Dear A380

June 28th, 2020 by harold

You are about to be a memory.

I’ve never flown with you. But I’ve seen you “majestically” take off. Your big ass staying on the tarmac for so long, it’s impossible not to think “is this immense plane even going to.. HEYO IT’S TAKING WAY LONGER THAN OTHER PLANES IS THERE A PROBL” And then you do. It’s exhilarating to watch. You’re one with the air. 575 tons of engineering doing the same as birds. Going up, and down.

Like so many people you were doing fine until the market, that very elusive thing, shifted and made you sweat on every move. Now just like us, the virus is there for you.

Your mom, Europe, doesn’t look so good either.

It’s all a little bleak but the good news is; you’re still in the air, putting in work. We have the plans, we can always go back to production.

See you around, Thickness.

Harsh

June 26th, 2020 by harold

So, rampant abuse in the entertainment industries came out all week long. I feel like last Friday was a year ago.

That’s on top of the usual layers of brutality against Black people and this fucking covid-19.

I am doing everything I can. The environment, all of it from living situation to global economy goes from a lil toxic to extremely putrid.

Regroup. Dance. Rest. Stand.

Juneteenth n shit

June 23rd, 2020 by harold

The now almost national holiday was a short movie for me this year.

Basketball, long 3s swishing, me happy, car window broken, bike gone, me mad, no lunch because anger, Leimert with homeboy, avoiding my beautiful black people, emotions, Rest in Power all of y’all, music blasting, drone flying, visiting the park, snatching my bike off this white dude’s hands (talkin’ about he bought it bitch like I fucking care?), putting it my friend’s car, cruising through South Central, African food in Inglewood, helping a Mexican woman to move her dead minivan to the right lane on Manchester, pushing it from the back.

It was a day.

Next was Father’s day, always kind of a sizzling joy&pain moment, cheering my friends who are dads while I would make a great one, I think. I had Fatburger and made myself a latte while chilling like a villain. Fuck having kids was also in the air.

Today’s my birthday. Nothing happening besides June gloom, and a bunch of horrible things in the game industry.

I’m questioning a whole lot of things right now. One is what we did with entertainment in the past thirty years. From wanting to become ultra rich, a cop or a psychopath, maybe we did too good of a job in normalizing the non-essential, you know?

So I helped of course

June 19th, 2020 by harold

First of all a wasp nest is some dry dirt against a wall. What is there for me to help with? Girl just knock it down with a broom.

I show up, amused. She asks: “Do you know how to knock down a wasp nest?” Notice how it went from “can you help me” to “when are you going to do what you’re supposed to do, you’re a Man etc?”. The classic I’m-a-woman-I’m-weak switcheroo. Fine.

I look at the single lane tunnel against the wall. It’s a baby nest. It’s not even a nest yet. Its being built for sure.

So I go grab what I need and show up at the front door to do the job and she’s like “can I help?” in her t-shirt, lying like a mofo. I laugh her out with my hoodie on and my broom in the other hand. “I’m fine” I say, smiling.

I’m about to knock it down and of course the single wasp arrives to build the rest. I wait for it to be inside the single lane tunnel before smacking the whole thing with the broom. I successfully achieve this.

But I know it’s not over with the wasp. It never is. I jump down the stairs to get rid of the corpse but this bitch is just lightheaded. As I try to get rid of it on the front yard, the flying beast starts flying again and comes at me.

No, not today beloved creature of the earth. Not these days. I whack it so hard I send it to the Precambrian. I whooped that insect’s ass on the lawn. I might even have muttered “fuck 12”. I didn’t even look back. I knew it was over.

I protected where I live, I didn’t claim no patriarchy, I helped a black woman for free. The bar is low. I’m the best.

Ingleplane

June 9th, 2020 by harold

Gotcha. Looking up from the curb upfront the house.

15 days

June 8th, 2020 by harold

My dad asked me what had happened in the past fifteen days. Like, that was his question. When he knows we’re in a pandemic. Knows that there were protests against police brutality against black folks all around the damn planet.

I’m just listening. Trying to see if there will be some kind of care toward me or something. Nope.

After I answer “you know murders, protests” he jumps on to explain to me that he “knows” police brutality because once… I mean you know it’s not comparable at all. A blonde, blue-eyed boomer cannot understand (without some research) what we, I am going through. He doesn’t have dead names and dead faces floating in his soul, leaving scars for decades. He doesn’t even know what looking for a job is.

