The first track on WOMAN is a poem spoken by Jill Scott over a kickback melody about the Wild Cookie AKA the vagina.
Cheetah Surprise (I just made that up).
It’s got a lot of names but rarely do we ever hear a song (or poem) talking directly to and about that horny little creature of nature that will control your relationships if you don’t control it first. When I started listening to Wild Cookie after returning from Ohio, that’s where the embarrassement came in. Imagine if I heard (or LISTENED to) it before I arrived in Cincinnati to end a great beginning. I mean, if everything happens for a reason, then technically I needed to see him and subsequently fuck up in order to appreciate Wild Cookie for the lyrics it possesses.
Smh. …..It’s not like I’ve been out here passing out the wild cookie because I haven’t. But this time, this pass, this End Deal really did me in. The dick was good. It was. I won’t act like I ain’t want it because I totally 100% DID. But I wanted my cake and eat it too. I wanted the man and the dick. The start and not the finisher. And all I ended up with was a fist full of broken rocks. I can’t ever do that again.
I don’t have it in me.
I don’t have anything left to dish out except the woman I am. I don’t have anything left in ME to hurt myself with, yet I know that if given a chance to, I will hurt myself again through another person. It’s like being a cutter.
My Wild Cookie is the cutter and I keep slicing lines across my skin, trying to break it open and relieve the fear of all things with a temporary feel good fix that won’t last long enough for me to remember I was pain free. Wild Cookie.
This is what the song Wild Cookie is about. Not letting your pussy get the best of you and control your life. Not being strung out on dick. Or thinking that a dick is the key to the heart. I admit, I don’t know the quickest way to a man’s heart (it’s not his stomach), but I do know the easiest way to take it off the table is letting him get that Wild Cookie before it’s time.
to the thoughts of Wild Cookie, I write my newest poem. I hardly write poetry as often as I used to and definitely not as effortlessly. But yesterday, in the new sitting area of my bedroom, I penned my version of Wild Cookie, as seen by my eyes but felt by Jill Scott’s words first:
Fucking you would be a disservice to us both
And we both know better
Or at least, we SHOULD know better
Would lead to unexpected expectations
Waiting to call
To see what’s next, what’s left after the smoke of moan signals and soul mixing disintegrates into the air,
I would lose control
I admit to that
Fucking you ain’t gonna be no kick back, I might start to over think some shit and come up with sudden questions,
See I’m safe guarded and fucking you is gonna rattle my alarm system
I need to know where your head’s at and I don’t mean the flick of you tongue, I need to get head sprung off the genuine in you like an LL Cool J for januarie song
I need to know about what us, what is us, what are we doing, these shouldn’t even be questions because I need a man old enough to know how to act in his confessions to the truth about everything,
Fucking you is just going to confuse these,
End these things
Chase is over our flames like water pouring rain on our campfire … dammit I learned from the last time,
I said, dammit I learned from the last time,
Fucked up some good shit for the last time by fucking a nigga the last time, turning a man into a dick, bruised his scorpion ego a lil bit,
A miles apart Richard
And now I keep picturing how a beautiful start turned into a Jekyll and Hyde ending
Because he’s still jekyling around in me, hiding
He deposited petty cash of his memory on my stomach
Hashtag Soul ties
It will be another six months before I’ve finished excreting our physical compensation for the work we put in
And I’ve already been forgotten by him, brushed off by him and flushed off by him…
I’ve started praying anytime my mind can’t refrain from replaying the top ten mistakes I made,
I can’t lay in another bed like this, because I made this shit and now I must cuddle up with this King and love it…
A solo mattress affair
Party of one, a mere three weeks ago I was laid up in arms I thought tasted like protection
The irony of his black out curtains and the fact that all I remember is his orgasm and not mine
Damn you Ciroc and bad decisions … .BFDs. Bad Fucking Decisions.
Fucking you would be a BFD to us both,
An insult to our potential and an assault on our time clocks,
We are dying with each breath we take and I’d rather not take big heaping ones from the entry of your penis before your penetrated my life
In general…no more wasted time….make me know I’m not an option on a cross contaminated plate,
Rather I am the muse of every slow song on the radio during our car rides, it is my face, riding the tip of your erected anticipations,
I am the liaison, the reason you take selfies in the mirror at the gym,
I’m the like, the love, the one, the right, the up, the guide, the blind in your sight and the sight in your blind,
Fucking you would be a disservice to every place our minds could go to complete each other’s unstructured sentences,
I can be your subject
And you can be my predicate
And we can plant kisses on paper as if we the ink in words
Like we the definition in words
Like we words….the creation of words, the calling out of random words,
Do rae me fa so la ti do jahraymecofasola, jill scott,
When we can make love like we complimentary words of each other, neo soul song loving, love jones ending – new beginning, learning and loving each other like we sinning with perfect strikes
Adverbs and actions and shit,
Matter a fact, you don’t even have to want that shit,
Just step out of the way of the man who does ….
Cause that’s the one I want to keep close
I don’t want your ignored calls
Or my confused feelings
And that’s why fucking you would be a disservice to us both.
I started listening to this album in lyric form (meaning no longer just ‘jamming to the groove of the infectious JS and anything she sings) while cleaning up over the weekend. The irony of this album is how little I played it, but played it nonetheless, on the way to Cincinnati to meet a special someone. The songs and lyrics resonate unexpectedly well. As I took in different lyrics, I found myself wondering about the wonderfilled world of Ms. Jill Scott. She is only a handful of years older than me; is it possible that these feelings she is singing about were recent emotions? I haven’t read the full liner notes, so I am not currently aware of which songs she wrote, but I think I will research this information. Could Jill Scott REALLY have found herself experiencing some of the same shit that spawns from foolish actions while in pursuit of love…just like me? The lyrics stacked on top of each other and began telling her story in my eyes and my life. I started listening more intently.
From the beginning of the album until the end of the second bonus track, I have let this CD repeat and play and strum my pain with the delicate fingers of the soulful JS. I had a thought. Maybe I shouldn’t just let this be a good cd! Light of the Sun (Scott’s last release in 2011) was a good CD. There were several songs I LOVED from that release, but the album didn’t ‘resonate’ with me in nearly the same manner as the predecessor ‘The Real Thing: Words & Sounds’. For me, it was one of those ‘it’s got some good stuff but I love it more because I am a fan’ albums. This new body of work, WOMAN, is not that. WOMAN eats me alive and spits me back out in the mirror to look at my digested self. In listening to and learning the words that I am singing along with, I can’t help but face these lyrics on myself. It’s too close to home. It lessened the sting I’ve been feeling; like along came a bumble bee and stung me in my eyes. I’ve been embarrassed with myself. My most recent blog almost became a ‘draft’ and disappeared. The oldest readers know I will deactivate any blog at any moment that I feel like I’ve gone too far and too vulnerable. But I left it up because it was my truth. It was a PMS-laced emotional rant but it was MY rant and MY truth in that moment. So I left it to be. But I’ve been embarrassed at many aspects of this last scary-go-clown ride.
I mean….i’m too old. I should know better. I DO know better and this blog is proof of what I know…..but i looooooove me some La Douleur Exquise to the fullest extent I guess…….
Actually, embarrassed is a simple word for a multitude of conflicting emotions from ‘dammit kendria’ to ‘fuck that nigga’ to ‘I can’t trust myself’. Of course I’ve thought of a 101 different things to have done differently and even more things to have said. But hindsight is for after thoughts. I’m so much better when I have time to think.
It’s the same with music…..
I take in lyrics differently when I have time to absorb them. As I listened and cleaned and danced around, I felt Jill’s voice take me into orbit with the ghost of love’s past plus the woman of the present. I started reflecting and evaluating myself with some of the songs and noticed my parallels and missteps; not with just the last encounter, but in general.
INCOMING EPIPHANY: I dumb myself down when in an affect mood. I am a confident woman when I am single; when I am being pursued (or when I have foolishly pursued), that confidence goes out the window. Some of the songs on this album brought that to light for me. I”m sure I’ve said this in so many words in previous blogs, but it never presented itself to me as lack of confidence. I don’t know what I’ve ever thought it to be other than lack of confidence. I mean, I always feel confident. I AM confident….until I become involved in ‘like’.
Something happens then. Idk why but suddenly, I don’t feel as confident (but this is a subconscious thought). I don’t trust my questions (I will think they are stupid), I don’t carry the conversations well (I don’t like my voice), I put my passions in the mouse hole and quiet them because why would he need to know anything beyond the facts. Yes, I write. The end. Yes, I model sometimes. The End. Yes, I am a blogger for the oldest running black newspaper in the country. So what. I accept that men aren’t interested in that part of me when in reality, if a man is NOT interested in these amazing accomplishments, then he isn’t interested in ME. This IS me. I AM a writer, an artist, a model, a blogger, an events planner. I literally call my life into existence and so it becomes….I have an amazing amount of power in my hands yet when I start dating around, I subconsciously think and behave as if none of this is my truth. As if I can’t read and am strung out on meth, therefore I should be GLAD to get anyone’s attention. I can honestly say, I’ve met no one interested in my artistic side unless I was kicking it with another artist, who if I recall right, the artist(s) that I have spent time with were still uninterested in ME as an artist or writer; they love talking about themselves. #YeahISaidIt But for what I can recall, no one I have met, dated, fucked, kicked it with, talked to or otherwise communicated with was interested in januarie York. And so, I pretend that this is ok. A great deal of my confidence comes from januarie tho. SHE knows. SHE is the smart one. The QUEEN. The Royal. The empress. I’m still trying to catch up with her or so it seems. Idk how this could be when we are one in the same body and mind. o.O But it’s her that gives me such life and reminders of all the great possibilities of me, my goals and my hopes for the future. But when she fails to generate an interest, I seemingly ask her to step aside and let the insecure me take over. And then, nothing happens except a bomb blowing up in my face like a Tom and Jerry cartoon.
I can’t believe that I’ve never really paid attention to how my confidence in myself as an interesting woman capable of holding a King’s attention makes a mad dash towards the Get Behind Me Satan line. It virtually disappears. This disappearance creates a rift within me that communicates to my brain that I NEED to do something ‘impressive’. I need to say something impressive or dance a jig. Something about me says “I AM NOT enough” once I get involved with someone.
So I’ve decided to use this album to elevate me. Recently, I’ve been trying to think of ways to help elevate me as a black woman overall. I’ve tried to think of powerful black women with relatable testimonies to research and read. I’ve wondered how could I get closer to God, FOR REAL. Who could I listen to? What am I doing actively that is preventing my elevation? How can I get to the next step? With as few mistakes as possible?
As I was listening to WOMAN, some of these questions were answered. At least as ONE option. One of my instant favorite songs on the album is this track called ‘Say Thank You’. The beat is SICK. Just SICK!!!!! When I started taking in the lyrics, I realized it’s actually a spiritual song. I was sweeping the floors when the thought of ‘secular’ music came to mind and whether or not I can hear, see or find God in places that it is suggested I stay away from. How dare I spiritually jam and connect with God on a song by Jill Scott? But I did. The lyrics opened up some type of awareness in me. Am I on my knees? Are my hands together? Is my head to the clouds? Do I say thank you more than I say help me? So many questions from sweeping the hardwood floors and listening to Jill Scott. But this helped solidify this blog series. This reaction happened every time I listened to it after I started taking in the lyrics.
I want to go listen now.
