Open The Door...
Walk right on in.... Stretch out your arms....
“….Let the lovelight shine on my soul, baby
And let love come running in
You know that I needed you
I've needed you a long, long time
My pride is too much for me, baby
And I'm about to lose my mind” - Darrell Banks “Open The Door To Your Heart” (1966)
If judging from above, you’d think all I’ve done over the last year has been posing on 60 year old Chevrolets like a pin-up, a witch or both. There’s a lot I can say, probably will say, and a lot I won’t. I say this every fucking year when faced with the reality that I made it another year on this rock floating thru the universe. I look back in particular that Michael Wriston goaded me to write specifically about Philadelphia last August. I didn’t know that prompt would turn into a retrospective of maybe a few more layers of who I am. I had to sit back with the world I habited. I was so desperately trying to say goodbye to myself.
I found myself over and over again. I recognized where many times I’ve belonged to something greater than my selfish need for someone to hold my hand and tell me it was okay. There’s tellingly gaps in my own story I’ve had to fill in the last year. There’s darkness in bright places I’m not too sure how to write about yet. I’ve wondered how much of the terror of existing on your own will look to others so used to having the defenses of compulsive connection to rely on.
I’ve probably answered some questions. I’ve definitely prompted so many more with giving some back story behind the photos. I’ve made myself a little bit more real. I’ve made the size of the heartbreaks of my life a little too hard to ignore. I hope I’ve given enough explanation, after opening a little bit of a door to my heart that answers the “why” of so many choices, dreams and ambitions.
I’ll hit 44 years old, exactly, because the astrologer’s brain doesn’t rest, at 3:37am Pacific this June 5th. I was hoping this solar return (the moment the Sun exactly returns to the position in the sky it was when you were born) was gonna be a lovely Friday among the love among friends that surrounds me in Philadelphia. Instead, it’s a transition into the next year of life that I hope I’ll be sleeping through. The Moon will be standing in the center of the sky, in the sign of Aquarius (one of my least favorite) next to a invisible to the eye Pluto. Ask me to explain separately about myself or you or anyone you know but I think that’s enough.
I’m not gonna get a break from the relentless tumult of what my life has been ever since I wondered if the peace I felt in the unconscious, perhaps dying state I was in 40 months ago was my life ending at the age of 40. There’s probably not enough pictures of me to show the state of mind between being absolutely terrified that I live in this world, as this person, against this society. There’s none enough of me shrugging my shoulders and just getting on with it anyways.
It is turning into one last time for me to face the glamorous horror-comedy that is my life in Northern California. I have a happy hour with a section of life I’m hoping is sunsetting as fast as me being able to claim any stasis that isn’t middle aged. Janelle Monae doing a DJ set that might have been the ultimate Joanne-The-Scammer moment in the SF arts world for a Free Palestine reason was the reason the happy hour is still happening. We might as well drink to life as it dies at the edge of the world. May the bourbon I have burn away the debris at least in my throat. I hope the conversation doesn’t dovetail into what I’m cackling about. I wonder should I prod the conversation in the direction of Civic Joy Fund’s connection to Zionism?
There’s also the part of me that just feels too old and too tired to be the shit starter.
There’s the part of me that knows most of the people I’m around are grown. Too often these old dogs love the old tricks they do for self amusement. I’m not even the most Geminis of Geminis in the world, my chart has 5 veneers of Libra over it. Once I’m settled in North Philly, it’ll have 6 if you believe in relocated charts. I’m willing to kick that one prominent Virgo feature to the curb. I’m bored with the fact that my often well thought out shenanigans don’t inspire much in the way of direct action or collaboration to burn shit down from a host of observers.
Here I am. All I can trust is my ability to make a dollar and hold onto an old car. I sit in everyone else’s judgment that I can’t make a commitment. I’m pretty good at begrudgingly meeting obligations. I do have quite a bit of disbelief at how often others around me suffer under the weight of too many obligations. I bark back that the definitions of commitment and obligation are totally different. Before Google goes to shit, lemme pull both from Merriam-Webster:
Commitment (Noun)
A) An agreement or pledge to do something in the future.
B) Something pledged.
C) A promise to be loyal to someone or something.
Obligation (Noun)
A) Something one is bond legally or morally to.
B) Something that constrains.
C) To restrict to one particularly characteristic mode of life.
Commitment has sunnier synonyms. Dedication, loyalty, fidelity and allegiance litter the bottom of the web page. Coercion sticks out as pretty strident as I look down at the bottom of the obligation page. I remember a particular roof top conversation where the subject of obligations came up. It informed why I never did ask for, hoped for a commitment from the obligated source. I see obligations ruining lives and walk away, perhaps prematurely.
I’ve come to peace with some of the reflection at the top of the page told by the imagery through others eyes. I clearly want to have more opportunities to be coquettish, carefree and perhaps carnal. It’s surprising how easy it comes out when someone else takes the time to center me for a moment. I was honestly surprised at how obvious it can be. I’ve spent minutes that click over into months denying the truth of what a few images from last year actually said about me. Both are digital images yet I remember that they were done with the care, focus and lack of repetition that’s more a hallmark of film photography.
They aren’t the same technology used as I typically post in this space. Both were done with the same, perhaps more, intentionality as I do. There was a desire that others wanted to see me as they saw me. Both instances were sweet postcards to afternoons spent slowing down, giving hours to relationships. That is the core of why I’ve been so troubled, so slow, so meticulous about this particular crossroads in my life.
All I’ve got, the whole point of this existence, are the relationships I maintain.
The reward are those that still find a reason or need to still relate to my definitely not easy to box in self. The reward is the ‘right back atcha’ that I can offer. It almost always lingers in the joy of the shared image. I hope it’s always been a help. I hope it doesn’t sting too hard even if it is documenting pain and sorrow. The greatest thing I’ve got is when I’ve slowed down and made an effort to say “I see you” without saying the words.
There’s instances I can clearly see where it’s painful to see what I saw reflected back. We’re all not getting any younger. I might not have been in the middle of the pain, the target of hurtfully hurled words. I still see the distress. I too often capture it on Kodak. I hope that by keeping the words to myself, I’m making more space for others to speak the truth about themselves. I hope they understand the language and power of the image, especially when they share their vision of me. The only true love I know to give at the root is presence and acknowledgement. I try my best to meet everyone where they are.
Sometimes it doesn’t ‘work’ for me. I’m always open to trying to talk through difference to bring back a little bit of magic. It’s the only constant prayer I make towards anything more powerful or divine than I hold within myself. Imagery is my bible. What I can see makes whatever, whoever, whenever I had any faith a real moment. I’ve had to learn a lot about my own spirituality during my 43rd year of life. I’m hoping I’m leaving behind some type of gospel.
I say I don’t want to start shit, but I end up starting shit regardless. I’ve opened quite a few doors in the last year of life. A great deal of them have not swung shut. I’ve felt that it might be more respectful, more prudent that they would. I’ve decided to leave the door unlocked between thresholds. I’ll be here if you decide that home is where my heart is. My heart is gonna linger a little bit of everywhere with everyone I’ve loved. That much has been true as I’ve traced only a fraction of the heartbreaks in my life by walking over the same ground to talk to the ghost of myself from the past.
I let go of the fact that I should just have one home because I guess I’ve annoyingly taken up residence in multiple hearts. I hope it’s understood that there’s multiple seats at the table. I was also taught how to clean catfish and to pluck my own chickens. I’m able to still offer, as long as I breathe, presence and acknowledgment. I will always delight in making you a plate, giving you a hug or a kiss. Bonus points to you if you can catch me dropping my war armor and catch a smile.
You are definitely special if you do that.