Nikki Patin - Temporary Web Log

Super Quick

Update, that is...

Had a show at Texas Ballroom last night...let's see...great line-up, so big up to The Weeds, Mirah, and The Golden Egg, who got me the show, for which I am ever so grateful. The crowd was your typical "I'm trying SO hard not to be mainstream, that it's really sad I look like I belong on MTV anyway." For the most part, the audience sat on the floor and looked confused. That's cool...I got paid $100 for making indie rock nerds totally uncomfortable. Score one for the fuckin' team, man!

Recorded yet another song with Todd, who, of course, is just so talented, it's scary...

Check all my music here ....

And let me know what you really think...this album will probably cost me eveything I own, so I want it to be good...I'm open to all suggestions...

Gotta go coach the All-Stars...

Kiss the rings, bitch.

One more time...Dave Chappelle.

Radio Free Nikki

So, I've got big news.

My first single, "Last Night," got picked up by a radio station in Minneapolis.

I feel...good. A little surprised, but I feel really good about this.

I've also recorded two songs in the past three days, both of which sound better than I think Todd or I expected.

Professionally, life couldn't be better.

Ozinga.

Inside

Inside is where I should keep shit. I think I make people uncomfortable with how open I am...it's causing problems. Some people have commented on how frank I've been in this web journal. Others have used my honesty as an excuse for their actions or lack thereof.

What I wish I could scream to everyone is...FUCKIN GET OVER IT.

Or...WHY DON'T YOU TALK TO ME ABOUT WHY YOU'RE UNCOMFORTABLE?

Or...AM I THAT SCARY?

I guess I am. That's why I hold back so much and that's why it's funny that people are so freaked out because I'm still holding back practically everything.

I thought I could maybe use this journal as a place to work this shit out, but it seems I calculated wrong again. Folks want the show from me...they don't want me. So, I guess I better give them the show, huh?

Guess I should never talk about the tears or fears or hopes or failures. Guess my dependency on the external to validate myself needs to be kept on the 'low. Guess when you're a size four, all that vulnerability shit is endearing, but when you're a big, black woman, you should just put people in check and be sassy all the fuckin' time cuz you're just everyone's fuckin' mammy...and everyone knows mammy don't get laid and mammy definitely don't cry.

Guess I should just be happy being a walking, talking stereotype cuz that just keeps the peace.

Too bad I can't.

The funny thing is that me proclaiming my unwillingness to be a stereotype perpetuates the show everyone wants.

I am the proverbial strong, black woman and nothing I can ever do will ever just make me human.

Well, fuck y'all, man...cuz I am human. It is true that I am also black and woman and strong, but before any and everything else, I'm human.

I have flaws. I have feelings. I have desires. I have hopes. I have failures and successes and all that shit is mashed in my pockets between my wallet and my cell phone.

I have a headache and I have a heartache.

I've finally discovered the #1 quality I look for in my friends:

the benefit of the doubt.

For the love of peanut butter, I wish folks would respect/care enough to just talk to me about shit that I do that makes them feel confused or uncomfortable.

I'm just tired of the effort, tired of explaining everything all the time, tired of having to carve space cuz no one will just let me have it.

I'm starting to hate this web journal. No one ever gets what the hell I'm saying. I always have to go back and re-explain. Plus, now everyone thinks I'm crazy because I'm publicly willing to admit what no one else will cop to.

#1 thing I'm really fuckin tired of: hypocrites.

My life is crawling with them and they make my skin itch.

How hard is it to base your actions on your convictions?

What's even funnier is that everyone who reads this will assume I'm talking about someone other than them...

Guess again.

Blaaaahg

So, I'm feeling a little better. Spent this morning researching products and shooting the shit with Todd , my fabulous producer. He's such a happy bunny .

Anyway.

Just got off the phone with Baby Astronaut, Derrick DeMayo. He's so talented. I swear I listen to his shit at least once a day. Derrick's a really good friend of mine whose been trying to help me with what he calls "the worst self-image I've ever heard of." My self-image does not match what other people think of me. Sometimes that's good, but in my case, it's not. I'm not going to go into now, but Derrick is one of the few people who is sticking by me and supporting me through it versus feeling weird about it and running away or just ignoring it, like most other folks do.

This weekend was okay. I had the epiphany that most Black audiences don't like me or my work. Before anyone who doesn't know me freaks out, I'm a Black woman of mixed-race heritage, so don't trip.

