Free College

Somewhere is Really in the Middle of Nowhere -- The Calumet Theatre and Charming Old Timers

2006-08-28T16:14:00.000-07:00

I was thinking this phrase as I drove home last night. "Somewhere is really in the middle of nowhere." The stars were screaming at me from my car windows. The street lights were few and far between, and oncoming traffic courteously turned off their high beams as they approached.

I had just come from Shute's, an early 20th-century bar in the nearby town of Calumet, where the performance was. Dave, one of the singers in the vaudeville show, took me there for a beer and some karaoke. He sang new country songs that I had never heard before. But the audience seemed to be familiar with his choices, and pleased with his voice. "All right, now!" people yelled and clicked their boots on the old hard-wood floors, as he started singing a ballad about a man who is "just friends" with a woman but then the whole situation is changed by the most powerful kiss...an indication that they might be more than friends. Other country hits included, "Red Hot Mama" which had a verse that rhymed with "sauna" -- pronounced "saw-nah" here -- something that is very popular here in the U.P. Others spoke about housewives with carts full of groceries, and babies pulling at the ex-prom queen's curlers...stuff like that. The lyrics for these new country songs are hilarious.

I sang two Sinatra songs, one Frank, the other, Nancy. A blonde girl stood up as I was singing "These Boots..." and starting talking trash to her entourage of hot young men standing in the front, listening to me. I jokingly asked her if she wanted to stand up there with me, and be my dancer...she said, "I don't want to go up there with you!" then turned away to talk more trash. I asked her what her problem was...she gave me a look and walked away. The young guys laughed it off...I was a little tispy, I realized this when I got home...I lost my balance while in the shower, washing out my flapper hair-do...hard gell and pomade.

But my entourage was not the young hot guys at the bar, well-groomed and tan from outdoor sports, buff from the gym or construction jobs, possibly some of the "road guys" I see as I'm driving around town. No, they were not my people at the bar. My people were the old guys, wrinkled from time, conversation much more interesting, thoughtful men with love handles and large rear ends that folded over the bar stools they sat upon, faded blue jeans, and light-brown sun glasses that they wore inside the bar, old bikers from Minnesota -- Osh Kosh -- guys who had met Dylan and were friends with Arlo Guthrie. An old guy named "Ray" who told me "Just think of me as your Ray-of-sunshine because I'm everywhere...I'm shining everywhere for you, baby" and put his arm around me like 10 times. He was a charmer.

Ray and I had the best conversation that I've had since I've been here. He said how he was 80 and he prays every night, asking God to give him 20 more years. He said that he's not religious, but spiritual. Also he said how he came in just for a minute but stayed because he wanted to hear me sing. He could tell I was a good singer. He kept asking me over and over again, "So...you gonna sing next..." just like a kid asking "Are we there yet" over and over in the car on a long trip.

Before Shute's I was performing at the Calumet.

There was audience participation which went well, and a story behind it...
I ended up talking about Helen Kane and how she was a popular singer of her time...and then Max Fleischer stole her trademark "Boop-oop-a-doo" and her voice to make Betty boop. She then sued him, but of course he won. Anyway, I was telling this dog trainer in the back -- when she said I should have done the grotesque-"CUTE" Betty Boop poses (like porno poses) on stage -- about how Fleischer had stolen Kane's act then made this gross caricature of her persona and put it on a cartoon. She was an incredible singer/vaudevillian...and Fleischer had no respect. He made her persona (the one SHE created) into this bimbo, porn star, who on the first cartoon is depicted as a stripper more than a singer...
Grrrrr...you can imagine how mad Kane was as a woman and professional singer!..her phrasing was impeccable, she was a jazz musician@!

So yeah, I spoke a little about this before singing one of her signature songs, "I Wanna Be Loved By You" and had the audience fill in the "Boop-oop-a-doops" so that it would return to Helen Kane (me), the rightful owner...I even made them move their right shoulder a bit while singing as we practiced...and wink to be more saucy, sassy, flapperish...like Helen...
SO. I was accompanied by a piano player and my "invisible orchestra" -- which is the audience...I plan to do another one this coming Tuesday...and maybe hang out with another group of old guys...bikers, and such...

Hope to see ya there!

Telephone Message Radio Play...my old songs

2006-08-28T16:13:00.000-07:00

I was staying with one of my best friend, Larry (Flower Vato), when he was making his KDVS Fundraiser Comp. I was intensely working on an essay for grad. school applications. I was having nightmares about Jesus when I woke up from Larry yelling in the room next to me.

"Holy Sh*T! IT'S BABY SHANNO! Hey, wake up!"

And sure enough, there I was, "Baby Shanno" on some old answering machine tapes of Larry's. I was 20. He graciously decided to put them on his CD, along with an impromptu song about my best friend's dog that was being immasculated and mislabeled as a "gay dog" by his gay "mean master man" owner. This was done at 19 with my karaoke machine.

Anyway, a friend who was googling me up here found my name on a KDVS playlist. It was from KDVS DJ Wonderboy, Brendan. I had met Brendan at Larry's one evening. We had Orangecicle drinks...and talked about the life of an artist and shared some great music.

SO>>>short message made long, here is the link with his show. My messages/songs kick off his show...which by the way, is great, inventive transitions for such a strange mix of music!!! He makes it work! or I should say, he works it!

http://www.kdvs.org/showme.cfm?show=79&title=The%20Raw%20Mess%20Around&back=archive&show_occur_id=61385&start=1

I'm hoping to record more once I can play this accordion better....

Creating Presence

2006-08-28T16:11:00.000-07:00

The past couple days, I have been exhausted. Feeling ghostly and unconnected, I found myself walking down the same dirt road that I'm used to jogging on. The sun was setting, the water was practically at my feet, beautiful and shimmering. There were new boats tied to the dock across the canal. One especially large one was cobalt blue with a white stripe that plunged into the water. It reminded me of my large portable cooler back at my apartment, sitting on my kitchen floor. Yes...it was a beautiful night. As I walked back, bats darted at my head. They flew in and out from the willowy trees at either side of the narrow path. I was happy to have them, they were eating the mousquitoes that I was probably attracting.

All this beauty and newness...but GOD I was bored. Lately, I have been running almost every day. Sometimes I run for almost two hours in the forest simply because I get lost. Chipmunks (the cutest things!) and black squirrels scatter onto the top branches of the birch trees as they hear me coming. The chipmunks are small, bite sized. I think the last couple days, all my exercising and moving to my 3rd story apartment has finally caught up to my body. I slept most of yesterday, then baked for those who helped me move today and slept for 2-3 hours in the middle of the day today after a orange dark chocolate sugar crash. I dreamt of empty love and satanic verses...a woman who heard songs of redemption magically playing on her record player turn suddenly to songs of damnation. She covered her ears when the 2nd set of music played.

I SIGH, just thinking of those days...but then today I started to play the accordion. The size and easy reach of the keys makes this instrument perfect for me. The only thing is the difficulty of coordinating the buttons for playing jazz because they are far apart from each other...it was built for folk songs with easy 1 - 4 or 1- 5 chord progressions, the 1-4/5 buttons being side by side. I've been playing a song over and over called "My Ideal." Again, I'm thinking of all the time I've wasted inside of my own head rather than just living...being in the present moment. Now, I'm trying to not waste any more time with analyzing things too much. But music helps to get me out of this space of over-analyzing.

Music puts me in my own place, connects me to my own universe. It is like the time I saw an added dimension in the wall, a place that I suppose always existed but I had never had the chance to see inside. There were added dimensions in a place that I had always seen as merely flat, merely seen it for its purpose or form as a wall. But there was so much more there. After expanded, and made into a portal, I realized that everything is like this...matter is infused with spirit, with the "Other," that which we seek and want to know...but is seems as if it is always fleeting. Life force. However, it is not. It is always present...it is just knowing how and when to TAP IN.

It is in this place, when doing my music or writing that I feel I am in my place. After Sally Strobelight contacted me today...I realized how important it is to be with others who have the ability to see through walls...or even better, see into walls (that way you are not ignoring what is there in matter...but acknowledging that there is so much more possible than what just stands).
It is also in this place where I feel LOVE. Rather than trying to run from myself, I am trying to stay with this settled feeling, this feeling of serenity, calm, or just feeling alright sitting with myself...it is the difficulty of being alone, of not expecting others to provide this LOVE for me. I know that I am the only one to provide it for myself...with my actions and that which I create for myself and others...my art.

Well...after my chocolate induced crash today, I was finally able to dream. It was a good dream. Even though I awoke with a chocolate hangover, a headache, I felt a presence here, something benevolent smiling at me. I felt something here with me in my new apartment. After that I took my accordion out from it's case, from it's red velvet wrap, and I played...I played and sang "My Ideal" until I was interrupted. The downstairs neighbors' burned food was causing the smoke alarm to emit a piercing sound (they go off from other apartments' smoke). It broke into my dreamy state, but it did not completely jar me. I haven't left yet. I am still here, hoping to stay.

My Comment to "Racist" Article in Mining Gazette, Houghton's Local Paper

2006-08-13T21:41:00.000-07:00

First, here is the response to the article...the response outlines the article. I thought that the article was ridiculous, but also the response did not quite ring true to me. So I wrote a response that follows. But first, I will try to summarize a little...

This woman who wrote the article was basically arguing against the international flags displayed on the main street of Houghton and Hancock for the parade that is to follow, honoring international students and residents of this area. I agree that the article was backed up poorly with this woman's superior attitude to other nationalities/ethnicities compared to "American" which to her, translates, "white American." However, I also wanted to acknowledge the area that we are all in...a primarily white, conservative area...

So anyway, here is the president of the international club's response, followed by my response...

Dear students,

My name is Madie Xiong. I am a Computer Engineering senior at Michigan
Tech and I am the president of the International Club. As most of you
know I am Hmong but by birth, I am a proud American. Today, when I
came across this news paper entry, I was SHOCKED.. APPALLED.. I could
not believe what I was reading! I am very disappointed to know that an
independent woman would write such narrow-minded statements about the
international flags in downtown Houghton, the 9/11 attacks, and the
veils that MiddleEastern women wear. I suggest that you please read
this and forward it.

