...A Life In Progress

Recourse

2011-04-02T20:31:00.000-04:00

In all that comes along with marriage--good and bad--I am so fortunate to have the support of my wife. Presented to me is a seemingly seldom precidented opportunity. Without any tangible experience, I've been given the chance to pursue my dream full time. She, sometimes without understanding, celebrates with me in the smallest success and consoles me in great failure. And, I do find myself often in failure.

note to self...I cannot squander such a gift. I have no other recourse than to work through fear. To that end, if I am seen in public without the company of family I am at work. There is no room at the moment for leisure. All of my energy must be efforted toward repayment of such favor and I can think no other currency for such repayment, beyond love & success.

Open Apology

2011-03-31T18:42:00.002-04:00

For whatever reason, today I feel burdened by the weight of contrition. A huge part of my maturation has been about becoming more open; sharing more of what moves me. It would appear that that openness coupled with my belief in the truth manifests itself in a way that looks a lot like aggression or a callousness. Admittedly, I have spent a great deal of time building an image of being "closed". In my mind that 'worked' image has little to do with any actual interpersonal relationship. For as long as my memory is, I would imagine that the select few with whom I would socialize had some clue as to the depth of my compassion. I assumed that, once engaged, people immediately understood my nature. I am naturally one who is willing to recede for the promotion of another's well-being. I am naturally one who is willing hold his tongue for another to save face. At least that's how I see myself; unfortunately, I'm not sure if many would agree. And, the idea that I'm not able to convey my most natural inclinations is painful. And, in that pain, I become more "closed." When I mature, I open and when the openness is misinterpreted I close. Then I get angry and hide; either behind four walls or a quick tongue; which seems to feed folks belief in my insensitivity. Except I am quite the opposite.

This cycle has been one of endless tumbling for me. At my best, I can be magnanimous in ones challenge to who I believe myself to be. At my worst, I feign disinterest as to have some manner of control over the impression I leave; for however much I'm left lonely in such a process. At some point, maybe I'll find a truth that is both true to who I am and palatable to you.

note to self...

2010-12-09T21:29:00.000-05:00

I ventured into the mall today. Generally, since my departure from the retail trade, the mall isn't a place that I suffer well. Working from my "satellite office" put me in proximity such that I had no reason not to visit.

Not long after my re-entry into the world I tend to avoid, a couple things happened. The first is that, after witnessing a no less than veracious level of consumerism, I resolved to reduce my carbon footprint by committing to adopting a 'thrift store only' shopping policy. Save, of course, those sale items that I musn't live without. The other thing that happened was quite interesting (at least to me). I began to play "I Notice/I Wonder." I'm not sure if that game has embedded itself in my brain from my work in the city school system or because it was used as a training exercise during my time in sales. Either way, it came to me as if from the air. I simply began to make the observations organically. And, so it was.

I noticed a pregnant Jewish and wondered if Hannukkah was over. I noticed a sartorially resplendent gentleman and wondered why his pants didn't meet the tops of his shoes. I noticed a few reasonably priced bowties and wondered if they would mark the end of my 'thrift store only' policy. I noticed a lot of exasperated consumers and wondered if they could afford there purchases. I noticed a dude wearing bright red, satin slippery earls with a matching jacket and wondered "Who in Hell does that?" I noticed a lot developmentally challenged young folks in all areas of the mall and wondered if they were together, as a part of some field trip. I noticed a sweater for sale in Eddie Bauer and wondered why it was the exact same sweater that I sold quite successfully fifteen years ago. I noticed a woman pulling the walking cain away from her companion and wondered a great many things. What was the relationship; mother and daughter or simply siblings. How common is the love that challenges one to do? Why was such a young woman suffering such an affliction? How does one survive the notion of being physically less than she had been in the past? Will she realize a complete recovery? Does she define recovery in a conventional way? How would I handle a similar circumstance?

note to self...I imagine one would have difficulty understanding his own strength without it being tested.

