#coco curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

Love, Mrs. Perfect

"Of course, you'll never make a mistake. You're perfect. You're too good for me."

This was the shining line in a slight argument with an ex. He was a bad boy who wore his bad boy flag just bravely enough for good girls like me to believe that he'd tire of the charades. There's no way to be that bad that openly and never want to change, right? Wrong.

That's how I became the "perfect" girl in an "imperfect" (nearly nonexistent) relationship with an "imperfect" man. That's how I learned that leading with your imperfections doesn't mean that you're ready to own them.

I have this hope that at some point in the generously near future, I'll learn how to stop replaying resounding one-liners from my exes. Just as I stripped their phone numbers and favorite meals from my memory, I can learn to unlearn the crazy shit they said. I can remember to forget every memory we ever made. I can pretend that I've washed myself anew and that if we met again, in this very moment, we wouldn't even get as far as "hello." I've come a long way because that was so long ago. There's a new special someone in the picture and I've been working on becoming a special person on my own. That's what I tell myself.

When I heard Bibi Bourelly and Earl St. Clair toss "you're a little too perfect for me" over a set of insistent drums and an evangelical organ, it struck a nerve.

At first sight of the video, I was drawn in by the stark white clothes, sugar cubes, flowers and sneakers that catered to the blindingly bland palette that Instagram has made us all accustomed to. (Not gonna lie, I was looking for some interior inspiration for my new bedroom.) Then I remembered what happens when I collide with white. Wine stains, crisp sneakers that track in new dirt, hair products that seep into shirts, and lipsticks that kiss powdery pillows in my sleep.

Many of the personalities that we look up to have conveniently wrapped themselves in an unchangeable and tauntingly permanent space that would be hard to recreate in real life. I thought this video would be more of that.  A nice, neutral, painstakingly curated introduction into the mainstream music world. A video that's cute for right now, but not memorable the next time the homie asks if you've been listening to anything new lately.

The "Perfect" video slowly dissolves into a more realistic space. Like lipstick on teeth, nails chipping, bugs crawling real. Within 3 minutes, the world that we've been programmed to yearn and recreate begins to deteriorate right before our eyes. Skin is shed, breath is lost, but the drums beat on and the organ rises between the valleys that the singers have carved using interchangeable moans.

I find myself rocking from side to side through it all. I find myself reaching for the crisp and clean hue that I yearn to dip everything in. I want it all to be even, to make sense, and to look good on screen. Finally, i rejoice in the way that Bibi Bourelly and Earl St. Clair have chosen to highlight and deconstruct just how far-fetched our ideals have become.

I find myself resigning to what realness really looks like. For some, perfect means being able to keep someone close. For others, perfect means creating an untainted space of your own. "Perfect" is for the rest of us who have come to terms with the fact that sometimes the two are mutually exclusive.

That would be a little too easy.

-Brought to you by CoCo Curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

And Yo Cousins Too

You could always hear my older cousin coming up the street moments before he floated through the door in an angelic XXL white tee with an earring and a newly un-braced smile gleaming. The same smile that the Internet has no record of, because now he only strikes serious, mixtape-worthy poses. He fucks with Blade Icewood eternally, Jeezy when he's on tour and in town, and Future when I'm around.

 He was my first peek into the underground. Not the slightly prickly underground that hipsters gather in rooms to reminisce and scratch their beards about. He's not into that "white boy shit" that I sometimes dabble in and he laughed out loud when I told him I was going to see Stevie Wonder in concert. In fact, I  don't even think he'd label himself as a music fan, but that's not what matters. What matters is that the CDs that littered the glove compartment of his coke white Impala were the tools that chiseled sharp corners into my previously all-inclusive musical taste. I used to listen to everything, but somewhere between my Now That's What I Call Music! discs and right now, I developed a sweet spot for the harsh, bass-booming tracks that he would turn down as he snuck in the house and missed another curfew.

Maybe it's a Midwestern thing, maybe it's a Detroit thing, but I spent a lot of time in cars, and for the 14 years and 9 months that I didn't have a driver's permit, I spent a lot of time in the backseat. When I wanted to go somewhere that wouldn't feel right with a parental drop-off, I called my cousin from my clunky blue Nokia to ask for a ride. First, I was a tiny, uniformed, pig-tailed elementary schooler. Then, a straight-haired middle schooler and popped-Polo-wearing high schooler. My cousin changed less drastically. He was always going somewhere in an excruciatingly color-coordinated fit, living just a little too loud, and leaving just a little too early from all the family obligations I endured quietly. He was the rebel to my cause, the impulse to my contemplation, and the rhythm to my soul.

