Almost Every Black person starts off their drive-thru order with…

lemme tell you how this got me DYIN over here … lololol

fckyeahjaz:

influencedbythereefer:

Lemme get uhhhhhhh.

im polite though.

so i be like.

hey.how u doing. *no pause for answer*. lemme get uhhhh. 

lol.

(via boimosx)

moth’s powder [11.11.09]

11.11.09

a: hey, you near a computer?
2:17 PM

dtim: yeah. now i am. why?
2:58 PM

a: im about to email you…you told me to write him to get it out my system 
3:01 PM
a: so i wrote and can’t send to him, so im gonna send to you 
3:02 PM

dtim: ok
3:04 PM
dtim: uh…how long is it? lol
3:04 PM

a: too long to send with text messages…lol
3:05 PM
a: sent…check it out
3:11 PM

11.11.09

dear moth’s powder,

i had another one of those dreams again last night.  but, as with each time, i was able to feel just a bit more last night which, it turns out, made me even more upset with you.  it’s like something i read recently…i can’t locate but i’m sure it’s in one of these books i’ve had to read.  it said something like each new word in a sentence revises it, gives a new meaning.  so i keep having this recurring dream but last night, it was revised again with another scene.  and you were in it, so of course, providence would have me write you again.  i swore to you last time i wrote that it would be the last time but the declaration of a last time is always a ruse unless the last time is really the last time and i thought it was the last time but indeed it was not the last time just the first time me saying it would be the last time in a long time.  well.

it was that same dream i’d have as a kid about me being some sort of black Superman - no doubt because of the sheets my mother had for the twin bed, the sheets that were a shade too thin because they were a bit too old and faded, and had been hand-me-downs from some such other boy who would have slept on them.  well.  at least she washed them with care, though she loved Tide we could only afford the store brand and so that is what she used.  but she cared about making me feel good and would tell me time and again, “when i get a new job, i’ll get me some Tide.” of course you know, she died before she ever got a new job.  but that’s not what this dream was about.

oh yes.  the sheets, i think when i was a kid, pretty much had me sleeping on images of a white Superman - i guess, the realSuperman - with all of his musculature twisting and the word ZZAP! written on them.  three different images of this Superman: one with him in a white cloud in some would-be attack pose, as if in hiding, waiting the right time to surprise the enemy, no doubt Lex Luthor; another with his body twisted, mid-action as if he were about to be hit with something, right arm over his head, left arm as if he were trying to push some somethingaway; and the third with him flying directly out of the sheets, looking at me, smiling a bit, almost erotically.  i’m sure the latter was my own libidinous bullshit or whatever.  the point is that i slept on these sheets all of the time (i won’t get into the Pound Puppies sheets i had; i did not and do not ever have dreams about puppies, no matter how cute and cuddly they might be).

and so from an early age, sleeping on these sheets, i would have faux race-conscious dreams where i, the black Superman and real hero would fight the evil one on my sheets.  we’d twist and wrestle with and against each other.  things, of course, are a bit fuzzy and my recall of these dreams is not that great.  not because i didn’t have the same one last night but because they’ve always had some noise speckled in during the fight scene.  but anyway.

somehow, i’d end up: at, at a, at a white, at a white house, at a white house with, at a white house with a, at a white house with a picket, at a white house with a picket fence.

stutter. slurred speech. or whatever. anyway. you get the idea. 

each time i have the dream, i arrive to one of these new concepts, each one accruing on the other until, finally, i realized that i was fighting white Superman over some living space.  but last night, the newest scene, and of course, you.  it was much more prolonged, maybe because of longing. i was fighting him…for you.  well.  imagine my surprise when i finally opened the door to the house - with my keys - and walk in, and the kids - our kids - ran up to my knees and screamed “Daddy! Daddy’s home!” as if i’d been away far too long, and you came out of the bedroom with your glasses on, eyes a bit fatigued because you were reading in the office, or typing or some other such thing, and the faintest hint of a smile dashed across your face because - even in the dream - you realized that it was me who you were waiting for…and not Superman.  what does it mean to go from the first dream - knowing i was at, that is, i was somewhere but didn’t know where that where was - to this latest episode where not only did i know where that somewhere was - with you - but that i knew who all the hoopla was about - over you?  no.  i still don’t know where this where was - chicago?  san francisco?  new orleans?  who knows?  who cares?  - but i know that whereonly means something withyou. (maybe i need to commit a bit more to sleeping and dreams. maybe.)

we left the kids - our kids, what a thought; left them in their beds with their superman sheets, the same ones my mother cared for because i still have them in the basement of my house waiting for some kids to use them - and we went into the bedroom.  and no need to tell you what happened there but i never knew you had a birthmark on your inner thigh until last night.  and please, don’t tell me you don’t.  let me live in that dream for a while.  and if you do.  well.  serendipity?  (this is, to be forward, one of my favorite “new” words.) a message of - or would it be from - provenance?  well.  i guess i don’t need to tell you how we had a good time in that bedroom either.  but what i do need to tell you is this: i did not want it to end.  i wanted to stay there because somehow, in the faint smile you gave me that was real, i knew that it was a dream. 

