American Dreamin'

One of my favorite things about being a human being is having the ability to dream, have dreams; and wake up with a solid realization of what I’d just perceived in my slumberous state. I would be the last to call myself one who is able to accurately interpret dreams. I have trouble even deciphering what it is that I see in my personal panoramic productions.  Some say  that symbols hold an enormous amount of weight; while others simply believe that dreams are there to give us a realistic evaluation of how it is we are doing in this life, and give us realistic goals for ourselves. Even if those dreams involve peacefully toppling your country’s present government, or on the opposite end of the spectrum one could be inspired to ask out that cute girl/guy that may be the mother or father of their unborn children. [Ha Ha -some might say a peaceful coup de tat and making love to conceive a child are one in the same ].

 

More divergent figures propose that the setting of the sun and rising of the moon is a time for our souls and spirits to revisit our true home and converse with our ascended ancestors and our friends that we have forgotten from another realm or vibratory level. What do I think about dreams? Well I don’t think anything…because I am sleeping silly. But when I wake up, I usually try to contemplate some of the
ramifications of what my faculties have allowed me to perceive. Sometimes I even journal what it is or was that I recalled verbatim, and if I can capture it well enough I’ll enlist the assistance of my artistic instincts. It may take up to two years for a dream that I have written in my  journal about comes fully to light.  But that is the beauty of it. To me it’s as if the Divine paints a picture of itself  for us, and we can see it before we make the long trip through the cosmos to our place on this earth, and dreams are the play back. So whether you are a single mother waiting tables in the concrete mosaic that is NYC, or hauling steel beams from Witchata to L.A. you actually might be expressing your dharma on a perpetual basis.

But dreaming isn’t just something that we do at night, or during cat naps after a long day, really it is something that we do collectively Dr. King had a dream, and he brought that dream into fruition; even if the price shortened the cord of life that he gave so freely to a world he just wanted to see in better condition than he found it. It’s this facet of dreaming that those in my generation have comprehended so well. To offer a prime examples those among the hip-hop generation. Namely figures like Kanye West, Sean Carter, and the Roots to me these men are the embodiment of the American dream. Carter for example was born into what most would call an impossible situation: William L. Marcey Housing Projects. It’s the music makers that provide the backdrop for a generation, and these guys provide for me in my waking hours what the Divine shrouds me in at night. I pride myself on being very eclectic when it comes to my musical tastes, but what sets these individuals apart from Billy Corgan, Micheal Stipe, Billy Joe, or even Bono is what they represent, and the vibes that their work exudes. To me they broadcast to the universe what minions of downtrodden in the ghettos of this planet’s ‘most privileged’ land cannot. That message is too confounded to condense to one word so I won’t attempt.






The outset of this message is dreaming, so when you close your eyes what do you see? I had intended to discuss the dreams of a dear friend of mine. And how the trails of a tough economy and circumstance have force him to forgo or postpone some of his dreams. I wanted to talk about how much more he could do to bring these jewels to fruition, but now I am not sure where I stand when it comes to my friend and the status of his dreams. Once upon a time we dream't of how we wanted to conquer the known world one thing at a time. Truth be told we drank a lot and chased women in and out of bars and clubs too. But my man has come a long way since our days back in school. I guess what I wanted to get at was the nudge…scientist say it takes anywhere from thousands to millions of years for diamonds to form deep in the earth’s [ha ha ha it‘s as if the jewelry industry charges 78 cents for every year that the stone spent in the earth‘s crust]. No matter the amount of time spent to form; the common denominator is pressure.

What do you think of dreams?

Three Kings

Last week via the social networking interface facebook, I commented on a family friend’s post eluding to her pilgrimage to the Reclaiming the Dream March in Washington D.C. My comment was aimed at the man leading the march Reverend Al Sharpton. I believe my comment pinned the nationally renowned activist a ‘three ring circus act’ in response to this I was urged to ‘do my research.’ so in response to that suggestions herein are my findings and reactions to them:

    The Reverend Alfred Sharpton was born and raised in Brooklyn New York. Born and raised in the Baptist Church. All the data I have compiled tells me that he has been ‘preaching’ since before he was ten years of age. He was in fact ordained at about the age of nine. He champions such causes as same sex marriages, and the continued advancement of African Americans in those niches of society where we/they are sometimes not accepted.  He’s lended his name to the family of Amadou Diallo, an African immigrant who was brutally beaten to death by officers of the NYPD. He has also offered his name, and help to a number of other families who have lost a loved one; or been effected by the social injustice that exists in this country as a result of inequality.

