Lights at both ends of the tunnel

Never can say goodbye
No no no no, I
Never can say goodbye

Even though the pain and heartache
Seems to follow me wherever I go
Though I try and try to hide my feelings
They always seem to show
Then you try to say you're leaving me
And I always have to say no...


If only what I said mattered. If only my words could keep you here just a few moments longer. I want to say my goodbye. The same goodbye I refused to speak because the selfish part of me stood firm on the idea that God would never take you away. I was - special. Different. I did what I was supposed to do. I maintained a stature and lifestyle that were both pleasing to you and others. And yet, that just wasn't enough.

Revelation: There are no prerequisites for death.

I typed it. And, it seriously just hit me. I guess there's a part of me that secretly believes that my stay here is permanent. How do you reconcile something so universal/inescapable? Think about it. Philosophy speaks to the impermanence of knowledge, a craft filled with men and women who fool themselves with glorifying the process rather than the goal. And yet, life points toward a goal, an end. One which can NOT be avoided. One that can NOT be predicted. One that can NOT be understood. Yet we are all required to partake. In fact, we have all exited eternity for this stint of time only to be unknowing siphoned back at any moment.

Why give us:
smiles, laughter,
pain, anguish, sadness,
accomplishment, failure,
love, hate,
commitment, infidelity,
experiences, stillness,
passion, depression, purpose,

All for it to end?

I've done my best at coping. Most times, I put it out of my mind, along with the foolish sayings of many of the people who offer false comfort in times where loved ones have walked through that one way door. This was all God's will. Things will get better. You're strong enough to handle this. Pardon me. How does one make judgements on something about which we know so little. Maybe, utilizing knowledge as an avenue for clarity is the wrong approach. That's possible. But, what do I use instead.

At its least, this was therapeutic. I'm not afraid of the unknown. I just want to make sure that those I care about that have passed that way are okay as they reenter eternity. But I can't be sure.

Therefore, I'll continue to be a fool - and hope for the best.

Fallen Anjel

I am ready for love
Why are you hiding from me
I'd quickly give my freedom
To be held in your captivity

I am ready for love
All of the joy and the pain
And all the time that it takes
Just to stay in your good grace
Lately I've been thinking
Maybe you're not ready for me
Maybe you think I need to learn maturity
They say watch what you ask for 
Cause you might receive 
But if you ask me tomorrow 
I'll say the same thing
-I.A.


I've stared in her face, smelled the sweetest fragrance of her lips, devoured each word that glides off her tongue with a ferocity of a thousand hungry men - yet, she belongs to him. She is not property but a gift, his gift. And he is so blinded by possession that he has forgotten the blessing one can find in a gift.

Pity Party of One, Please. I'm not into self-loathing, martyrdom or deprivation - though at some point in this entry, I am sure to exhibit all the signs. Actually, I refuse to admit that I might be one of those disgusting people in this world whom God has set aside a true love. Okay, maybe they're not disgusting. And yes, I'm hating. But a brother's got to find a way to appropriately make sense of it all.

Since very young, I've been celebrated for my intelligence, good looks, athletic build, hair texture, etc. None of these titles (excluding intelligence) have I readily taken ownership of. However, if I amass these prescribed qualities into a recipe for romantic success, then a guy like me (or whom I have been told I am) would be a candidate for a love degree with summa cum laude honors. Yet, in the darkness of my home, the smallest whispers echo the loud truth: I am alone. And frankly, at 26, I need to make the decision to be really content with this or to be ABSOLUTELY uncomfortable about it.

I am THE friend. And while I appreciate that I have set myself up to be a trustworthy individual for others, the fact that I die inside whenever a female calls me a great friend shows that some part of my  tin man exterior is porous enough to feel the grief that lies in hope. I'm too old to play the "shut down" game and I will NOT use avoidance as a coping mechanism. Being confident about 99% of the things in my life is not good enough when I doubt my right to a gift such as this. Fuck TV and its depiction of love as some boomerang type of object that magically returns to an owner who takes a risk and throws it out into the open abyss. I haven't seen a return on my investment yet - so, either television is lying or I am truly damned. Scarily, I can't decide which of the two options sounds more plausible.

