Early Morning Randomness.

I don’t feel particularly grounded, well, since I don’t have much to ground me. Terrie and I were talking the other day, about what happens when people lose a significant other. I appreciate him because he knows what it feels like to deal with heartbreak and all, but anyways the point is, we came to the conclusion that for some it’s faith, others it’s family, but if those grounding influences aren’t enough there is always substance to make life worth living. For me it’s cigarettes, for him it’s weed, but it’s really just two sides of the same coin. Positive events scheduling is important for anyone, especially for anyone who is or has been depressed. Honestly, my feet haven’t touched the ground in close to a decade, a I’ve confronted the utter meaninglessness of life. I’ve just been going through the motions without much joie de vie, direction, searching for meaning where often times, there hasn’t been much to be found...

I’m hoping that the MSW will help since therapists typically report high levels of career satisfaction. If I had the motivation I could be on my second book by now, but again the direction, motivation, and meaning are sorely lacking...

I have a new therapist, an older white guy named Scott. Since Francis and I clicked so well, I had my doubts about Scott, but even just typing this made me think about the love life. While I can’t reasonably expect the next one, whoever she may be, to replace the loves of yesteryear, different doesn’t necessarily mean worse or a downgrade. The expectancy of negativity is something I have to check. There is something called depressive realism, which says that depressed people have a more accurate perception of reality than their optimistic counterparts. As all of this concerns Scott, I went in with a preconceived notion that he wouldn’t be as good for me as Francis, but after a few meetings his more detached, sterile, and psychoanalytic style has grown on me. He takes notes when I talk sometimes, and has pointed out that I tend to frame things in term of loss. That’s something I hope to work on, maybe he can help me reframe things...

My minimalist tendencies are at an all time high. Right now, I’m looking at eight or so pairs of shoes lined up against the wall, which is about seven to many for my purpsoes. I have one pair I wear everyday, boots for the winter, dress shoes, and random kicks that maybe have been worn a handful of times, if that. I’m looking at the armoire and I have about 10 pairs of jeans, most of which are from the Old Navy Outlet. I don’t need that many, and really only a few pairs are in rotation. Maybe I got them during last winter as retail therapy, but for me it’s all about functionality as opposed to form, utility over acquisition. Just the basics are needed for my simple tastes...

Anhedonia is a term that’s used to describe a lack of pleasure derived from life. That’s how I’m feeling these days, and some of it is seasonal me thinks, the other is just a general falling off of things that used to matter. The things that used to do it for me still do it, but just dialed down about forty five notches. It’s football season, and I’ve probably watched the cumulative equivalent of one half of a game. TV, and all those pop culture series that have the nations rapt attention, do little to nothing for me. Sex? While I have fond memories of fucking, I tend to agree with Patrice O’Neal, the late comedian and fellow Bostonian, when he said, after you reach a certain age, you have sex just so you have a memory of something to jerk off to later. Sounds about right to me. I’m content to just look at the eye candy on any given day, use my imagination, and keep it moving after that. The thrill of the hunt, is all but gone...

It’s 5:00AM, and I’m just waiting for my EBT bennies to kick in an hour, so I can get some grub. I’m not even that hungry, but I’ve been on a Ramen diet lately and the palette could use something else besides sodium bombs to stimulate it...

My younger sister came into work today, and we caught up briefly. It was good to see her. She asked me if I was saving. Ha, I thought. I make rougly 1,100 bucks a month. 500 goes to rent, so the paycheck I just got last Friday is already gone. 300 of the next paycheck will go the old roommate for the whip. The other two bills will hopefully be enough to pay for the title change. The check after that = rent, and the one after that should be enough to get the car inspected, insured, and registered. So yea, I won’t have a check to myself for another month and a half or so. This should bother me more than it does, but fuck it. Money is tight, what else is new...

Next year, will hopefully be different; much different. If the school thing goes through, I’ll have refund money along with a supplication to Uncle Jackie Robinson’s Scholarship Foundation for a graduate fellowship in the amount of 10K. That’s two moves right there, and I will have damn near doubled what I’ll take home from a year of grinding at Whole Foods...

The car will open up other options, once all the paperwork is taken care of. I can look for jobs outside a walking/busing radius, and be able to go visit the house that I own with the sperm donor and older siblings to see if anyone is living there. If so, maybe I’ll see about collecting the share that I’m due. I’m already knowing that my father, being the bitchassnigga that he is, will try to stiff me. Well if it has to go through small claims then so be it. It dawned on me the other day, that the family has three houses in the state, and yet I’m paying rent to live independently. Go figure...

I’ve been in touch with my friend/mentor/old-co-worker, which has been good for me. It’s nice to be in touch with successful people. I think that’s a good note to close on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Recent goings on.

My roommate moved to the OC, my old stomping grounds, recently, but while he was here he certainly made an impression on me, and more importantly became my friend (hardly a term I throw around loosely). Shady, as I called him, looked out in many a ways, smoking me out regularly, loaning me money, but his greatest parting gift (aside from his company which trumps the material) was a ’95 525 that he sold me for the super duper friend price of $800. I still owe him three bills, and the car won’t be fully registered, insured, inspected and all that good stuff for another month and a half or so, but as Shady astutely pointed out, just having it parked out front is three quarters of the battle. This is/was a major deal for me, as I have been on foot patrol for six and a half years, and I can’t wait until I can drive it legitimately. . . 

Today marks the 12^th anniversary of the “procedure.” A dozen year’s later, the rapper Common’s sentiments are still profoundly true: “$315 ain’t worth your soul.” It’s crazy to think I would have an eleven year old, and I often wonder what he/she would have looked like, sounded like, and generally how much different my life would have been with, “Pookie” (as we named our unborn). Big Sigh. . .

I called Brenda a few days ago, and she picked up, much to my surprise. Yes, I was slightly buzzed, and maybe that had something to do with the call, but it was nice to hear her unmistakable voice. We caught up for over an hour and a half plus since it had been over a year and a half since we had last talked. Though we keep in touch pretty regularly textually (i.e., FB, email, texts, etc.), the phone is more personal/favorable in my book… call me old school. . .

Speaking of old school, despite the misgivings voiced in my last post I finished my application to USC’s MSW program. All that’s left is for my recommenders to submit their letters and for my transcripts to be sent. The admissions office called me less than 24 hours after I submitted my application to see whether I was applying for the on campus program or the online one; either way, I took their speedy reply as a hopefully good sign of an acceptance to come (knocks furiously on wood!). Boston College’s program is the more logical choice as it would obviate the need for a cross country move. However, that said, I just found out yesterday that a co-worker of mine at Whole Foods has her MSW from BC (keep in mind it’s a top ten program- BTW USC ranks closely behind at #11). This struck me as odd and slightly unsettling to know that she has her degree and is still ringing groceries, but there could be an explanation for this. I still have yet to really talk to her, but I did confirm that she completed the program yesterday. Meanwhile, the two MSW’s I know from the alma mater are gainfully and very happily employed in their field of choice. Either way, come late March, early April, I’ll have an answer (and something to look forward to, keep me going) as to my admissions’ status. . .

I did some ghostwriting for an old co-worker of mine recently (and it’s on its way to being published if it hasn’t already been). I asked him about the world of literary agency, my own project, others of his, and somehow or another our talked ended with him offering me 7.5% of his split share in a small publishing company in exchange for the overseeing of his next project. Let’s just say it is pending further review on my end, though it could be the synergistic lead I’ve been looking for. . .

Scholastic Misgivings, Too Cool For School, And Such and Such

If it’s not a step in the right direction, it’s a step in the wrong one. While this may sound glib and reek of “all or nothing thinking (one of my favorite cognitive distortions), it does seem apropos given the thoughts in my previous entry about returning to school. Sure Social Work would afford me the opportunity to help people, a passion of mine, it’s an approximation towards my ultimate goal of doing so through my writing. It’s not like being a therapist wouldn’t provide rich writing material (even with confidentiality mandates), but after a certain point, it’s like stop beating around the fucking bush, be direct, ignore B-Y and jump straight from A to Z.  Sure there is something to be said for respecting the process, but the only one holding me back from me is me, and perhaps that’s the most frustrating part is the actual execution of it all. Am I too rigid in my thinking (me? Never, ha!) The proposed writing project doesn’t have to be a memoir, perhaps something of the self help variety? The latter would be far easier, due to the logistics of retelling a decade of memories clouded by chaos. Furthermore as it regards certain processes, there is a time to respect the process, and a time to say fuck it, who are you the processor, or institution that’s doing the processing, to evaluate, grade, license, test, etc., me? That was a major issue for me at Berkeley with the interminable hoops through which they expected me to jump for MA/Ph.D. It was one thing in college, which was completed out of parental expectation, ease, and naivety to some extent, but as someone once so astutely observed, you have to graduate at some point, and then it’s back to square one, or two. Develop the career, progress professionally, etc. I remember being conscious of this during my final years at USC; I went hard because truthfully, I didn’t want to go back for any reason, which would explain my grand four year hesitation in finally committing to graduate school. Finally free! “And you want me to sign up for more of that bullshit?” Often times, you don’t know what you are doing until you stop doing it, and when forced to re-do that same thing, the perspective granted is eye-opening.

As far as school goes, it was my bread and butter from a very young age. If I were to fully commit to an MSW program and give myself every opportunity to succeed by choosing a program wisely there is no doubt that I could excel were I able to quiet the, “don’t test me voices.” Honestly, being tested at this stage in my life, in any form or fashion in general, but academically/professionally in particular, seems like a juvenile exercise in discipline, order, and authority. Even with the extra-curricular mayhem at Berkeley, I excelled GPA-wise, but even thinking of being tested for the MA Orals was indescribably irritating. “You really want me to sit down, read these forty or so canonical texts, and regurgitate their contents to you on command?” Besides being a waste of my time, it seemed and still does to be pedagogically inefficient at best, depending how your training and temperament. It was Maya Angelou who said, “there is a difference between being trained an educated.” If I want to have anything to do with a train, believe me, it wouldn’t be of the academic variety. I’m already knowing for the MSW, there would be a master’s thesis, then an internship, then a licensing exam, then countless renewals and evaluations as the years progress. That’s a lot of testing for someone who long ago lost the tolerance for them. If focused, I will pass, defeat, break, and defecate on any such test that requires academic recall. Don’t test me, don’t push me, don’t try me. My resume dating back to elementary speaks for itself, and at this stage in my life, feeling the need to prove something to someone would be akin to acting. I’m nobody’s Denzel. Like OK, teacher or supervisor or whomever, why are we playing this game again. Games are the province of children, so why stick to the puerile script, so to speak.

Had to get that off my chest.

Nas captures my sentiments brilliantly in song called reachout. If I would more technically proficient, I would embed the link, but instead, here go the lyrics to the first verse, with my favorites in italics:

3:45 am can’t sleep, can’t dream
I’m stuck, money problems pop up
How will I survive, guess it’s best to decide not to decide
So that’s my decision
Whatever happens happens
I keep makin’ my millions
Can see myself in presidential campaign dinners
But I’m passin’ blunts around a bunch of gang members
When you’re too hood to be in them Hollywood circles
And you’re too rich to be in that hood that birthed you
And you become better than legends you thought were the greatest
And out grow women you love and thought you could stay with
Life become clearer when you wipe down your mirror
And leave notes around for yourself to remember
I like to teach and build
With brothers about how easy it is to reach a mill
All you need is some skill, then it’s grindtime
Imagination better than knowledge, say’s Einstein
It’s all in the mind
Nasty the nicest, I’m somewhat of a psychic
Just one minute after it’s heard
You all excited, you all repeat it
So call me a genius, if you didn’t
Now that I said it I force you to think it
Write in my little vignettes, sipping Moet
When you vision me, you vision the best
When I was young they called me, Olu’s son
Now he Nas father, I was the good seed
He was the wise gardener

About the Growing Cost of Stability.

If the cost of stability is mind-numbing (or perhaps mind-rotting) monotony, then it’s growing less and less worth it as the one day blurs into the next. While manning the register once seemed like a daunting task, I have now capped out as far as my cashiering efficacy goes. I’d say 90% of the produce PLU’s have been committed to memory, and I have now resorting to doing mental register math to stay somewhat alert during my shifts. It’s been great to dust off the mental number line, but alas, even regurgitating change upon receiving whatever denomination of bill is handed to me has become simple.

I worked 8 days in a row, had two out of three days off, then was scheduled for what would have been nine straight. I say would have been, because, as my luck would have it, my throat became scratchy yesterday at work, so I went home. Normally I would have toughed it out, but I have a wedding to attend this weekend (which will hopefully provide some much-needed inspiration as well as a change of scenery) and didn’t want to risk worsening my condition immediately prior to this joyous occasion.

It’s come to the point where I am starting to fancy returning to school for yet another crack at this grad school thing (fourth time’s the charm right; to be fair, while technically it’ll be my fourth strike, so to speak, two attempts were foul tips). If I were to do it, my first and probably only choice would be Boston College. My grandfather, Casper Augustus Ferguson, was recognized as the first black graduate of this fine institution, but genealogical legacies aside, it simply gives me the best chance of succeeding with the bevy of growing support networks (from medical to personal) that I have in place in the area. Stability is the name of the game, if it kills me, and while I feel it would be a step up the ladder, providing an entry point to an actual career (as opposed to a dead-end job for which I have no passion), I do have a feeling it would be a circuitous path to my ultimate goal of writing for a living.

A Master’s in Social Work, while equal parts magnanimous and rewarding, would be something that empower me as far as options (and certainly an increased salary) and occupational prestige go, but however noble the field is, it strikes me as a tad bit roundabout way to achieve my objective(s).

My issue with writing for a living is two-fold. One, I would like to write what I want to write about as opposed to having whatever abilities I may have be exploited by simply taking on random freelance jobs. Second, there is the motivation, or lack thereof, factor. When asked to write for other people, I can knock it out the park on my first swing, but left to my own devices the memoir, (a very early draft of which I finally found in my inbox) is still a work that is only about 2% complete.  

Where My Homegirl At? Right here... (part one)

It’s only taken a year, but I’ve finally found a gal pal whose company I enjoy. And to anyone who ever told me that smoking was bad for you, I’d say they probably never had a chance meeting over a cigarette build into a dope ass friendship. A couple of months ago now, I was having a smoke when my co-worker asked me for one. She’s relatively quiet, so I had never really heard her speak before. Come to find out she is from “Elle-A”, and by the way she said, “L.A.” I immediately asked if she was Mexican. She responded, “of course.” I smiled, knowing that was probably enough to make her certified good peoples, and man was I right.

Mexicans and I go back like eight tracks, all the way back to 2000 when I stayed on the black floor at good ol’ USC. There were two Latino floors above us in the dorms, and it didn’t take long for me to find out, that our friends from South of the border know how to look out for a brotha. I would go up to the floor and be smoked out, get my Spanish homework proofread, and a group of girls from the Latino floor would routinely go to Trojan Grounds (the on-campus convenience store), game the cashier into giving them bags of free candy, and they would bring the bounty back to my homeboys with smiling faces. To get that kind of love off the bat was cool and always reminded me of old Tupac records where he would appeal to black and brown unity. But, as is typical I digress.

Back to my newfound homegirl. In keeping with the tradition of her commadres, she is cool as fuck. As we got to talking, I learned she was, “about that hood life,” which made me smile even more. Even though I’m not from the hood per se, I still feel like I was uprooted from my urban roots and shuttled out to the burbs, before it was my time at the age of five (though I still remember my older sister and I being babysat by a hood caretaker who would smoke weed on the balcony, while “watching” us). People from the hood, or those who have dealt with adverse circumstances in general are typically more giving and know how to look out. It’s a different kind of feeling I get connecting with them; in short I feel the love more than I do with other people, and as it concerns my homegirl, she is no different. Case in point, we were having lunch at work, and I asked her if anyone she knew was selling a car on the cheap. Well as luck would have it, she has a civic that she doesn’t need that she was willing to give me, even after I asked her what she wanted for it. Yes, that’s right, I said give. I don’t care what’s wrong with it, if the engine is gone, if the muffler is dragging, or if the windshield is busted out, it’s a car, something I haven’t had since parting ways with the Boxster in 2007. Even if she doesn’t run, I already have a nickname for her: “plan B”, cause that’s where I’ll be sleeping should anything ever, ever happen to the $500/month, off-the-books apartment (which still seems to good to be true). To put her more than generous donation to the poor-negro-on-foot-patrol in perspective here’s how the family responded to my request for whip assistance:

My father’s cousin had an older Corolla that was well-maintanined, and was even the same color and roughly the same year as my first car, also a Corolla. Needless to say, I made countless inquiries to him about it, but was told more than once that it wasn’t for sale. Recently I found out that the cocksucker, donated the car to a non-profit, because his mechanic wouldn’t work on it due to rust issues. That’s right, he gave away his car that I’m sure still had miles on it, instead of keeping it in the family. Good lookin’ out, man.

Then there’s my older sister. My mother either went half on her circa 2000 Corolla, or paid for the whole thing (honestly, I’m not sure), only thing I know is that it’s a Corolla that she’s had for close to a decade. When I asked her to hand it down and get herself in something a little more new, she all but laughed at my request (understandably, as it was a lofty one).

Then there are my mother and my younger sister. I pulled up to my mother’s house in a ’99 Passat that I was test driving from the dealership up the street. They were practically giving it away for $999 (and I negotiated it down to $750 at the first meeting with the salesman). Instead of offering to throw down some ends to getting me driving again as she did with my sister’s new car, my mother, who is always swearing she is broke yet blows money like a hurricane, simply asked, “do you have a thousand dollars?). I liked that car, and even though at that price point I’m sure it needed something major done to it, I decided to ask my little sister if she would loan me three bills to make it happen. Keep in mind she has two jobs, and at one point very recently worked two weeks in a row with no days off, so I figured she’d have something to donate to the cause. Nope she told me she was broke (one of my pet peeves; when people front like they ain’t got it). This was made even more frustrated knowing that she chipped in not four hundred dollars, but four thousand, when my mother bought her car (which she still has never, and probably will never let me drive). Yep, that’s my family for you.

Anyhow, over the course of the past month my homegirl from work and I have gotten to know each other, mostly over facebook chats and our shared love of the “caffeine and nicotine” vaccine (read:coffee/cigarette breaks). It’s been cool since I haven’t had a local, go-to, gal pal in Boston, well, forever. Throughout my travels, I’ve managed to make good female friends who have been cool companions in the other three locales, but never at home. Boston girls. Wow. What can I say. Besides being voted the worst dressed city in America, I haven’t enjoyed their company since high school. In addition to being style-adverse, they for a number of reasons (the hideous Boston accent being one of them) aren’t my cup of tea. Though Boston is feeling more like home than ever before these days, LA was the first city where I felt at home, so to have gotten cool with one of her daughters, so to speak, on the east coast has been a welcomed surprise. And she wasn’t playin’ when she said she was about that hood life. From turnin' it up in skrip clubs, to playin’ bones in the wee hours of the morning, to getting the boot from different high schools back home, to hearing stories of holding her man down, I quickly learned she is officially my kinda girl.    

She Still Reminds Me of a Westside Story

     I’ve been thinking about the "other" her lately. I heard through the mutual friend who hooked us up in the first place that she is getting hitched in December. I remember while we were doing the long-distance thing years back, I described our relationship to my then shrink, Heather. She said, “she sounds like your magnet.” As much as we did attract one another, there was also a repellent quality to our bond, or lack thereof.

     I miss her sometimes, but the most loving thing I ever did to her was let her go. Although our relationship was the definition of rollercoaster with the dizzying highs and scary lows, I will always love and respect her for trying and loving me the way she did. The Llloyd Banks song, “I Don’t Deserve You,” would be in heavy rotation on days when thoughts of letting her go prevailed. 

     Instead of continuing to pursue the original her or go after the "other" her, I decided to go straight between the two paths as Frost admonished, and that has been making a lot difference. 

How Much Can One Body Take...Let's Find Out!

I just set a personal, “best” by smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in about seven hours. Not that this is anything to be proud of, and not that I was particularly stressed out (in fact quite the opposite), but you see I’m broke. Even if I had money, part of me cringes with the new Massachusetts tobacco tax, which brings the total for a pack of smokes to just under ten dollars. “Crack prices!” as Chappelle said.

I’ve also been waking up with chest pain lately. There is a tightness and discomfort in my chest, and at times it feels like there is a small anvil resting on my sternum. These symptoms subside after an hour or so, but it’s something to mention to the doc when I have my annual physical in the coming weeks. At 31, I feel like I should be taking better care of myself. You know, exercising, eating healthily, putting the smokes down etcetera. Instead I’ve started downing two liter bottles of soda like they’re water again, eating whole large pizzas in a single sitting, and smoking like a chimney. I also have started (well a while back) relying on coffee at work to get me shifts. I still drink, but it's gone from a nightly, seemingly necessary thing, to the occasional beer or two here and there (though I was feenin' for a forty today).

On a positive note, I’ve only bought one bag of weed in the past six weeks or so. This marks a grand departure during the winter, when I thought I had added Mary Jane to the list of vices (Alcohol being the third).

My energy levels are still as unpredictable as ever. Some days I can’t get enough sleep and hardly feel rested, even after a  full night’s sleep preceding a day full of intermittent napping.

All of the above makes me think that at this rate my days will be coming to an end sooner than they should be. Whether the curtain falls on this play prematurely or not, I hope it doesn’t anytime soon. I feel good these days, and I ain’t ready to check out yet.