Call The Cops – a film

Call The Cops – a film

published December 31, 2018.

MEDICAL HISTORY:

Call The Cops – a film

Yeh, this is yaboi Kevlexicon, introducing my new tape, Call The Cops.

PART 1 – EARLY YEARS

Call The Cops was recorded on 5 /3 / 2018 in a one-take freestyle, over Pope Quiet Tha Loudmouth’s “White Elephant Paradox” beat tape.

[ full name “White Elephant Paradox Pope Quiet Tha Loumdouth The Golden Cow Full Fucking Beat Alblum Pope QTLM” https://youtu.be/jNFn1br48bQ ]

This tape’s like me, no one wants it to come out. There were a lot of technical issues mixing it, the mix is too hot, I felt the emotional content was too raw, and my malpracticed body issues also limited my ability to develop it.

Typically, as an artist, I like to present a compassionate but somewhat detached persona.

In college, I possessed enough impoverished villager demographic self-hate, that I automatically discounted my own voice, just as everything in my initial poverty environment did. Acting under the violence of demographic propaganda, I wrote off my ability to craft meaning from my own lived experiences, and I instead, attempted to parrot the cooning propaganda of what is distributed and promoted by the wealthier demographies. After all, that is what everyone in my environment seemed to be drawn to.

This habit evolved further from my time recording in Kenya. Now, for the first time with a certain level of white amerikkkan male privilege, finally enjoyable, and thus more discernible to me—my anonymous, economically irrelevant demographic village status back in the U.S. was now transformed into something that was benefitting more than ever before. Thanks to the living legacy of colonialism and the economic neoliberal exchange rate.

In short, I went from an atomized suburban white guy with basically no connections to regular interaction with professional class people and demographies. From living in my parents’ house, to a white dude living in a penthouse, on my own dime, where appreciative friends even threw me a party. I was in teracting with content producers and had a bougie job at a literary publisher coz I saved my pennies working clothing retail like a good McJobber. And I had a connecton thru my scholarship professor. I went from, perhaps the amerikkkan equivalent of mitumba-selling, to living in a penthouse, complete with security, a private gym, and a pool.

…Through the private penthouse, I had achieved the materialization of my self-hating reality, the idea that: “I just want enough economic privilege to keep people like me out of my life”

[ ONE MORE TIME: ]

When I live in the penthouse in Kenya, I am relieved I am finally in a position to economically flekkks, to where, I’ve actualised the idea: “I just want enough economic privilege to keep people like me out of my life.”

It was a life-altering experience. I left my mother village in British East Amerikkka with no connections to Kenya, or anywhere. With some capital I’d earned, I was now living in a penthouse on my own dime. I felt a sense of independence and autonomy that I never felt as an economic prisoner of my post-industrial Manville, New Jersey suburb.

Through my economic and geographic, expat relocation, I was now a person other people wanted to be around. The perception of my personal, and more relevantly, demographic wealth, in Kenya, drastically changed all of my interactions with people. And justifiably so, as economic colonialism means as an amerikkkan, I benefitted from the exchange rate.

Sex with dimepieces, invitations to klannish parties in the gated kkkommunities, even job offers that involved my brain instead of my hands, all suddenly materialized.

There were limits, of course. I would fail in my attempts to pitch dick to wealthy “African” gals from helicopter-parents-type demographies as much as I would (almost always) fail with the samesame Hamptons demographies during my time at an elite private school on scholarship.

While I could assist with transportation, alcohol, and shashamane fees to get my hip hop frenz organized for some African Socialism, the ceiling to my spending was eventually found out. I still couldn’t pick up those wealthy Gazprom/Rosneft Russian broads in da kkklub, even in Nairobi. …okay.

You know, the same kkklubs that wouldn’t let Ekori Turkana in for wearing his native gear, or Skobo for wearing sweatpants…and like how most kkklubs would let my feemail, African partners in, as long as they were accompanied by my white privileged demo-body.

Shouts of “malaya!” as we walked through the streets of Mombasa.

But I felt great. I was regularly providing dick distribution services to model gals I’d been propagandized my whole life into believing were “out of my league.” This meant a lot in my early twenties, when hormones were more relevant to a poorwhite than, uh, …future planning.

Of course, I wasn’t getting paid at my job, I was, an “intern.” And, to be fair, I completely lacked the conceptual tools to figure out how to make myself economically useful to my employers, …or myself.

This klanufactured uselessnes was an inevitable result of the programmed economic failure of my demography. …And also a result of the presumption of demographic wealth and literacy during my elite private college “education.”

…Right? You’re all supposed to know this, becoz your whole demography knows this. Uhh, not for this poorwhite.

There was also the programmed segragationist demographic hostility, and general atmosphere of economic antagonism between the professional classes and a mshamba halisi kama mimi.

…So yeh, there was a lot working against me, I guess, you could say…

Ironically, it was through hip hop, going to the not-so-bougie areas, that I began to see a path for usefulness. Seeing Ananda A-World and Kaktus Kusini shoot videos DIY proved to me that “it could be done.” Even with village budget.

I was able to step foot in recording studios, and even get free services, which, was never on the table in amerikkka. All this thanks to economic status, and perceptions of demographic privilege.

But it wasn’t all just demographic cynicism enabling my interaction. The reason I went to Kenya, goes back to when I was reading Kwani publications in college.

I had determined bougie black amerikkkan writers “weren’t black enough,” so I sought African content. African.

