cat w/ hunched back on
stone steps mirroring the shape
of the broken mailbox
Friday, January 30, 2009
I'm supposed to be watching the Super Bowl this weekend for educational purposes. I am actually a Super Bowl virgin. It's a blogging assignment that I have some ambivalence about. Doesn't this game always last like four freaking hours? How am I supposed to do my readings for week this class against the backdrop of grown men tackling each other?
The trustees at Brandeis voted to close the Rose Museum. This decision is a hot topic in the museum community - selling off collections to pay for the school's debts is a big problem (proceeds made from sales from collections should only ethically go towards maintenance of existing collections or new and appropriate acquisitions) and sets a scary precedent for other university collections. Museum officials do not appear to have been involved in the decision-making process.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Yesterday, I had my teeth filed down by a metal strip coated in diamond dust. Abrasive to say the least.
Mickey Rourke was brilliant in the new Aronofsky film. His performance in the deli counter scenes, his addiction to self-mutilation in the film. The Wrestler is a movie about many types of pain, self-inflicted and external. Oh, Mickey. Happy comeback.
After the first week of Collections Mgmt class, I wanted to go home and archive and properly store all of my photographs, negatives, and works of art. I pulled the silk shirts out of my summer storage that were piled against linens and cottons. Moved my wedding dress into a different storage arrangement where it would experience less crushing and creasing. Moved the handbags that were hanging from hooks and hangers.
How is one to manage internship and job apps, conference scholarship apps, thesis work, classes, marriage, yoga, and sanity? I am applying for a job in Dallas, a job in Seattle, and an internship in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Top choice? New Mexico. Second choice? Seattle. Etc.
The chop suey project received a grant from the Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs and my advisor and I are getting ready to apply to another round of local grants to support the gathering of oral histories related to the I-District and surrounding environs. Interviewing begins in February. Prospects for funding look good.
Just read the catalog raisonee for Allan Kaprow's work. A good history of happenings and some great pieces pulled from the archives.
The WPA is working on their spring poetry fest at the Hugo House which will take place on April 25. Several out of town poets from the Bay area will be here teaching workshops. Several really fine La Alameda Press poets of the Beat and SF Renaissance tradition.
Speaking of the Hugo House, they are looking for a new director. No small task. I don't think I will apply. I'm not made for the overworking track.
Rainbow Bookfest is on Feb. 28. CS Perez is coming from Berkeley.
Our neighborhood is in transition. LaborWorks just moved out of our neighborhood. The building sitting between SIOM and Julia's restaurant is vacant. The tattoo parlor was replaced by a nail salon. SIOM just raised their acupuncture rates. The photo lab down the street folded, and with it my local p.o. contract unit. Last month a new custard stand and raw food joint opened.
Structure of the Inner Ear has a new publisher. I hope for a 2009 release.
I graduate on June 12, 2009, at 5 p.m. Friends, come to Seattle and celebrate with us!
Welcome to Seattle, Joel Felix. You rocked the 1412 Gallery reading. No bells and whistles necessary.
Mickey Rourke was brilliant in the new Aronofsky film. His performance in the deli counter scenes, his addiction to self-mutilation in the film. The Wrestler is a movie about many types of pain, self-inflicted and external. Oh, Mickey. Happy comeback.
After the first week of Collections Mgmt class, I wanted to go home and archive and properly store all of my photographs, negatives, and works of art. I pulled the silk shirts out of my summer storage that were piled against linens and cottons. Moved my wedding dress into a different storage arrangement where it would experience less crushing and creasing. Moved the handbags that were hanging from hooks and hangers.
How is one to manage internship and job apps, conference scholarship apps, thesis work, classes, marriage, yoga, and sanity? I am applying for a job in Dallas, a job in Seattle, and an internship in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Top choice? New Mexico. Second choice? Seattle. Etc.
The chop suey project received a grant from the Office of Arts & Cultural Affairs and my advisor and I are getting ready to apply to another round of local grants to support the gathering of oral histories related to the I-District and surrounding environs. Interviewing begins in February. Prospects for funding look good.
Just read the catalog raisonee for Allan Kaprow's work. A good history of happenings and some great pieces pulled from the archives.
The WPA is working on their spring poetry fest at the Hugo House which will take place on April 25. Several out of town poets from the Bay area will be here teaching workshops. Several really fine La Alameda Press poets of the Beat and SF Renaissance tradition.
Speaking of the Hugo House, they are looking for a new director. No small task. I don't think I will apply. I'm not made for the overworking track.
Rainbow Bookfest is on Feb. 28. CS Perez is coming from Berkeley.
Our neighborhood is in transition. LaborWorks just moved out of our neighborhood. The building sitting between SIOM and Julia's restaurant is vacant. The tattoo parlor was replaced by a nail salon. SIOM just raised their acupuncture rates. The photo lab down the street folded, and with it my local p.o. contract unit. Last month a new custard stand and raw food joint opened.
Structure of the Inner Ear has a new publisher. I hope for a 2009 release.
I graduate on June 12, 2009, at 5 p.m. Friends, come to Seattle and celebrate with us!
Welcome to Seattle, Joel Felix. You rocked the 1412 Gallery reading. No bells and whistles necessary.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
I don't love facebook, but I'm grateful that it's put me back in touch with old Naropa friends, teachers, companions on the path. The poet who taught me shambhala meditation is now making films, after a lengthy retreat in Cambodia. I learned so much from observing and practicing with Bill, more than I could probably ever put into words coherently. I also reconnected with the meditation instructor who coached me in taking refuge vows my last summer in Boulder. And of course, finding Phillip who I thought was lost to me. Not lost, just living in Flint, Michigan.
She Said/She Said: The Inaugural Edition
I watched the inauguration live this morning with classmates from my program. The streaming internet failed, so we ended up watching on a 15-inch analog television with rabbit ears on a media cart in our classroom with poor sound quality. Staff brought champagne and students brought cookies. No tears were shed, though I admit to getting misty-eyed. There was a lot of chatter obscuring everything except for Obama’s acceptance speech and the inaugural poem. I debriefed with a friend in the law school over lunch. C arrived at the law school this morning to watch in the designated room where live internet was streaming, but there was a low attendance and a less than enthusiastic vibe, so she went over to Odegaard Library for the undergraduates where the air was much more celebratory. Young people wept openly – people who had probably voted for the first time in their lives in this election. I wondered about the classmates who didn’t make it to class to watch the program – did they watch at home? Did they not watch at all? What was the mood down at the Seattle Center and around the city?
I was struck by many things during the program – the images of American natural and national wonders projected during Aretha Franklin’s solo – the Grand Canyon, the Statue of Liberty – dramatic images to evoke patriotism and nationhood. I would have much rather looked at Ms. Franklin’s gorgeous hat. I misread the starts and stops that happened during the official swearing in as nervousness on Obama’s part, which made him all the more human, but was fascinated to learn later that the judge officiating over the ceremony that fed Obama the lines, switched the usual script, thus confusing the moment, though not ruining it.
I was deeply moved by President Obama’s speech – the call for responsibility and the promise of change. A leader in who I can see my own values reflected. Tomorrow the work begins, but today, there was a suspension of anticipation, criticism – and a deep acknowledgement of the joyfulness and relief of this historic and momentous occasion. What a showing on the national mall - over a million people.
As for Elizabeth Alexander’s inaugural poem – it rang to me of Walt Whitman’s poems of America in Leaves of Grass. The depiction of common laborers and the interactions between individuals. Pre-inauguration, there had been a call by a Philly poet on the Buffalo Poetics List asking Ms. Alexander to boycott the inauguration to reflect her support of gays protesting the selection of Rick Warren by President Obama to deliver the invocation. All in all, I thought that the poem addressed the issue of gay marriage and equal rights subtly, moving towards the message of love, which is not unlike the theme of hope. News reports are criticizing Ms.Alexander’s delivery of the poem as lackluster and the placement of her reading in the program as anti-climactic; some are calling Reverend Lowery's benediction much more lyric. I had been prepared to be disappointed in the performance, but in listening to her poem and hearing the shifts in imagery and momentum of her language, I see her commission as a fine achievement – personal, evocative, and imaginative. Read it here.
I found the moment that Bush flew away in his helicoptor to be very powerful - maybe akin to those Annie Leibovitz photos of Nixon leaving the White House lawn. Ben tells me that the ex-Pres has bought a house in his neighborhood in North Dallas - the Bush Library is being built at SMU which has bought up much of the residential property around the campus displacing area residents. Given these details, I'm not sure I could ever go back to live in Dallas.
I'm officially jaded.
On the day when the first black president is inaugurated millions of people gather under bundles of clothes with runny noses and nipped toes. Their chance to capture a moment in time with photo lens and camera phones, oversized buttons and $50 ski caps. So they can go back to their lives and present the communists who didn't trek to Washington to be a part of change and provide Smithsonian-worthy mementos. Oh, that is the snot rag that tripled as toilet paper, a snot rag, and hand warmer at the inauguration. And THIS is mud that permanently changed the color of the shoes I wore at the inauguration. Here is the prosthetic eye I got after some kid poked me in the eye with the tip of his mini-flag...at the inauguration.
Today was the first day of class and, though we had a live feed streaming in our lobby, getting into a class she failed to register for during pre-registration trumped history.
* Obama? Pish-shaw, this is my last semester and I need you to get me in the easiest class on campus.
* Martin Luther King, who? All my classes were deleted and I think it's ridiculous that you don't check your email on weekends or on the day the entire university and registration system are closed.
* Oh, I know you're a little brown girl and all, so I'll just make this quick. Can you just construct my entire class schedule for the next 4 years?
* I not from A-mer-ee-ka, so I not care. Can please to schedule courses in those for which I have no prerequisite for?
I missed it.
The swearing in. The speech. The 3 hours of pre-inauguration coverage. The 9 hours of inauguration dissection and color commentary. Who was there. Who wore what. What happens next. The feeling of being stuck at someone's house watching a graduation/wedding/bat mitzvah/Oscar acceptance speech reel. And I'm not all that sad. Maybe because I know that this day has been and will be documented to within an inch of its life. From the brand of Malia's mittens to the curious interaction between Bill Clinton and Jenna Bush. To the controlled scowl on G. Dub's face that masked the little marbles of thought bouncing around in his head. If I take towels from Air Force 1, it'd be freaking hilarious if I re-gifted them to The Obamas next year. BOING! If I touch my testicle right now, would anyone notice? BOING! Obama, Fama, Bobama, Me, My, Mo, Momma, Obama! BOING!
I know how important today day is to black America. To America, America. To my parents. My grandparents. My unborn, big-headed, bi-racial children. But the commercialization of it makes it less. Less like a unique space in time and more like the deliberate creation of a clips for the end of the year slideshow. I imagine this to be the what guys experience when they have to channel Steve Irwin to make it through Hallmark stores on Valentine's Day and Christmas. Why should I cultivate feelings on this day and this time because I'm supposed to? Because everyone else is doing it?
I assume this is a direct result of being sick and couch-ridden for the last 3 days and consuming copious amounts of Jon & Kate Plus 8, Property Virgins and Clean House.
But I DVR'd it. And I will sit down with fleece throw, tissues, and a glass of gewurtztaminer when I am good and ready to absorb history on my own terms.
THE NEXT DAY:
Clearly that is not a normal response to, what should have marked, a significant turn of events in my country. In an abbreviated lifetime that's seen The Challenger, Oklahoma City, Hurricane Katrina, September 11th, Columbine; the inauguration should have been one of those rays of sunshine piercing through thick gray clouds of harsh realities. This is the day I get to my own JFK, MLK, FDR. But I think my disappointment in the 20-somethings got to me. I was waiting for just one student to say "Wow, the first black president is being sworn in right now. This may mean something to you. Why don't I go grab some lunch so you can enjoy this. I'll be back in, say, 20 minutes? Can I get anything for you while I'm in the cafeteria?". It's a bit like hoping the new 25-year-old high school soccer coach will ask you to prom...so I've heard.
I waxed optimistic and decided that, after they left my office, they ran to the nearest iPhone to download the video from CNN.com.
Or MTV.com
At 12:35am, I watched the swearing in. The inaugural speech. All by myself. And I'm glad I did because I got a bit misty. Well, when The President wasn't bitch slapping G. Dub and basically nailing a GAME OVER sign on Georgie's crinkly little forehead. I almost felt sorry for him. Until I remembered the economy sucks, unemployment has skyrocketed, and the hot mess that is Dick Cheney. Then I just wanted to kick him in the jimmy. I have no political prowess, I refuse to tear apart his speech. There were parts my ears and heart feasted upon and parts that tasted like rice cakes.
"As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals"-- Warm Chocolate Chip Cookies
"To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West — know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy."-- Cheesecake Factory Oreo Cheesecake
It's a good start.
I was struck by many things during the program – the images of American natural and national wonders projected during Aretha Franklin’s solo – the Grand Canyon, the Statue of Liberty – dramatic images to evoke patriotism and nationhood. I would have much rather looked at Ms. Franklin’s gorgeous hat. I misread the starts and stops that happened during the official swearing in as nervousness on Obama’s part, which made him all the more human, but was fascinated to learn later that the judge officiating over the ceremony that fed Obama the lines, switched the usual script, thus confusing the moment, though not ruining it.
I was deeply moved by President Obama’s speech – the call for responsibility and the promise of change. A leader in who I can see my own values reflected. Tomorrow the work begins, but today, there was a suspension of anticipation, criticism – and a deep acknowledgement of the joyfulness and relief of this historic and momentous occasion. What a showing on the national mall - over a million people.
As for Elizabeth Alexander’s inaugural poem – it rang to me of Walt Whitman’s poems of America in Leaves of Grass. The depiction of common laborers and the interactions between individuals. Pre-inauguration, there had been a call by a Philly poet on the Buffalo Poetics List asking Ms. Alexander to boycott the inauguration to reflect her support of gays protesting the selection of Rick Warren by President Obama to deliver the invocation. All in all, I thought that the poem addressed the issue of gay marriage and equal rights subtly, moving towards the message of love, which is not unlike the theme of hope. News reports are criticizing Ms.Alexander’s delivery of the poem as lackluster and the placement of her reading in the program as anti-climactic; some are calling Reverend Lowery's benediction much more lyric. I had been prepared to be disappointed in the performance, but in listening to her poem and hearing the shifts in imagery and momentum of her language, I see her commission as a fine achievement – personal, evocative, and imaginative. Read it here.
I found the moment that Bush flew away in his helicoptor to be very powerful - maybe akin to those Annie Leibovitz photos of Nixon leaving the White House lawn. Ben tells me that the ex-Pres has bought a house in his neighborhood in North Dallas - the Bush Library is being built at SMU which has bought up much of the residential property around the campus displacing area residents. Given these details, I'm not sure I could ever go back to live in Dallas.
I'm officially jaded.
On the day when the first black president is inaugurated millions of people gather under bundles of clothes with runny noses and nipped toes. Their chance to capture a moment in time with photo lens and camera phones, oversized buttons and $50 ski caps. So they can go back to their lives and present the communists who didn't trek to Washington to be a part of change and provide Smithsonian-worthy mementos. Oh, that is the snot rag that tripled as toilet paper, a snot rag, and hand warmer at the inauguration. And THIS is mud that permanently changed the color of the shoes I wore at the inauguration. Here is the prosthetic eye I got after some kid poked me in the eye with the tip of his mini-flag...at the inauguration.
