Sunday, September 8, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
I remember the first time I heard a Janelle Monae song. My tv was tuned in to MTV and I was passing by about to head out and I saw this young lady shuffling and singing her heart out in the cutest ensemble. I wait for the song to end; the song ends and I find out the artiste name is Janelle Monae and the song's called Tightrope. While I found the song interesting, her style was what really drew me and ever since I have been an avid admirer of her monochrome and androgynous style.
Monday, August 12, 2013
****I got in a writing mood today and this was what i did. Read and enjoy. i hope you like it. If you do, please share. This is the first installment of this story; I plan to update it often.****
I stare at the walls. Mauve. Not a bad choice for such a “fancy” place. I pick up the Time sitting on the coffee table. It was out of place from the other books that were on the table. Someone else has read this today, I think to myself. My feet are trembling and my heart beats faster than usual. I’m scared. This feeling isn’t foreign. It happens and lasts until I give Cleo a chance to come out and do her thing.
I look down at my custom-made suit – a souvenir from my last French lover. I search my memory banks for his name. Jacques or Javier- one or the other I really can’t remember. It has been so long. That’s what I tell myself. My very own alcohol-induced amnesia. Several bottles of red-wine, another souvenir from the liaison, downed at the oddest hours can do that to you. Or maybe it isn't the wine, maybe it was my strong will and desire to forget that really led to this memory loss. I keep wondering about the root of my “amnesia” until I’m drawn out of my reverie by the secretary; she wants me to go in.
I get up and approach the door; my feet starts trembling again as I draw nearer. I pause, take a moment to recompose myself. I look at my reflection, Cleo looks back at me. She tells me “You can’t do it; you’re a wuss; allow me take the lead”. I shut her out. She’s not taking charge of this one. I look at my suit again; red does work well with my skin-tone, and this nude Louboutin’s go so well with the suit. I look great; I say to myself and proceed to march on to the office but not before I see the scorching gaze of the secretary. She’s obviously not pleased by my excessive cleavage. I glance at it – a gift from my Irish “companion”. He liked his women “big”. I turn around and wink at the secretary. Oops that’s not me. That’s Cleo.