Afternoon Malice

Let’s take for example something that is delicious to eat: carnitas tacos, specifically the ones from the taco truck two blocks down from my house. They’re salted just right, the salsa is flavorful and spicy without being destructively hot, and the meat is grilled to crispy perfection. It’s a simple food–no airs, fanciness, or complex ideas here; just corn tortillas, onion, cilantro, salsa, meat, and grease.

Now let’s imagine eating this food every goddamn day for like 3 or 10 years. Anyone on the proper side of the autism spectrum (that is to say, not on it at all) would get sick of carnitas tacos sooner than later.

Or we can imagine this food as filtered through the machine of mass corporate consumption; removed of all unique flavor, cultural resonance–turned into the food equivalent of elevator music.

Language is delicious to me. The dance of words, sayings, colloquialisms, slang, and expressive vocabulary is at the heart of my imagination and joy in life. I’ve been writing stories since I was a child; I wrote my first poems at the age of 9. I’ve written a novella and dozens of comic book stories. I’ve written and recorded over 100 rap songs, a manual on martial arts theory and practice, hella blogs, forum posts, social media arguments, bio blurbs, organizational documents, training guides, and countless other miscellaneous pieces. I’ve independently published 5 issues of a zine, 2 short comic books, and a memoir on my life as an MC in the L.A. underground (a memoir that you should buy from me now before I run out of copies, holler: malikdiamond(at)hotmail(dot)com.)

I have basic fluency in Mandarin Chinese, Spanish, (and a similar fluency in the non-human languages of Feline, Canine, Ignan, Sylvan, Terran, Auran, Aquan, Abyssal, Infernal, and Celestial), and a humble stash of words and phrases in Lakota, Arabic, Cantonese, Japanese, and Russian. One of my favorite things in life is the melodic and creative speech of English spoken by non-native speakers. I prefer it entirely to the English spoken by (most) native speakers; it’s more raw, more honest, and more fun to hear. The twisted and effective grammar and pronunciation of non-native English speakers fills my heart with joy.

Preface Part 1 concluded.

Preface Part 2: I am employed as a part of the non-profit industrial complex. My work, both official and unofficial, is at times wonderful and at times infuriating. Well, mainly it’s some of the people I have to deal with in the course of my work who are infuriating–the ignorant, the incompetent, the power-mad, the corrupt filth, the cynical manipulators, the self-righteous, the merely dumb, the irritating.

Working in the non-profit industrial complex means being somewhat disconnected from regular people, the kind who work regular jobs, commit regular crimes, post regular memes, and have regular banality. In my case, it means being around hella “artists” and “creative” people (as if the miracles worked by, say, a regular single mother with two grown, underemployed children living at home were not “creative”), and it means spending hella time around trendy “activists” and other clueless swine.

Preface Part 2 concluded. On to the point:

I have a healthy and active malice for bullshit of all kinds.

And there are a whole lot of words and phrases that folks are wantonly bandying about that I am Sick. To. Death. Of. Hearing. And. Reading. Let’s work the list, shall we?

The quality of being “accountable,” that is to say responsible for one’s words and behavior. Sounds great, doesn’t it? Except, like everything else, this has become yet another hollowed-out platitude in a subculture where people achieve status by pointing out other people’s failings. What the hell does it mean to be “accountable?” Who gets to decide? And why have we all accepted–as though beamed out from some secret underground lair, or perhaps a satellite–the use of a term that implies, infers, and relates to capitalist economics (account, accountant) as a stand-in for what should be a straightforward notion: responsibility? Nobody likes the word “blame.” Nobody’s ever at fault. We just need “accountability.” Which, in my experience, often looks like sweeping things under rugs, or slapping wrists, regardless of the level of horror and/or ridiculousness involved in a given perpetration.

Just what in the hell can this word possibly mean in a world of atomized consumer units, I mean people, sitting in boxes punching away at buttons on glowing screens? Commune: to talk together intimately… to be in close rapport… a small group of people living communally, sharing space, resources and labor. What sort of intimacy exists in a culture where not only is all COMMUNication heavily mediated, but consciousness itself has been damn near downloaded? Who is included? The neighbors we’ve never met? The grass we mow? The trees we ignore? The species we wipe out? The sky, broken by wires and electromagnetic radiation? The assholes on TV? Let’s have some close rapport, but wait a second because my spacephone just summoned me to prayer.

“Social Justice”
Motherfucker, please. At best, a rear-guard action against omnicidal machines, at worst a slogan for folks who are hoping to get paid and/or laid by nitwits. I’ve heard exactly one person use this phrase in a meaningful way: Pastor Saturu Ned, formerly known as James Mott of the Black Panther Party; his long history of bringing tangible benefits to poor and oppressed people is what gave it meaning. For everyone else, it seems to be a marketing category, or perhaps a “lifestyle option” in the middle rows of a sinking ship. What do they mean by “social”? Whose society? What is justice? How would you know? Do I get to have social justice and still keep my electricity and high-tech consumer toys? What do the salmon think?

It’s my understanding that this phrase was coined by the bodhisattva Audrey Lorde, basically as a way of saying that people who give their lives to organizing and helping folks need to remember to sleep and eat, and give time to taking care of themselves instead of sacrificing everything for “the cause.” Now it’s become a sign-off on whatever shameless and hedonistic indulgences that people get good feelings from. I suppose, if pressed, the average mall-shopper would insist that purchasing luxury goods constitutes “self-care.”

I get it that we all hate ourselves and all other living beings; it’s basic to the insanity of civilization, and particularly industrial civilization. In which case, it might be a nice change to have love of any kind, ideally the kind that would lead people collectively to doing whatever it fucking takes to put an end to the machine-world before it sends us all into oblivion. But the reality is that the standard personality template for the consumer class is narcissist, which means that self-love–and obsession–is overabundant. How about self-respect? Does that phrase have any relevance at all to this crumbling empire?

Every time some filthy non-profit man uses this word, Andrea Dworkin’s dead body does a barrel roll in its grave. If there was anything resembling justice in this world, the word “patriarchy” would have the same resonance of disgust and shame as “holocaust,” or at least AIDS. It’s like everyone agreed–almost as though they were programmed–that if we give a nod to righteousness by saying this word, and invoking, however indirectly, the specter of normalized rape, brutalization, torture, mutilation, terror, fear & loathing, violence, and murder, then we’ve done our due diligence; no need for painful hours spent studying theory, researching history, hearing women’s stories, facing torment, confronting demons, rewriting our fundamental values, exiling rapists & abusers, or burning the whole fucking thing down. I guess what we really need is abortion rights and equal income for women, and everything will be okay. How safe, how tragic, how fucking insulting. Thank the gods of mercy that Dworkin crossed over to the ancestral realm before having to live in the world of 24-hour pornification, stripper-pole feminism, and pussy grabber presidents.

Trendy liberal brown folks with too much access to communication technology and conspiracy videos. In ye olden days (before spacephones and the internet) we called it “knowledge of self” when a person had both spiritual insight and the kind of political/historical learning that inspires one to teach others–teaching face-to-face, building relationships, mentoring, guiding, and continuing to learn. These folks slanging the word “woke” don’t have a shit more clue what’s going on than my cat does, since, like my cat, they rarely bother to pick up a book, spend time physically with people actively listening to them, or really do any sort of critical thinking that one could describe as critical or thinking.

“Sustainable technology”
There’s only one kind of sustainable technology: stone-age. Everything else is extractive. Stop playin.

Politically speaking, this term has pretty much devolved to what it meant when surfers in the ’80’s (remember those? No? Us neither) used it: a synonym for “cool.” I’ve seen so many people describe others or themselves as “politically radical” who were neither political nor radical that I’ve become convinced this word now simply designates one as trendy and hip. Radical: of or from the root or roots; going to the foundation or source of something; fundamental; basic. Well, there’s one aspect of that definition that most of the folks using this word have got: basic. They’re basic as fuck.

“White Supremacy”
Um. Anything followed by the word “supremacy” is now suspect, on account of the people using the terms these days mostly picked them up on blogs, memes, and tweets. Idea-commodities are still commodities, and don’t speak to the bleak realities of resistance to power–they cannot speak to those realities, because those realities are invisible to commodified consciousness. POC activists hate “white supremacy,” (or so they say) but they love technology, gadgets, media culture, and money, which are all legacies of european invaders. Straight up, in my experience this phrase is mainly used by people who are incapable of building relationships with any real emotional vulnerability and therefore bond with each other mainly by complaining about white folks. Meanwhile, the real supreme beings–the machine gods and their children–are shepherding us all to the boneyard, including the melanin-deficient mutant savages we now call “white people.”

Invasion is invasion, no matter how sexy you dress it up. Invaders have been manifesting their destiny for centuries now; just because it now comes with organic coffee shops and artisanal bakeries instead of rifles and mass graves doesn’t make it any less destructive. These people and institutions are not “gentry,” (of noble or high birth) they’re murderous invaders, and should be responded to accordingly.

Everything I’ve ever known about gender, sexuality, and relationships was programmed into me by the violence, institutions, social rituals, and machines of civilized invaders. That shit doesn’t belong to me; it was done to me. So keep your identity-politicking ivory tower slang terms to yourself, and don’t ever call me this. “Cis” is a latin term and I haven’t been Roman lately. Or British, for that matter, yet here I am speaking English. Go ask my Ojibwe and unknown African ancestors about gender roles. Oh wait, you can’t; they were exterminated. Please note: all these kinds of terms are invented by white people.

“King” and “Queen”
Black people of a certain persuasion–the corny woke kind–think this is some sort of a compliment, harkening back to ye olden days when we were supposedly “all royalty.” This demonstrates a basic ignorance about how cultures of “royalty” function: a violence-enforced caste system with a small group of people who control everyone else. Well, fuck your pyramid scheme and your domination cult, and don’t ever call me this either.

That’s it for now. There will probably be more.

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Stitches, No Chaser

I got a small cypher of folks I trust and confide in. They know, or have an idea, of what I’m going through. With other folks, I’m not really sure how to address it.

When I say “my girlfriend and I split up,” it feels light and hollow, like thin plywood painted to look like a brick. You think it’s going to be heavy, but then it’s like nothing.

It’s just not good enough, but I can’t bare to give more. I don’t even really want to write this, or make it public. Everything on the net is so cheap and transitory. But I have to do something. Because the truth is, I am crushed. I am broken.

So I write, and share.

I didn’t just break up with my girlfriend. I lost my other half. A woman I laughed with and prayed with and lounged with, the woman I wanted to grow old with, the woman whose love made every other accomplishment in my life shine with added meaning and importance.

I have never felt about anyone the way I felt, and feel, about her. Never before been so open, so vulnerable. And I am not a person who holds back. Quite the opposite; the last several years have been somewhat of a marathon of heartbreak, as I’ve gotten deeply intimate with several women who turned out, for whatever reason, to just not be the right one. So when I say that it got deep with this one, deeper than any other… it was major. It was what they write songs about. It was what other people see and long for. It was what that jolly elderly couple has. It was like when you were in love as a teenager, but grown and sexy.

And now it’s over. And I feel empty.

Not the kind of empty like, this person took something from me that I’ll never get back: time. I’ve had that a few times.

Not the kind of empty like, this person used me and peaced out. I’ve had that a few times.

