Field Research

I thought this had posted… apparently it saved as a draft instead. 

 

I grew up in a town where most people live in the lower middle class. I tended to be in remedial classes because of my ADHD. This combination made me more urban than I tend to seem, with my glasses and whiteness. Most of my friends I made were due to music and my self-deprecation about how white I was. I remember learning freestyling in the back of the class. I often spit about how white and unworthy I was. They loved it.

I remember Brandon Amado, a chubby Cape Verdean thug, in my spanish class. I actually saw him outside a liquor store about a month back, where he told me to “invest in cocaine while at college, but don’t fucks wit’ it.” He told me I didn’t know who Kurt Cobain was. I was confused and offended that he thought I was ignorant to my favorite artist. We figured out we were talking about two different people. Kirko Bangz is a rapper. Kurt Cobain is the lead singer of Nirvana. Neither of us knew the other existed.

I’ve always been a lyrics guy. Musically, I’ve always been in the margins. I fell for hipster indie rock, alternative, music of my father, “92.9: 90’s to Now Boston Radio” shit like that. I thought my whiteness prevented me from appreciating rap and hip-hop seriously. Most of my friends who are home, dropped out, or simply studying at community college rap on the side or hope to hit it big. The problem with them, is that they have become too over-consumed with image. I find this to be the fall of art. When you try to create something, you’re an artist. When you become a cartoon version of an artist, your art fails. My friend Jared Huskey, focuses on his art over image and produces antirap, a new genre of rap which satirizes the rap industry and his whiteness. My friend from home, David Bunce-Grenon (stage name: Samson Young) grew up in one of the affluent neighborhoods of Stoughton. His parents are two white gay men. Recently, he has become focused on an independent “non-profit” company called “Feel Good Family”. FGF is mostly focused on producing music, fashion design, and creating a brand for legalized marijuana. He has focused on image and making money over his art. FGF has released a CD, which I have listened to in its entirety. The rhyme schemes and structure are simple, the subject of a lost love is repetitive and doesn’t agree between the aggressive loops. You can immediately tell the difference between amateur rappers and legitimate rappers by their lyrics. This lack of assonance, alliteration, clever lyrics, passion and meaning as a whole creates an album that was obviously made just to be made.

 

https://twitter.com/feelgoodfam

soundcloud.com/feelgoodfamily

Field Research

Jared Huskey, Saint Rose student major business, minor music industry. From Texas. Focused on art and creating over image. White rapper, lyricist and songwriter. Specializes in anti-rap, satire, white rap, comical music. Listens to wide range of music, but has an admiration for Kanye West. Has been compared to Lil’ Dicky, and Bo Burnham.

Samson Yung, AKA David Bunce Grenon, is an up and coming rapper out of suburban Boston, he is a member of the non-profit conglomerate, Feel Good Family. Focused on image and branding before art. Black rapper raised by two white gay parents in upper middle class suburb. Like Jared, has a deep appreciation of Kanye, but tends to focus on listening on only mainstream and marginalized rap.

My Life is A Poem: The Literary Merit of Rap as a Form of Complex, Dynamic Poetry

I have chosen to change things up a bit. I have always loved music. I mean, it’s pretty human to do so, but as an writer I tend to love and obesess over music with great lyrics. A contemporary poetry class will sometimes involve a song by Jim Morrison or Bob Dylan, but I think the disregard of rap lyrics creates the “old-dead-white-guy” cliche that plagues the concept of literary merit.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my rock and folk music. Bob Dylan changed my life. Warren Zevon changed my life. Brand New, Beck, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, and Daniel Johnston all changed my life. But I’d be lying if I told you Eminem, Dre, Snoop Dogg, Kanye, Jay-Z and Childish Gambino are not at the same level as those later stated. Rap’s aggressive and empowering sound, along with lyrics rich in assonance, alliteration, allusions, and complicated rhyme structures should, without much struggle, prove itself as a rich form of poetry without much struggle.

In “Cultural Studies and Rap: The Poetry of an Urban Lyricist” by Priya Parmar, the author takes on uunderground and lesser known parts of rap. It argues that the critical disregard of rap lyrics is social classism. “Rap lyrics can also be used as a tool to help the dominant class understand its position compared to others who are different.” This is a facet of what I’d like to write about, but not exactly what I’d like to discuss. I would like to write about how rock has african roots and didn’t actually gain mainstream popularity until Elvis came into the scene. Rock then essentially became a “white genre,” with the exceptions of blues and jazz musicians. I.e Keith Richards, bassist and songwriter for The Rolling Stones, argues Muddy Waters is on the same level as Mozart or Bach. David Foster Wallace also wrote a book on the topic: Signifying Rappers: Rap and Race in the Urban Present, which I’ll try to get a hold of.

An collaborative-annotation website, known as genius.com, has taken to annotating and analyzing lyrics ranging from rap to pop to literature to sports articles. It originally started as a rap annotation service. I like this because everyone from Eminem to Michael Chabon have accounts and often annotate works of other artists.

I’d like to discuss it’s history, literary merit, it’s literary disregard as institutionalized racism, subgenres, structure, social power, its future.

Thoughts on ‘In (and Out of) Transit’

My father told me recently, “go with the decision that will make for the best story,” he also said “but don’t get arrested or get yourself killed.” I’m glad to say we successfully walked the line in the station. Sure, it was sketchy. But we met a great old man, got familiar with our only way home, and explored downtown Albany. I love the idea of moving, traveling, and being stuck somewhere.

I particularly like the idea of returning home after a while to find nothing has changed. There were no real challenges we faced, except for finding something decent to eat, in doing that we found a pizza place/bar where a bunch of (what I would call) townies were enjoying some drinks and a kind old woman made us pizzas.

Usually I kind of go with the flow, experience whatever is offered (within great reason) and write about it. What was different about this piece is I went forth deliberately and wrote consciously. I find myself doing that a lot lately, carrying around a small notebook, jotting things down during the slower moments of life.

Overall 10/10 experience. I’d recommend the bus station to anyone who wants a little grit in their life.

In (and Out) Transit: Albany’s Greyhound Bus Station

In America, there are places that age but never change. They are built like bedrock then, like sediment, the ages and decades build on top of it, giving the place an identity of its own. The place develops a soul. The Greyhound bus station in Albany, New York is one of these places; in the
middle of a large lot, surrounded by towering old buildings, the place resembled a hole. Even with it’s wide variety of vending machines, shiny-but-disappointing arcade games, and depressing restaurant with signs that read:“Gourmet Burgers – Discount Price!” The station is blue-hearted and decaying. It is a place that seems stuck in time, stuck in itself, and stuck in contradiction. There’s a feeling of aging, but staying the same. A feeling of being in-transit, but not moving.

The Greyhound Station is subject to more political debate than it’s worth. And that’s the problem. The City of Albany and Greyhound are in an old-fashioned Mexican stand-off; desperate to see who will be the first to put money into replacing the dying, lonely building.

As you walk into the station, you are greeted by way too many vending machines and the smell of grease. The grey speckled walls and tired, linoleum floor that is the absolute color of death, makes the weary traveler wish their bus would just arrive already. Lining the walls closest to the tickets desk are five pay phones under a yellowing clock. The glazed blue benches appear to be
in an organized, linear order, but upon further inspection, I found that the benches were not even anchored to the floor. Despite this, they never moved. They refused to. I imagine if someone attempted to move them, the building would throw a fit like a child, and then collapse. The station isn’t cold and terrible. It is appealing in a human way. It becomes a lost and found for travelers. It has Something that feels like a soul, or at least the compilation of souls. Every patron of the station has collaborated to personalize the old station, giving it enough idiosyncratic humanity to resemble a soul, if not already give it one. Every goodbye, every conversation, every greeting, every embrace, every reunion, every story has been heard by the station’s speckled walls.  

Americans have always had an urge to go forth. Even in America’s infancy, there was a collective concept of Manifest Destiny, when trudging west was the difference between mediocrity and achieving greatness as a country. As I walk the lot away from the station, I look around at the towering, brick archaic buildings. I see the faded white letters “James Eagan: Blacksmith” or “Meginnis Elec. Inc ‘Every Electrical Need’”. I wonder what other American troubadour has walked this walk, with their collar popped, against the north-eastern October chill. I think that maybe Bob Dylan or Woody Guthrie or Jack Kerouac walked this walk, unsure of where they were going, or where they’ll end up.

