Single Samurai

Living the Questions

2010-02-08T10:30:00.005-05:00

"Despite my thirty years of research into the feminine soul, I have not been able to answer... the great question that has never been answered: what does a woman want?" - Sigmund Freud

"Why don't you go have dinner with the guy?" BK asked, suggesting a relaxing evening after our stressful day.
"He's sleeping," I replied. "He got up early to watch the Superbowl."

Shock. Awe. Simultaneous feelings of cuteness and, quite frankly, weirdness.

The words that came out of my mouth are not words that normally come of my mouth nor would fittingly flow from my mouth. I just referred to a guy as "the guy" and as someone waking up early to watch the Superbowl. What is odd about it is that I think it is cute.

I do not really see, date, contemplate men who watch the Superbowl to watch a football game. I see men who go to Superbowl parties because it is the Superbowl. I see men who go to Superbowl parties because there will be good food there. I date men who make theme parties around the Superbowl. I date men who go to Superbowl parties to watch the commercials. I contemplate men who write copy for ads for the Superbowl. When I contemplate a man, football really doesn't come to mind.

Scategories, Trivial Pursuit, Futbol, Salsa, Travel, Books, books, books, bedroom, books, bedroom, food, bedroom, dancing, stocks, books, economics, foreign films, news, travel, politics, photography, books, bedroom...These are the interests of the men whom I contemplate. Yet, I realized with a small thrill, a chill, that there is something nice - cute even - about the man who gets up early, before work, to watch a football game a world away. Of course this is bolstered by the fact that he scored many points prior to espousing his interest in said football fest.

He made me dinner. I told Mister Meh.

"Did he make it lactose free and wheat free and everything?" This is Mister Meh's first question about the food.

"Yes, yes, yes," I responded. There would be no debate if he did not.

"This may be the guy."

I hesitated. I am a heady girl - and this is my conundrum.

The man has scored major points in less than a week. First of all, he spins - I love to dance. His skills are impressive. He took me home, paid for the cab, and did not take advantage of me. He saw my messy flat. He saw my messy car. He still made me dinner. He made me dinner. He made me gluten-free, lactose-free dinner. I like this. He opens doors and pays for coffee. He walked with me to the pharmacy to buy tampons after giving me Ibuprofen at his place. These are quality qualities. My love language is acts of service and I am an organizational disaster - it takes a lot to quiet the cacophony in my brain, so these things are important. But there are practical matters that must be tended to.

I am of the mind. The DJ is of the body. I am yin, he is yang. I LOVE books and ideas and politics and fantasies and imagination and writing and photography and academia. I love being a nerd. I love nerds - Peter Orszag-style nerds. I knew nerd was the new sexy prior to the Obama administration making it cool . There is a reason Orszag has had a hot new fiance, a baby, and a baby mama - all within one year.

I like men who talk about the margin of diminishing returns, Html, Xtml, dividends, derivatives, precedence, and bipartisanship. I like men who discuss DNA, norepinephrine, the Atlantic Monthly and The New Yorker. Men who who would appreciate Big, the collaborative project between between the Atlanta Ballet and Big Boi. Stephen Colbert, Wolf Blitzer, Jackson Pollock, da Vinci and W.E.B. du Bois. I need to talk about AfriCobra, Impressionists, Monet, Manet, Matisse, and Modigliani. El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, Dr. King, Jesus, Mohammad, Yahweh. Race. Class. Education. Socio-economics. Cornel West. The Bodhisattva, Buddhism, Siddhartha, OM, Aum, Ahimsa, Namaste, Shanti, Shanti, Shanti....TS Eliot.

But the DJ is a breath of fresh air. Following in the footsteps of My Scotty with the door opening and the patient demeanor. Paying attention to what I say and not faulting my imperfections. Calling when he says he will, and talking about "next time." We like this. This is rational.

Then I am back in my head and it is abstract again. The DJ reads occasionally. I read three books at time. I love the news, he loves football. I want to move to New York City, he wants to go to Southeast Asia. I carry tight, turgid karma; his is clear - lucid and naive. My turgid karma could taint his lucid karma. The odds are questionable.

I want a psychological match. I want an intellectual match. I want a physical match. I do not know to what degree this makes a difference.

In theory, we seek the yin and the yang - the active and the receptive. In theory, there is a balance. I always sought this balance in right-brained - left-brained dynamics - not in body/mind dynamics.

I can neither confirm nor deny Mister Meh's suggestion that said DJ may be the one. After less than a week, I am not yet there. Yes, I enjoyed myself with him, and yes, he is thoughtful and fun. He is not my traditional "type", but I am now being more reflective, flexible, honest, and measured in my dating decisions. Hell, this is not even a relationship yet; it is undefined. It is a question, and I have not yet an answer.

Love Understated

2010-01-29T11:45:00.005-05:00

The face of a lover is an unknown, precisely because it is invested with so much of oneself. It is a mystery, containing, like all mysteries, the possibility of torment. - James Baldwin Another Country, 1962

I just fell in love with a news article. And a man. Or a man. Both?

It is not rare that I fall in love with an article in The New York Times. It is not rare that I fall in love with the idea of a man in the news - usually one who writes it as opposed to one who is the subject of it. I was born a lover of words and I will die a lover of words. I am a self-proclaimed journalism junkie and a proud lover of men. This situation, this circumstance, should be of no surprise.

But it is. And it is different. I long ago gave up hope that my fairytale family dream would one day come true. I am, after all, five years past my ideal marrying age and three years older than the impending birth of my first child.

The day I graduated from college my family was asking me when I was going to get married - well, the ladies two generations past were. My mother was adamant that I have a career, travel, blah, blah, blah before I got married. I, however, did not give a damn. I figured I would travel with my husband. That's all we would do in those two years between the wedding and the kids, and then again after the kids were born and while they were being born. I was going to be a wife. Whatever came in between the degree and the death certificate were of no matter as long as I got my family. I would figure out the rest, and my husband and I would find a way to do our share of saving the world together.

Alas, here I am with my series of careers and my travels - no husband, no babies, no joint getaways. No common cause.

And today I read this article about John Bowe and the book he wrote “Us: Americans Talk About Love," - a groundbreaking new way to talk about romance - firsthand - his collection of oral histories. I am in love with his story, for it so mirrors mine - "beginning with a high school relationship in which he and a girlfriend broke up and got back together", followed by his film school girl, much like my senior year of college/post college love - in which we were similarly unable to resolve our problems, and best described by "his 30s — when he alternated between “long stretches of being alone” and “one-night stands or lame affairs,” (that would be my 20s and my 30s). All of which, I confess, leaves one a little skeptical about the opportunities for and sustainable existence of romantic love.

The most compelling aspect of Bowe's story is not that he met and fell in love with a woman to the extent that he had to explore this all-encompassing event/circumstance/situation, but that he thought - and may still think - he's going about it the best and logical way - that's what we all think, right? That we get the degree, we get the career, and then we get the family. He knows - he is absolutely positive - as much as I know and am absolutely positive, that when he has a family and kids, he will be happy. And that is not to mean that either of us is unhappy now - it just means that there is this effusive amount of love and joy and energy and adoration and passion and dedication at the surface of our hearts and we cannot wait to share it with those people in the houseful of love we have waited decades to create. But, no pressure.

The hardest concept for me to understand in my 20s was that just as much as women are "looking for love"- or hoping that the next person they date will either be the next person they fall in love with or choose to spend the rest of their life with - so are men. There are actually men who hope upon their next silence-inducing kiss or breathless moment complete with racing-heart-and-loss-for-words or simultaneous outburst of "Me too!", that she will be the one. But I am older and more cynical and I still find that a tiny bit optimistic. So I play it safe.

I read articles about men who reside in turn-of-the-century flats in The City, publish books, and live the much-aspired-to-life of working as a journalist for social justice; I travel, figure out my next career step, which will undoubtedly lead me to an existence in which I am residing in turn-of-the-century flats in The City, publishing books, and living the much-aspired-to-life of working as a journalist for social justice, and I contemplate falling in love with a man who appears not as the subject or the author of one my news journalism fantasies, but as someone more tangible than words.

"Go out in the woods, go out. Go out in the woods, go out."

2010-01-12T11:01:00.004-05:00

This is how she learned that it is true what they say, that the wolf is the wisest of all. If you listen closely, the wolf in its howling is always asking the most important question--not where is the next food, not where is the next fight, not where is the next dance?--- but the most important question in order to see into and behind, to weigh the value of all that lives,

wooooooooor
aieeeee th'
soooooooool?"
wooooooooor
aieeeee th'
soooooooool?"
Where is the soul?
Where is the soul?

- The Wolf's Eyelash, Clarissa Pinkola Estes

My copy of Women Who Run With the Wolves is beat up. That may be putting it mildly. I have been having a love affair with the holy book for years now, too many too count. I officially finished the book - as in have read every story, every analysis, and every page - tonight while I was in the bathtub. It was my bathtub book. For years. Granted, there were nights when I read other books in the bath - When Things Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron, Normal is Just a Setting on the Dryer by Adair Lara, and of course Cameron Tuttle's Bad Girls' Guide to Getting What You Want - but I always came back to Women Who Run With the Wolves.

I feel proud. I feel whole. I feel as though I should cheer for myself - have a ceremony. I feel as though every tale in this book, in this collection of Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype, has followed my journey of the past several years. When I was reading last night or last week that each of the phases of a woman's life is about seven years, I realized I have been reading this book, on and off for the past seven years. In the beginning, I read only what I thought I needed to, Skeleton Woman. For so long the tale of Skeleton Woman and the love/death/love cycle was what I thought I needed - since I always seemed to be in the love/death/love cycle with one of my beaus. Eventually I kept reading, and Clarissa Pinkola Estes kept telling me my own story. She told me my tales, she told me my loves. She told me of my smarts and of my foolishness. She continually pointed out the shenanigans I continued to put up with - Bluebeard - and she always reassured me about my intuition. Then she isolated the beauty of the Ugly Duckling - me - and I knew I had found a home. The night I read of the Ugly Duckling - sometime in the fall of 2007 - I knew I was home. I knew I needed to thrive not just survive. I knew I had to keep reading. My life depended on it.

At this point in my life, several ideas, actions, thoughts, and goals are coming together. I have quit smoking cigarettes - the hardest thing I have ever done. I will not suffer for the sins of the mother, nor carry their burdens in my brain. I am fully and completely and wholly single. I have no "best friend", no ambiguous lover, no so-called "guy I am seeing or something," no boyfriend, no beau, no future husband. After years of rebounds and flings I am finally able to mourn My Michelangelo - as melancholy as it is, it is more so healing. I am committed to my goal of living my Plan A as opposed to torturing myself in Plan B. Although it means waking up at the grueling hour of 4:00 am to pursue my passion and saying no to friends and getting ready for bed at 7:30 pm. I am finding the balance between work and play and people and solitude and rest and discipline and love. I have decided I will no longer live my present to make up for the sins of my past.

I no longer fall prey to Bluebeard. I have shaken out the Doll in My Pocket. I now know the dance of Skeleton Woman, and I accept it. The Ugly Duckling, I have found my home. No longer am I a slave to The Red Shoes, no longer The Little Match Girl. I live in my own skin, in clear water. I climb the mountain and I am no longer a prisoner of my own rage. After years without them, my hands have grown back again. I am out in the woods. I am howling. I will follow the General Wolf Rules for Life: Eat, Rest, Rove in between, Render loyalty, Love the children, Cavil in the moonlight, Tune my ears, Attend to the bones, Make love, and howl often.

I am in the mood to celebrate.

Just because I have finished reading Women Who Run With the Wolves, by no means am I done with it. I will read it again and often. It lives within me. The hero's journey is a cycle, it is a cycle of birth and rebirth and it is continuous - so is life.

I have embraced my gifts. I have come to terms with my hair. I have let go of self-hatred and the quest to define who I am as a result of my skin color or despite it. I, finally, love my feet. I am not part of a people but I am a person. I am woman. I am La Que Sabe. I am La Loba. I howl.

Full Circle

2010-01-08T09:29:00.006-05:00

The good life is inspired by love and guided by knowledge. - Bertrand Russell

I am still confused as to why I am experiencing delayed mourning for My Michelangelo. In part I am grateful. I am grateful because he and I, we had a good love. I haven't loved anyone as openly and as purely as I loved My Michelangelo. He was honest. He wasn't a player. He was not constantly looking for someone else. He was never looking for anyone else. He was a good man, and you all know what I mean by a good man.

I was part of his family. I was there for his mother's birthday. I was there for Thanksgiving at his father's. I took his sister out for her 21st birthday, in his absence. It was his mother who invited me over for ice cream, when he was out with his ex-girlfriend wishing her farewell. I photographed his sister's tap company - they were one of my major projects as a photojournalism major. His mother talked me through many a panic attacks and my own irrationality. She made sure I was safe - even years after we broke up.

I had special outfits for each time he came home from a trip, and he always brought me something special - a silver hair piece from Mexico, black pearls from Spain. I danced for him - when we were out and when we were home. I even made my friend Emily hook up my garter belts on New Year's Eve when I was too tipsy to do it myself. I loved him fiercely. I saved the little money I earned from my three jobs at school to take him out to nice dinners for special occasions - he was a foodie, so this was important. He took me out just as often. I dropped off presents for him in the middle of the night. We wrote each other letters. We dreamt the same dream on the same night at the same time. I was always excited to see him. I was never bored with him, nor he with me. I knew all of his friends, and he knew all of mine. They took care of each other in Europe. We all took care of each other. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. We were one hot couple.

"He adores you," my friends would tell me. They saw the good love. I was busy with my paranoia.

I had to grow out of my paranoia and into myself. If we had not have broken up once all the fighting began to take over our relationship, who knows what would have happened. So, initially our parting was necessary. But the good love, the good love we experienced between us - that is irreplaceable.

So, after all these years of being captivated with intelligent men, with traveling men, with men fascinated with me - just enough - all these years without real love, without a real relationship, without good love - my mourning in fact comes right on time.

I have spent the past seven to eight years trying to figure out how to be a better partner. Trying to be a better partner - increase my market value. I have spent the past seven years trying to make up for the crazy-jealous girl I was to my true love.

I went to talking therapy. I learned how to meditate and began doing yoga. I tried a plethora of anti-depressants to eliminate anxiety - all of which were all wrong. I tried to give to the world. I learned how to budget money. I moved overseas, so that as the perfect partner, I could share that experience with my perfect mate as well. I quit smoking and I quit drinking excessively. I even gave up sex - for years at a time. I was obsessed with being a better person and a better mate. I read incessantly. The Seat of the Soul. The Road Less Traveled. Women Who Run With the Wolves. The Celestine Prophecy. Wherever You Go, There You Are. Comfortable With Uncertainty. When Things Fall Apart. I never wanted to be that crazy-jealous girlfriend again. I never wanted again to be crippled by anxiety or to cripple my relationship because of it.

I tried different kinds of love and lust. But none of them worked. None of them were real and pure and true. At most they were incendiary infatuations, at least, they were fantastical flings. I worked for The Cause and I focused on The Mission. I moved overseas. I began a magazine. I presented at workshops and received grants and fellowships.

I, some years ago, spoke to him, My Michelangelo, of trying again someday. But sometime, in the meantime, I became obsessed with being the perfect me, the perfect partner.

So here I am. I am in shock that he married the boring girl. I am in shock that I didn't try again when I had the chance. I am in shock that I am living across the globe, with nary a partner in sight, alone, wondering what I have been doing for the past five, six, seven years. I am in shock that I have piddled away the past eight years trying to become a perfect partner searching for the perfect person, when in fact I had him many years ago.

So here I am. Nearly eight years after we broke up and over four years after we last spoke of our love, I am overseas, calm. I am a yogi, I know how to breathe. I have patience and I am self-confident. I know what I want from life. I am no longer crazy jealous. I know how to take care of myself and I can even make a good pie crust. I know how to love, in many different ways. I know my values. I have a vision. I stayed on the path, stayed in the struggle, learned how to be a better partner. And I am just now realizing that my perfect mate was five or six or seven or eight years ago, and he got married without me.

That is the downside. There is an upside.

The upside, is that while I was trying to make those infatuations and flings the perfect love, I didn't. I kept striving for something better and I am glad I did. Because now, in my belated mourning, I am reminded of the good love. My Michelangelo and I had the good love. If I had followed through with any of those temporary trysts over the past several years, I'd have been settling. I'd have been restrained and conformist. I would not have been myself. While My Michelangelo and I had our dark times, we had plenty of light. It's that light that I want in my next great romance(s) and what I have not had in my previous ones since. So now, I am reminded of the joy of a great love. While inside I am mourning the fact that it wasn't My Michelangelo - good, wonderful man that he is - I am grateful that I have not made the mistake of settling for anything less. I am grateful that I am reminded of the goodness and the light and the purity of our love - because it is that unrestrained romance and beauty and lust and respect and honor and dedication I want in my future love.

