It was the mid-nineties, summer time, and school was not for another month--an eternity for me at that age. I woke up groaning for a gallon of water, and scanning the room as much as I could. A groan soon turned to panic. Where was I? Why was I there? I shook my head a few times to knock the sleep off. It didn't work. The room began to spin a little. And at about the fifth time seeing my bed posts go by, I began to hear something. It was a noise, but, a refined noise--a tune.
The spinning slowed, but the tune stayed. My bed posts rested, and the sweet drips upon my ear lobes became larger, and even ran down the backs some. Drips became splashes; splashes became thoughts of if there is anything there at all. And then, a voice: "boy, come get yer cer'al." My nostrils flared as I rose my face to the scent. It was hot cereal--oatmeal flooded with whole milk, an island of butter sitting off to the side in the cool white, clumps of brown sugar randomly spread about, and an even dusting of a cinnamon-nutmeg blend, topped with scattered golden raisins and ruby-red cranberries. Toasted walnuts around the rim of the bowl were a rare option--and that day, it was available.
A hot bowl of cereal--with the works, of course--is one of my favorite dishes of all time. And anyone that knows me, knows I love to eat. But at that time, not even a parched throat and hunger pangs could get me out of bed. It was that sound, those unfamiliar waves of goodness, which kept my head suspended over my pillow. This is the power of good music. This is the magic of hearing something new.
For the first time, I have experienced what it is like to smother myself in something I love. I know what it is like to grind the wheel late into the night, to carve and smooth and perfect the new creation into the wee hours of the morning--and to have to. But over the past week or so, I have experienced this on an entirely new level.
I do not believe there is any other life path more fulfilling than that of creating, polishing, packaging, marketing and earning from something of one's own mind, by one's own hands. Anything else is a towering ring of fire from which one may feel there is no escape. Anything else is death.
It is one thing to hear a song on the radio, and to become enamored with this precision-cut gem. It is totally another, to experience the stone in its rawest form, still embedded in the earth--and to fall deeply for that. I believe that despite our differences, despite our preferences, if we can understand--and even better, come to appreciate--the process by which those things we often take for granted are created, then maybe we can learn to appreciate those things more. And in being grateful for that which is available--even if it is not for us--we may be compelled to work harder to preserve those things meant for someone else in our community.
Anyone thrust into having to scrape by on love for a while, even years, before being discovered--if at all, will learn that a track is not just a track. An album is more than a make-shift coaster or pretend ninja star.
I eventually rose from that bed and followed the sound snaking its way through the house, and into my bedroom. I lifted and tipped and shifted things, to no avail. Years later, I am still looking for that sound. It changes styles and voices by the minute. Playfully, it eludes me, to my ego's demise--but I will never stop seeking the perfect song. And I pray that any artist that decides to take the Publik Transit respects the process as much as the supporters who choose good music over even their greatest pleasures, at times.
- Cambridge Jenkins IV, EIC
www.publiktransit.com
http://cjiv.me/cambridgejiv
The spinning slowed, but the tune stayed. My bed posts rested, and the sweet drips upon my ear lobes became larger, and even ran down the backs some. Drips became splashes; splashes became thoughts of if there is anything there at all. And then, a voice: "boy, come get yer cer'al." My nostrils flared as I rose my face to the scent. It was hot cereal--oatmeal flooded with whole milk, an island of butter sitting off to the side in the cool white, clumps of brown sugar randomly spread about, and an even dusting of a cinnamon-nutmeg blend, topped with scattered golden raisins and ruby-red cranberries. Toasted walnuts around the rim of the bowl were a rare option--and that day, it was available.
A hot bowl of cereal--with the works, of course--is one of my favorite dishes of all time. And anyone that knows me, knows I love to eat. But at that time, not even a parched throat and hunger pangs could get me out of bed. It was that sound, those unfamiliar waves of goodness, which kept my head suspended over my pillow. This is the power of good music. This is the magic of hearing something new.
For the first time, I have experienced what it is like to smother myself in something I love. I know what it is like to grind the wheel late into the night, to carve and smooth and perfect the new creation into the wee hours of the morning--and to have to. But over the past week or so, I have experienced this on an entirely new level.
I do not believe there is any other life path more fulfilling than that of creating, polishing, packaging, marketing and earning from something of one's own mind, by one's own hands. Anything else is a towering ring of fire from which one may feel there is no escape. Anything else is death.
It is one thing to hear a song on the radio, and to become enamored with this precision-cut gem. It is totally another, to experience the stone in its rawest form, still embedded in the earth--and to fall deeply for that. I believe that despite our differences, despite our preferences, if we can understand--and even better, come to appreciate--the process by which those things we often take for granted are created, then maybe we can learn to appreciate those things more. And in being grateful for that which is available--even if it is not for us--we may be compelled to work harder to preserve those things meant for someone else in our community.
Anyone thrust into having to scrape by on love for a while, even years, before being discovered--if at all, will learn that a track is not just a track. An album is more than a make-shift coaster or pretend ninja star.
I eventually rose from that bed and followed the sound snaking its way through the house, and into my bedroom. I lifted and tipped and shifted things, to no avail. Years later, I am still looking for that sound. It changes styles and voices by the minute. Playfully, it eludes me, to my ego's demise--but I will never stop seeking the perfect song. And I pray that any artist that decides to take the Publik Transit respects the process as much as the supporters who choose good music over even their greatest pleasures, at times.
- Cambridge Jenkins IV, EIC
www.publiktransit.com
http://cjiv.me/cambridgejiv
