another year, another tabula raza

the taxi creeped to a stop. sitting behind the passenger seat, i looked out the window and saw my destination. 

home.

i pulled out my money and the three bags that sat next to me.

home. 

it had been an entire year since i seen this place. since i called any place by the same name.

i had been loyal to this place as though it was my lover. and it was.

the memories we shared, the talks, the late nights, i'd be damned if i didn't return.

and here i am. 

"God, it's good to be back."

i could almost hear the house respond, "it's good to have you back."

i stood outside for a while, letting the brisk air sweep my nostrils and cleanse my sinuses. 

my keys wouldn't stop jingling as i tried to slip them into the lock. 

the unlocking "click" was loud enough to attract the police's attention.

and i entered expecting things to be just as i left them.

but they weren't. 

the house was barren, void of any previous life. desolate. heartless even.

no pictures. no vacuum lines. no furniture. nothing. nothing was as i left it.

it was a shock i didn't expect but knew i should have.

"everything changes," i reminded myself. "Even home."

it was a sense of emptiness i had never felt before. 

i left into nothingness, i didn't think i'd have to come home to the same.

i looked down at my watch, "8:17 am. January first, 2011."

and with the beginning of the new year, i knew this would be the beginning of a new home.

with faint memories lingering in the air, i decided to not attempt to relive the past but to enjoy the potential possibilities of what could be sculpted out of this nothingness. 

solitude is only a matter of self.

heres to the new year.

the EX-mas special

i parked on the side of the road next to the mailbox.

grabbed a few neatly wrapped boxes and sighed heavily.

the snow fell undisturbed, adding a slight melancholy aura to the world outside my luxury vehicle. opening the door, the cold rushed to greet me like a long forgotten loyal canine. it licked my face in its entirety leaving me already regretful for this trip.

i shuffled through the cold and snow to reach the front door. a door i used to know so well.

rang the doorbell with an extended finger from a full right hand.

no answer.

second ring.

i did a little shuffle to keep my feet warm and wondered why the hell mothers always get to take the kids.

i let her have the house and cars, all i wanted was my children. the children that i read to while she was asleep and pregnant. i fed them. they cried for me when they cried. but she got them.

thanks justice system.

before i could fully finish my mental rant, i heard the unlatching of locks from the other side of the door.

"Robert?"

"nah, santa. easter bunny. whoever i need to be to get the hell outta this cold."

"oh, sorry. sorry. come in."

"thanks."

i stepped in and slipped off my shoes without putting down the gifts. with the presents resting securely under my chin, i looked around the now unfamiliar house. walls re-painted. beautiful Black statuettes missing.

normally, i would have said something slightly snide but i decided to keep my mouth shut.

"a wife can be replaced, blood cannot." -chinese proverb

i kept my children in mind.

"i'll take the gifts..."

"no. i want to give my children their presents. "

"oh. well, i just thought you'd be tired."

"oh dear, sweet, wondrous woman, i am, in fact, tired of many things. but no amount of weariness will keep me from hand delivering these sweet gifts to my sweet children."

she stepped aside and i proceeded to where i knew the living to be, half-walking half-sliding on the hardwood floors.

my daughter ran up and hugged my leg without a word as she usually did. never much for words, that one.

"Mornin, Big guy." my son, evercool and effortlessly smooth. can't say i know where he got that from.

"has santa treated you guys well?" i asked the two.

my son nodded and my daughter remained silent.

"well, allow good ol saint daddy try to top him."

i set down the mound of presents expecting the children to rush to them and tear them to shreds. they didn't.

my daughter spoke somberly, "mommy told us that there is no santa."

i shot a glare at my ex.

"Troy said i should, they're getting old..."

i stood and got as close to that woman's face without seeming to be a threat, "next time you decide to alter the mindset of my children, whom i've worked so hard to train against your blissful ignorance, please, let me know. i'd like to be there. Troy isn't their father and should have much less say in these matters than i do, according to the courts that you so dramatically cry to. thanks."

turning back to my offspring, i smiled, stooped and sighed, "shes right, guys. santa isn't real. but your mother didn't tell you the entire truth, either. Christmas actually isn't even a Christian holiday or Jesus' birthday. there are certain things in this world that you're gonna have to question if you want the full truth. don't leave it to the likes of your mother to tell you everything. question everything, my loves. understood?"

"so santa isn't real?" my sweet sweet innocent daughter had finally been tainted by the evils of this world. in my irritation, i instantly thought to kill her mother.

"well, actually, saint nick, also known as santa, was a real person. but he was a bad bad man, he never even really gave out gifts!"

she gasped.

"i know! can you believe that?"

"but why is he so famous now?"

"you know, i don't really know. i want you to look him up and tell me next time i see you, okay?"

"okay."

"giving homework on christmas break now, dad?"

"the quest for wisdom is a never-ending one, kiddo."

there was a tap on my shoulder.

i stood.

"Robert. you know i don't like when you talk to my children wile they're adults. like they're going to understand..."

"seems like they understand to me. so you want them to grow out of santa but you're not ready to support their growth?"

"i don't apperciate you defacing my religion either."