.

elephants are HUGE!

2010-06-25T10:05:00.001-04:00

I am convicted by the notion that a greater sense of self and ones surroundings leads directly to a heightened ideal of the greater good. Unfortunately, within such a belief system exists a greater potential for disappointment. When one begins to analyze his lot in life I would imagine that the next logical thought would be “how do I become better?” and in the analysis of his surroundings, “what can I do to make this better?” Such broad questions have a tendency to begin to feel amorphous; lacking any clear answer or predetermined format for resolution. “How,” in itself, begs such deep contemplation.
There is no way for me to answer such questions in a manner that validates the gravity of the implications of such queries. Like most, I want to be better and consequently make this better—but how?

Note to self…I hear elephant tastes like chicken, so enjoy it.

Who?

2010-05-20T21:30:00.002-04:00

Okay, so I know that I try to avoid the "heavy" posts on this blog, but recently I've seen or read about several young folks that I know personally touched by the loss of a young man that I've never met. I'm reminded of our president talkin' about "the fierce urgency now." If you consider yourself one who is working torward something more than you already have, I challenge you to a build a relationship with someone, anyone, who has not yet fully embraced the idea that he or she has the capacity to move beyond "what is." The expression "it is what it is" is tossed around without much regard to what it implies. Indeed, it is what it is until you--I--we decide that "what is" is subject to change. I will never profess to have the answers to all of our social ills, but I will say, with all confidence, that I own my responsibility in trying to instigate change in our community. My hope is that we (the patriarchs & matriarchs of our neighborhoods) can find the courage to ask ourselves: If not me--who?

The Rooster Crows

2010-04-01T13:45:00.001-04:00

It has been suggested that I should smile more. Folks often say “SMILE!” or “you should smile more” or “you have a beautiful smile.” To the latter I often respond “Thanks, I know” being sure to add a sheepish wink.
My grandmother would always offer, when I was pouting, some completely random story of how, if the rooster crowed while I held my now infamous scowl, frown or whatever less than happy expression, my face would be locked in that position. It sometimes brought a smile to face; more often, it did not. Such a playful approach to providing emotional counsel still resonates.
My natural expression usually exemplifies my contemplative nature. I find myself thinking a lot. One thing or another is always holding my attention. Sometimes, in my car, I attempt to drown out my thoughts with obnoxiously loud music. If I’m particularly engaged, I’ll sing along.
For whatever the mood; for however I feel, neither the presence of a smile nor the lack thereof warrants comment. Just take what I give you. Usually it’s good.

Great Title

2010-03-26T17:27:00.000-04:00

It seems that I have far more titles for books in my head than stories written. While driving to and from work I’m usually nagged by ideas for my next literary work. My mind usually works sequentially. I’ll first come up with a title for a book, and then proceed to fill its imaginary pages with a myriad of stories which are stored somewhere in the recesses of my brain. Quite often I impress myself with what’s included in any particular collection. But, there’s always some disconnect. Without fail I come home, sit down to pen this nations next great piece of literature and find myself struggling with the notion that my skill set does not match my ambition—my hands won’t do my mind’s eye justice. So I’m stuck with a great title while lacking the testicular fortitude to follow through.
I resolve today, to continue to throw shit against the wall to see what sticks.

Ever Evolving

2009-11-27T15:47:00.001-05:00

I’ve recently been reminded that I started blogging in the early part of this year. Essentially it was an attempt at stroking the writer’s ego, without dealing with fear that comes along with the process of one trying to become published (through whatever means). I am now a published author. What next?
For about ten years I was a writer. Stealing away in the early hours of morning, I would pen essays, stories & poems for no other reason than it was what I needed to do. At some point during that period I decided it would be equally important for me to make those works available to the public. Conventional wisdom suggested that I publish a book. I was absolutely overwhelmed by all that goes into such an endeavor coming to fruition. With options abounding, I (much like I’ve always done) relatively quickly chose what I considered to be the safest course of action. I would do it myself. Even in making the choice I was left wading in the deep waters of “self-publishing” options. My pursuit of having my work made official was distinctly personal. So much so, I still struggle with the notion that I have to consider “Syrup Sandwich” (my book) a business endeavor. But here I am, and so it is.
Today, after having made my work official, I stand at yet another crossroad. My decision has been made and the plan set in motion, yet it’s still noteworthy that when asked, as I often am, ‘when is the next book coming?’ or ‘have you started on the next one yet?’ I immediately move, in my mind, to a place where I’m considering what undiscovered talent I will publish first and how much I will enjoy being a part of, with someone else, what I so came to appreciate while enduring the madness on my own.
I am now proudly the President/Editor-in-Chief of the Dewdrop Collective Publishing LLC. Please stay with me as move along on this ever changing and ever surprising journey.

Underachieving Perfectionist

2009-03-16T19:06:00.001-04:00

I had come to a time in my life wherein I felt a certain compulsion to define who I am. My need to fit into a certain category was not one that sprang up over night. I have been, for too long, wrestling with the notion that there is a place for me. A set, group, or clique that would embrace me as I am. To seek acceptance based on race or socio-economic background was not enough. It was the cheap way out. Hopping on the bandwagon of the latest trend seemed not nearly sufficient to satiate my appetite for approval. I’ve asked myself the same questions repeatedly; “who am I, what am I, why am I?” It has been those queries that have haunted me eternally. But, as I meandered through my work day today it became clear. A definition that I had toyed with for years Underachieving Perfectionist is to be my new moniker. I had been manipulating the phrase for a while and never could pull anything from it. Taking it out for a spin, running it up the ole flagpole, turning it inside out and outside in, popping its clutch, pumping its brakes and for as much as it rang true I got nothing from this statement. Until today as I meandered my way through the work day. It struck me as if it were the right hand of God slapping me back into consciousness. I am an Underachieving Perfectionist and maybe one day I can tell you exactly what that is.

A Writer's Lament

2009-03-14T23:10:00.001-04:00

I was asked by my five year old “how long do people stay dead when they die?”
My response was “forever, they go to live in heaven.”
“Well how do they get to heaven?”
“The angels come down to take them.”
“Is it far?”
“Yes, very far.”
“Further than North Carolina?”
“Yep, further than North Carolina.” North Carolina is how she measures distance. That’s the longest trip she has taken in her short life. The inquisitive nature of her sweet little voice left me unsettled. While I am sure that, in that moment, she was satisfied with my responses to those questions, I anticipate the day she returns to the conversation. I dread the day that she returns to that conversation. For, I do not have words to accurately account for ones crossing over. I could explain it—I could try to describe it, but I cannot give life to the idea of everlasting life; the notion of one going to glory. I lament the loss of words. I grieve for the thought that in the broadness of language I am silenced. Silenced by the fact that words are merely an instrument used to communicate ideas, and some ideas are just beyond words. For a child’s sake I cannot reconcile myself with what may be good enough. So when it is revisited I will sit silent and lament the loss of words.

Coming Home

2009-03-12T17:50:00.000-04:00

I saw the orange glow of the setting sun meet the rooftops,
And I felt the calm of the skyline, at dusk, beckon me.
The city that I come home to is not the same city that you fear.
The city that I know is the community that raised me, the culture that made me, and the people that gave me opportunity, despite the egocentricity of our time.
So, I’m not impressed by your two car garage, and your single family home,
Because the asphalt jungle is my urban oasis; where the concrete playground was my field of dreams, where the one way street hosted my superbowl, and where I shot my hoop dreams through a hollowed milk crate.
Wonderfully worn, and beautifully burdened is how I see my city as I come and go, and come again; and again I’ll come home.

Road Rage

2009-03-09T20:22:00.001-04:00

The heat was permeating. When I opened my car door I was enveloped by a cloud of air that was no less than twenty degrees hotter than that which had already scorched my skin as I walked across the parking lot. Mid July in Baltimore is as ugly as it gets as far as the weather is concerned, but I was as broke as a Jewish whore at a Baptist minister’s conference, so I decided to roll down my windows and allow Mother Nature to condition the air in my car. Trying my best to look cool as the sweat poured from my forehead and pooled in my beard I turned up the radio, pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the parkway.

Having the opportunity to get off of work at five in the evening was a mixed blessing. Anytime I could leave the grind before my regularly scheduled time absolutely thrilled me, but with nothing but rush hour traffic waiting out there for me I needed a certain level of preparation to get me to the point at which I could leave the building without having the thought of the traffic alone raise my blood pressure to unhealthy levels. Like most drivers I was just arrogant enough to believe that if everyone else was not driving at the exact speed as me they were somehow wrong. The drive home was my time of meditation. My music and the hum of rubber meeting road should have been my only stimulus. Instead the chaos of cars swerving, horns blowing and engines growling left me more tense than the demands of my job. After all of the swerving, blowing and growling I would finally make it into the city where I would be surrounded by a swarm of pretentious middle-aged corporate types yearning for the moment that they reached the city limits so that they could relax in the comfort that they had yet again braved the threat of all of the vagrants and muggers that inhabit that cesspool called Baltimore City.
My route would take me from the northbound parkway to Russell Street; from Russell Street onto eastbound Baltimore Street; from Baltimore Street onto northbound Charles Street. All in an effort to arrive in the northeastern most area of the city as quickly as possible. Usually by the time I reach Charles I had made peace with the fact that I was the only driver on the road capable of navigating the streets without any serious threat to the lives of pedestrians or other drivers. It is also at that time that I was normally sinking back into my seat and lighting a cigarette as I estimate how late I would be getting home. On that day as I listened to Kweli ask “what ya gonna do when we come through?” a midnight blue Cherokee Laredo cut me off to pull into an available parking space just ahead of me on my right.

“Muthafucka” I thought as I caught the drivers gaze. “This son of a bitch is trying to kill somebody.”

“What?!” was his response as he returned the mug.

“You’re a jackass that’s what bitch. You should try watching where the fuck you’re goin’!”

“Man fuck you!”

“Whatever bitch, fuck you! Stupid ass muthafucka!” Traffic was stop and go so I was only two car lengths ahead of him. He was still within earshot as a rattled of a stream of explicatives that would rival any woman that I had heard giving her unfaithful partner a piece of her mind. It had been a long time since the Negro in me had shown himself in such a fashion.

I had only moved up two more car lengths as I began to calm myself. I checked my rearview mirror to take note of where he was headed for future reference. I was a little disturbed by what I saw. The bastard was walking through traffic toward my car. I looked again to verify what I thought I had just seen, and I learned quickly that my eyes had not deceived me. As he moved toward my vehicle I began sizing him up. This light skinned brother with the blue t-shirt clearly had me by a couple of inches in height and a few hundred trips to the gym. I was not, however, too concerned because this brother also had some sort of chemical process in his hair which raised his bitch quotient ninety-eight percent. I was still at the traffic signal on the same block where the argument had started so I unbuckled my seatbelt in an effort to prepare myself for the impending confrontation. As he moved closer to the car I heard him ask if we were alright.

“What?!” I said with as much disgust in my voice as I could muster. He had reached my car at that point and leaned toward my passenger side window.

“I said are we alright? You know, we don’t need to be out here arguing with each other like this. We need to save that shit for them other people” he remarked as he extended his right hand through my car window. I was surprised by the gesture. The sincerity with which he spoke left me with a renewed sense of humanity. What he offered with a handshake was more than just the acknowledgement of a mutual understanding of ideas. He offered a new beginning; the opportunity for two individuals to transcend the expectancy of who we were.