Me, Undone

They Weep

2011-12-06T22:30:00.003-05:00

They weep. These souls. In bathroom stalls. They walk. They move.

They brood and hover. Hang regret like winter coats.

They reach out to touch. Opening dry mouths in want so crushing.

They live in the unseen. Watch us as we make our beds. Comb our hair. Make love.

They come and go. Mark dust in doorframes.

They know what we fear. Mumble to themselves of our pettiness, our egos, our need for control. How we push each other away. The cowardice. The hollow desperation.

They ache.

I returned to find a rose with a note on my pillow. It read, "Nothing else matters. Love."

Mirror Mirror On The Wall

2011-09-25T11:17:00.004-04:00

It has taken shape in the back of my mind, that moving freely as a black lesbian loving other women of color, is an act of rebellion.

We are the forgotten ones. The mules of the world. The bodies for which white women write their narratives against. Mirrors. Perverse inversions of womanhood. Fleeting cultural experiences. Backgrounds.

There are no amber alerts for brown bodies gone missing. No righteous indignation. Our parts are purposed for sexual amusement and exploitation. Take the money and run.

They scar our flesh, then shame us for our tears. Mock our anger. Tell us our lives are of little value.

But

My love for you will start a revolution.

Speaking you. Naming you. Indulging you is a simple act of treason.

I reach out to take off your mask. Stretch against my walls. Push out. Take up space. I will worship you, forever.

In me, find all those things denied to you. Personhood. Wholeness. Agency.
The merging of consciousness. Be not afraid of the gaze, for I am of you.

I will hold you

Create insubordination between your thighs.

Book Collector

2011-08-28T18:55:00.000-04:00

Love at first sight.

By and By

2011-08-01T16:38:00.001-04:00

And when I die, my body will be like cartography. The chafing of my pelvis, of loves come and gone. Lines strung across my face, the laughter, and always the darkness.

The arches of my feet will tell of how well I’ve carried. A survey of my hands, revealing bodies held close and long. These two eyes, the treasures carried deep and wide.

The shifting of these bones will bear witness to the ache. Skin mounted across muscle, of fear, and of savage courage.

And when they come for my heart, like the negro spiritual, it will “tell the story...”
of love. Of unimaginable love--overwhelming and bending this body’s riverbanks.

Mutations

2011-07-29T11:36:00.015-04:00

I saw the X-men prequel a few weeks ago and I have been unable to let it go. I left the movie feeling an eerie connection to Mystique's character. She is a mutant so agonizingly human, hiding in plain sight.

Like Mystique, I began morphing to survive. It’s a learned sport. As a little girl, I became whatever I was needed to be. Silent. Self-sufficient. Un-needy. The keeper of secrets. I adapted quickly and ferociously, lest I be caught dead.

And then there was the move to private school. I shifted into the black girl who “talked and acted white.” Traded my Boys II Men and SWV cassette tapes for Dave Matthews Band and Phish. Packed my bag with turkey sandwiches and baby carrots. I was the agreeable token black student.

In college, the masking continued by kissing boys, and eventually marrying one in my early twenties. I hid my love for women with bible verses. I was the loving wife. The righteous Christian sister.

I foolishly thought that in my coming out and move to a more fulfilling career that this predilection would die in me. But it has remained--even in absence of need.

I think of the relationships I’ve destroyed. I've left many deserving women reeling by my masking. I used my sexuality as a weapon.

For them, I became whoever they needed me to be. Morphing in front of their eyes. Reflecting the greatest version of themselves. Holding their secrets and protecting their dreams. Uncloaking my body, but never my heart.

I am sorry.

This is for the first one, the colored girl who dared to take my hand and show me the way. And for the second one, the beautiful brown writer with sad and shifting eyes. And for the last and final one, the woman who cracked light, holding fire in her mouth to burn me.

I understand what I became, and I am not proud of it. I am going home, wherever that may be. The adaptation that once was critical for my survival, is now fatal to my spiritual and emotional growth. This painful mutation is not useful anymore.

Slowly, but surely, I am working toward living full blue, like Mystique. I am alive and exposed. Tender to the touch.

L.O.V.E.

2011-07-16T18:53:00.005-04:00

Anyone can tell you that after occupation comes rebellion. Once now, the insurgency grows. First, a few futile attempts. Then, indomitable chaos.

You began the invasion with kind sentiments and gestures. Lining her tongue with your words. Giving her new thoughts, one by one. Taking her god from the mantle and replacing it with your image.

Now she knows she must rid herself of you. For good.

See her walking down the street with metal and acid taped neatly beneath her yellow sundress.

These things

2011-07-08T23:50:00.016-04:00

These things bloom like moss on the belly of stone. Soft, damp, copious--stolen from light.

These things show themselves in spaces given last rites. On the faces of terminally lonely.

These things come forth at moonshine. When tides have pulled in.

These things follow the north star, searching for a way home. A way back to you.

Tomorrow

2011-06-30T12:32:00.002-04:00

And when the breeze cups my face, I know that I am alive.
If you are reading this, you and I have made it to the other side. Feel the sun in sublime thickness lining your limbs. You are loved.
You are love. Open.

Broken Record

2011-06-26T22:08:00.014-04:00

This picture is a representation of my personal life, as I write. It's in shambles. The cloudy skies above, the rain falling down all around me, and I am the kid, in my raincoat, still holding on to my three silver balloons. Please don't fly away.

I am dating once again. I've gone out with a few interesting women--two particularly exceptional women, including the priestess, but I am stuck. Trapped in the regrets, the what ifs of my previous relationship. I am staring at broken glass.

I set fire to the rain for good reason. But the heart is wild, unamenable. It still loves. It refuses to recognize any combination but hers. To follow any sound than that of her voice. To map any pattern than of her body. There is no mold. But then, she knew that already.

Take me to the water

2011-06-16T21:52:00.009-04:00

She wants to fuck me as an act of mercy. To lay me out like a meditation. She wants to push inside of me as a spiritual practice.

She is the priestess come to baptise me in shared flood waters. To excise the demons with her hands 'round my waist. She brings her tongue up to my ear to whisper sweet supplications. Incantations. Bless me for I have...over and over.

Behind the altar. In my white dress. She performs a healing. Her mouth to my mouth. I gasp for air brought back into my lungs again.

paradigm shift

2011-06-09T20:38:00.005-04:00

A storm is coming. I can see it savoring and slivering down the way. I sit, on cold floor, patiently waiting for its arrival.

I beg for the rain to take its time with me. Wash it away. The once useful, now un/useable.

I'm holding still for your hands. Come forth. Show yourself with grace.

Lazarus Rize

2011-06-03T16:22:00.008-04:00

So this is heartache. The fallen rosebud. The single egg, unhatched. Bruised and bated breath.

It is a miscarriage of the most intimate kind. I open to reveal translucent lining-a stream of hope, love, and lust flowing down my thighs. The smell of decay makes me weep.

Before you, I questioned whether I could die. I can. Every new day I wake--I die to you.

Nina

2011-05-22T13:33:00.005-04:00

This passes. The pain of letting go. Resignation so that something cosmicly created can enter. In the meantime, I will fill this void with light source and Nina Simone.

Please don't let me be misunderstood.

The Itch

2011-05-04T22:26:00.005-04:00

bad girls suffer
bad girls die painful
tiny deaths in painted corners
shamed from light

what's the rush?

The calm

2011-05-03T17:28:00.001-04:00

What story will you tell of our ending?
What eulogy will you weave around your tongue
shared with hungry friends over sunday brunch?
Inevitably, it will be of my failings. My frailties. My home spun foibles.

The hour approaches quickly, my love
Ready the blade
Make your mark

Savages

2011-04-18T10:20:00.006-04:00

The assistant principal at my school is a preacher. Ordained, from where, or from whom, I do not know. But I have seen many preachers in my time. The repentant. The former junkies and hustlers with new found tools. It is true. Idle hands are the devil’s playground.

He thought me stupid and came to my office with un-welcomed talk about his conversion. He wanted to spar with the Bible. I was more than prepared having been a member of a cult-like church in my early twenties--oh, the ignorance of youth. Through his newly found weapon, scripture, I reminded him that he is no judge, just a fellow sinner, like me. Or perhaps worse. A Pharisee.

He gave me a handshake at the end of an hour long conversation and left my office. I finished eating my pizza.

His first mistake was believing he had something to offer me. Religion blinds men. I could have, and probably should have thrown some legal jargon on the table to make him realize he was stepping in to the realm of harassment, for which I surely would document our encounter. But I never give warning before I strike.

He did not see the weapon hidden behind my back.

The force

2011-04-17T09:31:00.010-04:00

I am, unto my self, a non-logical axiom. Twisted, hard and slow. Damp and cold. Wasting around my knees.

I am here. Holding together. In the face of winds blowing up against me. I cover my face with wool scarf and hope for a sudden miracle.

There are two of me. The rising and the falling. Sometimes I do not know which one comes and goes, whispering in my ear, oh friend.