    But as we know there is not yin without yang; and this brings me to what nudged me to insert that status comment in the first place. It’s not that I don’t like the Reverend Al Sharpton, it’s what he stands for that bothers me. Let me explain in the 1 Kings 3:1-15 Solomon who is regarded as one of the wisest men to who  ever lived asks God for wisdom. He asks the sovereign Lord at Gibeon, after burning a sacrifice at the high place; the divine comes to Solomon in a dream, he is called into dialogue with the divine, and told to make a request. Soloman begins by offering homage to his predecessor and father David, and thanks the Lord for his providence in his bloodline, and only requests that he be blessed with the same discernment his father possessed. The scriptures don’t echo his age but he has been left to rule over an entire empire yet he refers to himself as a child.

    In return the divine offers him a discerning heart in addition to both riches and honor, which he did not ask for; and a long life provided he walk in the ways of his father David. Verse fifteen literally begins: then he awoke and he realized it was all a dream. Now I am no scholar by any means but I anyone could deduce what kind of ’riches’ the divine was referring to when they were granted to Solomon at Gibeon. But I offer this we inherited the book of proverbs from this very man, and in his time he had nothing to gain from the perforation of his works.

    When I think of contemporary righteous men I think of Dr. Martin Luther King, who ironically is the same man Al Sharpton was drawing attention to when he organized this whole “Reclaiming the Dream March.” Which is the turning point of my entire criticism of Rev. Sharpton. There is no doubt in my mind that Dr. King has read or pondered upon these very lines in 1 Kings 3:1-15; in fact I am positive he was influenced by Solomon’s exchange with the divine while writing his letter in that dingy Birmingham jail cell where he quipped” ……and who will remain true to it for as long as the cord of life shall lengthen.”  In that very paragraph Dr. King was criticizing his brothers and sisters in the church as a minister of the gospel. One who loves the church as a spiritual entity, who has been nourished by it from an early age, and a beneficiary of it’s spiritual blessings.  Even in his last public speaking engagement he (Dr. King) said “longevity has it’s place” and that it was the wish of everybody to live a long life. I guess this is the point when he knew his time had come; and that he was living on borrowed time. It’s easy to admire a man like Dr. King in hindsight, even some of his contemporaries held some malice for him because of some of the stances he took during his time. A lot of people don’t know that the first attempt on his life was at the hands of a black woman. How God must look upon us and smile and wonder at his creations, waiting for us to look in the mirror and realize our own divinity.  I guess what I am trying to get at is a man after God’s own heart has nothing to prove; he or she doesn’t need a cause, or banner to walk under. King didn’t create Jim Crow laws they were there long before he existed, he didn’t kill those three girls at 16th street Baptist, but he was there. To carry a mantle that men like Dr. King and biblical figures like Solomon, and David takes a heavy heart with no room for petty ambition.

Third Eye Blind

 

I think St. Paul in one of his letters to the Corinthians likened gossip as some form of spiritual assassination, in that case I am in a den of fire with a pack of robber barons. The location of this ‘den’ will remain to be seen; as I watch those close to me frolic on pins and needles with those who breathe such noxious fumes I shudder to see what the future has in store for him on all levels of human mortality (physical, spiritual, and mental). If only the common man/woman on the street knew the ramifications of their actions, and that we  that we live in a universe where every action has a

reaction. Now you may retort; then Bikim why do ’good’ people die of cancer? To that I can only respond, death is not the end. It is this type of binary thinking that has stunted the growth of the modern church for the past century.       


