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Allow me to open with a disclaimer:
Before this past Afropunk Festival (that took place at Commodore Barry Park, BK on August 24th & 25th), I have only attended the event one additional time. So, my words are based on a fairly narrow comparison, but fuck it I feel a way, so here we go.

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When I first heard about AfroPunk, I was a fairly green sprout (you know, just beginning to embrace the glory of my 'fro, build networks/relationships amognst my queer brown brothern, and fall head over heels with the harder-cored factions of music outside of my beloved hip-hop).  So, it goes without saying that the idea of brown skinned ragers, rockers, and all-around badass expressionists congregating in a safe space in the heart of Brooklyn (in this context meaning, devoid of police harassment or societal judgment) was something like a slice of vodka infused nirvana for me.  I did not attend the first Afropunk that I knew about because, well I was a chicken shit who didn't want to go by herself.  The following year, however, no fucks were given, and I went out in my destroyed jeans, flannel button up, knee high combat boots, and a bandanna encasing my then ruby red naps.  MY HEART EXPLODED AGAIN AND AGAIN that day.  I was surrounded by beautiful kindred people (and yeah, I'll say it, not all of them were brown); it was one of the few occasions in life where the commonality was devoid of background/culture/race, we were each there for the music, the dope bikers, and the atmosphere of rage and roar).

Fast forward.

Following that one day of uninhibited madness and magic, annually I would make conscious plans to go back but alas, circumstances were not in my favor and I missed out.  As the years progressed,  although I knew before hand that I would be in attendence, it didn't stop me from keeping a close eye on who would be gracing and/or wrecking the stage.  I began to notice a change in the lineups as Afropunk became more popular amognst the hipster multitudes.  The changes went from being subtle (i.e. the occasional underground hip-hop artist or mainstream neo-soul-esque songstress)  Now, none of these changes were a problem, personally I dug the shit out of the idea of fusing the many branches of lyric and message.  Sincerely dug and still do this day.

This year, I was on hand at the fest, not for personal enjoyment as I was for my first experience but playing a more professional role.  It  had been 6 years since my first AFROPUNK and although, I went in with an air of utter excitement, as the day progressed the very soul of my inner rocker began to wither and wilt in the 90 degree sun.  The AFROPUNK that I once knew was no more and although I understood why it could no longer exist, it did not heal the pain just itching to escape through the seams of the cool and collected facade that I knew I had to keep up.  I sat behind my desk, inside my tent, wanting to scream but knowing that it would fall upon deaf, uncaring ears.

MOSHING: also referred to as “slamdancing”, is a style of dance whose participants push or slam into each other. It is most associated with “aggressive” music genres, such as hardcore punk and numerous styles of metal. It is primarily done to live music, although it can be done to recorded music.  Variations of moshing exist, and can be done alone as well as in groups. Moshing usually happens in a “pit” (sometimes called a mosh pit or “circle pit”) and is intended to be energetic and full of body contact.  

The reason why I took the time to define the aforementioned word is because the perpetrators inhabiting this once free space, didn't seem to know what the fuck it was and more importantly, didn't understand that by complaining and acting out aggressively against those participating in the moshpit, they were the ones misbehaving.  The beauty of AFROPUNK, is in the title, itself.  You can be both Afro & Punk, they co-exist, one does not negate the other, they are not opposing facets of one's being.  You CAN NOT be at a punk affair and be pissed that someone stepped on your brand new shoes....bitch, why are you wearing stilettos in a public park at a day-long event that takes place upon a grassy patch of Gaia's goodness?  Yeah, that opens up my second issue with the (de)evolution of this once amazeballs festival.  When did AFROPUNK become an outdoor fashion show?  Yes, I said fashion not style.  Afropunk is a style, it encompasses kente prints with converse, it combines vintage threads with dull spikes, it pools the collective consciousness of bare flesh and flower tiaras.  Hell, afropunk can even be portrayed in UNIF Hellbound platorms and a backwards Brooklyn Nets hat, but only if your intention is expression of personal style, not personal exposure.  It just puts out the message that you are there to be seen, not to interact...to well, be punk.  That's the part that I could not give half a fuck about.  Now, don't get me wrong...the beautiful throngs of gorgeous feminine entities clad in skin-tight fits and perfectly painted lips were a joy to behold, it was the delicacy of their demeanor that upsets me.  If you are shooting daggers with your eyes at every person who brushes against you (in a crowded ass park, might I add) then hunnyboo, you probably should have just stayed your fine ass at home. Or maybe save that outfit for the After Dark part of AFROPUNK.

