Existentialism

Gideon Wildflower here.

With one quote.

"When I see the blind & wretched state of man, when I survey the whole universe in its dumbness & man left to himself with no light as though lost in this corner of the universe without knowing who put him there, what he has come to do, what will become of him when he dies, incapable of knowing anything, I am moved to terror, like a man transported in his sleep to some terrifying desert island who wakes up quiet lost with no means of escape. Then I marvel that so wretched a state does not drive people to despair."

--Pascal

And one note.

C.

Peace.

Lovingly Yours

Making this mixtape is killing me.

I have no food and no shelter.

And $130 in my account that's all going into mastering this music.

Dedication will be the death of me.

Gideon would be proud.

With dreams as sustenance,

Blac Garner

Jelly Beans

I spilled my jelly beans on the train today. Everyone laughed. I was not amused. I wanted to eat my jelly beans.

Now I don't have any jelly beans to eat.

Fuck.

My belly screams for jelly beans,

Blac Garner

Dream: A Journey and a Priestess

Hello World of Wonders, Mothers, and Human Mutters.

I had a dream. So I shared it with a muse of mine in Ghana. Now I want to share it with you. Here is the email I sent.

"Shit.

I already forgot how it started. But for some reason I was following something. I can't remember what exactly but I remember that the journey started out on a football field during a game. I just walked off and started following something. Then I got in a chair. My brother was there with me and sat beside me. He was asking me a whole lot of questions like where was I going and why did I leave. I didn't know the answer. I just felt something that told me to go where I was headed. So the two chairs start moving. We travel along the highway, travel along some body of water and then come to a subway. The chairs take us into the train and start moving towards the back of the train. I can feel that my brother is as scared as I am. Moving chairs aren't normal and there are a lot of different people on the train. I remember I stopped by one lady. She was obviously either crazy or homeless. But she smiled at me. She was missing some teeth. And she was reading. She tried to reach across me to get another book that was on my other side but I flinched and she stopped. Then the chair kept moving. At one point I left my brother. The chair got caught up in some wires. I ended up getting off at a stop because I saw two offices. One read priest and the other read priestess. The chair wasn't moving anymore but I wasn't sure if that was because I was supposed to be here or because it had gotten caught up in some wires. I left my brother behind to check the offices. I checked in the priestess office and my "Contemporary Black Poetry" teacher from last semester was in there. I didn't want to go in there. She had given me a C.. I deserved a worse grade but I always got the feeling that she had a little thing for me. She wasn't unattractive for a 40-50 something year old woman. But I didn't want to talk to someone familiar. So I checked the priest office but nobody was in there. I ended up going in the priestess office. She asked me about a textbook that I had "found"... I told her I didn't know what happened to it. Then we started talking about why I was there. I told her a chair had taken me to places where I had murdered people and then onto a train that brought me here. I told her that I wasn't sure if this was the last stop though and I needed her to help me get back on track. She wanted me to prove that I was dealing with an unseen force. I thought that was a waste of time and I didn't expect her to do that. She pulled out a poetry book, covered my eyes, and asked me to recite one of the poems... as a test. The words came to me easily...I had never read the poem and I cannot remember what it said now. Because in the dream I forgot the words immediately once I tried to tell them to her. I couldn't. Then for some reason she had a blindfold on. And she kept changing into this young woman ( about 20 )... I don't know who she was. But I kissed her. She was astonished and asked me never to talk about that with anyone. I either woke up at this point or I can't remember how the dream ended. Have you ever waken up and tried to finish a dream in your conscious thoughts? ... I found myself doing that and all the endings I came up with ended with violence. I don't know why and I don't understand any of it. "

I still don't understand it.

Dreamers made this world,

Blac Garner

A Lyrical Thrust Into The (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The Mixtape

Fighters, Lovers, and Lickers of Others... Welcome.

Gideon Wildflower speaking.

Our dearly retarded friend, Blac Garner, in a most sincere form of incredible selfishness, may have just created a masterpiece.

I use the term very loosely.

For what is a masterpiece? ... Was the work of Vincent Van Gogh a collection of masterpieces before he received recognition? ... Or did it only become a masterpiece after his post-mortal fame? No, perhaps we should not give the collective that much power. The true power, without a doubt, lies in the individual.

Now, I believe that the human race is in just that. A race. With itself. Trying desperately to catch up to it's geniuses, to it's creators, to it's innovators. Trying desperately to find and define all of those unknown masterpieces.

Intermesting, no?

One could even go as far to say that a masterpiece is defined by it's creator. Not to anyone else, but to himself. For the ego is man's greatest critic.

Now, I was off in my own world finishing my tea while Blac was recording... but I'm pretty sure as he finished he uttered...

"This is a masterpiece."

I looked at him. He was staring at his hands. I found it extremely appropriate at that moment, and from now until infinity, to call this particular project a masterpiece.

But alas, I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry ladies and gents. I tend to do that. Too much marijuana.

Our... special... friend, Blac Garner has created a mixtape. I tried desperately to talk him out of it. I pleaded with him, screamed even, "They won't understand you! How can they appreciate the weight of such a full soul when they do everything to run away from their own emptiness." I even tried locking him in the bathroom for a whole month. He just scribbled more songs on the walls... the bastard. And so, it seems he's destined to suffer at the hands of you unworthy fucks. For what can a creator do, but create.

I say all this to say...

"A Lyrical Thrust Into the (Blac)est Heart of Modern Darkness: The Mixtape" by Mr. Blac Garner will be officially released to the public on January 1, 2011. I was there for most of the recording and I must say, you all are in for a treat.

Despite my feelings on showing your soul to people who can't possibly understand, I was impressed. And I am not impressed easily. So while you're thinking on the subject please look inside yourself and ask, "Am I ready?" You might be surprised at the answer you hear.

I pray his efforts help you find your ever so elusive integrity.

And i find it appropriate to end this with a toast. Hold on, let me get my tea. Here we are.

To Hip Hop! And to the MC! The Master Creator! May he live on forever and find his home amongst the stars!

18 years of this shit? ... No Thank You.

hip hop faked it's own death so that it didn't have to deal with the lovechild it had with fame. it knew it shouldn't have been fucking with that crazy bitch anyway...

but the pussy..

the pussy was like diamond chains, velour suits, and big houses in the 'burbs.

The pussy was like drug money.

The pussy was like dreams.

Like waking up to a sunrise and seeing your kids off to school in a beautiful neighborhood.

fame's pussy was just that.

fucking famous.

and just like that

hip hop was fucking famous.

had all the little white kids lined up against the window

watching fame drop down to her knees

their little red noses pressed squarely on the panes

the breaths heavy

as they watched fame suck hip hop dry

hip hop faked it's own death so that it didn't have to deal with the lovechild it had with fame.

it knew it shouldn't have fucked with that crazy bitch anyway

Something in her eyes looked too much like insecurity

Something in her hair smelled too much like inadequacy

And now...

Something in her womb looks too much like hip hop

so hip hop faked it's own death

the formula's simple

shit get's too fucked

you either run or you die

and hip hop ain't never really been about no death

What do you teach your children about me?

What do you teach your likkle children about me?

The NIGGER is YOU!