I construct fear because I want. Fear because I need. And when it arrives again with shiny sentiments. I just might...scrape away.

To know what I am offers no solace.

Just calm-like complicity.

Just because I can

2011-04-07T15:05:00.004-04:00

I'm going to get up. get out. get on. and love. Skinny dip wearing rainboots. Free fall backward. Sky dive in skin. Cartwheel with my heart strung around my neck.

in the sun

2011-04-04T19:01:00.015-04:00

i want to adorn my hair with flowers. wear leopard tights. draw stars around my eyes. i’ll be that old lady, alright. the one with two different loafers, a rainbow bag fresh from the dumpster, and yellow knit gloves in the blazing summer heat. it wont matter what u think of me. for i will already have been thought of. having outsmarted u. out maneuvered u. outshone u in my existence.

my lover will be beside me. for she loved the core of me. beyond the tired flesh, crinkled scarf, and silver dust in my hair. and i will be my best self. for her. for you.

just wait.

Emergency Broadcast System

2011-04-03T17:53:00.007-04:00

After 55 days, I am no longer sexless in the city! The terrible, self-imposed drought is over!

My mood: pensive. That night. The first night. I peered in to the darkness to see a crack forming down her spine, and light pouring forth. Instead of looking away, as I have so often done, I held her in my gaze. Something inside of me caught fire.

I met her, this woman, the day after I decided to cease frivolous communications and superficial sexual encounters of little consequence. She is self-possessed and fully owned.

This connection is weighty. Heady.
Scary, indeed.

I'm petitioning the universe to give me the strength to hold her tight. Keep my primal self at bay.

9 Crimes

2011-03-18T19:07:00.011-04:00

We inadvertently saw a movie about fate, love, and magic. Or maybe it wasn't so inadvertent after all. It happened.

After 90 minutes, I walked her out to her car, declined our scheduled dinner, and said goodbye. Tears burning hot down my face on the drive home.

In the hours after, she sent messages in the sky. Searching for holes along my spinal chord. Biting down in me in hopes of a response. I turned away.

But there are still moments when I crave her. Feverishly trying to wash her scent out of my hair.

We are a destructive pairing. She plays victim like a prodigy. Swallowing notes and chords whole. I am always the perpetrator. She hands me her gun fully loaded.

In another life, she met me fully woman. Washed of previous hurts, cleansed of desperation, and devoid of deceit. But not here. Not now. And I hate her for it.

I will never not think of her.

Sexless in the City

2011-03-04T17:23:00.005-05:00

Forget about the 30 day blog challenge for now. I've got more pressing concerns in my life. For one thing, I haven't had sex in 33 days. I'm ready to scrape my eye out with an ice pick. This is senseless!

My body is on fire. I think about sex at least every hour, on the hour. And I wonder, can the man standing on the corner smell me? Can the woman glancing at me taste it?

My skin is porcelain delicate and hypersensitive. If anyone should brush up against me on the street, in the grocery aisle, I just might spontaneously orgasm.

And nothing, nothing else will satisfy this hunger except the touch of a woman. Not self, not thought, not mediation or yoga. Please. Hurry. Come. Discipline me.

30 Day blog challenge Two

2011-03-01T20:28:00.001-05:00

The next phase of the 30 day blog challenge requires me to explain the meaning of my blog name. It's simple. "Me, undone," is me painfully naked and exposed. I write because I exist. Because I exist, I write.

30 Day Blog Challenge

2011-02-24T16:22:00.004-05:00

So... I am giving in to the 30 day blog challenge. I'm cleansing from...well, if you've read my blog you know ;-) A girl has got to keep herself occupied. Oh my, this is much harder than I thought. 19 days and counting!

The first leg of the challenge is to share 15 random facts about yourself. I had a hard time narrowing down my list--I must be pretty strange.

1. My arms are unusually long

2. I have five tattoos

3. I fenced in college

4. I don't have hair on my arms or legs

5. I eat cheese grits at least twice a week

6. I've been known to laugh in my sleep

7. I'm deathly afraid of owls

8. I hate pears

9. I read "The Bluest Eye" every summer

10. My only sibling was born eleven months after me

11. I've never eaten pork--except for pepperoni and bacon, but that's not pork. haha

12. I lost my virginity at 23

13. My name means "tranquil" in Arabic

14. I've been the same weight, plus or minus five pounds (winter/summer months), for more than 10 years

15. I pulled my thigh muscle in my first, and only, pole dancing class

Arrival

2011-02-23T15:39:00.001-05:00

I’ve shifted. Shaky bones. Everything that was meant for me has arrived. Slowly. In due time. In due time.

I am my most radiant self in complement. The polishing. Adoration of thoughts not of my own. The worship of other as extension of self.

I miss sober sex. Fresh touch and smell. Secrets. Transferred heat. Waking in the middle of the night to sense her here, there and there.

Valentine’s day is for chumps. Love is for the brave. I’ve written you across my skin.

Resignation

2011-02-13T19:25:00.006-05:00

Dominant Dominique dumped me after I told her I still wanted to date other people. I panicked, begged to get her back, sending emails stringed with stars and roses. Her response, a three line professional email that read, “ You are a great person, but it is clear to me we are on two different pages. I prefer to cease all contact.” I almost lost my fucking mind.

My desperation, my sadness, wasn’t for her. I know this now. The wounds were my comeuppance for my carelessness with others. For days, I’ve been frequented by images, the energies of women come and gone, conversations and warm tears, broken bodies in my bed, my mouth on breasts, lips, between legs, and hands on my arms as I gather my possessions to leave. I've spiraled in to nights and days heavy with fits of paralyzing sadness. What have I done? What have I done? I am a thief in crimson lipstick.

I am purging. Slowing down. Thinking over. Closing my legs. I am tired. I want more than I’ve allowed. No more bending bodies in my wake. Lesson learned.

The Faces of Eve

2011-02-03T19:25:00.010-05:00

There are two women in my life now; they are diametrically opposed. They never converge, not even in dark alleyways on lazy shiftless nights.

I instruct Jessica (not her real name), a petite, fiery brunette with green eyes, to buy lace panties and bra to wear for me. She asks me what else I want from her. She does anything I demand and waits patiently for my permission.

On the weekends, there is Dominique (not her real name)- a tall, thick, smoked brown business executive. She calls me her princess, refuses to let me pay for dinner, or drive. She tells me exactly what I should do, and I happily oblige.

I'm experiencing some cognitive dissonance. Do I spank, or lie still? Grab hair, or go to my knees?

I can handle this, I tell myself. The tugging. The splitting of time. The role switching. The demands for my undivided attention.

I cannot choose one or the either, for neither is complete. Then the realization hits like bricks, I've subconsciously conjured up this situation, because these two women are the two faces of me.

B.L.M.

2011-02-02T22:45:00.000-05:00

You were here
Manifested six hundred and thirty four moons ago
I bear the scar
Until we meet again.

Down for an all girl bookie joint?

2011-02-01T21:53:00.004-05:00

I have a slight obsession with a quirky, sapphic leaning movie called "Dogs: The Rise and Fall of an All Girl Bookie Joint." It has got me daydreaming. I'm starting to draft delusions and spectacular fantasies. You down?

Wordly Desires

2011-01-30T12:31:00.014-05:00

There is a woman cooking in my kitchen after a night in my bed. All I can think of sitting here is how much I want her to go home. Our "meeting" has not made me feel any closer to her. Conversely, I've lost all interest. My eyes went black and I shut her out. I'm sorry.

This is a heart crime. Should I propose celibacy? No, I would only be lying to myself. Celibacy until I develop an emotional connection? Maybe.

From now on, I'm going to love you before I ~~fuck you~~ let you stay the night. Feed me pixie dust and stars. Peter pan and tinker bell.

In the meantime, I have to figure out how to handle this situation. I never want to be here, at this time, doing this all too familiar dance.

On to the next one...

2011-01-28T22:46:00.010-05:00

1. Today, against my better judgment, I sat down and made a list of all the women I've seen over the past few weeks. I have to admit that when I finally totaled the numbers, I was surprised. This, meaning dating, all started out quite innocently. I was pining to get out, enjoy some decent conversation, you know, experience the sweet tingle between my thighs every once in awhile. What ensued was maddening, quite often. Fun, sometimes. Disappointing, always. I was, and still am not looking for another relationship; however, is it too much to ask for a woman with intrigue, edge, color girl sophistication, worldly intellect, Frida Kahlo artsy tendencies? (p.s. three of more of the above-mentioned qualities, in the right combination, is perfectly acceptable)

I feel like Goldilocks. Oh, poor Goldilocks, I never understood your sizable dilemma before this upset. I'm not climbing from bed to bed, but from mediocre restaurant to mediocre restaurant, uncomfortable conversation to even more uncomfortable conversations. Here are the stats below, judge for yourself.

