Pedicures and the Measure of Humanity

The woman that does my nails left the shop she'd worked at for over a decade to start her own. I'd gone to her since I was a teenager, I felt a little awkward about it, but I followed her and her services to her new shop (even though the old shop was just a few doors down the way lol). When she opened the doors to her new place, I went in to congratulate her and check things out. She sees me and her face lights up and she comes jogging over to me. She's got sunny eyes and a big smile; she's always had a genuinely friendly demeanor. "Oleebya!", my name is clumsy on her lips, she has a heavy Vietnamese accent. It's endearing because she makes a point to get to know her customers by name, and always asks about the goings-on of mothers, children, brothers, sisters, husbands, etc. She greets me with a hug, takes my hand and says in broken english, "I so happy you come my shop, you bring me good luck! All time you come, I very busy!" I'm surprised and not really sure of how to react so I kind of giggle it off and tell her how nice her new digs are. She gives me a quick tour, and gives me half off my fill and pedicure. She walks me out when I leave and waves me off as I get into my car, again an enormous grin on her face. She thinks of me as her lucky charm, how about that. As I'm driving off, I smile a half-smile to myself.



It's funny. The people we come in contact with day-to-day, and some over extended periods of time. How we impact each other's lives, and how the unimportant, mundane memories that for one reason or another get caught in our filters and stick with us. We are all not so alone, though it often feels that way. Someone, somewhere, that we know well, not so well, or in some cases have yet to meet, for any number of reasons is thinking of us. Wondering how we're doing, is secretly in love or in lust with us, worries after our well-being, holds us in high esteem, or is glad to know us.



The big things are always poignant. But it's those seemingly insignificant kernels that catch in our sieves; that's the real meat and potatoes of the human experience. Yes, physically we are all individual threads. But these threads are woven into this elaborate tapestry; a macramé of energies and experiences. Wrapping themselves in one another. Moving toward and away from one another. All threads in a grander design. They are what give our lives its richness and worth.



I remember being at my great grandparents' house in Tennessee, seeing fireflies for the first time when I was four years old. I remember the smell of beer and cigarettes, and falling asleep to the muffled sound of my dad's bass guitar and drums as his band practiced in our garage. I remember falling in love with music. I remember my mother's soft hands and how the smell of her was in her pillow. I remember being tickled and laughing so hard that I thought I would suffocate. I remember feeling like an outsider in elementary school and middle school; wondering if I'd ever find a true friend. I remember my mother pressing my hair with a hotcomb while she played Stevie Wonder 45's on my dad's old record player. I remember dancing and feeling more passion than I thought my young heart was capable of. I remember being proud of the battle scars I'd given my ballet flats in class. I remember him looking at me while driving around in the backseat of my best friend's car, and how I felt beautiful for the first time. I remember the first friend that discarded our friendship. I remember my first taste of a carne asada burrito. I remember the smell of Rosarito mid-afternoon, and catching a glimpse of a humpback whale under the moon that same night. I remember my first encounter with racism. I remember my grandfather's heartbeat as I fell asleep in his lap. I remember me fixing my hair, and him saying that it didn't matter because I'd always be ugly, with so much venom in his voice. I remember my first lapdance, and how she smelled like raspberry lotion and cognac. I remember him in the dark, playing guitar at the foot of the bed and stopping to run his fingers along the inside of my ankle. I remember my first kiss during lunch period in high school. I remember my first broken heart. I remember the sharp, cold desert air while driving alone, going to Las Vegas for the first time. I remember his eyes saying what his mouth didn't. I remember the smell of him, walking past my desk in English class and wishing that he thought of me before he fell asleep at night. I remember being aroused for the first time. I remember being stood up. I remember him being more afraid than I was when he took my virginity. I remember cold sand under foot at the beach at midnight. I remember feeling like I finally belonged somewhere. I remember my black history professor's salt n pepper hair and sweater vests. I remember being ok with being alone. I remember giving half my chocolate bar to a homeless kid with a lip ring and his girlfriend in the middle of downtown San Francisco. I rememeber the thick, humid air of an Atlanta morning. I remember falling asleep under an oak tree in the middle of the day in the Santa Barbara mountains. I remember the void that opened in my heart when I knew I'd never see him again, or feel his hands or hear his voice. I remember sitting on my aunt's porch in the Louisiana bayou at 1am, watching the lightning of a summer storm fork through the clouds.



Somewhere in the world, a woman that I spoke to in passing at an airport will, out of the blue, remember a smartmouth remark that I made and laugh to herself. Or years from now, a waitress in a random restaurant in Los Angeles will remember the nice tip I left her. We all enrich each other's lives; we're all joined through the weave of life's needlework. At any given time, you are treasured and full of worth.



I think of Van, the bubbley Vietnamese woman with the sunshine face that does my nails, and I feel comforted.

Fuck This Punctuation Mark (.)

Patricia Marie Smith is coming to town. I can't stand that bitch. Just when I get myself all situated, here her punkass comes 'round the corner; coming to kill my life. With her water-retaining, stomach-cramping, acne-aggravating, crying over love songs and Disney movies brand of bullshit. I can't sleep, at this moment I could probably eat my weight in Godiva, and my face is an oil slick. Yeah. Fuck her for getting off on making me miserable. Geeeez, what'd I ever do to her??? Shhhh, bigass hormonal bully. Such a big bully that she forced me to write a bunch of haikus. See look...

Black Girls Don't Read So Good
You must want to be
white because you have a big
vocabulary.

Purebred
Yes I am a bitch.
Loyal as a dog and will
bite if you cross me.

Concentrate Hard While Coloring
Kids are most lovely
when they don't realize that
they are being watched.

Mary J. Blige
You would not know real
love if it ran up and socked
you in the damn face.

Brown Paper Bag Test
How dare I not be
light-skinned enough for you to
think me beautiful.

Miet Vai
You counted to me.
But my count was not enough
for you to count me.



What literary regurgitation have we here?!?!? Yeah. This is how Patricia decimates hope and destroys lives lol. Bleeeh, at least a long weekend is on deck :D, I'll have to slip Patricia a ruffie if I plan to have any fun though. It just so happens.... ::rattles pill bottle in the air::

United States of Olivia's Threat Level: Red

Red (Severe): Severe Risk of Terrorist Attacks




This heart is on indefinite lockdown. So tired. SO so tired. Me, as a person, I'm doing alright. But my heart as an entity, is thoroughly exhausted. I'm tucking this bad boy away in a safe place until the coast looks clear. Until then, as far as romance goes, ehh I wouldn't say that "love don't live here anymore", but it damn sure ain't available for comment.

ByronKeatsNShelley posted on his facespace that he had a "hot date" this past Friday. He then went on to gush about how his expectations were understated and that he had an "amazing time with an amazing woman." He could've met the love of his life. Hell, it could've just been a metaphor and he had a nice dinner with his mother or cousin or a good friend, and was feeling extra blessed. Shit, I don't know. What I do know, is that I thought I'd washed my hands of the whole thing, but reading those words made a heartstring snap. And it shouldn't have. Apparently I still have soft feelings for him; I don't know if they'll ever completely harden, I'm sentimental that way. But I'm disgusted with myself at actually thinking that maybe he was too good for me. I see now that he'd be LUCKY, to have the likes of me on his arm. I don't mean that to sound self-absorbed. But I'm a good woman and I know it. Not the BEST, not without fault, but genuinely good. And I'm sick of being treated like I'm nothing, like I'm without worth. Still, as always I wish him happiness.

I apologize in advance to all potential suitors that might approach me in the near future. I'm sorry, but we are not taking applications at this time lol. Love don't live here anymore. Sort of lol.

The Way I'm Is

So. I know I just posted some of my old stuff. But I've got some shit to say lol. I may have talked about it a bit if I know you offline. But as of this moment, I's been drinkin (so please forgive any typos or aimless rambling), and the good people of Dublin, Ireland breweries have blessed my liver as well as my equilibrium something lovely. And at this particular moment, I'm ready to claw the skin off my own bones in sheer irritation. Consider this first paragraph a "beware" sign. The following is not for the squeemish or those lacking in the departamento de cajones. I will exercise my right to emotional bulimia. I will bitch, swear like a sailor, complain, and dole out low blows. I'm not REALLY petty that way, but I need to get these thoughts the fuck outta me. Proceed forth as you will...

************************************************





To "ByronKeatsNShelley":





It's funny, cuz I still want to be your friend. I can't deny that. I care for you, I might even ____ you. But let's get this clear as fucking crystal: YOU started acting "awkward", YOU started acting shitty towards me. Our "energy dynamic" didn't change, you just decided to start behaving like an ass.

I GEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET it. I get it. I got you the first fucking time. You don't want a relationship. I didn't wan't one with you either. Hell, I wasn't even fucking interested. Until, you started talking with me. Not AT me, but with me. Until I could see that we had so much in common. I don't have yellow fever homie, and I DO NOT jump at the first motherfucker of asian decent that says boo to me. I appreciate all. I don't exlcude. And if I could have had my choice baby, you're NOT my fucking type physically. I'm on the thick side, but I'm not fucking desperate dogg. I could get laid if I NEEDED to. But I saw YOU. You let me see you. And I fell for that shit.

I can see how enormous your heart is. I can see how much your mother hurt you; For Real. I can see how you're longing for a fairy tale-like love. I can see how you wish you could single-handedly change the world for the better. I can see how you want to be accepted. I can see how you long to play your own role in the history of the world. I can see how you're establishing your manhood in a society that's telling you that you're not manly enough. I can see that you're fucking brave. I can see that you're fucking confused. I can see that you're bloody angry and hurt to no end. I can see that you take it day by day. I can see that you'd be a fucking incredible father. I can see that you're working to create "home" for yourself. I can see that you're busy as shit. I can see that you have great patience. I can see that you're damn near as sensitive as I am, but had to toughen that shit up. I can see you striving for lasting happiness. I'm sure there's more than this. But this was all (more or less) that I was able to witness.

You blurt out "I'm a fucking genius." Well, guess what Genius, I'm fairly not stupid myself. Your first adult love bailed. No bullshit, I'm sorry. It hurts like someone died. It's hard to really let go. And I don't say that to be blase. I know because I've felt that shit in my own skin. It hurts like hell and I understand, truly.

You said that "we aren't dating anymore". But me and you, you and I, us lol?.... We didn't "date" at all. I dated you, in hopes of getting to know you. You weren't "dating" me, you were just biding your time with me, praying that one night you'd get that phonecall: her on the other line, a blubbering teary mess, confessing how she realized that you were the best thing that ever happened to her and her begging you to take her back. Of which you'd all too gladly accept. You didn't "date" me, you kept your pain and doldrums away with me. And I'm not a hater, believe me. If she's your dream come true, I hope she comes back and you two live happily ever after. Seriously. It seems that she's moved on, so in all honesty, I doubt that she's gonna come bounding back. But I'm a sucker for a happy ending, and I want you to find yours.


Just so you know, when you date, you actively try to get to know someone better on a level that's deeper than friendship lol. I pulled the plug because You.Showed.ZERO.Interest. I actually asked you "do you want to know anything about me?" and you said something along the lines of "ehh, I'll find out later down the line." Oh word???? That's cool... On top of that, I can see you feeling me, and then you immediately talking yourself out of it. What....the fuck????

I get that you weren't screwing around, as much as you were confused about what you wanted. My personal life got shakey so I got a bit quiet; and you had the NERVE to act like it's cuz I'm all broken up over you??? Nahh dude. Yes, I was bothered by our situation. But my life, with my family, got sticky and it was a lot to process. And instead of giving a damn, you acted like I had leprosy. And your BULLSHIT. Yes. BULLSHIT excuses, pshhhh... You looked me in the face; in my eyes. And said, "our circles don't mesh. This is who I am, this is what I do. And you don't have some of the qualities I'd like in the woman I'd be looking for..."


uhhherrmm...

O_o <~ (I actually made this face)


That's fair. That's cool, and that's fine. But for one. You self-righteous ass. You have NO idea what my "circle" looks like. You never asked, I'm pretty sure you never investigated. A couple of my co-worker/friends get me a few drinks for my birthday, you meet them IN PASSING, and you assume to know what my "circle" looks like??? You pompous prick. Those are GREAT people, and you have no clue what the fuck they do or what they're about. You're deep in the community scene. I see this, and it looks genuine. I GOOOOOOT it. But you don't know WHAT the fuck I'm invloved in. You don't know WHAT the fuck I want to do with my future. And just cuz I don't rattle off the list of organizations I'm involved with to every other person I meet, doesn't mean that my heart isn't in to making a difference in the community/world at large. The things that I choose to do/be involved in are from mi corazon, and I don't feel the need to wave a banner to draw attention to the good deeds that I do. Not saying that that's what you do, or that that's why you do what you do, and I'm just saying that that's not how I operate.

"We use different language" you say. Yeah. Like you hear words coming out of my mouth, but don't hear what the FUCK I'm saying. I noticed you counting me out during a couple of conversations that we had. You didn't get it. You don't get it. Not cuz you're dumb. You just didn't want to put the effort in. I'm not tired of my family, I'm a grown woman and I need space for myself. I wasn't trying to brag about being Christian or reading the Bible, I was trying to segue into talking about people's actual knowledge of religions that they decide to judge even though they aren't familiar. I don't want to only make a difference for one person; I'll be grateful to say that one person was glad to have known me, but of course I want to expand beyond that.

No homie. I DON'T look like Alicia Keys, Goapele, Aaliyah, Sade, Amel Larrieux, or Jill Scott. I don't roll my fucking eyes and neck with diva attitude when I talk. I don't have dreds and live in the foster home that I work out of, ride my bike across town throwing daisies and poetic hip hop verses at random people I come across throughout my day. I'm NOT some ultra afrocentric, golden skinned, mother earth charicature that you seem to idolize. I'm not a music video. I'm kinda chubby. I have acne breakouts. I get frustrated sometimess. I don't join up with every single community cause that comes my way. I have a little cellulite here and there lol. Got some stretch marks. But I'm loyal. I work hard. I'd always try to be your soft place to fall, your attentive ear, comforting shoulder, post to lean against when you're feeling weak, your pep squad and your biggest fan. You're shorter than me, skinny as shit, and your head is kinda too big for your body. But your heart is wide open, and you have a warm, understanding nature. You stimulated my mind, and made me feel sexy. You work hard, and try to grow with every experience. And because of WHO you are, and what you're about, you are gorgeous to me. You're that knight atop a noble steed.

