Hey there @rudrajaya ! And look at @vickipowell getting down. Everyone was there: the mean kids, the popular kids, the bad kids(me), the old kids, Latinx kids, traveler kids, lgbtq + s kids, kids, kids in cowboy boots and hots pants, kids in John Deere, kids, dancing kids, spectator kids(me too), tattoo moms w/skater kids, old men that were kids. And we are all were dessecated and ground in the park Pavillion mortar. We were then synthesized by the DJ turntablist Selecta’s using a polyphonic pestle on the ones and twos This was on mission in the furtherance along the way bonne voyage as we lay deshabille no skin suit it gone revealed: just spirit.
It’s not the style it’s the Technic…It was a good day to dance alone amongst so many people that I don’t normally mix. I entered the fray of the southern sun full of history. There are moments to/to be cherish(ed), beats to remember and habits long dismembered that arc like an electric spark in the synapses. And then what under the detritus of time emerges memories zippy doo da aa the now. They bring along all the attendant emotional power of the catalyst moment. So out of fear came a new mantra, a better meditation w/mudras. My counter narrative was written on no expectations lined yellow paper and set to Armand van Helden. And because of the aforesaid I feared no thought.
And so there is glad in me. In my memory palace today and victorous Thursday sit like a full Santa satchel with corners made from moments that threw heavy bows with edged old bone. Those non permanent moments rest and quickly flutter like flys with out butter. But it was done and so it can be done again. I just have to be skittles and bum rush the rainbow.
And the erstwhile negative self centered piteousness that set my attitude to a horizon that ain’t fall were mostly thoughts that are my own in super imposition over what can only be known telepathically and not by winnowing pain of tortures breaking bone. Opinions of me that ain’t my business and are not essential have never stopped me from making my way on my own.( Exiting after dramatic reading, Ms.Lawanda Page as “Aunt Esther” [Sanford and So] in a haymaker purse round house over her head and a shout towards the upper room, “Glow-ray ..Hallelujah” with a Holy spirits hitch kick toward the door)
Jim and Kai were not even also rans. An oversight like that in this day and age there would have been a call for a boycott. And I think back then when I tried to spin CDs a near do nothing heirophant pressed vinyl stratosphere sycophant called me out. I no longer arrogantly look over my glasses and down my pseudo aquiline nose at the spinning CD skill. You know why? Because I can’t spin nothing but a yarn, a tall tale, unrevised in kleig lighting historical narratives and a dancing twirl red twizzler, pacifier, glow stick, tigerbalm in hand. Oh wait….that was a really good trip everyone thought was bad. I kept say to Jim and Fattie, “Why are we leaving the club. I was spinning.” The club was someone’s apartment and I was spinning on the floor with a new discoverable country in the form of a kid that frequented raves not concretely orientated, 18 not me and free. As we lept off in the most fantastic car young people could operate, an 86 burgundy burgundy/rust(not a pejorative)Volvo station wagon w/ wagoneer trunk door for agility there came a plaintive whine over and over from where Fattie and Jim sat and through the most aestheticly essential designed headrest that is just but one marvelous desiign of the 86 Volvo came in a similar refrain as,” Are we there yet” damply sulkifying, “Why are we leaving the club….”ad nauseu As if the Volvo had my voice. Luv luv entheogens I. was snared like Rodney King in one of those universal human v human moments be catalyst for the cure and the cause of an injustice to myself (Thank you housecreatives. Just Listened to Fish Go Deep) captured caught Shoelin Crouching sun beam hidden sun burn stance reality imbroglio sammich by a VHS over the shoulder non Boulder holder Flintstone like recording device. As I reflect upon spinning on the floor, rather than spinning cds, in a vehicle(body) poorly operated on entheogenic fuel while simultaneously with daring and inartfully being the body electric howver I looked. Well I looked like well me. I stumbled the light fantastic sans Casanovas legerdemain and the needed dexterity to discover another country never returning to the club that never was there.
