It Mathers To Me

I love Eminem's new singles. This man is an incredible rapper. Okay, I get it; he has women issues, and I think it stems from the horrible relationship with his mother. However, the white boy can rhyme. "Crack A Bottle" is an awesome display of rapping styles. When you hear classic Eminem fuse into the intense styling of Dr. Dre, and then flow effortlessly into the laid-back soothing sound of 50 Cent himself, it is, without a doubt, a work of musical art. The rhythm is evidently distinct, yet the beat is never compromised. What a body of work this Detroit native has had! Doesn't surprise me that Motor Town would produce a unique musical styling from someone who would have been swept under the rug. If this hit couldn't be enough, couldn't be at the cutting edge, he unleashes "We Made You." This burlesque fantasy is so melodic and dulcet; easily threading a rap stanza as if it was part of early twentieth century music. Marshall, my hat off to what I am convinced is creative and praise worthy. So...Nick Cannon has a beef against you, but so did Christiana Aguilera. This storm shall pass. I just wish that you could find a better subject matter than your disrespect toward women. Hold on to the genius, just filter the hate a little more. "Relapse," as it suggests, has me going back, wanting more. I thought there was no more Eminem; like the Beastie Boys, the novelty of a white rapper had faded into music history, but lo and behold, Slim Shady is present and accounted for. This, Mathers matters.

Tag Them and Bag Them

Sometimes the best thing I can do is stick my feelings in a box. Those complicated emotions that make no sense, I place in a compartment. A taped-off area in my mind far enough away from the surface, so I know that it is there, but I don't have to deal with it...quit yet. I am sure that this is not the way a healthy individual should approach emotional disturbances in the force, but it seems to work for me. I need the Jedi Council to evaluate the feelings, before sending out a Master and his Apprentice. I have tried the "deal-with-your-emotions-right-now," "air-your-feelings," confrontational approach. Everything seems to snowball. The emotions are so supercharged; they take on a life of their own. They grab onto anything else in the vicinity, and the molehill becomes Mt. Everest. No. I need to ponder. I need to make lists. I need to self-examine. I need to leave it alone, and then come back to it. When I have hurt someone with something I have said or done, I need to take a time-out and think about what I have done, but more importantly, what I should have done. This method should produce reformation. When I have a difficult choice to make, I need to sit quietly, and make a list. Analyze the situation. Prepare for each scenario. When I am faced with the possibility of losing something near and dear, I have to talk to myself or meditate in prayer. I need the solace of nature to hear the voice of comfort or reason. I can not always do this process immediately, so I have to label the feeling and send it into storage. I might even walk away with the intent not to reclaim the emotion, but I have discovered that when I am well-rested and relaxed I am better equipped to address the feelings, the problems, and the so-called crisis. My method might be psychological destructive, but I need the process. I need the 12 steps. I want to go through each box with care. I am sure I will get all the compartments dealt with by...oh, let say senility.

See The Whole Picture, Jig-Saw.

Low self-image is my chronic condition, at least that is what I am told. I find that after years of observation and experience, I am more equipped to understand and interpret the shadows, the dim-lit alleys, and the by-ways off the beaten path. It is very interesting that the youthful gentleman looks at a woman's depth of emotion as a struggle with self-image. I recognize that criticism has always been a defective trait in the feminine disposition. We often find ourselves comparing and contrasting the superficial, the insignificant, and the trivial. However, desire, disappointment, and angst are not low self-esteem. They are parts to the puzzle. You place every piece on the table. You might even divide them by color or shape. All that is apparent is the disorder, the disarray, the fragments. It is a process pulling the pieces together, and creating the whole image. A lustful banter, a political analysis, a comedic anecdote may interlock, and expose the soul...the picture. The pain and discontentment are the pieces that you are certain do not fit. They have no rhyme nor reason. At times, you struggle to make them fit, make sense of them. You wish that someone with a new pair of eyes could come in and find their places in the puzzle. Low self-image is not the box. The box is attractive and demonstrates the put-together picture, however, it contains all the fragments. Of course, low self-image is a piece. It is a part not the whole. Feelings of uncertainty, fear, or the weight of the world on your shoulders are not due to feeling "fat." Life's trials and responsibilities stir up emotions that are bleak and wearying. A young man's trouble might not necessarily register equally to a woman's thoughts filled with concern and preoccupation for the future. Her needs are many, her duty is endless, and her wants are placed aside. So when I lack the ability to figure out where a piece goes, I get frustrated, and look for another piece. It is not low self-image. I am just focusing on another part of the picture. I want you to fit Jig-saw.

Les Miserables Is the Music I Hear

Fantine's song touched me.

"There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting

There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And that song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high
And life worth living
I dreamed that life would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and I obeyed
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame

He shared a summer by my side
He filled my days with endless wonder
He took my childhood in his stride
But he was gone when autumn came

And still I dream he'll come to me
That we will know the nights together
But there are dreams that cannot be
And there are storms we cannot weather

I had a dream my life would be
So different from the hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed"