Tuesday, December 13, 2011

2 scoops of ice cream


I’ve prepared so long for this moment that it feels as if I’ve studied into seconds, which then turned into light years for this test to come. I consumed every detail of each step. It took a lot of forward sophistication and dedication, with fear generations behind me, to succeed. And then came the moment of truth; what is truth? What definition lounged inside my cranium of this word and its meaning? Is truth asphyxiating other’s opinion only to prove to them that my opinion weighed heavily over theirs? Or is truth the opinion’s of others we hold so dearly close to us that by no means we could think would do us any harm to believe? I sharpened myself to a fine point on a pencil that when the point was flipped upside down would rise and lengthen outward, creating a slug like streak behind it, with a vertical replica of itself forming in the shape of a cone. A cone containing two scoops of ice cream; two scoops of ice cream! To whom I present, my father and I.

I would like everyone to sponge like and soak in the ending sentences of the first paragraph before continuing into the Broca’s area of my understanding.

I present, my father and I. Both well-raised men with ethics and spirit, both bold men with responsibilities and stubbornness. Both placed on a cone, both a scoop of ice cream. Created by my imagination, nevertheless understanding why both of us were an ice cream scoop nor the comparisons made to each other, the moment had to come where I had to separate from it all. The moment had come, and it came at light speed, collapsing us into reality as I pictured it, held by faith’s fingers and the unsettling rumblings. I had felt myself uneasy and dripping. It was a sunny night, as the gust of uncertainty and pure chance shifted my entire future. The foundation felt unsettled as the cone shifted towards three o’clock, clockwise. Here I was, having felt myself slowly unlock from the identical DNA patterned other half of the other scoop of ice cream. Begging for the feeling to stop, I had hoped it was all a dream, a figment of the imagination. It had fooled me into actuality. It felt as though all of the practice and years of lessons and moments of truth when I cried out “Father, I need you’re help!” was slowly being ripped apart. I held on long enough for the sun to shed the tears from my skin before I became fully unstuck. After two seconds into the future, I was alone in the air, dropping. My thoughts had fell back from light years away into the formula’s that generated its speed, back into the infinite numbers that created time, into the seconds that had ticked to keep time going, and wondered how? How can two flavors of the same shape, ingredient, and taste be apart from each other? As I fell without a parachute in sight, I collided past gravity into the ground and became a different form.
Thanks dad.

Friday, April 8, 2011

who is the next Marilyn Monroe?

eddie zee

“To try and set an example is to lead with confidence and assertiveness at any moment. Therefore, when a woman is taken out of her skin and is still herself, she becomes powerful.” Through out history we have had our share of seduction. A generation consumed of women that have paved the way from your local street corners into the white house. A combination of looks and wit with a fragrance of deception, is what escorted women to their survival. So who’s to be named the next Marilyn Monroe? Who’s sex will invade into a position of power without exploiting it all? Is it the Maxmin top 100 that will direct our attention towards choosing the next hot babe, or is it a concoction of strategic planning and blonde hair and blue eyes? Neither, it’s the moment when women separate themselves from girls to reclaim what they want. Women are figuring out ways in how to sustain their postures and be less eager to fall victim to vulnerability. And thus, that power comes from fucking virginity and entering into a world of pleasure. Marilyn Monroe didn’t have an attraction for powerful men because she was into politics. Monroe like many other women had understood to give was to get, and then use that gift in return for anything they wanted. It isn’t the thought of being called a slut, the fear of talk around the neighborhood, or the bragging rights of what guy enjoyed their company. It is escaping the embarrassment of the small bullshit and self-confidence issues. It’s growing up and putting on some red lipstick and your favorite prom dress and grabbing what you want by the balls, without worrying about what others at the funeral are saying. Women have graduated, and in about ten minutes graduation is about to start. They have passed the innocence and sassy attitudes into brave thin stockings and five-inch heels. They have covered themselves with glamor and make-up only to overcome sex education 101. Thus, the opportunity of fulltime jobs goes to the sluts, the stuck-ups, the bitches and divas, who spent 4 years getting what they deserved. And to those women that have figured out how to use themselves as an advantage without rendering on emotions and regrets before sophomore year, set your watch back 16,000,000,000 years and welcome yourselves to the moon; Marilyn Monroe will be your host. To become like Marilyn Monroe is to forge her signature and use her feminism as a means of buoyancy and influence. There is a Marilyn Monroe in every woman. The question is how far will you go to enjoy a lifetime full of luxury on the house.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

