If someone had told me I’d spend a few days immersed in a ritual of forgiveness to others and myself, I would’ve looked at them like, “Huh?… What in the world are you talking about?”
That look has been granted towards people and environments for many things, but forgiveness? That’s different. A subject I feel isn’t talked about enough. A subject I feel like speaking on a bit in this moment.
And trust… it’s only for a bit. Just a little piece of information that has come to me while in my genuine pursuit of forgiving. I will not hold you!
Forgiveness is for oneself. Forgiveness moves your life forward. In order to truly forgive, you must know why. Forgiveness comes from a deepened consciousness. Forgiveness comes from compassion. Forgiveness may include remembering, or not remembering. Or choosing not to remember. I think that’s up to the individual.
When I say “I forgive,” I give up the previous version of someone or something. When I forgive, I no longer harbor. When I forgive, I heal. When I forgive, I feel the shifts. When I forgive, I do it for me, to repair what I’ve lost, to slow down time. When I forgive, I understand why, and even as I’m immersed in it, it feels easy to say these words, but they are comfortable and uncomfortable at once. And the reason it’s uncomfortable is because I haven’t said them enough, because I’ve harbored so much.
So from this moment forth, I strengthen my resolve to forgive.
I strengthen my resolve to forgive others.
And I strengthen my resolve to forgive myself.
There’s something on the other side when I forgive.
And if this resonates, this is for you too.
There’s something on the other side when you forgive.
I prepared breakfast and routinely looked out the window to watch the busloads of kids walk off into the school building and the parents making drop offs. It’s a radiant morning. A big blessing for the kids because they don’t have to be subjected to construction workers making constant noise during their studies, like we did throughout the summer. Thank Spirit for the peace after the storm. Thank Spirit the streets got in order for these children.
It’s one of my favorite rituals, the first day of school. I ain’t got no children, but there’s something joyful about watching the students begin another semester. When I stepped out with my coffee and quinoa (yes, I had quinoa this morning), the autumn winds teased as the buses and cars kept coming. And I take part in it because the first day of school signals the beginning of a new year, a way that differs from New Year’s Day. It’s about getting the mind back to work. And for a moment, I felt sympathy for these children already gathered in the school.
Plenty changed during the summer. Plenty changed for them. And quite possibly, things changed in the school. Things have changed in the world, the city. There are anxious, curious souls with questions and determinations about what’s going to happen next, what this year will be like for them, if anything else will be threatened, or come apart.
They are wondering. They are questioning. They are scared as much as they are excited.
This time of the year also marks the 8th time I’ve witnessed different classes of students come into this school. And I realized some of the ones I’ve seen have likely already graduated college.
I see myself in them, the frustration of having to get up early, the worry. For some, there’s the performance of confidence, the fatigue from a long commute before 9 am. But you know what I also see? What they reflect back to me? Every single one of them has a strong sense of freedom and individuality. This particular school next to my house encourages that.
Freedom and individuality.
They may be the students, but they teach. They teach me. And I hope they teach some other people in the neighborhood. They are leading the way.
The student in me is happy about that, the student in me who experienced 15 first days of school which ranged from happiness to misery. 15 different students have gathered in my body, enjoying quinoa and coffee to tell the student I am now… “It’s the first day of school. Even for you.”
There’s a school building across the street from my home. It has a playground area, now largely silent due to the summer vacation that’s just begun. Alongside summer, we in Baltimore have been greeted with a heat wave that feels like scenes out of Do the Right Thing.
The summer depicted in that movie happens every summer in many Black cities and neighborhoods. It’s unfortunate that this truth still resonates over 30 years later. It strikes harder knowing that a Black man was killed by the police in Baltimore last week.
Bilal Abdullah. Many people knew him as a kind, warm arabber. I just watched some of the news. Police released bodycam footage. And I don’t like this one bit. It’s the same old story. Look, he had a gun. We proved it. Their showing this footage to the public repeats the same old violent belief: Black people deserve to get killed if they’re wielding guns.
