Years...

Someone found me online today to say "thank you." He'd read something I wrote about Oscar Grant's death years ago, that impacted him still. Apparently he thinks about it all the time. Currently riding in the backseat of a rented Dodge Durango, crossing the Mississippi river en route to North Carolina for my first niece's college graduation. The one I watched be born into this world is now grown and graduating. The last time I posted here, I'd freshly arrived in Lafayette, Louisiana. Eyes wide with possibility. The food was good, and for a while, I fell in love. Now I deal in disaster for a living, versus just recreationally. Looking back on lost posts is sending me. Such specific moments, filling the frame at the time, appear like distant stars light years away, the light of a long ago exploded star just now reaching the eye. The youngest niece, in the final stages of preteen, has fallen asleep on my lap. Only twice have I verbally expressed concern for Ole Miss one time. The sun is shining, still hurling through space down the drain of a cosmic flush, dragging Earth with it. We have spun around it many times now. The motion sickness is barely noticeable anymore. Time is a location marker in space. I'm grateful for the plots on this chart.

Oh Yea...

I come through walls, like the Kool-Aid man. I'd forgotten about this place. I was thinking about a journal, when it came back to me. It's like a journal after someone has read it. Adulterated, but still there. You still have the relationship.
It's been a while. Too much has happened to catalog, but some stats are historically crucial, like living in the bayou, still accompanied by Prince Luke Skywalker Robinson, my chewy, & owning a piglet named Boucherie. I didn't choose her (it's, as I'm constantly reminded) name. For some reason, there is concern I will love it, & be incapable of doing the deed when it comes time to slaughter. Halfway legit concern. I assured my comrades that I can do both, as is required of all ninja who join the order. Besides, since the ability to kill is of such importance, killing a thing you love should have special value to you savages. That's right, savages. Day 3 and I'm already on the verge of giving up bacon. The paradox is the local shop having a sale, 12oz for $2. Who can resist a deal, right? $3 and I can have 2 of my famous bacon avocado sandwiches(tm).
When people ask how I'm doing, I say I'm eating. I think that's a good indicator of how things are going in one's life. Mind you the cancerous poverty still exists, but last week I said aloud "I'm sick of eating brisket." What a problem to have. I still worry that all we do, I do, is consume. What have I done for anybody, myself included? What have I given my siblings, my nieces, & nephews? How dare I ask what I've done for my community, people, world? What is my role in the times? I think about these things, while the phone bill is past due, and there are more bills than dollar bills. "Final notice." Promises promises. I was thinking about food. Thinking about being tired of ordering pizza. Somebody said "This is my friend J. He's a really good writer." I was just thinking about what to eat, now I can't stop thinking about that. Thought about it. Came here, at least. I keep pushing back on the age. Soldiers die young. Might not see twenty five. All the greats go at twenty seven. Jesus didn't even start until thirty. Jesus died at thirty three. Toni Morrison's first was at forty. Harper Lee only did one ever. What is age, anyway? As long as I'm not dead, it's not too late, right? Fine, I'll write something for my friend, before I die. Also on the list, something for my younglings, to inspire them, & teach them, and something for my enemies to choke on. Can't do anything on an empty stomach, though. I'm eating.

Hulking

I never formally acknowledged the changes I've been noticing. Formally, as in written. Partially because if anything is to be written, it will be during the day. My already greasy mind is too lucid for nighttime exposure, so some things have to wait until, lets say now & other early nows. Creative types seem to be going through violent transitions lately. Wilding out. Flexing. Hulking. It makes me wonder, when a flower explodes from a seed pod, is it an escape or was it forced out? The shell is destroyed, then the ground is broken at the surface. Actors, musicians, writers, everywhere, all have been shattering or rejected by their havens. Nobody said change was always going to be easy, and some have been rough transitions. I can think of three examples who decidedly abandoned their craft, & have now returned full circle. Is it an early spring? I did see birds flying north the other day, and my buds are growing. Seed what I'm saying? Others sensitive to such have agreed. So it was written.

