A Girl in the World & the World in a Girl…

{May 29, 2011}   Playing Misty for Me.

If you have been on this online ride with me (over the past one and two years that I’ve had a
Facebook page, Twitter, and this website), for starters: thank you. ♡

You’ve probably taken note of the fact that I love music and I love to write (rap, pop & RnB) songs.

Though I do not post frequently about it, believe it or not, I still lease and buy beats, and write music.

And since I am being honest and revealing in this blog-I am about to show you what the HAYELL my
problem is…with where I be at…with it!

I’m an emotional sponge of my surroundings that I like, love or feel connected to-regardless
how detached I may seem. (Trust me, I’m just-reserved most times)…

That being said, as a writer (novel writer),
I write from the heart. I put logic and rationale aside, unless I’m writing through a character (first person)
and they are explaining or reflecting. Other than that, in writing dialogue and narrating the story itself-it’s
from the heart: strictly expression, emotion and heart.

As far as songwriting?

Let me tell it, when it comes to selecting a hot beat…I’m your girl-trust me.

I know a hit-making beat when I hear one in the first 20 seconds.

I know a “B-side” track when I hear it.

I know an “A-side” track when I hear.

When it comes to dissecting a beat (verses, chorus’, bridges/multiple bridges-if any, etc.),
I can break the beats’ minute segments for the verses, chorus’ and bridges to get it ready for
lyrics to be inserted in. In short: ARRANGEMENT.

I write without music or to music.

Many-a-mornings, I wake up from dreaming and even before focusing in/fully awake-I have music
(lyrics + beats) in my head and I slide to the edge of the bed, grab my Blackberry and record myself
singing the lyrics and duplicating the beat playing in my head for that beat-making genius that can
make the beat from hearing it being sang to him/her.

If you follow me on Twitter,
you’ve probably read on my timeline where I mentioned that my “alter-ego” is logical and rational,
a straight and to the point tough as nails kind of person-a thinker.

Whereas my “ego” is emotional, expressive, creative, relaxed, fun, chill, silly and
just-laid back-a feeler. The thing about songwriting is that songwriting has everything
to do with everything else except: logic and rational.

Songwriting, music and songs are about feeling-period.

So in songwriting, it can’t be over-thought nor should it require too much thought.
It has to be relaxed and written-not dissected.

What slows my roll in songwriting is my EFFING alter-ego.

Read on…

That “alter ego” of mine always wants to peek through and dissect and over-think a
verse and it’s meaning-trying to make sure it “makes sense,” etc.
But that’s not what songwriting/songs/music is about.

It’s not about “dissecting,” (with logic or rationale).

It’s about “infecting” (with emotion and expression).

What slows my roll, as well as what slows my role in songwriting is my “alter-ego.”
It always wants to peek through and “evaluate” sometimes-and I piss myself
off with doing that.

Truth be told, I have some great songs (not recorded and posted on my website as yet),
that I’m defeating myself with-by letting my (logical/rational) alter-ego judge me-so
they’re sitting and waiting-being dissected while I try and turn my alter ego off and
just let it flow!


RIO “Talk”

DONP “You R”

DONP “Fitted”

JINX “Tha Line”

JINX “War”


DONP&187 “MissingYou”

JINX “Dirty”

DonP & 187 “HIDE THE PAIN”



Nothing pleases me more than to bring a song to life from a producers beat.
And I know that they long to see that happen.
That’s what they work for, just as much as they work for the money.
They are finger genius’ to me and I respect their craft like crazy.

I sat on my “alter ego” when I wrote the song:

TWO WAYS” (beat produced by CJ Beats)

SET-IT-OFF“/(“Set it Off” video concept)

…the above mentioned can rest-assured the same.

When I let my “ego” flow, they too, will be demo’d and put up on my ReverbNation website.

The point of this blog?

Today (5.29.11) the below-mentioned video was posted online.
I found it through one of my fellow bloggers.

It prompted me to write this blog.

If you listen to this chick-this is JUST the “alter-ego” I’m fighting
with when I write music. *laughs*

This girl almost set me up for a set-back. *laughs* Luring my “alter-ego” to come back out.

Granted, I understand, relate (and agree) with what she is saying (where logic and facts are concerned),
but the fact of the matter is: it has NO place in what music is about and she… DEFINITELY
couldn’t write music and I’m sure her IPod is filled with instrumentals and if not, she has plenty of
music in there simply as segues for conversation pieces!

