Portrait Before the Turning Point

The times are changing and nothing is as obvious as it used to be. Maybe we are all falling into the chasm that is the internet. Falling prey to the tides pulling us all in.

I think we’ve heard this story before. “I graduated and then it was like… now what?” *Flips hand.* The listless youngster full of ambition and wanderlust. What does she do next? She tries every man, job, and ice cream flavor and cries every night and develops both healthy and unhealthy habits in a desperate attempt to soothe her disquieted soul.

She’s death-scrolling on Instagram; past happy newly-weds, dog-moms, and job promotion announcements wondering why she even went to college. Why did she work so hard? No one really cares about her A’s or that one B- she got sophomore year that wrecked her near-perfect GPA. No one cares that she was President, Vice-President, Co-chair, corporate credit-card holder, student favorite, tutor, contract signee, and star performer. No one cares, not even her.

She wonders if she made a mistake, if she was a mistake. She wonders if there is even a place for her, when she doesn’t fit in any of the molds or cutouts or templates or frames, or whatever you want to call it. Even if she did, there isn’t really room for her on the page.

In fact, she would realize that she didn’t fit in any book, magazine, or spread where she expected to find herself. She would fumble through the pages, thinking, “maybe this is it,” but it never was. She would walk the streets at night, slightly out of her right mind. She would dance in the mirror and cry through the lyrics of her favorite albums until she couldn’t stand the very words and melodies that gave her solace.

She'd escape into the night time, stuck in a trance of “what ifs” and “one days.” She would spoon through vegan vanillas in search of cool reprieve but they never quite did the job. She was sadder alone and happier with company. Happier alone and sadder with company. It was never very predictable, yet also unsurprising.

However.

There would come a time when all of her "no"s and all of their "no"s would become a maybe. It's been years since the first Sadness. She's new, now. She's shed some things, and gained some things. She's read some things, and said some things. She's learned. No longer the novice, she has come to a different kind of "what if." The kind that leads to the same questions she asked herself years ago, but with intention, with hope, and even with fervor.

I'd like to let you know that the stories I tell will be different now. I promise myself not to wallow, not to sulk. Not to dwindle, dawdle, or disintegrate. I promised myself I'd be more compassionate. Be patient. Be kind. Be ruthless. Be vulnerable. Be strong. Be a force to be reckoned with, regardless of the answers I may or may not have because, now, I am not concerned at all with "fitting" anywhere.

What You Won't Do

"...do for love. You've tried everything, but you won't give up."

Bobby Caldwell might have been talking about L.O.V.E. (like, "L is for the way you look at me..."), but I'm talking about the love of life. The happiness, the splendid self.

Don't so many of us die for love? For happiness? For freedom? Even simply for serendipity and joy? The accidental perfect moments? The happenstance? The extraordinary, giddy coincidences?

Well, I've been feeling buzzed - like the kind of feeling you feel when you have so many feelings you just don't know how to feel. It’s a neurotic kind of electricity that can sometimes drive ambition. It can also drive you home, or drive you very far away. I am a writer and a painter and I'm certainly plagued by the artist stereotypes: emotional, passionate, erratic, inconsistent, maybe a bit obsessive.

Do I conform or do I rebel? Am I made to do either? I've got to be honest, I very much enjoy walking the line between the two. I'm a boundary-bender; I don't do well in extremes so you will simply never find me in either of the polar ice caps. I don't know that you'll find me at the equator either because I don’t literally mean that you will find me in the middle. I’ve learned that the mathematical middle never seems to be the actual middle, ya know? Like, how can you measure compromise, accommodation, and adaptability? The middle is always at this weird, like, in-between the in-between sort of thing. Maybe I am being literal and I'm just a New Yorker.... I mean, we really do think we are the center of the world.

I'm having trouble reconciling that I've desperately travelled around the world and back in my mind to avoid the thing I'm most afraid of: I'm afraid of being an artist.

There, I said it. I'm petrified. I love the dignity and respect that comes with working a "normal job." The title, the email signature, the quick email responses. So many of us live in ivory towers, but we might do better in a little hut in the forrest. The Artist is a little respected phenomenon. She never gets her credit, her money, or respect. She overwhelms everyone she touches. She is used for her ideas and taken for granted. She is over-branded and marketed as a product...by people with email signatures. I fear that I will only be loved after I die and that my work may weep in dusty corners, closets, and backup hard drives for eternity.

But, I won't let that happen. "You've tried everything, but you won't give up."

Tried everything to avoid myself, is what I mean. To get away from myself. My Self. The woman who thrives and flies and write letters in the skies. Her pen pours and she always full and fashionable. She has a big laugh and she's just positively alluring. I talk to her, but I won't let her take over because she scares me. She's quite demanding, she has extremely high standards and she’s most brokenhearted by strangers. Instead, I've enjoyed this smaller version of myself because she is anonymous and feels cozy, dressed in oversized clothing.

What haven't I done to avoid my highest, most loved and most loving self? What have I done to stay hidden in the forrest, stay safe in the shade? I've tried everything, and I must give up.

"In my world, only you make me do for love what I would not do. Make me do for love what I would not do."

I am both the protagonist and the antagonist. We are at war, but we are in love. She makes me do for love, what I would not do.

What does Bravery Look Like at 24?

A small, pensive compilation of thoughts were strung together, here. I've had some things on my mind I thought might make an interesting short post.

1.

Risky texts. Risky moves. - These are scary gestures usually from asking for more or refusing to accept something. Causing friction. Refusing to conform. Testing a boundary...

2.

This cat outside my studio’s window is a stand-in for me looking to the distance, thinking pensively on the principals of life. Wistfully, with reverence.

3.

A painting’s impact can come from several sources. The content/subject, the impact of the color or general visual appeal (like when u listen to a song for the beat and not the words), or for the technical skill or quality of craft and complexity. Each stroke contributes to what you will see in the end. Life is the same way. You may think the way you speak or act, the way you think doesn’t matter. It does. It’s important how you treat people. It’s important how you move your brush. The way you hold power.

4.

This brings me to my last point.  As a youngin’ everyone wants to give you advice. It’s really beautiful, actually. Take it as love when someone wants to preach to you. But don’t take their word as creed. Successful people should not take their word as creed either. After a certain point there is no more advice to be given. It’s simply experience, growth understanding you lack - that comes with time but we are impatient. Power is the distraction. Listen to yourSELF first.

...

What does it mean to move with confidence? To trust that your mistakes do not define you and accept your imperfection as much as your ethic, your creed? Use your judgement. Do not let people make you feel small. But should still listen, even if you think you’re right, because even if you only use take 1% of their message, it could be just the piece that was missing. You might take little fragments of advice and tweak it for yourself. I've learned that foraging your own path is crucial if the end result is to live a life that doesn't look like anyone else's. Create new challenges. I have no plans on simply being the cog in someone else's machine, you feel me?

Color and Punctuation: A Mini-Diatribe on Perception and Understanding

🟩Start, 🟨breathe, 🟥stop.

Much like punctuation in a sentence, color aids humans in the way we conceptualize ideas. Whether in a sentence or in a composition (window, canvas, what have you), these visual cues are the fulcrum upon which comprehension and confusion are balanced. They are the tour guides of knowledge; for they do not tell you what to think, nor what the "answer" is, but they will give you confidence on a vulnerable road. Well, how do they help? They say, "stop," "start," and "breathe," so you are not overwhelmed when approaching something new. This is true in life, too: it's harder to do something all at once than to break it up into smaller tasks. You would not pour an entire glass of water down your throat without swallowing... you would choke! If composition is the grammar of visual art, then placement of color may be the punctuation, as if framed by capitals and periods. Both box everything up for your lil human mind to grasp on to; organizational tools, if you will, to help facilitate the the comprehension of a new idea as a means of controlling your reality.

Each medium, is simply a new language. I mean, I believe in the power of literature, but there are many ways to absorb knowledge. Humans do not just learn through books, or even words. The oft-misunderstood process of learning is multifaceted because knowledge is not limited to form. Learning happens whether we realize it or not. Our ability to share knowledge is what makes us so... limitless. An urban planner makes a certain kind of line on the road and a certain kind of sign the same shade of yellow, because there is a system of meaning put in place by using color as a way to code behavior. In other words, we have a general understanding of yellow as an instruction to use caution when used to direct traffic. It says, "chill the fuck out," "be careful," take a breath.

Punctuation is similar. Surely, it's easy to get confused when the brain cannot focus on one idea at a time in a run-on sentence. Well-used punctuation guides readers through complex ideas, just as yellow guides cars and pedestrians down a crowded street. Capital letters code where to begin, and which words have more meaning or specificity than others, even when the spelling is the same. God as the singular, omnipresent guiding force is not to be confused with "god," the title to a person for their extraordinary power or ability.

Commas tell us where ideas get a little too complex to fit into a singular subject-verb-object pairing (the bones of the sentence). With all the adjectives, prepositions, conjunctions, and adverbs we add to our phrases (the muscle and flesh between commas), it's easy to get lost. Periods, on the other hand, are definitive and confident endings. Period says, "the end." This is why when we say "period" as a colloquialism, it's actually pretty on-point. -- Get it? On point? -- It has the same effect of "that's that on that," or "that's it, the end."  Imagine writing those words on the end of every idea, but then continuing to write. And write. And write. What a fucking chore, amirite? Well, you get the point. (Got you again, hahh.) Thus, punctuation is just as key to clarity as the words themselves. Just as colors and shapes are to a composition. They all create intention; whether that is for feeling or for practicality is up to the creator.

Color! This is the part you're curious about isn't it? I suspect you may have anticipated what I'd say about punctuation. But, color though! People love color. How could you not? Color is feeling, it's soul. It's a psychological, emotional reaction. We understand that one version of blue looks like the sky and another like the ocean. We know that grass is not the same green as pine tree needles. We understand there is not just green, or just blue. Color is more about perception than truth. It seems like a fact, but it is not.

One person's teal is not the next person's teal. Less commonly observable colors are usually made by humans, or they do not occur in common nature. Some have specific connotations depending on our experiences. If I had lilac sheets in my room as a kid that were slightly more pink than they were purple, and maybe just a bit darker than my friend's lilac pencil case that she had in third grade, maybe when she sees my sheets for the first time at a sleepover 10 years later we will argue over if they're really lilac or not. Maybe she'll think it reminds her more of a color she often sees at sunset, or on a flower. Do you know what I mean? We experience color, we don't create it. Humans are merely translators. But that's another conversation.

Humans cluster similar colors together into "families" to make sense of and recognize them in different environments. I'll explain. Look up. Pick a color that you can see. The only rule is that you cannot choose black, white, or gray. These are not colors, they're shades and are not important to this exercise. Pure shades don't really exist in nature. There are certainly exceptions, but as long as there is light, neither black nor white really exist. (Ignore charcoal, that's a chemical reaction, like neon... there's a footnote at the bottom for this if you wanna know).*

Let's say you picked blue. Focus on it. Visualize yourself zooming out so that instead of looking at points in the room around you, you can see everything that fits within your perspective. Now think about blue. Spot that thing across from you that's primary blue, the tiny blue light from a device, the lid on a container. Do you see how that color is speckled throughout your field of view? Your eyelids frame your vision, just as the edge of an image would, too.

This is why it is so difficult to translate what is seen into something else that is supposed to be looked at. -- But we could get real meta there, too: I mean, if everything we see in modern society is constructed by humankind for other humans, then isn't everything meant to be seen? I believe that even the most functional of designers want to make things that are easy to look at. Or, maybe they want to make it "ugly" or difficult to look at on purpose. That's a different kind of beauty, and it's still very intentional even if the purpose is to actually make you look away and possibly even question why you looked away. Like the visual renderings of monsters - manifestations of our fears and insecurities as human beings. Either way, there's an intent to control your gaze as their student.

Does an architect not "see" a room first in the mind and draw it just as a contractor looks at a drawing of that very room on the page and  builds it? It's really about the intention, nor from whom or whence it came. Was it God's intention? The universe? Human-kind? -- The story of perception and understanding is fraught with "what ifs." Don't worry about it, boo. Sometimes, you've got to stop your mind from eating at everything it encounters. Period. (LOL.) Everything around us is imbued with meaning whether we recognize it or not.

Colors and symbols (punctuation) mark up the world around us. Now, they are even combined, as we derive new ways to make communication easier. Even with all of the guides, the instructions, the how-tos we devise, misunderstanding still occurs. Our plight to control outcomes through language is ancient. Perception is a motherfucker. We lay the things we already know on top of what we see before us and interpret them our own way. Because we are not the same, we do not see the same.

___

*On earth, heat burns things and makes them black. I associate black and white with things that are dead. The black and white items you see around you are made of synthetic materials like plastic. Glass is tricky, because it's just melted sand, but it becomes transparent. Glass usually gives off bluer and greener tones, though, it's just less visible to the naked eye in thinner pieces of glass like windows and mirrors. Usually when glass has a color it's because other compounds are introduced like Cadmium Sulfide or Cobalt Oxide (hence, Cadmium Yellow and Cobalt Blue, paint and dye colors). So just like blowing glass into different colors, every time a painter lays down paint, they are really just mixing chemicals. Whereas, when you see a shadow, you see the absence of light on a certain object when another object is in front of it

A Cross to Bare Down a Winding Road

I've been feeling and unfeeling my feelings for a very long time.

