious. Intriguing. Just too darn perfect to be true. Or to be promised.
...but good ol’ yesterday. Gone but never forgotten. Maybe that's why we get stuck there.
I tried to convince someone as stubborn as me that I wasn’t stubborn. It was just as successful as composing a symphony for the deaf and asking if the strings were in tune or painting a picture for the blind in their favorite color. Maybe it wasn’t a matter of stubbornness, just two souls who won’t hear or see the other side of things because we weren’t equipped to. One day I’ll hand over my paint brush and pass my instrument over and let them demonstrate their artistry to me. Until then…I’m not stubborn because I SAID SO!
This is my theory. As silly as it may sound to you, it makes me feel better so please oblige. I think I’ve found out how different kinds of love for different kinds of people can co-exist in one space and not overlap. The heart has compartments. Like a highrise apartment complex nestled in the middle of a metropolis, the heart is constantly occupied and is called home to many. People of various backgrounds, with different stories to tell coagulated with an array of reasons as to why they’ve ended up there. All the while filling the darn thing almost exceeding capacity.
We often say “Oh, he has my heart” or “You’re the only one my heart beats for”. It sounds so sweet, so assuring…but is it accurate? Is it a lie of omission and oversight? Other people are already there…somewhere. Does the heart rent out its space as easily as a seedy landlord seeks to fill up his property to ensure steady flow of income?
Well friends, this is my answer to all of these questions.
Simply yes and no.
The heart is a lot of numerous foundations and housing properties, open to all who qualify. There are apartments to rent, homes to buy, and some things in between like renting with an option to buy. I guess this is why love is as unstable as the housing market; ironically owning a home no matter how the market wavers is always the most secure form of collateral. I know it to be true but I’ll never understand why it is. Almost how I’ll never fully understand how and where love lives. Creating theories help though.
She attempted to dance from a distance but solo steps became a tango.
The wolf showed up without invitation. In true predator style, nonetheless.
She slid in hopes to move far enough to escape his eye but she forgot that he already had her scent.
He smelled her fear but surprisingly didn’t attack, just paced back and forth to watch her next move.
Even if he couldn’t see her anymore he still knew her frequented places and could show up at a moment’s notice.
He had images of how she jumped, how she ran…he even knew what her silence meant.
She figured it was easier to say nothing and keep poise. She continued dancing like she had before.
Waiting and anticipating the attack that never transpired grew to be pointless, so she invited him to dance.
She figured it was easier to dance alongside him than to counter his moves from afar.
Friendship is no longer a real classification of human relationship/interaction for me. It is now a box that I use to put people in because there is nowhere else for them to go. It avoids delegation or responsibility and feeling…at the same time it is the rest stop on the way to love that you’ll never leave because it has really clean bathrooms that smell like pine and a convenient one-stop shop with the jumbo iced honeybuns that you enjoy so much. HA! If such a thing exists. Well, then I guess that’s the point…it doesn’t exist and to me…and right now, neither does friendship.
Friendship was thought to be something where you get back what you put in. Something that required a bit of labor but rewarding nonetheless so it was entered with good intention and ethic. These days I’m starting to see that I’m more naive than I thought and that this “friendship” that I once believed in was only another subliminal form of propaganda. Friendship is the median between love and hate. I’d appreciate it if you just hate me or if you just love me. These days I’m gaining more respect for my enemies than my “friends”, at least they are definitive in their stance. So from now on I only have “lovers” and “haters”…no friends necessary. Thanking you in advance.
I’m not a roaring feminist nor am I in the business of bashing males. In this post I’m not nagging, just sharing a conglomerate of pet peeves with people with penises. We’ll call it vaginal venting for now. Don’t worry men, the ladies will get a similar post when I can be honest enough with myself to admit that I will fall into all of the categories I list. Listing my pet peeves will restrict me a little bit and I don’t want to go off in a tangent so numbered list in 5, 4, 3, 2…
Just something I wrote after a weighted phone convo. It has been trapped in my blackberry long enough…
They come to dump their junk, their unwanted things. The mess that has piled up in their space has become overwhelming and unwelcome so they drop it off here. I retain it all until it spills over only to make more room for more mess. The clutter starts to run over into each other and has no breathing room. A stench forms that sticks in the air. It travels, it doesn’t dissipate for miles, choking everyone it meets. Did they not know that there was stuff here already? Pre-existing piles of tattered trash that were waiting to be compacted or better yet burned. They don’t care, they tell me secrets, they vent to release their woes but they don’t know where it truly goes. It goes through my ears only to lay and gather in my mind. Their breakthrough, my burden. Their spring cleaning has only littered my temple. God please teach them to recycle and turn their own trash to treasure. I’m filled to capacity. *exhale*
Expectations are the sperm that donate its part to the bastard child called disappointment. You’ll keep producing them ‘til you die and they have to come out at some point or you’ll be backed-up and blue. If not released by your will, they’ll exit by force. Their survival and longevity is based on their arrival. Wherever and whenever that may be.
I have a colleague who is probably the sweetest young lady I’ve met and genuinely goes out her way not to cause anyone any trouble. She does exactly what she’s told, when she’s told without question. She reminds me a lot of how I used to be before I discovered first hand how people can take advantage of such a beautiful quality and learned how to say “uh uh, do it yourself”. Anyway, she has a difficult time expressing concerns and how she feels. She would rather go without saying anything than to come off like she’s not appreciative or that she’s complaining which I totally respect. No one likes a complainer. However, she does this at the expense of her own comfort and well-being. Her outlook on this made me wonder where concerns hang up their hat for the day and switch shifts with complaints. Is a concern the distant cousin of complaint or are they identical twins and the only way to tell them apart is a blemish?
Concerns seem to be genuine in nature stemming from some type of apprehension or maybe even an emotional/logical inquiry. They can be traced to a direct incident, emotion, and/or person. They are often acceptable and understandable to people in close quarters or of like-mind. If not tended to and addressed in a timely manner concerns like to throw temper tantrums and mirror complaints just to remind you they are there.
Complaints, they always seem to be unwelcome to me. Unless you are at the “Complaint” department of a retail store. I know I can do without them. They are passive/aggressive, they are expressed without the sincere effort to do something about them. They just want to be heard and reacted to, not really acted on.
I’ll hear out a concern and give it a chance but complaints get no air time with me. Both are similar in origin but I guess it would be safe to say that a complaint is really a concern neglected and gone untreated. An ailment of dissatisfaction. *shrug*
