Hatching art plans on the home front. Sometimes I forget that coming home means coming to Chinatown. The more I dig into the annals of heritage, the more I really believe that strings of inspiration & voices of ancestors echo down through every vestige of culture and memory we erect to perpetuate pride, history, mythology, community, and just.. people . Your people, whatever that means. That’s something I would’ve said before and been unsure if I meant it but I actually begin feel this shit in my bones, less me banging on an ancient door me and now more, it taps me on the shoulder when I’m feeling lost or backsliding. Not some performative activism but like real, holy shit there are ghosts that live here and their particles want to tell stories through other Asian people, shit. Perhaps that is the sign we receive when we’ve put a certain amount of work into any relationship with praxis or ancestry (or anything really) especially for a mixed race person like me whose link always feels tentative or questioning... cultivating some kind of cultural intuition. Or Perhaps i am well on my way to being the crazy old keong-po with the very long mole hair speaking to ghosts & shilling zhū jiǎo. I don’t know, I’m grateful. Posting this to keep myself accountable (headcase like me easy to forget things)