Much like those old travellers, the patrons of the station are endangered. These are people who don’t fly, don’t drive and don’t need a train. These are the people still
trying to manifest their own destiny. I thought they were usually the downtrodden. I found the bus station crowd is America brought down to size. They ar
e life grinding against home and away; of going and having been. You’ll find bums, grandparents, sinners, drifters, businessmen, college kids, runaways,
geniuses, junkies, androgynous punk rockers, yuppies, unoriginal hipsters, Canadians, the kid taking notes about the people around them and occasionally, a father.

We met an old man in a green fleece sweater and a scally cap. He was sitting on the same unmoveable bench as me and Jeremy. He’s small, broken, with big glasses and a cardigan. He looked like an aged little Mr. Rogers. He leans over to me, and in a croaky voice he asks,

“Where you heading, chief?”

“Oh, we’re not heading anywhere right now. We’re writing a paper for class,” Jeremy said, I held up my chicken-scratch notebook and smiled.

“Why the hell would you write a paper on this shithole?” We were surprised by his vocabulary. Jeremy and I couldn’t help but laughing.

“This guy,” Jeremy gestured to me. “Thought it would be a fun idea.”

“In my defense it has been a little fun,” I said.

“I was gonna say,” the old man butted in. “If you’re teacher assigned you this place, she wants you to end up in a ditch.” We couldn’t help but smile. The old man extended his hand.

“I’m Ed, my friends call me Fast Eddie.” Jeremy tried to contain his laughter, but he couldn’t, like most of the time.

“I’m Mike,”

“I’m Jeremy,”

“How’d you get that nickname?” I asked.

“Back when Hector was a pup, me and my pals used to steal cars, use up the gas, then return them. It was a different time of course, ” He seemed lost in his shenanigans of days past. “Figures I became a mechanic,”

“So where are you going Fast Eddie?” Jerm asked.

“See I can’t drive on the count I’m too old,” he put up air quotes around ‘old’. “I’m going to see my daughter in Boston. She’s a very important cardiologist,” he stated proudly, removing his hat and running his arthritic fingers through his thin white hair.

“I’m from that area,” I told him, then, as if on cue, Jeremy said:

“I’m from New Hampshire!” Eddie seemed brush off Jerm’s comment, but he was still grinning.

“Yeah, I haven’t seen her since last Christmas on the count of how busy she can be,”

“Oh I’m sure,” I told him, aware of the demanding life of a doctor.

“Yessir, she’s so bright and successful. Here’s some advice for you boys,” He leaned towards us, as if to tell us some deep secret the other patrons of the station weren’t ready for.

“One, Find something you love to do and figure out a way to get paid for it. Two, no one is on their deathbed wishing they spent more time at work. Three, compliment a woman’s shoes,” he chuckled at the last one. We sat there just talking for an hour until his bus came. He didn’t ask about our major, but he did ask us what we want to be when we grow up. We talked about home, girls, our parents; it felt like we were talking to some kid we just met at the dining hall, or an old friend we hadn’t seen since junior high.

Fast Eddie’s bus arrived in the terminal, and he bid us farewell. He stretched himself off the stiff bench and shuffled over to the ticket man. After he was cleared to get onto the bus, he looked back to us, gave us a big grin and gave us the middle finger. He just laughed and waved, excited to see his daughter, the very important cardiologist. When I started writing this paper, I wondered about the people coming to this old station, travelling on affordable buses, and where they were heading. Meeting Eddie eliminated all doubt in my mind that this service was reserved for the downtrodden, but it’s for all of the fathers who hold onto their children, from Albany to Boston.

D/2 Thoughts from The Crossroads

Michael Carroll & Jeremy Pariseau

In America, there are places that age but never change. They are built like bedrock then, like sediment, the ages and decades build on top of it, giving the place an identity of its own. The place develops a soul. The Greyhound bus station in Albany, New York is one of these places; in the middle of a large lot, surrounded by towering old buildings, the place resembled a hole. Even with it’s wide variety of vending machines, shiny-but-disappointing arcade games, and depressing restaurant with signs that read:“Gourmet Burgers – Discount Price!” The station is blue-hearted and decaying. It is a place that seems stuck in time, stuck in itself, and stuck in contradiction. There’s a feeling of aging, but staying the same. A feeling of being in-transit, but not moving.

