A to Z or the Gamut Pt. II

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.



Author's Note: Inspired by a writing exercise where each sentence begins in alphabetical succession. Also inspired by the poem, The Gamut by the incomparable Ms. Angelou.

From the Inside Looking Out

From the outside looking in- it doesn't look so bad. But she's not out here. She's in there. Seeing where it all started. Empty kitchen. The crack of the seal on the vodka bottle. Five straight shots. Heart pounding and nothing to inhale but her own angry dragon fire. Now she needs smokes. Keys in hand, mind out the window. Riding smack dab on the double line. The gas attendant sees the fury but it's desperation upon closer inspection. A match ignites the thin cigar because all her lighters are M.I.A. Street lights are blurred. Vision is blurred. But clear enough to see it. The black chariot. The wicked black chariot that haunts nightmares and daydreams with even relentlessness. Nothing left to do but unravel. Scream. Lunge. Slap. Kick. At anything at all. Anything that moves. When all is said and done, the windshield looks like Charlotte's web..without the words Terrific or Humble woven throughout it. Convulsions come. Tears. Gallons of them. Enough to outsalt the Dead Sea. Whispers of mockery dancing in ears. Knowing glances exchanged over her head. All in the name of doing what feels right. Long gone are peaceful times but quiet moments linger. Empty kitchens. Broken liquor seals. A fractured stillness. From the inside looking out- it looks like what it is.. and feels even worse. From the outside looking in- it doesn't look so bad at all. But I'm not out there. I'm in here.

Don't look away

Is she hiding? Witnessing what should never be seen? Looking for what is under her very nose? Cursing the day those eyes opened or praying for the day they close? Searching for something that simply isn't there? You never can tell. Once you trump insurmountable fears, the rest of it looks like an open valley. Ye thou I walk through the valley...but what if the shadows come? But the shadows are always there, aren't they? And the lights that lead the way are blinding. So what is there to hide from? Truth may be ugly but is always worth looking at. Unflinchingly.

And..how did you find me, again?

So it's going on three years since I started This Bug's Life. No drum roll. No bells and whistles. I already got the 100th post out of my system. It's been a pretty good run and I can only hope to continue it. That being said- I'm still figuring out this whole 'Blogger' format. Recently, I discovered a neat little tab on the dashboard of my blog once I signed in. "STATS". It was there that a whole new world opened up to me. Of course it shows you how many page views you've gotten in a day, week, month, etc. and referring websites but that's not what caught my interest. There's list of the top key words that people Googled in order to reach my site. Much to my surprise (and some less so) I learned what led random traffic directly to This Bug's Life. Here goes:



assup - Call me slow, but it took me a second to realize that more than one person hastily typed in 'Ass Up' as in Uncle Luke's infamous chant, "Face Down, Ass Up. That's the way we like to F**k" and somehow wound up on my blog. Wowzas.




massaging a martini - I wish I knew what the hell this is supposed to mean. I really don't remember posting anything that involved massages and martinis simultaneously- but I'm officially inspired.



bug's life racist - As if! Actually, I know exactly what this is about. I got my hooks in Disney a while back and didn't let go. It's in the archives. Check it out. I pissed a few people off simply by shattering their flowery childhood memories of a few beloved cartoon classics. If pointing out the obvious facts makes This Bug a racist...let's discuss it. Seriously.



bitchwearingnodraws - Ha! I saw this one and thought, 'Classy huh?'. Then I saw how many folks have come across the Panty Free Friday I was thinking about petitioning for as a national holiday. Once you go Commando for a day- you'll understand why a 'bitch wearing no draws' is highly unoffensive when sought after in proper taste. Let's do this!




taxi cop- It's not a myth, People. They exist. It's sneaky. It's entrapment. And it's perfectly legal. Think about that the next time you decide to text with that yellow cab next to you at the red light.


Anyway, it matters very little what led you here. You got here. And made This Bug very happy in the process. Make it a Favorite. Bookmark it. Come back for more. You might be surprised at what you stumble upon. I know I was- and I write the damn thing.

Ciao!

