The faith to move mountains

As I write these words I am a little afraid, but mostly just at peace and elated, like I've been released from being stuck to the end of the suction hose of a giant energy vacuum. I feel light. Yesterday I made the decision to quit my job. It's been a long time coming. For almost two years it has made me miserable, first in little ways, then in big ways.

When I started this job, I knew it wasn't for me, but sometimes you do things because you think you have to, not because you want to. My dream job had fallen through and I was broken hearted and scrambling, panicked about how to pay rent. I got a gig door knocking for health care, which was fine for a while until autumn set in and the rains began. And there I was getting lost and soaked for hours every night in the back woods of Washington with a clipboard and some leaflets, wishing I would just get struck by lightening. I was so desperate for indoor employment and especially something that came with good benefits and a great title, that I overlooked all the warning bells. I cried after my in person interview, not because I thought I hadn't done well, but because I knew that they would hire me.

I knew that this was an under supported program. I knew that my resources would be limited, but I pretended that my boss really was telling the truth. When I was promptly disabused of this notion, I believed in my ability to overcome systemic failures through hard work and creativity. I had a dynamic first year. I did more in one year than had been done in the previous five years, and at the end of it all there were still so many frustrations, so many things I couldn't change, and the general feedback was "wow, you did a lot....do less". So this year I have done just that. I don't take my work home. I barely take it seriously. I have expended maybe a tenth of the energy I did last year and it hasn't seem to make any difference at all, other than in me. I am (was) miserable. I felt like every second I spent at this job...other than checking email...was me wasting precious moments of my life, and that is something you don't get back.

I'm done. I don't want to spend my life creating a kick ass resume. I want to spend my life creating an honorable existence where I am happy, where I am doing something worth doing and not just something that looks good on paper. Though I had already decided to quit, I went to a meeting with the Employment Ministry at the Center for Spiritual Living. It wasn't at all what I expected, but it was just what I needed. I sat there in a room with 30 other people in various stages of employment. There were some who had been or were going to be laid off, others who were stuck in dead end jobs, and others who just didn't know what they wanted. So we prayed together, then we had a discussion about all the ideas we cling to and how they prevent us from doing what we really want to do. I actually didn't say anything the whole time I was there, but I didn't need to. The people who shared their experiences were articulating how I felt.

"God is the source of your income," said the person leading the workshop. "God, not your job." Ever the smart ass, my first thought was "Well does God provide medical and dental?" But then as the idea sunk in, it kind of blew my mind. If God is the source of my income and not this crappy job, then if I let go of this crappy job and have faith in my talents and in God's power something more fulfilling will come to me. Right? Wow that's scary...letting go, giving up control, but isn't that what faith is...believing in what you can't prove, what you can't see, what you just know in your heart. Well when I woke up yesterday I just knew in my heart that I could do better.

Since I can remember I have wanted to be a writer, but I am a practical person. Someone sometime told me that writers don't make any money and that you can't realistically support yourself that way, and this did not appeal to me at all. So though I still pursued a BA in English and Creative Writing, I looked for employment that would allow me to do my writing part time. I became a teacher. I traveled the world. And I don't regret a moment of it, because I loved it and I have certainly stored up a life time of topics to write about, but I have come to the realization that I am letting my fears dictate my life and that is no way to live.

I want to write, but I don't want to have to struggle for money. I've been there. That 6 months I spent in Chile working six 12-14 hour days a week under the table for less than minimum wage, I experienced an exhaustion only comparable to that of grad school. I was beyond burnt out, but worse, I was terrified that I would end up homeless. It's one thing to be poor in the States, but entirely another when you have been robbed of everything you have and you don't have any legal rights or legal access to employment and everyone you know and love is far away. It was the first time I had ever really experienced hunger....I mean real hunger, where you have to choose between spending your last centavos on transportation home or on food and when you get home no one has gone shopping, so there is nothing but rice and it takes so long to make and you have to get up in 5 hours and do it all again. I know I am fortunate. I eventually made enough to get home and to pay my host family back for taking me in when I had nothing to give them.

