Stop saying “I guess.”
Whether it’s a response, the start, or the end of a statement. Just stop.
Talk about the person you’ve had the most intense romantic feelings for.
I call him L.M. and I saw the shit coming from a mile away. When I was introduced to him I told myself he wasn’t shit. It was during the most artistic prime of my entire life. As a result, to say that he wasn’t shit ended being a lie. His hair, his scent, his camera, his impulses, his glasses, his height, his esteem. While I was a 7 year old at heart, he was an 11 year old at heart — and that shit surfaced frequently. Sometimes even as an agitation.
Intense romantic feelings. Tickling. Wrestling. Walking into his space and seeing writings over every wall. Lanterns that hung strategically over his floor mattress. He literally let me write stanzas upon stanzas all over his wall. I drew pictures. He gave me the Cinematic Orchestra and Do Make Say Think and that’s where Violin Phase strummed repeatedly over the sound of his wailing cat. His cat wailed and we tussled in the sheets. She was in heat. We kept her locked in the bathroom.
that pussy ain’t have shit on this. biting and phonographs. wine bottles and dried up rose petals. theorists and conspirators. and he was so fucking impulsive. Joanna Newsom and road trips to Annapolis for absolutely nothing and lap seats and wiping sweat with tea leaves in attempt to make a summer beverage. Literally. I’m not fucking lying. Everything he did was stupid and everything he did was right…..
i always left with bed head and cat hair latching on to me. And I was okay with that. it was so incredibly perfect. and chai. and milk. and blankets. and tea. and giggling over the effects of wine and chocolate consumption. and that white chariot. and charles village. and UGH! Every fucking thing….shit.
then karma kicked in…
and i realized that shit was an unhealthy infatuation.
After talking to my beloved coworker about additional pros & cons I realized:
Essentially, Android created the box that Apple is constantly “thinking outside of”.
iBitch, but I really am satisfied with their product. I just wish they didn’t make such a huge Disney production over shit that already existed.
… death is definitely a part of the video
I agree that it is a lot to mull over and I haven’t even began to touch the surface of the interpretation yet. I can only focus on the 1:57 mark and it’s progression from there. It’s almost like a mourning. A resurrection and a mourning. A resurrection of more than just a being. A community, culture, lifestyle, story. The way it reaches out and touch and impact an entire community. This is what I meant earlier by what I said regarding my soapbox rant, Lupe, and this video.
Hip Hop, authenticity, purposeful lyricism and musicianship…are things that seem to lack in these particular genres. He wears a shirt that says J.Dilla Saved My Life. He has it on as he’s passing shorty some Cheetos. Simple subtleties “that I haven’t quite figured out yet”.
The music impacted “him” and “he”, representing this culture and society of musical genre, is the last of a dying breed. Just like lupe sat on that sofa weeping over ghosts, as are the members of these communities standing against the wall - Frozen. Mourning. But it’s the music. The pulse. The music which resurrects him.
And when he rises up, it’s his flamboyant dancing, outstretched and limber in form, putting his wounds on display, proudly. Almost as if to say, I died for this moment. I lived and I died…or “gave up the ghost” so to speak. But it’s like Flylo’s music or music in general is what keeps this representation alive. Like…. when he moves past the witnesses, are they staring at the fact that he’s dead. Or are they looking away, in shame because they were the cause of it? and he’s manifested into something even more multi-dimensional than before?
This being. This music. This element, culture, lifestyle.
And yes, it is very much a thing of black boys. I can see that. The irony of youth in gangs, killing each other off to be promoted in hierarchy….not so much a survival of the fittest as much as it is mental or metaphorical suicide. bah.
To me, the water is the heaven. I think the more music evolves, the deeper it goes beneath the surface….
Every time my cousin came over to chill, he would say, “why are you playing this sleep music?”
It could be some of the most abstract, avant garde shit you ever heard. Full of crashing cymbals and riffs with no key foundation. Loud.
But because there were no lyrics, it was sleep music to him. Jazz is not synonymous to Panera Bread. It is not the blood relative of Starbucks. Sopranino saxophones and clarinets played underwater don’t got shit to do with it.