Just a Bit of Randomness (Maybe)

Ode to the dreamers....R.I.P.  Jean-Michel Basquiat

Fuckin' Perfect

There are moments in our life when we wish we were a little better, a little stronger, a bit more confident, and much better liked. I say fuck that.

You are perfect. Any improvements you make, in order to make you happier, are simply icing on the cake.

Embrace the wonderful you.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

On the Road....Again

Coming back to Hamlet for the first time since moving to the DC area.  It hasn't been long enough to where I really feel like I've been gone.  But I do feel a bit of a difference.  Like a part of me has changed.  I do miss my family and friends from Hamlet.  It'll be very good to see them again.  But I know I can never go back.

Something in me has changed.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Mental Escape #2

Do you see that portion of the jagged peak

that looks like a 

man is 

standing up there?

Imagining that he is me.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Mental Escape

In my mind, I am here today. And it is beautiful.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

From the Words, Come Words

Burn the hours down.

The morning doles out

a symphony of reasonable requests,

like patience.

I have none.

I want to smile without having to

borrow it from

my gut.

---  Ka’Mone Felix

Nocturne

most nights, my smiles

are a lot like

a string of stars,

scattered and

distant, flung out

in the distance,

tiny, white dots

far, and yet connected,

to collect them all

might take a while

but this doesn’t mean

I’m unhappy

every night is a mile

on this road my soul’s traversing,

a patchwork in the dark

for all the brightness my

life’s rehearsing,

I long to be a flame

even in the blackest

of moments,

hiding shame to shine

even when the

best days are

denial

because joy

never comes easy,

and I still fear that

most of these

smiles will

leave me

breath held, waiting

for something that

my insides will only find

a means to omit

but I don’t want to let this

break me

one day, my smiles will be

less of these awkward tremors

that stem

from the earthquake of nerves

in my chest,

less defense mechanism,

more sign of healing,

my nights will be peaceful

my days, unstressed,

but until then

I am this open wound

that bleeds out night

its silent air blankets

my not quite right

and causes me to long

for that moment, when 

these hours

no longer

burn

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Remembering that We are Giants

Joshua Bennett keeps on reminding me why I think he is magnificent.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Tuesday Groove, June 21, 2011

Since I'm bringing back the classics, I thought I'd start my Tuesday off right with something groovy that I've been cranking all week.

tUnE-yArDs --- the Bizness

(You have to love the StudlyCaps!!)  This is music that simply rocks!  From Merrill Garbus comes the brilliant notion of sound creating whatever vibe you choose to specify, all incorporated with her powerful voice.  Throw in the musical genius of Eli Crews and Nate Brenner, and you have something magical.  I can listen to this song over and over, and get as strong a connection to it on play number 10 as I did on play 2.  It's just that awesome.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Monday Oh So Dope Award, June 20, 2011 (Because Dopeness Always Comes Back)

So it's been a while since I've been in such a dope mood (and yes, for those of you who aren't aware, "dope" is still one of my favorite adjectives.  I'm an 80s baby...sue me!!)

Today's award goes, not to a person, but to something an important person instilled in me.  My mother, a minister, tried her best to make me a respectable, God-loving, decent young man, and I appreciate her for that.  Even in those moments when I "drop the ball", horribly, screaming holy fuck the entire time, I am aware that the principles she helped embed in me are still present.  And very powerful, indeed.

One of these principles is faith.

Say what you want to about faith, but understand that it is a powerful thing.  Even in its most rudimentary forms, it has kept my unwilling spirit moving forward, believing that something better was soon to come.  This is a feeling that can't be replaced.  You can't barter it out, auction it off, trade it in under the auspices of any religious title you want to give it.  This is about survival.  And while I am learning that I am far from religious, there is a spirituality in me that clings to faith and its beauty.

During all of my rough periods, faith made me believe I'd pull through.  Earlier today, I was blessed with a breakthrough that has been much needed and is gratefully appreciated.  Faith helped me never quit thinking that today would come.  And now, it has me believing that the best is still soon to come.

Faith, you are dope as fuck!!  (Probably not how my mother would put it, but I believe she'd see the good in my message.  Lol.)

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Two and a Half Men

Before I begin this post, let me take the time to acknowledge all the men out there who are fathers.  Not the men who went half on a child.  Not the men whose idea of fatherhood begins and ends with a state mandated payment.  Not the men who have absolutely no idea where there child is, and are not sick with wonder, trying everything in their power to find out.  These men are not fathers.  But I'm hoping one day they will try to be.

The fathers know who they are, and so today is for all of you.  I am thankful that, even though I can't provide as much as I desire to, the love and support that I give to my son places me in the father category.  That alone would make my own father proud.  And with those words, I begin.

Making my father proud may be the one unspoken factor that drives much of my determination and forces me to attempt greatness.  Though I have a long way to go, I anticipate the day that I can smile and know that it is so:  my father would have been very proud of me.  As I stare at the words on the screen, the 'would have been' stings me to the core.  My father passed in 2009, and I really don't think it's fully dawned on my yet.  I've grieved very little, but thought about it often, and I guess that's okay.  My how I miss him though....

And interestingly enough, with all of the life lessons and models of conduct that he left for me to dissect and follow, I see one in this as well.  You see, my grandfather passed in 1993.  I remember noticing my father in those rare moments when, reflecting on the loss or perhaps just remembering the man, he'd get lost in his emotions.  My father hardly ever cried.  In fact, I can barely remember more than a couple handfuls of times I saw my father in tears.  But he was an emotional man, even more so as I got older.  I remember watching him, think of his father, and once the sadness passed, there was such joy.  He remembered the man who taught him things. Who gave him love and guidance, nurtured things within him, and showed him how to find his own strength.  And this is what made him happy.

Now that these things have been passed on to me, I can put this sadness aside.  Although I miss my father dearly, I still have all of these memories.  Of him teaching me things.  Loving me.  Guiding me.  Giving me an example of how to be a man.

And I feel like I'm getting there.  I know where I want this life to take me, and I also see the possibilities of where my life can lead.  All of these are good places, so I smile.  In my mind, I am following the guidance of two and a half men.  The wisdom, direction, and strength of my grandfather.  The determination, humility, and love of my father.  And my own growth and understanding of it all, as I'm half way through implementing these things into becoming the man that I desire to be.

I know my son is watching.  And he is taking notes as well.  This too, would have made my father proud.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

The Occasional Crazy Rare Quote # 11

"All men by nature desire to know."

                                              ----  Aristotle

Unfortunately, it's the things we don't know that manage to stay on our mind the most.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Tapping into My Power

Moments ago, I just finished viewing a thunderstorm, complete with large streaks of lightning.  While they were in no way as massive as the one depicted above, they were breathtaking nonetheless.  I must admit that even I find it odd, this fascination I have with thunderstorms.  I enjoy going outside and watching.  Taking in the chaos.  Perhaps this says something about me, but I'll delve into that on another writing occasion.

Tonight, I am thinking about power.  Witnessing a thunderstorm, being within its midst as the loud crashes and illuminating flashes take place all around you, there has to be a sense of wonder.  The raw power stemming from what feels like every inch of the sky.  As I closed my eyes and began thinking, I started to wish I was this powerful.

Not to say that I want to streak across the sky or rumble through the clouds.  But in my everyday life, I wish I could tap into the energy of me, and release it as a thunderstorm.

A flash of ideas.  A seismic quake of possibilities.  My creativity forking out in bright branches, visible for all to see.  The sound of my promise echoing in the pits of anyone within range.

I want to tap into the power of me.  And I believe I can.

Confidence is the first step.  I have long downed myself as not being in the same position as others, for whatever reason.  But I'm beginning to realize that position is simply when potential has been realized and put forth into plan.  I haven't reached this point yet.  For far too long, I have been the constant reworking of a plan, instead of a plan set forth in motion.

Most people get caught up in planning, without ever understanding that the best way to formulate a plan is to try it out.  Failure is a much better tool to streamline a plan than simply scrapping it and attempting to brainstorm something better.

So now, I move into a mode of action.  Hopefully, in the end, my full power will be realized.

By then, I want to know how to use it.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Just A Bit of Randomness (Maybe)

I can imagine a conversation with her...on living, on writing, and purple things...

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

An Interesting Scene Got Me Thinking

Earlier this evening while outside on the balcony, I witnessed a moment that made me smile.  And then it got me thinking.  The scene, a father with his son, trying to teach the young boy to ride a small tricycle, created an ache within me that has been here ever since I moved, but has never really manifested itself, until now.

I really miss him.

I miss his curly hair, which mimics my own, when I was a child.  I miss his small fingers that are always grasping, and at night, when he sleeps beside me, usually find some way to play with my beard.  I miss that tiny voice, a ball full of cuteness, which spills out thoughts many years beyond his age.  And I miss those eyes, innocent and reassuring, telling me that no matter what choices I've made, there is love that lives within them.

I fear one day it will vanish.  That in my absence, it'll be less actions and more choices.  And admittedly, I've made some poor ones.  Beyond the fact that I chose to be a horrible match for his mother, I am afraid that my son will see my moving here as a decision to place him second.  That the better life I seek for myself, him, and all of our families, will do very little to sleight the sting of me not being there.  For the first few months of his life, I was there every day.  Many of those days, the very first and last set of eyes he'd see when waking or before falling asleep would be my own.  I hope, for both our sake, he has subconsciously latched hold of these memories, and he uses them as a blanket for the chill of far too many days where I am gone.  I don't want my son to only know me as a handful of scattered visits and awkward phone calls.

I want to hold him in my arms and tell him

"Just because I'm not there, it doesn't mean I don't love you."

I want to kiss him and squeeze him tightly, making him laugh and smile, and never cry.

I want to show him how much he means to me.

Because I fear at some point, these days will matter.  And my absence will speak louder than any words.

One day, my son may ask me,

"Daddy, why did you go?"

I guess I just hope that the answer I give him is enough to salvage his love, which I can't help but feel is lessening.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

Because Growth is a Process

Minor Miracle

Which reminds me of another knock-on-wood   

memory. I was cycling with a male friend,

through a small midwestern town. We came to a 4-way   

stop and stopped, chatting. As we started again,   

a rusty old pick-up truck, ignoring the stop sign,   

hurricaned past scant inches from our front wheels.   

My partner called, “Hey, that was a 4-way stop!”   

The truck driver, stringy blond hair a long fringe

under his brand-name beer cap, looked back and yelled,

                “You fucking niggers!”

And sped off.

My friend and I looked at each other and shook our heads.   

We remounted our bikes and headed out of town.   

We were pedaling through a clear blue afternoon   

between two fields of almost-ripened wheat   

bordered by cornflowers and Queen Anne’s lace   

when we heard an unmuffled motor, a honk-honking.   

We stopped, closed ranks, made fists.

It was the same truck. It pulled over.

A tall, very much in shape young white guy slid out:   

greasy jeans, homemade finger tattoos, probably   

a Marine Corps boot-camp footlockerful   

of martial arts techniques.

“What did you say back there!” he shouted.   

My friend said, “I said it was a 4-way stop.   

You went through it.”

“And what did I say?” the white guy asked.   

“You said: ‘You fucking niggers.’”

The afternoon froze.

“Well,” said the white guy,

shoving his hands into his pockets

and pushing dirt around with the pointed toe of his boot,   

“I just want to say I’m sorry.”

He climbed back into his truck

and drove away.

---  Marilyn Nelson

Just A Bit of Randomness (Maybe)

Trying to make that which is in me feel this high...

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet

I Believe I'd like Life to Kiss Me like This

Some Kiss We Want

There is some kiss we want with
our whole lives, the touch of

spirit on the body. Seawater
begs the pearl to break its shell.

And the lily, how passionately 
it needs some wild darling! At

night, I open the window and ask
the moon to come and press its

face against mine. Breathe into
me. Close the language-door and

open the love-window. The moon
won't use the door, only the window.

Rumi

Shaking these Anelastic Ways

Despite what the Google Chrome dictionary believes, anelastic is a word.

Via Dictionary.com:

anelastic 

- 1 dictionary result

an·e·las·tic·i·ty

   [an-i-la-stis-i-tee, an-ee-la-stis-]  Show IPA

–noun Physics .

the property of a solid in which deformation depends on the time rate of change of stress as well as on the stress itself.

Origin: 
an-¹  + elasticity

—Related forms

an·e·las·tic  [an-i-las-tik]  Show IPA, adjective

So I continue.  Eventually, there comes a point in our lives, when someone with good intentions shares with us the following:

Life is what you make it.

Maybe some of us stumble upon this idea ourselves, but regardless of how it is found, at some point it is there.  This is a very powerful statement, one that I feel holds ultimately true.  Unfortunately, it's the way that we use these words that leaves me a bit discouraged.

Usually, this statement comes into play only as a coping mechanism.  It is our way to deal with a trying situation.  The verbal equivalent to viewing "the glass half full".  All of this is good and fine, and manages to give people strength during those moments where it feels more logical to be weak.  I applaud that, but think these words are more powerful when taken precisely and resolute.

Life is what you make it.

Negative people will immediately use this to create self blame.  But there is a flip side.  These words also mean that you have the power to make your life good.  Not simply survive the bad days.  Not just overcome, but uplift and enrich.  You can raise your own life to whatever heights you see fit.

How to do this depends on whatever plateau you choose to reach.  But seeing the goal in mind, and believing that you have the ability to get there is a key first step.

A quick note, before I continue.  The word "deformation" usually has very negative connotations.  But I take this in the scientific sense, especially since "anelastic" comes from physics.  In geology, as well as mechanics, a deformation is a change in the shape or dimensions of a body, resulting from stress.  "Stress" is another one of those negative words, that can also simply mean any force on a body.  Some stresses are bad, and some are good.  But the point is, we spend far too much time waiting for these outside forces before we can shape or change the dimensions of our lives.  We sit in stationary positions, until something forces us to move.

Why?

If there is some place you'd rather be, begin the move.  This doesn't have to be a physical place, it can be emotional or mental as well.  Most of our lives are peeled back layers of contentment that we tuck ourselves beneath.  We stay trapped underneath these until some type of resistance pulls our layer away.  Then, we're suddenly forced to make a change.

I'm tired of being content (which interestingly comes from the Latin for contained).  I want to break out of this box of waiting for something else to come along that determines the highs and lows of my life.  I'm ready to begin living as if I believe these words:

Life is what you make it.

I believe that I have the power to make my life whatever I choose.  I'm ready to shake these anelastic ways, and start shaping my life into something extraordinary.  I don't just want to be content.  I want to be overjoyed.

Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet