When My Papa Says Grace Pt.2

Love ain’t for sale, well at least not the love I’m talking about

No, Love is free

Love is giving you the big piece of fried chicken, even though I could write you a 10-page research paper with works cited in APA format on how much I wanted that big piece of fried chicken

Love is knowing you will always been there when I need you

Love is calling you every Mother’s Day even if you didn’t birth me

Love is pulling me inside your house because it’s about to rain

Love is putting me on the program as the headliner, even though you knew I shouldn’t be allowed to be around a microphone in public

Love is never, ever, never taking off your #teamcrawley wristband even though there’s green mold starting to accumulate on your wrist

Love is what Christians are supposed to do

Love is what got me and my father through the fourth quarter of 2013,

Love is embracing that one cousin or one auntie you may not know very well with hugs, with their arms as bony as Skeletor or as big as Mean Joe Green, trying to figure out how in the hell would I know you from when you changed my diaper when I was 6 months old,

Love is taking you to school when you pretend to miss the bus in the morning even if I’m not too fond of your extracurricular activities

Love is that initial slow clap of rain, hitting a lonely tin roof with a slow pitter-patter in a small town in middle Georgia.

Love is not berating your grandson because he puts sugar on his grits

Love is easy

Love is good,

Love is great

Love is God, God is great

Love is a mutual attraction on site like a covalent bond between some hydrocarbons that can be your fuel through the day

But hydrocarbons are volatile

Love is volatile

Love is hard

Love is as ubiquitous as Everybody Loves Raymond and is as meandering as Everybody hates Chris

Love is rough,

Love is lead,

Love is nasty, spits out sulfuric acid, dissolving skin and bones

Love can be Christmas in the morning and Halloween at night,

Love is bland

Like, like, like that one Auntie who does not know how to season chicken

Love is a colorless, odorless gas that may keep you in eternal slumber

But love is asking if you made it home last night.

Love is me calling you back that I made it home last night.

Love is when I’m crying because you never made it back home last night. And you probably won’t again tonight

Love is cousin Sonia still checking up on me even though I evaded her hugs for 15 years

Love is cousin Allie Mae giggling and running away whenever I try to pick her up

Love is cousin Brandon buying me a PBR even though I didn’t want another PBR

Love is Audrey interrogating me about the last time I ate

Love is throwing the ball at my brother’s head whenever we played pick-up games and still talking to each other by the time dinner is over

Now love is something I have taken for granted

Like flipping on a light switch and expecting lights to come on or my Papa taking a hour to say grace

These are things that are SUPPOSED to happen

But not everybody has electricity, not everyone has a Papa was pageantry

Not everybody knows what it’s like to be loved by some receding hairline folks from South Boston

But I do, and I hope everyone else here knows what I speak of

That’s love

Now ask me about hate?

I ain’t got time for that

I don’t need to listen to K-Dot to know that Team Crawley is gon’ be alright

Because I’ve seen love in my Papa’s eyes as well as his three big-headed children.

Love is all I got,

How to Ineffectively Solve Conflicts with Cornbread

I wouldn't consider myself a pacifist. The need for me personally to resolve conflict with physical conflict is as rare as finding a Moltres or Articuno in the wild. Let's begin, 

I know people may argue that it is what wild beasts would do, as people stand around and watch two grown adults fight at a baseball game (hold the phone sideways to be professional.) but I am not sure. I don't want anyone to touch my mother or father or niece or brother or cousin or bowl of Tostitos but there are other things to do than to actually harm someone with your body parts. Which oddly enough, ends up hurting you normally.

It's just I have other stuff to do, ya' know? Like whenever I was younger and I was being bothered or teased and things got physical, it was easy to walk away. I had an Xbox and two loving parents in a home. A dog needed to be walked. Tostitos were waiting at home. If a fight were to manifest then I would get suspended. No Xbox. Get but whooped (so technically two times I get beat). Teachers would take me out of the "Student of the Month" awards. No gift card to KB Toys.

Whenever I got older and grew into my body and played sports, obviously it popped up. But using words was even more effective versus flinging a wild haymaker at someone's temple. "Sticks and stones" blah, blah, blah; words will forever and ALWAYS hurt me. What's mightier, the pen or the sword? The silver tongue laced with poison *chefs kiss* was developed throughout my childhood, even as I managed a speech impediment (shout-out to Ms. Faye!).

But also recognizing to always defend yourself. Most people have some sort of community. Whether it be personal or professional or platonic or what have you, someone looks to a person for love and commitment and support. Sometimes the homie needs you to opt-in or square up when there is conflict. There will always be conflict. There will never not be conflict. 

And that's house this life works. There's a problem and a solution happens. It may not be pretty at the end, but an end will come. Most of the time it is within someone's self. Like maybe the kids who bullied me during grade school were mad that they didn't have a father figure. Or Halo 3 on the Xbox 360. I am sorry your family's lights went off but please stop teasing me about playing the bass clarinet. I was All-District, 4th chair.

"You gonna' let him talk to you like that?"

"No! I am going to walk away, so I won't be able to hear him talk to me like that."

Again, I am the guy who will eat the food even if my order is wrong. But also the guy who will ask for a manager because they ran out of curly fries.

#knowyourworthking

 

To Grow Old in Norfolk, Virginia

I never thought about too much in the future when I was younger. But I was constantly, painstakingly reflecting on my past. My past year, month, week, day, hour, minute, second, millisecond, etc. Like how could I have done that differently being aware of every time I make some sort of mistake or a quizzical choice.

But as I grow older and my mistakes become more frequent and more costly (because remember, it's literally about me at this point in my life) I do start to ponder the bigger yet more concrete things that matter. People asking what I am going to do in my life, I'm not sure. There aren't really too many big-big plans besides getting my degree and opening up a studio. But even those two things I am not obsessed with. 

I am obsessed with being a great friend and being a great teacher and being a great student and being a great coworker and being a great partner and being a great parody dancer. But I'm not doing the things to do that right now. It's as though it's okay but not really. Because remember, I am constantly reflecting on these tasks and myself. I am past the first E, I've already identified and know how to fix the problem.

Those big goals, divided into smaller, measurable attainable goals have been what keeps me going. If one of my goals is to stay joyful, that means I need to sleep 6 hours a day or eat 3 servings of leafy green vegetables or run 3-4 miles, 3 days a week. Then the big goals slowly but surely are within my grasp and I won't even know it until it's already been passed and accomplished. Fortunately reaching my goal but unfortunately not celebrating the milestone, 

But I am tired, we all are and I sometimes just want to get through my days. And that's a huge issue, there are so many cool things that happen throughout my day and I want to enjoy them. But the days and weeks and months run together and I am not able to process anything.

If you made a pie chart of my 24 hour day, 2 hours would be spent exercising, 12 hours spent working, 6-7 hours sleeping, 1 hour school work, and then the rest hopefully is decompressing but rarely. 

I did that in a space and time a while ago and I was like poorly made grilled cheese: burnt out, melted down, broken down. Just pieces, on the ground, eaten up by street rats wings. I didn't want to grow old and die in Norfolk, Virginia or Denver, Colorado. If I can't process my days and decompress, then the repeat happens then it'll be a wrap like Saran. 

But once again, this has happened and I have been able to pick up those pieces and become the best Jon or JODY that I can be. It happened twice. But I have to slow down and provide maintenance when needed. Because honestly, I need me! Jon needs me. Jonny needs me. Jonathan needs me. JODY needs me. Hell, even Jo(h)n needs me. Hopefully this weekend I can go over everything and get it going. Wait hopefully, I mean it'll get done. I don't have a choice,

Please, Tell Me About Me

It's strange to think one day I wasn't here and now I am here. I have become obsessed with my own self and personal/professional relationships, that I haven't taken the stepback. Ya' know the whole thing about "gotta' backward to go forward" sort of energy. You can't build a house on a rickety foundation. Gotta' burn down the forest to get rid of all the dead matter so it can rebuild itself through different stages of succession.

Well yeah, I was priveleged enough to have a comfortable upbringing in which my parents kept on the lights and sometimes the cable. I didn't have to worry about being loved even though sometimes it didn't fit in the mold I needed. But it was there and abundant and that's where I am today.

But being the emotional truck I am, spending years and years writing into my journals, having good and bad trips, spending most mornings sorting through thoughts on my short and long runs...I still can't stop processing. It is supposed to stop, right? Even as I write on my computer at 11:36pm on a Sunday evening, my own brain continues to say "why are you not improving?" as I slowly start nodding off to street at now 11:37pm on a Sunday evening. 

