I Remember the Day I Died

I remembered when I had died.

That’s right I had died.

Not in the figurative sense.

Literally.

Dead.

No heart beat.

No pulse.

Stopped breathing.

Cold.

In the cradle of Dead.

Let me describe the experience.

It was like a weakening.

From all over.

My breaths had grown shallow.

My eyes began excepting a quickly approaching sleep.

My legs and hands grew heavy.

Then a shadow like cold,

slow but transitioning crept over me.

Then my words began to slur.

And in my fight to stay alive my eyes tried to capture the last images of a living world.

Sparks of blurred light danced around my body.

Later I was told that this experience was my body going into shock.

But it was more than shock.

Now I can call it beautiful

But then, it was consumingly bright.

And as the people who were present on the street gathered around me

I heard everything.

I saw everything.

And that’s when I knew I was dying.

You just know.

Like when the elderly say they’re going to sleep and it’s like different the last time.

Or when you walk out of your house and you know that it’s going to be one of those days.

It was almost like that but much more.

You see, my heart gently started to fade into the background noise of the world.

And finally I was cold.

Ice cold.

The blood that poured from my body no longer mattered.

Part of me thought that it felt good.

The sensation.

It was like singing the gospel before a pulpit of angles

When that shiver hits giving you those chills that run down the back of your spine.

And at the one exacting moment

My body felt warm.

In that moment, it wasn’t the sensation of my life flowing from my body that I sensed,

It wasn’t my pure essence flowing from me.

It was something else.

And all the while that I was dying in the streets of Harlem

I was living again in heaven.

And while part of me was calling for GOD to keep me safe,

Me bellowing to God to take care of my spirit,

To stop the physical pain,

There was a calming.

Like a second consciousness telling me to, “Shhhhhhhhh.”

And that’s when I closed my eyes one last time.

I closed my eyes.

And I was warm.

Warm like I was when I was in my mother’s womb.

Because at that point, I remembered what it was like.

Nurturing.

Healing.

Complete.

I heard everything.

The people on the street,

the crying of women,

radio and cell phones,

the police asking questions about what happened,

the ambulance coming,

the doctors testing my blood type,

hurried feet squeaking floors,

the metal and wheels banging,

the machines beeping,

the nurses clapping when they heard a heart beat.

But there was one thing that I remember more so than any other sound.

One voice.

My voice.

I asked,

“Can I go back?”

In my “No light at the end of the tunnel” state I asked GOD,

Can I go back?

And then I woke up.

Alive.

In my stay at the hospital I was numb.

Not from the drugs given to me to hide the physical pain

But from the fact that I was sent back to this simply by asking.

Why I asked to stay?

I still don’t know.

Why I was allowed to come back?

I don’t know.

But since my arrival I have noticed

every religious and spiritual person has been telling me what God has told them.

What they have heard from God.

Everything  according to God.

What I am suppose to do. According to GOD.

To Be.

To say.

To see.

What God had ordained for me and all of mankind.

But the words don’t sound like what I heard.

They don’t feel like what I felt.

The voice is different.

What I hear is like asking for directions and giving a recipe for Stir Fried Rice.

You know its wrong from the first word.

Preachers, and Popes, Ministers, and Muslims

They all sound empty.

They sound wrong.

Try as they might, they fall short of the voice I heard in my death.

It’s somewhat sad and comical

Cause none of these Motherfuckers have a clue.

No clue.

Not one fucking clue.

I walk along streets and see rows of dapperly dressed men and women

Noble men in black and white collars

Men draped in silk and embroidered gold

Staffs of reflective substance

Statues and Stained Glass images haunting and still

Halls filled with shouts , and hymns, the Negro spiritual ringing to the roof of  heaven

and I sense in it all great emptiness.

Oh my God, why is it so empty to me?

Why is it so hollow?

Absorbing?

Enveloping?

And people; week after week continue to feel good.

They feel rejuvenated.

But when I walk into those halls of holy healing

I feel sick.

