Long ago, I had a personal blog of the same name, albeit with “.wordpress.com” attached to the url instead of the sleek, sexy “.com.” Luckily, my funding has improved somewhat in the decade since I last wrote under this title.

I don’t have any remaining materials from that blog. In the time since, I have created several new websites of varying kinds; some were for marketing purposes, some for selling my art, some for flopped projects, and some for secret ruminations now long deleted.

All I remember from that original blog, The Franifesto number 0–like the tarot’s Fool–is that I felt totally free to publish my thoughts, poems, doodles, essays, quips. It was a space all my own, uncurated by algorithms, unrestrained by the trappings of form and function required to “post” anywhere else. It was mine alone to build, destroy, and rebuild as I saw fit. At 4:15 this morning (during yet another night of poor sleep), I realized that I dearly miss it.

Or, missed it. A tandem realization: the revival, like the deletion, was entirely in my hands.

A quick internet search told me that no one else had yet claimed this specific moniker; the only hit to my search was my own ancient Tumblr relic of the same name, lately conquered by unbelievably cheap advertisements for RayBans. The name wasn’t taken on Twitter, so I snapped it up there first. The dopamine whoosh from claiming one corner of the internet led to another, and now I’m the established purveyor of several @TheFranifesto profiles, culminating in this, the blog–this, the first post, tapping out on my little phone screen at 4:57 AM, even before I’ve started to design the actual site.

You see, lately I’ve felt a sort of expressive frustration. I’m sure it’s borne of a heady brew of factors… a viral hiatus on my performing work, extreme eco-anxiety, disquieting behaviors encouraged by social media, a year-plus of isolation… to name only a few. I’ve had so much to say and nowhere that served me to say it. I’m a wordy person… Instagram stories just weren’t doing it for me anymore. Time & character limits are just that: limits.

I had been thinking of doing a theatre blog attached to my actor site. I had been thinking of doing an art process blog attached to my artist site. But in late-stage capitalism, I’ve come to reflect that my career selections cannot make up all of who I am, and I cannot therefore be satisfied only expressing myself within a professional context. It felt like all of my life was a professional illusion… and as a professional illusionist, a pretender and creator, that’s actually swell. But, who am I when I am not making magic? Does she get to be seen, too? It got to the point where I couldn’t even bring myself to share photos of my home life because it all felt like fraud–a mithril veil I’d woven between myself and everyone else, light and shiny and practically unbreakable. I craved vulnerability and authenticity, but saw only chrome-plated avenues toward a sterile vision of my life, mountanous moments polished down to picturesque pebbles.

So… what to do?

Create a platform, of course. The idea struck and stuck and, fuck it, I’m doing it. Just an hour after conception, the idea is born.

I don’t know what will come of this. I can’t plan ahead much, because my whole desire is authentic expression, which requires a certain spontaneity. I do fully expect, however: poetry, essays, lists, diagrams, doodles, experiences, musings, puns, jokes, pitches, stories.

Overwhelmingly, stories.

In gratitude and hope,

Franny