Choreo

two-stepping big dog, we two-stepping

I’m doing the dance; the depression two-step. It’s not graceful, and there’s definitely no pop-locking in the purgatory of an artist’s life. All this movement is happening at the intersection of creative opportunities and survival realities. Real life colliding with an economy that undervalues art and a culture that asks artists to get their resilience boots on the ground and fans out, on demand. Sheeeeeeeeeeeeee…Clay Davis.

As a working artist, I often feel trapped between the need to create for sanity and the need to maintain stability in a system that rewards burnouts followed by crashouts. Lately, things have started to feel like a negotiation between survival and self-expression. Redemption and rebellion songs share the same melody; the act of creating art feels like healing and resistance, and at the same damn time chaos and uncertainty. Some days, I wonder if I have enough energy left to ponder the melting of ICE, compromised judicial, and democratic process, or the emotional and mental strength and stamina to push back against the growing tide of fascist rhetoric and radical hate traipsing freely through city streets and timelines. (I imagine these bammas skipping along in their refusal to reason, hands over ears, la fucking la’ing down the street). The fatigue isn’t just physical. It’s spiritual. It’s existential.

Gyatt damn, I’m tired.

Still, gotta keep it moving, because not creating/working/fighting feels like
a. giving up and
b. dying.

So to combat the Eeyore, Dougie Downer, of it all, I’ve been leaning into gratitude. I have a gratitude journal, and I actually write in that jont, documenting all the little things; the small moments, the mundane motions we take for granted, that anchor me when everything else feels unstable. I find grounding in walking through those things that I might take for granted. At baseline, I’m alive, awake, and aware. I can move, touch toes, and do some pushups, without Sam Jack, Mr. Glass tendencies. Time done peeked around the corner and gave me the universal black man nod, getting me hip to its presence, mystery pangs, aches, and a penchant for naps as my older parents transition into a senior living paradigm, with less mobility, a single-level home, less stuff; reconciling the loss of independence and mobility at the same damn time. They are in the throes of the great letting go. Wholetime, though, I’m watching my contemporaries and heroes transition, as time keeps nagging, sending Morse code and innuendo to my subconscious about what the construct of passing time means, bro, that thing tapping on my frontal cortex.

No, i’m not talking about mortality, frankly, as a cancer survivor, i already got the t-shirt champ. From the time they found the spot on the CT scan, to when the doc said “you have cancer”, I was already 2 feet in the dirt; last will and such, telling my fam I may need some new strains of get right, for the chemo, if chemo was going to be the path toward the grand exodus. At that time, the bigger kicker after getting past the idea of being dead, is thinking about all the things you want to finish, the legacy you leave, or the legacy you haven’t even assembled. All the discs, DAT tapes, 2” reels, untouched records; the unwritten, painted, sculpted, unsaid, all the un’s and not as yets, your life after the elipses in the grand scribblings of your life, all that shit gets to swimming about, putting an emphasis on the need for you to carpe all the diems, that you ain’t done and that god, or the god of your own understanding ain’t through with you yet, if you still have a pulse.

In these moments of the low or valley, depression, aside from my standard weekly therapy session, I’m leaning on my circle; the conversations, the laughter, the honesty shared with my closest friends who are exactly who they say they are, and I’m still exhausted. I’ve spoken before about “the Council”: the brethren of creatives who have become a trusted and consistent support system. One night, we sat around reflecting on how all of us burn the candles at both ends and through the middle. No fancy candelabras, no rest, just melted wax and second-degree burns from getting too close to our own pursuits, going 100 miles an hour, we concluded that, irrespective of how much bread you’re working with, if you’re grinding, the work looks and feels the same. The mental and physical fatigue from life doing its absolute most is the same. There are obstacles, responsibilities, and introspection oftentimes through the multifaceted lens of your own traumas, proclivities, and persona, with the only difference being the zeros after the comma in your bank account, that cushion it provides, which, via the formula as stated by Christopher Wallace, correlates to the number of people relying on you. i.e., Mo money, mo problems.

The real battle, though, the most dangerous one, is with the person in the mirror. That reflection knows every false smile, every forced deadline, every quiet breakdown masked as productivity. It’s the face that reminds you that you can’t outwork your pain, no matter how many hours you put in or how many accolades you collect.

Depression in artists doesn’t always show up as silence or stillness. Sometimes, it disguises itself as success, masquerading in the work. You’re creating nonstop, producing at a high level, meeting deadlines, but inside, that well is dry. You’re making art/work from the aethers, fumes, and wounds that never fully healed. The same emotions that fuel your creativity are also the ones that threaten to undo you if you don’t navigate the emotional minefield, because, factually, there be claymores out there, young.

That’s the contradiction of being an artist at odds with their depression: there’s a requirement to dream and participate in reality at the same time. You have to build while breaking, imagine while enduring, perform while processing. And when the world measures your worth by output, rest starts to feel like guilt. At times, therapy is the respite, your creations the salve, with the rigor of making being the thing that grants purpose and motion, again, at times. There’s no singular way to navigate, i just know the topography of my own valley, like you know yours.

So yeah, young, I’m still dancing, choreography wild, trying to find the rhythm between breakdown and breakthrough, between what I owe the world and what I owe myself. It’s not always pretty, and it rarely feels balanced, but it’s honest. For artists that navigate these times, the real work isn’t just about creating work that moves others; it’s about surviving and living long enough to make it, period.

Shoutout to all the dreamers and doers who keep moving, rest to all the dreamers and doers who have transitioned into the next episode.

stay up young,
keep your head,
if you’re struggling to hold on and need an ear; dial 988 or visit 988lifeline.org/

k

about:
KOKAYI
Artist | Author | Speaker | Producer | Preeminent Improvisational Vocalist, GRAMMY-nominated musician, and multidisciplinary fine artist, is a Guggenheim Fellow for Music Composition (the first emcee to have achieved this distinction). Host of the Interledger Foundation’s Future/Money podcast. Author of You Are Ketchup: and Other Fly Music Tales, creator of HUBRI$ and Blackness and the Infinite Potential Well, whose artistry and work reflect a rich tapestry of life experiences shaped by DC and the cultural innovations of the Black diaspora—an enduring legacy that continues to shape the world, often without the proper recognition. Here for all the panel discussions, podcast yakkin’, and keynote addresses, should you need me, holla.

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