No Daddy! I don't WANT bitches! : On other people and their expectations

When I was younger, I was told that I should want big houses, fancy cars, and bitches. I was rarely asked "what do you want out of life" and quite frequently asked "what are you gonna do to pay for your big house, fancy cars, and bitches?" I never wanted a car, a house, or a bitch.

My father tried to give me a car when I was in college and I didn't want it. I liked walking. I liked biking. I liked nature and I didn't like bills. To me, a car was simply a bill with an engine. St. Louis wasn't big enough to justify having a car as far as I was concerned and I spent so much time in class and studying that I wasn't going anywhere anyway. So I asked him "who's going to pay for the gas and insurance?" My father said, "you are." So I turned down the offer.

Later, I was blamed by my father and his family for being ungrateful. "Your dad got you a car and you didn't even take it. Why are you so ungrateful?" My feelings were that this old dude who I barely knew just gave me a really expensive bill. If that's being ungrateful, then I'm ok with that. I also never got the bill.

Other family members said, "why didn't you just take the car? That's how he shows love?" That's beautiful and all, but I'm not going to pay property taxes and insurance on somebody else's self-soothing attempt at loving me. No matter how you slice it, that shit's ridiculous.

I have no end to this story except that I still don't want a big house, fancy cars, and bitches. At age 31 going into 32, I'm preparing for the next phase of my life on a volcano with my woman, my big yurts, my fancy Fiat, and my cats.

Poetry In Motion asks: 
"I'm confused on the bitches. why would that have been something anyone would long to have? What was the thought behind that?"

Blue responds: 
"It's part of the American dream: picket fence, 2.5 children, bitches....When you have your own bitches, you're more in control of the breeding. Bitches are also cleaner than male dogs. At least that's what I've heard. I don't have nor have I ever wanted bitches. I'm more of a cat person myself."

I thought you were pretty and then I realized it was you!

I grew up in a culture where the little girls had long thick hair and learned how to braid and care for it early. Around 14 or 15, they would cut their hair into teenage styles and/or get a perm for the first time as a rite of passage...I never wanted to grow up. However, at 17, I was sick and tired of the bi-monthly weekend hair marathon that plagued my life. Day 1: wash, oil, and braid. Day 2: press. I had to ask myself, "why in the hell am I doing all this?" Originally, I saw a perm as a solution to my problem: if the napps were gone, I could comb my hair after washing it. However, nobody told me that perm maintenance was a pain in the ass. So I decided to get my first perm and after 2 years and 3 consecutive perms, I realized that I simply couldn't stomach the smell. So the perms stopped and my napps came back...only it wasn't the hair I knew. It was coarse and raggedy. One cousin braided extensions into my head so I wouldn't have to deal with it while I was studying in Madrid and backpacking around Europe. When I tired of those braids another cousin introduced me to the sew-in. I was confused and itchy for 2-3 months. Finally, once my safe nappies returned to me, I asked a guy from my church to start my locs. I didn't know what I was doing. I just knew I didn't have time for the weekend hair marathon anymore.

The scariest part of the ordeal was that during my pop culture exploration phase, I didn't recognize myself. I wanted me back. When I got locs, I felt like I got me back. It was a way for me to maintain the silhouette of "me" that made sense to me without all the work. However, During my hair journey, I learned quite a bit about people. It was an experiment of sorts, and these are the results:

1. Reactions I got when I had long thick hair:
"why don't you have a perm?" or "you would look so pretty with a perm."
"dang! Your hair is thick!" or "You got too much hair!"
"are you mixed?"
"You need to straighten your hair."
"You can't go swimming like that."
"You should let your hair down."
"That's not your real hair."

2. Reactions I got when I had straightened hair:
"You are so pretty."
"I thought you were pretty and then I realized it was you!"
"would you like to go to prom?"
"would you like to go out?"
"Your hair is sooooo pretty!"
"You think you better than me? You ain't cute."

3. Reactions I got when I had braided extensions:
"I want you to be my girlfriend."
"Who did your hair?"
Note: I spent the majority of that time in Madrid, so I didn't have a lot of reactions. I was usually ignored by non-American or non-African students and non-students. It was the most peace I'd experienced in life until then.

4. Reaction to the sew in (long black hair that curled at the ends).
"Is that a weave?"
"See, you're not like other girls. You know the value of hair."
"You look really nice!"

5. Reactions to my new locs:
"Are you a rasta now?"
"Are those braids?"
"Eeew!"
"You look a mess!"
"Why would you do that to yourself?"
"As long as you're happy..."

6. Reactions once the locs grew longer:
"Your hair is sooo pretty!"
"What's up Queen?"
"See, we as African peoples have to come together."
"What do you know about the 5%"
"That's not your real hair."
"Who did that?"
"Got a lighter?"

This all transpired over the course of about 9 years from 1999-2008. My conclusion:
1. people are full of shit.
2. All I really want is to recognize myself. Every once in a while, I do. The journey continues.

Love,
Blue

FOX NEWS, please shut the fuck up.

I admittedly and proudly get all of my news from comedians. They're the only people telling the truth as far as I'm concerned. But that's not the point. The point is all this hoopla about Christians, Christianity, and Christmas. Here goes something I think:

If the popular representation of Christianity weren't so extremely white, blond, blue eyed, racist and delusional, majority culture would take what was said more seriously. Everyone speaking on behalf of Christianity in popular media look to the rest of us like the kind of people you want to generally avoid in daily life...you know, those people...when they start talking you suddenly remember that you have somewhere else to be, something else to do, or in desperate scenarios, you'll just go on a rant about the bonfire of aborted fetuses and Bibles that you and your family danced and sang around last night just before having sex with each other.

It seems that because of racism, homophobia, and overall closed-mindedness, Christianity is looking very one dimensional and completely insane to the majority of Americans. Though I am no longer a Christian for all intents and purposes, I am absolutely respectful of the religion and practice as a way to find balance in one's life...or salvation from sins...whatever rhetoric you need to use to get into heaven. However, for the sake of all Christians in America who don't necessarily want to be perceived as brainwashed delusional lunatics, Fox News, I plead to you:

SHUT THE FUCK UP! Your audience is getting smaller and crazier...and it shows.

Love,
Blue

My Human Being: Why I'm Not Doing a Damn Thing

Most of the "we're Black and living in an oppressed state and therefore we should represent ourselves better to create better communities" literature and banter comes from the perspective that I should have to DO something to be a good black person. I used to be a doer. I did all kinds of things. In fact, I got awarded and praised for all the shit I did. But doing shit left me tired, unfulfilled, jaded, and overall pissed at everybody who didn't appreciate the shit I did. So I have changed my perspective.

These days, I don't believe in doing anything. In fact, I believe that doing less enables my true nature to emerge. The less I do, the more beautiful the world looks, as it is allowed to be itself without my influence...so I get to see the world...not my imposition on the world.

Also, doing nothing saves energy for me to do what I want to do when I want to do it. I only like to do a few things: cook, make music, and take baths. Everything else is either me preparing to cook, make music, take baths, or cleaning up from cooking, making music and taking baths. When I'm doing shit I don't want to do, I wanna get it done asap so I can spend more time not doing a damn thing.

So what's your point Blue? My point is this: real freedom is not having to do a damn thing...especially not for a damn body else...to justify existing in my skin. Real freedom is my human being.

Love,
Blue

Holiday Expectations

Greetings everyone. As we head out to our various dinner locations, let's take a moment to acknowledge our expectations.

1. As a youngster in these mean, mean streets, I remember getting scolded by various adults for being an "embarrassment" at Thanksgiving. Well, chances are, those adults had expectations of how I was supposed to act on Thanksgiving and those expectations were in place to establish impressions among others. Generally, if someone is capable of embarrassing someone else, the underlying belief is that the embarrassing person is a "reflection" of the embarrassed. To chastise and criticize an embarrassing person is, therefore, to chastise and criticize a reflection of self. So don't wait until the holiday party to care about your reflection. Model good behavior consistently throughout the year and your reflection will not be an embarrassment.

2. I used to play out in my head the way social circumstances would transpire. As a result, my social anxiety would increase drastically and by the time the social circumstance was underway, I was a reckless mess and the experience was exhausting and unpleasant. In hindsight, had I done the same things, but not prematurely created a non-existing social circumstance based on my expectations of what should happen, things would have gone smoother. So I live in the moment. Nothing goes as planned. Things go as they go. I keep my head in the game so I don't burn the food.

3. If your family or friend group is anything like mine, there are a lot of big personalities with different points of view. So what? I lock away all my weapons, pad anything with a sharp edge or tip, and let her rip. It is not my responsibility to protect anyone from anyone else...including themselves. And if I don't feel safe, there is a whole world full of trees, grass, streets, sidewalks, and city wilderness to walk around in for hours if I choose. I am not bound to any circumstance no matter what anybody else thinks.

