When an artist is so overcome by inspiration,they’re electric, the feeling is incomparable.  The feeling when I’m spilling over with ideas is indescribable.  Temporary euphoric paralysis, perhaps?   I’m so caught up in the awesome potential of a great idea, I fear any sudden movements will break the spell.  I love whirlwinds.

I recently happened upon a bonus track on one of my favorite albums, the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ “Stadium Arcadium.”  It was audio commentary where they discussed the majority of the album.  Two things about “Stadium”: 1) You need this in your collection.  It’s amazing. There’s a bit of everything that is good and righteous about music. 2) John Frusciante is giving Flea a run for his money as second favorite Chili Pepper by saying he sought inspiration from Wu Tang’s “Enter the 36 Chambers” during the writing of this album.  But what struck me more than anything was what Anthony Kiedis said regarding one of the songs:

You start to sometimes get the feeling that the music was already there before you walked into the room.

And that’s inspiration.  When art seems to come alive in a consecrated space, and you’re merely the instrument.  I never feel more connected to the universe than when I’m truly struck by inspiration.

However, if art was only about waiting to be struck by random divine moments, everyone would be artists.  Every soul has a moment where they’re touched by divinity.  Inspiration is akin to the lusty, love at first sight moment:  your future someone standing across the room, bathed in a warm glow, simply waiting.

To truly be successful though, is to grind in the muck for those few exquisite lines, perfect lighting, soul-rending notes.  There are days that I plead for the absence of fear and the use of my voice.  The fear doesn’t really come from underestimating the power of my voice, but rather, being acutely aware of said power.  The responsibility that comes with being listened to is humbling.

I’m obsessed with saying, not necessarily the right things, but the things that will echo my truths.  Sometimes I take breaks from blogging because I know what I’ve written was disingenuous.  If only one person reads my blog, that one person deserves better.  I try not only to write from joy and objectivity, but also pain and not so pretty emotions.  Praying for the balance to display both honestly is one half of the battle; working in harmony with those prayers is the other.

If inspiration is the infatuated love at first sight, then actively pursuing and honing one’s craft must be the marriage.  My craft is my voice.  Til death do we part.

It all starts with words

I go through these spells where I forget how to live.  Everything that makes me, well me, seems foreign and impossible.  “What color is my toothbrush? Where do I put my shoes? Where are my keys? WHAT ARE WORRRRRRRRRRDSSSSSSSS?!” (You can’t see me, but I’m shaking my fist angrily at the universe.)

Writer’s block I can handle. Idea block? Not so much. I don’t want to rehash the same words and thoughts that I’ve spilled in my SEVEN YEARS (almost) of blogging.  I don’t want to recycle other people’s ideas.  I just want to write awesome things…and buy shoes…and talk to cute boys on the phone. I’m getting off track. But that’s the whole point. When I think about the person I was one year ago today, I don’t think I do any of the things now that I was doing then. Granted, some things need to change, but I feel that there are parts of me that I need to recapture and incorporate into life as I now know it.

What does that have to do with anything?  I wrote more.  And I did it for me, in hopes that someone could get something out of it.  Lately, I find myself questioning my voice, which is something I’ve never done.  If I knew why I felt this way, I’d change it immediately, but I’m doing my damnedest to expel and bind my doubting spirit. Words have always been an important part of my life. Yet, when I’m at a crossroads, words are the first to go.

What I enjoy most when I forget how to do things, is the moment I remember…again. And I does this. Right now, I’m still trying to learn life over, but I’m getting there. To be honest, I’ve even been struggling with brainstorming. In all of the great things that have taken place this year, I did not expect to struggle with my gift, right when I need it the most.

If I haven’t said it lately, I’m always appreciative that you are with me through all of this. Some of you have been reading my work for a long time, and it’s really humbling. I don’t know what I say or do to keep yall coming back, but I’m glad you enjoy it. I can’t sing or dance or do any of the fly things that so many of my fellow bloggers can do. Strip me down, and I got “nothing but my balls and my word” (word to Young Bleed).  And really, word by word, that’s where it all starts with me.

B Jack


Last night, I slept for almost 7 hours.  When I woke up, I was boastful.  I was on some, “Who’s got two thumbs and 7 hours of sleep?! Awwww yeah!”  So tonight, the Sandman showed me who was running shit, and has made me his bitch.

This past week, I have been feeling extra sweet.  I don’t even know why.  I got off the train, and it seems that when I hit the air, I was enveloped by a blanket of sexy.  I go through that from time to time.  Not even for a particular reason.  I’m just feeling myself.  I went out this weekend, nobody was trying to holler, no random compliments on the train, nothing.  But good luck trying to convince me that I don’t have straight up deliciousness going on.

Tonight, the hour became late.  I became restless.  It was too late to eat.  TV seemed boring.  Maybe I could…I mean, I haven’t visited my no-no in quite some time.  For those of you who read me often enough, you know that when I detail my tales of self gratification, they always end in comedy rather than eroticism.  And yes, this visit to my no-no was no exception.  The thing is, my no-no has been really good to me lately.  It’s really been on some, “You don’t bother me, I won’t bother you” shit.  It’s not that I’m devoid of sex drive.  I just keep myself too occupied to think about it – much.

Tonight, my no-no  stood between me and the sweetest of sweet releases like Gandalf in “The Fellowship of the Ring” and shouted, “YOU SHALL NOT PAAAAAAAAASSSSSS!”   Then, my no-no demanded that I bring her a man.  Then she got saucy and said, “And he’d better not be a bullshit muthafucka either.”  Damn no-no.  She’s being  beggar AND a chooser.  Yikes.

And the thing is, there isn’t even a “well, maybe I should get to know him better” guy.  There’s still some baggage I’m getting rid of, and I don’t want to carry those issues into a potential new situation.  I mean, of course I have crushes here and there.  Actually, there’s a guy that I have a fairly healthy sized crush on, and I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m cute, but no more than that.   Plus, I’m fairly certain he’s not digging me like that.  And even if he were, I would refer you back to reason number one.  I think after the Heartbreaker (The Artist Formerly Known As The Chupacabra Hunter) gave me the working definition of the road to hell being paved with good intentions, that cut my appetite for being in a relationship.  Of course, there’s an expiration date on how long i can say he’s the reason for my lack of desire for a relationship.  Once upon a time, I believed that I couldn’t experience deep feelings for a person at all, and he proved that wrong.  I’m sure I’ll meet a brother that will, at least, make me rethink my position and get back on the horse (and other things) again.

I haven’t quite figured out how I will handle the burden of my own sexiness and the impending wrath of my no-no (I think that bitch is making a picket sign), but I don’t intend to let life pass me by while I find out.