Occupy this blog!!!!

We the people of the AW Annex, (meaning Basgall) are taking control of this Blog to overthrow the evil powers that be oppressing us (meaning Cindy). Stay tuned for further instructions.

New York, New York.

The next time a promo deal gets dropped in my inbox ---

I want a ticket to New York. I don't care.

I'm GOING.

I'll even buy tickets for Keli if I have to.

Fantasy Home with Trout, Landshark, and Dwight Chesbro

What I'm needing or wanting for my new apartment:

queen size bed, which includes frame, mattress, box spring, new sheets, comforter, pillows
$99.99
998.499.61
$39.99
201.596.35
$23.33
701.853.35
- memory foam mattress at depot in San Jose
- white throw from home

bedroom furniture
$299.99
000.678.30 (white) / 401.805.51 (blue)
$99.99
602.080.16
$4.99
801.820.15
$15.00
801.804.41
$12.00
601.804.42
$9.99
701.637.05

fabrics
$59.99
101.120.16
- buy loose fabrics from Vintage by the Pound

toiletries
- bar soap, all my bottles of body soap, toothpaste, additional towels from home
- need new loofahs
- need new hair dryer

Masks Worn Perfectly

The world has been ending since the beginning of the world.
Fear is the mental repetition of a negative event;
we still wait for the quake along the human fault.

When we lean into places where we don't want to look,
the places that hurt, that twist us into unnatural shapes,
we begin to fall forward into living more deeply,
an unbalance that becomes another layer of truth;
and those places are full of essence, and that essence is love.

I exhale into the ground,
into the tree I climb in my dreams,
the faces of my human family;
the universe receives my breath,
and in it is my love for all.
I inhale into myself,
and from the molecules around me,
the love given to me
by the earth, tree, and hearts,
I breathe in their love for myself.

Here is sustainability.
Proceed from love,
a love given by royal, noble you,
and here in this universe,
we'll treat each other like kings and queens.

We each are teachers -
we teach each other
how to treat ourselves,
and therefore, the love
of our unwavering selves
must come from us.

Then when I see others
with their masks worn perfectly,
can I see that I am of essence, too.

Unapologetically
Willfully
Excitedly
in love with the world.

Potential

My full potential.

What can this possibly mean?

I can explore the universe of my fantasies, the caverns of my heart.

Perhaps that's what I've always relied on:
a more, fuller Me that lives in my head.
Someone I've always wanted to live up,
and quite honestly,
I'm ashamed when I move further.

Actually,
that's not true.

I surprise myself sometimes.

I'm not always on the path of moving closer or further away from my fantasy self.

Sometimes,
I delineate from that path altogether.

And,
unexpectedly,
I enjoy that part of myself,
perhaps the closer to myself - the truer fuller me.

Who is to say that Fantasy Me
can even be achieved?

Or rather -
do I even really want fantasy me to manifest?

This isn't a Hollywood film.

Rock Against a Hard Me

as I was dancing last night
there was a way
in which a man held me
really close
like he wanted to dance
WITH me
match me
or find a place
of togetherness with me

that I
wasn't able
to be with

I kept wrenching out
of his rhythm
and he couldn't keep up
with the spontaneity of mine

because I wanted to feel the music
but I also wanted him There

so that when I really felt
and danced in a way
that I can let go
I could know that he was there
to push up against
to witness me

and Jesus

I think that's what I've been wanting

to have someone distant enough

close enough

to witness me

and hold me

while giving me space

so that when I reach out
in my growth
expression
loving
I know he'll be there.

summer in sanfran

Here I lie
in the heat
of this SOMA
smelly bliss

as grown men
groan in restraints
of dumbbells
next door
at some new age gym.

Committed

In a space.

Not a bad space.

Just - uncomfortable.

I can match you - I can feel you where you are -
the trick is to feel myself while doing so.

Either feeling you,
or feeling me.

But I can't feel me while feeling you.

Yes, I said that.

But you're not listening.

Oh, you are.

I just feel like -

Oh.

That was just it, wasn't it?

I felt me, was trying to express me,
and didn't feel you feeling me.

I don't know how to ask you to meet me.
But I think that's what I need.

Can you be right here with me, please?

Just here.
Now.

If I run, run with me.

If I hide, hide with me.

If I laugh, if I cry,
fly at the fire speed that I fly at -
only to have you with me,
to witness me,
and I don't want to be alone.
Not without you.

I admit -
that in self-practice,
I don't know how to ground myself.

In truth,
I spiral and spin and sky dive.
I need you to wash me over
like the ocean
holding me in all places
and slowing me down
at a speed
that isn't the earth rushing to meet me in free-fall.

I am shapeless -
without form.

I wake up feeling a sort
that becomes a Me sort.

That because I feel like shit,
I am shit;
and I can be artful in the ways
that I can be refined shit,
like a queen of England shit,
and that attachment can last
long after I no longer
feel like shit.

Clarity.

I've been using you
as a mirror.
That mirror
shows me clarity.

Clarity of me -
that is,
if I receive you
without the filter
of my emotional
attachments.

That attachment to shame -
that any reflection
that isn't purely positive and bright
is immediately taken negatively;
really though, the beauty there
is that all truthful reflection
is reflection of worth,
and a goodness,
free of blemish or shame.

I want to speak more truth.
That my vulnerability is not a weapon
or a tool to make others feel a certain way;
with intentions - claws out -
to make you be closer to me.

It doesn't.
I feel more alone
in my "vulnerability."
The one that I express
that is no longer true
the moment I express it.

Yes,
I've always been committed to living boldly -
but I've been living boldly for the sake
of impacting others with my boldness.

There has been no real truth in that.

I want to be truly shapeless.

No attachment to impacting others a certain way.
Making them feel sorry for me
or wanting them to take care of me,
because of my Pain,
the magician Pain.

This magician allows me to be something,
something bigger, more extravagant,
elegant and beautiful and tragic.
And I am in love with him.
At the expense of not being able to connect,
at the expense of being lonely,
unreal, unbalanced, always searching,
never happy with where I am,
the real pain underneath that love of Pain,
and I think I'm sad.

Yes.

I think I'm sad.

Not tragically so.

I'm just sad.

That sadness sits with me
not in the way that Darkness or Pain
sits with me,
obnoxiously so,
making me twist and writhe.

No.

It's a sadness that sits deeper in me,
and it's gentle,
like a lady
or a little girl,
trying to remind me
that I have choice
to reach for joy, real joy,
as well as fear and real hurt,
and yes, sadness.

That I have choice.

And that all of it is truth.

And they can come and go in any given moment.

And I can let it go.

And that even though I arrive at a different emotional door,
I am still welcomed there,
and I am still Me.

Me being Love.

Me being Accepting of myself and others.

Me receiving others and their truth.

Me being in search of truth.

Me wanting to be loved
to be seen
to be heard
and to share all of that
with someone wanting to share with me.

Including that someone who is myself.

To live closer to my art
and to approach it with truth.

And to know
that there's nothing wrong with me.

Just simple beauty
feeling
figuring it out
appreciating, caring, and loving more than she knows,
and that I am loved.
And I shall love myself as much as you love me,
if
not
more.

Remember I can Write better than I can Speak

Bristling at your very words.

When you said that you didn't trust me
to contain my emotions,
I believed you.

I'm hurt that you said that -

Since it seems
that the only person who should acknowledge that I'm hurt
is me.

I suppose
I had never expected anyone
to take the brunt force
of my feeling.

Only that
secretly
or not so secretly
I want someone to take care of me.

To hold me -
to tell me that they understand -
to tell me that I'm not alone -
and to tell me that they are here for me.

There have been moments
pure solid moments
in my life when I have received this.

The volatility melts away.
I am cleansed in the purity of everything that I feel.

And nothing - not one word,
one breath, a single heart beat
is a lie.

When you said you couldn't trust me,
I felt like you accused me of lying.

I know that this is a filter that is my shame
that created this accusing tone.

Processing this
I understand
how I sorely want to be heard,
seen, felt.

In order to do so,
I cry harder.

I can see how that's difficult for you to accept.

You hide even though you sorely want
to be heard
to be seen
to be felt.

I hide too, but under the guise of a monsoon -
aggravating against the earth to let it know
that I EXIST.

Perhaps this is the mirror that we see in the both of us -
the want to be fully ourselves,
our truthful selves -
except we use different trickery and egos

and that's what makes us "different."

But I whispered in the dark,
"we are both trying."

And you agreed.

But your turning me away

hurts

a lot.

I want to accept this
without
shame.

Black Cat

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Writing for My Life... Reclaiming the Lost Pieces of Me

I was starving to death
before hunger finally saved my life
waking me to desire

- Nancy Levin

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

- Mary Oliver

tonight I am

self-absorbed
n
1. preoccupation with oneself to the exclusion of others or the outside world
2. (Physics / General Physics) Physics the process in which some of the radiation emitted by a material is absorbed by the material itself

Proving Lies

I want to feel wanted.

I want someone to want me.

Like really want me.









Then all of this radio static in my head can finally become lies.

Something About the Weather

There has been something about the weather.

In the office, they talk about the exhaustion they've been having.
That it was hard to get up in the morning.
Some say under their breaths that they almost called out of work.
Others openly talk about how they were going to skip yoga class.

They all blamed it on the cold.

There have been talks about colds and fevers and illness.
The months of winter came harsh, but late.
WInter came in February.
He had chills and a fever for a day.
She ran, sniffling, nose red, blurry eyes.
Cassie called out a day - feverish and fatigued from the day prior.

We blamed it on these weather patterns.

Yesterday she told me that her period came to her twice this last month.
Even though she's on The Pill.
We both wince at that horrendous occurrence,
and wondered what would cause such an experience.

Last night,
I came back from a date.
My lower back had been acting up.
I think I bruised it.
I sat down on the toilet, warmed from my red wine.
And there I saw it -
spotting.

But...
I'm on the pill.
Twice in one month?

The cold.

This weather.

I don't know what it is.

I feel that eerie post apocalyptic madness that you feel in zombie movies.

Global warming, or San Francisco spontaneity.

I don't know.

There's something about this weather.

Addicted to Humanity

You're in a dark place, aren't you?

I nodded.

He gazed at me knowingly, without sympathy, without shame. He wasn't going to try to fix me.

I was being seen, like I've never been seen before.




