Thursday, December 30, 2010


Do you know how hard it is to write articles sometimes?

Maybe it's because I'm now no longer in a relationship, and because I no longer have frequent interactions with *him*.

Regardless of the reasoning, when I sit down to write something (not here, clearly), it just feels contrived. Artificial. Not good enough.

That's the reason why I stopped writing those relationship articles. Because it started to feel forced. Artificial. Not good enough. (If even good at all.)

That's all I wanted to say. That right now, it just doesn't feel good enough.

the years are rolling by too fast

Nothing that I'm writing is satisfying me right now.

So I will keep it short and sweet.

For whatever 2010 was, it was another year that I learned, and lived.

Let us keep the tradition alive in 2011.

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

like William Faulkner taught me

I knew this was going to happen I was going to sit at this computer and I was going to hear the sounds of my clicking on the keyboard and I was going to write write write until I exhaust myself and then I'll have nothing left to say but until then I'm going to just write stream of conscious and if anyone makes the effort to read then that's on them but I would greatly appreciate it because I really write everything so others can read it there's not a lot I keep to myself quite frankly I mean what would be the point of doing that I've never felt the urge to keep everything to myself


so I've got a lot on my mind like what happened the other night when he showed me that my body is loosening up its limitations and that he really can do a body good shit I'm almost embarrassed writing that out loud but I said it anyway because it's true and I was going to say something else but it's funny I can write about things that happened in the past effortlessly wax poetic about my blind first love or my latest real love but when it comes to this other him I can't really say too much because I feel like everything happens in real time and because he writes too for some reason I just clam up so I guess that's all I have to say about that besides I probably shouldn't offer you too many details anyway but I guess I'll just say brain grade A and leave it at that


so 2011 is coming up and I will make this my year and make every year following my year as well because I've got to live like I'm dying because I don't know when that will be true and since I don't know that I have to live accordingly and shit I just looked at the clock and I can't believe it's 1:51 am and I'm not tired I'm not tired at all but I've got to find a place to stop because I will continue this forever if I let myself


it's funny that I am so many things but the last thought word shift in my seat as I stop myself abruptly is going to be about you




Sometimes, I see things, and think things that send my heart into overdrive.

Like, I can feel it, as I sit, with my left hand pressed firmly against my skull, I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, as the weight of reality settles in, dropping, ironically, like a feather, gliding through the air bit, by bit, by bit.

That is exactly it--that's what the settling of reality feels like.

When you are faced with something you can't exactly fix, something you can't change, something you have to accept. Acceptance is hard, and not for chumps. You may think you have accepted something hard; just swallowed it and moved on, but until you've sat there, feeling your emotions shifting into deeper channels; until you've felt your heart actually start to beat faster; until you've felt reality land inside you, well, until you've felt that, you've probably never accepted too much of anything.

As someone who has grown to need--without even realizing it--control over things, seeing my lack of control reflected in a picture of you, away from me, is hard to swallow. It settles, slowly like that feather, but roughly like an anchor, and continues creaking inside me, like a house at nighttime, settling into its foundation.

My breathing slows and my thoughts grow louder as I realize. As I simply sit back and realize. Acknowledge. Accept.


holiday daze

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and everything in between--

I'm so sorry. A lot's been going on. A lot of moving back and forth, a lot of time spent reading, spent laughing with friends and family, and spent thinking, thinking, thinking, as always.

I will be back. Probably right around the beginning of 2011, with something to say. I don't have too many thoughts right now (well, not ones I choose to share), as I'm sitting at the very poorly-lit computer desk in my parents' house, but I have been scribing a bit, off and on. Maybe I'll drop a little bit of that on you. Just depends on how my eyes feel in the next few minutes after I publish this.

Seriously though, I know we don't communicate, necessarily... it's really quite the one-sided relationship, you having access to my thoughts and all, but not always sharing your own with me... but it's cool, and I just want you to know that I do miss you. Just because I'm not writing, doesn't mean I'm not thinking about you :)

I'm just enjoying a break from the reality I've created for myself, and slipping back into the sweetness of what is my holiday life.

I wish it was always like this, but if it was, I wouldn't appreciate the holidays.

love love,

Monday, December 13, 2010

if you want to fuck me, just do it and shut the hell up already, goodness

This made my night.

I was reading along and discovered this post, and it's so true.

Why are people blurring lines so heavy?

If you are in love with my pussy and want to wax the fuck out of it, then you need to tell me that, and maybe I'll be foolish enough to let you do so. (Because hey, maybe your waxing is the fucking bomb, and maybe, just maybe, it's the best I've ever had.)

But, if you are in love with my pussy, then you have to talk solely to her. Don't lie in bed with me, don't cuddle with me, don't hold me close, don't rub my back until I fall asleep; find some way to prevent your eyes from looking at me, all boyish charm and bright brown diamonds.

If you are in love with my pussy, then don't kiss the lips on my face, don't make love to them, don't take showers with me, don't make jokes and make me laugh until I'm almost embarrassed that I've laughed so hard. Don't take me out to dinner, don't make me dinner, don't text me just to talk about anything. Don't call me, don't wait on me to get home, don't get excited when I get there.

Don't invite me to spend the night and lay all of your beauty down next to me. Don't mingle your toes with mine. Don't kiss me behind my knees until I get weak and almost fall on you. Don't blindfold me and make love to my body because you knew my shyness about a certain position was eating me up.

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it.

If you are in love with my pussy, do exactly what you could be doing now

(moving away and forgetting)

because if you do anything other than that,

you might be in love with me.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

man with a sign

He walked down the concrete divider separating the eastbound and westbound traffic, in between his small blue cooler, lime green container--a helmet, perhaps? or bucket?--and what I imagine to be the limits of believed efficacy.

He walks past my car, holding a small, humble piece of cardboard, a sign, with neat, printed letters. Something to the effect of "HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP. GOD BLESS." As he walked by, I regretted that I had my sun visor faced toward him, blocking my view of his face. I could only see him from the mid-torso downward, and once he got past my car, I could see his full profile, but with his face turned away, facing other cars.

As he approached once more, slowly walking past my car, paying me no attention, I tried to throw him a smile, though I imagine my smile wasn't what he was looking for. He pulled off his hat, humble sign tucked between his arm and ribs, and lifted up a ponytail of oily-looking, dirty-blond hair. He lifted it, and lowered it, and flung out the back of a dingy gray baseball cap a few times, until he could get it on in one fling.

In these last seconds before the light turned green, I wondered if he had been in the military. I looked at his legs, the muscle definition still apparent, and wondered if this was the life he lived as a veteran. I wished I'd had something to give him, not cash, but attention. Imagined me sitting on that concrete divider, atop his green helmetbucket, conducting an interview with a homeless man. Where are you from, originally? (I hope not Miami.) How many hours do you spend out here? How long have you been homeless?

And finally, before I lost sight of him as I turned onto the highway, I thought of my dad. What if that was my dad, homeless, the leathery golden-red skin replaced with taut brown?

I drove away, even more lost and searching, it seems, than when I started my empty journey through empty cities, containing much but still not having what I'm looking for, whatever it is that is banging back and forth, wildly, blindly against the dark walls of my reasoning. My eyes welled up with tears and my wires crossed and further frustration set in.

a heart on a search for that which is unknown

I continued driving, as he paced with a humble sign with neat, printed letters; me, no closer to my truth, and neither one of us any closer to home.

what's going on in the world, mine and the outside one

On Friday, when I was waiting for the last minutes of the day to float by, my mom called me. I answered, prepared to tell her that I'd call her in a few minutes when I left, but she cut me to the quick, and informed me that she'd just called 911 for my dad, who was in pain and couldn't move his right arm or shoulder. She told me she'd give me a call and she told me to call my sister, who hadn't wanted to go to the hospital. (Her and I both have one thing in common: we can be intensely sensitive, and places like hospitals, where we imagine that emotions are on full display, all the time, are not places we are comfortable going, especially not with others who will be there to monitor our reactions, and ask us, if anything, that dreaded, means-well-but-usually-never-does-well question: are you okay?)

I sat at my desk with my head down, for privacy, and as everyone milled about in the room, laughing and talking as usual, I felt like the world--at least, my part of it--slowed to a crawl. Oh my God was the only thing I said aloud, other than okay, and as I got off the phone, I didn't want to talk to anyone. I wanted everyone to leave me to my own devices. I started, for lack of a better term, freaking out. I've been feeling emotionally strange all week, I thought. Was this what those weird feelings were leading up to? I started thinking about skipping the dinner party planned for Saturday in order to drive home. I started thinking about taking a couple of days off of work so I could be at home during this uncertain time. My manager wanted to have a typical long debrief at the end of the day; I was curt when I told her I didn't have time for that, I had to go call my sister.

In looking back at this scene, it is been proven that I am more my father's daughter than I like to imagine. Cut from the same cloth, I am every bit the worrywart that he is, every bit as ride or die as he is, ready to drop everything and make that three-and-a-half hour journey home just because he went to the hospital. Not only do we look alike, we are alike.

He wasn't having a stroke, and the doctors have run lots of tests to figure out what's going on. So, we're waiting. They think it's an infection. I just know that I'm prone to panic, and that just because someone goes to the hospital doesn't mean they aren't coming back out. (Thank God my mom is the level-headed nurse.) Please, keep us in your prayers. I can't wait to find out what the test results have to say, but I pray it's nothing grave.

In other news:
--I heard this weekend that Bernie Madoff's son killed himself. I can't say I'm confused as to why. His dad fucked up many people's lives in the name of greed, and he seemed to have fucked up his son's life in the process. That's so unfortunate. Suicide is certainly not the answer, but I'm pretty sure in the midnight hour, he felt like he didn't have a soul in the world on his side. May he be able to rest peacefully.

--Haven't heard from *him* since he left, and I doubt I'm going to hear from him before the year's out. Even if I do, I can't say I'm really excited about the possibility. Anyone who is willing to move out of the country and not make an effort to talk to you, doesn't want to talk to you. I've decided that I'm not going to waste my time talking to people who don't want to talk to me, and that includes people who think that they miss me when they really miss my vagina. Moving on...

--Last night, at a very, very nice holiday party, I had coffee and dessert. This is a big deal for me because I don't drink coffee, and have probably never had a cup of coffee in the years that I've been alive. (Seriously. I don't like it.) But after a few cups of wine, and with some delicious rum cake, it was great!

--I'm trying to figure out what it is about Miami that I don't like. What it is about South Florida that I don't like. I can't really put my finger on it, but it's there. I'm not exactly sure what it is I'm searching for, but I really hope I find it. And I really hope when I do find it, I know. One thing I know already is that I haven't attached to any of the places outside of Orlando that I've lived. I've downright strongly disliked them. I guess I'll just have to keep moving around until something tickles my fancy.

--Currently reading: It by Stephen King. I'm about 200 pages in (it's 1000+ pages), and I'm really in. It's very creepy, but I have to keep reading, even at night when I get super spooked. Mr. King can write the hell out of a scene.

--I've had my hair twisted for about a week now, and it still looks good. I'm trying to really do protective styling... meaning, twisting my hair, tucking the ends in, etc. Hopefully it helps. I used the famed Ecostyler gel (in the pink container) and I really like how it's holding my hair. My frizzy hair needs all the help it can get.

--Trying to figure out my plan for next year. Have a couple of ideas floating in the air. With a couple floating, if some don't work, at least there will still be some ideas left. We'll see.

--That might be it.

I'm going to not fall asleep in bed reading like I have done the past couple of nights. I'm in a writing mood right now anyhow.

Please please please, keep my dad in your thoughts, prayers, meditations, etc. And keep my panicky heart in your thoughts/prayers/meditations also.

Monday, December 6, 2010

bodily perception

... me and those dreaming eyes of mine ...

For some reason, I have always loved things that suggest irrefutable impossibility.*

Don't ask me where I picked up the talent from, but even when I was a child, I could pick out the melancholy emotion as effortlessly as an orange in a bowl of rice. It's like I had an innate sense for it; like my body would have a physical reaction.

Usually, it would result in me launching inexplicable tears down my unblemished cheeks.

One of these instances--that I've been thinking of lately--resulted from a song. (As most of them did, and still do.)

My mother always tells me the story about me and the song "Forever Young." (No Jay-Z.) When I was a kid, something about Rod Stewart's raspy voice, and something about that song would send me into a world of sadness, and apparently, I would ask my best friend's mom if she could turn the song off, because it made me sad. (My words, at around 6 or 7.)

'Til this day, I can still remember the video (with that red-headed kid and Stewart sitting on what I remember to be a cliff, with the sun shining a golden yellow on them--I would be curious to watch the video in present time to see how much my memory holds up), and the feeling--more so than the lyrics, necessarily--come to me immediately, and I can feel tears well up in my eyes, as they are right now, as I'm writing this. (No lie. If you could see me, my eyes probably look as big as saucers and are probably shimmering like raindrops in the sun, full of tears that I will not let fall.)

There was something in that song, something about this idea purported by Stewart (or whomever wrote that song) about being "forever young," about a father, or someone, letting someone else go, but recognizing that they would always be forever young to them (but in my heart you will remain, forever young...) that still cripples me right at the knees. (The tears are welling again.) The fact that this could cripple me even at six intrigues me.

There were many unexplainable instances--I quit my ballet class when I was five, on the night of our recital, because the music made me sad. (Again, my words. I'm pretty sure my parents aren't making this up. Part of me feels like I can remember this.) I can definitely remember sitting on my mom's table (something she would have yelled at me for if she saw me) at eight or nine, listening on repeat to Prince's "The Most Beautiful Girl in The World," and crying. Just straight crying, and feeling the impossible swelling up within my heart.

What the hell was I crying for? I was eight. I'd never been in love, I'd been hurt, but not in the type of way that hurt gets you when you're older. (Though one should never underestimate those child-like hurts. Sometimes, the purity of them, and the lack of ability to understand their source can mold a person much more than anything you'll ever experience as an adult.) I was eight, and susceptible to my body's natural reaction to the impossibility in these songs.

Today, listening to them, or thinking about them, I can understand the impossible beauty in them. Asserting that someone will be "forever young" to you--we all know that time waits on no man, and no one will be here forever, and no one will be forever young. Prince waxing glory about "the most beautiful girl in the world?"

and if the stars, ever fell/
one by one, from the sky/
I know Mars, could not be, too far behind/
'cause baby this kind of beauty/
has got no reason to ever be shy/
'cause honey this kind of beauty/
the kind that comes from inside...

At eight, somehow my body must have recognized the rarity of such an utterance existing in real life. Maybe I was crying then, to prepare me for now. Maybe even then, I could sense the shy beauty inside myself.

The impossible in song, in lyric, in words, in literature, always causes that deep swelling to occur inside of me. I don't know how else to describe it, really. While my eyes well up with tears, something happens within me, something moves, and then, when it's over, my body puts it back wherever it came from.

Sitting in my room tonight, doing my hair and listening to D'Angelo's Brown Sugar (because it was the CD last left in the player, and because I did not feel like smearing coconut oil and gel all over my stack of CDs), a thought, a reality, something that I surely knew, but never took the time to think about smacked me right upside the back of my head.

As I sat on the bed, I looked across at the calendar hanging on my wall, and thought of *him* and the number of times I used to see him, back before I moved and he left. I acknowledged in my head that I used to see him almost every single week. Compelled, I got up, flipped the calendar back to January, and looked at the little hearts I marked on the days I saw him.

Almost once, or twice a week, hearts would appear, sometimes with comments. (Ever a writer, I truly document just about anything and everything you could think of.) As the calendar hit July, the hearts didn't appear for almost a month. (I was a G--being in Miami initially was the only time in my life living away when I stayed away for a month. I was really trying to play nice with Miami, at least at first.) They appeared at least a couple of times a month, until I flipped the calendar quickly past November. There was no need to look at the last set of hearts, placed in the middle of that month.

As I sat back down, I said out loud what I'd never thought of before: from once or twice a week, to once or twice a month, to not at all, and D'Angelo was steady crooning to me about those dreaming eyes of his, and the ostensible return of an impossible type of love I once knew very briefly, plus my body's reaction to the beauty in the concept of being an impossible dreamer (me and those dreaming eyes of mine, said in a way as if to say, oh, my eyes, they are wandering again, seeing things that I know won't be for me, don't mind them, I'm just hoping...) brought slow tears that turned into real tears. No sound, no nothing, just the hard scrunching of my face, as if to squeeze the rest of the emotion out, fast and hard.

The song ended, and I let it go, back to wherever it came from. I got up, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, and washed the rest of the oil off my hands, so I could write.

And here I am, with you.

Maybe sometimes, I let my heart pay its weeping tribute to the realities that I so often choose to overstep, knowing that dwelling on them too often or too intensely will bring nothing but a barrage of melancholy I choose to avoid as often as possible.

And often, I wonder, if it will always be with me. A gift from beyond my reasoning that I will dutifully always carry.