Judge not

I've heard it all my life. So have you.  "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."  As a youngster, this idiom was never fully explained to me.  I just knew it involved stones and glass. Common sense told me that the thrower could just as easily be hurt if his target decided to return fire.  If anything, the one in the glass house would be worse off- since shattered glass causes the kind of damage that stones do not.  No less dangerous.  Just different.

Just for today- a twist on an old adage: Don't go throwing stones in a Plexiglass house. Yes, it's harder to see and doesn't break nearly as easily. It feels safe. But you have to come out someday.  What then? Nobody's bulletproof.

Throw your stones in a house of mirrors instead and maybe then you’ll see enough to tell the truth and know it when it falls upon your ears.

A Reader's Confessional

"A good book on your shelf is a friend that turns its back on you and remains a friend." ~Author Unknown

Sometimes I buy the books because the titles sound interesting. The Call of the Weird.  A Thirst for Rain. Death Be Not Proud. 100 Things You're Not Supposed Know.  Or because the covers are eye-catching. Open to a random page.  Skim a few lines.  If they can write, I buy it.  Discarded library books for 50 cents.  Books from thrift shops.  The occasional designer bookstore purchase when I get a coupon via email.  Novels.  Cookbooks.  Poetry.  Once in a while- a self-help book disguised as an instructional manual or revelatory instant classic.  I buy them all.  Because as long as I have them, there's an  unspoken confirmation that my wheels are still turning.  The books help oil the machine.  As long as I can read- I can make sense of my reality while escaping it.  Books by the plentiful pound.  Stories about foreign, faraway places and close-up tragedies not unlike my own.  The missed train.  The tyrant of a mentor. The forced hand. The skinned knee.  The inexclusive love.  The flood of afterthought that drowns every living and already decayed thing in 20/20 hindsight. The rebirth of spirit.  Quiet chaos and triumphs holding hands; riding off into the sunset.  Books, quite simply...are my truth when the rest of the world is lying straight to my face. 

Let the Bed Bug bite

When I was in the sixth grade, I wrote a story about a lipstick from the perspective of the lipstick.  I can remember getting a really high grade on it.  The teacher liked how I applied emotion to an inanimate object.  The details are fuzzy but I recall the lipstick being purchased from the cosmetic counter by a girl whose father thought she was too young to wear make-up.  She tried it on in private.  Held it close, hid it in her Hello Kitty purse.  She snuck it into school once and put it on before she spoke to a boy she liked.  Her dad found it one day. He snatched it from her, smashed the cap onto it before winding it down, and so on.  All of this from the point of view of the lipstick.  It was pretty cool. Anyway, recently I was looking for writing prompts and was reminded of that story. What follows is the result of that writing exercise. I had fun with it.  I may post more of these because I enjoyed revisiting the midset of being in my writing classes.  Here's the prompt:

 You return home from work to find a Dear John letter on your kitchen table. Oddly enough, it's from one of your favorite pieces of furniture. What does the letter say? 


Dear Jayne,

    I guess the gaping space in the bedroom is somewhat telling.  I wish it weren't this way.  It's only been about three years but I believe it's best if we part ways.  For now, anyway.  It's not that I don't feel appreciated- because I do.  The way you rotated me each  month and regularly changed my linens let me know that you cared about my well being.  When your brother-in-law built my base so you wouldn't lose things underneath me, I was relieved.  I know you hated misplacing earrings and hair clips under there.  But this is not about me.

    I was meant to improve your quality of life but it's just not happening.  You only just learned that I was called Cushion Cloud.  My pillow top used to lull you into blissful rest.  Somehow though, you forgot how useful I could be.  Languid sweat from bodies in motion has been replaced by tears.  You think I can't tell the difference in the saline? Ask yourself what happened.  How come I don't feel the weight of him anymore? One man.  I liked that you never brought strangers to lie in me.  I grew accustomed to the way you both held each other close in the middle of me.  And when asleep, secure in the knowledge that I was supporting you both, retreated to opposite sides.  Only to unite again when day broke.  He was in the habit of making me before he left.  I wish I could say the same for you- but I don't fault you for that.  You're always running.  Always late.  I know I'm the reason you sometimes chose a few minutes more of being cradled over making sure every hair was in place for work.  I know that takes time. You didn't mind oversleeping.  I want you to know that I understand how lonely it can be.  That's why you often fall asleep with books or the New York Times at the foot of me sometimes; the lamp still burning bright when your alarm sounds at 7:25 a.m.  I was all yours.  You'd lay diagonally, dead center and even upside-down on occasion.  Or you'd tear off articles of clothing in mid-slumber.  Leggings.  Socks. A bra left between the sheets here and there.  Panties rolled off in one swift movement; just so you could get more out your forty winks.  That made me happy.

