Bun bad mind:
​Meditation, creative expression, inner transformation,
worldview, healthy boundaries, high quality musical equipment (laruemusicshop.com)...
light and love.

Ask the Jamaican Reggae Fraternity about this... dem know wa gwan.

MI MANAGER
www.facebook.com/blacka.c.77

“I can’t work with you anymore.”
“What?” I asked in amazed wonder “I thought everything was going great.”
“I love working with you. I just don’t want to be shot.”
“What!?! What are you talking about? Who wants to shoot you?” I exclaimed.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
​
Pulling into the parking space in front of his apartment, I grabbed his camera and strode to the front door determined to talk about this sudden change of events. When knocking on the door yielded no results, I left the camera on the side porch with a bag of jelly beans I had bought for his family. In that lonely moment, I accepted that he was serious. Something was very wrong. Amazed when he answered the phone a few minutes later, I turned to him for guidance. He had been my mentor for ten months. We almost always talked through my decisions. I had grown to trust him.

“What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?” I queried, in shocked disbelief.
“I don’t know.” he said.
“I see the exit for Travis AFB. That’s a good place. I can go there and catch my breath... figure out what to do next,” I shared with some relief.
“Travis is closed,” he shared.
“What? When did that happen?” I countered, starting to feel overwhelmed by bad luck.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember. I just know it is,” he insisted.
“Now, what I am going to do?” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” he said, “I’ve got to go.”

Overwhelmed, I pulled off of the freeway using the Travis exit and found my way into a mall parking lot. The car was facing the setting sun five blocks from the base gates when I began thinking about where I would spend the night.

Caswell Memorial State Park was vacant at 9:00 PM on that week night in mid-November; not a person in sight. I chose a spot where the headlights of a vehicle driving through the front gates would shine into my driver’s window, waking me with enough time to start the car and drive out of the park. Four hours later, I woke with a sudden start and sat bolt upright in sheer terror, realizing there is as much vulnerability as security when completely isolated in the wilderness.

It was noon when I pulled into the Barstow Motel 6. Feeling exhausted but secure in the familiar setting, I was only slightly disappointed when the key did not work in the door. Even the black man standing on the second-floor balcony watching me drive back to the office did not raise more than mild curiosity. The young black man running across the parking lot to the street did make me turn my head and pay attention; he had, after all, come from the same side of the building as the first man. When he turned his head to look at me for the third time with a phone to his ear, I told the receptionist I changed my mind; I would not be staying there.

My mind went back to the conversations about how I had crossed into gang territory by promoting music. It would be two years before an Oakland minister would tell me how I had probably been marketed to the west coast gangs with the video made of me on stage during The Pack’s hip-hop show two weeks earlier. At the time, I had to accept that Southern California was still very much west coast gang territory, and my first priority was finding a place away from the west coast gangs and their affiliates. Africa looked good. At that point, it just became a matter of figuring out the safest place to stay until I could board the next flight.

In 1990, the Albuquerque Gang Task Force had taught me about how the Hispanic gangs had left Southern California, leaving the black gangs behind in what was understood to be a division of territory. With the adrenaline of a pursued animal, I took a deep breath, set the cruise control, turned up the music, and prepared to cross two state lines. At the moment, I chose to believe that the Hispanic gangs would not bother with me.

Seeing the snow provided additional reassurance as people tend to hibernate during wild winter moments in the high desert. I did not tell anyone my plans. If I had thought about it, I would have changed my phone number before leaving California in order to prevent tracking, but I was a neophyte with the new technology and did not know about tracking at the time.

I turned on the computer just long enough to verify that I did not have enough money to travel to Ghana. My only affordable option was a flight to Senegal in three days. I wrote the name and address of my host on a piece of paper so that I would have enough information to obtain a visitor visa, and, reassuring him that I would call before my flight, shut off all technology. I also scribbled his phone number on the bathroom mirror as a continuation of the “bread crumbs” I had been leaving on Facebook while homeless. If my head had been clear, I would have remembered that the entire reggae industry would know my plans within 72 hours. Things work this way because the industry is so small and originates in a primarily oral culture. People talk.

My 4:00 AM flight was delayed by four hours, so I returned to the motel room for more rest. The man was obviously drunk as he pounded on my door, shouting a woman’s name, insisting I let him into the room. I slid further away from the door on the bed, pulled the covers over my head, held my breath, and prayed the locks would hold. After I told the front desk clerk, he shared his surprise and told me that, at about the same time, somebody had called, insisting he provide personal information about the people staying at the motel. Apparently, this is extremely unusual. He, of course, said nothing. This sequence of events made me again consider the possibility I was being pursued, and people were trying to confirm my location. Seeing the big black sedan with darkened windows parked just outside of the motel lot did nothing to calm my nerves.

