The things I think about when I'm writing... I mean waiting. Either way, my thoughts are quickly going to shift to how difficult this current interraction is going. I'm not sure if i like it, but then again, autocorrect hasn't been proven to increase one's receptiveness to the English language. Flatly put, I'm improving under the guise of my own reception.
I wanted to be critiqued. To have enough clout to cause others to care, but that's much easier said then done. Learning that lesson is one for the monotonous and tired all at once. Leaving all mistakes because they are backed with hidden meanings to me. No dice, but I have two.
Emeritus (/ɨˈmɛrɨtəs/; plural emeriti; abbreviation emer.) is a post-positive adjective used to designate a retired professor, bishop, or other professional. The female equivalent, emerita (/ɨˈmɛrɨtə/), is also sometimes used, but phrases such as professor emerita are not in proper usage according to Latin grammar rules.
In many cases the term is conferred automatically upon all persons who retire at a given rank. This is the usual case for retiredprofessors. In other cases, it is used when a person of importance in a given profession retires or hands over the position so that his former rank can still be used in his title.
In the United States, the word is used either as a postpositional adjective (e.g., "professor emeritus"), or as a preposition adjective (e.g., "emeritus professor"). There is a third usage, although not employed as often, in which the word follows a full title (e.g., professor of medicine, emeritus.)
It is also commonly used in business and non-profit organizations to denote perpetual status of the founder of an organization or individuals who moved the organization to new heights as a former key member on the board of directors (e.g., chairman emeritus; director emeritus; president of the board emeritus.)
In the United Kingdom and most other parts of the world, the term 'emeritus professor' is given only to a person who has already had full professorial status before he or she retired. Those with Ph.D.s or other higher degrees would not be entitled to call themselves an 'emeritus professor' upon retirement. The term "Professor Emeritus" is also recognised in the UK. The word is capitalized when it forms part of a title which is capitalized.. The word is capitalized when it joins another capitalized word.
Emereri is a compound of the prefix e- (a variant of ex-) meaning "out of" or "from" and merēre meaning "earn." The past participle ofemeritus is emereri meaning to "earn one's discharge by service."Emeritus does not necessarily indicate that the person is retired from all the duties of her/his previous positions; he/she may continue to exercise some of them.
Here's a lesson in how my mind is a little bit different then yours. Read the title. What does it say? Now I'm sure you answered 'correctly' (let me not even get into the inside of the insider that joke resides). My answer is different. Ask me about it, or don't. Either way I just did what I I I spose to!!
Why is it feelings get caught in such turmoils? Why is it even a matter of feeling? I'm sick of hearing about everyone else's feelings, because to have heard those is to ignore my own apparently. That's how it always feels presented to me anyway. The most difficult thing to impart upon another regarding the F word is that I do in fact, get it. I do understand, I do empathize...
Although at this very moment I'm not so sure, I always forget which one is which. Regardless I wonder from time to time, who's sympathizing with me? Notice I'm not looking FOR anything, just wondering in deafening silence while the soundtrack of corruption plays in the background. Hip hop taught me, TV teaches them, so why must I be misunderstood for not trusting anybody?
Anyone who matters will ultimately be cut down by my own narrow sightedness anyway.
doubt |dout|nouna feeling of uncertainty or lack of conviction: some doubt has been cast upon the authenticity of this account | they had doubts that they would ever win.verb1 [ with obj. ] feel uncertain about: I doubt my ability to do the job.• question the truth or fact of (something): who can doubt the value of these services? | [ with clause ] : I doubt if anyone slept that night.• disbelieve (a person or their word): I have no reason to doubt him.• [ no obj. ] feel uncertain, esp. about one's religious beliefs.2 [ with clause ] archaic fear; be afraid of: I doubt not your contradictions.PHRASESbeyond ( a or a shadow of a ) doubt allowing no uncertainty: you've proved it beyond doubt | they knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what made them happy.in doubt open to question: the outcome is no longer in doubt. • feeling uncertain about something: by the age of 14 he was in no doubt about his career aims.no doubt used to indicate the speaker's firm belief that something is true even if evidence is not given or available: those who left were attracted, no doubt, by higher pay. • used to introduce a concession that is subsequently dismissed as unimportant or irrelevant: they no doubt did what they could to help her, but their best proved insufficient.without ( a ) doubt indisputably: he was without doubt the very worst kind of reporter.DERIVATIVESdoubtable adjective,doubtingly adverbORIGIN Middle English: from Old French doute (noun), douter (verb), fromLatin dubitare ‘hesitate,’ from dubius ‘doubtful’ (see dubious)
I figured as I clicked on page 34 of multiple genre bending album reviews (via pitchfork.com) that it'd be best to figure out where I'm going with all this. To sum it up plainly, the matter of fact is I love well-written literature. Try as I may, I can't seem to find much more that pulls me in the same as flowery language being manipulated at an author's whim. Audio books are my absolute favorite, and the drought has come and gone. So reviews. An abundance of critiquing by critics who have something to say. This brings me to my next point, I've really only looked for opinions and conversation. People tend to have a plethora of reasons as to why the conversations need not go the way they are prone to going (I call them healthy debates.), but I find it easiest to file it under "not worthy" or some other more cryptic incredulous title.