I have Writer's block

eddie zee

I have writers block. Consistent thoughts merged with ideas and formulas within inches of a solution. I have writers block. A cancer with no antidote, searching for false hope, but at least my breath is inhaling and exhaling. The ingredients to a well prepared dish without patient’s, leads to chaos. It all leads to jotting down useless sentences about corporate entities, basketball players, rappers, and this A.D.H.D. My thoughts are all over the universe at the moment. I have writers block. This is so fucking annoying. I can imagine if Leo Tolstoy entered his nine hundredth page in War and Peace and just froze. What a waste of time. This effort is minor to the detailed explanation of a topic I could have written about. But where is it? I have writers block and I have to let everyone know about it. This tedious mind of mine breaks and loosens up its blood flow just to encounter this worthless typing. I’m centimeters away from you, my topic, my discussion, my conclusion and thesis. No luck. No signs of recovering this time. These words seem to just slip away into unresponsive ears as the sun starts to burn. It’s quite late but dreaming is something of a treat right about now. And I will not allow my mind to feel its comfort until something spills out. Relaxing down stream into an ice cream filled pond with a spoon in my hand can only be a hallucination I’m having. So let me escape this dreadful thought and enter into a topic. Fuck! I have writers block. What am I talking about, ice cream filled ponds? I’m better, more constructive, and expensively intricate with syllables in intervals when I enter into an empty word document. Let alone the fact that I enjoy the satisfaction of my writing without regretting the tones in my voice. I’m entering into a writer’s mind, a labyrinth I cannot overcome, that I cannot fully fixate. With a little bit bold typing, spontaneous sentences, word play, verbs and adverbs, structure, grammar, and a mixture of scattered thoughts, I have to say this is quite interesting. However, isn’t that what writer’s do? We type away into novels and fiction, nonfiction and short stories, poems and biographies, to comics and law, and literature, into what makes sense to what doesn’t make sense. We enter into the minds of our readers to capture an emotion, a feeling, and some sort of a reaction. So to the readers, the critics, and myself, I suppose I have but one more tittle to add. “I have writers block”.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

The break up

A viva attitude towards a breakup always leads to endless encounters of provocation. There is always an enmity between the two break ups. The antagonizing truth is we have to move on not trifle about our feelings. To her idiotic slurs to her friends of why it didn’t work out to his enthusiastic denial that things still may work out. Scalding one another like a guarantor with false hope is not quite lucrative. Therefore, enamor your space and allow the other to breath. Then the heavenly aroma of freedom will waft into the air. Or you can quintessence back to the origin of when you first met, and neglect the possibility of sharing the first kiss. To perturb one another, would be to furiously engage in war and allow the amphora to fly across the room into the cracks of your sheet rock. Appalled by this decision can only enrage both characters. So light up a potpourri and talk it out, and forget the anarchist demon inside of you. Time heals all scars. Embezzle the communication you once shared without syndicalism, children! No one is to pontificate into a secrete society and dogmatically share one another’s secrets. Both parties will look cretinous. To escape mediocre embarrassment recalcitrant from friends that you encountered during your relationship. To forget your past is to forget who was in it. Also to equivocally answer questions about the relationship to acquaintances will place a picturesque image that may stain the other person. Keep quiet and hold your tongue from evil. The hubbub surrounding the borough you live in will be quite difficult to escape. Torpedo into a new lifestyle or face being a reclusive gaoler in your own environment. It’s obligatory to remove telephone numbers and any social networks still with an active account. You have to become eccentric rather then kind, this always allows for space and freedom. The melancholy feeling will eventually confide past a scoundrel mind state to being open to new challenges. Escape the ilk boring wailing because of a break up and break up like a prosector; well you know what I mean. Your reprisal falls on deaf ears and your furtive confidence is unheard when you don’t ostentatiously sublet yourself to someone new. The exhibit of your new character should be a hodgepodge of good behavior, confident behavior, and smart behavior or suffer the gallimaufry of the same shit, the old shit, and the worst shit. To sashay into a new relationship is to create a pseudonym smooth criminal and slowly moonwalk your way into new lust without facing a labyrinth situation. Call up some friends and have some fun, it’s a Wednesday.

