Category Archives: Latin

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

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Fear…and other surly irascible shit…

 I have learned over the years that when one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear. ~Rosa Parks

See, here’s the thing…fear is a bitch in heels.

It’s the one intangible force that can stop any and everything it chooses, better whatever thing chooses it. For a while, I chose fear because it was easier to own that, than to own responsibility, obligation, moral validity, values, humanity, and any other adjectives that fits the synonymic phrase. I fancied myself for many years, a pretty brave girl—one would have to be to still dream when her dreams should’ve been deferred—but it turns out that I wasn’t as brave as I thought I was.

The lack of bravery came in the form of caution.

I wanted to be cautious not to overstep boundaries, not to do something that would rub the grain, because being raised in a household that celebrated realism and not romanticism that’s what I was told…well, at best, led to believe. There was a path that one followed; grow up, graduate high school, off to college—graduate, get a job in the majored field, find a respectable husband, get married, have kids, live stably.

That was the formula.

I didn’t follow it per se, but I put forth good effort.

And that was the rub.

At every turn I failed; sometimes miserably, sometimes successfully.

It wasn’t until recently that realized that I kept on with my recidivist-like antics because I wanted to, I sincerely wanted to swim with the current, but there was a part of me that just couldn’t.

It didn’t feel right.

It wasn’t who I was.

But, I didn’t act on the feeling, I acted on fear. Fear was what kept me trying to do what “they” said and trying to do what was “right” and “good” but it was to no avail.

The current called, I answered, and have been struggling to stay afloat every since…and I’m completely freaking happy.

As Ms. Parks, stated, “Once one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear, knowing what must be done does away with fear.” So true, Ms. Parks. So true.

There was a reason that reading made me happy, there was a reason that my English and Lit classes were my favorites and it had nothing to do with wanting to teach it.

It’s the reason that when I hear a new word, I get tingles.

It’s the reason that I listen to people’s conversations and hope to turn them into a story.

It’s the reason that people intrigue me, not in the wanting to be friends sort of way, in the you’d make a good character sort of way.

The reasons why I idolize, Tony Morrison, Jamaica Kincaid, Rochelle Alers, Brenda Jackson, Darrien Lee, Sylvia Plath, Ralph Ellison, Ernest Hemmingway, Zora Neale Hurston, Sandra Cisneros, to name just a few—there’s so many more—but it’s a reason for this, and the reason is, the written word. It’s sexy, it’s provocative, it’s erotic, it’s nurturing, it’s a feeling, it’s a untouchable emotion that only others like me could identify with, it’s the reasons, that I just couldn’t follow the rules.

And for the first time in…ever, I’m okay with that and I’m not afraid.

I’ve spent too much time wondering how the mentioned iconic authors spent their time before writing, while writing, after righting, and never once, NEVER ONCE, had I imagined that they spent it in fear. Perhaps there was a tinge of something that every author I’m sure gets when they send a new work out into creation, or perhaps there was a tinge of something before they were published wordsmiths, but I can’t imagine for a second it was fear. And if it was, then that’s the type of scared I’d like to be. That scared led to great stories, like The Bluest Eye, Girl, Sweet Dreams, Whispered Promises, Been There, Done That, The Bell Jar, The Invisible Man, The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber, Dust Tracks on a Road, and The Family of Little Feet. These author’s and stories have been published, sold, viewed, and reviewed by millions and yet that’s not the reason that I idolize them, or the reason that I have to be who I am,  it’s because these stories have stayed with me and I haven’t been able to leave them. They mélange of authors have published many more, but these stories made me want to be in the world they created.

In The Bluest Eye, I identified. I never wanted a baby doll for the sake of having a baby doll, I wanted one because apparently that’s what I was suppose to want. I envied the protagonist for having the courage to feel what she wanted and not what she thought she was supposed to.

In Sweet Dreams, I wanted to leave my thoughts/dreams in a journal, in a cab, and have someone pick them up and want me because of them…oh yeah and I completely immersed myself into learning the Garifuna language— like the heroine, oh and planning a trip to Belize. In Whispered Promises, I wanted my knight in shining armor to be gruff and tough but tender like the Hero. Too, I love the name Dexter and I can’t shake it.

In Been There, Done That, I wanted to believe that life gave you do overs even when in the first go ‘round you got it right. Because of Mrs. Lee, I do believe that.

The Bell Jar showed me the emotional inside of a young woman coming of age, when at the time of reading this tale, I was coming of age as well. My parables don’t compare to hers, but it was refreshing to have the ability to understand. Though Ms. Plath is no longer with us, I certainly appreciated the work.

The Invisible Man, made me laugh…wait before you judge me, I meant the first chapter of the book, known as the Battle Royal made me laugh. The reason being was because I felt like an idiot for having such an audacity to be afraid when there were people of yesteryear that looked like me that faced adversity far worse than “To write or not to write,” and there I was at the time deciding what type of career I wanted.

I chose wrong then, but thanks to the like of Girl, by Jamaica Kincaid, I’ve made the turnaround. In that short story/poem, it was there that I learned to be the woman that I was going to become, anyway.

In The Short Secret Life of Francis Macomber, I laughed as well, the stupidity of Mrs. Macomber and Francis was overwhelming, but the lesson was ridiculously great. I won’t bore you with what I learned, because Hemmingway is definitely a topic for debate. There are several things that you could take away from the tale and perhaps on another post, we’ll delve into it, but for now, you can think of what you’d like to say when I present the court with MY truths.

In Ms. Hurston’s, Dust Track on a Road, I was for the first time aware that I should be proud to be colored. Black. But not downtrodden because of it.  Not that I was ashamed or down before, but until that tale, I hadn’t fully embraced it, now, I’m too busy sharpening my oyster’s knife and I’m so very thankful for the idea brought to me care of this wonderful work.

And in The Family of Little Feet, I understood all too well what those high heels meant to the little women in the story and I identify all too well of just what those high heels propels us—women—to do in life. <That’ll be up for debate a little later.

So you see, these stories did something to me personally, touched something inside of me and hasn’t let go and that’s why I can’t, I can no longer allow fear to keep her herculean-like strong hold on me. I need with a vengeance that rivals the neediest to be in that number, not because of the success, not because of the fame, not because of the money, but because I have stories to tell, and I’m proud to say that I’m no longer afraid to open my mouth.

I now own the responsibility and obligation that I have to inform my little one and ones to come that it’s okay to do what you REALLY want to do.

I now have moral validity and values that life has given me, and with that, I’m able to relay to you real characters that are well aware of the human process…I hope.

Until then…

Vive Sine Paenitentia

Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

As for the other shit:

  1. What the hell is going on in the world…Lena Horne is dead? Seriously, these old cats are dying left and right…RIP Mrs. Horne, I absolutely adored your work and my favorite until this very day is “Stormy Weather” listened to it with my grandmother (RIP baby doll)

My favorite quote by Mrs. Horne: “It’s not the load that breaks you down, it’s the way you carry it.”

    2.    What the hell else is going on the world…Bus Driver’s letting kids duke it out in the yard of her house.  

            This whole earth is going to pot!

 

 

Ersatz Apathy…and other shit I did wrong!

The thing is…is that there are a lot of things that I just don’t give a damn about. Two examples of such would be:

How much your house costs?
How much your clothes costs?

In other words, superficiality isn’t one of my strongest points. I could wholeheartedly give a damn about what you have and how you got it. All I care about is if I want it and what I need to do to get it? I don’t covet my neighbors lives or things or ideas, I do however, want to know what made you this way? No, I’m not a Philosopher, Anthropologist, or Culturist for that matter, I fancy myself a Writer, but then, doesn’t half of the world? Whatever, that’s their shit. Unlike the halves that claim to be infected with the idea to create, I actually have the damned disease.

I can’t not write.

There’s not a day that goes by that I can’t create something via the written or spoken word. I have to tell a story aloud or via blinking cursor on a blank screen. I don’t know how to live without having the ability to create another world in which I chose to live. My entire adult life (thus far) has been plagued with a war in which my sane self has taken a complete drubbing. I feel often times very Janie May Crawford in Their Eyes Are Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston like, you know yearning to be free, but not sure how to get there and stumbling upon it, one mistake at a time. As a matter of fact, that aptly describes my adulthood. At my day job(s), I’m most of the time so unhappy because I find/found myself thinking that I shouldn’t be here, I should be writing. I closed off friendships because all writers know that idle time is our damn playground.

We live for that shit.

We love it.

More so, MORE SO, when we have a character, when we have an idea, it must get out. It most certainly cannot stay within the confines of our mind. There have been characters inside of me that have ruined my damned life. No, I don’t have schizophrenia, but seriously, sometimes there’s a story that just has to be told, and someone has just got to listen to it. And I refused outings; I refused to speak with anyone until they’ve heard what I had to say. I know, it’s a sickness, but didn’t I mention that I had it bad.

It’s not joke.

And it’s definitely more than just a notion.

I fought it. I fought it for years, thinking that as an only child, my imagination was just very over active and that, eventually I would just get over it. I feigned indifference when reading a book and coming up with the sequel to the damned thing before the author. Not in the literal sense, but I spent time, too much time, thinking of ways that someone else’s characters could live on forever. I wanted to give them another story, I gave them a family, I gave them kids, I gave them more hardships, and then one day I got mad.

I got angry stinking mad.

Why?

Well cool your boots, I’m getting there…I was angry because I spent time dreaming up things for someone else’s character and no time focusing on my own.

So, I started.

And then I couldn’t stop.
Today, here I sit with approximately eight and half (I’m still working on this last one) completed manuscripts (rough drafts), that have not been edited or shopped around, because up until about a paragraph ago, I never considered myself a writer. I was too afraid to.
Fear, that pretentious bitch, I won’t allow her to get to me again. But she had me for a while. A good long while too. I wanted and prayed to be normal, you know, the type that liked the nine-to-five gig, the type that didn’t have to sit up all night until the thought was complete, the type that didn’t see a person and wonder what his/her story was, and if you couldn’t figure it out, you’d make it up.

I didn’t want to be that type.

You know the type that is afraid to switch to android-like phones, because with her Blackberry she could open-up a word document and allow her thoughts to flow freely without having to ensure to push the right touch screen button. The type that in the wee hours of the morning and night had finally shut down her laptop but picked up said blackberry when in the bed because the short walk from the computer to the bed had offered her an idea of how this character must’ve felt when finally laying down for the night. No, sir or ma’am, I didn’t want to be the type.

Thus the faux apathy.

I tried to ignore it, I tried to fight it, but I knew I couldn’t. Because while working on some important project or another within in my “Day Job” I knew that the feeling of hate that I had towards said project or another wasn’t normal. But what was normal, what felt right, what felt real was the honesty in which I knew to be a truth that nothing in this world could shake and that is…I’m a damned writer. LITERALLY!

Damned you ask?

Yes, damned. Damned, because with this comes a great responsibility and granted I’ve kicked fear’s ass to the curb, I have yet to have conquered anxiety, thus the finished unrevised, unedited, unshopped manuscripts. Baby steps is what I’m taking. I’ve made a vow to go back and start the revision process and the goal is to by the end of the summer to look for a literary agent that believes in my work just as much as I do, for now however, I’ll blog. I’ll let you all find pleasure and humor in my misery and I’ll be okay with that for the time being…unless you’d like to share yours. As you know, we all love a good story and I’d love to know that I’m not the only one out here that feels that way. Please…say, “It ain’t so!”

Cheers!

Res Ipsa Loquitur
~Uncaught Recidivist

Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome…and other fickle shit!

  DISCLAIMER: I AM NOT A DAMNED DOCTOR; HOWEVER, I DID STAY AT A HOLIDAY INN ONCE!

First, let’s start with a definitive definition of what Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome is; according to the ever so rusty trusty WebMD, Polycystic ovary syndrome (say “pah-lee-SIS-tik OH-vuh-ree SIN-drohm”) is a problem in which a woman’s hormones are out of balance. It can cause problems with your periods and make it difficult to get pregnant. PCOS may also cause unwanted changes in the way you look. If it is not treated, over time it can lead to serious health problems, such as diabetes and heart disease.

Now let me tell you my interpretation of the above mentioned and what I heard when I was diagnosed:

“Blah, Blah, Blah, Kid, you’re screwed.”

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Yup, that sums it up rather nicely!

With this disorder, there are so many things malfunctioning that eventually you just start thinking everything is a part of it. Some of that may be true and some of it may not be. I choose the former. I’m inclined to believe—though not medically so—that with a lot of the things that have happened to me health-wise, from the balding of my head, to the hair growing in places that sugar shouldn’t be extracting—NOTE: CYSTERS WITH PCOS DO TRY THE SUGARING PROCESS IT F’N ROCKS!—that this syndrome/ disorder/disease/pain-in-the-ass-and-ovaries, is out to get me, better, the women that have this disease are out to get me. I have read a lot of blogs, twitter comments, naturalist, herbalist, faux dieticians, advice from other women afflicted with this disorder, give their own perspective of what the “fix” is for this wonderful disorder. Well, take a look at what our rusty trust WebMD has said about that: Regular exercise, a healthy diet, not smoking, and weight control are all important parts of treatment for PCOS. Sometimes, also using a medicine to balance hormones is helpful. There is no cure for PCOS, but controlling it lowers your PCOS risks of infertility, miscarriages, diabetes, heart disease, and uterine cancer.

 Now let me tell you my interpretation of the previously mentioned and what I heard when I asked the question to my doctor about what I needed to do to get rid of this shit, or in more intellectual terms, “Doctor, what’s the cure for this?” This is what I read and heard:

“Blah, Blah, Blah, Kid, you need to get healthy, and if you don’t you’re screwed.”

Yup, that sums it up rather nicely!

I wouldn’t dare sit on a throne of apathy and pooh-pooh others that are trying to help us all out, because Lord knows we need it. However, my gripe and reason for this post is, A., let’s keep it real, what’s your day job? If it’s Doctor—more specifically endocrinologist—by all means spread the word about PCOS and all that you can do for it, for us. Please, dear God, explain and help us all, but if you’re not…know your place. I’ve read so many things leading women, especially the younger ones, astray. When basically, if we all put to use our college educations, or even our high school educations, hell, our grade school educations, we can all read in between the lines of what this disorder is and how we cope with it. And, plain and simply put, as I mentioned, I’m no doctor nor is this what I’m reccommending to you, this is “What has worked for me” having said that, I feel getting healthy, a little prayer doesn’t hurt—if you believe in that—and listening to what YOUR SPECIFIC DOCTOR HAS TOLD YOU, goes a long friggin way! My next point for this post is that, B. if you have found something that works well for you, then woopedew for you! And, please again, by all means, spread the word! Let us all know, maybe it’s something that we can try, but let’s not forget that there is NO CURE (yet) for this, and that this disease/syndrome/disorder/pain-in-the-ass-and-ovaries, can vary from woman to woman and as with life and the female species in general, no two women/females are the same.

I’m just keeping it real.

Don’t spread the propaganda of being a guru of all things Polycystic related. It’s quite irresponsible, especially to the little cysters out there that are searching blindly for the light at the end of the tunnel, when unfortunately we older cysters know that there may not be one. I, am by no means a pessimist, and I want to believe in the greater good of everything, and I choose to believe in the greater good of this disease, like forcing women to live a healthier lifestyle, but sometimes a spade is just a spade. Why have we, the chosen ones, been afflicted with this disease, I do not know, but if you feel it in your heart to spread the word about it, then be responsible. Thus, the disclaimer at the beginning of this blog. Again, I won’t proselytize, because a newly diagnosed Uncaught Recidivist wanted to spread the word of this ailing bastard of a disease and I may have even handed out unsolicited advice. But when I actually did the research, listened to what my doctor was saying to me, and joined one of many support groups, (check them out ASAP any of them, they’ll help with the mental stuff that having this disorder plagues us with) I kicked my booted foot slightly on the high horse’s side in which I sat upon bravely, as if I had the answers to all, slowed him down, and got off. I decided that I would no longer go that route, because it was, as stated, irresponsible. Every case, point, and diagnosis is different. I still hold these truths to be self evident, if asked about a certain anything; I always disclaim the “what has worked for me” (see above) and then go on with my answer. I’m sure any one of us older cysters out there are well aware to do this, but if you’re not, then here’s my gift to you.

You’re welcome.2e82118de6fb7fb5e3b6c3263d4866b4

It’s important to know that while research is being conducted every day, people are newly diagnosed every day, and hearts are being broken every single damned day, those of us who have been properly diagnose should carry a responsibility around to make certain to hand out correct information. I would’ve given anything to have a cyster sit me down, real nice-like, and say:

“Kid, what we have is bear, but it’s not the end of the world. Grab your razor; you’re going to need. Join a gym; you’re going to need it. Find a whole-foods; you’re going to need it. Find aREGISTERED dietician or nutritionist; you’re going to need it, and think positive, because YOU ARE GOING TO NEED TO. But most importantly, honey, it’s not the end of the world.”

Yeah, that would’ve been nice to hear. It would’ve been real, it would’ve been honest, and it would’ve saved me the hunt around the internet and countless conversations with women that were just as lost as I was and more importantly, MORE IMPORTANTLY, I wouldn’t have felt like it was the end of the damn world.

BECAUSE IT’S REALLY NOT!

PCOS is hard work, it’s heartbreaking, it’s a pain in several different parts of a woman’s anatomy but it’s not the end of the world. So cysters, get to work…be responsible and good luck with everything we have to face. I love you; in-spite of what may have seemed a harsh reprimand. I just had enough when I read a blog stating that the “cure” for PCOS was losing weight in general. That ain’t the damned cure, that’s part of the treatment. GIVE ME A FREAKING BREAK! AND OH YEAH, IRRESPONSIBLE BLOGGER, NOT ALL PCOS CYSTERS ARE OVERWEIGHT; THERE ARE SOME SKINNY WOMEN OUT THERE WITH THE DISORDER! (Kinda pissed that I’m not one of them..oh well.)

My gripe is done now. Gotta go pluck these strays! *Dips head, purse lips, blinks eyes, with an ethincity defining neck roll, as if to agree* You know what I’m saying.

Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist

Oh yeah as for the other fickle shit…what’s up with Mrs. Chancellor dying on the Young and the Restless? I thought for sure my great-grandmother would be well deceased before her, my great-grandmother is completely out of her mind; as well, she should be, because she’s in her late nineties, but her ass is still around. Anyhoo, RIP CATHERINE CHANCELLOR. I think now, they can cancel the Young and the Restless…is it still on anyway?

Vivi Sine Paenitentia

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Righting Wrongs You Can’t Undo…and other hyperboles

  this is how you set a table for dinner; this is how you set a table for dinner with an important guest; this is how you set a table for lunch; this is how you set a table for breakfast; this is how to behave in the presence of men who don’t know you very well, and this way they won’t recognize immediately the slut I have warned you against becoming; be sure to wash every day, even if it is with your own spit; don’t squat down to play marbles—you are not a boy, you know— don’t pick people’s flowers, you might catch something; don’t throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all…

Girl, Jamaica Kincaid

Like the little girl in this poem/story, I was warned. I was warned of a lot of things. I was told not to do a lot of things, and I listened to most of them. Most of them I didn’t. I have suffered the consequences of my actions, and I blame not a soul because of it. However, I’m learning in this process of…growth (I guess we’ll call it that) is that though you’re in a new space, in a new vibe, in a new feel, the person(s) that you wronged, or didn’t help, or lied to, or didn’t believe, or didn’t want, or didn’t love, may not be there and you simply can’t right that wrong. Even if it was a wrong you’ve done to yourself. Most of the time people that want to gloss over facts, rearrange history, make themselves feel, better tend to not want to hash up the past. Well, that’s exactly what I want to do, I’d like to go back and tell the old me that I’m sorry, I’d like to tell some of you that I’ve hurt, inadvertently and advertently, that I’m sorry and I’d like to fix a few hearts that I somehow managed to break, but I can’t. However, if my world was perfect, if my life was perfect, if things were just, I’d start off by saying the following:

 

Dear_______,

I apologize for leading you to believe something that wasn’t true. I apologize for leaving you when you needed me the most, I apologize for not understanding you, I apologize that I really don’t mean any of  this.

 

You heard me.

I don’t believe any of it.

To go back and right a wrong means that you get to rearrange history, and I know we’ve all seen the movies or cartoons or stories what-have-you about changing one minor fact and it possible rearranging your whole life.

I believe that to be true!

I believe that every heart I broke, every person that I hurt, and every person that has hurt me and broken my heart has helped shaped me into the character that I’ll become. And like the girl that Ms. Kincaid so avidly illustrated, I’m inclined to believe that there was a good part of the “Warner” that knew she (the girl) would do the things warned against and while I don’t have literary proof, I’m willing to bet it made her a pretty special little lady…I’d bet the farm, and so, I choose, with all of my might to dismiss all warnings now, and just be.  The ones that I thought I listened to, I now renounce them and the ones that I know I didn’t listen to, I’m thankful. And I am forever grateful and you should be too! I’m so damned excited to get to this next chapter in my life that I don’t know what to do, because as a hopeful fiction and romance “penista” (Yeah, damn it, that’s a word…MY word. DON’T steal it) I’m conditioned to believe in happily ever-after endings and once upon a time beginnings. The first chapter of my tale started out perfect. There was drama, lust, lies, deception, peace, good sex, bad sex, all the stuff that Mrs. Ellis, my 9th grade English Teacher, said made for good foreshadowing. And I gotta say, I can’t wait to see what’s next. Stay tuned…

 

Vive sine paenitentia!

 Res Ipsa Loquitur

~Uncaught Recidivist