tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58477244323397239122024-03-14T00:01:55.828-04:00This Bug's LifeJayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.comBlogger375125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-76379625867278283382012-03-15T02:00:00.001-04:002012-03-15T02:05:08.739-04:00Here and Now<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--T7Bimq4peo/T2GE0IUexsI/AAAAAAAACLE/x3Hb9nUqSfQ/s1600/Planner.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--T7Bimq4peo/T2GE0IUexsI/AAAAAAAACLE/x3Hb9nUqSfQ/s320/Planner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5719999032858691266" border="0" /></a><br />When I was younger, I was never much for planning. Or dreaming for that matter. There were always things I wanted to do- but mostly, I just lived in the moment. I can remember being in a club one night back in my early twenties when I met this guy who seemed ultra full of himself. He talked about money a lot (an instant turn-off for me) and how he had this life plan...blah blah blah. I sipped my vodka cran and feigned interest (unsuccessfully) for entirely too long. When he seemingly grew tired of talking about himself, he asked me a question I'd never been asked before. Well that's not true. I'm sure some variation of it had been asked on a job interview but never, ever in a club. "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I can remember thinking, 'I dunno dude- but I see myself on the dance floor away from your boring ass in less than five minutes.' It just seemed pretentious. Who the hell was he to judge my ambition or life plan? And how the fuck was that good conversation for a loud nightclub? I felt like telling him to kick rocks in his hard-bottomed church shoes.<br /><br />Needless to say, I've never been big on that question because I don't have an answer for it. Some may call it lack of ambition or lackadaisical but I just see it as living in the here and now. Men plan while God laughs. Isn't that the saying? Maybe it's because most of my life has been lived on whims and circumstances- I haven't really seen a blueprint yet that I've followed to the letter. It might benefit me to set some short-term goals. But I think I have plenty of those. Pay down this astronomical debt. Take another writing class. Bake a red velvet cake from scratch. Call my rental office about the weak ass water pressure. There's a fine line between stagnation and perpetual movement. I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> the line. I could chalk that up to me being a side-walking Cancer or being a fan of serendipity. Or maybe I'm just not into long-term goals. Whatever it is, I don't know how to be any other way. I can't project myself into the future. I've never owned a planner. I know where I plan to be next week; at work, biding my time until it's time to be...wait for it...at work! But those precious moments between jobs, the rest and relaxation that seems to be amiss lately, is something I can't plan around. At lease, not while I'm in the here and now. I just have to be in it, get through it and live the life that's meant for me.Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-4857963652993550472012-03-03T23:15:00.008-05:002012-03-04T11:06:32.117-05:00Forbidden or Just Bitter?<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uPPXk0YaAO0/T1Lu1-3UIcI/AAAAAAAACK4/MUXmMTapWN0/s1600/banana.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uPPXk0YaAO0/T1Lu1-3UIcI/AAAAAAAACK4/MUXmMTapWN0/s320/banana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5715893488262062530" border="0" /></a><br />I like idioms. Always have. Always will. But I have a particular aversion for one. "You're comparing apples to oranges." I know what it means but that doesn't make me me hate it any less. What good does it do to say that? Are they not both fruit? Are they not both a joy to devour once ripe for the picking? Both are round, sweet and juicy and is that where the similarities end? One keeps the doctor away. The other has no rhyme but plenty of reason. If one is sour, simply pick another off the tree. I suppose it's a matter of taste. Pulp vs. Pectin. Rind over smooth skin. This Apple/Orange thing never bothered me much until a burning question seared a hole through my soul. Which one was I? Fortunately, to one who appreciates an overflowing cornucopia, it matters not.Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-58552705547203707462012-02-12T01:27:00.005-05:002012-02-12T20:12:25.471-05:00Nothing makes sense anymoreThey found Whitney Houston in a hotel room earlier tonight. For the first time since I received it for Christmas, I wrote in a journal given to me by an old new friend. I Googled how to find my higher self because of<span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);"> </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://wherehotcomestodie.blogspot.com/2012/01/im-afraid-of-water.html">Suzy Soro</a>. Tonight I struggled to remember the password to sign into this blog when at one time I could remember certain entries on here word for word. Tonight I held the one I love like I was never going to see him again. I've never done that before. I told him how much he was teaching me to appreciate this life. Tonight I was supposed to tidy up. Wash dishes. Separate the laundry. Instead, I listened to the one Whitney Houston song that made it into a dream I was having four years ago while visiting Atlanta. In the dream I was crying uncontrollably. I was sitting on the back stoop of a log cabin. I don't think log cabins really have back stoops but in the dream, there I sat. Crying. Whitney's voice belted through the dream; more than mere background music. Tonight I thought a lot about irrational fears and moving closer to my purpose. Google turned up a site that recommended keeping a journal and asking questions to my higher self. It said that at first, my ego would answer but to go deeper. And once the answers started to sound wiser, more grounded- then I'd be on the right track. That possibly, my higher self is answering. I don't know if abandoning my cleaning routine was part of the plan. I'm not sure that I haven't already mourned for Whitney through that dream. I wonder if my friend even realizes the gift she gave me; me to myself through a leaflet of ladybug decals and a book of blank, lined pages. All of the unwritten questions with answers yet to be found; all of these unseen connections that I'd be a fool not to respect. Nothing makes sense anymore. But at this moment right now, I am unafraid.<br /><br />I'd like to think that's a good start.Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-75469729853769269462011-11-25T01:31:00.008-05:002011-11-26T00:55:04.524-05:00Thankful Pt. 2<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47cOkALl1Bc/Ts9B5ICTZoI/AAAAAAAACKo/V_aDdxNTKTc/s1600/exhalted.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 180px; height: 135px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-47cOkALl1Bc/Ts9B5ICTZoI/AAAAAAAACKo/V_aDdxNTKTc/s400/exhalted.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5678830104802977410" border="0" /></a>So here's the thing. I didn't think I'd write through this medium again for a long, long time. But that's the thing about writing. You don't move it; it moves you. In the past few months the trials and tribulations enveloped me like quicksand. But suddenly I can breathe. It occurred to me today that one revolution around the sun changed more than the seasons. It changed my perspectives, my outlooks, my outcomes. It changed me. As it very well should. This same time last year <a href="http://thisbugslife-in-words.blogspot.com/2010/11/blessed-alive-thankful.html"><span style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">I was grateful to be alive</span>.</a> I came within what I resolutely believe was within inches of my demise. I was wild with fury and prepared to fight for my life. But it went the other way. I lived.<br /><br />I've never been a religious person. Spiritual yes, but far from pious. My moral compass has hardly ever pointed due north- but it has steered me where I was meant to be. It's what I call faith. I've experienced enough loss to know love. I am wise because I've been foolish. I'm compassionate because I've known suffering. At my most honest hour, when I question the landslide like <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SIh-amV-dVs">Stevie</a> did, I can say that I've handled the seasons of my life to the best of my ability. I'm a work in progress and I will make no apologies for who I've become along the way. It sounds cocky but truly- it's me at my most humble and imperfect.