They tripped me...
I scraped both knees so many times in Elementary school that there are permanent scars on each.
Why did I have to be the fat girl?
Even when I was little, I would jiggle all over when I ran. Even then, those girls with the skinny legs and dangling arms flounced about in their halter-tops and mini-skirts.
My grandparents told me to take a few laps in the backyard.
...They thought I was fat, too.
I was in the system back then. I'd already forgotten what happened to us, by our mother's own hands...I cried for that woman. I was only alowed to see her every other weekend. And sometimes, she didn't show...
She gave birth to my baby half-brother on tax day.
After a while, they stopped bringing Katie to see us.
I was messy, as a kid. I was constantly cutting and pasting and taping, creating masterpieces out of printer paper...wasting it all...
That was my fun.
My friends were not my friends. They were shoes, and I was a doormat. They stomped, stepped, walked, and wiped their shit all in my face.
Why, then, was I still able to smile?
...But that smile faded by 14...
I remember when that kid, Kyle whats-his-face, kept taunting me in class. 6th grade was torture, but it was no worse than the rest of my life had been...
He called me baby-killer, and devil-worshipper. He criticised me for dressing like a tomboy...made fun of my braids, and my rap music...my baggy pants, and my over-sized t-shirts...he didn't understand that it was my uniform. It was all I was alowed to wear.
He broke my CD player one day, and damaged the CD inside. It had been the most explicit rap CD I'd ever owned, and, being so young, I was fiercely proud of it.
The teacher never did punish him...
She never even helped me when I asked. She told me to fix it on my own...
They said they found me kissing a girl in the bathroom.
My "best friend" defended the girl who spread that rumor...wouldn't tell me who she was, even though I'd had my suspicions...She'd been friends with the girl for maybe two weeks. We'd been friends for 3 years...
Loyalty means nothing, here.
There are scars on my arm, just inside, by the bend, where I used to cut myself.
I wonder how long it would've taken me to kill myself, or run away, if I hadn't moved to SC at 14?
...It hurts to think like that.
I am alive.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Spanish Project - Argentina
Art in Argentina is a diverse and growing entity. It ranges from past classical painters and sculpters that helped to shape the countryside as we know it - influencing the landscape of the cities, and now, the very walls of Buenos Aires are vivid with modern history and colorful works of art.
Two such pronound urban artists are Blu and Chu, with their collections "Muto", and "Doma".
Though Blu was originally from Bologna, Italy, he has made a great impact in graffiti around the globe, in major cities such as Berlin, and Buenos Aires. Here is a stop-animation video that shows Blu's talent and dedication. It took months to create, and a lot of paint.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuGaqLT-gO4
Chu's profile:
http://www.studiochu.tv/info.htm
And here is an example of Chu's work:
http://www.studiochu.tv/street-art.htm
Not only are the visual art within the streets and on the walls of Buenos Aires appealing to the eye, but they are also the artists' interpretation of life. Many of Blu's artwork features mythological creatures from Italy's history, and some of both Blu and Chu's work take the form of political issues and opinions that most wouldn't interpret until the artist was asked directly about the meaning of his pieces.
Another important factor to Argentinan living is food. I have made empanadas, which are a type of meat patty that is traditional to Argentinan culture.
Here is the recipe, and where I found it:
Ingredients:
***Crust:***
1 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 ounces stick butter or margarine
1/3 cup milk
***Filling:***
1 pound ground beef
2 tablespoons Vegetable oil, olive preferred
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 red bell pepper, seeds and stem removed, finely chopped
2 jalapeno chiles, seeds and stems removed, minced
1 medium potato, peeled, boiled, finely chopped
2 hard cooked eggs, finely chopped
10 green olives, finely chopped
2 tablespoons raisins1 tablespoon ground mild paprika
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley or substitute dried
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
***Glaze:***
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon milk
Directions:
To make the crust, sift the dry ingredients into a bowl. Work the margarine or butter into the flour using your fingers or two forks. Add the milk and mix just until the dough comes together and can be formed easily into a ball. Refrigerate for at least an hour. Saute the beef in a skillet until well done, stirring frequently with a fork to keep the meat broken-up. In a separate skillet, saute the onion, bell pepper, and jalapenos until the onions are a golden brown.
