I’ve never really told this story before. I’ve told versions of the truth, but never the actual truth.
‘Twas the night before our Creative Writing thesis papers were due, and all through the house, Doran and I were gathering up all the drugs and booze we could muster, and attempting to do the impossible – finish our respective masterpieces by the time we had to present them to a room full of professors, parents, and the public. Our doors were across the hall from each other, and we could easily pass bottles back and forth, and yell at each other over the music to make sure we were awake. We weren’t very liked in our apartment complex because our music was always loud, we were always trying to yell over it – because why would we ever turn it down? – and the smell of pot permeated through the doors and ceiling.
I don’t actually think that the substances made me a better writer. In fact, I don’t want you to think that the substances made me a better writer. Actually, with the exception of my thesis paper – which needed to be finished so I could graduate – substances made me a lot lazier, and a lot more dumb than I ever wanted to be. I want you to know that my abilities as a writer – however you might feel about them – are their because I was always reading and writing, and always trying to better myself, and always going as far as I could with every piece to make sure that the reader would feel every word, every metaphor, and every punctuation. I suffer from severe anxiety issues, and a lot of my problems come down to the fact that I want to hide, and at that time the pills and booze and whatever else, made that easier. The writing was not a side effect of that, nor an aide to the process; it was simply what I was doing at the time.
It wasn’t needed.
Period.
There was never an attempt to hide the fact that we enjoyed our fair share of pot and booze. It was all over the apartment. Had any police officer ever gone beyond the blue door, we never would have made it outside without a neat pair of handcuffs – and there were plenty of opportunities for parties to be broken up. Luckily, Doran’s window led to a path behind the apartments, and most people could hop-stumble-fall out quickly, and my girlfriend at the time – who definitely did not approve of the drugs, but loved me dearly – could cry on command, and was really good at keeping the cops in the parking lot, and not in the apartment.
As the morning rolled around, pieces had been finished, sleep had not been had, and it was time to dress up for presentations. Rooms were packed. We presented, and did it well. No revisions or edits had been made, but somehow within our haze, they weren’t needed, and our professor felt the same.
And then there was the night where it all ended; where I felt my left side go numb, after too many pills and too much alcohol. I had gained almost 100 pounds over the course of a year, and it wasn’t from jogging. On top of my pain-killer addiction (between 10 and 20 pills a day at times), the pot, the booze, and the ephedrine-based diet pills, my body could no longer handle itself. With my left side numb, my mouth drooping just a bit, and my friend, the girl who I was sleeping with, but was not my girlfriend, was from out-of-town and didn’t know her way to the hospital, so I drove the 20 miles, was rushed into a room, hooked up to beeping machines, plugged with IVs, and waited for my mother to arrive just in time for the doctor to say something about pills. In all honesty, I don’t remember much more about what happened after that. I went home very late that evening, or the next morning, and began to think about starting to clean up my world. Well, at least I thought about thinking about starting to consider cleaning up my world.
It took me almost another year to finally get my shit together. It took me almost losing my teaching job, and my girlfriend at the time, to truly help me figure out that things were not good. I stopped taking pills, with the rare exception of needing them when they were honestly prescribed for surgeries, completely stopped smoking anything, and drank in moderation. I lost 85 pounds in a bit less than a year, and really got my life on track.
It makes me sad when I see my students heading down the same path. I’d prefer they take the one, unfortunately, less traveled – that of sobriety and knowledge. I talk to my students about my past troubles, and I know that I’ve helped a few of them overcome their own battles. Hell, even if I’ve only helped one or two, I’m good with that. We can’t save them all, and most need to learn it on their own.
I am as bad as the worst, but thank God I am as good as the best.
-Walt Whitman
I can’t sing.
I can only dance in a room full of bad dancers and alcohol.
I am horribly incompetent when it comes to the pratical application of mathematics beyond arithmetic.
I am disgustingly unorganized.
I can’t draw a straight line. Or cut one.
I can’t talk to someone on the phone without talking myself out of anxiety by mentally rehearsing the conversation several times. And then I can never stick to the script.
I can’t think of a better way to transition than to borrow from Goodwill Hunting-
There are so many things we can’t do, whether due to laws or restrictions, abilities, or physics that we often forget there are so many ways we can just play. We all have so many gifts that we often take for granted.
When it comes to words, I can just play. I love to play. I need to play. I have never struggled acquiring vocabulary, understanding grammar, or learning forms. The ideas may not always come, but once they do not only are the floodgates opened, but the world makes sense.