I am accepting this recent reflection as for the better. I am accepting it as a reminder of what being in love is all about. I am accepting it as a warning and a blessing. So that if and when I am afforded the opportunity of pursuing one more great love, I can recognize it for what it is. I am accepting it as a warning and a blessing. So that I can remember how I lost so much before as well as all I have learned since. I am accepting it as a warning and a blessing. So that when the opportunity comes along again, when I meet a man as pure and as honest and as impressive as My Michelangelo again, I will embrace the gift with open arms, as opposed to looking a gift horse in the mouth.

Delayed Dreams

2010-01-02T14:22:00.004-05:00

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

-Langston Hughes

Today I am haunted by the past. For the past few weeks actually. My Michelangelo is everywhere lately, in my mind, in my heart, in my soul, in my jewelry box, in my Inbox. the memories have not been this vivid in years - maybe as long as five, six, seven, eight years. But they are here now and it is overwhelming. He is in the food that I eat and he is at the restaurants I go to. Eight years later I am 8,000 miles away from him and he is here breathing with me. Torture.

Back in September or October, surprisingly I cannot remember which, I came home from an outing with friends and jauntily picked up my computer to check my Facebook messages. There it was: "...my big bro's getting married tomorrow." His sister's status update. She only has one brother. He was the one. He is the one. He was the one.

He drove me crazy. I drove him crazy. I drove myself crazy. It was all lust and love and persistence and persuasion - for months. And then it was ex-girlfriend and taking space and separation anxiety. And separation anxiety. And anxiety. And panic attacks. And ex-girlfriend. And paranoia. And separation anxiety. And anxiety. And panic attacks. And fighting and fighting and fighting. But amidst it all so much love and so much care. And so much me being 22. And then - gone.

He is in my New Year's Eve memories, and in my closets, and in my drawers. He is in every incarnation of myself since the year 2000.

We broke up in 2002. Nearly eight years ago. Today, I feel as though we broke up yesterday. I checked my emails...apparently I had deleted them all. I found one, to my girlfriends, from 2004 telling them that My Michelangelo and I had spoken about trying again one day. I remember the phone conversation we had in 2005, about the need not to speak any longer. Yes, he loved me best, but she didn't fight with him. Talking with me confused him. I had taught him that being so close with the ex-girlfriend wasn't so good for the relationship. I respected his decision. I lived with his sister at the time. His family was my family.

And then they weren't.

And now he's married. And now I wake up with swollen eyes and a mourning heart for a man I lost too many years ago.

Where has all this mourning come from? I wonder if spending all those years trying to forget, trying to find a new love, trying to get over my self - all of those things that caused me to fight with him, were just a distraction from the real mourning process. There is nothing here to help me now. No alcohol, no cigarettes, no talking doctor, no single friends to share with, no random man who just might be my next love. Just me.

We were in love. He adored me and I adored him. Aside from the fighting - it was the stuff of dreams. It seems unattainable - that kind of unrestrained love I had for him - there was no other man in the world. And then he wasn't. And we weren't.

As I write this, I have to the realization that my entire quest to become sane, to become a woman who doesn't fight all the time, to get over the panic attacks and the separation anxiety - all of the things that have gotten me where I am today - across the world, single, and the exact opposite of where I want to be - were all for him; however, I was so focused on the journey, I completely lost sight of the goal. And for once in my life, I have no idea what that means.

In Light of the Solstice

2009-12-21T00:24:00.003-05:00

"I will love the light for it shows me the way. Yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars. " Og Mandino

The Winter Solstice is one of my favorite holidays. It has come to replace my New Years Eve and my Christmas for several reasons. It is conscious, spiritual, and respectful, while it is not contentious, hedonistic, or religious. It is a time of reflection and good will. While it is a day of the dark, it is a day about the light.

For many, the Solstice is a time of reversal, rebirth, and renewal. The longest night of the year, it is a marker of a new year in itself. For this reason, the Solstice becomes a celebration of life and the people we share it with. Many of us take the time during the Solstice to reach out to others - loved ones, acquaintances, estranged friends, strangers. The Solstice becomes a very beautiful- almost holy - holiday this way - one about light despite the darkness, about birth as opposed to death. It is about generosity and giving and being one with the Earth and the sun, the moon and the stars, the day and the night. It is about acceptance and open hands and open arms. It is a warm, heartfelt holiday for all of us to embrace.

So on this Solstice, I am making my way for the New Year. It is an ideal time to reflect on the past, contemplate the present, and clear the way for the future. Inspired by Weusi, who defined his desires for the New Year and is making them concrete both on his blog and in his world, I decided there is no better way to usher in the New Year than to make clear my desires for the New Year as well. After all, if I am going to continue "saying yes to whatever the Universe has to offer", I might as well tell it what I want.

Since the longest day of darkness is truly about light, I will craft my desires around some of my favorite light-refracting objects - gems. I define my desires for the New Year by Cut, Clarity, Carat and Color, for I would like my life to be as awe inspiring, as brilliant, as bodacious, as curious, as valued, and as valuable as the baubles that I love.

CUT: Cut is best reflected in my life by my good health. I seek mental, emotional, and physical health first and foremost, followed by a fit body. I will continue to pursue and prepare to meet these goals, and I ask that the Universe continue to provide all that I need to continue my quest.

CLARITY: I seek from the Universe clarity. I know myself. I know my strengths and my limitations, I know my green zones and red zones, I know what I can accept and embrace and I know what I must reject and why. While I am grateful I have many choices, I also need the impetus to solidify decisions and move forward purposefully. Thus as I continue this journey, I seek further clarity for the future in order to define my relationships, my career, and my goals - both personal and professional.

CARAT: I want the greatest carat, quality, and hardness on the Mohs scale life can provide. In my life this equals abundance. I seek abundance first and foremost in the form of love - both in opportunities to give and receive it, secondly in my relationships - may the be reciprocal, sustainable, and consistent; and finally, in wealth - may I have health insurance, shelter, the ability to pay debts, and the ability to save money. Ultimately this will contribute to bountiful social capital and the security to develop my personal and professional goals.

COLOR: Our prana, our qi, our aura - it's all made of colors. Like nature, our bodies absorb and reflect the colors of the spectrum, while the colors simultaneously reflect our lives. In this journey, I would like my colors to be a vibrant range of joie de vivre. I will contribute all I can to this result, and I ask that the Universe assist me in my quest.

I am an emerald. A 7.5 on Mohs Scale. Full of inclusions (flaws) which upon further inspection, look like gardens. Emeralds can be brilliant and clear or cloudy and thick. I could be any emerald, anywhere on any given day. I am content with that. Simultaneously, I'd love to be Alexandrite...or Ruby...or better yet a Diamond. But that would require a lot more pressure from the Universe and a lot less light.

Light is our life. The Solstice is a celebration because we humans need light during the darkness. Winter is a cold, cold season in more ways than one. While asking of the Universe that which we need it to provide, we simultaneously find ways to give to others that which they may not be able to produce on their own. The world is round - it is not linear - and there is no finer day to celebrate that fact than on the day when we are reminded most of what we need, due to the lack of it. Light is a gift and it shines in more ways than one.

This Used To Be My Playground

2009-07-17T23:24:00.004-04:00

"The notion of a universality of human experience is a confidence trick and the notion of a universality of female experience is a clever confidence trick." - Angela Carter

Sometimes I think it's over between us. Nothing new has been penned here in this space since January of 2008... I don't think. I am pretty sure that anything posted after that was something I found that was written in the time when writing was all I could do. I thought those days were over, at that time...but now I am not so sure. And I don't know quite how to begin again.

There is GlobalMuse and she does fine by her damn self, but she cannot unleash her innermost thoughts, dreams and desires. GlobalMuse is universal whereas Single Samurai, she gets pretty personal. I wonder if I should begin a new blog, but that seems so unnecessary and almost counter-intuitive. I think about changing the color of the background, but I am not entirely sold on that. I'd have to play with it for awhile and I am not fully committed to Single Samurai yet again. I am just toying with the idea.

But I have a new muse and it's not really global, but it sure is greater than I and I don't have the desire to fight it. I really, would much embrace it and succumb to it and let it engulf me and give myself over to its power. His power. But I know not where or when or how to do that, so I write. I write because it provides the relief I need, the resolution I need, the way out of this maze, this labyrinth, this vortex of overwhelming emotions and copious ideas about what could be.

And it's terrifying how these ideas engulf me, taking me down into the vortex of endorphins based on an idea and a romance and a life far from lived and far from reality but much too near to neglect.

So I stand still. I stand still and I let wave after wave wash over me through the heart chakra and out of my fingertips and I wonder. I toy with an idea that makes me dance for joy and warily bite my lip at the same time and unbeknownst to me so does my muse, I think.

Finish This Phrase

2009-04-20T15:27:00.004-04:00

A friend of mine, my Knight in Tarnished Armor, used to play word games on Gmail chat, and "Finish this phrase" was one of them.

It's Clearly Obvious to Me...

It's clearly obvious to me that life is difficult. Life is a result of the clarity we lack and the dreams that drive us to blur the lines between fantasy and reality. Life is everything I thought it would be and very little of what I hoped it would be. Life has become one extended Plan B, composed of time-filling hobbies and romantic follies and me pretending I have no heart. It is clearly obvious to me that life is not what it is composed of, but who it is composed with.

April 04, 2007

It's Clearly Obvious to Me...

It's clearly obvious to me that life is a series of unwritten moments waiting to be revealed. All of the syllables are air apparent, and conceived by universal spirit, and matter, but have yet to come together to form a more perfect union. When inspired, neurons fire and a chemical, a physical, a hormonal, an emotional, a behavioral reaction occurs and letters form syllables form words form songs form conversation - form action, reaction, - interaction. At times the letters and syllables and sounds get confused and form a discordant cacophonous symphony of tattered tragedy, but alas life is.

April 7, 2007

Damsel in Dis Tress

2008-01-26T00:28:00.001-05:00

one day
a man will climb up into my hair
and right into my head.
he gets lost at first,
tangled up in kink and curl...
but this man...
he has the courage to keep trying.
although, every time he frees himself from a tangled mass
he gets right caught... in another.

but he climbs again...
persistent and determined, and confused by this mess
he again attempts to win, this damsel in dis tress.

eventually, he conquers the coarse
and unforgiving mane
and slips right inside my locked-up mind
to become a part of my torturous brain. (03.09.07)

therein my convoluted matter
he struggles,
gasping for air,
and fighting to see
the light at the end of the tunnel.

nearly drowning in this gooey mess,
with folds and wrinkles deep and dark,
he battles the bowels of my innermost thoughts
knowing that they are both at once
beautiful and twisted, much like the
tresses he recently conquered.

and with the knowledge
that he not only survived,
but subjugated those dreaded locks
he knows that he not only
will live through this lewdness...
he loves it....in all of its ambivalent
amorphous candor.

euphoric in his new-found knowledge,
persistent and determined, and confused by this mess
he again attempts to win, this damsel in dis tress. (03.17.07)

mesmerized and perplexed
by what he'd witnessed and endured(03.27.07)
this man continues, albeit yet
he is far from reassured.
he shimmies down to further his quest
and finds himself inside my vest
of armour
a cavity 'tis dark and wet
and frankly seems a muddled mess

he tramps around and stomps about
and finds himself standing out -
side of a fancy fortress
locked and barred and all walled up
a daunting task
if he's ever seen such

he draws in his breath and takes a seat
in his heart of hearts he questions this feat
bars and chains and locks aplenty
elicits a task he no longer finds funny
he's subdued my tresses
and subjugated my mind,
completed those unsuspecting tasks,
but the strength to go on
he knows not if he'll find

but within himself he feels the urge
to carry on his charge
he's learned so much
he's forever changed
since he entered my crazy mane
invested his time
so he may find
the answer in this quest
all these chains and bars and locks
he views as just a test

so he stands to win...
persistent and determined, and confused by this mess
he again attempts to win, this damsel in dis tress

* a poem continually updated*

The Transformation

2008-01-15T07:41:00.001-05:00

I slept in the middle of the bed last night. Sans laptop, but I kept the book. Since I did not behave according to the information in it last time I read it, I figure that perhaps sleeping with the book, in addition to reading it, might help.

I awoke in the center of the bed and I felt good. I felt like I was swimming.

Breaking the Surface

2008-01-14T21:10:00.001-05:00

"Sometimes God calms the storm. At other times, he calms the sailor. And sometimes he makes us swim." ~Author Unknown

For me, Samsara is deadly. Some enjoy the wild ride and the high life and the drama, but it sucks the life out of me.

I just laughed at myself in the mirror. I look the way I feel. I question the scale at my doctor's office because it says I've gained at least 5 pounds, but I look like I have lost 15. I look like I feel - a ghost of my Self.

For me, Samsara is a whirlpool. It is not even as forgiving as quicksand. There is no way of getting out when I am engulfed - I just spiral down and drown. Then, when it is over and I hit bottom, I hold my breath all the way until I reach the surface and I am able to swim on my own. I am still holding it.

The reason I was looking in the mirror is that I was preparing to sit at my altar. I am preparing to sit at my altar. It is uncomfortable. It no longer comes naturally. I can count the number of times I have sat in front of my sacred space since September with my ten toes. That was over 133 days ago.

Now, I must give myself credit. I do practice yoga everyday, as well as take the dog for a long walk each eve, and I have learned to sit still in the bathtub. But sitting still with myself is another story. It is somehow more personal, more intimate, and more honest. It is certain, and there is no escape.

The altar is where I learn to breathe. Every time, after I drown myself in some idea, person, entity, or illusion, I have to learn to breathe again. So now I need air, and my altar is where I find it.

As I readied myself to sit, I paused when I saw the woman in the mirror because she is not the woman who 'be' at my altar. I have known that for quite some time now, and perhaps that is why I did not permit her to sit there.

My Side of the Bed II

2008-01-14T20:05:00.003-05:00

"you young people, you wake up in bed with your laptop right there with you. you wake up with your little ear plugs, ear buds, already plugged in and you just roll over and log on..." - Garrison Keillor, A Prairie Home Companion,

I moved my bed for the new year. I wanted to improve the energy in my bedroom. I wanted to have sex. It worked. Of course, I forgot to move the painting above the new space for the bed, so that caused some complications, but in reference to Redecorating 101 (a post as of yet incomplete and still in the archives) the first time a man loses his juice in my boudoir, there must be some sort of memorable catastrophe. Luckily, PD's wounds were minor compared to My Michelangelo and the Preacher, who were burned and bleeding respectively.

No man has yet been permitted to sleep here, so the past few days have been curious. I have gone back to sleeping on my side of the bed, and I have not shared one but as many times as I can count on one hand in over a year.

Just like last year, the other side of the bed is cluttered with books, my laptop, the all-important (albeit dangerous) heating pad and my remote control. No more middle of the bed.

I had slept in the middle of the bed for nearly a year and now back to old ways. I have yet to comprehend why, but I'll propose several theories:

1) Since I moved the bed, this side (which is not the side I slept on before) is closer to the middle of the room, so perhaps I gravitate toward it.

2) I equivocate my love losses with sleeping or the bed or vulnerability (although the last object of my affection and I did not share a bed) and therefore perhaps feel more secure on one side of the bed.

3) I forget to roll over before I fall asleep.

4)I'm not really sleeping anyway, so it makes sense to be closer to everything else in the room.

5) My bed is so cluttered from all the activities I now complete until I fall asleep, there's nowhere for me to go.

Whatever the psychology behind my nighttime neurosis, I recognize I have to get back to the middle of the bed. When I lie in the middle of the bed, I sleep better. I also feel better about myself. I recognize that the space on the other side is not going to be filled any time soon and I am OK with that.

I do not yet know if sleeping in the middle of the bed helps me learn to breathe on my own again. I do not yet know if by the time I make it to the middle of the bed I have healed myself enough in other ways to feel better. I do not know if I feel better, because I sleep better when I give myself more space. None of those reasons seem to matter. I now realize I make it back to the middle of the bed when I am ready.

As I sit here, I look over at my new issue of Paste, my new Victoria's Secret® catalog, my remote control and my post-it notes (I just put in a new shelf today for the books and my journal) I am wary and my stomach is slightly nauseous. The task of clearing off the bed and making a conscious effort to sleep in the cold void is overwhelming. For now, this clutter is comfortable and safe.

Putting myself out there, in the middle of the bed, alone with my legs free and my arms free and my head free and room to breathe...it seems like a lot. I'm just not ready yet.

