Thursday, July 20, 2017

on therapy

...sometimes i berate myself for having spent so much money on simply talking to another human being over these past years...on "wasting" my precious and so hard earned dollars, just on another person's ear...another person who was never "really" invested in me from the start, right? no, but that is not right at all, in any way, in any form, or any how. what entity in the world, what possession, what diamond, what latest iphone or louis vuitton, what new fad ripped denim of the moment could be any more important than the value of speaking your truth to another person, a caring and WISE beyond words human being? what thing, what gem, what tangible entity, is more precious or worth more of my penny than myself and that which serves to make me more whole?

to anyone who deigns to challenge, demerit the value of human to human connection and more than that, the value of therapeutic work, i have this to say: if you are truly blessed enough to say this, if you are one of those among us who need not the help of another, well, i am happy for you. in fact, i am envious...might i say even jealous. if you are that person, that woman or man who can live simply and seek not the guidance of therapeutic connection, consider it a gift. as someone who is not this person, i say this not with snark or anger but with true admiration. but for me, for what i know to be true in this life, there is nothing more valuable; no better venue in which, no better person to pay, no possession more worth my "hard-earned" dollar, than that and whom to which i owe my stability. 

we pay for country clubs, we pay to sit in the sun, to get our necks and feet and shoulders rubbed, for these experiences bring us lasting joy, restfulness or calm. or any combination therein the sun is not a finite moment on our skin for better or for worse for that matter. the effect of its blonde yellow rays is lasting -- it stays on our exterior, browning us to beauty relighting our heart-shaped bulbs in our interior. the experience of the massage is not limited to 60 minutes -- it stays in our joints and our being for much longer than that. and so, we pay for that. we open our wallets and our minds to so much -- we cloak our nude nails in neon, transform our locks into colors never in natural occurrence from human follicles, we trim our lines, slim our waists, drape ourselves in capes and denim alike. we pay for all these these things, and yet some leave our (or more appropriately, their) souls uncloaked. but not me, not she, not thee. just as the blonde rays of the sun stay with us, so do the words, the bright smiles, the hugs, the love, the realness of a connected human entity.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

On Mothers

Maybe some people are born to have two mothers. For some unknown reason. Some silent quiet reason none of us may ever know. The same reason that some us have the gift. The. Gift. That special unexplainable silent knowing gift. The wisdom of knowing things that are not said. The gift of the wisdom of the mind and the soul and the universe existing as one. The gift of a few. Yes, the gift Susan spoke of. My old true wise friend. Mi amiga especial. 
Maybe that reason is the very reason why I have two mothers. Yes. Maybe that is the same quiet reason for it. Maybe and maybe not. I do not know for certain but I do I think so. Feel so. I have the gift and it is known. People around spill their minds and the darkest deepest parts of their shredded selves to me without prompt. This has happened always. From the start. I know it. I have known it in my heart since before I could assign words to it and before I can remember. "There are those who know the things that are not said."
I also have two mothers. One who bore me. One who raised me in teenage turmoil and tough trails, in moody angst and impatience. One who listened to me complain, who smelled the pot I smoked, saw the trials and tribulations of my perfectly scraggled pointy-edged, in the lines youth. Then I have another one. One who came into my life. My adult life. My other mother. The one who knows me and does not get scared of me and hugs me the same. The other mother from the other place with the bangs and blonde highlights and loving eyes. Yes this is the other mother who helped bring me back from the dead to the living. Who hugged me and yelled at me and hugged me again through eyeliner less, emotional and emotionless days. Flat days, bumpy days, swollen eyes and raging ambivalence. The oxymoron there is intentional, never fear. The other mother with patience and caring intonation in her east coast voice the same. My use of the word “patient” throughout this streaming river of conscience is also not lost. Intentionally unintentional as they or we or I say.
I am lucky. I have a mother in my blood and a mother in my bones. Mothers and Figures. Curvy figures and straight ones. Figures of circles. Mother. Figure. A word that has been intentionally lacking to this point. It has been present, though, in the reality realm but not in the realm of the heart. I write from the truth of my heart rather than from the truth of the facts. And so I write to this point with the intentional absence of that one medium sized word. Mother. Mother figure. Figure. I have a mother and I have a therapist but both are moms just the same. I am a lucky girl. Lucky human. Woman. Thank you DC/MK, for both being and in my life, in the dark and the light and consistently in my heart. Siempre en mi corazon. 
Amor y vida.

