The Geek Squad

100 Things To Do Before I Die: #28. See Michael Jackson in concert (posted May 22, 2008)



Things break all of the time. I recently moved to a new apartment and discovered that my toaster, printer, and microphone all expired in the process. What a strange phenomenon--me, running to Target to replace items that worked perfectly fine for years. It's almost as if they sensed change and decided that they were just too tired to go along for the ride.

When I think of how fragile things are, possessions, I can't help but think of how equally frail human life is--it is a subtle miracle that you opened your eyes this morning.

Take the toaster--not that complex, but when one part fails, lets say the lever or the heating mechanism, the toaster is well...toast. My body is infinitely more complex than a malfunctioned toaster, when I get sick, it dispatches agents on my behalf, without my prompting, to fix, fight and repair. But sometimes, unfortunately sometimes, it cannot stop the war or jump start the kidney, heart, liver that stops in the middle of life.

People malfunction all the time, all around us, yet we act as if we have a lifetime warranty. People are not like toasters and printers--yet we treat each other as if we are expendable, purchasable, replaceable.

Sometimes I think that I am soft and tragic but I've come to realize that my self-induced, self-imposed darkness is a petty illusion. I am not alone.

I'm trying my hardest to step out of darkness and love fiercely before life malfunctions in front of my eyes again. I don't ever want to find myself standing dazed and confused in Target without a return receipt.

Amour, Adieu

I’ve been saying goodbye to lots of things lately. Some not by choice, others out of necessity. I’ve seen you from time to time since. You rush to me with warm smiles and soft arms. Always sad eyes though. Sad eyes as you feed me a lifetime of information in a glance.

You ask me if the number is still the same, yes, I always say. It hasn’t changed. But everything has.

We have splintered indeed. Our lives indefinitely forked. You keep your distance…

How foolish of me to believe our connection existentially transcendent. It is the same as every other before. Normal. Recycled. How profoundly sad.

If I shall pass you in the street, in two months, or two years--catch a familiar scent, sound-- Will my fibers still remember you?

You are clairvoyant. You know that dream you had about my death—it has come.

Broken Branches

I don’t know where to start… is the beginning or the end?
I have exploded into a new world, a new energy, a new place and time. I am eager to peel away my former self. Standing at the edge of certain, ultimate and sudden transformation. I am dying. I turn to the left-- to the right and whisper goodbye…
I prepare for flight

The task of writing is daunting for there is so much history created in the space of two months. A few entries ago, I wrote of Saturn Return and the shifting sea. The universe has unfolded—aligned just perfectly to place me on a new path. I secured a teaching position at a progressive high school. I am beginning a new life of teaching and learning as an act of freedom—as an act of rebellion—as an act of resistance. I am consciously undoing four years of law school indoctrination to return to myself. I’ve got my mind back and it feels like water on my scalp.

I cannot remember the last time that I’ve felt so hopeful about the days and nights ahead. There is this wonderful convergence of mind, spirit and body—this calm rushing through me. I finally feel like I am working toward something that will bring me closer to self actualization—my highest spiritual self. I beam. I smile.

I am planning to mark my body at the small of my back, traveling toward my pelvis. This, of course, will be my most painful marking—the warrior mark.

XOXO: I love you.

The Good Stuff

I am on a search—a search for that ubiquitous gooey stuff that smells faintly of chlorine. I am on a search for SPERM!

I'm looking for a giver of such substance, as I am ready to conceive a human being. I've got to do my part in screwing up the world; I am so itching to increase my carbon footprint.

A few years ago, I guess all of this would have happened quite spontaneously. But now, with no sperm between the two of us, I have to coordinate the whole phenomenon—kind of the way you coordinate important events around PMS.

The search has been interesting. My first stop was my ex-husband. When we were married, that is all that he ever talked about. His answer, an unequivocal “no”--he doesn't want to be emotionally involved with me any further. I understand, even though he would have made an amazing father.

Next, I moved on to friends. Two of my gay male friends volunteered to help me out—but, I am concerned that there will be problems down the line. I want to be the one to dress her (assuming that I have a girl) up in pink tights—not them. I've taken far too many family law classes—sounds like an impending custody battle.

Another option is the good old trusty sperm back. However, I just don't see any good sense in paying for sperm when there is so much sperm being wasted in showers across the world as I write! I mean, I could go to the club—forget the club, the freaking grocery store—bring a man home and get sperm for free. Of course I would never do that—far too risky, but you get my point.

I just finished watching a documentary about a genius sperm back. It was very Brave New World. I am not interested in the artificial construction of intellectually superior human beings. Quite frankly, intelligence is nice, but it is not my top priority. I know lots of smart, socially awkward, and self-centered human beings. I want sperm with character! I wish that there was a way to measure traits like compassion, social awareness, and kindness in sperm. Those are the things that I want in my “giver of life”--those are the things that I want in my child.

Straight male friends would be an option—but I just realized that I don't have any. So, I am on a hunt for straight male friends with desirable social characteristics and low risk lifestyles. I guess I've got some basketball, soccer and football games to go to.

I'll Fly With You

It’s 12:05 am in the morning and I am compelled to write. Seems like I’ve been writing a lot lately—research papers examining the intersections of race, class and sexual orientation in essentialist legal discourse—things that roll out of the left hemisphere of my brain quite easily.

What I have ignored is my right brain—the primitive highly emotional side driving my most personal writings. On this very new morning, I’m letting it out to feed again.

I’ll be finished law school in a few weeks. It brings tears to my eyes. The past 4 years have been devastatingly beautiful—devastatingly tragic. Divorce, death, self-doubt and disillusionment—self realization, acceptance, fortitude and freedom all converging, in this moment, at this time. It is so painful breaking into new wineskins. But guess what? I survived. I am tenacious and newly formed.

This law stuff is such a bore. I am afraid that I don't want to be a lawyer any longer. I've let it go. I’ve released my ego, the image of perfection, and my fear of disappointing others. I have nothing left to prove.

I started dreaming new dreams, quietly, months, maybe years ago—I finally have the courage to move forward. Because I can, because I am alive, I am reinventing myself. I am going back to school –my dream, to become a consummate learner, a consummate explorer, a consummate teacher. I’ve already been accepted into a teaching program and I will be interviewing for teaching positions in the upcoming weeks.

I’ve never been one for astrology, but a love of mine showed me its powers. At this time, Virgo is in Saturn. This is of particular concern to me for I am a Virgo—and I am in my Saturn Return. I looked all this stuff up online—and then I came across this, “You have become entrenched in a process that no longer fits your life and now you will have an opportunity to change it to your liking.” And of Saturn, even more uncanny, “Saturn is all about redefining how you appear to the outside world, even your physical appearance. Planets indicate new beginnings. This is your opportunity to reinvent yourself."

Saturn Return surfaces every 28-29 years to return to where it was when you were born. Saturn Return “is a time or endings and beginnings, a time to discover your authentic self and correct your course in life if it seems like you are headed in the wrong direction.” But there is a warning to all of this. If you do not re-evaluate and change course if necessary, you will be doomed to continue an inauthentic and painful life until your second Saturn Return at age 58.

I’m heeding the call.

So this too is life

My brother, my only sibling, came home from jail on Monday. It’s been five years since I’ve seen him free and laughing in the sun. My baby brother became a man behind steel bars and brick mortar. I’ve lost a lifetime with him.

His “homecoming” was filled with excitement and anxiety. He arrived on February 2nd —my mother’s birthday. She was not there waiting for him with open arms and laughter in her eyes. She is gone. She slipped away just five days before she was scheduled to visit him. The sadness is no longer for me, but for him. For now, more than ever, it is real.

And me, the big sister that protected and guarded him as a child has failed again to protect him—this time, from death. I wish that I could ease his pain, but I am full. I don’t know what is planned for his life, or mine for that matter, but it seems to me that life can be cruel and obscene.

The L-Word

" And when the sun rises, we are afraid that it might not remain. When the sun sets we are afraid it might not rise again in the morning..." A Litany for Survival

I brushed up against this poem by Audre Lorde in my first Women's Studies class at Barnard. Although I couldn't fully grasp its intricacies--it moved me violently. When I read it, I wept. I felt Lorde's words so deeply, almost as if I had written them myself. The lines, I later tacked onto my dorm room wall and copied in my writing journal. And to every lover, I would recite the words from memory in private moments—imagery falling from my lips like sweet nothings—bringing our collective imaginations to orgasm.

But when I learned that Lorde was lesbian I put the poem away. Lorde was lesbian and that I knew her poem far too intimately could only mean one thing—that I too was gay. I refused to claim identification with her work any longer, for to do so was to fall from the trope of black woman suffering –to do so was to be undeniably and inescapably other.

Years later, on the road to de-marginalization, I picked up Lorde and loved her once again. This time, completely understanding the intricacies of her work and embracing the fullness of her calling.

Her litany was for me. The little girl she spoke of... “ at the shoreline standing at the constant edges of decision, crucial and alone...” The little girl... “imprinted with fear like a faint line in the center of our foreheads...” The woman loving “in doorways coming and going in the hours between dawns, looking inward and outward at once before and after...”

But. Not. Any. Longer.
And for that, I can never go back.

I marvel at the journey. With tears in my eyes, I thank Lorde for her life and her pen. I speak loudly, remembering that “we were never meant to survive”