I try to open a conversation about religion, you shut me down. I try to offer you comforting words when it seems like you're feeling down, you damn near bite my head off. You go on about being the champion for the underdog, and never being counted and constantly overlooked. Shit, I counted you!!! But you're a geek, and you didn't want to be counted by a fellow geek. You wanted to be counted among the cheerleaders and jocks. I'm not one of them, and although some of the cheerleaders and jocks are cool people, I gives a flying FUCK what they think about me. I wish for you to find that same resolve. Because as much as you preach individualism and self-validation, you just want to be in good with them. And if that gorgeous older woman that you're so endlessly in love with but doesn't treat you right is what your idea of a "dream come true" is, than I can be of no service. Cuz all I have to offer is my unconditional love. Sincere and enduring. But I can understand how some would prefer the music video to real life. I'm not judging, it's your life. But if you say I want something real, and something real shows up at your doorstep and you slam the door in real's face because it wasn't the pristine vision that you had in mind... Well, don't be surprised if real makes itself a bit more scarce.

Stanzas & What Have You's

Long time no scribbs. But I waste time with pleasantries lol. So a couple of my co-workers/friends (I shall refer to them as P.Diddy and Sir Rugs-A-Lot) were riding my hyde about posting my emotional entrails on a more accessible online setting lol. So here you are Dearests. A bit of romantically written fare for your reading digestion. Bon apettite, or here's a Mylanta. Whichever...



Dreams Go True

It is not mine to hold.
Forgive me for
pacing the periphery.
Admiring, and smiling.
It can't be helped sometimes.

It glows and shimmers,
light dances about.
It's enthralling.
It's beauty is undeniable;
enchantment is unavoidable.

It is said that
dreams come true,
you need only believe.
I've seen it come to pass,
as it's been said.

But they also go.
Not meant for all,
merely vivid visitors.
And even in knowing
you're still hopelessly spellbound.

This is omitted from the story books.

You'll see it come,
and your heart is on fire.
It pauses and kisses your eyes,
then vanishes.
Or sometimes stays to hover.

Still in view but
out of reach.
It is a plush cruelty.
The pain is exquisite and sharp,
but somehow you're enraptured.

You've waited and now
it's finally here.
But it quivers at your advance
and draws back at your approach.
Not meant for you.

It passes through you
leaving no gift,
but a profound hollow.
This is sometimes life's way.
The tragic made precious.

It refuses to be held,
so drink in the warmth.
It helps soothe the ache.
Delight in it's ribbons of light,
for they won't be possessed.

The dream has come,
but is harsh in it's purity.
Watch silent and humble,
with happy eyes and leadened heart.
It is not yours to hold.



A Me Manifesto

Intolerance is my adversary.
Compassion is my creed.
Friendships are treasured.
Arrogance is despised.
Art is music to my eyes.
Music is art to my soul.
Dance is music making love to my body.
My sarcasm is light-hearted.
My easiness not without pensiveness.
My pen is the key to me.
Knowledge is my lust.
Sensuality is my thirst.
My anguish gives my joy wings.
The ocean is my hallowed ground.
The stars are my mind's ocean.
The sunrise is my sonnet.
The sunset is my serenade.
The night is my lover.
Life is love, really.
Love is my symphony,
and God is my conductor.



Treasured Chest

I'll keep you safe.
In this fortress of blood and bone.
You've ran from terrorism
for so long. Between
palm and sleeve and back again.

Pierced by bullets.
Disfigured by daggers.
Gripped in callous hands.
Ran through shredders.
Blown to smithereens.
Ground in to gravel under foot.
Tossed into the dust.
Chained down with barbed wire.
Left in the rain to wither
and waste.

I am amazed. And forever
in your debt.
Please let me offer you sanctuary.
Your place is prepared. You can recover
and rest until the aches wain.
Leave your weary, your nervous,
your anguish, your dismay;
leave all on the doorstep of my skin
to rinse away. You can breathe easy now.
Sleep deeply and dream vibrant.
I'll only rouse you when you're
truly needed.
Please let yourself melt into comfort.

In this chest pillowed with countless hopes,
tears of joy, music and memories tightly bound
by golden threads of strength and perseverance.
Lined with shelves of orchids of love
that are never out of bloom.
Behind these sentinal ribs and flagpost spine
flying colors declaring war on all
guilty of your obscene abuse.
You can find solace here.
I'll leave you here to rest
and lock the door behind me, so you've nothing to fear anymore.
I'll have the key here, hidden under my tongue.

