so much to see

so much to see, originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net.

On her second birthday, Saraine and I partied in Washington Square Park for just a bit, till nature called and could not be denied! She ran and ran and held up acorns for me to admire.

my life in a puddle

my life in a puddle, originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net.

Bar Pic Martini

Bar Pic Martini, originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net.

beauty in the bottom of a glass

Penny is showing Saraine the ropes

Penny is showing Saraine the ropes, originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net.

not bad for 41!

DeoisM Levitation

DeoisM Levitation
Originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net

I LOVE PHYSICS YO!

DeoisM Levitation

DeoisM Levitation
Originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net

night on the town

[ramblings about midnight trips to 42nd street at 3 am from time to time back in the late 8o's]

10 hours from sleep on an 8 hour night. Eyes all covered to shield me from the night. Suffering too intense, for a man, with no might. Only the wrong touch, could rub me just right.

Wandering all the wrong streets, till way past late. Never ever drink alone, till you're ready to test fate. Listen to the man argue with himself, loose the debate.

Empty your soul in sleep, while I pile it high - AWAKE!

Watching all these people, so impossible it seemed that all the dirty people were so sincere and all the clean people were mean!

All those people at these places, hiding their faces with only anonymity as a shield at this hour.

Thought they would hit 42nd Street, pray tell what lust awaited.
Their souls felt so dirty, as they masturbated.
Back out side in the rain, drunken fools elated.
While high school teens discover,
these streets, I'd decided I'd hated.

Back to the 'Vill', back to the places I've grown to love.
E-train downtown, yellow cabbie assassins prowl the night above
throngs of people, west 4th street, - push and shove
shuffle me to the street
road kill
a grey dove

precious sleep

I wonder how long, I wonder how deep
I wonder how long I can go without precious sleep?

be it a day, a month, a forth-night or a week
how precious to me is precious sleep?

will the colors fade, will the food go bland
How active will I be, how long can I stand?

Of all the things in this mans life
What is more important, his fork or his knife?

sleep is but a mystery, filled with fantasy
your body does nothing and your mind is free

1/3 a mans life is between the sheets
tossing and turning in precious sleep

1/3 a man's life if he's 75
is 25 years he's kissed good bye

deo96

what if

Like two soldiers from the same army, they stood and matched each other. The sunset conversation went till dawn. The 24 hour café was empty, but he hardly noticed.

He was mesmerized not by her beauty, but the twinkle in her eye. He had seen it before, but not like this. Almost like a warm fire on a cold night, her face warmed his weary body.

Hers was an intelligence like he had never quite seen, a sharpness of wit. More than once they finished each other’s sentences.

She would stare at him for minutes at a time, only to break herself away and blush in shame. Could he see her blush? She would warm her hands on her cappuccino glass and comment on how the heat is never turned up in restaurants like this , “because the cold makes you hungry and buy more food than you can eat.”

Nothing really funny about it from the outside, but they connected it silently to some cosmic comedy only they attended.

On and on the conversation raged. A misty fog rolled past the window, another minute detail to the déjà vous dream unfolded and ignored.

Sharing their lives was like them both taking a bite of the same fruit and describing the texture and flavor as they chewed.

Almost intimidating, the way they met. What seems like days ago was only hours and would be remembered for lifetimes.

Slowly, the life bringing sun rose over the irregular beauty that is the city. Making it’s way through the once dark streets.

She was embarrassed she couldn’t remember what he did for a living but it didn’t seem to matter, as she had no intention of marring him or anything, didn’t seem to be her business.

His personality was magnetic, had he said he was single? HOW? He’s incredible! Although he has a slightly above average face, his eyes were changing every second never saying the same thing twice, seeming to almost change with each word.

He had a youthful face but was every bit mature, and a gentleman. Both in the way he chose to express him-self, and the things he expressed himself about.

This man stimulated her, he seemed to see her as an equal not some frail woman as other men had made her feel, as far as she was concerned she could hold her own against most men. She has the advantage of a ‘sweet’ look about her. And, she knew she was a tough girl.

“Many women see a tall thin me as a ‘brother figure’ you know? It’s like they can’t take a 6 foot man seriously unless he’s 185lbs.That’s my major gripe I have with most women.”

“I hear you”, she snickered under her breath. “..But large framed men don’t do it for me.” She smiled and looked out the window at an old lady going through the garbage, before the garbage man comes.

Two thoughts immediately shot though his head. He was careful to monitor his face lest she notice his hesitation.

He didn’t want to push his luck by asking for her number although he was tempted. Also if she lost his number she’d be lost forever. He made a private joke about tattooing his number on her body and smiled as he wrote it down on the napkin.

“And, this is my beeper #, my answering machine is always on, so you really don’t need my beeper. No, but hey ya never know.”

“O.K. no problem, I’ll call you and maybe we do dinner or”, she motioned over her shoulder at the sun,” perhaps we could do dawn, again!”

Twenty minutes he was on the “E” train to queens and she was on the “A” train to Brooklyn. Neither of them thought of anything but each other.

