Just a lil something to get our sea legs back...
M
Showing posts with label weed. Show all posts
Showing posts with label weed. Show all posts
Jan 9, 2012
May 11, 2011
One Love Karma ...
There's war going on outside no man's safe/I too youngin' was cut down in the prime of my imagination & violently mentored to succumb to practicality/publicly transferred from the Nebuchadnezzar to Captain the Ezekiel over the event horizon/yep that's us/flying the miracle wheel smoked out at the wheel high in the middle of the sky/we watched them posse up to cut down strength & gouge out eyes like she was Delilah to my Samson/all because a clear look into my Soul'll get you aroused like seven bare naked ladies/I remember vividly how them snakes hissed at me but they were too blind to see I was 45,000 miles away from home/just a Hip Hop buddah monk coloring blues in the hood/sonin’ them young G's like my name was JC Williams/maybe a muthafucka might be safer walking the block shaped like a 'S'/can't rock a vest but could easily be this month's star bullet collector/minus the spotlight in ya vestibule don't grab your wallet or your testicles/fuck who you are when we snatch your manhood & dignity/whether it be PIG or your friendly neighbor hood-ass enemy/because everyday it's 96 degrees in the shade stuck to the wall naming shit like I'm Adam/thank God I still got the pen but ya'll don't hear me though/self-inflicted images of preg Jenny's, seeds in back seats on star trek runs & 40 yard dashes from Jake & the Fat Man/all before I hid out on Pastor Fast Talk for More Bucks Caddy/pulpit or the corner them niggaz men-tal's the same/never forget though corner boys pump project heat/traded my post as ignorant light post ornament for the mirage of my very own puppet regime/now every sentence is a penance asking the Father to forgive both sins/I live it write it down then watch it blow up/you know who I am/you read about my life every night/M
May 4, 2011
Allow Me to Reintroduce Myself …
While hazy greenery infiltrates my bloodstream/I see/plastic heart minions birthed from unchecked passions of an Ancient Harlot making moves in the name of the blood stained banner of Jesus/young broads with bodies built to lust for/C cup titties, honey-dipped thick, brown & round/graffiti covered vaginal tragedies long before the age of 21/yeh, I know, I be puffing a lot/as I live & breathe we’ve gone from/ez rock & base to pumping easy rocks from base giving birth to a new type of nigga/spitting banana clips like a jungle hungry gorilla/the lust for paper will lead to/no hesitation in the disrespectful & brutal pursuit of respectability/please put down the pen & slowly back away/because without warning or delay you’ll be blown to spastic from the kick back attached to the ass whipping of my verbal spit tactics/perpetually with my board in the shop/chopped from the frequent-high-flyer- mileage/like a decept I can transform from/cere-bral to bru-tal/producing 2 twin jet packs, sumari inspired helicopter choppaz & a rubber griped 9/supreme writer I'm a bitter of myself none other/when I twist a hot verse I'm biggin’ up my culture/biggin’ up my music birthed flow conduit/you ass salty, hatin' cuz my spit is foolish/so them rings and things you sing about bring em out/it's hard to yell when tha bar-rels in your mouth/Biggie!
Apr 28, 2011
In The Ghetto ...
I thought the ghetto was the worst that could happen to me
I'm glad I listened when my father was rapping to me …
Eric B. & Rakim-In the Ghetto
As a kid my Dad was like a super hero to me. In each story he was the underdog in the fight of his life against the world and the hand life dealt him. As I got older he appeared worn from the battles and bent low by the immovable force of my mother’s remarks. “When are you going to stop this foolishness, Toney? The Lord has been calling but you continually choose to stay in the shadows. Only sneaky people stay in the shadows, Tony and I know you think you’re hiding but whatever is done in darkness will come to light. I’ve been in my prayer closet, the Lord has showed me things and all will be revealed.”
He was never holy enough for my Mother, he sought too many carnal passions and she never had time for that type of foolishness. Away from her, on his beloved long trips with Miles, Coltrane and Nat King Cole in the deck he was a different man. “Your Grandma Ruby was a domestic. She cleaned houses for white people downtown. It was good work for women back then, back breaking but steady work. She was able to bring us good food too. She’d wake us up, feed us lima beans and sausage or sometimes beans and rice. But she had to take the A train, you know the 8th Avenue line by herself all those years. I’d stay awake by the window every night until she got home. My Dad was a Pullman porter for the Pennsylvania railroad, so he was gone a lot my Mom said he spent most of his time and money in the parlor car. He was a frustrated man, you know angry a lot. I couldn’t understand it then. I just thought he didn’t like me. He was hard on me, yelled and hit me a lot. I tried to stay away when he was home, but the place was but so big. Being a Porter was hard but prestigious work for a man in our neighborhood to have. Everyone knew my Dad went a lot of places but he didn’t bring much back except funny stories and cool nicknames that made me want to be like the guys he worked with. He mostly came back with complaints about the white people he served. The shoes shined, beds made, pants pressed, toilets cleaned, and every time he had to say, ‘Thank ya kindly, Sir’. My father hated white people and that made him a bitter man to be around except for when he was drunk. When my father was drunk, he was the nicest guy in the room. He died when I was ten and I got locked up for the first time when I was thirteen. It’s funny how quickly life can switch up on you”
*Editor’s note: There isn’t a full version video of the “In the Ghetto” available so I had to chose another classic.
I'm glad I listened when my father was rapping to me …
Eric B. & Rakim-In the Ghetto
As a kid my Dad was like a super hero to me. In each story he was the underdog in the fight of his life against the world and the hand life dealt him. As I got older he appeared worn from the battles and bent low by the immovable force of my mother’s remarks. “When are you going to stop this foolishness, Toney? The Lord has been calling but you continually choose to stay in the shadows. Only sneaky people stay in the shadows, Tony and I know you think you’re hiding but whatever is done in darkness will come to light. I’ve been in my prayer closet, the Lord has showed me things and all will be revealed.”
He was never holy enough for my Mother, he sought too many carnal passions and she never had time for that type of foolishness. Away from her, on his beloved long trips with Miles, Coltrane and Nat King Cole in the deck he was a different man. “Your Grandma Ruby was a domestic. She cleaned houses for white people downtown. It was good work for women back then, back breaking but steady work. She was able to bring us good food too. She’d wake us up, feed us lima beans and sausage or sometimes beans and rice. But she had to take the A train, you know the 8th Avenue line by herself all those years. I’d stay awake by the window every night until she got home. My Dad was a Pullman porter for the Pennsylvania railroad, so he was gone a lot my Mom said he spent most of his time and money in the parlor car. He was a frustrated man, you know angry a lot. I couldn’t understand it then. I just thought he didn’t like me. He was hard on me, yelled and hit me a lot. I tried to stay away when he was home, but the place was but so big. Being a Porter was hard but prestigious work for a man in our neighborhood to have. Everyone knew my Dad went a lot of places but he didn’t bring much back except funny stories and cool nicknames that made me want to be like the guys he worked with. He mostly came back with complaints about the white people he served. The shoes shined, beds made, pants pressed, toilets cleaned, and every time he had to say, ‘Thank ya kindly, Sir’. My father hated white people and that made him a bitter man to be around except for when he was drunk. When my father was drunk, he was the nicest guy in the room. He died when I was ten and I got locked up for the first time when I was thirteen. It’s funny how quickly life can switch up on you”
*Editor’s note: There isn’t a full version video of the “In the Ghetto” available so I had to chose another classic.
Apr 18, 2011
If it Wasn't for The Bronx ...
