Sitting here eating a strawberry pop-tart, sipping on a fresh cup of coffee, and rubbing some sleep out of my eye. Before long, the sugar and caffeine will begin to course through my veins. Breakfast of champs, I say. I eat pop-tarts and shovel shit. Day in and day out. It's what I do.....time.
Not only am I eating pop-tarts washed down by coffee, I'm chewing on a 12-year prison sentence. Instead of leaving a bitter taste in my mouth, it's like eating your vegetables. Nobody really likes them, but you chew and shallow. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. One day I will be a strong man.
I kicked addiction's ass. I kicked my demon's ass. Sometimes I kick my own ass. Today, I kick this pop-tart's ass. I'm just an ass-kicking dude. Come over here, I'll kick your ass too. Nah...I'm just playin'. The other day I kicked the MIDAS man's ass. I won't ever get on that again.
Somewhere, along the line of all this 'ass-kicking' I learned to release emotion. Not bottle it up. That's the problem with today's society. You let people walk all over you. You smile like it's all good. Then at night, you go cry on your pillow. Ever seen a movie called "Falling Down"? That's what happens when you swallow too much shit. There's another phrase for that as well. They say...."gone postal!"
Well, my pop-tart is gone. now the rapper T.I. is telling me that I can have whatever I like. And you can have whatever you like too. Prison is a cage defined by tall fences. Some people living life in the free world the same way. Your walls are bills, probation, work, that MIDAS man in your life. I remember. Then I came to prison and my life changed. I'm not gonna smile while you step on me, then go cry in my pillow. Quite frankly, my dear..."I don't give a damn!" Wishing the whole world would throw a middle finger in the air.
That's the caffeine and pop-tart talking. I'm really a loveable kind of guy. I adjust my mood as needed. My new MP3 has my power anthems. Right now D.M.X. is spitting, "Lord give me a sign." Song says, "Give me a sign, show me what you want me to do, cause I'm gonna go through whatever you want me to."
God threw me a bone the other day. I held a guitar in my hands for the first time in nearly six years. Like riding a bike. I still got it. Smiled so big my face hurt. Last time I saw a smile that big? It was my sister opening a full furnished Caboodle on her birthday. She was like 8 or 9. I'm 33.
Once again I'm getting high on life. My life is not defined by the height of the fences surrounding me. What's a fence anyway? A man-made structure. We do this shit to ourselves. And we are the only ones who can change that. Well....and God.
Was I wrong to say he threw me a bone? I don't know, but I found peace in my life. Guess if you don't like God throwing me a bone, perhaps the walls of your church have become fences. We should all be careful of what we stand behind.
Did you see that map when you signed in? That map started with just one star. That star was my sister, Ester, from Alaska. I want to thank you for the star YOU just put on that map. Thank you for being a part of my life. Can you throw a finger in the air too? HA!HA! Put some hooligan in your life!
Showing posts with label T.I.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label T.I.. Show all posts
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Monday, September 5, 2011
Happy Birthday to Our Baby Brother (by Ester Jean)
I still remember the day my baby brother was born. All of us were born at home, just Mom and Dad together, bringing little miracles into the world. For the first several births at home, they'd send the majority of the kids to a friend's house overnight and we would come home to meet the newest addition to our ever-expanding household.
Spud's birth was different. Mom was over 40 (and I hope she doesn't mind me mentioning that...it's kind of a miracle - without artificial anything...). I, Ester, was 8 years old when he was born. We were all at home, tucked away in our beds, and early one chilly September morning in Northern Michigan, I woke to my dad running from one end of the house to the other in his long-john thermal pajamas, waking us from the center of the house with joyful cries, "Wake up! You have a new baby brother! Hallelujah! Praise you, Jesus! You have a new baby brother! Come meet your baby brother!"
I raced out of bed and met the rest of my siblings in our parent's room ,where our glowing, exhausted mother proudly held a squirming, beet-red baby boy, the very first THAT-newly born baby I had ever seen in my 8 years of life. His is the only birth I remember of all my siblings, and I am so blessed that I do.
Because the rest of us were a bit older than our new baby, we thought of him as OUR NEW BABY. He has 3 older sisters, who were 6, 8, and 10-years old at his birth, and he was a real live, laughing, crying, pooping human baby. We raced one-another into mom and dad's room when we heard the faintest cry as he woke in the morning, and passed him to one-another all day long, sharing as good kids do, and covering him with love.
Today our baby Spud turns 19 years old, and I called him (ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!) and left a Happy Birthday message for him. We are singers in our family. I finished off with "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine... you make me happy when skies are gray...." because for the first forever and ever years of his life, that baby boy was my very best friend (and taught me that song when he was in Kindergarten). We went everywhere together, trips to the lake, building sand-castles and floating around with schools of minnows, hauling him along the Lakeside trails where we grew up, him in a wagon, trying to teach him to ride a bike years later, and eventually walking to and from the bus stop.
We don't get to talk as much anymore as we used to, but he's still my best little brother friend and I miss the shit out of him! I cried this morning, listening to a voice-mail from him. He's always gonna be my little baby brother.
Spud's birth was different. Mom was over 40 (and I hope she doesn't mind me mentioning that...it's kind of a miracle - without artificial anything...). I, Ester, was 8 years old when he was born. We were all at home, tucked away in our beds, and early one chilly September morning in Northern Michigan, I woke to my dad running from one end of the house to the other in his long-john thermal pajamas, waking us from the center of the house with joyful cries, "Wake up! You have a new baby brother! Hallelujah! Praise you, Jesus! You have a new baby brother! Come meet your baby brother!"
I raced out of bed and met the rest of my siblings in our parent's room ,where our glowing, exhausted mother proudly held a squirming, beet-red baby boy, the very first THAT-newly born baby I had ever seen in my 8 years of life. His is the only birth I remember of all my siblings, and I am so blessed that I do.
(1992)
Because the rest of us were a bit older than our new baby, we thought of him as OUR NEW BABY. He has 3 older sisters, who were 6, 8, and 10-years old at his birth, and he was a real live, laughing, crying, pooping human baby. We raced one-another into mom and dad's room when we heard the faintest cry as he woke in the morning, and passed him to one-another all day long, sharing as good kids do, and covering him with love.
(1994?)
(1996 -Yeah, that's Miss Ester Jean - it's a long story. Don't hate.)
We don't get to talk as much anymore as we used to, but he's still my best little brother friend and I miss the shit out of him! I cried this morning, listening to a voice-mail from him. He's always gonna be my little baby brother.
(2008)
Will ya'll leave Happy Birthday messages for my baby brother today?
(Don't hate me for sharing this, Spud. It's one of my favorites.
If you call me and MAKE me, I'll take it down, but for now it stays up!)
YOUR FAMILY LOVES YOU PHILLIP!!!!
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