Keep Record.
How can you see yourself in the future if you don’t even see yourself in the present?
I grow tired of art that is self-reflective.
I want to build mountains. I want to create castles that jut into the sky along with ships that fly in a future that is colorful. There are Black people in the future.
I yearn to experiment. To link light with sound, sync synth with everyday rhythms of nature.
But all I keep creating is The Self. All I keep doing is looking inward.
The Self. The Self. The Self.
At every corner I expect something else, but it’s the same thing each time.
I find myself. Bent forward peering into the source; gazing into my origins stored in my navel looking for—I don’t know what, honestly.
How can you see yourself in the future if you don’t even see yourself in the present?
I crave to find a balance between art for art, and art for self-understanding. To build ships for misfits, and to understand why I can’t get past it all.
Balance, always balance. The quintessential Libra striving for balance when I really operate in extremes.
For once I’d like to not dive all in, or all out, of something.
Versions of me are pulling myself deeper inward, begging to be seen. The Self is powerful, their multitudes stronger than I anticipated.
The more I try to push myself out, the further I’m being pulled in. The deeper I go, so does my art.
Another sad poem.
Another depressing video.
Another performance where I’m crying onstage.
Explore. Explore yourself. Be curious.
On Friday my arms got tired of pushing. I succumbed to the pulling, allowed myself to be swallowed and swaddled.
A conversation with Muva Earth brought me to the source.
We spoke of the nature of things. Of myself. Of relationships.
Of anger. Of acceptance.
Of discovery.
My return was smooth, albeit with company. Pieces of me left all over the apartment.
On the way out, an interrobang caught in my mouth.
A guide.
A muse.
A recordkeeper.
I realize the interrobang is yet another version of me waiting to explore and create.