Running to a Phantom Exit

I was talking to my mother the other day when the subject of hamsters and gerbils came up. I think I was trying to make some sort of analogy to a hamster wheel that goes nowhere. From there I began to wonder if the little hamsters and gerbils that jump on these wheels and other apparatuses for "exercise" are actually making a futile attempt to escape their confinement. As a living being, they clearly have feelings, and perhaps a sense of awareness that there's a bigger world out there. They are directed to mate and replicate themselves, just as humans, so why wouldn't they be driven to seek a better quality of life? Though I doubt they are able to process why they are being driven to do so?

For years now I've seen the little guys on those wheels, seemingly running for dear life, and found the sight to be cute. But with this new realization, I can't help but feel a little sad to know that they could possibly be moving at such a feverish pace because they think an exit is imminent. Some sort of way out. They know not, however, that for them, there is no escape. The wheels, tunnels, and mazes that they endure are merely for our amusement.

I also wonder if they have any plan on what to do if they escape? I mean, where would they go, what would they do? Wouldn't they need to find the others? As they run toward that phantom exit, only we humans understand that they are actually safer in their confinement of bedding, a wheel, a pellet bowl or dispenser, and a source of water. Outside of that cage is a world of rats, mice, cats, car wheels, birds.....and worse, an even bigger space to live a life of solitude in.

Oh why do we enjoy confining creatures for our pleasure? And why must they run on a wheel to nowhere? Just questions that I'll probably never find the answer to. I watch a lot of the original Twilight Zone episodes, where the show's creator, Rod Serling, touches on different aspects of the human condition such as our wondering where we are....why we are here....what is 'here'?....what's in that big world out there? Could these little creatures possibly ponder such things as well. Mr. Serling attempted to answer these questions by presenting various scenarios in which man, the animal with dominion over all others on Earth, was in fact the captive for an even bigger species. In this series, we get to see what it would be like for humans to exist in a pretend world where nothing is real; where we are simply fed, manipulated, and monitored. And allowed to run feverishly toward phantom exits.

Ramblings About Seasons and Something Else

I have these "seasons" of inspiration and productivity that visit me for a while. Sometimes for a few days, others time a month or two. During these times I feel like I can accomplish anything I set my sights on. I find myself writing more, traveling more, planning more, daydreaming more, just doing more of everything that makes me feel better about myself. I'm in a season right now, but something "ain't quite right" with this one. I'm not reaching the full high that I've come to expect. While I'm somewhat inspired, I'm nowhere near as productive as I can be. While I'm writing more, it's not with the same intensity as I've experienced in previous seasons. And daydreaming? While I do that continuously, my fantasies aren't as fulfilling as I know they can be. My imagination can create some fantastical imagery that entertains me during the day and in my dreams. Lately, the thrill appears to be waning. I wonder what role stress is playing. Am I not consuming enough protein to properly fuel the electrical impulses responsible for the visions, feelings, and emotions that comprise my subconscious sleep? My imagination is not providing the good times that I'm accustomed to. Something's afoot.

Bronze Thrills, Black Confessions, and a little Jive

This is a story of my first lesson in the importance of proper proofreading and editing, and how quickly a manuscript can lose credibility when a reader is confronted with easily avoidable errors.

“Moist Caverns” and “Man Tools”

When I was around 13 or 14, I discovered that nestled amongst the magazines on the stand at the Winn-Dixie grocery store, were four black romance/confession magazines—Jive, Black Confessions, Bronze Thrills, and Black Romance. (These publications were, in my words, an “urban imprint” for Sterling/Macfadden, publisher of the mainstream confession titles True Confessions, True Story, and True Romance.) An avid reader who was suffering from a severe case of puberty, I found my little discovery quite intriguing, to say the least. It didn’t take long for me to realize the salaciousness that lay before me.

He plunged his man tool into my moist cavern…

“Ma!!," hurrying excitedly, "can you buy this for me?”

