BOXES

I get out of boxes.
I don't like your labels.
You will not tape me; send me off to be received by others;
to be cut open and bleed peanuts.
I'm unwrapped busted bubbles containing hazardous materials.
Unsoluable your thoughts of me are not easy to return to sender.
Anonymous circulars addressed to current resident would have me
prescribe to the doctrine that my interests are as communicable as paper cuts.
Tanged tongues licked with adhesive not enough to glue gums shut and mouths from flapping.
I am the right side up even if my arrow points towards the middle.
I know that your perception of me is too big too small.
Obsessed like size queens I am not to be filled with your pressures.
I am ever expanding to accommodate heavy parcels or to just offer protective coverings.
So whether you choose cardboard or plastic, sturdy or elastic.
Drawn or constructed, locked, or unobstructed.
Checked or bubbled.
Straight or Gay.
I tend to sit Bi myself.
Getting out of whatever box you decide to put me in.

V-Day Part Deux

Let me open by saying that I am no jaded. I love love.
I love love like when my palms get all sweaty hovering over the number 7 on speed dial to call you.
I also know that if I don't tell you today that you should still know it.
If I never get a chance to tell you again that I showed it.
That you felt it.
Understood what it meant for it to be unadulterated. Untainted with ununiquness.
I've loved few. Your greatest loves should never outnumber the fingers on one hand.
I've learned that these people loved me once or twice in some cases.
I knew it when I didn't wake up to cards, candy, flowers.
Whether it was a 5 Star meal or "Hey baby there is some Chinese in the fridge".

I just can't believe that today we choose to unzip our pants and whip out our love.
Measure it in the view of strangers. See whose is the biggest. More meaningful.
More thought out. Or unique. Whose is frivolous or small. Or cower from the supernova love of others.

This is not a moratorium of love. Just of a day. Of a day that many of you didn't spend with the same people last year. Last Christmas. Last week. Last text.

Last Valentine's Day I loved myself. And I loved Andre 3000. And I loved Cupid lying on his face with an arrow in his back. I loved the idea that an ideal can be ridiculed. Hung high in minority but not be called jaded or unhappy. My color is not green. Nor would I say that my demeanor is unhappy. Melancholy perhaps.

I will say this when I'm married with kids. This is me. I'll never change. I'm barely religious and you think I'm going to be out of pocket, out of mind, punch drunk with envy or amore about some faux Hallmark Holiday. Kick rocks. Heart shaped ones.

I Hope I Don't Miss My Stop

I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
Too caught up in the music, the melody, the melodrama of miscommunication.
I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
Too busy staring off into another lovers eyes, starting to believe the lies of my brain overriding my heart.
I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
It’s the same stop I always make after a long trip. Weary. Unwilling to submit to the idea that this station will always be vacant when I stop by.
I hope I didn’t miss my stop.
I hope I didn’t confuse a connection with a destination. A transfer with a terminal feeling of elation.
I hope I wasn’t dickmatized with a nice body and no aspirations.
A fuck buddy with no future.
A past figure with a foundation of forever.
I hope this journey brings me back to my stop.
Hopefully this is the long road. Less traveled. Of lessons learned lamenting through looking glass at concrete moments etched over in linoleum.
I feel like I’ve missed my stop.
They all look like. Tell me the same things. You were the last one that felt like home.
I want to be home. Not riding this bus of busy ideas, bustling bodies, and bawdy banter.
No matter how much I travel. I’ll always come back to…my stop.

ALIEN ANT FARM

I am not from here.
Don’t recognize your customs and your ways & means.
Your standards of poor.
Depravities and atrocities committed in the name of deities lesser than me.
You aliens. Ant like. Farmed as cattle.
Bred as sustenance and cannibal.
You make mockery of appearances uncomfortable in your own vessel
Glamoured modifications to be original.
Pack like in your mimicry.
Constantly looking towards an Alpha, content being a Beta, obsessed with the Omega
Forgetting that this language is younger than mine.
Infant like Ants. Alien Nature. Farming land producing no spoils.
Spoiled. Ungrateful. Unaware that gifts I’ve bestowed upon you should be mocked.
Drafted then call my fiction fantasy.
Fantastic.
Phantoms filled with folly and fear, failure.
Fractions of full falsehoods.
Fooled for fuckery, flashes in frying pans, food filleted, fermented meat.
Meet your higher power.
Leave these Farms. Ants. Alien although foreign should not always be unfamiliar.
Sometimes. I. Wonder. Have You Ever Considered. The Way You Look From Here.
I look at you and wonder.
And I don’t believe that your elitist ideal of being the only being.
Waiting for me to collide with your ideology to reassure your inflated ego.
To satisfy your justified juxtaposition that in infinity minute best describes you.
I create miracles as common as smiles.
You ask for moonbeams and mysticism.
I naturally levitate and you commission Otis to elevate to my level.
Rolling on vogues.
Languishing in your little boxes. On hillsides. That all look the same.
Unable to recognize the value I’ve added to your existence.
Unfeasible to walk in my shoes I gave you syncopation,
A cacophony of sounds, rhythms to connect you. You use it to divide.
Able to live a Golden Life. Content with Pyrite Masks.
You idiosyncratic Ants. Farmed for Harvest. Afraid of your Alien.
Maybe if I called myself by a different name you’d respond differently.
I am in moniker God unto myself.
Worshipping all others but me.
It would be so easy to but you’ve become unself-awared.
Unrealized power. Strong like ANT.
Potential. Untilled like FARMS.
ALIENATING my peace.

80's Baby

I gave you fast times at Ridgemont High but never got Breakfast Club.
I was Wet, Wild & Crazy. You said I couldn't do that on television.
You taught me The Facts of Life. I gave you Head of the Class.
We Silver Spooned according to Webster's diction.
You wanted me to give you a break.
You faked the Good Times.
Made me introduce you a Perfect Stranger into my Family Matters.
I was your 80's Baby.
I worked blocks, found coins, rode clouds, climbed stairs, ate shrooms,
picked flowers, spit fire.
U still didn't give me 1up.
I made wishes Traded Places, Framed Rabbits, got Big,
and you still played Chopsticks better than me.
I Smurfed you. You fed me Duck Tales.
Gave you 13 Treasures you left me with 13 Ghosts.
Wanted to turn you into a Jem but you were content being a Misfit.
I tried to be your Prince Charming brush cinders from your umbrella.
I wanted to give you Venice villa. Wanted to be your Tramp.
You chose vaudeville act. A pauper the Land Before Time.
I was your 80's Baby.
Your Super Duper Double Looper.
I sang you songs from inside. You called me Teddy Ruxpin.
My mouth you broke but the words were still there.
I thought we would Never End. I implore you to remember me Bastion.
Can't you see I was your luck dragon. Betray you?
I gave you dip for your stick, chewed your bubbleyum,
loaned you quarters for water.
I wanted Now not Later.
As you kicked Earth at the idea, we wrote our names in Fire, simultaneously blew wind up my ass, drowned my love with Water, and when I showed you my Heart...
With our powers combined...I am still not your guy?
I'm your 80's Baby.
You fed me Ritalin. Yet you were the one with the Affection Deficit Disorder.
Dumbed everything down. Made it small. Benign.
All I wanted was forever. To resurge 30 years later fresher then ever.
But you don't remember the 80's like I do.
So when you're ready to turn back time thrice. Find a straight road.
Get up to 88mph.
Infiniti starts in 82.

We Are The World (remix baby)

Watch the video before you comment on this post please.

In the interest of all that are locally, nationally, and internationally involved in some form of community service congratulations. Thank you for being apart of something without being told, coerced, or staged into a photo op to do something to make a difference in someone else's life.

The devastation in Haiti by no means is a mere thing to scoff at (Pat Roberson and The 500 Club) and the country will spend endless amounts of money and time to get on its feet. The donations and benefits are all necessary and should be thought about even after the cameras stop rolling.

But this mediocre attempt of a rendition should be shortened by oh I would say 3 minutes. The rapping section...FAIL! Busta Rhymes, Swizz Beatz, Lil Wayne, LL Cool J, Snoop, T-Pain, Kanye, Akon and Will.i.am (sorry) needed to be barred from the recording studio. Its a song not a freestyle. Autotune should not be allowed alongside real singing artists. Do something different. But don't stand there alongside "sangers" like Pink, Mary Mary, Celine Dion, Jennifer Hudson, Adam Levine, Josh Gruben. I mean they put their hearts into it. And have the vocal talent that 25 years ago I am sure would have been welcomed in the studio with Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder, etc.

I am not a hater. I am just done with Hip-Pop. I am sad to see it die a little more each day.

Tears For A Fallen Soldier

I shed tears for a fallen soldier
Who was killed in the line of duty
By being in the right place at the wrong time.
Ring…Ring…that’s my cell. It’s my Mom.
‘Hey, how you doing son?’
Cool. Just getting off work.
‘How was your day,’ she asked.
Fine.
‘Anything new going on.’
Not since I talked to you last night.
‘Are you home yet?’
I’m just getting out of the car.
‘I hate to do this over the phone.’
Do what?
‘Your godbrother is dead…is dead…is dead’
It echoes in my head still today.
My brother in god was murdered at the age of 21.
Killed in the line of duty; although he wasn’t in the armed forces.
A fallen soldier, who didn’t have beef with anybody.
A soldier who hadn’t enlisted but enrolled.
Killed on campus, a shot to the temple.
A shot heard by Temple right off Broad Street.
For being Black and trying to do better, someone took his life.
I never thought higher education would have me lower my brother into the ground.
I have trouble remembering his voice, as if the dirt on top of his coffin is blocking it out.
I’m sitting in the church not believing my eyes.
Can’t believe my blurry vision and sweat stained face.
Can’t breathe; the room is closing in.
That’s not him. He’s gonna wake up.
I can’t view the body; so my godmother tucks him in for the last time.
She screams, ‘Why him before me Lord?”
Why?
I hear his cousin sobbing, ‘They killed my family.’
Inside I scream, ‘They killed a piece of me.’
I strip off my jacket and tie and run from the church.
Run from my memories, run from the present, run from GOD.
How could you let one of your soldiers dies?!?
I wait and I wait; until I have to carry your body entombed in steel.
I steal away from this place and remember the trouble we used to get into.
I buried my brother the day before my 22nd birthday.
That night I never wished for anything so hard then for you to have life on Earth.
I bled red blood from black ink as I had your wings etched on my back.
In hopes that one day I can trade you for your halo.
I shed tears for a fallen soldier, who I carry on my back.
So when I read the words ‘NEVER 4GET’ in the mirror,
There’s no more tears left to cry.


R.I.P.
Justin A. Winstead
November 19th, 1982- July 13th, 2004

© July 2004

To Love A Man

One of my best friends turns 49 in a month. I turn 27 two weeks later. You might have heard me say it before but my parents are my best friends. And my Dad...well my Dad is the only Man whom I ever really loved. This might seem overly sentimental, but I am a Cancer by Zodiac. We wear our emotions on our sleeves. We are unpredictable, pleasing, sensitive, and have an uncanny knack for creating beauty within chaos. I like to think that I am my Dad's beauty. One of his greatest accomplishments. One of his closest friends. By the time you read this Dad I will have teared up at at least 5 or 6 television shows or movies that depict a Father and his Son; because I realize I took having you in my life for granted for years.

I feel the need to cry, not out of sadness or weaknesses, but in humility. I am humbled how I could be made in God's image, but shaped in your eyes. It is that reverence that fills me with Joy. Joy I found hard putting into words, so hard that my eyes cloud up with unfulfilled exaltation.

Growing up my father wasn't at every school concert, football game, awards ceremonies. But he was around. His presence and support expressed daily. But not with a "go get'em Tiger" and punch on the arm, my father strove to make conceivable the very essence of my accomplishment was further proof that I could do more. That "B" could be an "A". That I was of age to drive, but needed to learn to maintenance. He drove, moved, pushed, and made me question would there ever be anything I could do to make him completely happy. I didn't realize until years later that he was always happy. But what agitated him was that I was okay with being good, when he recognized that I could be great. I realized years later he had protected me, provided, molded me, then polished me to ensure that I shined from that point forward.

I was like him. To hear him tell it I was a better version. I had succeeded in becoming the man he wanted me to be. Still with shortcomings and sometimes reluctance for parental advice, I found a friend. In a Dad that I had fought for years. He was always my friend. But didn't have time to be a friend. He had responsibilities that included daily guiding two young Black boys lives.

He is a Cancer by Zodiac as well. He taught me stoicism. To guard my emotions to those that would harm me. He taught me Responsibility. That to shirk it would only delay its arrival. Taught me acceptance.

My father this past Christmas told me that he loved me. That no matter what I did in life he would still love me. That his acceptance wasn't needed anymore. That the fact that I still sought it in all things that I do was humbling. That he wished he was as talented as I was when he was my age. That he was proud of me. Had been for years. And that there wasn't much that I could do to tarnish that. That is why I tear up. I can say I love a man that loves me. Without condition. And I may not say it every time I hang up the phone but know that I will always look towards you. Seek your council. Be your College Basketball buddy. And talk shit during the football season. I will try to impress you and your friends. Even when you tell me not. And if I am half the Dad that you are to me. Well my kids will have been given one of the greatest gifts in the world.

I Love you Dad.
Happy Father's Day
(early)

PB & J

I've never liked living off Peanut Butter snacks.
But it's funny how Jelly always seems to fill me up.
I hear how he speaks about you.
And I remember I used to say those things.
But I sounded more sincere.
Meant it more when you were here.
Wanted to fly you to the Moon
Or at least to the 2nd star on the right.
But lofty ambition and secret omissions
Sealed our Peter Pan Jar.
I'm a Smucker.
Jammed up over a condiment I felt was stickier more than sweet.
It may not mean much to you but what was a Jiffy in your eyes
Still sticks to the roof of my mouth.

I really never liked Peanut Butter situations.
But know he wouldn't crush a Grape in a fruit fight.
And I want to tear his crust off
Thinking about his spoon stirring you.
As the Jelly spreads over the surface that I used to eat from.
We've reached a Concord and I respect your relationship.
I don't even venture down that aisle called memory lane.
You've made it clear that in the matter of Love & War...
Well War can be so cold.

As my heart has frozen over
Only noticeable by the Crunchy sound of Chunky heels
Echoing off grocery store shelves
A Monkey wrench I want to throw or maybe a tantrum.
All to be as full as you made me.
So no the grass isn't greener on the other side
There is just Envy.
And in my fallout shelter no more Peanut Butter
Everything's...Empty.
So I sit and watch as all this Jelly tries to tempt me.

Irregular

He made me different.
Decided that normalcy would only make me complacent.
Unaware of how life makes miracles and murders.
He made me a water sign.
So that my journey would be heralded with crests and valleys
Give way by high and low tides.
Handicapped by the fluidity of emotions and stoicism of events.
He made me confused so that understanding would be a choice
So that the unappreciated nuances of the world would be examined closer.
Darkness brought to light.
He made me an insomniac to realize that in the hours of silence
A pen scratching the surface of sheets still sounds.
He made me a packaged collarless t-shirt
To be missed by handlers
Bundled up and sold to the world.
To climb off the store shelf into a basket; brought home
Only to find that their newest purchase needs to returned.
Retagged.
And labeled Irregular.

S.S.S.

Stood up I somberly sit
Seeking solace in shelled, shadowed souls called homo-sapiens.
Surely sober selections should birth smarter results.
I sulk.
Seeing that such solutions aren’t so easily solved.
This story sauced in alliteration sings of solitude.
Loneliness.
In search of sharing some time.
Seconds unseen by sun dials
Darkness unscathed by solar storms.
Except scenes of others smitten with Spring love.
Newness.
Stepping softly in silence slyly feigning innocence.
So cautious not to sully ones reputations.
Until suddenly Summer sets a sizzle smoldering screaming Sex.
Shawls and sweaters shed to solicit scantily sewn straps.
Stripping so you see the shape, size, each rise and fall as you sigh.
To smell the scent that sticky situations like this seep into sheets.
The sensation of stirring until your body hums
Swells with a song of Doe Ray Me Fa Soooo…
Slow rolls in silk or satin sounding sweet until
Smeared make-up shows scars.
Exposed.
Vulnerable, susceptible to sorrow, scared.
You say see you soon.
Avoiding shifty side glances.
Searching for shirts, sock, shoes.
Steeling away whatever split-second signs of serenity.
Separating feeling from adrenaline and serotonin.
Seconds turn Spring to September.
A cycle of see, salutations, sex, so long.
Smothering any sense of security in seeing your smile.
Suitcases sit by stairs.
Preparing to step through looking glass.
Lamenting at footprints left in the sand.
Surface deep you splash trying to save what has already succumbed to sickness.
Sputtering, sinking, I’ve already forgotten you.
Sand shifts. Footprints scatter.
Solids now broken.
Simply said this was not that serious.
Not a sonnet rising and falling with iambic pentameter.
A selective soliloquy sold with strands of sarcasm.
Shit. Our start and finish was synonymous.
Stop looking for single reasons.
Signs.
This ship has sailed.
No Dear John.

Sincerely
Signed
Staats

America Unleashed

I heard the funniest comment the other day. I called a friend to chit-chat and they said, "Can I call you back I am on a long distance call." This may not be so strange to you. But I called a cell phone. Of a friend that was out-of-state. And it made me laugh. My Mom used to say that was the reason why she didn't click over when she had another call, because she was a long distance call, which she was paying more for.

Second funny thing. I got asked why didn't I have a house phone. I replied because I didn't need another unnecessary bill. I use my cell phone as personal computer, GPS, music player, digital camera, calculator, notepad, calendar, and sometimes to make phone calls. I am in all senses of the word tethered to my technology. How many of us aren't? If you are reading this put your hands down.

We are findable, transparent, stereotypical, quotable, and virtually addicted to the leashes that keep us connected to each other. I am not excited for this advancement in technology. It reminds me of the movie Crash and Demolition Man. Don Cheadle says in Crash, "We're always behind this metal and glass...I think we miss that touch so much that we CRASH into each other just to feel something." And in Demolition Man the characters no longer touch during intimate moments, everything is experienced through sensory machines.

When was the last time you sent a loved one a hand written letter? Or you called friends and family to let them know you had made it to a destination safely. Little things like respecting a person's character and not interrupting them at 2am with text messages that only say "R U up?" Niceties are no longer extended. Facebook invades our personal lives so much that I do not look forward to my 10 year reunion. I am greeted by smiling faces, marriage announcements, bridal showers, baby's births, and a constant barrage of daily updates from people that I haven't seen since I picked up my diploma back in Baltimore.




Some say it's a plus. But people are supposed to fade from your peripheral for a reason. They are not meant to have access to your life's ambitions, your joys, sorrows, all that you would share with only people who know your middle name. Now for business purposes network away. But I am not narcissistic enough to think that my life is that important to other people or even entertaining enough for you to "follow" my every move. Or that I would want to update you every time I wiped my ass while I was fighting off Swine Flu.




I just would like to give the excuse one day that "sorry I missed your call I was out of town/out the house/out of my mind". And that be reason enough for not calling you. Texting you. Twitting you. Adding you. Sending you requests. Sharing songs/video/music. I just would like some anominity that life is supposed to afford you. We have to realize that our next generation of leaders will have belonged to some internet community, that unless they know at age 13 they want to be President there will be images of them that people will refer to to assassinate their character with just a right-click and save.





I've driven back home after getting to work because I left my cell phone. Felt like I had walked out of the house without pants on. We will never be unleashed. But maybe we can give ourselves a little more personal space from prying eyes and scrolling screens.

Salvation

One night while watching television I felt a moment of enlightenment. Not something profound, self-evaluating, but undeniably spiritual. I was watching Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles (yes I am a nerd) and the main character John Connor asks his Uncle what he would be like in the future. And I began to wonder what if would be like to know who or what you are to become in the future. Especially if the man/woman you are to become will be herald as the Saviour of Man. Imagine the pressure. Imagine the task set ahead of you second guessing your actions, trying to be something that everyone thinks you should be. Now before this becomes a piece of "living your life for you and not what other people think", I realized ironically that this story sounded very familiar.




If you have seen any of the Terminator movies this should be easy to connect the dots.

Dot 1: John Connor
Dot 2: End of the World
Dot 3: Mother impregnated by a man that hasn't been born yet
Dot 4: Saviour of Man
Dot 5: One "man" manages to rise from the ashes to put right what is wrong with the world.



Recognize the story. For you that need a better picture.

Dot 1: JC. (Jesus Christ)
Dot 2: The Apocolypse
Dot 3: The Virgin Mary
Dot 4: Son of God
Dot 5: Revelations

You could only imagine the joy I felt in this story. That something sown so deep in cinema was a road map to Faith.

Belief.


Salvation.


Now I am far from any Saint. Nor do I prescribe to much of organized religion (although I still consider myself Christian). And before zealots tear this piece to pieces we have to realize that all people do not have the same walk with God. That His path is different for all of us. That faith is defined in believing without seeing. That salvation comes only to those that welcome it. The correlation isn't that difficult to make.

Death. Famine. Destruction by fire. End of Days. Judgement Day. Salvation. The last two being actual subtitles taken from the Terminator movies.

We all know the story of Jesus as told by the Bible. We have listened to or tried to sweep under the rug the thought of Jesus Christ being not the Son of God but a man who lived and died. I believe that the story is blended. I think the same way that God chose men to spread His word the same could have been done in the story of Jesus. That this man had such a relationship with God that it was as if God lived in him. Does that make him more human yes. Does that make him any less of a Messiah to people no. I feel that with religion its one way or the other. That there does not exist room for doubt. None of know for sure. And I don't want to use this piece to start a huge debate on Church and Religion (two different things).

All I wanted to point out is that our purpose is not always foretold. That our future is not written in stone. But if...just if...you were told that you would be the beginning and the end. That you would lead millions. Save countless others. Do great work. Perform miracles. Bring Heaven to Earth. Create paradise. Rise against the Dark and Evil in the world. How would you handle the pressure? Would you buckle? Would you strive to be the best man or woman you could be one day at a time? Would you make mistakes? What would you want your legacy to be? That you were infalliable? That you were untouchable? Would you want people to model themselves after your reality or your perception? How would you change your story so that everyone found Salvation?






(some) Churches should focus on changing their message to Salvation...it's for everyone. Rather than casting the first stone. Let he who is without sin...

The Day The World Stood Still

The irony of November 4th will always remain in my mind. On this day in the 2008th year After Christ; 332 years after the Declaration of Independence was signed and our governing body was officially created; an African-American man became President of the United States. Ironic, I say because it wasn't your usual definition of African-American. Majority of African-Americans (traditional) are not able to trace their heritage to their ancestors in Africa. We were not given the option to hold to our identity, to our history, to help shape a future steeped in remembrance. Nothing to help us weather the 400 year storm that would be the enslavement of Africans. I find it apropos that the first President of color be the son of a Kenyan father and Caucasian mother. A marriage if you will, of the quintessential cornerstone of the United States embodied. A nation built on the backs of Africans, and the misguided directives of newly declared independent Anglo-Saxons.

Our President is bi-racial. He is a color that I identify with on a personal level. He is articulate. He is an American that I am proud to say is someone I support. Not all of his policies but his ideologies. Barack Obama made the world stand still today. And because I was up at 5:30am I too helped changed the world today. No matter what happens or doesn't happen the United States changed today. The last color barrier has been shattered (+5% win is shattering in case you didn't know).