Combine all the remaining ingredients for the filling and nix well. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Divide the dough in two and roll out to a thickness of 1/8-inch and cut into circles 7" in diameter. Spoon the filling onto one half of each leaving room to fold in half and seal. Press the edges with the tip of a fork and cut a 1" slice in the top. Place on an ungreased baking pan. Combine the ingredients for the glaze. Bake for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350 and continue baking until the crust turns light brown. Brush the tops with glaze and bake for an additional 5 minutes.
http://www.cdkitchen.com/recipes/recs/262/Argentine_Empanadas22263.shtml
I hope you enjoyed this very brief excursion into Argentina's art, and culture.
^_^+
Two such pronound urban artists are Blu and Chu, with their collections "Muto", and "Doma".
Though Blu was originally from Bologna, Italy, he has made a great impact in graffiti around the globe, in major cities such as Berlin, and Buenos Aires. Here is a stop-animation video that shows Blu's talent and dedication. It took months to create, and a lot of paint.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uuGaqLT-gO4
Chu's profile:
http://www.studiochu.tv/info.htm
And here is an example of Chu's work:
http://www.studiochu.tv/street-art.htm
Not only are the visual art within the streets and on the walls of Buenos Aires appealing to the eye, but they are also the artists' interpretation of life. Many of Blu's artwork features mythological creatures from Italy's history, and some of both Blu and Chu's work take the form of political issues and opinions that most wouldn't interpret until the artist was asked directly about the meaning of his pieces.
Another important factor to Argentinan living is food. I have made empanadas, which are a type of meat patty that is traditional to Argentinan culture.
Here is the recipe, and where I found it:
Ingredients:
***Crust:***
1 2/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
4 ounces stick butter or margarine
1/3 cup milk
***Filling:***
1 pound ground beef
2 tablespoons Vegetable oil, olive preferred
1 large onion, finely chopped
1 red bell pepper, seeds and stem removed, finely chopped
2 jalapeno chiles, seeds and stems removed, minced
1 medium potato, peeled, boiled, finely chopped
2 hard cooked eggs, finely chopped
10 green olives, finely chopped
2 tablespoons raisins1 tablespoon ground mild paprika
1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley or substitute dried
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste
***Glaze:***
1 egg, beaten
1 tablespoon milk
Directions:
To make the crust, sift the dry ingredients into a bowl. Work the margarine or butter into the flour using your fingers or two forks. Add the milk and mix just until the dough comes together and can be formed easily into a ball. Refrigerate for at least an hour. Saute the beef in a skillet until well done, stirring frequently with a fork to keep the meat broken-up. In a separate skillet, saute the onion, bell pepper, and jalapenos until the onions are a golden brown.
Combine all the remaining ingredients for the filling and nix well. Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F. Divide the dough in two and roll out to a thickness of 1/8-inch and cut into circles 7" in diameter. Spoon the filling onto one half of each leaving room to fold in half and seal. Press the edges with the tip of a fork and cut a 1" slice in the top. Place on an ungreased baking pan. Combine the ingredients for the glaze. Bake for 10 minutes. Reduce the heat to 350 and continue baking until the crust turns light brown. Brush the tops with glaze and bake for an additional 5 minutes.
http://www.cdkitchen.com/recipes/recs/262/Argentine_Empanadas22263.shtml
I hope you enjoyed this very brief excursion into Argentina's art, and culture.
^_^+
...Ghetto Rose...
I am a woman born of desecrated city streets, potholes filled with lies and public humilities, raised on my family's defecations and oral vomit...I've learned poetry. And I am beautiful.
The first type of poetry I learned was the kind I hated. It was the rythmic smack of my mother's hands to my bare skin...it was the silent thought that my skin was made of golden dirt, and I could never become who I wanted if I lived in filth like that...it was the flick of cigarette butts, my father's indifference, a baseball bat crying out its blood-lusts for tethered rubber baseballs in a little-league game...
The words were growing in me.
I've had many unstable homes. My first was my mother's womb. If it weren't for my dad, the tobacco she refused to give up would have been a part of my bloodstream, instead of just my memories. The second was a crib, idling next to my older sister's in the room I've always known. The rest came and went in a blur, and I don't know the order...there were just so many...An apartment with both parents. Low-Income housing with both parents, where we occupied the ground floor, and another family occupied the second. I believe we were in Keansburg there...or maybe Atlantic Highlands...
When my father left, mommy grabbed the three of us now from apartment to apartment, complexes for single mothers, run-down single rooms, my Papa's house, and others. Sometimes daddy was there, and sometimes he wasn't.
My little sister holds resentment towards me. I don't know why, but ever since we were young she has attempted to poke at my nerves, stretch them to as far as they could go before I snapped at her. She loved to manipulate me. Her not getting her way as a baby resulted in her crying until she stopped breathing.