Work

I had the worst day at work today, during which I heard the lyrics "doing the work of lesser men." Afterwards I was planning on going to the movies with my sister, but we decided against it because it doesn't let out until 2am, & we both work in the AM. I told her I was ready for another job, & she called it progress. Where is the progression in changing plantations? Earlier I considered writing for a future reader's sake. I assume that reader, like me, will be curious about the details of day to day living, in addition to a larger historical context. Never did I consider writing about work. Time spent at work is not considered daily life, nor life at all, though we are there daily. Work is what you do for a living, it is not the living. Or is it? Work for me is an obligatory task taking up a chunk of my day, but others seem to struggle separating themselves from their jobs. My generation is past the era of lifetime employment, a fact I credit my just-a-job-attitude to. Plus, if you're curious about what people and life was like in the past, you want to know how they spent their living, not the details of making it. Life is sausage. Placing too much value on work disturbs me, something I wish to be clear for future generations. Work is a means to make money: money is the goal. Place too much value on work, and how much higher is its goal, money? Would you go to work if they just gave you the money regardless? Is money more important than family? Friends? The one you love? I can name TV shows more important than work. If you have someone to complain about work to, that person is more important than work. Work is replaceable, people are not. We need to value each other more than the value of currency. That should be basic, but some people here that and immediately list reasons why work is important. Same universe, different galaxies. Anyway, work sucked today. I also need money, which I loath having to put my focus on. Ooh, irony: to money zealots, I'm here temporarily and for one reason, I'm the mercenary.

Titles...

Next year I'll start using titles. This is my "going back to the gym." Free writing, I believe it's called. I had been asked about it in person, something uncomfortable, since this is personal and I'm intentional when cryptic. Don't read me bro, I'm serious. I've been writing other things, other things being in quotations in my head, because I know I should be writing The Thing. Truthfully I'm aware once it's done, it is done, and I'm afraid I'll be spent. Spent with importance, at least. Some might imagine that as a permanent recess, but I imagine everything feeling frivolous after, which would be torture. What a worry, right? Lets just say I've had some time to think about it, not writing and all. Now it's the 31st of December 2012, the end of the year. The end of one revolution, and the beginning of another.

Summer/Fall

We had the hottest summer on record, this year in Texas. Between that and depression, I haven't seen much sunlight relatively these past few months. I needed to recoup. Regroup. Spring saw new growth, with producing the documentary, the alleged dawn of a new era in my career. Summer I lost my cushy job at the arts org, broke up with my lover, and split from the house I only in retrospect realized was my first real attempt at making a home. Shit got real, quick. Higher aspirations get even less human resources-- energy, attention, etc -- when the basics aren't secure. Be grateful for family. As independent as we strive to be, man knows survival rates are higher as a social creature. Much respect for the plight of the immigrant, who is without an accessible network as soon as they hit a new shore. Who's couch would they sleep on during transition? Oh, it was real for a minute. I had never been so lacking in motivation. I knew what had to be done to get back on my feet, so I went through the motions mechanically, like trying to stand when both your legs are numb. Life is constantly about feeding and sheltering, so finding a new source of those didn't bother me. It was the feeling of being trapped on the base that weighed heavy. Trying to get ahead, it's sometimes called, seemed dumb. The temptation was to abandon all lofty goals, and to just work a menial job & die. Maybe go to the movies a few times in between. I was wrestling with the idea of being as educated as I ever would be, as travelled, of being finished with newness completely. I imagined my scattered works being collected & presented as evidence of this so-called writing, and scoffed. Pathetic. Then I got caught up trying to save Troy Davis' life. I ranted like a madman, until thankfully the cause went viral. So many different people joined in to support that we actually thought we could halt an execution with will alone. People were talking about the broken criminal justice system as if it were an approachable problem, it was surreal. Then he was killed. I woke up darker the next day, the last day of summer. I had aged overnight. The first day of fall, I picked up a pen. I've always written out of necessity. Seasons change. That's where I am with this thing.

So far...
no good. It's been two weeks as of yesterday since I left the plantation. Talk about the road less traveled, the career path of independent artist is pure wilderness. I say "independent artist" because "freelancer" is a shitty title.  There's an ever present sense of urgency. It seeps from the outside-- society, spouse, past due notices --skips the bulk of me, and settles in the core of my doubt. Primarily focusing on trying to create a "job", as opposed to looking for one, is a life-stakes gamble. Sill, I roll. I feel like I can always find work. I'm not now & hope to never be above sweeping floors. I'll do what it takes to live in this society until I can buy my way out, but there's no escaping the urge to write. Art is only a luxury to the rich. It's a necessity for the world. Just as Dorothea Lange opened America's eyes to the Great Depression, I'm one of those "we have a responsibility" type of nerds. Love is undocumented throughout the history of the world outside of poetry and song. Same thing goes for hate, justice, and all the things we say makes us human. Histories are always trying to make themselves look good, so the so-called artist has to tell it like it is. The history books never said slavery was wrong, that's why teachers have to use text like Huck Finn, a fictional novel, in  their teachings. The vast majority of us spend the vast majority of our time as pegs in some machine, keeping the profits coming. But we all individually know that there's more to life than profits. The bottom line isn't actually the bottom line. We don't say it aloud, but the plan is to work work work, only living between shifts & towards the latter end of life. What about our lofty goals? The individual ones, of stopping & smelling the roses, or writing a book, playing piano, or whatever? The societal goals of making a more perfect union, & all that jazz? Our individual lives seem to be to big for us. Managing work & daily life take so much, who even has time to think about the big picture, let alone influence it? I can, that's who. For every historical moment documented, there are a large amount of people who could have taken part, but they had to work. Selma, Montgomery buss boycott? "Sorry dog, I need to get to work & I'm late." Tiananmen Square? "Sorry Lee, I would go with you, but finals are week after next." It happened: I went to the mechanic not long ago. He ran some test on my old raggedy truck, and gave me the diagnostic. I asked, "Is that something I can fix myself?" He replied, "Of course you can. You're a man: you can do anything." Can't I? Can't we? Nothing is unlearnable, or undoable. Spell check says both of those words are incorrect. Spell check is wrong. Buck spell check and societal norms, I'm going for the life I want to live. Get your life up.

Sacked....
 Canned. Pink slipped. Downsized. Mark Zuckerberged. Fired. I stopped saying the name, because I refuse to speak ill of the place [as much]. At least, I'm trying to cut down. I didn't deserve it, but shit happens. I'm only a player in a much larger story. Maybe it wasn't the right place for me. Womp womp. Now is always most important. I've been writing (Co-authoring? Editing? Penciling mustaches on?) my story for a while now. Professional writing has loomed in parenthesis for too long. The untrained eye sees dark skin and unemployment, but my vision has never been a strong point. My goal is to "make it" ( Whatever that means. Aren't we all technically making it until we die?) as a writer. If it can be done, I can do it. People write. I'm people. Unfortunate for you, reader, I need a place to write all my crap to get to the good stuff. Everything Picasso put on paper wasn't a masterpiece, take his tissues for example. Not to say I'm Picasso of the pen (have you seen my archives?), or that I wipe my ass with these entries, just that there is a certain amount of honesty over artistry that comes with this format. The low profile offers a certain seclusion, or privacy. Free to act out, here is my mirror to dance in front of alone. Almost. So while may or may not bust a move, I can promise that in my preparation for the big dance, there will be the occasional botched MJ impersonation. I plan on logging my quest, analyzing everything, experimenting, and coming up with better final list items on this b l o g. Filthy word, I don't enjoy saying it. I hope to one day look back at this all and laugh. If not then I'm sorry, future generations and self, but it all seemed hilarious at the time. I write about humanity as seen from my point of view. I have other formats for that lot. This is the view from ground level, my life. My life as a self proclaimed artist. There I said it. Artist.

The Morning After...
the big premier. What did I learn during the film making process? More details, how to collaborate, how much I value my own opinion, and such. It's sort of like pushing  a toy boat out to sea. You're on your own now, kiddo. Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking. It feels good to be unattached again. As a project nears completion, the possibilities of what it can be become narrows, until it just is what it is. My eyes are peeled for the next pile of clay. This documentary was important and satisfying work, but so is homework. I'm ready to play now. I enjoyed it, but the orgasm was fake. Too many rules, and regulations. I needs to be free now. Do you see how I  did that? Needs? Bad grammar, wide screen- panorama. Paranormal activity seen on the camera. The point is, I can do whatever I want again. That's cool...

April Rising...
Your colors keep my eye
And your petals are so soft
But your thorns grant you delicacy
And so
I watch you grow

-J

I said I was going to start doing this more often. 
Sometimes it's hard to write here, knowing one of the imaginary readers could be the person I'm talking about. Everything I ever have to say is usually based on people- interactions with people- and I don't like to hurt feelings. Hence my hesitation to do this more often. Freewriting, I guess they'd call it. The main thing on my mind is this project I had been working on until recently. It's like my baby has been ripped from my arms. I'm at peace with it now, but the urge to scream lingers. Less cryptic, I was making a movie and am now not. C'est la vie. Meanwhile, I feel stuck in that place where ever artists are just before they become. Langston and Malcolm worked as servers on a train. Sometimes I can't tell if this is my Nation of Islam or train. I notice I didn't type hajj. Regardless, Malcolm wouldn't be Malcolm without the NOI. Nor without the conk, the white girl, or the record. That's the kicker: it takes [insert sweet & sour speech]. MLK wouldn't have been MLK in 1905- just another pool sharking cat daddy preacher. Jokes. Less cryptic, I would have never met challenge had the challenge not first come to me. Is there any way to describe my anguish aside from arrogant asshole metaphor? Without a Lex Luthor, the world would just have to suffer another Clark Kent. I'm starting to wonder if I've ever done anything I didn't have to. I can feel a ramble coming on, so I'll wrap this up. Inner Supermen, you don't have to wait until Doomsday shows up to pull out your cape. Action trumps reaction.  

Why did Benihana laugh? Because he realized he was already that which he was trying to become.

Forget private school...
 my children are going to the Jedi Academy.

Mi nah give har nuh mar milk finna put inna di cornflakes...

RE: "Daddy issues? Maybe."
Mine left around 10 or 12. Visitation was so rare, the intervals flow into one short blur. I spent a good percentage of my life with that hurt. I caught up with him in adulthood and, in one question, confronted him. I asked "What happened to you all these years?"  He bullshitted me about his absence, which in my mind belittled my lifelong pain with a lie, and I despised lying. Still do. By the time I confronted him, that hurt defined my entire life. I wasn't supposed to be a boy anymore, but he left me without an example of what it meant to be a man. I had few close relationships with any, so my collection of father figures was a dichotomy of fictional images and grand concepts, like Humanity, Perfection, and God.
The hurt was his absence, and reuniting filled that void. Only instead of being filled with satisfaction, I had anger. I was angry because reality was nothing like my dichotomy. In my dichotomy was Trust, but reality betrayed me.  I wanted nothing to do with reality.
Years have passed, and my relationship with my father has grown-- a sure sign of life. "My father" has replaced the obscure "him". While painful, I credit the transformation from hurt to anger as a blessing. The hurt seemed endless, while anger is manageable. I encourage you to grieve as intensely as possible. When you ambiguously lose the one who gave you life, it's like your very existence is a permanent heartbreak. I remember that scene from The Fresh Prince. That scene lasts our entire youth. When the heart finally does break, may a hug soften the landing, and may you find hope in the promise of a next episode.

We never talk...
Hours of silence, then we can retreat into our virtual worlds. Except there's not really silence. Whats the old cliche- if a tree falls in the forest, and nobody is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? Stupid cliche. While whomever argues over the definition of sound and the relationship between waves and the receptors that detect them, a tree is lying, and dying, in the woods. While we don't talk, and talk about bullshit, silence is what we call it. But there are trees falling all around us. Life doesn't yell timber. It wasn't ratified- never became one of Newton's laws. Continue saying nothing, and listen- to the sound of bonds falling. Talk about the frivolous, while the most critical goes unsaid. That's the way it is. Meanwhile, we are glued to our electronic fantasy lands, showing us the way we want it to be. The way we ought to be, or how we are and should not be.

What color am I today?
The deepest, darkest blue,
like the border of light's end
down where the ocean really begins.
What color am I today?
I'm gray,
as Haitian hands digging
through gravel
and rocks
once the foundation of a school.
Today I am black
like the souls and the holes
in the universe who absorb
every color of light the spectrum can offer.
-JRobinson

I will never forget...
the evening of August fourteenth as the night that I met Dennis. The day had been a blur of normalcy. Since noon, I had been working in my small performance theatre semi effectively, and at myself as well, downing coffee in an attempt to conjure up enough energy to make the day exceptional. Several hours and grumpy spells later, I still had failed. It was only through various complaints of my acrimonious mood did I even begin to get over myself by the second act. It was then, around ten that evening, that a man walked in. I had barely glanced up from my laptop, as there were three female employees working for me at the front desk to address whatever benign needs he may have had. On top of that, he was on a cell phone- a small annoyance I felt justified my inattention. Yet phone still to ear, he ignored the three attendants entirely and came to the back of the lobby, directly in front of me.
He ended the call as I turned to him and said
“Hi. How long have you been working here?”
A question of credibility, since this was an old institution. I suppressed the small stir of ego inside me and answered.
“Three years. How can I help you?”
Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a small stack of single dollar bills, and handed it to me.
Reluctant and confused, I reached out slowly to accept as he explained himself.
“Two years ago, I was suffering from a drug addiction. I came in here and you, I think it was you- do any other employees have dreadlocks?”
“No...” I said.
“So it was you. You loaned me five dollars, and I wanted to pay it back.”
I was flabbergasted. Silence would have been much better than the stammering that followed.
“I...but...that’s...”
I was too overcome with emotion to properly express my gratitude. He simply said
“God can do anything. He can do whatever he wants.” And began to walk away.
“Wait.” I called out, walked to him, and shook his hand.
“Thank you.” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Dennis.” he replied, and then left.

India Arie bumps in to Erykah Badu...



is not only heel-arious [funny because it's tragic] , but a cool tool for writers. Screw actors- how strong do your words stand alone? Look at how corny Transformers 2 was with collagen and explosions: imagine a scene from that script read by legos? Painful. Let the games begin!

Hemingway challenge?
It's on, and over!

-J Robinson

The world is really dirty.

Big Daddy Kane Documentary...

Alvin Ailey....
Last night was ineffably fantastic. At the beginning of the night, there was anxiety. We were running late, so I had to suffer through actual and perceived CP-time jokes, setting the mood as a mix of hurried tension and casual disinterest. In the lobby were the various expressions of darker than normal faces for a darker than normal performance. It began with a video, setting the tone and briefly educating the audience on the history behind what they were about to see, but the crowd became restless. It wasn't until the first dancers came out and began to move that silence enveloped the hall, and everyone in it. They moved rhythmically in every uncommon way, mystifying the audience into a deep admiration, a holy receptivity they wouldn't have likely stumbled upon in their empty little lifetimes. These dancers danced, and carried depth and meaning directly to the core everyone there, which rarely is addressed at all. You can't expose yourself to such beauty and return to the mundane unaffected. You can't be silenced and not acknowledge the power behind it. You don't have to recognize the divinity- just accept they danced, everyone voice was silenced in awe, and only when they finished did you realize something was happening. What a performance...

