i ain’t smiling and that makes me smile from the inside out.
there are tasks i want to {BE} and do and there are tasks i do not want to {BE} and do.
leaning into those take that bring me joy is what i {Be} and do today and the next day. and the next.
that’s all a bear can ask for. that’s all i want. and {Be} and do.
i ain’t smiling. but i’m wide arse, teeth shining, smiling for me – on the inside.
i’m protecting my peace so i have the energy for me, to {BE} in service for we, the we that looks/{BE} like me
this is all becoming clearer now
i’m not expending or wasting any more time, energy, attention on those (white) people who do not see me. or when they do see me, they do not see me as human
as Akwugo Emejulu says, the black woman can never be a human being
for decades i’ve spent time, energy, attention, through my practice and day to day life, trying to convince others ( white people) of my humanity. i would bend over backwards trying to get accepted, recognised, cherished as a fellow human being
look, please, i’m human. look, please, i feel, i hurt, i bleed. i breathe
no more. i am no longer prepared to play that role. dance this stupid dance. as i will never be accepted, recognised, loved as a human being. the system won’t allow it. (white) people won’t allow it
i’m no longer wasting my energy on proving jackshit
i’m refusing what has already been refused of me ( fugitivity)
i knowing who i be. i am smart, i am kind, i am important ( The Help). and i don’t need/want/entertain any (white) person to tell/grant/recognise me as such
and i’m no longer apologising/ playing it down or safe/ tempering for how i feel/act/ {BE} about this situation
as that just expends/takes/sucks out of me a whole heap and of other energy
i ain’t smiling.
As the wind rocks us, and the rain soothes us, Kiwi and I enjoy a little excursion.
Hardly little when we drove from our home to Portsmouth and then to Lymington to catch the ferry to the Isle of Wight.
I came here once before with my mum when I was in middle school I think. Or maybe high school. We brought my friend Judith too.
We stayed in a B & B and went to the beach everyday. It was gorgeous. Now looking back, it seems weird going away on holiday with a school friend. But that’s what we’d do back then.
I say weird, but here I am away with my Uni friend Alex and his partner. So go figure.
It’s forecast wind for the weekend and showers. So let’s see how it goes. I’m not complaining because I’m mighty cosy inside Kiwi.
I’m slowing all the way down. Appreciating the time and space, dropping out of time and space for a little while. I’m taking to {BEING} this more and more these days. Figuring out that rest, slow and {BEING} on my own terms is all I ever want in this life.
And I’m not going to given this. I have to take it.
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
The lessons I try and pass on to my kids are not to allow anyone else to change you. You go about your business as yourself. Don’t change for nobody.
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
I know my nature. I smile a lot. I lean into the joy of life because I’ve always said life is too short after being touched by death so young ( I now think life is long but that’s another conversation).
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
I’ve noticed I’m walking out now and not smiling. To myself or others. My face is fixed in a neutral stare, going about my business. I don’t not need/ want to look, speak or touch anyone else.
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
Is it my nature to smile and make contact with other (white) people because that’s who I am? Or do I do it to make them feel comfortable and not to think I’m a threat to their safety? Do I smile because I’m happy? Or do I smile to keep others happy?
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
Through speaking with a ( black female) friend recently things have become clearer and more resolute.
i ain’t smiling.
Not smiling, gazing or connection with (white) people while out walking/ coffee drinking/ shopping/whatever, is me, protecting my peace.
I’ve not been into the sea since the beginning of July. I’ve been staying away, allowing my tooth extraction wound to heal. I didn’t want to get it infected, further or again.
I have missed her, no doubt. I woke early and didn’t give it a second thought. I had the time, the energy and means to get on down there and get in.
It was like starting all over again. The pain of the cold was something I’d forgotten but soon remembered as I inched my way in, allowing the water to seep further and further up my body.
It was worth the pain. It’s always worth the pain.
I feel at peace now as I warm up and give thanks to myself and nature for allowing me this time and space to just {BE}.
I’ve just started a new course with Lighthouse Writers Workshop called Manifestations—Reading and Writing Speculative Nonfiction! with Kanika Agrawal. It works out that it’s early morning for me at its run on mountain time. This might help my speculative imaginings but maybe not. We’ll see.
After waking late this morning, I went to the page to complete my morning pages over coffee. And this is what came out:
Good morning, good morning. ( This sentence ran into the date I’d just wrote moments before).
Wow at least I’m just doing mistakes on the page & not in real life. Do I avoid real life? I know when I’m off social media or when I shy away from the news, it is to protect me from the real world because the ‘truth’ they are peeling is direct & fake and flawed. (And hurts me. My soul.)
But it’s still facts & information & journalism & biased & not ‘for real.’ I mean we say it’s a fact about the time and the date. But ‘time’ is a construct. It was a construct to make money – colonial time. I took it as a fact but really it’s all fake or a mechanism of control. The same for ‘race’.
I was thinking it was a given but again ‘race’ is a construct. It was created to justify the exploitation & extraction & brutalisation of one group of people by another. “They can’t feel pain right so what we’re doing to them doesn’t matter”, they said. “They don’t exist on the same plain, the same level as us. So chill your boots. It’s okay. They’re not human.”
