Today's Blog-track is a AmazonPrime: The Good Wife, Season 4.
Lets go. This is a very long story, mostly because of some of my own damned ridiculous as well as some of mine. So I'm weaving three tales of Tom Foolery together for a Creepshow blog series within a blog series. So many titles. #Inception
It was one of the years when I was still wet behind the
poetic ears….i was still dripping with extreme excitement and with the desire
to go to all places that held poetry, no matter how near or far they were. I
desired to be engulfed in the perimeters of those who spit for a living. I
wanted to be one of those people. So
when I heard about something big that was happening for poetry, I was the first
one looking to organize the trip to go….ESP when it was close.
So there was this one time, me and a sisterfriend went to a
different city to hear what we loved: Poetry. I hoped to gain more knowledge and
learn a thing or two. Maybe even network a little although I was still on the
very shy side, so opening up and sharing so much as my name offstage was a bit
of a task for me. But I was ready for whatever. To listen to poets, from all
over and hear styles of poetry that I had never head and hear subject matter I never
thought to write about I didn’t go to do poetry; I went to experience it.
I was at the hotel bar by myself. Taking in my surroundings.
There were MANY people crowded into this small room with windows that looked
out towards the traffic passing by. I
think that was the view. There were a lot of people. Most were poets or at
least writers of some capacity. It was the evening of the final show and many
people were gathered inside this bar, unwinding and knocking back a few shots
and glasses of cheap wine before the show.
The bar was a U Shape. Like the bars at Chili’s. I sat on
the Westside, having a drink of some kind. By myself, minding my business. I
know how to take on a scene and be chill and peaceful….by myself. Even at a
bar. My sisterfriend was in our room, getting some chill of her own. She would
later come down or maybe it was the day before that we sat there, at the same
bar but rather in a booth, having a drink and talking and laughing about the
time spent. We were there for two or three days. But at this moment, had she
been there, this story would probably be fiction. But it’s not and she was in
the room.
I was a fan of his. Simply a fan. I had no other thoughts or
desires to do anything other than see him perform live or listen to the way he
turned words into best friends and worst enemies in the most vivid of ways. I
saw him live one time awhile before this event and was an instant fan. I head
him during this event. He still had it. I was still a fan. I was a fan. Fan. He
was sitting about two chairs down from me when he turned and started
conversation. From here, I will try to speed up.
I’m not a star struck person. Not a groupie. Not for stars
or locals or in betweens or undergrounds. For no one. No matter how much in awe
of a person I may actually be, I would never show it. I still got pride, no
matter how often misplaced. In between my repressed excitement at the fact that
one of my favorites was talking to little ole me made me excited. I would have
loved to have shared some of my poetry. Or spoken about the positioning of
words on paper or the sounds you hear when you describe, but he was more interested
in knowing what my response would be to him sticking his tongue down my throat. WAYMENT-
We were just talking about how I saw him perform live before. I think I may have been bold enough to mention I was a writer, but I'm usually really low key on that note. Idfk, but what I do know for a fact is that I did NOTHING to warrant that form of conversation from someone who, off stage, was a complete fucking stranger. (did i just get angry again?)
Kissing me. hmph....
I had NEVER thought past words with this person. And I heard
such beautiful words from him, but in this moment, this moment where I had the
chance to learn something and trade thoughts, here I was sitting at a bar
wondering how fast I could get out of this awkward situation.
I was actually taken aback. I’ve never been quick on my toes.
My poems are cool because I get a chance to really utilize the thought process
to carefully pick out my words, whereas, in instant situations, unless I have a
trained response already ready, I usually fumble for my actual reaction. Then I
have my actual reaction after the fact. -_- So just like my natural reaction to
being too aloof in unprotected environment, I gave a shaky smile… and honestly,
I don’t remember what I said….it wasn’t what it should have been. But then more
awkward things started happening in the midst of my poetic oasis. Someone came
and stood directly in between us, even though we were facing each other in
conversation.
But that’s another blog.
Actually, I think I already wrote it on the personal blog I’ve
kept since 2008-ish…so yeah, idk what I said but then that happened and I don’t
know. Somehow I managed to scat up outta there. I put that shit in the back of
my Pandora section.
I felt like all my paperdoll thoughts blue up in fire. Like
whoa! Why me ? Wait- what did I do ? Did he find some twisted up telekinetic way
to connect with me that made him think that was appropriate conversation to
have with a stranger? A complete stranger? I was HIS fan. And no one there knew
me. So to what did I owe this kissingship? I remember him telling me about
coming up to his room. OooofCOURSE you are in the same hotel as me. -_- But not
once, before now, have you seen me and now this? But but-
But …I’m your fan!!!! OF POETRY!!! Does that somehow turn me
into an accidental groupie, I mean what the fuck, are you a rapper? Are male
poets rappers? Do they get Drake and Wayne pussy by the pound, do women toss
themselves at these niggas like they Gods or some shit? Cause I’ve met quite a
few poetic JESTERS and I’m just keeping it honest, from MY opinion.
Fucking clown shit….but of course, these are all the
thoughts that began to formulate after the fact. I don’t know how I burst his
bubble, but believe me when I say I did! I mean shit man….What a way to bust my poetry groove thang up. Here I am, all anonymously bursting with excitement in this Disneyland of spoken word artists; this shit was the LAST thing I would have expected.
How come I don’t get the same treatment you gave the paper?
Where women were Queens!? You wouldn’t talk to Queen Elizabeth like that and
she’s white! I’m YOUR missing link, your melanin sharing Aphrodite and you give
me hoodrat lingo with twist of lime? And then give the paper the upliftment?
Ican’t.
Talk about a fucked up night to be a fan.
PART o if o_O
#AMuseDBy #MuseTomDickHarry #Muse#00000000
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