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,

Hello!

 Hello! 

I mean goodbye.

I was only here for a minute, so you can say hello to the "bad guy" since every protagonist needs an antagonist.

 I sent positive vibes your way, sweeter than some wild berry poptarts and cornier than a party-sized bag of Tostitos, hoping that a connection would last longer than Rondo's wingspan.

But now I'm sitting in a FedEx Kinko's parking lot, trying to update my resume after working at Dollar Tree for two weeks, wondering how this warm feeling in my tum-tum turned into rolly pollies.

I cried out, a more severe pain after I stub my toe on the coffee table, screaming louder than a theatre kid doing the 'Mr. Feanie' call. 

I only have a finite amount of "I Love You's" and when I say "I Love You" it 99% of the time means "I Love You", so "I Love You" but, eh, ya' know.

That's eternal sunshine but I guess suns explode eventually. Or maybe just dim out like the light in your eyes when you don't follow your childhood dreams and become numb.

Well, I thought about sending you the longest text message ever but I didn't. I just went for a run. I'll call later. Probably.

Goodbye!

I mean hello.

See How You Fly

"When I couldn't move, you showed me how to crawl. When I could walk, you showed me how to run. When I could glide, you showed me how to fly." Now see how they fly, from the mountains of Zion, roaring down the hillside, along the county lines, through Dollar General alleyways and flyways in the Mississippi where I saw Bobo and them earn their wings earlier than expected but were always accepted, But the King is dead, the tostitos are crumbled, and they tried to clip my wings. I howled that day for 3 summers and 4 winters, waiting for my chance at the throne and my seat at the table and I hobbled to Valhalla on one knee over 38 countries and 8,000 miles. I told them I was a humble knave, traveling along the piedmont for the past 13 years. And they told me "no" at the door like they worked for Fedex Kinkos. "No, no, no, no, no no" NO. I shook hands with Yahweh, consumed the blood of Christ, etched my body with ancient images, and I saw how they flew! I have done the spectacular and watched all 5 seasons of Living Single. What do you mean "no" I met the Oshun and she supplied with the ether and new bag of only a few crumbled Tostitos at the bottom. I asked "why" , they asked me "why would they let a knave fly" I told them "I can" They told me "if you can fly then you're not a knave. Walk first. Then Run. Glide. And THEN show me how YOU fly, King."

Lunch in the Library

"This can't be the mind that read 2 novels per month in 5th grade" I used to read. I used to read a lot when I was younger. The letters, words, and sentences would leap out at me and pimp-slapped into a stories I could never have dreamt of. Reading became the source of my happiness via escapism when I was a child. Escapism. Why was I always trying to leave a space? Whether it be mentally or physically. I wondered if I truly was unhappy when I was younger or even 'til now. My teachers would recall me wanting to sit in the classroom during the lunch period or getting the rare and special privelge of having lunch in the library. The library: the place that held all of the stories of triumph and heartbreak and grown men running around half-naked with kids (apparently that's funny?). The books I read had nothing to do with what I wanted to read with at the time, I just read them. If it book was there or existed, I picked it up and started reading. How else was I going to learn about homoerotic fan fiction or how finnese a single mom into marrying you even though you don't like woman and have a second family. I didn't want to be in the lunchroom; their stories were boring and -spoiler alert- school lunch raises your chances of getting heart disease. And of course, their stories made sense. I wanted to learn about some little white boy killing a Michael Jackson doppelganger who had alopecia and was for a vampire for some reason. From reading my journals, I could tell a lot of my time was sitting and waiting around, yearning to be an adult. An old, boring adult. Well congrats Jon, But why wouldn't you want to travel to middle earth realm or go to a high school where everyone is endowned with special powers? Where would I be without E. Lynn Harris or Kurt Vonnegut? Maybe a white picket fence with a beagle. Or extra bags of Tostitos.

The Master

I started running one morning. It was a Tuesday, I think. So it was 5-mile intervals. Everything always hurts, and I am always tired or confused. My body, mind, and soul have continued to grow and expand, sometimes at an exponential rate at times. 1 foot down, 1 knee up my arm pumped, one arm straight. I recall the dramatic knee pains that left my left knee shattered and almost useless in sophomore year in high school. I still had yet to figure out what had left me almost severely crippled. I recalled my speech impediment that halted any cyphers I was to join in on during pep rallies for marching band. I hurdled over a dead cat, bloated on the side of the road. I've longed for the opportunity to show the full extent of my intellectual knowledge and physical prowess to own self but to no avail. There's so many external factors that people my age deal with: societal pressure through social media accounts and such. Using those sort of underlying themes from Myspace and Instagram and sometimes LinkedIn, I wanted to become the greatest person I could be. The real J.O.D.Y. I've always wanted to show myself off to the 1st grade version of me, so I can be like "look at me" to me Even getting my M.A.T. in Secondary Science or my RYT 500 won't mean much to me; will just be another notch on the belt. I want to be 'The Master" in everything, always, all time. I want to learn how to dance like Josephine Baker and fight without fear like Nawi. I want to be The Master . On my own plane of existence, of course This doesn't have anything to do with titles or ranks anymore. I was done with that years ago. If I were Sicily and I baked bread like my hands were crafted by Young Jeezy then that's just what I do. Forever. And always. I want to make great bread. I hit a stop temporarily, unsure if a car could see my reflectors as I peeked around a stop sign. They did not. They barely ever did. I want to become a great yoga teacher. I want to be a great science educator. I want to be run really really really fast. I want to entertain and bring joy to people's lives. I want to learn every single hobby and skill and trait and quirk of everything, ever. Why would someone not want to live their life to the fullest and make themselves full of joy and happiness by delivering top tier work? But what does that mean to someone like the boys who reminded me I was stupid and a faggot everyday in grade school. What reference boy point does an 11 year-old boy have to ensure the world doesn't hate him, his skin, his mind...what reference point does a 27 year-old man have to know the world doesn't hate him, his skin, his mind... But who I am kidding, there's always a reference point. There was Freddy Adu then there was Kyle Massey and now there's that one guy off of Instagram. There's always someone who seemingly exemplifies these traits then ultimately fails to impress the world. If only they ate more cornbread when they were a kid. I had continued running and shuffled to the next song,

Cornrbead Colored Lightsabers

I know some humans who can  make you do whatever they want you to do.

