Me, Undone

I lost hearing in my right ear--the culprit, wearing clay earplugs to bed. After several hours of irrigation, prodding and silent tears I resigned to my fate—my ear was completely blocked. For awhile, my little “condition” was a sweet blessing. It fed my isolationist tendencies. I didn’t have to consciously block people out—I really couldn’t hear them. I retreated into my innermost self. The more contact I lost with the outer world, the more conscious I became of my body—my heartbeat, my breathing, the sound of my voice, for it is my inner voice that I most prefer. My center shifted. After awhile I started thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be deaf in one ear. I mean, look at the great artists of our time—Alice Walker is blind in one eye, Vincent Van Gogh lost his ear, Sylvia Plath was manic depressive. Maybe my physical impairment would give birth to creativity or a new way of thinking. Unfortunately, acceptance of my partial deafness faded when I walked out into the worl

I could use a drink right now. If I smoked, I would most certainly be high. I just need some time…to ease my mind… a minute, a second to catch my breath, or maybe my life. I am overwhelmed. So many decisions with little information, exams, my noisy neighbors and the economy…oh, don’t get me started on the economy and the bailout plan. I went to grocery store yesterday and came out with four plastic bags of food for eighty dollars. As a nation, we’ve collectively bent over and now we are being..uh emm..u know... I want to be present but it is so difficult. Where is the fast forward button? What do I do with the mundane tasks and the stress resting in the cracks of my existence? As I move more fully into life, I edge nearer to death. Or is it the other way around? There is one thing that has made me hopeful. That is Barack and Michelle. Michelle, a black woman, un-bossed, unafraid, intelligent and poised. And Barack, a black man who loves his wife as his equal—highly evolved , emotionall

First, I must apologize for my absence. I’ve been wrapped in school, internships, the job search and most important all, Maui. I’ve missed you, my blog family, so desperately. If I didn’t write today I fear that I wouldn’t have written for another hundred days. I crossed off one of the "100 things to do before I die" in Maui. I swam naked in the ocean. It was so exhilarating—so freeing—better than any Disney theme ride or bungee jump—just me, my body and the water. I was struck by the simplicity of it all. I am to return to the earth this way, naked and unencumbered. My ex-husband used to tell me that I wanted too much. I wanted the light and the dark, the hard and the soft, the ups and the downs. It’s funny. How. Life changes. So suddenly. Now, I have sober dreams and un-foiled visions. I’ve tucked in my pixie dreams. These days, I require little. When everything is taken from you, you know that you don’t need much to survive. I’ve come to think of our incessant desire for c

In exactly seven days, I will step into my fourth body. Most people are unaware that as humans the bone in our skeletons completely renews itself every seven years. So while you sit at work, drive your kids to school, and make love, your bones are constantly shifting and re-growing—discarding things unwanted and unused—the ultimate refinement. Every seven years, we become our most magnificent selves—the updated and amended versions. In exactly seven days, I will be 28 years old. I have to admit that I am not exactly where I once thought I would be at this time. In college, I had imagined that I would have a stable career, moving up the ranks as a powerful attorney. I imagined that I would be starting a family with a man that I loved—living behind a white picket fence, the embodiment of the American dream. I imagined that I’d have the wind at my back—all my loved ones here to enjoy the fruits of my success. However, at the threshold of my fourth body, I am met by the realities of my lif

My significant other stumbled across my last blog regarding her request. Let’s just say that she, yes she, wasn’t so thrilled. The birthday gift ended before it even began. I have to admit that I’m a bit relieved. I know that the frequency of sexual intimacy is not a measure of our commitment. Pause. Now I can savor the decadence of a spontaneous needy fix. Hooray for small miracles. After some thought, I think way too much, I believe that her request was an attempt to keep me near. She thinks that she is losing me. With great sadness, I ended my internship last Friday. I’ve had an amazing summer. I will miss the incredibly talented lawyers in the public interest field. They are rebel rousers, social movers and change makers—fighters of unpopular causes. Charles Houston was right; lawyers are either social parasites or social engineers. I am no parasite. I will miss my clients, women at point zero, struggling to regain control of their lives. I have faith in their ability to change an

My significant other has a very specific birthday request—sex everyday for a month. I am willing to give it a whirl but I am sure that there will be a sobering lesson at the end of this journey for the both of us. Sex is like chocolate cake. Chocolate cake once or twice and week is oral pleasure—chocolate cake everyday for a month, not so much. I am afraid that I will miss out on the intricacies of the connection by having sex just to have sex. I don’t want to lose the tiny seconds of silence that come immediately after the sweet convulsion. I want the anticipation, the shivers…traversing the unknown. I want some kind of sacredness—sex should not be like watching television, eating or dressing everyday. It is not a routine test. I am comfortable with my sexuality. It is a garment I wear with ease. However, I don’t believe that you need to have sex or think about sex to be sexy. Sexy is not something that you do, it is who you are. There are tons of people who have sex and are not sexy.

I’ll sell my right breast (I’m a bit partial to the left one) before I try to hook up another friend. I dabbled in the stars and attempted to play match-maker this week. It was an absolute train-wreck. Before I give you the details, let me back up and tell you how this all came about. Tim (for the purposes of this blog) is a young, cute, gregarious lawyer with deep dimples and piercing blue eyes. Everyday he comes into my office to talk about family, girls, and all things unrelated to the practice of law. When I learned that he was single, I thought of a friend who I believed could provide some mental and physical stimulation. Knowing how hard it is to meet decent people these days, it seemed purely logical to me that these two should meet. Besides, I love love and the prospect of vicarious new love was too sweet to resist. We arranged to meet for drinks after work this Wednesday. My good friend, Jenna--sharp, witty and passionate--was stunning as usual. We sat down, ordered drinks and

From scanning my past few postings, I realize that you may think that I am deeply depressed and dark—this, I am not. It just so happens that I have used this space to free the unmentionables, and you, my lovely readers, have been present to witness such occurrences. If you could see beyond these key strokes you would know that I am actually quite light, flirty and fun. I live hard. I laugh hard. I love harder. So today, I’ve made a list of twelve little things that I love. For they are the little things that move me so. 1. the smell of skin 2. lying naked underneath my warm, soft, faux fur blanket 3. sipping sweet southern brewed iced tea 4. touching the warm spaces of my lover’s body 5. listening to rain fall to the pavement in the midnight hour 6. two glasses of cranberry juice and vodka before a night of dancing and pure escapism 7. road trips with my favorite people and music 8. flirty exchanges coated with lust and the potential for danger 9. candles and Will Downing aft

My father is a junkie, but he is alive and well. There was a time when I wrote of him, wondering if he was safe. Was he tired? Was he fed? Was he lost in an alleyway with a strip of rubber plastered to his sweaty arm? I would have washed his feet and poured alabaster upon his head like Mary Magdalene—an atonement of sorts. At night, I would lie in bed afraid that I would never get a chance to say goodbye to him—that he would escape me in life, and too, in death. The day after my mother died, he called me from behind prison walls, his voice thick like gravy. I could not respond. He is here, she is not. It is the ultimate trick, the final cruelty, that this man with eyes caked shut, this man who cared nothing but of his sweet addiction is the only thing that I have left to claim. I brim with resentment. Barrister in training never had a chance to appeal or petition for her. Who was present to intercede? His life shatters every concept of balance. He was spared. And for that, I ache. A li

1. I hate public transportation. Regrettably, rising gas prices have neutered my bourgeois inclinations. Every morning I herd onto the 8:17am train—sunglasses to hide my disdain, book in hand to dissuade anyone from looking my way. I am not a morning person. Today, I came to my stop and shuffled my belongings to signal preparation for departure. When I stood up, an oily white woman standing in the aisle refused to let me pass. My aggressive tendencies, lack of sleep and general distaste for anyone who attempts to get in my way took over. I shoved my large stocky purse into her side two times and pushed past her to make my way out of the train. It was pleasant. I was satisfied. Screw Buddhist reflection—it was 9 am in the morning. 2. I met with my ex yesterday for a “serious” talk. When you are married, an intimacy comes that is unmatched in any other relationship. After all of this time, I still know that when he says this, he means that. And so I knew before he even spoke a word w

More than any other time, I am spilling into my womynness. Walking down the street today, catching the sun in the locks of my hair—gentle breezes caressing my center to travel down my back and the inside of my thighs. I am so alive and wide, growing into my womynness. The man at the corner winked at me; I smiled back. I am no longer afraid. Time has taught me to appreciate my gifts—subtle curves, tender waist, full lips and warm skin. This is not conceit. This womyness is hard fought—hard won. To be woman is to be whole and layered. I am remarkably woman—carefully made. I see, all the time, little girls who mistakenly believe that because their bodies talk, womyness is bestowed. Womyness is not given, it is earned. I’ve waited so long for this-- fought through harsh realizations and sat with unpleasant considerations—walked through the loss of a marriage and a parent, upset of family and friends—two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the road less traveled by. Zora Neale Hurston wrot

