Breathe
On a personal note, I am getting a little tired of this Hip-Hop Hobo thing that I've got going on. Haven't had a minute to breathe since April. Tokyo, Hong Kong, Bangkok, New York, Caracas. Next: Mexico City and Havana.
I'm not complaining (except, of course, that I am). It's just that I can never find anything, and I've had the same twenty discs in rotation for months, and I am continually fumbling with new currency, and adjusting to new time zones, and craving food from other countries, and missing the sing-song sound of other languages--all the while sitting hunched over my computer trying to capture it all before it evaporates. A little dramatic? Perhaps.
Don't know why it's bothering me tonight. After all the Katrina coverage, I should be counting my blessings. There's so much to be grateful for. I'm safe, and alive, and healthy. I'm chasing down dreams. And catching some.
But I'm inexcusably restless. For stability. If that makes any sense at all. Restless for an apartment to come home to (gave mine up back in April; I crash with friends and fam when I come home to Van City), a routine, and a kitchen to cook in (with MY special pots and pans).
One of the (many) reasons I took on this global hip-hop tour was that I wanted to understand the folks that I interview a little better. And now I do. I get how rappers feel. I get what it feels like to be pulled between home and the road. To lose a sock and have no idea what country you left it in. To be always leaving. To miss events at home that are important--to you, to your friends, to your family. To feel that heavy, frazzled exhaustion that can only come from weeks and weeks away from the comfort of your own bed. To feel the rush of euphoria you get from hanging your head out of cabs, speeding through cities you never could have imagined yourself visiting. And I get what it feels like to wake up in the morning desperate for normality: a newspaper, a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereal. Simple things.
Going out to Fabolous's "Breathe," which somehow makes everything OK again. Almost, anyway.
I'm not complaining (except, of course, that I am). It's just that I can never find anything, and I've had the same twenty discs in rotation for months, and I am continually fumbling with new currency, and adjusting to new time zones, and craving food from other countries, and missing the sing-song sound of other languages--all the while sitting hunched over my computer trying to capture it all before it evaporates. A little dramatic? Perhaps.
Don't know why it's bothering me tonight. After all the Katrina coverage, I should be counting my blessings. There's so much to be grateful for. I'm safe, and alive, and healthy. I'm chasing down dreams. And catching some.
But I'm inexcusably restless. For stability. If that makes any sense at all. Restless for an apartment to come home to (gave mine up back in April; I crash with friends and fam when I come home to Van City), a routine, and a kitchen to cook in (with MY special pots and pans).
One of the (many) reasons I took on this global hip-hop tour was that I wanted to understand the folks that I interview a little better. And now I do. I get how rappers feel. I get what it feels like to be pulled between home and the road. To lose a sock and have no idea what country you left it in. To be always leaving. To miss events at home that are important--to you, to your friends, to your family. To feel that heavy, frazzled exhaustion that can only come from weeks and weeks away from the comfort of your own bed. To feel the rush of euphoria you get from hanging your head out of cabs, speeding through cities you never could have imagined yourself visiting. And I get what it feels like to wake up in the morning desperate for normality: a newspaper, a cup of coffee, a bowl of cereal. Simple things.
Going out to Fabolous's "Breathe," which somehow makes everything OK again. Almost, anyway.
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