I Have Decided To Save My Life.

There is no sound here.

2010-03-27T22:12:00.000-07:00

Morning has no sound except for breath.

Sheets are pressed against my bare body and

I am

Alone again.

Would behoove to break the air with song.

I rise too quickly

The aqueous rub of creation missing me again.

Something is missing.

I am parched and penniless if wealth is the force of freedom to express the flow.

I wake and want a different day.

I want more time to weave and wonder

To rest this broken body beaten by time and longing.

To walk in the direction of my heart with no need to stray.

My ambition is a bird with wings beating against a bitter cage.

Tries to fly until it collapses, exhausted by redundancy.

There is no sound here.

I am alone again.

I will break this bitter cage

With my own bones.

Survival is Like This

2010-03-20T20:50:00.000-07:00

I don’t know why I didn’t do anything. There were two of them. One white and one black. There is no telling what they got away with that night. Maybe it was because I moved like a tourist. Maybe it was my black skin. Maybe it was the short skirt, the perfume, the hair, the smile, the air, the fact that it was Saturday night. I don’t know why they chose me and don’t know why I got away.

I could have told someone. Right then and there. I could have called the police. Right then, and not now 7 years later. There is no telling what they have gotten away with by now.

Mind, morals and ideals do betray when you are afraid. Afraid because I was in a foreign country. Afraid because I am black and the witness stood there in his whiteness did nothing. Afraid because “this is Africa.” Afraid because, who would believe? I witnessed the dark side of humanity and even I did not want to believe.

The black one. He was short and skinny except for his belly, which was square and round at the same time. It protruded unnaturally from his body like a tumor. His eyes were as red as dirt and he looked at me as if he was looking for something in my direction that wasn’t there. He was sweating and looked nervous. I was thinking, “You’re not going to get lucky, so cool it.” This was South Africa 2002. I was out on the town with some girls from my University; we had come to teach in the townships about AIDS and HIV.

I was feeling my usual combination of bold and lonely. I strayed from the group to have a chat and a little flirt, no biggie, I was planning on returning quickly. After all it was a small club and you could see everything from anywhere no matter where you were standing. I remember the yellow of the club. I remember being fascinated that the club was integrated and segregated at the same time. From a bird’s eye view we must have looked like oil and water. Clumps of black and white, separated and together, never mixing. The bar was not far from where we had been dancing. A long orange bar with a white bartender behind it. He mixed drinks and looked angry for most of the night. I don’t know why he didn’t do anything. Often I think, “it’s because I’m black. Black bodies and the things that happen to them do not matter. Are invisible. These things are too terrible to want to hear or know.” If I had been a white woman, how would the story go? This is South Africa 2002, separate and together. In the aftermath of apartheid it is difficult to articulate the depth of the divide.

The black one. He is the one who disgusted me the most. He had a cocky sweaty stance. He stuttered. He was boldly ignorant. Both of them were nervous and I could feel it. There were parts of me, the survivor and the victim, together and separate who said, “just let this play out until you can slip away. There are enough people here. The lights are bright. Don’t cause a scene and don’t get arrested in a foreign country.”

The white one had called me over. His face was long and reddish, complimented by his orange shirt. His nose was like a long road leading to his mouth. His movements were jerky and awkward. His eyes faded. “Where are you from?” He asked and the thickness of Afrikaans had not quite dripped off of his English, but I understood. “I’m from the US.” I answered. He became slightly more nervous. His eyes darting to the black one, then back to me. “Oh, America. Well, let us buy you a drink, what would you like?”

I contemplated this, I felt unsure, flattered. I thought, why not, these are probably some nice guys, probably nervous about talking to a pretty girl. There are plenty of people here. But there are two. There are two of them and there is one of me. And the black one is still sweating.

They waited, staring at me. “Sure. I’ll have a Coke.” “Okay,” the black one “we’ll bring it to you go dance with your friends.” I looked at them and I looked at the bartender, shrugged my shoulders and said, “okay.”

Every script every woman has ever told me about drinking things given to you by strange men was playing in my head. I just wasn’t sure what to do or how to get out of the situation. Now, 7 years later it occurs to me that I could have turned around and said, no thanks, I changed my mind. Now, 7 years later it occurs to me that I was afraid. I was afraid of being attacked. I was afraid of the foreignness of my self in their country. And I was afraid to be black in their country, even more so than in my own. And I realize now that I also wanted to understand what was happening. So I went back to dance with my friends, for only a moment until I decided that I should go back. I’m not sure why I went back. I’m not sure if it was to tell them that I changed my mind I already had some water, or if I went back to tell them that I wanted a bottle not a glass, or if it was to find out what was taking so long.

I approached the orange bar. It was long and orange like the face of the white one. He had his back to me now and his front was close to the black one who was looking at me through the red. The whole thing must have taken 30 seconds but it felt like hours, the walk and what I saw. The bartender, he was there behind the bar watching them both then looking at me as I came near. He opened his mouth as I approached the bar and then closed it and proceeded to wipe down the counter, his eyes cast down. My eyes too were cast down. Somehow I was ashamed and embarrassed for all of them by what I had seen. My anger rose and then went straight to my knees where it buckled my foundation. And my ears must have been ringing because I couldn’t hear anything for a few seconds. All I could do was see. See the white one with his white powder, see the black one turning his back to conceal, see the bartender witness and ignore. See the stirring of something, some powder that could kill, sterilize, paralyze, knock unconscious, and destroy me. See the drink being handed to me. They must have known I had seen. They must know that I wouldn’t drink a drink that is open. A drink that looks like some has been poured out. What should I say? What should I do? Look at the bartender, what kind of person would ignore? Look at the black one. Look at the white one. Hasn’t the violence and hatred done enough? Look at me with my hands and knees shaking, saying thank you and walking away.

