Musings
“A period of reflection or thought.”
Rainy Days
By Demetrius Beckham
Released 3.12.25
I like rainy days in LA.
Maybe because it’s something different. As opposed to the picture perfect sunny days we typically get.
It’s a chance to be inside and gather. Or stay apart.
Now, we’re all forced to sit and do things I enjoy doing anyway.
But I was beefing with rainy days about a year ago, when an incredibly rainy day bodied my car.
I awoke to find its floor soaked wet. No sunroof and the windows weren’t open.
At the shop, they couldn’t find a leak or a logical reason for the destruction. But the car was totaled. The insurance company wrote me a check and days later, I had a completely different (cheaper) car. God’s grace.
Anyway, rainy days and I have made up. I’m back to seeing them for what they truly are - a time to forget about all your worries and complain about the rain.
--
I’m Sleep
By Demetrius Beckham
Released 3.7.25
These days, most of my ideas come as I’m waking up in the morning.
During that sleep/wake phase where the mind is still traveling from the great expanse of my subconscious. It’s like right after you finish a great film and you’re still living in that world, before returning to reality.
Now, I try and treat that time with more routine. It’s not that I’m writing my dreams down. Rather, I’m being inspired by them.
I recently watched a David Lynch masterclass (RIP), and he said ideas are like fish you catch. They come by and you have to be prepared to get them.
In that sense, writing upon waking is like wading in water. The ideas are circling around and it’s on me to secure.
It’s a gentle time that I’ve started to look forward to. In this busy, noisy life we seldom get the chance to fish.
But of course, that’s the easier part. The rest is hard work. Gutting, cleaning and cooking the fish is a messy, tedious process. All to prepare something that’s consumed in some minutes.
Executing a creative idea isn’t much different. The time it takes to bring your vision to a place that’s ready for all to see. The blood, sweat and tears, sometimes across years.
To think, all that hard work was inspired by a dream. Something so effortless and innocent and sweet.
I won’t ever grow tired of fishing, but maybe some days, I won’t wanna gut, and cook and clean.
Till then, I’m sleep.
--
The Gold Dust
By Demetrius Beckham
Released 3.2.25
Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony. Who are they to me?
I grew up thinking I’d get at least one by the time I turn 50.
I closed my eyes and dreamt of what my speech on stage would be.
That type of ambition will make you blind and stay with you in the grave.
We spend our entire life thinking about nabbing an award. 10, 20, 50 years?
A quick Google search reveals it takes about 75 hours to make an Oscar statuette.
They’re solid bronze and plated in 24-karat gold.
Another quick search reveals they’re essentially worthless. Winners must offer to sell their statuette to the Academy for $1 before selling it elsewhere. Look it up if you don’t believe me.
Since 1929, a little over 3,000 Oscars have been handed out. So if I gathered all the people across time, convinced them to return their treasure and gift me the proceeds, I’d have just enough to cover a month’s rent in LA. The sweet irony of it all.
But of course, we all know the real value comes from the validation one receives from studios, peers, and fans. The seismic, career-altering shift in perception. Moving up on the call sheet. Adding 0s to the contracts.
This value is incalculable. But so is the cost.
As spectators, all we see are those select few wins. We’re sold the dream and robbed of the truth. The cameras don’t capture disappointment.
And it’s less the losers who lose. The dinners and the parties and the checks still await.
It’s more the viewers who sit at home and want to play the game. For every 1, there’s a million more who will never hear their name.
And I’m not saying it’s not worth it to dream. I’m just considerate of the cost.
I grew up inhaling the gold dust, being inspired and charged up by those lucky few awarded. It’s like mind control, only worse because it gets you in your sleep.
Now I wear a mask and I’m far more conscious of literally everything else. Like the craft, the crews and the love of doing what I do.
An old Emmy hangs near my desk and most days I fail to glance at it.
These awards will always mean something, but what that got to do with me? Even still, a thick layer of gold dust will forever live in faded memories.
--
Sold Out
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 2.10.25
I don’t want to watch another commercial or buy another phone.
Wake me up when it’s all over.
When we get back to being people and not products. Or rather, having products sold.
I’m sold out, which means I’m not trying to be sold to.
What’s the point of having more things when they’re here today, gone tomorrow? Plus, I really don’t have any more space.
I guess it feels good to be liberated. Or to be full. To know not another thing will make it through the door.
No other ad will succeed. They can try, but I won’t see.
I’m sold out till 2030.
But I do have some things I could sell you… some things to get rid of to make more room…
So just name your price. I’m flexible.
--
Lab Rats
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 1.27.25
I’m in a box.
I’m in a box traveling to a bigger box where I work.
Other boxes surround me, all moving at the same speed.
At work, I park in a 5-story box structure and lock up my box.
I hit the gym, shower in a box and eat breakfast out of a box container. That container gets thrown into a trash box.
