The earth cries. I hear it pulse through the night. It beckons for me to listen, to not block out her message. She craves for it to be set right… the balance — function — of truth and flow… back into the ground allowing blood to stain her curves, envelope her hips, to simply flow… 
The work is this. A reminder of pain that has been done to the bonds of not just myself but all who are connected to this earth. 

Yet playful in form, experimental in material, unafraid to take chances, observing and taking from the world it happens through watching… watching you, watching myself, watching the man and his gaze, watching them stare at the black kids playing, watching the reactions between bodies — depending on skin and watching identifications based on if they have a dick or clit.  

Then I become aware of who is speaking — about these topics that I see, who is controlling the media, who’s stories we listen and give credibility. Who’s identities align best with the comfort of our minds…
This is where the inspiration becomes alive. It shifts through me and shifts through time, an obligation I feel critiquing current political tides… 

Through questions I ask, they turn into discourse, this discourse into action, and action into making… just so I can deal with societal functioning. 

Unconcerned with classical renderings and classifications of worth, my work I don’t think will ever be able to fit into such an easy category. Especially now, for I am still uncovering. I haven’t even cracked the surface, the lid I opened and merely peaked inside, there is so much more for me to explore, my mind feeling the depths that lay deeper inside. 

I feel it shifting.  

Trying to talk about it is hard… when I feel like who really listens anymore? I question why it’s me in this position and not someone else… and then I feel a pull deep inside - to make the voices that haven’t been heard come alive. Her black body a part of mine, the indigenous cries that match the sounds of the weeping earth — haunt my mind — and the sister who lost her love to migration over the sea, escaping to a land that promised her Free all influence my work to tell stories. 

Without alienation, blame, or judgment I tell stories. 
Constantly asking, constantly reminding — who’s land is it anyway? 
Entitlement to space.
Then I look around…who is still talking… who has the power now?
I keep making, for communication, so that I do not succumb to conditioned choices that the patriarch pushes on me and so many alike — I trust the process, forget about the product, and hope the audience absorbs a bit of the frequency — a fragment — of energy — in hopes to awaken and realize what is happening before our eyes. 
I strive to make work…
channeling frequencies for collective healing. 
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