It's tricky. I started a thing as a self-fulfilling small-scale coping project, but once the scale got larger, I caved to the pressure of making sure everyone felt welcome. It's a social justice thing I learned. Through desiring to be "communal", I ended up becoming uninterested because my creations no longer served the purpose that they initially intended to serve...which was to give me a way to channel my psychosis and prevent me from ruminating on how completely useless and pointless existence truly is (no athei-o)! Once my completely selfish act got owned by those who supported it, it no longer belonged to me. Things got out of hand fast and before I knew it, my gripe session became a demand from investors to produce "more of that" and an opportunity for complete strangers to call me a "bitch" and tell me to "stay in the car."
I could hear the voices saying "don't be arrogant" and "be thankful for your success" and "you could make more money if you were more universal" and "if you sang like this instead of like that you'd sell more records" and "if you provided clean versions, we'd play your shit on radio." But what those voices didn't understand was that I never started making things for a damn body else. I started making things for me. If other people liked it, that's great! But if they didn't, that was also great. It meant they had an opinion which meant they weren't zombies.
So then, the voices said "well, if you don't care if people like your art, how will you make money?" and "you could "make it" if only you would [add some ridiculous comment based on a VH1 Behind The Music special or Illuminati YouTube classic here] And I started wondering, "why the fuck are you counting my muthafuckin' money? If you have some, why don't you give me yours? If you don't, then why don't you focus on your own damned bank account?" It seems that as soon as I started having fun, everybody became a muthafuckin' accountant. NOBODY WAS TELLING ME TO MAKE MONEY WHEN I WAS IN FUCKING GRADUATE SCHOOL HEADED TOWARD A DEAD END MUTHAFUCKIN LIFE AS AN ADJUNCT PROFESSOR ON FOOD STAMPS DID THEY? no. of course they didn't. that would imply that they would actually have to know something about the academic industry. But I didn't want to go into the academy. I wanted to make music. But soon as a nigga start making music, everybody becomes a muthafuckin' expert on the music industry.
So this season, I'm working on keeping my shit to myself and truly not giving a fuck about what other people think or feel...in other words, getting back to where I came from. What this means is that anyone with expectations of me will either be fulfilled or not depending on what they expect and what I'm doing.
Special thanks to the motley crew of folks who have been supporting me non-stop throughout the mess. Chances are you've experienced similar things. If I end with positivity, it counts as positive.
Love,
Blue
Alternate ending:
It's tricky. I started a thing as a self-fulfilling small-scale coping project, but once the scale got larger, I caved to the pressure of making sure everyone felt welcome. It's a social justice thing I learned. Through desiring to be "communal", I ended up becoming uninterested because my creations no longer served the purpose that they initially intended to serve...which was to give me a way to channel my psychosis and prevent me from ruminating on how completely useless and pointless existence truly is (no athei-o)! Once my completely selfish act got owned by those who supported it, it no longer belonged to me. Things got out of hand fast and before I knew it, my gripe session became a demand from investors to produce "more of that" and an opportunity for complete strangers to call me a "bitch" and tell me to "stay in the car."
I realized that the anger I had been relinquishing into the universe was returning to me as a mockery. Like karma on steroids. I couldn't have a vulnerable thought before a listener whom I'd never experienced in life was there with an evaluation. It's as though my dreams were no longer my dreams. My thoughts no longer my thoughts. How does one confess the things they have not resolved in the face of those hungry for truth, but not peace? Everyone became the author to my story, providing alternate endings and paraphrasing for their understanding that which was very literal in my experience. I was crying for help while others looked on in anticipation with the hopes of being entertained...a likely distraction from their own turmoil.
What I thought would be an anesthesia while I massaged away the trauma became a show for funeral vultures. I am not eloquent. Everything I say sounds like a joke, no matter how much I'm dying inside.
So I have to heal myself. So what? I know as much about healing as Black Jack dealing. How do I count in multiples of 17 while also keeping track of my chips and other people's busts? Who the fuck counts in multiples of 17? And what the fuck is a bust?
Love,
Blue
Alternate Ending #2
I realized that the anger I had been relinquishing into the universe was returning to me as a mockery. Like karma on steroids. I couldn't have a vulnerable thought before a listener whom I'd never experienced in life was there with an evaluation. It's as though my dreams were no longer my dreams. My thoughts no longer my thoughts. How does one confess the things they have not resolved in the face of those hungry for truth, but not peace? Everyone became the author to my story, providing alternate endings and paraphrasing for their understanding that which was very literal in my experience. I was crying for help while others looked on in anticipation with the hopes of being entertained...a likely distraction from their own turmoil.
And then I had a conversation with an old friend. A friend whom I'd met when I was still toying with ideas in the living room floor and singing through timid breaks in my voice. She reminded me that I wouldn't be who, where, or what I was if I didn't have a purpose. That sometimes, our suffering is intended to be that which teaches another not to suffer. That our stumbling block is ours to remove from the path, preventing the broken toes of those who follow. Moreover, that I was not suffering alone. I was merely the voice of this brand of suffering...a brand that was ignored until right now. In writing the sound track to my pain, I am writing the way out in the same way that my freedom was written by Nina and Billie and Alice and Nikki and Audre and Tina and Aretha and Natalie and Gwendolyn and Zora and Lorraine and Maya and Whoopie and Toni and Octavia and Paule and Sonia and Ella and Chaka and Bessie and Gladys and Mary and Lauryn and Erykah and Jill and Lalah and Ledisi and Lena and Dorothy and Etta and Whitney and Janelle and Quentin Tarantino.
Love,
Blue
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