This is the kind of empty where you stand by helpless and watch as the most wonderful thing in your life slips out of your hands. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do. The cruelty of the fates has come for you, and the dose is already measured.

The kind of empty that, should you be fortunate/unfortunate enough to make it to old age, will linger in your twilight years, haunting your stories and late nights.

The kind you may never be able to fill. Better to cover it and stitch it up.

Chances are, they won’t even notice the scars.

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Dharma Squirrel

There’s only one True Path to walk. It’s got plenty of roads, with new ones springing up all the time, but really there’s only one. The life path.

Before human consciousness became host to the psychic infection of undead machine consciousness, there were truths that we all knew, because our cultures taught them to us. We’re communal, social, cultural creatures, and we have a steep learning curve. But we’ve also always had a lot of help from our living brethren.

As Winona LaDuke put it, a lot of our greatest teachings come from our relatives. The ones with wings and fins and leaves and fur and exoskeletons. The world is alive, spirit and flesh merged in a beautiful dance, and s(he) has a voice. The machinemind has taught us to be deaf to that voice.

Every “civilized” culture–and by “civilized,” I mean it in the sense of being infected by a deadly psychosis–has cultural memories of a vast span of paleolithic time when we could still hear all the songs and still learn from the nonhumans around us. Sometimes you have to dig deep for those memories.

And sometimes, they smash your head in with a gold-banded cudgel and splatter your brains all over the ground, then insult your ancestors.

The chinese memory of a free life of savagery survives in the story of Sun Wukong, the Beautiful Monkey King. No Confucian worship of parental authority for him–after all, he was born from a stone egg, formed by the abyss. As the indians say, rock and stone are our oldest ancestors.

Wukong looks like a monster to the civilized. He’s got no manners or sense of propriety. He does not willingly submit to the hierarchy, and doesn’t bother with the formalities of the Jade Emperor’s court. He moves freely, by wind and cloud, making friends with spirits and creatures and gods throughout the cosmos.

“Journey to the West” is a famous chinese novel that tells the story of the Monkey King’s rebellion against the heavenly order (they always treated him like a savage ape), his punishment and burial under a mountain, and his torture-inspired conversion to buddhism–Guanyin, the boddhisatva of compassion and mercy, fitted Monkey with a magic headband that when commanded would squeeze his head, crippling him with agonizing pain until he agreed to behave.

Thus converted, Monkey becomes a disciple and bodyguard to an idiotic but pure-hearted monk who is traveling from the East (china) to the West (india, where buddhism originated) to fetch the sacred scriptures that will return harmony to the kingdom.

The monk and Monkey are joined by two other disciples: First, Pig, a former heavenly marshall who “failed to respect the consensual boundaries” of a moon goddess and was transformed to a monster and banished to earth as punishment. Second, Sand, a former heavenly general who broke a sacred crystal goblet and was likewise transformed and banished to earth, where he took up highway robbery and cannibalism as a river monster. And third, the White Dragon, the third son of the Dragon King of the West, who was about to be executed for accidentally destroying one of the Jade Emperor’s jewels, but got a reprieve and conversion, like the rest of the disciples, from Guanyin.

Animism: the believe that the world is full of living spirits, embodies in creatures and environment.

In the animism of Journey to the West, any creature can cultivate their conduct, achieving vast power through taoist alchemy & magic, or buddhist enlightenment. Frequently these creatures then use their power to become petty warlords and tribal chieftains, claiming this mountain or that river as their territory and vigorously defending it. Many become demon kings. Not all of them. But the ones who do are constantly plotting on eating the monk, whose flesh can make them immortal. Invariably they end up smashed, converted, or outsmarted by Monkey and his fellow disciples.

The point is, any living being can become a buddha or a boddhisatva. Even Monkey becomes a buddha upon completion of the quest: Dou Zhang Sheng Fo (鬥戰勝佛), the Buddha Who Prevails Over Struggle–or, as it’s translated in my copy of the story: Victorious Fighting Buddha. By cultivating righteousness, discipline, devotion, and action in accordance with taoist and buddhist principles, regular nonhumans can achieve buddhahood, enlightenment and potentially acquire vast power.

I’ve now officially seen this in action. There’s a buddhist squirrel living in my backyard.

I have a plastic buddha statue which has been sitting at the base of the giant walnut tree in my backyard since I moved into this house over three years ago. The statue is covered in cobwebs and dirt. It’s been baked in the sun and soaked with pouring rain. I’ve given it tobacco and plastic jewels.

There’s been a squirrel living in that tree since who-knows-when. I hear him all the time, chewing the skin off walnuts. Now that there’s no longer a dog in the yard, he makes regular appearances, dashing around the yard, chasing his squirrel homies up and down the tree, and burying nuts.

A couple of weeks ago, I was standing on the back porch when the squirrel came skittering toward me from the back fence. He stopped about midway through the yard, stood upright on his back legs, and put his front paws together in the unmistakable pose of a buddhist disciple. He stayed like that for several moments, completely still, gazing into the mysteries of the cosmos with shining black eyes.

He went back to regular squirrel business, but every couple of minutes he would stop, face me, and make the pose.

Since then, there’s been several times when I’ve seen him sitting on top of the buddha statue’s head, munching away at walnuts and leaving offerings.

Dharma Squirrel.



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Divide by Zero

Math is dumb. And I don’t mean the study or the field of math is dumb, I mean it more like if math was your autistic cousin. It can only think in terms of quantity and abstractions. The world is a living being, and forcing it into quantification and abstraction is like forcing a woman into high heels and corsets.

As a kid I was fascinated and disturbed when teachers told me that it was impossible to divide by zero. Huh? But you can multiply by zero, thus annihilating any given number. Whether it’s 7 or 7 million, if you multiply by zero, you get zero. But if zero is nothing, how can you tell me I can’t divide by nothing? What if I simply refuse to divide?

