Gatekeeper

He tried the doors of the building each one of them locked. He felt ashamed and privately hoped that no one had seen him try the doors. He didnt want to look like he was doing something he shouldnt be. He felt he really should have known it was going to be closed, too late in the day for them not to be. But then again you never know.

He returned up the street to see a small man shuffle towards him. He’s face looked concerned as if he has been lost and rejected from somewhere. “What are you doing here?” he asked puzzled enough to be asking himself the question. He had a gze in his eye to suggest that he was speaking to someone invisible. And though oddly there was a feel of urgency to his voice that said talk softly but carry a big stick. Even though the young man was amused to be asked by such a stranger what he was doing in the middle of the sidewalk he decided to tell her truthfully.

“Oh I was on my way to church to pray thats all.”

“Oh.” The old man said as if had been waiting for those words and was releived to had finally heard them. An invisible weight visibly lifted off the man’s shoulders. “Well I...dont think its open.” He said speaking again as he shuffled away towards the building. The young man looked quitly at the man as he slowly moved away. Still suprised at having to explain himself, but not the least bit annoyed.

Keebo –I’m on my way home-(1)-

He had wanted to enjoy an afternoons rest he was counting himself fortunate to not see his owner’s vehicle in the parking lot. He saw the lights dimmed in the living room. Better yet! The miss had returned to bed early, he presumed. And all he needed to do then was to sit still for a few hours an be sure that she was indeed asleep. He didn’t want her to be ideally talking upstairs and suddenly creep down stair to catch him playing with his toy. Even if she thinks about him at night she might call out for him not to be playing with his favorite toy.

He opened the front door to see his owner laying on the couch in front of the TV glaring at him. He then remembered that his owner had driven his truck to the mechanics, the smile dropped off his face for him to realize that the miss had simple given his master a ride back home. His world of hopes and possibilities crashed. No chew time with his toy he remorse. The trash heap was full. He smiled at it recalling how he had taken two out that morning. His smile was like that of meeting a old welcome friend. His owner need not say anything his very presence said there was work to be done.

Speaking as Alexander –Waste of my love-

I once filled a 100-sheet composition book over to cover with poetry and presented it as a gift to a girl. She held on to it for maybe a day, if even that. I recall her reading some in front of me. In the end she didn’t keep it, claimed she would lose it, so it was better if I kept it.

I remember how I painstakingly wrote all the letters neatly and dated all the poems so that she could read and enjoy it clearly. I was so proud of that book. It was the first time I had filled a composition book in such a short period of time and all on the same subject.

Her returning the book was very symbolic. It was like she returned my love back to me. I wasted my love in those pages, because I don’t believe she even read it all. Unappreciative does not begin to describe her.

Waste of my love fits better.

As a young man -Sketch 9-

I felt I got fortunate with the middle one. She was easily the most beautiful girl I have ever dated. I though it would work, I really did. Untill she stopped accepting my calls. No matter how I called or how often I text she stopped communicating with me and to this day I don’t know why.

Though thankfully I was not wild about her, I was hurt by her betrayl of trust and lack of repect for our relationship. The last time I saw her she spoke so foundy of us, talking about how we would be together, marry, all sorts of long term romantic things were planned.

A week later I never heard from her again. The middle one turned out to be the one I despise the most. The one that asked me to open up to her and trust her fully a month before she ditched me.

I told her I had trust issues. I told her I don’t just give out my heart. By the time she left she was on the verge of getting it. Maybe that was her plan all along. Maybe I was a challenge that just got boring.

….its okay my heart is just a plush toy anyway.

First World –Number of gods-

No mortal knew how many gods there were in total. Some said there was a god in everything from the smallest blade of grass to the tallest and most powerful god made beast.

Some said the gods were numberless for they were always being created and never dying. Some whispered that there was truly only one, and these gods were angles of his.

First World –Love affair of the gods-

It was not unlike the god of darkness to fight with the other gods. Of all the gods of the world, she had only to fear the seven supreme gods, and still even then she had favor with two of the seven. One came from her own family, she knew she had her own father wrapped around her finger, she had from the start when she was first born and only a mere shadow.

She knew as the lover of another one of the supreme gods that no harm would come to her, she expanded herself triumphantly around the city, she feared no god, and now she would teach this arrogant couple to meaning of fear.

First World –Faux and J’Adore-

This story does not begin with a man named Faux and a woman named J’adore but I will start the story with these two, because to start anywhere else would make the tale too long

Faux and J’adore had been married for twelve years at the point in which I start this story. They were unlike other married couples around them for a number of reasons. Theirs was a marriage between a man and a woman, it was a marriage between two adults, and only two people. Like most of the marriages at the time, J’adore as the woman, was the head of the family. Her husband, Faux was a cowardly man, and had it been up to J’adore to decide who she wanted to marry she would have chosen another woman. For she knew her own self, she knew herself to be a very dominate and manipulative, and if she was going to be with anyone she would rather it have been another woman. For she feared feeling like an old mother to a man who acted like a little boy. But as it were her parents were firm believers in their sleeping dreams that had directed and told them to marry their daughter to a man because for as smart, brave, and cunning as she was she would need the strength of a man to fulfill her destiny in life.

And, so it was that J’adore married Faux a cowardly, doubtful, but obediently loyal man.

US History - Flipsyde

Hip Hop should go back to this. Story telling. Politics. Yeah, inspired by this for sure.

