Could never grow a big nappy halo, the genes never allowed it. I realized that words and pictures play havoc on experiencing reality. I'm neither tall or short, not strikingly handsome nor naturally disfigured. I am over critical in judgement trying to better what passes before my eye gates. I can not except the mimic in the mirror because he does everything backwards. Why do I experience everything in the first and third person and who is that illusive second person?
4 big garbage bags on the sidewalk. Damn city folk, why they put huge bags of sh*t so close to the bus stop. Gotta stink, gotta.........the bus came, the bags stood up got on the bus.............
Afro, the word means many things to many people. Coupled with Futurism, it encompasses everybody from one drop of negro blood to folks who embody the core of the planet. What strikes me is the lack of material culture. It's not really a design style but I've seen elements of Steampunk from sticks to chrome and fashion from military to angel garb. You don't own nothing in this present world but dreams. As if poverty of materialism is a forced asceticism. Some of us lament it, some rock the hell out of it. It is a science of personality and personalization. That illusive second person.
I am shy and unaccustomed. Walking to the podium with well fussed over words on a script. I sputter and stutter before my lips began to move. I stare at the crowd and apologize excusing myself. I turn, pull out a half mask appliance and apply it to my face. There is a rumble in my head as the transformation takes place. The thoughts in the que are flushed and another person, that second person comes forth. The first person still agassed screams "What do we do now?", the third strains to see the script, out of focus now. That second person with a glint of an ageless sage whispers to his entourage "Improvise". He says the first word and builds a tale, weaving the body with a few choice expressions and gestures that link to the attentive and slaps the distracted................it all echos into a void interrupted by applause, whistles and "yeah, Yeah!" I remove the appliance and become one of them again. They ask did he leave already, we wanted to meet him.
The powers that be are trying to kill him, her, it, the improv. When jazz and hip-hop became canned they thought they nailed us. Afrofuturist come from all their various schools of mind, the improvs. This is the last bar. They channeled and corraled everyone including the psychics, all accept the improvs. The Improvs will transform the world, always have, always will. Here's to the Afrofuture! Spill your best content, ref your script (if you must), quantum-improvious!!
