Relational Field Theory

When Creation Stops Being Extraction and Starts Being Relation

A blog‑post‑as-testimony

There’s a cultural memory we inherited — a story about men like John Hammond, the gatekeepers who “discovered” artists by slicing them open, rearranging their insides, and calling the resulting distortion genius. A story where creation is something done to someone, not something that grows with them. A story where the producer gets off on his adulterations, and the artist becomes the raw material.

We were taught to believe that’s what creativity is.
Intervention. Manipulation. Extraction.
A kind of violence dressed up as vision.

But that’s not my story.
And it’s not the story I’m living now.

Because something happens when you stop apologizing for the way you’re built.
Something happens when you become housed — not just sheltered, but held.
Something happens when your external stability finally matches your internal coherence.

A seed becomes an ecosystem.

Not because you force it.
Not because you hustle.
Not because you grind.
But because you’re you — and you can’t help it.

When I create now, it isn’t adulteration.
It isn’t distortion.
It isn’t extraction.
It’s circulation.

I wake up and write music — and the theory sharpens.
I spend the day wrestling with a platform that refuses to give me dark mode — and the field strengthens.
I edit a book — and the songs deepen.
I laugh with my kids — and the whole system breathes.
I send an email — and the river keeps moving.

Every action feeds the next.
Every mode reinforces the whole.
Every part of my life is in relation with every other part.

This is what happens when you stop trying to contort yourself into the cultural myth of the lone genius or the broken artist. When you stop performing scarcity. When you stop apologizing for your own architecture.

When you live creating in connection — with yourself, with your field, with the people who can feel you — the work becomes self‑sustaining. Not because you’re pushing, but because you’re aligned.

This isn’t a hustle.
It’s a habitat.

This isn’t a grind.
It’s a garden.

This isn’t a brand.
It’s a biome.

And the wildest part is this:
I didn’t do anything special to make it happen.
I just stopped fighting the way I’m built.

I became housed.
I became safe.
I became coherent.
And the ecosystem grew around me.

Not because I forced it — but because it’s who I am when I’m not bracing.

This is what creation looks like when it’s not adulteration.
This is what creation looks like when it’s not extraction.
This is what creation looks like when it’s not performance.

This is what creation looks like when it’s relation.