tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68396830247153076862024-02-20T15:41:13.461-05:00music, forms and witnessesa place for music, writing and bullshit musings from other planetsra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.comBlogger71125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-4757402136176364712010-01-02T03:35:00.002-05:002010-01-02T04:04:41.612-05:00New Memoir Chapter - growing 35<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrlnosmPcb-akOkYqwi5ZP2B3Vi0cuQjCAasslLXa79auQgK5TcnlGIFfi37UYBMbuxbwI5Ct7cG8LMmUcVQUeZwP9pbUcI7gWG4LXtMshR9h7ci0bd70hSl4JEc8PTLRQtb_zRnJQzw/s1600-h/P1050221.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzrlnosmPcb-akOkYqwi5ZP2B3Vi0cuQjCAasslLXa79auQgK5TcnlGIFfi37UYBMbuxbwI5Ct7cG8LMmUcVQUeZwP9pbUcI7gWG4LXtMshR9h7ci0bd70hSl4JEc8PTLRQtb_zRnJQzw/s400/P1050221.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422059090303668514" /></a><br /><br />GROWING 35<br /><br />last week, sometime after noon, i stopped at the library to drop off some borrowed items. it was bitter cold, and i was listening to a song by Ghostface on repeat. its funny because the song (BABY) concerns an emotion that i never thought i really was missing. the anticipation of becoming a father. as Ghost waxes poetic, i round the corner toward the bodega to grab some smokes, and sugar for the house. nostalgia sets in and i remember my first time in the neighborhood of Tremont - Loma, and i walking around our loft above the 5/3rd bank, both of us in love, bright as new snow. alive, not scared of life. the image falls away, and i remember years later, nearly a decade really - driving my caprice station wagon down this very hill toward a woman's house, who did not love me, and would never but thought it maybe fun to "entertain" the chubby poet nig. she did, and the image falls away.<br /><br />back to the Ghost song, i know alot of parents, and they all seem so scared that they may fuck it up, so in awe of the creation made, so hopeful that it will all work out. they seem angry that we that have no children take our time, and our slight, slow -<br />stupid with our lives. perhaps i am projecting my own feelings onto them, but i think there maybe some truth to this. its as if you are not considered an adult until you have children, even though a good portion of the children born in the world are made by children. i love this song, it moves me to dream(day) about what it would be like to be expecting. <br /><br />days after this cold morning of image fleeting, i had a conversation with a good friend about the nature of life, and what it means to actually try to control one's own - a life is time sensitive, but you do not know when the deadline is, nor do you really have an idea of what your life's work will be about once it is over. when i was younger than young, i thought it would be the overall body of work(art) that would set legacy in place. but when i think about what i know of my father, and how my mother held us together, and managed to get us safely to adulthood - i think that legacy is much like genetic memory, it echoes through the next generation. you do not get to set it. intent is never taken into account. <br /><br />it is the night after the New Year - <br />as i lay beside this woman, and write this rough and rude draft i wonder what she thinks of my leaving the bed, does she take me as not serious about anything other than myself. (i often go there with myself, so its not out of the realm of possible thoughts) does she gladly take the head start to sleep? - seeing how i snore, and rock myself to sleep, and if one is not already asleep before i hit, it will surely be a long night. does she think that i may think of her as boring, and be already scheming for the demise of us? <br /><br />perhaps she is just sleeping, and there is no thoughts menacing her nights. and i say to myself, yes. that may be it.<br />i was like that long ago, when my young was young, and i skipped along the beat of the woman that created my bed.ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-45569890579129647592009-12-22T15:10:00.003-05:002009-12-22T15:55:49.299-05:00system of mister's hell remix:: canto one, two<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUqvyzPyLUsAESHV3PIXr8iJ1K5mL7Ci9yMdwn7asU2-BywKXjYbIeGRJtxJF3OcW2U3Qd7kdPuB74ToOv9QzCxyjQ27YMpnIDmWPKVD2JdLmtqPqWCPDLa5bszdsLenFu10GajGAwSs/s1600-h/P1050660.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiUqvyzPyLUsAESHV3PIXr8iJ1K5mL7Ci9yMdwn7asU2-BywKXjYbIeGRJtxJF3OcW2U3Qd7kdPuB74ToOv9QzCxyjQ27YMpnIDmWPKVD2JdLmtqPqWCPDLa5bszdsLenFu10GajGAwSs/s400/P1050660.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418156178280277058" /></a><br /><br />based on Ezra Pounds' CANTOS, and Amiri Baraka's novel - THE SYSTEM OF DANTE'S HELL<br />THE SYSTEM OF MISTER'S HELL was first written in 1999, and designed for publication by Lawrence Daniel Caswell, with images<br />by Alexis Savon. we sold some copies, perhaps a few hundred exist in its original form. last summer i unearthed the original manuscript in a lock box i'd set up and forgotten about it. so i've been slowly trying to find the time to re-imagine the intent. simply put, the hell of the son is the uncovered history of his father, and how it relates to the "system" used to govern democracies, namely the UNITED STATES. here are the first two Cantos. <br />-raw.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">CANTO ONE</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">. . . when I came to stop below a hill <br />that marked one end of the valley <br />that had pierced my heart with terror, <br />I looked up toward the crest <br />and saw its shoulders already mantled <br />in the rays of that bright planet t hat shows <br />the road to everyone, whatever our journey</span> <br />-Ezra Pound <br /><br />rough and tangled so hard, <br />paved-ways lost in bright journeys <br />those sunny roads where truth hides <br />an old fear sinking <br />in the folds of human disgust. <br />when death is hardly more bitter <br /> i'll tell you what i saw. <br />never telling of how i had come to this place, <br />shattered valleys below the hill of city, <br />terror with heart <br /><br />the slits of young girl <br />feed family <br />thats how she learned <br /> (for shock value ) taking me to myself <br />the tiny one that i had hidden in the search. <br /><br />and the sinners hear its call <br />as regular as wind <br />sifting through the rare tree. <br />even as their martyr, <br />a christ with pierced hands <br />weighed down in the rare act. <br />rarely do trees kill, <br />for each line hold a little of you. <br />a regard still fleeing divine <br />love so we cannot see. <br />for its blind religion <br />a silent monster eats our young <br />to the motion of creation <br />dawns fill graves, <br /> for sunlight is for fighting <br />someone's sons, <br />[THE] favorite daughter <br />giving head to greats <br />mastering to avail life from its own. <br />the tiny christ line holding <br />us apart, a second after using <br />the wrong word for belief. <br /><br /><br />a line could tell you history <br />if you had read the many(CANONICAL)<br />those pages that you love <br />but never hold in your mind. <br />but again i . . . <br />?<br />what did i come across on the hill? <br />a strange color had taken the men's faces <br />i'd only seen a few, <br />but those men <br />with shiny capital eyes <br />held the color of blood just under skin. <br />strange colored i,<br /> had never seen blood <br />and still knew on sight. <br />maybe the smell of tasting bought wars <br />little lies kept in the tubes of tv <br />brought us a war, full coverage in bad wigs <br />hair all out showin' whose ape. <br /><br /> a man asked, " can you know a rain coming. i fell it in my bones." <br />his wallet had been snatched for the back pants pocket was torn. <br />i ran for i knew the answer was only his <br />and he had warned me as if a son. <br />in need of sowing. no country here. <br />its a long road for humanity when the bomb is dropped <br />and our god declares the victim as savage. <br /><br />there's a small field far away from the picked man <br />i lay there my face to the world's ceiling <br />touch sky with eyes that claim your face <br />watching the cracks tiny lines in the armor of satan, <br />the world traveled claim/in god <br />just streets not fit to walk on. <br />the sound was clanging words <br />tell you of my madness. still walking in sweet fear of myself. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">CANTO TWO</span><br />and i passed two men both holding poems out for me to see. <br />it had been several days since i had seen anyone living , <br />no rest, so i stop to read them. <br />i could not see their face for the hoods they wore, <br />the fabric smelling of shot glasses, <br />the old basement meetings of junky revolutionaries. <br /><br /> first man's poem. <br />suliman dances <br />death’s wife <br />her sinful blood <br />staining flags <br />human/s often <br />see it as [a] her <br />purpose offer on up<br />feed the other storms <br /><br />night. <br />four in a row. <br />A sign to women <br />who have lost their men <br />to the neighbor shore <br />from it ugly north <br />the allies red friend <br />sells his intellect <br />to the brown one <br />takes meals of brown <br />land to sell for more pounds <br />gives Satan reason to start listenin’ <br />[demo] is the right word <br />sends aid to starving babies <br />the children of the west war <br />can we test the truth serum on that poem baby? <br />to ussy dreams out <br />exotic far days <br />when the nipple tasted mama <br />A Freudian slip of the tongue <br />still weep <br />let it be. strain <br />let it be then. <br /><br /> second man's poem <br />it has always been imperial <br />even on the continent <br />nature had fun with man <br />and left that in between free choice <br />will of mind a flower <br />hovers her head <br />she sells her promise <br />for stones to throw. <br />telling the secret <br />to the ones who listen. <br /><br /> it was Cuba, Africans were upset with? <br />well that ain’t new for who don’t <br />argue with themselves <br />the backed soviet must be Arab <br /> just to prove the platform <br />when money loses hue to claim the heart <br />moving e w white to not matter in these parts <br />cuz his wife brought the checkbook, pen <br />to sign away sins <br />point to the [sir]name money <br />and it spends here <br />where the land is milk <br />cream of the worlds sweat <br />back, we fightin’ <br />for the wrong end of the scraps <br />(and you know who was over most of that shit) <br /><br />so . . . (god) was <br />at the gate askin’ to get buzzed in <br />they asked for the password <br />and he replied (BAIT) so he was in. <br />so (god) was in speakin’ of how to make the world <br />‘ bend the head of the greedy <br />for they east to eat all the land.' <br />yeah and touch her garment just so . . . <br />they’ll put you on their money and you <br />won’t have to buy in.’ <br />in said-<br /> “yo down in Babel to the tower touch the world and they get no farther, <br /> still more fall in the light of tomorrow today just A past dream eating away all morals . . .” <br /><br /> what is [A]moral? <br />when written it sells UNholy ink <br />shell of idea <br />no moon no sea <br />a city of shiny stomachs <br />a line to feed.ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-86844809383478466232009-12-12T04:56:00.000-05:002009-12-12T04:58:18.853-05:00BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEECLEVELAND TAPES is proud to present- <br />Veteran MC San Goodee's BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE. <br />Producers e.REACT + aLIVE have joined forces with San to create a classic summertime Hip Hop album, and being the jokesters we are we decided to give it to ya at the start of the winter. <br /><br />San's concept is simple - "it seems that alot of the culture is dying off, and cats are wild for the night, like their Big Bro hasn't been watching." With a nod and a wink to Spike Lee's film- School Daze- BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE is infectious from the start, and filled with glorious lyrics and epic bounce. <br /><br />Featuring guest appearances by ZION of Muamin Collective, and Singer/songwriter Donald King- BIG BROTHER ALMIGHTEE is the kind of album that will demand more than a few listens.<br />Click below to download now for only $5!<br /><br /><br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="400" height="100" ><param name="movie" value="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=449121361/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/" /><param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never" /><param name="allowNetworking" value="always" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=449121361/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/" width="400" height="100" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality=high allowScriptAccess=never allowNetworking=always bgcolor=#FFFFFF ></embed><noembed><a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/san-goodee-big-brother-almightee">FUGAZI by CLEVELAND TAPES</a></noembed></object>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-81727890585874364932009-12-10T03:58:00.003-05:002009-12-10T04:03:06.137-05:00lyn(she) -new short story<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wCrcwF2T9Ng8CjbMu7zj8OJiQTcHFtpxZRlscEhj3srPjIfHP9pnTnBjX793MbC3vCnw6_RlNyka_wDyApf6CUNF61TZhf0eTmAsFflbv6AcwPe436QEeNyZASRpjSJcQIFligSeJfA/s1600-h/P1050836.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4wCrcwF2T9Ng8CjbMu7zj8OJiQTcHFtpxZRlscEhj3srPjIfHP9pnTnBjX793MbC3vCnw6_RlNyka_wDyApf6CUNF61TZhf0eTmAsFflbv6AcwPe436QEeNyZASRpjSJcQIFligSeJfA/s400/P1050836.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413530030375321874" /></a><br /><br /><br />ONE.<br />it was the first time he ever noticed the carpet in her bedroom.<br />fluffy, not at all what it felt like under foot. although one could <br />not be counted on to notice the fucking carpet when one was<br />holding on for dear life.<br /><br />she was a beer of a woman, not fat, but full and long<br />the kind of woman you had to hold onto. she was taking<br />longer than usual, she always took long, but he was starting<br />to resent her prolonging the getting off. shit - it wasn't like<br />they both didn't need it tonight. they did, him more than she<br />NO.<br />that kind of thinking was the reason they were failing.<br />Lyn said he was self-involved. it sounded foreign to him.<br />like someone else's words. his words really, it was something<br />he would of said. she had never talked like that, Lyn was more<br />ethereal than that. more Moonwalker than Shrink. <br />its what kept them together for six years - he was clinical<br />and she thought he could save her. it didn't take long for them <br />to realize that both were liars. he was a fool, and she was cruel<br />not anywhere close to the people that had fallen in love.<br /><br /> "babe? come on, what's the hold up?"<br />no answer.<br /> "Lyn? what are you doing in there sweets?"<br />no answer.<br /> "if you don't come out, I'M COMING IN."<br />silence.<br /><br />he put his ear to the door, resisted the urge to try the handle.<br />his knees felt weak. it was strange, he had no idea why he was scared,<br />was he even?<br /><br />he heard the water running, it sounded of song. like a sonata of his demise.<br />too dramatic, it had only been a few minutes, he told himself. <br /> "LAY DOWN" he almost said aloud.<br /> "LAY THE FUCK DOWN." this time he said it aloud.<br /><br />fuck, he didn't even want to make love anymore, he just wanted<br />to stop waiting. he was always waiting, all his life he waited.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />TWO.<br />the spittle was caked along his cheek, seconds passed before he was awake <br />enough to realize he'd fallen asleep, and she never had come out of the bathroom.<br />he scrambled up, and opened the bathroom door. <br />there she was- eyes open, face blue.<br />he caught himself from falling down.<br />he looked again, <br /><br /> LYN?<br /><br />he knew she would not answer. <br />so he kneeled down next to her head, blood everywhere.<br />he sat in it, cradle her head, trying to wipe the color<br />he went to scream. no sound.<br />he felt sick, but choked it back into the base of his throat.<br />the blood was starting to congeal, nothing made sense.<br />he looked at his hands, there was no way he had killed her.<br />she was alive, had she killed herself.<br />she was alive, had she killed herself?<br />he looked at her body, and tried to solve her death with tiny hands.<br /><br /> LYN?<br /> Lyn.<br /><br />he pulled himself up - but this time he couldn't keep the sick<br />spewed all over his lover's corpse.<br />corpse.<br />panic.<br />they will think he did it. who else could it be?<br />he was the only one here.<br /> he was it<br />HE tore off the bloody clothes, and ran downstairs,<br />checked the doors.<br /> locked.<br />checked the windows.<br /> shut, locked.<br /><br />then again.<br /><br />exhausted, he laid on the kitchen floor<br />he fingered the laminate tiles, tracing the night when she was alive.<br />he knew he hadn't killed her, but he had called her Bitch.ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-48794537532124262952009-11-02T00:20:00.004-05:002009-11-02T00:31:49.682-05:00flix/er - Part 3 of The Pastiche CD Release<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizRPQVxywDQWmBl_3Xj4du8w6GWz_aCcLajMxidsfqEhvTGk3oy-Bqus8a6xbZ4IyxGwLoEynZkiYIq6WkKYbO2BAZIe7Wf0QbVu52_VQBIJ34lap7g2OQ4ZzLXm2r2qKiaAFkFO9pRGM/s1600-h/P1040990.JPG"><img style="float:right; 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margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisomc4p1qQ52DBO7IJbcOXuikoJ2UI94jRXsH8UYWaOqow6IzvcmFMur9HZBx1e-JLI7-WItaF70VjO211WidrCwJchZ1sBtavKlG1Zx4ujsrlfo7GlQSPka3J5VjF2wBSVQsY5gWyiDI/s400/P1040846.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399372902239372146" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAvE8QUCu1GiWZeO0cby8sTOdXqgoH4D7fQIsX7Pnh3G46x5CeEB6LNhqBIDZur0ilBXXXeKO-oPcVv_Sw4UdnOHvTh2ZeUkLKouni7z03N0maJ3js0imYboU84HNOWa_lIZAEhcR0CY/s1600-h/P1040820.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqAvE8QUCu1GiWZeO0cby8sTOdXqgoH4D7fQIsX7Pnh3G46x5CeEB6LNhqBIDZur0ilBXXXeKO-oPcVv_Sw4UdnOHvTh2ZeUkLKouni7z03N0maJ3js0imYboU84HNOWa_lIZAEhcR0CY/s400/P1040820.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399372897999571970" /></a>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-67822055658743820722009-10-15T02:16:00.003-04:002009-10-15T02:35:33.236-04:00work=patience=reward=sanity, well kind of<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgC3h5AYaGkx9kPnfGOpWp2NS8FwMSm8tgHdC7NUfhdJacGld6nId2SJWDtFY8e5y9vrp1GAmpoOF0eNdc06Eg808RSN2ay4MTXNj7APTrTEg0H_zKi_Q5saod_0Xrvmawyo2q5epZuI/s1600-h/felajay.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 393px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgC3h5AYaGkx9kPnfGOpWp2NS8FwMSm8tgHdC7NUfhdJacGld6nId2SJWDtFY8e5y9vrp1GAmpoOF0eNdc06Eg808RSN2ay4MTXNj7APTrTEg0H_zKi_Q5saod_0Xrvmawyo2q5epZuI/s400/felajay.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392707440427461538" /></a><br /><br /><br />trying to find more afrobeat mash-ups, and tracks for Saturday. fun work. got this mike nice reworking of AMERICAN GANGSTER mixed with fela. its pretty dope. so those tracks gave me the idea for a whole night. finished a track for Paloma McGregor's new dance work based on NINA SIMONE. it is part of a whole night of Simone inspired dances. i was trying to go and witness, but alas that fell through cuz not only do i have to dj- i couldn't find someone to go with me, and i should work - rather than see work. anyway the process was cool, its been a long time since we collaborated on anything. she is visionary in my opinion, and after the rough draft of the track- she knew exactly where she wanted it to go. spent yesterday digging for records, went to a few of my secret spots, and ended up at one spot PHONOGRAPHIC ARTS in Tremont. i'm telling you about this one cuz i want them to stay open. after the dig, listened to this mingus piano improv record that came out on Impulse. raw shit, and he was a bassist. Peerless came through- called out of the blue, and i made three joints for his new record. i made four, and he wasn't fucking with one of them, but we came up with three bangers. im really happy with them.<br /><br />got to see my really good friend Chewy - she called out of the blue, and we got cocktails. got up. she was getting mad cuz i kept texting funny as hell. good night.ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-35235203538564813712009-10-08T05:35:00.001-04:002009-10-08T05:41:40.884-04:00CD RELEASE - PASTICHE, A Memoir of sorts THE PICS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxQ4nXtbgCKz9X1BV0nWdYt83lGzVcXxvNoGQGSdYyUsQ_I26kTTso6-M4rxPNwxcOwIOPNIpIApyyciqi5oAH-M6R9IDzjlxOEahgRJAbaGMU8fdIouNQfeuCxDeJ35OyMXtThy7zWM/s1600-h/P1040860.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxQ4nXtbgCKz9X1BV0nWdYt83lGzVcXxvNoGQGSdYyUsQ_I26kTTso6-M4rxPNwxcOwIOPNIpIApyyciqi5oAH-M6R9IDzjlxOEahgRJAbaGMU8fdIouNQfeuCxDeJ35OyMXtThy7zWM/s400/P1040860.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390161991217424930" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid5UddC1-Xn-Oo7lwRq1JKAO2ffk0CUOiA5NrCXPfOTdeZsZCvnC4s9xSnLBwIxH_nIj6Zni_eVeEP-RGZkJLqZIbYaTJ5a7-IJQ27qjuay_ioDorc6FWrITpjzhYfCDFyiKm90xFD4w/s1600-h/P1040816.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgid5UddC1-Xn-Oo7lwRq1JKAO2ffk0CUOiA5NrCXPfOTdeZsZCvnC4s9xSnLBwIxH_nIj6Zni_eVeEP-RGZkJLqZIbYaTJ5a7-IJQ27qjuay_ioDorc6FWrITpjzhYfCDFyiKm90xFD4w/s400/P1040816.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390161980323725362" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfSBHCAZud6xu2aexaMFS3krMGVcCJEJk31G9Zhvefp2o44G1YecxIQPrBBXmdleGcv0d4LyGAA1YC3kmJfu282BvClQA2kGsT9wA-OliJZ0at-yS4wIiOL72F2mo4qjhQA9ZWmVqiT4/s1600-h/P1040950.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUfSBHCAZud6xu2aexaMFS3krMGVcCJEJk31G9Zhvefp2o44G1YecxIQPrBBXmdleGcv0d4LyGAA1YC3kmJfu282BvClQA2kGsT9wA-OliJZ0at-yS4wIiOL72F2mo4qjhQA9ZWmVqiT4/s400/P1040950.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390161971877216658" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6oHggwv8z1Lf4sEvwC5ckE-S-hlKOHKpbZXMM8cAyZVWHnA7scf_2sstwTHnVk_-LmnjKSxUn3GUy1DXQk0YqcTv_BoU8PiSawEkGoJKYss5bVyBWog8f3YN_robMBhgNVRlR7sOKcrk/s1600-h/P1040877.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6oHggwv8z1Lf4sEvwC5ckE-S-hlKOHKpbZXMM8cAyZVWHnA7scf_2sstwTHnVk_-LmnjKSxUn3GUy1DXQk0YqcTv_BoU8PiSawEkGoJKYss5bVyBWog8f3YN_robMBhgNVRlR7sOKcrk/s400/P1040877.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390161962039857842" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9uvAB5TjTX5Lap6roT4HEfH3JSvqIuNxQ68wsuUFS-bLYFoxzR7MTf5cnsabYCtG8S4wnl2FL8BEg3f2hpPbWGs7h7dIwxBuGPOg8Ih8F9WBiNoafCYnlQdk7tmT3B9V_BGWq67afLY/s1600-h/P1040815.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9uvAB5TjTX5Lap6roT4HEfH3JSvqIuNxQ68wsuUFS-bLYFoxzR7MTf5cnsabYCtG8S4wnl2FL8BEg3f2hpPbWGs7h7dIwxBuGPOg8Ih8F9WBiNoafCYnlQdk7tmT3B9V_BGWq67afLY/s400/P1040815.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390161960942664242" /></a>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-91174119107310429682009-10-08T05:14:00.004-04:002009-10-08T05:34:56.714-04:00CD RELEASE - PASTICHE, A Memoir of sortsSo this past sat. we (meaning the cleveland tapes crew) threw a cd release for my album PASTICHE - you can download it, or any album out on the label by clicking here -<a href="http://clevelandtapes.com"></a> <br /><br />it was a good night, with an awesome dj performance by e.react spinning a mix of clevelandtapes/fare trade music, then delo fi brought some noise/funk to the mix, and folks wasn't ready. its strange how the city is just not used to seeing a beat set. they don't seem to get it. so we had to cut his set, and get on before we lost the crowd. i was surprise by the response to the songs, i think Mantis and me came off fairly well. i remember all my songs, which never happens, real excited to play again. this crazy dumpling lady tried to grab me a few times which made for some real comedy. man she was wasted, and amber and scott sykes tried to hold her back, but she kept charging. after my set, aLIVE killed a rare J DILLA set. he was on fire and it brought the house down. it made for a complete night, with e.react holding down sound man duties, and Z doing the host thing. Amber and the crew sold some cds and the night went off seem-less. in looking at the pics you would think it was just a dozen folks there, but there was about a hundred there, i guess the angles in that basement space a tricky cuz the back extends toward far stair case. anyway, it was kind of a let-down because so many of my friends didn't come out like they said they would. i wonder if its just that folks don't really care, or they just hate the art we are making and are too scared to say so. it makes it hard to want to keep going, even though we make primarily cuz we just have to- to live. but you want community support, and what we are doing as a collective with limited resources is kind of cool. i'm proud of us.<br /><br />so below are some shots by Amber, and Scott Sykes(not sure if delo fi took any) i will up load more pics later. i just want to publicly thank the team, we making it happen, one day at a time, lets just keep pushing. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDN9zOqqi2Oa0c3hOyUl6F-efkgM9EdBjdrshhGUss74g9kFrFA2V-aofNQCrcxMg8DEzNc7Ne473kUPhvQPx5EjSQQWOwk_KcxyOXTfyOP1ZFWZI5QvkkHxxPQa6QpXKY34AjUb5hb2o/s1600-h/P1040803.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxD5fxbc7xWNBL2LZ2yWIr0f2wcV7WF6qUod_RgUSGzZI25LyJLFREZMID4tY2ft-xOOegixR1KqIWvX8HbM3RRLI0J_1dEUkVzHH9qjoWIkCHIqttu6kewcbaEp3WgVWdX2kWCyPWdT4/s400/P1040806.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390156757952603554" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aS22yR4pwZ9b72X4MCd-oy0okTW3Zmb0mocOqophlrzSlXvBoHHX4ruvBwjDk0rHK4EkMI2x7rdDowWE6miy-vT-YwBPZxBmC7PfgGwPTgxbIsL6liye65d2TR2-2db0ezZ9DmffP7M/s1600-h/P1040787.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8aS22yR4pwZ9b72X4MCd-oy0okTW3Zmb0mocOqophlrzSlXvBoHHX4ruvBwjDk0rHK4EkMI2x7rdDowWE6miy-vT-YwBPZxBmC7PfgGwPTgxbIsL6liye65d2TR2-2db0ezZ9DmffP7M/s400/P1040787.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390156752002712690" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-lm4GuHeDRXHbG7Ny2klYx0-zbWY3f6LpJBudbDdnClR8D97uCsSJSdGN4DS-KyszTrWh-4HwuJm3YyqKwmCSne_HISvXdk0MODzqXZqSTmN5R5Dk4bDOTd0HnZW8zrFwidAt21d0WBs/s1600-h/P1040779.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-lm4GuHeDRXHbG7Ny2klYx0-zbWY3f6LpJBudbDdnClR8D97uCsSJSdGN4DS-KyszTrWh-4HwuJm3YyqKwmCSne_HISvXdk0MODzqXZqSTmN5R5Dk4bDOTd0HnZW8zrFwidAt21d0WBs/s400/P1040779.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390156740628802530" /></a>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-79903413891917896672009-09-28T23:00:00.002-04:002009-09-28T23:06:50.849-04:00BALDWIN NOTESBeen working on a trilogy of books about James Baldwin entitled BALDWIN NOTES. the first book will be a book of poems called "I HEARD RUFUS SAY". here are some of the poems from the manuscript. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The bridge </span><br /> For Albert Ayler, who died along the dubious lines. <br /> <br />The mouth of a river, <br />Hold the soot of a country <br />And this city of bridges <br />Knows no mercy for thinkers <br /> <br />And if it was Bessie in the morning <br />Then its was, drifting he thigh at night. <br />So after it was guilt in the mirror <br />For the push to love weighed terrible <br />And these angels gargoyle the mystery <br /> <br />Temples are on fire <br />His beautiful mouth <br />His sly sugar walk <br />His tell in of a Rufus <br />The ashed Icarus <br />No wings. <br /> <br />And the soot of the city <br />Hidden by the fog <br />Faggot call words burst mountains <br />Jump. <br />Jump. <br />Jump. They never saw you. <br /> <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">The call</span> <br /> <br /> And for stars who die <br />What of their light? <br /> <br />I imagine, you the late riser <br />Chasing a hangover, last night’s <br />Pages in hand, a cig dangle <br />Lucien asks you if you are ready for coffee <br /> <br />You kiss him, full and bold mouth <br />For you are not of Harlem, <br />Even as its nightstick remembers <br />And the phone rings, <br />A shiver rises up the spine <br />Snuggle the sweater close, the fourth ring <br />You make it- <br /> <br />Your brother is whisper <br />Says <br />“they killed Malcolm come home.” <br />The receiver never finds the handle <br />As Betty’s face cuts your cheek. <br /> <br /> <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Times Square, 1940</span> <br /> <br />There was the palpable tension <br />For the earth too separate <br />Jews dying. The beginning <br /> <br />None of it mattered <br />The burn in my heart <br />The search for my place <br /> <br />I took him full on in the mouth <br />Rough kiss, he grabs me short curl <br />And I can see my father’s eyes <br /> <br />To blink, alley light swinging <br />Against the brick, “relax. I’ll do you.” <br />Spit trickles to my ankle <br /> <br />I wonder how I smell to him <br />If he can see my black skin <br />Underneath all of this shame <br /> <br />I finish, and he gestures to me <br />To return, <br />His eyes blaze and it hurts to hood them <br /> <br />The belt, fumbles <br />My hands feel dumb <br />The zipper sound of a thousand lions <br />His hair smells of sweat <br />Sweet anticipation <br />A beautiful indecision, I swallow.ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-79530892736644932442009-09-22T00:59:00.002-04:002009-09-22T01:11:41.302-04:00flicks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi__e7erGDjXCHBv7_4ARld6qU9mQAu1LbhXVLim7AfKwWmx9WWkCvbmnpXy4MStKevxvMPx0XXa2z0-THkVAM2mCDx-Pno1u4ZA24h9tKjdYbCqRK-YCWNrLnVFMfPykLu4N9zrH16IqQ/s1600-h/P1040400.JPG"><img style="display:block; 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margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFzsEJS3iNKMxXDHu7ce5097OQ8bInjhMrJ_VH5GDooFRVRJW8O0sVjtzvYD8WTopMJVwnhCfMaKgkFZQlG1SDaFCyT9_X9tXXPn_KW9_7Qwfu6NCCSTnDyVa9_q6YzAQsqfyn1bjx7YU/s400/P1040070.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384154974159462018" /></a>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-24289856796234653932009-09-10T00:36:00.002-04:002009-09-10T00:42:44.258-04:00NEW RELEASES FROM CLEVELAND TAPESDID YOU COP THESE RECORDS YET?<br /><br />LaToya Kent - SWEET OIL <br />(physical copies available 9.11.09)<br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="400" height="100" ><param name="movie" value="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=1519171761/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/"><param name="quality" value="high"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never"><param name="allowNetworking" value="always"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><embed src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=1519171761/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/" width="400" height="100" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality=high allowScriptAccess=never allowNetworking=always bgcolor=#FFFFFF ></embed><noembed><a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/latoya-kents-sweet-oil">Valous by CLEVELAND TAPES</a></noembed></object><br /><br /><br />DeLO FI vs. Dookie Behringer - DRUG WARS and Other Minute Minutia<br />(physical copies available 9.11.09)<br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="400" height="100" ><param name="movie" value="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=1403488607/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/"><param name="quality" value="high"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never"><param name="allowNetworking" value="always"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><embed src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=1403488607/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/" width="400" height="100" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality=high allowScriptAccess=never allowNetworking=always bgcolor=#FFFFFF ></embed><noembed><a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/drugwars-other-minute-minutia">a cut, put an E on it (intro) by CLEVELAND TAPES</a></noembed></object><br /><br /><br /><br />New Surah Orchestar - SONGS FOR AMIRI<br />(digital download only)<br /><br /><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="400" height="100" ><param name="movie" value="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=338251979/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/"><param name="quality" value="high"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never"><param name="allowNetworking" value="always"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><embed src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=338251979/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/" width="400" height="100" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality=high allowScriptAccess=never allowNetworking=always bgcolor=#FFFFFF ></embed><noembed><a href="http://clevelandtapes.com/album/songs-for-amiri">ekua by CLEVELAND TAPES</a></noembed></object><br /><br />visit our online store powered by Bandcamp@<br /><a href="http://www.clevelandtapes.com"></a>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-61600406132532307072009-09-10T00:20:00.003-04:002009-09-10T00:36:04.896-04:00EXCLUSIVE CONTENT FROM CLEVELAND TAPES + FARE TRADE RECORDS!So a year ago i started a boutique record label specializing in live electronics, hip hop, electro soul, and re-genre(make your own ish). we wanted to provide a very structured curatorial vision to what we presented, we wanted to be artful, soul epic, and witty. we wanted to make sure that every release would be available digitally and on tape. (of course we still had to make cds).
<br />so here we are - CLEVELAND TAPES - and we are offering a contest to help us get the word out - send 25 people to our site, and if 5 of them purchase an album. we will give you exclusive remixes, mash-ups and singles for a whole year. yes! a whole year! here's how it will works. you send them to our site-and you email us their names and emails to clevelandtapes@yahoo.com
<br />
<br />we check and see if your folks played ball- and then BAM! every week 320 bit mp3's show up in your inbox. its that simple.
<br />
<br />PASS THE WORD!
