When I was younger I had more time, less worries and the notion to take time for me. I would turn my ringer off, take a nice hot bath, rub olive oil and aloe over my skin slowly, enjoying the imperfections that made me unique, light my candles and incense then lay wrapped in my Afrikan cloth in my shrine room and turn on my six disk cd changer. Whether it was Desire, Zhane, Dead Prez, Prince, Badu, Take six, Goodie Mob or Outkast (just to name a very few) the music always whispered exactly how I was feeling and what I needed to hear. It became a rite for me. I was often inspired to write or draw as images danced across my mind and my body became aware of itself. Occasionally I would selfishly share my music with others in crowded clubs, trendy lofts, spoken word sets, in the park on Sundays, on the Riverfront or puff, puff, passing it from friend to friend always keeping the deeper meanings to myself. Even prompts “Wow, you are really feeling it; What are you smiling for; What’s on YOUR mind, etc. etc. etc.” Could not, can not, get me to reveal my secret rites that my music initiated me through. Even if I wanted to share how would I explain that it’s: the beat, the words, the tears, the memories, the look in someone else’s eyes, the laughs, the sway of my hips, the taste of the wine, the gentle breeze, the rain playing percussion in the background, the circumstances in which I heard it, the shadow-ballet on the wall, the moans, the way I lost it and found it again, the home made meal, the girls night out, the scent in the air, the “when I grow up” pacts I made, or any combination of it.
Even right now as Syleste-Omar ~Naïve plays in my ear I can not in words express what this means to me. If I took you step by step there would still be more… I would have to give you almost my whole life story to explain *SIGH*
So if I am listening to my music -whether you know it or not- and I seem a bit aloof, enthralled or distance just know it’s nothing personal about you…
It’s all about me and my music.
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