Tomorrow, through living instillation, I will show you how I've been feeling lately. If you are in NYC, join me. #NeoSlaves #highnoon #unionsquare #jomiray (at New York, New York)

JVL

blake kathryn
Today's Document

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Andulka

tannertan36

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taylor price
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Sade Olutola
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if i look back, i am lost
noise dept.
Misplaced Lens Cap

Kaledo Art
AnasAbdin

titsay

No title available

@theartofmadeline
Mike Driver

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@josephmichaelray
Tomorrow, through living instillation, I will show you how I've been feeling lately. If you are in NYC, join me. #NeoSlaves #highnoon #unionsquare #jomiray (at New York, New York)
Lessons I Picked from My Afro.
Ludacris, Lauryn Hill and a few other famous faces sent the afro back into style when I was in middle school. Being out-of-style is never in-style when you’re thirteen so I grew my hair out. If you’ve never been black with an afro I can tell you it requires a lot of maintenance. It is easily tangled, making it painful to comb. It can be very dry, making it not only unsightly but a heaven to static electricity. Heaven forbid you rest your fro on a wall or headrest and make it flat on one side. How embarrassing to be seen looking like a capital letter “D.” Products like “StaSofFro” help with upkeep but the tool of all tools in keeping your afro tight is an afro pick. I had combs and picks in every color including the well known metal toothed Black Power fist pick, which obviously only comes in black.
By my thirteenth year as an American citizen, including almost four years living in Germany I had learned several lessons in being black. I first found out I was black in kindergarten. Until then I had no reason to consider the fact that I wasn’t simply brown. I argued with my classmate who was frustrated because he, himself, didn’t understand why he knew I was black. This was just knowledge he was passing on from home and felt compelled to share. I stood my ground since I was a smart kid. My grandmother taught Pre-K, so I learned my colors very early. This poor peach child must have not had that luxury. It was my mother that afternoon who shattered my reality by fully explaining that I was brown but my race was black. I was already having a hard time with mail versus male. Suddenly I can be in a race and also be a race.
Another world quaking lesson came when I saw Alex Haley’s Roots for the first time. It was showing on television over the course of a few nights when I was about eight years old. My father was an officer in the army and was away at Ranger school. My mother sat close to me as I watched every night with wide eyes. I learned that timing is everything and the timing of my birth was a great factor in me not being someone’s property. What a groundless revelation for a child on a sofa.
I am thirteen. I am living in Jackson, Mississippi. I have an afro. I am on my way from the front door of my family’s mobile home to retrieve something from my family’s van which is parked in the driveway. My father, who is outside working in the yard doesn’t allow my fifth footstep to fall before he screams at me.
“Joseph! Take that comb out of your head!!!”
I had been doing some routine afro maintenance and left the comb stuck in my hair. If you’ve ever been black with an afro you know any comb stays quite firmly wherever you leave it. My father was always eager to teach a lesson and often upset with me so I didn’t react. This was just another one of his drills, and all I needed was to make it to the van and back. He ran at me with force.
“Either get back in the house or take that damn comb out your head!!!”
His whole arm, down to his fingertip, was pointed at the front door. It stayed suspended as he stared me down. I now knew this was not a drill so I removed the comb and went about my task. On my way back from the car, My Father, Airborne Ranger: Major Carl Lymous stood directly in my path. He came very close to me and explained in very staccato words that I was to never let anyone see me being less than I am. He admonished me that because I was a young black man leaving the house with a comb in my hair was unacceptable. In my mind he must have gone blind for a moment. This wasn’t my Black Power pick, this was a long turquoise comb with purple tipped teeth. This was me in our front yard.
Fortunately and unfortunately he hadn’t gone blind. This lesson was coming hard at my face. He warned me that if people, specifically white people, see me with a totem of my blackness that I will be treated differently. I’d be putting myself at higher risk to be arrested or even worst, killed. Carl Lymous is a man of many lessons that I would call hard, but this one which included the possibility of death stuck to my ribs.
It was that day in a trailer park in Mississippi under a canopy of pine trees that I began to see myself differently. My spine changed. My smile widened. I did everything I could to let white ladies know that I wasn’t going to rob them because I wasn’t one of those black boys. I spoke proper English and I was going to college.
Somewhere along the road to college in the midst of wide smiles and firm hand shakes I lost myself. I lost parts of my heart because I wasn’t allowed to have them. I was to protect the hearts of my white neighbor while telling mine to be still. Looking back, this is one of the saddest lessons I’ve learned, but it was absolutely necessary. It’s highly likely that you wouldn’t even be reading this if I had not learned this lesson. This brutal lesson has kept me from seeing myself and my black peers as the infinitely beautiful, passionate, and powerful people we are. Now, twenty years later I am thirty-three and looking deep within myself to find my voice as an artist, a lover, a friend, and a human being who can potentially change the world. I am shedding this lesson as a lesson and calling it what it is…. a memory.
Because of our current social and political climate Black history is now. I’m excited at the notion that I have the power to change what our children will know to be history. My first stop on this journey is to put in my thinking pick, throw on some Lauryn Hill and shed EVERY limiting lesson I’ve ever been taught.
_Photo by Lou Martinez @oathofobsidian
READ ALL ABOUT IT: Winter IN BED with Spring!
By: Joseph Lymous
Climate change is a problem rapidly affecting our precious planet. It is also a source of much debate among politicians, scientists, and everyday residents of planet earth. This Winter New York City was filled with Spring-like temperatures and climate change coupled with El Niño were the top two noted reasons. Now, there are two brand new suspects.
Rumors have been flying for weeks that Winter and Spring have been becoming friendly and maybe even dating. These rumors were given much validity on this second day of Spring, as Jomiray Productions was on the scene when Winter and Spring were seen holding hands leaving The Standard Hotel. Nestled in NYC's Meat Packing District, The Standard is known for high profile guests, sheik parties, and sexual escapades. The posh hotel boasts 337 non-reflective windows from which countless accounts of sexual acts have been witnessed. There are no known reports of Winter and Spring being seen from the windows, but the couple leaving the hotel hand in hand gave strong evidence for a love affair between these two seasons. Scientists have not yet gone on record about the affair, but it doesn't take a scientist to deduce that Winter being inside of Spring rules out climate change as the reason for the warm 2015-16 Winter months. As for the one big snow storm this season, we can only assume they were "on a break."
Winter and Spring were both questioned by Jomiray Productions as they walked away from the hotel. Winter was very cold and even aggressive at times giving the impression that the fore-mentioned rumors are true. When asked what we can expect from the coming Spring months, Spring simply answered, "Allergies!"
The recent flux of temperatures around the globe is a very serious issue. One can only sigh in relief that in this instance climate change can be ruled out and a Winter/Spring fling can be ruled in.
Joseph Lymous is a journalist for Jomiray Productions.
My Black History is now a Joke.
I’ve recently become very curious about the recipe of me. Now in my thirty-second year on this planet I’m finally understanding what it means to love myself. Understanding the words themselves was never difficult, but something within me has begun to speak them to me with a very different tone. Until last year my perception of self was purely based on information I received from others. Although I believe every vote of brilliance and confidence that was given to me was real, my insecurities would kill every word as soon as I was alone. Now, I know I am not alone.
I am African American. I am from a southern U.S. state. I am a descendent of a long line of housekeepers and slaves. My family before me was brought to the U.S. against their will, sold based on the look and quality of their bodies and forced to work. As an artist and comedian in this modern world I can’t imagine the daily strength it took to be working and fighting to simply be free. It’s beyond my comprehension, but at the same time not at all beyond my blood. The same blood, eye color, hands, muscle mass, and the same weird fourth toe that those before me possessed are still in my possession. I was literally bred to be great!
When I sing I imagine this beautiful strong black slave woman who sings under a moonlit tree dreaming of what freedom would be like. She is my grandest mother.
When I dance I imagine this very thin and vibrant native African tribesman who could dance kicking up dirt for hours. Everyone in the tribe adores him, and he adores them right back. He is my greatest-greatest grandfather.
As I work toward a flourishing career in comedy I imagine my family before me hearing the news of their freedom. They sing and dance and laugh and then… THEY RUN. I imagine them all running wild like the wind through the woods, heavy with every article of clothing they could carry which was all they had. The youngest children don’t quite understand what is happening but they laugh because the adults are running and laughing like they are children themselves. They laugh and run and laugh and run! They have no idea where they’re going or what new trials they will face, they just run. I will never meet that great family of mine, but I run just like them. I laugh just like them. I hope just like them. I am them. Every morning they wake up with me and talk with me. Now, in my thirty-second year on this planet I’m just beginning to hear their voice.