Oh, and a brief verse on the twerk contest that went down on the stage.  It is no secret that I am so incredibly pro-twerk; there is always a reason to bust out a quick twerk and its nobody's fucking business when and where you choose to pop your ass and express your sense of self.  Hell, I am an avid twerker in the supermarket when my favorite goodies just happen to be on sale.  In a recent article featured on Racialicious, the writer speaks out against the inclusion of a twerk contest at a festival that is meant to provide entertainment for all, regardless of age.  Although, I felt the message that the author was laying down, I was not as sympathetic to the light that she shed on the act of twerking.  Was the twerking contest an unnecessary addition to the affair, possibly...but if Big Freedia, the queen of  bounce, was next up to perform, its inclusion was not that surprising.  Now, should that audience have been hipped to the contest beforehand? That I would have to say would have been a good idea.  There were younger individuals in the audience and parents should have been allowed the convenience of removing their children from the atmosphere if it was their desire.

Breath.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I understand why the festival is no longer the punk sanctuary that it once was.  It is the same reason why sex went from an intimate sharing of passion and pleasure to a marketable spectator sport: MONEY.  The pursuit of profit will always win in the fight against originality.  The festival wanted to expand its reach, and in order to do so, it had to take on sponsors, cater to a larger audience and ultimately morph into a multi-faceted, far more inclusive space.  I tots get that and I am all for upward mobility, especially when the premises is based on the universality that is a love for music and community.  I am not angry at her evolution, I am sad for her loss.  Unlike the famed phoenix, AFROPUNK will not rise from the ashes, she has been set aflame and when the flame eventually runs its course, nothing will remain but a few all-access passes in a trampled field with a a handful of crushed Mac lipstick cases half-buried in the remnants.

In one of my fav. poems, Robert Frost said, that "nothing gold can stay", a truth which once only pertained to relationships for me, has become a quote of eternal relevance.  Not even, punk is safe, it too must lose its resplendent hue and subside to day. *sad fucking face*

Labels: Afropunk 2013, rants and reflections, wordplay

8am.

I promised myself that I wouldn't let you keep me out past 12.
Well, that was my mindset when our evening began.

A quick drink afterwork? ...you inquired
Oh, you mean get tipsy and hit on strangers? I'm down ...I replied

What began as a cozy sit down at the downstairs bar turned into a hike to the Village and countless tequila shots.
WE danced. WE drank. WE swore. WE laughed. WE vibed.
It was around this time that our drunk asses set out into the streets, braced by the chill of the night air.

Holding hands and supporting each other's weight, we walked.
No destination in mind, no regard for the time.
You leaned back against the side of a building just to gain your composure.
I stood in between your legs, leaning my head against your shoulder.
Our breasts hovering just above the point of contact, our diaphragms rising and falling simultaneously.
My arms went from hanging lifeless at my sides to pressed against the wall on either side of your head.
As I moved my head in attempt to stand upright, you brought your head forward from leaning back on the wall.
By chance...by pure unplanned, unintentional chance WE KISSED.
When our lips met and we froze, neither of us sure of what to do next for fear of insulting the other.
Our eyes popped open, and we found ourselves spiraling in a mental typhoon of whiskey breath, warm flesh, and frozen time.
We slowly parted, and stood there for a moment or two reading each other's faces, in search of a single trace of understanding.
You spoke first, two simple words that somehow seemed flawed to my ears...I'M SORRY.
I smiled and told you to shut up, it was an accident, shit happens.
Noticing the calming change in your taut demeanor, I balanced my weight and stood upright, taking a step back.
You straightened up against the wall and adjusted your coat, avoiding my glance as best you could.

Again we walked, a haze of silent contemplation hung over our stale conversation.
Yet again, you stopped and hunched, cursing your shoes and hinting at a need to sit.
There were no benches or steps nearby, so you simply slid to concrete and slipped your pumps off.
I sat cross-legged in front of you, placed your left foot on my lap and began massaging it.
You let out an appreciative sigh and ran your fingers through your hair, your eyes closed.
In the silence, I hummed and kneaded the soles of your foot with care.
You asked, "do you find me attractive?"
Without hesitation, I replied, "uh duh. You're fucking gorgeous"
Silence again.
You exhaled and told me something that altered the state of tension...I'M NOT SORRY THAT WE KISSED.
I didn't immediately meet your gaze, I put down your left foot and took your right one into my lap first.
When I finally looked up, I could barely make out your face in the darkness; your eyes however, glinted with what could only be described as longing.