The lies. The hurt. The broken vows. The apathy.
The disregard. The misdirection. The ill intention.
Leave them all to me.
You won't even know they're there.
I'll slough them all away.

I can see that your breathing is labored.
You're bruises are darkening
and deepening before my eyes, and that
deep gash in your center is still weeping.
Even though you said "it's fine", behind
your smile, I can see you wince every time
you draw breath.
I'll tend to your wounds, my most precious treasure,
and leave you here in peace, to heal and thrive.

I'm so sorry, I was not attentive enough.
You were thrashed about for years,
and I was foolish enough
to believe you when you said
"it's fine".

See look, they don't even realize you're gone.
But You. You mean everything to me.
Could you just promise me to not go cold?
Promise me you'll not
grow black and hardened
glassy as obsidian.
Give me your word
that you won't shatter away, shard by shard,
leaving me only with splinters of
all you'd hoped to give.

Just promise me, and I'll keep you safe
and locked away.
Until one that is worthy, is granted the key.



Table For Two

The one by the window.
Where the reflection of the
small tabletop candle against the glass
is a sore loser to the city skyline.
All blazing and glorious.

Yes. This'll do nicely.

I've already ordered your drink.
A dry pinot noir, which will go
wonderfully with your steak.
You always get the steak,
and save me the asparagus.

The wine glass is lonely for you.

You'll talk of things that paint smiles
on my face, and paint fire on my skin
when you run your finger along the
inside of my wrist, the way you always do.
My eyes love seeing you loving me, and vice versa.

I'm lonely for you as well.

These hands, these ears, this heart, this tongue,
these hips and neck, these eyes and thighs.
All yours. Waiting for you to take your seat.
To feast from my heart's horn of plenty.
The table is set and everything's ready.

But you're nowhere to be found. I always knew you wouldn't come.



"Behold, The Self-Saboteur Extraordinaire!"

That's my stage name. And I am exceedingly skilled. I've had top billing in this varitable Follies L'Amour for two decades strong. I'm the toast of the town; you should see the standing o I get when I laugh as I cry. I'm fucking royalty on that stage. They deliver their lines and I wish you could see it ooze from me like honey; with all the strength and nonchalant of a noble. My heels strike like flint as they watch my feminine gait explode across the stage with the force of a clydesdale. I leave them all dumbfounded and in awe, as I pretend not to see it coming, but know all the while what's in store. I'm fucking legendary.

"You're AMAZING!" they say. You should hear the shiver in their voices as their eyes water. "You're my every dream come true," I've heard it all. "Wonderful!" "Incredible!" But. But is the final curtain. I wave to the crowd, flash a smile and blow a kiss. Just to make the memory stick. Take a bow and exit stage left. After washing off the makeup and taking off the costume I head to the back alley for a smoke. I duck into a dark corner and watch the other girls in the show with their lovers. How they're longed for and pined over. How they're adored and glow soft and golden in their lover's eyes. Off the stage, where it's real and tangible. Where the compliments are heartfelt and the tears are genuine. Their own personal red carpet, around the clock. It must be sublime. To stare into his eyes, with your hands filled with his, and his heart filled with yours, and to know with all certainty that it doesn't get any more real than this. I've done it before, but "But" is called and the curtain falls and that's the end of that. But out here in the alley, where it's real and where it counts; that would be my most treasured role yet.

I take the stage every night and play my part. But I secretly hope that he'll blow his lines, grab my hand and then it'll be my turn in that beautiful alley. He'll tell me that he's been waiting for me, and I'll tell him that he's made the wait worth every minute, and that alley will finally be mine. That's my motivation to take the stage every night. The one performance that'd make all the others before it worth these years of strain and work. The finale of finales. So I make my big doe eyes and "walk right into it", brush it off and strut off unaffected. But I've tired if this production. I'm ready for my name to be taken off the marquee. I'm through with the "Buts" and exiting stage left and being a voyeur to the reality that I crave. But the night has fallen and they're yelling "places!", so I take the stage again and ready myself for another performance. Wishing, praying, hoping, yearning, that it'll be for the last time.



The Real

I am tangible.
I cannot grant wishes,
I cannot disappear in a puff of mist
or defy gravity.
I am not of pristine visage or perfect form.
My fingertips shoot not lightning
nor my lips breathe fire.
I am no nymph, or goddess,
or sprite or creature of tall tales.
I am weathered.
Flawed, glorious and monumental
as great canyons and dizzying summits.
Of erosion is birthed great beauty.
With eon's wear, breath-taking depths are carved.
Rained-upon but smoothed as river stone.
Unforgiving desert sun leaves warm, soft earth underfoot;
as is my heart.
I can never be of dreams,
for I am of unpolished majesty.
Forged of harsh elements.
I am not of the imagined.
My hands are sore but steadfast.
My hips sway as the stream swells and contracts.
My lips hold sorrows,
yet release torrents of night-blooming jasmine.
My heart of broken eagle's wings,
still strong as quartz,
will help your heart take flight, and soar with yours.
My love is immense and gentle
as evening's cloak singing day to rest,
awakening the heaven's diamonds
as my kiss strikes flint in your eyes.
I am not of fairy tales.
I am of reality severe, and voluptuous harmony.
Precious as the dragonfly's wing is delicate.
I am imperfect,
with richness rivalling sunset's scarlet and tangerine ballet.
I am real. I am present.



Her Name Was Quiva

My mother told me the story
as a young girl.
She herself was a just a girl
when she first saw her.
Her name was Quiva
and she married their neighbor's son.
Stylish wardrobe, hair just so,
beautiful face, graceful physique,
poised and well-spoken.
"I used to stop and stare at her in awe,"
my mother said. They said she was a genius,
but female brain power didn't pan out for much
in those days.
"She looked like Dianne Carroll in her prime,"
and she encouraged all the young girls to do well in school.

Quiva married the neighbor's son,
and he would beat her bloody.
Her amazing mind was muted to become
his bloodied baby factory.
"You could see it drove her crazy,"
my mother said.

Crazy enough to let the needle
tease the valley of her forearm and bicep.
Letting the lethal liquid ease through her veins
until the jagged edges of the broken glass
of her shattered life were made dull enough
for her to pass out without having to cry first.

It wasn't until my teenage years that I realized,
the story was a warning.

That women of our persuasion
had be ambidextrous.
Be able to wield two swords simultaneously.
Fight like hell to make a life for ourselves,
and fight off hell in the shape of
broad shoulders, bright smiles
and granite fists that would come to call;
in the name of love of course.
But whose love taps would black your eye,
splinter ribs and snap your neck
if you let him get the upper hand.

It wasn't until I became her, that I became me.
His first born in my belly,
his clenched fingers around my windpipe
and in the fray of my lungs
trying to punch through his grip in search of air,
I saw Quiva's reflection in his manic eyes.

So clawed like a demon and fought off hell,
crawled my way back from the edge of oblivion.
And when I was able to stand again
I was standing alone, but Quiva's story filled my shoes.
My mother saw her years later; she hadn't succumbed.
She looked weathered but well.

And I can't help but wonder, could my mother see Quiva
behind my eyes as a girl of 9 years old?
Is her story a verbal heirloom to bequeath
to little girls with copper skin and open hearts?
If my daughter ever comes back from oblivion
to fill my arms, I'll hold her close, kiss her nose
and dive into her eyes to see if her heart
is as loyal as the Pacific is wide.
And should it be so, I will cry for her.

Her name was Quiva, and she gave me her story.
She is me, and I am broken and brave;
She is my mother, who gave me quiet strength.
I fought off hell, and I still believe in magic.
I fought like hell, and I still dare to dream.
Her name was Quiva, and her story fills my shoes.



Welcome Mat

"For those with broken hearts, that still keep pushing. We are one in the same..." - Me ♥

You invited me in.
Even though your place
had just been rammsacked.
Broken pictures and precious memories
strewn about.
I see the mess, and I can relate.
The disappointment and confusion
are too familiar.
It's happened to me before too.
Having what you hold dear
destroyed in one calamitous crash.
I'd like to offer my hands.
To help patch holes and
sweep up shards of glass;
help you make it good
and comfortable again.
But it's not not my place.
Emotions may still be raw
and nerve endings still tender,
and I don't want to touch things
you'd rather me not touch so
I'll sit in a corner quietly.

You don't ignore me
but you're busy
with tending to your space.
Eyes darting here and there,
you quietly make plans
and form checklists.
I am curious
of your silent strategy,
but it's not my place.
So I'll try to make you smile
and offer warm energy
with hopes of lightening the air
and making the clean-up
seem less daunting.
I'll speak softly of pleasant things
to soothe your mood.

Even through the mess
I can see your wonderful taste.
An eclectic decor with
remarkable accent pieces.
You keep a beautiful home.
I have some artwork
for your walls and coffee tables
that I'd like to give to you.
I think they'd breathe life
back into the room.
They might not be as bold
or avant-garde as what was there before,
but they have a subtle complexity
that I think would compliment
your style nicely.
But I could be mistaken.
I won't push but
should you be interested,
you're more than welcome.

You waved me in with
a bit of hesitation
but genuine kindness.
Kindness seems to be your custom.
I want to make this
room of disheveled dreams
feel like home to you again.
But it's your home
and I a stranger in it.
It's not my place.

So I'll keep you company.
Relishing your company as well
because I've now realized
that even though my place
is almost better than it was
before my own horrible burglary,
I'm there alone.
Which is usually fine,
but seeing your place
reminded me of mine.
And I see the situation
is well under control but sometimes,
it's nice to be with someone that understands.

