So I am making it to three.
This is like day three or issue three or addition three maybe volume?
No, it's not a volume. This is… Who knows?
Maybe this will stay as this is or turn into something else. I guess you tell me.
You know, I don't know who hear these dispatches. Maybe these are just kind of what are the the person who did the project called innermade for four years. They said that this was a offering, that this was a time capsule, that this was a project in having a conversation with their younger self.
And, so I think about the selves we create, the selves we've been, and the selves we've yet to become and then, of course, giving up on the need to make of selves, not that it's good or bad to do otherwise, good or bad is kind of a interesting false argument. Just kind of like black and white.
They're both here.
It's what we do with them.
It's how we treat each other because of them, you know, the actions that we do, the intention that we solve.
I guess on this Friday and for some people to be Saturday and for other people to still be Thursday and maybe if you're reading this in some distant future, it's another day of the week that doesn't correspond with the day that this is recorded.
So, maybe days don't matter the way that they used to and maybe they really didn't. We just made them that way.
These little intro voiceovers are just ways of me having conversations with the folks that are paying attention and like this work. I like to thank y'all for just liking, subscribing.
Damn, I sound like one of those people.
Nah, I'm not gonna say that shit.
I'm just going to say thank you for vibing.
Thank you for riding along.
Thank you for doing a thing.
As promised, where is still continuing with the stalled series, the stall series. I love a good strike through. It leaves so many directions to go and also demands that one no longer go at least one direction, but the eyes don't do that right? The eyes read beyond the strikethrough. The eyes question the intention of even leaving the strike through. versus just admitting it altogether.
There's something interesting about the cutting room floor. There's something interesting about the places where we discard, and we say this isn't good enough because it might actually be better than we could possibly imagine and so in this piece, like many pieces, I deploy brackets and strikethroughs ways of playing with meaning and not just playing as in abandoning self, but playing with as in to say there might be more to it as if the first brush might be insignificant relative to the overall significance of what it may mean to you if you let it do that thing.
I'm also thinking about trying to be a voiceover actor. Like I'm thinking about throwing my hat in that ring. And I don't mean like, "Oh, I'm just gonna go do it, but, like, also, like, what I got to do record some demos, get some different voices. Do I have to sound like this?
“Hey, guys, come down to the theater! AMC!”
I don't know... I don't know.
Sometimes they often think we're just, we tend to be ignoring our gifts altogether and instead working on what makes the most money as if the two could be related, but they're not because, like, we're smart enough to try to keep our most precious possessions out of this system of capture. Hmm. Anyway. I'm rambling on, and that's kind of the point of these. just to have a place to ramble on into the ether. Let's see who likes it, see who enjoys it, see who follows it. See if I can follow a passion area all the way to something like a living Something like a life worthy of it. I mean, the most triggering thing you can tell somebody is being here is enough.
with love,
q.
stall[ed] - part two.
want[ed] walked away the other night
street lights lit midnight strolls with self-love
being a long side layers wishful thinking in
actionin’ togetherin’ when footsteps
impressed paralleled diverged never carried;
you me then us, [‘an impossibility’ chimed we]
a walk became deep sea
diving feeding oceans who harboured
undiscovered living in refracted moonlight
which is reflected sunlight; an expressed
starlight-lit galaxies whose dispersed
dissipates at depths buoyancy begins its
gravity fall pulled against floating; iii longed
for you when gravity made us weightless in flight
heavy, iii cried after joy lifted me gifted
us before iii held them yet this is not
then; now surrounded by unbreathable hope
nestled in bonds who suffocated us; ouí lil’us
until we float
a forgotten period
missed omitted overlooked
in a forest named for blanketed moss
warm me beside accumulated dew —how
the night cries mourning melancholies melody
loss
lost
want walked away the other night
became love; how hope let us float
again.
