Recently, I compared Frank Ocean's songwriting ability to that of the writing genius of Toni Morrison. Wait. Hear me out before you stop reading all together. My homeboy asked me a couple days ago if I could decipher Ocean's lyrics to have them make sense. His question verbatim was:
"On his new cd, do you get what he's talking about in most of his songs? It was pointed out to me that most of them are randomness."
I replied, telling him that I could see how it could be construed as such and agreed that I really have to tune the world out when I listen to his music. The way he approaches a song is definitely unconventional, a total 180 from what we're used to in our juvenile age of music. Despite his complexities, there is still a considerable amount of people who love and appreciate Frank Ocean as an artist.
Me: "I look at his music as an abstract piece of art; everyone won't get the same thing from the same body of work. I like that his style is complicated because it differs from the overly simplistic style we're bombarded with daily."
"Is it really complicated or is it just a bunch of stuff mixed into one?"
"It's just like reading a Morrison novel, in my opinion. Each sentence in her many incomparable works is so loaded with information. You're given a history lesson that is so descriptive to the point where you're lost by the time you reach the end of the page. Now you have to go back to the top and re-read just to keep up with the story line. She does this consistently and she's heralded as a literary great!"
I went on to say that because Ocean has more than one dimension when it comes to song writing, it makes his work complicated to the average ear (one's not accustomed to reading between the lines). "But, this is just my opinion," I offered. "You could be right. He could have been trippin' off the purest of coke while writing these sh*ts."
Me and my friend have these musical debates often and though I'm not an expert on the subject, it does help me in terms of forming my own opinion and learning how to put my jumbled thoughts into coherent words. My question though, is have we reached a point in music where everything must be watered down and straight to the point? Have we done away the art of critical thinking and exercising creative methods of communication?
I do not intend to bash artists who have a simplistic flow (2 Chainz, for example) because their music serves a purpose. Plus, I'm not here to knock their hustle. But in those artists' glorification, are the deep thinkers in the business to be lost in the grand scheme of things? It makes you wonder what people want from music these days
Friday, August 10, 2012
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Day 8: Black Brotha
Years have passed since I wrote my last poem. It was going to be my audition piece for Lyrical Quest, a group of poets and other like-minded, artistically inclined souls that graced the campus of Grambling State University down in Louisiana. I never got the chance to perform that piece and over time, poetry became my distant lover. Yes, my heart would still skip a beat whenever I heard it's familiar tone but as far as my own pen was concerned...let's just say, the thrill was gone.
The closest I've been to an open mic night was probably during my time at GSU but tonight, that changed. A fellow #GramFam member by the name of Harold Green III, hosts a weekly set on the south side of Chicago called Soul Speak, where artistic souls hold one big jam session, with a lil poetry sprinkled in the mix for good measure. Every Wednesday night at 8:30, J Bistro turns into something out of love jones as people pack into the intimate space until it is standing room only, anticipating a good time.
Harold and his co-host (I feel terrible that I can't remember his name) had me cracking up the entire night. The chemistry those two share is amazing. *sidenote: just realized that I didn't hear Harold spit tonight--yea, he does that too* Although the spoken word I heard from everyone who blessed the stage was amazing (shout out Brandon "Real T@alk The Poet" Williams and Erthe St. James [#GramFam]), that wasn't the best part to me.
There was a brief section where Harold discussed the importance of us playing a role in our children's lives. He is a father himself and I listened intently as he shared with the audience about how his own father is writing a memoir for his grandson (Harold's son) to help him understand why his "Da" (what little Harold calls HG3) is so amazing. Harold gave us a quick background, telling us that his son always talks about how he wants to be strong and cool like his "Da". Almost immediately, you could see the emotion trying to escape as he told us this story. He was seemingly overwhelmed to know that his own father thought he was such an amazing man on so many levels.
Watching him stand up there, beaming about his family, made me think about mine. I wish I had the relationship and shared the love that he did with his family. His father wrote him poems as a young child and I'm sure he gave him plenty of books to read as a way to educate his son in more ways than one. The relationship he had with his father and the one that he is cultivating with his son now made me feel some kind of way about the bond I share with my own dad.
This is not me bashing my dad because most of the times I needed him, he came through in one way or the other but it is no secret that my mother raised me. He was supportive throughout my basketball career up until the day I graduated college, paid for every gym shoe and uniform I ever put on but the other stuff is what I needed him for.
...I feel this turning into something totally different, calling for emotions I'm not sure I'm ready for yet. I've got work in a few hours and no time for puffy eyes.
The point I'm trying to make is that I appreciate men like Harold Green III. Men who play an active part in their childrens' lives, especially our young men, hold a dear space in my heart. I am thank for Harold's father who took the time to write those poems to his son. The same man who is penning a book for his grandson (that is so dope to me!). It's funny now that I think about it but as Harold stepped off the stage and closer to where I was sitting at the bar, I just watched him and I thought to myself, If I am ever to have children (because I don't really want them--'nother blog post for another day) I would want to have them with a man like him. And I say that with all due respect to that special woman in his life.
I don't know him personally but from the few times I've been in his presence and having listened to his music/poems for a few years now, I know the brotha has some sense. I wish I could be around to see the type of man his son grows up to be; how smart and knowledgeable he'll be at such an early age.
I want to be that role model in a young child's life; that person that encouraged them to read books instead of discussing reality television. I want to do my part in helping the generation after me, regardless of how small the task. In the words of Demetria Lucas, "How do you eat an elephant? One piece at a time."
The closest I've been to an open mic night was probably during my time at GSU but tonight, that changed. A fellow #GramFam member by the name of Harold Green III, hosts a weekly set on the south side of Chicago called Soul Speak, where artistic souls hold one big jam session, with a lil poetry sprinkled in the mix for good measure. Every Wednesday night at 8:30, J Bistro turns into something out of love jones as people pack into the intimate space until it is standing room only, anticipating a good time.
Harold and his co-host (I feel terrible that I can't remember his name) had me cracking up the entire night. The chemistry those two share is amazing. *sidenote: just realized that I didn't hear Harold spit tonight--yea, he does that too* Although the spoken word I heard from everyone who blessed the stage was amazing (shout out Brandon "Real T@alk The Poet" Williams and Erthe St. James [#GramFam]), that wasn't the best part to me.
There was a brief section where Harold discussed the importance of us playing a role in our children's lives. He is a father himself and I listened intently as he shared with the audience about how his own father is writing a memoir for his grandson (Harold's son) to help him understand why his "Da" (what little Harold calls HG3) is so amazing. Harold gave us a quick background, telling us that his son always talks about how he wants to be strong and cool like his "Da". Almost immediately, you could see the emotion trying to escape as he told us this story. He was seemingly overwhelmed to know that his own father thought he was such an amazing man on so many levels.
Watching him stand up there, beaming about his family, made me think about mine. I wish I had the relationship and shared the love that he did with his family. His father wrote him poems as a young child and I'm sure he gave him plenty of books to read as a way to educate his son in more ways than one. The relationship he had with his father and the one that he is cultivating with his son now made me feel some kind of way about the bond I share with my own dad.
This is not me bashing my dad because most of the times I needed him, he came through in one way or the other but it is no secret that my mother raised me. He was supportive throughout my basketball career up until the day I graduated college, paid for every gym shoe and uniform I ever put on but the other stuff is what I needed him for.
...I feel this turning into something totally different, calling for emotions I'm not sure I'm ready for yet. I've got work in a few hours and no time for puffy eyes.
