2:35 am & Other Stories
I DREAM A DIFFERENT VIEW
Paris- standing across from the lock bridge, along the Seine River
The trees ought to know better.
Still, confusion is indiscriminate. But unlike the trees, falling temperatures confuse me. Stale, biting air which transforms live material into brittle fragments.
I dream a different view where cobblestone pathways line riverbanks, and salt-washed rooftops produce an erotic skyline. Where a lock bridge echoes love and friendship and tender moments. Where red lipstick stains on coffee cups and paperbacks hanging out of knapsacks are as ubiquitous as baguette and croissant. Where cornflower blue bicycles sporting baskets filled with wildflowers and newspapers and provisions create visual art. Where time crawls and breathtaking landscapes dismantle heartache: sharp, vicious, inexplicable pain customized to the individual.
I dream a different view where warmth is everlasting.
PUPPY RESCUE...STREET CRED?
Must haves for new puppy:
- Hypoallergenic.
- Male.
- Large enough to keep my husband looking like a man’s man.
- Small enough not to overtake my home.
-
Cockapoo (Cocker spaniel/Poodle mix) or Snoodle (Schnauzer/Poodle mix).
With three daughters of varying estrogen levels, and a husband in need of a male ally, a puppy is what was needed to muster calm out of chaos.
Friends of ours purchased poodle mixes for astronomical prices, from farms as far away as Wisconsin and Virginia. Our budget was not as elastic. So we visited a few shelters to save ourselves from the headaches of overspending. Truth is we visited one shelter south of Houston Street. The fees for adoption are as onerous as buying a dog from one of the pricey pet shops in our beloved Brooklyn. Soon after, we adopted the mantra: the right dog at the right price.
It took months, but I discovered the website of a breeder in Pennsylvania. After clicking through many photos, I stumbled upon a picture and related video of the most adorable affordable pup. One short phone call later, we owned the cutest Cockapoo imaginable. Days before picking him up, we purchased a variety of canine necessities: a large crate, a little blue bed, an Amazon-approved leash, matching feed/water bowls and the highest quality pee pads. And after retrieving our puppy from rural Pennsylvania, complete with an eight-hour drive round trip, we spent many days/nights crate/poop training. The realities of pet parenting hit hard when at 2AM I rushed our puppy to the garden to avoid his peeing on the hard wood.
The time came to socialize our puppy. He had to learn the ways of puppy hierarchy and make his own friends (said the mother.) So I took him to the long meadow in Prospect Park (Brooklyn’s Holy Grail for well-socialized dogs and their doting parents.) On the Long Meadow, puppy parents gather to discuss none other than their dogs, so I thought. Conversation included sleep habits, mood changes, snack choices and any other mundane behavior you could imagine. Meanwhile, my puppy settled with a group of poodle mixes. Who knew dogs were complete Narcissists? While my puppy mingled I figured I too, must navigate the puppy parent huddle. Just then, a guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses struck up a conversation.
"Hi." He said.
"Hello." I replied, "Is he or she yours?” I said pointing to his poodle mix.
“Yes, he’s mine.”
“He’s so cute. How old?” I asked in a high-pitched voice as I struggled to stick to the obligatory 'walk the dog' conversation: compliment the dog, discuss breed and remark on the newest cafe. Small talk is hard to conjure, though sadly, it's what you do as a dog owner.
The hooded man continued, “Hard to tell. We believe he’s two or three. He’s a rescue.”
I wanted to ask who was the 'we' he referred to, but I refrained. Why do dog owners always speak in 'we'?
I replied, “Wow, that’s great! Where did you rescue him?”
“From the shoreline of Puerto Rico tied to the deck of a beach house without a proper awning. Poverty issues I suppose. We picked him up at LaGuardia Airport on Christmas day.”
The hooded man wore dark sunglasses, which made it difficult to gauge his emotion. I thought to myself, Is he kidding? Suddenly alarmed I asked, “Did something happen in Puerto Rico? A tsunami, an earthquake?”
He replied, “No, just dogs roaming the beach unattended. It's nicknamed Dog Beach. It’s horrific!”
As the story progressed, I tried to picture dogs wandering the shorelines of Brooklyn or any known alleyway in New York City. But I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen a lone dog in any city. What ever happened to finding a tag-less dog on the street, reporting him/her to the authorities and when no one comes for it, it’s yours to keep? Where have the mutts gone? Though there's an obvious answer, reality is at once perplexing and wonderful. I think...
When I was younger, my cousin found stray dogs on sidewalks, in parks and sometimes outside the convenient store that sold our favorite crushed ice. And when asked about the breed he’d reply, “It's a mutt.” Back then, he only cared to keep his dogs safe and healthy.
Nowadays, owners place considerable emphasis on the breed of a rescue. Which begs the question: is it the matter of pedigree or care? But I digress. I encountered Havanese and Pit mixes, and Sheep and Collie mixes. None with any perceived physical or mental issues, missing eyes or limbs, keloids from alley fights or twitches. Not a limp in sight. Yet according to the puppy parents in the poodle mix group, their particular rescues are riddled with issues that can surface in an instant.
The owner of the Puerto Rican poodle shared what he described as the saddest story ever. Once, after clapping at a fly, his rescue backed away and shuddered. After releasing his one sentence story, the hooded man let out a long, loud sigh and added his dog is depressed, sleeps for days straight and will only cuddle at night.
I didn’t know whether to empathize with the hooded man or let out a muffled screech like Scooby Doo. So instead I displayed an unsympathetic expression resembling something between you’ve got to be kidding me and I might feel sorry for you? Despite the fact the conversation stumped me, mine is not a poker face. .
As I listened to other stories like his, I wondered if by saying you have a rescue grants you access into a world of closeted depressives who rely on free group therapy. Where if you're creative enough to mask your deepest issues within the coded confines of puppy talk, you might discover a cure to your own neurosis. Not for nothing, it appeared a safe environment for anyone in need of group free therapy before heading off to work. Clearer still, I didn’t measure up inside the puppy parent circle. I never wear sunglasses, I don't have patience for passive aggressive behavior and I own nothing resembling a hooded sweatshirt. Meanwhile, the question: Is your puppy a rescue? taunted me. I asked myself, "Do I want to be accepted into a group of amateur psychologists/ closeted depressives, risk being rejected or worse, tell my lazy truth? With my puppy’s social life at risk, I did what was best: considered potential lies.
Potential lies:
- “Yes, we rescued him from the gentrifying streets of Gowanus. Lost and roaming around the canal.”
- “Sure, we rescued him from Haiti after the earthquake. Best thing we've ever done.”
Ok, I feel awful even considering the earthquake lie. But the streets of Gowanus lie had relevance and might resonate with true Brooklynites. Still, lying to gain street cred seemed silly. So when asked, “Where did you rescue your puppy? I said,
“He’s a Cockapoo. We purchased him from a Quaker farm in rural Pennsylvania, but he’s quirky. Next to my daughters, his best friend is a wiffle ball. Plus, his front paws are like hands.”
So there you have it. I told the truth while we-ing all over the place. But my response seemed desperate, borderline disingenuous. No one laughed or cared. In fact, my response broke the huddle. Puppy parents scattered away hovered underneath hoods and hiding behind blacked-out sunglasses like post-op Lasik patients. I took a few minutes to realize my story hadn't resonated. And even more time to notice the huddle reconvened just a few yards away. The poodle group shunned me and my Quaker puppy, and though it sucked to be rejected, I wasn't surprised. Social circles are very subjective. Besides, I wasn't ready to concede my neurosis, even if meant I could hide behind puppy talk.
One day, not in the near future, I’ll venture into the puppy parent huddle again. Until then, I'll walk the paved streets of my Brooklyn neighborhood with my truth and my Quaker Cockapoo.
The Cousins
I once saw a real life killing. Well, more like a disgusting display of man devouring whole, rare beast. Nonetheless, it was murderous.
Dark Spaces
a poem
Crystal Granderson-Reid
Loneliness is a dark space.
A hollowed cavity where love is measured and tallied and debated and soiled; where trust once overflowed, and neglect leaves cobwebs in corners, buckling floorboards, cracks and holes and mold in unexpected places.
Yet when the sun is shining and rain bounces off the rooftop like flees on hot gravel, there exists hope.
