HIT 'EM UP STYLE?

How is it that life just goes on? I am so frustrated. My life is not what I want it to be and there's so much that needs to be done but here I am, and no one notices.

I am a Blu Cantrell fan. I like her song. I wish I could go back in time and hit some of my exes back - real good.

inline tagging

I bet you thought I was going to talk about skates? No, I am working to provide a living for myself as a writer and I read this great article about writing taglines. So, I thought I would give it a shot. Starting today, I will be looking for tagline writing opportunities with production comapanies. I'll keep you posted.

Pork chop salad

I laugh so much here that I bet you I have added five years to my life. Today, I laughed at a guy who recycles everything in his refrigerator into salads. He says that he scrapes the fur off and cuts it up. It's all about money management. OOhhh-yahhhh.

Apple, apple, plum

Three weeks and counting. Apple, apple, plum. So where's the carrot? Who's holding the stick? Not making sense to you yet? Well, don't feel bad, you would have to be walking around in my skin and know beyond a doubt that no matter what it looks like, I'm winning. I am the teacher who gets the apple,, and the student bringing the apple. I've got a great story that's going to win the competition, the plum. I picked the carrot that keeps me motivated. I'm the only person capable of holding the stick, since I'm the only person I'll listen to.

What happened to 'just do it'?

When I was 19, 29, 39 - I still had the ability to move quickly to do what I wanted to do. This weekend I found that I have constraints that will not allow me to do certain things. They are self imposed. I have become my conscience, whole and entire. My want to do things is still there. My wish to do things is still there. My will to do things has atrophied. Is there anyone who doesn't understand that I'm talking about sex? There was a time when it was as simple as breathing, when it needed no rhetoric, no thought, no emotion, no rhyme or reason, only eye contact. Now, when I am in a place where there is opportunity many times daily, I persist in ceasing and desisting. It is so unfair. I censor myself. I'm not happy about it; but I continue to say no to offers that range from movie and sex, dinner and sex, marry me and sex, to I'll give you all my money for sex. Shouldn't wisdom and self-control make you happy with your life? I know that at this point in my life, no is the correct answer to every option that includes sex without the requisite emotion attached, but it is so lonely.

Don't ask my kids.

I view the last ninety days much differently than my children, or my mother, or the judge who would send me to jail for contempt, that is he would if I showed up in his court room with a hokey story, which I won't. Everyone has an opinion about everything that marginally concerns them. I hate that, the whole freedom of expression thing reeks if you ask me.

KATRINA'S BOYS

KATRINA’S BOYS

C2007 Rollion Milburn-Hampton

Katrina gave birth in rain and winds.

Katrina raged as she gave birth to twins.

I have met her boys, fear and loss.

They descended upon my home, hungry and strong.

Katrina’s boys are broken in ways you cannot see.

Katrina’s boys are drawn to me.

Like magnets, I am drawn to them.

I love Katrina’s male children.

I would keep them if I could.

If life would let me, I would draw them near.

Painters, singers, artists all, I would keep.

Instead I set them free, and I weep.

I can’t have everything.

I listen to soft, sexy, lyrical voices, from Cajun to swing,

Reminders from thirty years past,

When hurricanes were trapped in glasses.

If I could walk again through New Orleans, street and parks, alone,

I would find a place to keep Katrina’s boys safe,

And I would bring them home.

Katrina’s boys stalk and woo.

They tempt as only bayou warriors do.

They remind me of soft shell crabs with buttered bread.

I have visions of naked bodies in rumpled beds.

Sweat and hot peppers and cries from LSU.

These are men, thirty years away, not boys.

Hardened by their birth in Katrina’s winds and waves,

no longer toys.

I pass by, hungry for their touch.

I would caress them, but I love Katrina’s boys too much.

When I can, I send them home.

New Orleans needs them to heal her broken heart.

They need her as she needs them, they cannot live apart.

I will be the voice of my sweet city.

I will soothe them with hope, not pity.

Katrina’s boys need soft southern breezes, not northern winds.

They need a voice of reason.

They need the smell of boudin, and ribs grilling.

Katrina’s boys need to go home. God willing.

Who made this rule?

I would certainly like to know where on line journaling came from. Who made the rule that one had to be honest when you blogged? And when did web pages become designed to open your heart to the world? And if people can be honest in a blog, why can't they be honest face to face? Is it the anonymity? I mean, you have this made up name. No one knows who is behind it. You say what you want with no consequences. Is that it? So, if that's the answer, where is the honesty in that? There's still a mask. I'm tired of masks. I just want to admit when I've screwed up, and go on from there. I've wasted too many years of my life trying to keep my mask intact. I'm not going to do that anymore. I'm going to fix what messes I've made, if possible, then go on, but without the mask. If those messes are carved in stone, then, so be it - it's blasting time. Clear away the rubble. Is there anything left, or do we start over from scratch?

THIN RED LINE

THIN RED LINE

Why do you watch me slowly fade away to nothing,

A shadow on the wall of your life,

Never holding any substance,

Less than your woman,

Less than your wife?

Today I spent wondering where we went wrong,

Why we’ve done nothing to break up this lousy home.

I’m behind a thin red line,

Where there’s not any passion,

And not enough heat to call it hate.

Wait, wait,

there’s a thin red line on the floor between us,

Who drew that, you or me?

And if I step over it,

Will that step set me free?

What’s left to fight for?

What’s left to run from?

There’s nothing to make me leave,

And nothing to make you come home.

There’s a thin red line,

Where a heart is bleeding,

Yours or mine?

Isn’t it time one of us took a stand

To make this house a home,

Make this marriage work, or leave it alone?

But how can we find the time,

When you’re never here and I am trapped behind this thin red line?

If you’re not looking at me as your queen,

Then am I your slave?

If you’re not giving me your heart,

Where are you keeping the love I gave?

You’re not crossing this line where my love has poured out,

Until there’s nothing left to give or take.

My love has poured away to nothing,

Leaving a thin red line that should be easy to cross.

Yet you won’t come over,

And that’s my loss.

What kind of dare will it take to make you cross this thin red line,

Help you find me on the other side

Find my heart lying helpless with nothing left to hide,

Not one ache, not one tear, not one hope left to give?

How do I continue to live?

I crossed a thin red line,

And I’m still locked away from you.

What can I do?

My breath is gone,

My lonely heart barely lingers on.

I crossed a thin red line to worship at your feet.

Laid my heart across this thin red line and you never noticed me.

I’m trapped behind this line with you,

And what remains?

Open a vein,

What does it matter?

What have I got to lose?

Is there anything you didn’t get when you dragged me behind these doors,

Dragged me to the floor,

Left me to lie alone

Behind this thin red line called love?

"CHOOSE".

CHOOSE

An original screenplay by Rollion Milburn-Hampton

One woman, two talented men - someone has to go.

Synopsis:

Quentin Noctavious is a highly talented guitarist/composer who hasn’t quite lived up to the potential and promise of his first hit song. Miles Becorran is a music manager known for finding the best talent and holding onto these class acts while they rise to the top. They are two men involved with the same woman, vying to prove which is the better for her.

Jada Bynum stops standing in the shadow of her want to be a star guitarist pseudo-husband and step out on her own as a singer. To the amazement of Quentin Noctavious, Jada’s first step of faith, competing for one of the highly in demand spaces on Talent Storm, a reality TV talent show, results in Jada making the cut. Her voice, her style, and her sense of humor brings her to the attention of Miles Becorran, the manager of the up-and coming girl group, Faze. Miles, known for seeing the end from his very first view of talented newcomers, feels Jada is not only going to win the talent show, but take the nation by storm.

Miles sets out to find the best musicians to back his new star on the rise, and finds that Quentin has written the perfect songs for Jada. Miles convinces Quentin to allow Jada to sing his material, then works with Quentin to shape the music around her.

As Miles spends more time with Jada, her heart, frozen from her isolation in the years she attempted to keep Quentin happy, thaws. She comes alive, and with her the audience of Talent Storm. Fan momentum develops and grows from the first day of competition.

When she takes the stage, the vote, audience and live television, goes off the chart. Miles races to get Jada’s first album finished, to take advantage of the moment when she wins or loses. It’s a win-win situation, but only if Miles can take advantage of Jada’s window of fame.

Quentin feels the pinch of having Jada become not just her own person, but a star in her own right. He watches the growing attraction between Jada and Miles. Quentin does not doubt that it will go beyond the platonic, but has no idea how to stop it. He knows that he has neglected the love she once had for him. He has no idea how to get it back.

His frustration is compounded by his respect and admiration for Miles as a musician and as a manager who can pull the most incredible performances from Jada.

The closer Jada gets to the finals in the show, the closer Jada and Miles get to crossing the line to becoming lovers. When it happens, for once the husband is not the last know.

POLYANDRY

I wish I was still a whore, not only because I appreciate a good man when I see one, but so that I had no conscience when it came to grabbing a man and taking him to bed. It's not only that I am celibate, (or was), I've fallen off the wagon. It's that I want to have many of them at the same time. I've watched several episodes of Big Love on HBO and I truly feel that character who has three wives. I could really get into having a house with three or more men living with me. The term for a woman with more than one consort at a time is polyandry, by the way. So maybe I was never a whore, nor am I now a reformed whore at heart. I am polyandrous. I am woman. I confess that one man at a time will never satisfy me. I need many, now. Who's volunteering?

MI TUTORI AMOR

3:12 in the morning,
I'm sleepless again,
trying to avoid the tears that always win.
Days come and go, tesoro,
sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
And when I am on my own,
facing the love I'm making alone,
I remember.
I remember you.
Mi tutori amor,
you have my life,
all of me, safe in your heart.
Guardian of my love, I trust you.
Today, I can hold on, loving you completely,
knowing soon you'll look at me so sweetly,
that you'll never leave me, never cheat,
tutori di mi amor.
Tesoro, hold me close, closer still,
wrap me in your heart.
That's my place in this life.
Guard me,
mi tutori amor.
If I died tonight,
faced eternity without light,
rose to terror and woe,
faced my future with nowhere to go,
I would remember,
forever without end,
mi tutori amor,
more than my lover,
more than my friend.
I can't wait to be held again.
You guard my heart.
Guard me tonight.
Guard me.
I can't help thinking about you.
Tesoro, mi manchi,
I miss you so much there are no words to say it,
no kisses for my lips,
no skin beneath my fingertips.
I would beg if you were here,
cry out for love if you could hear me.
Guard me from myself if no one else.
Tutori di mi amor,
invade my dreams,
weave a spell.
Hold me close, closer still.
Guard my heart.
Fill my thoughts.
Guard me tonight.
Guard me.
Si tu es amore,
hold me close, closer still.
Si tu es mi adore,
guard my heart, keep me.
Don't let go.
Amore di tutti amori,
guard me.
Stringimi,
hold me.
Tesoro, se tutta la mia vita.
You are my everything.
Guard me, amore,
guard me.

If your native language is Italian, and you caught my spelling and grammar errors, I apologize for the mistakes. I learned Italian in bed quite a few years ago and so my language is a little rough. My teacher was a Navy Seal of Italian extraction, although he was also Black, born of an Italian mother and a Black soldier who brought her to the U.S. and abandoned her.
He loved me dearly. I was too young to know what a great man he was. He died doing what Seals do. I just wish that he had done for me what his dad did for his mother and left me a beautiful child. But he died childless. I lost touch with his mother. She never got to meet my beautiful children. I hope her daughter survived to give her grand kids. The end.
Labels: amore, guard, guardian, love, tesoro, trust
draft
by 9th Child Productions
3:21:00 PM

SOMEONE HAS TO GO.

It was easier when I didn't know you,
couldn't see your appeal,
hadn't seen for myself how she feels,
how much she needs you in her life,
how she lights up,
how you make her smile.
I know she's wrong.
I know you know it too.
Still, I'm not ready to leave her.
How about you?
Are you ready to walk away?
Are you ready to leave her with me?
Are you ready to forget her kiss;
leave her with me just like this?
If one of us has to go,
which one will it be?
Will you be the one to walk away,
or will it be me?
Which one has to go;
which one gets to stay?
Which one leaves her arms;
which one loves another day?
I liked it better when I didn't know you,
when you were just a number she called,
when I spent the evening wondering,
if she'd be home tonight at all.
Now I know for sure,
and I just can't let this be.
Is it you, or is it me?
I've got to know.
Which one of us is staying?
Which one of us has to go?
Does she cry when you kiss her?
Does she ever call my name?
Do you wonder when she's gone if she touches me just the same?
Is she woman enough for two men?
Or are we both just fools?
So which of us does she love,
and which does she just use?
Someone has to go;
someone has to set her free.
I see you can't do it.
Does that leave me?
Will I have to pack my bags?
Do I kiss her one last time?
Do I take a long last look at the woman I thought was mine?
Someone has to go.
Some one's going to cry.
One of us has to leave her,
and she's not going to like it.
One of us will stand.
One of us will fall.
Unless you think half of our woman,
is better than no woman at all?
One of us has to go.
One has to do what's right.
I just want to know.
Who gets to stay tonight,
and who will be gone tomorrow?
Someone has to go.

SOMEONE HAS TO GO was written as a companion piece to the script that I am working on called "Choose". It is of course about a woman, a good woman, torn between two really good men. The song has a back story, but since people who know me may read this before I die I will not be sharing it here. Oh, well.
Any way, back story aside, I'd love to see George Benson and Robin Thicke perform this together. Make it danceable, with some double guitar riffs, some slow Spanish horns underneath the guitars, and a couple of Korean bamboo percussions backing up the guitars, and I bet we'd have a hit.
If I were four inches taller and could write music I would rule the world.

POEMS, LYRICS, AND I OPENED A VEIN.

5 MINUTES AGO.............this was titled, "I THOUGHT I WANTED TO SHARE."

I thought I wanted to share some poetry with you but when it came down to it, I couldn't face re-typing all the things I brought down to the computer room. My learning curve is pretty high though, so when I learn how to download to my blog from my diskette I will load them onto here.

