3 posts tagged “love jones”
I think what people don't understand, is that I'm tired. Mentally, physically, and spiritually drained. I've purposefully segregated myself from those I love in the pursuit of money and the ends will justify the means if only I can get there. I try to get there, every 15 hour work day is entered with the hope that should I still be alive at its closing, I will be one step closer to my beginning.
"The key," I told him, "is to go away, and then come back brand new, and hard, and victorious. Allow yourself to lose everything so you can fight unfettered in the wars that wage around you.
"Appearance is necessary, I believe in it's power. Observing is only weak if it's only, but coupled with action, it provides backing for the greatest force this world has ever seen. And it could be me."
And it could be. But until then I work, and I sleep, and I neglect those who are near and dear to my heart even going so far as to push them from my dreams so the pain becomes fantasy. I dream only of him now, and that's the way it needs to be, to get me through this seeming void.
My mother tells me -as I finish one 75 hour work week, and enter into one that will log 83- that Mother Parker is coming to stay with us this weekend and the house must be in top condition for her arrival. I tell her what I will and won't be able to accomplish during that time as well as when these actions will take place. I woke up tonight to get ready for the hotel and the first words out of her mouth are this,
"Are you going to just leave this all for me to do? You promised you would help me out, but you've done nothing but sleep, you ain't nothin' but a lazy, good for nothing-" and this is when I cut her out because if I don't I'll break. These rants are usually harmless albeit frustrating, I know she loves me and she's just tired and old, but there are times when she says the exact right thing in the exact right way that makes it feel like my decade of terror (1995-2005) is happening again and I'm just as lost and as hopeless as ever.
I lost a lot of self confidence during that time, and I'm slowly regaining it, though the stunted occurences are becoming much more sentient. Today I saw a man named Stacey and I wanted to comment, but he seemed preoccupied so I stood in silent admiration as an opportunity passed me by. Not necessarily an opportunity leading to anything productive, but a chance. Maybe for friendship, maybe acquaintanceship? Perhaps I would have offended him greatly and made an arch enemy; perhaps he would have been complimented and became the father of my children? Who knows? The moment is gone now, and it always will be.
I've found that though I live for the moment, and I anticipate it; following through to create it, or to taking advantage of it has been my current downfall. I've accepted these social defects and instead of fighting them in a place I consider to be temporary, I place them aside for the future and think of him.
I think a lot about making love to him, being with him sexually, being naked in front of him and wondering if he'll find me as beautiful as I sometimes find myself. Where I can't stand naked in front of my best friend, I believe that I could stand naked in front of a man that claimed to love me and who desired me, and I would stand tall and curvy and fat and heavy with passion for him. I think about the ways I would pleasure him, the ways I would cherish his body, and the demands that I would make for him to do the same. I would instruct him about where to kiss me, when to touch me, how hard to hold me. I want him to ask,
"Am I crushing you?" And I want to moan into his ear,
"Yes." I want to hold him, and be unafraid and uninhibited and free, but then reality plagues me. What if he doesn't find me beautiful, what if I do something that turns him off, what if this thing I've put so much weight in isn't that great? And it's not the reality of the act that eludes me -I await the smells, the tastes, the folds, the textures- it's the reality of intention. The reality of the aftermath, that the next morning, regardless of the events of the following night, I want you to hold me and tell me you love me. That's all.
I see him in every man, every day, always in my mind, and I wonder if the reality of him is capable of this. Of putting the world as we know it -with it's categories and fields and checkboxes- behind us, and loving me. Of accepting love from me. I know I can be overwhelming, and overpassionate, and dramatic, but can he see that that's what makes me perfect for him? That in my heart -where he is concerned- anything goes, and regardless of his desire to only gain when losing my heart will always be open?
That scares the hell out of him, I can tell. He'd never ever say it, but I know it does. To think of a woman being so very much in love with him to the point of her inner insanity, and not caring. So he pushes me away, and I accept it because I'm not yet ready to fight that fight. Instead I observe and watch, and plan, and wait, and hold him in my heart and in my mind.
It's rough, and scary, and sad, and sometimes it becomes a bit much so I work two jobs, and sleep, and watch tv, and ready myself for Mother Parker's arrival.
Her arrival is important because one day I will be her and I need to see her life in action on a frequent basis. I need to remember that compassion is not just an ideal and hopefully exercise it more readily. We all know that God is all about tests so I'm sure she will bring down her latest project who is Ken and who is Joey Poole Sr., and who is crazy, and who is my test.
He stayed with us briefly, and no he wasn't the crack head, or the other drag queen, or really all that terrible as much as he was confused and annoying and very, very wrong. You know those people who are so inundated in the world that they begin to reek of it? Cheap cigarrettes and stale whisky and bad cologne and regret and shame follow them wherever they go. Like, how you can see the stink of Pepe Le Pew, is how you can see the patheticness of Ken. And not just in his eyes, but in his aura, it surrounds him like atmosphere. It's not impenetrable, Mother Parker has tried and succeeded several times, but it's the fact of its weakness that makes him so frustrating.
He doesn't need God he needs a leader, and whoever leads him at that point is who he is going to follow, simple as that. And he talks a good game and speaks of how the Lord is blessing him and thank God for his little baby daughter who is living proof that God healed him and 'whoo Lawd lil sis! If you was just a few years older!' and I balk and add inside, 'and had a dick, and less breasts?' and I say this on the inside, and smile on the outside, but my heart cries out and doesn't know what to do about the people that I hold near and dear to me that I neglect for people like him.