Just gonna stand there and watch me burn
But that's alright because I like the way it hurts
Just gonna stand there and hear me cry
But that's alright because I love the way you lie. 
I love the way you lie. 

Maybe I'm a sadomasochist, a glutton for self-imposed pain and heartache. In my most heartfelt reflections, I resent the fact that age has riddled my spirit completely incapable of managing matters of emotion. Its like a cancer has lain latent in my soul all these years only to spread its malignant microbes throughout my system at a time when I need to be sealed tight. I can't handle it any longer. I feel like I'm coward, hiding behind the mask of friendship (the same one I resent) so that I get time with her that is, at least, semi-genuine. That way I don't have to risk becoming dumb for her - in her - by her - though I want to. I'm wrapped in a paradox of my own creation and I remain only partly capable of freeing myself from this feeling.

I liken this experience to a prison visit. I stand behind the thin glass, my cool breath kisses the vibration of her lovely sound. I'm pressing my fingers up against the window trying with all my power to get that touch of reinforcement, the little sign I need to know she's in this with me. But sitting on the other side of that window is him. He's staring at her, but she at me. Yet, I stand close enough to be just out of reach. I am not even asking for full contact. I just want a sign. The smallest indication that I might be worthy - or worth what everybody's been telling me I was born to inherit -

love.

When I was 6, I would sit down and draw my future - myself as a grown man with a beautiful wife and four sons. Innocent though it was, I've held on to that hope. Unfortunately, I feel that my crayons have become ink pens or computer keys - every stroke symbolizing a step away from love and toward this contrived idea of success. That kid dies. Every single time I work toward a goal that I realize I have to enjoy alone, that little blonde headed boy certainly dies. Every 4 hour evening conversation purely between friends (that feels like romance) smothers that little boy under one hundred of the heaviest feathered pillows.

I've trapped myself in a maze. I can't or don't know how to escape. I'm a mess inside. Everyday, just before bed, there's an involuntary tear that meets the 'Amen' of my prayer as I rest my mind. Until now, I've thought it to be exhaustion. Now, I know for a fact that its sadness. I could ask myself the depressing questions I've bounced off friends: Am I not good enough? Have I dug myself an emotional hole of escape too deep to be rescued? But they usually yield the same answers as those reminiscent of my childhood upbringing. FUCK. Am I a child gone by the waste side?

These are the things I do know: I'm kind, considerate of others, confident, driven, passionate, and capable of transferring love - from my soul to another's. And yet, even with her and him out of the picture, I remain.... alone. So, it is me. Everyone's lied to me. But how can I reconcile this without feeling like an emotional martyr? The only way I can make sense of it all within the confines of my situation is this: I meet all the qualifications of a great guy but I was born to be alone.

If this is true, then I hate it. I'm not just exiting stage left on this one. I'm setting this stage aflame. This is not a life I can live forever.

And here comes the tears.

Jail Time

Originally, this was written on 50 strips of paper along a rigid table that, unlike most people, had seen my fullest tears. I've decided to give those pieces a body to encompass the soul from which they were begot. This is Jail Time. 


His head was tilted, anchored by a hand that seemed to carry the weight of the world; and yet, his long, dark extensions of fingers trembled beneath something much heavier - an idea not easily defined by the English language. So, for my purposes, I will call it guilt - systematic, institutionally catalyzed guilt. In the background of my observation, there existed the muffled sounds of sniffling, a choir of sympathy bellowing from dry, wooden court pews. These were the family members of the defendant, holding back disobedient tears, filled with shame, anger, confusion - and (weirdly enough) a small bit of hope. It was between these sounds that I found grief, having hid behind the wall where my emotion once lay. I did not understand the legal system. Another black boy convicted of a crime crafted by a system that reserved a jail space for him just as he exited the birth canal - just as I exited the birth canal Yet, I escaped this fate (thus far). This same prison cell he would come to call home - and his final resting place.

We had no choice. There was never one offered in the matter. He had killed in cold blood - or warm blood as was depicted over and over again by the mottled sequence of events that we jurors had to conjure up from gruesome pictures and half-truths. I probably won't ever be able to reconcile the 'why' behind this young man's decision-making. I could probably name a million reasons or excuses as to why and what got him to this point in making horrible choices, but there is nothing I can do to actually create order in places where a mess of disorder exists. The hopeful part of me thought about programs I could start to give young, black men options - better choices - or initiatives that promote healthy decision-making and reemphasize education. These ideas fled quickly at the loud screams of anger - piqued frustration begot from unanswered questions. Where were his parents, the schools, his family, or his church? What causes a seemingly good kid to make horrible choices? 

There's an odd smell that fills the room as my mind runs through options. Justice. Unfamiliar, yet kin. I'm made uncomfortable by the idea that I have to enact something that I don't truly understand. Justice, a remedy that occurs in hindsight, too late for everybody involved in any situation. Up to this point, a speeding ticket (that was later pulled) was the extent of my criminal history. And yet, I have to make a decision about someone's life - and use foolish justice as my only tool of recourse. In crimes this gruesome, there is only life til death or immediate death. Am I my brother's keeper? Should I extinguish a life so that society's failure of him is but a newspaper headline of memory?

This young man had completely lost - or cut himself off by his actions. The whole scenario reminded me of the feeling I would imagine a kicker to get when his field goal winning kick is two feet left of the field goal post. Nobody on the team wins because of his actions, but the team has to pick themselves up and try to do it better the second time around. I think we (I) chose correctly in giving him life imprisonment. I pray there are faculties and resources available to change foolish justice into saintly rehabilitation. Only time can prove that.

Uppity Negro

I wrote these words for everyone, who struggles in their youth. Who won't accept deception instead of what is truth. It seems we lose the game before we even start to play. Who made these rules? We're so confused. Easily led astray. - L. Boogie 

The canary yellow sun is out, heating up every square inch of the thick July afternoon. I sit in Starbucks, sipping on my caramel frappucino staring out of the translucent windows into the street internally complaining about how it just. doesn't. taste. right. My head then is redirected toward my computer - a thin, sleek macbook pro computer, no more than a year old. My eyes light up at the promise of free internet where there had previously been a requirement to pay. Though I'm a bit distracted by the churn of a coffee grinder aided in its serenade by an oversized grouchy blinder, the corner of my eye catches a glimpse of a sidewalk scene I will never forget. A young man, dark complexion seemed to be gasping for air as he stood awkwardly pressed against a police car that rested in the parking lot of the neighboring gas station. The young man's eyes would have revealed his age or the roundabout nature of his maturity, but his dreadlocks held tightly onto his face desperately obeying the humidity. Two cops, husky in size, pinned the young man down using what I think was reasonable force - though he was unarmed, smaller in stature, and for all intensive purposes, cooperating. Before I could develop an idea about the arrest (or what I assumed to be an arrest), I turned my head, sipped the poorly made frappucino, and began typing again. 

 damn.

I was a coward. I strategically hid behind my degrees - more the prestige than the paper itself - and the notion that "it wasn't any of my business." But as I look back and recall that scene, I now know that it was absolutely my business as well as the business of every other Starbucks patron. This young man was shown no love, compassion, or respect. More foundational than that, I should have been outraged that a brother, a HUMAN, was being stripped of signs of his humanity right before my eyes. Broad daylight, two against one - and yet excessive force and bullying seemed to remedy the situation. I doubt it. And yet, I sat more concerned about my minor troubles (and pitiful coffee drink) to truly be concerned.

Spirituality enter stage left. Walks over to Johmyrin. Stares him down.

I have claimed to be an Uppity Negro, infiltrating the bedrooms of white women at night and raping them with my intellect just long enough to gain their approval and disarm their wedded bedfellows. I've gained their approval and, in the process, lost an essential connectedness with the plight of those unable to live in both worlds successfully. My courage has been transformed to conformity, justifying my lack of exercise by the sly phrase "I can't help those beneath me if I'm on the same level as them." And though this saying is true, a crucial element in reaching back or paying it forward is constantly immersing oneself in the culture of the downtrodden. Majority culture, practices and habits have always and will always be readily available for my mimicking; however, I can not forget to truly understand the plight of the minority class by using a nonjudgemental heart and a loving spirit.

That's where I faltered.

