What is Real?

August 30, 2011

I’ve wasted so much time obsessed with what I can’t do that it’s hard to believe. I have been so consumed by the trap that I was raised in that I don’t even think of freedom as a viable solution. I no longer need anyone to oppress me because I destroy most of my own dreams before they are ever even conceived. The mind can be a terribly wretched thing when it works the wrong way. Can anyone ever truly be inferior to another person? Can anyone ever really be hopeless? How often is a human being ever actually trapped? Even in prison a person can still dream. A person can still read. A person can still compose timeless letters. A person can still be in love.

I see men on the streets of Oakland, Berkeley, and San Francisco talking to them selves. I saw a friend of mine at the gas station by my house a few mornings ago looking beat down by life. I said hello and he asked to pump my gas. I was utterly crestfallen but I allowed him to do so. We talked. It was awkward. Even though I’m broke I gave him money. He smiled. I drove away and I vowed to never go back to that place again. A lot of these brothers appear to be too young and too strong to be out on the streets. The problem is that each one of them believed the hype. They believed that there lives were really hopeless and that their minds really weren’t worth holding on to.

I have staggered before and I will stagger again. At times I feel too jaded to shine and far too content with just getting by. It’s a proven fact that life can be very cruel and malicious but what other options do we have. If we are not living then what are we doing?

YB

Move the Crowd

August 28, 2011

I had the opportunity to share some of my work at a reading last night. It was just a few small pieces that I had written while in self-imposed exile so I didn’t really think too highly of them. And this is not because I thought they were poorly written or inadequate. It was only because I didn’t know.

There was no teacher that put a big “A” on the paper that I had expressed myself upon, and there were no passersby who stopped in their tracks while I was writing it and told me what a gorgeous piece it was. No, there was nothing close to that; these children were born deep in the country with no midwife or witnesses present to confirm their existence. Therefore there was no way of knowing whether or not they would be accepted by their peers on the first day of kindergarten down at the schoolhouse.

I stood there nervous as hell in front of about 30 people behind a microphone that was set up just a little too high for me. The reading was being held in an art room in the somewhat gentrified but still very hood Mission district of San Francisco, CA. The space is very loving and the people present appeared to be positive and nurturing but I was still scarred—scared that I would stumble over the words written on the page before me, scared they just wouldn’t understand, and scared they would tease my babies mercilessly about their country accents and their strange ways.

I got over it.

Then shockingly enough when I spoke they listened, they laughed, and they were engaged. Yes, I had moved the crowd. And when I say moved the crowd I don’t mean I made them “Throw their hands in the air/ and wave them like they just didn’t care,” I only mean that for that small five-minute interval they followed my words. They could feel them, they could see the images I had created, and on some level they could relate to them.

It was such an exhilarating moment for this writer to know that I had not toiled in vain. To know that the craft that I have sacrificed so much to learn how to do is still appreciated by a select few. When the event was over a stranger who was in attendance approached me. He looked me in the eyes and said; “Hey that was good stuff.” I gave him a generic response about how I was glad he liked, but he wasn’t having it. “No,” he responded to me slightly annoyed. “I’m serious that was really good stuff.”

I smiled and took a few seconds to soak it up.

“I really appreciate that,” I told him.

God bless my little country children. They made me so proud.

-YB

Feeling Good

August 21, 2011

There is nothing like heading outside early on a Sunday morning and letting the sun touch your skin. I have grown to appreciate going on morning runs. When I workout first thing in the morning with crust in my eyes, bad breath, and dry slob on my cheek from a good nights sleep it enables me to recognize what’s really real. Way too often I become caught up with my own appearance, and my own hardships. It’s a shame that my vision can be so easily clouded by issues that aren’t nearly as significant as I allow them to become.

Yesterday my daughter scored her first goal in soccer and although I couldn’t see it due to my day job I’m glad I had the opportunity to share the elation with her as soon as I got home. Also today I will be able to attend the very popular Art and Soul Festival in Oakland, CA. It’s always a beautiful, eclectic scene with an array of local dancers, musicians, artists, and singers. It’s truly a blessing that I will be able to attend with my family and hopefully see other friends in attendance that I haven’t seen in years.