<br /><br />Kanye had the right idea. In a sense, we all live by our own scripture borrowed from others. We apply what we need to our own existence. I've never fully known what to hurl and what to hold, so I keep it all to survive. Experience. Memory. Intuition. Compassion. Instincts. These are what I hold close. It's why a term like 'No Church In the Wild' resonates with me. Because every thing can flip in a New York minute no matter how unfathomable; and your mind is decidedly your own personal Heaven or Hell. In one revolution around the sun I've learned to be equipped. And to be thankful.<br /><br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NJ4qVeLMybo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-43068217092368247452011-09-09T15:00:00.005-04:002011-09-09T16:44:16.878-04:00Overdue Conversation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iYUQZPqsE3Q/TmphN9iulfI/AAAAAAAACKg/LM2za2AVOF8/s1600/320.jpeg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iYUQZPqsE3Q/TmphN9iulfI/AAAAAAAACKg/LM2za2AVOF8/s400/320.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5650435574976124402" border="0" /></a>Lately, the entries have been sparse. The ideas have been cluttered. I know when it's time to bow out. I know there is reason for the departure of my creativity. It's time to get back to center, redirect and refocus. Rather than fill this blog with useless drivel- I'm making the decision to close up shop. The next thing anyone will read by Jayne Neverow will be my book; a dutiful collection of my firsthand experiences in laughing, loving and living. I know I have an incredible story to tell in its entirety. It's time.<br /><br />And so it goes; one journey ends and another begins. Every step of it has been authentic and fulfilling. I appreciate you all for taking a walk with me through This Bug's Life. With all that I am- I thank you. The faithful Bug readers, the passers-by, the quiet watchers and the vocal commentators. You have all made it worthwhile. Feel free to re-live the misadventures and musings through past entries. Stay tuned for <span style="font-style: italic;">Conversations with a Ladybug</span>. Farewell thee well.Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-62023355086483559302011-08-02T21:37:00.011-04:002011-08-02T22:24:46.165-04:00On a bright night<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jvix-rag4dc/Tjinj5xzpjI/AAAAAAAACKQ/mHp7Tnvx38Y/s1600/night-sky.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jvix-rag4dc/Tjinj5xzpjI/AAAAAAAACKQ/mHp7Tnvx38Y/s400/night-sky.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5636439168901162546" border="0" /></a><br /><blockquote>"You'll always know the reason why we could have had the moon and the sky."~S. Adu</blockquote><br />Streisand once sang that on a clear day you can see forever. But on a clear night- I've seen never. All the things that could never be; just by looking up at the bright night sky. It's a terrifying gift. A blissful tragedy. A beautiful cruelty. And it never ends how it starts. Blooming dreams vanishing to stark nothingness. But it was more than that. It's always more than that. More than two spread legs. More than a handful of troubling backward glances or plates of lovingly prepared food gone cold. It's the ocean in your bedroom. It's the rainbow in your jail cell. The realization that everything good and right and happy will hurt like hell once it ceases to exist. Because none of it is yours to keep; not when it was never yours to begin with. Frida Kahlo knew it. I know it now. We all know it when the moment of truth arrives. But somehow that doesn't make it any easier, does it?<br /><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/OYFtwxZbeXQ?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-3347411551156661082011-07-29T19:50:00.026-04:002011-08-01T14:37:51.628-04:00The Listy List<div style="text-align: left;">It's that time again. You know what time. When I fill you in on all the random and ridiculous things that occupy my life and times. The odds, ends and off the wall stuff that comprises This Bug's Life. Without further ado... The Listy List.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Hot Like Cajun</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jJk1nzEdSF0/TjNIclMrW5I/AAAAAAAACJQ/o3ASyrnxXvo/s1600/heatwave.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 168px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jJk1nzEdSF0/TjNIclMrW5I/AAAAAAAACJQ/o3ASyrnxXvo/s400/heatwave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634927214629444498" border="0" /></a><br />So the mercury climbed big time in NY a few weeks ago for two long days. It was hotter than the devil's balls out here; hitting record-breaking temps of up to 110 degrees. Now picture that with no AC. That's right. I have no air conditioning at my place by choice. I always got through summer with a spritz bottle and a high powered fan. But this heat was life changing. I had an epiphany- or I might have just been delirious from the heat, I dunno. I got through it with popsicles, multiple showers and more creative uses for ice cubes than <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xDyr7pxwPNY&feature=related">Do the Right Thing</a>. Oh, the pool helped too til I almost drowned. More on that later.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Let Me Out</span><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xDujlvHH6_k/TjNLKzyS6wI/AAAAAAAACJY/s6x0jgPMjTo/s1600/hiding-in-a-suitcase.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 209px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xDujlvHH6_k/TjNLKzyS6wI/AAAAAAAACJY/s6x0jgPMjTo/s400/hiding-in-a-suitcase.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634930207842560770" border="0" /></a><br />I've had some time to ponder it and without the aid of a very expensive therapist I realize I have some serious trust issues stemming from my childhood. You see, my two older sisters thought it would be fun to zip a six year old into a suitcase. (Honestly, I thought so too.) They just didn't bank on my hair getting caught for two agonizing minutes. When they finally got me out they convinced me that our trip to Disneyworld the very next day would be nixed if I told my parents what happened. Those lying bitches...<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Got ta Got ta , Na Na Na!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bl4f_Rlqzeg/TjNN0CoZXpI/AAAAAAAACJg/7gstFGyLV2I/s1600/otis.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 248px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bl4f_Rlqzeg/TjNN0CoZXpI/AAAAAAAACJg/7gstFGyLV2I/s400/otis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634933115225464466" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Okay, I really don't see what everyone is so open about when it comes to the new Kanye West and Jay Z song, <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yN-bPHpjBk0">Otis</a>. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying it's wack. I actually like the energy they both came with but the sample for Try A Little Tenderness is damn near the whole song. C'mon already! I like hip-hop samples to be a bit of a brainteaser. You sort of recognize it but not quite until you look into it. Now that's a song. Call me overly critical but production-wise they should have tried a little cleverness.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sugary Coco Goodness</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rarpozxcOTw/TjNPLa2r78I/AAAAAAAACJo/PXRWed7aP7c/s1600/coconut.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-rarpozxcOTw/TjNPLa2r78I/AAAAAAAACJo/PXRWed7aP7c/s400/coconut.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634934616376471490" border="0" /></a><br />This Bug is officially addicted to Coconut M&M's. I know I'm late but I don't care. I'm about to cop a lifetime supply and stash them in the freezer because I know that 'limited edition' means they're testing it out on folks and it may never see the light of day again if the sales disappoint. I usually hate all coconut related chocolate. Mounds and Almond Joy sounds more like a movie I'd like to watch when no one else is around. But those little brown, white and green beads are what I believe little girls are really made of. Sugar and spice can't hold a candle to them. It's Yumma!<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dip, Dip Dive..</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mmgQI7OsirI/TjNRKynBrVI/AAAAAAAACJ4/24EwUtLyLe0/s1600/diving-board.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 216px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-mmgQI7OsirI/TjNRKynBrVI/AAAAAAAACJ4/24EwUtLyLe0/s320/diving-board.