it was a warm june summer day
on centennial drive in the berkley hills.
he’s just turned ten sitting shotgun
in the swerving messy honda hatchback
heading back from the lawrence hall of science.
it was a day execution with the canal community alliance.
he’s wearing parachute pants and a sleeveless
fishnet shirt, both black and phat laces on his shoes,
he’s seen breakin’ three times in the theater
and he feels he’s close to mastering the headspin.
trista, dianne and etoyia are singing in the back seat and he’s
sure michelle is taking the turns too fast.
the wind whips through the open windows,
the crappy tape deck is turned up as loud as it can go,
a sound unlike anything he has ever heard before
blares from the speaker by his feet,
i’m not a human, i’m a dove
i’m your conscience, i am love
they’re all singing as loud as they can,
i would die for you, yeah
darlin', if you want me to
you, i would die for you.
isn’t this great michelle asks, grinning from ear to ear.
he can’t understand how lucky he is to be with this women,
she’ll never know the impact she’ll have on these kids’ lives.
just as as soon as it started, the chaos has subsided.
the richmond oil refinery drums have opened to the bridge
and the sun is calmer now, golden and shimmering on the bay,
they roll the windows up and stop signing.
staring at the seagulls in silence, except for the song engulfing the car
i know times are changing
it's time we all reach out
for something new, that means you too.
Showing posts with label Prince. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prince. Show all posts
June 13, 2021
164/365
April 27, 2016
Carry On and Run
Some nights there ain't nothing to say.
No words. No ideas. Nothing to say.
Some nights there are too many ideas and enough energy to match. Focus. Attention. Urgency. Results.
Some nights there are enough ideas, but the droopy eye-lids and foggy brain translate into frustrating dead ends and rambling nonsense.
The ability to transform everyday reality and experience into coherent, funny, moving, entertaining, worthwhile prose is no easy task. These daily attempts are nothing but first-thought, best-thought rough drafts at best. Even still, they aren't easy, and I am not even talking about the discipline to actually write real pieces. This thing I am doing is just stretching, but it still hurts.
...
I got race on my mind. I have wanted to admit that I wish I was I black for weeks, but I have been scared that this confession may be perceived as insensitive and racist, nonetheless- I said it.
Prince and Beyonce have me proud to be black…oh wait….yeah I know, but I have been reveling in the beauty of black culture worldwide, but in America in particular these last few days. Everything I love and admire about American culture is a direct influence of the African American context.
Is it privilege to say these things? Most likely. Is it wrong to glorify the reality of oppression and systemic racism, as some kind of cultural game. I am sure it is. But for days I have wanted to admit that I always wished I was black.
Feels weird to say it out loud and place it in permanent words on the internet, but there it is. I am sure people much more intellectual and learned than me, have all kinds of psychological explanations for my realization, but for me it is simple: I find black culture beautiful. Is it so weird that a white Iranian man, could respect and admire the struggle and beauty of centuries of struggle and music and poetry and rebellion?
…
I just watched a nine minute virtual reality, 360 degree view of a Mexican slaughter house. I have seen scenes like this many times before, but I choose to be moved every time. I never want to become become numb to these scenes. Or worse choose to ignore them and pretend that they are not reality. Every time I watch the murder of an innocent sentient being I become angry. I become filled with sadness. I get slightly nauseous and feel like I might vomit. I tear up and nearly cry.
This clip is no different. It allows you to navigate the room and witness the blood, the despair, the absolute disgust that houses this process.
I don’t want to guilt people into making lifestyle choices, but if we knew about the murder of human beings wouldn't we speak out. If we knew of untold suffering wouldn't it be our duty to speak for the voiceless. When we are witness to injustice, it is our human responsibility to raise awareness.
You can choose to ignore this video, because you do not watch videos “like this.” It might be too upsetting and you have seen enough of them. But I suggest you watch all of them that come your way. Bringing witness to suffering is a brave and courageous act. I hope for the sake of life you remain brave. I hope that not only will you watch the clip, but that you will share it with as many people as you know.
If you love bacon than please don’t shy away from the truth. Own the process that brings it to your table. It doesn’t make sense to love something but not own the process in which it is created.
(Hypocrisy Clause: Let me take a minute to step down from my absurdly annoying self-righteous soap box for a second and admit that there are many things I love and exploit, knowing full well their origins. All my devices are just a few examples. So I am not here to judge you. I am not here to make you feel guilty. I think the modern person is plagued with enough self-inflicted guilt to keep us busy. I just want to share an injustice that is near to my heart in hopes that it will open your eyes and your heart.)
…
Just so you don’t think my days are filled with race envy and guilt, let me tell you of my afternoon:
I ran home. In a thunderstorm. There was a part of me that wondered what it would feel like to get struck my the lightening that was striking all around me. I kind if wished for it, until one bolt hit so close that I actually ducked near a bush.
