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Tuesday, May 22, 2018
I had a dream last night.
And the night before...
and so on.
I've been loving the themes and general narratives that Mind has been giving me throughout my rest. Last night was something special though. There was a woman.
Outside a project that looked like a Motel I found her. Sitting outside like so many niggas do, there she was. Smoking on something, looking so fierce and comfortable in the Jungle - anyone with a hood pass would know to ignore her beauty. Myself, I was distracted by my van parked directly in front of her grandmothers apartment.
At first I was surprised and immediately relieved when I saw my old lost love of a Ford E250. Much less than I would have been at any other moment, like someone in suspended animation feeling elation - totally subdued with the knowledge she had accepted me.
I use the word accepted because no other synonym exists in the English language to describe the feeling she gives me. She wasn't elated nor excited. She wasn't ravenous nor dismissive. She accepted my presence. She accepted the Van was mine. She allowed me into her home. She didn't yell, laugh or cry or bitch at me when I used her grandmothers tiny bathroom with the door open.
I remember her measured tone and OG status. I remember her walking around the kitchen ignoring the fact she was born of Themyscira, looking to whip something up in the kitchen for me before she decided she had something better to do with her time. I remember how silent and strong she was - type of silence that shuts up a chatty Kathy like moi.
I remember walking towards her in the kitchen, her eyes on something else on the counter.
I remember how much that house of her Grandmothers was home the moment I laid eyes on it - the moment she laid eyes on me with that silent understanding:"Your mine." ... "Us." ...1.
She would never think" "I'm yours." And though I'm nearly certain she wouldn't get bent out of shape about me writing this, I'm so hesitant to say what she would do or not do. I don't feel comfortable with the notion of doing anything but observing. Loving. I've long forgotten about the van or the fact that it didn't have tires or blocks to hold up the rims.
It makes me somewhat...tingly. Not much, just the faintest hint of tingly. Like a adornment of lemon zest on a individual desert from some high rated Zagats restaurant. A feeling I doubt I'd have in her presence - much less her embrace. But, here -in her seeming absence...
That's actually not the feeling. That lunacy went away the moment I saw her outside chilling with her homies. I feel absolved and assured, as I would bet she did. I knew I could just be there. No hugs or feelings of longing. Just the same comfort of an abandoned ski lodge with a fire, blankets and hot chocolate.
Quite literally the woman of my dreams.
And the night before...
and so on.
I've been loving the themes and general narratives that Mind has been giving me throughout my rest. Last night was something special though. There was a woman.
Outside a project that looked like a Motel I found her. Sitting outside like so many niggas do, there she was. Smoking on something, looking so fierce and comfortable in the Jungle - anyone with a hood pass would know to ignore her beauty. Myself, I was distracted by my van parked directly in front of her grandmothers apartment.
At first I was surprised and immediately relieved when I saw my old lost love of a Ford E250. Much less than I would have been at any other moment, like someone in suspended animation feeling elation - totally subdued with the knowledge she had accepted me.
I use the word accepted because no other synonym exists in the English language to describe the feeling she gives me. She wasn't elated nor excited. She wasn't ravenous nor dismissive. She accepted my presence. She accepted the Van was mine. She allowed me into her home. She didn't yell, laugh or cry or bitch at me when I used her grandmothers tiny bathroom with the door open.
I remember her measured tone and OG status. I remember her walking around the kitchen ignoring the fact she was born of Themyscira, looking to whip something up in the kitchen for me before she decided she had something better to do with her time. I remember how silent and strong she was - type of silence that shuts up a chatty Kathy like moi.
I remember walking towards her in the kitchen, her eyes on something else on the counter.
I remember how much that house of her Grandmothers was home the moment I laid eyes on it - the moment she laid eyes on me with that silent understanding:
She would never think" "I'm yours." And though I'm nearly certain she wouldn't get bent out of shape about me writing this, I'm so hesitant to say what she would do or not do. I don't feel comfortable with the notion of doing anything but observing. Loving. I've long forgotten about the van or the fact that it didn't have tires or blocks to hold up the rims.
It makes me somewhat...tingly. Not much, just the faintest hint of tingly. Like a adornment of lemon zest on a individual desert from some high rated Zagats restaurant. A feeling I doubt I'd have in her presence - much less her embrace. But, here -in her seeming absence...
That's actually not the feeling. That lunacy went away the moment I saw her outside chilling with her homies. I feel absolved and assured, as I would bet she did. I knew I could just be there. No hugs or feelings of longing. Just the same comfort of an abandoned ski lodge with a fire, blankets and hot chocolate.
Quite literally the woman of my dreams.
Sunday, May 20, 2018
"Well, I just smoked Crack and boy are my arms tired!"
I told someone earlier - visa vie Tinder - that I don't have any spiritual path. I don't have any meditation practice either. I'm here just trying to have a laugh I said.
In the stead of using an antique diary or journal I guess I'll use the interwebs permanence to my advantage. Maybe I'll become a better typist as a result. Or maybe this venture will hinder my chances to become President or Prime Minster. I feel as though more likely these words will become a piece in the instillation of one of our great American novels. Even more likely it seems this will become a beginning to a manifesto which sparks a series of events which eventually leads to the 'peaceful' destruction of so-called 'Babylon."
I prefer paper. I keep editing these words because its electronic. I'm almost positive Id be writing completely different should I have been writing in the same book.Writing for a mythical audience of one or more. Like an invitation for a party with a +1 for a loner/loser.
Where I am.
What I'm watching.
Golden State is up by 30.
What am I to do with this time? Should be such a rhetorical question. I know what I'm going to do. My goals are as close to me as the very precise Christmas lists I would write as a child. Eagerly awaiting the top items I was sure to get, I'm tentatively excited to do the same with my own mental, physical, spiritual Christmas list. The following entries should serve to be a record of that progress - all thanks to God.
Then again, who knows, who could refuse a blast?
In the stead of using an antique diary or journal I guess I'll use the interwebs permanence to my advantage. Maybe I'll become a better typist as a result. Or maybe this venture will hinder my chances to become President or Prime Minster. I feel as though more likely these words will become a piece in the instillation of one of our great American novels. Even more likely it seems this will become a beginning to a manifesto which sparks a series of events which eventually leads to the 'peaceful' destruction of so-called 'Babylon."
I prefer paper. I keep editing these words because its electronic. I'm almost positive Id be writing completely different should I have been writing in the same book.Writing for a mythical audience of one or more. Like an invitation for a party with a +1 for a loner/loser.
Where I am.
What I'm watching.
Golden State is up by 30.
What am I to do with this time? Should be such a rhetorical question. I know what I'm going to do. My goals are as close to me as the very precise Christmas lists I would write as a child. Eagerly awaiting the top items I was sure to get, I'm tentatively excited to do the same with my own mental, physical, spiritual Christmas list. The following entries should serve to be a record of that progress - all thanks to God.
Then again, who knows, who could refuse a blast?
Saturday, June 7, 2014
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