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I modeled Incandescent on Top after the house music compilation CDs from yesteryear. Some of them were stellar, expertly selected tracks by DJs who clearly loved music, engineered to perfection, for maximum spins. Others were shit, and arranged so randomly, where nothing made sense as it went on, jarring selects, followed by long stretches of extended mixes and unlistenable dubs.

My curation came about organically. It’s definitely got that “oontz oontz” sheen, and many tracks are over 5 minutes in length (🫨), however, so much of the source of house as a genre is its spiritual groove. The best compilation CD I came across was 2001’s Back to Mine curated by Ben Watt and Tracey Thorn of Everything but the Girl. The final song was “Someday We’ll All Be Free” and revelatory doesn’t come close to how brilliantly it was arranged. Donny’s voice didn’t come from nowhere, but served as a connective tissue between the present and the past. From then on, a distinctive mark of a good compilation CD to my ears was choices like that. Soulful surprises. The metric if this DJ really dug through some crates. Reached back into time. Found inspiration in another genre, expressing the blues, spreading love, in exciting ways.

Standouts include:

• The new Madonna and Kylie collaboration remix. Typical of an elder millennial to be taken by such a pastiche of four-on-the-floor tropes, but damn, does it work.

• My favorite track from Brandy’s 2020 release and one of that album’s interludes. I thought they both match this playlist’s aesthetic: shimmery, groovy, ethereal, with undeniable earworm potential.

• “Don’t Leave Me on the Dance Floor” teases what’s forthcoming from Carly Rae Jepsen, and yes please, more, my goodness! The music video featuring Tony-winning actor Alden Ehrenreich collided my two worlds.

• When I saw a new release from Rebecca Black pop up on my dash, the curiosity led me to venture on and press play. Glad I did! She’s been moving into the Club-Diva lane for a while now, transitioning quite well from viral fame as a pre-teen. Her voice is distinct, overflowing with personality, and apparently it’s about Lady Gaga’s man!

• I’m a Big Sean simp. Anything he’s featured on gets my attention. “GMFU” is cool, one of the many jams from Syd’s new album; snap your fingers along as it plays in the background. Soon as Big Sean starts rhymin’ … you can’t help but get pulled into his frequency.

• Big fan of Rachel Chinouriri, and while “One song away from crying” has more of a nu-wave bent, the song’s theme and cleverness fits so well. Another distinctive voice!

Chibueze’s note provided just the push I needed because I have no real cadence for these drops to you, my dear readers. And when the playlist came together, my first thought was, “ack, I should wait until later this month to share it, I just put out Caged Growth II”. Why wait for the perfect time? What even is that, and with a collection this hot (🔥), the time is now.

I’ve rolled into my lexicon, the phrase “I’m not precious about it”. Picked it up from a consultant somewhere, or at a conference, most likely in one of the many meetings I attend/facilitate. Sounds cute, but is it real? In fact it feels like we are precious about sharing ourselves, what we enjoy, what moves us, who inspires us and challenges us. More often than not, it’s railing about what we dislike, the irritations and objections, as justified as they are. That’s what we should be precious about. Maybe it’s a mask, shielding our true selves to protect the things we love from outside influence, unforgiving exposure.

How beautiful would it be if we didn’t overwork our impulses down to the studs? Wordsmithing, perfecting and nit-picking. Let me stop before I get too carried away because it’s still impacting me. The self-edit. Hesitating to connect for fear of rejection. Working to be way less precious about this here blog. If I feel it and it moves me, I’m hitting “share”.

Brianna Perry

Poet and essayist — discovering and conceptualizing Blackness. Using music as a source for liberation.

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Last month, the hubby and I took a road trip and in doing so we cycled through my playlists, and in vibing off the rock and folk-centric playlist I built, he suggested making a sequel to it. I liked the challenge of creating a companion to it and testing whether a curation like that was just a fluke. Ya’ll know I love a sequel, but in challenging myself, I wanted to approach it with purpose, and my center was to uplift women rock singers, if those women were Black that was an added bonus.

Opening up to indie/alt/emo rock from around the world, switching things up and looking outside the usual suspects to other curated lists. The additional challenge was to really sit with the discordant sounds, to not wait for the drop, or the key change bridge, and find the musicality, the spark, and do the work in actively seeking out the sounds that matched criteria. When I finally took time to arrange and sequence it all, I had 20 tracks locked in for Caged Growth II. It’s best played front to back.

Standouts include:

• “AOTW” by Kareem Lomax - Truly, the crown jewel! I was struck by it immediately, listened to it a gazillion times, obsessed with the melody, and reminded of the obvious notion that Black women aren’t narrowly defined to a singular music genre. Their voices soar across and through all textures.

• Kelela’s new venture into shoegaze has gotten a few spins out of me. Her voice is otherworldly-captivating; “goin down” is the one that’s lingered for me.

• Nao is another genre-expansive artist with the freshest sound. Listening to her music makes me feel chic and pretty, and “Elevate” is no different, and came rec’d from Brianna. 🙌🏿

• Ecca Vandal’s “SORRY! CRASH!” opens things explosively. I heard this song on KEXP’s “The Midday Show” and recommend the entire album that accompanies it. Her energy is hot!

• beabadoobee has released the punk ballad “Switchblade”, and I’m excited to hear more of her new music this fall!

Also, shout out to my friend Thom Dunn whose band, The Roland High Life, released a smash this summer and it happens to fit very well in the playlist. In my head, “The Edge of Memory” is a B-side to Cola’s “Satre-torial”. In the vein of a rock musical, maybe in the throes of workshops, but with serious buzz; representing the 11 o’clock number and the clever one that audiences go home humming to themselves afterwards.

My other obstacle was the prose for this month’s post. At first, another snippet from my untitled play was on deck, but it just didn’t come together. Which locked me up even further. Can’t seem to write a scene of two or more characters talking, letting the dialogue speak for itself instead of the narration and stage directions. I get a bit carried away with that as a writing device (is it a crutch?), so I had challenged myself to clean up a draft of the stepfather, adult son, and uncle in the living room to pick up from the previous scene of Chuckie with the young boy.

Inspiration was just not hitting for one, and for two, Mercury was Mercury-ing like fucking hell; I’ve had a challenging month emotionally that has transformed the writer’s block into a sharp dagger, digging into my scabbed-over insecurities. Waves of inadequate thoughts crashing in my head, followed by misapplied actions. Struggling with my vices, struggling with resentment, struggling to concentrate on me and not everyone else and their feelings, impressions, fears and judgment. Calls made on my own terms, no matter the cost.

I’m also pulling creatively from such painful wells and grudges, which I should probably examine. The lines I’ve written don’t feel real. They don’t sound like people, and it frustrates the daylights out of me. Confirms reasons why I don’t lead at all with playwright or theatre artist. To avoid making this project out to be a vanity project at best, an unfair therapy session foisted on readers at worst. Then, it never gets completed. A couple of these lines have unearthed some justified but lingering anger. Like, why the fuck didn’t anyone look out for that literal child?

And such as, and so forth….