All I can be

Baby..
Baby..
You asked me for poetry
How could I deny you anything you ask of me
But I want to be honest so for that I’ll keep this poem rhyme free

Something’s changing in this heart within me
I’m trying to find out why my life just aint how its supposed to be
Like why we aint how we used to be
And its too easy to just blame me
Why my life feels lazy hazy as if its all draining out of me
I need answers before I can ask you to marry me

If I’m not happy with me how will you be
Sometimes I’m so blind I think I’ll never see
Cause when I see them call you baby and sexy
My eyes fill with rage and jealousy
And I start to think we were never meant to be

You are my drug without you I relapse
Without you my whole world just collapse
I need you just for me to relax
I love you baby how could you ever say that
When I first took you in my arms and made you mine
Like it wasn’t out of pure love. everything wasn’t perfect, fine
Next time it will be perfect
And next time we wont have to rush it
But that was still the first time we made love
Because it made our love grow
After that day we started to really know
That I belonged to you and you to me

Baby please…
Baby please don’t you see?
I cant stop loving you
That’s why this poem didn’t turn out rhyme free
Because no matter how hard I try you will always be special to me
Its like this poetry it will always pour out of me
I love you enough to love myself that’s why I’m trying hard to be all I can be

As a young man -Sketch 20-

My direction was misguided. I was too young to be looking for love. I was too foolish to look for acceptance where I would not find it.

Now, I don’t give anymore time that I get back, any more consideration that I receive back, or any more calls than I get back. Its noteworthy to see how quickly potential friendships fade away when I am not the one chasing for attention calling for days leaving unheard and deleted voice messages and sending un replied texts.

…I must give thought to that.

As a young man -Sketch 4-

The first was like the last in the way she makes my heart burn. It felt so good to leave her alone, to not worry over love. It felt good to finally be alone and free from the distrust and dissatisfaction that plagued my one way relationship with her.

I only miss her when I get lonely. I don’t miss her, I just get lonely. Just like the first. That’s why the first was so hard. I didn’t feel I could love anyone else. I didn’t feel I could be loved by anyone else. (To an extent I still feel this to be true) I just wanted to stick with what I had.

The first was unlike the last because I tried harder with the last. I was determined to not let the last end up like the first. But in the end, it wasn’t up to me. It never is.

I promised myself there would not be another after the last. Just like I said after the first. But there were others.

….Its never enough to get burned once

As a young man -Sketch 12-

I use to believe that one could woo a woman into love with affection, admiration and a healthy use of money. I had it all wrong.

It is the women I paid the least attention, it was when I was least affectionate. It was when I was at my most stingy that they paid me any mind. If I, suddenly noticing the influx of attention, returned to my usual nice they would snap out of whatever trance my rudeness may have put them in, and reject me.

Maybe I was into the wrong ones. Maybe I was too young. My experiences with women have been mostly unpleasant.

It is the few blissful times and hundreds of unbelievable true stories from other men that kept me searching for a woman that would be unlike the rest.

….Now, I am scared of women. I look the other way when I see a beautiful woman. I am afraid to look at her full on, for fear of being caught up in her charms. I fear being smitten with lust, love, or ever present loneliness and then present myself to her with a nervous smile and greeting

Good behavior is not rewarded and good treatment is not recognized.

As a young man -Sketch 18-

They all want to tear your heart out, I swear they do. They want to tear it out and use it for energy. That’s how women stay so pretty.

I think I was too soft, or too loving, too vulnerable, too honest, too open, too naïve to know how to love the right way.

I use to love women-now I think that I hate them. I don’t hate women because they are women and different from men. I hate women because they hurt me, so much worse than a man with a gun ever could.

A female smile can disarm me and comfort me, and if she so much as whims with the changing winds, she can turn her back on me and I fall to the floor a gapping hole in my chest.

Indeed, I hate women because they seem to hate me. Indeed, even when I loved them they only tolerated me, only enough for me to tell them they were pretty. Only enough for me to give when they were needy, only enough when they wanted a friend like me.


….going down the list of all the women who broke my heart and left me for dead in the streets of rejection and misery

Hate is the product of mistreated love.

Speaking in Alexander -Don’t cut the dreads!-

I hate getting my hair cut, I like letting it grow long and wild. I even hate brushing it. Its not that I don’t like keeping care of myself, its just with my hair I like to be able to mess it up patting myself on the head twisting it with my fingers when it gets long. I have never had an afro, I don’t even think I can grow one.

Its just to me long hair, un kept hair, wild hair symbolizes the sort of thoughts going on inside ones head.

I dreamed you would ignore me.

I had two really short dreams about a former friend of mine.

The first was in a school cafeteria type setting. I was sitting at a table with a group for friends and I saw my friend (The one who is no longer my friend) walk by my table. I wave her down and she looks at me and blows me off. Walks with no expression on her face.

The look on her face and her posture took me aback and I felt shamed in a way as if something had happened between us and I didn’t even know about it. She sat down at a table next to mine and laughed and joked with friends.

I don’t understand how I had the dream, as I had not thought about her before bed, or for days. We didn’t talk everyday, more like once a week maybe a few times every two weeks. I called her up after the dream, and I got no answer or text that day. Usually if I call her and she doesn’t pick up she texts me. I didn’t think anything was wrong until a few days later I saw I was not her friend on face book anymore. By that time I had already given up to the face that she wanted to be left alone.

I had another dream about her, it was the same day as the first dream. I took a nap, later on that day and I had a dream I was sleeping in a pile of cardboard, I had a small notebook with me. In the room in which I was sleeping the door opened and in came my friend and one of the actors from the twilight film. The laid down beside me not seeing me at first, and they started making out. Until they bummed into my body. (I had been laying still for fear of being seen)

She got embarrassed put her shirt back on and ran out the room. The man got upset with me and I could feel his hands on my shoulders as he began to roll me over. The last words I heard before the dream where. “Ah boy, lemme talk to you.”

Not my friend anymore

I have noticed a trend, that I am sure I am not the only victim of. Technology makes it easier to be rude. I’m not talking about when people hop on the internet they instantly become internet bullies. I am talking about when people use the internet to do things they should be doing in person.

I am speaking of a few examples of when I have lost friends (So far only female friends) who decided to un friend me and end our real life relationship at the same time. As if doing that action signifies, how in real life ‘we are no longer friends and I don’t want you talking to me.’

