No Regrets, Coyote
Old Friends, Adapting Creative Habits to Survive, and Finstas as Skewed Archives
It is very easy for me to anchor the last seven years of my life in my love for Joni Mitchell. I consider myself to be, in many ways, a different person than I was at 15. My tastes, however, have changed very little. It is easier for me to measure transformation through interpretation of the things that I value in life.
In many instances (perhaps in the most public-facing ones), the way that I interpret has changed to accommodate the hard, immovable things in my life. My own art, something that I write about extensively, has shifted in terms of what “common” medium it takes shape as. The elephant in the room, something else I have discussed, is school. Having a schedule and a reserve of energy that are simply inconducive to the way that I performed even four months ago has forced me to find other ways to express the same values that carry all of my work: humor, intimacy, some way to give validation to the small absurdities that aren’t acknowledged if we don’t speak on them. I run a show once a month, which has given me a joy and tangible sense of impact. For heavier feelings and desire, I’ve leaned into my illustrations and even my poetry and prose again (I have a couple of submissions being evaluted, which I won’t elaborate more on out of fear of jinxing myself). But in order to do it all, I’ve become a bit of a recluse.
This is something that I continue to struggle with (a quick scan through my personal essay-style entries on here will tell you as much). Because as much as I love working in the Little Arts and allowing myself to survive creatively through nebulous forms, I am someone who needs attention. Perhaps it comes from my history as a performing artist, but I also think that it is rooted in my understanding of art itself. In my eyes (and based on my training in art at boarding school), the assignment of something as “art” comes from the artist and/or the audience member. There lies a tricky paradox within this, however, that makes the determination of art as less inclusive than it might seem: the designation of the artist as such comes from having an audience. Although I can make art, and I can call it such, if someone isn’t reading/viewing/listening to my work, will I be seen as a writer/artist/comic? Is that perception of me permanent, or do I have to maintain it (in which case, how do I not lose it)?
The answer, of course, is that there isn’t one. Artists and audience members tend to have deeply different answers for the second question in particular. But the point remains that I have an innate desire not just to create, but for it to be seen. I think, for example, of my finsta. I have always believed that I was terrible at keeping a diary, but what is a finsta if not that? The difference is that diaries (at least in the way that they were pitched to me as an elementary schooler) are spaces of privacy which will likely only be seen by others after you have become president and died. Finstas, on the other hand, are written to be seen. You overshare, you bear your soul, but with the understanding that those you let in will see it (and your feelings) now.
Finstas, at least within the localized community that mine was created in, are a bit of a relic of the mid-2010s. Few are still used as actively as their heyday in 2017-2021. The format of them has changed, too, from the vent post to the photo dump, 2023’s answer to perceived authenticity online (that deserves its own essay). Personally, I keep my finsta because I enjoy having an archive of my emotions over the past five years and a way to see the people/events/and even memes that I considered valuable enough to share with whatever group of people I choose to let in. Recently, however, I have had to acknowledge that the personal history archive I have created in my finsta is not objective, even to my own self. Especially in my earlier posts, when I was 15 and going through boarding school, the tone was remarkably depressing in a way that I don’t remember it reading when I wrote it. I don’t regret the way that I wrote it, since it’s what I meant to say then, but it is important to me that I continue to acknowledge the skewed nature of those posts (compared to my memories of the time they were being written in). It’s changed my posts now, too. I don’t post often, but when I do, I keep them short and grounded in gratitude.
A final note is on those who I let view my finsta. For the most part, the list has changed very little; it’s composed of a lot of old friends. I live a life that is overflowing with friendships, many of which are over 6 years old. As interesting as it has been to see these people grow (to be sure, we all have), the way that our creative work/ontological processes continue to follow a very linear path has been both intriguing and a comfort. A friend’s final undergraduate art exhibit, which focused on space and personal identity, was very similar in both concept and execution to her first art exhibit in boarding school. My own work focusing on performing heritage and documenting spaces where access to the intangible is what important to communities, has its roots in my work in Southern literature and even in being a part of a community like the stand-up scene here. I think that what matters in maintaining old friendships isn’t even growing together, but growing in the same paths that you enjoyed about each other in the first place.
My favorite Joni Mitchell song is “Coyote.” For many years, I interpreted it as some ballad that allowed me to idealize and mourn personal freedom and the incompatibility that it seems to produce. In plainer words, it let me place too much value in situationships; a perfect song for someone who Spotify has provided a pilgrimage to Burlington, Vermont. Now, though, I can’t help but listen to it and think about the coyote as an earlier version of myself, someone with the same desires but more (or maybe just different) opportunities to speak them. I miss them, but I am trying to enjoy what creating, pursuing looks like for me now. No regrets, Coyote. We just come from such different sets of circumstance.