Artist, In Plain Sight, 9-5.

Artist, In Plain Sight, 9-5.
How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.

I used to be inspired by the depth of a shadow, the curve of a form, the flow of a fabric, the wrinkle of weathered skin, the narrative of blacks, blues & scar silver.
I used to compose a painting in my head, infuse meaning through juxtaposition, imply motion through gestured lines. I used to sit silently for hours with mellow neo-soul music bumping through my laptop speakers, steady keeping the rhythm of the ebbs and flows of paint and creativity.
While these days I zone out to the window just outside my office walls, daydream of huge canvasses and industrial easels, studio space and thick, heavy body paints, those days I used to simply zone into that world.
How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.

I stop and wait for inspiration. Get real silent and hope it speaks a language I can understand. Lets me capture it and move through me- a current conducted by otherworldly forces-

This     can’t      be     me.

I am but a vessel to this brilliance, humbled by the act of expression, moved by it-
Driven by it.
Just keep driving by it, until somehow it impels me to leave my problems at the door, to sit, stand, squat or lay down- long as I stay for a while.
This whisper is my religion. This creative ground is gessoed white and pure- I leave my shoes to walk among it and it is at that altar that I emit the toxins that lace me up tightly.
Toxins that tie my hands, I do little to fight.

I used to know restless and channel it, anxious and manage it through art therapy. There was just me and it, still my best relationship to date.
Dates that lasted for hours, no selfish men, but givers of meditative moments. Moments of ablution. Wiped clean by warm, rich colors, charcoal and graphite insidiously spreading across olive toned skin.
Healed by these moments.
Revealed through these moments.
Completely letting go of my superficial self without willing myself to do so.
Self-abandonment that transcends to something larger than us.

How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.

Where do you hide this inspiration? The key to this secret world? If not deep within the depths of one’s twisted complexities and over-thinking. Clever to hide it in plain sight.
I don’t feel stupid that I hadn’t found it sooner, in its obvious location, but rather relieved.
Once again, You’ve chosen me. You didn’t have to it, but You did.

I don’t want to stick out (fame can be for those who need it), nor do I want to recede to the antisocial shallows of seclusion, where no relatable art can be made.
Hide me in plain sight.
Whisper inspiration during a mundane work day.
Penetrate my thoughts with something more substantial; less watercolor wash, more heavy matte.
Remember me, even when I’ve all but forgotten You to the seemingly non-artistic stressfulness that fills my busy days.
Calm me down, and work me up if You wish. I have experienced no better feeling than this.
Art is love. Inspiration is restoration for the self I somehow lose to daunting tasks.
Art is the answer to the question you don’t know to ask.
How do you find art where there is none? You create it.
Where does it come from? Inside.
Put me in the last place I would think to hide-
In plain sight, 9-5.

Summer Goals

Recently, I read a blog post by a good friend of mine that detailed her summer goals.  Being a native-born Floridian, and having been out of school for about two years now, I find it difficult to distinguish between seasons. Maybe because Florida doesn't have any. And maybe because it has recently become irrelevant with the sunshine and beach breezes relegated to just outside of my office walls and windows!

I decided to capture a few of my very own summer goals. For me, this means "short term" goals. Or, "goals before law school," which is a short 2 1/2 months away.

1) WORK HARD
My work ethic has been at varying highs and lows depending on whether I was preoccupied by law school applications, studying for the LSAT, hearing from law schools or making plans as to which school/state I would live in for at least the next three years. Now, I have my plans, my end date and nothing substantial to slow me down! This is the final sprint through the finish line. I couldn't see it before, but now, it's just ahead. Full speed ahead! (This goal includes utilizing my entire allowed OT to make that last extra dollar or two before being without an income for some time...)

2) ARTLYFE.ORG
This is the domain name I have for my new website that I am dedicating to my theory that art should not be separate from life, but that the two are one in the same. I am an artist going to law school. I am a legal assistant and an artist. But I am an artist. There is only one community- not the art community, but the community at large. The two should not be mutually exclusive. I would like to build a business/ legal practice around this same arts inclusion, if possible. I am very passionate about this idea, but the website is still only a work in progress. But it's a start.

3) BREATHE
This is less of a goal, more of a mantra. Of course we breathe without willing ourselves to do so. Lately, I've been forgetting to do it little by little, and find myself sucking in huge, gasping breaths to fill my whole chest. I haven't had as much actual anxiety attacks as before, but the daunting expenses- bills, loans, budgeting- take over my brain if ever it's at rest. I'm working on trying to approach these next few years in graduate school on a year by year basis- since that's how loans are fashioned anyway. I'll be okay. I won't have the money I've had to buy the things I see and "can't live without," but I'll be fine. This is a nice, welcome change. It's the next necessary step to getting me to where I want to be- which is so far only a hypothetical outline of high ceiling lofts, large over sized easels and canvases, Spanish tiling, natural light and warm colors. I'll get there.

