Streamlining

There comes a moment when all of the voices in your life become too loud.

My rapper friend L.T.Z. has a song with this chorus: “My mom’s friends say ‘Do what makes you happy.’ My pop’s friends say ‘You look just like your daddy.’ My high school friends say, ‘Man, you still rappin’?’ What kind of friend you gon’ be when you look at me?”

We all live under multiple sets of expectations:

• Our parents want us to do certain things – and we are lucky when both parents want the same thing.  
• Our spouses want us to do certain things. 
• Our bosses want us to do certain extracurricular things.  
• Our pastors want us to do certain things.  
• Our fitness trainers
• Our dietitians
• Our neighbors
• Our fellow-PTA members
• Our mentors.   

All the different streams of advice can become overwhelming.

None of these people are trying to hurt us.  In the worst case scenario, they have a misguided understanding of our role in the world and think we need to behave how they say in order to keep the globe on its axis.  They mean well.  They most likely are under the distinct opinion that this course of action will make you happiest.

But when your boss wants you to take on another project that could lead to a promotion, and your husband wants you to spend more one-on-one time with both him and your middle daughter, and your pastor wants you to lead a small group, you have to look at your calendar and the bags under your eyes and understand that not every person’s advice is relevant at this moment.  Something has to yield.
(In my example, it probably seems obvious to choose family, but our choices aren’t always obvious.)

When faced with several opportunities to do something good, which do you pick? When forced to put one thing you love in front of something else you love, which do you pick?

This is when it’s best to respectfully thank all your wise voices for their advice and get on your knees with your Bible open.  Only God can show you which task or relationship needs your attention right now.  Life is about balance and everything has its time and season.  Every person and every task has seasons of yes, no, and wait.

Lao Tzu is credited with saying, “At the center of your being you have the answer; you know who you are and you know what you want.”

I am guilty of “loving too much,” being interested in and excited by almost anything.  I want to be a teacher whose kids pass their state tests with flying colors and can brilliantly analyze Ayn Rand and Stephenie Meyer and X-Men.  I want to be on the national list of dope poets, listen to all the rap music and a spattering of all other music, and make the leaderboard of Younique cosmetics presenters.  I want to do yoga every damn day, distribute Shaklee health products, coach high school cheer, and rock healthy, huge, natural hair.  I want to co-lead a small group of Christ-followers who are doing everything they can to make earth look like heaven.  And I want to marry a dark-skinned African and have at least three smart, artistic, athletic, loving, well-adjusted kids who function well as a team. And read 50 books in a year (or 25 books every year). And fill out a March Madness bracket as someone who knows which teams are good.  And run a 5k.  And be a weekday vegan who cooks 90% of the meals at home.

Are you starting to see my problem? There’s almost no way in the world to accomplish all these goals at once.  This is a bucket list.  This might be a bucket list and a half, despite the fact that I plan to live to be 100.  And different people from different areas of my life want me to accomplish each of these goals sooner rather than later.

I’m reminded of a scene in the movie Uptown Girls.  Brittany Murphy’s character has a bunch of possessions she claims to love, but she is recently broke and needs the income that selling many of them would bring in.  Her friend tells her she must “streamline. Find your center.” She means: not everything here is truly important to you. Some of it can be “sold” to “pay for” something that is closer to the core of who you are.

Some of us spend too much time underneath others’ words and we have forgotten the strength and intelligence of our highest selves, the selves who are closest to God, who have His words hidden in our hearts.  Some of us have become too invested in things and people that are not essential to us reaching our most important goals.

When confusion comes, take in all the advice, take inventory of all your baggage, then sit down with nothing but the truth and figure out what is truly attached to your core.

#iLoveMyCore

Six Months Later

In my last post, my New Year's post, I didn't mention much about school because I was a little emotionally overwhelmed about it.  They took me out of my on-level English classes with 90 students and put me in a co-taught special education classroom with 30 students.  They said it was because I was inexperienced.  Last month, they didn't offer me a contract to return on the premise that I didn't have enough experience.

Because God is awesome and He makes provisions for you before you know you need them, I was offered an interview from a small independent African American district before I even knew they weren't asking me back.  I was asked, interviewed, and hired directly by the superintendent.  She saw me performing poetry at Urban Roots and thought I might be a good match. I'll be teaching on-level English and one or two creative writing or poetry classes.  It's an awesome opportunity! I'm so excited!

I published my poetry chapbook The Risk to Bloom and have sold several copies. I had a feature show that I got paid for (that's three now!) and I booked another feature. I am in talks with three other potential features.  I have a ton of video from these shows but I haven't had time to edit and publish it yet.

I have been asked to write for a group called Soul Medicine. I will post a link and more information about that soon.

I have done a ton more praying and seeking. I have received several revelations about myself, my future, who God wants me to marry and what He wants me to do in the meantime. God is good. I am currently reading The Utter Relief of Holiness by John Eldredge.  I'm going to make another attempt at reading The Daniel Plan by Rick Warren. If you have any other books written by Christians about health, feel free to recommend them.
I have not yet developed a daily without fail prayer and Bible study time. Sometimes I skip a day and other days I'm in it for 2-6 hours. I am inconsistent.

My health is all over the place. I don't eat well. I do exercise regularly, but that is offset by my lack of nutrition and sleep.

My summer goals are these:

1) Read Judges, 2 Samuel, 1 and 2 Kings at least. Maybe 1 and 2 Chronicles also.
2) Find good recipes, make good, clean, healthy food and eat regularly.
3) Find a good workout regimen with RIPPED, zumba, and yoga.
4) Read novels, excerpts, and other things for school unit prep.
      a) I will keep my book list on my blog and update it with reviews.
5) Travel and perform
     a) Right now Dallas, Houston, Kansas City, Baltimore, DC, and New York are on the list.  That's probably enough for one summer, but you never know what's going to happen.
6) Tutor
7) Draft my nonfiction book and write good, short things

Snow Day 2013

Today was the first snow day of my career. It started sleeting and snowing as we left school yesterday and schools around the state were cancelled today.

So I spent the day organizing my life - which I do every break I get - and getting ready to publish my first poetry book, The Risk to Bloom.  I am done with my part of the writing.  I have two people writing introductions, though I might only choose one.  I need to write an author's note and choose cover art.  I am scheduling a promotional photo shoot. I have appointed a creative director - my best friend, Jessica, who I don't pay, lol. Yet!  And I am overwhelmed in a good way.

I wrote and edited a poem for a show next week. Procrastinor, much? But I like the poem. Working sporadically on memorization.
The show is going to be incredible.  I'm excited for Soul Williams and honored that I was chosen to be a part of the magic.

I have realized that listening to poets - specifically The Strivers Row - on YouTube while I write, edit, and rehearse keeps me motivated. So while I was doing that, I heard this and needed to post it.


Alysia Harris is everything. Everything.

She loves Jesus, too, if you were wondering. Follow her twitter. 

Writer, Bridge Builder

I apologize for the long delay between posts. And for picking it back up on a Friday when people aren't really online that much.

I had opened a discussion about identity.  Who do you identify as?
Today I'm going to discuss the aspect of my identity that is a writer, and why.

"Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open." - Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within

Why write what's disturbing and scary? Sometimes so I can get it out of myself. Sometimes what we are silent about settles in our bodies and festers creating not only unhappiness, but sickness. Sometimes you have to split open and empty out before you can begin to heal.

"Writing is thinking. To write well is to think clearly. That’s why it’s so hard." - David McCullough

Many people say I over-think. My rebuttal is that it's because I'm a writer.  When I don't export my thoughts onto the page, they run circles in my head and it makes conversations with friends a little confusing.  That's part of the reason for this blog.
Also, I believe that the thoughts I have are probably similar to the thoughts some other young women have.  So if I can think clearly about a topic and write about it, maybe I can help someone else think clearer.

"There are books of the same chemical composition as dynamite. The only difference is that a piece of dynamite explodes once, whereas a book explodes a thousand times." - Yevgeny Zamyatin, A Soviet Heretic: Essays by Yevgeny Zamyatin

I want to explode someone's thinking about love, about why we live our lives, about God, about religion, about America, about beauty.  I want someone to read a book of mine and have their whole thought process changed. 

 
I want to help you get from here to there, from please to thank you, from amen (so let it be) to there it is.  Wherever you are in life right now, no matter how great or terrible, there is a better place. I want to help you get there.  For me, writing (and to a vaguely lesser degree, performing and speaking or preaching) is how I show people the bridge from where you are to where you want to be.  A blog post, a poem, a story, a book can be your bridge. 

That's why I teach high school, to help kids get from childhood to adulthood. 
That's why I teach reading/English/language arts, because if there is nothing else available, there will always be a public library with Bibles, books and periodicals to help you build your bridge.
That's why I write, to move people from one emotional or intellectual place to the next.
That's why I perform, to draw out people's feelings and inspire them to take the next step.
This is my heart, my calling, my ministry.

Health and finances are my personal areas of struggle where I needed someone or something to help me build my own bridge, and help me walk across it.  I am embarking on a journey to tackle both of those areas of opportunity at once. When I get to the other side, I can tell my story.  I need to be healthier so I can live a long life telling and retelling the story, helping people build.  I need to be more financially stable so that I have freedom to travel and give into the ministry and Kingdom.

I'm trying to get like my friend Jabee: "Build a bridge and get over it. I went from never leaving home to flying over it."

"Don't Be Such a Martyr"

We have all heard the phrase "Don't be such a martyr."
It means, stop glorifying your struggle. But it also means stop struggling, or sacrificing, for no reason. More often than not, people don't choose to sacrifice for no reason.  Fairly often, the reason for the sacrifice is something friends and family don't understand.  So it is seen as unnecessary and they are encouraged to quit when it hurts.

Now, we all know victims whose lives are hard because they imagine pain and trial where there ought to be none.  I have played the victim many times in my life.  And there is real pain bound up in that behavior, real fear that must be actively replaced with faith.

Majority populations and people in power often say that minorities or lower class people are acting like martyrs, claiming to be persecuted when really they just are not driven enough to rise above their circumstances.

In the predominant definition of a martyr, someone gives his/her life for a cause they believe in.  Many of us don't use martyr to mean that anymore because in western civilization in 2013 it is rare to give your life on purpose.  You either unintentionally die from illness or are killed in some tragic accident.  We are not a group of cultures that die for causes.  

So many believe that God's dominant desire from us is that we live as those who follow Him, rather than die in a blaze of glory.  As a general rule, I agree.  I know it is easier to die than to live through certain pains, struggles, and battles with losses as well as victories.  Martyrdom has been historically considered the ultimate sacrifice - giving up something you want, your life, for something you want more.  But for me, personally, giving up my life would be easy.  Staying alive and fighting through is the hard thing.  I have to give up simplicity and ease and predictability in order to glorify God in the way I have been called.

Some people might wonder why I am doing this forty-day book study A Call to Die, why I am making myself write so much, study so hard.  It's summer break, I could be relaxing. Relaxing can't serve God? (Of course it can. Sometimes it's the only thing that can.)

I never go many weeks without being approached by a man.  In general, it doesn't progress very far because we don't see eye-to-eye about the purpose of life and faith.  But in recent years I have met a couple of men who do hold to all the same ideals I do.  But it's not my time to focus on them or on romance.  Right now is a preparation season (another one) for my next several months of teaching and building bridges (more on that later).  So I have to give up romance, even healthy romance, for personal development.  Not every opportunity is the best one for this season.  Sacrifice.

Check out this poem by Janette...ikz.  It's called "HypoChristian."

Normally poems like that make me uncomfortable.  She is asking for too much (although everything that she challenges us to do mirrors the Bible) and she is asking for it so intensely.  But what she is doing right that so many are afraid to do is forcing us to come face to face with our priorities.  Do we want to be "Christians," to follow God, or do we not?  Because if we do, we have to do what God has said we need to.  We have to sacrifice.

The Risk, The Sacrifice

I just finished editing my first chapbook of poems and sent it off for peer-edits.. There are just over twenty poems in it, many of which I have performed for crowds that liked or loved them.  I wrote these poems mainly during my college years, when I was searching, wandering, losing and finding myself by the week and month.

There is a quote from Anais Nin that I heard on Alicia Keys' album The Element of Freedom and it really touched me: "The day came when the risk it took to remain tightly closed in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to bloom."
Last year I had a show called "The Risk to Bloom" and that is what I am naming my book as well.

I don't doubt that Anais Nin (and Alicia Keys) mean something different about freedom and about blooming than I do, but the quote is so true and so powerful.

 

Sometime during college I closed myself off to lots of emotions - many who knew me then would say that I never cried and sometimes seemed to feel nothing but laughter and anger.  I closed myself off to the piercing power of the Holy Spirit.  After a lot of meditating and reading old poems and journals, I think I was tired and afraid of feeling convicted, so I stopped allowing myself to give in to questions about my motives and my misbehaviors.

I couldn't close down everything, though. I let in beautiful words. I allowed words to feel for me so I wouldn't have to.

After college, that didn't work for me anymore.  I actually didn't write for months on end, close to a year.  Being closed off like that was really hurtful to my sweet roommate at the time.  It got me fired from a job I was good at.  It led me to a really dark place where I behaved as if there were no God to heal and protect and provide. I went through a ministry class at church, because I was asked to, and because I was sure that if I didn't do something "radical" I would not make it much farther. 

What I know now is that there is a beauty God puts inside each of us - namely women (inside the men, I am inclined to say He places a strength - not that women have no strength and men have no beauty but I am speaking generally) - and that beauty is precious and vulnerable.  The devil does not want the world to see that beauty.  The devil does not want the world to see your light shining to glorify the God who made you. So there is an attack on our beauty and on our strength. It is a ruthless attack.  The goal is that we would die emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and then perhaps physically as well.  The devil wants our potential dead because it is a reflection and a manifestation of God's potential - His omnipotence (same root word: potent).  I learned that our beauty is inextricably bound to God.  Without God everything begins crumbling.

Knowing that there is an enemy who wants to attack the strongest, most beautiful part of you makes you want to protect it, to hold it back, to maybe lock it away in a high tower where no harm can reach it...and no one can see it or be inspired by it.

I am thankful to be living after "the day" when I realized that hiding is too painful and detrimental.  But in order to fully grasp that, I must let go of what used to be and how I used to cope.  I must release the hiding and the self-protection in order to bloom.  I must release the people who are attached to who I used to be.  I must be willing to sacrifice what I once wanted - angsty poems that make people cry and applaud, that pull their heartstrings - for what I want more - to be whole and holy in God, and to show others how to get there.

I am afraid that my writing won't be as good without all of the angst.  I am afraid that it won't be as poignant, that it will draw a smaller crowd.

"It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us." - Marianne Williamson

I am afraid that many of those who nurtured my writing from the beginning will shun it when I consistently insist on putting God in the middle of it.  

"I tell you, the Kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a nation that will produce the proper fruit. And whoever falls on this stone [that the builders rejected] will be broken; but on whomever it falls, it will grind him to powder." - Matthew 21:43-44.  Jesus was quoting Psalms 118:22-23.  He was saying that He is who people reject, the "stone" or building block that "builders" reject.  Because we are all building a life, and we are either building it on Christ or on something else.  He is saying that the "nation" producing "proper fruit" is the nation that has "fallen" on Him and allowed themselves to be broken. He is talking about the people who have sacrificed what they wanted for the Kingdom and then used Him to build their lives on.  Those who won't sacrifice, who won't allow themselves to be broken are those whom the "stone" will crush.  I don't believe this directly translates to God reaching out to smite people.  I think it means that if you don't make the sacrifice to build your life around the Kingdom, you take yourself from God's protection and then life's trials and hardships can and will crush you. 

So I trust that whatever I create from here on out will touch who it ought, where it ought, how it ought to.  I do not have to be angsty and sinful in order to be creative or draw a crowd.  I can be whole and holy.

At some point I will have to sacrifice the freedom of having all the time in the world for the discipline of health.  I have to want health more than I want "free time." It's a change in mindset. I have to invest in the process, the patient endurance, the sweating at a low fitness level until I get to a higher one. 

Stronger

I am not really going to say too much today.  It's Friday afternoon and y'all are just trying to make it to the weekend.

I also tend to skimp on media. I posted some photos earlier in the week, but my blogs tend to not be visually appealing enough. So for today, in regards to my personal health and fitness struggles and goals, I'm going to post two videos, and give just a tiny bit of background. 

The first video below I ran across a few weeks ago.  I follow several different tumblr blogs.  This one I got from Young, Black and Fit who also runs Young, Black and Vegan.  A fitness trainer receives a question from a YouTube channel viewer asking how he can make his girlfriend workout more. The trainer thinks this is a selfish and mean-spirited question and he gives his (very angry) opinion about it.  WARNING: He says a few curse words, but I posted it anyway because I have NEVER heard a man say things like this, nor have I ever heard a fitness instructor say things like this.

A year and a half ago, I was asked to participate in a poetry and art show around the theme: "The Body is Not an Apology." Before you start to think I'm some awesome self-love ambassador let me tell you: I'm not.  I'll never forget the lines from the movie Liar, Liar. "My teacher says real beauty is on the insider." "That's just something ugly people say." And for every time I have known a person whose face or body put them in the "ugly" category but whose spirit made them beautiful, I have judged someone's ill-fitting outfit.  So, I go back and forth between believing that we as a world need to allow full-figured, curvy, fat, odd-bodied people to see and know that they are beautiful too, I have believed that we only say that until we lose weight or find the hairstyle and makeup that works for us.

At that show, I read the poem in the video below.  I wore a short skirt that some would say girls my size shouldn't wear.  But I have two other skirts like that now (slightly longer - I acknowledge the immodesty factor and I have no excuse for it).

As I say in the poem: "If I look like this for the next 80 years, that will be just lovely."
I just want to live. I know that I am beautiful, in a way that not all people fully accept. But somehow I am fully convinced in my own mind and the mind of my friends and family.
It's just weird to live with a tension that also wonders "what if I were 40 pounds lighter?" Because I do have a goal weight - and that is it: 40 pounds lighter. What if? Will I be less radical? Less of an ambassador for inner beauty? Because so many ex-chubby people never believed they were beautiful.  Once they are smaller they throw out the old photos and promise never to get heavy again.  But I don't want to leave this girl behind. I don't want to look back at this poem - even minus 40 pounds - and say "I had no idea what I was talking about."

The guy in the other video, the fitness instructor, says you work out because you want your body to be stronger to sustain your life, not because you want to look different or because someone forces you to. I agree with him.  I do want to be stronger.  Seane Corn, the yoga instructor in one of my photos from Tuesday, says we practice yoga "in order to do the work we need to do in the world, in order to hold that light for spirit." She believes that what you practice on the yoga mat (concentrating more, holding longer, breathing deeper, not letting go even when it burns) translates to, or maybe flows from, inner strength. I agree so whole-heartedly.

I am about to begin a journey in holistic health.  I want to be healthy and strong, but I am scared to death that if I ever were to achieve that goal, I would become shallow as well.

I have a sweet friend - a hot guy actually, with a six pack and really well-defined pecs - who told me once "you are beautiful now and you'll still be beautiful if you get thinner."  I love him for saying that.  But I worry if I'll still be beautiful on the inside, strong on the inside?

(Note: I think next week's topic might be sacrifice.)

iWrite

I have a friend Lamarr Womble, who has a life philosophy about passionate living. He believes, and lives out the belief, that one should assess their passions and turn them into a lifestyle. What you love is what you should do. If you are young, don't even get started on a career path that steers you away from your passion. If you are older, integrate elements of what you're about into your life - make it your side hustle - until you become so good at it that maybe your side hustle can become your main hustle.

Eighteen months ago when I first heard this philosophy, Lamarr asked a simple question: "What's your passion?"
Even in the most fundamental and basic of things, I find a way to be complicated. He asked a singular question and I gave a plural answer. I can see now how the answer has changed slightly (or how I am looking past the blinders I had on at the time) but it still plural. I am passionate about writing, politically activism, and children.

As a 22-year-old with a semi-good job working with kids and an inclination to not be tied down at the moment, I think I should take some risks to pursue my love for writing. I have been presented with several opportunities that I don't follow through with - partially because of lack of organization, partially because of fear.

It's time to stop being afraid.
What step will I take today to pursue my passion?
Drafting and/or editing.

peace comes WITH understanding

words. are. life. to. me.

the true colors personality test has just helped me understand that life.

knowing that i'm predominantly green (as opposed to gold, blue, or orange) - i.e. more analytical than the personality quadrant (expressive, driver, analytical, amiable) gave me credit for being - and that only 7% of the population is green explains why i never feel understood. knowing that i am green (deep-thinking, seeking correlation) followed by a toss-up between gold (driver, task-oriented, structured) and blue (amiable, focused on relationships, passionate, artsy) shows me the reason behind my desire for a connection to a spiritual community. it also shows me my intense passion for poetry - the most condensed version of meaningful art. and for writers - the juxtaposers of correlative information. and for philosophers - the students of the universe. and for theologians - the students of the Divine.
this is why i love Jesus. and Buddha. and Ralph Waldo Emerson. and Barack Obama. and Elizabeth Gilbert. and Lauren Zuniga. 

thank the universe.

i feel so much peace right now.

ENG 2653: Poetry vs. Prose

Much of the literature we've read in this course (and much of what is read in ENG 2543) is poetry rather than prose.  When I studied American Literature, it started with poetry but that trend ebbed and gave birth to prose earlier than it did in England.  For example, the American Romantics (save Whitman) are famous for their essays and non-fiction, not for their poetry.  Blake, Wordsworth, and Keats wrote essays, but we still read their poetry first.

As a modern-day writer of both poetry and prose, and as someone who wants to make a career out of teaching English (and coaching poets), I am concerned by students' lack of enthusiasm - and sometimes outright disdain - for poetry.  I wonder if students' attitude toward the genre in correlative to the lessened frequency of it today.  The most famous living poets I can think of: Ted Kuzer, Jimmy Santiago Baca, Mary Oliver are names that only poets know while prose writers Stephen King, Dan Brown, Jodi Piccoult, and Nicholas Sparks are much more common names.

Was the shift from poetry to prose purposeful or coincidental?
Wiki defines Poetry as is "a form of literary art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its apparent meaning."  Might this indicate that poetry went out of style with Romanticism and the rise of Realism, where people wanted "apparent meaning" and reality? They were look away from emotion to reason.
I'm sure another reason poetry waned was because the modern novel was born.  Narratives have always been more readily understood than symbolic language and metaphor.  Prose tend to be narrative and when they are not, they are moreso written in "plain" language that the ambiguity that often characterizes poetry. 

i guess this is a good time for writing. i have some ideas and i've written some things that are in the editing stages.

1 - something about entrapment and the search for freedom: physical, emotional, occupational. DONE!

2 - something about the connectivity between images, feelings, thoughts, words, and reality. memories, dejavous, expectancy, our connection to the Divine. DONE!

3 - something about competition, striving, goal-orientation. DONE!


Now I need to edit these and have them seen by some other folks.

empty eyes - original poem

("2 a.m. and i'm still awake writing this song. if i get it all down on paper it's no longer inside of me threatening the life it belongs to. and i feel like i'm naked in front of a crowd 'cause these words are my diary screaming out loud and i know that you'll use them however you want to..." - anna nalick)

he had empty eyes - hollow, naked -
and a forlorn type of smile.
he filled his cracks with anything pretty or hypnotizing:
words, work, intoxicants.
he wanted to love, but it's hard to show your feelings when you're leaking.
it's hard to give when all you've got is holes, empty spaces where your soul should be.

he married her because she was everything he wanted to be:
calm, stable, and solid.
solid of mind, heart, and body.
nothing seeped out of her unless she released it.
he thought she would save him,
instead he drained her.
she poured her blood into a skeleton
she poured until her supply started to run thin.
her pouring was futile because he had no skin to hold it in,
no veins to make the blood give life.

he left her when he saw that she could do nothing for his dry bones.
but he left her with a baby daughter who was just like him.
and when he left, he took the light in his daughter's eyes with him.

he left a wife who has always been mesmerized by the depth of her daughter's eyes:
always open, always watching, always looking for something,
for anything.
as the little girl grew, her mother learned to fear those large empty eyes,
portals to a soul she would never understand.
sometimes she felt as if she were drowning in them,
being thrown into a black hole, or sinking in a mire.
at those times she felt what her daughter felt,
she knew why her husband left.
at those times she was scared
because she knew she wouldn't be able to save her any better than she could have saved him.
so she learned to stop looking into those eyes.

my eyes.
i look at the world like a man just come from the desert drinks water.
what i see keeps me alive for brief moments at a time.
but as the body continues to need water to survive, my soul runs dry if there's nothing pouring into the black holes of my eyes.
i see everything.
“Your eye is a lamp that provides light for your body. When your eye is good, your whole body is filled with light. But when your eye is bad, your whole body is filled with darkness. And if the light you think you have is actually darkness, how deep that darkness is!"*

he shared his darkness with me when he gave me his eyes.
or perhaps the darkness was in his seed.
either way, i've known since i was young that i needed to hide the darkness in me.
so i avert my eyes, let my soul run dry,
because i don't want you to see
that just like him, i'm empty.
i've tried everything.
the world pours itself into my hollow eyes and my heart remains empty.
the floodgates of heaven are open, and i'm ready to receive,
but, like him,
the blessing pours in like water and comes out like tears,
never staying in me long enough to make my dry bones live.

my eyes are tired of seeing everything.
now i pray to be blind like a skeleton should be.
if i forget what life looks like maybe i won't feel the void so intensely.
or at least i won't be able to see the sadness in my mother's eyes when she looks askance at me,
or the pity in his eyes when he doesn't look at all.

i wonder if my father ever felt that the more life a room contained
the less life was available to him.
i wonder if he ever felt other people's eyes picking at his bones to make sure they were clean.
he was lucky.
i pray to be beautiful; he just wanted to be seen.
i pray for abundant life; he just wanted to be free.
i have seen the fatted calf; he didn't know what he was missing.
i've stood at the threshold of the veil; he has never seen the anointing.

i have my father's eyes
and the only other thing he left with me is the emptiness behind them.

