At A Moments Notice...

Sometimes I sit and just stare at my keyboard, sorta like I'm doing right now. Only, I'm typing, so I guess I'm not really staring as much as I am well you know, typing. But the point is sometimes I just sit and stare at the damn thing waiting for inspiration to hit me. It hasn't yet so I'll just fill this space with fluff until it does.

In many ways I'm glad the Christmas frenzy is behind me. Not that I didn't enjoy Christmas because I did. It's just I'm glad its over. Too much pressure...too little fun.

I'm thinking about removing the carpet in my bedroom and sanding the floor. Which is causing all types of grief. One, I sorta like carpet in the bedroom; it provides that added warmth on those cold winter mornings. But then on the other hand I happen to love wooden floors and find carpet to be way too much trouble. With wood floors you spill something you wipe it up, everything's fine. With carpet...well you know the drill.

Sdot purchased the first season of the Golden Girls and I've been a junky ever since. You'd think I'd never seen an episode the way I've been chuckling. Though all the girls can stand their own, Dorothy (Bea Arthur) is by far my favorite. Before she even finishes the sentence I'm on the floor!

Dorothy: Which goes better? The chain or the pearls?
Rose: The Chain.
Blanche: An amateur's mistake! Can't you see that the chain accentuates that long, turkey-like neck?
Rose: Yes, but the pearls draw attention to the non-existent bosom!
Blanche: Yes, but the chain hangs down and draws attention to that huge spare tire, and those square, manly hips!
Dorothy: Fine! Why don't I just put a sign on me that says, "Too ugly to live?"
Blanche: Fine, but what are you going to hang it from? The chain or the pearls?
Dorothy: None! I'm going to spray paint it on my hump!

Question: Is it really bad luck to still have your Christmas Tree up in the New Year? Not that I believe in superstitions, I just wanna know.

Or, has anyone heard the saying: if you wash clothes on New Years you're washing someone out of your family?

And who thinks of these things?

And why am I discussing this shit on my blog? Oh, because it's fluff. See what an idle mind produces? I'm out. Be safe. Have sex.

"I saw the news this morning, saw your face accross the screen. And as I poured my coffee I picked up a magazine but as I turned the page, and looked inside, there you were again..." ~Whitney Houston, Where You Are

In May of 2003 Savoy Magazine writer Denene Millner, with additional reporting by Melissa de la Cruz, penned a heartfelt open letter to diva Whitney Houston entitled, What Chu Lookinat?

Moved by the attempt to reach a woman everyone thought would forever reign as “The Queen of All Bitches Who Ever Thought They Could Sing”, I decided to write my own letter to Whitney. Hopefully, if we all take time to let her know how we truly feel she’ll get her shit together. Here's to hope...

Dear Whitney:

I know life is hard, believe me I do. Sometimes it seems the more I try to get my shit together, the more confusing it becomes. So I know exactly what it feels like to be down and out, with absolutely nowhere to turn. But Whitney I’m saying, what’s up? What’s really going on? Can we talk?

I remember the first time I heard your voice; I was in the sixth grade at Concord Baptist Elementary School. One of my friends [strange how his name escapes me] snuck his mother’s walkman to school with your debut self titled album. Almost instantly I fell in love with you. There was something about your pose on the cover that just spoke to the heart of me, you were beautiful. Even before I heard your voice I claimed you as my wife. The thought of that day brings back a flood of warm memories. Damon [that’s his name] asked if I wanted to hear one of your songs, I shrugged and mouthed “sure”. He took his walkman and began fast-forwarding the cassette to his favorite song, Saving All My Love For You. As soon as the words began spilling from your mouth I knew right then that you and I were meant to be. Sure I was only twelve, and still lived at home with my mama, and had absolutely no way whatsoever to wine and dine you—none of that mattered because in my heart you belonged to me. And I vowed right then and there to save all of my love for you, and you only.

I set about begging my moms to purchase the cassette for me, which was a challenge in and of itself since gospel was her music of choice and *blues*, her personal reference to secular music, was Satan’s. But much to my delight she picked up the set one day while we were out shopping and for the next hour and a half I asked her over and over, “Maaaaaaaaa! Are we going home soon?” To which she repeatedly replied, “No!”