I suppose this would be agreeable if I didn’t know these people in person, and we were not friends. (In the case of one woman however I was dating her) Logging on to face book to realize you have one less friend is a strange experience.

For me I always think back to my last interaction with the person and ask myself what I may have done to be shut out in such a rude manner. I try not to stress it, because there really is nothing you can do at that point. (Texts and calls are never returned) So I just write it off as a loss and wonder what happened.

Now that I think about it, its not losing a friend of face book that annoys me, it’s the silence before and after. Sort of misleading. You think everything is all right and then one day you realize you lost someone. Here today gone tomorrow.

Speaking in Alexander

I enjoy it when people who know me by my birth name refer to me by my surname. It adds a bit of distance between me and most people, so that only people who I consider close to me know me by my first name.

So it should be easier to understand why I picked a pen name to represent myself with. I feel my ‘about me’ has explained my reasoning enough that it doesn’t need to be said, as a matter of fact I feel it would only convolute my message to mention that Alexander is not my birth name.

With that in mind I will start writing pieces that I will tag Alexander. When I want to make statements give opinions or share certain thoughts I will tag them Alexander and headline them ‘Speaking in Alexander’ and give a sub title to what I will be talking about. Just be clear, at no time when I am writing under the tag and title Alexander am I writing imaginatively, creatively or artistically unless it specifically reads ‘Novel’, ‘Short Stories’, ‘Poetry’, ‘Non-Fiction’ or ‘Fiction’

Usually how ever it will not. Speaking in Alexander should be seen as a speech, information I wish to give in the voice of Alexander. Other wise everything else not tagged ‘Alexander’, ’Diary’ ,or ‘First Person’ should be read as my interpretation of an actual event. Not something I have created.

Thank you

S.R. Alexander

All eyes on me

That is how I often look during the cold nights of Washington, DC. A pencil tucked in my right ear completes my look. I admitted to someone who knows my name that I am often stared at, they say it is because I look like a thug. I don’t pretend to be naïve about perhaps why, but my appearance is not for show, and it not the wildest to be seen.

I walked into a barbershop yesterday looking exactly how I described. I black skullcap with the words HARLEM showed below my black hood, my mouth covered. Everyone turned to look at me, and you could see mystery and confusion in their eyes. I wore a mask of a bravado smile that no one could see.

It was my first time in the barbershop, and no one said a word to me as I casually looked around getting aquatinted with my surroundings. The men that sat in the barber chairs turned and looked at me intently but didn’t say a word. So, I sat down, still a little unnerved by the silent stares.

Before I could get comfortable one of the men spoke to me in an accusatory tone, as if my presence was almost…or just close to being annoying to him. “Can I help you?”

I told him I wanted a hair cut and he rebuked me for not saying anything earlier. “No, one greeted me, so I didn’t know who was cutting hair, I wanted to take a seat and wait for service.”

“You wanna take your stuff off?” He retorted

“Sure.” I showed him my polite smile and walked to the knobs hanging on the wall to put away my book bag and coat.

Needing the lighter too

I saw a young kid ask a cigarette of an elder graying man. The man passed him at once ignoring him as if he was invisible man. The older turned back to the youth with an apparent change of heart and offered him a cigar instead. The young man accepted and then remarked need for a lighter.

We as blacks are the young man. We have asked for freedom and forty acres. For the longest time we were ignored. Now, we have freedom, but not the forty acres, its more than what we had before. But we still feel entitled to more. We have our freedom do we really need a fire under us to know how to use it? We have been asking so long for freedom now that we have it, we act as if we were not ready for it, as if we did not really know what to do with it if we got it. No one can and should be responsible for us using our freedom to make our collective lives better. When we ask for something, demand for something we had better make damn sure we know what to do with it, and are ready to use it when we get it.

Yet, we are asking for freedom and needing the lighter too.

We are all going to hell

I heard a herd of young teens talking in a group of themselves. One made an off hand comment after the group had been laughing.

“We are all going to hell.”

They all agreed before they knew it, and stood awkwardly in the silence of their unanimous confession. Then one spoke up, bolder than the rest.

“But I’m not there yet!”

They all celebrated at the remark.

The Nationalists -Kids at play-

When the kids meet in groups they stand around in silent circles talking to people not present with the tips of their fingers. They are not unlike a hornets nest who’s ever present buzz of finger tapping creates a light den of noise. The only distinguishable sounds out the group is that of anger, confusion, and sex.

They take great interest in creating shock. Their loud words and flashy offensive dress take center stage wherever they go. Even a private couple holding each other on a date will get extra attention if the couple consists of one that is a National and one that is not.

Just a girl

Just a girl
Look at her what a girl
Oh to have dinner with her
To sit in her scent to hold her smell If I could just be with that girl
But I pass not a word not a breath breathed at her
Cause, oh boy! She’s a girl but not the girl for my world.

Only a God

And there they stood before their creator. The truth in everything there ever was and ever were. And God speaks to them and says

“I am only a god, I discovered myself around oh..”

The Nationalists -T shirt language (1)-

The kids these days wear flashy shirts. They think it’s cute n’ cool to wear shirts with degrading words on them. They mock themselves with the shirts. As if one should take pride in applying societies worst stereotypes about their gender or social cast, as if it is honorable, as if when these words are expressed boldly and colorfully, larger than anything else on the shirt it is intended to impress. The joke is on them however, because the words are spelled out and not broken into text. To them it is like wearing a foreign shirt, words they cannot read, but a meaning that everyone gets. They think that since few can read it, that they can take the words and apply their own meaning to them. What was once a negative is now a positive. Yet, they would still slit the throat of any national male or female that would dare read their shirts aloud to them.

