I have called something entirely mine and felt proud of the calling and then later traced it back through every hand that shaped me before I ever sat down to make anything at all,
I have called the work of mine in the proud and private way that creatives handed me the pieces I assembled into something I am now willing to sign forward,
I have called something as my own while standing on a foundation that I poured myself and built by hand, I will never get to remember the rest after of history after the building has been made,
What percentage of my current pride has been reshaped and returned, now labeled as the continuation of knowledge that has been handed down to me,
I have called something mine, and while it is still in progress, it was incomplete, this has given me more isolation than the fuller acceptance, truer story to think and understand…
I have the version of me who disagree about a piece of work, I’ve spent years trying to silence one instead of letting their disagreement create something neither could discover alone,
I have the version of me who can envision the complete shape before any lines are drawn, and the version who can only do what my hands can do, still feeling failure even we had the correct process correctly done,
I have the version of me at the table with different preferences, I expect one to protect still trying to understand the negotiation that keeps the work honest and alive,
Which self is steering my choices today, is it the one committed to staying true to the work or the one committed to finishing and feeling safe as quickly as possible,
I have the version of me who doesn’t always agree, I’ve learned that wanting to agree often was misguided, keeping the disagreement calm and steady is where the real progress happens…
I created something and was certain of its meaning, but when someone else received it differently, I felt a small realization that we’re still both right,
I created something close to a fact and gradually released the idea that it was the only correct for those who would eventually live with the piece and expand,
I created something that stirred different emotions in me, revealing that this wasn’t a lack of clarity but a sign that the work had grown to encompass multiple truths simultaneously,
Can I convey a different meaning to someone else without needing to be the final authority on it,
I created something and watched it travel to unseen rooms, transforming it into something I still keep on learning to find more like proof that my creation is finally free from my control…
I have endured the long line of strangers, shaping the tools, instincts, and habits I use without remembering their deep origins,
I have endured the long line, feeling its steady weight on days when work felt impossible, isolating, and uniquely mine, though it wasn’t true even on those loneliest days,
I have endured the long line, that started before I arrived and will continue after I contribute and understand it, this has replaced some of my urgency with complete surrender to trust,
What impact does believing a single piece of work is just one note in a longer part of conversation have pressures on it, rather than the final statement I’ve been allowed to make,
I have endured the long line, rooms, accidents, and finally understand that being held by something so large isn’t the loss of my voice, but the only stable ground I ever had…
Watchwords:
Traced it back through every hand that shaped me,
The disagreement is the engine not the failure,
Neither one of us was wrong about what we found,
Shaped by hands I will never know the names of,
The only steady ground that voice has ever had...
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream: