Music=Heals

“Throw it in the Bag” (remix)

“Love You Right Here”

“Drop it Like it’s Hot”..

…all titles to popular songs that we’ve nodded our heads to at one point or another. (principals, ministers and librarians are not exempt)…

…however, I never thought what my life would be like if I listened to ONLY these three songs for an entire month. And nothing else. 

When Mos Def’s “Blackstar” album came out,  I listened to “Umi Says” for what seemed like two weeks straight and noticed a shift. A physical shift. Like being hugged from the inside out..

….I no longer perceived my co-workers to be scaled down versions of rocks. Instead, they spoke in rose pedals and wore kindness like a name tag. I almost asked them how they did it, I was so impressed.

When I first heard Georgia Anne Muldrow’s* “Because”, I listened to that song for almost an entire month and noticed supreme changes in my ability to be grateful. Even for things that I would much rather change. Like traffic jams, twelve hour work days, slow customer service, too much water in my white mocha, etceteras.

These songs shifted my perspective on life.

Maybe it had something to do with…I don’t know…their u.v. way of inserting slips of inspiration into the crevices of my brain…a kind of inspiration that doesn’t have to be labored over…

.

Things and people who usually irritated me, became lessons, gifts, and at most were lifted and placed very far from my last nerve.  

This hasn’t happened lately. It could be because there’s nothing but reindeer poop being played on the airwaves. Or maybe it could be that I’ve just been away from principles and practices long enough to forget how powerful and efficient they are. 

So…I have a question. If you were to listen to songs that move your spirit, for thirty days what effect do you think they would have on you??

Let’s try…

…here are the instructions. (Printed, and photocopied, this would make a great gift for those who are struggling with obsessive complaining disorders, willpower deficiency syndrome, and hyperactive I can’t glanditis. This might be you.) 

1) Create a playlist consisting of at least 30 songs, of which move every part of you. For those who need specifics.. by every part, I mean your mind, body and soul…

2) Any song that moves only your soul, by default moves your mind and body. So add these songs as well. 

3) Listen to this playlist for thirty consecutive days. And nothing else.

4) At the end of the thirty days, reflect. You may have noticed a decrease in negative thinking and an increase in your willingness to give away free hugs. Notice the changes. Give thanks.

5) Smile.

6) Rotate your playlist and start all over.

Just in case you’d like some suggestions for your playlist…here’s my offering

“…i need a better dream to come/want my spirit to arrive  renewed just like the sunrise/life always finds a way to test me/and i’ve got eternity to pass…”

"Waiting in Vain"

 

“…/I desire much more/there’s always something wonderful and new/I wish the same for you/one day all of you/will see the same thing i do”

"Soon"

 

“Who’ll pick you up when you put down my friend/who’ll face the cold and fight the icy winds/will you still be around when spring is new again/stand on your own two feet/you’ll always win.”

"Pick you Up"

 

 If none of these songs work for you, I’d like to personally compensate you with one of these free hugs that I just can’t stop giving out.

The Party is in the Panties.

Apparently, dumb men are the new plague (if you’re already offended, chances are you’ve got the fever). Now before anyone starts texting and tweeting about how reverse-sexist I’m being, pick up a book…and learn about how reverse sexism is in fact, nothing that has or ever will exist (kind of like reverse racism…)

When you’re finished, I invite you to come back and take a walk with me down the aisle of unadulterated disrespect.

So, about five minutes ago, I was doing some “social networking” and drifted across a friendly post. Some guy who calls himself “KingNoble7″ found it in his heart to share with me a video titled “Booty-full Black God-ass-Sis”.

::This is where we collectively sigh::

I used to feel empathetic toward men who reach out to women, Black women in particular, with warped notions of respect. You know, the “peace queen” brothas; the “hey sis” brothas; the “let’s burn incense together during the winter solstice” brothas. The brothas who know how to pronounce “patriarchy” “prison industrial complex” “neo-colonialism” and the rest of those I-went-to-college-and-think-I’m-top-shit terms and phrase in hopes that their correct annunciation will grant them a party pass into my drawers.