"i said nothing about your skewed Christian views either, woman. i simply told the children what i know to be fact and that is christmas is not the holiday your confused relatives made it out to be. research it, give me a report stating otherwise and we'll debate that when you have actual proof."

she stood fuming.

i turned back to my main objectives, "alas, my loves, it seems that, yet again, your mother has nonverbally shortened my stay and i must depart. tomorrow is my day so we'll have plenty of fun then, eh?"

"i'll have my report then, daddy!"

"i'll bring this new game for us. and some comics."

"then i suppose i'll have plenty of food and movies. oh! have you seen this old one called "twelve angry men"? you'll love it, i promise."

"robert.."

i whispered loudly enough for all to hear, "see? i don't think she likes me to much. but you guys are my favorites. abbey, love, you remember the bleach in the milk trick, yes?"

my daughter nodded harshly and giggled while my son smiply smiled and kept himself occupied toying with nails on his toes. "i love you guys."

"we love you too, dad," in unison.

"do you love mommy?" abbey asked.

i chuckled, "i do, but blind love without insightful knowledge leads to failed relationships."

at the door the ex one said, "i don't know how you get her to talk like that."

"treat her like a human."

"shame you couldnt treat me the same way."

"shame you couldnt be human. Merry Christmas."

(excuse the spelling. wrote this between finals.) (insert copywright information. tbf2 productions stuff)

so..

over the years, i've been asked, "why do you keep your ipod on?" more times than i can remember.
so, finally, i'll answer.

think of your favorite movie ever.
the notebook
the matrix
transformers 1 or 2
the dark knight
boys 'n' da hood
love and basketball
whatever.

ok, now think of the climax of that movie.
the absolute pinnacle of the drama/action/story whatever.

got it?
relive it for a second.
go ahead, close your eyes.
remember that scene.

ok, now, imagine that moment without the background music.
instead replace the music with the scuffling of feet, sniffling, coughs, background chatter, etc.
yeah. how bad does that suck?

as long as i can remember, i've seen my live through a lens (hence, why i can deliver scenes via words (with additional help from my firm grasp on the english language.)). the most pivital moments of my life, which i like to think is every moment, need music.
the impact of such moments are dulled without it.
makes them memorable.

music doesn't make my world go around, rather, it slows it down.
gives me time to enjoy the scene.

and there you have it folks.

define:

what makes an object what it is?

is a chair a chair because we sit on it?
or do we sit on it because its a chair?

question: two men sleep in the bed together. are they gay? say they sleep naked. are they gay now? if one wakes up with the other's penis in his mouth, are they gay? are they gay because of this or is it because of their gayness that this happened?

i'm sitting on a countertop as i write this, does that make it a chair?
or maybe i just don't got no home training.

point is: do definitions define us or are we the writers of our own definitions?
Am i Tarrancce because i was told so or because i've defined to be such.

bigger question: am i Black because society says so? because they don't. in fact, most say i'm
"white" (you know, proper speakin and shit li dat dere.) So am i, in fact, white?
if so, am i white because that is my definition?

but to determine that wouldn't we, first, have to define Black?

so Tarrance = white . which doesn't = Black
Tarrance: intelligent, cunning, wise, hard-working, talented, kind, etc. = white. (?)
so Black: dumb, dense, foolish, lazy, unskillful, mean-spirited, etc. i refuse to believe such.

but to further answer this, we'd have to ignore my pigment.

define "definition": the words that tell us what we/it are/is

define "what we are": the people who make definitions

"I am what i am."

-heres to a new dictionary.

may death be with you

if heaven was hell in vicea versa.
i'd say God bless you and you'd say i cursed.

peace be with thee
would be an insult of a thing

so thank God things aren't how they could be.

but for you, and just for you.
that is how things should be.

i curse you breath
i grimace at your smile
i wish you the best at nothing, but death.

too bad the world isn't vice versa.

noting no thing.

nothing is to be nonexistent. 

thus, with the being of no thing, there must be an everything. 

thus, they must be in the same. 

tarrance = tarrance.

thus if tarrance is not tarrance then there is no tarrance. 

but if tarrance is not tarrance, there is a tarrance to know what a tarrance is.

(funny, thus far, the only misspelled word is tarrance.)

so to exist is to have not existed.

this is what we call birth, no?

yes. 

therefore, all things must exist for them to not exist. 

exist being a verb, of course. 

or a adjective, even. 

can we reach the horizon?

no matter how far we walk, we cannot. 

but it does exist, doesn't it?

no. and yes. 

we can walk until we meet defeat (de-feet) and never touch it.

so then, does it exist?

what the hell is "it" anyway?

