2003: Apoptosis

20 years ago, I made a decision to destroy my life. I knew I'd have a hard time with this date, as many dates hurt. If I had a crystal ball, of course I would have done things differently in 2003, like saying no to a gorgeous creature. That would have been next to impossible, I do realize. Oddly, I got some good things out of the decision, like two people I will always deeply love. And, in addition, an ancillary cast of family and friends, I love too and wonder about, though I will never see them again. Love and people are everything. I'm sorry, I just can't turn off love like that.

The thing is, sometimes the people who seem the most selfless are actually the most selfish. It can be framed as self-love or self-care, but let's be real. Drawing up a new blueprint for a life, which involves the erasure of an old life, to whom steadfastness, the world, eternity was promised, is straight up pathological.

Sometimes I realize the aforementioned person could describe me. But, I didn't do that. I live and struggle and sometimes thrive through the pain. And yet, I am mostly aimless. Mostly, I'm still trying to figure out what to do with this busted-up life. You see, I'm a survivor. But, I still live with mental health issues every damn day, and that is a part-time to full-time job in and of itself. Ultimately, I know the aforementioned selfish person is the one you least expect. And, that is not me.

Sometimes, mental illness does weird things. Sometimes the person you love the most in the whole world is the one who bears the brunt. It's unfair. But, relationships are complicated.

I remember a friend named Abby told me several months ago that her mother sees the worst of her and Abby treats her worse than most, because, devastatingly, Abby knows that her mother's love is unconditional. Love is so complicated and can be ugly. But, like I've always described New Orleans and like I'd describe true love: it's a beautiful disaster.

Sometimes, we get confused about unconditional love. Sometimes, love is conditional, and sometimes it's for reasons and histories you weren't made privy to, and that's unfair. But, as a person once told me at a critical juncture, life is unfair.

I hadn't thought about the show since I finished it in December, but last night, I was out to eat with my friend Jess and her 10-year-old kid (which is my absolute favorite age for kid. I love it so much). She said she watched Fleischman is in Trouble, and I said I did too and was so excited to talk about it. We talked about a character who does her best to push away everything in her life, kinda having a crisis moment, only to realize that that's the one thing she needs. Sometimes, that needs to happen. The hills and valleys of relationships. "I ran home because I love you so much, I think I'm gonna die from it." He waited for her after her mistakes. He was there. Now that's an effed-up fairy tale of realness.

This is it for this stupid ass blog. I've got to find a new medium for where I want to go. 

I was listening to Radio K and heard a song from my past, and I had shivers. I imagine this sung at me, as I struggled to survive several years ago.

You're a storm, you're so emotional

Moody and controlled, sly and involved

You're alright, you come to me in times

You make me realize, I'm not the kindest guy

But I give, give, give, give

I give what I can give

So just give, give, give, give 

Give me what you have, dear

Slow, you kept me in that storm

You showed me things galore

Made me want much more

And now denied, the things I saw inside

The things I saw inside, is what really caught my eye

And you give, give, give, give

Just give what you can

And I'll live, live, live, live

Live while I can, dear

You're so surprised, you see me put up fights

You hear me realize, you come along for rides

You're just so kind, the evil with red wine

You made me that bright eye between me and time

To just kill, kill, kill, kill

You kill what you can

And you kill, kill, kill, kill

Anything you want

Black Grease by the Black Angels 

So I sit, alone, in the home I made for myself, trying to process a grief that never dies and comes in waves. It is one that is amorphous and inscrutable. And to know that this grief is one-sided, that it's my own, my family's own makes it all the tougher. And usually it's fine and in check. But sometimes, some dates, some places, some smells, some songs break the scaly, never quite the same, healed scar tissue. And, I clean the wound and caringly and lovingly, and with mindfulness, I bandage it up. And alone, I hold myself in my grief and remember that it will come and go for the rest of my life, and I breathe....

The End

All Landlords Are Parasites

Capitalist goons.

Basic needs (shelter) hoarders.

Neoliberal phonies.

Robber barons of stolen land.

It’s August 1, and you know what that means. Rent is due. Another month’s rent taken from us, the ones who can’t afford a home of our own. Therefore, I contribute too much of my salary to someone else’s luxury retirement and live in a state of permanent flux. Wtf.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=oDQXFNWuZj8

Dear Worthy Self,

You have been through so much, and even now, so many words spoken your way still carry such strong gravity, continue to awaken the sad, broken, abandoned, and shameful heart. Yet, you forge on. You're finding that the lump in your throat comes in like a wave with a heavy undertow, attempting to take you, but then it recedes, and somehow, you are able to once again find your footing and your resolve. You persevere in ways many others have not, cannot, will not, would not. Do you realize it half the time, Worthy Self? You are strong, and you are able.

Repairing

This is my last week of teaching adults. Tonight, I taught GED math, and I learned a lot about how ingesting camel meat, milk, and urine makes you smarter. And how back home, women's families are given camels as dowry. I had a table of Somali men who have grown to be my buddies. We giggle a lot, we talk excitedly ,almost the verge of angrily, about math problems that give trouble, and we complain about Donald Trump. I will miss one man in particular, Hassan. He is 67 and smokes like a chimney and has many gold teeth and a fantastic accent and is just plain a nice man.

Tomorrow, which is almost today, I will teach intermediate English as a Second Language. This is my least favorite. It is the middle child in my week and in the ESL curricula. I will miss making the grouchy, tired, and tough Somali moms laugh. I will especially miss Olga, a Mexican student, and Dili, a student from Tajikistan, both beautiful women inside and out.

Thursdays are my favorite. Beginning ESL. This is a huge class, and I feel like I'm performing, and I adore making them laugh. I will miss especially Amina, because she's just a disorganized lovable sweetheart, Abdi, because his rotting teeth smiles and intelligence warm my heart, and Mariam, because she's been with me since that class was just three women. All my faves are from Somalia.

Today, I wore my hair in a ponytail, a rare occurrence these days. I had on a lavender shirt I love and bright pink lipstick. I am giving off a weird air these days, getting lots of compliments on my appearance. Today, I was smiley and genuinely happy to see everyone, and likewise, I believe. At one point, during break, two men from intermediate class were glancing in my direction. One said to me, "We are looking at you because today you are especially beautiful." I feel loved. Thank you to my equally beautiful students.

These pictures are unrelated, from a drive through the country, but I needed to get out my thoughts of leaving my beloved North Minneapolis school. I will miss it.

They are related though, because it's remarkable these myriad cultures ended up in this quiet state way up north. Here we are.

On retreat, part 2

As stated previously, I took these pictures in a clandestine manner. We weren't allowed our phones during the retreat. I kept mine on "airplane mode," so it was basically just a functioning clock and camera. I can't help but take pictures of beautiful things in nature, things I may never see again. Things perhaps not many people notice, but I do. I love those little things.

I'm not saying I'm extraordinary; nobody is. We're all just here, trying to do the best we can. Prince died. Prince was just a mortal being. We all are.

"Maybe this 'obviously real' self is actually maintained through linking our continual self-referential commentaries and is supported by our pervasive social agreements about the reality and significance of this self. We pay attention to aspects of our experience that seem relevant to our self. We engage the world with all sorts of dramas about our self. We take all this as self-evident proof of having a solid, continuing self" (73). 

Quotations are from a helpful book I read called Already Free by Bruce Tift.

"If we're not paying attention to our sensations, we will probably be captured by our historic dramas. They are fascinating. They're very convincing in their appearance" (174).

"We may discover that the most satisfying life is one that is fully lived rather than one in which we've accumulated the most experiences" (193).

"Coming into relationship with whatever we are actually feeling in the moment--existential aloneness, aging, the truth of limitations, the experience of pain, anxiety/grief/anger, or the experiences of unconditional kindness and of freedom" (305).

"Discard nothing; appreciate everything" (319).

On retreat, part 1

So, a lot to digest mentally after this retreat. First of all, I arrived to find out that it was one of "noble silence," meaning no speaking to other retreatants, NOR even looking at others in the eye. That was hard for a lonely soul like me, craving human connection.

At first. Then I understood better.

The last hour of the retreat we were allowed to speak to each other. An older woman came up to me and said, "The other day you were sitting on the grass by the beach [which, as an aside, ended secretly with me getting stabbed in the butt with many burrs]." She continued, "The wind was blowing, and your hair was flowing, and you looked absolutely beautiful, and I wanted to say something." There I was in old, faded yoga pants, unkempt, wild frizz hair, and not a lick of makeup. In other words, I wasn't trying, wasn't even conscious of my appearance. And, I was informed I was beautiful. The essence which is me. What a wonderful thing to tell a lonely girl sitting on the beach with burrs poking through her yoga pants.

All pictures hereafter were taken surreptitiously.

Spring Starts

"And beauty is a form of genius--is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation." --Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray