It’s 9:47pm and I just got home from having a burger and a beer with my homey/big brother Los from LiveStock. It’s been a while since I’ve made the decision to go to bed this early, but after last night’s 6am sleep and this morning’s 9am wake-up, I’m much too exhausted to clean my room, fold my laundry, or finish designing this flyer, let alone do my Plyometrics workout.

The plan is for me to wake up bright and early tomorrow morning and get those things done while my mind is still half asleep. Then I can get to fixing things at the office and getting onto some more design based projects. It shouldn’t be too hard right? It’s just a matter of discipline, I guess.

I left the office around 8 to meet up with Los for food after spending some time doing a design for a few friends of mine. I admit that it was a struggle working on this project. I feel like I’m at such a comfortable point with my own work that I really would like to just be doing what I want to do artistically and creatively. I know, that sounds terribly diva-ish. But the truth is that I feel like I am running out of time to do everything that I have thought up in my head and at some point I’ve gotta step away from doing what someone else wants me to do.

I know that there’s a responsibility that I have to pay my bills and get by. But I also have a responsibility to myself and to my craft. I need a sense of release in my work and plain and simple, I feel like my energy for client work is wearing thin (again). There are equations and equations that I run over in my mind constantly that weigh out the affects of making decisions toward or away from freelancing or personal art projects, and in the end, the answer always seems to be, “You can’t afford to do just what you want right now”.

Ain’t that the sad truth for us all.

I’m definitely posting this on the blog as a release, not as a cry for a response and solution to the “problem”, but I am feeling like I’m going to do something a little out of character in order to not only find an answer, but to find the right solution. Something like writing my own god damn equation.

Until tomorrow,
be.

I’m no pro on love, but I know that sometimes our hearts aren’t whole enough to beat past a breath or bleed half a pint to make us see past our minds… and how they blur us. My visions of love may be somewhat Mariah. Maybe they’re too high, or maybe psychotic. Maybe erroneous, erogenous logic that I’m just too sensitive about. But they are my visions just as much as every schizophrenic incident had been. They’re my visions like every schizophrenic incident I’ve seen, and the fear I have of not getting to them is deserting. It’s water in the sand… too far fetched. I’d carry a pail to a hill for a Jill. And all the way back to be Jack for her thrills and fall for her. But these visions of love seem to be fairy’s tales. A pixie’s dust for a lust too tricky or misled trust run amok too thick. She must always think I regress. I must not blink too frequently as to be sure that I don’t miss anything about these visions of love and other strange things. Or maybe I should blink so much more often so I can see the darkness behind blinding yourself by ideas of true magic. I wear my heart on a sleeve that carries up it no tricks. I wear a heart that has been broken by names, bones and sticks for it believed the power of a simple poem. That “Names will never hurt me”. I believed, and was crippled when I wrote, “This love is not the air beneath my feet, but the reason I am afloat”. And it echoed in a room where nobody had ever been broken. Where had the vision of love gone that I had so fondly dreamt of and spoken? “Hello Love, we haven’t met before.”. And Love replied, “If ever we part, you will regret me more than having never just said to me, ‘Hello’, you fool”. An unstirred pot makes for poorly flavored stews. I’ve walked miles in the shoes of my expectations and have arrived at nothing but hot water and a scalded hope. I would sooner be the weight to a fallen rope than continue to search for a vision I’ve had since I were a young boy that just seems to elude. Rejoice to the news of a noose and its muse. I will loosen the tie from the bow of an unaimed cherub. He will miss with an arrow, his target too careless, and left bleeding. I will reveal whole hearted – “Love, come over here and finish what you’ve started”. I am seeing that Love is rare, so when it’s real, be there. But within it’s good lays an evil, devilish touch so tainted it would leave a masterpiece painting, easel and brush, undone. It’s been a disguise. Amongst barbie dolls and ballsy guys, I am doing all I Ken to validate having a Malibu Miss. Give her a rum and a kiss, thumb to the part where her hips and her upper thigh are joined and hope for the best. I regress, I regress. Yes, my visions, my visions. I’ve had a vision of love that had carved from a stone block, a Missis with no name who had honed, locked and aimed her passion towards the apple of my tear coated eye. A man who cries is bleeding through tears. I’ve bled this heart dry over numerous years, humorous break-ups, raised glasses and Cheers’d to being single again. Then Love again. Then searching for why my visions were unreal. It’s like I mustn’t see what I cannot feel, but I look for love like I hunt for a heart to give it back to. No returns here, only exchanges so there’s something for us both to keep. I am maimed like my “Happily Ever After” was weak and I returned from the dark but didn’t keep my receipt. It’s a shame… that if love is blind, I need not these visions. I trust that if love is blind, I need these visions even more. For if Love cannot see it, then I must. If nothing is certain, at least of this, I am sure. From a vision to something to touch. From tainted to something re:stored.