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634936804596624722" border="0" /></a><br />Let me start by telling you all that I know how to swim. Got that? I <span style="font-style: italic;">can</span> swim. So no one was more surprised than me when I took a dive off the board and didn't have enough air to get to the surface. I went from assenting to struggling in seconds flat. Then I panicked. From underwater I heard the whistle blow and before I knew it- a really hot lifeguard came to my rescue. Really. Hot. I came up dripping wet, gasping for air, my string bikini top heaving between breaths... He held me up from behind against the corner of the pool until he was sure I was okay. Rumor has it that I did all of this on purpose just to get felt up by the Adonis statue with a pulse...but really I still don't know what happened down in that deep water. Truth is- I was scared shitless.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fiyah Burn, Ya Betta Learn<br /><br /></span><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AOO34dL-59g/TjNYf0kHaqI/AAAAAAAACKA/X4qgNouvid0/s1600/burning-cell-phone.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 203px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AOO34dL-59g/TjNYf0kHaqI/AAAAAAAACKA/X4qgNouvid0/s320/burning-cell-phone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634944862479936162" border="0" /></a><br />A word to the wise: Smartphones are stupid. For all the fantastic apps and convenience they supposedly provide- it hardly seems worth it when my overly sensitive touchscreen calls people at ridiculous times of the night, shuts off all of my networks whenever it feels like it and uploads pictures to social networking sites that are not fit for anyone's eyes. Try not to harp on that. Just know that my phone is appropriately named the Torch because there's some hot stuff in there and sometimes...that's exactly what I'd like to do to it with some lighter fluid.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">F.O.H!</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gHngtPgwIG8/TjNZG5RmodI/AAAAAAAAALg/eWTFysdsA7s/s1600/soapbox.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 215px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gHngtPgwIG8/TjNZG5RmodI/AAAAAAAAALg/eWTFysdsA7s/s320/soapbox.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634945533759365586" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Speaking of social networking-I almost never entertain ignorance online but a friend of a friend (and I use that term ever so loosely) made me pull out the big guns last week. Foolishly drawing comparisons between someone reacting on instinct and a group of adults publicly abusing a child was worthy of my wrath. I'll spare you the details but I will say that I verbally kicked her soapbox right out from under her. I didn't want to do it but she was so blissfully ignorant that I was forced to make her miserably knowledgeable about what's right, wrong, racist, funny and not fucking funny at all.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Shoephoria</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CVQteIg9Fbw/TjNea7YbQFI/AAAAAAAAALo/QHPNDW-paVg/s1600/naughty-monkey.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 164px; height: 197px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CVQteIg9Fbw/TjNea7YbQFI/AAAAAAAAALo/QHPNDW-paVg/s400/naughty-monkey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634951375480373330" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I don't know if it was the sexy strappy leather, the jewel and pearl embellishments or what- but when I saw them, I had to have them. They're ethereal- if one can even describe a pair of shoes in that manner. It's kinda like what a mermaid would wear on her feet. If she had feet. Either way, this mermaid has them now. I know what you're thinking. Mermaid, Schmermaid. But did I mention that I <span>really</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> can</span> swim? <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Subtle, My Ass</span>...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b5GblPxKkvk/TjNr7GQC27I/AAAAAAAAAMI/JCY32sJ3i10/s1600/subtlebutt.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-b5GblPxKkvk/TjNr7GQC27I/AAAAAAAAAMI/JCY32sJ3i10/s320/subtlebutt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634966221804985266" border="0" /></a><br />I wish I could tell you that this ad isn't from a real catalog that came to someone at my place of business. I wish I could tell you there is no such thing as adhesive patches to stick in your panties so you don't clear the room out after having Cheddar Broccoli soup for lunch. I wish they didn't seriously charge $19 dollars for a trademarked product they had the nerve to name SUBTLE BUTT. I wish the tiniest part of me didn't wonder for a split second what that patch must smell like at the end of the day once peeled from its right place. I wish these wouldn't make a great stocking stuffer for some people I know. I wish...<br /><br /><br /><br />And now, a peek into This Bug's twisted sense of humor. Enjoy or be offended. Either way, blueberries are the bestest!<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/yqEeP1acj4Y?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe><br /><br />Peace Out, Cub Scouts!<br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /></div>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-8616187361773158842011-07-26T02:15:00.005-04:002011-07-27T18:25:25.880-04:00We Only Said Goodbye with Words<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JJu0xL-6nW0/Ti-siwbvGdI/AAAAAAAACJA/9_Hf5I8Ueho/s1600/Amy_Winehouse.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JJu0xL-6nW0/Ti-siwbvGdI/AAAAAAAACJA/9_Hf5I8Ueho/s400/Amy_Winehouse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633911371980544466" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;">Amy Jade Winehouse<br /></div><div style="text-align: center; font-weight: bold;"> Sunrise: September 14, 1983 Sunset: July 23, 2011<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">There's something to be said about knowing that a tragic end is coming. It's one of those inevitable things that you don't want to be right about. Amy Winehouse is gone. Was I surprised? Not entirely. Was I hit in the heart by the news? Absolutely. Because knowing someone will go eventually doesn't make it hurt any less. Because Amy's <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Back to Black</span> album nursed me through one of the most difficult times of my adulthood. Because for all the naysayers and mudslinging she remained to me, an unpolished diamond worth a hundred times more than the rhinestone pop stars who dotted the charts. Ms. Winehouse wrote and sang from a broken place that longed for healing. She was pissed. She was tired. She was indignant. She was vulnerable. She was me- sans the battles with alcohol and substance abuse. But to say I haven't come close to the edge and heard ominous pebbles kicked down a scary cliff before I caught myself would be untrue. I identified with that in her. That- and not wanting to <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXSvRWsNJJg">fuck myself in the head with stupid men</a>. She was honest and unabashed in her music. Her flaws made her priceless but sadly, a prime entrée for the media feeding frenzy. I'll miss her big beehive hairdo. The tough girl tattoos. The wantonly applied eye make-up that made her face like hard candy- bad for you, but still so sweet. Mostly, I'll miss knowing her haunting voice which sang my own truth when words eluded me is still among us. She's gone but her music is here to stay. It stayed with me and will for all time. I can only hope she has in death what seemed unattainable for her in life; some peace from all inward and outward demons. As my brother-from-another put it, "She was family to my family." So the loss is felt that much more. Just for her I'll pour a neat shot of Vodka into a chilled glass and go back to black, if only for a moment.<br /></div><br />Rest in Paradise, Ms. Winehouse.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/TJAfLE39ZZ8?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-72060792663201504302011-07-13T02:40:00.022-04:002011-07-17T23:36:04.449-04:00An Instinctive Travel to the Movie Theatre<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NB1ggUlvH9M/Th0gGMydLAI/AAAAAAAACII/WNivRKIAUsQ/s1600/Beats-Rhymes-and-Life-The-Travels-of-A-Tribe-Called-Quest-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NB1ggUlvH9M/Th0gGMydLAI/AAAAAAAACII/WNivRKIAUsQ/s400/Beats-Rhymes-and-Life-The-Travels-of-A-Tribe-Called-Quest-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628690400167144450" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Before Quest, did you really know what live was?"</span><br /></blockquote></div>Every now and then- you're blessed with a film that's more than a film. It's an experience. It draws you in, takes you to familiar places and then takes you somewhere you have never been before. It answers questions and it raises some. That's what <span style="font-weight: bold;">Beats, Rhymes & Life </span>does. Michael Rapaport's documentary on A Tribe Called Quest feels like equal parts homage and exposé. From the start, I was instantly reminded about what I have always loved about ATCQ. It's all in the music. Rapaport doesn't introduce you to these Queens natives in the customary way. The vibe allows them to introduce themselves. And if you've been a lifelong fan such as myself- it's akin to meeting up with close cousins for the first time in years. A reminder of your youth and what made you who you are. It's an overwhelming love for family. Q-Tip. Phife Dawg. Ali Shaheed Muhammad. Jarobi. Or as the mechanical yet lucid tour guide of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Midnight Marauders</span> so eloquently spoke it; A. E. I. O. U and sometimes...Y. Viewing this film, you'll learn just how essential that elusive Y has always been, too. One of the many revelations of this gem.<br /><br />No two ways about it, their catalog is stellar. Save for the final album where it was obvious to me upon first hearing it that the chemistry between Tribe was dwindling- everything they put out prior to that is unforgettable. When Tip shows how he came up with the beat for <a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UbDFS6cg1AI">Can I Kick It</a>- you can literally feel it move through you. Rapaport blends archival footage with real-time sound and trust me, it never disappoints. It documents the formulation of Tribe with an even hand for the most part. Twenty plus years of soul stirring beats and conscious rhymes through a life (and sometimes wardrobe) less ordinary. Very few talents have ever been so misunderstood while being fully embraced simultaneously. For posterity and the sake of nostalgia there are times when the music simply speaks for itself; making it impossible to forget how important the Native Tongues were and still are to Hip Hop collectively.<br /><br />And then there are other times. Times that are particularly difficult to watch but are engaging nonetheless. Phife's grueling health issues and its effect on the group as a whole is just one of those moments. Q-Tip's reasoning behind engulfing himself in music- never to look back. Jarobi's unconditional love; and the discomfort you can feel watching Ali Shaheed's stoic neutrality while his brothers-from-another feud are all heartfelt. To say that any one of them are painted in an unfair light is up to you, the viewer. There are no identifiable villains in this one. Only reluctant, if not unintentional heroes of a movement unbeknownst to even them at the time. To date, only Phife has publicly endorsed the film while the remaining three withdrew from the premiere and all press junkets in support of it. One source stated that Rapaport originally wanted to title the movie Beats, Rhymes & Fights- an overt reference to the crew's upheaval before their eventual split. Whether that was an aim to sensationalize their differences for box office numbers or just his personal assessment after two years of being up close and personal- we'll never know.<br /><br />What you will know is this: Native Tongues got rhymes galore. There are firsthand accounts of how vital this group is from many of their contemporaries. They are celebrated so widely because there's nothing but pure love for Tribe at the core. One of the most memorable scenes of Beats, Rhymes & Life is Questlove's spot on description of Phife's opening line to <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LtaL8iFUDo0"><span style="font-style: italic;">Buggin' Out</span></a>. This is not a movie review. Make no mistake. It's not no Parkay, not no margarine...Yeah, I'm in the zone. But truthfully, I am not recommending that you see this documentary. I will only say that it is required viewing for anyone who knows where Tip left his wallet or what kind of furniture Phife can provide if allowed. Those who know that babies babble on when looking for excuses. For the heads who still know Bonita's measurements to this day- this one's for you.<br /><br /><br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DKnnDVQUbVY?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-66616639129390046142011-07-07T08:36:00.005-04:002011-07-07T08:49:41.684-04:00Take A Bow<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZQq1Eqy5ug/ThWpt_UWDUI/AAAAAAAACH4/oOM4pb1__eg/s1600/stage_curtains.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 218px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DZQq1Eqy5ug/ThWpt_UWDUI/AAAAAAAACH4/oOM4pb1__eg/s400/stage_curtains.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626589917025275202" /></a><br /><br />Take a bow, the night is over<br />This masquerade is getting older<br />Light are low, the curtains down<br />There's no one here<br />(There's no one here, there's no one in the crowd)<br />Say your lines but do you feel them<br />Do you mean what you say when there's no one around (no one around)<br />Watching you, watching me, one lonely star<br />(One lonely star you don't know who you are)<br /><br />I've always been in love with you (always with you)<br />I guess you've always known it's true (you know it's true)<br />You took my love for granted, why oh why<br />The show is over, say good-bye<br /><br />Say good-bye (bye bye), say good-bye<br /><br />Make them laugh, it comes so easy<br />When you get to the part<br />Where you're breaking my heart (breaking my heart)<br />Hide behind your smile, all the world loves a clown<br />(Just make 'em smile the whole world loves a clown)<br />Wish you well, I cannot stay<br />You deserve an award for the role that you played (role that you played)<br />No more masquerade, you're one lonely star<br />(One lonely star and you don't know who you are)<br /><br /><br />Say good-bye (bye bye), say good-bye<br /><br />All the world is a stage (world is a stage)<br />And everyone has their part (has their part)<br />But how was I to know which way the story'd go<br />How was I to know you'd break<br />(You'd break, you'd break, you'd break)<br />You'd break my heart<br /><br />I've always been in love with you<br />(I've always been in love with you)<br />Guess you've always known<br />You took my love for granted, why oh why<br />The show is over, say good-bye<br /><br /><br />Say good-bye (bye bye), say good-bye<br />Say good-bye <br /><br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JwdY3dpAdPc?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-45739575363550995822011-07-06T02:02:00.005-04:002011-07-06T10:01:44.930-04:00Cookies or Comas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6xUFv7sULlk/ThP80IdQPQI/AAAAAAAACHo/T8S1YyPwju0/s1600/Jean%252BGrae.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6xUFv7sULlk/ThP80IdQPQI/AAAAAAAACHo/T8S1YyPwju0/s320/Jean%252BGrae.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626118332069461250" border="0" /></a><br />Jean Grae. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Cookies or Comas</span>. The mixtape. I will not steer you wrong. To say this girl has lyrics for days would be borderline disrespectful. The punchlines. The metaphors. The all-encompassing rhyme spitting phenom that is pure..Jeanius. I just had a listen at <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.datpiff.com/Jean-Grae-Cookies-Or-Comas-mixtape.243751.html">datpiff.com</a> and I'm ready for more. I fux wit Jean. When she's not dropping the most random thoughts from the mind in 140 characters or less- she's dropping jewels on <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://jeangraesblog.blogspot.com/">her blog</a>. This latest mixtape is a testament to her talents, witticism and way-the-fuck-out-thereness. Her reflective answer to Kanye's <span style="font-style: italic;">Blame Game</span> was a sweet surprise. And if you need smelling salts to revive you after listening to <span style="font-style: italic;">Killing 'Em</span> featuring Pharoahe Monch- don't feel bad. I damn near passed out when it hit me in the eardrum; for the MC Lyte sample alone. Wow. I didn't even peep 'til just now how those two admissions allude to the very title of her mixtape, but I'm telling you the truth, People. And the last track? Ho Lee Shit. Download it now. Thank me later. This is Jayne Neverow and I endorse this message. Peace.<br /><br />"a super jerk, call me Clark Kent at sperm bank, with girl mags,<br />I'd be like SPIT if I burned tags,<br />I burn flags, burn, man, not books or bras, Fam.<br />Swing bars, multiple partners, Tarzan,<br />marzipan, that's it no reference, no depth shit,<br />Breathe and let the bars stand." ~Track 1. <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Casebasket</span>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-43940000332673912652011-07-03T03:30:00.007-04:002011-07-03T21:29:50.088-04:00True Monuments Don't Fall<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V9Pf2HBjjwI/ThARCofB9II/AAAAAAAACHg/7foqxRVaBHM/s1600/pete-rock-smif-n-wessun.jpg"><br /></a><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/bXyVpoGsLjg?