Cunning Linguist, Part II: Winning

The insuppressible urge to feel
your mouth
is what has me
lying awake.
Your mouth, because it is the vessel
through which
you feed me
raffle tickets
to your
mind--
the kaleidoscopic place
of your emotions;
anger mixed with hurt,
folded into a candied
sort of gentleness
and
a genuine sweetness
that begs
to
be
sucked ...
and savored.
And won.
I could just call it a kiss,
but that would dismiss
the quiet work
that I have done
to observe you
in your element.
And calling it a kiss would devalue
how
deeply
I am
smitten.
Your lips on mine;
it deserves
a proper name unlike another.
So while your
right
fist
is
high,
I'd like to look you
in your eyes
while I lean in ...
for a not a kiss,
but
for
my
prize.

Cunning Linguist

Evening with you was magical,

the sort that is had

when the presence of your Delight

has taken many sunsets

to transpire.

I sat quietly,

feet to the stars.

My patio, imbued with the scent

of Honeysuckle in bloom,

the warmth and humidity

of a summer rain.

Listening.

The song of cicadas in whispering,

"kiss her ...

    kiss her ...

       kiss her ..."

Lids lowered,

limbs lengthened

in anticipation. 

Your lips met mine,

and infused me

with your

life.

"kiss her ...

    kiss her ...

       kiss her ..."

My lips met yours,

and savored

the

nature

of

me. 

No fluff, shooting (writing) from the hip

“No matter how powerful and real your feelings may be for someone, if that person cannot fully and honestly return them and therefore actively love you back, these feelings mean nothing. Being lonely … being alone … for many people … sucks. I get it, I get it, I get it. But still I have to say that yes, my belief is that being with somebody who makes you feel shitty or doesn’t honor the person you are is worse. Life is hard enough as it is without choosing someone difficult to share it with.You deserve to be with someone who is nice to you all the time.” - Unknown (found on Tumblr)


You know what I am tired of?  I am so tired of ...

Aina, you're so wonderful.
Aina, you're amazing.
Aina, you're so beautiful.
Aina, you are incredible.
Aina, your heart is so pure.
Aina, you have such good intentions about everything.
Aina, I love you.
Aina, I care for you.
Aina, you're perfect for me.

But ......

Aina, it just wouldn't work between us.


This has been the dominant story of my romantic life.
Every time I allow myself to start to care for someone -- and it has not a regular occurrence -- they say ...
"You're great, and I love/care for you but ...."

And maybe that is why I can not write.
Perhaps I should close that chapter so that I can move to create my own works -
My image of what love is.
To see love as fiction.  Ain't that funny?  And ironic?
And pathetic?
Love is fiction.  Love is fictional.  It feels good while consuming it, but it's not really there.
I should stop letting my feelings define me and, maybe, define my feelings?
Let love go ... give up.

Should I give up?

Maybe.
At the moment I am not convinced there is a reason not to.
Love eludes me, runs from me, hides.
I'm not sure I can write about it anymore.

Love escapes me, so I'll write about lust and fucking.

My serious and copious amounts of writer's block has given me much time to think about things unrelated to writing.  I went into this endeavor with lofty ideas of writing The Next Great Novel and of raking in loads of cash so that I may not have to work for someone else, and just live the rest of my life learning and writing.  To be clear, I did not strive to be rich, I just wanted to make enough money so that I could write full-time and learn full-time. Time is the best teacher and I realize that while my goal is certainly not out of reach, it is going to take more gusto than hoped for the end result to be plausible.  I know that I write well, it's just that I only write well when I have inspiration to write well.  My inspiration has been lax as of late.

Pertaining to things unrelated to writing, I have wondered how people become wealthy with harebrained ideas that continue to produce monetary results.  Take the beer coozy for instance.  A beer coozy, which is actually a misnomer as the coozy can be used for any 12 ounce canned beverage, was invented so as to keep drinks cold without leaving your hand uncomfortable.  Inexpensive to make and easily one of the number one promotional items that companies and businesses use to distribute recognition of their brand, the beer coozy is an item that people buy lots of.  And considering that a beer coozy doesn't really do the job that it is supposed to do -- keep drinks cold -- why do people keep buying them?

Who invented the beer coozy?  How rich is this person due to the unquestionable decades-long demand of their poorly designed, cheaply made product?  Is the inventor of the beer coozy living it up on private beaches, jetting from country to country, zipping around in their Porsche?  Or are they living a quiet life, stockpiling their money, investing it and putting it away for their heirs?

I guess my most important question is Why didn't I think of it?

