there’s this story of herman melville. about how moby dick was only one of the many works of his that received terrible reviews, or none at all. about how his aspirations to be a full-time writer dissolved into a life as a customs officer, and that it wasn’t until decades after his death that his writing was finally recognized – and only because a cultural nostalgia for nautical life led people back to him. i’ve recalled this story several times in conversation. i’ve never read moby dick.
why do i gravitate to stories like this these days? is it because somewhere in me there’s a longing to not have gone down the path that i have in life, and instead continue with spoken word? or do i feel like i owe something to the self of my 20’s that obsessed over rap blogs and fantasized about playing madison square garden, despite not really having the discipline to train myself for it – and frankly, not really sure i had the desire for a life of fame? or maybe because it reminds me of how little control i have over how people think of me anyway. and that all the initial measures of greatness that come up in my mind are incredibly vapid. one thing’s for sure, and it’s that i never want to look back and realize that i didn’t create a body of work.
i think about the past decade since ib4the1 dropped, and the music files that are sitting in various hard drives, and how entire music platforms have come and gone since the days when dahlak, nico, and i stayed up through the twilight recording takes. there is a certain point where i can zoom out far enough in time or space to decide that it doesn’t matter anyway. i can list other artists who also seemed to disappear or take on new lives elsewhere, but it’s all to make me feel less alone in my diverted future.
the truth is, as much as i love traveling the world, curating shows at the smithsonian, being in love with lovely, and having the luxury of taking life at the pace i want to, at times i still feel like i failed myself. i know that there is no accuracy to the ways i’m measuring success or failure, because it’s this part of me that would be tempted to trade my community for fame, my financial stability for balling out of control. but the deeper part of this that i do actually want to listen to is the self before dreams of stardom was even a thing. the self who could just grab a pen and feel impressed by whatever came out, who filled up notebooks in no time, and who hungered to share it with the world. i’ve been struggling to stop putting the cart before the horse, to not feel so daunted by the high hopes i have for every piece of work i make to land that i don’t even get started in the first place. when it’s all said and done, who knows whether whatever public profile i have will stand the test of time or mutate beyond what i’ve ever envisioned for better or worse. the regret i must avoid is that of not having cultivated what i know i do well, and what i love doing. it’s a slow and impossible process to get back into writing, with how high my standards for myself and the world have grown. but if this isn’t what i’m here for, then what?