My grandfather called her Princess.
I remember one night, he noticed me being forlorn and tossed into the backgound, and he took me on his lap and gave me a nickname. I was Manda-Panda...
This upset her very much.
My older sister used to take her thumb to my thighs when I was asleep, as punishment for taking her and Alysia's attention away from the adults.
I was a bruised wall-flower for a time...
Kindergarten taught me who I was, even before I realized its significance. I was coquettish...flirty...and I loved arts and crafts. When we learned our alphabet, I learned to read. I would sit by myself by the bookshelves and read whenever we had free time...or I'd find the mini bongos in the box of instruments Ms. Diana kept, and play...I would climb up to the piano bench and finger the keys, like sweet ivory, so smooth...I'd let them fly, making up tunes that were beautiful, even if they only were to me.
I lived inside my fantasies, because my reality was so dissappointing.
Every night I was forced to lie in bed with my Papa, I would close my eyes and imagine fiercely that I was in my grandmother's room, snuggled beside her and not him...
I can't remember what he did to me.
I have a fear of older men...men with white hair...heavy-set, with shark eyes...loud voices, and big hands...I freeze around them, when they pat me on the head, or talk to me...I imagine that my eyes turn muddy brown instead of what they are now...
My grandfather tried to culture my younger sister and I. He would take us to Manhattan, or to Brooklyn, so that we could see the museums and the botanical gardens, the zoo, anything different from what we were used to. Beauty and history.
They told me Papa raped my older sister.
They said they found scars inside of her, but when they took that man to court, no one stood up for the children.
Our mother abandoned us, because he bought her a house. Our Nana abandoned us for a fur coat. My mother's sister refused to come up from Texas to testify against the man who had committed the same horrors on her that he did to Katie and me.
I'm tired of these memories.
More later...
The first type of poetry I learned was the kind I hated. It was the rythmic smack of my mother's hands to my bare skin...it was the silent thought that my skin was made of golden dirt, and I could never become who I wanted if I lived in filth like that...it was the flick of cigarette butts, my father's indifference, a baseball bat crying out its blood-lusts for tethered rubber baseballs in a little-league game...
The words were growing in me.
I've had many unstable homes. My first was my mother's womb. If it weren't for my dad, the tobacco she refused to give up would have been a part of my bloodstream, instead of just my memories. The second was a crib, idling next to my older sister's in the room I've always known. The rest came and went in a blur, and I don't know the order...there were just so many...An apartment with both parents. Low-Income housing with both parents, where we occupied the ground floor, and another family occupied the second. I believe we were in Keansburg there...or maybe Atlantic Highlands...
When my father left, mommy grabbed the three of us now from apartment to apartment, complexes for single mothers, run-down single rooms, my Papa's house, and others. Sometimes daddy was there, and sometimes he wasn't.
My little sister holds resentment towards me. I don't know why, but ever since we were young she has attempted to poke at my nerves, stretch them to as far as they could go before I snapped at her. She loved to manipulate me. Her not getting her way as a baby resulted in her crying until she stopped breathing.
My grandfather called her Princess.
I remember one night, he noticed me being forlorn and tossed into the backgound, and he took me on his lap and gave me a nickname. I was Manda-Panda...
This upset her very much.
My older sister used to take her thumb to my thighs when I was asleep, as punishment for taking her and Alysia's attention away from the adults.
I was a bruised wall-flower for a time...
Kindergarten taught me who I was, even before I realized its significance. I was coquettish...flirty...and I loved arts and crafts. When we learned our alphabet, I learned to read. I would sit by myself by the bookshelves and read whenever we had free time...or I'd find the mini bongos in the box of instruments Ms. Diana kept, and play...I would climb up to the piano bench and finger the keys, like sweet ivory, so smooth...I'd let them fly, making up tunes that were beautiful, even if they only were to me.
I lived inside my fantasies, because my reality was so dissappointing.
Every night I was forced to lie in bed with my Papa, I would close my eyes and imagine fiercely that I was in my grandmother's room, snuggled beside her and not him...
I can't remember what he did to me.
I have a fear of older men...men with white hair...heavy-set, with shark eyes...loud voices, and big hands...I freeze around them, when they pat me on the head, or talk to me...I imagine that my eyes turn muddy brown instead of what they are now...
My grandfather tried to culture my younger sister and I. He would take us to Manhattan, or to Brooklyn, so that we could see the museums and the botanical gardens, the zoo, anything different from what we were used to. Beauty and history.
