Where Were You

The following are the lyrics to a song by Sweet Talk Radio called "Where Were You":

I am throwing punches in the air
I can sweat and curse but nobody's there
You said you'd find me no matter how I got lost
Where were you when I needed you most

I am standing at the corner again
Watching two roads cross, twist and bend
You stood behind me no matter which way I chose
Where were you when I needed you most
Where were you when I needed you most

It is easy to lie together at night
In the darkness, trouble is easy to hide
You said you'd stay here until the daylight rose
Where were you when I needed you most
Where were you when I needed you most


I first heard this song in an episode of Joan of Arcadia, which was incidentally featured in my previous post "Connection".  In case you missed it, you can see it here.  When I first looked at the lyrics, and put it within the context of the Joan clip, I thought that the song was about feeling God's abandonment.  I think you'd be hard put to find a believer who hasn't felt God's absence at one point or another, and so the song seemed apt for that kind of experience. 


Looking at it from another perspective, it could also very well be read as being written to a lover who has abandoned the writer in her time of need.  It's easy to see it that way, especially given the last stanza.  However, when looking at the description for the YouTube video, it says "This is a song Kathrin [Shorr, one of the members of Sweet Talk Radio] wrote to her 'better self' when she didn't show up."  While it seems like my initial reading of the lyrics is completely off, in my mind, it isn't.

This "better self" is our most authentic self.  One which one of my yoga teachers constantly refers to.  (Actually he refers to it as the "highest self" but it's pretty much the same thing.)  This "self" is the one that wants what is best for us.  It wants us to act in ways that are beneficial for us and for those around us.  And this self is not at all unlike God.   

When we screw up, or feel like we have screwed up, it's easy to get mad at ourselves.  It's easy to start thinking the worst: "How could I be like this?", "What's wrong with me?", "No one could ever be as fucked up as I am", "Who would want me like this?", etc.  I've said these very things to myself, over and over and over, until I developed a well worn path of self loathing. This, of course, makes it that much harder for that authentic self to show up, and then we get mad when it doesn't.  Complete contradictory nonsense.  And yet, it makes perfect sense.  Go figure.

When things go wrong, when we screw up (or, again, feel as if we have), it's easy to get mad at God.  "Why didn't you stop me when I had the time?", "Why didn't you tell me this was going to happen?", "Why did you bring that person into my life for no good reason?", "Why can't you stop this pain I'm feeling now?", etc. ad nauseum.  I've asked these questions, too.  And, not unlike the authentic self, the presence that I find in the midst of these questions is supremely and utterly patient.  It understands the pain, suffering, self loathing, self hatred, and knows that it's only temporary, even while simultaneously knowing that it doesn't feel that way to us.  It's there to hear our questions, our anger, our fear, and somehow pulls us through to the next stage, if we let it.  

I honestly don't remember where I was going with this whole entry.  I start out with a brilliant idea in my head, and then try to get it all down on paper, and find that in the midst of writing, I've lost certain pieces.  Sometimes I'll stop, telling myself I'm just going to take a break and recoup, hoping that I'll get back what I started to lose.  It usually never works out that way.  So, then I have a decision to make: take a new approach or abandon the piece altogether.  Either way, it never turns out how I wanted it to be.  The eternal struggle of the artist.

So where was I?  Oh yeah...better self, God, struggle, blah blah blah.  This song touched me.  I identified with it, mostly because I thought it was about God, but it fits in with what I'm going through now, too.  I'm searching for that authentic self, and trying not to be afraid to let her show up when I feel her close by.  Sometimes I push her away because her ways aren't what I'm used to.  And then I end up back in that place, "Where were you when I needed you most?"  So I guess this is my theme song for when I screw up, not as a way to wallow---but as a way to realize that this is my constant struggle, and not to shy away from it.  And I hope, in the end, it'll make me a stronger person.

The Sailboat (re-edited version)

Once, on a day like every other, I met a boy in a sailboat.  He was far off, and I did not even know he was a boy around my age until I came closer.  When I got up close to him, I saw that our boats were amazingly similar: the paint was peeling, there were gashes and scratches on the body, even the sails looked worn in the same ways.  His was a good little boat, and I knew he could sail in it just as well as I could in mine. 

In no time at all, we began to talk for hours, each sitting in our own boats, the bows touching occasionally.  With our legs crossed and chins resting in our hands, we told each other stories of the places we had been to, of the storms we had gone through and how we had survived.  With each line, our stories recreated every mark, every scratch, every chip of paint missing from our boats.  It made us realize how strong our little boats really were.  And it made us realize their beauty, even if no one else saw it.

Finally, he said, "Hey!  I have a rope here.  Maybe if we used it to tie our boats together, we wouldn't have to be alone when another storm comes."

"Does it mean that our boats won't get as hurt either?"  I asked.  The boy thought for a moment.  "No," he said at last.  "But I think it'll make things less scary and less lonely."  So I agreed to tie my boat to his using the rope he offered.  From that day on, we never parted.

The days passed, sunny and breezy, light and fun.  We told more stories, played games, laughed, sang silly songs, and slept beneath the stars.  In a way, he was right: I was all right if I was on my own, but the knowing that I was with another boat, one very much like mine, made things better.  It made the times before seem dull in comparison.  The water looked bluer, the sun shone brighter, and I even felt better about the way my boat looked.  It was no longer shiny and new, but I now appreciated all that it had to show. 

Then, one day, the boy was standing up near the bow, a telescope pointed to the horizon.  His brow furrowed and his eyes clouded over.  Something was wrong.

"What is it?" I asked.  "Clouds," he answered.  "Big ones.  Dark ones.  I think a storm is coming."

"Oh," I said.  I was a little frightened, but I knew it would be all right.  I had been through storms before and knew what to do.  Besides, I would have my friend right next to me so I wouldn't have to go through it alone.

"I...I think I should go now," he said, looking away from me.

"What?!" I exclaimed.  Thunder rumbled somewhere far off, and I could smell the electricity in the air.  My words became stuck in my throat like anchors in mud.  "But...but you said...I don't understand.  If you're leaving, then why...why can't we go together?"

"The storm's coming too quickly.  We wouldn't be able to get away fast enough if we were tied together.  My boat can't handle too much damage.  It's weaker than it looks."

I looked to the horizon.  The storm clouds were getting thicker and heavier, and the wind was beginning to kick up.  White caps were forming on the waves that rocked us.  I didn't want to be alone, but what could I do?  His mind was made up.  With my eyes filling up and my hands shaking a little, I untied his rope from my boat.  Looking down so he wouldn't see my tears, I handed it to him.  "Thank you," I whispered around the lump in my throat." 

"If you find me after the storm, we can tie our boats together again," he offered.  I knew he was sorry to be leaving.  But somehow I knew that if we ever met again, it would not be the same as before.  Still, I nodded to show that I had heard him.  He waved his farewell as he steered his boat away from the fast approaching clouds.  I watched him go, all the while hoping he would change his mind and turn back.  It wasn't long before he became a speck in the distance.

As soon as he was out of sight, the wind blew more fiercly and the waves began to splash up against the sides.  I hurried to get ready for the inevitable storm, knowing that I would be all right on my own.  Even so, the rain inside of me poured down my cheeks as I knew that my friend would not be there with me.  I missed him terribly, and wondered if he would be able to avoid all of the storms that would come his way.

***

The storm came and went.  I was drenched at the end of it, but waited patiently for the sun to come out so that I could be dry again.  My boat suffered little, and the waters were calm again before I knew it.  I looked around for the boy and his boat, hoping that since the storm had passed, he would come back.  He was nowhere to be found.

The days seemed longer without my friend.  There was no one to talk to, no one to pass the time with.  I was lonely.  Every day I kept hoping to see him, but he never came.  Maybe he had not escaped the storm after all.  Either way, my friend was lost to me for good.  I had no choice but to carry on through each day, one after the other.

One day, when the sun was almost about to begin setting, I spotted something on the horizon.  It was so small, it was hard to tell if my eyes were playing tricks. I moved closer and closer.  The tiny form became bigger and bigger.  I began to see its shape.  A large, worn, white triangle sat taut against the blue sky, which was now turning hues of purple and orange and red.  The boat below it was much like mine: scratched, gashed, the paint chipped and peeling.

I joyfully called out to my friend.  His face brightened like the morning sky.  I felt so elated, I didn't know what to say.  I tried to come closer, but my hands trembled with such excitement that I could not seem to steer my boat.  Finally, I called out, "Throw me the rope!"  It took him a minute, but at last, a long white cord came sailing out to me.  I caught it and held it in my hands.  My fingers rubbed it slowly as I looked down at it.  Something was different.  The rope; it was not the same one as before.  The other one was rougher, sturdier.  This one was softer, thinner, and not as sturdy.  I was confused.