Still, darkness falls daily. Light slithers through cracks when "the mood" swells. Inhibition temporarily fades. Self-preservation suffers as suppressed urges rise like oil atop vinegar. When the deed is done, sleep ensues and bodies separate. Inevitably, a new day emerges and darkness rejoices laughing loudly at the deceiving bit of light.
Kind smirks grow on faces. Getting through the day is hard work: avoidance, small talk, hardly talking…
High points are few when sitting in silence, watching as the world floats by untouched.
Life looks sweet out there, in the light. Others holding hands, walking side by side, discussing things.
A refreshing image: the picture of persons engaged in human connection. No one person struggling for understanding or attention. The elusive united front: that coveted thing that in the face of adversity stands together.
Reality begs otherwise: the drop of a hand, the drifting apart, the unapologetic absence of interest.
Exhaustion stifles.
Darkness prevails.
SH*T AT MY DOOR
I slept outside my bedroom for the first time in years.
Rather, to silence the cries of discontent buried deep inside the walls, that covered up by layers of paint could hardly hide its calls.
I had to leave my bedroom seemed the ceiling was caving in;
And while many years have passed and a lot of things have changed, when someone wants to deceive you,
familiar habits are sustained:
The one who never hears him.
SH*T gets old.
I slept outside my bedroom,
But some things I can't quite figure out:
Correction: SH*T I chose to take.
Or does his staunch ego mask what is really a weak esteem?
And since SH*T has never been my friend,
when it comes knocking at my door,
I push it out with a vengeance-
In fact, SH*T is so unwelcome,
Crystal Granderson-Reid ©
 |
| Paris- standing across from the lock bridge, along the Seine River |
Outside my window lay asphalt and brownstone and oversized carriages juxtapose century-old trees that confused by warmer-than-usual temperatures bear buds in winter.
The trees ought to know better.
Still, confusion is indiscriminate. But unlike the trees, falling temperatures confuse me. Stale, biting air which transforms live material into brittle fragments.
I dream a different view where cobblestone pathways line riverbanks, and salt-washed rooftops produce an erotic skyline. Where a lock bridge echoes love and friendship and tender moments. Where red lipstick stains on coffee cups and paperbacks hanging out of knapsacks are as ubiquitous as baguette and croissant. Where cornflower blue bicycles sporting baskets filled with wildflowers and newspapers and provisions create visual art. Where time crawls and breathtaking landscapes dismantle heartache: sharp, vicious, inexplicable pain customized to the individual.
I dream a different view where warmth is everlasting.
PUPPY RESCUE...STREET CRED?
Must haves for new puppy:
- Hypoallergenic.
- Male.
- Large enough to keep my husband looking like a man’s man.
- Small enough not to overtake my home.
- Cockapoo (Cocker spaniel/Poodle mix) or Snoodle (Schnauzer/Poodle mix).
With three daughters of varying estrogen levels, and a husband in need of a male ally, a puppy is what was needed to muster calm out of chaos.
Friends of ours purchased poodle mixes for astronomical prices, from farms as far away as Wisconsin and Virginia. Our budget was not as elastic. So we visited a few shelters to save ourselves from the headaches of overspending. Truth is we visited one shelter south of Houston Street. The fees for adoption are as onerous as buying a dog from one of the pricey pet shops in our beloved Brooklyn. Soon after, we adopted the mantra: the right dog at the right price.
It took months, but I discovered the website of a breeder in Pennsylvania. After clicking through many photos, I stumbled upon a picture and related video of the most adorable affordable pup. One short phone call later, we owned the cutest Cockapoo imaginable. Days before picking him up, we purchased a variety of canine necessities: a large crate, a little blue bed, an Amazon-approved leash, matching feed/water bowls and the highest quality pee pads. And after retrieving our puppy from rural Pennsylvania, complete with an eight-hour drive round trip, we spent many days/nights crate/poop training. The realities of pet parenting hit hard when at 2AM I rushed our puppy to the garden to avoid his peeing on the hard wood.