I see Bilal Abdullah… and in this footage, he is a Black man fighting for his life, defending the planet that is his body. That’s his story. Black people have a right to defend their bodies. Black people have a right to autonomy. Even against the damn police. And Bilal Abdullah should still be here.
38 rounds from the police versus 3 rounds from Bilal Abdullah. It’s obvious who was the aggressor. It’s more than clear who was in the wrong.
Bilal Abdullah should still be here with his family, doing the sacred work of giving fruit to his people. Nothing will ever change my mind about that. Nothing.
In another part of the country, Cincinnati, Ohio, Laura Schueler is murdered. Two weeks ago, another Black trans woman left the earth by yet another gunshot. I’ve only read one article on her and I hope I find another that tells me who she was beyond a murder victim because Black trans women who are murdered are more than a collection of murder victims, more than statistics, more than numbers.
What is your story, mother? Auntie? Sister? Cousin? Teacher? Goddess? Fuck what the news reports. They follow a script anyway. Same old, same old. They think it’s a service to the people that loved her, that she loved… but it isn’t. A script isn’t solidarity. A script isn’t justice. I hope someone knows her story so she won’t be forgotten. Someone alive knows Laura Schueler. Someone alive knows her story and will tell it.
And there are other things… wars… conflicts… episodes of Amerikkkan fascism… It’s all so much. The bombs were falling before the physical ones landed on the soil. Yes, you can feel the impact thousands and thousands of miles apart.
I came across an alchemist who had the audacity to upload an Instagram video saying, “I don’t give a fuck about that war! Ain’t no war over here! Look at where I’m at! Ain’t nothing but love and light! If I don’t look at my screen, ain’t no war going on.”
FOOLISH! How foolish can you be? And selfish! And WRONG. He received an unfollow from me. Because it makes no sense for one to present themselves as caring about the spiritual and metaphysical, but don’t give a fuck about war.
You should give a fuck about war. War should break your heart. And you don’t need to watch a war to know it’s happening. War… is all around us. Even quietly. War starts as a thought, a premeditation, and it has effects on all of us because we are all here.
With all the tragic spiral, I still left my house to go to the playground on Sunday. It was necessary. I thought it was just to see myself… to be with myself… but it was also to be with the earth.
It was, and is, so fucking hot.
And as the heat progressed, I remained in the effort to know what I had to get from a Sunday afternoon grounding. As I took my shoes off and scrubbed my feet in the dirt. As I laid my hair in the earth’s hair, the grass. As I listened to the buzzing of cicadas and insects. As I became.
And I remember in my 20s what it was like when I learned about the Emanuel AME Church shooting… when I learned about Pulse Orlando… when I learned about any Black trans woman killed in any part of the country… when I learned about Trayvon Martin… and Freddie Gray… and Alton Sterling… It all made me not want to live.
All of it… All of them and more… The ongoing wars that we and our communities have to fight. Back then, it made me not want to live. Who would want to? I used to think that.
When I rose up, still grounding, that’s when the ground spoke. Life is always going to be here.
And I looked around. Every flower. Every blade of grass. Every small clump of dirt. Every ant. I was surrounded by life. My eyes magnified from where I sat, zooming in and out, creating different sizes of space while sitting still and not moving.
Life is always going to be here. That’s how we’ve sustained. There will always be life.
And when I was grounding, I wasn’t thinking of crisis or catastrophe. Or the world ending. Or who got killed. Or worried. Or wondering if I was going to make to the end of the day. Or see tomorrow. I was just told life is going to be here. And I needed to be told that… to remember how to fight.
Because once upon a time, I gave up fighting. And if I ever give up again, I might as well be dead because the experiences are synonymous with me.
So that quote was derived from something Mother Jones said… “Honor the dead and fight like hell for the living.” I fucking get it now… just like I’m finally getting a lot of things.
