Category Archives: Honesty

I MISS HIM DAMN IT!

Writing use to make things easier…today it doesn’t.

I’m reminded of all of the things he and I won’t get to experience and I remember all of the things that we did. It was tough being his daughter, but it was a privilege that I’ll never forget and a want that I’d love to experience again. I know he’s in heaven, and yes, that’s where he is, although he gave us and the world all sorts of hell, and that in spite of him not being physically here, I’m still his daughter. I just wish that I could physically see him and have him tell me. His last words were that he loved me—words that will never mean the same coming from anyone else. I’ll appreciate them from anyone and I’ll believe them from everyone, but the meaning that his last words to me meant…well, it just won’t compare. He spent his life saving others. I spent my life admiring him, sometimes resenting him, for reasons unknown, but I also spent my life appreciating him and loving him more than I ever knew. I miss him, I’m mad as hell that he’s gone. I knew he would leave, had time to prepare, but he was the strongest man on earth…I never believed that he would leave.

He left.

He was supposed to stick around, but he left— I believe of his own freewill because he’d suffered quite enough. This, this, does not erase the pain, this does not bring on a restful night’s sleep, this does not stop the tears from flowing as a type this…but it’s a start.

 

I love you, Pop. Rest well my dear…protect me.

~ Boo

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FEAR

Fear

Knotted stomach,
        Wearied heart
Aching head,
        Sore parts
Delayed mornings,
        Passionless beginnings,
Sleepless nights,
        Dreadful endings.

                                                       Fear.

Evolving. Revolving. (Happy Birthday, Baby)

I’m writing in an opened space.

Feels good.

I got the clarity that I was seeking; the moment that I so strongly wanted all last week, and so much more. I was afforded the thoughts that were jumbled or willed away by the happenings of life.

Here goes:

Today my little baby is a whopping sixteen-years-old.Babe Little

The thought of this seems weird. At 10:16 tonight, it’ll be more than a notion.

I was just holding her on my hip.

Hell, I was just carrying in her my womb.

I was just taking her off to her first day of school.

I just bought her Junior Debutante dress.

I was just explaining the intricacies of being a female and all the weight that, that carries.

And now, my little, semi-sweet, chocolate, pudding is suddenly at the age where independence is hers for the taking.

Life will seem grand through her newly freed eyes. She’ll enjoy it on levels that mommy no longer will be able to supply.

That frightens me.

That makes me happy.

It was during the sixteenth year of my own life, when she came to existence and I pray, preach, and scream for her not to have to write this same post at thirty-two-years old.

Though now, I can count her as a blessing because having another child is nearly medically impossible for me, but who knows things could happen…but it won’t bother me any if they don’t. Because of her early presence in my life, I was afforded something that many women with my disorder won’t be. I got to experience childbirth.

Then it didn’t seem all that fantastic.

Now, I’m thankful.

Happy Birthday, Sweetheart!

 

Babe 16My pretty, little, darling, will be off to college soon and I’ll be—for the first time—an uninhibited woman free to do the things that being a young mother hadn’t afforded me to do. You know the stuff like just up and moving when I please, kind of just do whatever the heck I want to do without being considerate of someone else’s feelings.

I don’t think any mom can do that…so I digress, but at least I’ll get the chance to live alone.

The thought? At one time sexy to me.

Now? It’s scary.

I’ve lived my life for her and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

She is my everything. EVERYTHING.

The reason to breathe, the reason to love, the reason to believe, the reason to keep going…when I’ve wanted to stop.

I miss her already.

I want to hold her tight and not allow her the freedoms that she deserves.

I want to protect her from the world that she’ll now see through new eyes.

I want to keep her the little baby that held on to me for dear life when strangers were around.

I want to keep her the little one that said, “Don’t worry, mommy. We’ll be okay, huh?” with bright-eyed optimism that said I could and would fix everything for her with just a simple band-aid.

I want to protect her from the heartbreak she’ll experience.