4) BE BLESSED
It's what we are naturally, but what we forget to acknowledge daily.

Be blessed. We already are, we just need to start acting like it.

Noms de guerre

I have come to so many surprisingly mature realizations lately worth sharing.

However, I can sadly report that all of these are deeply intimate, and better shared under a noms de guerre, which I am in the process of developing.  Social criticism may best be experienced without being able to consider my personal bias.  What is in a name?

Everything.

I have done so well with this name- ALLISON EVE- that to pollute it with exceedingly political ideas might devalue it somewhat.  Or maybe it would make it stronger, but unwillingly so.  I could be better expressed by the stroke of a paintbrush or a hand on my hip.

So, to whomever wherever who decides my blog is worth reading, just know- if you don't know me well enough to know exactly to what I'm referring, look out for an incredibly private memoir to make its way to the incredibly public internet arena.  You won't know it's me by name, yet if you're a devout sharer of my blog experiences, you may recognize my writing style.

Easy Street doesn't even run through MY city.

A good friend and I had a long conversation last night on the telephone.  A couple of different points were established that I think are blogworthy:

1) This was probably the biggest eye-opener for me- "normal" people (we must accept this term "normal" as the whole, majority, most people- to get this rationale) don't feel like they want to scream loudly and flail their arms wildly and in the middle of some public socially constructed arena, do something completely and undeniably inappropriate.
     Really? Am I the only person to whom this wild gesture of toxic release appeals?  Sometimes I feel like nothing I can do (not the usual vices of painting, poetry or even sex) will liberate me from myself like this imagined scenario I know would.  Being a rational human being- which is being "appropriate" most of the time, understanding how to act in different situations, maturity, discernment, practicality- and the adult words just keep pouring out... (Does this means I'm officially adult that I can name so many big girl words?  Please, let me know)... means NOT doing this. Besides, what is a gesture?  It is so empty- a symbol for something else.  A metaphor.  A simile.

So, what you're saying- or what he was saying, rather- is that to feel like this is ABnormal: something must be wrong.  I think it's a perfect example of one artist submerged in a suburban setting of solitude without inspiration to whet her palette, and without motivation to travel far and wide to find it.  Self-defeating, I get that.  How does one make art where there is none? 

To make the mundane magical (?)

2)  Those who struggle less are at an advantage.  I quickly refuted his idealized notion that less struggle could possibly equal more reward.  Those handed things in life are left helpless (like me being a daddy's girl who learned only recently the different parts to my car engine).  We can only even really know things from our own perspective, and those spoiled by others without working hard, hardly wish away their fortune to understand the plight of the lower middle class. 

And I guess it is as well my idealized notion to think that the way I went about things, the only way available to me (student loans, a few jobs and a lot of hard work), was the best way.  I guess what I really mean by this is that I am exceedingly happy with the person that I am.  I understand that I would not be the person I am, were it not for the hard work I had to put in.  And if any other route would change me to be someone else, assumed to be less appreciative of their situation, I'd pass.

Everyone is blessed.

So, even the slight delusional thought that it would be good to feel just for a minute how life is on Easy Street, is a wasted thought. 

I was blessed with a struggle.  Blessed with a restlessness that makes me want to unlace the thick black tar that intertwines my blood as it surges throughout all my body's veins.  Blessed with a desire to be something better.  To make something better of everything.  To want to understand the plight of those who have had to work for their bread and butter.  To work as hard and harder than I ever did to ameliorate the struggles people must endure to make ends meet.  Somehow I will find a way to do this through the legal system.  Public interest law?  All I'm saying, Universe, is those law schools who've yet to admit me would be better off to have me in their entering class for my restless passion in the public's interest.

Easy Street is a cookie cutter suburb to the diverse urban city that overflows with the arts and culture of a people who work and breathe their struggles; who eat their struggles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and are left hungry.  Their insatiable hunger is as well in me- my restless, my passion, my commitment to community.




I wasn't nearly as eloquent when I had the conversation.  And I went off on some bitter rant about Valentine's Day, which probably discredited everything I had to say thereafter.  Figures.

My EDGE

Today, I made a choice to be my very own person, at whatever the cost.  I can't lose my edge.  My daddy has always used the word "sassy" to describe me.  A great lawyer whom I professionally admire told me I am "full of piss and vinegar," and that's why I would make a good lawyer.  Sometimes being with someone means compromising to a fault; to avoid conflict; to avoid drama. 
Today, I decided-

I can never lose my edge.
My FIERCE...
My FIERY...
My PASSIONATE...
My SHARP-
Edge.