I felt a kind of economic kinship with the suffering poors described, of course by-proxy, by the categorically published uni bratz. And the translated speech of Kalamashaka and Kitu Sewer, and other voices were articulating things I felt and acted long before I had the ability to conceptualise them.

As an atomized, segregated, poorwhite villager, I inevitably caved to the newfound demographic privilege. I indulged the fuck out, having experienced a level of entitlement that, for the first time, felt directly beneficial to me. Not to say that I was without privilege before, but, by the parameters of my previous experiences, I was at the highest position I had ever been on, within the segregationist ladder.

Certainly bougie private school was not a democratic space of equality for me. Socially, I was there to be a poorwhite scapegoat for the evils of ma$$a demographies’ econ-dads. I was a strawman for the yuppies to vent their guilt upon, an embodiment of a promoted ideology of the incurably racist white tee and jeans demography. And, to be honest, my sexual interactions there had a quality of ma$$a honkeys slumming with my poverty dick. And much werse, of course, was the shame-inducing amerikkkan custo obesity and poverty of my mother village, which had to be kept hidden from sexual partners at all costs. So, when it came to the brat shit, I had to go Safaricom, “the better option.”

In Kenya, I was finally in a position to meet womenfrenz’s parents,…or to not meet them. Heh heh.

…yehh.

…I had my own space. I had my own everything. I knew when I looked at the penthouse, I was going to be smashing regularly. I could operate with reduced shame, though I still wanted to protect people I cared about from exposure to my biofam, and to some extent, my own programmed economic failure.

But why did I feel this impulse to go to Kenya, what was this economic kinship? And when I arrived, why did I feel my connections were more authentic? …Well, to some extent, as many a ma$$a would say, “Nothing is authentic.” and people are responses to economic status, and perceptions of demographic privilege.

Which is certainly the ideology throughout my time in amerikkka. …and it’s undeniable my demographic privilege and the perception of such affords me entitlements under the economic neoliberal, global segregationist reality that we all inhabit.

Of course this “Nothing is authentic.” ideology serves ma$$a interests by leveling all criticism of the historical rapes committed by economic elite demographies. When you allow yourself, and, more relevantly, when the affluence-influenced masses, allow ourselves, to be reduced to economic and demographic statuses, it preserves and supports the segregationist status quo.

So what made me appreciate the voices of these Kenyan poors? Why was I ditching the klanufactured circlejerk blankets and wine, all-white party cooning, and daddiemoney “artist-types”– to hang out with Skobo in his hood, to hang out at Gas Fyatu’s 4 foot stall, in Nairobi CBD, where he sold independent hip hop…Why was I taking the matatu to Rongai to record…

To understand this, let’s go back in time.

One of my earliest memories was being in elementary school, and being told by this foreign gal I sorta had a proto-crush on, “stop breathing so loud.” The night prior, a combination of my poorly-heated housing, the kind of asthma that is your birthright, when you’re born in the former site of the world’s largest asbestos manufacturer, and a personal inventory of about 40 unique allergies, had given yaboi some breathing problems.

It’s funny how the narrative of your life sorta conforms itself to whatever node you’re in at a given moment.

The memory of my childhood is lost, in what I would now identify as a kind of “depression blur.”

Can a factory farm pig love its children like a pig that owns businesses and land?

…When I was an ekkkspat, in Kenya, coming off my time working, (again for below minimum wage), for a college buddy’s family’s non-profit in Aspen, Colorado, coming off my time on scholarship, schooling with the spawn of a bunch of international, tax-dodging ma$$a demos…I felt that I was on a trajectory of adult autonomy and improvement, and dramatic increases to my quality of life…

Back in my childhood, …I guess as a kid, I was forced into an awareness that maybe, most people lacked. The allergies I was born with, in a way were not super different from being born into a inter-generationally impoverished demography, in that they left me segregated from my “peers.”

Sitting on the stage floor of the auditorium, some 100ft away, I watch my peers eat their lunch in social bliss. I could not eat the school lunches, as they could not be trusted to not kill me. It was my responsibility to read the ingredients on the food, to make sure it did not contain peanuts or traces of peanuts.

…So, of necessity, I become a reader.

My lunches from home were looted by bullies. Eventually given away without resistance. …I felt the public school wasn’t intellectually challenging me enough and threw a tantrum about it …In my one year at Catholic school, kids would carve “Jew” and the Star of David into my notebook.

This was funny, bcoz later, in elite private college, I was declared “not a Jew.” Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I was an object in the service of whatever perception others had of me.

…My parents made me go to church, though I was never a “believer.” I knew saying this was not kosher, in the same way I knew saying I had a crush on Lisa from Saved By The Bell was not kosher. Sposed to like Kelly, bruh.

…I was probs drawn to the character’s bougie background coupled with presumed black amerikkkan self-consciousness, and of course, the pathetic, unmet desires of that boi Screech. With the Jewfro.

We take in this, through osmosis, this content –$ponsored, produced, engineered, and distributed, by the more economically relevant ma$$a demographies.

We are trained to fit ourselves into what we see.

Like the Spankbang pornos advertise, “Jews Love Blacks.” …But where is the economic love?

It wasn’t enough that my body and my mind were wrong, I was expected to explain myself when a ma$$a deigned to “interact” with me. #PovertyExplains

…Of course, in private kkkollege, experiencing a different kind of segregation, I took to Richard Wright’s Native Son like a horse to motherfuckin water.

These allergies… Peanuts as an allergen have a particular airborne property. The smell always affected me and set off alarms in my brain, even from pretty far away. Alarms other people didn’t hear.

Simultaneously, I also learned early on, that to go into detail about such issues would be rewarded with feigned indulgence, followed by being shut out.

I ate little. I read books. I kept to myself. While other people worked and did sports, I would consume propaganda advertised as “pop culture,” and watch other people live, and I would imagine. But there would always be this painful feeling in my gut.

…I wouldnt say “pop culture” represents alienation, as much as it is engineered to generate it.

…And in my imagination, as a young person, I was always in someone else’s body.

I was told I was lucky to be accomodated at all, not always in words, but certainly in looks, breaths and other currencies of middle-class performed pathos.

I was operating under the pressure of constant reading. I needed to read the ingredients of everything I consumed. I noticed most packaged foods were the same. I notice people were the same.

I was alone in this body, watching other people live, dreaming I was somebody else. Probably blonde, and white. Muscular.

I would develop a “sensitivity.” I still fell into the same custo traps as the rest of my post-industrial poorwhite demography, perhaps even harder, as there was less productive self-awareness, less other people checking my flaws. Less other people.

At the same time, my intellect was commodified. I was told how “smart” I was, when in reality, unbeknownst to myself, I was looking for a way out of my situation. Desperately.

So I was the needy, suck-up kinda kid. Trying to get the recognition from adults that I didn’t get from my peers.

I guess a birthday cake had almost killed me as a toddler, I don’t remember much but blacking out and being introduced to benadryll, the Price is Right…Dean Martin signals in the background.

…Darkness.

…Confusion.

I didn’t eat it, my body was telling me “fuck that shit, bro.” But touching it, to make it appear to others that I had eaten it, that I was appreciative, was enough, …to trigger a reaction.

The small football town watevers, I wasn’t really gonna be respected. And of course, that lends itself to an antagonism that blends with a pathological neediness.

I would say, in terms of consumables and what I would later call “empty fun,” I was spoiled more than the average villager. Both my parents working but still being driven to and from school. I wasn’t really trusted much. The antagonism.

There was some episode I don’t remember. That was a theme of my childhood. Like lost years or somethin. I just don’t remember the majority of it. It all blurred into this same insecure and waiting-for-something-to-happen feeling.

I’d survey others.

I wasn’t into sports. I wanted pets, but was allergic to them. I wanted captive things, in the way I was captive, without being able to articulate it. Something to share the pain with. But also, something to perform the segregation on that I had learned from others.

Fish tanks. I become really, lexically involved with fish tanks.

You collect things. You inventory things. You categorize things.

It’s a miserable habit. …a “dismal science.”

I was living deeply in my head. Building imaginary futures, idealizing my nonrelationships with others. Basically in a deluded survival mode.

This went on for years.

I’d stare into the fish tanks I’d built. Carrying those heavy-ass 5 gallon buckets of water from where I filled them up in the basement, all the way up two sets of stairs, all 75lbs of me, determination.

This was something no one could do for me.

And something I didn’t want other people to do for me.

Landscaping what was in my head into a separate, controlled reality. Er—aquascaping. Errrr—pain-escaping.

In high school, I took to surveying others more aggressively.

Puberty was oh tee dubs, so I felt the female pain and absence more now. I’d hang out, and idolize kids who weren’t in school, would spend all my time with them.

There was a greater likelihood of female interaction at the out-of-school places. Surrogate older brothers would share an awareness of social and economic realities that I desperately lacked.

Some teachers attempted to steer me towards something less custo-y. Clearly sensing my inner need for compassion and my inability to get that from my age group or at home.

When would the watching end and the living begin?

I was drawn to the rage in the Eminem fad. Readily becoming a half-understood custo edgelord.

Barriers of social terror.

Knowing that am lacking something everyone is supposed to have.

Sexual desire, guitar. Writing my feelings.

Headphones, private prison. Singing, memorizing lyrics as I drifted off to sleep.

Interactions with the out-of-school kids revealed some injustice I wouldn’t have really considered otherwise, had I not been a desperate custo prisoner myself.

I keep building this life in my head.

But as a teen, am also much more seduced by any interaction with people my age.

Of course, the guitar is my female property.

I take to languages. Russian first. More taxonomy. More lexical.

Windows into different fish tanks. Cultivating a hope of escape and a context to find myself in.

Escape the irrelevance and poverty that I still couldn’t name, but always felt.

I crash from class to class, panicking on the way to my locker. Bookbag overloaded with books we never even used in class.

The doctor says I have “ascolyosis”, as the local poors in public school gurp out the word.

He touches my pubescent body. Of coz am “ticklish” or whatver, knowing I shouldn’t be. Failing some more.

The degrees are getting worse.

Physical therapy does nothing. I don’t know how to exercise. Was never taught the time it takes to do anything well. I had no examples. Jus emptiness and pain escape. And people who didn’t want me around.

I develop that toxic nicessness that expects a return of niceness.

I don’t really know what I’m doing.

I take up skateboarding.

The surgery is very scary, and the way everyone is about it, –the way they kinda talk about it in a quiet voice– I expect to die.

I’m like what, 15?

Death was always in my mind, coz of the intermittent allergy scares, and my daily mandatory reading.

But this was right there.

I don’t have anyone “worthy” of telling how I feel. Which really means I know they’ll reject me as they have shown countless times before.