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe><br /><br />When I first viewed the above video some months back, my first thought was immediately this: They couldn't have chosen a better name for this collaboration. <span style="font-style: italic;"><a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.amazon.com/Monumental-Pete-Rock/dp/B004K00NBC">Monumental</a> </span>was poised to be a much anticipated blend of talents. Smif-N-Wessun plus Pete Rock equals pure unadulterated sensory overload at its finest- in my humble opinion. Something to be celebrated and lauded in these dystopian Hip-Hop times. What passes for dope these days mostly inclines me to shake my head in disgust. But this was a breath of fresh air I couldn't wait to inhale. So much so, that I had no idea I would be shaking my head in disgust where this collaboration was concerned. But not in the way you would imagine.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-stvXV-CmnPk/ThANHZm4pGI/AAAAAAAACHY/wTmCuM87jio/s1600/police-brutality.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-stvXV-CmnPk/ThANHZm4pGI/AAAAAAAACHY/wTmCuM87jio/s320/police-brutality.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625010355369976930" border="0" /></a><br />On June 28, producer Pete Rock and partners in rhyme, Smif-N-Wessun gave a show that served as their album release party at NYC's Tammany Hall. According to a press release later given by the trio, the venue got packed quickly and other supportive fans were turned away at door. A minor tiff between would-be attendees and security arose but was settled without incident. Approximately half hour later- New York's Finest showed up, rushed into the venue and began dragging some patrons out and macing them. This spilled out into the street where all hell proceeded to break loose. The footage below captures only in part the melee that ensued. Billy club swinging, choking, roughing up of women and at least four officers on one man at once.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DgQKCFEPnRg?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe><br /><br />Contrary to previous reports, no one who performed was hurt that night but several people were in fact assaulted at the hands of NYPD. I watched the above and other videos from that night with such incredulity until it hit me that this is in fact New York and therefore this is nothing new. I could have easily been at this event. Any one of my peoples for that matter could have been. Any one of us could have suffered a similar fate. Shit, that IS us. Period. I take issue with any abuse of authority. Be it Parent vs. Child, Teacher vs. Student and especially Police vs. Civilian. Never has the adage 'Power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely' been more true. Only punks find strength solely in numbers. They took every opportunity to taint what I believe would have been an otherwise peaceable gathering and turned it into pandemonium. When all is said and done, Hip-Hop is left holding the bag. Further bolstering accusations that those belonging to this culture are violent by nature and cannot come together long enough to keep the peace. But I know the truth.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JAuMLHqC5KQ?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe><br /><br /><br />I personally know a few people who will say that the cops were in fact provoked and justified in their barbaric actions. That all of this could have been avoided had the crowd simply dispersed, but all that does is excuse the injustice of what unfolded that night. I refuse to believe that with all the rigorous training that is required of law enforcement; that they still cannot come up with a more effective method of diffusing a crowd without resorting to swinging wildly at it with their issued weapons. They boldly abuse their authority under the guise of protecting and serving. After viewing the footage- it's clear to me who they served and the people's protection seemed to take a backseat to unleashing their own wrath. Being recorded by numerous onlookers did nothing to discourage their assault. I was incensed by the sounds and images of what took place that night. But moreover, I was hurt.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V9Pf2HBjjwI/ThARCofB9II/AAAAAAAACHg/7foqxRVaBHM/s1600/pete-rock-smif-n-wessun.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 355px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V9Pf2HBjjwI/ThARCofB9II/AAAAAAAACHg/7foqxRVaBHM/s320/pete-rock-smif-n-wessun.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5625014671510729858" border="0" /></a><br />I'm hurt because if one is familiar with the vibe, you know that Pete Rock and recently even Smif-N-Wessun are far removed from anything that would incite this type of violence. Though I doubt those who purported this nonsense can even name a song by any one of them. I'm hurt because what was supposed to be a monumental event was toppled by corruption and ignorance. Because evil never seems to take a holiday once NYPD officers suit up for work. Quite simply, because my people were hurt; for showing up and showing love to three artists they deemed worthy. Now where, pray tell, is the justification in that?Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-17946148177839322572011-06-27T08:50:00.007-04:002011-06-27T09:03:05.475-04:00This Day is Mine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kX-5zM-vxtc/Tgh-ZbNg-GI/AAAAAAAACHM/z2HFwhM2yts/s1600/alive.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 357px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kX-5zM-vxtc/Tgh-ZbNg-GI/AAAAAAAACHM/z2HFwhM2yts/s400/alive.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622883110038337634" border="0" /></a><br />It's been a while. Trials, tribulations and a virus-ridden computer kept me away for a spell- but not for long. When I finally had a chance to be in my element again, I was at a loss as to what to write. The words escaped me. But now I'm found. Today marks the anniversary of my birth. I've been blessed to see another year of life, love and laughter. This time around, I'm filled with purpose in more ways than one. Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't change a stitch of it. I'm here. I'm grateful. I am. Alive.Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-59836016133352744392011-05-21T19:26:00.013-04:002011-05-21T20:57:24.880-04:00Much Ado About Nothing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pfOIEEj0ht4/TdhRq4BqZnI/AAAAAAAACGw/0ZdpDNgHwBs/s1600/sky-falling.jpeg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pfOIEEj0ht4/TdhRq4BqZnI/AAAAAAAACGw/0ZdpDNgHwBs/s320/sky-falling.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609323132925666930" border="0" /></a>It's an hour and a half since the world was supposed to end. But lo and behold- here I am typing this. No worse for wear. Birds are chirping outside my window. I can hear the whir of my temperamental computer and someone is practicing piano in the apartment across from mine. It rained a bit and then the sun shone again. The sky didn't fall. The world as it turns out- has not ended. The world as we know it, anyway. Today is decidedly not Judgment Day. I wasn't worried. It's not the first time some crackpot claimed to know the exact date and time of the "rapture". And even if there was some merit to it, things are good with me and my Creator.<br /><br />For those who were anxious or disturbed by this pseudo impending doom; now would be a good time to take a long, hard look at your life and how you live it. Make a change. Purport a deliberate difference. It doesn't have to be some ground-shattering spiritual awakening. Start small. Smile more. Curse less. Be kind. Make a list of endeavors and check it off as you accomplish them. Try a new cuisine. Write a book. Hold a baby. Take a trip. Take a class. Teach a class. Call your Mom. Build something. Whatever it may be- do it with the intentions of bringing yourself closer to what is right for you and your soul. The rest will fall into place because the universe wastes nothing. I try to always prep for rain and wish for sunshine. Well that's my plan, usually. My sky is still blue no matter the talk of obliteration. Recreate the world as <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> know it. It's a new day so to speak... so why not make it count?Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-33688338809755512402011-05-14T02:30:00.002-04:002011-05-19T23:09:05.662-04:00How Sweet It IsIt's the age of the digital download. These days it's all about iTunes this, podcasts that. Look here- This Bug has an affinity for the classics. And whenever homage is paid to the classics, I have to give a respectful nod. I miss the days of vinyl and liner notes. If you've ever watched <span style="font-weight: bold;">Erykah Badu</span>'s video for <span style="font-style: italic;">Hone</span><span style="font-style: italic;">y</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>and like me, wondered exactly which familiar album she was paying tribute to- wonder no more. She recreated some of the most recognizable and some more obscure but memorable album images in music history. Brilliant! And if you know anything about Badu, you know she wouldn't have looked to emulate any bullshit music. Every original album holds countless gems for your listening pleasure. Even the Rolling Stones magazine cover was a nice touch. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sidebar</span>: I love me some Lennon. Hmm...Yoko? Not so much. Props to <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://twitter.com/#%21/fatbellybella">@fatbellybella</a> on the concept of this visually groundbreaking vid. Like the classics she replicated- it never gets old. Enjoy.<br /><br />Honey Video - Erykah Badu<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.dailymotion.com/embed/video/x4c0rd?theme=none&hideInfos=1&wmode=transparent" width="480" frameborder="0" height="356"></iframe><br /><br />Rufus & Chaka Khan - <i>Rufus featuring Chaka Khan</i>, 1975<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CpgFrO0gyAo/Tc4aBRq2IOI/AAAAAAAACEs/0_ma35A6NTY/s1600/honey_erykah_chaka.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 170px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CpgFrO0gyAo/Tc4aBRq2IOI/AAAAAAAACEs/0_ma35A6NTY/s400/honey_erykah_chaka.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606447195348148450" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Diana Ross - <i>Blue</i>, 2006<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m-TPG2jSOJ8/Tc4aLS1jyTI/AAAAAAAACE0/ki6TZiZlAeE/s1600/honey_erykah_diana.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 173px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m-TPG2jSOJ8/Tc4aLS1jyTI/AAAAAAAACE0/ki6TZiZlAeE/s400/honey_erykah_diana.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606447367460210994" border="0" /></a><br />Funkadelic - <i>Maggot Brain</i>, 1971<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h3nk1xwSXW8/Tc4aPuqMD3I/AAAAAAAACE8/AmOdXkQkUKs/s1600/honey_erykah_funkadelic.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 173px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h3nk1xwSXW8/Tc4aPuqMD3I/AAAAAAAACE8/AmOdXkQkUKs/s400/honey_erykah_funkadelic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606447443648188274" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Eric B. & Rakim - <i>Paid In Full</i>, 1987<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SGWkhnmWzYk/Tc4alQhQDtI/AAAAAAAACFE/JdP6BZg4jtM/s1600/honey_erykah_paid.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 170px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-SGWkhnmWzYk/Tc4alQhQDtI/AAAAAAAACFE/JdP6BZg4jtM/s400/honey_erykah_paid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606447813514759890" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ohio Players - <i>Honey</i>, 1975<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q2kxAcAre0w/Tc4asdD2inI/AAAAAAAACFM/o_iMUjA0r6Y/s1600/honey_erykah_ohioplayers.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 171px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Q2kxAcAre0w/Tc4asdD2inI/AAAAAAAACFM/o_iMUjA0r6Y/s400/honey_erykah_ohioplayers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606447937140198002" border="0" /></a><br />Minnie Ripperton - <i>Perfect Angel</i>, 1974<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rctlxu3py30/Tc4awtcQ_CI/AAAAAAAACFU/Wnr5JbY9K7E/s1600/honey_erykah_minnie.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 176px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rctlxu3py30/Tc4awtcQ_CI/AAAAAAAACFU/Wnr5JbY9K7E/s400/honey_erykah_minnie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606448010257038370" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Labelle - <i>Chameleon</i>, 1976<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bn-dkvCuWWU/Tc4a13745jI/AAAAAAAACFc/7YaaIi8nFaE/s1600/honey_erykah_labelle.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 172px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bn-dkvCuWWU/Tc4a13745jI/AAAAAAAACFc/7YaaIi8nFaE/s400/honey_erykah_labelle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606448098973378098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />De La Soul - <i>Three Feet High and Rising</i>, 1989<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WLKu6uayM1o/Tc4a6g_wzVI/AAAAAAAACFk/WC5DJ8uLbKE/s1600/honey_erykah_dela.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 169px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WLKu6uayM1o/Tc4a6g_wzVI/AAAAAAAACFk/WC5DJ8uLbKE/s400/honey_erykah_dela.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606448178714955090" border="0" /></a><br />The Beatles - <i>Let It Be</i>, 1970<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IaZwEa7DzmU/Tc4bwp9kePI/AAAAAAAACFs/062gTaLCEgs/s1600/honey_erykah_beatles.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 172px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IaZwEa7DzmU/Tc4bwp9kePI/AAAAAAAACFs/062gTaLCEgs/s400/honey_erykah_beatles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606449108834613490" border="0" /></a><br />Nas - <i>Illmatic</i>, 1994<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dniaa5FENWk/Tc4b1GJEBTI/AAAAAAAACF0/ItlHUMvx4BQ/s1600/honey_erykah_nas.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 171px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dniaa5FENWk/Tc4b1GJEBTI/AAAAAAAACF0/ItlHUMvx4BQ/s400/honey_erykah_nas.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606449185118487858" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Olivia Newton John - <i>Physical</i>, 1981<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oUw4gbenyFg/Tc4dUQ84b4I/AAAAAAAACF8/ZaEEWyf3_Xg/s1600/honey_erykah_olivia.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 173px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oUw4gbenyFg/Tc4dUQ84b4I/AAAAAAAACF8/ZaEEWyf3_Xg/s400/honey_erykah_olivia.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606450820107759490" border="0" /></a><br />Grace Jones - <i>Nightclubbing</i>, 1981<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qdy5TB8AZ-g/Tc4dgIlrKQI/AAAAAAAACGE/AmKpAA4ASTo/s1600/honey_erykah_grace_jones.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 162px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Qdy5TB8AZ-g/Tc4dgIlrKQI/AAAAAAAACGE/AmKpAA4ASTo/s400/honey_erykah_grace_jones.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606451024021367042" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Earth, Wind & Fire - <i>Head to the Sky</i>, 1973<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7apj-kNpW4w/Tc4diyeqeTI/AAAAAAAACGM/2kn9G113FhU/s1600/honey_erykah_ewf.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 177px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7apj-kNpW4w/Tc4diyeqeTI/AAAAAAAACGM/2kn9G113FhU/s400/honey_erykah_ewf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606451069625989426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />John Lennon and Yoko Ono's January 22, 1981 <i>Rolling Stone</i> Cover:<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sBOq-je5d90/Tc4dl7QPWeI/AAAAAAAACGU/f-FnUxs91ug/s1600/honey_erykah_rolling_stone.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 182px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sBOq-je5d90/Tc4dl7QPWeI/AAAAAAAACGU/f-FnUxs91ug/s400/honey_erykah_rolling_stone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606451123521018338" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><b><br /></b>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-73240873460543014902011-04-27T14:40:00.003-04:002011-05-02T23:53:39.748-04:00A to Z or the Gamut Pt. II<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qZhRe0g4Xdc/TbhZNWoFuxI/AAAAAAAACEU/3btXBBUChEE/s1600/A%2Bto%2BZ.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qZhRe0g4Xdc/TbhZNWoFuxI/AAAAAAAACEU/3btXBBUChEE/s200/A%2Bto%2BZ.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600324222582110994" border="0" /></a><br />Almost instantly, the shift was felt. Because in more ways than one- it was always waiting in the wings. Carrying on is more a duty than an option. Doing what's right can be a curiously foreign concept to some. Everyone handles it differently. For some strange reason I welcomed both the fire and the ice. Going your own way is fitting once you tried other routes but wound up hungry and lost. Higher ground is sought but water always seeks its own level. I knew it had to be that way. Justifications became paramount. Kisses gave way to sealed lips and deaf ears. Longing for what was and never will be never felt so empty. My mind plays hide and seek with the memories. Now we know for sure. Once it's all said and done- we'll be better than before. Places everyone! Quiet on the set. Roles are played out and carelessly improvised. Surely- this wasn't in the script. Today I took my last backward glance. Underneath it all we bear the scars of fallen stars. Visions of what might have been plow their way through an obstruction of crowded actualities. What would I have changed had I known it would come to this? Xeroxing past moments to look them over later with coffee and the Daily News crossword. You were the apple of my optic but still you had the nerve? Zealots cannot even fathom that brand of adoration.