The time came to socialize our puppy. He had to learn the ways of puppy hierarchy and make his own friends (said the mother.) So I took him to the long meadow in Prospect Park (Brooklyn’s Holy Grail for well-socialized dogs and their doting parents.) On the Long Meadow, puppy parents gather to discuss none other than their dogs, so I thought. Conversation included sleep habits, mood changes, snack choices and any other mundane behavior you could imagine. Meanwhile, my puppy settled with a group of poodle mixes. Who knew dogs were complete Narcissists? While my puppy mingled I figured I too, must navigate the puppy parent huddle. Just then, a guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses struck up a conversation.
"Hi." He said.
"Hello." I replied, "Is he or she yours?” I said pointing to his poodle mix.
“Yes, he’s mine.”
“He’s so cute. How old?” I asked in a high-pitched voice as I struggled to stick to the obligatory 'walk the dog' conversation: compliment the dog, discuss breed and remark on the newest cafe. Small talk is hard to conjure, though sadly, it's what you do as a dog owner.
The hooded man continued, “Hard to tell. We believe he’s two or three. He’s a rescue.”
I wanted to ask who was the 'we' he referred to, but I refrained. Why do dog owners always speak in 'we'?
I replied, “Wow, that’s great! Where did you rescue him?”
“From the shoreline of Puerto Rico tied to the deck of a beach house without a proper awning. Poverty issues I suppose. We picked him up at LaGuardia Airport on Christmas day.”
The hooded man wore dark sunglasses, which made it difficult to gauge his emotion. I thought to myself, Is he kidding? Suddenly alarmed I asked, “Did something happen in Puerto Rico? A tsunami, an earthquake?”
He replied, “No, just dogs roaming the beach unattended. It's nicknamed Dog Beach. It’s horrific!”
As the story progressed, I tried to picture dogs wandering the shorelines of Brooklyn or any known alleyway in New York City. But I couldn't recall the last time I'd seen a lone dog in any city. What ever happened to finding a tag-less dog on the street, reporting him/her to the authorities and when no one comes for it, it’s yours to keep? Where have the mutts gone? Though there's an obvious answer, reality is at once perplexing and wonderful. I think...
When I was younger, my cousin found stray dogs on sidewalks, in parks and sometimes outside the convenient store that sold our favorite crushed ice. And when asked about the breed he’d reply, “It's a mutt.” Back then, he only cared to keep his dogs safe and healthy.
Nowadays, owners place considerable emphasis on the breed of a rescue. Which begs the question: is it the matter of pedigree or care? But I digress. I encountered Havanese and Pit mixes, and Sheep and Collie mixes. None with any perceived physical or mental issues, missing eyes or limbs, keloids from alley fights or twitches. Not a limp in sight. Yet according to the puppy parents in the poodle mix group, their particular rescues are riddled with issues that can surface in an instant.
The owner of the Puerto Rican poodle shared what he described as the saddest story ever. Once, after clapping at a fly, his rescue backed away and shuddered. After releasing his one sentence story, the hooded man let out a long, loud sigh and added his dog is depressed, sleeps for days straight and will only cuddle at night.
I didn’t know whether to empathize with the hooded man or let out a muffled screech like Scooby Doo. So instead I displayed an unsympathetic expression resembling something between you’ve got to be kidding me and I might feel sorry for you? Despite the fact the conversation stumped me, mine is not a poker face. .
As I listened to other stories like his, I wondered if by saying you have a rescue grants you access into a world of closeted depressives who rely on free group therapy. Where if you're creative enough to mask your deepest issues within the coded confines of puppy talk, you might discover a cure to your own neurosis. Not for nothing, it appeared a safe environment for anyone in need of group free therapy before heading off to work. Clearer still, I didn’t measure up inside the puppy parent circle. I never wear sunglasses, I don't have patience for passive aggressive behavior and I own nothing resembling a hooded sweatshirt. Meanwhile, the question: Is your puppy a rescue? taunted me. I asked myself, "Do I want to be accepted into a group of amateur psychologists/ closeted depressives, risk being rejected or worse, tell my lazy truth? With my puppy’s social life at risk, I did what was best: considered potential lies.
Potential lies:
- “Yes, we rescued him from the gentrifying streets of Gowanus. Lost and roaming around the canal.”
