Trying to string together words has felt like drawing blood from a rock. I’ve been too preoccupied with finding the right words. Teasing out the right emotions. Making the right comparisons. As I write this, the clouds are moving as if they are buffering , struggling to load. I have had two coffees and one cigarette split into two (trying times). I find it easier to write, and exist in general when it's raining because then I am comforted by the idea that the world cries like I cry. Since living in Johannesburg, that has been in short spurts.
This will hopefully be my first and last diary-like entry here because I still want this blog to stand as a portfolio of sorts, which means I have to be professional. A comical idea considering that I write as if I were a teenage boy discovering sex for the first time. Thank you to those of you who read Wet to the Touch. And a bigger thank you to those who spoke to me about the piece and what they gleaned from it.
Attached to this post is an art related piece that I was tasked with writing many moons ago. It took me even more moons to complete. What I turned in was close to what I had envisioned, but not quite. My confidence frayed at its edges. I beat myself up about it often. I have been thinking about my relationship to punishment a lot. Love and punishment share too intimate a relationship in my life, for that reason I have chosen to go into a time of fasting.
CURTIS MAYFIELD - THE MAKINGS OF YOU
Without showing my ass, the past couple of months have felt like a hazing ritual. Just as I learn every rule, they no longer apply. I have lost things of great sentimental value. A postcard from a first date that wasn’t really a date, a 2 of spade playing card, an ID picture of a woman I don’t personally know and a valentines day card that reads, “To: Mr ____ I love you so much and I think you already know and see that, I’ve passed in so many challenges”. Nothing I have lost was mine to begin with, but I held onto them in the hopes of keeping their memories alive on behalf of those who lost them. I would appreciate that favour done in return.
As I reread what I have written it feels as though I am glamourising theft. I don’t steal. Not anymore. They were all found objects. Laying on the floor, belly up, begging to be held. So that is what I did. I made sure not to sanitise them, I’ve convinced myself that is how to best preserve their honour.
Videos have played a big role in softening the blow. Itstarted with movies. I did an entire film degree without watching any movies, I never had the bandwidth. What got me there was infatuation. I was drawn to someone who I felt I could not have. I watched a movie to impress him. I didn’t like it much. So I watched another, and another. Soon I could not go a day without watching a movie. I love the idea of stealing pieces of people I admire. I get really frustrated when I notice someone has stolen pieces of me. It’s better when I do it because I never shy away from giving credit where credit is due.
CLOSE BUT NOT QUITE - EVERYTHING IS RECORDED
After the movies, came music videos. That’s all we used to do. Watch music videos and chain smoke in the penthouse. I miss it sometimes. I would rather you handle the remote. I don’t have the patience for it. I haven’t lived in a house with a working TV for years now, that mixed with decision fatigue, and the safety that comes with keeping my favourite music videos to myself. I can't let you have all of me. I can't trust that you will handle it with care.
Everything is recorded, a project by Richard Russel title sake music video follows what I call the connect the dot video style. Reminded me ofDijon's Good Luck music video that I frequented during the pandemic.
EVERYTHING IS RECORDED - EVERYTHING IS RECORDED
After the music videos came old recordings of live performances. I am always charmed by their vibrancy, costuming, choreography and set design. But what tends to move me the most is the quality of the recordings. I don’t believe that there is anything I need to see in 4K. I take my glasses off when I feel like I’ve seen enough for the day.
The audio quality in Aretha's version of the song reminds me of Clark Sisters songs that I can only find on Youtube, that were recorded poorly so they are usually a key or two off. Metallic, but warm. The sensation of blood and saliva running laps around my mouth. With fervour, I suck the blood from my wounds out of fear that I will lose it all. Angie Stone's rendition takes its time, revelling in the drama of its sentiment.
This is all very fragmented, I hope that’s okay with you. I have tied all of this together very loosely because I believe you are all intelligent enough to know what I am trying to get at. When the gap between where I am and where I want to be begins to narrow in on itself, ‘mi tink me gwaan tek mi own life’. The videos remind me that everything is as it should be. I know this for a fact because God told me so. He gifted me a playing card, 8 of clubs, miniature, the size of my pinky. I will hold onto it for as long as it is mine to hold.
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