Etta James, Steve Jobs, Joe Frazier, Andy Whitfield, were kindof understandable. They were ill. Amy Winehouse, Heavy D., DJ Mehdi , Gil Scott- Heron and Don Cornelius were all surprises. To me anyway. Weird. Philly’s own renowned journalist Fatimah Ali’s passing was incomprehensible.  There are many more who are worthy of mention. Yes… many, many more…

So to be in the movie theatre with my mom, watching my colleague Q Deezy’s indie feature film Exit Strategy and hear that whilst we were sitting, giggling aloud and I was gushing over my friend’s accomplishment–one of the greatest greats who ever opened her mouth to sing a note was rushed off this life plane. I didn’t know how to feel.   Houston… we have a problem. WE lost Whitney.

I remember being a little girl and wanting to be Whitney Houston. Sing like her. Look like her. I also remember being an adult and having somebody say I looked a bit like Whitney Houston and wanting to smack the shit out of them. Like my face went immediately to *aghast*. Like I already knew the connotation. I was like, “Are you saying I’m so skinny, I look like a crack head?”  Clearly embarrassed that a compliment could be so complicated the scramble happened. “Nooooooo. I meant, Pre-crack Whitney.”, They said. Really. ”pre-crack Whitney”.

I promised myself I wouldn’t write a post about Whitney Houston’s passing. I made this promise because I was sooooooooo disappointed in her. People always say that when people die, you’re supposed to forgive them their transgressions and such. It’s not that easy for me. The truth lingers for me. How I feel doesn’t just go away because they go.

I was such a fan growing up. Just like the rest of us, I watched in awe as Whitney Houston made any choice that made sense for her and made absolutely “none sense” to us and… maybe I took it all as hard as I thought she should have. I watched her fawning over the clown she called her husband and felt a little sick to my stomach. Particularly because I had a crush on Bobby Brown when he was in New Edition. Maybe I was jealous. But then, I suppose after I discovered Al B. Sure, I realized Bobby Brown wasn’t actually attractive or really that talented and kindof an asshole. I dunno.  Maybe I instinctively knew what she found out years later. She was waaaaaaaay too beautiful and amazingly talented for him. But whatever.

Then the drug thing. I could just gag. There were so many things that happened. So many reasons to want to gag. So many ways Whitney Houston proved exactly how human she was. So many ways I found myself angry at her by way of my own humanness. I didn’t think I would even cry for her passing. I was so nonchalant when I heard the news…   Tears well. They’re still here. Waiting in the wings.

Watching the rise and downward spiral of Whitney Houston felt exactly like that moment I discovered my parents were human–and were not, in fact, the perfect beings they told me they were. Consequently, it was similarly as devastating.  To the point where I found my *aghast face* just about any time Whitney Houston’s name was mentioned in conversation. And yet, Whitney Houston’s life and death isn’t even about me.  Were her choices any of my business? No. Was her business any of my concern? Nope. Was her downward spiral any reflection on me AT ALL? Um…

I suppose it took me all these many years as a grown up, going through my own personal set of life explorations, rises, downward spirals and rises again to find that seed of compassion for a person who couldn’t make peace with her own life. Who coupled with a soul way far beneath her and attempted to shrink herself to fit into his world. I know exactly what that looks like because I’ve done it.

Maybe, I’ve been so angry at Whitney Houston for all of these years because I see my own life reflected in hers in a tiny way. Truly, I looked up to her. But maybe I saw her as the embodiment of everything I wanted to have and be and to little humanoid me–she fucked it up by actually being a humanoid too. Maybe I watched the train wreck that became her life and saw way too much of my own life in it–minus the glamour and accolades. The no frills version. But a version, none the less.

Granted, I’ve never done drugs, but I can say with some amount of emphasis that I’ve both realized and wasted my potential. I’ve shat upon, ignored, mishandled a God-given gift. I’ve mingled with the wrong crowd. I’ve wanted to just have a regular life with no one looking up to me. I’ve made a baby with a selfish asshole. I’ve tried to fit myself into painful shapes to stay with said selfish asshole because it made sense to do at the time.  I’ve tap danced with my dignity. I’ve felt lost. I’ve danced with the devil. I’ve made a mockery of opportunities given me. I’ve made absolutely zero sense to everybody else. I’ve loved hard. I’ve given my all. I’ve shared every ounce of my soul on a stage in front of relative strangers. I’ve found my voice and lost it and maybe, found it again. Even though I’ve never met Whitney Houston, I can say with some amount of emphasis that I am Whitney Houston. Her struggle was my struggle. Her triumphs were mine. Her failings were mine. Her story is a page in the book I’m writing. Her passing is personal. Besides the fact that we were literal strangers. Why? Because part of this lesson we’re being kept here to learn is that WE are all connected.

Houston… we have a problem. WE lost Whitney… and Don and Etta and Fatimah and Michael, and Heavy and Amy and so, so, so many more.  Houston,  it appears our greats are jumping ship.  Why? Maybe that’s what we’re all still here to figure out.

The moral of this story? No clue. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “we’re all connected” blessings. Love, -e-.

I had a dream. I would like to say MY dream was even a smidgen as compelling as MLK’s blockbuster. And yet, I won’t know until I share it. Shall I?

My dream was actually a movie. Serious. I couldn’t tell if I was watching the movie or in it. But I’ll assume I was watching it because I had no speaking parts. The dream felt a lot like I imagine how Scrooge felt being dragged about time at the hand of those awful spirits to witness his treachery as it played out in other people’s lives. Boooo.

