I have many moments alone. I spend more time with myself than I do with anyone else, and while that is obvious, I am just now, today, realizing it. There is a clear difference between the time you spend alone and the time you spend with yourself. You can sit in the middle of an empty room for hours and never spend time with yourself. Spending time with yourself means that you are talking and listening to you. You are entertaining and organizing your own thoughts--deciding who you are and what you feel about what you've done.
In the last 40 some odd hours I have been by myself, literally. I have looked at my phone and had nobody that I wanted to call. I have gone to facebook and have had nobody that I wanted to message. I haven't even wanted to eat with anyone. I thought about going to the movies, but I didn't have anyone that I wanted to go with. I don't usually have a problem seeing movies by myself, in fact I enjoy it. But I didn't want to be with anyone even me.
I wanted to be left alone by everyone, even by myself.
I laid down on the floor, as I had done comfortably so many times before, and I thought, "There isn't a single person that I want to be with in this moment." I didn't even want to spend time with my own thoughts. Escaping your own thoughts is very difficult, but I tried anyway. I began to search through the recent memories of Christmas trying to decide if I missed my family already. I went through the magical moments in Wondaland trying to determine if I wanted the feeling of grass under my feet. I even thought about where I was a year ago, in apartment 3J in Harlem, and if the smell of Marlboro lights and beer bottles was what I longed for. I decided that none of these would make me feel at home. I wanted to be left alone, even by myself.
Then I realized what it was. I realized that even thought I wanted to be left alone, even by myself, I didn't really want to be left alone. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be loved by her. I wanted her to love me when I wanted to be left alone. I wanted her to know when I wanted to be left alone. I wanted her to stay on her side of the bed, but to at least be in my bed; and she wasn't. She wouldn't be.
A few days ago I gave up on love again. Funny thing is the person I gave up my love to doesn't know she had it, at least not the way I gave it to her. She doesn't know that I shared the last thoughts I had before I went to sleep with her. She doesn't know that she owned the first thoughts I had when I woke up, even if we didn't speak. She didn't know because I was afraid to tell her. I was prideful, I was jealous, I was fearful, I was reserved, I was guarded. I thought that if I let her know she was the one I wanted to hear from even when I wanted to be left alone, even by myself, something would go wrong. I would get hurt. It had been so long since I told somebody. It had been so long since I let somebody in. I couldn't risk it. I couldn't prove myself wrong, I knew I was right. But what if I didn't try? I would spend forever wishing I had gotten over my hangups. So I did. I gave. I allowed. I succumbed.
And as soon as I did, I realized how alone I was. I tried to take it back. I tried to pretend I never really cared. I tried to act as though I hadn't yet been beguiled.
I would soon find out that I already had been. I didn't realize that my reservations and my inability had already been overcome. I didn't realize that I had already given her me. I didn't realize it, until I tried to go to sleep tonight. I didn't realize it until I tried to share the last thoughts I had before I went to sleep with her--and I couldn't find her.
I know when I wake up in the morning she won't be there. In bed, by phone, nowhere. I know that when I reach for her and she isn't there, my heart will begin to grow cold again involuntarily. For it was warmed the same way.
And now I am here alone again: wanting to be left alone even by myself.
I woke up to the sound of your breath. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, not without waking you up. It was hot and we had abandoned the covers for the light breeze of the window fan above the bed. I don’t remember how we got home. Yes I do. Taxi. We took a Taxi. After taking shots. After taking turns chasing each other through the Necking Room, a lounge that you had suggested in your text to me at dinner.
We had bumped into each other accidentally at a benefit dinner. We had been in full costume. Yours a dress, mine a suit, both of which lay strewn somewhere on the floor that ran the length of the hallway from the front door to the foot of the bed. Your text had been so clever. “Are you planning on staying here for dessert, or do you want to have it elsewhere?”
The room was spacious. I had lost track of where you were seated, but I knew that you could see me. “Sir? Sir? Do you want coffee or tea, sir” repeated the annoyed voice of a service waiter. “Coffee,” I laughed realizing that just that quickly you had taken my attention; my full attention.
“You know me well enough to know that I can enjoy desert anywhere it is served,” I texted back.
Heath Ledger.
Oh. Wait, you didn't have him atop your list either.
Joe said, "I still sincerely believe Jack could do it."
Me too, Joe. Me too.
Twice
Sometimes going back to sleep doesn’t make quite as much sense as writing, awake
Sometimes you were dreaming about a bear that is chasing you in a small space cause it wants to eat you
Sometimes you can’t figure out who the woman in the dream is that keeps trying to hold you down until the bear can get to you.
Sometimes you feel bad about what you would have to do to get away from her too
Sometimes you wake yourself up so that you don’t have to
Sometimes waking yourself up from the dream in the middle of the night is the only way to stop the dreams that you can usually control
Sometimes you wake up more afraid than you went to sleep
Sometimes you get the bear and sometimes the bear gets you
Every now and then the pattern changes and your subconscious notices it
Twice
Every now and then you wake up in the middle of the night for the same reason
Twice
Every now and then a kid is born with reason and intuition beyond his own discerning
Every now and then the gift is too much
Every now and then the pressure is too strong
Often your mind is right
Twice
Often you ignore it
Twice
Often you give the credit to everything and everyone other than Who deserves it
Often is just enough to make you think it’s Always
At this point in our relationship, I want to assume certain things. You know, we're at that place. The place where I shouldn't have to explain some of the themes in my life. I have long since become aware that my life is meant to be an example. There are moments that take place in my life that I insist upon familiarizing you with. Pursuant to this familiarity is my reintroduction of Any1Man. It is crucial that you know what the ins and outs of this project are. You must afford yourself the opportunity to follow this project from its birth through its milestones of celebration. Its like knowing the Black Eyed Peas BEFORE Fergie or Apple when it was MacIntosh. It is important to me that you witness the growth of this production, so that you can share in its ultimate success and speak genuinely about its message.
Any1Man was conceived in the Winter of 2004 and has been seen by audiences nation wide. It is the love child of a family of artists, producers, choreographers, writers, musicians, men, women, fans, and critics who have all insisted and contributed to its being lauded, critiqued, questioned, and revised. With this, we have arrived at the nirvana that every piece of art finds peace in--verisimilitude.
The world of show exists in a space shared by five characters who do not interact. Compartmented as five separate engagements with the audience, Any1man leans no more to the dramatic than it does the comedic. It is a well balanced production that is stranger than fiction and as endearing as conversation. Despite the welcome support of spontaneous fourth wall breaking audience engagement, musically enhanced exhibition, and projected images, the one man show is refreshingly intimate.
With the exploration of fantastic themes and a bold examination of the taboo, this one man show inspires its audiences to peel back the layers of their own lives. Accordingly, Any1Man lives up to its nomenclature. Each character allows a level of transparency that invites you into their darkest corners and as a welcome byproduct sheds light on the defining moments in our lives.
As we speak, I am in editing labs, writing camps, audition preparation, listening sessions, and brain storms. I have committed to the Direction of a 1Woman show called (tentatively) "For Crying out Loud" and yet another surrounding the life of Jehan Sedat. I am blessed to have the opportunity and confidence of other playwrights, truly I am.
But know this: "Until the lion has his or her own storyteller, the hunter will always have the best part of the story." --African proverb
.This one-- this Any1Man...people deserve it.
This is a screen test that was put together by myself and the Genius in an effort to rough draft a campaign for its participants. But the Genius put me in front of the camera and he got to cutting and...well...we still crank out content.
At night, when we are asleep
some things are moving
some things are growing
some things are trying
At night, when we are asleep
some things are moving
some things are growing
somethings are trying
Under the cover of darkness
foes find feast in my sloth
they take advantage of my hungover plans to sleep in.