I often feel submerged. I feel submerged all the time.

Drowning and emerging within myself feels so....

Relentless.

That is the word I would use to describe 2020. Relentless. Merriam Webster defines Relentless as:

Showing or promising no abatement of severity, intensity, strength, or pace : UNRELENTING.

Merriam Webster, this feels too literal. Very matter-of-fact. You make Unrelenting feel more like Fast and Furious. Like men in cars with their foot on the gas. It is a true definition, but an insufficient one. I like Google's better:

Source: Google

Oppressively constant; incessant. Really hits the nail on the head. Incessant literally means "without stopping." Definitions often lack the feeling that a word evokes. Incessant is an especially violent, harsh, and annoying form of consistency. Incessant. A word with an illusive beginning: "In." So casual, but so un-telling of what is to come. In, what? Those"s"s in the middle slither like snakes. That authoritative "t," like a cross, provides a very pointy ending.

I think of the potential of my mind in that way. Simple (maybe even dull) on the surface (in a quotidien kind of way). Hidden beneath the mundane is its true vigorous, erratic motion. Even deeper, it is sharp and extremely specific. This is why the erudite of society advocate for "sharpening the mind." But like a waterfall -- like the adjective, incessant -- my mind still leads to some other place. The mind itself is not the destination, or else we'd all be chasing our tails.

Incessant. Relentless. Words where "t"s and "s"s make themselves known. Kind of like my family name: Tobias. To be, as I.

Source: behindthename.com

Do not get confused, though. I've come to understand that I am not really a relentless person. Not in the fast and vigorous way that 2020 has been relentless. In fact, I'm quite inconsistent. I despise routine, sameness, and repetition. If I could do everything for the first time, I would. I think of a friend who, with the discipline of a buddha, sits down every day to hone his craft. This is a relentless man. But it's with a warm ferocity that his flame burns slowly and quietly of admiration for his future self. He pushes onward. I cannot help but be inspired. The amount of respect that I have for people with discipline like this is almost painful. It makes me feel so...wildly out of control.

That is what I have felt! Unhinged. My mind and my actions all running amuck without any sense of direction, like some old ass wheelbarrow squeaking all through town. Sometimes control is relentless: incessant, like a hammer on a one-man job. But then, so is the wilderness, which needs no analogy and no anecdote because it is the analogy. The wilderness is the story. No, I am not incessant at all. Sometimes I feel like I give up too easily. I do not like to force a "yes" out of a "no." I've always been very offended by people who tell others not to take "no" for an answer. Like, what does that even look like? People say "no" because they really mean it (or because they are afraid, but that is a different stream of thought, so stay with me).

I haven't been able to truly define myself in a succinct way. I mean, I'm 23. I don't expect to. I have, however, come to some basic understanding that while I have wanted to be relentless (i.e., fast, focused, and forceful) it is just not me. It feels violent and intrusive. Oppressive. I know relentless people, both those who are relentless in the way they uplift through passion and love, and others who are unrelenting in the tyranny of their own fear and self-hatred. The Times -- and what a time it is -- these days have been both.

I used to think that revolution had to be violent. I'm a Fanonian after all. Honestly, though, I don't really have it in me to grab a torch and burn down my racist neighbor's house. (I do, in fact, have a racist neighbor, this isn't for imagery.) I don't really think that's where my skillset lies, you know what I mean? (If you share my humor, you probably laughed at that like I did.) I do know, I get real good at thinking about stuff. So I think that I'll think about stuff some more until I have enough to really say. They say talking about an issue isn't enough. But I promise you: my speech is action. My desire to share is relentless.

For some of us, we wield our swords in our mouths and in joints of our fingers. Others are soldiers and we rarely know their names unless they are public martyrs like Jesus, George Floyd, or Breonna Taylor. Do you think if Angela Davis or even fucking Frantz Fanon, (both of whom talked that shit and took to the streets), were to be killed in battle before their words proliferated, that we would have them as monoliths today to start our own liberation movements?? I believe action is important no matter who you are or who you are meant to be. But it all depends; is your body your weapon or is your mind? I was never the type to really through hands, but like Dave Chapelle says, "I can gab with the best of them."

The Earth is Feeling.

The Skies are full.
The Clouds are grieving.
The Wind wrestles, rumbles,
Roars through the alleyways.

The environment changes daily.
The landscape is new.
The city is burning.

Burning,
The city is
Burning!
Burning!
The city,
It’s burning.

Let ‘er burn.

Let ‘er rage.
Let her scream
Let her dream,
She is not a machine.

The country is frying.
Her people are dying.
The streets are burning.
‘Least Heads are turning.

The winds, they rumble,
“Burn It down.”
The trees, they fumble,
“Burn It down.”
The Heads, they tumble.
"Burn It down."

They learned from Ferguson:
Release a
Statement
“Do it now,”
The “We’ll just make it”s.

But, all the while,
The Skies are gray
The Blue, the Green
The Tears of May.

I might not have the words to say;
Afraid to go Outside today.
I love my people
Who burn It down.
I love my people
Who gather ‘round.

All the while,
The Skies are full,
The Earth still spins.
The “World” gets dim,

Expressions

I haven't been thinking in words for the last few weeks. Words have been difficult for me. I feel moreso as if my emotions are caged up now because my body feels caged. Talking and spending time with loved ones has always been my release. A break from my own mind. I love speaking with other people because I get sick of myself. Not of who I am, but just sick of thinking so much about everything.

I once made a joke to a friend that I could stare at brick wall for hours just thinking about who built the wall. What happened for this wall to go up? Where was the clay from that was used in the bricks? Who went into the mountains or near some beach to get this red clay? Who transported it here to be made into bricks? Who brought the bricks and the cement? What do the lives of all the people involved in this wall look like? What other structures have their hands touched? Where is this soil from? What was this soil a part of before it was inside these bricks? 

Everything we see is constructed. Even people. People perplex me the most. We are such complicated webs, saturated with feeling, emotion, calculation, ration, impulse, carnal instinct. It's a lot to balance. And, surely, most of us do not balance it well.

It seems as if I keep attracting the same kinds of people, and I truly wonder what it says about me as a person. I fear that I am too easy to deceive. Or am I so weary of deception that I create the illusion of deception itself? I don't know. I can't tell what's genuine and real from what is constructed and deceptive. I cannot tell because so many people fluctuate between the two.

I like to think that everything I do is with positive, genuine intent. But there will always people and situations that will expose the errors of your own ways. My father recently said to me; ''even when you're right, you're wrong." That is to say that even if you are so confident, so sure that you are right, there are always things you are not aware of. None of us truly know each other. None of us truly know ourselves.

Foraging the Intrepid Self: A Dispassionate Pursuit

I’m not going to lie, I’ve had very little motivation over the last few weeks. If it weren’t for some freelance work, I’d be even less motivated. I’ve had meetings every morning to get me up and going, but I often have a lull of time between 11:30 and 1:30 where my brain just seems like it shuts off. But in the past two weeks, my spirit has been more unsettled than usual, as I’ve learned more about myself while we’ve stayed home.

Every successful person I’ve watched or looked up to has said that the key to success is consistency. If I’m being honest, I’ve always had a really hard time being consistent. I don’t have a consistent personality. In fact.... I’m really hot and cold. I feel, dress, and act differently every day. I like writing, singing, making art, beauty, fitness, health, fashion, media, design, events, social justice.... I could go on... I’ve always been decent enough at everything I’ve tried that I had little incentive to master one thing.

Now that I act almost completely of my own accord, I feel overwhelmed. To be young and ambitious is scary. Especially if you are good at multiple things. I always feel like I have options. In fact, I set it up that way. I stayed involved with a little of everything that interested me, hoping that it would make me a more versatile asset on whatever path I chose to embark on. However, as I use this time to really try and find my sense of focus, I realized that the answers I seek might literally be... in my hands.

Fascinated by the intersection of art and technology, I was an avid Sims player, building complex homes in various styles and Sims of all different phenotypes, but I never liked playing out the lives of the Sims. I’d get bored. Why live a simulated, digital life, when I could live a real one? Now as an adult, I see why grown people like playing these games. It’s an escape.

My mother likes to brag that I could make anything in the Paint app that came on every Windows PC. I spent hours and hours of my time online throughout my childhood. I loved the online dress-up games and chat rooms. I played Zwinky and IMVU. I probably watched every Jenna Marbles video pre-2014. I was on MySpace briefly, but was too young for that wave. Then I was on Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, StumbleUpon, Blogspot, SoundCloud, you name it. I even had a Disney profile. I love the internet. I love exploring all the stuff people put on the internet. I like putting stuff on the internet.

So... now that there are so many folks who are so opposed to “putting your business online,” I’ve grown insecure about my desire to do just that. But I’ve been doing it my whole life. I want to live and share, learn and think, make and sell. I’m just really scared to commit. I’m scared to commit to one thing forever. I know that’s not how this works - people change careers all the time.

Monotony scares the shit out of me. I’ve never been great at repetition without the motivation of structure. In many respects I feel that it’s past time for me to grow up. To boss up. To get up in the morning for myself. Work for myself. Love myself. Truly. I think it’s so much easier said than done. I cannot continue to maintain this mentality of a “free spirit.” I’ve gotten so wrapped up in trying to identify with these conventions of who I’m “supposed to be” that I ignored what might actually be best for me.

My goal for myself is to make decisions and never look back. I can say this: even though I may not be moving at the speed I hoped to, I do feel myself getting closer....

So this is just an update. On my mental. I hope you find this...helpful? Relatable? Thanks for growing with me 💖

Love,

Chey

On Balance and Contradiction

Let me interrupt this regularly scheduled programming. This is essentially a diary entry. I'm going to talk about myself. Again. *Sigh.*

First, here's a list of lessons I've learned:

• Do not, by any means, trust anyone.
• Do not let your guard down.

I've always felt this way. But in the real world, this is fucking creed.

Let's do a math problem real quick, bare with me. We may be alone together, but alone, we are indeed. You cannot focus on one or the other, you must balance the two. Alone and together. Alone, together, is 1 + 1 = 2. Mutual independence, but with trust and understanding. Together, alone, is codependency. It is 1/2 + 1/2 = 1. It means that one without the other is incomplete, deficient, and vulnerable. Alone is one. A, lone, singular entity. 1. One is quite powerful. I don't want to be 1/2 of 1, I want to be 1 of 1 and 1 of 2. Does that make sense? 2 is beautiful because it's a prime number even though it's even because it is so small. 3 is cool, too, it just has to remain in motion to balance. All pieces must be in harmony or else it turns into 2 + 1, instead of 1 + 1 + 1. You feel me? Balance, is what I mean. A triangle cannot balance on all three sides, and a triangle that balances on only one point is extremely delicate. I'm talking about friendship, partnership, relationships, whatever you think is appropriate here. I'm talking about balance, communication, confidence, and trust. To trust one person is difficult, but to trust two at the same time, while they also trust each other and you? Blessings to that.

Untitled, Cheyenne Tobias. July, 2018.

This is relevant because I've been feeling more like 3/5. Not 1/2, or even 3/4 and certainly not 2/3. I feel exactly 60% of a whole. I keep looking for people or things or opportunities to fill the other 40%, but I know that only time can do that. Clarity, Confidence, and Discernment. That's my 3. You see? 3 again, but this time I'm talking about an internal triangulation where these are my 3 points of focus. Read.

I made what many would consider a large life decision recently, and ever since I've been holding back. I've been making mistakes, feeling petty, insecure, and more full of uncertainty than before.

I feel oversaturated: everyone wants to give their two cents, but no one wants to truly get to know you. They may even want to understand you so they can use the parts of you that will work for them. "I like the way she operates, how can I learn and use who she is to make my own gains?" That's the entrepreneur mentality. I know because this is how I think. But we keep removing the personhood. I am looking to attract the kinds of people who see me, not understand. Understanding is so simple. You can read and understand, but never know. Experience and time on the other hand are simply irreplaceable. But it has to be pure. The time can't be forced, it will laugh at you and make you uncomfortable. (This is where I could really go on a tangent about how I believe time to be a feminine, non-linear property despite our very masculine, linear propagations through history. I'm trying to be better at this, but I like to keep the sidebars in because it's my fucking blog and I write what I want.)

The Ends, Cheyenne Tobias. 2018.

Let me ask you a question. Do you feel whole? Do you ever? What makes you feel whole? It's not a rhetorical question, you can think about it. Because, the more I write, the longer I quarantine, the more I feel uneasy. Discomfort usually comes from realizing a hard truth. Whether this realization is conscious or unconscious makes it all the more confusing. Your spirit and body often know things your mind simply cannot comprehend. 3 again: mind, body, soul. Thus, why it's so hard to balance them. I can only seem to do 2 at a time, really, because the third can often be in contradiction with the other two...

In addition to the tension I feel internally, I feel alone. (Insert "you're not alone" blah blah, I know, I get it.) I say this because it's neutral fact, not meant to inspire nor discourage. I simply say this as a foundation on which I will build my personal life philosophy. To "grow up" is to realize that you are alone. I'm sure there's more to it than that, but there's still a lot I don't know. There's a bit of magic and love and sparkle to it, too. But, I'm from Brooklyn so you know how that goes. I saw a graphic text post by @thehoodwitch that really summed up what I'm going for in life so I'll leave it here:

Anyways, be safe. Stay home if you can. Sign this petition to freeze NY rent. Check in with loved ones. YKTV, I'm sure you've heard it all. Let's just breathe.... In.... Out....

In...

Out...

In...

Out.

Peace, love, blessings,
Chey

Foraging the Intrepid Self: Part 2 - Building Blocks

I was brought up in the practice of being a "woman." My father liked to buy me pearls and white lace dresses. He was concerned that i would run to the first man who'd buy me nice things, so he bought me nice things first. My mother, however, was neither for against any of it. She didn't instruct me to do anything a particular way. She just wanted me to get A's and be safe. I wasn't allowed to wear red nail polish or shave, though.

I remember using her razors to shave my arms in middle school because this girl said I was hairy. Then I shaved my arms and she made fun of me for shaving them. She then proceeded to tell everyone in the class about it on our way to gym class. That's when I realized how pointless all that shit was.

"All that shit" as in, hetero-patriarchal gender norms. Translation: straight, male-driven standards for how people should act according to a male/female binary (the either/or, black and white mentality). I loved pink and dangly earrings, and bangles, but I loved kickball and I'd beat most of the boys at arm-wrestling. I loved the fact that I confused people even more. Confused them with my style, my behavior, my skin, my hair, my speech, my family, my interests.

My dad also taught me how to stand my ground. He said, if someone starts a fight, "you finish it." I liked that a lot. I liked knowing that I had the free range to knock the shit out of someone if I had to. Maybe I gave off that aura because it seemed as if no one could really follow through.

"Chey's Nocturn," digital painting by Cheyenne Tobias, August 2019.

I remember this kid slapped the shit out of me in the cafeteria. He came up behind me and slapped the right side of my face from behind. I turned around and asked if he was satisfied. He looked as though he expected me to get up and fight him. I raised my eyebrows and proceeded to eat my lunch with him breathing on my head behind me. I couldn't hear anything out of that ear for like 10 minutes. I'm not really the type to be fighting, even when provoked. Maybe that is radical femininity? I'm not sure.

I had a whole post I'd written out for the second installment of this little series, but it didn't excite me when I read it back. I call this "Foraging the Intrepid Self" because I imagine myself going through the jungle that is my mind and spirit, chopping down trees and plucking the ripest thoughts and feelings, so that I may come out with the best ingredient for a fearless and bold Cheyenne.

I was once a girl who sought to be everything that she was not. Softer, frillier, quieter. I am none of these things. I am not soft. I am not frilly. Surely, I am not quiet, even though I enjoy listening. Do you see how this causes some cognitive dissonance?

Poem artwork by Cheyenne Tobias, 2019.

I wrote a poem a few months ago that centered the line, "you will not find me in a butter yellow dress." This was a moment in which I found myself mercilessly relinquished of my attachment to radical femininity. I don't know if that's the official term, but that's what it is in my mind. Radical Femininity suggests that femininity is a form of strength, in its ability to absorb and heal pain through care. It redefines strength as softer, flowing energy that changes and moves rather than rigid, resistive and stagnant energy. In theory, I agree with a lot of this sentiment. Compassion can really light up the kind of person that feeds off of hatred and jealousy.

It can also be the whole "pussy power," "fuck men" sort of thing, which honestly makes me feel weird. It just reinforces the binary. A lot of feminism actually does that. I stopped calling myself a feminist for this reason. We can raise the bar a lot higher than just "equality." Let's just do away with the whole gender thing. I mean, it's kind of bland, don't you think? I know we have this need to compartmentalize people so that we feel like we understand them, so we aren't afraid. But I really wish we'd do better.

Love,
Chey

Foraging the Intrepid Self - Part 1: My Disclaimers

I'm going to talk about masculinity. But, not as an inherently male attribute. I'd like to speak to you about masculinity as a sample in the petri dish that is my young womanhood. What? I know it sounds a little gross like that, but I really used to think that cooties were just a code for masculinity: something that only boys have. Does it have a place inside of femininity? Not as a phallic or intrusive external force... but, like, in a casual way? In a way that just is?

