Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Power to the Peaceful





I had been craving baby energy around the house, for months. I had thought that a sweet, little kitten would be the perfect solution to my angst. Mewling just long enough for me to feel fulfilled by a 'mommy' role, yet independent enough to reside within many worlds, - including both that of the indoors and those of the out. With a cat, I could continue to come and go as I pleased, - leaving provisions on the back porch in times of a long sojourn. With a cat, I could still somewhat solely focus on my insular, meager world. With a cat, - that my partner was not amused at the thought of sharing his most intimate of living spaces with.
As an avid adventurer, I have spent an adult life ridiculing the dog owner. "Such pesky, high maintenance creatures they are!" I would self-righteously blurt out to any unsuspecting ears. For weeks, I vainly decried the plight of a canine, - their attachment to people and places; the basic needs which can only be met by their pathetic owners; and the whack jobs who attach those random bumper stickers onto their fast moving vehicles (such as, "Your honor student is just a pawn in my beagle's plot for world domination") and who just so happen to be their human 'parents.' Yet, it was that joyful, bounding energy of youth that I was seeking. Did it honestly matter in what form that energy was wrapped?
In the end, just as in every end, a compromise was reached. And the very next day, a call came in.
"A black lab needs a home."
Who were we to say "No," especially when the universe was so obviously conspiring? So, we drove east, to an apartment complex in El Cajon where my partner's nephew resides. Their neighbor's husband had taken a six-hour trip, to the desert and back, in order to pick up two ebony puppies. Unbeknownst to him, his wife was not so willing to sacrifice. She had sent the two babies off before their presumptive adoptive father returned home from work the following day. Thus, it is how Power came to be our beaming bundle of standard shots, expensive exams, pungent shit, pounds of food, squeak toys, and gnawing teeth.
Initially, I suggested "Sweet Pea" (as in Poppy and Olive's only child) as a name, but we both agreed that we wanted something that sounded a tad bit stronger. Mario recalled his childhood days of dog ownership, as he conjured up the image of one of his beloved dogs, "Fuerza." "I like it," I responded. Then I added, "Black Power." "Black Power Obama," Mario chimed in. We giggled at the thought but we both enjoyed the reference and the representation. No disrespect intended.
Immediately, life as I had known it was completely changed. Upon getting up in the morning and coming home from anywhere, the thoughts in my head are no longer singularly about me and my needs. "It is breakfast time," chimes at 7am. "How's Power?" rings throughout the day and night. When away from home for long stretches of time, I now keep myself on a short leash. "It has been five hours," I think. "It is not fair of me to go and play when my dog is at home, waiting."
Then, of course, there is the simple fact that whenever I am out with Power I am almost guaranteed an encounter with my same kind! Power, being the wise soul that he is, punctures most walls. Again and again, he shows that my insecurities are my biggest folly. Over and over, he repeatedly demonstrates how simple it is to simply go up and say 'Hi.'
Since the end of March, we have continued to negotiate in relationship to one another. All isn't perfect in the game of love, however. As a puppy, he was consistently sinking his sharp teeth into my thin skin. And now, as an adolescent, he still prefers to gnaw on my arm a to gnawing on a stationary bone. This makes for difficult moments, as there have been times when he has hurt me. There have also been other times when I have hurt him back.
Nonetheless, he is consistently great with other people and animals. He is a true lap dog and people person. He has no qualms in asking the everyday passer-by for a little attention and, beware, at Dog Beach he just may plop down right beside you, on your towel. He is fascinated by other living creatures and he plays really well with other dogs. I have always honored and nurtured these traits in him. Even as we struggle through our days together,


Monday, April 28, 2008

The Birth of a Business


Five years it has been, since I first knew that I wanted to sustain a livelihood via a home business.
Five years it has taken, to brainstorm an idea, and to develop a concept.
Five years, and the birth of a business is finally here.
In the grand scheme of things, it isn't that big of a deal. Just a rinky dink ol' children's educational entertainment company.
In the grand scheme of things, I am yet another person trying to make another dollar. However, I am not peddling cheap crap, only quality, educational entertainment.
In the grand scheme of things, it is simply one more day leading to the next.
One more revolution of the earth on its axis.
One more trip around that great circle in the sky.
Nonetheless, 'All Things Round' is up and running.
"Houston, we have a lift off."
Though the website is nowhere near the professional, Dreamweaver image that I conjure up in my fantasies, it is visible and present on this here internet highway. Take a peek, if you're interested, and send me a shout from the contact page.