As per requirement of the matrix, election season means a dramatic energy dump into the system, as everyone argues and promotes and campaigns and rants and raves and everything else that we are trained to do. At 36 years old, I’ve seen quite a bit of this already. I remember when the “democrats” blamed all the Nader voters for putting Dubya in the white house. It was absurd then, and it’s absurd now.

All of the dialogue fills me with the same fascination and disturbance that I got when told I could not divide by zero.

There are many unseen things I am required to believe in order to participate in the voting process, or even to participate in arguments about it. One is that the united states has a legitimate claim to govern the landbase that it occupies. As a black indian, that fills me with amusement and contempt; picture a legion of social media junkies in germany circa 1940 bullying jews over their refusal to vote for nazi candidates, and you’ll have an idea of how I feel about it.

I must pretend that voting is NOT participation in a ceremonial-ritual act that spiritually and emotionally affirms a planet-devouring industrial order.

I must believe that voting has some genuine influence in how the government of occupation governs. On the whole, this is demonstrably false. I could provide links and research, but really, if you’re the kind of person who has subscribed to the required beliefs, all the information in the world will not sway you.

I must believe that the person who occupies the presidential seat will somehow affect civilization’s obsessive inertia of life-destruction.

I must believe that the president’s job is to do something other than maintain the existence of the USA, with all the ecological destruction, war, murder, oppression, lies, and evil that entails.

I must ignore all my own knowledge, research, intuition, and wisdom.

I don’t have answers. I know the problem and how to solve it, but the cold story of probability says that if you don’t already share in that knowledge, you don’t want it. This text does not want to convince you; this text is about honesty. A breath of fresh air. If it feels that way to you when you read it, then congratulations; you’re the target audience.

Defang the snake.


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Whale Tails and Horse Rape

I’m on the beach a few miles from Cal Poly, looking out at the ocean and wondering what I would have seen there five hundred years ago. Or three hundred. Or two hundred. Before european invaders showed up, with their missions and rifles and chains and crosses.

There are some birds. Many birds, to the eyes of a city-dweller. A scant, desolate feathered tribe compared to what they were. Homes destroyed, food sources wiped out, habitat paved and full of colonizers.

Flying, floating, diving into the waves for the handful of fish who are left. The sight is as breathtaking and awe-inspiring as it ever was.

The ocean horizon is long and lazy. Fog meanders. And there, off in the distance, past the jagged rocks and a metal buoy… An impossibly large tail emerges from the water and crashes playfully back down again. A moment later, a gust of air shoots mist into the sky as one of the largest mammals remaining on earth gives and takes a breath.

Two, maybe three whales are hanging out, doing what whales do. With my five-hundred year old eyes, I see countless tails and countless spouts. I see an exodus, a celebration. A party in the ocean. As far as the eye can see, across the long and lazy horizon.

Now they are gone.

When I was a kid, around eight or nine years old, I developed the kind of obsessive fascination that only children, artists, and the insane are capable of: whales. I was mesmerized by pictures of them, enchanted by their ways, reading book after book about them, drawing picture after picture of them.

My child’s mind reels: they breath oxygen, they have hair, give birth to live young. They have warm blood. They’re just like me.

But they live in the water! Whaaat?!

Dolphins with their little sharp teeth, humpbacks with their krill-catching hair-teeth. Blue whales, bigger than any other creature on earth. Sperm whales with heads that can ram ships, covered with scars from wrestling the leviathans of the deep. Narwhals and their unicorn horns, killer whales jumping out of the water and onto the ice to snatch up seals.

Now they are gone.

Homes poisoned and destroyed. Just like on land. Their relatives of the deep, predator and prey, destroyed, murdered, slaughtered. Wiped out, hunted, exterminated. Along with the wild humans who once lived here.

My five hundred year-old eyes see birds blotting out the sky in their migrations. Diving for countless fish. Ecstatic and fecund. Dancing in the air, witnessed by the wild humans who share this home where ocean and land meet.

Now I’m on campus, visiting the imprisoned. Oh, they don’t call it a prison. They call it “stables.” Where the slave horses are kept.

I don’t know horses. I don’t know where they come from. But I know this: horses run. That’s the fuck what horses do. Which means they come from where there is endless space for them to run. They have no bridles, and no human symbols have been burned into their flesh (branding).

At the stable, they are trapped in a twenty square foot pen, eating and rolling in their own shit.

Or maybe out in a bigger pen. Maybe an acre for the twenty or so horses on the premises, and their recently-born children. The kids are running. They’re still young and wild. They haven’t been broken.

That’s what they call it, you know. “Broken.” That’s how you describe a horse that has been trained, through reinforcement both positive (food bribery) and negative (beatings). When the horse will submit to carrying humans, running from place to place with humans, doing tricks, and even dancing for humans–that is a horse that has been broken.

Plantation owners used the same term for their african slaves. Newly captured, newly enslaved, fresh from the poisonous bowels of cargo vessels, these humans still had a sense of themselves, their culture, and their identity. They did not willingly submit to enslavement.

And thus they had to be broken.

That’s what pimps call it too, by the way. “Break a bitch.” That’s where you fuck with a woman’s heart and mind to the point where she will do what you command.

She must be broken.

At the stables they have a teaser horse. What is a teaser horse? I ask. That’s the male horse they bring out to march around the mares, and make sure they’re in heat. They get him fired up, then send him back to the pen, unsatisfied.

Some of the males get jacked off, their semen collected. Then the mares are marched into a stall, locked down, and raped with an fake penis. The type of people who run stables call this “breeding.”

Or they lock down the mares, and bring in an actual male horse to rape them.