The thoughts that come into my mind while I’m running in my beat up old running shoes and old sweat pants can be very uplifting. On this Sunday morning I’m feeling good. On this day I feel like a champion.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OfJRX-8SXOs&feature=related]

-YB

Forward Motion

August 18, 2011

It used to be so much easier to take chances when consequences meant nothing. It seems like just yesterday I had no fear of failing anything and now it’s almost as if I’m afraid to try. It’s only the big things that make me hesitate. You know the tasks that require long-term commitments, or for me to open up for an extended period of time.

Repression is a beast that we have all learned to live with. No matter how uncomfortable it makes us it’s very rare that we let everything out. It is an unfortunate fact that we nurture our pain like we nurture our children until it becomes unbearable. We only deal with it when we have no choice and I am no exception. I would like to change however. I need to take that chance.

-YB

The Ones I Lost

August 17, 2011

At this very moment I lay on my couch with a pillow under my head thinking about all of those lost pages. All those sheets of paper that I’ve balled up, torn apart, and thrown away. All those deleted files. Out of all those half written stories, plays, and poems that I couldn’t bear to finish what if I made the mistake of throwing away the wrong one?

Writing is such an isolated undertaking and I’m sure if I had the right person looking over my shoulder while I composed a story and whispered into my ear that it was amazing before I got the chance to hate it and tear it to bits, then my life would be completely different by now. But there are no cheerleaders for obscure writers. There are no groupies that like our hip lifestyle. There is only the writer by his lonesome and if he does not believe in himself then he is left with nothing but an aborted thought and a thousand pieces of paper scattered about the ground beneath him.  

-YB

What has become of us?

August 15, 2011

Early yesterday morning I had the opportunity to listen to Mr. David Starkey, a white British historian, speak of black culture invading London to the extent that “The whites have become black.” Starkey further elucidated that the rampant materialism and embracing of a gangster code of ethics during the recent riots in that city was due, at least in part, to the proliferation of hip-hop music.

It was a very intriguing point of view that I hadn't heard before. I’m not here to disagree with Mr. Starkey because at present I believe it would be counter-productive. After all I don’t think he was trying to be racist, overly simplistic, or malicious. All he was doing was speaking his mind based upon the bleak images of black people that he has been exposed to via the internet, television, and radio.

I’m aware that a man of his academic stature should have done more thorough research before he spoke so ill-advisedly to the entire planet, but the point I’m trying to make is that most people don’t. The vast majority of people in the world make assessments based only on what is presented to them, and when one considers how black folks are portrayed in the media this reality becomes extremely problematic.

In addition to this issue there are also a couple of local bay area rappers who just so happen to be white females (I won’t say their names) that have caused major controversy over their refusal to stop using the word nigga in their rhymes. They claim that they were raised around black people all of their lives and that’s how they talk. Although I believe they’re trying really hard to be disagreeable for the sake of record sales, the truth of the matter is it’s a lot bigger than that.

For almost this whole day I’ve been sickened by the thought of what has become of our race. At some juncture in time we became walking, breathing sources of entertainment instead of human-beings. We lost our dignity during the middle-passage and along with so many thousands of bodies thrown into the sea, we never got that back.

It bothers me to know that blackness is manufactured, marketed, and consumed by the masses. Which means that we seem to have very little control over what we actually are. Anyone can listen to the right records, dress in the right fashions, and use the right slang, and be transformed into a black person. Because we all know that being black is cool, being black is fly, and being black is so desirable—until the police need someone to victimize that is. Police brutality always separates the real black people from the imposters. Contrary to what David Starkey said no white person wants to be black like Oscar Grant or Mark Duggan. Please believe that while being black is fun it’s definitely not worth dying for.

Yet so many people have died in order for us to live. There have been so many Medgar Evers’, Patrice Lumumbas’, Bobby Huttons’, and Malcolm X’s. There have been so many hardworking, humble, righteous social servants that have been murdered for representing black people in a positive way in the past 50 years alone that I can’t even count them. So why is it that these people have not come to define what it means to be black? Why is it that in times of woe everyone seems to forget what these individuals stood for? It’s strange how these brilliant people are always depicted as anomalies as opposed to general representations of black resilience and self-determination. I wonder how that came to be? I would like to know if that’s our own fault as black people for not teaching our young properly, or is it part of a grand plan to systematically oppress us? Or maybe it’s both.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5UcFdY-u0U&feature=relmfu]

-YB

Free

      

August 13, 2011

Sometimes I forget how lucky I am to be free. At times I take for granted my ability to go out on a date, or buy ice cream, or go see my daughter play soccer. The other day I crossed the San Rafael Bridge and saw the huge ominous structure that is San Quentin State Penitentiary clinging to the otherwise beautiful California coast. It was a bit of a mood kill to say the least. I thought about all of my loved ones that have languished in that institution for years at a time. Then I thought about my cousin who I wish was still in San Quentin but who, unfortunately, was bused 400 miles south to Chino.

You know everyone has got a story and some of them are sadder than others—his is very sad, but then what can I do? It seems kind of shallow to be grateful that I’m not in there. Even though that’s exactly how I feel it almost seems like I’m pointing my finger at him saying; “I’m glad it’s you and not me.” It’s an indescribable feeling when you literally grow up with a person and he winds up trapped in a cage while you’re free to roam the Earth.

It’s hard for me to be grateful for my freedom because I would rather share it with him like we used to share brushes, doo-rags, bicycles, and candy bars. I want to somehow, maybe magically, liberate him but that is something I can’t do. Even when he is free he won’t be free.  And I mean that in the same way that my mind is not truly free right now.

YB

Leaving the Plantation

August 11, 2011

               I woke up this morning with the strong urge to flee. A few hours later I was in the small coastal town of Cotati, CA watching cows graze in peoples’ backyards while admiring bodacious redwoods that grew in a perfect row along the center divider of a main thoroughfare. The air was clean, the atmosphere was chill, and the town was welcoming. No one there knew that I was running from something, and if they figured it out they weren’t bold enough to ask—which was perfectly fine by me.

                My hometown of Oakland and I have an extremely ambivalent relationship. While I love the town (as we natives affectionately call it) for inspiring me to be a great person, forcing me to persevere through some very hardcore circumstances, and teaching me to be proud of my cultural heritage, sometimes I hate it for being so ugly. It really worries my nerves when Oakland puts all of its weight on me and makes me feel trapped. As much I have tried over the years I haven’t yet forgiven the town for taking the lives of so many young people who could have turned it around if they had a fair chance. Oakland is merciless.

                It’s definitely not a place for the weak. One must be very strong to make it out of the town in one piece and absolutely no one makes it out unscathed. For these reasons I reserve a great deal of respect for my city. Oakland gave me heart and I will never forget that but every now and then I need to get off of this plantation. This time it was Cotati, maybe next time it will be Madrid.

Yeah Madrid sounds nice.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v8Ik_9MHVig]

-YB

A Dreary Summer Day

August 9, 2011

                Today is one of those days when all the problems of the world appear to be catching up with me. Lately everything seems to be in complete ruin. Locally, a 3-year-old boy Carlos Fernandez Nava was shot dead while walking to the store with his family. The two men who were the intended targets of this brazen broad daylight attack suffered non life threatening wounds. The suspect has yet to be found.

                On the national level the economy is getting worse and everyone is pointing fingers at one another instead of working toward a proper solution. And globally the riots in London serve as a reminder that the murder of innocent black men by the police is not something merely relegated to the United States.

                I’ve been really irritable the past few days. I haven’t felt nearly as motivated as I usually am. I’ve been in somewhat of a stupor I suppose. I realized this when I was driving down the street today and one of my favorite songs The Sweetest Taboo by Sade came on the radio. She sang; “Every day is Christmas/ and every night is a New Year’s Eve.” Those lines have never ceased to put my soul at ease but today they sounded like mockery. As if she was completely oblivious to the current human condition. And that’s when I knew things were worse than I thought; when I could actually bring it upon myself to express animosity toward Sade.