Tales from the Tower III

2008-01-12T16:30:00.000-05:00

she sang sweetly
and she waited

she sang sweetly
and she called
for him

she danced
and she twirled
and she waited
for him

finally, a beam
of light shone into the tower
and she heard a voice,
the voice of a good man

so she sang sweetly
and she called
for him

she danced
and she twirled
and she waited
for him

she dreamed
and she planned
and she called again
for him

and through the hollow
where the light shone in
he responded

he spoke
and he soothed
her soul

he told her tales
and he whispered
and he told her to wait

he told her to trust him
and to be patient

so she sang,
though this time a little softer

and she danced
more for herself than for anyone else

and she twirled,
but not enough for her dress to flare,
and she waited

slowly it began to get dark
and she called to him

he responded through that gap in the tower
and he talked to her,
and he told her stories
and he told her to be patient

so she sat down to wait.

but she no longer sang
and she no longer danced
and she no longer twirled

he hollered down to her
and she hollered up to him
and she wondered
when in the hell
he was going to get her out of there.

as darkness fell, she forgot...
she forgot that
once upon a time,
many years before,
the fairy god mothers had told her how to get out

but she was waiting for him to rescue her.

so she sat in the darkness,
and she talked to him
but she had stopped singing for him
and she had stopped dancing
and she forgot how to get out of tower.

the more she sat there and waited
the less he came to talk to her
and after awhile
the sun no longer shone
down the shaft of the tower

and dirt began to fill in the opening
and she got used to the darkness.

the last time he came,
she could barely hear him
the gap in the tower was nearly filled with dirt
and the words were garbled
and she had forgotten what to do to get out of the tower
so she told him she'd rather remain there in the dark -
it was easier and more comfortable.

so he walked away.

Why Abandon a Motto That Works?

2008-01-12T09:52:00.001-05:00

"Accepting does not necessarily mean 'liking,' 'enjoying,' or 'condoning.' I can accept what is—and be determined to evolve from there. It is not acceptance but denial that leaves me stuck."- Nathaniel Branden, American psychologist

In the national bestseller Blink, The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, author Malcolm Gladwell analyzes the structure of spontaneity through the idea of improv comedy. What are the conditions for successful spontaneity? The one rule that must be followed in order to achieve this framework is that one must accept all offers made.

"'Good improvisers seem telepathic; everything looks prearranged,' [Keith] Johnstone writes (Johnstone is one of the founders of improv comedy cited in Gladwell's text.). 'This is because they accept all offers made - which is something no 'normal' person would do.'"

I can't help but think that in some aspects of my life, at least in my personal relationships, this is actually an ideal concept. First of all, it would be fun and spontaneous, to say the least. And secondly, I wouldn't spend so much energy in anger, envy, and remorse due to the fact at times in my life I simply reject, reject, reject what is occurring because it does meet my expectations.

In this light, acceptance and rejection are merely offspring of love and fear, respectively. People act out of two abstract concepts: love and fear, and essentially these behaviors result in either acceptance or rejection.

On the path of the warrior, we learn to accept all things, no matter how uncomfortable they make us. We must accept anger, sadness, joy, exuberance, jealousy, and bliss as opposed to rejecting them and acting out, or rejecting them and attempting to escape. This is a painful process because it is so uncomfortable. Human beings do not like discomfort.

But getting angry and learning to sit through the anger, and feel the anger, and sometimes to even explore the anger without reacting is a tough process that requires patience. It requires a tremendous amount of devotion to accept that which is uncomfortable, not to reject what life is bringing one's way and to refuse to react out of fear.

"Bad improvisers block action, often with a high degree of skill. Good improvisers develop action." (Gladwell)

I spent a lot of time blocking action and rejecting ideas last year. This prevented the ability to set up conditions for successful spontaneity, or action instead of reaction.

Improv comedy is funny for two reasons. First, the actors rehearse. "How good people's decisions are under the fast-moving, high-stress conditions of rapid condition, is a function of training and rules and rehearsal." Secondly, they follow the rules: the actors accept all offers made.

It is both thrilling and terrifying to decide to apply this philosophy to my life. Although, I've done it before, learned not to escape and chosen to embrace, and it is a far more effective and conscious way of living.

In fact, once upon a time, it was my motto..."Keep saying yes to whatever the universe is universe if offering you."

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

2008-01-11T23:15:00.001-05:00

"We might find this division into positive and negative poles childishly simple except for one difficulty: which one is positive, weight or lightness?

Parmenides responded: lightness is positive, weight negative.

Was he correct or not? That is the question. The only certainty is: the lightness/weight opposition is the most mysterious, most ambiguous of all." - Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

In her book Women Who Run With the Wolves, Clarissa Pinkola Estes tells the story of Manawee, based on the African-American tale told to her by Miss V. B. Washington. This tale highlights the dual nature of woman, as well as the dual nature of man and man's ability to remain conscious and focused on the task as opposed to giving in to the temptations along the way. In this particular tale, the man's work is to learn and understand the dual nature of woman, despite the fact that he faces distractions along the way.

I was unable to avoid temptation. Last year, although I faced my vulnerabilities and fears, I did not remain conscious of them or change them - distracted along the path I lost consciousness and defaulted to fear time and time again.

I have been learning the way of the warrior for almost five years now. I reflect now on my experience with The Preacher, my best teacher in detachment, and I know that there was a time when I learned to act out of love and practiced it time and time again, instead of resorting to acting out of fear. I stayed on the path of consciousness and avoided giving in to discomfort. Part of this I attribute to The Preacher's uncanny consistency - unmatched by any man to date - and the other I attribute to my willingness, desire and dedication to staying on the path, as uncomfortable as it was. I nurtured my creativity, I engaged in my favorite activities, I balanced work with pleasure, and I stayed true to my practice.

I wouldn't have received an A + for my warrior ways, for I was still unable to give, or allow myself to be completely vulnerable; but I did my best to stay on the path of love as opposed to following the trail of fear, and I truly embraced the unbearable lightness of being. Until the end days... I was light.

Sometimes man does not have the patience or endurance to remain on the trail and truly learn the dual nature of the woman. Sometimes woman does not have the ability to remain conscious and reflect the light necessary for man to learn her true nature. Sometimes, we get lost in the darkness and it takes clarity to find our way back.

"However, too much or even a little of a good thing at the wrong time can cause a gross loss of consciousness. Then instead of a sudden rush of wisdom, we walk about like an absentminded professor muttering, 'Now where was I?' It takes weeks, sometimes months, to recover from these distractions of ours." (Clarissa Pinkola Estes, "The Mate: Union With the Other")

I have been wandering around since November 17 trying to gauge my whereabouts and I am just now beginning to locate myself and rediscover how and who I was before I lost consciousness last fall.

I am here. I am naked. I am writing (well, at least typing...the 'writing' will come again). I am clear-headed. I am focused. I am practicing. I am breathing. I am crying. I am releasing. I am smiling. I am looking at myself vainly in the mirror - just for kicks. I am making jokes about hot outfits which I received for free, and people are laughing.

I am on the balance beam. I am twenty-nine. I am smoke-free. I am tired. I am translucent. I am in pain. I am comfortable. I am uncomfortable. I am on the mat. I am kick-boxing. I am orgasmic. I am dancing. I am unbearable and I am light. I am here.

Naked VII

2008-01-10T20:47:00.001-05:00

There came a time when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. - Anais Nin

So I have been avoiding this blog for the past two months because I am a coward. Because I haven't had the chutzpah to admit that the entire last half of the year 2007, the year in which I face my personal demons, I was so not Samurai. I was so far from it I am ashamed to attempt to return to this project.

But, this project saved me once, therefore I look to it again to be my safety net. I am finally, after a year, completely and utterly naked and it is just as uncomfortable, if not more, as the first time I tried to get undressed. But this time I will, at least, use my safety nets - for without them, I am just a girl in a vortex with tears running down her face and a head full of ideas.

I didn't actually rise as the phoenix that I thought I would back in July. Far from it. I tumbled quickly down the shaft of my own insecurities and my own fears and there I remained. I am here now, sorting out all the sordid details in my head, and replaying the last six months and it is sad and painful. Now I must let go, and return to the task I began over a year ago. I face the tasks of the Samurai, the woman warrior and expect the one thing that is safest and most difficult - nothing.

The Man Who Shall Not Be Named did actually stay long enough for a name, although he is now gone. I suspect I may explain some aspects of the story of him, but for now, the pain is too raw, the tears are still wet, and the time is too soon to paint a picture without doing him injustice.

I finally left the champagne room, I no longer live there, for it was far too foggy and the lines were quite blurry. I've had sex and several orgasms in the past the couple weeks, and I was right and I am right, that committing those acts are far easier and preferable to the mind-fuck and dealing with my emotions. Sometimes it's easier to rely on our talents than to explore our vulnerabilities.

Still, I Rise

2007-07-27T01:01:00.001-04:00

"Life is a process of becoming, a combination of states we have to go through. Where people fail is that they wish to elect a state and remain in it. This is a kind of death." - Anais Nin, “Winter of Artifice”

I used to write a lot. A lot...a phrase I forbid from my students, but allow to flow freely in my own prose. I once wrote willingly, wildly and without abandon. Not too long ago...months ago, after I awoke on the first of January seeking a way to reinvent myself, a way to make up for my own incorrect assessments...

Today, as I sat, sweat dripping down my face at the patisserie, struggling to complete just a little bit more work...a little girl told her caretakers she did not feel so well, and put her head down on the table. I got so frustrated that the women just didn't her a ginger ale (I thought about doing it, but realized that she probably would not accept a beverage from a stranger), that I decided that was the moment to leave. In addition, I had a pool to dive into.

I walked by the table and overhead the mother ask her daughter if she would be a phoenix. She asked her if she remembered what a phoenix is...I did not hear the little girl respond, but I began to smile. Yes, the almighty phoenix - that mythical bird that contributes to our belief that we may rise again, that we may reinvent ourselves - the mother has redeemed herself.

"It's a mythical bird..." she began to explain to the sleepy girl. I took a deep breath, and kept walking.

The phoenix may be a mythical bird. Reinventing ourselves may be a delusion at best, illusion at worst...but it's not a bad idea. No matter how old the legend of the phoenix is...the idea is never stale. I have lived the majority of this year in a phoenix state. Born again and again from my own ashes...I continue to rise. If one is going to burn - it's a beautiful way to do so.

Just as the phoenix rises from its own ashes, so have I. As Johnny stated..."it looks at though you are tearing yourself down so you can build yourself up again." I thought yes, that is exactly what I am doing. That is what I have always done, and I will continue to do so.

So here I am, as much I can be, a better me, rising from the own mess I made (make?) when I fly too high too quickly...slowly rising, day by day, and finding my words not as often as before, but perhaps with a bit more scrutiny and a lot more meaning.

What are your Dreams?

2007-06-11T22:31:00.000-04:00

my dream defined
marks me a matriarch.

a little momma
with a sweet smile
and an even sweeter pie.

my dream defined
marks me a matriarch

socializer of the home
nourishing bodies, hearts, and minds
spirits, selves and souls

who gives generously
from the heart,

who loves copiously
all within range,

who lives vibrantly
with family and friends.

my dream defined
marks me a woman.

a wife
a mother
a daughter, a grandmother.

lover of life
dictated by familial bonds

which encourage
more love in a fearful world,

which engender joy
that only shall grow,

which demonstrate, specifically,
a life worth living.

my dream defined
marks me in the kitchen.

the hub of the household
nourishing bodies, hearts, and minds
spirits, selves and souls.

my dream defined
marks me in the kitchen.

where from the speakers
music plays,

where from our bellies
laughter emanates,

where babies play
and love is made.

Yes...

2007-05-12T03:11:00.000-04:00

If it is your favorite song, sing with it, dance to it.

If you have a choice, and you are about to engage in something that does not fit into your "perfect day," do not do it.

Keep saying yes to whatever the universe is offering you.

Tales from the Tower

2007-05-10T22:58:00.000-04:00

"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing which you think you cannot do." - Eleanor Roosevelt

She succumbs to her own existence. She surrenders to the small self and gets swallowed. She floats in filth, and fuming, and fucking, and filters herself through a funnel. Violently victimizing past qualms and present indiscretions, an ominous holding pattern she hides herself in. Hurricane Hell-of-Herself engulfs said heroine and a harrowing tale of heartache and headache hordes the greater half of her mind.

Suffocating slowly and swindling her Self with super-delusional sites, she drowns.

Awakened alternately by awareness and aggravation she stands...steadily and on solid ground. Still stuck in the tower, but cognizant of the craftiness of the concrete, the bricks, and the mortar, she bravely faces the tower. Tapping, pounding, and touching its contents, she analyzes her captor. Walls around her, walls of the tower, creates a dizzying effect all the more enchanting. Although strong and formidable, more determined is she...and the walls shall fall.

Naked VI

2007-05-09T23:24:00.000-04:00

"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations." - Anais Nin

I keep trying to get dressed. My personality, despite the opposition of my soul, keeps trying to go back...back to its safe and self-destructive state. My personality is trying to get dressed...to cover up and hide in the security of its old haunts...its old escapes. She is making mad attempts to self-destruct in a fog of spirits and a cloak of smoke...but my Soul just isn't having it. My big Self is finally winning. My small self, my ego, is trying desperatley to suck me into her old habits, but my Self does not agree, and that is better.

I've tried to become what I was once was. Little parts of me want to be bitter and want to proclaim my freedom by embracing my old habits, the smoking, the drinking, the bad ass attitude...but it just is not working. My Self does not agree. My body and soul are revolting. I still find the cigarette smoking gross, and I know that breaking the habit...again...will not be so hard...it may not even be an issue. And the desire for a drink will not last longer than the bottles I currently claim. I have not the energy for anger or vengeance or dwelling on my own misgivings. I am finally learning my lessons as they are presented and that is the best I can do at this point.

I am stronger this time. I derailed my train at a high speed, but the wreckage is not as complete as I expected, as it once would have been, or as it could be. My fat, messy tears, are now more noble and not in public, and I can once again make jokes at 7 a.m. on my way into work...as well as dance while I do the board on the way out.

Running away, getting dressed, (although warmer), and/or escaping is not as desirable, and I realize I can now stop hastily stripping off my layers, and let them fall away as they may. I do not have to force myself to face my personal demons all at once.

As I noted before, force is not fate.

Reality is relative.

Keep Crazy in the Bottle

2007-05-08T19:15:00.000-04:00

We're aware you think we're crazy. We don't agree (we make perfect sense to ourselves), but we don't want you to run screaming for the hills, so we like to 'keep crazy the bottle' for at least the first four or five months, until we've got you hooked. Then we let it seep out little by little. The real us. The real way we think and feel. We can't bottle it up forever." Felicity Huffman and Patricia Wolff - A Practical Handbook for the Boyfriend (For Every Guy Who Wants to be One, For Every Girl Who Wants to Build One!)

"Are you always a bitch to men?" It was almost 4 a.m. I was on the phone with The Preacher and my jaw dropped. I didn't get mad immediately.

"How do you mean?" I persisted in trying to get him to specify in what situation I was a bitch to men...if he was implying that I was a bitch to him.

The night before, my friend Ms. B and I had gone out for the first night of our "hot and sexy summer." Our goal for the summer, was to have fun...have a hot and sex summer. We had rules of course, flirting is allowed, dancing is allowed, giving out phone numbers, also allowed, as well as going out for a harmless night with another boy...but kissing was not allowed. See, the whole idea for the hot and sexy summer was to keep our minds off of the men who were currently in our lives...it wasn't to leave them or to piss them off, but merely to prevent us from being dependent on them, or having expectations that would go unfulfilled and turn into regrets. We are teachers and breaks allow for a lot more time to fill, so being dependent on a man is an easy trap to fall into...and we were determined not to do so...especially since they were merely lovers...not husbands, not fiances, not boyfriends...lovers.

During our first night of said "hot and sexy" summer, we did exactly what we said we would do...we danced, we flirted, we gave out our numbers, and when that got old...we called our respective lovers and let them know we'd be home soon.

Unfortunately, I had met one particularly determined gentleman, who gave me a stipulation. I, of course, did not say I was single, nor did I claim having a boyfriend, but he knew it was something like that. So he told me, he would call me once, and if I did not answer, he would never call me again, nor would he answer my call. I said "OK." I didn't care either way.

Later that evening, I was at The Preacher's and he is describing how he felt about the fact that I was out dancing...jealousy, a little bit of a desire "to posses," but "not like I want to kill somebody." I felt bad. I tried to invite him to come out with us, but he hung up on me after I told him where we were going.

Unfortunately, it got worse. Just we began our mating ritual...my phone rang. The Preacher was a little pissed. I tried to be gentle. "Maybe, it's Ms. B...maybe they got into a fight, and she needs me." This had been the closest thing to deception we had experienced in our free and fun four months, and it just felt bad. There was nothing pure about it.

Not Ms. B. He was definitely pissed. Mr. Adamant about our "open relationship," (actually I believe I referred to him at that moment as "Mr. Polyamorous," ) went on to have his say about how my phone would ring, late, and he knew that only dudes would call that late, etc., etc.

