Who's Gonna Save My Soul Now ?

passive agressive contentiousness

did you ever stop to wonder?

Forte is Free

John Forte "Runnin Up That Hill" from The ICU on Vimeo.

As you all probably know, the illustrious and incredibly talented John Forte has been free from federal prison for a little over two months. What has he been doing with his time you ask? Well, if you watched the video then you already know. He's been performing and recording BANGERS.

La Ritournelle

i wanna be the blanket draped around your huddled shoulders

and the pillow propping up your weary head.

i wanna be the cushions of the couch you rest on:

all of the stuffing, the fabric, and connecting thread.

i wanna be the lines and shades leaping off the screen

you watch, and the sounds that surround you and your breath.

as you dream, I want to be your unclean imaginings

and the recurring images of greater depth.

Taken

Taken is epic. You would do well to see it. You would also do well to see it at Cinema Village. It's an old timey theatre with ornate gold molding, thick velvet curtains, balconies...the works.

Ms. White

I remember when every strand of her hair was entangled in a thick lock that hung down her back. She didn’t just throw away the bras that lifted her breasts and the stains that made her lips shine and her eyes “pop”. Along with the crop tops and the curve accentuating denim, she had denounced basic hygiene like washing and conditioning her hair. She said it was so that she’d garner respect for her intellect and because she wanted people to gravitate toward her for her winning character, impeccable musical taste, well thought out advice, blah, blah, blah. I remember gravely setting about the task of emancipating the strands from their dense and dirty prison. Equipped with rat tail combs and safety scissors, we gently pried pieces from the whole. As we did so, as that singular entity was separated into so many dark, twisting lines, my mind wandered off and the tools in our hands shifted shape

I held a mirror while she swept a whiskered brush across her cheek- adding coral coloring to her already flushed face. I held it while she lined her lips with gloss and sprayed strands of her hair until they lost all will to fly away. I helped close the jeans she insisted on squeezing into and I helped lace the shoes she couldn’t walk in. And when her face was put on and her body sufficiently costumed, we walked to the house.

A gaudy chandelier hung in the sitting room, centered above a plush couch, so white and pristine it was sinful to sit on. But after a few drinks, we did. The couch was flanked on both sides by wooden tables housing books of photography and soft leather coasters. While I joked and laughed and requested songs, she admired those inanimate objects. Commenting first on the elegant binding of the books and then on the suppleness of the coasters’ leather, holding her glass out of reverence for the latter. I didn’t notice her leave initially. She was so un-engaging, so taciturn. But when she returned from the basement she was talkative. Riddles, indecent proposals, anecdotes, song lyrics, all streamed forth. She left again and came back energetic. Twirling and gyrating as if possessed. On her third return, blood burst forth from her nostrils and a bit leaked from the left ear and I took her to the hospital. At the hospital that night, the doctor informed her she’d damaged her ear drum. The next day, she didn’t wash her hair and she didn’t wash it the day after that or the day after that or the day after that…

I also remember yesterday. I remember that we found a well worn bench. I remember that the curve of the wood fit the angle of our bodies comfortably. I remember the overbearing branch, extending nosily from a near by tree, that shaded us from the hot white sun. The wood was oddly discolored and we spent several minutes thinking about the stains previous visitors had left. I remember her telling me about researching the habits of auks in the arctic, about the farming co-op she was going to live on. I remember her telling me about hefting books and judging them for their apparent page weight and literary worth. I remember how short her hair was, but how healthy it looked. I let her sing to me:

down at headquarters, there’s a big database

with black and white photos of the side of your beautiful face

and your library record, and all your test scores

and an invitation to party like it’s 1984

I reveled in the fact that she wasn’t trying so hard, and I was happy she wasn’t deliberately wearing a symbol of her refusal to try any longer. And I remember that I said, “Lettie, I see you, now and I am confident that you are living your life under conditions that you have chosen.” And yesterday is all I will choose to remember.