                I don’t know what’s happening in the world today I only hope that I can find a little bit of joy tomorrow.

-The Asiatic Prince

When the Fight is Over....

August 7, 2011

The very thought of success terrifies me but failure is not an option.

I’ve been fighting with my back against the ropes for so long now I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be in control. Everyday is a fight. I have to fight for absurd things that others take for granted. I have to fight to keep what little I have and I have to continue to fight to get everything that I deserve in this world. So the thought of me actually attaining what it is that I dream of every night is a bit unsettling.

What does a fighter do when he has achieved all of his goals? Does he find something else to fight for or does he just quit? I’m not sure I know myself outside of constant struggle. But then again I’m not sure I know myself at all. Take all the rage out of a man, take all the venom out of a poisonous snake, take the horns off of a bull and what have you?

Certain creatures are defined by their ability to strike. I have come to define myself by my ability to strike back. Therefore if I had no one out there antagonizing me then my self-image would disintegrate. It is very troubling to know that I have allowed my view of self to be dictated by those who seek to destroy me. If I could isolate myself from all the hate and distance myself from all the pain then what would I become? I would be transformed into the unknown and the unknown is what I fear more than anything else. For I know in which direction I should be headed yet I intentionally march toward a slow ignorant death.

But before I die I am left here to ponder the question of whether or not I could ever honestly find contentment in peace.

-The Asiatic Prince

The Starving Artist

August 5, 2011

What will you do when no one else cares to watch you anymore? How will you express yourself then? Or will you even bother to try?

As a young man I read a story called The Hunger Artist by Franz Kafka that seemed to pose this very question. The story is about this dude whose only gift to the world is his ability to starve himself. At first people are very responsive to his talent and they gather around him by the dozens to watch him fast. But eventually they become indifferent. They don’t stop to look at him nor do they acknowledge his existence. In the end the hunger artist decides to keep doing what he does best and ultimately he dies from starvation.

I wonder what sacrifices the actors of today would be willing to make if no one came to the theater. Would the singers still sing if no one listened? Can the pastor still preach the gospel without a congregation? How far would you be willing to go for your craft? Do you do it for yourself or do you do it for the crowd? And are you really sharing a gift if there is no one there to receive it?

Art can be so stimulating when the artist puts his soul into his work. Thank you Franz Kafka for your literary genius.

-Roger Porter

Am I a Bad Parent?

August 5, 2011

I’m such a bad parent. No wait, I think that’s a little too harsh. It’s not so much that I’m a bad parent as much as I’m a stereotypical one. Yeah that sounds better. I’m a stereotypical black father who is actually present.

That’s the perfect way to describe how I feel after my daughter's first day of soccer practice. I mean I was excited—perhaps a little too excited. As a former athlete and avid sports fan I was proud almost to the point of tears when I saw my baby kick the ball between the cones then come in second place in her first team sprint. Words can’t describe how elated I was to witness her first day competing on the field. I can honestly say that was probably my happiest moment as a parent which, when I think about it, is absolutely terrible.

It’s terrible because so far in her academic career my daughter has been an excellent student. She was honored during an assembly for being scholar of the month in Kindergarten, and she was given the top award in her class this past year in first grade. So what can I say? I mean those things are definitely cool and I’m glad I have an intelligent, articulate child but I’m sorry— it’s just not the same for me.

I didn’t jump up and scream when she accepted her award in front of a few hundred people I only applauded mildly. Similarly, when she showed me the award she got from her teacher I said good job and kissed her on the cheek but when I found out she would be wearing a number 7 jersey like Michael Vick I almost lost my mind. I took pictures of her wearing it with my camera phone, I called relatives long distance, and I gave her high fives all over the place. I realize now that I put much more of an emphasis on athletics as opposed to education where it should be, but it’s so hard to do otherwise.

It’s not that I want my child to barely pass her classes and work toward getting an athletic scholarship it’s just that seeing her out there doing her thing evoked a more effusive response from me; and while I would like to say that’s only natural I’m more inclined to say, once again, that’s terrible. And the worst part about it is I never even played soccer.

