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.

I remember one instance, he’d turned up Notorious B.I.G.’s Ready to Die CD until you could feel the bass vibrating your pancreas and wail on my face. I’d be bloody and heart-broken on Jamaica Ave, and he’d clean me up. He’d clean me up like he wasn’t the one to do it. He’d take me to the Upper East-side, buy me Marc Jacobs coats and a street hot-dog. He’d blast a Cyndi Lauper song in hopes I’d forget, and I usually did. The scars and bruises were there, but love was there too, the lights were there too and I wasn’t in my right mind. He’d never sleep, so I never slept. I never had time to rest to think about what my world was turning into because nothing ever slowed down.

He was a dirty motherfucker. Not Lower East-Side dirty, I’m talking leather and heavy metal at Joe’s Pub filthy. I was so enamored that I lost my sight and the rest of my senses too. He made me feel safe. He protected me like a rare Warhol in The Factory, it was clear that I was his, but I allowed it. I really believed he was the only thing I needed to survive. He was so sick that if his beatings didn’t work, he’d take me to Yonkers and show me how I could be living if I ever left or disobeyed him, if I ever knocked the hustle. He let it be known that he was the reason I was alive and relevant. In the same breath, he’d take me to Harlem and show me what we could be if I just relinquished all inhibitions and dived entirely into his world. We could have our own renaissance; we could be historical if I just let go of what I thought I was and adopted what he wanted me to be.

He’d isolate me from all friends and family, and only let me out to work and accompany parties with him. I wasn’t quite his trophy, I was his latest project. I thought Angie Martinez, Wendy Williams, and Funk Master Flex were my actual friends because those were the only people actually igniting conversation, even if it was just the radio.

I breathed and ate him. I was becoming sick too just like him. I was mean, cold, and in a hurry. Most abused partners end up dead or runaway. I’m unique because he kicked me out. The money ran out, the rent was too high, the hustle slowed down, and he kicked me to the curb with fake bags from Canal Street and a one-way ticket from LaGuardia back home.

I arrived back in my hometown and nobody was the wiser of this paradise in Hell I was living. The bruises were still there, but it’s funny how people tend to deny anything being wrong as long as you’re smiling. I got back in the groove of things, until I’d see others with strikingly similar scarred faces, bruises on the same body parts, and using phrases that he taught me. My stomach dropped and I realized I wasn’t the only one that bastard tossed around. He was cheating on me, giving love and punches away to anyone dumb enough to stay with his ass. Everyone he came across was a little bit darker and ruder afterwards, forever stained and damaged by the abuse he administered. He replaced these starving people’s hearts of gold with rotten apples.

Well, except a few. Some stayed with his stupid ass and tried to make it work, and for some it did. They went from abused projects to superstars. If you can it with that crazy asshole, you can make it anywhere and do anything. I can’t lie. I still love him. I wish we could’ve made it work. Before sleep, I imagine how it would be to be his sweetheart. Walking downtown, married to the night, and divorcing anything my past taught me. My sweet dreams are made of my name in the marquee and my boots pounding the concrete jungle. I would own him and pour whiskey on his lap because I triumphed. Despite the ass-whipping, heavy leather, gunshots, urine stains, rats, and seedy nightclubs with shifty characters; I still love New York.

Let’s make one thing clear: I am not, nor have I ever been, racist. First off, I’m North American Indian (as in Native or Aboriginal or whatever the new politically correct term is for it) and if you’ve ever been to Canada, you’d know that there is not one group of people who have suffered more from the pure evil that is racism than us. Secondly, I rap. So if I’m a racist then I am the most confused, ass backwards bigot in the history of the world. But wait, it’s because I’m an Indian and a rapper that I’m supposed to be on the Obama-wagon, right? I have to back a Black President based strictly on the fact that he’s supposed to be our guy. I mean, he listens to Hip Hop and plays basketball for fuck sakes! Come on man, how much Blacker does it get? Cuz, you know, all Black people like Hip Hop and basketball. Look at all the Black people on TV with their loud stereo systems, impeccable fashion sense and super cool demeanor. They always play basketball whenever they’re not in prison, living in the projects or banging Kim Kardashian.

Fuck you, you ignorant, unintelligent zombies addicted to celebrity gossip and sugar. Here are some facts: Barack Obama is Black. Barack Obama is President of the United States of America. Barack Obama promised a lot of things and like every other president before him, Barack Obama didn’t deliver. Yes, when he was elected things were bad. And not regular bad, they were “just ate 3 burritos at Taco Bell before a date with Rosa Acosta and can’t find a restroom anywhere” bad. Or as the Black people in movies and on TV would say, “Shit was mad fucked up, G”.