You'll have your place
good as new in no time.
You're of strong heart
and beautiful mind.
You don't need help
and aren't asking. But
should you suddenly feel
to the contrary,
I'm here.

So I'll sit quietly.
Even through the mess I can see
that you have wonderful taste.
I can see you.

Bitches Be Crazy.

So I'm on this message board and some guy is all in a panic because his gf confessed to him that she's had 30 sexual partners. Not 30 men this summer lol, but 30 men over the course of her lifetime. The responses were an angelic chorus of "she's a slut, find another girl that's a keeper." All men of course. Did I mention that this woman is 35? So all-in-all, if this woman started having sex at the age of 16, then her bang rate is an astronomical 2 penises a year. At most. And that makes her a slut.

O_o

Ok. So men think that a girl with a two-dick-a-year average is a slut? Word???? What DO men want from women nowadays??? It's like men hate women, but they're just pretending they don't hate us so they can get laid.

They want a girl that's fun and exciting, but they label her a "ho" after they've had their kicks, and won't take her home to meet the family. So then they get themselves a deliciously naive virgin, who'll worship them, cook, clean, and have puppies, but the sex gets old quickfast, and they sneak about looking for the good time girl. Whom they shunned to begin with. Let's face it, bitches be crazy. But men be vastly not smart. At least when it comes to matters of the heart. And their peepees. 90% of men wouldn't know a "keeper" if she ran up to him and hit him in the face with a cinder block.

Don't men want to find a nice girl to date for a while? Maybe move in with her if it's going well for long enough? Pop the m-word, have a couple chirren and all the rest? I guess it's not the American way anymore; to settle down and start a family. Bleeeh, so what. They're doing me a favor. I didn't want to find true love anyways.









:/










:(


People nowadays are so cold and self-involved. It makes me very sad.

"Smile, though your heart is aching..."

Michael Joseph Jackson

August 29, 1958 - Forever

"Smile" was one of his favorite songs. ::sigh:: So this is my re-intro to blogging. It's been a few years since I bothered. I suppose it's good to document as events happen, kinda like hitting the rewind button on the dvd player of your life when you scroll back through old posts. Enough small talk. Welcome back me. Thank you :). I'll obviously write about my life in general, but this first one, is dedicated to one person...

So as the entire world knows, last Thursday, June 25th, 2009, Michael Jackson was struck down by cardiac arrest and never woke from his coma. Many say he was medicated to death by (a) bad-habit-enabling doctor(s), others say that the cardiac arrest was brought on by a long battle with anorexia nervosa and bulimia. However, what I do know for certain, is that he was deeply, deeply lonely. He would've gladly done a hari kari to save his own children from pain. A large part of him was still very much a child. A part of him was spoiled rotten lol, while an equal part of him was so dumbfoundingly selfless, that it was painful to witness. He was not perfect, or without fault. But he was/is BEAUTIFUL to me. Yes. I said beautiful. Now he's gone forever and my soul truly mourns him.

He touched my life. From my beginning moments; for as far back as I can remember, he has been a major portion of the things that I cherish and hold dear. I was a toddler, dancing in front of the tv as MTV played "Billie Jean". When I was 4 years old, my friend Jasmine from across the street came over with a VHS tape of "Moonwalker". My jaw fell at the sight of him. I was that young. He danced and I was floored. He smiled and I blushed from an action of the opposite sex for the first time in my young life lol. That afternoon watching "Moonwalker" in my living room, I fell in love. I saw Michael, and I saw pure magic, and even though I was THAT young, I knew no one would ever be like him.

Then I grew older. My love for music and dance grew, as did my appreciation for him. I came into my teenage years and his music was still a major part of my life. He was no longer the trend of choice. He was androgynous, he had a tough streak about him but was by no means the tough guy, and was as sensitive as the sky is wide. I found his rejection of the norm beautiful, and his cast iron resolve to not let go of his innocence pulled me in deeper still. I guess you can say that I like men that are p-ssies, but not really lol, because they aren't afraid to shed blood for what they believe in or to protect what they love.

As a young adult, I become more active in seeking him out. A good friend of mine came about some tickets to a party that Michael was throwing at his Neverland Valley Ranch, and she was gracious enough to invite me along. I lived in a dream world that night, literally. It didn't seem like it was really happening, even when I look back on it now, it's sooooo surreal. As we were leaving, we ran into him as he was leaving his house. It was about 1am, he was wearing black pj's and white sox lol. I hugged him and thanked him for his generosity; he squeezed me like an old friend. Our eyes met for a few moments and then he broke eye contact and looked at his feet and my face went all warm. I was four years old sitting in my living room all over again. I was strangely comfortable standing there in front of him, I'd always thought I'd be a ball of nerves if I should ever meet him, but it felt oddly natural. I still remember how he looked as he sprinted across the damp grass in his sox lol. He looked like a 12 year old that was caught staying up to late and made a mad dash for his room; it still makes me smile when I think about it ^_^. Yet and still, I was in awe of him, and so very, very thankful for the night that he allowed me to have.