They make themselves easy targets to aggressive young nationals who like to walk around the streets of the city and go on ‘reading sprees’. Inevitably when the city patrol gets involved the young nationals pled ignorance. “What? I was only reading their shirt…they are the ones who have it on their shirt. If they didn’t want to be called that then why wear it?”

My Favorite Dream (Rihanna)

I have a favorite dream. In my dream, I am in a music studio. I always have dreams of music.

In front of me is this beautiful woman of my age, and she is singing. And although she is singing for a recording, and even though she is singing to everyone in the room with us, she is singing to me.

And no one even knows it, but everyone can see it. We all can feel it, I wrote the words and she is singing them to me. It was my beautiful dream

So much so that I was sorry to wake.

The Wheels on the Bus

I do some of my best thinking on moving vehicles. I can daze, read, and think in ways that being stationary prohibit me from doing.

No matter if it’s a train ride around DC with no specific destination in mind, or the same bus ride taken countless times to Silver Spring, it is the act of being in motion that starts my ideal thoughts.

The People of the East (Mean in DC)

Maybe its just me, I am Midwestern, the people of the east seem rude and uncaring.

I notice this because in the Midwest people called me rude and uncaring. I dare say I have met my match in the people of DC. Its almost as if karma has placed me on the path of these people. Because no matter if it a bus driver, stranger, or doctor I keep running into all these people who’s main goal in life is to insult or ridicule others as often and as ruthlessly as possible

Questions are met with sarcasm; they are ignored, or otherwise are deemed unimportant. Offered help is shunned rejected and insulted. The people seem wrapped in a bubble of their own irritability and any intrusion in the form of politeness is met as a threat.

To be fair to my new city men not everyone in DC is vindictively rude. However, bad impression are lasting ones. And not all acts of cruelty were aimed at myself. I watch the people of DC treat each other with such casual aggressiveness that once could think it a greeting.

THE WEATHERED UNDERGROUND INTERACTIVE TRAILER

The creators of this film sent me message on you-tube asking me to take a look at their movie. I would have otherwise ignored it until I noticed that it was an interactive film. They talked about how it was somewhat modeled after the ‘choose your own adventure’ series.

I loved those as a child and have a dream to make a movie like that of my own. I was told by someone that the idea was a gimmick, but then again I was also told by that friend that porn doesn’t have any adverse effects on a mans ability to have sex. I mention that in passing to suggest that people don’t always know what they are talking about. (Especially negative ones) I see this movie as a sign that there is a demand for this type of film and something like this should be described as simply ‘gimmicky’

The movie is just a demo and is not a full release. They want you to buy the movie from them, something I am not willing to do, but I did have fun toying around with what small options they gave me. I wanted to shed some light on this movie and I hope that more like it come in the future, and hopefully pave the way for what I want to do in the future.

Thomas Sowell - Obama's Vision

Thomas Sowell was introduced to me by an individual who introduced me to Friedmen. In this video he talks about Barrack Obama. I have been and remain a supporter of the president despite the mounting criticism against him. Even though Sowell is against him as well, I still want to do more research and hear more arguments against the president.

I can admit that I support the president in large part because of his race. I am in love with the idea of a black president. I understand that things have not been perfect but I am not ready to give up on the man as I see so many others seem to do.

Though Sowell makes some very valid points against him, I still want to watch more videos. I still want to give the president more time. In speaking out against the president he mentions Iran and the threat of them getting nuclear arms in the next two years. To me there is little reason for me to fear Iran with a nuke. It could be because I don’t support the existence of an Israeli state, and I know that Iran is an enemy of Israel. So because of that maybe I don’t see the world exactly like Sowell does, and because of that I don’t mind giving Iran time, and giving the president time to show himself a strong and capable leader. I read that last sentence in humor because I don’t meant to suggest that Iran and the president are both threats to Israel. I do mean however that I am willing to give time to a nation and a person who most people are not willing to.

In future posts I will explain my feelings on Iran and Israel. For now, I wanted to spotlight Thomas Sowell, a brilliant thinker.

Lets get married

I know a beautiful young woman who I think I want to marry. If she ever read this she would frown at what I just wrote.

“think...you think?”

It wouldn’t be because she demands that I know, or even that she is supremely confident that I am the one, it would be because I always tell her that I know. It is my own damn fault that she expects me to be supremely confident of myself.

Its not that I lie to her, its not that I don’t feel I want to marry her. Its truthfully because I feel I am too flawed to be married that this age. I know too much about myself. (I grin) The age is a an excuse, I think my age plays only a minor role, I think I am not mature enough to try and dedicate myself to this young girl. When I think about it, it is hard for me to dedicate myself to my writing, something I feel passionately about. My writing chose my, not the other way around.

Its disappointing because I know in my heart as well as my head, that this girl is wonderful, and she would make me, or any man, very happy. I am even mature enough to realize my feelings for her are not purely sexual in nature, that this girl has a mind and spirit that I genuinely enjoy being around. Unfortunately I am far away from her at the moment and have been for some time now, almost a year. She says she is doing her best to wait for me.

Thus let me introduce my problem. Its nothing new, its just something that has been magnified 20 times due to distance. I am a jealous and untrusting wreck. I wont go into details, but simply explaining that I don’t trust females, should be enough. I would faster trust a woman with twenty dollars than I would trust any promise that she makes.

Any word of a woman be it friend or potential lover or lover I quickly discard and have the lowest expectations for. I wont get into my reason for that in this post. I realize that this can put a real damper on our relationship and any ambitions I have to marry this girl.

I suppose this is credit to my maturity that I am even able to self inspect myself enough to realize and identify my problems. I suppose that’s the hard part. I am only twenty three years old I still have time to work on myself, I still have time to work on myself. I know that my problem is connected to self confidence issues.

How honest do I want to be? How real do I want to keep it? Do I really want to change and trust this girl? Do I really want to do what is needed to make her the special one? It’s a shame that I have to give pause an ultimately say I don’t know. Not because of her, I could write pages on how beautiful and amazing I find her. (She is often the focus of my love poetry) Trust and love is a lot to be asked for. Its even more to be lost.

