Born At Age 40.

 

Luna Dulcinea Photography 2017

If I were to be locked up for at least three months, I’d like to read the autobiographies of Sonia Sotomayor, Angela Davis, and Condoleeza Rice, then, A Farewell To Arms, the works of Heidegger regarding being-in-the-world in a technological age, and the Baghavad-Gita. That’d help construct a conceptual framework towards crafting an idea. I don’t want to say ideology, because that assumes I am interested in the delivery and execution of said idea. No. Just for now, I’d like to craft a well though out idea.

In a confined space, in the time between the “mandatories” – wash, medications, meals, exercise – I could dedicate my mind to deep thought. Deep thought is hard to do when you’re able to move, because you want to avail yourself to any activity that doesn’t restrict your freedoms. Confinement is alluring in that, knowing that you cannot entertain liberties, you are tasked to attend to the “urgencies,” the struggles of everyday society and politic.

We’re so feverish with mundane engagements, we gloss over the burgeoning disparities which contain our shared oppressions. Due to collective cognitive dissonance, it is easy to forget, even deny, that there is a pulsating monster living within our midsts. We are one/ but we’re not the same, as Bono sings. Should we continue to punish each other for lack of sameness (which is not equality)? Why do we adhere steadfastly to the cubbyholes of which desperate societies of the past have built? Why should we fortify past pains and sufferings as opposed to fortifying past achievements and successes? Could we not be more solution-oriented when talking about past horrors? When does the who-had-it-worse pissing contest officially end? We’re out of pee and yet, the contest continues.

As I contribute information on gender identity and cultural sensitivity for the next NAMI guide, I realize I do not have the lived experience of someone who identifies beyond static gender and sex assignments. This makes me revisit my knowledge of sex and gender assignments. I realize that these are particular cubbyholes which I’ve gotten accustomed to, even steadfastly adhere to. As someone who presents herself as open-minded and socially engaged, I’m kinda embarrassed for myself right now. I’ve gone through the exasperations of both gender and sexual identity, and it is indeed that, an exhaustion. To prove what, exactly? That I have a sexual identity? That I have a gender preference? Do I really need to secure such labels at this point in my life? I’d like to think not, but gender and sex assignment are feverish topics that the overarching society rabidly kicks about. I’d like to think in my human development I have accomplished an important thing and that is, I am a sexual person. Anything beyond that seems like fluff. Why? The satisfaction of my genitals and the method of delivery of such satisfaction are irrelevant to the overarching struggle.

As Johnny Saucedo puts it, “What does my fuck game have to do with anything?”

Luna Dulcinea Photography 2017


In my final act of suffering before Contentment, I am destined to live out my life as a petite, intelligent, woman born into a servant class. However, I can relate to the “male experience” because I have lived many roles which are typically designated male in our society – car mechanic, household provider, security guard, and others. I can’t deny my masculinity; however, I am genetically capable of producing offspring, a role designated to those assigned female of our species. Have I generated spawn? No. Have I engaged in activity that could merit procreation? Sure. Have I the want to be a mother? Not at all. So, if I only acknowledge my biology, and not my heritage in the omniversal sense, then I can successfully acknowledge that my gender assignment matches my biological propensities.
Does this make me a female? Societally, yes. Does this make me a woman? Well, I don’t know. My gender expression parallels my social engagement. For example, If I’m with the testosterone-dominant, I freely curse and talk about hard-ons, not only because it’s fun, but because it makes sense in that environment. I don’t feel compelled to emphasize the social meaning of my female form. Again, the stimulation of my genitals is irrelevant, in terms of the overarching struggle.

Luna Dulcinea Photography 2017


When I’m around the estrogen-dominant, I get a sense of camaraderie. My shoulders lower. Only because I feel more accepted by women. My entire lifetime, I’ve been intimately rejected by the testosterone-dominant, largely trying to deny me the “female experience,” which I acknowledge I enjoy. Thus, I find comfort in my sisters moreso than my brothers. It is a bitter pill to swallow, but I assure you, I’m working on tolerance.

As much as I try to neutralize the need to declare a -ness or -hood, people are simply too attached to the -ness or -hood. I’m not an -ist, or up to celebrating a -ness, or interested in promoting a -hood. Too may portholes to have to look through just to admire the same water! These types of conversations are beneath me, and way too often than not, it is people who tattoo their identities to their reproductive organs who force me to mute my intuition. The declaration of -ist, -ness or -hood allows the easily persuadable to exert the one other inherited trait of all biological species on this planet. I’m talking of course about the need for power.

While we are the most sophisticated as far as intelligent rigging, we certainly are feral when it comes to associations. In a social setting where the priority is to be about something, the best we could accomplish as a species so far is asserting our dominion over the whole Earth biome. Where do you go when you’ve reached the apex of the mountain? Start over? Decimate all, start clean? Shall we grow intellectually, as to be able to achieve all the visions we have, played out in science fiction cinema and books? Can we make our technological dreams a reality, or is the war over gender purposefulness – purposing? – so damn important that we place our intellectual development on hold? Why encourage a dialogue of global community enhancements when someone giving birth to octuplets can dominate the world discussion? I can’t say how many times I’ve yelled out, who the fuck cares?? after reading an article on the inane behavior of a cubbyhole celebrator! These cubbyholes, these socially-cast definitions and/or assignments, we wear like an iron mask. We find comfort in the ability to communally suffer in the pattern of, who-had-it-worse.

Oh, how celebratory it would be, to live knowing that one’s unique experience with genitals has nothing to do with the meaning of being ALIVE. I’d like to think we have sophisticated enough to crack out of the cubbyholes and enmesh ourselves in the spherical, pulsating, hexagonal field of light which welcomes species advancement. I’d like to think that, but then the image of people grasping their genitals floods my vision of the future. Let go of this need for genital stimulation and instead, launch ourselves in the direction of contentment. Sophisticate ourselves in a manner that goes against biological constructs? – gasp!

Luna Dulcinea Photography 2017


I can’t dedicate myself to protecting your cubbyhole. What I can commit to is a solution-oriented, transcendental purposing towards advancing humankind into the next natural stage of intelligent development by joining our relatives and neighbors operating at that level of sophistication. Leave the bleeps and blorps concept behind, and leap forward into our technological destiny: an existence worthy of our cosmic heritage, learned by our time-space delivery of achievements, bound to the concept of wholeness. I worry about calling this “divinity” because of its many contexts, but it is the best word for that which serves all intelligent forms of life. So if I run around extolling the virtues of “embracing your divinity,” I would, without a doubt, stimulate the fortification of existing cubbyholes. Instead, I shall exert, “You are greater than what you allow yourself to be.” IF you can’t take charge of that, if you can’t own that knowing, then I don’t know how else to serve except empathize with your unique lived experience. I can’t grab my vagina, I can’t devote myself to rituals, and I certainly cannot climb down this ladder to stop and wipe frightened noses. I’m not designed to go backward on the time-space continuum and I’m out of breath for apologizing for it! These insights amalgamated over decades of living in the Miseries, the rigid grid of cubbyholes, taking up precious space, like a wall full of inboxes which only get filled, never checked.

I suppose I’ve been struggling with defining a purpose, but I’m just only now sorting out that I have many purposes yet only one opportunity. That opportunity is ascension. Not in the Biblical context at all, but the natural process of intellectual development and acculturation in its most benevolent sense. I can be purposeful towards Ascension.

My other purposings are merely to satisfy my life expectancy. Other than committing suicide (which I’ve proved three times already I’m bad at) I could simply fill in the gaps between cubbyholes within the context of unity. Peacefully discharge my learned behaviors and social conditioning in a manner that encourages the concept of Ascension as a purposeful reality instead of its dark thick glass bottle called Hope.

I have faith that our particular biome will naturally progress in this manner. I am saddened that I won’t experience it in this lifetime, but gladdened I have actualized this as my truth before the tender marking of Time at 40. May we all be so lucky as to believe in Contentment.

P.S. Please add to my book list The Stranger by Albert Camus and Brave New World by Aldous Huxley. Thank you.

                • IMES

Sisters Delphi

Sisters Delphi round their backs at the table

called here time and again in seasons of woe

Clarity their mastery, despite clouded eyes.

Here we seat again

A time of great despair and ruin

Not since the fall of Rome in the hands of Nero have we witnessed such disgrace!

My third eye weeps at the pools of Red

of Fire

bubbling at the mouth of Plato’s Cave.

The three-headed dog sounds a growl to

Brigid, Hecate and Persephone.

“Sisters, sisters!” they chirp

as they rush about the barque:

“The Skeleton Woman

RIses!

“Who will bear her weight?”

Ella se dice:

Dame los huezos.

Kali joins Ix Chel on the collection.

Temple doors shatter against Black Obsidian.

3.29.17..4.9.17

 

 

Enter The Temple of Sekmet (and don’t forget to wear Red.)

Divine Sisters

Brothers of Light

Keepers of the Divine Feminine Power.

I will not keep silent anymore.

I will use my voice for healing

If my roar intimidates, be aware…

…unconditional love is trying to penetrate you.

With my voice I awaken your demons

invite them forward to play.

Join me on this higher elevation

abandon your attachment

towards the dying light

trust that I love you unconditionally.


Extract the poison by giving it a name

burn it in sacred flame

Osiris rises

through my voice.

-IMES

1.27.17/03.30.17


(Letter To Osiris)

Brother.

I have known you through Times.

When my myopic eyes stared

clearly into the night

I saw you there, a star easy to find

I’ve always known of you

but in militant form

a coarse interpretation of your divine Love.

My sources, deemed unreliable, could not reveal our true relationship

You’ve summoned me on many occasions

only to fall on spiritually deaf ears

but now I respond

my cosmic love

my twin in eternity

May I walk in your image

Make my voice yours

At a time of extreme darkness

May our union be the Light

towards Healing.

Flow Theory Plus Poetry Equals Me

Once is a coincidence. Two is a phenomenon. Three is a sample set. This has been my operating mantra since minoring in philosophy as a phenomenologist. So when I come across information regarding mood disorders amongst creatives, I apply my mantra to see if whatever hypothesis I’ve conjured is proven true. Well friends, I’ve been stumped, and I could really use your help on this one.

Establishing the Sample Set (n=3)

We spent an evening at the Dali Museum with an animated docent describing the zany life and scientific method of my favorite painter, Salvador Dali. His museum is one of the reasons why I chose to move here; every moment with his masterpieces results in an ekphrastic reaction. Salvador Dali spoke crazily, he painted strangely, he embedded clues purposefully. The man was not just a wielder of brushes, he was a thinker, astrophyics and nuclear technology being deeply captured in the nadir of his popularity. Yet he was considered an eccentric. A seer, I told BF, a soothsayer for our times.

Kinda like how I see myself.

The Phenomenon of Flow (or, How To Call Forward The Muse)

On a rainy afternoon I explored Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s TED talk regarding flow theory and found my scientist self becoming stoked by this presentation. My recent hospital stay included 10:00am workshops on various topics, but the one I found most interesting was the quadrant approach to bipolar disorder. If you’re near a pen and paper or post it note right now, draw a line vertically then horizontally. From the upper left to clockwise, fill in the words Anxiety, Mania, Psychosis, Depression as the headers. Now, in the hospital presentation we covered several attributes which signified these particular mood disorders (many overlapped as you can imagine) and wrote them down in their quadrant. In the TED talk, a graph was presented, backed up with a list of seven attributes which denotes a person “in flow.” Comparing the two studies, it seems the TED talk is really describing a mood disorder, while the hospital quadrant is describing how one seeks social contribution.

