Archive for October, 2009

Her pleasure

Never have I owned so many condoms.

and been sure I wasn’t going to use them

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It’s not perfect. There are a couple of essays in here that I wasn’t feeling and the faux-blog format acts to divide it a little too much,

but this is an IMPORTANT book. This is a crucial book. This book starts a number of conversations that need to be had on a massive scale.

My mental energy is currently overtaken by some recent events in my life, but I do plan to discuss this book in depth soon. I’m throwing this post up as a reminder to myself to do that.

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fascinates and terrifies me. [and so it ends]

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Renting Refuge

I have a plan

to build or buy a property full of fireplaces.

And rent out the rooms

by the hour

to whomever wants to warm by the fire.

You can sit amongst tomes and be brought food and drink by specter’s

a place of comfort

to come into from cold.
Comfort and solitude. Just you, warmth, and whomever else you wish to invite into an ancient dusky space

by the hour.

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From Walking

This post needs some follow-up. The day I wrote it I was undergoing extreme anxiety and my first reaction to hearing I’d been accepted to Warren Wilson was skewed by that.

As of yesterday, I am officially no longer an Emerson College student. I went to fill out a withdrawal form last week and just as I was about to hand in the form I blurted out “I’m just going to hold on to this for a couple of days.” Being there made me unsure. I wanted to be a student again. And Emerson’s got this contagious buzzing energy that makes me feel like I might belong there, an energy that drew me there when I first visited four years ago. But I don’t belong there.

If I had to finish my degree at Emerson, I could surely and fairly do so. Life is grand enough here in Cambridge and Boston, Massachusetts. But though I met a few gems at that school, the majority of the relationships I’ve built here are largely superficial. This is helpful in phases such as my current one, but it’s disconcerting as well. I do feel quite alone even in this baby Cambridge community. I feel blocked from deep relationships and I’m not sure how much location is a part of that but I am eager to learn.

My memories of Emerson include walking in the cold and learning where the wind lives. Feeling tired in class. Feeling frustrated with other students in my class. Reading furiously for post-colonialism and slowly cracking open my awareness in that class. Feeling ugly. Feeling radical. Eating the same bad food every day and never feeling satisfied. Superficiality and lack of recognition. Time whipping away with the wind that collects at Copley. But Emerson did make me a post-colonial feminist (with the help of Shannon and the Cambridge Women’s Center) and it gave me some skills I wouldn’t have practiced otherwise and it gave me some people I’ll have to love forever.

Thinking about Boston brings tears to my throat [and then slowly my ducts]. It feels like it’s going to make the last two years nothing but a dream. This place that I have such conflicting feelings about. Boston’s like a friend I can’t decide whether or not to trust, to love, even to like. I came here alone. To build my life alone, after long last of needing to escape the life that’d been created for me under my parent’s house. After running away to Africa and being torn down. I came here and started things for myself in a wooden Symphony apartment, the old fashioned radiator and its ticking pipes warming my room overlooking that loud alleyway. Living there and feeling my new way around, starting from nothing. Acclimating and gathering friends like my own skirts, to have them under me to sit on, holding me up and drinking me down. Walking every day.

Then the summer was a loneliness and heat and all kinds of work I didn’t enjoy. And the clothes, wearing all of these mismatched work clothes I never knew how to do with. And Thia, in her messy smelly place. And going running and to the gym. And then it was Andrew the end of that summer.

The fall and winter again and finding classes that held meaning for me at school. Living at 669 in a community of four that cooked breakfasts and ordered Laz pizzas and got naked in bed together for the joy of seeing smile wrinkles form each others’ faces. Questioning my life every day and dampening my spirits far and far until they grazed a dirty silt ground of some sort, alone on an ikea barstool in that enormous space with nothing but the television and leftover icecream cone cupcakes. My old cellphone next to me sitting quiet and nobody picking up to help. Thia coming home to save me with a list of loves, the Wire, and some hookah. Last winter was desperation and desolation that slowly healed as our community broke apart.

Then I decided to go on the road trip. And it was the best decision I’d made in a long time. I rediscovered freedom and wideness and my pure joy and the kindness of karma. I saw a million people I cared about intensely and felt that it must be some sort of party of goodbyes for future events I couldn’t predict. I came back to Boston and recreated 669 into Virginia’s place. No TV, no internet, a writing table, records, and a hookah as the main events. Clean kitchen. Aimee and Bing. Loads of free time and job searching and bike riding ensued. It was an explorative and inspirational summer, an unabridgedly happy time.

So now, I am about to uproot. I still haven’t wholly committed myself to leaving yet. I can give 90% to believing that’s the plan, but that last ten is a hard sell. I am hoping that going to Asheville in two weeks will spur me to give myself over entirely. I am going. At this point, I know I am. And I am excited. I know not what to really expect (do we ever? yes. sometimes). I expect to be busy and structured, which I look forward to. I expect to be involved in an active community of people I enjoy. I expect to drive in my car. I expect to head to a developing country withing the next two years and learn a lot more in topics I thirst for. I expect to be warm and joyous and clean and virtuous and excited and serene. I expect to have fun and hold happiness. I’m excited to embrace an unusual opportunity and I plan the best.

Plus, there’ll be stars. And quiet. O, the timeless kind of quiet I grew up with in and outside my childhood windows. A blanketing quiet. The feeling I got in that big old Burkittsville house, all alone with my computer and Glory the anxiety-dog. A kind of privacy punctuated by feeling observed as held – a tingling sort of watchover that comes from above and all around, rather than one gaze. Unjudged and just as.