The point I'm trying to make is that I appreciate men like Harold Green III. Men who play an active part in their childrens' lives, especially our young men, hold a dear space in my heart. I am thank for Harold's father who took the time to write those poems to his son. The same man who is penning a book for his grandson (that is so dope to me!). It's funny now that I think about it but as Harold stepped off the stage and closer to where I was sitting at the bar, I just watched him and I thought to myself, If I am ever to have children (because I don't really want them--'nother blog post for another day) I would want to have them with a man like him. And I say that with all due respect to that special woman in his life.
I don't know him personally but from the few times I've been in his presence and having listened to his music/poems for a few years now, I know the brotha has some sense. I wish I could be around to see the type of man his son grows up to be; how smart and knowledgeable he'll be at such an early age.
I want to be that role model in a young child's life; that person that encouraged them to read books instead of discussing reality television. I want to do my part in helping the generation after me, regardless of how small the task. In the words of Demetria Lucas, "How do you eat an elephant? One piece at a time."
Disappearing Acts...
Remnants of his cocoa buttered scent still lingered on my frame as I sat, nestled in the corner of my leather arm chair replaying the memories of last night's rendezvous in my mind. The thought of him grabbing a fistful of my curly tresses in his strong but supple hands shot the myriad tingles up and down my spine as I closed my eyes and tried hard to get lost in ecstasy of both the pleasure and pain he was able to execute.
I could feel the warmth emanating from his body as he hovered over me, staring down deep at me as if he were trying to send a message telepathically. I read his mind perfectly as I caressed the nape of his neck, fingers pleased to get tangled in his unkempt 'fro. He told me months ago that he was trying something new and that I was going to have to get used to his full beard and wild hair. I didn't mind. I preferred it more than his usual clean cut.
All day we lay there lazily, afraid to ruin the moment if either of us moved. Instead of food, we fed each others appetite insatiably as we sampled each other over and over again. Each time was different, two new people with each position. Between rounds, I would lay there and let the light sound of his snore lull me into a daze or watch the ceiling fan rotate, a cool breeze permeating the sex-filled air. Sometimes, I'd just watch him. Study him to see if he was the still the same. He was.
And that's what bothered me which is why I'm not still tangled in his sheets, my bare back hugged up against his smooth, strong chest. I always knew he wanted more of me than I was willing to offer and like a dunce, I assumed he understood. He's the type of man to think that he will be the one to change my mind. Clearly, no one warned him.
The crackle of wood burning in my fireplace distracted me momentarily, reminding me about that night we made love in the backyard of his parent's house. He invited me over for the bonfire they were hosting and because I loved his family, I obliged without a second thought. He looked delicious in his raw denim jeans and simple cardigan. He wore it on purpose. I remember him walking up to greet me at the front door, dark aviator frames covering his soft gaze. He removed them, as if on cue, and gently brushed his lips against mine. They were soft and warm. I was hot and ready.
I slipped my hand into his as we made our way through the semi crowded house. Everyone was so happy to see me, faces beaming once I stepped into the room. I scanned the area, looking for the woman of the house. There she was, entertaining a small group of women at the outdoor bar. As I made my way to her, someone called his name, beckoning for the attention he was giving me.
She asked where I had been. Told her work had kept me away, which was partly true. She scolded me and made me promise to come around more. He returned with a glass of wine for me before I could assure her I would. I took a sip to calm my nerves. As the sweet flavors danced on my tongue, he whispered something in my ear causing his mother blush. Turning into him, I whispered back. He slipped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me away from the crowd. I could hear his mother and her friends snickering at our display of affection. I have to admit, it was cute in a high school sweetheart kind of way. But that is how we had always been.
Throughout the night, we managed to steal little moments for two, not really caring about who saw. He accused me of causing him to shed any inhibitions he had when it came to affection. I didn't want that kind of pressure. He would shoot me glances from across the room that only I could decipher. I would sneak up behind him while he laughed with his brothers, whispering in his ear how bad I wanted him. Maintaining his cool demeanor, he would always flash his boyish grin that never failed to tug at my heart, kiss my cheek and continue on with his conversation.