Under the ever watchful eyes of new murals of Christopher Rios I've seen my peoples use EBT cards for mint balls on they way to the Methadone program/while Garcia y Vega remains my personal Melrose corner store devotion/sometimes it's like walking past the Vivero when 2nd floor neighbor stays having the hallway smelling like ham hocks, lima beans & Monkey ass/which keeps the mood sometimes shitty like the sidewalks on Stratford/the wrong look might get you stuck like a wanted poster on Soundview & Morrison/they say I'm a classic like Mill Brook & Mitchell rooftops or tenement hallways on 135th & St. Ann's/got a spit game championship caliber 161st & River Ave/Ok/but why is Kurtis Blow's walk a fame block like a semi dead end/Rock Steady & Dr. Ruth on the same block/Hmmm/they stay fucking Hip Hop/get it/I'm reminded how hood my hood is every time I'm startled by a white resident/Boro certified like the Bx 41, 15, 21, 4 & the 5 trains/graffiti covered landscapes inspire my youngest to catch upski's all over our crib's wall/you'd think I lived on Beat Street/Hip Hop DNA like Cedar Park & Sedgwick Ave/deep memory like the old Mcombs ball courts where pops blew buddah bless in my stroller's face/you can still catch me in the hood like Calino & Barnes living 3 blocks from my father's sister & not knowing till the funeral/spitting back to back 4's like it's a Red Sox's wrap around series/tune in/catch me at the Armory in Piper's Pit with the championship belt across my left shoulder talking maaaad shit ...
Apr 12, 2011
CT, NJ, Harlem, Q-Boro, LES, BX ...
Figured out I went the wrong route but now I'm back/alive on arrival/which simply means my pen game is hella mean/every time I spit a round I drop a pound leaving my metaphysical frame hella lean/that kind of shit makes me a Lion in the hood/with enough Grace to extend Love to the Lambs of the hood/converting raw materials into verbal gems/dumping ammunition like Popeye chewing bullets after a can of spinach/a peak into my imagination is like a Soul Asylum/Pop's shot dope, Mom's carried scriptures in a flask/thank God I got off at the Gateway/hood holocaust survivor/too many years & countin'/but me no slack a minute till this dark path of flat pockets is finished/ain't shit to me I bear my soul on page/in gladiator mode soon to release snap shots of the story on stage/could give a thousand explanations but truth be told I simply stayed way too long/in the title trace the trajectory of all the places I've lived/easy to see I was born to be free/my life is a mosaic of East Coast hardships dipped in luxury/not yet attained super stardom & real nigga quotes/story of my life in 22 bars/God Damn I'm dope ...
Apr 4, 2011
Pain ...
Smokin’ weed helped me take away the pain, So I’m hopeless, Rollin’ down the freeway swevin’, Don’t worry I’m about to crash up on the curb, Cause my vision is blurry, maybe if they tried to understand me …
2Pac
“Toney, please! Enough already, I heard you.” Her eyes rolled to the rhythm of my father’s voice, “You know, Jean, it really bothers me that I can never finish making my point. What, do you know everything? No one can tell you anything? I’m just trying to be on the same page …” With a wave of her hand, “And I said I heard you”, she turned her full attention towards me, “Hello, Donte, don’t mind your father. He’s in one of his moods.” “And your mother is impossible!” I couldn’t let them trap me back in their War of the Roses tractor beam “Dad said you guys wanna talk to me about something?” He took the cue, pulled a chair close to the bed and cut to the chase, “Yeah son, we think it’s better if you leave town for a while. Your brother and sister are still at home, the people you were in with might come looking for you and we can’t risk you bringing that type of danger into our home.” I hadn’t lived at my parent’s house in a minute so his start was mad fishy. “So we feel that you could use this time wisely if you were inside a structured environment. Redemptive Living would be a good place.” The beads of sweat started from the bridge of my nose again, “You wanna send me to the farm? I ain’t feeling being sent away, especially over there to that place. Plus I got it covered I already talked with Mom-Mom, I’m moving out to Camden.” My father’s face was as calm as I’d ever seen it and he spoke in an assured tone he rarely got to use with my mother around. “Look Donte, you don’t have as many options as you think”, it was a minor miracle she was still quiet. “We spoke with your Grandparents and they agree that under the circumstances you would better benefit from getting cleaned up first and then we think school is the best option for you but only after you graduate the program.”
My mother could hold her tongue no longer, “And the Lord has already showed you to me, Donte speaking His words of truth. Your father refuses to heed the calling so the Lord’s gonna pass over him and hand the mantle to you, baby. All you gotta do is grab it.” He knew she had killed his momentum, “Jean, is all of that really necessary?” My father’s face lost all the peace of the previous moment and they were at it again. I had almost forgot what it was like to be around them. They argued constantly and put each other down like two little kids out to prove the other is stupid. The block wasn’t even close to an option anymore, my parents had cock blocked the Camden move and it was obvious they not only disliked each other but their relationship was worse than ever. Redemptive Living didn’t feel like such a bad move, “How long am I gone for?” My dad stopped mid-argument, “It’s a twelve month process. If you’re serious I could take you up when you get out of here.” Twelve months seemed way too long to be trapped in Bible rehab and I wanted to angle for more time to think this all the way through. Like maybe things weren’t so bad that I needed to go out like this. My father sensed my hesitation. “You never know what a new start like this might bring your way. You’ve pretty much made a mess of things over here, and I don’t see many friends checking up on you. You might not get another chance. You probably don’t survive the next episode. The decision is yours but you really only have one choice.”
2Pac
“Toney, please! Enough already, I heard you.” Her eyes rolled to the rhythm of my father’s voice, “You know, Jean, it really bothers me that I can never finish making my point. What, do you know everything? No one can tell you anything? I’m just trying to be on the same page …” With a wave of her hand, “And I said I heard you”, she turned her full attention towards me, “Hello, Donte, don’t mind your father. He’s in one of his moods.” “And your mother is impossible!” I couldn’t let them trap me back in their War of the Roses tractor beam “Dad said you guys wanna talk to me about something?” He took the cue, pulled a chair close to the bed and cut to the chase, “Yeah son, we think it’s better if you leave town for a while. Your brother and sister are still at home, the people you were in with might come looking for you and we can’t risk you bringing that type of danger into our home.” I hadn’t lived at my parent’s house in a minute so his start was mad fishy. “So we feel that you could use this time wisely if you were inside a structured environment. Redemptive Living would be a good place.” The beads of sweat started from the bridge of my nose again, “You wanna send me to the farm? I ain’t feeling being sent away, especially over there to that place. Plus I got it covered I already talked with Mom-Mom, I’m moving out to Camden.” My father’s face was as calm as I’d ever seen it and he spoke in an assured tone he rarely got to use with my mother around. “Look Donte, you don’t have as many options as you think”, it was a minor miracle she was still quiet. “We spoke with your Grandparents and they agree that under the circumstances you would better benefit from getting cleaned up first and then we think school is the best option for you but only after you graduate the program.”
My mother could hold her tongue no longer, “And the Lord has already showed you to me, Donte speaking His words of truth. Your father refuses to heed the calling so the Lord’s gonna pass over him and hand the mantle to you, baby. All you gotta do is grab it.” He knew she had killed his momentum, “Jean, is all of that really necessary?” My father’s face lost all the peace of the previous moment and they were at it again. I had almost forgot what it was like to be around them. They argued constantly and put each other down like two little kids out to prove the other is stupid. The block wasn’t even close to an option anymore, my parents had cock blocked the Camden move and it was obvious they not only disliked each other but their relationship was worse than ever. Redemptive Living didn’t feel like such a bad move, “How long am I gone for?” My dad stopped mid-argument, “It’s a twelve month process. If you’re serious I could take you up when you get out of here.” Twelve months seemed way too long to be trapped in Bible rehab and I wanted to angle for more time to think this all the way through. Like maybe things weren’t so bad that I needed to go out like this. My father sensed my hesitation. “You never know what a new start like this might bring your way. You’ve pretty much made a mess of things over here, and I don’t see many friends checking up on you. You might not get another chance. You probably don’t survive the next episode. The decision is yours but you really only have one choice.”
