Beautiful Struggle

dirty little pieces

what happens when words fail,

left unsaid on the kitchen floor,

dirty little pieces to be picked up

and thrown out once they've expired.

sentiments and desires unspoken

wadded up, crumbled to the ground

like yesterday's dinner crumbs.

i wonder what your crumbs would say

if i swept them up and kept them,

shoving them in my pocket

for safekeeping.

trash to everyone but me.

middle class monotony

something about insanity
sets my spirit free
shovels away expectations,
sparks my curiosity.

the humdrum knife of routine,
silently stabs at the soul,
with Nazi-like consistency,
to-do lists, grocery trips, dirty laundry.

middle class wares,
TV stares and commercial flares,
a plague upon America,
creeping into homes,
dulling the senses,
putting price tags on love,
limits on affections,
medicating pain into apathy,
and eroding true pleasure.
hacking at desires,
twisting them into afflictions
to be cured, stuffed in a drawer
or indulged in an orgy.

but when the mind sheds the skin
of social norms,
suddenly the truth,
love and creativity,
saunter out to play.
carnal desires tumble forth,
scattered with spirits,
garnished with pure joy,
mixed with anger,
sprinkled with sadness, 
dotted with ecstacy,
leaking out loneliness.

a potent concoction,
crumbled by prozac,
disapproving stares,
and manufactured desires,
sucking souls into "normalacy."

 

just me

I'm not your plaything

to be tossed aside when you're bored,

not your 24-hour therapist,

or your knight in shining armor.

I can't save you from yourself,

or soothe away all pains.

i'm not an airbrushed fantasy

to be turned on and off at will.

i don't take payoffs,

glittery gift bribes or fat out lies.

i don't play when i'm feeling down.

i'm not your cheerleader 

for every fucking problem.

i'm just me,

a shattered soul

with unending dreams,

trying to love

as best i can.

Another Change Afoot

Ever since I began this blog, when I was on the verge of launching my full-time freelancing biz, my life has been in a constant state of change. Yet it's been strangely settled at the same time. I think working from home adds a quietness and solitude to my daily life that contrasts sharply with the bustle of my previous jobs, at a newspaper, then a big government agency.

I've also moved back to my home city, due to Ubi's sickness, thousands in vet bills, emotional drainage and exhaustion and happenstance (finding a reliable subletter at the last minute). I had been itching to be free of my lease and travel around the world more too, and this subletter offered me the golden opportunity.

And now Ubi and I are about to move again. This time we will move in with my grandmother, who is 95, and help her take care of herself. I love my grandma and she loves Ubi too, which is great, because he is huge and sort of intimidating to a lot of people, not to mention if you're old and frail. So I'm sure we'll all get along well, and I'm so glad she won't have to go in a nursing home. I am a bit worried about feeling trapped, getting bored and feeling isolated. She kind of lives in the boonies and it will be harder to see my friends. It has already been a challenge adjusting to living in a smaller city again, and now I'll be out in the country.

Plus Ubi gets stressed every time we move, poor guy. I'm also worried about being the responsible adult, as that is not exactly my forte lol. I hope I do a good job and help my grandma enjoy life more in the process. She is an amazingly strong, independent and good-humored person and I think we will both learn a lot from each other.

On the writing front, I have a lot of projects and ideas going on right now and am feeling a bit frazzled about what to focus on. I hope to regain some clarity within the next few days, and renew my motivation. And I am continuing to plan the Puerto Rico trip, though I have not been staying on top of my Portuguese lessons (for the Brazil trip) lately. 

I have made a new friend here who is so interesting and full of ideas of places to go in the city, so she keeps me busy. We've had lots of fun going out together and are taking a pole dancing class, which is even more fun than I thought and involves a lot of dancing (off the pole too lol), which I've always loved.

In the meantime, I will keep you (my total of probably two readers hehe) posted.

 

Ubi at our favorite park here.
 

In defense of Erykah Badu's "Window Seat" video

If you haven't checked out Erykah Badu's latest video, the controversial "Window Seat," you must not be a hip hop fan. In any case, here it is: 

There has been a lot of controversy about the video, because of her nudity, and also the fact that Badu did not obtain a permit to shoot the video on the streets of Dallas, near where President Kennedy was assassinated. Part of the uproar is no doubt due to cultural racism, which keeps many in the mainstream on the lookout for a black person to break a rule, demanding harsh and public punishment and humiliation for the smallest of encroachments. I think it's interesting that guerilla-style filming by a white person, such as Michael Moore, for instance, is met with critical acclaim (with the expected political protests by those on the other side of the fence), whereas a five-and-a-half minute music video is met with so much venom.

I think the backlash to the video is not surprising, but illuminates the hypocritical double standards for women in America, the masculine need to control women and their bodies, and the ridiculous nature of a sex-crazed media that uses sex appeal for profit at every turn yet feigns shock and moral appall when women, or any real people, for that matter, try to express themselves honestly. In reading people's comments on this MTV article about charges against Badu for the video, I find it disheartening that many people are so outraged by it, in accordance with the media's hypocritical outrage. Of course she should have technically had a permit, but honestly, most people wouldn't even care about that if they liked the video. 