wait!

i forgot to tell you that i carried you - i am not strong, and you were not heavy, but still, a feat to be noted - i carried you around the bedroom, over the threshold into the bed and scooped you up again and then put you back down.  i wanted to carry you out of the dream and i awoke while you were still in my arms there.

i have been reading all sorts of Jimmy Baldwin lately (and what is the relationship between Jimmy and James; of course, they both begin with the letter J but there must be something more, two it; from one syllable to two; is Jimmy the melismatic version of James?  why am i asking you?  because you know, of course!).  and Baldwin has all these great things to say about being astonished when white people are astonished because he actually likes his mother.  two astonishments meet.  like us?  you were astonished that you could meet who you thought you wanted and knew you felt until you felt it and retreated because it felt too…sublime?  and i was astonished to meet someone i could carry over thresholds because i had always wanted to and you were large enough and small enough and great enough and humble enough and loving enough and selfish enough to let me do it?  well. 

we retreated in two directions, me into you and you away from me.  and Baldwin was simply astonished that someone could be astonished at what was quotidian to him, that someone could exist in conditions where liking one’s mother wasn’t even a possibility, let alone a desire.  and here we are.  at some sort of impasse, me promising never to write again - but maybe sing a song or play a tune - while writing again and again.

the dream was revised - right before i picked you up a final time and i awoke with you in my arms - when i went to the armoire, opened a drawer that you had not yet seen with all of the letters i’d written to you and never sent when we were beforedating.  i just wrote, hoping to one day collect the letters and put them in a book and give to you on an anniversary or some other occasion when you needed to be reminded how much you were thought of and appreciated even when you couldn’t conceive of this as an idea.  and you cried and i’d never seen such happy tears.  but the thing about the entire dream?  the entire episode from white and black Supermans to thresholds and drawers and carryings?  there was absolutely no sound.  nothing at all.  not even a hum or buzz in the background.  i - we? - felt things, intense things, great things, scary things, longing things, hard things, tight things, round things, rough things, intimate things, lovely things.  but there was no sound between us, or from the universe into which we were deposited and through which we acted.  that silence, of course, said somethingto us about us and for us.  but who is to know what exactly?

i don’t want to belabor the point as i’ve written far more than i ever imagined in the first place.  as my buddy N.- might say, don’t expect to hear more from me in the way of words ever again.  but maybe in dreams?

a.-

a: wait…did you get it?
4:49 PM

dtim: that was…that was…
4:55 PM

a: too long, i know! lolol
4:56 PM

dtim: no! you should send it to his mother!
4:59 PM
dtim: she at least needs to know how you felt…feel…
4:59 PM
dtim: it was just a lot
5:07 PM

a: i know, i know…too much…just too much
5:08PM
a: but
5:18 PM

dtim: i know, babes. ::hugs::
5:19 PM

a: thanks for reading my rambles
5:22 PM

dtim: love you
5:24 PM

—— 

from: a
to: mbffrsxoxo

Wednesday, November 11, 2009, 4:07 PM

Subject:

so remember how i told you that dtim told me that if i feel like crazy lonely or whatever, that i should just write a letter to moth’s powder telling him how i feel and what i feel like i need to say? well, i tried to do that and this is what i came up with or whatever … what do you think?

11.11.09

dear moth’s powder,

i had another one of those dreams again last night.  but, as with each time, i was able to feel just a bit more last night which, it turns out, made me even more upset with you.  it’s like something i read recently…i can’t locate but i’m sure it’s in one of these books i’ve had to read.  it said something like each new word in a sentence revises it, gives a new meaning.  so i keep having this recurring dream but last night, it was revised again with another scene.  and you were in it, so of course, providence would have me write you again.  i swore to you last time i wrote that it would be the last time but the declaration of a last time is always a ruse unless the last time is really the last time and i thought it was the last time but indeed it was not the last time just the first time me saying it would be the last time in a long time.  well.

it was that same dream i’d have as a kid about me being some sort of black Superman fighting with the “real” Superman, the white one - no doubt because of the sheets my mother had for the twin bed, the sheets that were a shade too thin because they were a bit too old and faded, and had been hand-me-downs from some such other boy who would have slept on them.  well.  at least she washed them with care, though she loved Tide we could only afford the store brand and so that is what she used.  but she cared about making me feel good and would tell me time and again, “when i get a new job, i’ll get me some Tide.” of course you know, she died before she ever got a new job.  but that’s not what this dream was about.

each time i have the dream, i arrive at a new concepts, each one revising the others. and finally, i realized that i was fighting white Superman over some living space. i was fighting him…for you.  well.  imagine my surprise when i finally opened the door to the house - with my keys - and walk in, and the kids - our kids - ran up to my knees and screamed “Daddy! Daddy’s home!” as if i’d been away far too long, and you came out of the bedroom with your glasses on, eyes a bit fatigued because you were reading in the office, or typing or some other such thing, and the faintest hint of a smile dashed across your face because - even in the dream - you realized that it was me who you were waiting for…and not Superman. 

