35th Video Channel

Why not? 

Today I went to see about some stuff with my condo. I also called around for repairmen for my dryer in said condo. The warrnty haassss expired. 

Today I made a difficult decision. It was only difficult because I know some folks, lots of folks, myself included won’t want to hear it.

Today, well earlier today, I was sleeping in Union Station.

Only for a minute, but there I was spending the night at the train station, and not even mad about it. 

Today, my computer crashed. Or failed to boot fully. Today, I got that fixed.

Today i sent a text to 2 women I like/liked.

#Noresponse.

Today I saw my students. Mmnnn, and it felt not like redbox, blue heart swelling. But it felt good. 

Today, I felt put out. I almost cried. 

Did I mention I like, was sleep in Union Station? 

Today, I wrote a article called Friday Night Lights in my head. I sent it to Kim at Elixher, and I did not smoke…

I’m lying, I just started a rhythm of things there. Today I found a small roach in my friend’s car. Lit it, 

Paper over pussy? 

That’s something I only tell myself on cold nights. But today i was rollin.

In every sense of the word. 

Today I cuddled with a new friend. I got turned on to yelawolf. I helped a new friend and her girl take her equipment to the cab.

Today I um, well wait. I guess that was all Sunday? I don’t know it’s all fading into each other now.

I’m grateful for change. I’m grateful for change. I respect and honor change. I appreciate change. I’m never mad at change, whole time I am indebted to change. Change is sooooooo well the most consistent thing. (That same jesus?)

I can’t seem to write anything without my youth choir days reappearing. I pray for change. I pray for change. I thank God for change.

I give myself away.

Alright. Highlight…

High: Gary Clark Junior.

Lo: She’s straight. 

I think that’s the end of the story there. 

Seriously though.

yesterday i wrote to myself. 

today i messed up. fckin arnd listenin to friends. 

#childish move. i can say how i feel god, said it’s okay. have no cut cards. he is in control of the hand of the game. me. me. me guess who loves you more and am always so inspired by you. i’m writing you poetry now. damn, fire keep me open stay having me write poems. shout out to the light in drealoc’d harlem.

what is my type everybody everybody wants to know…

god.

but for some reason, that’s never a good enuf answer… bathe more. masturbate more. appreciate as much as possible. damn. i miss her already.

3 mjr goals before the week’s end.

I send princess paperwrk.

II 2 cllge applications. 

III Ill Fie

IV Cereusly…

since i missed one i don’t know if that means time stopped. so therefor this is only day three really. or if since i missed one, it’s day four, only my third post, and i’m behind. i prefer the former. and anybody say otherwise the devil is a liar. i will not live a life of catching up. i live a life of yes a life of riley a living. 

i live a life of yes of riley of living i’m always chillin when i’m at amber’s house there’s toast and white merlot good times we live a life of yes of riley of living 

living in america i’m so political these days i’m ready to claim my country because i don’t have any children and i want to belong to something that i can say is mine because i was made here and the moon is much to big to create my own.

living in america i live a life of yes of riley of living so many not living to the lost *splash* to aids one day soon *splash* to nolegs *splash* to diseases that straight go outta style cheers

in america i live a life of yes of riley of living dn’t care wat the others in america have said the devil is a liar and a friend of mine

I don’t even know where that was going. The lesson of the day is, slow down. Slow down always. Don’t let nobody speed you up. Patience is like, I don’t know, cee lo said something about that being the difference to be a good artist. But I’m starting to get a headache and it’s getting late. Not sure how much longer I want my eyes open. I wish it was just possible to write in the dark. If I could write from my heart.

Man, why does everything rhyme with my work right now? good grief. 

chop it up already. 

What else is new? pretty much spent today chillin at Tina’s dining room table. And I call it chillin because all I did was a lot of planning and strategizing. Ish I don’t get paid for and has no possibility of making money. But if you don’t have intention. Oh I watch a Oprah episode. And I took a shower. And I didn’t spend any money. Well at least not til I got to Mims. And I definitely didn’t do anything that will make any money by this week so yeah. Problem. FAT is happening and as soon as possible. The thing about this 3 day thing is, a lot of stuff, is simply none of ya business. 

But how can I just share some thoughts? That’s selfish as hell. As I writer, ain’t I obligatory to be genuine? i mean i got the nerve to ask you to listen to me and don’t have nothing to say. Damn. 

Onward with the public diary. The so called blog. Just an exercise to be consistent in writing. I miss teaching. Confession, I miss teaching. Not really, I’m high. 

Well, no it used to be fun. I miss teaching. i don’t miss grading. If that makes sense. Grading is casually ridiculous anyway. Assess me, don’t tell me how well I’m doing, it’s a comparison. Just tell me how I’m doing. What are the things I need to know? Not if I know more than her or better than him. whomp whomp. ‘You Want the child to have an A? I’ll give her an A. My stars.’

Why teachers shouldnt give grades. Because the students need to know they are incomparable to any other standard, classmate, benchmark. because we can’t raise our children figuring out how they gonna do better (next advisory/ that ninety percent of the school) as opposed to just figuring out how to do their best. (your best is always good enough). because a stands for acceptable average another fool who cantreadforreal. and b, i don’t be feeling like it. 

Where I am with this diary entry is very different from the entry last night. Most pointedly, I’m sober. That shouldn’t keep me from writing now, should it?

(You’d be surprised). 

Anyway. You know what? Writing emails to members of the press, actually, doesn’t excite me I don’t love every bit of it. And negotiating is not only not a strong suit of mine, but huh, just not interesting. I don’t walk in Anthropologie demanding less than what they ask for. I just wait for a sale, or move on. (This is not the makings of an event coordinator, perhaps.) I don’t know. (My dad says that a lot, I don’t know)

You know what? I don’t talk about my parents a lot. Even though I miss them terribly, and imagine them often, and when those dreams, bless me, I never never wanna wake up. But I don’t talk about them. Or my family. What do I talk about? Fuckin FAT. Or whatever the last project was, I don’t know. What’s the point of it all? My cousin’s having a baby. And I’m spending my evenings reading my favorite books. i got to get out of this house. And get back into my own bed. I have to get Kelly to fix it though.

But it’s not about what i want, is that what life is about? Doing what you want? Really? what about service, in the best way you possibly can? Giving as much as you possibly can? Are those even options on the list? What are my motives in any of my, ‘work’? I pray to GOD, that FAT fruitions into something beautiful and every lie is slayed. And every effort is cherished, and every able body is present, and that something stirs. GOD. THANK YOU FOR A SPACE. I do desire it. I do believe in it. 

I want our wills to be one. I say yes to whatever you like. Just take care of my family. First thing in BK is see Autour Du Monde. But that’s another thing. 

GOD I THANK YOU. It’s so easy to write it down. It’s so difficult to say. I don’t even have a picture of my parents anymore. This has got to change. I need to set up an altar as soon as possible. I need to talk with them daily. 

Anyway, what was supposed to be the moral of this story? The bottom line is. The very bottom line is. 30 AMERICANS.

On the surface. I want to be friends with Glenn Ligon, i think we have the same feelings toward language and the power of words. So maybe my chapbook release, will not be a book at all. But magnets, posters, and t shirts and videos. Anyway. 30 Americans. Well to start, let me start by saying is that I am an American.

Donttellnobody.

I mean that’s what they told me in Egypt. That’s what they told me in Ghana. That’s what the Africans over here claim. And damn sure, that’s what I know. My mother was born in Southeast. My father was born in Southeast (I think, I dn’t know. But he was raised here). Their parents. And before that North Carolina. So I’m pretty American as they come. Black American, if we want to distinguish that. But that’s only if we’re willing to believe the hype that being ‘american’ has to be qualified with a color. And if you put black in front of it, huh, don’t that include everybody? 

What do i stand for? Who will I stand for? 

So 30 Americans, if I have to say something that makes me so sad, is that being American (let’s take a moment to look at what this country has done. not it’s people, a country is not it’s people a country is it’s government and it’s actions? id on’t know) It’s called 30 americans and not 30 black americans for a very obvious reason, 

because the black, whatver that may be have been could have been, has been completely forsaken. 

Mmnnnn, how could I say something like that!? OH MY GOOODDD! I’ms tarting trouble but I’m serious. So now, really how do I just not even prove my point, or just explain where I’m coming from. 

Black is a color. America is a place. America is a place that started not too long ago. Black is a color, it was one before America and after. I was a girl befor America or AIDS or Nike. Black is a color. America is a mass of land, much smaller than depicted on the maps. I belonged to my mother way before cotton or college football. Matter of fact, cotton is a plant? A fiber? I don’t even know. (Nobody’s talking about that!) Black is a color. Black is a color. It’s like green, what kinda of green?

Nobody knows cuz the entire exhibit is talking about freakin nike! And the problem with fake hair and and, how black men really are beautiful. Or can be sprayed out in white sheets and roses. Or black women really are more than ass and titties, mammies and titties, acrylic and titties.

Nigga, duh! 

There is not one piece of work that doesn’t talk about the so called black experience in relation to the White experience, or American politics, racial constructs. 

