Everything is a commodity

and it’s giving me a rash.

I started this substack using the exact phrase (you can read it in my bio) “writing for writing’s sake” — my whole point was there was a place I can share what is actually my most liberating and innate creative expression / kin — one that grabbed me by the ass as soon as I could hold a pen in my hand as a kid: writing.

This is also a place where you can get people to support your writing, both by just reading the writing and engaging with it and also a piece where money is exchanged — a donation to the writer so the continue to write.

And even though I came here to write uninhibited — I decided, for whatever reason, that my writing alone was not “enough” so I would have to “offer other things” or get clever with writing in themes, writing things that were part of my “broader work” in the world, etc, for paid subscribers. I was going to have to come up with something in order to feel “okay” in my body/ or mind / to receive $5 a month.

This isn’t a bad thing — this is just the exact opposite of what my writing body was asking for when I started this space. But what isn’t that great is that the idea that my writing wasn’t good enough for this to be a space purely for that. Without containment. Without having to “teach” something or be clear about something. But instead to follow the prose. Honor the ghosts. Be okay with the hybrid way that I process and language.

Instead of honoring that— I began, and unconsciously, or consciously because this is how we are programmed — coming up with classes or courses or other things that would make this space worthy of contribution from readers.

I once again fell into the trap narrative that: 1. Art and writing for the sake of art and writing are not enough to show up offering and 2. You had to write things that can be commodified somehow, write things that people wanted to “buy” into, in some way.

I fell into the trap of the constant programming that everything must be a commodity to be worthy. Or just the simple fact that everything, these days, seems to be commodified.

Our stories, our trauma, our intimacies, our sorrow— everything. But is there a difference or can there be a difference between being an artist and expressing the pain and beauty of this world and being supported in the art of it all and commodifying it? Is the simple exchange of money for anything, including writing, make it a commodity?

Is commodification a bad thing?

(Photo of my daughter at a chthonic ceremonial spot at ancient Temple in Valle Dei Templi, Agrigento)

I subscribe to some substacks — and I see the successful ones— as in the ones with a lot of readers and subscribers. They are typically people selling something. And I don’t mean a product or even a service, but an idea, a brand. They have a “thing” for instance — someone only writes about the anti-aging industry (I subscribe!) and they write only about the horrors of it. She’s clear, concise, consistent, and nothing she writes about goes against that theme she’s very knowledgeable on.

The thought of just sticking to one thing, in order to hook people, feels like an artist prison to me.

I want to write about what the writing wants me to write. As sloppy and wild and maybe out of character it might be, somehow it would be of the greatest service to 1. Me 2. The words 3. The reader.

And I am not knocking the person who writes only about one thing. I am just saying, I cannot do that anymore.

My allowing for all the writing to have a space in my body is developing a relationship with writing in a way that comes from the body first, then the mind, if at all the mind.

When I stick to one subject matter then my point would be to: sell you that subject and probably a whole slew of things about it.

I don’t want to do that.

I don’t want to only write about my relationship to the ancestors.

I don’t want to only write about my relationship with Sicily.

I get an idea once and I want to follow through. And then I write about it. And then, ya know what? I am done. I may never need to write again about whatever it was. The spirit has come through and I can move on. Or else it takes me over, I obsess and I write about it forever. Whatever works. Whatever is best for the relationship. This is art for me. I wanted this substack place, especially this place, to be a place of freedom from what is expected of me (or so I project) and hope that someone out there honors art and writing and sees it worthy and will will read it and even possibly subscribe— because they believe that art is worth it and they are financially resourced to do so.

And there is no reason it can’t be.

But I can tell you I am not stronger than the next person and the actual fact that everything, and I mean everything, feels like a commodity— I am disheartened and also insecure and also not sure what to write about in fear that I am contributing to this “thing” I don’t like.

….

I think all of this comes in the wave of energy of being in Sicily.

Now I am back home and noticing all the social accounts of people in Sicily or people that promote or are considered influencers of some kind. Sicily has become a “hot topic” — and also a $ maker.

Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot of “content” out there I love to see because when it’s done well, it’s also art. When it’s joyfully shared, artfully shared, is a source of true education, magic, love— and most important— when you feel/sense a true relationship between what is posted and the poster- then it feels like smoothing has moved past commodification. Even if there is a money exchange. Even if something is being sold. When it feels like there is a deep and true love and connection. And this is also about everything out there. Everything.

But I don’t sense that relationship a lot lately. And I sense trends. I see how everything down from language, cocktails, food, the “sweet life” nature, ancient hand languages, history, myth — or whatever — has become a literal commodity. A fast paced moving thing to quickly slam together and pretend like it’s real. Pretend like “you can have this too!” — bits and pieces of an actual culture. Branded. Music’ed. Sold.

But, is culture is a commodity?

Seeing all this has me all confused. I guess this is why I am here, now. I sit down not knowing, but desiring some clarity, even if it’s just some clear questions.

There is so much I want to write about — not about Sicily, not in a way that makes you want Sicily — but instead — about the tiny moments that fall on me and gulped me entirely when I am in the island — that have changed and continue to change my life forever.

And I noticed since being back from this last 2 month journey there — I stop myself because 1. I don’t want to ever be part of commodifying my ancestral culture or the culture of my friends and family in Sicily. It felt almost embarrassing at times being there in deep connection with people, being American, and knowing that they are seeing what I am seeing too. I kept putting my phone away because I didn’t want to ruin these moments by taking photos that would become photos that might become a reel— would those photos be good for “business”? Fuck yes. Did I care enough? No. I didn’t. And 2. I am still trying to figure out how to share and write where the why and my relationship to the why, to the land, to the people, to the moments — will be utterly sensed by those who read it. I need those who read it to lean into as if it were art, because it is. If were nothing to be bought and sold. Nothing to learn. Only something to drink in, experience, allow for nourishment. But also, in the end, it’s how I make part of my “living” — and I am grappling with this.

I started thinking about all the aspects of my life I’ve commodified, and sometimes without even consciously doing it. But needing money. And knowing I need to sell something I love — they go hand in had.

And I don’t say this as an entirely bad thing. It sure is better than selling something you hate. But what is it I am actually selling? Me? My magic? The magic of an island? Community? Relationships? Good god. This is actual real question for me and if I came here writing about it in a way that sounds like Ihave answers — I would be trying to sell you something I don’t believe has any answers.

(Photo of the beginning of a basket I wove, Isnello, Sicily)

My business grew from my own practices and trainings. I spent a lot of time and money learning from teachers of all kinds — from lay midwives to academics. The things I was able to get skilled in while raising my girls became what I was able to offer to others. For many years, even back in the mid-2000s — people rolled their eyes at me— and I got hate mail from people who told me to “get a real job”. Recently I offended someone after casually selling some t-shirts — which are ship on demand/drop shipped by the most ethical printing company I could find (printful.com)— because the fact is I don’t think I can sell a $1000 handmade / non factory made t-shirt. But if that is the case, should I be selling them at all?

When I started immersions in Sicily, it was born as a way to gather people together on this island, which I had spent decades visiting, writing about, researching, studying, and spending long periods of time creating real deal community there — that I share with others. It was meant to be a container to 1. Practice ancestral reconnection and 2. Spend time with local people to practice embodiment of what ancestral connection might be like in real time.

And that is really still what it is.

But the way it’s been going, I fear that to get the word out, to allow it to continue and for it to be sustainable for me — it will become part of the cultural commodification. That I would have to write in a way that sells it. And I can’t. I cannot do it. How do you sell culture? And maybe I already have been doing so.

How have we become to entrained in capitalism that we have gotten so good at it — in all kinds of realms, we don’t even notice it anymore?

Good god. Or as they say in Sicilia - Bedda Madre or Madonna Mia.

I don’t know if I am doing that. And if I am, perhaps that is why a rash is growing on my back and down my arms. Maybe that is why red, prickly and weirdly scattering dots have been spreading on my upper body. Perhaps that is why my sacrum is acting up. That SI joint popped. That right hip aches so much sometimes I wince when I walk. Perhaps that is why my heart hurts and I just cannot think about it anymore. Perhaps that is why my body is saying to me: stop everything. Just write. Write it out. “How will you know what you think until you see what you say”

(Thank you. And sorry. For having to be part of this process but maybe there is something in here that pulls at your gut).

….

I remember when Instagram circa 2010 was a place for hipstimatic photos and a little prose below them. I would snap photos of the Salish Sea, Devils Club growing in the forest, 3 little girls all dressed up in vintage leopard print scarves and thrifted long flowing skirts, and running around barefoot with their yurt in the background. I would take a photo of my hand emerged in the dirt and under it would be a 10 line poem. I would share a picture of my foot and tell a story about where I have walked. I had a few friends following me. It was a place to be expressive.

2011, Hipstomatic, IG post, my daughter in wild flowers. Montana).

…

I sound like an elder now. “Back in the day when the radio was how we were entertained…”

But I am not saying it like that. I am saying it as in remembering where there was a place to just insta-snap life for a moment and write about it.

There was no pressure to perform. There was just moments being captured. It felt like a dream at the time for a writer. A tiny casual place to express. I felt like I was learning a new medium.

Also, at the time, we were on food stamps.

And so. You do the math as the interest in my work, as the interest in everyone’s work, as the interest in capturing peoples attention, time, money became a hit — and the opportunity opened to begin to sell your stuff (or self?) on that medium. It suddenly transformed into something else. And then something else. And then another thing. And now it is what it is and it for me… which if I am being honest, it’s a boring shitshow of distraction and I can’t even find the beautiful artists in there anymore because they are being hidden from me because their work is not that hard core of a commodity.

And it makes me fucking mad. And sad. And bored with the whole entire game.

If something is not shiny and fancy and marketable — it no longer exists in that medium? What used to be just “Sharing what moves me” has become “sharing what I have to, to get more views, likes, and turnover” —

God. What do you think about the commodification of what you love? What do you feel inside about selling what you cherish, your gifts from god? In such a way?

How do you feel about the commodification of trauma? Or of just personal life? Where is this line? Where do we cross it? Where are the ethics in it?

How do you feel about the commodification of a culture or if you see others commodifying your own culture?

Or am I just tripping here?

And is it, as soon as you create something, and want to share it, it enters the path of being a commodity. Is this writing a commodity? Especially if there are some of you out there giving me $5? Or is this a relationship? I am telling you the truth and not selling a thing about it — and you are offering me $5 so that I can keep doing so?

Is there a difference in making art and being supported financially no matter what and making and offering something to sell? What becomes the difference?

Is there no way out?

(Photo of a drawing - made with dirt and spit - on a cell wall made by a prisoner of the Inquisition, Palermo, Sicily)

…

Because I have to have a business — there are things I have to write about in a way that helps people understand what I do so they can know if they want to experience it with me. I understand that is just something we do and it’s fine. Really. I understand this at a very base level because fuck folks, my kids need to eat.

But I am having a hard time even wrapping my head around anything that really has nothing to sell us — can it exists anymore? Because I have been sold so fucking much, and because I have to sell so fucking much too. It’s an inflated world out there. Shit is expensive- the basic shit like food and rent and health insurance — which I currently don’t have and really concerned about what I am calling me late stage capitalism rash growing all over my body. Can i get insurance to help diagnosis when I know the cure is not medicine but a true overhaul in how we create and work and feed ourselves and just live? I wonder what all our allergic reactions are to walking around in a commodified life. I wonder how much our sicknesses could soften. I wonder how much we could soften. I wonder how much art would be made.

I care and think about things deeply — as I am sure you do, too. Especially if you are here reading my jumbled up words right now. I have been writing and teaching online for about 13 years now. I have seen a lot shift. The way one has to show up to pay the grocery bill has become close unpalatable for me in this world.

And all that said— I think that we can’t stop showing up.

We can’t stop creating.

And we certainly can’t stop receiving money for our work, whatever it is.

We all should probably be asking for more money from those who can pay it, to be honest.

There is literally no shame in getting paid fairly for the years and hours you have put into craft of whatever kind of brilliance you have woven within you.

None of this is to say “we should not charge for our work” — it’s just to question — what is a world where we have to curate in ways so that everything feels like a product, something worthy to be alive, to sell?

Thank you for sticking with the ramble.