The Internet can be a cruel and unusual abyss of half-cocked opinions and bargain basement analysis, especially when it comes to Black wom...
Journal Entry 8/14/09
Last night I danced in the arms of history.
I accepted an invitation to a party on the strength of seeing an old familiar face, hearing an old familiar voice that I once called big brother, and the opportunity to party with the past. I was channeling a different era in my life. Every now and then I miss Kappa Kool Outs, Sunday morning football games and intense mammalian coupling. There were shots with bits of gold, clouds of smoke and an endless supply of words to describe every sight, sound, and feeling. The music was loud and good then. Love was hot and hard, both necessary to breathe and breathtaking.
All of this came together, folded neatly into a tight package of memories.
At the bar and on the dance floor with The Boy, I was as comfortable as I ever was in our days on 8th Street. We danced and recalled our bond over Hip Hop. We were Brown Sugar. Once upon a time we were in love over heavy bass lines and Hip Hop quotables. We had dreams of bopping down the aisle to Jagged Edge's Lets Get Married, the remix with Rev. Run's verse. Our parents would have been so proud.
With a Ludacris backdrop, the heat that was once us nipped at our heels, pretending it might roar again--complete with audience members holding their nostalgic tickets and picking over stale popcorn. For 180 minutes, The Boy and I were. Our night ended at the beginnings of a.m. hours with an embrace full of temperate love and verbs in the past tense.
I love my adventures.
Watch me move.