I feel the opposite.

At home God talks to me.

No musical scales and screams

No preacher prattle

No reminders of Satan and his fall from grace.

No plates filled with the evils called money to be counted behind closed

doors by accountants.

Accountants dressed in Armani and Alligator shoes.

No overlapping calls of Amen.

No great book of by James or psalms upon psalms.

It’s the sun that rises in the morning to greet my opening eyes.

My breath that allows me to say, “Thank You” for another day.

The water that washes away a past life of guilt and sins

and refreshes me for a day of saintly thoughts, deeds and sanity.

It’s the wind that touches my face

And the earth underneath my feet that tells me what is right.

I may not have traveled a heaven

I may not have traveled 10 feet above the streets of Harlem.

But I see the stars more clearly now.

Angles held both my hands and my head on that night

And God had awaken me gently into a World that is still sleeping.

And  I know I am blessed.

Everyday. 

Why am I here?

I still don’t know

But I am here everyday of my new life.

Work is the sole property of Shazza Nakim and is published with written permission by the artist.

 (c) Copyright 2001 

REVOLUTION

I’ve seen sparks flare and rocks fly

Crashing against brows that pulsate blood

feeding

Knowledge and pride

for a tribe.

my Home,

our family.

It’s a light,

like stars,

that dance

Smack

HARD

And wakes the senses

allowing you,

and everyone present know

that THIS is reality.

Be it live or recorded

you now stand at the front line of the Revolution.

I took a side and it is Hot, and Violent, Physical

Wonderful.

This will be the re-start of that circle in Mayan history

where everything repeats because as Man and Men

we keep forgetting the struggle

That life, liberty and the over pursuit of prosperity

eventually and ultimately

kills us.

Bible Qur'an Torah taught us,

this.

We have embraced humanity’s less exorcised

and re-swallowed pea-soup of bile and blades

served up on money green platters and platinum card dreams.

Swooned and swayed to diamond jingle bells

and shook bags of sugar ‘till it dropped like its Hot.

Cars like deadly caterpillars munching on black filled pipes,

sucking hard on the excremental breast milk of Mother Earth.

People followed and realized that the beat they heard was not of the heart

but of the cellular ringtones from bill collectors calling

cursing your ass out to pay your bills.

It was a beat that burped and belched that your stomach is tight and empty

It was a hollow treble that echoed from your foreclosed home

And the hammer knocking in your neighbor’s lawn

signs reading,

… AND YOU 2 GET THE FUQ OUT.

Here everyone in the land is looking to the sky for a Superman

while rocking back and forth counting beads and molesting crosses

with dirty fingers that once traced remotes that channeled every talk show created.

in this reality sits a people who

stopped singing Negro spirituals praising Jesus …

a long time ago,

and replaced him with Pink Floyd

The gospel:

“We don’t need no education
We don’t need no thought control
No dark sarcasm in the class room
(yells) Hey, teachers! Leave those kids alone!”

Because the man got it right:

I and we were just another brick in the Wall.

Praying for simple solutions,

the devil in us turned GOD into DOG

And in return

got a nation that shit and pissed all over each other.

Funny thing about shit and piss,

it is the one true method that dogs communicate

and the World made sure we did not become pedigrees

living in our own American backyard.

Unlike thunder or like lightning, the rumble in the distance

is missing.

No more can we count on the people to carry pitch forks

German Sheppards and high pressure hoes,

or spit and slur words of hate.

This is a different time, a different place

This whole party goes beyond Race.

Mutts, junkyard and strays in our own diversity

where television sells us on the notion that Poor is Fashionable and Cheap is Cool

SPAM is caviar and Ramen noodles is part of the 4 basic food groups.

Holy Men dancing with baby boys and Women becoming famous for their anger and pain,

who could ever image a bunch of dirty kids from New Jersey’s shore

would be the welcoming ambassadors for a generation.

We look around

 and become rabbit when what little is left is thrown in the middle

of a hungry pack,

and we draw blood.

