It’s Saturday August 3, 2024. It’s 5:30am and I absolutely wish I wasn’t awake right now but I don’t really have a choice in the matter. I’ve been battling a stubborn low blood sugar that has been haunting me all night. It’s gotten to the point where the fake hunger pangs of the low blood sugar have merged with the real hunger pangs (because I’m legit hungry for breakfast now) and the combo makes my stomach painful. Got a busy day ahead and was hoping to maximalize on rest tonight but ***U CANT ALWAYS GET WHAT U WAAAANT***

Tossing in bed, I kept thinking about that 1979 movie The Warriors, which was a huge fav for me growing up and still is. I won’t go into it, but there is one particular scene I am fixating on right now: When the meeting of all the gangs in NYC is held, a leader from a prominent gang proposes a city-wide truce among all the gangs. He even boldly suggests that they far outnumber the cops- and in their numbers combined- could realistically hold power over the city alone.  But first- he says they would all have to get over this petty business of feuding over “pieces of turf”.

My mind reels at the thought of concepts such as nations and borders. Like don’t get me wrong- cool things come from other countries. There’s things like different languages, cuisines, fashion, art, music, ideas ETC But these aspects of culture have been around as long as humans began to evolve and they are more regional differences to me than anything else. Regional differences make sense because depending on where you live- you deal with different shit.  It is natural and logical that eventually the regional culture of that space will reflect this. I’m sure winters in Siberia are tough- which probably in turn affects what people eat and dress like when they live there. Conversely- northern New Jersey promotes a lot of sad home decor choices, big hair, and even bigger nails. (Still unsure why but we’ll get to the bottom of it someday!)

Maybe it’s less apparent to americans, but people from around the world, especially dense regions of empire such as europe, have probably noticed from history class that borders don’t really hold any real importance at all. They are completely fluid and especially arbitrary. They change all the time, usually at the whim of some ruling man and his silly, petty turf wars. When I went to that polish saturday school growing up, we studied the history and geography of Poland a lot. I found it so hard to concentrate on any of this, not just because of undiagnosed ADHD, but because it was hard to care or remember about all the details involving how that one country was carved up, divided, erased, reinstated constantly over the course of a 1000 years. Just endless dudes drawing new squiggly lines over old squiggly lines after every feud with some other dudes. I could not care less. Also, I refuse to believe that all of these people lacked the imagination to do something better with their time and energy while on this planet.

So what is a country? And what is patriotism if not thinly veiled nationalism? When you kill in the name of a country or a border- what are you actually doing? Are you truly defending a people or your dear beloved home? Or are you simply protecting the capital of the ruling class of that country (they’re the ones who sent you to do their dirty work, after all).

I recently met a person who expressed confusion and anger at the current state of politics in the USA. Whenever this conversation comes up these days- heads are hung low and shaken from side to side, almost as if to rid the afflicted of the demons that accompany these thoughts inside their brains. But I heard remarks that it truly shocks me to hear from any reasonable adult living in the USA today. They said - I can’t believe how far downhill this country went. They said it used to be a good country- but now it’s bad. (This was the expressed sentiment anyways. I have the memory of a peanut and can’t remember their exact words used, forgive me.)

Whenever people comment about the sadness of America’s decline, I do get annoyed (to say the least). That is because these comments usually operate under the assumption that this is a legitimate country that was organically founded. That it deserves to exist. That this land promotes freedom and democracy and that you can actually encounter these concepts at work here. I am not a historian AT ALL, promise youuu, but I don’t have to dig too far to see that this country was in fact founded upon genocide of the indigenous populations, slavery, coercion/extraction/exploitation, war, and greed.  And nothing has changed much - the plantations where enslaved people labored for hundreds of years turned into modern-day for-profit prison systems and the laws of this land still criminalize poverty- the same poverty that the law has created itself.  Those at the bottom of the economic ladder will always be abused and extracted from first. This land was taken from people who tended to it for a very very long time. This country is a settler colonial state and simply put - should not exist. Should any “border” exist though? Men have fought over these petty lines since the beginning of time and all over the world. Every country was founded on the spilled blood of regular folks who are just trying to survive their small blip in time here. What a waste of human potential and precious human life.

Would you ever build a house for yourself or even future generations of your loved ones on an unsteady ground? Can you construct a solid foundation when inhabiting quicksand or a swamp? I don’t think these foundations will hold. The house will fall down and eventually nature will swallow the ruins whole. 

 I truly believe if people began engaging with their inner artist, their inner child, and employed some creative imagination in a collective manner - I do truly believe we could overcome these obstacles to a thriving human civilization. But instead, we veer in the opposite direction - we are told to remove ourselves from the vulnerability of the self and others. Whichever way it goes in the long run- a quick scan of human history will prove several facts, an important one being that: empires always FALL. I will celebrate the fall of this particular empire rather than mourn it.

“The problem in the past has been the man turning us against one another! We have been unable to see the TRUTH, because we have been fighting for ten square feet of GROUND. Our TURF, our little piece of turf…

THATS CRAP, BROTHERS!” 

- Cyrus in The Warriors (1979) 

I have a complicated relationship with perceiving the art of DJ’ing.  Like many slavs of my generation, my first encounter with a DJ was at a Polish wedding as a kid.  I wrote them off immediately lol.  I grew up wanting to play music on electric guitar and the musicians I grew up around typically looked down on DJ’ing and electronic music. 

I did not encounter DJ’s again until my early 20’s. I had just moved to Philly and was desperate to find any work.  I ended up cobbling together a living from a roster of completely different jobs: managing a boutique pet supply store, mailing scientific data for the linguistics department of UPenn, and by night - DJ’ing the lighting at a few different electronic nightclubs in Philly & Atlantic City, NJ.

I have no idea how or why I had any of those jobs - but I distinctly remember the events leading up to the last one.  I was scouring craigslist ads for most of 2010-2011, looking for any gig that paid as much money as possible per hour.  I saw a listing seeking a “female lighting operator” at an undisclosed nightclub in Cesar’s casino in Atlantic City, NJ.  It paid $300 per night, in cash.  That was nearly my entire monthly rent - so you know I had to jump at it.  At this time in life, my main priority was having band practice at any available time with the garage-punk band I played drums in.  

I had been a lighting operator in high school, as a hardcore member of our school’s theatre program.  I was such a nerd about it too, and ended up being the co-head of the lighting crew my senior year.  I was only in it to be part of the tech theatre crew because that was where all the freaks and weirdos could be found.  I had no idea that this random experience would lead me to pursue a bachelor’s degree in filmmaking and qualify me for life-saving jobs in my adult future.  

While seeking work as a college student at emerson in Boston, I was employed by their blackbox theatre doing sound and lighting work.  This helped me out a lot because it paid fairly well at the time for on-campus jobs (and my only qualification for it was my experience with my high school tech theatre crew).  After I graduated, I worked full time as a digital content creator for a regional labor union while performing whatever side work I could to save up as much money as possible (in order to move to Philly and pick up the drums).  One of these side jobs was picking up shifts at the Middle East Downstairs in Cambridge, MA doing lighting work.  I still remember one of the members of Youth Brigade encouraging me to use the green lighting gels for their set, when briefly discussing their lighting needs before the show.  Green gels were always a hard sell, but being a huge fan of this lighting, I always pushed for it lol.  Bless Youth Brigade forever for that validating opportunity!

I went for an “interview” in Atlantic City after hearing back about that craigslist post seeking a “female lighting operator” in 2010 or 2011.  The first thing I asked was “why are you seeking a ‘female’ lighting operator, specifically?”  My boss told me bluntly: “because women won’t threaten my job.”  IM SURE YOU CAN IMAGINE HOW *FUN* IT WAS WORKING FOR THIS MAN.  Probably a sociopath - he seemed to have a monopoly on outfitting local area clubs with their tech needs.  He set up all the lighting fixtures/moving lights, LED mood lighting throughout the club, fog and haze machines, confetti canons, and even dictated the “motion graphics” needs of the spaces through any TV monitors.  Everything was controlled by the “lighting DJ” from the DJ booth on a series of boards and monitors.  He made sure to use proprietary systems every step of the way to weed out any people seeking to put him out of work as a result of mastering his rig.  The man had no artistic taste to speak of and any dealing with him was a massive struggle.  But the job paid what I needed, so I bit my tongue and showed up on time.  Some random photos I found on my computer from work then:

The club in Atlantic City mainly played “top 40 hits” (usually for bachelor/bachelorette parties) and the DJ’s were typically an hour late for their shift (during which we would just play an iPod mix until they got there and patrons typically couldn’t tell the difference).  Because the lighting DJ (me) stood next to the real DJ, people would often mistake me for the audio DJ. “PLAY THAT LADY GAGA SONG I LUV” some drunk bro would yell at me, before crumpling up a $5 bill and throwing it over the plexiglass at my head.  (I picked it up afterward and threw it back at his head.)  “I’m NOT the DJ!!!” I would yell back with some misguided pride.