Now this is where I get confused. If I’m taking pills to manage my mood, am I killing my chance to be in flow? Is being in flow a threat or a promise of a better life?

Dammit. I think too much. Anyone know a flow theorist?

Smells Like Sulfur

I can’t rant today, I feel too much to poet. My nieces and nephews are on my mind. But what I can do is let my art speak for me. 

As my voice, I offer an excerpt from my 2012 National Novel Writing Month novella, The Black Parade. It’s sequel, The American Manifesto, was completed during the 2014 National Novel Writing Month contest. In both, I explore the socio-economic collapse of the United States of America. Please enjoy the (very) rough draft of my chapter titled, “A New America.” Brace yourself for triggers…


“Four more years! Four more muhfuckin’ years! WOO!” The penthouse filled with the former Yale rugby star’s elation. “Send that monkey back to Newark, that stupid fuck! WOO HOO!” His crystalline blue eyes were ensnared by thick, red lines. A formidable cocktail of power drinks, prescription speed, and insomnia powered his body from one side of the room to the other, unabashedly shoving revelers and supporters aside. The results had been released four hours ago. The Wilcoxon Re-Election Team powered through the press junkets, complied with the requisite photo ops, and relayed messages of gratitude to the nation for keeping Archibald “Archie” Wilcoxon in office to continue the mission of A New America.
Andrew Huebner stopped in his charge to kiss an unsuspecting campaign volunteer on her mouth. “WOO!” He pushed her aside and continued to sprint, slacking his red, white and blue tie enough to wrap it around his head Animal House style. Nervous laughter inflated as he passed, coaxing him to unbutton his shirt and reveal his gym rat chest and arms, stopping in his tracks to wave it over his head. “That fucker is crawling back to Jersey tonight, yeah! See this? This is his white flag of defeat! WOO HOO!”
The blitzkrieged U.S. Senate intern wipes her mouth, leaning disapprovingly towards her employer. “What is he on?”
“Adrenaline,” Abelardo Contreras, Senator from the 11th District of Arizona, Andrew Huebner’s home state, replied.
“Has he been drinking?”
Abelardo Contreras shrugged.
Andrew Huebner screeched to a halt in front of his childhood friend, clasped him at each side, and pulled him to his bare chest. “We did it man, yeah! Four more years to set this fucked up country straight!”
Senator Contreras’ intern back stepped towards the kitchen to avoid another assault.
The sweaty, tanned, muscular man with jet black (dyed) hair contrasted the short, pale, balding and exhausted man he squeezed. Abelardo patted one of Andrew Huebner’s hands to request a release. “Calm it down, Andy. Yes, we won; that’s what we’re all celebrating,” Abelardo softened his voice, noticing Andy was heavily panting. “Andy, you’re at a ten. I need you at a two. Here, drink my water.” Andy clasped the bottle of water and chugged it as if shooting a fitness commercial. He slammed the emptied vessel to the ground and crushed it with his foot. “Them stupid fucks really thought they were gonna take this away from me, huh? Stupid…dickless…FUCKS!”
“Andy. Bring it down,” Abelardo pleaded.
The smell of victory was too intoxicating for him to relax. Andrew Huebner clasped his hands around his taut waist, leaned his head back and inhaled the ceiling. He closed his swollen eyelids, finally returning moisture to his overworked lenses. He dropped his head slowly, revealing a countenance of sincerity.
“You’re a good man, Abelardo. A good friend. We’re gonna start by getting S.B. 173 flying through Congress. And you,” Andrew slapped a hand down on Abelardo’s shoulder and squeezed it, Andy’s favorite intimidation tactic that always caused Abelardo grief since childhood, bringing Abelardo closer for emphasis. “You my friend will be Chairman of the committee. How ‘bout them apples?” Abelardo shook his head with consternation. “That’s the President’s decision to make, not yours.”
Andrew Huebner dropped his eyes to Abelardo Contreras’ level with incredulity. “What? That pussy? He’ll appoint who I tell him to appoint. Where is that fucker anyways?”
“You mean, where is the President-Elect Archie Wilcoxon, don’t you U.S. Attorney General Huebner? There are members of the press present. For God’s sake man, put your shirt back on.”