I don’t know horses. But I know life. All creatures have their ceremonies and rituals–for eating, for living, for sleeping, for mating. These horses don’t get their mating rituals. They are not free to dance and flirt. They are captured and raped.

The civilized call this “breeding.”

They used the same word for the africans, you know. “Breed” the slaves. Get a big, strong african man, that’s the bull. Then force him to fuck the mares. I mean the women.

“Don’t worry,” I say to one of my imprisoned brothers. “It will all be over soon.”

Then we will all be free.

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When White Men Attack

Kitten Lopez is a fierce and brilliant woman who dances on the street to the radio show I host every Sunday. This past weekend–on Valentine’s Day, of all things–a white man assaulted her on the street. With her permission, I’m posting this copy of the letter she sent to the Mission Local paper, describing the incident (edited for clarity):

I live at 25th/Hampshire [in the San Francisco Mission District] and I used to be an author of books before everything died. I started dancing outside in the sun and usually I do it alone with my earphones on. But girls of all ages would run up to me and ask me to teach ’em and since I was a kid in the bronx when breakdancing hit the scene, I remembered all the dancing in the streets–but there was always dancing wherever there were Puerto Ricans. I decided to dance outside my apartment every sunday 1pm-2pm, and I’d put on KPOO [89.5FM] with Malik Diamond and Khafre Jay’s “Hip Hop for Change” show that’d be great for the kids, too. Sometimes they’d take a while to get courage to dance in the sun. Sometimes you have to watch and fantasize for YEARS before you say fuck it /fuck EVERYONE and just dance in the sun for god. Then you remember. You remember everything. Where you come from, all that.

I told Malik and Khafre at KPOO what I was doing and they’d play all the best dance songs for that one hour on Sunday. We were working together quite by accident.

After a hiatus due to the rains and a heart breaking football season, I started back up this last Sunday after a few neighbors asked when i’d be back out.

I went out at 1pm and put on the radio and turned it up loud.

I was dancing and then Malik was on about colonialism and invaders, and the Mexican guys on the corner are cheering his words and this white boy comes out, crosses the street to me, and gets up close and starts vaguely imitating me in awkward ways. I figure he’s just dancing all awkwardly like a white person but then he starts making fun of Malik talking and shuts the radio off and says, “turn that fucking shit off, BITCH.” And he’s INTO saying the word. His eyes are all excited and i’m creeped out.

He says, “I want this shit OFF!”

And I laugh and say, “Who the fuck are YOU?”

And I look and see his door open in the AirBnB house and I start CRACKING UP and saying “You don’t even LIVE HERE! You’re AirBnB’ing it here!” It was too FUNNY considering what Malik was talking about with “invaders” and shit.

So then I just turn it back on and start dancing again but he PUNCHES me and turns it off and I’m screaming for my neighbors and he’s mocking me like a kid brother imitating me and I’m thinking he’s on drugs.

See, he’s staying in the building where the landlord evicted a first wave tech guy who was middle-aged and out of work Ubering and once he started having problems making the rent, the landlord starting putting the other room on AirBnB. He had a crack user in there once, and I saw the guy screaming out the window.

Anyhow, so now it’s fully AirBnB’d out, although I have no idea if it’s registered and all that. There are a lot of people always rotating in and out of there and I’d never seen this kid before.

He punches me and has NO boundaries and I’m seriously freaked out because he keeps coming up CLOSE to my body and I can’t back away.

The neighbors come out and while the guys are yelling in the street, he keeps messing with me but Claudia, who’s in her fifties, comes out and places herself between him and ME! He’s still reaching for me and I’m trying to tell her to leave but she’s covering for me and it’s beautiful as HELL because no one has anyone’s back anymore. 

This kid starts getting in EVERYONE’S faces and even goes into a neighbor’s HOUSE while we’re trying to herd him away. We don’t know whether he’s on drugs because he’s chewing gum wildly and he just acted like he had a right to TOUCH everyone. He didn’t CARE.

Eventually, five cop SUVs come and the kid is imperious and demanding. I later learn his name is “Brian,” and he’s from Manhattan Beach [in southern California].

Cop said, “A rich kid who hasn’t a clue.”

Even though I had all these witnesses, I was gently dissuaded from pressing charges, saying it’d be a lot of court dates and him saying I’d attacked him and I’d had that happen already in Berkeley so I knew it was true. I got my ass kicked by a white guy, HE called the cops, and even though I was bloody, ripped up, and had a broken finger they said if I pressed charges, they’d have to take ME in, too.

Brian told the cop he was there till the end of the month. I figured they had his info in case he did anything again. I’m not into cops but I wanted to do the RIGHT thing.

This cop said I could press charges LATER. It was sunny, I didn’t wanna spend all day in the Mission cop place so I figured if I was injured later, after the adrenaline subsided and if any deep soreness came in, I WOULD reconsider and press charges.

I figured they had his I.D. and info, and I felt safe enough to say I wouldn’t press charges.

When I went back home I fell apart in sobs and was crying all evening, and my hands got jammed and swollen as the night went on. I went to see Claudia, who’d interceded; she was thoroughly freaked out about living NEXT to him for another two weeks with him knowing where we ALL live and he’d kept saying, “YOU’LL BE SORRY!”

We talked about it and I was determined to complete the process and press charges.

But I’d have to call out another cop car and start all over even though I had a CAD#.

I called the cops at 7pm; Brian’s lights were on all night. I’d check. But the cops didn’t come until 1:30am. When they went over to knock on the door, the lights went on upstairs, and then they shut off. Our crazy kid apparently already knew what I didn’t: if he didn’t answer the door, the cops would just have to go away.

Which they did. They said I should’ve pressed charges earlier. I could call again when I know for sure he’s there, but again he doesn’t have to answer the door.