I would like to make one slight amendment… Fight like hell for yourself too. Because you are part of the living.
I know there will be days of fatigue… of wishing for an immediate betterment… of a roaring rage. But somewhere in it all is a passageway to freedom on the daily, which leads us to the ultimate freedom from all these systems and regimes and world orders and respectabilities… and overall bullshit.
Life is always going to be here. Find it wherever you can. Be it wherever you want. That is a key to freedom.
Good Morning Friends, Community, Comrades, People… and Bitches and Motherfuckers,
Consider this statement the birthday speech! Here we go…
It’s the 3rd day of Black Liberation/Pride Month and my 4th day of my 35th year on Earth. In the days leading up to my entrance into this year, it became more clear that I had a lot to say that couldn’t be properly summarized in a few social media posts.
34 was an immense closure. Many doors automatically closed. Many doors I had to work to close. And as those doors were closing, I found myself claiming the age of 35 a few months prematurely. Because that’s how I was feeling. The development of a new skin, the heightening of an attitude that has always wanted to storm from my bones.
Once upon a time, I didn’t think I would make it to 27. Then 30 came and I was shocked I got this far. For a little while, I thought, “what the fuck am I doing here? what kind of sense does this make?” Apparently there were more puzzle pieces to gather. Such is life.
But making it to 35? It’s the debunking of a myth. Not just of the widely reported, anxiety-inducing, and fabrication of the life expectancy of Black trans women in the United States. Arriving here debunks the entire myth and lie that was sewn into my life, my psyche, and my spirit.
That I was always supposed to be dead. To act dead. To perform and project death.
The door opened to 35. And I believe it was age that I was always supposed to reach.
BEHOLD… MY SECOND ACT, BITCHES!!!!!!!!!!! EVERYONE KNOWS THE SECOND ACT IS BETTER THAN THE FIRST IN LIFE!!
I’ve reflected on the lives my people have lived, including many of the people I don’t know in my bloodstream. There’s a heavy history of not being able to achieve a second act because of trauma, pain, violence, abuse, fear, internalizations, hurt… so much hurt… unable to truly locate the God within themselves. But what has kept me together, somehow, is the fact that I am someone’s manifestation of existing in this lifetime.
I AM SOMEONE’S MANIFESTATION OF EXISTING IN THIS LIFETIME. HOW ALCHEMICAL CAN YOU GET?…
As another sun rises over Baltimore, it is another confirmation of having entered the other side. I have made it to a place I never thought I’d get to – the years where I choose to live the best life, to do the impossible, to defy gravity, to… What’s something higher than flying? Whatever that is, THAT THING!
Everything… had to be burned down for me to arrive here. And when you burn it down, you don’t look back.
For those of you who grew up in the church, you probably know the song: We will tell the story of how we’ve overcome and we’ll understand it better by and by…
I am blessed to be here. I am honored to be here. And I’m incredibly thankful to the leagues of Ancestors, Family, Friends, Community, Lovers, Comrades… Yes, and Bitches and Motherfuckers… who have loved me, taught me, cared for me, witnessed me, and read me for filth…
LOOK… I’m not sorry… THE HEALING ERA IS THE UNHINGED ERA. Y’all may not believe this but I actually forgot how unhinged I am (thanks COVID, you trifling nervous bastard!)… so I’m making up for lost time!!!
*inserts moment where I chuck an invisible Grammy into the stage floor*
I ain’t done yet. My grandmothers in heaven say I’m not done yet. The Ancestors say I’m not done yet. Spirit says I’m not done yet. They all say, Child, this is just the fucking beginning!
And with all of that being said, you truly have not seen anything yet. And if you are reading this, thank you too. I hope to see you again here. You might buy my next record or service… or you might catch me in your city. Who knows? We have the ability to change any and everything, do anything, between birth and death. In between all of that is LIFE.
My soul says to write. I must write. All morning, I have said to myself that I must write. I must write. I must write. I must write. How did I get here? I wrote. How did I get to this moment? I wrote. Who told me I was a word witch? A sister. Do I believe I’m a word witch? Yes. I got here because I wrote. I wrote my story. I write my story. Actively, I’m writing. I can never stop. I must write.
My soul says to write. My heart says to write. My mind says to write. My body says to write. My energy says to write. I must write. I must write. I must write. I must write. I must write. Writing is a lifeline. It’s a soul line. I cannot stop writing. I’ve given up writing before. I can’t give it up again. I must write. Writing is a means. Writing is a currency. Writing creates my life. Writing saves my life. Writing the truth is freedom. I must write. I must write. I must write. I must write. There is no question about it. I must write. I’m a writer. I cannot stop writing.
My soul says to write. My mind says to write. My body says to write. My feet say to write. My breasts say to write. My energy says to write. To write. To write. To write. I must write. My consciousness says to write. I must write. I must write. I must write. There is no pause. There is no delay. There is no pause. There is no delay. There is only abundance. There is just my words. My visions. My roads. My directions. My intuition. My faith. My ongoing. My rivers. Ever abundance. Always flowing. Never stopping. Never danger. Always a flow. Always a groove. Always a rhythm. Always a rhyme. Always a flow state. Always a flow. Always a flow. Always a groove. Always a dance. I must write. I must write. I must write. I must say the thing. I must write.
Gotta say the thing. Gotta do the thing. Gotta practice the thing. Gotta get out the thought. Gotta get out the word. Because the word has always been with God. I have the word. The word is within me. I must write. I must write. I must write.
How did I get here? I wrote. How did I get here? I wrote. How did I get here? I wrote. How do I live? I write. How do I keep living? I write. How do I dream? I write. I must write. I must write. How do I keep going? I write. I write. I write. Like my tattoo says, I write. I write. I write. I must write. Laugh at me all you want, I must write. Taunt me all you want, I must write. Question me if you want, I must write. Writing is my energy. Writing is my alignment. I must write. I must write. I must write.
How did I get here? I wrote. How did I learn to write? I was taught. And when I was taught to write, I was taught to read. Who wrote? My grandmother wrote. My grandmother wrote futures and dreams for her grandchildren. She had the dreams. Still has the dreams. Passed the dreams along to me. I must write. I must write. I must write. She taught me to write. She taught me to write. She taught me to write. I write because of her. I write because of them. I write because there were writers in my blood who needed to write, so I write because I want to write. I write because I need to write. I write because I must write. I must write. I must write. I write because my grandmother wrote. I write because my grandmother knew I needed to write. She knew I needed to write. She probably didn’t understand what I was saying but she knew I needed to write. She saw the writer and made sure the writer was born, so she wrote, she wrote, she wrote, she wrote. She wrote all the stories she could. She wrote all the dreams she could. She wrote what she wanted to. She wrote in a prayer, an ongoing prayer, a prayer that was a connection between her and God, like a walk with Esau and God, and they never stopped talking, and they never stopped walking, just like she never stopped writing, just like I can’t ever stop writing. I can’t put my pen down. I can’t stop typing the keys. I can’t stop the relationship with my words. I must write. I must write. I must write. I must write everything down, just like she taught me, just like she told me. I write everything down.
I must write. I write everything down because I’m attuning my frequency. I write everything down bceause I’m changing the world. I write everything down because I’m changing my world. I write everything down because I’m changing and I’m change. I must write. I must write. I must write. I must write the damn thing down, no question about it. I must write. I must write. I must write. I must write. There is no pause. There is no stopping. There is no break. There is no abomination. All there is is my writing and her writing. And we are writing together. And there are other ancestors who wrote, even if it was just there name a thousand thousand times throughout their lifetimes. I must write. Like she just had to write. Like they just had to write. Because they had the access to write. And many of us couldn’t write or read because if you did, it was punishment. If it wasn’t the Bible, if it was an oration of scripture, if it wasn’t the tongue of white man God tongue, you were punished, you were beaten, you were traumatized, you were whipped, you were put in the place of a slave. And I must write.
