Becoming me

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Pic by Roÿmata Holmes

Imaging pathways beyond, the fronds of overhanging forest leaves and branches no longer block momentum…no more hangovers.

I imbibe life, leaving me immune to the decaying past, which is all just memories.

Last night I had feverish dreams. I stood in the old house remembering the youth I had forgotten, my dead father smiling at me because he was proud. I see a good future ahead.

I no longer live and walk dead, I am the person who refused to be beaten and instead forced myself from the slumber of sedate sanity – normalcy and the nine to five fracas will never be my street party. I gave that vision up for the challenging existence from the margins.

I’m lying in bed today, and yesterday too. I have orders from the doctors that it’s ok to chill…I have been so busy. I sent my PhD thesis edits off to my creative supervisors. It’s fucking epic. I am excited to submit it and let it fly because it’s the most engaging artwork I have ever made – a self portrait of intense and honest change to a status quo of dying every day.

I have been working on a lit review to assess access to healthcare for Māori transgender people. It is part of a 3 year project to survey takatāpui wellbeing. The literature spells out an intensely complex web of barriers that will only change when someone is able to understand where the flaws in the system are entrenched and offer ways to strategically challenge them. That person is me.

I got news yesterday that another project I supported to survey and account for transgender people in Aotearoa New Zealand just got funded. I can’t believe that as soon as I am about to submit my PhD thesis on tradtional Māori weaving processes, and the ways they can heal historical sexuality and gender trauma, opportunities to practice my theory arise.

I applied for a job as a curator.

The universe is goodness and fair x.

Its raining again

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I woke up feeling my alien self again.

Refrain, hold back from feels of pain, the game has only just begun – there’s still more songs to be sung – the ceremony is only just beginning.

Grinning, I greet the sunmaiden, her glistening mists mirroring my inner sinner, sentiments of my debauched nighttime liasons fading fast – like the darkness.

I run, I sing, I live yet another day more.

Zzzz

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I can’t sleep.

It’s raining.

My mind races.

I’m getting up to smoke a fag.

Let the storm pass soon.

On a positive note I’ve had an epic week. He Manawa Whenua conference was on and I got to spend good time with a lot of the world’s brightest and staunchest Indigenous scholars. Seeing them and hearing their words was empowering. I love the company I keep. I love having deeply transformative conversations with like minds. I intensely adore the realness.

I have found a good place to be and grow.

Who was that guy I used to die as all the time? I’m sad for all he had to go through to become me. I loved him for all his trauma and his happy smile.

Time to live for us both!

But I’ll smoke that fag first.

Best and worst

I haven’t been feeling so great lately – I have been shedding a final layer of skin and some parts of it are glued to my soul. I just want to be beyond myself, the one I have put to rest.

Best, the best is to come if I can release the worst.

The process of release is bound in my PhD thesis, which for the most part is written. I met with my chief supervisor yesterday and we decided to extend the pain for another two weeks – I was supposed to submit yesterday.

My creative supervisors have been silent with no feedback, and so I am unsure about what I have put my heart and soul into. My thesis is so personal, maybe that’s the challenge. Maybe they think I am a dick. Maybe my work is no good. Maybe I have completely missed the mark. Maybe…

May I be free of these feelings.

The feels are that good things are just past my field of vision. Every day when I think of ways out of life, beyond the feelings of hopelessness that make me think of where to drown, I encourage myself with positive conversations. I tell myself I am a good person and that I do good work, even though all I see in the mirror are faults.

I hate being so broken, and broke too. I know I have a very easy life compared to most, but that unfortunately can’t shake the memories of a lifetime. I’m an artist. I am a sensitive person. I feel what I feel and it’s not right to deny feelings, but rather I know I just have to feel them, process them and find ways through.

So that’s what I do. I get up in the morning and I spend my day writing my thesis – there really is nothing else at the moment. No work, no pressing demands, no demanding girlfriend, no money, no job to go to at the crack of dawn, no bullshit bartending to drunks, no meetings. Just my thesis – that’s a blessing I cannot ignore.

I’ll be glad when this thing is finalised. It has all my power in it and I need to send it into the void so that it can create new life.

No more strife.

Intentionality – intense

International incursions, forays that inspire intentions.

I’m right at the finish line, panting with pace to ace myself…finally.

I figured I found aroha in the form of another, and I did. Our encounters are encouraging, Earthing me to my connections that reach beyond the stars. Starting each day with him/her in my mind and heart is warming.

Warning – do not get lost in love.

I’m listening to Elton John’s Tiny Dancer on my 60s 70s and 80s Pandora mix – this radio station reminds me of that guy in Hawaii, what a cute fulla – uncomplicated and chill. He must’ve thought ‘what the fuck’ when we did our dash.

So many different energies being bound up in this thesis, sometimes I wonder who lived all the lives I describe in its pages…in part they are mine but in part they belong to huka.