The rain was cold and consistent and felt great steaming off my hot body. The legs were right back at it. The lungs kept up and my brain was lost in the verdant sidewalks and the soaking up of the puddles with my socks.
I ran passed a lost watch. Giant Umbrellas. Passengers chasing buses. I focused on the present.
I was an animal made of flesh running on a spinning planet.
After being buried in so many lingering ruts, the awareness of my being sentient was enough to carry on and run.
No words. No ideas. Nothing to say.
Some nights there are too many ideas and enough energy to match. Focus. Attention. Urgency. Results.
Some nights there are enough ideas, but the droopy eye-lids and foggy brain translate into frustrating dead ends and rambling nonsense.
The ability to transform everyday reality and experience into coherent, funny, moving, entertaining, worthwhile prose is no easy task. These daily attempts are nothing but first-thought, best-thought rough drafts at best. Even still, they aren't easy, and I am not even talking about the discipline to actually write real pieces. This thing I am doing is just stretching, but it still hurts.
...
I got race on my mind. I have wanted to admit that I wish I was I black for weeks, but I have been scared that this confession may be perceived as insensitive and racist, nonetheless- I said it.
Prince and Beyonce have me proud to be black…oh wait….yeah I know, but I have been reveling in the beauty of black culture worldwide, but in America in particular these last few days. Everything I love and admire about American culture is a direct influence of the African American context.
Is it privilege to say these things? Most likely. Is it wrong to glorify the reality of oppression and systemic racism, as some kind of cultural game. I am sure it is. But for days I have wanted to admit that I always wished I was black.
Feels weird to say it out loud and place it in permanent words on the internet, but there it is. I am sure people much more intellectual and learned than me, have all kinds of psychological explanations for my realization, but for me it is simple: I find black culture beautiful. Is it so weird that a white Iranian man, could respect and admire the struggle and beauty of centuries of struggle and music and poetry and rebellion?
…
I just watched a nine minute virtual reality, 360 degree view of a Mexican slaughter house. I have seen scenes like this many times before, but I choose to be moved every time. I never want to become become numb to these scenes. Or worse choose to ignore them and pretend that they are not reality. Every time I watch the murder of an innocent sentient being I become angry. I become filled with sadness. I get slightly nauseous and feel like I might vomit. I tear up and nearly cry.
This clip is no different. It allows you to navigate the room and witness the blood, the despair, the absolute disgust that houses this process.
I don’t want to guilt people into making lifestyle choices, but if we knew about the murder of human beings wouldn't we speak out. If we knew of untold suffering wouldn't it be our duty to speak for the voiceless. When we are witness to injustice, it is our human responsibility to raise awareness.
You can choose to ignore this video, because you do not watch videos “like this.” It might be too upsetting and you have seen enough of them. But I suggest you watch all of them that come your way. Bringing witness to suffering is a brave and courageous act. I hope for the sake of life you remain brave. I hope that not only will you watch the clip, but that you will share it with as many people as you know.
If you love bacon than please don’t shy away from the truth. Own the process that brings it to your table. It doesn’t make sense to love something but not own the process in which it is created.
(Hypocrisy Clause: Let me take a minute to step down from my absurdly annoying self-righteous soap box for a second and admit that there are many things I love and exploit, knowing full well their origins. All my devices are just a few examples. So I am not here to judge you. I am not here to make you feel guilty. I think the modern person is plagued with enough self-inflicted guilt to keep us busy. I just want to share an injustice that is near to my heart in hopes that it will open your eyes and your heart.)
…
Just so you don’t think my days are filled with race envy and guilt, let me tell you of my afternoon:
I ran home. In a thunderstorm. There was a part of me that wondered what it would feel like to get struck my the lightening that was striking all around me. I kind if wished for it, until one bolt hit so close that I actually ducked near a bush.
The rain was cold and consistent and felt great steaming off my hot body. The legs were right back at it. The lungs kept up and my brain was lost in the verdant sidewalks and the soaking up of the puddles with my socks.
I ran passed a lost watch. Giant Umbrellas. Passengers chasing buses. I focused on the present.
I was an animal made of flesh running on a spinning planet.
After being buried in so many lingering ruts, the awareness of my being sentient was enough to carry on and run.
April 24, 2016
Electrifying
It is 1984? 85? I am in fifth grade. I think.
Because I went to school in the Canal, the “poor” part of Marin County (one of the wealthiest counties in the US of A) I attended an after school daycare program led by the Canal Community Alliance. This program for kids like me, Trista, Etoyia and Diane allowed us to do all the cool things that the kids with money in the rest of the county did on a fairly regular basis.