Is this mother pain?
Is this relationship pain?
Is this about your relationship to depression?
What's that?
An addiction to pain.
...
Yes. I am a pain addict.
Say more, says the therapist.
Well, says the patient, I am trapped in this cycle.
"This cycle...?"
It's an addiction, really, to intense feeling.
Do you want the cycle to end?
Yes, and no. If the cycle stops, I lose my humanity.
What does that mean?
I am cursed and blessed with this extraordinarily sensitive disposition.
--- The sensitivity allows me to feel all of human pain and joy.
--- I don't know, I don't know.
What don't you know?
I can't live without ---feeling.
It seems as if this causes you grief.
Of course -! I don't have a choice - I can't live with it, or without it.
You can't control your emotions -
Yes, yes, you can! You cut them out! All of which you don't want to feel.
You still have those emotions, whether or not you feel them.
Stop it, stop it! I am sabotaging my own life! I'm tired of the pain! And I can't bear to be away -

Stop.




I've woken up to this world to realize that I have become a realist at the price of my idealism. I've yet not come to terms, nor will my being will ever truly be one or the other in this lifespan. It's a challenging place to be in, this yearning for something fantastical and unreal, but it's that childlike me that I am anchored to, and I will not let go.





There's a certain time in the hour in traffic that I wish that I'm several hundred cars in front of where I'm stranded. I always imagine that I was able to move ahead through space like that. It makes sitting in standstill traffic way more interesting.




I don't need more limitations. That feeling of limitlessness is profound, special. That's when I'm creative, expansive, growing, flowing, moving. I love it when I'm limitless. Playing with shapes, words, forms - structures crumble in my hands and I am rewarded with the freedom to rebuild it anyway that I want with these same hands. These hands. These hands to write, these hands to conduct, these hands to touch and feel and want to hold - these hands do not let go.




Girl Scout cookies gives me a good amount of iron for breakfast. Samoas first thing in the morning, yum.




I want
I want
I want
I want someone to feel my skin and really feel it.
I want
I want
I want
I want someone to hold me and feel all my joy and being and darkness and tragedy and irony and sadness.
I want someone to spar with words - someone who loves to play the way that I play.
I want
I want
I want
I want someone to understand that I am all things, not one thing. And all these things are true.
I want someone to love my mind. More importantly -
I want someone to love my heart.
I want
I want
I want
I want someone to hold me.
I want someone to hold me really tightly, like I'm not going to be let go, at least, not easily.
I want someone strong enough to stay holding me.
I want someone strong enough to let me unleash my true self, the part that are all things.
I want
I want
I want
I want

I want you to see me again.

Cry Baby

In my soul
there verged
the cry of an animal
that has been waiting
to be released.

I found myself wanting to cry yesterday morning. I was at work, placing pastries carefully onto wax sheets, making sure that they were presented in a way that satisfied my visual palette. One of my co-workers laughed at my desire for perfection, and the other smiled on the other side of the bar. We had gotten closer; I had finally felt a sense of belonging in our struggles and laughter, together for hours in this place where we're free to create.

But that wasn't the reason I wanted to cry.

We were listening to something beautiful, I can't remember what. Jerome knew how to play my iPod better than I can.

The thought that crossed my mind was, "I have no reason to be unhappy: I have a sense of belonging, people who love and care for me, and I am committed to this sense of stability.

"Listen to your pain. Don't run away from conflict. Love when you want to, and learn to receive love."

And suddenly I wanted to cry.

It felt like pain, but more like a pain standing on firmer ground.

I had been suffering. And I was too ashamed to show much of it.

And as I was placing pastries on sheets, I stifled that cry, knowing very well that it is the release that I've been waiting for - my body needs this release.

It was on the surface for most of the day. I sat down with my increasingly close friend at work, and told him my desire to cry. He understood, but didn't know how to give me the space that I wanted.

I started drinking early - I still felt the cry.

I stumbled into many people, and I felt vulnerable - it's right there!

In the evening, I was with friends who supposedly knew how to give space, but I had never felt safe with them.
I don't feel safe.
I don't have a safe place to cry.
I don't have a home that is my own.
I don't have my own space.
I don't have that sacred loneliness.

And I needed to cry.

I still do.

Mary Oliver's Question

This Human Body

She told me that I was unclean - my body was unclean - my mind, my soul, my very being and the things I touched were unclean.

On days when the only things I kiss and hold were my bedsheets, and the piles of books that pass through my hands usually only deposited in my brain, she, upon looking on my cathartic body and sullen face, would instruct me on my body - that it was a rotting corpse, forever smelling, decaying, foul and uncouth. The lesson was to force me to bathe, to move, because, she said, it seems to be the only way to keep my shell of a corpse alive. I think she meant for me to refocus my energy on matters that are outside of me, especially that of my outward appearance, because it required discipline and an attention on matters that weren't so deep or internal.

But now I walk feeling like the very air touching me changes the textures and purity of my complexion. The ground I touch saturates into my pores and mingles in my blood, tainting it into a vile serum. I breathe toxins, cough out death. I have become the very decay that I have internally feared, and she had given me the notion of dying while living.

The duality in itself is beautiful,
but as I am emBodying it, one who is transitioning into death only wants what's coming.

Write.

Write.

Get it off me.

This.

This pain.

I'm ashamed
around my inability
to be fiscally responsible.

I'm ashamed
that I let my life drop
and smash into pieces
simply because I didn't feel accountable.

So I lose jobs,
relationships,
myself, my privileges, my freedom to do things -
and it's a black cycle.