They told me Papa raped my older sister.
They said they found scars inside of her, but when they took that man to court, no one stood up for the children.
Our mother abandoned us, because he bought her a house. Our Nana abandoned us for a fur coat. My mother's sister refused to come up from Texas to testify against the man who had committed the same horrors on her that he did to Katie and me.
I'm tired of these memories.
More later...
In English Class...
...we just watched B. Yung's 3rd place performance in the Knick's Poetry Slam.
If that's what 3rd place looks like...
My brain would explode if I had to listen to his 1st place.
It's ridiculous, that poem...
Makes me want to bury the pen forever.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNuhJE9I0Qo&feature=channel
Enjoy ^_^+
If that's what 3rd place looks like...
My brain would explode if I had to listen to his 1st place.
It's ridiculous, that poem...
Makes me want to bury the pen forever.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GNuhJE9I0Qo&feature=channel
Enjoy ^_^+
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Birth to Beginnings...
They pulled a fraying rope of gold
delicately apart,
and from it
was woven
a golden rose.
One point of the ivory
compass
pointed to
perfection,
and the petals
gave
gave
a glorious cry.
From the bloody noose
which hung a black star
underneath the boughs
of an oaken moon
was birthed
happiness,
and the freedoms
of a new
beginning.
***************************************************
I refuse to believe that I was a mistake.
God doesn't make mistakes.
But I do know that the circumstances surounding my birth were painful, and frustrating. I feel as if my mother wrapped her voluminous pale legs around my father's neck, and choke-held him until he coughed up his innocence. He handed his future over to her, broken as it was, and it trickled down as dust and shadows to me...even as she believed that she still owned them.
My mother was viciously boy-crazy. How her parents didn't understand her mood swings and emotional flips is beyond me; perhaps they were too enveloped in their own forever-failing relationship. Nonetheless, she was, and is, bipolar. She has a mental disability, and I don't blame her for that fault. After all, as my Nana says, "Be careful, love; mental illness runs in your family!"
Anyway you tell the story, the fact remains that my parents met while working at McDonald's together. He was young, foolish, and black. None of these excuses can explain why he chose to pursue my mother. She was equally young, white, and had been a mother since she was 16. At that age, when she'd first gotten pregnant, and God knows how many times she had been since then, she ran away to live with her child's father.
He wasn't too interested in her.
My father took care of the two of them. He practically adopted Katrina, my older-half sister, into his own life. He put a baby-seat in his car. Worst of all, he put up with my mother's bull. She was a screamer, she was...and a fighter. And an instigator. I remember him telling me a story...one time, when she was out of cigarette money and low on cash in general, she bitched at the man until he sold his prized comic book collection to some pawn shop somewhere in Jersey. She got her cancer-sticks, and he lost his dream of opening up a comic book shop someday in Red Bank.
Well, really, that isn't all true. He lost that dream to a father of his own that wouldn't support his endeavors, and because that comic book shop he wanted to buy was sold to that crazy Jay and Silent Bob duo who make those movies based in Jersey, but that's another story...
The point is, I wasn't meant to be born, the way I was. My parents hadn't planned it, they weren't married, and they could never have worked as a couple for longer than they did...and they only did because they wanted to make it work for us chilruns'.
I can only be greatful that I was, indeed, born - even if it meant the loss of my father's future and another stray string unraveling within my mother's frayed sanity.
More later...
I want to be selfish here, one more time...
...so I'm going to start a short series about where I came from. I know that sounds O.D. selfish and autobiography-ish, but...I don't want to have to say this again. Ever. It's painful, and it's just something I want to put out there so that, perhaps, I don't have to think about this anymore. And maybe, if you know ("you" being my next to nonexistant readers) where I came from, so you know how I got here. So you know a little more of who I am and why I write this way, about these obscure things.
Please, excuse the poetic flow of it all, though...I've had to write this all for an English project, so I have a few poems stored up, just for this occasion.
^_^+
Please, excuse the poetic flow of it all, though...I've had to write this all for an English project, so I have a few poems stored up, just for this occasion.
^_^+
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Naps.
You...
...make me wait for you...
Heart on fire,
alive,
itching to feel your
naps
with my curled fingers -
who knew,
that a brief,
kinky
sleep
was a tangible occurrence?
...I'll say it again.
I can't wait to feel your naps
with my curled
fingers,
because all I have of you
right now
are your fantasies,
and those are harder
to grasp.