www.allthingsround.com


When I was in elementary school, I wanted to be an astronaut. In middle school, I had evolved the title into something like this: "When I grow up I want to be a Doctor of Aeronautics."
Now, as 31-year old woman, I have traveled the globe, - albeit within the earth's atmosphere. I have taught space science to young people at Astrocamp. And I have spent soul filling nights under star studded skies becoming intimately aware of the northern hemisphere sky.
Now, as a grown up, I create my own vision of space travel, - of not having to spend upwards of forty hours a week away from my little love nest. Of blending my passions for education, art, and the outdoors into a sustainable livelihood. Of using my creativity and intelligence to earn an honest and fair wage.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

"The Ties that Bind: Daddy"

My father was the classic Willy Loman type. Born into post-depression Oakland, California, he was the youngest of three sons. His father ditched out of the family, shortly after his birth, leaving him a bastard. With a lanky awkwardness, a cream and freckled skin, and red hair, dad blossomed into adolescence without knowing the strength of a man's spine or the gentleness of unconditional love. His attractive mother, whose steady eye pierced each tall gentleman who came along, spent her time in saloons and dance halls. She was sociable with strangers, as well as with her favored middle son. Thus, Dad spent his childhood alone, cruising his bicycle (a gift from his oldest brother) throughout the Oakland hills of numbered avenues and suburban villages. He graduated from the technical high school, immediately enlisting for a year of service. Fortunately, with the time being in between both of the great wars, dad was not called upon to serve in any exotic, foreign locale.
Instead, he returned to the backyard of his upbringing, where he set up a bachelor pad and began his lifelong career as a traveling insurance man. It was also in San Francisco where he and my mother were set up on a blind date. They spent their courtship period in bars, engaging in intoxicated, pedantic communion. Within a few years time, mom was pregnant. They eloped on the balcony of dad's penthouse, on Gary Street.
Early on, dad forthrightly admitted that he had little to no parenting skills, - for he had greatly lacked any role models as a young boy. Initially, he asked mom for help in this terrain. Mom, knowing only the control from which she had come (for she was raised underneath the heavy thumb of a teeming and raging alcoholic), easily took the reigns. She neglected to note that dad was asking for guidance. Rather, she heaped all of the roles and responsibilities of parenthood onto her own two, broad shoulders.
Years elapsed as dad worked, traveled, drank, and returned home to his growing family. Meanwhile, mom raised the children, a daughter was born after the first son, kept the home, and continued to work part time as a registered nurse. Communication between mother and father deteriorated as the

Saturday, April 12, 2008

The Happy Hooker (Home, The Series, part V)

I had anticipated spending my high school years chasing varsity letters. As a natural athlete, I sought to continue my forays into the world of love and tennis. Rather, I auditioned for a performing arts marching group simply because this was what my best friend, at the time, wanted to do. I managed to make the team while she, however, did not and, by the end of our freshman year, she was pregnant.
Instead of chasing balls and running laps around the large suburban school, I spent my high school career as a member of the pageantry corps, - an odd mix of a drill team and a dance club. I was taught how to count hash marks on a football field, and how to keep time with the band. I mastered the art of gracefully tossing and catching flags, sabers, and rifles, into the air. I displayed my developing body daily, - in the quad and on the blacktop, during class and after school practices. And I deepened my experience with the ugly spitefulness of competition.
By the end of my fourth and final year, my flair for the dramatic had been sealed. During our last spring season, we flaunted our post-pubescent bodies in full-body, black spandex outfits, that had bell bottom cuffs made of black lace. Around our necks, and dangling from our ears, were strings of fake pearls. Our cunning and expertise on the basketball court had faltered over the years. Our three-song tribute to Pat Benatar played out like a heart-pounding wail interrupted by the consistent clanking of rifles hitting a wooden floor. Had our technical skills produced less drops and fumbles, we might have been able to salvage a diminishing reputation.
Becoming more and more frustrated, and eager to get out, of high school, the small town I had grown up within, and my parent's home, I continually spoke up about our lack of awards and accolades. I blamed our coach, a non-descript man who had spent the past three years creating the concepts and designs of our program.
On one particular Saturday, we performed at two separate venues. One was an early morning show located at a school two and a half hours north. The other was a late afternoon performance in southern San Diego, where we were allowed some down time for rest. During the reprieve, my two closest friends and myself headed over to a play structure on the school grounds where we met and flirted with a group of local boys.
Later that evening, as we took to the court of the gymnasium, Pat's voice began to belt out,
"We Belong
We Belong to the light
We Belong to the thunder
We Belong to the sound of the words
We've both fallen under
Whatever we deny or embrace
For worse or for better
We Belong, We Belong
We Belong together"
and as I was jazz-running to the back line of the court, with a white rifle in my hand, I heard a popping sound. Immediately, I felt a singular, fake pearl gliding effortlessly down my neck. I looked up and into the rafters of the back audience where I found the rapt attention of the young boys whom my friends and I had just become acquainted with an hour before. Noting their riveted glances, I threw my outstretched arm up to my neck and I yanked the cheap necklace off of my body. I flung the broken line of opaque circles. They tumbled out of my hand, and onto the floor with a delicate clatter. They went scrambling underneath those same rafters, and I careened down to the black line, replacing a rifle for a flag. In a mere matter of seconds, I had switched equipment and I was back on the floor, sashaying my way back into another moment.

Neva (The Home Series, Part IV)

I am sitting here with a photo in my hands. It dates back to 1990. It's edges are
only now beginning to curl in towards each other. The scene is of a narrow hallway, where two young women are in the foreground, positioned just left of center. Behind them is a white-paned window and to both their right and left off-white walls lead to doorway entrances. The young woman on the right has a hand firmly placed around the narrow shoulders of a younger, and shorter, female. Both women are looking directly into the camera, each with a smirk on her lips. In their eyes is both mischief and agreement. The hair on their heads is nicely manicured.
The woman on the right has long, dark brown tresses that fall in waves down the left side of her chest. Her face is adorned with the markings of popular culture, - lipstick, blush, and eyeliner, all highlight the features of her round face. She is wearing a leaf patterned, brushed silk dress shirt that jumps out in vivid hues of magenta, mustardseed, and teal. Her fingers sit plumply on the other girl's black shirt, which has rolled cuffs at the short sleeves, and from which tanned, slender arms jut out. Gold, lame lettering adorns the front of her t-shirt, -
"IMTA Presents Hooray for Hollywood," it reads. Her hair is pulled out of a tear drop face and back into a thick braid. A black and white hair tie sticks out from behind a hidden neck. She has a puff of ringlets above her forehead. She, too, wears a gentle smattering of makeup, - black eyeliner underneath brown eyes; lip gloss accentuating pearly whites. On her chest a pink, square badge is pinned.
This photograph was taken during the summer between my exit from middle school and my entrance into high school. I had spent a week on the UC Davis campus participating in a 4-H Leadership camp. My memories from that week, eighteen years ago, are hazy. I recall a suffocating heat,- I passed out, for the first time in my life, while sitting at an outdoor picnic table and waiting for a presentation to begin.
I also remember the envy I felt over watching my sister move around in considerable ease. She had been to the camp before; she knew a number of people there; and she was part of the "cool crowd." I felt stuck in between, somewhere in the midst of lost and found.
As a thirteen-year old, my body was slow to develop. An innocent brain accompanied my pre-hormonal frame. I had followed my sister's footsteps into 4-H. Unlike her, as she had been drawn to working with both domesticated animals and exotic creatures from an early age, the classes I partook in did not involve the raising of livestock or the handling of guide animals. Rather, I took lessons in clowning (yes, as in those imaginative beings of white faces, red noses, and big feet) and in Japanese cooking.
I had been elected to our local 4-H governing board yet, I tried hard to fit within a milieu that I had little to no understanding of. I resented my sister's comfort.
In the photograph, the woman standing to my left, is Neva. She ran with my sister and her gang, - a group I tagged along with but, given my rank as 'little sister,' I knew very few as 'friends.' On this particular evening, we had dressed for a communal dance.
Throughout my three years spent at Washington Middle School, I reveled in the after-school dances, when the cafeteria's tiled floor was turned into an open space onto which the lyrics of Top-40 tunes streamed. During these afternoons, and on the rare occasion an evening, I would be found shaking my groove thing to all of the latest hip-hop moves. The Running Man? Check. The Cabbage Patch? Check. The Robot? The Kid N' Play? You betcha. In the span of what felt like mere minutes, hours would elapse.
I danced alone, and I danced with everyone. I danced in circles, and I danced in squares. I danced, and I felt different. The lunches spent hiding in the bathroom (from the girl who wanted to kick my ass because my boyfriend was an absolute hottie, who just so happened to be black like her) melted away. The cyclical nature of abuse that would wrap itself around my parent's home disappeared. The confusion and the turmoil all seemed to evaporate. There was only the beat and the rhythm of the moment at hand. There was only one giant pulse to which, for what seemed like both an eternity and a wink of the eye, I felt deeply connected and whole.
Neva was a voluptuous young woman who took to the dance floor with a mission. Her vibrant energy, powerful grace, and hip moves, drew the attention of others. Like satellites attracted to a larger body, Neva would spin circles around a developing fan base. She was a force to be reckoned with. In vain, I attempted to meet her, eye to eye. She danced me under a table, and she danced me off of the floor. She was the reigning queen of the dance floor, and I wanted to be just like her.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Home: The Series, Part III (in process)


civilized man seeks to turn me
into his beast of burden
with wake up calls by 5:30am
the daily, repetitive pattern
of sludging through a weekly grind
piling loads of manure
onto a steely spine
teeth set in stone
jaw becomes rigid
legs hoof it up
diverse terrain

the wilderness of my soul
grows vacant and weary
it withdraws
from societal expectations
of home payments, full-time jobs,
of responsible consistency and irksome
must do's and gotta have's

my spirit is a garden
it sits in a dank and dark repose
gathering puddles of light
and pools of stored nutrients
chromosomes and cells slow to accumulate
yet awaiting the moment
to burst forth and emerge
in a pageantry of color

glory be to all who gaze



Home:The Series, Part II



Today's the day! After nineteen years of looking over his shoulder, in worried anticipation of Border Patrol Agents and Customs Officials; after ten years of having last visited home, the sprawling metropolis of Guadalajara in Jalisco, Mexico, where his father, step-mother, and numerous siblings, nieces and nephews, still reside; after seven years of having first been sponsored by his brother; - his final, official meeting with the INS is here, now. Now he finds out whether or not he can finally move around his adopted homeland, a country in which he immigrated as a scared fifteen-year old boy, with the freedom of movement that most Americans take for granted. Now, he finds out if he will be given the 10-year visa he has spent a lifetime dreaming of. Now, he discovers if all the turmoil and insecurity has been worth the wait. Now is here....

Home: The Series, Part I



The other day, a fifteen-year old friend and myself went for a stroll through my local neighborhood. A suburb of the San Diego city center, Clairemont is comprised of undulating hills of coastal desert terrain. We walked amongst native flora, which is currently popping in brilliant hues of spring, - lilacs, magentas, oranges, yellows, and many shades of green, - thanks to a miraculously moist winter season. As we walked we spoke of many things, - art, school, family, life, and the future.
He is a bright boy who teeters on the precipice of two worlds, - his earthy mother teaches Kundalini yoga and feels most at home while wearing a turban. His patriotic father is an ex-Navy Seal who works for the government and feels most at home while waving the stars and stripes. Both of his parents encourage his multi-faceted personalities and interests. At times, he sports a blond mohawk, wears tight fitting jeans, and walks with that teen swagger that only the young and inexperienced know how to do. He is an accomplished beatboxer, martial artist, wrestler, and magician. He cares about his family, and the planet. He has mentioned in the past that he wanted to pursue music as a career but, on this day, he spoke of entering Navy Seal training once he graduates from high school. "I want to put myself through the hardest training known to mankind," he said. He espoused facts and numbers, relevant only to those who care for such propaganda. "In past conflicts, the ratio of enemy combatants killed per Navy Seal has been roughly 200 to 1." "So, you want to kill people?" I inquired.
He spoke about current world events, - of China's rise on the world stage to empire. "They are threatening military action if we do not repay the billions of dollars in debt that we owe them," he warned. He discussed Islamic militants and the religious fanaticism that fuels their ji-had. He wanted to draw a comparison between modern-day America and the ancient civilization of Sparta. "Sparta was a communally driven society in which agreement was an important, and acted upon value. Dissent in America today is slowly dissolving our social fabric."
I listened, swallowing my desire to speak up for what is just in an unjust world while allowing it to fade into a comfortable repose. I let the young, developing man be in his place of teenage turbulence. Some day, all too soon, he will have to choose, - between his father's institutionalized dogma and his mother's nurturing intuition.
It is my hope that he fords his own destiny, - that he will weave through the world with a spine of steel and with an open, vulnerable heart. For now, however, we can just walk together, enjoying the earth's bounty.

Monday, January 28, 2008

The Goal


i can reconcile the two.
i can bridge the gap.
i can marry the distance.
i can be...whole.

Thursday, January 3, 2008

"We must find the courage to dream. To reclaim romance. The romance in believing in justice, in freedom, and in dignity, for everybody."

The above is a quote from Arudhati Roy's "An Ordinary Citizen's Guide to Empire," which is an amazing, easy-to-digest read of a number of speeches that the India native Roy presented around the world in defense of a democratic society (which does not exist in India, and which has been slowly dissolving here in the States for decades now). It is a must read for every critical thinking American... (hint. hint.)
Following below is a poem that I wrote upon my return to the States and just before the holiday season kicked off in 2001. I had spent a year, from September 2000 through November 2001, reveling in a life abroad, - traveling around the globe, tasting sweet fruit, and chalking up life experiences. Whether or not I was "lucky" to be in some exotic locale when the events of September 11th, as well as the fall out it produced, rolled around I know not. What I do know is that I was just as confused as most when the news finally reached the quaint backcountry hut I was living out of on a mountainside in central Switzerland.
Being a true Libran, who was born under Venus, I believe in truth and beauty. During an idyllic youth, I walked around with a pair of rose-tinted sunglasses. The world was a beautiful utopia, all was as it is supposed to be, and my shit didn't stink. Slowly, as my undergraduate days melted away, the pink lens of my glasses was giving way to a clear vision, - all was not roses and sweet fragrance. Traveling abroad, especially in countries such as Zimbabwe where President Robert Mugabe has been strangling the economy (and thus, metaphorically, as well as sometimes literally, its citizens) for at least a decade now, continued to expand my worldly perspective. All was not well that goes well.
I returned to the States, less than two months after September 11th, flying into JFK in New York. During my visit with extended family in New Jersey, wearied feet carried both my aunt and I around the demolished and still smoldering World Trade Center site. Still confused, a dismay and a disregard began to burn in my chest as, on every street corner I turned, peddlers were hawking T-shirts, American flags, photographic keepsakes, and other cheap consumer products. Intrinsically, I understood that whatever 'terror' exists, it resides first deep within us. And that, even George W. Bush's urging to "go shopping" immediately following these "attacks" could not abate whatever deep well this was. I'll say it again, - consumerism cheapens democracy.
A democratic society is made up of thinking individuals who are consistently questioning their government. It is 'we the people' who are suppose to provide the checks and balances here. What has happened to us? What have we dissolved into? No, I do not support the troops! True "patriots" take a stand to protect the freedoms and liberties of all, even if their actions are deemed unpopular in the moment. I don't support malls, television, or cheap crap, either!
If I sound angry, it is because I am. "If you're not angry, then you aren't paying attention." Filling my physical world with unnecessary stuff will not make make the pain, the anger, or the sadness magically go away. It is up to me, - to read, to think, to discuss, and to work through all of these pent-up emotions with as many others as possible, to transform this life-sucking suffocation into a love-giving sustenance. I have to believe in something, - thus, I choose LOVE. As one of my sage-like professors recently said, "Anger can be a catalyst for change." Let's get angry, folks!

inside i feel conflicted
here in this "powerful" and "free"
american country
where its citizens are saturated
with words and images
of war and hate
of destruction and death
and taught to believe
the jargon
the propaganda
the loss of innocent lives
as merely "an eye for an eye"
(an eye for an eye makes a society of blind people)
who scramble down
the pedestrian choked sidewalks
of rockefeller center
consuming insatiable capitalist needs
while red, flicking lights
dance across the nbc studio's outdoor billboard
announcing victories
cities lost
and war criminals gained
and i walk by
in my newly acquired
brown, leather boots
and burnt orange, 200+ u.s. dollars
bloomingdale's coat
made in india
or perhaps it is mexico
or even hong kong
but, surely, it is not
the states
we cry
that we now stand "united"
and proud to be americans
while billion dollar u.s. corporations
still deny their own fellow patriots
a worthy place
in the job market
by manufacturing their products abroad
the mark up making
a world of difference
only to the pockets
of those elite, rich few
those same men
who create
these guns, bombs, and wars
and who we vote into office
time after time again,

so have a fucking merry christmas
(or chanukah, or kwanzaa, or ramadan
or whatever the fuck you practice)
may we reap the blood
sweat
and tears
of the millions of other
inhabitants of this earth
may we clink our
crystal champagne glasses
and toast cheers
salud
sante
prost
to this new year
yet another year
when others will
starve, freeze, and die
suffering
struggling
to exist
from one day to the next
while we grow
fat
and miserable
and yet always secure
in the knowledge
that tomorrow will always come
and that what we put off today
can always be done.

i await the moment
when this finely tuned
sheltering bubble
will burst.

-----chc