My friends and I would laugh at club-goers and their chosen music.  See ancient screenshots from facebook circa 2011:

I’m not sure when this started happening, but I eventually found myself looking forward to certain parts of the night when I knew my “favorites” would come on.  The closer we got to midnight, I knew there was a good chance that Steve Aoki’s remix of Kid Cudi’s “Pursuit of Happniess” featuring MGMT/Ratatat would be coming on.  A catchy tune about addiction, mental health, and night terrors, though I suspect it is about a lot more than that.  As the track culminated towards the inevitable beat drop, I would hit the blackout button causing all the moving lights to turn off.  When the sweet relief of the drop finally arrived (the one just after the 5-minute mark on the track), I hit the sparkling strobes.  They were programmed to “twinkle” above the dance floor, mimicking a thunder/lightning storm occurring somewhere in a void.  The energy I felt from everyone in the club seemed to permeate every single body, and over time it seeped into mine as well.  I didn’t get it before, but I suddenly understood the role of the DJ as the LITERAL HEARTBEAT of a DANCE FLOOR of living, breathing humans.  What a fucking privilege and honor.  

One particularly terrifying night at the club in Atlantic City, I saw firsthand what the DJ meant to everyone.  It was either 2011 or 2012, and all the wealthy investors of the club were visiting for one night only to see how we were doing.  Of course this was the one night we had technical difficulties - the sound kept cutting out!  Me, having plenty lighting experience but VERY LITTLE practical audio experience - could not figure out why the sound kept cutting out this night.  At one crucial point - the sound cut out for long enough to drop the beat of the song for UNCOMFORTABLY LONG.  It was close to midnight - so the floor was packed and the drunken crowd was PISSED.  The longer the sound was out - the angrier they got.  Until one blessed moment - where someone in the crowd started singing.  “You- you got what I NEED” he yelled.  “CUZ U SAY IM JUST A FRIEND, CUZ U SAY IM JUST A FRIEND”.  Suddenly, the whole dance floor started chanting the words with him, rendering Biz Markie’s song “Just a Friend”.  My manager was flailing around me (a suit-and-tie guy that absolutely wanted to murder me on most days, but especially in that moment) as I scrambled to find out why the speakers kept cutting out.  I later found out that the power plug for the speakers was hanging out of its socket due to the rocking vibrations from the bass output.  (Whenever I am troubleshooting sound problems at a live show these days, I now instinctually always check the power connections first out of this learned experience lol).  I couldn’t work that location for this job for the next few months because that is how pissed the managers were at me (the owners were there that night, observing us from the VIP table, after all, and all our asses were on the line).  I stuck to shifts only at the other two clubs which were both in Philly.  It was fine after I dyed my hair - “Don’t worry, they won’t remember you’re the same girl” my shitty boss reassured me at my first gig back in Atlantic City.

When I moved back to Boston after getting sick, I started going to any show I could find.  My musical taste was no longer loyal to any one genre and it never would be again.  If it was local and I had the time to go, I would absolutely check out that improvisational experimental show or the techno night in some basement, I truly did not give a fck.  For the first time in my life - I actually went out dancing.

Over time, I was exposed to incredible DJ’s/producers that continue to inspire me daily.  DJ Haram, Dee Diggs, DJ Cobra B, just to name a few.  

My life partner of the past 5 years also happens to be a DJ and I express gratitude for my luck every day.  Whenever I am hopelessly sad, all I have to do is hang outside his bedroom door or window long enough to catch some sounds.  Instant healing.  If you also struggle with your mental health on a daily basis, I highly recommend finding a DJ and some room to dance in.

Wish everyone knew how REAL this song is/was lol

6/25/24  Today I was walking one of my dogwalking clients in the arboretum.  It’s been very buggy in the woods lately because its so damp there, so we were trying to escape it.  My sweetie was with me and pointed out a feather on the ground along our path.  It was a feather from a blue jay and I picked it up.  It felt like a gift just to see it, let alone hold it or dare to walk away with it.  My sweetie looked up on his phone what a blue jay feather might indicate.  I found one particular potential meaning significant to me: “a message of hope from a deceased loved one”.  

There is a particular family member I have been thinking a lot about lately - my maternal grandfather.  I have been feeling his presence, I’ve encountered him in dreams, and sometimes I feel like we are having a conversation together.  This is all very strange to me because: I usually am not sensitive to the presence of deceased people and also - I barely even knew this man.