Just another issue that I will have to deal with and battle day by day. One step at a time. One goal at a time and I can make myself a better man. Its not even about being a better artist, though I suppose being a heart broken sour artist gets old after a while..

At work:

As long as I continue to be an artist, (I honestly could not see myself otherwise) I know that I will have to work.

Its been disappointment that up to this point all the jobs I have had have been drains on my time and patience. I’m not sure what it makes me sound like to admit this but up to this place and time all my jobs have been beneath me. I’ll try not to get too deep into my delusions of self grandeur, but it just seems to me that I have more to offer an employer than what they are willing to paying me or allowing me to do. I’ll stop right there and get to the point. My present job. Another joke. I am employed for a few hours a day from five am to eight am. I do an honest hour worth of work from six to seven. Other wise I am reading, writing, or sleeping.

Not that this is forgivable, I cant just explain it away. I know that as the facts stand I am cheating my employer and would be fired. If the job wasn’t the only think available I would quit. I can get away with doing an hours worth of work because that’s all there is to do. To do anything else is against union rules because its above my pay grade. (I’m the lowest paid person)

A recent blizzard made me realize something. I was ordered to shovel staircases outside. I did that work for about an hour. I got paid 7.50. On the same day I shoveled neighbor’s parking spaces and got paid sometimes double that amount for a half hours work. Mind you shoveling is not the job I am paid to do. Its someone else’s and I should have gotten paid extra. (I went to management and they told me no) 7.25 an hour to shovel snow? I hardly think that is right

However this is not to complain about my low wages because as an intelligent individual once told me “Low wage is better than no wage.”

With that being said any other work has to be signed off on before I can do it. Because as I said before its above my pay grade. So how do I get away with slumping off? Easy. My job can be done in an hours time. So when I come in I take a nap. Waking up early in the morning and stumbling down the middle of the street like a zombie at four thirty in the morning leaves me sleepy when I walk through the door. So I hide out in the attic of my job for an hour and nap. After my nap I do my hours work from six to seven and at seven I’m usually done. From seven to eight I read or write (as I am doing now)

The bible says if you cant be trusted with small things how can Jesus trust you with bigger things. I think about that when I’m napping at work. I like to believe I’m doing all I can but I know that’s a lie. I want to do so much more with my life but its hard to focus on something so unchallenging.

As an artist -Two-

I have been reading up on artists of the past. American artists of the sixties. It all started when I saw a magazine called interview. It was the Feb ’10 issue, Jay-Z on the cover. Jay on the cover is what attracted me and at the same time repelled me from the magazine. So I went for my usual GQ and Esquire. It was not until I read through those two that I dared to pick up this previously unheard of magazine.

Its ironic because the thing I didn’t want to pick up ended up being the thing I actually bought. I work at a grocery store so I never have to buy the magazines. I can just read them while I take my extended breaks. Even inside the magazine the article I read last (the Jay-Z article was the first) had the biggest impact on me. It was an interview of Pattie Smith, a woman I had never heard of previously. I just want to summarize this all up at this point before I go any further. An article I first ignored and glanced over in a magazine I almost didn’t even pick up inspired me and validated me on what it means to be an artist. Suddenly Bob Marly’s singing voice comes to mind. “The stone that the builder refuse shall be the head cornerstone.”

Well Pattie was telling me all sort of useful information even though she was talking about herself and Mapplethrope. She was still talking about being an artist. Not only did she tell me about how to wrestle my creative process away from harmful substances but also she reminded me of what it means to be an artist. “You cant go anywhere without trying to transform it, you know? You go into church to pray, an you start writing a story about being in church praying.” That hit the nail on the head for me. Two Sundays previously, I was inspired to write a church story after going to church for the first time in years. Reading Patties words were a validation to my soul as an artist.

Not only that but she re introduced me to Andy Warhol. She spoke of him in passing but since I had a beginners knowledge of Warhol and already Pattie had inspired me so much, I decided to look him up.

Artist Spotlight: Andy Warhol Eats a Hamburger

I first read about Warhol in a book. I still don’t know what to make of him. I have a feeling I will be looking to him in the future as a way to better understand myself as an artist, and maybe a few tips on how to handle myself when the time comes. I feel I can learn a lot from Andy Warhol on being an artist. Of course no one can teach you how to be an artist, but I feel as if Warhol can teach me about how to handle to pressures and responsibilities that come with being an artist. To a certain extent anyway.

This video, is beyond me. I will have to look it up and find out his motive behind it. I think that is good art. The kinda stuff that makes you go…now what was this guy thinking? Not in a negative way that makes you question his sanity but in a way that fills you with wonder and amazement. Of course I see it like the typical person as well. ‘Whats so great about eating a burger people do it all the time.’

I enjoy how Warhol gives the impression…the tension that he is about to speak at the end of the video, and in fact he does, but not exactly how you thought he would. He breathes in deeply as if preparing to say something very deep and thoughtful, maybe something to explain himself and why he filmed himself doing something all of us do everyday. Eating. He never does, and his only words besides a mumble about the ketchup not coming out the bottle is. “My name is Andy Warhol and I just ate a Hamburger.”

As an artist -One-

I started calling myself an artist years back maybe when I was twenty. I gave myself that title. I was looking at it romantically as someone creative who struggles to get their perspective out. Young struggling artist. I fancied the idea of it. I still do. I still am very much in love with the idea of being an artist.

I have been an artist since I can remember. I dare say I was born an artist. I didn’t always understood it but I was an artist struggling to find himself. A large part of me being unable to define myself was because for the longest time I didn’t understand what an artist was. Now its one of those words I identify with. Like Christian or Sociopath. I am an artist. Before that I understood artist to strictly be someone who paints. I have always envied those who could draw so as a result I didn’t see myself as an artist until I started reading about them in history books.

It’s a funny feeling to read about someone or people that you find yourself identifying with. Black or white, African or otherwise. It gives you confidence and a bit of fear to see someone like you aspired like you an over came great challenges. And to see how in the end, everything just worked out to their benefit, and maybe it didn’t completely work out, but you know something worked because you are sitting their reading about them. Its almost like an ego boost with a pinch of jealousy.

I have always seen myself as struggling a little bit more than the typical artist has. Well…maybe there is nothing typical about being an artist but I believe that writers have it harder than any other form of artist. Especially in today’s American society. A photographer we can see at glance the skill of the shot, a painter we can see the talent almost immediately. But the writer we have to feel them. We have to be willing to sit down and immerse ourselves in the world they have created. Its almost like a movie or play but even then most of the work is done for you. Just sit back and enjoy. I’m talking about written art. Something you cant hold or look at, something you have to feel.

I can’t remember a thing

I had a dream, that I remember from almost a year ago. Its funny that I remember this dream because it has to do with me forgetting things.

In the dream I am in a school like auditorium, I am on the stage overlooking a packed crowd of people. On the right hand wall is a projector screen that shows different pictures, I believe that they are connected to a poem that I have written. When I look at the picture I feel as if I should remember something but I just cannot. I feel embarrassed and ashamed that I cannot remember what I wrote.

I realize that I am spending too much time staring at the picture and I feel nervous because I fear that people will think me a fraud and accuse me of not actually writing the poem. Someone from the crowd stands up and starts reciting the words out loud slowly giving me chance to jump in an take over. The words sounded familiar to me and I am glad for this person speaking but I cannot pick up.

The person pauses every so often looking at me eagerly and I know that they can tell I am almost clueless. The picture changes and again everyone looks at me eagerly, and again the person standing in the crowd recites my poem to me. This happens for two poems until someone else in the crowd jumps up and cries out that I am a fraud. I remember the person who had helped me looking at me sadly and helplessly.

I woke up.

I do believe in dreams to a certain degree. I feel as if they can be warnings or just your mind releasing its inner most feelings. Either case this dream is interesting to me because I cant remember poems that I wrote yesterday. Honest. I hate when I write a letter or poem to a girl and she makes a comment about something I said, and I cannot comment back as well as I should because I have forgotten what I said. I have just learned to keep a spare copy of the poem.

However I think the dream may be warning me that I should take more time to remember the things that I write, or one day someone may ask me to recite a poem on the spot and I will embarrass myself.

Preacher on Friday

I saw this man preaching on the side walk corner. The people regarded him as if he were crazy.

Did they expect only to hear scripture on Sunday? Or did they not want to hear about God?

A small child fell in front of the preacher, the preacher kneeled to help the child an the young mother jerked his hand away. Why?

Because he was preaching on the corner? He was no worse or better dressed than anyone else on that very street.

What is his difference from a man in a suit, inside of a large building preaching on Sunday, and a man dressed as any one of us on the corner preaching on Friday?

Her body belongs to music

Does she even control her own body anymore?
Or has the music grabbed her taken her?
Is that what shakes her?
The invisible strings of the music make her a puppet
Dance puppet Dance puppet
She throws herself into the music
She owes herself to the music
She gives herself to the music
She doesn’t even control her own body anymore.

About Love

Half the time I’m writing about love
Half the time I’m writing without love
Half the time I’m wishing for love
All the time I’m missing you love

Jan 8th 2010

I have known for sometime that something is wrong with me. I just did not have a name for it, I did not know what to call it. Until I started reading. I quickly found myself in books about addiction and mental illness.

Now I realize that my life has been slowly getting away from me..

Narcissistic/Grandiosity

Antisocial personality disorder

Jealousy

Mania

Self esteem

Sociopath

Milton Friedman 1.2 Responsibility to the Poor.

Milton Friedmen. I was introduced to him by the same individual that introduced me to Thomas Sowell. What I enjoy most about this video is how he is able to keep his composure during the flare up of passions.

Maybe it is something that comes with age but I would love to master that ability now. He stands his ground without getting upset without even breaking a frown. I feel it is because he believes in what he is saying and understands that getting too passionate about a topic takes away from the message. Getting upset hands a victory to your opponent. I will be doing a lot more studying on Friedmen.

Not to mention that I feel the stance he was taking was correct, and that the government does play a large role in there being large number of poor.

Taking negativity in stride

It is my habit to post poems online. Whenever I find a track that I write a poem to I stick it in the comment box that you-tube provides. Sometimes I can get a few good nods and someone will thumbs me up. Recently as of today, I have see negative feedback as the form of thumbs down.

Now it does not bother me one way or the other, I post work that usually gets no feedback. So to see work that gets a negative feedback is not that much different, other than the fact that someone was compelled enough to let me and others know they didn’t like what they read.

What I do note is the subject manner of the poetry. It was one of the few times I wrote outside of the theme of love. In one poem I talked about blacks and the struggle of being black and the other I talked about my childhood growing up. Now I don’t suspect that the people actually had problem with the actual quality of the poem, but more like the message.

Of course even if they didn’t like the poem at all, I don’t expect everyone to like everything that I do. I am learning to not take rejection of my work as rejection of myself as a human being. Besides rejection is good, and I welcome harsh words. It seems like soft and kind words do little for me anyway. Stiff words are more of a reason to fight back and prove that you are better than what you are seen as. If people praise you then what have you to prove or stand up for?

I would rather be treated harshly and unfairly. Its how I grew up.