In Las Vegas at the Aladdin Hotel (now Planet Hollywood) Michael did a signing/meet-and-greet at the Art & Music store. The cost for this event was about 3g's a head. That kind of money, Olive did not have lol. But I had plenty of patience. So my small group of fan friends and I waited for hours in a barricaded area around the store. The crowd eventually grew to an almost out of control number, but we were right up front. He came out and greeted us; he signed a book of his poems and short stories for me. As he was about to leave, in the middle of a manic crowd, I asked to hug him. Without hesitation he wrapped one arm around my waist and placed his other hand on the back of my head. I know he didn't know me by name, but he hugged me like he missed me. I said in his ear "this world needs you Michael"; he grabs my face with his large hand, kissed my cheek and left my arms. And just like that, he disappeared again into a mesh of human bodies and flashbulbs. It was one of the sweetest moments of my life so far.

Then the allegations came against him. Again. He swore to fight and prove his innocence, which he did. And I'm proud to say that I was there, outside of the courthouse and inside of it on a few occasions (I was inside the courtroom when Gavin got on the witness stand and accused Michael of all of this garbage). I told myself I'd have to look at this case objectively, because what if this man that I adored really was guilty? After weighing the evidence without bias, it was obvious that he didn't do these things. He was guilty of some shitty judgement calls, but never of wronging children. In front of Neverland from his SUV window, he grasped my hand and pleaded. "I'm innocent, I'm being blackmailed. Please believe me, I could never harm a child. Please believe me, I'm innocent..." It hurt me, not only that this extraordinarily generous man was being flat-out railroaded, but that he felt the need to BEG for the confidence of essentially a stranger on the side of the road. I knew he couldn't have ever harmed anyones child, and that I really did love him. I never pursued him as a groupie would, but I did want to take care of him, to be his sympathetic ear, to cure his loneliness, to show him that even though he wasn't traditionally attractive by male standards, he would always be beautiful to me. Color me cliche, but his heart shone through his eyes, and he had my heart all along.

As the trial wore on, contact with him became more and more scarce. I had a 30 second call on speakerphone courtesy of a certain friend's cell, but other than talking to him briefly at the front gate contact was kept to a minimum. His appearance showed the stress he was under as the months rolled by. At the end of it all, we were so proud/relieved at his triumph. But the change in him was noticeable. He disappeared overseas for a few years, until news of him being Los Angeles spread like the plague. He planned to do a string of concerts, and I was ready to go wherever he decided to put them on; no if's, and's or booty's. That awe-struck four year old that still lives inside of me let go of any possibility of seeing Michael in concert. But here was my chance! Somehow this was going to happen and I was over the moon at the possibilities. I'd waited my entire life to see him dance in front of me, to be there to hear him sing, to share in the celebration of his return to the stage. My friends that were with me in the dream once called Neverland, standing next to me in the trenches in Vegas, would be with me there in London. I spent a stupid amount of money on 6th row center seats to the show of the century lol, money well spent I must say. It was gonna be an all out love fest that was looooong overdue. But it would never come to pass, and this precious man succumbed to the pressure. He was only 50 years, and he left behind 3 gorgeous children that knew nothing but their father's love.

Besides the fact that I was 2 weeks away from my childhood dream coming to fruition. This wonderful man that somehow wove his life into mine, has left me with a weeping soul and a hole in my heart the size of Texas. I didn't love the idea of him, or his celebrity. I loved him, with all his short-comings and faults, and his grandeur and mystery. I cry for him now as I type, because his feet will never light up the stage before me, he'll never grab my hand and look me in the eyes to say "I love you more" again. He'll never squeeze me again. He'll never sing again. He'll never kiss my cheek again. I'm not irrational or naive; I never believed he'd ride up to me on a giraffe and sweep me off to Neverland or anything like that lol. My love for him was genuine. I loved the man that he was, and the man that he never grew to be. I treasured his music, and was thrilled and inspired by his talent. I loved his gracious heart and his vulnerability. I loved his strength and forgave his weaknesses. I'm so grateful for his generosity towards me, and the memories he gave me are invaluable. He's gone now, and the pain is acute and immense.

My only comfort is that maybe now, he can really see how much he meant. He can feel how his music made me feel. He can see the inspiration that he gave me throughout the years. He can see how much the little black girl from southern cali loved him, and wanted to see him find his happiness. I know one day, this ache in my chest will finally start to ebb and every time I think of you I'll smile. But I will miss you. Always. All I can do is say thank you Michael, for everything you gave me. Whenever I dance, you can dance with me now. And when I sing, the song of your legacy will be in my heart. I'll love you forever.