I want to protect her from the failures that she’ll take personally.

I want to protect her from the mistakes that she’ll make and more importantly, I’d like to protect her from herself.

She’s wonderful, adventurous and has no care in the world about being herself.

She calls herself the Black-Hippie. Which, yes. All complete yes.

She’s awesome, dope.

And really, those of us born in the 80s know that being dope is a very important part of life.

She’s dope.

But, that’s scary to a mom that wants her to be the same little one that thought that a band-aid could fix everything.

I’ll have to let go.

I don’t like this idea.

I’ll adhere to the rules.

She’ll be off to live her own life very soon and I’ll have to begin…again.

Yeah, I miss her.

 Evolving. Revolving.

Happy Birthday, Baby.

I love you, lights out!

XO

~Mommy

My Funny Valentine…and other shit that hurt

So, today is a day of love, of wonderfulness, of kindness, of sexy thoughts and naughty parts, and I’m here for it. Every drop of it. However, I’d be remiss if I didn’t take the time to jot this down; the time to allow my present self to chastise my former self…and to also be thankful for her as well. There are a few posts here about a guy that I spent too many years of my youth (listen, my early youth, because I’m still young. Thank you kindly. Shit.*stares at you and dares you to refute*) and there’s a lot about him in those post that don’t necessarily paint him in a good light. Trust me it was well deserved. Okay, okay, it wasn’t all bad. The times that I didn’t spend crying, or angry, or pissed, or worn, or battle weary, I spent laughing, smiling…loving him. I’m not angry that it happened; I’m angry at how everything happened. It was hard losing a best-friend, a lover, a partner, a confidant, just…a what was once a wonderful human being, but I’m thankful that I opened my eyes and saw what really needed to happen. The first year, (three years ago) after our break up on a day like today, I thought that I’d never laugh, smile, even love again because I was a woman scorned. I was hurt, I was angry, and I felt foolish. Foolish? Yes, foolish. Why? Because I, from a family of WELL educated African-American, strong, independent (yet dependent when warranted) women, raised by a father that said take no shit and give lots of hell, had succumbed to what amounted to an unhealthy relationship. There was no violence, (that I’ll admit to now, because…well, I want you to come back and read more whenever I decide to open my heart up and write part three or four –I can’t remember and I ain’t going back to fact check, so shut up—of the saga of that crazy relationship in which I speak.)  (I was going to type “speak of” right there, but the prepositional ending got me, so I changed it. You’re welcome, critics.) There was no mental abuse, none of that stuff (or was it…stay tuned. o_O) Anyway, the point is it wasn’t all gravy and I should’ve known better. I was warned, I’d been told, I’d even given advice to friends and some family members to stay away from the exact situation I was in, but I didn’t listen to myself or anyone else.  So, yeah, on days like today, three years ago, I was puke-gut sick. Like for real y’all, sick. Sick, because I reminisced about all of the good dudes that I had maybe passed up to stay with this one guy that deep down in the pit of my spirit I knew was never any good for me, but for whatever stupid reason that I may have had, I stayed. I was sick because I remembered on days like today, what I wanted to remember. I remembered the flowers he brought me, the candy he brought, the envious and jealous looks that I received from co-workers, the wowed eyes that I got from the students in my class, the jittery feeling that I got when I knew those roses, those candies, those cards were from me, and they expressed how he felt. I didn’t remember the next night sending silly messages of “Where are you?” I didn’t remember calling too many times, never getting an answer, but listening to that stupid voice message over and over and each time getting excited that this might be the time that he might pick up and tell me the current lie of the day.. I didn’t remember feeling puke-gut sick when I found out that those cards, those roses, those candies, those sexy pieces of lingerie were all just tangible items that held me over until the next heart break and brake. But on today, three-years-later, as I prepare to have a wonderful evening—something that I never thought I’d be able to do, because as stated, I was battle wearied, I was hurt, broken, confused, angry—I’m glad to remember it all. The good, the bad, the worst, because without it, I wouldn’t know how to be thankful, I wouldn’t know what a real relationship was, and I wouldn’t have had fodder for my soul. Damn the chicken soup.