Still deciding how much of that draft I would like to even share, much less if I’m fully ready for all that. Do I want to put you, my dear readers, through that? Not particularly. It’s not that I’m afraid of airing dirty laundry (ugh, phrasing), it’s about access, proximity, rhyme and reason, honestly. I’m a real person and not an avatar, and I have to remind myself of that reality often. Would hate for my personal experiences to get misconstrued or morphed into something abstract of me.

Think I might pivot altogether and free-write on a wholly different topic. Swing myself to another genre, other sounds, new models of reference in order to work out childhood pains and trauma.

Would welcome a recommendation, a prompt or scenario!

It’s hard to do anything in this world. Stay the course. The fact that people keep making beautiful things anyway (songs, plays, poems, the list goes on and on and on) is something I’m learning to appreciate in practice. Maybe that's why this poem stuck with me.

I’m glad to still be here no matter how dark it gets. There’s a light. I'll see you next month.

Formidable is Queer, with a capital Q. Fizzy, bright, loud, and in-your-face.

Put it on as you get ready for a night out!

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Standouts include:

• New music from Jungle, FLO, Alaska Thunderfuck and Aja Monet

• My favorite song off Kehlani’s self-titled masterpiece (Big Sean’s voice is so sexy!)

• A tremendous rump shaker from Alpha Moses

Underneath all the bass and bravado, this playlist is about freedom and what it sounds like to me.

And, girl, I’m free!

I’ve been out of the proverbial closet since the 90s, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Grateful for the life I live. Grateful to be alive. Free to make choices that matter to me. Grateful for every lesson, laugh, and moment that brought me here.

If Pride month reminds me of anything, it’s to bet on myself.

Especially in moments when I didn’t really believe in myself but faked it, like in this 2012 photoshoot.

Sean asked another mutual friend and me to participate in a romantic, ANTM-style shoot, and I was deeply insecure about my body at the time. But I did it anyway, and I’m so glad I did because now I have this SICKENING artifact to look back on.

Wish I could tell that young man to love himself harder and be thrilled with his shape, skin tone, and full head of hair.

I can’t get that time back, but I can let go of hesitation and share it here, not for external validation, but to honor how far I’ve come.

Sure, being as open and free as I am has caused me to miss certain opportunities. People I was obsessed with, jobs I knew I was qualified for, passed me by or overlooked me, but that’s a blessing.

I’m here now.

Being visible matters! Sometimes seeing someone else live openly is enough to keep you moving.

You never know who’s watching and learning how to be free.

Then, to close out, I’m sharing a free-write from 2023. The prompt was: “What’s a childhood experience you’ve built a story around, whether it’s the truthiest truth or not?”

Thanks for your support!

Been a fan of Tank and the Bangas for years! Their latest album, The Last Balloon, blends pop-folk, jazz, and soulful textures into an inviting, sumptuous meal. I’ve had the tracks “Move ft. Lucky Daye” and “Don’t Count Yourself Out ft. Dawn Richard” on loop!

Listen here: Apple Music/Spotify

A new R&B heartthrob is on the come-up, and his name is Dariel Amant. Concise and tight at just 10 tracks, El Amante ends before you’re prepared, but it leaves a strong impression. For me, “Yo Te Amo” and “Tal Vez” are contenders for Song(s) of the Summer.

Listen Here: Apple Music/Spotify

What does it mean to be the family member who pulls away?

Relinquishing the responsibilities of the household.

They do not pick up the pieces or rifle through the familial scraps.

Do they feel peace? Relief, soothing puffed eyes, so generational it erodes shame.

Drought of care taking, refusal to be bought, guilted toward love.

Do they find interests in life outside of obligations?

Who remains to scrimp and save on traditions like they’re going out of print?

Who is really on the hook, dangling there, yoinked out of the stupor, with conditional love?

Only on the condition of silence.

Why should I check in when no one checks in on me?

I imagine they think of me now as a ghost. Like those faded polaroids, posed just so.

The mildewed stuffed animals, the warped action figure, strewn across basement floors.

A faint, occasional whisper, only to wonder about his daddy - “How’s he doing?” “Was he able to survive all that?”

A ghost that does not haunt or provoke grief, even if uttered, taking longer than two shallow breaths before the name registers.

That frail child too small to pose a threat but strong enough to take frustrations out on.

The one whose school pictures stop being collected.

Rough knees, scabby, cracked hands, and nappy-headed,

Bloated and sugar high off soda-pop,

Dressed in the cleanest K-mart fashions to hide the truth that they were the afterthought.

Took what they could get. Grateful to get anything at all.

Take comfort in that you got to pass through the home like a soft breeze. Not expected or wanted to linger.

An absence that settles before daylight returns. Fleeting signals passing over night.

That your presence was less felt than experienced, around than lived in, existed but abstract.

Besides, who’s ever missed?

Who was left who cared enough about me to miss me?

An unbecoming specter before they are fully gone.

I had a whole screed ready to go about how much effort it takes to get out of bed.

But that’s not necessary right now.

The pain of being told you’ll never amount to anything makes daily affirmations sound insincere from the outside looking in.

I had planned an “I’m the SHIT; those who wronged me aren’t even the FART” post.

But, honestly, I can’t bring myself to type all that.

The vampiric people will not read this, will not offer me atonement, and I would only exhaust myself further by focusing on them, with little to gain in the end.

May our paths never cross, but if they do, I hope I have the courage to stand firm in the face of their disapproval of who I’ve become.

We’re in truly frenetic times, which makes it harder to focus on what matters. If everything is critical, then nothing is sacrosanct. I don’t know what comes next—my weed-addled brain can’t find a solution, and I suspect, dear readers, you aren’t looking to me for one. Please know I’m here, struggling right beside you.

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No shiny hook for the algorithm—just the music that’s held me together.

This month’s playlist is a free-for-all, my scattered energy reflected in Scramble Them Tricks, best enjoyed on shuffle and a balm on tough days. I’ve also included three tracks from Destin Conrad’s deluxe album ‘wHIMSY!,’ the latest from Sekou, BTS, Kehlani, and Rema, plus what I believe is RuPaul’s best song in recent memory, though I’m open to debate.

At the center of this playlist is “Cherry.” Its ‘don’t push’ refrain is the opposite of the post I almost wrote. Let things ripen. Let me be where I am. I’m not rushing healing.

“Untitled” Play Synopsis

An estranged family’s youngest sibling comes home to retrieve an heirloom and gets stuck due to inclement weather. Forced to stay the night with his brothers and step-father, they are all visited by a mysterious ghost whose powerful visions encourage the men to hold a seance. The results cause more rifts than they’re prepared for.

Chuckie’s Monologue - Snippet

[Scene starts immediately with the light change. Chuckie is seated in a sandy-brown recliner, with a paisley throw and bulky arm rests. The child sits on a couch facing the left side of the television set. It’s a terrible angle. The living room is the cleanest area of the house.]

Chuckie: Now don’t interrupt me while I’m trying to speak, damn! Man, it’s always something with you. I don’t even know why you’re still here. (deep sigh)

Your mother is the one that brought you here. I ain’t want you. Still don’t, but I love her so you’re here now.

