It Wasn’t Intentional Rebellion


i wasn’t intentionally rebelling. it was more like accidentally living. i think what i decided against was whatever it was that didn’t quite make sense to me. i couldn’t quite grasp the concept of spending nine hours of my day making the dreams of others come true so i could make my dreams come true later.

the money i promised to pay back won’t get paid back because the jobs they promised didn’t come thru. i wrote them a letter telling them to repossess the degrees or leave me the fxck alone.

i’m just doing what makes sense to me. if i give my dreams, aspirations, fantasies, lovers, muses, happiness as much of me as most people i know give their employers, i will be happier whenever i fall asleep (as infrequent as that’s becoming). some of those people are happy though. i make no sense to those people. they have bills because they have new cars and houses, and can’t understand why i don’t want those. they want to do what i do, but they have bills, and new bills keep coming.

when they’re 65 and dying, they’ll be glad to spent a third of their life working, and that doesn’t include the time they spent getting ready for work, and in traffic on the way to and from work.

i just haven’t figured out a way to make sense of it all, i guess. and here i am, staying in a $549.00 per night room in manhattan, looking at the hudson hoping i don’t see a body float by, trying to figure out why i can’t find a city i love enough to stay in longer than three months. why do i want to see the world, and eat the world, and conceptualize more than i already do. maybe there are people living in those deserts between LA and NYC.

just writing hoping something reveals itself. ah well. back to this script. on deadline.

Darnell On Talent

let’s talk about “talent” for a moment.

we’re people who live in a space that allows us to be whatever we call ourselves. i’m a writer. some of you are photographers, models, singers, dancers, painters, and so much more. but here’s the thing: i wasn’t always a writer because i wanted to be. i wanted to be other things, writing is just what kept its finger in my face, begging me to take control of it. it found me. i’ve been writing for a million years, but i didn’t call myself a writer until people who i called writers called me a writer. it meant something.

so, with that…

we have to stop letting people call themselves what they aren’t. yes, you have a camera and you took a few pictures of a few people, but photography didn’t find you like it found francesca woodman, Kwesi Abbensetts Photos, and TerĂ©sa Dowell-Vest. you found it, and that’s not how it happens. dancing must find YOU, the canvas must find YOU. the people who’ve been appointed must appoint you.

or i could be wrong about it all. what do i know, i’m just a writer in a sad suit with a sunny disposition.