Alright maybe I can even things out a little bit. The next time she gets an academic award I will force myself to go nuts. I will scream, I will shout, I will holler, and I will jump for joy as if I caught the Holy Ghost. The only problem with that is my little one will see right through the act. After all she is very sharp. My goodness, I only wish my mother and father would have told me how difficult this parenting gig truly is.

-Roger Porter

A blog about nothing

August 4, 2011

It’s always interesting to wait and see how the writing process will work. Sometimes it flows so well and then other times…there’s nothing. What can I blame this on? I’d like to say its Facebook’s fault for putting a little 1 on the panel every time someone interacts with my page. Since I’ve been on Fb my ADD has regressed into ADHD. (Speaking of Facebook; isn’t it bizarre when people actually like Facebook on Facebook? I just thought I’d ask).

I also want to blame my blog sometimes. After all, I hardly ever just write for me anymore. Every thought that I transform into writing I share with anyone out there in cyber space who is willing to read it. I’m thinking that’s a problem. Perhaps one day all of this openness will come back to haunt me. Maybe but that day ain’t today so I’ll keep moving right along.

It’s really a trip when you have so many wild thoughts running through your head but you can’t manage to pin one down and expound. Then you find yourself running full speed away from an empty page. Now can you think of anything scarier than that for a writer?

-The Asiatic Prince 

Phases

Roger Porter

August 1, 2011

Even as an adult I continue to go through phases

A few years back I thought it would be pretty cool to learn how to play the guitar. So I stacked up a little money and bought the baddest acoustic guitar in the store thinking that the amount of cash I spent on it would motivate me to learn how to play. In the beginning my theory worked as I began to learn how to play basic little rhythms by ear. I even paid for a few lessons; but then life started happening. Various events began to require my time and pull me away from my new hobby until eventually I just gave it up. Now what was once my pride and joy is just a dusty, out of tune thing that sits in the corner of my room.

Dreams unfulfilled

For a brief moment in my life I wanted to play like Mississippi Fred McDowell, B.B. King, and Robert Johnson. Somehow I had managed to romanticize the arduous lives of southern sharecroppers who learned how to perform the blues in order to finally move off of the plantation. In my mind I wanted to hop on a train and just ride. With my guitar in my hand and a little bit of money in my pocket I would just go out one night and not come back until I had at least two dozen wild stories to tell my grandchildren.

How naïve can a grown man be?

Learning how to play the guitar is hard. Leaving your family is harder, and hopping on a freight train in the 21^st century is extremely ill-advised. Responsibility is the rusty blade that kills your childhood stroke by stroke. To live ones life in denial of what is real is tantamount to failure. At some point a person has got to settle down within himself, no matter how outrageous his dreams are.

There is still joy

There is nothing better than looking down from the top of the mountain at the people who tried in vein to destroy you. There is nothing better than being able to look inside yourself and loving what you see. I was foolish enough to think that money alone would motivate me to do something. I made the mistake of taking passion, dedication, and love out of the equation.

Now I am wiser

One Lyric

            Roger Porter

July 30, 2011

            In the hit record I’m On One by DJ Khaled Miami based rapper Rick Ross drops the lyric “Have you ever made love to the woman of your dreams/ in a room full of money out in London and she screams?” Every time I hear that part of the song it instantly causes me to become engaged with the music. It’s kind of baffling because it’s not like that’s the most profound thing I’ve ever heard. Although the imagery is rather astounding, for the most part it’s a pretty straight forward line. On the surface it has all the familiar elements of cultural decay that are present in every other radio friendly hip-hop anthem, but below the surface it gets deeper.

                Rick Ross actually used the euphemism make love on a rap song—who else would do that. I would like to see some data on when was the last time a “gangster rapper” passed up a perfectly good opportunity to say the word FUCK on a record. And then to take it to another level Rick uses the word WOMAN. The word woman has been forbidden in hip-hop since Arrested Development broke up. Just think of all the perfectly acceptable derogatory terms that he could have used besides woman. I mean what will become of our music if this man continues to refer to women as women? This one lyric may come to symbolize the end of an era.