But don’t think you’re mine, oh no!

You on your own, unless that piece of shit man down the road finally come handle his responsibility. This on you and him and your mother. I’m not part of that side of the family.

And I know all about that shit, some sides ain’t meant to be around each other for too long.

I got a side. You know I got my daughter Mimi from my first wife.

Yeah she grown because me and her had the baby young.

She pretty now and smart too. Why she don’t come around much I don’t know.

Probably because she sees I got a bunch of - ugh! (gestures at the child in a mean way) in my house, claiming to be under my care, my supervision, paying they bills and shit!

Nah, I did all of that with Mimi from my first wife.

Shit there was a time that I forgot her legal name, she’s just Mimi.

Tried to tell me I couldn’t call her that no more because of this-that-and-the-third. But that’s my Mimi!

Miranda, ain’t that some shit?! White-ass name.

Probably caught up in the moment you know, when she was being born and my first wife was pushing and breathing and stressing me out, I just signed the paper that was in front of me.

We been calling her Mimi since forever. What am I supposed to do if she won’t talk to me? Won’t come over and visit me.

I get it, I like to drink.

Not as much as I used to, not as much, man, because I gotta keep my job to keep a roof over all these sorry-ass people’s heads!

Matter of fact I gotta get up in the morning (he pauses to pick up the remote to turn the television back on to see the time. He raises his voice above the audio)

What am I supposed to do if I slip up and don’t call her ass, Miranda?

Lie, say I forgot? Piss her off and speak like one them people at her fancy job.

I move in them spaces around them people too much as it is. As it was.

Ain’t no real family back there for me no way.

You never wanna get separated like I did from my first wife. She turned her whole back on me, like our time together was nothing! We made Mimi in our image!

I’m sorry I wasn’t good enough.

She moved on too and had a baby soon after too.

We the same person pretty much.

Except she’s even lighter, her family thinks they better than me. Mimi probably wishes she was as light as my first wife and her family.

Could that be it? Clear as day, white as crisp sheets. Damn. (pause, sighs)

I think your mother is pretty for a dark skin woman. Very pretty.

When she get back, I gotta focus on her staring. The stare. She be looking deep at you, don’t she boy? Huh? Answer me!

(The child attempts to speak, croaks instead)

You don’t know nothing about women!

When they gone from you, it’s the coldest feeling in the world. That’s where the stare comes from, she looking to make sure you still there. In it, until death do us part

Your mother had a husband too, that mean old fool up in Buffalo.

Probably didn’t know how to take her overacting at every slight.

She be going on about disrespectful laughing and shit when her voice gets serious.

Yeah I heard you, it was funny how you said it that’s all!

You gotta take a woman a little at a time, that’s why a man needs a job so he can be away from his woman to appreciate her after a while. That fool never kept a decent job, never bettered himself or your mother… He ain’t as strong as me, as nice as me. (trails off)

Can’t stay up under a woman for long though, unless you be straight fucking! (laughs, coughs, drinks)

But that was back then, and I don’t want no more babies and I ain’t wearing no rubbers! You ever put on a rubber? You know what one is?

(The child nods)

How you know? One of your nasty friends at school told you? I know them teachers ain’t talking about no rubbers!

(The child croaks out the name of his health teacher, Chuckie gestures for him to speak up)

I don’t know that teacher, boy, shut up!

I’m just speaking to you (laughs, turns attention after a beat to the television)

Author’s Note:

This post is all about music and vibes. I wrapped things up with a bit of prose to tie it together, like a thesis statement of sorts. Subtlety is Overrated owns everything: your man, her man, his man too, plus sits on a board, finds time for hobbies, and keeps up with a personal trainer. Rich, obviously, but not showy, with a taste that’s bold and a little wild, tickling your base instincts.

Listen on Apple Music

Standouts include: (content warning — extreme language and graphic imagery)

• The legendary star power of Peaches pops severely on the raunchiest track in the playlist

• New music from Victoria Monet, Tomás Matos, Claire Rosinkranz, and Marcus Antonio1

• My favorite track from Charli XCX’s amazing “Wuthering Heights” project

Take the risk, apply and tell your story from the heart, ask for what you need.

In the same breath.

Send that text, reply to the sneaky link, shoot your shot in the DMs, post your thirst trap.

Overthink the good stuff knowing most of the bad is out of your control, complete one more set, match effort with effort.

Try on that outfit, strike a sexy pose and stick the landing, pull out those recipes, the books on your dresser, leave no room for half-stepping.

In the same breath.

Make a mess, flop on purpose, slide down the hill.

You are chosen. You are chased. You are decisive.

You are energy. You are radiance. You are appetite.

In the same breath.

You are hype. You are sun rays. You are devotion.

Angus reached out to me in my professional capacity, and I’m usually wary of those sorts of connects, the “hey, can I pick your brain?” a.k.a., “you have access to something I want”. Operating in and around the Broadway space has meant being pitch-slapped hard, sometimes aggressively, which is understandable. The hustle is very real. But, it can get exhausting after a while, especially when you cringe seeing that person’s email address pop up with yet another *update* or *follow up*. I call it the Shake Down: coffee meet-ups leaving a sour aftertaste. Accepting the Zoom reluctantly, thankful it’s only 15-30 minutes of time you don’t really have.

Also, I don’t have more access than they have. Tenuous proximity is more like it, and trust me, that rug will get snatched out from under you with the quickness, the moment when you’re no longer useful, or are perceived as a threat, where you’ll question whether that access was ever even there. Let me pump the breaks because that’s a very lengthy and complex expose more suited for another blog post.

So afterwards, I noticed how bright my mood remained, not at all concerned that we spent longer chatting than intended. Sincerely glad to have commuted into the city to meet up with him. “Where does this hustle of yours come from? I don’t mean to be reductive; maybe another term is better for what I mean. It’s just I was never like this at 22.” He perked up and replied that his purpose is to find people aligned with where he wants to be and that he doesn’t view it as hustling, not even networking. “I don’t want to miss anything. That’s where it comes from, I think.” His clarity and confidence moved me.

I truly believe Angus is going places. Talent overflowing! Energy at 100%! In the way that excites me with the future privilege of saying I knew him when. His latest work, under the moniker CARAMEL, is the self-produced track “Somebody Else”, and is evocative of the music I curated for January’s drop, Soul Protection II. There aren’t big names included, just big ideas. Bold experimentation and raw emotions. Uncompromising sounds made to peer at assumptions. During an early listen, my hubby said the tracks collectively had a gospel tinge and that’s intentional, albeit accidental.

Listen on Apple Music

It’s a sequel to one of my very first attempts at a themed-based playlist, also released in January. Seasons change, and while I’m exhausted by the world’s horrors, I choose to show up still and do what I can with what I have. For me, in this space, that looks like lifting up the people I admire to shine a light on their work and contributions to the culture. It’s a small gesture, but incredibly meaningful, because you never know who sees what you share, the reach beyond what you can see with your eyes. Those degrees of separation are closer touch-points than you think. I encourage you to take a similar stance: hype the people in your life putting themselves out there, hit that reaction button, subscribe to their newsletter, re-share willingly, buy merch directly from them whenever possible, and if you are unable to do those things, boost them with your words and energy: “Loving this!”; “Congratulations!”; “I can tell this took a lot of work - way to lock in!”.

