#akaxn

Secret money cults of the old oligarchy. Or something. This is one of my “secret doors.” I’m not going to tell you where it is, but it’s technically not very secret; it’son a pretty well- travelled street. I don’t know what compels this level of architecture for a door front. I mean, obviously I do know, but only understand it as an abstraction of historical ideas. I know the motivation of the sculpture only as a context of “social analysis.” How the ruling class of this city has always been defined by wealth, to the point of obtuse blindness to the conditions of any other place. How this self-aggrandizing sense of success compelled the Bostonians of the late 1800s to posture and preen like Victorians. Their grandiosity became monuments of their cruelty; how they would gladly exploit their world to revere in their finery. So, yes, I know “how it got here,” and what motivated it. But still, in a way I don’t. I have stared at it a few times after visiting a dear buddy of mine in his attic level efficiency studio. His flat feels very French, but then again so does he. (These are hints, by the way, on the location.) But every time I puzzle the symbolism. Angels and a peace dove. In a way, starkly generic; as if some wealthy poshmonger was just all “Oh, DARLING,” (referring tot he sculptor) “SURELY you know the style? Somethign austere, and maybe classical, but nothing radical. No exposed breasts – this is #BOSTON, after all!” And then the sculptor just did something, well, generic. And here we are. I have no idea, you see. None of us probably will. What inspired THIS specific concoction. Was it symbolic, or just simplistic? So I want to pretend it is some secret code; some long forgotten symbols that mark the entrance to some dark, wealthy cult. They did not worship gods; they worshipped power. And this was their side door. (Whoops – another clue!) Well, I’ll let the mystery stand. And I’ll still visit from time to time and puzzle. That is, after all, probably part of the reason they went this grand in the first place. ▫️ #akaXN #TheRealXN (at Boston, Massachusetts) https://www.instagram.com/p/CO9DTJdNqAU/?igshid=1whj2owwrw104

I was certain during the summer of 2020 that the street outrage was the start of a long, protracted phase of reckoning, and not a “final straw” for resolution. The issues plaguing our society are not new. The life-threatening state of so-called “public safety, especially among black, brown, indigenous and other groups defined through racism and marginalized through white supremacy, has always been baked into our communities. The dominant forces want to emphasize the “changes” and “improvements’ that have happened over the decades. But it’s hard to muster appreciation for the gestures that are like crusts of bread when those serving it are the same ones causing the starvation of dignity to begin with. I want to see continued vocalization and relentless reminder of the need to work organizationally and persistently. But I think we are beyond the need for words and posturing. Participating in local community legislation, adjusting private sector operation, and putting in ten quiet actions for every one shouted truth is the work now. And yet, we falter. It is my white luxury to “take a break” without also making a hard plan to step back in. It was taught to me, groomed into me, and even rewarded. It is often why the loudness “works” for white people; reminding us that we aren’t working hard enough, fast enough, cooperatively enough, or even at all. I have spent the better part of 12 months reading, reading, reading and researching. My actions are quiet and they feel so castrated. But they are architectural, I tell myself; I want to engage more, but want to know well what I am engaging. Shouting can only wake me up, but shouting can not teach me well. I know it is not enough – not by a long shot – to stem the list that should not grow and continues to creep longer. The list that recently added Daunte Write, young father and family man. Murdered. We will not ever see a last straw. This is a phase, not a watershed. We are damning the tide with a wall of sand. It slips back and decays effort unless we constantly, constantly, constantly act against it. Embrace this phase. Keep shouting if you like. But get to work because you must. ▫️ #akaXN #TheRealXN (at Boston, Massachusetts) https://www.instagram.com/p/CNsQBgjD1Nw/?igshid=wmo4n5ef2oxv

No soul; no zest. The embrace of imperfection feels a lot more, to me, what this season is about. Lopsided, bent in the middle (so it looks tilted), literally empty in the back, with branches going in weird directions, decorating this #ChristmasTree was more like solving a strategy puzzle than decking the halls. Truth be told, some of these faults are partly on me. I did my annual Tree Lot Haggle Scam. I wait until late in the tree-buying season, and when I go to the lot I head directly over to the BIG trees – the ones that are usually expensive. I sort through and find whatever one has a TON of damage. Then I say to whatever drunk guy with a chainsaw is working the lot: “Cut this one in half, and I’ll pay you $30 for it.” Knowing they won’t be able to sell a mangled tree, they always concede. But this years was particularly messy, even without it’s badly-damaged lower half. Usually I will have a good friend (or, in my luckiest years, a man I love) join me while decorating. And boy, once that colored-light glow starts, I’d be lying to say I don’t I miss having someone ta snuggle with. Living alone during 2020 can work over the emotions. Most folks have SOMEONE around; roommates or family or a guy or gal to go steady with. Unlike most of you reading this, I don’t currently have the blessing of someone to share a home with. So, yeah, I’ll admit: the season feels particularly lonely. But it was on this note that the magic of this dumb tree took over. I mean, I didn’t get a chance to become all self-pitying for longer than a brief moment before the satirically sorry state of this ridiculous #charliebrownchristmastree started making me laugh. The pathetic monstrosity wedged into my window became so absurd that I found myself dropping to on the floor because I cracking up so hard. Easily laughed for about 15 minutes Just reminds me to focus; this is a year of vast change and work and improvement. We shouldn’t ever linger in feeling down just because we’ve noticed we’re nowhere near ideal. In fact, the comedy of it alone is usually the antidote. Step back. Yeah, it’s pretty horrible. A mess. Perfectly, magically, wonderfully so. ▫️ #holidays #akaXN #TheRealXN https://www.instagram.com/p/CI40dlVjs2H/?igshid=1scg6qwnsi23k

“Sangre Indigene” by @donrimx. Just as intimidating and overwhelming as she seems, the scale of this gem of #Bostonart is only matched by it’s confounding and subversive design. Look carefully at the wood framing within the piece. Is it intersecting her flesh? Is it a shield protecting her like a home, or a cage constructed by remnants stolen from her own #heritage? The piece is named “#Indigenous blood,” and yet while there is no gore you still get a sense of something organic in it’s geometry; something human. And confrontational. It doesn’t feel hostile, although you can clearly see a note of anger in her countenance. Yet it is more than just one note. There is the idea that there is joy and power and resilience and a peaceful attitude. “I’ll wait,” her look seems to say to us, quite directly and pointedly, but nonetheless with calm. “I’ll wait until you catch up with the reality.” Blood is blood, after all, and you can’t argue with how it flows. As I have greedily absorbed the books of important contemporary authors like Dunbar-Ortiz, Estes, Deloria, and Villanueva, I have been throttled into awareness of how very, very, VERY connected the policies of indigenous justice are to resolving the “hot buzzer” urgencies the USA faces. We have foreign policy within our continent, and the illegal handling of our Constitution is both the source of problems for immigration, ecology, energy, immigration, military spending, and healthcare, but ironically also the solution. The blood is there. Our only choice is whether we constrict it, shed it, or allow it to fill us with color. I do not want constriction in the blood of our nations, be they foreign Indigenous or domestic US. In our land and our resources we share blood. In policy and prosperity, bot just in quaint and dismissible heritage. Yet too many of us still think of justice only in simplified binaries. Too many of us still dismiss her importance and urgency, literally laughing at the idea that our legislative relationships with these people could possibly be the lynchpin towards improvement. 
But it is. Don’t worry. She’ll wait us eventually. We’ll get it eventually. She’ll wait. ▫️ #mural#akaXN #TheRealXN (at Madison Park Technical Vocational High School) https://www.instagram.com/p/CH0MnQCDiog/?igshid=1kojuyp3ok0l4

The election was a moment, but not a solution. It’s conflicted moments like this when I return to the murals of @problak. They sort me out, somehow, Their scale. Their color. Their imagination. Their power. Their deeply personal content. His work has a stealth duality that becomes more pronounced the longer you sit with it. As with this one, often it is light and whimsical, but then also reminds us that “breathing life” is two things at once: both a serious business and also a pure delight. This one is a favorite of many of his fans. Unapologetically proud and fun, it still evokes a sense that there is much to consider behind every light moment. You can see how this feels right in the moment of this election. Every time I look at it a bit longer I notice more details. And that is also how the present moment should be considered. It would be easy to glide by on the momentary success and delight in an invented idea of relief. But if we’re smart, and look closer, we will quickly see there are textures and meanings and complexities in there that we missed the first time, and which build our perception. Yes, I am talking about the #mural. But also talking about the current political moment. Breathe life. All of it. Good and bad. Struggle and delight. Art and policy. All of it. Thanks again, Mr. Gibbs. ▫️ And, as a creator myself, I always like to do what I can to give correct credit to other creatives. So I’m copying and pasting Mr. Gibbs credit list to the incredible contributors to this amazing piece of art: @ajakhali @babybobbilauren @therealmannterror @ferbzilla @hotswat @ebensmatik @marka_27 @streettheorygallery @trevcity @roxburyruf @squaredotcom @take1r.gn @mardeuno @madinkboston617 @8jblaze @mindelevation88 @frostedcornwakes @th1s.1s_d1on @afhboston @bonitafrobum @biztwenty Madison Park staff & faculty. Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Sponsored in part by: The Boston Foundation (@bostonfdn) Transformative Public Art Project, City of Boston (@artsinboston) Converse (@ converse) The Museum of Fine Arts Boston (@mfaboston) The Carl and Ruth Shapiro Family Foundation Robert and Pamela Adams ▫️ #Roxbury #Boston #breathelife #akaXN #TheRealXN (at Madison Park Technical Vocational High School) https://www.instagram.com/p/CHY_SPvD-vk/?igshid=1el46k99alkoe

Everyone from #Wayland, Massachusetts is a member of someone else’s #BradyBunch. And I’m here for it. All the people I cared for in high school were the ones told “they would bloom later.” And not surprisingly in retrospect, that was a true fact; such advice told to awkward, angsty, ridiculous teens ended up being profoundly accurate. Which is why I always delight when I get a chance to gather with even some of these remarkable artists, thinkers, speakers, and creators. When I see you guys, I awaken. You were influences present at the original sources of much which inspires me today and throughout my life.
My fondness of weirdness.
My love of the wise-yet-snarky interjection.
The ability to turn on a dime from intense depth to frivolous absurdity.
Prioritizing humor and compassion as core tenets for learning and sharing over being right.
All these qualities among so many others that are vital for true creatives. When I get to see you, and we hang like we were tucked away in corners in basements, or huddled on radiators in theater lobbies, we do not revert. Time has passed; we are not returning to our teen years. We are evolved. Yet still somehow bonded. And it is easy; we laugh about jokes only we seem to understand, and speak profoundly on the present moment as if picking up a conversation we have together every day, I am profoundly grateful. Our kids are scolding our exuberance as much as our parents tsk-tsk’ed our randomness. We are not frozen in time, or trying to go back, but simply providing light as we all go forward. We drammies and techies and happyjocks and North-Waylanders and South-Waylanders and #Cochituate-Kids and academic-athletes and rights-advocates and creators and comics were all so, so quirky, yet became such profoundly wise and funny adults. Collectively I am still intimidated, impressed, and delighted. This little surprise reunion re-awoke fires in me. They are fires that blaze on their own, yet their embers get a flash and a boost from your light and energy. Man, I wish I could bottle you up and keep you in my pocket, popping you out for that boost of positivity and joy. Thanks guys, See you again soon, I hope. ▫️ #akaXN #TheRealXN (at Wayland High School) https://www.instagram.com/p/CG-sIoBDPfq/?igshid=16n7jlj8txem8

This loaf and these #basil pots are the result of a ghost. Let me explain. I didn’t sleep at all last night. Tossing; shifting; awake; peeping one eye open every now and again. The blue-white block digits of the alarm clock kept mocking me me: XN, only 10 minutes have passed since the last time you felt the poke of curiosity. My mind wasn’t racing. It was just not shutting down. My dad used to tell me when I was young to take a very slow-motion inventory of my body; to see if I could “feel” each part, one buy one. I did that about 15 times. I knew every inch of me to the point of boredom – yet not so bored I could drop off. I hadn’t had too much caffeine. I hadn’t eaten before I lay down. There were no specific thoughts slamming sideways against the concrete walls of my inner skull. I didn’t even feel anxious. I just simply couldn’t sleep. Just before 3:00am, it hit me: this was the anniversary night, 7 years ago, that my dad died. I didn’t feel doleful or cry. I just became acutely aware: this – THIS! – was the ghost in my psyche keeping me up. In the past few years I haven’t had much problem on the anniversary of Philip John Matyi’s death. But with all the isolation I have been recently suffering, it crept into my bed and refused to let me sleep. While others around me consternate about COVID-19, they often forget: they are not alone in their home. Roommates; girl- for boyfriend; a spouse; someone to keep them company. I am literally in solitude. No hug when I cry. No comfort when I worry. No one to laugh with or fight with or complain about the condition of the bathroom sink. I guess the aolitude got to me. Memory became a stimulant. Love seemed the only option. So today I baked #babka, and planted seeds. Easter was always my dad’s holiday. Plants were among his many hobbies. This was the day I had Phil’s ghost in my home. You can keep your loved ones and hugs and kisses. I have the smell of cinnamon and soil under my nails, and the awareness that love is reborn of remembrance, not of miracles. I’m glad something got buried. I’m grateful something was risen. I think I’ll sleep soundly tonight. Happy #Easter, Dad. #baking #akaXN #TheRealXN (at The World-Famous Public Alley 701) https://www.instagram.com/p/B-3D2cIjXmk/?igshid=nfnze35fgefv

Here we are again; facing a workers-level financial blow within our communities that requires us to stay strong, stay calm, focus on extra efforts, not gripe about the inconvenience, and get things back to functional as fast as possible. and the government cannot make this happen quickly. Only we can. Only the people can. Remember: the longer it takes us to get through this transition period where we get ahead of the virus, the more people lose money. Perhaps your concerns should not, then, only be worried about the illness, but also upon the impact that delaying the apprehension of this virus could cause. We can speed this up, stop bleeding money, and get back to a manageable pace much faster if we all take this civic responsibility sincerely. It’s non-partisan, non-political, and just common sense. No agenda, and no sides to pick. Catching up and apprehending Covid-19 is VERY possible, and that has already been shown. Now it’s our turn to do the thing. To stay calm and do the thing. When I went through the marathon bombing crisis in Boston six years ago, the theme of “Boston strong“ came about because of how the city was financially suffering for almost a month due to the event. Bleeding money and unable to get back to normal, we were all encouraging strength. The slogan arose in the weeks after the event, but not specifically only because of the event itself. It was a rallying cry to help us get through a longer period of financial and emotional burden. Boston was quick and Boston was efficient and Boston stayed spirited. We did our best to work together in unity, apart from politics or policies, to get the city back up and running. Well, here we are again, so many of us unable to make a wage due to the very necessary shut downs. And this time it extends far beyond just our city, but to our state and eventually our nation. This these will be frightening financial weeks coming up. So let’s work together to keep these this period as few and short as possible. The government cannot speed this up. Only the people can. Time to stay strong again. Boston Strong. ▫️ #bostonstrong #covid19 #boston #akaXN #TheRealXN (at Boston, Massachusetts) https://www.instagram.com/p/B9pNdeIJCIx/?igshid=yqvwym4z38k4