strayonward - Tumblr blog

[strayonward]

In the Wake

I worked in a school for two years, the first year as a substitute and the second year as a full time teacher. I can say some things for sure;teachers are well underpaid and it was one of the hardest and most important jobs I have ever had.

During the two weeks of orientation we went over what is called “lock downs”, emergency drills in the event of a shooter entering the building. We listen to the story of Sand hook and how one teacher was able to save her students but not herself, and the horror of what took place during this tragedy. 

When Trump suggested teachers carry weapons I wasn’t surprised by his words, but shocked by those who support this idea which is so beyond insensitivity and knowledge of what its like to work in a school with kids and for lack of a better word “stupid”. 

I worked in a private school, my day shifted between grades. In the morning I worked with another teacher in the nursery classroom, we had 17 three year olds. That is 17 babies, children who just learned to use the bathroom on their own, children who this is their first time and longest span away from their parents, children who are afraid of the story Going on a Bear Hunt. 

The thought of carrying around a weapon while wiping noses, and using puppets to tell stories ...well what does that mental image do for you? Does it bring you warm feelings of protection? Does that sound like a classroom you want your child in? 

I have thought many times that if a shooter were to enter the building, how do I keep 17 three year olds calm? You can’t explain that a bad man is here, you can’t panic them because they will be triggered and cry. You can’t upset 17 three year olds when you are all supposed to hide in the bathroom and hope this shooter doesn’t enter and if he does how long can you play the silent game with children who usually need constant reminders for simple tasks throughout the day. 

The police officer who did our training told us the first thing to go when an intense, panic stricken event is taking place are motor skills. At Sandy Hook  one of the teachers was stumbling to lock her door from the outside of her room, while struggling to put the key in the hole, was shot. 

Once, one of my kid was having a coughing fit during snack so bad I thought he was choking. It took me a minute to stop shaking from fear that this child was in danger. So please tell me how do I steady my hand and pull a weapon out? How do I make sure I hit the shooter and not anyone else? How do I hide my children and pull out my weapon and aim and shoot when the world is collapsing around us?

There are better, more sensible solutions to this.

We thought Columbine was a one off, but this an epidemic that doesn’t need to be. If our politicians for once would act as they should and do the right thing and stop worrying about the growth of their already expansive portfolios parents wouldn’t need to bury their children. 

Our classrooms are second homes, a safe haven, its beyond learning basic skills such as sharing and counting to ten. Its a place of love, security and a time deeply rooted in ones childhood. Just like we never allowed our children to draw, or “build” guns or pretend to shoot anyone, we will not allow the same for teachers. 

Violence begets violence.

[strayonward]

Untame

Untame yourself

From the wrangling of society

Do not let them break you

In the ways they told you, you should be broken

As they have the ones before you

Create a mess of yourself

Let strands of hair fall out of part

Let your tongue unravel the vocabulary you have been taught

Learn new words

Ones that frighten you

Do not retrace your steps, step off the curb

Move backwards

Miss your stop

Walk into places where you are the stranger

Give yourself a new name 

Be unbreakable 

Become chaos in your wake

Move within yourself 

Do not let them break in your wave

Allowing them to step in

Thinking it is safe

Remind them that there is always an undercurrent 

[strayonward]

Post

A poem about social media....

What here they feed us?

Look like left over crawfish…

Look like pots not be stirred enough…

I’ve been wearing this exoskeleton so long

But

This ain’t kosher

Pinned up whole house

Of portraits of myself

Call dem selfies

Been trying to find myself

In these self imposed photos

Hoping someone takes notice

Of these videos

Staring hard in my reflection

Ain’t nobody been talking back

Been talking to myself

Call my psychos frantic

Say there was a hurricane

Turned tundra

Turned heat wave

Turned the house over

Took food out of the crowd

Where is Jesus and some bread when you need him

Ocean will drown us, nah

It will be the fire that consumes us now

Heard some people died,

By some I mean thousands

But it ain’t here you know I don’t care 

No one cared

No, no one cares

Somebody Save Whales, Save Africa, Free Tibet

Heard they’re putting poison in the water

But that ain’t here and thats not me

So I don’t care

Somebody Save America

Save Us

Save selfie selfish generation

Generation “No Fucks”

Generation No Books

Generation Just looks

Generation Do Nothing

Whats trending

Post that shit

Look relevant

Look concerned

Try and have something to say

We not relevant

Monotony is not relevant

Keep stimulated

Post

Post

Comment

Post

Like

like

Like

Post

Comment Post

Like

Or thats that shit I don’t like

@ me

This is not a conversation

Hashtag

What the is that pound sign doing there?