WE AS STUDENTS MUST RISE UP TOGETHER AGAINST ANY FORM OF HATE,
DISCRIMINATION, and STEREOTYPES.

Here is my response...

I have been thinking a lot about my response to this writer's
intolerance of other nationalities. At first, I was appalled and
annoyed (especially at some of her ridiculous points behind not
wanting the flags...like the yearly cost, and terrorism) but then I
had to listen to a deeper reaction to not only this woman, but also to
MANY other similar interactions that I have had to endure just the
past two years. I had to reach beyond the knee-jerk reaction that
wanted to label this woman as merely "bad" or "wrong" and try to find
another way to react to her that would be helpful to both sides of the
argument.

To me, there are two clearly distinguished sides, the people whom she
views as her community, a native-born white community (I'm assuming),
and a community that I have not yet found here, but I feel I belong
to, people of color and those who acknowledge us (those who are not of
color but who are also appalled or uncomfortable with the article, our
sympathizers).

Maybe I am riding solo on this one, but I try to react to racism and
prejudice in a different way than most people. I'm more accepting
than angry when confronted with someone who (based on my ethnic
background) doesn't understand me. When I am upset, it is only when I
feel I have been attacked or left with no power or worth.

Sometimes (what I strive for), I can stand back from the situation and
try to see the other person for who they really are (even though they
are not seeing me this way). I know, that most of the time, the other
person does not mean any harm to me. Most of the time they have been
so isolated within a unicultural community, that their views have been
molded around knowing only one kind of person, excluding the rest. I
see some sort of clash based on this isolation (like what this article
has caused) as an opportunity to let them (those coming from a
unicultural community) truly see me as a person, not just the
unknowable foreign "other," and maybe not one of them, but as someone
who deserves to exist right along side of them.

When I am confronted with someone who is intolerant, I try to be in a
place where I can be neutral, however insulting or demeaning their
comments may seem. I know that, sadly, they are viewing me as an
outsider, someone different from their norm, their everyday. Instead
of trying to prove that they are wrong, or that they are "bad" (a
natural reaction when you feel hurt, rejected, or victimized), I
assert myself as I am, and I correct them if what they have said is
factually/historically incorrect (sometimes I do this). I try to act
with kindness and know that no matter what anyone says to me, I am
still a worthy human being, and so are they.

This may sound like such a weak or flimsy response to intolerance, but
I feel it is the best response. I would rather give someone the chance
(over time) to get to know me, than ban them as a bad person for their
views. To me, racism is not about power, rather it is
misunderstanding, and conflicts like this are chances to bring people
together, not only people from "my side" of the argument (other people
of color and our sympathizers) but also from the side that has caused
the hurt, and those who may agree with her.

As I said, the last two years, I have experienced or witnessed many
different forms of racism or intolerance. Not only within very rural,
primarily white areas (Eugene, Oregon--91% Caucasian--and here) but
also when living in New Orleans, Korea, working in Chinatown, or even
when visiting my family. Just since I've been here, I've heard the N
word, been called a "Chinagirl" (female version of "Chinaman"), and
have been blamed for other "more capable" white males not getting into
the RTC program. But my reaction to these comments have been less of a
fighting nature, and more of acceptance. Before I came here, I had an
idea of what the general U.P. native-born populace was going to be
like...and what comments to expect from this populace.

For example, I went to a Guy Lombardo Orchestra concert at the Calumet
Theatre and the first 20 minutes was a tribute to the U.S. military.
The leader of the band was talking about how we had to fight against
terrorism. Everyone rose and sang patriotic songs. I was thinking to
myself that I would never have experienced anything like this in
California. This blatant display of nationalism would have received
boos from the crowd. But then I thought of the populace here and their
more conservative beliefs and values. It was appropriate. It was a new
experience for me.

Now, I realize where I am and whose larger community I am living
within. I can find other people of color within the Michigan Tech.
international clubs. Also, I can be comfortable as a Chinese-American
with those in my program, and the friends that I have made here, but I
may never feel the same comfort outside of these contexts. I realized
this after going to the Guy Lombardo show and seeing the tribute to
Bush and anti-terrorism; also, after telling others that I lived in
Korea, and hearing over and over again, "Oh, are you from Korea? You
speak such good English." (as if English-speaking Americans can only
be white) -- I know where I am at with the general populace here in
Houghton/Hancock, and I accept it.

I am not trying to be antagonistic to anyone's upset feelings based on
this woman's article, or stand on the side of the newspaper for
printing it. I think that, based on my ethnic identity and my support
of an international community here in Houghton/Hancock, that the
article is outrageous. However, what I AM trying to say is that we
(as people of color and as sympathizers) need to also look at our
version of the "Other," the people who were born here secluded within
their unicultural communities, the people that may (sadly) agree with
the article. Is there anyway to open up a dialogue to include the
people of different backgrounds/experiences of a more diverse
population AND the people from the more secluded populace that exists
here?

Sincerely,

Shannon W. L.

Mourning and When to Stop

2006-08-07T21:30:00.000-07:00

I'm currently reading a Torah commentary and it is speaking of Chaya Sarah which means "the life of Sarah" (the mother of the people of Israel) even though the story's premise is of her death. But after reading more about how the Jewish people deal with death, this title makes sense. Even though it is about her death, the title is meant to emphasize that her life should be emphasized, and mourners should be honoring her for her life and what she did, not getting stuck within their sorrow.

Thinking of my daily runs, I know I am doing this in order to release recent losses in my life, people who I have lost, dreams or plans that seemed to change suddenly, the unpredictablility of life...and those whom I came to trust, to know, and love...those who have shared so much with me. I cried so much recently...the most compared to before. I was in my grief...again. But this time it felt different. I was clear about so much in this moment...what I wanted, what I lost. But mostly, it was what I wanted that seemed to rise to the surface of the consistent state of blah or feeling numb for so long...I truly felt it as I was blanketed by the trees, the green of the leaves. I ran to a more open space, I released it...I let it go...I wailed...

Today, I did yoga for one and a half hours on a pier, over beautiful blue water, the wind and sun on me. It was simply glorious...and I wondered...what has been keeping me from all of this?

I am returning to myself here...

And all the people who I have loved, those who I thought wanted to hurt me...they fade into the scenery that surrounds me. I see my lovers in the sun, the trees, the water...

Duluth, Minnesota and NATURE vs. NURTURE

2006-07-21T21:58:00.000-07:00

While on my road trip, I was pulled over twice for speeding, once in Utah and the other time recently, in Minnesota.

The Minnesotan officer was so cordial when he spoke to
me. I am used to California police officers who you are scared of, no nonsence kind of people who are writing the ticket out before they come to your window. But this guy was different, no cop glasses, nice tan, light brown uniform (he looked a little like a UPS driver), white blond hair and a crinkly smile. He introduced himself by first and last name, then proceeded toexplain exactly why he was concerned, and the exact reason why he pulled me over (as if he had to ligitimitize it with me!).

There was another officer in a car beside him. I could see both of them sitting there, waiting for speeders from the adjoining island separating the sides of the highway
When he spoke about why he was pulling me over he used the plural pronoun "we." I felt I was being cared for by this police man, as if he was truly "concerned" for my welfare and the safety of other drivers around me, not merely intending to give me a ticket. He said that the "reason why we were concerned" was because I was going too fast. He asked a few questions about my trip. I explained I was alone, and while making this long trip alone, I was unaware that I was going so fast. He gave me a warning. The rest of the trip, I
slowed down. I went from 95 to 80-85. I was sincerely touched by the officer's approach, that he actually cared...

I decided to stop in Duluth, Minnesota because I had heard it was a "rockin place" from a Michigan Tech grad. At night, I went out, searching for others like myself to talk to and enjoy some sort of night-life scene. I went into an Irish Bar (forgot the name) after I saw a dreadlocked guy go in. I spoke to the same guy after getting a beer and sitting down. He had red hair with a beard and moustache that had been gelled; it pointed to the left and to the right. After getting his name, he refused to talk to me unless I played "The Question game." My brain wasn't working right from all the driving...and he was Socratic in his method of explaining the game to me. After he asked me a question, I answered and he said, "15" and pointed to himself, "LOVE" and pointed to me. As I answered more of his questions, his score grew and mine stayed "LOVE."

Eventually, I got taken away by his friends, a rowdy and silly group of students from the university across Lake Superior. We went to a cheezy 80's bar with 70's disco music, "hits' that I had never heard before, hits that were never actually hits..very strange.

After the 80's bar, we went to Norshore, a beautiful old theatre that had once been a strip bar. There was a Marilyn Monroe/frank Sinatra movie playing on the wall as we walked in. Statues of marilyn circa "7 Year itch" stood opposite from the movie as well as one of Elvis (pre-war, of course). I didn't know that the place had been converted to a regular bar, minus strippers, and minus a contortionist that the cops had stopped from performing at the Norshore.

I thought of my friend, Theresa Columbus, a performance artist who once lived in Milwaukee, Wisconsin now living in SAVAGE, Maryland. When I knew her, she would play an out-of-tune guitar and sing and howl in verse, poetry. We once did a performance together...one that ended up slightly pornographic, bellies that rubbed on each other while repeating a chant. It was then that I realized how performance art, this revolutionary form of theatre, was channeling an old form of ritual otherwise known as chanting, ceremony...something that our American culture is lacking. We are what we do...and these repetitive acts channel our routes for future courses of action. This is why ceremony is so important, something that represents our passage, these important moments of transformation.

A rabbi told me recently that within the Reform movement, I am considered Jewish because one of my parents is Jewish (my father). This is in contrast with the Orthodox Jews who believe that you can only become Jewish if you were born that way, passed on ONLY from your mother.

Today, a lady from the local Reform synagogue said that I do not have to go through with the ceremony of becoming Jewish, my ascension to God, home...a sort of latent Batmitzvah. She said that I am already considered Jewish because of my father. I told her that if I convert, I would like to do the ceremony...to publicly announce myself as a Jew.