I can make people smile. Whether they are truly cheered or simply laughing at how stupid I am is irrelevant.
Today I want you to acknowledge your shortcomings, not hide behind them or fear them, and, more importantly, I want you to celebrate your gifts. How do you play?
In bed, he has a body pillow to the right and I am his body pillow to the left. I move sometimes, an inch from the edge, where he finds me and consumes me completely. It’s like treading water. I sacrifice my back for his. I wake him when I have to stretch the stressed vertebrae. I roll to fetal on my left and he follows me with his warmth that like a furnace, catches my feet reaching for the cool of the topside bed sheets. He goes fetal to his right and I follow but only touch him slightly so that we both know we still exist. Yet there are times that I will consume him completely, when I am most needy, most vulnerable. It always gets too hot for me to stay. I move, he follows… the cycle begins again. In bed, I act as a life preserver; the one thing to keep him afloat in the world of dreams, the world where his loved ones still exists. I reach to breathe while he searches for their breath. A very short, short.
I wish love could triumph over every barracade faced I wish that humans had wings, so lovers could fly away together I wish my pointless words could change this convoluted world
A South Carolina couple is planning on having a dolphin-assisted birth?
I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean for that first sentence to be a question. I just find it really hard to type those words together without putting a question mark on it. Let’s try that again.
A young couple from South Carolina is planning on flying to Hawaii to give birth to their baby in the water with dolphins. For some reason they believe this will create a more harmonious and natural environment for both mother and child, I guess hearkening back to the days when man and dolphin lived together as equals and Kevin Costner sailed around Waterworld.
See? That opener sounded sarcastic.
I’ve seen a lot written about this story today, and no one can seem to do it in a serious tone.
Personally, I can’t understand why.
I’ve long been an advocate of involving more marine mammals in medical procedures of all kinds. Can you imagine a sea otter handing you a clamp during a routine appendectomy? This surgery just got adorable. You could have elephant seals all over the recovery room, bellowing for no reason and terrifying everyone. And it doesn’t have to be confined to reality! How about your favorite medical dramas? Grey’s Anatomy re-shot with actual grey whales? Where do I sign up?*
That one was just silly. But I had to get it out of my system.
You see, I am an animal lover. I have a dog that is spoiled beyond all usefulness. I love that dog, and I trust him completely. That being said, if my wife were going into labor, I would probably escort him from the room. Because he’s a dog, and I am a rational human being.
Dogs have evolved alongside humans for thousands of years. I won’t pretend to be a scientist, but I do know that the process of domestication produces physiological changes in animals that makes them more amenable to the presence of humans. A dog is not the same as a wolf that lives indoors. National Geographic recently did a great article about domestication, I’ll point you to them for specifics, but my point is that dolphins are WILD ANIMALS. They have not evolved alongside humans, at all. Ever. I don’t want to burst any bubbles here, but mermaids are not real. No matter what Animal Planet tells you.**
People like to talk about how smart dolphins are, as though that makes them more trustworthy. I submit that the opposite is true. Sure, they’re smart. You know who else was smart? Hannibal Fucking Lecter, that’s who.
Look, I don’t want to come off like I’m just attacking dolphins here. There’s plenty of stuff I could’ve brought up that I didn’t.*** I just want to drive home the point of how irrational a decision this is on the part of the young couple. They’re entering into this with an extremely idealistic fantasy of dolphins as mystical creatures with a benevolent view of humanity. This is a child’s view, and it supposes cognitive ability on the part of the animal for which there is no evidence.
I read somewhere that language was integral to rational thought. Without the ability to quantify abstract thought with language, logic is impossible. I’m no more a philosopher than I am a scientist so I might be using those words incorrectly, but what I mean is that without language, a mind lacks the ability to think things through. A dolphin can’t decide to be a part of your New Age birth ceremony, not in the way you want it to. But it can, and will, respond to stimuli.
As I wrap this up I’m wondering what these two expect to get out of this. Do they think that if their child is exposed to the undersea world in the first seconds of its life it will gain some sort of Aquamanian rapport with marine life? That it will grow up to be some sort of superhero hippy, fighting crime and doing hot yoga with all its dolphin friends?
If so, I’m listening…
*To learn more about satire, visit your local library
**Remember when Animal Planet was just Crocodile Hunter and MeerCat Manor and you could believe the shit they told you?
***Dolphins sometimes sexually assault people. Seriously. Look it up. They have to knock on doors when they move to a new neighborhood.
