i was asked what kind of revolutions i believe in

my revolutions?

pens that heal with words of love
for community

jolt life to a halt
quintessential question is
"what are you doing?"

re-evaluate
trajectory of our world
where do we end up?

plan for the future
plant gardens in empty lots
intentionally

paying homage to
abandoned child (hood dreams)
how could we forget?

name the secret truths
they're no more real than me
even when they hurt

tears. freedom to feel
compassion: "suffering with"
laughter lives here now

choose your family
offer self for scrutiny
belonging at last

recreate moments
we wish would last forever
if we don't, who will?

then what's important?
strip off the unessential
move gently in love

a new world order
welcomes the tired and poor
calls us daughters/sons

"personal bubbles"
walls of insecurity
flawed nomenclature

destructive patterns
of generational sin
"none of the above"

reaching out for you
knowing your warmth is comfort
incomparable

living and dying
solitary existence
find another way

inconsequential
unless i believe in a
new revolution.

i dont usually like haikus...

children's hungry cries
i listen; i hear them, lord
let me be the bread

::courtesy of a fierce woman who read in honor of june jordan::

/yes, i have a new hero.

that "girl in a shabby green coat on a railway station platform"

i'm having one of those weeks where i forget to breathe, or maybe i'm just so over inundated with information that it doesn't matter whether oxygen gets to my brain anyways because it's running at full capacity and will return after these messages...

as i'm working through the anxiety of having 2 months left at oasis before actually going to morocco with the peace corps (and still deciding whether two years is a long time or not), we're choosing an issue for the summer leadership institute group to tackle and we want to cover something that has a tangible goal, possibly connected to a bigger campaign so the girls can learn about advocacy and see how their voice fits into the bigger picture of a screwed up society at large.
in order to do this, we've been talking with other youth organizations about their current campaigns.
of course they're all connected and trying to make some movement around huge social illnesses, but we're a small group of young people who have an 8 week intensive program where we want to cover systems of oppression and apply those learnings to an action item.
i'm gonna break it down, partially because the issues are apalling but also because some of these folks are doing amazing work, but ALSO because there's an action item for you voters registered in california to keep in mind for the november (and june for SF) ballot. bear with me...

so coleman advocates is a huge organizing/activism group in the city that does alot of stuff around the city budget because they don't get any city funding, so they can cause a ruckus every year around this time when the budget is being figured out.
aside from the fact that our wonderful mayor is trying to subsidize luxury condos going into the bayview, we have a HUGE deficit because he raised salaries for firemen and policemen, not surprisingly his biggest fan base.
on top of that, the honorable and compassionate state of california has decided to cut education yet again, (finally, making california 50th in the nation when it comes to spending resources on education) and that will affect SF to the tune of $40million next year.
[to give you a sense of what that looks like, a couple years back, they closed 4 schools in the district and they saved $2million. $40mil is the equivalent of closing all >90 schools in the district for a month.]
so one /could/ totally call me out and say that i'm running away from this work because holding down programs in what looks like a good 3-5years of deficit does NOT invoke warm fuzzies in my heart.

coleman (who i believe has been around for some 30 years) did some restructuring and has decided to focus on two campaigns, affordable housing and closing the achievement gap.
san francisco has the largest achievement gap (measured, i believe by STAR testing) by race when compared to the seven largest school districts in california. (read: whites and asian, wasteland, blacks, latinos, pacific islanders)
yes, 30 african american males graduated from high school in the school district last year.
(and yes, i've lost count of the young men - brothers, cousins, uncles, friends - just in the lives of the young women we serve who experienced violent deaths in the last year, much less the young women we work with who suffer from varying forms of PTSD as a result.)
so the school board just agreed to pass a resolution submitted by coleman to commit to closing the achievement gap and have 60% of all students in all racial groups proficient by 2011. kinda hot, yeah?

closely connected, but taking a different angle is HOMEY, who is finishing up their campaign to stop the gang injunctions, which pretty much put people who are affiliated in gangs under house arrest because they are not allowed on certain streets or neighborhoods. the police apparently believe that telling rival gangs to keep apart in this manner will stop crime and fighting, all while conveniently keeping fathers, brothers, uncles, and sons from getting to work or being able to go to the store. brilliant, really.