Teetering though I do on the edge of the abyss, I go between restless and apathetic, passionate and then lack of motivation.  It's easy to let the system kick you down.

But, NO.
The edge of the abyss is where I get my edge.  It's a precarious balancing act, but worth its weight in gold.  I wager everything I own on it.  That edge does not compose me; I compose it.  I'm safeguarding it better this time. 

Fortunately, nothing is irreversible. 
Moving forward, I know that I could lose and find myself ten times in the same week. 
But, what next?


You'll have to check back in and find out.

Did you say BLACK? Speak up.

I understand that some people are developmentally slower than others (while biology boasts that no one person is more or less evolved based on evolutionary trends... too slow for us to see- like the turning of the earth on its axis). I always thought I was "more evolved," a lie my mother told me to make me feel better about having been born (though it has since been removed) with an extra thumb.

What I'm really referring to though is when white people tell me stories (in Long Island, where most of these story tellers have not ever experienced diversity, and have no friends of other races). If, in the story, one of their characters is BLACK/black/black they whisper the word when describing that character.

First, they look around to be sure it is only an inside story amongst us white folk, and then the secret is shared in mouthed almost inaudible whispers... Does this character's race matter to the story? Is your punch line derogatory? Am I in on the secret because my skin color makes you believe our shared history is that of homogeny and lack of cultural diversity; incorrectly?


Black is not a bad word.

You don't have to whisper it.

(I shared this story with a friend, since this occurrence has come to pass several times since being in a setting with little to no people with skin colors that differ from my own. She asked if I said something. I hadn't. I, too should speak up.)

Ushering in a NEW YEAR, to surpass the last

As I mull over the spectacularly lengthy list of tasks I need to complete, I am overwhelmed. This usually leads to an activity not on the list, not particularly important, and not at all productive. I should be attending to my ridiculously messy room, doing one of thousands of loads of laundry to clean clothes I never wear anyway, not just because they've been dirty for months. I wrote myself a brief list of New Year's Resolutions, and I'm counting on the dropping of one big ball in major cities all over to indicate the end of me dropping "the ball" on every project I start but never finish. I am famous for this, though hardly renowned outside of my family for this awful ambitious, not manifesting head of mine. Will this new year be any different from the 22 I ushered in each year before? 

Living with ones' grandparents should be a ticket to spend more time focused on ones' self; time is fleeting and eventually you get old and don't have the energy to do the things you could when you were younger. However, I feel myself slow leaking as I am forced to wait things out. Apply to law school, wait. Work hard, wait to move. Save money? This is a concept I have yet to master- source of anxiety, distress, general unhappiness at times. I get used to at least a dull feeling of gloom that comes from too much work and not enough hours in the work day, so many lists transferred but not shortened, and money made equaling, if not surpassing money spent. Is this adulthood?

I had a wicked stomach flu this weekend that put me out of commision entirely, floored me to the bathroom tile. My head spent the better part of Saturday and Sunday shoved into a porcelain throne and tiny bathroom wastebasket. I couldn't remember feeling lower. And today I returned to work with a new resolve! Dilapidated, though I am, I sluggishly made my way through one of few days I was alloted to "get caught up." It's only a hypothetical concept, however, and the work hardly diminishes, though I work diligently filling a day with tasks, client phone calls, and translation. Are my efforts made in vain? Do I work for myself or solely for others?


Who will answer these questions I posit?

In my distraction, I wander to one of my favorite search engines: yahoo.com and discover an article about a 7-year old who "paints like an old master." He is not driven by any burdensome task of self-discovery. And he is not laboring over a canvas to pay FPL or keep his water running. He's just painting because he likes it. He doesn't feel guilty when he doesn't paint.

So on top of my generally discontent, half-sick, weary ushering in of yet another ephemeral Tuesday evening, I see this kid who admittedly makes me feel even worse. How do we peel back and experience that simplicity? Is it even possible?

I ask these questions of you, my probably non-existent readers, one of my three followers maybe, and of you, the Universe. Answer them in whatever form you see fit. I am open to signs; I will try to keep my eyes open and my senses alert for the answers to seek me as I have asked them of You.

These are two paintings by the 7-year old prodigy, Kieron Williamson:

 

Ushering in a year to surpass the last, I wish you well. And I wish you inspiration not just to write about it, but to be about it. I am closing my laptop to take my very own advice...

My moment/ your moment too.

I felt a moment of inspiration today- Which is remarkable, though it does not seem to be.  I'm holding on to that moment- squeezing it tightly, smothering it like I wish I could do to some people, without being suffocating.  I remembered again how ART warms my South Floridian heart even in the gloomy winter of Long Island.  Though I have yet to really locate the arts & culture scene out on this long, unfriendly island, I still attempt to make the most of my time here.

I am always so focused so much on my next steps I almost trip over the things directly in front of me.  Periodically, I commit to becoming more lucid and aware- sort of how Buddhists do.  But I'm still almost in exactly the same place every time I commit to this again.  And then I become inspired as I did today, hoping maybe this time I will hitch a ride on my fleeting idea- a project that never manifests, a list I transfer without crossing much off, an ideal- hoping it will fly me out of this stuck feeling, awkward phrasing, and raw, unrefined existence.

I used to enjoy this struggle more, but my formerly romantic ideas now only exhaust me.  The mundane squeezes the passion out of me, and instead of gasping for creative air, I pass out, wake up, repeat.  Yet, I am always pleasantly surprised when a poem sneaks up on me.  A painting manifests before I give it any conscious thought.  I sing a song in the shower that I wonder if I composed, or if I had just heard the melody somewhere.  And as ephemeral as that moment is, it is the best moment I've had all day.

Let me share with you my moment today:

I wish I could do graffiti art (though I have never actually tried- other than once on the streets of Vina del Mar, Chile while studying abroad).

I also wish I had been at Art Basel in Miami this last weekend, where these pictures were taken.

I wish a great many things.

Now I'd like to start planning.


Overly ambitious? Overly critical? Overly analytical?

Who will even read my rants, none the less appreciate them? An online blog is a strange concept...

Anyway, hope whoever does stumble upon these raw thoughts can add them to their toolbox, maybe refine them a bit... or let them shape you, even.

I live even for a moment's inspiration in my otherwise wholly uninspired day.

Hope this is your moment.

Still an ARTIST...

Is an Artist one who creates art? One who has creatED art? Or a lifestyle?

I see things differently because of the art education I have received. My aesthetic sense has been heightened, my eyes opened, and my heart expanded. My artistic well is not dry, but stagnant; my artistic palette whet with the experiences of everyday life. I accumulate tools with which to shape my work, to lead me to something meaningful. I love art. I live art.



I painted this one last week, and drew the picture of the sleeping old man last month.

I wonder as I wander...

Stick to it.
Stay focused.
Keep your head in the game.
Eyes on the prize.

Countless aphorisms direct us toward single-mindedness. This "goal oriented" or "task oriented" person we are supposed to be is pulled in a million and one different directions by the complexities of everyday life. If you can't multitask you might as well not procreate. Or step outside of your house. Because in the real world, we're forced to throw ourselves from one activity to the next hoping our body remembers to take big breaths, we remember to eat, and that we are above all BLESSED.

I've always felt torn. Torn between going to art school and an academic career (UM grad 2008). Torn between painting and poetry. Torn between practical decisions and idealism. We're supposed to suck it up and choose, right? A real man makes a decision and regardless of how terrible its outcome, sticks with it, takes accountability for his wrong-doings; counts his losses. Bullshit. These clever one-liner responses to complex situations only serve to keep you unhappy. Why would you stick with something that didn't completely fulfill you? Why are such ridiculous cliches perpetuated that back young, ambitious individuals like me into some imagined corner? Why should we accept the advice of others when anyone who's really lived has already admitted "they had to learn the hard way"?

So please, let me.
Let me divulge in activities that make me happy. I can paint and write. I shouldn't have to choose. Being an adult doesn't mean being bitter because of the poor choices you've made. It just means making your own (however) stupid choices. I am recently beginning to truly understand the headache money gives you- or rather, the headache of not having it; the headache of unpaid bills. No one is even pretending it gets better from here on out.

But if I change my mind a thousand times, let me.
If I only focus on one activity long enough until it leads me to the next, so what?
I understand that with adulthood there is no required declaration of laissez faire because at this point you answer to no one (only respectfully allowing others to know of the decisions, not to make them).
And I was told recently, by someone I deeply respect, that being a grown up is far better accomplished by not referring to (however milestone) activities as "grown up" ones.
In my art, and my life, I tend to be very process-oriented.
It is about the journey and not the destination.

No, I won't "stick to it." Adventure waits off the beaten path. Wander around a little, you might just find it. Another silly cliche goes:

Not all who wander are lost.

So maybe I'll just take some time to check out the scenery. Don't come looking for me.

Ode to my very own poetry!

Here are a few poems I figure are better shared that hoarded by my personal laptop. I hardly read these more than every once in a very long while! Mind you, these pieces are truly spoken word, so if your meter doesn't match mine, you might not find the rhyme... but that's okay. We should have more of an artistic community that extends into the community at large. Here is my start of many contributions to come...
----------------------------------------------
Like Woah

I drank her in like recklessness.
Like: I had my keys in hand, but could not drive the vehicle that is myself.
Don’t mix drinks or children.
She looked around with beady eyes. No surprise.
“I don’t want people to think I’m a racist,” she started,
She leaned in to begin her complaining.It’s always pouring when it is raining.
Her floodgate swung open,As she to the right (me: far left) began to kvetch.
“But I just don’t want to live with a Black person.”
And like woah she began.
But I was in no condition to drive-
This vehicle was not even mine.
Or so I had abandoned it.
Had somebody spiked my fruit punch?
The McDonalds lunch I ate tasted spoiled
And I sat arrested like I couldn’t move.
Why did she choose-To talk to me? At me. Doormat me.
Do I look like a Black people hater?
I would laugh about this later,
But I just sat as an Anglo-Saxon, passive to this massive mess I was in:
I heard her begin.

I was on the phone with my Black boyfriend who- that day-
I had been dating for exactly a year and a
Half of me was sitting there listening-
Taking the girl like medicine-“They’re loud… they’re unclean…
Well you know what I mean.”
“They” who? Me? You? No- we do not relate.
My skin color does not equal hate.
She told me about some girl’s “hair shellac.”
She is obviously not Black.
And I said “oh.” Not “yes” or “no”-
My boyfriend hung up and I wished he was hearing this.

She said her roommate watches “Black TV.”
BET?
“I’m not interested in watching that.”
And, “her phone has this beat- not a ring or a beep-
With someone singing. I can’t understand what it’s saying-
Black people music.”
I was numb. Dumbfounded. Shell-shocked. And quiet.
Her insight was free and I still would not buy it.
Appalling. Confusing.To my morals-
Abusing she was to my beliefs-I was on a bad trip.
She is a good thief.
Who took my voice.
Stole my indignation.
Everyone knows my boyfriend’s Haitian.
Her tunnel vision saw only the color of the skin I was in.
She wasn’t really seeing.
I wasn’t really sitting there misbelieving that this girl was my punishment for being White.
I am tired of fighting the good fight that is not my own.
I was all alone. At a table. Without my Black friends.

Belligerent. But tricked into being an attentive listener.
Fooled into being the bag she threw up in.
These are not the conditions I grew up in.
Ignorant.
But so was I for ignoring myself- Letting her put me on a shelf-
On the Anglo-Saxon’s closed mind.
Hammered.
Plastered.
Wasted: of time and open ears.
What could I say to reverse so many misguided years?
How could I tell her she is drunk and not making sense?
The words she was speaking could cause a great deal of offense.
I must have been drunk too: sitting there saying, “oh.”
When I realized this I decided to go.

I stood up.
And it hit me.
Like a ton of heavy bricks. Now I was sick.
So I staggered away.
Should I have stayed to let her know?
No. Like woah.
------------------------------------------------

STRUGGLE for Peace

I'm not settling, I'm STRUGGLING-
To find peace. For those who proclaim
It is within one's reach-
Have go-go-gadget arms.

I try to repress the reflux affects of "crazy girl"
A syndrome to which no girl is immune.
No, there's no full moon, this shit is daily.
It's bubbling-
Juuust below the surface of cool, calm, and collected till you didn't call her back and it's ME, Beast.
Fight it, swallow it, bite it back-
Cause he has just had it up to *here* with craaaazy girls.

I'm STRUGGLING to MAKE peace,Where there is none.
To- string together piece meal,
To- gobble up that piece meal of reasonable advice, unsolicited, and to regurgitate that mess into some semblance of order that I can be PROUD of.
Panic attacks classify my everysooften,
though I force them from frequent to few, too-
Tiring to keep up with, mellow me out: marijuana to my speed, crymyeyesout exhausted to my choking tears.
Please cry alone.
Please call friends first, him much later.
Please don't act silly,
since silly is never taken seriously and SERIOUSLY-
you can't risk not feeling validated.

