lyrics, study, and other muses

Sunday, June 10, 2012

For My Cousin...


I've been struggling to find a way to connect with the recent death of a distant cousin to whom I am closely related. I visited his facebook page last night to see what people might be saying. That's when I decided that I had something to tell him, too. This was going to be a lot shorter, and just get posted on his timeline. But as I began to type, I realized I had a lot more to say "to him" than I wanted to simply post on his profile. And the more I wrote, the more I needed to write.

If you are related to me, please forgive my bluntness as I write my cousin. If you can help it, try not to repeat the patterns of gossip and slander that (y)our family has become so proficient in. If you are on "that side" of stuff, keep in mind that, just like my father, I have feelings and emotions. I've had them the entire time. And despite the attempts of some to silence a voice that challenged their own, I have grown more and more stubborn, and less willing to go unheard. Even where you wouldn't hear me, I have found ways to express. You are probably one of the biggest inspirations for the music I create. While some have tried to seal me, the heat caused pressure to build inside, and the seams are finally starting to come loose. I'm (a little) sorry if the steam that jets out is scalding. And I know I'm nowhere near done. 

Without further ado...

To Phillip Parker:

I know I'm supposed to say something nice. I'm supposed to call everyone and ask them how they are feeling, console them, pay my condolences. I'm supposed to be sad. But when I found out you had passed, I didn't know how to feel.

I'd been trying to get a hold of you. Why wouldn't you respond, cousin?

I have so many awful memories of you. The last time I really saw you, I was visiting Sacramento for a few days on a trip I made for my 21st birthday. I’d told you I was not smoking, drinking, or smoking pot. I asked you over the phone to please help me out with that. “Please don’t smoke pot around me,” I implored. And I asked you not to smoke cigarettes around me, too. You assured me it would be cool.
But I remember, like it was yesterday, coming down the escalator at the airport. I saw you and a couple other people standing below, waiting for my arrival. You had that pack of Marlboro 100’s in your front pocket—the entire red top was sticking out in a way that blatantly signified your intent.
We made our way to the car, and before we got out of the parking lot, a lighter began to flick repeatedly. This wasn’t the couple-of-flicks made when trying to light a cigarette, but that light and relight action I’d become so painfully fond of. This was pot, in a pipe, being passed around the car.
I honestly don’t remember every bad decision I made that trip. I know I didn’t do anything that most people would consider “too stupid.” But I remember afterwards, hearing from my mom, your story was that I had “brought weed from Las Vegas” with me to Sacramento to smoke with you. This story somehow made its way to grandma. I was devastated.

But that’s just icing on an already icy cake.

You sold my bass guitar and my amp. I have no idea what you used the money for. You never even mentioned it to me. No apology, no nothing.

And when I lived with you? It seems like it was a constant struggle to just be. All-the-time one-upmanship. Telling me in front of a group of people to “go pick a flower,” as though that were some sort of put down. Imagine a man created in God’s image enjoying the beauty created by God himself—A God I didn’t even believe in at the time.  Appreciating the world and looking for light was not something that you condoned in me, but belittled and persecuted.

And the way you would talk about family members. The way you acted as though you were above them. The way you explicitly conveyed your intent to take advantage of the people who loved and helped you. The way you talked about my father (just like so many that we are mutually related to), even to my face! The way you would talk about women, and the way you would defend the way you talked about women. The way you talked about people behind their backs versus the way you composed yourself to their faces.  And who knew?

I would contest that we all knew. I would argue that many just didn’t want to believe it. Even though it would come up in family conversation on occasion, we all wanted to (be able to) think more highly of you. That you had some altruism hidden deep within you was far from any truth I ever came to behold.

And don’t get me wrong. I remember you letting me stay with you (at someone else’s two bedroom apartment where he lived with his mom). I remember… Actually, I don’t remember much more generosity than that.

It’s not that you hadn’t affected me positively.

You introduced me to the artistic love of my life, Hip Hop. I am still dedicated and passionate as ever about the little subculture from a ghetto in New York that has drastically impacted the entire world.

Because of you, I know a lot more about the drug culture, and the way it affects millions of young people and influences their present and future. You took me to my first rave. You helped me get my first hit of ecstasy. You introduced me to a side of life that some people (especially with a similar “Christian upbringing”) might never have a chance to see and experience.

You introduced me to being an outlaw. Spray painting the side of the highway with you was intense! I will never forget (and still often reminisce about) that moment. And any/all of the other illegal activities we engaged in helped shape my understanding of the world today. As brutally uncouth as that may sound, I am truly thankful to be on this side of the “moral war,” and would have it no other way.

You introduced me to some of my favorite movies, music, and style.

When I heard that you had passed, I didn’t know how to feel. I still don’t. I don’t feel like calling anyone. I don’t want to talk about it to them. People like to remember the deceased in a different light than they really were.  I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to hear anyone tell me how much they miss you or how sweet you were. I’m just not prepared for any sugar-coated bullshit.

And I’m still hung up on why you never reciprocated my numerous attempts to contact you in the last year or so. Was it because you thought I would try to bombard you with Christian morals? I don’t have the balls. Did you think I was going to talk down to you? Was I going to act as though I was somehow above you? I may have once had the ignorant air of a person who stumbled upon some newfound truth, holding my head high as I boasted some groundbreaking revelation of truth and morality. But, I think, I’ve grown up quite a bit since then.  Or were you afraid that I would just slam you for everything you’ve done to me? Maybe I would tell you how hurt I am by all the royally fucked up things you’ve done to me? It’s possible.

But if I know me (and, although occasionally surprised, I am learning me better and better all the time), I probably just wanted to connect. Just wanted to see how you were. I most likely just wanted to find some point of empathy, maybe simple sympathy, and express to you that you are loved. I might have even mustered the courage to ask if I could pray for anything specific for you. The thing is, Phil, I still love you.

And that’s probably a big to do in terms of why I don’t know how to feel. I’m notoriously forgiving. One of my biggest passions is reconciliation. Yet, this situation was beyond my reach. As many times as I reached out to you, and maybe even a time or two extra, you denied my attempts to connect. You (very apparently) wanted no such talk, no such reconciliation, no such connection.

Probably, Phil, I didn’t write this letter so much for you as I did for myself (never mind all of the debate of afterlife and whether or not you can actually read this, or even if you would care to). If the truth were told (which seems to be the theme here), I also wrote it for your friends and my family. Because I wanted to let everyone know that I’m here, still trying to figure out how I feel about this whole mess. I don’t miss you. I wouldn’t know what to miss, really. You treated me horribly the majority of the time we spent together. From childhood, even until death, you never really had an honest moment with me. I never saw the “real Phillip Parker.” I only caught glimpses of whom you tried to portray. I only saw the empty shell, never the pearl.

And I’m not sorry for this. I can imagine the backbiting that might arise within this “family” as a result of my writing this out. I’m well accustomed to the fact that I am not good enough for the side you hail from, if only for the fact that I am my father’s son. I’m not deceived into believing that I matter to them more than another excuse to pass the buck, or to find someone to criticize. It’s all I’ve ever really known. The plague has even affected my own sister. She hasn’t talked to me in well over a year.

Maybe I’m using your death as an excuse to air out my feelings about all of the dysfunction we grew up in. God knows I’d take one.

Or maybe I’m just saying some things that have needed to be said for a long time in the only way I really know how. Maybe, once I let this go, I’ll be able to grieve the loss of another soul I came in contact with and grew to love. Maybe I’ll find some peace.

Whatever the case may be, I hope you have found the Truth. And that you have been made whole and freed from the pain and demise of human error. I hope that you have been found by Love and saved by Grace. And I certainly hope you are at peace.

Sincerely, and with all I know how to give right now,
Aaron Paul Quinn

Friday, March 30, 2012

New website...

It's way too late to be awake.

I've been working on a new website! check it out...

http://moonlightrecKordz.com

Not to say I won't blog here anymore... Not that I will blog here any less either.

Friday, August 19, 2011

Rich Pauper, Poor Prince... And some other stuff

BEFORE YOU READ!!!

Open a new tab. Go to http://soulill.bandcamp.com . Click the picture of the man with the baby. Click the play icon for the first track... and then come back here and continue reading.

-----

A new blog. A new day.
Things have been rough, but I'm feeling better.
I'm jobless, going on 1 solid month. Late on rent.
But I'm feeling better.
Maybe I have a false sense of "better," that is dependent on my twisted perception of "success."

Or, maybe things are getting better.

-----



Tonight, I was a featured guest on http://kouvradio.com. My new single (http://soulill.bandcamp.com) got some play. I got to freestyle with a couple emcees live on interweb radio. We had something like 15 for sure listeners.

