Jay-Z pushing my agenda #MagnaCartaHolyGrail

In the summer lineup of Kanye West, J. Cole, Wale, Mac Miller and Drake, Mr. Z decided that he needed to jump into the fold of new releases as well: Enter Magna Carta Holy Grail. It's the title of his new album, set for a July 4th release. Let's not forget to note that he and wifey love the number 4. And he has never released an album in the month of July. November is a popular month for Mr. Carter but July is a newbie.

Anyway, as you know, my blog's purpose is merging the Literature and Hip Hop worlds in ways they never have before. Well Mr. Z, in a slow-crafted marketing campaign, has been rolling out bits and pieces of his album until the final date. He debuted a gem of a commercial during a NBA playoff game, which sent the Internet into chaos, then he started dropping song lyrics all story-like and getting people interested in reading actual lyrics again:

Commercial:


Lyrical Stories:

Video Inspiration: J.Cole + Colin Tilley

On the anticipation of J.Cole's album, Born Sinner, set to release on June 18th, I thought this was a perfect time to do a short (very short) story to "Nobody's Perfect". I loved this song and the video when it was released in February 2012. Out of all Cole's videos, I thought this was the most appropriate for a story. If you're a fan, you know that all his lyrics tell a story and almost all the videos explain that story to the fullest. But this one...was kind of left up to your imagination.

We all know how unknown and untalented Colin Tilley is right? I've talked about him before in other Video Inspirations but he really has no impact on the music world. He's done silly videos such as:

Mindless Behavior "All Around the World"
Kelly Rowland "Kisses Down Low"
Justin Bieber "Never Let you Go"
Rick Ross & Wale "Bag of Money"
Chris Brown "Don't Judge Me"

I mean really, why are we even talking about this no-resume having guy ;-)







When I told her that I wouldn’t be back for a week, at least, she shrugged her shoulders and kept typing. She was working on a paper that I knew wasn’t due for another week.
“So, this is how you’re going to let me leave?”
“Good luck. I hope you get the deal.” She said, with her back still to me. I stood there for a few more seconds, then grabbed my bags and left her sweltering hot dorm room. It seemed like we always argued about the same things and I was always left with the short end of the stick. I thought about her on the ride to the airport, as I ascended and descended, when I met with the label’s top A&R and when he handed over the contract I had been dreaming about all my life. He told me I had 24 hours to sign. ‘Look mama I made it.’ I thought.
“Nobody’s perfect.” Said a voice next to me. I looked up from checking in at the hotel and found my eyes locked with a girl I thought I knew.
“What?”
“I said nobody’s perfect.” She handed me my black, Goyard bag. Our knuckles bumped and I felt her spark.
“You left this in that chair over there. Funny, you always act like Mr. Perfect on campus. Strutting across the yard with your boys after practice, staying in the gym and blowing that good weed behind the Fredrick Douglas library.
“Oh you know about that?” I smiled. She licked her lips. She licked them slow. Suddenly I remembered where I knew her from.
“What are you doing all the way up here?” She asked.
“Got a record deal.” I waved the papers, which I had been holding on to for dear life, in the air above my head.
“Really? Congrats. You know we have to celebrate now.” She inched closer. I thought about my girl again. She was my rainbow after a storm, my star in a dark sky. But she was also an insensitive bitch as of late.
“Nah, you know I can’t.”
“Can’t, but want to.” She ain’t never lied. I took my room key from the clerk and leaned in to give her a quick kiss on the cheek. However, she moved her face at the right time and I caught her lips instead. I pulled back.
“Just because she’s my roommate doesn’t mean we are best friends.” She said and took my room key from my grasp. I watched her walk to the elevators and rubbed my chin. This was so wrong. Yet, so right. Everything happens for a reason. I slid in the elevator with her just as the door closed. I thought about my girl. And concluded that nobody’s perfect.