NOW

It took me less than 5 minutes to feel really guilty about being lazy and talk myself out of walking away without typing these lyrics, especially since I want to drive some people to this blog to view the lyrics. So, I don't know if this is a losing moment, because I realized how lazy I was being, or a winning moment because I typed them after all. I overcame myself.
There's more to blogging than I thought. I'm really not sure how long I can keep this whole transparent, honest thing going, so as long as I can I'm going to write and write and write. Then, in a few years, maybe I'll still be at it, because I've made it a habit.
So, go look at the lyrics. Each is under it's own post. I think they're good. I don't really care if I get feedback, unless you want to purchase the rights to use them. Feedback with Benjamins attached would be greatly appreciated. Any other will just be tolerated.

LIAR, LIAR

I attended a CA meeting last night. Cocaine Anonymous. I was in the cafeteria talking to Steve when the CA members started filtering in and I thought, "What the hell, this can be my one meeting this week."
We'll back up. You don't know any of the criteria for my stay here in the Veterans in Progress program at U.S.Vets. This would be so much easier if everyone who reads this blog could read my mind.... or if you had walked in my shoes as a homeless vet being 'reintegrated'.
One of the program requirements is that I attend one meeting each week, and I get to choose which, to help me get in touch with myself and whatever problems got me to where I am. I sat in that cafeteria because I was too lazy to walk outside, go around the corner, and go up the steps to attend the relationships class. I figured I would save myself some steps, watch a bunch of ex-addicts whine for a while, and keep my case manager off my butt about community meetings with the least possible trouble to me.
Instead, I realized minutes into the meeting that I was in the exact wrong place. I listened to them discuss what they were, who they were, how they fought daily, and I didn't see drug-dependent failures anywhere in that room. I saw warriors who fight the good fight daily against a relentless enemy -- and win. I saw people who fight a relapse every day the sun rises, giving everything they have to stay away from a rock, a pipe, a swisher, a dealer - themselves.
I finished that meeting wondering if there is an FA meeting for people like me. "Hi, my name is Rollion Hampton, and I am a failure."
I am a failure as a Mom, a business person, a wife, a writer, sometimes as a human being. I haven't done much of anything right for fifty years. I'm not proud of myself. I don't know where I'm going in life or how to get there. I don't have much to tell about where I've been either for that matter.
It feels so good to admit that, get it off my chest finally. But if I am a failure at my life, and I am the only person who can live it, why the hell am I still here?
The truth is that I have only one reason why I am still alive. I know my sons deserve an opportunity to make more of their lives than I have of mine.

If I Had A Hammer!

Reconstructing your life is a bitch. I began this journey to find myself, get some money, move to a new town, get into a house or apartment suitable for my kids with good schools and a pool nearby, build a life that involves using my primary talent as a writer, and perhaps, time permitting find a lover/potential husband, without realizing that I was operating in the first two stages of grief, and that in places those two stages were overlapping.
In one moment, on the toilet this morning, looking through some material I've had since the week after Easter but never got around to reading, I got an epiphany. I'm grieving. Every step I've taken in nearly three months, every move I've made to reconstruct, falls into the patterns of the first two stages of grief.
The question that arises from this information is, "What do I do now?"
Do I keep going?
So far in the last two months I have:

• moved from my home town in Arkansas to Houston, Texas,
• gotten myself into a veterans reintegration program,
• signed on with a temp agency,
• enrolled in a job skills class where I am taking computer courses to improve my skills and likelihood of getting a permanent job in a very strong job market,
• taught a writing class to veterans to help them get in touch with their creative memory and build on their communication skills,
• worked with a designer to build a web page for my production company,
• got a look-see deal with the marketing people of a major hotel chain to do a micro-documentary,
• begun a screenplay,
• joined an alliance of Texas motion picture professionals,
• hooked up with a friend who is a producer as well as a former agent at ICM. International Creative Management, for those not in the know, is one of the foremost talent agencies in the world. Everybody and their Mama wants an in at ICM, and I've got one.
• I've joined a church where the pastor encourages great big dreams.
• I've drawn a picture of my dream home and posted it on my bathroom door.
• I'm writing EVERY SINGLE DAY.
• I've set goals financially that will make sure my boys never go without, no matter what happens to me from this point on. I've got a financial planner.

I would have said that I'm almost ready to go and get my boys. Life should be great, but it's not. I've screwed up so much in my life that right now, after this morning's revelation on grief and what grieving people do, I'm not really sure that I'm even real. How do I tell if what I've achieved is a product of the person I am intrinsically, or a product of the 'grief imaging' I have been doing for nearly three months? Is there really a way to know?