It's well-documented in the last 21 years that... I'm conceited. I think highly of myself, and I reflect such in my music. What isn't made clear is how much I care. Reason being is the very conceit I... acknowledge. Whether I inherited this conceit through being a Cam'ron-loving Harlem resident, or my knowledge of Music Theory itself, it's been what makes people hesitant to show me love.
This concept has me feeling like a Poodle of sorts. A sight for sore eyes, but no place uptown. In fact, here we are. My Pekingese theory. Mom and I adopted an abused Pekingese from the corner store. We named him Chauncey. He became my best friend. Hands down. Me and mom spoiled him. But yeah. He had no business being in MY neighborhood, without an owner to cherish what he has. Do your homework on Pekingese dogs. They're royalty. Chinese royalty.
Foreign royalty is seldom appreciated in the hood.
Watch "Coming To America".
I am now of the mind to ask, is the hard time I got from both males and females, THROUGHOUT MY TENURE ON PLANET EARTH, a form of sexual harassment? If it is, what am I gonna do about it? Has the double standard finally reversed? Can a man appreciate what he brings to the table without being typecasted? Can a woman stomach herself after subjecting a man to what SHE went through? I haven't been taking the best care of myself, but I know that Black don't crack (albeit crack being White).
God humbles me about my good looks. I'd go outside on a sunny, South Central day, looking bummy because I'm just going across the street to the store, and I'd see a DIME walking the opposite direction. Now, I doubt my game, and like I said, I'm looking bummy. My sex appeal is that of Hank Hill ("King of the Hill"). I can "do something about it or own it" (Eminem, "Road Rage"), and that's what I'm doing. I'm down to 2 cigs a day, I'm working out (gut won't go anywhere; water weight from the meds), still making music, still doing this (blogging)... but the validation comes from ...well, both me AND you.
I know I'm doing better than ever. I FEEL better than ever. But that will only be conveyed if YOU (all) can see such. It sucks and it's an unfortunate truth, but it is what it is. The more I make you rant and rave, the more you... rant and rave. Critical reviews influence, but it is YOU who is influenced. I know, "direct-to-consumer". Explain that to Andrew Howe, who flew me out to meet his family and friends who know me through the music I gave for free. Explain that to Chris and Bev Rivera, who MET AND CONCEIVED A CHILD through my music.
My Ministry is Music.
Not all the way God, not all the Devil.
I allow ANY AND EVERYONE to get down with me.
I (musically) create altars and sacrifice my self on them, for YOU to live again.
Or WANT to live again.
My beauty has suffered through Magic, I admit. I have a HORRIBLE case of eczema, my teeth are on some other shit, obviously my malignant gut, I snore viciously, ...like I can't imagine a new woman in my life. At least my living conditions are good. My apartment doesn't smell, my clothes are lined up and in order... I'm not living wack. I'm just living for me. WHILE I live for a community of music lovers who wouldn't be around each other if it weren't for music, MY music, and MYSELF as a being.
Believing I'm Sonic is a joy. Survivor's guilt it may be, but I don't feel worthy of being Sonic. I feel like an insane, cold and calculating genius who's projects are misunderstood and FULLY involve Sonic and his whole universe. No one wants the conversations I want to have, yet they parade it all over mass media. I'm tired of talking about it. I spent so much time and energy trying to make the blurred lines sharp, BEFORE THEY GOT BLURRY. All I want to do is travel the astral plane while I create a utopia for Indigo Children with my words. I do this, I want to do this, and I've already done it ("Abandoned Nature Walks"). I just find joy in creating.
The Big Bang Theory.
Bang is an onomatopoeia.
onomatopoeia is a sound.
Sonic is sound.
To be the creator means to be faster than your own mind.
No one wants this job.
even ugly lil you.
~#~
