Coming Back Home To The Free Expression Of Thought

I'm back! Is there any particular reason that I'm back? No. That's a lie. I was recently contacted on MySpace by a sister who had been doing a search for the Seven Spoon cartoon and had come across my blog in the process. (sidebar: Cool Girls (and Guys) Really Do Wear Glasses) Now I had not the faintest idea that my little corner of writing was being indexed since I recalled seeing a place where you had to opt in and submit your blog to the index, but lo and behold I found it amongst the top spot in a few other searches that I attempted. This is excellent because when I write for any purpose I am ever attempt to give some sort of light or attention to my subject which would be rendered ineffective if I could fail snag a few folks from the awesome beast that is Google.

In any case, I suppose that you are wondering where I have been. I have not had much time to devote to the blog in light of my participation in a forum known as The Black Poetry Cafe which is without question the best and most diverse poetry site and artistic networking forum online today. In order to flesh out my empty blog space, I may syndicate some of the reviews and posted activities that have been going on there to The Literate Epoch, but I am ever in search of original thought which only occurs moment to moment. I have included a link below to their site.

I have met someone that kind of makes the spirited free verse of each passing day feel like the song of eternity. I have realized how deeply I fell for another person. I have realized that the pen I tend to play with so willfully just might hold greater possibility than I have ever assigned to it. I have realized that what you say and do with each day matters. I will likely lay aside trying to go back and dredge up for you all of the feelings that were evoked when performing "The Literate Epoch" for the attendees at the True Love For The Culture album release, but suffice it to say that I gained an expanded artistic respect for my brother Karega Ani who participated on that project. Expect a review and introduction of some of his material in the future. The participation in this project led to further work with Unsilenced Press on the Domestic Violence Awareness month feature "Brothas On The Mic" which was a magnificent show of talent and respect for sisters and sisterhood and the solidarity of brothers behind that ideal. I have realized that I'm weird and quirky for all of the right reasons and rather than begrudging myself these quirks, I had better find people who appreciate them or I will never be happy, content, or satisfied. Expect me to lose none of these lessons going forward. My apologies for the disjointed thoughts, but I now know it to be better to say something even if it lacks the full clarity than to continue to muddle with it in your head until your forget it in favor of another thought.

PeaceIs!

The AOMusicSoulChild

Dance: The Cure For What Ails You

Summertime in Chicago is known for many things. Increased traffic as folks who stowed their convertibles for a harsh winter now bring them back to compete for lanes on Lake Shore Drive. The unusual notion that you are simultaneously delighted and disgusted at the daily beach report which outlays the level of bacteria that is present in Lake Michigan and determines the beach going behavior of a careful few. And never to be ignored, forgotten, or disparaged are the profuse number of neighborhood festivals held throughout Chicagoland.

If you have been aware enough to attend any of those festivals that are held in Chicago's downtown area, you may have come across an ingenious little event known to we Chicago natives as the Summer Dance. A festival brought about to celebrate low cost Sangrias, live bands from every musical genre, and the joy of people dancing on a hardwood dance floor with just enough alcohol in the blood to prevent you from talking yourself out of a good time.

I was once quoted as saying that we could cause a movement of peace across the planet if we promoted this concept worldwide. Pretentious attitudes tend to melt away when a crowd of onlookers are worked into a rhyrhmic frenzy during a jam session by the Chicago Afrobeat Project, Funkadesi, or Kokolo. There is also no shortage opportunities to learn to move with other styles to which you are not yet accustomed. If you are a brave soul, come out to Grant Park, throw back one of those $5 Sangrias and find your way to the dance floor. You may find kindred soul in rhythm such as myself. As the old mystic aphorism goes, it is only when you lose yourself (in the rhythm, some forget that part) that you will find yourself again.

I must graciously thank Ms. Ashera and Ms. Elise for attending this year's festivities with me. They were very capable of handling themselves on the floor since I occasionally become quite intense. I must also offer my thanks to that sister with the short cropped cut who rocked a tank top and a full length blue jean skirt whose Ebon complexion evoked all sorts of emotions in me beyond the dance floor. I am quite sorry the excitement caused me to miss your name. I experienced a physical rapport with you in that moment that was unable to be matched for the remainder of the evening. Respect!

Sea Legs

Remember the first time you touched the water with those wildly flailing arms and stiff, unsteady legs? Can you recall the touch of excitement meddled with apprehension of the chlorinated mixture that kept finding its way into your throat coupled with the resultant tummy ache from having swallowed a gallon of salt or pool water? Don't you dare turn your nose up! As disgusting as it might sound in your adult phase, it happened to you too

Think back to the time when you had thoroughly embraced your merman/mermaid heritage and you succeeded in ripping from one end of the pool to another. For myself, this was a summer at Camp Mathieu somewhere in southern Illinois. I was reeling from the recent disclosure that at age 8 or 9, I was a recovering bedwetter. It had to come out at some time. Hopefully this revelation will not come back around to bite me in any future political campaign since others can clearly relate to it. *Listens for crickets chirping amongst the audience*

In any case, I was in dire straits to find a success during that summer. Already, I had been bested on the cross terrain bicycle race due to my unfortunate discovery of a ditch on the far right side of the racing lane. I was also never able to keep up with the other children in arts and crafts who had mastered the magnificent art of making those braided rubber key chains. My fingers are still not nimble enough to this day to string one together especially when my patience is the width of that string, at least as far as craftwork is concerned.