Of course I wasn't seeing anyone else. I wasn't even talking to anyone else. But he thought I was, and for the moment, that was what my ego wanted.

"I have feelings too," he said. That one hit me in the gut. I decided right then and there, that introducing any sort of deception or power struggle into our "anti-relationship," was not good and did not feel good. I vowed to never do so again.

So, the next night, came our "Are you always a bitch to men," conversation. That initiated my whole thought process about why I keep up the wall. The wall between myself and the men I my life so that I do not make myself vulnerable, and therefore they do not hurt me.

You see, with The Preacher, I had kept crazy in the bottle. I did not reveal my emotional investment at all. It was my best defense. With the worst consequences. I didn't realize I was doing it again. For all of the evenings I spent pacing across my floor, my blood boiling, and going back and forth about what I wanted from him, what I didn't want from him, whether it would be worth the pain when it was all over, yada, yada, yada...I assumed he knew.

In a way he knew. He knew when my head was heavy and he knew when my heart was light. He knew, what I often forget, that when we feel down, most often it is a result of our own disjointed thoughts, and not because something actually happened. He listened when my thoughts were heavy...and I did not have to have "crazy, irrational, out of the blue moments," - (thank you Boomerang for putting a name to those moments, even though you claim I did not have them with you...sans "Hubel Gardiner," comment).

The Boomerang had brought it up years before, he said he did not think I was "emotionally invested." I was shocked when he said it...at first. I thought that if my feelings for him were so obvious to me and to everyone else, they must have been just as obvious if not more to him. Not so.

After that, after my three years of on-again, off-again, ambiguity with Flaky, I made a decision not to feign my disinterest, not to pretend that my feelings did not exist. Of course, as The Preacher let me know, I couldn't do it. I still had the walls up, I was still stuck in the tower, only I didn't know it. I only knew that I was keeping crazy in the bottle, and that was the best I could do at the time.

Lessons from the Little Ones

2007-05-06T17:58:00.000-04:00

"not all of us go home and put on aprons"
said the girl
"not all of us go home and put on aprons"

they don't know what nice looks like
"that's just how we fight"
they don't know what nice looks like

nice is having manners
nice girls get their heart's broken
when we hear nice we think kind
but nice girls get their heart's broken

nice is on the screen
nice is on the radio
nice is in other people's homes
nice is for people whose parents
still wear rings
nice is something i saw from the outside
through a picture window
foggy with hopes, dreams,
fantasies, and illusions...

"not all of us go home and put on aprons"
said the girl
"not all of us go home and put on aprons"

they don't know what nice looks like
"that's just how we fight"
they don't know what nice looks like

"it's so simple"
there is actually a way?
"it's so simple"

"when you like someone, you be as nice as possible to them"
well, that makes sense.
"when you like someone, you be as nice as possible to them"

"you practice"
huh. that makes so much sense.
"you practice"

MY NAKED GLORY

2007-05-04T23:53:00.000-04:00

so here's to loving the girl i used to be
and not battling the girl
i become when reality spins the fan.

perhaps i should let go...

here's to a halt in asking "why?"
and instead accepting
and creating
the girl i once was
before the shit hit the fan
and someone inside me died

soon, i will let go

here's to all the little girls
inside of me
who have been my burden
instead of my blessings
and their necessary
transformation

...i am going to let go

here's to the beautiful rainbow
inside me trying to shine...
...and shedding the skin that
shields it

yes, i will let go

here's to revisting my hopes and my dreams
and my visions and my desires
and here's to letting go
of my fears and the shadows

...here's to letting go

here's to parenting myself
since they only did...some
and because if i don't do it
no one else will

...i think i'm letting go

here's to allowing myself to be
and taking off the band-aids
and actually healing the wounds
and clearing out the medicine cabinet

i might be letting go

here's to learning how to breathe...
...again
and reclaiming my heavenly body,
the planet me

i'm finally letting go

Finally...Completely Naked

2007-04-30T23:52:00.000-04:00

I am finally completely naked. Utterly, and unbearably open, vulnerable, and bare. The seventh veil has dropped.

Gone are the cigarettes. Gone is the blind inhalation of the poison I was seeking to expel.

On most days I forgo the alcohol. I avoid the fog that leads me to that toxic place where I attempt to forget and abandon.

If I do make the decision to haze the horrible feeling of my own blood burning, I know all about it.

I acknowledge the fall and know that I will do better next time.

yellow girl...yellow girl

2007-04-30T00:23:00.000-04:00

YELLOW girl. they stare with bewildered faces. HERE. they stare at me as if I am different.

EXOTIC. the OTHER.

not because she is different, but because she is more FAIR. doling out equality and reflecting the light.

they gaze as if she is TRANSLUCENT, until they CLEARLY see through her - to the other side - a mirror REFLECTING the image, of WHO they FATHOM she is.

Rock-A-Bye

2007-04-28T22:00:00.000-04:00

My mother brought me this rocking chair
last fall
And with it, many stories,
many memories.

The chair, a purchase
to make her pregnancy easier,
has made my life a little
more difficult.

It is telling me stories
of my past
That I do not want to know

So, this year,
life consists of me
and the rocking chair

me and the ghosts
and the demons they create.

it's not about them
it is all about the men

it's not about them
it is all about my friends

it's not about them
it is all about my parents

it's not about them
it is all about my first families

it's not about them
it is about all the people
i drive away
and blame
and love
and hate
and carry
and lean on
and uplift
and chain
and need
and desire
and hold on to
and push away

they are all in the rocking chair
some of them left with the rocking chair
and some of them arrived with the rocking chair

and they are telling me stories
they are all teaching me lessons
they are all a part of me
they are all my lessons

me and the rocking chair
me and my personal demons

me and the ghosts

and rocking chair and the ghosts

me and my personal demons

and everyone i know

and everyone i knew

the year i face my personal demons
the year i face the rocking chair

made the pregnancy easier
and brought me many ghosts

and we are all united here
in the tower
by the tower

The Deafening Silence

2007-04-22T10:53:00.000-04:00

"In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." - Martin Luther King Jr.

It is an OK day when I do not cry in public.
It is a good day I make it home before I breakdown.
It is is a great day when the tears are few.
It is a better day when I overcome the urge to weep.
It is the best day when I do not have the urge to cry, at all.

It is OK day when I still have hope.
It is a good day my heart is twisted with pain.
It is a great day when I am merely sad.
It is a better day when I am angry and logical and justified.
It is the best day when I acknowledge the hurt and I recognize why.

The Dopamine Crash

2007-04-15T23:31:00.001-04:00

"Do not give Chantix to the romantics..." April 22, 2007

I am in hell. I am in a hell of chemical and hormonal imbalance. This dopamine crash cannot end soon enough...it is hard to tell the crash from the fatigue, from the fatigue syndrome, from the PMS, from the sadness, from the lack of sleep, from the Samsara.

I just awoke from another night of non-sleep...One of those nights in which my body is in such a heightened state of arousal, I might as well be rushing to meet a deadline.

Whosoever thought it was a good idea to replace nicotine addiction with the "love" chemical, dopamine (that would be Pfizer) must be on crack. I asked my doctor, who I am not blaming and who is one of my favorite people, if there would be a big crash once I was done with this Chantix, anti-smoking experiment, and she had not heard from any patients, yet. In all of the literature I read about this drug, I had not read this either...

But two weeks ago there it was...I was 21 and paranoid and anxious again, I was over-aroused and self-destructive...and smoking, occasionally. It was terrible. That was the worst part. Now is not so bad, but it is not so pleasant. My circadian rhythms are more out of whack than my ability to see that elusive aspect of being human, reason. My body thinks it wants a baby, and I cannot stop working. On the other hand, I am back to my old slightly cynical, slightly bitchy, but mostly in control self. I know that very soon I will feel as self-assured and as steady as I did in late November/early December and I will be OK.

Of course, dare I mention that in between the time of control and the time of Chantix, I fell for one of the Chosen Ones, and my concern was not only with the manufactured drug, but the fact my mind was already infatuated, had already succumb to norepineprhine on top of my very own capricious nature. It was a recipe for disaster. Here is an excerpt from the post I began about this phenomenon after I read the Washington Post's most emailed article of the day An Affair of the Head... on February 14.

I have all the characteristics of an adolescent girl in love. I can't stop smiling, and laughing at anything remotely funny. I am chewing gum, frequently, and I can often be found making faces in the mirror, especially the ones in which you suck your cheeks in and pout your lips. And...there I go again, laughing at myself, and making faces...hmmm...let me run to the mirror....jejejejejeje

Approximately six weeks ago I began taking a little blue pill called Chantix. This little blue pill, made by Pfizer, is meant to help people kick the nicotine habit. However, my little blue pill acts on receptors in the brain which affect dopamine, what I have always referred to as "happy chemical," although now I might refer to it as "ecstasy chemical." Per my research, my behavior as of late could be compared to taking double doses of both speed and....the high of infatuation. excellent. Between the Ritalin and the dopamine, and the infatuation and dopamine...

So, when I dropped the dopamine pill after three months of living in a heightened state of arousal, I also drove away some of the good things in my life. Some of my favorite things and my favorite people, and that is sad. I will get over the desire to smoke, the inability to relax, the sore muscles, the paranoia, and the fixations. But I won't get those people back. And to me, it is not worth it. It was not worth it. I wouldn't recommend Chantix to anyone at this point. The three months of euphoria and the complete lack of a desire for cigarette smoking are not worth the very fragile time and results of the dopamine crash. Not at all.

Maybe...May be......May believe

2007-04-15T22:33:00.000-04:00

I may be of "perfect child-bearing age."

I may be too skeptical to ever love properly.

I may be an undercover conservative who thinks this country is going to hell in a hand basket because people choose not to subscribe to "family values."

I may believe that there is plenty of room in this country for each person who has the will and the way to live here.

I may be a woman who believes in the right to bear arms, as well as the right for people to marry, regardless of gender, race, or sexual preference.

I may believe that handwritten letters are a sad loss in this digital era.

I may believe that Tom Robbins is right, "we waste time looking for the perfect lover instead of creating the perfect love."

I may believe that women should not wear shorts, unless they are engaging in a recreational activity.

I may believe that we choose who we love.

I may believe that a man should pursue a woman, first, last, and foremost.

I may believe that clean sheets are one of the small things that make a big difference.

I may be a perfect contradiction of my own self.

I may believe it takes a psychological revelation for the damsel to get out of the tower.

I may believe that children are on their way to greatness until adults fuck them up.

I may be a reflection of my soul's past mistakes.

I may believe each child should be presented with options, and have the ability to choose the best one for him or her.

I may believe our first family makes a mess for us and expects us to clean it up...without questioning them.

I may believe that church is a place where one cannot be disappointed.

I may believe the knight in shining armour is only masking himself from himself...and the rest of the world.

I may believe the most excruciating pain is the pain we cause ourselves.

I may believe the knight in shining armour must slay his own dragons before he can rescue the damsel from hers.

I may believe that the struggle for external power is the greatest single cause of suffering in our lives.

I may believe that this is a terrible century for the idealists.

I may believe that laughter and kissing are the key to happiness.

I may believe that it will take two people, of differing political leanings, to put this country on a better path.

I may believe that if a father loves the mother of his children, his children will be good people.

I may believe that people create their own paths of destruction.

I may believe that a woman who takes the time to paint her toes for you, even if it makes her late, will always the best she is able to do for you.

I may believe that a woman can tell if you love her by the look in your eyes when you first see her.

I may believe it does take a village to raise a child...(and that village should include at least two adults, regardless of sex or race, as long as the common bond is love.)

I may be seeking to find a love that no longer exists...or never existed...at least I hope so.

I may believe that reason and passion create a beautiful song, and fire and water a beautiful dance.

Naked V - Still Stuck in the Tower

2007-04-14T17:10:00.000-04:00

"A mighty pain to love it is, and 'tis a pain that pain to miss; but of all the pains, the greatest pain is to love, but love in vain." - Abraham Crowley

There are times when one sinks into the abyss, when she just wants to stay there. She just wants to stay there and wallow in her own wasted misery. When she wants to curl up and float in the despair and the darkness, and be. These are the times when she just wants everything to stop. She wants to avoid the symphonic highs, just as much as the cacophonous lows. She just wants to know what to expect - which is nothing. Nothing but herself and her pain and her thought processes and her Self, as hard as that is to deal with. But, at the very least there would be no surprises.

Although Joseph Campbell and the majority of the Literati seem to suggest that the hero's journey is only for the hero - it is not. It is for everyone, for the warrior in every one who is seeking something to find. However, one cannot accomplish her quest, hero or not, without conquering and surviving the abyss. Although the concept of the 'quest' is used in the singular above, many of us find ourselves on multiple quests, overlapping quests, and circumnavigating quests.

For many of us, the journey is a spiral as opposed to a circle, it is continuous...we move from quest to quest to quest, engaging in many seemingly minor battles and journeys that compose this major quest called life. Therefore, as we travel on each road, each pathway, each segment of the journey, many of us will fall into the abyss, sink into the abyss, be suffused and absorbed by the abyss, many, many, times. Although the transformation, which is a result of that terrible trip into the deep, dark, and lonely unknown, puts us in a far better place on this life than we were before, it is a grueling place to be while one is there.

Once again, as this single samurai, this woman warrior in the battle of life, here I am, in the depths of the abyss, and wishing that, just for awhile I could stay here. Wishing that although the highs are so good, so beautiful and good, that the lows - did not exist; but they do. So it almost seems better to just stay here...to stop fighting the battle, even if just for a little while, so that life would just be simple...for a little bit.

In Naked IV, on February 11, I vowed, not to date any longer, because I cannot deal with my Self and the drama I create when I fail to make myself vulnerable, when I fail to succeed with that elusive element, love. However, I find myself dealing with my Self and this dilemma of attempting to love in a space and time where it is not safe to love, and I am facing the same issues all over again.

I cannot comprehend how life can be so beautiful and so disheartening at the same time. Since I began this "adult" journey, which I embarked on late in life at age 28, I am in a better mood, and I am not suffused with despair on the inside, but I am consistently disappointed. I sing and I dance on the daily, I get dressed up and put it on for a night, and I am climbing this creative cumulus cloud and floating on it all at the same time...but I have not been able to slay my personal demons, and they are fighting hard...breathing fire all the while, and I succumb to them every time...over, and over, and over again.

Although I realize that I am in a better place than I was last year, and three years ago, I am still struggling with the same issues, the same dragons, and I am still locked inside my tower. I continue to attempt to love, Eros - romantically, where love is not welcome, and I continue to end up in this space of half-assed attempts at love, stuck in the reality that I must learn to make myself vulnerable, and at the same time not get hurt - it's impossible, for me at least for now. I end up with presents I never give, half-written letters containing declarations of adoration, creative ways to love him that remain in a box that I may save for 'next time'. And then I wonder where I went wrong...

The victory here, is that I have learned one thing...it's not the sex that gets me here. ...For right now, there is no sex, there is just my unrequited love and the lingering lust between myself and Flawless, and the realization that we will either have to live with these ghosts between us, or forsake this felicitous friendship.

It is not the sex without love that allows me to attach to a man who is not attached to me. That is clear, and that is a good lesson to learn, if nothing else.

love is discipline

2007-04-08T17:42:00.003-04:00

love is discipline...
more than discipline, it is hard work

love is exalting...
catapulting to the point of capitulating

love is exhausting...
tiring to the bone if you do it right,
tiring to the mind if you do it wrong

love is the weird, ephemeral place
where boundaries are permeable, expansive and deficient

Tax Time for the Right-Brained

2007-03-28T21:52:00.000-04:00

"What we call "Progress" is the exchange of one nuisance for another nuisance." - Havelock Ellis

These are the times that try my soul. The sunshine seamstress and the summer lyricist perform their civic duties, but with agony and haste. American activities such as the paying of taxes and the budgeting of funds wreak havoc on the most capricious of the right-brained individuals. Mundane tasks, at first glance, precipitate raw and unbridled fury, with their perfunctory steps and time-consuming equations.

Whosoever proclaimed all beings capable and willing of such droll duties for daily survival? Call in the Marxists and allow each to contribute according to his or her own skill...Barter and trade these trite tasks to propel us all toward the pursuit of happi-ness. Do the digits for Uncle Sam and please permit me paint your picture...A fair trade indeed.

But not in this century of capitalist consumption and computer-created clutter. Email, e-file, and pile on this technology-induced drain, until even those who revile such electronic nonsense capitulate. And when they give in to their basic instinct of employing efficiency within this whirlwind world to complete their civic duties, fail to mention that progress is relative. So, she who tries to complete taxes on time is suffused in e-hell and for hours, as opposed to activities more enticing. And her attempt to free file turns out futile and ends up an experience in free failing.

he

2007-03-23T18:28:00.001-04:00

Catapulted from the planet of the apes long before procedures to follow existed - abandoned, and outraged, he howled in agony. Discouraged, discombobulated, and disillusioned, he foraged through forests, through mates, and through the will of all beings evil, until coherence drifted in.

