It's said predecessors had a much more difficult task than the contemporary "I", and on their rite of passage their trails have since transcended generations, in-turn composing "I”. And with regards perhaps write something of consequence, something essential, something part of “us”, maybe, and of course probably, something referencing a missing thing related to the plunder of “our” bodies, that any claim to ourselves hasn’t always been contestable, but it always seems that way.
In like manner genesis doesn't stop, thus walk the path, and allow the nappy vortex of emancipatory expression to infiltrate the numb narrative of awareness, get "sexy" with it, beat a rhythm that only this particular consciousness knows how to dance to, more or less go the way your blood beats, therefore, with the municipal mood dispensing of the Kumbaya sentiment, and Oprah’s book-club footnotes, bored of Leslie Calvin "Les" Brown…"it's possible!" the reality is as a member of Musical Youth’s generation is to be exceptionally conscious, is to be in a rage almost all the time, is to love me more than any other love in the world, and precisely with this motivation maintain the excuse to criticise “I” constantly.
In true contemporary style, with authentic swagger, the sooty details of the inspirational
scene have grasped the peak of crisis, and blogging protocol aside, to show "them" what linage is remains as the first love, in this manner, insinuating all things “me talk pretty one day” in-turn explicating, and navigates the illusory pitching of Molotov cocktails in the direction of a sacrament long overdue, and metaphorically dressed in beloved, Nefertiti embodied Dashikis the idea is not to regurgitate the syntax, and measure of poor human prose. The reason, relentlessness, and unity of purpose- and it is only this which sustains 3:am, writing this blog, is that rite; the celebration of geniuses and voices, the elemental verbs that set the noun and the soupcon of consciousness; the rhythm of actualisation, in the hope something more divine than faint aspirations of Yoruba Gods take the cliched wheel.
Regarding deep-seated, principal beliefs the fugitive slave act is not gesturing initiative- literally "GTFOH"- with the insolent jive, and flippant renaissance and insolent high-culture tapping to the consciousness of “trap,” rap and colonial alignments there isn't any other narrative to tell, instead the familiar sing along to anthem, to intone what it means to see everything the “I” loves destroy the very foundations upon which the “culture" has always stood, and imagine what the “I” could save.
As far as narrative aesthetics, coming across aggressive and menacing; the shit is finally f**ked- okay- 720 degrees of melanin consciousness later morale has touched the bottom, predecessors have let it be known there is nowhere deeper down to go, and as such, affiliation with the inbred notion of "our" one day, and that "some" day, and that day by all means necessary, the reality is black boys and girls on top of urban hills, still look at starry skies at night and wish away sins against skin, whilst professing to jumping the laden with bullshit "bar", the crux has always been the breathing contemplation laying beyond limits of hardship, outside the boundaries of liability, beyond blues and self-pity, the crux having hope no longer wading in rivers of solitude wailing songs of joy, in the hope.
Understanding why bulletins of yet another murder, in and beyond London are always on mute- with sound the prospect of being forced to deal with pain- the reality is as forthright, as Parents of killers not publicly mounting pedestals logo-ed with the slogan: "against the cancer of the culture", and while community procrastination debate colour-coded sovereignty, still, in the spirit of whatever isn't working bickering with the echoes of the municipal black soul, the essence of the being, being anywhere bleeds bloodline trauma. As such the “vision” is conflicted, appearing disorientated, simultaneously driven and focused, denoting the avocado regime and tightly rolled marijuana joints, even though "modern" world conceives itself has having little time for all things introspective, the contemporary consciousness, with gristle hands, scraping the proverbial crutch is saying something wearily deliberate.
Grappling, and dropping the idea of “identity”, clearly with tragic consequences, using the animation of announcement “Black” uses platforms entitled “media” to loathe the concept of nigger, and niggers contest the idea of Black, conceiving appropriated Black culture, appropriated back, whilst the matter of Black Lives is in no way navigated by Blacks, leaving the perception of identity to be determined by Insta-black Sapphires, usurping manly roles, standing, staring and demanding to be esteemed with a reality as real as the feminist picket lines they do not stand on. And with bleach applications highlighting voids, and the “weave” interweaves the pensive soul, with the incurious “wig” never hiding the truth of it all well enough, in the company of the saddest, saccharine smiles there’s something suicidal about the look; the expression of a much adorned, iconic patriarch and her indicative distortions, inadvertently butchering the look of a nation.
Moreover James’s Man’s World; yeah- deep breath, long exhale- the collapse of the inner city family, the multi-generational poverty, the fixed orthodoxies between the frightened, weak, lost, the beautiful and the insane, blogging protocol, aside, these guys; the somnolent, the vile, domestic violence men, caught up in the epitome of boneyard cockcrows and their yet another one, whilst the orthodoxies never completely testify to the complex inferiority, with aspirations of including the “in the memory of ” list, in the foreword to a debut novel, it does speak to the inhumanity of a culture, particularly the ceremonial songs, and the same people perfecting the ruined, and the all bled of brilliance hooks, same pitch point wailing sing along to critical conditions, and pivotal positions, same possession falling on knees in undeserving churches praying for each other's salvation.
In the age of digitally remastered classics, reaffirmed, with narratives no longer running along contemporary parallels, it's fair to say Louis Daniel Armstrong's, down by the river has lost the shimmer to its sheen, when what is apparent, and only because there are multiple attestations to the facts, is Auntie Gwyneth and Uncle Enos still haven’t made it back after their second Windrush excursion. And it seemed, to "us" all, the body-politic, and the last rebel-rousing book was flung out of a wind ow, "Grenfell" high up, for the "culture", it is the narrative of the contemporary hidden middle finger, swiveling and swirling in the direction of those who cajole the culture into cutting their wrists consecutively, successively, it's still the refined tortured experience of having been created, and defeated by the same circumstances.
On this particular Tuesday night, specifically on Alexandra Palace's hilltop, feeling perception via predicated conviction, considering all things aspirational there appears to be no get-out clause, with little or contrived power to influence change, and way too much perpetuating more of the same, London and cities alike are pervaded by a sense of congestion, and it is unlikely that anyone aquatinted with the municipal mood, seriously assumes that the presence of one more "urban" playground, more or less has any profound effect upon the psychology of the mood here. With the perception of the view, overseeing a layer of reality, upon many others, particularly the ever imprinted actuality on their children, and in their children, despite that predecessor animation the mood is the unmitigated grief; the acutely emotional critique the only way possible to articulate the intoning of keep on keeping on, the dialogue and healing, generations later timeless in its groove, in that eternity outside of time, conscious to socially streamed actualities, blogging protocol aside, fundamentally a point in contemporary time when enough of enough has no option, but to do more than ponder the sincerity of eliciting change.