-----

When I finished mixing "Rich Pauper, Poor Prince," I wasn't all that impressed. After I showed it to a couple musician friends, and after they complimented the mix, I was suddenly aware that I had really done a decent job. I became so eager to release this new marvel. I wanted the world to bear witness. And it's probably a good thing I got a little hype around it. It's motivated me to push forward with this so-called passion of mine. This: music.

And I still have doubts. I wonder if I will get up to two sales by next week. It's only $2 and you can get the instrumental with it. If it's really that good (which I keep hearing...) that should be no problem, right? I don't really know.

My ego kicks in, and I have this wrestling match inside. "I could have done better." "These people are just my friends. That's why they say it's good." "What's wrong with people? Why hasn't anyone bought this?" "What kind of friends do I even have?" And it gets worse.

And then, even as I'm typing, I realize how little that stuff matters. I started this because I wanted to spread the Truth. And i wanted to do it in a way that was accessible. I wanted to be just me, open, vulnerable, and real; and hopefully convince some people to see Jesus. If not in me, then through me. Or even around me. Or vastly far away from me. But, hopefully, to see Him nonetheless. To see Him as He really is, and not as I imagine to know Him.

-----


It felt good to get that out.

Maybe I'm feeling better because I see my wife and I actually working on our relationship... consciously, and actively. Maybe things really are better.

I keep fighting the idea that it's all just a show we're putting on to avoid dealing with some ugly so-called truth about our relationship. This repulsive idea that we are wasting each other's time or that we're wasting our own. It's a substantial portion of the giant looming shadow over my shoulder.

I sometimes wonder what would happen if I turned a MAG-LITE on that shadow. If I could shine a huge light into it, what part of it would be real, and what part would vanish?

My honest guess is that most of it would be gone with even the smallest LED. Even one that was only lit at half it's potential.

Why do I box with my shadows? Why not hit the light switch on? Selah.

-----

I've got the word out to about 20 different blog sites. I read a tweet from Lisa Davis (some A&R I follow on Twitter) that said an artist should get their music out to at least 100 blogs. And then, expect about 10-20 of them to cover it.

Whew!

Makes me think I should get a publicist.

-----

I'm pretty excited for what's around the bend. With family. With music... I don't see much hope in my relationship with God. But, I feel something changing... And I'm holding on, even to what I can't see.

-----

Right now, some drunken fool is "hoo hooooooing" outside. I'd like to borrow his voice box for a few hours. Maybe accidentally lose it somewhere.

-----

I'm off to catch the MAX train in about 3.5 hours. The diapers just finished drying, so I can put my dirties in and take a shower before I nap. The wife let me know a while ago that I won't be getting one on the train.

We have a WEEZER CONCERT TO GO TO TOMORROW! I hope I can maintain for the night! I'm pretty stoked about this. We might try to go dressed as Buddy Holly and Mary Tyler Moore. Depends if we can find her a good shirt and figure out what I should wear, too.

Ahhh... my head is ready for the pillow.

-----

I hope my scattered blogs provide some entertainment for you readers. Welcome to my thoughts translated via keystroke. I hope your ____ goes well.

Let me know how you like Rich Pauper, Poor Prince!

Saturday, August 6, 2011

Mania, Misjudgement, and Palabras Malas

So, this is what it looks like to be manic. The idea that I could have such an issue never crossed my mind until about half an hour ago. But so much of my life and my struggle makes sense to me now.

(Quoted from Wikipedia):
A manic episode is defined in the American Psychiatric Association's diagnostic manual as a period of seven or more days (or any period if admission to hospital is required) of unusually and continuously effusive and open elated or irritable mood, where the mood is not caused by drugs or a medical illness (e.g., hyperthyroidism), and (a) is causing obvious difficulties at work or in social relationships and activities, or (b) requires admission to hospital to protect the person or others, or (c) the person is suffering psychosis.[9]

How do I die to this? I've been awake for almost 44 hours with only brief nap times in between. I've been distracted since I can remember. I make messes so quickly and easily, you would think I was an animal-- lacking the cognitive ability to conceive the consequences of my disregard for proper placement and care of items of value. I leave shit around and I don't take care of things, even things that are special to me.

I find my emotions are often exaggerated. I'm either in a great mood (more likely with strangers), or I'm finding myself irritated (with loved ones) and unable to pinpoint why. Sure, I know what I find frustrating, but why do I let it bother me so?

I've lost so much weight in the last few months.

I've gone on self-pleasing binges with cigarettes, and alcohol, and weed, and porn.