When the boy pulled me closer to him, he saw my face.  "What's wrong?" he asked.  I told him.  "The rope...how...what happened to the old one?"

"Oh."  His face reddened a little.  "I lost it," he answered.  "In a storm?" I asked.  He said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders instead.  I peered into his boat.  The whole floor was covered in coils of rope of all kinds.  Some were thinner than the one I held in my hand, others were thicker and sturdier like the one before.

"Well, we could always use one of those other ones, I guess," I said as I pointed to the sturdier coils.

"Th-this will work fine," he stammered.

"What are those other ones for then?"

"Oh, umm...they're for...for, um...other boats."

"Other boats?" I asked, slowly.  "Why would you need them for other boats?  I thought...I thought you were...I thought you wanted to be tied to-to my boat."

"I do!  I do, it's just that sometimes...well, I can't always be tied to you.  I need to go find other boats to...to use the different rope on, see."   All of this he said without meeting my eyes.

I did see.  I saw that my friend, my boy in his boat, had indeed been lost in the storm and would never come back.  The silence seemed to never end.  I stood there, rope in hand--a flimsy rope, but a rope nonetheless--wondering what should be done now.  Let go and be left alone once again?  Or hold on, for however long, and accept what I held there in my hands?  The boy never knew, but I had longed for such a rope in times past.  But now that I had it, I realized how inadequate it was to what I had before.

"I'm sorry," I said at last.  "But I can't use this.  I can't stay."

"What?" he asked softly, though I could hear the surprise in his voice.

"I can't...I can't use this now.  I can't forget what I had before.  You cannot ask me to settle for something less."  He nodded, his face stoned with silence.  I could feel the tears welling up again, and my throat began to feel clogged.  This wasn't fair, but it was what was happening.  I had to make a choice.  I handed him the rope, just like before, only this time the pain sank in much deeper than before.  I tried to not let it show.

"Well.  Goodbye then," he said, as he averted his eyes yet again.  He placed the rope back into the bottom of his boat, and sailed off.  This time I could not watch, knowing it would be the last time I would ever see him.  Instead, I sat there, my head buried in my arms, and thought about all I had gained and all I had lost.  I thought about my boat as I softly ran my hands over its roughened wood: the storms it had weathered, the days it had seen, how it held me wherever I went--connected to another or no.  It wasn't perfect, but it was who I was.  It was all I needed.

I lifted my head and felt a breeze brush the back of my neck like a loving hand.  I saw birds flying near the setting sun and I could hear their calls.  The smell of salt flowed to my nose and I felt the gentle waves caress the sides of my boat.  I may have felt lonely, and I certainly felt the pain of his absence and would feel it for some time, but it was then that I knew I wasn't alone.  Not really.  

THE END

"I am not afraid of storms for I am learning to sail my ship."  Louisa May Alcott

The Sky Is Burning!

Have you ever seen a sky so amazing that it almost looks like the apocolypse is coming? You can't see the sun anywhere, but its light touches the clouds in such a way that it almost looks like the sky is on fire, or at least has burning embers somewhere just below the horizon, and it's enough to warm up the clouds. I don't see a sky like this very often, but I saw it last night. And it was speechlessly, breathlessly, and indescribably beautiful. I was very lucky to have my camera on hand.

These are only some of the 40 pictures that I took with my digital camera. (Insert footnote here: If my 17 year old self could meet my 27 year old self, she might be very disappointed. For the longest time, I passionately advocated for film photography instead of digital. However, I have since, as my former high school photography teacher put it when I showed adamant resistance, "grasped the future." End footnote.) I had already snapped some photos from my balcony, but as I was walking down my street on the way to choir practice a few minutes later, I couldn't stop taking these shots. I kept wanting to get more detail of the clouds, sharper silhouettes, and to capture the fire that seemed to be taking over the sky. It felt (and looked) as though God was making Her presence known and I didn't want to miss a second of it. I once wrote a poem (which I have since deleted) called "I Cannot Remember Clouds" which attempted to describe or explain why it was difficult for me to remember these vaporous forms that often create so much beauty in tandem with the sun. It's true...I cannot remember clouds, nor sunsets. I certainly didn't want to forget this one.

But this sunset was not the only amazing thing that I encountered last night. As I stood on one of the street corners, trying to capture this ethereal moment in time, a car rolled to a stop even though there was no stop sign. The woman inside the car looked at me, smiled and pointed to the skyline, almost as if to say, "Can you believe we're seeing this?!" She took out her iphone and snapped a picture or two and drove away. Not too long after, after I moved about a block in five minutes, another car came down the hill near to where I was standing. He, too, had the same reaction as the woman: looking at me, pointing, and smiling. "I know, right?" I said. He nodded, snapped his picture and went on.

These encounters were literally momentary. Much like sunsets. Much like clouds. But unlike the former two, I'll remember them. People remember those strangers that they shared traumatic moments with, but the same can be said for moments of joy and awe. The fact that I was able to share this sunset with a couple of strangers made it that much more memorable. I'm grateful that I had my camera with me, but I'm even more grateful that I wasn't alone to share the view.

Color Noise: A Reflection on Race

I came to Boston for a week in order to figure out if this is where I want to go to grad school.  I want to get an MSW and eventually become a child therapist, and there was a program over at Boston College that caught my interest.  I decided to attend their information session as well as spend some time in the area.  While I love the Brookline neighborhood I'm staying in (I've subletted a room for a week), and there are parts of Boston that are beautiful, there was something I couldn't quite put my finger on that made me uneasy.  Maybe uneasy isn't quite the right word.  I just felt like there was something off; like there was this secret club everyone was in, but couldn't talk about or didn't even acknowledge its existence (yeah, kinda like Fight Club).  At first I thought it was just an East Coast thing, but later I realized what it was.  This town, and the BC campus in particular, is fuckin' white!  Sure there's the occasional "minority", but there doesn't seem to be a strong representation, especially on the campus.  I spoke to one of my roommates' friends about it, and he said it's all because the white kids have the super rich parents who can send them to a good school, even though the kids themselves are dumb as shit.  (Ok, maybe not all of them, but for those of us with experience, we know this to be true.  The rich kids get into the good schools, no matter what their SAT scores are.)

But then I noticed something else, too.  It was when I was taking a bus on my way in to Cambridge.  I was feeling a little anxious, as is usual whenever I'm in transit somewhere, and I noticed that my anxiety decreased when I saw two African American young men get on the bus.  Usually, for a white girl like myself, even one from San Francisco, seeing those two men would have had the opposite effect.  We live in a racist society, and those stereotypes and prejudices are in us all the time, as much as we might despise them.  But when I saw those men, it was like my subconscious mind went, "Thank God!  I've had enough of these scary white people!"  These men represented something familiar. 

While being in this city and seeing all the white people around here, I was constantly aware of my own desire to fit in somehow.  "Do I look like I could be from here?"  Do they recognize me as an outsider?"  Think about it: I'm a white woman in a white crowd and I'm thinking these things to myself.  Weird.  But as soon as I saw someone who was not of my racial identification, I relaxed.  The pressure was lifted from me.  It wasn't that I thought of myself as superior to them, and therefore I could relax.  It was something else, but I still couldn't figure it out. 

I noticed this again as I went on the T around town.  I was much more relaxed and even happier when I was in the presence of people of color.  As I noticed this, I began to really think about why this was.  It would be easy for me to just start applauding myself about how I've clearly "moved passed" racism.  "I have learned to love people of color like they were my brothers and sisters!  Amen!"  Not so fast.  It doesn't work that way.  I'll admit that I will, in a moment of anger or frustration, internally call someone a racial epithet; or when I'm nervous because someone is acting in a way that I see as threatening or rude, I'll blame it on that person's race.  Even if I stop myself right after thinking that, I still thought it.  Racism lives on, no matter how much we (white people) wish to think otherwise.  (Hey, just because you voted for Obama doesn't mean racism is dead.)  But why did being in the presence of people of color, regardless if I wasn't interacting with them, put me at ease?  The only thing I could come up with was: familiarity.

As a little bit of background, I'm from San Francisco, a city known for its diversity.  I also formerly tutored inner city kids where there wasn't a white face amongst them, except for me and the other white teachers.  I practice yoga at a studio where not everyone in the room is a straight white woman in her late twenties/early 30s.  (We actually have a great crew of diverse queer people in attendance.)  I'm used to riding on the bus and hearing at least three different languages at once (and none of them are from Europe).  I'm not phased at all by any of it.  I live with at least four or five people of color, and I'm close to a few of them.  So I guess you could say that I'm used to being the odd one out.  I've learned to accept my "minority" status in my small social circle.  Except, maybe it's not that simple either.  Yes, I have the appreciation for diversity, and I have the desire for the end of racial hegemony (which is an effect of systematic racism), but with this can come a kind of apathy and ignorance of race and the need to form genuine relationships with people and communities of color.

