Southern California girl - raised, not born.
Rolling, coastal desert hills,
and sugary rhythms
of pop culture ingratiate themselves
into my be-ing, into my very way of life.
Six-year old me chased after
ice cream trucks, and the boys next door,
seven-year old me ran from nipping dogs
and the boys named "Felix" who liked to kiss
the girls and make them cry.
Nine-year old me lit up
lakeside parks, with a big grin and a
tomboy haircut chasing after
flying discs while wearing nothing more
than overalls.
Eleven-year old me shared an expanse
of native habitat, marshy lagoons
and crumbling sandstone,
with brown-skinned "aliens," with humans seeking more,
a greater chance and easier survival.
Thirteen-year old me stuffed Doritos
into her mouth while pretending
to play games of
spin the bottle.
Fifteen-year old me played camp
counselor to the children whose
relatives resided in those neighboring hills.
Seventeen-year old me
still did not have a car of her own and
was hanging onto her virginity by a thread.
Nineteen-year old me was
gone.
Off to explore what more the world entailed.
An existence other than So Cal cool.
Twenty-six year old me returned,
still without a car and with
disc throwing skills greatly improved.
With shaved head and hairy pits,
androgyny embodied.
Twenty-eight year old me fell in love
with an illegal immigrant
with a man who taught me much.
Thirty-year old me (re)discovered
"home,"
Thirty-one year old me rejoiced in
be-ing,
Thirty-two year old me decided to listen
to her highest good,
Thirty-three year old me is
So Cal cool.
Engaging in touch, depth, connection,
communion, laughter,
moments of delight, and
tears of sorrow repeatedly
with a group of over 50+ people
on a weekly basis
in environments
where we are not asked to buy,
purchase or consume.
Where all we need to do is
contribute to maintain our
collective space.
A sliding scale dependent upon one's means.
Friendship and memories made without the
pressure of money droning its epithets in our ears.
Where consumption is an after thought.
Where hand-made pizzas are thrown,
where exercise is achieved,
where community is sowed -
blessed day in and blessed day out.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Mass Consumption and Me
It is Saturday, June 26th and I type this inside an Ocean Beach coffee house
(where the WiFi is strong and clear). Meanwhile, outside swinging, wooden doors, Newport Avenue has been overtaken by street vendors hawking corn dogs, coolers and cheap mementos. On this day, mass consumption has been wrapped up in the guise of community.
Over 70,000 people will drive, walk and commute to today's fete, looking to celebrate summer's sweet embrace while reveling in our shared revolution around a great fire in the sky. Music will play, some will dance but very few will actually meet. Eager to fulfill a deep, insatiable human need for contact, touch, communion and celebration, thousands upon thousands will flock to the annual gathering, secretly hoping that this will be the year when a long lost love will be rediscovered, a new acquaintance met, an old mistake put to bed and a full day of pure merriment enjoyed for all. However, a meager few will actually reach across the great divide of popcorn, pennies and pomp and into one another's immediate space, demanding a hand and a name in exchange. Only some will request that which they are seeking, which is to reach out and connect.
Instead, the empty dollars will be spent and the full bellies will be stuffed. The miraculous hours will be whittled away, perusing knick-knacks, contemplating purchases and following the throngs of thonged feet - down one side of the street and then the other, secretly hoping for something, more.
More laughter, more tears, more joys, more sorrow, more life lived in the deepest throes its bittersweetness. More drama, more scares, more almost happened and could have would have should haves. More you more me more us together touching hands, sharing names, exchanging smiles and acknowledging presence.
More presence, in lieu of presents.
(where the WiFi is strong and clear). Meanwhile, outside swinging, wooden doors, Newport Avenue has been overtaken by street vendors hawking corn dogs, coolers and cheap mementos. On this day, mass consumption has been wrapped up in the guise of community.
Over 70,000 people will drive, walk and commute to today's fete, looking to celebrate summer's sweet embrace while reveling in our shared revolution around a great fire in the sky. Music will play, some will dance but very few will actually meet. Eager to fulfill a deep, insatiable human need for contact, touch, communion and celebration, thousands upon thousands will flock to the annual gathering, secretly hoping that this will be the year when a long lost love will be rediscovered, a new acquaintance met, an old mistake put to bed and a full day of pure merriment enjoyed for all. However, a meager few will actually reach across the great divide of popcorn, pennies and pomp and into one another's immediate space, demanding a hand and a name in exchange. Only some will request that which they are seeking, which is to reach out and connect.
Instead, the empty dollars will be spent and the full bellies will be stuffed. The miraculous hours will be whittled away, perusing knick-knacks, contemplating purchases and following the throngs of thonged feet - down one side of the street and then the other, secretly hoping for something, more.
More laughter, more tears, more joys, more sorrow, more life lived in the deepest throes its bittersweetness. More drama, more scares, more almost happened and could have would have should haves. More you more me more us together touching hands, sharing names, exchanging smiles and acknowledging presence.
More presence, in lieu of presents.
Response in Action: The Work in Play
What the events of that tumultuous Thursday reminded me of was that the play I engage in, every Friday and Tuesday night as well as every Sunday morning, is not just for trivial pursuit. It is work, as well as play. It is honing instinct and refining basic survival skills. It is remembering to breathe - in this moment, now - so that I am as fully attuned as to what may happen in the next instant as I possibly can be.
It is about practicing feeling, and sensing - going with my own potent flow yet, ever ready just in case someone pulls in front of me and proceeds to endanger his or her own life. It is about intuiting the moment so that I do not find myself caught up in harm's way, unable to make the quick decisions I need to make in order to, quite possibly, save my own life. Yes, it is about survival.
Granted, I am simply referring to Darwinian thought. As his theory tells it, we are all here to ensure that our species survives. Therefore, we come with an innate ability to both protect ourselves as well as find a means to continue existing. Yes, and we live in a culture and a society where, I would argue, these basic, biological skills are being bred out of us. For decades now, our parents, their parents, and even us, have been buying into the idea that it is through the consumption of things outside of ourselves - cars, weapons, education, pharmaceuticals, "God," et al - that we will be "saved."
We have been led to believe that the voices of others - doctors, teachers, politicians, pastors, etc - are far more knowledgeable about us than we ourselves are. And this, my friends, is how capitalism flourishes. For, if we truly honored the fact that we each harbor the deep, embodied intelligence of how to nourish and thrive now then we wouldn't need to keep consuming more. More pain relievers, "safer" vehicles (is there such a thing?), more yoga classes, a bigger home, more borders, fences, and gates, more space and distance, more between you and me and more between us and this Earth.
More separation between.
This is what our civilization sells us, on a moment-by-moment basis. The false notion that we are each separate and distinct and that the only way to maintain this divide is by purchasing the same clothing (Ed Hardy, anyone?), the same media (Where's your iPhone?) and the exact same identity - a 21st century global consumer - as your friends, neighbors and fellow citizens. We are buying ourselves into a disembodied grave.
So, I decided to teach, "Listening and Responding," in class this past Tuesday night. After all, in some moments, it will not matter how deep your extension is, how graceful your turn, how gorgeous your body or how smooth you execute your routine. All that will matter is that you were listening, and that you responded quickly. The intelligence of your response will dictate what comes next - be that, imminent death; drawn out torture; a painful existence; a nasty bump; a deep bruise; soulful living; or ecstatic celebration. The choice is up to you.
Listen, my friends ~
What does the heart of your bodymindspirit say?
Come, practice this sacred art ~ of listening and responding.
Refine your skills and hone your instincts.
Remember what it is that makes you human, and rejoice!
For, time is now of the essence.
(As I assume that you, too, have been feeling the Earth shaking under your feet?
The shift is here.
Be prepared.)
It is about practicing feeling, and sensing - going with my own potent flow yet, ever ready just in case someone pulls in front of me and proceeds to endanger his or her own life. It is about intuiting the moment so that I do not find myself caught up in harm's way, unable to make the quick decisions I need to make in order to, quite possibly, save my own life. Yes, it is about survival.
Granted, I am simply referring to Darwinian thought. As his theory tells it, we are all here to ensure that our species survives. Therefore, we come with an innate ability to both protect ourselves as well as find a means to continue existing. Yes, and we live in a culture and a society where, I would argue, these basic, biological skills are being bred out of us. For decades now, our parents, their parents, and even us, have been buying into the idea that it is through the consumption of things outside of ourselves - cars, weapons, education, pharmaceuticals, "God," et al - that we will be "saved."
We have been led to believe that the voices of others - doctors, teachers, politicians, pastors, etc - are far more knowledgeable about us than we ourselves are. And this, my friends, is how capitalism flourishes. For, if we truly honored the fact that we each harbor the deep, embodied intelligence of how to nourish and thrive now then we wouldn't need to keep consuming more. More pain relievers, "safer" vehicles (is there such a thing?), more yoga classes, a bigger home, more borders, fences, and gates, more space and distance, more between you and me and more between us and this Earth.
More separation between.
This is what our civilization sells us, on a moment-by-moment basis. The false notion that we are each separate and distinct and that the only way to maintain this divide is by purchasing the same clothing (Ed Hardy, anyone?), the same media (Where's your iPhone?) and the exact same identity - a 21st century global consumer - as your friends, neighbors and fellow citizens. We are buying ourselves into a disembodied grave.
So, I decided to teach, "Listening and Responding," in class this past Tuesday night. After all, in some moments, it will not matter how deep your extension is, how graceful your turn, how gorgeous your body or how smooth you execute your routine. All that will matter is that you were listening, and that you responded quickly. The intelligence of your response will dictate what comes next - be that, imminent death; drawn out torture; a painful existence; a nasty bump; a deep bruise; soulful living; or ecstatic celebration. The choice is up to you.
Listen, my friends ~
What does the heart of your bodymindspirit say?
Come, practice this sacred art ~ of listening and responding.
Refine your skills and hone your instincts.
Remember what it is that makes you human, and rejoice!
For, time is now of the essence.
(As I assume that you, too, have been feeling the Earth shaking under your feet?
The shift is here.
Be prepared.)
Friday, June 18, 2010
test response 2
I, however, always like to investigate and probe
deeper
further.
I like to look
for meaning.
(why not? how else do we have to spend our time?)
I was a writer before I was a reader.
At ten years of age, I was already working on my first novel -
some fictional, coming-of-age story about a prepubescent girl
whose life was way more intriguing than my own mid-class,
suburban lifestyle. "Nikki's Life," was comprised of a few chapters and
copious pages of notes before it was shelved, forever to remain a
captive member on my bookshelf.
It was only in high school when I developed my thirst for reading.
Truth be told, it was Danielle Steel novels, tales of romance on the high seas and
unrequited love in distant lands, that captured my attention
and had me seeking out more
stories, more tales, more travel,
more adventure, more more more...
At twenty-three years of age and on the dawn of the new century,
I was to be found in the epic and lush New Zealand backcountry.
Relishing in the western opportunity to feed some of my desires,
I hitchhiked, backpacked and camped my way across the land.
At the beginning of this journey, I carried a beat up copy of Paolo Coehlo's
The Alchemist with me.
Paolo's typed words echoed deeply within my short frame.
At the time, I didn't know what any of it meant.
All I knew was that this story, this book, this collective myth being told
resonated.................................
Coehlo's timeless tale told of one human being's searching for and manifesting of
his own personal legend - that is, what a person has always wanted to accomplish
in his or her own life.
"Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is.
At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible.
They are not afraid to dream and to yearn for everything
they would like to see happen to them in their lives.
But, as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will
be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend."
Coelho's protagonist follows his path, toward the greatness he has always
dreamed for himself and is initially greeted with very little resistance.
"Every search begins with beginner's luck," Coelho's philosopher espouses.
"And, every search ends with the victor being severely tested."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
deeper
further.
I like to look
for meaning.
(why not? how else do we have to spend our time?)
I was a writer before I was a reader.
At ten years of age, I was already working on my first novel -
some fictional, coming-of-age story about a prepubescent girl
whose life was way more intriguing than my own mid-class,
suburban lifestyle. "Nikki's Life," was comprised of a few chapters and
copious pages of notes before it was shelved, forever to remain a
captive member on my bookshelf.
It was only in high school when I developed my thirst for reading.
Truth be told, it was Danielle Steel novels, tales of romance on the high seas and
unrequited love in distant lands, that captured my attention
and had me seeking out more
stories, more tales, more travel,
more adventure, more more more...
At twenty-three years of age and on the dawn of the new century,
I was to be found in the epic and lush New Zealand backcountry.
Relishing in the western opportunity to feed some of my desires,
I hitchhiked, backpacked and camped my way across the land.
At the beginning of this journey, I carried a beat up copy of Paolo Coehlo's
The Alchemist with me.
Paolo's typed words echoed deeply within my short frame.
At the time, I didn't know what any of it meant.
All I knew was that this story, this book, this collective myth being told
resonated.................................
Coehlo's timeless tale told of one human being's searching for and manifesting of
his own personal legend - that is, what a person has always wanted to accomplish
in his or her own life.
"Everyone, when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is.
At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible.
They are not afraid to dream and to yearn for everything
they would like to see happen to them in their lives.
But, as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will
be impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend."
Coelho's protagonist follows his path, toward the greatness he has always
dreamed for himself and is initially greeted with very little resistance.
"Every search begins with beginner's luck," Coelho's philosopher espouses.
"And, every search ends with the victor being severely tested."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
test response 1
Colleen laughs off my philosophic inquiry with her big sister chagrin.
"There is no message, Cara," she heartily chuckles.
"It's just life."
Yes, indeed - life in the fast lane...
It's scary, turbulent and you never know what is going to come your way.
Best we can do, I figure, is try to listen and respond,
with lightning quick reflexes,
to both the miracles and the tragedies of an unfolding nature.
.........................................................................................................................................
"There is no message, Cara," she heartily chuckles.
"It's just life."
Yes, indeed - life in the fast lane...
It's scary, turbulent and you never know what is going to come your way.
Best we can do, I figure, is try to listen and respond,
with lightning quick reflexes,
to both the miracles and the tragedies of an unfolding nature.
.........................................................................................................................................
Testing, Testing 1, 2, 3
YESTERDAY, Thursday, June 17th, 2010
1.) I had arrived.
It was 11:30am on the clock and I was almost en route, with my mentor and friend Mel Lions, to sign a ~5 acre lease on the Roots@Suzie's Educational Farm Center - an exciting business opportunity for our 501(c)3 non-profit organization. After rolling with the punches of turbulent change that both the past winter and spring brought with them, the day's arrival of a major goal collectively accomplished loomed big and bright on the horizon.
Mel and I greeted one another with our usual, familiar hug outside the front door of his 100-year old University Heights home. Then, an unfamiliar North County number rang my cell phone.
"Hello, Cara," the woman's voice on the other end said.
"Your mother has been admitted to the ER at Tri City Hospital."
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
this is me
flat lining eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
1.5.) I have never handled my parents impending mortality well. In high school, my older father suffered chest pains at home and had to be transported to the hospital via an ambulance. Instead of tending to him beside my nurse mother, I lost all control of my emotions and had to remove myself from the scene. Years ago, while visiting family and friends in NYC, my mother took a tumble down a narrow staircase in the old brownstone hotel we were staying in. Fortunately, my aunt was present to tend to her sister as I was of no help. Once again, I was overcome with emotion, nausea and panic. True to form, I behaved as the baby of the family that I am.
2.) Yesterday, as I made the half-hour commute back the way I had come, my stomach was in my throat and my mind was racing as fast as the rush-hour traffic surrounding me on the Interstate 5. Thoughts of guilt and shame, for not being a good enough daughter and for causing my mother undue stress, rocked my innards while I tried to remind myself: "This isn't about you, Cara." I haphazardly dialed the warm voices of friends. Unfortunately, little can soothe the rush of an all-consuming wild fire.
Carol Ann was conscious and not critical but very sick. She was purging from every end, breaking out in a cold sweat and rocking in pain. My father and I spent all afternoon there in the ER with her. Frequently, my mother was rolled out of her cubicle on a gurney, pushed back and forth between a barrage of tests and invasive procedures. A cyst was discovered in each ovary, her stomach and the lymph nodes running up the center of her chest were inflamed.
2.5) In my moments of panic, I also dialed my ex-boyfriend of four years. He loves my mother and I knew that she would enjoy a visit from him there in the ER. There is much laughter between them and he credits my mother with having given him new life when he was physically suffering from his own self-induced misery. He was provided a lift to the hospital by an employee of his, which meant that I had to provide him with the ride back home later on.
3.) After waiting around the hospital for the day, moving back and forth between the waiting room, the outdoor patio area and the ER, it was time to once again head south. During the drive, my ex-boyfriend behaved as he usually does - high strung, unable to relax and words dripping, on and on in an endless barrage, from his mouth. Usually, his spoken thoughts leave me feeling worse than I already do. This occasion was no different as he was speaking of the "gorgeous dancer" who he has a crush on, how he'll make her fall in love with him and how we would quit his bad behaviors upon her commands. (Insert grossly annoyed face with tongue sticking out of mouth here.)
Instead of driving toward the Vietnamese dinner that he requested, I made a beeline for his Clairemont home - the same one I had shared with him for two years and just moved out of last summer. "I can't be your friend," I said. "Thank you for coming to visit my mother. I really appreciate it, but being in your company right now is only making me feel worse." True to his patterns, he began reaching out and trying to touch me, attempting to beg his way into my staying. Unlike my typical habits, I remained true to my resolve - I deserve better than this. So, I dropped him off, said a brief "Hello" to our dogs and left. Nonetheless, yet another experience for this day was extracting a high price on my bodymindspirit.
3.5) Emotionally I felt extremely taxed and very near a familiar breaking point. Conversations with friends could not quite alleviate my upheaval. However, unlike my typical patterning, I chose to focus on my work and on the plethora of writing that I must complete (I am working on my first major body of work). Yes, I questioned if this choice of mine was selfish but what there to do? Sit around and twiddle my thumbs? Instead, I focused my swirling and dissipated energy and, damn, what a remedy it was! "My work" grounded and centered me. It was truly that simply.
Around 10pm, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. It was time to head home and straight into bed. Again, I was driving north on the I-5. I was in the fast lane, doing maybe 75mph when a black, Mercedes sedan with tinted windows sped past me in the carpool lane to the left pushing 90mph, if not more. The mystery vehicle was barely two full car lengths ahead of me when it somehow lost control, swerved into my lane and completed at least eight full revolutions, or doughnuts, there on my side of the freeway. For one brief second, I was speeding into a head-on collision. In quick response, I violently swerved the car I was driving into the three lanes to my right. Fortunately, there was no one driving around or near me at this point. There was, however, a white vehicle at least four car lengths behind me that slowed down and put on its high beams when it noticed my erratic behavior. For at least one full minute in time, I watched as the speeding Mercedes careened and spun out of control, headed in god know's what direction, as I remained calm, cool and collected behind the driving wheel. The smell of burning rubber and metal filled my nostrils while plumes of its thick smoke danced inside the car with me.
I pulled over, off of the Via de la Valle exit. My whole body was shaking violently, I screamed my fears out and I acknowledged the fact that I almost ended up right where I had spent most of the day - in the ER.
holy
fucking
shit.
So, there's a message here, right?!?!!!?!
1.) I had arrived.
It was 11:30am on the clock and I was almost en route, with my mentor and friend Mel Lions, to sign a ~5 acre lease on the Roots@Suzie's Educational Farm Center - an exciting business opportunity for our 501(c)3 non-profit organization. After rolling with the punches of turbulent change that both the past winter and spring brought with them, the day's arrival of a major goal collectively accomplished loomed big and bright on the horizon.
Mel and I greeted one another with our usual, familiar hug outside the front door of his 100-year old University Heights home. Then, an unfamiliar North County number rang my cell phone.
"Hello, Cara," the woman's voice on the other end said.
"Your mother has been admitted to the ER at Tri City Hospital."
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
this is me
flat lining eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
1.5.) I have never handled my parents impending mortality well. In high school, my older father suffered chest pains at home and had to be transported to the hospital via an ambulance. Instead of tending to him beside my nurse mother, I lost all control of my emotions and had to remove myself from the scene. Years ago, while visiting family and friends in NYC, my mother took a tumble down a narrow staircase in the old brownstone hotel we were staying in. Fortunately, my aunt was present to tend to her sister as I was of no help. Once again, I was overcome with emotion, nausea and panic. True to form, I behaved as the baby of the family that I am.
2.) Yesterday, as I made the half-hour commute back the way I had come, my stomach was in my throat and my mind was racing as fast as the rush-hour traffic surrounding me on the Interstate 5. Thoughts of guilt and shame, for not being a good enough daughter and for causing my mother undue stress, rocked my innards while I tried to remind myself: "This isn't about you, Cara." I haphazardly dialed the warm voices of friends. Unfortunately, little can soothe the rush of an all-consuming wild fire.
Carol Ann was conscious and not critical but very sick. She was purging from every end, breaking out in a cold sweat and rocking in pain. My father and I spent all afternoon there in the ER with her. Frequently, my mother was rolled out of her cubicle on a gurney, pushed back and forth between a barrage of tests and invasive procedures. A cyst was discovered in each ovary, her stomach and the lymph nodes running up the center of her chest were inflamed.
2.5) In my moments of panic, I also dialed my ex-boyfriend of four years. He loves my mother and I knew that she would enjoy a visit from him there in the ER. There is much laughter between them and he credits my mother with having given him new life when he was physically suffering from his own self-induced misery. He was provided a lift to the hospital by an employee of his, which meant that I had to provide him with the ride back home later on.
3.) After waiting around the hospital for the day, moving back and forth between the waiting room, the outdoor patio area and the ER, it was time to once again head south. During the drive, my ex-boyfriend behaved as he usually does - high strung, unable to relax and words dripping, on and on in an endless barrage, from his mouth. Usually, his spoken thoughts leave me feeling worse than I already do. This occasion was no different as he was speaking of the "gorgeous dancer" who he has a crush on, how he'll make her fall in love with him and how we would quit his bad behaviors upon her commands. (Insert grossly annoyed face with tongue sticking out of mouth here.)
Instead of driving toward the Vietnamese dinner that he requested, I made a beeline for his Clairemont home - the same one I had shared with him for two years and just moved out of last summer. "I can't be your friend," I said. "Thank you for coming to visit my mother. I really appreciate it, but being in your company right now is only making me feel worse." True to his patterns, he began reaching out and trying to touch me, attempting to beg his way into my staying. Unlike my typical habits, I remained true to my resolve - I deserve better than this. So, I dropped him off, said a brief "Hello" to our dogs and left. Nonetheless, yet another experience for this day was extracting a high price on my bodymindspirit.
3.5) Emotionally I felt extremely taxed and very near a familiar breaking point. Conversations with friends could not quite alleviate my upheaval. However, unlike my typical patterning, I chose to focus on my work and on the plethora of writing that I must complete (I am working on my first major body of work). Yes, I questioned if this choice of mine was selfish but what there to do? Sit around and twiddle my thumbs? Instead, I focused my swirling and dissipated energy and, damn, what a remedy it was! "My work" grounded and centered me. It was truly that simply.
Around 10pm, I was physically and emotionally exhausted. It was time to head home and straight into bed. Again, I was driving north on the I-5. I was in the fast lane, doing maybe 75mph when a black, Mercedes sedan with tinted windows sped past me in the carpool lane to the left pushing 90mph, if not more. The mystery vehicle was barely two full car lengths ahead of me when it somehow lost control, swerved into my lane and completed at least eight full revolutions, or doughnuts, there on my side of the freeway. For one brief second, I was speeding into a head-on collision. In quick response, I violently swerved the car I was driving into the three lanes to my right. Fortunately, there was no one driving around or near me at this point. There was, however, a white vehicle at least four car lengths behind me that slowed down and put on its high beams when it noticed my erratic behavior. For at least one full minute in time, I watched as the speeding Mercedes careened and spun out of control, headed in god know's what direction, as I remained calm, cool and collected behind the driving wheel. The smell of burning rubber and metal filled my nostrils while plumes of its thick smoke danced inside the car with me.
I pulled over, off of the Via de la Valle exit. My whole body was shaking violently, I screamed my fears out and I acknowledged the fact that I almost ended up right where I had spent most of the day - in the ER.
holy
fucking
shit.
So, there's a message here, right?!?!!!?!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
A Requiem on Pain, in Three Parts
- Last Night, While Dreaming
The man singled me out of the crowd. "You," he pointed with the shake of his extended, right arm. In his hand a long sword; sharp and painstakingly polished, its handle gold and carved with a slithering serpent whose eyes of brilliant blue gemstones brought the precious metal to life. Like a virgin on an altar, he commanded that I lay down before him. He wanted my existence - and nothing less. Fearfully, I cringed. I submitted and rolled over into a fetal position, all the while begging and pleading to be spared. This e-motion of mine, however, triggered an idea; "I could try another tactic," I thought. "I don't have to be afraid," I told myself. So, I rolled back toward him, looked up into his piercing, black eyes and offered myself. "Here," I flatly stated. Courageously resolved, I turned my head to the left, closed my eyes and awaited the journey that would take me away, onto another plane, somewhere.
Tick
tock
tick
tock
tick...
Moments passed, and I remained. I opened my eyes and turned back toward my perpetrator.
"Come on," he ordered. "Let's go." Dutifully, I rose to my feet and snaked my way around a gathered crowd. What I recall from here on out is blurry now, but what I do remember is panicked moments and tension filled minutes of running away, escaping, hiding, getting caught, being found, a game of cat and mouse, and palpable fear noxiously stuck in my throat and my gut.
There wasn't any resolve. I simply tossed and turned into consciousness, arriving back into the safe confines of my bed. Upon waking this morning, however, the remnants of this dream still courses through my veins.
-- Last Friday
"You are a soul mate," he said. I inhaled on a deep breath in, "Hmmmm." I gazed at him, standing there across from me on the dirt parking lot grounds, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the smudged side of his working van. I looked into his bird-like eyes and responded,
"I love you, too, and I feel so much pain - here between us, in this gulf that we have never been able to cross. It hurts to feel this and to simultaneously still love -- you."
Insight hit me, like a ton of bricks.
"Ah," I inhaled again, sharply this time.
Then, I gasped, "Ah, it's mine!"
For the pain I was seeing wasn't his, and it didn't come from him. Rather, it was mine, it was all mine - it was a simple mirror reflection of my own creation. The prickly thorns of truth pierced another layer of my hardened heart. "Love isn't pain, Cara," chirped a gentle voice of infinite compassion located deep within my being. The steady stream of a story that doesn't serve me, and of life contracts written before the dawn of this time, took their marching orders and headed on out of town.
-- Last Night, While Dancing
I felt fear. It was during a moment of our engagement. He had control and he was communicating his pulse, his desires and his wishes, through the steady application of pressure through our open, touching palms, as well as through his strong arms, connected chest and driven core. I hesitated - in confusion and questioning. I wasn't intuiting this moment. Rather, it was just him, taking me on a journey and directing our paths into unfamiliar territory. Fear tickled my edges and I felt its manic pulse through my bloodstream. I stopped the flow and brought myself back into an upright position, posture erect, standing side-by-side next to him.
"That scared me," I shared.
"Why?" he wanted to know.
How to translate the embodied feeling of deep sensations, cellular memory and habitual patterning into clearly and succinctly spoken words?
"I don't know," I replied.
"I just don't know."
The man singled me out of the crowd. "You," he pointed with the shake of his extended, right arm. In his hand a long sword; sharp and painstakingly polished, its handle gold and carved with a slithering serpent whose eyes of brilliant blue gemstones brought the precious metal to life. Like a virgin on an altar, he commanded that I lay down before him. He wanted my existence - and nothing less. Fearfully, I cringed. I submitted and rolled over into a fetal position, all the while begging and pleading to be spared. This e-motion of mine, however, triggered an idea; "I could try another tactic," I thought. "I don't have to be afraid," I told myself. So, I rolled back toward him, looked up into his piercing, black eyes and offered myself. "Here," I flatly stated. Courageously resolved, I turned my head to the left, closed my eyes and awaited the journey that would take me away, onto another plane, somewhere.
Tick
tock
tick
tock
tick...
Moments passed, and I remained. I opened my eyes and turned back toward my perpetrator.
"Come on," he ordered. "Let's go." Dutifully, I rose to my feet and snaked my way around a gathered crowd. What I recall from here on out is blurry now, but what I do remember is panicked moments and tension filled minutes of running away, escaping, hiding, getting caught, being found, a game of cat and mouse, and palpable fear noxiously stuck in my throat and my gut.
There wasn't any resolve. I simply tossed and turned into consciousness, arriving back into the safe confines of my bed. Upon waking this morning, however, the remnants of this dream still courses through my veins.
-- Last Friday
"You are a soul mate," he said. I inhaled on a deep breath in, "Hmmmm." I gazed at him, standing there across from me on the dirt parking lot grounds, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the smudged side of his working van. I looked into his bird-like eyes and responded,
"I love you, too, and I feel so much pain - here between us, in this gulf that we have never been able to cross. It hurts to feel this and to simultaneously still love -- you."
Insight hit me, like a ton of bricks.
"Ah," I inhaled again, sharply this time.
Then, I gasped, "Ah, it's mine!"
For the pain I was seeing wasn't his, and it didn't come from him. Rather, it was mine, it was all mine - it was a simple mirror reflection of my own creation. The prickly thorns of truth pierced another layer of my hardened heart. "Love isn't pain, Cara," chirped a gentle voice of infinite compassion located deep within my being. The steady stream of a story that doesn't serve me, and of life contracts written before the dawn of this time, took their marching orders and headed on out of town.
-- Last Night, While Dancing
I felt fear. It was during a moment of our engagement. He had control and he was communicating his pulse, his desires and his wishes, through the steady application of pressure through our open, touching palms, as well as through his strong arms, connected chest and driven core. I hesitated - in confusion and questioning. I wasn't intuiting this moment. Rather, it was just him, taking me on a journey and directing our paths into unfamiliar territory. Fear tickled my edges and I felt its manic pulse through my bloodstream. I stopped the flow and brought myself back into an upright position, posture erect, standing side-by-side next to him.
"That scared me," I shared.
"Why?" he wanted to know.
How to translate the embodied feeling of deep sensations, cellular memory and habitual patterning into clearly and succinctly spoken words?
"I don't know," I replied.
"I just don't know."
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