what i did at work today

I made black metal logos for Roots.

A section from 'Sex, Lies, and Organic Produce'

As a result of their unchallenged privilege, built into the culture of the board was tacit ageism, racism, and classism. The board does not reflect, or, indeed, have any ties to the populations and communities we serve. This is incredibly problematic. To attempt to advocate for underserved and at risk populations, largely of color, without representing them in a non-token fashion positioned **** as an extremely racist saviour. As long as this is the case and remains unrecognized and challenged, the organization is impotent as an anti-racist organization (obviously, impotence is a problematic metaphor). Although the board often expressed patronizing admiration for the youth in the program, they demonstrated disdain for and distrust of the youth. Youth were not involved in decision making and their voices were unheard by the administration. The board was largely uninvolved with the actual garden and program. Several board members professed to be bored and unexcited by the program. To be honest, I am unsure why some board members were even there; perhaps their participation was to alleviate white liberal guilt. I feel that for many of the board members, **** functioned as a lifestyle accessory, a Seattlite merit badge.

Ultimately, by redesigning **** as a job skills training program, **** does at risk and homeless youth a disservice. **** was at its core a social services provider, not an advocacy organization. Because of its internal and ideological flaws, **** did little to nothing to combat the oppressive structures in place that produce the social problems **** supposedly addressed. While a job skills training program may help youth navigate the harsh terrain of late capitalism that much better, it does little to change that terrain in the first place. Essentially, the board sought to recreate themselves from the raw materials of the populations we served: a mechanism of preservation of a certain way of life that the board has a necessary investment in.

now

I havent abandoned this blog entirely.

Learning To Love Jazz Again

The first album I ever owned was the first record my dad ever bought, Time Out by Dave Brubeck. He gave me a cassette of this when I was 7 or 8 and I wore it out. I remember being in 6th grade right when ODB was huge and this cat Justin Reid letting me listen to his dubbed tape of 'Shimmy ya' on his walkman. I heard nothing musical about it. The non-threatening Brubeck still made more sense to me .




Later, I went through the obligatory punk and hardcore phase, listened to Minor Threat and Black Flag, and practiced my HXC dancing in a full length mirror in my basement. I grew up, broke my edge, smoked a lot of weed, flirted dangerously and shamefully with jambands, stopped smoking weed and got into indie, noise, and the avant garde. Jazz virtually left my vocabulary. I liked free jazz, having taken out Albert Ayler cds from the library I worked at but didnt really understand it until my freshman year of college at Purchase. I was the only person in my freshman class of 300 or so that wasnt taking a mandatory science class (i opted for intro to ecology instead). There was a mandatory lecture that night and I was alone in my dorm, alone in the freshman section of campus. Laying on my bed, I blasted Coltrane's Interstellar Space as loud as my cheap speakers would go and GOT it. Rashied Ali was laying down this incredible base of texture that Coltrane was just ripping to shreds with sheets, walls, cascades of sound. But it was as poetic as it was raw. Deeply emotional, even spiritual, exhilarating and fucking PUNK.





Purchase did ruin straight ahead jazz for me though. Very quickly I grew extremely jaded about jazz musicians. There were moments where jazz people seemed to bethe worst people in the world. The halls of the conservatory were clogged with self absorbed, tasteless, misogynist assholes. The music made by the Jazz Conservatory students every Thursday night in the cafe or at Jazz parties in the Olde was technically rigorous but emotionally false, lacking of any substance. When they attempted to reach beyond jazz, the results were even worse. The worst music imaginable: ska bands...sub-Dave Matthews frat boy music...awful funk or even worse, reggae. How could I associate myself with this lurid trash? I was way cooler than jazz and certainly cooler than jazz people. A friend and I briefly considered running a show on the campus radio station called "Fuck the Jazz Conservatory" and playing nothing but screaming, screeching free jazz and free improv freakouts.


But lately, I have picked up a Bill Evans Trio record and have been listening to it on the bus to the Garden Works office. This was a record that my dad would love; hell, I could play this around my grandmother. But it FEELS stupendous. It feels right. The level of improvisation is just absurd. It is as if the trio themselves are an instrument being playing by someone else. It is also fucking punk. Having graduated and continuing to grow, splitting the fucking East coast entirely, jazz is no longer a 4 letter word. Does this mean I getting old? Sure, but who gives a fuck? Bumping 'A Love Supreme' in an empty office in the pouring rain makes me feel like the move was worth it, makes it psychic-ly and emotionally right.

currently...

"Don't end up like Ted. Ted's just waiting to die"

Jesse said that to me in reference to our roommate Ted. Ted is older than all of us, easily in his 60's, with a pursed, rat-like face that frowns beneath a beret. Conversation with Ted is stilted; I think the age difference is more difficult to negotiate for him. His conversation alternates between how much pussy he used to get as a young hot shit jazz guitarist in the U-District and mild admonishments for leaving the doors unlocked. He seems most comfortable when talking about the old days, which as one might imagine in this house is far from an uncommon topic.

I do respect Ted. He's led a hard life. Jesse's comment made me see how much I recognized Ted's behavior and how much it mirrors my own over the summer. I was fixin' to die...whether out of sheer boredom or post-grad anomie. So many deaths last year; my own seemed just around the corner. As awesome as last summer was in a lot of ways with Jordyan and Amber moving into Fuck City and such a intense feeling of community, I did not expect to see the end of summer. How melodramatic and corny. Watching Ted now makes me feel very silly and helpless. REAL despair is an impossible force. How can I help you, Ted?

Finished but have yet to return 'oblivion' by wallace. have been carrying it around in my bag for the last few days, telling myself i'll return it first chance I get. Sort of like the letter I wrote Fuck City which now sits on my table, a month old and irrelevant. lent an Americorps friend 'baron in the trees'. She took my plea to keep the book nice a little too seriously and is keeping it in a plastic bag. appreciated but unnecessary.

mornings in seattle

late for work
microwaving cold coffee
walking through georgetown, listening to the new lightning bolt