I realized that what I was encountering here in Boston was "color noise", as opposed to "white noise."  I didn't feel the need to interact with these people, and I was satisfied to have them just be the background for my surroundings.  What has often been noticed by those who study racism regarding white people in this country and their attitudes toward race and racism is, 1) the idea that being white is "normal", and 2) that there is no need to have significant relationships with other people of color, as long as they themselves don't harbor any personal prejudices.  Both of these are outright lies.  Yes, white is seen as the norm, but it doesn't mean that white isn't a race (but it is obviously a race with clear social distinction and social consequences based upon that distinction).  Essentially, for most white people in this country, they have gotten used to the "white noise."  For me, because of my own experiences in diverse settings, including being in a student activist group where white people were the minority, I have experienced getting used to the "color noise."  I didn't notice the diversity I was experiencing until it was gone.  I suppose this can be seen as a good thing.  It shows that there is a possibility for, not only racial tolerance, but racial acceptance.  But again, even though I have had positive experiences and relationships with people of color, I am still enclosed in my white bubble.  I no longer have close relationships with my former student activists (Facebook does not count), I work as a nanny in a predominantly white neighborhood in San Francisco, I attend a predominantly white parish in a denomination known for its whiteness (Episcopalian), and while I do practice yoga at a diverse studio, I am engaging in something that has been massively appropriated by white Western culture and which continues to be marketed to the white community.

It is not enough that I am used to living with and around people and communities of color.  Let it be understood that I am not trying to desparage myself in any way when I say that.  Instead, I am acknowledging that more needs to be done, not only by myself, but by other people like me.  Relationships need to be developed and encouraged in our communities.  White people need to be aware of the problems that exist within communities of color, such as issues of environmental justice, and how our consumer practices can either help or hinder the solutions.  We need to start having real conversations about race and racism, and not just in terms of black and white, either.  We cannot become used to the "color noise" lest we become deaf to the real issues of justice and equality in our midst. 

This Still Gets Me

About four months ago, I bought the Van Morrison album "Astral Weeks" on vinyl. For those of you who know Van Morrison, this is considered to be one of his best albums (though it turns out, he himself never thought much of it. He just created it as a way to pay the bills). The title track is one of the most beautiful on the album, and one of my favorite songs ever. Around the same time that I bought the album, I went looking on YouTube for a possible video of the title track. The first one that came up was a live cover done by Glen Hansard. The minute this guy opened his mouth, I knew I had come upon something really special. (You may remember Hansard as one of the main characters in the movie "Once".) There was a quality in his voice that captivated me, and when he uttered the words in the chorus my heart just ached. It still does, and I'm still trying to figure out why.

Hansard doesn't use all of the lyrics that Morrison did, but it doesn't in anyway take away the power of his performance. This song is about desperation, but not in a pathetic sense. It's about a longing for things to be different, to start over. ("Could you find me?/Would you kiss-a my eyes/Lay me down in the silence easy/To be born again.") If you look at the full lyrics here, you can see that this is all about a relationship that is ending, or struggling, or has already ended. He wants to be found by his love, almost like a lost child being found by his mother. He wants the struggle to be over, for the complexity to disappear and be left with one who will always love him, will always find him, and never let him go. He's battling between still loving this person, and realizing that things aren't the way they should be and that it's probably time to go. It's a realistic message, and yet the music behind it makes it poetic and ethereal. It's both relatable and somehow seperate from our existence. I guess this is what really good music can do.

But back to Hansard's performance. He embodies the message of this song by the way he sings it, by the way he passionately strums his beat up guitar. The gentle desperation in his voice as he sings, "Would you find me?" gives way to outrage as he screams, "Don't you point that finger at me, no!" and crazily strums away between two chords as if he's trying to tear his own heart apart to show his anguish. It's perfect, and it gets me every time. I must have posted that video to my Facebook profile at least three times. I want people to get it, to understand the power and emotion behind this little-over-three-minute performance; to feel every word sung not only sink into the soul, but rake across the skin as it makes its way in. . .and to breathe easy and deep while it all happens.

I know it seems silly to be so emotionally attached to one little song, but I'm a firm believer that music is the sound the soul makes. And I'm not the only one who feels this way. According to an article from Wikipedia (yeah, I know), Lester Bangs wrote of the album: "What Astral Weeks deals in are not facts but truths. Astral Weeks, insofar as it can be pinned down, is a record about people stunned by life, completely overwhelmed, stalled in their skins, their ages and selves, paralyzed by the enormity of what in one moment of vision they can comprehend." All of this in an album. A man struggles between love and anger and desperation in one little song. And another man picks up his beat up guitar, gently tells the crowd in his lilting Irish accent, "I'm gonna play you a Van Morrison song," and succeeds in making every phrase sung come alive with the passion and complex emotion it was meant to have. Beautiful.

The Things We Tell Ourselves...

Maybe =

Major
Assumption
Yearning
Before
Eternity

The Weight of Words (working title)

A little bit of background before we begin tonight...

My father was raised Jewish, but then converted to Christianity before I was born. My mom has been Christian all her life, so I was never really exposed to my Jewish heritage. Yeah, we had a menorah for Hanukkah, but we didn't read the prayers or celebrated with any other Jewish families. For a time, mostly in elementary school, I became more aware of my Jewish roots and took special pride in them. But it didn't culminate into anything serious until I was in my early teens. Before I was "saved" at the age of 14, I had an interest in becoming a full fledged Jew. The opportunity never fully presented itself though. I never even met a rabbi, and I've still never been inside an actual synagogue. So now, even though I am a confirmed and enthusiastic Episcopalian, I've taken an interest in my Jewish roots once more. I've attended two Shabbat services at Mission Minyan, a lay led group of Jewish folks who meet every Friday and Saturday in the Mission. All of it is in Hebrew (which I don't speak, let alone know how to read), but I've taken quite a liking to the services and the written Hebrew language itself. I've liked it so much in fact, that I bought a book on how to teach yourself to read Hebrew (and no, it's not Hebrew for Dummies, though I'm sure they have that book around somewhere), as well as the New Union Prayer Book. I originally bought the latter because I thought that it would include the transliteration (now that's the real Hebrew for Dummies!), but it didn't. Luckily it comes with an English translation, as well as added prayers and poems only written in English. And I guess that's why I'm here writing this now...

I came upon a few passages that resonated with me, and I just felt like sharing them. I have no plan to write any kind of analysis or reflection, but we'll see where the mood takes me. For now, I'm satisfied to let the passages speak for themselves.

From page 658:

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God!
But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.


From page 659:

Lord, where can I find You?
Your glory fills the world.

Behold, I find You
Where the ploughman breaks the hard soil,
Where the quarrier explodes stone out of the hillside,
Where the miner digs metals out of the reluctant earth,
Where men and women earn their bread by the sweat of their brow,
Among the lonely and poor, the lowly and lost.
In blazing heat and shattering storm, You are with them.

Behold, I find You
In the mind free to sail by its own star,
In words that spring from the depth of truth,
Where endeavor reaches undespairing for perfection,
Where the scientist toils to unravel the secrets of Your world,
Where the poet makes beauty out of words,
Wherever people struggle for freedom,
Wherever noble deeds are done.

Behold, I find You
In the shouts of children merry at their play,
In the mother's lullaby, as she rocks her baby in the cradle,
In the sleep falling on his infant eyelids,
And in the smile that dances on his sleeping lips.

Behold, I find You
When dawn comes up bearing golden gifts,
And in the fall of evening peace and rest from the Western sea.
In the current of life flowing day and night through all things,
Throbbing in my sinews and in the dust of the earth,
In every leaf and flower.

Behold, I find You
In the wealth of joys that quickly fade,
In the life that from eternity dances in my blood,
In birth, which renews the generations continually,
And in death knocking on the doors of life.

O my God,
Give me strength never to disown the poor,
Never before insolent might to bow the head.
Give me strength to raise my spirit high above daily trifles,
Lightly to bear my joys and sorrows,
And in love to surrender all my strength to Your will.

For great are Your gifts to me:
The sky and the light. This is my flesh.
Life and the soul--
Treasures beyond prices, treasures of life and of love.


From page 670:

I have been acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in the rain--and back in the rain.
I have out walked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say goodbye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.


