“I don’t know what it is with females, but I’m not too good at that shyt…” – Kanye West
So much inspiration within the boredom of pain. Or is that the pain of boredom? I really dislike when I over think one of my own tidbits of insight. Anywho…
Been a couple of trying weeks for the birdbrain of the Asylum. From haggling clients to low wage publishing contracts, still wrestling at the hospital silently for my mother’s health, and I suppose lonely nights are beginning to take their toll on my work ethic. According to two ex-girlfriends, who shall remain nameless for the time being(“being” is a subset of time whereby any disturbance in the ego causes an eruption and…being occurs. It is like the big bang theory of setting your exes out…), if my relationships were superheroes they would be dubbed “Quicksand” or “Burning Building.” [Sure, that did wonders for that aforementioned ego, right? Can you imagine what it did for my rule about not dating white women?] But, I give credence to the context by which these ideas grew. Although, no man should ever accept “quick” or “burning” as adjectives referencing anything sexual, yet with regard to my most previous relationships, I understand the full metaphor, although a bit dramatic, and faithless is definitely an undertone. Certainly not the two to call when the support network called Asylum Staff needs to hold a rally.
Nonetheless, I do understand.
I am the first to admit, I’ve got some real life concerns. “Life” meaning “money.” “Concern” meaning “need a whole lot.” Which, in Owlthink, is like saying there are too many referees on the field. I’ve got the nice guy thing going, multiply that with the criminal background thing, add high level of petulance and a disdain for being placed in limbo on any topic and you have a situation whereby a woman wants to deal with me, but the referees are definitely in her ear. 76 flags on the play. Every play.
And I suppose I could actually do the limbo thing. “Limbo” in owlthink is any condition of open ended emotional/sexual sacrifice without a deadline or commitment. It is the unsaid obligation that really isn’t even an obligation. It is not tacit, it is not quite the agreed or felt. It is the trick bag of all trick bags. An exercise of emotional control gone awry. This is beyond the oft noted “cuddy buddy” or “friends with benefits” routine. This is where you think there is a romantic engagement, but really, there is just ritual.
And indeed, many of the brothers I’ve dealt with would love to have this situation of strings that aren’t there, but seem to be. Unfortunately, for me, I don’t have 50% off dick days in Asylum. You either get the whole schlong, or nothing at all. I don’t play mutt. You are either about to get dog walked through an alley to the point of having to call your sister’s husband or your brothers over, or we are going to actually attempt to be civilized adults in a committed relationship.
There is nothing worse to me than two people that can’t seem to come to a resolution, and no, us ‘just fucking’ is not a resolution. It is an immature response to the fear of heartbreak and the need for affection shrouded in the US individualistic love of confusing ‘over-consumption’ with ‘freedom’. Or even worse, the confounding of those that fear taking risks but label it being cautious or wise.
That all being said, I’m at peace with my Self whether I’m escaping this quicksand or running out of burning buildings. Ultimately, I can handle my arc on the cipher, the build. Frankly, let’s be honest, if I can still get your attention without the flash in a world full of bright lies and hidden pities, I deserve at least to have my mind treated as a valued status symbol. As any man, but especially a Black man, able to admit to being motivated by intelligence and knowledge should.
In a world where predator-like aggressiveness has become sine qua non for any engagement to be respected, I’ve found a bit of relief in the back alleys of my resolve. Not quite reserved, no, but a sense of serenity still. I can carry my library of thoughts in a world where lingerie has become the symbol of chastity in the charade of unions called the wedding ceremony. And while the fuck relationship becomes the standard foundation of love for those that clutch their insecurities when I stroll past them in a business suit, I’ll be weaving letters into fragments of history. And as much as I love the mixed drink that is sex, I simply refuse to untwist my penis off and screw it into my solar plexus, calling it my heart.
As such, these are the days and times of Owl in single mode. Not sure exactly how this will pan out. I’m of a distinct breed, and the commonalities of survival might have escaped me somewhere. While those that endure to scuffle at break neck speeds for a chance at the prize of worthless rubles to be squandered at death by neglected seeds during growth, I figure I might as well contribute something a tad bit lasting. That is not always the sexiest vibration in the club, but it is mine, and I suppose it is far time I owned it. Single, lonely or not, I can’t miss this opportunity to focus my skills on greatness. Furthermore, I just can’t afford to entertain another wasted moment, for sex or diced up attempts at romance. The thrill of that is about as promising as the compliments of those that skim your writings, read one polysyllabic word, and conclude that you are a great writer. Sperm ejaculated on a Saturday morning whore’s breast has more validation.
With that, please give the bartender at the poetry spot my best regards, and tip the maid of honors wearing the diaphanous corsets for me. Going to work on something different with solitude this time…cheers and wish me well on this journey…