Tupac Shakur was an interesting dude.

now, we can't go any further into this without mentioning that his mother Afeni, who only recently passed, was a real-deal revolutionary...the OG Black Panther Party member once said "you can't change anything without causing some degree of disruption. It's impossible, that is exactly what change is."

she also said "I guarantee that the seed you plant in love, not matter how small, will grow into a mighty tree of refuge," which is an exceedingly credible thing for Tupac's dear mama to say.

yes I do often carry a small book of revolutionary quotes, what of it?

anyway as for Pac, he was a theater school kid before he decided to portray a gold-plated hooligan on TV, which admittedly was an effective costuming choice in the beginning.

now, I was also basically a theater school kid too--well, a sports kid too, probably had the best overall defensive game of any Mercutio in the district--and while my mommy more "played softball" than "organized armed community patrols" she also takes nobody's sht.

after all, had to be a pretty rough road back when she grew up...hey, did you know she was born before the Civil Rights Era? bet that caused some friction in her early life...she does, after all, look and behave a good deal like me.

...but let's not make this too personal...the topic today is the mask.

let's peel apart the idea that a simple paisley-print bandana, a few metal loops, and a metric ton of attitude can transform a person from a backup dancer into one of global culture's featured characters.

okay, characters: I was also a comic book kid so I can tell you the two most popular modern demigod myths give two different takes on the subject.

Superman--who is an indestructible flying alien with laser eyes--has a core self-image as simply another member of society; the immigrant behind you in line at the market.

on the other hand, everyday billionaire Bruce Wayne is the mask for Batman, a mortal human who truly desires to fist out his frustrations on the poor while wearing a $14 million USD WiFi-enabled costume that expresses his innermost self.

is there actually a line? I mean, Superman doesn't even wear a mask, he just, like, has better posture or something.

okay we're getting off track...let's reset: whether a performance is an elaborate lie or the carefully considered truth, it was Shakespeare himself who, like Eratosthenes before him, measured the size of the stage most accurately.

"kayfabe," right? it's an old-school stagecraft term for the balance between authenticity and presentation, the blurry line separating spirit and strategy...the luchador's mask and the all-too-real life of struggle beneath it, feel me?

"strategic visibility," for a definition that (barely) fits on a bumper sticker.

negotiating with the truth. with others. with myself.

far as I can tell the overarching truth is that the most memorable characters are the actual self turned to 11.

so whether I'm at the front of the bar, on some elevated platform outdoors, or just chillin' in the space between my ears, it's an unceasing schedule of live entertainment.

that being typed, I look at that picture of Malcolm X a lot, you know the one...peeking through the shutters, carbine in hand, a picture of paranoia and preparedness.

a picture indeed...unfortunately he didn't have the heat on him when the shooters actually came.

MLK chose what might be viewed as the opposite character, basically walking in Jeez' footsteps with the loving and the unity and the other cheek and all...a reading of his last letters shows that by the end of his life, there were enough billy clubs along the way to convince him that maybe the Powers That Be were not negotiating in good faith.

two men. two very different approaches. similar goals. similar fates.

...so use whatever framing devices you want, the story is always truth vs. power...the eternal cage match.

which will fight its way out to the thunderous applause of about half the audience?

a lot of the time when I'm pondering just how close to the Sun I get on these flights of fancy I also think about the forgotten half of the Icarus fable...he would have also ended up in the ocean if he had flown too low--wet feathers, soggy soul--but the view was way more interesting on the path he chose.

...and so, in this life that seems to get shorter every day, I have elected to assume the mantle of one who writes with blood, sings with fire, and dances on the graves of his oppressors.

during the time that we have left, I'm not necessarily here to be liked, I'm here to be heard.

understood.

clearly.

en cada idioma.

guess that puts Warflower Jones closer to Chaotic Good on the alignment chart but real life it's just like, I don't wanna sanitize my feelings any more.

what the fuck good has that done?

think it was James Baldwin who said something like "art makes the private public"...to complete that circuit, it no longer benefits me to hide my anger, the deep vitriolic disdain steadily pooling up in my perception over my adult life.

so for me "real" is when the mask does not conceal the human being, but show the wearer's inner child more clearly.

the strap is a warning for the challenger more than a reminder for the champ...with this big gold belt you can see who tf I am from a block away.

but the more gold you wear, the clearer your silhouette can become in the crosshairs.

...suppose that leads us back to Pac.

as we all know, the Don Killuminati's chosen gimmick got him shot up (again!) after a fight broke out at a Tyson PPV in Las Vegas...imagine your life taking that sharp a turn: one day you're rich and famous hangin' out in a $22,000 chair, later that same day you're in a hotel lobby donnybrook and on your way to a refrigerator drawer as the victim of one of the century's highest-profile murders.

...and he kiiiiiiiinda invited that outcome to the party.

like, I don't want that...do I?

Huey Newton said the moment someone chooses the revolution, they have died.

he even got shot by a random on some street corner to prove his point once and for all.

I know just the other day in this dear diary I was quacking on about superpowers and story arcs and all that sht but frfr like I say every week "this is our only ride"...ain't no 1UPs here in the desert of the real. I am fully aware of this.

still, I've already outlived Pac by about a decade...so perhaps delusionally, I've never felt more alive than when I stand on that stage; when you read these words from my fingertips you should know that I am never feeling more myself.

we'll see where that storyline leads tomorrow night.

all power to The People.

--Flor!

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