"it" is whatever i say it is. 

that is the American way.

but then what of God, air, clouds, Santa?

we cannot touch them but they exist. right?

an English solider cannot be touched. but they are very real. 

and those who try to touch them are met with ill repercussions. 

these other things are american ideas, mostly.

which we, also, cannot touch.

damn it.

i say that to say: "nothing is everything."

but how bland is that?

thank you Percival Everett.

leveled interrogation

tied to his chair, he sat calmly.

i stooped to his level making sure to rest my elbows on my thighs so he could see my dangling gun.

man 1: you know why you're here?

man 2: i know why you think i'm here.

man 1: will you see daylight again?

man 2: is that the same as "is the glass half empty-slash-full" ?

man 1: no.

man 2: then, when did the sun go down?

man 1: did it go down?

man 2: no.

man 1: you will die here.

man 2: a piece of you might leave with me.

man 1: most of me is already gone.

both men managed to remain oddly calm, regardless of such a charged atmosphere.

man 3: who are you?

man 2: how much does that matter?

man 3: you're in my basement. i'd say quite a bit.

man 1: maybe you should leave.

man 2: i'd agree.

man 3: this is my house.

man 1: this is a canvas.

man 2: do not become the art.

man 3: i love art.

man 1 shot man 3.

woman 1: honey, what was that sound?

man 1: art.

woman 1: honey, are you okay, you sound different.

man 2: don't come down stairs. 

woman 1: who are you men?

man 1: Art and Paint.

woman 1: such odd names. were your parents artists?

man 1: i have a gun. 

man 2: your husband is dead. 

woman 1: that wasn't my husband. i'll leave you boys to play.

man 1: you will die here.

man 2: when did the sun go down?

man 1: it didn't. 

man 2: half full?

man 1: no, i just took some of yours. 

man 2: gluttony is a sin.

man 1: so is murder.

man 2: so is murder.

man 1: brief me when i get there. 

man 1 shot man 2.

imagery irony

note: this is not a story.

a Black man wears a leather jacket layered over a hoodie, hood on his head, sunglasses covering his already covered eyes, and baggy jeans. he holds three hefty books in his left hand propped against his left hip. 

a White man dressed properly in a well fitting blue suit with a white shirt and a harmlessly yellow, golf-themed tie holds a rag dripping blood. none getting on him, of course.

a Mexican man wears a traditional and stereotypical mexican poncho with a sombrero holding samurai sword in one hand and its seethe in the other.  

another Black man wears a nice black suit with black tie holding a swastika. 

an Asian man seen wearing a traditional male kimono holds an AK47

a middle-eastern woman, fully covered in black coverings, holds a baby and a rosary chain. 

ex-president Bush, in cowboy boots, wrangler jeans, white button-up shirt, brown leather vest and cowboy hat stands next to a WMD.

they are all somebody's Jesus. 

how to kill a man.

the clock read "8:08" exactly. an older man picked up the last few items off his newly scrubbed floor, packed them in his oversized backpack and walked out the door. 

his paranoia caused him to check the lock, per usual. 

he wore oversized rags and looked rather filthy and thus made sure to not be seen by anyone in his apartment complex to avoid any suspicion that would arise from his choice of clothing.

he rushed down the stairs hoping that he wasn't too late. 

he wasn't. as soon as he reached the street, he saw the bus coming. pulling out his two dollars, he got on board and paid his fare. the driver grimaced and thumbed to the back of the bus. 

the man, holding onto the straps of his bag firmly, he walked to the very back of the bus. 

everyone contorted their faces as he passed. 

when he sat, the bag gave way just a little with a faint "squish" sound. 

he rode that bus for over two hours in one direction. east. 

everytime he would see or hear sirens pass the vehicle he'd tense up but then remember that theres no way he could be found out in this mass of people.

"hiding in plain sight."

by midnight, the was the last person on this particular bus. he saw no more houses and knew he had reached his destination.

he got off and walked the main road until the bus was far out of sight. 

the bag was heavy. certain parts poked him in the back. but he walked on. 

he walked to a place where the streetlights were no more then veered off the road and walked for another hour or so.

finally, he knew he had found the perfect place. 

he placed the bag on the ground and stripped glad to be free of the putrid stench. 

he unzipped and unbuckled the bag and the smell hit him in this throat forcing his gag reflex.

vomit spilled on his clothes. he took a match and tossed it on the vomit littered, wreaking clothes. they caught fire instantly and crackled loudly. 

he pulled the rest of the contents of the bag out.

an arm. leg. torso. another leg. arm and finally a head.

he placed them in the fire individually. carefully. 

the stench worsened. but he took comfort in the fact that only he could smell it. 

he watched cooly and emotionlessly as the meat charred and burned to ash. 

he, then, took the bloody bag and placed it on the fire to kill the fire and burn the bag itself. 

it died slowly but it died, just as the recently cremated man. 

in the stiff desert night the man stalked, then trotted, then walked then stalked again to another specific point not too far away. 

he saw a familiar car parked. when he got close enough the banged on trunk; it opened. 

inside, there lay fresh clothes, a bucket of mostly spilled cold water, soap and axe body spray. 

he washed quickly and got dressed. 

he made his way to the passenger side.

"thanks son."

"yeah..."

"whats that smell?"

there was a silence as stiff as the night itself. as stiff as the man's back from having carried 200 pounds of human weight. 

"we can go now."

"can we?"

"yes."

"great."

but the driver didn't start the car.

"what are you waiting on?"

the driver looked at the man blankly. as emotionless and void as the night around them. as plainly as the crime they had just committed. there was no soul in his eyes as he looked at his father. 

the man assumed that his son was in shock and began to get out to take the driver's seat. with his back toward his son and one foot out the door, the driver pulled a gun and shot the man in the connecting spot of his neck and head, aiming upward to make sure the bullet would disconnect the brain stem and exit through the forehead. 

blood and thought flew forward, not a drop on the inside of the car. 

the man fell limp next to the car. the driver reached in the back of the car, grabbed a red canister and poured some of its contents onto his father, struck a match, dropped it out the passenger door and drove off.

he stayed silent.

he missed his mother much more than he missed his father.

good mornings.

i awake with a start and a slight jump.

nightmare.

on my back i look to my right and see the alarm clock: 5:55

ah yes, right on time.

i roll onto my left side and see you.

you.

you and all your beauty.

you and your perfection.

the sun is just starting to rise. 

the sky is streaked purple and splendor compliments your features.

your light skin, your wild mist of kinky, dirty blond hair. if it wasn't for its natural texture, which you wear so willingly and flawlessly, no one would know you half Black...yet alone fully of African decent.

your perfectly sculpted face. perfectly pressed lips. moist. begging for a kiss.

sleeping with your hands under your pillow, curled neatly under this shared comforter. 

the sun has peeked over your high cheekbones. i feel its heat on my face and begin to radiate the same heat. i squint to avoid its blinding shine and when i muster enough tolerance to further open my left eye, i see you staring at me.

vivid green eyes. not looking into my soul, as the cliche goes. 

but looking right at me, as eyes do.

as I do. 

taking me in as i've done to you every morning since our first morning together.

"what are you looking at?" smiling. perfectly aligned and white teeth. 

have you any flaws?

"the only thing worth seeing."

you turn around to face the sun.

"enjoy the sunset, love."

infuriated. i pull you back around, "please don't deprive me of my pleasures."

you smile still.

"grant me a kiss"

i don't know if you said it or if your lips did

or if i did

but i couldn't deny any of them. 

so we meet.

you shuffle towards me and wrap my lanky arm around your tight frame pressing your hand firmly against my cold chest.

you are warm.

a fire burning inside me

on top of me.

"you love me?"

"love is a strong word." how could i let you know?

"you do. i know you do."

"you do?"

"this is the second week you've let me sleep in your bed without trying anything on me."

"it is. you're right."

"you love me."

"maybe i think you're ugly."

"but you always cradle me to sleep, wake me up with you're staring and kissing me."

"maybe i do love you."

another smile. a smile brighter than you and that damned sun trying to drown out your shine. the sunlight glints in your green eyes as you look up at me.

"whats today?"

i think, "sunday."

you pull yourself closer to me, "thank you, God."

if my skin were as light as yours, i'd probably blush. thank God, indeed.

an unseen smile will have to suffice. 

an unseen smile. the memory fades as the alarm sends its warning. 

you, again, open your eyes. those, still, beautifully green eyes. begging lips. perfect teeth.

"good morning, love."

i smile. yes...a good morning.

actually, "they've all been good mornings."

story ideas.

1) psychological warfare:

Russian interrogator vs English psychologist

1. russian attempts to out-think the doctor
2. after repeated failures he tries to break the doctor's psyche
3. the doctor proves to be more mentally troubling for the russians then for himself.
4. eventually, they just torture him.
5. doctor dies after weeks of pain
6. turns out, he wasn't lying from the beginning.

i'm excited for this one. probably shouldnt let you bastards see my ideas so blantely but nobodys reading anyway. shrug.

2)..actually, i'll keep the rest to myself.

interlude

i am the son of the beast.
the monger of peace.
wanter of all things unified.
strong. loving.
wise. knowledgeable.

but i am the son of the beast.
making me some sort of beast myself.

and as such,
i should not be taken lightly..

even by the beast himself.

scene

: bus stop.

envision:

a side-walk-view of the street and, consequently, the other sidewalk. cars fly by, you can hear their rubble. their whizzing. music in some cases, lots of bass, high notes, etc. the sun is high in the sky and the wind is blowing steadily. tree tops sway forcefully in the gust as if nodding to a classic Kanye beat.

the screen begins to move further up the street. the soundtrack begins to change: loud chattering. cursing. music played off the speaker of a phone. before long, the composers slide, unknowingly, into view. 

one 24 year old black male on his phone handling, what seems like, either, baby-momma drama or a drug transaction. one cannot tell. another male crumbling weed in a dollar bill bent in a V shape, a child in a stroller crying by his leg, cell phone in his sagging back pocket blasting boisterous music through its annoying static.

there is a metal bench with four divided spaces. 

in the first sits a young black woman with a smaller child in her lap. she, at times, kisses the drug holder. in the space total opposite of the first sits another young lady with an oversized sweat-hood draped over her. the sweat-hood's owner is draped over it and practically swallowing its current wearer. a cigarette in all of the men's hands. 

the area smells of filth and thin smoke. loud, foul and necessary.  

in the middle of all of them, sitting peacefully on the bench is a boy looking of 19. he is almost submerged in a book. everything about him seems out of place. he is quiet, neatly put together, alone, harmless even and seemingly content.