You spoke while I worked on your right foot. Sometimes on topic, sometimes off, your eyes watchful of my every movement.
Convinced that your toesies were good and loved down, I put your shoes back on your feet.
Using whatever momentum I could muster up, I swung my legs and rolled my body so that I was now kneeling, my legs straddling your shins.
I paused here momentarily, taking stock of your body language before advancing; all signs pointed to a resounding yes.
Crawling up to your face, I let my plump ass rest on your lap before slipping my tongue between the slits of your perfectly pursed lips.
You responded with such enthusiasm, proving the validity of that look of longing that I perceived.

Not sure how, but with some hasty maneuvering we managed to find our way from the floor to standing; your back to the wall, my hands on your ass, yours around my neck.
Our pelvises melding, winding and grinding in tune with the passion of our kisses.
Enthralled in that good ol' fashioned inebriated lust and with a sudden sprout of power, I lifted your legs around my waist.
There you slowly rode my hips, as my fingers expertly found their way past your zipper, to the side of your panties, and into your seeping wet nectar.
At this point it was very evident, that my single finger was not going to be enough to satisfy what you craved.

....

And so I find myself, laying in your bed while you at my side.
Admiring the glorious curves of melanin that I so recently blessed in kisses.
Your breathing is heavy yet serene, as I silently wonder of what you are dreaming.
Pumped up on adrenaline and pure fascination, I try to force myself to sleep.
Upon the inside of my eyelids, scenes of swaying flesh and clenched fingers dance about, suggestively.
My eyes pop open, the stirring in my loins making my tongue dry with thirst.
Sliding beneath the cover, I make my way stealthily to the wonder between your thighs.
Time to wake up, baby.

Labels: longing on dark streets, memoirs, wordplay

Years' worth of aggressive kisses, soft-spoken demands, pinned down wrists, and tugged tresses preceded the knighting.  I required no title for my brand of intimacy, I seeked not to constrain it under a cloak of predetermined parameters and expectations.  It evolved as I did and I embraced it as my own from the moment we two met in that dark, weed-scented Brooklyn bedroom.

Labels: confessions of a power top, wordplay

My day begin with the arrival of a super long, crazy heavy text message. You know the kind of text that you have to re-read at least twice to combat shock value. It was postmarked 4:28am and was formatted into three blocks of paragraph-length text. Although it was written in the simplest of verse, it confounded and paralyzed.


Here's a teeny excerpt:

"I'm done waiting for you to hit me, done waiting until 'enough' time has gone by. I never not want to be around you and I'm sick of your smooth, nonchalant shit. All that emotion, TLC, and sensuality that I get when we alone together needs to translate into your everyday life. Fuck that, I am apart of your everyday life and you will start acting like it"

Two initial reactions:
1. What the hell triggered that?
2. Someone just rose to the top of my list. Shit, I'll be right over.


Anybody who honest to goddess knows me, is likely aware of the fact that I don't chase relationships and/or people.  If I am attracted to you (whether it be on a purely sexual or equally emotional plane) I will tell you blatantly and honestly.  What you choose to do with that information is the determining factor of our future relations.  Whatever the reaction may be, my behavior remains uniform...my attraction doesn't waiver due to reciprocity or a lack there of.  I expect nothing and I take everything at face value, I don't partake in cryptic signals...thou, I am prone to reading the hell out of strong vibes.  The only downside of this is that in those rare occasions where my counterpart's mannerisms mirror my own, the relationship can drag on for years with no declarations of feelings or certainty.  We simply fall into a "it is what it is" stalemate...a comfortable stalemate, but a stalemate just the same.


So, when any entity with whom I share a more than sexual connection, admits to/assures/declares their truth of heart to me, it is a grand gesture of self and whatever level of respect I held for them, has just been doubled.  And yes that goes for truths that don't favor my attraction, even if I am told straight out that my love is in vain...let your heart speak and my "inside" TLC will seep into the everyday.  Trust me on this one, I've seen me do it.

Labels: a small gesture that yields grand reward, mini-rant, revelations, wordplay

Today someone whom I follow on FB posted a status that left me in a internalized state of fierce opposition, a bout of inner conflict, if you will. Half of me was intrigued, whilst the other was infuriated. Here is what the aforementioned acquaintance wrote:

"...Everyone just thinks I'm young so I'm cool with slang and just overall hood jargon and attitude
During interviews... convos ... While I shop ... At restaurants ... Everything ....
Stop it 5...
That's not what I want...
Treat me like I'm white fuck it...
Someone should do a documentary on how black people treat each other vs how they treat white people ..."

From a state of intrigue:
The entity who transcribed the above sentiment is a business owner.  To be far more precise, he is a black cis-gendered male business owner.  This implies that he is determined, talented, and clearly, business-oriented as prescribed by those who hold the greatest grip over the hierarchy of finance (ya'll know of whom I speak).  It is has been embedded in the psyche of the working class, that in order to gain the job that you seek, you must dress the part.  In this context, dress does not pertain entirely to your physical appearance, it embodies both your lingo, attitude, and in some cases, point of view.

When agreeing to interview for a position, you subconsciously tweak and alter your natural state of being to cater to the protocols of work ethics.  Its what we have been taught to do and thusly, expected of us.  As to not cause waves and to ensure our next paycheck, entities willingly sacrifice their personalities for personas.  It is what it is and as a creature who works within the corporate threshold, I understand why one of that realm would desire an air of professionalism and etiquette-based linguistics.  I also get that in our time, 'non-white verse' is ever-evolving and it is likely that some of the lingo, may be foreign to ears not steadily engulfed in the seeding culture.  It is easier to stick with what you have been taught, that which you understand, that which you are most comfortable with when weighed against that the usage of something that is unpredictable and well, off the cuff.  Mama gets it.

Also, what it comes down to is a fear and care: the white video journalists will not discuss black culture versus white culture for fear of losing their job and/or being labeled a racist The black video journalists will not discuss black lingo versus white lingo because...well they just don't care.  There is nothing ground-breaking about how black people communicate with different races...and let me tell you as a natural-born creative, if you're going to put your talent out there for critique, the subject that you choose as your threshold can only be reflective of your passion or it is not worth undertaking.


From a state of infuriation:
Once upon a time or so it seems, the black/negro culture was based solely on person-to-person communication.  We built a system of interaction that was derived of our experience and geared to real-time need.  It was of our own, by our own; it was adaptable, versatile and simply divine.  Let's fast forward to the white plague (as I so fondly like to label it)... rapists, opportunists, landed on lush, inhabited shores and quite simply, murdered all traces of black.  Black was far too uncivilized, it reeked of diversity, and it dared to have differing values....so clearly, it had to be expunged.  The 'proper' man taught us the proper language, the 'proper' etiquette, and the 'proper' attire...and for a time, black was silenced.  Let us keep in mind, that this shit was FORCED.  We didn't have a fucking choice...I'm talking about that 'by penalty of death' type of force.  It was a good ol' fashioned 'conform or die' period of our history.  It was essentially, the birth of censorship.

In modern times, black has made strides in finding its feet, and many of these attempts have been grand and prosperous, I am delighted to say.  As a people, we are split into diverse groups: from the upper-crust hipster networkers to the afro-futurist community warriors to the gangster paradise entrepreneurs   Each facet of black is built on a pillar of love; the categorical range of the other three pillars is infinite...profit, empowerment, rage, etc.  Within each of these sects there is a identity-based language that has matured with the character and need of this particular block in our time spectrum, examples being:
  
These terms are of endearment, forged in respect, and laced with unity.  It is the rebirth of OUR language and thou it may not be whitebread acceptable, it is true and it gets no realer.  Why would I not anoint a potential business partner as "bro"....why would I not bless my students, as "goddesses and gods" in and out of the classroom....Why would I not give dap equally to my fellow liquor store patron as I would to a fellow library visitor.  Why is it inappropriate if it is ours.  Should the lingo hold with it a level of un-professionalism in your eyes, perhaps black is not the business that you should be in.  No, a black person would not speak to a white person as they would to a black person, one is family...the other is not.


And lastly, from a state of grey:
We as human beings are eternally living with a condition of adaptation.  We adapt to survive, we adapt to thrive, and we adapt to pacify (this is of course, a generalization, there are a distinguished group who couldn't give less of a fuck about pacifying and/or catering to any outside body's precedents). 

We must all accept that what makes one person comfortable will put another in dismay.  This is true of every demographic/culture/race/sex/ and class.  Our best in any scenario is to find a group whose characteristics match the comfort level that we seek to nest within.  You want textbook English, partake at the ivy-league lounge...you want street poetry, sit in on a playground jam session...you want gold leggings and gyrating hips, baby let's rave!  There is a venue that caters to whatever lifestyle tickles your fancy, you need only seek it out then engulf yourself in its practices and people.

To put simply, to thrive within this pre-determined and pre-dictated corporate world one must speak the corporate tongue, or risk favor and approval.  The substitute would be to find/build your own professional community in which our many tongues are welcomed and appreciated.  Two distinct paths, you be the guide.