I am someone who is restless, energetic, even-tempered, mellow, volatile, joyful, angry throughout most of my days. I would say joy and anger are my foundation mostly. Microaggressions eat away at me almost instantly. Like when one of the ladies I work with profiled me and a day later said "I know you". It was so interesting and unsettling; I wanted to throw up. So through all of the years and therapy and 60-minute runs and conversations I've had, you know me? Please, tell me about me because I am most genuinely confused.

If there is something you don't know then you have to speak up, you gotta'. I mean you GOTTA'. I am tired and exhausted and confused and mad yet happy and excited and eccentric and comprehend everything like, please I will pay you inexpensive Pokemon cards. I guess when I heard that comment I became upset but I am someone who likes feedback, especially from rich middle-aged white ladies "whose father will hear about this."

I am also someone who enjoys feedback and resolution and compromise. I crave it. I need it. And I won't stop until everything is at 99.9% optimal capacity for me. But I am not ready to die on that hill quite yet.

101 Ways They Call You The N-Word

They cheered when he won. Chanted too. Cried tears of joy. Laughed. You would have thought they had just won a Vince Lombardi trophy. Would have thought someone just got down on one knee and proposed in the middle of a skating ice rink. Everyone stopping to stare at the lovely couple. So much energy, so much constant energy, (Apologies, I didn't even somewhat re-read this for edits!) I mean I cried too. You would have thought I was a Squirtle on how hard I cried. And I am a beautiful crier, as elegant as Michael Jordan with the right-left switch back in '91. I had so much energy. So much energy I ran for 5 miles at 10pm on a Tuesday night. Can you imagine having your friends tell you how racist their parents are and then just not correcting them? These are people who may hire me or at least insult me before they fire me. Correct them every single time, like how I correct myself when prompted. That was a few years ago when I lived in racist couple's garage in Portsmouth. I remember they were racist because on how they cried when he won and how quickly they asked me to leave because I repeatedly insulted their president. I wasn't trying to be rude, it's just my coworker had told me "he would have killed me if I was Trayvon and he was Zimmerman" about two days after that election. I remember when he told me, it was so natural; like the same tone and confidence when you order a Zaxby's Club from Zaxby's. Almost effortless. I am fast forward two months later, a property manager sued me for $6,500 in rent, after I refused to be pay $650 in rent for two months. Not that I know much about housing discrimantory practices, but the tub above mine fell threw my own tub. I had to shower at planet fitness. I wished the roaches would chip in on rent, they were running up my electricity bill. My coworkers at the time ranged from a white guy who just graduated Tech to some other guy who graduated from UVA and I didn't like talking them. Like never ever. They spoke of all these political issues and such like it didn't directly affect minorities. It was, uh, disgusting. They spoke about Flint like it was a tissue filled with wadded-up gum. They spoke about the school "which I eventually ended up working at" as though it was discounted Skechers. Like those people who do mission trips to remote parts of the world to go do selfies but aren't allies for anyone who doesn't look like they shop at Target exclusively. Excuse me, I believe it's Tarjay, I am not sure of where politics began and but I do know that people talk with a little bass in their voice when they are wrong. Especially when they are super duper wrong. It's weird right? Some people be backpeddling like Aaron Glenn when they're wrong, straight off into a cliff. Some people will throw them a rope but they start digging a hole like they are diglett, wondering why everyone is "attacking them". If someone says you offended them, it is not up to you to decide if they're right. It is up to you to shut up and listen, Terry Crews. And sometimes it is too late Carolyn Bryant. I wonder if that is why I love horror films so much. It's almost satire on how I think I'm the protagonist of my own movie and that I will not be the first person to be killed in the first part of the movie. THe intro is all nice and go-lucky and heart-warming then everything gets taken away from me. Because someone and some curse, yadda-yadda and I'm that missing kid from the flier or taken from my family unexpectedly. I was minding my own business, now some demonic spirit has recarnated itself into my body and now I'm somehow the bag guy off of what someone else did. Funny, right? Right?

I Believe in The Pop, The Lock, AND The Drop

Dirty Shawn Bradley’s, the cracked screen of a MP3 player, and my mom’s flimsy headphones. 

Stretch the thighs, hamstrings, shoulders, lower back, fingers, neck, biceps, triceps, and most importantly your spiritual animal.