Black and Ugly as Ever

Christopher Wallace b.k.a. Biggie Smalls or Notorious B.I.G. was a lyricist of unparalleled talent. To listen to his music is to step into someone else’s shoes and experience life from a different perspective. It is to trade in your book bag for a scale and a gat, to doubt your worth and ability. It is to raise children with no personal experience of what fatherhood is. To listen to Biggie’s music is to succumb to negative influences and pull your self from them. It is to degrade women while promoting a positive self image for your daughter. It is to grow from a money worshipping youth, infecting your community, into a gifted MC uplifting people through your storytelling and artistry.

The movie Notorious chronicles key points in Biggie’s life. It gives you an understanding of his inspiration and rise to fame, while documenting turning points in his career and personal philosophies. Beautifully acted, the relationships between characters rings true and if you are a fan of Biggie you will obviously appreciate the soundtrack. Notorious is an unflinching portrait of the man: a chauvinist, an absentee parent, a drug dealer, a son, a loyal friend, an innovator, a talent. I strongly suggest you dole out the dough and watch Christopher Wallace transform from unknown to NOTORIOUS.

Anger Mongers

Have you ever watched someone in the throes of indignation? Seen their complexion change as their blood boiled? Heard the deluded excitement of their rage-full rants? For some Anger is a perverted happiness. They revel in their malcontent. These people coddle minor irritations, fanning their flame when they threaten to dissipate, thrusting them forth when they inhabit only the dimly lit corners of their mind. They do this to divert attention from things of actual importance. Instead of finding the solution to a problem, these people prefer to rest on the laurels of the problem itself. The concept of forgiveness is as alien to them as a blossoming plant is to arid land. They don’t realize that forgiveness is more for oneself than for whomever it is that has committed the violation. So, they allow anger to put down roots and entwine itself with their being. They nurture this negativity, unwittingly at first, but eventually it delights and defines them.

The Wrestler

(!SPOILER ALERT!)

Mickey Rourke and a soundtrack dominated by ‘80s Hair Bands were the highlights of this film. The cinematography was true to life and integral to setting the scene, wonderfully choreographed wrestling routines had me captivated, despite the graphic violence and bloodshed, and Rourke became his character’s passion, pain and perseverance. But, despite the excellent choices made by Darren Aronofsky (who directed the film) and Mickey Rourke (who played the lead role of professional wrestler Randy “The Ram” Robinson); I am NOT a fan of The Wrestler.

The truth I felt watching Randy in the ring and by himself was not there when watching him interact with his estranged daughter. I found it wholly ridiculous that a young woman, who harbors strong resentment for the father who neglected her, will push away those feelings of abandonment in a few hours time. Going from having no contact to sharing intimate moments and smiles and walking arm in arm on boardwalks is not a logical progression.

And the whole relationship with Cassidy (stripper played by Marisa Tomei and the object of Randy’s desire) I don't get either. At no point in the film did I see her show any real affection for Randy, no reciprocation of his feelings whatsoever. She only ever looked to him because other people ignored her and she could count on his infatuation with her to lift her spirits. But then at the end she's all profoundly upset by Randy knowingly putting his life in danger. I'm glad Randy “The Ram” died doing what he loved, in front of people who appreciated his talent, instead of holding on for a woman who may or may not have provided him a smidgen of the happiness he felt in the ring.

Much respect to Mickey Rourke for embodying his character and delivering a riveting performance and much respect for those in charge of the musical accompaniment. The Wrestler is worth seeing, but I wouldn’t spend movie ticket money to do so.

Soooo Pretty (Sooo Old)

R.I.P J. Dilla

"I Can Never Be too Big For My Britches..."

"...I am GIFTED. Merry Christmas."

"Truth Is Beautiful, Without Doubt; But So Are Lies. "

I lie because I’m in flux. I lie because my indecision shames me. I lie because there is no good reason for my failure and the lies render me inculpable. I lie so that I am not a disappointment. Because I need people to believe in my ability, so my potential can manifest itself. I lie because I am loyal to others and at times it is the honorable thing to do. I lie because the implications of reality can be disabling. Because I believe in the power of hope, even where none truly exists, I lie.

I lie because it affords me the freedom to do what I want and not what I should. I lie to protect myself from the consequences of my actions or more often lack of action. I lie to insulate myself from the wrath of others, to deflect responsibility. I lie to divert anger from its rightful target. I lie so people will side with me and rally against the object of my spite. Because it strengthens my arguments and makes any opposition appear ineffectual, I lie.

I form my tales of deceit for the simple pleasure of creation. Lies are at times more profitable than the truth. I lie because I want and it helps me to get. Because I like to whine and it gives me something to grumble about. Because I prefer my company to that of others and lack valid excuses to spend time with myself, I lie.

I lie because I’m angry and don’t feel people deserve unadulterated honesty. I lie because it’s a learned behavior. Because I’ve been lied to and know the effect that it has. I lie to encapsulate myself in mystery. I lie to make myself look more appealing or worthy of admiration and affection. I am never at fault, I’m always right. I lie to convince myself that my feelings are valid and that I’m not misguided or unstable. Because I’m fearful of the truth, I lie.

“All men are frauds. The only difference between them is that some admit it.
I myself deny it.” – H.L. Mencken

Wall and Piece

I've always admired Banksy's prowess as a grafitti artist. But his prowess with poetry is what's cemented my admiration/adoration.

And for those of you who can't read the text in the above picture:

Beyond watching eyes
With sweet and tender kisses
Our souls reached out to eachother
In breathless wonder

And when I awoke
From a vast and smiling peace
I found you bathed in morning light
Quietly studying
All the messages in my phone

(hehehe)

"The Touch and Feeling of Free..."

"One foot in front of the next. This is the start of a JOURNEY."

Lumberjack Chic

A friend of mine dressed up as a hipster for Halloween.
Looks like Pharell to me. Who digs?

Mad (Tom)Foolery

With all the unfortunate happenings (i.e. financial crisis, war in Iraq, natural disasters, terrorist threats, criminal activity, the multiplication of idiots at an alarming rate, the dissapearance of Mystic beverages, and general fuckery) beleaguering our nation, it is normal to want to turn a blind eye to current events. Newspapers bring solemn tales of death and destruction BUT Amanda Diva brings laughs!!! So, if you're looking for a way to stay abreast of the issues without running the risk of suicidal thoughts-- peep Diva Speak TV. Of the numerous episodes, I've opted to share the one below on account of the fact that I almost peed on myself watching it...get it?




R.Kelly

...peed.

"Invisible Man Got The Whole World Watchin'..."

11.5.08/12:22am
My eyelids sweep over my eyeballs, pushing the tears from the top to the bottom, where they pool around my lashes. Sometimes they're softer and quicker and only the corners of my eyes feel wet. And sometimes, the sweeps amount to nothing. Be they fast and fervent or slow and solemn, the tears don't jerk.

11.5.08/12:47am
My mother says a sense of relief flooded her when she heard the news. She sat loosely in the chair with a slight smile and a serene expression as analysts discussed the politcal climate and speculated about the new commander in chief's cabinet. I could see her chest lift and swell, fall and deflate with every breath. The rythm was even and comfortable, like her posture in the chair. Arms resting on the arm rests. Slight smile. Knowing, comforted, hopeful smile. Triumphant smile. Confident, reassured, faithful smile. Ecstatic smile. Bright and believing.

11.5.08/12:51am
Now...some sweeps are strong sweeps and send the salty liquid streaming down my face where it settles on my cheek and causes the skin to itch. It was that smile that made me cry and helped me understand the impact of the historic moment I had witnessed.


The above image is the creation of an artist by the name of Dwayne Rodgers. Copy the link to read more about his piece and the reactions it's inspired. http://www.okayplayer.com/stories/fashion/black-president-200811056772/