Mass Consumption and Me, Take II

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.

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.