"Tomboy," digital painting by me, Cheyenne Tobias.

I have a lot of thoughts that all feel important, so I'm splitting them up into several entries for your short-attention-span-havin-ass. I'll get to it.

Let's get some identity politic shit out of the way, first. I do not want to be a man. I am a cis-gendered woman. I find women attractive, but rarely desire committed romantic relationships with women and have little experience doing such because I fear making anyone feel like an "experiment." My gender is not inextricably linked with my sexuality, but because that's how we've been taught to think, I thought I'd package that up for you.

Second order of business. I am attracted to somewhat problematic men. That's the dilemma that has our very loving, "nice guy" brothers scratching their heads. I enjoy a challenge. I enjoy correcting people, but not too much. I still retain certain boundaries for what I cannot accept. A guy I was seeing said that modern pro-black movements lack tangible demands. He said something like: At least gay people are fighting for the right to get married, like, what are black people fighting for now? This really had me shook because this guy is black! I had to explain that racism is not just about the law, that before these laws could be changed, white folks had to be convinced that black people were first-class citizens just like them. People make these laws, and the law is not neutral, perfect, nor absolute. I had my receipts and started talking about the first slave narratives (that had to be co-signed by respected whites to be taken seriously), and the long history of black art and media that changed the hearts and minds of folks in the U.S. and across the globe. He eventually got my point and I could see that I had changed something in him. That's what I like - the ability to have dialogue and enough openness to listen. Shiiiit, check me too, honey. I love to learn. I could also go on and on about my grievances with "woke" straight cis men, but that is a tale for another time.

I speak on this because my relationship with masculinity has only existed within the framework of toxic masculinity. That is, masculinity that whittles away at anything in its path. This behavior causes and is caused by violence. Homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, you name it - anyone can commit toxic masculinity, not just men. I don't have text books or readings to refer you to this time. I am less read on these topics. But through my own womanist journey, I have come to realize that true selfhood as a woman does not only come from embracing what is feminine. Radical femininity is some beautiful, strengthening, revolutionary shit. Don't get me wrong. But, I believe it is equally important to engage with our own masculine energy as women.

It has been my experience, that most of us hate ourselves. As painful as this is for me to admit... I hate myself. This acknowledgement, however, should not be seen as some cry for help or even a nod at suicide. I am not suicidal and I want to make that clear. I do not like to toy with the word depression, either, as someone who has not been clinically diagnosed as such, and as someone who has a depth of experience in proximity with extraordinarily depressed individuals of varying paths.  I wrote that because I needed to. And because I know it's true. I'm learning to love myself. Even the deeper, darker parts that are difficult to accept. I've resisted so much of inner-self that I have - in many moments - drowned in deep inner conflict. So, for the purpose of this series, let's assume that my inner self is quite masculine.

"One Way," digital painting by me, Cheyenne Tobias. Created sometime in early 2019.

I do, however, feel self-destructive and disembodied quite often. I sometimes make unsafe decisions that I despise immediately after. Then I despise myself for making them. I will hate myself for weeks, months, even years for decisions I've made. Going to a stranger's house, thinking we were going to leave right away. This man looked like he was dressed for a cozy movie night - toes out and everything. Suddenly all the CSI, SVU, and Criminal Minds I'd digested kicked in and I felt stupid. He offered me hard liquor very quickly and made repeated comments on how attractive he found me.  I left after about an hour, realizing that I'd put myself in an irresponsible position. I've gone out at night too many times to count with less than $20 in liquid assets. I refuse to be afraid of the world. I often feel detached from my physical self when I make these decisions. My thinking is, like, "whatever, it's probably fine." Then, I realize how much I don't love the words "whatever," "probably," and "fine." Especially stacked up like that; that's a lot of detachment....

So... let's stop here for now. I know you're not supposed to put disclaimers in front of work. But this, for me, is an act of cleansing. I do not want to be the post you read in the middle of your day while munching on romaine lettuce on the day that you tried to take the best possible care of yourself. I do not want to be the reason - at least not todayyyy, kee-kee - that your heart beats a little bit faster and your brow sweats, knowing that you avoid your own sadness. Try not to force your eyes away and your finger to flick upwards and outwards toward something more pleasant. Something more forgiving and more ignorant. You will never come to Pass and find farce or illusive construction. That's what my Instagram is for (tea, I know).

As you were. Come back next time for more of my deluge.
Peace,
Chey