crossing over, then back

Ambiguity scares most of us Americans. Instead of exploring the grey terrain we too often stay within our comfort zone of black and white. Democrat or Republican. Straight or gay. Left or right. Neurotically macho or flamboyantly femme. We've become willing victims of our own pathological puritanism.

I remember my numerous trips to Europe, to cities like Paris and Rome, where the lines were less boldly drawn, where I could sometimes, if I listened hard enough, hear the disdainful laughter at American culture and values for puritanically drawing extreme distinctions between ideas, thoughts, experiences, and states of being. And I realized how pitiful that was, to severely limit ourselves to a narrow funnel of existence when we could be exploring instead - exciting ourselves with newly discovered senses and sensuality and mindsets. The very idea of growing and deepening in unexpected ways is frightening to us. The Europeans deserve to laugh at most of us.

This Italian commercial for Campari does just that, if you think about it. It laughs at the immature idea of fixating on merely one gender, one life, one state of mind. But as it does so it also offers us a chance to tap beyond our self-imposed prisons. In the span of one minute we journey from man to woman, then back again. How sexy and inspiring is that?

It offers us a glimpse of ourselves, but guess what? It's a far more seductive version of ourselves that we fleetingly see, even when it isn't necessarily a literal transformation (and it doesn't have to be literal, just a suggestion). We can remain man or woman, and yet still discover the strengths and the lightness and the gravity of the 'other' within ourselves.

And no commercial in America could ever give us that glimpse. Pity.

shake it, baby

San Francisco Identifies Buildings Most at Risk | New York Times

SAN FRANCISCO — The picturesque Victorians and brightly painted apartment buildings where thousands of city residents live and work are especially vulnerable during earthquakes, according to a report issued Friday by the San Francisco Department of Building Inspection.

The report said that an earthquake with a magnitude of 7.2 or higher could render unlivable as many as 85 percent of the city’s “soft-story” apartment buildings — those that are less structurally sound because their ground floors are open space, often used as retail stores or garages. At least 65,000 people live and work in the 2,800 most vulnerable buildings studied in the report.

This is the city I want to end up in for pretty much the rest of my life. I grew up in Chicago and have a lifetime of beautiful memories from there. I used to want to live and work in the fashion industry in New York when I graduated from The Art Institute Of Chicago; that was back in the late 80s and I've since left the industry so New York means little to me today, at least in terms of career.

For me San Francisco represents a return to art making and is an inspiration for writing and for living richly and meaningfully.

As for the earthquakes, I must be philosophical about it. We all have a limited time in this existence, but to live each day paralyzed in fear of disaster and death is to live as if already dead. And how productive and good is that?

^ Yeah, I know, corny mushy touristy video. But still, how can I say no to this?

The best we can do is prepare for certain emergencies but still experience our lives, enjoy our lives, and prosper of ourselves in defiance of any fears we may hold. Practically, this would naturally mean searching for a home that isn't as susceptible to earthquakes as those older buildings, keeping track of where to go in such an emergency, and keeping supplies stashed for when things happen, and knowing exactly what to do in the moment.

In the end, it isn't death that I'm afraid of. What I'm afraid of is not having truly lived.

Related:

the shaking | a space alien

anagnorisis, peripateia, and lamb testicles

The Entertainment Gathering 2008
Monterey, CA
Dec 12th, 2008 (20 min. 35 sec.)

^ Drawing on his experiences picking up roadkill, feeding swine, and castrating a lamb with his teeth, Mike Rowe, host of Discovery Channel's Dirty Jobs, discusses how modern American culture belittles necessary labor.

Dirty Jobs' Mike Rowe is old school hot & hunky, with a hot & hunky voice. You know, that kind of man many women - and many of us gay guys - swoon over by default, the kind of man many straight men would consider a man's man, someone to buddy with and have a few brews with. The catch (well, he is a catch, but I digress...no, I don't, really) is he's also a damn good sport and has an amazing sense of humour belying his intelligence. If that doesn't make you look up to heaven and beam while your knees weaken, I dunno what will.