So I will wrap this introduction up. I would like to welcome you to a series within #AMuseD….WOMAN is an album about being a woman (duh), growth, love, self respect, God and faith. In order to meet this alleged person that is somewhere out there in the world waiting to meet me I need these things in abundance and this last experience proves that point. I still have growing to do. And realizing that I become a complete opposite of myself security-wise when I date is a big fucking deal. It has to stop. Stopping that means opening myself up to exactly what I want vs. accepting what is given. So using this album, I am going to challenge the importance of music. By now you have noticed that most blogs are accompanied by a ‘Blogtrack’ with lyrics that go with it. For the next couple of weeks, I will be blogging using each one of the songs on Jill Scott’s WOMAN album. It will be one part song-interpretation, one part life growth and interpretation. If I happen to meet someone, it should be interesting to see if this album can help to remind me of who I am through the process. Isn’t that what we love about music? It’s ability to create a story or tell our lives and current situations with a head bobbing melody?
Welp….this is where I am with it. I don’t even know if it makes sense, but just tag along. I’m gonna keep a low profile otherwise. I need to hear. I need to listen. I think that was a question Jill Scott even asked on one of the songs. It’s like she was a neo-soul preacher for my artistic in-need-of-God heart. I’ve been talking too much. I’ve been talking over my own voice. I have the expertise and the experience yet I get out here in the wild and become a novice in the belly of the beast. It’s no wonder I get eaten alive. The loneliness subsided. The disappointment about Afropunk will fade. I’ve got a new show coming up and a possibility of something else on October 3rd (tba).
And love. I will always want love. But God. I need more God. And more listening ears. I am committed to no longer making the same mistakes with men again. I will probably never forget TheGuy for the simple fact that …..that I just won’t. He was what I wanted and I ran so fast that I tripped all over both of us. Like vomit. I hurt myself in the process of trying to keep from getting hurt by someone who wasn’t necessarily out for that. I changed us as quickly as I connected us. My lack of confidence changed our direction. I definitely bruised his Scorpio ego by suggesting he was full of shit. He couldn’t handle that and his interest in me wasn’t enough to recover. He tried. But I had already pushed our ball in a new direction and that was the end. I don’t want to do that again. I still feel like it’s his loss…..but it’s mine too. Sometimes you lose to win, right Fantasia?
Or better yet, sometimes you Muse to Win.
And I never want to see myself as my own #muse again.
Since this blog is long, I will start a song tomorrow. There is no blog track today.
Unless you count the one playing in my head.
“I just want to be prepared”
~Jill Scott, Prepared #WOMAN
I am stuck. Not a permanent thing, but have gotten my feet caught in the quicksand in a time when I thought I was ice skating through these mean streets.
I’m not ice skating at all. In fact, I might be just getting by some times. * shrug*
This morning, I woke up with Cruising in my head. I really can’t wait to see what blog happens against the beat of that song. It was one of the other main motivating forces for me doing this series. I caught myself engulfed in the lyrics and realized that it was so similar to my last experience, word wise. Hearing the lyrics made me think that I wasn’t necessarily in the wrong for how I felt (maybe the way I played it out). Once again I caught up in the thought that my way of thinking and feeling is abnormal when in reality it’s not. Cruising’s lyrical content seemed ‘refreshing’ in the sense of bringing me back to the Light of truth. But that’s not the song for today.
The song is Say Thank You.
It’s one of the other main motivators.
“You keep ignoring the signs
Listening to it happened to me again songs
And putting your alarm on
Inviting new dumb shit”
Let’s back up a few lines and then add to it:
“I used to be stuck, how about you
Inside a lie
That you know ain’t near the absolute truth
Feel it all in your membranes and deep in your tissue
But you keep ignoring the signs
Listening to it happened me again songs
And putting your alarm on
Inviting new dumb shit
And more loss of peacefulness
Everybody, everybody can use a little help sometimes
Come on, you know things ain’t moving right
Ask for correction
Ask for direction
Ask for protection
Since you want to feel like you’re you inside-
Say thank you.
There that is.
This is what it looks like to be called out in a song with a ridiculously drunken melody that begs your attention before the lyrics do. I was driving, on my way home from work when the lyrics caught me at my neck and strangled me until my eyes bulged into my telephone, searching Google for the lyrics to fact check what I thought I heard. Did she really just sing those damned lyrics or nah? I know sometimes you will think you’ve heard one set of lyrics and it turns out they are saying something completely different.
“You keep ignoring the signs/
Listening to it happened to me again songs/And putting your alarm on/SLEEP/Inviting new dumb shit”
I heard correctly….the more I listened the more I saw every photoshoot I’ve done creep past my eyes like I’m the woman before the mask. How the same person in the pictures is the woman who either allows to much, jumps too soon or runs too fast is fascinating to me.This part of the song jolted me straight forward in my truckie seat!! It was me. I poured out of my speakers in a liquefied melody that filled up my ears in an absolute refusal to be ignored. I rewound the song and matched the lyrics with it as soon as I found a red light to stop at. I admitted to myself in a blank stare at a red light that Jill Scott was indeed very vividly and directly talking to me. In this solo excursion to my home, I think my face turned red.
Oh vey, this embarrassment. I’m so fucking tired of typing that word. Or am I? Why do I keep embarrassing myself? Who am I embarrassed to? For? Why? Did I think Jill Scott saw me naked, standing in a pool of poetry breaks and blog tracks? It surely felt like she did. It felt like a passive aggressive close friend that sang my life in a show and tell performance. “You keep ignoring the signs/
Listening to it happened to me again songs/And putting your alarm on/SLEEP/Inviting new dumb shit/and more loss of peacefulness”: I don’t know how long I can do this. This collection of lines strung me up like wet laundry because it’s so me. It’s so exactly what I’ve been ‘embarrassed’ about. It is the sorcery I have continuously allowed to control my actions in relation to men. In one of the previous blogs, I talked about losing my confidence when I start talking to a new person. I’d like to liken that to “putting your alarm on’. That’s when I go to sleep and all the ‘new dumb shit’ enters the room. If only it were ‘new’ most of the time. It’s the same dumb shit that I’ve pointed out in the past. It’s the same dumb shit that I promise myself in poems, blogs and pep talks in front of private mirrors will never happen again. It’s the same dumb shit that I feel safe from when I’m in the company of friends and family, dogs and selfie sticks. It’s the same dumb shit….just a new name. To the spoils go the non-victor.
They say love is blind but desire is a darkroom where pictures get developed without sight. When the lights come back on and you see what you’ve created, the double exposure is the stuff ‘loss of peacefulness’ is cut from. Oh how I have lost all sense of peace after wrongfully canoodling with someone too soon. Gun jumping too close to the start line. The first thing I do is change my music. Run either to the arms of hardcore rap that doesn’t make me think too hard or the total opposite; melancholy ‘shit is fucked up’ type songs that make me exorcise the tears away. “Listening to it happened to me again songs”. I do that shit well!!! And I will sit there and let the lyrics take me to the face I am trying to block out of my memory and in his face, I will cry because….songs. Because…..it happened to me again. ….because, I AM MY OWN MUSE.
This is why there really haven’t been any new blog entries of past relationships. Currently, I am my own muse. I am my own park, my own ride. I am the controller and the player and right now, I’m playing to lose. I play to win in every other aspect of my life. I compete with myself with every poetry show I participate in. I try to make the next as good as the last. I continue to confront the blistering fear that comes over me when I know folks are intently watching me walk in heels to show off a dress and serve face at the same time. I strive to keep my home afloat and full of two happy, spoiled dogs. I am selective on my friendship energy and who gets it, why and how. I mean, everywhere else I am a beast master of my own destiny. But men…..when men enter the game, I become the muse of these lyrics falling out of Jill Scott’s singing voice. I am the guitar solo in the song. I checked and it turns out she wrote this song with only one other person and although his name is credited on the liner notes, I can’t help but wonder am I the mental doppelganger that helped write such a brutally honest, self-awareness checking song. Its crazy how close this song is to my current state of things and how I’ve operated in the past, as seen in this blog.
“I used to be stuck”
And apparently, still am. In a ravine, rafting around on a boat that doesn’t fit me AND my luggage, plus two dogs and a bunch of shoes. I stopped buying shoes so I can move. I digress tho as that was unrelated information.
“Inviting new dumb shit”…… actually it wasn’t unrelated…I started to see how dumb it was for me to keep buying shoes….some of which fit perfect, others not so much, some too tall for everyday and others just too artistic. I want to leave. MOVE. Get out of the Midwest. Every pair of shoes is another day in Indianapolis beyond the deadline I set. Not to say I won’t buy another pair at some point…I’m sure I will. But I will also be conscious as to what I am sacrificing to put something on my feet for a short amount of time. I love heels a lot, but I’m in flats most times these days. I need to be closer to the ground that I’m trying to get off of. It seemed as though continuing to buy shoes would be me ‘inviting new dumb shit’ into my life. So how come this concept doesn’t leap over into my love life or what’s left of it ? Why can’t I identify ‘dumb shit’ when it comes into my presence? Or better yet, why don’t I?
“Everybody could use a little help sometimes
You know things ain’t moving right
Ask for correction
Ask for direction
Ask for protection”
I need to write that down somewhere. “because you know your request is filled/you will see/so act accordingly/live like you believe/and say thank you” <<<along with that too….I need to remember that in my prayers, I want to ask God to correct, direct and protect me. I NEED those things and I need them from no one but God. I want to be ok. It’s to the point of tears because other than not enough God, I can’t understand why I am NOT ok yet. And as long as I am NOT ok, I can’t date anyone because I will do the same shit. Again. “Stuck/inside a lie/that you know ain’t nearly absolute truth/”. I can’t understand this part of my life and as much as I don’t want to try anymore, I have to do something. I have to make it right with myself. I have to not neglect myself and treat these low budget ass niggas like they are some suicide door Bentley that’s coming to take me to California. (Cali …could you imagine me in Cali?). They some suicide doors alright, but definitely not a Bentley. I want this period of being ‘stuck’ to be a thing of the past. I want out of the ‘lie that ain’t nearly absolute truth’. I want to stop ignoring myself, the signs and I want to cut out the song switches. I want my alarm to not be what keeps me sleep; I’d rather be sleep from sleeping with a King. Instead, I’m napping on a king and suffering random bouts of insomnia. I know right from wrong. Good from bad. Poor choices from rich ones.
Hell….I know energy. But what I know VS. what I crave gets misconstrued when I hit the AMuseMENtPaRk. I don’t want it no more. I refuse it.
I love this song. I didn’t mean for this blog to be that long and maybe folks won’t read it but maybe I don’t even care. All I know is this song is gonna take me away from these lyrics by the time I finish listening to it. And it all starts with God. This is a deeply spiritual song and I hope others catch God in it the way I have. I’m done losing my peace. I’m done with my invitations. My fool’s gold mining. All I want is the me that I am ALL other times to be the me I am when in the presence of a man. That ME knows what she should do, how she should do it and why. She knows about the pursuit of man to woman. She knows way better than her recent actions have shown. She can’t be embarrassed again. Or anymore. It’s not fair. It’s definitely not fair.
But its life I guess. Here’s another chance to get it right. There’s this part of the song that is my favorite. The guitar has a solo that crushes the competition! But Jill’s voice comes out of nowhere with the answer. This part of the song makes me very aware of praying and the power of God and whether or not I have humbled myself to Him, despite how often I pray. I have humbled myself to the arms of many men.
But hardly God.
Here’s another chance to get it right.
Hands ….in the air. Head down.
Knees on the ground.
In a silent whisper.
Somebody say thank you.”
“Why would I stop a woman from loving me?”
~David, Being Mary Jane
Ok, let me first start with the fact that I know I am late to the game on Being Mary Jane. I also know all the mixed reviews it has received. I put the MOVIE ‘Being Mary Jane’ in my Netflix queue a long while back but I never looked at it. A few days ago while looking for something interesting in my queue, I scrolled past Being Mary Jane and stopped. I noticed it no longer said movie, it now said ‘series.’ So I dove in and was hooked instantly. In just under a handful of available time, I had watched all 8 episodes. Today, I watched the finale of season one and during the confrontation between David and MJ, I took a particular moment of pause at something he said. After declaring her ‘ride or die girl’ status, Mary Jane began to list a few of the accommodations being with her had gained David, including folding laundry, cooking and exchanging ideas, to which he replied:
“I never asked you to do any of that” (#Oh.)
of which she stated
“You didn’t tell me to stop, either”. (#IKnowThatsRightGirl!)
