colorful doors.

(Originally posted April 19th, 2009)

It has been a long time since I’ve committed to sitting and writing, but I feel great need to do so as of late. There has been an abnormal change in my mood, which for so long has had an ever so slight air of somberness. I’d like to believe in my mind that the weather has had very little to do with it….That I haven’t been punch drunk with happiness over the past couple of weeks just because of the sun…..I’d like to believe that life is taking a great turn. And I don’t think I’m lying to myself. I think it might be.

I’ve been seeing some good front doors about lately, on my thrilling drives to supply pizza to the masses. If there is one thing about a living space that I am obsessed with, it would be doors. Splashes of color against a contrasting background, inviting signs posted between eave and door, welcoming in the stranger, windows like stacked blocks in a row at adult height and if we’re clever, maybe ones down below for the little ones, and knobs….antique and knowing of a great many years, of many hands. I like doors that tell good stories. And it seems completely absurd that one would get that giddy feeling of falling in love just laying their eyes upon a painted wooden structure not made by Legos, builder to the gods, but probably by some guy named Steve, yer good ole regular blue collar carpenter…

But, I have.

This talk of living spaces, of doors has been racking the insides of my mind quite a bit, as the community I find myself living in and with, will soon physically come to an end. And as I look for nearby houses, their windows, doors, and 2.5 bathrooms, I hear my true desires coming to the surface of my mind…

I don’t want to live in a house with so many stairs leading up to its door that a stranger or cute old man wouldn’t dare trod up them. I don’t want to live in a house where I have a silver plated engraved “NO SOLICITING” sign turning away what I obviously have come to fear. I would like to know and be known by my neighbors, to let them know that they can walk in any time they smell dinner and know that, without a doubt, they are invited come in and share a meal. I want to know all of people.

the real Arrested Development

(Originally posted March 16th, 2009)

It’s quite unfortunate that many in our society now attribute the name “Arrested Development” to a canceled Fox sitcom with some pretty annoying “hand-held camera” work. For those of you who don’t know, there once climbed to greatness in the early 90s a hip-hop group that would define an era. Their name: Arrested Development.

The assemblage then consisted of Speech, Montsho Eshe, One Love, Nicha, Rasadon (aka Don Norris), Baba Oje, JJ Boogie and Za. There are a great number of reasons why I am obsessive over Arrested Development, but I’ll only name for you a few for the sake of time. ONE they are from Atlanta, Georgia which I hear is pretty much the place to be…especially if you’re African American in the U.S….. I’ll have to go someday. Every black person I’ve ever met from Atlanta (and believe me, there are few I have actually met) has been an exceptionally awesome and interesting person with great style sense (not that it matters…but hey, extra points I say). TWO they were dedicated to producing music that would help foster respect for one’s self…especially in the African American community. (I guess that’s labeled “Afro-centric” nowadays) They did all this in the midst of the overwhelming rise of gansta rap in the 90s.

THIS IS SERIOUS. Early 90s, we’re talking some of the greatest rap music of all time. NO. THE greatest rap music of all time. We’re talking Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Ice Cube, Public Enemy, Grandmaster Flash, AND Tupac. But Arrested Development held their own while holding on to their original convictions to produce amazing music with honesty and zeal.

Today I was in my car delivering to some place at the far corners of Lake City where people never really venture all too often, when something came about. The radio let out a familiar yell/screech that I knew could mean only one thing: Mr. Wendal. As I listened to the song I couldn’t help but rap along. Sure I had a stupid, overly happy look on my face that was probably distracting to other drivers especially when I rolled down the window, pumped up the volume, turned to the driver next to me and pointed to the radio in a “hey man, you should really get into this!” type of way. Sure I could have gotten pulled over for swerving in and out of my lane of traffic to the beat of the music. But it would’ve been oh so worth it and would not compare to the joy I felt in that moment.

Enough of my talk. Enjoy ———> Mr. Wendal by Arrested Development

look at me with no Walmart.

(Originally posted March 15th, 2009)

I think back on my today and I feel almost sickened with frustration. I remember this. This whole day has been a sort of Déjà vu .

My senior year of high school, I used to wander the isles of the Super Walmart back in Puyallup. One by one.

Stop. Look. “Do I need crayons?”

Think. “Yes. If I buy the crayons I’ll feel a bit better. I like crayons.”

My sister Leilonie had gone to college that year…and that explains the Walmart, but I guess not clearly. You see, we’re only a year and a month apart, my older sister and I. We are a lot the same. I think she’d agree. We laugh at the same things. We sing the same songs after someone speaks a word that triggers a certain memory. We process thoughts the same. She always understands what I’m thinking. And when she left, I found that she was a piece of myself that I had needed. I mean, sure, we could talk on the phone, but it was less often and not really the same. It felt like someone had cut out half of an important organ….my brain….or one of my lungs and I wasn’t healing enough to compensate for the loss.

I would get this unberable feeling of stifled pain and loneliness at least four or five times a week , and the only thing that would make it any better was roaming those isles. It was mostly a good distraction. I would go down every isle and pick up the things I wanted. Slowly. I didn’t want to go home to sit. Sit and think about all the thoughts I never had anyone to tell. My brain just got busy, and then I’d start to miss Leilonie. Maybe I’d just lay and weep for a while. In any case, it wasn’t fun.

When I was done I’d check out my items, go to my car, drive slowly home. Repeat.

I’d think, “I would like to just talk with someone. Just have a normal conversation. A real one. Because no. My day wasn’t fine and I’m not alright and I know that you probably aren’t either. And I wish someone would just ask. I wish we just talked. “

And today I realized, that I feel that same feeling. But look at me with no Walmart.

Why Now Shall We Commence?

(Originally posted March 14th, 2009)

I blame the starting of this blog on the man Mike Shriver, while he will hold no responsibility for any emotional fall outs one might encounter from reading said blog-age. Neither will I. I’m not your mama.

No. Seriously. The conversation went a bit like this *clears throat*

Mike: “You’re a pizza delivery driver now…..maybe you should start a blog.”

Me: “A blog. Really?”

Mike: “Yeah! (excitement added for emphasis). Delivery drivers always have the best stories.”

Me: ” Well then I might just have to.” (end of conversation)

Ha. Since I respect the out pouring of thought from this said man and friend, I will have to try this blog on for size…as well as bending and squatting potential. If blogs were like pants that is.