There is nothing quite as beautiful
as the light of five candles
through tear filled eyes
Ther is nothing quite as painful
as the pain that brings tears
Theris nothing quite as healing
as crying out in sorrow
There is nothing quite as joyful
as the light of five yellow candles
uplifting spirit
nothing quite as beautiful
through tear-filled eyes
In response to an article, someone commented “I dont understand why anyone would want a cassette.”
After over twenty years in storage, my entire cassette tape collection has been reclaimed. It includes pre-recorded albums, home-made mix-tapes, and recordings of dj sets from long ago.
As I type, I’m on the 4th playing of “Ask Rufus”, which has been on a continuous loop as I’ve lounged in my den/studio sipping a cool beverage, alternately reading comics, writing poetry, surfing the web, and napping on this, lazy, summer evening.
Yes, I could set an MP3 or CD player on repeat, but neither would sound this warm and full. I could also put on the LP, but I don’t have a record player that automatically flips sides.
There are two reasons right there someone might want a cassette. It makes sense that anyone younger than I would not understand or appreciate the cassette.
To my joy, I discovered in my collection a few mix-tapes recorded from a variety of mid to late 70’s Bay Area radio stations: KDIA, KSOL, and KYA get announced a few times. I must have been about 12 years old. I remember pleading with my father, asking him to buy me a portable tape deck.
I carried that thing with me everywhere. I would park myself in front any available radio, the microphone aimed at the speaker, ready to hit RECORD with the first note of my new favourite song. It has been quite fun listening to these old tapes, and using Spotify on those one-hit wonders I’d forgotten I loved (this has led to increased track hunting on Discogs, btw).
There, more reason as to why someone might appreciate cassettes.
I’ve especially enjoyed listening to the old dj sessions, recognizing how my abilities have grown or changed … along with my tastes and interests.
Between paragraphs, I popped my very first “DJ Mix” into the B deck of my cassette player. It is now playing. It’s more a compilation than an actual DJ mix. It includes The Tubes, “Attack of the 50 Foot Woman”, The B-52’s. “Give Me Back My Man”, and Grace Jones “Unlimited Capacity For Love” among others. The cassette was recorded in the sound studios of Lackland Air Force Base, in 1983. This was the first time I’d had access to professional grade recording equipment. I hadn’t yet learned how to use a mixer, so there are breaks between each track: Cue track. Press RECORD. Track ends. Press PAUSE. Cue next track. Repeat.
Cassettes were my primary medium for the majority of 80’s. I preferred them because they were the most compact option of the time. Compact meant I could have and transport more of them. When I realized that I could purchase my own dual-deck cassette recorder, my mix-tape game hit next level.
My medium preference shifted back to vinyl after discovering dj mixers. But I still relied on cassette for recording, even after the introduction of CDs.
The CD was supposed to be ‘perfect’. However, it sounded cold and flat to me. And when they skipped, it was waaay more annoying than vinyl. I hated CDs so much, that all four of my cars from 1983 to 2005 had tape decks.
I recorded mixes on cassette until about 1993. At a popular SF venue, the manager asked me for a demo. I proudly handed him a cassette, to which he replied, “I don’t have anything that can play that. Do you have a CD?”
It was then that my cassettes began going into storage.
Now, years later, I can once again load a couple of 90 minute tapes in deck A & B, and listen without interruption, to music I know I love because I made the recordings, and wax nostalgic to my hearts content … rarely repeating the same song … or even the same artists … with no need touch the equipment for hours.
I hope this helps anyone understand why some of us appreciate cassettes.
jmz
(with thanks to my Brother, Riley)
They’ve murdered Darren Seals.
And I can’t any more
I don’t have any more
I can’t do another march
I can’t rally to protest
I can’t
I’m tired
Dead tired inside
All I can do
Is write
They’ve Murdered Darren Seals
Martyred that young man
Like James Chaney
Or Jesus
Christ
If there is a God, he is not just
He is not fair.
If there was a God,
He’s not around any more
Having long abandoned this experiment
With Hell in Earth
He does not care to fix
This mess
He Made
I can’t anymore
Believe
They killed Darren Seals
And I just can’t
I can’t hear the whitexcuses
the whitesplanations
the white-validations
They will decree his death
A suicide
Talk about his depression
His lifetime on Prozac
Or Ritalin
His Life Time
29 Years
They martyred that child
As surely as Martin before him.
I drove home in a coma
Dead inside
An automaton
Single minded
Emotionless
But for the unending flicker
of Sadness
Promising the heat of Rage
The roads opened before me
Motorists gave me wide berth
The fucking dog
Started barking like a maniac
As I opened the door.
Where the fuck was his bark
When they stole my bike off of the deck?
I growled back at him
“What you gonna do!”
Baring my teeth, I scowled into his black eyes.
He backed beneath the dining room table,
tail between his legs.
His bark diminished to a soft rumble.
Zero Tolerance
I am at Zero Tolerance
For stupidity
Little patience for ignorance
Faggots, be wary:
I am not a character
On a clichéd-gay sitcom
And you are not as witty
As you believe you are.
Zero Tolerance
I am so Blessed
I work hard and play well
I am challenged and rewarded
I’ve achieved goals and have dreams yet to manifest
I’ve struggled to get this far
But I’m here.
Survivor guilt is a bitch
A burden Darren Seals will never have to bare.
The weight
Of his loss
Tugs on my heart
Nearly crippled me
I buckled a bit
As the world shifted
To compensate
I Can Not
I Will Not
Zero Tolerance
for Inanity
Passive Animosity
Dishonesty
Say What You Mean
Mean What You Say
Know What You Intend to Convey
And be open to correction
of error in thought
error in notion
Darren Seals had to be killed
For me to reach this degree of intolerance
And I feel like shit with guilt
I have let the Idiocracy get to me.
They martyred that man
And now seek to keep his name from being said.
Nary a word in the press.
So,
I say his name
Write it down
Look it up
Study it
Like Gospel
They’ve murdered Darren Seals
29 year old founding activist of the Ferguson Protests of the Murder of Mike Brown
They murdered Darren Seals
Catalyst of the #Black Lives Matter Movement
Darren Seals
Kevin Washington.
The man makes every instrument he touches speak in the most beautiful of dialects.
And when spirit captures him … transcendence.
And spirit captures him when he is simply speaking.
And gospel truth pours out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some actually said that Los Dominicos were “celebrating too much.”
How do you celebrate “too much”?
That’s some twisted shit.
“You’re too happy.”
“Stop feeling so good!”
What kinda uptight, conservative nonsense is that?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I like your “Darkmage” t-shirt
or whatever it says.
And not because of the guns.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wow.
http://www.ustream.tv/channel/the-jamezipad
and Mix Up! just got a shout out on the mic.
I never get a shout out on the mic!
The Thunder held a different tone
More like a drone
pulsing
rapidly
I hear you
and I’m listening
for guidance
for a new way
Sitting in the office, researching online materials regarding fare transit policy, I notice a slight hint of ozone in the air.
“It’s a hot one.” I think to myself. “The AC has burnt out.”
Danger Mouse, using uncanny echo repeating capabilities says, “Does anyone smell that?”
She jumps up in alarm. Scurrying through the maze, she sets out to find the source, verifying her keen senses against the less acute around her as she goes.
After hearing her query a fourth party, I stood up from my cube like a prairie dog on the watch and yelped, “Yes. I smell it. Yes. I smelt it. I smell it.”
Hearing my own echo, she made eye contact. “You smell it?”
“Yes. I smell it.”
DM calmed down, but only just so. Something was still awry. Determined to find the source, encouraged by the validation of others reacting in kind, she scurried on.
When she returned to me, I said “Sound the alarm.”
“Really?” Still unsure.
“Yes.”
And so she did.
Convinced of our doom, the call was made to evacuate (Mind you, I had no problem encouraging this course of action).
As meetings were disrupted, and projects put on hold, The Rats fled the ship. Though I was not Lead Rat, again, I did have a rolel.
My favourite moment was when I went up to one of the new interns, still working away diligently at his desk, and yelled “YOU’RE GONNA DIE!!!”
He looked me in the eye, nonplussed, and said, “No I’m not.”
For myself, I decided that, with the two hours left in the work day, I would bike to the library and continue my research.
I set off for the East Lake Street Library, not considering the excessive heat. By the time I got to the River Road, I was feeling a bit delirious.