By the time all the guests had left, the bonfire had died out a little. He took my hand and led me towards the lawn couch that was positioned in front of the burning pile of wood. He towered over me by a foot at least, almost swallowing my petite frame when he held me. He stared down at me, eyes boring through to my soul. These are moments I enjoyed with him. Where no words were exchanged but we knew exactly what the other was saying.
He made me bashful on the inside. I was reluctant to show it though. I couldn't. Complete vulnerability is new territory for me. He tries to convince me that I'm safe with him but that shit never works in real life. I allow him just enough to keep him coming back. He could sense my mind reeling so he tilted my head up towards his lowered one and placed a gentle kiss on my lips. I wanted to melt as I allowed my hands to travel up the length of his arms, meeting again as they locked behind his head.
It was evident that I wanted him, regardless of the fact that we were outside in his parents' backyard. A damn I gave not as I pulled back a little so he could watch as I methodically unbuttoned his sweater. I let my hands trail over his solid stomach, anticipating it pressed up against me. He knew this routine all too well as he didn't move while I finagled him out of his t-shirt.
The sound of his belt hitting the concrete patio in a heap along with his jeans got me even more excited because I knew what was coming next. He went for my hair first, never taking his eyes off of mine as he undid the loose braid I rocked. My curly hair was a beast that needed taming and he did a damn good job. Kissing my bare shoulder as if I would break under too much pressure. The spot where my neck and shoulder met stiffened at his touch, making my knees weak. I braced myself to withstand the sweet torture to come...
I could feel the warmth emanating from his body as he hovered over me, staring down deep at me as if he were trying to send a message telepathically. I read his mind perfectly as I caressed the nape of his neck, fingers pleased to get tangled in his unkempt 'fro. He told me months ago that he was trying something new and that I was going to have to get used to his full beard and wild hair. I didn't mind. I preferred it more than his usual clean cut.
All day we lay there lazily, afraid to ruin the moment if either of us moved. Instead of food, we fed each others appetite insatiably as we sampled each other over and over again. Each time was different, two new people with each position. Between rounds, I would lay there and let the light sound of his snore lull me into a daze or watch the ceiling fan rotate, a cool breeze permeating the sex-filled air. Sometimes, I'd just watch him. Study him to see if he was the still the same. He was.
And that's what bothered me which is why I'm not still tangled in his sheets, my bare back hugged up against his smooth, strong chest. I always knew he wanted more of me than I was willing to offer and like a dunce, I assumed he understood. He's the type of man to think that he will be the one to change my mind. Clearly, no one warned him.
The crackle of wood burning in my fireplace distracted me momentarily, reminding me about that night we made love in the backyard of his parent's house. He invited me over for the bonfire they were hosting and because I loved his family, I obliged without a second thought. He looked delicious in his raw denim jeans and simple cardigan. He wore it on purpose. I remember him walking up to greet me at the front door, dark aviator frames covering his soft gaze. He removed them, as if on cue, and gently brushed his lips against mine. They were soft and warm. I was hot and ready.
I slipped my hand into his as we made our way through the semi crowded house. Everyone was so happy to see me, faces beaming once I stepped into the room. I scanned the area, looking for the woman of the house. There she was, entertaining a small group of women at the outdoor bar. As I made my way to her, someone called his name, beckoning for the attention he was giving me.
She asked where I had been. Told her work had kept me away, which was partly true. She scolded me and made me promise to come around more. He returned with a glass of wine for me before I could assure her I would. I took a sip to calm my nerves. As the sweet flavors danced on my tongue, he whispered something in my ear causing his mother blush. Turning into him, I whispered back. He slipped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me away from the crowd. I could hear his mother and her friends snickering at our display of affection. I have to admit, it was cute in a high school sweetheart kind of way. But that is how we had always been.
