Yeah, so… I just released a good 75% of everything I owned into the wilds of the rambunctious fashist hunting grounds of Southern California.

This was a long time coming. I’d amassed a wardrobe for a tomboyishly sexy Junior executive Filmhead life that was surely going to be the “accounting/Plan B” gig of a latter-day ARTHEAD life to make use of event production whathaveyous I’d been casually using to produce installs and art events on the road for years.

& Frankly… It was gorgeous. A work of art that I loved painstakingly curating.

Then covid hit. But to be fair, the wobble in the plan B fantasies appeared around the same time they were doing the test-run of the pandemic and evolved from a wobble to tremors on the far side of it.

I thought I was on the right road.

Then God started narrowing the exit routes.

The short-list of spots where what he’d outfitted me with would suffice was small enough it was. But even it shrunk. & then metastasized under the pressure of said shrinkage due to the insanity that’s been afoot in said film industry since I officially returned to LA (post-extended vortex gig with said wardrobe amassed for it in tow).

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I’d stayed eighteen months, the last six by threat of the Most High to trust him and stay put, sure I’d be able to take and push back against the racist nonsense that bubbled up after I stopped doing everyone else’s work to keep folks out of my joyful path up there due to a back injury at work, doing the extra work.

If I had not listened, I’d have been ass out of luck when the world shut down because I’d been on legit AIRS for almost a decade prior to that. Work, surely. Nonstop, too. Just not by federal, actionable, insurable standards.

I’d spent that three month Physical Therapy due to injury chunk of my life [ my first] with acupuncture needles out of all kinds of hoohahs, happily hazed into the realm of TCM thanks to a local phenom occupational therapy program, retooling that wardrobe for the life I saw beyond being on my back, like a maestro.

I reconnected with my love of tailoring in that era, Amassing amazing JCrew before the cuts shifted bangers alongside every other flight of fancy that kept me from strangling moo cows trying me because my injury unveiled the truth at the root of most racism. Their laziness had benefitted from my excellence and my desire to have as little interaction with their laziness as possible by doing the Most. Three PT sessions a week meant my Most got shaved all the way down to bare necessities of my Own actual job assignments…and these lazy, shiftless fucks made having to do their own jobs about my race…then played victim when that didn’t give them the reaction they’d expected.

I understand all this is rising up to be written about as the final vestiges of that nonsense, so I am going with it until it’s all the way out.

That was the thing.

I had lost the fucking ability to walk for a minute due to fixing shit three to four shifts of them had let lay in disarray.

& In all of the chaos that ensued… I kept working. As we do.

I mean… to be fair, I’d already structurally arranged my schedule rock-block style: Multiple “clopens” [closing followed by a shift asleep, then opening] at the top of the week so I was hitting my full-time hours kinda-sorta across two and a half/three days. But that had nada to do with the work culture. I’d taken the gig because I had grievechronic research to do in San Francisco. I worked for them 3 days, worked for me & grievechronic three days. & actually had been happy. It wasn’t just a vortex. I met amazing artists who cam e in for the 3month sessions I would have normally been up for on the AIR circuit, splitting the haus next door. But I was there 18 months. With better perks.

But even with the injury, I was back on my gig within like three days. So the shit wouldn’t fall apart due to these lazy, feckless, literally inebriated because they couldn’t handle the pressure of the bliss emanating from the fn vortex…folks.

I was going to Peking University and to school in Copenhagen online, was doing R&D samples for a home goods line for AOLAB, doing all the lead-in delineation for the art monographs that took forever to come out, was shepherding all the in-process grievechronic books to redline stage, and I was low-key in film school- I watched 100 movies that I’d been told would help me better understand film, learnt how to do script reader rubrics and wrote my first screenplay. All while painting, working on the Infinite Kingdom giant collage… and being responsible for what turned out to be 75% of the five star reviews where I worked had on line, mentioned by name. And doing three fn PT sessions a week.

Building out that wardrobe was my armory.

I see that now. I see the pushback actually started when I began suiting up FOR my clopens. As part of my own psychological PT. We all worked separately, so it should not have mattered, but it did. Because I cut a dashing figure and our “interim boss” was a lush. Bonafide. & his literal dissolution under the pressure of stepping in to helm the place led the feckless lazies to self-medicate all the more. I just sidestepped the noises and nonsense, even when I was hobbled.

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& the racism towards me didn’t start With me. By the way.

[& they tried to paint themselves as the victim( it got back to me lol) by leaving out this fn part…as those kind of folks do, aiming for the rallying cries of idiots really wanting to believe their lies…but eh~ par for the course.]

That’s the part that did it’s best to remain unspoken. These fucks… let a known racist asshole repeat guest … corner a young black girl in an area and harass her, refused to help, refused to call the rangers- all this shit- and I came on in the midst of this kid missing her fn flight trying to maneuver around this shit. & shut down them trying to make her Asking them for fn assistance THE issue. They tried to block things when the airlines called once she finally Got to the airport begging to be stuck on the next plane as my next shift was wrapping- tried to call her a liar even though I’d had to call the rangers to come handle the mess they’d allowed. & I stopped it from happening. got on the phone , gave the airline the proof they needed and the Ranger contact to corroborate it so the kid could fucking get home. The fact that I HAD documented the shit was the actual racist eruption that became the point of no return.

Shit got hostile. Because I refused not to be like “Fuck that. & fuck yall.”

Instead of backing down.

They glommed together and I got all “Fuck yall, I grew up with worse, come at me bros/hoes!”

…which is not … umm… the … response these kind of folks are …used to their racist bullshit triggering. When they couldn’t bully me…they said they felt threatened lolol…. by not being able to collectively bully me, basically lol. I was straight “I’m from Cleveland- you think I have qualms facing off with ignorant racist white folks? I cut my baby teeth on this shit, let’s go, Kyle~”

Things ended in the EEOC getting involved and, once the San Francisco office sided with me…the EEOC opted to move the case to Seattle. To be re-handled/reviewed/buried by a Latino for Trump type dude that first month of the covid shutdown.

Didn’t matter to me. The proven hostile working environment covered my ass fiscally all the same.

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I’d cut my losses in December 2019, chucked all my curated wardrobe & things in storage in LA and went and holed up in a cabin I liked to write in before heading back into LA for the holidays.

I’d take swaths of the wardrobe out to enjoy over the years. Everything did know it was loved. & I’d shave it down a bit every winter. Donations. To keep that giving it back into the wilds vibration afoot in me. My fashist joy had begun with those kind of discoveries in the antique & vintage shops in my neighborhood growing up, so I remember the taste clear as day.

The film gig stuff was interesting, though. The specificity kept narrowing. & by the end of it, as the brunt of the industry firebombed itself across these last few years from every fn direction, even two of the three last standing outfits ended up rocked with controversies that made those terroirs as much no-gos as all else.

What I discovered that I’d liked about the possibility was that in Film nobody does other folks fn work. You stay in your fucking lane and do your fucking best. I liked it… conceptually. But I Loved that the concept was the most pointed “Call-out” of what my geterdone so as not to hafta fuck with folks” had actually created in my life supplementally.

For a woman who works the way I do…it was hard to go through. I Have spent the brunt of my adult life BEING in that workaholic vibe. Be it via arthead stuff, Writerhead pursuits or any of the things I have always done to supplement going for all of that authentically.

Especially on those days I was submitting for gigs and God would be like

“Nope. No. Not that one. Nope. nuh-un.”

Ego deaths allllll day, everyday. Perfect fits that I wasn’t even allowed to toss my hat into the ring for anymore …. and then… it’d pop up in the news that some spot my nose was out of joint over him not allowing me to even apply to had some sort of fn insanity hopping off. & I’d get spooked lol.

Even the last outfit standing from that original shortlist lol. Different kind of issues popped up. BUT… ironically enough… recognizing what God was doing there was calling me to be who the fuck I actually am in relation To them and the helmer….was actually the first step towards recognizing it was time to let the wardrobe go.

WHO I am in relation to that helmer…is not ‘mother may I” sub/dom energy at all. I was… I was gonna Try, man! I was going to try my best to … be whatever my variant of a foot soldier was in relation to this dude lol… Like… He’s… he was the one I actually wanted to BE my fn mentor… I never got “hired” lolol- but if I had and had come in being who I am in the gear I’d acquired to give some semblance of professionally TRYING to blend in…I’d have been fired lol. Because the protective pop-off would’ve just come out in a blazer. I would’ve felt so restricted and constricted in the sketch of “okay, this is the only way this could probably quietly work” I myself had made.

But I was holding on, man. Until this past fall.