I don’t know why I didn’t do anything. I should have called someone, I should have said something. Maybe I should have made a scene, screamed, thrown the drink in their face. Told them it was an American custom to share the drink with me. Told every woman in the bar. These are all of the things I have thought of over the last 7 years. But never then and there. Then and there I was frozen. Ice must have run through my blood stopping my heart and my brain. I walked with my shaking hands back to the table where we had all laid our coats. I put the bottle on the table and watched it. I went back to dance with my friends and I watched that bottle all night because it was all that I could do. And the men, they watched me. The two of them black and white brought together only by their criminal and anti-social leanings and not by history or laws. They watched me to see if I would swoon. They watched me to see if I would fall. They watched me to see if I had drunk. They watched me to see when would be the right time.

“Are you okay?” the red head. She was always the nosy one, but not just nosy, she just knew things. She knew when you were hungry, she knew when you were sneaking guests into the guesthouse, and she knew when you were not okay. “I’m fine.” I said a little breathlessly and we danced. I felt like a fool. And would they believe? I felt ashamed. I felt that it didn’t matter as long as the night would just end. I thought that I would just get through this, just like I always do. Nothing made sense and I didn’t know what to do so the night pressed on.

I watched that bottle. And the men watched me. I was outside of myself, blood like ice running through my veins taking my breath away. Head spinning, even though I had not drunk. I don’t remember much of what happened next except for this:

They pressed through the pulsating crowd, the two of them. Looking redder and blacker and angry now. I didn’t know they were approaching until I turned and the black one was there pressed up against me. His red eyes peering into mine, looking to see if it was time. I stared back, my eyes sober, my face stone cold. My body stiff and rigid. Staring for 3 seconds, each second harboring hours. No breaths taken. Air between us thick with rage. His and mine. This was a man who wanted to rip my throat out for spoiling his fun. The feeling in my heart was so sharp it could have cut. It was as if the world stopped and no one alive lived this moment but he and I. My mind raced until finally he turned defeated and walked out of the club. The white one followed.

Later in the cab on the way back to the guest house and later for years I panicked with the what ifs. What if those men went to another club and successfully drugged, raped, and killed some other woman? What if I hadn’t seen what I had seen? What would have happened to me? How would I have endured it? There would have been no way to fight. Who would have found my body? Would anyone have even searched? Who would have identified me in that foreign land? Would anyone have ever known what happened? What about my family, how long would it take for them to find out? Who would tell my story? What about justice?

I should have told someone. I should have done something.

In those moments I have to remind myself that it didn’t happen. I did see. It was the darkest, most disturbing and inhuman thing I have ever personally witnessed. By divine grace and the grace of everything greater than me I was spared what would have undoubtedly been at the least my own kidnapping, rape and possibly murder.

I am grateful that I saw and that it was not some other woman who did not see, or who was alone, or who was intoxicated, or who didn’t trust her intuition, or who was unaware that this could happen. Now 7 years later, I realize that in a strange way I did do something. I prevented the full sequence of horrible events from happening to someone else that night. In my bones I knew something was wrong. I drew it out. I took their poison, their weapon away and guarded it with my life. It was a weird, irrational and unconscious strategy, but survival is like that. Survival is like this: You do what you can and then you tell your story.

Bitter Lullabies

2010-01-20T17:59:00.000-08:00

Hush now the earth,
is quiet.
Hope, find us here even in these forgotten cracks.
These holes made in the places we call home.
Holes made by the
Hush now,
There are people crying.
Just don’t close your eyes.
This is not a time to sleep
World.

People are surviving somewhere on the same streets
Where the ocean is filled with blood and debris.
Strange cargo adrift.
Doorways, shattered
Windows
Shoes
A roof
Bodies broken
Pieces of life made convoluted and obscene, contorted by the

Hush now,
The ocean does not know what to do with these things that were not made for her.
She spits
And we walk the shore holding our battered bodies and whatever else we can hold.
Holding on to each other, grasping ourselves, our bodies the only point of reference when the earth betrays.

And then there is nothing to hold on to.
Only everyday pieces of life turned absurd.
The familiar fractured, lovers
And mothers taken by the

Hush.
The earth has spoken.
A child cries, and no one hears.
Not just here.
Open your eyes.
You, on the same earth that has mangled and crushed
Hush.
These are no words for a child.

Dear Everything:

2009-12-07T21:58:00.000-08:00

My love, come back to me.
Nothing moves me like you do. Nothing touches me the way you do.
When I am with you Spirit meets breath and sound
And I am human and ethereal all at once.
I am truly alive. I am one with the Divine.

Come back to me my love.
I will not neglect you.
I will not turn my head when you come to lay your elusive kisses on my face.
I will wait and
I will say yes to you.

Even if this heart does not yet know how to hold as much of life as you are, come.
The fullness, the bitter taste, the real deal of you, the beauty that sits on my chest like a weight heavier than hopes forgotten, come.
This has always been too much but
I will learn to hold all of the life that you are, within me.
I will patch the broken places.
I will bear you again and again.

Come back to me my love.
Do you remember how we used to dance freely in the open, with no shame?
Raw and naked, and young we were.
Fear did not know us.
I have grown older now. Folding my hopes into perfect places like unused napkins tucked under china plates for display on perfect dining tables.
Gathers dust.
No one eats here.
Dreams are starving day by day without you.

Me, my love, come back too.
The you I used to know laced with lyric and language.
The you I used to know wrapping words around me,
Sighs and melodies never one the same. Perversely prolific you.
You never stopped to second guess. You plunged into everything.
I remember how we used to dance freely in the open calling on gods by their names.

Come back, I will poke my heart with shunts and arrows to stay open wide enough to accept the fullness of you.
I am strong enough now to love you.

A Word of Advice on BART Courtship

2009-12-05T20:05:00.000-08:00

Guys, if you happen to see a beautiful woman on BART that you might like to talk to, there are several reasons why you might not want to stare relentlessly.

1) She may start to feel uncomfortable and wonder if she has a big crumb on her face.

2) She may think that you are part of the BART Psycho Association (BPA), which is not the first choice dating pool for most women.

3) If you stare and she sees you staring, even if she thinks you might be cute, she never gets a chance to check you out because each time she tries to inconspicuously glance in your direction to check out what kind of shoes you're wearing or to see if your fingernails are clean, there you are all BPA, staring right into her eyeball.

So take it from me, the lovely lady on BART. Don't stare. Look, and look away. Look, and look away. Practice in the mirror at home.

Hello.

2009-11-03T20:09:00.000-08:00

Hello.

Long time no bloggy blog. Yeah well. I guess I’m not really sure how to write and what to write when everything and nothing is happening all at the same time.

I don’t even really take time to poke people on Friendster anymore. It’s now really just a matter of trying not to throw up on my keypad at work everyday. Never mind the nepotism, never mind the racism, never mind the slander, and never mind the sheer stupidity. And then, at the end of the day, when I feel I’ve been successful in my mission, I still feel very depressed because not throwing up at work and subsequently succeeding at concealing my disgust at the departmental dysfunction of which I am, apparently, the ugly step-child, is NOT an accomplishment!

At no point in the last 10 years did I set on my list of goals. 1) Get yourself a job that will turn out to disgust you and stay there so you can pay your bills, but...don’t throw up.

The need to survive can really derail one’s dreams, one’s state of mind, one’s priorities and one’s perspective. It causes almost a sort of amnesia. I find myself there at my desk cheering myself on for holding back yet another gag, and once I catch myself I look around and ask, “Is this for real?” I mean, is this really my life in this moment? Where did things go wrong? I mean, if I had even just $20,000 in the bank would I still be sitting here? (hell to the naw.)

And then, somewhere in a parallel reality I also know that everything is right. I do have a job to complain about after all. And, even though I caught the flu, which screwed up my plans (big time!), I’ve been preparing for a very exciting creative opportunity (shhh!) which may turn out to be the answer to my prayers. The excitement alone has been saving me and I guess there are two ways this could go.

1) I’ll be given the opportunity that I’m preparing for and I’ll be rescued from my detestable day job.

2) I'll...Well...Let’s focus on number one. Focusing on number one is saving my life right now, and that’s the point.

That is the point. Find something worth focusing on, and try not to throw up on everything else.

Pay Attention!

2009-08-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

Even if I feel that I have nothing to write about, and I sit here for an hour in front of my computer, then I take a nap, then I come back, I think that I am still engaged in the process of writing.

I took a Bikram's Yoga class this morning because it’s been over a year and I remember that when I was doing Bikram's Yoga I didn’t feel puffy, and my knees didn’t hurt. Right now everything hurts and I guess if I don’t come up with $300 to buy 3 months worth of classes it will all be in vain. Just one day doing torture in a hot room. Not a consistent practice that can actually heal my body and shed the 20lbs I gained since I stopped. Why the hell is yoga in the US so expensive anyway? When I become a yoga teacher I’m going to offer free classes every Sunday or more if I can. By the way Bikram's Yoga is amazing, but since I’ve been practicing Ashtanga and Vinyasa for the last few years, I can do some really cool stuff. Clearly that is what’s important. (Unfortunately, I can no longer do Titsibasana, because I now have a big booty and it throws the balance off.) I’m planning on going back tomorrow, I have 10 days for $10 and I plan to do as many as I can before I figure out how to work something out with the studio owner.

Actually during my nap I had a dream about Bikram, or BK Bose of Niroga, I’m not sure who it was but the significance is the same, one currently my “teacher,” the other hopefully soon to be. But the dream was kind of disturbing and it will be interesting to see what significance it has in the next couple months as I await my opportunity to interview with Niroga for a scholarship to be in their yoga teacher training program.

Anyway, I was standing there in yoga class and everyone had just completed both sides of tree pose and were beginning to enter Savasana. But I had only done one side because I was standing there on one foot having an entire conversation with my sister, in my head.

Shortly after we all lay down, Bikram or BK or at this point I think it might have even been Deepak Chopra or maybe some other important figure I have yet to meet... called all of the students into another room. I laid there, not because I felt like being defiant but because I had for some reason decided that for whatever reason he had called all the students, I wasn’t going to get called for it. So I thought I would lie there and then go home when I was done. I eventually thought that I better get up so that I’m not mistaken for being disrespectful. So I get up and I see that he is waiting for me there in the next room sitting behind a big wooden desk, as if sitting before a classroom. He is wearing a stripped multicolored dress shirt, circular glasses and his black wavy hair is streaked with gray.

As I get up to walk over I feel extremely tired and I’m trying to get the sleep out of my eyes, but I can barely keep them open. I sit in a chair perpendicular to him and open my eyes wide. I’m sure this looks unnatural, but I don’t want him to think I’m falling asleep while he’s talking.

He hands me a paper and I realize that it’s a test I took some days ago and I’m excited because I know I aced it. When he hands it back to me I see a 19 and a 23, I’m a little disappointed but I’m thinking 19 out of 23 isn’t that bad.

Then he says, “No, it’s 9 out of 423.”

My mouth drops open and I ask how that can be. He shows me my bubble sheet and points out that I skipped a bubble in the beginning of the test and so all of my subsequent answers, although correct, came up as wrong because the were marked in the wrong place, one off. (This is typical grade school nightmare. Raise your hand if it’s happened to you!)

He says, “Well I meant to remind you all to be careful about this at the beginning of the test. It’s too bad because it was actually very good.”

I say, “So, you’re still going to count them all as wrong?” He says yes, and puts the paper down in front of me. I am pissed, and I’m trying to think of the appropriate thing to say. I’m thinking I will likely fail this class because of this. I’ve never failed any class, and he knows this because I am one of the top students. He is watching me closely as I stare down at my paper.

I pick up the paper, “Okay, thank you,” I say and I turn around and leave without looking back. I’m thinking I’ll go to the dean. How many tests will there be in this class anyway? I hate him in that moment. I think that he is cold and uncompassionate. I feel all of the injustices that I’ve ever been faced with all well up inside my heart and my chest. I feel helpless and I feel as if I’ve been cast aside, rejected. And most of all I hate that it’s actually my own fault.

In the dream, as I stand there with the paper clutched in my hand, I slow my breath and evaluate my feelings. I realize that no, he didn’t cut me a break, or show me any favoritism, but I was completely responsible for my own carelessness, haste or lack of attention. I had everything that I needed to be excellent and I simply "spaced out." This had me falling just short of excellence in the worst way. This is what I have to grapple with.