  But I'm not happy anymore- because you're not happy anymore.  I won't be back until you are again.  I know you'll miss me when you're curled up on that too soft love seat, sinking each time you rest your bones.  It sounds strange but I want you to.  I want you to get busy living.  Live a life that makes you ready to collapse into a welcoming bed so that I may want to return.  Make no mistake; I don't want you to exhaust yourself.  You've done enough of that.  I just want you to even things out again.  Less tears.  More sleep.  Lovemaking at twilight. More dreams.  No nightmares. You deserve that.  I'll be back when it's time.

                                                                                   Yours truly,
                                                                                   The Mattress

P.S.  Just a last word of advice.  The sheepskin rug is nice but I hope you don't get on the floor to take your rest.  Too many unseen dust mites down there.  TTYS...hopefully.

     
                                       

Never That Simple

What I'm doing- is like trying to build a cathedral out of Popsicle sticks. And while one may admire the artistry of such a feat- anyone observing will instantly recognize it as a useless and laborious task.  Each attempt to come closer to peace finds me several paces further from it.  If it were as simple as applying my favorite shade of lipstick to the contours of my lips without the aid of a compact- I would soar.  Knowing this mouth all my life takes the work out of it.  But it's never that simple, is it?  You cannot just paint over the cracks and pretend the dilapidation is nonexistent.  The truth will bleed through eventually.  It's still there.  Like the mottled blemishes on the once mauve lips of  my youth, I know how they got there.  I only succeed in hiding them from the rest of the world.  It's the reason I don't leave the house without lipstick.  But I know what's there from dragging smoke across them for the better part of eighteen years.  Damage.

This is my guilt.  Shining up the armor each morning.  Preparing for battle.  Locking out the world and showing a brave, war painted face.  Brandishing scars and weapons of sarcasm that tell the same story.  I fight against phantom assailants that are no more than shadows of my past.  They would disappear if I could just turn a light on.  I could back up and finally see the wholeness of me.  But I'm broken at best.  Constantly piecing together the ill-fitting parts for some semblance of normalcy. It's like groping around in a dark but familiar room.  When you knock into the end table, sending the lamp to the floor- it's not because you didn't know it was there.  You just weren't mindful of the known obstacles.  They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.  They would have had me committed years ago.

Sometimes I dream of a love that rights the wrong.  A love that hurts and heals simultaneously, a deserving love.  I came close once.  But in my haste, I mistook it for mine. I understand now that it was not mine to claim.  None of it is ours to keep.  We should simply pass it along like a message that may self-destruct once read. And be thankful someone thought us worthy of the mission.

Coming Soon

Newsflash: This Bug is not especially savvy when it comes to time management. Because of this, I tend to lag behind in a multitude of tasks because I'm so busy trying to tackle everything at once. I hate it but at least I can admit it. Even Superwoman needs a helping hand every now and then.

These days I've been running around like an octopus. Picture it: Phone, pen, spatula, towel, detergent, vibrator Visine, mail, high heels, car keys, curling iron, etc. juggled in each tentacle. You get the picture. (C'mon, some things you have to make time for.) Anyway I've been neglecting my blog. I miss it. I miss you guys, too. The ones who care to check me out and/or leave your feedback. It means a lot to me. You have no idea. But my time is stretched to capacity and I have limited access to the computer lately. It's killing me softly.

Since I don't have much time but I do have all intentions of blogging again soon, I figured I share with you some of the upcoming posts I was kicking around in my head. In no particular order here are some of the topics you'll catch my thoughts on in the not-too-distant future.

I Miss (Cokehead) Mary J.

Who I'd Bed if I had a Time Machine

Skyzoo is the Truth. Have a Listen.

