Monday, June 27, 2005

El Maniphezteau de Mecca Man Mu, Pt. III

This revolution is at your door. Will you keep it waiting?

Whereas, breakbeats have been the missing link connecting the diasporic community to its drum-woven past

Whereas, the quantised drum has allowed the whirling mathematicians to calculate the ever-changing distance between rock and stardom

Whereas the velocity of the spinning vinyl, cross-faded, spun backwards, and re-released at the same given moment of recorded history, yet at a different moment in time's continuum has allowed history to catch up with the present.

We do hereby declare reality unkempt by the changing standards of dialogue.

Statements such as 'keep it real', especially when punctuating or anticipating modes of ultra-violence inflicted psychologically or physically, or depicting an unchanging rule of events, will hence forth be seen as retroactive, and not representative of the individually determined is.

Furthermore, as determined by the collective consciousness of this state of being and the lessened distance between thought patterns and their secular manifestations, the role of people as listening receptacles is to be increased by a number no less than 70 percent of the current enlisted as vocal aggressors.

Motherfuckers better realize... now is the time to self-actualize.

We have found evidence that hip-hop's standard 85 rpm, when increased by a number as least half the rate of its standard or decreased at three-quarter of its speed, may be a determining factor in heightening consciousness.

Studies show that when a given norm is changed in the face of the unchanging, the remaining contradictions will parallel the truth. Equate rhyme with reason, sun with season.
Our cyclical relationship to phenomenon has encouraged scholars to erase the centers of periods, thus symbolizing the non-linear character of cause and effect.

Reject mediocrity!

Your current frequencies of understanding outweigh that which as been given for you to understand. The current standard is the equivalent of an adolescent restricted to the diet of an infant. The rapidly changing body would acquire dysfunctional and deformative symptoms and could not properly mature on a diet of applesauce and crushed pears!

Light years are interchangeable with years of living in darkness. The role of darkness is not to be seen as, or equated with, Ignorance, but with the unknown, and the mysteries of the unseen.

Thus, in the name of:


We claim the present as the pre-sent, as the hereafter. We are unraveling our navels so that we may ingest the sun. We are not afraid of the darkness; we trust that the moon shall guide us. We are determining the future at this very moment. We now know that the heart is the philosophers' stone.

Our music is our alchemy.

We stand as the manifested equivalent of three buckets of water and a handful of minerals, thus realizing that those very buckets turned upside down supply the percussion factor of forever. If you must count to keep the beat, then count. Curve your circles counterclockwise. Use your cipher to decipher coded language, man-made laws.

Climb waterfalls and trees, commune with nature, snakes and bees. Let your children name themselves and claim themselves as the new day. For today we are determined to be the channelers of these changing frequencies into songs, paintings, writings, dance, drama, photography, carpentry, craft, and love.And love.

We enlist every instrument: Acoustic, electronic. Every so-called race, gender, ethnic identity, sexual preference. Every person as beings of sound and light to acknowledge their responsibility to uplift the consciousness of the whole entire fucking world. Any utterance will be unaimed, will be disclaimed- two rappers slain! Any utterance will be unaimed, will be disclaimed- two rappers slain!

El Maniphezteau de Mecca Man Mu, Pt. II

I discovered this poem, by a woman called Ellen Bass, one day when I elected I wanted to pay attention to the Almighty again and I searched for a prayer. I don't know what my conception of the Divine is, and I know for certain that I live with humanist ideals in my heart, insofar as if Allah disproved Itself tomorrow morning, my life would not change, as the opportunity to be kind to others would still be totally extant and as such my life wouldn't lose meaning at all. But I do have some idea that I'd prefer to acknowledge Allah as al-Rahim, the Being from Whose essence flows the things in life that are really amazing, and Which makes me want to get up in the morning and spread smiley, loving vibes everywhere. Whether It actually exists is irrelevant; I still cherish It, whether or not reasoned judgment tells me I'm wrong to. After all, I find It in the hearts and minds of other people, and nothing that comes from those sources deserves to be turned away. This is my hymn.

Pray to whomever you kneel down to: Jesus nailed to his wooden or marble or plastic cross, his suffering face bent to kiss you; Buddha still under the Bo tree in scorching heat. Allah Al-Rahman Al-Raheem. Brahman, the Divine Ground. Tenri-O-no-Mikoto. Waheguru. Ahura Mazda. Adonai. Raise your arms to Mary that she may lay her palm on our brows, to Shekinhah, Queen of Heaven and Earth, to Inanna in her stripped descent.

Hawk or Wolf, or the Great Whale, Record Keeper of time before, time now, time ahead- pray. Bow down to terriers and shepherds and siamese cats. Fields of artichokes and elegant strawberries.

Pray to the bus driver who takes you to work, pray on the bus, pray for everyone riding that bus and for everyone riding buses all over the world. If you haven't been on a bus in a long time, climb the few steps, drop some silver, and pray.

Waiting in line for the movies, for the ATM, for your latté and croissant, offer your plea. Make your eating and drinking a supplication. Make your slicing of carrots a holy act, each translucent layer of the onion a deeper prayer.

Make the brushing of your hair a prayer, every strand its own voice, singing in the choir on your head. As you wash your face, the water slipping through your fingers, a prayer: Water, softest thing on earth, gentleness that wears away rock.

Making love, of course, is already a prayer. Skin and open mouths worshipping that skin, the fragile case we are poured into, each caress a season of peace.

If you're hungry, pray. If you're tired. Pray to Gandhi and Dorothy Day. Shakespeare. Sappho. Sojourner Truth. Pray to the angels and the ghost of your grandfather.

