NUMB/ENCORE & JIGGA WHAT/FAINT

Yeah
Thank you, thank you, thank you
You're far too kind
Haha
Uh, yeah
Ready?
Let's go
Can I get a encore? Do you want more?
Jay Z

Been digging in the archives, currently, Jay Z/Linkin Park's Collision Course is in rotation, along with Anthony Hamilton's Soulife. Particularly digging the Jigga What/Faint & Numb/Encore tracks. Kind of like my current state.

I am a little bit of loneliness, a little bit of disregard
Handful of complaints but I can't help the fact that everyone can see these scars
I am what I want you to want, what I want you to feel.....
Linkin Park

Last week, I stumbled across a sneak listen of Anthony Hamilton's Soulife. The first song, "I Used To Love Someone" hit me pretty hard. Not only was it poetically haunting, the music was reminisce of true...... longing. I cannot adequately describe it. Only say it held me, captivated me. Took me someplace.

"I remember when I used to love someone who looked just like you, and also I can remember the smell of ...."
Anthony Hamilton

And it was consistent with my heart's ache at the moment. The lyrics shared my place, my space. They coaxed hidden pain and conjured tears from someplace I'd hidden from myself. The tears hydrated insecurities and unpleasantries that I believed I had conquered, if not tamed. Wise folk say you cannot tame the wild, the wild only become clandestine and unpredictable. Thus....

I am a little bit insecure, a little unconfident
Cause you don't understand, I do what I can but sometimes I don't make sense
I am what you never wanna say, but I've never had a doubt
Linkin Park

I have written a new piece. It is autobiographical. Problem is, I keep getting asked the same question, "who is this about?". I mean people who I believed knew me, asked this question. And in that moment, I realized I had really become a bigger then life facade.

Monday was probably the worst day of 2005, aside from Mother's Day which I absolutely despise. This year, the entire Mother's Day weekend, which I worked hard at planning to be a good one, was THE WORST EVER. Anyway, on Monday, after I took my morning shower, dried my face, and grabbed some oil for my locks, I noticed a small pimple on my cheek. Immediately, wanted to put toothpaste on it, in hopes that it would dry before work, but I knew I needed to have done that last night. Anything I put on it today will not begin to work until tonight. So, I began to examine it, trying to think of a quick fix. And in less then, COUNT IT, fifteen seconds, I recognized and saw my every flaw. Okay, I exaggeratete, most of my flaws. All I did was look past the some basic lies I had been telling myself.
Like:
1) It's okay to ride every day with your convertible top down.
2) It's okay to exercise without washing your face first and then immediately after you are done.
3) It's okay if you don't moisturize nightly.
4) It's okay to not wear sun screen. You're already tanned, it won't hurt.
These behaviors contributed to my pimple. A pimple is an irritant due to dirt just below your skin. (Not totally scientifically accurate, but you're following me, right?)

Her mind says closed as surely as it was written upon her eyelids
her thoughts neon lettering painted atop leaning stop sign posts
seeped thru lips chapped with facts that lack her basic truths...
thir13teen

I know it doesn't make sense from there, but it makes so much sense HERE. I have been telling myself that things are okay. I wanted to medicate the problem. Not look at preventive measures as being part of my solution. Everything I have been, done and not done thus far has contributed to my current mind set and difficulties. Yet, I have not wanted to accept responsibility. Last week I drove nearly 400 miles in the wee hours of the morning for the comfort of home. But it wasn't home that I longed for. It wasn't my stuff. It wasn't sleeping in my own bed. I just wanted to NOT DEAL with the feelings associated with staying. Truth is, I don't trust a lot of people. And the few I trust I place much too much emphasis on them. And my Dad is someone I place a lot of emphasis upon. I hate leaving him. So, as not to deal with it, I made an improptu decision to leave.

I've been writing to escape since I was in the sixth grade. My art teacher, Miss Fleming, was a portly Jewish woman who taught me to write backwards. She also taught me basic pen strokes, and art techniques. She stoked my already outlandish imagination, by allowing me to tell her "stories". Which she then encouraged me to write. My great-grandmother told me stories, unschooled words dialectically scrawled into the folds of my creativity. Both dads, tell great stories. My Grand lived her story. And my Mother, well she believed hers was much too painful, so she burned the paper and allowed her pen to dry, long before her letters became words, and her words became prose. And mine, well, it will always miss several chapters.....

So today, well, I struggle with silencing my pen when I experience pain. I love the autobiographical tales of artist who suffered for their work, their art, and their deaths often dictated this pain. I quit writing in undergrad, as I needed a little too much inspiration, and sometimes the pain was much too great. I also often feared the consequences of living an artist's life. And while I will never say it, I quit writing everyday for at least an hour, as I know all too well the autobiography of my mother. I will set my pen aside, but it shall never run dry..................