My relationship with my wife is looking hopeless-- completely destroyed by decisions I've made in the past, and my lack of ability to meet her where she's at. I'm often so busy judging her for being so self-seeking, that I miss my own narcissistic tendency (at least at the time).

I want to rap. I have so many grandiose ideas of how I will impact with the world with this amazing gift that god has given me. I never follow through, though. I'm sitting on songs that are over 2 years old. I get new ideas, bigger ideas, all the time. They are piled in a stack of what I haven't achieved. And that feeling. I have completely fostered that feeling of vague importance mixed with disappointment. And that feeling has kept me from my family, my friends, and the people I love.

And I'm so tired it seems like my brain is literally made of Jell-O. My head hurts. And I can physically feel this dull, wobbly sensation in the center of my skull, but I can't tell if it's my soul or my body.

And it's like I'm fighting it. It's like my defenses are confused, and my troops have turned to friendly fire for lack of understanding the enemy. So I fight the feeling of tired. And I fight the knowledge of necessity for rest. And I press on.

And I could sit here and try to conjure up some bold and insightful meaning or reason why I'm so desperately self-destructive. But upon have received such a vision into my own neuropsychology, I realize that no dreamt-up self-diagnosis would alleviate my own curiosity or dissatisfaction with my current state.

This I know: I am sick.

I have to try to close my eyes before the sun comes up and the traffic starts clamoring outside my main-road, bedroom window. I need to try to find sleep. Imaginably, I will receive phone calls in the next few hours, prompting me to arise and face the day.

----

On a completely other topic: I am capable of thinking and writing this way. I'm not being insincere. This is genuine and authentic AP shit right here.

As was my letter to my "friends" after many months of having their backs turned on me because of my sin against  another friend. I was charged with not being real in my letter. I was told that it didn't sound like me.

And while I realized later that there was a discrepancy with some terminology I used regarding my sin and the nature thereof, I am still struggling to forgive those people who so Christlessly rejected me in my time of need.

And this issue came up because I write this blog, these raps, poems, and even that letter from an informed, intellectual, and broken state. Sometimes enlightened, but often slightly fucked. And I don't see how  (no matter what my sin) someone could claim that a work of words, extending from an artist who struggles to comprehend and actualize the value  and meaning and purpose of words, could be so misjudged.

----

I said the word fuck. I don't care about your man-made-road-to-holiness anymore. After trying to walk down that road, it's a wonder I even care to walk at all.

I don't love you right now. Any of you. And that's just damned honesty. And that's just poetic irony.

Thanks for reading. I feel like swearing a lot, and it's getting brighter. Probably time to call it.

-=soul.ILL=-

August 6th, 2011
5:54 am
(time of post)

Friday, July 29, 2011

Notes in My Journal...

I'm not going to explain. Just want to share where I'm at. Comments disabled on this one, too. If you want to talk to me about it, you can email or facebook me. Love you as much as I know how...

-=AP=-




Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Rich Pauper, Poor Prince

Some new lyrics in the works...

I find /beauty in the little inconsistencies in life
_ no hesitations got me up late nights
_ I shed a tear because the struggle got me here
and with/out it, I wonder what I might be like

_ some type of lifeless, loveless mess
hand /caught on the temptress' dress, I digress
_ but it's about time to free that mind
mean that rhyme and be that shine, so one time


I'll be the /_ rich pauper _ the poor prince
and if the /shoe fits, I'll probably cop it soon as I can pay rent
_ collect the payment at the end of my day
and praise /God because He made me this way





and it's a /struggle .,. I got a lot I want to say
sounds of /silence got em talking away, "it's okay"
_so try to play me like a broken Nintendo
it /won't work .,. no matter how how dope these men blow

See me at the show and say hello, nod a head at me, fel/low
and we can meet up on the sidewalk and flow
try talking slow, but my jargons quick
and thick like asphalt, hot making it stick

_ pockets full of lent _ rockets heaven bound
_ jot the betterment _ God sent, leather bound
_ not significant _ I'm not better now
_ got the rhythm it's magnificent whatever sound

_ off and on, _ lost and gone
_ found in town pounding mountains down to lawns
_ surrounding pawns _ flanking fakes
_ the clowns are wrong so I _raise the stakes


To be the/_ rich pauper _ the poor prince
and if the /shoe fits, I'll probably cop it soon as I can pay rent
_ collect the payment at the end of my day
and praise /God because He made me this way



_ Who got the right to first refuse it in this music
listen /cool kids I ain't stupid, I improve with time and prove it
rhyming /fluent climbing through it till I'm standing on the top
_ a new year, and you can't wait to hear the bomb drop

_ so who's dropping the ball, I'm still on top of it all
_ rhyming more proper than ya'll finding on top at the mall
_ still you coppin them all, flailing and floppin
in fall/ fashion .,. yo is that what you call smashin?

