I do my thing and you do your thing. I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, And you are not in this world to live up to mine. You are you, and I am I, and if by chance we find each other, it's beautiful. If not, it can't be helped. (Fritz Perls, 1969)
Apr 18, 2008 11:15 am Mood: A Creative Spirit, 554 Views
The figure lay slumped on the dirt, shrouded by a silken cloak black as night. A scraping sound was heard as a blade was sheathed. The deed was done. The thing slowly rose, the cloak slithering over the barren hill. As the unknown thing moved away, there was a moan of pain. Rice turned around and looked into the face of the dying man.
"Bloody poets.” she scoffed as she kicked at the prone figure.
The man pleaded with her, crying of his innocence. But his pleas fell upon deaf ears, for as the man lay dying, a scarlet pool by his side, Rice cursed him.
"Forever will you rot as your forefathers." And with that she departed, her pitch black cloak concealing her in the darkness.
"You know he didn't deserve that.” a doleful voice echoed. "He did!" Rice hissed. "Humph." "Fine...I'll, I'll give it back." The voice's owner stepped from the dark hill. "Good. You're seeing things the right way, Rice-sama." "Macharite. I guess you'd know..."
Macharite flipped her umbrella closed carelessly before going on the attack. "You should know better, Rice..."
Rice turned her back and threw the glittering item at the dark thing on the hill. "There, are you happy? I gave it back."
Macharite froze briefly as she watched the locket fly overhead, and land with a thump at the dead man's side. Rice shifted from foot to foot, feeling guilty.
"The lengths you go Rice, never cease to amaze me...", Macharite chided, as if to a naughty child. " But...after what HE DID!", Rice howled in anger, tears in her eyes. "I would never let him live!"
Rice kicked a stone across the clearing in her rage. "He had no right. No right at all!"
Macharite sighed as she looked up to the heavens.
...
Rice sat in her room, fingering the locket that the man had held so dear. She had snuck back out and retrieved it from the corpse before morning. Rice felt guilty of her clandestine act, though she still burned with a hatred of the man. "Macharite says breakfast is ready!” came a voice.
It was Macharite, though she had slipped back into her third person perspective. Yesterday was an exception.
Rice tottered downstairs and retrieved her repast, then fled back to the confines of her room. She munched on the breakfast roll, flicking crumbs toward her emaciated monkey, Momo. He gobbled up the broken pieces and stared emptily at Rice.
"I'll feed him later.” she thought to herself. That rarely ever happened.
Rice sat chewing a slice of bacon and stared at the locket. How could this be so important to him...? To where he would kill? "He deserved to die himself.” Rice muttered.
Suddenly Rice had a miraculous burst of insight. "Gem.", she murmured to herself.
A quick summons and Gem was there.
"So," she questioned, puffing her cigarette, "whaddaya wanna know?" Rice bravely took a stand.
"I need to know about this." She held out the locket. Gem's eyes widened as she studied it.
"It's gonna cost you.” she smirked, lazily blowing smoke into the blue cloud above. "How much?” Rice asked, shifting. "Ten bucks." "Well that's pretty cheap." "Actually, I meant twenty."
Rice sighed. "Fine."
She handed over the money reluctantly. "Well," said Gem "maybe thirty..." "I already paid you.” Rice snarled.
Gem threw up her hands in mock astonishment. "Well fine then! I guess you don't need to know!"
Rice threw a crumpled ten at her. She picked it up and smoothed it out. "Well, that locket there is a piece of work. It'd sell for about eight hundred,” Gem started.
"Yeah, we need Officer Morales down here. Looks like we've got a stab victim." The radio squawked.
"10-4. We'll also send in a detective. How about Pree?" "She's good for this job. Bring 'em in." Chief Officer Daniels smirked as he turned to his fellow men.
"Ah, this is gonna be a spat, eh? Everyone knows ol' Morales and that gumshoe Pree have never got along." "Sir!" The Chief was jolted back to reality.
"What is it, officer?” Daniels questioned. "We've found some evidence around the body!"
"So, when was this discovered?” the Chief questioned as they strolled towards the scene. "Well, we've known about it for some time. Actually, before we found the body..." "Humph."
Daniels was not too pleased of the late notice. "Darned rookies...” he muttered to himself.
The lower officer showed him around. "Here we've found footprints leading to and from the body, as well as an imprint of some type of jewelry."
A petty officer handed the Chief a bag. "What's this?" Officer Morales springs into action. "Well that there," he pauses for effect. "Is the murder weapon."
Daniels grimaces. "Where did you come from?"
Morales loves drama. He points in such a way, every head twists to look at his shiny, black Lamborghini. "Just got here five minutes and seventeen seconds ago, sir!" A quick salute. Morales was reporting for duty.
"This isn't the army, boy. So cut all that junk out." Daniels request went unheeded as Morales went to bully the lower ranks.
"Anyway," Daniels began. "We’ve gotta move the body down to the morgue." "Already being handled." As they spoke, the body was carefully being carried away.
"Hey... Did anyone chalk the body? That Pree is never here for these things." No sooner were the words out of his mouth when...
"TAKE COVERRRRRRRR!!", someone screeched. Officers took off running as the battered Volkswagen squealed into their midst. Stepping from the ravaged machine, the detective dusted herself off and strolled over to the cringing Daniels.
"Detective Pree here, sir.” she rapped smartly.
"Ugh." The Chief groaned as he picked himself up from the ditch. Pree made no move to help. She looked about absentmindedly and kicked a rock.
"So, where is everybody?" Daniels muttered incoherently under his breath.
... Back to the story...
"And that's all I know.", Gem solemnly finished.
Rice marveled at the small lump of metal in her hand. "So this is..." "Yeah."
The locket shone softly, a pale silver. The light glittered off its surface, turning the case into a prism of colors. Rice admired it, but suddenly started.
"Hey...you said this happened two-hundred years ago...", Rice began, her voice rising to an unearthly shriek. "So how could you know about this relic?!" Gem grinned, revealing two needle-sharp fangs.
"I've never really told you how old I am..."
Rice jumped back, the closest weapon at hand. "Stay back!', she screeched, flailing the toiletbrush.
"I'm not going to bite you.", Gem flatly stated, snuffing out her cigarette. "Besides, I don't drink blood anymore." "Liar!", Rice wailed.
"Augh!", Gem yelped as the bristles scratched her face. She grabbed the brush and flung it away.
"Now shut up and listen, Rice. I do not drink blood. I am not going to bite you." Rice slowly relaxed, sinking to the floor.
"Well you didn't have to flash those teeth at me..."
"So...” Rice began, still keeping her distance. "How old are you?" Gem stopped to look in a shop window. "Four-hundred sixteen, give or take a few decades." "So you were there two hundred or so years before?" "Well... yeah, you could say that..." "So who did you know?” Rice questioned, venturing a bit too far. "People…” Gem stated, almost emotionlessly. "Like who?" "You know," Gem growled "you ask too many questions."
"So about the body...someone's gotta give an autopsy..."
A man and woman passed by, their words lingering on the warm breeze.
Rice twitched a worried expression on her face. "Um... Let’s look in here!” Rice quickly said. Gem stared at the shop. "An art gallery?"
"You never knew I loved art?", Rice chirped, dragging Gem along. Gem followed Rice in. The curator looked at the two suspiciously, then resumed his work.
"Wow! Look at this!" Rice exclaimed, pointing towards a Caravaggio. "I know that one, Gem laughed. That's Mikey's." The two browsed down the isle, eyes falling on each picture until...
Rice gasped.
There before her was a portrait. A dead man upon a hill. Scanning the picture, Rice found what she was looking for.
Turning on her heel, she put on the most innocent face she could muster. The curator looked up from his book.
"Sir, could you tell me about this painting?" "Why sure, young miss," he chuckled, a wispy wheeze. "I'll do just that."
....
It's a rap.
Gee. This was fun...AND exhausting. My type of fun... (smile)
This story I'm writing seems great to some, but I believe it is severely lacking something... Don't tell me...I will figure it out. As for now I have slightly relieved this gnawing doubt by putting the story into parts.
But be warned that I will no longer add to that. As for those in my story: my real friends, for short, Rice, Macharite, Gem, Pree, Pappi and such, do not fear, for I shall ALWAYS try to squeeze more of you in. (That includes Frost and possibly Shadow...*wink*)
My brain feels a bit sluggish however, so I would appreciate those of you who can, without being abusive (there is much ebonics here...), tell me pointedly of any mistakes.
This poem is called Nothing is for Nothing. I recently ran across this poetry reading on the YouTube site under Def Poetry JAM. One of my favorite songstresses, Jill Scott, was given the honor of it's reading.
*********
Whew! "uhmm if you feel it, holla when you hear it..."
************************
~I~ had been turning tricks longer than ~I~ actually knew it. Being whatever ~THEY~ wanted me to be, whenever ~THEY~ wanted me to be it. A Freak...
..inside, outside, kitchen counter tops, laundromats,...two at a time. Hotels, motels, back seats of leased cars, vans and jeeps...
MADE myself like it ...cause ~THEY~ liked it.
And ~I~ liked that ~THEY~ liked it.... so ~I~ continued to be the 'perfect image' of a wet dream:
Nasty Wild Exotic Erotic...
Freak is what ~THEY~ wanted, ...so Freak was who ~I~ was. ...and everybody was walking around talking about ~ME~:
Like teenage pregnancy was not synonymous with being a woman; Like America wasn't suffocating our thoughts; Like there was nothing to talk about but what ~I~ was doin' or screwin'... (...and ~I~ thought that the whole DAmnED thing was ridiculous, Which It Was...)
'Cause ~I~...was content giving my men a 'little heaven' between 'THEIR' ...(gasp)...struggle to breath and, uh,...their contemplation of suicide. "WASN"T I GOOD FOR THE CAUSE?--CLOSED MIND, OPEN LEGS...Making niggaz forget why 'THEY' are SO DAmnED ANGRY!
Wasn't ~I~ good?
*******
Then the mood swing and the tempo, and ~I~ became an IDEAL:
So ~THEY~ want her pretty, and docile, caring ...and STUPID!
...And there ~I~ was, "On your mark, set, go!" ...and ~I~ was 'SUZY homemaker' on the hunt for love: cooking and cleanin', ironing, faithful... AND a Freak!!!! ...cause that's what ~THEY~~liked.
...and ~I~ liked being what 'THEY~ liked.... So, what ~THEY~ liked was who ~I~ was: A PROSTITUTE!...selling my soul for emotional gain. ...struggling not to be the third generation of lonely women in my family.
STRUGGLING TO GAIN... But GAINING NOTHING... ...but confusion, frustration, illusion and emptiness.
'CAUSE THERE WAS NO LOVE...just empty condom wrappers on the floor to be discarded... LIKE ME...
~A PRIZE PERFORMER~ long before ~I~ actually knew it, too....
'Cause ~I~ was faking ~ME~ out of the *ME* ~I~ would become.
...sigh...
THE *ME* ...THAT *I* SEE NOW. The *ME* that holds onto herself with BOTH hands and ALL feet; The *ME* who MUST have love, ...AND GIVE IT. The *ME* who brings more to the table than good looks and a wet hole... The *ME* ...that is confident, and intelligent, and filled to the brim with respect for *ME*!
...and a FREAK!!!!
...'cause that's what *I* like. ...and what *I*(*ME*) like... Is ALL ...apart of who I am.
A lovely poem here, folks. It was real and raw in true Jill Scott fashion. A Freak!...and very well said, as I also will forever refuse to be what ~THEY~ like. I am hopeful, too, that that is just what's happening moreso now on a larger scale among women too...who CHOOSE to be more than the IDEAL.
Some of the most powerful men are nothing but big simps. No wonder America is so feminized. *************************
[B] ~WHEN THE WHIP COMES DOWN ~ The twenty-five most emasculated, disempowered, henpecked husbands on the planet
By Matt Haber
It's nothing new. Some of history's most celebrated and powerful men were cut down to size by the women in their lives.
Samson was famously laid low by Delilah. Ronald Reagan called his wife "Mommy." Even John Lennon fell victim to Yoko, who reportedly left cat turds in his path to remind him who was boss.
Ever since our prehistoric ancestors first crawled out of the ocean, took a deep breath of air, and uttered that familiar phrase:
"Sure, we can go to the Container Store on Saturday,"
certain men have buckled under female domination. But is there any doubt we're living in a golden age of rampant, public whipping? Everywhere you look these days, you see the telltale signs of submission: pathological obedience, public humiliation, couples Pilates.
It may start with a walk down the aisle-and isn't marriage one of the cornerstones of male acquiescence?-but it doesn't end until you're side by side in the beauty shop, waiting for your matching highlights.
Just ask any of these simps. But try not to laugh too loudly; your woman's trying to watch Gossip Girl.
1. Guy Ritchie
After the tough-talking shoot-’em-up Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels made him famous, the British director married long-in-the-tooth pop star Madonna and collaborated with her on a train wreck of a shipwreck comedy called Swept Away. The director gets extra lashes for embracing his wife’s trendy spiritual endeavors, reportedly sacrificing what’s left of his career cred on a yet-to-be-released documentary on Kabbalah. But the real reason he tops the list? This photo of Ritchie and Madge and a recently purchased strap-on. But really, who thought she needed one?
2. Doug Christie
A running joke among NBA fans holds that giving a friend a jersey emblazoned with the Sacramento Kings’ number 13 is a none too subtle indication that your buddy is terminally whipped. The swingman’s wife, Jackie, followed him on the road, where in a typical game she was treated to as many as fifty hand signals of love and affirmation. In 2002 his public subjugation was celebrated in the sports pages of The New York Times, where Christie boasted: “Every conversation I’ve ever had with a woman since we’ve been married, besides my wife, she knows about.”
3. Eminem
You know a guy’s in trouble when he marries the woman he’s spent years openly fantasizing about killing, then he goes and marries her again.
4. Bill Gates
Once upon a time, the Microsoft founder was a rapacious evil billionaire in the Montgomery Burns mold. Enter his wife, Melinda, and suddenly Mr. Moneybucks is giving it all away through their Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation. Instead of spending his money on toys like personal rocket ships, Gates is now doling out his savings around the globe. Maybe it’s his operating system: Before marrying Melinda in 1994, Gates sought permission from his ex, Ann Winblad.
5. Josh Kelley
Marrying Knocked Up star Katherine Heigl might do wonders for the career of this James Blunt wannabe—she did appear in Kelley’s video—but since when did weddings become promotional events? Uh, when the bride’s got a big wedding-themed movie to carry. These striving newlyweds not only provided pictures of the big day to OK! magazine but were married three weeks before 27 Dresses tanked at the box office. At least the marriage outlasted the movie.
6. Marc Anthony
“She’s always been the boss!” the lizardy Latin singer told People magazine about his El Cantante costar and producer, wife Jennifer Lopez. “That’s the first thing a man has to know.… Absolutely, no question about it.” At least Anthony is a man of his word: In 2007 the Grammy winner set out on tour with his new wife, performing as her
