jason reynolds

Whenever I ask an artist, or entrepreneur what they’re up to, the stock response is, “On my grind,” or, “Grinding hard, man.” And, yes, I too am a “grinder,” but when I looked up the actual definition(s) for grind, I was faced with a dilemma — what kind of “grind” am I on?

The definitions of the verb, grind:

1. grind: v, reduce something to small particles or powder by crushing it.

2. grind: v, rub, or cause to rub together gratingly.

3. grind: v, move noisily and laboriously, especially against a countering force.

4. grind: v, rotate the hips.

I’m going with number three.

And sometimes number four.

(Hey, what can I say.)

DEFINITELY not number one.

Those of you who know me, know that I have a healthy obsession with Bob Marley. From my father playing Babylon By Bus while driving me to elementary school, to me discovering the Kaya LP in the basement, and spinning it on the record player, to my best friend Aaron’s father letting me borrow the Exodus CD, to my cousin Eric expanding my knowledge past the A-sides and hits, to my homeboy Thomas and I talking about him in college as if Bob Marley was a major.  So when it comes to the late legend, needless to say, I know a lot. At least I thought I did.

The new documentary, Marley, shed some light on tons of things I had no clue about. I wont really go into any of it here, because I don’t want to undercut anyone’s movie-going experience. But EVERYONE needs to go see it. In the theater, when I went, there were tons of old white people, young asians, a few Rastas, some young black kids, men, women, boys, girls, everybody. Bob was for the people. ALL the people.

Anyway…the point of this post is to explain what I learned from the movie…well, really, from his life. And what that is, is that fearlessness is paramount, not just when it comes to being successful, but when it comes to actualizing and fulfilling your purpose. You have to know you know you know you know. And on top of that, discipline has to be a key element in your life. A cornerstone of your personality. Excellence has to be a habit, and if you can make that the case, fear becomes even more absurd.

Why fear the house will fall, when you’ve taken the time to place each brick carefully?

GO SEE THE MOVIE, GO SEE THE MOVIE, GO SEE THE MOVIE. The music, as awesome as it is, was only an extension of his mind, and his heart. But his life and mission should be dissected for gems, to once more show us the power of God, and the power of humanity.

(Preaching to myself.)

Check out the trailer, here.

Yesterday I called my mother because…well, she’s my mother, and I love her. So anyway, I called and we had our usual check-in, check-up, right before one of us (her) checks out and goes to bed. In the middle of talking about her locking her keys in her car, she digressed into telling me that she has given away just about all my old clothes. Jeans, tees, hats, suits, sweaters, and shoes. Well, not all the shoes. She saved one pair. An old pair of Chuck Taylor’s that I wore all through college. The shoes are literally unwearable, almost as if my feet were sulfuric bombs that exploded in the flimsy canvas sneakers, turning them into mush. They definitely smelled like it…make a dump smell like a daisy.

Anyway, my mom explained that these shoes she refused to throw away, because she honestly feels that someday, someone will want to pay a “pretty penny” for them, when I’m famous.

Seriously.

Though thoughts of fame and admiration float around my head occasionally (just being honest), I’m more tickled by my mother’s faith and almost childlike naïveté, to believe my worn out sneakers could someday be a treasure to a person who considered themselves…”a fan.” I mean, I’d buy Langston Hughes’s hard-bottoms for a small fortune. I’d give an arm for one I Baldwin’s neckties. But my old converses? Me?

Imagine that. Better yet, let me imagine it.

My man Matt Pryor said it best in this song. This is definitely how I’ve been feeling lately…”’cause they can go to hell.”

All the hearts are breaking over this

A testament to targets that we missed

If the highest mountain is a personal pursuit

I wish the best to you

It’s better to be last than be too late

Stronger to have fallen and recovered from mistakes

Some days I stumble when these words, they have no weight

Then I get up again

Don’t let the bastards get you down
Don’t let the bastards get you down
They can go to hell

And I can disappoint or disappear

Of this thought I’m painfully aware

Sometimes a lack of options is the drive that keeps me here

That’s no way to be

Don’t let the bastards get you down
Don’t let the bastards get you down
Cause they can go to hell

So, check out these images, below. They are all peppered throughout the latest issue of New Yorker Magazine, randomly. No, there is NO Trayvon Martin story in the issue. As a matter of fact, there isn’t even an article that comes close to talking about him. Instead, what they did was randomly place “hoodied” people in the middle of stories about gas and government, baseball, America’s obsession with cowboys and Indians, and how attractive the existential writer, Albert Camus was.

Brilliant.

I’ve been researching this bike for over a year now, ad I finally decided to pull the trigger and get one!

Introducing…the Brompton.
The perks:

1.) My bike will never be stolen because it can fold up and come with me inside places.

2.) If it starts raining, I can always fold it up and jump on the train or in a cab.

3.) I can take it everywhere I travel.

4.) Because of the design, it rides EXACTLY like a regular bike.

Get hip.

So I stumbled upon this interview that Miles Davis did for Playboy Magazine, about 50 years ago. In it, the interviewer, Alex Haley, asks Davis about how he feels about what critics say about him, and about his experiences with racism, even as a celebrity. But the most interesting part of the interview (for me) was when Haley asks him to name some of his favorite horn players. Miles names a few, like Lee Morgan, and Dizzy.

This is what followed.

PLAYBOY: Is there any special reason you didn’t mention Louis Armstrong?

DAVIS : Oh, Pops? No, why I didn’t mention him is because I was talking just about modern-jazz players. I love Pops, I love the way he sings, the way he plays — everything he does, except when he says something against modern-jazz music. He ought to realize that he was a pioneer, too. No, he wasn’t an influence of mine, and I’ve had very little direct contact with Pops. A long time ago, I was at Bop City, and he came in and told me he liked my playing. I don’t know if he would even remember it, but I remember how good I felt to have him say it. People really dig Pops like I do myself. He does a good job overseas with his personality…

Truth is, history has shown that the old guard seldom understands what the new guard is doing, but the old guard must remember that they were once new. Trust me, I listen to the radio and end up confused most of the time (because I want that old thing back), but I try not to talk down about it all, because the truth is, whether you like it or not, new spins on old things, create new movements, and new legends. You don’t have to like it. But you can critique it with grace, knowing that there’s just a generational gap, and that your opinion doesn’t have the power to strip the new of it’s validity.

Shoot, I remember my mother telling me that her parents thought this young, cocky, twenty-something, Martin Luther King Jr., was absolutely ridiculous! And they were right. And boy am I thankful.

(Note: See the post under this. I mean, there’s always just wackness passing as newness, as well. I ain’t talking about that. I’m talking about the young talented cats. Let them shine.)

As a matter of fact, I’d be willing to jump out there and say that A LOT of times, the new “cutting edge” thing, is wack as hell. That doesn’t mean it wont spawn something great, but often times, the first manifestation of a lightbulb moment is, for lack of a better word, trash.

For instance, my very first novel, BOOM, I wrote a few years ago when I left New York, and moved back to DC. At the time, I was feeling down and out and we all know that that’s usually when the creative juices start flowing. So I typed three months worth of work into a manuscript about a boy who wanted to try to get his journals about his depressing family, published. Yeah.

Most of the book was made up of really short journal entries, which sort of built the world he was living in. Pretty creative. I mean, I really thought I was changing the game with this one.

My agents called six months later and said, “The writing is great, but we don’t know what to do with the story.”

“Why? I responded.

“Well, Jason, because nothing really happens in it,” which means, “this really isn’t even a story!”

Creative? Yes. Good? Nope.

What’s the point I’m making? I guess, that we have to stop assuming, as artists and as consumers, that just because something is different, innovative, daring, edgy, and all the other words we use to describe art, that it’s good. As artists we have to learn to edit ourselves, and look at our work for what it really is, even when it’s crap. See the creativity in it, but look at the product, the outcome, and ask yourself, if you weren’t you, would you like it? Would you get it? Would it magnetize you? Would you buy it? Or would you be wondering what the hell is going on? Be honest.

And as consumers…we just gotta stop buying wack stuff for the sake of it being different. Poop on canvas, aint cool. No matter what.

For more on this, PLEASE watch the indie movie “Untitled” with Adam Goldberg. It’s hilarious…and on Netflix.