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Author's Note</span>: Inspired by a writing exercise where each sentence begins in alphabetical succession. Also inspired by the poem, <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://www.afropoets.net/mayaangelou7.html">The Gamut</a> by the incomparable Ms. Angelou.</span>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-30095995337271859392011-04-20T22:15:00.010-04:002011-04-21T17:12:08.271-04:00Death be not proud<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GW65hgkUA2I/Ta-PK83UQWI/AAAAAAAACDw/_YmtMx5Q_mk/s1600/by-the-lake2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 272px; height: 399px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GW65hgkUA2I/Ta-PK83UQWI/AAAAAAAACDw/_YmtMx5Q_mk/s400/by-the-lake2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597850280144421218" border="0" /></a><br /><blockquote>"One short sleep past, we wake eternally." -John Donne</blockquote><br />I once read that if we didn't have endorphins, we'd all be junkies. I'd never thought of it like that before- but it makes sense. Sort of. You see, endorphins block out pain. All day long, that's their function. To block out pain, physical and otherwise that would likely turn you inside-out and keep you in a fetal position. They say if you take opiates long enough- your body stops producing endorphins. And what happens when you stop taking the opiates? Well, all you feel is pain you wouldn't ordinarily feel. Everyday pain. The pain of living. Which I suppose on any given day is better than the pain of dying. But I wouldn't know. Not for certain, anyway. What I do know, what I've become familiar with, is the pain of surviving. Since the year began I've been to three wakes and funerals. I have another one to attend by the end of this week. Don't get me wrong. I'm well acquainted with loss. But it has me on the ropes lately. I'm not ashamed to say that I've taken a beating this time around. So much pain and loss in such a short span of time. Bad news phone calls and utter disbelief. Tragic intros and mournful outros. Tearful goodbyes. I had no idea it could hurt so badly. I feel wrung out. You hear it all the time: "Life is fleeting" "You just never know" "Here today, gone tomorrow" "God makes no mistakes" I've heard it all and seen too much in the past few weeks. Back-to-back deaths. Mothers burying sons. Children who won't know their fathers. It's not natural. It's not right. But who am I to say? I'm so numb at this point; without the aid of opiates. And I feel that maybe, just maybe, my endorphins are slacking on the job... because I can feel it all.Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-25057931792148319842011-04-13T01:15:00.011-04:002011-09-26T02:15:04.449-04:00Atlas shrugged<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dqZj-QkdQJg/TaUo5L8wj9I/AAAAAAAACDI/PVcO0PDOPNo/s1600/atlas-shrugged.gif"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 280px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dqZj-QkdQJg/TaUo5L8wj9I/AAAAAAAACDI/PVcO0PDOPNo/s320/atlas-shrugged.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594923075002994642" border="0" /></a>There's no such thing as catching up when it feels like not a day has passed. Not with him. He's not unfamiliar with judgments. He just never cared to dole them out or let them stick. It's not to say he hasn't been called everything but a child of God. He has; simply for living his life how he saw fit. But still, he is one. Underground the sounds of the E train occasionally drowned out his sentences- but never once his sincerity. He looked weary but not worn. A resolute certainty replaced the whimsical look I've grown to know in his eyes. "I fucked up." The words came from a proverbial punched gut on the mend and for an instant- they sounded like my own truth. No more crestfallen than I was when it all happened to me on opposite sides; in parallel universes. A similar collapse in a different time. But it was my time to listen. And I did. I owe him that much after years of spilling tears into my cup of International coffee and his open ear. After years of overflowing ashtrays and heartbreaking songs on repeat. But he never judged me. Not once. And when he admonished me, it was from a place of such genuine love that I was better for it. Always. We stood there on that platform doused in separate antidotes of saki and sangria, years wiser but still so young. Still vulnerable and imperfect. Still brother and sister despite lack of DNA and regional closeness. I heard every word as I studied the flecks of gray in his goatee. My own wiry grays quietly outlining my freshly washed mane. I used to joke and say, "Quick! Smell my hair!" He never would, as big brothers don't do that sort of thing. He couldn't be caught off-guard. Once though, when there was nothing left to do but hold me close as I broke down- he told me this was a fucked up way to get him to finally smell my hair. His plan worked and I burst into laughter. It doesn't seem that long ago. Now we both have strains of gray. Shit.. when did we get so old? When did the problems become so real? As his train roared in there was so much I had to say. That time is the healthiest elixir, no matter how bitter. That it was okay to lose it after holding it together for so damn long. That these things tend to work themselves out. That I love him- pure and simple. Instead I looked at him and said, "Atlas shrugged." He agreed. And as we walked our ways from a rushed goodbye- he seemed lighter. We seemed lighter. Unburdened, at least for the moment.<br /><br /><blockquote>"And tell me, Friend..how in the world have you been?"</blockquote><br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/hop36n8tVZI" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-43227489256297175962011-04-01T00:00:00.002-04:002011-04-19T02:15:02.633-04:00Taxi<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vfrq7bDJAoU/TZTwdpenl7I/AAAAAAAACC4/7360oXBRO-g/s1600/hails-taxi.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vfrq7bDJAoU/TZTwdpenl7I/AAAAAAAACC4/7360oXBRO-g/s320/hails-taxi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590357429614778290" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Been rockin' this one on repeat for a minute now. It's so melodic. So hypnotic. So effin' true. Enjoy..<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Taxi - Ski Beats ft. Mos Def & Whosane</span><br /><br />En garde…bang bang it’s a war of the hearts<br />We could either make love or we could spar<br />Either way we hollerin’ out “Good Lord!”<br />Either one won’t solve the problem at all<br />Spent the first half tryin’ to get it on<br />Spent the next half tryin’ to get gone<br />“What’s wrong?” “Nothin’ at all…”<br />Watch ya head girl, that lie is too tall<br />Don’t go, eff it do what you want<br />I’m out the front door, I’m waitin’ on ya call<br />Forgot it took place, rememberin’ it all<br />Feel like forever, the moment’s so small<br />Your eyes soft, you go hard, your kiss warm<br />Your cold heart, fresh frost<br />Tryna melt it off<br />Bags packed at home, lookin’ lost<br />Trippin’ out, endin’ up where you start<br />Carousel at the merry-go-park<br />Pretty horse, let me off<br />Shed a tear but I’m too tired to mourn<br />I…do it tomorrow, when ya gone<br />And ya can’t see me at all<br />Boulevard, love and hate, we at the cross<br />Buckle up…rough course…TAXI!<br /><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/-jmHy2GMWR4?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-16613788581026789642011-03-31T00:00:00.006-04:002011-03-31T01:44:25.849-04:00Throwback Thursdays<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GDlbYmOUmcc/TZNtmX8nxpI/AAAAAAAACCw/euM1of64g5Y/s1600/images.jpeg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 191px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GDlbYmOUmcc/TZNtmX8nxpI/AAAAAAAACCw/euM1of64g5Y/s320/images.