All this musing feeds into what I’ve been reading of late, especially Fugitive Feminism where Akwugo Emejulu who argues that because humanity is tied to whiteness, Black Women, who I am interested in, will never be human. So why bother? Why engage with society on their terms/ these terms hoping one day you’ll be accepted when you know that label, that status of being human will never be attained? Instead, why not speculative about alternatives, about other ways of being, other ways of knowing ( conjuring) which do not depend on being human?
What possibilities could I begin to conjure?
This is where I’m at this morning. Tired and drinking my coffee but already allowing my imaginings to run wild. To be fugitive.
After a busy and brutal period of being out in the world working for the man, I’m resting. But already just after a couple of days rest, I’m coming back to myself. Coming back to what floats my boat, and gets the creative juices flowing. Thank you.
There are only a couple pages left in this altered book journal of May.
The month seems to have gone by fast. I know I’ll complete this journal tomorrow.
I’m ready to move onto a bigger journal now. I can feel it. It’s my intuition calling for more space I feel.
I’ve already started prepping some pages in an A4 journal with paper that’s like newsprint paper. An unfinished kind of feel, off-white, rough and a bit shiny at the same time. It reminds me of the large sheets of paper the teachers used to put down to protect the tables before we got out the paints for art lessons/ play.
Already I’m envisioning what the pages within this journal will feel like when I’m working on them and when I finish a spread.
This is what happens really. Having one foot in my current journal honouring the process. And one foot in the next journal, shifting energies, feeling the pull and excitement of the open pages ahead. Getting ready for the next journey and where it will lead.
There’s no doubt when I finish one journal that there will be the next. A next one. This isn’t something that I can end if I even wanted to.
Visual Journaling is my life. It keeps me rooted in my life, the ups and downs, the backwards and forwards. Where ever it may lead, visual journaling is there holding my hand, guiding me at the same time as catching me when I fall.
And fall I will. And this might be when I feel the need to give up the most but this might be also when I need this practice the most.
I’ve spent this past month, opening up my journaling pages to this space in the hope of inspiring others; for you to take up the practice. At the same time as allowing myself the space to explore what makes this practice tick. The attempt to explore/ unearth/ pin down where it’s magic lies.
Of course, I’ve not achieved this. I’ve just thrown up more questions than answers. But in all honesty, I don’t know if I want to fully comprehend it’s magic. I’m not sure I really want to unravel the mystery around visual journaling, around creativity itself.
As where would the fun be in that? Or the point? As would it help me complete it better? Would it help me achieve more?To succeed?
I don’t practice visual journaling to succeed. To become better at it. To crack the code and achieve more.
I practice visual journaling because it makes me feel (better).
I practice visual journal because it supports me being me. {BE}.
I practice visual journal because it supports me to {BE}.
When asked what I do, for a few years now I’ve replied by saying, ‘I’m Creatrix.‘
The bio I send out when requested reads as: “I’m Creatrix : she who makes, with a practice which manifests through poetry, storytelling, image and the unfolding histories of Black people. I engage audiences around Black women’s voices and bodies, black feminism, ecology and memory, nature and wellbeing, trauma and healing . I advocate for Black women’s voices, facilitating national and international creative workshops and retreats in the landscape, encouraging and supporting women on their journey of remembrance back to their bodies and authentic selves.”
But what does ‘Creatrix’ mean as it’s not a term that is in wide circulation? I know when I use it, it raises questions in others. Some are brave enough to ask what does mean, while others are happy the remain in ignorance and apply whatever labels to me they wish.
Creatrix: she who makes is what I call myself because the labels that others have put on me, or even as I’ve tried to define myself in the past, are just not good enough, or expansive enough. I’m more than just a writer, or artist, facilitator or teacher. I’m so much more than what I do in the world or produce. I’m more so interested in the person I am, who I be.
Creatrix originally is defined as a writer, an authoress. Therefore female. But now, the term Creatrix has come to mean, for me, anything that and anyone who is creative. My whole life is a creation, and so is yours. How I express my creativity is multifaceted and diverse. Yes I show up at the page to visual journal every day, but I’m also creative when I decide how I’m going to spend my time each day, what I wear, what I eat, and how I show up in the world.
Creativity is not the exclusive realm of writers, artists or musicians or dancers. I believe that everyone is creative but due to the society and culture we live in we are socialised into repressing it, conditioned into devaluing our natural, innate creativity and in the process move further away from our true selves. Being creative, consciously creative is being in communion with the Self, again another practice which is not really valued or taught within this culture ( white supremacy culture, I’ll add).
Me using and adopting Creatrix to describe myself to others is me reclaiming agency, it’s taking back control and power over how I’m defined, labeled or seen by others. I’m a person made up of many parts, personalities and responsibilities, skills and capabilities. And I bring them all to every situation/experiences/ activity I partake in. I attempt to be whole. I’m becoming whole.
Showing up more and more whole, more and more in my own power and authenticity is a practice. Being creative is a practice. It’s my constant reminder of who I be, not what I do, but who I be.
“A Creatrix is not simply a performer or entertainer – though these are the elements of what she does – she is a dedicated shaper of consciousness and energy, a culture weaver, a dreamer and midwife of new worlds. She is an asker of uncomfortable questions and a liver of taboos.” Creatrix: she who makes by Lucy H Pearce
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