But as bad as things were, we all thought that he was the guy who was gonna pick up the pieces and put the world back together again. With all that charisma and confidence, how could he not be the one to make it all ok again? And the rest of the planet had to have seen what we did. How could they miss it? We voted for a Black guy! Everybody who hated The States (and Canada by default) had to be envious of how progressive and inventive we were. We were the hot, funny girls of geo-politics. Surely they’ve seen at least a few episodes of “Fresh Prince”. They get it.

Unfortunately it didn’t happen that way, mainly because we didn’t care enough to follow-up with “the homie” Barack after he was in office. Everybody pretty much just sat back while a bad situation got worse. Do I think that Barack Obama intended for it to happen that way? Yes. Was it because he’s Black? Fuck no. It’s because he represents long-running bank owned government that systematically sucks the poor dry and fuels their own private agendas. Barack Obama was just the face that locked us into a paradox; support their policies and suffer or speak out against them and get labeled a racist. Obama was never concerned about the people who propped him up, he was an agent for Goldman Sachs and it just so happens that he’s Black.

I personally don’t care who you vote for, just be aware of who they are and what their plan is. To vote for somebody based on nothing more than the color of their skin is the stupidest fucking thing you could ever do. Back in 2008, most of the people I spoke to had not the slightest idea what Barack Obama stood for, they were just eager to see a Black President. Well, you got him and look where we are now. And please don’t misconstrue that last sentence; what I’m saying is that Black, White, Red, Yellow or Brown we have to support leaders who represent our best interests. Anybody who attempts to pressure you into backing a candidate based solely on race is an idiot and shouldn’t be held responsible for bathing themselves, let alone electing a president.

Believe it or not, I hate politics but I make sure that I’m at least informed about the issues and how a possible leader of the free world perceives them before I cast a vote for that person, and I encourage you to do the same. Voting for somebody because they’re Black is the same as voting for somebody because they’re White; they’re both equally retarded. All I ask is that you take the next 11 months and study up on who you think is best suited to represent the North American continent (let’s face it, Canada is America’s little bitch and Mexico is it’s drug dealer) and if you conclude that Obama’s the guy for you, great. Let Obama-mania 2012 begin. Just make sure you base your decision on actual information, not race.

Ok, I’m done. I’m gonna let the guys in the videos below finish this article for me.

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.

Despite all that, which may seem as incredibly pointless as it is, a repeating consciousness still arises the same points. Applicable or not, my words are further exuded unto whomever still reads with patience…

Point 1. The need for a purpose, a purpose to which the soul feeds and the human is challenged; a purpose to which, without, the soul feels absent and only the human is left; a purpose which unlocks countless entryways when the appropriate time presents itself so that the soul and the purpose together live mutually in an evolving state of enlightenment.

Point 2. The youthful state of mind, the youthful state of mind which is universally idolized when in its prime state of blissful oblivion. The youthful state of mind lives in a state of unconscious consciousness within an omnipresent source of light; it lives without superfluous wants and never questions existence, form, or space in time. Therefore, the soul is pure yet impressionable to the world that plays the unburdened teacher.

(THINGS TO MARINATE…)

Point 3.  The all-encompassing presence of realms, which the human is unable to perceive without concrete proof and 

Point 4. The existence of tangible “things”, living, breathing “things” that are, for the most part, subject and passive to abstract forces.

Point 5. Why does fear strengthen the barriers in between, making us all feel strangers to one another? Why is there fear anyways?

Point 6. LOVE; Why is it so difficult for people to grasp its real concept? 

Why do people refuse to act in love, selflessly, and wonder why loneliness seems to be the only present friend? When did love become a possession and forgotten in its state of being? When did love become such a skewed “item” that its only means of existing was from outwards instead of within? And when did love become something temporarily shared between only two people until all the initial “love” had soured, as if it had an expiration date?

Point 7. When was the power of mental state forgotten and when did the human race agree to become that of domesticated robots only able to see through a narrowed vision and disregard all else?

And lastly…How to quiet a vocal mind who seeks coexisting internal peace and progression. And Sleep.

[RELEVANT BECAUSE: Art in its most authentic form poses a purpose. Underneath the payers of paint and cresting atop the crisp canvas lies a product of couture thought. When being created and when finished, the piece challenges, questions, STATES- by some means of medium- relevant or irrelevant in terms of underlying message- all the same. In the process, the human is separated from the being, differentiating the internal and external realms, and when completed, brings them back into unification.]

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.