An interpretation of my dream that involved chasing and impalement in a gazebo.

Rules, Schmules. I did it my way and it worked. (How I got over)

10 Things about the movie Pulp Fiction to apply to everyday life.



Anyway, I really hope you come back soon. I mean, I really hope I do, too. But the candle has to be burned at both ends right now. In the meantime, check the archives, Buggies. Love you all.

Deuces.

Thriller in Manila

I wasn't looking for them. As a matter of fact, I wasn't even looking for the box they were nestled in- waiting to be found. I was just there to pick up a few odds and ends to bring to my new digs. It's weird. The way the past can sometimes drift out to you from forgotten boxes. It peels your eyelids back and turns a crank in the brain that you long believed was rusted from disuse. But belief is a peculiar thing. I didn't always know that everything begins with just that. The slightest speck of belief. The tiniest iota of intangible hope wrapped gingerly in a ribbon of faith. Everything is as it should be. Once the clicking in my head stopped, there they were. All of them. Lydia. Rex. Stacy. Champ. Vincent. Nalia. People on paper I assumed had died or withered away with time and circumstance. Characters who were balled up and tossed before they ever had a chance to be fleshed out- but somehow missed the waste basket. There must be reason. I'm sitting here, pondering what to do with these people. Their stories. My story...but not entirely. I suppose I never stopped writing it. I just needed to breathe. Open up the door on my chest. Step in...have a look around. I got so lost there. Living, loving, learning. Drinking in moments and drowning in real life; that I'd forgotten my obligation. It's akin to birthing a child and forgetting to feed it. How does that happen? She wrote, "I mean, you've been through a lot and fought and lost and fought and won." I knew it was it the truth when I read it- but I honestly never viewed it that way until then. It matters not how the ball was dropped. It is my duty to pick it up with both hands and hurl it around the globe, or at the very least- as far as belief can carry it. And now, after meeting them all again in that manila envelope, I remember my obligation to write their story. My story. But not.

Entirely.

This Bug's Handguide to Disappointment

"If I could find a souvenir just to prove the world was here- And here is a red balloon. I think of you and let it go..." - 99 Red Balloons, Nena

Every day, on some scale- we all encounter disappointment. Whether it's minor, like the CD you've been 'jonesing for' being recently sold out or a best laid plan not coming to fruition by the expected deadline, we have all been there. But the important thing is that through disappointment, we can learn how to strengthen our resolve. Undoubtedly, it makes us wiser. At certain times, it causes us to go back and re-examine whether or not what we so hoped for was truly meant for us all. We can explore the possibilities of miscalculations, mistakes and setbacks with 20/20 hindsight.

Sometimes the fulfillment we sought may have be an illusion, while our reality is hard at work- plain as day for us to see. Or sometimes it means we should work even harder towards our endeavors. Ultimately, it is up to the individual and the goal at hand. A colossal disappointment should not diminish hope. Discouragement should never be nurtured to the point of complacency. Every obstacle you overcome brings you that much closer to the person you are constantly evolving into. These lessons should serve as tools to better understand our surroundings and ourselves.

A letdown can be taxing on your spirit. Anyone who ever went in for their dream job and never got a callback can attest to this. But as long as you know where you stand and where you plan to go from there- that same letdown will prove to be the necessary fuel to carry you on to where you are truly meant to be.

That being said, the universe and a greater power will always have a hand in what is happening, what is going to happen and decidedly what may never happen. The key is to respect that power while still handling your business. QB's crowning jewel of emcees once said, "He never planned to fail, he just failed to plan." Nasir Jones understands that without a blueprint, you are more inclined to be at the mercy of these elements and thus meet with your disappointment face to face.

So what can we do? We all like our own way, but think about it... if we each had it our own way, convexly, logic says that some of us would be required to not have it our way. Just think of it like this: When you get your way, there is someone out there enduring the adverse effect of your upswing. It is how the universe balances itself out. One man's failure is another man's success. It's best not to ruminate too long on who is gaining from your loss. It's up to you to decide what you will do from that point on, once faced with your reality. And this goes for any aspect of life. Sometimes conclusions have to be drawn and rationalizations have to be accepted. If you can't be with the one you love; love the one you're with. Sometimes it means the career path chosen may have to take a backseat while your back-up trade takes the wheel. As long as you know where you're headed, in the end you should be alright.