Mar 25, 2011
Ballad of a Broke Nigga ...
What's good cold world/it's your main nigga M/live from my hood to whichever hood you in/didn't plan to be a Vet but it must of been on the list/how do you explain pushing 40 still on the wrong side of the tracks with lean pockets & regular greens/caged up and ain't none of 'em fam/just hollow souls who'll stick your shit to the glass like Stevie Franchise/scheming tacatos kicking knowledge to wild ass seeds on the bus/plus them Cuban Linx niggaz quoting Nas, Mobb Deep & Wu/this is the life I chose or maybe it's just the life that chose me/phantom-like, black listed & part time black hearted/a brand new nigga or faded memory if you ask what's left of my peers/but shots follow the targets so I'll never have to chase ya'll/not sure what people know about out there but truth of the matter is shit's fucked up here/still plotting with mouse trap blueprints on how to snatch the cheese/wasted years due to fear stuck in a dead end career/didn't wanna make a scene but I had to get free/overlord in my kingdom of poverty belly of the beast living less than two blocks from Jake/Dragon red eyes that cry blood so let's celebrate and smoke an eighth of that potent shit/cuz we could trade places gettin' lifted in the staircases'/summer of '95 that was my favorite shit/inspect ya darts like I'm the New Wu dart inspector/God forbid I relapse to help them pulpit niggaz go and peddle they crack/deep inside my Soul swims the spirit of Leviathan/extended Grace to many who simply reciprocated with hate, ambivalence & fear/while I'm commissioned to check the condition of my battered, broken & suddenly bipolar heart/when the fridge & cupboards echo my demons of murder form a choir of screaming echo's singing fuck them, fuck that/trying to figure out why every extension of embrace is met again with silent echo's/still I write like the next word might change my life …
Mar 22, 2011
Walk wit me, don't run ...
From streets where kids play under hanging wire like it ain't there & throw dirty foam blocks at each other for fun/where future hood enforcers roll stacked deep/packed like rats back to back under a barrage of maternal annihilation & systematic paternal invisibility/a breading ground for fraternal homicide/a sorority of pussy & suicide
on the installment plan/like muthafuckaz is supposed to go from stroller to cell block/like the local delivery guy telling me Jigga's a sell out cuz he ain't put a gang of green in the hand of every weak non MC whack bar tossing nigga from the hood/like Hip Hop is the new Lotto-Welfare/lil cousin I'm tryin' to learn ya somethin'/take you down into the post locked on to the blocks wit it/ don't ever let ya' self get caught outta position on these streets/you know niggaz love chicken wings/Bob Backlund/for the convenience of cost your man'll bicycle the well cooked beef/seeds planted to produce the broccoli/ohhhh Rev ain't right they whole church ain't right/ya'll know we all saw what we said we saw when we told ya'll we saw it/but these fat cats is too gassed up on the GodFather & mini Jesus comparisons to cop to it/damn shame/niggaz bleed just like us/putting 'em on a pedestal denying intuition when you listen/BX NY nigga it is what it is/Chef told me niggaz die faster than a pastor fucks/they cake game tight on every corner you could even swing the EBT card like a spiritual bodega/don't mind me/certified OG CT born cursin’ & crusin' in a catatonic state/mind still fractured from code speak & double talk/high on a Hill like Cypress cuz Stoned is the Way of the Walked ...
on the installment plan/like muthafuckaz is supposed to go from stroller to cell block/like the local delivery guy telling me Jigga's a sell out cuz he ain't put a gang of green in the hand of every weak non MC whack bar tossing nigga from the hood/like Hip Hop is the new Lotto-Welfare/lil cousin I'm tryin' to learn ya somethin'/take you down into the post locked on to the blocks wit it/ don't ever let ya' self get caught outta position on these streets/you know niggaz love chicken wings/Bob Backlund/for the convenience of cost your man'll bicycle the well cooked beef/seeds planted to produce the broccoli/ohhhh Rev ain't right they whole church ain't right/ya'll know we all saw what we said we saw when we told ya'll we saw it/but these fat cats is too gassed up on the GodFather & mini Jesus comparisons to cop to it/damn shame/niggaz bleed just like us/putting 'em on a pedestal denying intuition when you listen/BX NY nigga it is what it is/Chef told me niggaz die faster than a pastor fucks/they cake game tight on every corner you could even swing the EBT card like a spiritual bodega/don't mind me/certified OG CT born cursin’ & crusin' in a catatonic state/mind still fractured from code speak & double talk/high on a Hill like Cypress cuz Stoned is the Way of the Walked ...
Mar 9, 2011
The Greatest Rapper of all time died on March 9th ...
Enough said. RIP The Notorious BIG. We miss you, my nigga ...
Mar 8, 2011
Poinsettias on the Pulpit ...
The fact that every tabloid said she smoked crack never mattered when her voice boomed Holiday praise to the infant King for Sunday tithes & offerings.
No! She can't sing in the play about His birth, she had sex. And besides if we let her, other kids will have sex and then want to sing too. Don't you see, we have Poinsettias on the Pulpit.
No! She can't sing in the play about His birth, she had sex. And besides if we let her, other kids will have sex and then want to sing too. Don't you see, we have Poinsettias on the Pulpit.
Feb 17, 2011
Hooked Like Hope ...
Cuz everyone of ya'll know no matter how smart, fine or on the grind
about his master plan and shit/don't none of ya'll want a broke ass nigga who's on the grind & ain't got shit/so I broke it down then called a favor to see if the hook up would still cook up/bagged it up too close to distrust/fell deep into concentration and inhaled the
earth's creation to clutch the figures my ego still lust-ed/stamped it for slaughter and pitched on the fiend filled block/a conjurer of word pat-ter-rens/could easily find some words to assign for rhythm & tone/but then you'd never see this as more than just a poem/it's the pain, fear & rejection ten deep in my dome, it's the procrastination
practice that kept my black ass far away from the throne/I figure why carry it wit me when I can spit it & shine/from the classic green North Face like a 5 year bid to/the best advice from a short life like BIG's/living life without fear, putting 4 krts in my Baby Girl's ear/Tell me your version and I'll work to believe but DAMAGED GOODS is
stamped prominently across my packaging/won't always be locked behind this self-imposed door/chambers are dark & ugly psychological affects on the terminal poor so we'll see what type of monster this cheddar breed for sure/acid dipped razor sharp words like hate saw the fork in the road went back & smoked a L /cuz I sling bars that get ya hooked like Hope/insensitivity at inception left me on the bench way past crunch time shooting prayers for an extra frame/just wanted to make 'em clap for this like Jesus, keep it real like Big Baby & prove to the Stained Glass Gestopo they could never ever stop me/constant evolution & perpetual motion all while perpetually blunted
about his master plan and shit/don't none of ya'll want a broke ass nigga who's on the grind & ain't got shit/so I broke it down then called a favor to see if the hook up would still cook up/bagged it up too close to distrust/fell deep into concentration and inhaled the
earth's creation to clutch the figures my ego still lust-ed/stamped it for slaughter and pitched on the fiend filled block/a conjurer of word pat-ter-rens/could easily find some words to assign for rhythm & tone/but then you'd never see this as more than just a poem/it's the pain, fear & rejection ten deep in my dome, it's the procrastination
practice that kept my black ass far away from the throne/I figure why carry it wit me when I can spit it & shine/from the classic green North Face like a 5 year bid to/the best advice from a short life like BIG's/living life without fear, putting 4 krts in my Baby Girl's ear/Tell me your version and I'll work to believe but DAMAGED GOODS is
stamped prominently across my packaging/won't always be locked behind this self-imposed door/chambers are dark & ugly psychological affects on the terminal poor so we'll see what type of monster this cheddar breed for sure/acid dipped razor sharp words like hate saw the fork in the road went back & smoked a L /cuz I sling bars that get ya hooked like Hope/insensitivity at inception left me on the bench way past crunch time shooting prayers for an extra frame/just wanted to make 'em clap for this like Jesus, keep it real like Big Baby & prove to the Stained Glass Gestopo they could never ever stop me/constant evolution & perpetual motion all while perpetually blunted
Feb 2, 2011
I'm a Bubblehead, I Never Listened to Nothing My Mother Said ...