however, the more horrifying issue and pretty much the impetus for this email is a statewide initiative going on the november ballot that had me in tears and pretty much still has my blood boiling.
the "safe neighborhoods act: protect crime victims, stop gangs and thugs" or "runner initiative" will:
~ commit $1billion the first year to prisons and $20billion more over the next 40 years (because that's such a great use of our resources when education is booming...)
~ charge youth 14 year and up as adults (for "gang" related crimes)
~ mandate annual criminal background checks for people in public housing
~ prohibiting bail to illegal immigrants with "gang crimes" and having the INS deport them
and then some... so pretty much targeting young people, folks in public housing, and illegal immigrants in one neat package under the guise of "gang prevention" and /not/ spending on social services of any kind.
aside from the fact that prisons are the biggest gang producing institution in the state, this is probably a really sound plan. i'm sure lots of intensive completely unbiased thought went into it's creation.

so what YOU can do:
MAINLY
~ vote in november and tell Runner that we dont want his racist laws.
~ vote in june (in SF) and tell Lennar that no, we will not subsidize your luxury condos in the bayview and yes, you should be building affordable housing in the bayview comma. (lennar has stated that if that initiative passes, they will pull out as contractors entirely because they dont want anything to do with affordable housing.)
AND if you're feeling especially saucy,
~ check out groups like Critical Resistance, POWER, HOMEY, Ella Baker Center, etc etc etc and get involved or support the cause. they're good peoples.

let me know if you have any questions or need to talk about systems of oppression.
you can have a cookie.

and this week's strip is exactly how i feel today: http://www.asofterworld.com/

/activists are squishy and they smell funny, i dont like them at all.

ps. i could use a hug.

in the city i love

Do you see what I see?
You’re 35 miles away and I can barely hear
your voice; the sky is a splitting image of the melting
polar ice caps brilliant and dynamic clouds creeping
across the expanse, and the moon. Oh, the moon shines
through like an under water window into a secret
world of light, tucked away because we cannot bear
its radiance yet die without it’s light. Look closely, focus
on its allure and welcome how its ferocity helps us
momentarily forget the thoughts and fears that surface
when we’re subjects to the darkness. The moon takes away
our need to dream because light makes fantasy obsolete.

Do you see what I see?
You’re a lifetime and three months away even
as your brilliant blue eyes look back at me from
your framed smiling image by my bed; I exhale
as these mechanical stairs carry me up to
a city that chills through the bone and smells like
home: a potent concoction of dog urine and fresh
rain asserting itself from beneath
a neglectful attempt to coat the street
in chemical soap. As I avert my eyes from
the hollow faces that feign confrontational indifference but
secretly beg to be called by name, tacky bright colors
hide the scars that run so deep converging with
underground rivers of ancestral blood
and fecal matter. Like skeletal hands reaching out
from the heart of this forbidden city, towers
of glass and steel shift like a hologram
with each step – revealing its existential crisis
of whether it provides structural support or arbitrary
frills for this haunted place. Perfectly fitting form
and function – a domineering force of
authoritative pretension. Were you deceived
into believing this city would let you be
whatever you wanted? Who you really are
when no one else would? When
all other love proved conditional?
These streets are not paved with
those precious metals our ancestors died
to mine. These concrete fortresses are illusions that
manufacture inadequate substitutes for safety. I was told
of this feeling called excitement, triggered
by bustling crowds and neon glows, but
my anxiety rises as the misleading proximity
of poverty to luxury seem to hint that
no one cares either way.

Do you see what I see?
Your lean growing figure fits
awkwardly in my embrace; but you live in
an alternate universe somehow tangent
to my reality where my assets are your
deficits and your wisdom goes unheard or heeded
because your words bear such weight that they
drop into the uncharted territories of the yet
unexplored oblivion even before the moment they
leave the vast expanse of your colorfully
charged intellectual cavity. A radiant beauty
unabashed but silenced by neglect. Shining through
the wear and tear of the spiteful words and cruel
eyes that form a barrage of devastating antagonism
we’ve learned no defense for. You cross out
what could have been a timid assertion of
an unacceptable, undermined, potentially disastrous
identity. I trip on my thoughts and choke on my
words, incapable to carve out an adequate space for you to fill.

a good day

I say a silent prayer to calm my anxieties and brace

myself for the hour ahead. I am greeted by a whirlwind

of hair and smiles, a couple decibels above

my comfort zone. We’re here to make “safe

girl space” but I can’t seem to intercept

every biting word that pierces these hearts.