Missed chances and setbacks are a part of our lives. There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love. It is what we do afterward that counts. Forget regrets or life is yours to miss.


That's the official two cents from the Ladybug.
Think Freely. Love Greatly. Live Unrepentantly.


Author's Note: Originally posted 5/6/2007 on Myspace
Photo Credit: Artwork by Banksy

Formerly Known As

The moniker was Lady Lightning Bug. I chose it for two reasons. The first one is obvious. My affinity for all things small, red and dotted. I have always felt a strong pull towards ladybugs. Butterflies are nice but ladybugs are among my favorite of all living creatures. They brighten everything in their tiny, crimson and onyx glory. A stroke of luck, a quiet wisdom. I can relate. There have been so many times in my life where serendipity and luck (if you believe in such things) played a starring role. Certain events caused me to look back and breathe a sigh of relief, count my blessings and thank a nearby ladybug. Sidebar: Once, I was outside on a smoke break at work when I saw a ladybug land on my lapel. It flew away as soon as I laid eyes on it. (Or so I thought.) Minutes later in the ladies room, I brought my skirt and silky unmentionables to my knees to handle my ladylike business. And out flew a ladybug! True story. So, clearly we're connected in some fashion. I don't think they hang out in just anyone's panties.

The lightning component was equally relevant. Lightning is as quick as it is captivating. Anything that beautiful has to be dangerous. It strikes haphazardly. Awkward but deliberate. Like myself, it is prone to random acts of violence. I wish I could say why, but asking me that would be like asking why lightning strikes so indiscriminately. It just does. There is no rhyme to my movements but plenty of reason. It's hard to explain. An odd sensation takes hold when I can no longer sit on my hands, grin and bear it, that sort of thing. There is a need for reckless relief- and usually with seismic after effects . So much so, that I was coined "Erratica" by a close counterpart. I can't lie. I kind of liked the sound of it. It was like my superhero alter ego. "Look! Up and down the street. It's a bird. It's a plane!" No. It's Erratica: Flippin' cars and tippin' buildings with involuntary ease.
Yeah, that pretty much summed it up.

Anyway, nom de plumes withstanding, I will always love the quietness of ladybugs and I may always possess a volatile approach to certain endeavors. The duality makes no sense- but what ever really does? Just about anything or any theory can be plucked apart or cut to ribbons given the proper circumstances. Besides, it's not what you're called. It's what you answer to. Lady Lightning Bug. Jayne. This Bug. What's in a name? Google can say better than I can on some days. And then there are days where it's all crystal clear. Those are the days I share a piece of myself through my words for all to see. Deserving or not. Jay-Z was on to something. I can't see it coming out my eyes, so I gotta make the pen cry. I only write to get it right. Ever changing. Ever striking. One keystroke at a time.

Over and out.

One of Us

It's half past eleven in the morning. Thirty minutes before it's socially acceptable to have a cocktail- but the place is open and a Vodka tonic called me there. I drag the wooden stool back and order. "No lime, please." I say to no one in particular. A short glass of my poison is placed before me. I treat the first gulp like mouthwash then swallow hard. Before I can settle into my crowded brain, the door swings open and an older gentleman ambles towards the bar. He draws closer to me. Life has weathered his mahogany face. He needs a drink less than I do judging from the scent emanating from his pores. "Single malt if you have it," he says to the barkeep. I'm not surprised at all. He turns to me and asks if I want to hear the truth. I shrug. He walks over to the jukebox and drops in an endless supply of coin.

To the sounds of Little Milton, he launches into the aforementioned truth. I listen wordlessly while staring at the bubbles that find the top of my bitter liquid. Between sips of Glenfiddich he speaks of an ordinary life. Married for 32 years. Widowed 8 years ago. Three grown children spread across the continental U.S. Seven grandchildren between two of them. His eldest son- the one in San Diego, is a 'Fly Boy'. Lives out there with his partner. No kids, obviously. That one has his namesake if I can believe it. And I do. I ask if that bothers him at all. "Well, it did for a while...but he's still mine, you know?" His eyes appear to be looking thirty years into the past.