Gone are the days that discovering new indie acts consisted of going down to the record store to see if any new artists had dropped anything off, or heading out to an underground music club, usually a hole-in-the-wall in an undesirable neighborhood, to see if there was anything worthwhile happening that night. Within this new digital realm, there is a constant influx of new independent music all the time, especially now that artists are shedding the harsh restrictions brought on by big record companies, allowing themselves to self-release their albums via the Internet. In addition to these new distribution tactics, there has been a tsunami of young DIY-ers out there, with no previous exposure, pumping out their latest creations into the digital airwaves as well. New media allows for new art, thus we should embrace these new artists and techniques. But even in this time of musical revolution, there seems to be a hint of nostalgia twinkling amongst it, trying to keep up with the pressured deluge of new technology, as we try to hold on to some aesthetic aspects of the past.

Nostalgia seems to play a large part in music. Memory is a powerful thing, and can be a powerful aspect of musical emotion. Our memory is basically encoded into our brains, in some ways that are not completely understandable. Daniel Levitin once wrote: “Memories are encoded in groups of neurons that, when set to proper values and configured in a particular way, will cause a memory to be retrieved and replayed in the theater of our minds. The barrier to being able to recall everything we might want to is not that it wasn’t ‘stored’ in memory, then; rather, the problem is finding the right cue to access the memory and properly configure our neural circuits.”

In this way it is clear to see that music can be encoded in these memories, bringing out certain memories we may have forgotten by just hearing one song or even one phrase.  This happens with all senses, including smell and taste, but sound, and namely music seems to be one of the most powerful “cues” in retrieving memories and invoking the powerful emotion of nostalgia. Beyond music accessing our individual memories, however, is a more communal sense of nostalgia, in which we as a collective human entity are yearning for the past—our youth—where simplicity reigned. Especially in times of such technological eruption, we spend so much time trying to keep up with what’s new that what we grew up knowing and loving seems fleeting at times. Sometimes we may not even notice that it is happening but it’s happening all the time.

So we try to latch on. Photographers have done it with the resurgence of Polaroids and Instamatics within the Impossible Project. It’s done in fashion everyday with nods to classical styles being tied in to modern concepts of glamour. In music, it is almost a synthesis of those two ideas, as music is being re-inventing stylistically and aesthetically, using refreshed ideas from the past to both move forward and also hold on to our roots.

Aesthetically, we find that many of the young music lovers of our time have been turned onto the virtually ancient medium of vinyl. Vinyl not only allows for sound quality that is far superior to CDs or mp3s, but it also adds a tangible value to a music collection. Now that all our music collections are contained on our hard drives, or our iPods/mp3 players, and now they can even be stored online in some “cloud.” Vinyl gives us something to feel, to see, to touch, to hold in our hands. The album art is usually magnificently displayed throughout the entire package, and sometimes even on the disc itself. It’s a tactile memory that connects us with the actual art itself, and connects us to our past.

In the same effect, it has brought us back to the age of the single. Music singles were virtually eliminated in the age of the Compact Disc, and the B-sides were lost in a sea of archives, unless a pricey Japanese import, or something along those lines, was purchased with the original B-sides included on it. More recently, amongst the veritable ocean of EPs floating around, artists have begun releasing limited edition 12” vinyl records, usually for some sort of special collaboration, or even to just have something special that is only available on a physical medium. Either way, it is a welcome intrusion into this technological mayhem by something from days gone by.

Stylistically, modern music has drawn much influence from older techniques within the past few years. Many artists have embraced older recording methods and styles in their newer endeavors. A lot of people are utilizing lo-fi methods of recording and production to add a certain old-world, nostalgic tinge to their pieces, while some other artists are using older, sometimes almost out-dated genres as powerful influences for their music. There has been a recent explosion in disco-influenced tunes, especially with acts like French electronic duo Justice, whose two albums blend disco flawlessly with modern house music and arena rock. New genres, like chillwave (made popular by acts like Toro y Moi, Washed Out, and Neon Indian), combine newer styles with the aesthetics of the synth-pop and new wave movements that were very prevalent in the 1980s, the result being a hazy, sometimes sultry fusion that glides silkily along, peppered with heavily reverberated vocals and detached, echoey drumbeats. As independent music caters to an audience that can be, at times, extremely critical (i.e., Pitchfork), these new strides in creativity are crucial to the survival of independent music.

Sometimes time feels like it’s moving too fast. I’m only in my mid-twenties, and already I feel so old. I see the things that I had as a child fading away so fast, so yeah, I try to hang on to them as long as I can. Even if there is just a hint of something that brings back fond memories I want to hold on to it. Music is fascinating in such a way that I can find these old glimpses in new ways. I feel, like many things, music has cyclical tendencies. I’m not saying that it keeps repeating itself, but there are definite elements that I keep finding that are recycled and reproduced, and that’s fascinating to me. I also think its important to hold on to the tactile things. The Internet is great and vast and has endless possibilities, yes, but at the same time, it’s completely intangible—we can’t touch it with our hands, we can’t smell the shrink-wrap of a new CD or vinyl through Amazon.com or iTunes. Because, truthfully, one day it could all just be gone, and then we would have nothing. Technology is wonderful, but let’s not race to get ahead of ourselves. There are still many things that have come before it that garner the same, if not more, excitement and appreciation.
At least, to me there are.

