My brain isn’t quite ready to turn off. It’s 4am. I hosted open mic tonight. It ended with a freestyle jam session with some lovely souls. I left feeling invigorated and reminded of my strengths and the light all around me in this community. I want to focus on building bridges in 2018, bringing the musical community closer and closer together, carving out spaces for queer and trans artists and supporting, allying, and uplifting artists of color. I see so much potential from KC’s young people. We’re all doing wonderful vibrant things in the community and I want to see myself and my peers hone in on what we’re good at, what we do best, and own that. Like my rapping for example: if I feed it and nourish it with intentional energy i can truly bring it to life in 2018. And I’ll still be writing but in a different form. I just want to not stress myself out, to know when to delegate, when to lead, when to back up and let others carry the vision. I feel so strongly about all of this. It touches the core of me. And it is from that core that all the abundance and success in my life has flowed. I am deeply grateful for all the opportunities in my life. All my friends. My incredible family. My father. Pete. Mazzy. Thomas. Lorelei. Austin. Helen. Desmond. McKaylea. I am grateful for my artistic talents and all the abundance and richness these gifts have brought me. I am a truly rich woman. And I am thankful. Thankful for my bed. My mom. Good chiefs football. Pink Floyd. Grateful for so much and somehow I feel something awakening in me, something blossoming, and I need not worry. I am blooming. And I am grateful and for this moment at least I am happy and at peace with who I am and how I fit into this strange strange world. I am ready to heal my wounds and reclaim my personal power and energy. I call all of it back to me now. Universe, show me the way into my true power. I am listening.
P.s. I like it sometimes when no one reads this so it’s just you and me. Writer and page. The most glorious combination in my life.
What do you want from me? Focus? I’m tired. I spend time on my phone so as to avoid the crushing sense of reality. I avoid work and stress myself out about it when i do do it. I sense a great gulf between who i am and who i want to be, and in that gulf a great deal of hard work i am eager to complete and equally afraid of beginning–or should I say deepening because the work of fulfilling one’s potential is a continuum and not a foot race.
I’m just tired and I came here to try and sort out this mess I call my head. But now I’ve forgotten the specifics. I had something in mind and I lost it amidst the tumult. The thoughts of Elie. The thoughts of Anna. The thoughts of work. And the murky things I am desperately avoiding.
The shadows lurk regardless of whether or not I look at them. And last night I sensed the absurdity of the whole situation–stressing about a set I didn’t play.
I am both invigorated and tired and scared of the future and the possibility that I crash and burn, that I realize I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m in way over my head.
I don’t know…
I’m just tired of being distracted.
Tired of feeling out of step with myself.
Ready to declutter my mind and figure out what I want to accomplish most this coming year–where is my art to take me? How can I move forward in my purpose? What is my next move? These are the questions I wish to know the answer to? How do I ground my dreams in the here and now? How do I leash this mind of mine, that wanders so quickly and so relentlessly?
I am an artist.
I am a strong artist.
I am a powerful artist.
I live embracing rather than fleeing.
I live in acceptance rather than denial.
I live in my whole heart rather than just its wounds.
I am sleepy now.
I can’t help but think of her when I braid my hair. And the day she taught me. Or the day she read me an angry poem about how I was stealing her identity. Funny how the interweaving of hair strands could arouse in her a fear of enmeshment. Meanwhile I was desperate to braid my hair every day. To give to myself what she could not: togetherness.
In the glow of my tiny square Brooklyn bedroom, atop my golden brown sheets with its pink polka dotted comforter, I feel the crawl of ancient endorphins up my spine. To sit with this pain—to see her lying asleep in the blue moonlight, her brunette tresses scattered like sunrays across the pillow—is an odd sensation, which in the scheme of things serves only my art. And as quickly as it appears, the vision dissolves. The reverie fades, and I am again present with myself.
Our stories weigh the longer we have carried them. In the throes of it, or even those moments of latent sadness, it seems so real, and so inert. A stone within us. There was a time when we ached to remember who we were, on the other side of our wounds. But the scars never fade. They instead become stories. Tales of times far gone. And we hold them to our breast like our mothers did with us.
Eventually, however, we wish only to close the door on those memories—to leave them where they lie—and, if we so desire, have a laugh at the absurdity of it.
Though not as if you’ve never
Touched the pink
Of your soul.
Either I’m not good at being alone or I just miss you. It’s probably the former but either way you’re in my heart tonight.