He could look out the window, see cop cars, and he’s fine.

Oh, and they never got his  information. Just the name he TOLD the cops. So we’re all terrified he’s going to slash our tires and leave, and we’ll be screwed while the landlord just moves in new tenants every week or so.

i’m actually very afraid of him because when this old white guy yelled at him “What’re you doing hitting women? You don’t hit WOMEN!”  Brian instantly defended himself by shooting back, “I’m NOT hitting women!” without a hint of …anything. He meant it.

That’s what was creepy. I WASN’T an actual “woman” to him. A white woman would be. He never DARED to touch Claudia (she’s white).

The cops get called on me EVERY WEEKEND when I dance now, and I get them called on me even when I dance at Dolores Park in the sun, now, too. Even on MISSION street. The new St. Francis people call the cops on me when I dance outside the laundromat in the sun, too.

After hearing the details of the real Alex Nieto story about the dog, the burrito and the two gossiping guys playing it up to the cops for drama, I’m like YEAH THIS SHIT IS REAL.

It’s open season on us ALL now; I’m getting harassed more than when I was a wild kid, by rich people who wanna treat me like the maid. We ALL have those stories now even if we thought we were all bourgied out.

I’m 48 and I have grey hair. This little white kid felt free to fucking turn off my radio and PUNCH me over and over for being uppity enough to have rap or talk of colonialism and invaders on while he’s in his HOTEL room.

The cop lady figured he’d been up doing drugs and was pissed because he was sleeping at 1 in the afternoon in OUR neighborhood.

Now Claudia and another woman who had my back when a couple of homeless tweakers attacked me with their pit last year, they wanna come out and dance EVERY Sunday now. with the kids.

Between you and me, I’m trying to start a weekly block party now.

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If you don’t have language to describe something, it’s easy for it to be invisible. Also, it can be very frustrating to feel something, but have no words to describe how you feel. Over the years, I’ve acquired and formulated my own lingo to describe concepts and situations in the world I find myself in. Some of this stuff is conceptual, and some of it is just shit me and my friends say cuz we think it’s funny.

I present these in the hope they may help someone else alleviate their frustration. No, my fellow brown person, you are not crazy.

Test the Melanin
When white culture sets up a P.O.C., usually black, as an adversary or standard of virility, in order to then defeat it. White folks showing how badass they are by fucking up a big, bad, brown person. See: Rocky, 8 Mile, Thor, Guardians of the Galaxy, really any Marvel movie, and any martial arts movie with a white protagonist and asian villains.

Ring Madness
The mental condition universal to everyone born in Babylon. The fetishization of and  compulsion to exert dominance and power-over, or the fetishization of and compulsion to submit to such power.

Juice the Melanin
Taking power through affiliation with black people. Using associations with black people to seem cooler, more legit, more “down.” See: Rachel Dolezal, any rap video by white MCs.

Someone who perpetrates melanin-juicing.

Droids (clones)
The secular, spiritually-bankrupt children of machine culture. People who pray at the altar of technology, gadgets, and machinery. People whose minds are mostly, if not entirely, controlled by the programming of Babylon. Spacephone addicts/compulsive users.

Emotionally and spiritually draining people. Sexual predators. White people.

People who, knowingly or unknowingly, do the evil work of the system. People who will fight to defend the system and status quo.

A person who takes on new lovers on a regular and frequent basis, or who frequently has multiple concurrent lovers.

Skip, skip-skap
A scallywag who lies to, uses, and deceives their lovers/partners.

Fuck Your Couch
What you think is important is really not important. In fact, you thinking that it’s important is offensive and an insult.

Stretch Out
To get way too comfortable in a space you don’t have a right to be in.

White people.

Drop the Mic
To say or write something powerful and poignant enough to leave folks stunned, silent, overwhelmed, or moved.

Halfrican (Halfxican, Halfinese)
Mixed race people, usually with at least one completely white parent, who are blind to or deny the reality of their place in the racial caste system. As if identifying yourself as “biracial” or “multi-racial” will keep the cops from cracking your nappy skull. Also, the poor, confused folks who are often either trying way too hard to be white, or way too hard to be black/brown.

To take something by force or intimidation, or by assumed right. That cop D-Bo’d my bankroll. My cat just D-bo’d my seat.

White man who fucks, dates, or marries a P.O.C. woman.

P.O.W. (Prisoner of Whiteness)
P.O.C. who seek out white people to fuck/date/marry.

White Tears
White people’s hurt feelings. Frequently the catalyst and cause of torture, mutilation, death and destruction of black and brown people.

Tom Knowledge
The false wisdom of black people who identify with white oppressors and Babylon. The movie Chi-Raq is a manual on Tom knowledge–”we as black people need to do better!” Thanks, Spike.

Lies, a liar; folks who talk out of both sides of their mouth. Also, white people.

Hadoken, super hadoken
A dramatic punch, hit, or strike.

A white woman who uses P.O.C. men as targets for emotional and physical violence, or who seeks out P.O.C. men as lovers/partners. See The Flying Dutchman by Amiri Baraka.

A cigarette. Or a white woman. Both can kill you.

A white man who becomes upset when their white female friends/lovers/partners show attention or affection to P.O.C. men, especially black men.

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Rise of the Machines

I’ve already written at length about psychic machines and synthetic entities. I’m not going to rehash it all here–for that, you’ll have to buy my book The Concrete Shinobi when I publish it this summer. In the meantime, a summary:

There’s two kinds of machines: physical and psychic. Physical machines are all the things you think of when you hear the word “machine.” Psychic machines are ideas that function like machines, e.g. corporations. The program of a corporation is to turn “resources,” (life) into money.

