a quiet end

support system

Four shots of tequila. 

Maybe you’ll die

Or just meet a floor you like

Greased by the previous occupants

And full up with your dreams.

Or maybe not.

It can hold your hand

Cradle your head.

Doesn’t mind the slurred come-ons

Or misplaced groping.

Saul Williams - Explain My Heart

I have a lot of music/EP related stuff I’m looking forward to getting to posting over the next week or so, but I really wanted to stick this video up. 

Saul Williams is probably amongst my favourite artists to come around in the past ten or so years. He has one of those careers that is not limited by narrow definitions of what an artist should be, and like another long-standing influence of mine, his career spans multiple mediums, from poetry to music to the occasional acting role.

On every level, Saul’s work challenges both expectations and rigidities, not only within concepts like hip-hop and music generally, but those of art, love, creativity, race, and all with an emphasis on the meaning of living an artistic life fearlessly and without constraints. And doing so for it’s own sake.

I’ve had the opportunity to see Saul in concert a couple of times in the past six years or so, and the first of those shows in particular will forever stand out in my mind as one of the most memorable concerts I’ve ever been to. Because it wasn’t just a ‘great show’, though it certainly was that as well, but it was like being struck by a powerful artistic force; and not one that was simply performing for an audience, but was actively embracing it, taking it into it’s arms to share in its energy firsthand. It was inspiring to say the least, and I came away from that feeling like I took a little bit of it away with me, and things I wanted to do suddenly felt more possible somehow, and I, more hopeful about them, even though at that point I had no idea what form they would take or how to go about it. It was like the show recognized a chord already resounding somewhere in my heart, and amplified it, the sustain stretching out further and more audibly than it had previously.

The man is a shaman in the truest sense. Much respect.

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The Art of Transformation

I am in a process of transformation, despite myself. Even with a clear understanding of God as Change, I sometimes fight and resist the changes that are essential to my being and growth. I fixate upon the challenges of accepting greater and greater responsibilities. I begin to desire results without maintaining the discipline that is required to manifest the necessary changes of heart and of mind, of balance, and inner harmony. I lose patience. I acquire doubt and debt.

The silent b

in doubt and debt

mutates our right

to be.

They crave control

of how we think

of how we feel

and see.

We learn

to shroud

self-mastery

with mystery 

and fail

to understand

that even 

within fate

is the power

of the will.

If freedom

needs a sanctuary

history needs

a cell

with bars

to keep

it’s hands 

from reaching

out beyond

what mothers tell

their young.

We are

songs

in fact

anthems

unsung.

I am in the process of creating a masterpiece. I am not referring to any album, book, film or creative endeavor, rather, I am referring to the process of self-realization that aligns one with their highest and innermost ideals and values and renders them fully alive. It is a process of overcoming the obstacles imposed upon self, by self, perhaps society, and a fearful mind that refuses to accept the upward spiral of being. What I have chosen to embrace within myself are the very values I caught glimpses of as a kid when I questioned how a world so beautifully diverse in it’s simplicity could be made violently complex by the check-points and regulations of man in his quest to control and manipulate the forces of love and nature for the sake of individual gain and power. My decision to live my growth outwardly as an expression of my artistic being, and to earn my living as such, has forced me to engage with a reality that I might have otherwise evaded and has put me up against a cultural perception of entertainment as escapism, which has only enhanced a once non-existent desire to escape. There is no escape. Even my most recent move to Paris has simply shifted something deep within me as I wander through the ancient artifices of ambition, the dome-like cathedrals of clarity, and walled in worlds of art, I feel startlingly closer to my truth and a greater urgency for disciplined transformation. I am growing and have chosen to do so consciously and creatively while remaining engaged with both my inner and outer audience. 

I am a reality show, tuning into myself on a daily basis simply to see which emotion tattled on which unchecked ambition. My mind gossips about the actions of my heart. My fears attempt to seduce the cameras for airtime. My soul would vote them off the show. I am checking my habits, re-acquainting myself with age-old disciplines. I am meditating and staying focused (which is a bore for that overactive mind which wishes no more than to follow a trail, any trail to more thoughts, pretty pictures, and inevitably inaction). I am starring in a spin-off of myself where I sing and dance and dress in pomp and costume. I am evolving while simply playing my part. I am staring myself in the eye without flinching or blinking, standing still while moving beyond what holds me in my place. But mostly, I am dancing, everyday, and sleeping perched above the skyline. And I awaken to a new day, a new season, the latest episode….

~ Saul Williams

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The Moon

The moon is outside.

I saw the great uncomplicated thing

when I went outside to take a leak just now.

I should have looked at it longer.

I am a poor lover of the moon.

I see it all at once and that’s it

for me and the moon.

- Leonard Cohen

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I have a mind to confuse things, unite them, make them new-born, mix them up, undress them, until all light in the world has the oneness of the ocean, a generous, vast wholeness, a crackling, living fragrance.

— Pablo Neruda

Ataraxia

Across which threshold might it lie?

Waiting to greet with arms spread

Maybe that of a foggy coastal town

Or a sprawling, suffocating metropolis

Is it someone I’m looking for?

More a state of mind

One that blows easily and doesn’t have to creep

For fear of breaking something

Constantly tripping over its own feet

Is it waiting in a place?

Perhaps it’s not so elusive

Only detachment prevents the door from opening

Somewhere filled to the brim

Some place that no longer feels like the wilderness

Right now, sitting here

Writing this

All I can see is the tree line

Is it in defeat?

The comfort in knowing that nothing changes

And nothing has to happen

Stony and stable, accepting

Is contentment a dull knife?

One best kept at a continent’s length

After all, it’s just easier that way

Maybe it’s sandy beaches somewhere

Sunny people

Tall skinny trees that don’t hang over too much

Always keeping things light

Simpler times that overturn

Constant crises and ill temperaments

Triviality enough to get lost in

I don’t think it’s there either

I enjoy the winters and thunderstorms

But I miss the ocean

It didn’t feel like home

Only looked and sounded like the lack of it

Huge, dark, constantly shifting

Prone to tantrums

An easy place to get lost in

And now

Settled somewhere familiar

It’s the getting lost

That feels like the closest thing there is

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anamnesis

I have never held a stereo over my head

And wouldn’t.

My love is occasionally folded hands

and shuffling feet,

not mimicry and fictional gestures.

But only on the surface.

Underneath it’s fingers link eternity together,

bound up with all of our past(s)

and a future yet to come.

How much would I sacrifice right now?

All.

Which is nothing.

Or, very little.

Can I make it as a poet?

No.

These days words die when they hit the page.

Or become fossils.

Already are fossils.

Pages aren’t loud enough.

And shouted displays tend to drown

what’s most dear

with drunken sonnets

and drug trips to nowhere.

I am practiced in this kind of deafness.

Partial in spite of a desire for complete.

The reminder keeps on whispering.

Fakery turns to dust.

And my wishes return,

bright and true.

I am not on Mt. Baldy,

or in Big Sur,

yet;

but all times

exist at once.

Always.

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an end to analysis

She was certainly

no light enchantress.

But despite some bitter thoughts

to the contrary,

no demon either.

A person only,

conducting and observing

an experiment.

A too critical scientist

with myself as the hypothesis.

I participated,

but love cannot be a control group,

nor reported.

Its physics are not measureable

in tears or smiles.

The variables are always

tilted and uncertain.

When all was packed away,

and new postulations formed,

the smell of burners stayed with me.

I forgot all of our other lives.

Respect drowned in sodium,

covered over and eaten away.

Only a false conclusion

mired in wishful thinking.

Conditions changed their form,

and I remembered

that not all falsehoods are failures.

And that the matter of love

cannot be destroyed

or created.

So with respect for The Expert,

I stole the results

and carried them with me

to the nearest fire.

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He who loves does not think about his own life. Love is the very marrow of beings. Love will open the door. Go forward without fear. Forsake callow things and, above all, take courage.

—  Attar Neyshapuri

‘it’

This

All this beauty

Chokes limitation

Cripples sadness

Combines all hope

Takes it on its wings

And flying further out

Than any possibility

Creates new worlds

Beyond those

That existed before

- sam

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