Our hands chromogenic.
Colour photogenic.
So multisystemic.
Connected, irenic.
Yet through the pandemic.
Nazi epidemic.
Injustice systemic.
You carcinogenic.
Anti-academic.
Hallucinogenic.
You philopolemic.
Committing eugenics.
But we are alchemic.
Our people numeric.
Our hands esoteric.
We clasp them like cleric.
Allure biochemic.
Strong, robust and sthenic.
Values biogenic.
Refute your polemic.
Our flow mutagenic.
Hold hands to selenic.
That night sky glow spheric.
Our grasp cosmogenic!
Through engaging this artwork you have become part of my Rhizome.
Though the word rhizome is derived from a Greek word meaning “to take root”, the rhizome is not about the common tree structure whose branches have all grown from a single trunk.
Rhizome subverts such traditional hierarchies.
Rhizome offers liberation from these structures of power and dominance.
Rhizome has no beginning, no centre and no end.
Rhizome can be entered from any point, and all points are connected.
When injured or broken at one site, rhizome simply forms a new connection that emerges elsewhere.
Rhizome is not about what is or what was, but about what might be.
To quote Deleuze and Guattari:
“The surface can be interrupted and moved, but these disturbances leave no trace, as the water is charged with pressure and potential to always seek its equilibrium, and thereby establish smooth space.”
Creativity.
Neuroplasticity.
Seek synchronicity.
Do eccentricity.
Breathe chromaticity.
Lack domesticity.
Fuck the complicity.
Whiteys duplicity.
Tests my capacity.
Ethics elastic-y.
Mould them like plasticine.
My skin chromaticity.
Hides my ethnicities.
My multiplicity.
Draws your causticity.
Preach authenticity.
Settling felicitly.
Hide from publicity.
White boys toxicity.
Am I exploring my ancestral pathways to avoid the pain
My most recent ancestors inflicted?
What dust do I want to leave?
Layers.
Sediment.
Isolation.
Isolated.
Stratas.
Unearthing my history.
Trying to make peace.
Trying to MATTER to someone.
Anyone.
MYSELF.
If I build a mythos I respect, around the abject figure I truly am….
Can I finally self care?
Can I finally treat myself with respect?
Can I care for myself as passionately as I care about everyone else?
Their safety, their rights, their …what?
Their inherent existence?
Does a cloud feel worthy?
Does a flame feel shame?
Does the wind whisper stories of grief and regret?
Do the waves NEED?
Why do I NEED so much?
Why, always why?
Why not BE.
Everything around us is made of atoms.
That are mostly empty.
Emptiness vibrates.
Off my tongue.
Off my eyeballs.
I eat the empty and regurgitate nothingness.
We all do.
Forever.
If you go deep enough...
You’ll find the tiniest touches of matter.
Zoom out far enough and it is echoed throughout existence.
Nothing came from NOTHING!
What then, IS matter?
What DOES matter?
Do I?
How could I?!
And is that freeing?
Free not to matter.
Free to just be.
Free not to shame
Or guilt
Or spiral.
Free to forgive myself.
Free from the traps they tried to build around me.
Box me in.
It worked.
But boxes are made of atoms.
Mostly empty.
Just like me.
