A Little Fear of Thunder & Lightning, Part. 3

When I was in preschool, I didn't like being touched. At all. Unless it was my mom. Not dad. Not auntie. Not grandma. Not other grandma. Not a 19 year-old super senior in high school. Maybe my brother because he was strong and helped me climb things.

Ironic, as I was reading in my second grade journal everyone was fond of touching me. Hug. Grab. Kiss. Pull. Toss. Smack. It wasn't that I felt afraid at first, I (relatively) knew everyone and felt comfortable around them. Just not that comfortable. So at an early age, I didn't understand the power of the word no because folks didn't oblige. They reverse uno'd that word and said "no" to me saying no. Then a little fear came, like I was helpless. Like a fish out of water or Nick Cannon saying words out loud.

Why wouldn't anyone listen to a preschooler? 

Why would anyone listen to a preschooler?

As I got older I would be dumbfounded by rejecting a plethora of affection by tweens but was still coerced into dating Brendas by whoever I would let coerce me at the time. I guess no in middle school was like Cambodian Riel, pretty much useless. My inability to grow a backbone and lack of identity didn't help, as I slouched my shoulders, stoic arm swings, and feigned smiles. Maybe if I angle my body, plant my feet, and defiantly put my hands on my hips? Like a Nubian Superman,

"uh, na"

As many folks, friends, family, and foes know my brother was significantly bigger than me throughout my life. Even now I rather try to wrestle and hogtie a feral hog than grapple the Sasquatch. But my brother was my #1 protector, friend, partner, arch-nemesis, ladder, ogre, etc. So when he wasn't physically there, I didn't manage well. I couldn't escape his shadow, he's like 6'7. Even though he routinely was there during my childhood I was afraid. My title throughout elementary, middle, and high school was "Lil' Wayne" due to me being little. And the brother of Wayne. When he was not there or wouldn't let me sleep on his floor, I couldn't deal with a light-bulb going out, much less a little bit of lightning.

For a certain amount of years from retaining my memories in preschool at the age of 4 to my bodyguard/Tostitos-eater leaving for the institute when I was 14, there was a huge lack of "manliness" in my stature as represented a few paragraphs back. Reading those words in my journal when I wrote this kind of sucked, sucked something fierce. How was I going to manage becoming a superhero if I couldn't even stand up to flute players trying to pull my hair? Even if I have a different interpretation of what "manliness" is to me nowadays,

Of course the whole parades of bats and Jo(h)n didn't help me to find any type of courage. Maybe if thundering and lightning didn't casually threaten to take me away to Morgan Freeman's dads house dozens of times a year, I would be the CEO of Tostitos by now. Maybe I would stop romanticizing the villainy. Maybe I could listen to the sound and see the lights of fireworks without pulling the covers over my head,

Throw The Whole Jon Away

Sitting on the edge of the universe, we were eating black-eyed peas, collard greens, and gentrified cornbread.

As our feet hung down into the cosmos, she calmly yet quickly asked me:

"Do you love me?"

I told her only "partly", I only love my Jon, and my JODY, I'm sorry, not sorry. I mean who's "Jon is it anyways"; I wish I had a best friend like Jon; like 'oh my Jon, oh my Jon'; if I were a recipe I would be half Jonathan, half Jonny, half cornbread, half JODY and 100% that Jon; that's the Jon of all trades remember when I was using Jon with a 'H', but now I'm back at it;

1,2,3, the JODY's after Jonny, 4,5,6, Jon's always throwing bricks, 7,8,9, Jon misses every time...

I wished I could love me like how Jon loves JODY; Wait if Jonny is on second, Jon is on third...who's on first; I gotta' bundle of Jon's ready go off like a Jon in a China store; you showed up to my show two hours too late, and the show was only two hours, that's how to lose a Jon in 2 days.