I saw a tweet from a 16(ish) year old girl who I did not know, a 16(ish) year old girl who could not even spell acquaintances correctly in her “bio”, a 16(ish) year old girl who was depressingly cynical for her age and I almost allowed myself to get into a “debate” with her about the nature of her missive. I am glad I did not.
Her original tweet claimed that teachers do not do their jobs for love of subject, learning, or students, but simply for a paycheck and summers off.
I did, to my shame, attempt to engage her in discussion but after she confused egocentric with egotistical, made the claim that teachers where she lives average $60k per year, and claim no one does a job for any reason other than a paycheck I decided I would be better to metaphorically save my breath. And my sanity. And a shred of faith in humanity.
When I was done with the Twitter machine I switched over to The Facebook where I saw not one but multiple teachers post a status including the number of school days left in the academic year and some variant of the term WOO-HOO!
This is why we can’t have nice things.
At that moment I was the peaceful Muslim looking at the Taliban, I was the racial minority in low income housing looking at the gangbanger on my block, I was the Pro-Choice Ob/Gyn looking at Kermit Gosnell, I was a gun owner looking at James Holmes or Adam Lanza or Shawn Scott or John Allen Muhammad or…
I digress.
No, a teacher who looks forward to summer break is not a murderer. Not by any means. Not by any rational or reasonable comparison.
However, within every collection or “type” of person there is a stereotype and there are those who perpetuate the stereotype. And there are those who will judge the collective based on the stereotype.
At this point in the school year it is not even necessarily lazy to be counting down the few days left. Yes, you have earned a break- but keep in mind most Americans work twelve months out of the year (and get twelve month salaries, not nine) and may get the wrong impression of a bunch of people woo-hoo’ing their three month vacation. So, no, a teacher counting down to summer is certainly not a terrorist, gangster, murderer. They are not even necessarily lazy, but they certainly help to promote the negative stereotype.
And there are always those of us who hate the stereotype almost as much as the perpetuators.
Wordsworth is a veteran of the underground hip hop scene. He hails from Brooklyn, New York, and is a graduate of State University of New York College at Old Westbury. He made a name for himself with the Lyricist Lounge Show, a hip hop sketch comedy show on MTV that featured mainstream rappers of the time. He was most known for his freestyle skills, which he featured at the end of every episode.
*********************
TPQ: What are your earliest memories as a reader? Were there books that you remember being read as a child?
Wordsworth: I don’t remember many books from my youth but when I got older I was really into the Donald Goines collection.
TPQ: Was there a favorite reading moment? Maybe a light bulb moment where you realized that you were reading a text that would define your life?
Wordsworth: Yeah when I was in college I had a text-book in Creative writing and it told me some keys to become a better artist and writer. I was sitting in my dorm suite to get some silence and it was possibly the only book I took interest to in college.
TPQ: Do you remember your first lyrics? How old were you when you started writing?
Wordsworth: Yeah, they were, “I’m the principal, my rhymes are sounding all sensible, my rhymes are edible, incredible, invincible.” You can tell i was just trying to use big words. I believe I was in 5th grade then.
TPQ: When did you begin to develop the style upon which you’d build your career?
Wordsworth: I didn’t really know until I gradually grew older, because at certain stages just bragging was cool. When I got older I knew issues involving life experience whether good or bad was more important. I would say high school transitioning to college years were most important.
TPQ: Who were the lyricists that most influenced you when you were starting out? What was it about their work that made them an influence?
Wordsworth: I was influenced by Big Daddy Kane, Krs-One, Masta Ace, Kool G Rap, L.L., Ice Cube, Busta Rhymes, Run-DMC, and A Tribe called Quest. Those are just a few that showed me and instilled in me diversity, because I felt represented by each in different moods and modes of my life.
TPQ: How has the culture of hip-hop changed over the now 20+ years you’ve been in the game? Is it a good change, or a bad change?
Wordsworth: It’s a good change because you don’t need to get a label meeting necessarily. You can build your own buzz and work from home and let the labels chase you. You can put music out tomorrow and not wait for it to be signed off on.
TPQ: Pigeon John told me that, to paraphrase, he feels as if 2chainz is the new Bob Dylan – the new voice of the people. How would you respond to that?
Wordsworth: I don’t know about that, but he is a voice that represents mutual thoughts of people. We all are in some way, the weirdest ideas you may have people or someone will agree with you.
TPQ: Would you consider rap lyrics to be the new Poetry? Why or why not?