If St. Paul got his illuminated scepter from Christ then what was he saying about kats that assassinated the souls of the innocent? On a mountainside just off the river Jordan Christ talks to among his disciples, and a small crowd. In what is most notably the beatitudes (Matt 7:1-6) he tells the group to stop looking for a speck in his brother’s eye and ignoring the plank in his own; interesting language for a carpenter? Perhaps he’s trying to say you shouldn’t throw stones ‘if you live in a glass house?’ I am sure if he had the vernacular he would have used it. Later in his musings on the artistry of hypocrisy he likens hypocrites to hogs; saying “do not throw pearls to pigs. If you do they mat trample them under their feet. And tear them to pieces.” I am sure Jesus had nothing against pigs (although he was a practicing Jew, he didn’t eat them); there’s a Proverb(Proverb 4:23) that says guard your heart, it the source of life. Among many I believe this is one of the ranking instructions from the creator to all of humanity before departing the heavens to experience this existence.  


What can we say of Pearls? The world is your oyster? Only the pursuit for those of  us who reside in the United States. I am not saying ignore the ignorant, but  I am advising that you treat them like a sloppy drunk driver on a slippery winter road. If you have any to spear perhaps you could drop a few ‘pearls’ of wisdom, but if you ever skimmed proverbs we know how fools react to good medicine.

Lovin' On Jesus

A few weeks ago while taking a break @ my present place of employment I had a chance encounter with a young man who attends school at Geneva College. Our encounter began like most clumsy awkward ones that involve two strangers. He seemed like a nice enough of a guy, apparently he was landscaping to make ends meet during the summer months, and came to the theatre to see A-Team with a group of friends.  In the moment of that brief encounter he projected his entire starry eyed hopes for a future in ministry that might include some time in Africa. I responded to his hopes and dreams with a smile, and told him about a grassroots Christian community I am affiliated with in Philadelphia called Broad Street Ministries.  Before we parted and he rejoined his friends in the auditorium to enjoy the A-Team he asked me if I was “lovin on Jesus.” I was mortified, and could not believe that he had ‘put me on blast.’ I am by no stretch of the imagination a ‘closet Christian’ I was born into a Baptist family ; I am the son of a deacon. There is no shortage of JESUS JUICE in my life, however I just choose to sip not chug.  I suppose  this is one of the drawbacks to living in a place like Beaver Falls ; but I consoled in a friend via a Facebook dialogue, about the above event. And she told me it may have been a simple issue of maturity. I figured she may have been right, and not to focus too much on the issue.















One of the main reasons this frightened me  is perhaps because I saw a bit of myself in that young man in the lobby. There was a time in my life when I aligned myself with a student organization that helps matriculate ‘church kids’ into the college community in a safe paced  manner; via Thursday worship services, fall retreats, and bible studies. After all a frog was once a tadpole, hence we must all grow. I suppose I shriek at the idea that I may have once in my life made someone feel the way that kid did me. Between my time at Camp Ladore  and  Broad Street Ministries I think I have fulfilled that commission laid before me by the creator, and honestly I still am a bit clueless as to my purpose on this planet. I try not to let that cloud my mind. I think there was a part of my cosmic dharma that had to be fulfilled at these two places, aand there is nothing else for me to do in this arena of life. Am I going to stop caring about the homeless?  No. But I do believe that it is time for me to stop being so overtly altruistic. Those I worked shoulder to shoulder with at BSM and Ladore are some of the most heartfelt wonderful human being I have ever had the pleasure of knowing in my 30 years on this planet (are the rest assholes? No I love you all too). But there is a time when a man has to learn to chew gum and walk at the same time. So break out the Dentyne bitches---> I am trying to get fresh, its why I burnt the soapbox, and used the ashes to make war paint so I can take on this new phase in the beautiful story that has become my life.

Where’s he been?

Well out side of being an ambassador for Hollywood, I have been catching up on a great life that I left behind here in the Best Western PA. Great friends, great people; and a bunch of other as yet to be explained things. I would first like to say Pittsburgh maybe one of the most beautiful regions of the country if not the world. They don’t have anything that is exotic, so there is no reason to deal with rabid tourist. The biggest try from what I can see is their sports teams. And I LOVE the zeal of the PITTSBURGH FANS for a host of reasons. The food is awesome, and it’s a sandwich town, and this is coming from a guy that hails from a town internationally known for a sandwich.

But on a more serious note I plan to take this blog in an entirely new direction. I am burning the soapbox! I am going to hug you AMERICA (you can get in there too rest of the world). I am talking interpersonal type stuff. Not who I am dating or anything like that but I have been being inspired by my friends in the facebook universe. One guy in particular (I’ll protect his anonymity) he always post little proverbs throughout the day. He’s a musician so I suppose his spirit is very porous in that sense, and they usually have a striking impression on me. I don’t plan on cataloging these mini proverbs, but I’ll let them touch me so I can touch you (get over here WORLD).

The HOOD Needs aLOT of help

The faith system that I subscribe to suffers from the maladies of what surmounts to be bad PR, and brittle leadership at the very least; in columns where the world is to believe that we are a pillar of hope to the world. I follow a faith system where glee and joyful banter drown out the suffering of those who are sleepwalking in the slums of skid row and ghettos across the nation. This is the only time in history that anyone can pride themselves on coming from the ghetto, but during WWII ghettos were a place where people went to be killed. It still serves the same purpose in my time; but it is a shame that the inhabitants of these ghettos don’t see the star that marks them for death. In fact it would be an insult to the creator I know to call the sense of pride some of my brethren call living in any ‘hood’ here in Philadelphia or anywhere else. To be a star by definition is a beacon of the creator’s providence, love, commitment, and eternal love for his children. like the halo that is donned by my fellow Americans that inhabit the ‘ghettos’ of America’s metropolises to the plight of the sodomites in the Old Testament. Those people were offered a better alternative to the life that they were living, and the instead choose to carry on their mindless lifestyle. I am not condemning homosexuality, as this story is repeatily misconstrued to condemn the actions of out brothers and sisters in the gay community. The sodomites were condemned for abusing their earthly vessels, because they insisted on raping the angels (visitors) that came to town, and rejected the offer of Lot’s daughters. Lot was just making his guests feel welcome by protecting them from an impending rape from the local towns people. I know it sounds messed up and sexist but children were extremely pious towards their parents, and of Lot told his daughters to go out and offer themselves to the mob they probably would have done it without any protest.

To return to my point in the above paragraph; I believe whole heartedly in a faith system that shelters leaders that pound a nail in the flesh of the crucified  Christ on a perpetual basis. I have seen churches that are housed and established literally; garrisoned in the heart of west Philadelphia, which unfortunately means that there are dozens of drinking establishments and delis in a dozen directions (no an exaggeration). I guess the question I am trying to pose if any is that what is the role of the contemporary black church in reparing thier delapidated communities?

Faceprint

We are soliders






Chorus


We are soldiers in the army


We got to fight, although we have to cry


We got to hold up the blood stain banner


We got to hold it up until we die






Repeat






Verse


My mother was a soldier


She had her hand on the gospel plow,


But one day she got old


She couldn't fight anymore


She said 'I've got to stand here and fight anyhow!'






Chorus





Mediatation:



When his disciples asked Jesus taught them the Lord’s prayer. When I pray or mediatate I focus on certain things, perhaps and ideal that I’d like to understand on a deeper level, andI let it float in my mind’s eye for a moment or two. I usually do better when I am in a moment desperation, for example in my perpetual search for a steady job I kneel before the Almighty in the search for answers. When I was in the military we had a mantra, or as soliders call them ‘battlecries.’ A battle cry can be anything to get a unit through a particular set of training like a 3 mile road march with a 5 bound rucksack, or something as simple as morning PT. I said that to say that the result of the training is a specific skill set, or at least the solider has come out a bit stronger than when he or she entered a specific training engagment. And we all know the old adage "there are no athieist in foxholes;" wiether it’s true or not I am not sure. I don’t think God would hold anything against you if you showed up in heaven after being killed in a foxhole.

