We had sex this morning—great sex. Earth shattering. Blinding. It’ll scare you to know what goes in our bedroom-type sex. I think RomiE kinda wore me out. My thighs haven’t conformed back to normal.
I shaved yesterday. Everything! I forget how pretty I am under all this ape-wool. I’ve recently gotten into the practice of shaping my beard versus cutting it completely off…less irritation—and I like what it does to my face. It makes me look adult. But I shaved everything except for a few pews—can’t afford to be irritated down there—no use upsetting the boys, they’re my livelihood.
I took off work yesterday, and did I mention the bird that CRAPED on my head Monday. Geeze-o-Petes! That little sucker crapped smack dab in the middle of my head right before class and I had to suffer through my day with the impending Bird Flu virus smuggled between my hair follicles. Maybe that’s why I shaved yesterday.
I need to clean out my system and take my ass to Bally’s. Wasn’t Bally’s in my New Year’s Resolution?—who knows? But I’m getting a tummy…well, ahem, I have a tummy. And as soon as I figure out what I’m gonna do about this camera situation i.e. getting one, I’mma show you all my fat.
I’m looking at the last couple of weeks of classes, and I think I’mma fail something. This is actually the conclusion I come to at the end of every semester, but it always feels like I’m gradually getting worse with my studies. If you ask me I’ll tell you… this semester I’m just tired. I’m taking 5 classes, 17/18 credit hours, four days a week—all of which are early in the morning except my Monday class which starts at 1 and then I work 5 evenings a week. So my day usually starts at six-thirty when RomiE’s god-awful alarm clock starts screeching its head off and ends somewhere around 1 or 2 am after work, when I’ve made it home, eaten something, fought with homework, reading fiction, prose, poetry, and snuggle just under my RomiE to sleep. And that doesn’t even include living and family issues and friends and having to travel throughout the city to GET TO school, work, family, home, and friends.
When the weekend hits…I’m just ready to sleep. And right now, looking at what’s due tomorrow and my progress on that project…I’m ready for the weekend.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Sunday, April 23, 2006
I can Speak to that: My messy, drunk and sleep deprived weekend thoughts
*in response to Brown Boy
Please don’t let this man fool you, Ask him, did he NOT walk out the room while Jennifer Hudson was still singing. Did I NOT have to twist his arm to watch, A Chorus Line…was he NOT apprehensive about Beyonce at Wembely…in FACT he was SO much so that, though he watched, he went Grumble-Grumble-Grumble ALL the way through the movie, ruined the experience, brutalized my emotions, and if he feels that he “endured” what he claims to make me tick for my sake, without going into the lions cove kicking and shitting……..PLEASE don’t let this man fool you.
I like going to the movies…on occasions, provided that there’s something of substance to watch. Doofus Movie 4 is only entertaining IF you like that certain humor; otherwise you’re being held hostage for 2 hours in a theatre watching imbeciles on screen being imbecilic. Life is too short for that. Had this been something he rented and brought home I might have been swayed to see a couple of scenes, give ‘em a go, let him try and persuade me to find the humor…see the “funny”. But he didn’t. He suggested, knowing full throttle that Doofus Movie 4 isn’t on my scale of funny, that I pay, sit in a crowded theatre and indulge him to watch Doofus Movie 4. And mind you when he propositioned me with the IDEA for going to the movies this weekend he prefaced it by saying,
Ken, I wanna go to the movies this weekend, but you’re not gonna wanna see it.
O, what is it, Baby?
Doofus Movie 4...
You’re right.
And then he went gummin’ all at the mouf about taking his little brother, who he felt also didn’t wanna see DM4.
I think there are a number of factors to consider when involving oneself in your lovers hobbies. One of those factors being is that you are not your lover, there are things that he is going to be into that you are just not going to care for i.e. my fascination with voices and your craving to watch certain things. Neither of which are wrong and neither of which are necessary to conduct a healthy relationship, because what that does, me and my music, you and your movies, is distinguish us as individuals. I don’t need you to sit on the futon and indulge me to listen to Lauryn Hill for me to love you or Lauryn. Lauryn Hill is going to be enjoyed with or without you suffering through it behind me bleeding at the ears. And if its that much of a torture for you in that you can’t stand to listen gospel music, you can’t stand to watch musicals, you can’t stand to hear Jennifer, than I’d rather you not sit and suffer silently. And I hope you wouldn’t need me to be in a theatre, bored out my wits, for you to love me or whatever it is you’re desperate to go see, that Mister Baby would insinuate problems elsewhere.