Video Inspiration - A$AP Rocky + Samantha Lecca

So, I'm an ASAP Rocky fan. I'll let that linger for a moment...I fully understand that lyrically I shouldn't be, but I like his style. His swagger. (That word just won't retire)

I adore this video for its uniqueness in the hip hop world. No half-naked girls, no 80 chains around the neck, etc. We are slowly but surely moving away from some of the sterotypes.

The best part of this video that inspired me to write a short story, was the two women. Unfortunately, I didn't have much time to finish this but I didn't want to hold on to it so long that I never put it up. If you can't take this song (lyrically), at least watch up to 2:00. That's where my story kind of ends...





“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why don’t you want to know?”
“Because if there is someone out there who looks just like me and people are stupid enough to be confused by that, then let them.”
“But she’s white.”
“And?”
“And nothing I guess.” She sighed. “You are so weird.”
“Thank you.” I slipped the right side of my black, satin, de la Renta dress over my shoulder and turned around so that Sarafin, my roommate, could zip it up. Tonight was a special gala at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was so nervous. I felt like a teenager at prom. They said anybody who’s anybody was going to be there, but they say that about everything. I looked at the clock.
“Yes. Your car is already downstairs and you are going to be late if you don’t leave in 60 seconds.” Sarafin said.
“I know, I know.” I grabbed the rest of my things and slipped into my heels.
“If you want to know her name, Kevin told me. He was the only one not shocked enough to talk to her.”
“I don’t want to know anything. I’m not indulging this silly rumor.”
“It’s not a rumor.”
“Goodnight. Wish me luck.” I walked out the door and the down the steps of our building, to the rented, black town car.
“Good evening ma’am.” The driver said as I approached.
“Hey!” Sarafin yelled from our apartment window.
“I have to go!”
“Her name is Vivian. Did you hear me? I mean, doesn’t that make you want to know more?” I turned my head and thought for a moment. A moment too long, in my opinion. I got inside the car and we took off.

“Oh darling, don’t you look lovely.” “Is that Oscar? Turn around and let me see the back.” “Oh, how have you been?” “Glad you could make it.” The party was packed and the atmosphere exquisite. I had been careful about eating too much, but was enjoying my third glass of champagne. My fingers ran along the smooth, white couch against the wall, as I sat on it admiring my view. Suddenly, far across the room, I saw them. Kevin was wearing a dashing tuxedo with a red rose in his lapel. She had on a white, sleeveless, v-cut dress that flowed down to her feet. I knew it was the Oscar de la Renta dress. At that exact moment, she looked over and saw me too. I stood up. She started walking first. My heartbeat was rapid and I felt the beads of sweat. We reached each other. My lips parted, just a bit, but I could form no words. We both stared into each other’s eyes. I put my hand to my cheek and she did the same. She put her hands up in front of me and I raised mine to meet hers, but we didn’t touch. It was too jarring. She was my spitting image.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Vivian. What’s yours?”
“Vivian.” I answered.

Workaholics

I know that I'm lazy. Not in the sense of "sitting around watching TV in my sweatpants and eating cheese curls all day" lazy, but more like procrastination. I have things that need to get done and I tend to drag my feet until the last minute. In the end, everything seems to always work out.

But, there are two people, in my two favorite categories, who I absolutely wish I had the workaholic strength to be like.

Literature = Anthony Trollope
Music = Nancy Wilson

Anthony Trollope was one of the most successful, prolific and respected English novelists of the Victorian era.
He wrote his earliest novels while working as a Post Office inspector, occasionally dipping into the "lost-letter" box for ideas. He wrote a total of 78 published works (consisting of both short story and novel) and published sometimes 3 or 4 novels a year. My favorite by him is "The Claverings".


- And if you follow the link of this picture, it will take you to another blog which has a very interesting literary essay on Trollope and his works.


Most of the NYT Bestselling Authors don't accomplish more than one book in a year!

Nancy Wilson is an American jazz singer, with nicknames such as "Sweet Nancy", "Fancy Miss Nancy" and "The Girl with the Honey-Coated Voice". She has won three Grammys but has put out more than 70 FREAKING ALBUMS!!! Not even my idol, Prince, over four decades, has that many CDs. Again, she's hitting you with two, three, sometimes four albums in a year.