First off, there is no party in my panties. That just sounds unhealthy.

Empathy rears its head when I’m reminded of the Black man’s daily fight to function in a society that deems him almost ineligible to exist. And after having gotten to know said brothas, I’ve learned that some, if not most of them have undergone trauma associated with physical abuse. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still empathetic. However, I no longer allow empathy to cloak my apathy for fried chicken grease-like behavior disguised as a celery stick.

Know that every time you “hey sis” me, we do not need to exchange contact information to further discuss the civil war in Sudan, or Tiger Woods for that matter. Please, burn incense as a means to lift the residue of the past from your heart. And when you see the moon in full bloom, call and ask my mood how its doing. (trust me, if you do this, you will be invited to more than just a panty party).

Sexual Seducation

why go to college for human sexuality when i can just have sex and take notes?

i am not a skank, a ho, nor a slut. i am not a hoochie, a bitch, a cumbag, or sleeze. i am not a freak, fast, or easy. i am nothing less than a goddess.

my best friend and a lady who sounds like warm chocolate, prefer to go through the hassle of befriending the men they desire to slap stomachs with. i respect it. yet i am confused. is one approach to sex more deserving of respect than the other? in what constitution is it written that a woman be worth the amount of times she has not had sex? and if there were some written document that validates such a preposterous proposal, then how long is this culture going to live without demanding a male equivalent?

nevermind answering the latter. it is absurd to judge a woman’s character based on the number of times she chooses to open and close her legs. whether her legs are revolving doors, or bolted down, it ought to be recognized that a woman’s sexuality is just one facet of her intricate construction. how come her morality isn’t scribbled over with the same question marks when she unwillingly stays at home to look after the children while her husband is toiling away at work?

as a young lady, i grew up with my legs pasted shut. mainly because an elder woman-usually a mother, grandmother or auntie- told me to do so. asking “why” tended to result in me icing my cheek. if my lips even thought of formulating a question, my mom would stare me down as if her rent depended on it.

that still didn’t stop me from wondering. a few years later, after having upgraded from chapstick to extra shiny lipgloss, i felt old enough and more mature to reassert myself. “so why do i need to wait three to six months before giving it up?”

the answer lies in the question. maybe if a woman’s role in sex wasn’t so vastly described as “giving it up”, then she would be perceived more as a qualified participant as opposed to a passive donor. when the woman is assumed to be morally equal to the man, her wait time need not be correlated to her overall worth. think about it, when was the last time you left the dmv overjoyed because you had to wait forever just to get your picture taken?

despite the dmv comparison, too often do i hear the following:

“you want a man to respect you. if you have sex too soon, he’ll think you’re a [insert slut, ho, skank, or any other term that signifies less than a goddess].”

and my reply is:
‘well, what if i don’t care what a man thinketh?”

i mean after all, i don’t recall any of my homeboys coming to me in tears because their friends reprimanded them for having lost count of the women they’ve slept with.

it’s 2009 and i am a woman in a country that is slowly becoming aware of the woman’s right to sexually assert herself. i am placing my feet in the wet concrete of a growing discourse on women and sex hoping to leave an indelible print.

for the past year, i’ve been treating my sex life like a college course in human sexuality. i have researched, been popped quizzed, and failed at many a midterms. nonetheless, i continue to read and write as a means to evolve into a more mature sexual being. i’ve read books on love versus lust, polyamory versus monogamy, the tao of sexology, etc. more times than not, i’ve come across books authored by men (suspiciously “ghost-written” by women) about how to find and keep a man. and, more times than not, my head nearly explodes from being filled to the brim with “advice” on how to play the game of patriarchy, and call that being endlessly in love. wamp wamp.

i’ve been copiously taking mental notes and figured that it’s about time i write down my own opinions. stay tuned….

(Self) Love Lock-Down

So as an African American woman with locs, who burns incense and occasionally eats Tofu, I’m supposed to know everything there is to know about self love, so I’m told. I’m supposed to shower myself with hugs and prayers, affirmations and cast away doubt with spirit fingers right?

