For YOU, My Beloved...

i fell asleep with you on my chest
wanting to absorb your wild, whirling ways,
your absolute devotion
to the divine
but you slipped from my heart
and after eight-hundred long years,
your bones have lost their fluidity.
no longer soft and pliable, you are held
rigid and angular by a flat spine.
be still
for your comforting words and wily wisdom
still drip from the page and unto my wandering soul.
and, if i am lucky, i can taste their sweetness,
like pearls of golden honey, rolling off of my
flicking tongue.
your magnanimous spirit tickles my fancies.
i seek to embrace such grandiose love.
but you slipped from my heart and you wedged yourself
in between my ribcage and the sofa.
and, now, in the dawn's morning light, i am but a
tweaked and tamed human being and you are still.
oh, ridiculous reflection,
you work in such bewildering ways!

arangatangtang

beating out its familiar refrain
arangatangtang
left temple throbs
arangatangtang
shoulders slump
and a body needs a dark, comforting corner
the light-less reprieve when sleep will come
whisking me away and back into a deep embrace
like a babe in the manger, i too am too sensitive
without sleep, without food and without water,
i quickly wilt like the green stem of a bermuda buttercup
falling away under the sun's warm rays
under such conditions i cannot sustain,
and yet, somehow, this feels different
the arangatangtang is not receding
it is not withdrawing back into the recesses
of my pitch black psyche from where it came
like a premonition it keeps knocking
arangatangtang, arangatangtang
"notice me," it commands
"heed my call."
in the distance, tornadoes are whipped up like
twisters in a vacuum, stange showers fall upon the great plains
and volcanoes erupt, spewing boiling, hot magma across an
already shaken land
arangatangtang
i know not my role
i cannot decipher the call i can only
awake, placing one foot in front of the other,
walking boldly into some unknowable future
while trusting only in the love I have to give.
the why's have all fallen away
all that remains, just is.

I've Changed My Mind (Yet Again)...

I AM A HONEY BADGER!
; )





(and i really love the man who's site i found this at.
too school for cool.)

Morning Reflections

squirrels dance feathery tails elongated in a rising sun's light
hidden in the shadows of an immature palm
they jump and play tumbling over a palm fruit bouncing off of
the soft brown fur of one another
their job now is merely to enjoy
to collect and store their spring bounty
to hop across the dew-laden grass to stand
erect and on point sniffing the air sensing
the vibrations feeling their way into
what is to come
only this now greets the whiskers of their
friendly faces only this
now
planes arriving for a landing overhead entreats
their ears only
this now birds chirping
insects hopping life
unfolding eager to greet a new day
ready for what may come
whatever may come.

Like a long awaited breath...

Your words
reach me,
via snail mail.
A white, plastic package arrives
from Canada.
Inside of which I discover
newspaper clippings,
magazine articles,
handmade paper,
a hand-scrawled note,
and a sticker.
Novel reminders of innocent sweetness
and the pure connections that distance and space can not eradicate.
Rather, time only serves to deepen and strengthen our bonds.
And I remember this me,
of days not too long ago when I would reach out and touch,
not via the computer, or Facebook, or some other social media
that only ever leaves me feeling that much more isolated and alone.
But rather, a vibrant and happy me who just wants you to know
that she loves you, and holds you in her heart
no matter where life takes her.
So, I think I'll spend less time these days
tending to the lightning-quick convenience of technology.
I think I am ready to return to those postage-stamped envelopes
and to my pen on the page,
writing you,
righting you,
wishing you
all that you wish
yourself.

Just Found

snippets of a dream
and of a time now past
when our coming together
in the dance and the song
in the asking for what truly feeds
a collectively parched spirit
fed a debilitating thirst
moments unfolding, trickling
slowly at first, then rising into a deafening torrent
a fevered pitch escalating and our communality -
far beyond what any one of us could have
individually dreamed
and out beyond the nascent sorrows of
invisible borderlines -
is celebrated, still today
here, now as we
together revive our ancient ways
as we together reclaim these Soulful days.

Like a Lamb to the Slaughter, take II

"Night falls like people into love
we generate our own light
to compensate
for the lack of light from above
every time we fight
a cold wind blows our way

but we learn like the trees
how to bend
how to sway and say,"

 

 

One year later, when Jacob Faust was shot and killed on these same streets by police officers, my BodyMind screamed "Murder!" Like an innocent lamb led to the slaughter, again and again, we fall prey to irrational fear.  I write all of this now not to rehash the past but, rather, to share the tale of a puppet show performance that was held in Jacob's honor last Tuesday at East Village's Space4Art.  "Golden West" introduced its audience members to the humble beginnings of 'slapstick' comedy in a loose parody of the events on that fateful, early morning of April 4, 2005.  More than just mere escape, art can also be "a celebration, an act of insubordination, against the betrayals, horrors and infidelities of life," as Azar Nafisi wrote in her Reading Lolita in Tehran.

However, art, much life, should have a birth and death cycle while experiencing a maturing process in between.  Fifteen years ago, Eve Ensler's "Vagina Monologues" was a response to the historical misogyny that has enslaved and abused women for far too long now.  A heart-warming jaunt through the sacredly profane and around a sexual anatomy that has been denied, ignored, cut off and devalued, the Vagina Monologues were also a reclamation of the Divine Feminine.  The monologues, gathered from the stories of women of all ages found across this great planet, heralded the new era that we now find ourselves caught up within.  For, finally, she has risen.  Herstory has begun.  Ideally, it would have been wonderful to see last night's performance reflect this.  For example, the song and dance numbers, which bookmarked the beginning and end of the two-hour show, could have been performed by troops of Boy Scouts.  Dancing with the women and singing along to the women-centered tunes, this act alone would help to close the circle while really beginning to heal our collective wounding.  Because, as I like to say, the best part of Herstory is that it's OURSTORY.  Our men are just as vital and an important part of the now that we are crafting, of the future we are building toward.  WE ARE ALL ONE.  Our ability to endure what is to come resides in Each Other.  Let's Begin, Now.   

 

 

"I, I think I understand
what all this fighting is for
and baby, I just want you to understand
that I'm not angry anymore
no, I'm not angry anymore."

---A.D. 

Like a Lamb to the Slaughter

"I just want you to understand
that I know what all the fighting was for
and I just want you to understand
that I'm not angry anymore
I'm not angry anymore."

--Ani DiFranco

Last night, at the conclusion of the "Vagina Monologues" performance, held at the Birch Theatre in North Park, a friend shared his experience of being a man bearing witness to the show.  He alluded to feeling trapped within a suffocating box known as 'oppressor.'  "This is why men become violent," he shared.  "They're fighting to escape their own entrapment."  "And," he said, "it is these same feelings that drive us to create all of the technology and the systems.  Even the art."  I appreciated his viewpoint.  In fact, his words resonated deeply.  In my own personal experience, Self-Expression - through song, dance, art and story - was an early reprieve from the dysfunction found within my parent's home as well as from this BodyMind of mine that could not intimately communicate all of the confusion and the pain that came with my childhood.   

During my mid-twenties, I crafted my first dance for film as a entry point into graduate school.  In the eight-minute piece, I utilized the structure of the mandala.  For the opening sequence, which represented the square shape, I drew a direct parallel between these feelings of entrapment and how we can imprison ourselves within the four walls of our homes as well as our minds.  I called upon my friend Ben to be the lead dancer for this piece because he was this idea personified.  At that time, he identified with feelings of being an animal caged within the suffocating isolation of its own bone and tissue, skin and cells.  Of course, all of this was just an artful representation of me - an intimate look into my own anger and how I had fallen victim to myself.

Two years later, I was living back in San Diego where my repressed emotion had me suffering within the confines of an extremely unhealthy relationship.  On a spring day, as I rode my bicycle down that Golden Hill and past the ugly facade of Horton Plaza, I passed an anarchist rally protesting the then two-year-old invasion of Iraq.  With a blue purse slung over my shoulder, inside of which was a frisbee disc and a water bottle, I wasn't intending to stop for that small crowd.  It was, however, the sight of the SDPD, off at a short-distance, that made me turn my bike around and join the rally.  Gathered in a tight circle, the officers looked like a pack of wolves ready for the hunt.  I could see the invisible saliva glinting off of their chins.  Having participated in the monthly Critical Mass bike rides only months before, I knew full-well the ugly antics that some of these cops were ready to perpetuate - all in the name of aesthetic control. 

In an ironic turn of events, I got myself arrested right there on the city streets of the Gaslamp Quarter.  Naturally, I hadn't done anything wrong.  I simply told a captain that he had no right touching the young drummer who had stepped off of the curb.  My unsolicited advice turned me into the scampering, fearful rabbit that I had intuited.  I was harassed and harangued until I stopped my bike and tried to walk away from the vicious pack of blood hounds.  Too late, I was arrested for "evading arrest" and "interfering with a police officer."  I tasted the miserable waste of time and tax payer's money known as jail for two-and-a-half days.  Meanwhile, pregnant prostitutes came and went and I was never formally charged or brought before a judge.  I was, however, treated like a caged animal.

"She taught me how to wage a cold war
with quiet charm
but i just want to walk
through my life unarmed
to accept and just get by
like my father learned to do
but without all the acceptance and getting by
that got my father through." 

--Ani D.

   

     

    

Leftovers from a Date

Dear Friend,

Thank you again for our date last weekend.  I was pleasantly surprised to find myself enjoying dinner as well as our conversation.  Truth be told, I am a self-diagnosed "snob."  I enjoy time spent with myself, filling my cup with ways of being that feed my spirit.  Meanwhile, I have little patience for time spent in intimate company doing otherwise.  As we were initially strolling through downtown, my bodymind became filled with dread that I had found myself in superficial company.  So, thank you for doing your homework and bringing up topics over dinner that naturally spoke to me - this momentary Cara.  However, I must share that if you are really looking to impress a lady then you should definitely not take her out to a steak joint when she mentions that she is trying not to eat meat.  ; )  Fortunately, I am quite easy going and I didn't mind - esp. since  I wasn't looking for you to impress me.  And, please know that I type all of this not out of judgment but because I want you to be successful - in getting laid, in finding love, in your profession, etc. 

So, I skimmed a bit of the article that you asked me to read and I really couldn't sink my teeth into it.  Where's the vulnerable man who spoke of his psychotic-bitch mother?  That's the writer who is going to capture his reader's hearts.  I love your idea of wanting to prove the establishment's perspective of
"he just wants attention" wrong.  However, I don't think you've quite peeled back all of the layers that shield your own weary heart yet.  When you were a child, why did you behave the way you did?  Yes, I get that you were a shy guy who didn't want attention, however there's much more to the story here - abuse, betrayal, loss, abandonment - then is currently meeting the eye.  Dig deep.  It's there.  Stop talking so much and just listen. Just Be, my friend.
 
I also want to share with you that before I kiss a man I really need him to know how to hug.  Hugging is about meeting someone.  With someone shorter than yourself (like me), it is wise to open up your legs wider and bend at the knees a bit so that you can meet this person - chest to chest.  In my case, when I am hugging someone who is taller than me, I rise up on my tiptoes in my attempts at meeting them.  This is what a hug is - a meeting of the hearts.  I, personally, will not kiss a man until he knows how to hug.  Breathe deeply, into your belly, and feel it expand and contract along with this other person's.  Rest your cheek on their shoulder and just sink into them.  These small tools will add infinitely to your sex life - I promise!   
Learning how to just Be takes active un-doing, yet I know you can do it.
In love
always,
--CC.   

On Random Acts of LOVE, take II

(A preface: In 2005, a kiss knocked my socks off and I responded with a poem and a piece of abstract art.  He couldn't meet me, yet he responded with a sweet and artful letter that let me down.  How dejectedly I received his piece of snail mail and how deeply the perceived rejection cut through me.
Nonetheless, I still like to read the poem that I wrote for that moment at spoken word events.  "(I call it) MAGIC," is what I titled it.  Recently, as I was heading to another poetry reading, I decided to quickly update this piece based on a new, lighter experience.)

(I Still Call it) MAGIC
Your kiss
like black, spectacled reflections
under a sunny, San Diego sky as local beats
persisted and pervaded and night fell upon
our shoulders
and upon a cityscape
where starlight twinkled
and moonshadows danced
out and over
a half-pipe.

On Random Acts of LOVE

For too long, I erroneously believed that offering my love meant something.  Or, I mistakenly thought that my love had to look a certain way, be received only by certain others or be certainly near perfect.  As a result, I withheld my love for years.  I hid it within the safe confines of my house, within dysfunctional relationships that I tried to force my idea of love upon and, even, within the fortified castle of my own, weary heart.  My, how I suffered!

A few years ago, I came to the awareness that there were two "Me's" in this world.  There was the "me" on a dance floor who is fluid grace, who humbly connects with others and who isn't afraid to be rejected.  Then, there was the "me" in the 'real world' - a person who continually walked around in fear that she was consistently being negatively judged.  I recognized that I didn't like how I moved through the 'real world.'  Thus, I began to apply the lessons that I had been cultivating on dance floors to the every moment of my day-to-day.

These days, I find myself buzzing through my everyday with the aura of a ten-year-old.  I am quick to throw my head back in uproarious laughter.  I fall down and get hurt, a lot.  Then, I pick myself up and keep on moving.  I believe I have lots of friends and that I can do everything and anything.  I see others who catch my attention and I intend to make them my friends.  So, I walk up to them, put my hand out in front of me and introduce myself.  Over and over again, with a firm handshake and a look in the eyes, I offer - my Self, me, my love.  Most of the times, the connections that follow are fruitful and lovely.  Sometimes, however, my energy scares others and they respond with fearful slashes at my pure innocence.  In other words, these days I find myself being "rejected" more often than I ever have been before.  Yet, this no longer stops me from continuing to offer, offer, offer.

Somehow, I've been discovering that the more I offer my Self, me and my love, the more liberated I become.  So, I've been depositing random acts of Love all over our great city.  I've left collected flowers on the door of senior citizen friends.  I've left "love" notes on a cute man's car telling him he's handsome and to drop on by and say "Hi."  (I found him cute, by the way, not because of how he looks but because of how he moved through the world - with high energy and handing out high five's like they were promotional advertising fliers for a business.)  And, I've written poetry for a friend - all just because I can.  I even read it out loud to a group of others at a poetry reading that we both were in attendance of.  I do so for no other reason but that it feels good.

So, here's my hope for you, for San Diego, for all of us.  Let's take to these streets and to the everyday of our lives and leave random acts of LOVE everywhere we go.  Let's write each other poetry and cut each other flowers.  Let's walk up to a stranger and introduce ourselves for no other reason but because we wanted to.  Let's take each other out on dates and marvel over the sun setting below a western horizon.  Let's give each other trinkets and mementos - objects we've found at parks and the beach, little pieces of someone else's trash that have no meaning to anyone but us - that speak of these moments, now.  Let's hold each others' hands as we walk down the street.  Let's listen to the deepest of our heart's yearnings and let's share our pain.  And, let's do it just because we can.  This, my friends, is how we truly claim the renaissance we are now living in!