hashtag, mood.

“leave it at the crib guarantee you wouldn’t miss it”

“ramen can’t fill us, medicare can’t heal us”

the second perfect double album delivery of the year has happened. the first was anti/pablo and the most recent was cain’t use my phone/views. my hotlines came blinging together, and i couldn’t be more thrilled.

erykah badu‘s music is soooo transcendent. i’m holding on commenting on her politics/feminisms, but her music has always been fucking everythang. this tape gave me chills, especially and obviously the track with andre-but the whole thing is beauty-full and perfect. this song just happened to be in my ears while i was procrastinating from filling out this blog, so hey-it’s as good as any to represent just one sliver of my appreciation for her leading by example.

lupe toes the line of folks whose music i’ve not connected with for awhile, but i will always give a chance to. this album wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t cohesive (i believe he’s also just saying a bunch of yoga poses on another track, should’ve linked with janelle). this track stands out because there’s just something about it that sounds like something is happening for him as an artist. i’m not sure what, and i felt the same way about nicki‘s roman reloaded album, but it’s catchy as all hell, 9 minutes long, and multi-layered like cake (cake cake cake).

i’ll be thinking about this music for awhile, and dangit, i like that.

oh-shoutout to patrick and the library for providing the listens.

bootcamp throwback-january 16, 2010-prompt three

prompt: “i am from”

i am from resilience and isolation
chosen families and homes
books and books and books and books and books and books
underground radio roads to making my own way
i get by with a little help from my friends, living off my wits
with something quick to say
everyone has a story to tell so i listen
i am from strong women and weak men and have struggled to find balance in a world
that aims to convince us of the opposite
investments in maintaining appearances
i am from music and music and music and music
the area between artist and human-genus with social malaria
i am three steps from homeless
my whim decides not to settle so i’m home-full
pride that is foolish
so much more so to reflect the ratio of security-we make the best of the moments
it’s colonial to only explore when you’re travelling and shame-full not to know what lies two blocks from your front door
i am from relationships of distant lovers
translations lost in the passion of tongues tied inextricably in loss
so fragile it’s still communicated to future generations
i am the child of paradigms communicated perpetually in a circle, motion denied before it’s even tried, the salt from tears cried could create concert halls that rival those in the mines at krakow
i am from a whole bunch of filler lives never realized and projected with faulty technology and expectations, born into a whole bunch of patterns of disappointment to surmount
i am from a need to express frustrations to any listener necessary
i assume any identity i see fit, embody the stories until i’m comfortable enough to accept my own, seek comfort in the parallels of abandonment-woe is me
i am from junk food and gourmet-single dad noodles and fine dinners to avoid babysitting
my palate is beyond forked
my tastebuds developed beyond grimace through jazz in the kitchen

parts of this became a poem that i performed and published, so woot, bootcamp!

hunger makes me a modern girl-carrie brownstein (part won)

“My story starts with me as a fan. And to be a fan is to know that loving trumps being beloved. All the affection I poured into bands, into films, into actors and musicians, was about me and about my friends.” (3)

“I was learning two sets of skills simultaneously: adaptation-linguistic and aesthetic-in order to fit in, but also, how to survive on my own.” (57)

“My entire style of playing was built around somebody else playing guitar with me, a story that on its own sounds unfinished, a sonic to-be-continued, designed to be completed by someone else.” (87)

“It was sensual and disastrous.” (91)

“I suppose we were better observers than communicators; we were all subjects to be worried over, complained about, even adored, but never quite people to be held or loved. There was an intellectual, almost absurd distance.” (34)

“An audience doesn’t want female distance, they want female openness and accessibility, familiarity that validates femaleness. Persona for a man is equated with power; persona for a woman makes her less of a woman, more distant and unknowable, and thus threatening.” (166)

“Here I was again without a family, my only identity a loner. A male loner is a hero of sorts, a rebel, an iconoclast, but the same is not true of a female loner. There is no virility in a woman’s autonomy, there is only pity. I was floating. I had created my own abandonment.” (232)

“Finally, nostalgia asks so little of us, just to be noticed and revisited; it doesn’t require the difficult task of negotiation, the heartache and uncertainty that the present does.” (4)

how much do i love carrie brownstein? let me count the ways. i knew that she was in sleater-kinney, and i’ve got nothing but love for riot grrrrrl, but the music never really spoke directly to me. i love carrie because of portlandia, and this book is nothing about that.

but i was immediately endeared to her hilarious childhood anecdotes of writing way too familiar letters to celebrities and flexing her performing chops in school. i missed her talk at the toronto public library, but i heard the podcast of her talk at the philly free library, though i wish she had a different, less self-absorbed interviewer.

what i didn’t expect was how relatable her voice and her story would be-how similar that raw need to see/create yourself in art is, and how articulate her deductions on the differences between men and women in music and the world are.

i love that she loves dogs, and appreciate how honest she is about how hard it is to accept that your parents are also just kind of making it up as they go along, too. i love her raw, open heart and want to give her all the hugs, or leave her the fuck alone-whatever she wants, because it really could go either way.

thank you, ms. brownstein.

keanu-dir.peter atencio

“maybe, we weren’t trying to be seent”

hot docs is all fine and good, but there’s nothing like seeing these two on the big screen. i mean, i assumed, because i had never seen them on the big screen before (together), though theatres everywhere could make a million screening their show-(hint hint).

there isn’t much to say, other than i’m automatically in for anything they do, it’s perfectly silly and entertaining, and method man is still so freaking fine.

i will say that it was interesting to hear the cbc movie reviewer bring up “code switching” as the reason why the movie works, which is a win, but then negate that win by naming the two categories they move between as “normal people” and “straight-up gangstas”.

yup. it was as cringe-worthy as it sounds.

but this movie and its non-sensical revolution around this kitten is a great tuesday afternoon escape.

hashtag, mood.

