Experiment: drunk on 151 mobile blogging.
I don’t even know what’s going on sometimes. You feel that way? Dog, life is peculiar. My life has been completely opposite versions of awesome lately. One of my best friends asked me if I was happy this week and the question sprained my brainstem. I couldn’t begin to answer her. I’ve been simultaneously beautifully ecstatically perfect and painfully perplexed and confused within hours of eachother this week. There isn’t a question in the world that is as casually asked yet as difficulty answered as “how do you feel?”
Yo, how do you feel, dog?
If you can truth me on that question then you are bawsed out.
The average person will hear that question two or three thousand times in their life, and answer it truthfully maybe a dozen times.
Sometimes I need to live vicariously through an artist. I love listening to Yeezus when life confuses me because he sounds just as confused as I am. If I had a jewelled Margela mask I would consider wearing it. There’s a dissonance. I used to think my confidence in self was shaking but i recently realized that was the only thing that was unshaken. It was a parallax effect: when everything else moves at the same time it looks like the only thing moving is you, when you’re the only thing standing firm. I watch Kanye speak and feel insane in his clarity.
Rap music maintains a cultish devotion to the beat. While time signatures ebb and flow and flourish and swing throughout music, rap refuses to provide you a beat that heavy boots cannot be stomped to. Rap is a heartbeat monitor on life support. Pure downbeat is death, pure upbeat is a seizure. Anything in between is motherfucking hip hop.
If you haven’t been elated, heartbroken, and terrified this week then I don’t know you. I can’t fuck with half steppers anymore. The middle of the road is for yellow paint and fucking roadkill.
Put your elbows up. Stand beside me, dog. Last time I got punched in the face I was in the club and In Da Club was playing and a trickle of blood ran way back down my throat. I remember the taste of iron and blood and enlightenment and now. It was. I don’t remember why. But it was.
Let’s swap tapes. I wanna put you on Yeezus and Gucci Mane and that one E40 song so you can spit the kind of blood I do. Soil. I wanna scale mountains to the footfall of trap drums with you carrying canteens full of molly water in Gucci bucket hats. I need more mud on the soles of my Jordan 4s.
The beat maintains doe. The 4/4 mantra Nirvana chant. The ohm of the boom and the bap. It maintains. It sustains.
I wanna spit Tesla electrics through the midnight. I want arcing crackles of perfection casting through the sky every time my hands clap together. The sky deserves to split before me. To the beat.
To the beat.
To the beat.