How I read books:
Page 1 Chapter 1
Sigh... Ok. I can do this. Great, this first page is very short. It's only half the page!!! I'm going to breeze right through this one. Joseph, you are going to read this WHOLE book! You really are growing up! Your attention span is maturing with every year that goes by. You got this! Wow! That was a great sentence. This author is as good as everyone says. Breezing right through. (Mental whistling) I wonder if I can still do the splits on skates? Wait! I missed those last two sentences. SHIT! I have not been paying attention at all. That's fine, I'll just go back to the top and do this first page again. Its SO short.
Page 1 Chapter 1
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZzZZZZZZZ zzzzzzZZZZZZzzzzz ZzzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzz zzzzZZZZ ZZZZzzzZ ZzzZZzzZzZzZzZZzZ ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZzZZZZZZZ zzzzzzZZZZZZzzzzz ZzzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzz zzzzZZZZ ZZZZzzzZ ZzzZZzzZzZzZzZZzZ ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzz ZZZZZZZzZZZZZZZ zzzzzzZZZZZZzzzzz ZeeeeeeZeeeeeeee zEEEEEEEEEEEEEE ZeeeZeeeZeeeZeee ZeeZeeZeeZeeZeeZeeeeeeeeeeee ZEEEEEZEEEEZEEEEEEE ZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZzZ ZzzzzzzzzzzzZzzzzzzzzz ZzzzzzzzZZZZZzzzzzz Zzzzzz ZzzzZZZZ Z Z zzzz Zzzzzzzz zee zee SHIT!
And now I'm late for work.
5 reasons your gay black friend is the BEST damn friend you have!!!
by Joseph Lymous
In a world where communication is mostly done on devices, the idea of friendship is rapidly changing. We have fallen in love with our phones, computers, and tablets because they are little boxes that house our “friends.” The idea of missing a friend is becoming obsolete as we know what every friend around the world is doing all the time.
I happen to be a part of what seems to be one of the last generations of romantics. I love snail mail. I love greeting cards and sending flowers. I believe in love. I believe in face to face hang time. I love to hug and I love to dance… OK, I’m gay…Like, pretty gay… I’m also black… And I’m the best damn friend you’ve ever had. You know me. If you haven’t met me personally, I’m sure you know someone who reminds you of me (DeKendrick? Marcus?? Ronald???). I hear it everywhere I go. I’m your gay black friend and here’s a list of reasons why I’m the best damn friend you have:
1) I am a great listener who can comfort you through your struggle! I have been through A LOT. My family is not proud of my sexual preference and society has pegged me as a menace. My whole life has been a struggle to prove I’m worth more than meets the eye! I can teach you how to hold your head up and walk through ANYTHING! “Fuck ‘em! That’s what I always say.”
2) I will keep you in stitches (not from cutting you, which I will do if need be)! I am the funniest person you know. This I inherited from my hilarious uncles and aunts who show up drunk and say ANYTHING at family reunions. It could possibly also be the endless hours I’ve spent watching Designing Women and “Steve Urkel.”
3) I will cut you! Well, I wont cut you but I will cut anyone who messes with you. I love a good quarrel. Family means a lot to me and you are mine. I don’t care how big they are or how many Aikido moves they know. You can even be absolutely wrong in the situation, but if you need me to… I will cut a bitch… Twice!!!
4) I can dance my ASS OFF! Everyone loves to be around a good dancer, but the truth is I’m a GREAT dancer. I will be the life of any party you invite me to. I will also convince you that you can dance… “Just try it! You can do it! You look GREAT!” All I ask in return is you save me from dancing with the old ladies at your parties… I know we will look great on your Instagram but get the shot and rescue me, THANKS!
5) I won’t smother you. Some friends have a tendency to be around too much. I am lazy and flaky enough to not always be around. In fact, good luck finding me sometimes! xoxo
xoxo
Click link to get in my FACE!!!
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=DPlNwcuFNlo
Joe Boxerless
May 20th, 2006 I made the big move to New York City. I had been looking forward to this day since my first footsteps in Manhattan the summer of 2003. I lived in New York briefly that summer and became addicted to it. I took acting classes and even got into my first small New York show. Although my heart was in New York I had to go back Lafayette, Louisiana where I was going to college and working at EXPRESS, a clothing store. I had to get out. The plan was to quit school, save money and then make the move. I did it! After a week in the city I had already transferred to a much bigger EXPRESS store in Herald Square. I had far more product knowledge and experience than most of the other sales associates so it wasn't long before they made me a manager.
It was time for me to think like a professional. I was working in Manhattan and one of eight members of the management team overseeing dozens of employees. I had responsibilities.
