A Tribute to Jack Johnson
Jun 7, 2021 16:17:55 GMT -5
Roy "The Sorrow" Harlowe (NJC), Kyle, and 4 more like this
Post by HNDRXX on Jun 7, 2021 16:17:55 GMT -5
“I want you to think, DeAndre. Every single time you do something. I want you to take a moment and make sure it’s what,
You want to do.
You gonna have a lot of opportunities. Opportunities I ain’t seen, ain’t no one in our family seen. But you gotta know that they gonna try and take advantage of you...
You gonna be like John Coltrane, Mile Davis, all them…
You gonna get to be something no one in the family.
No one in this neighborhood.
No one who look like you gonna have been before.
They gonna expect you to act one way.
They gonna expect you to react one way.
But you gonna sit back DeAndre.
You gonna sit back and you gonna think “What do DeAndre want to do.”
You ain’t gonna let them try and corral you. You ain’t gonna let them try to tell you who to be. For the first time, a Simms gonna tell the world how it gonna be, and you get to decide how you wanna do it.
No Matter what.
Your pops is proud of you.
You go change the world.”
Hissing with the static of a nearly dead voicemail tape. Crackling and hissing like rain on the last embers of a fire on a cold night. The intermittent cough of a man nearing his passing. Deep and ragged, hallowed and hollowing.
It matched the pattern of spring rain. Like glitchy electronic beats, it beat down irregularly in its regularity, sheets of water splattering on the aluminum roof while runnels channeled through the grooves adding a layer of white noise. Channels cut through the thin dry dirt, thirsty for the moisture. Runnels churning towards a lowest point, the sky darkened hours early by formless grey clouds overhead.
The sound.
The crack of thunder?
No extraneous light.
Again.
Again.
Again.
AGAIN.
Breathe heavy from exertion. Hands on a heavy bag, all of the weight leaning on to it. Head rested in meditation on the bag. The chest moving convulsively in and out.
Water against Aluminum, against Earth.
Forearms against canvas.
Feet against canvas.
A slim hand against the shoulder.
Thoughtful.
“It’s okay to not be okay.”
A nod of the head.
Head against canvas.
“No one is going to ask more of you than needs to be asked.”
Soothing voice.
Sunshine after a spring torrent.
Sunbeams crack through clouds.
The scent of petrichor. Hands on hair.
Individual fingers counting every follicle.
“It’s okay to mourn.”
Headrush.
Cold Sweat.
Night time.
Street lamp yellow through half closed curtains.
Wind stirring vine plants hanging from a ceiling.
A considered hand over the mouth.
Hands behind the neck.
Stretching.
Standing.
Bare Feet on tile.
The shift of another sleeping body.
“DeAndre. I know you gonna be sad. I know you gonna take it on the chin.”
Faucet turns on.
“You gonna take this a lot harder than you need to.”
Water in a glass.
“You always did take things too hard.”
Glass to Lips to Drinking.
“Your pops wouldn’t want you to get into a funk over this.”
Glass to counter.
Still.
Quiet.
“Even when you was little you used to feel too much around you.”
Bare feet on cold tile.
Hand on Glass.
“No one upset that you had to leave Flatbush, DeAndre.”
City Lights.
“You didn’t owe living in that tenement to no one.”
Headlights.
Taillights.
Blur into streams of gold and red.
Washing waves of tires and asphalt.
“Sometimes DeAndre, you take it so hard, doin’ what you gonna do.
What you gotta do.”
Hand backwards over buzzed short hair.
Clean Neck.
Trimmed Beard.
“You got others who gon’ depend on you now.
You got too much of your pops in you to not keep workin’ hard.”
Door slides open.
Cool night air.
“Mack.
Vans Zandt.
They expectin’ HNDRXX.
HNDRXX ain’t got time to be sad.”
Hands on rails.
Grey paint.
Starlight.
“DeAndre Simms got all the rest of his life to think on his pops.
DeAndre Simms got all the time in the world to fret about leavin his home for Toronto.
DeAndre Simms got all the time to figure out the rest of life.”
Moonlight.
Bare Feet.
Concrete.
Brown Eyes scan a new metropolis.
Reel to Reel film. Yellowed with age. An Older Simms. Grey in his beard and hair. A thin man, nearly frailty.
“Even as a child DeAndre knew what right was. Knew what wrong was. You could see it even then. He ain’t much to scrap with yet. But he knew. Knew what was worth fighting for. Knew what justice was.
You grow up round here. You see injustice round you. Men from Manhattan buyin’ up neighborhoods in Brooklyn. You see a police searchin’ every young man on the stoop. You can’t help but form a code.
You can’t help but want to see a better world.
You can’t help but notice that the man on the corner ain’t doin it wrong. Cause he ain’t been given that chance to do it “right.” That’s the justice that DeAndre learned. Every day he learnt it. Everyday DeAndre woke up and saw what the world was.
I think that as a boy, it affected him deeply.
He was always talkin’ about how he gonna raise up Flatbush and make us proud. Even when he comin home with bloody lips and noses. You know he was in the right. That the fight to do right was just…
It was just in him.
He wouldn’t hear no praise, gettin’ worked at those catch wrestling schools.
DeAndre. He always wanted to be better. Like he had a mission. Now.
I ain’t gonna get to see that finished…”
Black.
You want to do.
You gonna have a lot of opportunities. Opportunities I ain’t seen, ain’t no one in our family seen. But you gotta know that they gonna try and take advantage of you...
You gonna be like John Coltrane, Mile Davis, all them…
You gonna get to be something no one in the family.
No one in this neighborhood.
No one who look like you gonna have been before.
They gonna expect you to act one way.
They gonna expect you to react one way.
But you gonna sit back DeAndre.
You gonna sit back and you gonna think “What do DeAndre want to do.”
You ain’t gonna let them try and corral you. You ain’t gonna let them try to tell you who to be. For the first time, a Simms gonna tell the world how it gonna be, and you get to decide how you wanna do it.
No Matter what.
Your pops is proud of you.
You go change the world.”
Hissing with the static of a nearly dead voicemail tape. Crackling and hissing like rain on the last embers of a fire on a cold night. The intermittent cough of a man nearing his passing. Deep and ragged, hallowed and hollowing.
It matched the pattern of spring rain. Like glitchy electronic beats, it beat down irregularly in its regularity, sheets of water splattering on the aluminum roof while runnels channeled through the grooves adding a layer of white noise. Channels cut through the thin dry dirt, thirsty for the moisture. Runnels churning towards a lowest point, the sky darkened hours early by formless grey clouds overhead.
The sound.
The crack of thunder?
No extraneous light.
Again.
Again.
Again.
AGAIN.
Breathe heavy from exertion. Hands on a heavy bag, all of the weight leaning on to it. Head rested in meditation on the bag. The chest moving convulsively in and out.
In
And
Out
And
In
And
Out.
Forearms against canvas.
Feet against canvas.
In
And
Out
And
A slim hand against the shoulder.
Thoughtful.
“It’s okay to not be okay.”
A nod of the head.
Head against canvas.
“No one is going to ask more of you than needs to be asked.”
Soothing voice.
Sunshine after a spring torrent.
Sunbeams crack through clouds.
The scent of petrichor. Hands on hair.
Individual fingers counting every follicle.
“It’s okay to mourn.”
Headrush.
Cold Sweat.
Night time.
Street lamp yellow through half closed curtains.
Wind stirring vine plants hanging from a ceiling.
A considered hand over the mouth.
Hands behind the neck.
Stretching.
Standing.
Bare Feet on tile.
The shift of another sleeping body.
“DeAndre. I know you gonna be sad. I know you gonna take it on the chin.”
Faucet turns on.
“You gonna take this a lot harder than you need to.”
Water in a glass.
“You always did take things too hard.”
Glass to Lips to Drinking.
“Your pops wouldn’t want you to get into a funk over this.”
Glass to counter.
Still.
Quiet.
“Even when you was little you used to feel too much around you.”
Bare feet on cold tile.
Hand on Glass.
“No one upset that you had to leave Flatbush, DeAndre.”
City Lights.
“You didn’t owe living in that tenement to no one.”
Headlights.
Taillights.
Blur into streams of gold and red.
Washing waves of tires and asphalt.
“Sometimes DeAndre, you take it so hard, doin’ what you gonna do.
What you gotta do.”
Hand backwards over buzzed short hair.
Clean Neck.
Trimmed Beard.
“You got others who gon’ depend on you now.
You got too much of your pops in you to not keep workin’ hard.”
Door slides open.
Cool night air.
“Mack.
Vans Zandt.
They expectin’ HNDRXX.
HNDRXX ain’t got time to be sad.”
Hands on rails.
Grey paint.
Starlight.
“DeAndre Simms got all the rest of his life to think on his pops.
DeAndre Simms got all the time in the world to fret about leavin his home for Toronto.
DeAndre Simms got all the time to figure out the rest of life.”
Moonlight.
Bare Feet.
Concrete.
“HNDRXX.
He ain’t got time to be weak.
He only got time for the fire.
He only got the furnace.
He only got time to pursue being the absolute best in the world.
HNDRXX only got time to do it the right way.”
Brown Eyes scan a new metropolis.
Reel to Reel film. Yellowed with age. An Older Simms. Grey in his beard and hair. A thin man, nearly frailty.
“Even as a child DeAndre knew what right was. Knew what wrong was. You could see it even then. He ain’t much to scrap with yet. But he knew. Knew what was worth fighting for. Knew what justice was.
You grow up round here. You see injustice round you. Men from Manhattan buyin’ up neighborhoods in Brooklyn. You see a police searchin’ every young man on the stoop. You can’t help but form a code.
You can’t help but want to see a better world.
You can’t help but notice that the man on the corner ain’t doin it wrong. Cause he ain’t been given that chance to do it “right.” That’s the justice that DeAndre learned. Every day he learnt it. Everyday DeAndre woke up and saw what the world was.
I think that as a boy, it affected him deeply.
He was always talkin’ about how he gonna raise up Flatbush and make us proud. Even when he comin home with bloody lips and noses. You know he was in the right. That the fight to do right was just…
It was just in him.
He wouldn’t hear no praise, gettin’ worked at those catch wrestling schools.
DeAndre. He always wanted to be better. Like he had a mission. Now.
I ain’t gonna get to see that finished…”
Black.