There are things that a part of me knows I should do, but I need assurances. I need the ingredients list. I can’t just eat anything.

People tell me this is impossible.

These people don’t have to deal with this stuff. That I know very well.

I recover. A cute nurse puts a catheter in my hairy teenage dick. I still remember, her big round eyes, black hair, I don’t know, maybe an asian or a wasp or a latina, who cares really.

The opioids make me weak. I have to push out to piss into this plastic container at Robert Wood Johnson Hospital.

But I can’t do it. So she puts this needle in my dickhole.

Am glad it’s at least a girl, lol.

I can’t get out of it. This happens multiple times.

No girl is worth this pain.

I make a habit of bribing myself with this future in my head. I’m still young and I feel a kind of entitlement to it happening.

In some sense, I’m literally living the amerikkkan dream in my head.

I am still, tragically, operating under the assumption I lived in a moral universe, and if I was honest and worked hard, I would get what I deserved.

It’s funny, because, intellectually, in my analytical, taxonomical mind, I knew better. And if I had the moral courage, I would look at my life and know better.

But I was weak and desperate, and insulating myself from the world that was trying to kill me and no one else. I needed it to be true. I couldn’t accept the possibility that all of my nerdwork and trying to be, a level of honest I could get away with, was irrelevant, and that larger automated, segregation and demographic forces would determine the path of my life.

This interfered with the life I was building in my head.

The life sustained by consumption that helped subsidize the privilege of my masters.

I grow an afro, which everyone else calls a “jewfro.” I don’t know what a jew is, I just know people around me don’t seem to like them, so I will be an edgelord and automatically like jews. Narrative in my head.

Afro is the perfect mix of “look at me, don’t look at me.”

A cage for my face.

What’s really tragic is, these worlds I build in my head, they never really have me in them. Particularly in the early years. In my fantasies, I am in a new body. I do not look like me. I’m not even allowed in my own mental world.

Sometimes, I’m in a blonde-haired, blue-eyed body. Wasp-ing it upp with da boiiiz. Sometimes I’m a “cool black dude” like the blues records my Vietnam uncle reluctantly gave me.

His house, looking back on it now, def his own mental world. He’s the only one in the biofam that’s thin like me. He jogs on the beach. He paints naked bitches on the walls. He wears women’s clothing.

I like him a lot, but he’s kinda not there. More asking about my cousin. He mentors her. She becomes an economist.

We are trained to subsist in the unreality of the amerikkkan dream: the fantasy we will all, one fine day, become plantationowning ma$$as.

Ignorant of demographic realities.

We exist in this atomized, individualized abstraction, as ma$$a demographies kkkollect very literal rent from our consumption habits that they organize.

Pie-in-the-sky.

In college, I am somewhat liberated from the toxic, engineered poverty-despair deathclouds of my parents and my demography.

Am still lacking in compassionate elders or peers.

As a late bloomer, my face erupts in severe cystic acne my first year of college. It colonizes 75% of my face. I don’t know what to do. Not knowing how to properly shave, #NoDad, I shave the acne off, earning myself lifelong facial scars.

Of all the people who see my bleeding face day-in, day-out, only Carl, the black janitor in the private school, that I talk Africa-stuff with regularly, has the moral courage to say: “Hey, noticed you have a problem with acne. You can go to the health services office that’s part of the college and get treatment.”

I am put on a regimen of accutane, and my face finally begins to clear up. Around this time, I begin rapping and boxing and fucking.

I took this course, African American Literary Traditions, on a whim, half as a joke, like most things I start that I love.

Once I read Richard Wright’s Native Son, I feel a resonance with my personal experience that breaks through, that resists even my reactionary cooning for ma$$a and subservient, parent-seeking custo, segregated poverty behavior.

The buffet-style college food means I have food options, and enough to eat. I overindulge.

I start boxing the heavy bag and become friendly with the more experienced boxers from the college and larger community.

It’s fucking great.

I’m gonna look like one of those rappers on TV, bruh.

…And yeh, I actually have people to be around, physically.

I notice when I leave the dorm showers, female eyes rest on my body in a way they hadn’t before. They even smile.

Now, I’m property.

But it takes awhile for the mind to catch up.

I navigate my first sexual relationships with the expected demographic insecurity and passivity. My mind is only starting to get a taste of self-actualization and autonomy, now that I am removed physically, if not financially, from my demographically impoverished position.

In the aftermath of inevitable breakups, I take my first drag of a joint, and begin rapping with some friends. Half as a joke.

I had always parroted lines from the eminem fad, and other pop culture whatevers, …there was always a lexicon ready-to-go… memorzing alt rock songs as an adolescent, etc. but now I was saying “my own” barz.

But not quite my own. I was still mentally clinging to this image I had of what a rapper should be. As I was removed from my atomized, amerikkkan suburban village, and now surrounded by demographies of privilege, genealogies of investor-parents who owned businesses and land, my historical awareness grew. I read with more intent and direction, and less like a custo trying to alleviate feelings of emptiness. This historical awareness started to bleed into my otherwise reactionary, derivative, half-understood genre-trope ciphs.

My appreciation of Richard Wright, and his escape from Amerikkka inspired me to leave the country. I signed up for intensive French. …I had made this decision too late in the day to get into Spanish Intensive, and I hadn’t yet developed the professional class-skill of learning how to learn things, so my Russian was underdeveloped…But I’m still grateful for it, coz it, it just got my foot in the door with learning languages.