This is a dream about failure. About feeling left alone. About confronting my own flaws and humanity. This is not a dream about a horse and a carrot. This is dream about running up to the bank and having the door closed on your face at exactly 5pm, and wanting to blame the door. About running outside for the ice cream truck as it is just pulling away. A dream about disappointment. The frustration of being so close to your dreams, reaching up to grab them and watching them slip away because you happened to use too much hand lotion. Yep, this is where it's at right now.

Perhaps this dream is telling me that I have everything that it takes to make my dreams come true. Now I just have to be precise, grounded and to pay attention. Now, doesn't that sound nice?

P.S. That's my friend Esak Garcia, awesome Bikram teacher. No I can't do that....yet.

No Hugs for a Week

2009-08-16T18:53:00.000-07:00

My arms hurt. I got bored with doing regular pushups, so on Saturday I decided to try one-arm push-ups on a medicine ball. (I saw this girl doing them at the gym and she was ripped!)

I did two sets of 10, but um..there will be no hugs for about a week. If you see me and try to hug me and I just stand there stiffly like a cardboard cut out, don’t take it personally, I actually can’t move my arms.

Can this still be sexy?

2009-08-09T18:39:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about what happens to love, romance and courtship in a struggling economy. Does the question of who’s paying become a more sensitive issue? When a Beemer turns into a BART ticket, can this still be sexy?

Look around. Would be fairy tale weddings are morphing into a trip to the courthouse and afterwards a dinner for 5. Not that this has to become any less special, but so much has to be let go.

Few are going to the movies, purchasing art, or seeing shows.

Would be diamond rings or romantic trips to Hawaii are turning into semi precious occasions, memories lined with coupons, frozen dinners and buffets instead of Le Cheval and the Gourmet Ghetto. Many in glittery mansions now find themselves in their mothers houses, or in humble 2 bedroom apartments, or with bills being the only thing over their heads.

A would be nest egg or 401K tucked away for a retirement escape a Guatamala to perch forever with a loved one is now used to escape forclosure, and where in this does romance exist?

What is sexy about holes in your socks, tape on your glasses and red in your bank account? Being single, when is there even time to think about love, romance and courtship when it gets this bad?

And romance definitely has to be redefined when the potential, relative or proverbial man of your dreams approaches you and asks you out…. but doesn’t have a car. (If you think I'm shallow, so what? Keep reading.)

He is 33 years old and he lives with his brother in a 1 bedroom apartment strangely too close to your hood. He was laid off months ago and lost…everything. Just got back on his feet and happens to work for the same company that you do. And this is all you know about him.

And now, considering the bleak state of romance in this economy, seeing that fairy tales are financially besides themselves, not withholding tradition and chivalry, holding on to what it means to want to feel like a lady, to want to be swept off of your feet, and knowing that this type of loss is real and rampant and can happen to anyone….

Could you then become the knight in shining armor? Showing up at his door to pick him up for a first date that he initiated and about which you are somewhat ambivalent? Is this a time to lower one's expectations or to stretch one's ideals?

Could you make new sense of it? Rationalize it somehow? Can this still be sexy?

Being a hopeless romantic, having hope for the best of any situation, and trying to roll with the times, I accepted the invitation and took the happy medium. I told him we could meet wherever would work best for him. The issue has not been resolved because he hasn’t called back since. Perhaps he was having his own struggles with the redefinition of romance in these trying times.

All Dried Up and Nowhere to Go

2009-07-26T16:03:00.000-07:00

Seriously though. This week after working 50 hours for two weeks straight I feel like all the creative juice that was previously flowing through my veins has dried up and backed up into the pathways of my brain leaving me well….creatively constipated.

Except that what is stuck there is not shit. And eating prunes is not going to solve this problem. So how, my question is how to reconnect with the flow? Or more importantly, how to always be in the flow even if your life is threatening to dry you up?

Seriously though. I haven’t touched my guitar in 2 weeks and all I feel about it is guilt and pressure. Now “the foundation” is having concerns about “my ability to complete my project.” AKA “The clock is now ticking on yo’ money so you better make something happen with yo’ record plans and soon!” Well, you know what? I’m having doubts too. I’m tired. I’m spent and I’m running a marathon that just keeps getting longer. Can you imagine being 5 feet away from the finish line of a crucial race and then watching the line be pushed out another 26 miles? Can you imagine that this has been going on for 3 years? You’d be pretty damn tired too.

I mean if an artist can honestly and completely be dedicated to her art year after year until she comes to a point where everything is at an impossible crossroads suspended between passion, debt, responsibility, talent, Saturn, insanity and dreams… If she is standing on her own in this, and always has been, like some lone guitar ranger singing her heart out with a vengeance with nothing beneath her but the sky and no map before her but her own hands… If she should come to a time in her life when she can’t decide what matters and all she can manage to do is eat, sleep, work, pay the bills, and try not to be afraid of what she is becoming…If she can see the new lines in her face… If she knows in her heart that her talent is a precious thing and is now seeing herself as a struggling and ill-equipped custodian of such talent… What, pray tell, is such an artist to do?

I need a revolution! Where is my knight in fucking shining armor? Where is someone who can save me?

Oh yes. I have decided to save my life. But I was hoping that life would wait for saving.

ii.

The other day after working for 10 hours with my nose pressed up against a computer screen, my shoulders hunched up against my ears and my wrists clicking in time with each strike of the keyboard…

After riding home in a sticky BART train for an hour, where some guy with a grocery bag full of oblong vegetables actually poked me in the bum with his assorted cucumbers, or whatever, and didn’t even notice…

After all of this… I came home feeling completely mechanical. I plopped down on the couch where I stopped long enough to realize that I was holding my breath and probably had been for most of the day. I looked outside at the garden growing darker by the minute as the last ray of sun hopped over the fence and into the neighbor’s back yard. And I thought, “I think I might actually already be dead, because this can’t really be living.”

What the hell kind of a thought is that?!