I've wrongly bought into this idea of success - as empty, misunderstood, and wrongly contrived an idea it is. Success, as we know it, mandates a form of sell-out mentality. We must lose ourselves in order to gain access into those locked bedrooms of opportunity. Instead, we should strive for greatness. Being great demands reflection and constant questioning of dogmas. We don't buy into the status quo but we recognize it for what it is. Being great forces us to infuse our humanity into our daily practices - even while we innocently sip drab coffee in a local cafe. Greatness calls for us - for me - to take my deepest disapproval for the mistreatment of my fellow man and act in love on their behalf. To ensure that wrongs become sustainable rights, and that my brothers and sisters of all races treat one another in a spirit of greatness.

I'm ashamed that I sat and did nothing to help that young man. I pray that God has found grace on him. But rest assured, my actions from here on out will be those linked to the hearts of my fellow man. I am no longer an Uppity Negro. Forget that.

I am a Great Negro.

fin. 

Who saves Simon?

Some nights I cry out in agony from the imaginary scars left behind by the weight of the cross I bear on a daily basis. Some of the suffocating teachings from my religion have taught me to be emotionless - to suffer in silence because pain is only temporary. 

I beg to differ. 

I'm different. I slipped into this world on the heels of destiny with fate holding my right hand hostage just long enough so that it would be estranged to my left. There were some subtleties that were written elusively between the line that separates my first name from my last. I am not exactly who they said I am. 

My back has always been strong. This part of my creation was purposeful. Because I wasn't Jesus carrying that cross. Though like him, I would inherit a world that hated me, loved me, felt indifferent toward me. Yet, my fate was more likened to Simon, the Cyrene. I have a cross of my own and yet I am constantly beckoned to assist in carrying the load of others. 

I won't complain - yet. 

I imagine this life to be an uphill experience, a dirt road where barefoot men, women, and children trample up the rocky side of a steep mountain. Each has a cross paraded on his/her back. Each cross is a different size, made of a different type of material, and varied writings are etched on the surface to give life and acknowledgement to each person's struggles. There are individuals however, who seem out of place. They carry two and three crosses at a time. And I weep for them. 

And yet when I take a step back to see the entire landscape, my tears seem to have more reason. I see individuals on the sidelines taking breaks on the journey while select nomads bear the full load of their crosses in the interim. It looks almost like punishment and yet no one as much as gives notice to their staggering footsteps, broken posture, or sweat ridden bodies. 

Correction. No one notices me. 

I've been taught to help others - unfortunately at the expense of my own progress. False teachings that are outdated, enabling and unproductive. Who exactly saves Simon from his plight? No one. I'm not concerned with how fair life is. As I said, I'm different. I can deal with the cards I've been dealt. But I am frustrated at the idea that life may never present me with tools to alleviate myself from the load - even occasionally. 

C'est la vie, some might say. Again, I disagree. If I'm stuck with the cards, I would like to at least know how to play the damned game. 

As they went out, they came upon a man of Cyrene, Simon by name; this man they compelled to carry his cross. Jesus told his disciples, "If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. - Matthew 27:32; 16:24

Raining while the sun is out.

I've been standing on the edge of these Blue Mountains, allowing the thin, crisp air to whip across my face. My arms tremble with terror. I am unsure if the salt I taste is derived from the innocent sweat that cascades across my mouth or if it is a fear induced savory flavor used as a mechanism to distract me. My heart flows with a beat matched with that of the cracking waters hundreds of feet underneath the cliff on which I stand. 


I want to jump. I have before - when time was kin to the shadows of vagueness. I look around. Others are taking the plunge without hesitation. Aim. Shoot. Fire. They are propelled over the cliff and soon dissipate into the delicate low-lying clouds. Its a freedom my body has forgotten, a chance I am hesitant to take. And yet, I have to jump. 


Finally, I muster up enough courage to do it. My feet nervously slide across the pebbled ground, right slightly in front of left. I refuse to look down. It is the jump that is necessary.... and frightening. Now or never. Courage deep inside finds a key to free itself. I am ready.  Closer and closer to the edge I step. Closer and closer and...


I jump. I actually jump. 


But something went wrong. I open my eyes to see those same clouds in front of me. I am not immersed in the waters below. There is no cool sensation of achievement. My shirt has been snagged. I can't breathe clearly and my arms are too restricted to allow decent air flow. I can just turn my head to see what has gripped me so tightly. 


It is my reflection. 