I don't feel safe, I am scared.

Shits and Giggles

In spite

the last day of the Year of the Tiger

I got a boot on my car

and fines amounting to $1082 to pay.

I mean -

if I want my car back

within 72 hours

before it gets fucking towed.

And, as the pecan on my sweet potato pie,

I've lost my ability to feel.

Realms of Sleep and Longing

I write sipping tea ---

"I think you have to accept where you are," she addresses my ongoing discontent with my weight.

Some echoes in my head agreed, but a pain invaded my mid-back, causing me to shift uncomfortably.

Am I limited by my striving, wanting, longing -?

It feels that way.

Pretty Jane was in my dream, and I think it's because Francis often shows a sad sweet vulnerability, especially around her. It is in his vulnerability that I trust; and when he shamed me for my promiscuity, as his language implies, I saw his truth in seeking sweet Jane.

He was in my dreams, the one that has invaded the realms of longing and feeling and light for years. I think my exhausted body wanted to exhaust my mind, and he exercised me with a serious selfish conviction: that he was there, but not present with me; there some times, most often not, but the times that he were, I thought, outweighed the times that he isn't - I felt the old familiar emotions of being slighted, running the circling pattern of leaving myself exposed to his harsh wind for anything that he wanted, needed - forgetting me, my wants and needs. Then he slowly turned to my most recent lover, and my heart beats doubly, because I wanted things to be different, I wanted someone who could meet me in my own pain and bouts of darkness, who saw my want and love of poetry and its sharing, my chasing after sunsets and living for the sun rising, my tears, my love for physical affection, all sorts of affection, complete love and caring.

Oh my God.

I want someone to care for me.

I deeply want to be taken care of.

I've been hearing women say that all year...

And had accepted their truths, not realizing

that it is also mine.

Old Friends Revisit

Bitter discontent without space for words for thoughts with sense the taste within limits sad limits the awareness of such is the taste of mortality of which I deny but again these are just words and I'm avoiding what is real - what is now - present - here

It is humiliating.

It. My emotions. My moods, my extremes, my stories, the grandeur, the darkness, the seeming infinite space of it all, the humiliation of my humanity coming in dosages of atomic energy.

I felt it most when all of this pain was rising up to my cheeks and emitting straight out of my body - the kind that becomes funneled into a sharp human weapon, and my upper body was the blade. I was restrained, and that came to a tip. I chose the restraint, but it didn't feel like choosing at the moment. I had the expectation of being shamed for my behavior before I even showed it. I countered truthful behavior, even if it came in a state of high frenzy and emotional bottle rockets, I countered it with "road apples" as Langston Hughes had called it. They came as weights - because I needed a discipline to ground me as I visited the Pacific in the middle of Karim's room. I sat in the sand for hours as they communicated to each other, but I could only hear tidbits over the sound of the waves and the wind and the crashes of my mind shuttering on and off to the reality before me. I couldn't sit still, and even as I type now, over 24 hours later, my fingers tremble in such a way that indicates to me that I haven't stopped running in my mind, even in darkness, even in the white rooms that I'm starting to see clearer now.

I am humiliated that I am in turmoil. I am humiliated that I show my emotions. I am humiliated that I have no sense of control, and that is now publicly evident. This has happened before, when I was in college. I'd have entire days during which I was passing off in some sort of spastic daze, boisterous, crude, loud, and at the time, I felt like I was jovial, charming, and as delightfully extroverted as ever before; fortunately in the theatre department, eccentricity in any capacity in individuals is the norm, and after a night of building self-shame and exaggerated observations from my peers (all exacerbating this mounting embarrassment), I come back to our long school hallways unseen as other than myself from before.

But not in this group of friends. When they put their attention on me, I was surprised that they haven't noticed the trembling and the speediness of my speech - but then they did, but the noticing was a reaction of questioning: why are you acting this way (I don't believe you)?

Now the quality of humiliation is greatly tinted with an attack on my emotions, which is invariably, always my truth, as my mood in any given moment is always the mood that I find myself in, and whether or not I hide it, I could not hide the mania that was happening in the moment of attention being put on me this night that I was on sandy beaches of Karim's carpet. These were truthseekers, this particular group of friends, but the desire for truth outweighed the desire to accept and be loving - and at any point, I was in the fragile stage of letting out some of the most dangerous, volatile, and absolutely most vulnerable parts of myself. I think I was riding on the precarious edge with this group, because a large part of me wanted to believe that they would rise to meet me - to accept that I was deeply psychotic, and that they still loved me.

I couldn't express that.

Nowhere in my wildest dreams could I have felt and expressed that in the moment.

It was too much to ask.

And already too much to have given them enough to see this part of me.

The part of me that wanted to be lewd and mean and violent to the closest of them. The part that wanted to cry and let out the saddest truths about me. The part that just lets me act out my psychosis and paranoias and fears and delusions and everyone will still be okay, not afeared, and certainly not going to tell me that I'm going to be okay, and that everything I'm experiencing will go away. I wanted them to withstand the maelstrom that is me and not walk away or fix me.

I want that so much now, I'm realizing. That I cannot control my moods, and don't wish to have to control them - but be accepted despite where I am, and loved by those I call friends and lovers.

But I'm too afraid to let them know.

They don't know.

They don't fucking know.

