Untitled_ was a grassroots survival tactic in response to psychological and financial depression. A combination of limbo in-between jobs, extreme stress, over exhaustion and excessive self-medication with weed/take-out sodium.

Lessons I’ve swallowed one too many times before digesting properly:

One, an impressive collection of unworn clothes can be physical evidence of attachment to the past. Weight and distraction from opportunities ahead. If more money has been spent shipping old than shopping new, reconsider.

Two, self-hate is both a deprecating catalyst and powerful inhibitor. Mentally/physically abusive relationships often leave watermarks on the psyche, subtle but wrinkled permanently. Even for the mentally buff, even after new relationships, even if happiness is a relative constant, insecurities are predators. They survive quietly, patiently, viciously preying on weak moments then retreating once more. Sneakyass cockroaches.

These confidant selfies were statements on behalf of my younger self who deserved acknowledgement before reincarnation. Someone who has lived fully through highs and lows, growth. Untitled_ lots included souvenirs of precious memories like my wedding dress, family hand downs, gifts. I was on the cusp of leaving my dearest New York City at the time. Returning to Vancouver felt like an embarrassing defeat more than divine timing even though the universe was screaming GO HOME! REUNITE WITH FAMILY!

Grasping at string beyond frayed. I know. I’m watching myself become more desperate. It hurts me too. Selling furniture and tending to paperwork but I’m still in denial. Falling swiftly. Tip me off this apex of self-induced false hope, my feet are bleeding.

(beat)

Don’t worry, everybody is calm, but fuck you too. I’m done with constant agitation, repeating stories, deprecating my memories. Revisiting my past one more time and that’s it. The only thing left is to let go. Strip now. Silence.

Thank you Mass Appeal for reposting the invitation for what could have been considered a very narcissistic online garage sale.

More weed. T-shirt and bare ass on the hardwood floor. Half empty apartment. I don’t know if I can do this. Parting with of some of these is harder than I thought. The auction is supposed to begin in a few minutes. Fuck my screen is dirty. God help me. Please give me strength and I promise not to regress! I know now, material, clothes, these are byproducts. If it’s not necessary, it’s luxury.

Two fat drags. Hit enter.

Phone rings. He’s “reaching out on a vibe,” after reading that Q&A on Mass Appeal. The things he speaks of… what an incredible validation of making room for life to enter. I’m suddenly overflowing with energy for the next decade. Am I about to work for the National Museum of Hip-Hop? Is this a fucking movie? This letting go stuff is real.

(beat)

Only one buyer and she’s messaging after exhibition close.