Now color withstanding a lot of work must be done. We all know that time is something that will tell, but patience and perseverance is what our President asks of us. "With great power comes great expectation." And no greater tasks exists then making sure that those millions of people that voted today help do their part in continuing to contribute and sway politics on all sides. Today it truly is our voice that was heard.

Michelle Obama mentioned that we can no longer live in fear of our decisions. I don't know if it is that fear that gives me chills as I listened to Obama's acceptance speech. That this man holds the dreams and hopes of so many, yet as shown from earlier attempts, his life is now and will always be in danger as not just the President of the United States but as a African-American man. The Plexiglass wall that shielded President Obama could not enclose thoughts of how depraved this world can be. That I don't want another negative blemish on the face of America. I do not want to relive my parents anguish of the assassination of MLK, JFK, or even my own personal association of seeing the World Trade Center Towers taken down. Those days of the world standing still are over.

President Obama is here! Let us rejoice! Seeing him on stage reminds me of the movie Deep Impact. When Morgan Freeman's Presidential portrayal gave his speech of rebuilding, I couldn't help but again be reminded of the irony of tonight's address. It was the last few minutes of a great epic movie. Where the American spirit perseveres, thrives, succeeds, even in the face of imminent disaster. His eloquence in his speech brought tears to eyes. The story of Ann Nixon who President Obama's speech included is History. HIS STORY. OUR STORY. The progress that we have made. That we are making. And that we will continue to make. So stand still as the credits roll. Take in the moment that we get to live in today. That story will forever be embedded in the fabric of this nation and this world. Listen to the music play, the faces of the Obama family, the Biden family, the supporters, the parties in the streets, the lines of people voting, the speeches, the parodies, the moment in 2004 where a Keynote Address speaker transitioned from Junior Senator to Leader of the Freeworld. Listen as African ancestors finally get to rest in peace. Truly. Stand still. And realize the world too is standing. Waiting for change.

Motivation

At the gym last week I recognized there are different things that motivate people. Some are self-motivated. As if we can see what we look like while panting on treadmill at level 5 we will agree that we are out of shape and that we never want to look like that person in the mirror again. Others get amped up by the After Pictures. That is what I call the gym bunnies or muscle dudes walking around with the least amount of workout attire allowable. They represent what we want to look like, areas that we need to work on, a visual message of you can look like me if you keep working out. What I would like to come with After Pictures (AP) are bios and Before Pictures (BP). Like if an AP used to be 50lbs overweight and now has 3% body fat I am going to be on every machine that they get on. Maybe not as long or as heavy but that's motivation to some.

I like to be the best. At everything. Or at least better then most people. The air of competition drives me most of the time. Perfect example: I was at the gym running on the treadmill and my goal was to consistently run for 5 miles in less then an hour. I do it about three times a week. Well today Gym Bunny Suzie (the name I came up with her in my head) gets on the treadmill next to me. Needless to say she cranks it up to 8. Blonde hair, little chest, and even smaller butt start bouncing on the machine. I like to keep my towel over the time so that I can't tell how far I have to go or how many minutes I have been running. Time for me is not motivation. But Suzie is just running along. And not even sweating. Soon I look over at her digital reading and she has caught up with me. Well not to be outdone I cranked up the juice on my treadmill. Now I never noticed Suzie look over at my progress or dripping sweat everywhere or even acknowledge that I had non-verbally entered her into my track and field competition but she beat my ass. Like Jamaica versus the US. What I didn't realize was during our race I was breathing right, swinging my arms, and pacing my steps that I ended up burning more calories and finishing my 5 miles just under 50 minutes. MOTIVATION!

So what motivates you? A word of encouragement? Seeing someone do better than you? A set goal? I believe we should make realistic goals, but don't but time stamps on them. Especially when they concern physical activity. Do enough to make it noticeable to you. So when someone does notice it. You can tell them you should have seen your Before Picture.