From page 671:

. . .how strange we grow when we're alone,
And how unlike the selves that meet and talk,
And blow the candles out and say good night,
Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known.
It is the stillness where our spirits walk
And all but inmost faith is overthrown.

For some weird reason, this last passage reminds me of a scene from Angels in America. The scene is both in the film and in the play (I read the latter, and saw the former), and it consists of Harper talking to the female Mormon mannequin at the Mormon visitor's center. (I know this sounds really ridiculous, but just bear with me.) Harper has just separated from her husband who has come out of the closet, and she is grieving over the loss. She begins to talk to the mannequin who is at first inanimate and then springs to life. (Whether this is another one of Harper's hallucinations or if it's actually happening is anyone's guess. The movie/play is known for having strange things happen throughout that are surreal and questionable as to their actually happening.) Their conversation continues, and then Harper asks, "In your experience of the world, how do people change?" The woman answers.

"Well, it has something to do with God so it isn't very nice. God splits the skin with a jagged thumbnail from throat to belly and then plunges a huge filthy hand in. He grabs hold of your bloody tubes and they slip to evade his grasp, but he squeezes hard, he insists. He pulls and pulls till all your innards are yanked out. And the pain! We can't even talk about that. And then he stuffs them back: dirty, tangled and torn. It's up to you to do the stitching."

"And then get up," Harper finishes. "And walk around."

"Just mangled guts pretending," the woman replies.

This scene (which, by the way, can be found here) may not be exactly what the previous passage said, but somehow it's related. The "Alone" passage is about growth and the painful process of it. In Harper's case, it's about change and the pain of it. Pretty much one and same, actually, now that I think about it. "Alone. . . .the word is life endured and known." Life tears us apart and then asks us to keep on walking despite our "bloody tubes" being "dirty, tangled and torn" and falling out of us every which way. We are constantly becoming undone and stitching ourselves back up, even though we know we'll get ripped apart all over again. Sure, we all have our coping mechanisms and even ways to prevent our undoing again. But all that saves us from is becoming more human, more whole. Ironic, right? Yeah.

Just Felt Like Writing

I don't know why I just felt like writing something.  It's a Wednesday night, I didn't go to yoga, and I'm listening to Ray Lamontagne's "Lesson Learned."  So I guess something's stirring inside that needs to be thrown down here.  I think it's been brewing for a while, just never knew how to put it into words.  Maybe I still don't.  But trying never hurt anyone. . .

I can't seem to understand this whole missing someone thing.  The best way to get over someone is to be distracted, meet new people, develop new connections, pick up a new hobby, get involved with life.  I've been trying and been somewhat successful.  But then that empty feeling seems to come along anyway, almost like hunger before each meal.  Except with this, I'm really not sure how to feed it. 

I have met new people.  Some good, and some not so good.  When it comes to the not so good, it doesn't help the missing part.  It just seems to make it worse, like vinegar on a wound.  But even when I've met someone who has all the qualities that I want, it turns out they're just the qualities that were in the first person to begin with.  It's like falling in love with the original painting, but finding out that only a print of it can be owned, never the original.  (As a somewhat related tangent, tonight I fell in love with a picture by Salvador Dali called "Figure at Window".  It's perfect in every way.  Simple, fresh, deep, beautiful.  It's not like his other paintings, and that's one of the reasons I love it so much.  It's not something you would expect from Dali.  But I can't find a single website that sells a print of it in the size I need.  I could buy a larger size and have it cropped, but then the border would be all wrong and it would look all tacky and blah blah blah.  See what I mean?  Not the same as when you find that perfect fit.)

No one is pefect, I know this.  Even finding someone who is "perfect" for you is really a lie.  We're going to have those uneven edges in ourselves that have to be worked with if you want the relationship to work.  Compromise is a must, and it's a balance to know how much to give and how much to ask to take away.  It's never easy, but there are those it's easier to do it with.  That's what makes it perfect.  It isn't the person in and of themselves necessarily, it's how you and that person work together to try to make it all fit. 

And yet, when you find that person where everything just clicks, where you feel like there's still more to know about them, but that you "get" them and they "get" you regardless of the specifics, known or unknown, how can you help but feel that there was something perfect about this person?  They're not without imperfection, but the imperfections make them who they are and that's what's perfect.  You feel like you don't have to be anything but yourself when you're around them.  And it's scary.  It's scary to know that there could possibly be someone who is really like that.  They may not be the only one, but shit!  If they are at least one of the ones, then what's to lose?  Everything.  You lose the fantasy of what life would be like being with them, and you have to actually be with them.  You lose that sense of security that seems inherent in the search itself.  The search: it's like seeking the Grail.  You spend so much time looking for it, there may be a sense of loss once you find it.  So you tell yourself this couldn't possibly be it, and so you can go out looking again.  And there's loss in that, too.  How can you go back if you've already told yourself that wasn't it?

Let it be known, I was the one who left, but not to be the seeker.  It was because I realized I was no longer sought after.  I had no desire to lie to myself and think that the one I sought had found me when it was obvious they hadn't. . .or at least that they had forgotten.  I left with every intention of eventually moving on and seeking that imperfect perfection again, this time in someone else.  But now I know the truth of it, and I am caught between two lies.  Which one is worse?

I don't know how long I'll have this post up.  It might even be deleted by the morning.  It's not like anyone really reads this thing anyway.  I might as well be talking to walls.  But when you have roommates in a house where sound travels easily, it seems that writing it all down is the better way to go.   

Kunstler and the state of activism and revolution in the U.S.

I recently received a phone call from a former roommate of mine. When he used to live at the house, he and I would engage in discussions, usually having some opposing views. He would assert his views as "the truth" in some form, which I would brush off as being symptomatic of his 19 year old arrogance. (Hey, we all go through it.) So when he called to tell me that he was starting a "psychological revolution", I braced myself for an interesting conversation.

The concept of his revolution was this: What does everyone want? They want attention. So give it to them. Listen to everyone, no matter what. Sounds simple enough, right? Even compassionate. But while I agreed that we should make more of an effort to listen to people, especially the voices of those which the dominant society attempts to suppress, I also recognized that listening to everyone wasn't always possible, nor always helpful to our own selves. If we listened to everyone, where would our own voice be? And what about listening to those who released within us psychological triggers? Would that be helpful to us personally, to sacrifice our own psychological well being for the purpose of the greater "psychological revolution"?

Throughout our brief discussion, I realized that something was not right with this person I was speaking to. I had an inkling at the beginning, but as it began to unfold, I saw more and more that this person was pretty much off his rocker. He attested that what he was doing at that moment, i.e. listening to me, was revolutionary. I told him that while it could be a revolutionary act, depending upon the context, it was not in an of itself a revolution, nor would such a large scale revolution occur. When I asked him why he was doing this, trying to start a revolution, he replied, "Because I'm a megalomaniac." (I actually had to look the definition up because I had forgotten what it was. Courtesy of The American Heritage Dictionary, here is the definition of megalomania: "A mental disorder characterized by delusions of wealth, power, or omnipotence.") I don't know for sure if he is a megalomaniac (though he defined his state of being as "someone who stirs up the pot, starting revolutions and inciting anarchy."), but he certainly seemed manic. It was clear to me that the conversation was not going anywhere constructive, and I ended it by telling him that he needed professional help. I was completely serious. "Ok. Later, Beth." And that was it.

So what does this preamble have to do with someone named Kunstler? Well, nothing directly. I'll tie everything together at the end, I promise. But for now, I'll move on and tell you who William "Bill" Kunstler was. (And if you already know, you can skip this section if you wish.)

Kunstler was an American lawyer during the 1960s through the early 90s, who famously began championing civil rights along with Dr. King Jr. Not only that, but he defended nine people who stole and burned draft files in protest of the Vietnam War. Furthermore, he defended eight people who were on trial for inciting a riot during the 1968 protest of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which included Bobby Seal (one of the members of the Black Panther Party). He stood with the American Indian Movement (AIM) when they occupied Wounded Knee. He also negotiated with the prisoners at Attica prison in New York after the prisoners took over, not in order to be freed, but that their physical conditions may be improved upon. (That situation, unfortunately, ended in tragedy. Over 30, mostly black, prisoners were killed, along with nine prison guards, by the police who came in shooting, no questions asked.) Later in his career, he took even more controversial cases, such as defending an Arab man who shot and killed a leader of a radical Jewish movement which preached hatred against Arabs. He defended people who were defined as terrorists and criminals (such as John Gotti).