Goddamn I feel amazing  - Kendrick Lamar

Thanks to my big cousin, I learned the proper response to "money, hoes, cars and clothes". I fell in love with Jeezy The Snowman in the middle of the summer. I didn't have to numb the grown folks' ears to my dirty music, because he had already rolled up then rolled up to family bbqs as his car shook with Wayne's everlasting love for "Pussy, Money, Weed". Thanks to his backseat, my virgin ears heard raunchy rants and dewy interludes that made my blood rush and ears pound in unison.

Before his newest girlfriend could recline on the passenger side, she'd have to let me crawl past her half-bent seat and scoot over to let me apply lipgloss in the mirror. When his boys crowded into the backseat, I relinquished my favorite seat beneath the side speaker to take the skinny seat in the middle and pretend that I hated having their starched jeans rub against mine as we turned corners.

She said, "I been hugged, and I been kissed

But ain't no other boy, make me feel like this.”  - N.E.R.D.

When it was just me, I'd still sit in the back, allowing him his big cousin status and giving myself permission to disappear. Most of the time I shouldn't have been in there at that time of night hearing the talks I was hearing or smelling the smells that only seemed to arise when he was around.

On the best nights, he would be in a silent mood and turn his music all the way up as the mirrors shook in fear. I would close my eyes and let the breeze from the open windows caress my face until I felt like I was the wind. I would sit still and act like I didn't care that the build up to each chorus made it feel like my brain was rattling inside my head. Was the rattling there before all of this? Hadn't everyone and everything outside of this car gotten into my head without my permission?

Gonna speed it down and slow it up in the back seat - Gwen Stefani

From the backseat, I would pretend that I was going somewhere so important that it would take centuries and countless tanks of gas to get there. My cousin had just gotten a job in the Finish Line stockroom and he even worked over Thanksgiving, so I'm sure he could afford it. I didn't have to worry. I  could create the space and time and permission that I needed. 

Back then, I could just enjoy the ride.

-Brought to you by CoCo Curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

Third Time’s The Charm

There’s this thing that people do to girls, well before they’re born and well beyond womanhood. We put them in dresses and glass boxes so they can stand and look at the world from a coveted, protected distance. The myth is that we want them to see it all, to experience all the bursts and bruises. The reality is that we make them to be seen by the world from a Barbie pink bubble.  As a girl, you are looked after. As a woman, you are sought after. You lose yourself at the other end of pointing fingers and staring eyes. You find that you are rarely seen as a human.

Which brings me to Princess Nokia and her general “fuck a gaze” attitude. From the moment I clicked play on her “Tomboy” video for the first time, I knew it would be an adventure. A glimpse into a day in the life of the kind of girl I pride myself in being who my grandmother would be ashamed to see me become. One, who in all honesty, may only be a daydream of mine. Am i really that chill? How unique can one person be? Do I do what I do for other eyes? Should I start that crunch challenge before I walk the streets in a crop top this summer? But back to Princess. After truly vibing with my first “Tomboy” encounter, I sent the link to The Outspoken Token.

For the second time watching, I put the song on mute. I wanted to see Princess Nokia. To look at her in her environment. The sight of her bursts that Barbie pink bubble open with the bounce of basketballs and the clink of gold necklaces.

Her hair, her skin, her easy bop, her harsh jawline, her rounded glasses, her bone-straight hair all reminded me of kinda weird, hella chill girls that looked like freedom to me in high school. She became the shape-shifter that society coaxes all women to be. The homie, the lover, the friend. But this time with a gaze, as deliberately straight as her middle part, into the camera.  An unshaken and easy gaze that seems to be looking just past you.  As we zip through a pretty average day on her block, we are introduced to her inner circle.

I am reminded that no woman, even in her all majesty and independence, is alone. There are multitudes of women, or at least kindred spirits who are only able to see each other so clearly because they are bits of the same puzzle. The bits in this video are able to flash smiles and little titties. Her squad moves and even continues to shake when the motion is over.  A little hair there, a little tummy here. There’s the familiar two-second crunch urge accompanied by a Calvin Klein bralette  that teases the possibility of a less fat belly. There’s a meaningful showing of teeth as leafless trees sway in the background. There is motion and impulse. These are real women.

For the third try, I cover the screen to take in the lyrics. Princess Nokia’s crisp repetition is surrounded by an oozily insistent beat reminiscent of a marching band. She takes ownership of her body and her capabilities and her quirks from the start.

With my little titties and my phat belly

I could take your man if you finna let me

It's a guarantee that he won't forget me

My body little, my soul is heavy

My little titties be breaking cities all around the world

Everything is hers. It’s all here to hear and to see. There is no body without the woman and no woman without the body. By the end, the “that girl is a tomboy!” hearsay is chopped and screwed into a nonissue.

-Brought to you by CoCo Curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

All for the feather

A daughter locked in your prison

Most of my early childhood memories are actually spliced moments that I’ve filled in with the words and wishes of adulthood, but I have one very vivid memory that resurfaces so often and represents so little that it just has to be real.

I’m seven-years-old and my family has just moved into a new house after my mom’s wedding. We have a marbled blue floor that looks very real and kinda rich to a kid that knows nothing about linoleum tiles. I’m seated on the kitchen counter looking down at my new Rich People Floor, wearing dirty denim jeans and no shoes because my mom and brand new step dad are asleep and I’m officially old enough to pour my own cereal and milk. I get onto one bent knee and retrieve my mom’s corn flakes. I am seven years old and I’m making my own cereal. I count as I pour seven tablespoons of glistening sugar into my bowl. I don’t usually have a thing with numbers, but something about being seven makes me feel like I should celebrate my new accomplishment with something sweet. I put it all back and promise myself to stop adding to the sugar scoop count as soon as I turn eight. But I’m seven and I’m capable of holding and moving anything I can fully wrap my hands around. I add in an avalanche of whole milk and sit down to eat a quarter of the big breakfast I’ve made for my big girl self.  I know what you’re thinking. Ok.. And ? But that’s it. That’s the whole mundane memory. I’m proud to say that as I’ve matured I tend to stray away from that kind of excess and indulgence when it comes to just about everything, except music. 

 You are airborn, you’ve got silver rays  

 All day, I reach for music. Sometimes I listen once then twice then hop on to YouTube Repeat until my ears get tired of me. There’s no rhyme or reason to the song that I repeat, but most often, it’s something that strikes a chord and gives me the permission to drown in whatever emotion I’ve tried to avoid all day. Some songs just come with the wings to release the secrets lurking between my body and soul. It’s not a mind thing, it’s a must.  

Today’s track is Little Dragon’s  Feather. I can’t quite tell you what it means to me or why it feels particularly fitting for the day, but I can tell you what it sounds like to my tired ears.  Its distant cool greets the listener in a warm welcome. Its time can be measured somewhere between regeneration and regression. The elastic beat oscillates from certainty to suppositions as Yukimi’s hollow voice begs to fill the space between each drumkick.   Every line sounds like a question dipped in answers.  It feels like all the contradictions that try to keep you from fully understanding and flying. It sinks to the bottom of my milky avalanche mind like the seventh scoop.  

Will it ever float? Will it ever soar along? 

 -brought to you by CoCo Curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

Time & Time Again

There's this game that all hip-hop fans play. It goes like this: you're packed into a car listening to the radio or shuffling through your favorite playlist in someone's junky living room and everyone is in the zone. Either eyes are closed and mouths are shut or mouths are closed tight and eyes are open slightly because you’ve just heard a note that sounds so familiar that it feels like it's come from inside of you. You try to remember where it came from.

 Is it that one soul singer that all the old people like? Or that obscure movie soundtrack outro that no one made it all the way through but you? Maybe the whitest, pop-iest, most commercial song has been convincingly flipped into a funk that you can't recognize. It's the "name that sample game" and only those who have done their research and logged their manual mixtape making hours need apply. You have to know where music has been to tell where it's going now. 

We walk down the aisles of our digital music stores in search of thinly veiled music samples that make older generations cringe and think that we're stealing their music. That we don't know good music. That we "don't make anything original." But we never hear this. And if we do, we never listen. Instead we search our internal music encyclopedia, only resorting to an online search as a last ditch effort, to see how our favorite artists reached back into time and made it sound brand new. We finally connect the dots and another round of sampling is identified, announced, rewarded with a chorus of "oh yeah" and "that's what I thought.” 

It makes sense that we like samples. We cling to them the same way we cling to anything that reminds us of anytime that's not right now. We search for greener pastures even if they've browned from the armies of eager feet coming to stomp on them. Maybe we're tired of being obsessed with right now. Maybe these phones and cameras and videos are showing us who are (and who we're trying to be) a little too clearly. No one looks good all the time. So instead, we reveal parts of ourselves, in polite grids and fleeting films. We make samples of ourselves. 

Even Merriam Webster agrees. 