“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.

As Nathan brought to all of your attention a few days ago, paying for posts is indeed a common practice amongst the blog community. Much like radio and the “payola” system that preceded it, not many artists or bloggers are willing to talk about it but we all know it’s there. It’s one of Hip Hop’s dirty little secrets and a lot of the people involved will do everything within their power to keep it that way. Not all of the blogs partake in it, I can proudly say that neither DJBooth nor Refined Hype have ever asked me for a single dollar in return for their support, but I can tell you from personal experience that a lot of the music you download on a daily basis wasn’t posted because the people behind the site you’re visiting genuinely like the songs, but because the post was bought and paid for. And since Nathan has been brave enough to pull the rug out from underneath a few of these individuals, I figured I’d throw my hat into the ring today and provide an alternate perspective on the subject from the viewpoint of the artist.

When I first popped up on the Internet radar four years ago, I was brand new to the online world. At the time I was in total awe of the power that the blogs had in terms of generating momentum for up and coming artists. In the years prior, I had thought that there was really only one definitive path to finding success in the music industry; sign to a major label, make a hit single and sell albums. I struggled with this route because I knew that I didn’t fit within the mainstream Hip Hop ideals and that I would have to change my creative direction if I was going to turn my passion into a career. But then I discovered the blogs and it was nothing short of catching a digital “holy ghost.” I spent days searching through blogs and collecting email addresses (ask Nathan, my contact list is insanely extensive) and there was no blog or website that I wouldn’t work with; be it a reputable site that boasted advertisers like Nike and Coca-Cola or a WordPress page that was obviously put together by an 8th grader. If they posted Hip Hop music, they would be receiving emails from me. It took some time, but once I learned how to properly present myself, my music was being posted by some of my favorite spots (Refined Hype being one of them) and I had begun to build relationships with bloggers that I still maintain to this day. Not long after that, I was approached by somebody who called himself an “online promoter.”

The email was straight to the point; he loved my music, wanted to work with me and could guarantee me exposure on some highly respected blogs that I had spent the past year unsuccessfully trying to get my music posted on. Needless to say I was ecstatic; this was the answer to my prayers. For a small fee (or so I was told) he would push me through a door that was repeatedly slammed in my face time and time again. So I responded back and told him I was very interested and within an hour he sent me a list of the blogs he worked for along with a rate sheet and a list of links to posts that he was directly responsible for.

The list of blogs was a complete rundown of so called “tastemakers.” Virtually everyone on his list was considered a major player in the world of online music (DJBooth and Refined Hype were not included as well as some others). His rates went from $300 for a single post to $5000 to push an album/mixtape with guaranteed coverage across the board of all music and promotional materials. Initially I thought that it was fair, in return for the fee he would make sure my music had a lasting presence and I would finally generate the type of success I was looking for. It wasn’t until the next day when news spread about KevinNottingham.com accepting payment for posts that I learned how much of an issue payola really is.

I would like to first say this; to the best of my knowledge neither Kevin himself nor anybody on the editorial staff over there have ever taken money in return for promotional positioning on their blog. Both myself and long-time friend e.d.g.e. have both received heavy support from them and never once did we pay them for anything. Here’s what really happened; unbeknownst to everybody else at the site somebody who was writing for them was asking for a fee to write album reviews which would be featured in their “Reviews” column. I know this because I paid it and honestly I had no idea I had done anything wrong. However, I did think it was somewhat odd that I was paying for a review on a blog that was co-signing my project, but I just thought that was how the game was played. It wasn’t until HipHopIsRead.com’s founder, and long time supporter Ivan Rott (who I also have never paid to post any of my music) chastised me for it publicly that I came to understand the unspoken rules of engagement amongst bloggers, rule number one; do not charge for posts.

I applaud Kevin for how he handled the situation; he gave the writer his walking papers and posted all of the links that had been paid for- including my album review. Even though I’m sure it compromised the validity of KN’s presentation of my project, I understood. I learned a valuable lesson that day and I never made that mistake again.