When you walk to your car, to the mailbox, to the video store, let each step be a prayer that we all keep our legs,that we do not blow off anyone else's legs. Or crush their skulls. And if you are riding on a bicycle, a skateboard, in a wheelchair, each revolution of the wheels a prayer that as the earth revolves, we will do less harm, less harm, less harm.

And as you work, typing with a new manicure, a tiny palm tree painted on one pearlescent nail, or delivering soda or drawing good blood into rubber-capped vials, writing on a blackboard with yellow chalk, twirling pizzas, pray for peace.

With each breath in, take in the faith of those who have believed when belief seemed foolish, who persevered. With each breath out, cherish.

Pull weeds for peace, turn over in your sleep for peace, feed the birds for peace, each shiny seed that spills onto the earth, another second of peace. Wash your dishes, call your mother, drink wine.

Shovel leaves or snow or trash from your sidewalk. Make a path. Fold a photo of a dead child around your VISA card. Gnaw your crust of prayer, scoop your prayer water from the gutter. Mumble along like a crazy person, stumbling your prayer through the streets.

El Maniphezteau de Mecca Man Mu, Pt. I

This is the Desiderata, a creed I try to follow in my everyday existence. I know that i slip up on the regular, but these ideas mean something to me that's ineffable and will be with me my whole life.

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant, they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let not this blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive It to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams; it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

I am I be

This gonna be a tumultuous, shambolic, conveniently insight-free repository of the behaviours of my deranged and stoopid whirling dervish of a brain as it chases what few parts of it contain such valuable things as sense and sensibility round and round in circles. My brain will wag its tongue. It will jump up and down and screech like a bandit. This will be a place where the air tastes like blueberries and honey, at least when it doesn't taste like jaguar sweat.

I'm Bart Simpson. Who the hell are you?

Eye is Mu, an' eye be rockin' this at the dropuva dime, baby.

Give me more detail, you dillweed. I'm not made of time, you know.

Of course you are. The mind is time, the mind is space, and it's running and passing and passing and running...

Fuck you and everything you stand for. Say something remotely coherent or I will send your asscrack to its new home at the nape of your neck.

Yo, cool out, money! More on the nature of time at a date when I am sufficiently blunted. Ahem...

Who is me? I am Noah Aaron Musa Shalom Qahir Abdellatif Danté Amazu Domevlo Erasto Dingus Goodbaum, Esquire, son of Mama Avivah (al'lashalom) and Daddyfather Jell Singh, aka Zelek, the world-reknowned viking samurai warrior. I be the world's rootin'est tootin'est humanist. I love people, and I love being human. I'm glad I'm alive and able to think and feel, and I'm glad they are, too. It's fuckin' righteous. Doncha think? I mean really, there's nothing quite like developing a meaningful relationship with another person, knamsayin'?

You're a fucking fruitcake, aren't you? What are you, the patron saint of universal love?

Perhaps. I believe in the preservation and encouragement of genuine, unadulterated, bona fide love. I wish to restore that most vital of vessels of warmth- the hug- to its vaunted historic plateau as a marker of meaningful affection, as opposed to a disposable commodity. I abhor cruelty, the one abiding sin for which the heavens shit on us. I believe in the innate right of every human being to be treated with dignity, respect, kindness, and equity, irrespective of personal distinctions.

Fuckwad. Say your piece and leave me the hell alone! Don't you dare launch off into a stream-of-consciouness tangent, or...

I love exploring the cultures, religions, music, literature and cinema of the world. I like stuff that can make me marvel at the intelligence, honesty, or wit that went into its making. I have a thirst for knowledge like a gypsy dervish's thirst for dance, and also, incidentally, a thirst for dance. I try to keep my understanding of the world nuanced and warm and mindful of the fair and foul that comprises our existence pretty much eternally. I look for rhythm everywhere.

Frankly, I'm into broadening my intellectual and emotional horizons by any means necessary. I can't always dictate what that involves. I know only this: It involves beats, rhymes, and love. Damned straight it involves love. That whole thing. That whole fuckin' ahimsa satyagraha benevolence thing? Compassion? That's water. It's funk. It's Mecca. Life may be a rapscallion, and love a Machiavellia cunt, but life is naught without love. Love is funky, funky, funky, funky business. And it's mine.

So I be a zany cat, word is bond.I am court jester to infinity. I bleed liquid hellfire out my ass. I'm ridiculously warm and affectionate, socially awkward, not remotely as wise or mature as I am unaccountably given credit for, lacking in several key life skills, and generally rather an uncouth and silly panda bear. I am permanently worried about everything that could ever possibly make anyone sad, and have no idea how to behave, seeing as I'm having a tough time doing the right thing in the day to day, yet I have no idea whether I have the right to weep, because I have food on my table, a roof over my head, and an affluent enough social position that I barely need to work whatsoever to earn my daily bread an' butter. I am not suffering, but I do experience paralyzing spasms of loneliness, doubt, and fear. Yet with every breath I take, I remember my mother's lullabies, and I strive-- whether or not I've been successful is another matter entirely-- to make her proud. And that somehow makes it better.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Eureka begins at home

And if in fact the funky lovin' is to survive, it is our responsibility to uphold its integrity and see to its continued prosperity in this age of grime and muck. And lo it shall be, or it's gotta, I guess, because god fucking damn it I am not going out without a fight. I'll give 'em vinegar is what I'll do. I don't give a flying Snuffleuppagus whether it takes blood and sweat and tears and shit and drains every fibre of strength from my sorry ass. I don't know if we're ever going to let freedom ring, but I'm all for trying by god and if we ever make it happen I know I wanna make it goddamn skippy!