“Re:Vision to Love”
- written by Bryan Espiritu.
From a book I am currently working on entitled, “The Cynic Route”.

If viewing this post on facebook click here to hear the audio.

Ghost Rights
a piece by Bryan be. Espiritu

This is a piece I wrote this morning while sitting in the car outside of Wal-Mart and needed to get recorded somewhere. It was inspired by someone who asked me yesterday if I’d ever considered ghost writing for rappers. The answer is not really. I write because I love it and I respect dope artists, emcees and song writers for what they do. I’ve been writing far longer than I’ve been designing, but I hold onto it in a weird way as something sacred since it’s one of the last things I do creatively that hasn’t made me any money. I’m not a rapper. I’m a writer.

For those of you who can’t understand what the hell I’m saying, here’s the piece in writing:

I guess I could do more for a hefty fee,
And a good talk, see I’m awkward like lefties be
When they box. That’s south paw.
I’m north and east.
You got your mouth all grilled and I’m the Foreman feast.
The G’s say I’m adorable,
Say your boy could teach cus I’m smart.
But for a start, “Come to the dorm at least”.
I don’t want nun, like priests,
But I was born to preach.
I’m a father, spirit and son,
And I’ve been sworn to each.
Don’t get it crossed, still turn a crew to a crucifix,
And turn a brew into a useless 6.
All empty.
So high, wish I could die.
In Autumn the fall tempts me.
I won’t deny I been obliged to lie to beat a sentence.
My guys know around me, honesty’s like a vengeance
I’m always carrying out when the bull staring me down.
I’m a matador, and that whore’s more a rodeo clown.
Face and hair made up,
More Fiorio bound.
I’m Morpheus when I’m outcasted,
Fast and furious, I’ll turn to a programmed killing machine.
Azureus downloadable.
Mangler. I rule. The damager.
I aim to handle the vain lames and purposeless.
You’re like Obama, mouth bruised and purple lips.
I’m like a llama, dumb rude and urged to spit.
They say, “No Pain, No Gain”, so it won’t hurt to quit.
I don’t rhyme, I design.
I’ll turn your shirts to shit.
Or do the opposite. Got money? Then offer it.
Got ugly neck deep dirt? Then you an ostrich.
Have you ostracized for a lobster side dish and cruller.
Maneuvering like the Heimlich.
I give a dime a quick 2 cents of pride and then you step aside.
Next thing, she’s all kindsa bitch.
I’m all kindsa broke.
You all kindsa shit.
I’m all kindsa dope.
Get off my rhymes with “Rick”.
I could ghost write your album in a fortnight.
My visions 2 sets of binoculars.
Thats foresight.
Sock it to your boo,
From Silk to Shaka Zulu.
Have her chakras shaking.
I’m made of rocket fuel.
I may have got the tools you bite like a termite.
And I wish you wood.
Make this a word fight.
I earn height, move fast as Dale Earnheart crashed.
I’m full burn-proof and suited when the verbs spark.
This is throwaway cold.
I’m in the snow and sleigh, packed with more gifts than a Nick that’s just a Pole away.
Do it the polar way even on my grizzly.
Bruin in a crew of teddies.
Ya’ll confetti.
That’s small paper, I’d rather we didn’t chop it up.
Let’s not apologize.
You wanna talk for what?
I’m an artist with pieces,
Weaken the hardest shit, pierce right through the cartilige, teeth, hearts or harnesses.
Bet I’m the honest-est,
Outta Toronto West.
Hate is a stripper-top, bitch,
Go get it of your chest.

Peace.