And do you know what I’m doing now? Now I am sitting in my car, watching people. Somehow I don’t feel so alone when I’m sitting in my car. I feel like I’m going somewhere or doing something or as if I have some direction. I watch the people park their cars and get out to walk their over-heated dogs. I watch the people kiss and hold hands on the sidewalk. I watch the people pack their bags of groceries in their trunks, and I wonder what they will make for dinner. This makes me feel better.

I’m feeling dry and dusty, and there is nowhere to go. So, I am sitting in my car and writing this to you.

Corporate Sweatshop? A word from the underground.

2009-07-12T19:59:00.000-07:00

Sundays are kind of sad. Over the weekend, I get a glimpse into what it would be like to have a significant amount of time to do the things that are important to me, and just as I begin to feel inspired it’s over. Monday comes and I’m up at 5:30am to be bussed off to the corporate sweatshop.

The buildings are tall and the computer screens hum quietly, inconspicuously zapping years of my life away. I sit for hours on end worrying here and there about mid-weight obesity and sedentary lifestyle. I am lucky, I have only one other person in my cubicle, and we get along. The others are crammed like sardines in hot rooms, hunched over their keyboards dreaming of health care coverage and paid time off, when no one is watching. But of course, someone is always listening or watching so, we've learned to shove entire dreams into the time span of a single blink, or to forget dreaming all together. If we keep our eyes closed for a couple minutes too long chances are some of us will be gone by the time we open them. Fired or laid off because of real or fabricated events, lack of communication, disconnect, disorganization. Disposable.

I have a lot of nerve writing this; hopefully I won't become one of the “disappeared.” We are on edge. We are long term temporary employees, minding our p's q's and F yous, hoping that one day we'll actually get hired and be recognized for the hard work we do and are (or not) passionate about. We are actually the blood line of this department, the foundation and literally so since most of us are housed on the first floor due to some legal technicality. Interestingly enough, when you walk around on the 1st floor you see mostly and disproportionately faces of color. "Diversity candidates," brought in through a special interview process to work on contract, often subject to "special" treatment by regular permanent employees. (That latter of course, we only find out during the 1st month when the all but hazing begins. Or maybe you're lucky and someone spoke out before you and it actually got nipped in the bud.)

And we all say, thank god for any job in this economy, after all, we do get paid pretty well. But, really? Any job? Under any conditions? I don't know.

And what about God?

2009-07-12T12:33:00.000-07:00

How the hell am I supposed to save my life when I spend 30% of it at some annoying job? And this job, which is annoying, is somehow supposed to bring me closer to the life that I want: a life of playing music, teaching yoga, creating and writing. This backwards equation exists because I’ve gotta have some money to exist in the meantime. Right now, the mean time seems a really long time.

Why do I need money anyway? Why do I need shelter? Why do I need to eat and sleep? Why do I need a hug? Why do I have to pee and poop? Why do I need love? Why do I feel? Why do I have these emotions? Why do I have to wear clothes? Why do I have ambition? All of this is so annoying, don’t you think? If I didn’t need all of these things I could just exist and all would be bliss. I would play music, sing, teach yoga, and write all day long. In fact I would even BE the music that I want to play. This would be enough to make me happy.

And the Spirit said to the Body: “Why do I need you? You need and want all the time. You feel happy, then later you feel sad. You are a burden and I want to be free.”

And the Body said to the Spirit: “Have you have forgotten that you manifested me? You manifested me so that you could see. So that you could touch. So that you could hear and know, feel and love. Laugh, hurt, fight and pray. You manifested me so that you could learn what you need to learn so that you won’t ever need me again. When I ache, you learn. When I want, you learn. When I love, fight, and feel sad, you learn. When you sing. You hear…because of me.

In fact, you are bound by me and this could be our heaven if we remember that you created all of this in order to learn.”

Spirit: “Body, this is hell. You ache, you bleed. You feel happy, then you feel sad. You envy and want. You are excellent and mediocre. I don’t understand anymore why we agreed to do this. I soar at the speed of light. I am unlimited intelligence and power. I am never boring or mediocre. I am omnipresent and I see every thing that is coming and I know everything that has passed. Body, you rarely even remember your own history. You cycle through the same joys, pains and misguided deeds again and again, and when you catch a glimpse of light and insight it is only for a moment. And what for?

Body, you try to attain things that you don’t understand. Love, abundance, happiness, health, security. I am Spirit and I am all of these things. You have bound me and I want to be free.”

Body: “Spirit, be patient. The only way for you to be free is for me to die. I am not yet dead because we made an agreement to learn and we are not done learning. We are only in hell when this is forgotten.”

Spirit: “And what about the mind? What is its purpose?”

Body: “The mind resides in the body. It is the portal through which you can see, learn, and observe all that I’m trying to tell you. Through the mind you can know, see and remember that we are in fact Spirit, we are not this body and we are not this mind. We are consciousness observing life and we are actually already free.”

Readers: “Whoa dude.”

Spirit: “Why do I forget?”

Body: "You forget because we are human, and there is much confusion in the human world. This confusion is your hell. Heaven exists in the remembrance and practice that Spirit is all there is. And above all remember that heaven is not better than hell. They are equal. Two ends of the same stick. Sit. Close your eyes and do nothing, or pray and you will remember. The longer you sit, the longer you will remember, and when you remember always, you will no longer need the burden of this body. You will have heaven and you will see that it is equal to hell. Then you will stop trying, and simply exist."

Spirit: “Can’t I exist without you?”

Body: “You can, and you always have, but who would know?”

Spirit: “And what about God?

Body: “Amen.”

To Bathe or Not to Bathe? That is the question.

2009-07-11T17:41:00.000-07:00

It has been brought to my attention that there is a class of people, mainly women, who refuse to shower at the gym.

Now, after one of the most awkward and outrageous moments in my life, during which I came out of the shower at the gym, and an old Asian lady said to me, “You know, I’m a lady, but when I see you I want to make a sex,” I think the topic warrants some discussion.