Regardless of whether you agree with his actions, whether altogether or in part, there is no denying that this man was amazing. He was a powerhouse, a legend. He stood up against an unjust social and political system and cried out, "Power to the people!" He took the stance that violence committed by the oppressed cannot fully be called violence because the true violence was perpetuated by those who were the oppressors. He asserted that all white people, including himself, were racist by virtue of being born into a system of privilege. This man was, in his own way, a revolutionary. He worked within the legal system in order to expose its injustices. Many may have set out to do the same in their own careers, and have failed. Kunstler succeeded.

Unfortunately, he died at the age of 76. But this entry is not an obituary for a revolutionary. Rather, this man's professional, and in a way personal, life is the inspiration for this entry. I only just learned of Kunstler tonight from watching a documentary that was put together by his daughters called "William Kunstler: Disturbing the Universe." It was in viewing this documentary that I began to reflect on the state of revolution and activism in our present day.

Before I go into that, I would like to briefly return to a scene in the film. It's footage of Kunstler giving a commencement speech shortly before his death. In it, he speaks of Michaelangelo's statue of David. I never knew this until now, but that statue is actually about the choice to act. The pose that David is shown to be in is right before he decides to slay Goliath. He has a stone in his right hand, a sling over his shoulder, and he's contemplating what to do. Kunstler used this image as his inspiration, and in his commencement speech sought to inspire those who were graduating. He said that all would encounter moments in their life where they would be called to act. Those moments would most likely not be in the public view, but rather internally, which made it all the more easy to not act. "But," he said, "When the time comes, I hope that you will decide to act, if your time has not come already."

It gave me pause and made me think about when my moment might be, or whether it had already come. Maybe there's more than just one moment for each of us. Some moments are seminal, catapaulting us into a new way of being. Sometimes it is only a moment, or a brief period of time that can shift us minimally until the next time we are called. At any rate, I also started to think about the state of activism now.

The 60s and 70s are long past, and activism has changed significantly in some ways, especially here in the U.S. People still gather in the streets, but this is seen as "symbolic" (and if it's seen as anything else, it's usually as a riot...the recent Oscar Grant protests come to mind). And now, mainstream activism, while still held as "collective", is anything but. It's individuals donating money to their favorite causes, signing petitions online or on the street, sending one word texts to organizations in support of some cause. Direct action has lost its power.

I honestly thought we were getting it back during the Obama campaign. I had hope that we were seeing a revolutionary campaign, that our nation was finally starting to heal from the tyranny and injustice of the Bush adminstration. I really thought that we were going to see a lot of changes happening. Even when Obama promised that it was going to be slow, I wasn't expecting what we have come to see. Yes, some change has occured, but I realize now that we are settling for crumbs when we hoped for a feast. We have started to back down under the pressure of the conservative right wing nuts who want to co-opt the anniversary of The March on Washington. The BP oil spill has destroyed a vital part of an ecosystem (and is STILL destroying it), and no one is out in the streets to protest off shore oil drilling, or to protest judges who have had investments in BP and are letting the big guys at the top off the hook. I know I myself have had to look away and mentally block out what is going on in the Gulf. (And whether you agree with it or not, I have to admire those folks who gathered on the shore to pray. It may not have "worked" but at least it was an effort in the right direction, in the sense that they were putting their energy out into a desperate situation, whereas the rest of us want to turn a blind eye. They at least looked the monster in the face.)

So, now it's time to (attempt) to tie it all together. My former roommate is still clearly off his rocker, and I do sincerely hope that he gets help. But I understand his motives in a way. He wants to DO something. He's tired of the way things are, he sees people are in need of being listened to, and he wants others to start listening. We are a nation that has turned deaf, or at least has selective hearing. We have been this way for quite a long time, but during the time of the 60s and 70s, even though it was a time of intense struggle, there were people who listened. And it did change things to an extent. Where I feel we are now as a whole is in a state of apathy and hopelessness. We're tired and our movements have been co-opted by the powerful. Power no longer rests with the people but with the consumer who can buy that shirt from the GAP so that the money goes to support AIDS relief...or who can buy that plastic bottle made from plants so they can feel good about themselves for helping to "save" the planet...or who can buy fair trade coffee from Starbucks in order to "support" worker's rights.

This is the political and social state of things. In spite of this, I am not calling for a revolution. Honestly, I think with any revolution that occurs, the end result will be far different than what people originally envision. Honestly, I don't exactly know what I want to happen. I guess I want our actions of fighting for what's right to actually MEAN something. That they won't be merely symbolic but show our real power as a collective. I guess I want what my former (now slightly megalomaniac) roommate says every person on the planet wants: I want the voices of the oppressed to be listened to. More than that, I want things to change as a result of listening.

But who's going to make that happen?

Consolation, Desolation, Remembering and Dismemberment

*Originally posted as a blog entry on MySpace on 9/11/2008; edited on 7/10/10*


You're in luck because this entry was inspired by notes that I wrote on a brown paper bag from Walgreens while on the BART train going home. Oh joy. Actually, this entry was inspired by real events, plus the not-so-surreal events in a novel called "Kleinzeit" by the ever-brilliant Russell Hoban, and the viewing of various clips from the now cancelled show "Joan of Arcadia" while on YouTube. These inspirations led to mental musings, which led to the notes being written on said brown paper bag from Walgreens while on the BART train going home.

I suppose we shall start with the subject of Consolation, since that is the first word in the title of this entry. For this, we shall go to a scene from a "Joan of Arcadia" episode. Joan's mother, Helen, is explaining to her husband what a priest told her about the concept of consolation. It's described as a period of grace: when everything is flowing, when we are in touch with the universe/God, and what it/He/She wants from us, when we know exactly who we are and how we fit in to it all. I have had these moments. Several times, in fact. I know it sounds wonderful, and it can be. But those supposedly wonderful moments, they're also scary. I say this because in the moment they are happening, I feel like I am losing my sanity. I am in touch with, in communication with, the Universe, or the Creator of the universe, or the Universe as Creator...whatever you want to call it, I have been in touch with it and feel like I have lost touch with what we know as Sanity. But when it happens, somewhere deep down, I know that it's all right, because it's never led me wrong. I feel comforted, taken care of, listened to, when in this period...all of this is mixed in with feelings of fear and even annoyance, because the Universe/God just won't shut up. There can be peace of spirit, but never peace of mind. It's hard to describe if you've never been in it.

I'm going to skip over Desolation for the time being, and move on to Remembering since it is related to Consolation. Remembering in this sense comes from Hoban's work, Kleinzeit. The story itself doesn't matter...it would be too hard to describe at any rate. What does matter is what the title character comes to realize: that one must RE-member oneself. We are all what I like to term "organized messes"--bits and pieces of things thrown together and torn apart again and again. We so rarely are able to feel "whole", if ever. Our "members", bits and pieces of our psychic bodies, are torn apart and thrown overboard and everywhere else. We must RE-member ourselves: put ourselves back together again, even if momentarily, before we are ripped apart once more.

The following may not be the best example to illustrate what I have said thus far, but it will at least give you some insight into the inspiration for this entry. This is from Kleinzeit:

"What're you waiting for, said Hospital. You've remembered yourself, haven't you.
I supposed I have done, said Kleinzeit. But it came and went so fast.
How long do you expect a moment to last, said Hospital.
But to have only one moment! said Kleinzeit.
Rubbish, said Hospital, and rang up Memory. [Hospital asks Memory for Hall of Records, and then asks Hall of Records for Kleinzeit's "moments".]
Moment, said Hall of Records: Spring, age something. Evening, the sky still light, the street lamps coming on. Harmony took place.
I remember, said Kleinzeit.
Moment, said Hall of Records: Summer, age something. Before a thunderstorm. Black sky. A piece of paper whirling in the air high over the street. Harmony took place....
Moment, said Hall of Records: Autumn, age something. Rain. The sound of the gas fire, Sister naked. Atlantis. Harmony took place...
Moment, said Hall of Records: Winter, age something. In hospital. Feeling of circle inside self, sweet rhythm. Harmony took place.
Kleinzeit waited.
Will there be anything else? said Hall of Records.
Place of dismemberment? said Kleinzeit.
Everywhere, all the time, said Hall of Records."

What Hoban is describing here in Kleinzeit are those moments of consolation. They are only moments...short periods of grace, but they occur nonetheless. As I stated before, I have experienced this, usually in longer periods and in different ways. Still, the experiences listed above are familiar in a sense. I have experienced these moments, too, and they are only moments that, once they are recognized for what they are, have passed and gone. "Too much like the lightening 'ere one can say, 'It lightens!'"

And now, we go to desolation, the place where I currently reside.