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<br /><param name="quality" ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-30552622362254448172009-09-02T02:16:00.002-04:002009-09-02T02:30:57.259-04:00THOSE TIMES<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolLcsTXt_-jQKV6RMBN13WlJRh6HtdKo9MdEogoyxZ0Apla_Tkkk0Jso7UrxYzFPH6nJvX3DXKDziusfHZjEE3tyLcW1PQC1CgjHaC15unatCi_x1mdgaHO_uIjlp2LPI-rfcn5It7-U/s1600-h/P1040088.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgolLcsTXt_-jQKV6RMBN13WlJRh6HtdKo9MdEogoyxZ0Apla_Tkkk0Jso7UrxYzFPH6nJvX3DXKDziusfHZjEE3tyLcW1PQC1CgjHaC15unatCi_x1mdgaHO_uIjlp2LPI-rfcn5It7-U/s400/P1040088.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376751080487848962" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3oL6pjbFx1faAnCdEHIyOtnyXK-j0Fbc83_zG-JTEw1MoeBbG7zQyXvR1uPF8ufVuCONHpfB_k9Bse-OSmzDGiUInemwHyqRccdVy3e_bVz2ZPW_9OZoZriDgg1ZiTpKxpZGuK0wtZPA/s1600-h/P1040076.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3oL6pjbFx1faAnCdEHIyOtnyXK-j0Fbc83_zG-JTEw1MoeBbG7zQyXvR1uPF8ufVuCONHpfB_k9Bse-OSmzDGiUInemwHyqRccdVy3e_bVz2ZPW_9OZoZriDgg1ZiTpKxpZGuK0wtZPA/s400/P1040076.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376751068568940770" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgah62p2M0cjqV-YaiAYdCkJGvELGe9KSbGa0zjPM26koMJpxY2PktDudKVT4oJDMaU8kAYb6_72Xb2WxhMbTcAnYfxGDOIZeIluts2JSJR-lNYuv6tnNypgSGhFszQrArty__S1aTVyQg/s1600-h/P1040060.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgah62p2M0cjqV-YaiAYdCkJGvELGe9KSbGa0zjPM26koMJpxY2PktDudKVT4oJDMaU8kAYb6_72Xb2WxhMbTcAnYfxGDOIZeIluts2JSJR-lNYuv6tnNypgSGhFszQrArty__S1aTVyQg/s400/P1040060.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376751059927752338" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span> THOSE TIMES<br /><br />A good friend sent me some of her new fiction and while reading it occurred to me that this city of cle has so many folks without an outlet for what they can offer, without a safe place to explore new interest to push older ones and make waves toward actually reaching their goals. a live's work. <br /><br />its time to change this:<br /><br />so with this - the Praxis Method - i want your thoughts. what would you like to see in the form of forums, book clubs, shows, make some random shit parties etc. - any ideas that will make this dull ass city of ours better for the fuckers who have to live here. you can do it as a comment here on the blog or via the facebook.<br />let's go!<br /><br />viva!ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-44444003841280667502009-08-30T05:54:00.004-04:002009-08-30T06:10:21.359-04:00flicksSo i've contemplated bringing the heckler blog back, but alas- DON'T FEEL LIKE DOING THE SHIT.<br />went to a few events last week. heres some flicks:<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Bx5k6NGe-HQtVaWB65aYBOhgAAcjmyOoH0LyzLARWC3qny_P-VFZdDNNRHFlE1dTocmawhKbygL1R-NyCF5JKhmkLW2DR5zWHJn_GQ3Y61WvEAbukeBPas4qqEC9CZHE_RICFZYRccU/s1600-h/P1040260.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Bx5k6NGe-HQtVaWB65aYBOhgAAcjmyOoH0LyzLARWC3qny_P-VFZdDNNRHFlE1dTocmawhKbygL1R-NyCF5JKhmkLW2DR5zWHJn_GQ3Y61WvEAbukeBPas4qqEC9CZHE_RICFZYRccU/s400/P1040260.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375696370287726034" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzaFdmpz0TfERXt7fGhai8tUVDR10I3iNidZ0cTTFD9ujsDq9wQ4H4w1b84OLpgZqnzuWQK2JqAXPNDhvCiIQ16SMykfIRK5ZYRChsUHWY-YgaotaTlDm39IFgUB6UZTMTcD7KRNeY0nA/s1600-h/P1040257.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzaFdmpz0TfERXt7fGhai8tUVDR10I3iNidZ0cTTFD9ujsDq9wQ4H4w1b84OLpgZqnzuWQK2JqAXPNDhvCiIQ16SMykfIRK5ZYRChsUHWY-YgaotaTlDm39IFgUB6UZTMTcD7KRNeY0nA/s400/P1040257.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375696364670243442" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIb9C_ijc6Kf0nSjY8OayC8isQp9xoayurVjRKy6k2iwyeGiN0h8vvJ1XxpYKBWeaxzZFcJ5Tc6qJKqHTIFlgv393NepVuhjvU4ofWb4ROMTT1rIY3Pgims3xeDb-APVykUX1jmDe5pY/s1600-h/P1040254.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQIb9C_ijc6Kf0nSjY8OayC8isQp9xoayurVjRKy6k2iwyeGiN0h8vvJ1XxpYKBWeaxzZFcJ5Tc6qJKqHTIFlgv393NepVuhjvU4ofWb4ROMTT1rIY3Pgims3xeDb-APVykUX1jmDe5pY/s400/P1040254.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375696354969348098" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42IODFyveFRMCxPHarcqM2w-UygODN9MgBzKqmL7gfr4SQP49eUEUL0vVVEinYs5_lEkFDNcv3XQTh_oOlmj3wG0iwZY_K-ki5h0rRgDMKvk7d4gVFz1FI2_Y4WuKRUSbHMl0g036mV4/s1600-h/P1040237.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg42IODFyveFRMCxPHarcqM2w-UygODN9MgBzKqmL7gfr4SQP49eUEUL0vVVEinYs5_lEkFDNcv3XQTh_oOlmj3wG0iwZY_K-ki5h0rRgDMKvk7d4gVFz1FI2_Y4WuKRUSbHMl0g036mV4/s400/P1040237.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375696350889316866" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuW3X9WUscnYhyphenhyphenzb8VlZfz1hO2aGFRCC6h_g4rrn_72-7PTEhWDiZHywdlxQNHGJUSk5cc4Y1e2eoFFFvu3ADXIvR92d8bRs454pT2oXbTc7IesOXSRFKvr2MYa-J_fLSZPMn3wrgwE3w/s1600-h/P1040251.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuW3X9WUscnYhyphenhyphenzb8VlZfz1hO2aGFRCC6h_g4rrn_72-7PTEhWDiZHywdlxQNHGJUSk5cc4Y1e2eoFFFvu3ADXIvR92d8bRs454pT2oXbTc7IesOXSRFKvr2MYa-J_fLSZPMn3wrgwE3w/s400/P1040251.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375696343074801346" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttrRTQFcrAuA6mAkpwKX6p5DqYx9fRz-nKxR9ZMCKlm_EQc7kDue9IlOrQDJ69DBEeqDTQ0nmtLRNmEQ5zSAj0Clv0DN9mrbAE5L6Mu6U_Zdh7lelJn6niDcPx_O__7g02f0PkiUkkdo/s1600-h/P1040233.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgttrRTQFcrAuA6mAkpwKX6p5DqYx9fRz-nKxR9ZMCKlm_EQc7kDue9IlOrQDJ69DBEeqDTQ0nmtLRNmEQ5zSAj0Clv0DN9mrbAE5L6Mu6U_Zdh7lelJn6niDcPx_O__7g02f0PkiUkkdo/s400/P1040233.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375694710829928306" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf32UFhBMvKvWE7pv1IXpESzi1RU2Omj95RVCKQZzpys4PbzEtEgOTfwmweyzJ_nYiFJYI4Br28E0eR0ImlKaVmu0gqWQVO8nG50i7kYfZg_1MpMQPre4orxwhDm07XGkrImTUF3R-wGw/s1600-h/P1040166.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf32UFhBMvKvWE7pv1IXpESzi1RU2Omj95RVCKQZzpys4PbzEtEgOTfwmweyzJ_nYiFJYI4Br28E0eR0ImlKaVmu0gqWQVO8nG50i7kYfZg_1MpMQPre4orxwhDm07XGkrImTUF3R-wGw/s400/P1040166.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375694700594978562" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTxDrkOb1HDdW7eN6tgz1J6RPfHB2oRwnl2ssmlNPyEH33ydU6Eegowzhyoe1s2CeDjpdPEIKTsB-kj1X-1M7k5x_4YJR5ZN0Cbn2Ion3jtnONFZ_LBmJfjr8kmqmRYIQ9YLVkMtuWL4/s1600-h/P1040103.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFTxDrkOb1HDdW7eN6tgz1J6RPfHB2oRwnl2ssmlNPyEH33ydU6Eegowzhyoe1s2CeDjpdPEIKTsB-kj1X-1M7k5x_4YJR5ZN0Cbn2Ion3jtnONFZ_LBmJfjr8kmqmRYIQ9YLVkMtuWL4/s400/P1040103.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375694691650694914" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8jaj2FKoNukNcNBWPVAZaQZlPikDyspBRNNjducw2prxSl4PK5eTvHMV2M1hyphenhyphenAJq4ZAjJh-5zD2zowea19O4XF1vsDqueRGRznbwxc74fTyqozYv1hK6QX9sglGC5FXYzJg0pTGM2aD8/s1600-h/P1040070.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8jaj2FKoNukNcNBWPVAZaQZlPikDyspBRNNjducw2prxSl4PK5eTvHMV2M1hyphenhyphenAJq4ZAjJh-5zD2zowea19O4XF1vsDqueRGRznbwxc74fTyqozYv1hK6QX9sglGC5FXYzJg0pTGM2aD8/s400/P1040070.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375694682654161170" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMloeLARZRXWfLmhmyO0SFHVUGBWNIp7-6x56nSfHYIKTTPQ_E_hBuGrD12RxLuqceHGBhQrdQglw0X2nSYPUqtZsFAbdtzP91WNh2OY8FNWoGpbLCKHJmj9jH-cBIYwyPB7XpseKsE4M/s1600-h/P1040044.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMloeLARZRXWfLmhmyO0SFHVUGBWNIp7-6x56nSfHYIKTTPQ_E_hBuGrD12RxLuqceHGBhQrdQglw0X2nSYPUqtZsFAbdtzP91WNh2OY8FNWoGpbLCKHJmj9jH-cBIYwyPB7XpseKsE4M/s400/P1040044.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375694675446388146" /></a>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-39718452730581952122009-08-11T03:25:00.002-04:002009-08-11T03:29:29.315-04:00when glass turns to sand again- a memoir<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGPRhFY9c_nqUXIQE17oE7_G-GL6ugJF8AgZEYamxEbhsisyM47M2ZGAAZ-gM3kZm8guxR9Uq4BZJc6G-mEQ0jKUeZyf3RhdDOrgC1Elk_QpSSwGSKtTKFflr-Sf_si10Is9ERHZp3qA/s1600-h/P1030149.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGPRhFY9c_nqUXIQE17oE7_G-GL6ugJF8AgZEYamxEbhsisyM47M2ZGAAZ-gM3kZm8guxR9Uq4BZJc6G-mEQ0jKUeZyf3RhdDOrgC1Elk_QpSSwGSKtTKFflr-Sf_si10Is9ERHZp3qA/s400/P1030149.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368604939420386418" /></a><br />FLICKER<br /><br /><br />a tongue of candle<br />a thigh alabaster promise<br />and we cannot imagine a time without.<br />where we chewed flowers in a path of crumbling wills<br />your girlhood knawed by the petty- his a small hand <br />but you forgive him memory<br />believe, confused perhaps that sex can be healing<br />no i misspoke, you were hoping they could accept a gift<br />the (y) is for another time, for i have witness so many broken moons-<br />so few of them knew of themselves as flowers<br />we collapse time)<br />did you feel it? a second melts<br />decades, when we touched ourselves in belief we'd meet.<br />each tiny alone snatches cuz) they ignore genius,<br />focus instead on their dreams<br />(repeat)<br />on what form will i ghost to capture you?<br /><br />for sonnets are never vast enough,<br />sestinas do not hold glory<br />epics?<br />love drips your spine,<br />and your eyes collapse stars<br />a hand trembles secrets, a mouth of tulips <br />franker than the solar systems<br />me, i am tiny, happy against your envelope- no enemy<br />full of me heartlion<br />]there are millions who will struggle, but we change time. we do.<br /><br /><br />2.<br /><br />you left today. it would be the first time we'd be apart. as we were walking i could not help but notice how your eyes<br />glowed in the muted sun how you held your head, away as if saying goodbye would break us, maybe that's what i believed.<br />and as you closed the door, i lingered, wishing there had been more time, i felt as if things had not been said.<br /><br />i can remember the first time i was in love<br />it was the summer of my 7th grade year,<br />she was tiny, her hands could fold into one of my own.<br />what a beautiful face, so muted, doll like really.<br />we would meet around the corner so as not to deal with the scrutiny of our skin, those pensive moments<br />were so charged with desire, or what i understood of it. and we took our roles easy- i pushy, and plucky<br />with early prizefighter brow, and she soft and giggly - submissive. i think she knew the roles did not fit, could <br />feel us struggling for our skin. we had terrible teachers though so there was no chance for us to be ourselves<br />we only small decades out of being created so how could we have been self made.<br /><br />somehow we knew that our peers would not allow for us to be, they already had begun the age old separation of the different.<br />for some reason lost to me even now, we avoided this, and made our way to SPIKE'S Jungle, feverish, wanting our embrace<br />held up in my mind, and as if our story was being plot-ed by the Hollywood Maven, it was her mother coming to the front door, <br />and explaining to me- i was not to see her again. my brown skin stung, and as i walked away the tears wetting chin, i wished <br />i could burn away my skin, i could not open my mouth. i could not ask why it had happened. i just took my shame, made it clay<br />to place in my stomach, stoking.<br /><br />my shame made it clay to place in my stomach stoking.<br /><br /><br />i can imagine you as a fourth grader, pulled tight, the glasses riding the rims of your nose, those eyes. from the few picture i've seen<br />they have always been the same they ease into ether, blaze soft trails, have always been a woman's eyes. i wonder if you kept a journal, <br />a pulsing record of your time, your crushes, and defeats-did you think of yourself as pretty?<br />how often per day did you blush?<br />could you see me in your far away did your thigh redden in the promise of their wanting? we(re)<br />you able to have a childhood bare foot on spring wet grass, double dutch sneak and read your mother's romance novels.<br /><br />?<br />at 15 did you want the kiss, sneakily behind a bush, and of the boys of your childhood did you secretly want their attention?<br />were you always serious? i am alone tonight, and my thoughts drift pages, stories float like escaping Napalm across the occupied<br />soil, i keep bringing your face to mind in fear that it will dull, that the colors will bleed away, and i will not able to locate us. i know <br />it is irrational, but i am allowed for i am alone tonight and missing your voice.<br /><br />so it started snowing and i went for a walk, taking the trail we made familiar, then to the swings, back to mine. but that only made me <br />miss you more. did you think about me last night? i got your note, and it made me nearly weep. i'm going to go read now- <br />sleep well dear-heart.<br /><br /><br />(this is an exercise in memory)<br />it was a week before i was to be married, and i was driving around trying to clear my head<br />after awhile of aimless peak oil i pulled into the now defunct downtown strip club THEATRICAL. the vibe was pleasant for it was a weekday.