I finally settle into my cubicle box, where I stare at my monitor box for the next several hours.
The day goes by, and I return home, where I look at more boxes till I’m lulled to sleep
In this life of spontaneity and surprise, it’s fascinating that I choose to spend so much time in such neat and orderly spaces.
After all, everything is an experiment. Nothing is definitive. We haven’t been on this earth long enough to prove a thing. And how wonderful that fact is. How limitless it all is.
Yet despite that, we choose boxes to occupy. Of all the space and time and opportunities to fly, we opt for a box.
In fact, I feel like a rat. A rat in a box. Or rather, a rat in a lab, full of life with nowhere to go. Smart enough to plot on an escape but too dull to leave the cheese behind.
But honestly, what if I like being a rat, living in a box? I mean, the food is not half bad. And we get let out from time to time. And seeing others in the same boat (cage) certainly makes me feel better about the ordeal. So why can’t I just stay over here in my cozy corner?
Well, sadly it doesn’t work like that. Once you know, it’s over.
And the worst part about it is the knowing. It’s the knowing that’s truly painful. If only I could go back to being oblivious to it all but, you can’t put the beans back in the can. Or is it the tooth paste back in the tube? Both are true.
Perhaps those of us who decide to come to these big cities that we aren’t from deserve to be in this perpetual rat race. After all, it’s what we chose and are choosing on the daily. We could always just leave. No need to plot an escape. The caged door actually stays unlocked, we just need to grow another finger. No big deal.
I have this theory that might be a reach... my theory is that our obsession with safety has something to do with returning to the first box we ever knew - the womb. A place that perfectly shielded us from this wildly unpredictable and unstable world. A place of pure safety.
But what do I know? I’m just a rat in a box. Chasing cheese. Experimenting and being experimented on.
--
Blockbuster Blues
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 1.20.25
In the great battle of attention, sometimes I wish Blockbuster wasn’t defeated by Netflix.
We wanted something so bad and we got it - on-demand films and shows whenever and wherever.
But for those of us who recall strolling the Blockbuster aisles, do you remember the feeling?
That feeling of excitement knowing you might stumble onto your new favorite movie.
That feeling of disappointment when you discovered the one copy of the film you were thinking about all week was checked out.
That feeling of humility when you accepted that you would never make it through the store’s expansive collection.
In our household, Blockbuster was a weekly tradition. My siblings and I would split up and wander for an hour, to then reunite back at the register. It was a true sense of freedom only rivaled by that of Barnes & Noble.
In those muted-blue carpeted aisles, I discovered gold time and time again. It was a high like no other, and one you didn’t get in trouble for after the fact.
Yet still, I do recall how archaic and inconvenient the whole experience was.
While watching Lost season 3 for the first time, I had to do so over a 4-week period as the 24-episodes (wild) were spread across multiple discs. Bingeing a show in full wasn’t exactly an option, whereas now it’s the norm.
Blockbuster was very much just the way we did things then. Not exactly the best way to do things. I suppose that’s why it met its end. In a world and society that values optimization, efficiency and convenience, it was only time for a superior model to emerge.
But is superiority always the answer? Should the tallest, strongest, fastest, smartest always win? Will that bring us closer together or drive us further apart?
Sometimes in the Great War of TV & Film, I wish Blockbuster stood triumphant.
What if the people rose up and said, “nah, we’re good with our limited options every week?”
What if we all accepted that we would never be able to get through the full expanse of Film & TV, and therefore would never need it at our finger tips?
What if, we made peace with the fact that not everything must be for everyone? That authentic stories should arise where and when they do, not from checking boxes. And those who really love something should be able to consume and eventually produce said thing if they so choose. But of course, all good things in moderation.
And when is enough, enough?
I love convenience as much as the next person, but live sports on Netflix? That’s like them selling cheesecake at Best Buy. I guess no one is complaining. Just don’t be surprised when they’re selling cars next. No big deal.
If you give, they will take. If you go, you may never see home again.
I wonder if Blockbuster did end up acquiring Netflix instead of laughing them out of the room, and if they did get the jump on streaming, would they have hired all of the same people? And made the same films and shows? And grown into the all-powerful behemoth that is the Big Red?
The Big Blue. Feared by all other platforms. Worshiped and revered by all creators and all other forms of entertainment.
From there, we would all roam those aisles.
From there, we would all be Blockbusters.
--
Here Today, There Tomorrow
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 1.9.25
Thursday, January 9, 2025
West Adams, Los Angeles, CA
The burnt orange sunlight pierces through windows shut tight.
It’s more beautiful than the usual yellow-white light we get on regular mornings.
Today is not regular. Smoke fills the air, making it unsafe to breathe outside.
I sit inside and feel.
I am not from California and I never claimed to be. Appearances can be deceptive, but I don’t think anyone would believe me if I said I was.
Being here, in many ways, I’ve always felt like a stranger in a strange land, despite the picture-perfect weather and laid-back lifestyle.
I first moved here for work in December 2019. Eyes wide, I was excited to arrive in the city I had only visited twice and seen in movies a number of times.
I first landed in Koreatown, subletting a studio from a friend of a friend for 2 months. They agreed to knock off some rent if I watched their cat, Chester. I figured, sure, I could use a friend. But Chester and I didn’t exactly get along at first. After all, he was a big black cat and I was a random now taking up the little bit of space he ruled over.
Chester and I eventually saw eye to eye, and I grew to appreciate his company. LA is a big, sprawling city and he made me feel a little less alone. When I moved out I never did see him again, and I do wonder how he’s fared.
From Ktown, I secured my own place in East Hollywood. A little 1-bedroom bungalow house in a small village of 16 others. It was perfectly suited for my needs and my first true home away from home.
With my living locked down, I felt I could finally see what California was talking about. It was talking health, parties, galleries, hikes and hangouts. I truly felt blessed to know I could I come across the country and figure it out. Whatever it is.
Then Kobe passed in late January.
And COVID hit in March.
Before I knew it, the city was gone. The shops were shut. The people crept back into their houses and kept the door closed.
As a newbie, I’m forever grateful for my couple close friends. Otherwise, there was nothing and no one. The city that was once brimming with life, turned into Mars. Ironically my closest friend became the stray black cat that would perch outside my door. I’m sill unsure if it was one cat, or a few different strays who all looked the same.
After 8 months mostly indoors, the city that had once took me in with open arms, felt increasingly alien.
And so I decided to leave. It wasn’t well thought out and I didn’t know if or when I would return. The departure was sad but also joyous because the time had run its course. February 2021, I packed up my bit of possessions, shipped them off and closed the door.
In my time away, I didn’t think much about the city I left. Rent was a lot cheaper wherever I went, and I didn’t miss not having a car. But I did feel like my time had been criminally cut short. There was no resolve and nothing to point to for my efforts.
So I wasn’t surprised when I moved back in October 2022.
I was amped to give it another go and eager to pick back up where I had left off. But admittedly, the city was different. That sheen and shine wasn’t there. Spots I frequented before didn’t shoot off the same receptors in the brain.
I mean, a global catastrophe would be the thing to upend a place. And the shift here became this sort of unspoken fact. Something you couldn’t quite put a finger on, so you let it go.
It was the city I could once again call home, but I felt my love for it waning.
And this is where I started to take LA for granted. The concept of it became something to look passed, not something to hold close. Gone were the days where I would chat with loved ones and implore them to take the leap and join me out west.
Despite hosting parties and roaming studio lots, I began to view being here as a far-away mission I must quickly complete. I was back on Mars longing for home.
Never did it cross my mind that any of this would be here today, gone tomorrow.
When I think about the idea of “LA on fire, words don’t come. It’s not worth trying to force them to. Only feelings surface.
With no one to blame, you tap into a different part of the brain. Or rather the brain turns off. There’s no thinking. Only feeling and/or fleeing.
Today, I’m learning to try and not understand. To skip logic and just sit. Logic went out the window when I saw some of my favorite sites ablaze. Places I frequented with friends and loved ones; where I thanked God for life.
Nothing will make it make sense, and I guess that’s ok. Maybe that’s not the point of all this but I really wouldn’t know. And the list of what I don’t know is running laps around the list of what I do know.
I feel for the people who lost everything. I pray they experience years of abundance and kindness.
I think about here, where I sit. If it were gone in an instant, what would I do? Who would I be?
Amidst the destruction and chaos, my love has grown.
They say home is where the heart is, and my heart is here. It’ll always be here, holding it down while my brain and body are off and away.
Today, I’m here. Seated. Present. Feeling.
Tomorrow, I’ll be there. In the same place. Or down the street. Or across town. Perhaps on the other side of the world.
--
For You. Yes, You
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 12.6.24
Hello Friend,
This is a message just for you. Yes, you. That’s right. My friend.
How’s your day been? Tiring? Stressful? I understand. Or at least I try to. Truly I do.
Anyway, I thought I’d just say what’s up. Here. Publicly. After all, what does “public” even mean? It’s not like we all see something and think the same thing. Those odds are slim.
No, each one of us has our own unique, private opportunity to interact with the thing we are looking at. In this case, you’re engaging with this message that I wrote just for you. And only you.
I figured I’d give you this message here because well, I thought maybe I’d have a better chance of catching you. In public. And the thing about doing anything seemingly embarrassing or revealing in public is that it’s only embarrassing if you think about it. You know? Otherwise, who cares, right?
