Two hours ago I spent an hour wandering the neighbourhood out in an opposite direction from whence we usually wander. It’s not QUITE exploring but I saw yards that speak of whimsy and dogs that speak of rage. Children coming home from school threatening to undermine the absolutely unnormal times we Live in, and the calmness of it all would threaten the worldview of all those fools who think of Baltimore as an unending cesspit of violence.
Yea and verily, I didn’t even see any rats.
I made my way home as the skies darkened and now I’m sitting upstairs listening to the rain, soothing a thoroughly spooked cat and wishing I’d started my audio transcription render earlier so that I won’t lose HOURS of processing time if the power goes out.
Lightning flashes and thunder crashes and the cat just stays in his crevice, bristling and silent.
Other than getting out and taking myself for a walk, my day’s been almost entirely spent working on In Process… videos. I’m finally at the stage I’ve been dreading, assembling myriad snippets from the 30 or so hours of footage I’ve collected. 1 to five minutes a piece, these vignettes barely scratch the surface, and so far I’m not sure I completely agree with the choices being made, but it’s not my tale to tell.
Moments of beauty, learning to sing, finding Love, finding purpose. The moments of light are on display. The organizers seem cautious about getting too dark though. Moments of hatred and anger are landing on the cutting room floor so far, but there are plenty of reminders of how mindlessly cruel those in power are to those under their power. And since these women are often talking about formative experiences, it’s additionally horrible to see that these mindless, cruel aggressions are acted out on children. Little girls who have neighbours’ parents turn them out of their yard. Little girls who have bus drives slam doors in their faces. Little girls who write petitions to the president in the hopes that they can be allowed to go to an amusement park.
These are Living memories and they sadden me. These are vibrant women telling me about growing up getting kicked out of places because of the colour of their skin. How can people believe we’re somehow even able to PRETEND we’re past all that? Think of all the stupid little one-off things that we’re traumatized by. A dog, the dark, a jellyfish, a car crash. An entire childhood of segregation followed by a youth of social upheaval and battling these institutions and it’s all supposed to just be over by now? How can anyone even think that’s possible? I’m not arguing we have a financial debt to pay. Restitutions would be right if they were practical but would breed further resentment. But we owe a debt of understanding. There simply is no path forward without that education and empathy and acceptance.
Every video I shot I could feel the weight of distrust. I had to unfold that and be okay with it so that they could sit and have these conversations in my presence. You can see some of the glances as they talk about whites or their first experiences with racism. I play it back and you can see them glance towards the camera, glancing towards me, because they’re not sure if they’re still in a safe space.
I Love this work and I’m sad that it’s probably coming to an end. The “cutting room floor” in this case doesn’t mean it’s discarded – Sandy Spring Museum will archive it all (in theory – much of their funding for projects like this comes from the Institute of Museum and Library Services and they’ve just been served with one of Trump / DOGE’s wide-ranging and unknowable edicts potentially cutting all services going forward) and I’m not throwing anything away… I’ve not done as good a job as it all deserves, but I’m trying. The videos would’ve looked better if I KNEW more, or had been able to spend more on cameras, or simply was more patient with lights and angles. But time is always limited, and my attention span’s even more so. I’ll probably try and push my deadline a little to try and do another pass on several of these tales, but even knowing it could be better I’m still proud of the work.
I’ve opened the front door and Prince is balancing his hatred of the thunder and the rush of the rain with his desire to come out to sniff the air. I’m sitting in the dark smelling damp earth and ozone and relating strongly.
The storm is calming, grumbling around the edges of the neighbourhood. I’m going to go check my progress bars and hope I’m somewhere I can save. That’s a laboured metaphor, but I’m sticking by it.
Below: Wednesday March 12th ilyAIMY got to FINALLY perform at the Collective Encore, formerly the Soundry. I was really blown away by this venue back in 2018 (!!!) when we saw Jeffrey Foucault there and was deeply disappointed when it closed over COVID. After a year of sitting fallow it was bought and brushed off and though it Lived again, I didn’t hold much hope for playing there as they swiftly moved from original music to a calendar mostly-filled with tribute nights and cover bands. I was so happy when they reached out to fill one of their Locals nights (Wednesdays) but was highly worried about ticket sales right up until the last second. We had a fantastic show, every ounce the beautiful sound that I’d expected, an emotional, beautiful night. The staff all had glowing things to say about us and the sound engineer was really enthusiastic about having us back. They haven’t answered any emails since then however.
