My Version of the Truth...

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…

The Water (....a continuing metaphorical journey of a man we all know)

The water is cold it has been awaiting my arrival from just off "The Plank". They, the wood and ocean are complicit in my ultimate discomfort. The lath and sea desire my acceptance; but I hesitate to capitulate. As I struggle to gain my bearings, as I struggle to learn to stay afloat…no, learning to just stay alive is today's struggle. The first inclination is to reach for that damned boat. At least I wasn’t alone, with all its doomed passengers, I thought sometimes I was in pure bliss, until the sun rose in the morning and I realized I was not a part of the world that loved me and wanted me to succeed, I was in a mere fantasy land. Where is the mermaid to lead me to Shangri-La? Where is the “guard of the coast” to throw me a lifeline, a dingy, anything to fight this wet, cold and lonely place that I find in myself?

The Water

They say it is cleansing, I remember the last time I sought the water on my own. How it felt so good, how I was so willing; but this is a new baptism, a new cleansing, a new death, a new birth, another second chance…how many chances is one afforded? How long will I drift like a buoy, as a signal for other sojourners, a sign for one who has had to “walk the plank”; AT YOUR OWN RISK the metaphorical message that beacons from my presence in these waters. I am so empty, maybe that’s why I float so well (I would hate to think I’m full of any other substance that floats). It’s my time to fill my essence with all that is good; it is my turn to learn to swim again.

Here I am today, remember me and don’t follow me (unless you are on that frigate) let me show you the beauty of the human spirit, the determination of “I”, the power of will and why it was me that was chosen today for this task and not you…

 

The Plank (...a metaphorical essay of a point in the life of a man we know all to well)

Life has afforded me one of its cruel and unusual punishments. Not by choosing me for hardship or heartache, I have done that to myself; but by making me the victim of consequence and circumstance.  It is only now, that after my offense to the ones I love and love me that I have to “walk the plank”. I realize much too late that I have not yet learned to swim in this vast ocean.

Walk the Plank

I have attempted to resign from my occupation for the last decade of a quarter century as Hell-raiser and Co-conspirator of this frail, pitiful and penniless craft only to be finally forced overboard (for there is no room for “good” men on this frigate built for pirating, pilfering and plunder). Contrary to the many mates, masters and prisoners of this journey, I will not begin to drown in the blackness of the abyss and scurry for refuge on-board this Hades bound vessel. I shall be better apt alone against the currents and waves of the sea than with the mass of bedeviled brethren that occupied the “hell of a ride” with me. I bid you all farewell and good riddance as I get on with my liberty, my freedom and prepare for due justice meted out by those who deal in the laws of reality.

I will conform to the ebb and flow of what is good, wholesome and all consuming. I will learn to wade, and then soon swim like a shark, a predator of the sea with no natural enemy; but man, the man of my reflection cast upon the glassy waters that have pooled beneath my own eyes. He will no longer be a nemesis but an advocate, for the beast shall learn to live inside the man and not the man consumed by the beast.

So I wish death to all who want my company for mere amusement, torment and benefit of selfish pleasures. For I am not the one being led to the end of the lath; but it is you that have seen your last days of me. It is you that will find yourselves tethered to the wreckage of this ill-fated craft at the bottom of a dark, cold, unforgiving pit within the sea we so loathed, it is you that occupy the wrong side of the board; it is you that are on the deserved end of the plank.

A short story of pain, patience, love and redemption (The torture of hope...)

In a far corner of heaven reign the children not born to the world yet. It is a very special place with lots of anxious kids waiting to bring smiles and joy to loving parents. Sometimes the children are so rambunctious, loud and preoccupied with games and toys they don’t even hear their names called when it is time for them to be born. Well in the land of the living there was a man and woman in desperate need of one more chance. This man and woman had lost both their children in a very tragic incident. This mother and father had been the best parents that they knew how despite the book on how to raise children had yet to be written.

.

The Mother was a beautiful woman who loved to be among the flowers and trees; but she felt an unbearable pain in her heart because of losing her only two children, that she had become very bitter and afraid to ever really love again. She had poured all of her hopes, dreams and aspirations into their future. The Father was a very strong and honorable man, a born leader who would do anything for her love; but he too felt her sorrow and rejection as though she had shut her pain in and shut him out of her heart never allowing anyone to reach that place again. He always knew they were made for each other, but he had not learned how to help her cope with the grief of their loss.

Before tragedy had clouded their dreams and hope they fawned over their eldest child day and night giving it all the attention only two proud parents could provide, teaching their offspring good, bad, respect and obedience. Upon the birth of their second child they instilled patience, tolerance, love and forgiveness, for that child had a way with animals and possessed a special gift. The husband and wife were finally feeling like a complete and prosperous family. Mommy couldn’t believe the precious seeds she had sown and was so grateful for motherhood. Daddy was a proud papa too; for he knew he would be the patriarch of many generations to come. He would teach them how to carefully tend to the world that they would inherit. Their modest family was growing and they were very proud.

Meanwhile back in that far corner of heaven a group of children were huddled just off a field of rainbows. There stood Supplanter, Beloved, Savior and the eldest of the four children called Appointed. They were dreaming about what their lives would be like in the land among the living. The child called Supplanter, who always loved to wrestle, spoke of having a dozen great sons.  The one named Beloved who was the most accurate with a sling shot dreamed of ruling many nations and building a great house. The ambitious youngster called Savior said he would be “the light of the world,” he was a great storyteller and always seemed to have a special place in this far corner of heaven; but the one called Appointed only dreamed of being part of a loving family with lots of brothers and sisters; and it seemed to him he would never be called to birth. Until one night that man lay with his wife again; the burden of the woman’s heart had been lifted and her love began to flow again and a child was called from that spontaneous meeting just off the field of rainbows to be born and the mother named him Seth, for she said, “God has appointed me another child in place of Abel since Cain slew him.” The loving parents rejoiced once again, their story would start anew and their pain would be erased.

Now it is written in the book of generations “² He created them male and female and He blessed them and named them Man in the day they were created. ³ When Adam had lived to one hundred and thirty years, he became a father of a son in his own likeness according to his image and named him Seth. ⁴ Then the days of Adam after he became the father of Seth were eight hundred years, and he had other sons and daughters.” (Genesis 5:2-4)   And thus began the “new” story of Adam an Eve, only God can erase the pain and heartache of a family, renew the history of a couple and redeem our souls; but our admission to this fete is faith and patients.