“i live in the ghetto. you just come to visit me, ‘round election time.”

As yet another Election Day is upon us, I can’t help but wonder: how many people will be heading or marching to the polls with a clear(headed) agenda? How many will be voting with their HEARTS and not with their fears? And for all the millions that do vote, just what issues will they be basing their vote upon?

Considering the history of Black people and People of Color in this Country, for anyone to NOT exercise the right to vote is tantamount to a slap in the face to all those who struggled, fought, even lost their lives to see that we were afforded this basic Constitutional right!

I hope people will take that history and that struggle into consideration, and bring it right along with them into their voting booth. I hope people will vote with the truth of their hearts, and the voice of their conscience. With all the political hype and hoopla, it is far from being a perfect system, yet it remains (a small) way for us to send our voices directly to those who are supposed to represent us and our needs. This can not be ignored!

It's rare for me to use a video to make a point within the confines of this blog. However, this particular one reveals so much Truth that it seemed appropriate to include it here. It's a compelling look at America. It’s the America far too many people know by heart. It’s also the America some never see, and others never bother to consider.

There’s a line from Stevie Wonder’s Big Brother that reads:

“I Live In The Ghetto. You Just Come To Visit Me, ‘Round Election Time.”

Indeed. Maybe that’s the Real TRUTH of politics.

Watch this video, and I DARE you not to feel something!



"Big Brother" ( By Stevie Wonder)

“Your name is big brother
You say that you're watching me on the telly,
Seeing me go nowhere,
Your name is big brother,
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 got me all in your notebook,
Writing it down everyday,
Your name is I'll see ya,
I'll change if you vote me in as the pres,
The President of your soul
I live in the ghetto,
You just come to visit me 'round election time

I live in the ghetto,
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 nothin' to you
You'll cause your own country to fall!”




*Mad props to the talented artist/visionary “Rizashi” for putting together this compelling video.





One.

Aging, Like Life, Is Kinda Insidious, But It Beats The HELL Outta The Alternative

It happened yesterday. I didn’t start out being or feeling any differently, but then… LIFE happened.

While walking from Grand Central Station about 11 blocks into midtown, I felt this severe CRAMP in my left calf. It seized upon the muscle with such an intense vise-GRIP that I literally HAD to STOP, and stop immediately! I've always hated it when getting my-serious-tunnelvision-NYC-destination-stride on, then suddenly some fool just STOPS short in front of me and messes up my rhythm!

Never was a fan of those blatant rhythm blockers! Now, I was becoming ONE of those annoying people!

I told myself: ‘Shake it off, yo! This is embarrassing! Just keep walking, damn it! You have an appointment at 11. Let’s make it happen!’

So, I began to walk again, this time a little slower, and more tentative, to avoid the chance of that damn SEARING calf-pain thing recurring. Gradually I began to notice all these people (a couple of ‘em even had CANES!) just gliding by me. These people were not only, passing me, but leaving my slow azz deep in the Manhattan dust! WTF?

Truthfully, this bothered me a little. I can vividly recall being one of those physically-aggressive people who would often beat the subway by walking to my destination with a brisk long-legged stride. Where was THAT cat at? Suddenly, I WAS NOT THAT CAT anymore.

So, I make it to the appointment, a mere five minutes late, calf still feeling numb and uncooperative, but the rest of me was none the worse for the wear. We conduct our business. These were young professional people, handling things efficiently, and it was kinda cool. Although some nagging little thought in back of my head wondered: ‘How old is this person? They seem REALLY young. I wonder how long they’ve held this position, and just how much experience could they possibly have?’

Admittedly, this was a straight up ageist attitude. Nothing peeved me more than being in my early 20s, fresh out of school and having to deal with the often patronizing attitude of people not thinking I was capable of doing my job; even questioning my age and experience. The nerve of those tiresome mofos! Hmmmm. Déjà vu all over again. Only, I didn’t say anything rude or ask any probing questions. It was just one of those mental convos I was having with myself.

So I leave the office, and head back to GCS. Though I’m moving a little slower, I’d like to think I'd retained some of my cool understated dance, and that my patented L.M. Ross swagger was still intact. But who the hell knows? Again, I’m noticing people of all shapes, sizes, genders, and ages passing me by.

Finally, I make it to the station. But dammit! I’d just MISSED my train! Maybe if I had been walking with more pep and energy, I woulda made it on time! Pissed at myself, I sat and waited aboard the next train which departed in a half-hour. I was virtually the only person sitting in my car. But I HAD to sit. Trust! Sitting was MUST. My leg was beginning cramp up and ache again.... and PAINFUL as it was, I didn’t wanna start crying out loud in agony, while in public. That woulda been tres uncool!

So, I’m chillin in a secluded seat in back of the train. Gradually it begins to fill with people. People of all sorts… a typical NY crowd. As the minutes count down to the train’s departure, the car gets so full that instead of sitting in the seat next to mine, people choose to stand rather than risk intruding upon my presence. Who was I Quasimoto? What was I, hideous? Grotesque? Or just black enough to be seen as dangerous? Ordinarily when that’s happened in the past, I actually liked the fact that I could stretch out and have my own space during the hour long ride home. Only, yesterday it kinda bothered me, and I can’t really understand why it did.

So, the conductor rolls thru the cars, collecting tickets. I notice he looks about 25, maybe. And then I lazily gazed ahead. The car was full of faces and everyone on that train appeared to be younger than me. Decades younger. Not school age. Full ADULTS! Only these adults were considerably younger than myself. Even the people who might APPEAR to be older than me were most probably YOUNGER than me. As you mature you can tell certain things about people, detect their age range by their posture, their graying domes, their body-weight and its distribution, the amount of fat under their chins, etc. So, I determined that I was the oldest person in that entire car of more than 60-75 people. That's a very sobering reality.

Suddenly... I’m ancient. Suddenly, I'm feeling very old and alone in NYC.

It was one of those Twilight Zone Moments: Witness... A young man boards a commuter train, and he ages, light years, before the trip expires...


I took out my notepad & scribbled the following thoughts:

When did this happen? When did I become OLDER than everyone else in the room, older than everyone else in my orbit, everyone I’d see, meet, or come in contact with during the course of a day? This strange phenom began to take flight when I realized a profound shift: the people on TV, in movies, people in the media, the reporters who delivered the news were suddenly all younger than my self. It wasn’t always this way, but it clearly is now. But Bigger than this: The people who run the government, the people who make the laws, the people who are in executive positions, the people who are technically, my bosses, are all younger than me.