So in my dre-ovie er…mream…er…involuntary picture show with dialogue by people I do not know– the whole deal played out like this:

The lead character was a brown haired woman who apparently wanted to play baseball. She and this blonde haired lady traveled around the country in hopes of meeting this baseball player (that the brown haired woman didn’t recognize once she finally met him *shrug*). He was gorgeous, dark haired and played for the “LA Angels”. <It’s a dream movie–go with it.> He was also profound, apparently. When she finally caught up with him at a diner, she was trying to reason with him that she was awesome. So she showed him her baseball sizzle reel so he could see how good she was. But he rebuffed her, saying something to the affect of “So what. Do you know how many people can do that too? You have to broaden your perspective.” He said these words rather curtly and then got up and left the two women sitting at the table looking rather foolish. But the brown haired lady wasn’t finished. She took that foolish feeling and did something rather fly with it. Apparently, whilst she was traveling the country looking for this guy (who turned out to be like every other asshole  in baseball who was impossible to recognize up close). During her journey, she had interviewed a whole bunch of amazing baseball players who were women.  And they were fly. Most of these women were of color and play baseball with a unique perspective on how the game is played and won. AND they all had unique baseball hats which was uber cool. They all had uniforms, but were functionally unique. It was baseball in a woman’s world. Fully. It was baseball for women, by women. It wasn’t some hunkered down version the game the guys play. It was truly a unique, compelling version of the same game. Down to the uniforms.

This is one of those times I wish I could take pictures of what’s happening in my brain, particularly my dreams. They are quite vivid. Plus, it would be easier to write the movie later. Anyway.

I woke up shortly after the one black lady with a really cool baseball hat finished sharing her perspective. I can’t remember what she said, but I imagine her perspective went something like this.

Protester:  It’s always been done the way it is now.

Baseball Player:   So what.

Protester: But you’ll ruin it. Don’t you worry that people will think you’re ruining it?

Baseball Player: Ruining it for who, you? So what.

Protester: Nobody wants to watch this.

Baseball Player: How do you know? Are you everybody or nobody?

Protester: I’m protesting.

Baseball Player: Okay AND So what.

You can almost see the Black lady with her dry indifference sending a chill through the bones of the person challenging her. But in my dream it was nothing like that. This woman I was watching in the movie in my head was warm, vibrant and passionate. And a woman of few words. She was a woman of action. She loved baseball. But coming up in her small town she wasn’t allowed to play with the boys. And she didn’t like the uniforms much anyway. In time she met other girls like her who wanted to play baseball in their own way. So they created their own league and along with it, designed their own uniforms, including their own baseball hats. I have to admit, the whole ensemble was fly. Functional. And nothing like anything you would probably create in your own head.

I think the key to what was going on in my dream was that these women–who turned out to have a WORLD LEAGUE– didn’t do that separate but equal thing that  we Americans seem to think is so noble and just. They created a whole new league that only they would fit in. So rather than protest admission into the bullshit that didn’t want them in their club, they started their own and it thrived. They started their own and made it their own.  I never understood why people protest that stuff. But they do. It’s like they don’t want you to have theirs and they don’t want you to have yours either. And to that, the baseball player said simply, “so what”.

This dream was significant for me in part because it was highlighting a lesson through a sport that I don’t normally follow. It was showing me something in my own life that I have been unwilling to see.  That we as a collective have yet to take full ownership of. We are innovators. If “they” don’t want us in their club. If “they” don’t want to produce our movies. If “they” don’t want to create our WORTHY television programming. If “they” don’t want us to be a part of anything they claim to be theirs…  all we gotta do is get a few “girls” together and create own… WORLD LEAGUE.

If “they” tell us we can’t, we’ll tell them: “First of all, So What. And secondly, we’re taking the advice of some asshole baseball player from one of Envy’s head dreams and broadening our perspective.” That’ll get em.  Interestingly enough, with all of that said, I had zero idea I was even looking for baseball (that whole watching paint dry thing was a clue). Apparently, though, I found it. Hear that Matt Kemp?

The moral of this story? Ummmmmm…. nope. No idea. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and Abundant “pick your team” blessings. Love, -e-

Particularly young girls. If you don’t yet know. If no one told you today. I am here to tell you. Emphatically!!! You are beautiful. True beauty, however, stems from and grows from within. True beauty is knowing you are a divine reflection of the highest source: Love. Truest beauty needs no “embellishment”, it already is. IT is so. So BE it. And all that now means for you….

I am beautiful.

Yes, I am full of myself.

I should be. I’m beautiful.

No one on Earth looks like me.

Sure, there’s beauty in the world.

But none, 

comparable to mine.

I am beautiful.

My hair may not be straight

Like greasy hay sticks.

My hair curls when my fingers pull through it.

My hair is called kinks or pugs or gnarls or snags.

The many colors of my hair are more beautiful than any rainbow.

 and I need no leprechaun to tell me so.

My hair has character. My hair is beautiful.

My nose may not be pointy like the tip of a witches broom stick.

My nose bends and is flat.

My nose flares to smell the night air

And turns up to show disagreement.

My nose has charisma,

My nose is beautiful.

My skin is what folks envy most.

It’s  creamy and brazen, burnt  and bronze.

My skin is tan or needs tanning

It’s natural like fine wood and doesn’t repel the sun.

My skin takes on every hue of this great Earth.

My skin is natural, my skin is beautiful.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. 

Yes, my eyes may not be blue.

But my eyes I share with my God, cause his eyes are brown too.

My eyes have seen torture and torment.

My eyes have seen pain.

 My eyes have seen this world begin and end. 

And My eyes will witness our people become great once again.

My eyes have seen and made history.

 My eyes are beautiful.

My language is real.

It reflects who I am and where I’ve been.

It’s the language of kings and queens cause that’s what we are.

It’s the language of survivors and the language of stars.

The way I speak, much like the way I look is beautiful.

It’s me, and I am beautiful.

So you can call me names and feed me lines.

Say I’m wrong and ugly. 

Say I’m a savage or a killer.

But you see, I was told long ago, when I was yo master…

That I am beautiful.

The most beautiful being on Earth.

No one on Earth looks like me.

Sure, there’s beauty in the world.

But none, comparable to mine.

I am beautiful.

My hair, my nose, my skin, my eyes, and my dialect.

I am… beautiful.

-e-

©1995

February, dear ones, is “National CLEAN the Gunk Out of My Insides” month! I mean, it’s actually African-American History Month. Same thing though. Sort of. Okay, one has little to do with the other. Except the fact that it should. But it doesn’t. But it should.

It is unfortunate that people of color have the worst statistics following them around. There are tons of them floating about– most of them we know by heart. The one’s about our general poor health, lagging education, incarceration, unemployment, morbidity, crime rates per capita, etc. and what have you. The most important statistic, however is this one:

• Percent of men 20 years and over who are obese: 37%
• Percent of women 20 years and over who are obese: 51%           Source: Health, United States, 2010, table 71

That’s a lot of obesity. Plus, should you have no idea what that obesity actually looks like– check any twitter picture timeline throughout the day. There are plenty to be seen and made fun of… … … but that’s another post, for another day.

Last year around this time, I began a food journey that was one part social experiment and one part valiant excuse to buy a juicer. The whole thing began because I felt *uck* and I read a book by Dr. Alejandro Junger called CLEAN that told me how to get un-*uck*.  I chronicled my 3 week un-*uck*ing experience so that exactly one year later, I could look back upon my journey via my blog and be able to say: Why The Ffffff Did I Do That For?!

Anyway. I begin my 3 week CLEAN again on February 1, 2012. Feel free to join me as I un- *uck* … considering you probably missed the whole thing last year. No worries. I’ve attached every sordid episode of last year’s food journey to this post. *sticks tongue out*.

I Just Ate Shit and Now I Feel Like Shit to Prove a Point.

Planning to CLEAN

Preparing to CLEAN

Week 1: In the Beginning, There was *Cough*

Week 1: The Most Beautiful Thing Happened Today

Week 2: Becoming One of the Weirds

Ending Week 2: The Week of Reckoning 

Week 3: Reaching Goals (…the Wall)

Week 3: Finis…

There. They’re all in one place. Go on, read through the series. Decide for yourself to CLEAN. Get Dr. Alejandro Junger’s book. Hit me up on my twitter @QueenEnvy and let’s get this thing poppin, Feb 1. K? #Awesome!

The moral of this story? Ummmmmm. Can’t think of anything. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant, *uck* free blessings! Love, -e-

And so, welcome to the new year. Welcome to 2012. You ready to either save the world or watch it crumble to dust before our very eyes? You ready? Me neither. I just got here.

But I’m fidgety. I’ve been doing all kinds of cleaning. Some of it wasn’t even intentional. Folks just irked me so badly, I got scarce. My horoscope said I would. But whatever, horoscopes are bullshit. Mostly.

Anyway, I’m not here to talk about horoscopes or 2012 or my lip gloss. I’m here to talk about Twitter. And those people who clog up my timeline with their bullshit. Well… did.

A few days ago, I found myself going through my twitter followings. Most of the folk I follow are a varied, indie bunch. They possess wit, sass, positive thinking and sometimes a bit of snark to share. Thinkers.

So, why when I searched those prized 600+, did I see the likes of Ludacris, Swizz beats,  some model chic from some video, a slew of random ass rappers I can’t imagine add value to my Twitterico feed. And others. Diddy. 50 Cent, Rihanna, Kimora, Amber Rose, etc., etc, what have you. Not saying there’s anything wrong with these people if you follow them… well, whatever. None of my business.

Anyway. Once I got that tweet Funk Flex sent about Nikki Minaj and her boyfriend buying matching ghetto ass pink and red Bentleys O_o. And then that tweet Swizz shared about his three pairs of matching stupid shoes… there was way more, but my brain hurts trying to remember the retardation of it all.

Finally! Emphatically! I said, ENOUGH! I’m done. I can’t care about these people any longer! Did I ever? No. I’ve never, ever bought a Swizz album and I venture to deduce that I shall never will. Sic. Why was I following him?  Um, because he’s married to Alicia Keys and I like her. Although I unfollowed her as well because, to be honest, I don’t really stay up nights worried about what she’s going to share onTwitter. I’d rather buy her next album.

But why was I following these “celebrities” to begin with? What value do they add to my timeline? The answer? None. The truth is, my following them adds no value to my life in the slightest. In most cases, being a fan of these folk AND following them on Twitter, causes me to no longer want to be their fan. Mostly because a lot of these folk are talented in lots of ways, but, apparently, not very bright. Or just plain old ignorant as hell. Either way, it’s awkward to watch.

So. I get no benefit from following these weirdos. But you know what my following them does do?  It adds social media capital to all their other arsenals of capital. And why do I volunteer my much prized Social Media Capital (=SMC) to people who could give a care that I even exist? I don’t know.

The fact that I can’t answer that question with any amount of authority prompted me, rather militantly, to take my SMC back. Yes, like some rabid Indian giver. But whatever. I didn’t know what I was giving when I gave it to start. Did you? Do you know how valuable your SMC is? No matter. I’m not here to do a sociology class either.

Anyway, after my eureka moment, I went through and unfollowed all of the fuckers that really don’t matter to my Twitter timeline. Folks that aren’t following me back.  Folks that don’t know that I exist. Folk who don’t answer when I stalk mention them 40 times a minute.  Folk who are generally ignorant, gossipy, or just way too stupid. Or folk that while talented, I could give a shit about what they have to say. So now, my Twitter TL is utterly celebrity and moron free! And boy, is it refreshing to have a feed full of intelligent, interesting, witty and well formed convotweetions.

