Why do I even write, sometimes?

I’ve been trying every new recipe I can. I love learning new ways to cook.

I watch every cooking show on Netflix and Hulu. What I love about cooking shows are that there is no room for mediocrity or not caring or not adhering to well put into place rules. Cooking is science with heart and soul.

I love watching and learning what’s right and true. I love the black and white about it all.

I wish writing were the same.

I wish I could learn the certain rules and follow them and succeed.

I know that’s not how writing works.

I feel such frustration because I haven’t yet learned how to write daily no matter my mood. I know, it’s my own fault for doing this, yet how do I change?

 

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Music I Like

Music, what can I say, my tastes are eclectic at best and tacky at worst.

As per the norm, I hear “new” music when driving. It’s new to me and when I look it up on YouTube I find out it’s from 2008. 😌

But, the reason I like certain music is because it touches me.

It either soothes or moves me like all classical or evokes strong emotions or just makes me wanna move.

This song by J-Kwon called Tipsy,  just makes me wanna move.

PS: when I first heard it, I thought he was singing, “Everybody in the club getting tips.” I was like, ” Huh, that’s weird, but I’m really digging it!” 😌

Enjoy 😌

my newest dream

new dream

I was on a weird doughnut tour with John Cena, the wrestler guy.

He was in vaca from his woman.

We find a place with kids & parents with colorful balloons. The kids kept flying away, too many balloons.

boats and hoes

another song I really love

It’s from the movie Stepbrothers.

Warning: explicit lyrics

 

a song I love

It hearkens to the days of eighties angst and being emo before emo was a word.

You can dance naked to it.

You can make love to it.

You can totally groove to it.

It’s just that damn good,  imho.

 

ps.  The video is a dorkfest of dudes and zebras doing stupid stuff.  Enjoy!! 

 

 

When a Lifetime of Reality isn’t Real, then what…

I was perusing my drafts tonight, looking for some snarky poetry for a friend, and I came across this. 

I know I wrote this.  The strange thing is that I don’t remember writing it.  I usually remember everything I write because I only write when my emotions are all emotional.  I’m either up, up, up or low, low, low.  I’m not an inbetween writer.  I wrote the title, When a Lifetime of Reality isn’t Real, then what… 

So, as I’m reading this, I’m thinking, “What was I going thru?  dealing with?”  It must have been something epic because like I said, I only write when compelled to do so, as in COMPELLED.  hmmmmm… I’m seriously curious.  I don’t believe in split personalities, yet it feels like someone else wrote this. curiouser and curiouser

Lately, I haven’t felt much like writing.  I’ve been dreaming a lot though.  A LOT. 

Maybe I should just write my dreams when I’m uninspired.  Huh, LIGHT BULB MOMENT!!!  lol   

I will be doing that. I’ll start writing my dreams on here.  Starting tomorrow!

Until then, I’ll leave you with my mysterious missive from last March.

Peace and Love to you all, even the haters (as our Marvelous President Donald Trump likes to say)  😉

Niki ❤

 

 

 

what am I supposed to feel?

Numb  Stunned  Shocked  Disbelieving

Disillusioned   Duped  Distraught

Anger  Rage in Dreams Betrayed  Pain holds sway, a dirge to play, fast fading, Faith torn stripped tattered sways fast against Mind, Flesh & Bone.   Pain, like a Hawk, Claws Sink Deep Beneath Bone & Flesh, Spellbound Screaming Mind Blown Feeling Bits & Pieces Flowing Fleeing Gently Bleeding every Poisonous Drop of Pain.

No more crying in the rain.  No more Fantasy Falling to the Pain

Washed Up Brain Dead  Soul  Fucked  Back Run

Unfind

Rewind  Ahead my Steps No Turning Back  Time’s  Destined Path to Find  Life  

Unbound Unblind to Truth  this Life Unblind I find  Heart  I See  I Know

I Breathe  I  Soar  Beyond the Veil   I See Black Sky I Know It’s Name

UnBlue Pilled   Eyes  Wide  Open   Black Pitch  Death Trap  Matrix

 

Hopeless   Betrayed  Played

Lost

Sickened  Saddened  Broken  Ashamed

Hollow Hurt

Afraid  Exposed  Alarmed  Haunted

Wide Awake  Wired  Electric  Chaotic  Alive

Murderous  Livid  Repulsed  Revulsion Burning  Hate

White Hot  Hate

….

I’m Blown away by the the ease with which we hop, skipped & goose stepped into a red, white, and blue Looking Glass of Hell on Earth.

I’m more like ‘a-ha’ , ok, this must be ‘IT’

‘IT’ is finally here, for me at least.  ‘IT’ has always been waiting for me to ‘See’

I do now, I finally see…

I felt ‘IT’ about 16 years ago?   It’s hard to remember exactly.

I just know I felt it one day.

Like a quiet sonic boom, deep in me.

I felt like everything was real, but temporary.

Like a way station, forever fated and planned, an in between purgatory of sorts.

That’s how it felt, a purgatory, not deprived of anything, just my pride and being able to call anything my own.

It was grey, miserable, yet I had my family, my children, all that mattered, except for my own identity or home.

The second time I felt it was about 13 years ago.  Chloe was a new baby.

I was standing in the middle of the kids and my room.  Just standing there in a funk.  Single mom, living at home, sharing a room and way, way off the mark of where I thought my life, our lives, would and should be.   Feeling angry, mad, disgusted, embarrassed, ashamed, guilty.  Like a great, big L O S E R.  A disappointment to myself, dependent on my family, resentful at the shame time, bratty.  Just a mess of poor me and A LOT of growing up to do.

I felt it, this feeling like I was in a waiting room.

I’ve always had a nagging, uneasy voice, a whisper deep within me, within my soul

It sounds crazy, but it’s been there for so long.  Telling me to wait, just wait.

God, sounds bizarre reading it, but I swear, the voice was there.

I ‘heard’ it telling me something was coming, in the far, far distant future,

but IT was coming and life would never be the same as anyone knew it.  I FELT it, it never went away.

I let it go.

I don’t obsess over things I can’t change.

I didn’t feel anything but a complete certainty, a truth inside me, a calm

and I just said, “Ok.” and moved on with my days.

Have you ever had that happen?

I don’t know what they would call it.  

I know many people believe in psychic abilities, mediums, esp, etc.   I don’t.

I’m Catholic and I was raised to never mess with any kinds of occult things.

 

I don’t even read my horoscope.

 

@justagirllost2

*photo mine

 

Obama’s Poetry

Although Barack Obama is one of my least favorite humans on this planet, I found this article about his poetry quite fascinating.  His two poems are very different in style.  The poem ‘Pop’ definitely seems autobiographical and I felt it to be a bit disturbing also, some people may not see it that way.

I hope you enjoy this post of an article by Dr. Eowyn of The D. C. Clothesline and that you find it as interesting as I did.

@justagirllost2

~

Obama’s disturbing poem on man-boy relationship

Posted on May 25, 2013 by Dr. Eowyn

When Barack Obama was a 19-year-old student at Occidental College, he published two poems in the Spring 1982 issue of Occidental’s literary magazine, Feast. One is the cringe-worthy “Underground” about “apes that eat figs.” The other poem, “Pop,” is much more interesting, biographical, and disturbing.

“Pop”

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken
In, sprinkled with ashes,
Pop switches channels, takes another
Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks

What to do with me, a green young man
Who fails to consider the
Flim and flam of the world, since
Things have been easy for me;
I stare hard at his face, a stare
That deflects off his brow;
I’m sure he’s unaware of his
Dark, watery eyes, that
Glance in different directions,
And his slow, unwelcome twitches,
Fail to pass.
I listen, nod,
Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,
Beige T-shirt, yelling,
Yelling in his ears, that hang
With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling
His joke, so I ask why
He’s so unhappy, to which he replies…
But I don’t care anymore, cause
He took too damn long, and from
Under my seat, I pull out the
Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,
Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face
To mine, as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.
Pop takes another shot, neat,
Points out the same amber
Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and
Makes me smell his smell, coming
From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem
He wrote before his mother died,
Stands, shouts, and asks
For a hug, as I shrink, my
Arms barely reaching around
His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause
I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses
And know he’s laughing too.

The poem reads autobiographical — about a young Obama’s relationship with a much older man whom he calls Pop. In his article for WND on March 7, 2012, Dr. Jack Cashill singles out this passage from the poem:

“Pop takes another shot, neat/ Points out the same amber/ Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and/ Makes me smell his smell, coming/ From me;”

Cashill writes that the most innocent explanation for the “amber stain” on the shorts of Pop and young Obama or “his smell, coming/ From me” is that Pop got the teenaged Obama drunk, and they both spilled whiskey (Seagrams) on themselves. But that interpretation does not explain why the spill is specifically on their shorts and not on their shirts or how Pop’s smell is also on (“from”) Obama.

 

A marriage and family therapist who blogs under the tag “Neo-Neocon” senses a darker relationship. She writes:

“The lines that begin ‘points out the same amber stain…Makes me smell his smell, coming/From me’ may be describing outright sexual abuse. But perhaps not; we don’t know, and we’ll never know. But there is no question that the poem is describing a boundary violation on several levels: this child feels invaded—perhaps even taken over—by this man, and is fighting against that sensation.

[…] The poem describes a boundary violation that is both physical and mental.The physical is obvious: he is forced to hug the man who repels him, and as he does so he feels himself shrinking. But the violation is mental, too; earlier in the poem, Obama has described “Pop” as a person who has actually gotten into his brain, and whom he wishes to eliminate from it:

as he grows small,
A spot in my brain, something
That may be squeezed out, like a 
Watermelon seed between
Two fingers.

This mental and emotional usurpation of the young Obama is echoed in the last image of the poem, in which the boy sees his own tiny image framed in ‘Pop’s’ eyeglasses.
 The poem describes a struggle against an attempt at identity takeover, a rejection of being reduced to a reflection in the eyes of the stronger, older, more experienced mentor, who has tried to make Obama over in his own image:

I see my face, framed within
Pop’s black-framed glasses…

The sight is chilling to Obama, who is trying to break free. One wonders if he ever fully succeeded.”

So who was Pop?

There were two older men in teen Obama’s life:

1. His maternal grandfather, Stanley Armour Dunham, with whom Obama had lived from age 10 to 18 in Honolulu. When Obama was ten years old, his mom, Stanley Ann Dunham, had sent him back to Hawaii to live with her parents while she remained in Indonesia.

2. Frank Marshall Davis, a black long-time friend of Stanley Armour Dunham, whom Dunham had introduced to young Obama to be the latter’s African-American mentor. Davis was a member of the American Communist Party, a writer of poetry and books, including the pornographic novel, Sex Rebel: Black, using the pseudonym “Bob Greene.” Cashill states that there is no doubt Davis wrote Sex Rebel because Davis admitted as much in his memoir, Livin’ the Blues: “I could not then truthfully deny that this book, which came out in 1968 as a Greenleaf Classic, was mine.”

During the presidential campaign season in 2008, I read Sex Rebel, which is out of print, by borrowing the book from the library of the University of California, Berkeley. I therefore can testify from having read the book that Sex Rebel is an account of the unorthodox sexual exploits of a black man “Bob Greene”. Those sexual exploits included marrying a white woman (just as Davis himself did, which was uncommon in the 1960s); “swinging” or wife-swapping with other couples; picking up prospective couples in public parks; sexual orgies; voyeurism; exhibitionism; bisexualism (Greene wrote that “under certain circumstances I am bisexual”); and the seduction by “Greene” and his white wife of a 13-year-old girl named Anne.

(It is the pedophilia that has prompted increasing speculation on the net that “Anne” was actually Stanley Ann Dunham, Obama’s mother; and that Frank Marshall Davis had sired Obama. That’s the reason why Obama conceals his birth certificate. This is the subject of a documentary movie that will come out this summer. For more information, go here.)

Joel Gilbert, the maker of the documentary “Dreams From My Real Father,” has uncovered handwritten letters by Davis to Margaret Burroughs, the well-known African-American artist, in which Davis refers to his book “Sex Rebel: Black” as his “thoroughly erotic autobiography.” Davis had a sexual affair with Burroughs which, Davis explains, was included in the novel autobiography. [Read more,here.]

In the introduction to Sex Rebel, an alleged Ph.D. named Dale Gordon goes further. He describes the pseudonymous author, Bob Greene, as having “strong homosexual tendencies in his personality.”

There are those, like Rebecca Mead of The New Yorker, who say “Pop” is a “loving if slightly jaded portrait of Obama’s maternal grandfather.”

But both Jack Cashill and Neo-Neocon point out that Obama, in his memoirDreams From My Father, called Stanley Armour Dunham not “Pop” but “Gramps.”

There are other reasons pointing to Frank Marshall Davis as “Pop”:

1. “Pop” wrote poetry: Dunham was a life-long furniture salesman whose literary efforts, if any, were confined to making up dirty limericks. In contrast, Davis had written several books of poetry — Black Man’s Verse (1935), I Am the American Negro (1937), Through Sepia Eyes (1938), 47th Street (1948), Awakening and Other Poems (1978).

2. A line in Obama’s poem “he switches channels, recites an old poem/ He wrote before his mother died” also points to Davis as “Pop”. Dunham’s mother died when he was 8 years old, whereas Davis’ mother died when he was 20 and already established as a poet of promise.

READ MORE  Patriots Protest Obama’s Nevada Land Grab near Bundy Ranch

3. In his memoir Dreams From My Father, Obama’s description of a seedy and dissipated older man named Frank is strikingly similar to “Pop” in his poem:

“…by the time I met Frank [Obama was around nine years old] he must have been pushing eighty, with a big dewlapped face and an ill-kempt gray Afro that made him look like an old, shaggy-maned lion. He would read us his poetry whenever we stopped by his house, sharing whiskey with gramps out of an emptied jelly jar. As the night wore on, the two of them would solicit my help in composing dirty limericks. Eventually, the conservation would turn to laments about women.

“They’ll drive you to drink, boy,” Frank would tell me soberly. “And if you let ‘em, they’ll drive you into your grave.”

I was intrigued by the old Frank, with his books and whiskey breath and the hint of hard-earned knowledge behind the hooded eyes. The visits to his house always left me feeling vaguely uncomfortable, though, as if I were witnessing some complicated, unspoken transaction between the two men, a transaction I couldn’t fully understand….”

4. Davis fits the “seedy old man” description more than Dunham:Born in 1905, Davis was 56 years older than Obama and would be 66 years old when Obama was ten. Born in 1918, Dunham was 43 years older than Obama and would be a youngish 53 years old when Obama was ten.

Here are some photos I’ve found of Stanley Armour Dunham and Frank Marshall Davis. Decide for yourself which man better fits the physical description of Pop in Obama’s poem: “dark watery eyes”; “ears that hang with heavy lobes”; “thick, oily neck”; “broad back”; “black-framed glasses”.

Stanley Armour Dunham with child Obama (l); Dunham with 19-year-old Obama (r)

Frank Marshall Davis as a young man (l); as an old man (r)

Whether Pop was Davis or Dunham, this much is certain: His relationship with young Obama, as the latter described it in the poem “Pop,” was creepy and disturbingly suggestive of pederasty.

~Eowyn

Dr. Eowyn is a regular contributor to The D.C. Clothesline and the Editor of Fellowship of the Minds.

• http://www.dcclothesline.com/2013/05/25/obamas-disturbing-poem-on-man-boy-relationship/

*Links below to more articles about Obama’s poetry.

The first is from PBS.org., the second from The New Yorker and the third from the Huffington Post.

I always try to present other sources when one source leans more left or right politically.

https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/government-elections-politics/choice-2012/artifact-one-barack-obamas-pop/

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2007/07/02/obama-poet

https://www.huffingtonpost.com/steven-barrieanthony/obamas-poetry_b_44271.html