Flip through Outkast, Dangerdoom, N.E.R.D., Yeezy, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, & start with Young H.O.V. to get started. Wait for Ms. Storm’s menacing scowl and short strides to pass by.

Start.

Up Twin Cedars, right on Twin Cliff, loop around Cedar Cliff, down to Stoney Parkway, up Greyfield, wrap around Wraywood to Old Happy Hill to come back. Negative splits so high schoolers don’t mock your efforts.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Pump your arms, relax your double-jointed hands, caress the chest, evenly breathe from your diaphragm, strike the ground more, lower your forehead; your body is synchronized and one with the infinite, whatever that means. 

T.R.O.Y. starts to play as I loop back around, my second wind keeps my pace honest but my hand-me-down baggy clothing exposes my left shoulder. The saxophone medley makes my heart sink, and I phase out of this world. Into a sort of ignorant bliss.

Have you seen it? It is truly spectacular. The spectacle of a vista in the tundra could not compare. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind if only for a fraction, a millisecond. The deciduous trees reach out to bid me a greeting to an elevated space, to feel every cell in my body to work as a whole system. Complete synchronization.

Goofy grin on my face, middle school composure, ashy kneecaps, arms flailing carelessly, headphones keep falling off, half a mile left, 30 minutes until my bus arrives at Foxwood. 

Chris Diamond, acne-prone 16 year-old, 4th string quarterback, 1st string white trash. I initiate an euphoric wave to the hormonal group of teenagers, showered by routine calls of “faggot.”

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

An Xbox Killed My Dog

An Xbox Killed My Dog

Have you ever experienced something truly magical and enchanting. Mesmerizing, so awe-inspiring that your tummy felt like it was full of peanut butter cups and rainbows and unicorn vomit?

That was my DAWG, I mean my actual, literal DOG, Mac. Short for Macilious. He was a half sharpei, half mountain curr, all dynomutt of a dog. Medium-sized, sleek- -nay, matte black fur, built like a swamp possum who had a planet fitness membership. 

35 pounds that dog weighed after 2 years, would carry him around all-awkwardly like a teen mom off of MTV when he got too hott outside. Mac’s head would just bobble-bobble like a bobble head, as we would walk back to 80 Fairview Drive. That’s my boy; I mean that was my boy.

Mac did this thing where he would need to go outside. Like he would be in my room upstairs. Then I would creep all the way downstairs, just left him there. Until

I opened the door from the mudroom and yelled “skrrrrrrt skrrrrrrrt” and he would bolt all the way downstairs would and start chasing an imaginary deer outside. Oh, I would do these little drills with him for my own quickness and footwork and it helped me get on the basketball team in high school and then I became popular and got to go on a date with Gina Anderson and then I got a new Xbox and multiplayer then I started lifting a lot of weights and then my dad kept asking me “take the dog out son” then I would say” I don’t want him anymore” as I’m tapping away on my Xbox 360 controller playing NBA 2K11 then I went to school next morning after I walked him then I came back and Mac was gone,

“Where did Mac go,” I asked my dad. 

“He’s gone,” my dad said.

“Oh,” I said.

Well that was my boy, that was my boy. I got him 2 months after he was born when I was 13. Momma paid a quarter of stack for him, he was born on Halloween night. I went to 3 different high schools with him, he was my only friend. The dog that looked me dead in my face and told me “I’ll protect you” even though we both knew damn well he couldn’t box to save his life.

He’s dead now. Last time I saw him, looked like he was 55-60 pounds. 10 years-old died from depression. I had until He was 4. Shit. 

“Where did he go,” I asked my dad. 

“He’s gone,” my dad said.

“Shit,” I said.

Mac was sitting in a car, with some unfamiliar faces, going 3 states away and he had no idea where he was going or why his best friend wouldn’t ever see him again.

I was sitting in my room, thinking about this dog that was going 3 states away that I would never see again. Honestly, Fuck Gina Anderson. Then I turned on my Xbox,

Romanticize The Villainy Pt. 2

Dear Fair Citizens of America,

I did not mean to try and enslave the human race.

Now that,

This whole scenario is a misunderstanding.

I’m not Chris Brown, not a bad guy.

Let me explain, about me and my product and what will happen next.

Now we are here

With my super evil photon death ray I purchased from some dude called Patty on Craigslist  and it is currently orbiting Earth, over there in space somewhere.