Ethnic blood

 in a frenzy, and we still can’t see that it is all Red.

Because in truth, we are dead inside.

Hollow.

A cesspool of mediocrity and mendacity.

Dank and dark even in our most enlighten moments.

Complacent like meat fried up to give the next generation heartburn and diabetes

We medicate on the idea that we are great only because we are American.

And if we turn down the music, just enough

we just might hear the scant chuckle of Shaitan

and the quite tears of GOD,

opposite ends,

opposite sides of Ying and Yang.

Like the center of the circle in history,

 this is now cause,

 this the catalyst

for

The Revolution.

Work is the sole property of Shazza Nakim and is published with written permission by the artist.

 (c) Copyright 2013 

CONDOLENCES FOR WHITNEY HOUSTON

Whitney Houston, who died on February 11, 2012 at the tender age of 48, has sold more than 170 million albums, singles and videos worldwide. She also won 2 Emmy Awards, 6 Grammy Awards, 30 Billboard Music Awards, and 22 American Music Awards add to this list BET Awards, Soul Train Awards, NAACP Image Awards, Essence Awards and People Choice Awards and you have one of the most recognized artist in America. Guinness World Records  lists Whitney Houston as "the most awarded female artist of all time," with a "total of 425 career awards as of 2010." An impressive music career, one which people would sell their soul to have a small portion of that kind of recognition. A talent recognized all over the world. A mother, a daughter, a sister, a commercial icon. She was all things commercial, perfection in her image but in the end Whitney Houston was mortal, fallible, flawed and known to be a bit of an uber- Diva. Truth of the matter is, she was a Newark, New Jersey Hood-Rat ..... and that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. This part of her life is the REAL story we need to see and talk about because the fabricated Clive Davis version, in the end, creates and makes Whitney Houston a tragic character, the Diva who fell from "commercial grace", the artist who couldn't keep it together, the woman who was bright in the light and dark in the privacy of her home the thing of tabloid falter. Disconnected from her roots in image but straight up hardcore in urban attitude and spirit, Whitney Houston carried the burden to be most unlike herself  to the World than being what I call real. They sold a fabricated STANDARD when she existed at a "standard" from the beginning. Although her voice was never a debate, this short haired, nappy-headed, under-weight, runway model wannabe with an occasional PK (Preacher Kid) vs Street Kid complex was always just under the surface of the woman who would be one of the most copied female icons globally. But that don't sell units or at least not back in the days of the 80's. Bottom line, Whitney Houston's death only perpetuate the reality of the modern artist. Extension through dollars and a manipulated sense to connect with an image created by an industry that respects the individual's right to self-implode. Whitney Houston represented, like many other artist, the typical trajectory of modern fame; See, Want, Take, Have and then Loose. Move on.

I am waiting for the millions of condolences to roll through and they will be well deserved but the Realist wants to know one single thing. How? How did Whitney Houston die? That fact will punctuate the true legacy of the icon. We know she struggled with addiction, and emotional issues, stress and weight issues which plays havoc on heart health, fowl play (which is unlikely but the Illuminati conspirators will have a field day with the idea), this is what we wait for and hope for the best that her passing is a natural death. Our recent experience of Michael Jackson's murder under the influence of drug addiction, Amy Winehouse with her drug and alcohol addiction, Don Cornelius' suicide, who wants to hear that their idol died because they were weak in spirit? I know what my expectations are. I pray that I am wrong.

Freely we throw spiritual blessings and good journey to Whitney Houston's raised soul. We want to hope that it ascends to Heaven in the loving arms and blissful hands of her Lord and Savior. Personally, I am a bit ambivalent since from personal experience, the Diva, at her height, had spread far and wide her personal brand of praise upon the "Little People" (her words not mine). Although within her tight circles she may have been nice and gentle, there are quite a few disgruntle fans that are existing in a current state of, "Oh well-itis." Those in the know, from the streets of Newark to the boulevards of Beverly Hills know that life with Whitney always came with a touch of ugly and depending on what side of the touch, you either stayed and took it or you had to go and leave her be. The time spent with Bobby Brown only added to the circus that was called the "Whitney and Bobby Show" and we still watched hoping that something would give and the authenticity of her character would surface for the public to connect with. The part that was Hood Real, the personality that the common person, the Little People could relate to, the physical presence where her own person would connect to People, speaking freely without being edited or chased by paparazzi. We got a little bit with Wendy Williams jabbing at her "truth" but it wasn't enough. We never were exposed to the real Whitney, never revealed the packaged wholesome bread and butter of Good, Bad and Ugly. Basically, we never knew Whitney Houston's story, only that which was meticulously controlled, pre-written or re-written.

We were all blessed to have witnessed the natural talent that was Whitney Houston. She loved sharing her gift with the World. The interesting thing about talent shared, is that it is often no different than a simple conversation. There is that "investment" of the listener, that story, the message you begin to tell to enter the psyche of others, the something that can be connected to, the emotion, the emoting, the resolve that we share the same experience. That is the challenge and essence of "talent". If people can't connect with it, the response will be clear; often immediate. Even so much as to faking acceptance until you can move it along for the next story more interesting. We call this "choice". You choose to connect and ultimately share back either in gratitude, applaud, inspiration or equal talent and or conversation in return.The sharing can come from many perspectives, many levels but in the end, the "outcome" is positive because you are invested in the relationship; which is the core of our humanity and the return on our investment. I say all of this to say, or even ask, one thing, "Did we really have that conversation with Whitney Houston?"

Whitney Houston's talent was her connection but it was never her complete or true story? There was always a question about how much of her music was the story of Whitney Houston's life, the "real" Whitney and how much of it was tailored "imagery". For years I watched her development from the girl from the Hood to Diva. Barbie Doll. The hair, the makeup, the dresses and jewelery, it all fit, it was all appropriate for the image but knowing the story NOW and the music THEN, can we really extrapolate from the many songs, some small essence of the woman? Artist like Michael Jackson, Minnie Riperton, Etta James, Phyllis Hyman, Amy Winehouse, James Brown, Rick James, Billie Holiday, Teena Marie all infused their lives into their music. There was no separation. More so for recently passed Michael Jackson, his life an open book for the extreme range of emotions a human being can experience or endure spiritually and social consciously. We knew his pain and his joy from innocence to adulthood because he detailed it like a blind man expressing sound with soul; the essence of R&B. So in his passing, the loss was deep, soulfully lost. The World knew the totality of the loss because we lived Michael and he the people in return. When you listen to any one of the aforementioned artists, at any point of your life, at any point of their life, you related, you emoted, you knew them from pure and shared experience. With Whitney Houston, the connection is external in relationship. The connection between "her" story and "her" music is only surface. Yes her music pulled from the emotion, even inspired to lift oneself up and have courage to live your life with purpose, but was that the Whitney's story or a fraction of the whole? The World around her was everything but internal sharing, unless you knew her personally and or intimately. 

In conversation regarding uber-hyped entertainers and musicians like Whitney Houston, I often ask, how can you say you "love" someone if you didn't know them? It's meant as a , "snap out of it" moment. Her music was great but the constant reminder that her music and person weren't one and the same was hard for people to accept. Still can't. Her music wasn't self created, or self-inspired or self produced. There were others, many "others" in the planning and the Mega machine that is part of the music industry that created the icon known as The Diva; Whitney Houston for 30 years made sure that that image was unshakeable. So unshakeable that in her death, they stand to profit more from the death of the icon than she would have alive. How's that for legacy? This, for me, is where the deviation from artist and person came into play. The simplicity of her character was made complex only because much of what we knew about Whitney, her connection to her church (New Hope Baptist), the fact that she loved HipHop and Rap, the party girl, wearing a good pair of jeans, gossiping and being Church folk-like, etc., we never really saw, The True Whitney Houston. She was a product of Newark, New Jersey and not the  Land of Make Believe. So much of THIS artistry never surfaced and again I ask, how much was this by choice? How much was perpetually her internal/external struggle? There is nothing wrong with being regal, grand or royal but there isn't anything wrong with being common, plain and or "real". People would like to comment, postmortem, how her addiction was a major factor of Whitney Houston's demise or the circles and choices she made, but I believe the catalyst of being un-Whitney had more to do with her conflict of character/image. Take away the existence of "self" and you have no choice but to exist as "other". Thus my lack of shock when she married Bobby Brown. Who else can you be with except someone who is most like "you", to fill the void removed or re-build the "diminished you". I mean just how do you live a double identity on a global stage and keep your sanity being the music industry's Black Barbie doll or the musical voice of the "Post-Civil Rights Movement? Standing on a train platform during rush hour daily is a struggle enough for most so imagine being just that for 30 plus years without pause. How do you live a life of royalty when you know deep down you want to throw back a rum and coke with a side order of sticky-finger ribs, mac and cheese, fried chicken and potato salad. 

I caught an episode on the reality show, Being Bobby Brown where Whitney Houston had gone through one of her "self fulfilling" tirades where she yelled at a group of common people, "Do you know who I am?" Truth of the matter was, they knew who Whitney Houston was but not THAT woman. She wasn't the Whitney Houston created by the World to know but the Hood Rat that was "real" and it wasn't as bad as Reality TV made it out to be. I actually like it. Not so much the ignorance factor but the "real" factor of a woman who could get angry, who could yell, scream, throw things and needing a cigarette and a drink to calm down afterwards. There was no shock and awe at all. Whitney Houston was a human being with personality with a unique perspective, character and opinions. All this, we never heard from the Diva by design. Newark locals knew but the World was absent from the introduction on day one. As those who "thought" they knew Houston's stage media persona with their fantasy connections to the singer, they say that she always knew where she came from but did the World REALLY want to see that? Did they really want to see, hear or even know The Hood Girl from Newark, New Jersey with the voice of an angle and an attitude of Mike Tyson? I doubt that image could sell, "Saving All My Love for You".

Although times have changed in the industry where artist of a particular vain, can and will break out and just "be" themselves (i.e. Janet Jackson, Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Mariah Carey) and others that took control of their images from the beginning (Madonna, Lady Gaga, Nicki Minaj). With that change was also a change in music, style, message and in some cases their audience. Early in Whitney's career the fans and critics questioned if she could make that transition. They questioned why Whitney wasn't crossing over into what they all knew were her roots. There seemed to be an absence of Gospel, R&B even a scant degree of HipHop, Jazz and Soul. Her music was inspirationally "safe". As commercially neat and clean as you can get without being "corny" we all knew Whitney was far from CORNY, she was cool people as a regular Hood girl. She was fun as well as deep. This we never got. So when the dark side (which really wasn't dark, just edited) became public, one would hope that a transition of image and clarity, artistic truth and conviction would dominate her comeback. Unfortunately as she began to re-build her career, the machine that is Clive Davis gave us more of the same. I was sadden and even more so, disappointed. 

As the media industry try to find blame and fault to a life that left the World "too soon" highlighting talking points like Bobby Brown, Robin Crawford, her hometown; Newark, New Jersey, the music industry and Clive Davis, her Faith in Christ or the lack thereof when the truth of the matter is, it was all of those things and none of them at the same time. No matter what the catalyst was, be it fate, cosmic design, karma or the act of God, this was who, what, how and why Whitney Houston was to "be", a reality not "too short" or "too long". Thus ends this lesson of life.

Did we love Whitney Houston as an artist? Yes. Do we feel sad for the loss of another icon? Most definitely. Did we know Whitney Houston? Not really. We knew her commercially, we even knew some of her demons but in the end, we never connected to the real artist through her story, no more and no less than we connect with a random person sharing the train seat next to you. The experience is only as personal as the ride to the last stop.