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Entering from the End || On ALL NIGHT of LEMONADE by B

I am listening to “All Night” and I am in tears. I am crying from the inside-out. There is no flood, just pain (and healing *rolling eye emoji).

“With every tear came redemption” 

I am struggling. I am having a hard time upon my third viewing of Lemonade to really center myself in this piece how I have so easily done twice before. The first time was out of sheer excitement, the second was in deep admiration. None of these feelings have gone, but the visual aesthetics no longer lure me in the way they did. I am now completely following the words, allowing them to guide me to the visuals in a way they didn’t map me before. I am crying because the storyline is so familiar. A man fucks up, we know it but we don’t know it, we can no longer hide from the truth, we cry, we mourn, we stay. How tragic. I feel the tragedy in my bones. This is the first thing I write down in my notes besides the chapter titles. Skimming through Lemonade was my original goal in re-watching the piece as I was attempting to jot all the chapter titles down. Deep down I knew an attempt to merely skim would be unsuccessful. This physical viewing and attention to the words allowed me to really listen, between the songs. I now understood why it was so hard for me to make it past 6-inch when listening to the album prior to. Ironically, I got to my point of realization on tragedy at Chapter 5 which coincides with that track. 

“My torturer became my remedy” 

Hard pill to swallow. I am mourning this line deeply. Cycles are cyclical, at any moment the control you once had can escape you. Things can move in reverse. Things can reinvent themselves, and begin once more. This terrifies me in matters of the heart. Wrestling with the idea of finding love in the same face that has caused me so much sorrow. Finding love in a partnership with a man that is grounded in notions of faith tied to the church (Resurrection, 42:50). Is this really possible? For someone like me? Refacing the things I have come to critique? My unstable foundations. I know love is much more complex than a categorial check marked box on one’s potential wokeness and consciousness around everything I now am. I know love is about sharing, and I know some aren’t often taught how to share. I know there is much pain in a love like this, but the truth is, there is too no promise of anything better, or rather, what I dream different. 

Difference isn’t the antithesis to finding love, but sameness also allows no room for the evolution and growth this project embodies. I can’t be afraid to grow, and we can only grow up as B suggests. Filipa Ramos said today “attention is the fear of distraction” and ”art is received in the moment of distraction.” Love is not fearful, nor is it art. It is intangible but sure. 

“Nothing real can be threatened” 

It is imagination but grounded. It is hope in the midst of hopelessmess. I simultaneously feel both. I expect to soar in love and also constantly check my coattail to be sure someone is not standing on it. To be sure the air beneath my feet isn’t from the wind being knocked out of me. To be sure, in my uncertainty.

"The audience applauds but we can't hear them"

I am wresting with love, tirelessly, I suppose. Hoping too that the power to break the curse is wedged in my hand, and will one day whisper to the face I will soon hold in mine.


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