* 16 17 total connections
* 12 first dates
* 3 trips from NY
* 1 trip from Boston
* 1 trip from Baltimore
* 1 trip to NY
* 5 refusals to talk to her again after the first conversation or meeting because she is one of the following: 1. incredibly boring 2. desperate 3. crazy
* 5 "let's just be friends" talks/texts (I know, I'm cold)
* 1 actual good friend
* 1 purely sexual meditation
* 3 could have, should have been love if I were allowed to be free, at least a little while longer
* 1 2 women who are still in my life.

Philadelphia! Philadelphia!

2011-01-16T21:19:00.006-05:00

Life chases like the wind. In two weeks, I walked away--for good, leased a beautiful new apartment in Philadelphia, moved, unpacked, and woke up alone. Yes, I am alone--emotionally and mentally lucid. These arms, this spine, these thighs...oh...I am so open.

I've really missed Philadelphia. I'm infatuated with Philly's smelly streets, colorful murals, and tiny byobs. I am falling in love again. I have a gorgeous apartment and a deck with an unobstructed view of the Philadelphia sky line.

I don't know where this will end. I am not going in circles anymore, and that feels damn good. I'm coming back in to myself again. A homecoming.

ADSKSDFSDFSFSFSF

2010-12-29T22:40:00.004-05:00

Insanity: Doing the same thing over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in the expectation of a different result.

Doctor told me today I've caught a head case. I'm certifiable. Meds and all. I've taken to chain smoking a pack of marlboro biweekly to take off the edge.

It's official. In search of working brain.

I have to leave you.

It's the most wonderful time of the year...

2010-12-25T18:16:00.007-05:00

It's Christmas and I am home sick. Not deadly sick, or even major sick--just sick enough to avoid the customary pomp and circumstance of Christmas. I suppose this sickness was manifested, sort of like "The Secret." I love the Christmas spirit, but I can not tolerate estranged family members buzzing around over-cooked turkey and stuffing. I don't like random people in my space.

I have managed to continue my Christmas traditions. I watched "The Little Drummer Boy" on Christmas eve and exchanged gifts at the stroke of midnight. That's all I require.

R is off visiting her family and undoubtedly preparing to bring me home a number of warm treats. I have time to reflect. Time to think through this crazy year. Space to produce an artificial cataloguing of time.

1. Work

I've moved on from my teaching job. Now I am a special education administrator. More money, less stress. More flexibility, less crap. Quick, what's the most undervalued profession in the U.S.? Teaching, duh. Thank you Michelle Rhee, Arne Duncan, and the legion of plutocrats determined to run schools like corporations. Hooray for corporatism and wall street. Recession? What recession?

I like my job, so far. But... as always, I see myself growing bored with it by the end of the year. My ambition always gets the best of me. I am thinking of returning to school to pursue a PH.D in educational psychology--it's fascinating, and there are not enough psychologists of color in our community. Yes, I'll be one of those indecisive suckers with twenty titles etched behind my name. The thought of putting my life on hold and relying on savings, once again, is frightening. I do want to have a family some day.

If I don't go back to school, I am going to start searching for a leadership position at a non-profit organization. I've always dreamed of managing my own organization. Please, universe, align. Put me on the path.

2. Happiness

I read somewhere that "happiness," however subjective it may be, is mostly genetic. Behaviorists opine that we are all born with a pre-determined, innate level of happiness. So I've decided to stop chasing happiness. This is who I am. And for the most part, I am content. I know I think way too deeply and often. And I drive myself to mad and sullen moods. I am prone to moroseness. But I am also subject to incredible moment of clarity and peace.

3. Love

Things seemed so easy. Get up and leave. Now I am drawn back to her soft spaces. The glitter and sparkles have fallen off and the new toy smell is gone, but like the velveteen rabbit, it is real. I haven't fully committed to her again, but I haven't left. I've had several opportunities to--many offers of fresh starts, but I can't. My heart, I thought, was my own--I realize that it is desperately intertwined with hers. I remain still for now. The waves will come to chart my course.

4. Miscellaneous

At the end of 2010 at least one thing hasn't changed. I still prefer soft, supple fruit over hard candy. Merry Christmas to gays, straights, and lezzies everywhere!

D in D

2010-12-13T22:59:00.020-05:00

is it ok for me to ask you to rescue me? i’ve never asked this of any one before. An abdication of any semblance of independent thought, need, and desire. here. grab my hand. take me with you. i won’t resist.

sweep me up in you. imbibe me. bones so tired of moving. i am woman. let me lean.

strength will return. but for now. please. come. rescue me--a feminist burning bushes to light the way home.

American Wars

2010-12-09T19:11:00.003-05:00

I am all geared up for a protest. I am ready to burn down buildings. Turn over cars. Spray paint dirty little words like "sanctimonious," and "fascist, " on white walls. I hear that in London the Brits have taken to the street over tuition hikes. The PEOPLE are bloody screaming, rock-throwing, finger-flipping, flame throwing.

I'm certain our revolt is on its way. The thugs are holding us hostage. Penalizing the workers. Misappropriating public funds. It's going down! I've filled my bucket with hot water, torn bricks out of the wall, and duck-taped phone books to my chest. I am waiting...I am waiting...pacing back and forth, peering out the window. Somebody give me the signal. Show me the sign.

The Great Escape

2010-12-04T16:26:00.001-05:00

“Being colored is a metaphysical dilemma I haven’t conquered yet.” --For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf

But I have a plan...

These are a few of my favorite things...

2010-11-30T17:04:00.002-05:00

I NEED AN INTERVENTION!! They, meaning the savvy, conniving, retailers of America, lured me in to the stores with lights, shiny stars, cheap tricks and promises of holiday bliss. Oh...blessed black friday. I vowed to never go back to sterile arms again, but alas, I failed. I am terribly human.

"Hello, my name is $%$*&$ and I am binge shopper." There, I said it. I am the American consumer. The ultimate economy stimulator. In my closet I have two unworn bras from Victorias Secret, one pair of fresh, shiny boots from Nine West, and drawer of sweaters with H&M tags still hanging on them.

Please, someone, intervention me! Email the lovable Suze Orman so she can deny me the new macbook I am typing on, with a racially tinged "girlfriend." Call Sandy or the bald guy from A&E; trick me in to coming to a personal interview; have all my estranged family and friends gather around and read notes on napkins about how my binge shopping has affected them. I'll tantrum wildly and say "no, I won't go." Then grandma will come rolling in with her oxygen tank to deliver the final blow. And I'll say "yes" and we will all cry and hug as they push me in to the van. I'll be off on the plane to some no-name facility, which I'll probably break out of in a week. But hey, I deserve the experience.

Damn Oprah and her favorite things!

small pox and pilgrims

2010-11-24T19:22:00.003-05:00

I started my first and only gratitude journal three years ago. A week after I began listing my gratitudes, my mother died. I haven't allowed myself to be grateful for anything since then.

There is no overwhelming joy. I was the saddest to see it go. I take no comfort in stability. No solace in consistency. Everything must change. This I know.

Perhaps my response is not logical, but I. Am. So. Afraid.

Three years later, there are glimpses of healing. This Thanksgiving I am grateful for teeth, a nose, ears and feet. God wouldn't take those away from me. I think.

My mind randomly drifts the indigenous peoples--so grateful for the little trinkets and stones the pilgrims provided. Little did they know that the pilgrims also carried small pox in their sleeping bags.

one request

2010-11-11T18:53:00.004-05:00

Don't feed me no tepid love
like stale bath water and food warmed over again

I don't want my love auto-tuned
looped and pulled for primitive ears
Leave me be my sour notes
sloppy highs
and sobering lows

Don't put my love on cruise control
smooth middle of the road
rock me through the bends and curves
press down hard on me

I want my love unwashed
Feed it to me unruly and matted
Like red fire, let smoke rise up to choke me

years for questions

2010-10-20T20:51:00.007-04:00

Am I crazy to live with such ferocious intensity--to love and to dance with reckless abandon?

I've come to believe that living life to the fullest is like running down the road full speed with a purple blindfold tied tightly around your eyes. You know very well that somewhere along the way stands a brick wall.

The question for me is will I smash in to the wall
or will I break through?

And so it goes...

2010-10-17T19:24:00.009-04:00

Something gives way when you realize you can no longer return. A general malaise. Like the burning of leaves.

I feel this for you when I catch you alone. I remember, still, love for you. And perhaps I always will.

How do I measure what is lost? It burgeons wide and vast--pulsing, expanding, filling my lungs until I can barely breathe.

The chrysalis must first die before the butterfly can begin. But no one ever remembers the sacrifice.

The Calling

2010-10-13T20:39:00.005-04:00

I thought I had time to organize my effects, clean out my closet, transfer title, and wash my body of dead skin.

She lit the spark. Fetched the twigs one by one.

I did not wish to know her. Not yet. But she has wandered along my way, famished from the journey. Broken bones and all. Mary full of grace.

Never again

2010-10-12T20:51:00.013-04:00

I remember crossing the George Washington Bridge to start my life at Barnard. Me, my two uncles, mom, and all my worldly possessions piled in to a white mini van and headed down 95 toward the city of dreams. I was full of hope and laughter. The sun shined so brightly on my head that day.

And then there was a boy who recently headed down 95, walked across the George Washington Bridge, and leapt to his death. With cars speeding by in the mid-morning rush, strangers scurrying across the path toward big city opportunities, he inched closer and closer to the edge, and jumped. Did his mother know that she had touched him for the last time?

He could not be gay in this world and be free. Only some of us are brave. Today, under the same sun and same net of sky, I will be brave for him. Never again.

The Dream is the Truth.

2010-10-04T17:39:00.000-04:00

my upcoming marking

Snow to Fall on the Sahara

2010-10-01T16:55:00.003-04:00

Each hour, each minute, each second, I am never the same.

Beginnings

2010-09-27T19:45:00.004-04:00

For you I
leave the front porch light on
stash the key under the rubber mat
scribble the password on the door seal
part my folds for your fingerprints

dark matter

2010-09-26T12:36:00.000-04:00

Sit watch thunder roll over the harvest moon. Catch 22. Autumn equinox is here. And i, caught between seasons of change.

just enough

2010-09-25T21:03:00.011-04:00

i have 20 ng/dl of testosterone bruising through my veins. not enough, i guess, to slam your face in to the wall. not enough to bleed you for your evil deeds.

they made me of the most delicate of female parts. two mounds, a warm clit, and two ovaries of equal size. you think me weak for them.

i have approximately 65 pg/ml of estrogen wasting through me. just enough, i guess, to make you claw the retina from your eyes at the very thought of my scent
f
a
d
i
n
g
from your bed.

i win.

thirtysomething

2010-09-18T17:37:00.008-04:00

I've been thirty for four whole days now. I am checking myself, looking down at my legs, wiggling my arms, arching my spine. I have to say, I still feel exactly the same. I suppose I never really felt like I was in my twenties, ever. Call it the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, but I swear to you I did the thirties a long time ago. I got married twice, divorced once (waiting for the courts to recognize the second marriage and then the divorce). I had a significant career change. I buried a parent. Yes, my life is trending in reverse.

When I was about eight or nine years old, I loved to watch the television show "thirtysomethings." I guess the turbulence of the program mirrored the turbulence of my childhood. Even at a young age, I connected to adult feelings and failings. On Saturday nights I would sit patiently in front of the television and wait for the show to come on--I'd imagine that one day I would at least be the director of my own confusion. Oh, how I longed for control.

It all makes sense now--why I am vehemently opposed to anything or any person attempting to manipulate my space. In relationships, when I sense any semblance of constriction, I flee. It's been a source of contention, especially when it comes to my interactions with women. Women are the possessive kind. Call me selfish. Selfish I will be. But I ain't letting no one possess me.

I am not particularly confined to any one thing--not any job, any person, any thought, any emotion. I can engage and disengage with similar ease.

They call me a woman now. They say I'm all grown up. But innocence and delightful ignorance were never my playmates. I've always felt the profound and sobering weight of adulthood. I've always witnessed people in their wonder, and their shame. I am still waiting. Still waiting for my twenties to begin.

Only the lonely go there...

2010-09-10T18:33:00.002-04:00

I am not fond of physical limitations. Those pesky little things called barriers--sudden closings and the narrowing of opportunity. I am trapped in a cage with an angry lover. It's bloody battle royale. I am no victim. I did the crime. The punishment is deserved. But that does not stop the horror when faces turn inside out--when laughter disintegrates in to bitter chiding--when touch once so pure and sweet, now reaches out to inflict pain. The consequences have been far too much for me to contemplate. I am shocked and awed. Badly bruised this time. My heart scars a physical manifestation of her blind and uncontrollable rage. This is how she keeps me here, my dear. This is how she keeps me here, I fear.

lips, eyes, hair, mouth, lick, suck

2010-09-06T19:21:00.006-04:00

She said sign your name on the dotted line, the lights went out, and nikki, started to grind...

on being single

2010-08-27T22:06:00.006-04:00

dating is such a chore. do you want to love me or fuck me? speak wisely.
i have a penchant for pain; i love the company of women. i have never looked, but have always found. connections are firing everywhere i turn. i am not afraid to love. again. and again.

perhaps i wrote this for you. cause i can feel that you have surfaced and are waiting for me to come to you. hold fast. i'm on my way.

Fallacies

2010-08-22T20:43:00.007-04:00

Life has its way with you. I am living, surprised at how so quickly my love has slowed to friendship. As if my heart has undergone a hard reset--emotional stirrings reorganized. I look at you sometimes and wonder how I kept you for so long.

I don't believe in marriage any more. At least, not in the traditional sense of the word. How can I promise what is not yet mine to give? How can I commit the me of two or 20 years from now, the woman who has not yet arrived? Things change. All the time. It is the way of the world. I can't ask you or her to remain tethered to me and my slippery ways. I am completely content walking next to you, but please remember, this skin is not your home.

At times I feel like I've been sold a bill of goods. For years, I choked down the fantasy of marriage like shards of broken glass until it ripped open my throat. Warm salty liquid is pooling in my mouth. And now, there is blood on my hands. Blood on my hands.

Oh...how the wind blows

2010-07-27T17:17:00.006-04:00

It was placed in your hands. Not when or how you wanted it. But it was there. We coded meanings with our tongues. Carried laughter in our bellies. I kissed the ink scars of your shoulder blade. Call like the moon resting so lovely over you. We readied ourselves for private communion on that holy day. With sacred wash and nectar I produced an offering –-a pound of flesh.

It was there and all for your taking. Feeble hearts but fumble and throw pearls mistaken for trash to the ground. Trash blows in the wind.

Saturn has left the building

2010-07-22T23:37:00.003-04:00

Goodbye, Saturn!!! I am free. Finally free. I walk closer to the shore with sand packed between my toes. The wind on my back. The sun against my breasts. Water runs around and through me--a cleansing for my next transition. Deliverance.

The opening

2010-07-20T19:55:00.001-04:00

you
yes, you
reach inside of me
pull tendons from muscle
suck marrow from bone
chasten my flesh
arrest my mind

The breaking

2010-07-17T02:39:00.006-04:00

I am outgrowing her. Fast and furious. Trying to slow down. She is in the distance.

I grew tired of holding her up to the light. My arms gave way. She is tumbling down to earth. My heart blown open again.

I imagine her lying there bruised and bloodied. Everything in me begs to go to her. Pick her up from the floor of the earth and stroke her scalp.

But descent to earth means forfeiture of flight. The slow and bitter atrophy of full grown wings.

I risk capture. Engulfed by the trickery of the ordinary. The veil of comfort. The curse of the unfulfilled.

Objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

2010-07-09T14:26:00.004-04:00

I live on the water. For two straight days, helicopters have circled outside my window searching for the bodies of two tourists who disappeared in the tragic ride the ducks boat accident. The noise from the propellers is deafening. It is a constant reminder of life lost. A reminder that there are two sets of parents on planes to America to retrieve remains. They found the girl this morning.

My sensitivity is heightened by the fact that I just returned from a trip abroad. To think, to imagine, that something so tragic could of happened. What do I do I with this feeling?

I’ve let fear creep back into my life. It has stolen my sense of wonder and my ability to live without hesitation. We always think we have so much time to get things right. But you and I both know there is no such thing as time.

I'm back

2010-07-05T17:15:00.012-04:00

How do I describe the sounds, the sights, of such a far off land? My trip, literally to the other end of the world, was magical and intoxicating. It was an epiphany, a culture shock, a fascination--a twisted cultural musing.

I stayed in a villa in a small town called Ubud. Ubud is known as the cultural oasis of Bali; the ride from the airport, or a quick stroll through the center of town reveals a mass of batik paintings and hand made woodcarvings. Ubud and its surrounding areas are also home of the beautiful rice paddies. I lived among them. Every morning I woke up to see workers tilling the land, bending to the morning sun.

Entering the grounds of the main villa was like entering the Garden of Eden. The villa complex sat perched on the Ayung River. Some days I sat by the riverbank, listening to the sound of rushing water as I read. In the evening, I watched children playing in the river and women washing clothes of the day.

I spent my days outside of the villa at various temples and attractions. On my third day, I took an arranged 2-hour bike ride through several villages. As our group rode from one village to another, little children dashed outside to catch the foreigners going by.

On our bike ride we saw workers in the field. At one stop were shown how they painstakingly separate rice from the shaft. The process is incredibly backbreaking in the scorching sun. And the work is not done not for mass production, but the rice is used to feed families and give to the gods as offerings. After workers (mothers and fathers) finish cultivating the rice, they lay it out in front of their houses to dry--an honest day’s work.

I visited the bustling Ubud market and bargained for Balinese wares. For a novice, the system of bargaining can be somewhat irritating. I forced myself to remember that sellers were bargaining for a days work, and I, for petty goods I would have likely paid three times as much for at home.

And how to describe the randomness of experiences. On the way to attractions, I often tripped into a procession, a ceremony, or everyday people preparing for mass cremation. And there were offerings everywhere I looked—in cars, on the ground, and at store entrances.

Not surprisingly, the unsettling part of my trip involved my interactions with the expat community and other tourists. One morning, the owner of the villa came to my table during breakfast and offered small talk. He was obnoxious—everything I hate about the expat community. He introduced the woman at his table as “his Indonesian girlfriend,” and proceeded to regal me with stories of his experiences with Mike Jagger, Donna Summers and Julia Roberts--utter rubbish. He then, rather casually, explained his practice of buying goods in his native Australia, and selling them for ridiculous prices.

I have to admit that I’ve never felt more American, more other, than in Indonesia. I was aware that others were always at my service. I couldn’t help but feeling like I was somehow being tricked. So much of what I saw, I am quite sure, was deception. An act. You show me the Asia I’ve imagined—the dances, the masks, and stone carvings, and I, the tourist, the foreigner, will readily consume.

And there was a slight undercurrent of resentment bubbling beneath the surface. I sensed it in the tone of the bemo driver and the bike tour director. We, the tourists, took their land. Yes, it is a whole complicated mess of things. The appreciation of a beautiful land, yet the eerie understanding between you, and the people of that place, that your presence will one day destroy that land.

Will I ever go back? Maybe. But with eyes wide open. I know for sure I did not experience Elizabeth Gilbert’s Bali.

BALI BOUND!!!

2010-06-16T23:48:00.004-04:00

I know...I haven't been in this space in awhile. School is officially over, at least for me, and I am off to Bali in a few hours. I will write more when I am there. I just wanted to leave you will this picture--my high school students, yes high school students, wrote notes on my board one day while I was gone. I am reminded of the goodness of my life every day.

Will you be ready?

2010-05-15T21:38:00.008-04:00

Instead of adding interesting places to my travel list, I am slowly taking places away. Arizona and the reaches of the Grand Canyon were once a dream excursion. I am boycotting the dusty hills, now marred by a clumsily orchestrated piece of anti-immigration legislation. The idea of “reasonable suspicion” is farcical. It is an artful legal contraption—semantics, a simple proxy for racial profiling. They find “reasonable suspicion” the same way they find “reasonable suspicion” the stop, beat and humiliate black and Latino men in NY (see recent Times report). They, those foreigners, those brown people crossing over the border, are us.

I’ve also crossed out a visit to Israel on my list “100 things to do before I die.” I once longed to walk the cobble-stoned streets of the holy land and trace the steps of Jesus. But not any longer. What has been happening there for years, in the West Bank, is unholy. Every day I hear of a new settlement built or a new restriction placed on the people of Palestine, I am overwhelmed with sorrow. It is apartheid and American South Jim Crow all over again. They, the brown people of Palestine, trying to hold on to their home, are us.

I fear my contact with this life, this world, has been so precarious that I am closing unto myself like the mimosa. I once believed, somewhere, that people could be changed. I believed that if you greeted people with honesty and respect you would be treated accordingly. History has taught me otherwise.

It is utterly unnerving to know that I am invisible and horribly visible simultaneously. It is tiring trying to explain, assuage irrational fears-- to arrive, everyday, as whole and unstirred. I am giving up the act of normalcy. I am what I am. When they come for me, they won’t have to look far. I'll be ready.

Lessons

2010-05-15T21:13:00.004-04:00

Tia (not her real name) smashes her face against the glass panel of my door about three to four times a day. I think she enjoys frightening me. What other pleasures do teenage girls have these days? She calls me her adoptive mom and begs to come to my house for dinner. I entertain her. She is funky—I probably would have been friends with her when I was in high school.

Yesterday she was in my room wearing her fedora hat and purple Converse sneakers. She is on a search for a job and got the bright idea to print her resume on pink, sparkly paper.

“Isn’t that a great idea, Ms. E.,” she said. “ I had to do something so they would remember me."

“Tia, one could never forget you, ” I replied.

“You know you love me.” She tilted her head forward in search of a response.

I looked up from my computer and gave her a smirk. “How could I not?”

“So when am I coming over to dinner?” she asked.

I don’t know how many times I’ve had this conversation with Tia, and how many times I’ve told her that she can come over in the summer. I shot her a look of exasperation.

“So what is your husband’s name?” she asked casually.

The sweat gathered down my spine. This was certainly not the conversation I was prepared to have.

“My wife,” I quickly blurted out. “Her name is R.“

Without skipping a beat, Tia reached up and gave me a high five.

“So, I’m coming over your house this summer, right? ” she asked again.

“Yes Tia, of course…”

Teaching 101

2010-05-15T21:08:00.003-04:00

School will be over in one month. Time has gone by so quickly. I can’t believe I am almost one year into my new life. I’ve never regretted, not for one second, my decision not to practice law. What would have become of me?

Everyday I am more intrigued by my students. They sit with me during my free periods, sharing stories and seeking advice. I am so humbled by their trust in me. They feed my creative spirit. They give me permission to be young and free.

I have my summer to travel to Indonesia and take classes in psychology and art appreciation. And finally, I will have the space to start investing in my writing. I plan to finish the novel that woke me up at 5 am in the morning to begin.

Six whole weeks--touching and tasting every inch of this life.

The art of war

2010-04-11T01:57:00.008-04:00

We often mask true commitment in archaic notions of sex and sexuality.
We sit in judgment of those who rest outside of the confines of societal constructions of monogamy, all the while ignoring the husbands, wives, and lovers starved of attention in traditional pairings—those who play house like dolls with vapid interactions.

They give their bodies but hide their souls. Rationing joy, withholding common courtesies—warm smiles, small compliments, a listening ear.
Herein lies the deceit...

The measure of my love is not in the span of my hips. My folds do not confer fidelity. And you, you my love, are not a commodity to be manipulated in an effort to garner attention, love, and affection. I do not wish to control you. I do not want to own you or your safe spaces. I do not need to possess you to love you.

Just spare me your warmth, your kindness—the stroke of your hand for a while. And allow me this—the freedom to travel the far away places of your mind, of your heart. I promise to do the same in return.

You Make Me Feel Mighty Real...

2010-04-03T22:10:00.012-04:00

I am in love with the feminine--drawn to feminine energy in all its subtle variations. My first experience in the feminine was at the age of seven—the year Sylvester died. Tasha and I held hands in alleyways after school. On weekends I begged my mom to let Tasha stay the night— precious moments created as we stole furtive kisses under strawberry shortcake sheets. She was soft like towels fresh from the dryer; her skin smelt of apple butter. In the middle of a gang of mangy boys, Tasha was the one I gravitated to—if I knew I could, I would have grown up to marry her, and she would have had our child.

As a woman, I find myself intrigued by the likeness of transgendered women and drag queens. The sweet vulnerability—the suppleness of unfulfilled wants and dreams. I understand the need to feel and experience WO-MAN, very much like my own need to reach out and touch Tasha’s skin.

Today, I’ve built myself a world of feminine. You can catch a glimpse of it when I walk by. It lingers at the nape of my neck and the flesh behind my knees. And every night, the feminine is wrapped around these thighs. Thank you, Tasha.

If he were alive, I would have invited Sylvester in to my fairy Sapphic world. I saw a documentary about this gentle man, gender bender of a singer I never knew. I think I would have loved him. He was so perfect and graceful—fighting the monstrosity of the world. He just wanted to pay homage to the womb. He just wanted to be beautiful.

They hated him because they hate the feminine.

Sadly, I am left to commune with Sylvester through his music. We dine together before dawn. We talk about the times, and how they have changed. And I tell Slyvester, he can find rest now--in all that is woman.

and I am off...

2010-03-20T22:22:00.005-04:00

Bought my ticket to Bali and booked a villa for ten days in June. Scraping away the dead skin, dusting off my feet. Wanted: syrupy-sweet adventure.

Six Words

2010-03-13T00:20:00.016-05:00

I’ve caught glimpses of the “Six Word Memoir Bug” on Huff Post and other blogs. It is an invitation to tell your life story in six simple words. Since coming across the challenge, I’ve carried around six word sentences in the back of my mind. And then I came across a writer who wrote her life as a short story using 6 word sentences. It was simple—yet so profound. So skeleton thin, yet meaty and complete. In a stream of consciousness I crafted this...

Stumbled out of college, into life

Standing at the edge of uncertainty

Man with warm hands touches me

His love disarticulates—moves me completely

Climbing out of me, into him

I rest violently in the space

I cannot see where I begin

Loving with coils of trepidation

I have a secret hiding here

I cannot control what I am

Months and years pass by slowly

Lady in the sea surfaces again

Lift her body from the ocean

Step back, I realize she is me

I am unhinged—open and exposed

He bleeds, pricks me in bed

I pay penance with my tears

I leave in the dark of night

No arms, no guide for protection

I return to the journey alone

Cloudy, with some rain, intermittent sun

Falling in and out of experiences

Caressing the fleshy side of life

See her? She is my nature

She fits nicely, rest beside me

Fear. I look head on smiling

There is nothing you can take

I will leave earth fully human

In darkness, move forward—touch light

Blue

2010-02-22T23:28:00.012-05:00

I’ve been haunted by dreams of children in my arms—the sensation of connection and overwhelming love stays with me, even as I wake. I assume it has something to do with the approaching anniversary of my mother’s death. She wanted so badly for me to have children. It was often the topic of our weekly conversations. She offered to come live me for the first year—I told her I wasn’t ready. I thought I had so much time.

I’ve oscillated over having a baby since she died. Sometimes the urge to reproduce rises up to suffocate me—and other times I am acutely averse to the thought of giving up my freedom. I love crawling out of bed at 12:00 in the afternoon on lazy weekends. I love traveling to any given country at any given time. I love partying with fabulous boy queens until 4 in the morning.

I’m sure that there are innumerable joys that come from parenting. But there is also an intense amount of fear. The fuller and purer the love--the deeper the sorrow. Many mothers have suffocated from heartache. Loving, doting parents, carrying little newborns home from the hospital never dreamed of raising junkies, prostitutes, or republicans.

I don’t think there is a word to tell you of the loneliness and melancholy that swallows me up this time of the year. I want to sleep for 30 days. The calendar stares back at me—another year gone. My body tells me when the day arrives. The day when light turned to dark.

Say Yes

2010-02-14T19:22:00.005-05:00

I cried. If you can hear the sound of her voice, know this, we are not alone.

Dreaming of you...

2010-02-09T22:16:00.009-05:00

I can’t seem to shake my predilection for traveling. For weeks upon weeks I’ve been dreaming of Indonesia. I’ve fallen madly in love with the Bali--it's ornate temples and magenta (the one in the Crayola crayon box) flowers. My desire to travel to Bali did not come from reading Eat, Drink, and Pray. Although I found Elizabeth Gilbert’s TED Talk on creativity to be rather fascinating, I threw her book to the floor after the first chapter. Her exaggerated literary voice was so abrading—I almost broke out in hives.

I may not fancy Gilbert, but alas, I am following in her steps. I guess I see myself in Gilbert--it is somewhat disturbing. Like me, she is a woman who does not know what she wants (despite her recent sequel). She, I, am a vagabond, a pseudo nomad—wandering around from job to job, degree program to degree program, marriage to marriage, country to country, bed to bed.

I am the complicated for absolutely no good reason kind of woman—unsatisfied with life presented. I’ve messed up so many good things and messed over so many good people. I feed for a while--but let’s admit it, I am insatiable.

So, I am off to Bali, for hopefully, a mini revolution. I’ve scoured the web—Expedia, Tripadvisor, Baliblogs to find the best places to stay, eat, and explore. I’ve checked and rechecked my bank account, balanced pros/cons, and opportunity costs—now I just have to purchase the tickets and go. But there are a few issues.

First, I want to see and do Bali with someone who is dedicated to adventure, not just a casual vacationer. I want shared smells and visual maps—I want to jump off the cliff with someone just with as tragically free as I am.

Second, the recession is causing a bit of impotence. I have all the goods, but I keep fearing that the world is going to collapse under my feet again (I’ll write about that later.). So like the depression/post-depression generations, I store money just for the sake of storing it, as there is nothing particularly interesting I want to buy. I’ve lost all desire to purchase a home after the housing bust. I like money, but I’m partial to life experiences and shared happiness.

To put an end to my longing, I am thinking of just booking a flight, before I can look back, and going it alone. Who knows, maybe this will be a break-open experience. I may even get my own book deal out of it ;-)

These two things...

2010-01-23T22:23:00.003-05:00

I’ve come to realize that there are only two important things in life--faith and freedom. When I speak of faith, I dare not speak of the faith of the blind—the weak who cling to vapid traditions and poorly crafted interpretations as excuses for tyranny. This is not the faith of those who cut themselves and others with Bible verses. This faith cannot be coerced. It is not some secret gift for greedy hands to seize while others perish in the dark.

This faith, I’ve carried with me since I was a child. It is the first breath of life. The last breath before passing over. It is everything—you and me, standing in all our painful brilliance, in all our glory. It is light.

But faith, my friends, cannot materialize in the absence of freedom—for freedom makes thought possible.

When I speak of freedom, I speak not of chains. Freedom is never given nor won. It only inhabits those who listen. I’ve seen far too many zombies deaf to its call. You’ve seen them too. They bear the mark of resignation across their foreheads—passed on to their children and their childrens' children.

I have to admit that I do not know where I am going, and I am still unsure as to my purpose. Some days I feel like I’ve been turned around. But I’ve tied faith and freedom together and packed them in my satchel for the journey.

And If I end, still believing in these two things (faith and freedom), then maybe my tangle with the human condition, my jihad, would have all been worth it.

Liquid Zen

2009-12-19T19:51:00.005-05:00

I saw a documentary yesterday about the place you told me of. Your hand in the shower with its glow-- the universe flowering, infinite connectivity.

I want to go there, perhaps with you.

My left-brain has been threatening to take over my right brain. It has made me a whore to endless lists. I carry fears and anxieties never once materialized. Reservations clip my tongue when I go to speak. Chatter in my frontal lobe wakes me in the middle of the night.

I am OCD and schizophrenic 15 minutes past every hour. I must write fast and quick, for the hand is surfacing around the clock again.

Hurry.

Choices

2009-12-14T19:29:00.017-05:00

I tried to quit my job last week. I fired off an email at 12 o’clock in the morning rambling about my needs, my wants, my needs, my wants—oh, how terribly constricted I felt. And then I waited for a response.

The next morning my principal came in to the office, sat down in front of me and said, “What do you want?” What do I want? What do you mean, what do I want? I thought. You are my principal—for goodness sake, tell me what I need. Tell me what I can’t have because of blue tape school district bureaucracy. Give me a reason to yell, “ I quit” and storm out of the building in a blaze of glory. This was not the way this was supposed to go.

Get it together—quick, think…but I was caught off guard. How was I to articulate an appropriate professional response? Like, oh, I want more professional development or more support as a new teacher. How was I to tell him the truth--that I wanted to leave not because I don’t like teaching—but because I want to check out of life.

I had it all planned out. Six months to myself. Six months to nest—take classes in sign language, photography, and creative writing. Explore the recesses of my mind. Dabble in the unknown. Conduct personal experiments. Document life furiously. I was finally going to have my black girl’s backpacking trip to Europe, without the backpack or the Europe.

Reality was my boss in front of me trying desperately to make it work. And for that, I couldn’t leave. I’ve got responsibilities and obligations and real world commitments. This feels familiar—going, moving, working, doing—because what else is there to do, strong black woman?

Rumination

2009-11-14T21:03:00.004-05:00

I had my first existential life crisis at 13. I was in the 9th grade and still wearing my favorite beige training bra. In English class, we read the likes of Dostoevsky and Salinger. I was so cool, I thought—chatting with fellow classmates about the meaning of life over sugar cookies. My full-blown anxiety attack was precipitated by the sudden realization that adulthood is so devastating tragic--absent of flights of fancy and childhood innocence. I read about the “phonies” and adult moral ambivalence. Before me stood the full measure of my life—finish school, get a job, get married, have kids and die—and oh yeah, be phony. I wanted to stop life right there, so deathly afraid of inching closer to the divide. But I was just a child.

Come...

2009-10-13T21:54:00.006-04:00

Come away with me... come away with me. Happiness is a delusion—a collectively digested opiate designed to distract us from our petty existence. There is only pleasure, you see.

I'm ready, yes, I am ready to forsake delayed gratification for hedonistic indulgence. Life is much too short to keep wishing and dreaming. Give me unadulterated joy—naked bodies, red wine, warm massages, late nights dancing, sweet crepes and the freedom the move as I please. I'm preparing from my greatest act yet. Come away with me.

Antioch

2009-10-10T00:44:00.007-04:00

Antioch is a little, white church on a hill. With aches and pains it welcomed us in every Sunday. It was a place for the weary—respite for tired hands and feet.

My mother, unwed and with another baby growing in her belly, sat at the back of the church with her head slump down—me, sleeping peacefully in her lap. It was the pastor who finally called her to the front of the church and gave her a reason not to be ashamed.

Old womens' arms and prayers held our little family together. During altar call, mommy would kneel on the stiff bench with tears in her eyes—praises flung up to the sky.

At Antioch my brother and I grew and flourished. We were the darlings of the church—the fresh dreams and hopes of barren wombs...

Years later, I returned to the little, white church on the hill. Antioch was still the same—but life had changed. This time, my brother was locked in a cage, and I was standing at the altar with my mother lying beside me in a wooden box.

I stood there, in front of the church, to thank my mother for her love and for her life.

Afterward, the same old women with soft and fleshy arms that carried me in to adulthood, were there to catch me as I fell. And Antioch watched—pleading to God, one last time, on my behalf.

Quick Sand and Sinking

2009-10-06T22:07:00.010-04:00

I’ve got this funny feeling that something has been nibbling on my…carving away at my…
gentle murders
silent soul assassinations
the kindest of body blows

Zora Neale Hurston said that for women, the dream is truth. I believe this —and I wonder whether this heightened awareness, this intense obsession with truth, is a blessing or a curse. This search the authentic self –oh gosh, I sound so new age, has left me fraught with insecurity and restlessness. I wish sometimes, to roll back my senses –to present as stone to the world. It’s so exhausting to experience life as I do—I am so f-ing porous.

The body blows are exhausting—one by one, I learn that my ambitions and expectations are overstated. Little by little, my hope in humanity dies. I am fighting against silent soul assassinations. Breathe—continue? Or stop?

The Geek Squad

2009-07-04T20:24:00.011-04:00

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

Things break all 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, let's say the lever or the heating mechanism, the toaster is well...toast. Our bodies are infinitely more complex than a malfunctioned toaster-- when we get sick, it dispatches agents on our behalf to fix, fight and repair. But sometimes, unfortunately sometimes, it cannot stop the war or jump start the kidney, heart, or 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

2009-06-17T14:17:00.008-04:00

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

2009-06-12T20:31:00.007-04:00

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

I'll Fly With You

2009-04-09T01:07:00.014-04:00

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 merging, 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 of 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

2009-02-08T20:29:00.003-05:00

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

2009-01-09T21:13:00.009-05:00

" 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 I was never meant to survive.

A New Year

2009-01-05T14:41:00.009-05:00

When I turned 18, I tattooed truth on my ankle. It was a feeble attempt, I guess, to stave off darkness. A symbol etched into my flesh with blood and ink--a guidepost for salvation. I believed in truth so sincerely. I tucked it underneath my mattress-- folded it away in my sock drawer, even pinned it to the inside my bra when I walked the streets.

But one fateful day, I awoke to find truth gone. It vanished into the maddening mid-Manhattan morning. I cried and pleaded for truth to come back to me. I searched behind doorways, in alleyways, and beds until finally, one day, I forgot what I was searching for.

The forgetting was the blessing. If you've found truth then you are probably dead. I lived to tell.

I never knew that life could be so sensual. Everyday I experience me...and you...and you. I live in murky thoughts, unbound by artificial boundaries. It is pain and pleasure, pouring down all over me.

The path to truth is not on my ankle anymore, but on the soft spot of my inner thigh, the left blade of my breast bone, my finger tips marking this page.

Can you hear me?

2008-12-21T00:13:00.007-05:00

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 world. Suddenly, I struggled to monitor my voice and tone—I was afraid of speaking too loudly or softly. I worried that someone would realize my impairment. I was petrified of being different—even more unusual than a black woman writing.

After days of saying “I can’t hear you,” “Speak louder”--I began questioning the strength of my relationships. I mean, would I be loved as quickly, as deeply? Would he, she excuse or accept my impairment if I were to become deaf in one ear? How would I compensate?

Before this incident, I never questioned my physical normalcy. I’ve always believed that beauty is only skin deep—but is that trite? Is it the same as a white man proclaiming to be color blind, all the while enjoying the privileges of his white skin? Am I uttering the words of acceptance and multi-layered conceptions of beauty without acknowledging the benefits that my normalcy and physical appearance confer?

Although I can hear again (my ear cleared suddenly, thank goodness), I don’t have any answers for the questions now burgeoning in me. I do know that I am not special--superficiality has a hold of me too. Somebody save me.

Intoxication

2008-11-15T21:12:00.009-05:00

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 , emotionally aware, intellectually astute, our next President. I marvel at this moment in time, but a cloud has been cast over my celebration by the recent events in California. In a few months, I will be equipped to go out into the world and help protect families in crisis. But as for my own family, I have no rights. No one has ever given me anything and I don’t expect anything today. Power is not given, it is fought for. I will live and take what is mine. Screw the system—I can get married tomorrow and a bond on a piece of paper (which more than 50 percent of heteros break) will not stop me.

But until then, I just need a drink, a respite, some vodka and a safe space to rest before the fight. Can you offer me this?

FROM MAUI, WITH LOVE

2008-10-15T00:42:00.010-04:00

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 commodities this way—in a parable perhaps...

It’s like a man who hasn’t eaten in a while and he believes that he is famished, so with greedy eyes he hoards things which he believes will fill him. In a moment’s time, his stomach swells and he is no longer hungry—but because he fears that food will not return, he continues to binge until finally, the sensation of fullness is numbed. He becomes a slave to the very thing that he thought would once bring him satisfaction—the ultimate cruelty.

I do not want to become enslaved to the excesses of life. I will feed until I am full. As softly as the sun slips behind the clouds, I vow to slip naked into the ocean again every year to remember the freedom of wanting nothing more. Love fortifies.

THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH

2008-09-07T11:47:00.014-04:00

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 life. I am not an attorney. To the contrary, I am still in law school and I don’t have a job.

I am no where near starting a family and the prospect thereof is somewhat daunting. I don’t live behind a white picket fence, but in a high-rise. And the most important of my loved ones is no longer here to enjoy the fruits of my success.

But I am content.

What I could have never imagined is the strength of the human spirit. Seven years ago, I clothed myself in visions of power, believing that becoming a big attorney was the only way my life would be of worth. On the dawn of this new body, I know my worth. I know that my value can never be measured in inauthentic and temporal power.

Seven years ago, I never thought that I would ever have the courage to live my truth--to love a woman in the light, unabashedly unafraid of the consequences. Today, I am no longer silenced by religious rhetoric or my desire for perfection. I have never experienced such freedom and fulfillment as it is to love a woman. This is where I was always meant to be.

Seven years ago, I believed that I would never be able to move forward if the center of my life left this earth. My mother is no longer here; yet, I am still moving.

On my desk, I have a letter my mother sent to me a month before she died. She addressed the letter “To my future attorney” and ended the letter with “Your #1 mom.” Between the salutation and the signature, she told me how proud she was of me.

This letter came after I told her that I was leaving my husband, and after she met my girlfriend, whom she hugged and laughed with and loved. She measured her achievement as a mother, not by my accomplishments, but by the woman I had become. To her, I was already a success. She gave me permission to live my life the way that I see fit—and I thank her for her abounding and unconditional love everyday. I will never be ashamed of who I am for I am deeply loved.

So on the eve of this new skeleton, I say goodbye to the former. You have kept me well. You have offered me protection and fortitude in my darkest hours. I will take this new body into the next seven years, and at 35 it shall return to the earth, and I will come again to pay homage.

A mix of things...

2008-08-21T20:49:00.018-04:00

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 and move forward.

I start my final year of law school on Monday—with a mix of exhilaration and relief. I cannot write of all the times that I have thought about leaving it all behind to return to normalcy. Life came around full circle this summer as I was imploring Tara, another woman of color, not to leave law school. But what of those behind you? I thought.

Tara finally decided to escape to California for the semester to gather her spirit and mind. Hopefully she will return in the spring to finish the task at hand. I often wonder about these large predominately white institutions of power—so many brown bodies crushed in the shadows. This is about so much more than her or I. We need a revolution with lawyers on the front line. I am preparing my weapons and armor for war.

I am grateful for the lawyers of Pakistan speaking truth to power—reminiscent of lawyers in the American civil rights movement. They have dismantled Musharraf. They have given me faith in the measure of my professional degree.

Life is unfolding in my hands. Life, deliver me.

SEX

2008-07-23T20:59:00.005-04:00

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.
Sex, when done properly, is succulent. Sex, when used as currency, is perverse.

Because of love and my passion for learning experiences, I will travel where few other women have traveled before. But do know, that if this becomes routine, as I fear, I might have to opt for a new experience ;-)

Lesson Learned

2008-07-18T23:18:00.006-04:00

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 settled in.

Tim, Mr. Lawyer, immediately turned the conversation to himself. He complained miserably about his job and clients for almost an hour. Jenna and I tried to offer levity to the conversation--making little jokes, inserting references to pop culture, to no avail. At the end of the night, we were nauseated.

Although Tim graduated from Harvard and went to one of the best law schools in the country—I realize that he is an idiot (in the nicest way possible). He made no good faith attempt to get to know Jenna –I was embarrassed for even suggesting that the two should meet. You cannot teach good manners, common sense or likeability at Harvard. He is a lawyer, and most lawyers are just like him, socially inept, self absorbed and flat out annoying.

I called Jenna after we parted and apologized for Tim’s behavior. We had a good laugh and agreed to meet again for drinks, just the two of us.

Now when I walk into the office and see Tim, I don’t question why he is alone. He probably will be alone until he moves to corporate law, which he will, and entices some young college graduate to marry him with his 401(k) earnings.