His beating of the chest, although audible, failed to gain him the attention he so desperately sought. Reason soon settled in abundant amounts 'round his cerebrum and physical reactions gave way to well-conceived intentions. Exploiting his own natural inclinations, he allowed his disparate objectives accomplishment through this new realm of possibility called thought.

Thought, that desultory activity of the neurons, randomly and rapidly occurred giving birth to this new man, this he man who - very nearly and somewhat soon gave in to that temptress, that whore, cur-i-os-ity. Although she killed the cat, this feral man feared her not, and in awe of her cataclysmic and cunning wiles, he courted that shrew to the nth degree.

Sniffing out, fighting against, and barreling through odds and obstacles, this once-upon-a-time cave man, ape man, pursued the only princess in his head - the unknown. He dropped the gauntlet too many times for counting, but not enough for noting, and over-power played passion extinguishing that fire, preferring the more palatable and easier-to-swallow approach to life - logic.

she

2007-03-21T22:12:00.000-04:00

she seems
hardened heart, like whacked-out cement
she be
melted butter from the inside out
she leave
but, only when nerves no longer rule -

overwhelmed by boiling blood
caused by too much thought.

she yearns
for sweet release
she chained
by wrongs of present past
she swings
between life and love -

undeterred by the reality
that they do not belong to the same illusion.

she sings
for violations uncommitted
she dances
with the rhythm of humanity
she wavers
along the realm of possibility -

encumbered with the gift of light and feeling
that only the ignorant would willingly accept.

Otro Lado

2007-03-16T23:50:00.002-04:00

"One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language." - Denise Levertov

Since I started serving up words, thoughts, and nonsense on Single Samurai, the first day of this new year, life has changed. Loyal to a fault and less than reliable, I averted my attention to matters otherwise known as pertinent. May I summarize the reasons for this writer's demise from this sphere of Blogdom.

First and foremost, I must facilitate for you, my ravenous reader, a brief and uncatalogued log of events past. Most importantly, the silence between Flawless and I lasted a mere four days - yes, no more than six and ninety hours. The last time I wore the shoes equaled not the last time he would bring me home - thankfully. My melancholy moods of mid-winter have since soared and suffused; I am in a world of wonder, words, and whimsy, with my favorite knight in tarnished armor. Still he inspires laughter, random smiles, and my better moments, thus I acknowledge that surprise, that blessing, and that thrill each day.

However, the notes of that beautiful, anachronistic, desultory, and at times discordant tune shall not grace the posts of these pages. Flawless and I exist outside of that concept known to beings human as time and outside of that location known to bodies human as space, and ephemeral encapsulates the only definition applicable.

Thus explains the remainder of the tale of days past. Catapulted into a realm of verbal gymnastics by my flawless, faithful friend, my words exploded to explore the arena of linguistic liberation and at most times they do not land on this page. Everywhere else but my tongue do whimsical words play and suffused with the need to compose, I do so voraciously. In my journal, on my tape recorder, in my email, on his pages, in his ears, on post-it notes, on scrap paper, and in or on all locations recordable, I lay down the lyrics of this head, this heart, this spirit, this soul, and this body and I writhe in the rhythm of my own former discomfort and my current refreshing and cathartic comprehension of this play called life.

Therefore, forgive me both my loyal and my random audience, if frequently I forgo my at-least-once nightly rendezvous with a machine called Dell, for the Satyam of my saturated life. Whether more accurately known as Plan B, Plan C, or possibly Plan A, the existence within which this Single Samurai daily thrives or merely survives no longer remains a play-by-play for these pages. From this day forth, I detach myself from any ideal ideas about where the words land, and care only that they come - creatively, consciously or un, comparatively, comfortably or not, comforting or dis, capriciously, cohesively, continually, continuously...

Damsel in dis Tress

2007-03-09T19:05:00.000-05:00

*a poem continually updated ...*

one day there will be a man who will climb up into my hair
and right into my head.
he will get lost at first,
tangled up in kink and curl...
but this man... he will have the courage to keep trying.
although, every time he frees himself from a tangled mass
he gets right caught... in another.

but he will climb again...
persistent and determined, and confused by this mess
he again attempts to win, this damsel in dis tress.

eventually, he will conquer
the coarse and unforgiving mane
and slip right inside my locked-up mind
to become a part of my torturous brain. (03.09.07)

therein my convoluted head
he will struggle...
gasping for air and fighting to see
some light...
at the end of this lividly lyrical labyrinthe.

nearly drowning in that gooey mess,
with folds and wrinkles deep and dark,
he will battle the bowels of my innermost thoughts
knowing that they are both at once
beautiful and twisted, much like the
tresses he recently conquered.

and with the knowledge that he
not only survived, but subjugated
those dreaded locks
he knows that he not only
will live through this lewdness...
he loves it....in all of its ambivalent
amorphous candor.

so, euphoric in his new-found knowledge,
persistent and determined, and confused by this mess
he again attempts to win, this damsel in dis tress. (03.17.07)

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm

2007-02-28T18:51:00.000-05:00

"What God does first and best and most is to trust his people with their moment in history. He trusts them to do what must be done for the sake of the whole community." Walter Brueggeman

What Tucker Carlson thinks about psycologists and school teacers:
"..self-appointed deep thinkers about America's youth..."
hmmmm.

Got Arms?

2007-02-24T11:40:00.000-05:00

"Art does not solve problems but makes us aware of their existence. It opens our eyes to see and our brain to imagine." Magdalena Abakanowicz

When I was little, I used to draw - frequently. After all, I was going to grow up to be an artist, so I needed to practice. My brother and I would go to visit my father, every other weekend, and at some point I would end up in the dining room, all by myself, reaching into a large pizza box of crayons, and drawing pictures.

Often, my pictures were of a little girl, always wearing a dress, with a suitcase in her hand, presumably walking to her grandmother's house - ? - Now that I have said it out loud - yesterday, and put it down on 'paper' - today, - it makes me laugh hysterically. What little girl walks to her grandmother's house, suitcase in hand, other than Little Red Riding Hood? WTF?

Anyway, I was sharing the story about these drawings yesterday with my journalism class, after we viewed A Boy Like Me. Viewing the clip, A Boy Like Me, was not planned, but a little chance I took after we viewed A Girl Like Me. First, I let the students read an article about the film, we then viewed a newscast of the film, succinctly addressed by sweet trini, and following that, they viewed the actual film, which can be found at the link above (read A Girl Like Me) or on YouTube.

After I showed the film to the class - a film I will address here later, because I do not have the time to try and crawl into the tresses of my head and attempt to deconstruct them right now, at least for you, captive audience - I saw the suggestion for A Boy Like Me, so we watched it.

The film portrays Bill Cosby, in a 1968 clip of The Electric Company - ? - mentioning the doll study, recreated in A Girl Like Me, and then discussing the findings of a study that was done after the 1954 Brown v. Board decision, in the 1960's. The study attempts to illustrate that when drawing pictures, "black children" in the United States depict themselves in a degrading manner, or a less hopeful, realistic, manner than "white" children. In addition, it demonstrates that when those same children draw figures of "white" people, the people look strong, dignified, healthy or what have you, but the black figures from the same fingers look deflated, powerless, and, in fact disturbing. Therefore, the implication is, we know it is not because the kids are incapable of drawing.

Cosby referred to trees the children drew, that had no leaves and limbs that were choppy, at best; as well as the fact that many of the figures in these self-portraits lacked arms, indicating powerlessness. If the figures did have arms, they were bound to the sides of the body.

When I thought about the little girls on the way to their grandmother's house - ?walking? - I can clearly see their arms. The girls, with their long, straight hair (remember that's a whole 'nother post), have upper arms, which are 'pinned' against their bodies, but from the elbows down, the arms are free. So, what would that study have to say about me?

My Funny Valentine

2007-02-24T11:00:00.000-05:00

"Expectations are premeditated resentments." - NORMAL is just a SETTING on the DRYER, by Adair Lara

Valentine's Day, for adolescents, is a major event. It can make, or break, their hearts for the entire year. The girls come to school dressed in red, and pink, with expectations. High expectations. By the end of the day, several were carrying around balloons, flowers, lettle red gift bags and bright smiles. And of course, all of those girls were discussing the gifts they received.

And then there were the girls who were crying at the end of the day. Dressed up in red, accesorized in deflated expectations. It was a little sick.

I stopped caring many years ago about this "Hallmark Holiday." Similar to New Year's Eve and the Fourth of July, my expectations were far too high. I literally haven't celebrated the holiday in over five years, and I believe on that eve, at a table in our new, yet-to-be-discovered local Asian-fushion restaurant with My Michelangelo, I cried more than I smiled. The year before, when he made me a scrumdeliumpcious dinner, (to this day one of my favorites,) I fell asleep before dessert, because I stayed awake for the previous three days and nights straight, completing my photojournalism portfolio. Expectations for V-day, no mas.

So, what made me laugh in the middle of the day this year? This text message, from High Fidelity:

"Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I hate today,
but you're super
cool...ha ha"

I laughed hysterically there at my desk, concurred wholeheartedly, replied and then went back to work.

The Power of Suggestion

2007-02-24T01:45:00.000-05:00

Sweet Sag,
Sunshine, starshine, and moonshine will envelop you today. The sweet scent of fresh-cut grass, strawberry pie, and jasmine tea will titillate your nostrils as you inhale the intoxicating wafts of spring, sneaking through the cold. You are the belle du jour in the daily dance of life this Wednesday. When opportunity knocks, throw the door open!

This was my horoscope one Wednesday, February 21. It was brilliant! And true. It is a product of an activity I should do more often...write my own, personal, perfect, horoscope for the day. That was the journal I assigned to my students, and wrote on the board, before I left school Tuesday night. "Write your own, personal, perfect horoscope for the day." I figured that some of my students may have never read a daily horoscope, or at the very least would need an example to follow, so I gave them one.

Wednesday, not only did I get up on time, do a set of self-prescribed sun salutations, but I wore an outfit that fit my horoscope and had an excellent day - what more could a girl ask for?

I pondered "intoxicating wafts of spring" as I got dressed that morning, and I must say, I created a new favorite outfit.

According to a few males, including a married man, advanced in his years, I was definitely the belle du jour. Even if it was only for a day.

I made it to hot yoga, on time, and definitely made my workout worth my while. It was a great day...

But, I must admit I was slightly inspired by my Free Will Astrology Horoscope, written by Rob Brezsny, from the week prior, as seen below:

You want hot gold secrets to ripen in your dark candy soul? (Yes, I do.)Then here's what you do: Study the ocean's memory for its teachings about moon victories. Extract a fresh green why from the book of storms you dreamed about. When the flowers' clouds soar over your shadow, and when night's funny sky has turned into warm moist roars, you'll know exactly how to look through the sun to the other side of your best fear. (The preceding horoscope may sound crazily lyrical, even poetically feral, but it's a perfect embodiment of the attitude you should cultivate in order to have a successful week.)

Believe it or not, I actually understood this horoscope, on first read, and I loved it - it made so much sense...even with my rose-colored glasses on....

Sadly, this week's horoscope is not as promising...at least for this week (you may find it here, I do not find it worth publishing lest it comes true. We shall see if in a few weeks something or someone is rolling "in ecstasy" at my feet - other than my dog.

namaste.

Another Roadside Attraction I

2007-02-16T19:57:00.000-05:00

"I know I am but summer to your heart / And not the full four seasons of the year." Edna St. Vincent Millay

I didn't want to be just another roadside attraction. So, I made it my mission to hold out. For what? I would often ask myself. For marriage? Until he professes his undying love? Hello, that just does not happen these days. At least not with the men I am attracted to. But for the man with the passing attention span, I thought my chances were better, for not being a fanciful fling of three weeks, to keep my legs closed. After all, my ultimate goal for myself, was to learn how to open my heart. I failed on both accounts.

Naked IV

2007-02-11T23:56:00.001-05:00

"You can't shake hands with a clenched fist." - Indira Gandhi

supposedly today I made a vow not to date for the next three years. I told Jack that I am done with men, and listened to his raised eye browed "oh, really?" over the phone. I continued to explain the length of time etc., when he interrupted and said "I seem to remember you having made similar statements in the past."
"Really?" I said, laughing at myself. "When?"
And just as he said it so did I, "several times."

i am taking this vow with a grain of salt, because based on past experiences, as soon as i make such a statement aloud; i receive an offer i cannot refuse. for instance, in november, i made a bet with shug that i would not have a date, a real date, for six months. as an attached person, she could not fathom such a thing, but going six months without a real, actual date, is pretty much the norm for me, especially since i am uberpicky and i can, more often than not, be somewhat of a bitch to men, if for no other reason than i am holding out for such rarities as chivalry and wit. not to mention the following: a) many men who respond to me respond only on a physical level and therefore react with mere lascivious looks or poorly crafted prose which also happens to be in poor taste b) at this point, i have only one degree, a B.A., which decreases my market value, in this region particularly c) i rarely get asked out d) i have probably spent a significant amount of time too focused on my lover du jour to pay attention to any other man. who knew dick-magnetization was a form of self-preservation?

within a week of making said bet with shug, i met a man who knew how to dance, for real, and i had a date. thus began a succession of dates and offers for dates, such as i had never known before - and i now owe shug a bottle of wine at the our resident wine bar. not that i regret it, it was fun while it lasted.

so, i take this vow, with the knowledge that i may keep it for three years or, only until i receive an offer i cannot refuse; i take it as well with the knowledge that such an offer is unlikely since it will have to come from a man with an old soul, a strong backbone, and a cache of patience, who also understands the following "We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love." ~Tom Robbins. such a situation is highly unlikely.

to be clear, it is not that i am seeking the perfect love at this moment. the reality behind the madness is that i cannot handle dealing with men at this point in my life, because i don't know how. because of the way that i allow my mind to work at this point - the way that i over-analyze, creatively synthesize, and obsessively fantasize, i cannot deal with men. i have not mastered the art of detachment, and lately i haven't even been practicing. i have been too busy looking a gift horse in the mouth - instead of letting things be. i take situations and people apart and examine them, process them piece by piece, attempt to understand them, and try to figure out whether they are secure or not. it's exhausting. and while i'm scrutinizing, while i'm busy being overwhelmed by the decision of whether to trust or not, whether to give or not, whether to make myself vulnerable or not, - a dove has become a pigeon, a diamond has become a rhinestone and a hot romance has become a trip to the artic circle. to my credit, as noah stated with all of his wisdom, i haven't exactly been given the time or the chance to find that balance. but my goodness, i don't exactly have the time or the resources to put myself through such an exhausting process, nor anyone else for that matter. and honestly, if i have that many security issues anyway, i really don't need to be involving anyone else - that's no fun for anyone.

and finally, recently i have seen the effects of allowing all of my ideas get jumbled in my brain, and i've seen the effects of my skewed perceptions, which cause me to react and respond out of fear, and certainly not out of love, and i now see - how i am not only exhausting and frustrating to myself, but to those i love and those who i might try to love - and who really wants to be a part of that? i don't. "You can't shake hands with a clenched fist."

Shoes

2007-02-11T01:13:00.000-05:00

"High heels were invented by a woman who had been kissed on the forehead." ~Christopher Morley

"i was so happy when i bought these shoes." i said this as i rubbed that lovely pair of shoes across my cheek. i have only done that one other time with a pair of shoes - touched them to my face purposely - and that was nearly three years ago, the first time i saw the pair of shoes i wore in jules' wedding. they were antique silver, with little champagne bows on the straps, and they were...delicate. i rarely wore delicate shoes. it was love at first sight.

the shoes that i had in my hand this time, were the shoes that i wore - the first time that Flawless came to my place to pick me up. but for all the correct predictions, intuitions, dreams, and premonitions i had about him, about us - i never predicted when i bought them, that i'd be wearing them the last time he dropped me off here. i didn't foresee a last time - period.

when i bought those shoes, i was ecstatic. i was in control of my life - i was paying bills, on time, i had made my family a priority, i was dating who i wanted and i didn't feel bad about not dating who i didn't want, i was working the school - community connection, i was in control of my boundaries between work and play (with the exception of one unfortunate friday morning)and i had finally achieved closure with the Preacher and made peace with that episode of my life.

when i bought those shoes, i was on the phone with sarah, for the first time in a long time, and we were so happy to talk to each other. it was the winter solstice, a time in which the heavely bodies shine on and inspire human connections, old and new, and we were both looking forward to evenings that promised to fulfill nature's prophecy.

grinning from ear to ear, with a smile, i'm sure, that went straight through the phone to my girl, driving south somewhere on I-85, i actually spent money on a pair of shoes, for a date with a man. a man who would inspire many things - many thoughts, many ideas, many actions and many reactions, and surprisingly many tales.

when i paid for the shoes, i politely placed the phone down on the counter, and i discussed the traction on the soles with the sales associate, and i explained that i was going dancing that night.

when i bought those shoes, i was ecstatic. i was talking to one of my best friends, i was in control of my life, it was one of two days in the calendar year when the the heavenly bodies are aligned in harmony, and i was going dancing with man, for whom i had not yet written an ending.

tonight, as i was getting ready for bed, i picked up one of those shoes from the floor. i had hurridly removed the shoes from my feet after that man dropped me off, after a night without dancing, without promise. i picked up one of those shoes from the floor, and i said "i was so happy when i bought these shoes," and i put it in the closet with its mate, dejectedly laying on its side, and i closed the door.