The fact is many people are so offended by Badu's video, which, basically shows a naked woman, and black woman at that, by the end. Oh shock, none of us have ever seen a naked woman before, not in real life, not in an art museums, movies, TV, porn or the Internet. I mean, really, this guy's comment that she is destroying American youth by encouraging girls to walk down the street naked, which incites violence, is so ridiculous and also so twisted. He is operating from the assumption that a naked woman incites violence, which, to me, is much more disturbing than seeing a real woman's body on a video instead of the anorexic, airbrushed ones that are sold to us through the media. So woman cannot show their bodies or be sensual without men losing control and ravaging them? Or they can only do it when it's paid for, as in advertising campaigns or "adult entertainment"? Wait, what century are we in again? Can I get a modern "Scarlet Letter," anyone? Once again, America reveals it's Puritanical roots. And the mainstream media has a problem with nudity only when they don't profit from it. Selling women's sex appeal is older than Hollywood, and the fact that a woman uses her body to express more than "you should buy this shampoo or lingerie" undermines the cash cow of selling sex in America. 

So, I don't want to hear any more complaints about the video, especially about the nudity. Once you stop selling women for sex in 95 percent of the media they appear in America, I might be more willing to listen. 

Purple-haired girl

Streaks of purple taint her hair,

"Honey," her mother always mutters,

"When will you go back to blonde?"

shaking her head, lips pulled tight.

"Fuck, I love your hair," her best friend says,

Taking a smoke from the passenger side.

"I wish I had the balls to pull that off."

"So, um, why purple?" her boyfriend asks,

Looking away from the football game,

Crinkled brows showing confusion.

"Oh, it's, um, different," her co-worker says,

Smiling with bared white teeth,

before turning to flee to the breakroom.

"Hey whore!" the boys playing soccer yell,

As she walks by on her way to the train.

"My sister's such a weirdo," her little sister

Caitlyn whispers to a friend.

As she retreats into her room,

the purple-haired girl wonders why,

no one bothered to ask,

about the color of her thoughts.

I wish

I used to want to be invisible,

So I could see what people really did,

and said when no one was around.

And I thought, if people were invisible

and could see me, they would like me more,

seeing that I was not just the quiet kid,

that I actually liked to make people laugh,

and had fun playing with friends.

But most of all, I wanted to read minds,

so I could see exactly what everyone thought of me.

Then I could do and say just the right thing,

to make them all happy.

Then my mom wouldn't be mad,

My sisters would like me,

and the one I liked would want me.

Now I wish I didn't give a fuck

what every fucking person I meet

really thinks about me.

 

jars of emotion

call me crazy, call me a loon,

but don’t tell me to let it be.

no more stifled emotions,

neatly canned rages

or jars of dissatisfaction.

 

the containers won’t hold,

the lids keep popping,

globs of red ooze streaming out,

staining these suburban streets,

tainting the white-washed walls.

 

the children skip over the spots,

adults try to wash away the red,

but we all know it’s pulsating below the surface,

flowing forth like lava, an unstoppable ooze

of raw emotions that don’t fit

in the Norman Rockwell portrait

the delusional people cling to,

so cheerily, so desperately.

 

call me crazy, call me a loon,

but don’t tell me to let it be.

no more stifled emotions,

neatly canned rages

or jars of dissatisfaction.

 

I won’t take part in the plastering,

Fuck your creamy walls and neatly trimmed hedges,

I don’t give a shit about your new dishes,

or your latest furniture purchase.

 

Your suffocated gaze, plastered on smile,

defy your professions of happiness.

The pills of Prozac, shelves of self-help books,

and thick silence suffocate me.

My feet feel the torrents of denied desires

pumping through the floorboards, and

signs of sadness flow from the beige walls.

 

call me crazy, call me a loon,

but don’t tell me to let it be.

no more stifled emotions,

neatly canned rages

or jars of dissatisfaction.

I’m popping off the tops,

Shattering the glass,

Shrieking in joy,

Finally free.

Betrayal

Coming home, tired eyes, listless fingertips wander the room.

Finding betrayal splashed all over the computer monitor,

Flirty winks, suggestive photos, all wrapped up in the same

Honey-sweet words you whispered to me on cold nights and sun-tinged days.

The image of your face smiles back at me, perfectly poised

On the computer screen, mocking my trust, choking the sincerity

Out of your every move and gesture, casting a shadow

On our rainy day chats, our lazy late-night movies,

Seeping into the most intimate of moments,

Smirking at me from the pillows and covers.

 

My eyes want to scream, to slice your perfect photo,

The one that I took so lovingly one night,

Now tainted by her words, her photos and smirk,

Both of you laughing at me, hurling daggers

Through my soul.

 

Instead of shredding you both, I turn to me,

Stumbling to the floor,

Crumpled in defeat.

hollow streets

fighting to be heard,
in a place where words cost money,
patented phrases whored into slogans

a place where plastic parts push the economy,
porcelain-coated teeth like white flags of power,

illusions fog the city streets,
suffocating in the suburbs,
sucking out sincerity,
mocking all meaning.