In the midst of this tumultuous season, I found myself gleefully splasing about in the pool with 50 or so other campers that had been allotted pool time on this scorching summer day. As the whistle was blown announcing the end of our time, I found myself wading toward the wall intending to make my exit. I was halted by a counselor beckoning me to make my way down to the shallow end of the pool. I was immediately filled with a sense of danger since I had been in the habit of attracting the attention of summer employees who obviously earned their physical education degrees under the careful instruction of the Marquis De Sade. Fortunately, this would not a new spin on table squats or bucket holding. This counselor just wanted to see if I would accept his challenge to swim from 3 feet to 9 feet.

I beckoned on all the courage my adolescent frame could muster. I was not in the habit of putting on shows since I can't bear the thought of people staring at me. As I stretched out that first straight arm and cupped hand, I threw my face into the water in a frenzied manner. 4 feet. I twisted my head from one side to the other to prevent drowning myself in the drink. I reached out my arm as if I was attempting to grasp the safety bar at the wall on the 9 foot side. 6 feet. I found my wispy arms becoming weary against of the pressure of the waters they were churning through. 7 feet. The body could stand no more and the legs began to give out. 8 feet. The safety bar on the left wall was my salvation that faithful day. I swam maybe 20 feet that day which was more sustained cardiovascular work than I had been accustomed to performing aside from the intensity of my bike rides. I will never forget the first time I earned my sea legs.

Self Portrait

Self Portrait, originally uploaded by AOmuse.

Nothing is more noble than the picture painted of you within the eyes of a child. If I judged from the above picture, maybe a better choice of adjective would be ignoble. I recall that at the height of my relationship with South Central Community Services I had reached a point of ecstatic joy at the fact that I felt I was in a place where I was accomplishing my purpose.

The dark side fell upon me when I came to the realization that not only was I not being paid what I was worth, but that I would never be paid any sum above the amount that they had allotted to the position on my date of hire. I was crushed. Every day in my time that I had opportunity to offer insight to a burgeoning young mind was a new level of insight as to why I had accepted the ministry placed upon our shoulders by Minister Ezekiel Khepera.

I had a voice that was soft in tone, but explosive when provoked to a position of thoughtful expression. A voice that I had truly never known or rarely used until I understood why I had to speak. The above portrait will remain a favorite of mine for years to come. It is a simple portrayal of a character with his thoughts flying in too many directions at once although the student fancied himself drawing my stringy locks.

I will experience many openings in the next few seasons as Michael, but there was one season in time where I was Mr. Strode and I will not fail to return to that time when I can affect change upon the greatest measure of the growing hive mind that is inner city youth.

Just A Matter Of Time

It was only a matter of time I suppose. No physical body can exist in that sphere of activity and sustain itself forever. Surely it would give out before its time.

Do you realize what you are seeing? It only took an initial purchase and an afterthought for me to realize. You see before you a pair of size 9 deep brown leather loafers with a rubber sole. Classy enough for work and durable enough for play.

I purchased them on Saturday for my attendance that evening at two consecutive "white" parties. Don't ask. Of course I was kind about the title they invoked in the naming of their parties. In any case, I have never owned very many shoes in my life that might be considered a loafer save the pair of black ones I received in my early teens which managed to crawl their way to the back of my closet to die a slow death. They were resurrected some 18 months later in one of my mother's annual closet sweeps which reaped massive benefits for the local Goodwill.

A pair of basic browns spelled out a new era in life. I am growing old. July 10 saw me turn the clock forward 27 years and some change. The things which once held so much sway over my life approach now cease to hold even my most base interest.

The thrill of chasing about behind random women; the allure of the newest and latest sound in music; and the desire to create a tastemaker of myself in the realm of fashion have all lost their flavor.

Now I just want to lounge in the comfort of a khaki suit in my deep brown loafers and wonder why Frankie Beverly can improve the mood of any jam session while leading up the playlist with an order of MF Doom, Prince, Madlib, and Miles in the comfort three or four other random souls.

Don't get me wrong. I still love an impromptu street race with the cretin at the light who is attempting to cut me off in traffic as much as the next man, but I am no longer attached to that outcome enough to consider it any further than the next stop sign. I can also still play a mean game of ultimate frisbee and at least stave off defeat for a short while in a grappling match.

At the end of the day, I now understand that my youthful vigor and vibrance will not be maintained because I allow myself to be tethered to what I did 5 years ago, but in the spirit of enjoyment, laughter, and playfulness that I bring to others who are a part of my life. All it took to realize this lesson was a pair of deep brown, rubber soled leather loafers size 9.

I Love To Express Myself...

...but I hate to talk. At least as far as general conversation is concerned. I recall when I first begin composing poetry. It was my attempt to move past the initial chatter of teaching peopel who I envisioned myself to be directly into the heart of matters. Of course, since 1990's Silver Age Hip Hop possessed the bulk of my person at the time, my subject matter was far from being a noble profession of the education my mother had sought for me amongst the quiet content of Kenner, Louisiana. It was a far cry from the early childhood my brother had spent in the much larger and looser culture that was Chicago.

When I began writing and rhyming, I found myself transformed from a shy being of less than average weight into a steadily, paced being of deft and strength...intellect and fury. I felt better and still do anytime I am on the stage. I feel a freedom that is beyond anything that I know. A clarity and a peace that was matched only by watching my daughter rise from the waters during her home birth. A place where everything is understood. A place where people might finally understand me because I hate to talk...

but I Love To Express Myself.