No.

I’m actually temporarily challenged in this area. And without getting into the specifics (because I don’t need all-a-yall knowing my personals…and more so I don’t want you to see how unnecessary some of my internal rants can be), I’d like for you to play Dr. and prescribe some antidotes for what I’m officially calling, the self love lock down. (P.s. please spare the hug yourself speeches…hugging yourself is not fun. At all.)

…ten minutes later….

I actually did try hugging myself, just to make sure I wasn’t impulsively refuting an idea.

And it was kind of whack.

However, I did discover that I can give myself some pretty darned good ribcage massages.

I still want your antidotes.

Go!

Fashionable Fundraising

So, just in case you missed my last blog about the FLOW Scholarship, I’m writing another one.

But before I start, let me ask you something: what was the last thing you spent money on?
If you are anything like me, then you spent twenty dollars on half a tank of gas.
(I would hope that unlike me, you own a car that will get you a little more mileage for your buck.)

But this is all beside the point. The point is: I am asking that you shuffle a couple of those dollars from your I -need-gas fund on over to the FLOW Scholarship fund.
If donating to www.firstgiving.org/flowscholarship is not particularly your style, then I encourage to visit www.freelivingourway.ecrater.com,

Flow Tunic::Baby Blue

This way, you can contribute to a worthy cause and look fashionable as a result. 

This scholarship was created so that students interested in studying abroad may do so without busting a sweat about how to obtain the necessary funding. In a nutshell, I just want to make study abroad a bit easier for those who think it’s hard. That’s it, that’s all.

Death of Auto-Tune

So, last night, I gave in to cable and decided to watch a bit of the BET Awards. It wasn’t going so bad, until I saw what looked like four 12-14 year old girls shaking what they they thought was their “ass” to the tune of Drake and Lil Wayne’s duo “…I just wanna f**k every girl in the world…”.

:pause:

Are you serious?

In my last blog, I spoke about artists and accountability.

Lately, I’ve been checking myself because too often, I deride the artists I personally know, while at the same time giving the Lil Waynes hallway passes because of their ability to put together a nice metaphor.
Who will hold Lil’ Wayne accountable for his actions? Did anyone perceive these young girls being on stage as a problem to begin with? Well I did, and in protest, left the room.

I didn’t come back until I heard Janet’s voice. At this point I became consumed by everybody else’s pain regarding M.J.’s death and started to cry.

After the BET show, Jay-Z’s video came on, “Death of Auto-tune”, and is he not smashing?

The God of R&B/Pop/Everything Else passes on and Jay-Z performs a song in which he scorns rappers whose careers are dependent upon superficial reconstructions of their voices and existences.

Can I guide you to the link between MJ and Jay-Z’s “Death of Auto-Tune”?

MJ set standards. He introduced choreography that the entire world rehearsed after work. He made glitter popular. He wrote songs that my great grandchildren will most likely recite verbatim. He did not make an entire album in auto-tune. He did not talk about how hood he was. Nor did he talk about how much ass he had, or was going to get after the club.

Michael Jackson was universally appealing because of his ability to express his individuality. Jerry-curl, white glove, nose job and all. We still loved him because in the sharing of his life, we gained the inspiration to be confident in our own creative expression.

How many (hip-hop) artist are in the business of traversing M.J.’s path so as to establish a legacy that’s founded upon the pure genius of spirit?

I’m pretty sure you know the answer. And if you need a little bit of consolation, check out Jay-Z’s video “Death of Auto-tune”. You are not alone.

Message in a bottle..an unshapely question mark.

We all know someone who is a fighter, revolutionary, down for the people, (hella hella fine), conscious, poet, word smith, progressive, anti-establishment, some-kind-of-vegetarian extract.

Yes?
Yes.

I know someone who is all of the above and simultaneously the polar opposite. I used to get angry at the mention of his name, but find it more worth my while to speak a quiet prayer. I am also learning to separate the messenger from the message. However, in attempting to do so, I am pitted against myself. Part of me wants to utilize the principle of love, while my other half wants to utilize the principle of accountability. How much longer will we continue to celebrate the message whilst overlooking, for lack of a better word, the shystie-ness of the messenger?

