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28 March 2022
This month's topic: Among The StarsResident Editor: Jorge Van den Eynde


A story that is mine.
Which I don’t own, but share.
A life that is mine and other(s) to hold onto.
Different and alike.

I dig them.

I dig them diffracting the horizon.
I am thankful.

They’re different from me.
But also they’re another you. Another im.possible version of you.
They’re your siblings, your alters, your kind.

You don’t get them: you feel them.

I see you.

You feel them because no one owns their lives.
We hold onto. We dig them.

We dig them intuitively.
We fly.

We dig them for generations gone and heirs forthcoming.
We fly in a

of flyness.[1]After Terence Nance.

We steal.

We steal because we strive.
And we steal because we strive because we care.

We care, but often we don’t and we gotta hustle so we steal and here we go again.
A story that is mine.

That isn’t about me but those alters that hold onto y/our lives.

A hint.
A hint or an intel from the brownfields, exhilarating and exhausting.
You’re haunting you while other theys are hunting back.
–– You air bend.

A fugue.

A flight for those who do not own, but hold,
to share..
A golden teapot and hashes.

Where egos stand for black stands for trans-

ition, mission, mation and mutation.

Anything but a piece of enlightenment on blackness.

So I won’t explain _____ we’re colonial projects and the question is, real: what do we do with it?

All of us.

You see a metaphor where I see life,
a writing coquetterie where I see lives.

But Kid,
if you don’t get it, it’s fine.

Everything is just and always fine.


Some time ago.

‘cause then I remember I was invited to speakabout it, like it had become somehow
– History, situated, knowledge.

Enlightened blackness:
After joy was satisfaction,          .
affirmation,          .
acknowledgment,          .
recognition.          .
A settlers state,          .
dawning.          .
But they’ve kept calling me Yahoonessi and they won’t apologize about it.

Another story that is mine.

A story like none of a kind, really.
That of a billion souls that do not own shit but hold onto their lives.

Anything but a piece of enlightenment on blackness.


Precisely because it’s the opposite to possessing a thing as.certain*ty.
Precisely because you’ve got a choice to trust others to lead you or not.
Precisely because they’ve been enslaved and precisely because we fly.

.. the whole point about
escape is that it’s an
activity.. (it’s) not an
achievement.. you don’t
ever get escaped..  you
know like “I escaped”.. and
what that means is.. what
you’re escaping from
is always after you..[2]After Fred Moten.

Precisely because that’s what sharing power is about. Losing it,
in turns.


Still, it’s getting harder to maintain aflot. You’re suffocating.

In the air, soap bubbles are like soaps on TV-programs and you keep wondering: “ok, but is it cryptic or a bag of shit?”

               Coons are wildcats all the same.
               Coton mud and banana cakes all the same: stolen.

Black lives on the same time slot as mass and wildlife documentaries,
and you keep wandering, and you keep fleeting.

You’re a shoal of shoaling blue runners.
Woof, woof (and) you keep barking.

What I mean by that is that of course you cannot understand because ain’t shit to understand – what I feel, or what it feels, to rub up against the tie of all that it is(n’t) that is(n’t) stalling against the blackness of my kind.      Lightness.

Though fluidity is precisely letting go; what I mean by that is that I do not own and I can never know, I will never get and I won’t ever drain the words and flows – heaviness, density – all the meanings of the words, from a broken language that is mine to another colonial that is yours, that sur.render(s) the lands and scapes of black writing. But I dig them, I feel them pulse, deep down and low, in my ears, lungs and cunts, in those various visceral densities of my beings that you’d like to understand because: it matters. But it doesn’t matter, it is precisely matter, my guts, my blood, my cells. I don’t kn.ow.n shit but I’m in that shit. It is mine and I am not here to tell YOU how magical it is. Cause you don’t need to be taught, you’d listen if you’d care, you need to act, you need to stick your neck out of it, ‘cause really the shit is y.ours.

As it is life.

So I won’t explain _____ we’re colonial projects and the question is, real: what do we do with it?

A couple years left before it starts again.

I love you.


Explaining it sounds like exploring it, sounds like expanding it, sounds like an attempt to stain, an habit to detain, obtain and constrain – to me. So I won’t explain.

But imply, implore: we s(t)and.


imagine yourself walking on the crest of things.

Can you really picture yourself on the crest of things?
I can’t so I won’t.


You tell me.

An anti-American dream with a stench of French universalism.

Yet, don’t get me wrong: there’s a curse on all of your isms.

So ofc on some other side of things, I remember stars streaking the surface of a puddle and foul fuel waves twerking down your tiptoes. Crispy yellow sandbrick units and aggregated saxifragas. Hearthstones cooking, a feast of flies.

I remember I wrote about a dozen times these words: “They’d be Massaïs on the moon and Mam’Wata sunbathing near a swimming-pool.. ..Myths[3]After Sun Ra..”

I remember remodeling it a dozen times, reshaping it a dozen times.
A hashtag, a meme and a formula, a praxis, a spell and a prayer. A vision and hope –– schizophonic egregore.

I remember it somewhen between meltdown, anger and faith. I remember it radical, intricate, collective and prismatic, paradoxical and polysemic, bravely sustaining. I remember it irreducible, intransigent and unsolvable: you are still alive.


Resistance is blur, fog, shadow.
An alliance and anticipated friendship.

Earthseed.. Except the stars aren’t up, aren’t down, but far. And I hate you.

I hate you bad and I hate you too.

Shit happens.

More importantly it won’t last.
I dig you too.

That story is mine because of my willingness to share and unshare, my willingness to explain or to frame, perform, a worlds.

For “I”come(s) in hordes.

No subjects for it matters but an(other/e)stranged bodies: cruising.

Black blood’s beat beatbox, incapable of melding to become one. Multitude.


It takes a route to meeting y.ourselves.

We speak in tongues.
My guess is that the cave is a remnant.
A manifesto lost in uncollective translation. Babelian.

I dig them. We fly.



« –– It’s a strong grip you have, my friend, on things. »

The flickers are getting stronger by now and the rivers up-skies.
Fallon calls up skyseas; while Jo is spelling[4]After Fallon Mayanja and Josèfa Ntjam.

A story that is mine.
Which I don’t own, but share.
My multitudes and others.

No need to proofread or explain it: we’re living it.
We, a group of outcasts at large from man. Hu~nity.

Unwilling to master or seize, we perform a worlds where words are spells like swords unforged, and we dive in a stream of open meanings and potentialities. Imagination is our homelands.


Too greedy to grasp –– everything: that’s coloniality already.

Blackness is poetry:

A mountain of wh.ores,
tales, whales,

A philosopher’s stone stuck to melancholia,
and my siblings: witches.

1 After Terence Nance.
2 After Fred Moten.
3 After Sun Ra.
4 After Fallon Mayanja and Josèfa Ntjam

Born in 90 in Cotonou (Benin), Mawena Yehouessi is a collisionist: art curator, re.searcher and artist. Founder of the Black(s) to the Future collective and currently undergoing a PhD at Villa Arson / Université Côte d´Azur, she lives and works between Paris and Nice (France). Uncaught through alter-futurisms and poïethic realities, M.Y develops an imploratory, collaborative and prospective practice of collage. Her (Mawena) and their (M.Y) mediums thus oscillate from visual/digital syncretism and film-making to poetry writing, translation, pedagogy, concept-coining, collective gathering, black study, making-up parties and calling them exhibitions. Trained in literature, philosophy, art projects management and contemporary dance, M.Y’s part of those ghost generations of un-classifiable beings, whose wor(l)ds, imaginaries, hustles & jobs are an aggregation of slashes, glitches, fugitivity and displacements.

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