Exiting

Time to go
Escape leaving no footprint
That first step
No looking back
The decision
An opening
The Doorway
Passing the threshold
No more
Enough
Not enough
Too much
Too little
The Female Form
Entering
The joy and the ecstasy
Revived
Temptation
Retribution
The Amityville Horror
Tiptoe the Fuck out!
A clean get-away
No regret
No remorse
No visitors
No more hiding
Exposure
Extension
Exhalation
Existence
Exit

Rediscovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

Discovering Latin American Soul in Seoul

I spent part of my afternoon at Deoksugung Palace and the Korean National Museum of Art after escaping Itaewon and all the American tourists buying Puma or Nike sneakers, Gap shorts and Levis jeans in Seoul, South Korea. I have never understood why Americans fly all over the world to go shopping for things they can purchase at their local mall. It is not like America doesn’t have enough malls, although I am not a very good American tourist, I must have missed the class on how to be a quality American tourist no matter where you go.

The Palace was elegant, homey, fun and stirred some old memories from different times and places from before I was michael. I have been here before; not as who I am today in this body. It’s nice to visit home away from home every now and then. My heart felt full of times when I lived more focused and committed than I do today. There was no remorse for the steps I have taken backwards, it was more about remembering who I am, and what and where I have come from as a human and as a Presence.

As invigorating as the Palace experience was for me, the art museum reached deeper. It never occurred to me while riding the yellow, orange, brown and blues lines downtown that I would end up at a Korean art museum exhibiting Latin American art in downtown Seoul. I giggled internally when walking up the steps and could feel the smirk on my face.

The exhibit rocked. Each viewing room and its theme touched a different part of me. The first room full of work expressing The Revolution connected with The Revolutionary in me that is never too far from the surface. Diego Rivera’s work got me the most fired-up with his passion and use of colors and texture that soothe and stir simultaneously.

The exhibit on mixing of cultures and races with black, brown and every shade of woman in between with their varied bodies, fashion, joy and pain reminded me of how long women have struggled for recognition and respect.

The final two rooms exhibited work focused on cultural and individual identity. Of course, this is when I felt most connected with the artists and the brushstrokes and heart strokes of their lives as people. Folks seemed to be moved by Frida Cahlo’s pieces the most, me, it was the force of Wilfredo Lam, Alexandro Xul Solar and Roberto Matta Echaurren.

Apparently I needed a dose of Latin American culture while visiting Seoul. I am grateful to have experienced such beauty and passion here next to City Hall in Seoul.

Being One Of Them

Today I was a consumer. Not just normal Michael-type consumption; today I was one of them.

Typically for me, shopping consists of several visits to the local thrifts shops. It entails being open-minded enough to letting the store lead me toward the style I want, as opposed a pre-conceived notion of what “I need”. Thrift shops serve many supportive functions. They are the original and most effective form of recycling I know of. Modern day recycling of glass, plastic, paper and cans, use more energy resources than producing new products. This gives us the illusion, an unspoken license to use, use, use, as long as we put the USED item in the city-recycling bin. So, I have a genuine appreciation for the real recycling that transpires at thrift shops.

Thrift shops are also an effective means of sweatshops. Simply put, if nothing new is sold, therefore, production goes down and the twelve year old who works eleven-hour days for one dollar will actually see his/her family that day. Less use, less abuse.

It is so much fun walking out of a thrift shop with an Old Navy or J. Crew pair of jeans for $2.99. It is my way of giving corporate America the finger. They will not get my money. My Soul is too precious, and I have worked too hard to reclaim it. It is no longer up for grabs, especially not for them. This is my way to let The Gap, Tommy Hilfiger, Nike, Wal-Mart, Kmart or any other mart feel the consequences of their actions; I am not for sale thank you!

No ownership. Thrift shops are typically not owned by anyone. There are the privately owned “vintage” shops, but they are a different breed that typically charges more for a lime green polyester sport coat from 1978 than you would pay for anew one-and a more attractive version too. I feel good about giving my money to no one. Mr. or Mrs. No One cannot do much cannot do much with the money I give them. In fact, they do the reverse, they hire people that typically not very employable or volunteers. And, they give their profits away. They actually give the money they make away to an organization or church or temple or something non-profit. For me, if there is no Co-op in town, this is how Michaels shop.

But not today. I tried the thrift shops in search of something specific to no avail. I tried to bend to meet the available selections but it really wasn’t what I needed. So, I broke my rule and went into franchise/chain stores.

People like me do not do well in these kinds of stores. The music annoys me since I am not seventeen anymore. The fragrances offend me since I like the way humans actually smell, as well as air. The energy is sterile prostitution and the semi-dressed, twenty year old girls that haven’t eaten since 2005 sales associates remind me of everything wrong with this country. Their pre-programmed smile, verbiage and perky demeanor smell of Hell- the place where Spirit and love are devoid. Corporate Hell. I visited C.H. today, willingly. The first sweet young thing with cleavage, midriff and the curves of the brim of her butt exposed was entertaining, even a little seductive in a sick kind of creep middle-aged guy kind of way. I mildly reciprocated her flirting for a brief moment. Then I said to myself, “OK, so these are not really what I wanted to buy, but she is really cute, friendly and attentive… maybe I need to be more flexible in my purchases.” Then I noticed how tightly she was clutching her shiny, red cell phone for dear life and remembered how old I am, and NO; these are not what I need to buy- regardless of cleavage, midriff or butt-crack! After a few of these experiences replicated to varying degrees, I found a store that had what I was looking for and I bought it. I bought it knowing that a woman or child with their sweat made it in China and suffering on the sandals, even before I will wear them. Knowing that this corporate chain has put mom and pop shoe stores out of business all over the country. Knowing that I am now “one of them”- Corporate Consumer. I am almost was in tears when I left wearing my new Spalding sandals.

After further review, the replay shows indisputable evidence I AM NOT ONE OF THEM! I rode my beat-up, black Trek bike what ended up to be five or six miles to get there – I could have used my van. My shirt and shorts were bought at Savers last spring. I did not accept the temptation of BOGO just because I could. I put my old sandals in my canvas bag that a local grower at the Eastside farmers Market in Madison, WI gave me two seasons ago as a gift for being such a strong supporter of local growers and her. I do not need your plastic shopping bag, a second pair of footwear at half off or anything else. Eleven dollars. Brand new Spalding athletic sandals for eleven dollars. An incredible deal but at what cost to those whose sweat mixed with my while pedaling my bike in the hot Virginia sun?

I am not one of them
I am not one of them

Me and my Soul are not for sale. We are not on the open market.
WE ARE NOT FOR SALE ANYMORE!

There is More Work to be Done

Tomorrow is Cinco de Mayo. I will eat at a Mexican restaurant here in Charlottesville, VA. So far, it seems like a great town and UV is really nice. The students all seem soft and friendly.

I’m sitting in my van in a mostly empty parking garage a little past midnight. I was at the library but it just closed. How does a library close at midnight on the Sunday night before finals week? I was online catching up on stuff, emailing couch surfers and one of my former supervisors at the Urban League Ed. Oh yeah, I applied for a job at Villa Julie U in Maryland in my shorts, t-shirt and sandals.

Today was my second travel day after leaving Danbury. Somehow my door fixed itself enough for me to be able to open and close my door to get I and out but more importantly- push the switch that opens my gas lid on the outside of the van. I stuck a small mirror that I bought to be a temporary replacement for the driver’s side mirror, which was crushed. Not the best situation but it works till I get it all fixed. I guess I need to stay somewhere long enough in order for that to happen.

I emailed a bunch of couch surfers earlier this evening but both that responded that they were too busy with exams to host tonight; I will sleep in my van. After I finish writing, I will search for a place for me to hide and rest without being bothering or being bothered by others. This being a college town, I need to be more attentive. It was warm today here, so I will not have to worry about the temperature tonight.

Last night I couch surfed with a young woman who rents a loft out in the country on a horse farm about 30-40 miles from Baltimore and a little further form D.C. She was nice, friendly and accommodating but we really never hit it off. We are different in too many critical ways. A few are pace/speed of life, need for control/freedom and general ease with life. We went to an old town named Ellicott Coty this afternoon. That went better but our variance in walking speed was a little uncomfortable. She lives alone and has no friends in the rural area she lives in. This affected her social skills and need for connection I think.

While being tourists, we visited historic “Colored School” that was restored. The history and feel of the place were re-assuring to me. Somehow I felt hope form being there and seeing and feeling the courage that was necessary for them to have such a school. I take schooling and so many other privileges for granted. This was subtle ad heartfelt reminder of the struggles that many folks have endured and still do. There is more work to be done. We are not free yet.

I have experienced what Reiki students go through that I had not personally felt in a real long time. It is the fall-off in intensity, focus and rhythm after a group intensive. The separation from the Teacher and the group energy has demonstrated that I have just begun this new process with new meditations. What we feel in the force, depth and connection to the energy deceases significantly when we are by ourselves in the world again. I already miss the intensive and the group. There is more work to be done.

Persian Red or Indian Textile?

Persian Red. The label said “Indian textile” but for me, it is Persian Red. Decorated with blue and green little leaves, dark, almost Navy blue hearts and multi-colored crowns of lotus. But still Persian Red; the color of many great Islamic ceramic and mosaic dishes, bowls and vases; skullcaps worn by Sufis while dancing The Turn and the background cover of my first book of Rumi poems given to me with a flower in a glass jar by an ex-lover who thought I needed more Rumi in my life, she was correct. The book was Essential Rumi translated by Coleman Barks.

Jallaluddin Rumi. Mevlana. Of h Great Teacher of Mine, thank you. Thank you for your passion and desire. Thank you for your live and devotion. Thank you for your wisdom and knowledge. Your words are what I compare all other words next to. No wonder my words never reach the apex I fantasize about creating. And finally, than you for showing me how to dream and for showing up in my dreams. Your Presence when I am sitting in my chair in the morning is that of an old, welcomed Friend. Much like the Friend you used to write, sing and dance about.

Persian red. That is the color of my new writing book. It has a nice firm, solid cover with double-ringed, black spirals. The paper is soft and smooth; my pen is having a field day gliding across the faded charcoal lines. This is a good book for me to write in.

I bought it last month with a Barnes and Noble Gift Card I was given at a school training a year and a half ago. The problem with gift cards is my eyes are bigger than the amount they are designated for. I always end up spending more on my gift card than if I did not have one altogether. In this case, the gift card was $25 and I ended up spending $27 above the card amount. But, I did end up with this fabulous Persian Red notebook and books by Natalie Goldberg and Alice Walker, a book on writing that I have not gotten yet and Diane Ackerman’s A Natural History of the Senses. It is sitting next to me right now leaning on my black book bag splattered across the old, wooden bench “we: are sitting on in Bicentennial Park. Just the title and looking at the succulent green leaves on the cover have aroused my senses enough to hear all the different varieties, to smell the cedar chips and fresh blooming flowers and enjoy the wilting branches with their leaves tickling the back of my neck head with every breeze that caresses them. Yep, this book is definitely in the on deck circle.

The on deck circle. I am glad to even have an on deck circle again. I am able to actually read again. Between the prescription reading glasses, focus and not working; reading has gently nudged itself back into my world. Lots of words. Written words have firmly rooted themselves right in front of me and said with conviction, “READ ME! I am here and you need me. Read me and write me. I am here and I am not going away!”. So, written words are back into my circle of friends. Welcome back written words and welcome, my new Persian red notebook. May the next two hundred pages make you both proud.