For real, though...I think I don't connect with them like I do other audiences because my work is not based in 4/4 all the time. Plus, I look a little different and am one of those people of color who could be anything from Puerto Rican to Arab to damn near anything. And according to most Black folks who I just meet, I sound "white." I've never understood how anyone can sound like a particular race, but whatever with that.

I performed at the Pantene Total You Tour exhibition this weekend. Nikki Giovanni and MC Lyte and Yolanda Adams headlined. It had the potential to be a really cool situation...hundreds of black women walking around, talking about health and beauty. It was dope, but the spoken word stage had to compete against all the background noise and the R&B stage across the way. It was a trip. Some girl tried to mock me while I was performing my signature piece, "Sweat." I run in place while performing the poem, which is about thin people giving bigger people a hard time when they're just trying to get into shape. So this girl starts running in place in the audience while I'm performing. I just kept going, looking her in the eye the whole time, daring her to keep it up. She stopped, of course, but I just couldn't figure it out. She basically mocked a piece that was already talking about how fucked up thin people are to bigger people. So really, I have to thank her for reinforcing what I was already trying to do. The point to this whole thing is that other audiences, not just white audiences, give me a lot of love and their full attention. My people treat what I do like it doesn't matter but they give love to poets who are doing unoriginal, insulting, derivative, misogynist, racist work. That shit is completely beyond my comprehension. I'm trying to just breathe it out, though...just breathe myself through and let go that which I have no control over. I just know that my non-Christian, bald-headed, pierced up, rock lovin' self is never gonna be a hero to the hood. Once again, I am what everyone is trying to get away from.

No more sadness, though. There are shows to book, songs to sing, words to spill, people to love, and a world to save.

I got no time for the bullshit.

Sooner than later: thongs with my face on it...she's sexy!

Hmm...

List of things I never want to do again:

Compete in a poetry slam
Over-extend myself to prevent other people from having to do the same
Have casual sexual encounters with friends
Drink bourbon
Be in an abusive relationship
Be attracted to someone just because they're attracted me
Be attracted to someone who isn't attracted to me
Call Dustin
Act desperately out of loneliness
Be lazy about my dreams
Work out of a sense of obligation
Love out of a sense of obligation
Think I'm inferior because of how I look
Think that I don't deserve to be with someone because of how I look
Settle
Settle
Settle
Settle
Settle

I never ever want to settle ever again in life. And I know I'm in for a lonely one. I feel like I'm 12. I feel like I keep thinking about the most trivial bullshit...like why I've never been in love or why I out so much stock in whether or not guys are attracted to me. Why I keep looking for someone to take care of me...not in a financial way, but in a I-got-your-back, selfless way. Why I'm always the grown up in every situation. Why whenever I give myself permission to not be the grown up, people freak out on me. Why I feel my back starting to break. Why I feel like I would disappoint everyone who cares about me if it did break. Why I disappoint everyone anyway. Why I'm irresponsible, but no one knows it. Why I'm utterly fucking miserable and why I think I'm repulsive and why the people whose respect I most want to gain look at me in disgust because I'm weak. Why I wish those people would give me a little more credit. Why the ones who do give me credit are not enough and why I don't believe in the credit that I get. Why the fuck am I so self-centered?

I feel like I'm paying penance. There is a toll for being what everyone doesn't want to be. Fat. Female. Black. Artistic. Bald. Bold.

The fact that I breathe is offensive to the mainstream. I suppose I should be happy and feel all revolutionary and shit, but when the revolutionaries don't want to look or be or feel or think like you do and you have absolutely no idea how to create your own reference point, what do you do?

What should I do? Drown myself in intoxicants? I've been trying that. All I feel is really tired and my tummy hurts.

Be all positive about it, right? Rejoice in my oddity, make my sore-thumb tendency into a cause celebre? Be happy in the fish bowl?

I cannot do any of the above. I am much too aware for that. I can't block out the noise on the street or in my head and meditation doesn't work. Eating good food doesn't work. Surrounding myself with good people doesn't work.

Nothing works. And I'm tired of folks feeling sorry for me. Please don't. Don't insult me or yourself like that.

The ultimate truth is that existence in this world as I am is impossible.

I used to think anything was possible, literally. Used to know that if I willed it so, I could fly or turn into a dolphin. Of course, those are the kinds of statements that make everyone think you're crazy.

Funny how, as a grown-up, people change their tune. You tell them how the world hates girls filled with contradiction, confusion, and uncompromising dissatisfaction and they will tell you how you're wrong and how anything is possible.

