At The Very Least It’s Already February

Dear Malu 21/02/06

Gonna see if directly addressing your potentially rebellious but certainly very cognitively astute teenage future helps at all. You see, your street uncle is still learning how to express himself properly without scaring everyone off so he’s constantly finding original ways to document his psychosis in ways that persistently blur the line between down-to-earth melancholy and mood-ruining performance art. He also just reminded himself to get on with it and chill out already with the thesaurus vernacular and third person self-service.

It’s black history month and though I retain less of the details than I would knowledgeably want—concurring that to my own background—this typist’s human potential amounts to simply contributing in whatever capacity to the legacy. Or multiple legacies. But they coincide, and it’ll weirdly make more sense the more you read, weirdly when it comes to me aha. . . .Uuh. Crud where was, right! multiple legacies. WHy do I ever keep these brain fartsLike being conscientious of black history month’s significance. As a person of color. I could do something as trivial as writing with the commemorative nod. Beyond that, you’re reading this for whatever reason you’re reading. Likely not cause I encouraged you to. You’ll have more than enough actually cool grownups of where to find a role model.

As a humble segue, black history month does have me wondering what it’s gonna mean for you Malu by the time you’re reading this.

Will things have changed that much? Then again I could be writing by-the-numbers-blog-bullfecal and regardless the shape of the world, You have a more hopeful outlook than I could’ve attempted. Though while I try to successfully fuse the paradox of making we’re-all-effed works that actually rug-pull out unmoving optimism, I try reminding myself why I risk appearing like a millennial nihilist to start.

I wasn’t born miserable, yet I also know everyone plays a different tonal role—if they’re gonna be a voice for mad-sad folks or glad-rad folks. Both can be toxic or antidotal, just like most things, physical or metaphysical. But Malu if I’m not in jail for something by the time you read this, I’ll attest that I’ve tried being a mad-sad voice of the antidotal kind. How far did I get? Doesn’t matter, I know. I’m one more grain of sand. Being self-aware enough to state it doesn’t change it either. I’m just quietly freaking out on this side of the digital typewriter about what version of the world you’ll read this from. What merits a legit voice.

The scary scenario of looking like a glad-rad person is to be fake famous and validated by legions of people and bots who won’t think twice a week when one more person they worship disappears.

The scary scenario of mad-sad: that the everything-is-horrible bar has been set so high that unless someone’s wonderful grandparent was killed by a spring-breaking college bastard-bitch via coronavirus or whoever had to die whatever way to be noticed, that they otherwise won’t be heard.

The mad-sad scenario legit-scares me. I said I have to remind myself what I’ve personally pre-persevered through not out of self-importance but to remind myself that I shouldn’t have to paralyzingly fear for my immediate life to think my part means something. If someone else wanted to find connection out of the pain from growing up mostly not looking or feeling like those around them, or hosting someone’s accidental finger through their eye on top of already their chronic visual/other illnesses leading to a total of ~12 surgeries and a tombstone for ¼ of their vision, or that it feels like the only shoutouts they’re getting are people postponing, or that they’re one of Earth’s few who thinks pineapple on pizza is sarcasmlessly brilliant and that those who really go out of the way to diss on it likely wants a trend to hate cause negativity is the fossil fuel they run on, if anyone else wanted to connect out of any of these pains then I would share that they’re not necessarily alone, but what scares me is how bad the world could get to the point that unless one is straight up about to bite the missile, then they don’t count.

I write this while conscientiously aware how some things are getting better. But one oh-no way I tend to look at it on behalf of those it applies to—gaining bad parallels covid, gaining good parallels vaccine; you can walk down the street and get the bad with no effort, but the chance/turn at the good is a random needle in a clusterfudged haystack. I think that one landed okay.

I don’t know where I’m going with this one Malu. I should probably get back to work. I don’t know if this even counts as a self-permitted break. My meeting later cancelled so I should take the opening to shovel in the sun. I’ll try leaving it here for……now……… There’s always more I could try saying. Just hoping the chances meet halfway.

Discomfort reading

Digital golem obliging…
Digital Golem: It worked though we wish we wer

Published by crescendoangstcinevision

Licensed creative vandalism

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