To bathe or not to bathe? That is the question. When confronted with a question such as this, there are many factors to consider:

1) Do you produce girly sweat or manly sweat? (These are technical fitness terms if you didn’t know.) Now, if you’re like me and you produce manly sweat, I mean, if when you’re done with your work out you actually look like someone dunked you in a pool of salt water and then shook you, then you probably don’t want to sit your sweaty behind in the car, unless you’re one of those weird people who carries around large plastic bags for such occasions. Manly sweat = shower at the gym.

2) Are you afraid of public nudity? If the answer is yes, then go home because you’re going to see a whole lot of things that you don’t want to see. There may be a few things you do want to see, but that’s just wrong, so go home.

3) If you get cruised by an old lady, are you the type to laugh? Or are you the type to shrink and die? If you know who you are, you’ll know what to do.

Now if you happen to be a gay man the implications, as usual, are totally different. I have a friend at work who is a gay, and he told me that taking a shower at the gym is actually a way for a gay man to pick up a date! Now I know this sounds wrong and controversial, but he told me so!

So, as you can see here in the thesis I have so nicely laid out, when deciding whether or not to shower at the gym, you must consider this: do you want go home sweaty and possibly ruin your car seats, but avoid public nudity and the mixed bag that comes along with it? Or do you want to go home fresh and clean and just try to forget the old lady who walked in on you when you were scrubbing your….toes. (That one happened today.)

Um…if you’re a gay then…just go for it!

Readers: "A gay?" Are you serious?

Akosua Miracle: Yes dude, my best friend is a gay.

Last Night I Dreamt

2009-07-03T14:15:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt I was falling in love. It was such a beautiful dream and much better than the one I had the night before, during which I actually fell in the mud. Maybe there is some connection.

No this time, there was a man. I’m quite sure he was Middle Eastern, or maybe he was South East Asian. We were sitting on an army green couch in an empty room with ivory walls. Just him and I. I was perched by his side trying to map the contour of his face with my hands. Each finger engaged in the excavation of joy. Trying to find the Allah there in each crevice or maybe even a forgotten OM. Trying to find all of the places where he had been, and love each one.

His arm circled around my waist as if to brace me for the unavoidable breaking point of anything this good. Some say that this is not necessarily so, this breaking point, but all I have is experience and even my dreams know this.

There on the couch in a strangely empty room, I burrowed into him like a bird in a nest trying to find a position perfect enough to protect her egg. He liked the way I burrowed and he showed me is straight white teeth. He smelled extraordinary, like soil and cinnamon and rain at once. His eyes opened like golden pools when he looked at me, and they were covered by a dark veil of lashes when he looked away. The shape of his lips, the weight of his hands on my body as I perched there now in his lap looking into his face, was pure grace. He made me feel smaller somehow, compared to the broadness of his shoulders and I liked this. I felt safe. I felt protected. I felt loved. And he did love me. He held me like a precious jewel. There was no doubt.

I’m not sure what it was that ripped me out of this dream. I gladly would have lived there forever. But I broke into reality. Sleep shattered and the shards flew into my chest. I held my breath hoping that I could stop this. And I gasped when the inevitable set in. There I was in my musty little basement apartment. Alone. The feeling familiar but unwanted. Good f’n morning.

How to know when you’re a real sugar addict…

2009-06-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

Contrary to popular belief, I have not given up on giving up sugar. This week was a particularly good week in my journey to sugar-free. I renewed my commitment on Sunday and all week long all I had was a couple bites of dark chocolate and one very important bite of a cookie.

What is so important about biting a cookie you might ask? Well when you’re a true sugar addict, it means everything.

This is how the story goes:

At work there is always free food lying around. I mean literally, on your way to the bathroom and heading back to your desk you may trip over a couple doughnuts, have a brownie thrown in your face or even be physically confronted by…the almighty chocolate chip cookie. As a sugar addict in recovery it is my worst nightmare! And the worst part about it is that I happen to sit by the kitchen so all I have to do is spin around in my little cubicle and often there, laid out on the kitchen counter, are all the sugary snacks I could ever dream of. And they’re free! What torture.

On Friday I was having a particularly difficult day, emotions were running high and I knew that at some point this would be the day that I would slip. It was just a question of how big a slip and when and where the slip would occur.

Well, it was lunchtime and I went to the fridge to get my lunch because I had been a very good girl and brought my lunch to save money and to save face. On my way to the fridge….there it was a big chocolate chip cookie and a sandwich, laying out on the counter where all the free food is left to tempt and test me.

So of course I walked by it a few times trying to talk myself out of it. With each turn my heart was racing. "How much damage will it really do?" "What if I just take one bite?" "How many calories are in one bite?" "You don't need that, just shake it off." After a few times back and forth I was no longer listening to the questions in my mind. All I knew was that I had to have some and I had to have it fast. Need cookie in bloodstream now! So, I gave in and pinched a little corner off of the cookie and placed it in my mouth. I felt my thoughts slow, my heart settle. I saw what I had done. And it was good.

Here’s the thing. As it turned out, my friends, on that day the food was not free.

I get to my desk and grab my bag and with in a few seconds I hear. “Oh my god! Someone ate some of this!”

In that moment I realized what had happened and I nearly died. The impossible had become possible.

I ACTUALLY ATE SOMEBODY’S LUNCH.

With the true shame and embarrassment of a true addict. I came out from behind my cube and confessed. “It was for my BOSS!” She said. And then I litterally laid down on the floor and died.

This is how you know when you are a true sugar addict. I hope I never see that girl again!

Today I rocked out on life saving activities.

2009-06-20T19:12:00.000-07:00

Today I rocked out on life saving activities. Yes! First, this morning I talked myself out of feeling guilty for waking up late. I had a lot planned for the morning. I needed to make it to the bank and then to western union to send some money home before going to the gym. Usually I can’t do more than roll out of bed, say some prayers, whip up some oatmeal and go. But this morning there was even the hope of writing a letter of appeal to my insurance company and taking it to the post office. All this needing to happen before 12pm. Unfortunately though, and as usual, I didn’t account for the fact that I was f’in tired. I mean…after an extremely painful week at work, almost getting fired then getting transferred to a new assignment mid-day on Thursday and still having to wrap up my current assignment for the week…I think I deserved a couple extra hours of Saturday morning sleep, and some chocolate…but that comes later.

