Like Heaven and Hell

It's is sort of like heaven and hell. You know, sitting there at the table with the family. Mom, dad, sister, uncles and aunts. All of us sitting around this massive feast of food that none of us will ever be able to complete. Its not like mom would even allow left overs in the fridge anyway. She'll just throw all the food out. You know I never realized how good I had it until I went to New Orleans to help with the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

It was hell out there. It stank of blood, death, and water. You know we usually think of water as being clean, but when it hits something dirty, or dying it stinks. Water can stink worse than you can imagine. The same water that you use to wash with, cant wash away some things. I don’t even know where to begin, how do I describe the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. What happen to those people just wasn’t right. I'm not one for politics, but all I know is that’s not how people are supposed to live in the United States. The Tv didn’t even scratch the surface. I never went inside the super dome, but I heard the stories. The worst of nature seems to bring out the worst of man.

People did what they could to survive, who was helping them? It seemed like even God turned his back on New Orleans. The cops were shooting unarmed civilians, even the mentally ill where at risk of being killed by the police. It seemed like whatever the water didn’t wash away, the police where there to clean up.

Whats even worse, the city was in need before the water came, the water just washed away all the glitz and glam of New Orleans and showed what was really going on. It laid everything out in the sun. The world saw the weakest and poorest of America. The hungry, the tired, and huddled masses on roof tops begging for help from the American government. People died of hunger, people died of exhaustion, people just died. And for the ones that weren’t so fortunate as to die, the rest were left homeless jobless, broke but still in debt.

And here I am sitting here in a house big enough to comfortably fit five families with enough food to feed at least fifty people. This would be heaven. But for me its just another extension of hell. Its worse than hell. To see your own family as evil, to see your own blessing as a curse. Why do we deserve to live the way we do, while others doesn’t even have a clean shirt to put on? What makes us any better than all those people that drowned?

Has my family even given a dime to help out. Do they even care? It is people like my family that make the poor hate the rich so much. We live in a heaven like state unaware that so many are without and are suffering, they are suffering for unknown and invisible sins.

What makes me worthy of eating this food? What makes the trash can worthy of receiving the food left over from tonight's thanksgiving celebration? Is this really showing thanks? Stuffing our faces until we pass out, while others pass out from hunger.

I got up from my seat abruptly, it shook most of the table. The whole family looked at me wildly. I could see my ever stern father looking at me as if I was from another planet. “Go to hell, all of you!.”

For the love of money

Dave doesn’t really know Tom all that well. He's a nice guy, keeps to himself mostly. Had a cook out when he first moved in about three years ago, been having an annual cook out around the same time ever since. In Dave's eyes Tom was an okay guy, that’s the reason he came up with the idea of them carpooling to DC. Traffic was brutal in Virginia, the morning rush could cause Dave to spend two extra hours in traffic. It was starting to effect his mood, and his performance at work. The HOV lane was always so empty.

That and the fact that Dave had more morals than to buy a blow up doll to stick in the back seat, how would he even begin explain that to his wife? It had been more than three months since Dave started carpooling with Tom, and Tom didn’t show any behavior that would make Dave think anything abnormal was going on. Then Tom started showing up in the morning with marks on his neck, and sometimes his face. At first Dave brushed it off, for one it was none of his business, and Tom never said anything, even though he had to know they were noticeable. And second, well Tom did have a dog, so it easily could have been rough play, or rough play with the wife for all Dave knew. And that was something he didn’t want to get into. What a man and a woman did behind closed doors in the privacy and sanctity of their bedroom was their business as far as Dave was concerned. He wouldn’t like it if people started asking him about him and his wife’s sexual life, not that they had one.

But, there was something about the marks on Tom's face. It wasn’t every day that he had scratches on his face, Dave chuckled to himself one day as they drove down the highway towards Washington DC. He couldn’t hide his amusement as he observed fresh marks on Toms face. He could only imagine what his back looked like.

“Whats so funny Dave?” Tom asked with a smile of his own. Clearly anticipating the joke he thought was on Dave's mind.

“Ah, well..” Dave started, unsure if to really tell Tom what had made him laugh. “I know its none of my business, and you are right to tell me so, we can drop it, but I just been noticing the marks on your face, looks like you got a fresh pair this morning. Reminds me of me and my wife when we was younger.” Dave gently nudged Tom with his elbow to reinforce his playful nature and slight admiration of Tom's love life with his wife. “Those were the days..” Dave trailed off shaking his head with a smile.

“Oh.” Tom said suddenly and looked blankly out his passenger side window.

Dave noticing this spoke again. “No need to be embarrassed, like I said, none of my business really.” Dave said chuckling, still trying to feel out Tom's reaction. Silence crept into the car and Dave cursed himself for being nosy. The two men traveled for another ten minutes until Dave started to hear the unmistakable sound of sobbing.

“Uh..Tom.” Dave didn’t know what to do. One minute they are talking about sex, albeit private stuff but nothing to..

“She's hitting me!” Tom blurted out. The weight of his revelation seeming to force more anger than anything from his voice. “She is hitting me, scratching me! When she gets drunk, and she gets angry, she just has to have her way. That’s the way she was raised, daddy's little princess!” Tom slammed his fist against the car door.

Dave was frozen into his seat. He started straight out in front of him unsure of what to do, besides focus on his driving. Jenny abusing Tom? He couldn’t believe it. She was always miss social, laughing and smiling, the center of attention. But behind close doors, people can turn ugly. And the marks on Toms face were obviously done by some long nails.

“Well..” Dave was at a lost for words.

“And of course if I hit her back she will get “daddy” involved and there goes the house and my job. What a fuckin idiot I am. Working in the firm where her father is partner. I deserve it, I fuckin deserve it. Bitch doesn’t work, doesn’t cook, just sits around the house all day waiting for me to come home and fuck her, wont even let me do that half the time!”

Dave let Tom vent his frustration, though in the back of his mind he couldnt help but to think of the movie scare face, when Tony Montana married the beautiful trophy wife just to find out she was a glorified bum.

“But I got something for her! I'll fix her ass real good?” Tom said with deep vitriol

“Divorce her?” Dave saying, and at the same time suggesting the only logical thing that came to his mind.

“And lose everything? Are you crazy? That crazy bitch can take a chunk out of me for breakfast everyday for all I care! I'm waiting for that old man to kick the bucket! Then the firm will be mine and I can ship her off to some island where she can fuck natives all day. Once I get my hands on the money, fuck her!” Tom growled until his frown slowly turned into a ironic smile. “Fuck her.” her repeated laughing. “Fuck her, I'll get the last laugh.” Tom smirked. “Crazy Bitch.”

Dave shook his head and looked outside the window, without thinking or looking he dug into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He pushed the button 2 on his phone and pushed dial. The phone rang and his wife picked up the phone, already at work.

“Dave?”
“Honey?”
“Yes..” came her slow reply. It had been years since he last called her that.
“I love you, lets go out for dinner tonight.”

Ed's revenge

Was it ever worth it? At what point did it stop being worth it? When he missed his daughter being born? Maybe missing out on her first words, her growing up. How many times had he held his daughter when she was a baby. His wife was right. Its almost as if she isn’t even married to him, he might as well not even be a father.

She had cut him hard with those words. He could almost smell the alcoholic he would need to wash down her words. Might as well not even be married to him, what was that supposed to mean? So, his job took him away from his family, but he had to support them. It wasn’t like he wasn’t working. Gah, what did that woman want from him anyway? Might as well not even be married to him? Well then she might as well not even be cashing his checks, and spending his money. Damn her!

Ed slammed the empty glass down. The bartender looked at him out the corner of his eye. Even in his intoxication Ed noticed everything, it was his job to be observant. “I'm a cop!” he exclaimed at the bartender as if his title fully excused his behavior. Yet it was that very same title that kept him away from his family the most. It was the reason his wife argued with him so much. He used to think couples just fought over money but now it seems like they can argue over anything. And yet, its really about nothing, its really just about Ed not being at home.

But, he didn’t expect his wife to ask for a divorce. Its not like he was cheating on her, mistreating her. Why was she being so selfish. The words had hurt, but the paper had hurt more. It was just a simple piece of white paper he found on the kitchen table after coming home from a late night shift.

“I want a divorce.” The paper read.

Well, at least she had been honest enough to let him know. He snorted sarcastic. Then the rage came and he pounded his fist loudly on the kitchen counter. A single tear fell down his cheek.

What had his life come down to? Waking up everyday going to work for long hours to make a check and to support his family that seemed not even to love him. It was his family dammit! It was his! Why didn’t they love him? He deserved love.

What would he do without his family. His wife didn’t work, but he had no doubt that she would take the kids. That’s how the law system works in this dammed country, the women always get the kids, always. She would have to be on crack or something for him to get the kids back. He looked around the empty bar with slow blinks.

“I cant let her take my life from me. My family is all I have, its all I am living for.” he spoke to himself

And for a moment Ed saw himself ten years from now living in a small apartment, and old fat cop doing the same thing he had been doing for nearly 30 years. Just working to work, just living to work. No family no daughter no wife. He couldn’t bare the thought. Every night watching tv until he passes out. What happen? Was all the training and the work even worth it? He made himself this life just to support a family. What went wrong? Ed slowly and carefully got got down from the bar stool. The bartender silently watched him as he made his way to the door.

“Hey you're not driving home are you?”

“I'm a cop.” Ed yelled back over his shoulder dismissively waving his hand as if his title justified anything.

Ed got into his car and opened the glove box. There in his car was one of his guns. He closed his eyes hard as his hands reached for the gun. He opened his eyes and smiled at the gun, kissed it. This would be his revenge against his wife. His family wouldn’t be taken from him, he would leave his family before they could be taken. He wouldn’t be some alone old far away shadow of a man. This would be Ed's revenge.

Ed placed the gun in his mouth,and with tears rolling down his cheeks he muttered his daughters name.

Unconventional toy

It just didn’t make sense anymore, trying to surprise kids with gifts. The way Bill saw it, kids know what they want, and whats more they know how to tell you what they want. For better or worse they knew the name of the toy, where to find it, and in most cases they knew how much it cost.

They knew everything, except of course the value of the money they eagerly wanted you to spend. Bill would have shook his head as he entered the toy store with his granddaughter, but he was getting too old to show much emotion these days. He let his eyes do his talking. Disappointment was spread all over his eyes. He loved his granddaughter, that went without saying. He was happy to be her grandfather, he relished the position, but why where kids so damn materialistic?

Bill's son hadn't been like that. But then that had been a different generation. Different times. The economy was in a mess, and people understood you just couldn’t buy everything under the sun. Now a days people are actually trying to buy the sun.

“Over here grandad, its over here.” the little girl tugged at Bill's arm Bill snapped out of his mental rantings. His eyes betrayed his confusion, as he was being lead over to the sports section of the store. He looked in vain over to the girl section of the store, he could see the barbies just vaguely. Oh goodness he thought to himself quickly. She wants me to buy her a bike. He thought of his granddaughter riding down the street in a small pink and white bike with the pink frilly ribbons coming out the handle. Yes, she would be cute no doubt, but how much would it cost him. He silently cursed consumerism.

“I want this!” she pointed to a skateboard high above her head. This time Bills confusion shown on his face. A skateboard, what is an eight year old girl going to do with a skateboard?

“You know we are getting gifts for you, sweet pea, your brother has already picked out gifts for himself.”

The little girl laughed. “I know granpa.” she playfully nudged into him. “I want the skateboard for myself. Bill looked around to see if anyone else was seeing what he saw. A girl, a little girl at that, wanting a skateboard. Why those are the things the teenage punks ride on as they destroy property and spray paint objectionable things on public property. He closed his eyes for a brief moment as he visualized his daughter riding a skateboard and vandalizing property. Come to think of it, has he ever seen a girl skateboarding?

“Its so cool.” the little girl added, clearly lost in her own imagination.

“Well sweetpea, what about the dolls and...” Bill started

“I dont want any dolls, I dont like dolls. I like this. Please Granpa, you said I could pick out anything I wanted. And I want this skateboard.” Bill was upset, but anyone looking at him would never know it. What kind of girl is his son raising. It must be that women, it has to be. He told his son not to...

“Will you get it for me granpa?” She reached up for the toy.

Plunged into manhood

It almost feels as if my soul is walking around in my head, pacing back in forth deep in though unrestrained by time and space, just thinking and pacing back and forth for what has seemed like an eternity but not even a minute has passed. And I am fatigued, as if I had been sitting in this chair for days. I sit loosely in the chair, looking almost thrown into it, my thoughts holding me captive pinning me lazy to the chair.

I don’t even know what I am thinking about. My mind seems blank most of the time. It seems void, black, scary, are the thoughts that roam in the vast unknowns of my brain. “I'm not ready for this, I'm not ready for this, I'm not ready for this.” but I have got to carry on. I have got to face it like a man and accept the challenges that come with being a man.

I have been plunged into manhood, and not by my own doing, but through the actions of another I have been pushed into a role I didn’t see coming for years. What do I do now?

Its time to grow up. Not to say that I was immature, but I still had a bit of the hard protective egg shell of my youth protecting and covering my eyes. I still live in the nest after all, I haven’t flown the coop to face the harsh cross winds and whims of the world.

The humor in all this is that someone else short comings as a man has forced me to become a man myself. I am reminded of a shirt that read “Mistakes, sometimes the only purpose of ones life is to serve as a warning to others.”

I keep thinking that, that quotes pops up and down in my brain, hiding in the shadowy places of my mind. Not that I have become a failure, no, I have witnessed a failure, and it serves to me as an example of what not to be, what not to become.

So here I go, diving head first, head long into this. Playing my new role and position. I cant back down from it now, the sooner the better, and what doesn’t kill one makes one stronger. If all things work to the glory of God, then what will I be doing for God, what story will emerge from all this that will show the power, mercy, and glory of the most high? I don’t question it, I only wander blindly through a dark tunnel asking when the lights will come on.

I have been plunged into manhood, I am only asking when I get to come up for air. I am only asking what will I do with this manhood. And why God, why did it have to happen like this?

God help me

It hasn’t sunk in yet, this pain that I feel. I have hardened myself so much over these years, numbed myself to a lot of pain. Mental and physical pain, I almost relish it, I smile at it a lot of times, laugh it off. Laughter is the best way to fight away tears.

People have called it bravado, I hardly understand what that means, yet its not the first time people have labeled me words I didn’t know the meaning of.

I have become numb to the pain because in part I felt like it would never end, I didn’t see a way out. I tried many times to escape this pain, it has followed me around numerous states and countless cities. And yet, it still lingers in the background like an odor, like a smell you have gotten use to, but you know its still there. You smell it whenever you have been away from it for any length of time, and then wham, it hits you as you walk in the door. That was pain for me.

There is so much anger built up in me, I wonder if I am even capable of having any patience, can I even have a family of my own? How will I handle the stress of parenthood, fatherhood to be exact? How can I ever get along in a relationship, with all this pinned up emotion in me. It needs an outlet. I cant carry on like this, the ones closest to me will suffer if I don’t let this wrath out.

I don’t know whats worse, being lied to or being treated so viciously. I told myself that if I ever got out of this cycle of pain, if I ever escaped I would sit down and write everything out. I would have a long cry and sob and boo hoo myself to exhaustion, then I would sit up straight and start tapping away at the keyboard. I would get this Satan out of me.

Vengeance is the Lord's, and yet I want vengeance to be mine. I want vengeance to be mine in such a way that I am no longer the victim but the abuser, I become the hated one, the detestable one, I want my reaction to be such that it would then cause someone else to seek vengeance upon me.

I don’t know when I will allow myself to vent and let the past catch up with me and sink in. I don’t know where or who I can be around and feel safe in letting all that stream out of me. Just thinking about it makes me want to tear up. Can anyone understand a 24 year old man crying tears he has wanted to cry since he was 12 years old?

Someday the reality of the situation will hit me like a ton of bricks, at that moment I will need a trusted shoulder to rely on and some bible verses.

God help me.

If Lucifer were a person

He would smile a lot. He would have a thick voice, like a car truck going down a dirt road with its lights off at night. And when he got angry his voice would sound like that same truck going down that same dirt road with no lights at 80 miles an hour.

He would do drugs. He would smoke weed and snort coke. He would dress in the best clothes, cross his legs when he sits and talk about high fashion and the latest trends. He would be a chamer, make you feel like a million bucks standing next to you, and when you are away from him you would feel depressed.

He would act like your best friend, and do all the things you wanted him too, you would feel as if you were taking advantage of you. He would be everything you wanted him to be. He would be nothing you didn want.

He would be a man, and yet he would remind you of a woman. He would be beautiful, yet he would be fearsome.

He would answer to any name you called him, but his own.

Crazy lady

One Sentence:
This same lady comes into the cafe walks around in a circle then leaves

One Paragraph:
I have noticed the same lady come into the store, she looks as if she is wearing the same clothes every time. She doesn’t look dirty, she just looks very plain. Come to think of it actually, I didn’t see her today, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t there. She only makes her appearance once, maybe twice a day. She never stays for long, just enough time to walk around the cafe once, very slowly and then walk right back out the door.

One Page:
I keep seeing the same young white female almost everyday. I see a lot of the same people everyday, but most of those people either camp for hours on their laptops or they are people that use the space and time to study. However this lady, she never orders anything and she never stays for more than five minutes. She doesn’t appear to be “crazy” she looks neat, yet plain. Today I realized that what constitutes a crazy person is their hair. If their hair looks wild and un kept, to most of us they appear to be crazy or homeless. She always has a dark blue jacket on, with plain blue jeans, and she clutches her black purse as she walks around the store. She enters through the doors walks all the way to the edge of the cafe and then, as if the bookstore side is off limits to her, in her own mind, as if there was some sort of wall blocking her, she turns right around and right back out the doors.

The most I have ever seen her do this is twice, and we are always so busy, or at least I am so busy that I cant really stop and ask her what she is doing, besides, its not as if its the craziest thing I have ever seen since working at the bookstore.

A few times I have seen the lady go into the restrooms, which is not to far from the cafe, but most times she refuses to even leave the cafe side. I try to figure out in my head what she is thinking, because it is not as if she is walking around in a daze not seeing anything. I think once or twice I did catch her eye for a split second. I wonder if she is doing this as an experiment or maybe she just feels like she has to make that loop on her way to work or home or wherever she is going. Either way she has to be making money, or someone is giving her money, because her clothes while plain do not look old or worn or slept in.

If the cafe where a movie she would be the extra that keeps showing up in and out of the scene at random times. I wonder what her story is, and exactly why she does what she does. I cant think of anything else to write about this lady.

I dont think anyone else has noticed her pattern, because while what she is doing is not weird in of its self it is very perplexing. It is always easy to spot the homeless people where I work. They will sit around for hours, almost an entire shift, just walking around aimlessly in that small cafe. Yet she does not, she walks the same circle almost everyday. I have yet to notice if she goes down the same street leaving as she did arriving. I have watched her leave plenty of times, but by the time I notice her she has already stepped through the door.

What if she is simply scoping the place out before a robbery. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least.

English Major

One sentence:

I met an English major today we talked about Jesus.

One Paragraph:

I sat down and had a interesting conversation with a young lady who is attending Howard university's graduate program. She was telling me how difficult it was, and she let me look over the class syllabus and the papers and things expected from the students. It actually took my very best reading skills to understand what was being expected. We talked mostly about our faith in Jesus, and some of our experiences in different churches and what it has been like living for God.

One Page:

It all started when she leaned over the counter and smiled at me. “Can I place my bag over here while I look for a book I....” she continued to speak but I stopped listening.

I hate it when people see I am in the middle of attending to a customer and still feel as if their issue is so great, or in most cases so small that I can stop what I am doing to attend to them. So I let the young lady know that I would help her as soon as I finish the drink. She smiled and said okay. I knew that I had seen the girl before, her voice, and the way she wore her hair were familiar to me.

When I finished helping the customer I gave her my attention. She repeated her issue, and I looked at her with an expression of remorse. “Look, we really cant be held responsible to look after people's stuff, I wouldn’t advise you to leave it out here, but this time I will look after it, if you put it behind the counter..” and I pointed in the direction she could put her stuff. “But I just don’t want you to get into the habit of doing that.” I felt funny saying that last part to her, and I didn’t know why

She nodded and said she understood. She then proceeded to tell me about the book she was looking for and why she was looking for it. I was surprised that she was so chatty, but then again people seem to tell me why they are looking for books and what the book is about rather than the title or just simply an author name. As if I need to know that you need a certain book for class, the title and author will do just fine. What also surprised me about her, is that for her level of attractiveness she seemed down to earth and didn’t mind talking. So I helped the best I could given what I knew on the topic, told her we wouldn’t have the book she was looking for but she was free to search, and I told her where and how.

She thought over all I had explained, thanked me and sat down. I remembered her name, and when it was close to time for me to leave on break I walked over to where she sat and said

“Jasmine, I am about to go on break so if you are going to put your bags up, I wont be there to watch over them.”

She thanked me and said she would look for the book at a later time, and then I saw 'Invisible man' on the table. I picked it up, without even asking her if it was okay, and started thumbing through it. I actually saw her eyes light up at the my interest in the book, so I asked.

“Is it for class?” she said yes, and started into a long monologue, telling me she was a English major going for her graduate degree at Howard. She shared a lot with me about schooling and her paper, I didn’t mind. It is always captivating to watch someone talk about a topic they feel so passionately about. I took at seat at her table and we talked about the black race, and then we talked about Jesus. She asked me what made me change, after I told her some of the stuff I got into.

“Wow, you don’t look the type, what made you change?”

I smiled, and looked her in the eye and said “Jesus.”

We sat there for my entire lunch break sharing testimonies about our lives, talking about the churches that we have gone to, just anything that had to do with God. It was good being around another Christian, who saw the world as bad and misguided as I do. It was also kinda cool getting to hear a Brooklyn accent. She asked me “what are those gifts?” when I told her I feel as if God has given me certain gifts for his glory.

I told her I am a writer and out of my back pocket I pulled out five pages of my latest novel and handed them to her. She took them with a smile and promised to read them after she completed her paper which was due the next day. I gave her my email and asked her for her critique. We talked for a little bit longer, about DC and little things like that. She admitted she was not familiar with the area and I told her that if she wanted I would show her around town. She laughed at this and said “aiight.”

I got up out of the chair gave her a smile and said “take it easy, ya?” and returned to work.

Make me rich

It always no matter what seems like it has been such a long time since I have written, even though it has been only been maybe a day.

I hear myself getting taught the same lesson, over and over in life. Recently I have been told “just write.”

as in whatever comes to mind just write, and then later on chisel it away get the marble down to the masterpiece that you know is inside.

Its wield staring at a piece of paper that is blank and then after a few spaced out moments the page is filled with words that you didn’t know you had.

It seems like at where I work there is a story waiting to be told, but I never have the time to sit down and watch it. I am being told solid advice as far as steps to further my writing. Things I always knew I needed to do regardless, but hearing them come from a respected person, it is like concrete weight to the feelings that already press heavy in your heart.

If I can just get a camera again, I have such plans. This writing thing is harder than I thought, yet it seems so easy. I work at a bookstore and I know one should not judge a book by its cover, but still I see such garbage on the shelves and I know that I can write better stories than what I am looking at. Maybe its jealousy, and I am sure a bit of it is, its just a case of someone having something that I want.

Maybe if I just sit back and let the stories flow. I remember a piece of advice given to me, to help, and I want to practice it. “Tell the same thing first in one sentence, then in one paragraph, and then finally in one page.”

So okay, if it helps and enriches me as an artist, I am down.

Vignette: Red hair and the bluest eyes

Being a Red head is what makes her attractive. She had light blue eyes, clear as a class of water he felt himself tasting each time he looked in her eyes. Just a twenty second gulp and he denied himself more. But why did it seem like she looked at him for just a moment more?

Fair skin and New England accent, straight out a history book, a puritan classic. Speaking Greek and Latin she knew all the Roman classics.

This is the type of girl that turns nun for the Roman Catholics.

But something about the girl made him want to rock her world. Like oil through her clear blue water, he would splash. Make a mess of her life that she be would be cleaning for years. She'd only be able clean herself of him with tears.

If only she hadn't of cowered to her black negro fear.

The exploitation of women

This guy is putting a show of himself. Every hot girl that walks by he has to give a second and third eye. He robs the enjoyment of a woman, just from the look he gives as she walks by. His eyes make model of her as if she is strutting, and the street became a catwalk just for her. That’s when the names come out, the sweetie, yo honey, hey baby he shouts. He buzzes in her ear just to see if she'll turn around. Like, who is talking to me from behind, my face just walked past him but he calls at me from behind.

And that’s the fatal flaw because as she slows her strut and catches his eye, he is making the approach to drench her in game. That “hey whats your name?”. That gimmie game. “Gimmie your number, Gimmie your name.”

He cares not of age or situation, a mother of three answered back when she got the call. “How old is you anyway?” when she turned back and smiled. Twenty seconds later he's saying he'll call.

And it didn’t take half that time to approach another girl as she approached the mall. She led him on a stroll for a little until she peeped a giggle. All cause he told her he liked the way she had a “lil wiggle.” And just like the one before her, he was making promises to her. Saying he would call her.

He did all that work without even wearing a shirt. His pants hung low but his ego stood tall. One hand holding his belt, the other rubbing the tats on his chest.

You'd think he'd have worked for the law, how much he patrolled the streets. But he was a wolf giving a whistle as every night he looked for meat. Just looking at eye candy made him lick his teeth.

All it takes is one of these girls whose bed in tonight I'll sleep.

Lord Jesus

So many people talk about you.
So many people deny who you are
They refuse to say your name too
J man they call you, they know your name is power

Lord Jesus where did you go?
The whole world needs you and they don’t even know
You promised to return, but time moves slow
For us on earth, I see you in heaven pacing to and fro

Wanting to return and wrap us in your arms
People miss you so much they set up false alarms
Claiming they say you, or are you, using false charms
Lord Jesus don’t they know they only cause harm?

Lord Jesus I need you
Lord Jesus I miss you
although I have never met you
I know it will be you

When out of the sky you come
With all power in your hand
Lord Jesus you are more than just a man
You are the return of God to earth, welcome

Misunderstood

I don’t even know what I'm trying to say with this. What can I say?

I just want to be help for my people, I just want to make a difference with my life. So why do I feel as if I will make many enemies of men, and woman. Why do I feel as if, for my dreams to come true many will have to hate me, they wont understand me, they will say I hate them, but its really just love.

For my dreams to come true, I will have to be seen as a racist, a bigot, at sexist, homophobic, anti American, ignorant, controversial, and having no tolerance. They will try and make me a devil, though all I wish to do is the Lord's work.

Already I tell myself “I wont show up on that news show.” I keep in mind the things not to do in the public eye, I have made a promise to myself not to have a check coming in from anyone who can silence me. So when people start complaining they cant cause me to lose a job. They cant affect my ability to provide for my family.

I think of a line from Jay-Z. “Oh you not feelin me? Fine. It cost you nothing, pay me no mind.”

That will be my theme song for when the time comes for me to stand up and lead the black race. Its pretty damn ambitious the plans in my head, pretty ambitious, I just don’t want to be misunderstood.

If not me, then who? If I don’t do this, then who? No longer can we rely on rap stars and the like to lead us out of the troubles we find ourselves in. They say America is in a recession, but the race is in a depression.

And when I talk like this, they will say that I only care about blacks, that I am a bigot, when I speak out against drugs, and illegal lifestyles, when I encourage men to be fathers they will ignore that. They will over look that. To them I will only be an agitator.

I say these things not to lash out against whites but to give a helping hand to blacks.

“Oh, Lord please don’t let me be misunderstood.”

Would you like me to stare?

There is this saying going on in America. It goes something like this.

“Just because you have the right to do it doesn’t mean that you should.”

I think that saying applies to the subject at hand. Time after time I see women dressing in the most reveling way, but then their actions imply they don’t want extra attention. Crossing the street in Silver Spring I saw a woman in a short flimsy dress, and as she walked she had to keep pulling her skirt down, as if it was pulling up on her, she held down the skirt trying to make sure her thighs were not exposed. My first thought was:

“Why are you wearing a skirt that short anyway?”

