Contemporary hip-hop is as fake as a square two-cent penny and everyone is trying to spend that crap on a Furby. I don’t listen to the radio anymore. I hate hearing the lyrics so simple, vulgar, and pointless that either have the words are censored or a two-year old can sing the entire song like repeating a presidential list of Fry words. Don’t get me wrong. I know that music evolves and there are some great artists out there repping the craft; but, what happened to the real backbone of hip-hop? What happened to relevance and feeling? What happened to relating to life and not expecting drug money glamour and shiny plastic round bottoms? None of that is for me. Most of us are everyday people who are cool like that, right? I miss the golden age of hip-hop. I guess that’s why I love the movie, Brown Sugar, so much. A love letter to hip hop. Now, it’s more like a Dear John.
I wrote a poem about it on my other blog. Here’s the link. And you thought you knew
Sometimes I want to just be free of responsibilities, duties, obligations, and worries. I want to feel light and airy, I want to be a souffle. I want to rise every day and be free to meditate, simmer and stew in my own thoughts and daydreams. I get my best ideas from my daydreams. Remember that post about my dream Saturday? I want to make that happen.
I feel horrible for wanting to be selfish for just a little while. It seems as if so much depends on my attention and so many people need me for my various abilities, that I sometimes forget to be important to myself. Don’t get me wrong. I love all the extra responsibilities that I have and the volunteering that I do. All of it comes from my heart. What I don’t like is being required or requested to do things that can be handled by someone else. What I don’t like is being asked to do something that someone else was just too lazy to do. What I don’t like is being asked my opinion on something as if it will matter, when said person is just going to continue as is!
I have anxiety. I wish to be calm and I want to willingly let go of things outside of my control. But just like many people who I know, I worry about money and work and my students and my parents and one million other things that invade my mind like parasites. I know that I suffer from it because of the early morning fretting and the constant worry about things that I can’t control. My anxiety does not allow me to be calm unless I am writing or thinking about food. Even when I am writing, I worry about what people will say about me, my thoughts, and those words that escape. That’s the qualm before the calm. One day, I will tell all of my worries and restraints, “que sera sera” and they will wait outside my Saturday room while I escape, write, and read. Maybe they will get tired of waiting and stalking me. Maybe they will pack up their bags and leave me for a local politician some distance away. Maybe they won’t be waiting for me like they are every morning at 3:30.
Unless preoccupied in the thoughts of my dream world, I always greet people with a smile. I was raised that way. Regardless of how society feels about salutations and respect, I say Ma’am and Sir. There is always room in the inn and food in the fridge. I was raised by a very hospitable family. I can remember my mom and dad cooking dinner and feeding anyone in the yard. Once, my dad fed a yard full of hungry kids with one pitcher of Kool-Aid, a bag of chips, and hotdogs. It wasn’t a planned meal. My dad was outside doing yard work. He threw some hotdogs on the grill and that was that. I’ve seen my mother feed ten people with one chicken, and everyone ate until they were full. Growing up, it never occurred to me that this wasn’t normal. I thought every family shared what they had. I can remember sleeping on the floor on pallets because family was visiting from out-of-town. What hotels? We slept on the floor and talked the entire night.
My childhood was an instructional manual in hospitality, Southern Comfort. I never knew my parents not to be willing to help anyone, family or not. They embraced everyone, even long gone exes. That’s another story. The miracle of it? They weren’t rich. Even by middle class standards, they were modest. However, they were abundantly limitless in love.
Forget Emily Post and all those manuals and books, Margaret Barclay is the most hospitable and charming lady. She could (and would) give lessons to you and feed your some of the best fried chicken you’ve ever eaten.
From the moment that I wake to the second that I fall asleep, I have traversed the corners of my mind and lost myself in its maze. Much like my grand and well-planned ideas, I try to begin with some pattern of order.
For example, I had a dream that instantly gave me the idea for a book. I instantly start writing ideas down and doing research only to be distracted by the idea of a poem. The idea of the poem reminds me of something that I read by Langston Hughes. I love Langston. Off I go in search of a book of his poems that I keep in the guest room. I cannot find the book, so I go online and use the remainder of my Amazon gift card to buy another.