he looks up from the pages, directly into the camera. he holds this gaze for some time before looking further upward into the unheeding sun. his face is now a slight but distinguishable grimace as though to keep the sun from his eyes. he looks back to the camera with the same grimace. closes the book with a single hand forgetting to mark his space. 

he stands up abruptly, no one takes note. 

still grimacing intently at the camera he walks two steps forward and is met instantly by the bus for which he waited. 

everything halts.

screams.

fade to black.

smarty arty

"being able to hold two sides of an argument and still manage to function is the sign of true intelligence." -F. Scott Fitzgerald

guess it's fair to say im at least somewhat smart, eh?

i'm about to try a few expirments with my writing and train of thought: bare with me these next few posts.

this is my warning.

beach of night.

there is nothing but darkness here.

darkness in the sky. 

darkness under the feet. tangible darkness. 

little grainy pebbles of darkness that slide between the fingers that try to hold them.

its ominous and foreboding. a slump of world with no sun to guide the lost. 

and so its inhabitants wonder without purpose. without cause. thus, they are a meaningless people. 

but few find reason. what they cannot see, they hear. 

life crashing against the darkness somewhere far off into the unseen.

following nothing but their own desire to see something, to know something, to find the world anew, they wonder purposefully.  on a mission. 

following sounds. learning the texture of that which blinds them. that which binds them. 

their heavy, unremovable dark is bearable but old and unfulfilling. 

these that seek the other find something more.

amidst the unrelenting nothingness, they find the ocean.

an ocean of light. bright, inviting, cutting light. it covers the black ground with a crash to prove its worth and power just to recede to show its slow hand to anger.

the thirsty find this lake of light and submerge themselves within never to be seen by the night again.  some sink to the bottom and touch the black soil beneath. some float at the top. others swim around simply elated to know something other than nothingness. 

here we can see everything. we are not blind. we are not ignorant. our light cuts the night. it is our beacon. it is our refuge. we are no longer lost for this light has shown us everything. it holds life. it is life.

oh, me? i walk atop the lake of light, for someone must bring the thirsty to the drink. 

full circle.

i believe in Karma fully.
"Give and it shall be given unto you[..]," so says the Bible. i like to think that this also applies to the negative we feed into the world.

ie: i was a total dick to my step-father. entirely. though we never got along in my childhood, i can look back now and see the error of my ways. i was wrong a lot of the time. made his job that much harder for no reason. (but i was still a damn good child. don't trip.) and now, i'm receiving the same treatment from the man i probably inherited such a trait from. Living with Tarrance sr has become something of a nightmare. the Devil deceives with creature comforts. its not until we accept his gifts that he begins his torture. i have learned my lesson. he is not the man i had hoped. he is not a man i wish to associate myself with. he is hardly a man i'd wish to introduce to my children. and certainly nothing of the kind of man i'd wish to emulate.

i have humbly apologized to my Dad (Herbert James Moore II) and am currently trying to sever intimate tides with my father (used lightly(Tarrance Bernard Foster Sr.)).

ie2: Tarrance (now known simply as Sr.) has four children. he raised none. recently he went to check on his 17 year old daughter in Gary, Ind and was surprised, to say the least, to find that she was with child. in what could possibly be known as the most mature moment of his life, he decided to take the girl and her baby and bring them here, to vegas, with him. though this is a great and honorable thing to have decided,  helping another lost soul escape the pit of Gary, he has no clue how to raise a baby...yet alone a teenage girl. having never raised a child or even been in the presence of the same person for more than three years consecutively, this is going to show him what hes been avoiding for all these years. for once in his life a father will be a dad, even if it is to his grandchild. and its about goddamn time. deadbeat.

tread lightly, world. your ills do come full circle. 

a hard day's night

Finally able to rest, our young hero sits and props his leg up on the row of seats he finds refuge on. he can tell his foot is swollen, aside from the constant tingling, his show is much tighter. stomach empty. his current savior, an ipod, flashes its impending death. his only company, an outdated cell phone, mimics the action.
The young man is weary. rest occupies his every thought beyond all else. but he knows sleeping on such bus is ill-advised. so, instead, he stares out his window.
cars fly past him. neon lights. street lights. bars boasting their best deals. fast food spots trying to outwit the next.
no one is walking.

the world passes him by. the defeated youngster knows he cannot stop it; in fact, he wishes he could hurry the process. he'd much rather be in a time ten years from now where his feet can rest and his mind can work.
he is smart indeed, though his nose is green.

the lights continue to gleam through the glass. people come and go on and off the bus, each making sure to thank the driver. he watched them all. their mannerisms, facial expressions, posture and the like. he created stories for them, living their lives was much easier than his own.

he loosened his tie.

felt anxiety creep up and instantly began his breathing excerises. five second intervals of inhaling and exhaling both. he needed this technique.

finally, he scribbled a few thoughts on his worn notepad, tucked it away again and pressed the button to tell the driver to stop.