Anyway, while I have you, before I lose you to all the other things fighting for your attention, I just wanted to say I hope you’re doing well. And by “well” you can take that as “successfully,” sure. But that’s secondary. “Well” in the sense that you feel like yourself and you feel supported as such.
Consider this a private (public) declaration of my support for you and your wellness. After all, it’s just you and I. No one else. Isn’t this so nice? We should do this more often. It’s not awkward at all.
Well, that’s really all I felt inclined to say. I think I’ll go and read something. Or write something. Or read what I’ve written. I’m open to suggestions.
Feel free to write to me sometime. I’m around. Although, if you try me here, I probably won’t see it. These days, I’m not here much. But anywhere else, that’s perfect. I’d love to hear from you. Just you.
Your friend,
Demetrius
--
American Made
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 11.3.24
Black. Pitch Black. Like when you close your eyes.
That is till I turn my flashlight on.
It's 2015, and I'm in the hot hull of this little cruise ship off the coast of Maine. A ship with 50 passengers, all at least 75 years old and white. The air is thick with humidity and the metallic smell of sea water. The floor is slanted, so I’m having trouble catching my balance while we bob.
Marine technology is actually quite advanced. When we don't dock the ship, we let its anchor sink to the bottom of the ocean. The anchor holds us steady, while the chain has enough slack to account for the motion of the ocean. Simple yet ingenious engineering. But someone has to guide that chain back in so it doesn't bunch up.
That someone is me.
Why am I working as a deckhand on this little cruise ship off the coast of Maine? That’s a great question. No better reason than, “I wanted to do something different.” Most times, the motivation is simple.
As a business student who didn't care much for business, getting a traditional internship felt like entrapment. So I did the next best thing - accepted the first opportunity that came my way. Now here I am, eighteen years old, in a place I never planned to be. But I'm open.
Halfway through guiding the chain, we reach the part that dragged along the ocean bed. It's covered in gunk that looks and smells like the smoothest, brownest poop under the sea. And it's getting all over me. Sometimes the anchor wouldn’t latch properly, forcing us to drop it again and start over. Just another day.
I made it out of that hot hull, and all I have left from that dirty, back-breaking experience is a faded memory. The clothes got washed. The soreness subsided. But the feeling stuck.
For nine weeks aboard the American Glory, I worked seven days a week, twelve hours a day. It wasn't just a job - it was life. We lived on that ship and virtually nothing else mattered. Even with tips, I was barely making minimum wage, but no one complained. If we were there, we were there. The only way out was forward.
At that point, I had never left the country. I had no frame of reference for how utterly weird America is. Our jobs, our routines, our relationships - it's all unusual, but we don't know it any other way.
I learned this shortly after leaving the Glory, when I studied in Prague for four months. In Central Europe, where countries are largely homogeneous, the locals stare if you stick out. I remember trying to decipher the milk label at the grocery store and getting looked at like I was breaking into a car. At the time, I wondered whether they stared more because I was Black or because I was American. Which was more unusual? More interesting? More up for interpretation?
But I loved being out of the US. Deeply. And that experience launched me into years of travel: Senegal, Morocco, Mexico, Hong Kong, Jamaica, Ecuador, Canada - in each place, I've often felt more welcomed than in my own home. To be othered in your own country hits different than to be othered elsewhere.
In my travels, I've learned that I'm nothing but American. How could I be anything else if that's all I've ever known?
Today, the American brand has morphed into something ugly. The flag elicits hateful, nationalist rhetoric. We've split into factions that seem irreconcilable. The brand feels so inaccurate to the realities of America. From the outside looking in, you would think we all hate each other. In actuality, we all work and live and engage with one another on the daily.
But only some of us are overlooked, ridiculed and/or undermined for our contributions. A sizeable amount at that.
Our stories - Black and Brown stories - are as American as they come. Yet Hollywood, the most significant storytelling machine, has been late and slow to champion these fundamentally American experiences. How can the world see us for who we are when our own country has failed to do so? They've gotten it wrong, but that's on them to figure out.
And for those who want to "take back" the American brand - they can't have it. I mean, that’s not even a thing. We've been here, and we aren't going anywhere. They're going to have to sit and see our side of the story. All of our stories. It'll make them uncomfortable and embarrassed, but they'll also laugh, and cry, and beg for more.
Because the truth is like a mountain. Even when you photograph or paint it, there are far more details you miss than ones you capture. There's always more.
Thinking back on my time aboard that ship, it’s there where I learned how to work. Lining that anchor chain was my least favorite part of the job, yet symbolically, it was the most poignant.
I suppose that’s exactly what I’m choosing to do now. Line by line, reconciling and connecting with a country where my ancestors arrived in chains. Trying to make the lines neat and tidy but they’re far from that. They’re covered in dirt. Soon, the anchor will return to the ocean floor, and it’ll again be my job to create those lines. My responsibility because this is my ship. Our ship.