One last look at the contents of my luggage before leaving the extended parking lot revealed my favorite book: a well-worn, heavily notated bible. Doing a double-take, I decided to remove it from the suitcase. My thoughts while placing it in the back of the car? It’s okay to leave it here. I will find another one in Senegal. Doesn’t every hotel have a bible in each room?

I would soon learn that safety can be as much a state of mind as a physical location.

​Look DJ ... do u see mi a seh? Reggae is full spectrum music. Set the visual display to sync with the music and the screen fills with light. No other genre of music generates such electrical frequencies. This is perhaps why it helps ... neurons respond to electrical impulses ... good things feels good ​

There is growing evidence that music has positive impacts on human physiology. Using this lesson to quantify this phenomenon would provide additional insight to the academic compendium.
nannymaroon.wordpress.com/about/riding-the-dopamine-high/

CONSCIOUS STATION: POSITIVE VIBES
https://rastfm.com/​

"May I call you?"
Yes Rasta Lion.
"Hello, Empress?"
Hello!
"You are my woman. We must talk every day."
Ohhh... but I cannot speak very well. I have been sick.
"No worries. I will teach you."
He was absolutely lovely, sharing little things about his day, his family, his work.
He brought the Jamaican music industry and Jamaican culture to life for me.
I learned to express myself as an artist: strong, sympathetic, and even silly at times... brutally honest.
 
He was incredibly spiritual. Chills would quake through my body when he spoke of JAH... Rastafari... with the resonance of our ancient Redwoods echoing in his voice. His departing "Bless" would reverberate through my ears and penetrate deep into my soul.
...and sexy. Good God he was sexy.
"You are turned on. Tell me how I make you feel, babe. I want to hear it."
 
"Your voice, Empress... it sounds so good."
Really?
"Yes, babe... keep talking."
 
"Will you manage me?"
I must watch Michael's movie and then I will know.
"How was the movie?"
Amazing. I can do this. I will work with you.
“How do I do this?” I asked.
​“Go talk to your friends[1] who have worked in music. Let them tell you.”

23 de diciembre de 2009
Loving every single stiff, sore movement... seriously. Mobility is great... and to be able to hear... lol... fabulous! HUGs. ;D
 
26 de diciembre de 2009
Gads, I have SO many muscle spasms... woo-hoo, I have muscles! Lol
Lord have mercy. Some memories stay so strong.[2]


[1] This was my second mistake. Just because someone has worked in music, does not mean they know the industry.

[2] I lived with these muscle spasms up until the first few months after the VA told me to sit down in the summer of 2012. There is some relief: my muscles are only painful when I use them. Presumptive diagnoses? Ehlers-Danlos. How have I learned to escape this physical torture? Invest in something I can control: Developing exceptionally strong mental and emotional states. i.e. school and therapy

Twenty-four hours after meeting him at the airport, my artist was sitting in our car outside of the venue, stroking his beard, staring intently into the street, concentrating intensely... and struggling to hide the fear in his face. I could see it... smell it... feel it. I did not live up to his expectations. He was in a bad place, being prepared to go into even worse conditions. It was my life. It was not first time I had encountered this reaction. More than a few people are surprised by my struggles. How can someone who is so highly accomplished be living is such difficult circumstances? More to the point, how could he avoid them?

Here's the thing. I am disabled. This makes it impossible for me to perform at consistently predictable levels. Sometimes, it's emotional. Frequently, it's physical. Ultimately, it makes me incredibly vulnerable to vultures in the world. If this is not you, then don't worry. You will not have my struggles.
Jamaica is here, babe.
How do I talk to them?
"The same way you talk to me[1]."
...and I did, never realizing the man had become my pimp.


[1] While I was learning to speak again, Baijie taught me to talk to the music industry by using terms of endearment. I thought it was expected communication, but, in retrospect, it led to a lot of confusion.

I was recruited by a Jamaican Reggae artist and his record label manager. He contacted me on MySpace in 2009 and introduced me to her over the phone. She taught me about the industry while he talked about the island and his perspective of the business. 

After he met me, he no longer wanted to work with me. Before he stopped talking to me, he introduced me to the Jamaican music industry in Facebook.

We had developed the idea of starting a company, so I proceeded online on my own. Because I was in his professional network, I started talking to them. I introduced myself, my situation, my goals and our dreams. A Dancehall artist came to me. It was about graphics. I asked for permission from my first artist:

“Hi, babe. There is an artist in Jamaica who wants to create our graphics,” I ventured.

“We don't do this in Jamaica, Kitty. Artists do not work with other artists' managers,” he hedged.

“How am I going to do this without help, babe? He wants to create graphics, and we need graphics.”

​“You really want to do this, don't you?” … “Yes.” … “Okay. Fine. Work with the man.”

My new artist and I worked together while my first artist stayed in the background asking me about my activities. After a few months collaborating online, we started talking about getting together in Jamaica. My first artist was furious.

"Don't go to Jamaica," he warned, "something terrible will happen. 

He was right. I went and things got really bad... until my friends, family and fans turned it into an extremely good thing.