I wish I had kept that list of blogs the “online promoter” had sent me so I could post it for the world to see. I can assure you that he was telling the truth when he guaranteed posts on those sites since I know artists that have used his service and they all got exactly what they paid for. What I want all of you out there to know is that a lot of the bloggers who claim that they don’t accept payola are telling the truth; to a degree. Sure, most of them don’t come right out and ask for money, they’re too cowardly for that. Instead they hide behind fucking weasels like that “online promoter” and let him do the dirty work. They don’t have the balls to admit that they’re fucking frauds and they give as much of a shit about the music as they do some random homeless guy outside of a liquor store begging for change. They create the illusion of being the messengers and presenting only the best in Hip Hop music and culture but in reality they have only their personal interests in mind. They take advantage of starving artists and then neatly tuck them away underneath the dingy shower mat of cyberspace. No money or co-sign from an artist who’s dick they cling to like a relentless case of crabs? No fucking luck. Beat it, dreamers.

The reason why it makes me so angry is because these cocksuckers have destroyed the last safe haven for independent artists; they are now mainstream radio version 2.0. Not only do you have to pay them to post your music but you also have to put up with their holier than thou attitudes and illusions of grandeur so outlandish that it makes the average rapper look like a timid 3 year old girl. The worst part of it all though is that the people are made to believe that these idiots are the ones with their ears to the streets and if they don’t post it, it’s wack. But the truth is there’s a whole world of significantly great artists out there, they just either have too much integrity or not enough funding to make it happen.

Regardless, you’ll probably only ever find them on Refined Hype, DJBooth or a handful of others. Also known as the college radio of this rap shit.

See Also: Exposing Your Favorite Site’s “Pay For Post” F**kery (Pt. 2)

You wake up in the superficiality and routine that you’re used to, and you legitimately feel better. That’s all until, one day for whatever reason that feeling creeps back. I referred to that feeling as ‘the pits’. I recently started referring to that feeling as ‘the middle’. I found that after I was done in the middle, I was a bit stronger and was harder to raddle. I was more difficult to raddle like a Japanese built building, but I was still capable of raddling and I still am. It’s just that much more difficult.

I use to think that that I was the only person who has ever felt this way, but I found out that was hardly the truth. All of my friends have felt less than and have wondered what exactly makes them worth being counted in this judgmental thing we call life. Males, females, heterosexual, homosexual, and everything in between; they’ve all admitted to days that all of their God-given gifts felt like coal and all their beauty looked like gray ashes.

I guess it shouldn’t be too much of surprise when we think about how obsessed with perfection and beauty we are. I find it hard to believe that our ancient ancestors had these same spells that plague humanity now. Sure, I could blame media and how they exploit a certain beauty and leave us all to try our best to live up to that standard. But I think it’s deeper than that.

We feel this pressure to neglect everything that is us to be a magazine’s version of ‘us’. So, maybe it is just as deep as the media. Which means the answer to no more ‘middle’ days is just as deep as me and you.

I, personally, think this beauty and revolution should start with artists. Besides, Beyoncé is our Mona Lisa and our covergirls and hunks are Picasso’s mangled faces. Artists have the amazing capability to make anything and anyone beautiful and perfect, but the concrete fact of it all is that it’s not really an artists’ magic that is making anything and everything beautiful and perfect. Everything is beautiful and perfect because it is, the artist is reiterating a fact that a culture chooses to ignore. I refuse to think The Beatles’ “Girl” was a portrait of some blonde bombshell with a well-endowed bust size. I do, however, think it is a tune dedicated to feminine perfection and beauty.

A type of perfection and beauty that we all possess, but have yet to unlock in a way where we never have to worry about being in that self-esteem purgatory or ‘the middle’, again. What’s the answer to unlocking limitless self-love, despite your mind and media telling you that it’s not yet deserved? I have no earthly clue, but I do think it has plenty to do with destroying more Photoshopped pictures and hanging up more Picassos.

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.

Words like dick, pussy, penis, vagina, balls, testicles, menstrual, sperm, cum, cock, and porn weren’t no-no words. They were simply openers for a bigger conversation about sex. A conversation that didn’t just last an awkward few minutes, but was a comfortable conversation that has lasted my whole life. Of course, some things you simply don’t want to discuss with your mother, but the embarrassment surrounded around being a sexual being is vanished which leaves a more open dialogue about everything even beyond sex.

Yet, I’m sure most American households weren’t (and aren’t) like mine. Most things are taboo and sex is the biggest taboo. One of my close friends has recently been exploring sex. She has been keeping safe, but still learning as she goes. When having discussion about sex, my graphic and matter-of-fact approach had her a bit shell-shocked. I’d ask certain questions and she could hardly look me in my eyes, but we’re best friends, right? Why would talking about such a natural exploration with someone who you share everything else with promote so much bashfulness? It was a bit bewildering to think that some people have all of these natural feelings, questions, and comparisons they’d like to make to know if they’re normal, but are too ashamed to let it happen. That’s a problem. So, I keened into my inner-Carrie Bradshaw, we went out for a late night meal at one of my favorite restaurants, and discussed all of the nasty, little things that go on between the sheets. Vanity and her 6 would be proud.