Furthermore he holds a profound admiration towards manual labour and the humble folk doing that labour. These are the invisible human beings who make it possible for us martini sipping cosmopolites, jetsetting tycoons, credit card whoring mall shoppers, gadget worshiping geeks, tax cut preaching Republicans, tree hugging liberals, and otherwise squeamish processed weaklings of humanity to live a reasonably comfortable life. We enjoy the sausages, we just don't wanna see how they're made.

Mike has not only seen how the sausages were made, he has helped out with the process, hands on. Like in the title of this post. It was painful for him (though the lamb never seemed to make a scene of it). But it was also epiphanous. Many, many of us Americans have lost touch with the salty, earthy, and ultimately grounding physicality of our lives. It shows in how we live, how we consume, how we socialize, how we view and formulate opinions, how we experience, and how we vote.

"We have been bred to consume, not to create." - Jennifer Connelly, actress

Maybe it really is time we put sweat into it or at least had a humbling glimpse into how this sausage of a country we call home is being made, everyday (no, I don't mean manually washing the dishes). Only then can we re-discover it and admire the hard work and craft put into it, humble us a bit, while maybe even putting a little hair on our chest and a little muscle on our arm.

And looking at Mike Rowe, with his "aw, shucks" earthy, sexy, funny, grounded, manual labouring charm on his show and, I trust, in person, I'd say that wouldn't be so bad, now would it?

when fierce, wear pink!

^ Meet the pink ladies of India. You DO NOT want to fuck with them, they are at least a hundred strong and getting even stronger with new recruits. Fierceness never looked so chic, don't you agree? | Part 2 of this program.

I first found out about this incredible gang of women from a BBC News story last year. My initial reaction was the typical "You go girl!", but the more I ruminated on it the more I felt both inspiration and sadness. Inspired, naturally because of the extreme courage of Sampat Pal Devi, founder of the Gulabi Gang. She had the balls (so to speak) to finally stand up to the physical, psychological, and social abuses she and other women of her region had endured for years from the very family they relied on and from the community they lived in.

The very thought of being perfectly conditioned from birth to accept your lowly status not only as a woman, but as one of the worst treated groups in India's traditional caste system seems like an entire world away from what American women in the 21st century just about take for granted. Yes, there are still parts of the world today where it feels like you exist in the Bronze Age. It's also mind bogglingly ironic how India, one of the upcoming leaders of the world in terms of technology, industry, and commerce still treats many of its citizens like animals. Many of the 'dalit' class are subjected to what we would consider supremely humiliating and dehumanizing work.

Like you and me, these are good people, and given the chance they can do incredible work to contribute to the progress of their community, their country, and of the world. They are no different from us, yet they have been intently thrown into the garbage by their own people, by their culture, their government.

And of course I felt sad about this gang because of why they had to form themselves. To have your very own husband beat you day to day, your own in-laws physically abuse you. And you can't fight back because it is all you've ever known. And even worse, the local police do nothing because they're so corrupt and, frankly, don't give a shit. It simply makes Sampat's story, and the stories of her female allies, all the more extraordinary. Yes, in this case it needed extreme measures to counter and eventually champion equally (if not more so) extreme, horrible situations.

^ The legendary Vogue editor and fashion icon Diana Vreeland once declared that "Pink is the navy blue of India". I wonder what she would have thought of Sampa and her girls. I bet she would have then declared, "Navy blue never looked so fierce and chic, my dear!"

Think about it, we're talking about hundreds of years of brutal physical abuses of women living within their culture, which is all they've ever known. Sampat and her sisters-in-arm have never been properly educated if at all, most of them are illiterate, but all they want is to live with some respect and dignity and to work and to provide for their children.

Sampat and her gang are trying to undo centuries of cruelty and mistreatment in perhaps a radical way. But if this must be the way for them to do it, so be it. It is her ultimate way of saying "Fuck you! You mess with me and you'll never live to see tomorrow! And I will look so fucking chic wasting your sorry ass, too!"

to the next u.s. president...

