Monday, August 30, 2010

Man boobs. Summer Heat. A dream

Question: Why is the sun so angry with me today? I tiptoed out of my house today with the delicate smell of a cucumber spray on my neck, the robust smell of high endurance underneath my arms and betwixt my legs was the sensual smell of sunflower baby powder. I was ready to take on the day. Two steps out of the building the sun began it's very personal attack against me. Thus my personal summer began. It seemed like the bitch hid on top of my building and as soon as I stepped out the door, she came and sat on the bridge of my nose. The sweat happened immediately. First it started with the gentle lip sweat, then it moved down to the sweat drip that collects at the bottom of your back, top of your ass. This is where it started to get very uncomfortable. And then I felt it...the "under the tit sweat". It's so gross! Sidenote: dear women, you have bras with fabric that soak up the moist nasty that is "under the tit sweat", but us men we have to grin and bear it(sidenote finished) All the smell good that only a few minutes before was applied had gone to shit. Instead of delicate cucumber it smelled like dill pickles, my high endurance turned to no endurance and sunflower baby powder smelled like pungent toe cheese. It was...a mess. Ok, it wasn't that bad, but damn the heat makes you delusional. (See delusional me) I continued my day. Picked up a headshot. Drank an ice coffee. Contemplated life.
In my life there is this need for greatness. In my life there is this fear of my own greatness. This obnoxious strength. This beautiful vulnerability. Why am I so afraid to just be the fabulous person that I am? Why is it that when i'm home standing in front of my mirror, naked, staring at every scar, stretch mark, dimple and every perfect imperfection; I see how beautifully human I am: I am gorgeous. When I leave the comfort of my safety place, my sanctuary, I allow what others definition of beautiful affect me. I allow stupid thoughts like am I too fat, too dark, too sloppy, too feminine, too flawed penetrate my soul. I doubt myself. I dumb myself down. I allow my greatness to flow, like rainwater and pollution, down the gutter. I negate everything I stand for and yet, I allow it to happen all the time. My definition of a strong person is someone who can be as strong as need be and as vunerable within the same respect. My battle with loving and owning and respecting my greatness, will continue to be just that, a small battle in this crazy war called life and acceptance. Oh what a day.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Drunk, Love, Peace

People look at me sometimes and say Ms. Whitfield(a name a may or may not have given myself that my friends have taken libertywith and use frequently) how did you become so fabulous and I will tell you exactly how-three words: Gwenevere Diana Whitfield(the original OG)

My mother is perhaps the funniest person I have ever known in my life. Hell she was THE first person i've ever known in my life. Take all the crazy that I am and put it in a natural born woman and you have Gwenenvere Diana. My mother is brass, loving, swears like a sailor, loves a good puff of Easter Grass and cannot, I repeat, cannot live without her 40's which she enjoys in champagne glasses with neon flexi straws. I know that you are thinking that I am possibly making this up, but you can't write anything as good as this. She is also one of the most accepting, patient, loving and beautiful lambs ever. Here's a glimpse into my life.

A little background.
I grew up a little country boy in a small town in NC. Our house was always the meeting place for our family. And by family I mean birth family, neighborhood friends, the drunks from under the tree or anybody who just didn't have anybody to go home to-they were all my family. There has never been any point in my life, that I can remember, where there wasn't somebody random living on my couch. You could say that we were ghetto fabulous. I had my own barber, my drunk step-grandfather named Duck, who would give me bowl cuts with an actual bowl he placed on my head. We always had "security" at our house. There was an army of old neighborhood libation lovers who sat under a tree near my house everyday; enjoying libations. At some point in the day they would get hungry and would stop by our house and hang for hours. Strangers were only allowed to get so close my family looked out for them and they in turn looked out for us. I had a "manny" and his name was Butt-Butt. Butt-Butt lived with us for as long as I can remember. He slept on our couch and did repairs when ever they were needed. He lived with us from the time I was 6 to 15. He was an old war vet who self medicated. The worst time of day for me was when he got the shakes, he'd take a drink and be better almost instantly. I liked when he got better, I hated the time when he looked like he was in agony. He used to sit with me on the front porch and teach me old songs that he learned in the war:"Girl from Impanima", "Write Myself a Letter" and some other old standards. He was the only example of a stable man in my life. My father played the ONLY game of "now you see me, now you don't." Although I was surrounded by males he was one of the only ones who taught me what it was to be a man. I think one of my strongest gifts is that I can see people. I can see above their circumstances and the war scars that life may have given them, bypass all that is their core-the meat of their being- innocence. Underneath track marks, damaged livers, and shakey hands are the people who taught ME love and to never judge anyone else. After all, if you are seen as the bottom of the totem pole, who can you judge? Isn't it ironic that those who have "the least" are more willing to accept and see people for who they really are, ironic?
Ms Gwenevere Diana never worried with whom she left me. She knew I was in good hands. I was a free spirit who entertained himself for hours. I never bothered anybody, except my sister, and I played by myself a lot. I hung out with grownups and hung onto everyword they spoke. I miss those moments these days. I miss staring in the eyes of someone who has lived life. I miss listening to their spoken and unspoken stories and realizing that every wrinkle on their body has knowledge stored in them. I was raised by simple folk. People who didn't need to use huge words to express themselves. People whose actions spoke eloquently what their non-formally educated minds could express. A legacy of love was left to me. My life's journey is to pass it on to you.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