The Greyhound Station is subject to more political debate than it’s worth. And that’s the problem. The City of Albany and Greyhound are in an old-fashioned Mexican stand-off; desperate to see who will be the first to put money into replacing the dying, lonely building.

Americans have always had an urge to go forth. Even in America’s infancy, there was a collective concept of Manifest Destiny, when trudging west was the difference between mediocrity and achieving greatness as a country. As I walk the lot away from the station, I look around at the towering, brick archaic buildings. I see the faded white letters “James Eagan: Blacksmith” or “Meginnis Elec. Inc ‘Every Electrical Need’”. I wonder what other American troubadour has walked this walk, with their collar popped, against the north-eastern October chill. I think that maybe Bob Dylan or Woody Guthrie or Jack Kerouac walked this walk, unsure of where they were going, or where they’ll end up.

Much like those old travellers, the patrons of the station are endangered. These are people who don’t fly, don’t drive and don’t need a train. These are the people still trying to manifest their own destiny. I thought they were usually the downtrodden. I found the bus station crowd is America brought down to size. They are life grinding against home and away; of going and having been. You’ll find bums, grandparents, sinners, drifters, businessmen, college kids, runaways, geniuses, fathers looking for salvation, junkies, androgynous punk rockers, yuppies, unoriginal hipsters, Canadians, and occasionally, the dumb kid taking notes about the people around them.

As you walk into the station, you are greeted by way too many vending machines and the smell of grease. The grey speckled walls and tired, linoleum floor that is the absolute color of death, makes the weary traveler wish their bus would just arrive already. Lining the walls closest to the tickets desk are five pay phones under a yellowing clock. The glazed blue benches appear to be in an organized, linear order, but upon further inspection, I found that the benches were not even anchored to the floor. Despite this, they never moved. They refused to. I imagine if someone attempted to move them, the building would throw a fit like a child, and then collapse. The station isn’t cold and terrible. It is appealing in a human way. It becomes a lost and found for travellers. It has Something that feels like a soul, or at least the compilation of souls. Every patron of the station has collaborated to personalize the old station, giving it enough idiosyncratic humanity to resemble a soul, if not already give it one. Every goodbye, every conversation, every greeting, every embrace, every reunion, every story has been heard by the station’s speckled walls.  

I think a lot about home when I’m here. I mean, this is the crossroad between home and here. It’s a waiting room, it’s purgatory. It’s torture, to be both moving and still at the same time. I think a lot about those who work there. The seemingly unintelligent, instigating and helpless look in the eyes in the ticket workers depress and frustrate any impatient traveller. I met a shaggy haired thin man, a little older than me. He is the main short order cook. He’s full of agitated remarks and seems familiar with many of the patrons of his fine establishment. I then started to think, who uses a Greyhound that frequently? My mind then shot straight back to Mike. His name is also Mike. Mike has been here since the beginning of time. Mike who has seen gypsy souls wander thru here like ghosts. Mike who has served everybody in the world at least once. Mike who has seen the the world end in both fire, and ice.

Over each terminal door, are the names of destinations. The terminals are: 6-BLANK 7-NYC 8-UTICA, BUFFALO, SCHENECTADY, SYRACUSE 9- BLANK 10-MONTREAL 11-BOSTON 12- SPRINGFIELD, BOSTON 13- LONG ISLAND

Bus Stations in a Wider Cultural Lens

Americans now have more options than ever when it comes to traveling. The game has changed. Now when increased paranoia and surveillance, a nice private bus ride where a fat guy smokes in the bathroom. But seriously, in a downtrodden economy, planes aren’t the only means of travel. We also have trains and automobiles. Not to mention buses.

The Project for Public Spaces said this.

“You are cutting it close, rushing to catch your bus or train. Just as you arrive to the station/stop, you hear the heart-crushing sound of acceleration. You look up, it’s rolling down the line. It’s gone. Now you’ll have thirty long, lonely minutes to dwell on your near miss as cars careen past you. Your eyes scan the area. It’s bleak, with nothing to do, no way to get out of the elements, and no one with whom to pass the time.” This piece discusses how a bus station can be a real anchor in a community, something Albany never realized.

