hemas/gemas

con lagrimas hachas y gritos de trueno

hemos horadado la soledad inmovil

y descendido a encontrarnos abajo

en pura tiniebla gris

Capas del Cielo / Capas de Ti

Como te vas a marcar el paso del tiempo, compa?
por el calendario?-Existen varios
por la fecha de nacimiento?-Todo es chance, y el reloj se equivoca
Aun las estaciones nos enganen, con inviernos calurosos y veranos friolentos en Antarctica…

Entonc te pregunto-
Como nos vamos a marcar el paso del tiempo?
Al cortar el arbol, se revelan sus anillos,
su piel, cada dia el viento y el fuego se lo batio,
hasta que irradio una capa nueva, y el parte se junto con el entero.
y cuando la fruta se brote de la semilla, sabemos entonces que el tiempo ha pasado
que el crecimiento se dio vida, que el alimento no sea lejo’

En tu dia, mi compa, que has cosechado tu?

lagrimas, amistades
un poema, un amor
- sera que aprendiste convivir con el dolor?
Sera tu corazon mas fuerte?
Lo has amasado suficiente para sea mas dulce y resiliente?

Hoy, que marques el tiempo por latidos ansiosos por la verdad
que la mano de tu reloj se anima por la persistencia , y no por la maldad.

Hoy, que cumples un ciclo de aprendizaje, y abres un nuevo
no porque te dice el calendario, pero porque busques otra vez al renacimiento!

El Apice

al àpice de raìces enredadas estoy

y de la estirpe humana como tù soy yo,

Nuestros cuerpos cifrados son, de nietos todavìa no nacidos

la boca de eva y adàn

y la faz del primer hombre que buscò alimento

para que nacieramos.

del àpice de las raices vivas me volvi

A construir una fènix ofrenda piràmide a Dios

frotarme ampollas nuevas intentarè

para que se rescucitaran los àtomos de siempre

Dia y noche intento descifrar los codigos de mi sangre

buscando en mis manos la fe y las ampollas de los que construyeron Teotihuacàn:

mis huesos, glifos de mèdula de un luchador rendido

que en el fùnebre crepùsculo de su entierro

habìa una luz trèmula de mi presente

la chispa de la luz de nuestro giro incesante

por el eje eterno.

(Y sigamos en busqueda del pasado y del advenimiento.)

tha Modern Life

This is what I will be doing, come Monday December 8, 2008, for 8 hours a day, 40 hours a week.

This is like telling a man in prison, that if he turns his bed on it's side, he can use it to do pull ups, so don't worry about not being able to go for a run. Though come to think of it, even prisons have gyms.

On Monday I will become an industrialized worker, who performs only 1 task in a system of tasks, rather than being a holistic contributor to all aspects of the goals of my Agency.

I watched a movie last night whose main character was from Greenland, she had grown up in the vast expanses of snow and landscape--her idea of Hell was to be enclosed. I thought about quitting the job I have not yet started. I decided to hold out and see how it actually feels.

Last night I also met someone who has a similar 40-hours-a-week-in-front-of-the-computer job. She said that the first week, her eyes were constantly bloodshot, and every hour her body felt so restless. Now, her eyes have adjusted, and she will sit for 6 hours without even noticing that her rear has gone numb. She's gained 10 pounds. I thought about quitting the job I have not yet started. I decided to hold out and see how it actually feels. Though, I cOuld just brainwash my body through constant torture until it believes this sedentariness is natural, just so I can continue to earn $16 an hour.

Last week, I started to train Capoeira again--the second class, we were in a yoga studio and had to train without shoes, by the end of the hour both my feet had formed huge blood blisters on the bottom from the constant sweeping and pounding. I called my mom, who suggested I wear some special sock-that-isnt-a-sock-----------------------------------but I refuse. If I protect my foot, then it will never go through the toughening process. Ok Mel, but it's going to be painful.
But this pain will lead to strength, if I am ever in a street fight in Rio I'll be able to kick their ass with my capoeira moves without running home to look for my shoes :)



I think about quitting my job. I decide to go ahead with both 40 hours a week of sitting, and 3-5 hours a week of movement........................my life on Monday will become polarized........there ain't shit I can do about it............................is this coming to face with reality???........being ungrateful for a chance to make money in this economy???......................giving up on tha dream (I WON'T GIVE UP! i will print on the weekends.)............?????...............no se. I feel as discombobulated about it all as I do about modernity. I think about people who have to do hard labor over and over, every day, and shit, they aren't making $16 an hour, nor are they going to get an HMO. I get selfish again and think pessimistically that it's going to be like taking an 8 hour flight every day, but at 6 pm i'll still be in rural southern California. Ya, no more, discombobulated. The only thing I know is that come Monday, at 9 a.m, I'll be there.

Arte

Nieta a Abuela: Viste el libro del arte de mi profesor, Malaquias?

Abuela a Nieta: Si. El es muy...radical...?
(Abuela comienza "radical" con el tono de una declaracion...tiene dudas y se acuerda con quien esta hablando entonces lo termina mas con tono de pregunta)

Nieta a Abuela: O sea, El no permite k nos olvidamos de las cosas k pasan en el mundo.
(Nieta comienza con tono de declaracion...no quiere hacerla a la abuela sentir mal entonces lo termina mas con tono de pregunta)

Abuela a Nieta: (un poco defensiva) Pues, EL escoge lo ke el creE ke es importante no olvidar.

Nieta a Abuela (senalando a una obra de arte en la pared, de unas naranjas): Asi como este artista escogio recordarnos de las naranjas, mientras gente moria...

The First Family of the United States of America!!!

Nov 4

Those of us in our early-mid twenties probably remember the Clinton years, the ends of which were tainted by the Lewinsky debaucle as a (looking back) silly segway into the BUSH ADMINISTRATION years. So, for all of my waking political life I have lived with a combination of love & loathing for the people and ideas of people of this country as the political scene has become more and more polarized. I have been at once aghast at the spiritual depravedness of our "Leader", while at the same time KNOWing that this system is sick and although it still plays a role in the organizing of human affairs, that at some point we will hear its death rattle and I don't know if I will be alive for that or not. I have wavered between believing this system will have to completely disintegrate to give way to something new, and hoping that change will happen so organically that we don't have to see complete destruction before the base for a new world system is built.

Since Bush has been president, I have lived abroad, grown my hair out, gone to University, eaten about 1,000+ burritos, learned to silkscreen, experienced loss, experienced GENDER, experienced RACE, been blessed with reggae en espanol, had my first job, gone on pilgrimage, been intermittently broke, gotten a tattoo, learned to do a headstand---the list goes on for all of us--I have practiced being non-partisan while partisan politics has polarized so completely that it is hard for me to believe that any human being with love and understanding in their heart could actually be vague about who to vote for in this election, even though this election is taking place in a system too beaurocratic and weighed down for it to possibly exist into the 2100's.

I have been excited by this election year, but have mostly maintained aloof for fear that to become attached to THE CANDIDATE would 1. Go against the Baha'i law to maintain non-partisanship and non-involvement in partisan politics 2. Allow to grow in me a hate and disbelief at LA VICE CANDIDATA, which would consume me and I would suffocate to death 3. Allow to grow in me a Faith in politics when at a higher level it has been said "Hadst Thou spent all the riches of the earth, Thou couldst not have united their hearts; but God hath united them!" (Qu'ran 8:64) - Knowing that true power comes from unity of vision, and that only through unity of vision and education can true change be made through the true grassroots-the hearts of men manifesting spiritual capacities.

Yet despite all this, I have for the first time felt what it may have felt like during the time of the Civil Rights movement. We can look back at the efforts that were made, at the changes that took place, and say that on the one hand, HUGE changes and shifts in consciousness and the law were made. On the other hand, we could look back and lament at the immense human effort and sacrifice that had to be made in order to go towards a goal (such as justice, equality, human rights, nobility of all Men) that should never have been so far from our sights in the first place.
I have thought at times how exciting it would have been to be a part of the civil rights movement, at the same time I have looked at where we are currently and felt that it was a blip in the shift of human consciousness. Until today I have viewed our future Presidentship, even the best-case-scenario one, in this way: Something that could be great, while at the same time knowing that one person is "not the final answer". I thought this way until this morning when I WOKE UP in a stupor, mumbling prayers, realizing it was Nov. 4, having it dawn on me that by the end of the day my 8 long years of the BUSH ADMINISTRATION could come to an END and not only in a vague way but with a new President who I could listen to speak, be inspired by, actually have some sort of confidence IN. It was then that I realized that for my adult life, walking down a street and seeing posters of the President with Devil horns, or (my unfavorite & favorite) as a doll with red eyes making love to a RAT (true story) has been NORmAL-- The love and nostalgia some generations have for J.F Kennedy has remained a mystery to me. Until now-Today. It could be only today that I feel this secular hope---I hope it will be for the next 4-8 years.

Last night on Tavis Smiley, one of the (white) men he was speaking to was saying that really if we look at the fact that slavery was abolished only 200 or so years ago, this is only an eyelash in the trajectory of history, and that it is amazing that we could be electing a black president on today, look how far we have come. At the same time, I was thinking, hell, some of the mildly affecting experiences I've had with race in my 25 YEARS has been hard. So I don't really think it's fair say that 200 years of psychological, physical, emotional, political, spiritual oppression for millions of people has been or felt like "an eyelash in time" for those EXPERIENCING it.

I could go on but mostly I wanted to share what I was reading this morning, something for keeping our eyes on the horizon of true change-that which takes place in our hearts, in the individual, and which has the potential to spread to our families, communities, and world:

"How is it possible for men to fight from morning until evening, killing each other, shedding the blood of their fellow-men: And for what object? To gain possession of a part of the earth! Even the animals, when they fight, have an immediate and more reasonable cause for their attacks! How terrible it is that men, who are of the higher kingdom, can descend to slaying and bringing misery to their fellow-beings, for the possession of a tract of land!

The highest of created beings fighting to obtain the lowest form of matter, earth! Land belongs not to one people, but to all people. This earth is not man's home, but his tomb. It is for their tombs these men are fighting. There is nothing so horrible in this world as the tomb, the abode of the decaying bodies of men.

However great the conqueror, however many countries he may reduce to slavery, he is unable to retain any part of these devastated lands but one tiny portion -- his tomb! If more land is required for the improvement of the condition of the people, for the spread of civilization (for the substitution of just laws for brutal customs) -- surely it would be possible to acquire peaceably the necessary extension of territory.

But war is made for the satisfaction of men's ambition; for the sake of worldly gain to the few, terrible misery is brought to numberless homes, breaking the hearts of hundreds of men and women!

How many widows mourn their husbands, how many stories of savage cruelty do we hear! How many little orphaned children are crying for their dead fathers, how many women are weeping for their slain sons!

There is nothing so heart-breaking and terrible as an outburst of human savagery!

I charge you all that each one of you concentrate all the thoughts of your heart on love and unity. When a thought of war comes, oppose it by a stronger thought of peace. A thought of hatred must be destroyed by a more powerful thought of love. Thoughts of war bring destruction to all harmony, well-being, restfulness and content.

Thoughts of love are constructive of brotherhood, peace, friendship, and happiness.

When soldiers of the world draw their swords to kill, soldiers of God clasp each other's hands! So may all the savagery of man disappear by the Mercy of God, working through the pure in heart and the sincere of soul. Do not think the peace of the world an ideal impossible to attain!

Nothing is impossible to the Divine Benevolence of God.

If you desire with all your heart, friendship with every race on earth, your thought, spiritual and positive, will spread; it will become the desire of others, growing stronger and stronger, until it reaches the minds of all men.

Do not despair! Work steadily. Sincerity and love will conquer hate. How many seemingly impossible events are coming to pass in these days! Set your faces steadily towards the Light of the World. Show love to all; 'Love is the breath of the Holy Spirit in the heart of Man'. Take courage! God never forsakes His children who strive and work and pray! Let your hearts be filled with the strenuous desire that tranquillity and harmony may encircle all this warring world. So will success crown your efforts, and with the universal brotherhood will come the Kingdom of God in peace and goodwill.

(Abdu'l-Baha, Paris Talks, p. 28)

La hoja

Estaba caminando, pensando en los ultimos dias porque fui a Los Angeles y vi mucha gente, pensaba k seguro estos dias me dieron algo para explorar con palabras...pero sabia tambien k tendrian k "percolate" un poco mas, tendria k permitirlas pasar por todas partes de mi mente, digerirlas para darles vida,
anyways, cuando pensaba esto, casi al fin de mi caminata, vi esta hoja en la calle.
Tenia todos los colores, tenia primavera, verano y otonio todas juntas- no tenia colores muy FUERTES - los k usualmente me llamen la atencion--pero me parecia mas linda por tener sus colores mas humildes - una belleza k cuesto encontrar, una belleza k no gritaba.
me parece k cuando la mente esta muy agitada, busque las cosas mas tranquilas

y justo cuando la agarre, comenzo a tocar esta cancion de Ursula Rucker en mi ipod:
(*disculpa, es la unica copia k encontre, alguien ha puesto sus propias fotos)

y en vez de seguir caminando con mis pensamientos en gira, me sente, disfrute de la vista de South Mountain iluminado por el sol del atardecer, de las plantas a mi alrededor, de los colores de la hojita en mi mano

In a Time of War

This morning I woke up and rolled over in the comfort of my bed, in a time of war, to check my email.

Grex had sent me a video, in a time of war, of Hector Buitrago's "Damaquiel".

Damaquiel is a beautiful track, bodies moving, sending salutations, in a time of war, in a place of war, colors and patterns and hips and trees and guitars and resilience.

An Afro-Colombian man traverses the city and the the countryside, he dancingly shuffles, floats just above the surface of the earth, in a time of war, and his feeling is one of praise, he sings it, he shares it, his arms wave about to disperse it into the air, to bring it out in my own body moving in my room as the soundwaves hit my ears.

Here, in my room, i'm surrounded by my beautiful things, in a time of war, i'm surrounded by my purple and yellow dried corn wombs, watercolor paintings from my grandmother, painted wooden boxes, carved seed jewelry, a warm hoodie, my holy books, I'm going to get up now and make a pot of coffee in the kitchen.

I'm by myself with a cup of coffee at the round wooden kitchen table- I stir in powdered creamer, in a time of war, and the china bowl my grandfather bought in Germany in 1943, i open it up and scoop myself a heaping spoonful of sugar.

I think about my Grandma Kubota sharing a cup of green tea and some tuna sandwiches, in a time of war, last week with me and my Grandmother King in her green carpeted dining room with the green linen tablecloth.

I'm remembering, as the bread pops out of the toaster and I butter it, in a time of war, what my Grandma shared.

My Grandmother's class would take Friday's off, in a time of war, to go work in the sugar cane fields- all the young men were gone, they would carry their tin cups with them on their belts to get a drink of water out in the fields, in the humid Hawaii heat.

My Grandmother was required to wear a gas mas strapped around her tiny shoulder, in a time of war, just in case.

When the sun had set, the entire town had to pull their shades down and turn off the lights, so they wouldn't be easy targets, in a time of war, they even had to unscrew the light bulb in the refrigerator.

That little girl wearing the gas mask strapped around her thin shoulders, sitting in the back of the truck with her tin cup on her belt, jostling along dusty back roads, in a time of war, through sugar cane plants with razor sharp leaves 3 times taller than her on either side- there was a song in her head.

"There'll be bluebirds over...the white cliffs of Dover...Tomorrow...Just you wait and see...there'll be joy and laughter, and peace ever after...Tomorrow...when the world is free..."

I click on the link to watch Buitrago's "Damaquiel" once again, to feel the joy in the voice, to watch the heart glow in his hands, to move a little in my seat at the kitchen table, in a time of war, to think about what my Grandma shared about the white cliffs of Dover, how it gave her hope, how when they dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima, she didn't think about the cancer to follow, about how shadows of children playing outside were burned onto stone walls as bodies evaporated into an acrid smoke- all she remembers feeling was the relief that war, WAR was over... it was over!... WAR was over.

I marvel at music's contribution to the resilience of MAN, in times of war.

The Greatest Oppression

I finished reading Native Son, by Richard Wright, today.

Although the ideas and people I lived in through his words for the past two days are still near enough for my thoughts to turn to and explore further, it makes me sad because now that I have read his three major works, I don't know where to turn to satiate this desire to read.

Anyways, rather than go into how much Richard Wright was a fighter, seeker, artist, genius who kept it real and most of all was constantly, brutally honest in his explorations, and uncannily perceptive in his observations of MAN (that large M Man that includes ALL.OF.HUMANITIES Universal Emotions, Desires, Motives, Yearnings) ... (I just highly highly highly recommend reading his works, esp Black Boy & The Outsider) I just wanted to share a line from Native Son that most struck me:

"Remember that men can starve from a lack of self-realization as much as they can from a lack of bread!"

I kept pairing that line in my head with this line from Baha'u'llah, where in the Kitab-I-Iqan (Book of Certitude) he writes:

"What "oppression" is more grievous than that a soul seeking the truth, and wishing to attain unto the knowledge of God, should know not where to go for it and from whom to seek it?"

Language & Power, or: Abandoned in Mexico!

It's funny the thoughts that pop into your head in moments of meditation. Usually its simple, like remembering to write "soy milk" onto my grocery list for the next day. Or as random as realizing, as I did a few days ago, that the color-scheme for the painting I just finished was the imagery and color scheme from my "Odyssey of the Mind" club t-shirt from 6th grade!!!

Tonight somehow in my meditation (obviously not over anything super important- this usually happens in the transition from prayer to meditation when I'm just looking for simplicity and clearing my mind, just before the real discoveries) I thought about how important language is, how language is power. I remembered a time in 2006 when I was with my family in the seaside/country town of Santa Cruz, Nayarit, Mexico, and we were borrowing our friend's big white truck. We used it to go between our little apartment and some other homes, and when my parents weren't with us, I got to be the driver! The only reason I can see why I got to drive was because I spoke Spanish and my siblings didn't-the reason could have also been because I had traveled a lot in "Latin America" and this was the first time for my siblings... but in the end, most roads are the same, especially this road which was basically just one two-lane country highway curving through mango & jackfruit fields. So basically, although my sister is older than me and my brother is male, my language skills trumped both seniority and gender for the drivers seat! For the week we were there in Mexico, I got to drive a huge white Chevy everywhere.

When I think about that truck it just makes me smile. I remember this one day when my sister, Meredith, and my brother Adam, and I were going to the "Cocodrilario". Its a place where you go on a boat with a guide, they take you through this maze of rivers in a marsh. There are tons of mangrove trees, you see the wildlife out there like storks, turtles, fish. There are even some little huts on stilts that were built for some horror flick called "Cabeza de Vaca" (I don't think it ever made it to the big screen)...At the far end of the marsh, there is the "Cocodrilario" where there are humongous crocodiles in cages; little babies in mini pools, you can buy ice creams there, there are also javelina's & deer...

Anyways, we had met some people volunteering at an organic farm for the summer. This American couple had a beautiful house up on a hill, and they had an organic farm that was manned all by volunteers, usually from the states. We had met two of the girls (in their mid-twenties or so) at our American friend's house, and invited them to come to the cocodrilario with us that Saturday. They said they would come down the hill from the house, and meet us on the side of the road. From there it was a 25 minute drive to our destination.

My sister, brother and I got into the big old Chevy, which just had one bench seat in the front, and a camper top on the back, and headed out to pick up the girls. I was definitely feeling smug about driving in Mexico, even if it was just a normal road like any other, not like driving a Taxi in Mexico City or a Jeep through the Andes or anything like that! But the fact that we were IN Mexico made it exciting. We decided that Mere and Adam would hop in the back of the truck to let the two girls sit in the front with me when we picked them up. We saw them waiting at the side of the road, Mere and Adam hopped out, the girls hopped in, and we took off!

I was so into driving that truck. I felt powerful and independent. I never thought twice that some things were amiss. The two girls and I talked our heads off on the way to the Cocodrilario. In order to get there, you had to make a quick turn off onto a small side street, and we missed it.

That's ok, we would just go a little while up the road until it got wider, and turn around. We were chill and in no rush, so we continued a little down the road for about 10 more minutes until I saw a wide shoulder. I pulled off, then put my right hand behind the passenger seat, and turned to look out the back window to back up, and gasped.

My sister and brother had completely disappeared!!!

The two girls and I looked into the truck bed through the little back window in disbelief. My first thought was that my siblings had turned themselves invisible! This was crazy and awesome and I was jealous! But it slowly dawned on the three of us that ....they weren't likely wearing invisible cloaks... they couldn't have fallen out...or been abducted by aliens as we drove...so....they must have never gotten in, 30 minutes back when we had done the seat change!!! I realized that I was so into driving that truck and picking up our new friends, that when my sis and bro jumped out of the front and the girls jumped in, I had immediately zoomed off up the highway! We almost died laughing, still in disbelief. I think we actually laughed the whole entire way back to find them.

It was such a ridiculous situation that I was partly sure that my siblings would think it was funny, but a bigger part of me knew they were going to be violently angry. My pride at getting to drive around in another country was definitely not going to stand any case they could now make against me... We stopped off and bought some fanta for them because hell, they must be getting thirsty by now under the humid Mexican sun, and backtracked about 20 minutes, finally spotting them walking up the side of the road, about a mile and a half from the place where I had left them....dusty.....sweaty.....there was a group of men around them, they were trying to get directions from them to the Cocodrilario. One of the men had worked in California for a few years and spoke pretty good English.

We pulled up and all of us looked at each other and just BUST out laughing! My sister was like "MEL! we hopped out of the truck, and I had my foot on the bumper of the truck to hoist myself in when you just TOOK OFF! At first Adi and I thought you were just doing a little joke, the truck slowed down (I guess I was looking to see if there were any cars coming), so we ran after you and then you just gunned it!!!!" A few hundred feet later I slowed down again and they thought I would turn around, but I was just going over a speed bump. "We watched you until you were out of sight, then we just turned, looked at each other, put our hands on each others shoulders, and screamed with laughter! We were like, Mel just abandoned us on the side of the road in Mexico!!!" We had a good laugh and I even had to consciously remind myself not to take off as they were loading into the back of the truck for the second (more like first) time. At least now they had a Fanta to cool them off! We at last made it to the Cocodrilario -
And this time I didn't even miss the exit!

Salsa

5 years ago I lived where I live now, in my Grandmother's house. At that time, my aunt and my Grandfather also lived here, but now its just my Grandmother and I. I spent 12-15 hours a day in the laundry room/studio, silkscreening. It was the first time I realized in my life that I didn't constantly 1. Think about boys 2. Think about food. I didn't even realize that I was alone other than my Grandparents and my aunt for 3 months! I had never felt loneliness then, so I was too naive to feel it.

Anyways there was a certain day where I went looking for a burrito. This town is totally Mexican so no sabia donde ir pero I just got in my car and drove around till I found one. It was really little and had a painting of a fish and the ocean on it. That burrito was hella good. I remember eating it outside, and afterwards I ate a fresh mango with cottage cheese on top. It's the only meal I remember from the summer. I must have been naive about more than loneliness, because I don't remember ever helping to buy groceries, contributing to the electric bill, or cleaning the bathroom...

Today I thought I'd try and find that Taqueria again. I remember that same summer I tried to go back and when I went it was closed, so in my mind it was one of those tricky Taquerias that is only open when it wants to be, and it appears in different places throughout town just to confuse people, but the burritos are so good that no one cares and they somehow keep their clientele. Anyways I found it and it was open. I parked my van on the street running in front of it, but a little bit back. I could see in and there was just one young mexicano eating in there. I did not want to walk in there and he looks at me and I can tell he is wondering why I am there and I speak spanish to order my food and I kind of want him to hear so that he thinks I am una china chilanga or something like that, and I mostly don't want him to hear because I'm embarrassed, what if he thinks WTF is this chinita trying to do? Is she stealing my culture? What right does she have! She speaks Spanish with an accent and we praise her but if I speak English with an accent people act like they dont understand me! She eats my food but she doesn't have to worry about labour, citizenship, la lejania de la familia!!! GET THE #^%! OUT OF THIS TAQUERIA!!!

I realize this is a good chance to practice being self possessed. At being alone without being defensive. I think about how what we put in our bodies can be socially constructed, I may not get this burrito because there is a single man inside that taquer---MEL! JUST BUY A BURRITO AND EAT IT. I go inside.

There is a t.v up on the wall with horse races on "Breeders Cup". The three of us watch the t.v in silence and wait. Finally a woman comes out from the back and brings some food to the guy in front of me, I step up to order, and what the heck I order in spanish. No tienen guacamole, ni birria--I feel like mixing it up so I get un burrito de barbacoa... La mujer brings it out to me a few minutes later, then goes back behind the counter and brings out some spicy red salsa and puts it on the table. I'm glad she did and I wonder if she thought about not bringing it out because maybe I wouldn't use it. I spoon it onto my burrito, the whole time wondering if that guy is watching me put it on, if I can legitimate myself with this salsa, if he approves, if he thinks I have a right to be there.

In the Penal Colony

Today at the Dollar Tree (where everything, yes EVERYTHING, is just $1!), I saw some books titled HOLY BIBLE, sticking out like bucked teeth from a cardboard box labeled INSPIRATIONAL.

(*Warning: Everything written after this first line may be perceived as "boring", but I wanted to push myself further and explore my resigned indignation at seeing a Holy Text shoved into an "inspirational" cardboard box for $1. Then when I sat down to write I found my notes taken from some post-war Jewish philosophers...Read ahead with caution)

This was a Holy text, but it would take a lot of convincing for me to have felt from those particular Bibles any AURA.

AURA is human spirit infused. Aura is what your mother’s cookies have, as compared to cookies bought at the store in a package. Aura is an actor on stage: you can see his sweat, you feel the air move as he strides across the scene, as compared to the appearance of an actor on TV, who in reality was filmed months ago and is now just a series of flickering lights.

Walter Benjamin was a philosopher in the early 1900’s who was concerned with the AURA and wrote about it. One famous essay of his is “Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”. In it, he discusses how the AURA of something is created by the fact that something is accessible to only a few people, and that special knowledge is required to interact with the object (Like a painting). I like to push this further and say AURA is created by the human effort put into it, and the spirit with which it is carried out.

With the advent of mechanical reproduction, the AURA vanished from things like paintings, once they were accessible to all. The actual content of the painting became more important than the fact that it WAS a painting, the interaction with that painting, the setting, etc. On the one hand this was helpful for freeing art from the clutches of the bourgeoisie, as something that could only be seen by the rich. Art could now be accessible for viewing to all. The Bible was freed from the clutches of the clergy by the printing press *(see below), which could now be accessed by the masses. On the other hand, with the loss of aura comes a loss of the sacred. With the accessibility of mechanical reproduction, we replace the search for aura with a search for “efficiency” and “survival”. And with everything now accessible and consumable without human labour, so our lives, emotions, thoughts, and bodies become accessible and consumable. We become more focused on the accessibility of something, than whether or not it feeds our souls.

Living in an age of mechanical reproduction, we come to see our own beings and our own bodies as machines, and believe that material fulfillment (food, water, $, home, etc) will be sufficient for our existence. If everyone could have food and shelter, we would all be fulfilled human beings! But it is not sufficient. The movie actor (who has performed for a camera, a machine, instead of for an immediate audience) attempts to make up for the impersonality of the cinema and absence of AURA by way of an intimately filmed sex scene. This is also not sufficient.

Humans have an innate need for AURA. The innate human desire for communion with AURA is most apparent in the ceaseless human search for closeness to other people --> nature --> and ultimately, God. Poetry, music, visual art, dance, song, communal song, storytelling, knitting, weaving, cooking- when these means are employed to bring oneself closer to others, to nature, or to God, AURA is engendered. When they aren’t, when they become mechanical means to an end, we end up with mantras that downpress our souls, Pop Top 20, tasteless food, meaningless sex, obesity, Fashion Fads, depression…

The AURA transmitted in our actions and infused into the objects of our everyday life, depend upon the spirit with which they are carried out. AURA must be cultivated and cared for, it will not generate itself.

In “Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, Benjamin wrote:

“The sight of immediate reality has become an orchid in the land of technology.”

It could be said that immediate reality is inescapable.

It could be said that we are always ourselves.

It could be said that we will always contain the human spirit, because we are human.

but,

How are we living in irreality?

How are we not ourselves?

How come that HOLY BIBLE was no orchid?

*The Gutenberg press was first assembled in Germany in 1439 (by Johannes Gutenberg, a goldsmith). Until then, the Chinese had already developed woodblock printing with moveable type. Although woodblock printing had come to Europe from China along with paper, it was not as suited to the Latin Alphabet. (Each Chinese character represents a word or idea, so alignment was not as important. Although choosing from 5,000 characters was probably a tedious task). Anyways, the Gutenberg press was developed out of these prior inventions and at a time when there was a rising demand in Europe for cheaper books, rather than expensive parchment paper books.

The Gutenberg Bibles were printed in the early 1450’s. It took Johannes a whole year to print 180 copies, each with 1282 pages, and each illuminated with illustrations by hand.

In 1987 a Japanese buyer purchased the Old Testament of the Gutenberg Bible for $5.4 million through Christies auction house.

Woman Alone: Experiment #1: The Movies

Woman Alone: Experiment #1

A few months ago I was talking to my friend Sami on the East coast, and somehow I brought up how I would be terrified and embarrassed to go out to see a movie by myself. “Mel,” she responds, “I go by myself all the time!”

Maybe that’s why she is a self-possessed and independent woman that I like to think of myself as. Or maybe she IS that, which allows her to go to the movies by herself without burning cheeks.

My cousin, also a young woman in her mid-twenties, recently went alone for the first time. It was a Sunday evening somewhere near UCLA – She went to see “The Duchess”, with Keira Knightley. When she walked into the theatre, there were previews playing but the entire place was empty. She was worried that all that electricity would be wasted only on HER. Then, another single woman walked in quietly, and another one after her as the movie began. They both looked like young professionals in their mid to late twenties. Maybe solo-movie going is not only for creeps and weirdos! thought my cousin, relieved. At one point one of the women picked up all her belongings and left – but apparently she was just going to the bathroom and didn’t want to leave her purse there unattended. When the movie ended, all three of them got up from their respective chairs and feigned busyness and un-aloneness, checking their cell-phones and texting. WE have lives, people who love us, we're not really alone!!!

I wanted to stimulate some writing and not become stagnated in my lived experiences, so I called up mi amiga Linsomar and she agreed to do at least ONE agreed upon alone-experience a month, and write about it-although apparently she had beat me to the movies a week ago! She too happened to go to a movie populated by solo-watchers. As she walked out she was surprised at how normal and nice looking the other people were, and wondered why the heck they were by themselves at the movies…

Before today, if I had somehow gone to a movie by myself (which I wouldn’t have), I would have walked to the theatre looking straight ahead and walking briskly with feigned purpose. I’d probably be sweating like crazy. I’d have my phone and check it while waiting in line, before entering the doors, and as I approached the ticket-taker, as though I was waiting for “my friend to call who was going to come meet me there”. I would’ve walked out doing the walking-by-groups-of-men-in-Latin-America & walking-in-the-mission-district-late-at-night thing with my eyes: Looking at everything around me to appear aware of my surroundings, but not actually making eye contact with anyone or anything. I probably would’ve had my hoodie pulled tight over my head like a safety blanket.

