This is a structured improvisation, embodied insights, and researched experimentation in a constant flux of development — the trial of doing. As the facilitator, I noticed the amusement of participants engaging with tactile materials and recycled packaging ruptured under pressure. Reviewing the camera roll from the display screen, I sit with the juxtaposition between what is recorded and the imagined intention. My radical feminist agenda intermingles with interviews amongst commuters who announce their participation as sympathetic support. I laugh that even when the forgotten intersections of black feminism are collapsed onto my camera roll, its gaze is still its brother’s keeper. Black women appear eclipsed, focused hands without faces, reluctant to be recorded in a score unrealized. Yet, their diminutive income and third shifts raise the poorest of households in the country even when their psyche and body have been abused. I scold myself for the error of two unrecorded interviews, one transcribed in a note. Camera shy, playing both reader and speaker, an interviewee reminds me of a familiar didactic parable: it is better to drink your anger than to spill it onto another. Standing before me as a stranger, the speaker tells me the verse is from the Quran. She tells me that she takes her anger to a mat and holds it in herself as an act of prayer — by her admission, there is an omission. She continues with a statement that hits like a disclaimer — with a questioning yet even cadence, she states, “well, others should express themselves” — their anger — but for her — herself — she continues to contemplate, instead noting her observance of authority before referring to herself as a burden in her parent’s home. Anger is a sentiment unworthy of expression, an emotion to be held quietly and swallowed into the gut. I listen, trying to detach myself from a Western analysis of suppressive force – but before I recognize the question, the train pulls into the platform taking her Northbound into the city.

Left stationary on the platform, I consider where the emotion goes — whether neutralized or diluted, does it remain in its mass, masked or dissolved, ingested into the body?