We in and out of moments

We are not in the moment

Post “Live in the moment”

Ironic, no?

There is silence at the dinner table

Heads bow

Hands clasp together

Yet no one is praying

We snap chat

Snap backs

And Tattoos

Reformat

Change light exposure

All my sides are my best sides

I

Love myself

Can’t get out of bed

Not motivated

No

Im depressed

Cause this aint real

Post that

Say “Can’t get out of bed today”

Check mail, check Instagram

Check Facebook, my face

Hows my face look?

In the mirror

In the mirror in the morning

My face

Looks like my breathe smells

Not great

Don't post that

Or do I?

Stay consistently relevant

Do not disappear

If they cannot see you

You are not here

Stay stimulated

Watch porn

Selfie porn

I love myself

But I love when other people like my post more than I love myself

More than I keep things to myself

More than my loneliness

More than solitude

More than casual exchanges

Talk about everything

Everything #hashtag story

Stay stimulated

Don't be alone

Don't let the quiet seep in

Don't look me in the eye when I speak to you

I swear to God you better look at me when I talk to you

Look up

Let me see your iris

Let me see your pupil enlarge

So I know you’re stimulated by my story

By my mouth

By me

Let me see your eyes

Face to face

When we speak

Lets stimulated each other like we used to

#hashtag

[strayonward]

The End of Lazy Days

It is Sunday, my favorite day of the week. We lay here in silence, bellies content from Trader Joe’s goodness, the dog keeping our feet warm as we sprawl across the couch. 

The baby is coming and so will end such afternoons as we’ve been told by exhausted parents. 

I have worked with young children and I understand the level of exhaustation they provide. The tying of shoes, cleaning faces and little noses, escorting to the bathroom, opening snacks, rereading the same stories, getting called out on for broken promises. “I know I said we’d go to the park, but because you refused to put on your coat for fifteen minutes we ran out of time to do that today...” 

As exhausted as I have been (falling asleep at the dinner table) from wrangling three year olds all day, nurturing children has fulfilled me in way nothing else has. I loved these children, who weren’t even mine, cared for them, worried about them when they climbed the latter at the playground without my assistance, melted when they hugged me and experienced sheer joy in their curiosity.

What will it be like having my very own? They say its love unlike any other. I picture my son, I picture his toes and fingernails, his round belly, his little bald head, gummy lips, soft ears, bright eyes and I can’t wait to hold him. I cannot wait to show him the things in this world I love. I find myself wishing more for a life that allows me to be with my son more than I am now with my wife and dog. A life that we can travel and climb steep hills together, play in the dirt, discover new sounds and be away from the world we have trapped ourselves in...

The life of repetition, slave to the grind, working out to work off the glass of wine I so desperately crave at the end of the work week. I want to do something meaningful in my life so he understands what is important and how to prioritze that. 

I want him to be happy, I want him to find what makes him happy and persues it with a vigor so long as it isn’t anything dangerous, ha (mom joke). 

I wish for the world we live in now to better for him, socially, politically, emotionally, environmentaly...I want him to feel inspired by the world around him, to encourage him to do better not for himself but for others. 

Maybe I am getting ahead of myself, maybe the late night diaper changes and feedings will submit me into the basics wants and needs; his health, well paying job with health care and someone he can love. If I am honest I want my son to live fully in who he is even if it exhausts me.

[strayonward]

What is to be learned through silence

Out of all the times I have written and performed work the most honorable task bestowed upon me was my grandfathers eulogy. There was ten minutes or so of my life that I tried my best to convey the story of his.