Labels: Black vs. White: when grey isn't enough, wordplay

Before I understood the purpose and function of my pussy
I understood the distinction and importance of my skin
My womanhood, thou never perceived as insignificant, was overcast
It was pushed to the side, put on hold, paused if you will
For the greatest treasure was hidden in the richness of my flesh


Within every inch of this caramel silk bleeds a tale written in crimson
There is a history locked away within the fiber of my very fingertips
Muscles matured over centuries of plight show visibly in my jaw when I speak
Rhythm pounds and thumps in the sway of my hips and balls of my feet

They ask me, should the blackness be feared?  I often reply, hell yeah! with exuberance and purpose.  They believe they know why fear strikes their hearts when we gather and swarm but I can assure them that they do not.  Blackness, were it to be defined, is the epitome of struggle.  It is an ever-evolving, ever-confounding, ever-resounding mechanism fueled by power, pain, love, and knowledge.  It is a entity of solidarity that can achieve and overcome; it has no master therefore it has no rules.  This is why it is to be feared.


Do not look into the face of a black man and fear for the longevity of your life.  If you should choose to fear, fear for the disillusioned condition and blind state of the reality that you call your life.  The falsehoods that you believe to be truth, will be shattered by raised fists and written word.  The bullshit that you feed to those who came before will be stripped and exposed for the monsterous villanery that they are.  We know far more than you wish us to, and we are no longer afraid to scream it to the winds to make sure the message gets through.  We have found our solidarity and within it, laying dormant, our ability to mold the world.

Need not fear the gun, fear the sharpness of our tongue.
Fear the questioning eyes of our young.
Fear our working mothers and fathers.
Fear our creative princesses and wordsmith princes.
Fear our poetic chanters and organic chefs.
Fear our foul-mouthed ladies
Fear our soft-spoken thugs.
Fear the roar of our femme warriors.
Fear the relentless tact of our king scholars.

Fear our melodic conference.
Fear our digital rebellion.



We are the rich.  We are wealthy.  We are powerful beyond belief.
We can spend without concern for our deposit runs deep.


Yes, there is reason to fear
Reason to tremble and brace
For the black gold is buring and rising
And it bring visions you may not be ready to behold

---

Labels: black gold, wordplay

I shall begin with a very long and over exaggerated

I have the utmost respect for my friend's wishes, like ridiculous amounts of respect.  In moments of doubt, I have actually put my friends before myself and we all know that's sort of a big deal, coming from me.  All that crap aside, what I have not, can not, and will not do is allow my friend's wishes to keep me from making connections that I know in my very soul are worthwhile.  So, receiving a text from a friend telling me that they expect me to stop being 'friendly' with their potential girl toy whom I just happen to share a passion for Rumi and raves with, clearly puts me in a weird place.  My initial response, of course, was to tell my friend to fuck all the way off...to inform her that she has no right to try to police my relationships...oh, and to remind my friend that I was the one who introduced the two to one another.  Thanks in large part to my respect for my friend, I bit my tongue and took a much needed step back to calm my emotions.  I could be spiteful and continue to be friendly with my new lady acquaintance on the low, but the truth of the matter is that she does not deserve that; to be put into the category of a 'secret' and/or 'undercover' anything.  Our potential friendship shouldn't be kept under wraps, it should be allowed to flourish in the same open sun-drenched environment that have been the site of our many picnics.

Long story short, as much as I respect my friends, I need for them to understand that I will talk to whomever the hell I wish to, and on the converse end, I need to believe that they trust me enough to know that my interest is pure, with no probability of interfering with their intentions.  Without that level of reciprocity, we might as well just dead whatever friendship I think we have right now.

Labels: rant, reflections, the friendship control paradox, wordplay

It began as a typical Sunday.  I was running late and you were already on your second drink.
The ridiculously gorgeous Indian hostess was wearing a purple bra under her transparent top (I paused to stare before making it over to the table).

Upon meeting your glance, you shook your head with that annoying "knowing" look in your eye.  At the table, I removed my sunglasses and took my entire glass of water to the head.  We exchanged our normal greetings, saturated in sarcasm and fondness:
"well, don't you look gorgeous"
"why oh why didn't I skip getting laid to go parlae-ing with you"
"you are by far the best dressed person in here this morning"

As always, brunch was perfect.  We made small talk with our neighboring diners, rapped about evening deeds, spontaneously broke into harmonies, and picked off of each other's plates.  It was a beautiful day in D.C. and hangover aside, I was in an amazing mood.  My bus back to NY wasn't until later on that night, so we decided to try and squeeze in as much quality time as we could.  We drove to my hotel, where I gathered up all my belongings and you raided the mini fridge.  Moments later, we were back on the road en route to your apartment.  Upon arrival, we left my bags in the car and headed upstairs.  You went into your bedroom to change, so I took off my shoes and curled up on the couch with my iPad to check my e-mails.  You walked in wearing basketball shorts and a wifebeater, carrying your laptop.  You lifted my legs up with your free hand and laid them across your lap.  As per usual, it was as if we had never spent time apart.  You told me about the new woman in your life and how you were fucking up....I told you about the new woman in my life and how I was trying not to fuck up.  You showed me her picture of your lady on your iMac and I showed you a few of my queen via iPhone.  We always have the best conversations when it comes to relations versus internal conflicts.  I love that you get me and I know that I'm the only broad in your life, who you can talk to about those kinds of things.  Two hours of chatting later, and the discussion had shifted to housing.  I told you that I was looking to move before the end of the year...

"Well shit, you should wait until I move back to NY, we could be rumpus roomies", you replied.
"You and me, roommates? I would never get any fucking sleep"
"What do you mean?"
"With all the vaginas that you have to maintain on a daily basis and as loud as you are. Baby, please"
"True dat.  But, you really are not one to talk."
"Oh. Fuck you very much, good sir"

For some reason, that not even I can explain, my last statement provoked a collective deep silence.  We locked eyes and then looked away, lost in our own thoughts.  You put down your laptop, turned to face me, and put your hand on my thigh.  I sat up and simply said, "So...".  You responded, "We are so fucking ridiculous.  All I want is to be with you and your stubborn ass feels the same way.  You need to just let me love you, yo."  I shook my head, stood up and started walking towards the kitchen.  You ran up behind me and spun me to face you.  And then you did it...you fucking did it, AGAIN.  You kissed me...that kiss of yours is lethal and do recognize that I hate you for it.  You lifted me in your arms and sat me on top of the counter.  I can tell you now, with complete honesty, that I do not recall anything that occurred within those few seconds, your mouth was my only concern.  I was enthralled in the passion radiating through your flesh and simultaneously possessing mine.  The waves of emotions ravaging my senses left me free of reason and mad with lust.

I have replayed that afternoon in my mind countless times, I have even caught myself daydreaming about it during conferences.  You took something from me that day and I'm just...I'm just not sure if I want it back.  I'm just not sure.

Labels: NSFW, we forgot about the rules, wordplay

I'm not the quiet kid in class who sat in the back taking notes.

I'm not a socialite.

I'm not the primadonna who primps more than she reads.

I'm not capable of lying about my needs...and it's impossible for me to lie about my wants.

I'm not going to pretend to like you.

I'm not ready to put "me" in the rearview.

I'm not attracted to fancy dinners or VIP statuses.

I'm not going to be there when you look behind you....try looking ahead of you.

I'm not afraid to fight and rage and piss people off.

I'm not pro- being dressed 24 hours per day.

I'm not pretending that we're friends, if all we do is fuck or if we never talk.

I'm not willing to conform to pacify the uncomfortable.

I'm not ashamed of any inch of my melanin-blessed body.

I'm not predictable.

I'm not anyone's trophy on a shelf.

I'm not meant to be tamed.

I'm not an avid fan of clubs and lounges.

I'm not politically correct nor am I proper and precise.

I'm not seeking your approval.

I'm not holding on to dead weight or unappreciative leeches.

I'm not obsessed with my waistline.

I'm not forgetting what was nor am I fearful of what will be.

I'm not wasting my energy chasing anyone...I've got dreams to pursue.

I'm not above dancing on bars or stripping at raves.

I'm not impressed by your degrees or bank account.

I'm not safe for work.

Labels: rant, What I'm Not, wordplay

 The Other:  I enjoyed your presentation

Moi:  Why, thank you kindly.  I rather enjoyed presenting it.

The Other:  I have a question that I would like to ask, if you have the time.

Moi:  (smiles and gestures)...proceed

The Other:  At what point in your life, did you realize that you were not meant for 'the societally-regulated'? (make air quotes with fingers)

Moi:  Oh, that's an easy one.  It was right around the time that I understood what 'societal' truly meant.  According to society, the fact that my hair is some 'odd' orang-ish color, I'm not suitable for the business world....and the truth of the matter, is that I can out negotiate some of the great ivy leaguers of our day.  According to society, a woman with a tongue ring is a whore...and the truth of the matter is that I have been crazy, stupid in L O V E with the same entity for over 7 years.  Oh, and my personal favorite...according to society, all queer women look the same/think the same and the truth of the matter is...well, look around.  Not one of us, is even remotely identical to the other. I gave up on society right around the same time that they gave up on me.  At the exact moment, that society told me that all that I am was unacceptable....it was at that moment, that I told them to fuck off. (smiles).


At the end of our conversation, The other and I walked and rapped until nightfall.  An exchange of confessions and revelations; hopes and regrets.  We parted ways a little lighter of heart but far heavier of mind.