So they question. And this questioning was severe to the fragility of my frightened and paranoid being - that even as they turn their gaze on me, my thoughts were five minutes into a conversation that may or may not happen, that everything they said had slowed down so immensely, that I predicted every next word as they spoke, and I was never, at any moment, present enough to assess the situation enough to calm the irritability and shaken anxiety down. Not once.

In the day since, I've tried to expel my energy as much as I can. I visited my family, driving up and down the chilly San Francisco peninsula. I worked long hours, stayed as long as I could, talked to as many of my friends and had as many conversations that I could take ahold of, ran when I could, and kept my attention rapt to my busmates to and from work. I had bought a wireless router before the meeting of ocean and friends, and I had set it up for Loomis and I. I was getting annoyed that I couldn't use the internet, and wanted us to at least each have our respective computers. I haven't yet expressed the annoyance, but at the same time, the only thing I'm doing with my computer privileges is write nonsense to prevent my hands from hitting the walls and my mind from exploding. We near the middle of the night and in less than four hours, I should be rising from bed to start my day. BUT MY MIND WILL NOT STOP.

I AM TOO SELF CONSCIOUS OF THIS DISEASE THAT THEY HAVE NAMED IN MY BRAIN BUT I WILL NOT BELIEVE IT I WILL FIND EVERY MOMENT'S CAUSE FOR MY TRIGGERS BUT I WILL NOT USE THIS ILLNESS AS A CRUTCH.

I am scared. I am delighted. During my evening drive to Los Gatos, I contemplated driving off the 280 into the beautiful reservoir that dominates the western bay area. I wanted my body to rise up from the water to seep into the thick fog that sometimes like to trickle over the mountain range, back up and over heavy like fingers, hands, back into the Pacific. I thought it poetic, that thoughts of suicide were always coupled with my romanticizing of death. When in practice in the past, however, I would chose the most painful and ugly methods in order to die.

Then I'd find myself in minutes or hours of grace. That everything was a complete joy, and I found myself pouring into dialogue about music, relationships, and something artistic, and knowledgable, and always profound, at least to me.

Everything was fleeting. None of it was of my choosing.

Throughout the day, my hands were poised over several contacts on my phone that I wanted to express, "I need help. For the love of God, please restrain me, because I no longer have that power." Then the moments of tensing would pass, and as I collected my thoughts and logic again, so did the will to be self sufficient and the will to live.

It is with great relief as I'm writing this, that my thoughts have slowed down tremendously. I requested that Elizabeth played an episode of the Tudors to distract at least a fraction of my brain, and the moment she relinquished my computer, I knew that in putting words to my experience, that I'd find less confusion in at least having some manifested copy of my world that wasn't locked in the safe of my mind.

I'm tense living with someone. Elizabeth and I share a bed. I'm usually inclined to let my panic play out in the night, when everyone is asleep, and I'm able to wreak my sheets and pillows into smithereens. I can't do that with a bedmate, lest of all with another person in any general vicinity.

This is the best I can do for a release. Adieu.
I must write more often.
Right now my mind is occupied with something else.

Inject the Reject

I get a momentary shock whenever I see my scalp blood red but the dye speaks only in the glimmer of light and feeling my calloused feet in the softness of our gypsy studio haven I try grounding myself my tears sought soft porous skin searching not solace but feeling it feeling it in a way that places me in my belly button and shoots me out into the clear blue of our winter sky then I can feel the stones sinking my heart into the river and the weeds I grasp onto cannot save me from drowning in this ache of abandonment insecurity lack of contact fear of connection like that intensity in my pelvis when I let you inside my soft places so I can feel your hard intentions and it's this radiant connectivity that is addiction I draw attachments to our sex like an anchor grounding my soul in your eyes and when you discredit what I might call love for attachment with your resistance backing away not wanting infinity with me I live in minute boxes called Rejection and only hear the echoing cries of no no no's.

Yes to I Am

Stole this posting off from Penny.

You Can Be Whatever You Want to Be
by Donna Levine

There is inside you
all of the potential to be whatever
...you want to be
all of the energy to do whatever
you want to do.

Imagine yourself as you would like to be,
doing what you want to do,
and each day, take one step
towards your dream.

And though at times it may seem too
difficult to continue,
hold on to your dream.

One morning you will awake to find
that you are the person
you dreamed of
doing what you wanted to do
simply because you had the courage
to believe in your potential
and to hold on to your dream.

The Wanting Game

Here, I'm going to evaluate what is that I truly want
whether or not it is going to still be true
and what will happen if the want gets fulfilled.

Alright. Let's do this.




Today I am going home. From home, I will pick up:
- camera charger x
- external hard drive x
- hot water boiler, if possible
- food: granola, milk, yogurt, fruit, vegetables, dried foods, tea x
- Love Actually x
- luggage + clothes x
--- which includes: more underwear, t-shirts, leggings, sweats, blouses, boots, flats, running shoes, socks, jeans
- hygiene stuff: panty liners, pads, shampoo, callous foot scrubber, loofah x
- hair dryer, if possible x
- my perfume x




My diet has been fluctuating since I've gone on the pill and became a gypsy. A big part of it is my lack of exercise and my stress levels; another is - whenever I have food, I BINGE eat.
[disciplinary eating routine here]
*** May consider eating + exercise schedule here. ***

- dairy is limited - milk has to be whole milk (good protein in whole that is taken out in reduced or non-fat milk); will consider drinking coconut milk, a whole milk or goat's milk for yogurt, cottage cheese, but will avoid other cheeses
- no nuts, avoid soy except tofu (small amounts)
- look for gluten-free products
- fruits including lots of citrus, Malus fruits (apples, pears, etc.), bananas, berries
- vegetables including lettuce, sprouts, green beans, broccoli, asparagus (this list can go on forever, I love vegetables)
- meat - this is a hard one for me; I can probably cook most fish and like 'em, chicken sometimes, other kind of meats not so much; I'm not going to pretend to be a vegetarian anymore, and at the same time, I'm not going to force myself to eat meat when I don't want to

+ mornings usually look like a cold dairy breakfast for me - I love eating cereal and milk, granola and yogurt with as much fruit as I can cram, cottage cheese dolloped on a fruit bowl; flaxseed and protein powder can always be added to this to kickstart my day --- MUST learn how to eat breakfast regularly (even today, I haven't had breakfast... or lunch)
+ dinner is usually easy to prepare if I have time - lunch is a whole 'nother story; if I have lunch at work, it would have to be VERY conscious... to be explored

exercise: the one thing that inspires me, as well as gives me the right amount of discipline is yoga - in a class - everyday; this: http://www.trubates.com/ shows me my options; but doing yoga classes will add onto my bill of expenses :(




goals / things for 2011
- to be clear on what I want with money: what I want to do with money, what is essential, how do I help myself and others with it, how to budget, watch where my money flows to
- write for an hour everyday: if I can sit down and write without pause for an hour straight everyday, I can access a flow of writing that can only get better
- read a book a week: 2010 was a year of loosely reading, never finishing, not practicing enough curiosity and too much Facebook; it is time to get my imagination and curiosity juices a flowin'; can't wait to start taking the bus to work (1 hour long bus ride = 1 hour of read time)
- cut down Facebook time: check for messages, your favorite people's pages, click on only three links, GET OUT; I realize that sounds nuts, but the more agreements that I make with discipline, the better
- call my mom once a week: before she calls me once a month, fuming, upset, pent up; I realize that a lot of my relationship is agonizing waiting for her to call me - I'm going to muster up the courage to WANT to call her out of curiosity and love; let's set this up as my ritual Sunday morning (after reading/writing/exercise, of course!)




money flow (monthly):
$200 credit cards
$60 student debt
$50 health card debt
$50 cell phone bill
$15 Netflix
$100 transportation ($4 bus X's 5 days/week = $20)
$x miscellaneous (goddamn) parking tickets... to be slowly paid off
~ around $500 in accruing debt / ongoing bills
holy shit
I could do without Netflix, certainly
I could downgrade my phone, although that would be shite
not much else to do here
here are the other approximate essentials:
- food
- shelter
If I live minimally, (with Elizabeth, helping out with food, etc.), I would still be spending half of my paycheck every month (approx. $800). This only leaves me around that same amount for moving out to a bigger place - leaving me living from paycheck to paycheck. ***epidemic*** Now I just need to figure out how to make more money... bartending gig... sugar daddy... $200 blowjobs... throw me a bone here!




Updating, continuously.

My Salsa Recipe

This recipe has been proven to be addictive. :)

This serves ... A LOT. If you don't want a big serving, cut down all ingredients down to half, and even then you'll have salsa to eat for half a week. Also, you may want to cut the amount of the chili peppers to half if you can't handle the burn.




7 roasted tomatoes
5 diced fresh tomatoes
2 red onions
5 red hot chili peppers
1 lime
cilantro

1. Roast the tomatoes. Make sure they're completely cool out of the oven before adding to the blend.
2. Put the tomatoes and the red onions into the food processor and blend.
3. Add the chili peppers, and sugar/salt to taste.
4. Blend the roasted tomatoes into the mix.
5. Add the lime.
6. Continue to adjust to taste with sugar/salt.

Imma Lady

I want to have a girl's day out.

A hair trim.

Pedicure. Callouses begone!

A good wax.

Home Ver 20.11

I want to live with Elizabeth.

Two bedroom home.

Kitchen with a gas stove.

A bathtub.

Our walls will be housing a library.

A closet big enough to house all of my shoes.

(I also want my flat screen and a new surround system. This is a bit harder to accomplish.)

Black Fighting Swan

I want to see the movies that are in the Oscar running race.

All day movie hopping.
Stuffing my face with popcorn.
And getting impacted.

Movies I want to see:

The Illusionist (animated)
Black Swan
The Fighter
True Grit
The King's Speech
Blue Valentine
Love and Other Drugs
The Kids are All Right
The Social Network
Barney's Version

Apply it Gently to the Love you Lent Me

I am a Thief - Loomis' Writing to Self

1. I will stay away from looking at opposition & instead focus on creative motion that does not utilize repulsion.

2. I can move beyond others, but I must do so maturely, staying connected to what uplifts the moment rather than running away feeling.

3. I will not get sad about weaknesses in a situation. I will instead celebrate some aspect that has beauty. I can generate satisfaction within limitation.

4. Once I accept what is gracefully, I can then attract something for all involved with faith in fullness, yet acceptance and pleasure in what is. I can adjust to what is needed & still have my life.