The reason why I bring this up is because I have been thinking and discussing the subject of NATURE vs. NURTURE and the production of art. How one is born a certain way vs. the act of creating oneself anew...like with my artist/musician friends who create separate personnas for themselves in order to channel their art, Art Lessing, Flower Vato, and Dr. Audrey Saint Violet. I have pften thought of changing my name...as a testimony, the act of reasserting myself as myself, not the person I was necessarily born as...but as I was born an artist, or merely re-born an artist (like the Pentecostals feel they experience when they enter into a personal relationship with Jesus Christ).

When in Oregon I was looking up the basis of the artist as someone who was born that way, more inclined to have "the gift" of artistic vision rather than a skill that takes a lifetime to hone. The former theory comes from the idea of privilege, "good breeding" whiel the latter comes from the idea of "common blood" or "working class." ONE is privileged, he is considered worthy by just Being while the other works his ass off to prove himself. One is spirit separate from the physicial while the other is body, flesh in motion.

The point is that there is one way of Being that involves inaction and another that involves discipline and WORK. Part of my trip to Michigan has been to try and get back to the idea of art as work...and that I am not Being something unless I am progressing and working hard at my craft. Lately, I have felt like in my life, I have been doing what I needed to survive...busy, busy, busy...and recently, the lull and sadness of break-up, hiatus. I run to try and move through it...but only unsuccessfully. I am hoping that here in the U.P., I will be able to concentrate (I have a scholarship up here...I have always had to work while in school) on my craft, on rhetoric and the writing skills and insight will come with working hard in the program.

I don't know if this is making sense...but when I meet such amazing people as I have up here, I know that I can become more of who I really am. By making the choice to come to such an isolated, inexpensive place and be fully supported, I will be able to truly focus on that which moves me, which speaks from within...and create those objects, those manifestations that best represents my "ethical core," that which lies within me....

And I said this same thing to Dead Western about his music...I related a moaning tree to his singing. Now that I think of it, I have felt this from many whose music, writing, or art has inspired me. I have felt something come over me, uncontrolled. Gadamer would call this art one that captivates the receiver, so much that he cannot take his attention off of it. But to me, I experience it as nature that has been nurtured, art that is made intentional by the artist.
I only catch rare glimpses of the artist's vision within moments...and I have to remember that it is all I have and let go of the rest. But then again the past is what has shaped me, helped give birth to me even. I want to hold on to the past, yet it pulls away from me because it is no longer in the present. It hovers because it has not yet moved into its current form. So I hover with it. I linger. I go within.

But maybe it is the synthesis of past experiences that brings all to attention...to life.

Lonely Drive in Circles...Beak to Beak or Mouth to Mouth

2006-07-21T21:57:00.000-07:00

As I drove along 80 today, my trip felt so plain which was appropriate considering I was traveling in Wyoming and Nebraska...the Great Plains. I stopped at a gas station with a green dinosaur on it to get some soft serve ice cream (it was advertised as only 35 cents per cone) and pick up some postcards. The lady behind the counter and the other Wyoming native were tickled by the "Love Them Wyoming Buns" postcard sporting two guys in tight jeans and chaps, leaning over a corral of cattle. Seems there is this same "Love Them ___ Buns" postcards for each state.

This trip reminds me of the last time I took a road trip on my own. I was 23 and trying to drive this demon out of my system. I remember it being hard for me to leave my comfie apartment, a spacious basement flat that I used to rollerskate in with friends before I got all my furniture. My friend, Carrie and her sister had to push me out of it, because I was scared to get out there by myself.

As soon as I was gone, I was okay. After I started driving, I could feel something moving within me then through and out of me. The first night, I stayed in a motel and I dreamed about my ex. He was traveling in a motor home, looking for me all over the country. He went back to my mother's house where (for the first time) I picked him up and threw him back from where he had come. He drove off, a sad snail in his shell.

Now, as I drive, I feel that rather than pushing through something or letting go of something, that I am going further and further into myself. Aimee Mann is singing about how she goes in circles, and mentions another distracting thing that breaks a current, the current being her much needed flow of thought. I know that I am still quite far from my final destination, but I wonder when the speed and distance of my travel are going to disrupt the circles happening within my own mind, the goldfish swimming round and round, searching for escape within the confines of the small glass bowl.

I commented before on Sally Strobelight's song featured on her myspace page, that it sounds like marbles going through a route that is too narrow so they spark on both the top and bottom. They are being forced through; sometimes things need to be pushed out of us.

Also thinking of the crow that I was next to when I was sitting in my car, prepping to meet a rabbi at the local synagogue for the first time. The bird looked sick. He just sat there, staring at me. He didn't try to eat, fly, or look for food. He didn't move until he saw another much larger crow in the near distance. He walked hurridly up to the other crow and cawed at it...leaving its beak open as if he wanted the bigger crow to feed him, beak to beak. OH...it was a sign. It was the same park where my boyfriend told me that he didn't want to talk to me anymore...and now I was waiting to face what may become my connection to God. I waited till the end of my stay to go to the synagogue. When I visited with the rabbi in their library, I'd wished I'd been there the whole time while in Sacramento.

After explaining the crow to my mom, I tried to figure out why it would react that way with the other older crow. "Maybe it had been left in the nest too long?" This was my explanation of the crow's behavior. As soon as I'd said it, I regetted it. Was this me as well? Had I left myself in a nest too long....maybe not the nest of my parents, but some nest, some place where I'd let my ideas about the way things were supposed to be stew and sit too long...and now I am breaking loose only to find myself horrified...still expecting a great "Other" to come. INstead of finding my own nourishment, my mistake has often lied in the fact that I look for others to feed me. Like the baby crow, I am expecting another to heal me, mouth to mouth...or in his case, beak to beak.

My Devil and Daniel Johnston's a Four Part Series

2006-06-26T21:27:00.001-07:00

To be known or to be unknowable...we are among the untracable, the uncatchable. we are elusive.

When I sat through this movie, I thought of the times within my own life when I was having those delusions of grandeur...still am. I know why I get stuck in those sticky places of in between spaces, rotten teeth with the cotton candy still lodged in between, years of the stuff packed and stacked, catalogued...all crazy talk which caused this residue. I try to decode. I fall in the accumulation of corroded ponderings, those of mine and others. I let myself fall, and I get stuck.

I think of Daniel Johnston's sweet voice, how "unstable" he was and how he thought in mythic ways. The violence, the paranoi...check, check, check.

I told someone recently that we create these major events in our lives before they actually occur...then the building up of the illusion, then the "bubble burst" I unconsciously strive to become the one who props people up...the ladder that I climb up, then am knocked off of only to end up standing underneath, the can of paint to falling on my head...the bucket of water being dumped, waking me up, making me look so foolish...winning the wet T-shirt contest that I didn't even enter...

But when I saw this movie, it did remind me of Janet Frame...another artist who looked like an adult little orphan Annie. She was an incredible writer from New Zealand who struggled with social awkwardness,. Frame was eventually was misdiagnosed with schizophrenia and kept in a mental hospital for 7 years. She was minutes away from a labotomy when a national writer's award prevented it from happening. Her whole life after the institution, she ended up living with her parents in a small trailer, continuing to write.

Now, I'm going to a very isolated place in Michigan. I have just left someone who knew me very well... It is difficult to be known and then not to be known. I walk around the streets of my hometown feeling ghostly.

The Devil

I was not raised Christian, but I have often struggled with something that looks like demons.

But, I don't know. I think that, instead of seeing the presence of demons as "evil," I rather see them as something which I view as "foreign," unfamiliar, or the feared "Other" showing up as an adversarial form to get my attention. However, some demons are "bad" or harmful simply because they are things that do not belong with me, manipulative energy from others, those who are misrepresenting themselves. This chicanery is at its worst when others try to take your most important parts, your vulnerablity and poetry...and twist these things up to fit in their pockets. But first, you must open your doors to them. You do not have to do this, let them in.

ANYWAY, when something that doesn't belong in or with me is revealed as such, (like what the body does with a splinter) it finds a way to push itself out of me. And if it does not, I work hard to find a way to push it out.

Lately, my splinter has appeared as familiar faces and people speaking to me, but they are surrounded by darkness. Someone whose face and upper torso which I cannot see (it is blurry and surrounded by a murky darkness) who holds out his hand. He says, "Come here." I am on the bed, half asleep. I say, "No, you come here. " He says, "No, you come here. " I say, "No, you come here. " He says, "No, you come here." "I say, "No, You come here." Each of us wants the other to come to the other. I still can't see him, but then his hand shows up right by my bed. He has come to me. "Okay, now you come here." he says. I think that he has done most of the work, and I am captivated by the hand. But while he can see me, I can't see him. I take his hand...and suddenly, I am pulled into the next world. I am taken from my slumber, my comfort. I am dragged. I scream out because I know I've been taken for a ride. ANd it was violent.

Jesus

Lately I have been having dreams with the figure of Jesus. Although he always stands from afar, his presence brings me comfort. Jesus is merely one of the many saints, saviors...and because I don't know him, the dream presents him as another (an unknown sheppard with a benevolent presence) or he stands with two others in front of national monuments, all in the dark. I can see his sillouette smiling up at me. He seems to have an unusually curly perm. I see its oil in the moonlight...like a Jerry Curl.

A couple people were trying to convince me that a conversion is happening within these dreams of Jesus. But I don't know. I just observe his presence. I think of the chaos that I have felt with the demons and the comfort that I have always felt with religious figures. Both show me things. Both are valuable for the revealing process...

In Between Integration...being somewhere but not entirely there

Now, I dig my feet into the mud of the river. My toes reach down but I don't fall through. I let my body drink the water surrounding. I dig down deeper until I feel air on the other side of the river's bottom. I want someone to reach up and grab my feet, pull me through. But there is no one there. Or is there? Someone is tickling my feet from underneath the water and mud. Someone is touching my fingertips from above, but they will not pull me up from the muck. Everyone is laughing at my situation.

As I hear voices laughing from above and below, I try to relate. And as I react to the stimulation of the ones below me, my laughter comes up to the surface in bubbles. The people above can hear me, but those below cannot. However I try, I cannot be with these people below the surface or those above the surface. I am stuck in the middle, alone, at the mercy of the surrounding elements.