So… I got up at 9:15am instead of 8am. I puttered around more than planned and then I said “so what!” and went out the door with my protein shake and a smile. Awesome!

Next, well…actually as I was puttering around the house I was also considering not going to the gym on account of how f’in tired I was. But somewhere during my morning meditation I got a bright idea to put all new workout music into my ipod. This, believe it or not, did the trick. At the gym I was bouncing around to my new tunes, which also inspired me to try out some new moves.

Have you ever tried the Bulgarian split squat with hand weights? 12lbs in each hand? My butt is on fire! It thwarted the rest of my entire work out because I felt like a new born with wobbly legs. Of course I toughed it out and made it through. Actually my butt is still burning but it was worth it. I think I’m going to stick to it for the next month or so. No more booty dimples. LSA baby! (See the picture above. Her butt is on fire!)

The other thing I tried out, which I’m sure didn’t help with the wobbly legs, was a dead lift with straight legs, 25lb hand weights in each hand. What? Are you crazy!? Yes. I’m all about having a super strong back and core. It’s a keeper. Although…that’s the sort of thing you don’t feel until the morning after. I’m kinda scared!

So after all the grunting, gasping, and projectile sweating was over, I made it out of the gym with out even getting hollered. (Well there was this really cute guy in an orange shirt, and beautiful skin, but he was very polite and just said hi, how are you. And of course I ran away and also tripped while I was at it.)

Then, as I finally got back home, greeted by Akua, who is doing much better by the way, a bit of anxiety started to set in. You know…it’s Saturday. I’m all alone. It’s a beautiful day, I should try to find something to do outside, but what? With whom? I should sing and practice but what if my voice doesn’t sound good? And it’s too dark in here I want to be outside. I’m hungry I have to make some food. All that kind of crap.

Well, I made some food and I realized that one of the reasons why I have resistance to practicing on Saturday afternoons is because my bedroom is really dark. I mean, it gets no sunlight. And when I’m in a cubicle all day during the week with no windows, the last thing I want to do is spend my Saturday in a dark room by myself!

Artistry does beg for a sort of solitude, but I am wanting now for that solitude to not be a dark place. --A. Miracle

I cannot believe I didn’t think of this before, but today I pulled all of my instruments into the front room, which gets sunlight from two directions and faces the garden. I set up my keyboard on a table and my guitar to the side and a note pad. I did my scales and sang my heart out while watching butterflies and humming birds dance around outside and I didn’t feel like I was missing anything. It was absolutely amazing and life saving. This is how I will do it from now on. The winter…well that’ll be another challenge. One at a time please.

And now, here I am, writing to you, eating dark chocolate covered almonds and feeling quite proud of myself for having not just survived, but having really lived today.

This is what it's like to be me.

2009-06-13T20:40:00.000-07:00

Okay well…I didn’t do it. I didn’t return the cereal or the Zbars but I can honestly say I ate way less sugar today than usual. And I opted out of getting a big cookie at Starbucks twice. (Cause there’s one on every corner and it’s very easy to just pull over and before you know it you have a chocolate chunk in your mouth.)

Actually today I spent the entire day trying to save Akua’s life. Literally from 2 – 7 pm I was involved in feline activities. First the vet, then the pet store to get some new food that she won’t be allergic to. When I got back to the car Akua was actually panting because it was so hot. Poor little thing. I have never seen a cat pant before. It’s kind of scary. So, I raced home to realize that the new food was not so new, actually it was expired and so back to the pet store to beg the 16 year old girl to just give me 4 small bags since they don’t have 1 big bag of the food that I want. That took about ½ an hour. And some how I ended up having to pay $.25. Which made no sense but I didn’t want to spend another ½ hour at the pet store and my stomach was growling.

So I took a detour and stopped at my neighborhood Indian restaurant, where I ordered Chicken Vindaloo, which unbeknownst to me, has cream in it. The owners were very nice and exchanged it for Chicken Masala and I was happy.

So I guess even though I spent a large part of the day trying to save Akua’s life, I was still saving my own life because, let’s face it she is a huge part of my life.

And now here I am at home it’s 8pm and now I’m supposed to sing. I’m too full and I’m too tired and I’m everything but wanting to sing in this moment. And this makes me feel like a failure and this happens everyday. And I guess this is what happens when you have so little time to do something you love so very much. It becomes pressured, unnatural, it becomes a “should.” A “supposed to.” A source of guilt, panic, anxiety, avoidance…

Okay wait. Let me not assume that everyone else is neurotic as me.

Rewind. This is what happens when you have so little time to do something you love so very much, and you’re very neurotic. Actually, if I could extract the neurosis from my life I think my life would be 80% easier and 100% more enjoyable. So, I’ve come to an important point. In order to save my life I need to become less neurotic. Done. Check. Yeah right.

Hey! Maybe I could use my neurosis to become less neurotic. LET’S MAKE A LIST!

Things that I do to avoid playing music, because I feel guilty, afraid, incapable, suffocated, frustrated, useless, mediocre, disconnected and disappointed. These are listed in order of preference and sometimes occur simultaneously.

1) Eat

2) Watch TV

3) Have Sex. (not lately. It’s been like a year)

4) Set my mind to believe I’m fat, and then work out for endless hours at the gym.

5) Sleep

6) Convince myself I have stomach cancer and then read about it on Web MD.

YAY! This is what its like to be me every day. Don’t you want to date me? No? F U!

Here’s to saving my life, ASAP.

Seriously though....

2009-06-13T11:53:00.000-07:00

I am expressing myself now.

Self expression is essential to truly being alive and I have decided to save my life.

On a surface level it seems that I’m a vocal person. I sing, I write, I play instruments. These are my voices. But the truth is that I’ve been silent for a very long time. And I now know why that is.

The problem is that I have this internal editor, which has gotten completely out of control. At first we were friends. We’d go shopping. It would help me write great poems without the fluff, an entire song in one hour. It was the invisible side-kick in my brain helping me not to say inappropriate things in public. You know, that necessary internal censor that keeps some of us out of jail.

But at some point, my little side-kick saw that I had come to a really fearful and fragile place in life. It stepped forward to protect me because no one else was around. Or because I hid from everyone around. The side kick turned in to a wall at best. At worst a sadistic parent beating me into submission...for my own good. And then began the landslide.

My heart closed for fear of loving and looking like a fool, leaving only my body available.

My body, harboring a stopped heart, floating like a discarded corpse bruised by an indifferent sea…of men.

My range of emotions narrowed because somehow I reasoned that it was inappropriate or unbearable to feel certain things. And my lips sealed because I had too many unexpected stories, ideas, grievances, and shades of genius that I was afraid would fall out if I opened my mouth. And then of course, I would be attacked.

ii.

It’s easy to be quiet when you are alone all of the time. And so…I find myself alone all of the time. Most of the time I don’t even know what to say to people. Or I simply don’t get people. A lot of people aren’t telling the truth even though they have a lot to say. I’m saying… many people are full of shit, and a lot of it. Just start paying attention. As for me, I decided I wouldn’t say much if there wasn’t a safe place to say the truth. My truth. I’m not aloof. It’s not that I don’t care, rather it’s that I’ve never known how to create a space where my reality can be delivered and pretending makes me puke. Pretending has made me like this, and still:

The silence is the cause of my suffocated creativity. This fear is why my heart aches and why I hold my breath at night and in the morning I wake to realize that I haven’t slept. This way of living will kill me.

I am expressing myself now because there is no other option. I am expressing myself now because self-expression is essential to living and I have decided to save my life.

Sidekick: But this is too much, don’t you feel guilty? You should be ashamed of yourself.

Akosua Miracle: Shut up. I’m not sorry if you don’t like it. I’m not sorry if it’s not always pretty or funny. I am only sorry that I’ve been quiet for so long.

Life Saving Activity:

3) Create a new internal sidekick if the one you have isn’t serving you anymore.

Some ideas:

A fairy

A genie

A cheerleader

Don’t worry. It’s not psychotic, just don’t talk to your sidekick in public.

Life Saving Activity, (LSA) (This is a registered trademark of the I Have Decided to Save my Life Program)

2009-06-10T19:03:00.000-07:00

2) Remove all of your online dating profiles from the world wide web, because you only ever get messages from old guys, and you’re not going to meet Mr. or Ms. Right huddled over your computer in your bedroom, under the covers with crackers, on a Wednesday night.

Readers: ALL of your online dating profiles? How many do you have?!

Akosua Miracle: You’ll never know. LSA BABY!

Readers: Crackers in bed? That’s gross dude.

Akosua Miracle: Refer to my previous post.

Chapter 1: I have decided to give up sugar. Again. For real this time.

2009-06-10T18:28:00.000-07:00

Why?! Because it’s a crutch, it’s an escape, an addition. How much more time would I have for life saving activities (LSA) if I wasn’t planning my next chocolate binge? Plus, my skin is looking really bad and my pants are tight.

There are those of you out there who think the latter sounds great but that is only because you have a butt fetish. You know who you are. All of us normal people know that women like to fit into their jeans…. from high school. Did I mention that my teeth hurt? Anyway it’s all bad.

So it starts with returning a box of Z Bars and some cereal, which I didn’t realize contained sugar, to Whole Foods, where they were purchased on Saturday, when I hadn’t yet decided to save my life. I was still waiting. And what better way to wait than to stuff your face with mind numbing sugars while watching your life pass you by. (yay!) No.

Please recommend an interesting vegetable and describe how to prepare it.

Life Saving Activity, (LSA) (This is a registered trademark of the I Have Decided to Save my Life Program)

2009-06-07T12:36:00.000-07:00

Here...I'll start. In case you're shy.

1) Steering clear of old boy friends/girlfriends who sabotage. Even if you saw him/her yesterday and he/she was looking really good. Don’t confuse LSA with T and A, it’s not the same thing.

Your turn...

Prologue

2009-06-06T20:51:00.000-07:00

I've been waiting for someone to save my life. Or something. You know, ridiculous things, like the California lottery. American Idol. Or some dark knight in shining armor riding into my two-room studio apartment on a unicorn. There would be an unseen orchestra and the biggest blingin engagement ring you ever did see.

I’ve been waiting because there is a lot worth saving and no one ever taught me how to resurrect a metaphorically and figuratively dead entity, such as one's “life.” No one ever told me that there may come a time when I would have to devise a plan so brilliant and cunning that it would have to cut through years of disappointment, miles of grief, and immeasurable shame to save me from myself. (Yes, I said the “S” word in public and someone out there is glad I did.)

Do you think it’s possible to save your own life? I mean if life itself is possible, life actually having given birth to possibility, then I suppose anything is possible as long as you are alive.

So, I’ve decided that I will save my own life. I’ve been working it all out daily. On the BART train, in my sleep, in the morning on the toilet with my head in my hands. Firstly, I’ve come to terms with nearing 30. I’ve realized that there is not going to be a big bang. There’s not going to be some clean sweep or cataclysmic occurrence that’s going to finally make me happy, finally unlock my congested creativity, finally empty all the closets full of baggage and moth eaten chapters of life. It, rather, is a long drawn out continuous process with small bursts of joy and bites of pain along the way.

This is it right now, everyday that is passing is it. Every moment is it. Here now is my chance right in front of me, every breath every time. This breath and that breath and the next, each one having the potential to save my life. Each one a miracle even. If I would only notice.

It’s puzzling, actually it’s terrifying how often I seem to miss it. I guess that’s the problem with waiting.

So I’m not waiting anymore. Today I start saving my life. This is what it means to be a survivor. To chose. To survive.

***Stay posted to watch a true miracle occur before your very eyes. I’m about to show out like Jesus Christ.***

Please feel free to suggest life saving activities (LSA).

About the miracle...

2009-05-10T19:33:00.000-07:00

Akosua Miracle is an Oakland, CA based singer/songwriter/writer/healthcare professional. She has played "mercy" with life for a long time and this blog is her way of saying "ouch! let go!" If you like this blog, keep reading and tell some friends.

Was there something more you wanted to know? Just ask, she'll tell you.