Me, Undone

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 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 chu...

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?

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 sta...

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.

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...

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 ...