- “Sure, we rescued him from Haiti after the earthquake. Best thing we've ever done.”
Ok, I feel awful even considering the earthquake lie. But the streets of Gowanus lie had relevance and might resonate with true Brooklynites. Still, lying to gain street cred seemed silly. So when asked, “Where did you rescue your puppy? I said,
“He’s a Cockapoo. We purchased him from a Quaker farm in rural Pennsylvania, but he’s quirky. Next to my daughters, his best friend is a wiffle ball. Plus, his front paws are like hands.”
So there you have it. I told the truth while we-ing all over the place. But my response seemed desperate, borderline disingenuous. No one laughed or cared. In fact, my response broke the huddle. Puppy parents scattered away hovered underneath hoods and hiding behind blacked-out sunglasses like post-op Lasik patients. I took a few minutes to realize my story hadn't resonated. And even more time to notice the huddle reconvened just a few yards away. The poodle group shunned me and my Quaker puppy, and though it sucked to be rejected, I wasn't surprised. Social circles are very subjective. Besides, I wasn't ready to concede my neurosis, even if meant I could hide behind puppy talk.
One day, not in the near future, I’ll venture into the puppy parent huddle again. Until then, I'll walk the paved streets of my Brooklyn neighborhood with my truth and my Quaker Cockapoo.
I once saw a real life killing. Well, more like a disgusting display of man devouring whole, rare beast. Nonetheless, it was murderous.
My mother took my brothers and me to visit her childhood home alongside the country roads of Amelia County, Virginia. The tiny house sat on acres of cow pasture inclusive of a cemetery my mother insisted we see. A rickety, wooden gate hushed by overgrown trees opened to handmade grave markers, and more graves marked with field stone bearing illegible names. And while its unkempt aesthetic suggested otherwise, there existed a foregone formality hard to ignore. I imagined a trail of statuesque ladies dressed in black, and lanky men carrying the deceased filling the grounds. Though it seemed odd to bury your own, I gathered my family had a choice.
At the house, “the cousins“, as referred to by my mother, crowded inside the lackluster kitchen. A kitchen where decrepit copper pots hung from meat hooks and a rounded, yoke colored refrigerator sat dingy and lukewarm. Preening with their Jerry curls and gold chips for teeth, “the cousins” told stories of dead uncles and ghosts whom occupy empty rooms. They recalled the history of great grandparents whose portrait hung along a stairway leading to a cramped and neglected second floor. Blackfoot Indians whose faces I’d soon forget, but whose statures continue to haunt me. Hands so large they dripped off their knees like Lincoln's at the monument. With hair long and dark and thick I couldn’t imagine being related. It proved a haunting image of great grandparents long dead whom still appeared gargantuan and alive inside the lone portrait.
A few of "the cousins" shared distinct similarities, though none worthy of comparison. Instead, “the cousins” resembled stereotypical country folk happiest trolling barefoot across dung-filled sod while slaughtering what would be dinner. Problem is, placing the word “the” in front of any word either gives it an air of prestige or horror. For what it’s worth, “the cousins” appeared to be upstanding citizens, but they horrified me.
After the ghost stories ended, the sound of my great grandparents' portrait falling to the floor sent everyone running out of the house. My worst fears realized: Ghosts exist. The kitchen emptied out except for a tall, spindly man who squeezed up against one of my great aunts displaying the grossest form of public affection I’d seen until then. My Aunt Jennifer memorialized their affections with an inappropriate joke. Still, my adolescent mind couldn’t handle elders kissing in corners or ghosts.
Amid clouds of grayish smoke, 'the cousins' prepared a barbecue in the backyard as slabs of beef bled from their centers like freshly killed game. Bruised, full-faced pigs lay like rubbery, pink tires on rotted, wooden tables; limbs attached. Chicken legs stacked high on plastic platters with blue and red veins showing through translucent skin. But as I stood watching 'the cousins' devour whole bodies in the dusty, back roads of Amelia County, I lost my appetite for the entire state of Virginia. Yet in an ironic twist, returned for college in Hampton, Virginia sure to avoid unpaved roads, bruised pork and "the cousins".
Dark Spaces
a poem
Crystal Granderson-Reid
Loneliness is a dark space.
