A trip to the dentist today, such fun!  What started as a routine check-up ended in some serious pain, numbing mouthwash, needles, and laughing gas.  While I lay in the tan, plastic-covered dentist chair sucking in as much nitrous oxide as I could without passing out, my mind began its usual wandering.  The hygienist was just over my right shoulder, no doubt sharping the array of pointy, metal, slash-y so-called “instruments” she planned on jamming into my mouth, while I thought about my childhood and how dentist visits were never so scary or full of Medieval torture devices.  I remembered the first time I ever had a serious visit to the dentist; 6th grade, after moving back to Texas from Germany.  And that’s when it hit me–an idea I had in my head after a conversation with a friend of mine suddenly started to make more sense, as I closed my eyes and went deeper into the memory, drowning out the sound of the whirring drill with vivid images.  I started to answer the question that I had been bouncing around in my head: why are some choices so hard to make, and sometimes, even the choice to make a choice?

“Do you like me? Check ‘yes’, ‘no’, or ‘maybe’.”  That was the note I got in 6th grade from Charlotte, in my last period class on some random Friday in Copperas Cove, Texas.  I can very clearly recall staring down at the note and not wanting to look up, knowing that her eyes were burning a hole in the top of my head, searching for an answer.  I couldn’t say yes; she was just a friend.  But I couldn’t say no; how could I hurt someone who did I like and thought was a sweet, giving person?  I picked up my pencil and carefully checked the ‘maybe’ box.  Almost the instant I did it, I felt lighter, as if a 10 ton weight had been taken off my shoulders.  I had no idea the many problems that came with that ‘maybe’, and that they would end up being a much heavier burden to bear than making a more definitive decision.

Being in relationship limbo sometimes seems like the best thing to do.  Why hurt someone that you care for, even if it’s not a romantic caring?  Why not just ride it out in that void, that strange middle-ground between lover and friend?  I mean, it’s so much easier than making an actual decision!  That’s what I told myself for years after that one moment in 6th grade, and somehow, like the over-achiever I am, I managed to apply this principle to every aspect of my life.  Whenever I needed to make a major decision, I would just check the ‘maybe’ box and put it on hold.  It seems like a great idea at first, but as all the life decisions that are on hold begin to pile up, things get overwhelming, and suddenly there are 20 giant decisions to make at the exact same time, instead of just one.

So I made a choice a few years ago; I chose to stop being stagnant in my life, to step out of the habit of choosing the ‘maybe’ box.  It wasn’t easy, and it is still a constant choice, and one that I don’t consistently make–I still find myself holding out on certain difficult decisions when it’s in my best interest to act immediately.  I can say, however, that I make the greatest effort to.  Quite often, that means me checking the ‘no’ box–no, I won’t start that Master’s program; nope, think I’ll pass on that wacky business venture proposed by my old college buddy in Florida; sorry, I’d rather not spend time with people that are a cancer in my life, good luck with that on your own!  I think the hard part is dealing with the unpopularity that sometimes goes along with those choices.  Playing the role of Mr. Onthefence is so easy, so innocuous.  It isn’t even participating in life, it’s like being a satellite orbiting the lives of all the active players.  I know that being on the line has its time and place…but I think it’s important to avoid making that the comfort zone you live in.  Am I in the minority with that thinking?

Okay, that’s my final attempt at thoughtfulness for the week.  I think now I’ll pop another handful of ibuprofen to preempt the pain that is no doubt on its way after spending two hours listening to Jimmy Buffet on the dentist office overhead speakers, praying in vain for them not to play “Cheeseburger in Paradise”.  If I hear one more steel drum…

Nothing like being surrounded by amazing artists to wrap up a great night, right?  That was me a few days ago, listening to great music, talking to some friends, and having a PBR (Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, for you snobs out there) when I noticed a woman sitting down next to me; she was tan, boy-cut hair, stylish glasses, louder than anyone in the band, and a smart-ass grin on her face–clearly, my type of woman.  She was preparing to take a shot of tequila with a beer back while I was preparing a clever comment, probably something about how I love a woman who starts out her night with Patron, I can’t remember now.  We ended up engaging in conversation the rest of the night though, and before I knew it, we were outside and she was staring me in the face with those drunken eyes, like buoys bobbing aimlessly in the sea, starting out a sentence with the infamous “don’t be offended, but”…I live for that sentence.

“What is it about you? There’s something really weird, I mean, you aren’t like normal black guys. You smile so much and your face is so ‘expressionate’, what’s the deal with that?”  Several thoughts ran through my head at that moment: should I have just taken the drunken rambling of this former heroin addict for exactly what it was–the drunken rambling of a former heroin addict?  Or should I have taken it personally and meditated on it the next day?  Well…obviously, the latter response is more in line with my character–I am so “expressionate”, after all.  But seriously, it made me ponder one of the more irritating stereotypes of black males that seems to have gained prominence in the last 25 years or so.

It is clear if you look at any Rollingstone magazine with a rapper on the cover–black males are not supposed to smile.  In fact, we are supposed to be stone-faced, silent, statuesque, even frowning, long before we smile.  There’s even a term for it; ‘mean-mug’.  I’m serious, that’s an actual term, as ridiculous as it sounds! So because of this false standard, there’s something ‘off’ about a black male smiling at a stranger and showing more emotions that just anger, something more involved than intimidation.  This is what we’ve come to, My Fellow Members of Society; rejoice at our progress!

Joking aside, it’s alarming to me that this trait of feigned aggression or complete lack of emotion is encouraged and even celebrated by mainstream media.  It’s not just in African American culture, I realize that, but that is certainly where it is most evident.  As a black man, I can’t help but be offended when not only does the media force this stereotype on me, but I’m actually questioned for not conforming to it on a night out.

How did this stereotype even develop?  I suppose it came from a combination of things: oppression and fear finally being met with an equal amount of aggression and bitterness, a non-verbal “I’ve been screwed with for a long time, so you need to realize that you can never mess with me again” response from some members of a minority group.  I’m sure part of it has to do with what’s become of hip hop culture, how so-called gangsta rap came into play and changed the complexion of things–it was dangerous, the rappers had all seen friends die on the street for letting their guards down, and had done what they had to for money.  The same cold, hard veneer they put up on the streets was now being translated to videos and magazine covers.  That was the new ‘cool’; baggy pants, a sideways hat, and a pissed off frown making it clear that the artist was not to be disrespected.

I can understand the synthesis of it.  What I hate though, is that it is still perpetuated.  A rapper who is worth hundreds of millions of dollars will still put on his angriest face when photographed.  I’m willing to wager that he and all his family are doing quite well now, and there’s really nothing left of the ‘hood in his life except memories and the occasional phone call–and even if he does feel some need to stay close to those roots, he has the means to help improve conditions there.  Mos Def smiles all the time.  Black Thought of the group The Roots smiles, Questlove from the same group smiles–but these aren’t the figures in hip hop that we see on the magazine covers.  Expression is a huge part of traditional African American culture.  Take a look at the Harlem Renaissance for one very small example.  We laugh, cry, mourn, celebrate, well would you look at that?  I think of Data from the Startrek series–”I am fully capable of simulating human emotion.”  Imagine that; now let’s put that imagine in the media for everyone to see!

I don’t buy into the need to put up a front for the world.  I’m happy.  I have my health.  I’m not rich, but I can take care of myself and my friends when they need it.  Have I seen tragedies?  Sadly, yes.  Suffered at all?  As sure as I sit here.  But in general, things are good.  I’m breathing.  I can turn to a total stranger and smile and strike up and awkward conversation that leads to me writing a blog about it.  I really do hope that the next stranger I meet and talk with, laugh with, stand in front of with an open posture, will respond in kind, not with a look of consternation.  I feel like the Dodo during its species’ last stand on this planet, like some rare, antiquated thing that people look at and think “Jesus, how did that survive?”  Hey, Crazy Girl from the bar–there are plenty of black guys who smile and laugh and do all sorts of things other than frown.  Quit buying every stereotype you’re sold.

Any thoughts?

Saturday, February 13th, 2010, 9:00pm

I left for the airport with a knot in my stomach, clouds fogging my mind as if I was fumbling towards some uncertain destination. I thrust clothes into my bag, cursing from a deep place of frustration as shirt by shirt, I managed to cram my portable belongings into a borrowed carry-on. I felt dazed, automated.. following the motions because the time on the clock was ticking down towards take off. I was not calm. Perhaps my hormones were to blame; perhaps they were a window into an honest part of my self that always lays hidden, mostly silent beneath the layers of complex identity and the hope that fills the rest of the holes. Here, I have a hole. Use google search to find “home” within me and you won’t find a thing. Only a vague jumble of mixed emotions, some idealized white picket fence golden retriever combo with settler family on a hilltop in Samaria. You’ll find a cloud.. darkness. Nothing feels real, only some unattainable ideal. I am alone in this world. My once-partner cast me out and stole the word ‘family’ from me. How can I even dream of ‘home’ when there is no place in me that knows what it looks like? And don’t mock me. Moving from place to place, tearing to pieces each time, simply because I am human, has left me with little belief, or faith, that i can have a home. Or even find the partner to build a home with.

Laurence sat quietly on the couch as I struggled to zip up the luggage. His presence was always a comfort; the physical never mattered with him. It was as if the other half of my soul sat just within reach, reunited. I didn’t know how to deal with the feeling.. his existence, his being, gave me a deep feeling of Home. Constancy. With him I was home. We could travel the world and always be home.. there was no need to try, it simply Was.

The shot of whiskey warmed my stomach but not the anxiety that had me in its grip with mocking ease. Soon we were in the car heading to the airport and I gasped from the pain. The dallas skyline passed before my eyes and I felt, yet again, the depth of my loss. The empty space where the image or understanding of ‘home’ should have been. With Laurence, I never felt alone, but there was little I could do other than reach out feebly for his arm and cling to the sleeve of his sweater as we drove.. I felt the tears as my hand became sweaty, powerless to fill the void eating me from within.

The car came to a stop somewhere by the gate and I moved mechanically to take my things out of the car. Mechanical door slam, closed trunk, hug, deep breath, hasty goodbye, step, step, up the escalator, check in, security.. The airport enveloped me before I knew it but I felt lost. I couldn’t do anything about it. I still had so far to travel, so much to sort out. There was never anything I could do. How to cope with the pain? How to regain hope, cover the feeling of helplessness?

How do I even dream of Home?

three months ago

i dont want to forget her..
in my life, forgetting is too easy.. i treat each segment as past. as a memory.
i was so sure. i am so sure. i know that what i feel is real.
i know that what i had was real. she gave herself to me..
but something in her was always scared, terrified.
i dont want to forget her. i dont want to forget the moments
when she opened and we made love, through hope and fear, the visible, and the nistar.
i dont want to forget her. the soft skin beneath my fingertips, every inch, every curve, feeling her
beneath me, above me, beside me, within me, feeling her skin merge with my own til i could feel her soul
throbbing against mine.
perhaps we pushed fate, and asked to be together. our souls, pulled together by our deep-felt love and the power of will, bonded.. began to take hold of each other and join tenderly, carefully.. the beginning of an eternal union.
i know. i feel it in the ache that hurts beyond the physical. my soul aches.. the bonds have been severed, pulling our souls apart.
but i dont want to forget.
perhaps we forced fate.
but i love her.
her life force moved me.
i am already beginning to forget.
i miss her energy. her gentle touch.. her hands, resting lightly upon me. eyes that saw worlds, looking into mine.
she joined me and we rose. through fear we fell. each time, fallen from light into darkness, climbing awkwardly back into the light, searching for each other again.
i will miss her. i wanted to raise children with her, bring light into the world.
i will miss making love to her in the moments when boundaries melted..
to know love such as this is a blessing.
her smell. her breath. her love. her soul. her spirit. her darkness and her light. her eyes that took me in and enveloped me when we trusted each other.
her energy and her strength. even her deep weakness.
i know that i love her.
i know that my soul bound itself to hers. through my will. through her will. through ours.
i know that i am torn now and must heal.
i know that the ache in my heart is less than the ache in my soul.
i do not want to forget what it is to Know.
I Know.
Such is the path fate has decided
and we were not strong enough to resist.

So, this past year hasn’t been the easiest one for me, for any number of reasons.  Since this blog isn’t in the ’self-help’ or ‘depression’ section of the internet library, I’ll spare you all the gory details.  Basically, for the last 10 months, me sitting at home alone for more than two days in a row, equals disaster.  I’m talking about drinking way too much Jameson whiskey and listening to “In Too Deep” by the terrible imitation of Genesis that Phil Collins headed, over and over again until I end up in a drunken heap on the couch.  Classy, I know.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the value of music, how it can heal even in its most casual forms, especially in tandem with companionship.  I spent the night with a few friends at a local spot in the Fair Park area of Dallas that happens to have an amazing jazz night.  Have an instrument, talent, and want to sit in?  Sure, come on up!  It’s the type of place that is infectious in its mood; everyone there is affected by the music, the warmth and the intricacies of the various parts that connect to form a song.  Everything in that bar is soothing, knit, macrame’, soft, enveloping.  Physical touch, pure and simple in its ability to heal, is the currency there.  Except for at the bar.  Money is still the currency at the bar (the bartenders don’t like it when you try to pay in hugs–trust me).  Oh well.

I sat listening to the music, letting the infectious smiles on the faces of the musicians spark my own.  This is the kind of therapy I can get behind–no psychoanalyst’s couch like in a classic Freudian cliche’.  Just fingers on keys, rim-shots, the vibrations of a reed, the crooning of a honeyed voice.  Sigh…and they only play until 1:45am??

I’m going to need more whiskey.  Clearly.

The Medieval feel of this picture is striking to me–dark, intimidating, a hint of mystery–something disturbing is happening, no doubt.  Fear must have filled that room with a sickly, cold, metallic taste, like an old penny on your tongue.  Alright, alright, I’m dramatizing.  In truth, it was a very happy moment, and that room was filled with laughter and jokes during a quick procedure in which a friend of mine got a dermal anchor inserted in her neck.

Willingly taking a foreign object into your flesh, scarring your skin, injuring it over and over in the same spot, just to make a permanent mark, something we will carry with us and remember always.  Yet when we are changed so drastically against our wills, things fall apart.  We resent it.  Sometimes, we wish we could permanently remove it from our lives.  However, as with many forms of body modification, this is easier said than done.

The picture was taken in Austin for the ritual.   A city like Austin is a good compliment to Dallas…it serves as a kind of respite from the speed and the urgency by providing opportunities for connections to the natural world, and what I can only describe (from my own experiences, of course) as ’spirit walking’–following your spirit to wherever it leads you, and gaining invaluable insight from the journey.  Don’t worry…I’m going to stop now, before I get too pretentious…in any event, one of my close companions made it along for the trip, days after going through a horrible, agonizing break-up that was the result of a horrible, agonizing relationship.  The relief was palpable, but the damage done, the scars?  They will always be with her.  Going to Austin offered the chance for a salve.

We spent the evening downtown, stopping off at a favorite little bar/coffee house of mine for chips and salsa as well as a few Lonestar beers.  After drinking in the great atmosphere and art, we headed to a sushi restaurant and met up with old friends and made some new ones.  It was a nice dinner, filled with great food and great conversation.

Lately Austin has evoked mixed feelings in me; it reminds me of fun times, great music, beautiful friendships sparked.  But it also reminds me of personal loss, relationships that couldn’t bear the strain of what?  Life, I suppose.  I carry that with me everywhere I go, but I suppose some days it’s more obvious to me than others.  Like fingering a cold, metal stud on the back of your neck, almost unaware of it the entire day and then suddenly so intensely aware of its presence.

The dermal anchor procedure took place after dinner; the decision to get it that night was mostly spur of the moment, and more time was spent waiting than anything else.  It was the artist who did the work that was the most intriguing part to me.  He was a walking canvass.  Whatever each piercing on his face meant, each tribal symbol on his arms, all of it–it was immortalized on him.  Every moment physically etched on the canvass of his flesh.  He was the tangible manifestation of my psyche: a road map, everything laid out in patterns and there staring back at me when I turn the mirror on myself.  Some of those things, I cherish.  Some, I regret with all my heart.

We all left Austin essentially the same as how we were when we went there, all arms and legs and digits safely in their original places.  One of us had a piece of metal in her neck, though.  We all knew it, but halfway through the drive home, we’d grown accustomed to it; it would always be there and that was that.  Does the same holds true for the emotional scars we bear, though?  I often wonder, when we catch a glimpse in the mirror and spot that brand, that agonizing moment that has been burned into us for the past three years, should there be silent resignation?  Or should we run to the nearest solution, whatever extreme measure we think my remove the pain from us like a laser on a tattoo?  Or finally, should we embrace each scar and mark as a part of us; we came into this world a blank canvass, but the marks over the years are what shaped us into who we are.  Why not celebrate our survival, and use the memory as a reminder?

What do you think?

What a month already!  I decided to spend last night in the heart of the city, downtown with the lights and buildings looming over me, everything moving faster than anything has any right to on cold winter days like these.  I’ve been troubled lately…dealing with changes in myself, my relationships, the very air around me–let’s just say it’s left me waxing philosophical more often than not.

After spending some time downtown with an old friend that I don’t see nearly enough, I decided to hit a local coffee shop to have dinner with the lovely Brittany.  Little did I know that while I waited for her to arrive, a budding friendship would strike a creative match in my soul.

“What brought you to work at the Community College?” was the question that did it.  I was sitting at a table, drinking a house blend and talking to my new friend Danny on the phone, still going through the “getting to know you” growing pains.  The question took me back nearly three years, to my graduation from Baylor, the largest Baptist University in the world, and my return to Dallas, city of the hedonistic impulse.

My homecoming wasn’t the festive event I hoped for: no fancy job lined up, all my friends gone and married, everything in my old room at home just as it was the day I left.  I decided I would have to be the change I wanted to see–I was going to commit myself to being an artist.  Devote myself to my writing, my charcoals and pencils, my clumsy music, whatever means I wanted to express myself with.  But something distracted me, something about seeing my peers (or rather, not seeing them) and their successes, their families and their important lives, made me feel…like a failure.

I told my new friend that it was that fear that made me go to the Community College and apply for the part time job that two short years later would lead to administration.  “Who the hell have I become?” I wondered as we talked.  Suddenly, almost on cue, I felt the spark, the fleeting spirit that carries inspiration with it!  It passed through me and I caught it although I almost didn’t recognize it due to months of estrangement.  I tore out my notebook and began to write.  I ordered queso and chips.  Sent Brittany threatening texts while I waited.  Wrote even more.  My sultry waitress in her corset and heels asked if I wanted any real food–I sent her packing.  In creative moments like those, real food is useless–only coffee will do, hot on the near-empty stomach, nothing substantial to make you lethargic and useless.

That’s how things are here in this city, it seems.  Everyone’s always drinking too much coffee, eating too little food, moving too fast, never sleeping.  The traffic never slows for a moment, no matter the hour: home of the 24-hour-anything-you-can-conceive-of.  That’s Dallas.  I’m trying to pick up the pace and maybe catch up to the man I once planned on being.  One more cup of coffee might help.

Wednesday, December 16th, 2009 at 5:00pm

I woke up this morning exhausted but with a smile.

Time flies by so quickly that I find it hard to place myself firmly in this churning river of stories and undercurrents, pulling me every which way. I wonder sometimes about the stories that make up our sense of self.. the images in our minds that combine to give us a sense of identity, presence, and being.

…I ask “why?”

Every story takes me into a newly created reality, a new step; but then i inevitably remember that there is nothing new under the sun.. matter is neither created nor destroyed.. energy recycles itself into images, tastes, and sounds that mesh together into some sort of massive conglomerate of endless buzzing stories.

I feel them left and right.
Up and down. Multidimensional. Zooming past me..

I look into the faces of friends and strangers and it’s as if i can hear all their emotions gathered up behind them, in the air around them, talking a million miles per second in a chaotic frenzy. Even the voices that are silent weigh heavily and bludgeon a dark, powerful path.

Sometimes i awake and question everything i know with my own silent voice..
A choking pain seizes my chest, grips my body, and holds me forcefully still.

In that moment, that terrifying moment of Existence fragmenting in my mind, a deep knowing rises from my gut and spills forth into my body.. arms and legs, slowly making its way up until it reaches my eyes.

The buzzing quiets..

And I am reminded to love.

There is no reason in this world. We have to cleanse ourselves somehow in the madness.

Wednesday, December 9th,  2009 at 3:30am

Typical day: woke up around 7am when the sun finally warmed my room, thanked Hashem in that split second between being fully awake and still floating softly in my world of dreams, put my toes into yummy slippers, headed to the bathroom, wandered groggily into the kitchen, made delicious turkish coffee from the arab shuk.. then sat, surrounded by books and mountains, just breathing and reflecting. The day always hits once the coffee is mostly gone..

I made my way to Jerusalem sometime in the afternoon, driving along winding roads that were empty..  Clouds had gathered, turning the sky to a heavy grey. There is something about clouds in the desert.. something about the sky feeling so much closer and present. Tangible.. By the time I had entered Jerusalem, the clouds had simply melded together above darkened buildings and trees that looked helpless in the wind. I kept looking at people’s faces as i drove by.. No one was smiling. I thought to myself, why is it so hard for them to remember that rain is a blessing? Where was the joy?

Time passed and by chance, my appointment was canceled. I sat in my car slightly annoyed and wondered where to go.. feeling somehow part of the storm and yet oddly detached. I felt safe from my life,  from the world, enclosed in my little bubble of metal, leather and padding.. listening to Dezarie while blasting heat in my face. Deeply wishing I had something to do.

As I stared listlessly out of the car window lacking all motivation, my eye caught site of an old woman making her way slowly up the street. She was using a walker, stumbling along as if she were fighting the wind and her own body at the same time.. My heart froze. I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to watch and wait. She leaned heavily against the parked cars as she tried walking up the hill. Her eyes were covered by dark sunglasses that hid her face, and again I hesitated, simply not knowing how to act.

A moment later she was beside my car and I saw the deep, fine lines in her face, the struggle to stay composed in spite of her weakness, the fierce pride in her posture, and the desire to live. My heart overcame my anxiety and I hopped out of the car rushing over to her with a smile, praying that I would not embarrass her! She stood still in shock, struggling to hear me over the wind.

“Hi!” I said in the most casual, friendly voice I could muster while shivering in the cold. “Can I help you? Where do you need to go, I will give you a ride.”

“WHAT?!” she replied, taken aback.. I flushed with embarrassment and somehow managed to repeat my offer, this time gesturing to my car and the heat emanating from the open door. Finally she looked at me and said while shaking her head in frustration, “I have to go to the pharmacy today but my leg is not doing well in this cold.”

“Please let me take you” I said to her with a warm smile. “I will take you there and bring you home when you are done.”

“You will wait for me?” she said in disbelief. “GOD BLESS YOU! You are my angel today!” She started to hobble over to my car, mumbling about how it was a miracle from Hashem that I had come. “This is my lucky day!” she said again and again. I helped her in, then drove to the pharmacy while trying to make amicable conversation. Her English was perfect.. I found out that her husband had died, that she had been living in Israel for 24 years, that now there was no one left.. that she was alone.

She told me she had lived all over the world, from europe to the U.S.. and in one quick breath, she told me that she had survived the holocaust. My knuckles tightened on the wheel. We pulled up to the pharmacy before we could speak any further and I helped her in. She could barely move her leg.. I don’t know how she had planned on making it to the pharmacy by walking. With a toughness borne from years of survivial, she said “I don’t like missing a day taking my medicine, so I had to go.” I wondered in my heart how the elderly of Jerusalem managed to get their medicine..

After she bought the medication, I helped her back into the car and drove her to her home, offering to carry her bag for her. Embarrassment crept into her face and I quickly added that I would only walk her to the door.  My heart dropped yet again as I saw that she lived on the second floor and had to walk up 20 stairs. I couldn’t understand.. my mind wouldn’t let me understand or how else could I go on living knowing that this was reality?

It took us five minutes to climb the stairs, yet we made it and stood facing each other in front of her door. She reached out steadily and took my hand in a firm handshake.

“My name is Sara” she said with a deep strength that was heartbreaking.

“My name is Talya” I replied, looking into her dark sunglasses.

She thanked me and blessed me, that all the good things in my heart should come to fruition. Then I thanked her, from the bottom of my heart, for having had the honor of meeting and helping her. I walked away with the hairs of my arm standing on end, feeling so helpless and yet so blessed that I had tears in my eyes. I pondered what to do next.. pondered all the elderly who struggle daily with both their emotional and physical pain.. I pondered how many elderly in the streets I could have helped if I had looked outside of myself and paid attention.

Perhaps this friday I will bring her flowers and leave them outside her door with a note. Maybe I will get lucky and take her to the pharmacy again.

And to think, all this because I had asked for something to do. Jerusalem is a powerful city if we open ourselves to it.

I hope Sara is doing well..