If I could ask Jesus I’d ask him how can I put my prayers and deepest desires to practical use to best serve the world? And well multi task while perpetually upgrading myself. I’d Tell Jesus I know the story and I just want help. I’d tell him that I know scholars have none of the answers I am looking for, and while angels are pretty they can’t help me either. I can imagine me and Jesus sitting on my favorite METRO bus or train in Washington over a cup of tea trying to find a feasible solution to my latest query. I look to him out the corner of my eye waiting for an answer. But deep down I already know it, and he smiles at me because I know that the answer lies within me. Unable to bottle my anger and frustration any longer I’d ask him “What the Fuck man? “ Publically crying, I assume the fetal position in his lap. As drool and tears fall from my face and stain his jeans, he strokes my face in a kind of silent assurance. My whining and weezing slowly lulls me to sleep; and as I enter a dream state I dream of being in a room with my father who has been dead for ten years now. We are in a room that is familiar to the both of us. It is the room he shared with my mother in his waking hours; in the house that we lived in when I was a child. Sitting at t the foot end of the bed he squints at me from the other end of the bed. He looks diffrent, from the last time I saw him in the ICU at Jefferson. He seemed to have a glow about him, not an angelic or celestial one, but as if he had gotten really good sleep the night before. I remember thinking that this astral visit thing isn’t as hard I throught it would be; albiet I am laying in the lap of the Lord of Lord,King of Kings, Prince of Peace. He was yampering on about something while I am tuning himout trying to figure out how the hell I am talking to a man that has been dead for nearly ten years. When I finally tuned back in he’s talking about how proud of me he is about getting into college and graduating. Then he asked me why I didn’t cry much at his party, I am like ‘dude what party?’ Then he flashes an authoritative expression, and I get a glance in my mind’s eye. He talking about his funeral. I remind him of the time when I was a kid and my pet dog Bam-Bam died, and he told me that “real men don’t cry.” So I told him “ I was just trying to be a man” I told him “that shit was kinda sudden,” he smiled slapped me on the shoulder and told me to keep pushing.”

As I pulled my eyelids open, and wipped at the dried tears and mucus from my mug, Jesus is telling me that our stop is coming up, and that I should get my bag. As I looked out the window I could see the sunlight bounce off the marble monuments, and the faces of the tourists bumbling from one end of the mall to the other.

As we stroll toward the Lincoln Memorial I am telling Jesus about all the historic things that have happened here; including the time a guy by the name of Dr. Martin Luther King gave a famous speech in this very space. As I ramble on Jesus stops me to explain the importance of dreams. I guess he wants to revisit what I was crying about on the bus earlier. I continue my excited rant about Dr. King and how I think he’s a modern prophet, and how his speeches remind me of Jeremiah in the Hebrew Bible. He’s walking on the grass, and I am balancing on the edge of the Reflecting Pool. Since we are both tired from the walk, we chill by the side of the pool. As I stare at the ducks and the old people feeding them Jesus asks me to revisit the root of the problem I brought up on the bus earlier. I am trying to explain myself but it’s not coming out right. So I went on rambling it sounded something like this. “Look man I am an American, and I have a bug called success. Spawned by a virus called ambition.” I glare at him and ask him is there anything wrong with wanting money. “So one time me and my cousin went to a strip joint, and I couldn’t give into the illusion that all these beautiful women were taking all their clothes off for me. I just couldn’t.......” He motions me to breath. “What about you Bikim, what do you want?” Here I am in the heart of this beautiful nation and I have no clue what it is that I want. He asked me he fucking asked me and I couldn’t produce an answer. My head is spinning, this guy carried a 2 ton cross up a hill in Palestine and I can’t pull one goal out my ass. So I took a deep breathe and said “ I just wanna help these crazy ass niggas!” He smiled at me, all day and I finally got a smile that wasn’t corny. He patted me on the back and said “lets walk.”



(To be continued....Maybe)



Repose:



At the end of the day it’s kinda like life is like the red headed girl that Charlie Brown was always trying to wrap to but he could never quite work up the courage to do it. He would just look at her, and stand in awe of her beauty til he fell on his back trying to split the upright, but always ending up on his back. Then as he lie there in awe of the blue skies and clouds it commands, he’d surely utter “good grief.” I guess when I am trying to say is I am always looking at the beauty in life so hard that I sometimes get cought up in the picture, the movement of it’s smaller parts. Sometimes those smaller parts are people, sometimes those parts are the things people do. And the red headed-girl is she’d have to be unmistakably metaphor for all that I want for myself. I guess the football is the point of it all, I know the point really I guess I mean the vehicle by which will travel, or rather make it happen.