5. Whatever I do, I need to find a deep feeling of connection. I can receive or appreciate what is available.

6. Each day I will imagine myself being stroked into a state of tenderness & submission that evokes new beauty to arise. I will release beauty that has become complicated or twisted by feeling what is not compatible. As I practice tender surrender I will touch myself to find exactly what is right for me. In this process I will regestate who I am - birthing myself in a way that is compassionate & self-loving.

On Slowness

I am a slug.
Or rather - like the slow moving cats that sit on Elizabeth's dressers.
They are simply more likable than the slug.
Like me, every once in a while, they move - sometimes sudden.
This act of movement shows me that they are alive.

So now, I am a cat.

The kind that sits in one place.
She cannot move, she cannot speak.
She starts to write,
because it is the only ability
available to her pace and lack of living.

Because her emotions overwhelm her.
She doesn't know why she feels the way she feels.
She doesn't know where it has come from.
She checks her physical body -
she has learned that this sort of ailment
is connected to all of her bodies,
and her physical gives her the most outward shame.
So she traps it, berates it,
because there is still a part of her
that thinks it'll feel better when she hates her body.
The physical body usually does not respond to this hate.
It does not respond now. It is lackluster.

However, it is the emotional body
that keeps her
trapped inside doorways
in a white room that lasts forever
and she cannot see the next place
that proves that she is living.

In this room, there is no divider.
She either sleeps so that the days and nights
come together, and therefore there is no separation;
or she doesn't sleep, so all days and nights become one.

When she does not sleep,
she dreams, but the dreaming is what keeps her
in these white spaces.
The dreams are unreal, fantastical -
there, she is perfect,
her living is immaculate,
every inch of how she upholds herself
is Ultimately Cindy
in the fullest of her potential,
talent, gait, and desirability.
Those she loves openly loves her.
Those she loves deeply is deeply in love with her.
Here, she is both giving and selfish
and admired for both traits.
She does what she wants and everyone is okay.
And she is never lonely,
even when she is alone,
because that means she is creating.
And her creating is monumental.

When she does sleep,
she only dreams of white boxes.
They are comforting,
out of her control,
and they take care of her.
Upon wakening, the stifling mess of reality
usually puts her right back to sleep -
until the overwhelming guilt of not being awake
will force her to be "awake,"
so she'll sleepwalk through her days,
carrying white boxes.

I'm noticing that I can only address
my relationship with my depression
in the third person, and in story.
(I couldn't write the 'd' word for two minutes.)

My body is now experiencing nausea,
a heavy head, the desire to roll into a fetus.
I want to feel safe,
but safety or security
is a false prison -
and I know when I'm alive,
I want to be more than safe.

For now,

I am a cat.

My Kind of Family: the heArt of Giving in Community

It was four hours into the new year. I was crossing the Richmond bridge in maleficent rain. The world occurred to be flooding; the rare vehicle appearing out of the darkness was also blindly navigating this post-apocalyptic water world. It wasn't the pounding sheets of wet weather that kept me wide-eyed and occupied at this late (or early to some) hour. Replaying my memory - the one that has forced me to drive through three counties at 4:18am - I had been indulging in feelings that I've been saving in a tightly wounded ball under my sternum. I was finally fucking angry - and I wanted the world to know.

An hour earlier, I was being stirred awake by a male voice telling me he wanted to sleep. I was confused; this wasn't Elizabeth who was sleeping beside me in Keli's bed. A second later, I recognized Mihai's voice. Groggy and agitated, I slowly sat up. He stood awkwardly in the doorway. Elizabeth coughed violently at the edge of the bed. She had been sick, hence our quiet New Year's evening. The lights had been left on and my eyes could barely open to the brightness. My agitation heightened with my vision. My thoughts bended towards self-victimizing - and the blame was quick: How dare Mihai just kick me/us out of bed!? My body went numb with anger. Has he no decency? No sense of family and consideration and most of all - Love?! The loss of physical feeling kept me glued onto the bed. Elizabeth's voice then rang out sharp, "will you please leave the room so we can get out of bed?" That jerked me out of my internal rage. She was angry, too, and not afraid to show it. Mihai left the room without a word. She faced me, her eyes furrowed in fury. What a jerk! we agreed with our nonverbal communication. A couple of minutes later, we were outside on slick SOMA sidewalk ducking under overhangs to get to my car. The last image I had as I left was Mihai closing Keli's door on us the moment we cleared the space. Pure indignation I felt.

In the car, Elizabeth confided a moment she had with Mihai when they were shuffling in the hallway. She had spat in his face, "you self-entitled prick." Through the San Francisco city streets of late night drinkers and celebrators, we fumed heavily about what happened. We couldn't believe that a supposed friend would do something like that, especially a peer in a community that recently expressed the want for individuals to become closer. I dropped her off at home and mapped out my course to Kensington. We were still shaking with anger.

I took Park Presidio to the Golden Gate Bridge. I breathed deeper, even as the rain barricaded my car even more furiously and my back tightened in anxiety. I dropped into understanding the situation - something I did so often with forced willingness that I usually never reacted or felt anger as I had just did. He had asked Keli for her bedroom, and therefore he felt like he had a right to it. He may have felt bad, but wanted to assert his boundaries for the bed. Okay. That still doesn't feel good. My judgments kicked in. I'm glad he asserted his boundaries - but does he even care? Is he even human - with a heart? I thought of something Dara once wrote to me. He was learning how to establish his boundaries "without the use of heavy weaponry." This has been a lifelong challenge for him; we worked on it in relationship together when I was 19. We can't walk around with walls holding ourselves in with cannons and spikes poking out, we had agreed. At least if we wanted to open ourselves to true love, intimacy, and deeper connection. There is no real friendship and closeness and family in tank driving.