*--maybe the impossibility that seems so unchanging isn't quite impossible at all. You see, I think that deep down inside of me, in fact, I know that deep down inside of me, I don't actually believe that anything is impossible. Which probably accounts for all my tears over my maturation--having a spirit that refuses to let go of hope, while being met with a world that suggests impossible is the answer. My heart's probably confused.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

an update in my absence (I know, I know, this is familiar)

I promise you, I'm still here.

I'm in such a damn good mood today, but I'm also quite tired. I've been moving non-stop since I got home, from a conference call, to trying to catch up with a (sleepy :) friend, to cooking dinner, to twisting and rolling my hair, to making lunch for tomorrow, to catching up with my roommates...

You get the picture.

But, I just wanted you to know that I miss you. My most productive time of the day (writing wise) is unfortunately the time that I'm at work. I used to have access to my blog at work, until the powers-that-be in their cozy district office decided to strip me of that pleasure.

So, often I'll be sitting at work, thinking about you, hoping that you're thinking about me. Staring at my computer screen, knowing that with a few small changes, I would have access to you.

I hope you're feeling well. Even though I'm sleepy, my body feels rather rested, and my mind is in a different place. A very good place.

Today is my parents' anniversary, by the way. They've been married for my age + 2. That's a long time to be with the same person. But for all the ups and downs, I'm damned thankful they are still together, and they are both still here. I am immensely blessed. Immensely.

It intrigues me that a few short years ago, I wasn't cognizant of my blessings. How time and experience has changed me.

Can you believe it's almost 2011? I can't. Time is moving faster than I like, sometimes.

He has been gone for a week, and while I'm used to it (not only have we gone for months without speaking to each other, but in my head it feels like he's been gone for a year already, rather than just a week), I think about *him* all the time. I pray for him. I hope he's having a hell of a time. And I hope he's thinking about me too. If there's anyone who understands a present absence, it's me. I've kind of cornered the market on that.

I could probably keep going, telling you random things from my stream of consciousness, but I still have things to do before sleep. I promise you, I'll be back soon.


(oh yeah, I'm freelancing again. I promise I'll tell you about that soon enough :)

Monday, November 22, 2010

Bonus: Hair truths or hair insecurities

This is a post I wrote a couple of weeks ago and forgot to post. Fitting since I've been thinking hard about hair lately.

She snickered.

And when I walked a step more, he snickered.

The line of students in the hallway outside of my classroom looked at me as I walked by them, and it could have been for any reason—it could have been because I stand almost six feet tall, as opposed to their small heights; it could be because they were stationary, and I was in motion; it even could have been because I had my keys in my hand, clearly going somewhere off-campus. My immediate line of thought was that they were laughing at my hair.

Don’t get me wrong—my hair is fly today. It’s super breezy outside, and my brown-red hair has been flapping in the strong breeze. My hair has been braided for a few days, and I decided to unbraid it this morning. When I initially braided it, it was after I’d detangled my hair in the shower, so the resulting braid-out was neat, and full of bounce. It’s much bigger than it used to be, and it’s hard to believe that a year and a half ago (which wasn’t that long ago), I had barely an inch of hair, and now I have this mass of kinks and curls flowing from my scalp.

Nevertheless, I’m a natural, and I’m sensitive about my hair. From the first day that I cut it, and even now, a year and some change later, I have heard some of the most interesting/ignorant/hurtful commentary surrounding hair. These comments are probably things that I’d heard before, but did not acknowledge, because they didn’t apply to me, and/or because I just wasn’t listening in the same way that I am now. Why’d you cut your hair? Why is your hair like that? Blasé blasé blasé about “naps.” So and so has good hair. Oh Miss Malorie you have that good hair. How do you get those little curls in your hair?

The comments don’t bother me as much. I can always have an educational moment with someone. I have corrected loved ones and friends when they have joked about “naps” or made commentary about “good hair.” (Whatever the hell that is.) When people asked me why I cut my hair, I told them it was because it was mine to cut. I explained to a coworker that I didn’t have to do anything to get the curls in my hair; that the curls are what God gave me.

It’s the stares that get to me. On occasion, I have noticed people looking at me. I’m well aware of the fact that people could either a). Not actually be looking at me (I bet you think this song is about you…), or b). Be looking at me for a reason that has nothing to do with my hair (i.e. because I am indeed almost six feet tall and walk with undeniable confidence, because of something I’m wearing, or for no reason at all). But whenever I see someone glancing in my direction, I immediately think that they are looking at my hair. Just like the little bad-ass girl in the hallway today, and the little boy at her side. (Don’t judge me, she is a little bad-ass who needs lots of love, and possibly a good ass-whooping.) When they looked up at me and laughed, I linked it automatically to my fro, flapping in the wind.

And although when I went to the restroom to check my hair, it was askew and a little messed up from the breeze all day, am I thinking that people are looking at me because I somehow have some insecurity about my hair? And if they are indeed looking at me, am I immediately linking their stares to negativity because of the fact that I have negative thoughts about my own hair?

Just wondering.

side note: today when i was walking into work, feeling not 100%due to those fucking nasty ass tacos from the fucking "authentic Mexican restaurant in the Cuban neighborhood that i live in--clearly, that food choice was a mistake a little Pre-K girl, whom I've never talked to before, waved at me and said "I think your hair is pretty." Out the mouths of babes... she made my heart smile.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

"I am not my hair" or am I?

I'm going to tell you the truth. I've never listened to India.Arie's I Am Not My Hair. With my computer having no memory, and thus having no iTunes (ever since the crash, R.I.P. to my 3000+ songs), my iPod hasn't been updated since Nicki Minaj was an unknown to the mainstream world. (Man, I kind of miss those days.)

Despite my having never listened to the song, however, I'm very aware of the fact that it's an anthem for women who have gone natural. I'm assuming, having never listened to the song and feeling too shitty right now to give you an external link to the lyrics, or look up the lyrics myself that it has become such because of the fact that women going natural can alwayssometimes encounter a lot of drama over something as simple as hair. You have to consistently remind yourself that it's just hair when people are asking you why you cut it, or why you would want to be natural. People can unintentionally pass a lot of judgment when it comes to a woman's choice to embrace her natural hair texture.

But, have those in the natural hair community ever thought about the fact that maybe we are passing judgment on those who do not have natural hair?

Today, as I was sitting in bed feeling like a Mack truck had run over my back numerous times, I thought about changing my hair. I thought about either locking it, or even *gasp* going back to the creamy crack. (And yes, I have seen Good Hair.) And as soon as I had that thought, I shook it away, as though it was not an appealing option. Like it's something I'm not supposed to do.

Well, wait.... rewind. I thought Arie said I am not my hair. But it seems like that motto doesn't apply in every situation. It's fine for me to say "I am not my hair" when I'm going to chop it off and go natural, but if I'm going from natural back to relaxed, then the attitude that seems to be displayed is something like awww man, you gave up. It's disappointment. And I know this because on the couple of occasions when I have encountered women who were natural, and decided to go back to being relaxed, I felt kind of disappointed. But, why did I feel that way? Because they weren't embracing what God gave them? Because they gave up on the fight?

But why does it have to be a fight? If I am not my hair, then it shouldn't matter what I do with it, right? I should be able to shave half my hair off, I should be able to be natural, I should be able to wear it however.

This is not a dictation as to where I'm going with my hair journeymaybe more like a hint, but I just think if I really am not my hair, then I need to act more like it. No matter what I choose to do with it.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010


from the days of myspace. if you've never had someone make you feel this way, you need to get on changing that, quick.


he thinks it's sexy when i'm just me.
i mean, he really digs the malorie he met
when she was drunk, stealing all the attention
from the center of the dance floor,
smiling through squinted eyes
and occupied lips.
but he really thinks it's sexy when i'm just me,
losing my balance when he kisses me
and saying things
wrong order spoken in the.
really, he totally loved the freakum dress
and he thinks my tight jeans are cool,
but he really thinks it's sexy when i'm me,
hair all disheveled from mischief,
sleeping in shorts and an Aunt Jemima head rag;
he thinks my glasses are sexy as fuck
and doesn't mind the pre-teethbrushing, morning-breath-still-kickin' kisses
that positively set my neuroticism aflame.
really, really really, sincerely,
he thinks it's sexy when i'm just me.

no title for memories

I was going to get all argumentative and dig in to a topic, but... I don't feel like it.

Instead, I feel like telling you a story.

Once upon a time, in an Autumn passed, I was 21, and living the life. I made sure I was out every weekend, hanging out with girlfriends, getting my drink in--the usual. That summer, I'd been going out on dates with a really fly dude; sexy, I'm-trying-to-fuck-you-through-your-clothes-as-we-make-out dates, but with Autumn came familiar loss, and he was gone. Though I was mad, I wasn't as hurt as I thought I was, and I was just kind of chilling. Not really looking for anything, and not really caring about what happened. All I knew was that I was grown, a fresh college graduate, and that I liked the sexy, uninhibited girl I became when I sipped.

That particular night in Autumn, my girlfriend wanted to go to a club I'd never been to before. It was supposed to be 80s night, and for whatever reason, I wasn't feeling it. I wanted to head to one of the other clubs, the one bumping the more "hood" music. (Man, how times have changed.) For whatever reason that night, my girlfriend put her foot down, and we stuck with the original club choice.

I'm not quite sure why I was so opposed to staying in that particular club that night, but, never one to waste time, I went ahead and grabbed my free Cran & Vodka (again, man, how times have changed), and got to drinking. In typical fashion, I started knocking them back. I'm not sure how much I drank, but I'm sure I had at least six Cran & Vodkas. My vision was mighty toasty as my hips started to wiggle to the music. My girlfriend had been sipping on her own poison, probably tequila sunrises (bleh), and she was off, dancing with an interesting looking specimen. and by interesting I mean he probably had gold teeth, wore sunglasses in the club, had dreads and wore a tall tee. bleh.

My toasty vision and wobbly balance lead me over near the railing, and that is where I danced, by myself, scanning the dim club with my particularly limited vision.

I don't remember seeing him approach me, and I don't remember feeling him touch me, or tap my shoulder, or my hip. I don't remember him saying anything, and I don't remember when our bodies touched for the very first time, but, suddenly, I found myself dancing with a perfect stranger. I'm not one to dance long with guys in the club usually because the sensation of their shit burgeoning through their pants doesn't appeal to me the way it did when I was fifteen and new to the world of dancing, male erections, and bodily contact of the opposite sex, but that night, I was vacuumed sealed to this stranger.

Before long, our lips were locked on each other. I also, prior to that moment, had never been a club kisser. All of the usuals were unusual. For whatever reason, my lips were locked on this perfect stranger, and we were practically the same being (we were that close in proximity), but I didn't feel uncomfortable, and he didn't feel grimy. I will cease in trying to explain how unnaturally comfortable it felt, because my words will fail me, and I will never be able to adequately explain that feeling.

By the time my girlfriend was pulling me off of my perfect stranger, telling me it was time to go shit, I was the one with the curfew, I don't know why she was telling me to go, we'd rubbed our lips raw. Now intoxicated with the unfamiliarity of kissing a stranger, and the remnants of Cran & Vodka still flowing through me, I somehow had the composure to pull out my phone so we could exchange numbers. When we did, I told him, specifically, not to play games with me. In the darkness of the club and the haze of my impaired vision, I'm sure he smiled that smile, that I happened to miss, at that time, having never seen it before.

My girlfriend and I stumbled down Church Street, laughing and carrying on about the night's festivities, namely, the way my perfect stranger and I had stolen the show of the club by making out for hours (no exaggeration). I think we'd stopped dance/grinding and simply kissed each other, my life energy mixing with his, unbeknownst to either one of us.

Once inside her car, my phone beeped its familiar jingle, and I saw that my perfect stranger had sent me a text. With my name spelled correctly, my perfect stranger wished me sweet dreams, a phrase that would later, never be the same.

That night, I met him.

We were perfect strangers then, and never will be again. If I'd gotten my way that night, my friend and I would have never gone to the club we did, and while I'm sure I would have bumped to the deep bass line in the other club, I would have never met one of the most extraordinary people I have ever known.

If I could go back to that night, two years ago today, I would do everything the exact.same.way. The inebriation, the vacuum-sealed lips, the me thinking he had on a completely different color shirt than he actually did, the giggle-filled conversation my girlfriend and I drunkenly had while trying to remember what he looked like, exactly.

I would go back and meet my perfect stranger all over again.

i thank God for you, and i think you're great.

Monday, November 15, 2010

"I don't need a man to have a baby"

Today was a good day at work.

I find that I like my team more when I have the opportunity to debate with them, and listen to their many different viewpoints on different subjects, usually about relationships and sex. (We are split almost evenly between the sexes.) This is the first time that I have ever been on a team that has consisted of so many different variables: different ages (18-24), different races, religious beliefs/practices, different hometowns, etc.

Today, one of my team's members was talking about a friend who said that she can't wait to have a baby, and that she just wants to go get inseminated; that she doesn't want to get married. I was all on board with the wanting to have a baby (hey, I have some strong maternal urgings myself, though I am in NO rush to have a baby anytime soon, especially with my situation), but when my team member brought up the not wanting to get married, part of me frowned. Part of me frowned even harder when another female team member raised her hand in the air in agreement, stating that she also didn't want to get married.

I've been pondering off and on why that frown inside of me happened. It's not enough that we are told that you're supposed to grow up, get married, and have children. I'm wise enough to know that everything that is preached as should-be-practice isn't necessarily correct. So, my latching on to the ideal of the nuclear family isn't because I've been told that's what's "right" my entire life, at least, I don't think that's why.

I am the product of a nuclear family. Growing up, I had my mother and my father. Mom was the disciplinarian, and she was the one whose word was usually the final one. She was the one who risked my twelve year old angst and pulled me out of my black middle school and drove me across town every day to the whiter middle school so I could get an education worthy of my innate intellect when my father was more worried about my anger over being forced to leave my friends. (I've now caught up with most of them on Facebook.) Mom was the one who wouldn't let me get my nails done until I was 14, the one who wouldn't let me get my second earlobe piercing until I was 15. Mom always told me that she wasn't my friend, she was my mom. And because she took this stance in my life, frequently taking the risk of hurting my very sensitive feelings with her tough love, she is, now, my friend as well as my mother, and I value her opinion and want her approval. I love her beyond comprehension.

But what about my dad? His role can't be trivialized or overlooked. Yes, my father was more of the softy in my life. Despite his towering stature, and infamous attitude, when I look back over my childhood, that attitude was more frequently displayed toward things that caused me strife, rather than actually at me. My dad was the one who would take me swimming all day at the pool every summer, the one who would take me on drives just because. Daddy was the one who took me to the mall on my birthday when I was five, and daddy is the one who listened to my rants and raves via phone calls to-and-from class when I was nineteen. My dad would break himself to get me the Barbie doll I wanted, and to make sure I had extra money when I wanted to go to the mall. My dad is the one who gave up his own vehicle to make sure that I had a car right before I graduated from high school. My dad frequently babied me, and didn't want to risk making me angry, though usually his lack of risk made me even angrier. It is from him that I learned what debating was, because he gave me the floor to speak my mind, even when it was inappropriate for my age and position as his child. Even today, my dad would probably stick his leg through a campfire to make sure I had enough money to put gas in my car.

I think these are the reasons why I internally (and probably externally) frowned when my team member quickly said she didn't want to get married, and wouldn't mind having a baby with no father.

Once upon a time, when I was on the outs with him (which happened more often than it seems it did... in memory, the bad things eventually lose their ability to remain in your conscious, if you allow them to fly free), I felt like this. Rebelling against the system set up eons before me, I decided that I wasn't quite sure whether I wanted to get married. It just seemed so illogical, as I was getting older, and starting to see my parents' faults and their frustrations with one another, and it seemed so unsafe in a life that clearly afforded me no romantic guarantees or longstanding joys.

I, like the young lady today, would have raised my hand in agreement that maybe, just maybe having a baby by myself would be the best option. I pondered that for a moment. You know, on some fly pixie-cut Halle Berry ish. I could meet me a fine, fine man, and we could mutually decide that we liked each other enough, and we could get pregnant, and then we could have a kid, but be unattached to one another. Celebrities from here to the other side of the Pacific are doing it.

I don't quite know what happened to that rebellious emotion, but it dissipated into more centered thinking. As him and I got our ish together (like always, humans are such creatures of habit), I fell more and more into him, and I thought about how nice it must be to be with someone, and to declare your lives to each other, and to have a baby with that person.

And, back we are to where I started. What precisely makes me frown about the idea of a young lady deciding that she just wants to have a baby with no attachment? Well, for starters, it's selfish. And sure, someone could argue that the idea of deciding to have a baby is inherently selfish, since a child never asks to be conceived, but we conceive them out of our own desires/actions, but I think deciding to have a baby without a partner is selfish. What if I'd had only my mom or only my dad because one of them decided that they wanted to do it alone? Regardless of the reasons why, if I had only had one of them growing up, I would not be the person I am today. That does not mean that I would be bad, by any means (who knows what I would have been like?), it simply means that the things I gained from both of them, I wouldn't necessarily have, because I would have only been able to learn from one of them.