Friday Night

2007-02-03T01:45:00.001-05:00

“Secret forces are bringing compatible spirits together. If the man permits himself to be led by this ineffable attraction, good fortune will come his way. When deep friendships exist, formalities and elaborate preparations are not necessary.”
- I Ching

Capricious Girl: "Hello?"
Logical Boy: "Are you out?"
Capricious Girl: "...driving to Wal-Mart." Capricious girl paused.

"Flawless Flawless [Insert First name, Last name and angry tone here], did you ever make a bet about me?"

Capricious Girl was angry. Both CG and LB were at a dinner party that evening. At one point, Stealth made an allusion to the champagne room. Capricious Girl laughed and made a comment about how her whole apartment was the champagne room. At this point, Stealth made a joke about how CG's champagne room had cost him $100. CG's ears immediately perked up, because any girl worth her weight in gold knows that when a man "loses" money, or anything related to sex "costs" him money, it's either because of a bet, or because he spent money in his attempts to "get some."

CG attempted to understand why her champagne room would cost Stealth $100, and was quite frankly shocked at the idea that Stealth might ever make a bet against her honor, and told him so. However, Stealth continued to laugh and stuck to his story that no such bet had been made.

Still CG wondered...and once she got home, she got angry. She made futile attempts to contact LB to ask him directly, before she got angry without reason, but to no avail. She knew she would not be able to sleep, as exhausted as she was, due to her rising temper. Even when she began to get ready for bed, she realized that the elastic on her sleep mask was stretched too much and would allow light to penetrate her eyes...so she decided to go for a drive...to Wal-Mart.

Wal-Mart will be open at midnight, and will have sleep masks, and all of the other items she needs to purchase due to the unfortunate theft at Target. In addition, the drive would calm her down, and she could drive on mostly back roads, allowing her a better chance of avoiding any potential encounters with the police.

After Logical Boy insisted that he had made no such bet, and that he had neither won nor lost any money as it related to her, Capricious Girl continued the conversation. It was a little after midnight, on a Friday.

CG: "Where are you?"
LB: "I'm going to Wal-Mart." Capricious Girl immediately got defensive and was about to ask if he was making fun of her.

LB: "Isn't that funny, we're both going to Wal-Mart on a Friday night?"
CG: "Are you serious? You're going to Wal-Mart?"
LB: "Yes, I am pulling into the parking lot right now."

When she arrived, still on the telephone with Logical Boy, and walked from the car to the door, she was suddenly assaulted by the smell of cigarette smoke, and muttered under her breath.

LB: "What are you doing?"
CG: "I'm walking into Wal-Mart. Someone is smoking and it smells disgusting."
LB: "Well, come to the back, that's where I am."

So, Capricious Girl got off the phone, and walked toward the back, to the electronics section. She slowly pushed her cart, seeking the one whose presence allows her to exhale. She walked slowly, perhaps apprehensively. And then she saw him, and she smiled, and all was right with the world.

Random Thought

2007-01-29T15:06:00.000-05:00

Dare I build myself a doll house
That can easily crumble
d
o
w
n
From the cliffs above the ocean
I'd surely fall and drown.

The Joy of 'Hello'

2007-01-28T23:45:00.000-05:00

"I need the starshine of your heavenly eyes, After the day's great sun." ~Charles Hanson Towne

When a man is happy to hear from you, you can tell it in his voice. It is the sound of awe, delight, and relief, all at the same time. You hear his smile as he speaks. When he is happy to see you, that too, is obvious. He has the look he had the first time he saw you and he thought you were beautiful, or drop-dead gorgeous, or a vision, or what have you. He is at once joyous, breath-taken, and sated. He missed you, and now here you are. Now everything is OK. At that moment, there is no question as to whether he will see you again. At that moment, there is no question as to where you are, who you are with, or why you are not with him. At that moment, neither of you is worried about whether or not you left things the way they should be the last time you parted, just in case the world ends. At that very moment, there is nothing else but the sheer elation that two spirits, connected by mutual affinity, are reunited.

Bull City Chastity Belts

2007-01-23T20:54:00.000-05:00

"I heard that chivalry was dead, but I think it's just got a bad flu." - Meg Ryan

Is my idea of romance really that far-flung? I find it hard to believe that good old-fashioned, romantic chivalry is dead. Noah laughed at me when I was describing my idea of relationships and romance - he laughed. He claims that no, chivalry is not dead, it just does not exist in the flamboyant manner that I visualize.

I refuse to believe that there are no grand gestures in my romantic future, or any one's for that matter. There must be a man out there, a post-pubescent man, in the world who will throw a rock at girl's window just to see her beautiful face, or perhaps serenade her, even he can't sing. There is a man, who writes poetry, and appreciates virtual gestures of affection. There is a man who understands delayed gratification, the whimsy of surrender, the importance of the pedestal, and the permanence of the grande gesture. And this man, he knows...that chivalry is not dead.

The Player, the Puppet Master, and the Porcelain Doll Collector – Part 1

2007-01-23T08:49:00.001-05:00

“Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him, who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, or will stay awake just to watch you sleep…wait for the boy kisses your forehead, who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats, who holds your hand in front of his friends, who thinks you’re just as pretty without makeup on. One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares and how lucky he is to have you…The one who turns to his friends and says, ‘that’s her.”

Some men are determined to fuck you one way or another. Either they will fuck you physically, i.e, make love to you, “do” you, have sex with you, ‘knock-boots’ with you, rape you, devour you, “make it” with you, tongue fuck you or fuck you with their eyes. Or, if they cannot do that, if they are of a certain level of maturity – im- or age, they will mind-fuck you. Fucking with one’s mind is the worst, especially for those of us for whom at least 60% of life occurs in our own. Warning – the mind-fuck can occur with or without bodily contact; however it is much easier to resist the mind-fuck if there is no physical encounter.

The man who manipulates the mind-fuck is much better known as a ‘player.’ This is a term with which we are much more familiar, but throw around far too liberally. At my age, I had forgotten about players. I had relegated ‘players’ to boys, of uhhmmm… around twenty-four, at most, and at best, much younger than that. However, the desire to control is indiscriminate. The yearning for power manifests itself in the male species, most of whom still possess that sexual evolutionary adaptive quality innately tied to the act of hunting. The modern male exhibits this behavior in several ways, three of which are readily identifiable in the following: the player, the porcelain doll collector and of course, the puppet master.

Men are hunters. Women are gatherers. Men are driven not by the desire to possess, but to hunt. They inherently desire to hunt and perhaps to horde, but not necessarily to possess.

I consciously observed this behavior first with my Michelangelo. I called him a "collector." He exhibited a predilection for getting to know women and perhaps what I understood as saving them for later. Not necessarily to devour, but it seemed as he though he would meet women, date them, become friends with them or what have you, and then once he decided he was "ready" he would decide which one he wanted.

I thought this was unique at the time, but I have since found it to be more common than not. On the other hand, I admit that subconsciously or consciously, I am "guilty" of the same behavior. Inherent as well, women are gatherers and they must ensure that themselves and their young are provided for in regards to security and economics. Our mating behavior can be significantly different from our male counterpart. The intrinsic desire to hunt inextricably lends itself to three patterns of behavior unique to the player, the porcelain doll collector and the puppet master. In fact, I would not be surprised if these three patterns were not merely stages in one’s man’s life as he ages. I’ll let you know in approximately 15 – 20 years.

The Player
The player, subconsciously, is concerned with two things: satisfying his ego and sex. Period. Ego first, sex next. At an age when a young man is preoccupied and pestered by the pressure of being able to “provide,” it is only natural that insecurity will eventually set in, in some way, shape or form. Men need to feel like men - pure and simple. They have a need to feel like protectors, to feel successful, to feel desired, to feel needed, or, in some cases to be feared. The simple solution to this convoluted contortion is of course – woman. Man can satisfy all these needs at once with a woman or women. During these times, for some men, the solution presents itself in the form of quantity, as opposed to quality.

Therefore, for some men, (guys, pipe down, I said some), the more women who make them feel desired, needed or successful, the better they feel (or think they feel.) This all occurs within the water-logged unconscious, representing the Ego, and often the Id, incongruent with consciousness and the Self. It just happens. Period. On the other hand, it is important to remember ladies, that due to the fundamental nature of these dynamics, whether a man is a player or not, has nothing to do with you. You are merely the object. You are not the cause of his irreverence. You are simply the object of his innate dereliction.

Hitherto, arm yourself with knowledge. Avoid contact if possible. If not, remember, that unattached does not equal detached, and that detachment is essential when dealing with said ‘player.’ At best, let go of your ego, and if you cannot do this, be willing to let it die. Go into battle willingly, if possible, and if not, at least be prepared at all times. Ambush is a frequent strategy utilized by said opponent.

Recipe for a Player
Ingredients:
1 Cup Expectation (can be procured in society, from family members, or the media)
1/3 Cup Peer pressure
½ Cup Insecurity
1/8 Cup Arrogance
1 Teaspoon Fear

1 Pint Ego
1 Tablespoon Id
1/8 Cup Genetics

1 Female, increase as necessary
3 Terms of Endearment
1/8 Teaspoon Pheromones
¼ Tablespoon Lust
A Dash of Manipulation (may come in the form of hand-written poetry, several sweet nothings – whispered, one sweaty dance, one lyrical lie, and/or reassuring physical contact (i.e., a hand on the shoulder, hand-holding, shoulder rubs, hand-kissing or face-touching.)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.
Pour expectation, peer pressure, insecurity, arrogance, and fear into 8 cups of rapidly boiling water. Allow to boil for 12 to 24 years. Remove from heat and cover.

In a large bowl, mix Ego, Id and Genetics. Stir until peaks form. Do not allow mixture to become stiff. Combine Ego, Id and Genetics with previously boiled concoction.

Place mixture in real-world setting and introduce to self-reliance. Allow time for adjustment.

On Fear

2007-01-21T16:17:00.000-05:00

Fear must be a female. For only a woman can bring one to his/her knees so thoroughly.

Saturday Night

2007-01-21T14:36:00.000-05:00

When you are an addict, and you give up one, or two or three of your vices - sometimes giving up one facilitates giving up the second and/or the third - you will do anything to stay busy. You will go to the grocery store - even though you must pray, teeth gritted, that you will not purchase a pack of cigarettes, or a bottle of wine - at 12:30 at night, because all you really want to do is go home and drink wine and smoke cigarettes, and then do it all over again.

Oh, Captain, I'm Captive

2007-01-21T01:59:00.000-05:00

"Love is a sweet tyranny, because the lover endureth his torments willingly." ~Proverb
Birth me from the this prison,
Hell's womb,
With fastidious stealth
This summer palace
Embraces me, far too easily
But it's arms are
cruel and unusual
Always
Bondage of the mind
Suffocated, with
Bated breath
I anticipate a wealth
Of overwhelming death
For my ego only.
Never kind - confusion
Where are fact and reality?
Never jaded, I'm sated
Not with you,
But with me
Far more than flying
I'd rather be
Free.

The Tipping Point

2007-01-21T01:36:00.000-05:00

"It is the woman who chooses the man who will choose her." - Paul Geraldy

This is the part where I usually go crazy. This is the part where I totally lose my mind and myself because I want something to happen. I want declarations of love or lust or "better off friends" - who don't end up being friends. Even intrigue will do. This is the time when I decide to cut my losses. I decide between fight or flight - unfortunately that is a battle within itself.

Lovers v. the Others

2007-01-21T01:22:00.000-05:00

To love is to receive a glimpse of heaven. - Karen Sunde

Here is the difference between lovers and the others. At least with lovers, you know what to expect. You know that someday, perhaps sooner than later, one of you is going to leave. It will, most likely be abrupt and without fanfare, but there is no doubt that one day, someday when you or (s)he is least expecting it, that beautiful relationship will end.

But until then, everything in between is almost always amazing. There are no expectations. Therefore there are only a few things you can expect - and the rest is anticipation. You know there is no fighting. You know every time you see him/her, it is exciting and you are excited, because it is almost always a surprise.

Not so with the others. With the others, there are expectations, and that alone can make all the difference.

Oh, Boyz!

2007-01-20T02:19:00.000-05:00

"I had a lot of dates, but I decided to stay home and dye my eyebrows." - Andy Warhol

Just say no. My inner voice is telling me - softly - to just say no. Just say no to all of them, Pretty Boy, Wannabe, High Fidelity, the Orator, - perhaps even Flawless, my favorite. I want nothing to do with the mind-fuck. I don't want any part in the duck and hunt game of sport. If and when a man decides he wants me, and if I will even consider him, he will have the chutzpah to come after me - no holds barred. Until then, no dates, no anti-dates, no pseudo dates. No lovers. Just me. At least when there is no one else, there is no confusion. There is no sex-haze. There is no dick-magnetization. There is no sifting through words, actions, and meanings only to come to the same conclusion. There is just me and myself to deal with, and that is more than plenty.

Quote of the Day

2007-01-18T23:32:00.000-05:00

"A bad kiss, too much saliva doth create."

The Kiss

2007-01-18T00:59:00.001-05:00

“Kissing- and I mean like, yummy, smacking kissing – is the most delicious, most beautiful and passionate thing that two people can do, bar none. Better than sex, hands down.” – Drew Barrymore

For the past two weeks, I have been daydreaming, fantasizing, and tantalizing my mind with thoughts of kissing. Lots of kissing. Lips, tongue, teeth. Lips, tongue, teeth, hands on face, hands in hair, hands in hands, can't stop, don't want to stop, eyes close, eyes open, eyes flicker, eyes meet, eyes close kissing. Lips on lips, lips on teeth, teeth on tongue, tongue in teeth, tongue on tongue, tongue in lips kissing. Breath to breath, soul to soul.

I am intrigued, obsessed, and suddenly fascinated with 'the kiss.'

Perhaps the kiss has replaced the cigarette in my head as its oral fixation. The familiar pull, inhale and exhale, that I relied on for over ten years is ghost. Fortunately or un, my mind quickly, immediately, substituted the desire, the overwhelming craving, for something pleasant (pleasant is an understatement), albeit rare. Perhaps it was my last encounter with the Preacher - and the absence of the kiss - that elucidated its clear pertinence to the whole intimate experience. Perhaps it was the introduction of a new kiss, Flawless' kiss, that enticed my mind to marinate on the mouth. Perhaps, it was all or none of the above.

Kissing is an activity of exploration, imagination, and anticipation and that is part of what makes it so incredible. However, a kiss is not just a kiss. As much as I crave, as much as I desire all that lips, tongue, teeth; lips, tongue, teeth, hands on face, hands in hair, hands in hands, can't stop, don't want to stop, eyes close, eyes open, eyes flicker, eyes meet, eyes close...lips on lips, lips on teeth, teeth on tongue, tongue in teeth, tongue on tongue, tongue in lips... kissing, I must follow my best advice: Just as no sex is better than bad sex, no kiss is better than a poor kiss.

Claire Huxtable Is

2007-01-18T00:17:00.001-05:00

"There's always something to suggest that you'll never be who you wanted to be. Your choice is to take it or keep on moving." - Phylicia Rashad

Claire Huxtable wears pantyhose. Claire Huxtable laughs in bed at night, and she looks at her husband as if she's still in love with him. She dances with him in the living room...spontaneously...to records. Claire Huxtable has a house full of children and a home full of love.

Claire Huxtable is smart, witty, and beautiful. She is sexy, supportive, and warm. Claire Huxtable is a woman that people want to spend time with. She was and is television's best "mom."

When I was younger, I imagined my life would be similar to Claire Huxtable's. The only difference was the layout of my home, but that is a minor detail.

Today, I watch Claire Huxtable and her husband Cliff, and all of her children, and I am still in awe. Today, my life is nothing like hers. For starters, I am neither wife nor mother. I am not a lawyer (currently), I do not live up north (fortunately or un?), and as much as I would like to, I cannot afford to wear suits to work everyday, (that's the goal for next school year).

Of course, I don't expect to have Claire Huxtable's life (yet), as I am a mere and spry twenty-eight, and I don't know if I ever will. That thought doesn't make me writhe in ecstasy nor does it make it to weep with despair. It doesn't make it me a failure, nor does it make me a success. It doesn't make me anything.

