Farewell...

This week, the New York Times published an article reporting the death of Edgardo Vega Yunque. He was a writer whom I was just becoming familiar with and I suspect many others were as well. Mr. Vega Yunque achieved a level of notoriety in the literary field with the publication of his novel, “No Matter How Much You Promise to Cook or Pay the Rent You Blew It Cauze Bill Bailey Ain’t Never Coming Home Again”(He was notorious for long titles). He was also respected for his active role in the Latino community. Yunque was Puerto Rican by birth but came to the U.S. at an early age and not long after a stint in the armed forces, he began his writing career. I’ll let the Times article or Wikipedia fill you in on the rest of his bio. As a Puerto Rican myself, I am sad and ashamed that before his passing, Edgardo Vega Yunque was the only Puerto Rican author I could name. What this says about my people and myself is a concern to me. When I asked family and friends if they had heard of Yunque’s passing, I consistently received the same depressing answer: “Who?” When a writer like this can go unknown and unappreciated by the majority of his own people, it’s a sad day indeed.

The fact that Mr. Yunque died in a Brooklyn hospital on August 25^th but wasn’t reported until September 8^th is also sad. On top of that, the article didn’t even make the actual print edition. Despite being such a bold and creative individual, Mr. Yunque got short changed often during his final years. Unfortunately, the notoriety he achieved did not help in paying the bills, forcing him to give up his home and rent a room out of a private house. Even his final book, “Rebecca Horowitz: A Puerto Rican Sex Freak,” was dropped by it’s publisher due to disputes Yunque had with their editing. The book was to be released over the summer, but now who knows when we will be privy to the memoir of Rebecca Horowitz and Yunque’s satirical jabs at identity and interracial relationships?

I’ve only read one of Edgardo Vega Yunque’s books, a number that I aim to change. The book was titled “The Lamentable Journey of Omaha Bigelow into The Impenetrable Loisada Jungle”(I warned you about the long titles). I read the book as an attempt to become familiar with more Latino writers, Puerto Ricans in particular. The title jumped out at me and I decided to try it out. I never expected to be slapped in the face with almost every conceivable Puerto Rican stereotype in existence. I never expected it to be so funny either. Not stopping at Puerto Ricans, Yunque roasts everyone in the book. Caucasians and African Americans get it too. One of my favorite things about the book was Vega Yunque’s satirical take on ‘magical realism’ and the perception that all Latino writers use this technique. Even the fourth wall wasn’t safe in this book as Yunque smashed through it repeatedly, writing about phone calls that he was receiving from angry characters disputing their own shallowness. Vega Yunque was talented enough to make you laugh and sensible enough to know that nothing should be sacred. There’s a saying that goes somewhat like this: The fool looks at life and sees tragedy but the wise man only sees comedy. Edgardo Vega Yunque has left behind an engaging body of work that I will delve into while I await the publication of his final work. Someday, I hope to write a novel as genuine as his and I suppose that it wouldn’t hurt if it had a very long, descriptive title.

Blog Action Day 2008

Ironically, this year's topic is a troubling one. Growing up, poverty was not foreign to my family or my community, so I am familiar with it's burdens, worries and it's only gift( the ability to 'do without'). Despite having first hand experience in dealing with poverty, I do not possess the distance or full grasp of economics and politics to accurately compose a 'useful' article. In other words, when October 15th rolls around, do not expect to see a treatise on poverty in this space. However, you may find an article taking a slightly different tack, where my first hand experience might be better suited. Stay tuned.

Nas-Untitled

In the world of hip-hop, few MCs are automatically associated with excellence the way Nas is. This association, combined with abundant delays and controversy, has created enough expectation for Nas’ ninth studio album, Untitled, that fans and detractors are likely chomping at the bit as they wait for it’s release. Originally titled N***er, the album has faced much opposition and axing the original title probably wasn’t the only concession Nas had to make. “So untitled it is/I never changed nothing” is what Nas asserts on the album’s energized, radio friendly single produced by Polow da Don, “Hero”. On that very track though, Nas is censored (dirty or clean), when he mentions universal CEO Doug Morris’ name. It appears that in his attempt to craft a thought provoking concept album, Nas has also tested the boundaries of free speech and censorship.

Much of the censorship Nas faced originated from media pressure on Universal label heads and Nas addresses one of everyone’s favorite media outlets on the track, “Sly Fox”. Laced with a fiery guitar and even a solo near the end, the production fits perfectly with Nas’ venomous lyrical barbs: “What’s a Fox characteristic? / Slick s**t/ sensing misinformation, pimp the station/ over stimulation/ reception deception, Comcast digital Satan/ The Fox has a bushy tail/ and Bush tells lies and Fox trots so I don’t know what’s real”. The track is definitely a standout from producer Stic.man of Dead Prez fame (he produces three tracks on the album overall, in addition to his contributions on the pre-album mix tape entitled, The Ni**er Tape). Keeping with the theme of new collaborators, Nas has enlisted the new comer Jay Electronica, who contributes the track, “Queens Get The Money”, a spare piano tune which serves as a perfect intro to the album, setting the mood and giving Nas’ lyrics the room they need to breathe. Appropriately titled, “Breathe” is an airy track, in which Nas says: “In America you’ll never be free…can’t a ni**a just breathe?” “America” frames Nas’ words with a very “new age” sound where he continues to question the status quo: “The hypocrisy is all I can see/ white cop acquitted for murder, black cop cop a plea/ that type of s**t make me stop and think, we in chronic need of a second look at the law books and the whole race dichotomy.”

Nas doesn’t take himself too seriously though. With tracks like “We Make The World Go Round” featuring Chris Brown and The Game and “Project Roach”, the album is able to question and challenge without overburdening the listener. The latter track begins with The Last Poets stating how “silly” it is to have a funeral for the N-word and features Nas rapping from the point of view of a roach, similar to past creative efforts “I Gave You Power” and “Rewind”, where he rhymed as a gun and told a story backwards, respectively. Busta Rhymes makes an appearance on “Fried Chicken”, as the duo playfully discuss fried chicken’s place in African American culture. “You Can’t Stop Us Now” features production from longtime Nas collaborator Salaam Remi, with a sample that can also be found on The RZA’s latest single. In one of the album’s awkward moments, Nas strains to address the possibility of extraterrestrials on “We’re Not Alone.”

Stretches of the imagination and verbal acrobatics aside, Nas did assert time and time again that Untitled would explore the N-word’s old and new meanings and it’s effect on not only African Americans but people in general. Other than the expected boasting and hood reminiscing, Nas stays on topic. On the track “Y’all My Ni**as” Nas says, “It’s some heavy concepts we gotta explore/ We gotta strip the word down rugged and raw”, “They got Nigeria and Niger/ two different countries/ somehow Niger turned to Ni**er.” The track begins with a discussion about using words without understanding their “capacity.” The energy found in the clashing chorus as Nas defiantly proclaims his engraved place in history, is infectious. Another goal that Nas had in making this album was to transform the negativity of the N-word, turning it into something positive. On this front, one would have to question his success. Without a doubt, he bombards the listener with the word and even creates a positive acronym for himself on the track “N.I.G.G.E.R.(The Slave and The Master)”. Admittedly, one can’t help but feel sympathetic to Nas’ cause when he offers himself as a father to fatherless children in the womb on the album’s opening track, “Queens Get The Money.” On “Hero” he talks about people needing someone to believe in and at the same time elects himself to bear that burden. Shooting so high is certainly admirable but in the end, the promised verbal transformation can’t come from Nas’ words alone, no matter how much he wants to be the hero.

“Louis Farrakhan” speaks of revolution, while Nas ponders the possibility of being assassinated for his words. “Testify” feels like an interlude in which Nas questions the fortitude of his “supporters” and whether or not their favor only extends to his music and not his calls for action. The final track, “Black President”, produced by Green Lantern, finds Nas addressing the “pros” and “cons” of Barack Obama being elected president and his own personal feelings towards the candidate. In terms of production, this track, along with “America” and a few others, drain some of the overall power that’s generated early on. The finest moments however, are “Queens Get The Money”, “Hero”, “Sly Fox”, “N.I.G.G.E.R.(The Slave and The Master)” and “Y’all My “Ni**as.” Nas has always been known for his swagger but with the ambition and strength found on this album, he justifies it. On “Hero”, he shouts: No matter what the CD called/ I’m unbeatable y’all!” Fortunately for Nas, one might have to agree.

The Return...

I am happy to say that my self imposed exile is over. From now on, updates will be regular and and much more varied in subject matter. Many things happened while I was away. Obama won the nomination, Junot Diaz was awarded the Pulitzer and Nas is just about to drop his next album. Those are just a few of the things that captured my attention. I will have much to say on Nas though, so stay tuned.

Force Fed

Sometimes, one can't help but feel that there exists some secret "canon" of contemporary, acceptable subject matter in our media, and literature. This feeling fueled the following poem.

Ubiquity

Scan a sentence,
in a paper, or magazine.
I bet you’ll find the word,
ubiquitous.
You could argue that,
for the moment,
it’s become Auto logical,
like ‘pencil sharpener’ in Spanish.


Sacapunta,
to make a point.

Ubiquitous, has become
ubiquitous.
Elite emissaries of grammar
must convene at undisclosed locations
to select the pre-eminent words
in American vocabulary every year.
the media gets the list and through
their use, the words trickle down,
like literary viral marketing.
Hence, ubiquitous.
Emissaries of poetry
must meet mysteriously as well,
in torch lit rooms,
cloaked figures with exaggerated
shadows, electing topics
like Whitman, Cancer, the Holocaust
and personal tragedy
as the most worthy, of our attention.