“disculpa si te ofendo, pero es que soy honesto”

so, it happened. for the first time in 6.5 years, i have exceeded my 50 checkout maximum at the library. i reacted the same way that i do whenever tells me “no”-in complete and stunned surprise. i took my “strange alert” to my librarian and she informed me of this fact. and then she overrode it because she’s a g.

i know i’ve been checking out cds with reckless abandon since my disc drive on my laptop has been acting like it’s too good to show me movies, but i had to actually look through my checkout list to confirm that it’s the graphic novels and the drawing books that put me over the edge.

part of my mounting cd pile was the best of bachata, and this song has been on loop. i honestly cannot place why it’s so familiar to me, and it’s not the frankie j version, so it could be some obscure moment in a movie, or the ny undercover soundtrack, or an interlude on one of the angie martinez albums (yup, i owned those).

regardless-let’s talk about staying power for a minute-wow.

and also, this is the opposite of how i feel about the raptors-i’ve got nothing but love for this team that has made it to the conference finals for the first time in 15 years and has not yet played a single game at the best that we’ve seen the whole regular season.

i’m content with the climb. i also know that it’s not going to be a cake walk against the cavs, but i still maintain that we’ve got the better team because we do not have a superstar, and i feel like our guys actually support each other through their respective slumps.

(ok, i’m a bit obsessed, too).

and this emotional roller coaster in ridiculous weather (did i really get hail in my ear on may 15th?!) has been railing so hard that i haven’t yet had a chance to process that the spurs are out, and for the second year in a row-the warriors have not had to play them in the playoffs. yea…that’s just a coincidence. sure.

journal mine #10

the book: what appears to be an insert calendar, long and slim, unassuming cardboard cover spruced up with a sushi tape spine and matching puffy sushi platter stickers
date: toronto august ’09->
interesting tidbits written on the covers: “i’m readier than tevin campbell”, “hip hop vampires”, “not empressed”, “inapt”, “ravenous reading”, “cat gang bang”

insides:

the mirror has two sides: “DEFECTIVE MODEL MINORITY/amasian

riff on that jay-z lyric: “fraternities are for fucking assholes, not fucking assholes”

dedicated to jay-z, mj and cher: “there’s no real farewell tour until you actually go away”

-MY FUCKING SCHEDULE AS A HAIR BITCH AT THE HOUSE OF LORDS, HOLY SHIT!!!!!

-also, one of my first toronto flops-the social bookworm reading club (aaaawwwww!) on sundays-coincidence, never.

-“chillax sounds like it was invented by the copywriters at starbucks”

-passages from the chuck palahniuk book written in eastern european grammar that i almost threw against the wall until “neck of turtle sweater”, which was not only the turning point of the book for me, but the assassination of archduke francis ferdinand in the birth of my confidence to do that dang accent (and shortly after the establishment of the “no accent” rule in my workplace)

-“six degrees of superhead”-a dissertation if i ever heard one. adding that to list of things to do.

-lots of handwritten instructions to library routes

-all-direction writing in teeny monthly schedules, honestly i can’t even look at it (sigh). i’ve rendered myself a code kind of uncrackable.

-“i’m not quitting, i’m done”.

and, that would be the mic drop.

flossy out.

bootcamp throwback-january 16, 2010-prompt too-matchboxes

from a physical prompt that involved choosing matchboxes out of a box of ‘philly blunts’:

“we’ll see who’s laughing when it’s raining nekkid ladies”

oh, to be immortalized on a matchbox, or a lighter-the sins of the flesh as partner to fire-hail prometheus-the blessing and the curse-rattling around like symbolism in a purse, even if you don’t smoke- you’re smoking, stealing knowledge unless it’s yours to own-so subjective, like beauty, unless it’s “objective”, but who truly is? who can be-objectified, that’s really, in the eye of the beholder, throw the devil over your shoulder like a non-existence bra cupping boulders so supple they could smoulder flames, we don’t know names, only anonymous dames posing, throwing looks out of peripheral vision. so much colder than real life, more stepford than real wife, swap stories for cigars, circulate around bars-calling card without a name, broken hologram in a cave or boudoir, notorious and infamous-less is more, more or less, undressed in confidence or confidentiality act violated more clearly than never stated outdoors. abhored, we’ve come a long way from rubbin’ two sticks together to taste apples raw from the gates of creation myths that explain human suffering and why the blame always rests on those of us who bear breasts.

that’s the best rendering of this image unless she can confess to further transcription from the bench, coated photos emerge like groundhogs from darkrooms, the same idea ad nauseum cloaked in the shroud of novelty, indifference of existing screams of conformity, illusions of choice and reality-it all starts here, and moves in a circle of duality. eyes wide shut to questions of practicality, temperate rainforests and mallory as your family ties shame between your profession and their legacy or maybe just a mistake in your brain forever documented but only to those who strike near you-once the smoke clears, do you stay in their eyes? obscured are your thighs, surprise a stranger with your eyes lined in kohl, speaking truths that nobody else can know, how far can you go-do they collect or forget, do you care or respect natural impulses to strip and be stripped-what’s dignity gotta do with it?

hmm…this is proof that i wrote in stream of consciousness in workshop. huh. some good stuff in here, i might work on it more someday.