Wordsworth: I wouldn’t consider it new poetry, just an extension of poetry. Because some poets can rap their poems on beat.
TPQ: As the media visibility of rappers continues to grow, how do you feel that has changed the approach to writing?
Wordsworth: Well, it allows you think about the video while writing the song because you know you have the accessibility to film. You can use your phone, camera, or whatever device you have.
TPQ: Do rappers need to write more mainstream lyrics because they are in the spotlight, or are they still able to write conscious hip-hop, and gain notice?
Wordsworth: No you don’t have too. You can write what you feel, it may be a longer grind but it pays off with longevity for your career.
TPQ: How do you see the hip-hop culture evolving over the next decade?
Wordsworth: More of an independent market, basically work from home and you run everything digitally.
TPQ: You’re known for your incredible ability as a freestyle artist. Can you explain the process of freestyling? How do you come up with your patterns, and thoughts? Do you find it easier than writing your raps?
Wordsworth: I just look at like a conversation, i already know the end of the sentence while I’m speaking so I just start thinking of words that rhyme while I talk. It’s easier than writing because its less pressure to have as powerful content.
TPQ: I’ve been listening to you since the days of Lyricist Lounge. What’s your favorite memory of that series?
Wordsworth: When doing the Snoop Dogg skit, and he was in awe at how good the writing was. Those were my favorite moments because when the artist complimented the rhymes you knew it wasn’t cheesy.
TPQ: Since we are The Poetry Question, I have to ask: What is Poetry?
Wordsworth: Poetry is your perspective of how you see things. It doesn’t have to rhyme, it doesn’t have a certain rhythm, it doesn’t have to be considered poetry by everyone. Poetry is an emotion evoked from anything. The way someone walks, talks, or dance can be poetry.
TPQ: And finally, if you could sit down for a drink with one emcee, artist, author, dead or alive, who would it be, why, and what would you drink?
Wordsworth: It would be Curtis Mayfield to talk about the soul in his music. We’d drink champagne to toast to great music.
Here’s the Snoop Dogg skit from Lyricist Lounge:
Here’s the closing Freestyle from Lyricist Lounge with Snoop:
When my grandfather came home from his quadruple heart bi-pass at age 80, he told us of his dismay when the doctor said he couldn’t have sex for 6-weeks. So, when my parents and I cleaned up their apartment, after both my grandpa and grandma had passed away, what we found in the final locked box, didn’t come as too much of a surprise. My parents both tried to figure out the combination. They tried everything they could think of to pry open that white box, but no screw driver, or chisel, or hammer would do the trick, and since my grandma had been an antique dealer, they didn’t want to simply drop it. So I took a chance on a simple combination that even someone with major memory loss could figure out: 0 0 0. And it opened.
The vibrator inside was a bit more old-fashioned than most. That large personal massage unit that, knowing the two of them, was probably not used for easing the pain of back muscles. After all, these were my grandparents, the most loving, hysterical, passion-filled, New York Jews that anyone could ever know. We all stared at the vibrator in the box, knowing that it was something we could never un-see, and then we looked at each other and laughed. We laughed so hard that we cried. While the sadness of their passing left us without the king and queen of our family, we knew the memories of the incredible years we shared would far outlast the hurt of them no longer being there.
Married for over 60 years, they were the example for everyone as to how lives should be led. My grandmother, an artist, an antique dealer, the woman who threatened our lives if we called before 9am, and left me messages in her thick New York accent to remind me that “I’m not dead yet,” had taught me so much about simple passions, Jeopardy answers, and how to stop picking my nose. My grandfather, an accountant, a loving husband and father and grandfather, the man who taught me how to breathe when my mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer, how to open up to other people, reminded me that I should always speak my mind, and when he got closer to his own passing, told me he loved me, but that I was not allowed to visit him again because he didn’t want those final moments to be my lasting memory.
A photo of my grandparents sits atop the desk upon which I do a great deal of my writing, and they smile at me, reminding me to keep going, and to leave the best legacy that I can, much as they did. My grandma gave me my drive for the arts – writing, and music, and an appreciation for the beauty inside rocks. My grandfather gave me the reminder that while I carried an appreciation for those things, I needed to be organized, meticulous, work with clarity, but to never forget the love I have for the work I do.
And so, when we found that personal massager, it was just one more reminder to “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion” (Thoreau).
Be honest with yourself, because if you’re not satiated by your own existence, you’re doing it wrong.
