A Mash-up: House Music & Marion Barry

Eighth note clap beats...

Beat box goes unn chh, unn chh, unn chh....

oh u put me out boy, u know u put me out boy, why u put me out, cuz I wouldn't s*ck your d*ck!

(repeat refrain 50 times for EP version)

People are overrated.

I think people spend too much time thinking about themselves. I think I think too much about myself, but not as much as some other people do. I think men think about themselves more than women; children more than adults; mainstream more than the marginalized; single more than the married; religious more than the secular; wealthy more than the poor. This is my observation and opinion--not an indictment or accusation.

The more you think about yourself, the less vulnerable you are. Less vulnerable, less genuine.

Less genuine; more constructed, fabricated, simulated, false.

False = Lost.

When you're lost, you're vulnerable. But you're not really vulnerable, because you're not being true to yourself and to others. The answer is there. Be vulnerable and the answer will find you. You're not lost.

I refuse to be cynical. I refuse to be jaded. I refuse to be a grown up. I want to play, sing off-key, get rained on, waste time, make mistakes, be passionate, talk too much, share too much and give too much. I want to die tired of enjoying myself. I want no restraints. I want to feel pain, I want to know I've done the wrong thing and lived through it. I want the trials and tribulations that life and love and living have to offer. I'm not scared. I can take it. I'm not afraid to cry in public, laugh too loud or cuss in front of my kids. Tears? Those are scout badges of experience. It's my divine animal right to scream at the top of my lungs or meditate quietly at the setting of the sun.

This is not written out of inspiration. It's a confession. I live in a world that says emotions are overrated. Grow up, you're in your forties for goodness sake. Toys? Puzzles? Games? Love? Passion? What the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell reads anymore? There are schedules and cleaning and work and bills and goals and dinner and groceries and social events that require your face (but not your heart or your brain) and hey, when's the last time you got a support payment (a what?) and what else, oh yeah forgot to mention the backed up toilet and the dog threw up again, and the economy and layoffs, and revenue streams, and is it bad if you haven't had an oil change in a year? and kids and their social lives (fuck, more?) oh hell yes there's family and friends (of varying degrees for the former and the latter) and shit, school and politics, and rent (when did living become something to afford) and...so how do you feel about all of this?

I love it. Bring it bitch. Big G's got my back. I'm out. I need to buy another puzzle. Fuck the dog hair in the carpet. Me and my kid are going swimming.

Remember The Time

Rebecca Walker wrote an essay that best describes how I feel about Michael and his unfortunate passing. "Michael’s music was a running soundtrack for my life," Walker says. I couldn't agree more. And how amazing is it, that so many others could easily make the same statement? A New Jersey housewife, a vegan seamstress in Southern California, a Finnish factory worker...Michael's influence has been worldwide, spanning ages, cultures, religions.

As a teen, I had MJ posters, magazines, t-shirts, buttons, stickers and drawings of Michael all over one half of my room. The other half was dedicated to Prince. As much as I love Prince, Michael was to me a true friend, a big brother, who no matter how he was treated, showed me a way to love. He sang of love in its many forms. But most often, he sang of universal love. The type of love that prompts me to smile when I see elderly black men because they remind me of my father and grandfather. Love that brightens my day when I see young children trying to figure out how they fit in this great big world.

In that very sad interview which led to accusations of child molestation, Michael said something profound. I don't think many people caught it; I didn't until someone explained it.

"The most loving thing you can do for someone is to share your bed with them."

If you consider that in the context of universal love, and not a sexual or a perverted sense, then Michael is absolutely right. My kids are not babies. But once in a while, one or both of them will creep in my room and snuggle with me. There aren't many other ways to show love that are as powerful as that. I don't believe MJ harmed those kids. I do believe his actions may have been inappropriate. However, ultimate blame for any harm or inappropriateness belongs to the parents of those children.

I've spoken to a few people who don't get it. They don't understand why so many others are affected by Michael's passing. Perhaps someone else wrote their life's soundtrack. If you don't know, you just don't know. But I'm glad I do.



The Untouchable Michael Jackson

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Where I've been: #1

26 Jun 2K2

Inspiration interrupted...yet again.

Suddenly I am exhausted. A negative energy force has zapped my light source, rendering me utterly defenseless against the powers of wrong-headed thinking. My positivity levels have been depleted--must revive self. Headed on collision course with same negative ion that hijacked my glowing light ray. Must use instant-deafening shield at next encounter.

2 Jul 2|9

I'm going through my notebooks and uploading some passages as a part of this blog. I'm thinking I want to revisit the past to see what's the same and what's different. I think I wrote a couple of interesting things--I want to see how they grow.

I just got off the phone with a very dear friend. Both of us have been pretty bad at keeping in touch on the regular. But whenever we do talk/email, it's like we just pick up right where we left off. She reminded me how much of a procrastinator I can be. In high school, I never completed my work ahead of time..last minute me!! I told her how I need to write a paper for a course I took last summer (took an incomplete), before I decide if I want to finish my Ph.D. program. She cut me off and fronted on me like it personally offended her! Just the kick in the patooty I need!!

Je t'aime N!

My Invisibility

I can cut my invisibility with a large, sharp knife

or wrap myself in it like a cloak.

I can bask in the fullness of my own

ambiguity, my enigmatic self.

The question is, who owns this cloak of disappearance,

this fabric of hidden-ness?

Is it mine to put on at will?

Or is it theirs to cover me when my presence is--

just...

not?

I am a ghost, an unseen shadow

present, but not

seen, but not

heard, but not

Never ever felt.

My ghostly cloak of hidden-ness, masking my ambiguous,

enigmatic self.

Their cloak of disappearance

silences the voices

quells the action

sanitizes the space

until my un-existence is clear.

© 2009 beckie

July's Haiku

©2008-2009 ~mlcamaro
We need look no more.
You've got a place to go now.
Now you're not alone.

Thank you Michael for your inspiration.