Throughout the night, we managed to steal little moments for two, not really caring about who saw. He accused me of causing him to shed any inhibitions he had when it came to affection. I didn't want that kind of pressure. He would shoot me glances from across the room that only I could decipher. I would sneak up behind him while he laughed with his brothers, whispering in his ear how bad I wanted him. Maintaining his cool demeanor, he would always flash his boyish grin that never failed to tug at my heart, kiss my cheek and continue on with his conversation.
By the time all the guests had left, the bonfire had died out a little. He took my hand and led me towards the lawn couch that was positioned in front of the burning pile of wood. He towered over me by a foot at least, almost swallowing my petite frame when he held me. He stared down at me, eyes boring through to my soul. These are moments I enjoyed with him. Where no words were exchanged but we knew exactly what the other was saying.
He made me bashful on the inside. I was reluctant to show it though. I couldn't. Complete vulnerability is new territory for me. He tries to convince me that I'm safe with him but that shit never works in real life. I allow him just enough to keep him coming back. He could sense my mind reeling so he tilted my head up towards his lowered one and placed a gentle kiss on my lips. I wanted to melt as I allowed my hands to travel up the length of his arms, meeting again as they locked behind his head.
It was evident that I wanted him, regardless of the fact that we were outside in his parents' backyard. A damn I gave not as I pulled back a little so he could watch as I methodically unbuttoned his sweater. I let my hands trail over his solid stomach, anticipating it pressed up against me. He knew this routine all too well as he didn't move while I finagled him out of his t-shirt.
The sound of his belt hitting the concrete patio in a heap along with his jeans got me even more excited because I knew what was coming next. He went for my hair first, never taking his eyes off of mine as he undid the loose braid I rocked. My curly hair was a beast that needed taming and he did a damn good job. Kissing my bare shoulder as if I would break under too much pressure. The spot where my neck and shoulder met stiffened at his touch, making my knees weak. I braced myself to withstand the sweet torture to come...
Day 7: Disappearing Acts (pt. 2)
Deep down, I wanted to be everything he wanted but my heart would not allow it, which was surprising because that bitch was a traitor and couldn't be trusted. Hell, she's responsible for me being in this situation now. All I wanted to do that day was catch a cab home and bury myself deep down in my queen sized bed once I got there. Instead, I ended up sharing a ride with a honey bronzed cutie whose gentle face attempted to compromise my judgment. He asked me if I minded splitting the fare and I responded that it was a little late for common courtesy.
He grinned as he closed the door. Initial irritation began to fade as I watched his lips instruct the driver where to. His stop was on the way. I wondered where he was coming from with not so much as book bag attached to his person. Relaxed fitting denims hanging comfortably on his frame, plain black tee with a matching fitted cap that rested lazily on his head, exposing a razor sharp lining. All signs that he could have just left the barber.
He extended his hand as we merged with traffic. I'm Kyle, he offered. I expected something else. Kyle didn't fit him. Without shaking his hand, I gave him a nod and turned my focus to my now buzzing phone. Nice to meet you, sarcasm oozing as his eyes lingered a while longer.
Aside from the beads colliding with one another from the cabbie's rearview and the soft hum of the A/C whistling from the vents, we rode in silence. I was in the middle of an argument as to why I wouldn't be heading down to Virginia to visit my god-sister next weekend, he was taking in the city as if this was his first time here. Nope. This scene wasn't awkward at all. I wanted to ask him where he was visiting from but I didn't get the chance. The taxi slowed to a stop right in the middle of a surprisingly quiet neighborhood. Three teenage girls passed the car right as we pulled up to the curb, the one in the middle going on about how she spent her weekend. It was safe to say hers was a a lot more eventful than mine.
Without a word, he slipped a $20 from his wallet over the right shoulder of the driver. His eyes met mine and for a second, we just sat there being all awkward. To this day, I don't know why I didn't say anything. Maybe because we'd soon find out that this was our thing--enjoying the seconds is what we like to call it. He started to say something but stopped himself. Instead, he shook his head and smiled as he moved to open the door. My eyes held on to him through the windshield, watching intently as he adjusted his fitted. He jogged across the street to avoid the light rain now drizzling from the forming clouds. Only after he made it up the building's steps and inside did I let my eyes become aware of the rest of the world outside my window.
**** if you haven't read part 1, read it here****
He extended his hand as we merged with traffic. I'm Kyle, he offered. I expected something else. Kyle didn't fit him. Without shaking his hand, I gave him a nod and turned my focus to my now buzzing phone. Nice to meet you, sarcasm oozing as his eyes lingered a while longer.
Aside from the beads colliding with one another from the cabbie's rearview and the soft hum of the A/C whistling from the vents, we rode in silence. I was in the middle of an argument as to why I wouldn't be heading down to Virginia to visit my god-sister next weekend, he was taking in the city as if this was his first time here. Nope. This scene wasn't awkward at all. I wanted to ask him where he was visiting from but I didn't get the chance. The taxi slowed to a stop right in the middle of a surprisingly quiet neighborhood. Three teenage girls passed the car right as we pulled up to the curb, the one in the middle going on about how she spent her weekend. It was safe to say hers was a a lot more eventful than mine.
Without a word, he slipped a $20 from his wallet over the right shoulder of the driver. His eyes met mine and for a second, we just sat there being all awkward. To this day, I don't know why I didn't say anything. Maybe because we'd soon find out that this was our thing--enjoying the seconds is what we like to call it. He started to say something but stopped himself. Instead, he shook his head and smiled as he moved to open the door. My eyes held on to him through the windshield, watching intently as he adjusted his fitted. He jogged across the street to avoid the light rain now drizzling from the forming clouds. Only after he made it up the building's steps and inside did I let my eyes become aware of the rest of the world outside my window.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Day 6: Lost in Translation
Somewhere between then and now was a disconnect and for years, she has been trying to reattach the missing pieces. To blame daddy for not being around would be too easy. Nor would it be the whole truth. Genuine happiness is an emotion she wishes she could experience more. The length in between is too much. Life for her has become monotonous and she grows more irritable by the day. Maybe therapy will help but she doesn't really see the value in paying someone to listen while she unleashes her feelings.
Somewhere there was a disconnect. Unsure of where the low self-esteem stems from and even more confused as to how to overcome it. Vivid visions of how it should be play constantly in her mind but for some reason, she can't bring it to reality.
Somewhere along the lines, there was a disconnect. Failed relationships throughout the years, none of which were hers, taught her about marriage and commitment, possibly scaring her to the point of non-belief. The idea itself is beautiful but seemingly unattainable in this life. She's even more afraid of not getting the chance to experience that unbridled love. Everyone is so guarded these days, potential hurt paralyzing them in the face of vulnerability. She can relate though. No one likes getting their feelings hurt.
Where does she begin? What are the steps? How does she fix it?
Somewhere there was a disconnect. Unsure of where the low self-esteem stems from and even more confused as to how to overcome it. Vivid visions of how it should be play constantly in her mind but for some reason, she can't bring it to reality.
Somewhere along the lines, there was a disconnect. Failed relationships throughout the years, none of which were hers, taught her about marriage and commitment, possibly scaring her to the point of non-belief. The idea itself is beautiful but seemingly unattainable in this life. She's even more afraid of not getting the chance to experience that unbridled love. Everyone is so guarded these days, potential hurt paralyzing them in the face of vulnerability. She can relate though. No one likes getting their feelings hurt.
Where does she begin? What are the steps? How does she fix it?
Day 5: Dreamchaser
*post for 8.5.2012*
Last night, I was catching up with a friend who I haven't seen in almost five years. As I was filling him in on the joys of completing my first freelance assignment and my 15 seconds of fame on Edge Magazine's website, he interrupted me saying, "I'm proud of you, E. I'm noticing the change in your attitude and I like it."
My face screwed up on it's own. Change in my attitude? Was it bad before?
"No. You've always had a great attitude about things. I'm saying that I see you're becoming more focused on your goals."
He's right. Since the eighth grade, I've known that I wanted to write on a professional scale. It took until my last two years of undergrad to understand that this wouldn't be an easy task. Over the years, I've used social mediums, like Twitter and the blogosphere, to connect with the millions who share my dream. I watch closely as people who have succeeded in this game share genuine advice in 140 characters or less. I've even requested from the prolific Erica "Rivaflowz" Buddington that she teach me everything she knows (I need to email her btw).
A month ago, I turned a year older. Prior to that, I have been in deep thought about the direction I want my life to take and the steps involved to getting me there. Of course, in my head, the plan is foolproof and everyone is happy but in real life, there is real work involved.
Each week for about a month or so, Britni Danielle has been sending "Morning Motivators" to her #GOALdiggers family, an extension of the "Wise Words" column she writes for Clutch Magazine. Her back story is what keeps me coming back for more of her writing. She was a teacher by day and a deadline defeating writer by night. One day, she quit her secure job at the school and started freelancing. Years later, she's solidified her place in this game and secured a top spot in my RSS Reader. Believing in her dreams encouraged her to step out on faith in order to make them a reality.
Today's #GOALdiggers post was about focus. This past weekend, she successfully learned how to ride a motorcycle. With three main goals in mind, Danielle accomplished her objective, despite the others in her class who quit after the first lesson. I'm familiar with that feeling and would love to experience it more times than not. Now is the perfect time for me to zone in on what it is I want and make the moves to GO get it.
Looking back, I have a lot of goal-oriented friends who are working relentlessly towards their dreams or living them. Three are working towards their Masters, one started medical school today and the other just got her MBA this past weekend (congrats again QB!). I love to hear their success stories as well as the disappointments because of the lessons embedded within. Slowly but surely, I'm coming into my own. There are times where I feel stagnant, like I'm not in the place I should be at this point in life. I'm learning that things happen in God's time and eventually, I will get there.
Timing is everything.
My face screwed up on it's own. Change in my attitude? Was it bad before?
"No. You've always had a great attitude about things. I'm saying that I see you're becoming more focused on your goals."
He's right. Since the eighth grade, I've known that I wanted to write on a professional scale. It took until my last two years of undergrad to understand that this wouldn't be an easy task. Over the years, I've used social mediums, like Twitter and the blogosphere, to connect with the millions who share my dream. I watch closely as people who have succeeded in this game share genuine advice in 140 characters or less. I've even requested from the prolific Erica "Rivaflowz" Buddington that she teach me everything she knows (I need to email her btw).
A month ago, I turned a year older. Prior to that, I have been in deep thought about the direction I want my life to take and the steps involved to getting me there. Of course, in my head, the plan is foolproof and everyone is happy but in real life, there is real work involved.
Each week for about a month or so, Britni Danielle has been sending "Morning Motivators" to her #GOALdiggers family, an extension of the "Wise Words" column she writes for Clutch Magazine. Her back story is what keeps me coming back for more of her writing. She was a teacher by day and a deadline defeating writer by night. One day, she quit her secure job at the school and started freelancing. Years later, she's solidified her place in this game and secured a top spot in my RSS Reader. Believing in her dreams encouraged her to step out on faith in order to make them a reality.
Today's #GOALdiggers post was about focus. This past weekend, she successfully learned how to ride a motorcycle. With three main goals in mind, Danielle accomplished her objective, despite the others in her class who quit after the first lesson. I'm familiar with that feeling and would love to experience it more times than not. Now is the perfect time for me to zone in on what it is I want and make the moves to GO get it.