Happy V-Day...
What are these bubble that appear from the bottom of my glass? There is no source of air down there, so what chemical reaction causes tiny separations of elements, to form mini circular pockets? Are they filled with oxygen? What then? How long can they last? If there were none, then some, what decides how long until the flow stops? When I ingest, and the same bubbles form inside of me, where does the inner contents of each capsule go? At the the surface of the glass, they dissipate, but inside of me, where do the inner contents of each sphere end up? I must be drunk. Happy Valentines Day. Some say the "holiday" is a corporate created marketing strategy, but I think Love is of certain importance and worth celebrating, no matter whos idea it was. It doesnt matter if you are paired up or not, the concept is worth celebrating. Happy Valentines Day...
P.S.
Burp. That answers at least one question.

Prostitution...

was on my mind this morning. Im somewhat liberal, but against the selling of virginity. By selling your first time, your setting the wrong tone for the vagina. Typically, a woman is infatuated with her first lover, using the act to be closer to the partner she desires. By selling it, the goal is to become closer to the dinero ponied up. If the former example died and went to heaven, heaven would look like an ideal marriage. If the latter example died, it would be in a hell of repetition- prostitution- and few prostitutes want to stay prostitutes forever. Unless the prostitution game has developed a respectable retirement plan, which I havent heard about.

In contrast, men consider the sex itself the "being with" of the partner. If they are a romantic, they will marry the partner, which in essence says "I promise to only have sex with you." If they are not, then they will "hit that", which essentially is "being with" the partner, but saying "I value you at this moment."

Ladies, be careful with your virginity.

Katt Williams Kills Steve Harvey...

Whew!...
O eight was a year to be reckoned with, and it ended with a bang for myself. Two days into the new, and Im just now catching my breath. Shall I see the end of two thousand and nine, I plan to say "Look how far Ive come". I feel on the edge of a new emergence. Maybe once the transition is complete, Ill recognize where I was before- wherever it is I am emerging from. A state of preparation? For at least the second time in my life a song lyric played catalyst to the completion of a journey consisting of many trains of thought. "All this time, I've lived vicariously..."
I can say enough plans were cancelled, ideas forgotten, and inspirations unrealized to give me the dreadful feeling too much of my life had happened only in my head. I resolved to dance more this year. One can only say "I think I'm a pretty good dancer" so many times before they fail to convince even themselves. The sentence itself technically meant my dance skills only existed in my head! Well there are a great many things in my head. Its time they were free, like I want to be...

"Bush issues Kwanzaa statement"...
..on a USAToday.com blog caught my eye. Anything Bush had to say to Black people directly would be entertaining at least. The statement was not delivered in front of anyone- obviously way too many big words for him- but it was a generic acknowledgment anyway. The only benefit of such uselessly rare public touches of race is watching the Jerry Springer civil war that erupts in the comments section after. The beauty of of online anonymity is revealed in this ugliness. This is america raw. People launch such blatant and malicious attacks on the races that you begin to wonder if everyone is racist, or if this is just where they all meet. And Jews, although rarely a part of the original story, get dragged in just as fast as the blacks and whites. But these comments seemed particularly offensive today. Normally the arguments stick near the "white oppressors" side or the "stupid nigger/jew" area, but I was bothered by a common third view in these comments. A black person wrote a lengthy comment about the stupid jews, the evil crackers, the governments Kwanzaa, etc. A white person ignored the first few parts and chose to focus on the third. Something about "tired of appeasing minorities" and how this made up holiday is an example.The idea of these two very different people coming to an agreement seems like a good thing, but not always. Let me defend Kwanzaa officially for once: What other day of the year do black people in america actually think or act in remembrance of where they came from? Black history and the month begin with the slaves being brought to america, but we know the story begins before then. In Africa, bitches. And that's what Kwanzaa is about. Officially on board.