4. People might die. It's no one's fault. When it's your time to go, it's just your time to go.

So now that we've acknowledges some expectations, we can take a moment to reset and enjoy the simple things...like cranberry sauce. Oh, and here's a lovely Holiday Tune by Yours Truly to usher in the spirit of Thanksgiving. HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Does My Happiness Make You Uncomfortable?

There are a lot of people in the world who have a lot of pain and shame associated with being gay. As a new convert into the happy life, I tried to adapt the pain...you know, wanting to fit in with others who identify with me now, as though I changed...but whatever...

But I couldn't. I even tried to care what other people would think if I told them, but I couldn't. I tried to be nervous when telling friends, but that didn't make sense. Most of my friends were happy and even the ones who weren't were artsy new agey people who accepted everybody. So every time I told a friend, they'd say "Congratulations! I wish you happiness!" As a result, my experience was not as dramatic or life altering as I'd hoped it would be. Again, too much made for TV cinema during my formative years.

There seems to be an expectation for happy people to "come out of the closet." I just don't feel that need. I guess it's because I never was in a closet. I dated men, I liked dating men. Now I'm with a woman. It was a life change. There was some leftover church chatter in my brain, but I was already pretty much broken from that as a result of my transition out of indoctrination and into what I really thought. So maybe there is a "coming out of the closet" of sorts: The closet of being molded by the world I was in into something that doesn't make sense to me and then slowly navigating my way out in order to have a life that doesn't raise my cholesterol, make my skin break out, and lead to hypertension...

Trying to make sense of the senseless is a full time job. Not to knock what makes sense to others or their experiences, but my life is not about them. It's about me. And the indoctrination that I experienced does not make sense to me. It didn't when I was in it and now that I'm out, I can look back and see why I thought I was a bad person: because I could not be what I was "supposed" to be, no matter how hard I tried or how many zits and doctor visits I had. Not to mention that even though my indoctrinators knew what perfection was, none of them could demonstrate it. That was frustrating.

Love,
Blue

My Mentors

Those who I admired never thought about what the dreaded "they" were thinking. Those who I admired had bigger issues...issues like what color they were going to paint their studio or who's ass they were gonna kick if anybody even thought about interrupting a phone call with their child. Some of these people had odd tattoos and piercings in very obvious places, carried amulets for protection against evil spirits, and even had signs on their office doors saying things like "Don't even bother unless you brought chocolate." Not to mention the music you could always hear blasting from their personal space...

These people were often quick to call out anyone who tried to marginalize them or anyone else on the basis of hair, wardrobe, shoes, or anything else that did not matter. They were usually oblivious to others superfluous opinions and if they encountered rogue gossip, their knee jerk response was, "I don't give a shit about that shit." They were comfortable in their skin, they liked what they liked, and they could use their energy to make changes in the world. Hair, nails, shoes, clothing, a car, or lack thereof didn't have a damn thing to do with a damn.

These people came from all walks of life. They worked all kinds of jobs and had all kinds of incomes. Regardless of what they wanted out of life, they never felt they had to appeal to anyone's ignorance in order to achieve their goals. They were comfortable with who they were, they enjoyed what they did, and chances are, they couldn't be easily replaced because they were simply the best and everyone knew it.

These days, I find myself being a lot like those who I admired. When offered the option to be otherwise, my knee jerk response is, "I don't give a shit about that shit," almost as though the phrase had been locked away inside me since birth. When faced with criticism, especially superficial criticism, I am utterly confused. There have been times when I had to ask a critic, "Are you speaking English because I have no idea what you're saying." (I'm laughing right now because a photographer at a club once told me something and I thought the guy was speaking Japanese. For all I knew, he was warning me of threats to come. I just couldn't make it out. Then, he slowed down and said some words that still didn't make sense to me when put together in that order. I simply can't process bullshit). Sure, I have my insecurities, but as it concerns other people's ideas of what I should do, I remain happily oblivious to what's considered "inappropriate" in various circles. Way I see it, if no animals were harmed in the making of this production, the fuck's the problem?

Love,
Blue

Life Lessons

I once dated a guy who came from the black upper class. Initially, I didn't like him, but he pursued me through food, which I couldn't resist because food is the shit. He was the kind of gentleman that I'd only heard old women talk about: holding doors, insisting that he buy my ice cream even when I offered otherwise... Months later, I discovered that everything he told me about himself was true: he was a superficial asshole who valued others' perceptions, and therefore needed a girlfriend who looked good on paper and in photographs to fulfill his upper class black image. 

I was naive. Not because I thought I could be the arm candy of a self-appointed black aristocrat and be happy. I was naive because I thought he was joking. I didn't believe that his type of person existed in the real world. I thought those people were the subjects of made up stories; D-list movies starring Whoopie Goldberg and Danny Glover. It was surreal to me that I would have actually found myself in the world of someone who truly viewed impression management as a way of life...at least a way of public life...because behind closed doors, he was insecure and boring.

And then he became jealous. In my attempts to show him that he had nothing to worry about: I wore costumes on stage all the time... I took pictures all the time... my performance steeze was top notch...he became jealous of me! I demonstrated to him that it was nothing for me to put on a dress, talk intelligently in heels and garner the adoration of everyone at the Christmas party. That all the things other girls worked really hard to convince people they were... you know, smart and interesting...well, that was child's play to me. I even had a formula for working a room: compliment the men and flirt with the women. Everyone was disarmed and looking forward to seeing me again. Playing dress up was fun! However, in my clever performance, I overshot his expectations. Being charming was background noise, but I still was better at it than he was. So he did everything he could to deflate my colorful balloons. And I believed him because I thought he knew something I didn't know. I was in search for the meaning of life and I thought he had answers. He was mean to me and I allowed it because I had no identity. My sense of self-worth was wrapped up in the mean things he said about me.

I came to my senses 5 months in when he broke a date with me for the 3rd time. It was as good a time as any to break loose from that mess, so I did. Turned out it was easier to break away from him than it was to break away from the damage to my sense of self.

And I learned things: never judge a person based on what I believe is possible. People are all kinds. When they tell me who they are, I believe them. I'd say that experiencing and accepting that lesson was one of the best decisions I made in life.

The other lesson, which was slower in coming, was that nobody knows anything that I don't know, especially not about me. In this life, I'd rather have irrationally high confidence than low self-esteem and it's all up to me which I choose.

Love,
Blue

What the fuck is "they"?

Inspired by recently hearing someone talk:

When interacting with other young women who look like me, especially concerning the "Natural" shenanigans, I often get the impression that "it's a choice", "you can still look professional" and "it's ok if you're subtle at first, and slowly let your "natural" come out as "they" get to know you" are considered "evolved" perspectives.

This type of thinking is the reason I haven't liked people. I am a human being. I have just as much a right as anyone else to show up in life exactly the way I happened. I do not have to slowly introduce myself to anyone. I do not have to gradually unleash myself.

I came from a world where people aimed to learn what it took to be upper middle class. Once they got the technique down, they did everything and followed all the rules. Then, they worked up the ladder in the hopes of one day being the most respected version of their group that could exist in the white male hierarchy of American humans. At best, they were the only one of them in the board room, perpetually disregarded and disrespected by their white male colleagues, but celebrated when they went back home to [insert minority group here]-landia. This was introduced to me as the best life I could possibly have by those who saw me as having "potential."

Only I never understood why I should strive for such a thing. So when opportunities arose that would allow me to position myself in such a way as to guarantee that future of disenchantment and overall ineffectiveness, I scoffed. I scoffed because I was too young and naive to understand that scoffing resulted in contempt from those who cherished the life of a marginalized token.

Freedom from oppression is a choice. Part of being free from oppression is letting go of the need to care whether or not who I am is "appropriate" in any "setting." If I am happy with who I am and what I look like, I'm not breaking any written laws that could result in the loss of my constitutional freedoms or unalienable rights, and I'm not harming children or animals, then I am appropriate. Anybody who doesn't think so simply isn't buying what I'm selling. As a result, they don't matter. I challenge anyone to convince me they exist.

Love,
Blue

It's up to us to stand up and be proud. Our children are watching us and they need our support.

-The Management

I can no longer manage.
I feel flipped and squeezed. Nothing I intended occurred, yet what transpired outweighed my provisions. I sit in my bed feeling a cryptic sadness. Mourning the loss of the isolationist dream I craved. The dream that fueled my endeavors; the cure to my misanthropic pipe fantasy. I have lost control of everything I thought I knew. The world I created does not fit into the world that is emerging.

My deceptive ego lead me to believe that humanity would be better off without me; that I was a burden to most, at best. I refused to believe that there was anything good about me or that I could do anything other than harm to another. I was toxic and preferably avoided. I removed myself from the realm of human interaction, sending out nondescript messages into the ether to channel the vitriol without directly indicting a single soul. Rageahol for a rageaholic. A buffer for my absolute hatred of life. I transformed that hatred to disdain. Disdain just seemed easier.
And the shame of feeling this way. And the guilt of feeding these thoughts. And the hypocrisy of it all...because nobody wanted to hear this when asking me how I was.

So to appease their curiosity and subsequently afford my escape, I lied. I presented the disdain as reckless acceptance, rejection as inclusion, ostracism as community, sadness as satire, abuse as healing, helplessness as generosity, hopelessness as whimsy...because this is honorable and I mastered the technique. The irony is not lost on me: that which I designed to protect me from others has only drawn me closer to them. What a mockery of my efforts.

So, I can no longer manage.
I feel flipped and squeezed. Nothing I intended occurred, yet what transpired outweighed my provisions. I sit in my bed feeling a cryptic sadness. Mourning the loss of the isolationist dream I craved. The dream that fueled my endeavors; the cure to my misanthropic pipe fantasy. I have lost control of everything I thought I knew. The world I created does not fit into the world that is emerging.

What is a Thug to Do?

In this culture, we are trained to be told what we want and then find ourselves within the parameters of what is allowed. This approach only works for those whose wants are congruent with what is allowed. For most of us, what we really want lies outside of the parameters of what is allowed in this culture. So what do we do?

We have to return to self. In order to discover what we really want, we must look within. No one on the outside can give us instruction on our desires. They can help us to understand their desires and even recruit us to help them fulfill their desires, but they cannot tell us what we want.

Culture does not rule us. It merely provides structure. The structure is there to prevent chaos among those who refuse to think for themselves. It is only a suggestion. It has no bearing to our inner self.

Laws are parameters. They are in place to protect us. If a law does not make sense, figure out how to get around it. Every man made law has loopholes. The loopholes are designed to enable the privileged to do whatever they need to fulfill their wants. The privileged are not those with the most money or highest class standing. Those are superficial things. The privileged are those with the most knowledge and understanding. Without knowledge and understanding, wealth and class will lead to self destruction.

Until we go inside, we will never find ourselves. But once we find ourselves, we will be more aware of our true desires and wants. Then, we will discover what we want. When we know what we want, we can get it.

Thug Life,
Blue

Knock Knock! Who's There? Black Revolutionary!

I went to listen to a speech by a Black Revolutionary last week. He was someone who I'd heard speak before. I asked him how he defined success. He gave a fuzzy answer, but I deduced that his goal was "self determination."

I wondered to myself: If self-determination for the Black community is your definition of success, why are you traveling the country talking to white folks? Why is every "action" a retaliation to something? Is proactivity, creation, and imagination possible? Can Black people be liberated in ways that aren't knee deep in frustration, violence, and questionable inclusion criteria?

Many Black Revolutionaries want change, but don't exactly have a solution that the people can sink their teeth into. Fuzzy answers like "self determination" and "Black Liberation" are fun and make people feel warm inside, but they're not a place you can go to eat. As a result, a few young people may rally and protest, but without a hearty goal, they lose interest in "the revolution", get spellbound by the shiny things and bright colors of capitalism and then BAM!... the movement's over. Being a Black Revolutionary gets reduced to a phase in college and a way to get laid...as long as you're not gay because no gays are allowed in the Revolution...and if you're a woman and you're not having babies, you're practically useless.

In an effort to introduce goal orientation to the revolution, I have been studying ways to overcome and have comprised the following list of cultural possibilities based on models that work.

1. The Amish: House your entire culture under a religion that cannot be touched by government or capitalism. This means that you will have to separate yourselves from the rest of the culture and live by well thought out rules that can sustain families over the next 200 years, 4 generations, or whichever comes first. Make sure that you handle all conflicts internally and in cases of domestic abuse, keep it on the hush hush. It's part of the culture.

2. The Chinese: Expatriate and turn your enclaves into thriving business centers by working, living, and worshiping only with each other. This means you have to make your own shoes, clothes, food, own your own property, and be so intentional in the building and sustaining of your enclave that no outsider could or would even want to penetrate until the population thins out as a result of integration or repatriation. The ultimate goal will be to achieve the Black Dream, promote a positive worldview of Africa, and eventually return to Africa to assist in the sustaining of infrastructure throughout the continent. You can also forge coalitions with other cultures so that the children of China and Indonesia can continue to make your T-shirts.

3. Native Americans: Decide exactly who fits in your group and get funds together to change policy as it concerns those chosen few. This means that fuzzy notions of Blackness are no longer tolerated and you will have to prove how Black you are by tribal affiliation and family lineage. If you end up on the outside looking in, you can't be mad. You simply weren't Black enough. Try again later in the grad chapter.

4. The Mexicans: Buy up 5 or 6 houses on a block and move everybody's families into them. Then, operate much like the Chinese, only interacting with non-Mexicans to the extent that it benefits your entire block.

5. The Patriots: marry lighter in order to increase your social status among whites and encourage your brown children to do the same until your family is full of white people. Then you'll be completely integrated and perfectly suitable for the inculcation of an American Dream. Luckily, by the time your white great-great-grandchildren discover that America is a plantation run by corporations, you'll be long gone and won't have to deal with your human rights being violated in the name of progress.

6. Strategize, form a coup, and overthrow the government. Then, the nation will be yours. It's good to have a followup plan because a government with no plan is short lived. Be advised that if anybody owns or runs a government, they're gonna need workers. Many of whom won't like their jobs. Jealousy will ensue because everyone won't be self actualized. Oppression will follow.

7. Don't be the struggle. Be the change. Society is fucked up because people are fucked up. Be one less fucked up individual.

In short, piss or get off the pot.

Thug Life,
Black Blue

Appendix 1: Many Black Revolutionaries have shifted their fight from a fight for Black Liberation to a fight for the liberation of all oppressed groups throughout the world: including gays and women. In my opinion, these people have evolved.

Appendix 2: Many Black Revolutionaries are afraid to express their values in mixed company...values like family hierarchy, anti-gay sentiment, and closeted capitalism. If this is your story, stop being a pussy and you might achieve your goals. Liberated women and gays aren't trying to be your friend. Stop being paranoid and be who you are. Then live in peace with everyone because you're actually getting what you want in life and you don't have to oppress others in order to do so.

Appendix 3: Yet other Black Revolutionaries are trying to convince the world that race doesn't matter. If race doesn't matter, stop calling yourself Black and claim your country of origin. You can find your ancestral roots with a little DNA for a little bit of cash...but of course, it all depends on how important that is to you. If you want to hold on to "slave" as your ancestry, that's your business, but know: slaves don't own shit. Free people do. And free people don't need your approval.

Who the fuck is Craig?

Common scenario:

Lisa: "Why haven't you returned my phone calls?"
DJ: "Because I'm mad at you!"
Lisa: "What? Why are you mad at me?"
DJ: "Because you stole my boyfriend in 2002."
Lisa: "No I didn't."
DJ: "Yes You Did!"
Lisa: "Which boyfriend did I steal?"
DJ: "Craig!"
Lisa: "Who the fuck is Craig?"
DJ: "..."
Lisa: "[...]"
DJ: "Nevermind. I'm still mad at you tho."

Most long term conflicts can be resolved when we just talk to each other. However, when attempting to resolve a conflict that's been ailing us for 10 years, we'll try to create a reason to still be mad...you know, to justify the anger we held on to for the last 10 years that resulted in our acne, ulcers, high blood pressure, missed opportunities, hair loss, and unwanted pregnancies. In this example, Lisa simply wanted to get in contact with an old friend, DJ. However, DJ has clearly been holding on to anger unnecessarily.
DJ could very easily overcome the hurt and allow Lisa to reconnect with her if she considers the following strategies, picks one (or more) and follows through completely:

1. Recognize that what's for you is for you and what's not is not. If it's not for you, you'll never have it. If it's for you, you won't be able to get rid of it. Accept that you can't have some things, let go, and move in the direction of what is for you. I doubt that DJ would have been happy if she stayed with Craig. Craig was clearly a punk bitch. However, DJ may have been married and stationed in Paris, but on tour with her dance company "The Amaradas" if she had simply allowed Donovan to take her out on a date.

2. Accept responsibility for your own outcomes. If DJ had accepted the responsibility for the part she played in the relationship between herself and Craig, she wouldn't be so quick to give a shit what Craig and Lisa did...if anything happened. Chances are, DJ's low self-esteem and/or history of manipulation, abuse etc. contributed to the reason that she was attracted to a punk bitch like Craig. Instead of blaming Lisa, who only wanted friendship, DJ may consider seeking counseling or finding a higher power to meditate on. Ultimately, DJ will discover that the higher power lies within her and was there the whole time.

3. Just say fuck it. If things don't pan out the way you want, fuck it. There are many more opportunities in the world...which is very, very big if DJ opens her eyes to see. There are probably many guys who wanted to date DJ besides Craig and Donovan, but whenever they would try to talk to her, they had to deal with DJ's hurt feelings, which, as Donovan would tell you, are a huge turnoff.

4. Be the change you want to see. If DJ still wants to be in contact with Craig, Lisa, Donovan, or anybody else, DJ can do so while being the wonderful example of love, acceptance, integrity, honesty, and friendship that she expects from those people. Then, people from all over the world will be attracted to DJ's incredible energy and she won't be able to keep track of the marriage proposals and friend requests.

I know this is true because I have been Lisa, DJ, Craig and Donovan at some point in my life.

Love,
Blue

There's No Good Music Anymore!: Solipsism w/o Perspective

When people say "There's no good [insert musical or theatrical genre of art here] anymore." What they're really saying is "I'm not being entertained anymore because entertainment is no longer relevant to me."

To all those who feel that way, there is hope! The following are examples of narratives that, if allowed to flow through your brain, may change your perspective on the relevance of the art forms around you and ultimately increase the relevance of your entertainment experience!

(1) "New or younger artists are creating things that are not relevant to my experience, quite possibly because they are different people from me with different experiences in a completely different world than the world I came up in. However, through understanding and acceptance, I can open my mind and learn to appreciate their perspectives, experiences, and ultimately, their creations."

(2) "The people who used to create things that were relevant to my experience have stopped creating because either they got sucked up by the machine somehow or they found other things to do, like raise families or start new businesses. Perhaps I can stop complaining about their life moving forward and simply enjoy the timeless, and eternal creations that they left behind."

(3) "The people who are still creating who used to create things that were relevant to my experience are now creating things that are not relevant to my experience because they've grown or changed somehow as a result of the dynamic nature of their human experience. Perhaps I should grow and change as well. Then, maybe I will realize that there is, in fact, a lot of relevance in the world. If growth and change are not possible for me, then I can enjoy the timeless and eternal creations from these artists' earlier catalogs."

(4) "Since no one is entertaining me, perhaps I should begin living a life that reflects that which I want to experience in the world because I'm an adult and I am responsible for my experiences and life outcomes."

I am a solipsist. I believe that I imagined my world and I create it as I go along. Though many of you don't want to admit it, you are solipsists as well. Without perspective, you believe that those who are doing things are supposed to cater to your every experience in life, whether dynamic or stagnant.

You want your favorite artist to re-create the feelings that you felt when you fell in love with them every time they create a new thing. This is fundamentally solipsistic. Internally, you believe that your favorite artist is a figment of your imagination and that their life experience should coincide with yours.

This is a natural thing, really. Artists touch us in such ways in life as to convince us that they are our close friends, intimately connected with us through spirit and speaking directly to us through their works. This is the magic that is art. This is the beauty that is creation. However, it is important to maintain perspective. Your favorite artist does not give a single solitary shit about you or your experience. They wouldn't even be able to pick your face out of a lineup. What I'm saying to many of you right now will come as a shock and you may want to seek therapy after reading this. It is tantamount to learning that there's no such thing as Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny. But I'm going to say it anyway because it's necessary for our society to move forward.

You are the only one responsible for your life experience. Nobody owes you anything and nobody but your parents (maybe), your kids (probably), and your significant other (likely) gives that much of a shit about you...and that's if you make good decisions.

Love,
Blue

On the Artist Ego

On the artist ego:

An artist is someone who bares their soul to the world. Everybody ain't gonna like it. There seems to be this push, especially in the hip hop realm, to quench the ego...stop being "me me me" oriented, be more humble, be nicer, build bridges etc. I disagree with all of that.

Art is not a popularity contest. It's a true and honest representation of your soul in tangible form. If you're an egotistical asshole, it's gonna come out in your art, stage presence, and interactions. No amount of "politeness training" is gonna change who a person is at the core of them. Figure out how to make it work for you and stop trippin' off people who don't like you because, frankly, if they were doing what the FUCK they were supposed to be doing, you would simply become a "part of our culture" as opposed to "that artist nobody likes." In my experience, the only reason "artists" complain about other "artists" is because they feel threatened, intimidated, or insecure around them. Nobody has time to care about how drunk you get before going on stage or how much of a mic hog you are or how "dope you think you are" when they're holding their own in their own way and baring their soul honestly to the world. You don't have to be nice to make great art...you just have to make great art....now if your shenanigans get everybody kicked out the club, you're gonna deal with consequences that may include law enforcement. #choices

The problem is not the egotistical asshole emcees, diva vocalists, and heavy handed drummers. The problem is everybody screaming at the same time and not listening to each other. Moreover, many don't even know what they're doing or why. A bunch of copycats are copying what they think was dope in 2007 instead of doing what they do. Stop racing other people's races!

If the drummer at the jam session gets too loud, stop playing and let him play by himself. If everybody doesn't like it, boo his ass. If you find out that he's the dopest drummer you've ever heard, add a bass line. Then rhythm guitar come in. Then add keys. Then brass. That's called communication.

If the young emcee is yelling over everybody on stage, cut off everything but her mic and give her ass 10 minutes. If she ain't shit, the whole room will know in 2. However, if she's the most prolific emcee the world has ever known, step your game up and battle or sit the fuck down.

If the diva vocalist is fucking up the harmony or being rude to the musicians, make his ass sing lead. If he ain't shit, he'll know, we'll know, and he won't do that shit no more. If he's the most amazing singer you've ever heard, put a camera in his face, make him sing for the commercial and pimp his ass on youtube for ad revenue.

Love,
Blue

Me Being Vulnerable. Viewer Discretion Advised.

It's tricky. I started a thing as a self-fulfilling small-scale coping project, but once the scale got larger, I caved to the pressure of making sure everyone felt welcome. It's a social justice thing I learned. Through desiring to be "communal", I ended up becoming uninterested because my creations no longer served the purpose that they initially intended to serve...which was to give me a way to channel my psychosis and prevent me from ruminating on how completely useless and pointless existence truly is (no athei-o)! Once my completely selfish act got owned by those who supported it, it no longer belonged to me. Things got out of hand fast and before I knew it, my gripe session became a demand from investors to produce "more of that" and an opportunity for complete strangers to call me a "bitch" and tell me to "stay in the car."

I could hear the voices saying "don't be arrogant" and "be thankful for your success" and "you could make more money if you were more universal" and "if you sang like this instead of like that you'd sell more records" and "if you provided clean versions, we'd play your shit on radio." But what those voices didn't understand was that I never started making things for a damn body else. I started making things for me. If other people liked it, that's great! But if they didn't, that was also great. It meant they had an opinion which meant they weren't zombies.

So then, the voices said "well, if you don't care if people like your art, how will you make money?" and "you could "make it" if only you would [add some ridiculous comment based on a VH1 Behind The Music special or Illuminati YouTube classic here] And I started wondering, "why the fuck are you counting my muthafuckin' money? If you have some, why don't you give me yours? If you don't, then why don't you focus on your own damned bank account?" It seems that as soon as I started having fun, everybody became a muthafuckin' accountant. NOBODY WAS TELLING ME TO MAKE MONEY WHEN I WAS IN FUCKING GRADUATE SCHOOL HEADED TOWARD A DEAD END MUTHAFUCKIN LIFE AS AN ADJUNCT PROFESSOR ON FOOD STAMPS DID THEY? no. of course they didn't. that would imply that they would actually have to know something about the academic industry. But I didn't want to go into the academy. I wanted to make music. But soon as a nigga start making music, everybody becomes a muthafuckin' expert on the music industry.

So this season, I'm working on keeping my shit to myself and truly not giving a fuck about what other people think or feel...in other words, getting back to where I came from. What this means is that anyone with expectations of me will either be fulfilled or not depending on what they expect and what I'm doing.

Special thanks to the motley crew of folks who have been supporting me non-stop throughout the mess. Chances are you've experienced similar things. If I end with positivity, it counts as positive.

Love,
Blue

Alternate ending:

It's tricky. I started a thing as a self-fulfilling small-scale coping project, but once the scale got larger, I caved to the pressure of making sure everyone felt welcome. It's a social justice thing I learned. Through desiring to be "communal", I ended up becoming uninterested because my creations no longer served the purpose that they initially intended to serve...which was to give me a way to channel my psychosis and prevent me from ruminating on how completely useless and pointless existence truly is (no athei-o)! Once my completely selfish act got owned by those who supported it, it no longer belonged to me. Things got out of hand fast and before I knew it, my gripe session became a demand from investors to produce "more of that" and an opportunity for complete strangers to call me a "bitch" and tell me to "stay in the car."

I realized that the anger I had been relinquishing into the universe was returning to me as a mockery. Like karma on steroids. I couldn't have a vulnerable thought before a listener whom I'd never experienced in life was there with an evaluation. It's as though my dreams were no longer my dreams. My thoughts no longer my thoughts. How does one confess the things they have not resolved in the face of those hungry for truth, but not peace? Everyone became the author to my story, providing alternate endings and paraphrasing for their understanding that which was very literal in my experience. I was crying for help while others looked on in anticipation with the hopes of being entertained...a likely distraction from their own turmoil.

What I thought would be an anesthesia while I massaged away the trauma became a show for funeral vultures. I am not eloquent. Everything I say sounds like a joke, no matter how much I'm dying inside.

So I have to heal myself. So what? I know as much about healing as Black Jack dealing. How do I count in multiples of 17 while also keeping track of my chips and other people's busts? Who the fuck counts in multiples of 17? And what the fuck is a bust?

Love,
Blue

Alternate Ending #2

 

It's tricky. I started a thing as a self-fulfilling small-scale coping project, but once the scale got larger, I caved to the pressure of making sure everyone felt welcome. It's a social justice thing I learned. Through desiring to be "communal", I ended up becoming uninterested because my creations no longer served the purpose that they initially intended to serve...which was to give me a way to channel my psychosis and prevent me from ruminating on how completely useless and pointless existence truly is (no athei-o)! Once my completely selfish act got owned by those who supported it, it no longer belonged to me. Things got out of hand fast and before I knew it, my gripe session became a demand from investors to produce "more of that" and an opportunity for complete strangers to call me a "bitch" and tell me to "stay in the car."

I realized that the anger I had been relinquishing into the universe was returning to me as a mockery. Like karma on steroids. I couldn't have a vulnerable thought before a listener whom I'd never experienced in life was there with an evaluation. It's as though my dreams were no longer my dreams. My thoughts no longer my thoughts. How does one confess the things they have not resolved in the face of those hungry for truth, but not peace? Everyone became the author to my story, providing alternate endings and paraphrasing for their understanding that which was very literal in my experience. I was crying for help while others looked on in anticipation with the hopes of being entertained...a likely distraction from their own turmoil.

And then I had a conversation with an old friend. A friend whom I'd met when I was still toying with ideas in the living room floor and singing through timid breaks in my voice. She reminded me that I wouldn't be who, where, or what I was if I didn't have a purpose. That sometimes, our suffering is intended to be that which teaches another not to suffer. That our stumbling block is ours to remove from the path, preventing the broken toes of those who follow. Moreover, that I was not suffering alone. I was merely the voice of this brand of suffering...a brand that was ignored until right now. In writing the sound track to my pain, I am writing the way out in the same way that my freedom was written by Nina and Billie and Alice and Nikki and Audre and Tina and Aretha and Natalie and Gwendolyn and Zora and Lorraine and Maya and Whoopie and Toni and Octavia and Paule and Sonia and Ella and Chaka and Bessie and Gladys and Mary and Lauryn and Erykah and Jill and Lalah and Ledisi and Lena and Dorothy and Etta and Whitney and Janelle and Quentin Tarantino.

Love,
Blue

WE CAN DO IT!

As it concerns media, media access, and the stories told, no one considers that the stories come from the imaginations of the storytellers who built the machine. If a whiteness story is told BY a white writer and a POC is the star, he or she will undoubtedly look out of place. Then "we" complain that media "misrepresents us." The media, as we know it, is controlled and operated by old white men. They built it. They set the rules. If I build my house and set the rules and you don't like the rules, get out of my house. If we want accurate representations of ourselves, we have to create and implement these representations. And there are many more ways to do this than television: books, zines, music, education, food, cinema, dance, etc. The internet is a fantastic tool. If you ever have a complaint about how "we" are represented (whoever "we" may be), get your own medium and get busy. You've just nominated yourself as a part of the solution. No excuses. Nope. Not even that.

Oh, and about "them" providing "us" access just because we "demanded it": that is fundamentally ridiculous. Why would I let you into my house if I didn't want you there? And if you demanded entry into my house, I would defend my house by any means necessary. And so would you. So get over it. It's time to grow up.

Another option is to simply unplug. Believe it or not, "we" were never trying to escape nature until we aligned ourselves with "them."

Can you think of other options? I'm sure you can! Let's think of options! Then, let's follow through! YAY!!!!

Love,
Blue

Hot Fun in the Portland Sun

Just came from the convenience store. I asked the clerk how his day was going. He said "Long. Folks keep coming in here for AC because they house is hot. I be like 5 minute maximum. Get yo ass outta here."

Nobody has AC in Portland. And every year, it gets hot for about 2 weeks and all the fans sell out at Target and Fred Myers (the we sell every damn thing store)...apparently people buy new fans every year...I don't know. This year, it's been hot all summer. It usually ain't this hot this long. However, being from the StL, THIS AIN'T SHIT! I'm loving this 90 degree during the day 70 degree at night weather. Ya'll just don't KNOW!!! Cuz I know that when it gets hot in StL, it's 110 degrees with a 150 degree heat index and 100% humidity. We be prayin' for thunderstorms cuz at least then the humidity will fall down instead of just hover. Then, the power goes out and everybody ends up and McDonalds trying to get AC and ice and folks be angry than a muthafucka. These Portlandians don't know heat. They don't know how good they got it.

Love,
Blue

Malcolm X vs. Ronald Reagan

Reza Aslan writes a book about Jesus and the critique is "Why is a Muslim writing about Jesus?"

Bill Cheng writes a book about rural black Mississippi and the critique is "Why is a Chinese-American from Queens writing about black people from the south?"

Adam Johnson, a white man, writes a book about North Korea and wins the Pulitzer.

In our society, white people are granted political correctness to write, talk, sing, paint, or do whatever they want about whatever they want (with a few exceptions. For example, whites can't say "the n-word" in mixed company, but do we really have to tell people not to name call? What is this? 3rd grade?). 

On the other hand, if people of color string more than 2 sentences together that aren't stereotypical or culturally specific, the popular initiative is to discredit them as soon as possible. Both whites and people of color are guilty of upholding these standards due to white male supremacy and degrees of oppression towards everything that isn't a white guy.

That's fucked up for everybody. Not just people of color. "How," you ask?  Let me count the ways:

If sociocultural demographics (including gender, sex, and sexual orientation) are the same across groups:

1. White people are rarely questioned. Information they disseminate sets the tone for how their subjects are interpreted and treated. 

FLIP SIDE: Whites are not held to logic and reason and are free to make terrible mistakes that affect a lot of people. To rectify these mistakes, they become incredibly inefficient and bureaucratic. (see Bush Administration).

RESULT: Society is often put in a position to clean up white folks' mess (see Obama Administration).

2. People of color are scrutinized endlessly for anything they attempt to do, say, or implement.

FLIP SIDE: People of color are forced to be 100% legit 100% of the time and if they make 1 mistake, their whole shit is shut down. When a person of color does something awesome, it's the most awesome thing that has ever been done...and people still try to find something wrong with it (see Michael Jackson Administration).

RESULT: People of color do awesome things in truth and light that other people of color engage with and benefit from. Whites don't find out about it until 20 years later (see Hip Hop).

3. The propagandized underlying belief is that people of color are not intelligent enough to talk about anything but their own experiences (see Shock and Awe Whenever an Intelligent Black Person Talks).

FLIP SIDE: Whites devalue information from people of color and have a hard time learning from them.

RESULT: Many whites have just discovered what people of color have known for centuries and have passed down through oral tradition. Then, they buy shit that represents their newfound consciousness and spiritual awakenings (see Metaphysics/Rastafarianism/Buddhism. For contrast, see Catholicism).

4. Things that people of color say are weighted much more heavily, yet validated much less than what whites say.

FLIP SIDE: When people of color talk, it's a "radical opinion" (unless they're cooning. Then, it's entertainment). When white folks (especially white men) talk, their word is taken as law (see Malcolm X vs. Ronald Reagan).

RESULT: Intelligent people of color have learned to listen quietly and share the important info through literature, music, poetry and discussions with open, appreciative audiences while white folks continue to complain that they've been misled by the powers that be. Then, they have rallies and march and shit like that while the powers that be look on in amusement (see Occupy Movement).

People of color are silenced by majority culture and therefore, majority culture continues to decline for lack of understanding. I wrote a song about it. It's called The Rain Is Coming and it features Rasheed Jamal. 

Love,
Blue

PS: If you are a white person and you take offense to this blog post, do better. It's possible.

Hard 4 Dees Hos

Hos are a peculiar breed. But I can empathize. Now, I don't want them around me...but I can certainly understand their plight. It's hard out here for these hos. And they don't see a way out except to bring someone else down. The idea of just doing better never quite enters their consciousness. They might almost do better, but then, they don't. 

Honess is a result of never questioning the world and never exploring counter-realities. One thing hos have in common is that their knowledge base is made up of things that people have told them. Their experiences are marred by tragedy and defense, but they have rarely been in positions to make empowered decisions. If they find themselves in such a position, they become extremely frightened. Pimps take advantage of that fear and offer hos a "way." There are a lot of "ways", but once a ho has grabbed on to a way, they will defend that way until they die. 

We all have a bit of ho in us just like we all have a bit of awesome in us. But like the good wolf and the evil wolf, that which survives is that which we feed. 

Love,
Blue

Pronounce It Correctly.

Qongqothwane (translation: knock knock beetle) is a beautiful song in the language of the Xhosa people of South Africa, made famous by Miriam Makeba (who starred as Sarafina's mother in Sarafina). I was first introduced to Xhosa by my historian buddy in crime, Bobert, who made me spicy umngqusho and brought it to my house, but wouldn't let me have it until I pronounced it correctly.

This video features Miriam Makeba performing the Xhosa song "Qongqothwane" which has been nicknamed "The Click Song" by Europeans who can't (or won't) pronounce it correctly.

As Bobert also pointed out, there is evidence from all over the world that people are shifting from just "tolerating" each other to participating in cultural immersion. Cultural immersion is how we learn about the meaning behind the things that we see other cultures do. Once we learn the meanings, we move from being just tolerant to being appreciative: realizing that everyone's culture is really just a window into learning more about ourselves. Watch this:

Love,

Blue

From my Aunt, the genius.

Meet my Aunt Valerie. She's a genius. Some people say she's no good. Fuck them people. I asked my Aunt Valerie what she could tell me about life. This is what she told me:


man's life, better known as society, is fueled with greed, deceptions and lies.


i have learned that i am a product of a spiritual verb and not a physical noun.


sometimes i wonder if GOD and the devil are playing a chess game with me being one of the chess pieces just to see if i will totally show the devil that i that have a deep rooted faith in GOD.


friendship, money, & sex don't mix.


i have learned to laugh at myself and the devil..


i don't take life seriously


a closed hand can't receive or give.


you can learn plenty from the best bullshitter; whether on the street, on the job, or in church.


the best rest in my life came when i slept on the sidewalk. when you lie that low, there is nothing left that anyone can take from you.


forgiveness is the most rewarding sensation.


rape is rape weather physically, emotionally, mentality, and or spiritually.


majority of my blessings come from strangers, me blessing someone with a meal from my table, and just saying may GOD bless you.


never learn the real meaning to lazy.


remember this is a container that hosts one soul with many... and i mean many spirits attached to it.


rainy days are the best days to run errands. all the bitter depressed people stay at home.


i am thankful for meeting my angels in this lifetime.


the most powerful knowledge is GOD'S given common sense. that, something told me, is GOD'S voice.


i have accepted that my ass is flat and my stomach is round because they got switched during this growing old graceful process.


i just realized i am fifteen years away from seventy.


a true-grit friend accepts you with ALL your mood swings and know not to take it personally. i guess that is why i don't have any friends.


when a person talks ill of your personality traits, they are really talking about themselves.

i found out that prayer, faith, and belief leaves no room for doubt, stress, depression, and worry.


believe it or not, i don't give a damn if i am a not remembered after i cross over.


it is a damn shame that you have to pay while you are in this physical realm and after the spirit is released from the container there is always a funeral vulture standing by to try to collect for disposing of the container. hell just throw my container over in the canyon and let it deteriorate like the rest of the biodegradeable containers.


i will always be homeless. i just can't believe in the hype that you can purchase a home. if that is so, why is there a yearly property tax on something you purchased and already paid the included taxes? that is that society's bullshit. i just don't understand.


there is no honor between thieves and robbers.. that is why the government is so fucked up. ill gotten goods are meant to be shared.


a liar and a cheat go hand in hand.


love valerie

SUCK HARD OR GO HOME!

How do you tell people that they suck?

If I am asked or invited into a conversation about bullshit, I'll call it because life is too short to be, well, bullshittin'. However, if I'm not asked or invited, and I just show up, I won't offer anything but a smile. Know why? Because I'm trying to train people to leave me the fuck out of bullshit.

I don't like telling people that they suck. I prefer to look inside and evaluate the varying ways in which I suck. Then, I work to accept that I'm sucking and either suck with more aggression or correct my approach. Denial only wastes time and ain't nobody got time for that. Furthermore, I don't really care if people see that I suck. I know I suck. I'm a human being. As a result, sucking is what I do. Sucking is what humans do very well because we've been doing it since we were infants.

If more people looked within and simply admitted that they suck, then accepted that they suck, they'd be able to spend more time either altering their behavior or being the best sucker in the world. We are a culture of cowards who are afraid to suck or be seen sucking. Fear of confronting the truth is a huge reason for why we're so damn stagnant. Furthermore, when we're doing us well, other people's sucking only becomes an opportunity for us to be the change we want to see.

So from me to you: you suck. I also suck. So let's stop celebrating bullshit because frankly, I don't like doing that. And if you must celebrate bullshit, LEAVE ME the FUCK OUT OF IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Love,
Blue

Feed Your Soul

People get so bent out of shape when folks don't "support" their "events." I used to get upset when my friends didn't come to my performances. Then, I took a step back and realized that I didn't want to be there my damn self. And since I wasn't making any money, I had to ask myself "why am I doing this". I was doing it because I thought that was what good singer/songwriters did: went out into the world and cooned for a couple hours at a time for peanuts. Well, I discovered that good singer/songwriters don't do that. Good singer/songwriters use their gifts and talents in ways that feed their souls. When the soul is getting fed, it doesn't matter who shows up. Ironically, people will start showing up more because they want to be in the midst of that good soul-fed energy.

People also like to pick their crowds instead of letting the crowds pick them. There are times when the people we like simply aren't into what we're into. But that shouldn't stop us from packing houses and not lovin' these hos. Just be who you are and you'll attract the people who like you. Now if you discover that you don't like the people you attract, well, that's a problem for you and your therapist.

On tomorrow's episode of "Being Responsible For Our Desired Outcomes", we'll discuss men who don't like women and the women who love them.

Love,
Blue

Love, Blue

I make jokes a lot, and sometimes, they're even funny. In my jokes, I bitch a lot. It's how I get through my day and if more people wrote our their pain, there would be fewer manifestations of that shit in the real world. I am aware that I'm the only person who can hurt or heal me. I have bad days. I have good days. I go crazy sometimes. Then, I make fantastic seafood dinners for my family. But whatever it looks like and however it seems, love is really all there is.

Believe it or not, there is no such thing as racism, sexism, ageism, xenophobia, homophobia, necrophobia, or agoraphobia. There is only fear. We can tear fear apart, call it different things, evaluate and judge the outcomes of fear. We can clean fear up and implant it with silicon, relax it, wax it, lighten it, and tan it, but at the end of our obsessions, it is still only fear.

We can give fear a job, put a tie on, iron it and keep it away from humidity. We can take fear to the doctor, feed fear, starve fear, give fear a warm place to sleep or regulations to keep it from impeding itself. We can educate fear, give fear titles, and put fear in charge. We can take fear to court, fine fear, beat fear, rape fear, steal from fear, lie to fear, or make fear bow down to us.

We can buy fear and sell fear. We can discriminate against fear and vilify fear. We can wait for fear at the stop sign at 3:00pm and whoop fear's ass. We can destroy fear or create enough fear to keep us all sedated. We can lease fear for 5 years, renew fear for another 2 years, or enter a 10 year fear payment plan. We can call to reduce the payments on fear. We can lie and pretend we never knew fear. We can tell on fear to protect our egos.

But when we get done with our obsessions, our processes, our meeting places, our evaluation stations, our quick fixes, and our drawn out bullshit, it's all just fear. Transcend. Transform.

Love,
Blue

Yes, I'm crazy. Now can we make this music and stop bullshittin'?

Bruce Poinsette of The Skanner News recently wrote an article on me that began with the words, "Not many people will exit an interview, encouraging a reporter to portray them as crazy. Then again, Blue doesn’t claim to be like many people."

Throughout my life, I have been called crazy, angry, insane, sensitive and all forms of dismissive words by strangers and people who are close to me. Women and people of color are often told that they should relax or not take things too seriously when someone who believes they're higher on the social hierarchy does something to piss them off. Essentially, they punch us in the arm and say "that didn't hurt."

Moreover, I have heard countless black women explain away their lack of assertiveness with the moniker that they "don't want to be perceived as the angry black woman," to the point of smiling when someone violates their person or touches their hair or clothing without permission.

I started making subversive art in 2007 while in graduate school. Until then, I had been receiving the typical diminutive gaslighting (see this explanation of gaslighting written by a man, so it's gotta be true, right?) that any young woman of color would receive in this culture. Every original thought I had was disregarded. I dated men who, though way less intelligent than I (and I knew it) had somehow found their way on my list of people I had to prove my value to. I edited and re-edited everything I thought before I said it to keep the people around me from feeling uncomfortable by their lack of experience with information, as compared to my abundance. I found a haven among local poets because, well, they were reading, writing, thinking people. Furthermore, they allowed others to speak their peace without judgment. Untethered and on stage in front of a microphone listening to my own words while others listened as well, I discovered that my original thoughts were not only worthy, but were transformational. I had a guitar, so I started playing music to my original thoughts and people started paying money for them. Once I paid my rent from the money I collected delivering my original thoughts to people, nobody could tell me shit!

But that doesn't mean the gaslighting stopped. In fact, it got out of control! The more notorious my voice became and the more people knew who I was when I walked into a room, the more people would pop out of corners to try to remind me of how crazy I was. Or disrespectful. Or radical. Or untalented. Or fake. Or unaccepted. Or stupid. Or not quite pretty enough for the attention I'm getting. Or can't sing good enough to think I should be able to sell albums. Or that my music is offensive. Or that I should wear some piece of clothing that accentuates certain body parts. Or that I shouldn't dress so provocatively because it sends the wrong message. Or that I'm sending the wrong message! Or that I should get my eyebrows waxed. Or that I should wear my hair in a bun. Or I should wear my hair down. Or I should sing this song like this. Or I should sing that song like that. Or I shouldn't sing that song at all!

There was a breaking point that made me realize that gaslighters are really just cowards. Not much unlike the hecklers at a comedy show. They are too afraid to shine, so they stand in the path of another's shine and try to convince the world that they created the light. I get all that, but being on the receiving end of the bullshit, it wore on me. The breaking point was gradual, then sudden. The breaking point occurred when I realized that I wasn't even enjoying making music anymore because I was too busy feeling some kind of way about gaslighting cowards. Had the cowards won? Had they finally intimidated me into silence?

My shit giving to production ratio skyrocketed in favor of production when I stepped back for a minute and looked at what was really going on: People were loving my music and buying it. Though I could spend a lifetime arguing with naysayers, it was a little harder to argue with the numbers. The numbers told me that I was good enough to make music for a living. When a family member told me I couldn't sing, it didn't affect the numbers. Not one bit.

As a human who has melanin and a vagina, I still experience many people who seem to believe it's their job to put me in my "place". I have no idea where that place is and I don't think they do either. However, I'd love to find out. I imagine that my place would be full of chocolate, malt liquor, and kittens...but I digress...The proverbial "yap yap yap" is so frequent and so loud that it has become gross and overwhelming. It's like what happens when a child is served a plate with too much nasty food on it. They'll play in it. Might even throw it on the wall or smear it on the table, but they ain't eatin' that shit no matter how much you threaten to beat them.

Then, I realized it was time to grow up: time to cook my own food and make my own plate. Then, I could sit down and eat it in peace. And if somebody looks at my plate and goes "ewwww!" I can put them out of my house and never invite them back. Yet, if someone looks at my plate and goes "oooh. That looks good," I can't wait to make them a plate too and even poor them a glass of my most expensive malt liquor! Then, I can invite them back for dinner on another night and encourage them to bring friends. Before I know it, I'll be hosting dinner parties full of appreciative people who like the food I serve...and they'll bring their own culinary creations to share...straight potluck style.

Well, I'm growing up. I am more determined to continue to love music and writing than I am to impress anyone. I don't know exactly what my life story will be, but I know for damn sure that I wasn't put on this planet to make anutha muthafucka comfortable. So as far as calling me crazy goes, I encourage all reporters and media people to do so. It'll make it easier for the other crazies to find me and then, we can have fun potlucks with malt liquor! For those who don't like my food, no worries. You're not invited to the party.


Masigi: "You're a very strange woman!" 

Blue: "Fuck yeah I am. Now the question is, what you got on my 40 homie?"

Love,
Blue

It's 5:00 Somewhere. by Blue

On a walk through the Rose Garden with artsy friend DJ, Blue decides it's time for a beer. Let's listen in on the conversation between them.

Blue: I need a beer!
Dj: but it's only 3:30 in the afternoon!
Blue: So? It's 5:00 somewhere dammit!
Dj: Blue, I think you're an alcoholic.
Blue: Well, since you're doing all this thinking, why don't you help me figure out how to get a beer?

Dear Blue,

Esteban writes:

"Dear Blue,

I am having issues moving on with my life after my separation. I seem to think about my ex constantly and only want to share my life with her. Yes, we have children and have been through hell and back. But I know I love her. With a love only known to love songs and Disney movies. But I'm getting lonely and she's showing no sign of wanting to put our family back together. What do you recommend?"


Blue writes:

Dear Esteban,

First of all, my condolences. Now on to the main course. There are some challenge premises that emerge from your question. These challenge premises are:
1. You want to move on in life
2. You're enamored with thoughts of your ex and a life with her
3. You're lonely
4. She's not that into you.

I say we tackle these issues one at a time with the understanding that we cannot control others. However, we can control our own thoughts and behaviors.
1. Live your life: Take an inventory of the things that you like in life that have nothing to do with "her." Then, do all those things really well. It'll keep you preoccupied until you die.
2. Go there: Give yourself a time limit with a clear beginning and end. Then, sit and think about your wife non-stop for that time period. Perhaps a 3 day ex wife crying fiasco. Turn off the television, radio, unplug the phone. Look at all her pictures and masturbate to all of them. This will take a lot of concentration. I recommend vitamins and naps. Lots of naps. Then, cook all her favorite foods and eat them all. You will gain weight. Watch all her favorite movies and cry to them. Write her a letter that tells all the ways that you love her and then burn the letter with a purple lighter. Make sure to have a bucket of water nearby just in case. Make sure to scream and cry loudly while doing all these activities. Neighbors should be afraid. After the third day, pack a bag with all that you need for a week, put it in your car, pick up your best friend, and drive to Vegas. What happens from that point forward will never be spoken of again.
3. Call your aunt. Your aunt will undoubtedly want company from you and you won't be lonely anymore. Learn to make macaroons and take them to her every Sunday afternoon. As you develop more exquisite macaroon recipes designed to wow your aunt and the other ladies in her book group, you will become the talk of the town. Before you know it, nice ladies from all over the state will be sending you emails wanting to hook you up with their daughters. Their daughters will also enjoy your macaroons. You will become known within the try-state area as "Macaroon Man". You will then open a small shop named after your aunt where you make and sell specialty macaroons and you will employ inner city youths and teach them to make macaroons. You will be featured in TIME MAG as one of the most innovative entrepreneurs of our generation. Then, leave your business to your children with clear instructions on the mission behind defeating loneliness through sharing macaroons.
4. Stop wasting time giving a shit about a muthafucka who doesn't give a shit about you. In short, fuck hos.

Love,
Blue

Show Me Your Soul. A conversation with Teddi B

::: Sex and Souls / My inner thoughts :::

So, Uhuru Rahman (Blue Azul) said "I want to see your soul. Then, I want to rub up against it." and it got me to thinking about something that I have not yet articulated.

All morality aside, sex is a beautiful thing. In fact, its hard for two people to be closer than during intercourse. However, in and of itself the act is not something I necessarily pursue.

I have never (saving once or twice) had sex with anyone who I didn't feel had shown me their soul. And by that I mean their truest self. I have, on many occasions, had women in my bed and didn't attempt to have sex with them. This was a stumbling block for me for many years in adolescence and in my early twenties.

See, for whatever reason, women expect you to want to have sex with them. If you don't, when the opportunity is there, they feel like something is wrong (not necessarily consciously). And this always lead to withdrawal.

I spent a long time thinking something was wrong with me. Like, "how could I not want to have sex with this beautiful woman in my bed? am I gay?" ... I hadn't yet figured out how to articulate the fact that I wanted to Know them, deeply, before I knew them physically. And it was a point of great inner dismay for me for a long time.

In my older years, I learned to recognize what it was that I wanted, though I still never articulated it. Just knowing made me much more comfortable with my decisions. Understanding that societal norms and expectations, are not necessarily the gold standard. It's ok to want more.

and lastly, let me clarify, that we're not talking about "love" in the way that people generally associate it with romanticism. We're simply talking about openness that leads to understanding. Nakedness before nakedness.

Peace,
Teddi B


I was a "late bloomer"...a term I take issue with because it really only means that I wasn't having sex in high school which is kinda what I thought was healthy and sort of lead to my educational and career success because I wasn't fighting the emotional and ovular unexpected consequences...but I digress from my original point...I interacted with men physically beginning in my 20s and was turned off almost immediately. It seemed that the men I attracted viewed me as a way to boost their earning potential and social collateral (money and power). I also may have represented something that would make their mothers proud of them because of what I looked like on paper. I admit that I was not completely innocent. I had been taught to find a young man who was educated and had a job...I mean, this is the lesson that young black girls get: "Make sure he has a J.O.B.!" I was never taught to find a young man who was sensitive and loved me. But how could I be? Looking back, I almost feel as though my family and community attempted to mold me into some type of, I don't know, great hood hope. And of course, all the typical cultural modifiers made their experience of me even more disassociating: nappy headed black girl; doctoral student; musical performer. Regarding my early boyfriends, I have no idea what they saw in me. My truth was that I was confused and doing whatever I could to keep from wanting to kill myself as a result of my severe social disappointment. Sex became something that I figured was just expected of me. A currency for love. Those men I attracted wanted sex from me. They would give me love in return. That's the exchange that I learned. What the men actually thought of me was irrelevant. My relationships with them became proxies for the relationship I had with myself. I found that I was having sex with them, yet wasn't getting love in return. So I'd stop having sex with them. Then, they stopped paying attention to me at all. They became bed warmers and I became less attached to reality. Then, the relationship ended. I had no idea that the love that I so craved was something that I had to give myself. I wish someone had taught me that instead.

