Why Nothing Matters Necessarily

The truth is, I don’t care about whatever I was writing before. That I didn’t finish it, or the mental state I was in at the time that disappoints me so, to see how alien and replacing of me it can be; I don’t care. I don’t care about this sentence, the last one, or the clause structure of anything.

A lot of people saw my nihilism develop from a truly depressed state. Unlike the unaffiliated, doppelganger infested mind that I see traces of passing by like strangers today and in recent memory (what little there is, and how off and on it can be), there was a far more dissatisfaction with life and existence. It was an extremity of such. Suicide wouldn’t have been enough to solve the problems of the world and it’s suffering to me then. I thought, truly, that the only way to make it right would be if not just everyone and everything died simultaneously in an instant cataclysm, but if a certainty that life itself would not re-emerge somehow in its cycle on another speck of dust with the conditions; that would be the only way. I thought, feeling a deep disgust at the passing of birds overhead in the sky where the sun was gently coming down to a basking wet humidity of sweat and misery. Life itself and all its allergenic effects on me colored my view of how feasting upon itself and propelling itself ever forward, we all persist for the perpetuation of the suffering.

I wondered hypothetically, if I had the switch; if I had the nuclear armaments and in enough quantity, placed equidistant all over the world such that a detonation could eradicate existence even for just life on Earth if not for all eternity, would it not be truly the most noble and good thing if I took the responsibility to make it happen.

I said, “Only if every person dies at the same time, such that the suffering of life is not left on the ones remaining. If only then it would be for the best.”

But I would ask, “Even if it is for the best, and if it is what I want, is it okay that I might decide for everyone what is best for them; to give them my idea of what will be for them. Do the ends (a peaceful oblivion) not justify the means, if the only way to achieve it is to stand in opposition to people who would fight me to the exponential increase in the world’s suffering just to try to stop me. If I had such a power, there would be people who would choose to suffer just for the chance to live.

And for this reason I said, “I would not do it. But it would be for the best if others would accept this.” And in my mind, always with an ideation of suicide, I imagined the only way out I could be okay with. It only worked if everyone died. I couldn’t leave behind suffering like that, in my view of self interest. So I said, “This is a thing I cannot do,” as I often thought of how I should do it.a

My nihilism arose from this but it did not stop there. A lot of things changed, time passed, I became a different, wiser person, and I realized the folly of my feelings.

It was true that there was nothing of concrete value making it all worthwhile to endure, but it was this certainty that I began to define what I called, “the true nihilist;” that is, one who does not despair existentially at all, knowing that there is no reason to.

Yes, there is suffering. I suffer constantly I would say without even being aware of it a majority of the time. This is the thing that people should accept. There is no oblivion and this is a momentary glimmer, to be followed by another having no sense of the one before it some day. All will crumble an d everything will be forgotten, and because of this, there will always be a possibility for things that seem to always be the same, or too awful too endure; maybe changing too fast to keep up with — even the best of times that ever were — are subject to a stability brought about changes innately varied in alignment towards law and order. There is nothing that is so permanently constant that it’s reality diminishes anything otherwise, so there is nothing to despair. It doesn’t matter.

And this is where peace lies. In attachment to things, you are unable to move forward into what will be wrought with or without you. You become a helpless passenger. In fear, you lose sight of the power within you to build your life into what you would have it be, how no circumstance must shape the feelings inside of you, which are your own. There is nothing to blame but yourself if you cannot attain this.

I am no Nietzschean, but this is how I hold the will to power. There is power within you to make life anything you would have it be, and though there will always be suffering washed up in the sad and happy things, it cannot stop you if your will to power remains calmly in control of the most stressful madness that can possibly be endured; that most would crumble and be left to streets, prisons, psych wards… And when left to those things, with discipline, a will to power carries on with no reason to complain and a mind clear of despair.

Otherwise, it would be silly to say that you are a nihilist at all; perhaps, maybe, you are on the path to becoming one. But, this is a path facing madness, one that many likely cannot find their will to power knowing. And, given the nature of things, it is of course possible… that to madness, one day, it will be lost.

But I will never give up on being content in spite of all things. This is why nothing truly matters, and I let go.

xxx

xxx

It’s a good thing I don’t often write here, that you have likely forgotten this exists at all, similarly to how I do myself.

It’s possible I will relinquish any former design of what I wanted to write here, and it is possible I will occasionally make a return to them. But… right now, what I want to write is going to be more difficult to write than anything I wanted to write a week ago.

It isn’t that I can’t organize it. It is, can I be openly honest about it. And, if I tried to do that, would it be possible for me to know the truth about myself that I cannot understand now.

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Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness

I write this the morning after publishing Making Sense of Skinhead Reggae, part 1; technically, according to the time stamp, 7 hours ago on the listed blog post that I would love to open  up in the editor to fix it — or at the very least, rename it, “Making Sense of My Own Ridiculousness.” But I can’t do that without being a hypocrite, can I?