Most lawyers go into public interest law to save babies and old people. I help represent the “undeserving poor”—mothers whose children have been taken away by the state—mothers labeled unfit and unable to care for babies formed in the womb for nine months—mothers who still carry faint lines, like watermarks, across tummies—proof of life. These women live on the edge, marginalized and forgotten, many of them too tired or afraid to fight anymore. The state’s intervention is merely another assault in their daily lives. Ninety-eight percent of the cases I see involve issues of neglect—neglect varying from sub-standard housing, lack of adequate child care, to accidental injuries. Most of these issues are indicators of poverty—none of which have any nexus to a mother’s desire or ability to care for her child. That the state chooses to snatch children away from poor mothers instead of providing adequate resources is almost cruel. Poverty is not a crime. I am struck most by the assumptio

Last week I was forced to participate in a tedious orientation for my summer internship program. I am a bit of a recluse—the thought of socializing in a large plastic group had me reaching for a bottle of Xanex. The first day of training was as expected—students anxiously fielding generic questions like, “what law school are you from?” --completely uninterested in the answer. I chose not to participate in the social banter. I’ve been labeled as reserved and aloof. I am what I am and I feel no obligation to prove otherwise. I sat there pretending to find interest in the disheveled papers in front of me. Just before the first training began, a beautiful girl with a flawless complexion and sexy sway came to sit next to me. She turned to ask me a question, thus beginning our conversation. After only a few minutes, I came to learn that she was not as beautiful as she once appeared. I listened to her go on and on about her accomplishments, her possessions, and the people she knew—by the end

I’ve been here before. I know it. I’ve known it ever since I was a little girl. When I was around six or seven I would lie awake and watch my spirit leave my flesh. It would hover around, sometimes floating over my body, and then it would return just as quickly as it departed. It’s uncanny—but I was never scared. The visit, I welcomed. Some people have make-believe friends as children; I had a friend of another kind. Lately, I’ve felt the split again. Somewhere in the hours between sleep and wake I feel the energy—sense it, like one senses movement out of the corner of the eye. I write about it with such ferocity because it is persistent. I’ve always known too much, been too aware, and too connected as if I am finishing the life of someone else, perhaps a life cut short. It’s a calling, something motioning me forward—I cannot explain but some nights I find myself weeping for events occurring not in this life, but possibly the one before. Something inside of me has moved. There a

Here is a list of 75 things that I want to do before I die. I started this list over six years ago while I was in college. From time to time I return to it. It’s been a frame of reference in a life that has taken so many unexpected twists and turns. I truly believe that life is a collection of experiences. We weave tapestries and paint stories with the people we meet, the places we travel and the simple still moments of life. I eagerly anticipate devouring life in all of its fullness. I want the ins and the outs, the ups and the downs, the dark and the light. I want it all. I am fully fleshed and breathing. Open and clothed with possibility. 1. Publish a book of poems 2. Write an autobiography 3. Adopt a child with physical disabilities 4. Learn sign language 5. Study theology 6. Meet Oprah 7. Produce a documentary  8. Give a speech at my high school 9. Make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem 10. Learn how to play the piano 11. Travel to Egy

Most people find it hard to believe that I lost my virginity on my wedding night; I was twenty –three years old. I waited so long not for lack of opportunity—one only knows how many relationships these clinched thighs destroyed—but out of fear. Years later, I have come to believe that it was not fear of the other that preserved my virtue, but fear of my very self. This part of my life has been thrown back into the air quite recently. I am still trying to piece together a conversation that I had with a friend a few weeks ago. I met him my first day of school. Our connection was instant. He was attractive, witty and cynical—I certainly thought that he would be a good friend--that is until he saw my wedding ring. He backed off slowly, I understood—I was no longer my own but a possession. Over the years we spoke occasionally, our furtive exchanges tinged with chemistry and attraction. And when I finally left my husband he was there, ready to offer comfort and support. In the summer, we spe

There is a woman who cannot forget. All of the moments of her life are a constant amalgamation playing in her mind, every hour, every minute, and every second of her existence in this physical world. I watched her story a few nights ago, with mouth agape. How intense would it be to have all of my moments present always? To remember every sunrise, every autumn day, the feeling of cool on my skin, the warmth of sand, my first kiss, my lover’s touch--a heightened form of consciousness perhaps. What I wouldn’t give, I thought, to close the passing of time. But then, just as she began to explain her gift, darkness came into her face and my fascination ended. Her memories have been to her a haunting. Because she can never forget, she can never begin anew. Her life is a constant regurgitation. There are no cocoons or metamorphoses. She is as she always was, trapped in the moment before. Unabated memory has stripped her of the ability to transform. Meaning is only that which you mean i

It’s been over a month since I’ve journaled. I have half written statements and unfinished phrases on the edges of my case briefs. I am lost in moments and time and circumstance; I believe that I am possessed. Not a demon possession. I scared you. No, a possession of another kind. I spend most of my days much too aware of my thoughts. My thoughts have taken on a perverse life of their own. I am writhing with lusty pain. I need a drink to ease my state of mind. Vodka and cranberry will do just fine. I am so tired—tired of law school with its pretension and lies, tired of junky politics and the desecration of hope. Tired of WrightClintonMcCainGOPAmericansLawyersSpinFlagsWarProvencialthinkingBosniaWhitefearCasebooks…add your own. I’m going to build my own fucking world. U want in?

I attempt to plug in holes with written words but today I am void of words for there are no words to bandage the gaping wound that I have caused. I need to un-type, undo the word, un-think the thinking thought, roll the sharp objects that flayed you while you were unaware back into my satchel. To not have your hand to hold in this world is almost too much for me to conceive. I am spinning out of control because I cannot find my center. I cannot find you and I need you to tell me that everything will be alright. Grab my hand colored girl and skip down the path with me. To not touch your skin, to not hear your voice or feed upon your words again is cruel. To myself I have administered the final blow.

the box of blue pills rest by my side. i fumble with the lid and cautiously slide them out onto the living room table. blue little pills i’ve used so often for relief. tonight i think that i might use them to save a life. when I was a little girl, i read that GOD took Enoch away. one day he was walking on earth and the next day he was free. separated him from the fallacy of this world. this transient and painfully unbearable façade. some nights i ask, well why can’t GOD take me? i sit here with sorrow carved so deeply. eviscerated. i want to sleep tonight. blue little pills. my salvation. this musing. not a cry for intervention. i know full well that if i put these blue pills in my mouth i won’t make any attempts. i will leave this earth tonight. pray GOD mercy. Suddenly, I hear her loud like something crashing down. She is in the other room. Completely unaware that I have decided to save a life. I push the pills away. Fuck it. Fuck me.

She pulled back my eyelids In an attempt to see my soul Carefully placing in me Imaginations and illuminations mythologies and astro-philosophies Of perfection Her timid tongue prepared new words Her feeble legs danced a strange and unfamiliar dance She desperately wanted to see Desperately wanted to believe Praying for me to become An unadulterated manifestation of secret cravings and ravished dreams She placed the world at my feet And blew a wish for possession Little did she understand that what she had found Was the ultimate realization of her greatest desires And darkest nightmares Further denial proved too fatal for contemplation A creature so delicately flawed and incomplete She lifted her face to the mirror only to see A perfect reflection Of herself

It is tragic That i sit here starved wanting Just a little bit more Thou dost protest too much I think that I am greedy to need so much I have slutty needs And dirty thoughts transcendence and understanding have dissipated I crave the dark She is rising again leading me by the hand No longer i can resist Take me Make a mockery of my good thoughts Stain my body Knock me to my knees Burn the insides of my thighs Tag me Rock these bones Pull tears from my face Tumbling down the rabbit hole I am desolation I am desperation I am rage

TESTIFY on this day today, yes, this very day spirit left body slipped suddenly like rush mad opening spinning through vortex to re turn to the universe to rest no eyes nor ears present to testify at its pass... ing she journeyed alone only weeping bodies left behind folding softly in the wind we curse light not darkness where she goes i fear i cannot go she whispers in my ear at 3 am in the morning "i'm free" i smell her scent when i wake to begin again where she goes i fear i cannot go with her hands sullen eyes and her freckles lining my face i am here now to testify where she goes i fear i cannot go rest now in the light go safely i am here now to testify