Looking back, I have a lot of goal-oriented friends who are working relentlessly towards their dreams or living them. Three are working towards their Masters, one started medical school today and the other just got her MBA this past weekend (congrats again QB!). I love to hear their success stories as well as the disappointments because of the lessons embedded within. Slowly but surely, I'm coming into my own. There are times where I feel stagnant, like I'm not in the place I should be at this point in life. I'm learning that things happen in God's time and eventually, I will get there.
Timing is everything.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Day 4: Sex in Christian Marriages
*this post is for yesterday, 8.4.2012*
How far is too far when it comes to sex in a devout Christian marriage? A few weeks ago, I was listening to the Doug Banks Show and there was a letter from a listener. She has been married to her husband for six years and one day and they both have a strong relationship with God. One day, he tells her that he would like to watch her masturbate during sex. He even admitted to purchasing a toy for them to use during their grown up time.
My initial thought was that their sex life must be very boring if this brotha had to go as far as buying a sex toy. Either that or he's just a different kinda freak. As Doug continued to read the letter, I learned where the woman's apprehension stems from. Being rooted in the church, she feels that if she indulges her husband and his sexual wishes she'll be perverting the gift God has given to married couples. My inner prude gets her. Masturbation is such a private act. Having an extra pair of eyes peeking in on the fun can frighten the most conservative of woman. Plus, "if I have to fix it myself, what do I need you for?" The dilemma is she doesn't want to lose her husband due to her lack of adventure.
In my mind, one can go as far as their own morals will allow with their spouse. As long as both parties are comfortable, have at it! Unfortunately, what I think doesn't matter in reference to God's word. Apparently, there is some sort of hidden clause when it comes to sex for the wedded. My mom was listening to the show with me that day and her reaction was a lot different from mine.
"He's been exposed to some porn or heard something from his boys."
I laughed a little on the inside. Exposed to some porn? This grown man has obviously been exposed to more than that. We both listen to the different callers telling, not suggesting, the woman handle her business with her man before another willing woman did. Some went as far as to quote Ephesians 5:22, "Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord" (kingjamesbibleonline.org). In layman's terms: whatever your husband desires (within reason of course), you're inclined to make sure he gets it. Don't get it twisted though. This demand is only required for wives, not "girlfriends", "boo thangs", or even "wifey". In other words, if you don't have a ring, do as you please!
These days, sex has become America's favorite past time. It is glorified all over the radios and TV screens. It beckons from the bright screens of our laptops, tempting our fingers to type in the URL we've subconsciusly committed to memory. Not to mention the strip clubs where ample T&A greet you at the door. Our sexual appetites are being fed constantly, whether we're hungry or not.
As I pondered the woman's situation, I thought back to a conversation I had with my mom some time ago regarding the different aspects of sex and how it was relevant in the Christian bedroom. One of those aspects was oral sex (giving/receiving) and whether or not it's acceptable in the eyes of God. Her specific answer I can't remember now but long story short, no. She explains how oral pleasure is a perverted form of sex that stemmed from those occupying the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah (story found in Genesis, chapters 18 and 19).
*sidebar: I have always wondered who was the freak that made it acceptable for us to put our mouths on each others' "parts" as a means of pleasure*
The people of those cities would take anything God created, in this case sex, and alter it so that it would fit their desires. People are still guilty of this today and will even use scriptures like the one above in Ephesians to substantiate their claims. I'm no ordained minister but I do know that Christians will quote a scripture faster than God created the Heavens and the earth, without having studied the verse in depth.
Needless to say, I was shocked after hearing all that. Did God really intend for sex to be had in the missionary position all of the time? With the same partner?? Til' death do us part??? Just like our preferences differ when it comes to food and other things, the same goes for sex. What may work for one person may not for the other. Will he punish the most righteous of Christians because they prefer to get a lil more freaky with their spouse?
Blame it on the era I live in for tainting my mind but I just cannot imagine that everyone is supposed to be having the same kind of sex. Is there a such thing as too far in the Christian bedroom?
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