aka - 'or drown in my own shit'

...


im not one of those "boohoo, my art will never be known to the whole world" type artist...
its cool. i come from a long line of pessimists; even my optimism comes with more
gray cloud than silver lining - if you know me then you know i like it that way.

to be politically incorrect, i guess i'm retarded.
but i'm 'an artist' - so mental indentations often makes the fool a genius. 'specially if he's an
artist.

what an insufferable thing to be, at times... "an artist".

our craft consumes us... we carry our own private universe on our hips in our ass-pockets
ready to whip that shit out without thought or warning as the mood or muse hits us...
been known to cause whiplash on the innocent bystander.

it's what we do.

ARTISTS™ (anshit)™

its rough tho, sometimes. especially for us socially awkward/abstract-africana type people.
we walk around with sun-ra, octavia butler, kwame nkrumah, funkadelic, fela, ishmael
reed and other inspirations in our auras... sumshit that mightabeen 'cute' and understood
back in the late late 1980's (maybe!) - but often just ignored in this day and age...

as a black artist, i understand the fact that if my work doesnt reference the black church,
redblackandgreen propaganda-ism, hiphop, the playground, jazz club or basketball court
then im just asking my people to not acknowledge me as 'they people'...
(to be honest tho, you'll find many of those themes in the majority of my work...
you just hafta know how to look for it! - there are no more unique themes, just unique
approaches and thats what makes our work "stand out" once we've pinpointed those
individual, artistic platforms.

but as it now stands, even my grown daughter cant understand my artwork (art OR words!)
and thats sumsadshit fareal.

plus, i ramble. not just in my blogs but in my immediate thoughts also and it often shows
up in my art... i can often over-explain the emotional feeling that motivated me to create
something more than i can the actual finished work. i live in my head... i write for those
voices that live in my head with me - i dont often have to explain anything to them, they're
the ones who gave me the blueprint for whatever follows... me and my voices are cool.
we buy each other coffee. one will be reading haki madhubuti, while another is watching
buffy the vampire slayer... in my head, malcolm x is on a soapbox reading 'mumbo-jumbo'
to a class of six year olds on the swing sets in shawnee park. george clinton swirls around
him in his prototypical flavaflav flare...

the ghosts of isaac hayes and junior kimbrough are cracking string theory physics
with a marker on a basketball backboard thats fallen away from its pole...
these are new totems they workin' on.

billie holiday and mariam makeba are laying down tracks for a collaborative album...
romare bearden is on beatbox.
james baldwin on the bass.

its a family affair.

but before i get too far ahead of myself, let me say this while im still thinking about it:
i take the best bullshit of what responsible black men have to offer and then i filter it
thru the nappy kitchen of wise black women... this is the philosophy that guides me in
all my endeavors. 1 part dumb ass, 1 part smart ass. it works...

anyway,
i dont really 'fit in' anywhere.
never have.
(and fuck facebook! i caint even keep up with the friends i have here... and lord only
knows whens the last time i visited one of the two poetry boards i participate on
AND I OWN and/or CO-OWN THEM!)

ummm... "art"... ...yes; back to the blog.

... just delete everything above and let me start over fresh, below, okay?

...............
reboot
...............

look. i dont have time for you.
caint be holding your hand/leading you in and out the crevices of my cranium.
i was dropped on the head as a child... i have high blood pressure... i smoked a firecracker.

i'm not right in the head, i make no pretenses about it...

im ABSTRACK-AFRICANA IN THE FLESH.

the diaspora is not a disease, its a prophylactic. the written word is the spirit world reborn.
art is a libation. bourbon is a beautiful thing - it all goes hand in hand.
these elements combined is liberation theology... dust to dust... ashes to ashé.
its not meant to fit neat and proper like chicken fried rice pushed down into
its cardboard container. in art and literature, if its true/if its pure, there is blood, spit, orgasm.

the spirit is supposed to be spent when it is done... dont question it, just
roll over and go to sleep... your belly is full; unbuckle your belt, lay back and take your nap.
there are no indigenous words for 'starched shirt' in swahili.

this is art. african aesthetics fuse me in place... concrete babalows have braided their
spells into my bucolic beliefs - "this is what i mean, an anti-nigga machine"
my posse (phantasms and not) have velocity.

i havent had any liquor yet.

but ima go get some wine right now... just a sip or two...
so ima save and post this incompleted blog right now before my browser crashes and im
made to cuss out all yall's mamas anem.

i'll be back tho.

im milking this cow,
you just hold the tail
- aight?

