Between Music and Poetry

Saul Williams - DNA

I've been reflecting upon my iPod recently.  A lot of the stuff you find in there is stuff you wouldn't find on the average black man's iPod.  And While I realize the obvious answer to that is 'I'm not the average black man' I had to try and figure out precisely what it was that drew me to some of this music.  In a completely left-brain sense, a lot of it isn't very good.  The voices, the instruments, the composition.  And yet, I not only like it, I covet it.  i crave, at times, the disonorous rasp of CocoRosie, or Cat Power's addled interpretations.  So what is it about these songs?

In a word: Poetry.  They blur the lines between song and spoken word, all of them.  And with a little bit of prompting i'm almost always singing along.  The lyrics are the first thing I get down, before the tune or the rhythm.  All my music, at least all the music I really, really go nuts for, blur the line between song and poem.

Just a nutty little piece of reflection for you.  Carry on.

Milk Thistle - Conor Oberst

Random Memory

So this one time my mom was choking.  I can't remember what she was doing.  Eating chocolate or mixed nuts or something.  But we were both on the couch, just chillin, and all of a sudden:  "GAAAAASP!  ACK!  KAF!  AHACK!  ACK!"

My mind immediately went to all the first aid training I'd seen Merri giving.  So, I start with what she calls the 'Keith Swift Question'

"Mom?  Mom, are you choking?"

Her response?

"GHASP!  WHEEEEZE!  ACK!  KAF!"

Alright then, that confirms that she isn't only choking, but that she needs immediate help.  So, I start with step two.  I stand her up and turn her around, and with one hand holding her shoulders straight I give her a single, firm strike to the back.  SMACK!

Immediately she reels and SLAPS THE SHIT OUT OF ME!

"Weh di RASS wrong with you!"  She screams.  "You nuh  DO that to people!"  And she ran off to drink a glass of water.

Sometimes I wonder if it would't have been better to let her choke.

Ginsberg, Pound, and Baudilaire

I've been staring at An Eastern Ballad by Allen Ginsberg.  I received some really interesting reviews on my Writerscafe.org profile over the weekend.  I was compared to Ginsberg, and Pound, and Baudelaire.  I decided it might be a good idea to find out who those people were.

I'm...not like them.   These were real writers, people who weren't afraid to write.  To do little more than write.  To let the craft run their lives.  Or ruin their lives.  I can see how my style is similar though.  And I want to be like them. 

I'm just still too afraid.  Still too secure in my mundane life. 

"Don't let go of the branch you're holding to reach for one you're not sure of." --Dr. Kenrick Leslie  (Who has perhaps forgotten that only half his success has come from hard work.  The other half...from blind luck, and taking risks.)

On crying at work, and other things.

I've been telling everybody I can about my nightmare last night. How I opened my eyes and found myself paralyzed and frightened. I tell them about how It made me angry. How i got up and, with stiff arms and legs tried to walk out of the room to get a glass of water. But then I tripped, and floated in air, changing positions, until I was right back in bed where I'd started.

Only, That's not where the dream ends. What I haven't told anyone is...I called out. Moaned weakly, but it was supposed to be a scream. Only no one answered. There wasn't even anyone there to hear me.

And that's when i woke up.

My supervisor just came in to give me my second talking to for the day. It was the usual turnaround. I nodded and smiled and shrugged and said things like "Yeah, I understand." and "I'll try to do better." She mentioned that I seemed disinterested in the job, like I didn't want to come to work and I jokingly thought 'Oh no, you've caught me.' And then she mentioned loneliness. And then she mentioned disappointment. And she mentioned having no one to turn to, because all m y friends that I once relied upon for support were alcoholics or smokers or womanizers.

And that's when I truly thought. "Oh Jesus. She's caught me." I sat down. And I lasted a good five more minutes before i started to cry.

Can we talk about sex for a minute?

I've been feeliong a little repressed to tell the truth.  Now, this could be another instance of me writing about how I haven't been writing, but lets just fast forward past all that, yes?  Felene said to write about what's real.  Well, real life is mostly boring, but nothing really cem ebts reality into place quite like sex.  i could go all psuedo-existential and tirade on about th e melding of souls and selves, or make a list of the bits of my sexual partners that h ave left permanent stains on my personal essence, but no.  That would involve far too many sidebars for any one conversation.  For now, lets settle on sex and reality.  That is, the reality we most easily perceive with all six of our senses.

 I like sex.  A lot.  I think it would be safe to say that everyone likes sex, but Oh!  You hate sex compared to how much I like sex!  And yet, its something I don't really talk about.  Not outright anyway.  Sure I may be suggestive at times, but you won't catch me having a long conversation about it.  Its not as though I'm ashamed of it.  In fact, there's a part of me that's been yearning to scream at the top of my lungs: "I've been having AMAZING sex!"  The trouble with that is, while it may be all well and good to display my own dirty laundry, sex tends to be, at the very least, a two person deal.  Therefore, it becomed unavoidable that my pertner's unmentionables should get mixed up in the wash.  i've taken off my pants int eh middle of night clubs and lobbed coins at strippers.  i have no shame.  My partner, on the other hand...well, lets just say that if I intend to keep her as a partner, then the less I say the better.

 So how do i brook that balance between the urge to brag about post-coital paralysis and maintain respect for my woman's prvicay and image?  Will I ever fin an answer to that?

I'm reminded, though, of something once written by someone awesome.  'Sex is nothing to be ashamed of.  But it is private.

[Written...probably in late January, 2009.  Again, no date.]