I suppose it’s possible that there may be a difference in things you edit for different reasons, and that I could potentially maintain my rawness and still fix things that… that there was somehow a good reason to decide to hold back and fix. But, because I cannot distinguish often at times if not always when it is a good and bad time, and as a result have often felt in the end like many things I’ve written were a waste of time… to at least, be taken so seriously by me as a writer. I believe that… this is possibly why I stopped a decade of habitual writing all the time and slowly sank into feeling like it was not worth doing, until the habit was finally gone.

I’ve mentioned this before and how I’m not sure how much this has liberated me or set limits on me. The truth is, it has done both.

The things I have written since I gave up serious writing have been Dadaism in themselves, the sort of thing that I never hesitated to simply shovel on to a Facebook post after that where it can be scrolled over by the attention deficient people of this era who likely didn’t even notice it in the phantasmagoria of scrolling things.

It isn’t so much that it wouldn’t be read that is the issue. It’s the platforms that became suitable for me to write in. I didn’t keep a private journal that I hoped would prepare me for my “works,” which I imagined I was supposed to create to validate my self worth.

What was I if not a writer; the thing I had always been praised for, the thing I had spent so much of my life doing as if it was an important thing I needed to do.

The Dada philosophy I mentioned in Ideas Intersect has certainly taught me how to love myself and be a happy person, coming from the person I used to be who anything but that, and I’m grateful for those lessons. I use them now to be unashamed, bare, and and open about my failures without fixating so much on the importance of what it means to fail or succeed; which in Neon Dada, there is no such thing. I say again, this is a valuable “truth.”

But…I also enjoy writing, and I haven’t done it as often. I don’t think I consciously stopped with these thoughts in mind. In fact I know that I didn’t. But it makes sense to me a lot, especially as I try to write something half serious and discover again the flaws that make me inefficient at times — completely dysfunctional at others.

And there is an example right here in my last post. It doesn’t feel good to attempt to write something you know how to write but have your mental state come out more apparently than what you want to intend. It is very frustrating. It possibly makes me not want to continue things that I start, making it easy to unconsciously forget them maybe the way I do. I know that I am far less excited about what I wanted to write, overthought, and did not write.

The truth is, I feel  thatI could have easily downsized what I wanted to do into something sensible if I hadn’t been imagining less what I wanted to talk about, and more how it needed to be so convincingly thorough that my argument would be complete. It’s as if in contradiction to my own values [the dual aspected deity], because there is no absolute correctness my argument could possibly achieve… Similarly to how there is no state of perfection that the pursuit of perfection will ever attain.

I don’t think the pursuit of improvements in how well you understand a thing and the work you do as a result of that understanding is necessarily a negative thing to think about. But it clearly can interfere with productivity and result in something out of control, or irrational. It can result in… the sense of failure that I’m sure many artists, thinkers, engineers, builders of things, scientists, etc; have often felt no matter what they did or how much they are thought to have achieved by others, or not.

It seems impossible for me to write anything without a personal story, psyche column involved in it, because it’s just too obvious what a nutter I am. I do want to be writing this personal confession diary shit. But the truth is that I have to suck it up and do it, because the only other option is to delete my post, pretend it did not happen, or maybe go back to fixing it and do the same thing all over again.

It’s quite embarrassing, really, that I couldn’t see at the time. This is supposed to be a zine where I can write about something easy and fun to write about, like music, if not among other things.

But especially after I’ve gone through all of these thoughts in the last two postswritten — and even some of the ones from before — I feel like I am no longer comfortable with the idea of not writing because of how I feel about what it reveals about what i can and cannot do.

In the spirit of Dada also, I feel like if I can’t make the thing I intended to make often times, then I have to continue to make the things that I did not intend to make.

…because, no… It’s not important that I write anything, and nothing that I write needs to feel intentionally important in some manner. But what is important is that I feel content with who I am and what I do, and have no need to hide as if there is ugliness or beauty at all anywhere.

I have taken many great steps to be happy and would say that in spite of these feelings I am still happy, but I think the next step is facing the few things left that I am still self conscious about. w

And maybe one day I will be half as precise as I wish I was, but maybe I will not wish that I was something I am not, too. And I think both options are okay.

Making Sense of Skinhead Reggae, part 1

Breaking a two weeks or more-long silence in which this zine unwritten is actually being written again, today’s post will [attempt to] thoroughly discuss the phenomenon of skinhead reggae, how it developed, and what it developed into [but will not be able to finish itself in this single post].

Of course, there will be YouTube links to various track uploads, to color what I’m talking about and explore the many variations of related things that and how they are connected.

If you’ve been following my music column (or just generally the postswritten to this zine thus far), you’ll notice my current interest in a variety of aspects of Jamaican music, dancehall culture, and language; and, from varied time periods, from ska, to rocksteady, roots reggae, and the dancehall music of today, I have written about these eerily similar sound system crazes — all connected, very much similar in ways so much that they are sometimes seen as being indistinguishable (easily described by the word reggae, for example) while also nothing remotely alike in any form.

I’m excited about this post because it inherently involves the story of how and why I have hated skinheads since I was 15 years old, not as someone who is ignorantly only aware of the existence of a skinhead as synonymous with a white nationalist, but as someone who has seen their effect on a subculture I was once very a part of — that is, Bush-Era street punk in South Texas — and resisted the threat of what they represented at what were places I went to and considered my spots to hang out, where the music was a form of street punk I could relate with, and the people were all mostly, more or less like minded enough to have peace; until the resounding and in unison war cry surrounded you.

“Oi!” That’s when you realize they are massive, you are alone, and if you are not aligned with them (and you’re god damned right we fucking weren’t), then you have to resist the pressure that is placed on you to be like them — to transmogrify for the sake of a so-called unity and join in crews they will never admit are very much like gangs. If you will not do this, you are on fragile ice. You can either run or you can fight them, and there is never just one of them. They are massive or they are not at all. If you’re a fifteen year old punk rocker, you keep your head down — or you don’t, you know, because you’re a punk rocker of fifteen years — and you will either run from a beat down or you receive them. You might even decide to engage in violence yourself, because you have a zero tolerance policy for fascism in your scene, and you kill it wherever you see it the same as they would kill you.

I’ve thus far only introduced and outlined the things I need to discuss to illustrate the points I want to make clear and the things I want to connect, acknowledge, and use to hold the conclusion I can finally make about the skinhead phenomenon, which at fifteen years old, not knowing the distant history and how far the skinhead had traveled and how it had molded him, I could never make but finally can. So, I’m going to split this into thee parts as this is quite complex.

On Skinheads, Their Good Taste in Music, and the Folly of their Utter Ignorance
(is that really the title I’m using? Whatever… that’s the title.)

1.) The Spirit of ’69 – This portion will require many of us to pretend that we have never heard of a skinhead and understand how the origins of the culture are quite interesting, seemingly harmless enough, and little known to most people today who associate the word with white nationalism — which for this portion, we’ll have to hold off on talking about to explore skinhead reggae (which I happen to think is actually great music), and how the blending of the Jamaican diaspora with British, cockney people resulted in a seemingly positive racial exchange and a “reggae fever” marked by shaved heads and otherwise very particular, uniform, and sharp dress style.

2.) If the Kids Are United… – Next, I’m going to have to explain how skinhead culture crossed paths with punk rock after 1969 had passed and how neither culture would ever be the same after that, resulting in a list of new genres that come about from an unintentional recipe for hatred and violence laid out when the skinhead and the punk rocker will unfortunately take politics to the streets, and experience a less positive attempt to assimilate together. Also, this will address why skinheads may have been less like-minded with Jamaican diaspora as the 1970’s came closer to the 1980’s.

3.) Post-Skinhead Ignorance – This will be a final conclusion, in which I consolidate my experience with American skinheads as a punk teen in the 1990s/2k into my adulthood, well-read self who happens to currently be pretty into first wave ska music, which… only the skinhead can be said to still feel that way about first wave ska in the same way. In the homeland of ska, ska music is outdated. And I mean, it’s been outdated since before I was born. It’s hardly even referred to as itself by many, because it’s just early reggae that hasn’t for a long time been done without being more reggae than ska (not probably since about… 1969). That said, I will ultimately have to conclude how skinhead culture has always been intrinsically predisposed towards a development into a complete militancy powered by an embrace of ignorance… about everything; and why skinhead culture should not be celebrated just because they understand ska music, (which is amazing, [and much better without skinheads in it.]).

And yes, I have totally just published a postwritten where I outline the post yet unwritten. I know. I’m utterly insane. If I were a professional writer, or if I had the desire to produce myself in the way that one does, I would set this document aside and use it as a rough draft and outline to do the piece, which I will say is big enough to warrant this kind of outlining if not this kind of editorial.

But I don’t do that. I don’t edit or manufacture myself. I don’t enjoy doing it. I don’t want to. Often times the typos you find are ones that I overlooked in the drafting of the document and have become well aware of and have intentionally left them as is.

I suppose I don’t sound like a too stereotypical obsessive or compulsive person, do I? If you’ve read the psyche column at all, you might follow what I mean from there. I sort of do have the capacity to spend my entire life editing a document for no reason, in which no amount of corrections or do-overs will ever produce a thing that doesn’t require further editing or abandonment.

