Monday, April 27, 2009

On Sex, Take II

the spark

found in another's big, deep eyes.
there lay
an unspoken agreement
of what could possibly be,
of moments in time to come,
or of what once existed and took place,
in some other realm,
on some other plane,
somewhere.

it is the succulent lips,
the prickly, dragon fruit of thailand,
where you feel yourself drawn
and desiring to seek out with your
own
small,
pink
pucker.

a hint of possibility
it brews
in your stomach.
your harbored
animus reawakened
mewling
like a cat in heat
as it prowls
back and forth
behind
the glass, window pane
crying
for just
one
more
last
look
at whatever brought you here, to this place of
absolute
need.

a need to know

what he tastes like.

salty?
as though he has just emerged from a refreshing dip in the ocean?
or cold?
like a flapping goldfish on a hardwood coffee table where an aquarium home resides? maybe, his mouth is warm, like a southern gulf coast where there is no reprieve to be found from a summer sun's rays?


it is a need to decipher

smell.

is she fruity in the hollow of her neck?
or, is she musky in all the glory of her birthday suit?
are her pheromones compatible with your own?
do you still want to kiss that sensual opening even after having wallowed in the stank of a stale mouth?







intimacy shared
innocence lost
the start of relationships
and the end of friendships.

where do we begin?
and with who?
do we only speak of those whose bodies and orifices we came to know quite well?
or, do we also mention the fleeting dreams,
as well as the unsavory realities?

do we only write of sweet kisses?
or, shall i briefly touch upon lustful embraces?
do i only speak of passion?
what of the need to use,
and be used, in order to fulfill short-term satisfaction?
how do we quantify and qualify these must-have sexual, life experiences?





a greek god sauntered in through my bedroom door.
at the time, i was living near frat row, on prospect street in berkeley,
california. nearly forty-eight hours later, he walked out, leaving me only tom robbins' "a roadside attraction" and the memory of an opportunity seized.

he was 6'4, muscular yet thin. with fair features and attributes, he was a far cry from the mirror image i had, for so long, been attracted to (dark and brooding). blond, closely shaven hair. piercing eyes with irises of a soft azul that conveyed quiet power. he was a stoic, old soul, traveling the american countryside in search of learning what his ivy-league experience could never teach him.

in the split second it took for me to welcome him in to my quaint abode, he held my breath in the palm of his long, outstretched hand. spiraling energy coursed through my veins, corkscrewing, and bringing to life an aged, and perfectly fermented, fine merlot.

my mouth, dry. my eager anticipation, on fire. his soothing voice, slow as honey.
he poured his liquid tongue all over my writhing body.

he offered enormous passion, - for life, love, and sex. it was unequal to anything i had been privy of before. he knew woman's wants, pleasures, and form, like so few men care to, or do, know.

despite all of my pent-up emotion,
regardless of my puritanical upbringing,
i denied the subliminal messaging.
instead,
i reveled
in complete
abandonment.
i physically gave all that i had
knowing
full well
that all i would be left with would be the occasional, email update,
forever.
still, i made no attachments to those blissful, momentary meetings
of saliva
and body fluid.
when another king of the renaissance arrives, extending an open invitation,
to join his armed band of nomads, i will gratefully accept.
i will luxuriate
in the knowledge
that it was zeus who led me here
to this momentary blink of the mythological eye
of time and space.

devan
wes
kale tej
it is the feel of their names on my tongue,
it is the way that my teeth come together with every spoken syllable.
rachel ivory omar leo
a diversity of shapes, sizes, colors, and beliefs.
christain
keenzia kevin keith
mark mario tim and teak.

small waists that fit within the crook of just one arm
broad backs, and large pectoral muscles cupped in greedy hands
soft, supple breasts
legs and arms entwined.

bodies mold into indistinguishable heaps
listening ears
grasping toes
tickling tongues

jamie, jason, jay, and jimmy
matt with one 't'
andy, anthony, and albert
dominic, david, and dee.

human beings desperately trying to reclaim
wholeness
attempting to remember
a beginning
the first nine months of development
spent in utero
on this planet earth.

sudhu

line.

she was a drop dead gorgeous dane. as we perused the lengths of a south sydney beach, the heads of young, pop culture attuned men, and women, turned. she was a booby blonde. a pin-up without a poster. western man's masturbation embodied.
and she wanted me, this petite voluptuous brunette woman.

