A condition called Life

I’m diagnosed with a condition called Life. It is a genetic disease that causes abnormalities in cell replication. Over time these mistakes accumulate and the tissues are irreversibly damaged. It usually affects the cardiovascular or pulmonary systems first; but it could attack my bones, my brain, or my kidneys. The prognosis isn’t good. I learned when I was very young that the mortality rate is 100%. Not too long ago it was so common for sufferers to die before the age of 5, that parents would have a dozen kids just so a few would make it to adulthood. With the advances in modern medicine it’s hard to say whether I’ll make it to 25 or 125.

Anxiety and depression are highly co-morbid with this condition. Like so many others confronted with a terminal illness I struggled with hopelessness, fear, and anger. Life’s complications seem to be endless. Some of them are treatable at least, but it seems for every problem there is a pill, and for every pill is a problem. I used to ask, “What’s the point? Why me? Why should I go through all this pain and suffering if I’m just going to die in the end anyway?”

Sometimes Life can make it difficult to enjoy even the little things. In response to some recent test results my doctor said, “It appears you are allergic to planet Earth.” My allergies include trees, flowers, kittens, puppies, ice-cream, and rainbows.

It took me a while, but I finally figured out the point. This is the point. Right here right now I have everything I need to be happy. In this moment I can choose bliss or sorrow, hope or helplessness. I can’t control the future, and I can’t predict how this is all going to end. In the meantime I’ll be right here; right where I should be…firmly rooted in the present.

I’ve made peace with Life, but visiting the hospital so frequently has made me start thinking about Death. