"It is not your fault, it is not my fault, that I write...

And I never would come before you in the position of a complainant for doing something that I must do..." James Baldwin [as heard in poet(Black bean) by R.A.P. Ferreira, FKA milo]

A month ago, Alex and Quill met up with me to make collages and zines. On our way home to do so, they inquired whether we should stop by in support of the protests that were occurring that afternoon. I said I would like to, but as I had not dressed for going out I was afraid of being seen as a douchebag and doing more harm than good. They both looked at me and politely asked me what I was talking about.

I started stammering something about how I was wearing my black silk sleep bonnet and my gold chains because they brought me comfort, that feeling cloaked with the love of my partner and my family was something I liked for myself but it wasn’t a look I wanted to bother anyone else with before stopping lamely. I knew they wouldn’t get it, because they knew me and how sensitive I am, and it is hard for them to comprehend an action I make as portraying the opposite.

I’ve told them often I don’t wear my Far Side sweater outside without something else covering it so that I won’t present someone with an image that I can’t couch with all of the context for my owning it and choosing to wear it. As a person who has a degree in Psychology, who strives to be considerate and accurate about portrayals of mental health, I couldn’t stand the possibility of reaffirming the stereotypes that have done people like me serious harm.

I would love to wear it more so I could engage more people outside of my circle about the valid critical viewpoints of psychoanalytic theory, psychiatry, and psychology, but the concern of unintentional harm is too great. If only I could wear an essay about it to as an accessory to my statement piece.

But that would mean I would have to accept my role as a writer, and with it all the same concerns of my harm in that position.

After several months of trying to find the correct way to engage with our systems, I have realized my mistake. I was too focused on punching the right button sequence to achieve a modest income, connect with peers and mentors, and serve my community without falling into the many traps of ego, capital, or playing to the feeling of outside eyes. In my desire to produce the correct response to my work, I forgot that process is just an important of a piece to the puzzle as my beliefs or personal philosophy. We should always question whether or not our actions are in accordance with what we want to be or see in the world, but I can not let that concern stop me from doing the things I Must Do.

I can only hold on to the illusion of being a writer that only produces things that have good at there center, can only be understood by there goodness, and are not waylaid by distractions of image or capital if I never write at all, and I cannot shake off the feeling of being an imposter through a choice not to write. And the Earth knows that only making art as a guilty relapse into compulsion is not the intended function of the areas I make in. Making, talking and thinking about art and music is a communal activity, and that only compounds for subjects like discussing the impacts and changes that should be made to our social constructions and political projects so that we can live with each other better.

At a certain point, it’s better to be the genuine fool then give the appearance that everything is composed, planned.

I am an unmistakably human kind of person, and it would be foolish to ever pretend otherwise. This admittance does nothing to dampen my ability to do the things I must, and in fact only adds to my strength. If I know I am weak to the compulsion of polemic speech due to my experience growing up in the toxic collective consciousness of the internet through the decades of the 2000’s, I can question myself in my use of speech. I can ask that we find better words and feelings to evoke.

At some point, when I have grown past the midwestern inculcation of apologizing reflexively, I will find it silly that I considered so much of myself as an embarrassment that needs to be hidden away. My idiosyncrasies, my passions and hyperfixations, my desire to go to the doors of my neighbors and ask to borrow a tablespoon of their brainspace to share my deepest thoughts with them. I cannot help but to write, cannot bear but to share, but, for now, can never duck the embarrassment of imposing my communication style on anyone outside of my closest friends. But, if I am to continue to exist, I must do what I am meant to, and hope that by trying to align my selves into a gentler whole I will be met with kindness, curiosity, and a dialogue aimed at mutual understanding.