Devils dare to deceive me into disbelieving they exist
Nightmares climb into my head by way of tubes left on or open
At night, when we are asleep
some things are moving
some things are growing
somethings are trying
Tossing turning inching squirming
they sail on inaudible underbreaths
only loud enough to conspire to thwart me while I am sleeping.
During the day
The uninhibited are bound by the fear
At night, when we are asleep
some things are moving
some things are growing
somethings are trying
And so I stay awake.
...mostly because my hairline isn't exactly what it used to be way back when. <--- Yes, that is TOO me.
The other day Genius and Kellis were standing in the kitchen of Wondaland stuffing limes into their Negro Modelo's, (insert carefully timed deadpan 2 men 1 cup joke here) and Kellis says, "I mean George...I mean 2.0...he can do anything. I saw him and Janelle tap dancing the other day...And I mean people say a jack of all trades...but he wears so many hats well."
Recently, I have been less inclined to fight against some of the opportunities that come my way. Formerly, I was unmovable, perhaps even stubborn to a degree about the placement of every single yellow brick on my road to success, or more importantly fulfillment. While some may have called this being "hard headed" I reconciled myself with pride in my determination.
*musical transition a la Austin Powers*
"Alright, alright, alright, alright, alright, alright, alright now LADIES..............?"
("YEAH")
"You wanna know why I used all those big words and euphemism to explain what I had to say?"
("YEAH")
"Hell, I don't know--um let's break this thang down like we supposetuh!"
*abrupt record scratch and stop*
I wanna be a photographer-- too. Just kidding, kind of. Maybe I am not ready to own it yet. No, I am, I just don't want to be held accountable by y'all yet.
Now before you get all Huffy Combs and tell my BUDDY, let me explain myself. I am nobody's Denise Huxtable, Mkay? I know who I am and what I want to do. But I find the strength in my crafts to have a similar thread: My Observation.
But amidst it all I have begun to understand that this internet thing keeps people in contact, like it or not. So in honor of that, I am going to do my best to update you. Other than the occasional flicking on the camera. I am writing. And Kentucky is sounding like they might have a Derby for your boy, and I ain't talking hats. So (a needle pulling thread), we'll see.
*phone rings*
"Hey, George it's Chiquita. Got a call for a voiceover, Black Brittish accent. Pay is poopy, but it is principle and resume worthy. You in? Monday at 3pm."
Back to New York?
Men are different, very different. We'd actually rather not have conversation while in the pisser. El bano, is reserved for urinating and defecating, maybe an adjustment of a necktie, or practicing a freestyle. The only time you will really see two dudes going to the bathroom together is if they are doing drugs or well, um, each other (cough).
No matter the bathroom, there is certain etiquette that must be followed. Here are just a few quick rules to follow while in the bathroom. While some of these are existing feng shui style issues, you are hereby officially deputized to make any amendments you deem necessary.
1. Trash cans must be kept close to the door. If there is a double door situation, trash can is to be (re)placed by the second door. Nobody wants to put their clean hands on a nasty door handle that has been touched by every non-hand washing pedophile in the Mall.
2. Toilet paper must come from the top. Meaning the roll
3. Fellas, no peeking. I mean, really. Even peripheral peeking is inexcusable. You have no right to know what another man is working with. Further you shouldn't have any desire. Always look at the wall. Looking down means you're obsessed or don't know what you're doing. Looking at other people is threatening.
4. Courtesy flush. This isn't just for those upscale swanky style spots. Even if you are squatting over a latrine, best bet is always to be courteous. See the essence of your funk stays with you after you leave the can. Better safe then sorry, don't sit on top of it for any longer than you have to and don't make the other powder room patrons endure any more either.
5. Graffiti is cool, though it must remain anonymous so as not to be misconstrued with advertisement. Racial remarks should be kept off the walls and in the stalls and homosexual graffiti is generally frowned upon but is gaining popularity.
These are just the beginning. The rest of the important rules can be found in this short instructional video.
Audio: What's your favorite carol or holiday song?
There is NO other choice other than The Christmas Song as written by Torme and Wells.