I also am (clearly) not sure how I feel about this generation deciding to flip what has (seemed to have) been working all.these.years. Now, instead of a culture of impassioned, empowered, single parents, we seem to have developed a culture of unaccountable baby mamas and baby daddies.*

I myself have said that marriage is simply a matter of legality, and that you can be with someone without necessarily taking that step, but I think that was a bunch of bullshit I said when my heart was hurting and longing, much like how when you talk to your friend, she tells you how done she is with so-and-so, and then she tells you she has to go, because he's on the other line. (I know. I've done it.)

All I know is that I'm not as free of the system as I thought. I want to get married. I want to be someone's wife. I want to be someone's mother, who has a healthy, consistent relationship with my children's father. I want to be able to interact with my children's father as my husband, not as the man I used to date, or the guy I used to fuck, etc. I want my kids to grow up in my house seeing their mother and their father, and I want my kids to go to sleep at night knowing that their mother and their father are both in the house.**

And don't get me wrong--if I were a lesbian, I would still want my kids to go to sleep knowing both of their mothers are in the house with them. There's just something about two parents over one.

And maybe that's just because I was blessed enough to have my mom and my dad. But I do know that my kids will have the same, God be it so.

*--that is a generalization; I definitely know people who are not married, but have children who seem to be on their grind and taking care of their family, and who aren't out there all loose and ish.
**--there's something indescribable about knowing both my mom and dad are in the house at the same time. I still don't sleep the same if one of my parents are at work. When both of them are there, I feel complete.
before i recognize this moment

this moment will be gone...

John Mayer, "Clarity"

It made me quite sad that the moment is already gone, though I was cognizant of it.

Time is moving too fast for me.

Wine drinking, and how I'm doing

Follow me on Twitter, if you dare: @missmaloriejm
So, the day is finally over. It was a Monday, and I was worried about it before it began. In some type of funk, I slept on top of my bed's comforter, curled up in my other comforter, tossing and turning much of the night, and waking up almost an hour before my alarm, which is when my roommate left the house.

Being at home for four days straight took its toll on me: I grew re-accustomed to the quiet of my house, of waking up and looking out my bathroom window at the perfectly blue sky and my mother's fuchsia bougainvillea plant. I readjusted to the smell of my house, and its feel, and sound. So, this morning, and much of last night, I'm sure my body was disoriented. It's hard living in two places: never quite letting go of home, and never quite attaching to here.

However, today's Monday wasn't as bad as other Mondays I've had, and I spent much of the day in deep thought about the future, and now, as I sit here writing to you, I'm in semi-deep thought about how I'm doing, and how I haven't spoken to you much lately. So, before writing other things that are on my mind, I thought I'd catch you up to the present.

I've spoken a lot about this person that I call him in this blog. Let me tell you a bit more (than he would be comfortable with). Him is my ex-boyfriend, though ex-boyfriend is not sufficient enough to describe him. In fact, all that term does is describe the fact that for a period of time, we declared (or didn't, because I don't think we ever actually did) ourselves as dating each other, only, and at some point not long after that, we declared that to no longer be true. However, that declaration didn't stop much of anything.

Long story short, him is someone I talk about all the time, because he is still a very active part of my life. He brought HD technicolor to my world. And now, he is leaving.

Him has found himself an opportunity to be gainfully employed abroad, and he's taking that opportunity, and leaving the States. Part of me admires him for this, and part of me is clinging to his leg. This is a really big deal, the fact that the routine that has become him and me is getting ready to completely change. There will be no more visits, no more laughs in the warmth of his bedroom, no more middle of the night texts, no more waking up to see his drowsy face, eyelashes curled toward the ceiling.

Whenever I visit home, part of me will have to remind the other parts of me that there is no going over to his apartment, because he doesn't live there anymore. There's no more need to let him know when I'm coming home, or what time I'll be getting there. We won't be going out to TGI Friday's; we won't be going to Antigua. We won't be drinking anymore, and we won't be smoking anymore. (Not that we've done those things in quite some time, anyway.)

It has hit me, but it hasn't hit me, that in a few short days, part of me will live abroad, indefinitely. I'm not sure if that part of me will ever return, or whether part of me will live, forever roaming.

Maybe we'll share an email, or two, (or many more), or maybe we'll join the Skypers and get in a video chat, or maybe I'll even get a letter, though that's a romantic notion. Or maybe, we won't. Maybe, we will become for one another, a memory of lives we used to live, of fun times we used to have. Or maybe I'll just become that way for him.

In short, that's what's been going on with me lately. There were other things that I planned on writing about, but truthfully, this has been simultaneously at the forefront of me, and buried very deeply within me.

Once again, I am at the place where I am trying to numb some of the feeling away. Never again will I wish to be completely numb, but just a tiny bit, like when you hurt yourself, and you affix a piece of ice to the place of the hurt, but remove it when it gets too cold.

I could say many other things, but no words will really suffice. My emotions speak far further than my words.

until the end of time, i'll be there for you
you own my heart and mind--i truly adore you
if God one day struck me blind
your beauty i'd still see
love's too weak to define, just what you mean to me


Sunday, November 14, 2010

In the advent that I don't see you again

We walked downstairs in the blinding sun of midday, like we always do, and you waited for me to place my things in my car, and open the driver's side door, so we could say goodbye, until next time.

I stepped out from my door to hug you, and we kissed on the cheek as the sun warmed us. You told me you'd let me know whether we'd hang on Sunday, and I said okay, and wished you a safe trip.

Whether it registered in my mind that this goodbye could be the last goodbye is not a question. When I watched you walk away from me as I drove away, I knew that that was the best goodbye I could ever give. My heart will never fully accept that you're gone, and part of her will probably always wait for your return in her life.

A kiss goodbye would never be long enough; your embrace would never satisfy my skin. Our conversation would never cease; my tears would continue falling. I would hold you and never ever let you go. I can never say goodbye, because I can't say I believe much in them, unless for good purpose (like people whom should have never been in my life anyway).

What you received that day was the best I could give you. Pretending like our goodbye that day was just another goodbye until another day, when I would see you again, and kiss your fragrance; inhaling you into me, once again, in the warmth of a Fall's day.

love you.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

no title for truth

As we stood in the small rectangle of linoleum in front of his apartment door, I tirelessly petitioned against the dismantling of comfort and familiarity.

He continued lifting bags from the floor, trying to ensure only one trip downstairs by having everything in his grasp, and I damn near grabbed it out of his hands to prevent him from throwing it into the complex's dumpster.

Logic was not a factor in me trying to alter the fate of the familiar comforter--of course, instead of throwing it away, he could have washed it and donated it to a shelter, or kept it for future needs. (You never know how cold those Asian nights may get.)

When he yanked the comforter off his floor and said he would throw it away, he yanked another of my heart's strings right along with it. I passively tried to fight for the comforter, simply repeating don't throw it away, instead of asking him if I could take it with me, and give all its old memories a new home.

It seemed too heavy handed to ask for the comforter, but reality is even heavier--for almost two years, that comforter has been our rug every time we've walked into his room. That comforter has seen our many metamorphoses--from familiar strangers, to girlfriend and boyfriend, to exes to lovers and friends. (Yes, you can have both, and no, it's not easy.) That comforter has been our platform for some of every event, from inebriated nights, to falling asleep mid-conversation, to tv watching, to playing poker and playing with each other.

That comforter is a part of his room, which is an extension of him, and to see him remove it was like a crumbling of a beloved puzzle. In the comforter's absence, sets in the hard-hitting reality that sooner than I would like, his room will be empty, and his place in the routine of my life will alter.

The removing of the comforter was the breaking of the glass--from here on out, pieces will continue to fall.

As he walked to the dumpster, comforter in hand, I watched him turn the corner, and silently, my heart began her goodbyes.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

scenes from my notebook

I've been neglecting writing lately. Not because I want to, of course. I've been writing snatches at work, but that is not enough, and I apologize, to you, as well as myself.

After starting to share something else with you, I decided to look deeper into my notebook, and found something more poignant to share with you. That other piece made me wrinkle my nose in distaste of it.

As always, it comes from the heart of me.

The thought lingers with me that I am lucky I caught him when I did...

There must be some explanation for why my life has been tainted with the color of him, forever altered. There must be some reason why when he exists inside of me, his stroke threatens to boil my skin off my body; must be some reason why my eyes overflow with tears from the beauty of him. There has to be a logical reason why after the dust has settled on our arguments and disagreements, why I still can't stand to be without him; why being angry with him seems such a waste of time.

Still searching, there's got to be a reason why the sight of his brown eyes, bright like a child's, bring a smile to my heart. Someone's got to be able to tell me why my world is simply more colorful as long as he's in it...

... I decide that maybe I was just lucky to have caught him when I did. This, coming from me, seems horribly contradictory--I say it all the time that I don't believe in luck; no coincidences. And I don't believe in luck. I firmly believe that that... night... well, I believe that was fate...

Yes, I do believe it was fate that brought us together that night, but maybe it was luck that we came together when we did...*

I've written about this thought before, but maybe there is nothing else for us. Maybe this is the end of the road for us together--maybe we were granted this short time together, like the quick flash of a beautiful sunset, to form a bridge together in order for both of us to reach our next road.

Often, I wish I could cheat the dealer of time; I wish I could have met him earlier in life, with the notion that I would have liked to see what kind of person he was then; to see how he looked, how he spoke, to have been his friend. In reality, all of that is true, but the most stunning admission of my heart is that I would have simply liked to have met him sooner because I would have liked more time to have loved him...

And, though our joined time may be ending for now, I pray it's not really the end. Nothing is really over until death. The thought still lingers with me that maybe I was lucky to catch him when I did. Like a shooting star, or a dusk's sunset, or a 4th of July sparkler, all are awe-inspiring in their own way, and so short lived that their marvel seems to transcend all other.

It seems that before you can blink, or catch your breath, or realize the moment--
--the moment is gone.
(September 30, 2010... before I could recognize the moment that was October, it was gone, and now it's November, and I'm going to try and recognize the hell out of this moment before it leaves me...)

*--has something so extraordinary ever happened to you, that it countered the very logic of what you believed? (like not believing in luck, but feeling like you were so damn lucky for getting the opportunity to know someone?)

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Everglades adventure, part II

Oh yeah, interesting indeed.

So, we're rowing our canoe out in the bay, and I'm pretty jazzed because I am rowing a canoe (something that I have never done before, ever), and my partner and I are moving along pretty swiftly. There was a solid breeze at our backs, which helped move us with the slight waves. The part of the bay closest to the shore was extremely shallow, and there were parts of the water that were comprised mainly of grasses, which caused our canoe to slow down as we had to push off the shallow ground.

The sun was out, the breeze felt nice, and I was guiding a canoe in the Everglades. I could see it now, me telling him about how I rowed a canoe, and him thinking it was hot. (You know, men like when women do things that are slightly masculine, like watching a football game and actually being into it, and women like when men do things that are slightly feminine, like making conversation about things that aren't necessarily critical to life, like an opinion on a dress. Shrug.) I couldn't wait to call my family and tell them that I rowed a canoe. I just knew this was going to be the most victorious experience of my life.

(mind you, we were set to row THREE miles to dock at a key, and we'd probably traveled all of half of .1 of a mile at this point when victorious thoughts started settling in.)

We'd almost made it past this island of trees that was to the left of a canal, and as we were approaching the end of the tree island, we noticed the thickening clouds back toward the shore. The sun was gone, and the wind was whipping around. It looked and smelled like a storm, even though there was only a 20% chance of rain. The decision was made that we should all turn around and start heading back to the marina. At this point, a few thoughts ran through my mind:
  • I thought of The Notebook. Yes, I was rowing with my coworker, not a frustrated love interest, but the way the sky clouded over, and the possibility that we could get rained on while in our canoe made me think of the movie. Don't ask.
  • I remembered another member of our canoeing party saying that canoeing back would be harder because we would be going against the wind.
  • Would we make it back before it stormed?

With these thoughts running through my mind, we turned around and started heading back toward the marina. The other two people we were canoeing with seemed to be making good ground, as we struggled in our canoe. My coworker and I were rowing as hard as we could, but with the wind and the waves, we were being pushed out into the open water away from the shore. Not only was it frightening as hell to be in the middle of a humongous bay, but there were extremely large sections of the water that were made up of the grasses floating under the water, which pretty much inhibit movement. As our canoeing partners seemed to get farther away from us, we were turned around by the wind, which left us facing the direction opposite of that which were trying to go. We kept rowing and ended up getting stuck in the other set of grasses, the one that came with shallow ground. The wind was kicking, and as my coworker said she didn't know what to do, the thought finally surfaced in my head that I had no clue as to what to do either, and that I had no experience whatsoever, besides watching Man v. Wild on the Discovery Channel. What would Bear Grylls do?

We sat there for a second in a bit of a silent panic. A few thoughts ran through my head:

  • Slave ships. Might seem strange, or even flippant, but during my short-lived rowing victory, I thought of the oft-used cartoon image of a ship of slaves having to row to the drum beat. During the victory, I thought, hey, rowing's not so bad clearly because I wasn't a slave rowing a boat, but a idealistic tourist and during my moment of quiet panic, I thought, this shit is hard.
  • What if we actually get stuck out here?
  • Did the other two make it back to the marina? Will they send someone for us?

As we tried to row again, the wind continued to push us aside, so we allowed ourselves to be pushed toward some trees, and then we stopped and pondered our options. My coworker decided to try getting out and pulling the canoe through the muck we were sitting in. Unfortunately, the muck was like quicksand, and we didn't get very far with this idea. You know when you're at the beach, burying your feet in the sand, and the tide washes over your feet? You know how it feels when the water gets down in the sand, and your feet get buried further? I imagine that's what it felt like. I didn't dare step out of that canoe; I was so terrified of what could be lurking in the muck. My coworker fell over in the muck, and we decided that pulling the boat wasn't an option.

We sat there, both silently scared, until we tried heading back out into open water again. When we got out as far as we could, we saw that our other canoeing buddies hadn't made it anywhere either. Relief crashed within me as I realized that we weren't alone. We all decided to pull over and dock our canoes in the muck until the breeze slowed considerably. At this point, it decided to rain. I sat there, life jacket firmly strapped to me (even though the canoe was stationary), legs and knees stiff as a board (canoes are not made for tall people), being rained on in the Everglades.

We all started to laugh uncontrollably.

We talked about being stranded, about how we should collect rain water so we'd have something to drink on day 35; I joked that it was ridiculous that my last meal might just be the ham sandwich I packed for lunch. One of our canoe buddies tried to step out of the canoe and her leg promptly sank about a foot in the muck, and we erupted into giggles. I snapped pictures of her muck-covered leg; of my coworker in the back of the canoe. We joked about Gilligan's Island, and about why the lady at the desk didn't question our experience before renting a canoe to us.

The laughs poured forth, because I think we all realized that we were only probably .3 miles away from where we started (and that number is probably 3 times reality), and because so many things were going wrong, that there wasn't much else to do but laugh.

At some point during our laughter session, the sun came back out, and the wind tapered off a bit. We decided to head out again, this time determined that we would make it back. My coworker and I got into a good stride, and made great progress across the waves, now shining a murky, minty green from the sunlight above.

We made it past the island of trees when the wind picked up again, though the sun remained out. The wind grew too strong for us to combat, and when it pushed us against a shoreline of muck that smelled like boiled eggs and poop, we decided that we had had enough. Right near a campground, we got out of the boat and tied it to a picnic table and decided we would walk the rest of the way back. It was at this time that my shoe broke (it was already on its way out, but the fact that it decided to break right then was hilarious to both of us), and a wave of people emerged from a path, on a nature hike.

The fact that we had gone from panic and fear of being lost at sea under a stormy sky to seeing 30 or so people emerge on a nature hike not far from where we thought we'd be lost forever was too much for us, and we laughed, and laughed, and laughed, as we all left our canoes anchored and walked back to the marina, to let them know that they would have to get the canoes for us; we'd had enough.

So, as I sit here today, with a neck that feels like I have whiplash and hands that ache like someone punched my palms repeatedly, I know I will always have a special bond with the Everglades, even though it wasn't quite the place I imagined it to be.

Not everyone can say that they were almost lost at sea and live to tell the tale.

My adventure in the Everglades, part I

Good morning, good folk. I'm writing to you with a sore-ass neck, and with a headache because when I walked into my kitchen this morning there were fucking alcoholic beverage bottles everywhere and the trash was full but not taken out because I live with people who don't care whether something is clean or dirty and if I didn't love my hair so much right now I'd pull that shit right out and drop it on them in their sleep in revenge.. (Pray for me.)

Sometime last week, the idea was proposed by a coworker that we should all head to the Everglades, and rent a canoe, or something along those lines. I immediately said yes, even though I was chilling at home with my family and not even trying to think about anything that would happen after my arrival back in South Florida.

