jenn freeman writes.

the role of the artist, then precisely, is to illuminate that darkness, blaze roads through that vast forest; so that we will not, in all our doing, lose sight of its purpose, which is, after all, to make the world a more human dwelling place. 

the state of being alone is not meant to bring to mind merely a rustic musing beside some silver lake. the aloneness which one sees in the eyes of someone who is suffering, whom we cannot help. or it is like the aloneless of love, that force and mystery which to many have extolled and so many have cursed, but which no one has ever understood or ever really been able to control. i put the matter this way, not out of any desire to create pity for the artist-god forbid!-but to suggest how nearly, after all, is his state the state of everyone, and in an attempt to make vivid his endeavor.  the states of birth, suffering, love, and death, are extreme states: extreme, universal, and inescapable. we all know this, but we would rather not know it. the artist is present to correct the delusions to which we fall prey in our attempts to avoid this knowledge. 

let me be enough let me be enough let me be enough let me be enough to give let me be enough to give let me be enough to give let me be enough to give let me be enough to give let me be enough to give

tonight. i am reminded to be careful what we say to folks we don't know. i found myself on the dance floor for the first time in a while. i found myself. free and following a beat. my own beat. two shots in. and i just wanted to move. i did. playful and smiling and building freedom in a presumed safe space. 

silly, silly me. 

"i just wanted you to know that you dance really well but you smell bad." and in one sentence. tears pushed against my lids. this man. this body. this smell. it's been a long day. filled with suppressed pettiness. and dance rehearsals and a day job. and now my sweating black body is seeking comfort in movement. yes sir i do smell. it is my smell that in the moment i couldn't own because under your voice is my own. confirming what you said. and andy tells me that if i were a man. or if i was there dancing with a man he wouldn’t have approach me. if i wasn’t a solitary black woman in a heterosexual white mans’ space he wouldn’t have said that to me. 

and i, just searching for a single moment. a single space where i can feel completely free. where i can dance with no repercussion. without fear and i am reminded that my freedom. my 5 minutes or 60 minutes of absolute forgetfulness doesn’t exist. i am reminded in my haven. in my city that i am still a smelly brown woman trying to dance to forget. trying to dance to lift the weight of my skin. oh my dear god. grant me freedom. just an ounce.

and it’s silly. if i were po’chop i would’ve told him that he is lucky to have smelled me. that the only reason he feels comfortable enough to approach me and spill those words onto me is because i am a woman. a black women that his systemic soaked patriarchal brain registers as less.

thicker skin i tell myself.

you should know better

who the fuck do you think you are that you deserve a sense of freedom.

who the fuck are you sis?

i’ll be returning to my home town. nestled in the bible belt. poplar bluff, mo. to perform for the first time since my adolescence. they requested a bio and an image to promote my performance. this is the image, taken from show-me burlesque festival 2016 by carrie meyer/insomniac studios. below is the short bio i sent to them. 

nothing new. just out here. serving all stank face and zero fucks. at the clue edition of clipper cabaret.