I passed out again on the way to the hospital and woke up in triage, “Come on, son, they’re ready for you. Take your time getting up.” The pain made me self-conscious of how I looked, “Name?” But it was the nurse’s pretty face and dreamy hazel eyes that made feel like a super-herb, “Mr. Baxter, I see you left the incident portion blank.” I looked like Martin in that Tommy Hearns episode, “Yeah, Ma you can call me D. I was attacked, but I’m not sure what happened, it all went so fast. Whatever went on I probably had it coming it’s a bit complicated, ya know.” Her head snapped up from the clipboard with a no your busted ass just didn’t look tattooed on her face, “No, I don’t know, Mr. Baxter, please do not refer to me as ‘Ma’ and whatever you choose to divulge is your business.” My father’s eyebrow shot up but my attention was still locked in on the nurse, “Donte, if you’re not going to say anything or file a report, I understand, but make sure it’s for the right reasons. Revenge will not fix anything and though you may decide to disappear, the rest of the family still lives here.” Revenge had never entered my mind. Who was I going to get enlist to fight this invisible war? “Nah, Dad, I know. I’m done. Really, I am.” My father nodded with a slight smile, “Ok, son. Miss, our family doctor should be here shortly. Appleby is the name, Dr. Appleby.” When the police came by for a statement they were clearly bothered by my lack of recall abilities. I think the taller cop wanted to spit on me as he left the room, “Son, I have some things to take care of back at the office. I’ll need to reschedule my donor meeting but I’ll be back to check on you. You think you’ll be alright? Do we need to make some other arrangements with the police? Maybe a guard?” My face felt like it would fall off if I laughed but that was funny, “Nah, Dad. I’m small time, that’s movie shit, stuff but thanks for the concern though. I’m not important enough to run up in a hospital for and don’t wet it as soon as I’m up, I’m outta here …” He stopped for effect, “Yeah, Donte. I want to talk about when I get back. Your mother and I have some conditions. Rest up though and we’ll discuss when we get back.” I didn’t want to make a fuss. I fully understood since they saved my life there would now be conditions attached to any future assistance. “Ok, Dad. I’ll be here.”
He exchanged smiles with the new nurse as she walked in. She was a gem, my face was the size of home plate and I still wanted to kick game. Pathetic. “Mr. Baxter, we’re going to need to get you up and out of that bed. It says here you need a second set of x-rays, so we’ll get you in this wheel chair and be off.” Fine and awesome customer service, “No problem” I figured she’d mistake my quite approach for maturity and see how far that got me. Visions filled sheets of mental paper and it seemed a perfect story for the Chronicles. And in a panic I realized I didn’t have my journal. That shit was at the lab and that couldn’t be good. Ebony was the only person who actually knew about, The Divine Sinner Chronicles. I started to write seriously in ninth grade after Mr. Carol compared my style to the Catcher in the Rye. That had to be one of the things they looked for because they didn’t take much of anything else, “Umm, is there any way I could make a phone call before we leave?” Her smile was like cinnamon toast, “Sure, Sweetie, we won’t be ready for another five or so minutes. I’ll come back when your doctor arrives.” It made sense that James was after the book. I sure he read it before he dropped off the map. Inspired by Tupac’s Soulja’s Story I stared to write about everything that happened since I moved to Boutin. My mind went into panic while I dialed Ebony’s crib, it rang forever, “Hello?” I knew she was scared, “Eb.” Until she heard my voice, “DONTE! What the fuck, nigga! Where are you? What the fuck happened to your place, yo? The cops have been in here and everything, yo, it’s serious.” “I know, Eb, that’s why I’m calling. Listen, I need a huge favor. I know it’s hot but I need something outta my place. I need my book, you know the marble one I’m always writing in?” “Donte that shit has been in my place for like a week now …” “What?” “Yeah, remember we got fucked up? We smoked like twelve blunts that night. No wonder you don’t remember.” “Ebony, I love you! Oh, my fucking god, you saved my life, yo. You don’t even know.” “Whatever nigga. I do know, and stop staying you love me unless you mean it. Where are you?” “I’m in the hospital. They fucked me up lovely, whatever my place looks like, I look ten times worse.” “Damn, yo, it’s like that? Should I be worried?” “Well, not really because they haven’t figured out if they need to be worried about anything. I mean it’s just my journal, you know, I’m just writing stories and shit. But that’s some snitch shit to them. I’m saying it’s not like niggaz be keeping journals and shit.” She paused for a while to process everything, “What floor are you on?”
He exchanged smiles with the new nurse as she walked in. She was a gem, my face was the size of home plate and I still wanted to kick game. Pathetic. “Mr. Baxter, we’re going to need to get you up and out of that bed. It says here you need a second set of x-rays, so we’ll get you in this wheel chair and be off.” Fine and awesome customer service, “No problem” I figured she’d mistake my quite approach for maturity and see how far that got me. Visions filled sheets of mental paper and it seemed a perfect story for the Chronicles. And in a panic I realized I didn’t have my journal. That shit was at the lab and that couldn’t be good. Ebony was the only person who actually knew about, The Divine Sinner Chronicles. I started to write seriously in ninth grade after Mr. Carol compared my style to the Catcher in the Rye. That had to be one of the things they looked for because they didn’t take much of anything else, “Umm, is there any way I could make a phone call before we leave?” Her smile was like cinnamon toast, “Sure, Sweetie, we won’t be ready for another five or so minutes. I’ll come back when your doctor arrives.” It made sense that James was after the book. I sure he read it before he dropped off the map. Inspired by Tupac’s Soulja’s Story I stared to write about everything that happened since I moved to Boutin. My mind went into panic while I dialed Ebony’s crib, it rang forever, “Hello?” I knew she was scared, “Eb.” Until she heard my voice, “DONTE! What the fuck, nigga! Where are you? What the fuck happened to your place, yo? The cops have been in here and everything, yo, it’s serious.” “I know, Eb, that’s why I’m calling. Listen, I need a huge favor. I know it’s hot but I need something outta my place. I need my book, you know the marble one I’m always writing in?” “Donte that shit has been in my place for like a week now …” “What?” “Yeah, remember we got fucked up? We smoked like twelve blunts that night. No wonder you don’t remember.” “Ebony, I love you! Oh, my fucking god, you saved my life, yo. You don’t even know.” “Whatever nigga. I do know, and stop staying you love me unless you mean it. Where are you?” “I’m in the hospital. They fucked me up lovely, whatever my place looks like, I look ten times worse.” “Damn, yo, it’s like that? Should I be worried?” “Well, not really because they haven’t figured out if they need to be worried about anything. I mean it’s just my journal, you know, I’m just writing stories and shit. But that’s some snitch shit to them. I’m saying it’s not like niggaz be keeping journals and shit.” She paused for a while to process everything, “What floor are you on?”