A hollowed cavity where love is measured and tallied and debated and soiled; where trust once overflowed, and neglect leaves cobwebs in corners, buckling floorboards, cracks and holes and mold in unexpected places.
Yet when the sun is shining and rain bounces off the rooftop like flees on hot gravel, there exists hope.
Still, darkness falls daily. Light slithers through cracks when "the mood" swells. Inhibition temporarily fades. Self-preservation suffers as suppressed urges rise like oil atop vinegar. When the deed is done, sleep ensues and bodies separate. Inevitably, a new day emerges and darkness rejoices laughing loudly at the deceiving bit of light.
Kind smirks grow on faces. Getting through the day is hard work: avoidance, small talk, hardly talking…
High points are few when sitting in silence, watching as the world floats by untouched.
Life looks sweet out there, in the light. Others holding hands, walking side by side, discussing things.
A refreshing image: the picture of persons engaged in human connection. No one person struggling for understanding or attention. The elusive united front: that coveted thing that in the face of adversity stands together.
Reality begs otherwise: the drop of a hand, the drifting apart, the unapologetic absence of interest.
Exhaustion stifles.
Darkness prevails.
SH*T AT MY DOOR
I slept outside my bedroom for the first time in years.
Except this time, not to shed any forthcoming tears.
Rather, to silence the cries of discontent buried deep inside the walls, that covered up by layers of paint could hardly hide its calls.
I had to leave my bedroom seemed the ceiling was caving in;
I could no longer control that creepy, crawly feeling underneath my skin.
And while many years have passed and a lot of things have changed, when someone wants to deceive you,
familiar habits are sustained:
The contemplation,
The set up,
The stale and shaky pitch.
A clumsy plan of manipulation designed to make YOU look like the bitch.
The one who never hears him.
The one who keeps him from his boys.
The one who should accept any old tired STORY.
SH*T gets old.
I slept outside my bedroom,
into my daughter's bed I went.
I couldn't help but think of the choices:
ones I've made and ones I've spent.
But some things I can't quite figure out:
Is he hoping that I might break?
Or does he ever stop to think about all the SH*T I had to take?
Correction: SH*T I chose to take.
Or does his staunch ego mask what is really a weak esteem?
And he simply can't take knowing I'm stronger than I seem.
And since SH*T has never been my friend,
when it comes knocking at my door,
I aggressively tell it to go away
and shut the f****ing door.
I push it out with a vengeance-
A life lesson I will never let go.
In fact, SH*T is so unwelcome,
this is the end of the poem.
Crystal Granderson-Reid ©
To Read full article:
In a time where filters, Photoshop and savvy one-liners dominate social media, we've been conditioned to create virtual realities and share them, widely. So instead of promoting the gritty truths of life's mundane moments, we spend hours doctoring photos while taking screen-shots of inspirational quotes just to portray a more stable self.
For those in couple-dom, real life can be particularly messy. Relationships experience ups and downs, and worse, cease functioning altogether. No to mention, tension around sex, communication and compatibility can reach insurmountable heights when constituent members struggle to find balance in satisfaction. And for reasons we refuse to express in a #hashtag.
Sex Box is a groundbreaking new show on WE decoding the pressing concerns of couples on the brink of failure. Set in front of a live studio audience, audiences watch while couples emerge flushed and forthright from an enclosed chamber. After which, experts distribute blunt, hard hitting advice in an attempt to mitigate their debilitating issues.
A NEED TO BE RIGHT
Life inside these walls: exist
countless debates over nothing, really.
Attached for life to a person in perpetual need of being right.
Because to be wrong is like a death.
Clouds roll over his face as
his eyes drop down like a child born missing something.
Like a child wishing to be liked.
Daft words bring confusion.
Anger forbids further discussion.
A dark disposition is amplified.
Weakness is not appealing.
I walk away and leave him to his need.
February 5, 2015 A tale/
ADVENTURES IN GREY-LAND
This Valentine's Day, I’ll be in a movie theater surrounded by hundreds of closeted erotica enthusiasts.
We will finally emerge from hiding as we exult over the premiere of Fifty Shades of Grey on the big screen.
My first peek inside the underground world of sadomasochism (S&M) occurred while watching the movie Pulp Fiction. It was a startling glance that included chains, whips and a big red ball that scarred my young adult mind. Next was Eyes Wide Shutwith Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise, a then-married couple. Albeit a demure depiction of S&M compared to Tarantino's Pulp fiction, the effect was just as horrifying. And once more on my honeymoon in Jamaica, where the general manager of the carpeted, toddler-heavy, soup-serving resort my husband booked took pity on us and offered an upgrade. Hedonism. A five-star nudist resort where the young and gorgeous cater to you, while mature and less-dazzling guests leave little to the imagination. Given the alternative, sunbathing with naked people was far better than eating hot soup while being eaten alive by carpet mosquitoes.
At Hedonism, couples seeking other sexual partners approached us inside the sauna, as we sat wrapped in towels and they sat Indian style, in the nude. While on the beach, random strangers engaged us in conversation while their private parts hung overhead. But it was the unobstructed view of the fetishist group we'd seen in movies that sent us into hiding. Individuals dressed in leather contraptions wearing masks, carrying menacing gadgets. We were in the midst of an S&M convention. And Hedonism is the ideal location for risque behaviors. Overwhelmed by this abrupt immersion, we spent the rest of our honeymoon inside our room enjoying a conventional honeymoon.
Thirteen years later, I heard of a must-read book that should be downloaded to an e-reader, not carried around for fear people might judge you. And that's just what I did. My actions reminded me of when I'd sneak and watch Fast Times at Ridgemont High as a teenager. I gained a scant understanding of how flirting leads to so much more.
Over the two days and nights I took to read book one, I ignored responsibility. Entrapped inside a world opposite my own, it was as if this underground world had been taunting me for years and had now swallowed me whole. Christian Grey, the protagonist, is one of the most intriguing images of a man since Michelangelo's David. His overt sex appeal and monotone voice, coupled with designer suits and splendid physique, blew my mind. If not for his gray eyes and eminent dark side he'd resemble my husband to a tee. My husband reaped the illicit benefits of my literary tryst. After which, he read the entire series, and together we plummeted into Grey-land.
Similar to Alice's Wonderland, Grey-land is an elusive, character-driven, underground world that manifests out of one's imagination. And while my imagination can be deep and complex, I found Grey-land intriguing yet tricky to navigate. Characters were ominous and unforgiving. And the landscape was sharp, slick and dark at once. Different from the vibrant, conversation-filled Wonderland Alice experienced. Still, I refused to stifle an experience where the ultimate reward is pleasure, despite having to jump through actual hoops to get it.
We ordered from obscure websites and followed the events of book one as best we could. Amid sexual exploration, I realized quirks as unattractive in the bedroom as they must have been in everyday life. I'm clumsiest when I stand still, I laugh hardest when trying to be serious and I have a low tolerance for pain, the self-inflicted kind. Not to mention, the experience of being blindfolded is dampened when you're near-sighted and fear being left in the dark. I'm unconvincing in Grey-land and not as sexy. Complete submission and/or domination are radical concepts. And I prefer a more democratic environment.
After a month with a few minor successes, and lots of fumbles, it occurred to me: I may never find my happy place. Grey-land is not sustainable. So I stored the strappy items ordered from aggressive websites that make it their business to send me daily reminders of my temporary madness and returned to normalcy. My adventures had exhausted me, but I wasn't alone. Fifty Shades of Grey had reached mass appeal. Friends and strangers asked, "Have you read the book?" Everyone was embracingGrey as the color of love. And while blending black and white creates a rainbow of grays, which depending on proportions can range from dove gray to graphite, mine is a tale of two worlds. S&M permeated my conventional love life and altered my perception forever. As it stands, blending worlds is a good thing. And while I can only venture so far underground before coming up for air, my sexual pendulum now extends as far left as dove gray.
It's been two years since I've ventured into Grey-land, but I look forward to Fifty Shades of Grey (the movie) awakening my exploratory side. I'd be curious to see whether my pendulum moves up a shade or regresses completely. Though perhaps I've said too much. Visitors to Grey-land will appreciate that if you see me in the theater on Valentine's Day, don't look directly at me, and speak after I've spoken to you first.
