Meeting·Myself |Week of September 2nd|

Things are changing fast.  Fast, faster, fastest.

Rapid radical reevaluations render restful respites romantic ruminations.  Does that make sense?

I can actually start to see the results of all the hard work I’ve been doing over the past few years.  It all started last week, when I pathetically posted on Facebook about being tired of being alone and wanting more social contact.  Trying to recreate my world has taken considerable energy and focus.  I walk alone most days and nights.  These facts came into focus as I made my way home from work on a Saturday for the umpteenth time and thought about the number of days I had done the exact same thing.  How many times had I walked up those particular Bart steps, down that street, and past that guy in front of the laundromat?  I thought about the number of times I’d talked to that guy who always drinks 40s of Steel in front of El Faro.  And then I thought about the number of times I’d seen him being thrown into the paddy wagon, en route to the drunk tank.  And the fact that these visions, those steps, these people I see were only happening to me.  I had no one to share any of this with.  It all depressed me, so I posted this:

Felt tired of being alone for the first time in what feels like years today. Tired of walking alone, coming home to myself, sleeping alone, reading alone, working alone, playing alone, making art alone, crying alone, being happy alone…I’m tired of all of it. Also, I’m hungry.

I got a very encouraging messages from my friends.  I ate something.  I felt better.

A person who was instrumental in making a storytelling event I helped co-found a few years ago a success sent me the nicest message.  Browning Porter and a few other tellers were the bread and butter of Secretly Y’all Charlottesville.  If I could do it over again I would give the cash we made at the events to this select group of individuals.  They were always up for telling their stories, and the stories were always top notch.

Browning encouraged the group to move in new directions, and took time outta his life (which includes a wife and kids) to meet and brainstorm.  He even helped headline the first event while the group transitioned to Richmond at the end of 2010.  Here is a link to an interview I did with him a few years ago (seriously, how has two years passed already?).

Anyhow, here is the message I received from him on that night:

I also just want to say that I am really grateful to the energy you put into bringing storytelling to C’ville, and it paid off in ways that you probably can’t even see yet. You had an impact. And also that the work your are doing now is cool and interesting and I hope you keep it up. I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true. You will find people who get you. I believe that.

I get by with a little help…

This simple note, this simple act of gratitude and a seemingly genuine expression of belief shook me up.  For the past few weeks one of my great friends, who’s been growing the event in Richmond since my move to California, asked me and the other founders of Secretly Y’all to contribute a few stories to the upcoming event.  The theme they’d chosen, Origin Stories, gave her the idea to get the founders back together to tell about the birthing of SY.

I wasn’t thrilled about her idea, and told her I couldn’t participate because I still had some unresolved issues with what went down that year.  Since my flirtation with Virginia ended I have been on the out and out with the social group that I ran with at that time.  This is not really surprising. I moved clear across the country after things went to pieces and, to be fair, up until that point I was trying to be something and everything that I was not.  I was avoiding my true calling, and when you’re being fake life rewards you with fake.  Like attracts like, right?  Fake creates fake.  Being invited to tell stories with and about this time in my life brought back some major feelings of insecurity.

Browning’s message made me realize that there had been a place where I was being honest with my goals and intentions that year, a place where my love of creation had an outlet.  I had a genuine enthusiasm for the event that came from the most beautiful chamber of my heart.  I worked hard on the event because the work didn’t feel like work.  It felt like love.

I sat down to listen to a few Moth podcasts (which I was introduced to while working in the University of Virginia’s costume shop) this morning, and immediately remembered why I liked holding that event: Because I liked giving people a platform to express themselves.  I liked having a view of other people’s experiences, and I truly enjoy the experience of sitting still, being quiet, and focusing my attention on other people.  I liked encouraging people to expose themselves and supporting them while they lived through the discomfort that resulted.  Life is about looking at our fears and staring them down until they don’t exist anymore.  At least, to me, a life that is well lived is about that.

So I’m trying to gather my thoughts about Secretly Y’all and it’s origins.  I’m going to try and participate this coming Monday because I’m terrified.  I’m terrified of revisiting this time in my life, which means I have to.  I combed through some of Secretly Y’all’s email archives to get a sense of what was going on at that time, it hasn’t brought me closer to any conclusions, but I can remember what I was feeling at that time, and I know that it closely relates to what I am doing now.

Another piece of the puzzle is falling into place for me.  I haven’t written about sexuality, relationships, and dating for a while because I haven’t been exploring those parts of my life at all since I made and started exhibiting the three foot photomosaic of my vulva.  I truly hope this is coincidental, cause if it’s not I will have to destroy my piece to get my groove back.

The part that is falling into place is my ability to deflect other people’s (especially men’s) desires for me.  This has been consistently challenging for me for as long as I can remember.  Again, not a surprise.  I was raised in authoritarian, religiously conservative household, where my dad’s words were stronger than law and mom wielded a large ‘obedience’ stick to help us kids remember this.  I was raised to obey, but eventually learned that these behaviors benefit those around me, especially those who want me to do things for them, and are pretty much useless in helping me get what I need and want.

