After a busy week, where it felt as if I didn’t get a weekend, because I didn’t as I was permaculturing and fugitivity spreading, I’m making myself comfy and cosy.
I’m all wrapped up in bed, catching up with my creativity. Catching up with myself.
And I feel so grateful for this cosy fort, for the week I’ve enjoyed, mostly on my own terms, and for the weekend to come. Rest and creative fugitivity.
I’ve still got mothering and taxiing duties this evening but I feel, in my cosy fortress, I’m on my own time/space.
I get to play and be curious and satisfy my desires. And right now all I want to do is be here. Right. Now.
I’m safe. I’m warm. I’m stealing my life back. Each cosy, comfy fort at a time.
I come here with a heart filled with joy, love and gratitude.
I put my heart, soul, care and dreams into the WOC Azadi Collective fugitivity visual journaling retreat today.
The time/space we created together was magical. We’re becoming a fugitive collective, creating mischief as we steal ourselves away. Steal our lives back from systems of oppression, systems we never consented to but find ourselves subjected it.
We refuse.
I have so much love and gratitude for Dal Kular who got me back to work with the collective. Dal sees my practices and processes around my visual journaling and fugitivity and constantly cheers me on, holds space and supports me to explore these further in collective/ collaboration with beautiful people.
What we created was powerful and ripe with possibilities. What we can do together is empowering and criminal. Disorderly and messy and so much needed.
There are other ways to {BE} and I’m all for exploring these further, deeper, together.
After a busy week of being here there bad everywhere, I come to the page after my Satda Permaculture Gathering.
I’m planning out my workshop for my fugitivity visual journaling retreat with WOC Azadi Collective tomorrow. And I’m excited but also apprehensive. I had so much I want to share but I don’t want to spend all our time together talking. I don’t want to lecture to the participants but I get so excited when I’m sharing anything visual journaling and fugitivity. For me they go hand in hand.
I’m also worried that the participants might not get what I’m on about. I’m not sure sometimes. What I’m doing? What I mean when I practice fugitivity?
I suppose I won’t know until I put words to the air and attempt to communicate these liberatory practices.
I was reminded that I had this book in my stash while listening to Marquis Bey talk on an episode of This Is Hell!, titled ‘ To steal one’s life back: On the power of fugitive Blackness’
It made me run straight to the book and start reading it with the hope it will support my fugitivity practice as well as provide some juicy quotes for the workshop I’m facilitating with WOC Azadi Collective this Sunday about my fugitivity and visual journaling practices.
It’s all sold out but you can read about it here and get in touch if you’re interested in coming along to some other sessions in 2026.
I love me a good crime novel. Or even a romance. I’ve loved them from time. I’ve used them as escape, distraction, research even as I’ve always harboured desires to write them. I’ve been on a reading spree this autumn and these genres of fiction have been my go to. Devouring them in a matter of days. Now I see how I’ve been checking out. I’m not dissing the genres, the writing, the individual books. But I am dissing their intention. Yes they’re for escape but they are also there along with consumerism and mainstream media to numb us. To help us stay muddled in thought and actions, propping up the racial capitalist system. I’m taking back my time and attention and I’m starting my personal study curriculum.
I’m back into Patreon. I need to have another notebook, a place to joint downs ideas, mull over readings as I dive deeper into fugitivity with a personal curriculum around black study.
What does this mean? Well it means I’ve going back to my roots in more ways than one. Read W.E.B Dubois, Frantz Fanon, Sylvia Winter etc . Those who are named as the foundations of black study. Who rendered our stories and drew inspiration from Africa and the Caribbean. Those who looked beyond Western disciplines and knowledges to explore black livingness.
Anyway, I need to continue to feed my own disruption from white supremacy culture/ racial capitalism. I need to keep the flames alive of believing and practicing other ways of {BEING} as it hard trying to make a way out of nowhere in the edges. It’s hard.
I’m trying here. Really trying to look after myself. To rest when I need to. To eat well. To move my body. To protect my mind, body and soul. To make a way out of nothing. Protect my energy. From what I hear you say?
Vampires. Blood fucking sucking vampires. I’m not referring to the Count here. I’m referring to those people who treat others like a puppet or pawn ( insert whiteness/ white people here).
All paternalistic, thinking they’re doing me some kind of favour when they take my ideas and run with them and then come back to me ( that is if they do) and present some kind of gig/job/role for me to carry out sometimes for free( sometimes for a fee) and think/expect/assume that I’m okay with this. That I’d jump at the chance of doing this shit for them on their own terms with them assuming all the control and power when I’ve been doing this shit by myself for others for as long as time, without shit from them.
Exploitation. Extraction. White supremacy culture comes to mind. Comes to heart here.
No discussion. No seeking permission. No asking if this is okay. Nothing.
Except the conceited, privileged, racist assumptions/ take over that this is something I would do and not refuse to do because … that I need them? Or that I need the money or the exposure? That this is the only way to do it? Or what?
I don’t know because they didn’t see fit to talk to me about it.
So many things are wrong about this situation. The whole concept. The timeframes. The costings. The language used to describe my people. My community.
Not to even mention that they spelt my name wrong throughout the whole fucking ‘proposal’.
I don’t think they know who they are dealing with. I don’t think they really know who I am or have been listening to me all along. Really listening to me and understanding who I am and where I’m coming from.
There’s blood in the water.
The sun has broken through the dark.
Vampires are not feasting on my fucking soul anymore.
I sold my soul once before and it didn’t turn out well for me.
With soul and dignity and integrity intact I’m not about to surrender them again for jackshit. For someone who does not hear/ value/ see me.
Living Wild Studios 