I’m beginning to feel not only OLD, but invisible on this train! No one pays attention. Am I really here? Look at them all with their iPods tuning out the world around them! Hey, I’m hip too, yo! Hell, I have an iPod, and I coulda brought mine with me today, but I wanted to least appear professional! Self-involved people can be such a panic!

Where are those beautiful older-than-me gray-haired people???? Is there a special train just for them???

I stopped going to clubs a while back. The music was amped up waaay too LOUD! Most hip-hop bores me. I’d wonder: Where was the REAL MUSIC? I missed it. Club-life… it didn’t seem comfortable anymore. It actually felt a little silly inside my spirit to even BE there, and check it: I once was a cat who LOVED to dance, could dance my azz off, and was known for this… Now, I’m sitting here, leg HERTIN like Hades’, and still a little fatigued from a 22 block walk that would’ve taken me about 10-12 minutes in my prime.

I’m OLD, yo! Not getting! Done GOT OLD, yo! Time for me to even stop saying the word: “YO!”

And when I finally come out of this Twilight Zone Moment, will I hear Rod Serling's voice narrating this incident? Or will he be at the sliding doors to greet me in that eerie staccato voice? Suddenly, I realize even the reference to Rod Serling is a tad dated, old, about to become archaic.

Dammit! GET HIP, MAN!!!!


The conclusion of this entry is simple: Life doesn't care about what once was, nor what we've planned. And getting older is sometimes a bitch; a lonely, Twilight Zone-type bitch, but it still beats the hell out of the alternative.



One.

WEED: What's So BAD About Feelin' GOOD?

Should Cannabis Be Legalized?

Leave it to Cali…

“Despite leading in three of four public opinion surveys, the fate of Proposition 19 on the November ballot remains up in the air. The initiative, billed by its advocates as a "common sense" approach to marijuana control, appeared to be sailing to victory in late September when the venerable Field Poll found it leading by 7 percentage points among likely voters. Since then, however, Proposition 19 has experienced a series of setbacks -- last week a survey by Reuters/Ipsos, with a much smaller sampling than the Field Poll, found the initiative trailing.

Proposition 19 would permit any Californian who is 21 or over to grow marijuana for his personal use. It would also, more controversially, permit California's 478 cities and 58 counties to set their own rules on regulation, taxing, and retail sales of marijuana, creating what even some proponents of legalized pot say is likely to be a crazy quilt of new regulations. Nine California cities have advisory measures on the November ballot, seeking voter guidance on the taxation rates that should be imposed for marijuana sales.”

*Writer thinks to self*... Self, by writing this entry, are you allowing friends, fam, perfect strangers and lurkers to peep your cards, and expose your socio-stee-lo?

If so, awwwww... what the Hell!

Hereitgo:


Recently I was rewatching this documentary called “WEED” which was very, VERY, VURRRR intriguing. Pssst! Can we be real? Let’s face it: Mad millions of people DO smoke weed, pot, grass, trees, hemp, reefer, gangster, chronic, herb, skunk, boom, babbit, ganja, jism (a covert Miami term my friend P.S. uses), blunt, bud, ‘jane or whatever. Fill in the blank for your own personal choice of herbal stank.



But for *some*, we reach the age and a time where we stash the pipe, put that most potent jay away, and embrace this newfound responsibility called “Maturity”, right? Ahhhh yes... that M-word or some such flight of fancy ish.

Yet, this flick “WEED” hipped me to the naked fact that vast communities of people are still indulging wholeheartedly, passionately, and yes, balls-to-the-wall in the weed. Trust! Not all of them are mindless spaced-out cadets, or ex-hippies, or marginal people lost in a some whack 60s haze of reefer madness. Many of these are businessmen and biz-women, entrepreneurs, respectable humans, even professionals and intellectuals and shiznit. I’m telling you-- they ran and do run the virtual gamut.


Some were straight-laced politicos, others talking heads with expressed manifestos. There were lawyers, legislators, and barrister types fighting for the right to smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em. Some were MD’s exposing the enhanced medical bennies, documenting its pain-relieving effect on the chronically (no pun) sick and cancerous. Many formed segments outside of this staid society, and they argued, quite effectively, for the legalization to puff and pass the righteous pipe.


This flick was mad enlightening on the schoolin’ tip documenting the many uses of hemp and cannabis. It displayed a wide variety of fashion statements— including shirts, blouses, coats, jackets, belts, shoes, entire suits—all hemp derived. My boy Woody Harrelson was right-- just creatively and environmentally alone, its uses would seem endless.

I love it when a film can entertain, inform and downright educate my azz, like: didja know The Declaration of Independence was written on hemp? So, just how many of our brilliant founding fathers were also blatant and chronic stoners? Ponder.

Didja know weed-smoking dates back to (and even before) biblical times? Hmmm. Just think of those heady consequences alone!


The film also touched upon the socializing aspects of weed. Yes, it’s been tried and proven true how it seems to break down those old tired walls and barriers that continually plague and separate us as a people. Ya know: that whole racial, class, socio-eco, religion and sexual wall.


Ah! Yes. I kept viewing with renewed interest, and then, things began to get downright spiritual, yo. Several folks waxed and waned, ebbed and flowed on the even flow of communal smokers. I mean whole the peace-mentality, the stone proclivity toward art and freer expression, easy exchange, the birth of ideas and mile-wide smiles, and yes, that oh-so-freeing ritual inherent in the puff-puff-pass. For some, there’s a kind of natural and unified Zen in the shared benefits of the bud.

Ah! Yes! The bennies. I am not about to front Bill Clinton-style and tell you “I didn’t inhale.” Trust. In my day, I inhaled, plenty! But just hearing this film's testimonials made me recall those lively concerts I’d attended in my so-called reckless youth.


There I’d be, at The Garden, deep in my element listening to Earth, Wind & Fire JAM, when some stranger with long hair taps my arm and offers me a hit of his waaay spacey weed. Who me? I’d accept, inhale and my eyes would widen and crisscross, signaling its powerful potency. He’d nod in a gesture that I should pass it along to my date, and then the next, and so on and so on and scooby doobie-doo. And suddenly, deep inside some lovely bliss-state, we’d all just become these new, cool afroed and long-haired friends.


Unlike alcohol, where aggression and violent mood swings are often a nasty little after-effect, weed gave me a such a mellow, a sense of grace, a certain openness, and dare I say, a more positive generosity of Spirit.