My poor mother, I bugged her for at least several weeks to buy one of the magazines for me. It was the most important item in the world to me at the time. She was a tough nut to crack, as she wasn’t naïve, and knew all too well the type of stories they were. She shared her concerns that the material was inappropriate for me, and we'd go back and forth on how the stories weren't bad at all, and that I was indeed old enough to read them. I begged each Winn-Dixie visit. I still remember the night when she finally relented. I had been following her around the store holding one of the magazines, looking pitiful, of course. Knowing she’d say no, I wasted my breath again by asking if she’d buy it for me. She reviewed the cover for a moment, and then said yes! That, gentle readers, was one of the happiest moments of my teen years. Bronze Thrills was finally coming home with me (I still have this issue by the way, February 1993). Finally, I was going to read stories about girls just a few years older than me who had boyfriends and were having sex with them; girls disobeying their parents to sneak around with neighborhood bad boys; women catching their husbands having affairs; love triangles; domestic violence; workplace infatuation—Yessssss!

And so my journey began. Soon I started a summer job and was able to buy my own magazines, and I continued to do for a number of years afterward. While I always found the material interesting, and usually had a favorite story in each issue, reading these magazines was an exercise in patience. The grammatical and typographical errors were so blatant that, in my opinion, it offended the intelligence of the readers.

"Errors"

Jennifer, are you telling us that a magazine went to press without anyone bothering to make sure it looked okay?

Yes, I am. Where were the editors? I wondered. Did anyone on the payroll bother to even read one of the issues? Pure foolishness. In addition to suffering with misspelled words, missing words, and no spacing between words, imagine these other crimes against literature that faithful readers had to endure:

The "editors" in charge forced us to

· Attempt to understand text where there was either a misplacement or absence of quotation marks that rendered dialogue and the narrator’s inner thoughts indistinguishable.
· Re-read stories, as a story in one issue was sometimes a word-for-word reprint of one from a few issues back.
· Get to know a main character by one name, let's say “Nathan,” only to turn the page and find that his name had changed to “Mike.”
· Skim an issue's Table of Contents in the store, and become excited at a particular story's title and synopsis, only to get it home and discover that said story wasn’t even in the issue. I'm not kidding. Table of Contents should never lie! (This happened to me twice, and I’m still mad about it.)

"Prisoners"

Before the internet, lonely hearts commonly sought love through classified ads in newspapers and magazines. Black Romance and her sisters were no exception. When I would get a new issue, the first thing I would do is read the "Pen Pals" column in the back. Out of about 25 ads per issue, all but one would be from a prisoner seeking companionship.

"Ebony prince seeks princess for romance and marriage. I'm a writer, musician, and political activist. Will answer all. Roses for you, beautiful lady. Race and weight not important."

(Sidebar: Race and weight never seem to be a problem after all the options have been taken away. Come as you are, my queens. Funny, were they that accepting as free men?)

As an adult, I saw the ad of a guy I think I worked with at McDonalds years before when I was 16. This guy (when I knew him) had gold teeth, a jherri curl, and always wore a cow hide sun visor (of course, I had a crush on him). He had a very unique nickname, and this was the name I saw in the ad. When I saw that this individual was incarcerated in my home state, I was all but assured that he was indeed the same guy who shared fry duty with me and had gone on to make some bad choices. I used to wonder, and still do, how these men found out about these publications; was there some kind of network? I also felt some kind of way about these men possibly attempting to take advantage of lonely women. I'm sure my mother didn't know what to make of me. I was a weird one, I'm sure there were hardly any other teenage girls who found reading inmate personals ads entertaining.

"Conclusion"

Today, Sterling/Macfadden no longer publishes these black love-focused magazines. I think the True magazines are still around though. I wasn’t sad to see them go. Aside from being older and not that into them anymore, I had lost respect for the company for not caring about the quality of this particular brand. It had gotten to the point where I no longer bothered to flip through them anymore. I had spent too many nights becoming engrossed in a story, only to be snatched from the fantasy because of an error that, had anyone cared to proofread it, could have easily been corrected. It's hard to enjoy a story when the journey to get to the end is choppy and misguided. Before abandoning these magazines, I had managed to collect over 30 of them. I have them stashed away here and there. I hope to keep them for a long time because I’m sentimental, but also because I want to pass them on to someone. Most teens/young women today wouldn't find much interest in a nearly 20-year-old romance magazine, but, if one of them is like me, would greatly appreciate the piece of history. Perhaps I'll find someone someday who will treasure them as I have, offensive errors and all.