Jo(h)n Jonny JODY-heimer Jonathan-Schmidt, his Jon was my Jon tooooooooo,

I only run from high blood pressure and all of Jonathan's problems; Jo(h)n Witherspoon is dead, Jo(h)n Marston is dead, Jon Favreau won't pick up my calls, and I still haven't found Jonathan Livingston Seagull to fly me home. The eternal sunshine of the spotless Jon, I erased you like Ben Wallaces would and took you off as an contributed author to my Wikipedia.  

Pec-popping like Jonny Bravo and gotta imaginary friend like Jonny 2x4 and say everything twice like I'm Jonny two-times. Because I'm the Jon, and I'm AWE-SO-ME

I glanced back at her pools of big eyes filled with a bountiful of brown that reflected my appearance. Which at this point looked exhausted and hunched over after my Jonny-laced soliloquy. She gently replied:

"throw the whole Jon away"

"Wikipedia" By Jean Deaux put me in a vibe of what I think about what I might be like to other people in my own mind. Yes 

Somebody Gotta’Love The Spiritual Immaculate Hoodrats

Oh yes, absolutely. Here comes Jonny with some rhymes about some mild insecurities, infatuation with fat booties, and night runs around the city.

Oh real quick, as I mentioned before, my love language includes but ain’t limited to double gin & tonics, Running 10ks, and cosplays. Cool let me start my ramble,

I’m probably here to talk about how people have gentrified cornbread or how much I miss my momma’s sweet, SWEET cocoa butter kisses on my left cheek,

I did slip on a banana peel like I was an extra in an infomercial, I’m sure every actor/actress is an extra on informercials. Grabbed every invisible ropes I couldn’t 

Find. No wonder no one rarely finishes rainbow road. 

Uh, I kissed a boy 👨‍❤️‍👨

Nah, I ain’t like it 🙅🏾‍♂️

Well, I still hate Jordan Howard and when my dad cries.

Still gotta’ fetish for the spiritual hoodrat immaculate ratchets, but only when they don’t receive child support 

And known to tell other people’s kids to stop acting up in Public settings 

But I have to remind you that I was the Last Black Superhero in Willacoochee & Arvada, 

I’m still dropping science whilst others drop English,

I heard the call and culled the heard, paid the piper, pied the payers, became the player, but Chance said players are quitters 

And the bat signal doesn’t show up when the sky is clear but I’m pretty sure Woburn and Flint’s water supply is still burning,

And the dog is dead, the girl is gone, the chicken is unseasoned, and I’m sitting off of 16th and Colfax with my brother. Wondering why he always has mayonnaise on his lips. 

If I say I don’t give a shit, I give 100% of the shits.

And if I ever told you I love you, 

And if I save a love you, I do. I do, I do-oooo-ooooo. 

If I say I don’t I love you, I don’t.

And I believe in you, and you, and you. But not you.

And I believe in Jonny.

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.

The Last Black Superhero In Arvada

I don’t think it’s fair to rule out the possibility of superpowers in today’s modern world. The preconceived notion that it’s only found in comic books or blockbuster movies seems ignorant at times to a Jonny. Because I’ve see these powers before, I feel them,

—

After an afternoon nap, I had this dream where I sleeping in my own bed and I woke up. All of my Christmas lights were on and handful of people I know were standing in my living room. Around all of us were paintings and drawings and writings that I created as a child until present day. Even though I don’t illustrate anymore, JODY saw one of my more prominent works as a child.

It was a picture of my friends Alex and Matt along with me going against our common enemy (John with a “H”.) Alex was in a green cape, I was in a red cape, and my friend Matt was in a purple cape. I remember I drew Matt’s face with a slight grimace, but not sure why. It was though I wasn’t sure about him,

—

Ever since Jon was a young Jon, everything was this epic or graphic novel of sorts. My friends, my identity, my family, church, going to school, making food; it’s as though every scene or scenario gave off this huge aura or vibe. As solid or as bright as Christmas lights. Everything to me had its own place in this eternal journey. Well at least in my head so it seems. Everything must be drawn and fleshed our to me. Like it had to be extra. And what did I do with all of this information?