And yes, I am giving up my side hustle. No more match-making for me--at least not with lawyers. I’ve got more important things to do like go make world peace, or find the cure for cancer or something like that. This lawyer thing is so overrated.

Lovely Little Things

2008-07-09T13:08:00.004-04:00

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 after a long and stressful day
10. the waves and sand beneath my feet
11. waking up to see the person that I love resting softly beside me
12. the passing of fear

Tell me, what is your favorite little thing?

DREAMS OF MY FATHER

2008-07-04T02:07:00.005-04:00

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 life for a life, he should have taken her place, and I would have poured alabaster upon his head.

I know that thoughts are cold and hard, but I do not apologize. I stopped believing in fairytales and happy endings a long time ago.

I fold and ask for a new hand.

4 random points of nothingness

2008-06-25T19:21:00.008-04:00

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 what he was preparing to say. He is ready to file for divorce.

And Although I have prepared myself for this moment, it still ripped through me. We were the best and the worst with each other. Love’s life or life’s love as he often called it. I know that he is still in love with me, and although I have given my heart to another woman, I will always be able to return to him. Some things defy logic.

3. I am getting a kitten. Hopefully, a kitten will curb my appetite to procreate. Can you imagine that? Now, of all times, as I am preparing to divorce, my biological clock finally wakes up and starts to tick. The irony of it all.

I had a dog a few months ago but that was a disaster. I searched over a month to find him and commissioned my ex to drive with me to Amish country to pick him up. He was perfection in the car—hardly made a sound. But when I let him out of the cage to introduce him to his new surroundings he promptly relieved himself on the carpet—and so this would continue for the next few days. I plastered the floor with doggy diapers, tried to get him to go outside, but everyday I would come home to find the doggy diapers tattered and torn and huge piles of dog poop on my kitchen floor. To make matters worse, he yelped and yelled all night long. After 4 days, I packed up his bags and doggy diapers and dropped him off at a friend’s house. It was an open adoption. I never looked back.

A kitten would be much easier. Cats are self cleaning agents. They only poop on the floor, out of spite, when their litter boxes are messy. I don’t blame them though. I don’t sit on dirty toilets either.

4. I am alone tonight. I’ve forgotten how to be alone. There once was a time when I craved space. Now, I fear that I have regressed. Silence has come to visit me. Dreadful thoughts are knocking at my door.

TO BE WOMAN

2008-06-19T16:38:00.005-04:00

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 wrote that for women, the dream is truth. Truth is inconsiderate and often uncomfortable. Zora died alone and unknown. Everyday I walk forward with blisters on the bottom of my feet. But if I should die today, I wish to die like Zora, fully actualized—fully woman.

So my womynness, I will handle with care. Singing songs of pain and of joy, for I am not alone.

The Stench of Poverty

2008-06-17T23:54:00.005-04:00

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 assumption of incompetence—caseworkers and lawyers on all sides assume that poor parents, mostly of color, are incapable of providing for their children. The fundamental right to direct to care and upbringing of your child, the right to privacy, the right to be protected from arbitrary state intrusion is often ignored.

I cannot help but think of my childhood at such a time. My mother often worked two jobs and when one job failed, she would rely on public assistance. I didn’t know that we were poor. All that mattered is that I was fiercely loved.

Yesterday, I met a 19-year-old mother. She was six months pregnant when her boyfriend died. A week after his death, she learned that he had died from AIDS related complications, not cancer as she was led to believe. She quickly realized that her cold sweats and vomiting were not morning sickness, but confirmation that she too was infected. Her baby was born three months later—HIV positive. After several hospitalizations, the state took her baby away. She walked into my office to prepare for her upcoming court hearing and held her head down the entire time. Her sadness burned right through me.

There are events that offer no understanding—there are no answers to offer satisfaction. I don’t believe in moral absolutes—the magical binary of good and evil. I resent those who wrap themselves in “truth” in an attempt to avoid the complexity of life.

She is not a baby, she is not old, but she is surely deserving. Her life has value although the system has thrown her away. I mark my doorways with compassion and say a prayer for understanding.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

2008-06-05T19:34:00.005-04:00

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 of the conversation I was completely uninterested in her. The more she spoke, the uglier she became. How could a girl blessed with such physical beauty not seek to find the beauty or interest in others?

I am sure that this girl with a beautiful complexion and sexy sway had many admirers—many of which I noticed at orientation. And I imagine that she divulged all of this useless information to me in an attempt to make see how beautiful she was too.

To be completely honest with you, I’ve rarely considered physical appearance when choosing to love someone. I’ve been with all types of people—short and stout, tall and lanky, awkward and outdated. I have endured the questions from friends, the trite remarks of strangers, and the painful jokes from family members—all of which were of no consequence when I compared my dizzying happiness to the lives and relationships of others.

Physical appearance is ill-suited to capture the profundity of this thing we name beauty. I find beauty in the unconventional—the belly bulges, the scarred knees, the stubborn hairs, the bucked teeth and burned elbows. I find beauty in vulnerability. Prying open your hiding space to let someone in to see, touch, experience the fullness of you. There is beauty in purity. Loving for the sake of loving without asking for anything in return. I find beauty in revelation. Stepping into the light to allow someone to bear witness to your pain. I find beauty in insecurity—those things that we silently curse in the darkness—those things that produce sadness and anxiety. Insecurity makes way for humility.

The girl with the flawless complexion and sexy sway is an object. She will never know the splendor of a beauty that far surpasses the physical. This kind of beauty cannot be manipulated or manufactured. It compels truth. It compels surrender. When I love, it is my only hope that you will blind yourself to the physical to unearth it in me. And I will give thanks.

THE REMAINS

2008-05-28T01:24:00.002-04:00

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 are things that I do without reason or thought, simulated automatic behaviors, like OCD—the remains.

I am desperately trying to figure out what occurred. Why is it that when overwhelmed or scared I find comfort in closets? Me, a woman, curled up in the closet—my only relief. Maybe somewhere before the artifice of time, a closet was my hiding space. From what or who, I do not know. But the feeling of safety has remained.

And there is my addictive personality. My addictions last for weeks and then abruptly end. Perhaps somewhere before I was starved –maybe I lost something. What I do know is that I cannot stop my compulsion to take and use without measure until it is done. The sense of urgency has remained.

And why do I, a normally self controlled woman experience intense and almost debilitating panic attacks in large crowds? It is a feeling of slipping away. The blood rushing out--my lungs collapsing as if I am returning to a tragedy. The feeling of helplessness has remained.

And then, there is the often irrepressible need to punish myself when I make mistakes. I attempt to stop my hands from clawing, punching—my teeth from biting. Who or what shamed me? What happened in the time before? Why do I feel the intense need to make things right—the need for redemption. The humiliation has remained.

All these seemingly unrelated things unsettle me. But this is the end. In this life, I will put the pieces of the story together. There will be a reckoning. I am not coming back again.

Before I die

2008-05-22T16:32:00.003-04:00

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 Egypt
12. Sponsor a NJ Seeds child
13. Eat frog tongue
14. Kiss a stranger
15. Go nude on a beach in Italy
16. Learn how to play soccer
17. Play the drums
18. Reunite with my first love
19. Go to a nudist resort
20. Purchase a home in another country
21. Become a flight attendant
22. Slap someone really hard for pissing me off
23. See my writing in a magazine
24. Experience transcendence
25. Learn how to ride a motorcycle
26. Go dirt bike riding
27. Race a car
28. See Michael Jackson in concert
29. Trade on the stock market
30. Fix a car
31. Make a pizza
32. Get my palms read *
33. Go to Disney World and meet Mickey*
34. Witness a direct act of GOD
35. Purchase a valuable piece of art
36. Live in a loft with a loft bed
37. Get a degree in counseling
38. Publish a movie critique
39. Eat a chocolate covered cricket
40. Take a mud bath
41. Become a massage therapist
42. Become fluent in Spanish
43. Study Arabic
44. Grow a healthy savings account
45. Be a movie extra
46. Become a judge
47. Be the maid of honor at my best friend’s wedding
48. Meet Janet Jackson
49. Converse with Toni Morrison *
50. Experience the beautiful and unspeakable act of love making on my wedding night *
51. Have my pregnancy documented on TLC’s “A Baby Story”
52. Raise “water babies”—take my babies swimming in the ocean
53. Visit my old middle school
54. Reconcile with my dad
55. Read the first manuscripts of the Bible
56. Work on a political campaign
57. Go to the grand canyon
58. Go wine-tasting
59. Open my own club
60. Go on a spiritual retreat
61. Take a milk bath
62. Get a couples’ massage
63. Practice midwifery
64. Hang glide
65. Skinny dip
66. Learn how to surf
67. Live in CA for a while
68. Go to an awards show
69. Cage dance
70. Learn how to strip
71. Join a Burlesque group
72. Own a pair of diamond earrings *
73. Own some real pearls
74. Pay off my all my law school debt
75. Buy a home

*accomplished ;-)

Feel free to add your own…