Oddly enough, my best conversations are with those whom I am meeting for the first and sometimes, only time.

Labels: conversations amongst strangers, memoirs, wordplay

I am without delusions in regards to personal interactions and/or relationships. I can not say that I know for sure what I am to you, but I can say with every once of my being, that I know exactly what I am not to you.

On the converse end, I do live in a consistent dream state. I am selectively perceptive and I am prone to observe things with a veil of magic and beauty. What is simple to the everyday individual, is simply magic to me. My high is undefeated and I could give a shit less about the limitations of reality.

Thusly, I am a living breathing raging fucking paradox. A brutal realist prone to surreal flights of fancy.

Just thought that you should know.

Labels: a paradox, wordplay

In the beginning we are all equally empty, we are nothing more than shells with different faces that come from different places. At some point, we are faced with a decision; a decision as timeless and complex as the human condition itself...is ignorance bliss?

Is it better to take things at face value and simply find your place in the world?
...to fall in line and do as you're told?
...to believe what those who govern say?
...to ignore the unsettling parts and relish in the comforting parts?

Now to any rationally thinking entity the answers to these questions are no-brainers. Therein lies the first hiccup of rational thought. So many have made the choice to conform long before they knew that they had the option of asking themselves the aforementioned questions. There are a variety of catalysts that may kill the wandering spirit of a child but that's a conversation for another day. Today, the thorn in my ass is those who decide to be conscious and lose sight of the fact that not everyone is on the same mental plane as they are...then judge.

They judge. They find fault in people's creativity, they seek out racial undertones in works of expression...undertones that were not only unintentional but farthest from the expressionist's thought. Now, let me take a moment to state that I am fully aware that there are a number of establishments who blatantly exploit societal/ethnic groups for their advancement; the fashion industry is an excellent example of this. african print this, aztec print that. Do I know for a fact that they do this intentionally...of course, I don't but I can say certainly that the ideas for these fashionable prints are based/influenced by the cultural attire of a demographic not of their own.

Moving on thou, let me share with you the conversation that sparked this little mad rant: I was having lunch in the park by my lonesome. At a nearby table, two women of color were discussing (rather loudly) the word "gypsy". Clearly, my interest was sparked and I took no shame in listening in on the remainder of their rap session. One was literally chastising the other for naming her new website, "A Brooklyn Gypsy". She went on to state how the word gypsy was used as an insult to Romani people and how her friend had no right to use the word to reference herself or her blog.

This is the epitome of the controversy that is consciousness. Did her friend deserve to be chastised to that extent because of her use of the word gypsy? No, the fuck she didn't. Do you know what a gypsy is defined as in Webster's...a gypsy is synonymic to a wanderer, a person who moves from place to place, one without ties. That is the term that so many relate to (or more so often, wish that they could relate to). The woman who was being chastised went on to explain to her friend the reasons why she had chosen the name, and even I must admit that I was mesmerized by the tale she wove, it was sincerely the most heartfelt thing I'd heard in weeks. Was she even aware of the term's connection to the Romani people?...I'm going to say very unlikely.

I also know that being ignorant of a fact does not make you immune to the consequences that follow it. What I require, what I wish is for the judgment to cease...are you really going to look at a woman whose heart is composed of nothing but pure imagination and tell her that she is evil because she fantasizes about being a wanderer. I realize that I'm a bit of dreamer but fuck it, if I don't speak for those who are still pure in heart, who the hell will.  When an artist produces a painting depicting a Black woman and a Caucasian woman in passionate embrace and the black woman is beneath the white woman....is it really necessary to conclude that the artist was trying to show that people of African descent are meant to be beneath those of European descent?  Are you fucking kidding me???

I had the same thoughts about planking, briefly.  Was the whole planking movement really derived from a photo of slaves laying horizontally, stacked a top one another upon slave ships?  Do we really believe that?  Scratch that, do we KNOW that??  Argument aside, it is no surprise that the planking movement fizzled and died, nobody wants to be accused of perpetuating a staple of racial oppression.  Granted, I stopped thinking about that one early in the game...classified it as 'up for debate', and moved on.

On a similiar topic, why is that the same people who will point the finger at someone for using one racial slur are the same ones calling one other "nigger"? (the same people who claim that nigger has more than one meaning). I refuse to deal with the hypocrisy. If you seek to enlighten people, then do so...do so without shitting on their dreams. Teachers are meant to teach without making their students feel inferior and until you can do the same, keep your fucking mouth shut. Until you learn how to facilitate the pursuit of knowledge, free from persecution, you are nothing more than an opinionated asshole; people are not listening to you, they are shying away from you. The reason why this whole shabang pisses me off is because these assholes are scaring away the same individuals who truly wish to learn...which brings to light, the inherently impossible equation of embracing that which you shuns you for being you.