While online, I see a link (courtesy of website cookies) to more Happy Planner stickers. Anyone who knows me knows that I love my Happy Planner/adult sticker book/scrapbook/life organizer. One “Oooh! I want that!” second later, I am digging in my work bag for my planner. Darn, I haven’t finished the weeks of May and there are many activities on Post-it notes waiting to adorn my stickered pages. Ten minutes later, I am sitting at the dining room table with my calendar caddy, planner, and laptop. As I mark the dates, my mind wanders to the meal planning and recipe stickers that I found for less than a dollar.
The menu stickers make me think of dinner. What should I cook for dinner? Speaking of dinner, Ayesha Curry sure makes meal prep look easy. I then proceed to research recipes online. But, the kitchens are so pretty and there is a conveniently placed Pinterest pinning button. As I pin the dream kitchen for the dream house that my dream job will purchase, I think of lemons. I like lemons. Do I have any lemons? Nope. I decide to go to the store for some lemons. Lemon, butter, garlic, and chicken.
Mental list made, I take a shower. The shower reminds me of songs that I need to learn for praise team practice. I jump out of the shower, leaving fat wet footprints on the floor as I run to get my phone. With the playlist going, I sing for the rest of the shower. The phone rings. Some poor soul thinks I deserve a free vacation that I must pay for. Sorry, no. A vacation outfit comes to mind. I reach in the closet and grab my sun yellow kimono shawl, a white tank, and some jeans. Mascara applied, I head to the store thinking of lemons. On the way, I see the new library they are building. I think of the books that I want to read. So, I go to the library. Books make me want to sit and read. Well, sit and read as I drink coffee or tea. So, I head to Starbucks, pre-order my tea, and sit for a spell. The book makes me hungry for tacos. Tacos would be great for dinner. I eat a taco from the place right by Micheal’s. I wonder if they have more clearance stickers at Michael’s.
Ten minutes and three dollars later, I am in afternoon traffic headed home where the laundry is not done, the dinner will not be, and the beginning of the book never was.
My mind is a maze where I am often distracted and sidetracked. Although I know there is a way to master it, I find that the turns and walls keep me doing exactly everything that I want at that one fleeting moment. Perhaps Daedalus had a point; just like his masterful Labyrinth, my mind changes and grows with my every move. I think I like the happiness of it.
Speaking of happy, my Happy Planner cover reminds me of the lemons that I never bought. Doesn’t lemon herb-butter chicken sound delicious? Does Ayesha have a recipe for that?
On yesterday, I shared my grief at the loss of something that I really wanted. To say that I was devastated would be like saying the Amazon is a bubbling brook or the Pacific Ocean is a teardrop. I was severely more than just devastated. It felt as if the world continued to move and I was forced to stand still on that crumbling pillar I’d built. I had lived in a dream for a little over a week. Anticipating the joys and fulfillment promised to me. Desiring to work hard and let my light shine. It was a dream. A dream that I pursued with the gusto of a starved maniac. Today is Day 2 and I find myself trying to muster up the desire to pursue again. Why? Because I am a hopeless and excitable glutton for happy beginnings and endings. I know that everything will not be a success and that I will fail countless times. Still, I cannot deny myself the chance to dream and pursue those dreams. A dreamer, I am as curious as a child left to wander a toy store inside a candy shoppe. My mind gives life to a thought that grows and expands beyond celestial entities. And unless I check myself with the reality, I will dangerously float in mid-air. I am that child who wants to touch and taste it all. Just like that child, nothing is off-limits to me, the dreamer. Me, the pursuer always looking distracted by the things that I want. That pin tip hope grows within me and I find myself wanting to be more and do more. I am hopeless, but I do not regret it. Finding things to hope for and look forward to… that gives me reasons to move forward. To pursue is to continue. To continue is to live life with a passion that heals and hurts. If I’m not pursuing a dream., I am not standing still complacent in where I am. I am moving backwards and becoming less of who I intend to be. To be honest, what is life if is isn’t full of those sand grains of hope that cause us to pursue our dreams?