I must write for the desires, the suppressed desires, the longing dreams to be able to hold a pen and make your own way. I must write for those that dreams to write their freedom papers and keep them next to their hearts. The freedom papers that the white man didn’t have to ask for. The freedom papers that didn’t contain identification. The freedom papers that only mattered between them and us and heart and God and spirit. I must write. I must write the damn thing. I must write for them. I must write for her. I must write for myself because writing changes things, just like prayer changes things, just like faith changes things, just like practice and praxis changes things, just like love changes things. I must write. I must write my way to salvation.
How did I get here? I wrote. How did you get here? You wrote. I wrote. I wrote. I wrote. I wrote. I wrote. I wrote. I wrote. I wrote everything down, even when my mother withheld and trashed paper, even when my mom made up lies saying too much paper will burn the house down, like what the fuck. Her traumatized self could never hold me back because I still found the paper. I still found the pen. I still found the pencil. I still found the chalk, the marker, the pen, the pen, the pen, any pen, any paper, any book, anything, I found it. I always found it. I will always find it because writing is everything to me. Writing is a life line. Writing is a soul line.
It’s the second day of October. I’m in my overgrown garden, present with the air and gazing upon the plants yet to be harvested. My physical energy, at this time, doesn’t allow me to work my body in the abundance of greens, some of them decaying into yellow, some already surrendered to the browns. My cat, Mozeet, rests and loafs on my sandals as I sit atop a tree stump that has always found me comfort and grounding. As I sit, a thought strikes me, yet it’s not a new one. It’s the same thought that’s struck me plenty of times over the summer recently passed and in the season-changing weeks leading up to the beginning of Hoodoo Heritage Month: The Matrix isn’t meant to be my primary residence.
The thought nestles softly in my brain on an introspective autumn morning as I commune with the spirits on the land I’m learning to steward. As I gather my belongings and motion Mozeet to follow me inside, I already know the earth on which my feet are walking, the breeze flying above my head, the rest I feel in my body, all of these blessings were not sent from the Matrix. No, none of them are man-made, always been here, longer than any of us have existed in this realm. And when I go back inside, I know I still won’t be in the Matrix. In fact, the moment when I have to prepare to be in the world by putting my clothes and shoes on, packing items in my purse and/or backpack, and selecting which mask I want to wear, that’s when I go to the Matrix.
The Matrix isn’t fictional, and it isn’t just a movie franchise. Most of the world lives in the Matrix and isn’t aware they do because of their occupations, their responsibilities, and their obligations towards the functions and order of this world we are taught are needed. That means it’s working. The Matrix is determined to keep us distracted from true freedom by providing us with the construction of an alternative, man-engineered reality to keep us in line and to obey the standards of white supremacy. If we don’t give our obedience, we are either punished or eliminated. We face persecution, imprisonment, or death, in both the metaphoric and literal senses.
My copy of Webster’s Dictionary defines matrix as “that within which something originates or develops.” I now know I was born a slave, not into slavery, but as a slave to the system that is housed in the Matrix. My understanding of the Matrix consisted of multiple places: the home I was raised in, the school district I graduated from, the church in which my spirit was supposed to be cared for, the friends I claimed as friends, and the city I spent the first 2 ½ decades of my life in. Everyone’s perception of the Matrix is different yet linked to the same construct, a monument of control and deceit.
To tell the story of how I escaped the Matrix would be an exhaustive feat. I’m sure I got started in this writing. Someone is curious. For the rest of the story, I would recommend staying connected and tuned to further writings and creations. Most of my life’s narrative has been spent in the Matrix. I look back at the floating timelines, amazed at my departure and immersed in staredowns with the moments bubbled in doubt.