Yes, in the burned-out brain cells of my once reckless youth, I do recall the radiant cool of instant camaraderie brought on by a few hits of the “evil weed.” All it took was to indulge in a session, and before long-- I was lovin’ these people, feelin’ these people, noddin’ my noggin and diggin’ these people. I wasn’t mad nor resentful of anyone.


*Light Bulb. Light Bulb!*


Suddenly, I had this silly very early morning epiphany: Hey! What if all these warring World Leaders got together, loosened their ties, and undid their head wraps; and what if they unclinched their uber-tightened azzes, removed the strain of their leather shoes, slipped on some hemp sandals, sat on the floor and shared a communal bong together? Think of the possibilities, the ideas, the laughter in that room.


Anyway, back to this modern day and time: watching “WEED” enlightened the hell outta me. Trust! I’m not about to go on a rampage or stand on a soapbox and demand our government get off their old tired ethics. Methinks, with this current administration, such a shout would seem useless.


Besides, I am NOT, repeat NOT, an advocate for the widespread legalization of ALL drugs. Drugs kill! I know this vividly. Hell, I’ve seen it, up-close, and too damn personal to speak about it.


But marijuana has the ability to Save more than Kill, to enliven more than deaden, to relieve more than stress. That’s the truth as I’ve seen it. Personal experience and this "WEED" documentary, more than anything, brought that reality to the surface.

That’s it. That’s all. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, y'all!


One.

Getting Drunk... With Truth...

Over the weekend, I drank and I drank, and I drank some more. Vodka martinis were my grog of choice. Don’t get it twisted! It wasn’t a binge or one of those traumatic, deep-seated alcoholic bender things. It wasn’t a scene from The Lost Weekend starring me, as the negro Ray Milland. I was just imbibing the steady grog and pondering the gods of my own inner ponderation.


I don’t drink very much anymore. I don’t drink to get high. I don’t drink every time my mind or spirit want to celebrate. I don’t drink to call upon my sleeping bravery. I don’t need to drink to get blatantly ballsy, and I don’t need a drink to score. Still, there are some rare times I’ll drink to remember, or I'll drink to forget the things that distress or floor me.

Often, I’ll see people who drink, as if on a mission to get drunk, get lit, get loose, get bent, get wild, get busy, or get crazy-- constantly. I’ve my own theories about drinkers and drunks, and the drinks they drink.

Some do so to collapse and defeat the curse of being them selves; to rid their minds of the people they are the majority of the time. They drink to escape the job, the boss, the wife, the huzzz-ben, the kids, or the past they’ve lost. They drink to give themselves permission to laugh or cry, to bitch or become mad violent at their world… that world in their mind, that darker world they sometimes inhabit.


I see it. I witness it. I get it. I do.

See, I’m that dude behind the bar, the one who facilitates their intake. I’m the master prestidigitator of their personality overhaul. I’m that cat who watches their habits, morph, who hears their voices rise, their words slur. I'm the one who sees their posture loosen. I'm the one who liberates their inner thoughts. See, it's me who unchains the insanity... and soon they are engaging with their freer tongues.

I sometimes even like them drunk— the friendly ones, at least. I grin, sometimes even laugh out loud when their inner comedian’s are unleashed. Some people are human light shows when lit by the neon of alcohol. They can be very entertaining. I like those people. And they like me. Maybe it’s a sham. Maybe they really do. Or else they affect an attitude that resembles fondness by escaping the confines of a sometimes racist persona, and despite their true hillbilly-hearts, they manage to put-on a helluva fakery. Who knows?


But then there are those belligerent drunks. These are the ones who hate their lives, out loud. These are the ones who relinquish all control, lose their tongues, and surrender their charisma quotient. Their words become like great titanic farts, nasty, stinky, offensive-- harsh. Their eyes get crazy. Beware the crazy eyes! The transmogrification begins with the language of the eyes, and the mouth and the hands. Some toxic chemistry sleeping within becomes awakened and roused, and these toxins move through the body like mercury. That thermostat which controls and measures tolerance, suddenly blows. It cracks its glassed enclosure, and all HELL can break loose!

Trust. I’m not such an admirer of the belligerent drunk. Not a fan of those people housing those great chunks of rage, or possess some thick and combustible funk. To see them, hear them, or have to restrain them when they get physical, often makes my gig a living Hell.


Well, this weekend, I drank. I drank and I drank and then, I drank some more. I became neither the comedian nor the combatant.


Instead, I got in touch with my introverted side, my inner grotesque, my quietly fiery cat... that woe-is-me taboo blues cat. I’m not sure you’d like him much. I’m not sure he’d even talk to you. He gets lost in his music, gets caught in the twists and turns and traps of life. It’s then that he takes refuge in fits of prolonged brooding. He writes songs and poetry direct from his soul. He composes stories he never shows to anyone.

He gets vaguely pissed at his station in life. He grows impatient with the tediously slow-ass rhythm of his progress. He wonders why mediocrity is so often applauded… while emotional substance so often gets ignored.


He misses the company, the shining personalities, that singular sound of laughter from those people who are no longer inhaling air. When vulnerable, he speaks to them, there, in his dark room, alone, hoping to commune with their ghosts.

He wonders whom among them he’s most disappointing. Which of them has turned their backs to him, and which ones still stand in his amen corner? He thinks these deep thoughts. He gets lost in thought. Sometimes I think he thinks too damn much. He doesn’t cry very often. But he’s been meaning to… just fall down upon his knees to moan and sob and cry and scream and WAIL for quite some time.

I don’t think you’d like him much. But I really don’t think he’d care.



He doesn’t drink to celebrate, to get brave, or ballsy. He doesn’t imbibe the elixir to up his charisma factor. He doesn’t drink to feel mad sexy or even to score. But sometimes he drinks to remember, and sometimes he drinks to forget those quiet little tragedies he tries to ignore, when they beat so loud, so hard and so close to his chest.

So, he gets into these moods… they last for a bit… and then, by way of God and Music, he breeeeathes… he's free... and he just gets over it. And then… he tells himself:


Just

Snatch

JOY!




One.

No Disrespect Intended But... Please Put Away The God-kit, Yo!

Okay, so check it: After a prolonged disappearing act, a (formerly) close friend of mine recently resurfaced, right? Only, this person who appeared before me was the new and improved dude. You see, it was that whole other person version, because apparently they've now had a religious conversion. In fact, I received the Miraculous news that they have recently been “Saved."

Amen.


Wow! Will wonders never cease?


Now, MY end of the convo went a lil sum’m like this: “Wow! Saved? You? For real?” This was followed by a short GTFOH chuckle. However, internally, trust... I was busting a mad gut and cackling with a big ole guffaw. And although this was Zen laughter on my part, I was hoping the amusement at this concept doesn’t show on my face.

However, in return, only this seriously dour no-nonsense expression flashed back at me.

“Oh. You’re for real? oTAY. My bad. Then let me say, congratulations and Amen, my brotha."

Somebody shout hallelujah up in here!


BUT... then it came. The pointed, accusatory, wholly judgmental question: was I “prepared for Judgment Day?” Had I gotten *my* "house in order?"

Well, urruh, I'm lookin into coppin some new furniture, but... Oh no!

Already, I could FEEL it. IT was a-heading my way: some ass-backward, misreading, misinterpretation of Biblical scripture thrown in my face. It was something I'd heard enough times to be accustomed to it, but something about it didn't ring true. Was he even remembering correctly? Ummm... I think not.

Check please! Gotta go. Bub-bye.

No, I'm not completely jaded, but somehow, I *do question* that person’s new conviction. Why? Because in this case (and others) it’s usually such a foreign entity that's 180 degrees away from the person they’d always shown themselves to be. It’s almost always some violent diversion from the norm or the soul I’d come to know. So, it sometimes becomes difficult to fully wrap my brain around this new person, and this new flow.


Now, far be it from me to question anyone’s convictions, religious or otherwise. As far as I know, it COULD very well be legit. At least, THEY believe it to be. So, more power to them! I just find it amusing and yes, *amazing*, that it's always the ones who went buck-wile, who were *known* at the party, who had the baddest rep, who you'd usually cross the street to avoid, who, back in the day, were voted Most Likely to Commit a Felony or an atrocity (& in some cases, they actually DID!). These tend to be the people who up and suddenly find The Light. I mean, what's up with that? Why is it them — and always those somewhat unstable, part-time criminal, carnivorous, predatory, sexually— urruh-- liberal, bed-hopping, hemp-smoking, coke-sniffing, smack and crack-abusing hellions? Huh? Why those folks!

Hey… How bout we regular folks, huh? How about the one’s who go from day to day being regular, thinking regular and treating people and the world as humanists do? How about those of us who are not abusing anything or anyone, who DO have a belief in a Higher Power, but feel no need to SHOUT it from the highest tower and have to make it our mission to convert errrbody in our path?

I need to understand the impetus for these so-called conversions, yo.


Okay… the obvious answer is, they’d hit rock bottom with a pronounced BAM, BOOM! They had to go through some mad and daunting utter darkness to get to the other side of it. I can respect that concept, and I accept that answer.

So, if you truly had that redemption experience, and you have changed, that's a Beautiful Thing.

Just please don’t go around viewing me differently or calling me out, or describing MY ways as “sinful"... when we are ALL sinners! True Story: Perfection will always elude us!

So, don’t go approaching people in your orbit and commence to whipping out your God Kit!

Yo! Get back! It's tired. Just put it away! Aiight? That shit don’t fly with me.

If I KNEW you back when you were a stone hell-raiser, and I liked you, dug you, and accepted you as you were, don’t suddenly start quoting scripture (incorrectly!), chapter and verse to me! You ain’t-- repeat... you are NOT anyone’s Biblical scholar. Aiight? Don't make me speak my mind, and then dare tell me it’s flawed... simply because it doesn't fall in line with your newfound (so-called) Enlightenment!

The Bible is a Wonderful and Wonder-filled Book, that is, in many ways archaic. And beyond all that, face it: it’s been translated from its original text, retranslated, regurgitated, updated, revised and remixed by MAN— dig? So would it not stand to reason that some crucial Truths have to get lost in the mix? Does it not make common sense that some other human’s agenda gets thrown into that sauce?


Please don’t hate on me or see me as lesser than YOU simply because these days we seem to be thinking quite differently. I’d love to debate you about words and freewill and other complexities within the text, but it occurs to me, you ain’t nobody’s theologian nor a preacher, yo. So, just calm yourself! Just breeeeeeeathe, baby! Don’t make people avoid you like the plague, or begin to *hate* on you because you’ve suddenly turned all Holy and Sanctified. Aiight?

Besides, so many times, far too many times, in fact, all that self-righteousness and holiness tends to expire. Much like a loaf of bread, it feeds you, gives you sustenance for a while, and then… it gets old, begins to mold, becomes rancid, and you throw it away. When all that crumbles into dust, then WHO are you?

What happens then?

Well, most of the folks I've known end up just as fugged up and disillusioned as they ever were, or even more so. But don’t blame The Man Upstairs because your God-kit is in the repair shop, in disarray, in shambles. Aiight?

So your preacher, pastor, rabbi, guru, bishop, priest, spiritual leader shows himself to be a fraud. Oh no! Oops! There goes your religion. Right? Wrong! You've simply placed your faith in man, again. And just whose BAD was that… God’s? Or yours?

ponder

So, you’re Holy, now? Wow. You're redeemed! You’ve found The Way? Cool. You’re Saved. Wonderful. Wunnerful. Wonder-filled, I say.

Just please make sure your God Kit stays intact; that your Deep Conversion Mode is not some flavor-of-the-month-demi-holy act! Try seeing to it that your belief system doesn’t shut down in a time of Real Crisis, and you get weak and revert back to type! Should any of this happen (& it often does!) then, my friend, you’ll be just another fraud who ain’t really down by anyone’s law. Then, you really ain’t Saved. You’ve simply just put your wild days, wile azz and wile ways, on layaway.

Aiight? Bless up, and have good day!

Whew! I just had to get that one off my chest.


One.

 

A Meditation On: The Myth of Manhood

The Myth of Manhood






We offset masculinity
With bravado and obscenity
Afraid to embrace sensitivity,
We disconnect from our poetry.

We boil in soups of complexity
And stew in our futile brutality
Too fearful to reveal our humanity,
We ignore our peace mentality.

We inflict our core fragilities
Upon weaker ones, for clarity
That we are MEN... a phallically-
Challenged curiosity, with no idea of
How to be.

We shield our insecurities
With braggadocio and hyperbole
Ignore our wounds and maladies
Projecting our faux-vitality.