...They belong on your pillow.
So,
let me place them there,
with a few
extra-sweet kisses
besides,
the next time you invite me in
for a silky,
animated
experience.
...And don't forget the sesame chicken.
This time,
though,
can you open your windows?
The glare of gold
in your shadowed eyes
burns,
a little,
and there's no exit,
or advance -
just...
here.
Your oblivious antics come in
fours,
and sink into the fuzzy pores
of dingy couches
and guitar picks -
but,
I
want
more.
...Yet,
you make me wait for you...
...make me wait for you...
Heart on fire,
alive,
itching to feel your
naps
with my curled fingers -
who knew,
that a brief,
kinky
sleep
was a tangible occurrence?
...I'll say it again.
I can't wait to feel your naps
with my curled
fingers,
because all I have of you
right now
are your fantasies,
and those are harder
to grasp.
...They belong on your pillow.
So,
let me place them there,
with a few
extra-sweet kisses
besides,
the next time you invite me in
for a silky,
animated
experience.
...And don't forget the sesame chicken.
This time,
though,
can you open your windows?
The glare of gold
in your shadowed eyes
burns,
a little,
and there's no exit,
or advance -
just...
here.
Your oblivious antics come in
fours,
and sink into the fuzzy pores
of dingy couches
and guitar picks -
but,
I
want
more.
...Yet,
you make me wait for you...
Random Poetry #2.
Eyes wide,
murky;
empty stride,
smile;
try to hide
the passion of
sheets,
pillows,
panicky feet,
intertwine,
arms,
thighs,
explorer's hands,
laughter,
tears,
moan -
groan -
sigh...
but this place
still reminds me
of you.
murky;
empty stride,
smile;
try to hide
the passion of
sheets,
pillows,
panicky feet,
intertwine,
arms,
thighs,
explorer's hands,
laughter,
tears,
moan -
groan -
sigh...
but this place
still reminds me
of you.
Things That Just Aren't Likely To Happen Any Time Soon...
...Like Lauryn Hill making a comeback.
...And those new peanut-butter-diamonds being mass-produced and sold in cushy jewelery shops like Zales.
...Or diamonds being made in the microwave.
Click HERE for a demonstration.
...or me ever telling a successful joke.
@_@;
Friday, April 10, 2009
I Feel Like...
Hammock days. Lazy. Fluid. Floating, or drifting. Draping my arms over the head of the plush paisly armchair by the window, just to stretch a little as I rest my eyes...Feline. The slats on the window are shut...but they let in just enough light to set a peaceful, get-away-from-it-all-mood...butter-cup yellow and grapefruit...the smell of pomegrantes...Grandma's fish cakes...Bare feet, legs, thighs...Oversized Giants' T-shirt/Jersey, just because it was my dad's...Comfort. Palm trees with addled brains and dry hair...clear caribbean ocean. Driving in the car, roof down, just cruising, but...soundlessly. No interruptions. Waves lapping at the shore. Languidity. The smile of the sun over a stoccato ocean, flat and dimpled...and gold. The silver fish I saw in a tank of goldfish yesterday. Warm waters. White sands. Just laying inside of my dreams...Good morning.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Maxito.
SoFlo. Sarasota. Dry, brown palm trees, stagnant for lack of wind.
It's hot here.
"Kiss me through the phone, kiss me through the phone, I'll see you later on..." - Soulja Boy
If you don't know by now, I have a soundtrack for just about everything. Music is an integral part of, not just my life, but life in general...whether it's the sound of nature, the sound of the city, or a radio bumping the bass out of its windows as it drives by to the tune of...Soulja Boy. :(
My baby-brother, Maxito...he's crazy. Loquito. Pero, es mi hermanito ^_^+ Florida has been...interesting. Spent some time with my mom. Her natural soundtrack is:
Flick. Cigarette ash flies, screaming, past Alysia in the backseat. Thank goodness the window's closed...or maybe, not so much. It's hot. There are old people in the cars beside, behind, and in front. They're courteous, but...I'm afraid.
I can hear her laughing. She's getting porcelain caps soon, so she says. There's no money. Though she scraped a ten together for some McDonald's. We have to eat, don't we?
I feel bad. I mean, woman's a little...interesting. Whines a little, crazy, whatever...but I love her. I might complain, and perhaps I can't stand being around her too often, but I still love her.
We went swimming today at the community pool. Low-income housing and all. My little brother is a fish! He just loves to swim...took a video of him dancing and shaking his little bum, but any video on my phone is too large to send out to my e-mail, or to anyone else for that matter. So, all I have are a few quick pictures. Funny kid.
*muah*
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Random Poetry # 1.
You'd rather turn heads
than turn pages.
Stilletto shoes pointing at the soap-stone sundial,
penciling in oblivion above IV...
Golden mane,
wispy curls;
Her honey-blonde vines choke restlessly
the brunette in her...
Perhaps that pink-slip dress
used to be a call for detention.
How many men have slipped sand and shore
beneath your authority?
Legs, thighs, waist,
round strides,
lips plumped to a ripe killer-lipstick
kiss...
Her head wasn't in the books,
but her likeness was in the dictionary.
Promiscuousity, or a coloquiallism slinging
"bitch that stole my boyfriend!",
can these words define her?
Eyes like bright diamonds
and a rotten glare...
she is withered,
but looks like a jewel.
Perhaps...she is perfect.
And we are the sinners.
But she weighs more on my scale
than her 114 lbs...
...snake.
than turn pages.
Stilletto shoes pointing at the soap-stone sundial,
penciling in oblivion above IV...
Golden mane,
wispy curls;
Her honey-blonde vines choke restlessly
the brunette in her...
Perhaps that pink-slip dress
used to be a call for detention.
How many men have slipped sand and shore
beneath your authority?
Legs, thighs, waist,
round strides,
lips plumped to a ripe killer-lipstick
kiss...
Her head wasn't in the books,
but her likeness was in the dictionary.
Promiscuousity, or a coloquiallism slinging
"bitch that stole my boyfriend!",
can these words define her?
Eyes like bright diamonds
and a rotten glare...
she is withered,
but looks like a jewel.
Perhaps...she is perfect.
And we are the sinners.
But she weighs more on my scale
than her 114 lbs...
...snake.
Get to know NUJABES.
So, I've been on this...Nujabes tip for a while now.
"Your volumptuous, sweet caramel-brown-honey-dew-satin-skin smooth to the touch, what a nigga do?" -Lady-Brown by Nujabes ft. Cise Star
I'm still trying to figure out why so many people just...don't know about him. He's been featured in popular anime Samurai Champloo (creator Shinichiro Watanabe [Cowboy Bebop], studio Manglobe) in both the Intro theme song (Battlecry) and the Outro theme song (Shiki no Uta ft. Minmi). Some of his phenomenal beats have been co-produced by Shing02, such as the song Love Sic, while others feature the lyrical skills of some dope underground artists like Cise Star (http://www.myspace.com/cisestar) and Cyne (http://www.myspace.com/cyne).
"Mata yo ga akereba owakare, yume wa tooki maboroshi ni, anata wo oikakete ita hikari no naka de, dakareru tabi atatakai, kaze wo tayori!" -Shiki no Uta by Nujabes ft. Minmi
A great way to discover his music, and other artists with similar styles, is by utilizing the free online radio source, http://www.pandora.com/ and typing in Nujabes' name for an endless playlist you can jam to whenever you're on the computer.
So, I encourage you to get to know this Japanese DJ. Buy Modal Soul. Check out his beats.
I even youtube'd you an example.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OobUV9q0aDA
"Your volumptuous, sweet caramel-brown-honey-dew-satin-skin smooth to the touch, what a nigga do?" -Lady-Brown by Nujabes ft. Cise Star
I'm still trying to figure out why so many people just...don't know about him. He's been featured in popular anime Samurai Champloo (creator Shinichiro Watanabe [Cowboy Bebop], studio Manglobe) in both the Intro theme song (Battlecry) and the Outro theme song (Shiki no Uta ft. Minmi). Some of his phenomenal beats have been co-produced by Shing02, such as the song Love Sic, while others feature the lyrical skills of some dope underground artists like Cise Star (http://www.myspace.com/cisestar) and Cyne (http://www.myspace.com/cyne).
"Mata yo ga akereba owakare, yume wa tooki maboroshi ni, anata wo oikakete ita hikari no naka de, dakareru tabi atatakai, kaze wo tayori!" -Shiki no Uta by Nujabes ft. Minmi
A great way to discover his music, and other artists with similar styles, is by utilizing the free online radio source, http://www.pandora.com/ and typing in Nujabes' name for an endless playlist you can jam to whenever you're on the computer.
So, I encourage you to get to know this Japanese DJ. Buy Modal Soul. Check out his beats.
I even youtube'd you an example.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OobUV9q0aDA
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