Today was the first day of class and, though we had a live feed streaming in our lobby, getting into a class she failed to register for during pre-registration trumped history.
* Obama? Pish-shaw, this is my last semester and I need you to get me in the easiest class on campus.
* Martin Luther King, who? All my classes were deleted and I think it's ridiculous that you don't check your email on weekends or on the day the entire university and registration system are closed.
* Oh, I know you're a little brown girl and all, so I'll just make this quick. Can you just construct my entire class schedule for the next 4 years?
* I not from A-mer-ee-ka, so I not care. Can please to schedule courses in those for which I have no prerequisite for?
I missed it.
The swearing in. The speech. The 3 hours of pre-inauguration coverage. The 9 hours of inauguration dissection and color commentary. Who was there. Who wore what. What happens next. The feeling of being stuck at someone's house watching a graduation/wedding/bat mitzvah/Oscar acceptance speech reel. And I'm not all that sad. Maybe because I know that this day has been and will be documented to within an inch of its life. From the brand of Malia's mittens to the curious interaction between Bill Clinton and Jenna Bush. To the controlled scowl on G. Dub's face that masked the little marbles of thought bouncing around in his head. If I take towels from Air Force 1, it'd be freaking hilarious if I re-gifted them to The Obamas next year. BOING! If I touch my testicle right now, would anyone notice? BOING! Obama, Fama, Bobama, Me, My, Mo, Momma, Obama! BOING!
I know how important today day is to black America. To America, America. To my parents. My grandparents. My unborn, big-headed, bi-racial children. But the commercialization of it makes it less. Less like a unique space in time and more like the deliberate creation of a clips for the end of the year slideshow. I imagine this to be the what guys experience when they have to channel Steve Irwin to make it through Hallmark stores on Valentine's Day and Christmas. Why should I cultivate feelings on this day and this time because I'm supposed to? Because everyone else is doing it?
I assume this is a direct result of being sick and couch-ridden for the last 3 days and consuming copious amounts of Jon & Kate Plus 8, Property Virgins and Clean House.
But I DVR'd it. And I will sit down with fleece throw, tissues, and a glass of gewurtztaminer when I am good and ready to absorb history on my own terms.
THE NEXT DAY:
Clearly that is not a normal response to, what should have marked, a significant turn of events in my country. In an abbreviated lifetime that's seen The Challenger, Oklahoma City, Hurricane Katrina, September 11th, Columbine; the inauguration should have been one of those rays of sunshine piercing through thick gray clouds of harsh realities. This is the day I get to my own JFK, MLK, FDR. But I think my disappointment in the 20-somethings got to me. I was waiting for just one student to say "Wow, the first black president is being sworn in right now. This may mean something to you. Why don't I go grab some lunch so you can enjoy this. I'll be back in, say, 20 minutes? Can I get anything for you while I'm in the cafeteria?". It's a bit like hoping the new 25-year-old high school soccer coach will ask you to prom...so I've heard.
I waxed optimistic and decided that, after they left my office, they ran to the nearest iPhone to download the video from CNN.com.
Or MTV.com
At 12:35am, I watched the swearing in. The inaugural speech. All by myself. And I'm glad I did because I got a bit misty. Well, when The President wasn't bitch slapping G. Dub and basically nailing a GAME OVER sign on Georgie's crinkly little forehead. I almost felt sorry for him. Until I remembered the economy sucks, unemployment has skyrocketed, and the hot mess that is Dick Cheney. Then I just wanted to kick him in the jimmy. I have no political prowess, I refuse to tear apart his speech. There were parts my ears and heart feasted upon and parts that tasted like rice cakes.
"As for our common defense, we reject as false the choice between our safety and our ideals"-- Warm Chocolate Chip Cookies
"To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict, or blame their society's ills on the West — know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy."-- Cheesecake Factory Oreo Cheesecake
It's a good start.
Edible "Books"
The Edible Books Festival is coming to Seattle on April 4. Ideas for possible entries:
"Holidays on Ice" (David Sedaris) - water with gas in a glass, w/ candy cane
"Seismosis" (John Keene & Chris Stackhouse) - abstract drawing composed of seaweed strands
"Grapefruit" (Yoko Ono) - a grapefruit with an instruction poem
"The Handful of Seeds" (Andrew Schelling) - 3.5 mountains of various seeds - mustard, cumin, sunflower,?
"French Milk" (Lucy Knisley) - glass bottle of milk
"Girls for Breakfast" (David Yoo) - bowl of cereal, milk, and various non-food props
"The Book of Tea" - tea bowl, tea powder, tea whisk, tea spoon, iron kettle, water
"Haiku Not Bombs" - eggplant incised with haiku
"Mortar and Pestle" (Lisa Gill) - stone mortar and pestle w/ various healing plants
"The Missing Piece" (Shel Silverstein) - carved wheel of cheese and various shapes
"Crooked Cucumber" (David Chadwick) - carved cucumber
"The Cinnamon Peeler" (Michael Ondaatje) - grated cinnamon stick
"29 Cheeseburgers" - (Mark Lamoureux) - 29 sliders
"Holidays on Ice" (David Sedaris) - water with gas in a glass, w/ candy cane
"Seismosis" (John Keene & Chris Stackhouse) - abstract drawing composed of seaweed strands
"Grapefruit" (Yoko Ono) - a grapefruit with an instruction poem
"The Handful of Seeds" (Andrew Schelling) - 3.5 mountains of various seeds - mustard, cumin, sunflower,?