(unfinished. forgive the spelling.)

coming: the greatest gift.

well, i had written some of it but grew bored, i guess.

so i'll revamp the idea then retry.

but what im focusing on is this idea of a successful black male in either vegas or nyc. something like carrie and her crew but with a different backdrop. 

things are happening to me blah blah blah. 

we all know most of you really dont care.

searching for air.

i am tired. i am stressed. its hard to breathe.

i have much to say though, just not tonight, im afraid.

what i do want to say, though, should be much more important.

since i am no longer writing notes on facebook, i need a new public outlet. if you're any kind of friend of mine then you have enough brain to know that i mean that i will use this blog for just that. 

of course, i will be keeping some for my archives so i can publish a book of short stories as Ibi-ann and i have done for poetry.

Steven King has a noted 100 short stories. i've got just as many so i dont see why not.

thoughts?

dear God,

yo. Big G. 

what the fuck is up man? did i do something wrong? 

you tried to keep me in dc, or let the devil do so. 

you took my phone and my car.

but why?

though the solitude is wonderful, its...unwanted.

i miss a few people, actually. 

im not complaining or anything im just wondering.

i mean...i need help. just tell me why so i can do what needs to be done

am i not working hard enough on noir? am i not supposed to stay in vegas? 

just say something man. stop with all the subtweets.

oh. and thanks for this Roots album. its really what i needed.

                        listening,

                                       a disgruntled believer. 

leading from behind

ive been very down on myself lately.

i feel like a failure.

everyone is graduating this year. class of 2010.

while im hardly a sophomore. 

everyone will have their master's and steady jobs

while i'll still be trying to get my undergrad.

and today, i found, that that endeavor will be even further pushed back due to rules that i cannot bend.

but.

then i think, all the great leaders of our time didnt graduate either.

though i do need my degree to capture my goal, i can still be a leader in my generation. right?

i havent become irrelevant yet, have i? God, i hope not. 

there is an anime i watch, "Naruto."

the story of a demon infested boy dying to become greater than himself to prove himself.

he wants to become the leader of his village to prove to everyone that he isnt just a derelict.

quickly, he grows stronger than everyone, learns more powerful "justu" and then leaves the village to train even harder.

upon his return, he finds that everyone in his, so to speak, ninja-class has graduated and begun their careers as ninja when he hasnt done the same. though he fells like a failure and left behind, he reminds everyone that he, solely, can protect the village.

odd that i compare myself to this magna.

i wont be seen a failure for much longer. 

i will catch and surpass my class, i must if i plan to lead the next generation. 

i might be behind everyone else but, for some reason, i feel as though i have accomplished more than most. (but im starting to feel like im just running in circles.)

i am not satisfied here. in this position. 

i must move.

If langston did it then why cant i?

lately, my thoughts have been too potent to keep up with long enough to post. 

and, honestly, i've got nothing much to say.

nothing that either hasn't been said or that needs to be said.

im frustrated for many reasons.

but my frustrations are earthly

my virtues are of more value.

and for that, i shant complain.

one foot in the door.

mike posner created a mixtape that resonated with my soul recently. 

the "one foot out the door" mixtape.

i found myself singing/playing this song often to remind myself of the new life i walked into.

i always had one foot out the door.

once that foot met solid ground, the other followed suit and found itself in the doorway of the place i need to be: in a book.

yes, i have finally managed to have some of my works published (for a profit at that).

excited? yes. but no.

this is only a small stepping stone. my next project will have to be a solo effort.

and it has to be great.

like seriously great. ...it has to be. 

this is my road. this is my journey. i cannot fall and i cannot falter. 

i must succeed. 

i must succeed.

i must succeed.

i cant wait to see my name on the cover or hear the reactions. 

i am excited. 

but this is still only a stepping stone. i'm trying to reach my platform. my stage. my arena.

here is the link to the book.

you can order it here or wait for it to hit barns and noble. 

https://www2.xlibris.com/bookstore/bookdisplay.aspx?bookid=70834

ibi-ann, thank you for this opportunity.i am beyond words with my appreciation (if you ever read this)

i've been talked down to and ignored long enough.

so just let me speak.

but you gotta walk and listen

i'm still on the move.

be somebody.

power of prophesy

i hate my job.

i really fucking do. 

i'm not complaining, at all. but thats a fact that you must keep in mind for the remainder of the post.

i work for a telecomm center. 

the current project we're working on forces us to call around the US asking people to donate money for "Master Prophet E. Bernard Jordan"

yes. thats his title. master.

at first, the script starts pretty holy-like, asking for a testimony and blazeeee.

then it goes off to ask, "can you donate one weeks salary called, 'you cant beat God's giving' which represents 'the end of slave wages and the beginning of daily bread.'"

you gotta be fucking kidding.

one weeks salary? $300? 

 

well what do you get for giving? a nice CD full of this man taking random guesses at shit and calling it prophesy. -_- 

THEN, we go on to ask if they want to have a member of the prophetic circle speak to them personally...through a virtual prophesy room...for a small donation of 3000 dollars. 

right.

and of course, there are several ways to counterattack someone who doesnt want to donate. almost to the point where it sounds like begging.

and people give. they really fucking cough up 300 dollars for this shit. 'resurrection season' or not three hundred dollars is a lot of money.

but a lot of people complain. 

"nothing he said to me has come true."

