stories birthed us into existence. humans came marching through narratives of experience. at heart, i’m a researcher and theorist. my peers write records about breakups or platonic intimacy magic powers. i’m writing a record about decolonizing animacy—stretching its threshold like being born can a birth canal. this side of the grid levitates through its soily roots.
mania drunk—getting off on having too many things to do and all the help i need to do things. Ayana Zaire Cotton calls it the river, Saidiya Hartman calls it the chorus—Lukaza Branfman-Verissimo calls it the web. i call it the grid. time jumping and lapsing happen here. intersecting through space—touching—colliding—and collaborating while expanding—opening—and making room. My name means room or some kind of chamber in Urdu.
my too-comfortable-to-grow ego clings to my apartment in brooklyn. awareness living through me releases the city nook, life’s maintenance and my relationship with god tossling between the two—Saturn Return fading as i head north—cosmic language. i got up here yesterday a few splinters early, the way the wind moves to speak, and snow shudderingly melting falling becoming earth my wake up call, nearly demystified the propane tank on my own though we all get by with a little help from our friends.
the intangible feels sentient—intuition as the grid’s nervous system dial up by dial up. there is a before human silence in the woods—waxing and waning—aware of me yet phaseless. this newsletter—my grid-like creative practices celebration as poem windows to the in-between moments making up a life—myths way of growing through us.