In my understanding of how far one should go in taking on/sharing in their lovers “hobbies” (which I use rather loosely) is just to appreciate that this, whatever this is, is what’s making my Mister Baby tick. And in that appreciation I’m asking you to appreciate that this was NOT about going to the theatre, this was about the movie you were desperate to go see. If it was just the experience you were looking for, me and you together at the movies, than we could have simply seen something else, but it wasn’t about that experience, YOU wanted to see THAT movie, and it wouldn’t have been much of an experience with me Grumble-Grumble-Grumble all the way through it.
Comments please…
Please don’t let this man fool you, Ask him, did he NOT walk out the room while Jennifer Hudson was still singing. Did I NOT have to twist his arm to watch, A Chorus Line…was he NOT apprehensive about Beyonce at Wembely…in FACT he was SO much so that, though he watched, he went Grumble-Grumble-Grumble ALL the way through the movie, ruined the experience, brutalized my emotions, and if he feels that he “endured” what he claims to make me tick for my sake, without going into the lions cove kicking and shitting……..PLEASE don’t let this man fool you.
I like going to the movies…on occasions, provided that there’s something of substance to watch. Doofus Movie 4 is only entertaining IF you like that certain humor; otherwise you’re being held hostage for 2 hours in a theatre watching imbeciles on screen being imbecilic. Life is too short for that. Had this been something he rented and brought home I might have been swayed to see a couple of scenes, give ‘em a go, let him try and persuade me to find the humor…see the “funny”. But he didn’t. He suggested, knowing full throttle that Doofus Movie 4 isn’t on my scale of funny, that I pay, sit in a crowded theatre and indulge him to watch Doofus Movie 4. And mind you when he propositioned me with the IDEA for going to the movies this weekend he prefaced it by saying,
Ken, I wanna go to the movies this weekend, but you’re not gonna wanna see it.
O, what is it, Baby?
Doofus Movie 4...
You’re right.
And then he went gummin’ all at the mouf about taking his little brother, who he felt also didn’t wanna see DM4.
I think there are a number of factors to consider when involving oneself in your lovers hobbies. One of those factors being is that you are not your lover, there are things that he is going to be into that you are just not going to care for i.e. my fascination with voices and your craving to watch certain things. Neither of which are wrong and neither of which are necessary to conduct a healthy relationship, because what that does, me and my music, you and your movies, is distinguish us as individuals. I don’t need you to sit on the futon and indulge me to listen to Lauryn Hill for me to love you or Lauryn. Lauryn Hill is going to be enjoyed with or without you suffering through it behind me bleeding at the ears. And if its that much of a torture for you in that you can’t stand to listen gospel music, you can’t stand to watch musicals, you can’t stand to hear Jennifer, than I’d rather you not sit and suffer silently. And I hope you wouldn’t need me to be in a theatre, bored out my wits, for you to love me or whatever it is you’re desperate to go see, that Mister Baby would insinuate problems elsewhere.
In my understanding of how far one should go in taking on/sharing in their lovers “hobbies” (which I use rather loosely) is just to appreciate that this, whatever this is, is what’s making my Mister Baby tick. And in that appreciation I’m asking you to appreciate that this was NOT about going to the theatre, this was about the movie you were desperate to go see. If it was just the experience you were looking for, me and you together at the movies, than we could have simply seen something else, but it wasn’t about that experience, YOU wanted to see THAT movie, and it wouldn’t have been much of an experience with me Grumble-Grumble-Grumble all the way through it.
Comments please…
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Which means I love you: Happy 6 months!!
I was hoping to watch porn this morning but none of the DVD players are working…more or less I am unable to work them. Crap-Damn. I could try fidgeting, a little harder, with the television in the front room but there’s just too many gadgets associated with that TV—I fear I’d fuck something up. And then everybody’ll know I was beating off to porn. Not good.
By the way I’m at Keith's house. I don’t think I’ve ever made mention to my Sweet Pea Keith in this arena. I come by his place weekly on those Monday/Tuesday mornings when I get off work at 3am and the bus home stops running. Luckily the Redline train runs all night and Keith lives at the end of the Jarvis stop. I spend those nights here.
I walk in, open the door and the dog barks. You never know who you’re gonna find when opening the door. The possibilities are infinite. Aaron’s usually getting ready for work, Kindrick’s normally asleep and I either flop on the futon or take refuge on the sofa in the living room. Last night Paribe, Keith’s WaLmart buddy, was on the couch sleep. I nearly scared him shitless trying to lie down. I didn’t see ‘em! But, fortunately, we dodged that bullet. Aaron surrendered the futon, and I didn't crush Paribe, but that’s all beside the point… I love my Sweet Pea Keith. There’s actually a running list of people that I refer to as the Sweet Pea’s [which means I love you] :
Sweet Pea Roger
Sweet Pea Walter
Sweet Pea Aaron
Sweet Pea Karla
Sweet Pea Kayla
Sweet Pea Kindrick
Sweet Pea Dontae
Sweet Pea DaRRyL
Sweet Pea Chuck
But Sweet Pea Keith inspired all of that.
RomiE and I hit 6 months today. Applause. Applaud because neither of us have ever sustained a relationship passed a year (and that was one of my concerns in the beginning) but applaud because, if you’re all caught up on your RomiE&Ken trivia—applaud because we…or I, didn’t think we’d make it so far. I’m happy we made it. I was approached by one of my Sweet Pea’s today who nearly unscrewed m’man-berries (the twins, the boys—the balls) when she heard the word celebration.
Sweet Pea: there needs to be NO celebration
Sweet Pea: you should celebrate everyday
Sweet Pea: not at this silly point
Sweet Pea: it's not like it's been 10 years
Sweet Pea: don’t have me go off on u
Me: you just did
Sweet Pea Keith suggested there be some sort of candlelit dinner and provocative horseplay, afterwards, in a private, but genuine, commemoration of the occasion.
He claims that six months is a year to gay people, a feat that mustn't be left unappreciated because not most gay relationships see this side of six months. And I guess there’s something that can be said about how time is managed on the Calendar for Queers. I would actually love to rejoice in celebration for today. But, in turn, I rejoice and celebrate every night that I’m able to leave and return home to that face, his face—RomiE’s face, that mirrors everything we accomplished within the whole of our six months spent. Thank you, Baby.
Happy 6 months, Mister Brown!!!
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Thank you for Today
I got mugged last night on the street, on my way home by two teenage boys with barely any fur on their faces. We have guns they said. Empty your pockets they said. Wheres the cash they said. I don’t carry any… One of them slugs me, knocks off my glasses, takes my book bag and empties it out on the street. Nothing?—they said. I don’t have anything….they interrupted well don’t flinch. And I thought to myself if this was that part in the movie where the victim gets shot…I might not survive this.
I was on a crowded bus once, sat in the seat right behind the driver pressed in between a wall and woman. I forget whether or not I had something particular on my mind or if I was just fascinated with my reflection in the window opposite my seat…but what I recall is seeing myself. The bus crashes…well almost crashes… slams on its breaks and cries to a stop. And as everyone’s being thrown forward—I remember someone losing a purse, I remember change spilling, keys falling, children crying, women screaming, gents gasping for god…I must’ve just sat there unblemished in the window, eyes still fixed on my image in the window and rocked with the pull of the bus as not even concerned with what was living around me.
You hear of such things like this happening to other people and you sympathize, and you empathize and you try your best to envision how or what your reaction might be had it been you—but it isn’t you and it wasn’t you and if it were to ever be you you’d assume yourself to be as much of a wreck as they insist they are. It didn’t even occur to me what was actually happening while it was happening. The only thing I could understand was the floor of the earth…her ground…her soot and concrete. I might’ve even been looking for my reflection again, somewhere in the glass shards glistened across the sidewalk. I’m sure it would have served as the one thing my eyes would have fondly made out without glasses, my reflection.
The other one took a swing, I moved, he missed. Don’t flinch!—he said. My older brother Curtis, before he died, journaled about death. The night he wrote the entry he spoke about how he almost lost his life in the same manner his mother lost hers. He spoke of the incident, which I can vaguely remember, and how fortunate he felt to have surpassed and survived. The irony of what fell is that death caught him in a clap of surprise the same way he felt honored that it hadn’t. And so now that I find myself journeying to journal about that same honor and relief as if I’d been cleared from anyone else’s attack or from ever having my life cradled to the precipice of it all ever ending on a whim… if last night was truly the end, I thought…I’m proud that I was calm enough to accept it. I saw the earth for what she is, in that moment…dirt, and gravel and glass and I don’t think had they pull the trigger, or had there been a trigger to pull, I’d be missing anything. I’m not sad because it happened rather I’m more concerned with this feeling of nothingness swelling inside me because it did happen.
I’m thinking I’ve loved all I can, been loved all I can, seen all the love that I possibly can, and so there’s nothing I’d lose by leaving. Please take my money if that’s all your asking and I would’ve lassoed the stars and boxed the entire whole of the galaxy if that’s all they were asking; but it seems like such a struggle for our generation stay alive. I remember when 20 seemed virtually impossible. After high school it was a race to see who’d survive. Norman didn’t make it…Crystal didn’t make it…Chris didn’t make it. Johnny was out of state at school when he was robbed, beaten and shot for a pair of shoes at 19—And though I’ve been blessed to see 22, it feels almost impractical, at the least of all absurd, of me to anticipate seeing thirty. The luxury of watching my children grow and hair gray is a privilege I’m not privy to. And to say that I’m grateful that what potentially could’ve resulted in my death last night didn’t would somehow be neglecting that I will soon someday die. They say dodging one bullet is a miracle and dodging two, impossible. I recognized, in that moment, searching, in the fragmented glass shavings, for my reflection, that this could very well be my end, and I’m okay.
Whatever spooked them into running away—they did. They took off down the street and left me standing to collect my belongings. My glasses were gone and my phone was gone. A witness, through a window, called out to me and called police. She invited me inside where I phoned Jerome, who came rushing to my service…
I don’t know if I prayed, God… and a part of me feels like this was God’s way of reminding me life is fleeting, be careful how you live. And it was in realizing that, and looking into Jerome’s face did I appreciate that I’m not just living for me—my life doesn’t just affect me! How totally selfish can I get!?!—which brings me to my knees in the humblest of poses for apology because if I didn’t then, Jehovah, or hadn’t since then…with all my heart decked across the table and arms sprayed to the heavens…thank you. Thank you for today.
I was on a crowded bus once, sat in the seat right behind the driver pressed in between a wall and woman. I forget whether or not I had something particular on my mind or if I was just fascinated with my reflection in the window opposite my seat…but what I recall is seeing myself. The bus crashes…well almost crashes… slams on its breaks and cries to a stop. And as everyone’s being thrown forward—I remember someone losing a purse, I remember change spilling, keys falling, children crying, women screaming, gents gasping for god…I must’ve just sat there unblemished in the window, eyes still fixed on my image in the window and rocked with the pull of the bus as not even concerned with what was living around me.
You hear of such things like this happening to other people and you sympathize, and you empathize and you try your best to envision how or what your reaction might be had it been you—but it isn’t you and it wasn’t you and if it were to ever be you you’d assume yourself to be as much of a wreck as they insist they are. It didn’t even occur to me what was actually happening while it was happening. The only thing I could understand was the floor of the earth…her ground…her soot and concrete. I might’ve even been looking for my reflection again, somewhere in the glass shards glistened across the sidewalk. I’m sure it would have served as the one thing my eyes would have fondly made out without glasses, my reflection.
The other one took a swing, I moved, he missed. Don’t flinch!—he said. My older brother Curtis, before he died, journaled about death. The night he wrote the entry he spoke about how he almost lost his life in the same manner his mother lost hers. He spoke of the incident, which I can vaguely remember, and how fortunate he felt to have surpassed and survived. The irony of what fell is that death caught him in a clap of surprise the same way he felt honored that it hadn’t. And so now that I find myself journeying to journal about that same honor and relief as if I’d been cleared from anyone else’s attack or from ever having my life cradled to the precipice of it all ever ending on a whim… if last night was truly the end, I thought…I’m proud that I was calm enough to accept it. I saw the earth for what she is, in that moment…dirt, and gravel and glass and I don’t think had they pull the trigger, or had there been a trigger to pull, I’d be missing anything. I’m not sad because it happened rather I’m more concerned with this feeling of nothingness swelling inside me because it did happen.
I’m thinking I’ve loved all I can, been loved all I can, seen all the love that I possibly can, and so there’s nothing I’d lose by leaving. Please take my money if that’s all your asking and I would’ve lassoed the stars and boxed the entire whole of the galaxy if that’s all they were asking; but it seems like such a struggle for our generation stay alive. I remember when 20 seemed virtually impossible. After high school it was a race to see who’d survive. Norman didn’t make it…Crystal didn’t make it…Chris didn’t make it. Johnny was out of state at school when he was robbed, beaten and shot for a pair of shoes at 19—And though I’ve been blessed to see 22, it feels almost impractical, at the least of all absurd, of me to anticipate seeing thirty. The luxury of watching my children grow and hair gray is a privilege I’m not privy to. And to say that I’m grateful that what potentially could’ve resulted in my death last night didn’t would somehow be neglecting that I will soon someday die. They say dodging one bullet is a miracle and dodging two, impossible. I recognized, in that moment, searching, in the fragmented glass shavings, for my reflection, that this could very well be my end, and I’m okay.
Whatever spooked them into running away—they did. They took off down the street and left me standing to collect my belongings. My glasses were gone and my phone was gone. A witness, through a window, called out to me and called police. She invited me inside where I phoned Jerome, who came rushing to my service…
I don’t know if I prayed, God… and a part of me feels like this was God’s way of reminding me life is fleeting, be careful how you live. And it was in realizing that, and looking into Jerome’s face did I appreciate that I’m not just living for me—my life doesn’t just affect me! How totally selfish can I get!?!—which brings me to my knees in the humblest of poses for apology because if I didn’t then, Jehovah, or hadn’t since then…with all my heart decked across the table and arms sprayed to the heavens…thank you. Thank you for today.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
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