It reminded me of young men who wear their jeans short and then every few steps they are pulling their pants up. Sure they have a right to dress in that manner, but why when it clearly causes discomfort, and needs constant adjusting. At the same time, people will judge you on your appearance. No, they shouldn’t but they do, and sometimes with good reason. Everyday we have to made decisions, split seconds decisions and all we have to go one is our vision, our perception of people's appearance. Are you more likely to give money to a man on the side of the road wearing a business suit or a man with old and dirty looking t-shirt and jeans? Of course its just clothes, they don’t make the person, but they give an idea of where the person has been and where the person is going. So when you are seen in low shorts and skirts, trying to adjust yourself in the middle of the street, what is the perception that you are giving? How are you to be seen?

I recently I saw a young woman on the bus with holes in her jeans, so many holes in fact, it was almost as if she wasn’t wearing anything. She really only had a thin layer of fabric that hardly bothered to cover anything. It seems sometimes the ones that do the most attention grabbing things are the same ones that shy away from the leers and gazes of the only people interested in seeing their exposed legs. Just who do you expect to be attracted to seeing you half nude?

Oh, they aren’t supposed to be looking? How about this, next time you ride past a car accident try not to strain your neck to see. Sure, you don’t have to look but there are some people who just cant help but to give a curious look, that ends up into a intent stare, if you don’t like it don’t look like a wreck.

Between a rock and a hard place

I was recently on the 70 bus towards Silver Spring from China town. It is a long journey and for some reason it is my favorite route out of the District. Every time I take the 70 I fall in love with the city. I think to myself

“This is DC, this is my new city.”

The route from Chinatown does not pass by a single national monument, you don’t see the white house, you don’t see any statues of battles, you don’t see anything that would be on a tourists “must see” list. Rather what I see is a hood, I see a neighborhood hood of small businesses, small ethnic shops selling food, cars, and hair.

The route passes Howard University I pass by a historically black university as if it was just another high school. There is so much culture on Georgia avenue, more culture than where the statue of Thomas Jefferson stands.

When I travel the bus down Georgia avenue I know that I will be more than happy to ride this bus, just to ride it, even if I had a car, even if I didn’t have to, I would still want this tour of the city, the real city, the realist part of the district.

What saddened me this particular trip was seeing a school, that was between a strip club and a liquor store. The school looked to be an elementary school, and on its left was a strip club a side road between them, and then on the schools right sharing a wall a liquor store. I marveled at this, having never seen anything like this before.

It makes me wonder, isn’t there a law that a church and a strip club cannot be built within a certain radius within each other? So why not the same for a school? Do the children really have to walk past a liquor store going to and from school? Do they really need to be exposed to what a strip club is at such a young age? Where else is this found? I knew in my heart that had I been traveling back up Georgia avenue I would not find something like that. Up, the road where the buildings start to turn white and roman, it is unheard of for a school, elementary or other wise to be built next to a liquor store, let alone a strip club. So why is it okay here in the lower parts of the district?

Did not Malcolm teach us that “What is good for the goose is good for the gander?”

Is this how serious DC takes education? This city needs help, its children are in need they are truly in between a rock and a hard place. In the district there are plenty of liquor stores surely they can stand to not build one on that corner. What about a playground instead? Is another strip club needed there? Is it a must? Cannot it be moved further down the street? On Georgia there are plenty of unused buildings. It just bothers me that the children are expected to learn in such conditions. It is almost as if the city is giving up on them. When the city is giving the choice between booze and selling sex it chooses both and puts the children in the middle of it. As if your environment does not affect your learning. And what is the product of a school with a strip club and a liquor store as its neighbors? Showing the children their prospects for the future? Truly the city has given up on its children, so in truth the city has given up on its self.

-SIA-Completed Archives

Before the creation of this blog I had been writing for almost four years. This year will be year Five. Sadly, I have less than 100 completed and typed pieces to offer for viewing. For those of you that don’t know, all my work that was completed before the creation of this blog can be found in the year 2009 under the month of January.

I have of course much more than 100 completed piece in that four year time span, the problem is that some of it is lost, some of it was never typed, some of it is on another computer sitting in storage in St. Louis, and even more of it (23 books in all) is sitting in the possession of a woman who more than likely wont talk to me again.

So with that, I can safely call the archives closed. As of today it is sitting at 74 pieces of work, until I get my hands on that computer in St. Louis, or If I ever get in contact with the woman who holds a treasure trove of my old work, there will be no more additions to the archives.

What I do have however gives a very clear picture of who I was, and what I left behind in Kansas. The archives help give a clear picture of the portrait of an artist.

Beautiful (2)

I laughed. Back then I always laughed. It was my default expression when I didn’t know how to react to something. I mean, how was I supposed to respond to something like that? I didn’t really know Hugh at that point, but I quickly found out he had a very upfront and in your face attitude, and what he was saying was that I remind him of a white person, and he was going to change that.

As I looked down at myself. Grey slacks black button up with a sweater vest on, I did feel like a white person. I quickly shook my head, shaking off the invading thought. Hugh was watching me scrutinizing me the whole time. I quickly got used the gaze he would give when he was evaluating something or somebody. I tried not to let it bother me. “Here, take a hit.” he said passing me the freshly rolled blunt. I feel like for someof you I should explain what a blunt is, for fear of losing you later on. A blunt is weed rolled up in a cigarillo. Think of it as a cigar with weed in it. Of course blunt can really mean a lot of things, but when I speak of blunt, I speak of weed.

I had really started to smoke weed a few months ago from that point. It was 2006 and I was sitting in that very apartment at in the kitchen taking small hits of a blunt.

“Hit it nigga!”

Hugh was barking at me. “Hit the blunt.”

Paris tried to reach for it, eager to get high. “He just wasting weed.”

“Naw fuck it, we got more...I'm getting this nigga high.”

I let go and sucked in as if I was taking a last breath before going under water. Hugh watched me intently. I coughed and coughed and coughed hard. My lungs burned and everyone around me was laughing. “Yeah!” Hugh laughed as he clapped. “You a nigga now.” I shook my head as I passed the blunt to Paris. Little did I know that, that moment would be the begging of an addiction that would span almost four years and a few days in jail.

I sunk into my environment quickly that first day. It was mid day a real beautiful day like only Olathe can provide, and we spent that first day together smoking weed around the kitchen table and playing dominoes

Paris was always a very popular guy, everyone loved his easy going and fun natured outlook on life. If the right music was playing he would forget all else and just loose himself to music, there was something about Paris that put everyone at ease. But there was also a dark side to Paris. A side he hid from everyone else. I never would have believed some of the things about Paris had I not seen it myself. It was Paris who supplied the friends and girls that would come to our every day all day parties. Our house was never quite. We were always up drinking, smoking, or having sex. It was mostly Hugh, the self titled playboy who was having sex. Me and Paris would feed off in stragglers. I spent most of my time getting high and trying to get laid, Paris spent most of his time getting drunk and trying to get laid. As for Hugh he spent most of his time on ecstasy and getting laid.

Beautiful (1)

The city is called Olathe. Its a small hick town disguised as a suburb, nestled just outside of Kansas City, Kansas. They say the word Olathe means beautiful in the Shawnee language. Ironic really, considering what ultimately happened to the Shawnee at the hands of the white adventurers. I wonder if they told them Olathe meant beautiful before or after the land was taken from them. Its little ironies like that, that make Olathe a ugly place. Sure, on the outside when you are just driving through the place its real quite, its peaceful like, but when you get to know the people you quickly start to realize that even the most beautiful places can have some of the ugliest people.

My name is Nesta and in 2007 I lived in Olathe. It has been something I have regretted for the rest of my life. If I had told anyone what had happened back when I was in Olathe, I would have ended up in jail for a long time, longer than I need to think about. My life would have been ruined beyond recovery. All because I was young dumb and twenty-one. I honestly don’t think I should be talking about it now, but the statue of limitations has run up on most of the crimes and most the victims dont even know who I am, so I feel safe. Besides, somethings you just have to get off your chest, they bare on your soul, feels like a weight before God. None of this is to brag..well maybe just a little.

I had just moved out of my parents home. I had, had enough of being treated like a kid. Their moodiness, their strictness, their rules. So after they sat me down read the bible to me, and preached to me for more than two hours I was free to do as I pleased. I moved in with two friends of mine. A friend from high school named Paris and his cousin Hugh. I had actually never known Paris while we were in high school in Olathe. We had graduated a year apart, I met him one night as I was getting back from a late night of drinking at a house paryt. We were both on the rode in front of our high school. I knew who he was because I had become friends with his older brother who sort of took me under his wing when I was a Jr. He told me the ins and outs of how to stay low key and actually graduate. It was my first year in Kansas, that jr year. So anyway, as we stopped at the light I flagged down Paris and gave him my number and told him to call.

He never did, I met him again somewhere else by chance and that’s when we connected over a blunt. He told me that he was moving out of his parents house and that he and his cousin had an apartment they were getting ready and needed one more person to move out with. I mulled it over and decided that it was time to make my move as well.

I first met Hugh at the Ihop on the corner of 119th street. All three of us had just got done seeing a movie, and we were planning our move date. Hugh didnt say two words to me that first night. He was busy tapping into his phone. Even when Paris introduced me to Hugh, he just lifted his head slightly to nod a greeting. I didn’t think much of it. He seemed to have a serious attitude to him, very self absorbed and self important in his own right. He had an athletic build and looked like a sports model. He was a stark contrast to Paris who always wore a goofy and playful smile. He was shorter than both me and Hugh, and he was always talking or laughing in some way.

I was the last to show up and move in. When I got the last of my stuff in I actually and finally felt at home. I gradually started to ignore the constant smell of weed. Back then I was always a very flashy dresser. Slacks and a button up, always no matter what. Even if I was just slouching around the house. One of the first things Hugh did say to me when I moved in and put down the last of the bags was.

“We gonna make a nigga out of you.”

How they romanced summer (going the distance)

It was almost as if he wasn’t alive. He felt like a zombie living his old life. The life he left behind when she walked into his world.

Everything reminded her of him. Even classes she had known about last semester had his mark on them. It was bad enough that couples reminded her of how they used to be. Now she knew how others must of seen them, on the back of the bus, on the train, their open displays of affection. It was payback. Oh, she knew that every couple was not secretly against her, but it sure felt like it. She day dreamed about him during class, remembering little stories to tell him at night when they would web cam.

It felt so good to seem him again. Even if it was through the internet. To see his smiling face, it was almost as if he was right there in front of her..almost.

He lived for the web cam nights. He would get so distracted by her beaming face that he would forget to speak, he would just stare. Of course his awe struck staring would just make her blush. A blush that was hidden under her soft brown cheeks. He would watch tenderly as her cheeks turned into pillows that he had kissed at night as they would say their good nights over the summer. Even then saying goodbye was hard, even knowing they would see each other the next day, only hours away, still goodnight was never easy.

She had wanted to pack him up in her suit case an take him to school with her. Their last night together was hard on them both. For the first time he saw tears roll down her beautiful cheeks. Though she had never cried in front of him, and had never heard her cry, his heart felt a sharp pain as she turned away from him to go up the steps of her apartment. Something was wrong. It was all to much for her, not seeing him again, for three months. They had just shared three months together and were already inseparable. They were already made for each other. She didn’t want a long distance relationship. She didn’t want..

He turned her around and saw her cheeks stained by a single tear as it streaked down her face. He couldn’t stand it. It almost broke him. It almost brought him to tears. He took his hand and with great care dried her face and wiped away her tear. He held her. He held her tight for the the last time and again, almost cried.

Music that shackles

Music has always been and may always be a powerful medium as used by the race.

We identify with ourselves through our music. Celebrate and mourn through music. Some of our greatest truths about our struggle have been told to a tune.

Sadly we have been lying to ourselves. Selling ourselves short. Telling ourselves and others that our men are niggers. The woman, bitches. And that money is our god. We have become capitalist selling our people's dignity for a Lamborghini. We have done this before, selling ourselves for the enjoyment of others. And now we sell our very souls to the devil for a catchy beat and a chance on MTV cribs.

You want to know why we don’t trust ourselves? Because this is all we talk about: nigger this nigger that. There is a reason I say nigger instead of nigga. It is to make you realize that it is actually the same word. You cant hate the root of the word, nigger, without hating the fruit of the word, nigga. As Malcolm told us, you cannot hate the root of the tree, without hating the tree its self. And so I have come to tell you, you cant love apples, but then hate the apple tree. You cant hate nigger, but then have love for nigga.

Separating nigger from nigga is as futile and meaningless as turning an apple into applesauce. It just makes it easier to swallow, easier to digest, that you are calling yourself a nigger. That you associate with a word that is nothing less than shackles on your feet and cuffs around your wrists. And then you wonder why so many of us end up like that even today. See the difference between nigger and nigga is the same difference between an apple and applesauce. It looks different, but you still has the same taste, not as crisp but its still sounds the same. You still got an apple in your mouth either way, and you still got nigger coming out your mouth at the end of the day.

So when we understand that, we understand that the very same music that is supposed to uplift us is dragging us down. What used to be the truth is nothing more than a lie.

When you listen to that music you are lying are yourself. Or is it I who is lying to you now? Well, are you niggers and bitches? Is money your god? Then who do you listen to people tell you such?

Why is being a gangster cool, but speaking like I do white, and uncool? Why do whites have a monopoly on education? Brothers and sisters this should not be! It is a lie to believe being uneducated is black, it is a lie. But, where does that lie come from? Our music!

Understand, I am not against all music, or even certain types of music genres, no I am against liars. And we have a lot of music artists that are liars to you and me. Everyday they tell you

“you aint nothing, you aint nothing. Guns and Drugs its the answer, violence that’s the solution.”

If that is really their lives why do they glorify the same life style that often lands them in jail or in an early grave. Ask yourself this question, has your favorite music artist ever been in jail, is he in jail currently? If the answer to the question is yes, does he still talk about and promote the same lifestyle that got him in jail in the first place? For example could he go to jail if he still does the things he talks about in his album? Going to jail is not a automatic dis qualifier for anything, repeating the same behavior is.

Writers are told to “write what you know.” and if the only thing your artist every talks about is a crime filled life, with sex, obscenity, and dis respect for women, what is that artist teaching you? What will you know? If that is all the artists knows, than we ought to know better than to listen to that. There is more to music than that. There is more to life than that. There is more to us as a people than that.

Yet if all we listen to is that, it will be what we become. You are what you set your gaze upon. You are what you eat. And if all you eat is applesauce, well...what can we expect but to become just another apple?

Gender roles as effecting the negro

Homosexuality has always been a interesting topic to me. Beyond politics and religion few other topics rile people like discussing homosexuality in America.

Usually I let people live as they wish. Be they drunkard, liar, homosexual or otherwise. However I pay extra attention to issues that effect the race of people I belong to. If there is any race in America that should be concerned with homosexuality it is the black race. Our black men are in jails at astonishing and alarming numbers. Leaving single mothers to raise men and women. Leaving extended family playing the role of mother and father. Boys and girls are left without a single positive male influence in their lives. Our race is in shambles and the very last thing we need is to die off slowly because fewer and fewer black babies are being born.

Homosexuality is not a mental illness it is a inability to relate to the opposite gender.

The boy that lacks a male role model has a predisposition to turn out homosexual. He is looking for that male companion, someone to love him like the father he never had. He is looking for a father. Even those with fathers, like James Baldwin, and have suffered abuse from distant fathers have a great chance of looking for that fatherly love elsewhere. Granted not all men lacking fathers turn to the homosexual life style. However just like the child who's parents are heavy drinkers that child as a predisposition to turn into a drinker its self. Though it is not for certain having a specific type of childhood will always guarantee a specific outcome, but the odds in any one favor are substantially greater.

Like wise for the woman who as a child had no father in her life or worse a sexually abusive father may grow to hate her father as a male might grow just to hate his father. In the female case that hatred may often show its self in the form of distrust for all males. It becomes hard for her to relate and open herself up and trust a man because of the actions and pain caused by her father.

Of course in both cases the male and the female may turn out differently. The male could take his lack of father figure and latch on to his mother and vicariously women in general. In the case of the woman she may want that father she never had and pour herself into a man.

That is why the lacking of a parent specifically a father figure is not a direct cause of homosexuality, more often a predisposition to it.

So in realizing this we understand why the black race more than any other is more susceptible to the fostering of the homosexual life style. Not only the families left behind by the man in prison but the man in prison who may engage in homosexual practices.

The cure for homosexuality is a solid family. A solid black family is what we need as a people. Many of the challenges we face today as a people can be addressed at the family level. Once we start to address ourselves as a family we can better address ourselves as a people.

America: Where are you going?

I just wanted to look at this picture for a moment. Just look at this picture, and see what comes to my mind. First I find it ironic on a few different levels. America has beat the black race for so long now its not surprising to see a picture like this. Its almost as if it was scripted its such an act of truth. If there was such a picture of a white man chocking out an Indian with the American flag, I would believe that too.

Since when do the actions of an entire nation reflect so crystal clear in the actions of one man? I had seen this picture, long ago, I had trouble finding it then, but I am recently reminded of it. Everything that is going on in America, reminds me of this picture. How Americanism is on the backs of so many of its people. How so many people are being oppressed, and repressed and denied rights all under the American flag, as if America her self where beating its citizens. As if someone was taking an American flag and flogging people.

This picture is alive, because it still happens. Something so minor as a desegregated bus system caused this picture to be taken. Desegregated bus system. I get on the bus daily, and don’t give a second thought about it being desegregated. The thought doesn’t even cross my mind, yet not even 100 years ago people were getting beat in the streets for that right.

American schools need to teach more of this, I should not have left High school never seeing this picture. I should not have left high school without knowing a lot of the things I know now. Yet, it was I who relied on other people to teach me things, that I could only teach myself. It does not behoove America to show this. It is not part of the American dream.

Everyday we are sold the American dream. Everyday we wake up in Disney land, everyday we are in a fantasy world believing we have it made, this is the life, and it doesn’t get any better than this. Black president, what else could a race ask for? Less than 100 years ago we were beating you with the same flag that one of your people is the commander and chief of. Oh how time flies.

Yet how can we forget, what we don’t even know? How can America be so full of itself, has it really fallen for the dream it sells the world round. Does it really believe that it can continue to trick at will?

Some of us, at one time or another have felt the blow of America on our backs. All of us have seen America beat someone into submission, whether we realized it or not. Be it country or person, we have been witness to American brutality.

America is a bully, America is that blow to the back, that kick to the stomach when you are down. America is soiling its self to cover its dirty past.