Short Story Found in Park!

This is the first story that will be posted here. It was written in the park yesterday and is being included because of it's length. It's short enough to post to the blog without being excessive and has some nice things in there. Well, enjoy this first one but remember it's not the last.

A Good Story

I picked my head up from the story to notice the man doing the Sudoku puzzle had got up and gone. He sat next to me with the puzzle for almost as long as it took me to read the story in the magazine. I felt cheated that I didn’t see if he solved it or not. The story was good. Better than I thought it would be. That always happened. Getting surprised by a story. It always started out like getting up for work in the morning. I had to force myself, dragging, but once I got going it was alright. I liked the surprise and I hated it too. I liked it because it was pleasantly unexpected, like getting a gift when it wasn’t your birthday or Christmas. It felt like that was the way stories should be. Something you didn’t expect but once you got, were thankful for and maybe a little fuller for having them. I hated it because it might have meant I had a poor sense of literary judgment. Like, what kind of writer couldn’t tell from the first paragraph if a story was inspired, profound and worthwhile?

I looked at my watch and realized I’d spent much longer reading that story than I had wanted. It was still early in the afternoon but if you didn’t watch out the day could slip out from under you. The sun was still bright under the shade of the trees. The shade was all over my bench like a thin blanket. The sun was poking through the leaves like the shade was a raggedy old blanket, holes and all. It was the light that made me look up from the story, the spots of light on the ground, from the sun knifing through the leaves. The story started slow but picked up later. It was about a man that was dying but didn’t want to live like he was dying, just live like he was alive. He didn’t tell his family or friends that he was dying and I think he didn’t even tell his wife. Towards the end, he walked in to his house to find his wife asleep in a chair and he stood and watched her dreaming and then felt badly for spying on her. He started thinking about his life and then realized that it wasn’t what he thought it was. He realized his life and his marriage weren’t filled with any truths or sharing, just expectations and routines. I stopped reading to think about her. I didn’t look up from the page but just looked through it. You know, to that place you can find by looking straight through anything, that holds your memories and thoughts and daydreams? That’s where I was looking and wondering about the dying man and his wife and how they didn’t have any truth or sharing. The sunlight coming through the raggedy blanket of tree shade was warm. Would she and I have truth or sharing? Did we have any now? I looked up at the trees and realized that they were planted apart just far enough that their branches met in almost perfect apexes. They were like the swords that touched high in royal weddings that the bride and groom would walk under. The sun was a little glow ball at the top of the apex, making me squint.

I noticed more and more people coming and going. Lunch breakers and stroll takers, all passing by, some men and some women. The women were young and pretty. Pretty enough to smile at or admire. Would they ever have truth or sharing? Could they give me either? Something told me that the way they strutted meant no. I smiled and looked anyway. Sometimes they would smile too, so I didn’t feel bad for looking at them. I realized that I hadn’t eaten since earlier this morning and I was ready for some food, a drink too. I thought it was funny that I hadn’t noticed that before. I’ll get something to eat with her, something to drink too. I’m meeting her soon anyway. I smiled to myself because I thought, if I hadn’t noticed how hungry or thirsty I was, or how good of a story it was going to be, than the dying man and his no truth, no sharing life must have been entertaining enough. The sun was shifting behind the buildings, taking the holes of light from the tree shade with it. It was cooler now and the late afternoon noises were creeping into the park. It was almost that time, and I didn’t want to make her wait. I got up and put the magazine with the dying, truth less man in my bag, and left.

Coincidence Pursued

I ran across a coincidence yesterday. Not too long ago, I began reading Friedrich Nietzsche and began to find many of his philosophies attractive. Currently, I am reading two books by two authors who conducted a seminar I attended. While reading passages from both books on the same day, I happened across references to Nietzsche.
I thought that was somewhat odd, and like all coincidences, I paid attention to it.
That led me to write this poem. Enjoy.

Over Goings

Thus began his down going,
Still going, extending
Forward, till today,
Speaking,
In a loud scriptural boom,
Of the ubermensch.

Abandon super-earthly hopes, he said.
I am only rope,
Something between ape
And ubermensch.
What have I done to surpass man?
How can I surpass my being?
Does it rhyme with “peachy”?
Or is it “meetchya”?
Like, “nice to meetchya”?
I never got it straight.

If I am the rope,
When will I know
I’ve been surpassed?
Maybe you never notice
It passing, like the awaited
transformation
After losing your virginity.
It comes and goes,
Sudden and silent,
Leaving you no note
Or souvenir of its passing.

Did he surpass man?
Can anyone really?
What was his over going?
In the end,
He died,
Like god,
But crazier.
Perhaps the ubermensch
Is attained through death,
Reaching immortality.
Isn’t that a super-earthly hope?