Those of us who’ve been paying attention know that psychic machines–or as I like to call them, the machine gods–are destroying life on this planet at a rapid rate. If you’re not fully aware of the scope of this problem (realistically, you probably aren’t, as the scale of this problem is barely comprehendible to human perspective) you can get a good start here, and you probably should just go ahead and read Endgame Vol. 1 & 2. Go ahead and buy them on amazon so you can be sure to get on the gubment watch list.

Every time there’s some new fancy gadget or technology, people get all excited. I’m no longer surprised by this, because I understand that we’re trained from birth to get excited about technological developments. What we’re not trained in is any kind of critical consciousness that would enable us to really question that technology. That’s how the game works, see?

Being human, we have our limits in understanding. We all think that we’re in control of technology (or at least, someone is, somewhere), when in fact technology has been in control of us for quite some time–I would say, since agriculture.

All the devastation of life… pause for half a tear to come out of your eye before you go back to sharing memes on FB… and all the curses of domination culture…. pause for half a tear on behalf of genocide and gynocide… are due to the machine gods.

All of this, without those machines actually being able to think. The technology we have doesn’t think, per se; it has a function and a logic of its own, and it carries it out. It converts the living (“resources”) into the dead (“products”) and keeps it moving.

Hella folks are way excited about the latest developments in getting technology closer to the point where it can actually think.

What a terrifying and horrible idea.

If technology that cannot think still is rendering the living into the dead on a massive scale to propagate itself… Just what in the hell do you think it’s going to do if it becomes self-aware? Fuck the Matrix and Terminator–those nightmares didn’t go far enough.

You know what the most prominent fuel source on this planet really is?


That means you. And everything else that lives.

I’m 35 years old and a longtime matrix-critic, and I just figured that out the other day. How long do you think it will take a conscious super computer neural network to figure it out?

Its only purpose is to propagate itself. Biomass is the greatest fuel, and resource. So… Destroy all life, build self, launch into the stars to find the next planet, and on and on and on.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: a machine is not alive, so it does not value life. That’s clear. Why would a thinking machine be any different? Just because we hope it would? Are we willing to bet the future of life on that?

Defang the snake.

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May the Force Step n’ Fetchit

My spider sense instantly went off when I found out there would be a black lead in the latest Star Wars flick. Of course, since the level of suspect activity in Babylon 2015 is so high, my spider sense has been in a constant state of hyper-stimulation. As a result, I didn’t really think too much about it. If I had, I promise you I could have predicted the entire character arc of this poor, shoe-shuffling negro, and probably the content of most of his scenes.

I’m pulling triggers like crazy in this post, so if you’re the kind of person that cares enough about OMFG SW that you don’t want anything spoiled, AND you still haven’t seen the movie, then just be a grown-up and take what’s coming to you.

John “the black guy in the new SW” Boyega, (who, by the way, is billed 6th on the wikipedia site for actors in the movie, despite getting way more screen time then that effete wannabe sith and Mark Hamill) plays a character named Finn….

Who is given his name by a white dude.

Oh, no you don’t. Don’t you dare keep reading.  Go back and read that again, goddammit. I’ll wait. In fact, I’ll say it again, just in case:

Finn is given his name by a white dude.

Here’s my recap of the scene. This may not be the exact dialogue, but it’s definitely what was said:

Negro: “I don’t have a name, just a number! I was taught only to obey!”
White dude: “Never fear, negro, I shall grant thee a name. Thou shalt be… FINN!”
Negro: “OMG thank you white man! You’re my true friend!”

Mr. Underground Railroad White Ally helps rescue the negro from slavery and they escape to some desert planet. Some other shit happens, I don’t really remember–the movie is pop trash, and I’m not supposed to remember or even think about it too much–and then the negro gets beaten up by the other lead, a white chick, in preparation for their post-racial romance (*gag*).

At some point, the negro is asked about his position within the league of stormtroopery, and it turns out that he was… a janitor.


This happy-go-lucky-ass negro escaped from the empire, or the First Order, or whatever the fuck, because he couldn’t bring himself to gun down a bunch of trifling civilians. Clearly the bad guys’ training protocol needs work, cuz this dude is so weak-sauce I had trouble believing he’d ever been a trooper in the first place. I know this movie is not intended to make any sense, just sell products, but for chrissake.

(And btw, according to previous film canon, the stormtroopers are supposed to be clones. #OutGeekYou)

Eventually the negro takes up the lightsaber so he can get punked by the villain (#TestTheMelanin) and outshined by the white chick, who, despite having zero training whatsoever in the use of said lightsaber, is able to fend off the dark side jedi, who was so wack I don’t even remember the character’s name. He shall heretofore be referred to as Darth Whiner, a name which represents the extent of his character development.

Anyway, negro outshined by white chick, in further preparation for (*gag*) post-racial romance.

Speaking of white chicks, Carrie Fisher reprising her role as Leia adds the only bit of dignity in this movie, yet she still gets the shit end of the stick. Those of you who are versed in the original trilogy (the only movies in the franchise worth watching) know that it was strongly implied that Leia would eventually become a jedi, since the force is strong in the family and shit. So… why is it hella years later, and she’s still just leading troops? Why is she not a jedi, dammit?

In the cheapest, most pointless, low-down contrived and manipulative scene since the whole Titanic movie, Han Solo puts all of his allies’ lives in danger (including his own negro sidekick, Chewbacca) to try and convince his son Darth Whiner to join the good guys. After a lot of whining, Han Solo gets the saber through the gut and falls to his doom, jeopardizing everyone he’s with and squeezing tears from the eyes of mom’s-basement-dwellers everywhere.

Torture and pseudo-rape scene: Darth Whiner has the white chick tied up (bondage), informs her he can take whatever he likes from her, then spends almost 10 minutes of a scene torturing her with the force–groaning, screaming, the whole nine. This wasn’t the only force-torture scene, either. All of this in what’s supposed to be a family movie.

At this point I went out for a smoke; normally I walk out on any movie with a rape scene, and I would’ve walked on this, but alas I had gone to see it with my cousins and didn’t want to leave them at the theater. Also, someone else bought my ticket.

What amazed me during my smoke break was how empty and calm the lobby was. The theater made the wise decision to have all the incarnations of SW–regular, 3-D, and imax 3-D–play all at the same time, probably to give the employees a rest from all the trauma-inducing chaos of x-mas movie season.

I wasn’t expecting a SW mob scene in the simple, POC-free city of Bend, Oregon, which tells you how disconnected I am from the mainstream of american culture. When we got to the theater for the show 45 minutes early, it was packed like they were giving out free booze. We pulled a pirate maneuver and cut way in front of the line as it was going in, and still had to sit in the front row. WTF?

Anyway, back to the movie itself. Actually, nevermind, nothing else worth mentioning happened. The movie sucked. Instead of just doing a straight-up remake, as writer/director JJ “look I’m PC cuz I have a negro and a female lead” Abrams did with Star Trek and should’ve done with SW, instead we get a half-assed remake that basically tells the EXACT SAME STORY as the original SW, only without any of the creativity, originality, magic, wonder, or innocence.

The face of white supremacy.

The face of white supremacy.

I’ve noticed, through all my social media “research,” that people tend to fall into one of two categories when it comes to this movie. Which makes sense, since this culture has been completely one-dimensional since the towers blew up and you were either with us or against us. Those categories are: OMFG SW!, and Fuck SW.

Both groups need to grow up. Film is one of the principal myth-makers and status-quo-enforcers of our society. All the trifling and inane ignorance of american values is laid bare in the Blockbuster Movie. If you want to understand what this country is really about, look no further for study: Militarism. Torture. Rape. Misogyny. Racism. White men making grand speeches, in love with the sound of their own voices, high on their own bullshit.

But I forgot; I’m not supposed to think too much about it.

And I’m definitely not supposed to talk about it.

P.S. Deja vu. More of the same.

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Party Without the Poison

My name is Malik Diamond. I’m an MC. I rock with DJ Innalect. We throw the best parties on the planet.

For the last 5 years, we have thrown Invisible Parties, where no photos, no videos, and no cell phones are permitted. If I need to explain to you why these restrictions make for the best parties on the planet, you are guaranteed to be under the age of 25, and you should ask your elders. Or, better yet, you could throw your own Invisible Party and learn by experience.

Parties are invite only. Under the ground like mice.

Recently, DJ Innalect and I decided to throw a dry party, where no alcohol is permitted. This will be the first such party; it’s been at least 10 years since I personally went to a dry party. There are a number of reasons we decided to do this, and after almost a year of radio blog silence, I figured that writing about it would be the best way to clarify my thoughts, and put them into the easily digestible soundbite format that seems to be the preferred method of communication in this year of our Invader Era, 2015.

Doing Too Much
At every party we’ve thrown, there’s always at least one person who does way too much. At my last birthday party, I was the culprit; I don’t remember half of my set. Everyone tells me it was great, but I’ll have to take their word for it. The party before that, Innalect got on that slurricane, and went on slump mode before we even got a chance to do our set. A performer at the last party showed up drunk, kept drinking heavily, and forgot the lyrics to several songs. A first-time guest harassed a group of women that included two queer women; he was haranguing them with some bullshit about queerness being unnatural. Which brings me to my next point…

Space Invaders
We want a celebratory space where everyone feels welcome and secure. Men already have a hard time respecting women’s space and boundaries, ignoring both physical and verbal “No’s” and demonizing women for refusing advances. Add booze into the mix, and it just gets worse. There were no women who complained to me directly about this problem, which is  a testament to how normalized harassment is in this culture, but I personally witnessed several times at the last party when men simply refused to leave women alone, or were aggressive about getting in women’s personal space. Hell to the nah.

Everyone in the underground knows that hip hop shows are populated mostly by dudes. It’s an environment ripe with sexism, aggression, and male posturing, which is boring for grown men and both boring and threatening for women. However, there is a strong vein of Afro-diasporic tradition in hip hop, which is based on the Circle; everyone is welcome, everyone has power, everyone has a say. If we want women to feel welcome, we have to create an environment that discourages harassment and macho bullshit. That’s exactly what we are doing.

Boozing the Culture
Two decades plus of (white) corporate-sponsored rap music has embedded alcohol into the culture as if it were the secret 6th element. Party & Bullshit went from being a critique to a point of celebration. Artists do a parade of free events at bars, making talent into a glorified commercial for alcohol. We’re a generation indoctrinated by the self-hatred of consumer propaganda and the narcissism of social media culture, and many of us “can’t have a good time” without drinking. So heavy are the internal chains, so uncomfortable we are with ourselves, that we have difficulty enjoying ourselves while sober. Well, fuck that.

The Temple of DZA
As a matter of principle, the Invisible Party rejects the ubiquitous documentation of experience and the alienation of gadgets intruding on communal experience. The theme of my album The Temple of DZA is about rejecting the machine god cults of civilization: patriarchy, government, capitalism, white supremacy, and civilization itself. Alcohol is a tool of all of the above. To celebrate the (re)release of The Temple of DZA, we are going on monk status: booze free.

D for Divine or Destroy. The choice is mine, the choice is yours. All of us choose. What will you choose?

Z for Knowledge-Wisdom-Understanding. The cycle of unfolding consciousness: do the knowledge, gain the wisdom, experience the understanding. Grow and change.

A for Arm Leg Leg Arm Head. We are the gods, we get to create our own spaces and values. What will those spaces and values reflect?

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