I’m grateful for people who’ve hyped me up. This year is already full of unimaginable challenges and devastation. But it’s critical to harness joy and gratitude. On easy days, that practice flows freely; on tough days, it can steady you. Measure that gratitude in the small actions you might otherwise take for granted. It will be how I move forward, buoyed by folks like Angus, who remind me why I said yes in the first place.

Author’s Note:

As I was putting the finishing touches on “Declaration: A New Queer Drama” in February 2006, a gnawing critique kept needling me: what theatrical vision do you have for this drag character out of the nightclub? Rather than get defensive, I moved into problem-solving. That had been the mode from jump since I opted to produce a play to satisfy the requirements for my theater degree. Now that it was getting really real, and a friend had helped me secure a venue at Mass Art for three nights of performances in early May, I had to figure out what Nicholle Pride looked like. And what imagery would compel people to consider attending my play?

Being the brokie Grad student I was back then, I had to engage in the old tradition of bartering with photographers. “Yeah, sure, I’ll let you take photos of me putting makeup on for your art project, so long as you take some glamour shots that I can use for my work". The lens was always some simple-ass subculture observation, plucked from their moodboards loaded with queer iconography. Thrilled they could find a subject who didn’t immediately smell their shit and balk at the offer. Excuse me, *opportunity* to pose for free.

After way too many back and forths with crunchy, dim-witted dudes in tight jeans, stressed because they didn’t have the equipment to get what they wanted, I hit the jackpot that April with two different professional shoots. One of which resulted in publication—just my beat-up legs.

I also honed in on what the look needed to be: provocative, Blackity-Black, and shiny. I wanted the reaction to be “Who is that?”

The make-up is crunch-crunch, and pulling these images deep from the archives had me shuddering at first, but I’m over that. That was my level of make-up skills at twenty-something. Props to me! And like my friend Tony Brooks said, “if you’ve got a cute face, you don’t need all that mess covering it up.” Tony also gifted me with the ONLY afro wig from his private collection. A Black gay elder passing it on to me, who used to twirl-n-tip every now and then back in the day, felt like being granted a position in a lineage beyond space and time. Sensing that Tony sourced the wig directly or that it might have been gifted to him still hits my heart like a meteor. I passed it on to Sapphira.

In homage to these images, to that ambitious, young playwright, and to keep myself accountable, I’m sharing a sample piece from my 2nd untitled play. I hope to continue tinkering on it more this coming year and share more samples with you all. It’ll help it blossom into something really real someday.

Lastly, there’s no playlist to accompany this piece. I’m a bit overwhelmed by the “BEST MUSIC OF THE YEAR” recaps, editorials, and such, plus I’ve been so consumed as of late with significant life decisions that focus on music curation has taken a back seat. Next month, for sure!

“Untitled” Play Synopsis

An estranged family’s youngest sibling comes home to retrieve an heirloom and gets stuck due to inclement weather. Forced to stay the night with his brothers and step-father, they are all visited by a mysterious ghost whose powerful visions encourage the men hold a seance. The results cause more rifts than they’re prepared for.

Steal the Joy - Snippet

[Kenneth enters Charlie’s room with a cigarette, heading straight for the windows, and cracking one open right over the bed.]

Charlie: Nights alone, don’t come often. I’m so strapped. Why would you steal my joy?

Kenneth: Not trying to hold you. Curious, is all. Who is joy? What do they look like?

Charlie: Peaches, ripe. Joy is my hand assessing the firmness. Fulfilment, juicy. (sits up) You hear?

Kenneth: It’s like that! What does joy do to your senses? Be extra!

[crosstalk] I’ve not had joy. I used to have more.

Charlie: Joy used to fall from the tress, man. Autumn was crazy. Had to practically trip over all the joy to get to where you could lay your head. Summer, well, not as great. Desperation in the sticky air. Stuffy and stank. Too early in the springtime for long lasting joy though it could fall too, without you watching. Joy could have you believing you was worth more. Joy gave me permission to close my eyes from time to time.

Kenneth: How does joy make you feel?

Charlie: You are nosy.

Kenneth: Nah you’re tight. Accusing me of stealing your joy!

Charlie: You crossed a line. You’re in my room!

[crosstalk] I know you don’t care but still. You got nerve, man, this used to be my room.

Kenneth: I want to pour myself into your experiences.

Charlie: You can’t. That’s not how it works.

Kenneth: Who says?

Charlie: God. Man, I don’t know, something else. Certainly not you, or me.

Kenneth: What proof do you have of me stealing anything from you. Have I ever hurt you?

Charlie: I don’t really even know you.

Kenneth: So what I’m a stranger.

Charlie: Practically.

Kenneth: What makes you think I would run up in here and steal joy from you, if that’s your memories of me; our bond being so flimsy that a fly could land on your eye and you’d never know it, huh?

Charlie: You won’t be real.

Kenneth: I’ve not had joy. It ain’t my fault for asking. You let your guard down and now you lashing out.

Charlie: You don’t know what it’s like to not be able to get more. To run out! To lose joy. The shame made me turn away from it for a while. I let other people’s opinions take the taste out my mouth. Panicked I’d get left behind, forgotten in their minds. Then here go, this distracting ass stranger, droopy and grey, asking questions.

Kenneth: You lost focus long before I got here.

Charlie: I don’t like people I don’t like, in my business. You and me are not cool. You are not real.

Kenneth: You’re stingy.

Charlie: Maybe I am. I have a right to be.

Kenneth: Could I ask one more question? Then, I’m out.

[crosstalk] One second. Better be regular.

[Pause. Kenneth goes over to Charlie’s desk. Pulls out a lighter from the drawer and places it so it stands upright on the floor between them. The drawer is left hanging open.]

Kenneth: Okay. When you last had joy, what was the most memorable sound?

Charlie: (considered) The wind blowing.

My friend Matthew phrased it beautifully: “listening to a playlist in the morning to enter myself before I open myself to the world.”

It’s part of my process too — journaling, coffee, meditation and stretching. Sometimes the silence of that morning can be the soundtrack: my breathing, pushing internal noise to the corners of my mind, allowing the birdsong to fill the air. Other times I lean on music to ground my racing thoughts, to repeat the lyrics like mantras and keep focus.

And the music I lean toward during these periods tends to have a very specific energy.

November’s playlist evokes an uplifting mood — those times when you shuffle the radio dial and come across the freshest, funkiest, and fiercest songs. Not the usual suspects either. Pop from all over the world, across multiple formats. Yes, I had to include the latest from Tyla, Cardi B, and Megan Thee Stallion (duh, I’m Black), and yes, you’ll hear two Ed Sheeran tracks (that white boy is alright) — but you’ll also discover some new artists as they etch their name across the skies. Let me be your DJ!

Listen on Apple Music

The Greatest Unfolding 4 U is the stance for where I am right now. In these last two months of 2025, I’m working intentionally to remember who I am, what I deserve and how big my dreams are. To stay honed in on my worth and what is undeniable about me. Take joyful risks, trusting that I’ll land, ten toes down, where I’m supposed to be.

Life is long, so I’m allowing the universe to guide what comes next, relinquishing just a bit of control. Embracing the freedom that comes with it, the release, reciting affirmations out loud — managing my wants against situations that might be more of an ego death than literal despair.

And I’m also expecting better. For me and mine, loudly. Motivated by a healthy amount of hubris. Expect positivity and good things and magic and wonder. Feeling the gravity hovering above. Being present.

Sometimes that presence turns into something almost otherworldly. A transparent eye without a mind, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

There are moments when a song feels like exiting your body and seeing time go by with unsteady breaths — every action and reaction as physics playing out. Chord changes carrying even more meaning and depth, touching the peak of your mental clarity. Calm yet strangely active. After countless universes pass there’s a key yearning somewhere in there that you find, and you’ve never come closer. To reclaim self as weightless in a world that treats your existence like a burden.

I’m going for it, imperfect and clumsy. Choosing to look up, look around and beside me, and being appreciative of the things I now have that I once wanted. Freezing the moment that I’m already living in. Keeping my energy sacred. Allowing the loving voices to win. Let me take you there!

Listen on Apple Music

Standouts include: (content warning — extreme language and graphic imagery)

• An eerily-resonant Ice-T throwback

• New music from Madvillain, NIN, and Nova Twins

• Two songs featuring the legendary guitarist Tosin Abasi

I put together Hustler’s Code early in October and have been sitting on it. I’ve not felt like myself lately. The tough lessons taken on my chin started bruising, irritated and inflamed, visible now as my summer tan fades. Cold air bites more easily. Crying in public quickly, letting the tears drop in plain view of club security. “Surely he’ll let me back in to retrieve the disillusionment.” Dark. Messy. Forced smiles. Fake congratulations. Fudging little qualifiers. Snippy excuses. Serious bouts of rage.

BECAUSE WHAT DOES IT MATTER?

It’s thrown me off my well-practiced game. But fuck that! I stopped caring about keeping up appearances years ago, why start now? Except…the emotional hangovers last for an excruciating week, swirling every single negative thought that has ever existed in my head until it seizes into a maelstrom. Jagged mornings. Vicious. Bleak. Brutal in size and terror, immovable and stocked with endless ammunition. Cold reads sting more freely. Frown lines, more noticeable than a mug. I become catatonic in this state. Shutting down to keep it all beneath the surface, bitch, lest they be true!

EVERYTHING THEY SAID WAS A LIE. YOU GOT GOT. YOU ALLOWED YOURSELF TO BE VULNERABLE. THEY’RE NEVER GOING TO TEXT YOU BACK. YOU CAME ON WAY TOO STRONG. YOU’RE UNWORTHY. YOU’RE NOT DESERVING OF PLEASURE.

Then, I open my phone to emptiness. Both inboxes, dry as hell. Refresh for the hit. Nothing.

MAYBE IF YOU WERE ON INSTAGRAM YOU'D FEEL LESS DRY. LESS DISTANT.

Bitch, like I need those problems. Then I read the news — chaos all over the world. It only reaffirms a sick series of privileges, leaving me hunched over in a pessimistic bent, like a mopey fraud.

BECAUSE WHAT DOES IT MATTER?

Wow! Um, so October’s playlist.

I’ve always loved rock music and heavy metal especially. Knowing me, it was probably a white boy crush back in the day who got me open to the genre. But I still keep my ears out for those sounds and textures. Roars. Snarling guitars and melodrama. Reverb. Thrashing drums. Layers of noise. They really appeal to me. I hope you enjoy it too! I arranged the tracks with some breathing space so the hour doesn’t feel like a slog.

Meanwhile my drag itself was never ooky-spooky. But I dipped my toe into it once at a Halloween Extravaganza in 2005. I had just shaved my head after a bout of depression, so what better way to take out my rage than in front of an audience. Thankful for my co-conspirator Andrea who tagged along to immortalize the night on film.

Extra special thanks to journalist Ryan Lindsey for clocking the performance in Boston’s gay weekly: “Miss (Nicholle) Pride is an electric performer, wearing a dominatrix costume and makeup inspired by the film Dead Presidents, the diva owned the stage, and when she smashed a large plaster heart it felt like more than empty show.”

A trusted peer advised me not to fill the plaster heart with fake blood, and they were right. The audience ate it up, clean-up took less than forty seconds, and I got shit for that stunt all night on the mic. Wielding a real, hefty hammer didn’t help. I think it was my last booking with that promoter for a while.

Still, I remember that moment — smashing something beautiful just to feel alive. There’s something about turning anger into art that rings louder than applause. Rage can wreck, but it can also resound.

I learned every run, every harmony, every trill. Grandpa Chuck hated it — banging his broom to the ceiling below me, yelling for me to shut up. I didn’t care. I was building an ear.

Still, his discouragement lingered. It made me second-guess taking risks and wonder if I should even pursue this passion. Could I not actually sing? Did I sound terrible?

I knew I didn’t sound like Brandy. But I also knew I was talented. So did my Grandmother. She was elated when my face appeared in the Tribune to promote “Pinocchio”, a youth theater show at The Youngstown Playhouse. I had been performing there ever since I caught the acting bug in high school. Shout-out to Mr. Murcko, my drama teacher and a real-ass White man before it was forced or ironic.

She cherished that paper, bought multiple copies, and bragged when, later, I won the Best Featured Actor-Youth award for my performance. It sat there on the mantle, right next to my older cousins' and uncles' Basketball and Football trophies.

Was I the best singer? Nah, iffy pitch. But, I could command attention and chew scenery. Community theater was the perfect outlet to meet peers, be creative, and practice something I was good at: performing.

Glued to the TV, I had MTV and BET on rotation. I could be a video girl, too. A cunty extra. Make cameos1.

I’ve always aspired to be an all-around personality: a dancer, actor, and singer. And drag artist.

At the time, I only had one possibility model: RuPaul. She could do it all, was glamorous, and had the mainstream Divas wrapped around her finger. Biggie even namedropped her on wax!

Drag and fantasy-world-building helped me stay grounded, forging confidence to be boldly queer as a young adult coming into my own. Music was the anchor, the thing that kept me moving, dancing, surviving. The BMG mail-order catalogue kept me fed. Borders held the European gems and compilation CDs. First time I heard Mica Paris, I swear I stopped breathing. I held on to that Ultra Records CD for years, skipping and scratching it, as I cherished it so. That blend of R&B vocalizing, silky textures, tender, and heartbreaking lyrics.

Also, the Café was great for cruising. Depending on what section you were in, you could engage in some adorable flirting. Flashbacks to scoring a working set of headphones next to someone smoking hot, listening to an album you couldn't care less about, to be near them.