It’s just a bittersweet ending when one tale isn’t surely yet concluded. That’s the kind of thing I feel gentle and nostalgic about. And knowing that what was will never be again. Feeling the truth that I won’t be back.

And scared that I’ve never done this before. Diving in to mystery hopefully hanging on to some serenity and letting myself feel all it wants me to on the way.

Blue Ridge Mountains

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The Big Five: Current top overarching concerns of my life.

The stillness of this starless city as I'm walking home at night.

The stillness of this starless city as I'm walking home at night.

1 work.

– I hated to place this at number one, but seeing as I’m working 5-6 days a week, it’s difficult to avoid. My dreams at night are about work. I’ve been promoted to “Bartender,” which means I sling fresh juices, smoothies, espresso drinks, etc, for the whole approx. 93-seat restaurant. I gotta say, I do love steaming and foaming milk. I’m decent at the position but it doesn’t especially suit me. I’ve been struggling with unhappiness at work as of late. When I’m on bar, I don’t feel like socializing with customers or coworkers because I have so many tasks to complete and I’m still getting used to things. Other people just tend to get in the way. Today marks the first day I have off after 8 days straight of working; it’s no wonder I’m feeling burnt out. For the most part, I love my job and I feel blessed to be working at a place like Trident. But I cannot WAIT to sit down in a car with Melanie and drive 1900 miles after next week. And spend a couple of days with my mommy on the way!!

2 my own little life.

– Unsure what to title this piece of the Big Five. My first try was “isolation,” but it’s more than that. Truth, I have isolated myself from many of my friends over the past couple of months. This summer was a very social time for me, however it was social in that I attracted and gave attentions to new people, people I wasn’t necessarily planning to commit to in any way. This behavior seems to at last be waning a bit, but I am not returning to old and good friends. I am finding that these days, my energies like to be spent inside my own little life. Practicing, learning, caring for myself, and sort of reforming. The people I love have been gently moved towards the periphery. I struggle with this because I haven’t done it before. The people in my life have always played a major role and garnered much of my attentions. I don’t feel any less care towards them than usual, I just don’t need them omnipresent right now. I wonder how the changing of seasons affects these behaviors..

3 spirituality and self-healing.

– To go along with my little life and the elimination of social distraction, my interest in my own spirituality is prickling. I had a minor surgery a month ago and the incision has refused to heal. My body rebels against antibiotics. I decided recently, then, that I was just going to heal myself.

– Yona’s serenity and calmness in all of his calamity is fascinating and enviable. I will achieve it.

– Realizing how spiritual I am as a person, automatically. Living simply. Avoiding excess. Remembering the goal of long-term happiness. Reminding myself that I am safe. Having gratitude and cheer. Seeing (looking, knowing).

4 my body.

– Letting myself come back into it. Paying attention and giving, caring for it.

5 transitioning.

– Place to place and life to life.

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I haven’t felt like writing these days past. Or creating anything of significance, besides a mound of stretched faces full of wrinkles and squints squeezed and rolled between my palms. And that was a fleeting want last night, banished by the realization that art costs money. And I don’t really “get” money enough to know whether I’m able to spend it on clay these days.


I’m finding things out slowly, unraveling, winding out like yarn in the way Kant postulated was grounds for this universe. I’m finding that I hold myself back. I’m finding that I’m often balanced on some plane between reality and imagination and unclear on what’s worthy of belief.

A friend wrote me a letter this week. In which he informed me that I’m going to miss out on a lot of love in life because I don’t give myself over. But I do give myself, just in doses. I am honest and I am real. He criticized that I don’t give out love fully. and it’s true –

Until recently I hadn’t come across anyone I’d be willing to do that for [and scare me shitless now the possibility is there]

Anyway, I haven’t felt like writing much. I didn’t know what I’d have to write about


Leaf Stain

the ghosts of leaves that smear in auburn shadows on the sidewalk, pressed there first by a breeze then by some moisture which clung them to the stone. Ground in again by the soles of who knows how many shoes and eventually disintegrated into these magick autumn specter’s.

Or I could write about the mystery fruit that hangs from the tree on Prospect street-

baby lychee Christmas ornaments, round pink spindles tender to the touch and velveteen. I can’t resist picking one every time I walk by – so barely clinging to the branch that it nearly volunteers to drop into my hand and the sound it makes is a quiet rip of firm balmy meat as I tear it in half and observe the peach color and moisture innards.

Or what of the woman I saw two days ago, as I sat outside Cafe Luna in bright fall.

Two children with her, one about 4 and the other I’d guess around 2. The younger was climbing on a chair and he fell straight over it, onto the concrete below. She yelled his name and rushed to help him up from the ground. He starts to cry. Standing him upright, a bright red smear of blood blossomed onto his forehead. The woman SCREAMED. She picked up the child and put him into the carriage, needing to go. Telling the other child to follow, she began running with the carriage in one direction, it was clear she had no destination she just needed to move. Another woman chased after her and told her there was a fire house just across the street.

I am sitting here, thinking this is the last thing I want to witness right now. I can’t handle this right now. I’m pushing it to the periphery of my thoughts as everyone around me rubbernecks agape.

The woman runs back towards me, the firehouse to my rear. She is shouting continuously and nonsensically. She is sobbing. I look at the hurt child in the carriage and it is plain as day to me that he is fine. He’s cut his forehead and his cheeks are stained with tears, but he is fine. She runs into traffic with both children. Someone shouts that they’ll be hit by a car. Over in the firehouse, she SHRIEKS at the top of her lungs that she needs help she SHRIEKS and SHRIEKS and her crazed desperation reverberates off the open garage walls all around us. I close my eyes and turn it all off.

It’s this kind of emotional self-protection that I’m not sure I should be engaging in.

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