It is aimed at the White House and Betty Whites house. It will go off when I stop speaking sporadically like a leaking spigot

I am letting you all know this because I am making you all an offer than you won’t, can’t, and ain’t refusing 

I want every form of government on this planet to fizzle up and evaporate, I mean dissipate immediately, and terminated expeditiously. This is not a request Trudeau, 

I’m  telling you,

This is now an anarchy, chaos, mayhem, I’m fixin’ to start a riot. You ask me what’s wrong with this world, what is right? I had to default all of my student loans to buy a $350 super evil photon death ray. If I show an American a cat video, they are immobilized for three hours, I met a man who works 90 hours a week, just to stay alive long enough to die of malnutrition. And humans are so damn fickle, senile in any environment, no one even listens to Ruben Studdard or plays with tamagotchis no mores.

Why the only time anybody listens to anybody is, is, is if they have a gun or is a rich, old white man? This is why,

And this is why I locked myself in this office with Mike Huckabee deep throating my 9mm glock.

But don’t worry, fair citizens. Nobody will stop me.

Superman? I got a methodical-diabolical contraption that turned him into a peanut butter-flavored contraception three weeks ago

I just have to ask you this question:

How many people, how many humans do I need to kill to become a hero, a legend? 

Why was I already profiled before I donned the mask, created an evil laugh, and carried my soul is a metal flask?

They were only humans, it’s not like I beat a german shepard with a newspaper, 

I am not a monster.

Now,

I may be a little upset that my imaginary friends walked out on me after refusing to pay rent

Or maybe this third lobotomy is getting to me

Now, I just thought destruction was the ultimate form of creation,

I just thought “the first lesson of history, is, that evil is good”

I just thought all these negatives I am doing would have a result of being positive.

I just thought someone would treat my depression as an illness and to stop telling me to get over it

I just thought my mom wouldn’t die of even though I thought I persuaded the cancer to let her stay

Because I will never fade away, I will never fade away, I will never fade away?

I was born like this, there’s nothing wrong me, I am of natural man.

I don’t care that I know my fate,

But didn’t God hear? The world is mine…

God is throwing biblical floods and wildfires and tsunamis, even hurricanes with great white sharks in them. Who is he to judge…

I’m not a bad guy…I’m not…

I just thought maybe, maybe a little dip of cyanide would go well with your tea.

Sometimes I do bad things, I normally do bad things, but I’m not a bad guy I just make bad guy decisions…but I am not romanticizing the villainy.

But what else am I supposed to do? I’m the epitome of all what is wrong with world, and its fine being a martyr.

I may be a flawed individual, but my biggest flaw is that I am surrounded by all you idiots.

You are all fools! You just need to all SUBMIT, I am trying to save you, I’m your savior.

AND WHEN I SAY CULL THE HERD, it’s because that’s. What. I. Do.

I’m just trying to save you all, from yourselves.

And if you think I am ill-judged,

Then Silence will be your only friend

Dreams

"Cull the Herd"

1. Literally, to separate or remove (and usually kill) inferior animals out of a herd so as to reduce numbers or remove undesirable traits from the group as a whole. We had to quickly cull the herd when it came to light that some cows might be carrying an infectious disease.

2. By extension, to separate or remove people from a larger group. With so many people applying for a limited number of jobs, employers have had to cull the herd by introducing much stricter criteria and a more elaborate application for hiring. Universities have long used standardized test results as a means of culling the herd of applicants they receive each year.

My life mantra for the past year. I got that from a video game called Far Cry 5, it was a side mission that involved the main character hallucinating and viciously terminating "seemingly figments of his imagination". But they were actually real people in his life. Extremely trippy dream sequence.

One of my best/worst character traits of Jon is how easily influenced I am. Any-and-everything that unveils itself to me is readily digestible. I listened to podcasts about Alex Jones & Ben Shapiro for about 3 hours and found myself nodding my head. I see Kanye West do ridiculous things over and over and then I forgive him after puts out gospel-ish-rap music.

Anyways the quote "cull the herd" has been the most important life mantra I have ever had. I think it may be my only one that has got me anywhere. No I haven't murdered anyone or anything and I am not down with the aesthetics of Thanos. I centes around "remove undesirable traits from the group as a whole"

Remove desirable traits from the group as a whole.
Remove desirable traits from the group as a whole.
Remove desirable traits from the group as a whole.
Remove desirable traits from the group as a whole.
Remove desirable traits from the group as a whole.
Remove desirable traits from the group as a whole.
Remove desirable traits from the group as a whole.

Cull The Herd.

I am not talking about some "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" scenario either; this has to deal with self-reflection that is not too detrimental to my own Jonny-isms. Like I always want to modify and be better at my professional life, my physical, emotional, mental, spiritual state. I need it to better. Not amazing nor perfect nor perfectly balanced (as all things should be).

Every single trait I have been taught or that has been instilled in a Jonny Boy since birth has either been extremely positive or negative. Since I am an excessive person, Jody actively tries to remove them immediately and aggressively. But of course that does not work, Jon-Jon is not a robot.

But to somehow convince my mental state that, that, that a trait is gone but in all actuality it just went into the cellar to meditate in a limbo state for a few months without food, water, or sunlight to reemerge a little more refined.

I don't think Lil' Jon could ever completely kill a trait I thought hindered my growth, but becoming a better Jonathan is the most important, vital, #1 goal of all of this. It's everything to me.

"Dreams" by Solange has been playing for the past couple of weeks, reminding me of how powerful mantras can be,

Trying to Be Cool

It's night time in Denver. January 14th. 2 o'clock in the morning on a Saturday, last-call and booty-call hours.

Was staying over a friends near Capitol Hill. Couldn't sleep after a drunken bender all day. My left calf starts to itch and imaginary 808s sound-off in my head. My double-jointed-semi-ashy-large-distal phalanges start to rub gently over one-another. I vault out of bed and snatch up my cheap Newtons, my cheap reflective pack, and my cheap wireless Insignias as I crouch out of the door. The frigid breeze pimp-slaps me right cheek, a nonverbal cue to get back inside. "Gotdamn" I respond and rev up my hamstrings, open up my hips just enough to get one more customer in. My phone lights up to show me Strava and Spotify to help me stay alive on the run. Then I start.

Running in the city, especially at night is like tap dancing to me. A solo jig that I can make up my own melody and rhythm too. My feet are slapping the side of the sidewalk at its own pace and my legs are extending-extending to whatever I need to hit my stride. My running pace at this point is wherever my mental state is during these sessions. This run is to purely pleasure to my mind. Endorphins tingle up and down my spine like pure, unfiltered electricity. Old school hip-hop is literally the C.R.E.A.M. to this double shot of espresso venti caramel frappucino. The city lights are dancing over me like strippers lap dancing at the Blue Flame. Drunken bar patrons are just existing and are a blur. When Jody gets going at this point, Jody literally has no idea what is going on.

Excuse my french but I am high as fuck as this point.

Everything is flowing at a sustainable, high functioning speed to complete my runner's high. I am happy, full, a little horny, and most of all I feel cool. I feel invincible. Man, I wish this car would hit me. I wish someone would come out and stab me in the gut and take my 5s. I wish someone would say some shit to me. My left foot hits the ground, my right foot hits the ground. I am tap dancing like that one kid who stays tap dancing in those shows in the 70s, completely in my element.

I stare up at the Capitol building on my way back, smiling like some idiot who just put blueberry syrup on some blueberry pancakes. Smiling so hard as my feet trip over the a crack in the sidewalk and my happy-ass falls face-down onto the sidewalk, tryna' to be cool.

"Trying to Be Cool" by Phoenix has been the anthem for years since I was a wildcat in Richmond Hill.

Telegram

Had a conversation with one of my good friends recently. About being simulated versus being happy. I have used these concepts interchangeably for a while now. Having the mind being occupied versus the mind being in euphoria.

I can tell you I have no idea 'bout no psychology or sociology or blah-blah-ology. But I do have the mind of a semi-mid-high functioning 25 year-old, so here is my take on it being simulated versus happy:


I have been a teacher for 3 years, unfortunately having to end that career a couple of weeks ago. My mind was always occupied, so many things to do, so many words being spouted out, rippin' and runnin' like a Jon outta' hot yoga. There is no other job that has kept me on my toes at over 50 hours/week.

Jody was simulated.

I was with kids who I loved, got to teach science to kids I loved, got to work with people I loved, got to be around science, which I loved.

Jody was happy.

But I did all of this stuff in Norfolk, Virginia as I do (did) in Denver, Colorado.Same subject, kids are all the same, coworkers were good. I always remember the quote your problems will not go away when you move to Atlanta. 

