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Posts Tagged ‘love’

This one goes out to the throngs of good men who are single and are unsure why… Sometimes we are our own worst enemies, and it takes another person a bit further away and with a different vantage point to fill you in on what you keep missing. Please do not feel insulted~ it’s all the purest of intentions. And I’m feeling generous. Altruistic. To the point. And, after all~ the world is absolutely a better place when we’re getting loving.

This entry is intended as a self-help guide of sorts. You can use it as a checklist. And your secret is safe with me. If you look in the mirror to find yourself fitting a no-no here, fear not, you can change and grow. You are strong and versatile. Great things are abreast. And you’re welcome.

These are a refined, thought-about-at-length, discussed over many drinks with many a pretty lady, collection of reasons why you might not be getting any nookie, mixed and fixed with a fair collection of “don’ts”.

Trench coats. C is no longer for cookie. If you are wearing a trench coat, you look like a Creep. And I’m sorry. But you’re sorrier. I can’t believe you didn’t get the memo. You’re not getting any *%^*# because women think you’re into Dungeons and Dragons. Or that you have some vampire slayer complex. Or you’re a wanna-be bounty hunter. Or you never left that 90’s hair band phase. You know- the one that stayed in the 90’s?

Sweat and the rules of the dance floor. If you are cute and we like you, we will be happy to talk to you. If you are sweaty from shaking it, that’s fine. Go on with your bad self! Maybe we can even dance together. BUT- if you are very sweaty, please refrain from hugging us. Or putting your arm around us. Yes, it’s difficult to resist, but it will serve you in the long run. Withhold hug now=earn hugs later. This is good, sound advice. Believe me.

Pinky rings. Don’t. Just don’t. You’re not Kanye. K? And that’s all right. We just want you to be yourself. Just not in that thing. It’s creepy and makes you look like a washed up cocaine dealer. Bad bad bad. Ok, stop laughing and put it away. You are not the exception.

Flossing. You feel inconvenienced by flossing. Really? This is part of basic maintenance. If you don’t like your mouth bleeding, rest assured that this will stop once your gums adjust to human touch. Suck it up and initiate your mouth to cleanliness. Think of it as being in a really cool (and necessary) gang. The blood is just part of getting jumped in. (Applies to ladies too)

Mustaches. You had to know this one was coming. I don’t know why, where, or how you recently got the idea that this above the lip fuzz is hip, but I feel like none of you ever consulted with those of us that you are aiming to impress with your dashing good looks. Um, hello? The skinny is this: you have been misinformed. If you talk to one lady who favors this ickyness, she is the 1%. We are the 99%! If you are below the age of 50, and you have hair above your lip that is independent of, and disconnected to other hair on your face, it’s time to grab a razor. Waste no time! If you are not a cop, you have no business with one of these things. Plus they get all nasty when you are eating and drinking, and they also don’t feel very good where we want everything to feel really good. Smell what I’m cooking?

Cologne/ Oil/ Smell. This is a case where less is more. We appreciate and applaud your daily shower regiment. We do. We really do. If and when (because it happens) you do not have an opportunity to bathe, do not cover up in a masking smell. The truth is that you then stink like B.O. and cologne had a bastard child. This is a bad baby. Nobody wants to hold this baby. A tip: Alcohol neutralizes your odor, so grab a cotton ball, go to the emergency kit, and swab away. Then reapply deodorant. Optimally you will shower, but sometimes that’s not an option. There is always an alternative. Also, on the topic of deodorant, please please please select one that is not over powering in odor. This especially affects us because you are often taller than us, and you must remember where our noses get squeezed into sometimes when you hug us. Contrary to the commercials, we do not want you to spray Axe across your chest. Deodorant is intended to eliminate odor, not create a new, choking, powdery one. Blech. (ladies too! please!)

Standards of Initial Contacting. May-haps it’s because I was in a relationship for the better part of the last 3 years until semi-recently, that this one slipped by me and now I am in regular awe of it… Texting. Ok. Let’s break it down. It was lovely, “back in the day”, when a gentleman would take our number, waiting the proper amount of time (4 days on average; demonstrating his coolness, collectedness, and certain lack of desperation) before calling. Then he would call, and we would have a conversation. Like a real conversation. Not one sentence ping-ponged back and forth between waves of radiation. And this person would be new (no facebook stalking or preemptive question satiating before actual contact) and the conversation was or wasn’t. Simple. Now the accepted standard is that we give our number and can expect a text with in the next 1-3 days/ later that night. So the amount of time between has been shortened on account of the speedy connected world we live in. Here’s where I come in with advice: we still want a phone call. A text is impersonal and not demonstrative of your boldness, confidence and bravery. Take a chance! We like your voice. That’s why we want to talk to it. Worst that happens? We don’t like it, and guess what~ it’s a big, sexy sea of fish out there. Knowwhadimsayin?                                                                                                                                                                                                      *Another note- if you called a lady or texted her more than 2x and haven’t had a response, she is more than likely just not interested. She may just not know how to say it. Move along> think big sexy ocean lapping away happily. Next time!

Donald Ducking. There will never be a point within the comfort that you feel with or towards another human being where this will be ok. If you don’t know what this means, be certain to look it up. It’s a major no-no. I don’t care if you’re 25 years deep together. I am telling you so that you know very well: this is a BAD look. I hardly recommend this in private; it’s better not to tempt the habit. If you must change the order in which you dress/ undress, so it goes. Also, while on the topic, always make sure to take off your socks during sex. Not hot.

Well, that about wraps it up for my unsolicited yet o-so-necessary advice. May you walk away smarter, with more confidence and swagger… and at the very least… your pants on.

 

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I want to live where the wild Ginger grows.

I want to set up shop amongst the racket of howler monkeys that shriek at the warm, sleepy, star dusted dawn. Everyday. Reliably.

I want to look down at the ground and kick at fat grubs with my barefoot feet, and feel the virile earth give just a bit; just enough to let some air out and give the worms some work to do for no good reason in particular.

I desire the smell in the air of mysterious and magnificent, unnamed tropical flowers that are very red and robust,  screaming pinks, bold charming candied yellows. I want to pluck them for my tea after humming a new tune of gratitude that I just made up because the inspiration is so damn thick that it is simply oozing- wet and juicy all over the place, where I stand drenched in the generous gifts of rhythmic cobalt full magenta golden song and hot spellbinding aqua haunting ocher poetry. 

A place where art is never dormant. The spark of creation ignites and burns burns burns, creating an absolute ruckus of overturned firey beauty.

Where I just can’t get any sleep and no- not because I am unrested but because the jungle hums and churns and I know to listen, as I am actively learning secrets of the ancients and what it is like, and what it takes to live housed and homed in the middle of la selva.

Little green snakes will slither clear and not slip into my favorite shoes.

A place permeated with the scent of  fresh tortillas. Todo fresco. Tierra local. Harvest practices relied upon for generations. Methods of sowing and reaping on dial with the waxing and waning of the solar system  itself. Stone ground and pounded with experience, hardened hands, hardy laughter, crows feet on faces for days.

I want to bathe in tepid waters of mineral pools, cleansing my mornings in mud and waterfalls. I will run my fingers through my hair and let the little pieces of leaves and sticks stick around like they picked me on purpose.

Let me live in Spanish town. Some where, somehow, someday. Where colors are brilliant, where the plants dance along, where old stories are revered and passed on, where we feel exuberant and incredibly alive because home is where the carazon es.

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Amidst the raspy cattails and lobbing murky water is where I find you when I want to.

That night that we ran like hell, away from the world that we imagined to be watching, wanting to stop our mischief.

Where we scaled the rusted, cutting fence, making it over the barbed wire, thanks to Chris’s sweatshirt, unscathed some how. Always unscathed. Jumped down with out caution or fear holding us as we entered our familiar domain.

Encircled by resilient wild reeds, fat and abundant river rats, crackling speckled brown nesting birds, and decomposing, unnamed garbage.

The smell never mattered much because that was home and it was what we knew, and we grew up to laugh at it; holding our noses and running until we were inside, gasping for air, cracking up and seeing who made it to the interior last.

Those times while you had that janky-ass car with the doors that wouldn’t latch, and you would do donuts in it at the drop of a hat, making me crazy, forcing us to grab onto the front seats for dear life, leaving tracks on the pavement.

Looking back it’s like we were just living on our toes in those days.

Truly young, wild, and free.

But I’ll tell you Jim, you made a humbled believer out of me. And I’ve seldom told a soul because I would rather be unheard then unbelieved.

That night in the marsh where we all danced along the board walks, muddy, messy water on either side. Residue from Oil City seeping into the planks, making out traverse slippery and sleek. And we found that busted up 4 or 5 foot Graffix with the Joker base. And it was broken, but you swore to repair it. (Somehow it would wind up in my room, leaving me with the challenging responsibility of sneaky disposal.) And we made all sorts of wierd sounds that night because we finally felt alone.

And we settled in to watch the sky.

Finally.

And I’de never seen a NY sky so clear before.

Each cloud so disctinct, holding it’s very own proud shape.

And they took on thier figures before our eyes, entertaining us for what seemed like encapsulated hours.

And I saw Snoopy of all things. And we all watched and marveled, because Snoopy it was and there was simply no disputing.

And Kalinda saw something that is long forgotten, and Chris another… and it was all so crisp and vivid.

We watched together as Snoopy’s ear detached from the cloud parade and floated away as we all howled for him because the image was just so real. We could hardly believe it. Hard to believe. Grateful to witness.

And then you spotted, and I’ll never forget, the Grim Reaper. And you saw it first. And no one could dispute.

And we all self-assessed, inwardly, checking, after all, we weren’t tripping or fucked up beyond plain old weed and alcohol. Pills may have been present in our systems, but definitely no hallucinogens.

And in the night, clear as day, there it was.

And you got quiet.

It was eery but I don’t remember thinking that it was a sign.

I don’t remember anything else after that.

My memory draws a still, flat lined blank. Quiet and blind. Maybe with a soft subtle static to it. Until the day that I heard the news.

Perhaps a month after?

You had been killed. You were murdered. In Long Beach. At that bagel store in the East end. Crawling on your elbows through a ceiling shaft. In your early twenties.

A coke deal gone bad.

And all your hustle and your good intentions, all your far out, stoney epiphanies, your unstoppable language creation and invented and catchy phrases~ poof. Like a thunder clap into the air and back amongst the sky that first claimed you. And you were dismantled from this world as I could understand it.

You and your troubled ways; brawny and street wise with a sordid past and a secret tender heart that we knew so well.

You came to me last night during a peak of inspiration. I feel it is time to release you. I will never forget you and where you almost went.

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