These are the people I know, but they are not always the people I love, and they're most certainly not the people who know me. They are my deliverance, and sometimes my hindrance, but they are important to me. And soon, very soon, I will be important back.
Someday soon, once this thing wears off, I'll ask him about his fascination with murderous teens. Kids who want to kill school, naturally, or otherwise influenced. I never had the need to kill school, I was never bullied and got along well with everyone. It's a mentality that only happens in the movies, or in Colorado, or in places that I'm not. I see this as a good thing, but I wonder what I've been turning a blind eye to.
What causes a person to be alienated for things that they can't change about themselves? Is it simply an issue of intolerance, or is it really them? The funny thing is that the most pressure I've ever had from my peers was at church. There was even a week where they all decided to ignore me (and for good reason, I'd just won a contest and rubbed it in their faces. In my defense, they didn't believe in me, so I saw no reason not to gloat). I tried to return the favor, but I'm really bad at being mean for extended periods of time.
I remember one time that I stuck it out though. I think this time was extended towards The Boy, my beautiful boy. He'd broken my heart for the umpteenth time and I remember how horrid I felt when the kids ignored me so I decided to ignore him. I'm an extremist though, and immensely emotional, so instead of just giving him the cold shoulder I completely denied his existence on the face of the earth. The boy? Who is this boy you speak of? I've never heard of such a thing. It got to the point that even when he stood fortitudinously before me and dared me to deny him, I looked into his chest as though it were pure glass and whistled and hummed as if I were completely alone.
"You really don't see him? He's standing like right in front of you!" Who is? Whatever do you mean?
"S.! He's right there!" A random girl grabbed my hand and reached it out to touch him, and when contact was made I screamed.
"Oh my goodness girl, you took it to a whole other level." The girl shook her head and walked away while I remained stunned at the invisible wall before me. I kept up the act all week long, Tuesday night Bible study, Thursday rehearsal, Saturday carwash, Sunday morning, and finally Sunday night I was cornered downstairs in the basement.
I was in the supply room under the guise of getting... something, but subconsciously I was waiting. I heard him behind me and I turned around and began walking quickly knowing I would bump into him. He grabbed my arms and forced me to look into his eyes, acknowledging him, making him stronger. I retreated some until my back was against the wall and he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me.
I don't remember the context now, but I remember telling my friend that I knew he was a romantic. He didn't directly deny it, but later in some unrelated text he made the statement that he was the most unromantic person he knew. I knew it was for me to see, and I've thought about it a lot, but I still hold that contention to be true. People think of romance as flowers, and candy, and poetry, but those things are byproducts of romance. Romance in and of itself is about quality, about something being so mysterious and beautiful that you come to cherish and adore it for reasons personal to you. When he speaks of grace, and his fear of it, and his love for it, you can feel how it romances him just through the veneration of his depiction. And it was lovely. I hope the next time I see him I get to meet him.
After The Boy kissed me he ran his hand down the side of my face enveloping my jaw in his proud hands,
"Am I invisible now?" He asked. I looked up using only my eyes and then raised my head slightly biting him gently on his chin. I ran my tongue over the post adolescent bristle and pulled it back and forth with my teeth before kissing the spot lightly and smiling,
"No."
I guess he never was.
I wonder if people know how to kiss anymore? It's been so long since I've puckered up, but I've seen the future in the eyes of those searching for an already possessed perfection and I wonder if they know... how to kiss?
Lips meeting, slightly parting, teeth clinking, tongues meandering, a gentle exchange of emotion shown symbolically through bodily congress. Sometimes chaste and familial, and other times overwrought and rife with passion, this kiss serves as a gateway into the soul of its partakers. I wonder if the importance of this reciprocity matters anymore?
Not saying that today's world is impervious to the magic of a great kiss, but in the age of sex being the new icebreaker, do people take time to really appreciate the subtle beauty of a kiss? There's a common misconception that kissing only involves the mouth, but really there's so much more. I imagined stroking his jaw lovingly with the back of my hand while using my other to run through his hair, or over his bald head. Wrapping my arms tightly around him and pressing my body into his until we become unified by our need for more.
His arms would carress my back and sides and pull me up to meet his mouth; and as our heads naturally tilt, and our tongues dance, his eyes would closed so his other senses could be heightened. My smell and his taste become magnified... almost intoxicating... definitely intoxicating, in the most delicious way imagineable. And we would sway back and forth and hold each other and experience one another while our hearts co-mingled on and on until I can barely breath and it's the most invorgorating feeling in the world.
I wonder if anyone kisses like that anymore?
"Well, we're the only blackfolk in the city who will like it... and I really don't want to go by myself... so we should go!"
"I don't... uhh.."
"'Uhh...' what? C'mon, you, me, Ricky Bobby, a bunch of 14 year olds. What's not to love?"
"I just, I don't know if... well, I mean, I'm just saying-"
"Look dude, whatever. I'm not going to beg you to spend time with me, I just wanted to hang out."
"I mean, I want to go see it, but I don't know if.. I mean, will it be a-. Okay, who will be paying?"
"Well I was thinking of going Dutch, but with all this stress you're putting me through I'm thinking that you're going to pay."
"Oh! Well, I mean, then would it be a date?"
...
"Do you want it to be a date?"
An impetuous coming to terms reflecting redemptive status of a single day, where romance died.
That would have been nice.