Dec 15, 2010
KNOW THE LEDGE
“Standing on shaky ground to close to the edge,
Let’s see if I know the ledge …”
Eric B. & Rakim
Hungry and still jittery my mind was on a shower, a fat ass blunt to the face to calm my nerves and some sleep, “Fuck the block, fuck the money, and fuck all them niggaz! Man, God what did I get myself into? I fucked shit up this time.” The first L only heightened my paranoia so I rolled up again in search of a more comfortable comatose. Smoker’s candles threw the perfect dim and furniture shadows danced as the cherry moved like an orange beacon through my heavily slanted eyes. After another deep, long exhale sent cumulous clouds towards the ceiling I listened for God’s response. “It’s not like I expect an audible voice and Shekinah glory mist from the heavens, just some help, to figure my way … “ the phone rang and almost sent me into cardiac arrest, “oh shit, Jesus, you on the mainline?” I answered with a nervous excitement “Hello” her voice was warm like fresh Pumpkin bread, “Donte,” with a smile that washed me with thoughts of safety and acceptance. “Mom-Mom?” I pointed towards the sky to show my approval in His method of answer, I consider my Grandmother one of The Kingdom’s best emissaries. “I should sound so surprised, Donte you’re a hard fellow to catch up with. You’ve been in my heart and on my mind for a few weeks now,” that I was on her prayer specific radar confirmed the amount of work my guardian angels had put in to protect me. “Yeah? Well, thanks, Mom-Mom I’ll never turn away prayer,” I wanted to tell her everything, all the trouble and how lost I was in one breath. “You sound tired, Donte. I know you’re a young man now and I don’t want to pry but maybe you should come spend sometime with your Grandfather and I. We’d love to have you.” My Grandfather’s voice called out in the background before she covered the phone, “hold on, say again, Jeremiah? Your Grandfather said he’d meet you at the bus station. Maybe it’d be good to take some time, clear your head and we’d love to talk with you about what we can do to get you back in school...” The line clicked for the door buzzer and my instincts said ignore it, “You know what, Mom-Mom I’m not even gonna front, you’re like an answer to prayer right now. I do need to figure some stuff out, get a change of scenery, ya know what I mean,” the buzzer clicked the line again “but I’ll call you right back because someone keeps buzzing my door, better yet I’ll call tomorrow so we can really talk and figure some dates.” Her tone became heavy with concern, she wanted to say be careful, to make better decisions, use wisdom. “Ok, I hoped we could talk a bit longer, I just got you on the phone and your grandfather is waiting to speak with you …”, wisdom begged for attention.
I am Lady Wisdom, and I live next to Sanity,
Knowledge and Discretion live just down the street.
Let’s see if I know the ledge …”
Eric B. & Rakim
Hungry and still jittery my mind was on a shower, a fat ass blunt to the face to calm my nerves and some sleep, “Fuck the block, fuck the money, and fuck all them niggaz! Man, God what did I get myself into? I fucked shit up this time.” The first L only heightened my paranoia so I rolled up again in search of a more comfortable comatose. Smoker’s candles threw the perfect dim and furniture shadows danced as the cherry moved like an orange beacon through my heavily slanted eyes. After another deep, long exhale sent cumulous clouds towards the ceiling I listened for God’s response. “It’s not like I expect an audible voice and Shekinah glory mist from the heavens, just some help, to figure my way … “ the phone rang and almost sent me into cardiac arrest, “oh shit, Jesus, you on the mainline?” I answered with a nervous excitement “Hello” her voice was warm like fresh Pumpkin bread, “Donte,” with a smile that washed me with thoughts of safety and acceptance. “Mom-Mom?” I pointed towards the sky to show my approval in His method of answer, I consider my Grandmother one of The Kingdom’s best emissaries. “I should sound so surprised, Donte you’re a hard fellow to catch up with. You’ve been in my heart and on my mind for a few weeks now,” that I was on her prayer specific radar confirmed the amount of work my guardian angels had put in to protect me. “Yeah? Well, thanks, Mom-Mom I’ll never turn away prayer,” I wanted to tell her everything, all the trouble and how lost I was in one breath. “You sound tired, Donte. I know you’re a young man now and I don’t want to pry but maybe you should come spend sometime with your Grandfather and I. We’d love to have you.” My Grandfather’s voice called out in the background before she covered the phone, “hold on, say again, Jeremiah? Your Grandfather said he’d meet you at the bus station. Maybe it’d be good to take some time, clear your head and we’d love to talk with you about what we can do to get you back in school...” The line clicked for the door buzzer and my instincts said ignore it, “You know what, Mom-Mom I’m not even gonna front, you’re like an answer to prayer right now. I do need to figure some stuff out, get a change of scenery, ya know what I mean,” the buzzer clicked the line again “but I’ll call you right back because someone keeps buzzing my door, better yet I’ll call tomorrow so we can really talk and figure some dates.” Her tone became heavy with concern, she wanted to say be careful, to make better decisions, use wisdom. “Ok, I hoped we could talk a bit longer, I just got you on the phone and your grandfather is waiting to speak with you …”, wisdom begged for attention.
I am Lady Wisdom, and I live next to Sanity,
Knowledge and Discretion live just down the street.
Nov 16, 2010
Just A Lil Bit More ...
When I turned to tell the kid he should go somewhere safe he’d already vanished like a guardian visitation. I couldn’t stay there much longer because someone might come out and become an eyewitness. I tucked the gun in my pocket, threw my terror filled body back outside, ran through backyards until I figured my way to the railroad tracks and hoped instincts would lead me to South Norwalk train station. They hit Bones four times. Twice in the ass, once in the back and once in the testicle not a good situation but sometimes karma strikes back as quick as a bitch. Bones told the cops some guys tried to stick him for his jewels, that I was an eyewitness to his attempted random victimization and where they could find me. His cooperative nature left me just enough time to stash the gun and change my clothes. The beast nonchalantly stomped their way up the porch with super bright flashlights and confirmed the decision to go home as a bad one. They asked so many questions. I didn’t know what to say and wasn’t too sure what really happened. I honestly had no idea where those guys came from or why they rolled us.
I’d only been inside the Norwalk Police Station once before with my after-school program. The interrogation room was much brighter than I imagined it would be. On TV they’re always darker and greener. The cops knew from jump I was in way over my head. They each spoke in a smooth and assured tone about how it would’ve been shameful for my father to lose his oldest son on some back street after all the good he’d done in the community. When they were done the taller of the two placed his hand on my shoulder, reminded me again to do the right thing and slid a pad in front of me for my written version of the night’s events. But I was way too scared to write anything and simply repeated I had no idea what happened nor did I know any of the people involved and basically was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A huge rookie mistake, which left me open to gross exaggeration when they questioned Bones again. For the rest of my traumatized night they showed me pictures of places I’d been, people I had hung out with and smugly reminded me whomever threw shots might try again. It felt like they questioned me for six hours before they politely drove me back to my block in the front seat and placed a down payment on my casket.
I’d only been inside the Norwalk Police Station once before with my after-school program. The interrogation room was much brighter than I imagined it would be. On TV they’re always darker and greener. The cops knew from jump I was in way over my head. They each spoke in a smooth and assured tone about how it would’ve been shameful for my father to lose his oldest son on some back street after all the good he’d done in the community. When they were done the taller of the two placed his hand on my shoulder, reminded me again to do the right thing and slid a pad in front of me for my written version of the night’s events. But I was way too scared to write anything and simply repeated I had no idea what happened nor did I know any of the people involved and basically was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A huge rookie mistake, which left me open to gross exaggeration when they questioned Bones again. For the rest of my traumatized night they showed me pictures of places I’d been, people I had hung out with and smugly reminded me whomever threw shots might try again. It felt like they questioned me for six hours before they politely drove me back to my block in the front seat and placed a down payment on my casket.
Nov 9, 2010
Just A Lil Bit ...
I should have closed up shop right there because last time I saw him all this zigzag drama started. We already smoked a few godfather blunts that night when Bones pulled out some sniff. James and I created this Stand By Me type pack not to experiment with a new drug without each other (sounds corny, I know). But when James untucked his gun and did lines with the rest of them like I missed the department memo I thought I shitted on myself. I was so sincerely terrified that none of what I sniffed provided the Superman sensations I prayed for. That’s the same night Bones threw a gun in some winos mouth just to see if he would piss himself. “What the fuck your corny ass talking about, nigga? Been here all day, yo”, I didn’t bother to watch him as he walked up the steps with his usual forty of Crazy Horse. “Whatever nigga, I need you to come with me somewhere.” I took a few quick puffs from the L, grabbed a hoodie and followed him to the car without a question. When I saw Casper at the wheel I nearly vomited. Bones’ face turned dark and I swore smoke floated around his head like Mysterio before little devil horns popped out, “We going to see Earl, that bitch nigga still owe me some money. Take this shit. It’s all set you just have to take it off safety.” It was a chrome .25 caliber, a small little shit. It’s not like I never held a gun before, I fucked around and bucked off on rooftops and shit like anyone else. But this situation was a bit more than some reckless rooftop shit he wanted me to shoot Earl. Earl’s family lived on the other side of Marlin Drive. Every summer we both went to Carver for camp and had an epic still unresolved foursquare dual back in seventh grade. When Earl showed up on the block, like Fredo I rolled with because I wanted show him a good time but Earl had debts and enemies, “You know I grew up with Earl right? What the fuck, Bones his parents are friends with mine … ”, his head whipped around so fast I thought it was on a swivel. The dark brown vessels, which covered the white in his eyes blended with his dark brown pupils and made the backseat feel like total darkness. “Because I don’t believe you, D. I don’t know why you out here, but we”, he made eye contact with Casper and they nodded in agreement, “making sure you ain’t leaving. Now you shoot this nigga or this 12 gauge and me are gonna light your fucking ass up. Best believe that, my nigga.” He was on some evil shit. Fear and frustration told my imagination I could shoot them both dead but the gun felt wet and heavy in my sweaty palm puddles. They had me out of state lost every time we turned another corner. I wanted to stay quiet enough to disappear but the caked on smell of nicotine and weed choked out a cough when I wiped my sweaty nose. Casper crept his brown hooptie slowly beside a huge, mangled yard bush next to the driveway and cut the headlights. The dingy one-story house had shadowy outlines that moved like animation on the front window shade, I sighed a short prayer and started out the car. Divine providence answered in the form of five niggaz with murderous intentions packed deep in a metallic blue, four-door Chrysler. “Get the fuck outta car!!” They jumped out like the A Team with guns pointed sideways “Get on the ground. Face down!!” I recognized the faces but struggled to decide if they were friend or foe when the situation, “All of you” went from danger with few options to death flavored danger. My self-preservation forces were down because I entertained his order for a flash.
“POP, POP-POP, POP, POP, POP”.
It didn’t sound anything like in the movies or on TV. That shit sounded like death. I noticed Bones started to run when they started to shoot. Bullets hit the ground and skidded the fuck wherever car alarms bleared and back windows exploded like we needed stunt doubles. I heard a flesh-thud, hot zip sound when the bullets hit Bones before he fell, “Fuck! Goddammit!! That fucking shit burns Aahhhh fuck nigga!” Sirens blared in surround sound like they staked out the backyard and I couldn’t think or feel. My body moved so fast it levitated off the ground to help me outrun a sinner appointment with Hell. A road sign gave off a reflective flash and broke my trance, which helped me think clearly. I slowed enough to hop a lawn fence in one motion, it seemed like a dream when some kid opened the door and motioned for me to come in and hide. Everything felt cinematic so without a thought I ran inside, crouched by the doorway and professionally fumbled for the gun. My hands shook so bad I almost shot myself, “Why the fuck did I get in that car!” Everything played in my head. How these two duded showed up one after the other. How nights like this had become more the norm than exception. Things had become way too hectic. My nerves were shit. A car backfire, a balloon pop or anything close to the sound of gunfire had my ass leaky.
“POP, POP-POP, POP, POP, POP”.
It didn’t sound anything like in the movies or on TV. That shit sounded like death. I noticed Bones started to run when they started to shoot. Bullets hit the ground and skidded the fuck wherever car alarms bleared and back windows exploded like we needed stunt doubles. I heard a flesh-thud, hot zip sound when the bullets hit Bones before he fell, “Fuck! Goddammit!! That fucking shit burns Aahhhh fuck nigga!” Sirens blared in surround sound like they staked out the backyard and I couldn’t think or feel. My body moved so fast it levitated off the ground to help me outrun a sinner appointment with Hell. A road sign gave off a reflective flash and broke my trance, which helped me think clearly. I slowed enough to hop a lawn fence in one motion, it seemed like a dream when some kid opened the door and motioned for me to come in and hide. Everything felt cinematic so without a thought I ran inside, crouched by the doorway and professionally fumbled for the gun. My hands shook so bad I almost shot myself, “Why the fuck did I get in that car!” Everything played in my head. How these two duded showed up one after the other. How nights like this had become more the norm than exception. Things had become way too hectic. My nerves were shit. A car backfire, a balloon pop or anything close to the sound of gunfire had my ass leaky.
Sep 24, 2010
On & On ...
When I turned eight we still lived in Queens with Bishop Masterson’s family and my mother planned to celebrate my birthday with an elaborate surprise party. She worked hard to make their separation seem seamless but we saw the cracks in our Dad’s countenance when we jumped back in the blue Buick and went home to sleep in our old rooms. She spun through the kitchen, not her favorite room like the Tasmanian devil in an effort to wipe away her mistakes with the same elbow grease she used on the counter top. After Tanieshia and I slid across the floor for the fifth time like it was second base she rushed us outside with orders to stay close. I had just convinced Tanieshia to follow me to Jamaica Park when I received news of my mother’s frantic eruption. She looked in the basement, attic, walked to each end of the block and was about to hit overload when she saw Willie Spence who told her I was on my way to the park. She fussed the whole way back about my hard headedness, how Tanieshia always got in trouble because she followed and how much time it took her to bake a wonderful German chocolate cake. I relaxed after I felt her hand motions were too slow for an unexpected smack and muted her after she said I’d get none of the birthday cake. It didn’t matter because German chocolate was her favorite. That day started a streak of bullshit birthdays, which wasn’t broken up until my freshman birthday season, my first as the mellow weed smoker with a cool sense of self. After a few brutal months at home because of deferred acceptance my twentieth fell on the first day of classes. I roamed campus free as runaway slave and happy to be far away from parental interference.
