Looking for Sanity in London

i am sitting here in a starbucks trying to collect myself before i walk out into this freezing weather.

it has been another dreary day that is beyond bitingly-cold. but i must say that the music in this damn starbucks is rocking.

now this is a shame when i say that the music in this starbucks off of tottenham court road is better than most stations in the US.

but i ain't gonna front, i have never sang a Stevie Wonder or Bob Marley song so hard because i appreciate the genius of black folk.

what happened america?

captialism and commodification of art.

we have juiced and exploited creative art to a skinny, ashen hooker on a dark street corner in vegas that can't get a john if she sells it for a penny a pounce.

anyway, the first days here were quite culture shocking as i plowed through a dozen black folk on the street to find out exactly where the black folk hang out.

repeatedly, i was told, we don't do that in london. we are BRITISH. and so i said to myself, how does being british erase being black?

so i walked for several days in disappointment and scratched my head.

i am dealing with my racialist americanness....until i was stopped by a white british guy who immediately started talking about the problem of blacks in the UK and connected it to the underwear (aka booty-shorts) bomber.

ahh, so the pale horse that sits on the highest of seven hills emerged in the face a plump and tender-looking old bloke.

but, i was not worried about this absurd chit-chat. i was on a hunt for my people.

i went to brixton. but it was on a weekday and the working class folk well, were working.

i was about to trot to east and southeast london for the africans, but the bitter cold and snow storm, put a hold on that. the last thing you want to do is be in the cold and lost. shit.

so i returned to my small little hostel that is no bigger than my closet. did i tell you i have been sharing a bathroom. oh excuse me, that is not proper. i have been sharing 2 toilets and 2 showers with about 30 other backsides.

the other night one toilet had unflushed shit and the other, full of piss. wow. what a day. fuck it. i got a cup and made my own chamber pot. wish i could throw this bitch outta window.

and this also may sound gross, but fuck the showers, i've been taking bird baths. my aunt call's them "ho-baths." but whatever they are, after about three, this light wash-and-go gets really unpleasant.

but that is not my worry, i am looking for black people and i am not feeling too good. they pass me by on the street when i greet them. am i back in new york for fuck's sake.

then i bump into an african tube worker who tells me there are a lot of people who front with proper british accents and british passports, who seem to not get they will never be ENGLISH.

clarity. thank you. but i am sad and losing my sanity.

i want to see and smell my folk in raw and uncut form. where dey at lawd.

so in disappointment i attended that blackest thing i saw in centre london, the play, "cat on a hot tin roof." and dare i say it, it was damn good. james earl jones and phylicia rashad (aka ms. huxtable) killed it!

and it was there that i saw them, black people, well not by the ten folds, but at least a couple of dozen.

and i heard john legend singing in the distant, "heaven only knows, heaven only knows."

i sat in front of two lovely sisters who debunked what i had been told by all these nonchalant "brothers." black does exist on this small empire island. oh yes it does.

i sighed with tears in my eyes. "yes, dere is a gawd."

do you mean to tell me that estelle and idris elba aren't they only cool black folk.

you mean there is a place i can be with people who look like me and are comfortable with calling themselves, "bahlack."

woosahhh EcoSoul.

so off i go to something called the black grape for comedy and music. wish me luck. blog on, EcoSci