These two make accomplishments of today, pish posh. I'm sweating and losing sleep over publishing one, little novel that has taken me years to write. And these two...flick of a light switch and they are done! Ah, I know it isn't that simple and they worked harder than hard, and for that I admire tremendously.

Video Inspiration - Jay-Z (Meet the Parents)

This isn't a traditional video inspiration because there isn't an official video that goes with this song. I have always just loved the imagery of his lyrics.

So here's my short story inspiration that this song gave me:

(Sorry but you have to go to this link. I couldn't find an embed)
http://iloverap.tumblr.com/post/263359590/jay-z-meet-the-parents-produced-by-just-blaze

“This is going to be hard to say to you Ms. Isis, but know that it’s coming from a friend.”  There was a silent pause after the statement, which prompted Isis to focus.  She turned the television completely off and tapped her cigarette out on an orange plate.  Flashes of faces crossed her mind, knowing the voice on the other end would tell her of someone she knew.  She leaned forward off the couch and braced herself for Tommy’s message.  Tommy, the city morgue’s favorite messenger.  
“Isis, I’m afraid it’s your boy.  Sean’s dead.” His voice was soft just like the calming rain outside.  His words were eerie like the grey skies.  He continued talking and explaining but somehow his language seemed too foreign for her to comprehend.  The phone receiver dropped from her grasp and landed beside her right foot, knocking down the cocaine mirror on its way.  
“I…I can’t…why…” She couldn’t hold it together.  Her words were stumbling through her tears, which fought their way through her slobbering sobs.  Tommy called her name, through the speaker on the floor, countless times to exhaustion then eventually hung up after understanding that she would never return to the phone.
Sean was her only son. Her eighteen year old baby. It was just the two of them, always had been. Chris, his father, had only seen him once and dismissed the responsibility without a second guess. Isis rocked back and forth on the teal colored couch, half struggling to breathe, half fighting down her anger. Several minutes passed and she came to a decision. She got up and tore out of the house, slamming the screen door behind her and marching purposely up the street. Neighbors gawked, neighbors laughed, neighbors were used to seeing the haggard, coke head walking around with no shoes on and gripping her tattered, holey brown sweater.
“Where’s Chris?” She yelled. “Where’s that bastard of a man? Somebody better tell me!” By the time she was four blocks down, a little crowd had gathered behind her, anxious to see what was going on. Most assumed Isis was just on a drug craving though…had to be if she was yelling for the most notorious drug dealer in the neighborhood. Chris was leaning against a telephone pole talking to some younger drug dealers and giving them their stash for the day. He had on clean, white sneakers, heather grey sweatpants and a crisp white t-shirt. The rain had halted but the air was still muggy. 
“Isis baby, what’s up? You need something?” He asked, flashing a million-dollar smile.
“Last night you were in that back alley over there arguing and fussing with somebody. I saw you from Candace’s window. I couldn’t see who you were arguing with because they had they back turned to me.”
“So what. What do you want?” Chris asked, but darted his eyes around in a paranoid-like way.
“So I know you shot that somebody while ya’ll was arguing.”
“Look Isis-,” he said and gripped her up by her collar. “You don’t know nothing and don’t go spreading rumors like that you druggie.” Isis kept her expression calm and pulled the gun out from her sweater. 
“You use these young boys to sell your stuff, but you never look them in their eyes. You never really see them Chris. That boy you shot last night was my son. I know it now because he didn’t come home last night. That boy you shot last night was your son.”

Video Inspiration - Chris Brown + Colin Tilley

This video has been lurking around in the back of my head for several weeks now. To me, that is an involuntary inspiration and a sign that I should just go with it.

Now we all know that Chris Brown is just an average singer. Nothing to sneeze about, and someone we will all forget in a few months...my sarcasm is fantastic. ;-)
And of course we all know that Colin Tilley has directed the worst videos ever, for the most no name of artists:

Lil Wayne & Rick Ross - John
Jeremih & 50 Cent - Down on Me
J.Cole & Missy Elliot - Nobody's Perfect
Justin Beiber - Never Let You Go
Tyga & Lil Wayne - Faded

I mean really...who has ever heard of those people?

Seriously, here's the video from Chris and Colin that inspired my short story (sidebar - while I've thought of this video I never actually wrote the story until my recent, weekend writing retreat):



Here's the story:

His Saturdays were usually routine. After watching David and Xavier’s baseball game, he dropped them off at their friend’s and went grocery shopping. He would wander aimlessly in and out of the aisles thinking about what life would be like if Marlena wasn’t so wrapped up in all her glorious bullshit. If she didn’t ooze bullshit from her thighs and stomach, neck and face. It was disgusting. After the week’s worth of groceries were packed away in their Honda van, he would carry them home to put away and start on the laundry. That was it. Kids, food and dirty clothes. His Saturday nights couldn’t get more depressing. Tonight, however, was different. Not because certain events were unusual but because Paul had willed it to be different. He was in the bread aisle outwardly dissecting the difference between the 100% wheat and 100% butter top wheat yet inwardly challenging himself to do it, to walk over there and say something. A whole minute passed by while he studied the bread. A whole minute had passed by and she was still standing at the far end of the aisle. Carin was every man’s fantasy, including Paul’s. She was that neighbor whose smile draped with flirtiness. The neighbor who seductively leaned over her petunias, letting one breast peep so gently out of her low cut shirt. Now she was standing at the edge of the hot dog bun shelf, licking her lips and looking his way.
“So, what are you going to do, write a report on the bread or what?”
“Oh hi Carin! I didn’t see you there. I…um…I’m trying to make sure I get the heartiest kind-,”
“And then what are you going to do?” She interrupted.
“Well go home I guess.” But he didn’t want to go home. Even the words tasted sour coming out of his mouth. His wife Marlena was waiting for him at home. She was the reason for all his imaginary excuses for staying at work late and lingering in this supermarket. He didn’t want to go home to her or her bullshit.
“Why don’t you come home with me?” Carin asked. Paul started sweating.
“Come on. You know I’m married. Don’t say things like that.” He picked up a pack of Stoneground 100% wheat and placed it in the cart. She strutted her way down the aisle and ended up right next to him, face to face.
“114 E. French Boulevard. Apartment 13D.” And with that she was gone. Paul couldn’t pay for his items any faster than he could blink. He stumbled out of the store, dropping his keys and clumsily throwing the bags into the backseat.
“Hey honey, h-how’s it going?” He wiped the perspiration from his forehead, which had formed at the mere thought of driving in the direction of Carin’s apartment. At this point in his life, Paul couldn’t care less about Marlena. Her bullshit was always getting in the way. He needed a break from it.
“When will you be home?” She asked.
“Soon…er, well actually I’m headed to work to work on something. So, you probably don’t need to wait up.”
“Did you even get the groceries you dimwit? I’m hungry. I want my dinner.” She was beginning to annoy him and ruin the mood he created just for Carin.
“Okay I have to go. We’ll talk about it later.”
“Paul! You can’t just hang up on me like that. We are not done-,”
“Gotta go honey. Bye.” He ended the call quickly and made a sharp left turn, running through a yellow light. The phone rang again with Marlena’s name flashing in bright neon. He ignored it. Only four more streets to go. His mind wandered to when Marlena’s bullshit began. It was definitely after they had Xavier, and became worse after David was born. The boys were almost teenagers now. Time seemed like it stopped but her bullshit just grew and grew. Carin was perfect. Not an ounce of bullshit on her. Finally, he pulled up in front of the 114 E. French Boulevard apartment building.

The evolution of creativity

I still like the hardback, newspaper, magazine and audibook...ebook - I've skipped over that. Enhanced book - I'm getting there. Question mark - I'm inventing that. :-)