Theirs was such a unique coupling. The speed and strength of their relationship shocked even themselves. Months flew past and soon they were engaged and planning their lives together.

They found nice apartment in St.Albans, a middle class area in Queens. One of those streets where every other house has a child the same age as the od house before it.

Things went smoothly for a long while. Before either of them knew it, their second anniversary came and went. Life and it’s many routines never dulled her wit or his sense of humor. The years never strained the intimate and passionate experiences they shared. They were happy and without want.

He and she both worked nights and slept during the day. A matter of choice. They were often ribbed by their friends and family for their lifestyles but for them there was no other way.

birth of Saraine

Birth of Saraine
The birth of my daughter was a life altering event in my life. Saraine Devin Dickerson was born on a rainy night in August of 2008. Today I think back to the events that lead to her birth and it gives me a feeling of bitter sweet candy. I want so much for her to be happy – and I know there is much to be done.
When we went for the third sonogram to check the baby’s health, I asked the Dr. if I need to get a baseball glove or a baseball bat. The Dr. said she didn’t understand, and I explained. “If it’s a boy I’ll get the glove so we can play catch – but if it’s a girl then I’ll get a baseball bat and lean it against the door, so when her first date arrives I can make an example of him.”
The pregnancy that brought my baby girl into the world was my first full term exposure to the process as I’m an only child and never had one of my own. Being present for the process is so important to the experience of being a father. A million thoughts flow through your mind as you run scenarios of your future with your child. The lessons that need to be learned, the pain that must be endured as well as the joy of a million child smiles that have yet to land on my eyes. The future is bright.
The delivery was a blur for me. I put myself on an emotional diet so as to avoid losing my mind. I worried about the health of my child – and Penisha, Saraine’s mom and one of my oldest friends. I held her hand and I told her she was doing a great job, between contractions. Penisha squeezed my hand and rolled from side to side. This was her third child and she was now 40. Although Saraine was the smallest of her children, later she would say this was her most difficult delivery. Yes, this baby shop is closed.
When the Doctors arrived for the delivery, the room had another air to it. My baby girl was the 500 lbs. elephant in the room – although nothing in my life would be different after today – everyone else seemed calm and hushed. I maintained my positive humorous disposition through the entire ordeal.
Penisha pushed and pushed, and finally the baby’s head crowned. I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, especially on the internet. I’ve never seen anything like that. The baby was trying to slip back inside. The Doctor grabbed Saraine’s head before she slipped back in. I noticed her scalp get wrinkled from the Dr.’s grip. The surgeon behind the Dr. pointed out that she was ‘creasing’, obviously a medical term for “you are squeezing the baby’s head!!”, and she shifted her grip.
They told Penisha if she didn’t push the baby out on this contraction, they would have to go in and get her. Penisha gathered all the strength her five foot nothing body could muster, she reached behind her own head and squeezed out the baby – I was beautiful. I had always heard of how new babies look like a cross between aliens and old people. In the light the baby looked less messy than I’d thought she would. Ten fingers, ten toes and open angry eyes.
The Doctor asked me if I would cut the cord and they presented me with some insanely large scissors and a white bundle of tubes that connected my daughter to her mother. I looked at them both and still in a fog of adrenaline and emotions I nipped the chord to see if anyone noticed.
Saraine was being tended to by the Doctors, and Penisha was exhausted. NO one flinched or blinked or cried out. I cut the cord with pride. I kissed Penisha and thanked her for giving us such a precious and beautiful child.
Sleepy time was needed for the baby and mama. I didn’t sleep for 3 days. My cousin came over to help me assemble the crib I’d purchased. I’d not had time to put it together thinking I’d use the time when it came, to maintain my sanity. I stopped thinking when Penny said “It’s time!”
After we got Saraine home, after the phone calls stopped coming in congratulating us. After the first week of midnight feedings, the most pleasant time in my life for the last 15 years was spent feeding and holding Saraine. I loved letting her sleep on my chest while I held and smelled her. Penisha just wanted to sleep on her stomach, something she’s given up for the past 5 months. Both were healthy and fine.

I’d thought of how I would share with Saraine all she needs to navigate this world safely. I scoured my books for the perfect poem and I read it to her every night:
BLACK AND WHITE
In this world in which we live
There is evil and there is good
About these two opposites
A few things must be understood.
Each side is true to itself and is 100% pure.
Good is good and evil is bad
Of this you can be sure!
There must be more to this battle
For this is far to clean
Whenever there is long held strife
Nothing is what It might seem
Each side has its own agents
To turn black and white to grey
Some help give you guidance
While others lead you astray
Deo

I hope she reads this and it helps!

The future for my family and me is as unknown as anyone else’s. Moving forward I definitely want to provide my daughter with the sensitivity and insight that was present in my early years as I feel it’s made all the difference in the person I am today. I’m proud of whom I’ve become and I love myself. Those are the best gifts I can provide Saraine with, the ability to self love is crucial to a positive development of the human mind.

Mumma Was My Role-Model

Mumma Was My Role-Model
This essay about “important people who influenced your life" left me lost. I had no idea who I should write about. I choose to write about my grandmother. I know what you are thinking, but this isn’t your typical grandma story. This is not your typical grandmother.

I can’t explain her qualities. They are not tangible, as there was an air about her that is best described through examples of her thoughts, so I’ll share with you the very first memory I have of her, the time I wrote in the wet concrete in front of our home.

We all lived in a 3 story corner home in Springfield Gardens. Like the name of the area suggests in your mind, there were tree lined streets. The entire neighborhood was newly developed as a part of the construction of the Rochdale Village Co-op apartment development. Homes were middle class and many of the families there were relocating from other areas like Harlem, which is how my family got there.

One day during my 4th or 5th year, they had repaved the sidewalks as a final step to development of the neighborhood. As you can imagine having just recognizing the concept of time, I wanted to write my name in concrete because I saw other names written in concrete in the neighborhood and couldn’t wait for my opportunity at immortality!

After writing my name in the wet cement I proudly ran into the house and told Mumma (pronounced muh-muh) as we called her, what I did. “I wrote my name in the sidewalk outside!” I proclaimed. “Really!?!?” she said and she looked at me with the same excitement in her eyes that I had.

I told her how I found a stick and how my name would be there for all to see - FOREVER!! “Really?” she said, still excited as I was. She was making her famous tea, and had just added the cream when I came in so, she was now sitting down in front of her favorite window to watch the birds in our back yard.

All of a sudden, a look came over her face, and she said, “But wait. For –Ever?”. She separated the word so I could gleam the understanding of what forever means. “Yes!”, I replied, still proud of myself for the timeless achievement. Then she said, “ But won’t people walk on it? It is a sidewalk.”. I froze, I had not thought about that for this was not my intention. “I don’t know if I want people walking on my name, FOR-EVER.”, she said. “ I think I want my name up high, like on a billboard, or in lights like a star!”.

How could I have not seen this? I was suddenly taken by the thoughts she fed me. “I want my name up high too!” I replied. “I want your name up high too!”, she said as she smiled quietly to herself. She stirred her tea and looked out the window; a squirrel had just dug up a nut and ran off to do what squirrels do with freshly recovered nuts. She had a love of nature that spilled out to all her children and me, her first grandson.

I immediately ran outside fearing the cement had dried, dooming me to eternity underfoot!! It had not – and I quickly brushed off my name, as I had seen the workers brush the surface of the material to add texture…I removed my name and made a mess. However, my name would not be walked on FOR-EVER, and I was glad.

Often when I tell people these stories, I feel sorry. Not for my grandma, because I know she’s in a better place. The sorrow I feel is for the people that hear about her but will never actually speak with her, to witness her unique personality and blossoming spirit. Perpetual positive motivation the likes of which I’ve never seen again. The world is a sadder less inspired place without her. She had a way of speaking to you that made you feel like the most important of God’s creatures, because she honestly felt we were. We were her children, my aunts and uncles, my mom and me. We all lived in that home on and off for the next 20 years.

me, Mumma and my Uncle Ameaga ( I'm on the right, in the pampers.)

Julia Ellen Martin Rogers passed away February 13, 2001 of cancer. She was a brilliant force in my early life, and to this day lessons still flood my memory when situations arise. I’ve found that the only really big issues in my life exist because early on I did not stop to think, what would Mumma say? What would Mumma do?

I miss her and I love her to this day. And there again is that familiar sorrow that comes with sharing her story with you, because these pages and words will never shine a light on her flesh and blood.

the book report

One student turned in the following book report,
With the proposition that they were nearly identical stories!

His cool professor gave him an A+ for this report.

Titanic:.... Cost - $29.99
Clinton :..... Cost - $29.99

Titanic:...... Over 3 hours to read
Clinton :..... Over 3 hours to read

Titanic:.... The story of Jack and Rose, their forbidden love, and subsequent catastrophe..
Clinton :... The story of Bill and Monica, their forbidden love, and subsequent catastrophe.

Titanic:.... Jack is a starving artist.
Clinton :..... Bill is a bullshit artist.

Titanic:..... In one scene, Jack enjoys a good cigar.
Clinton :.... Ditto for Bill.

Titanic:..... During the ordeal, Rose's dress gets ruined.
Clinton :..... Ditto for Monica.

Titanic:..... Jack teaches Rose to spit.
Clinton :... Let's not go there.

Titanic:..... Rose gets to keep her jewelry.
Clinton :.... Monica' s forced to return her gifts.

Titanic:..... Rose remembers Jack for the rest of her life.
Clinton :..... Clinton doesn't remember jack.

Titanic:..... Rose goes down on a vessel full of seamen.
Clinton :...... Monica.. ooh, let's not go there, either.

Titanic:..... Jack surrenders to an icy death.
Clinton :..... Bill goes home to Hillary - basically the same thing

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the breakup

the breakup, originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net.

the scar

the scar, originally uploaded by DeoisM~dot~Net.