Life in the Middle Lane

I like to surround myself with creative people.

In the past, I would have said that I like to surround myself with creative people because I don’t have a creative bone in my body.

I now know that this is not true. I do stuff.

However, while I accept my creativity, I have to keep it real. My creativity manifests mostly in my thought process, rather than in a physical form. I still can’t draw worth a damn. My paintings are all rather abstract (even when I don’t want them to be). My short stories have minimal plot (they are more like scenes than stories). And while my poems are the bomb (if I do say so myself), they are few and far between. And it has been far, far too long since I wrote anythng worth showing folks.

And that is why I’m hating on poets.

On Monday, I went to a spoken word thing.  I call it a “thing” because it wasn’t a slam or a competition, so I don’t know how to catergorize it. And for you local Triangle peeps, come bless the mic and tell me when so I can come clap for you. (Its every Monday night)

So.

This poetry thing was in Chapel Hill and was a very different experience from the Atlanta and Durham poetry things that I have gone to in the past.

Let me explain.

My Atlanta experience with poetry things has been really gay. Mostly women speaking on how much they love women and all the reasons why they love women and all the ways they love women.

And in Durham, the poetry things are rather militant and political. They talk about revolutions, and overthrowing the government, and smoking weed and embracing diversity.

Monday, the poets were mostly college kids, idealistic, sugary. They lacked the life experience to really talk about anything that makes you wanna holla. Some of the “deepness” seemed forced or contrived. Their pieces didn’t evoke any lasting emotion. There were a couple of times that I may have even snickered and thought, What the hell are they talking about?

But even in the midst of that, there were flashes of brilliance. Some of those kids had skills. They had word play, they had depth, they made me think, they made me listen. They made me jealous.

They had the gift. They were real poets, speaking of experience beyond their time, making me feel some kinda way.

That’s why I hate on poets.

I’m jealous of the way poets see and are in tune with people, situations, circumstances, emotions. Poets tell us how we feel. They tell our stories. Its like they know us (all of us) And then they have the nerve to add rhyme? Yep, I’m hating. ‘Cause I’m jealous.

I remember (in my younger years) when I could sit down with a pen and a notepad and the words would just…flow. And I would surprise myself.

And Monday, as I listened to these kids, I was reminded of my younger self, with my half-boiled, just below the surface emotions that I carried on my sleeve, and I was sad for me.

Young Monica was a poet. She could take a situation, (even an ugly one) flip that ish and make her momma say, where you copy that from? (True story)

Now, I don’t even know what I do. I’m hard. Cynical. Blah. Sometimes I think I’m sleepwalking. And I’m definitely not writing any poetry.

I’ve lost something. I’v ignored my sensitivity. I’ve ignored my humanity. Not is the sense that I don’t care about the world, ’cause I do care. But I look at life at an arm’s length. I don’t let anything get too close.

And its hard to write about emotional sh!t when you keep your emotions all locked up.

Monday, I took notes at the poetry thing. When someone said something that spoke to me, I wrote it down. Don’t know what I’m going to do yet. But I’m going to do something. Dammit.

I couldn’t sleep Monday night. I tossed and turned and wrote poetry in my dreams. Then I got up Tuesday and I couldn’t remember any of it. I would have felt better had I just sat up and let my pen work. *sigh

I gotta strengthen my flabby poetic muscles.

I’m going to keep going to poetry things. I’m going to let the gf give me painting lessons (and writing exercises) and I’m going to shake the dust off my raw emotion and let it out. I’m going to take more opportunities to think poetically.

Because I’m sick of hating on the poets and their ability to twist vocabulary in a way that makes my soul ache.

Sh!t, I used to be able to do the same thing.

I’ve been looking for my passion.  I’ve been looking for it for a long time.  I, like a lot of 20-somethings around me have been spending our young adulthood trying to figure out what the hell we are supposed to do, or figuring out how to get from a place of “I know what I want to do” to a place of “I’m doing what I’m supposed to do”.

 I’m still in the “Hell if I know, but I’m working on it” category.  But I think a lot about it. 

Tuesday mornings are the time that I work on my Master’s Thesis, and right now I’m reading for my literature review.  Today I picked up Richard Florida’s Cities and the Creative Class.  (In my thesis, I have to prove that cities are important- and that the best cities are the cool cities. I KNOW, viscerally, that this is true. I just have to prove that the eggheads agree with me)

 In the introduction of the book, Florida talks about his background, his childhood, his experiences, and how they shaped his future research and the catalog of books he’s written. He talked about how visiting his father’s factory job influenced him to be interested in technological advancement and how the closing of that plant caused him to be interested in economic growth.

 I had only read a few pages at that point but I had to stop and think.  What, if anything, in my childhood, has shaped my interests, research, and just maybe, my passions?

 I’ve been thinking about this, in one way or another, since this summer.  My friend, L , and I would spend hours at work talking about MPA classes and what each of us has learned at school, our work styles (she’s into details, and I’m into the big picture) , and how these things could be merged into a career somehow. The conversations would, invariably, return to the things that we enjoyed as a child and wouldn’t it be cool if we could do that for a living?

 Our conclusion surprised the both of us, and I would often leave the conversation trying to figure out how the hell we’ve ended up where we are. Neither of us are your average government bureaucrats.

She’s an interior designer at heart- and truly, the girl designed everything. She is the posterchild for form meeting function. She’s so good at it. 

As for me, I’ve recently rediscoved writing. Apparently, I have been writing for as long as I remember. My sister, while she was cleaning my old room this summer, found chapters of a book I started to write in middle school. She found stacks of poems and journals. The little bi-atch read my old diaries-with my mother, no less.  Then they called to laugh at me, and read me passages. (gotta love my family)

Additionally, or maybe most importantly,  I have been OBSESSED with houses and neighborhoods and architecture for forever.  

 For a while, I too wanted to be an interior designer. But I knew that every house would reeflect my style and not the style of the client. (I knew that was bad)  I want every house to feel like home (my home, lol).  

I remember, during church, I would find myself drawing log cabins (how many windows should be on the front?) and designing streets (I hate cul de sacs), neighborhoods (lots of people should live together) and whole cities (I love skylines) . But they were just silly doodles, right? They didn’t mean anything, right?

 Silly, silly me. 

My experiences

We moved around a lot as a kid, and some of the places we lived were great for a young girl obsessed with living spaces.  Once we lived in Raleigh for a few months, and we have a 3 story townhouse. It was beautiful.  It has winding staircases, cathedral ceilings, a finished basement with arcade games, a huge patio, bedrooms for everyone, and lots of stuff that I can’t remember, but that I loved.

 And once we lived in Georgia, and we had an awesome neighborhood.  There were always lots of people outside, kids everywhere, and everyone was so friendly.  I still remember what our phone number was.  I was 3-4 and my mother made me memorize it. 

For the majority of my childhood, I lived in a not-so great house, with no neighbors (other than family) and no neighborhood to speak of.  I remember wanting, so badly to live somewhere nicer. I wanted to live somewhere not covered in dirt or kudzu. I mean, we lived in the COUNTRY. And I wanted out. I wanted to love someplace shiny, clean.  I wanted to live near the bright lights.

 I thought I wanted to live in the city, dammit.

 (As an aside, I lived in the city this summer.  If Atlanta is representative of American’s cities, I don’t want to live there either. )

 In high school, my favorite class was Civics.  I spend most of the year in class watching the Democratic primary (featuring a charming southern governor) and learning the purpose and functions of government. Government seemed like the perfect place for someone who wanted to make stuff happen. (someone like, ahem, me)

 My senior year, I fell into my first local government job. A friend of mine had the job, she was going to college, and she recommended that the agency hire me to take her place.  Since then, minus hell year that I spend in 1^st grade, I have always worked in local government.

 In college, I lived in Winston Salem. Part of the draw for Winston was that I thought it was a bigger, brighter city than Chapel Hill.  I was pissed off and confused because they lured me in with their skyline (it still makes me smile) and then I got downtown and it was not the mecca that I expected.  Instead it alternated between being a complete ghost town and a place most likely to get a. shot b. drugged c. raped d. hit on by a transvestite.

 Now, in any new place I visit, I always want to see the neighborhoods. Where do people actually live? Where do they play?  I’m inexplicably drawn to the lights of downtown. For years,  I have explored where and how other people live. I want to see the housing styles and the feel of the neighborhood. I am a huge fan of the Parade of Homes.

So, does ANY of this have to do me with finding my passion?

 Just a little bit.