Yes, yes. I kept a few celebrity types.  I kept Kanye because I keep him in check, and without my keeping an eye on him, he would just fly off the handle completely. Serious.  Uncle Rush made the cut because, while utterly clueless about how the rest of the universe lives, he does share spiritual gems. There are a few others, but to name them would be redundant.

For the most part, I’ve kept and added Artists, Actors, Musicians, poets, scientists, philosophers, mathematicians, farmers, etc and what have you that I’m truly, truly a fan– people I would interview. People I want to know and read insight from. People with something relevant to say and worthy of my Awesome List. AND some people I just find clever. I literally kept the people I thought worthy of a voice and tossed the rest. Yes, tossed. Like a used condom. Bitch-boo-bye. Mean? Sure.

I’ve decided that my Twitter feed should only be filled with people worthy of a potential retweet. I’ve decided, people have to earn their way to that kind of status. “Earn my Affections”, like that Amel Larrieux song I love so.

You don’t just get a follow because you exist. That’s crazy. You get it because your voice is worth hearing. I, in part, gave you Celebrity or a place in/around/near celebrity-dom and far too many of you have taken my gifts and shanked ME with them. Bullshit in, bullshit out. I’m done with that. Give me quality or you get unfollowed.

And so I say all of this to say. You have to earn my follows. If I’m following you or following you back, you’re dope; I’m really hoping you are or you’ve added value to some joke I’m working on (and you’re the brunt of it). Or at least interesting to me. Or I’m being über courteous because you followed me first (and you’re not annoying). If I ever have to tweet why am I following ~~~> (and your name is after that arrow) you know the end is near.

Following someone is like investing in them. It’s like raising campaign funds saying this person is worth reading tweets from.  We nobodies have to earn our capital the hard way– cultivation. Curation.

“Celebrities”, for the most part, get that capital because they’re celebrities. Whichever way they got that way tends to be irrelevant. It’s not because they add any value to our twitter feed, it’s because they exist on our media devices. Period. Even if what they put out is garbage by ALL standards. The bar for being worthy of a fan or a vote or social media capital has gotten so low, it’s embarrassing.

Particularly when there are utterly talented ppl who deserve my attention much more. Twitter is the easiest place to show support to great people around the globe who have something vital to contribute to our twitter feeds and our lives. It’s also the easiest way to release the morons from their twitter pointlessness. Do YOU really care about anything 50 Cent or Diddy has to say? Really? O_O. Are they contributing anything vital to your timeline besides hours long commercials about how much they got and how much more of YOUR dough must go to continue to support THEIR lifestyle?

It’s your support, that gives them that lifestyle. It’s your social media capital that keeps these baffoons relevant. So what happens when you shift that capital to people more worthy? For every Diddy you unfollow and every Dr. James Peterson you begin following, what happens then? The voices of power on Twitter shift as well. Just like #OWS,  if we #occupytwitter, we tell the clueless assholes to go sit down somewhere and we let the ppl with something to say take stage. We take back our capital and by default, no longer need to be plagued by the foolishness in our tweet feeds. I’m just sayin.

The “Stop Being Famous” movement is underway. Let’s have value. Let’s be authentic. Let’s take back OUR say and relinquish theirs. What celebrities eat, we don’t shit. Their job is to entertain, inform, enlighten, inspire. If they ain’t doing none of that, kick em to the twurb. I did.

The moral of this story? Who knows. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant twafoonary-free blessings. Love, -e-

Doing the same thing over and over and expecting something different to happen is crazy. It’s nuts. It’s stupid. It’s the exact definition of INsanity. Meanwhile, seemingly perfectly sane-ish people do it every single day. And then have the nerve to show off their *aghast* face when the stuff they’re doing produces the exact same results as they experienced the 90 hundred thousand million other times they did that same thing before this last time. *aghast face*

I can’t really talk so strong. I’ve been doing it too. In at least one noteworthy aspect of my life. Which is probably why I’ve self proclaimed (myself) the expert on this particular insanity topic. I will probably begin referring to myself in the third person at some point in this post as well.

Do you know what Paranoid Schizophrenia is? What about Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder?  Any ideas?

Schizophrenia ( /ˌskɪtsɵˈfrɛniə/ or /ˌskɪtsɵˈfriːniə/) is a mental disorder characterized by a disintegration of thought processes and of emotional responsiveness.[1] It most commonly manifests itself as auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking, and it is accompanied by significant social or occupational dysfunction.

 

I got the above definition from Wikipedia. If only because it was easier. It turns out, there are several “sub-types” of schizophrenia. They are as follows:

+Paranoid type: Delusions or auditory hallucinations are present, but thought disorder, disorganized behavior, or affective flattening are not. Delusions are persecutory and/or grandiose, but in addition to these, other themes such as jealousy, religiosity, or somatization may also be present.

+Disorganized type: Named hebephrenic schizophrenia. Where thought disorder and flat affect are present together.

+Catatonic type: The subject may be almost immobile or exhibit agitated, purposeless movement. Symptoms can include catatonic stupor and waxy flexibility.

+Undifferentiated type: Psychotic symptoms are present but the criteria for paranoid, disorganized, or catatonic types have not been met.

+Residual type: Where positive symptoms are present at a low intensity only.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or OCD is defined like this:

“Obsessive–compulsive disorder (OCD) is an anxiety disorder characterized by intrusive thoughts that produce uneasiness, apprehension, fear, or worry, by repetitive behaviors aimed at reducing the associated anxiety, or by a combination of such obsessions and compulsions. Symptoms of the disorder include excessive washing or cleaning; repeated checking; extreme hoarding; preoccupation with sexual, violent or religious thoughts; aversion to particular numbers; and nervous rituals, such as opening and closing a door a certain number of times before entering or leaving a room. These symptoms can be alienating and time-consuming, and often cause severe emotional and financial distress. The acts of those who have OCD may appear paranoid and potentially psychotic. However, OCD sufferers generally recognize their obsessions and compulsions as irrational, and may become further distressed by this realization.”

Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder is described as :

having some of the same symptoms as obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD. However, people with OCD have unwanted thoughts, while people with OCPD believe that their thoughts are correct.

People who are diagnosed with Schizophrenia tend to be prescribed an anti-psychotic drug called Risperdal. In most cases, Risperdal will help people diagnosed with Schizophrenia to live more normal-esque lives. That is, unless these people are obsessive- compulsive about hoarding money, and refuse to pay for the medication that will ultimately keep them from having the delusions that people are out to get them, no one is to be trusted and they MUST change locks regularly, nail doors shut and everyone is a suspect in the murder-drama that is constantly going on in these folks minds. Plus, looking like Jack Nicholson ala  The Shining in the process.

It’s exhausting to watch. Believe me.

A few days a go, after finding myself exasperated (again) with the behavior of my mentally ill relative, I found myself at the emergency mental health treatment center filling out a petition to have said relative forced into treatment because he refuses to take his anti-psychotic medication. Not surprisingly, my relative’s symptoms have been escalating considerably for several months– based on the other aspect of his mental illness that causes him to have an aversion to spending money on his medication.  Serious. He has no issues with buying gin or using any other number of prescription drugs he does NOT actually have a prescription for. He quite often can be found knocked out-mid motion for any number of reasons and then comes to the conclusion (and quite seriously) that the reason he finds himself knocked out is because someone is drugging him– with everything from cough syrup to men’s vitamins. o_0.

Needless to say, I found myself in this facility, filling out paperwork (finally) because my own prior insanity kept me from going much sooner. I would think about going after another strange episode of the murder-drama going on in his head– someone was after him (!), Someone was in the house (!) Someone was stealing something random that nobody would think to steal (!)

I, apparently as crazy as he, talked him down from any number of grandiose schemes in which somebody would end up hurt or harmed if I didn’t intervene. After our talks, he would be fine. “Normal” acting.  So I would say. Okay. Not so bad. No need to commit him. He needs help, but he’s okay. Blah, blah and blah.

Sometimes he would direct his paranoia at me or other members of my family–creating any number of unlikely scenarios that could only happen in the haven of his own head. Populated with “facts” that he made up and NO ONE could convince him of otherwise–even when holding ACTUAL facts to the contrary of whatever he believed.

Again, it’s exhausting to watch. Believe me.

To be clear, and trying mightily not be be insensitive to the thousands of people around the world who are diagnosed with the many varieties of mental illness– my relative is crazy as a loon. I mean, seriously. Not creative, artsy crazy. Not One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest Crazy. It’s closer to Jack Nicholson ala The Shining crazy, except more Seinfeld episode like.

I wonder daily why he isn’t in a facility where he would be forced to take his medication. He is a danger to himself and to others. And only because there is something in his brain that doesn’t connect “correctly” enough to have him believe taking his meds is a priority.

But no one will help him.

This particular relative spent considerable time in jail for a trumped up charge. Even then, he didn’t need to be in jail. He needed to be in a mental facility getting treatment. The state refused.  The only good that came out of his misplacement was that he was given his regular dose of Risperdal and he was able to visit with a Psychologist.  But then he was released from prison. There is no stipulation or condition that maintains his medication regimen.

It is expected that when a crazy person is forced to take his medication–he will.  The insanity comes in when we supposed sane folk in the system expect that a crazy person will continue to take his medication if he isn’t forced to. Duh. And my relative is just floating in the wind like  the Rambo he is in his own head looking for assailants in his tiny world that he never finds, but who are always there.

I see the suffering in his eyes. He knows he’s crazy–trying to prove that he’s not.  But because he IS crazy he is powerless to do a single thing more about it than he’s doing already. He can rationalize well enough to know he’s nuts. But he can’t rationalize well enough to spend $175 on his meds.  Versus the $200 he spent on that chain saw (!) he almost used to cut down the door of a house to scare off squatters–to teach them a lesson. And to have something cool to post on YouTube.  I lie to you not. He planned to film it.

And that’s when our collective craziness becomes paramount. As I mentioned, I went to the hospital to file a petition to at least have him looked at. They denied my petition because they said he didn’t show signs of pre-meditated violence. He didn’t say he was going to kill somebody, go out and buy a gun and then stalk a person’s house.

Instead, he just bought a chainsaw to cut down somebody’s door in the middle of the night and because I talked him down and nothing happened–no issue. Nope, the fact that he sees people breaking into his house that aren’t there and walks around with a baseball bat. The fact that he nails doors shut so nobody (not even himself) can get out or come in. The fact that this man in so tortured in his own head that he doesn’t leave his house if only because he needs to compulsively create wiring or plumbing or break in/theft scenarios, full-fill them himself and then plead to anybody who will listen that what HE’s done is actually the work of some mastermind with HIS demise in mind. The fact that he was already convicted of a violent crime, the fact that he was under mental supervision for most of his life that he’s NOT utilizing now, has been committed to a mental facility before…the fact that he’s NOT taking his ANTI-PSYCHOTICS  and the fact that he is clearly escalating when left to his own recognizance says to me that he needs someone helping him to stay “sane”.

The fact that a “strong” case for the state to commit is only at the point when the frayed thread that’s holding a brain like my relative’s together snaps and he does the unthinkable. When it’s too late. When he buys a chainsaw and cuts somebody to pieces. (And then will be able to use that dastardly insanity defense.) Nope, it’s not when he’s showing all the tell tale signs that he’s just about snap ready.

The fact that I’m positive this exact scenario happens every single day in this country and that somebody gets hurt or dies shortly afterward and that nothing gets done by way of prevention. But all the stops come out after the state gets sued for doing nothing. I’m shaking my head because this shit don’t make no sense. We keep doing the same things over and over  and expecting a different result. Yup. It’s crazy.

You want to know what else is crazy? If a filed petition gets denied, another petition cannot be filed for 30–get that 3-0 days. *aghast face*

The mental health care system in this country sucks. But then again, crazy is as crazy does…

I would send you somewhere for help if you have a relative you’d like to seek help for…except, I pulled out all the stops, went to every website I could find, made calls, filed forms and still haven’t gotten any help. The best I can tell you is if things get out of hand, call 911.

The moral  of this story? Nope. None. Just some food for thought. And another record of events. Should something happen to me or someone you or I know by the hands of someone who needed mental assistance but wasn’t granted it because the system in place is about as pointless as a wooden nickel… Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “light a match to this system and start over” blessings. Love, -e-

It's a Man's World: Men's Adventure Magazines, The Postwar Pulps

 Do you mind if I share a little advice? You don’t? Good. Because I had planned to share it anyway (this is my blog after all). Now brace yourselves because this will be a little hard to hear (er…read) at first. But just like any good medicine, once the dagger part of the jagged little pill goes down, the rest is heal quickly or bleed out.

I get astounded very easily, I guess.

I expect my best from myself at every given moment–even if my best is barely getting out of bed to get on with a drudge-like day in the making. I get out of bed and do my best at the moment anyway, because I know what I am capable of on my actual best days. If I fall short of what I’m capable of, I’m still okay. At least I know what lies dormant on those days that suck for everyone involved (and not in a good way).
With that in mind, I look at some of the people I know, some I work with or around or just see in passing and wonder what their best is. Did I catch them on one of their actual best days or is this a get out of bed anyway day? My face actually makes that “aghast” expression and I am genuinely perplexed at what some folk get away with and call their lives, profession, etc. and what have you. Or how they honor me in them.  On a semi-consistent basis. (Let me add here that I have witnessed great amounts of awesome in people as well. People who do amazing work and offer amazing results from seeming no resources at all. But this post isn’t about those people.)

I wonder aloud and often how folk claim to be professional whatever they are and do bullshit work, that anyone within glancing distance can see is bullshit (or half-assed), or maybe just “let me get this done any ole kinda way”, take forever to do it, if at all, and then expect that they should be paid the same as if they put actual time, energy and love into it. And they want accolades for it. *aghast face*. And then when folk complain or want exception to said bullshit (or half-assed) work and that aghast face appears on the folk who submitted the bullshit (or half-assed) work to begin with. Like, “how dare you think my bullshit (or half-assed) work is bullshit (or half-assed)!” That shit is perplexing to me.

Then there are those people who sit up so haughtily on their high horse, spitting bible verse and philosophical rhyme to the tune of I’m so this and so that and I exist and so therefore you should at least acknowledge that it’s amazing that I exist. *aghast face* They think they’re so fine when they’re so average. Although, they never let a moment go by without mentioning how fine they are. Or how fine they think someone else they know thinks they are. That’s always fun to sort out. The best is when these haughty souls commit major sins in your relationship, you bring said sins to their attention and in response they make sure you know how important they are, as though to say–be happy young peon that I’m in your life to begin with.  *aghast face*  That shit is also perplexing.

Or the overblown “celebrity” type who gets his panties in a bunch when you have an opinion about something he’s done in his professional career, worthy of having an opinion on (whatever it is, it’s whack) and he wants to play direct message twitter tag with you in a way where he can have a direct response, but you can’t. And the response is all about how much he’s accomplished and how little, in his opinion, you have compared to him.  That shit is just corny. I can’t.

So far, I must say, the common denominator in all of the above scenarios–as I’ve experienced them– have happened overwhelmingly with male people. I’m not saying all male people are like this. I’m not saying female types don’t do this.  I’m writing from my personal experience, this is what I’ve been noticing and me no likey.

Do you mind if I share a little advice? You don’t? Good. Because I had planned to share it anyway (this is my blog after all). Now brace yourselves because this will be a little hard to hear (er…read) at first. But just like any good medicine, once the dagger part of the jagged little pill goes down, the rest is heal quickly or bleed out. You ready? Here it goes. GET OVER YOURSELF. There, I said it. Wait a minute. Breathe in. That’s right, now breathe out. Keep doing it. I know it hurts dear one, but if I didn’t tell you, you’d probably keep walking on this planet like you’re the shit and you really aren’t. You’re actually a puffed up version of who you’re supposed to be and you compensate for this by being who you are. No, asshole is too harsh a term. I don’t like to use it unless there are no other words available. Lets go with “ego-out-of-whack” for this one. Yes, I know it’s more than one word, but the hyphens make it roll off the tongue. Here, try it: “ego-out-of-whack”. See, it almost sounds pretty. But it isn’t because you’re making me not like you by being this way.

See, we women have been honoring the lives of men since we first looked up and saw our fathers at birth. If we happened to not see his face in our early lives, we found another male person to worship eventually–if that’s what we were into. But whatever. The truth is, men have been coddled and cared for by mothers, grandmothers, daughters, wives, mistresses, lovers and etc. for their entire lives. It is we who cure everything from the scraped knees to the common cold and it is we who have allowed you to believe that your identity is thinking you are far superior than you actually are. We have told you that fast cars are the way to our hearts and you, being (I don’t know what to call that) well, you decided that simply having a fast car isn’t nearly enough–you have to have all the fast cars and compete with other male people like you to see who can have the most variety of fast cars in the entire world. Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaa!