Second Rule of Rhetoric...consider your audience...and the fight I had at the gas station

2006-06-26T21:27:00.000-07:00

The second rule of rhetoric and half of what the rhetorician should consider before he speaks is, not only the meaning of what he wants to convey, but HIS AUDIENCE...the receiving end. It is never enough to just assert the rhetor's version of "the truth." You always have to consider your audience, and exactly what you are trying to communicate to the Other. Otherwise, it is just a verbal exposing of oneself to another rather than a communication or something attempting at reciprocity...

Just thought of that based on my own recent experience of the mover and objectification that can occur when both are not considered movers or equals...and one becomes the "object" or the stationary person, unable to speak because he was not considered in the first place. The communication becomes one-sided at this point. The rhetor becomes a fundamentalist, prosthelizing his dogma rather than trying to incorporate the Other's views, history, values...etc. within the conversation.

As a dialectician or fledgling hermeneut, I am always trying to think about HOW I relate to others and how I'd like to be related to. Recently, I got in a fight with a man in a gas station (disagreements happen from time to time in random places...). He was a muscle-bound man with an imposing presence. I had turned around my car quickly because I pulled up to the wrong pump in the front of the station. Because of my quick movements, and the positioning of my car (I was on the side of this guy where a pump was opening up) he started to yell at me. I rolled down my window to talk to him. I tried to calm him down. He had a HUGE white truck...I told him there were two people pulling out and so we now both had places to get gas...and was everything okay, now? His face was red from yelling. It was twisted up in a grimace.

When I got out of my car, he continued to yell at me, claiming I was "rude" for trying to get ahead of him. I told him that I wasn't trying to get ahead of him. He shook his head. I guess he had made up his mind that I was to be the anonymous "evil Other" for the day (or moment!). He didn't believe me because of this...or trust me (of course this is just speculation). So I told him that I didn't want to waste my time and energy with anger...and why don't we just go about our business and get our gas. He muttered. BUT it didn't end there.

As he finished I stupidly said to him, "Try to have a good day." I don't know why I continued to engage someone who was obviously going to try to leash out on me more...upon speculation, it was almost like I was trying to instigate him. At the time, I thought the comment was sincere...but maybe it was not. He retorted, "Try not to be rude." I smiled at him and said, "I understand that you feel helpless in this moment. I'm sorry you feel like a victim in this situation." He looked at me silenced and stunned and drove off.

At the time, it felt good to say this because it was my truth in the situation...but now I wonder why I engaged him further than I needed to. Why did I try to gain power in a situation with someone who obviously felt so powerless in the first place?

In Christian mysticism (and part of dialectics...a spiritual component of rhetoric), there is the concept of the "good physician," someone who tells others what they don't want to hear for their spiritual betterment or self-improvement. Maybe I was taking on this role in this situation. At the time, I thought that I was just trying to not take this guy's shit. The funny thing was, despite this guy's outlandish behavior and physique (he was obviously a body builder or something) I was not aware of being physically threatened by him. But I was aware of this metaphysical "attack" on my actions and character. Why would it matter with someone who doesn't know me...a stranger? I don't know? But it was this idea of mistrust that compelled me to act...and that he was probably mad about something else and thought he could just take it out on this anonymous object (me). I could not allow for this to happen.

So did I follow the 2nd rule of rhetoric...considering the receiving end? Or did I merely switch around his intent in reaction, and make him into the object? I'll have to speculate further...

Punished by Edith Piaf and Maurice Chevalier

2006-06-20T18:57:00.000-07:00

When I tried to sing French all he could say was "Nice try." Another friend said, "Is that you?!" when he heard Edith Piaf from my computer. He was sleeping in his loft bed far above me as I typed away. I heard scooters outside and the droning of the British man being interviewed on Art Bell. I was laughing each time the man said, "Big Bah-ng."

Listening to Willie Nelson now, I am comforted by this space. I am silenced, almost relaxed. My friend is sleeping now, and I hear the bus hiss at me from outside. Punished. I think about the concept and how I have often been put in a place of the "pagan" friend or girlfriend.

Once I had a boyfriend who came from a Pentecostal background. He used to recite bible verses in his sleep. I guess we all repeat what we have heard when we drift off to sleep. But there is also a certain anxiety that can occur when you are with someone new and you try to let go with them for the first time...to sleep. And then there are the psyches that can never become untwisted from an agonized place. And there are the savers who try and ring them out, untangle them from a ball of crossed wires, mixed-up spokes and cogs only for the sparks to catch in the saver's eyes...blinding her for a while, detracting from her most important work.

But sometimes one can feel conjoined to these people. They represent links to inner and outer space...links which my advisor, Priestess Miriam says I should have with only a spiritual outlet...the discipline that my "know everything" generation seems to be lacking.

The rich voice of Edith Piaf and funny lyrics of Maurice Chevalier...both fade into folds of my sleeping bag. They are what I love, but they are also what I am not being. Everytime I fold my sleeping bag up yet again, I am moving my psyche around more and more. It feels needless to my psyche. My psyche wants to settle down, to sink in to a soft yet firm place, bite into soft cement bags and leave gold teeth behind, the fancy shells that blind others when I speak.

I'm sleeping alone now, yet I still hear the nostril squeeking of those from my past, ghosts with ties or scarves around their necks. I wait for the ties and scarves to come off so they will rush through me as one big breath, the neverending exhale, the result of years of holding their breath. But maybe it has been me who has been holding my breath. Everyone else around me has only been breathing, living, acting and speaking within their own rhythms, patterns, and pace. Whitman described "dreams and dots" as modern man losing his soul yet, for me, they are only the pin points to my grand design...my work. As I weave in and out of these relationships, I can only shake hands, press bodies, jiggle hearts, and mix words. The faces pass before me as a series of far away kites, blankets that shake out all their belongings, eyes that he said were kind but closed soon after. A blinking eye is a sign. A call unanswered is a game. It ends only to continue within another conversation somewhere else.

A Synthesis of Circuitous Relapses

2006-06-20T18:53:00.000-07:00

Got to thinking about the dog who goes in circles so much that he ends up biting his own tail. ALso thought about, as an artist, how I attempt to create events in my life before they actually occur...within Being that is. It takes time for the spirit to show up within an event...all else is forced into Being because of my needs and ends up being false.

In many cases, my words and dreamy ponderings attempt to captivate others, the same function as art that speaks to you. But then I live in this illusion (of a real event) just long enough to see its flaws (because it is objectified, not real, controllable as a creation of art, techne)...and it shatters. The ideal or the creation is gone and I am left with only these shards, the casing that I created only with the essence, missing...the real life force, silenced...just me standing there alone, flapping my gums.

But now I realize that it takes time...Unfortunately everything does take time. It can't all be syntheses...rather a long duration of acts, determined by ethics and discipline followed by series of surprise visitations by Being, or syntheses.

Like in Heidegger's Being and Time, he sees time as part of being "the eternal recurrence of the same events" which I believe could include the discipline of the artist and then those WOW moments when all synthesizes into a BEing moment, when you feel that Being has shone through or upon you and the object created.

But what about the opposite, which Heidegger also addresses (as well as all existentialists), the Nothing. The artist, as a channel for Being, becomes a wide open space so she is continually within the Nothing or the Being, fluctuating as a messenger between the two.

However, when plunged into the Nothing sometimes the artist becomes a mere observer for what is happening around her. She becomes absorbed by the Nothing, and begins a series of circuitous journeys. As a messenger turned observer, she cannot return to the self because she no longer recognizes it. She has merely become a tool for either the Nothing or the Being (which may no longer visit her).

In her visionary work, she carries Being across dark empty space to fuse with objects (trying to bring dead matter to life!). However, within this harrowing process, she forgets she exists. Instead, she goes in circles, between the Nothing and the self that she can no longer locate. She gets stuck in this circular motion...and instead of returning to a realized self, she objectifies herself within a series of self-absorbed observations, never reaching the place that links inner and outer space...an integrated self. She has just sacrificed herself in order to bring Being to the Objects.

Within the circle, she ends up only seeing her own rear end (like the dog). Eventually, she is tired of looking at her rear end so she bites it (dog biting her own tail). She finally finds herself, but only accidentally and only through the act of self-mutilation...self-sacrifice gone bad. Ummm, waiter, can I have a little sadism with my masochism? ...yes, this happens for a reason as well...sacrificing those who are close to us, sacrificing ourselves.

Or maybe she attacks herself for fear of being attacked by another, a foreign element that she is exposed to (and unaware of) while within the Nothing.

This is, I think, when artists become self-mutilators. And the solution is to stay with the "eternal recurrance of the same events," only within the discipline of your art...and NOT to confuse beings (other artists who are channels for God or Being) with Being (God). This is the mistake I've often made, confusing an intermediary source for the actual source, Being.

Now, I need to become my own intermediary source, linking up with Being in a less serious and more joyful way!!!!

A Friendly Slap in the Face (revised and reprinted from myspace)

2006-06-05T14:50:00.000-07:00

A Friendly Slap in the Face for Me and Others/The Will of the Artist/God

My friend Roderick recently told me that I had helped someone by slapping her in the face. I never considered this to be healthy or even helpful until now. Yesterday, I went to a support group filled with women who strive to be good. They explained how they didn't want profanity in the meetings. They had a long, growing list (growing from last week) of things they Didn't want people to do and this was one of them. Being someone who considers words to be vehicles for me and others, not impeding forces, I do not feel the use of them should be restricted. Also, by asserting this rule, they were trying to control the meeting to suit their specific religious beliefs, not necessarily serve the recovery or well-being of their members.

So, anyway, back to the "warrior" way that my friend sees me as being, or "Tiger" or "pregnant tiger" (even scarier, he says!). I'd like to think of myself as a pregnant tiger because then I have the baby (something vulnerable and worthy that I am trying to protect) but I am also fierce to those who try to harm it, or others.

Anyway, this one dreamy-seeming woman (the leader of the pack) ended up getting in my shit, trying to reorganize it or make it go away. She commented on what I had said in the meeting (it was supposed to be anonymous). So I told her that I didn't want to hear it from her, and the thing I liked about the organization was that people are not supposed to give advice. She condescendingly told me that she was sorry for "hurting me." I told her that she didn't "hurt me," rather just made me feel very uncomfortable. It is funny how much power some people think they have over others, and vice versa when others feel utterly powerless. This wolverine had to go down!

SO now, I am going back to the other meeting, filled with women who I told them that I preferred because they, "do not try to be good all of the time." I have always lived with this split, and I do not intend to stay with it. I'd rather be a whole person, loving the dichotomies within myself without feeling torn or conflicted because I know that the bodily (or baudy) is necessary to being human while the pious is superior.

I recently got back in touch with an OLD friend of mine, when I was still creating "Zine Queer" in the early 90's. He said that he still has a black and white picture of the piano bar he used to own. On the piano is a copy of "Zine Queer." This picture hangs in his house now. His name is Winko Ljizz, a one man band. He loves the sin and the savior...a totally awesome attitude.

He told me about one of the best experiences that he ever had on Del Paso Heights, a beautiful example of a dichotomy that included this world and what he sees as the spiritual world. They became mended or communicated with one another in this moment. He was sitting in Lil' Joe's (a steakhouse with tough beef and prices from the 50's) when he looked across the street and saw an XXX Sex Shop right next to a Church of Christ. He envisioned a man "jacking off" in the XXX shop and a preacher reciting the "holy word" in the building next door. Winko told me how these two things belong together, that when opposites meet there are sparks. It is within these sparks that we create art, the great contradictions, the place where my spiritual advisor, Priestess Miriam goes when she enters her state of divination and we just laugh and laugh at the dichotomies of my crazy life.

The books of the Kabbala (Jewish mystical texts) also speak of these "sparks," but they describe them as the "Shekiniah" or the spark of God that was stuck within us when God (as light) tried to embody matter through holy vessels. However, some of the vessels were not pure so they exploded and God's light (because what is God if not something that allows us to see more!?) shot out as splinters into all matter, including people, animals, and even objects. Those who believe in the Kabbala say that they are not panthiests (those who believe in many Gods) rather that all is God...this one God. And, furthermore, we are all participating in God's realm within the everyday, the profane, and the sacred. They are all part of each other. To ignore one is to not fully acknowledge the other. As Winko also said, "You must sin before you are forgiven." I don't know if I believe in "sin" rather going against what you know to be the "truth" (or to stop being open to seeing a new way) in order to give into fear, compliance to another's wishes (false prophecy), or to be stay stuck within "morally superiority"...self-righteousness... I am glad to be back in this truth.

Even though I wasn't raised within a specific religion which controlled or constricted how I saw the world's order (inner and outer), I was always sort of a devout person, always trying to do what was "right." Of course, I didn't always adhere to this idea, but I tried for at least half of my life. The other half, I was just trying to make up for the time when I was repressing myself. I went completely the other way. This reminds me of my friend, Rosemary who lived half her life as a nun, and the other as a Hollywood harlot! She did both!

But in my youth, my idea of creativity was false. My lifestyle was destructive when creative because I believed that I was controlled by this creative force, rather than honing my skills and taking control myself. Now, I'm trying to balance out. I'm trying to stay healthy without adhering to a lifestyle that represses me...like eating rice cakes all the time-ONLY! The other extreme would be when I used to eat ice-cream sundaes for breakfast! A lot of color, sweets, good feeling, but with no sustenence. My slap in the face was a prolonged sugar low which made me feel like the artist's life was not good for me.

But for now, I am back. I recently went to a music festival out in Woodland. At the Plainsfield Bar, a biker bar with a nice grassy field in the back for shows, I saw bands strutting their stuff. Some of them were my friends Art Lessing and Flower Vato, an awesome new band (new to me) whom I LOVED--Eddie the Rat. www.eddietherat.com

After doing 19th-century archival research for a class in Eugene (after displaced by Katrina) I studied the history of the idea that creativity is a "natural force" rather than a discipline. I realized that this idea connects to an inherently racist ideology such as Social Darwinism or a Taxonomy of Races which believed that "some people" naturally had the gift of artistic vision while others (such as all people of color) did not. Those on the top were graced by God and created in his image, while everyone else (women included...especially because they also believed we had smaller brains) were not. Everyone else, actually, was not fully human. An ethnologist, Louis Agassiz believed that this taxonomy of races actually created "species" within the different humans, rather than races. Primates were actually races. This fits into creativity in how some artists see creativity as a force of its own will, rather than something within our own will. Ok...gotta go running with my mom...it's getting hot in Sacramento. I'll explain better later!

Don't Let the Fear Getcha

2006-05-24T23:17:00.000-07:00

When we arrived at Vaughn's, one of New Orleans' most revered musicians was playing, Kermit Ruffins. He was known to be a modern-day Louis Armstrong, hitting notes on his trumpet that would pop your eardrums. He kindly let me sit in with him a few different times, each time less a disaster than the one prior.

Once I knew Kermit a little better, he told me that I should learn how to play the trumpet. He said my face was too innocent to make it in New Orleans. If I learned the trumpet, I would devlop a "flat lip" like him. He showed me the crease on his lips, the place where they parted. But instead of them being full-bodied so they could open and speak to those around him, they were flat to show how he had chosen the life of a musician, speaking primarily through the trumpet, engaging the music world more than the spoken. He said that if I had this same "flat lip" that it would not only distinguish me from every other suburban girl who moved to New Orleans just to write, or sing, or whatever, it would also be New Orleans' permanent mark on my body, like a tattoo, showing the world that I was committed to communicating with the spirits within the old jazz of New Orleans. "You got a baby face" is what he said. "Spirits do horrible things to baby faces. You need something with a little more character." He said, pointing to the flat lip.

Kermit was also quick to point out that I didn't have much protection when it came to my choice of male company. My boyfriend at the time was an incredibly skinny saxophone player, twenty years older than me. He wore a beat-up tan leather hat and a brown plaid jacket that made him look like a hick. A couple of smart mouths from the local store called him Pa Kettle. "You know, if any man wants you, all he gotta do is knock down your stick-boyfriend and take you." Kermit said. I had been hearing this kind of thing since I first decided to move to New Orleans.

My mentor otherwise known as "the crazy Art professor whom I met at my Barnes and Noble bookstore job" warned me of the repercussions of moving from a quiet suburb of Sacramento to the gruff and violent city of New Orleans. He was an art professor at Sacramento State university. An aquaintance of his described him as electric because when he spoke you swore you saw his hair standing on its ends. He looked like Einstein, with his cotton candy white hair and jumped and yelled as he spoke like Sam Kinison. When I told him I was moving to New Orleans, he gave an impromptu rendition of a very involved myth specfic to the area. He put it within the context of the New Orleans "Mafia." He was orginally from New York, and his accent made his rantings even more confusing or humorous.

"They got New Orleans mafia there, honey!"
"Who are they?"
He laughs.
"They raise girls on the Bayou just to serve the men in this racket."
"Like serve them food?"
He grunts and snorts, laughing.
"They've never seen anything like you before, honey!"

I looked at him, questioning. This is the same man who told me I should isolate myself somewhere like a nun so I could study philosophy and continue writing. He suggested an apartment that he owned in the Napa Valley.

"What do you mean."
"A Chinese and Jewish girl singing jazz!? You'll be like a rare piece of crystal there, honey! Something that they'll want to
look at and then take. And the police are in on it, too. If the mafia can't get you, the police will force you to go. Like
the girls who are raised on the Bayou."

More later...

Finding My Voice in New Orleans

2006-05-24T23:15:00.000-07:00

In the party-pooper phase of my life, while living in San Francisco and working on my bachelor's in creative writing, I was constantly busy. It was not so different from my life before, as a music student in a rigorous music program where I had to enter into an obsessed state (8-12 hours of practice a day) just to make the next semester's scholarship. Yet recently, after Hurricane Katrina, I had some time (finally!) to look back at my life, and reflect on my various phases. I am 30 now so it is a good time to reflect. I have had an extremely long period of my life (22-30) when I was essentially just on the go, no vacations, and not much time to let loose and have fun. But life was not always like this. I wanted to look back and remember what it was like to live a more bohemian lifestyle. This was when I was happiest. I had just gotten out of a bad relationship, and started singing at local venues within Sacramento. Singing acapella was a good distraction from the depression and shock I was feeling.

Last month, I got the chance to stay with my good friend, Larry. Larry lives the kind of lifestyle that has been the polar opposite of my own the past eight years or so. He is a DJ at the local strip club, as well as doing music for weddings (the week I had stayed there he had done a wild gypsy or "Roma" wedding), clubs, and other events. He usually knows exactly what songs he will play at these jobs. However, he doesn't know what the scene will be like. His life is like a constant performance...and I believe it keeps him young, vibrant, positive and joyous. Staying at his house was incredible for me. Not only could I experience his artistic lifestlyle, I was also able to re-live my own. I reminisced on my own life when I first met Larry. I was nineteen, self-publishing zines with my creative writing in them. Before that I put out a political zine called, "Zine Queer." When Larry and I started to become good friends, I was just beginning to perform my one-woman shows. What was now blocked within my throat freely flowed, by myself and with others. A couple years later, in music school, classical training helped my voice develop as well as my musicianship skills, however it also hindered something in me as well. The training stopped the conversation with the free-form art that I used to engage with so easily. The critical voice of the classical training silenced my artistic self. And now I feel that, after all these years, I have been cut off from correspondence with a dear friend, one which I have just started to get back in contact with.

The beginning of this artistic voyage occured in New Orleans, eleven years ago. I was only 19, and I was on a road trip with my best-friend Sandra, my boyfriend Dan, and his best-friend Sean. We stopped in New Orleans only to get stuck in that summer's hurricane. Two days turned into a week in a converted parking garage called Monster Island. I connected with a group of artists in New Orleans and did not want to leave. I met Calvin Johnston and I sang to him. My voice was ringing there, bouncing off the walls. I felt that it belonged there.

Everything about the place seemed magical. The street names were all of countries, and the houses and buildings huddled together, leaning in to listen to what the other had to say. Native New Orleanians gave us directions down these narrow streets saying things like, "Go to Poland, then turn right at France..." The world was here, although we couldn't always understand the directions. New Orleanians pronounced the street names strangely. Instead of Bungundy sounding like how you'd say the color, it was pronounced, "Bur-GUN-dee" with the stress on the middle consonant. Because New Orleans had been owned by both Spain and France, the names and pronunciations reflected these languages. Uncomparable to the names of my hometown, names that made you feel as if you were eating paste, ones that when you said them, they sat there dead in your mouth. Names like "Pocket" or the name of the suburb that I came from, "Greenhaven," these street names were merely created because they needed to be. There was no life to them, no history. They didn't reflect anywhere that anyone wanted to be, or had any need to reach. There was no thought or purpose put into the creation of the names. Thus, I had always felt by walking down these streets everyday, that I my life matched the careless creation of the names. And my art followed by having no grounding, no bite, no reason to be alive. So...it didn't. Instead it sat dormant.

The first person who I ever connected to as a fellow-artist challenged me to go to New Orleans. When I commented on how I was enchanted with New Orleans, more than any other place he asked why I wasn't going back. I said that it was crazy, look how far it was yet I then said that I guess I wasn't doing anything in Sacramento. He then said, "Yeah, a lot of people enjoy NOT doing anything." It was one of those defining moments that forces you to be who you really are instead of just wasting time in a space that no longer has anything to offer you. "I am NOT one of those people." I said back. "Oh yeah, well prove it." he retorted. Two weeks later, I was on a plane to New Orleans.

When I first visited New Orleans my mouth relished in the strange pronunciations of their streets, De-CAY-ter, Es-plan-ahhhde, and Saint Claude. And something in me awoke when we drove from country to country, trying to find our destination. These are the streets people are walking on everyday, I thought to myself. Young artists are walking on paths that are paved with the movement of the Artists who walked on them before, Bob Dylan, Marie Laveau, and William Faulkner. I wanted to continue walking these streets and speaking their names. When I moved back, I fell into sync with this place, my steps recreating what music, creativity, and history had come before. I was entering into a conversation with those that had come before.

My Old Youth

2006-05-24T23:13:00.000-07:00

I was engaged with the party-pooper in me, the scared little girl, or brittle old woman who was afraid to connect with others, assert herself, afriad to live. Images of another recurring dream pops in my head: the party-pooper dream.

I am riding my bike, excited to go to this outdoor dance party...a rave, I guess when I notice that I am carrying three walkers with me. All the young people around me are racing past, a blur of color and laughter. I realize that I will never make it at this speed. Plus, I have these walkers with me for a reason. I am supposed to deliver them to my grandma and aunts whom I care for on the weekends. In real life, what is supposed to be my free-time is filled with care-giving for my elders, getting their prescriptions at the drug store, eating too much chow-mein and getting fat, Chinese choir rehearsals, doctor's appointments...and the list of old person activities goes on. During the week, I am working as an ESL teacher in Chinatown, going to university for my BA, in a relationship, and on top of that, going to Fresno on weekends to help with my grandma who has advanced Parkinsons.

I remember one of my outings with my grandma and her aunts. We went to lunch and their walkers were piled high in the backseat of my car and trunk. We were going to a new Chinese Restaurant with a seafood buffet. I had to stop the car two times because the aunties and my grandma all talk at the same time when they give me directions, sometimes telling me to go left and right at the same time. When we arrive at these restaurants, a small parade of walkers line the sidewalk and then aisle between the tables; I would walk ahead of them to move people and chairs out of their way.

I spent a lot of my weekends with old people at this time, which did not help with this debiltating seriousness that pervaded my life. I was in my early-mid-twenties yet I worried about illness, corns, falls, and of course, impending death. These thoughts seeped into my subconscious. I had dreams about dance parties where all my friends were holding onto walkers. They looked sad, trapped within their premature reliance on the walkers.

My other recurring part-pooper dreams consisted of the party that was happening in my house yet I was not invited. When I discover the party, I yell at everyone in a rage. "I have to be up early for work!!!" I scream. "I'm going to call the cops!" would be the final blow as everyone gathers their stuff and shuffles out the door. After I explode, I tend to feel bad. But at this point, there is nothing that I can do about it. I have already ruined the evening. No chance at having fun, now.

Hair in My Throat

2006-05-24T23:06:00.000-07:00

This is the first of a series of short observations. Not clearly connected, I split them up into several parts. Like my recent travels this year since Katrina, the pieces are rather scattered and ungrounded. Maybe later, when I am more settled, I will be able to look back and create a longer, more cohesive piece. But for now, the writing will have to be accepted for what it is (like my own mental state), whimsical and fragmented yet still going places and hopefully engaging enough to be considered interesting.

Sometimes, I have dreams that there is an endless strand of hair stuck in my throat.

The dream always entails a scenario like this: I am about to sing jazz with this very tight group of musicians, players that look like they are from another time and place, circa. early 20th-century in New Orleans. However, the song will not come out of my mouth; there is something blocking it. That is when I feel a tickle in the back of my throat. I am choking, the music stops, and everyone stares silently at me as I pull the single strand of black hair from the back of my throat. I can't pull the hair out fast enough. All I can do is maintain the uncomfortable feeling that is permitting my voice from being heard, stopping me from being part of this wonderful NOW within the music and scene. Instead of engaging with the musicians and audience around me, I am involved with only that which stands in my way. I am communicating with that self-effacing demon which permits my own expression with the outside world. And as he takes me into a rapture of self-doubt, I allow myself to be embraced by him. I turn to an imploding darkness as the rest of the world falls away. All around me is laughing, drinking, and conversation as I am drawn closer and closer into the softness and comfort of my demon's grasp. He is hovering, choking me, and cornering me. I become solid and stale like a piece of amalgamated rock, a fake fossil that contains synthetic materials such as tar and broken glass. One day, I notice a tooth in the mix. One tooth, the rest of it is covered in black hair. But the hair is too curly, and the tooth is too large to come from me. So whose defining features am I carrying with me (the items that forensics use to identify someone through dental records and DNA). Why have these things become a part of me? Thus, is the hair in my throat my own or does it also belong to someone else?

A long time ago, I decided to meet with my demon. What I didn't know is that we would become lovers. The meeting turned into a conversation, an embrace rather than a battle, and then a long affair. He transplanted things that I thought were foreign to my body within my veins, eventually reaching my heart. Before I gave in to him, I used to stand there, transfixed, my feet stuck in cement tar on the street, as he was sliding around freely in the stuff, like Jesus when he walked on water. He was beyond the physical limitations that I constantly found myself constrained within.

But now that he is my lover, the tar that was solid within me, flows freely within our veins. When he speaks, pebbles of the stuff hit me in the face, making me blind to what is around me. It seems that everyday I am within these black gravel storms, clouds of the stuff invading my nostrils and mouth. I empty out my bowels in the evening only to be filled up again by this fog.

How I See God: Part 1: "You're a butterfly, not a bird! You don't fly...you just flutter!"

2006-02-12T12:47:00.000-08:00

I'm not quite sure how to start this series of articles because it involves my dreams (both sleeping and awake) and an out-of-body experience, which I guess are usually not considered sound modes of proof. However, I find that certain dreams are guiding forces for me. This includes the "dream state" which I seem to be walking around in most of the time. These dream states (whether sleeping or awake) are usually ones that bring me to a place of "actualization"--that rare and fleeting experience (like Joyce's ephiphany from the flying jogger article) when you feel as if all loose threads come together. I always get a slight ringing of the ears when I have these "actualization" experiences, but it is almost as if it is not truly a ringing, rather a vibration within my whole body, as if my complete being has become resonant with an incredibly insightful force that I wish would enter me and stay.

In ancient times, when people had these "actualization" experiences, they would see traditional forms of spiritual icons such as: Jesus, Mother Mary, Buddah, Krishna, or various saints. Revered Catholic saints, such as St. Teresa of Avila, had violent convulsions when God moved through her, or the "passions" of Jesus loving her while she prayed. Today, depending upon your religious exposure when you were a child, and your own devotion as an adult, an "actualization" experience may be seen as a person or an object that has spiritual relevance to you. In other words, experiences of the Divine take the form of something, or someone, who you are comfortable and familiar with.

But I have never been comfortable with any of these images. Although, throughout my life, I have tried to embrace more conventional religious beliefs, I have always been "turned off" by some monistic (one sided) or hateful dogma. I tried to embrace being Jewish (although I am not quite finished with this exploration). As a child, I was told that I could not become Jewish by my grandmother, because my mom was not Jewish and the religion was passed along matrilineal lines. My father didn't share this with me either. My father had been raised as a conservative Jew, and he saw "sharing" Judiasm as something oppressive.

My mother had been raised Christian Baptist, but she ended up more interested in a New Age church in my teens, one where they taught you to meditate with your thumb up your derriere...I couldn't be into this. So, naturally, when I had my first major actualization experience, while wide awake, I did not see Jesus; and since Jews do not embody God (and even if they did, I had not had enough exposure), I did not see anything resembling an Orthodox Jewish rabbi (such as a Hassidic rabbi...many people see this if they have a background in Judaism).

Instead, I saw three lights, brightening at the same beat as my heart. It seemed, through their increasing and decreasing brightness, that they were walking towards me.

Because I was raised with no particular religion, my experiences of the Divine have taken various forms.

The next article will be the first of a series describing what I have heard and seen while trying to communicate with God...and while still trying to figure out who God is and who I am! My vision has moved through pop-culture, the holy and the profane, into my dreams and my waking dreams when the image of the Divine became attached to actual persons or objects in my presence. I realize that, initially, I need to be clear about my own existence...which some of these articles may represent. But they will always be a mixture of my goals of successfully integrating the sublime* or Divine** and the more earth-bound experiences when I have tried to figure out what it is, exactly, that I need to be doing in Action, within the World, to fulfill my obligation to the sublime and Divine.

The article's title relflects one of the most profound dream experiences that I have had while sleeping. This would fall under the category of the profane which makes it more interesting. As a child in fifth grade, I was having a sleepover with three of my best-friends. After my parents had gone to sleep, we decided to go hunting in the house for their dirty movies. Theoretically, we knew about procreation, how a baby was conceived. But we had no idea what it looked like. We ended up finding three tapes at the tippy top of the linen cabinet, on the left-hand side. I remember thinking that most of them were pretty gross. The close-ups looked like raw meat. I ended up saying this as all of us laughed.

But then, I remember seeing the most amazing film. It was a classic 70's porn, still early enough to be psychedelic, that famous "WAH-chicca-chicca-chicca-chicca" music that people still mimic when they want to infer porn or sex. There was a dazzling backdrop of hypnotic black and white swirls, and a young white woman with long light brown hair parted in the middle. Her body was covered in fringe and glitter. There were pink-jeweled beaded curtains that she parted to get to the glorious black-velvet covered bed, and by the bed waiting for her, an amazing-looking black man. She walked towards him, and he just stayed still, his eyed fixed on her. Both of them were radiant. She seemed to sway towards him. Then he turned to his side to show the camera the special lingam pocket sewn on his pants that sprang forth to greet her. It was incredible! I had always been afraid of the other sex, but here it was, surrounded by a psychedelic melange of intoxicants: the lighting, the dreamy images of the two actors...and then the highlight, the carefully cozied lingam that seemed to have a life of its own. Just as she got close to him, my mom walked in the room.

"What are you girls doing up so late?" she said, naive or in denial, with only one eye open (she always looked like this when she woke up with no coffee..I called her "Popeye" in the morning).

I quickly took the BETA tape out, and put in "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" circa. 1985. A Sarah Jessica Parker, Shannen Doherty, and Helen Hunt dance classic!

I think she never noticed...but I can't be sure.

I didn't think about the man in the movie until I had a dream about him when I was 23...

Only, I was the girl in the movie. I was moving slowly towards him. The air was hazy and as I looked in a mirror, I noticed that I was covered in glitter and fringe, my long hair parted in the middle... He stayed transfixed, still, staring at me in waiting. As I got closer he spoke to me,

"Wait!"
"What's wrong?" I said.
"This is NOT going to happen."
"Why?"

Something about the dream felt spiritual, like I going to find out something that I needed to know. I felt I should be with this man.

"I don't know where you're going, and I don't know where you've been.
You're not a bird; you're just a butterfly. You don't fly; you just flutter!"

After he spoke, he just sat there, completely still, like the man in the movie; only he was sprawled out on the bed, not standing. My eyelids were fluttering as the images around me became hazier and hazier. I had glitter on my long, fake eyelashes. The more my eyes blinked, the more the glitter was getting in my eyes.

I woke up with the feeling of truth sinking down deep inside me, hopefully enough to temporarily stick. He was right. I wasn't a bird; I was just a butterfly. As long as I floated above everything, I was never going to fly to reach my goals. It was because I was afraid to let my feet touch the ground. I still am.

* the sublime--an image that embodies the Divine but is of earthly or human sensations. However, these sensations, when placed in the category of the Divine, cause one to "take flight" from his/her ordinary, material surroundings where everything takes on meaning as the Divine. These "flights" take earthly forms that humans see while contemplating or being faced with the Divine. The forms include, but are not limited to: the expansiveness of the desert or the ocean, a form in a shadow that one cannot see so it remains mysterious, a human idol that one sees as an image of the divine such as "sublime beauty"--or seeing a woman/man as an archtype of an angel like Rudolph Valentino
** The Divine--that which you consider holy or spiritual

bell hooks and the "Victimization" of the Left...coming soon

2006-02-06T00:27:00.000-08:00

I just spent a couple hours writing my article for this, pressed the back arrow, and lost it all! I will write again tonight! Sigh...

bell hooks, the "Victimization" of the Left, and America's False Definition of "Rhetoric"

2006-02-06T00:07:00.000-08:00

hooks: Yes, it is Imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy.

RC: Why do you think we compartmentalize all those terms, those pieces, and don't see their union?

hooks: Because I think when we bring them all together, there's no simple victim/victimizer. As a Black man, you might be victimized by race, but have power by patriarchy. As a Black woman, I may be victimized by race and gender, but I have class power. Once we put them all together, we don't have that easy binary example of oppressor against oppressed.

bell hooks--Cited from a recent interview from real change news in Seattle:
http://www.realchangenews.org/archive3/2005_03_09/current/interview.html

bell hooks walked into Columbia theatre to a standing ovation. hooks was kicking off the "11th Annual Woman of Color Conference" at the University of Oregon in Eugene, Oregon. Although the conference, itself, was sparsely attended, hooks' discussion was underestimated by 200%--300%. The University of Oregon is mostly comprised of undergraduate students, yet they only filled half of the seats. The other audience members were UO professors, Lane College professors, and local liberals and radicals who acclaim hooks for being a leftist, social critic, and black feminist.

Like walking into her own surprise birthday party, bell hooks jumped back when her audience (300 people) rose as she came through the door. Seemingly embarrassed, she put her palm up, then down to tell everyone to sit down. bell hooks took the name of her great-grandmother "to get away from the ego attachment we have to a name." I had heard hooks speak before at San Francisco State University. At that time, I was surprised by her soft voice, and grandmother-like-presence.

bell hooks is an extremely pointed speaker, but she is also very humble. Remembering this component of her presence, I watched hooks just stand there for a while, smiling, realizing that many of these people, in the small, primarily white population of Eugene (90.6% in 2005) absolutely revered her. So she gracefully stood there until everyone sat down. She sighed, then she spoke.

Most have read her books, and many know her from her older, more Leftist radical theories of race, class, and gender that date back to the 1980's when she published Ain't I a Woman: Black Women and Feminism (1981), Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center (1984) and Talking Black: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black (1988). But this was before hooks became a Buddhist. The audience was remembering the old hooks, and possibly expecting her, like Paul Mcartney would be expected to play Beatles songs instead of his new ones, to reiterate theory from her past. This may also account for many UO students (whom I spoke with in line) that had never read a complete book of hooks, only snippets, provided by their women's studies or ethnic studies professors.

With professors' carefully selected selections of hooks' work, she could just as easily be re-constructed into their spokesperson for the Left. But she is not. bell hooks is one of the few truly critical, living American intellectuals whose focus is on ethnic studies and women's studies, attacking iconoclastic ideals of the more mainstream American culture, while not afraid to criticize the Left.

Because hooks is NOT a spokesperson for the Left, the audience kept asking her the same question over and over again. hooks tackled the issue of "self-victimization" that can occur to people of color (example she used). She said that this type of victimized mindset is a position of self-subordination that often contributes to one's oppression within an "Imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy." Rather than associating "white people" with being the "enemy" or the "man" as most radical dogma is known to reiterate, as well as within the "white guilt" sentiments of white liberals, she suggested an approach that mirrors Buddhism (ms. hooks is also a Buddhist), to have a sense of "agency" when faced with racism, and, in turn, to confront your opponent with love, not in reaction with hate. This way, the offensive party will walk away with a greater sense of awareness about his/her own prejudice rather than have a tendency to stay on his/her side based on race or sex.

Most Eugenians could not wrap their minds around this concept...basically because it is common for ethnic studies programs to be steeped in a victimization mentality, comparable to the tendency for white liberals and radicals to have a knee-jerk "white guilt" reaction when faced with race issues; but for me, hook's disdain for "victimization" was my key into ethnic and womens studies. I tried to make a comment to bell hooks, but the time had run out. I watched in agony as students repeated questions that had already been asked or asked a variation of the “victimization” question.

I wanted to speak on behalf of my own ethnicity (mixed race), my current field of study (rhetoric), and the uneasiness that I have always felt within ethnic/women’s studies programs' general ethos of the evil “white man and the victimized people of color.” I wanted to speak on behalf of inquiry and real discourse not mere blaming. I also wanted to speak of a general irresponsibility of American culture to blame others for their actions, rather than admit their wrongs: within instances in our personal lives as well as our national identity.

What really triggered me to speak was a student's example of "rhetoric of the Right" to illustrate the conservative party's use of insidious and manipulative language to hide their classist and racist agendas. Being a student of rhetoric, I knew that this use of the word "rhetoric” is commonly used in contemporary media to imply, "bullshit." I also thought of the roots of its definition being based on the ancient Greek philosopher, Plato, and his general mistrust of non-academics studying eloquent speech (but I will go into this later). It also bothered me because of what I believe rhetoric to truly be. I believe, that rhetoric teaches students how to maintain their ethical state of being. This being falls under the framework of existence, but also under the constructs of an ever-changing mode of existence (within different circumstances and phases of our life), that is controlled by our ethical beliefs. In this way, rhetoric helps its students become who they truly are by teaching them how to articulate their beliefs, as well as isolate and critically analyze what others say, in order to uncover the ethical constructs behind their words.

In other words: Have you ever been in a public confrontation with someone who used words that were posing as one thing, but intuitively, and even spiritually, you felt their words had other connotations, ones that were inherently shaming and dehumanizing? This is an extreme example but the only one that I can think of: This is something I once heard a checkout clerk at Sundance health food store say to me in regards to Chinese medicine. "The Chinese have been backwards for thousands of years." At first, I made a joke about the literal words by saying, "I am Chinese, and I don'’t walk backwards, and neither does my family." But later I felt the implications behind the words. I retorted to myself, "Backwards means 'wrong' and 'savage.' Being Chinese doesn't mean that you are de-evolved. Chinese culture and belief systems are just different."

Getting back to the student's misuse of the word “rhetoric,” this goes back to ancient Greece, when the study of rhetoric was first created. However, Plato saw rhetoric as being an unnecessary evil. He thought it went against the "truth" and instead, it taught people how to lie. He said that rhetoricians had the way of "making the worse case appear the better." In reaction, Aristotle created the three branches of rhetoric: Ethos (ethical beliefs), Pathos (emotions), and Logos (logic). He stated that rhetoric was simply, "The faculty of discovering the available means of persuasion within any situation." This would seem to be a very good skill for contemporary Americans yet Plato's definition of "rhetoric” seems to have stuck within the American psyche rather than Aristotle's. Maybe it is because, as Americans, we believe that ignorance is bliss. And so, a lack of critical skills is also bliss.

If it is one thing that I took from bell hook's discussion, then it would have to be her ability to cross all lines through her ruthless search for the truth. This is not America's lazy, as bell put it, "non-intellectual, binary" version of the truth, but one that takes the time to analyze, pick, scratch, and take apart its components to see its parts, framework, and roots. And in this way "the truth" is not a finite state of being, or a rarified object to be worshipped, as the audience worshipped their "Lefist" construction of bell hooks. "The truth" becomes a series of critical insights, always subject to further criticism. In the end, bell hooks was urging students to have integrity, within how they articulate themselves, and how they analyze others' claims. I do not believe that she wants to be considered an icon, rather listened to with the same ruthless intent that she uses to find errors when something goes against her own ethical beliefs.

Times of the Short Attention Span

2006-02-02T16:48:00.000-08:00

As someone was reading my blog earlier in the day, he commented, "You should have pictures in it, something to keep the reader's interest. " "Is it THAT boring?" I asked. I was worried. Had I written too much about the mysterious "flying" jogger? I couldn't help it. I needed the story to unravel the way I had experienced it.

There have been times in my life when I was ravenous for information. I read a book a day: philosophy, classical literature, contemporary writings. Then there were the long stretches when I was not reading as much. This is probably not good to admit (especially with my graduate professors possibly reading this, and my graduate admission pending), but, sadly, it is true. What was happening during these "sitting" periods?

When I actually DID start reading again, massaging the old brain, I thought, "LOOK at what I've been missing!" OH Yes, in a way, I had been missing my mind.

I just read an interesting blog about this very subject: Koyaanisqatsi by Tenebris. He spoke about "fractured" (or was it fragmented) communication dominated by this sort of escapism, prevalent in American culture. It also makes me think of the escapism of TV, most movies (manipulative), as well as talk shows with the goal of "talking the loudest" not actual discussion of a topic.

In the 19th-century materials that I have been looking at, there was a disdain for this type of fast-paced media brought on by industrialization and a general change of pace in America. But back then, it was directed towards a shift in HOW people read based on WHAT new types of media were becoming available. Back then, it was mostly newspaper reading and the quick turn out of cheap paperback novels. Reading enthusiasts were vehement in their hatred of the publishing companies for changing the quality of how people were relating to books. They felt that the publishing industry was ruining books. Subsequently, the intimate companions that they had always known and loved were being shifted into "machinery," "cheap" products, devoid of life. Sort of a "Stepford Wives" of books. The intensity that they used to explain their opposition can only be compared to, as a more contemporary version, the religious right's deep hatred of stem-cell cloning researchers.
Of course, you could say that it is the crap that makes the good stuff, well, good. If one didn't exist then the other might not be so revered. I guess, at this point, I would have to say that I would almost always prefer the quality book, relationship, conversation, movie, or show. You could even compare it to food...why put junk in, when you can have the savory meal?

Speaking of savory food, while eating lunch at Tom's Tea House with a fellow classmate, Karen, she told me that 19th-century newspapers were constantly competing with each other, using wild headlines and sensationalism. It is this reason that the integrity of journalism and fact reporting was traded for SALES and catching the readers' attention. Today, with such a profusion of information, coming from all angles, have our attention spans become stunted? I remember reading a novella, after not reading anything substantial in a few months. It took a while to start, but as soon as I clicked with the story, I was hooked. The discourse started, and I wanted to continue to be part of the conversation. But does TV do the same for us? Or is it just chattering AT us like a garrulous friend who doesn't pause to listen?

By being exposed to the futility of overstimulation, are we losing our connection to something more worthwhile...like talking and really listening to each other? And, in turn, are we losing touch with our communities or the spiritual forces that are bound within books?

What was your latest Epiphany? or The Flying Jogger

2006-02-02T00:09:00.000-08:00

James Joyce spoke of "epiphanies" which always seemed to occur at the ends of his short stories. "Epiphanies" are points of realization when one becomes aware of oneself in a very significant and meaningful way. Virginia Woolf called these moments, "flashes"--moments of clarity that seemed to happen unexpectedly, breaking the monotony or numbness of her usual state.

I can think of my most recent "epiphany" at the nearby park. I was walking, like Woolf, in my usual fuzzy, static state, joggers at all sides, when I heard a different sort of running sound behind me. Rather than the usual footsteps heard in equal intervals (timed according to heartbeat, I imagine), I heard the discordant "clippity-clop" of what sounded like an injured horse. It seemed as if this person's body was abnormally weighted (not over weight, just heavy, like lead) and so he/she was having difficulty moving along the path. I moved to the far right to let the person pass, afraid that he might be drunk. Realize that I have gone from Sacramento, a place filled with "characters" to Korea "different cultural experiences," to New Orleans...the city of artists, to the small town of Eugene (a place that I have found devoid of "characters") so I was caught off-guard, not ready for my usual delight in interacting with such an oddity. He stumbled before me. I slowed my pace to stay behind him. He stopped at a post that was marked ".3 miles," put his hand out to balance himself while crouching, and tied his shoe. This was funny to me because his shoe was not untied, so he untied it, then tied it again, an excuse to regain his breath. His outfit was an anachronism as well, a matching brown velour sweatsuit from the 70's with yellow stripes running up each side. I thought he looked Asian (although I never saw the front of his face) based on his olive skin tone and coarse black hair.

I increasingly slowed my pace as I watched him "jog." His movements were unlike any other jogger on the path. Something struck me while watching his movements. After I gathered that he ran in rapid yet short-lived BURSTS, as if someone had just released his "runner's body" from a chute or slippery slide, I looked at how he was manipulating his body to do this. He would clench his fists, then draw his arms out straight in front of his body (like a zombie, but with his head facing the ground) then he would shoot his arms straight backwards. This would result in his body moving at such a rapid rate as if a lock had been unhinged, causing a door to swing open. I realized that he believed that this movement was propelling him forward. It was then that I realized WHY his actions (and the possible reason behind the actions) struck me so. It was some sort of "magic" that he was performing...I have made these same movements within recurring flying dreams of mine.

I would do the same exact thing yet I was always horizontal as if lying on my stomach; but I was not lying down, I was flying through the air! I would make the same "unhinging" movements when I was trying to break through some sort of difficult barrier that was before me such as: a pie crust of sky over my head, or the atmosphere to get into the peace of pure black space, or a house that I was trapped in by captors. I would shoot my arms back, and I would receive a burst of energy and force that would either send me through the barrier, or at least partially through so that I could see where I was trying to go, through a little peep-hole into the next place.

It was at that point that I knew that it was ok to do strange things even though they may go unnoticed (or be ridiculed) by almost everyone around you. Why? Because even though others don't understand what you are doing or thinking (or why you are doing these things), your actions don't have to be without purpose. Even though I was initially fearful of this man, I knew that his actions had purpose for him...and they reminded me of my purpose in life.

You may think that the story was going to end in me running along side him, copying him in the familiar motions for flight and movement. But, that didn't end up happening. Lost in my thoughts, I reached the end of the path. Finally I was ready to speak to this man, the one I was scared of before. I looked to the path before me that continued to the high-school, the path on the other side of the stream, the path that curved around to go back behind me. He was no where to be found. Had I imagined him? Was he meant to guide me back to my purpose in life? Was he a celestial being, an angel? I don't think so, but I DO believe that, in his actions, he sparked something in me. He reminded me of my true nature, and what never to lose sight of again...my own unique spark, the flame that it comes from, and materials or objects which help to feed this fire.

I haven't been back to the trail. I don't know if I'll see him again, and it doesn't really matter to me. It was the way in which he went about his run that will stay with me. Like a bullet out of a pistol that was strategically cocked, he pierced through the monotony of my daily schedule into the absolute core of my existence. He would then stop and walk slowly, then continue again.

REAL learning occurs when we speak our truth!

2006-02-01T23:08:00.000-08:00

It has come to my attention HOW MUCH money we are all spending on education when many of us have our own interests which, sadly, are much more compelling than the university courses we are taking. If we are not enrolled in university courses, then we are wondering what we are missing. Being an inherently disorganized person, I have always felt that I NEEDED university courses to keep me focussed in my life. But in the past I have felt that even with the busyness (the lifestyle that most Americans are used to, I think), I still don't feel peace of mind, or a greater sense of self after a long day of "busy-work" (for sake of a better word).

Right now I am at the University of Oregon where I am obsessed with learning processes...but not just in terms with technique or even science, but HOW to make students care about what they are learning, and even more, how to make adults feel purpose in their lives while in classes that may require one to absorb an inordinate amount of information. To research this inquiry, I have been looking far back in the early 1800's, before industrialization, when the tone of American writers (in every genre, literature, text books, medical books) was much more personal. Back then (and before that) books were seen as companions, and, in turn, knowledge was attained in a conversational tone. An author stood behind her book, and as you read her, she spoke to you as if you were her close companion. In ancient times, Seneca spoke of books in this way, as companions, and cures for sickness. But today, with the emphasis more on "objectivity" within learning, we seem to lose the interactive component to learning that creates true discourse (great conversation) between the book and reader. THIS seems to be the whole point of reading, to enter into discourse with the material, not just reiterate the terms!

I would like to create the same sort of learning environment in this blog where we can learn from each other based on our significant fields of interest. Yet rather than a scattered melange of ideas (although this may initially happen) I wish for our ideas to be connected by common themes that will help to create balance between the constant busyness and the up-keep of the soul (or inner self) such as: What makes you happy in life? Where and when do you feel MOST alive? Who do you respect the most and why? How do you embody these traits? What did you want to be when you grew up? What did you end up being? These are just a few ideas that I am throwing out there. Please come up with your own suggestions. And now that I have created this, I will attempt to think of a topic worthy of your comment for the next post. And I will try my best to keep the blog up to date with posts that you will, hopefully, respond to.

As education is a sacred thing, the expansiveness of our knowledge keeps us on track (or at least me on track)...and in the terms of rhetoric (my current interest) TRUE DISCOURSE depends upon the most "actualized" yet "confrontational" forms of addressing the other. This is the reason why I want to create this blog. I wish for us, as a community, to inspire each other with our own unique forms of wisdom...and truth.

I hope you will join me on this quest,

Shannon W. L.