I've rambled on enough. Now I'm off to go and finish up an earlier post I started in July.

--A nostalgic reader

A Reply From the Heart

I spend a lot of time on a particular messageboard because of the interesting discussion forums and thread topics; my favorite hangout being the celebrity news and gossip forum. Sharing my thoughts with the world in reply to "who is this with so and so?" or "is so and so sleeping with this guy?" is a fun way to relax after a stressful day of doing what I do to earn a buck. I also frequent the board's news forum, though threads in this section tend to focus on the week's more depressing news. A story tonight affected me more deeply than the others because I could relate to the victim. I didn't know her, but I've encountered women who remind me so much of her; or rather, of the circumstances that may have led to her accepting someone into her life who had no business there. She reminded me of women who have taught me that it is better to be alone than to waive a potential mate's crucial "must haves" after reaching a point where you just want somebody and no longer believe that your god ever received your pleas for a suitable companion.

I read this woman's story and wrote an emotional response that seems to have affected other members as well. I wanted to share it on my blog. Not as a musing of an editor, writer, and storyteller. But as an observation of what I see happening far too often. I can only hope that I never signal to life that I'm ready to walk in this woman's shoes.

Here's the video of the news story:



And here's the article that details the couple's history.



And last, the comments that I shared with the board:

"Such a sad thing to hear. Poor little boy. You can only hope that he blocks out his mother's death, if he saw it, and only remembers the good times and his mother's love. He'll need those memories and I wish him the best. I have more stuff to say but not everyone will understand how I feel, so I'll just say this. I just feel sorry for this woman. I'm sure he wasn't her first choice or even her 20th. I'm sure that she pursued "better" men and prayed about it through the years. Perhaps the feelings were never mutual. So you go for what you can control, your education and career. I'm sorry she got tired of looking and waiting and decided to accept this thing into her life. I won't fault her for it because loneliness is a serious thing and only those who have experienced it can understand what can make a seemingly intelligent put together person stoop so low. Not everyone is strong enough to battle with a desire to be loved."

A Familiar, But Older Face

When I tell people I work as a writer, I usually receive a "oh, you're a journalist?" I then have to surprise them by revealing that I never went to journalism school, never studied communications, and never had to read War and Peace (that's right, I wasn't an English major either). Though I've flirted with the idea of becoming a print journalist, I haven't done anything yet to bring anything to fruition.

While at a conference this past week, during a discussion of the responsibilities of a particular job, I heard one of the attendees start a comment with, "Twenty years from now when we're all gone—"
She was referring to herself and colleagues who would be retired by then. Naturally, my brain took that phrase, conferred with my imagination, and together they came up with an image of me encountering a me who was twenty years older... 51 years old.

I pictured the surprise on both faces as their eyes registered the future and the past. As part of being a self-proclaimed weirdo, I'll admit to sometimes wishing for the three ghosts from A Christmas Carol to visit me, particularly the Ghost of Christmas Future. I want to know something, anything about what's to come.

So as I took my conference notes, I imagined what would happen at such a meeting. What insight I'd gain about my future life. I combined what I've learned about interviewing a source, with all I know of creative expression to conduct an "interview" with 51-year-old Jennifer. While my representative carefully studied the presenters' slides, who would have thought that I had secretly escaped further into my imagination for a little playtime.

[after excited yelps and hugs and kisses between the two]

31: Thank you for speaking with me today, Jennifer.
51: Don't I always find time to talk to myself?
31: You haven't lost your sense of humor I see.
51: Life tried to take it from me, but I held on.
31: You look great.
51: Why thank you. If you stop eating sweets right now, and manage to keep it that way, you can pull this off too.

31: Um, how many books have you written?
51: Twelve.
31: Big publishing house or self-published?
51: Both actually. I publish my and my mother's books, as well as a few other authors. Under my own company ____ Publishing (editor's note: company name cannot be revealed), a big publishing house.

31: Did you finish the story about Ronald and Lauren?
51: I'm glad you asked about that. I did. Won a few awards for it, and a filmmaker buddy made it into a movie. Can't tell you who plays Ronald though. Can't spoil the surprise.
31: Oh my goodness, this is unbelievable. I actually accomplish something.
51: And so much more.
31: This is amazing to hear.