Time seems to slip away from you in New York City. This place does actually seem to have it's own system of minutes. You can wake up early, not have anything to do until 5pm and if you take your eye off the clock for just a moment it's guaranteed to read 4:50pm the very next time you look. I was starving and my 5pm meeting was approaching fast. If there was something to cook in the apartment there would be no time to cook it. There was no bread, no chips, and not one Hot Pocket in the Hot Pocket box left in the freezer. My room mate, also from Louisiana, had made shrimp pasta a few days earlier and offered it to me. I didn't take it then, but now was my time. I warmed it up and ate it like it was the last bit of food in my apartment and I was late for a meeting..
I was only a little late, but being late at all was setting up a terrible first impression to the associates and managers who barely knew me. I apologized and blamed it on my lack of directional knowledge. I was forgiven. The meeting was to last two hours, and somehow New York's minutes turned into regular minutes that evening. I had to talk numbers, rules, and fashion. I also had to shit... BAD. It felt like there was an excited child doing somersaults in my stomach. It was becoming hard to focus on much else but how the shrimp inside me was likely spoiled. Not only was it spoiled, but I had eaten it with the gusto of a hungry dog. I had come late and I needed to leave early.
It wont take long, It wont take long, I began chanting in my head. My problem was two-fold. Not only did I have to shit, but the bathroom was in view of everyone in the meeting. I needed to leave and I didn't know anyone well enough to say so. As nervous as I was the time had come. I could no longer wait. This was not a prairie dog situation, there was going to be an oil spill. I leaned over to the manager on my left and whispered, “I have to go.”
She whispered back, “What?”
“I have to use the restroom, but I need to leave to do it.”
She replied, “Oh.” She was not nearly as concerned as I expected. She informed me that there was a restroom in the building and that it was private.
Hallelujah!
What came next was a list of directions that my mind had no room to process. I knew I had to go upstairs and follow a hallway. The only thing I truly retained was the bathroom code, 231. I ran up
the stairs as if I was off for the Underground Railroad. A peace came over me as I entered the all white hallway. Although, there were no restroom signs I just knew I was almost there. From one end of the hall to the next, I searched for any signs of a restroom. All I found was a freight elevator and the back doors to many other stores. Time was running out as I realized I must be in the wrong hall. The right hall was parallel to this one on the other side of the floor. I ran. As I'm sure you have experienced, when one must shit sometimes one must break wind beforehand. This one was me that evening. I let out a small powered, but long warm fart. It provided great relief. I was thankful, but as I was traversing to the other side of the floor I realized the warmth from my fart had stayed with me. Did I shit-a-little? There was no time to wonder. I clinched and ran. By the time I found the mens room I swear the man on the restroom sign was waving me in like I was an airplane. I was. I was on flight 231 and I was coming in for a delivery.
Upon entry to the stall, I knew it. I shit myself. I pulled down my pants and my suspicions were confirmed. Shit! Nevermind the meeting and what people thought of me. I was surprised at myself. I hadn't shit myself since I was a child and what better underwear to be wearing but my favorites. My favorite black Joe Boxers were ruined. They were the most comfortable, stylish underwear I owned and they would never see my ass again. Whats worst is that I was wearing khaki pants. I stripped them off to inspect them and they were clean, but as I stood there I had a pure moment of self-reflection. I'm half naked (shoes and socks off as to keep them clean as well), and shitty in New York City. Despite the situation, this moment felt magical. How has my life changed so quickly?
It was only the beginning.
I dropped my underwear into the translucent trash bag, and covered them with several paper towels. My head held high I walked back to my meeting. It was over and everyone was standing around talking. Although my inspection proved that my khakis were clean I kept my back to a wall or shelf at all times. They would never know.
I love New York!
Nuts.
I am a black, gay, artist, comedian, bastard, army brat New Orleanian raised by Southern Christian parents. Lately, I’ve been trying to find a word that encompasses all of these traits. Several words circle my mind daily, but the one that keeps coming up is “nuts.” I’m nuts.
The truth is that I am special. My unique perspective is made up of travel, dance, laughter, fear, God, alienation, abuse, loneliness, and love. I am especially loved, and I am especially afraid. The ingredients in my life’s gumbo are the perfect ingredients to make a “nuts,” (read gifted) artist. I’ve been called special and talented my entire life, and here I sit in my tiny, shared Brooklyn apartment lost in my own mind. I’m not sure where the special in me lives. I have a hard time seeing the direct route to my own voice.
“SOMEONE CALL 911, THERE’S ANOTHER “LOST” ARTIST IN A SMALL APARTMENT IN BROOKLYN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I’m often drowning in my own thoughts which blur the lines between funny and scary.
“HURRY! THIS ONE’S “DROWNING.”
I’ve decided that writing will help me find my voice, and so here I am. This is a collection of stories. They are all mine. They are all true.
These are my nuts.