my desires disable me - casual disabilities as love access

Written By Kamra

slurping frozen distilled agave plant core at pastime location rebecca’s with a former lover i had not seen in months, voguing and contact improvising our way through gush’s dance floor, having the kind of weekend that makes you feel alive again. a few days later, all i can offer myself is a chipotle bowl and root beer in the front seat of my truck, and a few minutes of strap-on porn masturbation.

it took everything in me to write this week. i am so fucking sad. i am having a time where nothing is enough. not enough love, attention, accolades, or “let me know if you need anything” offers—too ashamed to utter what it is i actually want/need/what’s the difference(?)—damned if i do/don’t vibes.

here, i retire as a hinge, an axis between two full swinging doors—the people i love love each other more than they love me. i want my own door. right now, i don’t need life saving platonic love—that i have an abundance of. i’m in need of the fuck me so good it regulates my nervous system kind of love—disabling me to make being in my body more attainable.

squirrels are out, spring touches my back evenly massaging glacial and rapid movement, time’s spread chemically accurate. the philosophies of my contemporaries led me to the 

grid—supported, angularly latching—including and transcending line by line point by point reflecting color. our bellies touch when we hug—a subterranean intimacy i cling to. the invisible weightier than the terranean, felt sense prior to material order of operations like when you don’t know the name of your record but it knows you.

language doesn’t end here. i’m convinced if i were touched more, i’d do less, and wouldn’t feel the need to be so much—the space between our colliding gagged by all my little projects. desire and need cannot be disentangled¹ in the same way the hollow air earnestly begs to christen my cheeks—your desire for me gently coaxing me into cellular relaxation. i got my first grey this week, a humbling attunement.

¹ amalle dublon taught me this in a talk facilitated by mae eskenazi

Kamra

Autodidactic singer, songwriter, and performer, Kamra, paints a commodious canvas of American music. Raised in the dry desert, now living on their farm in the Western Catskill Mountains, Kamra is inspiring a generation of integrity-fueled fugitives.

Their popular single “Hear My No” is a socio-cultural device Shazamed worldwide. They also happen to be the author of Care Manual, a workbook pulling up fixed notions of care, consent, pleasure, and harm from their roots.

Kamra’s songcraft derives wisdom from lived experience and surfs aliveness’s iterative waves. Channeling Tracy Chapman, their warm, rich, and affectional voice cosplays as the centerpiece of their sonic feast.

Kamra draws focus on experimentation in their upcoming debut LP, holding their core in folk stylings, taste testing indie rock, nu jazz, ambient R&B, and alternative electronic sensibilities, making hard to pin down contemplative pop somewhere between L’Rain, Kara Jackson, and Sudan Archives.

They’ve played Cafe Erzulie, C'mon Everybody, and The Sultan Room alongside mmeadows and Kalbells. Their recent show at The Delancey wowed the crowd. You can read about them in The Creative Independent, Deem Journal, ARTnews, VICE, The Cut, and Supermaker.

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