This is a small log for Cotcia of Nonducor and our travelling office. Also known as that green Toyota Camry. This is really how we get our work done, sitting in the car. We don’t need internet, or a table, or an office to get our work done. We are our work. We can go anywhere. - God is Love
She is patient, she is kind. She is Love. My Mother. She told me tonight she reads my blog, so I hope she see’s this. And knows that I love her even though I jump around my room in frustration when we talk about my life. Tonight, I finally got to show her my life. From the inside out. In the end, she had a smile on her face. And I cried in my room, only tears of hapiness.
She understands. She’s always understood. And she’ll always be under everything I stand on, she is my platform. But tonight, I step off, and stand on my own two feet, and hoist her up like all the trophies she’s watched me hold up when I was little.
If you've known me from a while back. I used to play Janelle's older tracks to everyone who gets in my car. People would be like "Yo who is this?!?" I love telling people about Janelle 'cause she is a great ARTIST. Not a singer, or musician or performer. She is an art. I love seeing artists break out their creative genius into a more commercial audience. There's only a few of them that stay the same from coming up from the underground and Janelle is most definitely one of them. The reason why, well, listen to this video. She's a classic. - God is Love
Us at Nonducor made it official. We in here. Thanks for ya’ll who counted down that quick-ass 32 days and checked out the new site and all’uh’dat. We’ve been grindin’ heavy for the past year and a half and personally I’d like to thank everyone who downloads our mixes(new mixes coming out very soon) and who visit our blog, and who are really adopting New Vncvr state of mind. Thanks alot. Consider this, our first date, with you, our love, Vncvr.
She always challenged how much of an asshole I could be before I cracked. I never cracked. Sometimes I hurt her. It wasn’t out of pride. It was the only thing I had over her. The only thing that had her scared. Because I was so scared, scared of her. Leaving.
She was, bad. Bad as in, good. And she was too good, for me. The thing about her was that she was rooted deep in herself. She was authentic. I felt fake. I felt like she could see right through my Supreme T’s and Air Yeezy’s and see that, really, I like The Beatles and Bob Dylan. She was set on everything in her life. She’d talk and “drop knowledge” all the time. Always starting her statements with “strictly”.
“it’s striclty hip hop”
“It’s stricly about the the hustle and the grind”
And I’d strictly listen to her talk and she made sense. But what she said never lasted with her. She’ll criticize people who wear sunglasses when it’s not sunny. But she’ll wear her stunnas in the club. She was mine though. Everday, every night that girl was mine. I was jelous of her friends ‘cause they were just as real as her. They talked ‘hood slang. I had a lisp. Ain’t nothin’ ‘hood ‘bout a lisp.
“deez’is my homies”.. I looked around the room and it just a bunch’a dudes who loked like carbon copies of pharrell williams. They don’t make enough bank to support thier lifestyle and they blow all their paycheques on gear to wear to the club. By the time they get to the club, they only have enough money left to pay for cover.
Anyway, she was a chick with a dick. Not litereally, but y’know what I mean. The fact that I was the one that had one was what kept her coming. Until she left me.
I was crushed but I didn’t spiral into a depression, I just kept grindin’. Now I run my own company, makin’ the bank, getting into all the clubs in the vip. Sittin’ in the booth with Amber Rose’s and Hellz Bellz ?itches. I look out on the dance floor in between champagne glasses and flashing lights I see this chick with a fitted dancin’ with dudes that can’t afford her. But they all put their best show forward and she...
“Hype shoe Hype shoe, change your shoe. Hype shoe Hype shoe, change your shoe. My blogger, told me, to, pick, the, very, best, one” - God is Love
Why your blog isn’t popular FOR DUMMIES: BE YOURSELF
I think the title explains it all. This goes back to “Why your blog isn’t popular 101”. Be you in your blogs, not who you want people to see you as. We become who we want to be, by being, ourselves. Don’t hide youself behind fancy templates and all that. Only small minded people think about how their blog looks. We dont go on blogs to look at layouts.. if you do then please email me at email@example.com
I’m coming to see you. I don’t go over to your house to stare at your house, I come over to talk and hang out with you. If you like to interior decorate..sure. I guess it adds to aesthetics but, most poeple don’t give a WHAT?!
Lastly, take a shit on everything you do. Aswell as outside of your writing/blogging. You’ll be most recognized when people start to see you through everything. Even if it’s already been done. Poeple will know what is a Donnel written peice is, what Dre written piece is...etc etc. Game recognize game. People recognize authenticity. BE YOURSELF. I ain’t pre-teen sitcom, thats the last time I’ll say it.
Why your blog isn’t popular FOR DUMMIES: Write, don’t blog
Writing is making a comeback into our world. Think about the ratio between calling and texting. Or in most of your cases, BBM-ing. Poeple are tweeting, constantly. Updating Facebook status’ and well, blogging. Wrting is the spark to new ideas. Whenever we hear a really dope line from a song, we want to, write it down somewhere.. a caption, a status.. a tweet. Be a writer, be an artist. Bloggers are people who distribute art, Writers are the ones who make it.
WRITE HOW YOU SPEAK. If you have to use like, a bunch of like, like, y’know, like fill-in words.. then do so. We’re not writing books here, you’re not being graded. Unlearn everything you learned about writing. You aren’t writing essays. It doesn’t take 1500 words to convey a message. Try using a 4 letter word rather than a 7 and trust me it doesn’t really matter if you write sentence without putting a period anywhere because if this is how you talk then whatever right so just keep writing. Trust me, it’s easier this way. It requires less thinking, and more feeling. And poeple need to feel, like, what you Write. not blog.
Why your blog isn’t popular FOR DUMMIES: Sharing means Caring
Bobby Flay, Gordon Ramsay, Giadda, Jamie “The naked chef”,.. out of the thousands of Chefs out there, why do we know these more than others? Besides the fact they’re on telelvision.
All these great chefs are well known because they write, cookbooks. We always hear about the secretive chef who would die to protect his recipe for mashed potatoes. Sure, that chef makes great potatoes but they’d only limit its popularity to the people that come into their restaurant, much less to just the people who order it.
Those chefs I listed are great, because they share. They teach. They teach what they’ve descovered and learned throughout their years in culinary arts. They're relatable. They're more, like a friend. Just like friends, we share things. Share stories, new things, old things. It's not about being HEARD. It's about KNOWING. There's a difference between hearing about a great recipe for mashed potatoes than there is knowing that great recipe.
So quit the “I’m so deep and cool and the ?hit and anonymous and mysterious and read between the lines” writing attitude. Really, share your thoughts. Share with us how your mother embarrases you, how he broke your heart and how you learned to mend it. If you really think your ?hit is that good, then why aren't you letting people know how good it is? If not, you just become a lookbook of blogs with entries that sound deep but don’t have any worth to the human mind. Sharing, means caring.
Blogsites have been around for years. As far as I can date back is the “Xanga” days. It’s only been recently that blogs have come from a persons online diary or a forum for kids to talk about starcraft playing strategies to marketing tools and even a sign of social status. I know I started off this blog as if I was actually going to school you about blogging, but there’s only one lesson to be learned here.. here it is..
Why isn’t your blog popular?
Because you actually give a ?uck about having a popular blog.
“These muh’f*ckas ORIGINALS MANG, ORI-GIN-ALS!” pointing to his scuffed up Space Jams to his homie scanning his gear with some HD cam he probably saved up for with his boutique store paycheque.
One thing I hate about going to these in-store/block/shuffle parties is the random personalities that attend them. Unfortunately, the dude that holds this quote above is filipino. I attended an in-store Nike party last summer held down by the homies on Robson. Just as I expected, there was going to be one dude who was going to come in with his flyest shit on and get crunk off the free beer and vitamin water.
Originality, is dead. There are very very very few things in this world that haven’t been done that aren’t impossible. Writing this blog even, un-original. Although, authenticity, you can claim.
There are great people such as the man up there, Kobe Bryant, who have taken the game of basketball and made it his. We might be playing in our school yards, rec-leagues cutting around our defenders to the baseline and fading away, hitting a shot over two guys. We see things like that and we think, Oh damn, that was like Kobe hittin’ that game winnner against Toronto.
“That was some Kobe shit”
If you ask Kobe, he’s probably thinkin’ in his head like.. damn, that look like Jordan in game 6 against the Jazz.
That’s what makes people great. To be able to take another work of art, chop and screw it, to create another great piece of work.
I might not be able to pull up a jumper like Kobe. I can still pull up, if I want to, y’know. - God is Love
It may be that I’m just straight up scared of my parents for the most part.. but for some reason my mother had convinced me that I need to start being a bit more selfish. Really?
“Think about yourself for once”
Maybe selfish was a strong word but, really? Think of myself for once? I still don’t agree with what she had said even though her points were fair and valid. I guess I had forgotten about myself, because I had given all of myself to my work, to my church, to other people. I didn’t notice I had been rockin’ the same clothes for the past 4 months. I didn’t notice the holes in my wife beaters and my worn in jeans. I guess I didn’t notice most of my paycheques went to my homies gas money or makin’ sure a homie had food in his/her mouth. I guess I didn’t notice I was the only one packin’ a meal when I would go and chill instead of eatin’ out with the rest of ‘em. I guess I had forgotten my value by making other people valuable. I guess.
I let myself go, by lettin’ myself, go.
I don’t see it as a bad thing, not really.
But, I do need some new jeans, that’s f’sho. - God is Love
I never knew tweed blazers with leather elbow patches came in such variations. I guess I’m getting older if this man and I have the same haircut. I’m jelous of his curls. Pause. We sit at the sub stations, library square, the bridge steps. We walk through backstreets and sit together on the skytrain. I rarely feel small even when I’m at basketball practice with 13 lebron built african dudes.
“Do you speak Italy?”
No I do not. Italy is big and it’s pride is even bigger. I once saw a bumper sticker that had the italian flag wrapped around a horse and in big blocked cursive writing.. “Italian Stallion”. I hope you see the connection. I meet him, usually at the plaza where he walks back and forth on the bricks mumbling words of italia, italia.
For just a second he looks up from the ground.
“Do you speak Italy?”
“No I don’t, come sit with me”
As usual we stare through the sun roof at the plaza and he mumbles and screams words of Italia, Italia. Every now and then He’ll acknowledge my existence and smack me on the shoulder and smile. I ignore his behaviour, and he repeats and repeats. I snap my head and give him a stern look, and grab his hand. I raise it in the air the same way he does before he smacks me. I gently place it back on my shoulder. I place my hand on his shoulder, and I smile.
We go everywhere, time warp through the city in an hour. Then he walks off, somewhere. But he doesn’t let me walk with him.
The next day, He’s not at the plaza. I train over to the sub station and he’s not there. Those are the only two places we meet. I go back to the plaza and wait for about an hour. Still, no Italy.
“Do you speak Italy?”..
I look over at him and he’s sitting near a man. I start to walk over and I see him raise his arm at the man and I start to run. 2 strides in I stopped. He places his hand on the mans shoulder, and places the mans hand on his shoulder.
He gets up without even looking at me, turns and walks towards me. Mumbling words of Italia, Italia.
I've been blessed to have this job working with people with autism. In order for my teaching to be successful, I have to love it. In order to be successful at anything, you gotta do it for the love, first.
His looked fitted. Her looked, baggy. They could probably wear each others at night, in bed. The only time they’re not physically together. They can tell each other how they smell at night. And in the morning. In the hallways they have their own, nook. A hubby hole. Where they share lunches and eat sour keys, but only the purple and yellow ones. For 40 minutes they don’t say much besides flunking tests and soccer practice. She makes a mustache with his hoodie strings and at every oppurtunity he’ll kiss her on cheek. And she’ll close her eyes right when his face gets real close, and she’ll hold her breathe then relaxes herself with a smile. Every, time.
“I’ll wait for her in the east annex near the bus stop”
He’ll bus her home. Even though he lives the other way.
They stand near the backdoors. They laugh when the doors open and hits him on the side of the arm. She grooves herself against him. Her head fits in the middle of his chest and hers against his stomach. She puts her hands in his hoodie pockets. She closes her eyes, as his heart plays a lullaby. His calloused fingers play chords through her hair. His breathing rocks her back and forth. Eyes closed still she asks “Are there any seats yet?..” He looks at me. I get up. They tae the two seats I was sharing with my bag.
I don’t know why I gave up my seat. I don’t know why his blank stare at me struck me to feel like their names were written on those shitty blue seats. Before I got off the bus I looked at them..
Both asleep. Or atleast with thier eyes closed. I’m curious to know when their stop is, or if they missed it. But it doesn’t look like they care. Their hoodies are faded, there’s a stain on his, from the lasagna her mom made last night. Her’s didn’t even have a hoodie string. There was something about this Aa hoodie couple.. I've yet to figure out, I've yet to feel, again.. - God is love