Raining with no ride

It's not until you find yourself in the heart a lightning storm you find out how bold or not so bold you actually are. Brave enough to make a two mile walk home, but still just enough fear to duck whenever the lightning flashes.  Primal impulses I guess, the stuff we're hardwired for in order to stay alive, or in some cases pumped into us by our parents from childhood (be afraid of this, because we're afraid of this).

You also realize how much metal you're actually surrounded by (street signs, lights flag poles, chain link fences, etc.) You also start noticing how low those power lines are and you remember horror stories about people getting struck because they were way too close or standing in a puddle.

If you're out in the open and you see the sky light up, you might have enough of a split second to see what direction the bolts are coming from, the fear and the wonder jockeying for position in your heart. Your heart, which you finally noticed is racing like a sonuvabitch. There's a numbness on you tongue, almost metallic. You can't tell if it's the electrified atmosphere or just your tongue recovering from all the hot tea you drank earlier. You're excited.  Another flash and you you duck again, shit, you might even bob and weave.

Not as brave as you thought. Brave enough to step outside.  Brave enough to walk.  Brave enough to put one foot in front of the other and repeat the process no matter much shit the world tries to give you.  Brave or stupid. I'm cool with either one.

Things I would tell myself if time travel were possible

We all have those moments where we think about our lives in hindsight.  We ask ourselves, "Where did I go wrong?"  A decision we made, an opportunity we missed, a person we allowed to come into or leave our lives.   "If you could go back in time and tell change anything/tell your younger self anything, what would it be?" is question we find ourselves asking often in these moments. Well I finally had a chance to sit down and think on it, to ask myself where the key turning points were.  I managed to narrow it down to a few.  There are probably more, but I feel like these particular points are the most relevant, the most impactful.

That being said...

Things I would tell myself if time travel were possible:

-In your junior year of high school, Christina Rosado will actually have the hots for you. She will throw out all the signals and you’ll be totally clueless. Keep your eyes open and enjoy that shit for as long as it lasts.

-You’ll do everything in your power to keep your parents from habitually criticizing you, including going to a school you’ll wind up hating; it will be a hopeless endeavor. The only person worth pleasing is the one you see in the mirror.

-Take your time picking a school. Many of your relatives have never been to university and don’t what they’re talking about. As time goes on you will develop a healthy dislike for their intellectual ineptitude and eventually come to hate them for it.

-Ignore women when they start crying. It’s just a form of manipulation.

-Avoid living in the south at all costs. The stupidity alone can kill you.

-Losing your mom and dad will be a slow and ugly process and there isn’t a damn thing that’s going to prepare you for it.

-Terrorism, republicans, bible thumpers, and social justice warriors, along with the countless other shortcomings of your species, just might bring you to tears.

-Bruce Lee was, is and always will be the man. His words will give you immeasurable strength.

No title here, just thoughts

I've come to the conclusion that I'm a very damaged person...strike that, I've always known I was damaged I just didn't know how bad until a few years ago.  I can't afford a therapist so I just try to find little bits of happiness where I can, keep my mind occupied and where the mask.  It's an ugly existence at the moment.  Such a beautiful day today and I wake feeling like I'm dying inside.  I'm just happy I have at least one or two people to whom I can emote (apparently men aren't allowed to express or even feel their feelings but that's a thought fr another time).

It's been few months since I've given you any words on this blog.  Almost decided not to write it.  I don't neglect it on purpose, it's just that I only write, I mean really write, when I'm at a low point.  Heartsick mostly.  Case in point:

Feel good (Remix)

A little bit of feel good goes a long way.
The first memory I have of you is soft and awkward,
Hours in that empty room naked and sweating, you made me open a floodgate
And drown myself in emotions that I couldn’t, wouldn’t or haven’t felt in years.
It wasn’t your eyes, your laughter or lips, or the way they felt on me,
I can’t say if it was love or all lust, but whatever the hell is was, it felt good.


It was so regular now, so perfect.
You kissed me after class when I pop by after work,
I even walked you to the store when your ankle got hurt.
We talked books, TV shows and our favorite flicks
Surprise, surprise, we both love Rent

For dinner it was hamburger helper and in the morning, BLT Biscuits
For the first time I felt how a man should feel,
Needed…Wanted…Appreciated.