I digress. What I really want to say is that I'm grateful for every opportunity I've had. I'm even grateful for this crappy job, which has given me a reliable income, great insurance, the chance to meet some amazing people, free tickets to see the Dalai Lama, and a flexible schedule. I am also grateful to God and the Universe for giving me the strength and courage to walk away from it.

I want to write full time and teach part time. I want to paint and show my art. I want to make books and get published. I want to create beautiful things. I also want to take a break from working. So that is what I am going to do. June 14 will be my last day, then I will spend the last two weeks of June on a cheap vacation, possibly in Portland, possibly in Canada. I will take some much needed time to relax and reflect. In July I might travel or I might just stay in Seattle and write.

The fabulous part about this decision is that as soon as I made it everything just kind of fell into place. I will be showing my paintings during Wallingford First Wednesdays, a new art walk that my chiropractor helped to organize. I am also being considered for a flexible teaching position at my other job (the job I LOVE) which would mean not only working someplace wonderful with people I like a respect, but that I would still have lots of time to write, a break all summer, and health insurance. I know my parents are worried about me...which is hard because they just mirror the fear I've had inside me that's kept me from doing what I wanted all these years....but for the first time in a long time I feel really content. I don't feel like I am treading water or waiting for something to happen. It happened and I'm so glad it did.

The Grand Slam

It rained slightly as we stood cued up and waiting for the doors of Chop Suey to open. I'd never been there before. We were obnoxiously early as is my habit and the slam began obnoxiously late, as is its nature. The top 8 competing poets were Tara Harding (finalist in the Women of the World Slam), Micky, Karen Phinneyfrock (sp?)-(the wild card), Danny Sherrard (national poetry slam winner), Angela Dy, Wombly, Matt Gaino, and Greg B - (the other wild card). I had seen each of them before except for Micky, so I knew it would be a good show. First there were a few performances by several other top poets who didn't quite make it for one reason or another: Amber Flame, Ella, Ryler Dustin, and Anis whose last name I forget. Then the feature, Rachel, whose last name I forget. (I may not remember their whole names, but I remember their poems.)

Chop Suey is poorly ventilated, a red and black painted hot box with a sticky floor and a long golden dragon suspended from the ceiling...in short, very uncomfortable, but trendy and kind of fun. At times I had flashbacks of summer in Wisconsin. It was oppressively humid, but there was still a kind of buzz from the nervous energy, and good creative vibes. I was accompanied by Mz. Blu, my poetry companion for most of this season. She is a die hard ride to the slam, a finicky critic easily bored and less easily amused. She believes in poems that make sense and hates any mention of unicorns. She also writes and sometimes slams, but mostly reads in the open mike and supports me while I slam and lose and slam again and lose again...sometimes winning the crowd or feeling like I won because I did myself and my poems justice, but in points losing. She is the one that reminds me that there is more than one way to win. The slam is such a weird obsession for which I have no legitimate explanation other than that it combines two major parts of my nature, my need to express myself creatively and my irrational need to be the best at something.

So there I was in the audience as Roberto Ascalon announced the slammers. "Take a look. These are the top poets in Seattle," he said and I was overwhelmed with a deep desire to be on that stage...to be the best. So the analytical part of me kicked in and I watched each performance carefully looking for commonalities and differences. What makes a champion? What makes someone the best? Is it Danny Sherrards ability to cram way too many words into one phrase before being forced to take that sharp intake of breath, or Tara Harding's frantic gesticulating and liberal use of swear words? Or is it just that cadence, that flow of one word to the next in a unique sequence that evokes an image or a feeling, makes a statement, asks a question or just moves you? I am intrigued...and was pretty stoked to see some amazing poetry. There were two dirty rounds and then a final 3. My favorites, as usual didn't quite match the judges. Angela Dy rocked my world on poem 2 especially....also I thought Tara Harding was poorly scored considering her performance.

In the end Matt Gaino took first followed by Wombly and Danny Sherrard. The three of them are joined by Karen Phinneyfrock-who was fabulous (Oh Canada...) to form Seattle's 2008 slam team. I wish them luck.