 Housing. Neighborhoods. Cities. Writing. These are the things that I care about. These are the things that I have always cared about- even when I didn’t realize it.

 Here I sit, in graduate school, thinking that I should study budgeting, finance, planning and land use.  But instead, I am still obsessed with housing, neighborhoods, and cities.

 My personal dramas and experiences have definitively shaped my most priced intellectual thoughts. I can’t tell you how proud I am of the writing I’ve done this semester, regardless of  how rushed or stressed I felt while doing it. The classes that I am taking this and next semester make me so happy.  They are the reason that I came to graduate school.

 I am finally in a position to bring to fruition all the things that I wanted as a child/teen/young adult but didn’t quite know how/what to do.

 Yes, I want to take over the world. Yes, I want to be a Queen, Ruler of the Universe. And yes, I think about how accomplish these things, daily. (no, seriously, I do)

 Most importantly, however,  I really want to make the world a better place for all of us to live, work, and play.

I’m serious.  Several questions: Did weirdo aliens take over Raleigh? Have club behavioral norms changed? Am I just that dang sexy?

This weekend I when out with my girls on Friday and Saturday night.  It was the Shake Yo @ss weekend. The SYA weekend is something that goes down every few weeks.  I use it to make sure that:

1. I get some exercise in

2. I get to see my friends

3. I get to party like a rock star with my entourage

So, in celebration of the SYA weekend, I went to a First Friday International Dance party, ’cause I love brown people. It was an interesting mix of people. In Chapel Hill international must mean “being of latin american decent.”  With a few Asians and Morrocan people sprinkled in.  The party was fun.  Mostly.

Let me explain.

I object to the musical selections.

There was a tropical music room. (Love it.) There was a salsa music room.( Eh. All couple dances) There was a hip hop room. (Eh. Lame) There was something missing. Something Important.

They didn’t play any reggaeton! WTF? How you gonna throw a latin american party without reggaeton?  How do you play American rap (and bad rap, at that) and not play some hip hop that originated in spanish/hispanic/latin locations.  I mean, Reggaeton is in Spanish!  I was a little pissy about that omission.

On Saturday, I hung out in Raleigh because my girls and I wanted something more upscale and GROWN. It was off. It was sooo weird!

First, it must have been scanky stripperella night and no one told us. I saw too much unrequested ass.  I mean, women with their thongs out, with their booty cheeks getting cold in the air.  Basically looking a hot ass mess.

In one club I walked in the first thing I saw was a woman bend over backwards with her dress around her neck, and her forest green thong pressed into a man.  I remember thinking, where the hell am I? Did I wander into an alternative club? No one else in the club was dancing, they were too busy gawking.

And that was a lot of what was happening on Saturday, folks (myself included) gawking at women giving table dances/ peep shows to everyone in the club.  And I didn’t even GO to a strip club.

D*mn.  And the men have been worse than the women.

Something has been wrong with all the men that I’ve danced with all weekend.  I feel used.  I feel like a masterbatory tool.  None of the men all weekend wanted to dance, at least not in the sense that I ususally dance. They just wanted to use my body to help them get off.  And that is gross.  And sooo not my style.

With every guy I danced with all weekend, I had to run away, wipe myself off, and tell them I was too tired to dance because I was too embarassed to tell the truth.  I should have said, “I’m sorry, I can’t dance with you anymore.  I’m worried that I might get pregnant from the activities that your body is doing in proximity to my body. I must step away from you now. Goodbye.”  Ew. Gross.

I HATE being ground on.  That is not dancing! I am not into having love in the club.

And I blame women for letting men think it is ok to behave that way. Shame on you, bitches! I hate you.

What happened to all the normal people that usually populate Glenwood Ave clubs? I beg you, please come back, normal people!!!  The clubs were full of lames, weirdoes and ugly people.  I felt incredibly out of place.  Like all the cool people left me a voicemail that we were hanging out somewhere else, and I just forgot to check it. (next time guys, send me a text)

Lessons for everyone: Do not ruin Shake Yo @ss weekend for me ever again. Clubs, always play reggaeton. Men, no peni on me, ever. And women, keep your f-ing clothes on, unless you are getting paid to take them off.  Have some mystery about yourself, dammit. And if the Lame-os are taking over the clubs, someone tell me so I can stay home that weekend.