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589932068527654546" border="0" /></a>Peace B-Boys and Girls. This Bug is back I'm sorry to say, with a heavy heart. Suffice to say it's been a really rough month. But the beauty of music, Hip Hop music especially, is that it can take you to a good place. A comforting place. It's been a while since I've even heard Today's Throwback. But I was at a wake for the brother of a high school friend yesterday and I found it both odd and fitting that this song came up during words of tribute and remembrance. A cousin of his approached the mic amid the brokenhearted and spoke of a memory he had of this tape first coming out. He spoke of how amped they both were while it played for the first time in his boom box. Those who could relate all smiled, because we knew exactly what he meant. I guess for that moment- we were all united in our grief and in being <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Hip Hop Junkies</span>. It was nice to know a feel good song by <span style="font-weight: bold;">Nice n Smooth</span> had its place in the fond memories of the departed. Especially because this song is so full of life; just like him. May his spirit travel forward in love and light. This one is for Big Keith. R.I.P. Kito. Much Love.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SLQlYwIIKDs?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" width="480" frameborder="0" height="390"></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-30981495257295226522011-03-28T15:00:00.013-04:002011-03-29T16:56:31.815-04:00The Reflex<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ok4OFYnGTrk/TZC9WXm_PtI/AAAAAAAACCo/iJ_xRB15lqc/s1600/flaming_arrows.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 390px; height: 166px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ok4OFYnGTrk/TZC9WXm_PtI/AAAAAAAACCo/iJ_xRB15lqc/s320/flaming_arrows.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5589175329559101138" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:ARIAL;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:130%;">"Four things come not back. The spoken word, the sped arrow, the past life, and the neglected opportunity." ~Arabian Proverb</span></blockquote><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:130%;" ><br />Make that five. The reflex. A knee-jerk reaction that's impossible to stop. It has its rightful place among the spoken or rather, spat word that pierces the ear like a poisoned dart. It flies alongside the flaming arrow that may blaze an unintended target. It meanders with the life already lived; never to be experienced in such a way again. And it waits with the missed the chances that will never return. The reflex; that instinctive movement that happens in spite of itself.. An impulsive and uncontrollable creature with a devil-may-care propensity. The reflex cannot be taken back even if it wants to be. It's the first pebble of the avalanche. The red button that can't be undetonated. The statement that won't be redacted. The lost cause and the effect all in one. It is in fact reflexive- not an unprovoked action and It. Comes. Not. Back.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></span>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-12943166405870077322011-03-24T00:00:00.001-04:002011-03-24T09:21:42.075-04:00Throwback Thursdays<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Mey4jUngSvQ/TYq-I0-kpRI/AAAAAAAACCY/zassjWY85kU/s1600/joy.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 360px; height: 241px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Mey4jUngSvQ/TYq-I0-kpRI/AAAAAAAACCY/zassjWY85kU/s320/joy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587487346575844626" border="0" /></a><br />This Bug never thought she'd see the day when a throwback feature went beyond the nineties but I have to go with it when the inspiration is there. This is one of those joints that I knew nothing about. I didn't know who made it, where they were from, nothing. I just knew the first time I heard it in 2002, I liked it instantly. The jazzy horns made it feel like a Pete Rock masterpiece, but I was wrong. Sometimes you just have to appreciate the little things- because they add up and count for a lot. No one expressed this sentiment more soundly than <span style="font-weight: bold;">Blackalicious</span>. I still have no idea where they're from or who else they've worked with. I just know that back then and up until recently, hearing it transported me to good times. Memories and blessings. Things you may overlook when you get caught up in the day-to-day. And let's be honest; the daily grind and money may make you comfortable for a time- but it's not what sustains us. This Bug's line? <span style="font-style: italic;"> "A bad day'll make you really notice ones that's good</span> / <span style="font-style: italic;"> And that'll make things a little better understood." </span> It's those rare moments that you should hold close when it gets tough. The chance encounters. The unexpected good fortune. A show of kindness returned. Good times with friends and family. Or maybe just a nice tune that celebrates those things. Those things that <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Make You Feel That Way</span>. Enjoy.<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/wIGJ1lekcMg?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" width="480" frameborder="0" height="390"></iframe>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-62070719064973411362011-03-23T23:15:00.005-04:002011-03-24T09:19:03.035-04:00And she was...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B8aqt3HtdOU/TYrBQ9mZbGI/AAAAAAAACCg/Ps-beK254Ho/s1600/ElizabethTaylor.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 263px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B8aqt3HtdOU/TYrBQ9mZbGI/AAAAAAAACCg/Ps-beK254Ho/s320/ElizabethTaylor.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587490784864201826" border="0" /></a><br />Glamorous. The cat's meow. A Hollywood icon. An AIDS crusader. The original diamond cluster hustler. A friend to <a style="color: rgb(51, 255, 255);" href="http://thisbugslife-in-words.blogspot.com/2009/06/never-can-say-goodbye.html">MJ</a> when it was an unpopular thing to be. She was honest. Classy, gutsy, private and downright beautiful. And she lived in way that didn't seek approval..from any of us. Farewell to the violet eyes.<br /><br /><br /><blockquote>"I have a woman's body and a child's emotions." ~Elizabeth Taylor February 27, 1932 – March 23, 2011<br /></blockquote><br />Where ever you may be, may your inner child sing and womanly ways float freely. Rest In Paradise, Liz.Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-57519601193651879972011-03-22T01:55:00.001-04:002011-03-23T13:22:21.932-04:00hurts like brand new shoes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J4gSSQvxNkc/TYmKEpmlpbI/AAAAAAAACCA/VqK1MIbWDPA/s1600/shoes.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 220px; height: 229px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J4gSSQvxNkc/TYmKEpmlpbI/AAAAAAAACCA/VqK1MIbWDPA/s320/shoes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587148625221625266" border="0" /></a><br />Normally I'm an excellent speller. So it's sort of strange what happened. At the side hustle a few days ago I had to fill out a damage slip for a shoe. It was quick and painless. I've done it a dozen times before without thinking. It's quite simple, really. Date. Brand Name. Reason. I got the first two right. It wasn't until I looked down at what I'd scrawled for the reason, that I saw my mistake. There, on that two inch line were the words that gave me pause. I know what I'd meant; what I was supposed to write. But somewhere between the correct spelling in my mind, my subconscious and the pen in my hand- there was a disconnect. The meaning changed. Or maybe it was a non-verbal Freudian slip. Plus, for the shoes to be so new it made no sense for the sole to be damaged that way- but it was obviously defective. Made by miscalculation. Not unlike most of us, I suppose. Perhaps my hand wrote the word incorrectly just so I could look down and process something deeper. Something I've been feeling for quite some time. And I stood there a moment; unable to move. Staring at the words in my hurried penmanship: <span style="font-size:85%;">Detached Soul</span>Jayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5847724432339723912.post-35272918087485522832011-03-19T09:12:00.003-04:002011-03-19T09:18:30.378-04:00left for dead<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZZFdzL7Ad4A/TYSsCqD3VZI/AAAAAAAACB4/8Cb5cbbyO-I/s1600/bigbadwolf.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZZFdzL7Ad4A/TYSsCqD3VZI/AAAAAAAACB4/8Cb5cbbyO-I/s320/bigbadwolf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585778599496471954" border="0" /></a><br />you don't immediately wonder<br />what it will feel like<br />once your entrails have been ripped out<br />and feasted upon<br /><br />there is no way to tell<br />the emptiness that will dwell<br />in the shell of what<br />you once were<br /><br />'til it happens<br />to you<br />and by then<br />it won't matterJayne Neverowhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03692589362605192374noreply@blogger.com0