Got my passport, which was a family first. Spring break, tried to organize college buddies, but ended up takin my first trip out of the country, to Montréal, to practice my French, by my onesies. Was actually fun. I realise I can be on my own and have fun, that I can pursue my own life. People aren’t terrified of me. Spend a Summer in France as part of my college course. Realize my wallet can NOT handle that. Euros exchange rate a killa. Am young, sexually active, and sentimental. I put some flowers on Richard Wright’s plaque at Père Lachaise. Respect to the big homie for getting me there.

When I left for Kenya, to work at my professor’s Ford Foundation-sponsored publisher, it was the first time in my life I had made a decision completely on my own, to do something I truly wanted to do, outside of the influence and pressure of other people’s judgments and motivation.

It was why I was the happiest I had ever been in my life, up to that point, when I got on that plane.

It was an early act of autonomy.

PART 2 – MALPRACTICE

…Then I got sick.

Before I left for Kenya, I had done my due dilligence. I had gotten vaccinated against typhoid in New Jersey, but apparently vaccines can “fail.”

…But, did the money I paid for the vaccine fail?

I asked my boss to recommend a good “white-people doctor.”

I take medication and experience recovery. But then I have trouble again.

I use a connection with one of my penthouse housemates to go to London for diagnosis. They say I have gall stones. I fly back to amerikkka to have the gall bladder removal procedure covered by my insurance.

I seek a second opinion. That doc also advises the procedure. My Vietnam uncle had his gall bladder taken out as well, so I go ahead and have it removed.

I fly back to Kenya for a few more months to finish up the mixtape we’d been working on. As my internship was unpaid, I had medical bills, and a combination of programmed demographic ignorance, and demographic antagonism, meant that I didn’t have any leads on how to take my skills and develop them, and apply them in an economically relevant way.

The claws of my economic background drag me back acrosss the Atlantic. I still have world-beating confidence in myself; I had experienced highs of relevance and interpersonal pleasure as I had never known in the village, or even in bougie private school, or even working in Aspen.

However, I slowly develop new symptoms. I begin to get severe pain attacks whenever I eat. I have terrible bowel symptoms I never had before.

I greatly reduce how much I eat. I lose 60 pounds and look a bit—holocaust. I still get the pain attacks.

My surgeon in New Jersey, who takes my insurance, writes me off.

My symptoms become alarming, debilitating. I am living in between my symptoms. My quality of life dissolves.

My best friend commits suicide. The last time I talked to him, he’d asked me to be the best man at his wedding. We started rapping together in college. We’d spend summers hangin out in Brooklyn. We would play guitar together. He had suffered a back injury training in the military.

When I go to Mayo Clinic, I’m told this is the place for the best treatment in the world.

They don’t understand what’s wrong. Every doc has a different, often conflicting diagnosis.

I am put on medications that slow my brain’s perception of pain, but also end up making my symptoms worse. The pills essentially decrease my mental function without improving my quality of life. And they are expensive.

I ask for disability assistance, but my doctors refuse to back me.

After about 3 years of doctor-chasing and poisonous hope, –the period of around 2012-2015, the last doctor recommendation is to see a hypnotist.

At this point, I am forced, —raped, into accepting that they are just cooning me.

This was difficult for me to accept. I was raised to treat doctors, more accurately, the privileged demographies that can become doctors, with great deference. I even wanted to become one at some point, though my dyscalculia got in the way.

But my lived experiences in my body could not be denied. Their rhetoric was irrelevant, their actions, ultimately destructive. And they made money off it, while denying me access to a basic level of support to sustain myself, even in a manner much lower than what I was worth.

I am aware there are people who have these operations and are fine. This is irrelevant to what was done to my body.

The symptoms I developed were typical of postcholecystectomy syndrome, a chronic illness that develops after gall bladder removal surgery.

With my personal health in extreme decline, and the doctors being of no positive use, and my friend’s suicide, I had a lot of negative things going on.

And, as is typical of an atomized amerikkkan villager, living under economic and demographic segregation, I am without support.

I develop problems speaking. Any motion or engagement of my body generates a puking feeling, though I appear to have lost the physical ability to vomit.

But over time, going through a dual process of grieving over the loss of my friend, and the loss my quality of life, I am raped into accepting the reality I am my only support system.

There will never be a demographic bailout for yaboi.

Through a long, painful process of trial and error, I figure out a diet that maximizes the amount of time I can function.

Fuck you.

Pain attacks come regardless of what I do, I cannot sleep at will or keep regular hours.

Over time, over years, I accept this, rather than exhaust myself, and blame myself for things I cannot control.

I know I will never be able to keep 9 to 5 hours, and I know what that means for my professional future.

My relationships with wealthy-demography people I schooled with, and worked with, dissolve. My sex life dissolves, predictably, along with my living situation and economic status.

The surivival-mode atomized, village interactions I have, place me with people struggling with poverty-induced depression, and segregation-induced pain.

I notice my village frenz don’t like when I talk about living the good life in Kenya. When I play the mixtape we recorded over there.

I have to put this intelectualised, narrative distance into something. I begin writing a book concerning my time living in Kenya for a year. I call it Mixtape Mistari.

Through the daily process of writing, I remember the good parts of my life, and through externalizing my ideas, and putting them to paper, I develop a greater understanding of myself, and the world.

I find focus again.

I continue to exercise regularly, reclaiming physical joy from my body that the malpractice had removed. My body will be a witness to the struggle against my demographically-alotted village poverty.

Sex is back on the table, even as I have no income, live with my parents in the village, and have no economic future.

I develop relevant skills and friendships.

The confidence is real.

A village friend shows me how to operate a camera, and I have a plot to publish documentary content of the sort that would offend my economic masters, and demystify the minds of young people like me.

I begin work on the Klanhattan KlanVillage Mixtape. I start applying the understanding of economic and demographic histories that my African hip hop elders and peers helped me develop. I apply this historical understanding to my own amerikkkan context.

Inevitably, owing to demographic antagonism, my professional kkklass “peers” I send the hip hop book, Mixtape Mistari to, don’t see much hope for its publication. It’s “too racist,” and I know I am supposed to feel like the poorwhite scapegoat who wears white tees every day again.

But I care more about the response from my village mshamba peers in Kenya, that I still interact with over the internet. Doing the blog. Doing musical collaborations. Just talking over Skype.

Their encouragement sustains me.

Even some of my local villagers in New Jersey begin to respect the relevance of my research and apply it in their lives.

Personally, I find it difficult to enact my “racism” effectively, as, in my poverty, I lack the economic influence over public and private institutions that maintain demographic segregation.

…ya know, my influence over public policy and private policy is nonexistent.

My research grind gives me a platform to interact with people again. And helps a foster an environment where a mutual development of skills among like-minded people can occur. At the same time, it also fuels an antagonism from the children of ma$$as.

I publish a series of interviews with artists throughout East Africa, on a blog called Hip Hop Kambi.

Homaging, of course, the famous Ukoo Flani Kambi, started by R.I.C., Rhymes Intellectual Chief, and Chizen Brain, of Achon Pong Clan, in Mombasa.

…And you can see it in the music video we did for “Tumechoka.” We’re all over there.

I give a lecture on colonialism, economic history, and East African Hip Hop, called Kazi Kwa Washamba at Rutgers University. I see a role for myself, providing a relevant service to young people, as a demystifier of toxikkk cooning propaganda. An antidote to the klanufactured consensus of the ma$$as.

I deconstruct demographic privilege in a series of content I develop for my next website, Kevlexicon.com

It’s called Kevlexicon because, like the struggle I’ve been going thru my entire life, I’m trying to develop my own historical and economic understanding. And produce my own lexicon, my own engagement with the world. My own historical influence…as opposed to the given lexicons of ma$$a wershipp, and segregation, and demographic antagonism, and, uh, you know, economic apartheid.

I draw from the historical understanding of my African and global peers.

Though I am physically and economically immobilized thanks to medical malpractice, I develop a new literacy of filmmaking. My music video content gets more and more relevant to villagers, and I feel more authentically represented developing my own content than by any of the cooning promotional materials sponsored and distributed by ma$$a demographies.

I provide video services. I start very open-minded, but after being unpaid in my collaborations with ma$$a demographies, I stick to people who can bring something to the table. People who bring something more to the table than demographic entitlement, ma$$a wershipp, and segregation.

After being burned by being overcharged at studios, and being unpaid, and having my labor stolen for reasons of demography, I start focusing on developing my own content. I’m already putting in the time researching the historical concepts. I begin building my own studio under less-than-ideal conditions, just like my frenz in Kenya.

“By any fuckin’ means.”

It’s starting to come together.

A photographer friend admits the intial price of gear keeps out the impoverished demos, but what clients pay for, ultimately, is the style one develops from doing it every day. The grind. Content that has direction, intent, relevance.

As a malpracticed poor, I know the price of the best gear will likely be forever out of reach. But my ability to develop a style and direction is something I know I am capable of, having done so when I wrote my book, my hip hop book, Mixtape Mistari.

I start treating film like research. Despite living in abject poverty, with not enough money to purchase the kind of food my malpracticed body now requires, I developed a method. I watch movies from the library and take thorough notes. I look into, not just the content, but how content was produced. Why the content was produced. Who it’s produced by. How they achieve their effects in the craft of filmmaking. How they manipulate the audience. How they sell their ideologies. I look into the demographic backgrounds of the content producers, their early lives, and how they got their start in the business. I begin to develop a historical framework of filmmaking. I don’t watch to be entertained, I watch to deconstruct the methods of content producers, and thereby, also deconstruct the ideological and economic motivations of their $ponsors.

This newfound visual literacy, paired well with my writerly literacy. And the deconstructions actually increased my enjoyment of content, and deepened my mind, as I had another angle, another lens through which to both view the world, and project my own influence upon it. I had added a tool to my bag, I had increased both my economic value, and my personal means towards self-actualization. Though of course, this is always, necessarily hamstrung by the larger historical, demographic forces of segregation.

I begin to feel more inoculated from the cooning of the ma$$as. I don’t respond to the cooning of uni bratz whose parents owned slaves, invested in slavery, and manipulate global finance to maintain segregation. If an “mboch”, a maid, AND WRITER, like Eva Kasaya, can dig what am sayin, that’s enough relevance for me.

The bratz, their hostility is cateogrical, as they categorically benefit economically from our enslavement and segregation.

My hip hop friend Skobo dies because he could not afford hospital fees.

I am preparing to leave the village again. I save grocery money.

Let me bang some fine ghels in Trinidad. Lol.