I know a young alien who wanted to believe but couldn't.

I know a moon that could destroy a planet in three minutes.

I know a girl who didn't follow in her family's footstep.

I know some droids who had more heart than most humans.

I know a guy who had the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other and let both of them speak equally.

I was 9 when I saw my first space opera. It was filled with some white people and aliens and a whole bunch of crazy lights. I was mesmerized and filled with anguish, hope, betrayal, and an awakening. That trend would continue on for 17 more years, well, at least 17 more years. 

All of the games, movies, shows, plastic lightsabers, comic cons, metal lightsabers, 'Duel of the Fates' on repeat. The space wizards and shoot outs and improbable hyper-speed jumps and that-one-black-guy-per-trilogy-who-has-a-66%-chance-of-being-a-traitor had me by its force grip. I was hooked, or force hooked? I wanted to be a force wielder. I wanted the powers, death, despair, older chicks hitting on me, a long flowing mane, an ability to fly apparently every ship inherently, yellow eyes---a sword-shaped flashlight. It was all I ever wanted. At least I thought for a while.

I grew up, went to middle school then summer school then high school then college then early adulthood. I thought it was over after that boy lost his limbs back in '07. But it was only the beginning. As I got older, adults, adults showed up wearing robes, reenacting prominent battles, pulling open automatic doors without even touching them! How is that even possible?

I wanted to be that, I wanted to be a hero. And a villain. And an antihero. And a senator since it seems so easy. The powers were amazing but at the same time, I just wanted the honor to be apart of something huge. Yeah I want glitter to manifest from out my fingernails, but having all life work in unison and granting specific organisms the ability to manipulate an entire network of particles seemed attainable and believable. Maybe I can't bring down a cheese-shaped ship that's longer than a billion Tostitos but why not trust in the force? It's the basis of all my beliefs. Why can't that ideal mean something more than just what you find in a comic book or a tv show,

It sucks though because people like me haven't been represented well in something that has been so monumental in my childhood. I mean, even the aliens haven't had much representation (why are there SO many white people throughout all of these galaxies?!) but it's how I live my professional, spiritual, intellectual, and physical. Not as a man who is all good or all evil, but in the grey area until I receive 100% synchronization with wherever my opera takes me. 

I Asked God To Come and Get Me, But I am Too Uncool

Some of my favorite/worst memories of my childhood was waking up real early on Sunday mornings to go hear Dr. Lance Watson preach in Creighton. I would never have my hair combed by the time we would leave, so my momma would always drag the comb through my hair, almost making my scalp come off. Call it the first ever S-curl accident. Sometimes if we were a little early to get to church, me and my brother would get chicken biscuits from McDonald's. While we sped to church down 95 and across 64, listening to Momma Caesar I would steal my brother's hash browns for the extra saturated fat. There was this girl there at the 10am services, she had cornrows and braces like it was her first day out. She probably already knew how to shoot a stepback jumper, heavily contested. I never spoke to her, but she looks like a Jamillah. Oh, and there were a few kids from my school who went there and I would try to make eye contact but as soon as they looked up, I looked down. I always wondered where I got church shoes from. I felt like they always appeared and I never asked for them. I wish it worked that way for Gameboy Advance Cartridges. While we sat down, my momma would give me a crinkled dollar bill to hand-off to some old dude who smelled of moth balls. What was he chewing all the time? I always held on to the money plate longer than I needed too because it looked like his arthritis was starting to kick in. Whenever the music would play (there was a score for walking into the church to breathing in the church to squirming in the church to passing out in the church) I wanted to dance or any clap my hands. Never understood why I didn't do so, even to this day. It was a continuous struggle to get to church everyday but it was a spectacle when you got there. If I took one of my white friends with us like Adam or Alex, you would have thought we were watching a soap opera. Pastor rapping off bible verses, old ladies passing out, single mom's interpretation of snakes, drinking the blood and eating the flesh off of some dude you haven't seen but apparently is ubiquitous. And there were so many hats. I would be so proud to invite seasoning to their lives. And you swore you left refreshed and anew and accomplished as much as Nelson Mandela himself. You couldn't tell someone anything who just walked out of church, not a got-dern-ting. Saying bible quotes and giggling with your best friend named Brenda you saw twice a week. Once at bible study and another at the line at the Piccadilly's. The one at Southpark. Wait is it shutdown? Sometimes I would pay attention to the pastor to intentionally, like I would  be the next up there. Like Martin Luther or Allen Senior. T.D. Jakes would be my speech coach. Mase would serve as my financial adviser. Everyone from my 3rd grade class, family, and friends would be there. Screaming and hollering righteous and sweet sayings right up there at the pulpit, guiding someone to change their life. To see their mom or their kids again after too many years. God would tell me I was cool and said I had a seat with them at the gates because I was so cool for being patient. Jamillah would be there too.



Then I woke up.

"Unhappy" by Outkast has remained one of the songs played when I am normally, well, happy.