He’s a good kunt huka, but he does limit me within the pages and projects of my PhD research. I’ve enjoyed performing him sometimes, other times I have hated his guts because in performing him I lose bits of myself that have always been important.He’s more human than I – he’s quite primal in fact, a fiction though he really is.

I’m letting go of him as I write this other body of text where the words count, have deep meaning and will ripple outward with integrity.

Strange to have to perform a trickster to trick myself back into living.

 

Winding up

Conclusions, exclusive and reclusive domains of refrain – where tentative hesitations finger out slow pathways to final meanderings.

The past week has been slowing at a fast pace, my face aches at the final mountain I see before me – it crumbles each word I write, each word I fumble from the fracas of four years.

I had fight with my Princess last week. It was weakness and strength all rolled up in a surge of regretful emotion…chasing her away, she doing the same back to me. Attraction and repulsion combined, that’s the tension in art – you love it so much it becomes monstrous.

Mistrust myself and the world around me until it implodes and I can begin to have faith in healing. These feelings, all new and yet so ancient. Bent out of shape but becoming aligned. Refined fabrications, soothing reflections of inflections that rise and fall, like breath…

breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

Island time

You are the volcano, full of lava and firey eruptions – untouchable and yet I can’t help but want to put my fingers in you to see how you feel…will I get burned so badly the pain will last forever?

I am the ocean, turbulent with mixed currents – chill and inviting…you want to dive into me but are afraid you will drown, that I will suffocate you in my airless surge.

If only we could hold each other without our senses, it’s senseless to get sentimental – mentally taxing as the moon above us waxes and wanes our moments lived caressing each other’s songs in harmony.

There is an island where we meet.

At first it was just a clump of rocks, clinging for breath as we both poured forth…each day it has grown, grounding itself, giving life and space to love.

We hover there, no fear – it dissapates, dissolving into glitter that becomes the kind of magic that inspires…our island is art. We make, creating pictures and movements, cementing a future of goodness for all our relations.

Hold your head high above the clouds my baby, you are regal beyond belief…I’ll lie low in my books and words, charting darkened terrains for the hidden treasures we can share when we meet in thoughts producing actions, action to thought.

Wow…genderfluid loving at its best.

17th

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Heat beats heartily, my heart beats fast…

To contain desire so that emotional stability and spirituality can flower and flourish, can fuck with your head.

Making its madness, creativity is a curse, love is lurid, sex is second guessing and thinking is thirsty.

I am full…

Sing to me but be in pitch – I cannot bear the rising and falling of notes that don’t hit the mark on contact, sounds that scrape the senses of my sanity.

This is aroha sometimes, maybe forever, maybe it will be good, maybe it’ll kill me…I think I am in it.

Rongo

I sit across from you – we stride this magical space of creation where a mutha-load of potential and energy bursts forth.

You are like some ancient Goddess, beholden to only yourself, me with you similarly the same – unrelenting fires that make spaces glow with movement.

The momentum is a blessing that makes my body surge like an ocean sometimes, at other times it’s just messing with my head – but it’s definitely always my choice. Choice bro…

I can’t fathom the depths because you are so deep and provocative, evocative of the unfeeling I can communicate with words, but not often actions – and yet you are te ao mārama, the world of light that shows me some new ways beyond the robot witch I so often manifest as.

Has it been an eternity yet? Where are we going? Do we care or just bear the weight of baring our souls entwined.

Wairua – two waters that flow together to make a whole forever.

I’ve missed you until now.

Pākehā new yeah

This is a Pākehā new year apparently -we have to go by the new dates that some random megalomaniac in Italy devised for y’all a few thousand years ago. It’s a fad that won’t last cos it’s out of synch with the reality people are finally starting to wake up to.

There’s no such thing as time.

In writing that, I’m glad that one phase is coming to a natural conclusion. I’ve been focussing on finishing my thesis…I mean, for the past four years I have been saying that I am focussing on finishing my thesis, but now I’m nearly finished…26 more days and then I am sending it off to my supervisors for final feedback – print and then submit.

These past few months have been intense so I am enjoying wiping some slates clean and moving on with life, it’s time to let go and be free for a welcome change.

I have started doing some very low key performance artwork in Rotorua, where I live. An old man physically abused me even though I was only writing a story about our polluted lake with chalk on cobblestones…he even tried to push me in the lake before I turned into an angry Māori betch. Really, this series of performance works are the winding up of my PhD creative works. I’ve realised that my PhD project has been a process of stripping my artwork back the essentials, where my voice is no longer trapped and enslaved by the expected layers of thinking demanded by academentia in contemporary art. Screw ‘contemporary art’ and ‘art theory’. Fuck art, I’m into the creation of taonga. I enjoyed making taonga about taonga yesterday…it made me free again.

Anyway, back to the thesis at hand xxx