The itch of scratch

Turntablizms have been my release therapy of recent years.
I am currently having a panic attack.
CYoung is at the house right now.
I want to spin right now.
Spinning replaced carving.
Maybe i carved (as deep as I did) in 2014 because I left my Numark deck at The Ruperto's office in LI.

My latest deck was actually Markus's.
HamilVision.
He would edit videos on the deck.
Pioneer DDJ-SB.
I left with it when DJ Nick threatened to shoot the studio up with a revolver.
The gods know how scary and hilarious that is.

I burned the decks out.
My Numark just STOPPED working.
The Pioneer's right turntable (or iTunes, as I call it) STOPS working.
I've been working to avoid thinking about cutting.
Cutting up.
Cutting.

I really want to spin.

Indeed, I can cut a fucking block of cheese with just the laptop itself.
But the feeling.
The feeling of cutting on a deck is...
...supernatural.

I treat the decks like the piano, the piano line the (electric) guitar, the electgut like an electric bass, the electbass like the drums, the drums like I'm seasoning food...

I have techniques.

If I catch you biting, bad karma falls upon you.

Karma is Tomorrow's baby sister.

Omen...?

(lunges towards Nature and Nirvana)

I really want to spin right now.
I can feel the highs and lows that get me called bipolar taking over.
I can feel my paternal instincts (I might have to take yall niggas to church).
I can feel my body maturing (I dont want what every man is designed to want).
These are things I feel.

I just want to throw on a joint and CUT.
I have some patterns in mind and stories to tell.

Once I get the deck, however, I have to prepare to doooit at a venue.
My music making process is special.
Sacred.
I want to show the world, but I dont want anyone to take it.
The special.
The sacred.
The spirit of the sacred and special.

I can turn up.
I can make you turn up.
I can also DEFINITELY sitchyo monkey ass down.

If Louisiana Buttersworth over there didnt go by the name Mystic, I would professionally go spinning places as Charles Hamilton the Mystic.
Pete Rock, C. .

And the above punctuation crisis made me laugh during this panic attack.

And Isa Valera just called.

Greetings, Shalayna Greene.

Say it ain't so, Jackie...

Judith, uhhhh... pp.

This burrito kicks ass.
I still want to spin.

Maybe my obsession with heroin comes from turntables.
Arm.
Needle.
Grooves.
Tracks.
Silver in the hole.

Fuck it.

I want to spin.

BoB bit my cater-to-the-DJ songwriting style, of which I innovated in 2010.
Not to mention the bite marks on me from everyone except Asher Roth since I allowed you to see me.

I'm not stuck in the past.
I just made history.
And am not being acknowledged.

Like ARod and CdoubleH.

Figure it out.





-so mote it be