The Father and My Father: Papa Was a Rolling Stone

One of my earliest memories of my first Universal Parliament was that of an older God being escorted out of the auditorium of Harriet Tubman because he was overcome with emotion over ‘The Father's’ death. The God was distilling and wildly yelling, "They killed my Father! They killed my Father!". It was the late 80's and personally I didn't understand the older God's grief because I've never personally met 'The Father', B.U.T. it's obvious that The Father meant a whole lot to a lot of people-he was loved and I will forever honor him as the author of Supreme Math, Supreme Alphabet and specifically as the first one to escape from the prison house of the Big G and Little G syndrome that was synthesized in the N.O.I. teaching of Allah coming in the Person of Master Fard Muhammad. The Father by his actions essentially said, "If Allah came in the person of Fard and Fard is half original-Allah gotta be in the person of my black ass!" It took a whole lot of courage to deduce such a conclusion during a time when Elijah's word was absolutely bond to life. As a young man I was drawn to the determined idea of 'The Father', especially after coming from the humble beginnings of the N.O.I. as a child. 'The Father's' actions Show and Prove that he was/is indeed 'The Father' of the Gods and Earths, the modern father of our social equality amidst this urban culture and more importantly he set up the foundations of the personal, and the unique reality of 'I God' culture as well as what I God culture means. It means that each one of us is suppose to see I God culture in an original and creative light. Fuck 'Clone-a-God' and 'Clone-a-Earth' and following some other nigga'z cee-whether it's my cee, your Enlightener's cee or The Father's cee-cee for your damn self Nigga. Be your movafuckin own self-don't be no fuckin' follower parroting another niggaz understanding. Movafuckuz who try to lay down a certain way that we are all suppose to live out this math are on some bullshit-be your Goddamn self-that is truly Knowledge of Self. No two people manifest the same right angle: my right angle is not your right angle and your right angle is not my right angle. Just because one nigga eats faggot ass leaves every goddamn day and calls it righteous don't mean it's wrong for me to eat steak. Fuck that Self Righteous bullshit. I God culture is more important to me than just what you eat or being a national flag waiver and singing the Enlightener at an NGE event. Don't get me wrong-I love my flag waiving brothers and sisters-they are definitely right and exact and I applaud them and all of their national efforts toward community upliftment: food drives, winter coat drives and school supply drives etc.: that's truly building. They are the said persons of that ability indeed. National flag waivers in this culture establish and hold this advocated society together like glue and that's peace. Our National group organizers are indeed the greatest amongst us. Admittedly, I'm not a National Flag waiver-because I have an intensive introspective personality, basically too many niggaz at one time get on my movafuckin nerves. I'm just being honest and spittin my personal truth on the square.

Back in the day I taught and screamed 'I God' culture to the mountain top, not no more: I'm done screaming, done with yelling and for the most part done with enlightening on a one to one basis: I have one more student left and he's in his knowledge to culture ciphers. After him-it's a wrap. I love being quiet, minding my own business and I love to be immersed in my own thoughts. If I've learned anything from my elders in this Nation it is to listen more than speak and to shut da fuck up-because them old niggaz will talk to you til it's time to return back to essence.

My sole expression is in my writing-it's the realm in which I feel most comfortable and at peace. Movafuckuz call 'talkin' building-I ain't on that talkin' bullshit too tough. I'd rather be somewhere smoking a blunt, sippin’ hen, balls deep in my Earth and watching Sports Center.

I'd make a horrible deacon at the NGE Episcopal Church. For those Gods and Earths that are heavily involved in the perpetuation of I God culture via a budding black church format, keep doing what ya doing-you are indeed the greatest. Activism brings change b.u.t. lazy ass Emblem is just a selfish ass writer lost in a paragraph and in the fine mist of a weed cloud. Which is why I give mad props to 'The Father': he influenced the youth of his time and put a twist on Asiatic culture that will forever be remembered by generations to come. I was only equality months old when 'The Father' returned back so I'd be speaking upon that which I do not know if I were to come out of my face with "The Father said this-that and the third..." or even worst if I said that, "Such and Such God said the Father said such and such." Fuck hearsay! I knew nothing about his character, his habits, or what he said. Everything that I've ever heard about 'The Father' was usually from a balding elder God embellishing grandiose stories about 'The Father' to shield their own dirty religion of eldercentricity. My born degree in the knowledge to culture the cipher implies that we should take nothing on face value not even bald old farts who are secretly dreaming about snagging one last piece of young pussy with a good 'Father said' story as bait. Nigga Please! Admittedly, my knowledge of 'The Father' is limited-and I won't front like I knew him. Never! What I do know is that Gods and Earths from back in the day called him 'The Father' for a reason-he was a father figure to many young people who were fatherless. Fatherless boyz and girls gravitated to the man for guidance.

I-on the other hand was in no way Fatherless. My Father means much more to me than just being referred to and relegated to the words 'Old Dad'-he's 'My Father'. 'My Father' is a cool old movafucka-he's straight 85-85 to da movafuckin max and he ain't trying to hear nuffin about culture. He calls culture that 'black shit'. He's George Jefferson times two. The closest he ever came to knowledge of self was fucking a chick once that didn't have a perm and who wore a toe ring. He still brags about fuckin that 'toe ring wearing' cultural chick to this day. Other than that he don't give a fuck about that 'black shit' as he calls it. He once heard Farrakhan speak for five minutes and all he said was, "Dat Nigga cool" and from there he kept it movin. He doesn't know the difference between the various aspects of black culture-and doesn't give a fuck. My father don't know the difference between a Hebrew Israelite, Moorish science, Sunni Islam, the bow-ties, or the Five Percenters. To him we're just a bunch of broke ass niggaz talkin' that black shit. Only thing My Father wants to hear that'z 'deep' is the bottom of a piece of pussy making a gush-gush sound or the wrangling of cash at the bottom of deep pockets. That cultural black shit is bullshit to him. My Father can be found either in Atlantic City or in Vegas winning. I've heard stories about how 'The Father' use to always win at dice, b.u.t. I can't honestly attest to the alleged fortunes 'The Father' won while shooting dice on them Harlem street corners because I wasn't there. When it comes to my Father however, I've personally seen him double down on a black jack dealer and win a few grand. Once in Vegas I was working a slot machine from dawn til late morning and I got up for a second, and my dad sits down and nails the same slot I was sitting at for $1,200. I was sick. He stays winning, he goes to the casinos when he feels 'it'. 'It' is a weird type of knowledge of Self that he has-he always wins when he feels 'it'. This feeling of 'it' is the closest he comes to knowledge of self. I really love my Father, all 85 percent of that movafucka.

From the time I was a shorty-he always had a fly ass whip, fly ass crib and has always kept himself well groomed. In Vegas he showed me a big stack of money-I smiled and thought to myself that he's a frontin ass old head. I fucked him up in Philly last week by taking him to Red Lobster twice and pickin' up the check without blinking. Honestly, it felt good to feed my Father. I'm glad I fought him for the Red Lobster check. My Father is a materialistic ass Virgo and he's as superficial as they come, bossier than George Jefferson and funnier than Redd Foxx. He's a real fly old dude and I love him a whole lot. If anybody runs up on 'em with some rah rah-he will blow their brains out. He's never naked (without a gun). About wisdom years ago he drew his gun on two niggaz who attempted to rob him while he was coming out of Walgreen's. He's a retired cop, retired marine and a Vietnam vet who's heavily into guns, good hygiene, clothes, cars and the vanity that comes with maintaining his fly persona.

I got love and honor for both 'My Father' and 'The Father'-both of 'em cool as fuck. All my physical brothers have been to college and are working at good justice cipher borns and doing well. He did a good job raising us and maintaining a presence in all of our lives. Neither 'My Father' nor 'The Father' were perfect-they're 'men' and being a man is to embrace your imperfections. This is the only way to truly move toward a personal journey of refinement regardless if you consider 'refinement' a part of the math or not.

The best part that I preserve from 'The Father' is that being God is no big deal-not at all. Ponder this: the whole psychological projection of the mystery God begins from Man's imagination and thus finally after agreeing that the Only God is the Son of Man and consciously refusing to lose no more time searching for that-that does not exist-shall we again return back to a mental death? Many amongst us with knowledge of self still are searching for trillions-trying to take on the qualities of some damn mystery God that does not exist. God is a damn 'man'- a 'man' who wipes his ass after taking a shit; a man who eats and drinks when he's hungry; a man who wants some pussy; a man who gets sick from time to time; a man who gets old; and a man who ultimately dies. God doesn't levitate, walk on water, nor can he raise his hand and split the Hudson river like it's the Red Sea. God is just a man and he's not a goodie two shoes-he's just a man. In my mind that idea that God is just a man is thoroughly conveyed to me via the life of 'The Father' and 'My Father'. God being 'just a man' is the true reality of divinity. I can't stand a spooky ass God unconsciously thinking that they’re the Biblical second coming of Christ or the Quranic manifestation of Allah come to flesh. Nigga please! I'm just a man and being 'God' is no big deal. "Yes I fast and pray Allah, that when Allah in his own 'Good Time'"-'Good Time' being the operative phrase: have a Good ass Time. I'm sure 'The Father' had a good time being God and 'My Father' has a good time being a man. God and Man are one in the same, flip sides of one coin. When I think of 'My Father' and 'The Father' I think of that old song by the Temptations from back in the day, "Papa was a rolling stone, where ever he laid his hat was his home..." meaning Papa kicked it hard nigga.