<br />dancers were plentiful, and after a time i approached a dancer for a lap dance, she was pretty, and had the ass divine. <br />we started to sway, both of us convulsing in our roles. as the night moved toward the close, <br />we made plans for us to meet up after her shift- the price was set, and the hotel picked - i began the descent, mapping what would be a dishonest <br />marriage. really it must of been doomed from the start for how could i keep a love commitment with so much wanderlust? did i even love her?<br />i felt and still feel that i did. i just had no understanding of myself, and what could make a love relationship real without playing house, without wearing <br />the frustration of responsibility. and when we finished, it was rather sweet, not at all as sleazy as it could of been, <br />we treated each other as if we were more than our roles demanded. sure i had paid for sex, but i had provided a sweetness <br />that she would rarely see, it was not as if i was an angel, or some such, i just was from a different place, <br />i related a little more tenderly than my role promised, and it was only because i was coming from outside her deal. although i wasn't a john i was still<br />paying which made me no more than a john. no more clean than the next john she would encounter? and why? for i would go back to our second floor, climb softly in bed<br />and pray my soul to keep.<br />please.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />3.<br />"i'm not frightened of you. you all want to go to bed with me don't you? but it's me who wants to go to bed with you, <br />but it's me who say so, me who directs, me who rides you, me who cuts your manes with my scissors."<br /><br />-Frederico Garcia Lorca<br /><br /><br />did the world sprout without any connection. well the earth, although beautiful pushes for someone to own its rivers, hills and valleys<br />it seduces the eye with bounty. in this it is an act of evil, even as it is passive, its what happens during the push for ownership those<br />that make the move, become fragments, push a domino down the steps of fate.<br />it was in the melee that i fell for her. it was summer,<br />my first year of college had been a mild success, and i would be embarking on my first tour for reading poems. there was nothing to it really, only reading a moderate set, no a short set, for i knew that if i left them still wishing to hear more than i had earned my fee. first stop was St. Louis, a dismal city, but not without its charms. i wondered around the downtown, looking through shop windows, and bantering with bums. there is a melancholy to the city, as if it knew that its ground was soiled with a blood promise, and there was no denying its history. <br />the downtown was sparse, more shoppy than i'd expected. the buildings were not old, and not new, but there were only a few skyscrapers. the workers i saw, seemed to be more haughty than most, and the bums were extremely funny in their parroting of the power. i made my way into a coffeehouse. the red awning promised home, so home i went.<br /><br />the place was cramped, and darkly lit. faces were shadowed, folks dulled by the sitting. at the angles the old men jostled for disaster, each atop of the stories pushing for a way into the light. two of the coffee mavens pulled at chairs, wiped the odd spill, there was nothing there to grasp in their eyes. i took a seat casually flipped through the poems i'd hoped to magic. i watched people more than i worked however, and when the shift changed i could not help but notice this slight brown skinned young woman, more boy than girl as far as figure, but she had the most gorgeous eyes i had ever seen. she seemed more in touch with the regulars than the older women. more alive than anyone i'd seen really. i could not take my eyes off of her. i had the insane feeling of promise as eyes met gaze focused- ala! destiny, i thought that if i looked studious maybe she'd notice, and feel the love flow. of course, it would be too easy- if she did respond to my missive face- but i knew better and decided that direct action would have to be the method. i was after all in her town, surely i could extend a hand and make something happen for the both of us.(note to reader supreme huebris: see book entitled huebris)<br /><br />she is unfazed by my advances and too busy to fool with my youthful excuberance. i was not defeated by the brush off, i actually felt that i still had a chance.<br /><br />perhaps you should wait around. i get off around 5.<br /><br />eureka! i mumbled that would be fine, and mentioned that i had a reading to give at the college, "its in the student hall."<br /><br />she mentioned that she would get me there in more than enough time, and went i went back to my poems. <br /><br /><br />my mind fluttered about, ahead of myself, wondering if there was a future that i could control. perhaps hope was in the mode of youth, but i was more than just a young men<br />i indeed had several steps i would fail to take, but that would only be known later, right now i had a daydream going, and it involved a woman i barely knew named Blue.<br />the day faded, and her face softened- her eyes, which seemed grey, now had this greenish tinge to them. as key hit the lock, she grabbed my arm, and we swung in together. the city seemed smaller now in her company- more in-tuned with the earth. i do not feign when i say we fell in. it was that fast.<br /><br />i do not remember the reading, or the going to her place, or the night there after. i do remember the cat, and its very unique way of purring more like a growl.<br />the light from her window flowed pulsed by the silk blue of her makeshift curtains. it made me feel as if i'd died. i had never seen a young woman's house that was so other worldly in its appointments. art lined the walls, books lined the base of each wall - so many volumes that they all stood on the edge perfectly, as if the floor was an invisible shelf.<br /><br />how did you sleep?<br /><br />her voice was music, a sound wave epic.<br /><br />fine, i answered.<br /><br />you snore, but you're cute so i think i'll keep you.<br /><br />she giggled, and it caught me off guard how affectionate she was- snuggled up against me. i began to consider that touring would not be so bad.<br /><br />your poems are very stark, and sad, it made like you more.<br /><br />i stayed quiet, i was and still wasn't too comfortable with talking or hearing about the poems. it was something i had to do, i had not considered praise when<br />i began scribbling in notebooks, doodling words.<br /><br />i think they enjoyed you. i think you scared them, you seemed so old and beat up.<br />sometimes i feel like that, i offered.<br /><br />she kissed me long, and hard, the mouse of her tongue ate at me. her back melted in my hands, and my middle rose- she met me<br />and we floated the early afternoon.<br /><br /><br /><br />ra- can you stay here?<br />i can come back.<br />do you want to?<br /><br />her eyes were too much for me. <br />up until then i had not contemplated any of the feelings coursing through. i guess i never had witnessed a woman's magic, or its hold over me-<br />yes i wanted to come back.<br /><br />why? there it was out, she wanted the truth,<br />i love you. it flew out of my mouth. shocking me.<br />i will wait for you, i do love you too.<br /><br /><br /><br />i never saw Blue again.<br /><br /><br />(benediction) i would think of that summer from time to time, and realize what we were asking of each other could not<br />of been sustained by our youth. it occurred to me that the extreme mental violence i had committed on her by never showing up - i was to do this particular crime several times after, and only now through this love i share with you dear-heart. do i have the courage to take this first instance of my descent, no my self-inflicted demise scar my innocence.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />4. or (and what is this supposed to be?) an imaginary letter as if men told the truth.<br />a play for play of my demise?<br />the sly treatise on sex and its additives, the mode of desire when couples tell their stories. possession still holds me in its vice<br />for it appalls me that other men have touched you, have brought to the watering, what kind of gene build patriarchy hold me in, logically it would not be too healthy for a woman of your age to have not come. is there a relationship with you that i secretly despise, or the possible prowess in bed- for you have had some tremendous trembles in my arms as well. besides my logical mind says she would marry you. after just a small week knowing you intimately, but no, that means nothing, for they never would of asked- and she never wanted marriage.<br />but it is their cocks that fascinate me, for it is the sucking of them by you that rises into my mind, and causes the feelings of possession. <br /><br />why that particular act. you have said that you enjoy it, but have not been prone to blowjobs. is it that sensual, and special to me that i secretly wish to be the only cock you've had? why do men hold such a providence with a woman's sexual experience. why do women feel they must avoid the subject entirely/ or lie about the partners they've had. i know i am not the first man to have these feelings, but i wish to conquer this mindfuck, for it is the last linchpin of my ill-formed self -esteem. flashing images of one of your men between your legs fisting away, the times i have held a woman's ass to my cock and plunged. but what sweetness we have shared, what a great re-connection. it feels very much like i have never had sex before, but i know it is not shared by you. you do not feel a virgin when i hold you against mine, it is not that you feel, but the terrible reminder of other times, the rise and hot that has always made you sexual, that kept you fucking even as the relationships grew death, and you fell away.<br /><br />i wish to own your history and color it me.<br />so the first children born into feminist politics, well mature feminist politics were born 1974-75. that would be me, or folks born during that time. may be that's why i'm writing this, its exercise in redefinition. a sign that whatever was pushing women toward demanding an equality so richly deserved got into me too.<br />perhaps i was born knowing women to be equal by some beacon in my mother's womb, and that's what pushes me to respond to my demise and attempt to snuff it out with paper and pen.(many folks will find trouble with this).<br /><br />deconstructing is hiphop, yes, it is modern, even in the growing retro-ness of culture, a conservative push politicians, ministers, army, navy-<br />even the homemade bombs tearing at the face of Iraq are retro, the people pushed to the edge of atomic strike out, they know no flag, so they strike out to color their sky, to wave their anger toward the unknown enemy-greed. greed acts just as lust, there is no logic, only gain, only the gathering. the instant. but how can something so vile produce an orgasm? the singular expression of joy, and pleasure. if you can count your orgasms then you haven't been living?<br />hysteria?ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-43323545544460697542009-08-10T02:25:00.003-04:002009-08-10T02:49:18.008-04:00I WANT TO BE LES McCANN:: or The Forging of a Key<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3gzlicvUYy-z4i6yKDjx6M2kedI1cWlyGeYErCzD5fXOYjNFW7J5yPCpR4FujD_MsqfDE9ecqG1KCalK52cZ-1imdQpAGLgkXAmeBwz4QBH54u0EYMY43UO0KNY2SoCHfEv4pODptKA/s1600-h/Les_McCann-Much_Less_b.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 355px; height: 355px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ3gzlicvUYy-z4i6yKDjx6M2kedI1cWlyGeYErCzD5fXOYjNFW7J5yPCpR4FujD_MsqfDE9ecqG1KCalK52cZ-1imdQpAGLgkXAmeBwz4QBH54u0EYMY43UO0KNY2SoCHfEv4pODptKA/s400/Les_McCann-Much_Less_b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368218286221584130" /></a><br /><br /><br />THERE is so much about Les McCann that i love, the piano is such a draw first off. ever since i saw Stevie as a child i was infatuated with the piano. it wasn't how beautiful it sounded, because its really when you think about it too powerful to be consider strictly beautiful. its lush and rhythmic - more drum, and skill and magic - its the command center of instruments. for you just know that the piano player never misses a note, writes most of the songs etc. when i got older and found out that horn players- the one that comes to mind is Miles composed core compositions on the piano, made sketches for future work on the piano - my love affair was cemented. <br /><br />a good friend of mine gave me a piano last year, and while i couldn't afford to tune it, i would play it from time to time - waiting for my opportunity to get lesson. when i moved i moved it, and while it began to be a holding stand for records, it was mine.<br />enter Les.<br /><br />Roberta Flack's first record has the tune - COMPARED TO WHAT. so one day on a digging adventure i found a copy of McCann's version. it floored me, and made me realize that what i was loved about Flack's version was the push of the piano, the piano riff drives that tune, and turns it into a fuck classic- you can put that song on today and people will dance to it.<br /><br /><br />well. i have moved again, and i had to leave the piano there. had not the space, nor the energy to move it to the new digs. i feel like i took a step back, like i had spurned a long time lover just when i was finally understanding how to love.ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-76279070577002600762009-07-30T03:58:00.003-04:002009-07-30T04:08:46.420-04:00modo nigga, and the white spookemsi live on the edge of ohio city, and one of the most fascinating things about the west side is the genre splice that is culture over here. sure there is the race camps- latino, black, whites, arabs. but then there are sub genres- whites who hang with just blacks. blacks who date hood white girls, but only hang out with ricans. etc. <br /><br />i'm sure you get the drift, but what is not melding is astro blacks and everyone else. the art kids are alone in the skittles rainbow. SO. imagine a woman, mid thirties walking at night down Lorain AVE- no one hits on her, but the city itself is threatening . . . nostalgia. lets say she grew up on this very street. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">THE SKETCH</span><br /><br /><br />II. she hung up but only after. there were no meeting of the minds place for her. being born here should make a difference, but she had been away and time makes things pass, for it is the past. the street split ten meters across the whole dark of it. lit in odd specks from windows, cigarettes. old liquor poured into Fel’s nose, touching at it with her own baggage, the men she had loved and this smell were one it seemed. and she walked on the corner cross blinking the red of cyclops . . . littered in odd glances the whispering lust tasting at her face, body. the military wool of her sea coat keeping every turn the wind made, in. her lips now. Fel had made the mistake of licking their dry and citystruck surface thirty minutes before, and paying for it with an ever widening crack splitting her top lip halves. she had learned to walk fast here. the city with its clasping men, dead eyes, her face. it was this in her head menacing steps now, she pushed it back, turned the corner into distant music. a blue light pitched a john’s shadow and suckapuss counting his day away, bills in hand. her clutching at her nine to five skirt flailing about ankles, his belt and zipper singing his sold shame. if he really was, for Fel thought he should be, for the woman in her street judgment would of sucked it and paid. she lit a square, pushing the tobacco out cool smoke, but she had since stopped for its hard aesthetic and smoked now for the heat it brought. they jane began to rough talk the man, needle him with the role he played. Fel laughed at this, for hadn’t it just been the other way around. the corner spilled further, black against the striking moon. the people, their eyes bright with secret deaths no man ever know. just simple freedom as it would seem to the dead, and they tasted it gulps from the watchers’ shot glasses. light snow had begun to fall, old men scrunched their faces lit each others’ cigarettes and talked on. the young crept for doorways and the out halls of apartment buildings, their mothers out in these same streets, only to come home when the moon gave way, as grandmothers scoured the corners for their daughters’ sons. they had been born to the prize of abandonment, and those who were not mimicked the former, only to begin the string of defeats again.) Fel had been able to compartmentalize these things that glare to the outside, (for it was not really hers to face while others denied it) for it bit into the very heart of it if she did not and the men who had seen her father kill and be killed (and those who killed only to be killed again) saw it as their burden, a solid proof as to why they continued to suffer. Fel made her way to an empty stoop, perching on the second stair to take in herself again. and of her what could this street have told her? her dance was held in the eyes of these women, everything in them a haughty up and moving with gravity instead and still chasing each other with high laughter. three of them to match the three penny men, their nickel stories pitched high on broken shoulders, their faces lifted with each note the talking grave.) when had she stopped knowing them. she hadn’t. and could not place it. ‘Skrow could place it.’ she said aloud, but still to no one. she had always knew them as hers, but still they were not. and of their color which shade was her? and of their death, which life was owed to her. (and that would not be solved today. for it is not in stories) it was to be kept just out of reach. dangling above them as their place trembled beneath. she knew that she had been here, and it had turned her into . . . ? she had not noticed the almost a hundred blocks she’d walked, and the time stood still for the sun had long since gone down and night flowed hour into hour – the same. a bent man with his bags and junky walk sat beside her. his metal keys stapled to his denim jacket front, and the stench cologne clashed with his eyes, (which he blinked now, then again.) he had no teeth. – ‘ you got no watch?’ he drooled. and wiped it up with a tie (handkerchief), holding it to his face, then blinking. she ignored him. and inched away(politely). ‘ you got no watch. you stuck here? or you lookinggggg? ‘ he turned his head the gray strands of hair on end. ‘ you got some nerves . . . we talk or take. ‘ and turned his head and gave her a sniff. yeah. thanks. Fel said, dryly adding, and you shouldn’t talk when you take. and smiled. a couple of less creative sentences from the bum had Fel mumbling, “what a fucking night. this shit grows on trees over here.” and he was gone. walk. <br /><br /><br /><br />Ira washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-66117716350849018372009-07-29T04:37:00.001-04:002009-07-29T04:38:37.077-04:00SWEET OIL<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="400" height="100" ><param name="movie" value="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=1519171761/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/"><param name="quality"
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<br />Singer, writer, multi media artist LaToya Kent combines a sweet voice, with gritty imagery on her latest album and first on the boutique label - CLEVELAND TAPES. SWEET OIL is produced and co-written by ra washington(LeRoi Da Moor), and captures Ms. Kent in top form. After living in Southern Cali for 6 years, Ms. Kent is poised to turn heads with her remarkable energy.ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-16539811332425608442009-07-26T02:44:00.002-04:002009-07-26T02:54:40.793-04:00the further adventures of gentleman richards - Chapter ONEFirst chapter to the new novella, which is a sequel to my book - HUEBRIS. <br />Which can purchase/or download by clicking the button below:<br /><br /><br />INTRODUCTION, REBUTTAL, & ADDRESS<br />for you.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />so once again, here we are with the esteemed Christoph L. Richards, and his cast of unfortunate characters. before we proceed with the fiction, the legal department has asked me to inform you that this is indeed a work of fiction- any illusion, or actual jacking of real life or historic events, both real and revisionist, is on purpose and is meant to be taken with extreme seriousness. <br /><br />this is after all, a work of art.<br /><br />sincerely, <br /><br />ra washington<br /><br />(we have included Mr. Richards introduction as stated in his contract.) -ed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^<br /><br /><br />"i love him who willeth the creation of something beyond himself, and then perisheth"<br />Zarathustra as told to Nietzsche<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />it was our sincere intention to write a memoir of parts, but after further consideration we felt that my unique story would be best served under the medium of fiction. we sought to upgrade the writer, but we were turned down by all the big names:<br /><br />phil roth<br />steve king<br />walt mosley<br />deanus koonitz<br /><br />delany was only interested in the pornographic elements of my life, <br />(wait. samuel r. delany- author of DHALGREN) there.<br />but i for one do not find his brand of meta gobble in the form of gay sex very stimulating. perhaps if some hetro fucking was involved, but alas. he is gay, so it must be gay. i dont really believe this, but why not.<br /><br />in any event, the job fell to the relatively unknown ra washington, who although limited in his ability to write, has made up for his lack with zeal and verve. he is not a genius. we are not peers, but i was able to salvage his butcher job into a best seller in several journals, most notably Sports Illustrated Magazine (excellent book review section).<br /><br />i suspect he may be a complete idiot savant.<br />so with the commercial success of HUEBRIS, we come to the crossroads and begin another episode of my life. it has been a one ball(ed) journey, but not without the occasional pinch or two. we have decided to call this one-<br /><br />THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF GENTLEMAN RICHARDS<br /><br />enjoy.<br />Chris Richards, character.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />***********************************<br /><br /><br /><br />FOR THE SAKE OF TIME: Simone and Judith<br /><br /><br />SIMONE de Beauvoir: it would seem that after all this time writers would at the very least attempt to have well drawn, fleshy women characters.<br /><br />JUDITH Butler: that's assuming they know any actual women. most male writers have the social skills of small rodents, so they don't know any women besides a sister or mother, an aunt or some such.<br /><br />SIMONE: true, but is it really that difficult? the men characters have interior dialogues, a full range of emotions, passions. but the women characters are set pieces for self loathing, or the bed and a man's ineptitude in bed. they are used as foils to show how brilliant the men characters are. like this book for instance. the two main women characters bare no resemblance to actual women at all. they are just furniture. perhaps you could write a guide book, have that fancy university press of yours put it out.<br /><br />JUDITH: well after my vacation in the Hamptons. i suppose i could smash something together.<br /><br />SIMONE: well there is a perfect epitaph on pg. 75 of the second volume of my autobiography.<br /><br />JUDITH: i did not know you wrote an autobiography!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />-------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />REBBECCA VS. HAMESH<br /><br />SHE was running late, as was her lot after traveling across town to see Ben's band - SEXUAL FREQUENCY. despite knowing better, Rebbecca still thought of herself as the ideal girlfriend. loyal, supportive, docile. god! she hated the term girlfriend. she had not been a girl for some time, and she was not, and would never be a lover's friend. men had no concept. friends don't fuck, friends go to the locaql sports bar and shave each others back.<br /><br />but you had to support the man. support the love, even if he never supported you. besides she hated his music- thought of it worse than Christoph's old band VERNACULAR.<br />(see HUEBRIS, The Notes, due out fall 2010)<br /><br />SO. she was an hour late for work after the second morning quickie. (she did not come the 1st.)<br />but Ben was good, and non-committal like she, and since he was an idiot of sorts and means, he was completely at her wit's mercy. Christoph's ego, really his whole soul lived in debate. that is what she loved about him - at first. what she secretly channelled to make herself actually exist in the world of ideas. she had always felt that it was akin to a sort of social suicide to let MEN in on how smart she was. <br /><br />when she was twelve or so, Rebbecca heard her mother correcting her father. it was nothing anyone would ever get mad about, a slight as a sneeze amongst the thunder- but her father wanted to remain firmly in the realm of idiot.<br /><br />"no one fears a smart man." he'd once said.<br /><br />Rebbecca still wasn't sure if he mad at his own brain, or disgusted with mama and her for theirs.<br />he went dark at the mere sound of her mother's voice, as if the vocal timbre could scrap along the side of his feeble skull.<br /><br />BEN.<br /> yes, ben was more like her father and when she was completely honest with herself <br /> (a rare case indeed!)<br />that was the reason why she loved him.<br /><br />the train pulled into the stop, time slowed as the dead - living, working for dreams began the final<br />click of their journey, each secretly praying that dreaming would not cost them more dignity than they had.<br /><br /><br />**************************************************<br /><br /><br />Analysis of opening chapter and preface<br />by CHRISTOPH L. RICHARDS<br /><br />to with-<br />it seems that our dear Mr. Washington has taken to a more poetic (seeming) approach<br />to the prose of the sequel. while poetry is afforded a prestige that's mostly deserved by the actual poets working in this ancient of mediums, it lends itself to prose through its POESY! (see Ezra Pound's Guide to Kulchur)<br />very well then, Washington may indeed be an idiot, we will see.<br /><br /><br />****************************<br /><br />MAXIMUS ALARMIST<br /><br /> do you still think about her?<br />the candle flicker brought Hamesh's eastern features to the fore, her eyes were white hot.<br /><br />why do you ask?<br /><br /> only you would think its okay to answer a direct question with a question.<br /> last night you called me her fucking name!<br /><br />Christoph had never seen her mouth turn acid, all of the color in her lips had gone terse.<br /><br />if i did call you Rebbecca, it was surely in the middle of an awful dream or some such.<br />its not as if i wished you not to be here. come on baby, i know you better than to be jeal-<br /><br /> she cut him.<br /> no Chris, i know you. you live so much of our stupid life together in your head. it seems only natural that you would slip up like this. am i not enough?<br /> don't you feel loved? am i not enough.<br /><br /> Hamesh tore at her blouse, exposing her soft and hard to him. her breath ragged and salt.<br /><br /><br /> PAIN HAS AN ELEMENT OF BLANK<br /> pain has an element of Blank-<br /> it cannot reconnect<br /> when it begun- or there were<br /> a time when it was not-<br /> it has no future- but- itself<br /><br /> - Emily Dickinson <br /><br /><br />some of the storm had passed, but Christoph still could not sleep. he could hear the slight purr of his lover, he oblivious to what she had actually accused him of, tried not to think about her, about Rebbecca, about himself.<br /><br />there was something quiet in the house that enraged him. had we become so old and scared of dying that we had forgotten how to live. how to be with each other. everything between was odd swords.<br />tin words, and silence.<br /><br />oh, the silence.<br /><br /><br />^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> A PROXIMITY BREACH OF SORTS<br /><br />in a four unit apt building there usually at least one tenant that drives the building past an acceptable level of craziness, or noise. nor did they care. the building that Hamesh lived in was one of these buildings times ten. for the neighbors next door - Claude and Breen were the most notorious laughers in the TRI- State area. everywhere they went, and more to the point - they went everywhere with each other they were hysterical- two wee kittens on a sugar rush. <br /><br />Claude was peanut butter brown (the local madame DEE said he looked like Eric Benet) with large coon eyes, and a perfect Cosby nose. his curls looked as if he had sprayed curl activator and placed his head in the oven for twenty minutes to cook.<br /><br />Breen was petite, and fair skinned with eye brows that arched naturally as if tweezed. his cackle was high pitched, and he possessed the most ridiculous set of muscles stack onto the skinniest chicken stalks ever invented. he also possessed the longest tongue know to modern man. it furled an amazing 12 inches. <br /><br />both were consumed by a love of drink, both were considered gay by common folk, and gods by art brut chicks wanting to get their pretty nig freak on.<br />of course as novels like this go, Christoph hated them and that only made them louder. it was so bad that Hamesh actually considered moving to christoph's place till the building blew up last winter because of faulty electrical wiring mixed with lit crack pipe.<br />(see HUEbris Appendix on sale Fall '09)<br /><br />*************************************************<br /><br />our little systems have their day;<br />they have their day and cease to be.<br /> - Thomas Merton<br /><br /><br /><br />the clinic was quiet for once, so Hamesh let herself relax in her office, flipping through a public health journal as if it was written in braille. she had wanted to be a doctor since she was a girl, her mother was, and so was both her sisters. but they did it for money, plain and simple. she did as a passion, and secretly despised herself for it all for she knew that deep down it was not her keen social justice, but because she wanted to distinguish herself from her sisters (names? come on, you not gonna remember?) who had always excelled.<br /><br />always at the top of the class, always prettier, richer, with better taste in men. she was the runt, skinny to an almost alarming stature. sure, she was curvy, but she was kind of boxy as well. <br /><br />DAMN, she thought. why am i doing this in my head. <br /><br />she knew it was not true.<br /><br /><br />^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^<br /><br />Amendment of the previous paragraph<br />by Christoph L. Richards<br /><br /><br />while i agree with most of the portrait drawn of my dear lover- she is in fact quite boxy, and a tad chubby come to think of it. which is a luxury that her people only have here in the states. if she was still living in INDIA, she would be as thin as an ETHIOPIAN. <br /><br /><br />^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^<br /><br />SEXUAL DEVIANT AND THE SLEEP AROUND BEER<br /><br />a spider of dust traced the street light throughout the room, a pulse was kept by the hiss of the steam heat, its counter point- the hum of a neighbors TV, the air in the apartment felt light, perhaps because once again they drank too much, too fast- but they had reason to celebrate.<br /><br />Christoph had finally sold his radio piece about meta fiction and it would air next week.<br />Hamesh cooked a dinner filled with burnt smells, and muted tastes- he choked it down with beer and gaul, each swig pushed the nasty bite down his throat. she knew she could not cook, it was one of those unspoken truths between them. if they ate at home, it was Christoph, not Hamesh, who provided the spread.<br /><br />NOW, after her two bottles of red, and his twelve pack of a local micro brew - she swept along in full silk, the candles flickered winter, it was really bodice, tight and sheer- her face made up gypsy. it made his middle grow, and pump at the seams of his jeans. Christoph tried to ignore the heartburn scorching at his chest, and throat. <br /><br />it was rare event when they played at seduction, usually it was a late night moan, and rub, a few awkward tongueless pecks and over. him satisfied in his mind, and ashamed in his body.<br /><br />but this night, oh, this night! he would give her orgasm after orgasm, he would destroy her with the pleasure surging up. Hamesh twirled, and swooped to the anti rhythm and fell to her knees - Christoph, surprised and aroused, gripped at the arms of the chairs - a life-raft on the Titantic. <br /><br />he was SHINE- he would not drown, no matter how black his heart was.<br /><br />she asked, <br /> what do you want me to do with this?<br /><br />she grabbed his middle and stroked toward the sun. he flushed, his heart suddenly seized up and the fire came rushing up. the smell came before the sound, and Hamesh fell back confused, and totally engulfed in the most awful burp ever created. <br /><br />the house smelled like rancid pork, and beans. then another, more powerful belch - threw Christoph from his chair, and into a projectile vomit that lasted a few minutes that slowly turned to dry heaving, and burping.<br /><br />when he came out of the gastro trance, he realized that the first volley of gut landed all over Hamesh. her face was pale and twisted. he had no words. again she was covered in him and again it was epic. he chuckled as he lifted her from the floor- the smell of his guts, twining with her sweet perfume.<br /><br /><br />------------------------------------------------FIN.______________________________<br />(end of Chapter One)ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-49016551619709706992009-07-17T21:51:00.003-04:002009-07-17T22:08:15.851-04:00subjective/objective - MUAMIN COLLECTIVE'S World B. Free<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); white-space: pre-wrap; "><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="400" height="100"><param name="movie" value="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=4083980000/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/"><param name="">
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<br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the 216, where everyone knows everyone, and at the same time knows no one - its rare to find folks of a common ilk. to make friends across the crawlspace, and watch as you both take your lumps, have success, and repeat the process over and over again.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">and this might be for you, who really knows? i'm not one who can say - </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Muamin Collective started with a concept - rapid fire critical thought over beats. simple? not actually as easy as it is said, but over the last 8 years what started as a concept, has become praxis. aaron "aLIVE" snorton, and josiah "zion" quarles have made a master work, three albums later - WORLD B. FREE is the perfect summer spin, a drive thru nostalgia and future. it is ASTRO BLACK, relevant, smart, asholey, and funky. the mix is sublime, thanks to their partner in crime Ereact - who brings us their vision clear and bumping. i want to say on the record, in this blog - THE BEATS ARE TERRIFIC, EPIC AND THUMPLY! period.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">aLIVE IS THE TRUTH. and its only the beginning for his science, even though he's been building on it for years. original. heard it here first. his spit game is nice to and its the perfect compliment to ZION'S supreme gifts. there is no MC in the 216 seeing this guy on the crafting of a song. he is miles ahead, it makes me all excited, cuz finally its time and i'm picking this crew to do it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">listen to the links above and you will hear it yourself. i fucking love this album, and while i make my own ish, there is not just one book in a library, not just one record in the record store. its okay fuckers you can like something from your own town. no one would hold it against you. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">to all crews - STOP THE HATE.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">SERIOUSLY. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">WE ALL KNOW THAT OUR CREW IS NICE WITH IT.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">its a fact, not an act. let's unify on some real and lets not be gate keepers for this little tiny ass universe we tend to live in.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">we all can get it, why should people have to choose one over the other? we can all be heard there is so much space.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">so much potential.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', -webkit-fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;">steveLAND?</span></span></div>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-71815100578925922582009-07-17T17:16:00.001-04:002009-07-17T17:17:21.579-04:00PASTICHE ALBUM sneak preview.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Lucida Grande'; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); white-space: pre-wrap; "><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" width="400" height="100"><param name="movie" value="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=50713694/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/"><param name="quality" value="high"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="never"><param name="allowNetworking" value="always"><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF"><embed src="http://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer.swf/album=50713694/size=venti/bgcol=FFFFFF/linkcol=4285BB/" width="400" height="100" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" allowscriptaccess="never" allownetworking="always" bgcolor="#FFFFFF"></embed><noembed><a href="http://moormusak.bandcamp.com/album/pastiche">for the midnight by leRoi of CLEVELAND TAPES</a></noembed></object> </span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', fantasy;font-size:100%;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-43063951721460784412009-07-16T04:20:00.002-04:002009-07-16T04:23:23.579-04:00once.it begins with hello, and ends in angry words.<div>takes the shape of anticipation</div><div>rides out harmful, a static.</div><div>a hurt. someone must do this.</div><div>and then you wait it out</div><div>as if a thunderstorm, but it never fades . . .</div><div>it keeps banging at the windows</div><div>thumping the roof. </div><div><br /></div><div>the magic part is when hello begins . . .</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-83578143817516429052009-06-29T21:19:00.012-04:002009-06-30T02:39:55.070-04:00my imaginary harem - The Aquarius List Pt.1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaJh70AfmuIF74CP2nGKfFUpHOfp_ES5QWg9bnm-0oA8bagyD1pfykYFlu6p1HQErtvwWY9uElZx0mRD0CZbOxXmyrN6jY21rSR3cujFfiXvfecQr12Icd7hVGPS1Z2AlfvKEH3SrfCA/s1600-h/P1020900.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheaJh70AfmuIF74CP2nGKfFUpHOfp_ES5QWg9bnm-0oA8bagyD1pfykYFlu6p1HQErtvwWY9uElZx0mRD0CZbOxXmyrN6jY21rSR3cujFfiXvfecQr12Icd7hVGPS1Z2AlfvKEH3SrfCA/s400/P1020900.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353006585851139042" /></a><br /><b><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>based</b> on the lindy loo principal of imaginary harem building- i have compiled a secret wish list that i will share with you. a few years ago, while doing some press for some early blktygr show (ha. doing the press!) i told a french journalist that all i wanted was a <div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"black lady who wrote french poetry, read sarte, fanon and had a fatty."</i></div><div><i><br /></i><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">(definition of fatty - is a big butt, but not just big, it has to have a soul and porportion to the actual overall body)</span></div><div>[not everyone who reads this blog would know that.]</div><div><br /></div><div>and while making a list like this is fun, perhaps an adventurous publicist will find my humble blog and make it happen - an actual meet and greet. seriously though, while this list is made of lust candy, only one was picked strictly because she is fine.</div><div>So i decided to break the list into two posts, i encourage debate on this one so have at it.</div><div>and here we go:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>10. Keri Hilson</b></div><div>Keri- what can i say she is the truth. wonderful pop talent, beautiful. according to certain magazines- she</div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6wAo9mhvzMOjmQu852IK4tE0egIbeTeDOMd4DnE-uELG0St3kQI9uZ0IX6tpFom_ip_H8dQ4vFnBJA8fYjRQwM3ELgG9_TZ_chw9OQZBhdNsHWzblwab_PYowNvEpI_2VKWcJx5fXKzE/s320/keri-hilson_l2009.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352994687484533266" /><div> is a composer, and writer of her own music. i am a talent whore. this picture is not even close to how fine she is, i was so taken by her face. wow. double wow. she has face and body games!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>9. lisa bonet/cree summers</b></div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 186px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNwjbe9J8H5OtdhdPzT1QapW71zMWpjbNBpXGu3JA_0Sb5xKQPMnrYDTAO3Jj3uqdXKT6NtYLH9mBPg95f7UIS4O3d_KxJNqxcY1MRq20na5AOFoJ5OxZSXgJhFD5qv2g46WcgPAX6SKY/s320/lisa_bonet_4.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352939716719298322" /><br /><br /><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTEmtgrD9U4KtBoZOIw6dV2ErZkyr2nF9LAdf2T6qOsf4JBGg-79K2Q-iRD7lJ_fdvDfMHmBVu8FR_VU4WA-6QnRaAn6JWiTI-ELZ1g9dcabPiSfktipBMK7OtT_uC9UmppJM0F2f0foY/s320/cree3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352939008801599602" /></div><div>what can i say- a different world </div><div>put me on the path to loving these two. i remember the first time i saw denise huxtable- wild, creative and damn fine. it was around 6th grade, and girls were starting to be on the agenda. i thought she was the perfect girlfriend - cool, smart, sexy, with a hipster flair (before that type of flair became co-opted). for some odd reason i cannot even remember lisa bonet these days without thinking two things: 1st. wow she was in ANGEL HEART, great nipples, and 2nd. she made the most beautiful baby with lenny kravitz - i mean their daughter is seriously fine and grown up now. which makes those two - wow they have to be in their 40s.</div><div><br /></div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHnqDtbcAHhIgtZJbO-nR0sUZl31CYXZ6qkTN2GhRPqaA4_8tyadkNLUSMpxI3FLq2MZ9p6g4t4a7GcstDNi7w0czIU02eU9LGk2HatduMSsOR4ObcMx0X4QenB90bei2sNK5IUxcSmBQ/s320/zoe-kravitz-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353003600047858162" />cree summers is just fine. i hated her character o<div>n the show, but hey i seriously wanted her and probably masturbated thinking about the both of them in some kinda nerd threesome. the real reason for cree other than the fact that she posseses an heavenly ass- i love her music. cheese stick that it is, i love her songs. really nice voice. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">[don't believe me? check her out on myspace. oh find the link yrself.]</span></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>8. zoe kravitz</b> - </div><div>wow.</div><div> that's it. first saw her in the jay z video and i fell in love. not only am i seriously infatuated with her mama, but her daddy has to be on the top of my "i'm straight but he's fine" list.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 162px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZe08squHT03hOGUi9ITBe6vGcqgtZjgXVwbtoSOZfIvZFM4_TS7dPeCtuxfV1O_EthoqC9nhWNWJTgJgsyXWhTUM_Yxfu0NBeYqCp5Kw0vQmvKZCAmVNFmtCddtFyeVyB4Sv36BSN190/s200/gwen-stefani.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352995412105377682" /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>7. gwen stefani</b></div><div>ever since i'm just a girl, i've been infatuated by gwen. not for sure looks mind you, but she is fine. and i typically don't even like blondes. too easy to like em, and i do not like it easy. this pic of her is too much, but i find it kind of funny seeing how we first came across her image in popular culture all valley girl ska and ish like that.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>6. grace jones</b></div><div>first off let me say, grace jones makes some pretty raw music, and was a fashion icon who held herself to a very high aesthetic. she was challenging the very notion of beauty, and what it meant- and still should be considered a visionary. many remember her from movies like BOOMERANG - where her</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC4N83JcqB14Wi4eMrK_SsGyH2tO4bscZPIEJt1JeDZq7AmUmZqp3mF6E2qrsj8w4_I2CZMUo189SyqsFe19cWm_feEsPT-njQAMCh05a8um7DkEUHX5hCf5vc_xFXp7lYoprm0Rh43vw/s320/Photo_38_4211b8b59534a13ead0228c5762d47ea.PNG.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353000732774278802" /><div> power was held in the marvelous line -"she put her panties in my face!" i love me some grace jones. earlier today, while i was loop digging i found one of her records, and its still hitting. i'm not gonna give you the title, cuz frankly i help you too much. </div><div>(shot out to the record hounds.) this picture says it all, and her name is the perfect description of her to me - GRACE.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>AND SO. </b>that is the imaginary harem list 10 - 6, look for the top five in a few days. the diversity of spirit, and the independence of these women is what makes them extraordinary. sure they are all quite beautiful, but while physical beauty is a wonderful thing, there is something else that speaks to me when thinking about these wonderful women.</div><div>strength is a concept i've been thinking about for sometime, here is what is catching me up about it - its totally subjective. </div><div><br /></div><div> there are somethings we all can agree are strong, or aspects of strength, but when we get down to who is strong and who is not, it begins to grey, and its that grey that makes it so damn interesting to be alive. i've been finding myself counting my blessings and really thinking about how wonderful it is to be here now. so many things are changing the air is electric with change, my fear is that we all may be to busy staring at the beauty of the changing times to define it. that once again we will have an opportunity to make a huge jump in the quality of life for the planet and we will blow it for lack of vision. or worse- authorship. damn i love women.</div></div>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-78027741855113797322009-06-26T02:23:00.003-04:002009-06-26T02:42:25.488-04:00lil' michael - rest easy, you don't have to play for them no more<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSuNtRh5lNJPKdbitVE7c9rZep5wuUyi9kK2sjjbnDDSIUCKxzzzvcCMZhNbpkrQw7mlPA5PK-TbJWloLCGxEF1nV2rLZYGFQ58ArFWN0XS21DVs5hFt4kzEdXiR7EVI8cz2-7z2U_JY/s1600-h/P1030214.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpSuNtRh5lNJPKdbitVE7c9rZep5wuUyi9kK2sjjbnDDSIUCKxzzzvcCMZhNbpkrQw7mlPA5PK-TbJWloLCGxEF1nV2rLZYGFQ58ArFWN0XS21DVs5hFt4kzEdXiR7EVI8cz2-7z2U_JY/s400/P1030214.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351518575960363154" /></a>TRUE STORY.)<br /><div><br /></div><div>when i think of MJ, i think about THE WIZ. i was about five when my mother and the man she was seeing took me out on some kinda, let's test how he is with my kid date. you single mamas know what i'm speaking on, but hey i didnt care - we were going to the movies, and i was going to see Michael Jackson on the big screen. i didnt even really understand what THE WIZ was, or the political implications- ma's date being of a pro black sort, but disco driven too. combination huey p, and travolta. tight leather pants suit and the shit was green too.<div><br /></div><div>anyway, we get there- him wanting to kinda squeeze up on mama, puts me in the aisle seat. im totally engrossed by the vivid colors, and quincy soundtrack - the characters are wild, and then it dawns on me- this is a black people wiz. i distinctly remember thinking that it was so wild that there were none of my Aunt Fran's friends in the movie(she was a multicultural lesbian before there was a term for it) and then it happened . . .</div><div>all the little kids my age, older even started to dance in the aisles, and it was to "you can't win"</div><div>the solo song for MJ- and he kills it and the kids can't sit down, and the parents are overwhelmed, a couple sit their kids down, but most just start clappin and yelling encouragement. seriously left a mark on my soul, for i got up, and started in with the rest of them. it was my first public performance, it solidified my weirdo stance for it turned on the brights on my technicolor. ever since that moment in the theatre art has been my refuge, my friend, and my shield. </div><div><br /></div><div>the guy wasn't around by my sixth birthday, i stopped asking about him after the new one moved in. yeah. i guess he didnt pass the fam test.</div><div>and while over the years MJ changed from visionary young talent - to world icon - to worldly shame- i will always remember the simple wisdom of "you can't win".</div><div>yeah, you can't win, but you sure can moonwalk while trying.</div><div>rest in peace.</div></div>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6839683024715307686.post-25992399129020898322009-06-25T02:49:00.005-04:002009-06-26T02:23:01.069-04:00musak, dance, one off's and lack of media outlets<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5fydcAYiXuZGgaob2pCO21uE_ZVQY7en0r3qoiO2dzioxjEwSdKNSsy2LjHl470CbQeiIuuOfreyj5S31nf_JaeYVAfBKTfpghoikl9-AQ7mipoS7XOwwVmRJ1ii2XzrChwDoO0tEpQ/s1600-h/ra.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 263px; height: 396px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK5fydcAYiXuZGgaob2pCO21uE_ZVQY7en0r3qoiO2dzioxjEwSdKNSsy2LjHl470CbQeiIuuOfreyj5S31nf_JaeYVAfBKTfpghoikl9-AQ7mipoS7XOwwVmRJ1ii2XzrChwDoO0tEpQ/s400/ra.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351516262907936418" /></a>i was chopping it up with my stepfather last year and he was wondering why it seemed that there was nothing going on in Cleveland like back in the day. <div>"yeah, i hear you telling about all this cool stuff going down, but you don't see it in the paper."</div><div>pops, there is no such thing as media outlets in this town. sure there's the plain leisure, and scene, but scene can only cover so much - not enough pages really, and they got to make it work out advertising wise. </div><div>"well they do a piss poor job." </div><div>perhaps. </div><div><br /></div><div>we ask for more media outlets, more alternatives to the shit we get, but when they crop up, we dont support them. sure we pick em up and put it in our bags, carry issues around but we do not support them as we should. and we dont have the money to support them without the help of advertising, and local businesses are hurting too much to use their limited resources and advertise with start-ups.</div><div><br /></div><div>we all know the issues. we all know solutions. i just wonder what we are waiting for.</div>ra washingtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17628923790005297854noreply@blogger.com0