August 5, 2011

What will you do when no one else cares to watch you anymore? How will you express yourself then? Or will you even bother to try?

As a young man I read a story called The Hunger Artist by Franz Kafka that seemed to pose this very question. The story is about this dude whose only gift to the world is his ability to starve himself. At first people are very responsive to his talent and they gather around him by the dozens to watch him fast. But eventually they become indifferent. They don’t stop to look at him nor do they acknowledge his existence. In the end the hunger artist decides to keep doing what he does best and ultimately he dies from starvation.

I wonder what sacrifices the actors of today would be willing to make if no one came to the theater. Would the singers still sing if no one listened? Can the pastor still preach the gospel without a congregation? How far would you be willing to go for your craft? Do you do it for yourself or do you do it for the crowd? And are you really sharing a gift if there is no one there to receive it?

Art can be so stimulating when the artist puts his soul into his work. Thank you Franz Kafka for your literary genius.

-Roger Porter

August 5, 2011

I’m such a bad parent. No wait, I think that’s a little too harsh. It’s not so much that I’m a bad parent as much as I’m a stereotypical one. Yeah that sounds better. I’m a stereotypical black father who is actually present.

That’s the perfect way to describe how I feel after my daughter’s first day of soccer practice. I mean I was excited—perhaps a little too excited. As a former athlete and avid sports fan I was proud almost to the point of tears when I saw my baby kick the ball between the cones then come in second place in her first team sprint. Words can’t describe how elated I was to witness her first day competing on the field. I can honestly say that was probably my happiest moment as a parent which, when I think about it, is absolutely terrible.

It’s terrible because so far in her academic career my daughter has been an excellent student. She was honored during an assembly for being scholar of the month in Kindergarten, and she was given the top award in her class this past year in first grade. So what can I say? I mean those things are definitely cool and I’m glad I have an intelligent, articulate child but I’m sorry— it’s just not the same for me.

I didn’t jump up and scream when she accepted her award in front of a few hundred people I only applauded mildly. Similarly, when she showed me the award she got from her teacher I said good job and kissed her on the cheek but when I found out she would be wearing a number 7 jersey like Michael Vick I almost lost my mind. I took pictures of her wearing it with my camera phone, I called relatives long distance, and I gave her high fives all over the place. I realize now that I put much more of an emphasis on athletics as opposed to education where it should be, but it’s so hard to do otherwise.

It’s not that I want my child to barely pass her classes and work toward getting an athletic scholarship it’s just that seeing her out there doing her thing evoked a more effusive response from me; and while I would like to say that’s only natural I’m more inclined to say, once again, that’s terrible. And the worst part about it is I never even played soccer.

Alright maybe I can even things out a little bit. The next time she gets an academic award I will force myself to go nuts. I will scream, I will shout, I will holler, and I will jump for joy as if I caught the Holy Ghost. The only problem with that is my little one will see right through the act. After all she is very sharp. My goodness, I only wish my mother and father would have told me how difficult this parenting gig truly is.

-Roger Porter

August 4, 2011

It’s always interesting to wait and see how the writing process will work. Sometimes it flows so well and then other times…there’s nothing. What can I blame this on? I’d like to say its Facebook’s fault for putting a little 1 on the panel every time someone interacts with my page. Since I’ve been on Fb my ADD has regressed into ADHD. (Speaking of Facebook; isn’t it bizarre when people actually like Facebook on Facebook? I just thought I’d ask).

I also want to blame my blog sometimes. After all, I hardly ever just write for me anymore. Every thought that I transform into writing I share with anyone out there in cyber space who is willing to read it. I’m thinking that’s a problem. Perhaps one day all of this openness will come back to haunt me. Maybe but that day ain’t today so I’ll keep moving right along.

It’s really a trip when you have so many wild thoughts running through your head but you can’t manage to pin one down and expound. Then you find yourself running full speed away from an empty page. Now can you think of anything scarier than that for a writer?

-The Asiatic Prince 

Continue reading →

Roger Porter

August 1, 2011

Even as an adult I continue to go through phases

A few years back I thought it would be pretty cool to learn how to play the guitar. So I stacked up a little money and bought the baddest acoustic guitar in the store thinking that the amount of cash I spent on it would motivate me to learn how to play. In the beginning my theory worked as I began to learn how to play basic little rhythms by ear. I even paid for a few lessons; but then life started happening. Various events began to require my time and pull me away from my new hobby until eventually I just gave it up. Now what was once my pride and joy is just a dusty, out of tune thing that sits in the corner of my room.

Dreams unfulfilled

For a brief moment in my life I wanted to play like Mississippi Fred McDowell, B.B. King, and Robert Johnson. Somehow I had managed to romanticize the arduous lives of southern sharecroppers who learned how to perform the blues in order to finally move off of the plantation. In my mind I wanted to hop on a train and just ride. With my guitar in my hand and a little bit of money in my pocket I would just go out one night and not come back until I had at least two dozen wild stories to tell my grandchildren.

How naïve can a grown man be?

Learning how to play the guitar is hard. Leaving your family is harder, and hopping on a freight train in the 21^st century is extremely ill-advised. Responsibility is the rusty blade that kills your childhood stroke by stroke. To live ones life in denial of what is real is tantamount to failure. At some point a person has got to settle down within himself, no matter how outrageous his dreams are.

There is still joy

There is nothing better than looking down from the top of the mountain at the people who tried in vein to destroy you. There is nothing better than being able to look inside yourself and loving what you see. I was foolish enough to think that money alone would motivate me to do something. I made the mistake of taking passion, dedication, and love out of the equation.

Now I am wiser

            Roger Porter

July 30, 2011

            In the hit record I’m On One by DJ Khaled Miami based rapper Rick Ross drops the lyric “Have you ever made love to the woman of your dreams/ in a room full of money out in London and she screams?” Every time I hear that part of the song it instantly causes me to become engaged with the music. It’s kind of baffling because it’s not like that’s the most profound thing I’ve ever heard. Although the imagery is rather astounding, for the most part it’s a pretty straight forward line. On the surface it has all the familiar elements of cultural decay that are present in every other radio friendly hip-hop anthem, but below the surface it gets deeper.

                Rick Ross actually used the euphemism make love on a rap song—who else would do that. I would like to see some data on when was the last time a “gangster rapper” passed up a perfectly good opportunity to say the word FUCK on a record. And then to take it to another level Rick uses the word WOMAN. The word woman has been forbidden in hip-hop since Arrested Development broke up. Just think of all the perfectly acceptable derogatory terms that he could have used besides woman. I mean what will become of our music if this man continues to refer to women as women? This one lyric may come to symbolize the end of an era.

                The audacity of this fat man who wears a long beard like an Afghani and who has an obsession for gangster cinema is absolutely unbelievable. How dare he try to change the game and be less obscene. How dare he be poetic and try to give us something to visualize. Doesn’t he know that we are struggling through an artistic recession right now?

                Rick Ross needs to learn that gangster rap is strictly for gangsters— not poets, and he needs to understand that he cannot be both. I think his label representative needs to tell him to raise the vulgarity and tone down this whole respect for the feelings of females’ thing before this gets out of hand. For if this mentality was to catch on then it could be an absolute disaster. It’s scary to think about it but trust me when I say this dude has the potential to destroy everything we’ve worked so hard to maintain and all it takes is one lyric.

Roger Porter

July 28, 2011

The more I learn about myself the more I discover that I am a liar. People hurt me and I tell them that I forgive them but most of the time I really don’t. I can look people in the eye and shake their hand. I can talk to them for hours and laugh with them all night knowing that all of my emotional attachments have been completely severed. I guess that makes me a cold person. Add another flaw to the gigantic pile of things I need to work on.

But then again some people are better kept on the outside. I have been told that human beings are creatures of habit. Which makes me afraid of letting someone who has betrayed me back into my inner-circle for fear that they will bleed me once again. And all of this causes me to ponder the question, what is true forgiveness?

I can genuinely say that I don’t actively hate anyone. I can also say that I don’t harbor any resentment toward anyone for pain that they may have caused me or anybody in my family. However I will confess that with some former loved ones I am just done. The truth is that my relationships with some individuals will never be the same and as I write these words I am becoming increasingly concerned that in the end this may not constitute as forgiveness. Perhaps this will cause me to be judged harshly whenever I pass on into the afterlife. Perhaps I will suffer immeasurable pain due to my personal inadequacies. Or maybe, just maybe, God will find a way to forgive me.

Roger Porter

July 26, 2011

I can’t imagine what life must be like for an artist who isn’t struggling; those two words seem to be almost completely synonymous to me. From a personal standpoint writing is my release, it is my passion and it is the purest thing in the world. Even though I dream of making it big on the literary scene, if I began to get paid thousands of dollars for these blogs I’m not sure that I would welcome the change.

For my poverty has come to characterize my writing style and I question that if I were to stumble upon wealth would my prose simply fall apart. And would I be able to maintain my humility if all of a sudden I was recognized around the world for doing something that I would do anyway? If I had to write to pay all of my bills then would I still cherish my ability? Perhaps I would feel forced to find another way to relieve my stress.

We all have that sacred place that we run to when the world becomes unbearable; whether it be within ourselves or out there in space. But what if the next time you went there you found it full of unfamiliar people just staring at you as if you owed them something? Then where would you go? Chances are you would turn around and run in the opposite direction. Chances are you would become lost.

Roger Porter

July 24, 2011

She wasn’t supposed to actually die. She was just supposed to amuse us with her self-destructive antics until we got bored with her, until we ceased to enjoy listening to her music, reading about her in the tabloids, and watching her theatrical melt downs on YouTube. Until we found someone younger, more reckless, and prettier— even then she wasn’t supposed to die.

Who would have thought that the lady who took a snort of cocaine on stage in front of thousands of people, and made her refusal to seek professional help for her addictions a smash hit, would ever actually overdose on drugs? It’s hard to imagine that the charismatic woman with the soulful voice but who seemingly had self-esteem lower than both Janis Joplin and Billie Holiday would torture herself to death with a syringe. Assuming that is what actually happened, for at the moment the public doesn’t  know for sure. All we know is that the awesome light from one of the most extraordinary supernovas ever has faded out of sight.

She gave her life in front of us and for that we should be proud. How sad it is to know that no matter how long we applaud there will be no more encores.This time the show is really over. This time we must leave the concert hall. This time we must spill out into the frigid streets and find our lonely homes.