[vignettes of youth - #1]

what a bam bam, bam bam dillam bam bam …

He leaned against the wooden-top island stove, and I sat hoisted on the matching counter by the kitchen sink. Both of us dressed in the typical loose fitting marina and house shorts. Both with two spoons in hand, one between thumb and index, the other between index and middle, convex sides facing each other. And the beat began.

what a bam bam, bam bam dillam bam bam…

Aaah, aaaa-aaaah, aaa-aa-aaah, aaa-aaa-aaa-aaaah… what a bam bam… I want you to know that/I am a man who/fights for the right and/ not the wrong…

[Soon you will find out the man I'm supposed to be]

We stood and sat there in the kitchen for moments that too quickly turned into a memory, rap-tapping the rhythm of this old time Jamaican tune, ad libbing the lyrics as we desired, seamlessly passing the lyrical responsibility between the two of us. A moment of multi-dimensional sibling harmony, captured in the confines of my selective memory… forever.

And I soon, found out who he was supposed to be.

[i can't stand this one chick -- and i pretty much hate her]

And hate’s a strong word.

But do you ever wonder what people must think to themselves about themselves when they go home? I mean, there’s this girl I Work with and she just gets on my nerves. Quite frankly, everything about her irks me. The way she moves, the way she talks, even at lunch, the way she eats. She’s one of those bubbly/always happy types… and I mean, while I’m a generally happy person, she takes it to an unacceptable level. At least, I think she does.

And she has these annoying habits… like, she can’t pass a mirror without looking at herself. She thinks she’s some fashionista, and she modifies her clothing this way or that way. She picks something, like, say, a scarf, and wears it ALL the time. She wears the same shoes everyday. Granted, she could be broke, I’ll give that to her…. I mean, kudos for trying, but still, it jus rubs me the wrong way, I guess. Like she thinks she has this flair about her. Maybe I’m just tired of it.

Her voice is annoying. She constantly talks about where she’s from (like anyone wants to hear), but y’know, maybe she’s “homesick”. Regardless, who wants to hear the same story about how she grew up… over and over and over again. She bosses people around under the guise of “making a suggestion”. I wonder sometimes if she ever even does work, because I always see her taking breaks and snacking. Sometimes she’s complain that she thinks her energy is low. I think she complains a little too much for her own good.

Then she pretends to be this over-achiever. She tries to make nice nice with the managers, tries to make it seem like she can do all the jobs (when I know she doesn’t really get any of it done). She has issues delegating work (because she always makes it seem like she’s so damn bossy), and she doesn’t know her shit, and she’s been there for months. Kind of a let down, if you ask me. She does tasks that no one asked her to do, of course, because she wants to seem proactive, but in reality, it just makes her seem like a do-gooder. Of course, someone else has to go and undo the work that she shouldn’t have done…. [insert eye-roll here] pain in the ass.

Dunno where she gets off feeling like she’s the centre of her world… like she’s oh so important to those around her. Maybe she has these supernatural great friends who love to hear about her other jobs and what else is going on in her life, but honestly, at work, there are more things to be concerned with… like say, maybe getting the job done?! Today, someone else got employee of the month, and you could tell that she was disappointed. It’s so funny that she actually expected to have a chance at it, but I mean, I’m not even joking, she really didn’t. She gossips, and I’d say that everyone does… but not like her. She smiles in everyone’s face, and the way I learnt it… one who smiles in your face and susses behind your back is a hypocrite, no? Trust me when I tell you, it’s like her goal in life is to be a people pleaser, and it’s so so sad the lengths she goes to to achieve so little.

I really wonder what kinda thoughts run through her head when she’s telling another one of her un-funny jokes? Or like, how does she justify doing some nonsense or does she seek self-validation? It sounds kinda oddly cliche, but I really wonder how she wakes up in the morning and thinks of herself. What does she think of before going to bed, or when she gets home from work? Does she realise that she’s probably one of the least favoured, and that people don’t like her and they just don’t have the heart to hurt her feelings?

Is it that foreign a concept to her, to just be normal? Of course, what is the definition of normal (I know, I know)… but I guess…. I guess maybe I’m just tired of her.

I dunno why she irritates me so much. Maybe there’s that fibre of self-recognition… I know there’s some psychological study somewhere that states that we tend to lash out at the things we identify within ourselves. Oh, whatever… I’m sure I’m not the only one who knows someone who just gets under your skin…. I’m sure someone out there can relate. I jus wanted to vent.

How do you weigh a person’s worth?

In memories?
Promises?
Devotion?

Their loyalty to you, even when there is no commitment?

How do you judge a person’s character?

By their responses to certain touchy situations?
Their choice of words?
Their noble actions?

By the quality of wisdom they exude?

How do you decide on a lover, best friend, confidant?

Keep tabs on who keeps your secrets?
Go down a checklist of approved re/actions?
Bitch & moan and see who’s left standing by your side in the end?

By someone else’s (society’s) definition?

Then you stop and ask yourself… Should you even try?

[what it takes to be an actor]

Some of the key points of being an actor are Honesty, Flexibility, and Vulnerability. These are some of the most difficult virtues for the average person to uphold. Who wants to ever tell you that they lied/cheated, have unbreakable habits, or are afraid (of anything)? An Actor. Is it because they get paid to do it? Not always. Is it because they get a sick rush from putting themselves out there like no other? Probably.

The full story: I got rejected. Again. And in a sick way, I laugh at it. Do I really get a rush off of knowing that someone wants to have nothing to do with me? Why did I even pursue it? Why play with my hair, trying oh so desparately to be seductive? Why think for a moment that a mind will falter if I allow my bossom to graze its surface ‘by accident’? Why blatantly thrust myself or smile “knowingly” when the smile that’s returned knows the truth [it ain't happenin']? Why persist, sans pride, in honesty ["well... you know I like you"], flexibility ["so... that's an *option*"], and vulnerability [unquotable]?

Because I’m an Actor. And I got me some jumbo kahones.

Drummer Boy [rare]

Latin jazz music for my soul.

Like bossanova,
we move together
to a samba,
and the colours of the leaves change
and we don’t take note.

Unsteady
as the crashing beat of waves on a rocky shore,
we chat,
and my fantasies are that you be the sand
that lazily, sexily
sticks to my skin
in a salty, passionate state.

Your sensual touch caresses my skin
like an erratic,
unpredictable melody
massaging my ear drum.

You touch my face and I cringe
at the thought of your finger tips’ departure.
You rap the side of my chin,
behind my ear
with persuasive percussion.

My skin feels softer under your touch,
my heart and head lighter,
and I wonder
if your mind wanders
as wildly and whispily
as your warm breath
on my ear lobes.

Your palm on the back of my neck,
fingers through the hair at my nape,
fires like rhumba,
hips swaying,
my skirt swishing from side to side,
following your right hand’s lead.

The heart in your masculinity
pounds a familiar rhythm
but the wetness of your tongue
on my breast
throws me,
and I lose my footing.

I trip and fall
into the groove between
your chest and shoulder
cheek finding home
scent engulfing me
and I get lost in the rhythm of your thoughts.

And you don’t come to my rescue.

Mistaking my erraticism for eroticism,
our music turns mechanical.
But nothing can drown your driving drum beat.
It pulses subtly under every melody.

Perhaps you drum to see me dance.
Perhaps you drum upon experiencing my dancing.
Perhaps you press the heel of your palm
into my life
out of pity.

And when I see the leaves fall
and change colour,
I imagine that you pull me taught
and beat my heart
once again.