January 30, 2015 A thought/ openness is hard to carry
Openness is hard to carry.
It seems many find my questions intolerable. Annoyance shows on their faces. There is one person that feels for me. I can see it in her eyes. My questions are simple. I think. At least they appear as such to me. Confusion creates a palpable distance that would sooner drown me than disappear on its own.
Openness is hard to carry, but shutting down is not an option.
A Poem/ I hear the sunlight January 20, 2015
(previously published on tumblr)
I hear the sunlight
by Crystal Granderson-Reid
Morning creeps in like a sly fox in a chicken coop.
Like the fox, morning holds its victims captive.
Erasing all things that cast shadows.
Erasing all things that cast shadows.
And like a gatekeeper senses the fox,
I hear the sunlight.
A Thought/ December 19, 2014
BALANCE REPLACES ISOLATION
Words reverberate inside my head. Some more often than others. The word Isolation has been a constant for the past three years. In that time, I've become more disciplined with my writing and honed an inner peace that can only be described as super human. I don't know why. I'm not religious but I do believe in a higher power, and so I pray faithfully, and often. Lately, the word Balance has replaced Isolation. What usually happens when the word comes is that it manifests itself throughout my life. Patience allows for promise. I'm sure of it.
Thought/ December 11, 2014
WHY I WRITE
I write to
get over humps, to climb hills, conquer unknown territory.
I write to see my thoughts and watch the
words dance.
I write to
manipulate emotion-if only my own.
I write to
say “it” without consequence, to hear myself think,
to breath.
I write to evaluate thought both foreign
and familiar.
I write to
explore lives that might otherwise be my own.
I write to
speak the feelings of others that invade my thoughts.
I write to
get lost, for release, for control.
I write to
give description to images I’m otherwise talentless to draw.
I write to
give weight to issues I’m otherwise powerless to rectify.
I write to
manage emotions I’m not yet ready to mitigate.
I write to soothe urges, heal those I’ll never meet and give voice to the voiceless.
I write to be
heard.
I write to
gain a connection to the world.
I write to get closer to myself.
I write for
me.
A poem/ December 10, 2014
PALM TREE
Salty waters ware on me.
Soon, the mighty sea will reign victorious.
She always does.
For now, I bend into the pain.
My roots exposed, decaying at the hand of nature's bitter exfoliant.
Salt having its way with me.
But still I sway amid wind's prolific breath.
My trunk, a beautiful sun washed gray,
protects an inner beauty that unprompted,
sprouts silky, yellow strips.
Blackened tips kiss an intense Caribbean sun.
Demise is imminent.
Still, I stand tall.
As slender and radiant as the sun with feet tattered beyond repair.
Ripped apart from that which grounds me.
Horror is but a pale whisper compared to the hope I feel.
For in this moment,
I am alive.
Copyright 2014
Thought/ December 8, 2014
UPSETS
(in anticipation of the second opinion)
Thought/ December 6, 2014
Grandma Worked Hardest
I stood in a hospital room with my entire family the day my grandmother died. Transcendence is mysterious. I was ten and she was still young and prematurely gray. My grandmother was tall and handsome, and real. I know because I touched her to be sure. Her feet hang rough and pale, and freezing off the bed. She had worked hard: at home, at work, at life. Assiduous describes her well, but her heart had worn. She was nearing her last breath when in seconds, her spirit vanished and she was gone. I realized then that death like life is fluid. Changes occur in flashes and life as we know it, ends.
The In-Betweens
(A thought on the ideologies and economic futures of a dwindling middle class)
Thought/ December 5, 2014
The In-Betweens
(A thought on the ideologies and economic futures of a dwindling middle class)
It's no wonder that the need to go back to basics is matched by the need to expand beyond our current situation. Artisan resurgence butts up against technological advancement. Similarly, the rich are getting richer and the poor poorer. That which lies in the middle is being stretched to capacity. As opposite ends of the societal spectrum overflows, what happens to the In-Betweens? The group neither rich nor poor, tech savvy nor artisan, here nor there. Will they be forced to choose? Will they all-of-a-sudden prefer homegrown to store bought, handhelds to home phones, or have nothing left to grasp?
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