I am not settling, I'm sitting for a minute.
Just to catch my breath.
I'mma go till there aint nothin left.
I always thought my crazy was the most of my appeal,
So he could feel I wasn't cookie-cutter anything,
but sugary sweet-Sometimes.
Mostly, beast.
Without sex my release I pray only for sleep.
For calm.
For reason.
For understanding.
For patience.
For peace.
For those who proclaim it is within one's reach..
Go Go Gadget- arms! (PEACE)
-------------------------------------------------

Micro-cosmos, universe at small

When I wish upon the end of the day’s stars,
Stuck high up in a canopy of faux ceiling-
Remnants of the last occupants’ appreciation of the infinite
I think of how things went wrong-
3 years strong, infinitely weak
And then I think of the water babies
With swollen bellies; the term “hungry” understating their uncomfort,
Unlikely that they will eat today at all; Why didn’t he call?
When I wished upon the solar-conserved star that dimmed
When I would not clap my hands and did not believe in true love-
Tink was the jealous type too, these plastic stars adhered so tight-
ly to the faux ceiling- so disguised you can only truly see them at night-
Hidden from light,
I think of plastic you.

Those children they put on TV, so meek and helpless you get up just
To swat the screen and try to shoo the flies from their eyelids,
Little kids, small sick babies-
Ladies birthing so many since the survival rate is low and
Death pesters the weak like flies,
Until that little baby imminently dies-
Send your money in and for just ten cents a day a child can be squared away-
Or, turn and look the other way.
It’s so easy to say: I love you,
But show you care not at all.
Like disease-stricken babies, hope dims, and stars fall from a plastic sky of
Don’t ask why’s
Because apathy is not a good enough excuse.

For 3 years I suffered your abuse, contentedly
But last night I wished upon a neon green starry night and
Like a firefly trapped in a bell jar, something in me died.
You lent your ear in an envelope marked “return to sender,”
I’m tempted to render you completely useless now to fill my head or my poems.
As I stare at dorm room ceiling stars, not knowing where you are,
I’m tempted to lend my tears to babies with empty-vessel tummies, that cry over justified fears instead;
To babies who learn to count on supernova stars numbered much higher than the number of years they’ll exist before meeting their destiny head on-
I think about these bodies so weakened but still so strong,
And wonder why you can’t think of anyone but your plastic self.



The first and third poems I wrote about two or three years ago. The "Struggle for Peace" poem was written a couple of months ago about how I was beginning to feel "maturity" meant holding everything inside, biting your tongue and swallowing your pride. Which to me, meant imminent implosion and simultaneous explosion, were I not extremely careful. Nay, extremely mature.
(No, thanks.)

To art!

Old Habits (sloughed) to New Beginnings

New beginnings are sometimes the result of a shift in thought away from our same old, bad habits. And sometimes they are thrust upon us before we can even manage to process- before we can get a cognition in edge-wise. And as we depart from our former self to transcend into this new being, our old self is sloughed, sloughed over, and left behind.

I used to be the kind of girl that wriggled back into the shed encasement, brought it high up around my shoulders, coiled it around me and stewed. And just when I’d feel I was ready to slink out from under my heavy lead overcoat, I ask myself for "five more minutes," and allow myself at least a few more months. It’s like hanging out submerged in your dirty, lukewarm bath water, pruney fingers and toes, before toweling off. It is a comfortable pity party. As long as you’re the only guest in attendance, "pathetic" is un-termed and "pride" is malleable. Then, someone lures you out from under the weight of the familiar: You remember how light and easy it is to laugh; that all is not lost.

Getting our brains to re-route their usual neuron firing pattern involves that onerous change we hide from. I had been so committed to some ideas, held so steadfastly that I almost considered change to be synonymous with defeat. I never want to consider my time wasted on skin that is going to slough off anyway. But nothing is really waste. At one point, I decided that a real man/woman was someone who made a decision and stuck with it, no matter what. That definition, as well as have I, evolved. Changing my mind didn’t mean completely discarding old ideas, but rather incorporating new ones.

I had loved someone so loyally, that when he was finally as cruel as I’d never known him to be capable of, only then did I really get it. He wasn’t going to change and I wasn’t going to try and make him. Ironically, when we arrived at the end to our 7-year saga, I gaped- watery-eyed- at a man it seemed had changed so remarkably from the man I fell in love with. But alas, I was the one who had changed, evolved so far past him that three tears were all I allowed to fill my murky bath water before getting up and toweling off. I had sloughed off my idealism to pragmatism. I had taken a hit, brushed myself off, and got right back up again.

I consider myself not Satan incarnated as the serpent that offered the forbidden fruit of infidelity to he whose mouth so watered for it, but likened myself more to an impassioned member of the garden itself. I am no femme fatale. Still, I really had no idea that people could be so cruel, but I’m glad that he was. It makes it that much easier to walk away from the dead weight of my former obsession. With not a scintilla of remorse, I have cast-off a die hard old habit for a promising new beginning.