Two and a half hours later I was in my bedroom staring at the ceiling listening intently as you unraveled our love one track after the other.

I’ll admit. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, loving you. At that age even I supposed it was puppy love, and truly believed once I grew into myself I would cast you aside and seek love elsewhere. But through the years my heart has remained fixed on you. I’ve followed your career and have thoroughly supported you—even when I thought some of your decisions were not the ones I’d thought someone of your standing should make. Like the whole Bobby Brown fiasco. Honesty, it took some time for me to get used to the idea of you marrying that punk, maybe it was because well, I always thought you and I would meet one day, fall madly in love and make beautiful music together. Maybe it was because I believed you were more woman, more lady, more class than he ever deserved, and marrying him seemed more like desperation than love. I like the media criticized and demonized the union and him and gave it a year tops.

But you sure fooled us huh? I can almost hear you singing those familiar words of First Choice “It's not a perfect love, but I'll defend it, cause I believe that's what God intended.” And wholeheartedly believing what He has joined together let no man put asunder. And isn’t that what love is supposed to do? Standup, fight and prove the doubters and nay-sayers wrong? By making the impossible possible? The improbable, probable? I bless you for that lesson. I bless you for sticking by your man. I bless you for not allowing me or the rest of the world to define love for you. I know now, more than ever what true love resembles…I know it is as the great poet Khalil Gibran once proclaimed:

For even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Love is both the good and the bad. The ups and the downs. The ins and the outs. And you and Mr. Brown have surely shown us that through it all love still reigns supreme. But as a fan, a friend, and a reliable source of your income, something—and please do forgive me if this comes out wrong—just ain’t right. But its like, for whatever reason I just can’t put my finger on it. Believe me I’ve tried. Lord knows I tried, but for the life of me I can’t seem to figure out why the hell your love for him hurts me so bad.

Before him there was life. Before him there was focus. Before him you were a bright and shining morning star. You were the future. You were *it* in the flesh. Mariah Carey tried but even she with her falsetto trained multi octave voice was no match for the heart, soul and love that filled your voice and consistently sent you to the top of the charts. You had a gift girl. A gift so many around the world loved and respected and admired, and wished—God how they wished—theirs was as bright and reliable as yours.

I remember the Bodyguard Tour. I remember sitting in the audience literally in tears listening as you promised to always love me. Your voice was so clear, so succinct, so perfect. I cried out I love you! And you hollered back: I love you too, baby! And you made my life. You acknowledged our love and held it up for the entire audience to see. I left that concert on cloud motherfucking nine, fully aware of the power of you. I even managed to snag an autograph from your mother Cissy who sat just a few seats away from me. I had a piece of you, a tiny, tiny piece of you but to me it was more than I ever had, so I cherished it...

I remember. I remember. I remember.

Living ones’ life in the public eye must be tough. My heart goes out to you. It must be difficult living by your own terms, only to be ridiculed by a public that has no idea what life is like day to day for Whitney. No one knows your struggles but you. No one understands your highs or lows better than you. And so this letter is not meant to judge you as much as it an invitation to you, to open up to me. Talk to me Whitney. I’m willing to listen. I’m willing to maintain an open mind at all times and I promise not to judge you, or run off and tell everyone what I’ve learned. I love you, and all that matters right now to me is you. Your life. Your health. Your future. And right now all of that is in jeopardy. I don’t listen to you like I used to, and when I do I almost always reach for the archives. I purchased your new CD but have yet to force myself to listen to it. I’m afraid it’ll end our struggling relationship, and I don’t want it to end. I want to be there years from now, cheering you on, loving you still. But, all of that is up to you…

I have loved you since I was twelve years old, twelve year old, and I don’t want to stop now. Please, talk to me…

Your number one fan,

Chris.

P.S. I still believe in Miracles. Do you?

"I don't know why I love you, but I love you..." ~Stevie Wonder

I fell in love with Stevie when I was nineteen. I knew I was in love the very first time I listened to him. Sure I had heard his songs before, I even knew some of the lyrics to his most popular tunes, but it wasn’t until I listened for the very first time did I fully begin to understand the man and his unrivaled gift.

I met Stevie when I met Peter. At nineteen I was a wide-eyed young man experimenting in a new and vastly different world. I had heard stories, saw a few late night documentaries on television, even heard the cracks of haters whose taunts vilified any and all who dared speak its name, but, I honestly knew nothing about the life or its inhabitants. Peter changed all of that.

We met one sunny afternoon in lower Manhattan the summer following my first year of college on Water Street. I was enjoying my lunch on the pavilion overlooking the FDR Drive and the Brooklyn waterfront when I saw him. He was standing, leaning against the rail with a dark blue pinstriped suit, white shirt and blue and red paisley tie with his head pressed sadly into his hands. I watched him for quite a while before making the journey to where he stood. The trip caused all types of anxieties to arise in me. First of all, why the hell was I going over there? What the hell was I going to say once I reached him? And furthermore what the hell was he going to say in return?

Despite my minds many concerns I continued until seconds later I stood next to him and too began staring off into the distance. Moments later I felt the warmth of his eyes taking me in. Then, in a matter of seconds he quickly turned away. I had to say something, but what? Then...

“Are you okay?” I asked facing him.
“Yeah…” He answered quietly. “I’m cool.”
“Are you sure?” I pressed, adding a smile at the end.
“Yeah, I’m sure. I was just thinking.”
“It must be serious.” I reasoned aloud.
He nodded, indicating it was.
“Well this is a good place to come to deal with things. I come up here a lot to think. It relaxes me.”
“Really?” He said with a look of surprise and skepticism. “I’ve never seen you. I’ve been working around here for about a year and I’ve never seen you up here before.”
“Ahh…that’s because I’m in school. I’m doing the summer job thang.”
He took in my security uniform. “Oh okay. So what’s your name?”
“Chris.” I said extending my palm. “And yours?”
He straightened his back and grasped my hand securely. “Peter.”

Peter was gorgeous, and so I imagined it wasn’t hard for him to tell I was attracted to him. We spoke for about a half-hour more before we casually exchanged numbers. The intent: To hang out before I went back to school in a little less than a month. I wasn’t out, and until him, I had only slept with one other openly gay man so our exchanging of numbers was innocent, although my loins hoped for more.

Three days later, on a sweltering Friday evening we hooked up. The two of us sat nervously in my car as we tried to deduce where to spend the evening. We talked movies, we talked pool, we talked everything while driving throughout the borough of Queens except our true intentions: whether or not it was okay to like each other. A half hour later, after exhausting nearly all of our options he brought up Hatfield’s.

“Hatfield’s?” I had never heard of the place.
“Yeah. It’s a bar but…”
“But what?” I asked intrigued.
“But…” he paused, his legs swaying back and forth. “I’m not sure if you’d like it. It’s a place where um, where um, guys go who like guys.” He said finally letting it out.
I smiled warmly, releshing in the discovery. “So, how do we get there?”

Our relationship exploded onto the scene. He was my everything, and though it’s been more than ten years since that initial meeting I still remember how safe I felt with him. He protected me and schooled me about the life I was entering. He warned me of the shady types; the type that played with your heart; the type that wanted nothing, and as a result would never have anything; the type that spent their entire week preparing for the weekend and their all too familiar haunts like Two Potato, Sound Factory Bar and Keller’s. Damn. I almost always forget about Keller’s. He loved that place and we spent many a weekend there throwing back drinks and grooving to the sounds of Martha Wash, Sylvester and Robin S chanting her hypnotic lyrics, “Heartbreaks and promises, I’ve had more than my share I’m tired of giving my love and getting nowhere...” Damn I can almost hear the bass line thumping and the children hollering "you've got to show me love!!" It was a great time to be young, to be alive, to be free. I was happy, I was safe, and I had finally been found.

Enter Stevie.

Stevie entered my life through a mix-tape he had made at his ex’s house. All the greats were on this tape the funk doctor himself Teddy Pendergrass, the band of all bands Earth Wind & Fire, the sister that made us all long for home Stephanie Mills, and of course Patti, Luther and Rose Royce made their appearance. But none of them spoke to my heart the way Stevie did. He somehow managed to capture my emotions and hold them captive. The first time I heard As, I thought for sure the weight of the song would kill me. The way he described my love for this man, and the extent to which I would always love him frightened the shit out of me. How did he know? How the hell did he know my deepest darkest secrets?