"French Milk" (Lucy Knisley) - glass bottle of milk
"Girls for Breakfast" (David Yoo) - bowl of cereal, milk, and various non-food props
"The Book of Tea" - tea bowl, tea powder, tea whisk, tea spoon, iron kettle, water
"Haiku Not Bombs" - eggplant incised with haiku
"Mortar and Pestle" (Lisa Gill) - stone mortar and pestle w/ various healing plants
"The Missing Piece" (Shel Silverstein) - carved wheel of cheese and various shapes
"Crooked Cucumber" (David Chadwick) - carved cucumber
"The Cinnamon Peeler" (Michael Ondaatje) - grated cinnamon stick
"29 Cheeseburgers" - (Mark Lamoureux) - 29 sliders
Friday, January 16, 2009
More yoga scripts
courtesy of Baca:
"Spread your sternum open like an angel is grabbing your heart."
"Drop your arms and relax. Angry people are inherently uglier." (said with a stern authority, broken immediately by smiling)
"Spread your sternum open like an angel is grabbing your heart."
"Drop your arms and relax. Angry people are inherently uglier." (said with a stern authority, broken immediately by smiling)
Monday, January 12, 2009
She Said/She Said
Meet my best friend Jennifer. I have known Jenn since I was twelve years old. We went to middle and high school, before going our different paths to college – her to the Southwest and me to Boston.
Jenn had many of the qualities that I admired – she was outgoing, funny, unafraid to talk to strangers. She performed on the drill team, rollerskated like a pro, and later got into team sports – everything from swimming and soccer to women’s softball. Pick a physical activity and she could master it, or at least keep up with and contribute to a less than diverse team. At home, she lived in a condo complex near the University of California, Riverside, with her single working mother and seemed to my eyes to enjoy a great deal of freedom and independence, with her summers spent with her father in a suburb of Long Island, New York. From early on, we wrote letters back and forth during those long summers spent with families, and as we moved around the country for college and jobs, the letters continued - she became a life line for me: she took me to Planned Parenthood when I had no healthcare and needed help. When I had an accident with some glass, she took me to her mother who taped my hand back together. When I was involved with the unstable and controlling married man, she told me what she thought about the relationship.
Some friends grow farther apart, outgrow one another, other friendships deepen. I’ve known Jenn now for twenty-one years – longer than I have not known her. As the years have passed, the scope of our conversation has deepened – when we were young, we rarely talked about our bodies, illness, careers, race, children, family, power and powerlessness, what it is to be a woman of color, but now it often feels like we think about the same things on any given day.
Last year, Jenn started a blog called The Coconut Diaries. And as her writing practice has developed, I’ve been delighted at Jenn’s capacity to express herself through story-telling, humor, and a sharp wit. Reading her writing leads us to new conversations with one another about the things that we think about and experience every day.
I went through a period where I didn’t want to collaborate with anyone creatively, after a number of sour experiences – with women. I am occasionally coaxed out of this mindset by the friendly persistence of male colleagues that I deeply respect, but on another level I haven’t been interested in “getting the band back together” for quite some time. Like since 2006.
Jenn casually suggested the idea of a blog swap a month ago, a low stakes experiment where someone guest blogs for you. I’ve known poets to do trade-offs, and Jenn’s traded with women from her own circle. I sat with the idea and it grew on me. A lot. It was presented with such an easy and open quality, that the foundation for this dialogue quickly evolved for me into what felt undeniably like a collaboration that I could feel passionately about, in terms of shared ownership, communication, and creativity. One that doesn’t relate to the academic and intellectual worlds in which we each participate, but to life as we experience and live it.
Jenn is one of the first people I consult on major life decisions, matters of marriage, and race. I care how she thinks and recognize the value of her opinions, experiences and voice.
So we’ve come up with a plan – our version of “The View,” but less annoying, from two women of color who grew up in the strangeness of the Inland Empire of Southern California who are learning to come into our voice, and our power in our early 30s. It is our goal to make dual posts twice a month on topics that mutually interest us. If you are interested in suggesting a topic, please email Jenn or me, though we’ve got a loose plan for topics – expect postings on the inauguration, the Super Bowl, husbands and video games, rites of passage, and fathers and daughters.
You can leave your comments at The Coconut Diaries or email us, but I will not enable the comments here due to blog stalkers. I do not expect for these posts to interest anyone except for Jenn and me. This blog is not a performance and this is an entirely selfish act of ownership. I hope this blog swap will be a way to re-invigorate the medium of the online journal or daybook – this is a conversation between me and my best friend. I invite you to eavesdrop.