I'm peering through lenses that have been compromised due to a lack of understanding. Critiquing those who critique what I love, in a manner I wish to develop myself someday. I tried to have others do the same for me, but I found that while I'm adept at communicating, I'd rather choose to go against the grain for sake of unpredictability. What's been predicted isn't all that groundbreaking... To me anyway.
Swallowing backhanded interactions just to remain at peace is something I've grown to come accustomed to. While uncomfortable, I can't with good reason suggest a more potent means of survival to be applied in this case. Truck on playa.
I'm disappointed because I haven't kept all my goals in line. I suppose that's to be expected when approaching things as lofty as I had in mind, with such an ambitious attitude. I'm not giving up, I'm merely acknowledging the shortcomings birthed from admirable foresight. It'll get there in time, however, I'm beginning to become more aware of my mythological father looming overhead. As we all should, with time.
I had to let this sit upward of 12 hours to flesh everything out. Not one bar written, and a whole slew of bars written. TONIGHT! I'M GONNA GET FUCKED UP!!! TONIGHT! I'M GONNA PARTY!!
I REALLY accentuated those statements, because I mean them lol Doooope!!!
As always it's open to everybody that claims they know me. Yet, I've had people claim I don't know them recently... I don't know if that would qualify them as strangers and thus, bad suggestions as houseguests, but I'm chilling.
In 2008, Interscope launched The Hamiltonization Process, a flooding of the hip-hop blogosphere in support of newly signed would-be phenom, Charles Hamilton. A well-coordinated crush of mixtapes supported by a variety of e-taste makers — 2Dopeboyz, the Smoking Section, Nah Right, On Smash, and a fledgling blog called Pigeons and Planes — aimed to position Hamilton at the forefront of rap’s consciousness, a fan favorite delivering content at light speed.
Hamilton emerged rough hewn, a sharp talent without a unifying vision. He was a ladies man (sometimes). He had demons (sometimes). He wore pink. He loved Sonic the Hedgehog. He challenged convention and sold himself as a kid making peace with being an outcast while rapping his ass off. While he possessed a loose constellation of engaging quirks and traits, they never cohered into a unified whole. Over the course of ten mixtapes and 200+ songs, The Hamiltonization Process painted Charles Hamilton as an artist who didn’t just have an idea of who he was, he had too many ideas.
In hindsight, the concept seems a deft bridge between eras, mimicking the market flooding that accompanied Lil Wayne‘s rise to stardom before the release of The Carter 3, and partially prefiguring Lil B, the social media-aided music factory that would begin assaulting the internet in the wake of The Hamiltonization Process. The formula is simple: give the people an indigestible amount of music and, regardless of quality, they’ll be fascinated. They’ll want more. Or at very least, they’ll want to know what the hell is going on.
If much of the music is good, you may wind up with Wayne, or, at least, 2 Chainz or Gucci Mane — artists who built loyal fanbases and found commercial success on the strength of mixtape material. If much of the music is bad (or, to be kind, puzzling), you may at best end up an enthralling web curio (though Lil B’s catalog, intentions, and fans could fill an essay five times the length of this one). At worst, you may get swallowed up by the infinite ether of the web.
For a time, The Hamiltonization Process seemed effective: Hamilton was featured as one of XXL’s 2009 Freshmen class (alongside a trio of chart toppers, Kid CuDi, B.o.B., and Wale, as well as the similarly mercurial Blu). His name rang throughout the vast echo chamber of the Internet, and he even served up a minor hit in “Brooklyn Girls.”
Those familiar with the hip-hop blogosphere are likely also familiar with Hamilton’s story and the precipitous downfall that followed shortly after the close of The Hamiltonization Process. For readers of a certain age, “rap blogs” and “Charles Hamilton” are impossible to divorce from one another, interconnected ideas speaking to a fading perception of taste-making ability and commercial influence. Hamilton’s demise was, unsurprisingly, chronicled and perhaps hastened by the selfsame blogs that anointed him the next to blow up (to paraphrase Kanye: they love you then they hate you).
The downfall itself has been well documented. As Hamilton’s tide crested throughout 2008 and 2009, the young man’s mercurial tendencies and knack for self-inflicted wounds peaked out of the surf. By summer 2009, Hamilton had all but ruined his stock of good will and anticipation with a slew of embarrassing videos (including a fabricated beef with Soulja Boy, losses in battles to Serius Jones and a random college kid, and a punch from a former girlfriend), dubious artistic practices, and, finally, an ugly, public spat with the mother of hip-hop’s patron saint of production, J Dilla. As his personal fortunes took a downturn, so too did his prolific and promising output, decreasing in quality and clarity as turmoil stirred.
In 2009, Rick Ross released Deeper Than Rap. After facing a year of controversy surrounding his past as a corrections officer and a publicized (but ultimately limp) battle with 50 Cent, Ross curated his own surprise coronation, pronouncing invincibility across fourteen lavish tracks that poured the concrete for his subsequent reign, now in its fourth year.
In Ross’ place, some rappers may have chosen to address accusations head on, dedicating songs and whole albums to their exoneration (throughout his career Nas has perhaps been the king of this approach, most recently with the soul-bearing “Bye Baby” off of Life Is Good; Eminem also rode this strategy to commercial success and restored reputation on his last full length album—with a title that laid the last blow on the deadest of horses: Recovery). Ross opted for the steamroller approach, obliterating any shred of vulnerability or emotional depth for the bulletproof caricature that would culminate in Ross’ invincible statement of opulent disdain, “B.M.F.”
In just over three minutes, Ross inhabits the jackhammer temple of Lex Luger’s now ubiquitous beat, luxuriating in the pillars of his empire: contempt for competition, expensive automobiles, and cocaine-laced spoils in abundance. Though Ross unleashes far more lavish statements on Deeper Than Rap andTeflon Don (the album for which “B.M.F.” served as a surprise lead single), none are as succinct and sinister as “B.M.F.” Like Scarface without the moral coda, “B.M.F.” plays as a towering tribute to unimpeachable kingpin dreams fulfilled.
In the wake of “B.M.F.,” enemies and detractors could shout “fraud!” in Ross’s direction with the effect of rubber bullets volleyed at tank. Ross had built an unbreakable wall, founded on an outsized personality and an utter unwillingness to relent from a consistent image.
In crafting Deeper Than Rap and Teflon Don, Ross doubled down. He ditched complexity for complete adherence to a persona—one utterly familiar to the modern rap fan, given new life with its proponent’s unflappable bravado (and outlandish imagery).
And perhaps that is the point: in an era of un-erasable histories, the best medicine is to simply soldier on. Ross addressed allegations by beefing up the bluster, building a persona so outsized it consumed the rubber bullets of reality. Rick Ross became too big for the truth to matter. Ross’ audacious self-aggrandizement may only have been possible because he had already proven himself commercially viable, but, even had his high-level prospects been hollowed by controversy, he still could have maintained die hard fans. By creating a breathing, detailed persona—a livable character and world for listeners to inhabit, if not necessarily relate to—Ross ensured himself a core fan base. That he did so while improving technically as a rapper and displaying an impeccable ear for beats should not be forgotten, but these facets fed into the aura of an immovable don.
For an artist whose work hinged so often on personal details, such a strategy might appear ill-fitting. Hamilton, however, possessed a gift for inhabiting character and illuminating elements of his life in great detail, suggesting the sort of imagination that would lend itself to a more thoughtful creation than Ross’ obese Tony Montana. This steamroller approach doesn’t preclude soul-bearing; in Hamilton’s case, perhaps it should. In his most recent music—largely ignored beyond the circles that buoyed him and continue to hope against hope that he can get his act in order—Hamilton has expressed (often cryptically) the personal turmoil that has embroiled him since Interscope days.
Unfortunately, the spectacle of Hamilton’s psychic life laid bare may be too much for the artist to overcome. A quick look at the description on his chaotic blog suggests a young man continuing to tussle with demons in public (however dwindling a public it may be):
“Charles Hamilton, better known as Sonic the Hedgehog, was a hero. His positive messages in his music attracted pessimistic minded, brainwashed teenagers worldwide, and though it wasn’t good for business, associates respected what he was aiming for. A bright future for the world, through music.”
Before the road to musical redemption can be mounted, it appears aspects of Hamilton’s personal life will need to be sorted—though great music has a way of accompanying great misery, the latter doesn’t always produce the former. Fans of untapped potential should root for Charles. Too much ill will may have clogged connections between Hamilton and his audience, and, unfortunately, some view him through a lens of mockery and extreme doubt (particularly in light of recent appearances that suggest, for one reason or another, Charles may be detached from daily realities).
Myth building—and, ultimately, branding—is a clear key to generating and maintaining a passionate fan base. In the last five years a bevy of artists—Odd Future, Wiz Khalifa, Danny Brown, Curren$y, A$AP Rocky—have rolled out music under specific aesthetics which, even when they don’t manifest themselves sonically, guide listeners, informing them on the character of the creator. Indie rock and EDM acts have understood this sort of image creation for years–look no further than lauded dance-mavens Daft Punk for a lesson in both sonic and visual definition almost unparalleled in hip-hop.
Currently, Ross stands atop the heap as a shining example of strong self-branding as the ultimate deterrent. A unified aesthetic doesn’t guarantee success; many artists with clearly aesthetics fail nonetheless. Music, of course, is a mine field. Whether you’ve figured out who you are as an artist or not, you might still fail. You might succeed; the game is cruelly random. Commitment to a firmly expressed self—whether it’s true to your actual persona or not—is as good away to increase your odds (and lay the groundwork for longevity) as any. A consistent front—plentiful music, a clear vision, and focus—could lift Charles Hamilton back into good graces, helping him achieve the musical balance only hinted at in his promising, erratic early work. In the era of the ageless internet, there’s always time for a comeback.
Interesting comparisons... I've been asking myself a lot of questions surrounding the phenomenon that is Rick Ross and his acceptance by the mainstream. I'm going to leave it there for now, but seriously...
critic |ˈkritik|noun1 a person who expresses an unfavorable opinion of something: critics say many schools are not prepared to handle the influx of foreign students.2 a person who judges the merits of literary, artistic, or musical works, esp. one who does so professionally: a film critic.ORIGIN late 16th cent.: from Latin criticus, from Greek kritikos, fromkritēs ‘a judge,’ from krinein ‘judge, decide.’
critique |kriˈtēk|nouna detailed analysis and assessment of something, esp. a literary, philosophical, or political theory.verb ( critiques , critiquing , critiqued ) [ with obj. ]evaluate (a theory or practice) in a detailed and analytical way: the authors critique the methods and practices used in the research.ORIGIN mid 17th cent.(as a noun): fromFrench, based onGreek kritikē tekhnē ‘critical art.’
Honestly though, for those that enjoy music the way I do, *Looks around* there's something about being able to connect with others on that same level. Knowingly doing so, it's pretty... Awesome. I'm not at all happy with the way my grammar is working itself out today, but that's why I'm practicing.
Moving right along to the point of this entire post. Girls love singers, guys love rappers. Music is tied up somewhere in between the two, I think.(I'm pausing now because I feel as if me being the biggest human being around at the moment is grounds for me to get up and stop what I'm doing to help some elderly white woman out. I didn't budge, which was me going against reflexology... I feel sick.) The point being you love what isn't accessible to you. In most cases, even mine sometimes.
so the A grade Charles Hamilton gets from me, is in itself earned. I'm not going to get into why I like him so much, how ill I think he is, or how much more of a trailblazer he's been than say anyone in some extreme limelight. I will however point out that while my love for music is stabilized throughout various catalogues, it is the access and everlasting depth that I find appealing about Charles.
So I quote, cause that's what I do when I'm not creating things to quote in my near distant future. I can quote sh1t in my sleep, honestly, and I think I do. So when I was rapping random lyrics from Charles out loud, thinking about how Lupe's album is around the corner, I immediately associated a rhyme/bar (y'all need to catch up with the lingo, or I will be forever in a ditch with a broken shovel.) that made sense and was timely in it's context. that line is "Motherfuck Atlantic, I want Lupe." Rapping it out loud was easy enough. Typing it while half-sleep well passed my bedtime was somewhat of a challenge.
Now the point... After I quoted my nigga online I got a notification. Late night notifications are a no no in my world so I was a bit nervous I'll admit. However the nervousness turned to excitement, embarrassment, excitement, appreciation, and finally more embarrassment. Only to be followed with this thought. Charles Hamilton just hit me up (randomly again) on Facebook, to correct me on HIS lyrics I posted on MY WALL!
So yeah, some of you enjoy music. Some love artists, I do both and I have more reasons to than you, but we'll chill there. Charles Hamilton is dope because he's outside the confines of what "SUPPOSED TO BE" is supposed to be. An interaction so simple; yet, still something so rare in today's musical climate.
I wasn't even planning on doing this, but I was inspired. I'm completely turned off in the close mindedness of others at the moment. So keeping my distance is as much a technique to help me as it is to aid you all (heh). Besides keeping it clean, while gritty on the edges, during cleanup time is no easy task.
I guess that could be what Aesop Rock was alluding to when he names his album None Shall Pass... I know, I know, who?? I'm too comfortable to feel a need to explain anymore.
"You don't make the same mistakes. You just straight up, be honest. Assess but don't assess to the point that you miss out or you become judgmental. You rely on your synergy with others, you let that guide you and hopefully God helps too. Hopefully with a mind and wit to be able to and you will be able to navigate through it and figure it out." "I put things up for judgment when I don't feel certain about it. The things I feel certain about, I trust that and I go with that usually." ^ ^ ^ Listening to whatever it is you would like to call it deep within yourself is important. Not just for assured authenticity. Although that is important to me, I'm speaking generally about bad decisions made when going off the cuff.
Yes, sometimes to a detriment. Sometimes certain people will take, take, take and then expect you to continue giving. I don't care who you are, but if you give, give, give, you have to be in some sort of relationship where you feel this value coming back.
If you feel there's no value coming back, whether it's appreciation, acknowledgment, or actual things, when you start, then hopefully you wise up and you cut off. You've given. Once you do that then people expect it and they get mad and ornery and angry and you become a perfectionist asshole. That's the perils of giving gifts. And they also forget sometimes.
Guess who said this quote, then look at the title. Yes I'm icy-like.
On the late night of the 8th, and early morning of the 9th I made decisions in my brain. I deducted like I normally do, and created a series of possible outcomes extreme and quite normal. At this point, I sat and marinated with the thoughts I had created. Feeling more pull towards those thoughts bringing me to a negative unwanted outcome. I don't know what it is, or if there is any reason to believe I'm connected with the wellbeing of how I'd like a night of mine to go, but when I get the feeling, I know. So why ignore what's been proven to have worked? The answer lies not within myself... Actually it does. It's my need to please. Excuse me, try to please. I will not ignore the innate ability I've homegrown in solitude any longer. Can't! Doing so has lead to a not so friendly dent in a companion I carry around so my ass has checks. The need to say something is dissipating and the desire for justice is full fledged. Never mind that the time spent was literally on the 'fool's edge'.
I find it funny that I took my time and allocated it in a way that was detrimental to my thought process. Weed and stupidity don't mix. So why mix them ever again? I feel like a light tap to either thigh using either hand, is gesture enough to explain EXACTLY why. This is me annoyed at something, but unwilling to allow the annoyance to seep into a dismissal of tightly knit character. I'm still gonna blast niggas though.
OFten. Just an incredible example of how amazing he truly is.
"he boogie he bigheaded. Would you please stop talking bout how my dick-head is?"
I'm just saying, Kanye got a track record on here, and who can REALLY challenge Kanye's work? Are these questions basked in sarcasm?
No, the point is he's nice. He's better than you and I, and he knows it. While accepting the love and hate, he's still able to make them both his with reflection, inflection, then EXpression. This is too much... Kanye you're awesome.
stubborn |ˈstəbərn|adjectivehavingorshowingdogged determination not to change one's attitude orposition on something, esp. in spite of good arguments or reasons to do so:he accused her of being a silly, stubborn old woman.• difficult to move, remove, or cure: the removal of stubborn screws.
In my own proclamations, I see that I have cast a net meant to embrace unique admiration, and failed. It's nothing personal, and it hardly ever is. However, it has come to badly injure the images that once hung up for EVERYONE to see. I'm pretty sure they've since been taken down, and I'm not sure how I feel about it... Well, I'm blogging right?
bemuse |biˈmyo͞oz|verb [ with obj. ] (usu. as adj. bemused)puzzle, confuse, or bewilder (someone): her bemused expression | she was accepted with bemused resignation by her parents as a hippie.DERIVATIVESbemusedly |-zidlē|adverb,bemusement nounORIGIN mid 18th cent.: from be- (as an intensifier) + muse.
Great F'ing word! The context it was used in trumped anything I can come up with. Yes, I'm buried under uniform bemusement, just trying not to conform to it.