Going back to Joan, desolation is described by Helen as a place of fear, confusion, and things not working right without any explanation. A moment, a period of grace, and then...silence. Clarity, then confusion. Strength, togetherness, courage; then fear, seperateness and weakness. As for me and my relationship with this divine universal creation/creator, this is where I am.

A year ago, I knew exactly where I was that I wanted to go. I had plans for seminary and the priesthood in the Episcopal church. Nothing was clear cut, but I knew that's what I wanted to do. I was set in my path and went about to tackle the formalities of going on that path. But something stopped me. Doubt began to settle in, and God went silent. Actually, God began to slowly disappear. S/he would appear out of the corner of my eye, but would never come into full view. I could hear barely audible whispers, but no real words of clarity. And then, one day, it stopped all together. I'd hear the voice, but never really sure where it was coming from or if I should trust it. Seminary has been put off indefinitely, and since that time when I made the decision, all conversation with God has ceased. I am angry because where I thought I was being led turned out to be different than what I expected. I feel alone because now I am not being told where to go. The guidance that I was receiving before is no longer here and I feel as if I am moving about haphazardly, like fumbling in the dark for a light switch.

I have been contemplating this state of being that I have found myself in. I am well aware that it is something that is experienced often. As Hall of Records said to Kleinzeit's request for moments of dismemberment: "Everywhere, all the time." St. John of the Cross referred to it as "the dark night of the soul," and it was "discovered" more than ten years after her death that Mother Teresa went through an extremely long period of desolation. No one is immune, it seems. And so I have contemplated as to why this happens. You must forgive me if this explanation seems trite and puts down humanity, for that is not my intention by any means.

While I am not an essentialist, and I hesitate to use this word, I believe that we are in more periods of dismemberment and desolation because of our finite "nature." God is infinite, and we are not. True, we are made of matter, and matter is neither created nor destroyed, and so matter is infinite in nature. But our own understanding is not infinite. Our consciousness is not infinite. There are realms that our minds cannot reach, no matter how much we try. (I will not assert any reason for our finite "nature." The whole theory---if it can be called that---of original sin and our fall from grace is a load of rubbish/hogwash, and is in no way an intelligible explanation. I actually don't feel that our finite nature needs an explanation. It's a mere fact, and I am comfortable in letting it be so. ) And so, the fact that some of us are capable of communicating and feeling in touch with an infinite being, even if it only in brief periods of time, is really quite remarkable.

There cannot be any known purpose for desolation. We can try as we might to understand it, put forth the question, "Why me?" In the end, I believe all we'll come up with is, "Why not?" and find that in order to know consolation and remembering, we must experience desolation and dismembering. It is all very circular, I know. But despite the explanation of purpose, I think it is more important to remember (as it were) to accept these periods of desolation. To be in it, without trying to get out of it. The more we try to escape from our uncomfortable experiences, the more we come to deny them. We don't want them to happen, so we try to stop them from happening even as they unfold. We are afraid that if we accept them that this means we are accepting our fault, our guilt, for having been there. But this is not so. Knowing, and accepting, where we are is our consolation. We must know that what we experience in these times is occurring "everywhere, all the time" and to savor the other moments, the moments when we remember ourselves, when we are feeling consoled, for however long they happen to last.

For You

Why is it that my creative juices start flowing at the most inconvenient times? Five minutes before I have to leave for work, while I'm on the bus without a pen, while I'm trying to be focused at work, or while I'm about to fall asleep. I guess creativity works best when you're relaxed. At any rate, usually when these moments of inconvenient inspiration come to me, I let them pass me by. But last night, I didn't. I jerked myself out of bed, turned the light back on, grabbed a pen and a little notebook and started writing. I don't know if it was worth it, but I wrote some verses to a song. I don't know how to write songs, though I do consider myself to be musical to an extent. I guess it doesn't really matter in the long run. I wrote it, revised some of the lines today, and now I'm posting it here. Done and done.

Below are the lyrics. If you want to get an idea of how the music is supposed to go, just think of some song by Coldplay or Keane...it's close enough. Anyway, this is called For You.


You've fallen asleep at the wheel again.
Trying to outrun your sins
Times are tough
And the road is never long enough
For you.

Chorus
For you the walls are caving in
The room is starting to spin
Burning bridges and too many loose ends
I cannot save you
Just hold my hand

Can't decide what you want to be real
Open your heart and fear what you feel
Shut down and taste goodbye
Like one last meal
Must be hard to feel alive
When you're afraid to fly...

. . .You know I'd fly for you. . .

Chorus

For you the walls are caving in
So hard to know where to begin
Burn bridges and tie up those loose ends
Put your hands upon the wheel...
See where the road bends.

Can't Decide Where My Freedom Lies

*Originally written August 18, 2008*

Can't decide
Where my freedom lies.
I'm so used to being tangled up in ethereal memories of arguments that never occurred,
Of tearful reunions
Staged out of desperate subconscious loneliness.
I'm so used to pretending in front of a hall of mirrors,
Never remembering their images, the lines of wit they espoused in their constant echoes,
Never prepared for the moment of contact
So often feared, so often longed for.
I'm so used to the "never" being always that I forgot to want anything else.
Nothing hurts more than breaking the bonds of familiarity.
Your freedom offered me the pain of holes closing
And knowing that reprimands
Would be at hand
Should I choose to open them again.
Yet faithfulness to commands uttered in years so far detached from this present
Generates a prison of my own making,
Forcing me to choose between the bondage of keeping you locked away
Or keeping me locked out for good.
One cannot be saved when not allowed to fly out from their cage.
Oh this hell of indecision!
Where are you if not needed in my present?
Why were you needed in my past, if ever?!
I cannot see beyond horizons if you continue to block my path.
Let all memory of the future never be tainted with your presence.
Let fear of leaving you behind never cross the threshold of my conscience.
Constant battles of wills,
Mastery over passions,
Duels of wit and intellect
Have ended
And now I battle with myself...
But you remain as the vestige of my enmity.
Were you to come near,
I would be tempted to scratch, bite and rake across your skin;
A visual reminder of the pain of unrequited desire.
Yet without this fear, this anguish,
Without your memory of provocation,
I am nothing.
Emptiness is cold with no hope of warmth.
Freedom carries the burden of the unknown.
A desolate land of either hope of sustenance, or fear of flood or drought.
Nothing protects from the light once found.
Shadows provide the protection of certain darkness.
Can't decide
Where my freedom lies.

A Taste of Forgetting

*Originally written Sept. 26, 2009*

You sit there, on your bed, laptop covering the front of your thighs, the warmth soaking through the blankets, and it hits you. Smell. Taste. Taste more than anything. It fills your mouth, and its source seems to be your soft palate, way at the back, like it's dripping from your nasal passages, liquid through a sieve. It's unmistakable, this taste of a smell. You know that its origin is nowhere in your physical vicinity, but instead bloomed and diffused from the unconscious mind that isn’t really aware of anything else that’s going on. Your body is seeking to remember while you are trying to forget. And when you try to remember, in your desperate attempts to reconnect with that which is no longer there, your body conveniently forgets, or chooses ignorance. But there is no escape when your body is in charge of things. And so you sit there with this taste in your mouth, and it forces you to remember the source.

It's his place. You must have absorbed it into your skin, even though it's been three weeks since your exposure. Long incubation period, it seems. It reminds you of the couch where you both sat too close together so that the only thought, the only action that occurred to both of you was to get closer. So you did. But it wasn’t close enough, you remind yourself. It was only the surface of closeness, and you wanted to go deeper before he was ready, and he couldn’t handle the pressure. Maybe that’s why he left. You introduced the idea too soon, no matter how gently. A cage is still a cage, no matter how slowly it is dropped over the captive. But there’s more to remember because the taste hasn’t disappeared yet. Go back.

There was the bed with the squeaking wooden frame that actually groaned more than squeaked when you got out of it. The duvet that you tried to sleep under that night, but couldn’t because the heat was so bad, and so for half the night you slept uncovered, bare breasted, only in your underwear, wondering how the hell people learned to sleep together, while you were practically pushed up against the wall on your side and he took up most of the space, along with the Chihuahua at both your feet. If you turned toward him, you could feel his breath on you, getting worse as time passed because of the build up of odor causing bacteria in his mouth. No good morning kiss without a sufficient rinse, that’s for sure. You liked watching him sleep though, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. You wondered if you could get used to this, and you started to realize your growing affection for this person who almost otherwise, in most senses of the word, was a stranger. But something felt right about it. Yes, you could do this. You saw yourself waking up on Saturday mornings, cuddling next to him while he was still half asleep and would be for some time, your hand grazing over his chest, like a mother unconsciously stroking the back of her baby. When he was more awake, lazy pillow talk would follow, soft laughter, gentle gazes and shy smiles, followed by giggles, playful kisses and smacks on the ass. A perfect vision, and it made it that much harder to sleep.