There's a pregnant pause between us and then I hear it. By the time he croaks out an admission you seldom hear a man of his age make- the guitar strings of R.E.M 's Everybody Hurts are coiling through the air. "I had to love him that much more... cuz his world was that much colder." For the first time since our conversation began, my mind wanders back to my own thoughts. What brought me here in the first place. Freshly sacked from a loathsome job I really needed, my car wanting overpriced repairs and enough past due bills to wallpaper my entire apartment. None of it matters. I gaze at the mirror behind the rows of bottles at the bar. I look like a stranger to myself and incidentally, the stranger's reflection seated next to mine looks oddly familiar. I begin to wonder why I've sat this long listening to him. I look to my left to find him gone. Joan Osborne's One of Us is the soundtrack to his exit. I push three singles towards the napkin holder. As I get up to leave it occurs to me that I was there to hear my own truth, not his. I step out against the lunch rush into a new, unknown world.



“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers; for thereby some have entertained angels unaware..”- Hebrews 13:2

The 5 Ws (and 1 H)

Who: This Bug at your service.

What: Blogging like a bandit on Half Fruit Punch/Half Sprite with the ashtray close at hand.

When: The time is now!

Where: Everywhere.

Why: Preservation of my sanity. A responsibility to Hip-Hop and to all those who aren't seduced by what might be behind Door #3.

How: With excellence.

Let it commence.

Many Happy Returns

It's been a while. What began as a forced sabbatical became a much welcomed break. It started with the power supply in my computer going Tupac backwards. That's Caput for all the slow ones out there. My pc ( Yup. This Bug thrives on desktops-hates laptops and notebooks) started to sound like a Black Hawk copter taking off before it completely gave out. Blank screen. I was without my computer for roughly three months and truthfully, it came right on time. Something was off. I wasn't writing. I wasn't reading. I was as blank as my monitor. But it was perfect. I unplugged. Literally.

I checked out. Shut down my Facebook page. Sent all calls to voicemail. Switched my landline answering machine to two rings. I spent some much needed time in books...and in my own head. The new year found me renewed and replenished and it had nothing to do with January 1st. It had everything to do with leaving behind cumbersome thoughts and negative energy. I had to walk away from everyone and everything to find the center again.

And I found it. With no blog as an outlet, I was restricted to dealing with my life without documenting it along the way. Well, that's not entirely true. From a remote location, i.e., the library, I recounted my tale of an inebriated fist fight I got into last month. What can I say? I'm a violent drunk. You can read about it below. Since I've been away, so much has taken place. I fell in and out and back in love again. Haiti was shaken to shambles. I blew the dust off an old Yo! MTV Raps VHS tape. Someone as close as family began serving a sentence of 100 years. Princess Leia became a Jedi. And I saw all the promise of the universe in the milky black pupils of a three month old.

There is much to document. There is much to relay. I write to get it right. Everything else gets left. One thing's for sure...

Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself

It was recently brought to my attention that I have readers from various walks of life. Or, at least the Narcissist Blogger in me would like to think so. I have no way of knowing anymore since I removed the traffic monitoring device. It just felt a bit..oh I dunno...stalkerish? Anyway, those who have been following know that I can swing in any direction on my blog depending on the day. I can go from current events to poetry to mad-woman ranting in just one week. But anyone who's been reading knows that This Bug loves all things Hip-Hop. So in an effort to concentrate those interests while still staying true to my Hip-Hop roots...I bring to you (extended drum roll) Dope Beats and Door Knockas. This way, all my true heads who want the treats going straight to the main vein without the other stuff can just peep me over there. Throwback Thursdays will still be featured on This Bug's Life, but if you want a dose that hasn't even been stepped on...Dope Beats and Door Knockas is the way to go. All previous Hip-Hop related posts can be found over there. Anyway, I'm just expanding those Pretty Wings, you know? Hope I didn't lose anyone. This is also a move to keep the focus on all the other topics you guys seem to appreciate on Bug's Life. Thanks for the continued support and readership. We now return to your regularly scheduled blogging. Deuces!