As I watch Claire and Cliff Huxtable, I don't think that it is fair or unfair. I don't think that it is my future life, or the life I am incapable of having. I just think it is. And that's the difference. At this moment, I am able to live without thinking in dualities. I am able to contemplate without making the judgement that 'a' is "good" or 'b' is "bad." I am able to accept (or reject) what is, Claire Huxtable, or not.

2007-01-17T23:09:00.000-05:00

"Faint heart ne'er won fair lady." - Miguel de Cervantes

Punk ass bitches. This is my new favorite phrase. I am using it to describe all of those people around me, including myself, who cannot stand up and ask for what they want.

Naked III - self meet Self

2007-01-17T00:29:00.001-05:00

"Even with the best preplanning quitting is an extremely unsettling experience. It may feel as if somebody dropped a bomb on your life." - Anonymous Smoker

Yesterday was my first official day as a "non-smoker." I use quotations, because I realized I will never be a non-smoker, I will always be a smoker who quit or a person who used to smoke. Similar to the fact that an alcoholic is always an alcoholic, even when he or she has been sober for up-teen years. We are addicts. Handle with care.

The last night was good. I was at peace with my decision. When I smoked my last cigarette, it wasn't great. It was a chore. When I got near the end, I actually looked at the end, the little orange flame, and thought about all of the chemicals I was putting into my body. Prior to that, as we were packing up the ashtrays to take to Alaina's, I was disgusted at the idea of putting them in Tupperware, because Tupperware is used for food. After I expressed my utter dismay, I looked at Alaina, and said "I can't believe that I am concerned about putting this in Tupperware, when I have been putting it into my body for over ten years. Not ahimsa."

I am at peace with my decision. Yesterday was v. scrumdeliumptious. I was still excited about the scents, (I do love lovely smells,) and everything was clean, and I was clean, and I was cleaning. I went to see Nancy Giles perform at Duke (for which I was not only on time, but early) with friends, and had a few passing thoughts about smoking, but that's all they were.

However, last night was hard. Real hard. I tried to stay busy, and do everything quickly, so I could get to bed. Once I get to bed, I am safe. I will not leave bed for a cigarette, in most cases. It means I have made it through another day smoke-free. But, before bed, I had to do my chores - make dinner, finish the laundry, care for the dog etc., And it was while I was making dinner that I had my breakdown.

Still perplexed after "no kissing" conversation with Flawless, I was particularly vulnerable. In my rush to finish dinner, and soon after get in bed, I spilled the pasta into the sink while I was draining it - and immediately burst into tears. I was going to have to wait another ten minutes, delaying my concerted attempt to hurry up and get in bed, in order to cook another pot of pasta.

I broke down! On the living room floor, in my clothes - skirt, pantyhose and all, I cried. I cried like I hadn't cried since I was a hyper-dramatic adolescent listening to Mazzy Star in the dark, on my bedroom floor. All of the emotions I felt at that moment were there, and I actually had to experience them - I couldn't let a few tears fall as a I sipped and smoked on the porch until my discomfort dissipated.

I had to actually feel the fact that I was afraid of having my heart broken, that I had nowhere to run and no one to run to because I was upset (why?). I had to actually fell the fact that I could not just pick up the phone and call one of my friends or ex-boyfriends so they would talk me through it. I had to deal with the fact that I was crying, really crying - boo hooing all over the place. I had to lie there and cry and throw a tantrum, and I actually deal with myself. I had to deal with my Self. Until now, and only since I have undergone this process, I didn't really have to deal with my emotions or myself. I just hid behind my cigarette-saturated shield, with whatever other arms I had to bear, be it wine, or people, or my sunglasses, or my camera, or my hair and pretended. What a charade!

It was intense - I really did physically, externally, "switch from bad ass to flat on my ass, as if there was no flip to land."

Quote of the Day

2007-01-16T23:01:00.000-05:00

"Just take a deep fucking breathe, girl!" - Sarah

Shafted

2007-01-15T23:58:00.000-05:00

If you are going to break my heart,
Please do so sooner than later.
Please refrain
From leaving me hanging
Like an elevator
My emotions rise and fall at the push of a button.
I do have a weight limit
At which point, my strings will snap,
My center will fracture,
And I will tumble
Down
down
down

The
shaft
of
darkness

Shattered
asunder.

Oral Fixation

2007-01-15T22:16:00.000-05:00

"Kissing is like drinking salted water. You drink, and your thirst increases." ~Chinese Proverb

When I was smoker, and I experienced any sort of discomfort, I always had an escape. If I was at home, I could just go outside, have a glass of wine, or two or three, and smoke cigarettes. Or, if I was at work, I could cajole a co-worker to come out and have a drink with me, which usually led to two or three, and smoke a lot of cigarettes. I can't do that now. I don't have that now and I am going crazy.

It's not even that I want a cigarette, but I need to release some energy and I have no way of doing that at this moment. All I can do is cry and be frustrated.

But, this frustration is worse because all I have been thinking about all week is kissing - lots and lots of kissing. If I could do a lot of kissing, this would be a lot easier.

2007-01-15T00:40:00.000-05:00

I will take all things lovely into my world.
To the six senses that is.
My six senses, on my terms.

Naked II

2007-01-14T23:31:00.001-05:00

“For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?” – Khalil Gibran

I feel like it is my birthday. I am thoroughly excited and nonsensically ecstatic. I am all about giving myself a facial, painting my toes and plucking all my unwanted hairs. I even get to shave my legs tomorrow (I've been waiting all week for that.)

I am in the process of the seasonal, thorough apartment-cleaning - tomorrow is dusting and vacuuming inside, the purging of the porch, and as always the de-germification of the kitchen (it is my blog, I can make up whatever words I like).

I am going to clean out my car, finish the laundry and prep the dry cleaning. And finally, I will slowly and thoroughly breathe in all things lovely, through all six senses. And I will do it all smoke free, prop-free. I will do all of these things with me, myself and I. No props, no angst - just me, my emotions and my cleaning products.

This is me getting naked. This is me seeing my life, seeing myself, with and without all of my props, and knowing the difference. The cigarettes, were a prop, are a prop, were a prop - in exactly 28 minutes, that will be "were a prop." Right now, they "are a prop." Or is it "is a prop" since there is only one more?

Anyway, as I was reflecting yesterday, while I suffered through my last "drinking wine and smoking cigarettes alone my porch," session, I realized that in every daydream, fantasy or vision of myself, I am only smoking if I am angry, edgy, nervous, sad, remorseful, dramatic, hyper-dramatic or drama-creating. I am never ecstatic. I am never falling in love. I am never dancing cheek to cheek or jumping up and down with joy and smoking a cigarette at the same time.

I am never sitting outside in my (future)courtyard, with its fountains, reflecting pools, flowers and pathways, with the sun streaming through the cumulus clouds and smoking a cigarette. I am never talking to my (future) children when they get home from school, while smoking a cigarette. I am not sipping champagne or tea, with my husband, in the claw foot tub full of bubbles, and smoking a cigarette. I am not teaching a marvelous lesson, earning my master's degree, winning an award or being interviewed for my publishing prowess while I am smoking a cigarette.

Call it a coincidence, or call it cathartic, but its time I understand, realize, clarify and call myself out on the fact that cigarette smoking was part of my little self, my ego. It was part of the drama-creating, happiness-hating, whackness-wading and formula-fating self. It was connected to the part of me that feeds on adrenaline, craves chaos, and thrives on the storyline. That is a part of me I no longer wish to enable in this manner. It is not the part of me that exists right now, as a force in this universe, which is at peace with itself (Its Self. My Self).

There is no need for me to continue to knowingly harm My Self. As I learned last summer, there is no reason to go out and seek suffering, it will find me.

Tonight, after we left our long-awaited salsa lessons, I frustrated and tearful - Lainaboo, satisfied and supportive, I burst into tears. As we talked, it became very clear that at any other time, if I felt awkward or frustrated in a social situation, I would have a drink (or drinxx) and smoke. Tonight, I did not have those props. I had only myself. I had only myself and my frustration. Thus, I did what I have been doing all week, I sat through my emotions. I experienced my emotions, without modification, with no escape route, without props, with no mask.

I have practiced this in the form of sitting meditation, Tonglen, and Zen, in the comfort of my own home, on my own time, on my own terms. But until this past week, I did not actually have to undergo such emotions on my own, without an outlet. Now I have. Now I can. Now I am. And to tell the truth, it's not bad. It's not horrible. It's actually sort of amazing.

As uncomfortable as it is to sit with uncertainty, it is just as equally astonishing. In fact, it is a mind-boggling, mind-blowing encounter with myself. The emotions rise up like a wave, and they hover, in my chest, surrounding my heart. They ebb and flow, rise and recede, and I wait. Eventually, after I am subjected to these unnerving orgasms of sensation, they go away.

And what happens in between when the emotions begin and when they end just is. It is not "bad" or "good." It just is. I may feel overwhelmed, anxious or vulnerable, but that is all. Nothing more, nothing less. I don't have an anxiety attack. I don't faint. I don't run away and in most cases, I don't scream. I don't explode. I don't die. My ego may die, but that is a necessary bi-product of living.

Learning how to live without the props - without the alcohol, the cigarettes, the sex, the anti-dates, and my 'summer palace' - is different. I'm trading in my security blankets. I now understand the false sense of security that I have relied on for over ten years now, is just a crutch. I created a stage, constructed a set, and lived in my own little theatre for an absurd amount of time. But now, I deconstruct that set as I deconstruct myself. I am taking off my mask, taking down my hair and taking off my make-up. I continue to disrobe, taking off each part of my costume, piece by piece. Although the play is not over, this performance not yet finished, tomorrow a new act begins.

And I will awake, clutching the security blanket made by my grandmother and scented with lavender and vanilla, open-eyed and silent, knowing not yet what I will bring to the world or what it will bring to me, prepared to live...just as I did twenty-eight years ago when I arrived in this world ...naked.

My Side of the Bed

2007-01-14T04:13:00.003-05:00

"I am laying down this sword between us. That's my side of the bed, and that's yours, and I will never cross over. Ever. I don't care if we don't touch for a thousand nights. Only you can cross over to my side. Only you." - Bobby Darrin/Kevin Spacey - Beyond the Sea

I never made it back to the middle of the bed. I just realized this morning, when I awoke and thought about the fact that I sleep with a laptop, a dictionary, and a dog on my bed. It is my bed, and I sleep on one side of it. I have been doing so for the past eleven months, yet I have been single for the last six.

Usually, the first step in my recovery after the loss of my bed mate, is to sleep in the middle of the bed. Purposefully at first, eventually out of habit, and finally, because I love it. It is one of the best pieces of advice I can give to any woman who is sleeping alone for the first time in a long time. It is one of the first and most important actions I initiate during the healing process - but this time I made no such effort.

I could make the excuse that my floor is slanted, and any attempts to remain in the middle of of the bed would be futile at best, and would require much too much energy when one is attempting to rest. But I know that is not true. Yet, I cannot come to a clear conclusion regarding the psychology of my lack of action.

Let's keep it real, the first month or two, I was probably too intoxicated to care or recognize which side of the bed I was sleeping on, if I slept at all. But because that time period is much too foggy and much too sordid, I cannot sort it.

Perhaps I thought once I moved to the Petite Oasis, my healing place, I was safe from the associations. But that idea has no validity because it's where one sleeps in the bed, not where the bed is - that makes the difference. If I continued to sleep on one side of the bed, than I would continue to either a) associate the other side with "his" presence or b) believe and/or hope that said side would not remain empty. Neither of which makes sense in this case. Especially since a) I now live in the "champagne apartment" (I don't even have a champagne room - the whole space is ironically virginal) and b) if I did acquire new bed mate/lover/partner/man he would logically sleep on the side on which I now repose, since my rolling down towards him would not be as painful as his rolling down towards me (remember the decline).

The great Coach John Wooden, continues to sleep on one side of the bed, and upkeep the other side in memory of his wife, Nellie. There, a shrine resides, with her nightgown, a photograph of the two, other memories, and the letters, tied with yellow ribbon, that he composes to her once a month.

There is beauty in the fact that Coach Wooden does this. But, why do I?

NO

2007-01-14T04:00:00.000-05:00

Ask me for my love, and possess my heart.
Request of me food, and fed you shall be.
Seek from me humor, and live in laughter.
Reach for my touch, and your hands have skin.

You can have my heart, but you can't chain my soul.
I will serve you with joy, but please cage me not.
Always, we will laugh, but my spirit, don't choke.
My body is yours, but not the light that lives within.

The Great Breakup

2007-01-13T19:53:00.001-05:00

“When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not ready. The challenge will not wait. Life does not look back. A week is more than enough time for us to decide whether or not to accept our destiny.” - Paulo Coelho

This indeed will be my hardest breakup. This will be my hardest breakup indeed because it is all about me. It is all up to me to control my behavior. It is completely up to me to say 'no' when the craving comes. It is completely my decision to change a habit which has been an inordinate part of my life since I was a teenager. My breakup with cigarettes is the greatest breakup of my life. And it feels that way.

I post this letter, not for you, but for me. I post this letter to hold myself accountable. I post this letter for posterity. I post this letter because we all have our battles, and right now, this is mine. This is me, detaching. This is me letting go of old senseless patterns and habits that sink me into Samsara until I suffocate. This is me getting naked.

Dear Cigarettes,
The time for me to take my absence from you is here. As of Monday, January 15, 2007, you will no longer be a part of my life. You will no longer control me. I will continue on this journey without you, as a free woman, free of the bondage you have come to symbolize.

I have relied on you for over ten years now, to give me a false sense of security, to calm me down when I was angry, edgy, sad, disgruntled, furious and ill-prepared. You have been my crutch now for ten years as I drove long distances, experienced heartaches, shed tears and coddled regret. You have been my companion now for ten years as I walked to class, caught up with friends, prepared for dates, and doled out advice. You were always there. But now we must part and go our separate ways, because you are no good for me.

I smoked my first cigarette with Danielle Miller, at the time my best friend and over time a mortal enemy. She was toxic, just as you are. And come to think of it Cigarettes, I associate you with some of the most toxic people and toxic habits in my life. Danielle Miller, Nicole Adams, and Crazy Erin. The Boomerang, Psycho J and the Preacher. Drinking, drama-creating and downfalls. I have had enough. If I will not accept abuse from the people in my life, why would I accept it from you or from myself for that matter?

You have ruined not only my clothes, but my entire budget. You have jeopardized my life, my livelihood, and my daily living for ten years now. I am late, on most occasions, because I give in to your calling. I have been late for work, appointments, interviews, dates, and wedding receptions, - all for you. And what have you given me?

You have given me an intolerable odor that permeated my clothes, for over ten years. You have given me yellow teeth with odd little patterns. Most recently you have given my face a pallor of illness, and expanded my pores, now a detectable size. You made a hole in my wallet, so big that it will take me approximately five to seven years to repair it. You have been my partner in procrastination and intoxication, and that is a lethal combination and irritating association. The loss of my time, smell, taste, money and self-discipline is completely unforgivable.

I know what you are saying now..."You did this to yourself. You began spending time with me. You started the habit which created the chain that bound us together. It was you who wove this web."

And you are right. I did this to myself and now I am undoing it. I am saying goodbye to the disgusting smell, the nausea, the guilt, the shame, the embarrassment, the outstanding cost, the high price for frequent dry cleaning and laundering, the dirty car, the pack wrappers, the terrible skin, the chunks of mucus and the niggling receipts. I am saying goodbye to you Cigarettes.

By leaving you, I will decrease my risk of cervical cancer, blood clots, wrinkles, single hood, emphysema, recurring pneumonia, throat cancer, lung cancer, heart disease, alcoholism, gum disease and a whole host of life-threatening ailments. I am happy to leave you. I am tired of wasting my time, money, and energy on you. I feel better without you. I feel clean.

I am replacing you with all of the wonderful smells in the world: rosemary, lavender, white musk, honeysuckle, pumpkin pie, bergamot, shampoo, conditioner, clean sheets, cherry tomatoes, the seven hard woods, resin, Coolwater, Chanel, bacon, sea salt, strawberries, coffee, lilies, leather, puppy paws, water, sweat, tears, etc., I am taking my time back and using it to cook, bake, exercise, practice yoga, breathe, meditate, read, kiss, love, swoon, clean, write, create, be, capture, skate, run, walk, feel, watch films, sing, sleep and dance. I am using my money elsewhere - everywhere else!

I am thrilled to kick you out of my life. I am no longer submersed in the haze of your addiction. I am letting go. I win.

Pseudo January

2007-01-12T23:58:00.000-05:00

Oh, cold! Where are you?
How I crave your stinging bite.
Cool my heated heart.

If I Were President

2007-01-10T00:22:00.000-05:00

"God gave women intuition and femininity. Used properly, the combination easily jumbles the brain of any man I've ever met." - Farrah Fawcett

If I were President, whether it be of the United States or some other bastion of capitalistic hedonism, and I intended to restore "family values," to the realm under my domain, I would make an honest attempt to increase the marriage rate of my citizens. In order to do so, the first logical step I would take in my presidency would be to implement the Pussy Power Tax Exemption. The Pussy Power Tax Exemption would be widely available to all women, regardless of sexual preference or marital status. Of course, adult females would be the direct beneficiaries of the tax break, but adults males, children of both sexes and the remainder of society in general would reap the benefits as well. The PPTE will allow women to deduct the cost of items, events, and activities that are related to and contribute to her physical, mental, and emotional well-being.

The Pussy Power Tax Exemption would provide tax breaks for all women, and anyone who funded these purchases or events, on the condition that they provide proof of said women, for all of the following:
1. Lingerie - For the purposes of the PPTE, the term "lingerie" refers to all items including, but not limited to: panties, brassieres, pantyhose, fishnet stockings, thigh highs (especially those with back seams), corsets, bustiers, garter belts, g-strings, thongs, negligees, all things silk and any nightgown made from materials other than cotton.
2. Hair Removal - The PPTE includes tax deductions for regular waxing of the bikini area, including Brazilian, electrolysis, laser hair removal, depilatories, bleaching, plucking, shaving and sugar waxing. Excessive, obsessive, or frequent hair removal is regulated and limited by guidelines to be established by the ASDS.
3. Shoes - Tax deductions are available for shoes at the rate of one pair of ladies shoes per month in one calendar year.
4. Pedicures, Manicures, and Facials - Tax deductions are available for exactly twelve of each of the aforementioned procedures per calendar year.

The following items are also consideration for the Pussy Power Tax Exemption for single women:

Two round-trip plane tickets per calendar year
Household Cleaning Products
The Four-Day Work Week
Car Maintenance
Candles
A total of twelve gift items per calendar year
Yearly membership to any health club or fitness oriented establishment
Telephone service
Prophylactics and Contraception
Prescription Drugs

The Pussy Power Tax Exemption is currently under review. Items may be added or eliminated as necessary by the author. The Pussy Power Tax Exemption is available for all females, regardless of sexual orientation or preference. Suggestions are welcome and encouraged. In order to take advantage of deductions, receipts must be provided for all purchases.

The Scratching Post

2007-01-09T14:06:00.000-05:00

"Men are not the enemy, but the fellow victims. The real enemy is women's denigration of themselves." Betty Friedan
I scratch, I scratch, I scratch,
Ouch! You scratch
I scratch, I scratch, I scratch,
Ouch! You scratch
Day after day, Hour after hour, minute after minute
I am scratching away my layers
I am almost out of skin
To scratch away
All of my layers are wearing thin
I am just a skeleton
I scratch – doubt
I scratch – volatility
I scratch – sensitivity
I scratch – vulnerability
I scratch – anger, mad anger
I scratch – fear, fear of fear
I scratch – passive aggressiveness
Ouch!
You scratch
After my skin is so thin
You scratch
You scratch – addiction
You scratch – extremism
You scratch – combativeness
You scratch – too many questions
You scratch – passive aggressiveness
Ouch!
You scratch
I am almost out of tissue
To scratch away
All of my muscles are wearing thin
I don’t have the strength
To scratch away
I scratch – at your words
I scratch – at their meaning
I scratch – at what you imply
I scratch - at what I infer
I scratch – at what I interpret
Ouch!
You scratch! I scratch!
I scratch – I am too sensitive
I scratch – You don’t need to scratch
I scratch – the surface wears away
You scratch – the surface wears away
I scratch – the surface is dull
You scratch! Ouch! I scratch!
Day after day, Hour after hour, minute after minute
I am scratching away my layers
I am almost out of skin
To scratch away
All of my layers are wearing thin
I am just a skeleton
Why must you scratch?
Day after day, Hour after hour, minute after minute
I am scratching away my layers
I am almost out of skin
To scratch away
All of my layers are wearing thin
Ouch! You scratch
There is not much left to scratch!
Day after day, Hour after hour, minute after minute
I am scratching away my layers
I am almost out of skin
To scratch away
All of my layers are wearing thin
Ouch! You scratch
And where did all of your scratching get us?
Where did all of your scratching get you?
Was it a skeleton you were seeking?

Quote of the Day

2007-01-09T00:40:00.000-05:00

(...in response to chrissytina's implication that i was better at this than she is)
"i am going to single forever, hanging out with a gaggle of anti-dates, all of whom would be perfectly desirable to any "normal" and discerning woman, but i, being the seeker that i am, will be too busy looking past them and through them to even notice."

Tragic Hero(ine)

2007-01-09T00:13:00.000-05:00

"It's never too late—in fiction or in life—to revise." - Nancy Thayer

I feel as though I am, unfortunately, a tragic heroine. My temper will be my downfall if I let it. It has been and hopefully won't always be, the catalyst for a plethora of my stupid decisions. I have to learn to marinate, stew, and then cool down - in an effective manner. Effective being the operative word in that statement. I have no effective methods for cooling down. However, I did try one today. I did Tae Bo to decrease the edginess of a Monday at work. But, I had to convince myself to put down the wine and put on my work-out clothes. I usually turn to cigarettes or alcohol when I am pissed. The only time I do something healthy is if I am so angry I can't see, and I go running - but that hasn't happened in months.

In films, angry women seem hot, passionate and sexy. I am not the way...most times. I am, as was pointed out by my mother, Gina, and now Flawless, passive aggressive. That does not equal hot, passionate, or sexy. I attempted to forgo the passive aggressive route with the Preacher by letting him know exactly how angry I was and why. However, my desire to kill him on the entire drive up I-85 North and the subsequent desire to smack him with my shoe was not endearing, and not only did I lose his love, I lost his friendship - we both broke the code of honor.

For instance, right now, I am angry. My feelings are hurt. But I am not smoking and I am not drinking. I didn't even start a fight. I must admit, I almost did - I almost became one of those manipulative women, who starts to feel sorry for herself and tries to suck the other person into the muck of her pity - but I didn't, and I am proud of myself. I do not want to cause physical harm, I do not wish to manipulate, so I am just going to be. And there is one good outcome to the timing of my anger -

However, because I am so cognizant of why I smoke now, at least I can practice not drinking and not smoking when I am angry. I totally lose my warrior's edge when I get angry. I get lost in my own desire to satisfy my ego's inner demons. I cow-tow to them, and if I don't watch it, I will let them char me with the fire.

The Virgin / Whore Dilema

2007-01-07T23:40:00.001-05:00

"All women are misfits. We do not fit into this world without amputations." - Marge Piercy

I cannot wrap my head around the virgin-whore dilemma. This is the theory, as espoused by the wise women of Sex and the City, that men see their wives as either virginal or whorish, but not both. Q'est que c'est? WTF? Can this really be true? I find it hard to believe that the majority of men, happily married or not, see their women as either virgins OR whores. It seems to me that if a man viewed his lover, wife, or partner as only a whore, he would either be psychologically disturbed or that would be the result of his incongruity. It also seems to me that if a man viewed his lover, wife, or partner as only a virgin, he would either be psychologically disturbed or that would be the result of his incongruity. N'est pas?

I'd like to think that Usher expressed his desires best - "I want a lady in the street and a freak in the bed." That, I think is something we can live up to, at least most of us. I will not neglect to comment that some women may not have a desire to be a lady anywhere, some may not be capable of being a lady at all and some may find it utterly unnecessary. On the other hand, a plethora of women can and do. Likewise, some women may have not the desire, ability, necessity, or willingness to be a freak anywhere, and least not the bed. I pass no judgment. But, I think many of us love the divergence, since several women work it gracefully and graciously in public, but are perfectly capable of being a "freak in the bed," - at least occasionally, and for some, perhaps only on holidays.

One of the women on the Queens of Comedy said it best when she pontificated on the fact that if one loves her man, if she would like to be with her man, and if she would like to keep her man, she will do whatever he wants when it comes to bedroom behavior, no pun intended.

Now, don't get me wrong, it is NOT the man's job to dictate bedroom behavior, at least not all the time. A woman, a good woman, will initiate sexcapades on her own, early and often. Sexcapades are a perfectly acceptable and encouraged method of keeping a relationship alive and well. As human beings, we tend to use the excuse that we are creatures of habit; but in reality, curiosity and intrigue are powerful motivators, and we all love to be recipients of some fresh new insight and the participants in some fresh new activity. In addition, sex tends to get better, much better, the longer one is with his or partner. Sexcapades are a lovely and entertaining method of getting to know one another - they allow each partner to become vulnerable, to be open, wide-open, to a part of him or herself he or she is not able to identify with outside of the realm of "reality."

I cannot accept the "virgin / whore" dilemma as valid. In addition to the false nature of the identity due to its extreme labeling, the idea has no teeth. This is not the reign of Queen Victoria and your man is not Prince Albert. There is a balance to be found on this continuum, and most women are not polarized at either end of the scale. If this were the case, relationships would be in far more trouble than they are now, although that is not saying much.

As a true modern, woman warrior, one must strike the balance. By eliminating attachment, we are decreasing desire. And by eliminating desire, we are decreasing attachment. As a Single Samurai, I am neither virgin, nor whore. I simply am.

Just Want to Skate

2007-01-04T22:50:00.000-05:00

I just want to go roller skating. That's all. Roller skating, with a side of salsa dancing. That sounds scrumdiliumptious. And it might be possible - we'll see. I suppose I will be testing Harry's theory as to whether men and women can remain "just friends."

Yet, as I reconsider this notion, I also revert to my earlier ponderings this year on polyamory. All of these men are so intriguing in a variety of ways. It’s amazing what happens when one opens up her options.

I finally have dating options, it's lovely, it's just as I imagined my Plan B life at this age. Almost. Except that I live in Durham and I have yet to mesmerize the crowd so much with my dancing that I get paid just to appear at certain venues, clothed. However, in those imaginings I was also a "hot photographer," who did hot album cover art and hot wrote novels, in a hot city, such as New York or Miami.

The only similarity between those fantasies and my life is that I am single. Hot and single and coveted. I am now hot and single and coveted, but instead of being a hot photographer, I am a hot teacher.

It's nice to be out of the sex haze. Finally. I take phone calls from boys, when I want to take phone calls from boys. I am not being presumptuous. I am not rejecting ideas before they come to fruition. I am not assuming anything, except that it is only my elusiveness which allows me to attract certain company. This conclusion relates directly back to sexual evolutionary adaptation.

Men are hunters. Women are gatherers. Men are driven not by the desire to possess, but to hunt. They inherently desire to hunt and perhaps to horde, but not necessarily to possess.

I consciously observed this behavior first with my Michelangelo. I called him a "collector." He exhibited a predilection for getting to know women, and perhaps what I understood as saving them for later. Not necessarily to devour, but it seemed as he thought he would meet women, date them, become friends with them or what have you, and then once he decided he was "ready" he would decide which one he wanted.

I thought this was unique at the time, but I have since found it to be more common than not. On the other hand, I admit that subconsciously or consciously, I am "guilty" of the same behavior. Inherent as well, women are gatherers and they must ensure that themselves and their young are provided for in regards to security and economics.

Trading Up

2007-01-03T23:37:00.000-05:00

It appears that by seeking detachment, I am trading up. There are more benefits to delayed gratification than it appears on the surface. Of course, the surface is a haze of fog seeped in desire, but far below is a well of pure, crystal clear bliss. Joy comes from within.

What's Love Got to Do with It?

2007-01-02T22:19:00.000-05:00

“There is only one real tragedy in a woman’s life. The fact that her past is always her lover, and her future invariably her husband.” - Oscar Wilde

At age twenty-eight, I realize I must decipher the difference between love and attachment. I was twenty-seven when I finally learned that love was not an internal feeling. Of course, I realized this inconvenient truth at an inconvenient time, but that is inconsequential at this point. Upon reflection, I recognize that I spent 2006 learning about love despite the fact that I was stuck in the Samsara of attachment. At one point, I even concluded that I needed to face abandonment head on, in order to overcome my fear of it. I did. I was quickly reminded that I don't necessarily need to seek suffering, it will find me. I am lucky I learned.

I have a sneaking suspicion that my anxieties have much to do with attachment and little to do with love. In fact, I know that is true. Clarity prevails daily, illustrating that my initial reaction to repel true intimacy is a a result of the anxiety induced by attachment. It has nothing at all to do with love.

Naked

2007-01-02T14:15:00.000-05:00

"And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk more." Erica Jong

Apparently, what may have contributed to my fall on the path of darkness is that I forgot about fear, and let myself become engulfed in it. When one is immersed in hope, he or she is simultaneously submerged by fear. To be more specific, if one prescribes to the western notion of dualities, than hope is the opposite of fear, as light is the opposite of heavy. In order for one to hope for one extreme, he or she must fear its opposite. Therefore, while I was consumed by hope, I was submerged in fear. I would not let my (small) self die. I did not let myself die until December 11 when I was forced to.

Here I am, and again, I refuse to let myself die. If I really let myself die, I will make myself naked. Completely naked. No regrets, no misgivings, no denouncements, no misinterpretations, no feigning emotions – just naked. I have to get undressed. I need to make peace with my Self and undress her.

Ambivalent Zen

2007-01-02T14:04:00.001-05:00

"Metaphysics is a dark ocean without shores or lighthouse, strewn with many a philosophic wreck." - Immanuel Kant

Somewhere, as I was tip-toeing along the dharma path, I tripped. Approximately one month later, I fell; I fell on my ass and I haven’t been able to get up. The problem there – is that the ground fell out from under me as well. I am completely groundless and I haven’t figured out where to go from here. So I’m just here, floating, holding on to my storyline.

I was a “bad” warrior this summer. When I say “bad,” I mean abominable. I went to yoga three times in two months. I did not clean my apartment – I let dust collect on both my mind and my habitat, and most of all I let myself get attached to someone. Someone I knew was going to leave, and I got attached within weeks of when he left. I realized that attachment June 30 and thought about ending it. I really acknowledged that attachment on July 6 and my body even warned me with a panic attack, which woke from my tortured sleep, feeling smothered as I lay next to him. But the next few days made all the difference, and I surrendered, just days before he left. Just a few days made all the difference. Because it all ended somewhere between July 9 and July 16 and I can’t tell you when or why. So, there I was in sweltering August, surrendering to all of my emotions and all of my impulses. I felt as though I was exerting more energy in my attempts to get over him than I did when I was with him. However, that’s not true. I know I spent a lot of energy during our journey, because I was trying to get over him the entire time, until I finally surrendered and he left.

I don’t regret a minute of it. It was the best period of samurai training I have had in years, perhaps in my life. I cannot say though, since I did not understand warrior training until the past three years and I had not fully synthesized the true meaning until this year. I did not fully understand the contradictions, and how they are not actually contraindications, until him. And although he uses that training as his justification and excuse for everything, he does not understand it either.

Woman Warrior

2007-01-02T13:53:00.000-05:00

“A warrior acts as if [s]he knows what [s]he is doing, when in effect [s]he knows nothing.” – Carlos Castaneda

(Original Composition Date - August 2006 )
Artemis was the first true woman warrior. She, Diana, was “the huntress,” she was goddess of the silver moon. She was attached to no man and true to herself. She was referred to as one of the three virgin goddesses, with her sisters Hestia and Athena. However, we know thanks to Queen Elizabeth I and Mary, mother of Jesus, we know that virgin not only meant “unknown to man,” but “unmarried.” Artemis could not have been married and remained true to herself – if she could have, she would have – she was a goddess. She could have had any man she wanted, and most likely did. But attachment would have prevented her from accomplishing her missions - perhaps. The essential question as a modern woman warrior is: can one be a modern woman warrior, remain detached, accept suffering, deny desire, and be “attached?”

I began to understand the Samurai slowly, but it has been an essential part of my training as a modern, single woman. This life is difficult. M. Scott Peck told us in the first line of The Road Less Traveled and although most of us come to understand at some point that in fact, life is difficult, it is comforting that the experts have taken the time to confirm this for us. Life is difficult and three years ago in order to deal with this difficult life and my difficult self, I turned to the East and I am finally beginning to understand. I am, and I have to be, a woman warrior.

Mission Impossible

2007-01-02T13:49:00.000-05:00

I switch from bad ass
to flat on my ass
as if there is no flip to land.
It’s worse than Scarlett and Melanie,
but I can’t let you see
that I am not one, but many.
Schizophrenia reigns
and I gain
a clearer notion,
audio lotion
in my head, it’s slippery and I’m slidin’.
Glidin’
through life without a trampoline to land on,
no safety net,
and I forget
how hard I land,
each
time
I
fall.