Seeing a photograph of myself is often pretty jarring. Why is it that the vision I see of myself in a photo is so different than the one I see in a mirror - not to mention the "self" that I see in my mind's eye? Pondering it can pretty easily cast me into a vortex of self-doubt, wondering how the me that people experience - my voice, my personality, my creative expression - is regarded without my knowledge.
I'm not a huge fan of covers in general, but collaborations always make them more fun - they're sort of neutral territory.
Y'all mythological niggas is comical, The astronomical is comin' thru like tha flu bombin' you... And embalmin' in your crew, too. With the musical, mystical, magical, you know how I do.
I've been college, but to be truthfully frank, weed is knowledge because it makes me think
My hair is my everything: my best friend, my mentor, my moral compass.
I often yearn to regress into a state that's slightly more atavistic than my decades of conditioning generally allow, but it's difficult to let go of those reigns.
I enjoy watching children interact with the world, the way they engage their environment without any filters, learned models, or cynicism.
Got more milky syllables than alphabet cereals.
I've never really been a big fan of comedy songs, frankly. I think I enjoy the emotional payoff that the best music achieves to want to waste too much time turning good music into a joke.
If you hand an adult a lump of clay, they're likely to respond by fashioning something representative out of the raw material. For the most part, they'll simply forge an object that signifies something "real" in the world, even if that something is as abstract as an emotion or an energy. A child, on the other hand, will just as often produce something totally without semiotic meaning, a shape or a mass that represents nothing that exists outside of their imagination. Or else, they'll eat it or throw it or ignore it, wholesale.
I've evolved enough that I've learned to not subject others to the fallout of my own unhappiness. I think that's a significant, hard-won behavioral leap that, sadly, a staggering percent of the population of folks I know haven't quite mastered.
Eat you inside out like stress...You hear my voice, you see my face, you know my name / I take it out your ass and charge it to the game
It's ninety-six degrees in the shade... Before I catch blood on my blade.
Do some good to the ghetto, Mr. Kris Kringle. Come and stay awhile, kick it with God's Angels. Take and acknowledge my wisdom and understand That Santa Claus is a black man.
I'm not sayin I'm a pothead, cause I'm not. I'm just sayin that I smoke a lot.
It also makes me worry about photos of me that exist that I might not even know about. How do I appear in these unwitting photographs? Who is taking them, without my knowledge or consent, and from where?
Leibniz mapped the principles concerning the conservation of energy, but nobody has yet scientifically diagrammed the conservation of emotion - have they? How is this subsumed pain vented? Is it released in my art? I hope so, but I also suspect that it's emitted in my sleep.
My girlfriend says that I thrash throughout the night, for longer periods than are generally accepted as corresponding to REM sleep, and she often has to move to the couch to get any sort of rest before she goes to work in the morning.
I think that my parents' only regret is that they wasted so much money on my stupid prestigious university degree.
Sometimes playing TV can be really nerve-wracking, and I think I tend to handle that by trying to look at my band-mates as frequently as possible and ignore everything else.
London is always fun, obviously, but something about Glasgow really speaks to me. Usually what it says, though, is "Let's get wasted."