Towards the end of his eulogy my eyes began to swell up and coupled with the the church’s lighting it became impossible to see the words I had written. I spoke the remainder with what I had memorized and could make out through the glimmer of tears.

Friends of my grandfather told me stories about him that surprised me in a way that I had gained a new perspective about the man he was and not just who he showed me to be.

We showed each other the sides of ourselves we deemed appropriate for one another.

We are born fifty years and two days apart. This year I will be alone without him to share our cake, our candles, our wishes.

He wanted me to have a job that provided benefits, he asked me once “why don’t you become a nurse?”. I never told him what it was I wanted. I don’t I know if I had done anything to make him proud or that he thought was respectable.

In his final days I sat in silence with him. I know he is dying, he knows he is dying and yet we say nothing to each other. We don’t acknowledge this fact, instead I make idle chatter, tell him about school and the various jobs I am doing. He nods occasionally but mostly stares in the distance, I have never known him to be afraid of anything but with this I see the fear in his eyes.

The man my grandfather died as, how the sickness took over, isnt the man he was or how I remember him. That is to say my grandfather isn’t gone. He exists in this house when I am not there, still in his garden or tending to my mothers home ; repairing the gutter, painting the swing set etc…

I want my life to mean something not only for the purpose of living but to those around me. When I die I hope I can look at my life as fulfilled and ready to be retired.

I hope I make them proud, even in the smallest of accomplishments, I hope there is just one thing that spares me of their disappointment.

[strayonward]

Capital "I"

I live here. In New York City, the capital of self indulgences and doing whatever one can to get ahead.

Most days I wait on tables where the conversation dwells around revelations of the self and whatever bullshit that comes with it, like yoga and juicing.

I’m not far off from this, hypocritical? Hmm yes, I guess so. I talk about the pursuit of being an artist and how I can live a fuller life, one that gives more than it takes. Why do we need to have these conversations? Shouldn’t our lives be full enough? You would think so with all the luxuries a middle class worker in a metropolis can afford. Yet, there is this whiny undertone about how life can be improved and the moments we take for granted could be better spent sipping our drinks slower and chewing our food more thoughtfully.

I think these conversations are ungrateful and mindless. We consume everything around us at a rapid pace, sometimes I don’t even taste what it is in my cup. We indulge ourselves and then say “I deserve it” and pat ourselves on the back for a mediocre job well done.

I can’t help but think how lucky I am even at my worst I am still living in luxury. Compare that to those who barely have enough to eat and I lose my appetite, I hate myself for this. Then again if anyone has the opportunity wouldn’t they take it? Would I not do what I was able to do? Experience the world that is available to me?

[strayonward]

#goodmorning make sure you have your #GreenJuice but also listen to my new #song "Green Juice" coming soon ... #hiphop #music #artist #nyc #EDM #supportlocalmusic #rap #rapper #DJ #cypher @haydnversusalien

[strayonward]

Was in the #studio today finishing new #music but for now a throw back be sure to check out #readytodie link in the bio. #rapper #hiphop #rap #harlem #nyc #artist #performance @soulgloproject

[strayonward]

Five Years Later

Its been five years since my last post and not much has change, how disappointing. I’ve moved up in the world of restaurants, better neighborhood, better food, better days off. Still I am trapped in the dinning room, serving, waiting, I have become too old for this. 

I have tried to see the bright side of things, assuming that the Universe is working with me and not against. However, the bright side may seem like a delusion I have talked myself into. I think now that if I had a 9-5 job that the starving artist in me would have settled for complacency, would be enjoying her weekends and dinners out, late nights bar hoping. Perhaps the artist in me would have enjoyed the sense of pride being able to introduce herself as “marketing director of blah blah blah”. The artist in me would sit and cry and say where have you gone, would say the struggle is worth it. Or because I had my nights and weekends free the artist in me would be thriving with the ability to perform all she damn well pleases because of all her free time. Who the fuck knows!