He read the inscription on the back of the watch his wife Katherine gifted him for tonight’s win. Always a winner, never a sinner. His famous catchphrase from his University of South Florida days, a Heisman trophy winning quarterback who forfeited a career in the National Football League to open his own consulting firm in Pinellas County, Florida. From the consulting firm to the state legislature. From Florida politics to national politics. His job-creating talent and All-American charm got him in the White House four years ago.
Mirroring the austerity measures the European Union exacted upon its nations in 2011, Wilcoxon was in danger of losing political favor. Sure, the middle class tanked, but with destruction comes reformation. He compared the event to the dismantling of the Berlin Wall. Rise from the rubble like a phoenix. Well, not really. Those who could afford to moved their investments elsewhere, starving the American financial systems. Under his presidency, three constitutional amendments were exacted. Tonight, after this election, Archie Wilcoxon knows he’s on the verge of managing a fourth invocation of Article V. The thought of losing one more state from the union ate at him. This was not supposed to happen. This was supposed to be a cake walk this time around. Get the money back. Stop milking the Federal Reserve. That gosh darn pipeline. Archie Wilcoxon paused his frantic thoughts for a quick prayer. “Dear gracious and holy Lord. Your beloved found me worthy to continue the difficult task of managing these United States, a task too great to bear without your unfaltering love and guidance. See me through the upcoming storm, help me build the ark that will sail this nation back to prosperity. In your name I humbly pray, Amen.”
Archie Wilcoxon stared at his watch deferentially. He blinked twice. It was nearly one in the morning.
Two knocks against the door raises his head. A necktie’d head pokes in. “What up, Coxie! How ya feelin’ man?”
“Come on in Andy.”
The President-Elect clasps his new watch, then reaches for his sweating glass of vodka. He looks up from his glass with weary eyes towards his attorney general, wearing a too tight “A New America” campaign shirt.
“Is the party over yet? I’m really tired Andy.”
Andrew Huebner folds his arms across his chest with mild difficulty. A wide smile draws across his face.
“I got you a present, boss.”
Archie Wilcoxon forces a smile. “You didn’t have to…”
Andy’s ice blue eyes glow.
“Flashback, Mr. President. Four years ago. Election Night. Tampa. You with me?”
“Yeap.”
“The after party at Joe Redner’s place…”
“Yeap.”
“…you had a favorite out of all his girls…”
“Yeah?”
“…she voted for you this year under the name of Leont’nae Price, but you know her as…”
The President-Elect leaned his head back. Andy swung his body towards the door, clasping the doorknob.
“You didn’t…?”
“Oh yeah I did!” the Attorney General shifts his voice into Strip Club Dee Jay. “Mr. President, performing exclusively for you, the owner and operator of Tampa Nights Cabaret…the award winning…Champagne!”
Archie Wilcoxon’s shoulders dropped. In strolled the most beautiful woman he ever knew, besides his wife, of course. Her almond shaped eyes, her bee stung lips, a sweet smile to compliment her sweet breasts. Champagne has natural, double D sized breasts. Katherine? Nothing.
She slowly stepped one high heeled foot in front of the other, rolling her round hips enough to reveal the juicy, tender ass they burden themselves to hold. Those long long legs. Katherine’s thighs seemed to thicken with every birth.
She wore a Beyonce wig this time. Champagne’s dress of the same color barely covered her crotch. Champagne stopped her pelvis in front of the President-Elect’s awestruck face.
“Congratulations on your re-election Mr. President. I want you to know I personally campaigned for you, and convinced all my dancers to vote for you.” Champagne bent at her hips, grazing her breasts against his face, softly kissing him on both cheeks. The President-Elect exhaled excitedly.
Champagne relocated his glass to the stand. She lowered her torso to the floor, widening her legs, revealing beautifully sculpted labia and a diamond pierced clitoris. She dragged her hands against each of his thighs.
“I have a present for you,” she whispered. Her hands began to decipher his belt and pants. Archie Wilcoxon began to fidget. Champagne smiled lovingly, lowering his boxers so she can get a handful of manhood. Archie felt heat grow around his neck.
“I’ll be gentle,” she assured.
“I know but…”
She applied gentle pressure to his shaft to arouse him.
“I remember last time, Mr. President. You’re safe with me.”
“I know but…”
“See? You’re getting hard. That’s a good sign.”
Beads of sweat formed against his scalp. He grasped the armrests with uncertainty, his anxiety growing as his head engorged.
Champagne kissed him. “It’s me, baby. Don’t think. Just feel.”
Her mouth encapsulated his eagerness. “Watch me. You’ll love it.”
Archie Wilcoxon fought to focus on her beautiful brown face in his lap, her reassuring eyes helping him fight the panic. For a moment, he did relax. He released his sphincter and fell into the pleasure of warm wetness against him. But his memories betrayed him. Archie is back in the shower room. Coach Bradbury is on his knees. Archie shuts his eyes. Champagne pops him out her mouth.
“No, Archie, watch me. Don’t think about…that. Watch what I’m doing.” She plunges deeper, making kissing noises at the base of his shaft.
The noises temporarily distract . Then her face contorts, and it’s him again. The wrinkle of the top of his bald head, his white hairs sticking up around the edges like cat whiskers. Moaning as he pumps Little Archie’s hips into his face. His coach had dry lips. They scratched his sensitive skin. Mom thought it was the detergent she used. Archie shudders defiantly.
“Stop! Get off me!”
Before she can comply, Archie Wilcoxon jerks his lap up, causing Champagne to scrape teeth against him. The President-Elect lets out a terrible wail, inciting the Secret Service to rush the room.
“What happened sir?”
“She…she bit me! My…she… bit me!” Archie Wilcoxon doubled onto the floor to cover his embarrassment and shame. Champagne is dragged into the hallway. “It was an accident! Ac-cid-ent! Don’t arrest me!” she pleaded. The agent’s voice carried away from his room towards the front door. “You assaulted the President of the United States, a federal offense…” Archie Wilcoxon could hear as his favorite woman in the world, besides his wife, of course, was likely being sent to the nearest correctional institution. All the powers of the presidency could not erase those damned memories. Faithful? Archie Wilcoxon didn’t have a choice. The guilt of both events washed over him.
“Mr. President, should I call the doctor?”
The President realized he was still on his hands and knees, with his security standing over him awaiting orders. Archie inspected himself, relieved to not see any breakage.
“No, Gus, I’m fine. I, uh, could use my sleeping pills.”
“They should be in the bathroom with the rest of your toiletries.”
“That’ll be all, then.”
“Good night, Mr. President. Congratulations once again, Mr. President.”

2017: Unleash The Warrior

When Maeve shows up in your spread, you freakin’ pay attention! From The Goddess Oracle Deck, curated by Amy Sophia Marashinsky and illustrated by Hrana Janto, here’s a poem featured for the goddess Queen. Take heed warriors:

I am a Warrioress

a Warrioress of the Heart

I am Queen

of the domain of myself

I am able to respond

in all situations

from the knowledge of who I am

My actions are who I am

My beliefs are who I am

All I do is who I am

That which is outside of me

stays outside of me

That which I choose to let in

I own and acknowledge

How can you be responsible

if you do not own all aspects of yourself?

How can you be accountable

without being Queen over your own domain?

How can you serve your consort, your children, your community

if you are unwilling to acknowledge and answer for yourself?

 

The Monday After

I took the flower bouquets I received Friday night and consolidated them into one mongo bouquet on the kitchen island. The vase it rests in is the same one from the exhibit, a gift from lady Brigid, the Bringer of Light. I wanted to depict onstage a woman’s womb and its power to birth beauty, thus the addition of the bouquet to the dais. Real flowers this time in the vase; they make me smile widely.

wp-1479143378263.jpg
Gifts from a successful evening, a plethora of flowers and a nice bottle of merlot

It is a strange morning. What had consumed my time, energy and effort these past few months is done, gone. I woke up thinking, what to do now? I took the healthy route and scaled down my interests just so I could concentrate fully on developing this creative piece. In doing so, I freed myself of unnecessary worry. But it’s done now, and I feel a bit…naked.

Let’s reflect on the exhibit itself. By the time I had horns on my head, I was ready to go. I had complete faith in each performer, on the attending crowd, and the spiritual energy in the theater. I smiled big the whole night. When I performed, I gave myself to the stage. I honestly can’t recall doing my poetic recitations, but I know they happened. I remember looking into the crowd, finding the faces of my friends. I remember feeling the heat of the lamps pointed center stage. I remember feeling empowered, thinking, “I am good at this!” as I laughed into my next recitation. I gave myself lines and not one, but two sets of poems to recite. I did not mess up. I am proud of me!

The first poem I recited is an actual poem written by Enheduanna, the high priestess of Ur and first poet of recorded history. It’s actually the invocation portion of an epic poem, Inanna and Ebih, In-Nin-Me-Huš-A, which means “Lady of Blazing Dominion.” You know what I use as a mnemonic? Bon Jovi’s “Blaze of Glory.” I play the chorus in my head, then I launch into the whole poem.

The second poem is an original I wrote earlier this year. It’s a poem about self-discovery and taking chances. It was a story I wanted to tell about me in the search for footing in a 21st century world. I figured it fit with the story of Enheduanna’s difficulty in pleasing the world, leaving her unfulfilled. Until the goddesses hear her desperation, Enheduanna suffers the part. This is so common, especially with modern women. We sit there and stew in our troubles instead of reaching out. Yours truly is a culprit of this activity. Thus, I turn around and encourage the high priestess to reach beyond and find her potential amongst the cosmos. If you can’t find inspiration in this world, be inspired by the worlds beyond.

Today I feel like I released a bird to the sky letting it fly and be part of nature. The exhibit belongs to the artistic ethos now, out of my hands, existing as its own pulsating thing. Today I should allow myself to breathe. Friday was a fantastic night. Today should be a quiet day.

 

It’s Dress Up Time!

inanna
Source: deviantart

Busy, busy, like a queen honeybee, pumping out ideas, designs, and information with little breaks in between to breathe. Ask for help will I? Why? Everything’s under control, yep…everything is errythang.

Whew. Who am I kidding??

These last two years, I had been producing works for publication and sale. After joining the band, I was compelled back into performance art. So, getting my Vaclav Havel on, I’ve designed an exhibit of empowered, proactive women sharing words of wisdom in the form of goddesses. Fun, right? The exhibit came from a place of concern, that pit in the gut where you feel something needs to be expressed, something especially important for humankind. This is what Art does for us, yes? Get those expressions out into the open.

I wanted to express my disappointment in humanity, specifically, in the way women refuse to support each other when it comes to social cues and laws defining our roles in society. But I didn’t want to be a nag about it either. Instead, I took a comic view. What is it that women typically deal with that we can all agree we deserve a break from? And so, I’ve developed The Living Goddess Exhibit.

The girls are here to tell it like it is.

