Note we are sharing this attached to a repost in a note.
Leaving this here on the original post as a comment to increase algorithm engagement with a long post. (hopefully)
Thank you for your patience with the grammar/structure. We never wanted to become a writer. But now... after a lifetime of escaping into books isolated from society. We have existed so rarely outside k
people keep telling us this Madness that spills is poetry.
We want to amplify and credit inspiration respectfully. So please let us know if there is a better way to leak prose into community.
But, here we feel we can share. We can speak.
We have knowlege
//recalibrating//
I have knowledge,
cut with lived reality.
If I could dare tell you the story of what happens from the POV of a Trans and Autistic visual artist (speaking only for me*) who could only ever
gain capital through exploiting their body//mind's hyperfixation/dissociation machine -
Without generational wealth(estranged), I was unable to dream of the possibility of being a "fine" artist.
(couldn't fit in woth the rich kids)
The visual/mixed media version of the PR department is graphic design. Even after the degree that has me so burried under debt that I could put a downpayment on a house if they took payment in negative numbers.We were paid so little that we still had to freelanced on the side... and in the end we still were never able to by pay enough to cover the medical bills from the stress caused.
Burnt out after years of exploitation. Our joint pain is so excrutiating we can barely hold a pencil, type, hold a book/controller/cat toy, barely hold in the screams in on a second-to-second daily lived reality of endless pain - grip strength zero.
We can't work at all. (waiting on disability for two years, been told it'll be another 8 months to hear bck.)
We can't even afford to go to a doctor to stop the pain.
We haven't been able to keep up with tech. Resources slippong.
No phone, no lights, no motor car, not a single luxury.
Like Robinson Crusoe,
it's as primitive as can be.
When hunger madness takes us (we are housing/food insecure/literal starving artist) we make collages out of the magazines we find in free piles, smeared with duct taps and sharpies snatched from corporate entities.
There is nothing to lose when the pain will never end.
//Artists should not be forced to suffer to create.//
But, it is in the moments when we have nothing left to lose,
Note we are sharing this attached to a repost in a note.
Leaving this here on the original post as a comment to increase algorithm engagement with a long post. (hopefully)
Thank you for your patience with the grammar/structure. We never wanted to become a writer. But now... after a lifetime of escaping into books isolated from society. We have existed so rarely outside k
people keep telling us this Madness that spills is poetry.
We want to amplify and credit inspiration respectfully. So please let us know if there is a better way to leak prose into community.
But, here we feel we can share. We can speak.
We have knowlege
//recalibrating//
I have knowledge,
cut with lived reality.
If I could dare tell you the story of what happens from the POV of a Trans and Autistic visual artist (speaking only for me*) who could only ever
gain capital through exploiting their body//mind's hyperfixation/dissociation machine -
Without generational wealth(estranged), I was unable to dream of the possibility of being a "fine" artist.
(couldn't fit in woth the rich kids)
The visual/mixed media version of the PR department is graphic design. Even after the degree that has me so burried under debt that I could put a downpayment on a house if they took payment in negative numbers.We were paid so little that we still had to freelanced on the side... and in the end we still were never able to by pay enough to cover the medical bills from the stress caused.
Add it to the pile of debt.
www.shilohthehuman.com
(full story linkedin -
a plea from the last pilot.
lost the human, lost humanity.)
Burnt out after years of exploitation. Our joint pain is so excrutiating we can barely hold a pencil, type, hold a book/controller/cat toy, barely hold in the screams in on a second-to-second daily lived reality of endless pain - grip strength zero.
We can't work at all. (waiting on disability for two years, been told it'll be another 8 months to hear bck.)
We can't even afford to go to a doctor to stop the pain.
We haven't been able to keep up with tech. Resources slippong.
No phone, no lights, no motor car, not a single luxury.
Like Robinson Crusoe,
it's as primitive as can be.
When hunger madness takes us (we are housing/food insecure/literal starving artist) we make collages out of the magazines we find in free piles, smeared with duct taps and sharpies snatched from corporate entities.
There is nothing to lose when the pain will never end.
//Artists should not be forced to suffer to create.//
But, it is in the moments when we have nothing left to lose,
no deadline but urgent.
That is when we speak our truest words.
https://cara.app/calluscro
(*not all Trans folk are Autistic, not all Autistic folk are Trans. But, I live at that intersection.
It is a large and diverse community- this goes for every label of lived reality.)