Lucifer and sex

So, I have been thinking about the type of character I would like Lucy to evolve into.  How do I want her to grow?  In which direction do I want her to lean?  Do I want her to be a close embodiment of myself, someone completely different, or elements of both?

I do know this - Lucy is not a sexual person and will not ever be.  I have never been interested in portraying sex scenes in my writing and, honestly, they bore me when I read them in other people's work.  I may supply a reference to sex as it relates to a character but there's hardly any drawn out sex scenes in my fiction.   In any case, I have always felt that black fiction can be exciting without it.  This is why the very popular genre of Black Erotica is lost on me;  I just find it all very banal and ordinary. 
(I have now found my groove and actove to write about fucking.  People evolve as writers. :))

I have been doing a lot of structure work on my book.  I foolishly believed that I could have it done and to my standards of perfection in three months, before Fall classes start on August 15th.  I'm good, but not that good.  This book is going to take a while.   I have resigned myself to this, and I feel okay about it.  I usually have a problem with feeling like I am not accomplishing anything when I put my mind to do something.

So, I will be writing a lot up until the first day of school but it will taper down quite a bit after then.  I am registered for 16 hours -- 5 classes, one with a lab!  I'm going to be very busy studying and doing classwork.

In the meantime, my summer has been going great.   I have decided to stick around in this apartment (again), and I just want to be happy where I am while making it known that some changes need to be made.  I do need to start writing in this blog more often and I want it to become sort of a diary.

Can that happen?  I guess there's only one way to see. And that is by doing it.

Funky

I am in a funk.  When I am in a funk, I do not want to blog.  I am in a funk because school has been such a drain on me.  Do not get me wrong, I really do love school and I have zero regrets.  I am finally living how I should have (cough cough) years ago; education first, work second.  It's just that this semester hasn't had the OMG, I'M IN SCHOOL! excitement factor that last semester had.  The honeymoon is definitely over.  Again, do not get me wrong (shoot, I am making a circular argument here), but I was just so very content with everything I was learning last semester.  I finished with a 3.75 GPA-- three A's and a B -- and I was very proud of myself. This semester has been much more of a challenge; five classes, I loathe most of my teachers,  and I'll be lucky to round it out with a 3.3 GPA I made a 3.8!.  At this point I have only three final exams left, so I guess I'll know soon enough.

Which brings me to the letter I got in the mail yesterday.  It was an invitation to join Phi Theta Kappa, an honor society.  This invitation was based on my grades last semester.  Question though -- if I don't meet the minimum GPA this semester, do they rescind their invitation?  Do I even care about some junior college honor society? I am currently attending a two-year school and I plan to transfer next fall.  Really, Junior College, I am just using you for the cheap tuition.  I hadn't even planned on going to my graduation.  Though I'll be awarded one, does anybody really give a flip about an AA transfer degree in the great scheme of things?  The only thing I might be doing wrong by skipping the graduation is denying my mother and aunt a chance to see me walk across a stage for the first time since high school.   It's a degree, yeah, yeah, but I want that Bachelor's!  And then, a Master's and a PhD.

So anyway, back to being drained and in a funk.

I have decided to take a break for the summer from the academic portion of educating myself.  However, I will be working on a special educational project in addition to writing my book.  Not sure if I want to blog about it yet, but I might.  I've told a close friend and three family members what I will be doing and they're in my corner.  I am just mapping out my course of life and working on expanding my options.

In the meantime I have requested to change my schedule at work in such a way that would give me large blocks of time -- consecutive days -- to write.  Just for the summer, I will be working Monday, Friday and maybe Saturday depending on whether or not I worked enough hours on Fridays.   Sunday, Tuesday-Thursday will be book days, doing nothing but studying (for my other project) and writing my book.

I plan to blog more as well. Written posts.  I really don't want this to become a pictures-only blog and I want to get comfortable with writing about my publishing process, fears, desires, and that sort of thing.   It's going to be a busy summer.

Maybe you'll come along for the ride.

News Network

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(c) 4/21/2011 - Aina J. Powell

Slimy white-controlled media

Slaves.

Pimped to lie down,

They lie in wait –

For instructions from Ol' Massah

Who has whipped them into

Shape.

Coiffed and impassive,

Talkin' 'bout your taxes.

Hair that doesn't move

While mouths shoot

3 whoppers a minute.

They know you're hungry.

Engaging you in subterfuge,

While saying

nothing

at

all.

Consorting with the

Holes of trust

That they've chiseled into

Your mind.

-Until their shit

can't be shoehorned

in lovely discomfort.

You know the only way to flee

Is to

turn

off

the

TeeVee.

Still trapped within

the Vortex of Dumb,

appealing to your rage.

Your ass is owned,

The deed has been done,

and you are their slave.