Peace,

Em

Ervin 'Sonny' Toland (Jan 4, 1927 - Nov 8, 2010): 'The Cat'

Funerals bring families together. Last week my mother called and told me that my Uncle Sonny returned back to essence. Wow! 'Sarge' returned back-it fucked me up because he was so full of life. I traveled to Philly from Cipher He I Cipher-My sister traveled from Harlem and my mother traveled from Money Earnin Mount Vernon to Power Hill to honor him.

He was a very consistent man-you could literally set your watch by him. He was a member of the Prince Hall Masonic Lodge for 56 years, a retired Master Sergeant in the United States Army for 35 years, he retired from his job at Women's Medical Hospital after 36 years, he was a member of Jones Tabernacle Church for 82 years and Church treasurer for 40 years. At his funeral Ms. Hattie, a neighbor from across the street said he was one of the members of the block committee that helped turn Patton Street (the block I grew up on) into some what of a Village.  Mr. Toland or Mr. Sonny, is what he was called around the neighborhood-I just called him 'Cat' and he called me 'Cat' back. Remember that song T.R.O.Y.(They Reminisce Over You) by Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth? Everytime I hear that song I think of my connection to my Uncle Sonny. He was a hardcore, A.M.E. church man in church every Sunday. As much as the young conscious generation berates Masons as an evil society-my uncle ain't know shit about any wild Masonic conspiracy to take over the world-he considered them his drinking buddies who could barely drive home after a night of playing cards and drinking hard liqour-least of all take over the Goddamn world. I don't get into all that conspiracy theory shit about masons. "Your Uncle is a mason-masons put Flouride in drinking water" this one God said to me once, wide eyed, as if I should be made aware of some latent evil Prince Hall Masonic plot. Prince Hall Masons are just movafuckuz like Gods is just Movafuckuz: they're just niggaz in America trying to pay a Goddamn bill like everybody else.

The Army played Taps at my uncle's Funeral in honor of his 35 years of Military Service. I was presented with his flag after his funeral. He was my uncle but he considered me his Grandson.  My mother gave birth to me at the age of 16, and she brought me home to 1926 N. Patton Street where I spent most of my childhood. My Uncle and Aunt looked out for my mom and dad who were both teenagers at the time of my birth. My mother was actually married twice in that small North Philly row home. The first time my mother married my Old Dad and the second time she married my sister's dad. When my mom was at work my Aunt Corrine and Uncle Sonny use to try to feed me pork chops. I'd fall asleep at the table before I'd eat a goddamned pork chop-my feet would be dangling from the kitchen chair. My uncle Sonny would tell me that there were hungry kids in Africa that would love to have a pork chop, and I'd tell him to give the pork chop to them hungry ass kids in Africa to eat (I didn't say 'ass'). Once when I was about four my Uncle asked me what was Santa Clause getting me for Christmas and I told him that Santa Clause was Yacob's grafted blue-eyed devil. I called all pictures of white Jesus-'the Devil' which led my Aunt Corrine, my Uncle's wife to think that my mother was brainwashing me. My aunt use to spy on the Minister of Mosque Number 12 who at the time was Jeremiah Shabazz-my Aunt use to tell my mom that Jeremiah was a gangster-and my Aunt was right-Jeremiah Shabazz was a notorious Philly Gangster indeed. My Aunt and Uncle didn't succeed in un-brainwashing us out of the Asiatic World, instead it took the death of The Honorable Elijah Muhammad in 1975 for my mom to take off her headwrap and for me to take off my bow-tie.

Patton Street was a block of athletic boys-we played everything but Golf and the few girls on the block we all physically fought for at one time or another. The day of the  funeral when I stepped on Patton street I heard my name "Yo Teriyaki". Niggaz around the neighborhood called me Teriyaki back in the day (long story). Darryl quickly told me how many of my boyz that I grew up with were dead: B-Bombs; Jazz; Dirty Aaron; Dookey; Glenn; Pickalo; Wes and White boy Tony-Tony was just light skinned but we called him 'White boy' nevertheless. Even a few of the girls I grew up with had been murdered which put in perspective why Philly is always in contention with Detroit and Chicago to top the Nation in homicides and that'z why I left Philly-fuck that! My childhood friends who had been murdered use to knock on my door and ask my mom if I could come out and play-it was deep to find out that they had been returned back to the essence.  Darryl's nick name was 'Klute'-Klute told me Dirty Aaron became a Gangsta because I called him a punk back in the day: I ain't buy that-nor did I take that guilt trip.  Aaron made his own choices as a man and was shot up for the choices he made.