*the gospel according to matthew chapter 6 verses 22 aand 23. the words of Christ in red.

I Will Never Be a Competing Slam Poet

On April 28, I wrote a blog titled “I Will Never Be a Slam Poet.”

Here was some of the “rationale” behind that argument.

“I ‘bleed’ too much, feel too much, think too much.”

Last night I was watching Brave New Voices, and it solidified for me what I should have never forgotten. It’s not that I bleed too much, I was just doing it the wrong way. That’s what expression consists of: thoughts, feelings, and blood.

Then, I said, “I used to want to be a slam poet more than anything in the world, but I can't. I was meant to be different. Meant to write, not to perform. Meant to speak, not to recite. Meant to teach, not to compete.”

I said, “I am not saying that slam is shallow (although I know some think it is). Yes, it is a game...but I believe that games and competitions show people's character.“

In response to what I wrote, my friend Lauren Zuniga said, “Slam is just something we do. A game we play so that the Ego can have a good time and give the Spirit permission to write.”

Brave New Voices changed my opinion of all that. Team Philadelphia consisted of Hasan Malik Babb, Josh Bennett, Aysha El Shamayleh, Noel Scales, Chloe Wayne, and Alysia Harris. On the season finale during the final round of the grand slam, the whole team went onstage holding hands and crying. They told the audience that they had not been behaving like a team over the course of the competition. They said the scores and the desire to win had distracted them. Because of this, they made the decision to forfeit the final round as a team. All six of them together chose to say it’s not about the competition but about the poetry, about the difference that words can make. And to top it off, they still performed. They blessed us with their words and refused to be scored. In my opinion, if they hadn’t forfeited, they would have won. I think perhaps they knew that and felt they didn’t deserve to win if the win would mean more than the words. Damn.

Slam is just a game. Prior to watching this episode of this show, I wasn’t sure if there was a right way to play it. But those six kids put the entity of slam poetry to shame. They showed me and the world that the warrior generation really is fighting for something more than titles and recognition.

When the grand slam was over and the rest of the qualifying teams had been scored, they were all brought on stage to announce the winners from low to high. When the announcements were made, the teams were asked to stand in ranked order by their teammates. They all refused. They said they wouldn’t split up that way because they were all one team and it was all one prize. They started shouting, “One Team! One Team! One Team!” And the show’s host threw up his hands, went offstage, sat down and let them do their thing. Their voices were heard. The show ended with all the teams on stage intermingled, hugging each other, congratulating each other, chanting, “BNV ain’t nothin’ to fuck with!” That’s the truth if I’ve ever heard it.

Here are some of the things I texted to Kosher when I was watching this on TV.

“Now, I want to master slam, not to ever win any kind of title but so that I can teach kids how to save their own lives through words and performance.”

“They are so beautiful. That is why I want to teach so that I can help bring that out in them.”
“Those kids have already learned to self-actualize in a way that makes sure nothing can ever be too hard for them.”

The only time I ever cry like I did while I was watching that show is when something intense happens in church. That’s how I know this is holy. Somebody is going to watch that and get saved. Now I know where else to point when the church house isn’t helping.

Those kids have given me direction and desire. They lit a fire in my soul that I thought would never burn outside the four walls of an evangelical church (this thought turned into three poems, especially the one titled “Wise Words”). But now I know: Holy are the beautiful things, peace, humanity, sincerity. And they are holy no matter where they are seen.

Here are some of Kosher’s comments during our conversation.

“You can do it, if you’re ready for holding their bleeding wounds.”
My prayer over the next year is to become ready – through inspiration and meditation on the goal.

“If I would die today, I would be glad knowing that the world will be in good hands. I thank G-D for them.” - Kosher
I agree.
I cried harder when I read this statement, because the competitor in me, the attention whore in me, doesn’t want to die without leaving a mark. That part of me doesn’t want to die today, because then those kids would get all the credit for their bravery and conviction and I would have no legacy to leave. I cried because I knew my feelings were selfish. It doesn’t matter who evokes the change as long as it happens. Fuck my competitive drive. Blessed are the brave hearts for they will be remembered. Humbled are the timid hearts for they will always strive to be remembered.

“It is possible to be saved by the blood of Jesus, but only if Jesus wept from hearing them. They are the living gospel.” - Kosher
That needs to be a line in a poem.

Today, I opened a vein, mixed blood with ink, and it poured out looking like poetry.

I Will Never Be a COMPETING Slam Poet

On April 28, I wrote a blog titled “I Will Never Be a Slam Poet.”