                The audacity of this fat man who wears a long beard like an Afghani and who has an obsession for gangster cinema is absolutely unbelievable. How dare he try to change the game and be less obscene. How dare he be poetic and try to give us something to visualize. Doesn’t he know that we are struggling through an artistic recession right now?

                Rick Ross needs to learn that gangster rap is strictly for gangsters— not poets, and he needs to understand that he cannot be both. I think his label representative needs to tell him to raise the vulgarity and tone down this whole respect for the feelings of females’ thing before this gets out of hand. For if this mentality was to catch on then it could be an absolute disaster. It’s scary to think about it but trust me when I say this dude has the potential to destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to maintain and all it takes is one lyric.

Forgiveness

Roger Porter

July 28, 2011

The more I learn about myself the more I discover that I am a liar. People hurt me and I tell them that I forgive them but most of the time I really don’t. I can look people in the eye and shake their hand. I can talk to them for hours and laugh with them all night knowing that all of my emotional attachments have been completely severed. I guess that makes me a cold person. Add another flaw to the gigantic pile of things I need to work on.

But then again some people are better kept on the outside. I have been told that human beings are creatures of habit. Which makes me afraid of letting someone who has betrayed me back into my inner-circle for fear that they will bleed me once again. And all of this causes me to ponder the question, what is true forgiveness?

I can genuinely say that I don’t actively hate anyone. I can also say that I don’t harbor any resentment toward anyone for pain that they may have caused me or anybody in my family. However I will confess that with some former loved ones I am just done. The truth is that my relationships with some individuals will never be the same and as I write these words I am becoming increasingly concerned that in the end this may not constitute as forgiveness. Perhaps this will cause me to be judged harshly whenever I pass on into the afterlife. Perhaps I will suffer immeasurable pain due to my personal inadequacies. Or maybe, just maybe, God will find a way to forgive me.

More Notes On Her....

Roger Porter

July 26, 2011

I can’t imagine what life must be like for an artist who isn’t struggling; those two words seem to be almost completely synonymous to me. From a personal standpoint writing is my release, it is my passion and it is the purest thing in the world. Even though I dream of making it big on the literary scene, if I began to get paid thousands of dollars for these blogs I’m not sure that I would welcome the change.

For my poverty has come to characterize my writing style and I question that if I were to stumble upon wealth would my prose simply fall apart. And would I be able to maintain my humility if all of a sudden I was recognized around the world for doing something that I would do anyway? If I had to write to pay all of my bills then would I still cherish my ability? Perhaps I would feel forced to find another way to relieve my stress.

We all have that sacred place that we run to when the world becomes unbearable; whether it be within ourselves or out there in space. But what if the next time you went there you found it full of unfamiliar people just staring at you as if you owed them something? Then where would you go? Chances are you would turn around and run in the opposite direction. Chances are you would become lost.

Notes on the Death of Amy Winehouse

Roger Porter

July 24, 2011

She wasn’t supposed to actually die. She was just supposed to amuse us with her self-destructive antics until we got bored with her, until we ceased to enjoy listening to her music, reading about her in the tabloids, and watching her theatrical melt downs on YouTube. Until we found someone younger, more reckless, and prettier— even then she wasn’t supposed to die.

Who would have thought that the lady who took a snort of cocaine on stage in front of thousands of people, and made her refusal to seek professional help for her addictions a smash hit, would ever actually overdose on drugs? It’s hard to imagine that the charismatic woman with the soulful voice but who seemingly had self-esteem lower than both Janis Joplin and Billie Holiday would torture herself to death with a syringe. Assuming that is what actually happened, for at the moment the public doesn’t  know for sure. All we know is that the awesome light from one of the most extraordinary supernovas ever has faded out of sight.

She gave her life in front of us and for that we should be proud. How sad it is to know that no matter how long we applaud there will be no more encores.This time the show is really over. This time we must leave the concert hall. This time we must spill out into the frigid streets and find our lonely homes.

Cruise Control

 Roger Porter

July 20, 2011

The sunlight looks spectacular on a day like this but it’s hard to enjoy it when you’re overwhelmed with work. There is always work that needs to be done but is that any real reason to be cooped up in the house. On the other hand the sun will always be in the sky so is that any excuse for me to completely disregard my responsibilities. And thus I have just illustrated my current affliction in microcosm. Damn this cursed confusion! On days like this I swear I wish I could take a vacation from myself.

