just enough
intermission. outside the ball. boots up. talk moving. nothing profound. just enough to reset before stepping back in.
#tiohtiàke #drift #blackness #queerness #holdings #fragments
queerness
what already was
me and mother phoenix. mid-show, mid-shift, but nothing uncertain.
the name had already settled. this was the exhale. not just a mother— my friend, my people, my kin.
some moments don’t need a mic. just light, sweat, knowing.
#tiohtiàke #drift #holdings #blackness #queerness #fragments #refusals
rooms like this
for one of my best ones.
the candles held.
so did we.
strawberries, sugar, a whole lot of light.
not a performance of joy— the real thing. held in the breath, shared in the room.
this is how we stay.
#tiohtiàke #drift #holdings #queerness #blackness #fragments #refusals
practice makes kin
on the way to a house practice.
air heavy with smoke, with memory, with movement.
we laughed anyway. pointed. posed.
played around with a new category—something shifted. not just in the body. in the breath. family feels like that sometimes: silly and sacred at once.
in the light of our own making
i didn’t walk. i sat in the first row, just close enough to feel the beat in my chest. the floor glowed — not metaphorically, but actually. light from above, sharp and circular, caught on the sweat of someone’s shoulder mid-dip. it stayed there longer than expected.
people were yelling. not words, just recognition. you know the sound. when a move is too precise, too smooth, too honest to be ignored. someone hit the floor and bounced back like they never touched it. a house name echoed. as legend. as fact. as affirmation.
i watched. not from a distance, but from a place that knew how close it all is to disappearing. how fast the lights go down. how quickly the archive forgets us.
a phone beside me was shaking: someone filming, their hands unable to stay still. the dj looped a beat that rose from under the floor, not over it. and in that moment, nothing was held back.
i wasn’t walking. but i was inside it. inside the noise, the heat, the charge. inside the circle of people screaming each other into aliveness.
and that’s the thing. this isn’t spectacle. it’s communion. it’s how we stay legible to each other.
in the light of our own making. again. in the light of our own making. again. until the lights cut, until the floor clears, until the next time.
in between
after the rain, the colours feel staged. the village waits to be repopulated. someone forgot their joy on a wet bench.
for the community
accountability, laughter, cucumbers on the table. ballroom business, mid-afternoon.
fugitive transmission
stood there teaching, not to perform, but to remember. to speak of what refuses extraction. to name what pulses under erasure. black keffiyeh against the chest, kiki futures on the screen. the room knew. not everything had to be said. some things shimmered between us.
#kjipuktuk #drift #blackness #queerness #refusals #fragments #holdings
