Kx5 II - {Enter The Multiverse} [Freestyle Studio Session]

I now had two jobs and a budding music career, that at times seemed to be skyrocketing me towards a higher dimension at every moment— I hear my city callin me; Off the 25th balcony, A falcon with a crown on Coming down on ya; It really rained on us, LA ain't playing Really making it out here, I bet you're proud of me now, huh—? Bet they play this for you at my funeral Do it, I'm the new confucius, No confusion, dude I'm supa dupe Blū about it I blew up out here; I grew up out here I knew such actions would speak Louder than words could— the fuck up out of here with that— Ssshh! He spoke of being behind hit singles for Beyoncé and other big names I could only dream about ever being in a room with—but I had never heard of him, of course—and just as well, as it didn't seem to matter. I simply wasn't attracted to him, nor was I going to pretend to be just to get ahead in music, or in any other way. At this point, all I really wanted to do was spit the verse I had written and eat; the hunger for some reason was ravishing through me, but it might have been my nerves—he put me on edge and made me nervous, not because we were in a 25th story 2-bedroom luxury apartment overlooking the Downtown LA skyline, or because his productions were high-quality and top of the line—not because the tracks he played me boasted Grammy winners like Usher and Nicki Minaj—but because of his attraction to me, his forward geatures and unwanted touches, and of course, his over masculinity. My Sunnï Blū persona was a bit too overwhelming for his taste—he wanted something more soft, and feminine—sexy. “Not like a skateboarder,” he said, to which I responded “but I'm a skateboarder.” His rebuttal, “yeah, but a sexy, feminine, female skateboarder!” He kept using the word “feminine”, and though I still considered myself broadly female, and certainly straight—he had himself put the nail in the coffin on even considering dating a black man, as he bickered and argued his creative direction, calling me retarded in the process, just as my mother's boyfriend had—apparently, I was “retarded” to most black men, and became “gay” as my cellibacy stood unturned even in the face of any benefit. It wasn't about the money—though I needed and wanted it, the money wouldn't be the thing to control me—it would always be music. I could consider myself to enjoy constructive criticism, typically—but his was demeaning and harsh. He wanted to change my lyrics, move words around and add statements I myself would never really say—to add Ebonics and slang to my verses that didn't sound natural coming out of or from me, or even Sunni Blū, and though I was partitioning simply as Blū, a more feminine aspect or counterpart of Sunni Blū, the direction to be more “feminine” and “sexy”—I suppose, the illusion that my body gave way to the actually more non-Bianary personality that lived within the now-veliptuous-leaning-athletic physique. I never asked him directly not to touch me—I wouldn't be another overly-offended “#me too” girl. I would never accuse a man of “rape” or “harassment”, and I knew better—but I also knew better than to fall asleep at the wrong time or place, opting for the couch in an open space, close to the door, in the studio, where I felt safe. However, his gestures alone made me uncomfortable, and, after running out of every ounce of energy white waiting to spit my verse the night before, I had spent the night curled up on the couch in the entryway—after a failed attempt to get into the bed and relax comfortably without him trying to cuddle up next to me, and not wanting to risk him waking up on top of me, perhaps even only allowing myself to sleep in a new and strange albeit luxurious space, because of the presence of a woman and her young child there. I had established by now that I was secure in my singularity—that after Sonny, and especially after Dillon, that giving and sharing myself, or my love would be different—and though I had freely given Oleg a relaxing and therapeutic back massage in his drunken stupor just a few nights before, (which I supposed he would never remember—) I was upset when this man asked for one, and though he had been so kind as to feed me rather than let me leave into the pouring rain the night before ( as, I, before falling asleep on the couch, had actually attempted to leave back to my own bed—without spitting my verse and not giving a single shit about the song, whether it was going to be a hit or not, how grand the apartment was, or who he had worked with—how many plaques he was going to hang up, or what perks might come with being a woman like my mother and pretending I was interested in order to get what I wanted.) he stopped me short in the elevator, persuading me to come back with the promise of a good meal and that he would finish his verse so that I could start mine. “I just want you to knock this verse out.” I sighed, tiredly, nodding “while i'm here”, somehow knowing that once I left The Circa, I wouldn't return—possibly ever, but at least for a long while. Fatefully so, in the time the food was ordered and delivered, I was still resting sleepily on the couch as he ‘perfected' his verse; I downed the Breakfast a burrito and Vegan Smoothie from LA Cafe in record time, curling back into an exhausted ball on the couch beside the studio, nestled in a warm and heavy blanket; it was somewhere around 4:00 AM, and i promised myself I would leave by 7, in time to catch the Whole Foods for fresh vegan muffins and some bananas—which for some reason, i couldn't stop thinking about. The couch was safe, at least—I wasn't going to risk my celibacy by falling asleep near any man, and though I had left Gerald safe and sound in my bunk back at The Freehand, I at least still had Dillon's Amethyst and Sonny's Rose Quartz tucked next to my heart, as I slept soundly in the studio, any noise of the room fading away into just a thought as I drifted into a heavy and dreamless sleep, the warmth of the best Vegan breakfast burrito I'd had to date resting on my tummy, shielded by my Stilo-de-Chiapas Harem pants and tie dye blue sweater, my Fanny pack still wrapped securely around my waist, and my custom chuck Taylor's sitting at the foot of the couch. I slept at least an hour past seven, waking up to the sunlight through the panoramic windows of the Los Angeles skyline—now, suddenly, I remembered this place, as I had dreamed or had built it long ago, taking a fresh dose of nicotine from my Smok vaporizer, a habit I had picked back up in my one week working at Higher Livin', which I actually hated, but no more than working any other job that wasn't music, and didn't pay me enough to be satisfied with. My uppity coworkers made it a little less enjoyable than it might have been on its own, a majority of my time spent with a classic stoner redhead who couldn't stop talking about getting laid by the new girl he was seeing, and a chubby Latina who scowled too much and rolled her eyes at everything, obviously disliking me for whatever reason , but still coy enough to dress in blue enough of the time and do her nails to match, which I just took as sign from God that things are not always what they seemed. Either way, I didn't care much about anything, but especially about music, which I still somehow loved—working all the time was exhausting me, and, having very little time to myself or at all to recover my own energy was taking enough of a toll that I began the cycle of self-destruction, devastating as it was to admit that I just wasn't a Kayla Lauren, or even a Skrillex, but just the hybrid honest-to-God wannabe hybrid of either one of them, whichever would work out for me—and as it was turning out, neither thing was. I wasn't priveleged or white enough to have all the time in the world to work out, or to produce music—I was stuck literally working for the cost of my bed and food, which evened out to just better than sleeping on the train or on busses in filth, which all seemed to be black people of course that nobody gave a fuck about. The more I worked, the less I gave a fuck about myself—but I at least kept doing it out of fear of whatever else was going on in this city—black people were running around everywhere smelling like piss, screaming at themselves and other people, and reminding me of everything that I wanted to deny: people didn't care about black people. I would have rather considered myself a neutral, but—whites would always see me as black, and black people would always see me as black, so I figured I would have to find a solution sooner or later, as with the more time I spent around either white people or black people, the less black I felt at all. After a terrible Will Smith movie, a shower, and a fresh set of clothes, I was studio-ready—I jumped on the hot mic with gusto and flavor, adding my genuine Sunnï Blū pizzazz to the upbeat, almost jumpstyle-tempo track, which I knew already mixed with a few songs from my own library and would be eager to mix as soon as the master was finished, however, a funny thing happened during the first live take of the verse: though I had written it the night before and had spit it perfectly beforehand, I stumbled, mispronouncing words and misreading them, skewing off from my usual 1-take perfection: something in my energy wasn't right—and even once I had spit it perfectly straight, he didn't like it. He wanted a “sexy and more feminine” approach, and not “a female who sounds like a nigga”. I wasn't trying to sound like anything, of course, just being myself—which he didn't seem to like, and over time it became clearer that he didn't see me for me, but just my body—which had become curvy and veluptuous, after a week of not enough gym and too much anxiety-filled Whole Foods quests, and all around fucklessness of putting my income before my actual needs, which everyone in LA seemed to do, and though I still fit my extra smalls, mediums weren't altogether unwearable anymore, one week ago falling off me even with a drawstring, and now fitting almost just right, my ass growing uncomfortably large with every trip to LA Cafe. It's a trip, Trip— Bout to take a rip On my drip tip Like ‘Drip, drip' I get tips, It's business— Spinin in the middle When I drift — in I'm lift—ed, So gifted— Thick chick Lips: bliss Swiss, miss On chistmas Dismiss this,— —then get— dissed! — (Bitch) Whatcha think about the friend? What you think about the bands What you think about the dance What you think about the stance What you think about the bounce Just bought a new house Fresh bra, new blouse Not worried bout the clout Just a little thizz You know what it is— Flipped another whip? —you should quit whippets! This is being chivalrous Imma put some drizzle in it I'ma bring my whistle in this festival for rizzle It seemed there was no place for my non-bianary, post-racial self in the world of music—at least on this track—and though I wanted and needed a place just like the place I had come to at The Circa to record what would supposedly be a hit song, I wanted and needed the place to be my own, somehow someway. God showing itself more and more broadly with each passing day, I swallowed my pride and after hours of work at the mic I finished the verse as requested, and rather than waiting for lunch (or by that, time, what would have been dinner, as we had been in the studio all day) I thanked the professional musician as he walked me into the elevator, opting for Whole Foods with the little money I had rather than to wait for another free meal. I figured I had been paid in the change of clothes I was wearing, and The LA Cafe I had scarfed down in my half-sleep; arguably, the most I had ever been paid for any music I had done. I thought to myself, “It doesn't matter if I ever hear this song again.” At least it was done. The elevator dropped 25 floors to the lobby, a perfect triangle formed between two well-dressed men and myself, as we stood in silence waiting to exit into the great city of Los Angeles. All I wanted was a banana and my own bed—the gym, now closed from the past-due balance would have to wait; I needed healing and love. Gerald greeted me at the top of my bunk, as I slammed down a Whole Foods bag containing a salad, pizza, and of course—two bunches of bananas; some regular organic, and even some of the rare red ones I loved. The contrast of my shared 4-bed dorm to the opulent 25th-story luxury apartment equipped with top-of-the-line studio didn't seem to matter at all. I had pizza and a piñata: that was good enough for me. {Enter The Multiverse} [The Festival Project.™] COPYRIGHT © THE FESTIVAL PROJECT 2022 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. © -U.