The CCA took us to Santa Cruz for camping, kayaking in the bay, horseback riding out at Tennessee Valley Road and even once on a river rafting trip on the American River. Basically every single cool thing I did as a kid, I did because of the CCA. And the “they” I am referring to were three women who ran our small part of the larger center. Michelle, Cindy and Martha.
Looking back, I realise that much of my understanding of how to treat women must have come from these three amazing people. They were young(ish) I have no idea how old they might have been. They were dedicated and taught us so much. They were filled with joy and passion and really seemed to love us. I would love to get in touch with them, so if anyone on FB can wave some magic wand, that would be priceless.
This in particular memory is set in Michelle’s car, a blue Honda hatchback if my memory serves me well, and if not, let’s pretend this is fiction. We were winding through the hills in Berkeley headed to The Lawrence Hall of Science for some weekly outing.
The music was loud and the windows were down. I seem to remember sitting shotgun, and I have no idea who else was in the car, but I remember Michelle singing at the top of her lungs; her face projecting a magnificent smile. And me…tiny, shy, skinny me, singing along with her.
“I’m not a woman.
I’m not a man.
I’m something that you’ll never understand….
I’m not a human.
I am a dove.
I’m your conscious.
I am love.
I would die for you.
Baby if you want me to.”
I could not have known what all the words meant, but I remember the music put me on the edge of something that felt forbidden. There was a sensuality in it that as a child I found dangerous and enticing. As a parent, the idea of a sexual awakening in your child is terrifying, but as a ten year old it was electrifying.
1984 was an intense year in many ways. The details are fuzzy of whether my parents were on or off in their on-and-off again relationship, but I know that grade five was a big year for me. I grew up a lot that year. And listening to Prince in the car with Michelle had a lot to do with it. I’m not sure when I first saw Purple Rain, but I know I had also recently somehow watched Flashdance. Like A Virgin was released that same year. It was an stimulating introduction to adolescences that had come early for me.
For as long as I can remember it is that sensual electricity that made Prince, Prince.
Years later at 1576 parties, we would spend the nights bouncing our bodies around the living room, creating tamer versions of mosh pits- Pearl Jam and NIN fueled testosterone displays, but late in the night when we had tired from that nonsense, I would often play Little Red Corvette and Purple Rain as a way to, well, be another kind of man. And that is what Prince has always allowed me to be.
I may not be familiar with his entire catalogue, but the songs of his I do know where instrumental in making me who I am. And it is the ten year old me, who mourns his death with the heaviest heart. At the tender age of ten, when I needed it most, Prince taught me what it means to be human, and I have been confused and excited about it everyday since.
…
Spent some quality time with just Kaia and I today and it is crazy what a cool little person she has become. There is so much less parenting involved when we are not all together as a family of four.
We just chatted, had a slushy, rode the luge and walked the beaches of Sentosa, while waiting for Skye to wrap up a birthday party.
Because I went to school in the Canal, the “poor” part of Marin County (one of the wealthiest counties in the US of A) I attended an after school daycare program led by the Canal Community Alliance. This program for kids like me, Trista, Etoyia and Diane allowed us to do all the cool things that the kids with money in the rest of the county did on a fairly regular basis.
The CCA took us to Santa Cruz for camping, kayaking in the bay, horseback riding out at Tennessee Valley Road and even once on a river rafting trip on the American River. Basically every single cool thing I did as a kid, I did because of the CCA. And the “they” I am referring to were three women who ran our small part of the larger center. Michelle, Cindy and Martha.
Looking back, I realise that much of my understanding of how to treat women must have come from these three amazing people. They were young(ish) I have no idea how old they might have been. They were dedicated and taught us so much. They were filled with joy and passion and really seemed to love us. I would love to get in touch with them, so if anyone on FB can wave some magic wand, that would be priceless.
This in particular memory is set in Michelle’s car, a blue Honda hatchback if my memory serves me well, and if not, let’s pretend this is fiction. We were winding through the hills in Berkeley headed to The Lawrence Hall of Science for some weekly outing.
The music was loud and the windows were down. I seem to remember sitting shotgun, and I have no idea who else was in the car, but I remember Michelle singing at the top of her lungs; her face projecting a magnificent smile. And me…tiny, shy, skinny me, singing along with her.
“I’m not a woman.
I’m not a man.
I’m something that you’ll never understand….
I’m not a human.
I am a dove.
I’m your conscious.
I am love.
I would die for you.
Baby if you want me to.”
I could not have known what all the words meant, but I remember the music put me on the edge of something that felt forbidden. There was a sensuality in it that as a child I found dangerous and enticing. As a parent, the idea of a sexual awakening in your child is terrifying, but as a ten year old it was electrifying.