...

okay,
where was i?

not that it matters... im wanting to talk about 'solidarity' anyway.

where have all 'the movements' gone?
who are the big players in the black art fields of study, on street/stage/or page?

i mean, i can name the few fed to us: suzan lori parks, kara walker, saul williams, etc...
all fine creative geniuses in their own rights, no diss intended by naming them.
in fact, i think its safe to assume that i share influences with them, speaking from a
peripherally philosophical point of view... the so-called 'its a black thang' that all us black
folks claim an understanding of... we just dont seem to utilize this 'thang' anymore
when in the presence of familial company. i dare to say that assimilation has up and killed
our consciousness and our creativity.
its mosdefntly killed our sense of urgency/unity.

we're all in the same boat... we all want our own oar. nobody wants to paddle in a direction
someone else recommends - 'stand back, i got this!' ... we are the spiritual proletariat
for what ronald reagan once stood for - all sweat and blood... no kick backs...
we're reverse-socialists weened on the urban legend of reverse-racism and a mass-marketed
media thats sold us on the mainstream's acceptance of michael jordan and tiger woods
(at least until they choke the shit out of someone!) - but its 'black amoeba theory' this
american acceptance of the black elite passing itself off as societal change... not that
positive changes havent occurred because they have... regardless of the outcome, america
will always now point its obese, debt-ridden fingers at president-elect barack obama.

but a black man leading the free world doesnt mean that black people now know how to
use the system the same way our nonblack counterparts do/have...
black folks learn at adolescence that growing up to be whatever we want or dream is still
more dream than reality - and this is what has generationally shaped our perspectives
on 'freedom' and 'patriotism'...

((you're boring me brothadirt... thought this was an art blog, not a social class))

((i told yall - the cow... the tail... ...play your part!))

...

okay, okay... "the missive".

...

ART© - visual, musical, lyrical...

has been our primary weapon of choice in america. our styles cut a rug, sag, sway,
swagger, get crunk, get hyphy, get up to get down... this need to be free thru creativity
is drummed into us from an early age (usually after the 'getchu a good job with
benefits' speech)... every generation, since emancipation, has fashioned its own artistic
voice - harlem renaissance, civil rights era, black arts movement, hiphop: just one
long movement growing into another one... a continuum.

ishmael reed called it 'jes grew'... our culture keeps changing in order to protect that
within us that never changes. call it 'soul' if it appeases the mouth.

but here we are, an entire generation past the generation that created hiphop and
i'm not seeing anything collectively creative out there on the horizon... at least, not
on american soil.

was black creativity the first major collapse of a financial institution in america?
who was sounding the alarm when the bottom began falling out of the natural black aesthetic?

why no bail out to the only institution we've ever truly monopolized here on foreign soil?
and why no G-8 summit of america's black cultural think-tank to regroup us, sending
our concerns before the senate before the last political session ends for this dry season?

i mean, whats stopping chuck d, krs1, jill scott, erykah badu, cornell west and other
members of african american royalty from calling an emergency meeting to help us
right the ship?

someone needs to put a can of spray paint in the hands of james brown's ghost and let
him go to town tagging new vévés to our voices... SAYITLOUD fareal...

this is just the tip of the shit swirling around inside my head... this is the ish that
influences me the greatest for the things i attempt to create...

well, maybe all those things collectively are the second thing influencing me.

i'll always be a sucker for love.
ché guevara was on sumdopeshit when he said this and i agree:
"Let me say, at the risk of seeming ridiculous, that the true
revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love."

so, i love you crystal!
thank you for rescuing me from me.

what a fareal motivation freedom is when great romance liberates your body
to enjoy its own breath.

brothaché also said "Silence is argument carried out by other means."
which brothamalcom also spoke on when he said "if you are afraid to tell the truth,
you dont even deserve freedom."

art is not freedom...
art is just the way for us to achieve social liberation thru creative expression;
"freedom is free of the need for being free." - funkadelic.

i just want my art work to be up for the down stroke.

...

its a metaphor;
a complicated one...

black art might harm you, but it seldom slays without reason;
besides, black art is way too busy fighting black folks to be interested in anything else, so
if you read all of this and only received a mild migraine, then you proly in the clear...

stay up.