It’s not like I had epic romances. Those familiar bouts of raging hormones, wishing you were grown, knowing you weren’t, with a dash of 90s shame and loathing, carried over into the new millennium. Semi-tragic beats, separated by tempo, sometimes sharp, sometimes messy. Always mine in the details.

Trade stay playing in your face but that’s a tale as old as time. Again, and again, and again. Resisting urges. Impulsive acts. Lying on you, lying on themselves. You’re supposed to forget that nickname they gave you. Avert your gaze when you see them in the mall.

Meanwhile, they insist on picking you up from the theater after rehearsal.

I came out with soft lips, tight looks, primped and primed, and I’m expected to deal with their hang-ups and conditions on it all.

I’ve had dalliances with men actually Out in the local scene. J.D. was the one I stayed tangled up with the longest. The only guy my grandparents actually approved of solely because he was Black. Our thing was dramatic and never easy. Though, he had that cherry-red Chrysler, smooth and shining, with a sound system that hit just right. Those nights brought the joy of pulling out my CD binder and flexing my taste.

“Ooh, let me hold on to that disc!”

“Where’d you find that at?” the way he asked, half-annoyed, half-impressed. That’s when I knew music was my anchor, my leverage.

He hated that I wouldn’t go all the way with him. I felt the pressure from day one and held firm. He hated even more that I wouldn’t drink with him and his friends.

“You look like such a Princess sipping ginger ale while we’re trying to have fun!”

He wasn’t much older, but staying clear of drugs and alcohol was my shield during those first steps into The Life.

After our eventual break-up, I ran into him at a nightclub in Youngstown. I had been away at school for a year or so, and I probably gave off a little “nouveau intellectual” vibe. He cut me down with a cold shoulder (literally: denim and leather coat draped dramatically across his shoulders), glare set forward, horse-eye, without further acknowledgement. My friends and I cackled for weeks behind that, and it was everything!

In my journal, I wrote video treatments in the style of my favorite directors. I plotted album collections, a connective series of work. I drafted fake reviews, rewrote my poems into lyrics. I kept a running list of classics I’d cover in my wildest fantasies, because out-of-the-box covers was a massive trend in music. I didn’t have an alias at that time.

The visions carried me when I couldn’t say what I meant, or when I thought no one else was listening.

To add shading to what feels like a mirror of those old aspirations, I thought I’d share this untitled gem, written in 2001.

Verse 1:

Someone said my eyes were truly unreal

Would you agree?

I’ll keep your answer in mind

When you asked me to dance for the first time

I kept that locked in my mind

Tonight, you showed me the moon

I held on as you charted the ocean

I kept those views in my mind

(Chorus)

Who taught you to be kind?

And can I shake their hand?

Your words are from outer-space, I swear

Verse 2:

Tell me again about the moon, baby

And how I shine like that

Say more about the grass blades and their dew

I don’t care if you repeat things that are true

Leave me dazzled right here, wooed and won over,

So I can show them all the ways I see anew

I was overjoyed to meet Kevin Aviance in New York City during an impromptu getaway. Hitched a ride with a classmate in 2002 and was able to talk my way into the legendary venue Bar d'O. That trip helped broaden my possibilities from the Ohio suburbs. Meeting him broke my whole world open2!

Now, the world is full of drag artists making music. I tuned in to Drag Race France All Stars, rekindling my adoration of Piche, who, come to find out, released a killer song this summer. I had to add it to my latest playlist, Now Proceed—soulful tracks, arranged carefully, that layer vulnerability alongside defiance. It also features fresh songs from a slew of male vocalists: Sekou, Kid Cudi, Adrian Marcel, Medium Build, Sampha, and Chance the Rapper.

Press play, and you’ll hear what I was living!

Listen on Apple Music

🎶 The B-Sides: five songs that didn’t quite fit, but frame the edges.

“Winki’s Theme” – Queen Latifah
Jazz-forward, very sentimental and unexpected. A rap icon flexing her range.

“Rotation” – Monét X Change
Sultry island flavor; epic music video! It could blend smoothly on “Soulection” Radio.

“Din Da Da” – Kevin Aviance
Larger than life. Anthemic and otherworldly, and ancestral.

“My Friend” – Groove Armada
An interpolation of Brandy’s “Best Friend.” A seminal track on the album of my life.

“Wonderful Person” – Black Masses (Masters at Work Vocal Mix)
It’s all there: gospel crescendo, sparkling keys, uplifting message. Drag-performance ready!

Gay spaces — especially nightclubs — often want mindless, hummable pop songs with nothing too challenging to their psyche; no “hip-hop” because those people have their night on Thursdays; no “latin or dembow” unless it’s J.Lo or English-language Shakira; no “metal or rock” unless it’s campy and ridiculous; absolutely no “remixes”, keep the music to something they’ve heard or are familiar with.

I’ve always been confrontational as a performer. Leaned into those choices because I knew just with my body and visual presentation, Blackness was what the audiences would get. Only those with a racial progressive mindset or who were Black themselves would get me, especially in the early aughts.

In Boston, I was confronting majority White spaces left, right, up and down. Mafia-owned venues with shady managers pitting the queens against each other and siloing the gigs, and creating vacumns in the city. Giving those dynamos only top-40 tracks to perform onstage was meant to be ornamentation. Even the most stunning queen got sidelined as a 2-minute forgettable interlude. And you better pull a stunt! And if the audiences weren’t on the gay nights then it was full of straight White people, who wanted to burnish themselves against the edges of counterculture. Rub shoulders with queerness for a brief moment.

But, to ask them to pay attention, let alone tip, be serious??

In many ways, I achieved my goals. Definitely got booed before. For sure flopped and lost the crowd, with so much more of the song still left. Seeing the life leave their eyes, those dull lifeless stares, half in the beer bottle, half zoned on my suspicious tuck. It’s an unfathomable terror I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

One of my favorite moments, losing an amateur competition at Axis Nightclub (RIP) in 2008. Thanks to my stint working at Boomerangs, I found this incredible two-piece, sequined majorette costume, and the way my body was LIKE WOAH, I rocked it for as long as it would fit me. Drag costumes have a shelf life. At that time, I was gaining reknown for being part of the downtown scene and what the uptown queens called “kooky”, “too much”, and so much worse, I’m certain, behind my back.

So, imagine me showing up, with a small crew (which admittedly hurt my chances with the “winner by crowd noise” metric), oiled up and taut, looking like the only traveling circus slut, queuing up to perform the intro, verse and chorus of Amerie’s “One Thing”. Sabotage 1: I was slated to go out first. Then the white twink, first time in drags. Followed by another white twink, first time in drags — this one being brought up by one of the top queens in the city.

Sabotage 2: the DJ played the wrong track and at first I refused to go on, but club staff made me go out so as to not hold up the show. All my tricks and oomph petered out on a track I didn’t know and didn’t match my aesthetic. It was probably “too Black” or “too niche” (if I’m being fair) of a choice. Later that same night, an acquaintance told me that he wished I made more eye contact with the audience. “Girl, save it. I barely made it through without crying.”