And now that I’m here, I can declare a few things about myself. I am an abolitionist. I believe in an Afroqueer, transfeminist, gender expansive, and accessible future. The future I dream of won’t be rooted in white supremacist and white mediocre directions. I also believe it is necessary to pop in and out of the Matrix until this is achieved, an identical strategy shared with traveling the Underground Railroad. We must travel between worlds, the Matrix and our spirit-made cities of freedom, in order to annihilate this devilish society we’ve grown accustomed to, both by choice and condition. There are many keys we hold to accomplish this.
On my bracelet, I hold the keys of creation, grounding, and resistance. I’m a breathing ritual of creation, and I surrender to the ground for medicine. Resistance, of these three acts, is the most delicious. Resistance is an immaculate container to hold all I strive for. Resistance is a chameleon with support from the keys of creation and grounding. The Matrix is a gigantic creature, a villain pouring into its own demise, a cop strongly rooted in its belief of destruction as victory. I am more powerful than the Matrix, no matter what it attempts to manipulate. It can’t have my soul or my mind. Nor can it flush away my invisible bottle of red capsules.
We have not entered a stage of catharsis. Catharsis is necessary. We are experiencing transient periods of relief. That is not the same as catharsis.
Catharsis is a requirement for the sustainability of humanity.
We have forgotten about catharsis. Many of us don’t know what it is.
The systems we have in place, the powers that rule, the powers that be, the authorities, all of them do not care to know or experience catharsis. Or rehabilitation. So why would they share interest or investment in such a thing? They are built to be distanced away from the indigenous, from the divine, from the ancient.
The systems inspire us to travel on conquests for power. To them, power is salvation and security. And once you have it, you can never lose. Systemic power is an illusion.
Systemic power and catharsis can’t exist and thrive in the same space. In order for catharsis to occur, systemic power has to surrender and dismantle. Which of these is easier? I believe that to be systemic power. Systemic power requires lies. It is fueled by falsehood. If it operated on truth, we would be experiencing a different reality as a collective of humans around the world. But systems refuse to stand in their truth, to acknowledge the truth, therefore, we have the lies.
And as victims of systemic power and oppression, we are indoctrinated to treat and abuse our bodies as active parts of the system. We work. We ignore. We avoid. We harm. The system teaches us to do that, and we are never taught to release, to rehabilitate, to correct, to heal.
Because what does the system care about healing? The system cares about its operation continuing, no matter who gets hurt in the process.
If the system continues to operate, if we continue to give allegiance to the system, to systemic power, to oppression, then we shrink the spaces for catharsis, for repair, for holiness.
And we can’t exist without holiness. Truly exist.
We exist in chronic devilish function or abundant holiness. You can only choose one of these paths. Holiness contains catharsis. And no matter the level of devilish function one is under, holiness can always be a choice or determination. Releasing and combating devilish function is an act of catharsis.
Choose catharsis. Choose release. More of us must choose catharsis in our own lives so that our world may enter healing. If we don’t, everyone suffers – you, me, us, the world.
I choose catharsis. I will always choose catharsis.
Again, we have not collectively chosen catharsis, or entered into it together. We need more individuals and smaller collectives and communities of people to do this.
How many problems do we have on this planet? In the areas we live, create, work, and play? How many oppressions do we have? Harms? Genocides? Ignorances? Prejudices? Misunderstandings? Disconnections? Abuses? Violences? Mistakes?
We keep choosing all of the above as a people. The system chooses it. The system will always choose the same thing until it can’t tower over everyone and everything.
The true answer lies in choosing differently, in choosing catharsis, in activating it for our future. And I understand the difficulty in grasping belief without seeing proof – the future has informed us catharsis is the choice. Our descendents have told us.
Therefore, you might as well choose it in this moment.