I've felt this way for years - unable to take myself to a place of risk, emotional risk, that is. I can vaguely remember times as a child when I would cry, sometimes out of pure bratty rebellion or some spoiled developed tendency. I can even recall temper tantrums, disrespectful outbursts, the deepest, sickest laughs and the most sour feeling of heartbreak. I was a 'well balanced' child who understood that emotion was natural, normal.

Unfortunately, I also remember the day where I made the decision to never cry again. Inspired by a sequence of events concerning my father, I decided it was a foolish expression that was unbecoming of a boy like myself. Not necessarily a sign of weakness, but I equated it to the act of elbowing the table surface at a formal dinner affair. Simply uncouth. It was a strategic decision - for my functionality and survival. But what it also did was set me up for future instability. What I did not expect from this initial suppression was the bandwagon effect it would have on all my other emotions. It was an exodus and I became a hollow shell of a person.

Recently, in the most unlikely of places - a quaint Uptown lounge, I realized the error in my assumption about emotion. In reality, they had never abandoned me. It was I who abandoned them - or so I thought. Sitting between a cigarette vending machine on my immediate right and a large neon light adorned jukebox on my left, I reunited with those old friends. Still foreign to me, I was met first by sadness and depression. They materialized through tears. Tears I could not hide from the afternoon crowd who slipped in for a friday libation. Only seconds behind them was hope. Faultless, simple, quiet and yet powerful. Hope.

Many other emotions (or variations of them) flooded my body quicker than Katrina waters. And I've since become a playground of emotion - a bit of rain while the sun is out.

I don't really know what this means for me developmentally but I am thankful that the hollowness is slowly being filled up. Maybe I can experience true love, the kind that people always talk about. Actually, I know I will. Hope just nudged me in the side.

Intro.

Devoid of an essential ingredient

He's yelling at me with the simplest tears running down his face. Mouth agape - terribly. The passion of his voice could possibly shake the room. And yet I can not hear one sound.  I'm looking into his face, see his mouth moving, gather from his brightened red skin that he is over the edge with emotion. And yet I still can not relate. He's angry, bitter, sad and yet - hopeful? Somewhere in the dry space of time between his cries of despair and the stillness of my silence, I sense that he hasn't given up. If that were the case, he could simply walk away. That isn't the case. So, I begin to form the words to the phrase, "I'm sorry," but...

I wake up.

It wasn't until this morning that this dream's reflection in my mind's eye depicted me as a father being chastised by a son who's emotional stability was never satiated by the ripened fruit of a well-rounded, emotionally balanced paternal figure. Not too far fetched a reality. I, indeed, still cower at the thought of genuine hugs from others or kissing - the most immature of emotional expressions. My father never gave this to me, therefore, the receipt of such expression makes me infinitely uncomfortable - or at least it did. I've realized (held on to hope) that my socialization is always reversible, my synapses can always make new, more creative connections that allow me to grow, change, evolve.

Then it hit me: I was never the father in my dream.

I had been the son all along. Not as some excuse to lay back with some satisfaction because I was indeed the victim instead of the culprit now. But what was crucial to my understanding of the dream was that I realized my potential to stand on both sides of that emotional divide. I was the son looking at myself become a dispassionate father to myself. For so long, I've blamed my father's emotional absence for my current treatment of others. I have given him 100% of the responsibility in feeling that he could have stepped outside of himself and become vulnerable for me, his son, his pride. And yet, I type with tears in my eyes. I can't change him. The little boy whose hope I could sense in my dream was telling me that all along, as his soul bellowed out the softest songs of hope caught in the innocence of that glare. I was never hopeful for changing my father - but, it's not too late for me.

One of my fears has been my ability to destroy those things that I build up. Specifically, relationships. Because of my periodic emotional vacancy, I have sought fulfillment in temporary solutions like sex, drinking, riotous activity. But what happens in the long run? When I have to sustain emotional stability for the good of my own flesh, my offspring. I refuse to be a father like mine in this regard. I need that essential ingredient that will prove the masses wrong - "the sins of the father befall the son." I'm ready to break this curse. And I am not exactly worried about where to start or how to start it. I just know that I can't stare at myself in dreams any longer, playing both roles.

Victim and Culprit. I choose neither.