The ABFF is someone who just makes stuff happen. She plucks an idea from the cloud of ambition hovering above her head and crafts it into existence. She’s like a Top Chef contestant who looks at an apple and thinks caramelized, reduction sauce, etoufee, gnocchi; while you’re stuck on apple pie, apple pie a la mode, and, you know, plain old’ apple. In the wrong hands, this quality could be wretchedly annoying. If she were someone who shrugged and said, “I don’t know, I just ate less” or “It’s easy if you just (insert overly simplistic bulleted lists and steps and to-dos here).” But she makes things happen because she knows luck and waiting won’t get you as far as a solid network, a catalog of success, and attention to detail. It is her tireless attention to detail that turned a flighty idea into the newest way to give my blog some substance.
She Said/She Said is what The View would be if Sherry Shepherd suffocated in her own cleavage, Elisabeth Hasselbeck came out and ran off with Joy Behar, Barbara Walters died, Whoopi got a weave and Lisa Ling needed to add some street cred to her resume. This is a show where two early-thirtysomethings discover how our experiences with race impact our view of contemporary events, friendships, our spouse’s have a seemingly large interest in video games, rites of passages, and familial relationships.
In case you couldn’t crack my superior code, the “A” in The ABFF is “asian” (gasp!). We had a common friendship with a white girl in junior high that cultivated into uniquely shared experiences of matriculating as the only people of color in our Southern Californian circle of friends. There is something about being “the only”, “the first”, “that one” that bonds us. We drifted between concentric friendship circles in high school. My boundless need to fit in guided me towards the jocks, proms, prep rallies, shopping, movies, makeup, sports, church; while her gifts led her to choir, art, theatre, and an ungodly run-in with a perm. No matter how our lives diverged, we always wrote letters to keep in touch. I was floored by her fierce rebellion against tradition and needed to connection to life lacking superficiality. A life that was real and messy and rejected and sad. A life where strength, courage, challenge, and hope wasn’t in a tube of gloss.
So, we wrote. And wrote. Through college, the baby I didn’t have, the nervous breakdown, The Ex, marital doubts, career disillusions, every choice I’ve made in over 2 decades. She is the first person I dialed when I was called a nigger my first week in Texas. The one I consulted when I slept with the wrong guy. (OK, guys). The one who I cry to when my father measures my inches of success with a milestick. She’s as much a part of my life as anyone I share DNA with. The depth of my respect for her lies in her authenticity. That reality that resilience, success, pain, disappointment, passion, initiative, and risk often share the same space. She’s Jiminy Cricket. Glenda the Good Witch. This amateur blog’s muse. Motivation personified.
With all kinds of courage and drive, she left our little west coast cocoon and spread her wings in Boston, Colorado, Taiwan, Chicago, Dallas, and Seattle. She’s blazed her own path to become a published poet, much to the chagrin of the expectation that she become something more stable, like her brother the doctor. But I’ve attended her readings and wished they could see the fun gushing on her like she was Oprah in a little asian body. I’ve also seen her take jobs just left of her passion to pay the bills, but attended to them as learning opportunities. She’s unconsciously exquisite, deliberately talented, hopelessly devoted.
Ladies and Gentleman (yeah, GeekHiker, you’re still the only guy brave enough to hang out here), it is with great pleasure and little pants wetting that I introduce you to The ABFF. Love her as much as I do, or I’ll sock you.
Jenn had many of the qualities that I admired – she was outgoing, funny, unafraid to talk to strangers. She performed on the drill team, rollerskated like a pro, and later got into team sports – everything from swimming and soccer to women’s softball. Pick a physical activity and she could master it, or at least keep up with and contribute to a less than diverse team. At home, she lived in a condo complex near the University of California, Riverside, with her single working mother and seemed to my eyes to enjoy a great deal of freedom and independence, with her summers spent with her father in a suburb of Long Island, New York. From early on, we wrote letters back and forth during those long summers spent with families, and as we moved around the country for college and jobs, the letters continued - she became a life line for me: she took me to Planned Parenthood when I had no healthcare and needed help. When I had an accident with some glass, she took me to her mother who taped my hand back together. When I was involved with the unstable and controlling married man, she told me what she thought about the relationship.
Some friends grow farther apart, outgrow one another, other friendships deepen. I’ve known Jenn now for twenty-one years – longer than I have not known her. As the years have passed, the scope of our conversation has deepened – when we were young, we rarely talked about our bodies, illness, careers, race, children, family, power and powerlessness, what it is to be a woman of color, but now it often feels like we think about the same things on any given day.
Last year, Jenn started a blog called The Coconut Diaries. And as her writing practice has developed, I’ve been delighted at Jenn’s capacity to express herself through story-telling, humor, and a sharp wit. Reading her writing leads us to new conversations with one another about the things that we think about and experience every day.
I went through a period where I didn’t want to collaborate with anyone creatively, after a number of sour experiences – with women. I am occasionally coaxed out of this mindset by the friendly persistence of male colleagues that I deeply respect, but on another level I haven’t been interested in “getting the band back together” for quite some time. Like since 2006.