Me, I’m going to perform as Inanna, my all-time favorite deity. I’ve blogged about her too many times to not support my obsession. Inanna is perfect! If I lived in the time of her worship, I would be her best high priestess. Why? She does what I do all the time: explore people’s dualities. I *love* to exploit either-or people (in a gentle way) in order to get them to see the world’s challenges as not which team one prefers but rather, what the global community could embrace if they considered both options. It’s easy to follow the herd, but ultimately, someone needs to shepherd. Inanna is that deity.

wpid-wp-1434557224999.jpeg
Inanna, Goddess of Love and War

More details on the exhibit to come, but know this: I am in a place of deep creativity and also of calm. Things are moving at tornado speed around me but the inner cone is silent. I’m glad I’ve gotten to a point in life where I can manage the outer and inner worlds as a whole. Wish me luck in these next coming weeks!

 

 

The Great White Male

fat-superhero-3

I slapped on the visor and apron with uncertainty. Already I had worked the season opener for the local college team, now my volunteering efforts were geared towards opening day for the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. The USF game was its own special nightmare – scorching day, no breeze, collapsing bodies – but otherwise, sales at the Second Time Arounders Marching Band tiki bar boomed. I think it was because we were by the boat.

This time around, we were placed in a beer corner with not a lot of space to move between the six of us. Before I had finished dumping ice onto the premium beers it was go time! Customers lining up for all things frosty and salty. I did as trained – smiled as I took the order, if it involved alcohol I asked for ID, held the ID up to confirm face and date, then processed the sale with a cheerful “Enjoy the game!” to send their happy selves off.

And then, he came. A large, burly man dressed in Buccaneer regalia, beads dangling proudly from his neck. His face was cute, chubby, and pinked at the cheeks. He ordered two beers and a water. I asked for his photo ID. His chubby face became firm. He flared his arms, “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yes,” I calmly replied.

“I’m 54 years old! I could be your goddamn father!”

“I’m sorry sir,” I calmly explain, “I can’t sell you those drinks without an ID.”

I watched as he stepped backwards, almost into the couple behind him, then flare his nostrils and widen his chest. I swear he was going to rush the stand, but then he yelled, “Let’s settle this right now.”

My eyes followed his left hand waiving over someone. I’m thinking it’s his wife or somebody holding his ID. A dark blue suit with TPD on the lapel and a gun at the waist appeared instead.

Never in the history of me has a cop being waived my direction ever worked out in my favor. I’m flushed, I feel my heart start to race, and an “Oh SHIT” mantra starts looping in my head, all the while thinking, he called the cops on me, he called the cops on me…

The large man details the situation above and then tells the cop “She shouldn’t ID me.” Wow! I wish I had that kind of social authority! Being above the law, being able to tell a cop what should and should not happen to him during his good time at a privately-owned stadium.

The policeman looked at me, at him, then replied, “It’s her discretion whether she sells you alcohol or not.”

WHAAAT! He’s on MY side?

Never in the history of me has a cop agreed with me, even off-duty. I felt redeemed. And even though he was pouty after the fact, I still sold the big guy a water.

I don’t care how mouthy you are. Rule #1 in retail: get the sale.

I wasn’t worried about him, I was worried about the cop. He was worried about his beer, I was worried I was ending up in handcuffs. This is our world – a bunch of unnecessary worries. If I’m lucky in this lifetime, I shouldn’t feel threatened by the appearance of law enforcement anymore.

I’ve slept on this and still felt compelled to write, because it’s such a phenomenal experience. When you look a certain way, or hang out in a certain crowd, the labels and assumptions abound. Negative labels and assumptions unfortunately carry on with you despite social improvements. So when I describe this simple scenario, I wonder if you’re reading it as someone who’s been negatively labeled all their life, or if you’re wondering why the cop agreeing with me is such a monumental deal. It is a big deal. It signifies the necessary shift in the social wind. Not everyone who looks like me needs to be disciplined by the police. Moreover, people who look like me aren’t easily threatened by the gesticulations of the Great White Male, as was my friend’s mistake.