There was a lot of pressure on me , and I was holding onto this wardrobe for a kind of life I knew didn’t ever fit me anymore…paying to house it even as I’d been beyond the pale of it for years here. I’ve been in Fully full-time writerhead & arthead on the road since right after covid, really. Doing what I needed to keep doing all that.

A ‘convo’ with him about being tired of carrying the gear for that life a ways back is really where the cord was cut. Was going to just let it all fall away because it was weighing me down in a way that was fn with my balance. Felt like he wholly got it and his “maybe you should” came from there.

That was when it was over.

When it all stopped being …precious.

When the wardrobe no longer wanted to be a glass menagerie, rooted in having to fn suit up whilst plotting my escape from a vortex I truly loved that was filled with folks I couldn’t be bothered with…I could see the value others could find in it right now, without my backstory weighing it down.

I saw the gear as seeds again. Seeds that deserved a second chance at “good ground.” That I could give them, wholly unhitched from my energy, cleansed of my energetic story.

So I found my way to that road.

& there were loops of chaos ridden through on the way to doing right by all of it, and the the things acquired between then and now on the writerhead road too.

A Great psychological pathway forward through all of this was my kink for Estate Sales up and down the coast of California. There are companies that now coordinate all of that on behalf of families, and they’ve gotten the staging of it down to a science. They know what appeals to the men tagging along with their wives and design the man cave spaces accordingly. and they trunk show out the interiors for the fashist, and stage for the interior buffs- it’s really cool how conscious they are of those looking to regime things left behind from lives that wrapped up sooner than expected. Sometimes it’s not death, it’s evolution and letting go.

You move through the unfinished stories people stocked up for, sure they were going to walk out in the most well-meaning, well-intended ways.

& it is just sobering. Whether you find things to take into your story or not.

The Capitol has a great circuit, too. But this last time… really hit home that it was time for me to let things go, too.

…To people who could love those things laying in wait “for” a … a me that… I have finally found peace on realizing I was never gonna correctly be…without it being an aberration of the authentic me.

But by the time I touched back down last week, all fell into place.

I gave boons to libraries and local thrift shops that actually help people in need. and even consigned a few pieces a few places. I gave almost all my book babies toys to the kid I love to Joseph, gave all my art supplies to the Picasa kid in my life I’ve been an art teacher to since covid who is kicking ass in competitions all over LA these days, and half my gem and crystal collection to my little dude who just got his parents to take him on a crystal dig for his bday.

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Everything went to people and places full of love , utterly cleared of my vibes, blessed and released to new journeys and discoveries.

And I won’t give you the schpiel about feeling so much lighter et al.

That’s happenstance. & like… romantic motif.

It’s not … a lightness.

There was an evaporation, though. A physiological one.

In the afterglow of it, or the aftermath of it all correctly matching… what I actually felt… was…

Hydrated.

I felt my…. fascia flowing. Only way to explain it. I felt like a barrier to absorption had internally been removed… and the sac of fascia helping hold us all together, the technology of the thing built into each of us that helps us Hold on in situations we possibly shouldn’t because it can see the intent behind us psychologically doing so… stopped hold ing its breath and just actually breathed.

I’ll never tell anyone to clear out or purge their things again.

Because done right, there is no purgative aspect to it. Throwing up has a bulimic violence to it. & that is not the vibe you want in an exercise such as this. It’s just another step in the consumptive raging cycle if you center release around purging.

But There are decisions I have NOT been able to make… That I can now see I truly hadn’t been able to see my way through, let alone step out on… because of the physiological act of holding onto the vestiges of a life that I had to make peace with not having ever fit me. No matter what I’d been willing to suffer through to make it okay.

But it was in the beginning.

I said it myself. Armor.

I was holding onto things to be used as armor in a fight …that was utterly beneath who I am here to vibrationally be.

& that was not those things’ fault. It wasn’t my fault either.

It’s just the way this shit is wired to culturally go, energetically speaking.

My actual attention came back… in a way I hadn’t realized was offline due to the tale I had been hellbent on carrying even though it was utterly ridiculous to do so in so many ways.

As for the Fashist-ness of it all?

Fucking amazing.

WHAT….I kept…speaks volumes.

& it was exactly what I was straining through to sands of time blocking my eyes and ears to see and hear about myself standing in this 5th decade.

THE Baseline of Baselines. It clarified the true conversation I’d been having with myself above and beyond all of this the entire time.