We told you we wanted a nice, comfortable home to live and raise our kids in. That turned into 4 houses the size of several small cities in different parts of the world. Take that guy over there! How many city sized houses do you have? Hahahahahahhaaaaa!

I could go on, but I’m already almost off topic. The point is, I’m beginning to believe that male people have lost their minds–like, for, ever ago.  I mean, yeah, part of this discussion is a bit of awe about that whole Penn State raping small boys fiasco and how sticky the web of that decade long deception–you can’t make me understand what went on with that at all.

But part of it is based on an observation of what I’ve both seen and researched about what too many male people have been doing with their power throughout history and now.

We’ve been told as women that we are inferior and over-emotional and unfitting of all types of things that male people have enjoyed for eons. And yet, we have those things now, and I’m wondering what all the propaganda was about. Especially when I see all these puffed up men sprouting unwarranted peacock feathers about how amazing they like to tell people they are, but to ask them to BE what they say they are is paramount to asking a donkey to kick you in your face because you happen to be standing there and apparently, don’t really like your face.

All we women want is for people (male in particular) to do what they say they will, when they say they will, with high quality and honor us as equals and treat us as though we matter. Pretty much the golden rule. Treat us the way you would want and expect to be treated.

Your egos have been our burden to stroke for eons and we’re tired of the stroking because now that we have a proper view (eye level) we’re finally noticing how …. (trailing off because too many words fit here)…

I’m reminded about a tweet I read by a writer I admire a great deal named Dream Hampton. She tweeted (or retweeted), and I retweeted this:

@dreamhampton: Do I wish every human wld read The Four Agreements? Yes.

So I’m like wow. Isn’t that the book by Don Miguel Ruiz that is essentially the golden rule, but broken down even further into four simple ways to govern ones life that honors everyone we encounter and still keeps us in a place of honor, personally? I read The Four Agreements!

Now look, you’ll read the above and say,

…well Envy, with the exception of, maybe, of the 4th  agreement…I’m working on that one… The 1st agreement is irrelevant to me because I already tell everyone how amazing I am… as for Agreement #3, not my bag because I don’t ask questions, mostly because I know everything already.  With that said Envy, I should probably ignore the rest of your post because your opinion shouldn’t matter to me in the slightest because it’s your opinion and agreement # 2 says not to take anything personally and you’re speaking from your own personal woman dream and dreamy women have nothing of value to add to the all important male people conversation anyway.

*Aghast face*

The moral of this story? Nope, no moral. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “go on, live The Four Agreements” Blessings.

Love,

-e-

Sunday Night @ 9:30pm. I’m in the market buying groceries. Whilst at the check out, the cashier begins asking me about the fare in my cart:

1 big bag of Kale Greens
2 bottles of Agave nectar
1 small bottle of Organic (California) Olive Oil

Mind you, this was my second trip to the grocery, because I forgot the above items on my first go round, a mere few hours earlier. Anyway, she asks first about the Agave.

Cashier: Is this like honey?
Me: Not exactly. It’s made from cactus. It’s supposed to be good for diabetics because it sweetens without raising sugar levels. I use it in my smoothies.
Cashier: *blank look, nod* oh.

So she rings them up. She’s now eyeing the Kale greens with a look of wonder. Or maybe that was a look of perplex. Anguish? Exasperation?

Cashier: So what do you use these for?
Me: I put them in my smoothies.
Cashier: *blank look*
Me: I make Kale, pineapple and chia seed smoothies.
Cashier: *blank look*
Me: Chia seeds are an Aztec superfood.
Cashier: *blank look*
Me: They’re really good for you… … fiber…
Cashier: *blank look* Oh.

She finishes ringing me up, I give her cash, pick up my bag and go about my evening. I didn’t actually find that conversation weird or awkward. I was a little unprepared, maybe. But I shouldn’t have been. It happens to me alllllllll the time. You would think that I would dress up–complete with my full M.A.C. regalia– and prepare a short presentation (with slide show) when I go to the market. You know, just in case my shopping cart causes a ruckus, as it often does.

Granted, at Whole Foods, no one bothers me. Most folk who shop there and work there get where
I am in my more regular eating habits. But honey, let me get it crackin in the Super Walmart around my way that carries most of what I would get at Whole Foods for 1/2 the price. Let the *blank looks* and 20 questions begin! My cart by now is the stuff of legend.

I get it completely. In this sea of food crap that has become common place in our diets, particularly in “colored” households, where fast, fried, processed and/or barely healthy, stone dead foods are the norm. A colored girl like me makes supermarket headlines just by being present, in running gear… and with a cart full of young Thai coconuts, green plantain, radishes, English cukes, portobello mushrooms, artisan lettuce, a bag of fresh green beans, shallots, sweet and roasted peppers, whole wheat wraps, 3 bags of frozen pineapple, vine tomatoes, avocados, 6 Culligan water refills, and a fresh mozzarella ball. My cart begs a lot of questions. Mostly, who IS this woman and WTF is she eating THAT for?

If you were to ask me 3 minutes ago… rather, any minutes ago that my eating habits would become the stuff of anyone’s interest or conversation in passing or by way of social media discussion, “yeah, right” is all you’d get from me. I’ve never had interest in being a food ambassador. My bag has always been you know, smart chic blah, blah.

For most of the 15 years I was a vegetarian, I was looked at like I had just given birth to a monkey right in front of folks faces–as they watched in horror. “You don’t eat meat?!” *gasp, sigh, faint*

Admittedly, I’ve acquired a bit of a chip on my left shoulder. I’m even looking at my computer with a tinge of attitude as I write this. *side eye, eye roll, lip curl, etc.*

Funny. Now that the science is in and the documentaries are out about how our food choices contribute completely to our health, well-being and quality of life… The Cart becomes the thing. Particularly MY cart, in Super Wal-mart. *side eye, eye roll, lip curl, etc.*

All attitude aside, considering that October is Vegetarian Awareness month. I’ve sworn off animal flesh for this month in its entirety. I’m doing it in honor of the food practice that kept me alive for a good portion of my adult life. Plus, I’m doing it to see if it’s something I’d like to continue for the rest of my adult life.

I suppose I should be more welcoming to folk who show interest in my cart. Even if that interest takes the familiar form of an awkward question(s) and a blank look (s). It’s not like I don’t know what I’m eating. It’s just a pain in the ass to explain to folks who think a Hot Pocket represents the four food groups. Or that Diabetes is rampant because of “the bird flu”. Serious. Or to even be present in an argument with the likes of Jillian Michaels who seems to have some tick about meatless diets to the point that she just about loses her cookies at the mention of the word “veg-e-tar-ian”. She simply passes out when folk use the word “ve-gan”.

Meanwhile, Colored folk of all varieties have been eating so wrong for so long, it’s almost sacrilegious to talk about a faceless diet to folks without trampling on their very culture. That’s a lot of pressure to assume with my little, blameless shopping cart–who didn’t ask to be a part of such a task.

The funny thing is, when one walks the walk, the talking part is really just vegan cake icing. I’ve had to come to grips with the idea that more and more people KNOW in their bones that their food sucks and they want a change and simply haven’t a clue how or what to do to get the change they’re after. So they look at people like me who are active and vibrant with a cart full of bright, energetic fabulousness and go, “Wow”. They know there’s something there. They just don’t know what to do with that information. Maybe spreading what I know about health, well being and food is now a part of my charge as a broadcaster. And just maybe, I can help folk start filling their own carts in such a way that the infamous blank look will forever go away. The cart IS the thing after all.

The moral of this story? No dice. No idea. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and Abundant “change your cart, change you life” blessings! Love, -e-

A human being–living, breathing, thriving, surviving–said the above things about another human being. Fry him up, she said. Hold the lettuce and the pickle she said. Better yet, don’t fry him, flame broil him. Wow.

I get it. Ann Coulter is now infamous for saying THE most retarded things a person can form lips to say in order to swindle a buck or two from any number of unsuspecting doo-doo heads who don’t know any better. She sells books. That’s what feeds her lone self. She’s not raising any children (THANK GOD) that have greedy mouths that need feeding or whom need to be properly educated by an education system that has clearly failed her. She’s not the second half of a two person household in desperate need to keep the lights on, and would not, if not for her bullshit on sale at Borders.

It turns out, Ann Coulter doesn’t have any life altering or Earth shattering responsibilities on this planet, besides feeding, clothing, and housing her own self. I mean yeah, she’s got to keep GOP-minded folk entertained with her own version of the “shuck and jive”. And yeah, of course, keep her own greedy ego satiated. But that’s about it.

At face value, Ann Coulter should be a non-issue right? She’s brilliantly dilly. A blonde hair swinging, low cut dress wearing, long standing political punditry joke. Right? We don’t take people (or entities) like Bill O’Reilly, Rush Limbaugh, Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachman (and Fox News) (and roughly half of Congress) who are caricatures of themselves seriously. We laugh at their straight-faced silliness and keep it moving onto more important life matters, don’t we? …don’t we?

Turns out, Ann Coulter and so many like her are contagious. They are infected with a virus–a spawn of the GREED virus– called the Antiquated Feeling of Racial Superiority Virus or A.F.R.S.V. for short. People like Ann Coulter spread the A.F.R.S.V. through hate-borne pathogens spewed from loose lips that show no thought or care about what comes out. They simply spew them to get a reaction that will effectively make them a buck or two so they can live. No matter that their flagrant spewing may account for the deaths (and continued ignorance) of others.

Folk like Bill O’Reilly, Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachman, Rush Limbaugh, Ann Coulter (and yes, Fox News) (and roughly half of Congress) play to their “base” base. As in, the very most basic human consciousness on the planet. The most ignorant. The most insecure. The most afraid of change.

People and entities like the aforementioned, “know” that A.F.R.S.V. spreads quickly among the “base” base and that once infected, books fly off of shelves, ratings surge, and the most base of our population clamor over one another to chime in with their own base-ist ignorance via commentary. Ignorance sells and the people buying are more oft than not infected with A.F.R.S.V. *shakes head solemnly*. So many infected.

Could YOU be infected? I mean, yeah. However, if you’re reading this, your chances are slimmer. Rest assured, base-ist ignoramus(es) could give a who about anything I have to say.

The bigger questions here are how do we keep A.F.R.S.V. from spreading? Do we quarantine? Or just light a match and start over?

The answer, my friends, to all of the above questions and so many more can be found in song. A song by Kansas of all bands.

I close my eyes

only for a moment

and the moment’s gone

all my dreams

pass before my eyes a curiosity

dust in the wind

all we are is dust in the wind

Same old song

just a drop of water

in the endless sea

all we do

crumbles to the ground

though we refuse to see

dust in the wind

all we are is dust in the wind

Now, don’t hang on

nothing last forever

but the earth and sky

it slips away

And all your money

won’t another minute buy

Dust in the wind

all we are is dust in the wind

dust in the wind

everything is dust in the wind

Kansas, Dust in the Wind

The moral of this story? None here. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant "hate-borne pathogen free" blessings. Love,

-e-