I fought Klute a hundred times easily-one minute we were playing-the next minute we were fightin'. I fought Dorian who eventually changed his name to Knowledge another hundred times: one minute we're playing-the next minute we're fightin'.  Me and DaGod Knowledge had a peace build-he told me that he had become a Mason for economic reasons. I didn't Judge him because niggaz gonna do what niggaz gonna do.  He asked me if I still had enough guns to hold off a small band of Iraqi insurgents and I told him, "You Goddamn right!".

For those that don't know, I have three brothers and one sister and  had a chance to see everyone of them while I was in Philly.  I'm the oldest. Naya (my sister) is the only child that my mother had after me and my Old dad had three other sons: Keith and Kevin (Twins) and my brother Andre. Me, my father, and brothers all watched the Pacquiao/Margarito fight-which was mad beautiful because we had guns under couch cushions, under the bed, in the closet, on our persons: just one big happy gun loving family watching the fight!

My father is a retired cop and an ex-Marine who taught us all how to bust shotz and he also imparted a deep love for the sport of boxing-all my brothers can shoot and fight. That was the first time that me, my father and my brothers have all been together to watch a big fight. Funerals have a way of bringing Family together while simultaneously taking you down memory lane.

My Uncle wasn't a perfect man-but he was a good man. R.I.P. Cat.

Peace,

Emblem

The Illusion Of Randomness

Mathematics is proof of intelligence. We often think of math in terms of numerical symbolism. The symbolism allows us to reason with the abstract via the utilization of a system. To be systematic is to deal with the proper order of things. The root of civilization is pointing to the proper order of things: Example: "Where Knowledge and Wisdom of the original Man started..." Reasoning with abstractions are tasks that transfers intelligence from the theoretical to the actual reality which proves 'maker'. Maker implies creativity. That which causes trouble amongst those that are creative is 'devil'. We create with both art and science. The creative and the scientific amongst us are the righteous. Tell us what and how the Devil is made? To make devil one must begin by grafting and separating the 'Art' germ from the 'Science' germ in the blackman's creative mind. Math runs through the fabric of both 'art' and 'science', thus they are one: also known as 'State of The Art'(cutting edge science) and not: a Bachelors of Science or a Bachelors of Art-art and science are not separate as Western culture would have you believe. All creation is mathematical-even that which appears to be the most random and mundane. In terms of 'circumstance'-reason is behind every unknown and though vanity exist-nothing in and of itself happens in vane. Egotiscally something or someone may appear vane however their is high mathematical structure and system interwoven into the fabric of time, space and even the frivolity of vanity . This universe contains an infinitude of dimensions and mathematical intelligence is within every nook and cranny of every dimension.

Is there an actual point of 'no beginning'? Does consciousness have an origin? Are realization and awareness truly functional concepts even in the dialectical opposed concept of the Nation of Islam having 'No Beginning' nor 'ending'? Firstly: let us refuse to believe that a state of no intelligence can yield intelligence.

Can a physically finite being grasp 'no beginning'? Yes, only if the said person of that ability understands that they are indeed one with both no beginning and no ending.

We learn mathematics from a point of origin which proves knowledge to born and disproves 'cipher to born'. Knowledge is simultaneously infinite and eternal. The idea of 'No beginning' is proved by infinite beginnings that were infintesimal beginnings within the beginning(a beginning that never truly began). Every moment is a beginning even if it's the beginning of the end and thus the end marks a new beginning. Example: a piece of paper that can be torn in half forever; torn in fourths; torn in eighths; torn in sixteenths and so forth-indefinitely. Mathematically the example of the indefinitely torn paper proves 'no ending'. The abstract idea of 'no beginning' is also represented conversely by the example of the torn paper because of the inability to completely annihilate the paper into non-existence. Fundamentally the example of the paper that is indefinitely torn, correlates with all matter/energy in the universe. The example of the paper also correlates with the fact that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Every moment in time and every abstract moment before universal intelligence emerged from eternity possessed and was possessed by the law of conservation: energy can neither be created nor destroyed.

The Black Mind's emergence from three stages of darkness was facilitated by way of a fixed point of origin. Perception/Realization/ Awareness have always been present. Material reality manifests from a fixed point, proving knowledge is the foundation. Prior to the material universe the energetic contents of the universe were bound to an eternal singularity(Knowledge). The emergence of the singularity is what many call the big bang or Allah manifesting from Triple Darkness.

The point of origin is a manifestation of a degree of time and thus there always has been and always will be a degree of awareness present in the universe. Understanding consciousness through time is Self Realization and thus randomness is an illusion. Randomness falsely tells us that the universe and the universe's origin are stupid, which is an emphatic now cipher. Randomness only appears to be random because a branch of math has yet to be discovered to systematize the illusory chaos of this so-called randomness within space-time. Nothing is random-reason is pervasive in everything. One reason is that Y is an integral component of X and X is an integral component of Y and thus in every unknown a 'why' is underlying, even if the reason 'why' is unknown at any given time.

Peace

Emblem