That quote is a reference to me moving to Denver; same to my friend for moving here, same to me for moving. Only moving here fixed most of my problems. I needed to feel strong and confident and myself in an area that promoted people of similar background and I never felt that way after college. There was finely this piece of heaven that I never thought existed. And to see myself flourish has been so satisfying. Teaching yoga, running dogs, being a 7th grade science teacher, running wherever I wanted to at night, relaxing night life, good roommates, a more preferable climate. I never knew a place could exist.

Then there were the internal conflicts of figuring out my passion or a career or my sexuality or my purpose, blah-blah-blah. All of these things that I kept carrying and lunging around, looking to my clueless 20-something friends or social media to tell me everything. 

It's funny because after all of this, I have to keep referring to my "75-year plan". It's a book that ultimately tells me exactly what to do at every point in time in my life. It's essential and vital to the survival of Hotwada Cornbread, Gentrified Cornbread, Jody, and the bundles of Jon. Where I am supposed to be location-wise, who I should be dating, how to sustain my black wellness and black boy joy.

Unfortunately I have no idea where to find it, and I am not necessarily looking for it.

"Telegram" By Jay Rock is a smooth melody to remind oneself not to be caught up in grand valor of social media.

Energy

I think it's important to note that I feel almost everything.

My foot striking the pavement when I run, the saxophone melodies off of Jay-Z's American Gangster, my Papa's excitement when I pick up the phone, the gaze on the back of my neck when I enter specific stores, etc.

With that amount of feels, there comes an amount of cares. I know I am using that word incorrectly, give me a minute.

On average, the most average-ass person interacts with trillions or ka-billions of molecules every minute of every day. That's the most mayonnaise, basic, carbon copy Joe-Smoe just existing in any space on this planet. This person more than likely ignores most of these interactions between single and compound molecules because in all actuality, who is going to intentionally interact with a ka-billy-jilly-ion particles every single minute. Who would care?

Now does Jody interact with all the oxygens I breathe per minute or sodium chlorides I consume at every meal? Heck naw. What am I, a psychopath? Do I think about interacting with those molecules? Heckers nopers. Do I look like a 7th-year senior on a trust fund at Penn State? Do I feel every one of these groups of atoms?

I don't think so.

Sometimes I am drawn to a certain energy. But sometimes I am always drawn to certain energy. It is as though that energy immediately needs to be handled and maintained properly even if that energy has literally no connection or tie to me. And what happens when a battery is powering a flashlight and runs out of chemicals and molecules and such to power this source of illumination? What happens when you're supposed to be the light to guide souls to a beautiful-land but runneth out of wax? Where does the candle get its wax when the wax maker hasn't shown up to work, but the candle still has to light the way?

I don't know

And I don't know if wax maker is a word,

Big K.R.I.T. 's new single off of TDT gives me a "1up" and gets me pumped and strong for most days,

Crew

Hey let's be honest. I miss the south. The-the-the family, the love, the soul food, the proximity. It is the place that birthed me and raised me into the Jody I am today. All of the racism, the sexism, the closed-mindedness, the humidity, the Willacoochee accents slathered with some Twiggs County slang. Oh lord,

It was not until I got to Denver and stayed for a few weeks that I realized how special below the Mason-Dixon line was to me. I have ran over 1,000 miles in the 303 in the past year, and have yet to be called a nigger or monkey or get heckled by my fellow people. In fact, I can't even remember how many times I was cheered on running down 16th Street Mall at 2am in the morning on a Saturday. But while in the south, where I have lived 94.8% of my life, I don't remember how many times I was verbally attacked by being called a nigger or monkey or get heckled by my fellow people.

Yes I count being called a nigger while running in Gloucester Point, Virginia at 8 am, a verbal attacked. I don't remember the kids face (most white people look the same to me and of course I call grown men kids when they act accordingly) even though I stared them down as they sped off in their '02 Ranger.

Couldn't even run in Portsmouth at 5am without black folk looking at me like I'm suspect. I remember not running in Portsmouth just because I thought someone might physically attacked me. Because I was warned while in the barber shop to not run near Norcom high school.