A few days later, I caught up with an old friend from high-school. A few things changed. He came out the closet, moved, gained a boyfriend, and the HIV virus. The news was devastating, but as we spoke about it, the more I realized that the actions were his responsibility, but the knowledge was beyond him because no one informed him. Sex was not discussed in his house, gay sex was even more off-limits, and that led to him at the ripe and horny age of 17 to explore exactly what his body was so obviously curious about. With his exploration and his misguided beliefs on HIV, he contracted it. That’s an even bigger problem than the one my bashful pal was dealing with.

The vacant space where knowledge should be able to penetrate and explode freely is sometimes replaced with ignorance. People are blindfolded (and not in the good way) by the shame and discomfort that talking about sexuality can bring, but the discussion can save our mental and physical health that can be birthed from this ignorance. It’s the ignorance that runs the risk of being translated into STDs, low self-esteem, and strange encounters with leather and horses. Let’s talk about sex, not for the sake of being kinky, but for the sake of shining the flesh-light on a natural human interaction if avoided and kept taboo can lead to a lethal ménage à trois with shame and health risks.

Little Traces by Jessie Davis

Click here to get more info on Ms. Davis and her music.

Attempting to sustain perfection can be almost as daunting as actually going through the bullshit, so I’ve learned. The anxiety of what’s next can put a devastating damper on any happiness one would desire to sustain. My main question after this revelation is how do you avoid the unhappy and embrace the happy? Is that even possible? Must we go blindly with the current state of happy until misery knocks or watch happiness fleet while we prepare for the next big catastrophic move the world makes? Are these our choices? To be naïve or to be jaded, not much of a choice.
My dilemma is mainly how am I supposed to keep this sunny disposition that “The Secret” tells me I need to attract more positivity if I know that life is a cycle of good things for bullshit just to follow. Or maybe, just maybe, life isn’t good things with bad things to follow. Perhaps, life is good things with more good things to follow, even the fucked up shit.

Ponder the idea of the fucked up stuff that happens to us really being that silver lining that we all seek and desire? Besides, if the truth is all about perception; how come we can’t make the most tragic things into the most beautiful? If we can cry at a wedding, how come we can’t smile at a funeral if we just tell ourselves that it’s okay to do so and have our perception change that it is in fact the demons in our lives that are the blessings? Just more blunt and arresting with their approach.

I remember as a child seeing dandelions. Dandelions were so mystical and cool to me, they were my favorite flower. I could hold them, spin into a small circle and all of the pedals would blow into the air, letting me create my own snowstorm despite the season. Dandelions, like stars, boys, and bright colors fascinated me. That was until I found out that dandelions were actually not a flower, but a weed, a life sucking weed. I soon too found out that stars died, boys broke hearts, and bright colors faded. That negative antidote shifted my vision from how I originally saw dandelions as something ever-changing and magic to something evil, but should it have? Sure, dandelions can be seen as negative, but for a not-so-brief time I saw them as beautiful and positive; and for that time, they were because I said so. Even more crucial to the conversation, I ‘believed’ so, so it was so.

If I were to apply that same psychology to my current dilemmas, what would my happiness look like? It probably would look less like something to be protected and ceased upon and more like a resting time for the really, really good stuff. The real happiness is the stuff that infests your guts and keeps you awake at night. It’s so good that you can’t sleep and can’t eat. What if the wars, the cancer, the tears, the heartbreak, the disappointment were in actuality the beautiful things life has to offer? Besides, would Leonardo Da Vinci’s The Last Supper painting be as breath-taking if we all didn’t know Jesus was to be crucified the next day? Probably not and our lives wouldn’t be as beautiful if it weren’t for our dark challenges, leaving room for our golden triumphs.

It’s about time we all look at our lives more like a piece of art. The crude and disastrous moments are what makes the colors up for interpretation, the symbols hidden in the acrylic are layered in meaning, and what makes the body of work timeless. Happy might be pleasant, but it’s boring and stagnant. Misery does love company, but maybe it’s because that’s where the stuff dreams and innovation are made out of. Life is all good, even the fucked up shit is made out of golden dandelions.

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.

