Newsletter: Give A Fucks

I often struggle with remembering to breathe, a fundamental aspect of our existence. A prick behind my eyes signals impending tears; my throat tightens, and my nose stings. I'm moved by things in ways I can't fully comprehend—both good and bad.

Occasionally, laughter triggers tears, a momentary relief in feeling accepted. Yet, deep down, I care more than I admit; my emotions, like a wooden nose, have grown miles ahead, with a tree house built on its bridge by neighborhood children.

My internal dialogues resemble a toddler navigating truth-telling with a parent. Fear of ridicule or the need to apologize for feeling hinders my honesty. Why do emotions exist? I don't summon them willingly, and they often overstay their welcome, lingering like bad breath or a socially awkward friend. Ideally, I'd swiftly usher negative feelings out of my life, akin to expelling an intruder.

Feelings, at times, feel useless, unsolicited, self-created nightmares. A dream of a box, conjured by my mind, startles me upon opening, even though I'm the architect of the scene. Emotions surprise us, revealing different versions of ourselves like changing outfits. Choosing the right emotional "attire" for any occasion, akin to donning a metaphorical scarf and calling it happiness, becomes a skill not taught in school. Emotional regulation remains a taboo, a conversation reserved for private moments, resembling the discreet handling of personal matters in the bathroom.

Let's be brutally honest about our head standing tendencies. Ever get the urge to pull a ridiculous move mid-conversation or fabricate an elaborate tale about the secrets stashed in your drawers? Not the scandalous kind—more like the space where forgotten dreams mingle with rogue pens and half-baked project post-its. My junk drawer, a metaphor for dreams deferred, echoes the struggle between desires and the relentless call of financial, administrative, and capitalistic chores. If we laid bare the buried parts of ourselves, we'd realize our suffering isn't a solo act; it's a collective symphony.

Shifting perspective is key. Those abandoned dreams? Consider them archives of ideas that met their natural end and transformed. The uncompleted novel? It's not defeat; it's your evolving taste outgrowing past concepts. Art, like us, evolves, and some ideas need time to mature. Don't beat yourself up if that novel is still halfway done three years later; it just means your taste has refined.

Now, this perspective doesn't excuse slacking off. Artists navigate phases—inspiration, work, a block, and sometimes, contemplating quitting. Van Neistat's 'Artist Resentment and Gratitude Diagram' in "Why Veteran Artists Don't Quit" brilliantly captures this rollercoaster of emotions most artists ride while creating.

Commencing with the grand ambition of birthing "the thing," the artist vows to triumph over any hurdles. Next in line, meticulous preparation ensures no interruption due to lackadaisical material gathering – because no masterpiece was ever made with a shortage of glitter glue, right? Then, as the artist delves into the nitty-gritty work, resentment kicks in; the frustration of juggling success-related chaos (shows, press, interviews, networking, and the necessary evils of small talk). Cue the wall – that inevitable obstacle every artist encounters. While rookies might hit it and slump, seasoned artists scale it, chiseling through distractions to unearth inspiration on the other side. This brings us to the grand finale: completing "the thing." The last act? Appreciation, not just for the art but for the entire tumultuous journey – the testament to an artist's resilience and strength. For a raw and inspirational dose, check out the video here. It's a rollercoaster, but hey, what masterpiece wasn't?

Words Will Never Be Enough

a writers perspective

What is this? It has never occurred before. I am struggling to find words I concur. I find difficulty in assigning a thought to this emotion and call it a feeling, put it onto paper, make it a sentence, try to create a shape of it. In reality there are no words to describe the way I am feeling. Except there are...If I take long enough to try.

What I'm saying is what I'm not able to say, and that is that I'm saying the wrong thing. Over the course of the weekend I have discovered a depth within myself I had never explored, and it took "a little help from my friends." Subliminally, the universe has been masterfully painting a scene before me; and the canvas I am beholding is one which depicts a bright orb of golden light. If I look closely enough, I can almost catch a reflection of myself in its brilliant face of gold. Like pictures, I realized that there are simply moments that cannot be transcribed onto paper, no matter how hard we try. As though in an attempt to describe the color blue to someone who has never seen it before, I have been pulling at the deepest parts of myself, driving myself mad, incapable of applying meaning to a feeling. Even now I continue to dance around what I am trying to say, but because dear reader, I do not want to mess this up. I want to get it just right.

In order to get this right I have to go back...back New Orleans, a place with weary foundations but strong roots. Where the term 'southern hospitality' was coined on a front porch in St. Roch, and jazz was discovered. It is-and was-the mecca of soul searching, zydeco, and black magic women. Just up river, in Lil 'ol Mississippi, the blues were born and raised. Admittedly, jazz and blues are like cousins holding hands on a summer afternoon. New Orleans jazz is the kind of jazz that can be served alongside craw fish mac and cheese and po boys. The kind of jazz that makes grieving into another celebration, played and sung alongside Sunday dance lines. It is the jazz that draws you from the beaded streets of Bourbon to the French Quarter's Preservation Hall. It makes you spring to your feet, let a jazz cat swing you around the cleared area, giving you a yearning feeling of hearing it’s music the way it was played the first time. New Orleans jazz can only really speak through brass, bass, and heart. Sweet hep scarlet jazz has got soul, rhythm and:

"Hey-yo!"

"Hey-yo!"

...a lot to talk about. What I am trying to say is that there isn't one way to describe the feeling you get from the inside of a jazz club, there is too much history to begin with.

We are in the era, after a world apocalypse, where we have been granted three wishes, and nothing more: the chance to pay off our debts, the space to allow for suffering and reform, and the ambition to do the things we set out to do. We use our language to spin together these elaborate stories about our selves and our love, but those can fall short when there is no tangible proof of success. I no longer want to speak, I want to let the results of this success do so itself.

Let's go back up stream to Mississippi, where Jazz's cousin Blues sits lowly on the piano stool. Because I have not yet immersed myself within its birth place, I cannot set the same stage for the emotion it coerces. I have heard the blues. I have sung the blues. But have you ever heard of the happy blues? I was brought back to a place near the river, by the swamp, where the two states meet, and I can remember how hot that November was. There was a trumpet playing nearby, and a piano on the Mississippi shores, a sax within the trees, and someone singing under willow. It was a man by the name of Ernest. He makes his way to my music venue in San Francisco every Sunday after service, and sing us the blues. He sang us blues that reminded us of yesterdays and tomorrows and yesterday's tomorrows. In an improvisational jam, four men, from four different parts of this giant world, congregated outside before the setting gold sun-to preach the holy gospel.

I did not get down on one bended knee to pray, but instead to worship the feeling stirring up inside. Looking around I could see smiles and faces I had never seen before. Truth and spirit shone within each glistening eye of the small audience. Before the fleeting moment vanished I tried to remember the feeling of what it meant to be amidst this picturesque scene. I did so as a reminder that there was no where I would rather be than in the present. So that when times turned tough I'd know what I know now; about how smiling through the tears is not pretending (is not make believe), but instead it is lending hope to the future and the love that lives within it. Like the all knowing goddess she is, the universe kissed me atop my head, gently enveloped me within her rosy scented arms, and assured me of the beauty that perpetually exists within the world. I knew then what I still know now, that even if I told the story a million times to my nieces and nephews, I would never be able to make them feel like I did that day. For the first time in a long time I was listening, and this time I was finally beginning to understand.