Duty to society AND self

I have come to conclude that I truly do not beliveve in coincidences. The interconnectedness of the events in my life cannot possibly be credited to chance! While yesterday's entry sparked the beginning of the turning over of a new heavy leaf (the kind that sits on your chest like a baby grand), I knew very well that I was just declaring the change and will not be loosed of the baby grand till I've managed a leverage that can slowly pry it off of me.

This is a new thought that applies intimately to my current situation:

Sometimes, when we feel like we are taking on the burden of a personal problem, let the baby grand park its weight directly on top of our consciousness, we think we are doing the right thing. The Bible even tells us to forgive, and Lauryn Hill sang it beautifully even when she said, "Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do." All of these indicators point toward forgiving others. At church one time a certain Pastor Steve delivered an entire sermon on forgiveness stating that if you forgive someone you must also ask for their forgiveness for not having forgiven. Which made sense to me at the time. But I think I can say about myself especially that we forget to forgive ourselves. I think of the piano as a just punishment and that I can bear the silent burden. Here is where the new thought comes in:
Say that this piano is not just your piano and you're not the only person who is under it. How selfish would it be to continue living underneath this heavy burden without even trying to help others out from under it?

Now your personal problem is no longer just your problem. And if you do not handle it accordingly, you are being selfish.

With regard to what was written yesterday, I'd like to make an amendment. There are not two dichotomous options as to how to move on post conflict. In one article I read today from the United Nations Human Rights news it said that "...studies conclude that if justice and accountability are to underpin the quest for durable peace and security, they must apply to women too. The studies point to an urgent need to re-think what has been created in the fields of formal justice and post-conflict social and economic order." Justice AND accountability. Peace AND security. Social AND economic order.

Prosecute AND heal? Maybe this is a better approach.
Today, I am consulting with an excellent criminal lawyer to see if this is the best option. Because apparently the new leaf of a baby grand piano is not just weighing heavily on me.

Apparently, one has a duty to society AND self to prosecute those who have wronged them. (This I am learning.)

A Pye Nou Ye

In the spirit of the holiday season, I'm making a special blogging attempt:

Today it starts. It is always said that- you're not done till you're done. So I've decided I'm finally done with bad habits and my rebelwithoutacause ways.

In the book "Choke" by Chuck Palahniuk he says that "until you find something to fight for, you settle for something to fight against." I think this characterizes our adolescence, and sometimes lingers into adulthood. I've finally managed to put an aim to certain projects and ideas (that I seem to produce in excess, but less of which manifest). Of course, I will still be fighting against things- injustice, bureaucracy, the powers that be- but I will transform this restlessness into a more constructive energy.

Countries in which terrible crimes against humanity have occurred have options to safeguard their human rights: reconciliation, the reconstruction of a collective memory so that history will not repeat itself; and persecution that itself, serves a similar purpose of retribution. I think once you make the distinction as to which serves your purpose, then you're making steps forward. Do you count your losses and begin to heal- OR- do you try to take down those who have wronged you? As I undergo transformation with disposable New Year's Resolutions to loosely structure the dawning of a new year of incredible adventure and possibility bubbling just under the surface, I recall a saying I learned a few years ago at the Haitian Church I used to (and sometimes still do) attend:

A PYE NOU YE.

It sounds like you're saying "Happy New Year!" with an accent, but it translates to- "We are on our feet," which is what everyone says to each other, to say that at least we are still on our feet.

The 9-5pm grind may have mellowed me considerably, and "practicality" makes frequent cameos is conversations and future planning, but I have not lost the fight in me. I approach the new year through an adult lens that is panoramic in scope. I'm fighting against complacency and for all of the things I believe in, which are many. But I'm still standing, which means I have a lot to truly be grateful for. Turning potential into kinetic this new year... still standing.

Bail out before sinking!

When I hear the term "economic bail out," I conjure a very vivid image.

That is, I picture the numerous occasions when my sister and I had to take plastic cups and empty our 11-foot whaler of the salt water the bilge had failed to remove. I don't remember it being a terrible task, as childhood tasks hardly were. My father, then Commander in Chief calmly instructed us, and only the blazing sun made beads of sweat form on his gleaming bald head. There was no antsy sense of urgency or panic, and I never once thought that if I was not quick enough our tiny boat would sink. I cannot, however, say the same for our monstrous American ship. Impervious? Had George W. Bush also designed the Titanic with insufficient space amongst life boats for all its passengers?

Now we see the iceberg. Big business owners board the lifeboats first.