I decided the best course of action, considering this new mental state, would be to skip the library and head straight home via the most shaded route possible, the Seward Neighborhood (talk about prime location for a Bike Boulevard!)
Though the terrain was rough along key byways, it was mostly shaded. I road slowly beneath the trees, hoping to spy a lemonade stand, feeling more and more exhausted.
When I reached the Hexagon, I rolled up to the entrance. Discarding my bike like an old rag, I made a beeline for the bar. Had to wait in line, as a woman literally looked me up and down.
I looked her up and down.
“Yeah. Here.” she said, sassing back as she pulled out a stool for me. “You look like you need a drink!”
“Yes. I do.”
I turned to the bartender. ” Can I get a glass of water. I just biked from Saint Paul.”
“Saint Paul!?” the woman exclaimed. “You’re lucky you’re not dead. It’s like 97* out there!”
My point here: Drink some water. Make sure you have water with you. I’ve biked home many times without needing to hydrate. I’d never done so in such intense heat. I honestly thought I would be fine.
I wasn’t. I was admittedly delirious. Aware enough to recognize my delirium, but not enough to do the right thing about it. I wasn’t thinking clearly.
It never once occurred to me to stop at one of the many gas stations or other businesses along the route and get water.
Heck. I made it to the Seward Neighborhood.There were garden hoses attached to houses. (Yes, being a black man, I run the risk of getting shot dead, but I’m sure if I’d gone to David Peterson’s house, I’d have been fine.)
Biking. Walking. Moving. Drink Water, People.
Secondary point: I did not make it to the library yesterday.
If you have any thoughts you might like to share with me regarding Transit Fare Policy, I am collecting such thoughts at jamezs@tlcminnesota.org.
On this warm winter night, I recount a dream – leaving out bits – to save time.
The Sea frightened me more than it used to.
The flash fell off my camera… which I prefer.
Saw Orion’s dick for the first time … large, flacid … as he pointed towards The Moon.
Two hundred meteors foretold. We can’t see them here.
Did climate change kill the Mastodons, or was it hubris and greed?
If I sense something in the air
and immediately get a headache
I should probably avoid that which I’ve sensed.
~
Baking soda, vinegar, ammonia, Castile soap, coconut oil & rubbing alcohol. These are the only things you should be cleaning your home with. Unless you’re one of those folks who don’t believe “household” chemical cleansers (that state on the container they can cause cancer) actually cause cancer. – Marco Weller ૐ
~
I wonder if it’s significant that this is my 13th post.
[I just made it significant]
~
There’s probably a good reason it’s labeled “Vegetable Drawer”.
~
Be More Beautiful.
~
there are things that are imperative to my spiritual, psychological, and physical well-being that many of you simply do not understand. you’ve punished, and attempted to punish, me for this throughout my existences. I’ve finally lost enough compassion for your ignorance to tell you to fuck off.
~
“So- I just saw a Black Man dressed in all black_wearing a…ummm, I guess 5 gallon cowboy hat, holdin’ a black sign w/ nothing on it_ hmmm, dancin’ a jig (literally) on the corner of 164th & E. 14th in San Leandro. Not sure what ta make of the whole scene.” – Leslie Robinson, via the Facebook
I’m reminded of some new tv show I recently learned of called “Lab Rats” in which the lone black actor appeared to be cast in the “Rochester” role. I’m reminded of Chris Roc(hester). I’m reminded of little Sammy Davis, dancing his heart out. I’m reminded of lawn jockeys, and Jemima banks and pigtailed picaninnies selling watermelon for five cents a slice. I’m reminded of the ragged Black Man in SoHo singing to holiday shoppers for change. Of the statuesque Black Woman standing in the same spot in Carroll Gardens she was standing in years ago during my last visit to NYC, using the same line: “Need some change.” Her clothes are cleaner. Her makeup more defined. Her hair precisely styled. She’s not suffering. She looks hot. And she’s doing what has worked to get her to where she is. I’m reminded of myself, working for people who can’t see my true value, much less appreciate my actual worth. More concerned with with my short-comings than my strength. Doing what has worked to get me where I am. I love the black sign with nothing on it. I was thinking of sending a christmas card in the same style. Speaks the truth louder than any other broadcast.
