My Version of the Truth...

A short dissertation on "Substance P" (...the great message of life)

     After much study and thought on matters of the mind, on how various latin named chemical transmitters such as dopamine, serotonin, endorphins, etc., lay down a "reward/control pathway" that our brains individually map and chart like the old 'Thomas Guides' that traveling salesmen used to find their destinations. I find myself intrigued by "Substance P" a neuropeptide. Where were the latin linguistic authorities on this discovery? 

    "Substance P" in a nutshell  transmits pain to the brain. Stub your toe, SP is gonna tell you about it. I am no stranger to "Substance P", it has been highly effective, deceiving, unpredictable and down right impossible to live with or without. I tend to believe it is a modulator for this life of mine. "Substance P" has been the CEO for several years at the committee meetings in my mind, with the clear understanding that the body; especially the heart (the emotional part of that organ) wants to feel no pain. Never letting the fact-of -the-matter or the focus of the attention go un-addressed or un-attended.

    SP really likes to be recognized; it can be that imposing feeling of discomfort or that pain of pleasurable experiences (let your mind wander here). Another arbitrator who sits in on the great committee meetings in my head is Fear. Now Fear is just a feeling, it has no teeth; but it sure can be persuasive and if Fear needs a little reinforcement there's always that great communicator, "Substance P", that will get a message to you in a nano second. But what is the meaning of all this? What is the agenda of SP? Why is it so undeniable? I looked deep within myself for the answers  to these truths.

     I searched far and wide in many corners of the earth; in the deep abyss of depressions; in the euphoric climaxes of the highs; only to find it in the simplest of things. "Substance P" led me away from what hurt me; what pained me. It provided me great lessons and a clear message of life's meaning.

    The body is a fragile composition of cells and tissues. "Substance P" is the natural first system of defense, it says to you, STOP! DON'T DO IT AGAIN! Do we always listen? That's the dissonance that we as humans have developed over the generations, we keep going back for some painful experiences, hurtful events, only to justify them until we finally give in and except the undeniable truth.

 

 

 

 

 

The Bleeding Heart

 

I have to let my heart bleed in order to get my head right.

I have to let my eyes drain to release the pressure.

It’s a process that takes place not often; but when it does, watch out.

 

I have to let my heart bleed so I can think straight.

I have salty lines running down my face.

It’s a process that takes place not often; but when it does, I’ll be stronger.

 

I have to let my heart bleed so I can move on.

I have knots in my stomach and I’m doubled over.

It’s a process that takes place not often; but when I’m done I can stand tall.

 

And when it’s over I can feel.

And when it’s over I’ll heal.

And when it’s over I’ll kneel…

And pray ‘cause my heart will bleed for you no more.

 

The Envy of Man Vs.The Law of Nature (a study of the limitations of the human condition)

It is only Man who covets the same sun that every creature obeys; to shine brighter and longer on his brow. It is only Man who tries with all his ingenuity to occupy the heavens without having first left his temple on earth. It is only Man who is in control of all that is beneath the stars, but yet can not control his own self-will. If man would only look at the envy of a bud and a blooming flower.

    The bud does not rush to bloom. It patiently waits. It knows that the sun will chasten and multiply its tender pedals while the morning dew quenches its thirst. Yet man does not obey his law of nature; he gazes at other blooms in his midst with envy and restlessness. These are the limitations of the human condition, patience with the process.

 

When the Street meets the St. (...my [our] backs against the "Wall St.")

So that moment has come...can't stand for it anymore. The hustle, the bustle, the way we worked hand-in-fist to create this mess.

Now you say its time for him to go back to whence he came. Back to the street. The street of his struggle; that passive -aggressive struggle.

To you, it's just business as usual; but for him its the realization that he never fit in to your grand scheme.

He was always a "Black Man" you failed to recognize inside of his street St. approved tailored suits and shined magnanni shoes.

This image, is the great contrast of a man that walked through your glass doors. That brotha, the one that always made you cringe and whisper "I wish he [they] would just go away". Like the reaper he has come for you, and your Wall St. cronies...may you find a god of your understanding now.

If you could only see how "Black" he is beneath the carmel-latte-cream-colored smile you have so unjustly interwoven into his heritage.

If you only knew that your worst nightmare sat just a few feet across a conference room table.

But know that "He's different...he's not like the others" (whatever that means) only he is the same as all the others like him on the inside, just like you are the same as your kind.

Now the Bull is surrounded, caged-up by the people of the [occupy movement] struggle as you do your due-diligence and look for a successor, a new N#@%!; well...who's gonna take your place.

The gig is up, for us both. Welcome to the Street-

all images are strictly for effect with no affiliated business relationship or implications...unless it hits you in the gut. Then feel it.

"Another Very Short Story"

…beep…beep…beep…I can never tell if I have crossed over into the after-life until my conscience

via bycha.typepad.com

A resubmission of "Another Very Short Story" in remembrance of September 11, 2001 so that we collectively as a nation never forget the tragedy that changed our world as we once knew it. (The title is inspired by Earnest Hemingway's "A Very Short Story")

Learning To Love Myself (...the journey to the center of my world)

I would have thought in my 40+ years that if you asked me if I loved myself the answer would've been a resounding... Yes! But with all this wisdom, and experience that life has been so kind to expose me to, I realize how much I don't know about living; hence I am just beginning to learn to love myself.

I think...I know there are many teachers along the way and not all speak the same "language of love" although the lesson is irrefutable. You will live a miserable existence if you do not know how (...understand how) to love yourself. Okay, so I'm late to understand this simple revelation, and now I feel compelled to share with the world  this rhema . Well, please forgive me and if you are so fortunate to have gleaned this lesson in life, I truly envy you; as for me, I am not that smart.

Where do I begin in my share of this near spiritual experience. It begins, I guess where I always meet "the man" in that moment of solitude, between the place I just left and before the corner I have yet to turn. In those brief moments I find myself conversating with myself. It always reminds me of a humorous line about a guy who was asked why he was always talking to himself and he replied " because I like holding conversations with intelligent people". 

I am definitely a work in progress so I do not and will not attempt to give ANY advice on this subject, only my progress up to this point, and so far one key thing I have learned is the ability to "sit with it", the pain, the loneliness, the happiness and the horniness too. Learning that not wanting to feel some of those is natural; but managing my actions due to those feelings is where " loving yourself " lessons are taught through ' on the job ' or better put, ' in the  experience ' training. Recently I found myself by myself and totally okay with it, although I have to be careful, I do have a tendency to isolate (which is not a good thing); but a healthy dose of me-time allows those feelings to find their balance with the exception of the horny feeling; too much time  " loving yourself " can create problems...if you know what I mean. So where ever I go, there I am and I know that I cannot separate from him, because he is me and I have to embrace that man with all his idiosyncrasies, ailments and issues; I am learning to love him :)

A message in a bottle found in my metaphoric sea...(continuing my journey back to [Home]land)

I'm floating out there (or better yet in here, my head; a dangerous place to go alone) I saw a message in a bottle. It let me know that there is other life out here, that I'm not alone, although when I left that fateful ship I felt abandoned. The message in the bottle was from someone to God and it said...

 

message in a bottle isolated

I asked God to take away my pride.

And God said "No". He said it was

not for him to take away, but for me

to give up.

 

I asked God to make my handicapped

child whole. And God said "No". He

said her spirit was whole, her body was

temporary.

 

I asked God, grant me patience. And

God said "No". He said patience is a

byproduct of tribulation. It isn't granted,

it is earned.

 

I asked God to give me happiness. And

God said "No". He said He gives me

blessings, happiness is up to me.

 

I asked God to spare me pain. And God

said "No". He said suffering draws you

apart from worldly cares and brings you

closer to me.

 

I asked God to make my spirit grow. And

God said "No". He said I must grow on my

own. But he will prune me to make me fruitful.

 

I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.

And God said "No". He said I will give you

life, that you may enjoy all things.

 

I asked God to help me LOVE others,

as much as he loves me. And God said,

ah, finally you have the idea.

 

 

Dreams of [home]lands lost (...metaphorical visions and metaphysical thoughts of my travels)

Splash! As we go back in the cold, deep, lonely water, I metaphysically and you metaphorically as my captive audience to watch a man become a man of men. As I gasp for air, grasp for something or someone to hold on too; I fight for “his” existence. He is me, lost somewhere out there, but ready to be free of the debauchery that has consumed him in his previous journey with that lot of outcasts. Land can’t be seen from this vantage point, neither east, west, north nor south; but I know that I will make it to the "home-land" again and then begin another tireless journey, with a renewed purpose (does it ever end?). My life seems to play in my mind as a constant moving picture, great moments in a static environment; my two children, my many loves, my few accomplishments and a wealth of inspirations (I want that back…well, maybe some of it back). I have heard that when you’re going through hell don’t stop, I’m not going through hell; but I’m definitely going through something and when I evacuate this place I will be all the better.

Splash!

Until then everyday is a struggle, some days my eyes play tricks on me. I can see everything so clearly, like a mirage, and then I realize I still am so far away. To only have a wave come crashing down on my face and see that there was nothing there at all, it was all a reverie…damn. Some days I am blinded by hunger, the ache of my belly, the ache of my heart, they both need to be fed (some may say let him starve..that will teach him). So I use the Kings English to relive something inside me, I use one of Gods gifts to me for the bloodletting of my conscious being. I still house a lot of pride, hence the clouded and guarded way I chose to share my experience with you. I choose to call it art (what a wonderful way to categorize something when smart people don’t understand it), but fail to see it is just an ordinary life, my life as imperfect as anyone else’s; but I digressed.

This may seem to some as psycho-babble of a man lost in his own mind. It is not, there is a modus operandi to my memoir; but the insanity of it all can never be totally comprehended unless you have traversed these waters, so read it as a travel log (a place you don’t ever want to go). I cannot and refuse to place blame on anyone but myself. Although I will say there were many places on my journey, on that frigate of destruction that I could have stayed ashore and severed my title as HNIC (Head Narcissist in Charge) and now I find myself stupefied that I didn’t stay with my feet firmly planted on a “solid rock”, hind sight is 20/20…

 

A Note To The Reader (...to better help you see through the clouds in this series of my life)

So I assume you know me, where I’ve been and where I’m going. I assumed wrong, you are just as clueless as I at this point in my journey “what the hell is he talking about?” you may ask yourself. A lot of people close to my heart could tell you the many wonderful things about the character of this man. A lot of people in the path of my destruction could tell you of the pain and confusion I have caused them. It is up to you to decide which of these participants in my life you choose to ally your perception of this man with, for I the selfish, self-centered man of the hour (you’ll be finished reading my treatise long before that hour has passed) don’t really give a damn. It is through these series of short essays strung together that I leave part of my life for you to examine, laugh at, shake your head in disbelief and say “…there by the grace of God go I…” and truly be glad it is not you.

Clearing The Clouds

I’m not very good at just letting it all hang out. I’m not very good at speaking literally; I like the color and tone of figurative speech, the play on words, the dry wit and cerebral nature of it all. I’ve been called “deep” and at times “too deep” I sometimes resent that because I feel I write like an impressionist paints a work of art, you have to look at it or in my case read it. Not once or twice, but many times, you have to study it, because it says so much between the lines, hazy definitions and splotches of color on the canvas or in a sea of vocabulary. I try to say so much between the punctuations, play on words and white space between the lines. Many Impressionists like Cezanne, Gauguin or Van Gogh works of art, "works of their lives" were never fully appreciated in their lifetimes. It is only after they can no longer contribute to their body of work that the world can catch up to what they were trying to communicate or capture during moments in their lives. I can find no other words to explain; but to say this is my own unique testimony.

I feel a great task charged to my being, my existence, that my charge in life is to be more than just another human animal occupying this spinning orb. Is that being too presumptuous? Is that the ultimate conceit? I only want to help, contribute, to give of my true essence, to give “his-story”. They say the line between genius and crazy is obscure, I would never consider myself genius; but I don’t hesitate to call myself crazy. It’s my way of prescribing to false humility at the same time of doubting my abilities that everyone can see but me. So lets continue…