And then he flatlined the conversation with:
“Why would I stop a woman from loving me?” (#OH. OH. Ohhhhh…….).
This slice of the conversation felt like it was once removed from my rib. I was too familiar with her desperation and her declarations. Her words were fleeting acquaintances of mine, like most of the cousins I have. I recognized her statements to be the intruders I opened the door for. In the past, I had sipped tea with those very same ideas of love, relationships; and I knew this conversation from my own delusions of love grandeur, particularly with #MuseWeasel. The groceries I bought, the rent I helped to pay, the kissing in front of his child; to ME, those were ‘high regarded’ happenings. Things that would only happen with someone ‘special’ or things I would only do with/for someone special….i listed them out one by one in hundreds of angry and hurt facebook messages, typed at 90 miles per hour, to which his response was similar to that of David, if not verbatim. “I never asked you to do that”.
NoteToNiggas: ‘ DRY BEGGING’ is only UN-equal to actual asking/begging because of the it’s level of Cowards. Yup. I said that. #Carryon.
And just like Mary Jane, an appalled januarie York responded with a firm and imperative “You never told me to stop, either!” #ForTheWin
It wasn’t a win tho. And in those moments of those personal conversations, not just with #MuseWeasel but all the men I have dated and had similar talks with, the best possible response back to me would have been “Why would I stop A Woman from loving me?”
None of them ever possessed enough courage to say such in return. But I know they thought it. That wasn’t just a line from a television script; that was an idea taken from the book of true life.
It’s a wide open, random shot in the dark type of statement.
“A Woman”- not to be confused with “Mary Jane’’ or in real life “januarie York”.
Not to be specific or particular. …’a woman’ refers to anyone, everyone and those in between. “A Woman” is as random as a toothpick in the box at the counter. It’s open to whoever you end up with or whatever you grab. There is nothing special about ‘a woman’, but there IS something special about that statement. Men don’t marry or fall in love with ‘a woman’. They fall in love with (**insert name**). Wedding invitations declare they are joining (his name) and (her name); not (his name) and (a woman).
Insert a name in place of ‘a woman’ and see the difference. Use your own name or mine, or Mary Jane’s…or use the pronoun, YOU.
Her: ‘You never told me to stop.’
**Him: Why would I tell YOU to stop loving me?
**Him: Why would I tell Mary Jane to stop loving me?
**Him Why would I tell januarie York to stop loving me?
**Him: Why would I tell ( **insert your name**) to stop loving me?
Feel any different to you? As for me, it takes on a completely different meaning when a name or an indicative pronoun is used. It sounds direct. Like ownership. It sounds like he wants that particular love, that particular woman’s love and when an actual name is used, it sounds like that woman’s love is the most influential love on the universe and who wouldn’t want it!!!??? It’s direct, much more so than ‘a woman’, which sounds as if it could be abruptly interrupted and replaced at the drop of an unseen hair follicle. As long as you are just ‘a woman’, he will keep both his wide receiver helmet on and his catcher’s mitt wide open. Two different games, but dual contributions. He will keep looking to catch ‘(insert name)’ who will be the one to which he reciprocates, all while openly receiving all the benefits from ‘a woman’. #Polidicks
“He who is loved, RECEIVES”. ~me
LOVE feels good. Love is sexy. Love is ugly in its beautiful. Love means to be taken care of in every possible aspect. It means to have a protector, even if you hope to never have to (or never would) use them as such. It is the reality that someone sees you in a light that no one else can see. It is a source of power that elevates each of your chakra’s, love is God, we are of God, we ARE Love, therefore, LOVE, in it’s acted out form feels good. Damn good… It is a spiritual connection to God and the Universe and to be able to see these connections in another person. Love is seeing you in another person… Love is a mirror…. It feels damn good to give it, but it can be life-altering to be a recipient of it.
When we love, we give whatever it is that we have. We give our bodies, our minds, our spirits, energies, calendars; we give our all, our tries, and our benefits of the doubt. When we love, we give our pushes and pulls and compromises. Our pulses. Our questions and answers. We explode and expand in the direction pf love to make more LOVE rotate between the axis of ourselves and another person. Love is giving. It is an action physically and mentally and when someone loves you, you receive all of that. The trick to maintaining that reception is reciprocity.
This is where things tend to get difficult.
I somehow have missed the part of Being Mary Jane where they dive into her relationship with David and where it went wrong. Perhaps that was in the movie I never watched. By the end of season one, he’s pretty stern on not getting back with her and he’s in a new relationship.
When he responds to her with his question of why, it might sound harsh or cold hearted at surface value, but this little Hollywood gem is the thing young teenage girls who are stirring around in puberty need to hear before they start dating. This is what grown ass women still repeating and making the same mistakes with the same man of different faces need to hear. This is what mothers need to tell their daughters because they have learned the hard way and this is what fathers tell their daughters and then teach them how to avoid. This is what every man needs to say to the woman that he needs to say this to. He knows who she is better than I do…………
A man will not STOP you from loving him.
So often we as women are so heart-bent on keeping the man we love or not giving up on ‘possibilities’ that we insist on loving them into loving us. I did that with #MuseWeasel. Despite what I knew was beginning to unravel, I insisted that this is worth something. That even if it didn’t turn out to be something grand, that it would still be valuable to both of our lives that we ever interacted. I wanted to make us better people by loving him into loving me and that’s not how love works. I gave him (and others) wifely duties and freaky fantasies along with qualities of the token ‘ride or die chick’. I did these things for two reasons:
1. I genuinely wanted to. #Dickmatized
2. Because I was trying to insist on him loving me through my love for him. I tried to be the whole damn food chain, not realizing I was a guppy swimming for love in a broke ass shark tank. I was convinced that I was showing him HOW to love me AND that he would fall IN love with me at the same time. Two birds with one stone of cupid’s face….. O.O
When the bridge connecting us collapsed and I reminded him of all these things I had done and how special they were, I am not quite sure what I expected him to respond with, but I kind of really wish it were that very statement. The hindsight version of me believes that I would have ‘caught’ something from it, but technically by the time we had this conversation, I’m not sure what difference it would have made that is any different from me hearing it on a TV show a few days ago.
“Why would I stop a woman from loving me”?
If you’re giving him money, he will accept the opportunity to lessen his financial load, even if he doesn’t like you because “Why would he stop a woman from loving him?” Receiving love feels damn good. He will indulge in fuck-games for sport because sex feels good and “why would he stop a woman from loving him sexually?” He will give his grand minimal contributions to keep you making it rain on him with whatever you’re pilfering from yourself to give to him because “why would he stop a woman from loving him?” It feels good to have someone have your back, even if you don’t want them. It feels good to have someone stroke your ego, call your name in foreign love languages and push you towards greatness, even if you are not interested in them. It feels good to receive love & it’s subsequent forms of affection. It is egotistically orgasmic.
Now, when the time comes that he has found his better half in another woman (because remember, he will still actively be looking), he will start to slowly wean himself from your umbilical love until he is detached….sometimes this means he will purposely sabotage ‘the situation’ just to get YOU to do the dirty work. He knows how you feel about him and he knows why you are doing what you are doing…..but what he can’t allow himself to do is be disciplined enough to NOT accept love from a woman because “receiving love feels damn good”. And it can be helpful. So rather than stop things before they get, as Facebook would say ‘complicated’, he indulges until he wants no more parts in it, then he either falls so madly in love with another woman that his balls grow up and he comes clean OR he will become purposely sloppy and trip you up in a trap that you can’t ignore. The latter is a coward btw. Both are, but at least one grows balls.
If his interest in you doesn’t turn a corner that it too high for his dick to reach, the only conscious act he will do with you is receive benefits. He will parade his availability and his dick to other people until he becomes involved in a chase that entertains his mind, his heart and lastly his dick. And while you are on the sidelines in a tiny cheerleading skirt decorated in an apron, fixing breakfast and writing checks and sucking dick upside down and trying to find new ways of making a continued valuable impression minus an engagement ring or even the title of Girlfriend, you won’t realize that he is accepting of these things because and only because….receiving love feels good. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, this is happening:
‘why would he stop a woman from loving him?”
Especially a woman who is ADDING to his life.……many men won’t stop that from happening. He repeatedly accepts because receiving love feels damn good.
It felt good to #MuseWeasel. He told me this at different times and only in this hindsight I’ve been served can I see behind some of the things he said. But he told me that I made him feel good. Hell, of course, TF I did! I talked to that nigga like he was Royal. I addressed him as King or Gorgeous or Handsome at all times. I fed his spirit and uplifted his most stressful moments as best as I could. I admitted to not having the answers when I didn’t but I still gave him pieces of my Castle in hopes that he would see Buckingham in his own reflection. …why would he have stopped that? Why not, when he’s feeling low, reach out to the woman that will leave him feeling like he ‘The Man’, so he can be large and in charge when it comes time to talk to #BAE. <Whoever she is.
So what if he’s not really interested in his accidental sidelining cheerleader…
POSSIBLE!!!!! . ….so he kept coming for more. ..until more was no more….
I believe this to be a behavior we have all indulged in at least once in life, myself included. I think I have been a recipient of love-benefits while knowing good and damn well we wouldn’t go much further or that I wasn’t interested. I guess my only salvation is I was much younger and wasn’t so much as ‘pretending’ as I was allowing. I’m trying to clean up my version of participating in this asshole-action but shit is shit, even on a bed of roses. It still stinks. I have a poem about that very idea. It’s called Bed of Roses…I’ve never performed it and it’s at least 5 years old. But I digress. Shit is shit is shitty, so for the times I’ve done someone else like this, I apologize to myself and to the universe.
May I have finally finished paying my karma off!
Lack of reciprocity will create a monster in dying need of affection. If you choose to continue to tra-la-la all through an imaginary field of flowers know that you are simply pacifying his needs…you are not ‘creating’ a love story…..he, on the other hand, is just letting himself be covered in the beautiful that is ‘received, love’. The only way to control this type of situation or prevent it all together is to:
***Not be so quick to wife a nigga in a pawn’s clothing. You can’t be wife to someone who won’t even agree to date you. You can’t be a girlfriend to someone who doesn’t want you but just wants to reap benefits. You have to find balance and tame the heart. You have to listen to yourself and your instincts and use your spirit of discernment to the utmost degree. Otherwise, you will go blind and broke trying to fit your circle in a triangular square.
2. *** Let go when letting go is the only option. Don’t kill yourself fighting.
3. *** Jump ship naked and promise yourself you will not be Captain Save A Nigga anymore….don’t save him from his bills, his stress or himself….let him be an adult and do that shit on his own. The ‘right guy’ will not look for your saving skills nor will he Dry Beg and pretend he doesn’t know what that means. He will solve his problems and seek to fix any of yours that he knows of. He will bring a throne to the throne – not his car seat.
4. ***Know that a man will NOT stop a woman from loving him. He will not cease her actions or cut her off when her benefits to him are stellar. He will continue to let you pamper his ass in whatever you provide to him (sex, money, time, affection, etc) even when he knows he shouldn’t. It’s hard to stop someone from making you feel good. We are all guilty. It’s not a man thing. It’s not a race thing. It’s human nature to want to feel good and receive more of it, even when we are still searching for the missing key. But do NOT base any portion of your relationship on the fact that he has not ‘stopped’ you from going in the deep end of the waters….you ain’t supposed to even be IN the waters….relationSHIPS are supposed to float. Know that.