"i didnt get my package"

"you keep calling me"

and my favorite

"tell the prophet that HE should sow into MY ministry so I can help the community, unlike HIM"

most of these people have no contact to this man, at all and still they idolize him. they believe him. they give their checks to this man (same man who plans on selling these same people $13000 tables at his birthday banquet. with $300 plates.) yeah. mhum. 

i spoke with a lady today who said she saw the prophet in a dream while she was asleep under the knife. she thinks he saved her life. she cried to me and i wanted to scream, "you're being duped, lady."

i didnt.

instead, i did what i've been doing for the past two weeks, play minister.

i put on my best holy (or sexy) voice and "speak the word of the Lord."

and they listen.

people began to assume i was a prophet, and then, his son.

they began to pray for me.

one lady told me my prophesy. 

do i believe in what she said? hardly.

but i do believe that i heard what i heard for a reason.

Anyone who knows me or has kept up with me knows that me and my God's relationship has grown. though, not enough for me to believe in this character.

after 40 hours of this nonsense, i began to feel bad for taking these people's money (someone really pledged to give three thousand dollars). my conscious began to nip at my soul

BUT

then i remembered the money.

so at the end of the day money > my own soul. smh. how sad am i?

hurry

things are piling up. 

a lot faster than i was hoping too.

But i'm tarrance foster ii : son of a hustler and an intellectual. 

i'll make a way. losing is not an option and failure isn't in my dictionary.

my physical aloneness, i guess you could call it, keeps me sidetracked but no more. if there isn't green involved, money mostly, then i wont be around. how else am i to keep my pockets fat, eh?

jaden's birthday, my birthday, pop's birthday, bills, new car : i have to be ready for all these things.

i see myself in a nice shirt and tie get-up eating under the paris balloon or in the belliago, for no real reason other than because i want to. and of course, this is after i've taken myself to see the beatles show, also just because i want to. mhum.mhum. i can feel it. 

i'm going to be somebody. 

that is my anthem for life- seriously.

i'm a laser and soon, you'll see me beaming.

semicolon , closed parenthesis. 

be somebody.

thats what i want to do. i'm not sure how, though i feel like i don't need to know.
all i need to do is keep riding this breeze and continue to enjoy these deathly waters, as my dream instructed me to, so many months ago.

but i hate not knowing.
we all know that.

and still, something tells me that my free ride is coming to its close. i'm trying to find money in my fields of preference; acting, writing, teaching and the like. i've found a tutoring job for both an AP student and a group of young actors.

it'll give me something to do.

i started this post about two hours ago and i forgot where i was going with it.
it had something to do with the song you're listening to (or should be listening to) now and another song by the same band ,"use someone".

because i realize that, though i want to be somebody, though i want to be seen beaming, i could still use someone...someone like you.


semicolon , closed parenthesis

its here.

i'm highly annoyed.

i could list a few particular reasons but nothing that should really matter.

the little things. all 5634879201 of them that just so happen to add up.

and now i'm annoyed.

and i'm verbally abusing people.

i enjoy it.

the annoyance is here,

no telling how long this could last.

swift.

the downfall is coming. i can see it now. all this happy shit is bout to be out the window, watch. 

but if i can see it now, i can avoid it. preventive action. right? 

2 of the 3 sources of income i was expecting won't be coming. the third will conflict with my current. 

its kinda annoying having to juggle these jobs around each other.

rebound, Tarrance. rebound.

(now playing: "one is the loneliest number" -TheBeatles. guess we know that that means.) 

upgrade.

(i've had this weird affinity for the word "up" lately.)

i'm redoing my closet. again.
its time to grow up. all the way up.

button ups.
ties.
cardigans.
vest.
sweaters.
sweater vest.
boots.
etc.
like so:





















i've got the leather look down as Thelonious P has so smoothly recreated.
the other stuff is coming. fast too. ExpressMen, Armani...well anything i can find for a decent price. pockets aren't too fat.

but as you can see, not too many t-shirts and jeans. not anymore. and def no colored skinny jeans. (i only wore them twice.smh)

i just hope the desert agrees with my love for black and disdain for shorts. -_-


"semicolon, closed parenthesis."

mirror?

so i did some dabbling.
heard something that made me smile from ear to ear.
peep.



see what i mean?! what better influence than that?

music.

we've done nothing but bond lately.
from the Kings of Leon to MGMT to B.o.B. its been blissful. this is why i love her more than anything else in the world.

i've been indulging in classic rock (pink floyd, ACDC, Rolling Stones and the like) , more Beatles (as if i could ever have enough) and a lot of B.o.B. like..a LOT. hes very quickly made his way to #3 in my favorite rapper slot. and hes from the Eastside of atlanta. its like riding around eastpoint everytime i listen to a song.

it goes without saying that Lupe has been in constant rotation. thats daily life.
on 5/1 my life might change.
i'll be going to see Lupe Fiasco and B.o.B in concert.

let that sink.

for those of you who do not understand the lyrical severity of this event, please click the small "x" in the top right corner of your screen.
its gonna be bonkers. probably the best event of my life since losing my virginity. im hype beyond all belief. might even fly to NY to see it with Chuck, Joey and Sharmin.
maybe i'll find Trudy and tell her to fly here to see it with me. i wonder if she would. i'd really hate to see it with anybody less than a believer.