I have no idea what to do.

Passion-itis

So I went and saw "The Passion of The Christ" last night.

Here's what reverberated in my head throughout the movie:

1. If Jesus were my friend, I'd think he was an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. "I am the Truth, I am the Way, I am the Life." I'd be like, "Jesus, you're trippin', man...maybe you should dry out for a while."

2. How are people having heart attacks over Hollywood makeup tricks?

3. How in the world is this the most graphically violent movie in film history, according to Roger Ebert?

4. Mary Magdalene is fuckin' hot!

5. Oh my God, Jesus is hot, too!

6. Threesome with Jesus and Mary Magdalene? Hmm...

7. Every man wants to be Jesus. Let's see...33, still living at home, his Mom is 100% supportive, even though Jesus makes weird, tall tables that she thinks no one will like, Mary Magdalene falls all on her knees in front of him, all his best friends believe he's the Messiah (until he starts gettin' his ass whupped), and he's keeps saying fuck you to the police and government.

8. Jesus...the other white meat? Apparently so...wait a second, I thought Jesus was Black! Oh no, that was someone else...

9. Oh goody, it's the end of the movie...wait...how come all his scars on his body are healed, but he's still got a hole through his hand? That's trippy...

10. Dammit, I got nacho cheese all over the toe of my shoe. Jesus H. fucking Christ, goddammit!

Fall on your knees, people. Fall on your knees.

Random rumination on Chappelle's Show #1: If there really was a gay KKK, do you think they'd still burn crosses or paint them in pretty colors and decorate them with rhinestones?

Chi-town Classic is tonight...I predict:
Drew will hit on at least one cute girl
something will be ridiculously unfair
one of the judges will draw my ire
I will remember that slam sucks, so why do I give a shit
my mother will be disturbed by a line in my new poem
I will get angry or depressed
some random guy will hit on me
I will not notice cuz I don't think boys like me like that
I will wonder why I keep doing this to myself
My sense of obligation will dwindle

Roses really smell like boo boo.

One Up

Yep, I'm up, then I'm down again. I am moodier than a comedian on Valium. So, went to Dayton, OH this past weekend. It was an alright time. The people there are very nice, very welcoming...or at least, the people who I was introduced to. Everyone else stared at me like I was the new exhibit at the zoo. Yeah, baby, that's right...I'm exotic.

Whatever.

Lots of adventure and misadventure, lots of cool haps and mishaps. Overall, lots of fun. I'd rather tell you the really interesting stories in person.

The actual driving part was a blast. I ate a little bit of a "special" brownie and became fascinated with the clouds and the sun and the absolute majesty of rural Indiana.

Went to Trace last night and freaked out. The girlfriend of Hawaii guy came up to me and started telling me how much she loves me and looks up to me. What scares me is how much bravery she has, especially after witnessing her boyfriend kissing and flirting with me all the time. I didn't know he had a girlfriend at first and when I found out and asked about it, he told me that they "both know this isn't a forever thing," i.e. they have an open relationship. Which is fine, except he gets mad when she "strays," as she put it.

It's all fine...except he hits her.

He hits her and she's his #1 fan and I was exactly where she was a year ago.

I am cracking under all of this. She wrapped her arms around my neck and told me how my poems make it okay. How if she had a copy of them, she would reference them and they would make it possible for her to continue her day.

She told me how much she looks up to me and how I'm the only female poet who puts into words exactly how she feels. Every. Single. Time.

She asked me what to do. I told her the only thing I knew. I told her to get out and stay out. I told her to leave him.

And then I had nothing else to say.

And sure, I'm being melodramatic and overly sensitive, but I still sleep alone at night and even my poems aren't enough to make people want to really talk to me. Like her...she only wanted me to tell her that I loved her, too, and saw her beauty and respected her and that all of it will be okay. She wanted me to tell her that she could be my strength, my talent, my confidence, my own brand of fearlessness. So I did, but I never told her that the path to those things is paved with girls like me and her...is paved with bruises and black eyes, tears and hangovers, screams held in check by the silence of desperation for love, red eyes and broken hearts and the feel of your lover's hand reverberating in absolute anger and astonishment.

I never told her that the path to any kind of glory is the feel of fingernails scraping the cliff, the slipping of yourself through everyone's fingers, silky like the cloth Lisa brought me from Hungary and just as beautiful to watch...the cool, slinky descent into madness is the foundation of the path to infamy.

We are all almost famous.

I just want to be noticed.