Friday, July 7, 2017

...a ghosted summer rainy breeze

Some people come into your life like a storm -- they blow in unexpectedly like the turbulent angry rainfall that drenched my slightly greasy braids on this Friday. Like dark clouds that unexpectedly release their  inner dirty demons into and unto your newly pressed jacket, your dirty sneakers and your eggshell-framed life. Those are the people you expect least, the ones who thrust their messy shit onto you, rain on your soul and your clean neat, sharp lines like disgustingly sickening toxic waste. Why you let them in and why they are allowed to stay there - that is the question, though. Rain rain go away, dirty sneakers, make your way... toxic people - why rhyme. These are the people whose clouds and bubbles should be popped and emptied far away from you, their auras toxic, their presence contaminated, like the silicon-encapsulated pesky packages at the bottom of a shiny new toy. They toy is shiny white and new in its pristine box.. only ruined by that stupid poison-filled pellet. "Caution, do not eat." Okay, I won't, and I don't. The stormy people are like poisonous-silicon filled dark clouds, raining on the parade of your new toy in your new box. Extract them like the rotten-infected tooth that plagues your little cherub cheeks; throw their dirty auras into the nearest puddle and be careful not to splash it around. 

Yes, some people come into your life like that - they turn the blue sky dark and don't blow over until the storm wreaks havoc on all below it.

Some people, though, they come in differently, like the softest lightest, moisture-free breeze blowing over your fresh face in the spring. Like that luxurious air that feels so delicious and crisp, you swear you could bite into its ripe beauty. That air that caresses your newly washed hair as you sit in the front seat of a convertible, wiping your aura and soul clean with a white air-eraser on a yellow school pencil. Swish, all is good once again. Some people are that air, they softly and sweetly smile at you with their eyes and their hearts, and wash over you with love and joy. The air that brings light that sees the light in you, through even your thickly clouded, leather-bearing exterior. These are the people who neutralize the turbulence, the blonde bangs of the sun that re-light the flickering bulb of your rusty heart-shaped lamp. 

The air is thick, the clouds dense, and the soul deep. The wind can blow in all directions, grabbing dirty jagged-edged particles in its moody unpredictable path and throwing them at your face. The turbulent storms cease and the sun inevitably comes up again, whether hours after the storm, days, or years. The sun cannot stay idle forever, the air and wind are strong enough to carry heavy loads for only so long before they break. The air and the soul run deep and dark, then run light and low. And dark and deep and light and low and back and forth and around again. The full circle of the merry go around escapes my unmanicured finger tips once more. 

The people that come in and out of your life are the wind, the rain, the air and the fog of the earth of your soul. They bounce in and out, sweep across your sweet and salty Scorpio face, contorting it upside down and right side up. human people are the salt and the sand of the cells of your soul and they polish and taint it, breeze in and out, mess up your fresh blow out, revive your lamp, lift your spirits and crush you into a shrunken pepsi can on the dirty new york sidewalks. they do all of this. and yet still, she persisted, though she be but little she is fierce and all the instagram quotes in the world to end this loosely flowing stream of dirty rain water thoughts on this steamy, humid, cloudy, bright day.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

The worst affront

Photo Credit: Grammarly

A Sun of Chocolate

Good morning, good day. It is almost July. Addendum: it was July when I wrote this.

I and she and we are sad and empty then full again then empty once more. I snap and I chat and I snap rooftop hip selfies and chomp on chocolate “chewies” with salty pretzels like a girls favorite and best snack. As if like a cliff bar or a normal basic “treat.” Yum. Cheat as she says. As they all say. Cheat days! Glorious cheat days!
This toxic city and world crowded with perpetual serial dieters and robots of the chatter around them. Fat and skinny and sad Americans on their cycle of indulgence and simultaneous lack thereof. 
“A green juice for me please,” orders the business woman.
“Kale and beet purée with a hunt of almond,” dictates the body builder. “No sugar this month!”
“Almond milk and Splenda,” utters the heavy girl at the coffee counter. God forbid she poison the vibe with lactose or sugar. She mustn't.
The world of days and months of human-induced willful self deprivation we live in spins on its round axis every day. This odd place of the smallest rewards only followed after the harshest punishments.
“Five miles this am, i deserve this apple!” sounds from water cooler conversation.
“No carbs in a week, maybe just one slice of bread.” noises at the deli counter.
The girl giving away samples in the supermarket assures me I am allowed to taste the ice cream she doles. “You're tiny! Don't feel guilty!” Oh.
The regular-sized CEO man at his steak lunch. “I shouldn't be eating this I know.” “It's ok,” mutters the girl in her skinny size 2 shiny pants and stiletto heels. “Everything in moderation is just fine!” The girl whose presence is relocated on the leather couch in the beige office in midtown counsels the Big CEO Man across the table as she forks her kale salad with light dressing and water on his steak and red wine. The irony of the oxymoron of the common situation shines above her and makes her smirk.
“One fry can't hurt.”
“Enjoy them!” The small girl shrinks the CEO man.
The world of joy of thick sandwiches and birthday cake, candles dug deep in creamy vanilla frosting, the innocence of decades past. 80s and 90s, scooters and pasta, 2000s and chicken with sides of nutrition facts, Atkins and fatkins, 2010s of YouTube, puréed greens and cilantro infused chile peppered yogurt. Cupping and sipping and drinking and resisting. Whats the scoop on the goop on that boyishly thin actress. What progress we have made! She laughs. Progress… right. The hyper awareness of the calories of the day of the month is too present.
It is almost July and the sun is out. It burns the skin from her sleepy face once again and drinks the toxins from her toxicified body. The sun shines on her face like the best friend in the sky, the shades-up reminder of smiles and laughs and sandy feet. The sun radiates her being and her hips and her foggy mind and here she is again. Running and Sunning and plunging once more. Balancing and toppling over for a moment but still better yet. The locker is there still. The man with the cross in the lap lane next door. The lounges and pools and thoughts persist.
She is happy and sunny and better off still, but the thin surface remains. Ita shell hasn't yet hardened, still easy to crack. The bandaid is loose on the resistant thin surface, one end persistently curling up about to fall off. The yogurt-covered band-aid's adhesive is weak like oil on water.
But back to the sun-laden roof she dryly and happily trots. She and her chocolate band-aid-covered sharpened edges on this beautiful bright, cloudy gray day.

Perfectly put. This is one T-ed up election

http scandal://www.cc.com/video-clips/ay9dkp/the-daily-show-with-trevor-noah-fallout-from-donald-trump-s-pussygate-

Saturday, August 6, 2016

Scars. Tove Lo always on point.

Scars we carry
Carry with memories, memories burned by the dark
Try to see clearly
Tears we bury
Bury in vain cause the pain got us falling apart
Try to see clearly
Now let the healing start
The fires out of guns
We keep it in our hearts
We're like a thousand suns
Ooh, yeah, every day, step by step, we dare to love again
And if we lose our grip, meet you at the end
Know they're cutting you deep
Feel the scars in your sleep
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Stories left on our skin
Wear them with everything
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Don't feel lonely
Loneliness kills all the thrill from standing alone
Try to see clearly
Now let the healing start
The fires out of guns
We keep it in our hearts
We're like a thousand suns
Ooh, yeah, every day, step by step, we dare to love again
And if we lose our grip, meet you at the end
Know they're cutting you deep
Feel the scars in your sleep
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Stories left on our skin
Wear them with everything
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Know they're cutting you deep
Feel the scars in your sleep
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Stories left on our skin
Wear them with everything
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Feet don't fail me now, no
What didn't kill us made
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Feet don't fail me now
What didn't kill us made
What didn't kill us made us stronger
Scars we carry

Sunday, July 24, 2016

The H Word

As someone who has struggled with her weight on different occasions in my life, on both ends of the spectrum a little too high and conversely a little too low, i have had the opportunity to acquire a collection of observations on others' reactions to the weight struggle. I have heard comments ranging as far and wide as these examples that first come to mind:
“Honey, you're quite pretty, if you lost a little weight, you could be gorgeous!”
“She has a nice figure, save for that stomach.”
“Pretty girl, if only she cut out carbs, she could reach her potential.”
“She used to be attractive but she lost too much weight.”
“Oh, yeah, she looks a little too 'healthy' these days, she's cutting out sweets.”
These are just a few of the soundbytes that I scrounged from my memory in writing this post but trust me, there are countless more I have stored up from years of being “just a little round” and roughly the same number of years “a naturally skinny lanky thing.” If you cannot detect the rolling of my eyes through the screen at the word natural, let me make it abundantly clear now that yes, I am rolling my eyes. I am not naturally skinny nor was I ever. But I digress a bit. 
Over the course of all these years, I have repeatedly stumbled upon one particular notion that has consistently both bothered and bewildered me. The notion that I am referencing is simply put: the word “healthy” has seemingly morphed into a modern-day euphemism-cloaked-in-disguise-as-compliment for “gained weight”, “round,” “not thin”… The list could go on but I will stop here, as it is not the list of adjectives that is most important here, it is the bewildering notion that the word “health,” – at its core a paradigm of that human state of physicality towards which we should all aspire – has become synonymous with just the opposite of its core. It has become synonymous with outward body shape instead of inward body state, curvy instead of functioning, soft instead of operational. 
By definition, the word “health” is described by Ms. Mirriam Webster herself as such:
noun
1.
the general condition of the body or mind with reference to soundness and vigor:
good health; poor health.
2.
soundness of body or mind; freedom from disease or ailment:
to have one's health; to lose one's health.
3.
a polite or complimentary wish for a person's health, happiness, etc., especially as a toast:
We drank a health to our guest of honor.
4.
vigor; vitality:
economic health.
By all four definitions cited above, we can clearly see that the essence of the word is inextricably linked to one's bodily state of affairs, one's physical well-being and lack of disease and/or malfunction. Nowhere in any of the above four definitions do we see even a semblance of a citing of a reference to: attractiveness, shape, figure, or texture of one's body. Read the definitions over and over if you must, none of these will extricate themselves from the queen bee Ms. Webster's “health” descriptions. 
Having said and cited all of the above, and as I stated earlier, having lived on both sides of the “weight range” sliding scale, I posit the following: the word “health” should not be associated with any movement, Instagram account, Twitter handle, or anything of the like, that focuses on outward appearance. If you are not following my reasoning, here is one particular lens through which I will explain, namely the current “healthy is the new skinny” movement. 
“Healthy is the new skinny”. This phrase at its core does not make sense. Fromm both a grammatical and logical stance, for a movement of sorts like this to make sense, the two words included, namely “healthy” and “skinny” should be directly correlated to one another, either polar opposites, relative contradictions…you get the gist. “Healthy” and “skinny” are in no way any of these. Not only are the words not antonyms, they are actually not related in any sense. “Healthy” is the adjective form of the definition cited above, contrary to “skinny”, which is defined by Ms. Webster as such:
adjective, skinnier, skinniest.
1.
very lean or thin; emaciated:
a skinny little kitten.
2.
of or like skin.
3.
unusually low or reduced; meager; minimal:
skinny profits.
4.
(of an object) narrow or slender:
a skinny bed.
As per above, “skinny” is directly associated with the inverse of that which health is: appearance. So, just to reiterate, “healthy” correlates to an inner physical state, whereas “skinny” correlates to an outward one. If that is not as clear as day, I am not certain what is. Now, with that stated, I can proceed with my point.
Again, “Healthy is the new skinny” does not make sense. firstly, Skinny (thin, lean, whatever synonym you would like to sub in here) does not and should not be the deciding factor as to whether a human being is indeed healthy. Just as, like all the current “body positivity movements” seem to say, a “size 14” woman can be just as healthy as a size 2, so can be the case with the inverse. Perhaps a size 2 woman can be just as healthy as a woman who is a size 8 or 10. Simply due to the mere fact that she is skinny, does not give society or any movement du jour the right to insinuate she is not healthy herself. secondly, we should not be using words that are not correlated with one another to say one is the new form of the other. To use a popular pop-culture reference to explain my thought here, I will cite of my personal favorite shows, Orange is the New Black. While the show and this post are not subject-matter-wise related to one another, they are related in their verbiage ,as you can see. Orange and black are both colors - this is fact. Given this, we are able to logically say, perhaps yes, orange is the new color substitute for black. Regardless of whether you are familiar with the show or not, you can agree that this phrase can and does make logical sense. On the contrary, since healthy and skinny are not both “colors” or “appearance descriptors” or “physical medical states” or anything of the sort sharing any relation, the phrase does not make logical sense. Neither of the words should be used to sub out the other, no matter how you slice it. No, absolutely no pun intended.
The last point I would like to posit here is that, by using this phrase as common jargon, it seems to have colloquially associated the word “healthy” with being, in some sense, “heavy” or “heavier” than that which is societally seen as “pretty”, and has, by way of analogy, made the word “healthy” a negative. Before anyone reading this jumps up out of their seats or screens, let me provide a bit further context. Given that the times we live in have created the dysfunctional portrait of female beauty as stick-thin, by associating health with being “not skinny”, the times have created the INCORRECT and DANGEROUS notion that being described as “healthy” in any way means one is not attractive and worse, that it is actually an insult disguised in the form of a compliment. This ties directly back to the beginning of my assertion in this post. I will save my thoughts on how this has contributed to the modern-day epidemic of eating disorders for a separate post. 
To conclude, we should immediately stop using the word healthy as an appearance-adjective and put it back in its rightful place of serving as a descriptor of a state of physical well-being. I can only hope this makes sense and catches on before the ever-and-always correct Mirriam Webster is forced to change her definition.