Jenn casually suggested the idea of a blog swap a month ago, a low stakes experiment where someone guest blogs for you. I’ve known poets to do trade-offs, and Jenn’s traded with women from her own circle. I sat with the idea and it grew on me. A lot. It was presented with such an easy and open quality, that the foundation for this dialogue quickly evolved for me into what felt undeniably like a collaboration that I could feel passionately about, in terms of shared ownership, communication, and creativity. One that doesn’t relate to the academic and intellectual worlds in which we each participate, but to life as we experience and live it.
Jenn is one of the first people I consult on major life decisions, matters of marriage, and race. I care how she thinks and recognize the value of her opinions, experiences and voice.
So we’ve come up with a plan – our version of “The View,” but less annoying, from two women of color who grew up in the strangeness of the Inland Empire of Southern California who are learning to come into our voice, and our power in our early 30s. It is our goal to make dual posts twice a month on topics that mutually interest us. If you are interested in suggesting a topic, please email Jenn or me, though we’ve got a loose plan for topics – expect postings on the inauguration, the Super Bowl, husbands and video games, rites of passage, and fathers and daughters.
You can leave your comments at The Coconut Diaries or email us, but I will not enable the comments here due to blog stalkers. I do not expect for these posts to interest anyone except for Jenn and me. This blog is not a performance and this is an entirely selfish act of ownership. I hope this blog swap will be a way to re-invigorate the medium of the online journal or daybook – this is a conversation between me and my best friend. I invite you to eavesdrop.
The ABFF is someone who just makes stuff happen. She plucks an idea from the cloud of ambition hovering above her head and crafts it into existence. She’s like a Top Chef contestant who looks at an apple and thinks caramelized, reduction sauce, etoufee, gnocchi; while you’re stuck on apple pie, apple pie a la mode, and, you know, plain old’ apple. In the wrong hands, this quality could be wretchedly annoying. If she were someone who shrugged and said, “I don’t know, I just ate less” or “It’s easy if you just (insert overly simplistic bulleted lists and steps and to-dos here).” But she makes things happen because she knows luck and waiting won’t get you as far as a solid network, a catalog of success, and attention to detail. It is her tireless attention to detail that turned a flighty idea into the newest way to give my blog some substance.
She Said/She Said is what The View would be if Sherry Shepherd suffocated in her own cleavage, Elisabeth Hasselbeck came out and ran off with Joy Behar, Barbara Walters died, Whoopi got a weave and Lisa Ling needed to add some street cred to her resume. This is a show where two early-thirtysomethings discover how our experiences with race impact our view of contemporary events, friendships, our spouse’s have a seemingly large interest in video games, rites of passages, and familial relationships.
In case you couldn’t crack my superior code, the “A” in The ABFF is “asian” (gasp!). We had a common friendship with a white girl in junior high that cultivated into uniquely shared experiences of matriculating as the only people of color in our Southern Californian circle of friends. There is something about being “the only”, “the first”, “that one” that bonds us. We drifted between concentric friendship circles in high school. My boundless need to fit in guided me towards the jocks, proms, prep rallies, shopping, movies, makeup, sports, church; while her gifts led her to choir, art, theatre, and an ungodly run-in with a perm. No matter how our lives diverged, we always wrote letters to keep in touch. I was floored by her fierce rebellion against tradition and needed to connection to life lacking superficiality. A life that was real and messy and rejected and sad. A life where strength, courage, challenge, and hope wasn’t in a tube of gloss.
So, we wrote. And wrote. Through college, the baby I didn’t have, the nervous breakdown, The Ex, marital doubts, career disillusions, every choice I’ve made in over 2 decades. She is the first person I dialed when I was called a nigger my first week in Texas. The one I consulted when I slept with the wrong guy. (OK, guys). The one who I cry to when my father measures my inches of success with a milestick. She’s as much a part of my life as anyone I share DNA with. The depth of my respect for her lies in her authenticity. That reality that resilience, success, pain, disappointment, passion, initiative, and risk often share the same space. She’s Jiminy Cricket. Glenda the Good Witch. This amateur blog’s muse. Motivation personified.
With all kinds of courage and drive, she left our little west coast cocoon and spread her wings in Boston, Colorado, Taiwan, Chicago, Dallas, and Seattle. She’s blazed her own path to become a published poet, much to the chagrin of the expectation that she become something more stable, like her brother the doctor. But I’ve attended her readings and wished they could see the fun gushing on her like she was Oprah in a little asian body. I’ve also seen her take jobs just left of her passion to pay the bills, but attended to them as learning opportunities. She’s unconsciously exquisite, deliberately talented, hopelessly devoted.
Ladies and Gentleman (yeah, GeekHiker, you’re still the only guy brave enough to hang out here), it is with great pleasure and little pants wetting that I introduce you to The ABFF. Love her as much as I do, or I’ll sock you.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
More McYoga
"Twist your arm, twist your legs like ropes."
"Twist, twist. Like pearls. Like a string of pearls."
"Sit Japanese style."
"Make your leg strong like concrete. Like a lamppost."
"Twist, twist. Like pearls. Like a string of pearls."
"Sit Japanese style."
"Make your leg strong like concrete. Like a lamppost."