Choosing to leave myself manufactured, raw, as-is, one take to get the shot, whatever happens type of “artist” has never been an easy decision to make. I wanted at one time to leave a masterpiece on the world. I no longer do. I want to leave myself, flawed as I am, content and happy to die with my imperfections.

So I made a typo. Shrug. It most likely doesn’t matter, and so… if I’ve lost you and you aren’t following this foreword into the next posts that will come. So be it. I will gladly have you read, or listen, or watch; I’m not afraid to show myself. But… I’m not willing to destroy the beauty of the world’s ugly things left as they are, so that you lot can be the celebrated artist that is all you really care about anyway isn’t it?

That’s okay. Social acceptance and approval is a natural human thing to seek out to some degree if you are a healthy enough person, I should think. But… it is of little interest to me in terms of my non-art, which I will continue to create in a long winded way for the sake of itself — shamelessly.

It’s kind of getting to the point where all the columns (categories) that I’m using seem to intersect, even if they focus on one topic more than the others. Part of me would like to redesign the organization, stop using the categories the same way, but…

Logic tells me there is no need for that.

Otherwise, I have an outline of what I’m going to write. I have several albums in mind to share as I talk about various things. I want to continue writing this zine, even if it takes me a long time to come back to it sometimes.

If I save this as a draft, it will become lost forever. I will forget that it was important maybe, or that it was ever a thing I planned to do. The organization of it will prevent it from ever being published at all.

Maybe taking my time between entries isn’t so bad. Maybe it will be more manageable for me to actually read them again, and have it as such that of the many points I wish to make, the fewest of them will in the end be unmade entirely. My early LiveJournal blogs of daily postings suffered from an overflow of  things that were never worth organization. There was less management of any thought that I had, which is why I was never able to write anything but of my sadness and my glory like a teenager with a diary.

I don’t want to write for a sense of daily therapy. I want to say specific things in a highly unconventional way. I want to make my points, and I want to leave them at least in the open to be unmade.

I’m going to make a point to get back to this project in the next few days — not weeks or more.

I will ever have to apologize for the fact that… if you are interested in me at all, you will always have to wait for me to come back I’m afraid.

Ideas Intersect

(in three historic manifestos)

So, if you were not aware, I am given to producing at times what I cannot refer to as art or poetry or music, but rather, Dada — beat generation-like nonsense, collages of found objects, and straight up compulsively obsessive noise put forth for the sake of its self as a means to its own.

It’s possibly easier to give you the crash course in Dada thought with the 1918 manifesto written by Tristan Tzara, a Frenchman living in neutral Zurich during WWI.

Dada Manifesto
by Tristan Tzara
23rd March 1918

After reading this in 2013 for the first time, many aspects of my “meta-modernist[1]” nihilism and new philosophical outlook began to take form — [1]that is, post post-modernism (to be modernist again after modernism and its hope was lost to postmodern despair, but practically in the light of both notions [said to be in oscillation]) — and is somehow very similar [that is, my personal philosophy as it has developed] to what western people think of as a Buddhist idea of duality and acceptance without all the practices of the “Great” way.

So, let me just go ahead and plug a few other manifestos relevant to the paragraph above which is possibly not making sense to you if you have not been already familiar,

The Metamodernist Manifesto
by Luke Turner (2011)

Though my ideas are not specifically influenced by this millennial notion of meta-modernism, it is true that my ideas are at the very least occurring as a result of modernist and postmodernist ideas and happening in the same era, same as my own ideas. So, it’s relevant, and I consider it a contribution to the modern day Dadaism I have found peace in, I also brought it up and hopefully it sheds light on what I said above. Otherwise…

Let me simply plug another one; but first let me say, I am not a Buddhist. Like most organized notions of spiritual existence and the order of those who understand it, Buddhism has some neat ideas mixed in with a whole lot of ancient bullshit. How seriously you take it is obviously up to you, but let me affirm again: I am not a Buddhist. Don’t fall into any of the con artistry of these spiritual websites and their holy texts and inspiring quotes. I can’t be responsible for what this leads you to.

Besides, I can’t verily give a fair summation of Buddhism, as I am fairly without knowledge of its many variations and intricacies. And though I find that it’s “ironic” how much I have in common with this poem, I take no interest in otherwise identifying myself with what is already my primary criticism of the work: there is nothing terribly great about this way of thinking. It simply is a way of thinking. Nothing more. But eerily often, it is quite like my own way.

The Third Patriarch of Zen
Hsin Hsin Ming by Seng-T’san

I find it hard to make time to write the things I often wish to write. These days I’m always getting ready for work, you know, which I have to be doing soon and so I can’t continue to where I would go along this train of thought at the moment. So I’ll leave you simply with these notions and how they have intersected within me to form some personal philosophy, which I have only begun to speak of officially here.

The context of my Neon Dadaism will be relevant when I begin to edit and publish the collected bits of graphomanic verse that I write — which, that’s a thing to talk about another day.

But if you must get a hint at what I mean, here is one such verse (or a portion of it) put to the Dadaist noise I spoke of in the first paragraph.

This was released under the pseudonym, fromthefirmament, which is my identity on Soundcloud.

Yeah, I’m going to get to talking about the production of noise soon enough and put some amount of sense to it. I plan to organize and edit and collect written works I have often left unedited — like, the words spoken in the 2billionyears verse. For now, simply behold the madness.

bloodclaat selassie

So… This post is going to talk about music (specifically, the change from reggae to modern dance hall). After all, I can only obsess about so many things {read – one thing} at a time), but the aspect of the music that it will address is also somewhat heavy and polarizing. I would hope that if you disagree with me, that you are not put off from reading my thoughts. However, I am familiar with your ilk, and I know that some of you will be put off.

So be it.

Let’s talk about Rastafari, which we often imagine when we think of Jamaica over here in the States. But you didn’t know, in the ska era, this dread head culture was not as popular or yet established. When the 70’s came and ska fell out, roots brought a lot of new themes. Many of them were positively aimed, with less commentary on criminal violence, but… I will argue that not all of the themes are positive. There is often commentary made with a different kind of violence; that is, the constant objective superiority and moral elitism inherent in all Abrahamic religions and most of the reformations that is asserted to the extermination of other ideas.

To be honest, the songs about bloodclaat Selassie would be fucking laughable if not for the fact that it’s so sad, that Abrahamic religions were brought to slaves on colonies where they were deprived in education and placed in positions of spiritual desperation.

I mean like, as a modern atheist of Britain’s spread of white people into the world, I just can’t help but see  those religions as ideas that are not needed and unnecessarily negative when the benefits of religions, spirituality, and the lack thereof are possible without it. If you can’t wrap your mind around that one, let me know and I’ll give it a second thought. But I’ve pretty consistently and strongly felt that way for a while.

And so, I can overlook a song that’s about coping with poverty and invoking the name of a story meant to help them only because… I do not blame them for their lack of educations. I blame my ancestors and how greedy the human race (of all colors, one) is, seen in its alphas males and females.

Of course people of the Americas, England, Australia, Canada (and all people who are inside whatever else, still British) do not receive the same understanding in the appreciation of their arts. If you’re from London or from NYC and your music is produced in 2017, then you cannot praise the name of Yahweh and earn my respect.

The word Christ is a huge deal breaker that makes you basically like… (and this is not hatred of you, but for your ideas that you cannot let go of and burden others with) …you’re faced with not looking at yourself as the chosen holy righteous who get love from the wonderful god that all others are wrong and Satan worshipers to be burned with their books so that any possibility of our god not being thrust down your throat is impossible.

That vile book that you call, “the good book,” is like a book of death and horrible things to illustrate that god intentionally made you so that he could watch you fuck up and then be forever in debt to him as the little bitch who better do what I say or… it won’t be good. Then… Because that makes so much less than zero sense, over time the religions had to reform so that now God is a guy who’s totally changed and feels like you’ve died and suffered enough for petty, petty shit. Shit that makes you be like, “Do we really even want this guy in charge?” No.

Thankfully, life is much better than made somehow okay with God to say so. No, life is good because man (and woman) have the power to make their life mean whatever they would make it be. That no man is correct is the blessing we all have. We can live our lives ourselves and not disturb the integrity of our ideas or anyone else’s ideas.

And so, I do enjoy the themes of reggae that express positive vybz and an outlook on life that feels good about it self… because I truly feel that way, but I don’t have to place myself in a light of goodness that must be cosmic or the world is too painful to endure. I can seek out “good” things, things that benefit mankind, like the reform of your religions again to admit there are usable parts and other parts to be omitted. (See, unlike you, I wouldn’t exterminate your culture. But you’re going to allow mankind to progress in science, philosophy, and the possibility of non extinction without smoking out the world with your ignorance — and pitifully weak spirits).

But… I say this as a white person who knows that we need to remember that… our educations, even our working class educations, and our history of “whatever it is we do that’s so great”, does not make us more correct in how we live or think than others who we see as wrong. This includes the three unholy religions of Abraham (as I affectionately call them). See, what’s correct, true, holy, or righteous are all concepts that are not necessarily unquestionable. See, in the interest of positive vybz, it’s better to force yourself to experience things that you are unfamiliar with and possibly make you uncomfortable, permit them, possibly take interest or not, and live without offense taken or made on others of different values, for the understanding that… none of us are correct, we could never possibly know for certain any thing. The Socratic admission that one is not wise is somehow wise, similar to how…. evil doesn’t exist and only things that proclaim they are most good are the most awful.

This is a topic I think about a lot because I listen to not just ska or reggae. I also listen to modern reggae dance hall, which is basically just a more hip hop version of reggae with what I would call more often less “roots” themes. Modern dance hall artists are more produced in the way of all modern pop music genres everywhere — they have several faces, they’re very manufactured, and based around capitalism — in almost exactly the same way as the American rapper, but with a history of roots reggae that is… well, modern dance hall might like to think it was still pretty roots, but nuh. It ain’t as roots as say… the roots, for what that’s worth. But it’s still characterized by reggae riddims.

For example, these are two songs by Popcaan — a very yute-ful sort of yute — and, one of them coming from 2016 and the other 2017, you will pree what I mean to say about the stereotypical dance hall prince (as I call them). There would be argument in Jamaica about who was the dominant dance hall artist after the fall of the World Boss, but as far as to who is the king of spreading Dance hall out of Jamaica, it is undeniably Popcaan.

This is most likely due to his association with the artist, Drake, who mi a tell you dis straight up: I’m not sure if I’ve ever once listened to one of his songs. I just know he’s popular I guess? I don’t know, man, I listen to strange shit too much to have time to waste on top40 on purpose (which, isn’t always bad or anything. … but yeah, nuh time fi that inna real life. If I’mma listen to shamelessly manufactured pop music, it’s at least going to be from an interesting island somewhere else.

[That is of course what I like about Dance hall — it’s foreign qualities. Rude boys, ska people, and and 70’s skinheads might drop their haw to hear me say that I liked modern dance hall and ska in the same sentence, but… I have an open mind, and that’s what I’m trying to really get at in this post as I criticize what you possible believe about your own cosmic correctness]

Anyway, in Never Sober and in Where We Come From, you’re going to notice more similarities to a rapper than to Bob Marley, in the ideas expressed. This is how I mean it’s not roots.

But I will say for it… that it’s what made me fall in love with Patwah speech in songs. I find that it’s far more pronounced than I’ve ever heard coming from Jamaican music, which I still cannot understand why that is, Maybe it’s in my imagination because I can think of no reason for that that makes any sense. For example, you can follow the thoughts of Bob Marley easily. Were you able to follow Popcaan below? I definitely didn’t understand a word he said at first. It’s possible that Bob was just a bit more educate than Poppy (lol).


Interestingly enough, modern dance hall and ska dance hall are similarly unlike reggae in the same way; the rude boy is now the badman. The Rasta is somewhat less commonly seen emphasized if at all. Most go for a look that says, “I have money,” not, “I am close to God.” And, in ska and in modern dance hall, the needing (or having) of money and the possibly (and certainly) going to jail and narrowly avoiding death and how difficult it is to get by with so much violence going on are all the most common themes.

(Although I would say, in the ska days, there were less fake ass little bitches pretending to be bad and it was more real ass people addressing the real problem where rude boys and police were a constantly dangerous combination at any sound system)

When a dance hall artist names god or whatever, it’s usually to express that he has the favor of that god by virtue of his money. It’s very rarely ever more spiritually complex than that, like in roots.

And lastly, what’s really odd… is the track by Prince Buster called 10 Commandments

Either one of two things are happening in this sort of joke track, and possibly both: 1) Prince Buster, in 1967, was framing Christianity in a comical absurdity that was intended to make one ask, “How is it that we even take this book seriously” ; or, 2) He was using the “good book” to validate his militant sexism and belief that man should utterly dominate the woman in every way possible.

And the latter is most possibly my least favorite characteristic of Jamaican men. And I’ll conclude that, I think it’s for the best that we stop celebrating the dangerous, destructive religious ideas of Abraham. Case in point. I will not tell you what good is, but I can tell you what it is not. This is not good.

And though I feel that way, I still enjoy the music that celebrates the ignorance of the “Holy Land,” because I must not make the mistake of being as forceful with an idea of my correctness as they have been and still are.

A beautiful song and some inspiring notions… and yet, invoking the name of that awful entity from the old books.

over-thinking or just hella thinking?

So, it might be pretty universally considered a wrong move by bloggers, webmasters, and content creators online, to post an entry and then immediately follow it with the next entry after a spell of resting stillness marked with a mind like this one writing. And, it doesn’t bother me because I don’t care to present myself in such a way that I will generate a following ideally. I’m going to do what I do, and while I appreciate any interest in my writing, I can’t change how overwhelmingly intense I can be sometimes. If you can’t keep up with me, that’s not a big surprise to me. A lot of people can’t. And while I do have to keep that in mind when I deal with people, I’m not doing so as a writer. It doesn’t matter to me if my presentation isn’t conducive to being easily consumed. I’m doing it because I want to and this is how I do it.

So, as you can see, whether I’m tired or not, I have the capacity for thoughts that don’t stop. It’s a complex thing because… if my mind would chill out, I would rest and have a more comfortable, easy day of wakeful moods and so forth. But I enjoy the thinking. I enjoy the long way of saying a thing. And it’s good that I do, because… I couldn’t do it any other way if I wanted to.

Let’s see. I’m going to put on coffee… or something. Let’s think of how many hours I have left before -waking up-.

Five hours and twelve minutes. … I’m sitting up in my bed. I’m going to try lying flat with my feet on the ground for a moment.

Typing this paragraph some minute after the last, it was orgasmic to stretch out the arch in my back and release the tension of my body that just sits back up again to type on the laptop, strain my eyes longer with the reading lenses (all I’ve ever known) that aren’t enough anymore, and indulge in the mood uplift that music can bring to the weary.

But, I’m having second thoughts about that… coffee, which I Really might still make. Do I really allow myself to accept that I’m not sleepy and can’t sleep, despite the severe tiredness, the same problems on recent nights, and how much less brutal it would be if I slept a single hour (but of course, ideally two; three is too unrealistic to consider.)

If I take the Benadryl, I’m going to feel like anticholinergic ass for the next hour as I slowly become more distant and unable to focus, which will put me into a state of perturbed dreams most likely and result in an extra amount of confusion when the alarm finally occurs to me and I’ve managed to do something about it, pop out of the dream I instantly can’t remember but know was utterly mad and quite the annoyance. And on top of the extra, it’s going to be extra-extra because there aren’t enough hours for the drug to run its course. I’ll have to wake up under the effect of it, drag myself up, and somehow get to work without showing up late as fuck or no call no showing before I realize that it even happened.

These are the very critical concerns of an insomniac… At a point, does sleeping become more dangerous to attempt to squeeze in? Because let’s just be honest with ourselves. It’s not going to happen in the amount of time I have between my last night’s close and my this morning’s open shift without some form of pharmaceutical action. There are some awesome things I could have to take at times like this that would make this a lot simpler to get through, but I don’t have those things. What I do have is the pill I have always had to fall back on when I had to.

And then there’s the possibility that the Bendaryl will have wrought all of its side effects on me all night and into the morning, and I will still get out of bed having felt like I didn’t completely fall into zzz’s even once.

So, you can call it over-thinking. A lot of people think that about me. But these are things one has to think about, I would think. Or do they not have to and this is the only reason I’m not able to feel sleepy in spite of such tiredness? Could I just let it be that this was very simple, lie down, (not even take the wretched pill), and go right to sleep? I’m sure it’s a bit more complicated.

I don’t always feel like this, as I’ve said. There are times I have the opposite problem, where I can’t will myself to want to do anything but lay in my bed and snooze away the free moments. And it’s definitely a cycle of opposite problems that lead to the other problem. Being over exhausted eventually results in a hibernating torpor that groans to momentarily reach out of and drag itself to the moment where it can go back. That has its own difficulties.

And the cycle just goes and goes and goes.

It’s more complicated than I (and especially you) realize, but it’s been slowly (or rather rapidly, maybe) driving me crazy and killing me for years.

Fortunately, I’m pretty happy anyway. Sure, sometimes I endure suffering. So does everyone. But I practice acceptance a lot lately — I’m not a Buddhist or anything. This is just what I do and it brings me peace in spite of the strife, in a lot of ways. I try not to let the stress overwhelm me, though I occasionally falter, and feel content anyway in spite of anything that could possibly happen. I try to maintain this. Most of the time, I manage.

If you ever read my blogs or writings or LiveJournals or whatever from some years ago, like… literally anywhere from 2002-2013, you would find everything I did and said laced with anger, sadness, despair, depression; all characterized by wildness of the mind. I suppose that’s subjective, but… Let me just leave it at that.

I deal with a lot of the same issues I’ve always dealt with. In some ways, some of my issues are much worse. I am, after all, older. But the one that is not much worse is that I am not unhappy about things I can’t control anymore. There aren’t things I can’t have that I lament so badly all the time. There aren’t atrocities, tragedies, and horrors I haven’t looked dead on and accepted for what they are without breaking down.

But I deal with a lot of bullshit still. It’s just that… I’m pretty good at dealing with bullshit now.

And part of that skill is the fact that I know that I need to lie down rest my body, let my mind do its thing, and if I have to have my coffee in the morning (I do), I’ll have it. But having it now would be fairly masochistic and not even willing to chance rest.

And so, while I’ve not said everything on the matter, I figure it’s best to let it be at that. I won’t get started on the posts about different types of music, bands, and so forth that I’ve been meaning to write about and intentionally forego sleep with several hours left.

But I’ll tell you this for certain: I’m not taking that Benadryl. If I was going to do that, I should have done it hours ago, like I said in the post from earlier when it was still last night. But there were a lot of reasons I didn’t, as you can see.

I’ll go ahead and end with a random song that I would normally say something about in these posts, but which I’ll let just speak for itself again.

It’s interesting because I’ve come full circle. This is the music I listened to as a teenager, which was influenced by music I never really knew much about, and now am having such a phase that it brings back the memories.

I nearly started going into all these different opinions I have about various waves and elements of ska and blended ska genres. Because, I really want to.

But right now, this post about how hectic my sleep and work life can be is far more prudent to throw out there and end with.

And the funniest part is that I got out of bed to post this maybe some hour later, am about to pour my coffee, and then some. 😛

I hope that someone can relate with the struggles of the mind described, which I admit at times does over think things to the point of interference. But sometimes, things are worth thinking about at length, I think.

‘(healthy body, sick mind; it’s just a matter of time; sick body, sick mind)’

mi a go show you a ting

So first, I’m going to direct y’all to some Wikipedia with my, ain’t-nuh-ever-been-to-Jamaica, pale as can be possibly fathomed and not albino in the ass as I am-ass, to explain what Patwah is.

Jamaican Patois, known locally as Patois (Patwa or Patwah) and called Jamaican Creole by linguists, is an English-based creole language with West African influences (a majority of loan words of Akan origin) spoken primarily in Jamaica and the Jamaican diaspora.

…and a creole language is basically a language that is a complete language and not a blending of two languages. Furthermore, a creole language is both African and English in its making.

Sometimes I use it in my slang or to say a specific thing. I listen to music that uses Patwah speech often and I’ve made a pretty decent effort to understand it as I hear it. If you are unfamiliar, try hearing it. You will be surprised that you cannot understand a lot of it. I could not express a grammatically correct thought without attempting to copy the words of others to say different things. There is a lot I still don’t know, so of course, but I always use Google and the more I do so the less often I need to. And for certain, some  things I could make a good attempt to say with it would be super, super awkward but probably understood since English as it is outside of Jamaica isn’t exactly foreign there. It’s the national language, after all and people have been streaming Dance Hall princes like “The World Boss” for a while there, on their Internets, so….

But… learning to talk like them, with them, and from their perspective is how we (the supposedly more educated in the more proper, which there is no such thing) English white people can atone for the sins of our aristocracies and the ignorance of we common people, who are all just the same people no matter how characterized, and can integrate.

I will not make the argument for integration here, either to whites or to blacks, because it’s a topic all in it’s own; but, I’ll only assume that you realize, integration of our races is the best action for we who can see that there is only one way that racism is ended — full integration, till whites and blacks are one race — not one assimilated into being without the other, but both races, at the same time — one race.

To be educated is to know the way of people’s speech, writing, thoughts, and characteristics. How do we go on feeling as if our English as we speak it is the one true way, when we have learned from the old things that the English of our ancestors was not the language we speak at all. Is this English now more proper than it was before? And could there have ever been an English at all without other languages which came before it? Can you say that tomorrow, the way you speak will definitely not be something like how Latin is of use to us today.

Suh you di tap a di tap, den, Sir Edward Educate, Esquire, weh unu pree exactly the fucking opposite in the god damned books. You nuh bad. Unu cyaan read even this sentence, so… mi a di educate one.

If I can’t communicate with it completely, I can understand it if I try. And so can you.

My use of patwah isn’t an attempt to assert that I reflect the Jamaican person’s perspective. I do not, as I have made abundantly clear in all my writing, but is an attempt to understand and communicate with black people — a specific black people, but not one to be omitted in the understanding of black people by white people. I hope that white people will be understood more by blacks, too, and that understanding collectively as one will help the best traits spread out in our cultures to thin out the worst traits we all share in our humanity.

This is a noble pursuit to me. I do not take it lightly or appropriate for the sake of a gimmick. I have given much thought to race relations and how to improve them. It’s a thing that I want to be, and a thing that I believe mankind is able to do. So feel free, if you don’t talk like white people talk, to try it out. In America where I live, black people have a dialect that is characteristically not white. And while it’s not its own language like a creole, it’s a way of speaking that is not only valid but quintessential to the Americas as they are, and so it should be learned.

White people should go into rooms with all black people and talk exactly like them, and black people should go in rooms of only whites and communicate with them how they communicate.

And the language should morph completely so that the way we speak is no longer either a way a white or a black speaks, but some way that both speak interchangeably. And, furthermore, and more importantly I think, whether you agree or not… the language is going to morph into something that is mixed up of other things whether you like it or you don’t.

I was originally going to post some more thoughts about Jamaican music that I’ve been listening to and how I’m learning more about it… but… this manifesto of sorts is a disclaimer I want to have understood and it took some time to express. I hope you feel the the positive vybz and if you don’t, I’d like to understand why.

So we’ll save the interrupted rough draft in the other tab for later posting.