We’re here to offer what the city calls “tools

of empowerment” and “youth development,” but

secretly, I call it love. We don’t fit in with the harsh

discipline of your school day. The disconnect is too abrupt;

the chasm too incomprehensible. I’m building a bridge

for you, but you tell me you can’t see. Why can’t you see?

When all I see is darkness, how do I know not to run from the blinding light?

I once heard a joke that all who survive adolescence have

an overabundance of material to inspire quality

creative writing. But it’s not funny anymore when your survival

is uncertain. I loathe to do it, but I challenge myself to recall

those years when the world stopped with a single word

from this week’s best friend and started with the subtle hint of

a smile from tomorrow’s new crush. I long to hold you all in

a human embrace and take you away to castles in

clouds, but your young hearts are already skeptical of

the dreams I hold up to your eyes as they roll.

When all other hands come close to strike my raw and bleeding
corpse, where do I learn that your hand offers salve and gifts?

“I am not the enemy.” I am an insufficient human

band-aid on a festering wound with no distinct beginning

or end. A strong silent friend helped me step out

of my brokenness. I gave myself a voice by being

heard. I gave myself a choice by naming

my wounds – making them real, but no more or less

real than me. I am here to listen. To search through this tangled

mass and get a little closer to finding you. Who are you? Will you tell me?

I only hear my name when I’m being told to shut up; how do I know that you’re asking for my voice? Where do I find this voice that speaks my truth and makes my choices?

I’m diving in, but there’s no such thing as swimming. I wonder

if that means we all drown together or if desperate treading is

the technicality that redeems. But everyday, I come back fighting

the sinking weight in my soul; getting angrier and angrier with

whoever is throwing these babies in the river. The questions outweigh

the answers, so we explore further, deeper, longer…

If we come out limbs intact, it was a good day.

If you are here to help me, why do I still only see
bleeding hearts dragged through broken glass everywhere I turn?

no, you're rubber and i'm glue...

Trapped within these walls of (scar)

tissue and pulsing contaminated fluid, I

scratch,

tear,

push myself out of this barely breathing corpse.

Repulsed by layers of obesity marinated

in rejection, disgusted by misshapen and stunted

limbs shriveled under cruel judgmental eyes, I

search rabidly for a voice disconnected from

these corroded lungs and these broken vocal

chords crushed with negativity and un-free speech.

My soul, rejecting her lot, seeking to build a more

“perfect” palace and take up residence, commands

starvation

and

purging – calls it growing pains because

beauty hurts.

I reach for a “self” outside of this decaying cadaver but

every

step

closer is derailed by tangents

questioning the existential possibility of this reality

to distract from the deep restrained pools of

unreleased tears that drown my soul as she

impatiently awaits her moment of escape from

this grotesque prison of flesh.

I lift my head long enough to learn that the source

of my decomposition is external; in my haste

I’ve somehow placed unwarranted blame and

punished an innocent bystander for

uncontrollable disfigurement.

I

burrow

deep into myself, denying any ties

to this broken and listless shell, forcing the limits of

how far one can hide. Misled by the uncommon

calm of this amniotic sac-like darkness, I relax and

explore the unspoken longings of my heart.

and for better or worse, this is week two.

I speak with my clenched fists aimed precisely
at your nose
because it is the only way to ensure pre-emptive
protection from potential blows;
in the blurred lines between fear and respect, I lose
my ability to express this thing called love,
I am told that power is won and nothing
is worth earning if it is easily taken or lost.

I refute with my fingers entwined
in my predator’s hair
because forcing the antagonist into submission is the only way
to mask my shame;
in the whirling fury of rabid eyes and gnashing teeth, I forget
my need for acceptance or affirmation,
I am told that building “street cred” is more valuable than
an “education” in the life chosen for me.

I cry out with the flaunting of my curves and
the flirting of my dance
because the catcalls, whistles, and lewd comments communicate
that people are looking at me;
in my coy glance I hide the tears that
spring up from the well of my brokenness,
I am told that no one will care enough to desire a closer look.

I scream to be heard over the aching drone of
everyone else’s complaints
because your sorrows are not tied to mine and
I am alone in this plight;
in the clear echoes that resonate from
the overtones of my piercing wail, I wish someone would teach me
how we are all connected and tell me I can choose to belong -
I am told I am a leader only of the miscreants and the degenerate weak lot.

I spit biting words like knives or heat seeking missiles
locked onto your deepest insecurities
because making a scene means personal attention when
I haven’t yet learned to share;
in the confusing height of intervention, I silently hope I didn’t
share my dark secrets with you when we were friends last week,
I am told that “words can never hurt me” but I wonder
if “frustration” at your cruel remarks is a part of that paradigm.

I speak with my fists.
Why is no one listening?

a little bit of inspiration never hurt anyone

The other night, as we talked about the daunting challenges of social injustices and the apathy of the people around us, a friend asked me how I still believed in positive change. I realized, despite... well, everything, I have never stopped believing in the resilience of the human spirit, especially in the face of adversity. Today, a humble yet passionate advocate and leader by the name of Greg Mortenson exemplifies the epitome of that unwavering compassion, I would swear is innate in all of us. Tonight, I completed Three Cups of Tea, jointly written by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin, with tears in my eyes and joyous celebrating in my soul.

In a news world that increasingly champions the superiority of fact over all else, reporting those facts completely devoid of all emotion and forcing a slow and discreet severance between mind and heart, Relin begins this book with a disclaimer - a rush of reality: firmly claiming that it is impossible not to care, explaining the contagious and addictive nature of one man's passion, and clearly dispelling all misconceptions about the range of one person's efficacy in the world at large.

In 1993, Greg Mortenson tried to climb a very big mountain in Pakistan in a effort to honor the life of his sister with epilepsy. Due to a series of unfortunate events, he failed and taking a wrong turn, stumbled upon a small mountain village that took him in and cared for him until he could travel again. He had studied neurobiology and become a nurse in efforts to care for his sister and learn more about her condition; so he used his skills to provide services in the village which suffered from a severe lack of care as well as practically non-existent access to resources. One day, he asked to see the village school and discovered 82 children writing their lessons from memory in the frozen dirt, out in the open. This town of Korphe had no money to pay the dollar a day for a teacher, much less a school building, so they shared with another village. The teacher came three days a week, and on the off days, the students simply reviewed on their own what they had learned. Mortenson was appalled and moved by this fierce desire to learn that reminded him of his sister, and so without a plan or any resources, he promised to build them a school.

Mortenson had no idea where to start, but through random connections (isn't that how it always works?), he found a benefactor who would fund his first school for $12,000. He went back, ready to build, but was side-tracked by various other villages who tried to con him into building his school with them instead of in his promised mountain town. When he finally got back to Korphe , they told him that they had considered his offer, but before they had a school, they needed a bridge that would connect their village across a very dangerous ravine to the main road. Mortenson returned defeated and sulked until a friend of his benefactor told him to just ask for more money. He was granted his request and proceeded to build both the bridge and the school in fulfillment of his vow. Seeing his passion and ability to follow through on his tasks in addition to the great need that presented itself, Mortenson's benefactor endowed the Central Asia Institute to allow Mortenson to continue building schools in rural Pakistan.

His journey has been far from easy. Mortenson faced constant setbacks due to local political corruption and lack of financial resources. His projects have expanded to vocational centers for women as well as installation of plumbing and electricity. His work became increasingly difficult and important after 9/11 when "a village called New York" was attacked and refugees flooded Pakistan, fleeing the undiscriminating violence of both the Taliban and the American military in Afghanistan. Through the CAI, Mortenson provided immediate relief efforts, focusing on the importance of education while also developing long term plans for his programs. Over the course of ten years, he has managed to plant 55 schools, and is extending his work to the rural destitute regions of Eastern Afghanistan.

Mortenson, who grew up as a missionary kid in Tanzania, is a simple guy with a big heart. He has vision and courage to serve a unique need with all the energy he can muster. He literally has a magnetic personality that draws like-minded people into his inner circle and they serve and protect both him and his work with the same vigor and hope that distinguishes his efforts. His cultural sensitivity and relevance puts everyone in his presence at ease and his genuine manner earns him undeviating respect, allowing him to build life-long relationships and invaluable cross-cultural bonds.

I started reading Three Cups of Tea on the L-train, and I couldn't hold back the tears that rose from even the first pages. It wasn't brilliant, moving prose; it was the content. Here is this man who lives an unmistakably extraordinary life. It's so easy to laud him as "one in a million" or as some hero who we can idolize; but that's the beauty of this story. He's just a guy who found a need, made a promise to fill it, and gave his everything to keep that promise. He doesn't asked to be praised; he wants to be an example. And he is; his compassion, drive, and focus are the embodiment of a universal human spirit, one that rises up in all of us and takes us with purpose and intentionality to those wrong turns where we learn how to make things right again. So I will continue to hope and wait for the day when that which seems "extraordinary" becomes part of our ordinary lives.

...but i do believe in sole-mates.

Every American girl wishes she could take the next good looking guy on the street and turn him into the perfect, caring, wise husband of her dreams. And I suppose it's possible that some man could see in a little girl the makings of the woman he falls in love with and marries. Actually, that's always going to be pretty creepy. And yet in this intensely realistic tale of promise and patience, of foresight and trust, of a fantastical, yet practical love that doesn't seem to have a beginning or an end, it just works. Audrey Niffenegger creates the perfect relationship in her debut novel The Time Traveler's Wife, not because they live without problems, but because they have a picture of how it all ends up, and in the end, they love each other and everything just feels alright.

Causality is rendered obsolete, perhaps because its application would debunk the notion of "love" in the story, as the reader tries to piece together this "chronologically challenged" narrative. We're given no explanation for Henry's time travels that break all natural laws. Often triggered by stress, he disappears and appears - naked, because he can't manage to take anything else with him - in unpredictable places and times for an unknown duration. For another unknown reason, Henry is able to visit his future wife, Clare, many times during her childhood. This is where the story get tricky: Clare meets Henry as a child, falls in love, finds him in her present when she becomes older, and becomes his wife. Henry knows that Clare is his wife when he meets the smaller version of her, but she seeks him out and loves him later on because of her initial experiences with his older self. Henry's influence on Clare as a young person greatly influences who she later becomes; while Clare's image of Henry as an older man gives her hope and guidance with the younger, more volatile version of her husband. They both change the person they see in front of them into the image of the person they have in their minds (and have experienced in some form) and this is precisely the concept that I find difficult to label "romantic" and simply digest.

Clare, especially, is put in an incredibly challenging situation. Her life is built around her own patient waiting - for Henry to visit her as a child, for Henry to grow up into the man she knows him to be from her childhood visit, and finally for him to come back from his various inexplicable and incalculable trips. She endures all this through the love she develops for this man who teaches her about life and literature, while even taking great lengths to defend her honor. Clare suffers through the hardships of every relationship because she loves the untapped potential in the man she's dating to become the man she marries. In real life, people with these misconceived notions are scoffed at and talked about with disgust or elitist sympathy during sadistic dining rituals.

Henry and Clare's lives are intertwined in a way that evokes a shudder like one of revulsion from jaded cynics walking in on a conversation about soul mates. It's almost too easy, that this couple survives years of pain and fear, intermingled with passion and acceptance; because, they know how the story ends. Real life doesn't give us the happy ending so that we can pull through with the knowledge that any unhappiness is temporal. Every day, we re-evaluate and choose to love the people we love, to commit to the people we relationship with, to see what they can be but still care for who they are. And it's the choice to share that uncertainty, not knowing where we're going or who we're becoming, that sweeps me off my feet.

behind these lattice windows

Everyone loves the mysteries of a secret world, locked away in some parallel universe that we often neglect to recognize as our own. We love to hear the whispered stories of shielded lives behind walls and screens. We live for the rush that we get when we learn something previously hidden, accompanied by the soft pattering of our hearts as the realization of having gained a special trust sweeps over our bodies and settles softly in the peaceful parts of our souls. And that is precisely the effect that Lisa See creates when a reader is bold enough to delve into her acclaimed novel: Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.

Recounting a lifetime of ardor and emotion, Lily's detailed narrative allows us to enter into a place that shines with a glimpse of paradise that stands guard against the social oppression that makes such a place a necessity. This sacred utopia - in a culture where a woman is worth nothing more than the sons she can bear - is the highly coveted and fiercely protected intimacy between women. Some create small groups of "sworn sisters" within the local community who act as support systems for one another, but even these exhibit loose ties when compared to the bond shared between laotong, "same olds" - a relationship fostered from childhood, formed and revered to be more binding than family or spouse, because it is a relationship of equality and choice in a world functioning on the rules of responsibility and indebtedness.

In an effort to possibly justify or redeem the choices she has made in her life, Lily explores her lifelong journey with Snow Flower, her laotong. Communicating through nu shu - "the only written language in the world to have been created by women exclusively for their own use" - the two young women create for themselves a world of dreams and promises that attempts to shut out their bleak shared realities. As a middle daughter neglected by her family, Lily finds in Snow Flower a genuine human connection as they both plow through life's hardships in search of an affirmation that will establish a self worth innate in their nature as human beings, independent of their bride prices. Lily runs from paradigm to paradigm as she reconciles various manifestations of love in her life: "mother love" that beat her with a stick while she broke the bones in her feet to create the perfect 7 inch "golden lilies" that would ensure her a good marriage; her husband's love, often childish but sincere, that bridges the outside world of the man with the inner sphere of the home; and her laotong love that encourages Lily to recognize and share the deepest most real parts of her self, but also leads to the darkest, most excruciating pains that Lily will carry for the rest of her years.

In this clearly vulnerable account trust, betrayal, and forgiveness, we are called to wonder about the walls of dishonesty and anger we build around ourselves in an attempt to bury our own insecurities, even when faced with the scrutiny of love. How much do we really believe in this idea of unconditional love that Lily expresses in the opening pages? Are we doomed to be daunted by our unwillingness to extend it? Or is the real fault in our inability to trust in its existence and simply receive it? I believe that See, through Lily, documents this life filled with regrets precisely so that we can believe in a life free of them.

intimacy

words, sound, expressing.
.....whispered screams;
.....screams;
.....whispers - expressed.
letters, symbols of expression.

safe in my cocoon of verbalized emotions, tangible
ideas, suffocating beneath everyone else's perceptions. a need
to be understood without my own grasp on... shhh.
.....be still.
..........shhh.
...............endure the unraveling silence.
..........shhh.
.....let the quiet undress you.
..........shhh.
...............stand naked before yourself without shame.
..........shhh.
.....the words will come when you stop trying.
..........shhh.
...............and listen to the calming sound of...
..........shhh.

insomnia

i answer the inescapable eventual beckon
to sleep, curled up to gather up my defenses. afraid
to invite bittersweet slumber.

dreading the inevitable state of vulnerability
to the foreign monsters who seek to turn my darkest secrets
into paralyzing nightmares. these powerful non-beings hold
the keys to unlocking a past i refuse to recognize. i swing
from impulsive repulsion of the darkened unknown to a subtle
resigned surrender in search of earth shattering truth.

holding out on the hope that i've somehow outgrown
the lurking beasts of my childhood like tattered pjs and tailored booties.

~

the light is negative, illuminating voids, invoking terror.
each desired caress reveals a cowering shudder,
a gentle shattering of the arms i used to cradle my dreams.

i lull myself to sleep even as i craftily sidestep the pervading
fear of waking. of the unknown. perhaps an uncertain, yet eerily tangible
presence that manages to trump all dormant fears. my mind is
aware of a pressing need: rest for a weary body - tense, engaged
in a war between fatigue and my own subconscious.

because it's better than "normal"

who would want me?
.....broken imaginations
.....stolen innocence
.....distorted paradoxical images and dreams
dysfunctional, unable, ugly, fat

you redeem me
.....full
.....inspiring
.....real
.....honest
.....strong
.....graceful
.....alive
because life presupposes a propensity for
change. and that is a reality of hope.

constantly receiving promises of painful processes.
insufficient substitute for a cure-all capsule or fix-it formula.
and the burden of brokenness is never blasted away.
perhaps only proportioned to smaller, manageable sizes.

we train ourselves with tools arduously acquired and seldom
comprehended. and just sometimes, we hold our breath, hesitatingly open
our eyes and in the anticipated exhale, it all comes together.

amidst the flurry of functionality and frustration. an almost imperceptible
shift, negligible across spectrums and unnoticed by the untrained eye.

and i am beautiful.

when did pretending become so real?

i am over-saturated, inundated, ready to explode. hoping
to simply overflow, "belly pregnant with hunger" bursting
from desire. beyond the point of no return. i release without
regret. vomit on paper and call it: art.
is anything produced from our self-destructive
personalities, eternally tainted bodies - sacred? pure? even resembling
beauty? or do we only generate waste from
the natural processes of our existence?

nothing of worth comes from me. i contort my corpse to fill
spaces, to make shapes, to move in ways i haven't
yet imagined. i wallow in the despair of my failure. screaming
with sarcasm, i seek to validate my own selfish existence.

but weren't we made for creation? for life? ah yes. that "we"
eludes me in my singular attempts. but who will be my "we"?
who is worthy? who is willing? who is courageous? empty voids
appear. openings to engage in the risky business
of an uncertain, un-guaranteed partnership. a slightly
cocked skeptical head is the best defense. like primates,
they smell your fear. don't show your teeth
or insecurity. be true to all you've learned: the world is built on
lies. growing up means perfecting the art of faking human qualities.

the unnatural editing and filtering of emotions we don't really
feel and thoughts we're afraid to have. adopting inhibitions we can't
question because we're distracted by forced attempts to provide
constant antitheses to prove our rational selves that disregard
shadows of an existential nature. i abhor this unnatural virtual unreality.

but i did always like playing the clumsy, less
effective or aggressive and often disgracefully
unsuccessful princess peach.

To Satisfy a Craving

...but not really.

After four days of craving a certain korean comfort food -- one would think that living at home makes a simple problem such as this easy to remedy. one is very very severely mistaken. There were tears and tantrums involved in the process of acquiring the necessary materials and mannerisms to create the dish that would end the yearning in my tummy. Yes, I am 21, but you know how hard it is for me to give up something I've already set my heart on. At any rate -- my mommy finally made me dukboki. Yummy spicy (but not too spicy because that would be unpleasant) sticky gooey fabulousness.

After the satisfied tummy sensations superimpose themselves on the hungry sensations, my mind has a chance to express itself in utmost clarity: "like, really?"

Don't get me wrong: it's good. Perhaps even just as good as I remember.
But there's something missing. And like every other part of my life, I'm starting to realize that it has simply lost its luster. Only to reinforce that stark reality I spend my days avoiding: growing up sucks.

I'm sitting here, honestly trying to figure out what exactly I was trying to recreate - the feeling of being a child? the nonchalance of not knowing how food is made? What image of myself am I trying to invoke?

I think of myself in the third person as a child.
I guess I'm still trying to reconcile the fact that this person - who is still this routy, unmanageable little kid to me - is getting a real job, finding a real place in the grown up world, perhaps even growing up herself.

Food really is everything.

the only thing we can really make out of nothing is words

as I go about my every day, a subtle
drumming. rhythm. chant.
"don't waste... don't waste..."
speaks softly in my ears.
on my heart.

don't waste time.
moments of temporality that pass
without notice.
without warning.
without sign.
precious memories lost before they are made.

don't waste talent.
numbed by insecurity, fear of failure, and
overstimulating distraction. creativity caged.
confined to cases of concrete idleness.

don't waste water.
life. condensation of our breath on parched lips
begging for salvation. (but when we inhale
all the oxygen, where do the
two hydrogens go?) that fresh cleanliness we take
for granted. pure, sterile liquid giving
moisture and buoyancy to our joints,
limbs, smiles. (if there is a conservation
of matter that matters, where do all the impurities
in my tap water go?)

don't waste food.
don't be so quick to throw out those
leftovers. we live in a new age where
scraps to one could mean sustenance to
another. the Syrophenician woman claims that
even the dogs will eat crumbs from the
child's table. Have we really come
to regard our neighbors,
brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers,
as less than our designer
cashmere clad pets as they pretend
an attempt to replace heightened intimacy?

conserve energy.
the world naturally conserves matter. according to some law.
there are no laws to conserve that which makes the matter functional.
leave something for that future we spend
our now obsessively planning for. ensure another day
after this one.

i watched a woman share her story on tv

she hides in herself.
desperate.
she fakes a smile.
desperate.

melting into her longing.
hesitant.
lingering in loneliness.
hesitant.

her broken self withers in frustration. willing
to do anything. prepared
to endure anything.
for glimpses.
whispered affirmations of a romanticized
emotion instead of covered
bruises and shameful scars.

desperate
to salvage any semblance of a functional relationship?
she's given up on "love" a long time ago.
desperate
to please the one she loves.
she knows she can.
desperate
enough to do, take, survive the unimaginable.
the unmanageable.
she hides in her darkness.
desperate
for a spark.
but her mirror only reflects the indefinite abyss.

To the Peacocks at St. John the Divine

an overwhelming peace that
startles. so uncommon on this day.
structure. anxiety. pressure. rushed.
instant blanket of relaxation drops. covers.
lost in this purity.
not albino. not lack of pigment.
presence of white. a cloud defining itself against a darker sky.
forced to stand out. proud to provide substance.

contrasted by the brilliance of iridescent satin in
rich royal hues. perched. watching.
guarding and regal from a rusty pipeline.
"this is my domain."
nothing is more beautiful, even if it tried.
both creatures: not necessarily powerful. still
created to stand out in both directions. perfect
balance. never conforming. don't
fit in. but two parts of a
unique whole. completing each other.

i sat on the floor at borders

Farewell, My Blood

Does a Generation, once stained, become unstained?
Or does "stain" imply a permanence I
no longer believe in?
Because everything passes and we are
all dynamic. Even the most stoic.
Because I still believe in
the nature of man. to love. Even if it skips
a generation, to stain the next
with love.

How To Find One’s Way Back From That Place “East of Eden”

Every now and then, I forget what love is.
Then, I plunge into a piece of life to emerge weeping and reeling from my intensely close encounter with humanity. And I immediately recall that gut-wrenching passion bound with a self-sacrificing loyalty that passes for a more tangible version of that romanticized emotion.
This week, that artistry was none other than the work of John Steinbeck.

Chaucer claims that there is "nothing new under the sun." Everything that is written has been written before and will be re-written until mankind gives up that false sense of pride that comes from the spark of an allegedly novel idea. This reality provides an imminent danger for a man who attempts to tell a story that has been told throughout generations since the beginning of time, literally. However, in East of Eden, Steinbeck re-creates that narrative, so ingrained in our ancestry - giving new life to those images tattooed on our souls.

Steinbeck is a master of the fine arts. He does not rely on exciting plot lines or flashy word choice. He does not cater to the new generation of overstimulated youth who require a dominant voice or image to get through the constant noise and distraction. Steinbeck's voice is soft-spoken, but firm. A storyteller who knows that his words carry weight and promise, he paints a complete, detailed picture and walks the reader through this parallel universe that resembles our own just enough to draw us in completely.

Recalling the sentiments of Gabriel Garcia Marquez' One Hundred Years of Solitude, we follow the Trask and Hamilton families through births, deaths, and the existential crises that inevitably come in between. Steinbeck explores and re-defines the boundaries of what we consider "family," as well as how we respond to the blood that runs through our veins. We slowly tear apart and rebuild our conceptions of virtue as we decide if any story with substance and complexity can justify outward displays of malice. Steinbeck's portrayal of a brother's sincere pursuit of affirmation leaves the reader at the beginning of an introspective journey through one's own essential struggle with the immense potential for both good and evil that are deeply inherent in all of us. We are candidly reminded that we live every day at the crossroads of surrender to or redemption from an elusive evil that we will never truly be free of. And so we continue, each day, making conscious choices and determining our own destiny, because "we may."