In the morning, or more like close to noon, he made you breakfast which you couldn’t finish. Not because of the quantity, but because you were nauseated from lack of sleep. You managed to nibble enough off your plate so that he wouldn’t feel insulted or think that you weren’t grateful. Maybe he wouldn’t have thought those things, but you weren’t sure. You hadn’t known him that long anyway. You even kissed his cheek gently and said, “Thanks for the breakfast sweetie,” as you walked back to the room to rest some more, hoping that sleep would over take you now. It didn’t. You left about an hour later, coming to the couch where he was lounging, reading Pygmy by Chuck Palahanuik, sat down next to him and pressed your lips to his. That was the last time, but you didn’t know it then. The last time you smelled that room, that whole place, tasted it on his mouth, in his skin. And now, three weeks later, it's back, without warning and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Sit with it. Breathe. Smell. Taste. Be with it even though it hurts like bricks being dropped inside, one by one, and knowing that the hardest part will be trying to get up to make the weight bearing easier. The familiarity hurts more than anything, because now you have to make it unfamiliar. Your body is working on forgetting. It’s remembering so that it can forget.

It's going away now. Slowly. But no, come back! What was that again? I want to remember now. Before I didn’t because I wasn’t ready, I wasn’t prepared. I can sit with it now, it's ok. I can take it. It's gone. Back to reality and the knowledge that this is the only way you’ll ever experience that place again, if you want to. You know you don’t. You’re not the type to settle for mediocre attention, brief text messages and sporadic phone calls. Long written messages complaining about the lack of respect you’ve shown for his tight schedule, yet giving you hope that there’s chance for more contact. But only when he decides it’s time. You’ll have to wait. No thanks. It was nice while it lasted.

Oh wait, there it is! It’s come back again, on its own. Like a shy puppy that won’t go near anyone trying to grab it, but will come wandering up to the first unsuspecting person (or animal) it sees. Is that what he’s like? Maybe you should have given him more space, more time… But how much more time does someone need? Almost a week since you called, and still nothing. You’re done, you’ve told yourself this. Ah, but taste it… No, you don’t want to. It tastes like stale hope, a masochistic remembering. You don’t want this. It’ll go away eventually. It will. You can handle this. Just sit. Breathe. You know why this is happening, don’t you? Remember, so that you can forget. Breathe it in. There.

Looking for a Yoga Mat

*Originally written Sept. 24, 2009*

**Some adult content**

She walks down the street, passing people shuffling by, taking in everything, but memorizing nothing. Faces, shop fronts, cars and motorcycles parked next to the curb or passing by; it’s all a mindless blur. There is a smell in the air, like clean, fresh soap. Not the strong kind you can buy at the dollar store, but a more subtle scent like when one walks into a bathroom where someone else has showered maybe ten minutes before, where the mist from the steam is still lightly hanging between the walls, carrying the smell of fragrant soap. Like that. She can smell the light from the sun, not quite hot, but warm because it had been foggy in this area about an hour before (San Francisco weather---get used to it). No fog is visible, but she can smell the integration of just-passed-just-melted fog with the sunlight. It is this sunlight and the faint but recognizable smell of fresh soap that makes her think of him.

Him. With him she is not in love. But there is a draw for her. It isn’t helping that she’s only a few blocks away from his house, unintentionally. She is here because she needs a yoga mat for her class. There are mats at the yoga studio, but her hands always slip from excessive sweating, of which she has no control over. So she had hoped to find one suitable for her needs down here, but so far, no such luck. He had gone with her to yoga a few weeks ago, she remembered. Last week, in a message concerning other things about their confusing, brief, quasi-relationship, he suggested that he come with her again. She didn’t see how that was going to be possible if he kept hiding behind his busy schedule, adamantly insisting that he had not enough time to keep in touch with her on a regular basis. Bastard. This smell wasn’t helping, either.

The soap smell makes her think of how her nose was pressed into the base of his neck when they made out on his love-seat for a couch. She had asked him what kind of cologne he used, but he replied that it was only his soap and shave products. Burt’s Bees brand. A perfect procurement of product for him, a non-militant vegan. The smell makes her mouth water, because the sense of smell is so closely related to the sense of taste. People born without olfactory receptors, or people who have lost the ability to smell, have often commented on the different experience of sex. You can still taste things without being able to smell, but what you taste is limited to the following five categories: spicy, sweet, salty, sour, and bitter. They are tastes, but not flavors. She had been able to taste him, smell him, touch him and feel him with all different parts of her body: her obvious hand, subtly with her lips and cheeks, her nose either subtly smelling the area between his nose and mouth as they kissed, or grazing it against his neck in a sweet nuzzle; her arms wrapped around his thicker body below his arms, her legs too. Her mouth salivates in some uncontrollable Pavlovian response, as well as the space between her legs.

Is that appropriate to say? Not on the point of introducing sexual anatomy into the text, but in describing what is occurring to said anatomy. Salivating is not possible without saliva glands, which are only present inside the mouth. Salivating refers to the ability to create saliva, the mouth’s lubrication to aid in digestion and in the pleasure of eating. The vagina holds glands which secrete fluid to aid in supposed reproduction (as the hetero-centric biology books would have you believe) and in sexual pleasure. In all literal sense of the word, it does not “salivate”, but performs its own version of it; though ironically, in the case of cunnilingus, the “salivation” of vaginal juices can make a sexual partner’s mouth salivate in anticipation and preparation for what it will be eating. Suffice to say, the use of the word “salivate” in relation to vaginal lubrication may not be entirely appropriate, but the author begs pardon of the audience, and asks that she may be allowed discretion in use of her literary license.

Her mouth, along with the previously discussed anatomy, eventually stops its excessive secretion. It’s like a wave of pain or hunger, a momentary craving that soon passes with the introduction of…something else. Now it is real hunger that has turned her mind. But in this neighborhood, there’s only taquerias on every corner, and she’s in no mood for Mexican or Central American food. Before her budget was crunched so tight, she used to think that she wouldn’t be able to bear the ten minute ride home without stopping to buy something to eat. Now she knows better.

A few blocks up is the train station, and she opts to slowly descend on the escalator instead of mustering up minimal energy to walk down the steps. She condescends to step down for the last few which quickly disappear underground after she disembarks, taking with it any momentary trace of her. The automatic turnstile accepts her monthly pass and spits it out for retrieval, allowing her to move to the lower level platform. She rushes down the steps to the just-arrived train, rushing through its opened doors, relieved to have such luck, as well as the multiple options for seating. Early weekday afternoons often afford this luxury. The trip passes almost mindlessly, only having to count one stop before her own. Subconsciously, she counts down before they emerge from the underground tunnel for a space of twenty seconds, and she uses the chance to take in the appearance of the sky. Here, it is clouded over with perpetual gray, unchanged since the morning. This is how days pass by so quickly: a lack of change in light or weather can make you believe that you’re not getting a late start on your day even when you’re getting dressed at noon.

The train moves back into another tunnel, a short interval before her stop. A man with a green backpack, white shirt, tight blue jeans, white cowboy hat, and carrying a leather jacket stands up as well on the other side of the aisle. They both make their way to the door before the train stops. She stands on the left, he on the right. In the windows, she notices him looking to his left, looking at her. (Perhaps, or maybe he’s just reading one of the signs on the train car’s interior, just past her left shoulder, advertising for this or that product or service, or even thanking the train’s riders for deciding on public transit that day instead of choosing to drive during rush hour. Anything to encourage the masses.) But she ultimately perceives him to be looking at her, though she is unsure why. There is really nothing special about what she looks like today. Her hair is down, somewhat tucked behind her ears, but its thickness defeats this style by still falling over and around her shoulders. It falls over the shoulders of her green army jacket, newly acquired from a thrift store over the weekend for a modest price. She loves wearing it, especially in this weather. Underneath, nothing but blue jeans and black high tops with orange and red flames not entirely visible under the jeans’ cuffs. But he’s looking down at her, at her face, her profile. It creeps her out. She turns away slightly, pretending to stare at the public transit map. Please God, not now, she thinks to herself. Her energy is still directed elsewhere. She feels the man move his attention in another direction, thankfully, yet all the same wondering if he really was checking her out, or just noticing as she had been doing during her outing.

