--I found all these drafts i'd written and never hit publish, some of them are unfinished, but I'm clicking publish post today.
this one was dated 5/19
Been reading all types of new material. Poking my nose in genres I've never even heard before and buying books just because the author's names sound dope. It's an experiment in trying new things, I guess. I've made my system formulaic.
So, this new book I bought is one in surrealism. I've been dabbling a bit in dream psychology-not to say this is a new phenomenon, i've always been fascinated by dreams- and I am intrigued by the natural story lines that occur to us every night. My dreams are beyond vivid.
Can't seem to get any silence; a sound I'd say whose power is acutely underestimated.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Sat Her Day rambles
im already pissed because the elements aren't right.
wanted to sit outside- no outlets
wanted to sit in the leather chairs- all taken
wanted to bring in my cup of coffee- can't bring in outside drinks. dumbass monoply.
eff it; lebron can still hit the jumper with his eyes closed and no shoes, so imma ball with the elements against me.
I'm in Borders Bookstore today. i'd rather rummage through books than do this damn work. Beloved, Incidents, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, Finding Fish, and The Color of Water sit in a spiral tower at the corner of my tiny table.trying to connect the prompt to what I actually want to say about these books. i'm trying articulate how memory works in each. i'd like to just choose one and go to town on it- really analyze it as its own entity- but i have to use 3. sometimes too many books, for such a short paper es no bueno. i think i want to say something about how memory is our way of keeping things alive- duh, i know, but in its simple premise there's tons.
time is not a linear concept; things don't ever die. memory is proof of this, or rather our tuperware container to keep things fresh, to keep them alive, edible. but, it's up to the container, the transmitter of memory to make it work, not the actual site you're remembering. Morrison echo: "it is not an effort to find out the way it really was- that is research. The point is to dwell on the way it appeared and why it appeared in that particular way" the onus is on the reader of that memory to, in many ways, "re-member" it. we shift and sort memories constantly, consciously and unconsciously. we don't exist in isolation. I'm still workin it out obviously.
we see this in every text we've read: Beloved is the ephemeral and tangible manifestation of this notion- nothing is dead. Nana Peazant in Daughters screams this to Eli's cry-baby ass: "the dead ain't dead; i'm tryna learn ya!" or something like that. memory and sites of memory work to complicate our propensity toward linear time sequencing. we see the keys to our first house, we remember. we smell the cologne of our first crush, we remember. we hear the macarena, and whether we like it or not, we are pulled back into another time- even though our conceptual sense of reality is rooted in forward motion. we are constantly negotiating notions of past, present, and future because of memory. Memory suggests that nothing is ever dead and that time does not move forward. or something like that. im rambling. . .
john Mayer in my speakers today: slow dancin in a burning room. the sound is filling in all capacities. i'm a fan of sitting in the moments of songs, squeezing every drop of it into cups. I drink it, then repeat. 2:37 is where I always like to replay.
it's the height of the argument- so fuckin mean, so real: "go cry about it, why don't you." But, he makes it so beautiful. strummin that guitar so methodically, so gently. i appreciate mayer's artistic encapsulation of this type of argument. haven't we all had it? argg
It's a slow type day- the hours fold into each other and the sun never quite alludes to the hour because shadows are hidden, probably still sleeping in.
Last night I went to what I call my hood spot. All black, except for the DJ- a white boy who gets crunker than anybody in the place, bumpin exactly the music he wants to play. that's the kind of DJ i would be. just bumpin my musack and gettin payyed.
the sea of books downstairs is calling my name- it's a whisper call, but i'm going to indulge it. I want to find a book on einstein's theory of relatvity and time to poke at this notion for my paper.
heeya goes nothin.
Friday, July 15, 2011
summer time free writes
im in the mood to free write and the blank cursor is calling my god damn name. rick ross in the head phones- my muse lately. something about his voice, something about his stories, his images, his illusions. his beard, his belly- ha. yacht club. he makes me want to go to miami- sip margs and coronas. white bikini.
tuck sand in my toes and let the wind fly it out. stand in the water, with a bikini bottom wedgie that looks and feels just perfect-like. locs curly heavy in my eyes, still dry, but my suit is wet from wading, from letting the ocean water talk love to a smooth, browned body.
im horny, but no sex necessary, just let the breeze do me.
that felt right.
don’t feel like academic writing today, just feel like righting.
had to add this- it's better with the vidya
tuck sand in my toes and let the wind fly it out. stand in the water, with a bikini bottom wedgie that looks and feels just perfect-like. locs curly heavy in my eyes, still dry, but my suit is wet from wading, from letting the ocean water talk love to a smooth, browned body.
im horny, but no sex necessary, just let the breeze do me.
that felt right.
don’t feel like academic writing today, just feel like righting.
had to add this- it's better with the vidya
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
bar fly afternoons
it's been a bit of a minute.
not quite sure where this one's going. read against your own will.
