24 November 2009

Hi My Name Is Andrena, Meet My Friend Mr. Grief

My grief is palpable. And this week my grief travels with me more prominently visible than in most times when I’m crafty enough to put it aside and wear my fake smiley face because not only are the year-end holidays painfully laid in front of me but Mommy’s birthday is this Saturday after Thanksgiving – November 28th. So yea, Mr. Grief with his iron powered hands has seized my soul suffocating it with excruciating misery and gifted me with a rawness that’s enveloped every inch of my being making my every movement laborious and sad.

Mr. Grief is parasitic and our kinship has become such that often he’s able to mask himself as my friend. He’s the guest with no boundaries who monopolizes the conversation, rapes the refrigerator bare, and seeks no permission when he wants to come inside. Most days I watch him baffled rattling about as his existence, heavy, weighs my spirit so that my head to the pillow is all I can muster when I really just wanna get up. Times before we’d met in passing but never had we been so close; so close as we’ve become since Mommy died.

I hate Mr. Grief but I allow him my time because in him I will eventually find my healing and new joy. I’ll begin to embrace the strength God’s armored me with as without it Grief and I would not be able to cohabitate with me still living and breathing. Grief and I will run out our season then we’ll become estranged as time goes on. But until then we’ll pal about with not every day being as intense as today is and as November 28th obviously will be. I have my fake smiley face in pocket for the lighter days.

To grieve is human. To recognize it, succumb to it never duped into believing you will never be free of it, is one of the tutorials in the spiritual lesson plan of life. There is nothing wrong with this place where I stand. I’m aware that God manipulates the controls and by His grace and mercy again I will be flooded with peace and light with no grief on the side. I am thankful as everything is in divine order even this most unbearable space in time.

Happy Thanksgiving.

14 November 2009

The Kiss, So Alcoholic and Slow - "Pale Shelter"

IVY
“PALE SHELTER”

“You don’t give me loooove (you give me pale shelter)/You don’t give me loooove (you give me cold hands)” –

“Ah c’mon, you gonna beat me in the head all afternoon? I came over to eat.” I lay on the plush snow white chaise in Dixie’s massive closet amid two walls of shoes displayed behind glass panes with each delicate pair of size 7 boot, sandal, bootie, pump, and mule – all either stiletto or platform to make up for what she lacked in height – bathed in a soft pink light. Dixie was the only person I knew outside of Carrie Bradshaw to have such an exquisite haven for her fashion addiction. The remaining two walls were sectioned off in four rows and dedicated to her wicked designer clothes – all an envy evoking size 4. And in the middle of the room was an island of a jewelry store style showcase with shelves and drawers holding other celebrity-caliber fabulous accessories. Being the on again, off again girlfriend to an on married, not EVER gonna get divorced NBA star had its perks; perks Dixie shamelessly took advantage of. But, unlike most of the women in the too-close-for-comfort knit social circle we mingled, I reserved judgment because Dixie was the first person to befriend me unconditionally when I moved back to the ‘burbs of Detroit from New York. She claimed me as her BFF instantly after meeting me at a charity event downtown. She says she was drawn to my aura of warm colors. Bullocks! I say she fell jealous of the Louboutins I’d copped from Bergdorfs that hadn’t made their way to the Midwest yet and she admired anyone able to challenge her shoe game. Besides, my aura when I fled New York was neither warm nor colorful rather matte black with no shine, no glitter, not even the slightest hint of shimmer, and cold like an arctic cold with no sun, and no light to deflect from the deep freeze. That was three years ago, a little more than three years ago. It was 1,154 days past to be precise.

“Why do you wanna torture yourself?” Dixie, perched atop a carpeted footstool, looked over me donning a silvery cream formal Versace number that hung loosely about her. “I mean look at that ROCK on your finger. The only thing you should be thinking about is Monique Lhuiller or Vera Wang.”

“I don’t think I’m gonna do all that.”

Dixie hopped down with one hand on her hip and the other folding up the gown so she wouldn’t trip. Aghast, “Are you telling me that you’re thinking about going off the rack?”

“Well even if it was Vera or Monique it would still be off the rack. Justin is not – “She waved me silent with a feverish shake of her hand as she dropped onto the quilted white high back chair at her gold leafed vanity. “So I guess you guys are off again this week huh?”

“You could say that but let’s not get off topic.” Dixie adjusted herself to look me in the eye. “Ivy, men like Justin don’t just happen. They’re a gift that women like you deserve. You didn’t just kiss a few frogs you kissed a big ‘ol giant, nasty bull frog with warts and all and now you’ve got your prince. Don’t blow it!” I heard her. I really did hear her but as I was about to digest and comment I – I blanked out. Spiraling I slipped into a memory …

“Don’t blow it!” The shaky baritone in his effeminate voice in concert with the sound of his fist pounding against the dash of his G-Class Benz startled me as I disengaged the locks and opened the passenger door. How could the editor of an upstart urban lifestyle magazine afford a hundred grand plus car AND a half share in an East Hampton manse ON the water? I knew early on the likelihood of Lush Style magazine staying in business for more than a year was slim to nada. But Warren was the only editor in all of New York to give me an opportunity as a features writer fully aware that I’d never written for a publication nor been in the industry of publishing before. When I interviewed with him, pleading my undying love and devotion to the written word and my obsession with making my mark in the literary world, his expression was deadpan as he filed his brilliantly buffed fingernails and sporadically chuckled when he received an amusing IM from his computer. Struggling to hold my composure and not hurl my body across his glass top desk to strangle the little fag, and tapping my foot against the polished mahogany wood floor, I continued babbling. Then, magically the energy of the encounter began to change.

“You said who?” The emery board slipped from Warren’s hand.

“Beg pardon?” I asked.

“Rewind honey. I heard you say something about Diddy?”

“Uh yeah.” I shrunk a little in my seat. My professional history read like a who’s who in music entertainment as I managed to land gigs in management and production with a bevy of the industry’s top dogs but somehow Bad Boy and Sean “Diddy” Combs were the catch phrases to walk me into virtually any door. I’d only been with his company shy of two years and hadn’t nor wanted much personal interaction with the Hip Hop mogul and icon but the mere association served me well though I looked forward to the day of his association to me meaning more than the other way around. “Yes I did work at Bad Boy I uh –“

“Can you get Lush Style a cover story?”

“I’m not sure if that’s possible. I haven’t – “

Warren was salivating, attentive and suddenly honed in on me, completely ignoring the “BLEEPS” ringing from his computer. Palms firmly planted on the desk, I thought he might climb over and pounce at any moment. “I’m saying honey if you want the job get me Diddy Combs.”

Falling back I was deflated knowing the task of nailing Puff down to commit to being the cover subject for an unknown magazine with a meager readership was going to be beyond arduous with me exhausting myself to make the impossible happen. Miraculously, somehow it happened. The moon must have been in the right spot with the stars perfectly aligned, and the temperature riding the most comfortable degree because not only did Diddy Combs agree to be Lush Style’s feature star but he also arranged for Sean John to place a full page ad. When I delivered the news to Warren he literally fell out on the floor and wiggled about in an epileptic motion then grabbed my ankle letting out a raspy “Thank you.” I didn’t get to write the article – he did – but he held his end of the agreement and gave me the job. The cover shot Lush Style into an alternate galaxy and became the numero uno rival to the urban community’s darling, Vibe magazine. A position that wouldn’t last long. Drunk off his own Kool-Aid Warren mismanaged the operations and finances of the publication to a point of no repair and as we sat in the circular drive of the modest yet architecturally stunning Sag Harbor home of a Harlem socialite, Warren was desperate to breathe renewed fabulousness back into the business he’d siphoned the relevance out of.

As I got out I slammed the door behind me knowing he’d be pissed because he always quipped German auto engineering was so tight all one had to do was lightly push the door and the car would do the rest. “So what time will you be back?” Leaning into the open window I asked, uneasy about being left alone in a hideaway spot where the homes were at least three or four lots a part, to interview a notoriously pretentious, bad boy, graffiti artist turned fine arts media darling whose paintings depicted morbid inner city scenes.

“No finger prints on the fresh wash!” Warren hollered and, “And honey, this ain’t a Honda you don’t have to slam my doors.” He flicked the sun visor down and popped open the mirror to smooth the Mac Lip Glass over his lips. “I figure you need a couple of hours to get homeboy to warm up. So after my deep tissue massage and age defying facial I’ll come ‘round and scoop you.” He started to pull off.

“Wait!” The car braked. “Your deep tissues are two hours and your facials are an hour and a half and that doesn’t include travel time.”

“Baby cakes got an ‘A’ in arithmetic. Gold star for you!” He let his foot off the brake and coasted as I moved with him along the gravel. “Now look, it’s not like he’s magically gonna open up to you so the more time you spend with him the more you can engage him into spilling his – whatever it is we’re trying to get out of this story.”

“I’ve never met him nor had a phone conversation with him so I don’t know what to expect.” I gritted my teeth suddenly annoyed I didn’t study harder or pass biology so I could go to medical school or something.

“You’re a journalist. Make it work!” And with that the G-Class kicked into second gear, spitting up rocks in its getaway.

“Queen!” I wanted to yell but didn’t. Instead I dusted myself off, pulled up my proverbial big girl panties and ascended the steps leading to the slate colored front door. I waited a beat trying to gather something clever in my head to say for when I came face to face with this artist character. But before I could get the first three words threaded together, the door swung open and there he stood. Roman. No last name just Roman or Rome as he preferred to be called. He wasn’t particularly fine like Denzel fine or anything like that but he was about 6’2, flawless reddish brown complexion, sporting a close cut Caesar, wearing Rock & Republic jeans and a wife beater which is an absolute no, no unless you have the body for it and GULP, he had the body for it. I disliked him instantly. His swagger, all swelled with arrogance and sensuality, seeped from his pores perfuming the air. I covered my nose. He wasn’t going to hypnotize me.

His thick almost-could-have-been-threaded-in-that-perfect-shape eyebrows crinkled and raised as he lifted his nose and sniffed. “Does it smell like shit?” He asked trying to catch a scent.

“Uh no.” I laughed nervously in my head. I offered my most stern and professional handshake. “Hi I’m Ivy. Ivy Pope from Lush Style magazine.”

Hands open, blood red palms face up held out to me, Roman smiled with the most perfect teeth and they weren’t Veneers either. “Wet paint. Don’t touch. We can rub elbows if you want.” We laughed.

I laughed out loud, propelling myself back into the moment of melting into the white chaise lounge in Dixie’s closet, fondly remembering when Rome and I first rubbed elbows and he invited me in for the most unexpected luxurious day. Yeah, I heard Dixie and I digested her point. “I’m not gonna blow it with Justin Dixie. But I feel like I need absolute closure.”

“You need what?!” Dixie was shocked and paused trying to process what I’d just said and it was obvious she had a comeback but she stopped herself. Instead she lightened the mood by replaying Tear For Fear’s “Pale Shelter”, jumping up with unplugged flat iron in hand, “You don’t give me loooove/You don’t give me loooove.”

And maybe it wasn’t love that Rome had given me but he’d gifted me something that had me comparing what my soul felt like when I was with him to how it felt when I was with any other man including Justin. “I do” is not an idle promise and I didn’t want to treat it as such. My plane ticket was booked. A woman has to do what a woman has to do.

03 November 2009

The Kiss, So Alcoholic And Slow - "Fuck"

ROME
“Fuck”

My eye lids were heavy; could barely lift them open. Forced shut by the penetrating rays of the sun hammering me head on from the blind-less sliding glass doors leading onto the patio where Carmen was sunbathing butt ass the way she always did when we were in Miami, my eyes I could not open. I lay there taut on my back; arms, legs, fingers, and toes outstretched to the four corners of the California King trying to hone in on a thought – a clear thought to encapsulate what I was feeling. Fucking Patrón doing it to me every-gotdamn-time but I guess if I didn’t love, crave the sensation of nothingness I wouldn’t get so fucked up in the first place. I’m a man after all. We thrive in the Olympic race of evasion and just plain dipping and dodging. I deserved a gold medal, for sure, on that front. But aw fuck – my brain! Nothingness brutally dissolved into an aching fitted to the top of my head like a skull cap. Numbness always begets pain in the end.

I sat up, rolling my head about my shoulders in an attempt to loose the throbbing heaviness. I opened my eyes, looked out at Carmen, her toned and bronzed nudity arousing a brick hard erection. Maybe a good fuck would drive the pain away. But, maybe not. We’d fucked all night and I still couldn’t pit that feeling of drowning and failure lodged in the core of my soul. And that’s the clear thought; there it was all highlighted and italicized, dulled only slightly by an inordinate consumption of alcohol and sex. I left New York and LA a failure. Shunned by envious and gloating peers as an artist having run his course and ignored by the press that showered me in its extended 15 minutes of fame, I was backsliding one excruciating rung at a time down the ladder of accomplishment and success. I laughed. She prophesized this would happen. She was cruel. Pissed off and cold, broken by my inability to love her the way she felt she deserved to be loved she cut me with every ounce of distain her full heart could muster. And then she left. Ivy always got her way.

“You up?” Carmen stood at the door dewy from the heat of the sun with a perspiring water goblet in hand. She was uncomplicated. She rarely pressed for answers to questions I deemed insignificant. She never asked about the other women it was obvious she shared me with. Carmen was … cool.

I folded my arms at the back of my head, settling into the pillow. “Come here.” Carmen hesitated, her eyes narrowing in a way I hadn’t seen before. She eyed my dick and sipped from the glass as a droplet of water fell between her firm augmented breasts with erect nipples calling for me. In one swift movement – a movement I knew would soon have her riding me – Carmen set the goblet on the night table then disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. I popped up. “Uh, what just happened?” Silence. “Carmen?” Silence. “You coming back out baby? My dick is hard.” More silence followed by the sound of the shower. It was a shower I clearly wasn’t invited to. “Fuck!” What had I done? What had I said? What hadn’t I done? What hadn’t I said? Whatever it was or was not it boiled down to knowing it was time to get back. A real man can run but for only so long. … “Fuck!”