I don’t know much about Witold.  I remember him as a tall, lanky man with dark brown hair and big bushy eyebrows.  I remember he was always smoking cigarettes and having a drink.  I know animals loved him and would practically flock to him.  When mine and my sister’s markers dried out one time when we were trying to draw, I remember he told us to dip them into his vodka to bring them to life again (but I can’t remember if this actually worked or not).  Sugar cubes were a luxury item in Poland back then, but he would always sneak one for me.  I remember his calm and collected nature, the complete antithesis of the stereotypical Polish man of his times.  I asked my mom to tell me a little about him today.  She couldn’t remember his birthday, but said it may have been in October, 1934.  If I had to guess based on his vibe, I suspect he would be a Libra rather than a Scorpio (but who knows what I don’t know!).  Back in my 20’s, I found out that he wrote lots of poetry.  Today I found out that he also drew pictures a lot.  I don’t have access to these documents, but would give anything to see his drawings.  I did read his poems one time.  We were trying to compile a handmade book of his poetry as a Christmas gift for my grandma one time, sometime before 2010.  There was a question of whether or not we should give her the book because they were all love poems about other women from his youth lol.  It sounded like he loved a lot, and with much precious passion.

I’ve been reading the book Health Communism for several months now and I just finished chapter 2.  I have to take this book slowly, because it brings up a lot of fear, trauma, and rage inside of me.  I’ve been through the ringer of American healthcare for the past decade of my life and this book essentially sums up why.  After I finished the first chapter, I had to write a song in order to process what I had just read, not only to aid in its digestion but also to aid with the trauma rage.  I assumed I would just write another song when I was done with the next chapter, but instead I felt the need to write it out.  That is because it made me think of Witold.

Chapter two is called WASTE.  It has some history about attempts for socialized medicine/healthcare in America and the suppression of these movements.  It describes in detail how the “eugenic and debt burden framework” is an inextricable aspect of capitalism and how this is rooted in this country’s long history of racism, classism, and ableism.  In simple terms: if some rich guy can’t profit off of your body and the labor that it is “supposed to” produce - you are worthless.  You are an expendable body, a “malingerer”, a burden to society.  Basically, you don’t deserve to live.  This is the foundation of eugenics.  American eugenics are still in practice today, as seen in the recent face mask bans sweeping the country or this country’s complete lack of any regard for mitigating the spread of COVID during the ongoing pandemic.  (I still remember, back in 2020, when the CDC specifically told us *not* to wear face masks.  They already knew that COVID was airborne, but they didn’t want the American public to “panic”, so they told us to wear plastic disposable gloves and wash our groceries with alcohol instead.)

As my health significantly deteriorated over the past year, I had to confront (yet again) what it means to be an artist/musician given what is left of my abilities.  My hands don’t work so great anymore, so I no longer make a partial living off of tattooing.  I rarely draw anymore either, but sometimes I can still paint.  It hurts to write in my notebook, so I don’t do it for very long at a time, but I still do it despite the pain.  I can’t play bass much anymore, but I can still play drums and guitar as long as I don’t go too hard or too long.  Every day is now all about conservation of energy and ability: if I do this, will I be able to do that later?  I try not to dwell on what I miss.  I make daily attempts to refocus my energy on what I can still do with the time I have left.

My grandpa was very sick when I knew him.  My mother told me recently that he tried to get medical help but Polish healthcare in 1992 was a complete shitshow (see: American healthcare today).  She said a dismissive doctor told him that his symptoms can only be attributed to “laziness”.  He told him to get off his ass, and “get back to work”. 

Witold Nadstawny passed away on June 9, 1992 from cancer of the larynx and the stomach.  He was 58 years old.  Later that same year, my mom, my sister and I moved to the United States to join my father.  My dad was already in the states and had just secured us a small apartment in Montclair, New Jersey, with the help of one of his carpentry clients.  (He was a new immigrant after all, and no one would rent him an apartment.  This wealthy client of his offered to be the co-signer on the lease and it became our home for about 10 years.)  

I think about Witold all the time now, and I see warnings from him all over my body and every time symptoms flare.  He keeps reminding me to take care of myself and my health as best as I can, because this is one of the most radical acts one could ever commit to.  He also keeps reminding me to write poems and make art.  I’m not sure which comes first: being a sensitive soul or a delicate body (maybe they always go hand in hand? maybe only sometimes?). No one is immune to circumstance, obviously.  Fascist governments will always try to destroy the beautiful, the vulnerable, the truth.  But art will always win, because it lives far away from all that nonsense.