If we as Americans cannot look our past boldly in the eye, and admit where we have come from, what we were and what we did, then how can we as a people ever face where we are going?

Celebrities

I had another dream I had almost forgotten about. It was not until watching the morning news and hearing the name “Brad Pitt” did I remember this dream.

Before I begin, I feel as if I should clarify, it is unusual for me to have dreams about celebrities, I have a distaste for Hollywood the whole region and attitude seems fake. To each his own though, and what makes me frown in confusion about this dream is that while I enjoy one or two Brad Pitt movies I wouldn’t consider myself a fan of his, I am more neutral than anything.

I am in a crowded room, it feels like its a dinner of a sort. I have something in my hand, maybe a book or a movie. I also have something else in my hand, that now I cannot recall, however I know that the item that is more important is the small book, or video. I am reluctant to give it to him. I sit down two chairs from him and sitting between us is a woman. I don’t know who the woman is but she seems protective of him. At the same time he wont acknowledge me. I don’t feel as if I am trying to sell anything to him, I feel as if I am trying to return something to him. Something that I myself want to keep because I am using it.

I am forced to talk to the woman instead of him. Somehow Brad Pitt and the woman are facing a different direction from the direction I am facing. It is as if I don’t belong where I am sitting, and that is how I feel as soon as I sit down at the table.

I tell the woman that I am here to give the item back to Brad Pitt. She looks quickly at him, he gives no reaction and she tries to shush me off as if I am potentially annoying. She tells me that he doesn’t want what I have. She is telling me I can keep what I have. She seems more worried about him being bothered than anything else. I don’t leave I start talking to her, explaining what I have, straining my head trying to look at Brad Pitt and make eye contact. He will not look at me, and the woman even turns and positions her head so I cannot see him better. She says “You should be grateful he doesn’t want it.” She has given me permission to keep using the item I was worried I would have to return.

I stay silent for a while, and I am happy to keep my items, and yet I feel slighted, as if misunderstood. I get up from the table, standing over them. I know Brad Pitt is looking at me from the corner of his eye and I say, looking at him. “Celebrities.” with disgust, before walking away.

How they romanced summer (Rain and Love)

Love. This was true love. The rain, the chill, the isolation. Everything about the atmosphere was love. Had they been sharing this exact same moment alone, they would have been miserable. Nude, wet, and shivering under a umbrella sitting on a soaked blanket in the middle of the woods.

Yet they made it romantic, they were in love. Moments before the rain dropped, and even as the drops started to gently fall they made love. Passionate love, all engulfing love in which the world melts away and there is only the feel of skin, the taste of lips, and the moans of your lover. In those moments they were not in the woods they were only into each other. In those moments they were not on the ground, they were making love on clouds, in those moments up until he collapsed gently, and exhaustively on top of her with with a over satisfied smile on his face, and a comforting shy smile on hers, was the greatest romantic experience of their young lives.

He looked into her large brown eyes and she looked into his. She gently stroked and patted the back of his head, and he pulled and played with the long black twisted strands of her hair. They adored each other as they lay nude, their bodies being one with each other, in complete isolation from the world, only the sound of the rain drops that surrounded them invaded their most intimate and private moment.

No one told him that love could be like this. No one told him that women like this still existed, he had thought he could never find a woman he could bare himself to, that he could confide in. He buried his head deep in between her breasts. She held onto the back of his head and she giggled her ticklishness.

He felt so safe their, his face buried there in her chest. He felt like he was being born again. She was his mother, his sister, closest friend and confident. They were lovers and something more. They had mastered the art of silent communication and when the rain drops had become too much they huddled under the umbrella that she had brought. They gazed out into the forest holding each other watching the rain. Words would only lessen the experience they were both sharing in their own minds. They silently brought out the snacks and drinks they had brought with them and as the rain played music for them, it was in perfect rhythm with the Miles Davis he had playing on his phone as they made love. Up until this moment they had forgotten that the phone was even playing music, it had been lost in the rain and love.

As the rain grew heavier, they finally began to speak. They spoke of love, they spoke of the summer, they spoke of the future. Both wanting desperately to hold on to what they had so carefully fostered over the summer. Love is being somewhere that you wouldn’t want to be if that special someone was not with you. They looked deep into each other eyes as they realized that. They broke out into a grin, a smile, a laugh and then their eyes met again. They kissed under the umbrella and the raindrops clapped for them in congratulations on such a romantic moment.

They set the umbrella on the ground titling it so it covered a portion of the blanket, they laid their bodies side by side each other. Her back to him, and they scooted close to each other. They whispered and kissed, he held her tight his fingertips became raindrops dotting over her body making her giggle. He watched for her smile, that he could see even from behind her, her cheeks would rise and grow plump. He leaned over and kissed them. She turned slightly and caught his mouth with her own, her tongue invading and exploring her mouth, as she cupped his head on the crook of her arm bringing his head close to her lips. His hands explored new territories of their own. They cuddled each other, eyes closed, and the rain drops went away, Miles Davis stopped playing, the woods disappeared and they were back into the clouds. They returned to making love in the rain.

Good bye Face book

I have been thinking for sometime that I need to rid myself of my face book. The thought has been occurring to me that it is unsafe. I would read news articles about people being arrested, losing jobs, finding cheating spouses, all over face book. And while I don’t have anything illegal on my page, anything that would cause me to lose my job (unemployed) or anything that would as my girlfriend puts it “damage the relationship.” I still find face book as a huge invasion of privacy.

I remember when a bus driver, after over hearing a conversation I was having with my girlfriend, and another friend of mine, came up to us and started talking. He started talking about a lot of things, wisdom really, and gave us his views on face book.

It has taken a little while for his words to sink in, but I feel I understand it now. He was saying that face book is a waste of time, and it is. However it can cost you more than your time. I cant help but to feel that the idea of people looking back on your statues messages and inner most thoughts when you were 20 years old is something that most of us would not like to have done. Who wants to be 40 years old sitting down at an interview for a dream job, and having to answer for drunk status updates made when you were still in college. Sometimes the excuse, “I was just young and dumb.” doesn’t cut it.

I feel as if I will live a life in which I will not only be accountable to God and my wife, but I will also be accountable to the general public. I have no idea how much I will change years from now, I don’t need my past holding me back anymore than it already has.

Sure, if you are responsible with the tool (face book) you should have little to fear, but for the rest of us, who have bouts of immaturity and irresponsibility, face book can be a noose around our necks. Not only that but people tend to forget exactly who they have added as friends, and before you know it people you don’t want knowing end up knowing things. People ask you about things on your status update and it takes you a moment to think “Wait, I didn’t tell you that how did you know?”

How embarrassing is it to get the response. “It was on your face book.”

How often have we been surprised when almost near strangers who are our friends on face book, know things that we would not have told them in person.

No, face book is not evil, its just that its dangerous if used without the up most respect and caution. Its like holding a lit stick of dynamite and a pair of scissors as you run around trying to find a place to throw away the dynamite. If Face book doesn’t blow up your entire world, you may just walk away with a few scraps and bruises. So before that happens to me, I'll walk away from face book.

Good bye face book.

Before I defeat myself

Sitting down in front of my PC, the same PC that I had been longing for through much of my absence from my blog now seems like it is defeating me.

I sit down and I cant seem to muster the strength that I need to put my fingers to the keys, I lack the courage to write through the fear, I don’t seem to have what I need to defeat fear and write when all seems lost.

This is truly a learning experience for me, giving up and not trying to control everything around me. Not trying to think 5 years ahead and plan my exact location at any given date. As much as I am exaggerating my previous sentence it rings with much truth.

It is because I don’t see where any of this is going, it is because that I doubt that this will be fruitful that I have trouble committing myself to a lot of things. I need to see the bigger picture before I take the first step. I recall Dr. Martin Luther Kings words. “Faith is taking the first step without seeing the entire stairwell.”

I can almost hear God asking me, slightly frustrated, “Why don’t you trust me?”

Who can answer a question like that?

God needs to come rescue me before I defeat myself.

The art of women

Women are beautiful, even if not specifically physically appealing to every single man. It is a cliche but it is non the less true that physically beauty passes but inner beauty is what last a life time.

With that said, there is still a certain appeal to be had for a woman that can turn your head. Admittedly it is sometimes hard not to admire the beauty of a woman. I believe there is nothing wrong with finding a woman attractive, it is what you do after that, that may land you in trouble or awkward situations.

When admiration turns to lust that’s when things have gone too far, if you cannot stop your stare, if you give more than a glance, something has gone wrong. Though woman are beautiful like art, they are not hanging on gallery walls, they are not alive only for your eyes to consume. Though a woman may be appealing she is not a piece of art here only for enjoyment.

And though sometimes they dress in a way that may suggesting asking for attention, it doesn’t mean you should give it. There are a lot of things in society that want our attention and we don’t give it. The homeless person asking for food, the urgent issues that need addressing in our respective communities, we know how to ignore, turn on the blinders when we want to.

You may see that girl in the thigh hugging shorts, but need you stare? For what reason? Among other things it is her right to dress her body as she wants. People will treat her according but its still her right to represent herself the way she see's fit. Worse of all she may not be aware of how she looks, she may not even care, but the worse thing that can be done is staring her down like she is for sale.

True women inspire art, they are even living pieces of art, but they are not art pieces. No need to stare.

If a man wants respect for himself he needs to get respect for the woman.

I just wanted to take a few moment to talk about what I find to be the the attempted suicide of the black race. I feel, as a whole the black race is attempting to kill itself in a slow, painful and very embarrassing way.

What I am saying is that the black race, more specifically is downgrading, abusing and disrespecting the black woman. There is no race on earth, that has a disrespect for its women, and at the same time the man is held in high regard and is respected the world over. No man will respect someone who does not respect a woman, especially a woman who is supposed to be under his care.

Ask yourself, how does a man react or rather how is he supposed to react when he hears that another man is abusing a woman. Well of course he reacts violently, he puts a beating on the man, worse than the beating his is giving the woman. A mans natural reaction should be to defend and protect the woman. So how can a man be respected, if he is not respecting the one that is looking to him for protection?

In this day and age the black woman is under attack by not only others outside her race, not only by society telling her how she is stereotypically supposed to be have, a society that tells her how her hair should be or how her skin should look, she is under attack by her own race. The men of her race often behave as if they are ashamed of the women.
“Oh well they have too much attitude.”
“Oh well they are always so mean.”
“Oh well etc etc.”
But ask yourself why. Why do you feel they are this way, if they, are what have you done black man to make her react this way to you? You know what over comes animosity, spite and anger? Love. Love your black woman, black man. Love her. Do not disrespect her. Do not call her out of her name. No matter how close you are she will never be your bitch, that is not a term of endearment. A word cannot be both hot and cold.

The bible says “Out of the same mouth comes praise and cursing, my brothers this should not be.” Lets take that thought a step further. How can the same word bitch be used affectionately for your lover and then a half hour later the woman that cut you off in traffic, well you call her a bitch. Out of the same mouth comes praise and cursing. My brothers this should not be.

Treat your woman with respect, love her cherish her with actions and with words, and then you too will be respected. You cannot command respect through disrespect. You cannot command respect through cruelty, you will evoke only fear. Rather you get respect through respectable living, respectable behavior. And you will notice, when you start to respect your woman, when you start to demand respect for her, others will respect you. You will notice that the black women, then will start to respect her self, start to feel that maybe her hair needn’t look European, maybe she is beautiful in her dark skin, and just maybe, just maybe her man is not just another nigga.

Black people need to respect each other in the home before we can demand respect in the world. Respect starts with the man and the woman. Then when others step out of line and call your woman a nappy headed hoe you will be in your rights, to stand up for your woman. Then the coward cannot hide behind your words and say.
“Well you call her that.”
Just like a child, you know that’s what is said. How can you be upset with a child if all day you are cursing around the child cursing at the child, and when the child curses at you, you want to start acting a parent and discipline the child. No. You are teaching the child wrong, and then disciplining them for your poor behavior. People watch us, they watch how we treat each other. Let the cowards now that it is time out for disrespecting our black women, let them know its time out for disrespecting you black man. And you may think,
“Well they don’t come to my face and say anything.”
No of course not, they say it to your woman, they tell her straighten her hair you will look pretty. They put filth in her mind and tell her she is a hoe, and that money is everything and that its okay to give yourself out on Saturday nights. That’s disrespect.

If a man wants respect for himself he needs to get respect for the woman. There is no other way.

Struggles with Christian leadership

I learned at a very young age not to compare myself with others. My mother taught me not to compare myself to whites and I learned not to compare myself even to my younger brother.

Sometimes though it seems difficult to understand why I am required to walk a tight rope. Sometimes being a servant of God seems like a complicated balancing act in which you must do everything a certain way or risk falling off to an unimaginable depth, and I don’t mean hell or damnation. It seems that more is required of a servant of God than a unbeliever.

As it should be I know, but do I really need to walk a tight rope to get a job? How is it that unbelievers hold jobs, multiple jobs, over paying jobs, that they need not fear losing. Why cant I fornicate while unbelievers fornicate with several people before marriage and then remain in stable marriages for years?

Or am I on the outside looking in? Is everything not as happy and safe as it seems even for them? Why is it that at this stage I feel myself starting to envy the lives of those that the bible calls fools, those who do not even believe that there is a God.

While I teeter on the brink of emotional, finical, and spiritual collapse I walk a tight rope hoping, trying to trust that God will support me.

There is something about whining on paper that makes it seem so civil and mature but deep inside my soul cries for help like a child unable to feed itself.

I am a perfectionist, I learned that recently. Maybe that leads to my personal discontents with myself. Maybe that’s why I cant forgive myself. Maybe that’s why, for a lot of things.

Nas says something to the effect of light pockets have a heavy purpose. As if your being broke is for a reason. His exact words were “So when your pocket's light, know that you have a heavy purpose” Sometimes I feel that way. God has a way of bringing people from the bottom to the top, he seems to enjoy using the most humble people.

However before God can use me I have to be willing to be used. Accept that I am flawed. I remember what God said. “My grace is sufficient for you.” and through my imperfection God's glory is shown. If God feels I am good enough for his use and his purpose then, I should accept that, and not try and tell God he has the wrong person, or worse the wrong plan for me. It is not, nor should it be my job to be perfect before God will use me. Rather everything God does in me will be perfect.

Truly, I am too harsh on myself, and God has never let me down, nor will he ever.

I go through these things for a reason, every leader has his own personal trials so that he may walk with his head held high when facing adversity. Because as it was said to me. “You can't lead anyone with you head down.”

I brought you all my dreams cause I love you

I had a dream last night. Its the type of dream that you don’t remember having until something during the day trigger it. Reading the Washington Post this morning triggered my remembrance that I was standing in front of a podium talking to a crowd.

Not just once, not just twice but several crowds, several different places, I looked as I do now, I didn’t look older than I do now. I wasn’t wearing glasses, I had no facial hair, and I was always in a suit, or a dress shirt at least. People interacted with me like I was a man, a leader. I even noticed that I still didn’t comb or brush my hair, I noticed those things in the dream, I even felt ashamed for them.

I remember this one scene, where I walking down the middle of the street with a large following and an older black man, light skin, large, sticks his hand out wanting to shake my hand. He is excited to see me. Cameras are around, and people are taking footage, and pictures. He says something to me to the effect of.
“I have been waiting to meet this young man.”
The man is in some position of power, he is the mayor of a city. It honestly felt like I was in New Orleans, or a place that experienced something bad, because it almost felt like it was raining or there was a lot of water around.

The entire dream was me watching myself giving speeches, I never saw the crowd just my face, I couldn’t hear my words, I just heard the crowds response. They shouted in agreement, they laughed, they cheered, they were silent. They were black voices.

I was viewing the dream as if I was viewing TV.

Beyond what the most obvious translation of what this dream may be, what does this mean? I hate speaking in front of people, I hate to stand in front of the crowd I feel so self conscious. Truthfully as I watched myself in my dream I felt so ashamed, I couldn’t believe I was on TV and people were watching me.

But deep down that’s my dream, my awesome, awe inspiring dream, to be a leader for the black race. I have a dream, and I told you all my dreams, because I love you.

Need a new phone -Part 2-

It was so humiliating agreeing to her conditions, all so they could talk for a few minutes at night, all so he could have someone to release his thoughts into. Just so he could have someone who would chuckle at his jokes, just so he could feel loved. “No, listen to me I'm talking.” for a girl her size she sure did love raising her voice, and talking to him as if she were in fact a man. Humiliating. After wards he always felt so angry. So angry with himself, so angry at her, so angry that he was not willing to get out of the relationship. He felt trapped emotionally. What, did he like the pain and heart abuse, the relationship was starting to remind him of another woman from his distance past.

“No, I am tired I am taking a nap.” she texted him after he asked if they could talk finally. That was the last straw, he was furious. He spent almost an hour texting her, convincing and proving his innocence to her, just for her on a whim to decided she wanted to take a nap. He couldn’t get even a sympathy call, forget about her saying she was sorry, he was not that deluded to believe that she would ever do that, but a phone call, no? He had no more patience. He called, and called, she was the reason he even had the phone he did, a little pre pay phone he put minutes on just so he could talk to her, and she wouldn’t answer the phone so they could talk after having a fight that almost broke them apart. The words selfish came to his mind

She was being immature and he was tired of it. So he called, knowing that she would not answer the phone and he left a series of messages, and he vented. He vented, he fussed, and he cried. The relationship had been so hurtful to him for so many years and he was just glad to be done with it. His eyes were finally wide open, he finally couldn’t pretend that he alone could make it work, he had been through that before, and he reminded her of that. He left her, via voice mail. After leaving the messages he started to make his way back to his home. She sent him a text message shortly after his last voice message. She had been listening to them as he left them.

“You compared me to her? That is the last straw, you have lost me forever, goodbye!”

He didnt text back, he just smiled, a real smile, a self satisfied no need to justify you know I didnt lie smile. He smiled as he tossed the phone into the gutter along the side of the road. God knows he doesnt need that anymore. But he will need a new phone.

Need a new phone -Part 1-

“I dont want to talk about it.” She texted him. She refused to call him. He had been calling her, trying to talk to her. He was convinced that they were having a misunderstanding and if he could only get her to pick up the phone. Its so hard to convey through a character limiting text, tone and emotion, and right now the emotion that he had was pain mixed with a bit of frustration.”You are trying to make me feel guilty, I am not falling for your game.” But it wasnt a game his heart was on the line.

He walked up and down the streets of his neighbor hood, fussing, pleading, arguing silently over the phone with a girl he had not seen for almost three months. It had gotten so bad that the slightest misunderstanding was earth shattering and threatened to pull apart the thinly glued together alliance. An alliance that was threatened among other things, another guy. He had invested so much into her, he though in terms of time, and love, but he couldn’t ignore the substantial monetary investment he had put into the relationship. An invest that was never matched, or even comparable to what she had put it. Weeks ago he had just sent her a necklace for valentines day. Surely, he thought, surely that will get her attention back on me. And for a day or two it had. But being distant from a girl who liked attention from anyone who would give it, was a dangerous game he was willing to play.