Monday, March 21, 2011

In her own world

marilyn monroe sees eddie zee

In a world where the users that follow the lead introvert online dating and Wi-Fi, a woman becomes queen. The lipstick smudges across faint damped lips and blossoms as a kiss is blown. It’s easy for a woman in the 21st century amidst all the technology and knowledge to conquer. Women posses what men will never have without them, Pleasure! A combination of vibrant melodies intertwined with physicality. Neither money nor control can overcome the timeline of the sensations women clutch within their grasps. If man will ever rule the universe a hundred times over and become god without the presence of a woman, he will not feel complete gratification. I would trade in the creation of Microsoft and Google for a kiss from a woman’s lips if ever molecules became instinct. What slips from the history books and the bibles and the Quran’s is the power women unveil. The fear that one-day their presence will be felt is something men and generations after us will obscure. “I take it that you know why you are here,” the man mummers. And before a sound can come in the form of the woman’s exhaling breath, she smiles and whispers, “I’ve been here my whole life.” And thus the translation commences and women all over the world hear its call. Without you women, men do not exist.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

What if man, had a Diary? (pt. 1)


What if a mans thoughts, written by a woman’s hand shattered onto a piece of paper, created a self-portrait of his own secrets? It would mean that a man could only gossip throw up of his past experiences and crushes until those memories could one-day surface. Would man be faithful and express his imagination, where colors are evasive enough to stick and capture the truth, or, will he swipe his credit card and forge his signature, just to get by? It’s captivating, when activating that piece of mind. It’s like stamping information onto an envelope with your full address and government name. It’s likely, but I feel it’s too personal. But when ones hobbies and stories are baked to the highest temperature, one can only put on his mittens and take it out the oven. I would say let it simmer down on a piece of paper and let yourself brainstorm your words dry, as if you were squeezing out a wet rag. A mans stature reflects his vulnerability, right? Because men are suppose to be tough, strong, powerful! Aren’t they? Why not tough it out, without exposing your mortgage APR (average percentage rate), your hard days at work or your long explosive weekends. Why not expand to the night you forgot to put on a condom, or the days where you juggled three women at once, or the time you got embarrassed because your friend wouldn’t let you borrow his porn collection. Why not men, what do you guys think? It’s not more of what you think it’s how you can express your emotional rollercoaster without intentions of bleeding your tears onto a page you so forcefully filled up with “the truth.” Take a deep breath, and allow your waves to form currents, until a tsunami strikes the reader that ever stumbles upon those pages. I ask you of one thing, have patients when the ink is pacing and accept the fact that you’re a man. And what you are about to write may fall into the eyes of your potential wife. Welcome to your Diary.

Friday, February 11, 2011

A taste of the white beatle


I measure it as a step into a butterfly filled stomach with anxiousness and anxiety waiting to explode. My mouth waters as great news spreads fast. I take the first step. From the opening encounter the smell of fame is a sand road away, into the deep sea of celebrities. I audition thanks to a close friend of mine. I fail. Then comes along the second step. My hopes are centered towards a sun filled state with “The running man” controlling it. But as my thoughts scramble the spatula flips me over to the other side. Where dreams can evaporate only to condense back into the form of a cloud nine. Where Marilyn Monroe and John F. Kennedy can finally spoon under the remixes of Afrojack at 1 oak in New York City. Only if I can visualize something so cool, I can take narcotics back to its essence and bring the chemicals of which it came from and marinate it with my DNA. I’m just stating the obvious. I want you so bad fame. I want the t-shirt time and all the housewives into the world of Skins’ and HBO specials. I will sacrifice my boardwalk to achieve an empire just to give it up for a golden globe award. You never give me much but I can feel you present. So here I am, once again in front of you my love. The camera. As the copper filled snake oozes under my shirt towards my collar, I check, one, two, one, two, and then I begin. The moment ends with a game of Russian roulette; I survive. Here I go with my third step. Success! I’m a little far from it but the taste numbs my gums. I inhale through one nostril with closed eyes only to open them to a view of camera’s rolling. Fuck! This feeling is so fucking good… I’ll take this over the sun any day. That’s the sacrifices I'd take, which leads me to step four. My head is six feet off the ground and an edge is present at the tip of my sneakers front bumpers. What do I do? It’s simple ladies. When you hunger for a primitive male you get a gentleman, when contemporary throws up like trash you get stuck with a stuffed douche bag. I’m what you call history in the making. Am I clear? To answer your question, what I do is jump. Jump off this cliff that has no relevance to my weight. I’ll take the risk of dying only to rewind my self like a DVR recording. I guess I’m not dead after all. The fifth step is indulging in lunch with Michelle Obama. Unfortunately, that has to wait because I haven’t landed yet.