The Market Place in asheville is a good spot to sit and contemplate. yet another gem.
underneath the voice of sam cooke peeling through speakers, conversations circulate.
a man- the color of bright pink sand says Jimi hendrix's sound is dynamic, pulsating with a social commentary in the chords of his guitar. and i'm listening, loving it- trying to keep my eyes steady and stoic as a fly on the wall, but I'm caught. we exchange smiles that hang on the edge of words, but smiles is all.
i sip a jalisco: tequila, chilli powder, syrup, and some other shit. it's pretty wonderful. a beer next to my tequila awaits me. everyone has been talking about this greenman esb and i'm ready to talk about it too. i'll sip it with the critical lens if a certified beer snob.
the woman next to him, his wife-friend, listens halfway. seems she doesn't know much about jimi and neither do i; although, i rock my purple haze t-shirt like jay rocks his che. I sit back and learn.
the ending to drake and swizz beats's fancy is in one ear bud almost falling out of my ear- the best part. I wish it were the instrumental. sometimes rap ruins a good track, as does the radio. just as talking during sex can ruin the mood. although, i do love his whisper to the ladies: go cinderella...
i've yet to find a person to speak to me the way music does and I don't think i ever will. don't really think it's meant to be that way.
the clouds are indecisive with the rain. it putters and pouts; it's the rain that constantly paints new jersey days. in decoded jay says we all may be walking different paths, but the same skies hover, the same streets give road to our feet, the same graffiti paints our backdrop. the setting can be a tricky constant.
in class, we did a fishbowl activity that loosed this very idea from my skin (thanks sonia). two students sat in the middle of a circle as the rest of the class watched them read a text- the text being photos. and that's the thing about objectives and what students will be able to learn. it's not always the intent of the teacher. it's not always about the author's intent. I watched classmates read photos of little black boys in the arms of white men; david Beckham spread eagle on Egyptian cotton; black boys with bruised and battered faces; the world gripped by two hands.
and i listened to how they read a text. the same text that projected in front of me? is jay right? were we seeing the same graffiti splashed wall? I saw how we bring our personal experiences, our memories, our worlds, our own texts to a reading. which, in many ways we already know. i saw how the interpretation of a text is often more important than the text itself. one's reading of a text reveals deeper insight into the reader and how his perceptions are connected to larger realms of seeing and perceiving. watching it manifest in very real ways in class was scary and exciting. perceptions and identity are inherently linked.
(added) i was provokingly intrigued by those loud things unsaid. although we can't always articulate or even dare to put words in mouths, i watched a silent space emerge-a discourse on the things which we do not speak- at least in mixed company and sure as hell not in a fishbowl. but i learned. willful forgetting is often predicated on social and political implications of silence. we dare not say we think the black man with the battered face deserved it because he is a gang member- or do we? we dare not say the little black boy in the arms of the white firefighter is rescuing a subaltern identity. we dare not say david beckham is sexy if we are a man- or do we dare? doesn't that pronounce a sense of security in our masculinity as it stands? can't killa cam wear pink and get that pussy? (edging besides the point I know). regardless, something held the silences. something presumed among the group. or was it? i felt it in our laughter and in our furtive glances at one another.
the silence in that activity enlightened me. we fold tape over our own mouths, but i would argue something hands us this tape. something makes us want to shut it up- don't be heard, don't voice, don't stir. and the tape goes over mouths outside fishbowls and classroom walls. we attempt to do something Zelizer calls "willfully forgetting." but this word "forget" needs tending. i can't rest there, but I need to- for now.
*now that i've edited this, this last piece doesn't seem to fit- mmm...o well).
when we watched brown sugar, our professor told us to look beyond the love story, but sometimes it is about the love story. sometimes it's okay to look there and see it. sometimes it is a little mushy... a little murky.
because I feel like sid. and i am in love with this thing called hip hop. ricky ross now in the headphones.
pandemonium.
not quite sure where this one's going. read against your own will.
The Market Place in asheville is a good spot to sit and contemplate. yet another gem.
underneath the voice of sam cooke peeling through speakers, conversations circulate.
a man- the color of bright pink sand says Jimi hendrix's sound is dynamic, pulsating with a social commentary in the chords of his guitar. and i'm listening, loving it- trying to keep my eyes steady and stoic as a fly on the wall, but I'm caught. we exchange smiles that hang on the edge of words, but smiles is all.
i sip a jalisco: tequila, chilli powder, syrup, and some other shit. it's pretty wonderful. a beer next to my tequila awaits me. everyone has been talking about this greenman esb and i'm ready to talk about it too. i'll sip it with the critical lens if a certified beer snob.
the woman next to him, his wife-friend, listens halfway. seems she doesn't know much about jimi and neither do i; although, i rock my purple haze t-shirt like jay rocks his che. I sit back and learn.
the ending to drake and swizz beats's fancy is in one ear bud almost falling out of my ear- the best part. I wish it were the instrumental. sometimes rap ruins a good track, as does the radio. just as talking during sex can ruin the mood. although, i do love his whisper to the ladies: go cinderella...
i've yet to find a person to speak to me the way music does and I don't think i ever will. don't really think it's meant to be that way.
the clouds are indecisive with the rain. it putters and pouts; it's the rain that constantly paints new jersey days. in decoded jay says we all may be walking different paths, but the same skies hover, the same streets give road to our feet, the same graffiti paints our backdrop. the setting can be a tricky constant.
in class, we did a fishbowl activity that loosed this very idea from my skin (thanks sonia). two students sat in the middle of a circle as the rest of the class watched them read a text- the text being photos. and that's the thing about objectives and what students will be able to learn. it's not always the intent of the teacher. it's not always about the author's intent. I watched classmates read photos of little black boys in the arms of white men; david Beckham spread eagle on Egyptian cotton; black boys with bruised and battered faces; the world gripped by two hands.
and i listened to how they read a text. the same text that projected in front of me? is jay right? were we seeing the same graffiti splashed wall? I saw how we bring our personal experiences, our memories, our worlds, our own texts to a reading. which, in many ways we already know. i saw how the interpretation of a text is often more important than the text itself. one's reading of a text reveals deeper insight into the reader and how his perceptions are connected to larger realms of seeing and perceiving. watching it manifest in very real ways in class was scary and exciting. perceptions and identity are inherently linked.
(added) i was provokingly intrigued by those loud things unsaid. although we can't always articulate or even dare to put words in mouths, i watched a silent space emerge-a discourse on the things which we do not speak- at least in mixed company and sure as hell not in a fishbowl. but i learned. willful forgetting is often predicated on social and political implications of silence. we dare not say we think the black man with the battered face deserved it because he is a gang member- or do we? we dare not say the little black boy in the arms of the white firefighter is rescuing a subaltern identity. we dare not say david beckham is sexy if we are a man- or do we dare? doesn't that pronounce a sense of security in our masculinity as it stands? can't killa cam wear pink and get that pussy? (edging besides the point I know). regardless, something held the silences. something presumed among the group. or was it? i felt it in our laughter and in our furtive glances at one another.
the silence in that activity enlightened me. we fold tape over our own mouths, but i would argue something hands us this tape. something makes us want to shut it up- don't be heard, don't voice, don't stir. and the tape goes over mouths outside fishbowls and classroom walls. we attempt to do something Zelizer calls "willfully forgetting." but this word "forget" needs tending. i can't rest there, but I need to- for now.
*now that i've edited this, this last piece doesn't seem to fit- mmm...o well).
when we watched brown sugar, our professor told us to look beyond the love story, but sometimes it is about the love story. sometimes it's okay to look there and see it. sometimes it is a little mushy... a little murky.
because I feel like sid. and i am in love with this thing called hip hop. ricky ross now in the headphones.
pandemonium.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Inspiration in Pieces and Parts
I need a lamp in this room and a better chair.
ok...Check for complaints out the way.
There's am imminent thunderstorm and all I can do is continue to will it on. I've got the best seat in the house for it. I want to write a poem today, but we all know it just don't work that way- or does it?.. and here comes the first crack of thunder.
There is a picture of Lauryn Hill (below) that i absolutely love. It's a black and white. She's looking in the mirror, almost as if she is simultaneously checking her make-up and dreaming up a "thesis/ [and]well written pieces" ("Final Hour"; Miseducation of Lauryn Hill). i think the picture is from her inside album flap. It's nostalgic and regal. It's powerful, yet serene. i can remember unwrapping the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill as an excited twelve year old- it was my first CD, and the first CD i had ever purchased with my own money. i used to close my eyes in my room with my bigass headphones as i listened to her velvet voice rap harder than dudes and sing melodies wrapped in the same rough blanket as Nina Simone. This picture makes me dream of my natural mother and about mothers. It is bound up, for me, with memory and imagination. . .
In an essay titled, The Site of Memory, Toni Morrison discusses the impact of memory on her fiction writing. She expounds on the notion that "no matter how 'fictional' the account of these writers, or how much it was a product of invention, the act of imagination is bound up with memory" (198). I've been thinking about memory as it relates to our perception of ourselves, and as it conducts itself as a live, walking body in our daily narratives and in our interactions with others. What is real? Especially when it comes to identity formation.
I think about the memory I have of my biological or "natural" mother as she puts it in the nameless letter I have from her-the only tangible thing I do have from her besides dna ( is dna tangible?). I also use the word memory as an image or idea rather than memory in the sense of recollection. Someone in class asked how can you have a connection to something that you never experienced first-hand? She was referencing her white students who love hip hop, which is an interesting and somewhat naive question that fails to see the complexity and power of connection. Why do I love Junot Diaz- I have never been to the Dominican Republic? Why do I love Marvin Gaye- I am certainly not a "Troubled Man"? The answer is not simple, but to answer it simply - our connections are bound up with memory.We find a connection and relate along different levels. Art, literature, and multiple stimuli work in many ways off of memory. Both conscious and unconscious, both willed and unwilled. And if memory and imagination are linked, I would go further to argue identity is predicated on this idea.
To say you know something comes with a complex bag of definitions. What does it actually mean to know? How can I take ownership of a mother I have never actually met ("met" as in the fixed terms of hand-shaking and "nice to meet you's"), but I would argue I have met her. It happens randomly on random days. I may be alone or with people and feel an instinct, a certain wrinkle in my smile, a new development in my voice, that I just know she has too. Morrison would say (at least as a writer of fiction), "it is not an effort to find out the way it really was-that is research. The point is to dwell on the way it appeared and why it appeared in that particular way" (Thought, Memory, Creation, and Writing; 1984 p.385). I guess I am caught up in both the research and the aspect of memory.
Much like recalling upon the fuzzy pieces or bits of a dream and attempting to string them into a narrative for others, we find ourselves adjusting to memory in the same way. It doesn't also fit neatly into beginning, middle, end, with neat character line-ups and plot development. It actually works against this idea of sequencing and order. Yet, it is still our inclination to make it do so. Memory works in the same vein. We see this fragmented narrative in Beloved, where the reader must rely on the disjointed memories of others, drinking it up, much like Beloved does with Denver's stories, to subsist or at least to remain within the story.
Who am I if I don't know my mother and have to rely on these fragmented pieces of a story? A 25 year old letter addressed "My Dearest Child" and signed "Your Natural Mother." Nameless, but identifiable health records. 2 months worth of journaling about me- a baby named "Rosa" from a Philadelphia foster care home.
yet, it is these pieces from which I begin to create the "parts" of a story, of an identity. It is not always a conscious creation- it hardly ever is. But, it is one that sits on, in, and under the building blocks of pieced memories.
ok...Check for complaints out the way.
There's am imminent thunderstorm and all I can do is continue to will it on. I've got the best seat in the house for it. I want to write a poem today, but we all know it just don't work that way- or does it?.. and here comes the first crack of thunder.
There is a picture of Lauryn Hill (below) that i absolutely love. It's a black and white. She's looking in the mirror, almost as if she is simultaneously checking her make-up and dreaming up a "thesis/ [and]well written pieces" ("Final Hour"; Miseducation of Lauryn Hill). i think the picture is from her inside album flap. It's nostalgic and regal. It's powerful, yet serene. i can remember unwrapping the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill as an excited twelve year old- it was my first CD, and the first CD i had ever purchased with my own money. i used to close my eyes in my room with my bigass headphones as i listened to her velvet voice rap harder than dudes and sing melodies wrapped in the same rough blanket as Nina Simone. This picture makes me dream of my natural mother and about mothers. It is bound up, for me, with memory and imagination. . .
In an essay titled, The Site of Memory, Toni Morrison discusses the impact of memory on her fiction writing. She expounds on the notion that "no matter how 'fictional' the account of these writers, or how much it was a product of invention, the act of imagination is bound up with memory" (198). I've been thinking about memory as it relates to our perception of ourselves, and as it conducts itself as a live, walking body in our daily narratives and in our interactions with others. What is real? Especially when it comes to identity formation.
I think about the memory I have of my biological or "natural" mother as she puts it in the nameless letter I have from her-the only tangible thing I do have from her besides dna ( is dna tangible?). I also use the word memory as an image or idea rather than memory in the sense of recollection. Someone in class asked how can you have a connection to something that you never experienced first-hand? She was referencing her white students who love hip hop, which is an interesting and somewhat naive question that fails to see the complexity and power of connection. Why do I love Junot Diaz- I have never been to the Dominican Republic? Why do I love Marvin Gaye- I am certainly not a "Troubled Man"? The answer is not simple, but to answer it simply - our connections are bound up with memory.We find a connection and relate along different levels. Art, literature, and multiple stimuli work in many ways off of memory. Both conscious and unconscious, both willed and unwilled. And if memory and imagination are linked, I would go further to argue identity is predicated on this idea.
To say you know something comes with a complex bag of definitions. What does it actually mean to know? How can I take ownership of a mother I have never actually met ("met" as in the fixed terms of hand-shaking and "nice to meet you's"), but I would argue I have met her. It happens randomly on random days. I may be alone or with people and feel an instinct, a certain wrinkle in my smile, a new development in my voice, that I just know she has too. Morrison would say (at least as a writer of fiction), "it is not an effort to find out the way it really was-that is research. The point is to dwell on the way it appeared and why it appeared in that particular way" (Thought, Memory, Creation, and Writing; 1984 p.385). I guess I am caught up in both the research and the aspect of memory.
Much like recalling upon the fuzzy pieces or bits of a dream and attempting to string them into a narrative for others, we find ourselves adjusting to memory in the same way. It doesn't also fit neatly into beginning, middle, end, with neat character line-ups and plot development. It actually works against this idea of sequencing and order. Yet, it is still our inclination to make it do so. Memory works in the same vein. We see this fragmented narrative in Beloved, where the reader must rely on the disjointed memories of others, drinking it up, much like Beloved does with Denver's stories, to subsist or at least to remain within the story.
Who am I if I don't know my mother and have to rely on these fragmented pieces of a story? A 25 year old letter addressed "My Dearest Child" and signed "Your Natural Mother." Nameless, but identifiable health records. 2 months worth of journaling about me- a baby named "Rosa" from a Philadelphia foster care home.
yet, it is these pieces from which I begin to create the "parts" of a story, of an identity. It is not always a conscious creation- it hardly ever is. But, it is one that sits on, in, and under the building blocks of pieced memories.
As I have begun the "official" search for my biological mother, the interplay of emotions is often palpable, but rarely explicable- at least with the words I have. It's a push pull of the sort where I continuously ask myself are you sure you're ready? What will you do when you find her? What will you do if you don't? And still, outside my head, there are the questions from others. The private investigator: what do you know? The other adopted colleagues who have decided not to search for their own: Why now? How? What if...?
Still, I want the journey to establish new memories, despite the pandora's box of outcomes that await.
Monday, June 27, 2011
Summer Time Teacher
Just reread some old blogs to reacquaint myself with myself...
I am not particularly inspired by anything, except maybe this new imac- cheese smile.
I'm in Asheville, North Carolina for the summer...learning in class and through the delightful individuals I have met on this journey.
Asheville, NC is a town seeping with a historical richness. It's a history that's multilayered- one that the passer-through, or even the weekend-stayer might miss. We've been on walking tours and sat on panels that reveal a dark history the beautiful mountain town does not readily reveal. I've marveled in the local art shops, the mom and pop bookstores, and draped myself in the blue mountain landscape. Yet there is a peculiar touch pulling at my delight. My class has illuminated the corner of a more private history, drenched in the very strange syrup our nation was founded- you know the syrup Im talkin about. It is a history of slavery, degradation, segregation, and misrepresentation.
My classes have me thinking a lot- duh, right? So much so that I find myself talking a lot- half of the time about nothing and the other half about everything; there's never much semblance.
I've been thinking a great deal about memory and literacy- not in a related sense, but as individual entities. Memory as a type of rhetoric, as a landscape, as a discourse. In my class we are reading African American lit against this idea of memory (when does memory become collective? how do we measure memory against history? what is the space between history and memory? what is truth? when is memory reliable? how do we account for sites of memory? whose memories have more value than others?) questions I've only begun to scratch at.
In my Hip Hop class, we are studying the myriad facets of Hip Hop and Hip Hop culture. Essentially, we are making a case for it within the classroom as critical text. (Right up my alley, I know.) I'm intrigued by the concept of multi-modal literacies and how to incorporate them more deliberately into my classroom. I am also engaged with the political work, as Kirkland, my professor always terms it, that Hip Hop is up to and how ignoring it, is furthering a white patriarchal divide.
Despite the nebulous haze I am left with after class, after the readings, after the convos, I am left with ideas surrounding my own experience- my own story. How are our stories predicated on memory and how does our voicing of them offer validity? A concept I will revisit. My brain hurts.
The best bookstore I ever found! It's a wine bar, coffee shop, and champagne bar. This is what I want my house to look like.
One of the views from the highway. I almost crashed taking this...
I thought this was a statue for a week. It was only until I saw someone put a dollar in her basket that I saw her move. She's sooo good. They say she makes 80 bucks a day. hmm...can I stand still?
On the tour, we walked past many places that were demolished during the Urban Renewal Project (1950s-1970s), one of the largest Urban Renwals in the southeastern region. Thousands of people, predominately African Americans, lost their homes; the effect for many was devastating. This is one of the buildings not yet "developed".
This a mural on the side of the same building- freshly painted! I think it is about a week old.
Ok, so this is a movie theatre that shows independent movies-it's not your Lowe's or Regal Theatre. It's a small, local stop. But...
There were two entrances to the movie theatre: one "for whites only," the main one, and this one "for colored's only." It's still there, and if we hadn't been on the tour with a tour-guide who told us this, we might have never known. hmm... what's goin on here?
I am not particularly inspired by anything, except maybe this new imac- cheese smile.
I'm in Asheville, North Carolina for the summer...learning in class and through the delightful individuals I have met on this journey.
Asheville, NC is a town seeping with a historical richness. It's a history that's multilayered- one that the passer-through, or even the weekend-stayer might miss. We've been on walking tours and sat on panels that reveal a dark history the beautiful mountain town does not readily reveal. I've marveled in the local art shops, the mom and pop bookstores, and draped myself in the blue mountain landscape. Yet there is a peculiar touch pulling at my delight. My class has illuminated the corner of a more private history, drenched in the very strange syrup our nation was founded- you know the syrup Im talkin about. It is a history of slavery, degradation, segregation, and misrepresentation.
My classes have me thinking a lot- duh, right? So much so that I find myself talking a lot- half of the time about nothing and the other half about everything; there's never much semblance.
I've been thinking a great deal about memory and literacy- not in a related sense, but as individual entities. Memory as a type of rhetoric, as a landscape, as a discourse. In my class we are reading African American lit against this idea of memory (when does memory become collective? how do we measure memory against history? what is the space between history and memory? what is truth? when is memory reliable? how do we account for sites of memory? whose memories have more value than others?) questions I've only begun to scratch at.
In my Hip Hop class, we are studying the myriad facets of Hip Hop and Hip Hop culture. Essentially, we are making a case for it within the classroom as critical text. (Right up my alley, I know.) I'm intrigued by the concept of multi-modal literacies and how to incorporate them more deliberately into my classroom. I am also engaged with the political work, as Kirkland, my professor always terms it, that Hip Hop is up to and how ignoring it, is furthering a white patriarchal divide.
Despite the nebulous haze I am left with after class, after the readings, after the convos, I am left with ideas surrounding my own experience- my own story. How are our stories predicated on memory and how does our voicing of them offer validity? A concept I will revisit. My brain hurts.
For now, I have some pictures of my trip.
Yay pictures! Here are some from my tour of Asheville and of my own tour (:
So, we went to 12 Bones- amazing, clog your arteries, but absolutely worth it food. It's where Obama goes when he comes to town! Here's the menya (menu).
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