Though my job on the Glory was pretty trash, I think back to it fondly. It’s still the most important work experience I’ve had to date. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I stayed in the Maritime profession; if I became Captain of my own vessel.
I think about leaving America in search of something different. It’ll forever be my home, though I feel more welcomed elsewhere. But no matter where I go, I’m still a Black man from America. Still American. Still working the lines. Still on the ship.
--
Every Day Goes
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 10.20.24
Every day goes like a river flows. It’s one after the other.
It never ends and never will. It won’t stop. It can’t stop.
I wonder what motivates time. What keeps it going?
And there’s seemingly nothing connecting one day from the last or the next. Rather, we’ve put in markers to denote time’s passage. Like leaves falling or rain freezing.
Otherwise, a day has no regard for its neighbor.
I think a day should do itself a favor and stop and smell the roses.
After all, so much can happen in a day. Enough to change lives and turn tides.
In fact, no single day is the same. It’s just a constant stream of uniqueness.
Some days are terrible for most. Most days are terrible for some.
If a day had a dollar value, and our days were promised, we would all be rich. We would all have the same to give. Or rather, we would all have the same to take.
It’s not really upsetting to remember my days are numbered. That’s ok. It’s upsetting to think they’ve been wasted.
When a day is gone, it’s really gone. There’s no getting it back. The only remnants are some pics and messages. And trying to relive a day comes at the expense of the present day.
So how do you even define a day? I suppose by its weather or how much sleep you get. Like "that was a rainy day." Or "that was a restful day."
But if a day is simply 24 hours, it needs a new definition. You mean to tell me we’ve had God knows how many days in the history of mankind, and that’s all we’ve come up with? That’s weak. It doesn’t speak to a day’s color or texture. The day deserves better. It demands it.
So if we really dictate what a day is, let’s get to brainstorming.
Maybe a day should be defined by the number of Ls you take. Or the amount of “I love You”s exchanged. Or songs listened to. Idk, the point is it’s up to you really.
I’m going to take some time to think on it. And before I know it, another day will have passed. So caught up, I’ll forget I ever had the thought. Floating in the river of time, eager to make the most of this thing we call a day.
Whatever that means.
--
Forever Remembered
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 9.21.24
I remember every face I’ve ever seen.
It’s troubling to think I would ever forget. After all, what’s the point of meeting if you’re soon to be forgotten?
Well in all fairness, I’m terrible with names. But that’s because there’s so much information stored in a face. It’s distracting. At this rate, I’d have a better chance of remembering someone’s name with my eyes closed.
But a face is unique. It says so much sometimes it screams.
I remember that surprised look on Mrs. Rudinski’s face when she found out I was 7 and not 8 or 9 like the other 3rd graders.
I remember every friend at every lunch table.
I remember your profile picture from 2014.
I can spot a face from a mile away. On a crowded rooftop on the 4th of July.
Or at a packed amphitheater in the middle of the night.
I’ll never forget a face but at times I’ve forgotten my own. Would I say hi to me at a sold-out show?
All these faces hang in my mind like a room full of balloons. Eagerly waiting to be popped. Or set free to roam the sky’s and rise up to heaven.
It’s like I made a promise to myself as a kid to always remember. A promise I forgot to break.
Yet it breaks my heart to be forgotten. Just a little. And it always happens.
Did I not say the right things when I first made your acquaintance? Is it because I’m wearing glasses now? My allergies in the summer are wild and contacts ruin me.
New glasses, hair, etc. that’s just an iOS update. But it’s the same phone. Same face.
Regardless, you didn’t remember, and I do, and that’s just the way it is.
There’s a perfect bliss in forgetting. Clearing your plate to focus on the next course.
I wanna forget just like everyone else. Create space for the ones who matter most.
So now, I’m choosing not to look around. Eyes forward, head straight. Clearly I’m not getting paid to pay attention to my surroundings.
I’m choosing to forget because it’s better for the soul. No more little heart breaks or getting hung out in the cold. Caught up in memories that never meant anything to anyone else.
I guess deep down, I’m always hoping I’ll spot a friend I knew in the past life. Or an artist that I admire. But what would I say? How would I convey how much they mean to me? Showing love in a matter of seconds with as few words as possible. Expecting nothing in return but to know that we exist together.
I used to feel pride about recognizing a face. Now I feel the weight of whether I’ll make a lasting impression or prompt another missed opportunity. To do and to not do both carry consequences.
Now I’m taking a stand. I’ve made up my mind and I’m choosing to forget. To roam this earth with blissful disregard for any and all beyond the 4 walls I’ve built.
I wonder what life will be like now. Where will my minds eye wander to? With all the space I’ve freed up, how will I fill it? Questions that will take a lifetime to answer if I stay committed.
Of course, if you spot me, I’ll say hi and I’ll love our time together. That twinkle of recognition in my eye will never fade. It’ll always betray my wish to forget. Because in my heart, you’re forever remembered.
--
The League
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 6.12.24
In high school all I wanted to do was make it to the league.
But not like the NBA or NFL. The Ivy League.
It was less a matter of undying devotion for these elite institutions, more so feeling like I didn’t have a choice.
I was sold on the allure and promise of the best life to be lived; and all you had to do was get into the league. This was the lotto and the OG stimulus check rolled into one.
But I didn’t always care much for the league. In fact, it hadn’t ever crossed my mind till well into high school.
In my 8th grade year book, I proudly declared I wanted to be a film director. Even earlier, I wished to be a magician. This was before standardized tests and tuition price tags. This was just a kid operating on a feeling and desire to bring more magic into the world.
Fast forward some years, and math and sciences proved to be my calling.
But when the league didn’t call me, I took my talents to New York.
I never wanted to live in New York, let alone go to school there. Growing up in Newark, 15 minutes from NYC, it was all too familiar to me. Call it a proximity effect but I just wanted to be away. Not because I didn’t love my people or love home, but more so because I knew there was so much to see elsewhere and so little time.
More music, more food, more conversations, more languages. In some ways, I always preferred to be lost in a new place, than comfortable at home.
Nonetheless, New York called me and there I was.
When I hit the quad, if you could call it that, I never felt like I fit in. The only person who looked like me in a room of 250 in business school. The only person who looked like me in a room of 200 in film school. The only commonality was our collective disregard for sports. Or our penchant to want to be older than we were so we could have all that the city offered. Chasing after things we never really needed in the first place.
But the best part about school in NYC was that it wasn’t about fitting in. In fact, you were better off not trying to park it in one spot. Why do that when there’s so many others to choose from? I learned that if I could remain true to me, while consistently trying new things and landing in new places, that was the golden formula.
What a critical thing to learn at such a formative time.
When I think about the league, it feels like one of those scars I forgot to remember. Or maybe I remembered to forget. Like that burn mark I’ve had since I was 6 years old. Haven’t thought of that in a while.
When I didn’t get into the league, I felt embarrassed to go to class the next day. The thought of going to church on Sunday and holding a smile despite my pain was unbearable. I just didn’t want everyone to learn I had let them down.
Truthfully, no kid deserves to feel this way. Yet each and every year, millions do. And far worse.
The truth is, nothing was ever promised to me. Not a day, nor a week, nor a college degree.
Today, the scar is barely visible.
I think about the league, and who I would be had I made it in. Would I be my friend?
The tides that bind us are the exact same that break us apart.
Who I am now is ever evolving and I’m rolling along. Sailing right past the places I thought about for so long.
Here’s to the league, I wish them well. I didn’t make it onto shore and so I set sail.
--
Going Green in The Time Machine
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 4.29.24
There are entirely too many books in the world.
I once heard the saying, if a book is a mountain, a film adaption is a painting of that mountain.
That’s splendid to hear but also rather frustrating. You mean to tell me I’m spending all this time looking at the wall, trying to make it more pretty, when I can just be outside?
If I had a Time Machine, I would go back in time and just read.
I would read a book on taxes so TurboTax can stop taxing me.
I would read big books about little things like the art of cracking and cooking eggs.
Or a book about the history of Velcro. I’m sure that’s fascinating.
“Well, forget a Time Machine, why don’t you go read those books now?” One would logically ask.
But see there lies the root of my problem. It stands out like the person who was always picked last in gym class.
My current list of books to read is simply too exhaustive, and surprise, none of the books mentioned above are on that list.
What? I should toss my list? Rip it up and start over? Well you see, I physically couldn’t just rip up that list of books. Some of them are nearly 1000 pages. Big and beautiful, perched up on my bookshelf. That’s an injury waiting to happen and I already have one messed up finger. I don’t need anymore.
So if I had a Time Machine, I would go back just a few years. Like 5 or 6, nothing major.
I would be anti-social. In fact, I would go and get an android. Yes, I would go green.
Birthdays, weddings, reunions, graduations, parties, after parties. Don’t hit me about any of em. And if you do, it’s all green.
In this life of serene and silence, I would simply be reading books. No concept of time or seasons or phases of the moon. What’s a solar eclipse?
The only thing I’m eclipsing is the next page onto the prior.
That’s if I had a Time Machine.
In the meantime, if anyone has a solution to this age-old dilemma, a way to take in all the text the world has to offer despite the limited time, please feel free to hit me line.
And if your message turns green, just know I’ve successfully hopped into the Time Machine.
I’m living in pure bliss. Just reading.
--
We Never Came Back
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 4.21.24
We Never Came back from 2020. In fact, we’re somewhere else.
Floating in space, inching closer to Mars. More red than blue.