Choose relief. We will experience the same old, same old.
Choose catharsis. We will win for the rest of our existences.
“You can’t say, ‘One teaspoon of this, or one teaspoon of that.’ Like a musician, you improvise. It’s like being on a spirit plane; you put the proper things in without knowing why. It comes out wonderful when it’s done like that. If you plan it, it doesn’t work.” – Sun Ra
I found this quotation in a biography on the groundbreaking musician Sun Ra. It’s titled Space Is the Place: The Lives and Times of Sun Ra, written by John F. Szwed. This book has been in my possession, a giveaway from an old friend, and I’ve never traveled among the pages until now. If I’m going to listen to Sun Ra, and I do, then it makes sense to read about his life. Or lives.
At the start of a difficult morning, the book was in my bed. I grabbed it, performing an act of bibliomancy and said, “Turn me to a poem I need.”
The text doesn’t give the appearance of a poem. Yet what Sun Ra says is a poem. Additionally, it is guidance on how to write a poem. My request was answered.
In the preceding paragraph, Szwed states Sun Ra’s wisdom came from a moment when he was asked to share the recipe for a musician’s cookbook. And that’s what genius was offered.
Do you know how amazing this would have been to discover this teaching at the age of 28 when I was in the preamble stages of my experiments on piano? Instead of mentally surrendering to the falsehood I wasn’t doing anything right because I wasn’t “properly trained” or failed at my few encounters with traditional musical instruction via instrument? It would’ve been important to hear then. The seas of doubt had a chance to evaporate among the clatter of discordant playing.
In another world, I’m sure, I stumble upon the words of Sun Ra at that age, sitting at my piano, and the doubt is murdered.
But I found it this morning. The me I am right now, a Black person of transfeminine Goddexx experience in my mid-30s, preparing to shape my own musical artistry in ways I never have before. Regardless of how I feel about years past, Sun Ra’s offering was meant to be read when I discovered it.
This reminds me of a visit I had almost two months ago. I went to see a friend, Cunty MeMe; they are a brilliant musician. I hadn’t seen them in years and there was a window for us to see each other. During our time, I recall stating my confusion on where to take my music because I was overwhelmed with the multitude of directions. And you can’t move forward in all those sounds at once – something I remain struggling to keep in mind whenever I’m working on, or thinking about music. Cunty encouraged me to return to the drum, the djembe – I’m not even sure they knew if I had one but I do; her name is SojournerQuest. But whether they knew that information or not, it was a grand insight. The drum is the mother of rhythm.
My own maternal grandmother even told me that in her own way – when I was having strong anger issues, she said to use my drum.
I returned to the drum. Physically. A lot came out of it. Yet this confusion kept resurfacing. At this point, I continue to feel stretched out through all the directions my soul is calling me to take. My creative existence, a pair of legs stretching as far as they could, risking injury if I go one more half-inch.
I didn’t understand the real drum until writing this. I’m blessed to have my djembes. I’m blessed to have my percussion. Among these blessings of sound, the real drum I needed to return to was the drum of my creative life. That drum has always been affiliated with my own words.
Godthefuckdammnit… A way my life moves is by writing about my life.
Who the hell lied to me and said that the world doesn’t want to hear about my life? I lean towards the belief the lie was concocted in my head.
One of my boogeymen lied. That’s all boogeymen do. They defecate evil and they lie. And the residue stays behind if we don’t properly perform our maintenance.
In the closure of my 34th year, I have not only remembered that writing is my primary craft, which is connected to every other craft and gift I have, but that writing is the drum of my life. What I create matters. What I have to say about what I create matters just as much and is a root of my creativity.
I’ll be goddamned.
And as the rain falls down on another hump day where I know I need to practice gentleness with my body, as my cat sleeps at my feet, I bow in gratitude on the inside of myself for choosing great friends and mentors.
Because, chile, if you got them, use what they give you.
Venus Kii Thomas 