Peace and Happiness Homework

Recently I have started attending Shoshana's church. I call it that, but it's not exactly an accurate description, as it is an interfaith worship space that honors and draws from not only the Christian tradition, but all the main, mostly monotheistic, faiths...Judaism, Islam, Buddhism...and what have you. I am still not quite what you would call a regular....my schedule and moods are what they are...but I am making an effort to go more frequently.

So early last Sunday, Shoshana and I made the pilgrimage across town. We got there just early enough to do a little meditation which for me and my monkey mind meant about 5 minutes of actual meditation and 20 minutes of jotting down thoughts in my notebook. Then there was music. The choir of lights performed and they were pretty fabulous and instead of our regular (priest? pastor? lecturer?) spiritual leader, we had a special guest...the head of all the churches. I forget her name, but she was good and interesting.

She gave us a bit of homework, which I have been working on all week...it's called a happiness exercise. We are supposed to envision a quarter of the world then fill it up with blessings of peace and happiness and then the next quarter and then the next until we have sent out well wishes to the entire earth. I found this to feel very intangible and I felt really insincere doing it, so I decided I was going to try a different approach. All week, from the time I get up in the morning, I have been mentally sending out peace and happiness vibes towards everyone I encounter. I get up hella early, then I catch a bus which drops me off about 20 minutes (walking-5 by bus) away from my job. I like the walk. I use that time to say my prayers, memorize my poetry, or just listen to my ipod.

So this week starting from when I stepped out of my door I silently wished people happiness. Sometimes I would add in peace or that they have a good day...just to change it up a little, but you get the idea. These well wish wishes extended from people just walking by to those driving by, then gradually this extended out to well wishing everyone in the stores I was passing or in the buses or those people who travel these same streets during the day. I have wished all of Seattle peace and happiness...first Seattle, then maybe the world.

What I have discovered is that it is very difficult to wish someone happiness and joy from a sincere space without smiling, so I have spent a lot more time smiling this week. Also, I like to look at people as I am wishing them well, which accidentally has resulted in more interactions with strangers than I am comfortable with. I intentionally build a barrier when I am out in public because I have a bit of weird people karma. I don't like to make eye contact if I can help it. I don't know what it is that people see in me, but if I walk around unguarded I attract a lot of cling-ons. Some people just want to chat, which is okay, though I am not always in the mood to chat, others seem to want something from me. I have had some creepy experiences. Though this week, with the exception of one mentally ill person and one homeless man that reeked of piss and stale alcohol, my interactions have been mostly positive. One of the guys I see on the bus every morning, and have seen on the bus every morning for months, greets me with a smile and tells me to have a good day when I get off...he never did that before. I have to wonder if he isn't responding unconsciously to me to day the same. It seems funny to me that I have disable my defenses to wish blessings on people, but I suppose it makes sense that I would have to be open to be connected. Hmmm. More discomfort.

Sometime somewhere I got it in my head that it would be easier to be a better person, that one could be a good person and not necessarily have to act on it, but the older I get the more I see that you are what you do and how you feel. You must respond accordingly. And that can get uncomfortable. As the day goes on, I become forgetful, then as I catch myself having negative thoughts towards people. I remember that I am trying to send out happiness, and it puts me back in a better frame of mind. It doesn't always work. Sometimes the people in question have irritated me so much that I find myself qualifying the happiness wish with internal comments like: "I hope you have a good day even though you're an asshole." "May God grant you happiness and the ability to use a turning signal before you kill six people with your stupidity." But hey, I'm working on it....and I guess that's got to count for something.

2007 Poems

I was rolling through a file of some of the poems I wrote last winter, just to put different words in mouth and I came across some cool stuff including a poem for Carl Rux. I saw him perform "The No Black Man Show" last year and he was phenomenal. He combined music and spoken word and what I thought was especially cool was that he deliberately used the page. In slam, the best slammers I have seen so far have one thing in common, they memorize and recite from memory....so I have been shoving my poetry back in my head, which seems counter intuitive as I am constantly working to pull it out. I realize more and more that I am much more writer than performer, which is not to say I don't enjoy a little acting. Theatrics can be fun, but when it comes down to it, I am about all about the page and it was really cool to see this amazing spoken word artist and his ensemble do the page as well. Here is an excerpt from the poem I wrote after watching him...it's still kind of unfinished and another two poems I rediscovered. It's funny to feel how different my voice is in my current stuff from my previous work.