White Peaches

Today life picked me up and whispered I love you. It gently kissed me with a breeze. It hugged me with the sun. It filled me with air fresh and calm.
Today I sit here in the park, olive oil in my pores, Jennifer Hudson in my ear, thoughts running marathons in my head.

Clarity. I feel that daily I lace up my boxing gloves and fight doubt and confusion and acceptance. I don't want to keep being a martyr. It gets to be too much for me. At what point in my life is my season of increase gonna come. I moved here to NYC with nothing but a dream, rent money and no plans. And New York, guess what? I made it! I'm still here Bitch! I've done you and i'm doing you. I will not be crushed by you and my insecurities. Today I whisper till I scream in my heart that I am here!!!! I am more than a conqueror and there is nothing that life can throw at me or has tried to throw at me that I already haven't beaten.

Plussize Twink

Friday, August 13, 2010

My passion

In my head there is a beat. One that i can't quite shake. One that makes my toes tap and one that makes my head bob. One that makes my fingertips drum and one that beats to a song unsung. It's called rhythm. It's called life. It is my life. My beat is music. Underneath my knees there is something that makes my legs jump. At the base of my spine my hips swirl. My eyes blink to a percussive force and I do nothing but let it happen. I shake and jiggle walking down the street a smile on my face, hot cement on my feet. My gift, my blessin; my dreams. Music. Dear music beat in me till my breath no longer draws and silence fills my ears for once and for all. Until then, my dear friend, pulse in me, inspire me, draw me in, endow me, allow me.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Video of Death

Sometimes you view things that you don't necessarily want to see or ever need to see. I just watched a video of murder. A murder. A gang of men in some Indian country gathered around a woman beaten badly. She had been spit upon, stomped in the face, punched, kicked, drug and the final blow was a cement block being dropped twice on her head. MURDER. Viewed not discretely but on a public forum, on Facebook. The issues that surround this are so many: why is there a crowd of men beating a woman to death and noone stopping them-noone. What kind of sick person thinks this is okay to put on the internet to share with the rest of the world? What kind of person picks this up off a site and places it on a public forum for everyone to see? And what kind of person does it make me that I just viewed it? It had an affect. It made me so angry and sick to my stomach that i'm not well. I probably won't be well for a minute. Where and in what society is it perfectly okay to do this? I mean are we really that barbaric and the need for blood that severe that this is okay. In America, women have fought an intense battle to be seen as equal to their counterpartse-men. Their advances have more than double women in other places. Although some feel that the battle has not gained much ground-there are not community supported mobs robbing the lives of a woman. Or are there? The way this woman was treated was not human, was not animal. It was evil how they treated her and even if it was a case of adultery: when is this, death, a suitable punishment. The fact that another human video taped this and I watched this, even if it was just a small portion, what does THAT say about our society? Are we truly that hungry for voyeurism and real life "entertainment" that we will watch anything? And was this posting meant to be a warning to others? Kinda like back in the day when the town would gather to watch a hanging? I would always wonder what sick fucks would watch that? Who willingly volunteers for mental torture? I write with such rage and fury because myheart has never experienced anything like that. I have a soul that is very sensitive to other people and their energies and to watch that and feel it is a bit too much. My heart breaks for humanity. It crumples for all the strong women in my life who fight for rights and this is some bullshit that should have never happened. I'm off to reset my soul.