In my youthful cockiness I just knew I’d have it all figured out by this age, now I find myself pondering the questions; “Does anyone really have things all figured out? Is that even possible?” I can recall a few summers ago when I had a job as the token black man at a Jewish summer camp (very enlightening experience by the way) and I came across this guy while taking the campers to a local beach for a dip. He was hanging out with this dude who lives on my block and I noticed he was with his daughter who was around the same age as my little girl. So we started to chat a little bit. 

The guy was really chill both in appearance and in his mannerisms. He had a white tank top on, his dreads flowed well past his shoulders and he was barefoot of course (as we were at a beach). He said to me, “Oh so you work at a camp I work at a camp too.” And I was like right on, you know just kind of nodding my head. Then he paused for a while and was like, “Yeah that’s my wife over there” as he pointed to a blonde haired woman in a black bathing suit. Once again I just nodded my head as I scanned the water to make sure the kids weren’t trying to drown each other.

Then he paused for another good while as if he was taking a long drag from an invisible blunt.  Suddenly he came back with “Yeah me  my wife and my daughter just chilling you know.  Everything is gravy. My life is on straight up cruise control.” With that he took his tank top off and held his little girls hand as she waded slowly into the water.

Cruise Control? I thought. This fool works at a summer camp and he’s talking about his life is on cruise control. Then I looked a little deeper into what he said. Perhaps the cruise control that he was referring to had nothing to do with occupation or even education for that matter. Perhaps it’s all about finding that ever-elusive inner peace. But I’m like damn can I truly be at peace if I’m broke as hell and struggling to pay the rent. According to the man with the dread locks the answer is yes.

Honestly it all makes a lot of sense. It took me a few years to understand but I really respect where that guy was coming from.  When you take the time to break it down you’ll find that even people who say they don’t care about the money really care about the money. Like me for example, LOL. It’s not that I want to be ballin out of control with a $10,000 pinky ring but I would like to earn enough to prevent my brain from automatically going into panic mode at the end of every month.

 It was wild because there I was presented with this mystery dude in the exact same situation as me and he seemed to be completely happy. This dude was actually on cruise control while I was in the middle of accruing an obscene amount of debt in graduate school. What did he know about life that I didn’t? What had he discovered? What spiritual code had he cracked?

But alas I have come to accept that I am not the man with the dreadlocks. The speed at which he presses the cruise control button is completely different from the speed that I feel comfortable doing so. And at that point in time I was nowhere close. To make matters worse I’m not sure if I’m any closer right now.

Maybe it’s like love and when I’m ready to go into cruise control mode I’ll just know, or maybe I’m just eternally restless and that moment will never come, or maybe that guy was lying. For all I know he committed himself into a mental institution that very night. Really I have no idea what happened to him but it doesn’t matter because my life is not about him. It’s about me and what I’m going to do.

 I would like to find a little inner peace though. I guess all I can do right now, however, is to keep searching.    

So stay tuned.

The Dead

Roger Porter

July 18, 2011

I wonder about the dead sometimes. At an indecent hour like this I am up wondering if all those whom we have lost ever think about us. For example; when a memory of them runs through our mind did they place it there, or are they capable of conjuring up memories of us simultaneously.

I just saw a video of a 20-year-old Tupac Shakur. He was a defiant, articulate, and dangerous young black man. He was not unlike a few of my good friends who I lost in my early 20’s. It would really be amazing if they were in a place where they could bump into one another and have a real exchange. Assuming autographs are of no value in the afterlife they would be inclined to talk about something really profound like how to look after all of us on Earth, or where they went wrong in life. Better yet, maybe they are completely at peace.

Peace would be something that may take them half of eternity to adjust to. For while they were here all they knew was rage and unrest. It’s sad that they left this world so young but I hope they know that they had an enormous impact on my life. I write for them, I fight for them, and I live for them.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQ4FvfM9Ftk&feature=share]