It’s time to wake the fuck up, people. I’m so fucking tired of writing about this subject and I’ve discussed it so many times I feel like I’m running around in a conversational hamster wheel praying for God to just make my heart explode and take the pain away. The argument is endless; somebody asks me about Barack Obama expecting me to be like, “Oh he’s so wonderful. I just wanna stare into his eyes all day and accept everything he tells me because he’s the first ever Black President and no matter what he says or does I’ll support it, even if it’s the complete opposite of anything that could possibly have a positive result.” Needless to say, my response to their question usually generates a less than favorable reaction and leads to the other person insinuating that I’m racist.
The initial struggle lies within meeting pen with paper, but the thoughts flooding my mind are too peculiar and precious not to do so. To see the invisibility of my thoughts manifest so concretely onto paper alleviates me of inward clutter in a therapeutic process unlike all else. Here I lay, underneath speaking walls and breathing souls, unsure of the time or existence that pose my present circumstances. In this lonely state of mind, my imagination sinks wildly into the depths of its most curious points. Swinging in between delirium and potent awareness, I find a humble fright the common ground, yet a mentality pulling me closer to neutrality. My mental plight now drifts into an accepting state of edged boredom.
As someone who writes about music, I feel like I have to keep up with everything that goes on within that realm. Sometimes it’s very taxing and often it is very frustrating, especially within the sphere that I have chosen to examine, which is usually the lesser-known, more independent brand of music. These days, there is just so much that it’s hard to keep up with.
“Pay to play”; there are no three words in the English language that can better define the death of truly independent music. It is this policy that single-handedly removes more struggling artists from the reach of success than any and all other factors stacked against them. And as this system of money in exchange for visibility has spread, the gates have slowly closed on those who could not afford to access the vital channels needed to establish themselves a possible fan base. Basically, if you’re broke you’re fucked.
Have you ever looked in the mirror and felt like a monster took over your life? You drift off into times where you felt smart, beautiful, and assured… and suddenly, you look at yourself in the mirror and you’re confronted with feelings of worthlessness. Well, those feelings seize my mind and flesh every now and again. I’ll be in front of the mirror and notice all the flaws. I’ll think of all the tests I’ve failed, all the projects that disappointed me, and all the negative things people said about me. For that moment in time, it’s all true. For some, I suppose, these reoccurring feelings of worthlessness result in depression and misery. For most of us, however, we drink some tea, listen to some Adele songs, and get over it the next day.
Growing up, nothing was off limits in my house when it comes up for conversation. We talked about everything; Racism, current events, school, drugs, and yes, sex. My mother wasted no time discussing the three-letter word with me. By the time I was nine, I knew things that might make Dr. Ruth blush. My mother didn’t cover my eyes when Lil’ Kim squatted and opened her legs to reveal her Twinkie sized pussy or cover my ears when I’d hear Prince croon about his lustful adventures with a sex fiend named Nikki. Instead, she used it as an opportunity to explain the sanctified smut that the world has to offer.
Atlanta based musician Jessie Davis approached me a couple months back about doing art work that represented a song on her new album Him and I Gemini. Jessie expressed to me that she wanted to have a piece of art that represented each song that she would release online and I thought this was a pretty cool concept so I was down to do the work. Originally it was suppose to be four artists doing four different pieces of work for the songs but the way everything worked out I ended up becoming the leading artist for the project which was really exciting. Here are four illustrations that go along with the 4 released singles from Jessie Davis’s second album Him and I Gemini.
There was a quote that haunted me since I heard it in high-school. It read, “If everything in life is going good, be assured something bad is around the corner” or something to that effect. It haunted me like a competent bill collector. It riddled all of my highs in life with the dread that just around the corner, there was a dark place to come. Something so scary just around the corner that I couldn’t even imagine or prepare for because life’s a bitch and she is not going to tell you if she decided to slash your tires or break your car window. Is it heart-break? Death? Rejection? Failure? Or a bundle package of all four and then some.
I’ve worked very hard to fit into structures and to avoid even entertaining the idea of fitting into others. Every social structure doesn’t mean something to me, but certain ones do. The ones truest and dearest to me are the ones that have to do with my mental stability. For the longest I never wanted to seem crazy. It sounds silly, but it’s true. The worst nightmare of mine is to be crazy. Literally, I’ve had night terrors around a Twilight Zone-esque reality where I was being diagnosed with some horrible mental disease that I didn’t even know I had and even worse is I’d feel quite normal.
It’s no secret to anyone that knows me that I’m not too impressed with bubbling artists. Throughout my day, I hear great noise and see greater visuals. Those don’t faze me. I’m a slave to the art form of the popular. I haven’t been impressed with the under- ground since it was made of velvet. See, to go pop is take your art and hard work and turn it into a platform that doesn’t just speak to the people that are easily marketed to with said product, but to speak and effect everyone despite upbringings, race, religion, gender and sexual orientation. You know the frivolous stuff. It’s what makes suburban privileged white kids show up at your favorite rapper’s concert, it’s what makes kids in Compton love heavy metal. It’s the art of being universal, not by the conform- ing but by encompassing whatever it is you represent.
There’s a peculiar thing that happens when you are different, you hardly ever declare it. It bestowed on you by others. Sometimes, it’s a heavenly reminder that might let you skip a grade for your smarts or a more hell-ish with a push, stare or comment. We live in a world where what comes naturally to you can get extraordinary amount of praise or disapproval, and you learn at a very tender age which category you fall under.
Love Letter to New York & Bad Boyfriends
Your average abusive boyfriends are always a bad thing, so I’ve been told. Famous abusive boyfriends have an even worse type of demented ego. Most people won’t have an experience with a romantic interest that’s hand prints are on your neck, heart, and picture hanging on Hard Rock Cafe, but I did. He had a greasy accent that stenches of urine and admiration, cut up denim, and interchanged lust for violence. I was in a full-time love affair with a fucking psycho.
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