Deconstructing Joy

As children in this country, we are trained to connect emotionally to ‘stuff.’ Stuff we can buy, stuff we don’t need, stuff other kids have, stuff on TV, stuff from the movies. Just stuff. It is a never-ending cycle of purchasing. It is capitalism. The machine has learned to sell to small, not quite developed people who don’t even have money. Commercials target our children and tell them they need the newest gadget or Disney toy to be happy and the same commercials tell parents that this is the key to the hearts of their beloveds. More and more our lives revolve around buying, shopping, wanting, desiring.

I write this on the day deemed ‘black Friday’- the day that kicks off the season of shopping, oh, scratch that, the season of giving. This is the day the stores and corporations hope to go ‘into the black’ as millions of people line up in the pre-dawn hours to rifle through bins, push the elderly aside and throw an elbow or two in order to buy that perfect dress for that oh so perfect sale price.

This was the day I spent perusing the Takashi Murakami exhibit at a local museum. I wasn’t sure what to expect or if I would even enjoy the work. What I read talked about his artistic roots in an ancient Japanese style linked to a post-modern technique mixed with hyper-sexual anime imagery layered over a political message highlighting the absurdity of over--consuming. All this done in a bright palate with bubbly images of Mr. DOB, a happy character akin to Mickey Mouse surrounded by lots of happy flowers.

Sounds interesting but how will it make me respond and connect? That is always the question I have for art. Will it draw me in and make me feel? Will it help me create new thoughts that had never been present before that moment?

Well, I must say that I nearly cried. The lines, shapes, colors, and googly eyes everywhere drew in me in and I was instantly taken with the saturated tones of bright kid-like hues. Murakami uses a style called “Super flat.” This style challenges the expectations of a three-dimensional image for a cartoon-like figure. Rather the smiling flowers and bubbly mouse-ish creatures sit firmly pegged against the canvas. They become simultaneously bold and flat. The angles begin to distort, the anime characters suddenly dissect into smaller pieces with an ear and an eye found in one corner while a smile and an ear settle in another. Some installations go even darker in spite of their rainbow tints where our hero, Mr. DOB has grown a mouth full of fangs dripping with a colored substance. This image is repeated on the same canvas and sliced and scattered as one might expect from surrealist art.

This is when I am struck by what has moved me from his art: Murakami has dissected joy. He has torn to shreds the kind, smiling creature with big happy eyes begging for us to buy pillows, shirts, key chains and stuffed animals of his likeness and has pieced him back together like a Frankenstein with too many eyes and too many teeth. I am frightened by the imminent attack from the wall. Murakami asks us to question our attachment to all things commercial and consumable. He takes what we have been told is joy and minces it into an unrecognizable form that seeks to gnaw away at the flesh and soul; he unmasks the truth of capitalism: profit over people, consumption over humanity.

Mushroom clouds like those of that oh so far away past in Hiroshima, Japan set against a series of monochromatic canvases look deep inside me with their multi-flower eyes. Fear, death and destruction paired with joy, peace and love. Which will ultimately take the highest position in our society? Will our child reach for the familiarity of a bloody-toothed Mr. DOB because he represents a false image of joy in spite of the deep seeded fear that his truth represents?

I nearly cried because I felt the truth in what the art was saying. It is a reminder that consuming for consumptions sake has ultimately create poison within us. Capitalism is not joy. Joy is kindness and thoughtful and sensitive to the needs of others. Joy is laughter and happiness but not at the expense of another’s human rights. Murakami’s images remind us that there is much more to reach for in this world than just our pocket books. What is sold as a substitute for happiness is just that and while life is to be enjoyed it should also subsist with conscious action and purpose.

i get rave reviews for being so strong, so centered, so brave.

i am lauded for knowing who i am and for my honesty.

but quite truthfully, being so sane in a world full of crazy will sure drive you crazy.

Muscle Memory

Our muscles have an incredible capability to discover, mold and grow in order to support newly learned functions. Some say it is the mind that adapts and strengthens with repetition. Others refer to this phenomenon as muscle memory where the skeletal muscle absorbs a new lesson and it becomes automatic with practice. Either way, this is what explains how my body has grasped the ability to move into a full backbend over the course of three months of twice-weekly yoga. And how when a baby embarks on the first step it is the culmination of many previous lessons- holding up their head, rolling over to crawl, balancing their weight first with support and then on their own. By the time they reach one foot in front of the other to begin to walk, they have mastered and memorized how to coordinate their muscle movements and the desires of their mind. Perhaps this process, more than the step itself, is what causes parents to squeal, clap, laugh and document the moment in baby books.

One of the strongest muscles in our body is the heart. So, can it learn and grow as any other muscle in our body? Can it be strengthened and trained? I believe so.

There was a time when the slightest perception of insult or criticism would send my stomach sinking into my toes and acid through my esophagus while tears welled up in my eyes. I had no control, or so it felt. And there was a time when regardless of how many times a person demonstrated their true character through lies, manipulation and general deceit I would wait with open arms for their half-apology-half-blame-me-for-their-actions statement. Alternately, those who provided a consistent source of friendship, joy and loyalty remained under suspicion for a crime that they may or may not have considered committing against my character at some point in the past, current or future. For years, I lived with secrets that were not that dark but could not be shared because even the closest of friends were never really let into my unbreakable shield-of-defense. Ultimately, I wrapped myself in an immensely small and excessively tight bubble of crazy-making thoughts and safeguard.

And as I have grown, traveled, experienced and learned to truly live through mistakes and adventures I look back at who I was as I move forward as a strong woman with thick-skin and the ability to finally say ‘no’ to those who demand too much. Finally, I accept the patterns I see in people and operate from these truths rather than stick around patiently waiting for them to evolve into who I hope they can be. Love and trust are my core and I can at last allow my heart to be vulnerable to those around me. I have erased the unnecessary and painful borders set up to ‘protect’ what does not need to be protected from those who really care.

Each moment of ache and anguish marked a new notch in my mind and spirit indicating growth. I became a newer version of myself as my heart exercised, became nourished, and strengthened the arteries pumping the fresh experience into every vain. My mind and heart have come to coordinate the knowledge harvested from relationships, jobs, accomplishments, failures and everything in between. Each metaphorical push up, squat, lunge, crunch and backbend of life has encouraged an added level of strength and toning to my heart muscle. And in the end, with repetition and practice, living has become an eventful, true and present action ready for the next challenge and thrill.

a 'sorry' note

Sometimes the loneliness is so striking that it tears into my flesh
and rips at my skin to leave the painful, permanent mark of

nothing.

It is a reminder that the blood and gore leave me with a hole in my heart.

I wear the wound sometimes proudly and often in shame. I took your call in a selfish attempt to erase the mark and for that, I am sorry.

It only left me with even more of the nothing and has reminded me again that to be left alone with my own void still leaves me stronger than working to fill yours.

at 8,000 feet

I find myself at 8,000 feet on a work trip amidst the perfectly crafted Colorado Rocky Mountains and the ‘happy little trees’ made famous by Bob Ross-- you know that artist you see on PBS with the big hair and soft spoken voice. The air is thin and my lungs cling to whatever particles it can absorb, process and use to fuel my body. I think about where I am at: nearing 30, in the midst of so many life changes and on the brink of so many life discoveries. It feels insurmountable.

Some days I feel as if I have accomplished so much: traveled to many distant countries, contributed to the political development of countless youth in South Central, was a part of something so much larger than myself that it changed policies in the truly convoluted Los Angeles Unified School District, survived broken hearts, learned the truth of what family really means by distancing myself from my blood. I was a top scholar at my university and in my major and now I am a clown complete with the face paint, balloon animals and wigs. I left a career I thought I would have for life and am here jogging in the nation’s center for right-winged-conservative-evangelical-Christians.

Its hard to breath. The altitude is bringing me down. Used to 5-mile runs on a regular basis, I can’t believe how winded I am after a small trek uphill. I feel like my life is at square one again and it is devastating, exhilarating, shocking, disappointing and comforting all at the same time. With each breath, my lungs burn a little more and I have become light headed. They warned me this would happen at this height.

I round the corner, cross the street and stop in absolute awe of the sun setting against the hand painted red mountains. My spirit is taken back to another time amongst the mountains much further away. The top of Mount Pichincha in Quito, Ecuador had me soaring in the Andes Mountains near the Earth’s equator. That day, though years ago, is vivid in my mind. Awaking long before dawn to walk across the city to the base of the volcano; journeying up the flat areas with ease while running into the local families, goats, small hillside farms and the sweet smells of the land; pausing to rest on a cliff to enjoy pan dulce y naranjas for breakfast and breathing in the South American air in disbelief of this amazing opportunity. I think back on that day with pride and love as I recall the effort it took to climb that peak and ultimately assist with carrying down an injured compaÑera upon our return.

It hits me: that day I had been close to 12,000 feet without a trace of the struggle I feel in my body today. My mind had been clear of where I had been or where I was going. That day was about living in the moment. I had no idea that I was at an altitude that came with the dangers of untamable headaches, nausea, hallucination, and vomiting. Rather, my mind was wrapped around the people and struggles of the country, the lessons to be learned in this new adventure and my mind used every exertion to remember each tree, cloud, snow-topped mountain peak, the breeze against my cheek and the intense heat of the sun upon my face.

Back at 8,000 feet, I remembered to remember the moment and recognize that this altitude would not keep me from my intention- just as years ago on the peak of that mountain I had not even passed a thought of self-defeat. I set my body back into a jog and pushed out the thoughts of the burning lungs and desire to stop. Where I am in life is where I am and that comes from deliberate action in spite of finding myself stuck in between feeling like I have accomplished all that I can and not having accomplished anything at all. Each moment comes with a new chance and a new opportunity to reach even higher altitudes and gain an ever evolving perspective.

Discrepencies- a summer not quite love story

Her stomach flipped and turned as she applied the last bit of mascara on her eyelashes thinking of the prospect of what could come of this meeting. She grabbed her bag, double-checking that she had the requisite mints mandated before any and every date. Heels clacking and hips swaying, she flipped her hair out of her face, leaps into her car and sets off to meet him for the first time.

They had talked on the phone a few times and exchanged a few witty text messages and emails. The conversation was light and flirty; not much substance, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to meet up for drinks at the hotel bar. She was running behind and hoped that the Los Angeles traffic would be, for once, forgiving. Punctual by nature, she wanted to make a good impression. She wasn’t putting too much weight into the night but also recognized that this was a big step- a date after finally ending a three-year toxic relationship with the stereotypical emotionally unavailable man. “Oh well, lesson learned”, she thought. It had taken months to get to this place and she felt ready.

Her mind wandered as she approached rows of red taillights indicating a possible accident ahead or perhaps just one too many drivers checking their appearance in the rearview mirror unintentionally slowing traffic for miles behind them. Her memory took her back to those first few weeks after the breakup when she felt so wounded and a little bit damaged and, quite honestly, scared. She felt so much stronger but still, it made her wonder was she possibly too injured for this date? She was brought back by the sound of her cell phone ringing. Checking the caller ID, it was the best friend calling, she was sure, to wish her luck on the blind date. She quickly pushed ‘ignore’ and committed to calling just before she entered the lobby.

She pulled up to the hotel parking lot- the twists and turns of her tummy had returned. As much as she tried to just take this as a normal outing, she couldn’t deny that she was excited. He had described himself as six-feet tall, athletic from a large Peruvian family. They had exchanged some pictures so she had an idea of who she was looking for- a handsome man with thick brown hair and caramel eyes. They had already agreed to meet tonight and to go to a concert the following evening. She had been warned that this might backfire if this turned out to be an uncomfortable evening but she was an optimist and had no doubt that they would have a lovely weekend getting to know each other. One last check in the mirror, a quick application of lip gloss, another mint for good measure and she exited her car.

Even after battling traffic, she had arrived ten minutes before the agreed-upon time. They were to meet out front but she popped her head in to check out the scene. The hotel bar was crowded, usual for a Thursday evening. Lots of couples cuddled up close, a few groups of men and women checking each other out. She sent a quick text letting the best friend know she had arrived and went out to the front again. Shivering a little, she scanned the walkway and watched as every face that neared morphed into the pictures she had seen. After fifteen minutes she made eye contact with a man that was coming directly toward her from the direction of the parking lot. Was that him? She focused her eyes, still not sure if this man that approached her with open arms was him.

“You are beautiful. You look exactly like you do in your pictures,” he said.

She wished she could say the same…

At five-feet six inches tall plus three-inch heels, she should have basked in his 3-inch height advantage. Instead, as she stood next to him, she felt uncomfortably large as she loomed at least a full inch above him. His thick brown hair was replaced with a receding hairline buzz-cut to offset the obvious male-pattern balding and his stomach protruded just a bit over his belt. She was not one to judge on appearance but she was off-put by the glaring discrepancies. On the bright side his eyes were caramel. She suggested they go into the bar- where it was a little darker and where they could sit and she wouldn’t have to slouch to be at eye-level.

The next two hours were filled with unimportant small talk led mostly by her. He seemed nice enough but she was already losing interest as the conversation progressed and he continued to begin stories and then insist that they were much to long to go into tonight.

“They’re going to make a movie out of my family.” He contributed almost nonsensically.

“Really? That sounds interesting. Your family must be unique. Tell me about it.” she asked in an attempt to encourage him say more than one sentence at a time.

“You’ll see. They’re going to make a movie. It’s too long of a story.”

The questions ran through her mind: Who are ‘they’? Why does she have to ‘wait and see’?

“Two of my sisters are professional basketball players in Europe.” He contributed later.

“Wow. Where in Europe? That’s so interesting that two of your sisters are pro players. How did that happen?”

“Yeah. It’s cool. I dunno, long story.”

His only other genuine involvement revolved around a series of questions looking to gauge her interest in him.

“So,” he asked out of nowhere, “how does a guy know if you like him? I mean like, you seem real friendly. How would someone know if you were, you know, interested in more than friends?”

Thrown off guard, she stammered, “Uh, well, I, uh, hang out with them, I guess.”

She searched for the most generic answer as the pressure of his questions sunk deeper. He had barely pieced together a complete paragraph all night and now he wanted a guarantee on a future with her… pressure.

She was anxious again- this time over the thought of having to spend another uneventful date with this man. But she was game. Maybe she was putting up walls? Maybe she was nervous about entering this new phase of life? She committed to herself that she would go on another date and give him a try. After all, he could just be awkward at first or even intimidated by her massive height. But tonight, she couldn’t take it anymore, she reminded him that she had to be up very early for work the following day, told him that is was wonderful to meet him, gave him a sincere hug and excused herself to her car to head home.

She realized that neither one of them had said anything about the following night’s date in her haste to leave the hotel. Unsure of what that could mean, she called him quickly and left a voicemail indicating again that it was nice to meet him and wanted to know if they were still on for the following evening. A moment later, her phone sounded, indicating a text message. She assumed it was the best friend looking for an update. Instead, it was from the blind date. One line.

She reviewed the text message again: “You didn’t like me, huh?”

That one line was all she needed to know that this wasn’t going to work. This was just too much struggle just to get whatever this was off the ground and to have a little fun. Insecure, a little self-absorbed and not that interesting- this was not the combination she was looking for in a future partner. She quickly deleted the message and his number and smiled, happy to know that she was not too wounded after all; but rather, her judgment was just getting sharper.

All the King's Horses and All the King's Men- A New Orleans Tribute

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

With her African-Creole-Native-Cajun-Honduran-French-Spanish roots her allure is found in the rich languages, the beginnings of jazz, the rebellions of the enslaved, a taste and a flavor all her own. She is filled with a magical-spiritual strength that remains so unique in this proclaimed ‘melting pot nation’. She watches from her walls as cultures are created and hope is born. Romance, work and play are the landmarks of her city. A seaside community deeply connected to the earth, to its history, to its future.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

The first nudge came from the storm- a powerful wind and pelting waves. But this was not enough to make her topple. She held strong until the walls crumbled in and 17 feet of water surged her land injecting her dazzling world with a most painful death.

The King and all of his men promised that no destruction would befall her city. The walls were built to last, they insisted. Sit tight, this too will pass. Sit tight, help is on its way. As the city sat in wait, she was shoved by the king but hung by her fingernails as her people ran to their rooftops awaiting rescue; shoved into the dome only to suffocate in the sweltering heat; left for dead in a drowned city with no food; and no water except for the gallons that were not welcome.

So many of those who survived were forced to leave the cracked city; a new diaspora of the poor and oppressed to cities filled with strangers; families divided and loved ones never to be seen again. The cries echo in her ears- children left alone on the streets, the elderly unable to fend for themselves, the mothers and fathers in panic searching for any familiar face.

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men

After the devastation has passed, she opens her eyes only to find branches shoved through the windows of homes thrown from their original plots; cars flipped on their hoods crushing playground equipment; teddy bears separated from their owners and laying yards from any safe bedroom. A bulletin board lists the names of the missing as her people gather in a vain attempt to find the lost. Laid out on the earth, she waits still for the promised aid. Broken shell and oozing yolk are all that remain as families await their ‘temporary’ trailers that will house them for years to come.

Surrounded by homes marked with the number of dead discovered, she cries tears that rip through the earth and will resonate for generations begging the King and his men to save her from this unnecessarily tragic fate. Instead she is handed promises of ‘redevelopment’ by the wealthy and for the wealthy all for sale to the highest bidder. There is desperation wherever she looks- destroyed history, hungry children, parents now too far removed from this reality to care for more than their new found addictions or the continuous thoughts of ending their time in this life.

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

The intensity of the nothing is palpable. The silence pierces her ears. Where there was once the laughter of children, dogs barking, the shuffle of pedestrians, engines humming, there remains just the sense of something more- the spirit of this once great city. Years have passed and her land remains isolated and half the population ripped from their roots. The survivors who remain keep their eyes open for the signs of change and watch as the King and his men send their dollars to fight for oil rights and they remain jobless, homeless, school-less, and, more and more, hopeless.

As she attempts to place her pieces back into a whole, a movement catches her eye- a small unexpected growth. A magnolia sprouting spring time buds in the fall, soon to generate a rush of seeds. This magnolia is working out of turn and at its maximum speed to create an out of season growth that will hope to replace all that was lost.

Respect your elders, don't be trapped by them

Once upon a warm, star-lit fall evening, I ventured out to my local Dali exhibit at LACMA for a 'members only' event with food, music, mingling and art. The streets were crowded with cars as the thick rush hour traffic was detoured to side streets to make room for the hotel workers who were picketing demanding higher wages and better working conditions. As I drove, I recalled the last time I had attended a museum event and had met a very sweet man whom I dated for a bit before he decided that his life was too complicated for a relationship. Perhaps tonight I would meet another 'museum man' if the planets had aligned themselves properly.

Shortly upon entering, I scooped up several hors d'oeuvres from the food stations as I realized that I had not had dinner. The live music was lively and soulful and filled the outdoor space. As I reached for a brownie from the desert station, I heard a voice behind me ask if they had finished the raffle yet. What I saw before me was an outstretched hand with a raffle ticket that belonged to a, well, elderly man in a blue blazer and cream-colored hat. He reminded me of my grandfather with his gray hair and softly wrinkled skin.

"Yes, they just finished the first round of the raffle but they will have another round in about 30 minutes," I responded politely and to be honest, in a cadence a bit slower than usual to accommodate for any potential hearing problems.

"What are the prizes?" the kind, older gentleman asked.

"Um, I believe a tote bag and an umbrella," I smiled and took a step to the side attempting to excuse myself from the conversation.

Just as my left leg had reached behind me and my body was in mid rotation to move away, he extended his hand and introduced himself as "Dr. Mendez, first name Stewart."

I introduced myself and thought "Aw, how sweet he is looking for a grand-daughterly figure to talk to. He must need a little company." Far be it from me to leave a grandfather alone when he just wants a little conversation- it was like an adopt-a-granddaughter-program but informal and at a museum.

"That is a lovely necklace," he commented. "Do you know the difference between a compliment and harassment?" he asked.

Okay, this got weird all of a sudden. "Uh, yeah.... “I mumbled as he jumped in with his definition.

"If I say, 'that is a lovely necklace' that is a compliment. If I say, 'that is a lovely necklace on you' that is harassment. What is the big deal? Why can't we just have fun anymore?!"

Unsure of how to respond and having the urgent desire to relocate quickly I am sure I stared with a blank face.

"So," I stammered in an attempt to move on from the weird harassment scenario, "what kind of doctor are you?"

"Well," he began with a slight accent, " I am an anti-aging doctor I work to give people long, healthy lives."

Interesting.

"And," he continued, "I provide medicine for men for sexual wellness and longevity."

Okay, weird again. Was grandpa trying to let me know that he was younger than he appeared and viral at that? No, it couldn't be. That would be just too, well, weird and awkward.

"What do you like to do?" he asked.

"Well, I enjoy re-" I began. And before I could finish the word 'read', he had interrupted to talk about a case of his where man had needed help in the sex department of his relationship and how he had provided assistance.

At this moment, I realized that I felt stuck. This man had creeped me out and I was beyond ready to move on to something else that evening but was trapped. Had this man been my age and made me feel as uncomfortable as I did at that moment, I would have known exactly what to do. Interrupt with a "Nice to meet you'" and skedaddle along.

But my feet were glued to the cement and I couldn't make any excuse to move. I thought of the most ridiculous ways to remove myself. I debated grabbing onto the next arm that came by the desert bar to exclaim "Oh! There you are!" I contemplated how I might use Morris Code with my eyes to signal for help from passerbys. But why all these dramatic efforts simply to get out of unwanted attention from a man? It was very clear- it was a respect issue. How do you dis your grandfather? How do you reject a man that reminds you of the kind faces that read to you as a child and send you birthday cards with checks every year?

I was trapped out of a loyalty to my elders whom I have been taught to respect. Just then, I thought of a gentle way to excuse myself. I will let him know that I am going to go into the exhibit, that it was lovely hearing about all of his tantric yoga experiences, and about all the assistance he provides to men to reach their sexual peak.

At that exact moment he said, "Well, are you ready to view the exhibit?"

Yes! My way out! "Yeah, I was just thinking of going in."

And as I attempted to say goodbye, he said, "Good, I'll join you."

What! How did this backfire? As a woman who was usually quite confident and able to express what she wanted I felt absolutely confused as to how to end this.

As we walked to the door, I thought frantically of how on Oprah they always teach to you never change locations with the kidnapper. Now, I know it was not as dramatic as all this but I racked my brain of my next escape attempt- a text message to a girlfriend with instructions to call immediately.

While I plotted my perfect plan, the grandfatherly doctor opened the door and said, "You know, a friend of mine told me to join the museum because I would meet a wonderful woman."

I quickly reached for my phone as we moved toward the crowded exhibit. After several failed attempts at reaching the text keys because the unwanted companion stood so nearby I finally sent the SOS text and waited and made every effort to stand next to anyone but him.

A moment later, my salvation came in the form of a Mos Def ring tone and I said to the man, "Oh, I really must take this call outside." I noticed his look of confusion and felt halfway bad as I exited the exhibit. But not enough to stick around. He had used the 'old man' card to keep me there long enough.

I quickly moved through the crowd as I explained the situation to the best friend and made my way through the La Brea Tar pits taking the long way to the parking to avoid another run in. I felt so foolish and ridiculous running away from him but, bottom line, a creep is a creep whatever the age.

I escaped without incident and cursed myself for wishing to meet another 'museum man.' The stars had certainly aligned themselves, or misaligned depending on your perspective. And the next time a creep old man wants to chat, I will have no fear in brushing him off just as any man my age before I get to the point of desperation of running through the tar pits again.

sometimes

i find myself scribing stories or short nonsensical musings in my head as i drive or walk or watch tv. so, i decided that i might as well have a home for all of this craziness. it will be a challenge to be disciplined enough to actually contribute or post and i'm not sure who out there will really be reading or who i will tell about this but i find reading other blogs to be amusing enough that it sucked me in.

i hope to use this as a place for thoughts and tid bits but not as an actual journal of personal day to day experiences. rather a space for my observations and learnings that come from those experiences.

well, until i have time for another....

welcome to the end of the line....