A random day....

There he goes, walking down the strip. With his mysterious eyes, hidden behind those vintage shades that were indeed stolen. Not from behind the counter, but from a friends house. Only because it was mysterious how it got there to begin with. But this adds to the mystique of him. All of him. His brown fedora covers his mysterious vintage eyes. All that can be seen is a slight smirk on his mouth, and with the sparse black facial hair that reveals a bit of his emotional expression on his face.

His gray sweater zip up, snugs loosely on his torso, and his side bag dangles along his hip, over his shoulders. A slight slouch in his posture today, gives away a notion of not to be bothered. He walks slowly, but with a purpose today. Passers by recognize his existence with a simple nod, but nothing more. He is on his own, and it shows today.

He gets down to the corner where he needs to make a decision. should he go left or should he go right? First decision of the day, he should take the safe road. Or should he start off the day on the wild side, and take the road less traveled just to go against the grain. Way to start off the day as a rebel. taking the road less traveled, he realizes that his stomach speaks to him. Begging him to feed the hunger. He gives in, and turns the other way.

He makes way towards the food. His body was right. The mere thought of eating made his belly growl like a lion about to pounce on his prey. Although not as savage as one may think, he settles for a couple of fish tacos. Not too much, not too little, it was the porridge that Goldie Lox chose.

He eats a little different today. One would say patient. Calmly maybe? But really, he is savoring the meal, as if it were his last. Each bite were given an equal 30 chews each, like it was taught all that time ago when he was younger. Unlike any other day, the meal was thoroughly enjoyed today. As he swallowed his last bite, he neatly placed his dirty napkin on his plate and made his way outside, simultaneously throwing his bag over his shoulder.

Off into the world once again to make yet another decision. Where to go next? What to do next? Does he decide to continue on his journey? Or decide to settle in his little world which has not a mere sense of decisiveness. He wanders on, lost in his thoughts, but appetite satisfied.

Clogged Mind

It seems that I cant spit anything out into the world these days. I'm stuck. I'm clogged with so many thoughts and ideas, that it can't be expressed. My container is full, and the opening can only put out so much, if anything at all. But my ideas are so big, so epic, that its getting clogged at the opening. Ideas clashing to come out. The more I think, the bigger my ideas get. The more they fight to get out. My priorities are blown, and I aspire too much. I need to start off slowly, one thing at a time, baby steps. My creative juices are spoiled, and I need rejuvenation. It seems to keep the creative juices flowing with sweetness and tartness, I need to have things fluid, like water. Fluidity builds up momentum, that gets things unstuck, washing away excess waste. One thing at a time. One idea, to come out at its fullest, so the next one can do the same. Keeping the momentum going, making it fluid, will ensure a clear path, a clear mind.

Things I've seen as of late....

"Black Dynamite"

Stylizaton is key to a throw back. From the shaky zoom of the camera, to the mismatch of the dubbing, this flick almost got by me. Stumbling as I usually do on the daily, a trailer of the cheesiest porportions totally grabbed my eye, and actually forced me to do some research on the subject. Its a real movie? Think of the ideal, kick ass, pimpest afro black brotha, who knows kung fu and can chuck better than Master Lee. Waaaaataaaaa!!! Blaxploitation is back, and blacker than ever. DYNA-MITE! DYNA-MITE!!

Perspiring dance floor...

As I thought,the night heading towards a good end, it seemed to just to start. Across the bay, where the streets sleep for only a couple hours, the late evening turned from "go saints!" "time out!", to a mighty fist pump night of shuffling my toes across the wet wooden dance floor. The place where we "ended up" was packed only with a few people still messed up from 2 nights ago. Them sitting on the plastic chairs outside near the black deer watching the crowd from the corner of the patio next to the water fall. People with their bad habits of inhaling the cancer in their lungs made me a bit jealous, as I miss that sensation. The night was sweaty, as the cool breeze from the nearby freeway blew against my face. but as the night slowly turned to an early morning, Patrons remarkably kept flooding onto the dance floor, making the dance floor perspire with the beverages of the crowd above. My legs almost give out, as i forget to always do a yoga stretch before i move to the beat. With the satisfaction of the relaxing the muscles of my thighs, I jump back onto the battlefield, where it seems the bass is trying to pound out of my chest. I look at all my mates out on the floor with me, afraid of their intentions. Is that girl really a guy? or is this guy trying to dance with me. I turn, get my groove on, and try not to make eye contact to add to the confusion. I hear the 10 minute call from my ride back to the other side of the bay. Apparently a night always has to come to an end, and remembered in the back of my cloudy mind. Cloudy, but clear in thought of it actually happened. a night remembered as the Aquarius starts the new year, a happy chip toothed camper, with "long hair, don't care" attitude that wont seem to change anytime soon. But is that a bad thing? I guess I can leave that up to ones perspective....