I think the fear is valid. See, insanity is not tangible. It’s not really controllable, there’s a pill to suppress it and some surgeries to make you unaware of it, but that crazy demon are still there; that instability in your mind can’t be denied and worse off you don’t know what’s what. Are you right to panic about this or are you crazy? Is this a concern or an obsession? Is this heartbreak or depression? Are you excited or ADHD? Sometimes, some days, if I’m feeling especially ‘zany’, I’ll sit and convince myself why I’m not crazy. Why there is no need for therapists or anti-depressants. I guess, talking to yourself about how not crazy you are is probably counter-intuitive to the claim, but it works and helps me at the least feel more sane. It’s my sick brand of self-medication and it works.

Well, it works famously until you lose the argument. The ongoing debate with yourself about your sanity should be especially fixed to your advantage. Since, you are merely arguing with yourself, you can slant the votes to your side so that you always win. Unless, that little voice in your head drills you so hard with question that you can’t answer that it takes your breath away and all your left with are questions that don’t have the option ‘none of the above’. These are questions so intrusive and disturbing that you won’t get a wink of sleep or a smidge of peace in your mind, until you come up with an pillow-y, soft comforting excuse why it’s not crazy.

Does this happen to anyone else? Sure, everyone ‘says’ they’re okay with being crazy (some even blast a Gnarls Barkley or two about the idea), but when really confronted with the idea that your brain is not your own and that what you use to love, hate, reason, learn and create has a glitch; who really wants to know that they’re not all the way there? In my research, I found two prominent types of denials of ‘maybe’-insanity (yes, ‘maybe’ insanity. Coined by moi; it means that ‘crazy’ is not secured, but not totally excluded as an option of the reason behind your fucked up-ness).

The first genre is the projector. He or she recognizes the chance of being seen as less than stable and projects it on someone who is perhaps more visibly crazy, especially in a social setting. Phrases commonly used by the projectors are: “I’m not crazy! That dude cheated on Halle Berry. Now, THAT’s crazy!” or “I’m not crazy. That bitch is wearing a meat dress. Now, THAT’s crazy!” The projector makes it his or her mission to reflect (and project, of course) all crazy tendencies they might have on to someone else. It’s a slippery slope because those feelings are always going to be harvested inside and once the moon’s on high and your eyes are on low, the projector will be forced to deal with his or her own ‘maybe-insanity’. That’s the scary, scary place where drugs, alcohol, promiscuity, gossip, and procrastination take place.

The second species of ‘maybe’-insanity is the soaker. The soaker is very interesting, but just as detrimental. The soaker gets lost inside of (almost fascinated) with the newfound instability. It uses it as a reason to be emotionally unavailable, rude, visually eccentric, and even promiscuous. The biggest difference between the soaker and the projectors is the soaker takes all of the quirks and scary-ness of ‘maybe-insanity’ and internalizes it. Once internalized it either comes out as over-bearing self-expression or polarizing excuses for bad social behavior. The soaker can commonly be caught saying things like, “Man, I’m crazy. That’s why I’m single. I just have no heart, I’m cold-blooded. Who would want me? I’m a fucking mad man! So, let’s just fuck instead” (so, maybe I had an experience or two) or “Nobody understands me. I’m too weird and nobody can get into my heart.” (Okay, okay! You got me. I’m quoting, narcissistic ex-boyfriends! It’s still valid information, folks!) Of course, to the soaker these are valid issues that drive him or her up the wall. To the rest of us, this is mere bullshit excuses that help avoid self-examination and the ultimate bettering of oneself!

Luckily, for you, me, and all the ‘maybe crazies’ in between there is help! I propose (remember this is just a proposition) that there is no one way the brain should or shouldn’t work. There’s no normal or special. There’s no genius or retarded. There’s simply just yours and mine. The great challenge of life, at least mentally, is for us despite your crazy and my crazy is to be able to bridge and mend that insane gap into a unified half-way house of sorts. Where between your premeditated murder and my believing I can fly off a roof-top when on that very potent xtc pill, we can live in a space that we’re not judged for how normal our medulla oblongata is, but how we use it to cope and create together in this mad, mad world. Crazy? Maybe. Powerful? Definitely.

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.

I must pay respect where respect is due. Ignorance is the new pop and it’s as welcomed as Lady Gaga at gay pride. Ignorance is short of lesbian antics, blasphemous innuendos, or a hit record, yet it seems to be the most infectious thing on the streets, as of late. Actually, popular is an insult to what Ignorance is becoming. Ignorance is a phenomenon. A vintage ideal that has recycled back into fashion as not just something apparent and real, but cel- ebrated. Oh, ignorance! The old adage said that you were once bliss, but now you are a celebration.

Me being the cool-hunter that I am, I was onto Ignorance’s emergence back when Osama Bin Laden was killed. Not everyone was on the bandwagon; some people confronted the news with theories, feelings, and thoughts. Some even did research and actually formed a well- thought out opinions on the event. But Ignorance was on its promotional tour. Shockingly, some people had nothing to say. Not out of surprise or maybe wanting to be politi- cally correct, but because they thought it was cool to not care. That’s right, Ignorance is a slick bitch! She has people not caring about the assassination of the biggest terror- ist, this side of Timothy McVeigh. Ignorance was making some brilliant moves.

Like I said, I never get too shaken by popular under- ground acts. I just knew Ignorance was a fad, maybe cre- ated out of shock or fear. I just knew Ignorance was going be a victim of the sophomore slump, until Casey Anthony got off for murdering (allegedly) her child. Ignorance was back with more tricks and to my surprise, more fans! Similar to Osama’s assassination, there were your expected reactions, but Ignorance was steadily climbing the charts. There were gloats about not knowing about the trial or ac- quittal and not only was that a condition, but a celebrated one at that.

Well, Myles, aren’t you exaggerating? Social problems and political issues just aren’t for everyone! Aha, I knew you might think that. Those problems and issues are for everyone, and to celebrate the condition of not knowing is very dangerous. The idea of it being cool to not thirst for information or be concerned about the world around us is the exact world that the powers that be have asked for. See, with talent comes attention with attention comes influ- ence with influence comes power and with power comes responsibility (I knew ‘Spider Man’ would have taught me something, one of these days). As creative people, as influencers, and especially as artists, knowledge should always be required in your swagger and ignorance should never be chic.

If we abandon our responsibility of awareness as cre- ative minds, we’re no longer artists. We’re tools and doers, the ideas of being such aren’t the most frightening thing. The idea of what we’re tools for is what should make your skin crawl. We become tools for the exact monsters that creative minds and thinkers tried so desperately to expose and separate from, now we are promoting the monster like hipster kids and a Fadia Kader created party. Igno- rance takes center-stage and we’re lighting its every move like the superstar it’s growing to be. Let’s keep ignorance underground.

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.

I love unicorns. I’ve always loved unicorns. I don’t attribute it to anything, but me growing up in my Harlem apartment, seeing nothing majestic or worth fantasizing about. Unicorns were the personification of what magic, perfection, and dreams could be. That’s a lot for a young kid to wrap his brain around, I do admit. I came up with that assessment in retrospect, but there’s one thing I did know as a child; I did love unicorns. Me not being a very shy kid, I was proud of everything I loved and admired. One day I shared my love of those magical stallions with my peers during art class and I was combated with words like faggot, sissy, bitch, weird-o, and freak. I couldn’t wrap my head around why my love for a imaginary creature would be combated with such hurtful language. Granted, I didn’t know what half the words meant, but the tone was enough to induce tears. Not full-fledge tears, those tears that you try your best to hold in. The tears that live on the edge of your eye-lids, never becoming free to run down your cheek, but made to dry up and parish.

Years later, I found out what a faggot was and I was indeed one. In more politically correct terms, I was a gay boy. Never too flamboyant, but definitely not too masculine. My teenage years weren’t a “Glee” episode, I never got teased to the point of despair, but anytime I got too comfortable, I would be reminded that I was different (even when I was closeted). We all know what being different can mean in high-school, especially in terms of awkward sexuality. I had the worst luck of having the scarlet ‘G’ (or ‘F’) written on my chest. I know that pain and confusion.

There has been a intense case of coverage of bullying by the media, you know this. There has been a heavy coverage of suicides by the media, you know this. Plenty of these suicides (if not all) are amongst gay youth, you know this. What happened? Starlets across rainbow-Hollywood united to sing the tune, “It gets better!”. And poof! All the misery of gay youth in America disappeared and I got my unicorn! Well, erm, not quite. The suicides stopped getting covered, the media stopped caring because Lindsay Lohan got arrested, and gay youth are still in a huge crisis of self-genocide. These tragic queers are wallowing with Hurricane Katrina and Haiti victims in the Land of Unwanted Worries.

I know that pain and confusion, but I did survive it pretty successfully. I don’t have the answer for survival because I don’t know how I even survived such alienation, ridicule, and confusion. I don’t want to lie to anyone. Sometimes, it doesn’t getter better. Sometimes, well a lot of times, it gets worse. It gets scarier, you become more alone, and maybe your mother can’t pay the cable bill so you can’t see all of those beautiful celebrities telling you to keep trucking. Indeed, I don’t know anything, but one thing; I still love unicorns. Perhaps, it was my grip on a fantasy that kept me from squeezing the trigger or swallowing a colorful assortment of pills. Maybe, just maybe, we should give the troubled youth something to hold onto, instead of a lie that we all know is possibly a damn lie. Whatever the answer is, we can expect the news and media to promote it full-heartedly, unless they decide Charlie Sheen is more important again.