The spinal fusion surgery for scoliosis I had when I was 15, which fused metal rods to my thoracic spine, breaks for no apparent reason.

Despite my developed physique, immediately after the rods break, I develop muscle weakness and severe nerve pain. I develop problems being able to initiate urination.

I see spine doctors immediately. They coon and say I am fine. The xrays reveal the rods have broken out of position, but they say I should be okay.

As my situation gets worse, I see a series of spine doctors, knowing my poverty insurance effectively prevents me from getting the best possible care for my forever spine.

The doctors prescribe physical therapy. This makes my spine go from awful to worse. I lose the ability to walk for even just thirty minutes. I develop permanent eye damage after taking prescribed medication.

The dokkktors continue to kkkollect rent.

Social media reminds me that people from demographies of privilege benefit from kickstarter / crowdfunding campaigns in these kinds of health crisis situations. I request help from people I interact with but nothing economic happens. Just talk.

I am reminded of my village demography.

My relationships with other people dissolve.

My exercise regimen is no longer possible, as a fracture in my lumbar spine becomes heavily symptomatic after the fracture of the rods in my thoracic spine. It’s all, literally, connected.

The exercise regimen that improved my mood living under segregation, assisted in post-malpractice digestion, and led to better quality sleep and overall well-being is no longer possible, following the doctor-prescribed physical therapy, which made my lumbar symptoms much worse.

Now even sitting and writing is extremely painful. I lack the ability to hold up a camera. It is extremely difficult to sit and edit, to write, to do anything. I am forced to approach lying down to sleep with a new apprehension, now that my lumbar spine fracture is heavily symptomatic since the thoracic rods broke.

Once again, the doctors have deployed a piecemeal, segregationist approach to a global problem. I have been prescribed irrelevant opioid medications that worsen my symptoms from the previous galbladder removal malpractice illness. The same medications that erode my mind, and quality of life, without providing significant symptom relief.

Every bodily function has been damaged by medical malpractice. My eyes, my bowels, urination, sleep, mobility. The wealthy demographies have accomplished the permanent rape of my quality of life.

We only get this one life, this one body. And these children of finance have permanently mutilated my body, my quality of life, my future.

All a consequence of following the demographic order imposed by segregation. All following the “quality” of doctors accessible given my economic status.

In the news, black people continue to be murdered by the agents of public institutions. These institutions are, of course, organized by politicians, financed by the private capital of economic elite demographies.

PART 3 – Releasing Call The Cops

…This tape is like me, no one wanted it to come out.

I am less than about a year into having my own studio, and a lot of time has been stolen by the medical malpractice reality that determines the parameters of all of my actions.

I recorded this tape as a freestyle, in one long take. On the day my vision was permanently damaged by prescribed medication. Vision that had been 20/20 prior to taking the medication.

That’s why the first song riffs on the idea of “bottles” and “lights.”

Prescription bottles, and the light that’s been lost in my fucking eyes.

Pope Quiet Tha Loudmouth, a Canadian artist based in Manitoba, that I met through G’Ganji studio in Kenya, had put out the beat tape, “White Elephant Paradox.” So, I recorded over it.

When I listen to the recording, my initial response was: “this is too personal, this is angry kid screaming, it’s too emotional, too raw, this is the kinda thing that you just record and it’s just, you know, it’s like, ‘it’s just for me.’”

These are not the kinda songs you can sell alcohol and cars with.

When I sent it to Pope, he said it had a feel like I was just talkin’ to him.

So maybe there was something relevant there.

…and maybe my hesitancy with this tape…had more to do with something other than the music itself.

…And yeh, I had this fear about putting this tape–…and it seemed every time I tried to work on it, it just got more difficult…

And yeh, the initial mix, I kept playin it in my car on the way to the library.

The one-take aspect of it, recording it all on the first take, it gave it a cohesiveness. And I have been rapping over popebeats for a couple years now. Am literate in his style. And his cinematic beat tapes gave me a lot to respond to, with my film theory brain. We share some common ground as poorwhites who’ve lived in Kenya.

I tried remixing it a couple times. The original mix was “too hot.” More than a little “in the red” on the meters. But after five different mixes, I still preferred the balance of the original mix.

The way it sounded. The instruments hitting loud. My voice hitting loud. It felt necessary for the style. For what the tape was. And I keep reading interviews with pro mixing engineers that say “Trust your ears.”

Then something else happened that made me want to put out Call The Cops.

I play this other song I recorded and produced to a friend in the car. He says I should put some compression on the vocals, or something. Bring the vocals up.

But as a producer, I had already done a couple different mixes of this song and decided on this particular one.

This song is about a recurring dream I have, where am in a room with a bunch of doctors. And I can’t move beyond the room. I’m paralysed in the way people are paralysed in dreams. But I can see through the walls, past the grinning doctors in their professional gear. On the other side of the wall, in the next room is the African proverbial, “gal of my dreams.”

And in this dream I keep having, I’m always trying to get back to this gal. And the more I move,– it doesn’t matter—the distance is always maintained. The closer I feel,– doesn’t matter. Ending is always the same. Wake up in my parents’ house.

…When I recorded this song, the first take, something glitched out and I lost it.

But am an adult. You just have to keep showing up to do it, and not rely on any one take. No one act can define you. Only a series of actions can build something really worthwhile.

When I go to the library every day, to research, to write, edit video, whatever… most days my feelings are: I do not want to go. But I know, in a distant sense, that I have much better odds of feeling more positive if I show up and try. On good days, the inertia of those days of showing up when I didn’t want to, enables me to find a direction, which motivates me to go deeper.

I do another take, for the dream song, and it takes a little while to find my footing, but by the second verse I have found the tone.

I think about the dream. And how the doctors, the proverbial African dream gal, and the paralyzed viewer, are all part of me.

How people crave power. The arrogance and indifference of the doctors class-smug grins. The sexual desirability of the “proverbial African dream gal.”

They are both the same, in that they have power over my mind and my body. I desire the doctor’s demographic status. I desire the woman’s beauty. I desire her memory. I desire her physical presence. Her warmth. Her compassion.

As the paralysed viewer, my body can’t seem to go anywhere. My vision sees through the walls erected by the hostile ma$$a demographies. I know what the walls are, I know what the ma$$a demographies are, and I know why the gal is out of reach. But, in seeing through the walls, and in recognizing the similar power over me both the grinning doctors and the “proverbial African dream gal” have, I deconstruct myself. I deconstruct my desires. And I can go nowhere. My situation doesn’t appear to change. I am who I am.

The act of “seeing through” merges the dream gal and the wall, and the grinning doctors, into the same sort of Trump-wall. These fundamental drives emerging from my subconscious, regularly, are not getting me anywhere.

The seeing is knowing, and knowing is a kind of power, but I still physically go nowhere, and I am perpetually chasing what is impossible.

I can state what I know, that I see the ma$$as’ grins in every wall, merging with every female. And there is a power in that awareness, and a threat to the ma$$as. But for me, in my body, as a person, I can never go anywhere.

What I do now is for others. And I can only experience pleasure by proxy. I am the dehumanised viewer that I’ve always been. The walls will always be there.

Knowing what they are doesn’t make them not exist.

I have no stake in these beautiful African futures.

…These beautiful, African futures that never seem to come…

What I do can go nowhere. I know from my research of economic histories, I lack the sexual desirability, the economic status, the demographic support network, and the health privilege to be a sellable commodity, to be competitive in the “free market.”

I lack the demographic status and institutional relevance to have any significant influence. The entirety of the ma$$a demographies’ walls of segregation have been in operation for centuries before my body was vomited out into the village.

The knowledge exists in my head, and institutionally underexposed in the kkkapitalist physical and abstract digital spaces. There is no public space.

…When my friend says I should “put the vocals up,” I think to the 2^nd-best mix I did for the dream song. I had made the instruments fatter, more distinct, louder, bigger.

…But bigger was not better for the song. It’s a dream song, a song of whispers.

When I delivered the second take, I intentionally made the vocals more threatening and creepy. I understood the direction I was headed in, and my conviction of “seeing through” the ma$$as’ grinning and their segregationist walls needed to be delivered in a threatening manner, tempered with a creepy, weak, inflection and a vibrato that acknowledged my own desire for economic security and demographic privilege.

This vocalised weakness also reflected my sexual desire for the dream gal, and the despair of our separation.

To have the vocals too big, too dominant, would obscure the power relations between the paralysed viewer, the grinning doctors, and the “proverbial African dream gal.”

It would have…violated the subjectivity of the experience. It would have presented a false, detached, economically stakeless, interpersonally stakeless position, that is impossible for everyone.

This idea that ma$$a demographies, that your Vice News, that your The Economist-s, –the idea that these people are “objective,” is insane. “Objectivity,” doesn’t, and never has existed, when it comes to economic relations between people.

To make the vocals loud in this dream song, to deny the whispers, of the experience of the dream itself, that I’ve had, repeatedly…

…It would’ve just cheapened it, it would’ve made it like it didn’t matter.

…It would’ve been like a pop song. Like,…just a smug…empty…commercial thing.

It just wasn’t the right vibe for this song.

To make this song “bigger” would deny the nature of whispers, of deeply held, secret desires and vulnerabilities. It would cheapen what I want.

…so my realization, that I was comfortable sticking to my conceptual guns for the dream song, led me to prepare the release of Call The Cops.

I recorded the dream song much later. Call The Cops has a different direction entirely. Call The Cops is a record of a loss of literal vision, the initial reaction, the pained, in-your-face shouting of someone who freshly remembers being healthy. It is the screams of an amputee.

My later mixes of Call The Cops were smoother, but weaker. …They didn’t fit the direction.

Smoothness just didn’t make sense for the experience of… one day having perfectly fine vision, and the next day not. One day, being able to walk, and the next day not…

It jus—that’s what it is. It had to be that. You had to feel that.

My emotions were in the red. The meters were in the red. The distortion produced by the clipping matched the clipping of my autonomy and my optic nerves.

Call The Cops is the kind of tape you listen to with the windows rolled up. It is a record of shame and violation.

And I think I withheld putting it out for that reason. Its raw emotion, its ugliness, its lack of professionalism.

…and I know, I’ve gone on a long time, talking about myself. But, my fellow Africans, who else ever would?

My Manville, New Jersey guitar teacher once told me, “Don’t let the music die inside of you.” And I think that’s why a lot of the ma$$a campaigns deploy a lot of hatred. They want the poors to feel hated.

They want the poors to hate themselves.

They want the poors to wershipp ma$$a,

…becoz the ma$$as want to limit the development of poors.

…and if you don’t like the tape, Remember.

It was Pope’s idea to put it out.

So you can always blame it on a poorwhite.