(sidenote: if i were a rapper, i'd be a mix between B.o.B and Lupe. )

further update.

i sit and i try to think of things to complain about and i can't.

things have just been falling into place for the last two months. i dont want to jinx it but damn.
in addition to my current job, i have three other openings.
-a temp job with a painting company. 15$/hr
-a leasing agent. commission/1000$ rent
-a journalist. does it matter?
thats right, i've found an opening with a newspaper. i could very well be launching my journalism career and i havent even begun to finish school.
(lowkey: fuck school. i'm going back because im thirsty for knowledge suddenly. otherwise, ya'll can have it.)

i can't say that i've been this happy in a while. but my grind doesnt stop just yet. i need to make sure that things don't regress. insurance. we'll work on that.

i'll be meeting my sister soon. the first time ever. yea...thats how i feel about it.

my wrting abilities have returned. plenty of things in the works.
-chasing winds
-pandora's aslyum
-Black.
and i'm not talking short stories either.

what else should you know?
oh, i dont talk to anybody really. i stay alone mostly and nobody really tires to contact me. i shop alone. go see movies alone. eat alone. smoke alone. sleep alone and wake up alone. its not too bothersome.
Trudy is still dealing with a broken phone i think, so no her.
Lauren is heartbroken
and Shanika...well her hands are full. and with that, i'm dealing. its not too easy but its not odee hard. hell, all i gotta do is look and i remember where my place. where i belong.
where i belong is not in mississippi or maryland. its hardly in atlanta. where i belong is exactly where i am: in this happy, little, money making world of mine.

i deactivated my facebook account. i think i said that previously. but yea, lent. not like it was getting much attention anyway. outside of the daily likes, comments and post left by Trudy.

i feel like i'm missing something vital. i probably am, oh well.
i miss a lot of people. some are gone for good, some choose to remain distant and others will be back soon enough. meanwhile: my army will expand.

getting closer to my dreams.

honestly, that sums it up.

(i've got a good mind to end the post there. but)

job is bringing in money. job #2 is on its way. i've got like 3 or 4 books swirling around in my head. and i've decided to change my autobiography into a series type thing. it'll be fictional only because my imagination sees some quite humorous moments that won't happen until i write it. 

i can hardly do this post because my heart isnt in sync with it. my emotions are stone. i'm finally happy even though i'm totally alone (aside from pops.) i'll be going to Atlanta to visit but i wont be staying. i wont be leaving vegas for a while. 

im focusing on me and what i want.

"what is that?" one might ask.

well...i was never a demanding fella.

so, money, more clothes, time to do this book and the motivation to do so. 

sex would be nice but i'm not tripping. i'm throughly annoyed with 100% of the women i've talked to within these last few weeks. 

all i need is one key entry point and i'll be good in the company sector.

though, i doubt they can keep me company like i can.

twitter helps =)

things have certainly changed.

i dont feel as pressed as i used to. stress is washing itself away. nothing is really "wrong".

this is the part in life called the "comeup." things are getting better. acquired job #1, search for #2 starts monday, school is in progress, new apartment, women are still used as the mindless and easily confused creatures that they are and i remain alone. 

things are back at homeostasis.

i'm not emotionally unstable. i'm not odee angry. i'm not pointlessly happy.

the only thing i am is excited, for things to come.

i sense the struggle of my past washing off my shoulders and anticipation for the future motivating me to "go."

finally, the world feels like its where it belongs ; at my fingertips. i hate butterfingers (simpsons or not).

refreshed.

blog Playlist by @ipodtee on MySpace Music - Play Playlist Songs & Download Tracks

i hear this playing as i drive back to georgia. a good ol country song-ish type thing. i love the entire feel of it. viva la music.

i know who my father is.

Something not even Luke Skywalker could say.

A lot of friends my age have no clue about their fathers. some, even, to the extent that they can't even recall his name or facial features. 

this move has saved me from that fate. 

i know who my father is. i know what hes done. being able to say that means more than anything i've known. 

for years i've hated this man for leaving me.

then i forgave him but avoided him in fear of another disappointment.

consider that another fear i've conquered easily.

i know my father

and better yet, i love him.

coming to vegas was risky and i lost a lot doing so;

friends, belongings, her. things i hold dear to me.

and it was well worth it.

he is a feared man but through listening to his stories and drunken tirades i have heard his pain. running away at 15. growing up in the streets. being betrayed and flaked on by everyone who he ever held close, i'm included. listening to his best friend die to a game of russian roulette. 

the guy never really had anyone fight for him.

guess thats where my sense of "me v. the world" comes from. 

i feel empowered . renewed. its safe to say that i needed this. its taken a great deal of my anger and laid it to rest. 

i'm at peace.

at peace.

peace.

sidebar: i've been condensed to fit in a folder with everyone else when i was told that i was better than that. but words no longer gas me up or break me down so i'll refrain from indulging in the glorifying / condemning rings of those words. but i refuse to be the single point in which a seesaw of uncontrolled and misread emotions. so i've taken my focal point and moved it. yes, i'm angry but i'm smarter than anger. watch.