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Balance Life – Eat Pecans!
REPOST: “Because History Repeats Herself.”
Dear Gods of Digital Time and Calendar Power,
Thank you for the “Fall Back” and “Spring Forward” you so graciously grant. Personally, I appreciate a gesture of goodwill intent, but really: an hour? Really? It quite frankly makes no difference unless you’re one of those persons who looks at day-parts and decides that shaving an extra five minutes from every morning shower over a one week period will allow you more time in the Starbucks line. (We all need more time at the ‘Bucks if you ask me).
Harmony, equilibrium, balance, regularity…they are all desired, but I find them elusively slipping between my treks in and out of car doors, to and from my home, scanning key cards for classroom entry, visiting my mother (a necessity), finding time to read stellar college essays, spending quality time with dear friends, and loving on James Baldwin by natural light. All of these leisurely items mean something to me, but so does having time to write. Again, it’s NOT writer’s block. Really, it’s not. I have somehow lost all sight of time management, balance, equilibrium, and just cashing in on a daytime pass to simply “blow it off.” Sometimes you just gotta “Blow it off,” and IT could essentially be any of the aforementioned…except visiting my mother.
In this “lately inconsistent” blog life of mine, I often identify and locate troublesome, bullet point tips for “this and that.” The lovely list below spells it all out in bullets straight from a loaded machine gun called “Life.” 
Currently, I’m munching on pecan halves, drinking caffeine, and listening to George Benson croon “The Greatest Love of All.” (Hmmm. What IS the greatest love of all? Right now it’s pecans). All three of my late night indulgences quantify the following suggested bullet points:
- Slow down (Interpretation: “Blow it off.”)
- Don’t sweat the small stuff (Clarification: “Deadline? What Deadline?”)
- Simplify (Eat pecans, drink caffeine, and blare Benson).
Gee, I’m rather good at this Balancing Your Life thing.
Unapologetic and loosely stacked to my laptop’s left are papers choked by black binder clips. They are an assorted hodge-podge of “Penny Stuff” like essays I like & love written by critically acclaimed writers whom I adore, assignments written by AWOL college students, and a plethora of envelopes. Sealed envelopes. Rectangular, white, evil envelopes. Envelopes with my address and a sender’s funky, logo. (Sorry Sprint, I’m really T-mobile).
O.K. fine. So they’re not just random envelopes: they’re bills. Funny how it’s so abundantly clear when an envelope harboring a bill can never be mistaken for a love letter or a check. That Mayo Clinic logo is a dead give away. (God bless ’em…stand in line Mayo).
I guess the latter rant would be the bullet called, “Procrastination.” No word with the prefix “Pro” and suffix “Nation” should be so nasty and attacking (who on earth is not pro nation?) It’s one of those words that makes every adult feel like the loser of the week.
My conscious often dialogues with my guilt, “Why haven’t you finished the laundry?”
My ego sufficiently responds, “I was doing the dishes you idiot…but I was NOT procrastinating.”
Ego wins and lives up to its narcissistic existence.
(Note: I have never met an ego that wasn’t a name caller. What a horrid trait to possess).
The Scrabble Game image to the left speaks volumes. I love Scrabble as much as I love Life, Family, Work, Career, and well…Balance. Thing is, there never seems to be enough time to devote to each, and just like my favorite board game of fun-fame, I never have enough Scrabble letters to make the word I really want to spell: ESCAPE!
Penny Dickerson 2012
State Representative Reggie Fullwood: Focused on Community
Click link below to read full website copy
http://flcourier.com/2012/07/12/fullwood-focused-on-community/
Thank you to State Representative Reggie Fullwood for offering his perspective, insights, and political experiences during two interviews: the first was February 2011 and final notes compiled in a July 2012 culminated in the following profile published July 12, 2012 in the Florida Courier.
Rarely is there a lapse in media coverage when a political representative experiences a professional or ethical misstep. The Florida Courier invites readers an opportunity to enjoy an “aerial view” of Fullwood who offers constituents a chance to see the man behind the title.
This article is consistent with the Penny Dickerson Write’s brand: “Positive!“
Special thanks to Fullwood’s Legislative Aide Jackie Boyd and Legislative Intern Earl Jones for their assistance.
P.
State Representative Reggie Fullwood is pictured left with political colleague State Representative Mia Jones at the 9/11 “Remembrance Ceremony.”
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The Provocative 32 Hygiene-Stroke
I like doing it in the morning.
It has emerged as a sensual ritual since the deciduous death of my sexy, thirty-two, adult soldiers.
Most stand upright and salute when I smile like victors of a daily battle with debris. I am sole leader of a decay-prevention platoon who boldly confronts caffeine stains; random, organic brown grains, and loose bits of broccoli and breakfast bites.
Some soldiers are lazy and lean into their own alignment lack. This challenges my white fight, so I deploy sadistic tactics.
My provocative pistol is pink with a SENSODYNE lubricant ─ a loyal, mint paste ─ that trumped an adolescent Crest. She is a dedicated instrument, a SCUBA, who knows her role: follow the lead of my left-hand guide and the right-angle bend of my elbow.
I know her best as my soft, bristled lover designed to massage gums into orgasmic glee and leave every soldier longing for ten minutes more. Pink to palm, paste to bristle, porcelain and mirror: the battle ensues. I am now one with my oral.
Rebellious, I defy rules and employ horizontal flurry; an allegro pleasure exercise.
For two minutes, I stroke left and ponder my day’s heavy agenda. For two more minutes I reach for the rear-right and wonder why oranges are orange, but apples are red and who are the fruity Gods deciding the definitive?
I slow down, I slow-stroke and give attention to a fallen soldier’s grave.
He lived a good life, but the Super Bubble and Blow Pop years called him to heaven. His empty tomb earns a sacred, single stroke. I reload my weapon of brush destruction and continue to enjoy a full-fledged affair with my mouth’s most crucial ─ the front.
With a decisive, vertical allegiance, I reach for the clean, and I chick-stroke my top rowed soldiers who selfishly beckon eight minutes of overtime love. They must be spotless and void of “something stuck in between.”
They need to unequivocally be a whole-milk hue. They invite the kiss and guard both my praying and perverse lips. They deserve fifty, passion strokes and seductive attention. They own emotional trust and secure my smile. A flood of foamed spit lathers as I continue to make morning music with my mouth agape, but I must now emit. With faucet assist, I fill a cute cup with lukewarm city-sewer-punch. After one gulp, I look like a new-aged Dizzy Gillespie preparing to gargle my gross:
I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ internal rinse wash.
I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ tongue roll cycles.
I do squishy, squishy, squishy ─ followed by a staccato ─ squish-squish.
I do side-to-front-to-side, throw back my head, and muster a “gag-free-utterance.”
With feminine bend, I release to the sink my nasty elixir and re-gift the city.
Some swallow, some spit; I am the oral hygiene latter.
Penny Dickerson © 2011
Note: This selection was contributed to a visual arts project titled Beyond Clean. See http://www.beyondclean.org to read the complete 108 “Cleaning Stories.”
The Art of Moving On
I have always thought well of Tupac Shakur. His black-ground is amazing and his fore-front is also rather keen. He is one of my favorite wordsmiths for all the reasons others choose to only identify him with “Thug Life.” Sometimes in order to be heard in this world, you have to simply use rogue, thug tactics.
Tupac was an artist who has transitioned or MOVED ON to another realm. Did he go willingly? Only his final breaths’ are certain, but he was definitely a Cat who survived enough trauma THIS SIDE OF LIFE that dictated that he should have Moved On far sooner than he did.
His purpose was yet fulfilled…his voice was still voluminous…he departed earth misunderstood.
Some of us have a choice to move, but choose to remain sedentary. Still. Permanent fixtures uncomfortably resting upon life’s barges that will never identify a wave strong enough to inspire “movement.”
An apt cliché is “a boat going no where.”
The important thing is, when we move, how we move, why we move, and IF we move – on or forward or backwards – it’s a decision, a choice, a dedicated perpetual mistake for some, or a life assignment in quick sand for others.
I grew up moving. They call folks like me “military brats.” The physical move in life for me was as easy as 1, 2, 3, before I learned to count. I was born in El Paso, Texas…then lived in Savannah, GA, then Moses Lake, Washington, and this was before I started first grade in Baumholder, Germany. And the movement seemed to never stop:
multiple primary grade schools, middle schools, and then like a stop sign God dropped out of the sky, the seemingly last and final destination was Jacksonville, Florida: my mother’s birthplace and home. I attended 9th grade at J.E.B. Stuart High School and then Nathan B. Forrest High School. Seemed easy enough. The evolution of life: you’re born, you learn to color inside lines, numbers are multiplied, divided, subtracted, you make friends, you move away because the government gives your parent “ORDERS to MOVE,” and you just do it. So what’s the problem? Nothing.
I mastered the art of moving before I fell in love with the prefix move.
As an adult, I continue to gravitate towards a transit life, movement, moving, and being a woman who is a self-defined movement.
But all of the aforementioned deals with “Physically Moving.”
There’s apparently another dimension of movement that stymies the adult species and renders them mentally stagnant with regard to moving on from employment, relocation to places unforeseen, ending toxic friendships, or parting ways with lovers who’ve contributed a wealth of stagnant to balance your stymie. I call the latter an adult “balance sandwich.”
How to do you learn to bite into life and still indulge the meat between stagnant and stymie? For some its no quandary. Life is good. No movement is good movement. Sameness equates to goodness and toxic friends are necessary to advance their choice to be martyrs for friendship victimization.
Not me. I keep it moving. By choice. It’s an art form. A requirement. A necessity. A choice.
That last and final word is monumental and crucial to my survival. CHOICE.
It’s a great big ‘ole adult, one-syllable, haunting noun/adjective with an “I” in the middle. Great word. It’s also a strong verb reserved for strong people:
CHOOSE.
A strong-me chooses to dwell places that render her peaceful and relaxed. I choose to engage in activities that foster growth for my personal and professional life, and I choose to embrace people who I find intriguing, humorous, insightful, intelligent, daring, interesting, sincere, honest, and dignified. But that doesn’t mean because I DON”T choose to co-mingle with you that you don’t possess those qualities. The important thing to remember is that I am an adult and have carte blanche rights to CHOOSE who I want in my circle, my sphere of influence, my daily interactions, and yes: my past, present, and future. 
My general thought process is that there are indeed billions of people on planet earth. I’ll never meet one-third of them or better stated, an eighth? I’ve certainly been fortunate to meet thousands thus far from all walks of life and in the most remote of places or public arenas. Professionally, romantically, socially, educational platforms, and yes: in elevators.
Just like finding rare pearls in oysters or needles in haystacks, people who have remained an intimate part of my life are inevitably tried and true. They have been there for YEARS and have seen me through a mountain of triumphs and an ocean of woes. They don’t love me because I’m perfect by any means, they are my friends despite my “Penny-ness.”
I am all of what I bring to anything and everything I bring is the end result of gathered experience-pebbles from life’s continual flowing brook (sappy…I know; I got stuck).
Everybody just isn’t meant to go forward on your journey with you. I struggle when I travel because I want to pack EVERYTHING. My excuse is that I like to have “choices…options.” I don’t see people the same way. When I leave my home, I know EXACTLY who I can call if an emergency ensues, if a craving for a caramel apple and park stroll presents, or if I just need to “rap” about what’s on my mind.
Who calls everybody they know for those types of encounters?
You? Okay.
“How’s that working for you?” – Dr. Phil.
And for the record, the latter list starts with family, and yes, some of my friends have become like family.
I’m always open to meeting new people…it’s the hallmark of my work as a collegiate professor and independent journalist. But, it’s also one of the reasons I love to teach “short-term” courses and write about subjects then, tightly tuck the notes away for safe keeping after publication. I encounter EXCELLENT minds in classrooms. Some stay in touch; some don’t. Most don’t by design of the experience. I have interviewed fascinating subjects. Does this give me rights to randomly call them “Friend,” simply because I published collaborative words? Not. (and in some cases who wants to?)
People inspire me. Those who are close to the helm know my dreams and goals. They support me and encourage me when doubt rears his ugly afro or insecurity pops out of a sprung box like a blonde-banged Barbie.
I would be nothing without my friends, but give due thanks to my numerous acquaintances. I absolutely have more acquaintances than friends. A quote I’ve grown to rather like is that, “It’s better to have four quarters than 100 pennies.” You wouldn’t want 100 of me for starters, and you definitely don’t or shouldn’t believe you have 100 friends.
But you JUST might, and again I say, it’s your CHOICE to intimately decorate your portion of the globe as you do, but by all means, don’t dictate or question my choices. I don’t “vet” human beings nor do I deem them indispensable, I simply trust my instincts and harken to the voice of the Lord when he unequivocally speaks an affirmative “No.” Each time I have questioned that voice and made my own choice, it has backfired in a way that leaves me feeling like Penny-Piss. Those days are behind me. I never, ever, harbor regrets for my choices for doors I venture to waltz into or for abruptly pulling the knob behind me to avoid the “unwelcome” from infiltrating my space.
People are in your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. ( another overused cliché, but it’s appropriate in this instance)
I also don’t allow other people to define the length of their seasons. Often it’s obvious: that loving feeling is just gone. Sometimes it’s just necessary: your “stuff” and my “life” are bad addition. I require a more positive sum.
Often, a season is meant to end and when forced – due to nostalgia or an overwhelming need to reignite what was once a beautiful time-frame in life – it becomes disastrous.
I don’t do disaster or tragedy or OMG!
I just don’t do it.
It may appear heartless, arrogant, cold, insensitive, aloof, mean, snobby, or even OMG, but guess what?
It’s my choice to recognize the REASONS a person was in my life and offer gratitude for their contributions to my life’s wholeness, appreciate the seasons and end them accordingly, or enjoy my family and fine friends for a lifetime:
reason, season, lifetime.
Penny Dickerson 2014
Penny Dickerson 