Finally with the college mix in full swing I planed to catch up with all my high school friends. The first trip without the click took me to the University of Delaware to check Courtney Smith. The initial road trip super excitement died as soon as we hit up his dorm. In typical white boy fashion bitter beer face delights Milwaukee’s Beast and Natural Light were ready for consumption. I was a lightweight all the way in high school. Any game with alcohol and me soon resulted in chunks everywhere. In Rowayton I still hold the record for most failed attempts at Cardinal Puff and most remembered for the night I had to be wrapped in a pop tart bag. But when they broke out the six-foot, fire engine red bong it was heaven. After they pulled the end table over for me to stand on filled with amateur overconfidence I gave the signal to light the bowl. I planned to smoke the whole thing but caught cold feet when the chamber filled. The rush of smoke knocked me backwards off table on to the couch wrapped in a convulsion of coughs. When they ran over to see if I was okay my tears made them look like Sleestacks. All I could manage between short little choke breaths was, “That shit was … dope … can I … try again!”
Like most kids I didn’t listen to my parents because I thought every word out of their mouth was sheer lunacy and lacked relevancy. For a long time I felt they wanted to change me because I was the defective version. Since I couldn’t understand the messengers I disregarded their message and missed out on solid parental wisdom that could have kept me out of rehab on my twenty-first birthday.
Today’s video package features Erykah Badu who is a definite top five on the all-time list of artistic evolutionaires (like that word, I just made it up). Maturation is the name of the game. Peace and blessings manifested with every lesson learned …
M
Finally with the college mix in full swing I planed to catch up with all my high school friends. The first trip without the click took me to the University of Delaware to check Courtney Smith. The initial road trip super excitement died as soon as we hit up his dorm. In typical white boy fashion bitter beer face delights Milwaukee’s Beast and Natural Light were ready for consumption. I was a lightweight all the way in high school. Any game with alcohol and me soon resulted in chunks everywhere. In Rowayton I still hold the record for most failed attempts at Cardinal Puff and most remembered for the night I had to be wrapped in a pop tart bag. But when they broke out the six-foot, fire engine red bong it was heaven. After they pulled the end table over for me to stand on filled with amateur overconfidence I gave the signal to light the bowl. I planned to smoke the whole thing but caught cold feet when the chamber filled. The rush of smoke knocked me backwards off table on to the couch wrapped in a convulsion of coughs. When they ran over to see if I was okay my tears made them look like Sleestacks. All I could manage between short little choke breaths was, “That shit was … dope … can I … try again!”
Like most kids I didn’t listen to my parents because I thought every word out of their mouth was sheer lunacy and lacked relevancy. For a long time I felt they wanted to change me because I was the defective version. Since I couldn’t understand the messengers I disregarded their message and missed out on solid parental wisdom that could have kept me out of rehab on my twenty-first birthday.
Today’s video package features Erykah Badu who is a definite top five on the all-time list of artistic evolutionaires (like that word, I just made it up). Maturation is the name of the game. Peace and blessings manifested with every lesson learned …
M
Aug 28, 2010
Can't Forget About You ...
NOTE: If you're reading this on Facebook please click this (http://marcusjsmalls.blogspot.com/)
What’s good family?
When my eyes opened this morning the front row of my imagination was jam packed with themes, ideas and Hip-Hop music videos. What’s new right?
My personal and professional life has gone through significant upheaval and transition over the past four years. I’d say I’m located in some vague area between pariah and phantom. Nostalgia is a hue I wear well. Whenever I think about perceived contradictions housed within a MC, Pac is the first name on my list. Because of the mountain of information via his music catalog, interview footage and the many college classes dedicated to his work Pac is now viewed through a nostalgic lens. But Pac was yet another young black man cut down in life transition. Pac much like BIG was hardly a finished product. Jay-Z and NaS are in their late thirties and early forties respectively while Pac and BIG are remembered on murals and RIP t-shirts.
From the moment I heard NaS’ flow on Main Source’s “Live at the BBQ” joint I’ve been an unabashed (minus Nastradamus) fan and supporter. The Illmatic release date was April 19, 1994. Now, I can’t call it. But I do know after I ripped that wrapper off the cassette tape (yes, I said cassette tape) it was played in every Sony Walkman or cassette deck I could bogart. The ability to simply stay alive has granted Jay and NaS the opportunity to mature in reality and perception. My life path has provided the same opportunities for lane merges and roadway transitions. From roof top blunt smoker into a church leader and back again. But this time I have slightly more than a pot to piss in and a family in my caravan to the promise land.
We’re in the double video bonus round today so we’ll focus on NaS’ career growth from crowned prince of the projects to the rebel voice of a generation. As you watch the second video “Ya’ll My Niggaz” visualize my words on page to be the kid with the headphones on in full jam mode. Like him my message is destined to ring in the streets.
M
What’s good family?
When my eyes opened this morning the front row of my imagination was jam packed with themes, ideas and Hip-Hop music videos. What’s new right?
My personal and professional life has gone through significant upheaval and transition over the past four years. I’d say I’m located in some vague area between pariah and phantom. Nostalgia is a hue I wear well. Whenever I think about perceived contradictions housed within a MC, Pac is the first name on my list. Because of the mountain of information via his music catalog, interview footage and the many college classes dedicated to his work Pac is now viewed through a nostalgic lens. But Pac was yet another young black man cut down in life transition. Pac much like BIG was hardly a finished product. Jay-Z and NaS are in their late thirties and early forties respectively while Pac and BIG are remembered on murals and RIP t-shirts.
From the moment I heard NaS’ flow on Main Source’s “Live at the BBQ” joint I’ve been an unabashed (minus Nastradamus) fan and supporter. The Illmatic release date was April 19, 1994. Now, I can’t call it. But I do know after I ripped that wrapper off the cassette tape (yes, I said cassette tape) it was played in every Sony Walkman or cassette deck I could bogart. The ability to simply stay alive has granted Jay and NaS the opportunity to mature in reality and perception. My life path has provided the same opportunities for lane merges and roadway transitions. From roof top blunt smoker into a church leader and back again. But this time I have slightly more than a pot to piss in and a family in my caravan to the promise land.
We’re in the double video bonus round today so we’ll focus on NaS’ career growth from crowned prince of the projects to the rebel voice of a generation. As you watch the second video “Ya’ll My Niggaz” visualize my words on page to be the kid with the headphones on in full jam mode. Like him my message is destined to ring in the streets.
M
Aug 12, 2010
How I Got Over ...
What’s good Family?
I’ve been away, I know. I have an awesome explanation but we promised not to stress such things because we love enough not to bore. On the plus side my situation (that’s what we’ll call it) put me on time out from everything except for Twitter and Madden. I’m sure that type of admission won’t elicit any sympathy but perception and reality seldom confirm one another.
Twitter (as I’m sure you know) is an amazing invention, a genius collection of micro bloggers all sharing their vision of reality in 160 characters or less. Right now, it’s also by far the quickest way to network your life genre so not only have I found a group of agents, an agent has found me. Whenever I tweet (which is a lot I'm almost at the 1,000 tweets milestone) the agent receives a micro blog post from me and I’m 99.9% sure she reads them because it's right there on the time line and I’m a witty dude. I have 13 confirmed readers on this here M the Experience blog (with no complaints) thank you all for reading but I have about 118 on Twitter. I’m in my greenhouse way too frequently to still have super math capacity power but those numbers equal a super percentage increase in followers. Which is important because the goals for my literary novel are lofty. My ambition to be a mash up of James Baldwin and Junot Diaz is like a personal trainer who barks encouragement and ridicule. My edit process drives me in search of perfect word harmony.