I mean our world was flipped upside down. What would we except?
Much like a glass of water or a plate of food, what happens when you flip it over? Gravity is rather unsubtle.
And so here we are… floating. Some of us holding on to one another for dear life. Others occupying a space of their own.
Our homes? Left untouched like a text on read.
Our sense of self? Split into pieces like a pizza pie.
Aside from getting really good at back flips in space, we also became experts in the art of pretend.
Like how I pretend the sun shines the same here as it did back home. But it don’t hit the same.
Or pretend like nothing changed when everything has.
These days, the only thing that I recognize is the same joy and sadness in a child’s eyes.
Or the same to and fro till the wheels wear down.
Or the same look on someone’s face who has forgotten your name. It’s ok, I forgot too.
Or the same foods that never look as good as the advertisements. And the yelp reviews are biased too.
Or the same shoes that we’ve already purchased a few times.
Well… I guess some things are the same.
A sea of sameness but everything’s changed.
Seeing the Earth from a distance now, it’s a lot more blue than I imagined. I used to think I was color blind, but no, that simply can’t be true.
I love you Earth. I hope one day someone, somewhere gets to return.
Love,
DB
--
By Demetrius Beckham
Written 6.13.21
An Ode to Standing Still.
It’s Sunday, June 13th, 10:20pm EST and I’m seated on a Delta airlines plane. It was announced to be completely full, but somehow, the middle seat to my left is empty. God’s grace.
200-something passengers and I are en route to Mexico City, from Atlanta; the official end of what I’ve been referring to as my month-long “U.S. Tour.”
A series of trips consisting of work moves, family time, reunions with friends and spiritual rejuvenation. 6 cities, 4 couches, 2 hotel beds, 2 air mattresses and 1 full house move later, your man’s is tired.
Well, “tired” isn’t the most accurate word for how I’m feeling. Let’s dig deeper.
At this exact moment in time, I long for stillness. The ability to be in one place for so long that I get annoyed, then chuckle, every time I look at the stubborn red-wine carpet stain from two summers back.
A place with a couch that swallows the business cards I use as bookmarks.
A place I recognize.
While on the topic of being settled, I’m reminded of a strange “phenomenon” I observed some months back while in the city of Oaxaca, Mexico.
While visiting a friend, we ascended the stairs of the friendly Airbnb and witnessed a strange sight. The stairs gave way to a rooftop, and on it, perched a fluffy white dog. The dog didn’t bark nor approach us. Rather, I stared at it, and it back at me. No words, no noise.
After a couple minutes of soul-checking, the dog and I agreed to part ways and I descended down the stairs.
Each of us proceeded on our way but the encounter left me with a series of questions. First off, why was that dog on an open roof? Could he fly and come back as he so pleased? Did he have other flying dog friends that came to visit? Link up on Wednesday.
No, the reality of it is, that dog was stuck. Or perhaps that’s not the right word to use. That dog was settled.
He or she had their 6x6ft domain with scenic views, and maybe they loved it. Every day like clockwork they would get fed around the same times, and relieve themself in the same manner.
In the grand scheme of things, in a country full of strays, this dog on the roof was one of the blessed ones. They had a home.
And still I find myself thinking about how that dog might feel. Beyond survival, are they living? Are they happy on that roof or just content? Do they feel forgotten? Like there’s no use in even barking anymore?
The irony of this whole thing is that I’m writing this while speeding 500 mph in a giant metal tube 36,000 feet above ground. Someone say something about standing still?
As we prepare to descend, the gentlemen in the aisle seat kindly asks me to open the window.
The lights of Mexico City dazzle and form brilliant outlines. They hint at the millions of people down below who reside in this part of the world. The dark clouds floating past us resemble the smoke monster from LOST. It’s a sight that can only be witnessed from way up high. The view confirms the fact that there’s more beauty in store.
All in all, I can’t be mad at God for assigning me this life. In fact, it’s a blessing. I should be more grateful. If I have to be the guy to brace 6 cities, 4 couches, 2 hotel beds, 2 air mattresses and 1 full house move in a month, I’ll take it.
That dog on the roof, posted with the crib life is pretty enticing. But I’ll let it go until it’s my time to have it. If ever.
--
Ant-Sized Ambition
By Demetrius Beckham
Released 8.31.21
If I could hold my ambition in my hand, I would throw it away. Not just in the trash. I’d toss it across the city, to a place far, far away. Somewhere deep in Queens. Never to be found again.
My ambition would seize to plague me and I’d be free from the desire to “make it.”
If I could, I would have the ambition of an ant. Ant-sized ambition. Ants spend their tiny existence finding tiny amounts of food to support the tiny bodies of their rather large tribe. Their day-to-day life is built exclusively around survival. No time spent dreaming, and certainly no time spent convincing others to dream. That would be considered a crime that warrants capital punishment in the world of ants.
