“If you like that, you’ll love this…”

“Can’t Get You Out of My Head” grew out of Curtis’s response to the populist insurgencies of 2016. Curtis was struck by the fury of mainstream liberals and their simultaneous lack of a meaningful vision of the future that might counter the visceral appeal of nationalism and xenophobia. “Those who were against all that didn’t really seem to have an alternative,” he said.Adam Curtis Explains it All

I’ve been watching this terrifying docu-series made by Adam Curtis lately and I’m always watching it late at night and it is terrifying but I can’t stop watching it. The most recent of his films that I just finished viewing is “HyperNomalisation.”

I feel like I’m learning something I’m not supposed to. Which is probably why I keep watching, because, like many people, I get off on defiance and anti-authoritarian behavior but according to Curtis, revolution and uprising may just be another long way back to the old models of power we have no alternative to. This seems to be what he is suggesting using uniquely disturbing editing devices and a deadpan voice over that at their most brutal simply state the truth about power and society that no one wants to know.

It’s a hard pill to swallow and yet the way Curtis strings together alarming connections using footage and rarely seen before rush cuts of violent political coos, wars and upheavals spliced with popular film and television clips and scoring them darkly and ironically with a range of songs that accent and emphasize the hard truth, it’s hard to press pause. And each of these videos, narrated by Curtis himself are about 2 hours or more long so that’s saying a lot for me. Raoul Peck used a very similar editing device of disillusionment using jarring visual juxtapositions in his film “I Am Not Your Negro” which I’ve watched multiple times and highly recommend.

HERE I AM

How long has it been since I wrote here? I mean I write everywhere else. In journals, on the backs of envelopes in my living room, on social media posts, in my head. But not here. And there’s been a lot going on. And a whole lot of nothing as well. All at the same time.

Lets start with the fact that that I submitted one of the last pieces I wrote here to be published in a collection of writings by over a hundred talented souls of a writing workshop that I began attending last year when there was some really rough shit going on in my life which I never talked about.

The writing workshop itself was announced by Kevin Powell, a writer, journalist, activist, filmmaker, publisher and more whom I’ve been following forever, like since before “following” was a thing. I saw his announcement of the workshop sponsored by the Nuyorican Poets Cafe on his IG feed. It was free. I, like so many of us have been shut in since the beginning of the pandemic, employing various means of not losing my mind and when I saw the announcement I just thought, why not? I mean, I do write. I’ve been writing forever. My friend Cece who is friends with Kevin also joined the group so I felt that at least I would know someone there. I know it’s ridiculous to require peer support at my age but then again, maybe it’s not. What’s ridiculous is we’re all on Zoom in our PJS. How much more comfortable do we need to be? LOL!! But I’m still nervous, still want to be on time, still want to challenge myself the way I would if we were meeting in a physical classroom or space.

HAPPY 2021! What’s Been Working for you?

I was just in the bathroom attending to my skincare routine, which consists of daily cleansing and serum treatment application both morning and at night, when I noticed that the fingers on my right hand have been eczema free for months now. If you saw them, you would never know that I even suffer from random eczema breakouts or that the dry cracked skin that once lined the web of the two middle fingers sometimes hurt so much I had to distract my thoughts so that I could focus on other things. Treating eczema is a process. It doesn’t go away overnight the way a pimple sometimes does. 

Several months ago I dedicated myself to drinking water with a splash of ACV every morning before anything else and rubbing castor oil on the parts of my skin where eczema was raging every single night before bed. I did that for a couple of months. And I saw changes. I kept seeing changes until one day I nearly forgot why I was following this regimen.

When the things I do to treat my issues, physically, mentally or emotionally actually work, I sometimes forget to celebrate that. There is so much that is broken in our world right now that it can be overwhelming, not to mention depressing and useless to take stock of it all.  I look at myself in the mirror each day and try to be gentle and positive with myself in my varying degrees of progress. I try not to be upset when fall back, eat too much sugar, oversleep or lose my temper over something small because underneath it all I’m actually anxious and pent up and not addressing those root causes. 

Instead, I try to focus on doing things I know what will make a difference. I have to remember how powerful that is. It’s proactive and loving and self-affirming to care for yourself. And I’m all about using social media and online resources to find those people who have similar challenges and see chat has worked for them and then intuitively gauge my capacity and or willingness to try it myself. I’m not saying the ACV and castor oil will work for everyone’s eczema. That’s not even what this post it about. But I learned about it online and I tried it because I just knew I had to try something. I had to tune in to what my body was telling me.

 Drinking water everyday when my skin is starting feel inflamed and acne starts popping up works for me. Going for walks in nature to get my blood flowing and clear head works for me. Dancing as a form of exercise and going to therapy works for me.  I actually made a video for my YT Channel last week on the theme of surviving 2021. I’m certain I’ll be carrying a lot of those things over into 2021 and adding more along the way.

A focus on what works and also showing gratitude for having anything in your life that you can rely on to work for you when you need it is a bigger priority these days than it ever was. So when I look at the fingers on my right hand, I have to remind myself to be grateful that they are smooth, blemish free and pain free because I committed to healing myself. I was vigilant, patient, consistent and determined.

Being forced to shelter in place has also forced many of to learn about how to care for ourselves in a whole new way. Take stock of what works, what’s been serving you, and honor it.

White America is Eating its Tail

“We thought that we had hit rock bottom and then we heard a knock from below.”


The host of one of my favorite podcasts repeated this quote in the introduction of his latest episode to give context to the conversation he has with an artist about her theatrical piece on the constitution. And I thought, what a perfect analogy for the way I feel about this election and about this entire administration actually. I began to see this in earnest immediately after 9/11. I witnessed hatred and xenophobia emerge and concentrate in groups and chat board discussions that scared me in ways it never had before. And when I’m scared, I usually try to escape by surrounding myself with what I believe to be common sense people, discourse, informative literature and lectures. However, no amount of immersion in common sense and facts on my part will ever change how a large majority of White America feels about Black and Brown people in this country. And it’s not lost on me that racism has been alive and well in America since before I was born. What does shock me is the lack of concern reflected in a vote for 45 by people who espouse values and morals of any kind.

A large majority of women in this country voted for a man who is on record joking about assaulting women on an Access Hollywood bus. Just let that sit for a moment.

Women voted for this man. Women with daughters. I did not know self hatred could run this deep and in such staggeringly high numbers.

And, I don’t think that it’s necessary to look two steps ahead of what was said on that bus to begin to understand how far a racist White majority will go to maintain their undeserved privileges while still daring to uphold some perverse pretense of decency, morality and humanity, none of which they ever truly understood ever. A democratic process, it seems, is only working fairly, when it works to their advantage. They would have us all destroyed just to hold on to the last decaying pieces of an illusion constructed through indescribable violence, swindling, suffering, fear and hatred.

And as Eddie Glaude stated so eloquently on MSNBC this week, we cannot place this blame primarily on 45’s shoulders. He is a manifestation of the sick, ugly, pathological truth about what this country has been built on. A crumbling foundation of theft, lies, genocide, rape, false narratives and standards of acceptability tailored towards White mediocrity in ways that have taken ages to disengage from.

But the process of disengagement has never stopped. The fight for injustice has never stopped. The seeking of truth has never stopped. The call to serve all vs some has never stopped. The strength to confront the darkness without allowing it to contaminate the soul has never stopped. In the lives of those who are committed to the struggle for human rights it doesn’t stop. In the spirit of our ancestors, it doesn’t stop.

So I try not to spend too much time frozen like a deer in headlights, gaping down the barrel of the bottomless, fathomless, danger that is Whiteness and listening to the knocking from below. So many of us have tried for so long to be what they said we needed to be in order to not die, to not be tortured, to not be murdered, to not be raped, to not be decapitated, to not be humiliated, to not be kicked and spat upon, to not be turned away. But you can’t make deals with madness without becoming mad yourself. And there are a great deal of us in that number as well.

Instead, I choose to proceed playing my part to reveal the light of truth in this world with the knowledge that I am worthy without even trying. Yes. Worthy without the struggle. That I am a divine manifestation of the love I choose to accept within me. And that struggle of this nature only exists in a system bent on constructed illusions of measurement, comparison and selection based on superficial identifiers that define not one of us as human beings. Not one. I’m not saying that struggle isn’t necessary but all we have ever really known of struggle for the most part is what has been forced upon us by oppression, opposition, deception and a lack of self acceptance.

Who the fuck would choose that kind of struggle? Who would choose to normalize and accept it?

I don’t think that Eddie Glaude was asking us as Black and Brown people to shoulder the blame that many of us put on 45. I think he was clearly indicting Whiteness as a device which was not only conceived explicitly to motivate through hatred, fear, racism and division, but which has also unraveled, undone and inflicted nameless damage on those who have wielded it.

Whiteness wants to be rescued by that which it has attempted to enslave. It is an abuser that wants its victims to absolve it of its constant assaults in a cycle of violence with no end because White America refuses, as Glaude states, to acknowledge its sins; to stop the bullshit and look itself in the eye so that the rest of us, and generations to come might be saved from Whiteness.

And see, Whiteness, you can’t have it both ways. You never could.

So…I Voted Early

I voted on the first day of my period last weekend. In fact I was so laid up in bed with cramps that morning that I almost decided to call off voting until the following day. But I started to feel better in the afternoon, and decided to go get it over with despite news footage of dauntingly long lines all over the city as well as pictures my husband kept testing me from upstate where he was voting early with my mother in law. Also the day had gone from a dull grey dreary one to a lovely Fall afternoon when the sun came out later. Weather has a huge impact on voter turnout. I also figured (and I’m not kidding) if I got there and the line was too long I could just hit the Chipotle and come back another time.

I voted at an Armory in Washington Heights. The line was on the same block with the Armory and when I arrived the line hadn’t even reached a full quarter of the long block it started on. I felt good about it. I got 6 feet behind a guy, leaned over after a minute to confirm with him that I was indeed on the line for voting and just got comfortable for bit. As we moved up the block. which happened frequently and significantly, I let my surroundings sink in. The sky, the iron work on gates, the homeless people, the doctors and nurses and ambulance drivers from the hospital across the way. As we turned up the corner to the left, the gentrification stores were lined up, Starbucks, Chipotle, and the like. Across from that was one single tree with leaves turned gloriously and fully golden. I meditated as a firm breeze encouraged it rained gold on the street. I took pictures of the tree. I wanted to always remember it.

On that corner I noticed what looked like a coalition of food delivery guys with their bikes parked close together. The day glow bright spokes on their wheels, the insulated box shaped bag packs, the bike gear, helmets. They were all brown. All Latino men by my guess. I started to wonder about their ages, where they lived, if they took care of families, if they were married or dating, how much this job paid them. I took a few pictures of them as well but they didn’t capture what I saw, what I felt watching them.

Halfway up the next corner on the opposite side of the street I started talking with the guy in front of me. He was Black, it’s important for me to say. I don’t know who started it. I think he asked me a question. We talked easily, back and forth about the election, Covid, the electoral college. Previously that day, he had been in a line at a whole other voting site for 2 hours before getting to the check in table and finding out he was in the wrong place! He could have called it a day. I might have. But I was glad it hadn’t happened to me so I would never find out. And I guess I was glad he came to the Armory as well instead of turning back. It was good to have someone to chat with. Plus…

YOU HAVE TO GO VOTE IN THIS ELECTION! GO VOTE!

We talked all the way to entrance of the Armory, him walking backwards and trying to maintain a constant 6 feet away each time we advanced up the block. Then he was whisked off somewhere opposite from me by a few poll workers. I advanced as directed stopping and waiting from one 6FT pad to the next and grateful to be able stand for a bit and survey my surroundings. It was a nice clean, chill interior. Warm colors. Track and field stripes on the floor. I took a nice shot of a woman leaning over the table I was headed to and signing her name. The light was perfect. Calming. The poll workers (mostly of color) were fired up, clear, and encouraging. I was in and out with a free stylus pen and a sticker. One of the poll workers cheered and thanked me as I walked out.

A young White lady walking her dog asked me how long I had waited. The guy I was talking with told me we clocked in at an hour and a half. She said she would be voting the next day. We smiled at eachother and parted.

Pleasant.

Then I went to Chipotle. Now the wait on that line was painful…

That time Street Food Saved My Life…

When you eat an arepa like Dona Berta’s arepas, it’s as if you were eating at your grandmother’s. It’s a direct reference to emotion, to nostalgia.

-Luisa Acosta

Did I ever tell you about the time a Caribbean fruit smoothie revived my soul?

Ok so I had a nervous breakdown in the late 90s, dropped out of college and came back home a hot mess.  My mother took me to Trinidad, her birthplace, for a change of scenery and I was still  pretty miserable for most of it but there was something that happened to me there that even in the midst of my fragmented existential inner torment I could not deny. And it stays with me to this day. I can never forget it.

My mom had a friend in Trinidad who made fruit smoothies from the patio of his house, a bright colored wooden house with a yard that brimmed with abundant fruit trees. All of the fruits and ingredients who used were locally sourced from the island. I remember going there with my mom and another friend of hers to get a few tall frosty blended fruit drinks before we got in a car to drive to the beach. Somewhat just as determined to remain as miserable as I actually was, I took the drink in my hand with no sense of gratitude and then I took a sip and my insides were dancing frantically against the will of depression. The taste was so joyful, so pure, innocent, open, unapologetically present and delicious.

These were not just flavors. This was the taste of something connected to spirit, something I would never taste again, something that could not be duplicated, the edibility of hope and life itself. I felt high and yet I was stubborn and inclined to stuff it down because it just didn’t go along with the heaviness that permeated my being at the time. But I felt it like a bolt of lightening and I know that drink made me want to live again. Taste made me want to live again. The seed was planted. Ridiculous? Maybe. But the reasons that truly let us know we’re alive don’t have to make sense to anyone else.

Continue reading That time Street Food Saved My Life…

NO MORE NORMAL PLEASE

Eventually, doctors will find a coronavirus vaccine, but black people will continue to wait, despite the futility of hope, for a cure for racism. We will live with the knowledge that a hashtag is not a vaccine for white supremacy. We live with the knowledge that, still, no one is coming to save us. The rest of the world yearns to get back to normal. For black people, normal is the very thing from which we yearn to be free.

-Roxanne Gay

This past weekend I went for what has become my reoccurring restorative walk through the park, which is just a block across from where my husband and I live. Since this pandemic began I have taken this walk about once every week or so.

As you know if you have been reading my blog long enough, I derive a deep sense of center, calm, inspiration, regeneration and healing from nature in a way I am ceaselessly thankful for. It’s free and it gives limitlessly, a truly actionable love. I am very much connected to the beings that exist in nature and it’s loving, functional and harmonious energy.

Since my husband is prone to respiratory infections, he has been vigilant at limiting his time outdoors, particularly in the city where Covid infected numbers are at their highest because of the high density of people in NYC. So I’ve gone on these walks alone always, with PPE on and defense at hand. But the more I love this walk, the more I want to share it with my husband and this weekend I asked him in my specially gentle tone (LOL!) if he might and he said yes.

This park has long stretches of wide path that go for miles and miles, breaking off along the way through miles of sky high tall trees, and lower leaning bushes that often create a thick tunnel of green overhead. There are Robins, and Blue Jays, Cardinals. There are large fallen trees that lay like majestic fallen giants in the woods which I have a deep inexplicable affection for.

I have been walking a path, about about 20 minutes long that leads to a crossroad. I take the left road just a few feet to where a long beautiful trunk of a large pale tree lays perfectly on the right side of that path.

There I sit.

There I rest.

There I reflect.

There I try to bring my awareness to the present.

There I dare to close my eyes.

There I breath in deeply.

There I sway to the sound of the trees swaying.

There I stare up into heavenly green canopy.

There, I am here.

 

My husband didn’t sit on the tree trunk with me. LOL! I was fine with that. I just wanted to be there with him, in a place where I have been able to feel free, feel relaxed, feel something like whole and even safe. I sat and watched him remove his mask briefly to take a few long deep breaths. He’s not used to walking this far or this long with his mask on. I’ve adjusted to it. When we got back to the apartment he told me he wants to go for a walk in the park once a week.

No one can take it from me.

 

 

Who Really are the Monsters?

I went to go visit my dad yesterday in Harlem for the first time in months, for the first time since this pandemic came down. I hadn’t been on the subway in months and it was kind of strange but I braved it, stood up all the way. It was a beautiful day and immediately upon emerging next to St Nicholas park I felt something in me restored. On my dads quiet brownstone block there were people sitting on the steps of their homes, a couple listening to music on headphones, a woman doing another elder woman’s hair, a woman taking her friends picture on a bench and smiling, singing, Black people just living, breathing, beautiful, existing. I smiled to myself. I breathed deeply behind my mask. It had been so long since I’d seen Harlem. And I didn’t realized how much I needed it.

I spent about and hour with my dad, talking, catching up, and never once did we talk about George Floyd or Christian Cooper or any of the Black lives taken by or threatened to be taken by racist white monsters over the last few months. It didn’t occur to me until just right now that it was no where in forefront of my mind, that I didn’t even hold it inside me somewhere to bring up in conversation with him later. No, I just wanted to sit and talk with my dad, see how he was doing, how he was keeping. There was no room perhaps for the unprocessed feeling of rage, hurt and anger I was dealing with the day before when isolation because of the pandemic had me drawn like a fly to the flame of social media barrage over these latest outrageous incidents which will not be the last, and yet continue to shock, paralyze, motivate, anger, touch and shape us in ways that are beyond violent. There was no room, no desire. Seeing my dad, being in Harlem, was almost like an escape.

Continue reading Who Really are the Monsters?

Uncomfortable/Ok…

Every day is a little different from the last. And at the same time they blend together imperceptibly. Everything that ever was reality is now smooshed precariously, sometimes neatly, sometimes anxiously and even peacefully into the walls of our apartment. Work, therapy sessions, Dr’s appointments, meetings, shopping (primarily online now) picking out my best t-shirt/sleepwear for Zoom meetings…

I’m getting used it but I’m also getting antsy. I’m scared to get too comfortable.

But I am…comfortable.

And also terrified.

How could I not be terrified looking at the news and all the fucked up shit that’s happening from Pennsylvania Ave on down. The hoards of White bodies sunbathing in the Great Lawn while Brown bodies continue to be brutalized

JUST FOR EXISTING!!!!!!!

But how can I be hateful and angry when I’m here with my wonderful husband and our skittish but beautiful cat? How can I be hateful and angry when I have a job that allows me to work from home, have food to eat and to cook, have clean running water and access to technology? How can I be hateful and angry when I have love in my life?

Apparently I can be hateful and angry and lonely and happy and comfortable and joyful all at once, all in one day and in one moment as well. This is why it has never been more important for me to manage boundaries for myself between that which I can effectively do something about and that which I cannot at the moment. I have to be even more careful about how much violence, tragedy porn and “news” I consume as well trying to be mindful of the point when mindless distractions become empty guilty pleasures (which are sometimes necessary) that reach a point where I have no idea what it means anymore. This is when I have to stop, be still and try to get squared with myself a bit, find some balance, initiate things that require inner resources that can’t be bought, that require more of me then just clicking on “buy” “submit” or “enter.”

Continue reading Uncomfortable/Ok…

Courtyard Cherry Tree Moment

Why don’t we marvel at our own passing time on earth with the same joy and passion? Why do we neglect to revel in life when it can end at any moment, or in the grace surrounding us everywhere: our family, friends, a stranger’s smile, a child’s laugh, new flavours on our plate or the scent of green grass? It is time, cherry blossoms remind us, to pay attention.

This Saturday morning I left my apartment to help my husband with groceries in the car. He gave me all he thought I could handle before driving off to do the stressful work of finding parking. I hauled two shopping bags up to the top of the steps in front of our building. And then I put everything down and decided to hang out for bit. It was only time I would be out that day. I just wanted to take in some fresh air, take in a few deep breaths and stare at the courtyard.

We live in a complex with six building in all. There are at least 3-4 beautiful trees in the courtyard which I have paid very close attention to since this pandemic sent us all to our rooms. I look at them to see how they are blooming, to feel the hope of new growth and to enjoy their beauty. Two of them are already in full bloom with tiny white sprigs of cheerful white flowers.

Directly across from our building is the one Cheery blossom tree in the courtyard. I look at it a lot around this time to see if the blooms look like they might be peeping through but they still look very tiny, dark and uninterested. I can’t look at a fully blooming Cherry tree and not feel joy. I also love how even after the blooms begin to expire, the petals rain down on everything under the tree quietly laying a magical carpet of heavenly pink. I look forward to this. I resist the urge every season to step over the hedge boundaries and just lay in Cherry blossom petals.

I’m standing there in the courtyard breathing deeply and think all this and more and then I start crying. I tried not feel bad about it. No one else is in the courtyard but me. I realize the privilege of having trees in the courtyard where I live. I wonder who planted the trees and why they chose them. I am grateful to have them so close by. Then I took the groceries upstairs.