On the drive to the theatre, the fear had already dissipated from me. The fact that other friends and family of mine had done the same thing, our shared experience, had liberated me from my fear at feeling lonely or looking weird as I walked alone. (Though later, I realized that the process was probably made much easier because I was going to a theatre in downtown Ventura, where there is a diversity of people – my Asian monster that attracts attention didn’t walk with me tonight.)

I decided I would also see “The Duchess”, in part because nothing else looked good, in part because my cousin had gone to see that same movie by herself. I didn’t take my cell phone, or a bag. It was a fortuitous movie pick: beautiful cinematography, a story about a woman’s life that is controlled and manipulated even as she fights against it; all the themes from The Duchess set in 1700’s are still so relevant to the woman’s experience in this day that it was like watching my internal emotions and experiences put on a period-piece play (no pun intended!).

When it was over, I found a bookstore and bought a small book with lined pages. I even got a free pen out of the bookstore owners, walked to Taqueria Vallarta, ordered a burrito (much, much better than ordering at Subway) and wrote down some of the quietly and patiently gestating thoughts:

October 17

“Loneliness is the luxury of the loved.”

It (*being alone) became meditative. When I walked out of the theatre, I was resigned to the point of a pleasureful meditation, which I quickly challenged was savorable only due to the fact that I had a purpose and a co-partner in discovery-even if she was 100’s of miles away. I hadn’t arrived truly alone.

Many times in the past two years, I have been in similar situations- “aloneness” in a downtown on a Saturday night, though I’d never gone so far as to kick the loneliness eating away at my insides, nor overcome the anxious restlesness, to actually revel in it.

Tonight I almost didn’t want to sit down to write, for fear I would miss out on the silence where creative lines and observations swirled like a stew taking it’s time in the comfort of the pot.

I used to wander the night alone, frantically trying to conjure reasons for a made-up destination to legitimate my presence, observing the world with a desperate intentness, drawing although uninspired in order to validate my state of aloneness and give me a right to be out in public. I was compelled to walk quickly as though I had a purpose, although I had no purpose.

Now that I’m validated (“I’m researching aloneness! But who the hell cares! That shouldn’t even matter!”), I feel completely at ease with myself and need none of those things. I’m completely ok with appearing alone, because I know I’m not alone. My sisters, though far from me, accompany me in this experience. Ok. So I’m ok tonight with being alone, because I’m not alone. Or, because I’m not lonely. I am alone, after all.

Before, on nights like these, I judged others’ togetherness thinking –They all NEED someone else to make them feel ok- Weaklings! They have come out with others because they are afraid with being alone with themselves. (Not like me! I’m a strong independent woman who doesn’t need anyone else!…Oh gawd…I hope no one I kind of know sees my by myself…damn, why doesn’t anyone answer their cell!!!)

Tonight I feel at one with everything around me, without having to be either “of it” or “not of it”.

But then again, the loved aren’t lonely. They can be alone and they will not feel alone.

That’s why every human being wants to love and be loved-and when you know you are loved you can say Y QUE? to everything else-including criticism.

I don’t think about the potential judgement of others, of the fact that I’m walking and eating and going to the movies by myself tonight, because I don’t feel lonely.

Tonight I’m experientially learning Lonely vs. Alone.

I revise my initial line:

“Aloneness is the luxury of the Un-Lonely” (not as poetic or alliterative, but I think more true to what I learned tonight).

There’s probably 100’s of books, some famous poem, a cliché saying and a bumper sticker about this already, but would it really have mattered until I’d gone out and learnt it myself?

My Monster & me / Mi Monstruo y yo

My Monster,
I think he found me at age eight
having hatched out of taught cracks of uncertainty
he came to stand at the mirror with me
ethereal & globulous.

My Monster
his eyes were pulled tight at the ends
by little playground fingers
still brown underneath from the sand box
still sticky from halloween pop-rocks

CHI-NESE!

My monster
looks a lot like me at eight
ethereal & globulous & chi-nese
in jeanshorts and purple hi-top nikes
My monster
and me


Sometimes I don't walk alone. Many times I've gone to the grocery store with him cloudy all around me. It gets hard to see clearly and sometimes my eyes get watery when people notice he's with me. Anything anyone does, I think it's because of my monster. He's not a frightening monster, at times I feel attached to him, I don't know what it would be like to not have a monster. Other people may not even see him but I know they subconsciously react to him. It's not me they react to, it's him.

This morning my grandmother brought up what I'd shared with her about feeling like an "outsider" due to my Asianness. I think she was trying to question me to show that what I have expressed feeling doesn't really have any experiential backup, that My Monster is, like all monsters, a figment of my imagination. Had anyone actually ever toLD me something to make me feel bad about my Asianness? I shared with her the chant that my little cousin and Asian Betsy sang the other day "Chi-Nese, Ja-panese, Pe-kinese, Dir-ty knees!" pulling at the ends of their eyes. She didn't understand. I explained they know that chant because kids sing it to them on the playground. I explained they didn't like or understand it very much, although they knew it referred to them. I knew that same chant from childhood, it was nothing new or surprising to me. My grandmother, who is white, said she had never ever heard that taunt before. I think she was in a bit of disbelief. She asked whether it is still proper to refer to Asians as "Orientals". I shared what I knew about Orientalism, Mystification of Asia & The East in academia and the media, and token "appreciation without identification" as human beings. I was at once glad that she would ask about something that required open and honest conversation, and impatient at the thought that this was all new to her.

Later this evening I thought about it, and wrote:

"I can articulate satisfactorily how I feel , and my experiences with race. But when my Grandmother, whom I love, tries to repeat what she has heard back to me, to try and understand "my experience", "my plague", "my monster" (I'm putting those words into her mouth, that's what it feels like an interrogation of, how she views it, or thinks I view it)-it incenses me that she remembers our conversations and thinks to discuss it."

!!! Is it because those experiences aren't about MY asianness at ALL, but about ME experiencing Whiteness itself?!!!

It may be selfish of me, but sometimes I think that my sharing should lead to a discussion: not with me, but within one-self, or with ones white peers.

*p.s More on Monster to come

Tha University

"DE-COLONIZE my MIND,
but you don't teach us how to live

180 UNITS
but you can't teach us how to give."

Iztcuincle

soy tu iztcuincle
y con mis patas picaras
persigo tu corazon

Landscapes

because... a landscape is only beautiful in person.

when it becomes a memory,
its image is only a scribbled lovenote
whose immensity no one will ever comprehend

A LOS 23 ANOS...

a los 23 años yo vi,

desnudo,

el cielo.

la luz había caido debajo de sus pies

con su ropa sucia y arrugada

atrás del horizonte.

millones de diamantes

engarzados tiritaban

con la humedad de su respiro

y el vacío lleno

de su omnipresencia

como en la nieve queda el hueco

calido y solitario

de un lobo vagabundo…

la tierra soplaba

y yo en mi espalda

un bicho atrapado

la vi vestirse otra vez

rescatando lagrimas cometas

escondiendo dedo por dedo

su belleza cruda

con la llegada del sol

(En los Andes de Bolivia, 2006)

The Personal & The Political

EL PORTAVOZ

anoche se murio el portavoz del movimiento
tal vez por suicidio,
quizas por estar tomado-

La conciencia ya no sembraran
los granudos con gritos recios;
Ni jamas nos inspirara
el canto de poetas pericos.

Anoche en este momento,
con dedos tiernos y un cepillo antiguo
peine pelos negros y largos,
mis manos;
dos aves anamorados preparando su primer nido
a tu cabello liso tejieron,
acariciando...

y tu trensa humildemente brillaba
en nuestro silencio


From "Black Boy" by Richard Wright:
My mother opened the door and stared curiously at the pile of magazines that lay upon my pillow.
"You're not throwing away money buying those magazines, are you?" she asked.
"No. They were given to me."
She hobbled to the bed on her crippled legs and picked up a copy of the Masses that carried a lurid May Day cartoon. she adjusted her glasses and peered at it for a long time.
"My God in heaven," she breathed in horror.
"What's the matter, mama?"
"What is this?" she asked, extending the magazine to me, pointing to the cover. "What's wrong with that man?"

With my mother standing at my side, lending me her eyes, I stared at a cartoon drawn by a Communist artist; it was a figure of a worker clad in ragged overalls and holding aloft a red banner. The man's eyes bulged; his mouth gaped as wide as his face; his teeth showed; the muscles of his neck were like ropes. Following the man was a horde of nondescript men, women, and children, waving clubs, stones, and pitchforks.

"What are those people going to do?" my mother asked.
"I don't know," I hedged.
"Are these Communist magazines?"
"Yes."
"And do they want people to act like this?"
"Well..." I hesitated.

My mother's face showed disgust and moral loathing. She was a gentle woman. Her ideal was Christ upon the Cross. How could I tell her that the Communist party wanted her to march in the streets, chanting and singing?

"What do Communists think people are?" she asked.
"They don't quite mean what you see there," I said, fumbling with my words.
"Then what do they mean?"
"This is symbolic," I said.
"Then why don't they speak out what they mean?"
"Maybe they don't know how."
"Then why do they print this stuff?"
"They don't quite know how to appeal to people yet," I admitted, wondering whom I could convince of this if I could not convince my mother.

"That picture's enough to drive a body crazy," she said, dropping the magazine, turning to leave, then pausing at the door. "You're not getting mixed up with those people?"
"I'm just reading, mama," I dodged.

My mother left and I brooded upon the fact that I had not been able to meet her simple challenge. I looked again at the cover of the Masses and I know that the wild cartoon did not reflect the passions of the common people. I re-read the magazine and was convinced that much of the expression embodied what the artists thought would appeal to others, what they thought would gain recruits. They had a program, an ideal, but they had not yet found a language.

Here, then, was something that I could do, reveal, say. The Communists, I felt, had oversimplified the experience of those whom they sought to lead. In their efforts to recruit masses, they had missed the meaning of the lives of the masses, had conceived of people in too abstract a manner. I would make voyages, discoveries, explorations with words and try to put some of that meaning back...