Identity. The schizophrenic fragmentation of postmodern relativism allayed into a collective of temporal disparities, a helixing bondage of singularities, a hyphenated straddling of cultures and unbound references and desires, all bolstered by the descendant nectar abstraction of capital, an ever evolving conception of divinity, the final distension of empire, bloodshed, one-dimensional identities, and coalescence. Black or white, good or evil morphed into uncertain spotted shadows of each other. The invisible movement of power from solid hierarchical entities into amorphous ladderings of pulleyed scales, splayed back and forth between paradigms.
Each one of us is many, our strengths discovered in our multiple outlets. Where we are weak we are shared, a node tangled into impenetrability. We are activists, we are CEOs, we are priests, we are Hollywood bimbos, we are Asian fused Californian Art Deco subway jazz, curry eating freedom fighters, graffiti installation curators, airbrushed, obese, horny, lonely, terribly powerfully unknowingly interconnected, interdependent, intravenous subterranean and astral projected sons of bitches. And how dare you tell me who you think I am.
I am a third generation Estadounidense Swede, an African hand drum player heavily influenced by classical Indian tabla masters, a habanero hot sauce addict, a WordPress.com weblog writing introvert, a fast runner, a master of housekeeping, a French herbal liqueur idolater, a hard worker, a listener of R&B, world folk music, jazz, fusion, hip hop, reggae, Latin, pop/rock, classical, electronic, shit man, don’t you see that I won’t be confined by even labels that I might come up with? None of us can be pinned down, nobody can be so easily quantified by data.
We have so much to share with each other. Our capabilities gather strength from collaborative interaction. I’ll teach you how to understand me. You’ll force me to grapple with your expectations. I’ll sit back and wait for the right time to speak. We’ll dance the night away.