The next month I was invited to come back because of the efforts of a sympathetic insider: the legendary icon Diamond Dunhill. Backstage, she came over to distill wisdom, affirming how right I was to initially refuse going out to the wrong track, and revealing how much she enjoyed my nerve as a Boston newbie. She also lent me a gorgeous set of nails — a gentle read on how my majorette look was lacking polish — and bolstered my confidence. I lost the competition that night anyway, but I got my mojo back.

I was also brought into the circle, peripherally. Diamond got her peers of color Destiny and Mohogany Browne to recognize me, and they’d show me love, or tip whenever they came to our downtown gigs with Rainbow Fright as the conduit between the scenes (she served “pop punk”; think P!nk and Evanescence). I’d score drink tickets. The go-go’s would shower me with attention and dance with me on the floor. I’d get dapped up by folks working the door, and often could bypass the lines to entry.

I never sanded down my edges to fit the gig, the crowd, or the moment. I stayed committed to the bit. This concept came up recently at QueenXT’s “Little Mx. Diva Boots: The Unserious Drag Pageant” by one of my favorite up and coming legends Tangelina HoLee. She remarked that the performers she liked and appreciated the most were the ones who committed to their performance. They knew every word. They knew the character. They understood how to tell the story. Whether or not it fit the room, or was tonally different from what everyone else was doing. They commit 100%.

I’ve always preferred friction. Going against the grain.

I encourage you to commit to listening my latest playlist, in full, best from start to finish. Push through the discomfort. It’s a bucking summer dispatch. Relentless and combative, full of tracks that refuse the pressure to be palatable. Reflect on times when you show up jagged, loud, and fully formed.

Listen on Apple Music

But let me back up for a second—this all started with Tumblr…kind of.

Listen on Apple Music

I saw on my LinkedIn feed that an acquaintance had posted a revealing vacation shot of himself on the beach, paired with a hilarious caption about free feet pics. I slid into his DMs and told him those feet pics would go crazy on Tumblr.

It was a callback to our recent Zoom where, in comparing app user experiences, I brought up Tumblr and he snickered. “People still use that?”

Emboldened—but also drawn into his smile—I replied, “Yes, it’s active. I’m on it quite a lot.”

He laughed at the notion, and it is kind of funny. A naughty snicker.

Tumblr is one of the remaining apps that still brings me joy. It’s pure escapism, subject to the same indistinguishable AI image distortion as other platforms nowadays. Still, it’s reminiscent of the editing, sculpting, and posing that went on in the halcyon days of MySpace. Those sexy bodies were always hyper-real depictions, layered in overwrought meaning, random props, caked makeup and oil, suspended in referential make-believe.

It’s my X-rated social media space, now that I’m partnered, that provides a routine dopamine hit. I go to Tumblr for fantasy, to see if I can still get hard, be aroused, and expand my tastes. It’s where I first discovered tennis phenom, Carlos Alcaraz, and Fox’s “9-1-1” because of the slash ship of its two stars Oliver Stark and Ryan Guzman. Have yet to watch a full episode, though I’m well aware of “Buddie”. Fantasy is healthy.

Eventually the scroll slows down and I crave gazing at the male body up close. I enjoy going to bars where I know there’ll be go-go’s, or better yet, I can take in a shower show or partake in a few private dances. I adore men of all body types; shaven is not my jam but it comes with the territory, a hirsute fella will often get my attention. Hairy asses, thighs and forearms, angular jaws, groomed beards, roman noses, piercings in silver and gold, and bulbous cauliflower ears.

I greatly value consent, reinforcement and check-ins, no-go zones, after care—and also: tension, mutual respect, eye contact, touch. Particularly the distinction between rough hands and soft hands, smoothness and softness, firm muscles pulled taut against supple round curves like silk twisting in the breeze.

It’s been a hoot lately cataloging the frequency of dancers comments on my soft hands compared to theirs. “How much can you bench?” I ask them, already knowing why—I can feel each rep, each set, every groove in his large palms, even how dehydrated he might be. They know exactly what to do with their hands and where to place mine best.

As soon as their grin tightens and curls up at how small I am in comparison (even the Short Kings), it’s not long after that they press their face into my neck to take in the scent of sweat cut with bergamot and cocoa butter. I get to be enveloped in their arms and lifted off the ground, skin warm with effort, some more smooth with it than others.

Perched safely, lightly against the booth’s cold vinyl, I have the pleasure of admiring their bodies closely. My fingertips slide all over to trace tattoos, veins, and bruises. I study their breathing, stroking their backs, slick but not sticky, as they continue trying to impress me, lure me to stay longer, to fill their commissary to the brim. I’m glad to be a man of a Certain Age—and very, very relative means—to have it on me to pay to play.

I’m not naïve, either.

I respect the client-patron dynamic and the boundaries that apply to both our frames of reference.

I recently surprised a fine-ass Dominican man by asking for a romantic, straightforward slow dance when we got back to the Dark Room. The bassline from the DJ rattled just so, yet I could still hear a sharp inhale when he ran his hands along my waist, underneath my shirt. That was enough for him to move lower, and steady the tempo. I looked down to see my necklace bouncing off his chest like it had caught the rhythm, too. A moment that will linger for a good while.

Flashing back to when I was doing community outreach for a Now-no-longer-in-operation Health Service Org, and had posted up for 3-hour shifts at Paradise Nightclub (also RIP)—the legendary men’s cruising bar—sometimes with little more than taxi vouchers that those folks never accepted, and a weekly quota of conversations to have. It was mainly fun to chat with the dancers, because at 24 years old, I had barely $80 to my name, and I couldn’t tip those fellas. However, I learned how to make them feel appreciated. To probe (😈) and ask clarifying questions to get at something real, during a night of fantastical detachment.

Of course, I’d ogle—and based on what they were comfortable with and consented to—I’d caress them or peep the merchandise.

The experience was quite formidable!

This was pre-PrEP era, when the shift was just beginning from in-person cruising at the Fens or a club like Paradise or an Eagle (you know, the gay one in your city) to picking up tricks on Manhunt.com and Craigslist, hoping not to meet the Killer.

That eroticism permeates this new playlist, Extraordinary Pieces. It’s a collection of 21 electronica tracks featuring independent artists like James Bambu, Dariel Amant, and Hamzaa, as well as sensual throwbacks by M People, Björk, and Amerie, and new releases from Mariah Carey, Cardi B, and Lady Wray. Please enjoy!

I look at it and wonder what type of looks she pulled: A-line yellow and soft pink gowns, custom separates in contemporary prints, corseted sweater dresses with scooped necklines. Blonde, fluffy, teased hair perched on top of a freshly powdered mug, cherry-red lipstick to stain the glassware, accent jewelry, most likely pearls, coordinating white or cream pumps with a modest heel because as a leader in the city's Queer community, her presentation day in and day out had to be functional, while also telegraphing her sense of self to mark that period of her life.

I'm sure she had male-presented clothing like a pair of slacks and a non-descript button-down shoved inside a duffel bag either backstage or in the backseat of a parked car. I'm sure she knew the cost of being visible, photographed, and exposed, and she also knew how to communicate fiercely in that visibility—speaking to others like her with just a knowing gaze, and through brave splashes of fabulousness.