At this point, I sank deeper into my sullenness. I am forced to believe that Mihai doesn't want to be closer to me. I can accept this as a consequence of his actions. I explored self-accountability - something that had been on my mind during this entire trial. If I was self-accountable for tonight, I should have talked to Keli about staying at the annex. Wait. She knows I stay there - it's the closest thing I have to home right now, and my belongings are there. Should I have been more aware that Mihai was staying there? Should I have been more proactive in protecting my own boundaries - had said something to Keli about my situation, which I wasn't clear that she had full knowledge of?

My thoughts flowed towards Keli... there was residue resentment towards her. She could have considered me when allowing Mihai staying here, but that's not her job. She mentioned that he was leading workshops and I marked down when to avoid the annex. Out of anyone, she preached self-accountability, although it would be nice that she thought of me, ever. I found my can of worms with Keli and my hands tightened on the steering wheel. But she doesn't think of me. Unless I was available to help her, like moving out Mihai's shit or taking her to pick up her sister from the airport. I was always happy to help her out, not because I felt that there needed be an exchange of resources, but simply because I love her and I want to be closer to her, be Family. And I know that Keli preaches building Family - she openly wants that too. In that respect, she has made gestures to make me feel welcome in the space, and I found her loving as a sister. This wasn't always the case.

The week prior she had asked me to borrow my car to pick up her sister. It was Christmastime that I was getting my tires replaced so that Mojica could drive my car to L.A. I tried to figure out the exact time she needed my car as to make it work. On the day that her sister was flying in, I was emotionally upset, releasing the stress of having no money and no home. Mojica was drained: Christmas was here and he was busy preparing for L.A. I attempted to contact Keli repeatedly that day. She answered sparingly and her answers weren't concise enough for me to understand what she wanted. Despite this, we were able to make enough plans; and Mojica and I stirred up the willingness to meet her at the annex. We drove to the airport, picked up her sister, and found a place that served food late night Christmas Eve. I was worried about Mojica, who was tired and had to drive to L.A. the next morning, but he gives so willingly and I've always trust him to say 'no.' We had a good time, and laughed, and everyone went home content.

On Christmas Day, I found out that Keli was at the movies with a group of our mutual friends. A rock sat in my throat, and from jealousy, exclusion, a whirlwind of hurt, I expressed my upset to her, to which she deflected with the belief that I wouldn't have been interested or was busy. I think in truth, she simply had forgotten about me, but didn't admit to it. It wasn't until I was reflecting with Mojica later that I discovered that she had related to me in using my resources, but didn't care about me to invite me to a movie with our friends. The pain of that sort of exclusion made me feel like I didn't want to be her friend, that she wasn't practicing being closer to me, even though I had gone out of my way to be closer to her. In this situation, self-accountability meant that I wasn't good enough for her to think of me as a friend in order to be invited to the movies. That doesn't feel good. Of course, I didn't know if this was true; I had to connect with Keli and clear with her on how I've felt.

Mojica processed with me. He observed about the distance he felt from members in community, [in paraphrase]:

So I invite them over to my home. I sit them down to my table and I prepare them dinner. I give them their servings, and invite them to eat. They taste my food, make a face, and exclaim, "What is this? Why am I eating this?" in disgust/disdain. So in giving with my heart open, not only am I not appreciated, but attacked for what it is that I do out of love.

This made me feel terrible. I stifled a sob as I cleared the Richmond bridge. There isn't always support in giving or loving. This is the sad truth I was approaching - the vulnerability of it all. I thought of Mojica's courage. He had once said that he gave freely, even in knowledge that he was being taken advantage of, and completely because he loves and cares. I created a scenario. Even if Keli didn't think of me as a friend, if she was in need tomorrow, I would still support her. Because I love her.

In that moment, I received a text from Elizabeth.

I should've made you stay here. I forgot who I was dealing with - that it's a trick for you to ask. My apologies, darlin'.

I began sobbing openly, driving half past 4am on New Year's in a torrid storm. She cared enough to Know me, self-accountability or no. She reached out continuously, even since the beginning of our relationship. I understood. I would still love with my heart open, despite the hurt. I would still do what felt right, walls down, weaponry set aside. I was suddenly grateful. The anger that I had been experiencing was my own discernment of actions done to me that was Not Okay. I can now see the Not Okay! My boundaries! I was learning, Growing, and taking care of myself. I felt the distinctions of who felt like family, such as Mojica and Elizabeth, those who gave in pure love and care for one another, without need for fairness, measurements in resources, self-accountability. And that is Family. My Family.

As I'm writing this, I'm breaking down. This transition - finding the Ground in Myself - God, has this never been true before? Have I been so interwoven in my family dynamics that I have never truly Wanted or Thought or Cared for myself before?

I am grateful for this new year. I am grateful for family.

"in 2011 I want to be stable in a job, with a space of my own, actively seeking family, taking care of my heart and body, have the courage to reach out to people when I want to, and discerning what is best for me"