Wisdom. Understanding. My Truth. Freedom. Moving towards my 3rd Act ~ Age 60 but not yet there. What aging was for my mother’s and grandmother’s generations is a whole new ballgame for me and I’m a Free Agent enjoying the ride.
I’ve been thinking about how I see myself as opposed to how other see me. Slowly I’m freeing myself from the constraints of youth. Actually I’m happier and more pleased with myself that I ever was 30 or even 20 years ago. I’m not running behind or chasing some man. Nor am I desperate to be in a relationship. Even in the face of emotional pain and heartbreak I have the courage to step away from a relationship that I know will never work and is not meant to be. I ignore the preconceived notions of what a woman should be. Of course like every other human being on this earth I deal with insecurities, fears, obstacles, all human faults and fragilities. After all you gotta break some eggs to make an omelet.
Each decade brings its own crises and a new set of questions and self-knowledge at least for those who are honest. In my 20s was my wild and crazy time. My 30s a decade of challenge where life’s tables were turned as I lost both my parents within the space of three years. My 40s I became more self-aware as my intellectual and academic lives merged and soared higher than a spaceship reaching for an unknown planet. As the economy crashed and burned after 2006 my life also took an unexpected detour actually several unexpected and in some cases unpleasant detours. Turning 50 in 2009 brought new possibilities but new queries. Health challenges via high blood pressure and a mini-stroke, retina surgery, vision loss. Changing lifestyle in my quest towards well-being and dealing with my new menopausal body. My new friend Mr. Arthur Itis who decided to make his presence known in a powerful way earlier this year. Stilling fighting Arthur with exercise but to be honest sometimes Arthur wins!! Yet in my mind I’m dancing. In my dreams I’m still that idealistic eighteen year old young woman who was always ready for the next adventure in life! Nowadays my body does not always obey my minds commands but I’m excited about my Third Act. After listening to Jane Fonda’s Ted Talk on new ways to view aging I’m looking forward to turning Sixty!!
Comfort levels also change as one gets older. In some areas of life one gets not only older but bolder. In other areas there is some hesitation born out of experience and caution. I find it is never good to make split second decisions especially if I’m angry or upset. Sleeping on it and allowing myself a good cry enables me to cleanse my system of sadness and worry. Letting my emotions out vents my soul then I can put things into perspective instead of committing self-sabotage. Also it’s okay to just stop. Stop. Put it to the side until I’m in my right mind. Screw all the people who tell me to keep going. Everyone needs a break. Sometimes I just need to sit for a few hours, day’s maybe even weeks and veg out.
Why be overwhelmed just to satisfy all the folks who want me to be strong, to be some fake, phony Super Woman who does not exist. Even I’m guilty of looking at a girlfriend’s life and asking, “Why does she stay in that situation? Why not just pick up and leave?” But in their life as in mine there are always extenuating circumstances that I will neither know nor understand. Hidden motivations that keep them in place because it is not yet time for them to move on.
There are thousands if not millions of voices out there disguised as “Life Coaches” and “Motivational Speakers” who demand you take control of your life on their terms but only you can make that decision. Only you know when is the right time to move onto the next phase, stage or level. As the Bible says you cannot put new wine into old wineskins. The most important voice you need to listen to is your own.
Despite the fact that financially I’m struggling that struggle does not define me. I still pursue my writing and photography dreams though I may never “get paid.” Writing and photography are my heart and soul passions that are beyond material gain. There is no need to sacrifice who I am to meet the outlooks of society. Art is Life! Back in Feb. 2014 when I turned 55 my Theme Song was I’m Still Here. Next year I’m Bringing back Sexy because it never left. By Age 56 Feb. 2015, I’m Taking it to the Next Phase! Third Act ~ I’m on my way!!
For your reading pleasure I present HalloReads in the Poetic form. Enjoy.