Speaking of strategies that people use to control other’s behaviors, I recently learned that some men use what I call “expectation control” when they want to have their way with me, but don’t really want to be down.  I will be honest, I use this method when I am selling things at the fabric store.  I tell customers that we don’t have something if I am ambivalent as to whether or not we do, and then when I find or don’t find it, it is either perceived as me being a magician, capable of pulling items out of thin air, or that I set up an expectation that proved true.  Either way the end result seems positive.  The customer is either really happy that we do have it, or not to bummed out that we don’t.

This method is great for selling things, but not so great when dealing with human hearts.  But that’s just it, guys that use this method to get what they want from women are basically treating relationships like commodities – expendable, tradable, a resource to be tapped.  The expectation control method has worked on me!  It’s often led to me being way too available with guys that don’t really know what they want, or who are just playing the field.  I don’t see a problem with playing the field, and personally have not been in a position to carry a serious relationship for the past several years, but I’m starting to come out of that, and now it’s easier to translate and understand the language of ambivalence.

I recently had a very positive exchange with a young suitor that left me proud.  I initially accepted his invitation to go out, but after considering several important factors, I realized that I was heading in the wrong direction.

Me:  Actually, I don’t think I want to meet up.  I think you are a nice guy, but I have to be honest with myself and you.  At this point in my life I’m actually looking for something serious.  And I doubt that at 22, you are.  So it’s nothing personal, but I don’t want to go down roads that lead to nowhere.”

Him:  I’m 23 but you’re right i’m young and not in a hurry to find something serious.  I want to take you out but not with any expectations of something serious.  If you feel like going out with me precludes you from finding something serious then I can understand.  If not, then I’d like to go out with you, you’re an interesting girl.  Give me a chance to get to know you.  Young or not it won’t kill you, or keep you from finding something more serious

Me:  I am going to pass on Saturday, but that doesn’t mean I never want to see you – just depends on the context.  If you’re going out with friends and want to invite me along – great.  I’ll happily join.  But us going out one on one is not really an option to me.  I’ve had too man experiences with men who ask me to limit or lower my expectations to accommodate their desires and I’m not willing to do that anymore.  No, going out with you won’t kill me, but it also won’t move me closer to the thing I’m really looking for.  If you still want to get to know me, read my blog.

Him: That sounds fair.

I am actually super impressed by the maturity of this dude.  His ability to be honest with me, hear me out, and not get defensive is encouraging.  I seriously hope I’ve broken some pattern.  It feels like maybe I have.  Only time will tell.  I am also insanely grateful that I’ve been keeping this blog.  It enables me to deflect the age old question, “Can’t I get to know you, girl?”  Yeah you can, doesn’t mean I need to be there for it.

Realizing that I have the ability to deflect peoples desires for me ignites anger in some people, admiration in others.  Saying what I want and need, as both a woman and a person with brown skin, goes against the flow of things in America.  In America, my desires are not a priority.  My dreams don’t count and aren’t included.  My needs aren’t prioritized.  More importantly, many people see the fulfillment of my desires as a direct threat to their ability to get what they want.  I think this is called the scarcity mentality, that there are limited resources and that we are in competition with each other to secure what there is.  I see this as fundamentally true in terms of American race relations, where a black person getting something is equated with a white person losing something (In our racist society nothing has ever innately belonged to brown skinned people.  Not their bodies, not their children, not their homes, not their land.  The entitlement of ownership is associated primarily with the white body).  Think about the arguments against Affirmative Action.

So when will we start to have the mentality that me getting what I want has no bearing on you getting what you want?  Where are we going to learn to share in a way that most 5 year olds are required to master to pass kindergarten?  When are we going to realize that there is enough out there for all of us to get what we want and need and that we don’t have to give people preferential treatment based on a minescule and unimportant genetic variation?  When do we realize that losing, and doing so with grace, is just as important, if not more important, as winning?

I have a zillion mundane experiences that I could reveal that back the idea that some people are threatened by the idea of someone like me getting what I want.  Let’s explore a few, since the big truths of life are often found in the mundane.

Here’s one example: I was getting Chinese takeout the other day, and as I went to pick up my food a woman insisted that I had a made a mistake and that I was taking her order.  She got in my face about it, and the server had to reassure her that the order I took was mine.  She apologized.  I walked away.  Maybe you’re saying, “Well, this happens to me too, what does it have to do with you being black?”   And to that I say, how often does it happen to you?  Cause in my world that shit happens all the time.  I don’t count random outlier experiences, I count patterns, things that repeat themselves.

Here’s another:  I recently went to an Episcopalian church to meditate with a friend (Interfaith.  Imagine that!), and before we entered the church a young black man approached and asked about the motorcycle that my friend had ridden up on.  They casually chatted for a few moments.  The kid, he couldn’t have been older than 19 or 20, seemed pretty enthusiastic and excited by the bike.  As they parted my friend turned to me and said, “I think that guy wants to steal my bike, I mean, why was he asking so many questions about it?”  I told him he just seemed interested and that the situation was probably harmless, but I also felt paralyzed and dismayed by his question.  I currently feel ashamed that I didn’t interrogate the obviously racist assumptions that were underlying his concerns in that moment.  Would he have felt the same way if the person asking questions was a white man or woman?  I should have asked him these things.  About 5 minutes into the meditation session I heard my friend rise from his chair, and a few moments after that I heard the roar of closely parked motorcycle.  He was so disturbed by his own fearful assumptions, that he felt compelled to move his bike to protect it.  That’s unconscious racism at it’s best.  And in that moment, I think I began to understand racism at it’s core.  It’s an irrational fear, a fear that controls, a fear that interrupts everything, even sacred moments of spirituality.  And I felt sorry, for the first time, for the unaware racist.  Because I realized that he or she is perpetually living a life of fear.  A reactionary life, a life based around the speech an movements of others.  A young black man’s expressed desires were enough to do that.  That has been powerful for me to consider.

There have been many moments for me when I’ve openly expressed myself only to find that the person on the receiving end can’t handle the words coming out of my mouf.  They react, they lash out, they blame me, they tell me they want to choke me, they mime choking me, and I get to look at them in all of their awfulness wondering what it was that I really did.  Since when is expression that threatening?  But it is.

I am of a firm mind that those of us who experience the most oppression have the best fodder for artistic expression brewing under the surface.  I came to this conclusion recently, after inquiring about Japanese culture.  I’ve been trying to figure out why so many of my favorite artists and creators are Japanese.  I happened to meet an American woman who’s been teaching English in Japan for a decade or so, and when I asked her what Japan is like she said, “There’s only one way to do things in Japan.”  Maybe that’s the secret then.  The cultures that actively discourage natural and healthy variation are unknowingly  encouraging radical forms of expression.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Life always finds an outlet.  I’m glad I’ve found this one.  It’s my platform, and the view from up here is amazing.

Love and enjoy!

Meeting Myself |August 20th|

Today marks the 11th year since my mother’s death, and can I be perfectly honest?  It get better.  It gets so much better.  I’ve struggled with grieving and her death for the majority of the last decade, and I am so grateful that I did.  To feel like I feel today, to feel so different from how I used to feel and to be able to recognize the difference is truly gift-like.

My morning was simple.  I woke up, scheduled some posts, and had a good chat with my sister in-law (she’s the best) who just got back from a three week European vacation (Italy and Spain).  She’s encouraging me to put my travel shoes back on.  I want to so badly (I have to work for a Parisian fashion house soon.  That is what my creative brain is telling me to do and who am I to deny her ?), but I have to make sure I have strategies in place for dealing with the racism that I’m sure to encounter.

Learning how to say “Kiss my black ass,” in as many EU languages as possible is on the list of strategies.  Also, finding communities of artists is another coping mechanism that I would like to utilize.  Artists tend at the very least, tolerant to different lifestyles and modes of expression.  Also, one of the ways I cope with racism is through my art.  I don’t have to worry about addressing every hateful situation in the moment because I know my art is addressing it for me, all the time.

The older I get the more I realize how important having safety nets and support systems are.

I recently went rock wall climbing with two of my housemates.  Before going I gave them all the reason why I wouldn’t like it, inlcuding:

1.  There wouldn’t be any other black people there.  Making me the only black person, like always.

2.  I climb metaphorical mountains everyday, why would I want to climb a fake one for fun.  Climbing too high, to places humans can get on their own doesn’t sound like fun.  Climb for fun, what the hell kind of fun is that?

3.  I am not strong enough to get my round ass up a rock wall.

So here were my results.

1.  There weren’t any other black people there but there were some Asians and an Indian couple, which I pretty much consider black.  Mainly because their skin was darker than mine and also because I get mistaken for half Indian all the time.

2.  Climbing a fake mountain with friends is way better than climbing real or metaphorical mountains without them, especially because of the ropes.  We did two types of climbing top roping and bouldering.  The main difference between the two was that top roping includes harnesses, a funny garment indeed, and ropes connecting climbers on the ground to climbers on the wall.   Although I was initially intimidated by the height of the walls, psychologically speaking I found top roping easier.  Knowing that I had someone to ‘catch’ me in case I fell meant I was more willing to take risks and reach for sections of the wall that I wouldn’t if I were doing it by myself.  I was able to scale 30+ foot walls without incident or hesitation.

Bouldering was different.  Even though the fall from a boulders could never hurt a person, I was skittish without having the weight of the harness and ropes on me.  I was way more careful and hesitant.  The part I did enjoy about bouldering was falling from the wall onto the mats, and knowing that I could just let go and I wouldn’t get hurt (although I was mighty fearful still).

In top roping the climb is fun.

In bouldering the fall is fun.

These are good lessons.  To get up high, to meet my goals, I’ll probably need a really long rope and a few people helping me, pushing and pulling in various directions, pointing out things that I can’t see from my perspective, things that are right in front of my face.  And if I do fall, I need to remember that as long as I’ve nurtured a support system, there’s nothing to worry about.  I will enjoy the fall.  Hopefully I’ll be laughing on the way down.

Also, working on and doing things that are scare me is almost always fun.

3.  My body still works.  Even though it’s shapely and feminine it can get me places I would never expect.

This exercise also made me think about society, and the way some people can more easily perceive their harnesses, safety nets, top ropes and mattresses.  This makes it easier to take risks, to just go for it.  Others have a hard time seeing and feeling those supports, meaning sometimes they never make the leap or take that risk they need to take to get to the next place.

Some people can create the support systems in their mind (I think that’s what the ego is for), while others, I include myself in this group, actually need to see and feel things to know that they exist.  It’s not enough for me to imagine things.  They have to materialize in the flesh, I have to feel my lovers warmth or the knife’s sharpness to know what’s going on.

This got me thinking, wouldn’t it be cool if someone made an obstacle course that physically imitated the societal institutions that support and maintain white supremacy?  So every time someone said something like, “I don’t know what it’s like to be black/poor/a woman/a person with a disability,” I could tell them to give my obstacle course a try.

My vision would be to make it American Gladiator style, so two people would be running the course at the same time.

“I’m in so much pain, I can’t breath, but I am so freaking excited and I’m happy to be here!!!!”

The catch is that one side has harder obstacles, and the participant has fewer resources at their disposal to combat the obstacles (like no huge q-tip to fight an opponent with).  The key to creating maximum frustration will be to ensure that the participant on the harder side can see all the progress that their opponent is making, while they seem to be standing still, working on the same problem.  This has, as you can tell, been my most frustrating obstacle in the past.

I was thinking about obstacles because my sister-in-law was talking about how much people stared at their family in both Italy and Spain.  She told me about the disgusted looks she got from one Italian woman in particular.  My sister-in-law’s parents come from Italy and Peru, and she’s married to my brother who is a mixture of whatever we consider ourselves to be.  I consider myself African American, with a few splashes of American Indian on both sides of the family, and some European, including portuguese, from my mother’s family who passed for white in several of the census records I’ve found.  In any case, they got looks, and stares.  This made the vacation hard to enjoy at times.  While we were chatting I realized what this whole “race” thing is to me, it’s an obstacle.

It’s a giant boulder, it’s a rock wall; it’s a boulder, and then a rock wall.  It’s a trail of fire leading to a pool of gasoline.  It’s a treadmill in the wrong direction, its a strongman hidden behind the gate…it’s MXC!

It’s an obstacle course, and my job is to figure out how to get over, under, around, and through.  If I do it right I should probably be in a lot of pain, chest heaving, possibly feeling like I’m about to die, but so excited for having gotten to where I wanted to go (like the girl in the AG video).

It doesn’t matter who starts first, who’s in the lead most of the time, and who wins.  What really matters is that I finish.  That I complete what I start, that I do what I set out to do.

I’m not sure how I started at death and ended with obstacles, but I suppose that makes sense.  Death is an obstacle to overcome.  Death separates us, physically, from people we want and need.  That separation can be hard to bear, but if we can see beyond the obstacles that the physical world presents, we realize that the dead are always with us in their own way.  They never leave.  And we can escape our own mortality through our work, through our passions, through the ideas, beliefs, objects, and love we share with others.

I end this post by sharing my gratitude for the obstacles I’ve maneuvered around thus far, and by requesting a rope, a harness, and if possible a partner or two to help me scale anything else that blocks the path.  Pretty please…

Love and enjoy.

Harmonic Article |Long Black Veil|

She walks these hills

In a long black veil

The·Triangle·Shirtwaist·Factory

Today marks the 101st anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire, which killed close to 150 New York City garment workers in under 18 minutes.  It was one of the deadliest industrial disasters in the United States history.

Many people, mostly immigrant women, endured severe working conditions while working in sweatshops.  Similar to Wal-Mart, workers had been locked into the factory to prevent them from stealing/taking unauthorized breaks/talking to union organizers.  When the fire broke out in the Triangle factory, similar to the World Trade tragedy, people jumped through open windows in an attempt to save themselves.

To me, the fire represents the failings and dangers of mass-production.

Cornell University has been maintaining a site dedicated to the fire.  Check it out here.

Some swipes:

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And a video:

Love and enjoy.

Harmonic·Article |Cactus|

Sitting here wishing on a cement floor
Just wishing that I had just something you wore

Bloody your hands on a cactus tree
Wipe it on your dress and send it to me

Meeting·Myself |Week of February 19th|

Meeting Myself posts are a freestyle.  No real themes or directions, just a general overview of what’s been going on.  It’s also been the place where I’ve put my loosely defined goals and generally track my progress.  Mostly I ramble.

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I’ve managed to pack a whole lot into February, especially in terms of emotional growth and goal setting.  This is going to be a long post.

This two themes have come up repeatedly this month:  determination and insecurity.

I’ve admitted to feeling insecure at least three times this month. Each experience left me feeling a little more empowered than humiliated.

The first admission was with a friend who’s beauty I would describe as idyllic.  Her most salient physical characteristics include: blue eyes, thick, blonde hair, and a full bust line.  She presents (and openly describes herself) as effervescent, polite, submissive, and naive.  She also used to be the in navy and has extensive weapons training.

Her makeup bag is fully loaded, containing a variety of beauty products and perfumed body sprays.  We went out a few Saturday’s ago, and I observed with special attention the way she interacted with men we met along our way.  There was the bartender, a policeman, and the door guy.  Each seemed to bend to her every wish and command.  “What’s yoooour name?” she asked a bouncer, eyelashes a flutter.  I watched her syrupy smooth tones glide across the air and drip sweetly along alert earlobes.  We didn’t have to pay the cover.  A flip of the hair, a twinkle of the eye, a flash of the pearly whites.  She dropped her burrito at Cancun Taqueria and the bag split in two, sending shards of tortilla chips flying in all directions.  The usually cranky line cooks, tired from filling the requests or drunk revelers, responded immediately, unwrapping her dented edible, repairing the damage, and sending her away with twice as many chips as she had before.

As we walked home, I told her how insecure I felt.  Single with no immanent prospects (okay, there is at least one, but like lots elements in my life right now, he only exists in my dreams), working on a confederate flag project, vacillating between angry avoidance of men and desperately desiring affection, I felt like a bundle of contradictions and confusion in her presence.  She owns and celebrates the body she possessed.  She responded by telling me how proud she was of me and the work that I’m doing on myself.  “I probably won’t do your kind of work till I’m 50,” she hummed, her eyes sparkling in the streetlight.  She slept at my house that night (I still like having slumber parties), and put on a floral scented perfume and tinted lip balm as we got ready for bed.

I’ve felt more emotional (how is this possible? ha.) and more wanting of genuine companionship than I have felt in a long time.  I’ve felt lonely.  It’s not that I’m actually lonely, in fact my life is filled with people.  Most days there are too many for me to keep track of.  I have a strong desire to cultivate more relationships with people that make me feel secure, that allow me to be myself, and that accept that I might change, or not change in some ways.

I have an important decision to make, and I have to do it quickly.  I am feeling pulled in a million directions right now.  Between work, my home, my female sexuality group, and the many trails I’m following for this project (including: fashion, sexuality, racism, pattern-making, garment design and construction, love, and art)  I feel stretched.  My life is asking me to cut some of these things out and the biggest decision I feel I have to make is deciding weather I want to be an artist or an entrepreneur.  I have to choose one, and my gut is telling me to go with the latter option.  Mainly because I want money.  I am so over struggling in this regard.  I have spent close to eight years gathering the skills that I have, and that required that I give up a lot.  The process what fun, but some of the ideas I picked up on the way aren’t serving me.  One of the unfortunate side effects of the lifestyle I lived is that I developed a healthy fear of money.

I remember one experience from childhood that sums up my current dilemma.  When I was four or five, a friend and I decided that we wanted to get Turtle Tots.  My parent’s were not about just giving their children everything we wanted, they made us work.  This has  always seemed a little harsh to me upon reflection, because it appears that me and my siblings weren’t raised like other kids.  We didn’t celebrate our birthdays, or Christmas, or any other holiday for that matter, so I was never conditioned to expect “free” presents.  This isn’t to say that we weren’t provided for, because we were.  Extras were just extras.  We had to get them by our own means.

My parents told us that I had to earn the money, and her parents decided that was a good idea too.  As soon as we had the money we could get the turtle dolls.  I’m not sure how much we had to earn, it was probably somewhere between $5-$10, but that was a lot of money for me at the time.  I remember saving all my cash in an old purse given to me by my father’s mother.  It had a chain mail exterior with a gold satin lining.  The circular accordion opening had a metal flip top that could be closed only when the zig-zaged rods were squeezed to their smallest size.  I have fond memories of opening and closing the bag to check on the contents of my savings.  We had set a firm end date and when the time came, we got together to count what we’d earned.  I had made it to my goal, my friend had not.  She cried and cried.  Instead of feeling proud of the work I’d done to get the money, I felt bad.  And so I find this true today, that my main fear of money comes from worrying about how my success might affect others and what people might think about me if I have it.  It feels silly to admit this, but that story has stayed with me all these years.

A big part of my training for Grownupland has been centered around learning how not to let others’ emotions affect me.  I grew up with a mother who was physically disabled, so staying in tune with the needs of someone in a body separate from my own was something that I got used to at a very early age.  I have a very early memory of watching my mother cry on the stairs leading down to the laundry room after a falling, her balance was the first thing to go.  I remember trying to comfort her, and getting pushed away.  It took large amounts of compassionate understanding to survive in my family.  I am often described as kind and gentle.  I had to be because the disease that was tormenting my mother was not.  It was relentless.  A quality I’ve been trying to manifest ever since.  In many ways I became a sort of counselor for my mother.  She became physically limited after a lifetime of ability and athleticism, and because I was an extreme homebody as a child, we ended up spending lots of time together.   Because my father was often working, and my brothers were much older, I found myself alone with her.  Sometimes I became a target for her venom and frustrations.  I was who she vented to.  I got used to interacting with women in this manner, which has not been a healthy pattern.

I have had to set really strong boundaries with people around this issue.  Recently someone started talking about their issues without me even asking I told them straight up, “I don’t want to talk about this.”  They accepted and walked away.  I’ve also taken to ignoring people I know are going to approach me with some negative venom.  This doesn’t work so well.  People seem to get more fixated on something if they’re ignored, and then they corner me.  I’m having to rethink the way I approach relationships and figure out what I want to get out of them, if anything.

I’ve been pulling more and more into myself this month, and the immediate result was insecurity.  I always overcompensate when I’m feeling insecure.  I’ve posted close to 5o times this month, most likely due to my “loneliness.”

I stooped to desperate attempts to get access to physical intimacy this month.  I asked a guy I used to date, but see no future with, for casual sex.  He refused.  I’m sure this was for the best, and the rejection had no emotional effect, which I found encouraging.  Last year this time I would have collapsed into tears.  Yay!  I can handle rejection.  I have yet to write about this guy, but will when I’m moved to do so.  It’s an interesting story.  I also contacted this doode, a professional cuddle therapist.  I was willing to pay for non-sexual human contact.   He’s in Paris right now, so that didn’t happen. This is why people get cuddly pets!  I understand.  Sometimes I just need to touch something alive, sometimes there is no appropriate space to do this.  My only option was to tire my hands…as is so often the case.

People are always dying and are always being born, but a few passings brought me to my parents house in the peninsula.  My dad put the family dog down several weeks ago (we got her when I was 13) , and then a neighbor, who’s lived next door to us for longer than I’ve been alive, passed away in her sleep.  Her grand daughter is a few days older than me and is expecting her first child in any day now.  It’s funny how exits and entrances coincide.

I spoke with her widower early Sunday afternoon.  He was outside, sorting through papers, clearing out little pieces of her.   It had been two days.  I looked Charles in eyes and felt like I was seeing him for the first time.  Charles and Clara had been married for at least 50 years.  “It’s like I lost my right arm. I haven’t gotten used to it yet,” he said.  I smiled and told him it was nice to see him.  He asked me if I had “a guy.”  I shook my head.  “It’s okay.  You’re tr1ying to reach your goals.”  I nodded.  Charles and Clara worked together the whole time they were married.  This is something that I dream about, being able to create something with another person from scratch.  Like biscuits.  Sometimes people come together and have their own things going on and one person has to compromise, or they live relatively separate lives.  I actually want my life to be woven together with the person of my choosing.  And I want to contribute to the fabric, not just watch.  They owned a janitorial business together, and it allowed them to raise their children and their children’s children.  I look at their relationship much like I look at my parents’ relationship – blessed.  It is rare to know people who stay together through thick and thin – till death do them part.  I’m lucky to have been close to such people.

One of the hardest parts about deciding to follow my passion and committing to making art has been the realization that if I want to make anything of consequence I have to give myself certain securities.  I don’t think this is true of all people.  Some artists are able to make what they want where ever they are.  Because of the nature of sewing and the way I like to complete my projects, I need stability and security.  I like to create art that feels well cared for, and that of course means that I have to be well cared for.  I want creative expression to be my life’s practice.  I want the flame to burn steadily.  I’ve got a notebook filled with project ideas.  I have to be able to complete at least a few of them.  I’ve been forced to think about the things I will need to make that a reality.  I need space, I need time, I need comfort, I need food, and I need a hot tub and or sauna.

These needs compete hardcore with a coping mechanism I developed to deal with the situation I grew up with.  As soon as I had a little freedom, a little access to transportation, I stopped coming home.  I stopped being that person that my mother could throw venom at.  I couldn’t do it anymore.  Part of the reason I went so far away for college was that I didn’t want to be anywhere close to home.  For years, I associated home with danger.  I’m still getting over these feelings.

I had an aunt, one of my mother’s sisters, ask me “Why weren’t you there for your mother when she was dying?”  I’ve felt outraged and offended by this comment for years.  How could a 16 year old have been there for a woman who was experiencing the hardest struggle of her life?  Instead of being at home, directly dealing with death, I was out with friends exploring what we could.

I found homes in places that were not my own.  I adopted several families.  I was wandering and it was fun, but it was something I did to cope, not something I did to thrive.  I’ve repeated this pattern ad nauseum.  I moved to Virginia to escape California, I went to Spain to escape Virginia, I went to Hawaii to escape Spain, I went to Virginia to escape Hawaii, went to Utah to escape Virginia, went to California to escape Utah, I went to New Orleans to escape California…I could go on but I think I’ve made my point.  This was my Bermuda triangle for 10 years.  There are significant portions of my life that I don’t even remember.  They’ve vanished into thin air.  When I’m in pain, be it physical or emotional, my brain stops making new memories.  I must have been in pain for a while.  I feel committed  to dropping this pattern.

This brings me to the second topic that’s set me into fits of insecurity: travel.  Being stationary makes me feel nervous, as does thinking about traveling again.  When I’m not moving I worry that I’m becoming boring, a stick in the mud.   A few mornings ago one of my beloved housemates told me about a new friend he’d made, that this guy had been all over the world, spoke 5 languages, was interested in things, and was an intellectual – and I felt my heart drop to my feet.  I tried to justify my sudden change in mood, but in the end I stood over the stove stirring my oatmeal.  The words, “I’m feeling insecure,” popped out a few moments later.  I went to my room to eat the gruel, and cried over my admission.  Then I felt a lot better.  I long to travel, but I am afraid of what that might mean, cause I no longer want to do it to escape my problems.  I want to do it for fun and I want to have something secure to come back to.  A launchpad for my rocket.  A launchpad with a hot tub.

I used to sustain my need for escapism and spontaneity by quitting whatever job I had and moving to whatever place I fancied for whatever reason I had at the time.  I would leave friends, I would drop possessions, I would get rid of good jobs, I would change my mind, I would dump boyfriends, I would ditch my family – I did all of these because I was afraid of home.  These actions burned those around me.  Ditching old friends makes them feel shitty even if it makes me feel rejuvenated to go out and meet new people.  Quitting jobs estranges employers even though it makes me feel free from the demands soul crushing, passion sucking, boring-ass work.  Not staying at a single job for more than  fill in the blank  months (except for that 18 month AmeriCorps term) means that I’ve never gotten a significant promotion or raise (well I actually did get offered a promotion after my AmeriCorps term, but I had to follow another dream – this dream). Dumping boyfriends suddenly breaks hearts even if I just needed a few moments to explore the world on my own.  This has been my experience.

Recently, I’ve been trying to find healthier ways to cope.  I called a psychic the other day, which freaked the fuck out of me and sent me on a wild goose chase for a ring that got tossed in the compost.  I had to dig though a foot of days old, decaying plant matter, and was shocked to see my ring sparking next to crushed eggshells and gritty coffee grinds.  It was awesome (even the parts where I cried cause I thought the ring gone).  Like my friend Marina said, “It’s the best feeling in the world to find something that you thought was lost forever.”  Also, the psychic told me that my mother and great grandmother are watching over me, which was surprisingly reassuring.

On Sunday I took an unannounced  trip down to the peninsula to check out the contents of the cedar chest in my dad’s garage, something that the psychic suggested I do.  On my way met a wanderer, also on their way to Palo Alto.  We chatted extensively during the one hour train trip, and learned that we attended the same high school and middle school and shared a passion for musicals. Amazing.  After walking two miles to my parents house I arrived to find all the doors locked and had to figure out a way to break in, which I did!  How exciting!  And when I looked in the chest I found two unfinished quilts made by my great grandmother the same woman who’s ring I lost in the compost.  Ohhhweeeeooooh.  Creeeeeeeepy!

I have a life goal of finishing them and possibly passing them onto other members of the family.  I’m envisioning the bedroom of a house that I will eventually own where they will live.  It will be the ancestor room.  There will be a ouija board in it.  Communicating with the dead is both fun and exciting and I approve of anything that keeps me in one location so I can work on some of my other dreams without going batshit.  Although I get close to crazy every Saturday when I have to go to work.

Working on sunny Saturday’s is the worst punishment ever invented by modern retail establishments.  I cry every Saturday morning during my pilgrimage to Bart, knowing that I will have to spend all the good hours of the day inside under harsh, florescent lighting.  My heart weeps and then my eyes do to.  When I get my business up and running I have a dream of having a cart that only sells only one article of clothing at a time.  Also, I want my friend Julia to sell her ice cream with me, so on nice days we get to work aaaand be outside aaaaand hang out aaaaaaaaand eat ice cream.  There also needs to be music.  This is a brilliant idea.  Once I finish my underwear I will go to city hall and get the proper permits (you have to have 15 or so examples of your work to get a sellers permit, some of them have to be unfinished and you have to work on them in front of a committee to prove that it is you doing the work. Intense!)  This is my Big Rock Candy Mountain.

I also engage in random acts of kindness to satisfy my spontaneous side.  It really helps.  I recently hid about 15 fortunes (the one’s that I use in the Notions posts) around my workplace.  I unspooled ribbons, taped the fortunes in place and rewound them, opened random boxes of buttons and placed them inside, hid them in cabinets, and in the cash register, all so my co-workers will get unexpected surprises during the workday.  Best part of this, it looked like I was working even though I was filled with joy. Hahaha.  They seem to be going over well, and now I’ve suggested that if someone finds one they re-hide it so the the fun can continue.

I’m getting used to being a bit more stationary.  Indulging this sides means that I can bake things, which the housemates love, and cook food, which is good for my body and soul.  It means I can really think about what I like and what I don’t like as opposed to taking whatever is handed to me, which often becomes the default mode of operation when I go wandering.  I’m never too choosy when I’m traveling.

During my visit to my dad’s house I poured over a dozen and a half journals from the past 10 years or so, some of them containing my artwork, some of them dedicated to friendships, others to old boyfriends (none of my ex-boyfriends know this, but several of them have journals dedicated to them where I saved pictures and notes they wrote me and shared my thoughts about them.  Even I forgot that they existed until I found a box in the garage).  What surprised me the most about the boyfriend journals was how much love I’ve had for the people I’ve dated.  In fact, weather or not I’ve kept a diary seems to be a pretty good predictor of how I feel about the person after the relationship has ended.  I continue to feel positive feelings for those that I kept journals for.

Etta has some things to say about this.

The practice of journaling has no doubt contributed to me being able to write on this blog in a consistent way.  The sketchbooks provide clear evidence that I have changed a ton over the past 10 years.  It was amazing to be around the me from so long ago, I could hardly remember this person.  I still have some of her same struggles, but my outlook has changed significantly.  Also, the sketchbooks made me realize just how long I’ve been working on this dream.  It’s literally feels like forever.  I have garment sketches from the 6th grade.

I was speaking with a coworker who lost her husband unexpectedly, and we were talking about a particular type of consumer.  One who comes in often to get help on the same project they talked to you about last time they were in.  She said something really insightful, “the search is sometimes more satisfying than destination.”

I love how death removes pretenses.  I’ve recently interacted with two people who’ve just lost someone.  Those who’ve never experienced death drive themselves crazy trying to figure out what to say to the bereaved, but the honest truth is that you don’t have to say anything.  Talking with them about anything other than death is perfectly acceptable.  Be assured that they are most likely thinking about it already.  Asking them how they are, touching them, making them realize that there is more life for them to live, encouraging them to take care of themselves, being gentle, looking into their eyes, being sincere – these are the things that the grieving need.  I was 18 the first time I dealt with death and believe me, my peer group was not prepared to help me out with what I was going through.  Because of my experiences I’m extremely sensitive to death and now can enjoy what it allows me to feel.  It helps me recognize my own vulnerabilities and pushes me to ponder what, if anything about the experience of life is infinite.

I know one thing, next time that lady in Union Square asks me if I want a $10 tarot reading I will say yes.

And what of the art making?  I did some of that too this month.  I think March will be a quieter month on the blog.  I’m reevaluting this project in a big way.  There’s a high chance of sweeping changes.

Love and Enjoy!

The·Way·We·Were

I had a really interesting Sunday afternoon.   I visited the Alameda Point Antiques Fair, where my goal was to find as many racist objects as possible.  An easy challenge indeed.  I found these first guys (whose eyes move in many directions when you pull the wire at the chin) within the five minutes of entering the fairgrounds.  Huzzah!  I had some interesting conversations with booth owners during my hunt.  I will mention those as I describe the photos below.    

Black babydoll with arms and legs on elastic cord.

The lady at this booth reprimanded me for taking a photo and also argued with me a bit, telling me that not all black baby dolls are racist objects.  I agreed with her, of course, but this one most definitely is.  Firetruck red lips, check.  Big white eyes, check.  Skin that is actually black (not brown), check.  Still, she immediately opened up about why she thought it was important to sell objects like this.  In her view, the history of our country should be remembered, else we might err and repeat it.  People may one day disbelieve that this was our legacy.  These objects help us remember.

Decorative “Mammy” broom; bristles are under the skirt, broom handle comes from the head (can be seen).  Very old!

The man at this booth may have been a closet racist.  Very nice and approachable, but totally diseased in the brain.  When I asked him if I could take a picture of his racist memorabilia he said, “Sure, someone you know?” Fucking asshole!  He also got all bubbly about this object, saying that this broom was, “just great,” and he wasn’t sure if he could part with it (I think he thought I wanted to buy it), and how special it was to him.  After I left I watched him move the mammy broom to a less obvious spot.  Lesson: One way to spot a racist at an antique show is if they’re selling racist stuff and they say stupid things.  Like this guy.

Produce Advert.  Grapes.

I’m not sure what’s worse – that the name of this grape company is Black Joe, or that Black Joe is a white guy in blackface   (or that these grapes came from California.  I thought you were better than that Cali.  SMH).  The people selling this and the poster below had nothing to say about them.  I decided not to force the issue.

Wine Label.  Zinfandel.

When I showed this picture to my dad, he said, “Awww, cute.”

Mammy Cookie Jar

Ready to serve.

Mammy and Sambo salt and pepper shakers.

What dining room table is complete without them?

I’m pretty sure I made the goal of trying to find racist objects because I knew they would be waiting there.  Instead of letting them sneak up and surprise me, while looking for ancient findings that could be more pleasant, I purposefully decided to hunt them down.  Knowing that they would be there and looking for them was a way for me to prepare myself for what I was inevitably going to encounter.  This is what it means to be black to me.  It means knowing that there will be something out there that wants to offend or degrade you, and knowing that the only defense available is seeking it out and staring it down.

I was also encouraged to think about the future, my future, during the tour de antique booths.  I was in awe that some of the items at the fair were 100 years or more, old.  Several vendors were selling French provincial chemises, made from an off-white linen.  These garments, many of them dating to the 1880′s, were immaculately preserved.  It was hard for me to believe that they were that old and still in such good condition.  The prices were even more unbelievable, some of them going for upwards of $120.  These were the clothes for the poorest people in France, and perhaps they weren’t appreciated or seen as beautiful at the time, but they most definitely are now.

That got me to thinking, since there is the chance that things I make might outlive me, what is it that I want to leave behind?  One of the ways that we as humans can escape death is by leaving something, evidence that we were actually here.  Some people have children, others build skyscrapers, some make art, some make laws that, while not physical, can also leave their mark for generations, some make clothes – most disappear into the oblivion of time, which I find a most noble pursuit.  My dad has always said that when he dies, he wants his ashes scattered in the sea, he wants to leave no trace that he was ever here.  For dust thou art, I suppose.

There were treasures, but there was also a lot of junk at this fair.  And I don’t want to make junk.  I’ve decided that anything I make should increase in value over time, like any good article.

Love and Enjoy!