Recognizing the Shadow Self

A few posts back, I ruminated upon force.  I spent a week, or two, eschewing the word - contemplating its role in my life; actively discussing the topic with others; and then, finally, coming to a catharsis in which I recognized that there can be "good" in force.  However, what I neglected to mention in that posting was the shadow side of force - abuse.

I had to experience some of its affects, such as a loved one grabbing my arm in a forceful manner and then proceeding to emotionally berate me (I understood that this person's behavior was not personal, he was simply responding from a place of deep hurt and fear) before I made a long, overdue emotional break.  What was most poignant about these moments is how I, through my own processes of introspection, meditative thinking, and curious questioning, was learning to honor myself.  "I do not deserve that touch, nor do I deserve this behavior," was a deafening call that I had finally learned to both listen to and heed.  (Yes, at 32 years of age, I am just coming into my own.  Shall I be ashamed of this, or shall I revel in it?  Considering the fact that I now have over half a lifetime left to make different choices, I think I will choose the latter - thank you very much.)

However, this posting is not about abuse.  Rather, I wanted to write of the shadow self, especially in regards to how it relates to physical and sexual attraction.  If you have not already made the connection, I was referring to my now ex-partner in the above.  I do not share this because I want to convey any ill will towards the man.  Quite to the contrary, he is a beautiful, amazing being whom I love and care about deeply.  We simply were drawn together during a period in each of our lives when we were feeding the whims of our shadow selves on a daily basis.  After all, no one can "abuse" us unless we are actively abusing our selves first.   (Just as no one can set us "free," if we do not create our own liberation first.)

With that said, I have been a single woman again, after four years of a monogamous coupling, since July.  I have not spent this time looking outside of myself - for any thing.  My intentions, for the most part, have been focused inward - on a pursuit to teach myself how to fill ME up with all that I need so that I no longer project any longings in an outwardly direction or suffer through any ideas that what I seek is with/out.  What I have been doing is observing my whole self in motion, and noticing where my energy is drawn, to who, and why.   

Just this past weekend, two instances revealed themselves to me in which I noticed that I was once again, strongly and with animal force, attracted to a shadow self.  In the first case, I had been harboring painful feelings of attraction for another, for years now.  Yet, there has always been a schism in how this person and I interact.  On the dance floor, our engagement is flowing, intuitive, juicy, and generous.  However, in the day to day, our interactions are awkward, disjointed, and there appears to be a serious void when our bodies touch. 

Ironically, only a few months back, I noticed how split my own self seemed to be.  There was the me who moved around a dance floor with grace, ease, and lacking fear, and there was the me who moved around the "real world" deeply afraid of judgment, denial, and rejection.  I have been resolved, ever since, to mend this divide - to actively engage in as many moments of life from a place rooted less in fear and my vulnerable defenses and more from an open and expansive vulnerability that is softer, gentler, more yielding.

In this person, I also recognized my mirror image.  More specifically, I saw my fears of my own sexuality and sexual attraction reflected back.  What I mean by this is simple: for entirely too long now, I have been afraid to speak my desires, to give voice to that which I want.  Yet, I deserve (just as you do) to give myself the chance to receive.  Even if the receiving is a, "No, thank you.  I am not interested and I do not feel the same."  At the very least, this kind of feedback allows me to let go of my attachment and to move on with my feeling body. 
Next. 
If I do not verbalize my thoughts, however, then I am passing up on an opportunity for growth.  When I do not give voice to my authentic desires, then I am stunting my own well-being.   
No mas, por favor...

The second instance was more intensely charged for this other was a stranger with whom I spent a mere few hours in shared company.  In his eyes, I recognized my shadow self - my dark side that includes forcefulness, aggression, rigidity, and apathy.  I raised my piercing browns and met his, time after time and ignorant comment after ignorant comment.  There was no backing down.  There was only these two animals, meeting - with horns raised, hooves clashing, and nostrils panting.  It was pure, raw attraction.  It was potent.  And, it, he, invaded my dreams that night.  The force was truly that palpable.  It was...scary.

Scary because I could have very easily (fortunately circumstances did not, nor would not, allow for such a thing to happen) acted upon the desire.  The following day, however, after the two glasses of red wine had worn off, I once again came to understand that my own fear is still subconsciously affecting my carnal yearnings.  For, in each of these cases, I had been attracted to elements of me.  However, engaging with these sides of me on a more intimate level would do little to foster my own intrapersonal growth.  More than likely, what they would have provided is for me to continue running circles around myself, and hitting my head against the same old, closed door. 
No thanks. 
I'll pass.



         

   

 

On Force

Why do I feel the need to rise to certain occasions and attempt to meet force with force?
Why can't I just allow the words and deeds of others to simply wash over me?
Why do I feel it is my job, my duty, to respond?

A few weekends ago, I became impatient and frustrated with my (now ex-) boy/friend.
Always living a few steps ahead of the now, he was excitedly entertaining thoughts of an impending future in which he will be living amongst Shaolin monks.  "This experience will be my Master's degree," he said.  "And, after I create my own Self Creation Studio, that will be my PhD."
"Why can't you just be here, now?" I forcefully cajoled.
My annoyance was palpable and it affected our ability to enjoy walking our shared dogs together at the beach.  Afterward, as I drove the distance back up north and away from the recently had experience, I started to feel pangs of guilt.
What was wrong with me?  Why couldn't I just let him be who he was, and for the moments to pass as they did?  Why did I feel the need to exert my will??

I called my sister to confide, but she wasn't available.  I managed what in the past would have become a full-blown panic attack as I continued along my merry way to Dance Church and beyond.  Life continued, as it always does.

Nonetheless, the topic stayed with me.  For, prior to this experience, I had a strange, and strained, encounter with my mother.  She was upset with me over some of the things that I had written in my graduate thesis.  "Some of those things just aren't true, Cara," she angrily proded.  She was referring to the time period when we lived in Canada, which is where I was born.  I had written of one of my earliest experiences of dancing to pop music and how both the rythym and the lyrics had carried me off on a life raft and away from the rage that could shake our home to its foundation.

My mother, knowing no different, simply emulated what she had witnessed in her father's parenting style.  She used fear to control her three children.  She was a domineering force, with a heavy hand.  She also suffered, as most of us do, from repressed anger and emotion.  It exploded out of her, in irregular bouts, knocking down her innocent young and then picking them up and dusting them off in shame.  "I wasn't angry until we moved here (to San Diego)," she wanted to believe.  "Well, that can be your story," I responded, "but it isn't mine or my siblings'."  She began to shake violently and, at one point, rose to her feet and walked over to where I was seated at the kitchen table, and behind my computer screen.  She jutted her round belly into my side, while looking down at me menacingly.  To disspell my own discomfort, I raised my shoulders to my ears, rolled my head around my neck, and made silly faces - channeling my little girl of old.  She bent down, with a serious grimace, and peered into my face.  I reached up, pursing my lips into a kissing position.  The moment quickly passed, and she moved on to tend to the laundry.  I, however, was left slightly unnerved.

Since then, she has shared with me that she was "only kidding" and that she thought I understood this.  "I thought we understood each other," she whined.
I don't know what I understand, to be quite honest.
Nonetheless, life moves on...

At Dance Jam, that Friday, a local dancer, who is one of the founders of my favorite post-modern dance collective (Lower Left), entered our space.  I had seen her just a month and a half before, but I had not witnessed her at our Barefoot Boogie weekly event ever (I think).  I was grateful for her presence.  She began with deep stretching - warming up the joints of her hips, knees, and ankles.  With fluidity, she bent into these soft places.  I wandered up to her, and greeted her with a soft hug.  She spoke of the tumult of her life, of late.  I mentioned my investigation of force.  With that word, she begin excitedly punching at the air and flinging her arms and legs into space.  She used this momentum to carry her around our shared arena, and I observed her moving in and out of full and flowing interactions with others for the remainder of the evening. 

Prior to her departure, she shared with me how she and her 8-year old son had been spending time together watching "Star Wars."  After the film, she openly discusses with her young and impressionable off-spring some of the themes from the futuristic sci-fi cult classic.  She then thanked me for shifting her intention in that space while I greedily accepted her offering of
"May the Force Be With You."

Indeed.

The more I contemplated the word, the more I realized that I was the one who was associating negativity with it.  Yet, the images that kept coming to mind were of Tiannamen Square and the man who sacrificed his body because he chose to stand up against an oppressive and initimadating force.  A similar and more recent story came out of Palenstine in which an American woman also used her body to take a stand against Israel's enforced settlements.  Surely, these two did not die in vain.  Surely, there is a ryhme and a reason to standing up for something one believes in, and for not backing down - even if the loss of life is imminent. 

On Community

It was an internal quiet that I had yet to truly experience in this space - a communal arena in which we gather to celebrate one another and this thing called 'life.' Yesterday morning, I tried to release a high pitch fervor of bounding energy and unbridled enthusiasm but it just wasn't forthcoming. Where ecstasy usually resides, sat a deep and pervasive quiet. Unaccustomed to this new site, I wondered, "How do I connect with others, which is my impetus for arriving into our weekly dance space, in this way and from this location - this site of dark fermentation and nutritious soil/soul/sole?"

Words and images found on a Tarot card resonated: the 5 of cups catching the charred remains of burned, illusory rainbows and the ashes of disappointment. I sat near our makeshift altar with my trusty companion, a black, cloth-lined binder, in my lap. I arranged myself, and drifted towards meditation. Before I fell into my own pulsating rhythm, my eyes fell upon another - Christy. She was sitting across the room, with her back against a corner wall, breathing in, eyes closed. I stood up, and sauntered gently over to her side. I slid my back up against the same white wall. I arranged my legs, crossed, underneath me, placed my right hand on her knee, and joined her. In silence. In breath.

Soon, I felt the presence of another. I did not open my eyes. I only sensed, heard, felt and intuited. Following my same footsteps from only minutes before, he sidled up, his long torso erect and extending upwards. He placed his right hand on my left knee. We three now sat there, breathing in, eyes closed, exhaling on sound, releasing. Her left hand on my right knee. My right hand on her left knee. My left hand on his right knee.

Next, I became acutely aware that our trio had expanded. Another being had placed himself, sitting on the wood floor, legs crossed underneath him, directly across from me. I did not open my eyes. I sensed, felt, and intuited, our growing union. Together, the four of us, Christy, myself, Samuel, and William, breathed in. Together, we intoned - our voices, hymns, and lullabies, drifted up in sweet grace. Our songs, released from a deep dark, emerged. Twirling on air currents and dancing in delight. Spinning, dipping, gliding, motioning.

Then, we laughed. Deep, guttural guffaws. Light and airy tee-hee-hees, and forced, maniacal jest. The emotion, the swelling, the vulnerability poured forth. It was uncontrollable. It was raw. It was here, it was now. And, it was over. "Time to dance!" Christy chirped. And we stood, to usher in the end of another Dance Church session.

In retrospect, what I savored most about this experience was how I intuitively knew who was joining our union without having to see. Without opening my eyes, I knew.
A primal intimacy was shared, enjoyed, experienced, and then released.

"Lessons Learned"

Last Sunday morning, I awoke early for mango mimosas shared in the company of Sara, Ann, Greg, and Alice. We spoke of Goddard, art, theory, and more, as the sun rose over the Inlet and as the organic fluid emptied itself of one container, into another. From there, we all parted ways. I ambled over to the Madrona Mind and Body Institute, an old refurbished gymnasium that serves as one of the heartbeats for the Port Townsend community. At 10am, this vibrant group of Pacific Northwesterners celebrates with a dance church that they call "SoulMotion." On the hardwood, lacquer floors, I reveled in the opportunity to warm up my aching body (it had been a whirlwind trip, and I had yet to really take the time to stretch). I attempted to connect with the three dozen, or so, other bodies that were in the space - with my eyes, my body, my senses, and my spirit. I tried to work through my own tension, stress, anxiety, and blocks. I moved with the sun's warm rays as they filtered in from eastern facing windows. I observed 'pain' sitting around the region of my solar plexus (in the center of my chest and near my heart.) I recognized that time spent absorbing some of my parent's (and my own) disrespect affected me and brought some discomfort. I breathed in, and sang in
to the deep,
dark,
inner recesses
of
the
smallest
little
me.
And, I felt so much better.

By 11am, I was distracted by thoughts of my impending graduation ceremony (I had 30 minutes until the day I had spent the past four years building towards finally culminated). It was time,
to depart,
to move,
to leave,
to locomote,
to open another door and walk through it.

Here is where the lesson learned comes into play. On Saturday, after my presentation, I felt strange, odd, funny, and I could not understand my feelings. Maybe, I felt like a bride - so much anticipation for something that is over in a mere matter of minutes? Or, was it something else? I began to realize that I felt hollow, empty, needy. I wanted, I craved, I NEEDED, feedback, approval, advice, a pat on the back from the powers that be - from my advisors, and from these authority figures whose external voices will most certainly light and guide my way.

On Sunday morning, I expressed some of this to Deb. Deb then turned to Ellen and said, "Cara needs some feedback, Ellen." Ellen responded with the exact same words that she had offered up to me the day before, immediately on the heels of my presentation. "That was so generous, Cara," she had said. "Thank you," I responded. "You have just given me the absolutely best feedback because generosity IS a major part of my practice." Somehow, I had forgotten this little exchange.

In recent contemplation of these events, I recalled one of my first interactions with San Diego's hottest Swing dancer, Meeshi. After he inquired about my planetary alignment, he shared with me how my chart indicates that I struggle with the voice of authority, and that I need to learn to listen to my own voice. "Ha!" my defenses flared as I responded with a sweep of my hand. "I am actually just the opposite - rebellious," I defiantly claimed.

Yet, here was proof that I was still seeking outside myself, that I was still waiting for someone else to tell me that "your work is amazing, and worth sharing. Yes, you achieved your goal of engaging in a contact dance with the work that you had created, as though it truly were another living, breathing, being. You have talent, and your voice is needed in this world."

Indeed, this is what I have learned.
That I can choose to believe
that I have succeeded
that I can dig down
deep
breathe, feel, sense, and look inside
and KNOW
FEEL
this
all of this
because it all is
(true)























(and, it all isn't)

Practice...

After my graduating presentation, I attempted to share the surrounding terrain of Fort Worden, including the Pt. Wilson Lighthouse and its nearest Battery, to my parents, but their aging knees made for an uncomfortable stroll. We soon headed back to the hotel, where I dropped them off at the inn near the tides, changed my clothes, and returned to the scenic state park that I had just left. It was time to pay my dues, and my respect, to the land - this land that had fed and nourished me on numerous occasions.

Before turning up towards Artillery Hill, Laurie and I crossed paths. We shared a word or two, and a quick conversation, before I began traversing the sloping hill, walking below towering pines and breathing in the dense foliage of fern leaves and fermenting soil. I strolled above century-old batteries, their thick walls of ashen cement built into verdant green cliffs sitting directly above the Strait of Juan de Fuca. There, on a western facing overlook, I breathed in - the views, the scents, the sounds, the moment - and I began to rock and sway with the energy, as well as with the landscape and the horizon. Soon, I took a break, attempting to capture these moments on two separate cameras, but neither worked.

From there, I meandered over to Memory's Vault, a poetry garden built into the forest side. Rectangular, cement pillars forever entomb the etched engravings of poets, present and past. The sculptures pay homage to ancient Japanese folklore, with an emperor's throne facing an impenetrable portal. Over to the threshold, comprised of three, angular stone blocks, I found myself. It was here where I recited an embodied poem, "I am the wind whispering in your ear, and I am the cold chill shaking its finger in you face...I am the sonnet of a time now past, I can be the word and I can be the page...I am the everything with all that I am, and I am the nothing wit all that I am not."

Again, I moved with the words, with the way the sounds escaped from my lips, with the dance of my song as it moved through the air, the trees, and the land. A private presentation for the the birds, the insects, the Earth, the connection, the relation, the relating, the relationship.

I HAVE ARRIVED.
I HAD ARRIVED.
I AM HERE.
I AM NOW.
I AM PRESENT.
I AM EVERLASTING.



I took my bow, and made my leave. Back down the hill, from above and behind the beach campsites I emerged. Dusk was drawing near. My pattering footfalls led me over to the beach, where I strolled along the Admiralty Inlet. My thoughts also wandered, to any where but here. To the moments just had, to future engagements, to some where else. So, I would

stop


turn

and

face

the water.

I'd breathe in and note
the

silence

the stillness.

I would present

myself
to the moment at hand
to life as it is now.

Then, I'd turn and keep going. For darkness had fallen, and I made my way back...

On Sex, Take I

Recently, I was surmising about the sexual objectification of women. On my Facebook profile, I even went so far as to question, "If I've got it, should I flaunt it?"

And, here's the reality. Here's the stone cold, hard truth of the matter.
EVERYONE HAS IT. EVERYONE HAS SEX, as in a gender, as in a body with which to act out sexual fantasies, as in an ability to be objectified!!!!

Little 5-year old girls go missing and end up dead because of it.
And, coming of age teenage boys are sexually abused for it.

Sex is easy, folks.
What is hard is listening to the voices that say "No. Although you are attracted to that young woman, she is only 16. And, even though, you are just a mere 24, you must refrain. You are her teacher, and it is best for all involved if you do not get involved."
What is hard is talking about our sexual fantasies, about where they come from and who they are with. About the dreams we have at night and the visions that float through our minds when we masturbate.
What is hard is engaging with other sexual beings in soft, supple ways that are brillaintly sensual but do not distill these neccessary moments down into the heaviness of sexual longing.

We all want sex.
So, how do we get it?
How do we fulfill this very basic human need?

Walking Paths

After I graduated from Sonoma State, in the spring of '99, I moved to the East Bay. I set my bags down in my sister's small studio found off of Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley. During the weekdays, I would commute via Bart and Muni to an elementary school in San Francisco where I would teach dance to "at risk" youth. During this year, it became increasingly harder and harder for me to focus on the daily pattern of repetition that I had created for myself. Rather, the scenic vistas of the Bay Area skyline would sweep me off into fantastical daydreams and down paths that usually led away from where I was supposed to be. My footfalls were heard, and found, throughout that city during that last year of a millenium. I remember those fall and winter nights, when the dark would roll in early and the Pacific would bring thick winds along with it. One night, I was walking on an overpass when a text written with a black sharpie caught my eye. There on the gray metalic support of the freeway bridge, someone had stopped just long enough to scrawl the following words:

Big black boots
that can crush
like leaves
you under
the wake
of all that once was
my ornery sanity
now just little flakey pieces
of cereal
the butterfly of change has once again spoken
so i here i sit
so there i sat
so here i am
so there i'm gone.

So, was this my beginning introduction into the land of embodiment?
Who is to say, really?
Nonetheless, that poem still sits in a black and white composition book that I keep tucked away in one of my bedroom shelves.

"What Have I Learned?" A Monologue

I have learned that taking risk is essential, that I need to believe in my honest intentions, and that I must follow through on my big dreams.

Regardless of what comes, of who I alienate and of how the shit is thrown my way, I must take risk in order to succeed at existing as a human being and at living as an artist. I must believe in my honest intentions.

I do not purposefully mean to hurt you, or anyone else for that matter.
Yes, I have hurt others in the past and, yes, I will more than likely hurt many more people in the future, but it was mere circumstance that led to my actions.

(In other words, if I slept with your boyfriend, know it was not premeditated. It was only two adults making one, albeit momentary, decision. Know that the resulting fallout was difficult to navigate through, for us all.)
((Oh, also, if I become attracted to your partner as she grooves, deep and guttural, by my side on a wooden dance floor ("Ai!"), know that this too is not premeditated.))

It's only life. And, life hurts!!!
The rubbing against one another and the searing friction that ensues.
The spontaneous combustion of magnetic forces pushing apart and pulling back together, pushing apart and pulling back together, pushing, pulling, pushing, pulling, pushing...

Whew!! It's work. It's hard. And it hurts.

But, fuck, if I am not feeling it, then I am not living it.
And, if I am not living it, then I am not here.
And, if I am not here, then I am not (well, I haven't quite figured out this part yet).
I endure the pain so that I can feel the
lovehopejoylongingwishingdesiringfavoringflavoring
You I want to feel You
Your name on the tongue
Your being in this world
Your push to my shove
You.

Does tasting another really have to be so goddess-damned painful?
Can we ever let our defenses down, but for one moment in time, and allow the soft vulnerability to just simply flow?

No.
So we grab tight, to "The One," to those few, with who was can let our belt buckles out a bit, with who we can belch maniacally, and with who our bodies feel a little bit lighter whenever we are around.

But, why? Why can't I just let myself hang, and be held up by, by, by you? By a complete stranger? Why must I feel the need to push out a persona? To be
coolfunnysmarthipcrazylocovato...

Yo no se hombre.

Yeah, yo no se.
I dunno.
Instead, I breathe in and I try to re-member.
I try to Re-connect the invisible thread
And that is the big dream
This is the grand fantasy.

Little baby steps will get me there (here)
Listening, believing,
Deeper listening, sensing,
Still listening, embodying.

We are tied together
bound
like a little red bow
around your finger.
"Re-member," your finger winks at you,
"Remember..."










(this is my final grad school eval.
boo yah!!!!)

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.

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.