^ "The U.S. is not above the world, it is in the world..."

...and by extension, to all of us Americans, here are some very, very wise words for us from our neighbours around the planet.

this little tree survives

< Outside my window just before 7 in the morning, with neighbourhood cyclists getting their workout at this time every single day, and the cafe about to open. It will be another hour or so before the sun breaks and the refreshing smell of dew and mist evaporate.

It's now 7am as I type, the beautiful Tanita Tikaram's Cathedral Song is playing (most perfect to start the day with, mellow yet rather awakening), the dewy smell of a southern California morning mingling with the sharp aroma of Japanese sandalwood incense I lit a little earlier.

I've been awake since about 5 but stayed in bed til the desire for breakfast prompted me. These past few months since I was laid off from my job at the museum shop have been both lazy and unproductive and carefree, but at the same time intensely frustrating both physically and mentally because of the acute stomach infection and my losing a great deal of weight as consequence.

I originally wanted to keep an active summer. I wanted to take yoga class. I wanted to do day trips to Santa Monica and Venice and Long Beach at least once a week, stroll along the ocean views, plant myself at a cafe and write for a few hours while sipping iced coffees or Italian sodas. I wanted to rush downtown to Union Station in the morning to catch train rides to the mountains, to the little northern California towns, to see Santa Barbara, or south to San Diego and still make it back home to South Pasadena in time for dinner.

Didn't happen. Or at least, the plans were postponed for now. I did make it to Santa Monica last week but couldn't stay more than a few hours because I tired very quickly. Some small accomplishment.

Doctor still doesn't know exactly what's wrong with me because the test results take about 6 weeks and we're still waiting. Meanwhile all I can do is constantly eat (my appetite has never been more greedy) and go to the bathroom a lot. I hope whatever it is is very treatable. I miss all the weight I've lost. I miss being able to do many things with energy.

I'm optimistic. I keep my sense of humour through this, even though most of my family don't seem to understand. I feel as if they'd rather avoid thinking about me being ill. I know they know I'm ill and yet I haven't really heard anything from them about it, with the exception, of course, of N., K., and to some extent D.

I'm pretty much on my own, then, emotionally and mentally. I've survived before, quietly and unobtrusively, on my own and that's why I'm optimistic. I look forward to a trip I have yet to plan, to stroll through the misty forest of the Sequoia National Park, where I just know it feels primeval and comfortingly haunted somehow.

Those massive, ancient trees, I know, can understand me. They've quietly survived, too.

grounding

On my nightstand, a photograph K took of me at my dad's wake
a few years ago.

~ Stay the course in good weather and bad ~

Regardless of what is going on around you, make the best of what is in your power, and take the rest as it occurs.

- Epictetus (interpreted by Sharon LeBell)

night game

Contrived it may be, but
the image, taken moments ago,
conveys tonight's atmosphere.
That cafe across the street
from my window still beckons,
even when it's long past closed
for the night.

Another Saturday night of a long stream of weekend nights I'm anchored at home with nothing but my music, games, laptop, phone, internet and other technology based accoutrement. I'll be playing a bit more Jeanne d'Arc soon and probably retire by lying in bed in the dark listening to news podcasts, the fan blowing a breeze my way, occasional passing cars outside sending slivers of light gliding across my walls.

Reading my niece's blog updates just minutes ago, I'm inspired by her to exert myself forward (even if inch by inch for the time being) and rarely look back. I remember months ago, a year or so ago, she was in turmoil and I listened to her and gave feedback, encouragement, and constructive critiques, and of course, love, as best I could. Fuel for her. She pushed with great effort to champion her hurdles. Today she shines, and magnificently.

It's ironic that, as she shines now, I'm yet again in shadows and again pushing with great effort myself to feel the sun. I see blue skies ahead and that's what's energizing me. But I also see her surrounded by those blue skies, waving at me to catch up to her again. More fuel.

One can always use more fuel.