These things happen, right? I should be conditioned at this point to be tolerant of ignorance. It wouldn't dare happen to Denver, as I blare out "Crew" by Goldlink and Co., making strides along Welton Street. Maybe Denver did a better job at suppressing its ignorance by ignoring it? If you don't see ignorance or interact with it, those things just disappear through natural selection right? Right,

"Crew" by Goldlink ft. Brent Faiyaz & Shy Glizzy reminds me of the east coast and the nostalgia of the south.

Been Ballin'

I thoroughly believe in the quarter-life crisis and all of its splendors.

The post-college limbo, the uncertainty of a profession, running rapid like a stray dog in heat (or a 46 year-old white man training for the Rock ‘n’ Roll marathon in Virginia Beach); this sometimes feign depression hits people in different ways. I decided to ignore most of these mid-20s dilemmas by completely submitting to everything.

Jody is the epitome of a quarter-life crisis; moving to Denver without any self-sufficient funds, leaving a job and partner with a tin of gin in one hand and a 40-pound kettlebell in the other. Staying in 7 cities in a year, mooching off of friends, going on dozens of Tinder dates, accumulating credit card debt are things that a 21 year-old Jody would not condone.

But Jody is also the epitome of a quarter-life euphoria; moving to Denver with blind optimism, starting 3 new jobs that will be hold dear, moving on from a relationship, dating people freely, doing yoga and mimosas on late Saturday mornings, experiencing almost every city in the Denver metro area.

From the age of 21 to 25, the soundtrack of my life going from “Angels” by Chance the Rapper to “Been Ballin’” by Ballout. One song inspiring hope and joy and optimism while the latter inspiring hope and joy and optimism with a side of a fickle and frivolous baller-ish lifestyle.

Every time my Newtons hit the pavement, every time my fingertips reach my toe tips, every time I toss a weight in the air is the only certainty I feel. It’s nice because most people do not even have that and it has chiseled off of the confusion of my 20s. I know exactly what my body will do and when and how it will do it. It won’t fail me because it can’t. Because I am not sure what I do without it.

"Been Ballin'" By Ballout ft. Chief Keef has been looped in my head from my favorite social media favorites King Vader and Lenar.

So Many Details

I'm standing on a street corner off of Colorado & MLK Boulevard, waiting to meet up with a new friend to go a night jog. My legs do a light jig to stay warm in an early 40s wind chill, moving to the rhythm of a Toro y Moi tune. I have on my Norfolk State dri fit shirt, running shorts, and backward baseball cap completed with a worn pair of Newtons. The circle emblem on my wireless headphones flash a dim blue symbol, representing I am locked into some "phat beats".

To a regular mayo Denver resident, I am a crackhead having a seizure on a corner looking to buy some contraband. But if by contraband one means "friendship" well lock me up with TayK-47. I have been living in the Denver metro area for about a year-and-some-change and have been lacking on making friends. Or one may say "crack-a-lackin". I snicker to myself as I start on dynamic leg movements. Maybe it's my aggressive friend invitation initiation or reluctance to meet new people in a conceived squad or tired from the tirade of being a teacher from a work week, thoughts running through my head as I hit baby lunges.

It is 4:30, and I've been waiting on this corner for what it must have been 45 minutes. Or 3 minutes. Either way the sun transitions to cover and my shiny black-boy legs reflect the illuminated street lights. My phone vibrates and I quickly delete the "flakiness" that I have almost become accustomed to millennials.

It sucks that I have begun the trend as; the "oh let this person be on standby in case something else comes up" and I miss the commitment of pre-internet. If I didn't show up to my friend's house in 2006, one may assume I am as good as dead.

I wonder if I could have handled more than 4 or 5 friends at one time. In middle school, high school, college, post-undergrad; I typically had 2 good friends, 2 or more back up friends, and a dirty dozen of associates. If one died then at least there was one to support afterwards. Like Ed, Edd, 'n' Eddy. What a formidable squad, as I check my phone for the 10th time in 3 minutes to see if this potential best-friend-forever will pop-up. We met at a coffee shop about a week prior, so I assumed it was meant to last until we were 90 year-olds playing Gamecast like it never went out of style.

My hands are starting to lock up, I reckon it is time to go if I am going to protect my recently moisturized kneecaps from turning into dust. I queue up my favorite Toro y Moi album Anything In Return and start a route over the flashing lights off of the Boulevard.

The song "So Many Details" brings nostalgia to my mind, as it connected me to one of my best/worst best friends of all time.