love your city

“it’s worse than slavery”
November 30, 2008, 14:48
Filed under: trill

Hm, let me draw an analogy.
you know how when you read a good book
if you have a rich imagination, it’s even better?
So, it’s kind of like… theres a subset of imaginative ‘language skills’ you have, and they are one of the largest variables involved in how much you enjoy it…
Now, think about your life, kind of like a book.
But scroll backwards into the best moments of your life.
The sheer joy of tearing down a mountainside
crying at your best friends wedding
gasping at the northern lights
They are all intensely emotional experiences
Now, imagine trying to read that book
And even trying to remember those moments
when your ’emotional dictionary’
is one thats been poisoned by a society
who tells you that the only acceptable emotions are things like anger
And then multiply it onto every single day of your life.
Rather then just being limited to not enjoying a book.
It seems like nothing at face value, but if you think about it… in a way, its everything.
It’s just ‘not everything’ because you’d never know the difference.

insight courtesy of my homie matt.
we were talking about the phenomenon of males having this societal pressure to suppress FEELINGS and he really hit the nail on the head with this one.
droppin maad science.


take chains off
November 13, 2008, 13:01
Filed under: video ho

778s & heartbreak
November 7, 2008, 15:33
Filed under: trill

La Belle Dame Sans Merci

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful-a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said-
“I love thee true.”

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d-Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried-“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

– J. Keats

my president is black
November 4, 2008, 21:02
Filed under: trill

my lambo’s blue, and i be goddamned if my rims ain’t too.
all hail king obama!

but will they?
November 4, 2008, 09:07
Filed under: trill

staring at paintings to catch glimpses of the painter
November 3, 2008, 08:50
Filed under: trill

the great saul williams wrote this letter to history. i like it. you can watch a video of him reciting it here. the spoken version is slightly different. tomorrow….shiiiiet.

Dear History,
For too long have I pondered your meaning, memorized dates of battles, years of servitude, decades of injustice, named eras after movements, mourned the extinction of species, cursed founding fathers, worn vintage suits and cloaked myself with references of your hold on me.

I have walked through museums wondering how it is that greatness had lived and died all before my time. Parts of me feared becoming great because it seemed to include a price of death and a postmortem glory that my memory could never resurrect. I’ve stared at paintings dying to catch glimpses of the painter, closed my eyes to listen to songs that drunken ghosts dance to, and all the while I’ve fought to FREE the present to BECOME.

In 1995, I stood with poets in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, barking metaphors at the new moon of the summer solstice wedging words into it’s craters, sewing seeds through nightly wind.

In 1996, I forced the ocean back with words, fathered planets, climbed pyramids, and began to decipher the sirens song to conjure the dream-filled Children of the Night.

In 1997, I stood with prisoners in our nations capitol bending bars with the power of thought as wordsmiths served sentences and Hip Hop diddy-dandified itself: stealing golden calves from the Old Testament to smuggle into the lavish crib of Pontius Pilate for it’s birthday party

In 1998, I swallowed fear and sun-danced on film reels, projecting a me that had not been into a me that ever shall be.

And HERE I stand, ten years the difference and witness to changing hands.

Dear History,
I beat you. I stand a generator of generations bearing witness to a world that we are holding accountable for past actions. Me and my friends, we’re changing our diets, re-inventing marriage, check-mating capitalism, re-defining ethics, replacing cruelty with compassion, and have sworn not to re-elect the sins of the father.

We are casting our votes for so much more than a lesser of evils, but for change, and greater insight, for wisdom out of the mouths of babes, for races that bleed into ONE.

Dear History,
You are behind us and we are no longer looking back. We are standing on the threshold of new times, new days, new worlds, and charging forward without battle cry or trumpet, while cynicism, apathy, and cowardice take their place beside you, behind us.

Dear History,
We no longer believe in you. We have invested our our thoughts and dreams into the present moment and opportunity to shift our reality into one that does not resemble your dog-eared books.

We stand on the shoulders of those who have dared to dream and on the necks of those who have wasted their time and ours proclaiming a past past its prime.

Dear History,
Blitz! It’s my turn now. You can have your mounds of flesh, leather boots, cannons and sabers, nooses and guillotines, warships and fighter planes, trails of tears and blood, genocides, dungeons and dragons, ghost stories and fairy tales……….

fingers crossed!! ballot or bullet.