 

The point, ladies and gentlemen, is that no matter how bleak it looks right now, no matter how bad being alone (if you’re alone) right now may hurt (what you think hurts), absorb this feeling. Enjoy it; be thankful for it, because there’s a lesson there somewhere. There’s a story there somewhere, there’s a reason there somewhere. Instead of crying or being angry, or wondering…just try figuring it out…or you know, don’t. What the hell do I know, I’m just out here tryna make money to feed muh daughta, it’s all good baebe babaee (RIP Biggie Smalls…you hip hop heads will get that that, for the rest of you, who the hell cares?) Anyway, if no one else has said this to you today, then let me be the first. I love you and I mean it…you know as much as I can without knowing who the hell you are. Whatever to your faces! 🙂

 

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Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

 

As for the other shit that hurt. Y’all, I’ve got a brand new pair of Spanx and I promise you nothing has ever been more uncomfortable (sans childbirth) but damn it, I’m kicking ass in this shape hugging dress. Suck it universe and society that are trying to make me lose weight. No way. No way! I laugh at you, because these Spanx are doing the trick. Never mind I can feel all of this chubby pushing against my bladder. Never mind it, I say!

 Note: I legit didn’t edit this, this time, becuase I’m fixinta go *virginia drawl*. I mean, I caught what I could, but I didn’t go back and proof, so if there’s something out of place, grammatically incorrect, or misspelled… keep it to your damned self, you judgemental shrews. No, seriously, though, I love you. Really. Whateves.

 

 

 

Enough

I waited for a while

Nothing happened.

I listened for a while

Nothing happened.

I hoped for a while

Nothing happened.

I prayed for a while

Nothing happened.

I still believe

Nothing happened.

I’m tired

Nothing happened.

I’m fed up, I’ve had enough

Something happened.

And that’ll be enough.

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

Seriously Detrimental…and Other Flippant Shit

So, here’s the thing…this year I’m making NO resolutions. Why?  ‘Cause every time I-do, I break ’em. (Read that in southern and you’ll laugh)

i.e. I tried to psych myself out and  make an end of the year resolution that would just carry over to this year, it was fairly easy, one that said I would blog every day. Totally attempted to for three days. Went strong. Rocked. Day four? It all went to pot. Not the drugs, stupid. That’s a saying from the ultra southern (read country) women in my family.

So yeah, no resolutions. Why? Because I’m tired of lying to myself and I’m tired of silly internal failures.

I take those things to heart.

This year, I win life. No resolutions. No failures.

Only took me thirty-two years but I got it. Got it good, too. And with no hands. Damn right, I did. Thanks. (Insert sassy head nod and long eye-blink)

Digression

I get the whole new-skin of it. New year. New chances. Different outcomes. Etcetera, Etcetera.

Sidebar: Listen, was that a little pretentious of me to spell it out? Yes. Who cares.

Anyhoooo, like I said I get it. I get that we all revel in the chance to start over, but here’s the thing, do we really ever start over? Do we really ever completely begin again? You know, brand spanking new? I do NOT think so. Unless one of you bastards have crawled back into the uterus and demanded a do over, let’s move along. So yeah, no, no starting over. We can try again, yes. We’re always welcomed to try again, give it another shot, whatever “it” may be. And I will, I will continue to try until there’s no tries left.

i.e. If like I’m on world 8-4 or 8 and that’s the last world in the game (read life) and Jesus is all like, “Well, you didn’t slay the dragon, so you’re done now.” (Read that in a sanctimonious Jesus voice and you’ll laugh and get it) then I guess all my tries are over. I imagine I’ll be okay with that. But then, satisfied is something that I’m no longer willing to be or accept so I also imagine that there will be some sort of Jesus-Me debate…not saying that I’m going to win, but like for real, I think I could give it a good go. Is this sacrilegious, smite-worthy, and/or blasphemous? Yes. You sure? Yikes. *commences to rectify*

Side bar: Jesus, listen, I’m a writer, I’m colorful. No harm, no foul. K? Thanks…oh yeah and Amen. *looks around for determined lightening rods”

Digression.