To The No Black Man

your story and my story intertwined
my muse
you are to me
Sixo’s 30 mile woman
but instead of putting the
pieces of me together
you help me to do it myself
when I hear
your words
my words return to me
tumble to the page
the complete thoughts
trapped in the brokeness
of my fragmented mind
congeal
the devisiveness of individuality
born of a
black woman
living is the world born of a black woman
as the only daughter
born to a
black woman
as the only legacy of
a black woman
it is always
the WHITE (black) man show

Letters to God

In the stillness
i know your name
things forgotten
time left behind
incense and fresh polished pews
rough hewn stone floors
the quiet
of a garden courtyard
ripe with spoiled flowers
over perfumed petal
white and pink silk
adrift in your breeze
I celebrated you gladly
lifted voice and
lips to chalice
drank you…
In the stillness
i still know your names
know the part of me
that can’t
won’t let you go

A Night With Medusa

Pompei at dusk
in the cool of
gilded shadows
dark hues
of nights
drums light the air
On the road,
unspoiled, still unsoiled
by light or time
or things unsaid
before our journey
begins
you take my hand
not knowing that I won’t be led
you take my heart
not knowing that nothing is ever free
you mistake stillness
for submission
and when you turn
to see me
the curve of me
the curl of my lips
the span of my hips
the snakes of my hair
the dark of my stare
look carefully
and you can see
the ruins of your wasted heart
a jeweled map
into the deeper soul
of someone as yet unconquered
If you listened closely
you will hear
the pounding in me
drums like a call to prayer
you will submit to me
wade into my fire
surrender to this desire
So deep
I’ll let you
seep into me
through the fault lines of
my earthen heart
then
I’ll shake you apart
Shatter you
piece
by
piece
everything you every thought you might be
constructs of identity
no longer holding meaning
when you’ve come undone
when the end has come
in my flame is your peace
so surrender
surrender
Surrender
render your flesh unto me
ease into this fire
surrender to this desire
knowing I will consume you
monsoon you
my black and blue currents
swirl through you
Strip you to bone, ash
remnants of anything
you ever thought you had

The Great Happiness Space: Tales of an Osaka Love Thief

I guess given that the weather is so finicky that this is a great time for movie watching. I just watched this documentary called the Great Happiness Space: Tales of an Osaka Love Thief which follows around Issei, the number 1 host at a host bar in Osaka.

During the first of the two years I lived in Japan, Osaka became my second home. It was the easiest city to get to from my tiny farming town, and I was fortunate enough to make some fabulous friends there. It became my weekend sanctuary, my little American colony, where I could speak in English, eat cinnabons at Universal City, salsa dance at Balihai, or watch Africans impersonate New Yorkers while selling Sean Jean and FUBU gear in Americamura. I really got to know it well, not just the touristy parts either, I walked the city day and night, getting lost, getting found, having adventures, marveling at the sheer amount of electricity needed to keep all those signs aglow.


I even managed to go to a hostess bar, which was kind of an accident. The beautiful Shrilankan I was dating at the time was friends with an Osaka native with a penchant for hostesses, so when he came to visit me (he was living in Tokyo at the time) we ended up meeting up with his friend at his favorite spot. It's embarrassing, given that these are establishments synonymous with the exploitation of women, but I was kind of excited to get a chance to go. I wanted to see what it was like. I had imagined it to be a seedy tavern...more like a strip club than a bar, but in terms of looks, it was like any other bar...there was mood lighting and nice furniture...the only difference is that we were assigned a hostess, actually two, who were a combination of waitresses that never left and entertainment. A hostess gets paid to flirt and chat with you. Though I am sure there are some under the table agreements where you can get more for your money, the basic premise is just like going on a paid date.


