As unto the Lord...
Years without a song to sing.
I am felt. I am necessary. The work I do is on time. The career I craft is natural.
When will I feel fully that I am enough?
I am awake at 4:02am determined to focus on my art practice. Not an early riser, rather I hoped the night would give me a boost of confidence to face the mountains before me.
There are works to create and words to write yet I look at my life in stillness. I have spent the day content with the battle I deserve. I deserve the karmic reality of my behavior. My shortcomings must transform. I need new ones. I must to overcome these challenges. It is time.
Years of crating a poem that ended up on a museum wall.
How did this happen? I am achieving something beautiful. I am asking for what I would like and sitting in disbelief as days unfold. I am living a purpose I whispered my dreams and my darkness to. For years.
Years to learn to recognize solid ground.
Years remaining, God Willing, to be participate and be valuable to those around me.
Years of wonder and contemplation have led me here. Let there be years of creation and completion.
No resolution. Movement made onwards and forward.
Please dear God, direct my focus onto my narrow path. Let my pleading cease. Allow my faith increase.
Let me create in a new day. Wake me from my sleep in the coming hours. Let the work flow through me
as unto the Lord
When I think of my life, I honestly would not know the existence of certain states of minds without knowing them personally.
There are words and there are spaces. I have a body wishing to flow uninterrupted towards her desires.
The bible—translated and rewritten—says, “But I discipline my body and bring it into subjection, lest, when I have preached to others, I myself should become disqualified.”
Ok, wild thought here. What if discipline is MORE good, rather than less bad. More, more, more more more. Sharpening my iron against another--allow the imagery to be sexual and non-sexual cause the result is always more life :P--learning how to flow with the qualities I cherish in human bodies, the things that make me feel free, open, vibrant, full, alive! I want to feel goooooood. I want to do good. I don’t like my mind nor the world when I am chastised and punished until I, like child at chalkboard, fill my mind with thoughts that say, “I will not…” or “I shall not…”
I want to feel good in the words and the spaces. Ok, I recently met someone who is so comfortable with themselves and all the ways they are who they are. I am getting close with a friend who is so joyful and faithful to her work. I have taken time away from friends who are wild in their approach where I am tame or inconsiderate towards the themes in life I am deeply tied to. More time apart. Rather than less of them. More time to process. Never less love for them. More living where it matters most to me. Less sacrificing of my time, energy and love in environments that make me less less less, less less less.
I question if questions of worthiness have been backwards. If questions were coincidently quiet demands.
Is the work good enough for my effort? Is the community a good fit for my temperament, my bitterness, my healing, my anger, my disposition—will I be sentenced to a life of applications. Of constant waiting to reveal the worthiness of my disposition. Will the answer to my fate await me within a package or an envelop? How much distance makes my attempts seem futile? Why have I tried to enter locked doors? Why have offers of love spoken to me from closed, haunted hearts? Why did I think brokenness led to healing? Maybe this confusion ain’t faithful protest, maybe I am deconstructing artificial homes cemented by my attention. Maybe acceptance isn’t a theory, cause it finally feels so real that I can’t deny it.
I am thinking about what feels good.
Questions have felt so goood to me for years. Like lubricant, like sweetness, like longing expectation. They were more real to me than the dead ends. They made more sense than faceless heavily-marketed demands to figure out who, what, why, when, where, how I could be sacrificial catalyst for others.
I said loudly with each movement of my body in the direction of my truth: "Who, what, why, when, where, and how is this world mine?"
Who are my people--my equals? Who can I serve in this world as a mirror? Letting our instincts flow uninterrupted. For our work to fuel and recharge one another. One who’s corruption does not harm me, one who I can pull back from edges, one who sees possibilities in the dark spaces and doesn’t expect me to explain myself or offer myself plainly for their clarity. One who trusts me to decide without constant exhaustive tiring making-me-sick-and-unstable explanations. Bout my voice, my existence, my discomfort. My breaks, continuations, my speaking and living.
I want to stop. I want to be. I want to do what feels good.
I want to break skin like an animal and I want to outgrow unwalled paths like plants do.
I have felt so alone in my life and finally in this work, this art-making, when I am alone, I crave others. Truly, truly, truly in ways never known to me before. Not from doubt, not because loneliness, but out of desire. I crave others. The experience of people. I want to see people laughing close to me, their bodies near to my own. I want to experience the warmth of their skin, their blood, their breath. This work has brought me close to life. The times I am alone, I count down til I can be around others again. To learn more. The human form is like a chamber, with levels to unlock, bridges to cross, and love to open. For this, I am so thankful. To have a body that is mine, all mine to move and use and think through. And with tears willing to flow from joy because people feel good to me. After what felt like nightmare, like never-ending uncertainty, bodies feel so good again. Pain and trauma have a lease run out—what I want has once born from insecurity—to be alone and safe from harm—is done. I love to be challenged and disciplined by humanity, by connection, in this language of life, visible through a sight that has always been here.
I feel free. I feel good. I am doing what is good.
(there may be those who are seeing me become free in a way they cannot control and please know that your bad vibes ┐(‘～`；)┌ can be felt and will be avoided yeeeet ᕙ(⇀‸↼‶)ᕗ )
The embrace of a true friend is enough glory to overwhelm all the time spent in close quarters being unknown with another and the ideas of another.
This weekend, I gained at least 10 lifelong companions—all our ancestors are homies—while asserting the availability of my genuine and irrevocably sweeeeeeet artistic strength. Feeling loved and allowing my mouth to open with ease, metaphor, and praise. Jah bless.
This weekend, I began my fellowship as an Independent Scholar for the Carr Center, working alongside resident artist Carrie Mae Weems in none other than Detroit, Michigan. Jah bless.
Perhaps I will write Jah bless to conclude each paragraph? The sentiment is true enough to be repeated yet able to continue and flow uninterrupted.
It is so simple to be interesting for a while. To let love burn a flame for a while. To speak openly for a while. It wears off though. Unless the flow can exist uninterrupted. I, on a balancing step, position my words knowing there is a particular melody I abide in yet also seek to contradict. I am exhausted of that which cannot continue. Exhausted.
My moments are brim with joy and it is so quiet I feel it setting down territory, laying the plans for a crawl space beneath my visibility to exist beside a closed eye. I feel the peace of timed exit, how my spirit shakes me with clarity to remove this body from thieving desire. I trust and feel the protection of my Creator and publicly I shall preserve my reverence for His patience and commitment to the mystery.
Mystery ain’t magic, ain’t lifted and revealed upon a cloudy day, ain’t loud, fast talking, slow walking, peering, back breaking nor achin’—mystery is present, still, obvious and intentional that it is a changing thing. A living thing. An open thing. A beautiful thing. A terrifyingly natural thang.
So I will surely write more on this blog but I gotta give space to this thing within me that is so lovely and so still and so quiet, timelessly living within me, healing me, speaking me into the arms and hearts of kindred love. I gotta start this blog honoring a peaceful body whose faith is transforming into trust. My body. My body. This body that chose me. Me.
(re) define : Absolute advantage, as defined by the The Economist:
“This is the simplest yardstick of economic performance. If one person, firm or country can produce more of something with the same amount of effort and resources, they have an absolute advantage over other producers. Being the best at something does not mean that doing that thing is the best way to use your scarce economic resources. The question of what to specialise in--and how to maximise the benefits from international trade--is best decided according to comparative advantage. Both absolute and comparative advantage may change significantly over time.”
Absolute advantage, as redefined for a woman uncontained.
The decision to use a woman’s own creative gifts, talents, and inherent capabilities for beneficial results to her life such as the economic stability and financial independence of herself, her family, and her community. By supporting her own life with the effort and resources available, a woman receives the initial seed benefit and resulting fruitful experiences. The process and journey to a more intentional and personal usage of creativity is unique and fundamental to self respect, self love, and a sense of peace. Throughout life, she must adjust how she uses her energy.
ex. spending hours writing poems to perform for other // learning the words to communicate with her mother and develop new bonds as they begin to develop a foundation for an adult friendship.
ex. creating images for the approval of others // decorating the spaces of her inner landscape and private rooms to sustain an adaptive, energizing, and carefree space.
ex. minimizing her natural responses to appear more acceptable to other // finding the environments where her intuitions and desires are welcome, wanted, and respected.
No matter what a woman produces, when her how is used to serve the world and includes herself as a viable priority, she receives the maximum joy, jazz, and journey resulting.
My first blog post is on the creative environment. The conditions of maintenance and the discretion of distinction. The merging of professionality to the personal amidst an emerging economic industry.
Where is the place of a woman? As the artistic possibilities grow amid the changing of times, I reflect on the emerging sentiments and ideologies of artists, creatives, and writers to establish a place that is neither understood, deemed acceptable, nor accessible to the world. Here, I find other young women who desire the fruits of creative while beginning to take part in a monetized world, where value has a number, and risk comes with knowable consequence yet imaginative possibility. I am discovering and creating the place in which I will belong, a la James Baldwin.
I reside in the Palm Beaches, a landscape of abundant naturality and business driven governance and cultural planning. I want to learn more about this process, hence why I have created this blog.
I want to share the journey of a woman who amidst the crossroads of formal education, informal art making, scholarship, confusion, ignorance, boldness, and faith is choosing to create art through the daily insignificance. I want this blog to be a space for discovery, criticism, and possibility.
I am decided my identity is divided among the thousands of choices, challenges, and decisions given to me and that my harvest will overflow only from the enclosures I set.
I am interested in life, in living, in awakening, and sustaining the bonds each generation has fought to find and prolong for our survival. Here is my fight to pursue the forces that define my life using the tools of my disposal. Color is the sign of life and through my work, creative and professional, I want all I create to be filled with the colors I know to go beyond the boundaries, the hues and vibrancy that are uncontained.
How does a woman create joy within herself?
There is a solitude of space
A solitude of sea
A solitude of death, but these
Society shall be
Compared with that profounder site
That polar privacy
A soul admitted to itself --
How does a woman create jazz within her community?
For Black Poets
Who Think of Suicide
Black Poets should live — not leap
From steel bridges (Like the white boys do.
Black poets should live — not lay
Their necks on railroad tracks (like the white boys do.
Black Poets should seek — but not search too much
In sweet dark caves, not hunt for snipe
Down psychic trails (like the white boys do.
For Black Poets belong to Black People. Are
The Flutes of Black Lovers. Are
The Organs of Black Sorrows. Are
The Trumpets of Black Warriors.
Let All Black Poets die as trumpets,
And be buried in the dust of marching feet.
How does a woman create her journey within the world?
“I wanted to fight with the weapon that I had and they were not the weapons of the streets; they were the weapons of high culture--and I thought I could do it. I thought about this character that I was and I realized that I was not alone, that there were young women like me all over the world all over the world. And that this business of being overly educated, overly well brought up etcetera, young black woman, young black man, then that finding themselves completely made invisible--do you understand? That that condition was shared and that I could bring the understandings that I had gained from that position to bear on what I thought were the really rather ridiculous arguments for keeping us out.”
The crossroads between professional development and purposeful fulfillment has left me reluctant to name itself and there declare the other.
This incoherence assumes a poetic disposition but alas my clarity must appear to distinguish the basis for this blog. Hmm, I have used blogs before, closely and from afar for years and today I encounter this tradition again--a telling escapade of personal understanding, discovery, and journey through narratives and analysis.
For this blog, I want to chronicle the development of my scholastic and creative ideas and work.