what does it mean to go from the first dream - knowing i was at, that is, i was somewhere but didn’t know where that where was - to this latest episode where not only did i know where that somewhere was - with you - but that i knew who all the hoopla was about - over you?  no.  i still don’t know where this where was - chicago?  san francisco?  new orleans?  who knows?  who cares?  - but i know that whereonly means something withyou. (maybe i need to commit a bit more to sleeping and dreams. maybe.)

i don’t want to belabor the point as i’ve written far more than i ever imagined in the first place.  as my buddy N.- might say, don’t expect to hear more from me in the way of words ever again.  but maybe in dreams?

a.-

——

from: mbffrsxoxo
to: a

Wednesday, November 11, 2009, 4:39 PM

Subject: Re: (no subject)

aww! sookie sookie now! that was sweet! you should definitely write these things if they help you feel better. i feel like there’s a lot more you want to say. i gotta go but i’ll call you later. xoxo! 

Talking on the phone, walking around the house and you start doing random shit

this is sooooooo great … i love spongebob!

(Source: estoesunurloriginal, via notanotherintellect-deactivated)

[black sonic]

if resistance is prior to power and blackness is the history —accrual and alluvium, the sonic flash in danger— of the priority of force interior to objects, black sonics, black sounds are the vibrations of such ontic condition

Zong! (Philip) [or, rambling]

“There is no telling this story; it must be told…” 

“[I]f they were ‘thrown alive into the sea, it would be the loss of the underwiters.’”

“To not tell the story that must be told” (189)

the final phrase has always struck me by way of performance: and because I’ve been meditating on Piper a lot lately, it appears that this phrase, and the desire for such a not telling of that which must tell works with the “withdrawal into the external world”, the reconfiguration of movement and directionality, where, following Piper, subjecthood becomes objecthood

that is, to not tell begs consideration: what when negation is primary, or is prior, withholds by way of giving its priority; to not tell, for me, indexes a particular withdrawal that is insistently previous to this situation (pace Mackey);

that must be told is, then for me likewise, about method, about aesthetics, about a way to do such a thing, it is about movement down the line, dancing in the street, Carrie Robinson’s tambourine, rejoice and shout on Maxwell Street … 

so of course, Heidegger and the gift of concealment revealed by way of unconcealment, where what is laid bare, what is released, secreted and let to appear, let to show and show forth, is the perpetual holding back of thingliness, the continual concealment.

Philip tells a story that —with each non-word, with each syllable, with each resuscitation of the text from the legal case Gregson v. Gilbert— withdrawal is given. so then, we return to questions of subject and object and the tenuous relationship between the two concepts.

those enslaved on the Zong ship —the 150 thrown overboard as objects, as things, those objects subjected and subjugated to be things, because for the captain of the ship, they were more valuable by way of underwriting underwater inhabitations— open up the space to consider modes of collaboration and resistance that Piper elucidates:

how can we think of these persons, these subjects, these objects, as resisting absorption “as collaborator(s)” because if they were so thought, “that would mean having [their] own consciousness co-opted and modified by that of others”?

we don’t want to think of the enslaved as collaborating with the making of the slave world where they would be so conceived as having “no ontological resistance” to whiteness as Fanon might say, where they were nothing other than anti-social lives, the living-dead as Mbembe might say, or existing within and internalizing Social Death as Patterson might say.

the text that Philip discovers by way of reworking, remixing and submerging the legal case, telling the withdrawal, was a mode of “depriving” this world of collaboration through becoming object, by conflating objecthood with subjecthood. whereas Piper’s performance for her necessitated her “to isolate [her sensory perception] from all tactile, aural, and visual feedback” in order to present herself “as a silent, secret, passive object, seemingly ready to be absorbed” by the artworld through which she moved, she realized it was the desire of the artist, the desire of the object, the desire of the subject-as-object, its intentionality to be an object that was conflictual with total absorption into this world. she could not be totally absorbed because, by making herself object, she became “passively aggressive” in the space, asserting her intention by demanding a peculiar attention. 

and that’s cool. 

so the text that Philip discovers and uses in order to give the gift of concealment, i think, also plays at the edge of the becoming subjecthood of objecthood. 

more soon.

“The Subject and Power” (Michel Foucault)

“The exercise of power is a ‘conduct of conducts’ and a management of possibilities. Basically, power is less a confrontation between two adversaries or their mutual engagement than a question of ‘government…’ To govern, in this sense, is to structure the possible field of action of others” (341).

we might say, then, that power is that which manages, gives form, aestheticizes that which is prior to it, that which is the realm and zone of the possible [and i think this realm and zone Deleuze might refer to as the exhausted, as it comes prior, as it has ontic edge and cut]. we might follow Hardt and Negri by likewise saying, then, that “resistance is prior to power” but that resistance shows up, bodies forth, by way of its management, form, and aestheticization. or Marx might say something like the antagonism exists prior to its enactment and that we know this antagonism by the way [again, method, form, aesthetic] a particular subject position calls itself into being, the means by which it matters and materializes.