We erect and flex our sexuality, yet
Disguise our chronic uncertainties
We exaggerate our salaries
As we over-inflate our reality

Refusing to acknowledge our fallacies
We stoop to acts of inhumanity
We masturbate our M-16s
And falsify our legacies...

We’re victims to this harsh disease
Contorting our souls into machines
Terrified that shows of empathy
Might destroy our guise of

Masculinity. Yes, we are
MEN. We stew, we boil in
Soups of complexity, with no idea of
How to simply

be.



One.





copyright © 2010 by L.M. Ross

Accepting Duh Love & Passing Some On...

Good news is something I never take for granted, and today I’ve some good news to share. It appears that the very captivating Anna Renee aka “Sista Westsiiiiide”
(as I like to call her) has deemed to bless me and this blog in a large, remarkable, and mad lovely way. She has tagged me in a meme she’s participating in, which originated at the Electronic Village Blog.

In doing so, she writes: “It's for black bloggers to introduce themselves and share about their interests and other black bloggers they know.”


Coolness. I’m extremely honored. Realizing there are tens of thousands of other worthwile blogs out there, it’s really quite humbling to have been chosen. However, being selected from the multitudinous masses had me scratching my nappy head, wondering, WHY me and my blog? No. I’m not being dense or obtuse, nor am I fishing for compliments. I’m just the curious type.

So… WHY ME, Sista Westisiiiide?

“I chose you and four others out of ALL the lovely blogs out there because you are in my TOP FIVE: For being cool! (I appreciate that there's no East coast/west coast beef between us;

For being funny! For being REAL! Really Real! I’m not gonna talk about your talent. You already know you talented. And for having the coolest blog title and a sign off word!! That ish is cool as hell,” she said.

Oh. Ok. Bet. Well, thankyavurrrmuch! See? I figured it was best to let HER explain it, instead of me talking myself up!

(But you can still APPLAUD me! * I’ll wait*)

Part of the meme is to apply five separate links that help to reveal a lil something about myself and my circle of fam, friends and those things that make my heart beat faster. So the rules of the meme are thus: Create five links about:
• 1. Link one must be about Family;
• 2. Link two must be about Friends;
• 3. Link three must be about myself–who I am, what I’m about;
• 4. Link four must be about something I love;
• 5. Link five can be about anything I choose!

To begin with, I’ve three bigheaded & beloved nephews; the oldest one is named Lang.
Langston


AKA: “The Neph-son,” as I call him. He’s managed to seamlessly infuse the ying and yang, and use both sides of his brain by playing football on his college team, and he’s also an aspiring writer, with an eye on journalism. I’m so proud of him. And yes, it was me who suggested naming him “Langston Harlem”, after the great Harlem Renaissance Poet, Langston Hughes. Thus far, he’s doing that name some serious justice. God Bless him and the other bigheads, Ellington and DuBois!

Then there’s my serene friend Sunni

Her page is a loving homage to the Great African-American entertainers, past and present. I’ve never known a more wonderful person, or a more beautiful spirit than the woman I call “My Sunni-ness!!!” I’m very Blessed just to have her as a close and treasured friend. She’s so down, smart, cool, lovely, spiritual and just a pleasure in every way. Sunni lives in the Philly area, where she and her husband, legendary radio personality, Tony Brown, share the duties of broadcasting a nightly Quiet Storm format at WDAS-FM, bringing good vibes and meaningful music to those who still appreciate it.

As a lover of music, and being a hardcore audiophile, I’m lucky to count a few friends in my circle who happen to be surperb musicians. Some do their thing quietly, going about their lives making music that matters and by doing so, they feed the soul.

My friend Lucas
is one of those cats, specializing in the kind of jazz that makes you tap your feet, nod your head, and yes, THINK at the same time. His vocals are a throwback to a hipper, more polished and classical age, and he continues to set a sterling example of what today’s music can be. So, please, check this dude out!

I’m always a little amazed at how many people have never had what can only be called: The Jimmy Scott Experience. Mr. Jimmy

Jimmy Scott's Facebook Page

No words could possibly describe this man’s gift. Once you HEAR him sing, then you will GET IT. He is the sound of the human soul in its most piercing bluesy, brilliant, emotional, fragile and fantastic echo. His voice is a God-given instrument that taps into something so deep and unspoken within your being that you might listen to him and find tears pouring from in your eyes. He is considered a legend in jazz circles, and having met, spoken to, and seen him perform several times, I feel humbled to consider him a beloved friend. The man is 85 years-young, and still doing his thing! So, roll by his page, read his bio, check the pics (I’m actually in one. “Moanman” cat in the cap would be me). But better yet, go to your favorite music site and download a few of his masterpieces disguised as songs. Once you do, then get ready to be MOVED beyond your imagination.



A lil sum’m about :
Me
I love: the art in and of expression...
I hate: limitations of any kind...
I fear: never having been *felt*...
I hope: there is a Heaven...
I hear: Music, all the time...
I crave: human understanding...
I regret: ever hurting anyone...
I cry: for abused children...
I care: so damn deeply...
I always: breathe...
I feel alone: in my solitude & dig it muchly...
I listen: closely to the lyrics of jazz...
I hide: my deepest pain from others...
I drive: some people crazy...
I dance: with each stride of my walk, yo...
I write: because it lets my soul sing...
I act: like a gentleman... most times...
I miss: the people I’ve lost...
I eat: new KNOWLEDGE...
I drink: vodka martinis, str8-up w/ a twist...
I learn: that life continues presenting new lessons...
I feel: I am a work in progress...
I know: a Creator exists...
I sleep: with dreams as constant companions...
I wonder: why I don’t have wings to fly...
I want: to heal...
I worry: about the future...
I have: a cosmos in me...
I fight: my insecurities...
I need: to purge sometimes...
I am: a human being w/one beak of song...
I think: I'll sing.

Read more: Book Page

While I’m not the most consistent blogger (working two gigs while finishing up a new novel doesn’t leave much free time for anything else, not even blogging), I do enjoy the opportunity to vent, to express, unravel and poetically reveal the goings on in this ever-evolving cosmos within my spirit.

HOWEVER… the hardest part of this whole process is that NOW I must choose/nominate FIVE other bloggers for this rather prestigeous honor! It’s rough to narrow my list down to a mere five blogs when there are so many that I genuinely enjoy visiting, reading, and commenting on because they either amuse me, challenge my perceptions, inform me, and/or basically entertain the hell outta me. However, I must follow the rules, and they state that only FIVE can be singled out, thus… without any further ado, heretheygo:

1. Fellow writer, music lover & all round chill bruh, Jason. I recently discovered his blog and it has quickly moved to the head of my must-read list. There’s something about his topics and his writing style that feels as if we went to different schools at different times, and yet picked up some of the same lessons along the way. This is one of those blog brothas definitely worth checking out:

Jason


2. Curvy. Well I choose her blog because this sista shares the wisdom, drops the science via quotations from various great minds which often serve to inspire, and in addition, she pens blogs in her own voice that consistently keeps it real and relatable. Reading her words often remind me of those good ole days of sitting on the stoop with a few friends, riffin’ on various topics and commenting on the passersby, while one of the neighborhood chicarinas braids my hair. You can find her at:
Curvy



3. Then there’s my girl, Felicia. What can I say about Felicia? She’s a blogger I recently happened upon; a quietly cool and talented sista who doesn’t use any bells and whistles to get her point across, and yet, I’m always intrigued by her poetry and the verbal landscapes she chooses to share with her readers. You just know there’s a caring, feeling, sensitive and active mind composing these thoughts. Check her stuff at:

Mariposa Tales


4. There’s no way I could NOT include Miz… Ok, I admit it. I’m a sucka for good writers who have something to say and express themselves in their own uniquely individual way. Miz definitely fits that bill. An artist, mother, feeler of deeper emotions she’s unafraid to explore or question and she always leaves you wanting more. Her blog is like a beautiful gift you take pleasure in opening just to see what new and beguiling contents lay inside. You will find her at:
MizRepresent

5. Finally, there's that unshakable force known as "Sista Lo!" She is one of the most keeping it Realest Black women who never chafes at revealing all that goes on with both her exterior and her interior life. She is a fearless writer on her journey through love, divorce, family and other personal issues. And yet, for me, whatever she writes about, and whatever her emotional terrain, she always provides a good read! Peep her out at:

LoveBabz


oTAY! That’s it. I apologize for not being able to include more. But, truth be told, copying web addys, setting up links, and making sure they work is a time-consuming enterprise for someone like me who is NOT the most net savvy person on the planet. So mad congrats to the nominees! I hope you will be as honored and perhaps as dumbfounded as I am by this inclusion.

Snatch JOY!

One.

Lin

A Brotha's Sick N' Tired Rant!!!

So, this is my sick and tired of the bullshit rant. It's past due time for it. No. This ain't about me snatching JOY because JOY has been playing Hide 'n Seek with my ass!

I don’t know what the problem is. Well, maybe I do. Lately I’ve been in a deeply dour mood. Been feeling mad stressed, and maybe just a tad distressed. Been feeling overworked, and underpaid… overtaxed and laxly laid. I have been lacking so much for, inspiration, that I’m afraid my soul is now underfed. This could be a case of the typical "I Jess Don't Gits No Respect" Blues, I guess.

In no way, a slacker, I’m just lacking that knack, that zest, that magic drug that makes one feel accomplished. Been working on manuscripts deep into the ungodly hours of the morning, and chances are, no matter my efforts, the work will never be appreciated. Or else, some smooth-ass-ghetto-bred-wannabe-thug-criminally-minded mofo will rip me the hell off. I can’t count on people any more. They leave me thoroughly pissed with their triflin' fits of bullshit and blatant self-involvement.


I’m starting to understand why so many others find solace in the bottle, the beer can, the crack-pipe, in meaningless coitus, or in a needle. I’ve seen too many bad things go wrong for essentially good people. I've seen too much foul shit in general: too much TV and cable news, too much war, and too many viruses, too much of the web, and too much porn and senseless violence.


I’ve witnessed too much of man’s inhumanity to man; the wrong hands placed on women, children, animals… and sometimes I think, just maybe those *needle people* have it right.

I have seen them wandering carefree and aimlessly through the haze of days, and I’m almost filled with envy. At night, these junkies glide down a maze of neon streets, slinking down avenues and onto those roads, less taken. Lately, I’m wondering if the road I’ve taken has really been worth the trip.

I won’t say my head’s messed up, or that I’m depressed. I’m not a big fan nor a subscriber of that concept. Yes. Some people are truly clinically depressed. God Bless them. But other people just use it, own it, cling to the idea of it, until death. I just get down sometimes— that’s all. I get down, and I try to breathe in easy waves, to *center* my chi, and eventually… it goes away.

I believe "Happy" is an unnatural state to be in 24-7, anyway. Lord Save me from those chronically HAPPY(!!!) people!

But I’m tired, damn tired... and bored and deeply uninspired by my day-to-day life.







I’m tired of smiling when my spirit doesn’t feel much like cooperating.

I’m tired of sometimey folks who, at best, can only extend their lukewarm acts of graciousness.

I’m tired of trying to figure and finesse the latest in the hip new handshakes.

I’m tired of making half-broke, half-assed, half-fabulous appearances.

I’m tired of these old clothes that smell like old closets.

I’m tired of the smell of me, my cologne, my hair, my face, my goatee, and my reflection.

I’m tired of people wanting things from me, knowing I’ll most likely be the one *cheated* in the interaction.

I’m tired people telling me “the check’s in the mail!”

I’m tired of practically begging for things that are owed to me.

I’m tired of failure… and of failing to be *felt*.

I’m tired of weird-assed vibes and mixed signals.

I’m tired of nosy people who ask questions that are none of their biz.

I’m tired of making exceptions for ignorant people.

I’m tired of intolerance- even when it comes from me.

I'm tired of fake-azz wannabe "thugs."

I’m sick with braggarts, bling and people who measure their worth by material things.

I’m sick with a media that glorifies this rampant banality.

I’m tired of emails and calls from people with nothing cognizant to say.

I’m tired of supplying wit to thoughtless, witless, depth-free individuals.

I’m tired and bored with my self, my moods, my words, my brooding, and others curiosity.

I’m tired of Presidents, CEOs and powerful people who only possess weak knees.

I’m sick of these new restrictions taking every ounce of my so-called freedom.

I’m tired of the hype, hypers, and the hyping of things I’m supposed to like.

I’m tired of long, boring-ass movies so notoriously overly-priced, that, as a customer, I oughta sue!

I’m sick of exhibitionists claiming to be artists, and really don’t have a clue.

I’m sick of half-assed attempts at music, expensive cigs and TV dinners served cold.

I’m sick of the lies and dissortions of the media, and 15 minute faces I’m supposed to know.

I’m tired of this prevailing phoniness while engaged in my constant struggle to keep it real.

I’m tired of the mediocre shit being praised, tired of preeners and posers and I’m tired of watching what I eat to retain my appeal.

I’m tired of competing, while others are cheating, and I’m tired of these jobs, and the gym.

Sick of entering races I never seem to win. I’m tired of running. Tired of running.

Tired of running and breathing too freakin’ fast!

I’m so tired of the rats, the rat-race and the races of men.

I’m tired of always, always running, damn it!

Sometimes, I just wish I’d learned how to swim.




One.

If You Don't Hear From Me After This ... I Probably Went Buckwild Mental...

Here is something you can’t understand ... How I Could just KILL a Fam:

This music is BANGING! I mean BANGIN’ and shaking the freakin' walls, yo! And as I write this, it is 2:34AM! I came home from work at 1:30. The music was THUMPIN then. I’m beyond bone-tired. At this point, it's more like tired as a broke-down Mississippi field slave, under an oppressive August heatwave. As of this summer, I’ve had to work TWO gigs in order to make ends meet. Yes, it’s rough, but thus far, I’m hangin tuff and haven’t gone postal on a mofo yet!

But the night/day is still young.

The music is BANGIN’!!! Why the HELL is that MUSIC BANGIN like this???

Ummm... Here is something you can’t understand... how I could just KILL a fam!

So, I’m stuck here, WIDE awake, and it’s not from a case of insomnia. No. These rude-ass, egregiously inconsiderate African people who moved in a few weeks ago have a teenaged son who insists upon BLASTING his freaking MUSIC at all hours of the night… And I don’t mean just LOUD, I mean BAZOOKA BANGIN’… with this incessant THUMPIN', BUMPIN', PUMPIN', THROBBIN' BASSLINE until objects in my apartment literally VIBRATE! I mean... WTF!!!!???? Why don’t they just tell him to STOP this madness?!? Why don’t they advise him to respect the sancity of this building!? Why the HELL am I writing this ish, when I should be sleeping?



Here is something you can’t understand… how I could just KILL a FAM!

It’s late Monday night/early Tuesday morning!

And to borrow a line from the Talking Heads: “This ain’t no party! This ain’t no disco! This ain’t no fooling around!”

But apparently, his parents didn't GET that memo! They don’t say shit, don't do jack… as if it’s his world and the rest of us are just crazed, sweaty victims to his non-stop turntablism! It has pissed me off to the point where I’ve BANGED on my ceiling (several times!!!!). But my banging does nothing but get lost inside this BANGIN' beat that he’s been rocking on steady rotation!

Here is something you can’t understand... how I could just KILL a FAM!

Now, anyone who knows me, or who even visits this page would know that I LOVE music. Often it’s music alone that’s been my salvation. So, I’m not hating on it. Even though I’m not a mad hip-hop fan, I can nod my nappy head to it, when it’s played at a DECENT level. Hasn't he ever heard of HEADPHONES? Couldn't they chip in and get him a fuckin iPod or something? There are OPTIONS for people who like to play their music LOUDLY! But, without any consideration for the rest of us, this kid just ups the damn VOLUME until it gives new meaning to DISTURBING the PEACE! And still his freaking parents allow this shit to go on & on... well until the break of dawn!



Here is something you can’t understand.. how I could just KILL a FAM!



History verifies that I’ve had absolutely NO LUCK when it comes to neighbors. I’ve lived in this building (a three-family dwelling) for five years. I'm on the first floor, and a very cool, respectful neighbor; a single Jewish gentleman occupies the third floor. It's the SECOND floor that's had a revolving door of oddballs, rebels and miscreants. Each year, someone new moves in, and each tenant has brought their own set of issues, craziness and unlawful activities that's made living beneath them, a living HELL!

First, there was the young, the restless and somewhat freakish couple who frequently engaged in mad aggressive passionate damn-near bed-breaking sex, just above MY head. My walls are very thin. So whether or not I want to, I HEAR EVERYTHING. Luckily, for me at least, the hubby was one of those 3 minute brothas. But what seriously intense and unhinged three-minute-sessions they would be! They had kids too. Keeids would be more like it. Three lil snot-nosed straight-up bratlings who they would allow to run back and forth and scream at the top of their lungs, using their OUTSIDE voices. The kids, the sex, the running, the screams, that terrible combo platter made the quality of life pretty damned difficult for me. Apparently, some people never quite bought into the notion nor the concept of HOME TRAINING!

Here is something you can’t understand... how I could just KILL a fam!

Then came this mother and daughter team who were straight-up ghetto, in the EXtreme, and had no couth whatsoever. Beyond merely scatological, the cussing was so crazy it would've made the late, great Richard Pryor blush and say Dammmmmn, yo! What The Motherfuck? The daughter had one of those rambunctious young’ns who'd fall, a lot, BAM(!), BOOM(!) and CRIED incessantly throughout the night. Like many New Yorkers, we kept our distance, rarely spoke or made much eye contact, but the one time we did, I WAS GRILLED by the mother who, instead of inquiring who I was, went into badass cop-mode, asking what the HELL I WAS DOING on "HER" front porch, because she didn’t “KNOW” me. I politely told this heifer I was her downstairs neighbor, and I’d been living there since BEFORE she (and her gruesome twosome) had ever moved in. I was just quiet and unassuming and didn’t make a habit of being LOUD with my shit! Then, as fate, and a lack of decent birth control would have it, the daughter turned up preg-nasty AGAIN, and I just KNEW that I could not and would not deal with yet another crying baby OVER MY HEAD! Thankfully, (yes, THANKFULLY!) the landlord raised our rent, which was apparently too steep for them, so they decided to leave BEFORE the birth of a new and raging rugrat.

Ahhhhh, peace and quiet at last... or so I THOUGHT!