As per usual, the mere sight of my brown skin caused a stir. All the hostesses gathered around me. My date's friend joked that he would always bring me back just to get all the free attention. I ordered a rum a coke, but they were out of Bacardi, so someone actually went to a store to buy it for me. In the meantime I was treated like a princess, all the hostesses wanted to touch my hair and skin...they were so nice about it that I didn't mind...and then they asked me if I could sing. It just so happens I am the karaoke queen, so I sang and they got out tambourines and jammed with me. It was loads of fun and probably ridiculously expensive, but I never saw the bill.


What I never realized is that there are also host bars with Japanese men as hosts. They aren't exactly prostitutes either. Well.....they could be...but they try to avoid sleeping with their clients because it keeps them coming back. They say they deal in fantasy...the illusion of love. This film was a fascinating look into a world I walked past a million times, but never really ventured into over the course of my two year stint.


It was both really sad to see all these women with painfully low self esteem spending THOUSANDS of dollars (tens of thousands of yen) just to get some flirtation and compliments from these guys and also really fascinating to see what their lives are like: both the hosts and the women who are seemingly addicting to visiting the hosts. Some of the women had even become prostitutes in order to support this insane cycle...and what is even more crazy about that is that they often make way less than the male hosts do, even though the physical demands on the men are much less. It was creepy, but definitely interesting and thought provoking.

Afraid to know me-rejj ©

I was just doing some revisions on this season of poems and I think I'm done with this one...as slammed during slam 4...well at least for now. I don't know that I am ever really finished, but here it is.

You ask me why I’m so angry?
Why we can’t discuss this
quietly, politely, over cookies and tea
or have a nice public discourse
in a “safe space”
where you can sing kumbaya
and have your little Q and A
ask me to talk about racism today
first I prove to you its real,
then you get to decide
how I’m SUPPOSED to feel
and put a volume control on how loud
I can raise my voice.
Well the rumor is
America is all about freedom of choice,
so I’m saying NO.
No, I’m saying fuck you
God bless Barak for his patience,
but as for me I’m through.

You see, America is never my safe space
You say turn the other cheek
but I only have one face
one heart
one mind
one body
one spirit
divided into this double consciousness
that allows me to know you intimately
Wheras you never catch onto my complexity
You can’t “help” me
and I could help you,
but we all know how Thanksgiving ended
Perhaps some gifts are best left ungiven
and that’s how it feels
like I am the greatest gift never offered
never taken
my spirit of unity
the dream cyclically deferred
potential continuously ignored
abhorred


You claim you wanna know me,
but only in February
FUCK your 28 days
29 in a leap year
You say you wanna know me,
but I only smell your fear
the same thing they smelled
Right before the genocide
or the homicide
when a cop decides
a black man armed with a pen
should be shot 40 times

Save the hallmark moment
I’ve heard all about King’s dream
but the reality
is a lack of humanity
coupled with injustice
that kills any chance of racial harmony
Its 2008
Why do nooses STILL swing from southern trees?

You say I have no right to be angry
When in lew of reparations
you demand
that I concede my history
pretend your victory didn’t involve destroying me
so you can sleep guilt free

Or if it gets too hard, just kill me again
then split me open
from nape to navel
assuming you can learn everything you need to know about me
from the autopsy
white latex hands
probing from the inside
you take what isn’t given
ask the dead for the forgiveness
for fear you won’t get it from the living

You split me open
to never know me
to unmake the memories
of everything you say never happened…
to see the shape of my guts
the soft fleshy pinks
of the parts of us that look the same,
don’t worry, we’re not the same.
The difference
was never our physiology,
but rather the lives we choose to lead

I dare to seek my answers among the living
split loaves of bread
in communion with those among me
who would share
their humanity

Split my corpse,
but you can never split my soul
into two neat halves,
a pomegranate
all the bits of me
parceled in tiny crimson seeds
to be fished out with a spoon
and displayed in a glass bowl.

No. It’s just not that easy
To know me,
is to know
and engage with the reality of
the whole and living being.

BARACKY: The Movie

Okay, It's Monday and I am just not that technologically advanced to figure out how to embed this video into my blog right now, but might I suggest...if you are looking for a laugh....check this out. Thanks Mom, it was a nice way to start the day.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RyhIBXNfqMA