Love- Remix

A few years ago a very disgruntled me wrote a poem about love. I was pissed. I didn't believe in it and wasn't loving myself very well at the time.

Today it might go:

Easy chairs aren't so easy when u have to drag them up 3 flights of stairs.
But do U then hate the chair? No.
The chair is soft and comfortable and U love it.
That's more how I'm feeling about love right now.
Nothing in this life's easy.
And 1/2 of our choices are chance.
So why not just make a choice and take a chance.
Even if you lose you win, because you'll learn something.
Something about yourself, about who you think you are, what U believe about yourself in your choice and expectations on a beloved.
In the selfish reality of it, it is all about you.
Because you're going to see what you want in another person and make them creations of what you believe as opposed to who or what they really are.
If you're lucky and aren't judging yourself or the world too harshly; then you can see the beauty in the flaws along with all the parts you readily accept and love.
If you're really lucky,
You get to love the flaws too. I think.
I have only recently experienced that idea (or the idea of the idea- but i'm away from my familiar and what I believe might indeed be severely flawed),
But I do believe it can happen.
Or some form of it.
But what the fuck do I know?

That's how I feel about love today.

love

I wrote this a while ago and have it on my other blog. you'll need to know it to get the next one.

Love

Soft like an easy chair-
my ass.
It's just the mood I’m in right now, I guess.
I don't write about love-
don't want to write about it because it makes
me feel like a romantic fool.
There's no room for romantic notions
in a hyper technologized world of IM.
The time to develop the intensity of feelings
and bonds of trust have become truncated into
smiley faces and empty and
quick "I love you emails" and text messages.
I say it so much that the feelings I used to have
when I felt it is gone.
The heat and swelling in my chest.
The flush of my cheeks.
My hands going numb.
Ears throbbing and mind made blank by an emotion
so intensely overwhelming there was, as
the alcoholics would say, the magnificence of God.
But I say it back to everybody that says it to me and
when I think about how much I don’t mean it-
it only adds to the emptiness I feel
about my everyday existence.
When I don’t think about it but feel how empty it is
All I want to do is drink.
Booze is no muse though.
It only magnifies the desperation of being surrounded by
I love you’s" and not feeling loved.
It does, however, temporarily hide the fact that all of
this means nothing.
Nihilism is on short order after a bottle or two of montepulciano.
And whisky knocks it down that much better.
So love-
I’m writing about love and it’s new status as an apparition.
A ghost of what was and what everybody hopes to attain
Without knowing its true nature.
With no experience base of its highs and lows.
Because sans this understanding of the heart and mind
that relegated it to the dream realm,
the nether regions,
we all believe in reality TV’s version of love.
And that’s some real bullshit.

But not for me

I’m usually in love with love, but not today. I hate it. I hate it because nobody’s in love with me. It fucking blows. I’m listening to jazz and writing and nobody loves me in the way that would make it where we wake up together tomorrow morning. I’m going to have a house full of my best male friends here tomorrow and my loneliness is echoing to me through this house. Today at the bar there was a couple making out and I wanted to break bottles over their heads. All I can think of is the song “”They’re singing songs of love, but not for me” and I’m fucking pissed. I don’t want to think about it, but there’s no Ginsy or Kerouac to document our ennui right now. And nobody expects a little black girl from the Southside of Chicago to be that mutha fucka, but here I am. Listening to Charlie Parker, Miles Davis, Eric Satie and writing a little drunk and very pissed off. Why don’t I have a boyfriend? The standard answer is that I’m too fat, but I’m not. I’m the same size as Marilyn Monroe in “Some Like it Hot” and she’s (I’m) hot as well. The whole world has been taken over by this ideal that is dedicated to making women weak. And I’m not weak or lame and I don’t weigh 100 lbs. I’d break if I did and I’m a good midwestern girl who doesn’t believe that being skinny is the way to win the world. I’m also too smart to really rally around the idea that that’s what I’m supposed to look like. I prefer Titian to Raphael and more a Titian than a Botticelli. I love the way that I look. I’m healthy and I’m strong. There’s a layer of fat over a ton of muscle and that’s okay. There’s a man out there who thinks I’m the cat’s meow. But when I open my smart mouth it generally turns the whole situation sour. I love being smart almost as I love having big strong thighs. I love pontificating on Foucault and DeBord while showing how jazz music is the equivalent of neo realist philosophy as much as the next guy. I can’t write with music that has words, so I’m infinitely a jazz chick and I’ve added some classical to the mix. But it’s only Satie that moves me in the same way as Miles and Charlie. A little Sergio Mendes is playing now. It has words that I can’t understand, but I can feel them. The beats speak to my African. They got to hold on to the drums. They got to hold on to the movements and the passion of the music. The sensuality of it all. I can’t understand what the words mean and that makes it that much sexier. It’s and ecstasy that can’t b e explained unless you hear it and feel it. It’s shoulders moving. It’s a rolling of the body that Europeans can’t understand because it doesn’t live in their bones. In their spirits. (That’s such bullshit. Even I know that’s not true.)

Take Five is on now. It’s so sexy. It’s sexy because there are all of these random moments in it that sound like they’re just hanging but they’re so on purpose. The piano, the drums, the hanging of the horn. The perfection of it all. It’s short it’s sweet and it’s jazzy without being pretentious.

Now James Ingram is singing. Fuck. What the fuck is this? It’s my favorite song. I remember reading the lyrics in Rap Pages when I was about 8. It’s the song “Never Gonna Let You Go” and it’s ruined my whole life. When you’re sixteen and have “open relationships” with the first lover you’ve ever had, it’s bound to lead to a ton of emotional problems you’re going to pay for later.

I don’t know how to have a relationship. I’m emotionally retarded. I fall in love easily and get hurt almost as easily. I live in NYC and this world is not built for people with compositions as delicate as mine. I’m living in a constant state of fear and resentment and hate. I hate people with money. I hate people who’ve found love. I hate that I’m so fat. I hate a lot of things, but the most is love. There was a couple making out at the bar tonight and then they left in a way I remember and I wished they’d get run down by a car before they got to make it home and consummate the actions they’d begun at the bar. I wanted them to die. I wanted them to die because I didn’t have anyone to love me in the same way.

I hate match.com

So I just paid off some money on my credit card so I can have some mulah in Savannah and it keeps getting declined. I check it out and it's FUCKING match.com. Arghh. I never get emails and would have sworn I'd canceled months ago. That's the worst. It's over $100. That blows.
I have a friend who's the queen of match. They couldn't get enough of her and she's gotten 2 boyfriends out of it. I have another friend who hates it too and told me to go somewhere where I'm the queen. It's totally not match.com and it made me feel so bad about myself I could see why people would lie about themselves. I didn't which is why I believe no one wants to talk to me. It's like being in public high school in the suburbs. I went to private school in the city. I'm not equipped to play the reindeer games needed.

I hate match.com because:
1) I have yet to get an email from anyone other than my brother and an ex boyfriend.
2) The only people who look at me (not talk to me) have so lowered their standards I'm supposed to have done the same. AND THEY STILL DON'T WANT TO TALK TO ME!!!
3) Dude- You're totally not 37. I'm 33 and if you're 37 the severity of your life isn't something I want to share.
4) I'm an international lover. Just because I'm black don't just give me the old fat black guys and the cast off old fat white cats. It's not right. I'm a pretty girl with a good head on her shoulders.
5) I want to continue to love and respect myself. Match wasn't helping me do this. (Watch me get a boyfriend in the next few months and have to eat crow. Fantastic! I love crow.)

Now I'm determined to email anyone who's looked at me to totally screw up whatever numbers or statistics they keep.