It was damn near a year since the split,
A hook up here and there whenever time permits.
That weird part of moving on I guess—
And at a point where I thought you were the only friend I had,
At what I thought was the lowest point in my life,--
You let me stay there. No words, nothing….

Cold as you were, the thought of you still warmed me.
Our time together can be measure in a heartbeat,
A heartbeat I put in a little box with a few other precious things
Tucked in a corner under a garbage heap of memories….
Every bite of food, every movie watched, every scrap of happiness I had with you
stuck between that heartbeat, in that box.
Every now and then I blow the dust off it, and it gets in my eyes.

I just want to live: A late night rant

I don't believe in in first impressions.  Not in the since of making the first encounter lasting or memorable or positive, but in the since of just walking into the room like someone squeeze lemon juice down my butt crack.  I've never been the type schmooze.  I hang out with my wang out and to hell with anyone that doesn't care for it.  There's seven billion people in the world.  I'm not the only one they can talk to.

I've had one or two friends that look at me a tad peculiar due to my taste in music, women, and use of language, both poetic and profane.  For the most part they've learned to deal with it.  But I doubt they truly understand it, or that they want to.  Well this is their lucky day (and yours)...

10 years I've lived in this pit called the bible belt, and the one constant I've had to deal with (besides incurably religious friends and family) is death.  In the past decade I've been to an average of one funeral a year.  Among the first were my grandmother and the youngest of my older sisters, the one I grew up with.  Over the next few years it was uncles and cousins and finished out with my mom and my dad.  When you have to stomach THAT MUCH loss, when you're knocked back that many times, you can either wolf down your meds, ball up in a corner and die (a thought that still crosses my mind at least once a day) OR you can get up and live.  Pull yourself out of bet, and find another reason to ride this bitch until the wheels fall off.  And that's pretty much what I've doing the past several months.  No time stamp, no apologies, no fucks given.  Fuck what friends have to say about it, fuck what family has to say about it, fuck the bros, fuck the girlfriend.  And that cunt of a waitress on the other side of the room who can't keep her nose out of the conversation, along with the simp nigga next to you that co-signs on her bullshit and laughs in your face on YOUR FUCKING BIRTHDAY, fuck them too.

It's really that simple.  Not the most cogent thing I've had to say, but it's honest.  I feel like that's all I can give lately.

Gotta walk it like I talk it...

From my personal journal...

January 27, 2015

It's amazing, you find clarity of mind in the strangest places.  Halfway through my work shift I realize I've been talking the talk, now I have to walk my walk.  I hate capitalism.  I mean HATE it.  Like getting teeth pulled, like squash, like child abuse, like religion.  I fucking hate it.  Even with the Obama administration doing what it could to pull us from the brink over the past 6-7 years, it remains so rabid and unrestrained.  We're not encouraged to go out and make friends, we're told to network.  We view human beings as commodities, or utilities to be manipulated and disposed of once they have no more viability to us.  And this is the irony of being me; misanthrope that I am, having little to no hope left in my own species, I still don't like viewing people in that light.

Apologies if you were looking for something long-winded and profound.  Just a little flash rant. 

Another random thought...after a not so random question

A website that helps individuals dealing with grief and loss asked:  Is there something you shared with your loved one that you still carry with you moving forward through grief?

For my sister it was our love of primetime television.  The 90's we watched Martin, In Living Color, Def Comedy Jam and a slew of other TV shows that gave us memorable sketches, one-liners and inside jokes.  My dad and I didn't have a whole lot in common, but one of my more consistent memories was he and I sitting on the stoop outside our duplex and talking about bits and pieces of his childhood; conversations I can scarcely recall.  We'd also do a lot of people watching.  My mom just liked having me around.  A lot of our laughs came from watching old Looney Tunes shows with characters such as Yosemite Sam and Foghorn Leghorn (we would always see who did the best impressions). We also handled the grocery shopping together.  We walk in and I'd take one end of the store grabbing the bread, milk, eggs, etc., while she took the other.

No long rant or point;  Just felt like putting this one out there.  Same question to anyone that reads this.

--Ryan

I think I was always afraid of success...

That moment you realize some of your friends are slowly becoming a thing you despise.  In this case, greedy capitalist.  It doesn't surprise me one bit. After all, greed is good.  Especially in the black community, which can scarcely be called community frankly.  (Disclaimer:  This blog isn't on some pro black shit, or 'fuck them otha' niggas' shit, I'm just remarking on something I've observed over a stretch of time).  How many of us work 12, 14, 18 hour days making money for some super rich asshole in the hope of one day becoming a super rich asshole, or at least a moderately rich asshole?  How many of us have aspirations of becoming the next Bill Gates, or Jay Z or whoever the hell, and break our face and put on errs just so friends and family can tout us as such?...How many of us go to college or grad school, or pursue a career and life under the pressure of being 'the smart one', 'the talented one', 'the one that made it out' or 'never got in trouble?'  That isn’t to say such accomplishments should be downplayed, dismissed or otherwise unappreciated.

Truth be told I am slightly afraid success.  I was afraid of it academically, when it seemed the only thing my family had to say whenever they saw me was "When ya graduratin'", "You got a degree cuz, you can make dat money nah!" or something equally presumptuous. And I was afraid of it financially, with prosperity often breeding jealousy and with leeches coming out of the woodwork.  I wouldn’t know who I could trust, especially among family.  In their defense they were genuinely happy for me and my accomplishments, but I couldn't help feeling like little more than a circus monkey.  A well-trained animal attraction that my parents wanted to parade about and brag on, saying all these wonderful things in public,  and then telling me how stupid and lazy they thought I was behind closed doors.  

It didn't help when my mother would make declaratives or requests in the form of inane questions, in that way southern black women have: "Don't you wanna take care of mommy when you start makin' money?"  Money again.  That's what it was all about after all.  A job, a car, a house, wife, kids, and keeping the man off your back.  All that good shit...forget doing what you love, no money in that.  Forget the anxiety that walks hand in hand with the excitement of graduation (not too many of my people been to school, so I can’t blame them for not knowing what that’s like), forget the depression that starts to creep up, knowing this will be the last time you and some of the best friends you've ever had will be in the same room together...you 'bout go get that guap.   Don't even trip about them student loans, you gon' be stackin' that bread.  Just go get a piece of paper, get ready to devote your life to greed (yours or someone else's), and oh, try to ignore that the Bush administration wrecked the economy something fierce and there are very few dignified jobs left.  Plus you live in the bible belt and you were born to a family of reprobates and jesus-freaks that hold on to their ignorance like Whitney when she's down to her last crack rock.  So no mom, couldn't have taken care you.

Ok, back from that detour (this rant is turning out longer than I expected).  I've never been real keen on money for money's sake.  It's a tool, a resource meant to make life a little bit easier.  You want food, or a place to stay, quid pro quo.  Simple as that.  That's all a job ever was to me when I was a kid, my parents left home, did whatever for about 8 or 9 hours respectively, and came back home, got paid friday.  It seemed simple enough until I started college.  As an undergrad in the early 2000s I was bombarded with all this blather about resumes and networking and marketing yourself.  There was something very...impersonal about the whole process I guess.  This was the beginning of what would become YEARS of cognitive dissonance in regards to seeking employment.  Making myself presentable and sweating bullets, wondering if I said or did the wrong thing...this shit was like dating!

It took me very long time to reconcile with my parents invectives, to come to the realization that I was not lazy, I simply knew what I wanted. I didn't want a 9 to 5  that would consume my day, my life, my spirit.  Punch in, do what I'm told, get ready to punch out, get dragged back for 5 more hours, punch out, go home, sleep for 4 hours and repeat. For what? To pay for an apartment I barely spend any time in? To live off processed foods and coffee 7 days a week? Being business minded, clean cut and coloring inside the lines has its upside, but me, I was and I AM just a guy who likes to draw and all I’ve wanted was to make my living doing that. But I am starting to realize that am an island...unless you look through a lens that has dollar signs etched all over it, to them you are blind.  Virtually without worth.  You are laughable.  My roommate is one of the most awesome people in existence but listening to him talk about money and budgets every time we see each other is beginning to stick in my craw....

This thing really got away from me.  It felt good to get so much of this off my chest but I don't think I'm anywhere near making my point.  I'll touch on it later.