All I know is that the artist in me is an extrovert wearing my skin, pouncing on every opportunity to perform at any empty venue this City has to offer. Studio time is spent in a closet up in Harlem and I relish in this. I try and tell myself to be grateful what I have, where I came from, what I have learned and not get angry about what seems to be the constant.

I can only do now what I wish I had done five years ago, in retrospect I don't think 25 year old me was ready. 

[strayonward]

https://soundcloud.com/sam-laroche/ready-to-die

[strayonward]

https://soundcloud.com/sam-laroche/ride-out

[strayonward]

https://soundcloud.com/sam-laroche/coffee

[strayonward]

My backyard

[strayonward]

Come to my show!

http://www.facebook.com/events/277837308938314/?ref=ts

[strayonward]

There are some nights where you show up with a six-pack. You sip it slow hoping for a back porch when all you've got is a fire escape. A perfect visual to your life's metaphor. Vodka sodas are effortless on both parts... Cheap and tasteless, not a drink you have to plan for. Then there are nights for a bottle of red wine, you pick the one with the most appealing label and grab whatever glass/mug is clean. Its clear sky nights like these that you and someone else can drink and watch the sky fall together. 

[strayonward]

I am without Virgil

It is 5:30 in the morning cold, and dark. My body has just settled into a deep sleep and the alarm clock is going off. The previous hours were spent lying awake thinking about work. Thinking about the next few days how I will be pulling a triple. Working from sun up, and past sun down. I think to myself "God they're going to make being fired really easy." Under the winter moon I walk through the clear dark and the black snow. Gowanus is just as beautiful at 5:30 in the morning as it is at noon. I cross over a bridge, underneath sits still water that comes from nowhere and leads to the same exact place. A car with four lumber yard workers cuts in front of me. I pass a group of men loading caskets on to a truck from what I assume is the coffin factory. The only interaction I am yet to have is with the guy at the deli by the Union stop. I believe I stiffed him a dollar by accident, I ran out quickly to catch the train. I jump on to the R and did not notice until the train is above ground, its the D. I am now twenty minutes late to work.

As I begin to hate the world, the sun continues to set the stars on snooze over and over again until the sky is a soft blue. I realize I am not the only person awake. The self pity diminishes the will to survive kicks in. Pay rent, pay back loans, pay off the credit card that led me into debt while being unemployed, buy groceries, buy toilet paper (kidding we take toilet paper from work). You are not the only person who lives under this roof, surprisingly someone else needs this from you too. We all do it. We are set back again after the first of every month. We are not alone. Together but separately we live under the glamorous guise in the city. Bright lights, tall buildings, men in suits, women in fur coats. We are not these people. We are the people fixing your meals, shinning your shoes, getting you to and from work and home again. We are the ticking of the clock, setting the pace to move and go. There is no stopping, there is little sleep, little time to eat. Our days off are Tuesdays. Fridays and weekends don't mean a thing.

It is 6:10 am, silent and empty. I had other plans and dreams for myself. Now at twenty five dreams vanish into a vicious cycle. Stuck on a hamster wheel, praying for a way out.  We come to this city like sacrificial lambs. We gave ourselves up in good faith and in turn we have been swallowed. Some people make it, and the rest will struggle on. Living a vivid day dream in their head that some day things won't be this hard. Only to wake to a harsh reality and you find yourself saying "Yes, ma'am right away." Friends wonder how I work seven days a week and still don't have any money? I wonder that too some times. Same as my parents wondering how come someone with a college degree isn't able to get a regular salary paid job. No one seems to get it except for the people you work with. They understand the difficulty in salvaging self dignity while  hands and knees wiping mayo off of someone's shoe.  I don't have many years left of my youth but I will take the compliment when older adults call me a "baby". I will drink without caution and not worry about a mortgage. I push dreams of weekend brunches and stability to the far end of my mind and only stay in the moment. If I continue to dwell on what seems so untouchable, that is when I find myself in the corner of the room seeking oxygen.

When I finally get to work I put my game face on. Smile joke and laugh. Find happiness in others company. There are bills to pay. Yet, still I am dreaming. Still I believe today is the day when all of this will change.