NPR did a photo essay on a bus station not far from a correctional facility. This is where prisoners leave their old lives behind and go onto a new one.

In a wider cultural sense, bus stations are a symbol of being ‘in-transit’ and travelling. I would like to focus on that. Books like On The Road and even John Green’s Paper Towns are great road trip books and reflect the traveling spirit I would like to portray.

writing about place: greyhound bus station research

On Yelp.com, we found terrible reviews. (http://www.yelp.com/biz/greyhound-bus-lines-albany)

“Absolutely the most terrible traveling experience I have ever had.” – Dee J S.

“This place is absolute dust. If I could give it zero stars, I would. Unbelievably cramped, the washrooms smell like chemical warfare, and the food offerings consist of two vending machines.” – Kevin W.

Found a blog entry titled, “Sick Transit Gloria” a play on the latin phrase “Sic Transit Gloria,” which basically means “glory fades.”

http://thegadabouttown.com/daily-prompts/2014-2/october-2014/sick-transit-gloria-on-a-monday/

“One could also define Hell as the Albany, New York, Greyhound bus station. No one appears happy to be in a bus station, neither the transiting passengers nor the employees. An extended stay in a bus station is the experience of boredom minus information.”

There are quite a lot of politics surrounding Albany’s Purgatory:

http://www.timesunion.com/local/article/Churchill-Albany-s-Greyhound-station-is-a-5320974.php

The city of Albany and Greyhound are in a stand-off for replacing the out-of-date building.

A late and local poet once stole a Greyhound bus.

http://www.timesunion.com/tuplus-local/article/Albany-s-Paul-Weinman-mdash-poet-teacher-6387350.php#photo-8315405

Three Places with Jeremy & Mike

A Mysterious Basement/Coffe Shop near the Liquor Store.

I often pass this place in odd hours of the night. Looking in on it, thru windows, it seems unconvenital and messy. I once passed it and found it to have a sort-of open mic night. It seems interesting. I def need to know more about it.

The Field Near Bru: Teenage Wasteland of Lotus Eaters

The field near Bru is a common place for sporting events/practices during the day but at night, it becomes a place of hippy circled, college smoking sessions. Just being there around midnight runs the chances of meeting two cops walking a beat. Despite this, there is some silent beauty on this field, like when the lunar eclipse happened. It might be fun to do a day v. night thing.

The Crossroads (Where I Got Down On My Knees)

So, I’m actual writing this in the comfort of my home in Massachusetts. Very needed. But in order to get here, I hopped on a Peter Pan bus. The bus station fascinated me. Especially how it was hidden behind these old buildings and warehouses. Also, the people that freuqented it. The guy who works at the food place is named Mike, and most people seemed to know him. What is so interesting about this place is the diversity of people here, all leaving, all coming and going. I took notes while I was there.

This is my favorite video about ADHD. It’s a TedTalk. So, this is a college student talking about his ADHD. More specifically a drama student talking about it. He shares much of my own beliefs about the postive experiences and optimistic way of looking at ADHD. He doesn’t look at it as a “deficiet” but as a “difference in cognition.” He also discusses “hyperfocus,” which is a unique ability ADHD people have to give 110% on something they love when others can only give 100%. I forgot to mention that in most of my writing.

Now, this is an interesting video. This gentleman also does a TedTalk. In an internet age, he tells the audience that ADHD can now be acquired. But this “adult-onset ADHD” is worse, because it lacks a lot of the good qualities associated with ADHD, such as hyperfocus. I especially like his Wikipedia comparison, and I’m probably going to use that.

This is the most different ADHD video because it’s not a talk done by someone with ADHD, but someone who is the mother of someone with it. What appeals to me about her is the call for radical change in the education system. She also never gives up on her son. Now she also said it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert on something — she has 10,060 hours of studying the ADHD mind. This made me wonder: Have been studying my own ADHD for the time I’ve had it? Have I studied it every day that I’ve taken my medication and had it affect me? How about every day that I’ve missed or everytime I’ve thought about it? There is never a day that goes by when I don’t think about my ADHD and how it affects me and how I can become better with it. It’s been seven years. That’s roughly 60,000 hours. Maybe 10,000 of those hours have been commited to my ADHD on a personal level. Maybe that makes me an expert. Probably not, though. I guess I’ll go watch YouTube videos about cats.

ADHD: Fragments

With ADHD, my mind moves too fast for me. It’s having one-hundred TVs on. It’s standing in the middle of the storm, dodging flying debris. It’s driving fast through a rainstorm with no windshield wipers. Everything is blurred but you can’t stop. My mind is a rocket that tears itself apart on the launch pad. If time keeps things from happening all at once, I can’t conceptualize time. My brain ignores that dimension, because in my mind all these ideas and thoughts happen at once. I can feel every neuron firing in my mind, buzzing and crossing, like a fly struggling in a spiderweb. This was my life until my thirteenth year.

Then, I take my meds. Sometimes it takes a while to kick in, but once it does, all becomes clear and luminous. The web becomes untangled. My meds don’t get rid of the ADHD, it enhances it. It shows its strengths. Picture everyone of your thoughts, memories, ideas in a perfect interlocking panoramic view. The TV’s all go to the same channel. I reach the eye of the storm, untouchable by nature. The rainstorm clears up, and I reach my destination. The rocket escapes earth’s gravitational pull. My brain reaches the potential it was destined for.

Everyone takes a test they’re not ready for. Or maybe you’ll take it and you’ll be doing really well. Maybe you’re thinking to yourself, Oh, this isn’t so bad. Then before you know it, you’re the last one still working. The hot whips of social panic begin to set in. How did this happen? I was doing so well. You can feel the mix of wanting to be done for the sake of being done and the feeling that everyone thinks you’re now the dumbest kid in the class. So the class ticks away, and instead of using the equation you don’t know how to use, you create an overly-tedious, strenuous method that takes up more time than you initially intended. The class is over, the last three questions have a lot of messy work with seven different answers but no actual answer. You turn it in, defeated by your own mind, incomplete.

Everyone is surprised when they hear I have ADHD. But I was surprised to find some brilliant, famous, and important heroes also share my mind. Many, because they didn’t have the proper testing, simply share many of the symptoms of ADHD. Da Vinci, often had trouble finishing projects he started with, had a vast range of interests and never actually finished The Mona Lisa. Entertainers like Dustin Hoffman, Sylvester Stallone, Robert Downey Jr., Justin Timberlake, Will Smith, Cher, Caitlyn (Bruce) Jenner, Adam Levine and Joan Rivers. Comedians like Robin Williams, Jim Carrey, Bill Cosby, and George Carlin had it.Sir Isaac Newton and Albert Einstein shared many symptoms of ADHD, such as hyperactivity, short-attention span, and an insatiable curiosity, as well as Stephen Hawking. Walt Disney and Thomas Edison, American entrepreneurs and trailblazers. Brothers and American Royalty, John F. Kennedy and Robert Kennedy, often had problems with attention, and often make impulsive decisions. Writers like Hunter S. Thompson, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and Ernest Hemingway. Entrepreneurs and innovators, like Steve Jobs, Sir Richard Branson, Elon Musk, and Jetblue Founder David Neeleman all have ADHD. According to MSNBC, David Neeleman, CEO of JetBlue, used his ADHD to his advantage. “One of the weird things about the type of ADHD I have is, if you have something you are really, really passionate about, then you are really, really good about focusing on that thing,”

Teachers have always told me to show my work, which I found difficult. Not because I do it all in my head or cheat, ADHD people are naturally intuitive. They see through the bull, straight to the point, while normal minds follow a methodical, linear path. It can look like we just pulled things out of thin air, or made it up. It’s comical in that sense, I’ll think I’m making perfect sense and it’ll lead to frustration. It’s explosions of genius with no prethought. Then, when someone asks us how we did it or where we got the answer from, we’ll often reply with “I don’t know,” or try to explain which goes down in flames. ADHD creates the person who creates a flux-capacitor out of string, some gum and an avocado. When I was younger, I would blurt things out, get told to see the teacher after class. I thought I was in trouble, but she would praise me in private, because the blurt was actually brilliant. ADHD makes us blind, but it’s our nature to adapt. We change, we create our world based on feel, gut-instinct and vibrations.