I realize that somewhere in there I got into a bit of a ramble, so I'll stop now and collect myself.

Labels: wordplay

To walk into a room full of strangers and be unable to tell any one entity from another is plaguing to my psyche.  I realize that following trends is becoming a staple of the human condition and that the notion of  'standing out' is scary to the many.   The need of an individual to be a part of something 'cool' is understandable considering the amount of bullshit that those of us who choose to cling to the little bit of individuality that we dare to exhibit, have to deal with.  ( <<< that was an outlandish sentence).  It is 'safer' to jump on the bandwagon and be what interests society and I don't knock anybody who chooses the road often taken.  We each cope with existence in a way that is consistent with our beliefs and aspirations; no two people are the same therefore no one has the right to tell another that their path is wrong.

Labels: wordplay

My love is synonymic to the arrival of the bloodstained moon 

 It's a marvel of beauty and presence but it's true value is hidden in belief

To those who follow the craft, she is an omen

To those who relish in the celestial, she is a miracle

To those who see the bible as the guideline, she is the beginning of the end

To those such as I, she is that she is, she is love.

Labels: wordplay

It’s not enough to ‘be the change that you want to see in the world.

You sitting alone in your room, strongly believing in free love, youth empowerment, better education, unity, and social reform will not change the world. There is no news crew in your bedroom at all times, to record your actions and manifestos. There is no hidden microphone under your bed that is recording your uplifting and influential poetry and music. Nobody is going to knock on your door and ask you what you think about the current state of our political system. Believe me when I say that it will not happen that way.

You have to take the change you feel in your heart and introduce it to the world you live in. That’s how change works, someone has to be the catalyst, someone has to start the fire. It is only after the flame is lit, that others will recognize the change they have felt building within them. It is when like-minded individuals rally behind an idea that movement is achieved.

There is nothing you can do alone, closed off from the world.

In this age where the digital universe's reach is consistently expanding, there is absolutely no reason why you shouldn’t reach out and be heard.

If you are a photographer who believes that the black woman is the most beautiful woman in the world, why keep your photos to yourself, you can't redefine the societal understanding of beauty without showing the world all the faces of beautiful.

If you are an activist who believes that youth has lost its way, and you create art to persuade them to a new path…what good is it doing them, hidden away in a canvas pad you keep in your drawer. How will they ever know that they can be more than what society tells them that they are.

Yes, the change begins within yourself but that it is not where it should end..it should never end. Nobody can change the world by themselves,i f the cause is greater than yourself, than why contradict it, by keeping it to yourself. Your reach defines your influence, allow your dream to ascend.

No,I do not believe that being is enough.

Labels: wordplay

No, my freaky little darlings...these words are not synonymous.

Indifferent essentially translates to : I DON'T GIVE A FUCK

Now tell me, when you think about a peaceful individual does the word "fuck" even pop into your head. Didn't think so? A peaceful person is non-confrontational but that does imply that they will let you get your way. They are more likely to discuss a subject for weeks on end before they raise their hand in aggression or aggravation. To be at peace, is to know what is worth the use of energy. When your mind is still, you are in tune, therefore you know what will through your frequency out of whack so you consciously choose not to engage certain circumstances. That's a personal decision for a personal benefit, something that each person is entitled to.

A person who has chosen indifference will let you do whatever you want to because they sincerely do not care what becomes of you. To be indifferent is to be without social, emotional, or spiritual attachment to a person or thing. An 'indifferent' individual will not discuss anything because they have no strong (or weak) feelings about either path that the outcome may take. Now, a common misconception is that an indifferent person is a detached person. To clarify...a detached person, is indiscriminately blase about everything whereas an indifferent person is selective in their associations. An indifferent person chooses to care about somethings and not care about others; it's a subject by subject choice. When someone is truly detached, there are no associations, concrete relationships, or personal attachments to any person, place, or thing.


This is what indifference looks like.
Now tell me, does that make you feel even remotely at peace?...

Didn't think so.
(Photo Source)




_______


After partaking in an open discussion about the connections between youth, violence, upbringing, and extracurriculars...myself and another participant choose to be test subjects in a quick study conducted by the one psychologist at the pow wow. When you are put in the middle of a group of people, not as a part of the whole but as an outsider looking in, you better learn what kind of person you are. I was labeled a still soul, a soul at peace....my counterpart was labeled selectively indifferent. The experiment was actually pretty dope, I think I'll try to tweak it and have a test go at it on Thurs. with the princesses.

Just another day in the life of a sociology enthusiast.

Labels: wordplay