I’m listening and trying to see how or where my parents made any progress toward race relationships comprehension and so forth. They will never do that. I’m realizing this. That would kind of ruin their achievements, wouldn’t it? There’s no acknowledgement of that singular black pain whatsoever. Even with footage of crowded streets and headlines in French. Even with a black son.

So I’m sitting here in California with my white parents in France ignoring the part where I am a black man, talking to me about how the police “can be” bad. They’re not getting it. They’re soft. They don’t want nor have to face anything. Privilege.

So I’m watching them on my computer acting up about shit they don’t comprehend, while they hose me with vast amounts of disrespect and traditional love (“this shirt looks good on you”).

Once they were done with their weak diatribe, I thought “how do I know those people?”. And it’s just really painful to go through the memories. I don’t.

It’s excruciatingly hard right now. Everything but pain looks like an illusion. To better days.

The importance of Michael

June 8th, 2020 by harold

We’re getting lynched in the streets of the world.

Black men are an expendable thing out there like tissues during the flu season. So when one shows up and is adulated by virtually everyone on earth? Yeah, it’s something you can never forget.

We never talk about it maybe because it’s obvious but Michael Jordan is who he is also because he’s a goddamn handsome man I mean fuck:

There’s just a perfection in there. The Perfect Black Man. The Perfect Black Man Joy. The perfect You Can’t Do Anything Against Me. None.

We all forgot how revolutionary it was when Michael shaved his young head. How much “IDGAF” it was and how inspiring this was.

But I think the biggest achievement was him being black black.

All the biggest stars before him were not. Wesley Snipes hadn’t made it yet. Grace Jones was blackity black but it hit different. Nile Rodgers was hiding. Michael made me want to be darker. That being darker is the Final Form, and the first one.

When you know how much hate darker skin people get to this day (look at women in Black American music, all shapes but very rare dark skin), you understand why him being dark AND completely above everyone in his field, was dramatic and beautiful.

His dark ass scoring 63 points against the Hall of Fame white Celtics looking like Decepticons? Absolutely disgusting and enjoyable.

Michael Jordan made me want to do better, to be free, to not fear. Things that as a  black man are not only extremely intense, but necessary. Because the systems in place are more often than not, not helping. The systems in place are still killing us in different variations, at high rates.

Representation for black men is so bad these days. We lost so many. Michael still stands there, timelessly iconic, with the reputation of being addicted to winning.

I don’t really mind that. We’re still getting lynched in the streets.

How I met MJ

June 6th, 2020 by harold

My foster brother had those three shirts, back in the mid 80s. He would be posting up at the end of the driveway, smoking Marlboro red with the neighbor’s daughter from across the street. Trying to look slick and smelling like he had just jumped in a cologne bottle. He loved wearing those at that time.

I forgot to mention, he’s a 6’6 tanned white man with green eyes.

He played basketball. With his size, he used to lift me on his feet while laying down on the dining room carpet. I sure thought I was flying.

Anyway as a kid, my favorite was the Magic one. I had seen a few no-look passes on the news and he looked like he was the best basketball player ever. I didn’t think much of MJ. I didn’t think anything about Larry Bird. He looked like the past.

It took a few more years for the Michael-mania to start take over the world.

The fact that my foster brother is the same size as MJ was never lost on me. Because I didn’t have any black folks in my life, I kind of decided to make MJ my other older brother. The one that’s really good at basketball. The brother I wish I had.

This is me these days. I’m still hoopin’ like I play against someone I can’t stop. On a good day though, I can look like a 1984 Chicago draft.

Holding on

June 2nd, 2020 by harold

It’s dead quiet besides my mellow funk in the background. I’m watching this sunset, breeze flowing in my face through the tiny squares of the screen. A couple explosions. A siren. Summer in just a few weeks. Wow.

I saw about David McAtee.

Some friends are breaking down, going through a lot. I don’t know how I’m holding on. I keep at my routines like a cop macing a protester. I drink a lot of water before jumping on social media. I tell myself that no news is still good news, it’s the truth. I send mental messages to the people I think about. Pretty sure they’re receiving them, it is science after all.

I’d like to say I love you to all of my beautiful black people out there.

I love you.

Dear Black People

May 30th, 2020 by harold

They profit from us and then they kill us.

Get the fuck off social media. Use it for the lolz and move on.

Get yourself a self-hosted blog, website, photo gallery, streaming site etc.

Take care of your content, your Intellectual Property, your Brand.

They profit from us and then they kill us.

Get the fuck off those services. Minimize the shit out of them in your life.

A self-hosted solution is $15/month. Learn, build and keep going.

You need to plant the seed now.

You need help? Hit me up.

Take care of y’all’s chicken.