My life, like yours is layered with themes from environment and experience so my choice to write with a transparent creative license allowed me to dig deep into how I grew up. Hard earned maturity gave a better vantage point on the junk I carried as the black sheep/chosen one and oldest child in a fractured family of Para church ministry professionals. How those themes taste when they blend onto the page for the reader’s deep consumption will determine if I am worthy of the Pulitzer and other awards. Though I do not completely understand the publishing industry I know it’s a business. As an Author the book is my product so financial aspirations are a natural connection for me. Or in plain speak I’m most def trying to get this paper because I have Hip Hop sensibilities (which is the hook my literary novel rest it’s hat on but more on that when we get there). Chapter five is the halfway point of the book and puts me halfway to the next phase (beta readers). But halfway up a mountain is halfway up a mountain the reward is at the finish.
Thank God The Roots new album How I Got Over is in my itunes/ipod! They’ve consistently provided theme music for the ear, mind and soul since Shante (my sister) and I first saw them on Rap City way back in the day. The utter joy provided by Video Music Box, Rap City and Yo! MTV Raps is too large to fit into any blog post (another reason I wrote the book). The Roots can tell you more about themselves through their music than I could in the space I have left. So please sit back and enjoy my departure from posting only Golden Era Hip Hop videos. Though The Roots are most definitely Golden Era artist.
“So breath in breath out and let it heal all your exit wounds …”
The Roots – The Day (How I Got Over)
M
I’ve been away, I know. I have an awesome explanation but we promised not to stress such things because we love enough not to bore. On the plus side my situation (that’s what we’ll call it) put me on time out from everything except for Twitter and Madden. I’m sure that type of admission won’t elicit any sympathy but perception and reality seldom confirm one another.
Twitter (as I’m sure you know) is an amazing invention, a genius collection of micro bloggers all sharing their vision of reality in 160 characters or less. Right now, it’s also by far the quickest way to network your life genre so not only have I found a group of agents, an agent has found me. Whenever I tweet (which is a lot I'm almost at the 1,000 tweets milestone) the agent receives a micro blog post from me and I’m 99.9% sure she reads them because it's right there on the time line and I’m a witty dude. I have 13 confirmed readers on this here M the Experience blog (with no complaints) thank you all for reading but I have about 118 on Twitter. I’m in my greenhouse way too frequently to still have super math capacity power but those numbers equal a super percentage increase in followers. Which is important because the goals for my literary novel are lofty. My ambition to be a mash up of James Baldwin and Junot Diaz is like a personal trainer who barks encouragement and ridicule. My edit process drives me in search of perfect word harmony.
My life, like yours is layered with themes from environment and experience so my choice to write with a transparent creative license allowed me to dig deep into how I grew up. Hard earned maturity gave a better vantage point on the junk I carried as the black sheep/chosen one and oldest child in a fractured family of Para church ministry professionals. How those themes taste when they blend onto the page for the reader’s deep consumption will determine if I am worthy of the Pulitzer and other awards. Though I do not completely understand the publishing industry I know it’s a business. As an Author the book is my product so financial aspirations are a natural connection for me. Or in plain speak I’m most def trying to get this paper because I have Hip Hop sensibilities (which is the hook my literary novel rest it’s hat on but more on that when we get there). Chapter five is the halfway point of the book and puts me halfway to the next phase (beta readers). But halfway up a mountain is halfway up a mountain the reward is at the finish.
Thank God The Roots new album How I Got Over is in my itunes/ipod! They’ve consistently provided theme music for the ear, mind and soul since Shante (my sister) and I first saw them on Rap City way back in the day. The utter joy provided by Video Music Box, Rap City and Yo! MTV Raps is too large to fit into any blog post (another reason I wrote the book). The Roots can tell you more about themselves through their music than I could in the space I have left. So please sit back and enjoy my departure from posting only Golden Era Hip Hop videos. Though The Roots are most definitely Golden Era artist.
“So breath in breath out and let it heal all your exit wounds …”
The Roots – The Day (How I Got Over)
M
Jul 23, 2010
This is it ...
What's good fam?
It’s been a bit of an uphill battle at times but the first four chapters are finally edited. I'm 99.9% sure that it'll require more edits in the future but its solid enough to proceed. The book has begun to look more like the product I’ve seen in my head since its inception.
As you may remember the query letter for this book has bedeviled me for a good three years now. But praise be to the good Jesus my twitter detours have paid dividends. Along with the strippers, celebrities and porn stars I’ve found agents, agent interns, editors, and publishers. My fly-on-the-wall-stealth approach has landed all sorts of cool twitter chat groups. #Queries, #askintern, and #askagent are but a small sample of what's available to peruse.
My ability to contact the other side has pleasantly multiplied and I’ve become a better consumer in the process. I no longer pine for an agent to swoop down from the angelic perch, which all agents live (hyperbole) I now research intently for the proper match for my literary novel and me. I’m reminded how this process has really followed the path I dialogued with God about in our strategy sessions (yep God still takes my calls). I want to develop a solid relationship with my work. I believe that requires people with other vantage points and an eye for detail who give a shit. I believe when wisdom speaks we should pay attention.
#Askintern is a clever chat run by literary agent interns. Agent interns (in my humble opinion) are the drawbridge operators to author-land and the first line of defense against shitty writing for the gatekeepers. I've long maintained that any chance to meet the wizard resides in my ability to wow the person who lets down the bridge. She (the intern whose name I won’t blast off just yet) shared that aspiring authors can send their query letters and she will give feedback at no charge. What!!!! The chance to finally receive unbiased, knowledgeable feedback made my heart skip several beats. And I knew I was good money because I didn't allow my imagination to think this was some pathway to the magical kingdom of authors. I saw it for what it was, a professional critique of my query letter.
Her feedback was rich with the right questions, things I could have thought about on my own but when your close to something it begs for perspective. I've sand bagged my post so I’ll end here but please do come back for more.
On the way out please enjoy the Camp Lo video they're still one of my favorite crews.
So this is it/what/Luchini falling from the sky/let’s get rich/what …
It’s been a bit of an uphill battle at times but the first four chapters are finally edited. I'm 99.9% sure that it'll require more edits in the future but its solid enough to proceed. The book has begun to look more like the product I’ve seen in my head since its inception.
As you may remember the query letter for this book has bedeviled me for a good three years now. But praise be to the good Jesus my twitter detours have paid dividends. Along with the strippers, celebrities and porn stars I’ve found agents, agent interns, editors, and publishers. My fly-on-the-wall-stealth approach has landed all sorts of cool twitter chat groups. #Queries, #askintern, and #askagent are but a small sample of what's available to peruse.
My ability to contact the other side has pleasantly multiplied and I’ve become a better consumer in the process. I no longer pine for an agent to swoop down from the angelic perch, which all agents live (hyperbole) I now research intently for the proper match for my literary novel and me. I’m reminded how this process has really followed the path I dialogued with God about in our strategy sessions (yep God still takes my calls). I want to develop a solid relationship with my work. I believe that requires people with other vantage points and an eye for detail who give a shit. I believe when wisdom speaks we should pay attention.
#Askintern is a clever chat run by literary agent interns. Agent interns (in my humble opinion) are the drawbridge operators to author-land and the first line of defense against shitty writing for the gatekeepers. I've long maintained that any chance to meet the wizard resides in my ability to wow the person who lets down the bridge. She (the intern whose name I won’t blast off just yet) shared that aspiring authors can send their query letters and she will give feedback at no charge. What!!!! The chance to finally receive unbiased, knowledgeable feedback made my heart skip several beats. And I knew I was good money because I didn't allow my imagination to think this was some pathway to the magical kingdom of authors. I saw it for what it was, a professional critique of my query letter.
Her feedback was rich with the right questions, things I could have thought about on my own but when your close to something it begs for perspective. I've sand bagged my post so I’ll end here but please do come back for more.
On the way out please enjoy the Camp Lo video they're still one of my favorite crews.
So this is it/what/Luchini falling from the sky/let’s get rich/what …
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