As for Hip Hop

"As for hip hop - it died a long time ago but has not yet been put to rest. The positive aspirations of ghetto youth 's creation has become clouded with disillusion. The disillusion is fueled by corporate dollars and influence. What we've created as something to free ourselves from the bondage of poverty has been exploited and regurgitated returning to us as a monster destroying our seeds. We need to look beyond hip hop. Allow the youth to redefine who they are. Hip hop was our music like rock n’ roll was our parents. The images projected of us is not who we are. We need to redefine ourselves and our direction. This is why I produce images such as The Osiris Project. We need an alternative. The universe is vast. We can be Heroes and Heroines as opposed to bitches and hoes, pimps and playas. Look at our children and everyone you know. There is no individuality, robots one and all. Who's running the program?" —Nomzee, April 2007

One of the truly nice things that has emerged from my foray onto Myspace has been that I have been reunited with a several old and dear friends that I have lost contact with over the years, or simply don't get to say hi to nearly as much as I'd like. Add to this list my boy Norm from back in the day.

Norm and I skated in the same pack in high school, partied in the same crew moving on into young adulthood, and came of age in the same Native Tongues-inspired positive hip hop age. The last time I saw Norm I was a sophomore at West Chester College, a state school right outside of town, and he was an aspiring artist, taking classes at the local art college back downtown. Then he went out to Cali and that was the last I heard of him. Till I joined up on Myspace. Going through the site of another old friend from the era, and there was Norm.

Crazy thing is, despite the years and lack of communication, the direction that Norm took artistically and intellectually seem to me strikingly similar to my own. Norm, or now Nomzee, creates art of the type that has been called Lowbrow Art or Pop Surrealism, which uses common pop imagery from such things as comics and advertising, and manipulates it in ways that are informed but also free form. Pop surrealism at its best strives to make sophisticated art that can be appreciated by all people, not just art connoisseurs. Specifically, Nomzee's work seems to tap into the id of black American culture, twisting the images of our subconscious in ways that are comic and playful and through distortion ultimately give us a clearer vision of ourselves than any plain mirror could muster. In literature, through satire and surreal riffs, I'm trying to do the same thing.

Even more relevant in a larger generational sense, I was fascinated to see Nomzee's above riff on hip hop. My growing estrangement from my once beloved hip hop culture has been something I have been torn and embarrassed about. Even in my most intense moments of hip hop loathing, my boys from back in the day sit on my shoulders and tell me not to succumb to the hateration conspiracy. I can't tell you how much of a relief it is to see that in reality those actual boys are evolving past the ruin that our beloved art form has become as well.

Mat Goes Down

There are two stereotypical ways men deal with sickness, and they are completely contradictory. One is that when men get even just a little sick, they revert to a moaning and complaining five-year-old that expects to be completely babied. The other notion is that when men get ill they just suck it up and pretend like nothing is wrong and refuse to go the doctor, even when it is absurdly obvious that they must. So far this year, I’ve managed to prove both of these stereotypes to at least be somewhat based on realty.

I’ve been down with the flu three times this winter, and during that time I groaned and collapsed and complained and generally drove my wife crazy. This went on for roughly two months, between January and February, and I got hit harder than I’ve been in years. Not only was I down, but at different times also my three little kids, and eventually my wife as well. It was completely exhausting, overwhelming painful, and it pretty much turned me off to the topic of sickness in general.

So Saturday night, I started having a sore throat, and I ignored it. By Sunday, the pain was so great I was no longer able to really swallow. I was also drooling constantly, but such are the humiliations of life. By Monday, I could barely move, had a really high fever, and cold sweats that made it impossible to sleep. My tonsils were so swollen that the slightest quiver back there felt like knifes being shoved into the deep tissue. But I didn’t complain, I just tried to suck it up and let it pass. Mostly, I laid on the couch and watched reruns of The Deadliest Catch and focused on guys who were in worse shape then I was. By Tuesday, I was pretty much delirious. I tried drinking water regularly, but it just took a really long time to drink even a little, and I was loosing fluids constantly. My hatred of doctors’ offices (the rude receptionists, the arrogance of setting appointments only to make you wait in the lobby and then again in the room) meant I have no general physician.

By order of my wife, I was finally forced off the couch to the emergency room. I figured had Strep Throat (correctly it turned out), and I knew that required a lab test and meds, but still I didn’t want the bother. Because I am a macho asshole, I insisted on driving myself. The only good that came out of this move was that my wife didn’t have to witness me nearly pass out during my interview with the nurse there, who (after admonishing me from not coming in two days ago) asked me, “Do you always roll your eyes back into your head after you say a sentence?” Nor would I have wanted her or the kids to have seen me go into near cardiac arrest after they gave me a steroid shot, which resulted in my heart rate going into overdrive, my body temperature to shoot up, and me to pass out again. Nor would I have wanted them to see me, three hours later after all the oxygen, cardiac monitors, and IVs were removed, begging to be discharged so I could drive myself home once more.

I’m on bed rest now, for the rest of the week. My classes are cancelled, although I’m surrounded by papers to grade. I feel weak, but generally fine. Still, I’m not getting out of this bed for a couple of days. That’s not a complaint, though. That’s a fact.

Role of the Writer

If you look in the comment section of the London post you'll see a fascinating (I think) discussion about the role of the writer in relation to his or her audience. The conversation starts off kind of bumpy, but it quickly evolves into an exchange of ideas.

Part of the discussion is around my refusal to explain different parts of my writing. I'm happy to talk about my work in general (my intentions, influences), I'm happy to talk about reading and literary criticism, but I don't feel I should explain metaphors, plot points, and other specifics.

But another part of the dialogue is about the role of an artist as a salesman. The artists responsibility to charm.

To be honest, I don't know what to think. If you have some ideas, please take them to the discussion board so we can do this right.

GOT TO THE DISCUSSION BOARD

Natasha Trethewey Wins Pulitzer Prize

Natasha Trethewey's Native Guard has won the Pulitzer Prize. What's the opposite of schadenfreude? When great things happen to great people who deserve it, I become filled with a level of euphoria that is hard to quantify. It's as if the universe has shown itself to have order and Nietzsche proven wrong about the mortality of the omniscient being.

If you don't know Natasha Trethewey's work, it's time to recognize: check out this video of her award-winning poetry.

Terry McMillan on Literary Excellence

“I just think there are some people who try too hard. They just think every sentence has to be perfect. I’m the sort of writer who thinks your first draft is your most honest. You know, get the story out any way you can. You don’t have to think about it. Just write it. Experience it. Don’t worry how pretty it sounds, how lilting it is, and the imagery, and the metaphor, all that. Most readers don’t care. It’s the people in your book that matter. It’s the human element. The emotional response that matters. That’s what I’ve learned.”
-Terry McMillan, published in January's Poets & Writers Magazine

And so the reign of Black literary mediocrity began.

Back in Town

I post the above picture in memoriam for the old London buses that used to crawl like prehistoric insects down Oxford Street, the kind you could just jump in the open back of while they were moving and take a seat. Apparently, in my absence, these great creatures were exterminated due to safety concerns.

Sorry for the blog hiatus. I'm back in town and will be blogging this week.