Check her out:

Music isn’t supposedto be “literal” down to the lyric.

…Music isn’t supposed to “make sense.”

Music is supposed to “take sense.”

…take over your: Sight, Sound, Smell, Taste and Hearing; something we all have:

Hence, why music is universal.
Rationale and logic are not.

Music of any genre or whether it is instrumental or lyrical; puts the mind to sleep-opens
the heart and plays with the senses…


As I silence “making sense,” I shall proceed.

Yes indeed.

The feeling is like this.

Have you ever seen the movie “Juice?”

Remember Q, Steele, Bishop and Raheem were friends.

Bishop killed Raheem.

Q and Steele was right there when Bishop killed Raheem and couldn’t
do a damned thing about it right now.

As a result of that, Bishop was like a total eye sore,
booger and sore thumb in their lives-they just couldn’t get away from him.

Every turn they made-he was a stressor and annoyance and NUISANCE in their lives.

To add insult to injury, after Raheem’s funeral-they all gathered at Raheem’s house.

Bishop had the nerve to give Raheem’s mom and sister his “condolences” and
stood there, looking in their faces like he was a pillar of empathy.

Remember that look that Q had on his face while watching Bishop talk like that to
Raheem’s family-when he stood there knowing the truth, but by God couldn’t do
anything about it right now?

Now, image that whole scene, accept the person that was shot, was you (figuratively).
You’re living, but there’s is nothing you can do about it (right now). Not because of blackmail
or fear or anything like that-but the shooter knows that it isn’t in your best interest right
now-and doesn’t serve you do anything about it (right now).

Your only way to keep your calm and keep your head (for far too long now) is to play the
game-to maintain your peace. But some days, you’re not in the mood to and regardless-either
way-it (or they) just won’t go away
(and weren’t even invited in the first place)…and all you got right now is to ride
and rely on karma.

But that bitch is taking too damned long…


Hello Blog Reader.

First, I want to say that I apologize for keeping you on hold regarding this link in the blog.

If you follow this blog, you know for the most part (unless I have an opinion that suits my
agenda/platform/mantra) I pretty much keep it “un” celebrity news (because there are blogs running
rampant with that kind of stuff and I have no interest in running my blog that way).
And also because here-on my blog-I write from my head and my heart about whatEVER I’m thinking,
feeling, observe or experience.

My objective here is to merely be the writer behind the writer.

If you followed this particular link that I started on 5.14.11, you know that I put the brakes
on finishing it “until I felt like” delving into it to finish it.

That is because this particular blog was VERY personal to me, and it hit home in my head and
heart after I read the blog [about Chopper]. It made me pour out a lot that had been on my head and heart.
And because I totally understood the flip-side of how that story was reported from a
point of view you could probably never understand (unless you are experiencing it);
I went in and blogged about it.

Sometimes though, as a writer (who blogs about stuff from the heart), because I am
a published writer who blogs, I’ve found (and observed) that sometimes you have to be careful,
because everybody does not have love for you. And I’m cool with that-because when I write,
post and speak; I do so with MY audience in mind-the rest is null and void and not even in the
back of my mind. I’m as iron-clad, slash tough as nails, slash razorbacked as it gets, in that regard.

With that being said, sometimes when you blog about true feelings and thoughts from the heart
and mind; you have to keep in mind that everybody reading it (or any of your work for that matter)
does not have your best interest at heart. Everybody does not have genuine love for
you and are merely more “curious” than they actually “care” or [or care to] understand anything
you think, feel, observe or experience.

OPPOSITE that though; there are lots of people who do-lots of people who do
have love for me as a person as well as a writer. And for THIS particular blog-this conversation
is one that I would prefer to speak to only THEM; because they would seek to (care) to understand
what I’m getting at and saying, even if they have a slant opposite mine. All else would merely use
it as ammunition and fuel to pick apart, judge, assume and have something to feel important to
gossip and slay about.

Since this particular blog is so personal for me, and since I have no control over which
type of persons’ eyes reaches this blog; one thing I do have control over is continuing to finish
it (or not to).

This blog is free-reading that I chose to share from my heart, mind, observation and experience.
It is not apart of my published work that you pay for, so I’m in control of what I wish to do
[or not do] with it.

That being said, unless my mind changes and I’m ready to finish this particular blog story
(that I still have saved); I am going to put it back on pause and put it to you like this:

If you got love for me, and your reason for visiting this particular link was because you
were interested in knowing and seeking to understand what I was getting at; then you’ll fall
back and respect my decision and be content with the fact that if you ever want to know:
• what I’m thinking
• what I’m feeling
• how I respond
• how I would have
• or how I should have
…handled a situation; keep abreast of my work. I control my characters just as much as they control me…

Me, my imagination, my opposed, my reality and my supposed is what creates the writer in me in every
piece of everything that I write (and publish).

So I like a rap beef (where this type of “personal” is concerned) I am going to have keep my thoughts
and feelings on wax (paper). And if you got love for me, you support me, you feel and love what I do,
and how I do it; then you will respect and rock with this. And I will continue to appreciate having you
read this blog and seeing you anywhere here with me:

But on the flip side of that emotion (that I hope you second), if you do not respect that, then that
means you were merely “curious” and don’t have love for me anyway. In that case, I do not write TO or FOR you -anyway, anywhere.

I cater to those who love and respect what I do and any decision that I feel is best for me.
And if that is you-then let’s keep rocking and rolling, ‘cause I got love for you, too.

I have my own personal reasons for doing everything that I do (and everything that I don’t do)…

To know anything about me as a person OR the writer behind the writer is to first know that fact.

With love and appreciation for yous with love, appreciation and respect for me.

-Angela (9.19.2011).


{May 11, 2011}   Through.

An old friend told me a story one day.

She laughed as she reminisced about the day that her nephew graduated because
pretty much everyone in his class was graduating with decorated honors and expected
to go somewhere in life.

She said that the graduation was so crowded that you would have sworn the world was
coming to an end and as per her-it looked as if getting through those doors and
securing a seat was do or die.

Much to his aunties dismay (her other sister) she had come from out of town
and this moment was more special to her than it was for the nephew.

“Good luck making your way through those doors-it’s filled to capacity
and the rest of us simply have to wait outside and just listen,” said my
friend to her sister-the auntie.

Well, that sounded unheard of to Auntie, so you want to know what my friend
told me she did?

She took a step back.

She held her head down while she rested her hands-folded in front of her legs.

She lifted her head up.

She stared at the crowd of people who had been packed at the doors for
the past hour trying to get any glimpse they could into the auditorium.

She then said: “in the name of Jesus, I’m COMIN’ through!”
My friend busted out laughing-clutching her stomach telling me this story.

“Did she make it through?” I asked my friend-excited like a nosey kid.

My friend said to me: “Angie, I don’t know how she did it, but she did
make it through…”

I watched my friend laugh uncontrollably while my mind traded the scene for
Moses parting the Red Sea and made way for people to come through.

I envied that moment.

No-I coveted that moment is what I did.
(But I knew that God would understand. He knows my heart and where we stand)…

While she continued to laugh, in my mind, I asked: “God am I worthy?
Am I ever worthy of making it through lifelike that? I’d love to
make it through areas where I only see barriers.”

(God laughed & hugged me so tight).

Since then wherever there is darkness, I still see light.

As sure as Louisiana is to Jumbalaya, like it’s been said by Dr. Maya:
“[they] wonder where her secret lies.”
Well for me, I have no secret through calamity’s eyes.

Now (in my mind) “In the name of Jesus, I’m Comin’ Through!”
…is a metaphor that I use too.

I refuse to duck, tiptoe, or run and hide behind any door.

I feel content regardless if I fall, rise, or hit the floor.

I feel that in life what’s for me, is for me.

I try my best to live my life like it’s Golden and whatever’s
Copper will just-be…

So take a look at these words and think of Me-why don’t You?

‘Cause love it or hate it:
“In the name of Jesus…I’m comin’ Through…”



Go up on the hill to pick up my meats for me. It’s already ready.
Give ‘em my name and he gon’give you my order,”
she said to me.

I went.

On my way out of the parking lot, I saw her.

She was pushing a stroller with a little baby in it, staring aimlessly
into the thin air looking as if she had nothing to do and no place to go,
but was on her way to it anyway.

I didn’t know who she was at first, but when she aggressively yelled:
“Hey, girl!”, I knew that I knew her voice from a fond place in my heart and my past.

“Oh, hi!!!!” I said, too embarrassed to admit that I hardly recognized her.

We shot the breeze about nothing much-actually we didn’t have too much
to say to each other-just like the last time I saw her, but we tried.

She didn’t care anyways.
She was up on the hill staking out the strip, looking for her baby’s daddy,
but claimed that she needed to get out and get some fresh air
[from the polluted neighborhood where we stood outside of the meat market].

I’m looking at her, knowing that she had walked a literal ten miles from the
substandard housing project where she told me she lived the last time I saw her.
She must have been on a mission.

On the corner across from where we stood were boys, men, hustlers, some bustas,
wannabes, hard times and broken promises.

I turned my attention back to her and continued our “kinda conversation.”
She wasn’t even looking at me, through me, over me, or around me.
She was only focused on looking around the neighborhood with her eyes
bucking back and forth-talking to me with only her body language.

We only said “words” to one another; a little less than small-talk all wrapped
up in the gift of familiarity of one another but with love and a kind of kinship

Winded from looking around at the depressing scene, I turned my attention to the
baby and the stroller she was pushing-that had onion for wheels. Many miles had been put on that stroller.
The tread was missing and gone away with the countless babies who sat in that very same
stroller before her pretty baby did. The stitching looked like it was about to give way
from many-a baby that kicked their little fat legs while jerking their bodies back and
forth-while their mothers, too, were on that same stroll, stakeout and mission that
Kintahmee was on as well.

The child was smiling, no care in the world-enjoying the ride.

If Baskin Robbins really had thirty-three flavors of ice cream; between Kintahmee
and the baby, they had on the last ten.

The neighborhood had her attention.
I only had her body standing next to me-ready to leave to finish her mission.

Between words we spoke, hers-I could not really hear, because I was mostly talking
to the side of her neck as if her mind was telling her that I was talking out of the
side of mine.

She wouldn’t let me in.

As I talked to the back-side of her head, I noticed her pigtail was pulled so tight
that every strand of her hair and scalp fold had to have been beneath that tan rubber
band that secured it. Her eyes were tightly pulled back toward the direction of that
tight pigtail-pulled such that you could tell she brushed with it a vengeance from
thinking about so many things that made her temperature rise while planning her mission.

She would glance over at me, while looking down to the ground as if that was where I
lay-looking up at her for conversation. Each time I could get a glimpse of her
eyes-I wanted to keep staring. Because still-like I always remembered-they had a kind of
innocence like that of a kid.

Still, her eyelashes were long, still silky and new. They stood straight out and erect,
and shined like the hair that sat on the mannequin in the window of the wig store across
the street from where we stood. I could tell that in her lifetime since I had last seen
and been acquainted with her, her lashes had gotten so much moisture that they had no
choice but to lay flat and shine.

Her lips reminded me of a place where countless boys through men placed theirs and told
her all the things she wanted to hear while picking from the unripe fruit of her emotional
numbness-telling her things that she no longer believes-from anyone, for that matter.

She continued to moisten her lips with a small jar of something that looked like petroleum
jelly as she puckered out and rolled them from side-to-side with a permanent twist of
“mm hmm” [mixed with mistrust, numbness and apathy] as a result of the hand in life she was
dealing with: the antithesis from how she was raised.

She was so numb, but the child was smiling though.
The creases of the right side of black satin jacket that Kintahmee wore had a fast-food
restaurant chain’s name: some joint so small that you can barely cuss a cat in, much less
eat a meal in-but she worked there. She was also the anti-thesis of lazy. Always kept a job on deck.

I smiled.

A phone rang.
I reached for my duffle sac while she reached into the pocket of her satin jacket.

“HELLO?” she yelled with anticipation and completely turned her back to me as she
spoke into the phone while checking the clock on it for the minutes would be using.

Finally she turned her body and face to me, which looked a little different this time:
He must be in’na neighba’hood tal’mout:‘Whatchoo ova’dere doin?’ ”

Mission accomplished.

“Here come Mista,” I said in my head, while the guy with the trendy clothes approached.

No introduction.

No hellos.


Just a slight smile came across her face while she chewed on her barely there nails whose
tips nearly met the cuticles.

Child: still smiling-not a care in the world.

Mista moved closer to Kintahmee and the baby; playing with them both, giving them the
kind of affection that put a smile on her face which made me happy to see as well-the
kind of affection that he could care less about the boys on the corner seeing that he
had him in to give.

Soon thereafter, he was done with the affection as if he had a curator timing him and
with a wooded stick-forced him to turn it off.

The child: still smiling.

Kintahmee: slightly smiling-no longer feeling numb.

My turn.

I squatted down to Baby and turned the stroller towards me so
Kintahmee and Mista could talk, but they barely said a word to one another.

Baby’s deep dimples held my attention as she cooed-still smiling and happy
that I finally made my way down to her from her constant stare and smile up at me.

I would occasionally peek up at Kintahmee-she had that same slight smile and
finger in her mouth; reminiscent of a blushing pre-teen with a school-girl crush.
I could tell…this woman-she still loved this man. In her eyes-in her world: “this no-good man.”

Mista eventually walked away and disappeared into the crowd on the corner
where he originally stood the whole time that we stood there: watching over
Kintahmee and his child.

Remembering what she told me the last time I saw her about not having a phone,
I was caught this time between trying to figure out how to ask for her number
or even if I should. I wondered if I should give her mine-just like I did the
last time I saw her.

I took the plunge.
“Well here, take my number,” I said.
Again this time to grab a pen and paper, I reached for my duffle sac while she
reached back into the satin jacket.

“Give it here,” she said, with the monotone expression in her voice as if she
was about to fake like she was entering it with the elite list of people in her
world-already programmed.

“I use ‘dis here,” she said, pointing the cell phone, not giving a damn about
what the hell I thought of her. Carelessly, shamelessly, frank, and honest,
she defensively concluded: “I aint got no phone at home.”

Glancing over at the corner where Mista stood, I imagined the sky-high home
phone bill that she probably had stashed away in her dresser drawer somewhere from
accepting one too many of Mista’s jailhouse phone calls, now learning to live
without a home phone.

So what, what da hell do I want ‘choe numba fo’ anyway. If I was gone call
I woulda called the last time I saw you and you gave it to me,
” I read her mind,
brows and body language telling me while she looked me up and down…then at me
(finally)-wondering now, in our two separate worlds-what the hell we even had in
common that we could even talk about.

Little did she know, our experiences were the same difference.
We just never got around to sharing them together…

But I let her off the hook, yet again.
So as to give her an easy exit; I turned my attention towards the meat market’s
door and she prepared herself to finish her stroll on the strip.

Her mission was complete.

Yes, knowing that it would invade her space, I still hugged her tightly while in
a flash in my mind; I played out fantasies of being able to set her up straight-give
she and the baby enough to put away for many-a rainy days. She needed it oh so badly.

She relaxed and accepted my sincere embrace-her body did. And although it was in my
head that she smiled, her face did not.

I could deal with that, because smiling like the way I once remembered her-just wasn’t
her thing these days.
I was merely glad that she let me in with my hug.
I was merely glad she now knew that I still loved her-and that I still saw her as the
same happy little girl that she used to be, even after all these years.

Standing at the meat market’s door, I looked her in the eyes and said:
“Hey Kintahmee-keep in touch with me okay?”

“Okay,” she lied.

“Hey. I love you,” I said, sincerely, knowing that she would be numb to that-I
didn’t care though. I only cared that she heard me say it to her.

“Talk to you later,” she replied, as she turned to walk to the right.
Her satin jacket was shining brightly from the cool spring sun beaming onto it.

Mista still stood across the street to the left-watching everything.

By the time I picked up the meat order, loaded it into the car, and pulled out
of the parking lot, I could see the shiny black jacket a couple of blocks down the strip.

From my rear view, Mista was still posted on that same corner-he and Kintahmee
still hadn’t said a word it seemed. Their body language told me so, even from the rear
view short distance. It didn’t even look like what I knew was a fact: that they lived
together and slept in the same bed.

Driving slowly, I watched her as a smile of familiarity came across her face while
she yelled down the street.

Some girl stepped out with the same satin jacket Kintahmee had on-and even the cap to match it.

I think I got a little bit jealous as I drove off the busy strip. I could feel my own
expression on my face-looking as such, so I admitted it to myself.

Kintahmee. A woman now. But once was the sweet girl that I used to think was my little
doll who for years and filled with so much energy and laughter that nothing in the world
could have told me that she would not have grown up to be bubbly, playful and wild like
I remembered her-then.

Way back then she had an amazingly natural sense of humor and was filled with so much
energy and laughter, that sometimes she would wear me down. She was such a doll. I would
pinch her cheeks and burst out and sing to her: “Little Lou Lou, I love you just the same!”
She would laugh so hard, then smack me and run-thinking that I was insulting her.
But it was my “doll song,” because she was a doll to me.

That was all way back when-before “life” stepped in.

Still feeling a little jealous of that familiar smile that came across her face for
BlackSatinJacketWithTheCapToMatch, I played out a corny thought in my mind-wondering if
I had busted out and sang the “Little Lou Lou” song would I, too, have gotten that same
smile of familiarity that she gave to BlackSatinJacketWithTheCapToMatch. I reminisced about
how she used to hang onto my legs and wrestle and fight with me. She was so rambunctious
and cute-loved to be up under and around me any chance she could (really wanting me to sing
my “doll song” to her so she could laugh and act like she hated it).


It has funny way of grabbing hold of people.
People melt and mold themselves into certain ways that life beckons them. I realized that
to be true-at that moment.

Kintahmee had gone through so much in her life that she could only not be numb
around what was like, or familiar to her.

I understood that.

I had to accept that.

I didn’t judge her, and I wanted her to know that. And although I knew it would invade
her space; I hugged her anyways.
I needed to tell her that I loved her-to let her know that I still saw her “as-was.”
And as we are now, I insisted on treating her “as-if.” As if her life (at that very moment)
had gone the direction I thought it would. Her mother was a debutante and she was raised well,
and with all good things and good people who loved her. Somehow, she settled for a life
that was different than expected but I never judged her.

I could tell that she was so used to being judged, that she could turn her
automatic brick mode on and off with the switch of familiarity. BlackSatinJacketWithTheCapToMatch
showed me she could.
Jealous, but I understood.

So many years had gone by and had taken a lot of her with it.
I knew of (personally), so many changes that she had gone through.
Tears came to my eyes as I wondered what it was really like on the inside
of her-nowadays.

In an instant, I got mad at every situation in her life that I knew about-that chipped
away at her bubbly spirit.

I got mad at the environment and slumlords that permitted a human being with a baby to live
in all the places she had lived in over the years.

I was pulling out everyone I could that most probably contributed to bursting her “bubbly.”

I thought and I thought and I thought, but then a smile came across my face.

I had forgotten about the permanent smile on the Baby’s face-and how so very happy
she was-it was just like Kintahmee’s when she was a little girl, toddler and
pre-teen-before life stepped in and got real mean.

Baby was clean, she smelled good, her clothes were clean and she wasn’t hungry-so
I smiled (with the same kind of smile that Kintahmee had on her face when she saw BlackSatingJacketWithTheCapToMatch).

I couldn’t help but smile-because in that moment, I realized that as long “as-is” is treated
“as-if,” everything will fall into its place-no matter who it is.

I couldn’t help but smile.
Because although they barely said two words to one another, I forgot about the way I would
catch Mista looking at Kintahmee with complete adoration in his eyes, but physically showed
it to Baby while Kintahmee stood there with her finger in her mouth like that girl with the
high-school crush.

It was cute to observe.
How soon I forgot.

I couldn’t help but smile.
And in my mind-as I thought about Kintahmee while on the road, she really was
happy-her mission was complete, she got a sincere hug and was told “I love you” from someone
that she loved and adored once upon a time. And little did she know-she was also being adored
by a man that she too, obviously adored-but didn’t even notice the adoration in his face for her.
I did though. I saw it.
And I couldn’t help but smile.

I smiled for her because she, at that very moment in time, was in the company of
BlackSatinJacketWithTheCapToMatch who too, was making her smile and laugh-which therefore,
put a smile in my heart. And
I couldn’t help but smile.”



A friend and I were talking.
She laughed at me, but still thought about it.
She couldn’t answer it, but couldn’t discount it…

You know that one song.
…that one endearing song that’ll remind you of a certain
moment in time or a certain person
(for whatever reason-platonic, romantic or otherwise).

What about songs of heartbreak? We have them (some-not).
For those of us who have experienced heartbreak,
we all have had at least one song that’ll remind us of that
heartbreak (or that moment) huh? We laugh (or some cry if the well hasn’t run dry).

Isn’t it funny how music (whether instrumental or w/lyrics)
universally moves us to some moment, thought or even to some action (to dance, nod etc).

In case you didn’t know it by now, I love music (instrumental or w/lyrics).
And well, why belabor the obvious-if I can paint a scene with the emotion
in my head from the lyrics that I see or hear-well then, I’m hooked.

As a writer, I fancy myself and “expressionist” because I am a
“treat-the-description-like-you’re sparing-an-expense-so-the-reader-can-ingest-it-in-full-slash-spare-no-details-in-the-detail”
kind of writer (and person).
Every single word’s of description has to POP! It has to count for something,
in order to derive something from the reader; move them to some kind of action (or reaction)…

I love to write and I love music because I can really smell, hear,
touch and taste what I read (if it’s good to me) and the same happens
for me when I write something.

Like watching a movie.
While I am describing something, I have to hear theme music when I’m writing it.
My heart has to flutter and beat a certain way or my lashes have to be batting controllably.
That is the same experience I have to put a reader through-or else I’m not satisfied.
Something physical, mental or emotional has to happen in order for me to be
satisfied with a description of scene in whatever I write.

So when I absorb a piece of anything that resonates with me,
I feel “stolen away,” if you will.

I believe that certain words, certain music and even certain spirits and energies
“find” you-especially when it comes to love and love songs.
You can’t go digging through crates looking for a love song that reminds
you of your love/r. That is forced, it just has to “happen.”
I think that love songs have to find you and then that song connects an energy
or spirit to you. That feeling that you feel is like theme music from inside-out.

You think?

But is it: “like (infatuation),” “love” or “lust?”

I remember when I was a very young girl, the very first love song I heard and
comprehended nearly put me in a trance.
It was a song about a love song, but about a love-long (if that makes any sense to you).
The lyrics: “If we can be the best of lovers, yet, be the best of friends.
If we can try with everyday to make it better…As it grows…With any luck…Then I suppose:
the music…never ends…”
had me stunned.
Because if you substitute the word: “love” for “music,” you will understand this
whole point I am making in this blog (as you read on).


It wasn’t until I grew up and understood “love” that the song resonated with me.
(I probably should have italicized “me”) because of my lil’ theory about (love) songs:
Some part of me can’t help but wonder that if a person is in “like” and a love song “finds”
them that reminds or intertwines their love/r in it…


Don’t laugh at me like me friend did. And don’t judge me-please.

…But, like in the “details” of the lyrics of my favorite first love song (above mentioned),
will that love last (long)?

I know it may sound corny, but if anyone loves and is always curious about “love,”
(the idea of it, the act and expression of it): it’s me. Let me tell it, I will give
cupid or any other goddess’ of love a run for their arrows and harpsichord as long as I am
alive: liking, lusting or loving…

Laugh at me, but I feel justified, fearless (and somewhat entitled) on my thoughts about
love because I’m not like most people when it comes to being in denial about separating
like/infatuation from lust from love.

Most people are not willing to admit their hedonism and transgressions (when they happen).
They come up with these romanticized and almost “spiritual-like” reasons to camouflage
what was really moments of: lust or infatuation rather than just calling it what it is
(or was), getting caught up into emotional and mental situations-chasing and trying to
make “love” of lust, like or infatuation.

Any other definition than what it was-will do (for most people) when all we have to do
is ask-just to be clear on “where are we going with this?”…

As I grew to understand what love really is, I’m never in denial or unclear about
either one-I’m painlessly honest about it to myself, and to whom it may concern…

So with that, I feel somehow that I have some inalienable right to speak on it.

If I’m in “like,” I can admit that-I don’t try and make “love” of it.

If I’m in lust or infatuated, I can admit that too, without telling myself that it is
“love” (if it is not).

So, if I feel love or I am “in love,” I know it-I can (and will) admit that-open and

I don’t confuse like, infatuation, lust or love just to satisfy my or someone else’s:
comfort, ego or heart in order to steal away with my moment, or to create one for
them…so let me have the floor why don’t you!

If you let me tell it and teach a class on love, I would probably interject this
romantic “love” prerequisite in order to tell if what you feel is really “love:”
Your love/r has to fit at least one song just as sure as Cinderella’s slipper
fit her foot! And both must have found the other!…Then it’s real…”

Laugh now…

Sure-I laugh at myself too, but I couldn’t help but ponder the thought about it
because I looked at it like this.
We’ve all loved a couple or few people in our lifetime, some-madly.
But when we think about it-not every one of those “loves” of ours-“came with a song” did they?
It just didn’t work out like that did it?
Or did you ever think about that?

I’m curious…

I stare at people who [are, or think] they’re in love.

I talk to people and ponder when they talk about love.
It’s so hard to talk about “love” I think because it’s a “walk” about love.

Walk with me on this:

Have you ever sat in a movie theatre and watched a movie with no sound-no music?

Could you enjoy a movie without the sound of music?

How could that work?

Keep laughing like my friend did, but I think that music is our theme song of a life of love,
just as much as love for life and living is. It’s like a vessel-a lifeline to our heart.

Songs of heartbreak do their own thing. They serve their purpose. They soothe our broken hearts;
rub and love all the hurt away.

Love songs do their own thing too. They make us feel good at the moment we hear those love songs
that reach us (even for no apparent reason or connection to another person).
Those are those love songs that we discover by accident-by turning on the radio or someone
turning us on to them.

But do the love songs that find us when we are in “like,” differentiate whether we are
in “like and infatuated” or “in lust?”

I wonder…

I’m not superstitious and my feet are firmly planted to the ground when it comes to “love,”
but some part of me can’t help but wonder that if a love song finds you + an energy or spirit,
and you both happen to be “in “like (or infatuated) with one another, does that differentiate
whether what we are feeling is really love, or lust?



{May 1, 2011}   Surge. Urge. Splurge.

Nothing is more pleasing to the eye, ears and heart than to see someone get a surge of energy that gives them a creative thought or idea that makes ’em wanna move on it.

I especially love it when I’m there to witness it.

I feel what they are feeling-because I know how that feels…

{May 1, 2011}   Word Your World.

The written word and english language are so beautiful.

There are no amount of words selected that can camouflage: beauty, love humor, peace, joy, happiness, contentment.

Likewise, no matter what choice in words we use; there are no such selections that can camouflage: fear, inferiority, envy, hatred, jealousy, anger, self-hatred & insecurity.

That’s the beauty of the obscurity of the written word.

{May 1, 2011}   Woo Bring Thee Joy.

Life can seem sadistic-teetering on masochistic.

There is no “simple solution” to it.

We feel unhappy with it sometimes because we think we are supposed to be happy in it.

But the truth is, we have to take our joy from it-like a thief in the light…

Happy is a condition.

Joy is the only state of mind that is the state of being.

Whether we realize or accept it as fact, “happy” is a fluctuating and fleeting emotion; contingent upon so many things that ignite it (long or short-term).
But pursue it-intently while remaining gratefully content with where you are and what you already have, and with that-joy will definitely be found.

{May 1, 2011}   Flee. Glee. Be.

I observe that some people spend more time speaking of swating off the “devil” and negativity than they actually do spending their life and their minds time for good & positivity.

The more constant you speak about what you’re trying to get rid of-it’s most probably already apart of you.

People don’t talk about losing weight unless they have pounds to shed (whether we want to admit it or not).
It’s like the same difference. Think about it.

We frequently announce or acknowledge what we discover (especially about our own selves).

{May 1, 2011}   Art Farce

A real artist never really spends a significant amount of time talking about art.

He walks about art.

It’s a: “so who are you really trying to convince” or a: “watch…read…feel…take a seat…take a listen or a taste and I will convince you.”

Art is the abstract over the concrete as is the verb about it being a noun (says the dictionary).

It’s a: “I will show you, bring to you, bring you through, make you, shake you, place in front of you, put into you: a person, place or thing-all by doing…
And being: ‘art.’ ”

{May 1, 2011}   Ram. Bam. Scram. Damned.

Even before discovery of, I don’t like Aries men.
But in one slash two, as I grew, I found a friend.

One of my besties was an Aries.
Our energy always clashed.
We’d fight like junkyard dogs in the phone horn and face to face.

But we love hard, as besties-just the same.

When I ride-she ride.

When I cry-she cries.

When I hurt-she’s hurt.

But if she’s hurt, she brings her heart-wholeheartedly.

If she lie-like; she hide-like.

But when it comes to me-I trust her truth over everybody’s plight.


‘Cause she ride-right.

But I fly right.

I pack light.




I evolved.

Damned right…

et cetera