The Cult of Truth
We're connected.
I watched something called Club Shay Shay this morning at 4am. If you haven’t seen it, do yourself a small favor and listen to somebody who understands what a heap of bullshit runs through the Hollywood system. Not that it’s news, but it is rare that you get straight talk from somebody who doesn’t fear getting canceled. That host is Shannon Sharpe. That somebody is Katt Williams.
The other night, I had a date with my friend Jake in Hollywood. We went to see somebody named JoDavi whom I vaguely knew as the son of somebody named Dumasani. In fairness, I had no idea what to expect, because I haven’t read all of the essay, nor listened to all of the podcasts we produce at Free Black Thought. My mission is slightly different than that of the Editorial Board. But it had been a while since I saw Jake and I could tell he was excited to meet up in person.
I found myself in a dark smoke filled bar in Hollywood with a capacity of about 30, except that nobody smokes any longer so there’s that. It was still dark and the gin and tonic was large, snappy, cold and reasonably priced. On the small stage was JoDavi playing a Kawai electric keyboard and singing - ah so it’s a gig. JoDavi was playing a straightforward groove with a kind of folksy, spiritual earnestness you generally only find from young men in the church band. He sported a thick squared-off afro on his tall frame in his simple dashiki. His large hands moved with purpose across the keyboards and sung a comfortable tenor with echoes of chant. When he wasn’t playfully engaging the audience in pop tunes, his songs were reminiscent of the spiritual depth of Marley, Spearhead and Matisyahu. He’s not a smooth crooner. His song about facing death at Masada was deeply moving. It made me think of my own mortality.
As I closed my eyes and made his voice mine, I imagined myself brought in chains like Jugurtha to Caesar. In front of this court I must answer his every question and took a moment before each reminding myself to speak the truth at the risk of my life. At some moment the buried question would arise and I found myself composing my response as if it might be the very last words I utter on this Earth. I don’t know what it was that brought me to this trial, but I won’t lie. I have lived my life properly, but not for this moment. Yet here is the moment.
When I reflect on these wokey-doke times, I am reminded of what brought me to the small dark room. Why Jake and Barbara and Kimi and everyone else was here. We caught a whiff of the thread of the genuine. So here we were, with things in common, most importantly our hunger for truth and honesty, of the celebration even in this small dark cloister, of our ability to sing together. So we sang, literally.
How deep is your love?
How deep is your love?
I really mean to learn.
’Cause we’re living in a world of fools
Breaking us down
When they all should let us be
We belong to you and me.
Yes, you do know this song from 1977. Funny how the power of lyrics, so simple and clear, so sweet and plain connote worlds of significance when faced with tangled webs of lies and sophistry. There lies our common purpose. To live until we die. Just look me in the eye and tell me you will try. Tell the truth and shame the devil.
The American Palace
When I wrote about The American Palace, I was thinking along the same lines. Inside of the palace intrigues of endless sophistry, there are narratives about us Peasants that substitute for facts. Myths that displace evidence and smug complacency that tries to outmaneuver of merit and virtue. Our political and educational establishments are awash in mendicancy - in a winner-take-all populist and fabulist rat race. All hail King Rat. These sycophants believe they can compel my speech. Their handwringing minions believe they can promote a brainwashed generation. They think we’ll all fall for their wokey-doke, just like the others.
What if I say I’m not like the others?