31: As you may recall, I'm worried about turning 40, getting older scares me. What's it like to be 51?
51: Wow, did I really sound this sickening back then? No offense, youngin', but complaining about 40? Must be nice. But to answer your question, it feels just like 31. Except I'm 51. My mind hasn't changed but my body is playing by its own rules. Menopause finally came, to answer your other question you asked when you were 12.

31: Do you have children?
51: Eleven. You do become a foster parent, Jennifer. Eleven special men and women refer you as 'Ma.' And eight little boys and girls call you 'Big Ma.'
31: Oh my goodness, really?

31: Are you still different? You know what I mean don't you?
51: Yes. And yes, I'm still different. But check this out, I fit in a little bit more now. Mean people went out of style some years ago. 'Please' and 'thank you' are normal things to hear from everyone these days. Chivalry even came back. All the good decent women who want to be married are, I tell you the world is pretty nice.
31: Really? Am I to believe what I am hearing?
51: And get this. A study found that C average students are better people and have longer life spans than overachievers. Scholarship committees all over the world now treat people of average intelligence and academic ability with respect and give them a chance too.
31: I'm stunned, I'm just stunned. You mean, in your time, people like us are eligible for free rides too?
51: Yes, Virginia, there is indeed a Santa Claus.

51: Anything else you want to know, I really must get back to my life and you must return to yours. Being that this whole thing totally goes against the rules of the universe, time travel, and parallel dimensions.
31: Is there anything I should avoid? You know, any people to stay away from?
51: Do you like who I am Jennifer?
31: Of course. We're amazing.
51: Well if I told you what to avoid then you'd never learn what you need to get here. Just keep trusting your instinct. And regardless of how unfair things appear, don't let it change you. Now I must take my leave of you, Sweety. Take care of yourself okay?

31: Wait, one more thing. Do you ever meet that person who finally sees you. Really sees who and what you are?
51: Yes. We finally do.

I’m So Special: The Narcissist’s Anthem

I’m so special
I’m so special, so special, so special

This is the addictive chant of a popular dancehall song, which, not surprisingly, is titled “I’m So Special.” The artist’s name is Movado, in case you want to hear it for yourself.

While many people aren’t as bold to make such a proclamation, the evidence of a majority of the population’s sense of “specialness” can be found on blogs, social networking profiles, and just about any other medium accessed by other humans.

Look how special I am everyone, they flaunt.
Read my opinion of politics, the deterioration of the family structure, rude people, interracial relationships, sex, they beg.
Look at how adventurous I am, I’m in a raft; I’m climbing a mountain, look at me, they show off.
Listen to my cover of this Otis Redding song, don’t I sound just like him? Give me a record deal, they bay.

I’m so special, they appeal to the masses.

And yes readers, so am I. My confession for today is that the older I get, the more fascinated with myself I become. I enjoy the way I talk and laugh, the way I think, my bizarre and dark sense of humor, my personality, how quickly my nails grow, how goofy I dance, just about everything about me is special.

I’ve often wished that I could clone myself so that I could hang out with someone just like me. I’ve also wished I could have neighbors just like me (to ensure decency), coworkers as considerate as me, customer service people who were as professional and kind as me. I’ve even expressed to my mother what a wonderful child I was, and that I would consider myself extremely lucky to be blessed with children who behave in the same manner.

So, much like those people, I regularly venture online to tell the world how I’m feeling, what I want out of life, what I think about life, what I’ve analyzed about my behavior. Perhaps I’m under the delusion that the world cares. Or perhaps I’m sitting here giggling in delight at the cleverness of my own thoughts and how happy I am to write all of this just for me.

Whatever it is, I’m here to report that it has spread to my offline life. I’ve started a “Facebook” page at the entrance of my cubicle, to notify coworkers of my daily thoughts. I call it Penny For My Thoughts. It’s a sheet of paper with a real penny taped on it and filled with my “postings.” I don’t get much foot traffic, so I doubt more than two people even realize what’s written on those papers stuck to the outside of Jennifer’s cube. But it’s there, folks. From my dreams of homeownership, to how I can be found at home on Friday nights while other D.C. singles are out on dates.

What would possess me to do such a thing? I’m so special. I’m so special, so special, so special.