Saturday, January 10, 2009
McBikram
I was completely disappointed with my first experience of bikram yoga today at the Rain City studio. The teacher recited from a script and repeated EVERYTHING twice and talked a mile a minute. She did not model any poses and made no adjustments on anyone, including newcomers. When asked after class, she stated that bikram teachers do not have permission to touch and cannot make adjustments. Also, it is a yoga style where the teachers do not move through the asanas with the students.
This raises some red flags for me - as a student, I look for a teacher's ability to teach effectively and for evidence of their knowledge base.
The script was awful and full of grammatical errors.
"Complete relax."
"Touch you knee with your forehead exactly."
"You should look like a Japanese sandwich from the side."
Savasana was torture. "Relax the feet. Relax the feet. Relax the calves. Relax the claves. Relax the knees. Relax the knees. Relax the arms. Relax the arms." All the way up the body to the eyes and forehead. It must have gone on a full 2-3 minutes. Everything repeated twice. Everything repeated twice. Fucking torture. No "OM" and no "Namaste."
There were about 25 people crammed into a 105 degree room of perhaps 700 square feet. We were crammed less than half a foot distance from one another. And I was sandwiched between a 6-foot-tall woman and a tiny female who was clearly experienced in bikram. My neighbors did a poor job of staggering themselves and as a result, we constantly bumped into each other, touching sweaty body parts. The woman next to me dripped on to my mat. Aversion, oh aversion.
Exhale yoga drew from bikram somewhat, but is a million times better.
This raises some red flags for me - as a student, I look for a teacher's ability to teach effectively and for evidence of their knowledge base.
The script was awful and full of grammatical errors.
"Complete relax."
"Touch you knee with your forehead exactly."
"You should look like a Japanese sandwich from the side."
Savasana was torture. "Relax the feet. Relax the feet. Relax the calves. Relax the claves. Relax the knees. Relax the knees. Relax the arms. Relax the arms." All the way up the body to the eyes and forehead. It must have gone on a full 2-3 minutes. Everything repeated twice. Everything repeated twice. Fucking torture. No "OM" and no "Namaste."
There were about 25 people crammed into a 105 degree room of perhaps 700 square feet. We were crammed less than half a foot distance from one another. And I was sandwiched between a 6-foot-tall woman and a tiny female who was clearly experienced in bikram. My neighbors did a poor job of staggering themselves and as a result, we constantly bumped into each other, touching sweaty body parts. The woman next to me dripped on to my mat. Aversion, oh aversion.
Exhale yoga drew from bikram somewhat, but is a million times better.
It's opening weekend for the new Daron Aronofsky film The Wrestler signaling Mickey Rourke's cinematic comeback. I am really excited about this film. 1) I used to love watching pro wrestling - as a kid, I would watch television matches on Sunday mornings with my dad; one of his few days off, and one of our few father-daughter activities. My favorite wrestlers were Rowdy Roddy Doyle. Hulk Hogan was always embroiled in a battle with Randy Savage. I'm not sure who's side I was on. I think Jesse "The Body" Ventura did commentary in those days of the WWF. The WWF was way better than GLOW. 2) I am fascinated by all things Mickey Rourke - I rented "Wild Orchid" on Kort's Hollywood Video account while I was on retreat in Port Townsend. I'd be too embarrassed to suggest that we watch it together, because it's an atrocious piece of acting, and it's the final sex scene in the last five minutes of the movie for which the movie is infamous, along the lines of Vincent Gallo's Brown Bunny. Kort and I sat through that one in Boston, and Kort didn't let me pick any movies for a long time after that. If you want to see a sensual movie set in Brazil, just rent Black Orpheus Oh, Mickey, what happened to you? You are still beautiful to me, even with a ruined face.
The kind staff at Urthona have accepted four poems from Adamantine for their next issue, due out end of year.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Yoga outreach
I was at Rain City last Friday when I noticed a little brochure on volunteering to teach yoga in the prison system. I couldn't remember the URL on the brochure and went home and googled a few days later and arrived here, when actually, I was looking for the local incarnation of a prison-based program. I am really floored by this - poetry has been doing outreach work for many years thru organizations like PEN, but this was the first I had read or heard of yoga going inside the prisons. It seems like a wonderful idea - focusing on the body and the spirit and the mind. The idea of freedom wherever you are. The Samaraya Center where I am looking into doing teacher training this year has a required volunteer practicum - it can be completed at the center, but it can also be done elsewhere. The yoga in prison program seems like a great challenge on so many levels and in line with the idea of bringing yoga to the masses and people who could really benefit from the practice - i.e. not middle-aged, privileged ladies undergoing a mid-life crisis as witnessed at the Seattle Center, but individuals engaged with much more serious exploration.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Vinyasa Instruction for R.Y. Yoga
"Palpate the shoulder blades with the breath."
"Stand up tall, like a flower pot."
"Let all that oxygen swirl up into your shoulders."
"Stand up tall, like a flower pot."
"Let all that oxygen swirl up into your shoulders."
Friday, January 02, 2009
Losing a wool mitten isn't as bad as say losing a diamond (which I've also done) but I am feeling less than mindful. This morning I trekked back out to Greenlake and did the full loop reluctantly, looking for my mitten, realizing that it is the exact color of pine needles and winter grass, making the task even more herculean.
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