Weed Convo: Miscellaneous Windowside Ramblings

WINDOWSIDE RAMBLING X + 3

I awoke and prayed; shat and showered. At the window, butt ass nekkid, I saw a banner suspended in space by thin, invisible wires attached to a plane. The banner was for Geico.com and, for a moment within a moment, I stared at a fucking caveman, being pulled at heights that many modern men never touch in the span of their natural lives, in utter amazement. I cursed this divine folly while praising God’s gift of Irony to all woman and mankind. Peace, fam.


WINDOWSIDE RAMBLING X + 1

One morning, I went to shower and saw a furry tarantula–one of them nasty lookin' joints–just chillin' in the shower. And, you know... I'm tryna live my life right. You know, nigga just seent Passion of The Christ, you feel me? And niggas was just tryna live righteously. I wasn't tryna kill no insects, you feel me? So at first, my conscience was like, "Yo, El, let the creature of god live. A Soul Wanderer taught you this in her reference to Of Water and Spirit." And I undressed to proceed with my shower. 'Cause, you know... "My body is a palace. Therefore, I wear my hair stylish; my flesh solid, and my teeth polished," said the prophet Walter Reed. But then I started to itch. And as I itched, I looked at my arm; my left arm. And I saw a big ass mosquito bite. And I said, "Man, fuck this animal rights, all natural shit. Let that mu'fucka drown." Then I turned the showerhead on and watched him swirl away into a Purgatory of DC Sewage.


WINDOWSIDE RAMBLINGS 4


I remember being with Maria and seeing some police officers aggressively question this black dude. Instinctively, history has shock therapied black Americans into staying as far away from the police as possible; but Maria, this Philadelphian wisewoman with a slight frame and Oriental squint, was compelled to ask the brother, in the midst of the interrogation: "Are you alright? These police officers aren't harassing you, are they?" Or something to that effect, instantly changing my understanding of what activism means.

For Maria, it meant more than Sankofa meetings, as thoroughly enriching as they may have been; or the quiet consciousness bespoken by a natural exterior–for not even her locs, as thick as Cheetos and as long as stalactite icicles, bespeak Maria's activism with accuracy. Maria's activism, without second thought, was ready and willing to confront the law, when necessary; to risk freedom and, perhaps, her life fighting injustice. It couldn't have just been some abstract principle that she shot the shit about with her neo-soulsy buddies. It had to be a lifestyle. When Reason and Logic told me to indulge my curiosity and look, but not help, Common Sense told Maria that she was morally obligated to, at least, check on this brotha. We think we're helpless sometimes, but we're not.

That's what I remember about Maria.


WINDOWSIDE RAMBLINGS 2


One night, I approached a Speed Trap on Florida Avenue in Northeast. I slowed my chariot, inching across the lines with a senior's caution. A black Volkswagon buggy honked a honk of exasperation before violently overtaking me. The plate read: "IMBOSSY."

I had to see the driver. And I wondered: "Did he or she get the plate before or after the Kelis song?" A chase ensued and I caught the chariot three lights later.

"Passenger," I said, "look, for me, yonder to the left, that I may ascertain the racial identity and gender of our Napoleonic driver."

The passenger, a fair Daughter of the Goddess, turned her head leftwards at slug speed subtly. Her findings saddened me deeply. I won't put her description out there. I wouldn't want to set the race back.


WINDOWSIDE RAMBLINGS 3


Me and my man had just came from CVS and it was this homeless dude 'cross the street.

The homeless dude was like, "Can I get some chips?" And my man said, "Lawrence of Maryland, relinquish one of our two bags of Doritos to our brother in need, for it is written: he who has two coats must share with his neighbor who has none. It is in the scriptures, my brother." Bewildered by his own marijuana-induced articulateness, he added, with OJ's caution, sincere but sloppy: "Or something like that."

A black nuclear family stood watching as I gave up the chips, with both the husband and wife's faith in the goodness of humanity being restored by this random act of generosity.

As my buddy and I walked away, I reminded him, in a tone of grave seriousness: "Nigga, I gave him your bag."


WINDOWSIDE RAMBLING X + 4

At the International House of Pancakes, I was served by an Ethiopian waitress, Free. Free’s English was limited, but her service was excellent. My mother and I toyed with the young woman’s name, a word we are both familiar with, yet, as African Americans, have not experienced in its entirety. (But then again, who has?) Free was remarkably beautiful, with a rounded face, flat nose and dark brown complexion that defied the confines of the Ethiopian stereotype. I thought about her parents and Ethiopian custom. When is it proper to name a child? If at birth, then what stupefying irony it is that Free would grow to embody freedom. “Free,” to the mother and father of the young woman, possessed exotic qualities. Though a bastard word belonging to a bastard language, its inherent meaning—spoken not through the symbols (letters) used to represent the thought, but rather, through the price of blood and its everlasting memory of its transaction between sworn enemies (freedom and tyranny) in the minds of the descendants of martyrs—dances (and here, a cliché is fitting) like no one is watching. Is that American view of freedom what the free-spirited Free’s parents sought when they sent her here? That she is here waiting tables (and, by her account, awaiting acceptance status to University) clarifies for us one thing: Free is free of the excruciating poverty that cobra clutches the ankle of her homeland. But though war and rumors of wars and famine and disease beset Mother Ethiopia on all sides, what is there to be said of its people, of those who weren’t free to pick up and leave for a job waiting tables at IHOP while awaiting acceptance status to University? The un-free, those who couldn’t afford the visa and plane ticket smile as freely and with as much erect pride as Free. Or at least I’ve heard that they smile. Me, I’ve never been to Ethiopia, so I cannot confirm this as fact—that Ethiopians who have not sojourned to America are capable of smiling and being free from the shackles of stress that cobra clutch the ankles of many Americans and Americanized foreigners. A lot of cash is required to go to Ethiopia, so I wasn’t free to purchase a plane ticket there. But I was free enough to speak with a few Ethiopians and some travelers who’ve visited the faraway land. So I will blindly accept their word on the matter. In the faces of Death and Poverty, they are free to smile. Free, on the other hand, must smile. She’s a waitress. No sooner would she be reprimanded or fired or both before she wore a frown for more than week at the International House of Pancakes in Virginia. And University? Mr. and Mrs. Free may have already decided for their daughter what studies she must take up. Seldom will the parents allow the child to freely choose majors if it’s coming out of their pockets. If tuition is to be covered by aid of some sort, loans will have to be repaid. Free will not be educated for free, it seems. In that split moment within a moment at the International House of Pancakes in Virginia, I thought it possible that nothing and everything are free, or Free. If it is so that the impoverished and the free experience bondage, acceptance of one’s lot may stand as the only key to loosen the shackles that bind us. Even for Free. And it’s free, even for the oppressed.


WINDOWSIDE RAMBLINGS 1


Who do you build with? Secluded learning is exponential because you’re by yourself. But building with someone else is a much richer experience.

In the past two months, I’ve met a lot of new people from various walks of life; some older, others still young. And it’s interesting because, more than ever, the realization (knowledge) of my own ignorance, magnified by the clarity of nuances in the sum total of another individual’s life story, fills me with such a deep yearning to see as much of the world as I can and read about what I can’t. Live long, save ten years to remember. Like Ma Pampo did.

David Hume and Adam Smith used to be close friends. One went on to be “regarded as the most important philosopher ever to write in English.” The other fathered modern economics. The level of information exchanged between them must have been incredible.

This one guy, we hang. He taught me how to make fufu from scratch. Not the powder fufu that comes in the blue box, but using the yam and plantain. And that much I know neither Hume nor Smith could perform even if their lives depended on it at gunpoint.

As an on-and-off loner (moody motherfucker), I now, at least, understand the logic behind groupthink. Why exhaust yourself mentally and risk dementia when you can pool your knowledge? Because all the reading in the world can’t teach you texture.

 

"Nigga, I gave him your bag." :cheers2:

 

kinda ot but i noticed your location said maryland, and you talked about dc water. live anywhere near montgomery county? cause thats where i live.