she would purrrrr to me to
"think of me" as i drifted off
into a southern hemisphere slumber.
she wished aloud to sleep on her hostel cot snuggled up to my female form, instead of alone, and aching.

when we first met, i made a bet with myself. "i bet she is here with a staunch, over-protective boyfriend," i said in my head. but he never materialized and instead, it was an unimposing i who accompanied her to an italian dinner of pasta, bread, and salad, and who shared a bottle of vodka over laughs and conversation of a high school, best friend-turned lover, - a sultry, southe american who had returned home only to be missed by this nordic queen.

as the clear intoxicant emptied itseld of its previous container, into the hears and souls of these two lonely travelers, i felt my libido punding out a rhythmic tempo rap tap tap rap tap tap rap rap rap.

we walked back along a cliff lined shore, towards our temporary shelter on the hill. it was only natural that we stopped along a boulder strewn path and made our way onto the ground, and on to the top
of one another.

Friday, April 24, 2009

On Irony..

I thought I would play with the "objectification" of my own image as a test to see if sex really sells. What has happened instead is that, by honoring my beauty, I have come to, inadvertently, honor it in others.

This morning, it was a customer at the small window of Mario's drive-thru coffee shop. She had wavy hair that was a soft, reddish color. The sky blue sweater that she was wearing illuminated the irises of her eyes, which were also the same color, and contrasted beautifully with the amber locks falling down around her face.

Here's to more celebrating of beauty, and pleasure...

It's All About the "Little" Things..(Take II)

As a human, what truly feeds, sustains, and nourishes me is the amount of time that I spend engaging, interacting, and being with others (as well as other creatures/things).

I am extremely fortunate to engage with a community of dancers weekly, some of whom have been consistently meeting together for the past twenty years. In this milieu, and in this environment where a platform of non-verbal communication is agreed upon, I am provided the space to work through the crises and neuroses of my own everyday life. Sometimes, I even find dance partners who are willing to negotiate with me. My time spent here, twisting, twirling, and talking, ripples out in concentric circles into the other facets, compartments, and arenas, of my meager existence.

More and more, I have been enjoying stopping by Mario's coffee shop for my refill of daily java. Ever the keen entrepreneur, Mario's shop is staffed by a bevy of beautiful babes, a gaggle of gorgeous girls. This little fact does not always delight me. It isn't the girls, or the understanding that there is something about this dynamic that Mario really likes, in so much as it is about some of the customers. Usually men, more specifically, who ride on through with eyes sparkling of objectification. This drinking in of womanhood and distilling it down to simply sex and symmetry really gets my guard up. Why is this, - especially when I can so easily object myself? Hell, if I objected myself more often, then maybe I'd be more "successful" than I am today. It isn't it this, though.

What it is, is this: as woman, it is easy to believe that your power is situated in the amount of attention you accrue from members of the opposite sex (specifically, white men). It is so easy to forget the small things that feed you and to, instead, focus on the superficial, - on the hair cuts, on the cute shoes, and on the shopping at Target. On the glances that come your way, and on the men who want more, - a name, a number, a date, an opportunity for sex.

Sex is great, don't get me wrong. I'm not advocating for celibacy here. I'm just saying that my sex is only skin deep. And, when I forget this...

Case in point: One of Mario's employees, and friends, is super cute. At only twenty-five years of age, she has spent a short lifetime attracting the not-always- desired attention of males. With dark, olive skin and exotic features, her petite frame is fawned over. Men and boys, literally, froth at the mouth in their wanting of her, of her sex, of whatever fantasy her visual image conjures up in their small brains.

For the past few years, I have witnessed her sense of self wither amidst this unasked for, and even undeserved (after all, she really has nothing to do with the genes she was given at birth), absorption. She has spent too many days, weeks, and months, not eating, purging what little amount of food she did partake of, and then drinking excessively (given her weight and size). Desperately, she sought to retain control of this self-perceived "power." Naturally, she would always fall short of maintaining it. For, it was always just an illusion.

In her 'Reading Lolita in Tehran,' Azar Nafisi writes: “Dreams are perfect ideals, complete in themselves. How can you impose them on a constantly changing, imperfect, incomplete reality? You would become a Humbert, destroying the object of your dream; or a Gatsby, destroying yourself.” (page 144) Today, however, when I pulled my sputtering Volvo into the black paved parking lot of the coffee shop, I looked out of my windshield with glee as my eyes fell upon this same, young woman.

Today, she has filled in her hard edges with soft curves. Her angular body no longer has a strained, taut appearance. She looks comfortable, vibrant, and happy. She is in love, and she is actively working through the day-to-day of taking care, - of caring for both herself and another.

In Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love" (which I also highly recommend right along with Nafisi's book), Gilbert writes of her travels through Italy:

"I came to Italy pinched and thin. I did not know yet what I deserved. I still maybe don't fully know what I deserve. But I do know that I have collected myself of late - through the enjoyment of harmless pleasures - into somebody much more intact. The easiest, most fundamental human way to say it is that I have put on weight. I exist now more than I did four months ago. I will leave Italy noticeably bigger than when I arrived here. And I will leave with the hope that the expansion of one person - the magnification of one life - is indeed an act of worth in this world. Even if that life, just this one time, happens to be nobody's but my own." (page 115)

It's All About the "Little" Things..

I've been fighting a bug, - for weeks now. No, I have not been healthy. It could be that my over-indulgence of fresh whipped cream, a privilege I partake of every morning down at Mario's drive-thru coffee shop (below Clairemont Dr., on Morena Blvd.), has something to do with the phlegm stuck in my lungs. It could also be the fact that I've been quite stationary, of late.

For the past two months, I've had to dig down deep, and birth a damn baby (known as my portfolio), which has required that I remain in a cramped repose, behind a computer screen, for hours on end. Sitting, typing, processing, editing, & deleting. The 150-paged creature was born on April 21st, 2009, (the spring equinox, of course!) and right along with it came the realization, "Shit! I've only just begun!" .....

So, I've been sick. It also doesn't help that I have been stressed out about money ("i ain't got no money, baby!") and the impending bills that my graduation from graduate school this summer will bring along with it. (Insert big breath here.) Ummm, yeah.

Nonetheless, life persists and the show must go on. Last night, it was an opening reception for a visual art exhibition, entitled "Facing East," at the Art Expressions Gallery just down the hill from where I live. (Off of Jutland, and at 2645 Commercial Court.) Benzs, Beamers, and SUVs were parked around the circumference of the tight col de' sac. As my mother and I ambled up the hilly driveway and approached the flat, glass paneled building's doors, we saw people spilling out and onto the cement walkway.

Inside the white-walled gallery, a uniformed catering staff, dressed in a grayish-blue, long-sleeved button up, walked around, balancing trays of silver platters on their palms. "Would you care for a sweet pork bun, dumpling, or other tasty, Asian tidbit?" they would casually inquire. Meanwhile, a jovial bartender served wine and beer in a western facing corner. (Have I mentioned that this was all "free," yet?)

Hanging throughout the parallel exhibition spaces, as well as in the small, five rooms found in the back and middle of the gallery, were mixed media paintings, of wood, paper, steel, and even book bindings, by local artists Dionne Haroutunian, Viviana Lombrozo, and Wade Harb. Sculptural pieces, handcrafted by San Diego designer Joey Vaiasuso, included a Balsam wood chair with soft, curving edges and angles, while voluptuous ceramic pieces, by Blaine Shirk, were also on display.

I was present last night because I grew up next door to the painter Wade Harb. Although he and his siblings were a good ten-plus-years my senior, I harbor countless memories of holiday meals spent together, of the scent of fresh baked pita bread permeating his house, and of his parent's delicious, home baked pies (which they still serve at their restaurant, The Allen's Alley Cafe, in Vista). Since 1981, his and my parents have been friends and neighbors on Ridge Road.

Last night, I meandered around Art Expressions, while nibbling on some light fare, getting hit on by a 60-year old, silver bearded man, and expressing my philosophic tendencies to Joey, the sculptor. However, this morning, I walked around Fiesta Island in a blissful state of reverie because, more than anything, I reconnected with not just Wade, but his wife Ellie, his sister Nina, her daughter Cameron, and his brother Charlie, who was present along with his wife Maha and their daughters Sabrina and Douna.

I had not seen Charlie in years. Recently, he had been diagnosed with fourth stage cancer. The prognosis was dim for this middle-aged man with a young family. Over the course of the past year, Charlie has walked through the harrowing hell of chemotherapy, cancer, and chronic pain. Today, he is in remission and looking great!

Last night, his cheeks were ruddy and filled in. He shared with me that his sister has him sticking to a daily regimen of Bikram's Yoga and a vegan diet. His daughters were sweet and quietly affectionate, while his wife was verbose and friendly. Spring had truly sprung for this family, - a life renewed. Seeing him, hugging him, feeling the weight, bones, and mass of his humanity, was reaffirming. Last night, I felt giddy with a lightness of being. I wanted to just look out at him, smile, and beam. I wanted to... reflect.

To be quite blunt, I am not interested in the primacy of objects.
I want to know about the spontaneity of improvisation and about the existentialism of process. I want to know the breath, - your breath. How it began, where it started, and where it is headed to?

Like the crap in my chest, "art" and, thus, art viewing can be so rigidly stuck in a place of surreal fantasy. Trapped within mythic falsehoods that
one breath/
one artwork/
one life has more intrinsic worth than another. (Need an example? Compare the lives of "Mona Lisa" to that of an Ugandan adult woman today).

No, life isn't stagnant, it doesn't remain unchanged.
Life withers with time.
So, too then, must the art that we celebrate and use to record the process of this existence, this great mystery.
For me, Charlie was the art last night.
And he was the only piece that was allowed to walk out of that gallery and back into the everyday chaos of being.

Monday, April 20, 2009

A beginning...

It all begins with one little book, - the Bible.
Okay, no. I am just kidding. But it does begin with a story.
It's the tale of a gorilla desperately seeking pupil, -
an avid student to share the biggest myth of all with.
"Guess what?" the giant ape asks, as she sits in a pretzel-like posture behind thick, metal bars.
"On planet earth, and in the course of evolution, human beings caused no more of a stir that that of a jelly fish."
"That's right," her honey brown eyes sparkle,
"you aren't special."
"And, not only are you not special, but your way is not the way.
There is no one right way."
"Did you hear that?"
"THERE IS NO ONE RIGHT WAY."
The grown adult sits there, on the other side of the enclosed cell, perplexed and with a crease in his forehead.
With four fingertips, he scratches his head.

So, what happens when the notion you were raised on, when the narrative you've heard since birth, is proven to be exactly that, - a story? A simple tale? A fabrication to maintain reality as you and I both know it?
What happens when you begin questioning every aspect of that story? When you know, deep down inside your guts, when your cells tell you, that something isn't right. When your body fights, tooth and nail, against performing the same repetitive sequences, day in and day out. Yet the story remains, unchanged.

"I get up, the sun rises. I go to work, the sun sets. I go to bed,the pattern continues. And I do it again tomorrow because I have to pay for the shelter over my head, and for the food in my belly." The primacy of money and materials has become godly. Force ensues, and a people succumb to believing that there is only one right way.

Ask yourself, "is this the right way?"
Close your eyes. Take a few breaths. In through the nose, out through the nose. In through the nose, - feel your belly rise and your chest expand. Out through your nose, - feel your ribcage drop and your belly contract. Sense how your weight is sitting over your pelvis and how your shoulders are hanging above your ribcage. Feel what your body tells you.

"What does your body tell you?"



"Welcome home."


You have landed.


Now, let me introduce to my friend, - embodiment.

Friday, April 17, 2009

A 21st Century Post-Human and Embodiment

Hallelujah!
The light has finally clicked on.
For years, this blog was mainly a place
where I would inundate virtual reality
with my post/post-modern meanderings.
"As an artist in this information age,
how do I maintain my connection to the ground
below my feet even as I venture deeper and deeper
into cyber space?"
was the question that my existentialist self
kept consistently pondering. Eschewing it in
prose, in personal narrative, in film, and in
dance. Now, finally, a concept has emerged.
Embodiment is the answer I had been seeking.


From here on out, "From the Ground Up" will
explore what embodiment is; what it means to
be embodied; and why, today, as we continue to evolve into
our "post-human" selves, embodiment is more crucial
than it ever has been.

I will include photos, interviews, and more, all
in the hopes of sharing this study with you.
Stay tuned, and subscribe.
It's going to get good, folks. Real good.