De-Expresion

It is now white, very white. You can see the spots that are not as white but still very white. I am sure the landlord will only see the places that the orange, blue, red, green, purple and black refused to be hidden. Just like early in the twentieth century when American women refused to have their voices and votes hidden any longer. Just like when the Voice of Nelson Mandela refused to be hidden or silenced by prison, hate or violence. When Brother Malcolm returned from his Pilgrimage in Mecca and refused to support division, and in fact promoted inclusion, and reformed, open-heartedly a vision of what we need to do to be free. The Creative and Inspired Voice has a way of making itself known no matter how many coats of paint one tries to hide it with.

How can we accurately represent or portray six months of days and nights filled with love, tears, songs, laughter, dances, sharing, huge hugs and community after its visual evidence has been whitewashed away? Did we just commit treason of the highest order by submitting to the system constructed to whitewash creativity and uniqueness? But, who would be better assigned to such a task than the creators and lovers themselves? Is there anyone else qualified to dissolve James De La Vega’s chalk masterpieces on the sidewalks of Harlem than De La Vega himself or Mother Nature herself? NO, I think not.

I am writing this knowing the answer but fighting hard to hold back the tears. Real hard. I am leaning against the cement base of the UVA flagpole in front of the newly painted columns of The Rotunda. It’s a gorgeous Sunday morning including tourists with cameras, and Christians in Khakis coming from Church strolling around campus. This is not where and when someone cries hysterically over participating in the process of de-expression. No, not here or now. Maybe I am not courageous enough to let myself breakdown and mourn over being one of the Brillo-scrubbers this morning. I am not strong enough to be that man. After centuries and millennium of witnessing de-expression, the wounds in my belly, heart, mind, ears and eyes are too deep, I am not man enough to embrace the kind of paint that deep.
But they are.

They, the ones who together produced the playlists on his MacBook that was the soundtrack of this loving family of a small, special group of humans. Young humans with friendship, trust, passion and wide open arms perfectly sculpted for hugs that make my knees weak by the sheer force of their love, compassion, hope and humility. They drew the purple sketches of the girl with the amazingly straight nose standing tall next to her soft, pillowy cheeks. They wrote The Welcome in all its bright undeniable colors that spoke the Universal language of Welcome to anyone fortunate enough to enter this Temple of love and community. They who as a group created their own Ten Commandments that lift and include us all, while simultaneously letting us know that we may not be there yet, but know where to go and why.

Purple and blue was the hardest to de-express. The vitality and boldness of these two pigments would make The Buddha, Jesus, Abraham, Kwan Yin and Mohammed proud parents of children like blue and purple. Just look at the sky or any flower garden for proof of their force. The orange was easy to de-express, just like the bag of tangelos we inhaled to quench our thirsts on this hot day while scrubbing.

The handprints on the ceiling had pigments glorifying the colors of the rainbow and de-expressing them took our whole bodies to distinguish. We had to stretch and bend to make sure all evidence of this experience never happened, the lost votes in Florida in 2000 were easier to hide than the tempura paint handprints holding and hugging all below them with love, warmth and forgiveness. These hands caressed and massaged the wounded hearts that Mother Culture beat and abused. The hands reached down to them providing safety and protection. A place where being you was what was expected of you. Not in spite of who you are, but because if who you are!

When I walked up the stairs to the living room this morning, the whiteness startled me. I have many friends of Color who experience being startled by whiteness every day of their lives, for me, this morning was too much. No, I am not man enough to face this pain. How can I allow these tears trying to purify and cleanse my heart and Soul for this act of heresy but I will de-express them too.

If I am experiencing this level of violation and stripping of their outward expression of their days and nights they shared meals, words, arms and dreams together; what about them? I am just a weary traveler grateful for a place to rest my head. This is their collective creation.
When will we choose expression over oppression?

Today, my vote in the primary of life is to express and create. No more de-expression, not one more day!

May 25, 2008, Charlottesville, VA