The Urban Zompire’s Junkie Dilemma
Pickled heroin methadone heart. Brains oozing oxycodone pus. Blood inferno tastes of road tar and gasoline fired up my internals causing me untold hours of nocturnal agonies. I am thrashing as flames roar through veins and arteries. Oh where is the pure sweet virgin blood that will wash away these LSD hallucinating fantasies that have me flying off twenty-six story buildings down in back alleys filled with Quaaludes, dirty needles, Crank, crack undead hunting, seeking, roaming searching……
The drugs have gotten nastier over the decades while I with a Claude Rains get-up travel as the Invisible Man prowling the underbelly of the city buried in a darkness so deep that nary a ray of solar has pierced it’s shades in over one hundred years. After feasting upon coke rattled users their blood coagulates and congeals before I can swallow. Feeling like something was gagging me and needed to be coughed up and expelled. In times that I was truly desperate and bereft of money and social graces I preyed on the homeless, walked the halls of neglected overworked City hospitals where no one questioned my presence the abandoned and unwanted were rancid, rotten, salty from IVs, antiseptic from disinfectants, but being ravenous with unchecked hunger I ignored their foul smells I drank my filling ending the useless meaningless lives faster than the diseases ravaging their corrupted bodies.
I reign as a leech, a mosquito seeking succulent prey. Sometimes I follow Catholics after Midnight Mass. The popists still use real wine so tender, so gentle that one can still detect hints of the grapes origins. Not like that Protestant grape juice shit that triggers the urge to regurgitate saccharine back onto my victims. Transients and one-stands, for I filled the trick-turners with sperm-less semen, were the worse for vomited tinged sweat oozed from the pores and every bodily orifice.
Crack houses of 1980s and 1990s recall in memory the squalid opium dens of 19th Century Sherlockian London. His Seven percent solution mellowed out by a good cocaine laced Vin Mariani. Exsanguinating the well-born dandies whose addictions to Legal opium, laudanum, cocaine and morphine well fueled by shots of Brandy and smooth Cognac produced a sweet umber warmth quenching my parched throat. There by night I’m the suave smooth sophisticate, the pompous dandy now called Metrosexual I float into the 21st Century luring gullible Trust Fund babies High Class Tarts into my Lair relieving them of not only their life essence but whatever monies and valuables I find within Glass and steel Luxury condos.
I especially enjoy emptying their medicine cabinets and secret bedroom chambers filled with Celexa, Lexapro, Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, Xanax, Klonopin, Valium, and Ativan. With some Ambien thrown in for good measure. Makes it so easy to get the Stepford 1% Women to do my bidding. Wealthy but weak. No street smarts like the inner-city denizens. They are the filet mignon of human victims their blood tart, tangy, occasionally sour milk with a nutsy woodsy crisp flavor that I crave nightly. Their minds a blank slate easily led. Liberal on the outside, Tea Party on the inside their bones crack easily as I sucked bone marrow from femurs. Here I am well-nourished so here I will stay. The Fortune 500 are my personal cornucopia.
Semper Fi never removed his spectacles even in the heat of desire. His pince-nez caught, captured and dispensed salty yearning drops of sweat upon whichever passion princess he had chosen for his evenings of lust.
His bull powered thrusts accompanied by violent shakes and heaves of the Brass headboard threatened to crash through the plaster thin wall and into the adjoining room. Fellow patrons and madams nicknamed him the Bull in the China Shop for his furious jackhammer prick pounding he gave to Ladies of the Evening with his equine sized crimson member. His broad face with flaring nostrils and rather full lips rendered him some animalistic qualities which he gladly played out in the boudoir.
His sonorous speeches gave way to animalistic grunts, groans, and growls that increased with intensity of each hammer G-Spot driven plunge. At the crescendo when he could no longer hold back the volcanic force surging inside he withdrew to spew his semen eruption over his mistress rounded abdomen, full firm breasts and thick thighs.
During the week he was a respectable Antique Bookshop Owner dealing with annoying customers and fickle publishers and shady book collectors. By the weekend it’s like all that ferocity wrapped up inside he was ready to be released in the Ultimate Weekend Fuck Fest. Sometimes he was able to release building tension with whichever out of town female research bookseller/collector was in town for a convention or a project. He was usually able to win them over with his humor, charm and dinners at the finest restaurants in town. Fortunately for Semper Fi his begetter though rich in seminal fluids was totally devoid of sperm otherwise he would have sired legions offspring with the many young fertile women he serviced on a regular basis. On first glance his dangling appendage had ample girth but seemed to lack length but that assumption was quickly falsified during arousal.
Such was his reputation that every Friday when he made his grand entrance into the Pussy Palace Bordello all the Ladies in Waiting vied for his attention by wearing their most entrancing scintillating garb so that they would be the chosen mare to be rode hard and put out wet.
Semper Fi with his musician fingers explored every nook, cranny, crevice and grotto of the selected woman’s body blessing her with multiple orgasms before entering her moist dark chambers with his elephantine rod of steel.
The aromatic oils that he liberally anointed his body daily provided powerful pheromones when mixed with his natural man musk scent. Sometimes his spurting semen cascaded over the woman like golden glistening raindrops against a window pane. Other times he ejaculated copious white cream which sprayed over flaming hips and thighs like a profuse foggy mist mixing with her fragrant perspiration murky perfumes.
His favorite of the entire harem was Sophronia whose twisted back gave him a thousand pleasures in mind and body while away from her or when tracing his fingers along the S-shaped curve that she desperately tried to hide with elaborate costumes. She was a looker that one with her Almond shaped eyes hazel eyes and burnished skin. Sophie was an African/Native American fairytale goddess with her sepia toned complexion, deep burgundy magenta twisty curly Nappy mane that spiraled out from her head like leafy tree branches reaching for sunlight, and full lips that had a natural purple tinge over a set of perfectly formed teeth.
“I Know that I’m not much to look at but I used to be the Crown Prince of Manhood, the Courtier of Cum among Royal Lovers.”
This laughable boast came on an exultation of foul and fetid breath akin to human waste lying in the bottom of a sewer emitting from a wizened and emaciated corpse like figure with a red bulging knobby doorknob on the end of a shriveled pecker. How it managed to stand at attention was a miracle from the saints or gods of nonstop porn. His face was a veritable road-map of lines, wrinkles, valleys, pitted scars with a bird beak blue veined appendage masquerading as a nose jutting forth from sunken cheeks. Above the beak nose were two rheumy eyes topped by beetle brows which looked more like two warring caterpillars wrangling for domination of an egg shaped skull sprouting tufts of errant hairs growing from the beak nose, elongated ears and the various moles on his scrofulous person.
Then it began. I closed my eyes and did my best to disengage all my senses as this old bag of bones began his pitiful assault upon my body. I tried to drown out the sound of the Click-Clacking of false teeth in rhythm with hurried asthmatic prods that gradually became more pathetic and feebler though he put his hairy back best with his pecker pushing. Thankfully he was done in under five minutes. The way he panted and gasped for air I thought he was having a heart attack and about to cum and go at the same time!
Four minutes of torture and hell. Because I have Scoliosis I had to deal with the runts of the litter. Yup I get all the Gumbys and Pokeys. Though we are fed, housed, clothed and housed like Renaissance Odalisques there is still a pecking order of beauty. My face, my sun-kissed umber skin, my small perfectly round breasts and long curly wavy chestnut locks got me a reprieve from just being another filthy dirty street urchin but this curvature of the spine has relegated me to servicing the worst of the many patrons who pass through these palatial doors.
During the week I was spared from my licentious duties but come Friday, payday once again I had to endure filthy spotted old men with dragon breath, bodies smelling like rancid meat who peeled away phosphorous shit breeches from their narrow wrinkly asses. When my luck was especially bad I dealt with the twins Geeky and Gimpy. One classic faced bumbling Nerd and the other though having no malformation of his lower limbs seemed to bang into every piece of furniture in the room no matter how far apart the furnishings were arranged. I grinned and bared the fumbling’s and false starts because they paid well and the other Odalisques either refused to service them or found a way to disappear when they entered the bordello. Though both were fairly young, perhaps in their 20s they did no better in the stamina and endurance department than the old coots in their 70s and 80s. You went in expecting volcanic emissions and received only a little smoke, a few burps and many farts. Dribblers all.
Damn my twisted back!! Relegated to porcine misanthropes and brachiocephalic troglodytes!!
Few and far in between are opportunities to be with my Beloved Semper Fi a robust man in his late 40s. Mattered not to him my twisted spine as he guided me gently onto his massive bull staff. Skillfully bringing me to numerous orgasms complimenting me on my long curly chestnut hair, my perfect A Cup breasts gifted with large sensitive raisins that grew even larger as he sucked and licked me into ecstasy. What gave me even more pleasure than his substantial endowment was that he chose me. Semper would call at least two or three days in advance specifically requesting my services. I felt honored to be chosen by this man among men. But then again where does the Sycophant stop and the Courtesan begin?
I came here from a rural backwater village after a disastrous arranged marriage. Truthfully there was no consummation on my wedding night once my betrothed disrobed me and began screaming and cursing in horror and disgust at my Quasimodo form tossing me from the matrimonial bed, calling the town elders who made preparations for me to be sent back to my father’s tent. My father who was always ashamed of me and who found himself disgraced not only within our tribe sent me away into the wilderness with only the clothes on my back and what few possessions I could gather whilst trying to escape his stormy anger.
Good fortune did smile upon me as I traversed the dusty road away from the only home I had ever known. Angels in the forms of my mother, aunts and sisters had extinguished my father’s fiery rage through liberal applications of wine. Once he entered the land of intoxicated snores my weeping women saddled horses, loaded them down with as many provisions as they could hold and interception my journey. We hugged, cried and mourned my passing knowing a rejected woman is as one dead. A Jepthah’s daughter placed upon the sacrificial altar never to be seen or heard from again.
They also managed to bargain with the disgruntled groom managing to win back half my dowry which my mother tearfully entrusted to my outstretched hands. I was also given one strong yet steady sway back donkey. A fitting companion who mirrored my disability and temperament. My past I knew well but my future was just a cloudy day on the horizon.
DEPRAVITY, DEBAUCHERY, decadence
Vice ridden timeworn men who still sustain the impure flames of lust despite the chill of old age.
A worthy adage of a man on the cusp geezer-hood.
Stepping from the filthy foul smelling streets men were ushered into exotic elaborately decorated quarters decorated with expensive Persian rugs, medieval tapestries, silk draperies hung upon windowless walls, tables adorned with Tiffany lamps. A subtle scent of incense permeated the airways. The decorations seemed incongruous yet harmonized together in an irregular yet pleasing manner. Palatial taste a bit ostentatious like a Renaissance bordello. The furnishings were highly articulated and faceted Baroque/Rococo objects, many with deep gouges and gashes suggesting transparency and interior penetration. This room and much of the house as well as the street urchins who passed through seemed to us an Orientalist fantasy. At the far end of the living room hung a painting of a Minotaur coupling with a Centauride.
Within this underworld we meet our sardonic proprietors in sex trade, the mirthless dwarf called, BASTINADO BOOBYALLA.
Booby as he was affectionately known had the face of Peter Lorre and the heft and bulk of a miniaturized Sidney Greenstreet. Booby had the misfortune of being scurrilous and scrofulous. His rough skin was spotted with scabies and his body emitted a sepulchral odor. Spiteful
Booby was was the bodily opposite of his Partner in Crime Bumfiddler Clatterfart.
Bummy was six feet tall of bulging muscles, narrow waist and sculpted buttocks. His lack of moral fiber and somewhat limited intellectual faculties innate in most normal human personalities could be easily perceived in his cranial structure and his overall physiognomy. The shock of wild reddish brown hair closely cut on the sides of the head, the high sloping forehead, prominent brow ridges, receding nostrils and thin lips, these features put one in mind of a simian head attached to the body of Atlas. Bummy’s nature embodied the seven deadly sins from head to foot.
Booby and Bummy were the real owners of the bordello that Semper Fi patronized on a weekly basis.
Though the outer streets were rundown, garbage strewn and suspect inside the elaborate bedchambers fit for a king were divided into three sections one being the actual room where Semper Fi carried Bronco Busting escapades with an ornate Italian Renaissance canopy bed replete with seraphim, cherubim, and putti on the ceiling looking down seemingly blessing the lewd acts committed in that bed.
Business offices where the girls reported for inspection and assignments at first resembled an Italian studiolo. Scholarly books that were never read, save those dealing with what he felt was the “science of photography and videography” lined the bookshelves along the walls. There was a collection of opera records beside an ancient Victrola, which either Bummy or Booby played incessantly even during to block the sounds of various vigorous sexual acts committed in the bawdy house. Usually one or both of the duo would choose a woman for themselves and during those sexual gymnastics the music became louder more than likely to mask their grunts and groans plus the simulated shrieks of whatever sex worker was chosen to honor their illustrious owners.
Dagmar served as a type of governess to the young women. Their harem quickly became a zone of safety from streets of starvation, disease and death. They were bathed, perfumed and outfitted like odalisques in paintings from centuries past.
As time went on many young women passed through our heathen portals but one stood out from the others. She was literally abandoned at our doorstep. At first we thought the girl to be deaf and dumb because she neither spoke except to make nearly unintelligible sounds nor seemed to respond to our commands. Dagmar and I thought her a poor fit for our scandalous enterprises. Dagmar took her into the women’s’ chambers to be washed cleaned of the dirt and filth that seemed to encased her fragile body and discovered a note pinned to her grimy undergarments. Succinctly the note said her name was Sophronia and that she had just turned eighteen with her moon cycle having started three seasons prior. Dagmar was always good at persuasion and bringing out the best in wounded animals. Coaxing Sophie was no different. After a time Sophie as we nicknamed the girl responded to Dagmar’s gentle persuasions. A bond of trust developed between the two despite the fact that Dagmar knew the girls eventual destiny.
Many moons passed and Sophie as Dagmar liked to call her became quite the coquette. For some odd reason Eve became a favorite of Booby who outfitted her in dresses and skirts of silk, satin, lace, velvet. Many lovely cream colored fabrics some with lace trim others with glass beads and sequins. Before we knew it Sophie’s 21st birthday was upon us and Booby had a special costume made up for Sophie. It was a beautiful blood red silk satin with lace trimming with velvet calf length skirts. However as joyful as Sophie was when she donned the frock what pleased her even more were the Bordello Shoes—Red Velveteen Victorian button-up Boots with a two inch heel. Sophie’s thick dark hair was caught up in a chignon ala Gibson Girl but she had the Bohemian spirit of the Flapper.
As much a disciple of Bacchus as the god’s original followers neither Booby nor Bummy ever touched Sophie. Her chambers were the height of ornamentation and ostentation with elaborate sinks, tubs, showers and a bidet. Something the other girls could only dream about. Yes Sophie was a prize. And such an Odalisque could not be hidden from Semper Fi for very long………….
Despite the Challenges and setbacks in life my journey takes me to new places, new discoveries and new learning experiences.
Within the Soul the two natures of man exist each seeking the preeminence and each wanting to be the dominant force. The Sacred and the profane.
A Lost Soul finds her way home. Chains are being Broken.
Tasha Cobbs — Break Every Chain
My Awakening has happened over a period of time. I went into the next phase of my Womanhood as I entered Menopause. Truly over the last several years as I entered my 50s, (I’m 55 now) I’ve undergone a revealing Change of Life. The Universe has opened up new portals and realms in which I travel taking on the mantle of being an Elder. I take my place within the Council of Elders as I march towards Infinity = Eternity.
The Heavens opened up and all my Ancestors, African, Native American, Christian, Buddhist, Indigenous Faiths began speaking to me on next steps in Life. I truly believe in the Scripture that says, “The Steps of the Righteous are Ordered by the Lord.” I’m discovering the Galaxies within. Through my Kindred Ancestors I’ve found into to Leap Forward I had to step back confronting my fears honestly with faith, gentleness, Wisdom and Understanding. I gather each of my broken pieces, honor the Divinity of each shard, embrace my tears, and like Isis I’ve gathered the pieces of my scattered tribes and Ethiopia is Reborn! Shall these dry bones live? Yes says the Creator of the Universe! Once again I sing the Songs of Solomon and Sheba.
Habakkuk 2:2-3 New International Version (NIV)
The Lord’s Answer
2 Then the Lord replied:
“Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a heraldmay run with it. 3 For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; itwill certainly come and will not delay.
The Land of the Rising Sun embraced me as I entered the Border-less Gardens.
Live the Sankofa bird I’ve returned to myself. Despite raging battles without and within my Calling and Passion as a Scribe bid me come forth to record my Voyage. Grounded in the Lily. Supported by the Lotus.
The Queen has returned to her Queendom. She sits upon her Throne whilst reigning over the Seven Lands, A Judge and a Mother over Africa, Israel and the Americas.
Judges 4 & 5.
Isaiah 54:1-3 New International Version (NIV)
The Future Glory of Zion
54 “Sing, barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband,” says the Lord. 2 “Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes. 3 For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in their desolate cities.
Youth said “Dreams Never Die.” Twenty years passed then Recession kicked in. New Realities were born. Twelve hour workdays became the norm.
Like a drowning man Dreams surfaced again and again only to plummet down to the watery deep. All the while knocking at 1% door watching them through one-sided window laugh, play, drink and party with no thought for the ‘Morrow’. We the unseen only imagining free time for our dreams.
Dreams that must wait until Social Security beckons if death does not reach us first. Fore bread, water, warm clothes and a place to live cry louder. Goodnight Sweet Dreams. May you one day resurrect to a New Dawn.
Surrounded by a plethora of people who seemed to surface like bloated corpses after spring thaw. Worker bees we are all meaningless specks of dust being recklessly scattered by blustery winds. Modern day Robber Barons throw battle weary soldiers back into the battle while they sit sipping tea in Ivory Towers. Thirty-seven years a professional, now placating rot breath Sabbath suits long in tooth, visions of Mammy dancing in their heads. Limestone Liver spotted wrinkled bone bags befoul the air with endless demands. Dontcha know Miz Daisy learned to drive herself and the Help all went to the French Rivera.
I am Hagar cast out of my prosperous household, denied by the Master and Mistress I once served. Thrown out of my protectors’ house my Dream-child and I await Our Avenging Angel of Salvation.
My Dreams now dead buried under work obligations, mountains of rules and regulations that I seem to constantly violate just by being. No miracles exist for me. Only years of mindless drudgery ahead. Millennial Overseers govern my every move with their remote control mind games. Freedom lies dormant within my imagination. My brain has been put out to pasture because intelligence is not needed or wanted and creativity has become a sin. Automaton Me clad in nondescript dull uniform easily replaceable by the next set of hungry hands yearning for the pence dispensed from the rich mans table. Hey!! Who’s next up on the Auction Block?!! Come lock step into the Plantation Mausoleum filled with objects which are valued more than drones who guard them. We be Aliens in our own Land. Serfs never reaping a hard earned Harvest.
Yet soon a New Day will Dawn, Dreams will bear fruit and Visions be reborn.