1984 was an intense year in many ways. The details are fuzzy of whether my parents were on or off in their on-and-off again relationship, but I know that grade five was a big year for me. I grew up a lot that year. And listening to Prince in the car with Michelle had a lot to do with it. I’m not sure when I first saw Purple Rain, but I know I had also recently somehow watched Flashdance. Like A Virgin was released that same year. It was an stimulating introduction to adolescences that had come early for me.
For as long as I can remember it is that sensual electricity that made Prince, Prince.
Years later at 1576 parties, we would spend the nights bouncing our bodies around the living room, creating tamer versions of mosh pits- Pearl Jam and NIN fueled testosterone displays, but late in the night when we had tired from that nonsense, I would often play Little Red Corvette and Purple Rain as a way to, well, be another kind of man. And that is what Prince has always allowed me to be.
I may not be familiar with his entire catalogue, but the songs of his I do know where instrumental in making me who I am. And it is the ten year old me, who mourns his death with the heaviest heart. At the tender age of ten, when I needed it most, Prince taught me what it means to be human, and I have been confused and excited about it everyday since.
…
Spent some quality time with just Kaia and I today and it is crazy what a cool little person she has become. There is so much less parenting involved when we are not all together as a family of four.
We just chatted, had a slushy, rode the luge and walked the beaches of Sentosa, while waiting for Skye to wrap up a birthday party.
April 22, 2016
Gangly and Awkward
There are very few things in the world that are as remarkable and awe-inspiring as the human adolescent child. The middle school aged human- aged eleven to fourteen can do and be just about anything if you show them some love, respect and trust. Ironically they are viewed as a race of hormone deranged mongoloids by those who don’t understand them, but take the time to listen to them and talk to them and you will see that they are filled with passion and humor and an intensity that is truly inspirational. Sure they are gangly and awkward. They might be slightly manic and neurotic and riddled with self-doubt and angst, but they are just begging for responsibility, independence and a chance to show what they can do it. Whatever it is that is put in front of them. I feel so honored to have the privilege of being let into their world.
We launched our lit mag tonight and I was on the verge of tears for most of the night. The details will have to wait as I can’t see straight from fatigue, but I do want to say that it was one of the best events I have been a part of in my career. Student run. Casual. Well run. Artistic. Organic. Honest. Fun.
Paula and I never once went on stage or said anything. The kids did all of it and we nearly sold out our magazine. We will most likely break even on production costs and the kids were jazzed about reading, writing, words, music, art, expression and a community of writers. There is so much I need to say about the night and the entire process, but I will just say that it was a beautiful thing and I am so proud to be a part of it. I love this work beyond words and cannot imagine doing anything else. It is easy to complain in the day-to-day of work, but it is moments like tonight that make the work we do worthwhile. I will stop gushing, unit I formalize this experience in a proper blog post.
…
Prince. Fuck.
I have my stories. My memories. I will write them soon. Not tonight but this weekend for sure. In short, Prince allowed me to be a man on my own terms. He taught me that masculinity can be draped in purple sequence and ass-less chaps. More to come I hope, but right now I am enjoying these words, the empty white screen, a glass of wine and the guitar solo at the end of Purple Rain. This man defines soul.
…
Looking forward to taking a step back and spending the weekend with Mairin and the kids. It feels like a while since we could just relax and spend time as a family. We’ve got ice-slain birthday parties and maybe sometime by the pool. This is a well deserved weekend. Bring it on.
We launched our lit mag tonight and I was on the verge of tears for most of the night. The details will have to wait as I can’t see straight from fatigue, but I do want to say that it was one of the best events I have been a part of in my career. Student run. Casual. Well run. Artistic. Organic. Honest. Fun.
Paula and I never once went on stage or said anything. The kids did all of it and we nearly sold out our magazine. We will most likely break even on production costs and the kids were jazzed about reading, writing, words, music, art, expression and a community of writers. There is so much I need to say about the night and the entire process, but I will just say that it was a beautiful thing and I am so proud to be a part of it. I love this work beyond words and cannot imagine doing anything else. It is easy to complain in the day-to-day of work, but it is moments like tonight that make the work we do worthwhile. I will stop gushing, unit I formalize this experience in a proper blog post.
…
Prince. Fuck.
I have my stories. My memories. I will write them soon. Not tonight but this weekend for sure. In short, Prince allowed me to be a man on my own terms. He taught me that masculinity can be draped in purple sequence and ass-less chaps. More to come I hope, but right now I am enjoying these words, the empty white screen, a glass of wine and the guitar solo at the end of Purple Rain. This man defines soul.
…
Looking forward to taking a step back and spending the weekend with Mairin and the kids. It feels like a while since we could just relax and spend time as a family. We’ve got ice-slain birthday parties and maybe sometime by the pool. This is a well deserved weekend. Bring it on.
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