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I hope that most people who read my post don’t think that I’m full of rage and anger because I’m not.
I am simply a Black man who has been through a lot of trials, and who’s well-traveled, analytical, educated, and brave enough to speak my mind. I really don’t care if my reality has a dismal aspect. It is simply what I’ve experienced in my life, good, bad, and ugly.
Though many Black people don’t speak their true minds, I do my best to encourage them to speak their minds in response to my opinions, even if they disagree with me. I won’t shun them. Sometimes they do comment on my posts. Sometimes they do so in private. Many despise me because of my views as oppose to discussing why they feel differently. That their “monkey”, not mine. I will explain “The Monkey” in a future post.
But I am only sharing with you how I managed through The Revolution that we’re currently in. …And, through the trials that you may experience.
For one, I manage through practicing daily meditation. I’ve done so for about 30 years. I have posted on meditation, as well as on prayer, which too is a long-time daily practice of mine. I do grounding as well. All these things keep me at a higher vibration in spite of expressing frustrations with the things that I’ve experienced. …The things I experienced today. …The trials in which I’ve endured.
But this post is about music. Music is a big part of my life. I see it as the background theme music of every scene and mood in my daily life. …As if my life is video content. I use music to calibrate my mood and spirit whenever it requires calibration.
My family, as most black families did back then, had two very elegant phonograph consoles, build with craftmanship into very nice solid wood cabinets that looked like an elegant piece of furniture. It served as the foundation of our modest entertainment endeavors. When the top was closed, and my mother placed a lace dolly and a vase of plastic flowers on top, and polish it with that weird-smelling furniture oil. One would never know that it was a record player until it was opened, and guest would say, ‘Oh I didn’t realize that was a record player.’ For a moment, we would feel white-privileged. It was a big bulky piece of furniture that only housed two speakers, a turntable, and storage area for 45s and LPs, but it was nearly the center of our lives back then.
In addition, either I or my sisters would get a portable record player for Christmas. …Sort of the Easy Bake Over of record players, allowing us to listen to music in our rooms upstairs. It did not have a big sound because the speakers were transistor-radio-sized, but we enjoyed listening to the latest music just the same. Upstairs we would sing, dance and listen in private, well almost.