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ART + DESIGN

JWJ STUDIO.

BOI, ID. © 2020

COMMUNITY

To having a place within a tiny ecosystem of rules unspoken but learned and passed down through tradition, memories, photographs that never saw the light of social media or social discourse. To knowing when your friend has had too much, knowing their drink, their food flavors, allergies, preferences and silly diet idiosyncrasies.

PREFACE (a DISCLAIMER)

 
This is a moment where I feel like a nerve has been hit, so deep, that I can’t help but put it back out into the atmos. If I didn’t, I’d be lying to myself. I’d be taking the an active role in going against the hope of becoming a happier person. I want to say that this should not be taken in any manner of disrespect to anyone, I only hold myself accountable for my shortcomings. Many have done more than reach out and have tried, time and again to tether the vessel to this place called “community.”
 
COMM – UNITY
 
This is an account of what I feel I’ve been missing from my life for some time now. I often have daydreamt of being a member of a communal society more closely tight knit like that of a bead room sewing circle.
 
I’ve dreamt of it in many capacities, some nostalgic of high school cliques, banks geeks, and weirdos, or glistening gangs of gorgeous gay circuit studs, some of artsy highbrow snobs so snooty they were hailed away in cabs before parties even begun. Some of blue light speak ever-so-easy secret password societies, or those of club kid back alley truckstop flashlight black light pregoogle treasure hunt flier directions to warehouse sunrises.
 
Or liken it to days of ill spent hours under covers or surfing sofas above the beer bottle floors of shanty town shacks of wayward gay youth, lost boys, Peter Bells, and Tinker-pans. To nicknames and pet names and mother bears with trail mix granola bars in backpacks on camping trips to Jurassic Park and beyond. To skinny dipping care free everybody beautiful genderless freelove, love thy neighbor, candlestick maker, and the Undertaker.
 
To having a place within a tiny ecosystem of rules unspoken but learned and passed down through tradition, memories, photographs that never saw the light of social media or social discourse. To knowing when your friend has had too much, knowing their drink, their food flavors, allergies, preferences and silly diet idiosyncrasies.
 
I’ve dreamt of “Friends” / “90210” / “My so-called Life” / “Breakfast Club” …. you get the point… like scenarios, of wacky shenanigans or too close to call moments. The stuff that makes your friends into the very definition. Your ride or die bitches, know when to hold ‘ems, poker face wingmen, your post-it note inventors, fuck me gently with jawbreaker type fugly gap-toothed frenimes. The type that’ll detour Texas, or sell the plane tickets to buy a land yacht, just so you can go to the ball too.
 
Now, I’m not saying I’ve never had friends of that caliber. I’m not saying the friends I do have only run as deep as a kiddie pool or liken them to the same experience as searching for meaning in a Paulie Shore movie. No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I am saying is that I have had these types of friendships. I’ve had many of them. And I’m ever so grateful for every one of them. 
 
I don’t think I’ve ever been so rich as to throw away a friend.  But I have been so completely self obsessed as to not see the signs of need for sooner maintenance or repair. Never for greener pastures or political self gain, but for being an ass in assuming that other parties would do all the heavy lifting and that I could just show up without a housewarming gift or side dish or even so much as card, flowers, or fuck even a damn balloon.
 

Nope, not me, I’m that guy. Fifteen hundred not so fashionably late minutes to every function or date. Too busy to be concerned about the time of others, not planning ahead to show courtesy or grace or respect of those I do so cherish. Assuming no one could ever get annoyed with careless time management or adherence to working worlds clock. I am My own white rabbit, falling through time and space, painting roses red, trying to keep my head, on that is. 

But now, as the years stack, my slack has more than caught up with my knack for telling myself “You’ll be early next time, today was the last time.” 
 
That’s just the tip, barely in sight from this Titanic feeling of loss of community. No segregation or class, all are one, all share duty. Seniority ranks respect and tradition. Tho for some of my yesteryears members, there will not be enough boats. Nor an SOS fast enough to reach a safe point. Some bridges so cold they burn, even Fergie would go down. 
 
But what I am saying is that I started building great Chinese NASA sized walls to cross country and did so on autopilot. I was asleep at the wheel, but I’m not blaming Jesus for misguiding the truck. But I will say that Jesus and Siri could not agree upon routes. We pulled over in Iowa and I got us stuck in ditch on Sunday with no AAA available to be found. Thank God for good samaritans, country tow trucks, and the American Dream. 
 

And to this… there is no end. It’s not about that, it’s about the process. It’s about paying attention, not letting things run off with you, for we are after all, our own captains. How we spend our days is how we spend our lives. So let’s just take them, and be blessed to receive them, one at a time.

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