And then, when he whispered “And baby you…you…you, have made life’s history, cause you’ve brought some joy inside my tears…” I knew for sure Stevie and I were soul mates. How else could one know the workings of my heart so well? Peter didn’t know; I know he didn’t, because there were times when no matter how many ways I tried to explain myself, he still couldn’t get it. He still didn’t understand. But Stevie did. Stevie understood. Stevie was the only person at that point in my life that knew and understood it all, and like a fool in love, I fell.

I started buying his music in droves. I wanted to sample everything this great mind created. I went through each and every find with a fine-toothed comb and hand picked my favorites. Soon I had discovered a Stevie Wonder song for every situation, for every heartbreak, for every great love affair. The man became my rock, the mountain I clung to when my relationship with Peter gradually began to fade. At the time I probably should have taken the lost hard, but I didn’t, because I had Stevie. I knew everything would be alright because through the man I had learned a powerful lesson: all in love is fair…

But, you never forget your first love. No matter how good or bad the relationship might have been, you never forget the very first time you saw them, the first time you held them, the first time you connected as one. These things remain forever engrained in ones psyche and often offer a pleasant refuge when revisiting a sometime tumultuous past. In truth, I’ll never forget Peter, not because he was the great love of my life, but because he like so many others helped me find myself. Without him and the challenges he presented so much of who I am would not exist...I am a better man because of him. A much better man.

Thank you Peter. And thank you Stevie for filling my life with a love only you could produce. I don't want to bore you with my troubles, but I just had to tell you there is something about your love that makes me weak, and knocks me off my feet.

All my best to you and yours this holiday season...

The truth is...I am a sucker for stimulating conversation.

The truth is...I really do want to be a better friend.

The truth is...I love my family sometimes more than life itself.

The truth is...I get a kick out of self-made black folks.

The truth is...My life is really, really good, even when I think otherwise.

The truth is...All I really desire can be summed up in one little word: love.

The truth is...Sometimes I'm too afraid to embrace it.

The truth is...I am not alone. We're all in this together.

The truth is...God is not dead. He's yet alive.

The truth is...He loves me just the way I am.

The truth is...This has been a tough year, but because of it, I'm that much stronger.

The truth is...I'm not perfect. I'm not invincible. I'm not superman. But I'm also no quitter.

The truth is...And this too shall pass.

The truth is...I would do it all again in a heartbeat.

"My life is no different than anybody else's. I had to realize this. I had to come to grips with this. We all go through ups and downs. We all get stuck sometimes. It's what we do to get un-stuck that counts." ~from The Man

Take your time Chris, and let it flow.

I have to say that sometimes in order to pace myself and not allow the thoughts to run amuck. Focus is another of my words.

Focus man, Focus.

Yesterday was amazing. I went from blog to blog, to blog to blog reading, feeling, witnessing how HIV/AIDS has affected so many around this world. As of date I have not lost anyone close to me to the disease and I pray that day never comes. Yet I know destiny is destiny, and truth is truth: live has no other will but to fulfill itself.

It wasn’t until this morning while reading The LoveHater’s post, and seeing the picture of his lost loved one did I actually begin to realize why I was so attracted to the whole World AIDS Day commemoration. Though I’m sure the creators meant to use WAD as a vehicle to distribute information about the disease on a global scale, 38 million families and friends who have lost loved ones however, have begun to see December 1st as a day of remembering, reflecting, and regret. For me it feeds into a destructive little disease I suffer with year after year, some of you might even know it, depression.

I’ve never been a fan of titles, simply because in my opinion they limit. The only one I live comfortably with is the one my mother gave me, Christopher David. I refuse to define myself by others standards and I will never submit to my own. That’s why at 17 when I was defined manic-depressive [bi-polar today], and given all manners of drugs to inhale, I could not commit. The doctor that diagnosed me did not know me, he knew a definition; a word he hoped would haunt my life like it had so many others.