No resolutions was what we were talking about, right? Yes. Good.

So yeah, no resolutions, only a very resolute promise to myself to continue to try. After all, that’s all we can ever do…right? (I think you get it.)

Happy New Year!

 thCA7PH73W

 

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

Note: Refer to the unedited part of this blog.

Note again: Soon I’ll stop giving a damn and let you correct me all willy nilly, you pretentious, good spelling, grammar having, no-editor-needing, no-proofreader-needing, snobs.

Note again, again: And I’ll still love you just the same.  

 

Teen Pregnancy and Other Stuff I’m Thankful For…

Tonight I’m heading to the Battle of the Bands between the high school that my kid attends and the high school that I attended…ironically enough, she also attended this school.

In a much different capacity.

Much different.

 

During the fall of 1997, curiosity in all its splendid glory, literally killed the cat (pun intended).

I had sex.

During the spring of 1998 I had a daughter.

During the summer of 1998 I turned 17.

Yeah, go ahead do the math (add ‘em up).

 So, yeah, she was at school with me…not everyday silly, but I marched in the band that they’re (my kid’s school) battling against this year. My mother was the PTA President and the Band Booster President, very active in school, and even though, her daughter, who played sports, instruments (yeah plural) in all bands, and was a pretty good student got pregnant in the 11th grade, she didn’t hide her face. She wouldn’t let me hide mine either, or my baby for that matter, which meant, at the PTA meetings my babe was up there by mother and during the band competitions much like the one tonight, she (my babe) was decked out in Green and Gold garb, beside my mom and the rest of my family cheering her mother on. I’m not ashamed. I’m not very proud of the ill-thought out decision (my kid isn’t a mistake, her mother didn’t make the best decisions at the time), but I’m not ashamed. Around about now, she’s looking like a blessing, because the sheer fact that she’s even here, is a miracle in and of it’s self. I  have PCOS and tried several times to actually get pregnant.

The feat? Undoable.

So no, I’m not ashamed. At all.

 

Digression.

 

As mentioned in previous blogs, I’m one of the few fortunate ones to have had a support system that allowed me to finish school, go off (out of state) to college, complete undergrad and post grad studies, and you know, just live like I was normal.

I spent a lot of time aware that I wasn’t. I left my kid with my parents for two years, (but she may as well have not been left, because during marching band season (see previous blogs, etc., blah) my mother was there every weekend with my kid routing me on, like she always did. When the season was over, (when I wasn’t off somewhere being even faster than what I was (see previous blogs)) I was home being a mom. In-spite of those things, I didn’t miss out on much, my life is comparable now, to that of any thirty-two-year-old woman.

The exception? My FIFTEEN-year-old daughter.

 

Digression

 

Tonight, I’ll be heading back into that same gym, where my spat covered feet marched, where I played basketball, where my senior convocation was held, where I watched one boyfriend or another wrestle, where my friends and I laughed and played during Gym class, where life seemed sooo much different then it is now…and my soul can’t help but to look back and wonder how I got over.

 

Not too many teen moms make it to the point that I am in, in life. I’ve been afforded luxuries that they don’t get. You know, post high school education, other luxuries in life that have afforded me at the age of 32 to buy my newly, Learner’s Permitted Daughter a car, that ain’t (that’s right, you heard me) run-down (or in the words of 80’s babies, a hoo-ride or a hoopty), live in a nice home, in a nice neighborhood, and have a little money in my pocket to be able to switch careers to do what the dream is. In-spite of the humongous mess my life could’ve been, it’s turned out pretty great. And tonight, as I step in the gym, I’ll be even more thankful to the woman that will be sitting next to me, routing on that same baby that once sat next to her, routing me on.

 

Thanks, MOM! I love you and I appreciate and am thankful for you and my kid, more than either of you could ever know!

 

 

 

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

 

Note: Refer to the unedited part of the tagline to this blog.

 

 

Accommodating (Mine Are)

Mine are waiting.
Where are you going?
Mine are welcoming.
Won’t you come in?
Mine are soft.
You know that quite well.
Mine are thick?
Never ever to thin.
Mine are warm.
I’ll provide you heat.
Mine are always opened.
…where could you be?

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

Soundtrack

Soo…is it weird that my manuscripts have soundtracks? No. I didn’t think so, because I know for certain that I’m not the only writer (published or nearly-published) that has these. (Insert sassy neck and eye roll) Thank you.

Today there’s no sexy pieces to relay because I’m not feeling very, you know, passionate, and after last night’s stink of a disaster into the foray of trying to express exactly what the hell I wanted to say, on the blank screen, that sat in front of me, teasing and taunting; I found myself wondering if the feelings that I had after, you know, not being able to write, were normal? I posed the query to twitter and a good writer-friend and newly published author of Goddess of Legend, Ms. Erin Ashley Tanner, answered with something that made me laugh and feel tons better about the mood and malady that had encroached upon my being.

Felt tons better.

Anyway.

Her response (see them here @erintheauthor or @licitrecidivist) lead to the aforementioned questions, book/writing soundtracks or playlists, do you have them?

Every manuscript that I have ever written (accepted and rejected) has a soundtrack…not because I plan on encompassing them into my marketing plan or the like (but hey, if there’s a sell there, then I’ll encompass my ass off), but because they absolutely help.

There are days when I’m in an extremely delightful mood and my story causes for sorrow, and no matter how hard I’ve genuinely tried to get to that sorrowful state, because yes, I have to be there, I have to become the hero or the heroine and experience the pain that I’m trying to relay, sometimes there’s even tears, I can’t get there by just wanting to. (long sentence, whatever, I’ll refer you to the unedited part of this blog’s tag line, thanks (more sassy next rolling and such))  

Don’t judge.

The reason? I feel like if I’m crying then at that point in the tale, my (potential) readers should be too.

Salient, indeed.

There are also days that I’m feeling a little down, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t buck up,  and I really need to because at that point in my tale, my hero or heroine is about to experience overwhelming joy. And, I have to be there, I have to experience that joy that I’m trying to relay, sometimes there are even tears—happy tears in this case—and I can’t get there by just wanting to.

Don’t judge.

The reason? If I’m overwhelmed with joy by just writing these words, and if I can feel what the hero or heroine is feeling at this point, then my (potential) readers should be able to too.

Salient, indeed.  

There are times as well, when I’m feeling anything but sexy. Yes, you guessed it, I’m at that in the story where there’s some sexy time coming up, and damn right, I’ve got to be there too. I’ve got to feel what my characters are feeling and I can’t get there by just you know…wanting to.

Don’t judge.

The reason? If I’m pressing my thighs together, panting slightly, flushed, and my nipples are a tad puckered…then I sure hope like hell my (potential) readers are feeling some of the same things.

Salient, indeed.

All of that to say, I have help with getting there and it comes in the form of music for most of this, the last one (feeling sexy and such) well, there’s a little outside help there, but that’s a blog for another time.

The point? 

Music, music helps with a lot.

As mentioned in previous blogs, when I went off to college, I majored in Music Education and was there on a music scholarship, all of this before realizing that yes, I love music, but it wasn’t what I wanted to do, not professionally anyway. Anyhoo, during the two years of undergraduate course work in Music Education, which basically if you’ve taken these two years, you’re pretty grounded and rounded in the field, not to say that you don’t need the last two and half to make your professional studies complete, it’s just that, with these basics, you’re good to go.

Digression.

During that time, I was afforded the opportunity to learn about different styles, genres, etc, and how they affected and effected the soul. All that I learned is true. It does and it can change you, and I’m thankful for that experience because knowing that, knowing that all I had to do was pop in a CD, plug up the iPad/iPod or what have you and tune to a piece that’ll change my psyche has helped tremendously in my writing.

Why?

Because when I’m delightful and I need to cry, (especially if it’s a scene of reminiscing about a bastard that’s broken my heroine’s heart) I can pop in Melanie Fiona’s And It Kills Me or Monica’s Ring The Bell and get those tears flowing, not because the songs actually makes me cry, but those song take me back to a place where I’ve been, and that place makes me cry.

Why?

Because when I’m feeling a little down and need to buck up, I can queue Beyonce’s Get Me Bodied, or Check Up On it, Brandy’s Sitting on Top of The World, Biggie’s Hypnotize (don’t ask why these songs make me happy, but they do, I guess it’s because they’re all fun) or Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines, and then suddenly, I’m up dancing and feeling loads better than before.

Why?

Because when I’m feeling not so sexy, I can pop in, Bed, by J-Holiday, Tamia’s, Can’t Get Enough, Trey Songz’, Neighbors Know My Name, Wale Feat. Juicy J and Nicki Minaj, Clappers (Don’t ask), and the next thing you know, I’m seat-dancing and having sexy thoughts. Lots of sexy thoughts.

All of that explaining and such, because I wanted to know what your soundtrack is, if you have one (because I think it’s dope if you do, definitely leave it below in the comments or tweet me), and if you could tell from mine (see below) what my story is about….just curiosity and also fulfilling my pre-new year’s resolution of blogging everyday. Also, I think that with each new project, I’m going to post what I’m listening to.

*shrugs*

Now Playing:

1. Alicia Keys – Girl on Fire

2. Beyonce – Best Thing I Never Had

3. India Arie – Brown Skin

4. Neyo – Can We Chill

5. Jay-Z – Encore

6. Beyonce – Get Me Bodied

7. Gyptian – Hold Yuh

8. Ryan Leslie – How It Was Supposed To Be

9. J. Holiday – Bed

10. Rihanna Ft. Drake – What’s My Name

11. Nat King Cole – When I Fall in Love

12. Rihanna Ft. Mikky Ekko – Stay

13. Toni Braxton – He Wasn’t Man Enough For Me

14. Nelly Ft. Avery Storm – In My Life

15. Justin Timberlake – Mirrors

16. Tamar Braxton – Love and War

17. Kelly Rowland – Motivation

18. Ryan Leslie – My Addiction

19. Ludarcris Ft. Diamond, Trina, and Eve) – My Chick Bad (Remix)

20. Wale Ft. Chris Brown and Fabolous – Pretty Girls (Remix)

21. Brandy Ft. Chris Brown – Put It Down

22. Southern University Human Juke Box –  V.S.O.P. by K. Michelle, arrangement

23. Beyonce – That’s How You Like It

24. Morgan State University Magnificent Marching Machine – Do it

25. Elizabeth City State University Marching Sound of Class – Couple of Forevers by Chrisette Michele, arrangement

26. Elizabeth City State University Marching Sound of Class – War (Vikings’ Version)

27. Elizabeth City State University Marching Sound of Class – Love and War by Tamar Braxton, arrangement

28. Tinie Tempah Ft. Emeli Sande – Let Go

29. Tinie Tempah Ft. Kelly Rowland – Invincible

30. Wale Ft. Tiara Thomas – Bad

I totally wanted to link the YouTube versions of these songs, but I promise you that I don’t feel like it, so just look them up yourself, if you have a chance. Anyhoo, so tell me whatcha think?

Vive Sine Paenitentia

   Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist

Ready

Ready.

Parted.

Awaiting.

Quivering.

Elated.

Anxious.

                 Entered.

Complete.

Sated.

Vive Sine Paenitentia

   Res Ipsa Loquitur.
~Uncaught Recidivist