Here was some of the “rationale” behind that argument.

“I ‘bleed’ too much, feel too much, think too much.”

Last night I was watching Brave New Voices, and it solidified for me what I should have never forgotten. It’s not that I bleed too much, I was just doing it the wrong way. That’s what expression consists of: thoughts, feelings, and blood.

Then, I said, “I used to want to be a slam poet more than anything in the world, but I can't. I was meant to be different. Meant to write, not to perform. Meant to speak, not to recite. Meant to teach, not to compete.”

I said, “I am not saying that slam is shallow (although I know some think it is). Yes, it is a game...but I believe that games and competitions show people's character.“

In response to what I wrote, my friend Lauren Zuniga said, “Slam is just something we do. A game we play so that the Ego can have a good time and give the Spirit permission to write.”

Brave New Voices changed my opinion of all that. Team Philadelphia consisted of Hasan Malik Babb, Josh Bennett, Aysha El Shamayleh, Noel Scales, Chloe Wayne, and Alysia Harris. On the season finale during the final round of the grand slam, the whole team went onstage holding hands and crying. They told the audience that they had not been behaving like a team over the course of the competition. They said the scores and the desire to win had distracted them. Because of this, they made the decision to forfeit the final round as a team. All six of them together chose to say it’s not about the competition but about the poetry, about the difference that words can make. And to top it off, they still performed. They blessed us with their words and refused to be scored. In my opinion, if they hadn’t forfeited, they would have won. I think perhaps they knew that and felt they didn’t deserve to win if the win would mean more than the words. Damn.

Slam is just a game. Prior to watching this episode of this show, I wasn’t sure if there was a right way to play it. But those six kids put the entity of slam poetry to shame. They showed me and the world that the warrior generation really is fighting for something more than titles and recognition.

When the grand slam was over and the rest of the qualifying teams had been scored, they were all brought on stage to announce the winners from low to high. When the announcements were made, the teams were asked to stand in ranked order by their teammates. They all refused. They said they wouldn’t split up that way because they were all one team and it was all one prize. They started shouting, “One Team! One Team! One Team!” And the show’s host threw up his hands, went offstage, sat down and let them do their thing. Their voices were heard. The show ended with all the teams on stage intermingled, hugging each other, congratulating each other, chanting, “BNV ain’t nothin’ to fuck with!” That’s the truth if I’ve ever heard it.

Here are some of the things I texted to Kosher when I was watching this on TV.

“Now, I want to master slam, not to ever win any kind of title but so that I can teach kids how to save their own lives through words and performance.”

“They are so beautiful. That is why I want to teach so that I can help bring that out in them.”
“Those kids have already learned to self-actualize in a way that makes sure nothing can ever be too hard for them.”

The only time I ever cry like I did while I was watching that show is when something intense happens in church. That’s how I know this is holy. Somebody is going to watch that and get saved. Now I know where else to point when the church house isn’t helping.

Those kids have given me direction and desire. They lit a fire in my soul that I thought would never burn outside the four walls of an evangelical church (this thought turned into three poems, especially the one titled “Wise Words”). But now I know: Holy are the beautiful things, peace, humanity, sincerity. And they are holy no matter where they are seen.

Here are some of Kosher’s comments during our conversation.

“You can do it, if you’re ready for holding their bleeding wounds.”
My prayer over the next year is to become ready – through inspiration and meditation on the goal.

“If I would die today, I would be glad knowing that the world will be in good hands. I thank G-D for them.” - Kosher
I agree.
I cried harder when I read this statement, because the competitor in me, the attention whore in me, doesn’t want to die without leaving a mark. That part of me doesn’t want to die today, because then those kids would get all the credit for their bravery and conviction and I would have no legacy to leave. I cried because I knew my feelings were selfish. It doesn’t matter who evokes the change as long as it happens. Fuck my competitive drive. Blessed are the brave hearts for they will be remembered. Humbled are the timid hearts for they will always strive to be remembered.

“It is possible to be saved by the blood of Jesus, but only if Jesus wept from hearing them. They are the living gospel.” - Kosher
That needs to be a line in a poem.

Today, I opened a vein, mixed blood with ink, and it poured out looking like poetry.

I Will Never Be A Slam Poet

I will never be a slam poet.

This baffles me. When people read my writing, they tell me about the strength of my voice and the way the words "hit" them. But when I try to write poems for the stage, they always come out sounding too soft or lacking depth.

I thought the problem was in my performance, my delivery. So for an experiment I read a poem by Lauren Zuniga, a friend who is good at slam. I did well. If the poem had been memorized, it probably could've gotten me an 8. So it's not in the delivery.

I noticed last Wednesday at the slam finals for Oklahoma City's nationals team, that everyone who scored well (and even many who didn't) used their poem to tell a story or to call people to action. I realized that the poems I write do neither. I write prayers, introspections, ideas, questions. Sometimes I tell stories, but they are usually love stories or something else equally as boring. I "bleed" too much, feel too much, think too much.