Love,

Blue

Bringing Her to Climax: The Eternal Male Struggle. A poem by Teddi B

Bringing Her to Climax: The Eternal Male Struggle
a poem by Teddi B Poet

can't breathe, can't see
can't hear, can't speak
no strength, just will
no valleys, just peaks
stay high, stay strong
don't fall, long strides
breathe in, breath out
don't stop, just try
one more, last one
one more again
good job, keep it up
almost a win
host sun, find shade
no rest, just go
breathe in, breathe out
breathe in, breathe out
in through the nose
out through the mouth
one more, last one
one more again
good job, you're done
progress is fun

(c) Holy Drawers Productions

How to be a REAL Artist. An abstraction by Rasheed Jamal

How to be a real artist by Rasheed Jamal

You're only supposed to give people so much because their minds can only take so much... So, to make "everybody happy" you have to give your "art" time to "breathe"... Therefore, you should release every 3 - 6 months so that you're consistent, but not as overbearing as "less talented artists that make 'bad' art"... (Those people make it harder for "real" artists to get noticed apparently.) These talented, "real" artists can do what they want including and up to nothing at all even to their own detriment because their influx of creativity gives them the flexibility to make up scapegoats as time passes until finger pointing is what their true strength is.

(c)2013 Holy Drawers Productions

You know you're an artist if...

You know you're an artist if...
1. You feel like you're surrounded by zombies.
2. Offending people is like eating flax. You don't like it, but you add fruit to make it more palatable.
3. Nobody ever believes you.
4. You never answer the same question the same way twice.
5. You answer every question the same way.
6. You make your loved ones call you different names to coincide with the clothes you're wearing that day.
7. People think you're insane, yet you accomplish more in 1 day than most people accomplish in 10 years.
8. When people criticize your art, you don't even know what they're talking about and your face will surely show it.
9. You wear costumes in public and engage in eccentric behavior in order to scare people away.
10. You love so hard that it hurts.
11. Everyone thinks they've got you pegged, but they're really only interacting with 8-year-ago-you. They won't interact with current you until next fall.

Transcriptions in the Key of Love

Writer Hunter S. Thompson once said that he would sit at a typewriter and completely transcribe other people's books. He did this in order to get the feeling of exactly what the author was thinking as they wrote. I find it to be a meditative exercise. Transcendentally meditative.

The words of prophets are timeless and universal. As I transcribed the following pieces, I couldn't help but reflect on how applicable they are to the here and now of life. It reminds me that although we enjoy celebrating our egotistical advances in science, technology, business, etc., our collective inhumanity is just as unfulfilling today as it was 50 years ago. The day that we begin to solve the problems that matter will be the day that we truly achieve our greatness as a species. So, how do we solve the problems that matter? Well, we have to start by understanding what they are. Then, we have to care. I think that's half the battle. The other half may have something to do with searching to discover the hurt in ourselves and transforming it into something positive. But what do I know?

I transcribed these pieces to get into the head of the author. This collection is of the pros that touched me the most when I was up to no good in the hood. Though I'd recited them countless times, writing them out established a completely new level of understanding regarding the author's process. I think Hunter S. Thompson was really on to something.

******

Hello Jesus children. Jesus loves you of America. Are you hearing what he's saying? Are you feeling what you're praying? Are you hearing, praying, feeling what you say inside?

Tell me holy roller. Are you standing like a soldier for everything you talk about? Transcendental meditation speaks of inner preservation. Transcendental mediation gives you peace of mind.

Tell me junky, if you're able. Are you playing your cards on the table? Are you happy when you stick the needle in your vein?

Jesus died on the cross for you. Mary is just looking at you. Mother Mary feels so much pain looking at him.

You'd better tell your story. Fast. And if you lie, it will come to pass.

******




Your name is big brother. You say that you're watching me on the tele, seeing me go nowhere. You say that you're tired of me protesting children dying everyday. My name is nobody. But I can't wait to see your face inside my door.

Your name is big brother. You say that you've got me all in your notebook and writing it down everyday. Your name is "I'll See Ya. I'll change if you vote me in as a President of your soul." I live in the ghetto. You just come to visit me around election time. Someday, I will move on my feet to the other side.

My name is secluded. We live in a house the size of a matchbox. Roaches live with us wall to wall. You've killed all our leaders. I don't even have to do nothing to you. You'll cause your own country to fall.

******




Packing my bags-going away to a place where the air is clean.
On saturn, there's no sense to sit and watch the people die. We don't fight our wars the way you do. We put back all the things we use. On Saturn, there's no sense to keep on doing such crimes. There's no principles in what you say; no direction in the things you do for your world is soon to come to a close.

Through the ages all great men have taught: truth and happiness just can't be bought-or sold. Tell me why are you people so cold?

We have come here many times before to find your strategy to peace is war, killing helpless men, women and children that don't even know what they are dying for. We can't trust you when you take a stand; with a cold expression on your face saying give us what we want or we'll destroy.

I'm going back to Saturn where the rings all glow. Rainbow, moonbeams and orange snow. On Saturn, people live to be two hundred and five. Going back to saturn where the people smile. Don't need cars cause we've learn to fly. On Saturn, just to live to us is our natural high.


******




No more lying friends wanting tragic ends. Though they do pretend, they won't go when I go. All those bleeding hearts with sorrows to impart were right here from the start and they won't go when I go.

And I'll go where I've longed to go so long away from tears.

Gone from painful cries. Away from saddened eyes. Along with her, I'll abide cuz they won't go when I go.

Big men feeling small. Weak ones standing tall. I will watch them fall and they won't go when I go.

Unclean minds mislead the pure. Innocents will leave for sure. For them, there is a resting place. People sinning just for fun...they will never see the sun for they can never show their faces. There ain't no room for the hopeless sinner who will take more than he'll give. He ain't hardly gonna give.

The greed of man will be far away from me and my soul will be free cuz they won't go when I go where I'll go. No one can keep me from my destiny.


******




People hand in hand. Have I lived to see the milk and honey land where hate's a dream and love forever stands or is this a vision in my mind?

The law was never passed, but somehow, all men feel they're truly free at last. Have we really gone this far through space and time or is this a vision in my mind?

I'm not one who make believes. I know the leaves are green. They only turn to brown when autumn comes around. I know just what I say. Today's not yesterday and all things have an ending.

But what I'd like to know is could a place like this exist so beautiful or do we have to take our wings and fly away to the vision in our minds?

******




Would you like to go with me down my dead end street? Would you like to come with me to Village Ghetto Land? See the people lock their doors while robbers laugh and steal. Beggars watch and eat their meals from garbage cans.

Broken glass is everywhere. It's a bloody scene. Killing plagues the citizens unless they own police. Children play with rusted cars. Sores cover their hands. Politicians laugh and drink drunk to all demands.

Families buying dog food now. Starvation roams the streets. Babies die before they're born; infected by the grief. Some folks say that we should be glad for what we have. Tell me, would you be happy in Village Ghetto Land?


******




We are amazed, but not amused by all the things you say that you'll do. Though much concerned but not involved with decisions that are made by you. But we are sick and tired of hearing your song telling how your'e gonna change right from wrong. Cause if you really wanna hear our views, you haven't done nothing.

It's not too cool to be ridiculed, but you brought this upon yourself. The world is tired of pacifiers. We want the truth and nothing else. We would not care to wake up to the nightmare that's becoming real life. But when mislead, who knows? A person's mind can turn as cold as ice.

******




A flake of snow within a storm. A new way waiting to be born in a world with need of change. A touch of love in fear of hate. A rushing wind that's asked to wait for the promises of rain. A pearl of wisdom entrapped by poverty.

She gives love with purity, filling minds with hopeful schemes to build worlds enhanced by peace. Draped in sparkling morning dew, she expresses life anew from the earth beneath her feet. She is a flower that grows in love ability. She's femininity.

Black orchid, why did they make you begin when they know in time you'll find your truth before your cycle ends? Black orchid, why are you crying their fears when the true reflection of you that they see is love besieged by years?

She has touched the farthest star. Her beauty speaks of what we are and her freedom makes us free. Her now is in eternity; infinite to all that see and her dreams have been achieved. Now, there is a sound of laughter. Nature sings out her name for the world to know her fame.

Black orchid, why did they criticize when they knew your love could cast its spell and consecrate their eyes? Black orchid, why do you linger in space when you know in every heart that beats, you hold a special place?


******


Who knows where these writings came from?

Love,

Blue