Sample: a small part or quantity intended to show what the whole is like 

For us hip-hop devoted humans, It's not the growing up that gets to us, it's the sampling. It's the picking up parts of everyone else's lives that we know we never wanted that keeps us down. We would love to be like our favorite producers and be in charge of choosing what to get with and what to get rid of. Selecting what to replicate and what to recycle. We would love to age gracefully into those soulful singers and distinguished divas that round out the rhythms of the modern edges we like in our music. But it's not that simple, it takes a long time to be a flower. It takes some digging deep, some opening up, it takes time. 

 I spent two nights this week pretending that time didn't exist. I walked into dimly light bars with barely there clothes and acted like I didn't have to be up in six hours. I wanted to be present in whatever this whole "right now" was all about. This networking and posing and chilling and hugging and smiling and listening to whatever music was about to play. I wanted to live in the kind of moment that people will be fighting to get a taste of and create their taste from generations from now. I was in the company of my hip-hop friends, some that know much more about the actual music than my flimsy feelings will ever allow. They were talking about international releases and upcoming underground debuts and I was nodding and smiling, accepting all of the knowledge they had to offer. 

In the middle of this musical lesson, the DJ began playing something I had heard before. He had stripped it of it's methodic introduction and drums. Then, it was a parasitic groove that flew into my ear like a small bug, begging me to sing along and dance there, between the spaces the other songs don't usually permit. Here, it was all drums and vocals and silence. Now, it was insistent and shedding it's acquiescence for authority. I had better listen. 

I stepped closer, to the purple light in the front of the room and planted my feet. The greener pasture I had been longing for sprouted around me. I raised my hand, I forgot I was with my friends, I forgot that I was supposed to be young and cool. I finally remembered the time. 

 It's right now o'clock and I'm supposed to be exactly where I am. 

 -Brought to you by CoCo Curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

Stop. Look. Listen.

At any given moment of every day, I create the soundtrack to my life.  In the morning, I risk water damage as I plug in my cellphone and pump the volume button up to combat the steam coming from the shower for the perfect get-ready-for-the-world-tunes. I toggle between Spotify, Tidal, Soundcloud and the radio whenever I drive. I google the hour's latest releases during my lunch break. I dedicate nauseatingly repeated playlists to summon or overcome specific moods. I put on my headphones to mute interactions with strangers. For the vast majority of every waking (and listening) moment, I fill my head with other people's sounds, inviting them into my daily narrative through osmosis.

I use every sound that I encounter to embellish what's already going on inside. Sometimes these sounds chatter agreeably with my thoughts, making them seem painstakingly nuanced or blatantly clear.

Today, my dog's stiletto-sounding footsteps awoke my mom. She walked to my sister's cluttered bed to rustle me from the mess while the sun was too shy to wave good morning. I turned over first. We were going to start our day early and go explore and get things done. I got dressed quickly, hopped in the driver's seat of her car and effectively released the reigns of my beloved Sunday routine to my passenger-seat-driving mom. I can't think of the last time I successfully completed the "getting my life together" marathons that await me every Sunday. Today was no different. As we drove to the city to spend quality mom/daughter time, I realized I had forgotten my headphones at home. Today was going to be different.

On the way to the city, I re-educated my mom about why Kendrick is a WONDERFUL rapper that is reallyjustapoetwithasonicallysoulfullyresonantvoice! She nodded and smiled at the clever lines in To Pimp A Butterfly and couldn't quite understand how to classify 'untitled unmastered'. 

We talked. She repeated herself, cut me off mid-sentence, laughed at the right times and got all sentimental at the wrong times. Her peaks, pauses, breaths and laughs reminded me of all the sounds that I shield myself from every day. Today, I let them in. This is what I heard:

I heard eggs scrambling on a skillet.

I heard water turning into tea with a honey hug.

I heard a patient key unlock a stubborn door.

I heard a southern accent searching for daytime activities and nighttime amnesia.

I heard the silent, soft, and sure squirming of a brand new baby.

I heard a new mom shuffle in her hospital gown and adjust to the solid weightlessness of Mother Nature's crown.

I heard new thoughts morphing into a typed message to an old friend.

I heard a couple of confidants gossiping and encouraging each other over coffee.

I heard cars cruising by with windows down, blasting my kind of music.

I felt the distance between alone and together.

I walked the bridges that understanding requires.

I stared at the walls that confusion creates.

I felt the difference between creation and curation.

Dusk was winking at us on the drive home, so I filled the car with Kendrick's "Alright". My sounds were back. My eyes filled with the most invisible, most silent, most permanent, most necessary tears because for the first time in a long list of Sundays, everything sounded like a wonderful reason to feel and move. Life is what happens when you stop curating and start listening. Reallygoforwhatyouwantandstopworryingaboutwhatyouneed.

-Brought to you by CoCo Curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

Synchronicity

You would think that a lady looking for love would search for solace in the soothing melodies of the nearest female vocalist. I'm sure there are playlists, documentaries, and album reviews all about how [insert favorite female artist] really knows how to sing about love. I'm sure *she* does and *she* probably has come to my rescue on necessary nights.

I listen to *her* when I want motherly wisdom or sisterly consolation. When I'm drowning in consequences, *she* swims to my rescue with safety precautions and serves as a forewarning for the upset that is always lying in wait on the other end of every note that escapes *her* lovelorn lips.

I listen to *her* when I want to cry. But when I’m in the mood to float, when I really want to be touched, I reach for a male voice.

Iluvu2much (2007)

In "Iluvu2much”, the acoustics nestle between Eric Roberson’s voice lovingly and grant him the authority to lead a delicate dance with Algebra Blessett with calculated ease. As Eric meets Algebra in the chorus,*he* releases a whine that will sound like lust to his boys and love to you. *He* captures that feeling that you can't quite put your finger on, in sound.

I Do (2016)

Musiq's “I Do” showcases deliciously detached vocals with a persistent background that entangles you in the possibility of flawed, yet sustained love. Accompanied by your conscience's favorite companion, the guitar, every pause becomes an indecision and every pick up echoes with potential. Musiq mingles bright keys with his muddy thoughts. *He* mixes the profane with the profound, dips doubt in certainty, and provides the bigger picture for any love portrait you were ready to hang over the mantle.

Previouscats (2002)

Until today, I couldn't quite figure out why "Previouscats” was following me. It quickly traveled through my Spotify Discover Weekly playlist into a saved feed and graduated into my writing playlist. Something about it sounded so familiar, like its arms would knowingly wrap around me if we ever met in person (and if it solidified into human form). As it turns out, two of my favorite male singers teamed up for this one. Eric Roberson wrote the lyrics and recorded the background vocals for this track from Musiq's Juslisen album.

So it finally makes sense. Somewhere between these two voices and those rocky relationship stages, I get to experience all that love has to offer. I get to melt into that dewy, sweet honey all chocolate families raise their daughters to cherish. I get to grow and counteract the hardness of everyday life with intangible attachment. I become cherished. *I* become the woman that *he* loves.

Now, I have begun to realize that every epiphany I have ever had has already been discovered. Every first-time rush I experience feels just like someone else's last time.  I start to remember that the life-changing love I'm always looking for is probably somewhere laughing in my face at all the life I passed up trying to reach it. I may never find it. I may never know the truth, but I know that all of this sounds like *love* to me.

-Brought to you by CoCo Curious

[twogirlsontherun-blog]

More Than Alright

If you really knew me, you’d know that I interrupt other people’s sentences when I have something really important to say. My throat gets scratchy and my body gets jittery with the thought of releasing it to the world. Like if I don’t get it out at this exact moment, the opportunity will pass and we will neglect to capture the feelings that are coloring my mind right now.

If we ever meet, I apologize in advance for interrupting you. But I promise, it’s for our own good. You will leave our conversation with your lukewarm, nearly finished sentences clothed in the hot thoughts I thought would help smooth them out. Sometimes my exclamations are completely unrelated, but I promise they’re always relevant.

If you really really knew me, you’d know that it’s a bad idea to speak to me in the middle of a song I really like (or right before it starts or at the soft spot in the end). If you’ve hung out with me recently, you have learned that what you say just can’t overpower Kanye’s Ultralight Beam or Rihanna’s Sex With Me or Kendrick’s Untitled 6. The vibes may be different, but the sentiment is the same.

Head up high, I look to the light

Hey, cause I know that you'll make everything alright

With me is amazing, with her it'll feel alright

You stick out like an alien compared to those around you

And that's alright because I like it

These are words that would live brightly on the page of my favorite book. I say the lyrics word for word in the same way I can read a novel from a cover to cover. I am convinced that the mastery of mimicking the intonation, the pauses, the breath, the breaks, the rhythm, will leave an imprint on my tongue and teach my bones to memorize victory too. I hold on to the all of this so dearly because it means I’m getting closer to something worth repeating.

I swear I’m listening to you, I just care about this more. I’m not just dancing, I’m stepping into a space that seems like it was carved especially for me. I’m just trying to bring the undulating universe that exists between my ears for mere minutes within my infinite grasp. Are you following me?

-Brought to you by CoCo Curious