I for one have never pretended to be sane. In fact I rather enjoy being crazy. Especially if crazy means not conforming to a generic world where everyone shares the same interests, follows the same trends and believes in the same diplomatic rhetoric. If anything is crazy, that shit crazy! Loony! Insane! Fucking nuts! It’s crazy to live your life for other people. Crazy to pretend to be someone you’re not. Crazy to think a degree will make you. Crazy to suffocate a dream. Crazy to commit to uncomfortable roles. Crazy to conform to the point you become unrecognizable, even to yourself. Crazy to think a certain car, or a certain neighborhood, or a certain brand says something about you. Crazy to think you can buy happiness. Crazy to believe you’re not good enough. Crazy to keep making excuse after excuse. Crazy not to see the big picture. And even crazier to ignore these words and not think none of them apply to you.

I was crazy for a long time, crazy to myself. Crazy to think I could meet a predefined standard. Now I know better. And as I work through the kinks I see just how bad things were. I see first hand what really caused my depression and what continues to cause the guilt and the pain and the suffering in my life. I wanted to be you. But more than that---I wanted you to like me, to love me; but I was so afraid that if you really got to know me you would reject me. And what good would I be then?

HIV and AIDS are real. As real as the sex that creates them. But so too are the feelings that cause so many of us to take a chance on life. Depression is not something my family or many families discuss though we know it is an inherited disease, passed from one generation to the next. I can almost guarantee you, if momma is unhappy, baby will be unhappy. Think about, and see if you cannot find the correlation. But, work with me, what if we took a chance, and actually confronted the pain? What if we actually chose happiness over pride? Love over anger? I’m serious, think about it, what if?

And I say to myself, what a wonderful world...

I smile a lot so people don’t usually see my pain, but it is there. And everyday I work on making it disappear. I make a conscious effort not to make excuses, for myself, for my friends, for my family, for my pain. I’ve seen the light happiness can cast. I’ve seen how much easier it is to live in love. I’ve seen how it has worked wonders in others and transformed their lives completely. And believe me I’d choose that any day, over the destructed force of conformity.

I had no intentions of sharing this today. None. But when Spirit moves, I’ve learned to follow. I’ve always been ashamed of my depression. Afraid to tell people how heavy it gets; hesitant to explain my fanatical thoughts when it seems the fog can’t be lifted. But in recent years I’ve learned that I am not a victim, but rather a participant. Every single day I choose how I will confront the issues that lie ahead---everyday---and these decisions ultimately affect my moods. And so I’ve reasoned if I have a choice, why not choose wisely? Why not choose love?

So I say to you, love yourself; confront yourself; heal yourself. There is more to life, so much more! Step out on faith, and keep on steppin' til like my man Stevie you reach your highest ground.

A lot has changed since last year. And yet so much still remains the same. HIV is still on the rise in our community and it seems it has no intentions of slowing down, even with J. L. King’s scare tactics.

Nonsense aside the facts cannot be denied:

• AIDS is the #1 killer of Black people ages 24-44 — not drugs or cancer or violence: AIDS!
• Black women are 23 times more likely to contract HIV than White women.
• Black women account for 72% of new HIV/AIDS cases among women in the U.S.
• Even though Black people represent 12% of the U.S. population, we represent 54% of all new HIV/AIDS cases.
• Black youth ages 13 to 24 represent 56% of the reported HIV cases among adolescents.
• 25% of all those who are HIV-positive do not know that they are positive.
• 185,000 African Americans have died so far from AIDS.

It amazes me how sexually active people are and how unaware or unconcerned many are when it comes to sexually transmitted diseases. Just the other week after learning my little brother had recently engaged in unprotected sex I had to sit him down and stress how necessary it is for him to use protection—but more so, ask questions. Questions he may be too embarrassed to ask but ones that just might save his life. Like so many his concerns were placed more on pregnancy than HIV, a concern, in my opinion that’s causing such an influx in recent cases. There is only one birth control that can help prevent HIV, and it is not the pill or a diaphragm.

I’ve had two friends fall ill this year. Both scared the hell out of me. Thankfully both recovered. But not a day goes by that I do not think of those phone calls and remember instantly how completely helpless I felt.

HIV and AIDS are real people. As real as the sex-filled days and nights that creates it. Protect yourself, because I don’t want to lose any of you anytime soon. Believe that.