I’m sorry 30 Americans, but my life did not start with slavery. It started in my mother’s belly. That’s my first problem. That there it’s missing a history, or even a questioning desire to know that history, that beginning of us. I don’t know art, but the most antique reference was that kehinde wiley jont, and that was european. 

I can’t speak for what all black women see when they see another black women with fake hair, but it damn sure ain’t the wigs on the wall. 

30 Americans? Casually underwhelmed and uninspired.

Sure I thought, wow, slavery still exists in college football? Give me a break. Niggas go to college gettin ass, getting as much of an education as they choose to, and it’s comparable to picking cotton!? #problem. 

Even like that unlikely thing was cool, the little video? A common misunderstanding. But really, how the hell is that relevant? Raise your hand if you know some folks mixed, and chillin? Whole time, white folks date people of color every damn day, so much so we bout casually, fuck them out, so what? 

Where’s the BLACK LOVE never comes up in the show? I mean really, I didn’t walk out of there feeling like I belonged to this country. (I own this country). I didn’t 

Where the hell is the love in this show? 

1. I ain’t start with slavery (LACK OF HISTORY/Misappropiated)

2. Stop whining and do something (comparisons to slavery/ branding stuff/ so many european references no wonder it’s not called 30 black americans)

3. where is the power. Why do we keep refrring to what some white person did? continue to use his tools 

2. It’s called 30 Americans, why because the BLACK is GONE. and by black I mean the love. Where is the self love? (TOTALLY MISSING)

Maybe I can articulate this better if I was an essayist. But I’m not. I’m not trying to prove a point. These are just my thoughts.

THE LIST

My wife’s name will be tattooed on my neck. Like my back shoulder blade. It won’t be in arabic, because I don’t speak it. It won’t be in cursive, because that’s extra. It’ll be her name and it’ll feel good to belong to someone. However brief. It’ll be the name her mother or father or whoever gave her because I appreciate her beginning, and recognize we are nothing without it. 

Physically: It doesn’t matter as long as she can hold me up. 

Oh! And that I’m the pretty one, but I think that’s more of a mental thing. 

Emotionally: She doesn’t press me to be extra. But I can be extra with her if I want. She is very open and a clear communicator. And she cries. For me. Vica versa. That’s love. Because once I was with a woman, she cried and cried and cried. I laid beside her, and I just wished she would stop so I could sleep. I just wished she would stop so I could sleep and then I feel asleep. If I loved her, I believe, I would have cried too.

Physically: She fly. But again, that’s probably mental.

I wanna dress her up. I wanna be bad, because there’s always a chance I might see her. I want her to be pleased with what she sees. I never have to ask her for anythng.

She thinks I’m beautiful. She doesn’t tell me this. But when she does, I believe her.

She believes in a higher power, she is sure of what it is. She has a religion, devout and cavelier at once. I want to be converted. Convinced.

Physically: Mmnnn, she doesn’t wear dresses. There’s another mental thing. But for real, she opens doors EVERYTIME. Walks me to the door. Tells me to shut up. She doesn’t say this, but sometimes we get quiet. 

She likes the petty things I like. She curses niggas out for me. She stands up. 

When we walk in a room full of folk, we walk in a room. At Kaliq’s house I’m in the kitchen with Amber, and she is watching the game, and then the one after that, or the one after that. 

If she talks to someone else, I know it’s only words passed. 

PETTY THINGS I LIKE:

WOMEN. CLOTHES. DRINKS WITH FRIENDS. FIRE. SHOES. JEWELRY. FOOD. EXCELLENT SERVICE. TRAVEL. GETTING PEDICURES. GUCCI MANE. WORKING HARD. RUNNING SHIT. YOGA. GIVING GIFTS. LISTENING. FRUIT. CREATING. MARTINIS. NOT PAYING FOR PARTIES. MAGAZINES. PEARLS. WOMEN KISSING. ARETHA FRANKLIN. OBSCURE ELECTRONICA. GIVING BACK/FORWARD. WASHING HANDS. POETRY. BOOKS. POWER. NICE SHOES. SOFT SKIN. LAZY SATURDAYS. CLEAN HOUSE SUNDAYS. RASPBERRY. TUPPERWARE. ETHIOPIAN FOOD. WINE. TEQUILA SHOTS. GOOD VEGAN CHEESE. WATERMELON IN THE SUMMER. FAMILY. FAMILY. FAMILY.

Ase. 

britnidanielle:

a little while ago i had the pleasure of sitting down with one of my favorite writers, dream hampton to chat about a myriad of things from hip-hop, to black women and abortion, to surviving in a post-capitalist world. #heavy. 

two interviews have been published by Clutch Magazine (here & here), but i’m sharing the complete, unedited, amazingly dope convo with you. 

enjoy.