“Oh, okay, well I guess you didn’t do anything wrong.” she finally admitted through text. Finally! He was elated, he had proved that he was not at fault, he knew he was innocent and it was simply a misunderstanding, and proving it to her had been a lengthy forty five minute investment, but it was so worth it, in his mind. He didn’t have anyone else. He had given her so much, why give up at this point, even though he was aware of how hurtful the relationship was to him at this point. She readily admitted it, flaunted it in front of him, threatening him constantly by bringing up her medical condition. She blackmailed him to her whim, if he did the slightest thing unpleasing to her, well her condition was brought up and she cant have unneeded stress, she promised to not talk to him, until a time of her choosing.

Save me from myself

Save me from myself
my pitiful and wretched self
my loathsome self doubting self
swoop down from heaven and rescue me
Cause even a man needs a rescue now and again
if only from himself
his alter ego self
not so so feeling himself self
the side of him that’s miserable with himself
loves to to bet against himself, call him Pete Rose

Feeling like a burnt out man waiting to rise out the ashes like the phoenix
Is there such thing as being your own number one hater?
What is It I have against myself?
What I did I ever do to myself?
Besides not give myself a shot
not even a decent chance
like a little league team playing against the Yankees
That’s me, my own arch enemy

But then you walked into my world
and you placed my chin in your hand
my heart was in your pocket
my eyes resting in yours
my ego found shelter in your bosom.
Its like you birthed me
this new man
this improved man
this look at yourself in the mirror man
damn, it took a woman to find the man
that was wrestling to get outside me
the confident me
the I can do this me
The me that was supposed to be me
I found him when you rescued me.

Black Coffee

See the thing is, I used to hate coffee. Had you told me that I would be an avid coffee drinker while I was back in Kansas I would have not believed you. “Coffee, that disgusting mess?”. Granted, had you told me that the united states would have a black president, and that I would be living in Washington DC during his presidency I would not of believed it. Now that I think about it, if you had told me anything remotely positive (coffee aside) I would not have believed it. I was in a victim stage, choosing to believe only bad things could happen to me.

I digress, but I am making a point, the things I would never believe, are now my reality. I drink coffee, shoot I love coffee, I drink coffee through a soda straw at 10:30 at night. And not just any coffee, black coffee, I'm talking the stuff with no cream or sugar. Straight out the coffee pot.

In the time that I have been away from writing on my blog (forgive me) I have done a lot of maturing and eye opening. I am more of a man that I was months ago, and this is not me throwing my former self under the bus, this is me looking back at my former self and praising the successful changes for the better I have made. By no means am I a complete work, I am always character building, and improving, but for now, as I look back on who I was and who I am, I am mighty pleased with myself.

I went from hating coffee, to drinking coffee, getting upset if I cant have it. I went from mistrusting and resenting love and women, to admiring and longing for the touch and comfort of a certain woman and her love. I went from a rebellious and misguided soul to a servant of God.

Indeed, I have changed. Indeed, I have more changes to undergo. I am a work in progress, but as long as I have my black coffee I can pull all the long nights needed for complete character development.

Lady Love

I love this woman
this woman
she is a woman my arms were made for
my heart longs for
the reason my eyes see far
she was what I was searching for
The woman who's morning star smile helps me see
so I can be the man God intended me to be
she is a woman that makes me feel a man
a real man, the kind that takes care of a woman
a man who loves his woman
the type of man that respects his woman
treats his woman like he treats his body
nourishes and caters to her like a man would his body.
Cause if a man dont love himself how can he love anybody
Ah, but my woman makes me love me even more than I use to
because she loves me more than anyone else use to

I love this woman
this woman
my woman
the woman that makes me, me
the woman that I want with me
for as long as I am me
I love her
the way I talk to her
long hours through the night
holding each other during the day lounging
not talking with words but through looks, touches and kisses
its a complex language of love we speak
but she understands me fluently
even before I can ask she cares for me
and even if she doesn’t tell me, I know when to make her smile
My woman makes me love her more and more each day
because each day she gets more perfect each and every day

I love this woman
my special woman
the only woman
she is strong intelligent and beautiful
those are not just generic terms to describe her
she is those words.
They are her
and she is them
She is my strength especially when I am weak
She is my intelligence, she is my wisdom and sharp thinking. She is correction to my faults
She is beautiful and she is beauty. Not only in her face and body is she beautiful, her actions her words her love is beauty. The way she cares for me
the way she encourages and uplifts me
it is beauty worthy of a masterpiece drawing.
It is the purpose of every artist to try and portray beauty like this
And with every passing day, and in every way, with every moment
she embodies beauty, intelligence, and strength
that woman
my woman
the special woman who is my lady love

I love her.

(SIA) September 1 and Welcome back to work

My God it is so nice to be writing again. Well I suppose that statement is a little misleading. It is not as if I have not been writing ever since my latest update, but I have not been around a pc enough to even attempt to put anything up for public consumption.

I wish it was as easy as cracking my knuckles and getting back into the swing of things but I will take me a week or so to get used to writing as often as I use to. I have more focus, a lot more focus than I first had. A lot has changed readers, a lot has changed.

However we can get into all that at a later time, for now, and for the time being, I am back. Pc and all.

Also, the irony is not lost on me that my lost on me that my last post was titled “What is worth writing” I assure you readers that, that was never my plan.

God has a since of humour, what more can I say?

What is worth writing?

The last time I tried to write words like this I was in borders. Staring out into the dark night watching the people pass and feeling as if whatever I wrote on paper would be absolute rubbish. I had the feeling that whatever came from my pen would be so unworthy of documenting on paper.

I thought of Tiger woods, I remember a movie I saw about his childhood and his entry into professional golf. At one point in his young life he wanted to give up on golf and walk away from the sport. He felt he was bored with it. I remember the words of his father. He said. “No he is right there, he is on the threshold of greatness, at this point he is going from being good to great.” Somehow I feel like that.

I am so bored with writing, I feel as if all I can ever do is right about the same things, the same unfinished thoughts. Its spring time in Washington DC and all around me beautiful sights of beautiful women and beautiful scenery excite my artistic senses and yet I wont dare grab a pencil in memory of any of it. In the city in which I live tensions of political unrest are felt, yet I wont pick up my pen. What more could a young Negro ask for? Beautiful woman, beautiful city and residing the capitol of a nation poised for changed.

Ever since I turned my heart and mind to studies of God I have felt that I have not been using my writing the correct way. This is where my feeling of emptiness comes from. It is not as if God has taken away my ability to write. It is very much there and still mine. I still write fluent letters. Yet, my desires…the desires of my heart have changed. Does that mean I find my city, the women, or political issues any less interesting? No. I don’t think a time will ever come when these three things will bore me. It is just that I don’t find them as worthy of my mind as I once did. Maturity comes to mind.

I have been attending bible study and my eyes have opened to the realization of my gifts. Communication and leadership come easy to me, yet confidence is a little harder. Be it with my mouth or hand I can teach and lead men to understand whatever it is I have to show them. I remember very vividly a memory from middle school when my English teacher told my parents that I was “manipulative.” At the time I didn’t know what that meant or what I was doing to make her say that. And time has not reveled to me what my specific manipulative actions where but I do understand that even before I knew it I could make people do my bidding. Isn’t that what a leader is? Someone who makes others perform certain actions, behave a certain way, think and realize certain things?

I thank God that in my childhood I didn’t realize a lot of things I do now. However with the realization of these gifts comes the responsibility of how to use them. Needless to say all these things and realizations come through God, so I must use them to bring him glory. Another early childhood memory was when on the elementary school playground I was called a preacher by a fellow student. I have no idea why, what I was saying but this little kid thought I reminded him of a preacher. That actually is the most common thing for me to be called by people. It would actually scare me. Preacher? You mean a speaker for God? You mean one of those men that stand up for four and five hours every Sunday shouting and sweating at people? No, no thank you. I wanted nothing to do with that type of work. Now it’s different, though I still don’t want to be a preacher. Not because of how I view preachers, I know better now. But because to be the mouth piece of God is a huge responsibility that many take too lightly.

Many preachers have lead others astray from God because of their actions on the pew and off. Many people judge God because of the actions and behaviors of those that claim they speak for him. Now how can I with this knowledge presume myself to speak for God?

The things I wrote of before don’t interest me, the thoughts I had before are rubbish to me and all the wisdom I thought I had were follies. In the Spring time I have changed, though I am not sure exactly into what.

I use to flip through history books trying to find men that I related to, to give me some idea of my place in this word. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Malcolm X, Langston Hughes and countless other great minds I would claim to be like. Now I flip through the bible and find men I identify with to try and find my place with God. Moses, Stephen, and Timothy. Moses because how uncertain he was kneeling before God. “But How can I lead these people?” Stephen because of how he was killed for his message. “Lord do not hold this sin against them.” And finally Timothy because like him I am timid and need to be reminded that God does not give the spirit of fear.

I do not think in my mind to be great men of God like those three, only that when I read about them I feel a connection, a connection stronger than I feel with Malcolm or Hughes. A connection that says like Moses I can over come and lead my people out of bondage.

And to me that’s much more important to write about than how beautiful a woman looks in the spring time as she walks down a street in Washington DC. Though…I hope God would permit me the time to admire once or twice.