Blogtrack: “When you’re out there doing what you’re doing Are you just getting by???” ~Pink, Try
While I am guilty and have repented for enjoying being a recipient of someone’s love tokens who I didn’t want, I have spent a great deal of time, most notably the last time, dishing out affection by the pound in an effort to gain the reciprocity.
The last time, as we all know by now, I lost all of me in the folds of desire …..I kept going, harder and harder with each phone call and every visit. I over did myself for someone who I knew would only do me….and ultimately he did me in.
If only he had have just told me to STOP!
If only he was strong enough to not let “a woman’’ love him.
Blogtrack: “that don’t make it good for anybody Don’t wanna be in love just with anybody Tired of being just Mr. Anybody So baby come with me, let’s just make a body…………”
“…..Maybe we’re just playing house Just cause it feels good Just cause it feels good……” ~Playing House by Active Child
Lesson learned tho. Part of loving yourself and putting yourself first is knowing that you don’t have to COURT, SAVE, BEG or LOVE ANYONE into you. Either they do or they don’t.
And as I continue to peruse the halls of my indefinite single life and try to get my resting bitch face under control, I will never forget these lessons I have received. They have made me such a greater woman and this I know for sure. Jill Scott played in my truckie yesterday and I remember the days Pre-Blog when I would listen to it in tears on the way home from work….I would wonder to myself would I ever heal, even though I knew I would. It just seemed so far away….I had not been stopped from loving and giving love and now that it blew up in my face and played out on the beast that is social media and I felt exposed and depleted.
Jill Scott, When I Wake Up
” To much on my mind…. here I am thinking again all lost in my brain but I know I should get up and get out of it I gotta keep moving but here I am lost all upside my brain can’t stop thinking, reminiscing can’t stop. can’t let go.
but when I wake up and one day, I will do it, I have let you go and everything I went through will be beautiful”
I used to suffer through this song but I would let her voice soothe and remind me that I would indeed wake TF up one day….and it will have all been beautiful. I kind of didn’t believe it would ever be beautiful…but she was right.
I”m finally there.
yesterday, I smiled and sang along to these lyrics several replayed times, with an empowered sense of freedom and self ….”I have let you go…and everything I went through was beautiful.”
Yes. It was beautiful. It served me. WELL. And he’s been let go of. <3
#MuseWeasel is the last time I will be a woman who needs to be stopped because she can’t control her love/like/infatuation.
And it was most certainly the last time I will be just ‘a woman’ to another man.
Nigga!!! I”m JANUARIE YORK.<<I mean this with absolute unrelenting, healthy confidence. I need no co-sign or lawyers to prove to me that I am somebody of great importance. I could very well be the ONLY person in the world who believes JANUARIE YORK is the greatest januarie York alive…and I don’t care. I am januarie York. Some call me jY. Some call me Kennie j. Some just call me Ken, or Kennie and family calls me Kendria. Whatever you know me as, know this:
I was never born to be just ‘a woman’ in ANY facet of life, but especially for a man, his love or his bowl of sewn semen oats. * tips hat *
“….bird ass niggas i don’t mean to ruffle yaw i know you waiting in the wing, but i’m doing my thing Where’s the Love?”
**BlogTrack: All Eyes On Me
“….so much trouble in the world nigga
Can’t nobody feel ya pain….
The world’s changing every day, time is moving fast,
My girl said I need to raise,
How long will she last
I’m caught between my woman and my pistol and my grip…..”
I was sitting at the bottom of the staircase that led to the area where table dances were performed and monitored. I can’t remember what I had on, but I sat there, slightly bored with my atmosphere but still new and timid, with six inch clear heels that I was still learning to walk in. I was a people watching stripper. I people watched and observed more than I hustled. Don’t get me wrong: I made money and good money. But going out to get it was something I was just not really into doing. I felt like here I am, fabulous, nearly naked and wearing extremely high heels that one wrong turn and I could break my ankle or leg in; the LEAST a nigga could do was see me and motion for me –
-not make me come to him begging.
So I hardly did that unless I was on a mission. I people watched and listened to music a lot. And this particular night was no different. As I was sitting there, she came and sat next to me. She was the ‘it girl’ of the club. She had been gone (I think she took a break to go work out of town…’new girls’ get mo’ money) and had only been back for a couple weeks when she came and interrupted the world I had drifted off into. I couldn’t believe she was talking to me. In her absence, she was one of the girls that I heard lots about. She was one of the top money makers and was described to me as being one of the most beautiful girls there. I had never even seen so much as a picture of her until she appeared one night out the blue, intimidating the new girl in me. I was new to the night shift and her return, based off of what I had heard, was a detriment to the money I was making. She knew how to go get it and make the men come off dollars and I was still trying to figure my way around my nude introversion. So she made me nervous. She wore midi- black boots with a six inch stiletto and pranced delicately around the stage and swung effortless around the pole a couple of times. She didn’t intimidate me with her dancing. I can say that for fact. But her beauty was undeniable. Her breasts were small and so was her ass. For what it was worth, she was tiny. I think she was like a size 5/6 or something like that. Maybe not even that much. She was beautiful and her body had colorful tats in a few places but nothing that took away from her. Her body looked untapped: no childbirth or age had come in a done anything to her (respectfully speaking..i mean no offense to anyone…my body ain’t had kids but my breasts ain’t PERKulating for nobody no mo’)!! She was like this Porcelein doll and she used that to her advantage. Smart woman. Her small breasts were perky and sat up with nipples that were even lighter than she was. She was Puerto Rican and she wore a mild resting bitch face that lacked a smile but was flowing with confidence.
She danced like “I know you missed me…here I am, rain niggas”
I stared at her when she danced. I wondered how she was so good at what she did. I wasn’t bad, but like I said, I was still new and I wondered what it took to get THAT confident.
On this night, when I sat at the bottom of the table dance room staircase, there she came and plopped down next to me. We had never so much as said hello to each other, so it was an awkward feeling of ‘what are you doing next to ME???!!!”, although I never said that. I spoke after she spoke to me and asked me how I was doing.
“she’s talking to ME?”
I don’t remember much more from the ice breaking conversation, but it didn’t go for long before she dropped the ball on me that I thought was a joke,
but as it turned out, she was so for real.
“So you ready to be my girlfriend???”
I blushed in surprise and laughed with a lot of questionable nervousness as I didn’t even know how to respond to that. No one had EVER asked me that or approached me like such and I had never entertained a woman…. although I had never been afraid to admit that I loved how beautiful women are, dressed, nude and beyond. Women are just beautiful.
After I laughed as an answer, she let me know she was serious.
And that was all she wrote.
It wasn’t long after that, that she was my girlfriend. I can’t remember if I said yeah that night or in the days that followed, but at some point, I definitely said ‘yeah’.
“hmm, yes? I’m ready to be your girlfriend? I’m ready to be a girlfriend to a woman? I know what that means?”
I didn’t know what I was getting into or why she wanted ME. It made no sense, but I went with it. And the next thing I knew, I was the girlfriend to the most popular, beautiful woman at the club. And she was mine………..?
For the next year or so, we were the Thelma and Louise of the club…sorta. I was more of the follower of her. She knew people, knew things, and knew places and I just went with it all. She had a mission for her life and she was money oriented. You didn’t see her cry or show/share a lot of emotions. She was very girly, but whatever happened in her life before i met her had ushered her into an aware sense of self and self protection. She may have been a stripper, but that’s as nude as she got (the clothes on her back). She didn’t go around giving out her feelings, tears, overthinking….all the things I do and was doing back then.
She was also that girl that tries to meet the celebrities and gets backstage. Not to have sex with them tho. Nah, she really wanted to either get in their pockets (without sex) or use them to get on to her next level. She was always about her business and she used her sex appeal and beauty and quick witted tongue to get her where and what she wanted, when she wanted. Just look at this blog !
I remember at the Cash Money concert we went to, we waited for HOURS after the concert in hopes of getting backstage. It was her hope, not mine. I had been ready to go when we made our way out to the Sheraton at Keystone at the Crossing where the CM crew was staying. We got there early and waited, right along with the rest of the groupies. I was so over that shit so quick but she swore we were about to meet them ….I’m not sure what we were gonna ‘do’ after meeting them -_-
I just went with the flow.
We saw them. They finally arrived and breezed past us with their crew and up the escalator. Baby, Wayne, BG and Juve…..it was the hole click of CM niggas and there were so many women to pick from that we were just two needles in a bulk fabric store.
We were non-factors and she had me out there spending hours waiting on these niggas….why? It really pissed me off. But it began because we had been on stage with them.
During Back that Ass Up, Juvenile wanted to pick some women from the crowd to come onstage with them. I raised my hand after her nudging …..I don’t want to make it seem like she was making all my decisions. She wasn’t. I was malleable tho and she knew that. I said ‘ I SHOULD raise my hand’….she RAISED my hand. LOL. It was a team effort I suppose. We had great seats, up front and in the middle so they saw us. I couldn’t believe it. We were huge Cash Money fans and dominated all their music when it came time for us to get on stage at work (no one else could dance off of our picked CM songs and sometimes even me and her fought for the rights of a song o.O Yeah i know. We did that w/The Block is Hot. We both wanted that to be the song that said ‘here comes *insert stage name*. ….we ended up sharing it.).
The fact that they saw me and someone said ‘HER” was mind blowing.
Market Square Arena.
Butter. Age 21ish.
And here I was, being pulled onto the stage, from the floor with random audience members ‘helping’ (air quotes) get me up there by pushing (or grabbing/feeling) my ass in those snakeskin Bebe pants I had on. Next thing I knew, me, her and about three other women were on stage. I was on the end.
Juve and Lil Wayne quieted the audience down and told them what was about to happen.
Don’t Flex baby
I wanna see you touch your toes in that dress baby
Bounce it up and down like we having sex baby” *
They were about to have each woman take the center of the stage, in the middle of a PACKED concert at Market Square Arena, and bounce their ass to the music. The girl who bounced the hardest was gonna get 100 dollars….and then they started. Like I said, I was last.
I watched as each girl took the center and bounced ass all the way down to their thongs. WAIT –
-WE GEttiNG NAKED IN FRONT OF MARKET SQUARE ARENA!!!!!!??????!?!?!?!?
I looked over at my girlfriend in confusion. I looked out at the sea of people in the audience and even saw a group of dudes I knew from the club who I was wayyyyy cool with. I thought ‘I know they know me from the club, but do I want to do THIS? Do I want them to see me do THIS?”
I asked her did she plan on taking her pants down and she said no.
It all happened quickly. They got to me and it was my turn to take center stage in between Juvenile and Lil Wayne, while the DJ spun Bounce that Ass beat back to the beginning and the guys yelled into the mic “BOUNCE THAT ASS, BOUNCE THAT ASS’’…the audience participated, including those men I knew….
….this is surreal to think back on. This is a crated memory. I forgot about it until I started blogging just now and the fact that I recall so many of these details is hilarious !!!! Oh boy this life……………..
In front of the sea of people, I turned my back to the crowd and proceeded to give my best Ass Bounce. I mean, hey, here I was. I could run off the stage but then what ? I bounced and I can’t remember for sure, but I think they started yelling ‘TAKE IT OFF, TAKE IT OFF”
**Blog track changes again:
“Let me see it
Let me see it
Let me see it, let me see it
Bend over let me see it”
….oh the pressure and the hot lights …….shit.
I started to grab the sides of my pants and pull them past my ass, revealing my black panties that I had underneath. I never left the house with this as a plan, so I didn’t put underwear on that were meant for seeing/sharing. They weren’t granny panties, but they were covered panties. Yes, all strippers don’t go around in thongs and G-strings all day long, can you believe it ??!!!!!
I did it. I pulled my pants down, but not my panties. I kept some type of striptastic pride. I showed my panties and bounced my ass and no ass check was harmed or fell out of the sides of my underwear, but I bounced like I knew how to bounce! After all, I did!!!
And they took notice it to it and stroked my naked ego a bit. How my bounce with my panties on drew notice and applause will forever fail me at understanding but it did. My girlfriend was next and she very snobbishly bounced her small booty and didn’t remove an ounce of clothing. They cheered and liked it. I was mad. Why didn’t she join in like the rest of the pack???!!!! Why didn’t she go before me so I could have been secure in my notion of not taking down my pants. Ugh. She just had some type of it-factor I guess, plus she was beautiful. They loved her no less. And she knew who she was. She knew she was not ‘just anybody’ and as much as a stripper she was, she wasn’t. She was a businesswoman. She knew her rights, her wants and her No’s from her Yes’s and she used it all accordingly. I was still learning that this was the way to be. Not going with what the crowd is doing.
We were exited off stage after the guys shouted us (and our asses) out and as we walked away, my high hopes of getting a hug by Lil Wayne disappeared as he was on the other side of the stage, but I think I did get hug or slap fives with Juve and BG. And someone (Slim I think?) handed me a hundred dollar bill that I swore I would never spent (yeah, right).
We hung out in the halls of backstage for a lil bit and somehow, ended up in DMX’s room, with DMX, his entourage and wife. He was back there deep in one of those heated DMX conversations and when he saw me he looked, gave one of those ‘if only she (the wife) wasn’t here’ sighs and shook his head. I was a fan of him too and had NO plans or thoughts of fucking him or being a backstage groupie. I was just back there cause my girlfriend was. And we were only back there because we had just got off stage.
From there, we went to the Sheraton and ended up back at her house empty handed.
Me and my girlfriend.
The chick that was like the ‘dream girl’ of the club, who came and sat down next to me one random night and asked me if I was ready to be her girlfriend, to which I eventually replied yes.
The funny thing is that I really didn’t like the pressure that came along with being her girlfriend. She took to me because she thought she could make me do whatever she wanted. And she was partly right. She saw the ‘Ebony’ (Player’s Club) in me and took to it like ‘Ronnie’…..and we rocked out that way for a while. She was older than me by about 3-4 years and I looked up to her in a way. She had more knowledge about life, stripping, niggas, and money than I did. I was just a girl who came to the strip club to work because I wanted to. I had no other reason. With her, I continued to meet ‘celebs’ or be around them. The Colts players were the homies. We shot pool in random mansions and morphed quickly into best friends. We smoked and drank and clubbed and flew to Super bowl in ATL to dance at the Gentlemen’s Club together. You hardly saw us without each other. At Club 54, which used to be where the Dollar Tree is in Castleton, we were VIP only and would walk in dressed up and ready to own the night. We were superstars for what it was worth. She was beautiful and I was honored that she wanted me as her girlfriend and that I could introduce her as mine.
But I didn’t want a girlfriend.
And I didn’t want to kiss her. I did….but it was on a dare during a slow night at the club. I also didn’t’ want to sleep together. I did. I mean, we had to right? The first time was ‘meh’ at best. The second time, we broke the ice better by taking X Pills and bringing in a third girl. Yup. I had threesome with three women on a palette we made on the floor and danced around ….
“drunk on Cris
Mommy on E,
She can’t keep her little model hands off me” ~Jayz
Soon after our ‘rolling’ got into full effect, we were all over the floor, funning around. I still didn’t think I was convinced that this shit was a part of my life for real. I ain’t like it much. But I liked her….I never loved her beyond a friend, but I liked her as my girlfriend…….I liked her as my friend who was a girl. Not the definitions that are attached to it or the sexuality confirmations that people try to force upon you so they can be comfortable with your lifestyle. I wasn’t gay and MAYYYYYBE I was bisexual, but really, I think I was just a young woman, living life and learning what she liked VS. what she didn’t like by acting it ALL out …LOLOL!!!!!
We had a good time tho. We had a fun, free, flirty friendship.
She bought me a plane ticket to Tampa for Super bowl for my 22nd birthday, but I was scared to fly again. So I left her hanging.
We never recovered much after that.
She wrote me a four page letter that I no longer own (wish I did tho)….she sent it to me through a mutual friend, who gave me the letter in front of her (My GF). It was sooooo strange. We were all at the same table, waiting on the club to unlock the doors so we could leave when she gave me this letter that I started reading right there. She read me my rights. Let me know what she thought of me leaving her hanging for Tampa, and what she thought of me as a girlfriend AND a sexual being.
She read my ass. She really did and the truth is, I really hurt her. In all her hardness hustler mentality, I had managed to get beyond her walls to hurt her feelings enough that she wrote me four pages all about it. I loved her as a friend more than a girlfriend. I liked her as a girlfriend. I loved her as a person. A woman. A beautiful woman. We never had to get in the bed and sleep together or even stay nights together for me to love her as a friend. I liked that. But ….we were girlfriends. We were NOT just friends, we were girlfriends unmistakably. And so she treated me like I was and when I hurt her like a nigga, there was no room for recovery. Nothing but four pages……………………………
And then a few weeks later,
She was gone.
I don’t even remember where she moved to. I think it was somewhere in Florida.
It would be at least a year and a half or two before she came back. When she came back, I had gained weight and she called me fat and talked about me to people. They told me. It was clear we were not friends at all anymore. That hurt my feelings. But I knew how we got there. I knew the many fast-life ways that got us there…….she started dating one of the girls at the club, whom I was really cool with. That girl stopped speaking to me completely. It was crazy. I couldn’t believe that she wouldn’t talk to me, speak to me or even have eye contact with me when we were sooooo cool prior to her dating MY ex-girlfriend. -__-
Those dynamics were bullshit.
But it was what it was.
It didn’t take long after that before I had dived back where I was most comfortable at: In heterosexual land.
I met, loved and almost died for the person who came up next. <<#MuseRandiAndi I’ve yet to blog about him.
I would never date another woman again. I don’t like it. * shrug *
I desire man -manly voice, hands, arms, forearms, thoughts, beings, dick…..i just like men. I have no regrets in finding out the active way that I don’t EVER want a girlfriend….i found out the same way Samantha did in Sex in the City….trial and error. She wasn’t my only. I had another one after her. And then there was someone that I wanted to date but I knew I couldn’t because I can’t be with a woman like that. She was also beautiful and she came into my life after I started doing poetry. No stripping, no ‘that’s what happens in the club’ type of situation. This was real life. And I had to decide whether I wanted to stroke my ego with the fact that another beautifully smart and talented woman such as her wanted me non-sexually OR, if I would be adult enough to let her know that as beautiful as I thought she was, she would end up at a dead end with me. We ended up in the middle of that somehow. I was honest up front with her. But I obliged her courting of me and she continued to show me a dose of special mental affection and I liked it, but I knew better. She was my muse for awhile. I wrote unpublished (and some published FB Notes) poems about her……
We went so far as kissing. ….but shortly after our first and only kiss,
I think I hurt her too.
Possibly the same night of it.
We never spoke again.
And not too long after that, she moved.
And tho we connected as FB Friends, there was little to zero communication and in the years that have passed, there has continued to be none. I’m also FB Friends’ with #MuseAndra ……but we don’t talk. We had one initial convo on FB of which I wished her the best and told her she was still just as beautiful as i remembered her from before. She wished me well and told me to let her know if I was ever in Miami. She seemed to be doing very well. So does the other young lady.
I guess all of us were stepping stones and momentary Lights in each other. I’m sure we inspired one another….
and it all started with that day that I was sitting on the end of the staircase that lead up to the area where table dances were given and monitored.
One night, one of the most beautiful and popular girls came and sat next to me and after speaking to me, she said: “ so you ready to be my girlfriend”
I laughed as an answer.
That laughter as an answer turned into laughter while in an accidental-ish relationship with one woman so beautiful that who was I to turn her down for anything? #MuseAndra
Be my shrink for the hour
Leave the meter running
It’s rush hour
So take the streets if you wanna
Just outrun the demons, could you?
If it brings me to my knees…..
It’s a bad religion.”
I have long wondered how in the hell God saw fit to keep my life away from a healthy relationship. I have been angry at, towards and about God. I have all but cursed God, but I’d never do that, so I haven’t. I have been hurt and if I’m not mistaken, I have cried…
I have cried at the thought.
I have cried at the television. I have cried in my room, cried during church, I have cried while strolling through the mean streets of facebook. I have cried at weddings. I have cried driving.
I have cried while listening to music. I have cried while getting dressed. I have been in the midst of doing my make up for the day (meaning eyeliner and filing in my brows), and had to start over due to tears that began forming and flowing, turning my face canvas into an ice skating rink for eyeliner. I have cried and hurt….about love.
About not having it. Not getting it. Not having a fair shake or a fair shot at it. I remember hearing a poet say if a woman has never been engaged by age 35, there is something wrong with her. I may have mentioned that in this blog before because under that rule of thumb, something IS wrong with me.
But I don’t live by that, so that doesn’t matter.
But I have cried about it. About not having been anything great enough to be engaged to. Not being beautiful enough. I have struggled with body issues that you can’t imagine. Too fat, too skinny, just right , just body.
I often feel like JUST a BODY.
That’s it. Like fuck yo’ poems bitch, bend over and let me see that booty. Like that’s what every man that doesn’t call himself my brother thinks. I hope none of my brothers secretly don’t secretly partake and I admit to wondering sometimes have they ever thought extensively about my ass? It doesn’t matter because if we call each other bro & sis, they would never say anything right? Let’s hope so. Let this be a warning. Lololol……
A friend recently told me she didn’t want my experiences with other people to affect the way I saw and dressed myself. She noted how I have stopped wearing the long baggy sweaters and jeans in attempts to hide what never actually gets hidden. Gone are the old tennis shoes and the weave ponytails. You have no idea the measures and levels I’ve gone to in effort to prevent my ass from getting the attention over me. Even still today, there are things I would never wear (some of which I own), based solely off of the response I know it will get me. * shrug *
But I have become more free in this aspect than other years. I rock heels, dresses, skirts and cute shirts. I love fashion and I love getting dressed. I love that the size I am. It took work and continues to take work to be here. But I am often a prisoner of this body. I feel like all I am is a big ass. Like the cutie who I almost slept with wouldn’t want me based on my face, my poems or my attitude in general. He sees something that looks like it would probably feel good. Like the poets who I have been so eager and excited to meet and fellowship with and talk all things poetry with who see me and say things to me like “ I was thinking of you when I was doing my erotic poem”. …. .hmm… that’s interesting since you don’t know. <<
I am a prisoner to my ass at the gas station, I am a prisoner to my ass around my stepfather’s friends (I always would see their reactions to me as I grew older and more into a woman), I am prisoner to my ass everywhere I go. Why do I say this? Because it’s ALL they ever see. It’s all they talk to. I’ve written and performed a poem about it before and have probably discussed this in this blog. My ass is beautiful. Very few dimples and yes, she manages to still have some type of sit-up capabilities. It’s probably all those squats I did when I was courting a nigga that should have been courting me. She’s a nice color and looks awesome in boyshorts. Gone are the hand prints from the days of me stripping and niggas smacking it so hard that I would tip over in my heels. It’s smooth. Shelly, is smooth…Shelly is the name I’ve been calling my ass since early 2000s. I love my ass. People are out here buying and dying for asses….i have an ass. And I think it’s a nice ass and sometimes, I bounce it in the mirror to see if it will still pop the way it did when I was in my 20s.
For the most part.
But my ass is just an ass and doesn’t and has never defined me. After it stops bouncing, the bills are still due, the dogs are still wanting to go potty and I still have a blog to write, a poem to rehearse and somewhere to be at 7pm. After my ass is uncovered in all her ass glory, I still have to wake up and go to work, I still have to practice repeatedly to learn it, I still will not be in love and I still will not be loved back. It’s just an ass. It serves few purposes. It is behind me, so that alone lets you know it has no bearing on my future, yet it has dick-tated almost every man I have met. And for this, I have cried. I have cried because I can’t and won’t have children, but I really don’t want one beyond the age of 3, so it works in the grand scheme of things. I have cried because I don’t get attention. I have cried because the attention I get is all wrong. I have cried because I wanted to be dated, I wanted someone to surprise me with things they know I would love,
I’ve wanted someone who WANTED to see me smile so badly, that they made it happen.
And I don’t have that. And haven’t had it. And I’ve cried because of that MANY times.
I don’t pray for a man. I have never been that person. I just think of all the things I could and should be praying for, a man is not one of them. Not that there is anything wrong with it, it’s just not my cup of prayer-tea. I have prayed to be open, to be optimistic, to be ready….but never FOR a man to touch down. I don’t see that changing.
But I have cried about it to God.
I go home to the silence of my house and love it more often than not. But there are days, like the two that recently passed by, that I want someone to text me. To be excited to talk to me and it not be just like everybody else. That I know I am different and special and on another playing field than EVERYONE else.
I want to FEEL.
I haven’t felt.
I want to LOVE.
I’ve only loved projections.
I want affection.
I’ve only given it.
I want to giggle and be tickled and laugh and write love poems again and have heart eyes and all that stuff…….
But you know what…..
One year later,
I don’t believe any of that is for me. I’ve toggled w/the idea that I’m not meant for companionship and sometimes it’s hard for me to believe and accept, but most times…I would say about 90% of the time, I just don’t believe it. I don’t believe that wedding will come. Or that honeymoon. Or those feelings. Or that happiness. I can see myself standing on a cliff nearest water crashes, but I see it alone. Not w/my husband and a pastor and a witness or two. I feel like it’s just me. People are always hollering “keep the faith’’ or ‘someone is out there’, as if they KNOW this information. There may not be someone out there for me. And that statement seems so unfair.
And that hurts. It will hurt forever. It will always hurt me, to the earthly core of my body that i feel this way.
I will always feel a way about all that I am being for no one else.
I see the way men look at me and these days, if they are not giving me the salacious, salivating look, then they are looking at me so neutral that I could drive through a carwash with it.
I wonder sometimes if the man looking at me, whoever ‘he’ is at the moment, thinks I’m beautiful.
I still wonder these things. I still wonder will anyone ever see my light, and it still hurts that no one ever has and that I feel like no one ever will. I still continue to live my life tho. It’s still abundantly beautiful. I am confident in who I am and who I am becoming. I am proud of all I have survived and lived through. I know that if anyone were to ever catch me for real,
It would be the best catch of their lifetime.
I know, for a fact, that even in all my flaws, I am a beautifully created good woman. A Very Good woman. I have raised kids that weren’t mine, I’ve hidden guns, kept dope, hell put my fucking fingerprints on guns, I have been ready to fight, to tear up and to go to war for my man. Things I would NEVER do again for someone because someone who loves me would never place me in said positions. I have written him to life in poems. I have sung him to sleep when he was sick. I have pushed his back until he stood back up and I have been at his side for every single thing that ever happens, good, bad and indifferent. I have taught myself how to be a top chef and I am sexually uninhibited. I am smart and I love who I love with all the love I have. I don’t desire to punish anyone for what others have done. I only seek to spend days patrolling the growing towers of love between two people….
I know I have growing to do. I know I fucked up #MuseWeasel because I emasculated him. I wanted to ‘save’ him like the Captain of an E40 16, and you can’t do that with a man. I didn’t play the woman role only, I played BOTH of us. Lesson learned. You don’t teach a man how to treat you by treating him that way. I thought so. That’s not true. And he won’t learn it.
It saddens me sometimes, still, that I spend all this good alone. That after all these lessons that I feel excited to act upon, I get nothing but a dry spell and a waning desire to masturbate. Oh how life is changing.
One year ago,
I released the first blog of this series. I was hurting. I was mortified by my hurt. By the fact that a man would come into my life and have every possibly opportunity NOT to hurt me and then go on to do just that. So I decided to channel that pain and hope to heal through this blog where I would not only talk about him, but I would talk about them all. I have gone through ups and downs, ins and outs of my dating life here. It’s been funny at times and often sad.
It has all had the purpose of healing me once and for all. To sweep up and out what the Only the Brave show didn’t get rid of. It has done just that in so many ways. I have watched it grow, I have watched the readers leave comments to my heart’s delight and the number counts go up. This blog has allowed me the opportunity to purge feelings that would otherwise still be within me. Each one was written as spontaneously as they appeared. Each one gave me life in some way or another.
And now here I am one year later.
I don’t cry as much anymore, but I still do from time to time. I don’t really want a relationship right now at all to be honest.
But I ABHOR the feelings of not being WANTED or DESIRED. …for my mind.
I know I rock. I do.
I promise you that much. I know that any man should be proud to be chosen by me. Through this blog I have learned lots about the prey and the hunter shit. They say men are the choosers, but we women have a responsibility in choosing as well. Folks act like we just sit back and look pretty until someone deems us great enough to go with his flow, but the truth is, everybody is choosing.
The ones I have chosen to allow to entertain me have been duds. Fools Gold as I like to call it.
I have hit duds with my choosey finger. And each time I got away with marks and bruises but still alive. But the last time, it blew up.
I barely escaped with mental life. It collapsed me. The hurt itself collapsed me. This blog is literally me rising, inch by inch by inch with each posting. Today, I stand straight up. I do get those feelings of wanting to be wanted and every now and again (def not like it used to be), I cry. But for the most part, I stand up straight in high heels and I smoke a black and mild while looking out my windows. I’m happy. I am. I have an internal joy that combats and beats out the tears that want to flow due to me being all by myself. I have managed to regain control of the emotions that had scattered all over the place and were ready for war. I don’t troll twitter or Instagram and look for signs that the last person who hurt me is now hurting. I stopped doing that but it took a long time. I waited so impatiently to be properly front row seated to watch his misery. Misery indeed DOES love company. I tried to get him to be mine. I don’t dream about him anymore, nor do I see his name daily, EVERYWHERE, anymore. Sheeeeeeeeeeesh, I made it yaw. If I haven’t done anything else with this time or this blog, I healed from that non-relationship.
I don’t feel him or smell him or even think about him without being ‘triggered’.
I don’t want to tear my ears off from hearing Justin Timberlake anymore, but I know I will never get Stankonia back again. I have reclaimed my right to hear love music and love it for music and not cry about my life that lacks love.
I have healed from #MuseWeasel.
But I am still working on healing from all of them as a whole. The damage is done. It’s repairable tho. And I’m still working, daily, constantly, battling sometimes and breezing by other times, to not be irreparably broken by niggashit.
I can listen to John Legend’s “I love, you Love’ and not feel like my life is falling apart, lololol. I’m still coming back, but I am back from a dark place. There’s work left, so the blog continues and the road to my first best seller continues right here. I thank you for taking this journey with me. I think I said that earlier. Now you should know it’s real 😉
I’m leaving in 16 days to go somewhere far away. I’m so scared and nervous, as I always get trip anxiety but I’m flying solo & quite far (for me), so I’m nervous. But I have been combating the nervousness with the beauty of the nude beach I plan to park my naked ass on…….
You know why?
It’s not just because I can. After all, that typing I did about feeling like I am nothing but an ass, there has to be some type of real reason why I’d want to go to a nude beach and actually get nude right?
Well…yeah. There is.
It’s mostly because I want to,
but partly because in reclaiming my emotions and myself, I have to also reclaim my body. I can’t be a ‘prisoner’ in this body, as i have to live with it. When I did the Vagina Monologues show last weekend, one of my poems that I probably performed the best and was most connected to was entitled “My Vagina Is My Village”. ….this poem is a woman on two sides of her personality: The one happy, excited, fresh, free, fun, i -love-being-woman vagina poem, and the other being the broken, deadened, hurt for life, raped, pillaged, abused vagina. These contrasts blended together to make a monologue, albeit a difficult one, that had to be interpreted by yours truly. I’ve never been raped (by rape’s actual definition). I’ve never been stuffed with shotguns or broom sticks and have never been gang-bodied by soldiers who left me dirty, stinking and full of them. But i have been pillaged, prodded, probed, i have been violated and the most scary part about reading this poem, I have been and still am, today, the flip side of her personality. The broken spirit. The one who “does not touch there”. The one who “lives somewhere else” and “doesn’t know where that is” …..that IS me just as Rose from For Colored Girls is me, just as all the characters I keep getting blessed to play are me. In some way, they are always me. And they always teach me about me because they show me myself from a perspective that the writer never witnessed in ME, but wrote about me. I will not be disconnected from myself or from my body.
I am one unit. One beautiful unit that deserves to be able to withstand herself, flaws, glory and all. Dimples, punctures, wounds, breaks, tears, mishaps, beautifuls, lovelies and all. ALL of me deserves ALL of me to be loved by ALL of me.
Whoooooa chile, what a journey. It won’t expire before I do (the journey).
I will, in the future postings (this one not really included), edit !!!! I will definitely start editing, which is something I have not done in the past. Misspellings and misplaced words and sentences that flow well or are incomplete have been apart of this blog so as to show the raw emotion behind my blogging. Now, I will change that. I will edit and clean the blogs up moving forwards. Hey, this is a book. So it has to be clean. But that’s it. Spell checking and sentence checking…..content is exactly what the content is. This is not your Christian Singles network blog. But God doesn’t love me no less. I don’t love God any less either. And I’m not mad at God. I hurt to God and hope that S(H)e hears my cry like a roll of thunder.
I don’t know if I will EVER share my life with someone.
Like I said, I don’t necessarily believe I will. But I don’t count it out.
I just don’t count it. All the shit dudes say sounds a lot like blah blah blah blech.
I count the mile marker signs instead of the He Loves Me petals.
There’s a lot of living left to do.
And I’m still here.
Able to do it……
Able to live.
I would love to share my life with someone later in the future and for now, I would love to just meet a great person that I enjoy dating. But I won’t be doing it anymore. Not until I meet the man that can bring my dimple back out.
And not the ones on my ass,
the single one on my face.
He who makes that appear may have just found his Queen.
Runway #9 (I think) – Runway modeling is freaking fun and glam !!! I would never have thought I’d be able to model sometimes. ….but the best part of my experience with participating in hair and fashion shows are the lessons that inadvertently place themselves in the line of my eye fire. How dare I learn something about LIFE/LIVING from modeling ?? I am so thankful that I have been blessed with modeling opportunities.
Sometimes, they reiterate old lessons and sometimes, they usher in new ones dressed in gowns with a popping lip 😉
Yesterday’s fashion show was no different and it was at high school, which meant we modeled on school floors, which is equal to no carpet!!! Nothing but shine and reflections !!!!
I made the mistake of only grabbing one extra pair of shoes on my way out that morning: A pair of black lace booties, along with the shoes they requested I bring, which were a pair of butterfly pumps that I just bought about a month ago. These just happened to be the pair of heels I had in the car when I went for the fitting. They loved them and paired them with a cute dress and it made all the sense to everyone for me to wear those….it made sense to myself. I knew then that me wearing these shoes may or may not be a problem, but I thought I could do it. I take chances on myself. The reason these shoes were even in the car was because I had taken them to work with the intent of getting my feet acclimated to them. They are a half size too big but not because I don’t know what size I wear. They run big and I don’t remember reading that about the shoes, but seeing as tho they were online purchases, it’s always a chance being taken. I got them and realized the half a size is the difference between shoes flopping and me walking flawlessly in them. But they are pumps….I just thought I could make it work with them because they are pumps with no platform and a low arch. SO I never returned them for a smaller size. Also , I think I was concerned that I would get the smaller size and not be able to fit them at all, then I would end up w/o these cute shoes. I basically have the same result tho from keeping them. More on that later…..
Back to yesterday morning… I should have grabbed some other pumps but I was still sleep….i was out late and up until 2am fooling w/my hair, so I was still sleeping at my 7 AM rising…..eyes open, but I was sleep.
Fast forward to the show. We arrived at the school and still thought ‘i can do it’ while casually listening to my instinct question my life choices ….
then we rehearsed ….to my surprise they put me first.
I’ve never walked first. I’ve lead my segment before ONCE and that was a choreographed segment, but I have never walked first out or last out. That is a lot of pressure. Every position in a runway show is a pressure filled spot because all eyes are most definitely on you, so there is no time for insecurities. But to be the person who starts it off or ends it, you have a hint of extra weight on top of you because you are either showing the audience how yaw are about to bring it or how you go out with a bang. With that being said, when she pulled me to start first, the first thing I thought was ‘oh no, but these shoes”. … Sheeesh, but I pumped myself up and said internally ‘you got this’. …I also may have chuckled a bit at God’s sense of humor…..I’m SURE God was sipping tea when I started walking…
..So I walked in them. Horrific.
Even the ladies of the boutique saw it and as I walked and struggled to keep these shoes from flopping off my feet, someone said ‘come on januarie, you can do better than that’ …I realized quick that whether or not I choose to claim myself as a model, I HAVE modeled before and people expect XYZ out of me. Just like in poetry: Folks expect me to come out with a long poem, perhaps about love or black people or maybe even a story. But they expect what I have given them in the past. At this quick rehearsal, I was not giving what I had given in the past.
I was giving something new: I call it, ‘I can’t walk in these’. Lol, I gave them the I Can’t Walk iN These Heels’ treatment…..I struggled to get down to the end of the runway and every time I got to stop, I was able to regain control of my feet in these shoes. It didn’t help past four steps.
I thought to myself ‘what you gonna do goofy?’
Have you ever try walking with your back straight, eyes focused, face on fierce, showcasing an outfit, on a slick floor w/fall potential in shoes that are too big?
When we got back to our area, the ladies had me try on a second dress to walk in. I initially tried to play it off with my black booties, but I knew the pumps would look better with the style of dress. It was requested that I wear the butterflies. Now, I had to walk twice, three times if you count the final all-model walk. From the rehearsal to the start of the show, which was at least over an hour, I contemplated what to do….I was excited because I was walking twice. But I was stressed because I was thinking ‘ there is no way I can do TWO shitty ass walks…I ain’t come out of town to look like I need OFF the runway fast” ….
What to do….do I suggest I wear the other shoes?
Play it off with these shoes?
Stuff them and practice now?
Do I ‘forfeit’ and say I can’t do it? Will I be a disappointment?
Will I let myself down? What if I walk in them and fall?
What if I walk and they fall off my feet?
How will I play THAT off?
How will I be invited to walk again?
Oh, the wonder-filled mind of januarie and all her selfie-questions. I’m usually the quietest person in the room no matter the circumstance, but please believe in my head, I have a whole lot of thinking going on, about SOMETHING.
Finally, it was nearing showtime. We went backstage and I had both of my shoes there. We had about 15 mins before our turn when I had the bright idea to put toilet paper or napkins in my shoes. Sure it was a less than ideal situation and I would likely not ever do that in real life, but for the sake of the runway, surely I can handle some TP in my shoes if it means my shoes will stay on the back of my feet. I tried it. Matter a fact, I tried several versions of this shoe stuffing. I stuffed the tips, the sides, the tips AND the sides. I balled up the napkin, I folded the napkin. I put my feet in first, I put them in last, I put them in after the paper then put more paper on top of my foot. I tried so many fucking versions of self-help and after each time that I felt mildly secure in, I would go practice on the surface. After a few tries, it helped. At one point, I thought it a good idea to leave them on but then my feet started hurting and I figured that would do the walk a different type of injustice. So I took them off and right when it was our turn to line up, I put them on.
But not before my instinct had her day in court. I sat on the floor envisioning myself making a fool out of myself for three excruciating walks down the runway. I sat Indian style and silently asked myself: which one of these would make you look like the bigger fool? Suggesting that you wear the butterflies only once or walking in them both times. I knew the booties did not go with both dresses. They just didn’t and personally, I couldn’t let myself NOT try to make it once. If I made it and made it well, then I could keep them on for the second walk. I sat there as time was winding down and our turn neared and then I just said it.
I looked at the ladies and moved in closer and said ‘I don’t think I can wear these shoes both times, they are too big”…..I briefly explained that they were new and too big and I would be willing to try if that’s what they really wanted but that I just didn’t want to look like fashion roadkill……just that simple. And like that, it was over. I would go out in the butterflies, and when I came back to change, I’d wear the booties. I still thought I could do these butterflies once. I had practiced with the tissue enough to build a lil bit of confidence.
And then it was our turn.
I made sure my heels were tight as I could get them, with my feet secure in their place thanks to the tissue. And I was first, and just like that, it was my immediate turn:
The music started and strut (as best as possible and slow) out to the runway, turned, stopped and got ready to go hard. I went ……and that is exactly what it was: HARD!!!! By the time I arrived at the middle of the floor for the first stop and pose, I felt like snatching those shoes off my feet and walking w/a bounce and a smile. People were videoing and taking pictures and I could hear my instinct saying ‘nah, you will NOT get me bad’….but anyone who was videoing probably did get me bad….I got to the end and it felt like I was out of breath….I turned and walked back down and was so thankful the next girl was coming out to take the attention off of myself. SHIT!!!!! FUCK!!!! DAMMIT JANUARIE!!!! <<<internal voice…..
Instead of posing at the end, I admit I diagonally walked to the back in a take off method: meaning, you would have thought I was about to run. I wanted OUT of those shoes. I wanted OUT of that hard situation that lowered my model-confidence and I felt like prevented me from wearing the shit out of such a cute dress !!! I was so concentrated on those shoes not falling, which was truly fucking with my walk quite a bit…I felt crooked and timid and was distracted that I didn’t even put my hands in the pockets the way I intended on.
Got to the back and was out of those shoes before I was out the public eye. I love those shoes. They are so freaking cute and full of colorful butterflies against a white background w/solid blue stiletto heels. It saddens me that they were my problem.
But I threw those booties on quickly. I felt like I was putting myself back on solid ground. I put them on while I was being zipped into my second dress. Yes, this is comfort. I wasn’t even bending down.
Got back to the lineup and then back to my turn and my second stroll. I strut with all I could. I felt better. I felt my confidence come back. I felt like turning around and saying “yes bitches, I CAN walk, don’t get it twisted’….lololol
I got to the end with ease, walked back past the people with good feelings and hopped in the line for the final walk and did that with confidence all over again. It worked.
“these hills are too damn big”
Sometimes, the hill looks like it cannot be scaled. Like there is no way to get up or around it. Sometimes, it’s as simple as us defeating ourselves before we arrive at the competition. Either we train our brains to dream in negatives or we put ourselves in the line of fire and then expect to be able to compete with it. I put myself in the line of fire by not mentioning on DAY ONE that those heels might be a problem for me to walk a runway in. Had I said so, then they would have never been in my possession that day, never would have been a problem and I could have had three flawless walks back to back. Had I gotten some rest (sometimes, you just gotta live a lil tho), or woke myself up out of lazy-decision making mode, I could have brought with me better choices to walk in. I have 100 pairs of shoes. This was unacceptable. Oh vey, all the preventable problems we allow INTO our lives -_-
Finally and most importantly….COURAGE.
Courage is the difference between standing back, looking at the hill
Standing back, looking from the hill.
Courage means standing up to face the problem head on and not being afraid to confront it. Not being afraid to make a suggestion at how to get over it. Not being so over-confident that you fool yourself into believing you can do things that you can’t do. And let’s face it and be honest: There ARE some things that we can’t do, no matter what the reason why. That’s life. We can approach a lot of stuff w/a superhuman mentality, but that won’t work if the situation is impossible. Hills are tricky. Some are huge, some are small.
Some are tall while others are not up that high, but the arch is a killer. Some hills are steep with a slippery surface, others you aren’t afraid to put your foot on the ground and know you have a solid platform. Some are up on platforms that are ridiculous. Other’s need the platform in order to be a hill….some will hurt, some won’t, some will leave bruises and other’s will require a lot of concentration to make it beyond.
Not all hills are created equal.
And not every one can be scaled. …however, it IS ok to try. It’s ok to be confident in yourself and say ‘I can do this’…..that’s the only way you will learn when you can’t ! And when you can’t, there is NOTHING wrong with stepping back and altering the situation, if possible, to fit your needs…..mountaineers don’t climb Everest without the necessary equipment and spending weeks and months prepping for the high altitudes.
Not all hills need months of preparation, but every heel needs some practice.
Practice doesn’t really make perfect either, contrary to what you may have heard.
Practice simply creates a blueprint of confidence. Practice makes you able. Practice tests and shows you just how ready you are.
Yesterday, I practiced using my voice outside of poetry. I confronted every possibility I could think of happening if I walked in those heels….and I thought of what the solution or prevention could be. Once I decided that I knew the best possible answer, I spoke up and saved myself and the boutique and the other models the embarrassment of me being so prideful that I walked in shoes that made me look like I didn’t know why I was there. I did, however, give my best in the butterfly pumps, all while gaining a new life lesson:
Never be afraid to look a hill in the eye and make a safety request on behalf of the people, yourself included,
“No one wants a desperate woman !!!”
~Judge Gregg Mathis
1. Reckless or dangerous because of despair, hopelessness or urgency
2. Having an urgent need, desire, etc
3. Leving little or no hope, very serious or dangerous
4. Extremely bad; intolerable or shocking
5. Extreme or excessive
6. Making a final, ultimate effort; giving all
7. Actuated by a feeling of hopelessness.
8. Having no hope; giving in to despair.
Ooooooh, the way Judge Mathis said that word burned me and he wasn’t even talking to me. The sound of that word alludes to someone being ‘less than’, whatever the sport. If someone describes you using the word DESPERATE, it’s hardly ever a compliment. Or at least for me, I’ve never heard it used in a complimentary way; perhaps sarcastic, but definitely not as a compliment.
In writing this blog, I tend to listen to music, directly in my ears (through headphones) so that each song is that much closer. Today, as I got ready to write this blog, I had to switch from my homegirl Trixie Whitley to something more ‘somber’ so to speak so that I could channel the words that were on my heart to share. I went to the playlist that I listen to about 98% of the time, Objects in the Mirror Are Closer Than That Appear and strolled up the 400+ songs to find a stopping point. As I type, I am listening.
The chosen song: Sam Smith, Life Support.
It’s perfect for this blog, but it’s a single song. Sometimes, I listen to a single song on repeat until I have finished writing, but not today. As usual, my playlist is on random. The song just went off and the next song that came on, that is playing right this second, is Leela James, Falling.
Lets get it.
Desperation. ….so much I can say about it. I wonder how much longer I would have continued to the road of hopeful tossing myself in rings of fire, hoping to come out on the other side WEARING a ring. Even if it meant me being burned, I have always been so willing to GIVE ME in exchange for a stolen reciprocity that I’ve just never experienced. As I listen to Leela sing these words over this love-melancholy beat, I can see myself walking down the aisle.
I only want it to happen once.
I can see him, although his face is a blur.
I can see his silhouette, staring at me for the first time in 24 (or more) hours, in this dress, fitted, long, WHITE (pffft) and probably a hint of some color, definitely some lace …..i can see his eyes watering at the mere thought that the woman walking peacefully up the aisle is about be his, for the rest of ever. I make my way to the front, my family and friends looking on with tears of happiness in their eyes because they each know how much it probably means to me to be living such a moment. I stop, take his hand and in a second long pause, life covers us both in the glow of God’s happiness. His tear leaps off his chin, falling onto the pocket of his suit, as his hand takes mine for the first time in the wedding. We turn, face the preacher and begin life together.
It’s a chapter that I never thought of in great detail as a kid, but I never thought I would get in my late 30s and not have anyone. Today, I’m not sad about it. I’m not upset. I’m not even numb. I’m just, what I am. I still want love, someday. But I’m not sad, TODAY, that the story I just made up has never been my reality. I’ve spoken in great detail in this blog about wanting to be loved…..i started trying to better appreciate those WHO DO love me. But let’s run it back some.
Back when last year was still happening. This time last year, things had gone sour and I knew it, but still I held on. The Justin Timberlake concert was one year ago from yesterday. So approx. one year ago, I was texting someone, in an act of desperation to hold on, trying to bribe him to let me give him more of me by saying I had a piece of Tennessee Whiskey Cake in the car that I wanted to eat together. He never responded. I text him early into the concert.
Odds are, he was probably with the woman who is his girl now.
I on the other hand, was still playing my role: Desperate. I didn’t expect him to text me back. I checked my phone several times in the concert to no avail. I waited and hoped and even after arriving home more than 45 minutes after the concert was over and hours after I text him, I still would have been willing to go to him if he had’ve just text me back. He never did. And after such a wonderful concert that left my heart yearning for a piece of any one of the songs JT had sang, I went to bed: lonely. I wasn’t lonely because I was single. I was lonely because there was someone in my life who didn’t want to be there and I couldn’t stop him from leaving….but I was still hanging on. Being desperate.
Let’s hit a couple of those definitions.
1. Reckless or dangerous because of despair, hopelessness or urgency.
Reckless became everything I was. Fucking without a condom because ‘we share this deep connection’. LMAO. That’s what I told myself. It still amazes me that I got out with my coochie unscathed and still intact. One of the first things I told him one day while we were having a talk about sex was that I didn’t like to share and he shared virtually the same sentiment (before I did ironically), so there was a part of me that foolishly, recklessly and dangerously hung on to that sole conversation as more reason to believe that it was just me.
Hopelessness or urgency – Yeah…the first time we had an extended conversation I knew I would love him. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop that, but I pretended that to not be my reality. It was tho. I feel in love, in like, in lust, in need, in an urgent desperate hope that he would answer that burning question in my heart: will you love me back? He didn’t answer or love me back. My ex prior to him, who I’ve discussed in this blog before, gave me a damn space heater for Christmas and a tape dispenser made as a shoe for my birthday. To say I was hopeless is an understatement. When I left him, I knew I deserved way better than that. I knew I deserved for someone to care, to give a damn longer than it takes for their ego to be satisfied in some wordly way. Prior to him, one ex made me beg for a bracelet that he never bought, another one bought me a bracelet and spent the rest of our relationship cheating on me and trying to kill me. I was hopefully hopeless, but in an urgent state of need for companionship that was reciprocated from that which I would be willing to give. I gave…too much of me….
and i want to get this straight because I know I’m always talking about money this and money that, and the reason being is because that part of our story ASTONISHES me…. I just can’t believe that happened, BUT-
I mean way more than my money and body…I gave my trust…my belief IN…what fucking little was to give, i gave…
not because I was so DESPERATE that I would project what I wanted
-and i did do that..i ultimately did project like a mf-
I’m a woman who possesses submission…. I let the man lead.
I only ‘projected’ after he lead me…
and he lead me…he kept leading me…he was never honest, never once. He was a coward.
that is a fact, it’s ok,
I accept I followed a deleted tweet….get it ?
But I gave him the places and spaces in my head and heart that should be reserved for that man who would see me at the end of the aisle that he brought me to after proposing
in a helicopter
in New York
flying high, over the waters, above the buildings,
we land somewhere….a rooftop….things are set up
i don’t know what else because I don’t know what he would do. …but he would do that much, because he would know THAT much about me,
he would know what that would make me feel like and he would want THAT
and he would see me at the end of that aisle in that swan Very Wang dress and his eyes would water….
The reservations HE deserves, were being foolishly
given to, or TOSSED at, depends on the angle, a man who wasn’t willing to appreciate the closet two beings to me; the dogs-
– Problem House! o.O
for all that I gave…..I’ve received a year’s worth of ass whooping, emotional fallout and bankruptcy ….emotional bankruptcy
depletion…resistance…anger, hurt..prolonged sadness
extended thoughts of revenge…
I’ve lived in a strange bubble after this one….
because, he just didn’t have to hurt me that.
…And say sorry and shrug that shit off #LikeMoneyAintAThang
6. Making a final ultimate effort; giving all & 7. Actuated by a feeling of hopelessness.
What the hell made me go soooo fucking hard for dude????
He NEVER went hard for me. The most this nigga did was pull me in for a wet kiss and hug in front of the patrons at Different Peace of Mind the night of the erotic show, when I wore that LOVE dress for the first time. He just wanted to show anyone who was there who was getting that. I liked it. I believe I talked about it before in this blog. I did. If it was done today, I would like it. I want someone to look at me and be so happy and so proud and honored that THEY are the chosen one for me and vice versa that they want to pull me in and let the whole world know it is me and them against all odds. But that’s not what that was. Idk what it was to be honest…I still don’t doubt that we did in fact share a connection that was special and deep seeded. But it was probably me doing more of the connecting because I wasn’t against it from the get go. That nigga was Bad Religion for me.
I just turned that on btw.
But what made me go so hard for him? Especially after giving the boot to a man who was just as fine, with a better apartment, car, options, more money…….where he lived reminded me of New York …..but he was the same person as this nigga. And I didn’t like it with him, so I gave him the bounce skate……but this fool was able to finagle his way into my heart and life in a way that made my internal desperation rear her head in ways that depleted my finances, pride and made me look like the biggest fool this side of the open mic.
It was just so unfair. It felt so unfair that he would lie so blatantly to me the ways he did. In hindsight, all the shit I believed , I now see what the lie was and know why. But I knew for a minute. Two months. I found out about what he had going on…I pulled that contweet thread up. I saw all those fucking pictures on IG in NOVEMBER. IT wasn’t until them filler flowers appeared on New Years Day that I couldn’t let myself be made into a fool like such anymore. Nigga took my power –
I handed that shit over to him like brand new car keys…..
I had given up before we met. I had doubted me finding and keeping and being good for love long before I could remember his name. I had given up mentally but not physically. In the physical sense, I was still going, still believing, still holding on to the thought that someone out there was looking for me as much as I him. And for whatever freaking reason why, I thought I finally landed right next to him. We would stare in each other’s eyes and idk what he was looking at and thinking, but I figure I was projecting my hopes/thoughts/feelings into his cornea and receiving what I put in. Lol. I wanted to believe that there was hope for me even tho I didn’t necessarily feel it.
I had spent 7 years with a person and left with a ring I had to buy myself.
I had watched ex’s move on, get married, have families and it just started to look like that whole common denominator thing …. :/
Is it me? Whats wrong with me?
I felt like if someone else could see the Light within me, then maybe it would re-awaken that part of me that was slowly dying off. That part of me that still believed in things….the part that believed in the beautiful.
Hurt people hurt people huh? Well, this hurt woman wanted to love someone and I’m not saying I didn’t or haven’t hurt anyone, ( I didn’t hurt that clown cake tho), but my goal, my main focus was loving someone else……
Actually, my main goal was loving someone else into loving me.
I thought I could high heel, out poetry everyone and speak into existence love for me, from him. That is not true. I was not the muse of the women who speak in my poems….
“I am too much woman to be loved via a measuring cup”
I wasn’t her.
“I ain’t nobody’s cut”
I was his cut and that was it.
“Momma don’t play chess when the king is missing”
I played chess without a king, turned into a pawn and couldn’t have found a Queen if I were living in Buckingham Palace.
By the time we were months into talking to each other, I knew this was my final attempt. I had built up enough stamina to give it a go. He made me want to. I was ready. I was willing.
I was desperate.
* Daley, Love Somebody now playing *
I was desperate for a man to show me, me from his eyes and it be beautiful.
I was desperate for a man’s love in a companionship way.
I was desperate to just have my somebody.
I was desperately wanting out of the chase, the search, the disappointments. …I didn’t think he would disappoint me. Idk where I even pulled all this foolish optimism from…..
But I had it.
And I desperately wanted it to be something he liked about me. I tried to be every woman when I’m just januarie.
I tried desperately to be BAE.
Not knowing he already had her….
The only person I never tried to be was the woman in my poems.
Somehow, she got lost in the shuffle of desperately seeking (a) bruising.
And that I got.
The woman who stood before many people, starting back in 2012 and said “I am too much woman to be loved in a measuring cup.
I am not a bruised muse in heels…
I be wife, of ruler, in stilettos”, turned out to be the opposite of who she wrote life into. She was bruised. She was a muse to be used up and she set herself up for all of it. If ever there were a time I placed my heart on an auction block and then dipped over to a nigga’s table to hold up his numbered sign for purchasing, this was it. Everything I did and said was from a desperate place. A place of almost giving up. Everything came from a conscious woman no doubt, but a woman who was on her final grand challenge and her final run of belief in someone…..
A woman in despair, who did not want to believe that there is/was no one for me. I wanted it to be him. I NEEDED it to be him…or so I thought. I needed him to look at me say something to make me experience him. I needed him to see what no one else saw…what I did NOT need was for him to come in and destroy what was left of me….Instead, I experienced broken trust, misuse of my emotions and ironically enough, after shelling out money-by-pound to him, a year later (this time last year I had just promised him the money that he would go on to buy filler flowers for his bae with), I am about to file bankruptcy. Not because of him…..because of some shit from my 20s, coming through and doing an unhealthy cleanse on my credit score that I worked so hard on. ….I’m just noting the irony tho.
“Thank God I am a woman…NOW’’. ….because desperation almost made me an infant again. And as the sun begins to set on this cold Thursday afternoon and I prepare to take my sleepy ass to this second job, I am loving the reawakening of the woman I am.
Belief – I AM too much woman to be loved at a measuring cup.
Experience – You will not experience ME just because you a man.
I will never again let someone take me for a ride outer space and drop me off on the nearest condemned planet before darting back to Earth to save the woman who always had his heart.
I thank him for the lesson he gave me and for the way he opened me up to love him and as a result, learn about ME, as a companion. I could have done a couple few things better to him I guess, but truth is, someone else had his heart before I ever knew his name. I never stood a chance. And if he were a whole of a man instead of the broken person he turned out to be, he would have told me that before he crushed what was still standing.
While it is true that I finally feel the most at peace with this since this year started and while it is also true that this dude HUMBLED me in a way I could have never expected to be humbled, I know me…i know there will always be a part that feels ‘something’ towards him. …something less savory than love but not as crucial as I hope you die a painful death. So fuck you #MuseWeasel20144012
. I’m so Crown and counting that a three letter misspelling of an infantile word and some $4 gas station flower were never and could have never been enough for me….for I AM too much woman, to be loved in a fucking measuring cup. Being a part of the play For Colored Girls has exposed me to myself in some other ways as well…..every little bit counts.
And for the rest of my life of loving, I will always remember you as the man who showed me a mirror in a way no other man could have done.
Sometimes, lies are the key towards unlocking the desperation gates and flying off. <3
Just in time for #TrixieWhitley – The Engine. Now Playing.