Now, if you don't know anything about the Everglades, here's a little info for you:

The Everglades are subtropical wetlands in the southern portion of the U.S. state of Florida, comprising the southern half of a large watershed. The system begins near Orlando with the Kissimmee River, which discharges into the vast but shallow Lake Okeechobee. Water leaving the lake in the wet season forms a slow-moving river 60 miles (97 km) wide and over 100 miles (160 km) long, flowing southward across a limestone shelf to Florida Bay at the southern end of the state. The Everglades are shaped by water and fire, experiencing frequent flooding in the wet season and drought in the dry season. Writer Marjory Stoneman Douglas popularized the term "River of Grass" to describe the sawgrass marshes, part of a complex system of interdependent ecosystems that include cypress swamps, the estuarine mangrove forests of the Ten Thousand Islands, tropical hardwood hammocks, pine rockland, and the marine environment of Florida Bay. (

I have wanted to go to the Everglades for a while now. It was a desire that had been on my radar for a while, along with things like going to Mallory Square in Key West and getting a puppy. Living in South Florida, I now don't have the excuse of distance preventing me from being able to go. So, without second thought, I agreed to the adventure.

I admittedly didn't know much about the Everglades. I knew about the forests of mangroves, and about all the water, but I formed my view of the Everglades based on what I'd imagined from stories like Their Eyes Were Watching God. I think in my head, my vision of the Everglades resembled a massive lake, with alligators close enough for you to touch (though you definitely wouldn't touch) and crooked trees covering most of the landscape.

When we arrived yesterday at the mouth of the national park, I wasn't very impressed. And that's probably because my expectations were formed based on my imagination (and because every square inch of the Everglades isn't necessarily similar). And you should know by now that my imagination is wild.
We drove the 38 miles from the mouth of the national park, to Flamingo, where Florida Bay is located, and where we would embark upon our canoeing adventure. As we drove through, we encountered plenty of sawgrass and birds, but no panthers or gators crawling out of the wilderness. We passed many different ponds and places named in the Native American fashion. (That's one of many things I love about Florida; most of the cities and lakes, etc. have Native American names.)

When we arrived in Flamingo, we were told that we had the option of taking our canoes down the canal, or that we could head out in the bay, and head toward one of the many keys, where there was a little beach located. It was decided that we would head out in the bay.

At this point, not even the least bit of hesitation or fear had kicked in, which is unnatural for me. This is the same girl who told you that she can't walk into the ocean without looking down, and the same girl who swam in the springs for approximately .2 seconds before swimming back because I was scared. (Don't judge me.)

In fact, I don't think it kicked in until a while later that I was getting ready to paddle a canoe (having had no experience) into the vast, open water of the Everglades (you know, where all those animals from my imagination actually do live, even if you don't see them all at once). But, I had nothing to worry about. Though it had been cloudy on our drive through the park, when we arrived in Flamingo, the sun was out and shining on the water, giving it that pretty look of diamonds bobbing in the tide.

The boat guy pulled the canoe onto the dock, and my coworker stepped in, and I held on for dear life as I stepped into the front of the canoe. When I heavily stepped into the boat, it hit me for the first time that I was sitting in a boat, on top of water, and that if it turned over, I was going into the water with it. Despite that second of panic, we were both in the canoe, and we started to paddle out into the bay.

This is where things got interesting.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

unable to convey

i sit here in the shirt i made you give me

and my eyes are so heavy from the tears

i can't even finish this sentence.

time is moving way too fast
for me.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Things I don't fucking get, part II

Editing note: I am now posting this at least a couple of days after I initially wrote it, so I don't even feel the same about it anymore, but it was definitely at its funniest when I was sitting in my car, eating my lunch on a cloudy day.

Part two of Things I don't fucking get. Not going to lie, I am writing this after having had an amazing evening with some great coworkers, and someone I really respect, so my sarcastic edge might not be the same as it was this afternoon during the frustration of work, but I'm going to give it all I got.

11. My simultaneous love/dislike of my womanlike1

I'm 23 now. When I was 17, I was slim. I'm still slim, but I was slimmer. My thighs were barely enough to speak of, and my breasts were petite handfuls. My booty had sprouted enough to spark conversation from those who had nothing better to talk about (i.e. little boys thinking they were men), but I definitely wouldn't have considered my body womanlike, not at all. Looking back at pictures, I definitely wouldn't consider it womanlike.

Like I said, I'm still slim, but the womanlike has definitely made its arrival. My thighs are definitely soft--not like a tub of lard2 soft, but like a firm pillow soft, and my breasts are thicker handfuls these days that bounce when I'm walking at a fast pace. My booty is now my ass, my ass that I can feel moving up and down as I walk. Occasionally, I'll take a glance when I'm walking out of my bathroom at all the mass that now belongs to me. Sometimes, I think it's sexy. Really sexy. Like when I'm throwing it back on him--yeah, I said it--or when I'm walking naked around in my room. It feels powerful, sometimes.

And then, there are other times when I am self-conscious. Like when he's running his hand down my stomach, and I worry about whether he'll be turned off by the softness. Or when I saw that picture of me from one of the first events I went to in Miami, and immediately thought damn, that's how big my legs look when I sit down? I love these moments of powerful embrace much more than the moments of oh my God, that's me much, much more. Especially since I'm still definitely in the category of slim.

12. Still wanting to have a baby after working with kids for 5 years

Well, in looking at this list, I realize that I do really get why, and I'm going to spare you all the details of why. I was just being snarky when making my lunchtime list and yelling at myself for being so damned honed in to my maternal instincts that my breasts practically lactate when he lays his head on my lap. #Justsaying

13. Why people see email as a representation of yourself (i.e. need to use proper grammar, etc.) but not texts

I am a proper texter. I hve nvr txted ne1 a msg tht looks lke this. I judge people when they send me a message that looks like that. (Thankfully, 99% of the people I text never send messages like that.) I just don't understand. If you wouldn't send an email that looks like you were typing with one hand while trying to fight off a bear with the other3, then why would you send a text like that? Just because it's immediate doesn't mean it should be stupid-looking. (Maybe people really do email like that, and I'm just blissfully unaware.)

14. Why people can't fucking write

You can blame it on my bias because I am a writer, but I really take offense when people can't write. And I don't mean, when your handwriting isn't up to par. But I mean when people are asked to write something to be seen by others (in most cases, by many others), and it reads like shit. Incorrect punctuation, terrible grammar, missing words, ADD of writing style... it really pisses me off. I understand that writing isn't everyone's thing, but if you are writing something that you know is going to be read by at least ONE other person, I would think that you would take the effort to make sure it is up to par. Clearly having never learned the rules of writing is one thing, but appearing as though you didn't give a shit and just excreted all over the paper is another.

15. Why I chew on ice when I'm always cold

*sings* I get it from my momma. Next.

16. Why things operate the way they do

Oh yeah, I was definitely on it at lunch time. Just spewing shit on to the paper as I held on to my hamburger in the other. I generally spend a lot of time wondering why things operate in the manner they do. Why do schools operate the way they do? Why are kids taught for the FCAT and not for anything else? Why do teachers make shit so boring? Why don't people care more? Why do we have to work for money and not for the passion of what your job entails? Why does cash rule everything around me? Why are kids so angry?

I could go on and on, but I spend a lot of time pondering these things.

17. Why schools are built on tons of land but barely use a third of it

On my way home from lunch, I saw a school yard with so much grass; so much space... you could have a small circus on the amount of land that was being unused. The school I work at is the same. I'm sure they probably have at least an acre--keep in mind, I have never physically measured an acre, and probably don't know what an acre looks like, but I know it's a lot of land--of land, and they barely use it. Children should have the experience of running through the grass, being silly and enjoying themselves... especially if they have plenty of grass with which to make this happen.

18. Why people bitch about unfixable things

I don't like to say things are unfixable... but, some things are. Some things are out of your control, and that's a fact that is good to know. Can I fix the fact that I tried to think of something really clever to say but was ultimately unsatisfied with my effort so decided to write this sentence instead? possibly, if I just sit here for a long time and keep thinkingProbably not. Does it help for me to sit here and bitch about it, or just keep writing? Exactly. Bitching without plan or ability to fix is simply complaining.

19. Why people ask people to do shit when the latter group of people have to do shit

My father actually brought this to my attention, during one such day when I was actually holding a hamburger from the same place, sitting in the parking lot, considering the status of my lifewhen we were having a chat. He said that an old boss told him to never ask people to do you a favor when it was something they had to do. I had never considered this before. I'm sure I have vocalized something in that way... it just seems lighter than telling someone that they have to do something, but in my current role as a supervisor, this is something I have to give significant thought to. I'm glad my dad dropped that nugget on me. I will make sure to not ask anyone to do me a favor if it's not actually a favor. Hell, it's hard enough to get people to do things when they are mandatory, let alone when they are favors.

20. Why I like kids better than adults

No need for thought here. I get this shit. Kids are cool. Adults frequently are not.

1womanlike is a term that's really not a term at all, but something that he said to me one time when we were hanging out... he said that I was "getting all womanlike," and the term stuck (with me).
2is lard even soft? I've never touched it to see.
3don't ask. I don't even know where I was going with that.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Things I don't fucking get: 10.12.10 (part I)

As I sat in my car, eating lunch by myself, not wanting to drive back to work; in fact, hoping that some black hole in the ground would open up, thus sending me into some technical mixup in the space-time continuum1, thus restricting my ability to go back to work, therefore actually sending me back to the beginning of my weekend, so I could relive it all over again, Maxwell's "This Woman's Work" came on. I sat there, a little irritated after having gone from real jazz2 to "This Woman's Work," and I started to attempt to enjoy the song, until I realized... I don't like this song.

Granted, I know the song is a cover, and no, I've never heard the original. But I do know that I do not like the Maxwell3 version. In fact, I don't even know what the fuck the song is about. And every time the song comes on, I can feel my brain searching for an answer. Why is he singing in falsetto the whole time? Why does she only have a little life in her yet? Why should he be crying but not letting it show? I even started to excuse my dislike, blaming it on the lack of my used-to-be habit of looking up all song lyrics and reading through them while the song is playing.4 But I allowed my dislike to fester, and thus came up with a long list of things I don't fucking get, all VSB style. At length, I will continue.

2. Why I don't carry a pen in my pocket

I'm a writer. I write all the time. I came up with this list while I was sitting in my car eating lunch. I felt myself up searching for a pen, until I realized I'd left it at my job. Frantically I went through the different hiding places in my car, until I found one that I'd left in the passenger-side console... specifically because at some point in the past, I knew that I would be looking for a pen and would need one.

3. People thinking bad ass kids are funny/cute

There ain't shit funny about a bad ass kid. There's nothing remotely cute about a bad ass kid. I have heard some of everything from kids, from them talking about how they are going to cuss someone out, to them actually cussing, to them showing out somewhere public. And I have never understood why people in these situations (often parents/caregivers/other supposedly lucid adults) smile, or laugh, or say some inane shit like that's my baby, when I'm standing in the corner, feeling spontaneous combustion inevitable.

4. Why bullying doesn't have more effective policies

I understand that teachers/caregivers/supposedly lucid adults can't be everywhere at once. I can't walk home with the kids I work with; I don't get to see what goes on in their houses; in their neighborhoods. I am not their teacher; not a police officer; not their parent. But why does it seem that everyone has relinquished control to some invisible person(s)? Kids tell teachers that they are being bullied or that things are going on, teachers tell counselors, counselors tell administration, parents tell police, kids tell afterschool staff, kids tell each other... I mean, there are so many people that get told about bullying, but who actually does anything about it? I mean, I can't do anything about it, because my solution is to beat a kid's ass. Back in the day when my mom was growing up, anyone had the right to beat your ass. And that was because everyone had your best interests at hand. And now, no one has the right to beat your ass (it seems, not even your parents), and it seems no one has your best interests at hand. I think society needs to bring that back. The beating of the ass seemed to keep kids in line. Now, kids fear no one, especially not adults, and they are bullying/beating the shit out of each other.

5. Why adults allow kids to call them by their first name with no respectful appellation

If a child ever approaches me and calls me by my first name, I give them one of my classic stares, and correct them. It's Miss Malorie, or nothing. In fact, the kids I worked with formerly said it so often that I started calling myself that. I enjoy being called "Miss." It's a sign of respect, rather than a stranger saying hey, you! or a child calling me by my first name. I know some Northern people or strange women feel as though being called "Miss" is disrespectful (hence why I don't fucking get it), but with kids this should be the exception, never the rule. It starts small, and the reason why kids don't fear adults is because they haven't learned to respect them. If I would have ever called an adult by their first name when I was a kid, I'm certain my mother would have morphed into the Hulk and eaten me. I'm pretty sure of it. But now, I hear kids all the time referring to people on my job by their first name... and the people being called by their first name have no problem with it.

6. Any of the "Real Housewives of..." shows

Don't get me wrong... I have been waiting for the Real Housewives of Atlanta to come back to tv. In what I'm sure was a regular season of television, I became so scared of the fact that RHoA might not come back to tv that I started to contemplate writing a letter to Bravo5... or simply asking other people if they knew when it would come back on tv.6 Well, it has come back to tv, and I don't know what happened between this season and last season, but maybe I've just gotten older... but their drama is so... stupid.

Maybe it was my personal drama from last year of having to deal with a crazy bitchfriendperson, but when I sat down to watch the first episode of the season (last Monday), I realized that they were all crazy. NeNe is as fickle as she claims Kim to be, as ghetto as she accused Kandi of being, and she spreads her business all over the place; Kim has been "chasing dick since [she] came out the womb" and now thinks she bisexual7; Kandi doesn't actually bother me that much anymore, though she's lumped in with everyone else, unfortunately; Sheree is too bougie to speak of; Phaedra is so hung up on this idea of being a Southern Belle that she can't see how fake she really seems to be; and I haven't seen anything yet of the supermodel, but she looks like she married her granddaddy, so... that's enough to be problematic.

In thinking about it, all the Housewives shows are built on the same premise: of displaying how fucking trivial and sad life is for the rich and "fabulous." Out of the numerous housewives that are featured, it seems only a few are actually married, and only a few seem to have sense, or to be people that I would actually not run from if I saw them in the mall. It's kind of sad that I have spent this amount of time thinking about this, because I have a feeling this is going to hamper my ability to watch the show and enjoy it for all its shameless glory.

7. Fantasia consistently making music that reminds me how weak I am as a female for loving someone that's no good/for constantly thinking about him/just for having a vagina

8. Why I feel like I'm somehow being punished for wanting the most mundane things

To write. To be published. To be fabulous. To travel. To have beautiful, smart, well-versed babies. To have a stable, healthy, marvelous relationship with a husband. To write. To write a book. To be happy. To have a garden. To have a yard. To be healthy. To have my parents live into old age, healthy. To live into old age, healthy. To be all Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee with my man.

Yeah, I guess I don't want much. I don't have to be an ass-kicking lawyer; I don't have to be a magnificent brain surgeon. I don't want to be a teacher; don't want to be a diplomat. Don't need to be a movie star, and don't need to have wealth beyond my means. I just want to be comfortable enough to be able to travel when I feel like it, without having to save and save and save for years, to write, and to have a family. Is that too much to ask?8

9. Why passive people have aggressive jobs

Why the fuck would you become a police officer if you are afraid of shooting someone? Why would you be a teacher if you can't read? Why would you be a hairdresser if you hate the smell of burning hair? Doesn't make sense? Didn't think so.

10. Why it feels like everybody's working on something but nothing's happening

It's midterm election time, and people are making these ads left and right about how this person is a crook, and how this person is evil, and how this person is that, etc. Politicians want to be elected because they say they are going to do this and that, but what is really being done? I know change doesn't happen overnight, and I know it takes a lot of work to overhaul things that affect an entire country, but still... is change going to come? Ever? Or will things just stay broken so people can get elected via promises of changing things?9

Wait for Part II. It's coming... I just didn't want to make y'all have to read to the bottom of the page.

1Oh yeah, I loved me some Back to the Future.
2real jazz exists in the realm of radio stations that have NPR radio and commitment drives to raise money, and don't have fancy jingles. I love real jazz.
3Don't get me wrong. I love Maxwell. I think he's sexy as shit. He was sexy with hair, and sexy without hair. He's so sexy he could drink my bathwater. When he said in "'Til the Cops Come Knockin'" the phrase "eat you" I think I almost offered my vagina to him. I just don't like that ["This Woman's Work"] song, and don't fucking get it.
4I got lazy. I don't do this anymore, but I should. But CDs should also come with lyrics printed, dammit. (All of them don't.)
5I was never really contemplating this shit.
6I probably wouldn't have done this either. My pride wouldn't let me.
7I have no problem with ol' girl being bisexual, nor anyone else... it just seems she goes with the wind.
8Not complaining. Legitimately asking.
9Not talking about any particular individual or politician, just in general.

Unless otherwise indicated, all words here are property of Miss Malorie Registered & Protected