After making her way off the train and up to the street, she whips out her phone to call the transit hotline to see when her bus would be arriving. Unknown waiting times are one of her pet peeves. Before she can even input the information, however, she spots the bus on its way up the foggy street, bouncing its way over, almost like an overly excited dog spotting a crowd of people to meet. She muses how this was one of the good days for her on public transit, at least for the trip back. She thinks that she still has to find a way to figure out how to time her future trips so that she won’t have to wait in such long intervals as she has in the past. Then again, some things you can’t always plan, like finding a good yoga mat that won’t mind how much your hands sweat, you’ll still be able to hold that downward facing dog pose. Or having the phone ring when you want it to. Or meeting the right person at the right time, instead of the right person at the wrong time, or the wrong person at the right time (whatever that means).

During the waiting time between getting on the bus and getting off at her stop a few minutes later, she reminds herself of what to write for her new status update on the ridiculously addictive, needless time consuming social networking site--Mission to procure yoga mat: fail.

Grief

It's in the realizing that
After the bad day
Of missing the bus
The incessantly screaming child
A headache that hasn't fully gone away
A sink full of dishes not mine
A late dinner
And the heater turned up too high...
I can't call you.

It's in the knowing that
When I've just seen something
You would have laughed at
I can't pass it along to you
So it can be our inside joke.

It's when I suddenly remember
That I made every physical piece
Of you
Disappear
So that I could forget.

It's when I want to get my feet wet
And wear my sandals in the rain.

It's when I'm sitting still
And realizing that you're still here
Somehow.

It's when I remember that you're not.
It's when I remember you never will be.

That's when the tears come.
When the lump forms
Like mud in my throat.
Breath becomes labored,
Trying to outrun what has already
Caught up with me.

It's no tempest of tears,
But a soft drizzle
Or a careless drop here
And there,
Almost like forgotten pennies
Coming out of your pants' pockets
In the drier.

It's a slow, soft ache
That follows reality's knife cut
Of realization,
And it rests like a stone on my chest,
Rising and falling with each breath,
Sinking slowly into the gulf
Of short term memory.

Tides come in and go out,
Grief rushes and crashes
In waves that slowly let out. . .
Only to come in once more.

Remembering Sight

Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.
(Where charity and love are, God is there.)

Downtown San Francisco is full of interesting characters, as in any urban area, and I'm used to seeing the poor and homeless walking around, sometimes asking for handouts. When I have the cash or change to spare, I'm usually happy to give it away to someone, especially if they're playing music or are selling The Street Sheet, a newspaper dedicated to issues around homelessness. It's not always easy for me to give money to someone who is only holding out their hand. I've grown accustomed to telling myself that they either want money for booze or drugs, and walk on by like I don't notice them. "Next time," I tell myself. And then I forget when the next time comes. Luckily, I didn't forget today. I almost did, but I think I'm lucky that I remembered.

I was standing at the bus stop outside of Powell Street Station, waiting for the bus to take me to Grace Cathedral in Nob Hill (a notoriously wealthy area in the City). A skinny man in a purple Adidas shirt and dirty blue jeans came up to me and begged me for seventy cents. I apologized and told him I had nothing to give. He incessantly begged me for even one whole dollar or possibly a fiver. I told him I had no cash. When he turned away to walk down the street, I saw the look of pure heartbreak on his face. "God, I am in fucking hell!" he cried out. My heart broke for him as I saw him attempt to ask another for their help. "God," I asked silently, "What can I give him?"

"Much," I heard from that voice, so still and quiet, and yet so strong it is undeniable. And then I remembered. I had gone out to lunch with a friend the day before and had taken out plenty of money from the bank for the occasion. I had a ten dollar bill still left in my wallet. I didn't hesitate.

"Sir!" I called out. "Sir?" I walked toward him, his face still full of despair as he had been turned away yet again. "I'm sorry, but I forgot I had this," handing him the folded up bill.

"Oh, thank you," he gasped, on the verge of tears. He turned it over and realized how much it was. "Oh God, thank you," his voice breaking and the tears beginning to fall from his tired blue eyes. These were not just tears of utter gratefulness, and I wouldn't be telling this story if that's what it was. Instead, these were tears of pain. "I just feel so awful," he said.

I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked what was wrong. It took him a while to reply. I waited. And then his story poured out. His name was Jordan. He had been a heroin addict for four years, but had been sober for another four, didn't even drink alcohol anymore. He did go to a methadone clinic, but he hadn't been for a few days. One of his friends had died a week ago. He was 29 and had been on the street off and on since he was 19. Originally from Lubbock, TX, he had gone to college there for a couple of years, and had even gone to SF City College for a year. Still, he was in trouble, never having enough. He had family back in Texas that he was still in touch with, but I didn't ask him why he didn't go back. We all have our reasons. In the last year, he had four back surgeries. He even lifted up his shirt to show me the scars. I saw a small black mark that looked like the burnt end of a cigarette butt, along with other scars and what looked like more bumps (from what, I don't know). I listened while he talked.

"Thank you so much for just talking to me," he said. "You have no idea. People just walk on by like they're numb or something. Or they look at you, but they look away with a disgusted look, like 'Oh, you're dirty! Get away from me!' You know, I'm not perfect, but I'm a human being." I wanted to tell him that people sometimes just can't handle the pain of others, but it seemed like a pathetic excuse. We don't always know what we can handle until we open ourselves up to it. "You really made my day," he went on. "It's just so hard when people treat you like shit and you don't even feel like you're worth anything." I looked at him: his face, though he was white, had seen much sun, he had a scruffy dirty-blond colored beard and hair to match; his hands with dirt under his fingernails, were tough and grubby, but were warm and yielding when I touched them. I looked into his eyes, and it was all I could do. . .I embraced him. I think I may have needed the hug as much as he did. Who wouldn't after listening to all that? How could you not want to connect in such a way to someone who just opened themselves up like that?

"God bless you," he said, the tears welling up again. I told him I would pray for him. "You really made my day," he said again.

"You're welcome," I said, really not sure what else to say. He held my hand and kissed it, like an old fashioned gentleman. Then he began to walk away.

"If you have any other thought today," he called back to me, "think about the fact that you made someone like me feel loved." And then Jordan walked down the street, into the heat of the day, to go do whatever it was that he had to to survive.

I'm telling this story not as a way to extol my own virtuous sense of charity. Far from it. As I said before, I had gotten used to forgetting what it was to love and care for "the least of these." I'm poor, but in comparison, I live a life of wealth and privilege. I don't have to beg for my bread, I don't have to huddle in some doorway or sleep on someone's couch. And yet, with all this privilege, I'm doomed to suffer from blindness. This story of meeting Jordan is about how I started to get my sight back. In short, Jordan saved me, possibly more than I could ever save him.

The bus came two minutes after Jordon left. I got on and headed to the cathedral on the top of the hill. The purpose of my excursion to this monument dedicated to Christ (and the Church), was for a confirmation of the youth of our parish, and other parishes within the diocese. (By the way, if you don't get all the church jargon, it's okay. It's really not that important. We're Episcopalians. . .we like to make a ceremony for pretty much everything.) Well, it just so happens that today at the confirmation service, the Gospel reading was the Beatitudes from the book of Matthew.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

This lesson is revolutionary. Not only does it turn hierarchy on its head, but it even changes the image of God. Before it was "do this, don't do that, and God won't kill or punish you," which kind of made God look like an asshole to be honest. Here, we see a God of justice and peace, but also of reconciliation and undeniable love.

In the sermon, the confirmands were given their marching orders from the Bishop. He said that it is when the confirmation ceremony is over that the real service begins. (He was, of course, playing on the word "service" which can refer to either a church service, or the service that we are called to do by being in the world.) As he spoke, I began to get a sense of something else I had forgotten: that my faith is not safe. I don't mean that my belief is in danger of being dashed or ripped to shreds. On the contrary. I remembered that when I engage myself deeper in my faith, the more unsafe I am. The more risk there is for me in losing my own life (not necessarily in the physical sense). The barriers that society not only encourages me to have, but even sometimes demands and expects, begin to break down and I become "undone" in the process. My faith, my God, is not safe. My faith, my God, comforts me. . .but asks that I not become comfortable. ("Comfort the disturbed, and disturb the comfortable.")

Go back and read the lesson again. These words include both the powerful and the powerless. The privileged and the under classes. So the kingdom of God is for everyone! Put another way, it's available for everyone. It isn't always taken, even when it's offered. And that is understandable. The kingdom of God is not safe. Think about it. Attempting to abolish the status quo and turn a hierarchical social structure on its head? Where's the safety in that? There isn't any. None.

But we are assured that God is there, through it all. And even now. Through our blindness and in our seeing. Through our forgetting and in our remembering. Through our greed and in our abundant charity. Through our fear and in our love. Bidden or unbidden. We only have to remember to pay attention.