I very much enjoy the post that compose the feed in my streams regardless of how many other people, bots, sycophants and unverifiable hierophants christen glisten listen like or blister in the self assured light of a sun that knows thyself. Before I came to grasp the inherent value possessed in my self similarity from the infinite into increasingly smaller scales as being made in image and likeness Imago Dei that my quest for a massive number of “friends” ,followers and hearts thumbs affirming behind jaundiced yellow and pearly whites was ridiculously unachievable because as long as the certainty of my truth in power relies on the fossil full energy deployed by inhuman and human alike there will never be enough likes. And I have never received very many likes outside the quality of human doings circling in aid abetting me in the expansion of believing /acting in the internal flame also called love that is enough to keep the bone and blood and sinew in shadow from cold. That flaming blossom burning love I feel is not about seen things and that sort of symbol invested with the quality simulacra of love. It is the quality of those around me that truly are essential and authentically matter as true friends/family/loved ones that nurture my unfolding in the seeing-understanding and not in the examining-seeing that compels me to give away the truth in my being in exchange for the spirited lies.. I have come to feel that being seen in love by a few rather than being desired and devoured by the thousands means having more of myself reminded then re invested with the truth of true value by those in the few that are the essential that matter,. That value can not be leveraged marketed sold or liquidated because nothing real or authentic ever can be changed into something that fades in time. It can however the personal truth and the inherent power and value, it can be self invisibled and turned from. Likes don’t like me. Most of the likes only like what I seem to be in their imagination.
Being tried and shown true by aggressive gorilla testing I am giving Samsonite baggage this morning. Let’s see I have started my day exactly the way I wanted just by doing it. Talked to a overseas buddy buddy @paulusfra before morning. I think my incandescence has rolled back in the clouds. Thinking myself out of showing up for life was the mechanism I thought that would help get me back into a routine. How and the hell was I going to think myself in to right action with an out sized mind frayed non contiguous like the break from beach to land is a rambunctious 19 year old subordinate complex enslaved to his internalized faulty cognitive belief systems hastened in dividing itself from itself building a mansion with many rooms all not fit for thoughts habitation. So I have always once equilibrium or some semblance of such movement reorientating my attitude and flight path to the natural horizon. The resilience of righting can be inartful as the chaos of a whirling dust devil hurling apart itself by spinning for forty years until its spun all it dust dry as the moon is to the sun. #blackqueerpolymathsartorialist #champrugby #warbyparkerwinston #fltered #editted #addidas #trackjacket #red #beginagain #Sweepstakes #PricelessSurprises
Around this time last year I was introduced to an organization that seemed to holler in mass choir back through time to the dominant culture in Mississippi in 1964 as it pains them more by the progress of the offing than it pained those that died or had loved ones killed with mitigating schadenfreude derived from the progress we seem straddle along a spectrum of gain to loss tug. We sometimes misjudge the silence as evil that shall remain silent. until the bodies of Black people run the black and white rapidly decreasing pitch in an even faster descending scale in a dirge it sickens me know more by seeing than hearing it melancholic tone. Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner wore the physical representation of a principle. You can’t kill a principle or stomp on light once what’s shone is in more eyes than none.Some how the collaborative force stregthend by the disparate energies of Rustin, King, Evers, X, Hansberry Baldwin, Hampton, Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner intersecting at the nexus if freedom humanity justice and God can not will not coalesce into an unstoppable force. I can’t image Mr.Baldwin sitting at a table with Dr.King and Mr.X having equal footing and agency in their collaborative fight against the systems the oppress in a a necropolitical state. It seems like as each stakeholder in freedom was driven back into the interest specific to them alone that the overarching intersecting interest exceeded each individual grasp as individual general scraps lay at feet not half a reach and grapsable just from one’s home.
We still participate in the mens rea with such oblique intent my pocket got picked too passively aggregating the most combustable rubbish and anti black stress molded by years and the silence if a bequeath better bequest when we allow the language of denial in culpability as if Manifest Destiny a priori to its presentation by a US President had already been seeded sown into the malaprop uncommon weal. An unsustainable device be came affixed to the governing arm leveraging material abundance from a none zero sum game. War discord and strife were market principals. The sold knew loss immediately. I dare say the sellers may still dare to think they didn’t loose as much as gain. The paultry sum given for a nexus intersectional living being is like the flounce of spores on wind compared to the drudgery the necro-currency heavy leaden written as death and social malady exacted upon the bequeathed beings same folded in metal cuffed skin rended assunder from land self and kin til bone alone is home. Out from where once us belonged in perpetuity dragged an economic principle for a nation state to gain as the commodity died in person. Non traditional war infinitum as a profit model. And as though black people were dooped into faith is an unabashed race based diminishing of ability and intent. You might as well say 3/5ths human is accurate. Negus
DOWNTOWN Atlanta locus Civitas: Civitates Foederatae Americae
Locus: 33°45′25″N 84°23′25″W
Numerus incolarum: 486 290
Zona horaria: UTC-5, UTC-5, UTC-4
Nomen officiale: Atlanta specifically being Five Points #fivepointsatlanta looks like NYC in the 60’s and 70’s #nycthe60sand70s. Its a entire labor of sweat in concrete to busy to hate the way it looks so it loiters garish on every corner that cuts a rakish 90°. It’s unable to sit because there is NO WHERE PUBLIC IN WOODRUFF PARK to sit except being segregated and pinned to orange seat coral or making pancakes of robust posterior sitting hard on the lips of dead winter baptismals or bedraggled by the caterpillar ladder winds as the breeze flows over you under a tree or on the coarsely dry dog poop strewn urine sodden lawn that looks like an over grazed cow pasture . That’s a good selection of space for our neighbohors that live on the block. Very concentrated easily monitored perserving the kids play area as its impregnable to the wear and childrens tear that usually happens. Except all the parents with available income don’t live downtown. It’s like a brown block Willy Wonka chocolate sculpture. Willy Wonka despite his confectionery business does not like kids. #savedowntownatlanta #woodruffparkatl #creatives #thepublicsector #theprivatesector and the #atlantacitygovernment . It has O-CiD (Over[as in it done its a done dadada])City Downtown). All the shops near Underground look like dusty disinterred corpses in NYC in the 60’s and 70’s. The neighborhoods that surround the city center are getting plastic surgery Brazil Style, rapidly and abundantly. Make it like Paris, whose Brown and Black lives seem to matter more in the suburbs. Le tout-Atlanta ne t’arrive pas à la cheville, crois-moi?
THIS is my opinion and not that of any of the hard working group collaboratives I am a member of.This is written as a concerned citizen that Iives in the food desert and takes the street car ellipse to work sometimes. Goes to the Walgreen because the #CVS is gone. The greeting and service at #CVS downtown was impeccable. It is a safe ride. I meditate alone usually for readiness to work. It’s the most quiet time of day besides unconsciousness during sleep.
I am open to joy everyday. I am open to joy everyday. Take time for yourself today. Celebrate all that you are because all of what you have been and celebrate all that you are not now which will change what you are becoming neverend. I am many people We are no one at all. I have been galaxies and the world’s betwixt between. Helical lineage of spirits Supreme. Hidden old spirits possible gods definitely God’s conduits into spacetime invested into.culture tales love fear and dream. Djinn. Angel the light in Fire and the last warmth in cold.
memoirs and personal essays
by Wesleyan University, instructor: Greg Pardlo
The sun seemed to pour out of the sky unimpeded by every building shorter than the august obelisk, The Washington Monument, to elope from the stars with the red and brown pigments in my skin. It was 1991 and it was my first year at Howard University. Naughty by Nature, X hats and tee shirts ribald in their explanation, “Its a black thing you wouldn’t understand” were de riguer on Georgia Ave. I didn’t want to attend an HBCU, I wanted to go to my first pick where I was accepted, NYU. Mom drove her caramel colored Astro Van from Stone Mountain of Georgia to Washington Square park running rough shod over my hopes to go to school in the Big Apple. All I left with after the acceptance interview was a tee shirt with the logo for NYU in Prince purple on its front. But on this day as I roamed agog within a manumitted haze that easily answered the question Nina Simone proposes in song about what feel like to really be free. In that moment it felt as though the double consciousness that had thrown me just enough off balance in life to trip but not fall dilated into a singularity. I was no longer trying to measure my insecurities or the propriety of my long brown body against what I think others are seeing. My voice was mine and it was black, My carriage was mine own gait and it was black too. There was no single arbiter of set standards that invariably were bequest of stereotype’s about blackness hot and locked in a monolithic identity. I had become black simply because gosh darn I was black, I had become part of the living waters that dispersed the diaspora coming ashore not enslaved by the eyes and the limits of other skin folk that ain’t kin folk but as something lyrical and free as a song of Solomon ” I am black but beautiful…” and gay. I was scripture and therefore infallibly black. I was something I had never been. I felt as though i shined differently in the sun. That part of my prism had been a dark crystal that had never broke and scattered light in different parts. And with this new exposure to radiated wind and sky I began to believe something teachers had never told me to believe in Stone Mountain of Georgia. The teaching of the Lost Cause as genuine history slipped its manacle grasp of off my possibility. I began to believe in myself and my ability. I took risk in writing and class choices. But things really became unrecognizable resonating with me anew in my Freshman English class. My classmates were cast from a Different World. The Dwayne Wayne character had lighter skin but the same glasses, dashiki and kufi. The Whitley Gilbert character wore the same Liz Claibourne quasi executive elitist pant and short suits to class but had dark almond has her skin tone, The professor was a shorter than I white man that had milk toned skin that seemed to be bedazzled with moles that looked like chocolate cookie crisp cereal. He seemed like an affected dandy. He had just returned from teaching from The Congo with his wife. I was teaching myself KiSwahili out of a smallish book that had somehow absconded from Founders Library burgling my person. He spoke Kiswahili so I spoke what I knew back to him and he seemed impressed. Along into the seasons he decided to keep me and Whitley Gilbert after class. I was not worried because I was shining. He sat us down and told us that we had complimentary writing skills and talents. I was creativity and she was form and structure. I have always loathed what I thought was enslavement of words to dominant western forms and rules for scribing. At that moment It was revealed to me that what I wanted to do and seemed to do since age 7 was what I was meant to do. Alice Lovelace encouraged me in an elementary school gifted writing class. But that lauding was eclipsed when she borrowed my Robots of Dawn by Asimov. She borrowed a book from a 6th grader, dropping it in the bath while reading and then audaciously brought it back just as pruned as the advancing wrinkles on her hands. To this day I cant believe she did that. And her face, form and gender were the same as my Mom so her encouragement was as inspiring as crackling cornbread with out crackling is crunchy. I had never been told explicitly by a teacher that looked like Dr.Schreck that there was something beautifully ungrammatical to my style. As days went by and my pretentiousness seemed to bloat like something a week old in death under the sun class crept upon me holding a short story, Sonny’s Blues by a revered ancestor, Mr.James Baldwin. It was but just for a moment that my blood tumbled in somersault reversing flow then jumping over my heart like the cow jumped over the moon to end in my head swirling and swoon. I looked hauntedly through the short story pages stealing subjects, noun, adjectives, verbs, articles and prepositions for the stringing of sentences as pearls at most possibly Panama City seashell chokers in its least. The joy of ignorance and hypothetical word buggery emboldened the reach of my interpretive grasp fjording me to comfort in the hard parochial school wooden chairs. And upon reflection of this inflection point in my personal narrative the history wrapped in the wood of the building in the air held behind the doors and I am sure present in the latent DNA floor to ceiling board under a roof that possibly prevented the seasons from greeting without invitation former students: Toni Morrison, Phylicia Rashad possibly Thurgood Marshall is a song where Rikki Lee Jones cautions like a halcyon claxon’ “You don’t know what you got till its gone”. I didn’t know that Dr.Screck didn’t have to affirm anything in me when I was a young callow mind because I was already there and a Bison no less and no more than the people that came before me that had launched from Howard into the firmament of celestial black being becoming starry inspirations and a promise that can be made possible again in me; achievement while hobbled from the start by the least meritorious thing about me my color of skin. The next day Dr.Schreck passed back the graded papers all for except mine. I wrote a paper in AP Social Studies in High School that Brenda Brewer, a racist in a Margaret Thatcherite wig, used to inculcate the class with The Lost Cause Narrative handily lynching my theory that the Civil War was not about state rights as Lerrone Bennett said in Before The Mayflower but was about enslaved human beings. At the front of the class a woman inn a turd brown dress with matching turd like helmet hard from White Rain Hair Sprayed coiffure rolled the words I wrote off of her tongue and into the trash along side my grade. But as Dr.Schreck read Brenda Brewers classroom terrorism had become awash in truth and my life mission: to write no matter what. I was impressed by my crafted 90 that I cobbled together from glimpses and intellect. I dropped out of Howard because my arrogance had found distasteful the thought of working through school with loans and the call of gay night life was a siren song to a pretty boy that just found out how freedom feels. And as I sat at home ponder and application to UGA on the floor at the foot of my mothers bed the phone jiggled like a shimming shaker. Mom got it before me, When summoned to answer the voice that encouraged me in DC had found me at home to tell me to continue to write. I remember that moment and get soppy eyed. I did continue to write. I thought cocaine had become the pulverized white muse feed my creativity. She was but he also was a rapacious creditor harvesting my soul with each choice I made that was aligned with a sniff. The chemical fetters make for harsher debtors. That Tempest has left me. Now I embark on my journey back.