I did an exposé on slam poetry for my nonfiction class at school and in the revision stage, I realized something else. My view of slam has changed over the last month. It used to be something I idealized, even idolized, something glitzy and glamorous and poignant that I wanted to grow into. I thought of slam poetry the same way I think of the competitors on America's Next Top Model, the same way I think of young, famous musicians, the same way I think of the editor-in-chief of Vogue magazine. Something beautiful, hard-to-reach, unnecessarily demanding, and ultimately not ME.

I put beauty and fame on a pedestal, but I was created for hard work. I put vapidity and cut-throat behavior on the list of things to be excused, but I was molded for love and nurture. I admire glitz and glamour, but I was made for wiping snotty noses and picking hearts up off the floor.

I'm coming to grips with this. I used to want to be a slam poet more than anything in the world, but I can't. I was meant to be different. Meant to write, not to perform. Meant to speak, not to recite. Meant to teach, not to compete.

It's a hard pill to swallow, but it never does any good to resist what the Universe has planned for you...unless you're willing to come away from it with a limp (cf. Jacob wrestling the angel and having his leg messed up in the book of Genesis).

12/30 - Exploration

(More experiments with rhyme scheme more than subject matter. I'm twenty and single, don't judge me. Lol.)

My mind takes me to new places with you
Suddenly grades don't matter as much
"Because it feels good" is reason enough
And there's nothing you can suggest that I don't want to do

In my mind, your hand on the small of my back
Feels better than the cushion of my bed
Thoughts of your touches run wild in my head
and each time it's harder to stay on track

I think about your arms and the touch of your lips
I imagine your hands on my softest skin,
Welcoming your nature, taking all of you in,
Chest heaving, breath shallow and quick

And I wonder if I would know you then
Might our union join facts together to make truth?
Might the basic become a beautiful poem about you?
Perhaps your body will help your mind make sense.

I just want to explore and experience you,
See your tendencies and doubts.
Does your bedroom-self match the you when you're out?
I wonder if intimacy matches the surface you.

11/30 - Copulation

(I'm exploring rhyme schemes moreso than subject matter)

Can sex be a gift
better than chocolates and trinkets?
Might a real chemical connection
outweigh monetary and material affection?
What if making love
really is the act of caring enough
What if it's the highest gesture
made from a place that's spiritual and pure?
We hold closer our bodies
than our things and our money
We protect our health
more than our circumstantial wealth
So why do we constantly and publicly forget
that sex is the most heartfelt present?

10/30 - Oath to Poetry

I swear...
You distract me in a way that makes me think on-task is a joke.
You fill me to the point of bursting
and I want to explode in front of a crowd so they know
that I love you like smooth chocolate mousse sliding down my throat.

We met a long time ago, when I was young.
My little girl's eyes couldn't see the real beauty you possess.
At that time I was too shallow to understand your depth.
You were a passtime, a plaything,
one more way to show the world I know how to overachieve.
Now your depths have made me more aware.
I understand, but I'm still too shallow to meet you there.
Or maybe I'm scared of what lies that deep.
I never go farther than two or three feet.
But maybe our connection is buried in my past.
Maybe I must face my demons if I want to make this last...

Or maybe that's not true.
I swear, you keep me needlessly confused.

What if...
what if the key is simple undivided focus on you?
I lose sight of what matters when I start to focus on myself.
You start to guide me one way and I end up somewhere else.
I just need my feet to follow the gaze of my eyes.

I swear...
I want you delve into you so deep that I get lost inside.
If you had skin, I would wish to be tattooed to the underneath.
If you had blood, I'd want to be the cells that make it look red when you bleed.
If you could walk, I'd lay my body down on puddle to make sure you stayed dry.
If you were a mortal in need of life breath, I would give you all of mine.

Just teach me what I have to do to get close to you.
Who must I be?
Through what new eyes must I learn to see?
In what new hemisphere must I learn to live?
How many more years do I have to give before you kiss me with the gift?

I suppose it doesn't matter.
Nothing you do could change the way I feel.
I could never give up on the only thing that's always real.
I am yours for all of time.
Tell me that you'll have me, and I'll give you my very life.

I swear.

----
Now I'm only 5 behind instead of 6.

7/30 - Maybe

I have this odd way of forgetting how to follow my heart.
Once I know what she's asking for,
I quit before I really get the chance to start.
Like I'm scared of how happiness feels,
Afraid to get attached to good because bad has always been more real...
But life makes sense right now.
Pain has left its handprint
but today I think it's beautiful somehow.
On Friday I thought the world might come crashing to an end
But at this moment
I know it's all in Someone's hands.

And maybe that Someone is me.
Maybe it's faith in inner divinity.
Maybe it's the open heart the Buddha showed me how to see.
Maybe it's the knowledge of my wealth as compared to poverty.
Maybe it's the selflessness that Jesus taught me.
In fact, maybe religion is just the deification of poetry.
Maybe now that I have written it
I know I can conceptualize spirituality.
Or maybe today is just the first one in a while
where the stars are aligned for me.

April is Poetry Month

This means I'm going to make an effort to write a poem everyday. I am aware that I am six days behind which might mean that I'll write two poems a day for the next six days. Or I may not catch up. We'll see. Also I want to have a grown-up place where I can post my poetry since Xanga is out and Myspace is out.

Here goes...

Oh, I'm also going to use this as a place to pay homage to poets who keep me wanting to write and perform.