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?