First of all not a Jonny, Jon, JODY, nor Jonathan was the hero in my own narrative. I was the narrator narrating everybody else’s epic climax (nice one Jon). But forealla, all of the friends who were heroes or bullies who were villains or friends that turned out to be villains, was described on paper. Whether it be illustrating or writing, every thing had to be documented. Everything essentially had its own purpose. 

This is also reflected in my own self-reflective nature, yes, right, absolutely. So whenever something happened in Jon’s everyday life to one of the protagonists, it would often intercept my energy levels and I would often figure out how to correct it. Because that’s the job of a narrator I feel like sometimes and that’s the job of a friend. I think,

And the powers that everyone encompasses has a range. My friend Jamal has the ability to serenade anyone with in 100 feet with his classical guitar. My friend Abby can redirect any opposing threat with a few choice words. Big KAT can lower anyone’s emotional or intellectual shields to make them vulnerable with a willingness to share almost anything with her. Beanie Baby’s ergh, baby has to beginnings of showing great strength at a young age, the physical stature of a brick wall almost. 

What are my powers? Depends on whatever my narrator gives me,

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.

He Still Loves Me

"I've been runnin', runnin', runnin', gotta' take me bath"

Thanks for the intro YBN Nahmir, I'll take it from here.

I always feel as though my mind is like a hamster on a wheel, and my body follows suite. Constantly moving through exercise and thinking about new projects, ideas, learning and sh*t.

"He Still Loves Me" By The Fighting Temptations Soundtrack has been a go-to song to sing driving along 1-70

Running Man Challenge

Apologies on how sporadic I am at maintaining a blog. Haven't had a functioning laptop in a while. I could also note other numerous excuses, but for now I am just going to dive into the recent running activities.

I ran the Richmond Anthem Marathon this past November, 46-seconds under sub-4:00. First and probably only time running with headphones on. To say 26.2 miles showed me the 'gas face' would be an understatement. After being almost two minutes late to the actual race, I reached a hiccup during the run. 

I despise running over 10 miles. Oops.

Only running 20 miles twice in my life and expecting to qualify for the Boston Marathon off of that may have been a potential problem. This thought first occurred as I gobbled down multi-flavored gels like it was some chicken pad thai I bought with a Groupon. It's as though my body knew I had only ran a certain amount of mileage. So besides getting my third I mean thirteen wind, besides producing all that lactic acid, besides summoning Chief Keef to get my body through this self-inflicted pain, it hit me. No, I mean it literally hit me.

 

First in the inner quads then outer quads then calves and then feet and then stomach. The unsolicited cramps, ouchie. My body told me it was time to go home, but my ego said only a tiny, little, 10k left. Then we can go home and buy more pasta off of Groupon. I ran to about the half marathon mark at 7:30 pace, finished the race at a 9:30 pace. I hit every 'Power-up' button poster, every candy joint, every high five from toddlers; I would have summoned Shenron if Krillin was running with me. 

Despite my ill-preparedness for yet another RVA-based race, the vistas surrounding the James River looked as though they were forged from The Joy of Painting. The mild gusts of wind carried the water down the stream, making its way down and through Belle Isle. The roads and back-roads took runners through the West End, which I never went to as a child. They had me thinking about moving back one day. Homes and houses caught my eye, distracting me from the eventual ensuing pain I would have a mile 20.

An old lady (I only say she was old because she told me she was 75) caught me at 23 miles. She said "woop-woop, woop woop woop, woop woop woop, woopity, I'm 75, keep woop-woop-wooping," because I could only hear her through the pauses in a Solange melody. My old 7th grade gym teacher was there, giving out medals. Still had the same goofy smile and frizzy hair, dabbed with a little bit of gray. She was nice to me. At mile 9, a young man had Domino's and beer for each person willing to sacrifice pit-stop time. I hung out there for about 5-minutes before I realized I still had to finish a race. 

And as I crossed the finished line after whizzing by Grace, Broad, and Cary Street while running like I had a penny stuck in my arse because of leg cramps, I thought only one deafening notion as I walked back to my Honda.

"Only 54 minutes to shave off my time... I'm going to have to try again next year for Boston Qualifier, don't I?"