Nonetheless, perhaps the ambition of ants is actually quite large. Those tiny bodies carrying those over-sized crumbs, day in and day out. The tireless work effort to survive in a world that regards you as next to nothing. It sounds like they are the most ambitious of us all.
The reality of it is, my ambition isn’t going anywhere. It’ll still keep me up late at night; make everyday feel more urgent than the last; hi-jack moments that are meant for peace.
So if I can’t get rid of it, I suppose it couldn’t hurt to take on more; to embrace it like an ant in survival mode.
There will always be mouths to feed and hills to climb.
--
(Jalapa, Roma Norte, Mexico City, Mexico)
The Right Time
By Demetrius Beckham
Released 3.11.21
If I had a dime for every moment I was convinced it was the “right time,” I’d buy half a Bitcoin. And I’d probably still be waiting for the “right time.”
“When should I do what I’m supposed to do?”
“When is the time to let go?”
The grim reaper of questions.
I guarantee that on average, we spend more time thinking about the right time to make a decision, than we spend actually making those decisions.
Of course, one can say there is indeed such a thing as right time. From an economics standpoint, supply and demand would dictate the right time to buy and sell a product.
For example, at my previous spot here in Mexico City, where I currently reside, the Gas Man would make his presence known every morning. I repeat, every morning without fail, around 7:27am, a loud “yeeeeeerrrrrr” would erupt from outside my window. A familiar sound from days living in Newark.
One could say the Gas Man knew the exact right time to peddle his product: It’s 7:35am and an unsuspecting soul turns their left shower handle to discover that the gas has run out and hot water is nilt. Tragic... thus the man outside is some kind of savior with his tank of gas. Talk about right time.
But how does one determine the right time? Is it confidence following repetition? Is it economics? Is it love? Is it faith? Perhaps a combination of all of those things is the key to right timing. Or perhaps that’s a narrative we tell ourselves out of comfort.
If we had a quarter for every line on our “right time” list, we’d be able to buy back our time. The right time to get married. The right time to have kids. The right time to move to a new place. The right time to quit your job. The right time to confess your feelings to that person you like. The right time to buy a Nintendo Switch.
The “right time” is very well a construct we place our trust in and give power to. We pledge allegiance to the right time.
In truth, we can neither confirm nor deny “right timing” until an action has taken place. It’s a declaration less so a direction. There’s no right anything if we simply sit and wait indefinitely.
So I pray for discernment, hope for clear waters and prepare to do. And you should do it too.
Here’s to more doing.
--
(Harvard Blvd, Los Angeles, CA)
The Other Day I Shipped My Life Away
By Demetrius Beckham
Released 1.30.21
The other day I shipped my life away. There was no fuss, there were no tears.
Just three 60lb boxes and half a roll of tape.
You would think after 24 years I would have amassed more, but such was not the case. Simply 3 boxes full of things I often use and occasionally care about.
What’s in the boxes? Nothing particularly valuable or special. Really just the assortment of things I found comfort in during this year indoors.
Box 1 contains an array of books, spanning various genres and topics. A treasure chest filled with classic and contemporary text. The Brothers Karamazov snuggled up against Stamped From The Beginning. Murakami’s 1Q84 dapping up the Three Body Problem trilogy set.
The box tells the story of someone seeking knowledge, or a person obsessed with big books half finished. The truth is probably a combination of both.
Box 2 houses shoes that I rarely wear but still wouldn’t think to toss. You know, the ones that just sit there and stare at you, hoping you pick them. You never do.
Beyond that, an Xbox One fills up a commanding amount of space. Wrapped in towels for protection, that box within a box had a way with taking up time. Warzone with the homie became a ritual. I can’t say I was any good but we did manage to win a round on that last day before I retired the console. A sign that it was time to put the controller down. I guess you can say all games eventually end.
Box 3 really isn’t anything to write about. An air mattress that provided rest for some guests pre-pandemic. A nutribullet blender. A brolic NorthFace jacket. A few hangers I think.
Honestly wouldn’t be too mad if Box 3 got lost in transit.
In truth, how “mad” would I be if I never saw either of the 3 boxes? Books get reprinted all the time and are readily available online. We quite literally outgrow shoes. I’m probably better off without that Xbox. That NorthFace is obnoxiously large.
Hmmm, I’m caught between emotions... Am I feeling ungrateful for these possessions or simply unfulfilled by the picture of my “life” in 3 boxes? There’s gotta be more right? Well there’s the stuff that gets thrown away.
I stop to ponder a question. “What do I have that I couldn’t live without?”
I search my mind. Silence. An answer apparently I don’t have the patience for.
Perhaps we aren’t what we have, rather we’re what we believe in. Whose to say.
The other day I shipped my life away, and I’m still here. I might even be better off.
--