But NEXT came the invasion of this oddball mother and son dual, who were Italian and very, very shady types. They never worked, hardly ever left the house, and yet they were constantly running their damn washing machine, at all hours! Of course this was right over MY head. They also had a very large dog, which wasn’t supposed to be allowed, and I never once saw them WALKING said dog, so the hallway smelled fluently of mangy bow-wow. Night and day, that damn dog barked... Night and day that damned machine kept agitating me, and I could never figure out WHY they washed clothes so damned often when they virtually NEVER went out of the house! The only time I recall anyone leaving the place was when the young son ran down the stairs in a fury, cursing in a high-pitched voice and screaming: “I FUCKIN' HATE YOU!” then calling his mother the c-word before slamming the front door! Oh my! I was shocked, appalled actually... but I kept my door locked and minded my own business. Turned out that these two were also grifters, con artists who had several expensive cars, including a brand new Lexus, always parked outside, but none of those shorts were ever driven, and yet, for all their fancy high-priced whips, they still couldn’t manage to PAY their damn rent. They were straight-up gangsta with their attitude and the sheer bombasity of their shit. Then, they just refused to leave once the lease expired, so an ‘official’ arrived to order their now squatting asses out… and they were eventually evicted from the premises. Much drama ensued.

Here is something you can’t understand… how I could just KILL a FAM!




After Ma Barker and son vacated, they were soon followed by a whole mess of Mexicans (to this day I have NO idea just how many actually LIVED above me) who were always NOISY as hell and always hyper-active: Selena's music played constantly, far too many people had keys to the front door, strangers were always in and out of the crib at all hours, and there always seemed to be a party, a freakin' fiesta going on (say it with me) OVER MY DAMN HEAD! The rude awakening came when someone knocked on my back door. I opened it to find a uniformed officer standing there. In all my life, I'd NEVER had a cop knock on my door before. But there he was, asking me questions about these mysterious (and plentiful) upstairs people. I knew nothing. He told me that a “kidnapped 15 year old girl” was reportedly there, against her will. WTF? Beats me. I’d long lost count of how many mofos rolled in and out of that place. I allowed the cop to walk through my apartment, through the hall, and up the stairs to their place, since they'd refused to answer the doorbell (but people with something to hide... rarely answer their doors, do they?). Long story short, the following day, they moved out en masse.


Here is something you can't understand... how I could just KILL a FAM!


This bring us to the bitter PRESENT: I now have these African neighbors, who SCREAM in a language I can't dechiper, who have a teenage-LOUD-ass-music-playing-son, and who don’t have a clue of how to raise a respectful, responsible child. These are the latest invaders of my domicile, and there is NO PEACE to be had! I'm about at my breaking point now. With no sleep, this maddening heat, and the apathy of these people who just don't give a damn about my comfort or state of mind... seems like the perfect storm that could just possibly make something inside me SNAP! KABOOM!

So if by chance you don't see any more entries from me, or I cease to visit your page... it's quite possible that I lost it, took my rage on a killing spree with a blood-curdling scream on my lips, and commenced to go straight-up Son of Sam on some mofos! All because, at 4:15AM, I blew a gasket, went mad as hell, and I just couldn't TAKE it any more. Aiight?

Here is something you can't understand... how I could just KILL a FAM!



Peace-out!

One.

Just in Case The Universe Is Listening…

Dear Universe,

How You doin'? You aiight? I hope so. It's Your boi, Lin. You know that cat with all these dreams in his head and longing desires deep in the recesses of his heart and spirit that he *never* tells to anyone? Yeah, that Lin.

Well lately, I've been thinking-- pondering really-- that if we are truly to be on good terms, then perhaps I should speak to You more... tell You what's on my mind, reveal a few of my deepest desires. Actually, this is my attempt at a mini-quasi-prayer session, where I talk, and hopefully... just maybe, You'll listen.

Below are some things I would very much like to see come into my Life.



My Metaphoric Desires:

*"I want to go where the wild geese go.

I want to know what the falcon knows.

I want the sky up over my head.

I want to live until I’m dead."



My Artistic Desires:

I want to realize and manifest my most enduring masterpiece: to live a life of Meaning.

I want to write like no one else, but me.

I want to pen an opus that speaks to and for the human condition.

I want to be artful, and for Art to be my mission.



My Hedonistic Desires:

I want to live out of a suitcase, in Paris.

I want to wear a natty beret, and take copious notes inside some small café.

I want to live and love and dance and sex and live and love and dance and sex.

I want to send my company home, write deep into the indigo hours, and then to sleep, the sleep of accomplishment all day long.




My Beauty Pageant Desires:

I want world peace and unity, now-- dammit!

I want for there to never be hunger in any part of the world again.

I want every man to realize this own humanity, and to appreciate that same quality in his fellow man.

I want every child on the planet to be safe, and happy, and disease-free.




My Selfish Desires:

I want to go on an escavation to all the ancient places within me.

I want every song I ever loved easily accessible to me.

I want to possess every book and manuscript ever placed on my wish list.

I want at least one famous friend who thinks I’m truly “brilliant.”

I want my first book made into a movie with my illustrious dream cast emoting in it.

I want to laugh and cough in the face of every editor/editrix who ever chose to rape my words and sentiments.

I want to be comfortably rich and successful within the deepest regions of my soul.

I want to be known and respected for my gift, and yet remain paparazzi-free.

I want that dream of my grandmother’s prophesy for me to become a wonderful reality.

I want to make sweet Mrs. Ferreri (my 1st grade teacher) be mad proud of me.

I want the astute Mrs. Lang (my high school English teacher) to have been right about me.



I want “The Next One” to be the Best One, and The Blessed One.

I want to buy my beloved mom a modest colonial home in Virginia.

I want a better home, a flyer wardrobe, and finer art on my walls.

I want to throw a huge NY party for all my friends and thank them for their unceasing love.

I want a certain well-loved face to be right beside me throughout my journey.


I want my last play produced on Broadway, and a fabulously memorable opening night.

I want the homeless cat down the street to have and lead a better life.

I want the ease and ability to pay off the bills of all the people I love.

I want a grand piano, topped by a mess of photographs, each with a sepia glow.

I want to compose the perfect sentence, perfect poem, the perfect torch song.


I want to hitch a camel ride somewhere out of mind.

I want to sit with the Maharishi at the foot of the Himalayas, and ohmmmmmmm... from deep within my solar plexus.

I want Heaven to truly exist for all people I love and miss; I need to believe they are there.

I want my spirit to breathe free and my eyes to be wide-open on this journey of self-discovery.


I want to be healthy

And wise

And well…

Always interesting

And interested.



*See, 'I wanna go where the wild geese go.

I wanna know what the falcon knows.’


I want to paint my most enduring masterpiece.

I want to write like no one else on this planet, but me.





Peace-out, Universe. Thanks for listening.

Again, this be Your boi, Lin. Aiight?


One.




•*Partial lyrics to the song “Right On, Be Free” by The Voices of East Harlem