I Remember When Virginia Wasn't Whack...

I'd like to thank the original poster of this on the 12Oz. Prophet forums for this inspiring post.

things were good when we were young. hop fences, jump over benches. paint for fun and listen to some old bouncing souls or Jeru, it makes you feel better, get drunk and call your best friend from high school that you havent seen in years. Talk about that H2o show you got beat up at in '97. or the stupid fight when that drunk guy that fucked with you all night got what he had coming. ride your BMX off lame jumps and do endos and flatland. skate the parking lot you learned to tail slide on. Go drink a forty in the park then buy some schwag off of andre on the corner. chill on your roof/porch and call your the ex that ruined you for six months and let her know your well, she still feels guilty. Relish in the fact that you are not living at your parents house in the same town you've always been like that guy who went to every party back in the day and now works at papa johns in the shopping center you chilled at freshman year. Everythings ok, bills will get paid, just get off your ass money is everywhere.
-that (drunk) guy you hated.
Im in a good mood the girls are treating me lovely

"Graffiti ruined my life."
"Mine too...Lets got hit some highway spots."

(C)2007 SEASE Productions. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.

100th Post: Celebrity Bookmarks...

The knowledge of form connects man with nature. All talk about art and truth attaches here.

Riddled with doubt and fleeting rays of uncertainty it's easy to become an author, less so an empathetic receiver. The human impulse to document experience is ubiquitous and overwhelming.

Placing judgments on the truthfulness or falseness of an environment or situation takes keen leadership. I'm hip to that skill set.

Imposing structure and order on sequences of sounds, shapes, forms and patterns requires crafty perception; how this structure leads us to experience emotional reactions is part of the mystery of graffiti, music and poetry.

Reality is non-negotiable. Subscribing to the admission of evil in order to exorcise it is no suspenseful, chilling event. Being human or becoming human is not necessarily part of the bargain.

The search for meaning breaks the heart of the guilty and innocent alike. Fits of regret drive many into mad rages.

Nobody likes being told to bury the bodies when it's not retiring quota. It's a salesman's game. You can only hope to make up for it in the mix.

Like playing fast to hide your faults. In music, if melody is your malfunction, make sure you honor it with decent treatment or don't blow. It's all hip advice. Like when someone tells you no, become dyslexic.

Graffiti, like all humanities, encapsulates the dilemma of living and dying concurrently. Like fine wine, great graff has taste, courage, individuality and irreverence.

As all musicians must pass through stages of creating unlistenable sounds before creating rewarding, listenable experiences, graff heads get gawky before getting loose.

Cool clouds gather, and at once the ultimate image emerges, defying chaos. And you grasp at things more significant than any symbol. Allowing an intense yearning for something else to take root in music, in aerosol enamels and oils.

And reaching for something greater than some celebrity's bookmark or seeking some enigma as old as the twelve-bar blues, we stumble upon what we hope is a platinum sentence.

(C)2007 SEASE Productions/Buford Industries. All Rights Reserved, All Wrongs Justified.