The power of it is not to be diminished. Rebels come covered in rhinestones, too. It's punk as fuck to risk life, safety, and comfort for your expression. A "fuck off" to society's expectations and how Queer people should move through the world. I wonder what her banter was like on the mic. Was she the type to put on a voice, pitched up or down? How did she tilt the vowels and consonants? What puns, inside jokes, and innuendos tickled her and those around her? I want to know her best-known numbers, the ones that got the audience in the palm of her hands. How did she work the room?

Her image stayed with me as I built a sun-kissed and sleek playlist, the kind of vibe La Monroe might've walked to after last call, jacket in hand, queen of her own quiet revolution. I had already assembled a 9-hour mega-mix from last month's epic long weekend to help us focus during the drive up north. Some of those tracks (“Cabin Fever”, “Golden Hour”, “Maintaining My Peace”, “Arc de Triomphe”, and “Transit”) make their way into this new collection that has gotten raves from my faves via an exclusive drop … A.K.A. my nerve text messages to them.

Listen on Apple Music

I primed a much more glamorous photo for this post, but divine timing had another suggestion. My oldest friend Johnny (😉) sent me this candid from our mutual friend Andrea, and it's evocative of found treasures, those preserved polaroids from life well-lived, remnants of the past. The legendary Ohio icon Sassy Perilla painted me for my first drag performance at The Mixxx Nightclub in Youngstown. Will it or others like it find their way to a museum? How might people remember me?

I often wonder what other photos of me exist that I may never see. This thought reminds me of a comment from my friend Adrian from a different conversation about forgotten images.

“Somewhere, someone owns that photo and cherishes it; one day, it’ll see the light of day, even after you’re gone, and it’ll be a blessing for all who loved you.”

Yet after all of these years, he was more right than I could’ve imagined. Even today, writing this second post was a struggle. I got caught up in that theiving avoidant stance: overthinking, deleting drafts, creatively blocked & frankly, scared. Afraid that I don’t have anything else to say that’s worth sharing or preserving.

Here’s to taking bold leaps! But first: some tunes.

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My friend josh once asked if my playlists had larger themes or story arcs. Usually, I like listeners to discover that on their own. But for this one, I’ll say: the first three tracks hold a pulse of nostalgia, simmering rage, & faint longing—threads that weave through this mix of country, prog rock, & folk.

I was a very moody child who grew into what the '90s called an “emo” teen. All of which I documented in a little black journal from 1997. It holds:

• Clumsy, embarassing poems

• Angry letters to bullies I never sent

• The names of unrequited crushes

• Song titles for mix CDs

Also, tucked inside five handwritten, tear-stained pages of the oral history from my Grandmother & Aunt as to why I don’t have baby pictures.

I’ve been sitting with what it means to still call myself an artist after so many years away from performance. When I moved to Boston in 2004, I was hungry to make an impact. I hustled hard—unpaid gigs, amateur competitions, showing up to clubs where the drag queens were who needed to meet “Miss Pride,” building my legacy from scratch.

During that period, I filled two journals. One was small enough to fit in my purse, containing:

• Names & numbers of show producers, Go-Go dancers, & photographers

• Makeup tips from more seasoned divas

• Street/Train directions, audition dates, & performance goals

My glory days were captured in Myspace photos, crunchy YouTube clips, & the digital footprints of early Twitter. The second journal—passed down from my Grandmother—was beautifully bound with pastel florals, each page featuring a Bible verse. Around 2011, I started using it in earnest for moody thoughts, affirmations to keep going, & notes from the sidelines as drag entertainment began its Olympic, televised era.

I’m deeply proud of the lane I carved. Of the community that lifted me. Of the producers who kept booking me. Of the co-conspirators who helped break through spaces where queer art wasn’t always welcomed. I kept my integrity intact, especially as self-exploitation was trending.

While writing this post, I came across a cherished entry. My late friend SJ had taken over “Community Twitter” for our friend group while we stayed in a WiFi-less house. None of the quotes from that time are ready for primetime, not even here, but the first page carries a verse that sticks with me: “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His love endures forever.” — Psalms 107:1

So where does that leave me now?

Not stuck in the past—but not totally unstuck either. I’ve got two new journals to catch the sparks of inspiration. One small enough to carry with me. The other weightier, with more room to dream.

I’m still noodling on that second play. I’ve got concepts. Maybe I’ll share a few teasers here. Maybe I’ll get locked up with fear again. But I’m more grounded than I’ve ever been.

You made it this far, thanks for letting me ramble. I’ve still got ink in the pen & songs in the queue. Let’s keep making space for the mess, the moods, the maybe-I’ll-finish-it-this-time drafts. If you’ve got a second play, playlist, or journal entry kicking around—I see you!

They took me into and through 1960s theatre dynamics, riding around Toyota trucks in Nicaragua, lesbian adoption, lavender weddings and bar raids, house parties, radical pot lucks, zine making, closeted activists, college protest songs … the gamut!!

When I returned home, I was moved by some force, almost spiritual to build a playlist to articulate these feelings of forgotten tales, made up of evocative songs that weren’t just in my list of recent likes.

Also inspired by this quote:

I write all of the time. Journaling, in particular, is my calming practice and while it’s not my full time job, I love having it as my creative facet, an outlet that doesn’t generate money. Doing it just to do it. Capture my mood, thoughts and questions, on that day, that space in time, then where I won’t be again, or return to in the future as an evolved version.

A major question I wrestle with is “Is it too late, too far gone” for me to express myself? Who will listen? Who will care or remember I was here, once and that I mattered? It’s what I love so much about Roberta and Sondra because they care about me. They listen intently and when I go back to visit them, even 3+ hours deep, they ask follow up questions, they’re curious about me and how I see the world. It’s a gift!

In addition to writing and active listening, I love making playlists, the most satisfying creative outlet. A carryover from the era of mix CDs, collecting all of my favorites in one place, a time capsule, and sharing them with my loved ones, crushes and tastemakers. Vestiges of storytelling, communicating with vibes and through melodies.

Listen on Apple Music

So, take a trip to narratives of Black joy, trans Pride and lineage, pastiches of camp, street fairs, carnivals, and road shows curated by and for young artists and icons sharing similar themes of worth, depth, dignity, passion and energy for all to witness.

Flashback to crowded club nights from the 2010s, archiving the people and connections made through sweat, glittery bold shapes, cars on their last leg, bikes and bright green helmets, pumping through the night sky to the after-afters, smoke rings from blunts passed around to Cambridge Mass to New York City, Oakland to LA, Barcelona to Toronto.

The musical tastes feature a heaping amount of funk, pop, new synth, alt-rock, and throwbacks but also lush new sounds that revere days gone by.

Listen to it from front to back to get the AM to PM sensation, but also shuffle works too, for a more authentic feel, to dance with your shadow self and be taken aback by what memories come into view, perhaps mislabeled and stuffed away.

When memory collides with time. Being the archivist of your life.

🙏🏿✏️🎶