My Treasure Chest
an early morning rant by Bryan Espiritu

The gem means more when its under dirt. Like slumber shirt hems and numbers worth, its long.. as distances ran in tracks. Or lands I ran, and the plans I rack. Whose nack is gold in a wooden chest? Ask out to scouts who should invest… (like undercoats for a tux’s shell). I’m consumed in vacuums, it sucks as well. The diamond shape dons Super’s shirt. The mind escapes, it’s too superb.. too obscure, too without a fix, too without a cure, and breaks bones with sticks. And names will never hurt me, slut. I’ve made an ass of if’s and butts. I’m a smoke burned down to its final ash, a toke, some coke short of throttled trash. Greened with envy like my bottled glass. I’m a thoughtful ride, with a modeled crash. I’m a hot design printed on a shirt, displayed on pages and gone berzerk. Raved on, green, supreme with cash. Leaned on mean til the till collapsed. The laughter came when the joke revealed. She poked my page and provoked the shield. I spoke once, saying that I’d never cheat. But I will move closer for a better seat. A pill through potion and a pint for cheap. A mind like Mogli, resign the chief. If life is golden, I entrust my wrist to a life long promise that I must exist. I’ll commit and admit I’m in touch with this, until the rich ask Discovery to bust the myth. I’m dummy, I’m rummy, I’m crutched and hurt. I’m Johnny, no Cash hurt, and what’s absurd.. the earliest bird’s said to gain the catch. But the earliest worm gets maimed too fast. A murder for necessity’s no heinous act. Electric simplicity, its Raiden’s craft. I’m grave, lost marbles, I’m chipped in stone, and think peace with each punch that my fists condone. I sacrifice words that my lips have sewn, for the fabric of a life, I have risked the poem. I have slipped, hurt hip joints, and missed the mark. I have lists, short bullet points, a quest will Start… (like the button just right of the Nes Select). Control every call. Change. Accept. Collect. Buried in a bushel, 30 years of earth… is a chest with a treasure that appears of worth… to a world I predict that your heart forgot, filled with gold, but your ex, hadn’t marked the spot. And your next is obliged to unleash the catch. From the deep, please release the latch. At last.

A lot of people think I’m an asshole. They think I do things with complete disregard for others and I don’t have any concern about the feelings of those around me. A lot of people look at some of what I do and say that I think I’m the shit, or that I’m better than others, or that my shit doesn’t smell like solid farts.

But this isn’t true.. entirely.

First of all, I do know that my poo smells like shit. But hey, at least we have something in common. Second of all, does the stuff that I do that makes people think of me as an asshole negate the things that I do that makes people think, or smile, or laugh, or strive for more? Seriously?

It seems that lately my honesty has been taken as ‘assholism’, so here’s my side of things:

• I say what I want, when I want to, with the utmost respect and consideration in mind for those who are listening to or reading my words.
• I speak with the intention of making people think, laugh, or understand themselves more.
• I will not pull a punch for the sake of buttering up a scenario that is salty enough in the first place.
• If I feel like my words will be hurtful, I don’t always hold my tongue.
• I believe that the benefit of realization is worth the pain of feeling offended.
• I react with a conscious effort at making things as fair as possible to everyone involved at all costs.
• I weigh ‘fairness’ based on merit.
• I do not see any value in lying to be nice.
• I see value in being honest.
• I see value in having respect.
• When I feel disrespected, I will not act like a victim. Fuck that.
• I am not always talking about YOU in my Twitter/Facebook updates.
• I am not necessarily talking about YOU in this post. You’re not the only person I am in contact with.
• My thoughts belong to me and the choice to express them, once again, is mine.
• I separate truth and opinion when being honest.
• Stating an honest opinion without being asked can be very hurtful.
• A truth is an indisputable fact.
• I’m not interested in hurting anyone.
• I will not be apologetic if someone is hurt by me stating the truth.

Tonight my homey asked me what he should say to someone in a particular scenario. I responded honestly. He replied: “You really want me to say that?”. I said: “Yeah, why not?”. The answer I gave him was the honest one, but it seemed that it may come off hurtful even though it wasn’t aggressive or intrusive. It was just stating the true response to a question.

So my questions to you are:

Would you rather your friends lie slightly for the sake of your feelings?
or
Be completely honest in stating the truth, (NOT OPINIONS), without your feelings in mind?
and
Do you think I’m an asshole?
lmao. I love that term.

NOTE: The photo used for this post was chosen because it was a photo of me doing something funny and semi-assholish.

“Just because it’s in print, doesn’t mean it’s the gospel. People write negative things, because they feel that’s what sells. Good news to them doesn’t sell…. I don’t wanna say to much, it’s a conspiracy. I will never stop helping and loving people the way Jesus said to. He said, ‘Continue to love. Always love. Bring on the children. Imitate the children. Not childish, but child-like.’”

- Michael Jackson

I lost a lot of my chance at being a child to the hands of abuse, doctors, therapists and correctional measures. I hope that no other child has to go through what I did. All I have in me is a relentless pursuit of the truth. When I find it, I promise to distribute it. If I don’t, I promise to distribute the lessons of my failures.

I need this. I need this life. And so does our future.
Push forward. Push forward. Fuck that.
Push forward.

Check out this video (via 1LOVETO) of my dude Boonaa Mohammed performing his piece, “Pursuit of Perfection” on the westbound train in Toronto. I’ve always felt that there’s genius in well written comedy, there is genius in “playing silence”, and genius in well-collected thoughts put into words. Boonaa has mastered all of these things and puts them on display to the passengers of this train.

Take a good listen at what he’s saying. He is talking to you as much as he is talking about himself.

Check out Dead Time, which I posted in October of 08.

Here is the abbreviated version of some of the events of my life over the past 10 years. If you get a chance to do this for yourself, I highly recommend it. It gives you a little bit of insight into your own progress. The order may be a bit off, but it’s all true and I’ll probably end up adding more to it for my own sake. Enjoy.

Happy New Year guys. Thank you so much for your support over the years. I appreciate it and I’m excited to share the future of my company and my brand with you guys in the years to come.

LLove & Respect as usual,
be.

Holy Shit! Blackberry Messenger is down! Aaawwwww, HELL NAH!

So, I was on Lakeshore, driving east and about to turn onto Bathurst, when my Berry went off. It was the homegirl Nikki just sayin “Whassup”. So I hit her back real quick (after I pulled over and turned off the ignition to the car, Mrs. Officer) and wrote, “Ehhh”. But then, guess what!? There was no “D”. And then you know what?! There was no “R”!!!! There was no ANYTHING! Just an arrow! An arrow? Yeah, an arrow. You know, like the bullets that they used to use in Robin Hood? That’s all I had. But I don’t even wear TIGHTS!!! What the fuck!?? What if her message was important?! What if her “Whassup” was about to be followed by “… with you being chosen as Canada’s Next Top Model?” or something and I was missing my opportunity at vanity and celebrity at it’s Canadian finest?! Something must have been wrong with her phone..

But as I drove over to LiveStock to check the family and pick up some “$$$”, and as we all huddled around to not talk to each other and stare at our BlackBerry’s, we all collectively typed an imaginary “OMG! WTF! GTFOH!” Because, as you guessed it – BlackBerry service was down for ALL OF US!!!!

(enter music from “PSYCHO” here.)

What were we to do?! How were we gonna communicate to each other?! How was I supposed to notify everyone on Twitter of my whereabouts, including the psycho stalker motherfuckers who try to find out every step that I take?! Maybe I should have picked up a bull horn!! Or better yet, maybe I should have picked up a bull by the horns and rode my way through Toronto with a megaphone telling everyone what I was doing in an up-to-the-minute Play-By-Play style! No. It’s too cold for that! What was I to do PEOPLE?! So many choices to make…

But it all happened too quickly for me to react with such swift decision making comparable to Steven Seagal in any one of his multiple multi-thousand dollar grossing films. So I stepped on the gas and sent my ass home with a quickness.

The thoughts were racing like kids to a heroine sale:

What am I missing?! Who’s doing what on Facebook?! What random religious broadcast message encouraging me to spam the BBMs of hundreds of my friends or suffer the striking hand of a God who forgives all and loves us equally was I not receiving thanks to this horrific downtime of RIM service?

Panic.
Panic.
Panic.
Panic.

This is insane. This is too much. This has gone on for

WAY

TOO

LONG!!!

Then as I came into my house, I started cooking. I sat with a coffee struggling to come up with a solution for not being able to send emoticons and ridiculous jokes about poo to people I never speak to in person. I mean, hey, I’m pretty smart. I’m kind of intelligent. And contrary to the photo I’ve used for this post, I’m pretty damn handsome. Handsome people are ALWAYS the ones with the best solutions right? Right? C’mon, help me out here!

So the sauce was ready. The penne cooked just right. And my couch whispering sweet nothings to me from a distance like, “Bryan… come sit on my face…”.

I made myself a plate of pasta. I sat with the TV on UFC Unleashed. And I watched Clay Guida while I ate a plate of delicious. And in the mix of it all, the frustration, the confusion, the itching and redness… there was silence.

Maybe this isn’t so bad. Maybe this is the best thing we all could have asked for during a time of interaction and enjoyment of one another’s company. Or maybe it’s time for me to finally switch over to an iPhone.

Do you remember when there was that huge blackout in Toronto? Well, this isn’t as big a deal as that. We still have running water and electricity. We still have phone use and the internet at our homes. We still have shelter, food, clothes on our backs, and things to be hopeful for and happy about. And arguably the only thing we don’t have is a consistent interruption that we tend to pay more attention to than the things we should really always be grateful for.

The world’s not over. Relax.

Love & Above,
be.

Here was my response:

“Everyone’s a celebrity in this city… Or a….

Klingon (noun):

1. A strange being that I don’t understand and would rather not look at,
2. Someone who clings on to the thought of becoming an actual celebrity,
3. Someone on a real Trek to be a Star to The Next Generation, but is actually an actor in costume for the cameras.

Don’t be a Klingon. It’ll make you far uglier than you’d like to be.

Love&Respect as usual,
be.