Bush had wanted to avoid getting involved; sitting on his hands: An example of lasseiz-faire, which in French means "allow to do," and in American means "Full speed ahead!" Luckily, McCain, presidential hopeful, (almost) placed his patriotic duty to serve our struggling nation ahead of debating Senator Obama. I guess he thought it optimal to have all the US's best politicians huddled in a room talking economics instead of helping the world to continue in its rotation. George Bush addressed the nation with a tone of urgency, calling forth presidential hopefuls as Americans first, leaving politics out of "what's best for our country," while they attempted to put together a band aid bill for Congress. The initial bill was rejected, a bail out package both parties marked "return to sender."

More financial distress could lead more banks to fail, the stock market to drop further, businesses to close, to job losses and home values to drop, our Commander in Chief said. "And, ultimately, our country could experience a long and painful recession," Bush said. "Fellow citizens, we must not let this happen."

While I do have an active imagination, I still cannot picture John McCain with a plastic cup working to clear the bilge. And G.W. behind the wheel while the iceberg is in plain sight? Shouldn't we fix the boat, said to be superior to all other boats that has Haitians, Cubans, and other immigrants swimming across oceans to board? Instead we are asking that Obama, McCain, Bush, and other important political advisers get down in the oval office and begin to bail.

With my family the solution was simple- we sold the boat.
Maybe a new owner would be able to fix what we couldn't. As for our country, it is even more obvious that things simply can't stay the way they are.

(Obama,) S.O.S.!

My future's here.

I wrote this poem at the end of last year, prior to finishing my credits abroad, walking across the stage for that diploma holder, and hypothetical graduation. When it seemed as though my future would smack me square between the eyes, it came more like a sickness, causing cerebral atrophy and depleting my adventurous energy. My daily job helps to accumulate money, but living with my parents and suffering a very routinized transition into adulthood, early to bed and early to rise, widdles away at my ebullience.

So I will pursue my passions if work has not tired me out too much to pick up a paintbrush. I will involve myself with current events so even if I am not connected with my peers I can be connected with our struggling nation. I will try not to feel too overwhelmed. Maybe if I try hard enough I can make poetry out of the mundane and fashion art out of lukewarm, dreadful consistency. I have to consider this a passage and not an impasse. I hope adulthood does not mean always needing to make practical decisions. I struggle between apathy and restlessness, finding that with me there is just no grey area. I wrote the following poem before I knew how my "future" would be. Perpetually hopeful, I still wonder.

My future’s here.

Near sighted-
The inability to see far-
Day by day- test to task-
Stay whelmed.
Not over, or under-whelmed,
Enthused: yet another situation defused
To my physical being- abused-
A reprieve usually sexual healing-
But backward reeling, hedonistic dealings-
I am nearsighted and cannot see far.

Near sighted-
Inability to see far-
Moment to moment- pedal to metal-
Be optimistic
Plan, leave room for error,
Smile no matter what-
Stuck in a rut? So what?
Groping, feeling in the darkness for a path-
The road less traveled is a happy trail
More sexual healing:
Sexual reprieve-
In what system do I believe?
Bursts of faith are few and far between.
Bursts of emotion are more numerous and from between
Legs that tremble.
Faith waivers too.
Near sighted, feeling slighted-
Future hits with no time for wrongs to be righted.
I am nearsighted and cannot see far.

Near sighted-
Can’t see far-
Can’t think far-
Can’t plan far-
Can’t wish far-
Just amass scars-
Prepare for the next phase-
Countdown days that will inevitably come-
Tune in to electricity hum,
White noise to drown out reality-
Headphones plug in socially constructed self
Computer zombie suffers diminishing health,
Sits alone with dilated eyes,
Until outside shrinks them down to size-
Eyes on the prize- means really one foot ahead of the other-
Keeping head from falling over heels-
Documenting how it feels
As sexual experiences accrue
Not much else to do, but everything
Ameliorate the sting-
Passion depletes when systems demand you care less
Trying your best,
Is not good enough.
Take advantage of an opportunity-
And you’ll see-
I am nearsighted and cannot see far,
And as soon as far is near, my future’s here.

Times are changing

I have never seriously considered blogging, having spent years faithful to a series of medium-sized five star notebook journals. But if there is anything that can be definitively stated of our world today, it is that times are changing.

Let them pass you by, run you over, or slap you upside your consciousness? (No.)
Sometimes it may appear that I don't care: I may seem crude or abrasive.
However, not caring is hardly something to which I can plead guilty. Honestly, I care too much.

This world is not fashioned to accommodate the "carers" and is better at encouraging ego-centrism, entrepreneurship, looking out for number one. And this is only worsening with time.

Times surely are changing, so when the only option is survival- explode or implode, I choose the former. Consider this the start to a full-fledged explosion.

Look out, World!