Left Hand Write

What a map of confusion that leads nowhere. Lines crossing in and out of one another on my tan palm. Digits that are too long for such a short base. "Neverow Fingers" are the definition given by my clan. We all have them. Nails that are too jagged to be considered ladylike top them off. Rings show up occasionally and resemble a polar bear in the Serengeti. No matter how deft or skillful it should be, there always an awkward gesture at work. Perhaps out of nervousness or just plain idleness. There are tiny burns on the back of it. Hot oil from a frying pan before the Tilapia made it in. Another near the wrist from pulling a frittata from the oven too hastily one Father's Day. This hand would write if it didn't lack dexterity. It fumbles mostly. Runs absently over premature frown lines hidden by carefully coiffed bangs. This hand with only the ring finger possessing what could pass for a well shaped fingernail. Peeling polish in Mauve Sunset, but well shaped nonetheless. Slight hairs on the index and middle finger are all but singed off from smoking Marlboro Menthol Lights down to the second green line that dares you to cross it. This hand is falling asleep under a heavy head. A head that rests on the arm of the couch, eyes blankly staring forward. Tingling sets in. I have not moved. This hand, begging wordlessly to run down the side of a kind face. It will come to pass, but not tonight. Tonight when the pins and needles sensation recedes, that same half dead hand will wipe away tears tasted at the corners of a mouth. The right hand steps in...dutifully takes the pen.


Author's Note: This piece was written at Gotham Writers Workshop after being given the following exercise prompt: Examine your less dominant hand and describe what you see while simultaneously writing.

No Coincidence

My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will. In 1958 there were constables installed on President Wiseman Avenue in Port of Spain, Trinidad- donned in crisp khaki shirts and black shorts that stopped just below the knee. At 10:15 p.m. a solitary telephone rings at 45 Duke Street. Stella does not have long, it seems. An aneurysm they say. To my 13 year old father it is no different from a heart attack or hearing that she has been hit by the Number 2 bus. He is alone in the house. Dashing about, he grabs his paperboy hat and a poem he wrote for her earlier at school. Hopping on his bicycle, he races down to the hospital to kiss the grandmother I will never meet.

Curfew has been instated to curb recent gang activity. Since then- bottles no longer rain from the roofs of local Rum Shops along Wiseman and Maraval Avenue. He is nearly out of breath and approaching Pitch Lake when Constable John stops him in his tracks. "Ay boy, whuh yuh doin' out pas' curfew on a Wednesday?" It is not so much a question as it is an accusation. My father gives pause to slow his heartbeat. He has already ridden three miles nonstop. "Is meh muddah, Sir. They tell meh she catch a stroke an' cyah move. But..." More gulps for air. "She wake up askin' for meh, Sir." He eyes my father dubiously. "Name, Boy?" My father has no time but obliges. "Neverow, Sir. Kenneth Neverow." Before I am a twinkle in his eye, the distrust for uniformed officers is already forming in my DNA. Constable John glowers at him. "Please Sir. They say she don't have long. An' she askin' for me at the hospital." The air is still- save for distant tires rolling on pavement two blocks over. "You ain't goin' to no friggin' hospital dis time of night! The closest one is a next five miles into town. Who you wit', Boy?! Silk Hats? Desperados? Nah- yuh look like one of dem Renegade boys." A droplet of sweat trails down my father's arm- shocking him into perfect posture. His despair is taking root. "No gang, Sir. I promise you. My mother is sick. That is the only reason I am out past curfew. Perhaps you may accompany me, Sir. Then you'll see." His invitation to the truth only agitates the constable. For a moment his scowl softens to a smile...but it is a mockery. "An' yuh speak the Queen's English when yuh ready, eh? Impressive."

"Alright Renegade. I believe you. Yuh have to go and catch yuh dyin' mother. If you willing to ride, you must be willing to run." In a swift motion he knocks my father off the seat of his bike. His knee opens up from breaking the fall. White flesh first, then tiny beads of red. Twenty-nine years later I will nurse a similar but very different wound while learning to ride my first two-wheeler. I will howl through tears- but he feels no pain upon impact. With one arm the officer lifts the bike and hurls it into the lake on the outskirts of Savannah Park. It sinks quickly. Only soft ripples give any indication of the malice that put it there, taking most of my young father's faith in mankind with it. "I thought you was in a rush, Boy? Run! You can run the rest of the way." With no hesitation my father takes his dismissal and bolts, blood now coloring his left ankle sock. He runs into darkness lit occasionally by garish orange street lights that still blink on at dusk in Trinidad. Heaving, he swings blindly into St. Mary's Hospital- mangled knee and all. A stabbing pain in his side from not stopping. He will not feel the sting on both palms where gravel was embedded until he looks down at his hands two hours later.

Stella Neverow expired at 12:12 a.m. With her she took line-dried Indian Cotton tablecloths, an all-knowing smile and meat pies at Christmastime. No goodbyes were exchanged between mother and son. There is no exact science. It may be Osmosis; or through some loyalty with no name that I inherited this strange conjecture, this deep-seated resentment where lawmen are concerned. Years later he coolly tells me why he believes in miracles. "...because I'll walk on water before I walk on eggshells for some arrogant cop son-of-a-bitch." My father hates policemen. Always has. Always will.

Oh..Yeah...Right....There!

• Aight People, the weekend is not yet over so this is just a semi wrap-up. Last night, I learned something and I want to share. Pull up a chair. I went to a poetry reading Friday night. But this was no ordinary poetry reading. This was, as the flyer stated "Erotic Poetry". At the urging of my friend, I toyed with the idea of reciting a piece that night. Now would be a good time to mention that I have not performed a poem before a crowd in almost ten years. Flashback to 1999 and you could find me spittin' at the Nuyorican Poet's Cafe, the Brooklyn Moon, Bowery Poetry Club and I even filled in at the bar I worked at whenever someone backed out. That being said- I'm out of practice, so to speak.

Anyway, I signed up and brought a piece with me that was sensual, sexual and overall means a lot to me. Before I even hit the stage, I knew what was going to happen. Sure enough, I witnessed what the masses view as erotic poetry. There was absolutely no subtlety whatsoever. Almost every piece that solicited hooting and hollering was laden with explicit, very unpoetic prose that did more to beat you over the head than awaken your sexual senses. You've heard it time and again. The most sensitive sexual organ is between your ears. But just about every poem I heard was big on shock value and low on mental stimulation. After an hour of hearing a string of 'P*ssy. Ass Crack. Swallow. F*ck Me.' tirades- I got no aural pleasure.

Well, by the time I got to the stage I knew my fate was sealed. The crowd was revved for what I can only assume was more of the same. What they got however was just a very personal slice of me- without hearing about my tight Sugar Walls... my throat that is deep like the River of Jordan...my fine freaky ass. Honestly, I don't care how pretentious the next statement makes me sound. This Bug will not dumb it down for mass consumption. If the attention span and depth of an audience does not go beyond the confines of the raunchy or pornographic, it is not my duty to cater to it. If I really wanted to- I could adopt what I see as the standard "Def Poetry" cadence while I talk about him sinking...his inches...into...my...berry framed mouth. C'mon now. Nah, it's not gonna happen. That's not an aphrodisiac in my book. I will not spoon feed Filet Mignon to those who can only appreciate Salisbury steak. It's times like this that Lauryn Hill's line in Zealots rings true. "And even after all my logic and my theory- I add a Muthaf*cka so ya'll ig'nant n*ggas hear me." We cry the same tear, L-Boogs.

Flashback

Five years old. Counters are so high when you're little. The oven is a monster in the corner. Large mouth creaking open like a trap door. This is a dangerous place I'm told. Hot things burn. Sharp things cut. No running in here! The cake will sink. The food sustains and it forever smells like a marriage of curry and coffee I am too young to imbibe. Warm light fills the space. A huge wooden spoon and fork cast shadows like Medieval weapons on a museum wall. There are too many cooks in here. Mothers, aunts, second cousins- all speaking in sotto voce about things that should not be done in any kitchen. Or surrounding rooms for that matter. I am too small to reach the top shelf where a treasure of unspeakably sweet treats reside. I am not too small to understand the unspeakable things I overhear. Invisibly, I listen... and know I'll have a kitchen to cook up my own savory mysteries someday.