See, I know a messenger. He hands out telegrams of beauty to young girls struggling with self esteem. He mails shooting stars to young boys who no longer believe in the goodness of life. He sprinkles love letters on tombstones and strings stanzas of waist beads around the hips of puberty. His messages are collectibles. Vintage notes that you already know because you’ve written them in a previous existence. I know a messenger who scribes verses on the backs of the enslaved so that they can inspire the people who come after them. I know a messenger whose uniform is impeccably flawless.

On the other hand, I know a messenger who does not take time to heal himself. Who does not utilize the same ointment he prescribes to others. Who celebrates his individual, yet chastises the community. I know a messenger who doesn’t mind a woman being everything for him until she’s nothing for herself. Who soaks up admiration, yet is dry as a rock when it’s time to become vulnerable. I know a messenger whose words replace the whip. I know a messenger who knows himself well enough to affect others but has yet to produce a change within himself.

I know this messenger. You do too. The messenger has been me and is sometimes you.

(…Okay that last line was kinda cheesy. But the cadence was quite lovely if I don’t say so myself.)

Nonetheless, I pose this question:

Is the message real if the messenger isn’t?

We want to leave the country TOO!!

Alright folks. I’ve already been at you about fundraising for the FLOW Scholarship, and I’m at it again. I’m in high gear this time around and trusting that my tenacity finds its way to your sofa cushions, back pockets, and shall we not forget, the oh-so-generous-checkbook.

Above is a pretty good looking badge that you can click on and let guide you to a webpage, of which you can make a secure online donation.

I appreciate your love and support. Muah!

Alignment

The Universe is like a gigantic desktop printer. It produces an exact replica of whatever is on our monitor or mind. If my ink, or my thoughts are not in alignment with spirit, then I will send a difficult message to the Universe, which in turn produces a difficult outlook, literally. If my ink is aligned and in tune with purpose, the Universe prints me a divine reflection of my thoughts.

I’m aligning my thoughts with the divine spirit within so as to produce a perfect picture.

(What does alignment mean to you?)

Where do i go from here?

I went to Los Angeles over the weekend and was shocked at how my usually talkative self went mute. It’s not unusual that I spend time in my head, but these past few days, I’ve been camping out.

I was wondering a lot about infrastructure….yes, big word. I know.
I want a house (a big one), a car ( a shiny one, with no dents), a husband (a cute one) and a coupla children (good ones). I just found out that all of these things won’t magically appear, so I’ve been looking for a meaningful job(s).

I do the whole rapper as poet and back to rapper thing and am planning on making money from it. In the meantime, I teach. Nowhere in my equation do I plan on being broke. Nope.

So while in Los Angeles, I thought plenty about my art, my teaching, and the rich people with their cute purses. How far am I removed from these Lamborghini driving, small dog toting, botox loving people? I am striving to attain what they have. I think.

And when I get it, who’s to say that I’ll be happier? I’m pretty sure the extra zeros in my account will make the rent/mortgage easier to pay, therefore reducing the level of stress that comes along with scraping up pennies to keep PG&E on.

So I’ve got the house (a big one), a husband (a cute one), children (good ones) and a car (shiny without the dents), but I’ve also got a horrible system of education that leaves my good children behind, forcing them to play catch up, or become frustrated with their own intellectual recession causing them to act out. I’ve got a health plan that doesn’t cover the concerns of my husband, leading him to believe that if he doesn’t follow the rules, his life may be cut in half and his cuteness just a memory.

I’ve got people from West Oakland to West Africa living in less than desirable conditions due to poor economics, making the spaces in my huge house selfish lots for play. I’ve got a deteriorating planet because my shiny car with no dents emits too much carbon monoxide.

I’ve got the zeros and ironically nothing around me has changed. The system is still standing and my lifestyle serves as a pillar.

How can I exist, in happiness?