_ I'm all passion, and blastin the fiberglass
like cars /crashing from driving too fast, you find the rhyme and you laugh
_ It's prime time that you ask and do math,
cuz you /rapping is a flag at half mast, true dat

_ with boom bap, yo who's that they say he need
a new /hat and yo his shoes are too old but he's cold
when he flaps jaw raps he haw you play the ass
crack a /joke and stay literate, ill and plus legitimate

_ you get it yet? it's a sentence for life
run /on and tell that, and autotune your new life
_ you do right, I do like I know best
and praise /God I got a treasure in my chest, aw yes


I'll be the /_ rich pauper _ the poor prince
and if the /shoe fits, I'll probably cop it soon as I can pay rent
_ collect the payment at the end of my day
and praise /God because He made me this way




_ so what's my net worth? unknown and unheard
repping open microphone sessions still blessin with
One /Word, One Truth, One Life, One Way
one /Lover of my soul, ill so no other would stay

_ "no wonder he sways when the wind blows," they say
"come on over here and learn to walk this way, " but wait
You oppress the poor with your political support
and beg to differ claiming morals got you doing it some more

_ see I'm all for Life like no other
_ I think a solid family's one father and one mother
_ but when you start talking political your story gets
pre/dictable and ripped with holes you tore in your own brothers

_ give more to the poor, or watch the welfare rates soar
ex/tend arms to the woman your law labeled a whore
love labor is giving birth to old truth for new life
and /many want to sing the song, so few that get the tune right


To be the /_ rich pauper _ the poor prince
and if the /shoe fits, I'll probably cop it soon as I can pay rent
_ collect the payment at the end of my day
and praise /God because He made me this way

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Better; then God.

Another hard night. I found myself weeping, shaking the bed. I've been unable to get a decent night's sleep for some nights now. Tonight, as I was bawling, I could see my own anger.

This is not anything new to me. God's been working on anger in my heart for a long time. I have lots of stories of ways that God has addressed my anger, and taught me about love and forgiveness. WHY DOES IT KEEP COMING UP? Must not be a done deal yet.

Tonight, it was like I saw all these short, silent video clips portraying different hurts and my negative reactions to those pains. It felt like someone or something was pulling on my (emotional) heart through the center of my (physical) chest, and almost lifting me off the bed.

This is a little hard to describe, and I'm probably a little scattered (it's my Nth night in a row staying up so late... 1:44am now), but I'll give it a try.

In the last week I have felt so much sorrow. It's like digging deep and hitting some wellspring that seems to overflow! I haven't ever felt sorrow so intense as I have in recent days. I have spent hours weeping over things I had forgotten, and turning them over to God soon thereafter. Then, walking out of the bathroom (where I was weeping), I walked right into an argument with my wife (that I may have started). This seemed to lead me right back to a place of intense sorrow.

I have also experienced anger on levels that have me a little concerned. I have even envisioned myself beating a person (that I have known a very long time and love) black and blue in the face-- just to let them know how angry I am. In my split-second fantasy, I felt no remorse! That scared me tonight to the point of facing my anger, and telling God how powerless I feel against it. I started to confess that I think I know better than God how things ought to be.

I still couldn't sleep, and every few minutes the first stanza of this poem repeated in my head. 

So I wrote it, in hopes to find some rest. I hope you enjoy (if you read it at all).


----

"Better; then God."

I,
you,
he and she,
they, and
we all think we know better;
then God.

Maybe
if all stuff would change, go
according to my likes,
and stop challenging my every inkling;

maybe
if I would surrender,
cease fighting your preference,
and follow your thinking;

maybe
if people were like you
and I, would refuse their selfish ways
to try another vantage;

maybe
if all there was to do
was have our way always;
then God would figure it out.

We know better.
At least,
we ought to.

Surely
my tastes will change,
as well as my thoughts;

my will will wane
while your tastes change
like our thoughts;

people are all ready,
like us, for someone
to see it through their eyes;

our way always
would find us surprised...

...then,
God.

-----



LOVE.
-Ape-

P.S.
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