Nujabes - Another Reflection

When you are away from someone you love
But you still hold on to what you’ve shared that’s true love
Because you are in my head so much you fill my heart, that’s love
Its more than passion, feeling, or just thinking, its being in love
Its not just your smile, your voice, or looking deep in your eyes its you I love
Its waking up late at night cuddling my pillow wishing it was you my love
To look at you is to see a reflection of all the things I love
Beautiful young brown skin girl with a face like heaven and a smile to love
Beautiful young brown skin girl I thank the Lord above
For creating a angel so beautiful and wonderful for me to love
Your beauty is an eternal reflection of everything I love
Even though I’m far away I still send you love
Every time I think about you it’s a thought of pure love
And this poem is just another reflection of my true love

Thomas Sowell: Where Did This Right Come From?

I have been watching Thomas Sowell for some time now. And every time he speaks he changes my mind. I find myself admiring him and looking to speak as fluidly and methodically as he does.

One of the few people who can actually make me think with what they say. Without a whole lot of rhetoric or non sense he speaks his piece.

Working on ‘First world’

I am working on a piece that I cant even fully understand myself. The reason being so many things are going on in my head, fighting for my attention. Everything wants to be thought about, and for the things I cant give attention to they lurk in my sub conscious, and I think about them as I sleep. When I wake I catch fleeting thoughts as they go back to the depths of my mind. Dreams tease me with their ending but even that is soon forgotten as I shake the grogginess off my face.

I have been thinking a lot about God and the understanding of religion. I have been thinking more about faith (More posts on that later) however it has lead me creatively to express my ideals. More specifically the book of revelations has inspired me to write about God in a way I thought I never would. Its still in the stewing process, meaning its cooking in my head and I don’t really have much tangible but I do have a feeling an idea. To further my cooking I have added the Iliad to my reading. The gods in that story interests me very much. I enjoy how they are very much human in the emotions they carry and the way they interact with the people and each other. It is almost like a drama in the sky as much as it follows the drama on earth. I know that my story will have gods. I cant help but think about Roman Catholicism. I will need to re familiarize myself on that religion. I think my story may even have a pope like figure.

This is not my first attempt at a novel, I actually have various other projects in the works that for one reason stalled. I am praying that along with my spiritual growth I can also grow with this story and complete it. If that is the case this would not be a bad first novel. And since its satire its not a bad genera to start off in.

Going Blind In DC

I am not a native of the district of Colombia. I actually come from Kansas City. So one can imagine the stark difference in those two cities. I can honestly say there are some things I love about DC and things I hate about KC. The same goes visa versa.

One of the things that I hate about DC, or is hate too strong of a word? One thing that disappoints me about this city is how oblivious people behave in public. I understand that these are people born and raised in this city so the antics I often see in public that cause me to double take or stare is common everyday events in the capitol city.

The city makes you jaded I suppose. But really, how many times can you see a child fly out of his seat on a city bus and land seven feet to the end of the bus to the middle of the bus before you become used to it? Why is a man cursing and yelling at the man that is driving the bus okay and common place? Okay maybe the last one was a unfair question but still, that never gets old to me.

No matter how many homeless people I see talking to themselves or playing imaginary instruments and holding imaginary conversations with others I will always notice it and give pause. This city has made people blind to things that really should be noticed.

I understand people are busy and have lives to attend to. Not everyone can take time to stop and smell the bums. But are you so busy that when you see a man laid out on the street all you can do is step over him? Seems a little heartless to me. But then again what are they to do? Maybe the man is drunk, maybe he has over dosed on a drug, maybe he is dead. Either way do other people really want to deal with any of those possibilities? I can sympathize, I really can. Because for the most part I do just how everyone else does. I don’t react, I just sit still and pretend not to hear or see anything.

I often look around at the others and watch for their expressions to see if they notice the lady sitting across from us cursing the devil in a loud voice. No one seems to hear, no one even looks her way. In New York City I noticed the same thing, I supposed its just life in a big city. But if this is Big city life I want no part of it. I want no part of a society that acts so cold and crass to its fellow man. I mean, what separates us from the man on the street with no home? I tend to believe not much. Though one may have a good job and car now, they may have all the ‘protection’ money can buy how do we know that at one time that man didn’t have the very same thing?

Its almost as if people feel ignoring those less off or ignoring certain events will make it go away. This may just be an American trend. We Americans tend to have short attention spans. But, I wont rant against my country, not in this post. I just wanted to take notice of the fact that people in DC don’t notice anything.

So What by.Miles Davis

In recent years I have been moving away from main stream hip hop and having been looking to underground hip hop and Jazz music for my inspiration. Miles Davis was one of the first Jazz musicians I ever heard. When I want to get right down to it..I mean right down to it and start writing seriously and creativity I turn it on to Miles Davis. No doubt Mr. Miles will help me alot with this Blog.

DC Police 'round up' black youth

I don’t feel this goes against my self imposed rule of no old work. Because even though this video was made over three weeks ago, I am adding something to it I couldn’t on you-tube. A note from the author.

I wont go over any information that I explain in the video, instead I will talk about a few things that didn’t make it into the video.

It was my first time doing any sort of filming of that kind. I had just received the Camera a week before the New Year and was still testing it out so to speak. Looking back on the shot quality I wish I had of been more bold in filming, I wish I would have stuck around, but I didn’t want to be too greedy with the shots and no use in wishing on the past.

If something like this happens again I will be sure to stick around and film it out, unfortunately I wasn’t aware of my rights as far as filming police was concerned and I didn’t want the police to block me out and obstruct my view.

It was nothing short of a blessing from God that I was able to find out as the camera rolled what the cause of the scene was. No sooner had I walked up to the crowd with my Camera rolling did I find out what happened. Of course, I have only to go on the word of the woman talking, but I had no reason to believe otherwise, and if those young men had anything in common, it was that they were all black and had dread locks.

I have already stated my views on the topic, so I won’t do that here but I will mention something that ended up on the editing room floor. Shortly after walking away from the scene I saw a homeless woman on the ground picking up the change that she had dropped. It had been in a cup, and I suspect she dropped the cup and the change scattered. Around me I saw people walking here and there some even stopping to watch her as she slowly picked up her change. I even watched as a Police officer stepped over her to get to the scene.

Now as the movie shows there was more than enough police officers on the scene, so what would it have hurt the man to help the old woman? I ended up helping her, but that’s not the point. Its not for a pat on the back that I say this, but to point out two things. That one people in DC act oblivious to the most shocking things (more or that in future posts) and two that the police are more interested in policing and not serving the community. Such a small act would have gone a long way. I cant remember the last time I saw a police officer actually help someone. This is not to say they don’t do it, not all police are the same. But a majority, or what I perceive to be a majority, of police are only interested in meeting quotas by writing tickets and intimidating the communities in which they work.

Poetry is for Love

Recently I have been struggling with turning my poetry away from being exclusively about women to something to spread my ideals and message about the state of blacks in America and the world. I started reading Langston Hughes Poems a few weeks back and he opened my eyes to something he called. “Negro’s Nature and Love.”

The three things he wrote about. Adopting that I decided that I no longer wanted to write just of love (And why should I when I feel I have so much more to write about) but I also wanted to talk about Negro’s. Since then I have been writing a few pieces about Negro’s and while my first efforts cannot be found here (I have a rule against posting old work) I will be putting more time and concentration to writing about my feelings concerning my race.

As far as writing about Nature is concerned, I think it best to first tackle writing about Negro’s before I move on to nature. I already have much experience in the field of writing about love, my first creative feelings that I put into poems were aimed at a girl who in the end turned out to be manipulative and abusive to my heart. None the less I heaped poetry and attention on her that has been unequaled since.

Honestly writing about love and for the enjoy of women has been very disappointing. I wont go into more detail than just to say women can be very unappreciative of the time an talent it takes to write out ones deepest emotions on paper.

The funny thing about women is

I was standing at a corner in China town here in Washington DC. Right in front of the entrance of the subway waiting for the bus to Silver Spring Maryland, and two young women walked by. They looked how young women going out on a Friday night usually look.

They dressed for attention and to turn heads as they walked by, so they could pretend not to notice the glares and smiles of the men they passed by. I don’t imagine myself above the influence of the charms of women, but I didn’t watch them for as long as I noticed the other men around me watched them.

The girls were so captivating they succeeded in drawing a large crowd of men to follow them, a group of young men numbering about six or seven followed right behind the women chanting “Hey, you look real nice…hey you beautiful.” Things like that. I didn’t follow the group or even bother to turn my head which would have been required of me to see what happened to women and the crowd of admirers.

I can well imagine what happened, the women feeling the confidence and power of having drawn a whole team of men more than likely laughed and turned them all away. The funny thing about women is, as soon as they realize that they have more than one admirer suddenly they want none.

This is a transitional period in my life. I feel myself maturing everyday, and every month I take stock in the growth that I have achieved. I know in my heart that ’10 will be a powerful year for me. Looking back on ’09 I know that things will never be the same. Even a year ago I knew that ’10 would be a year that changed all things. I cannot go back, literally and spiritually.

The funny thing about growing up is it makes you reflect on your past and you start to see yourself differently. This blog is a good tool for me to have, as I have so much I want to look back on and think about honestly that facebook would have not been the best place for me to be open. However under this new name, at this new site I can express myself without having to hurt the feelings of those close to me. (even though the odds of them ever reading my notes was slim I didn’t want to risk it)

One never knows when a bored night can lead to the reading of previously ignored posts. Once again I feel the need to maybe clarify the air, I’m not looking for fame and fortune through this blog. Certainly not fame, maybe a small fortune. I didn’t leave facebook behind (My private FB) so that I could come here and collect a massive amount of friends. I came here to take my art and showcase it in a place that it could thrive and be better appreciated.

Because I know you don’t read this:

For now and until it becomes obvious to me that people read this, I love this blog. Because I can rant and rant rave and speak without concern for other people. I don’t have to worry about losing a reader (not that I would anyway) but I feel that knowing that eyes will peer at your words puts a certain level of anxiousness on all that you type.

I’m sure at sometime someone will read these words, I don’t think this will never be viewed but what is important for me is not feel pressure as I put these first couple of posts out.

No old work will be found here, and what I mean by old is work that was written yesterday and anytime before that. It feels like cheating myself and any readers I collect to show old work and artificially inflate the post count or the appearance of massive amounts of work in a short period of time. Everything I write is fresh and new. If its poetry it can be found on my you-tube account and facebook, and those places have older work, but my work in bulk, my thoughts on various topics and sketches for several up and coming pieces can be found here and only here. Unless of course I specifically note otherwise.

Anyway I’m just trying to get as much of this introduction stuff out the way, so that if anyone is ever confused by the content of this blog someone with enough curiosity can scroll back to the earlier posts and hopefully get some clarity.

House Cleaning Feb 7 '10

Complete freedom! Welcome and thank you for joining me on what I hope to be a very successful undertaking. Right now I am talking to no one in particular as I have zero readers, and I imagine it will remain that way for sometime.

However having absolutely zero percent readership allows me a certain freedom that someone with an already dedicated following cannot not do. Namely the ability to change up his blog on the fly. Since I don’t make any promises about what this blog may contain I am free to put any and all into it.

Let me first start with some small background information. I am currently active on facebook and you-tube. I make (or rather I did) make videos, and when I get the ability to film again I will once again continue my directing. I use to write a lot on facebook, but then I quickly realized it didn’t have the chance for much exposure, and the people who could see my work paid me little mind. I have noticed in this life that the people that are closest to you, pay the least amount of attention to you.

Make no mistake, this blog is not a cry for attention for the sake of people looking at me. I do however have a voice that I know needs to be heard, I don’t exactly feel I am ready to be heard to the full extent that my dreams tell me I one day can be, but I do know that I have to start somewhere. So while I am young and still calling myself an artist, this is my blog.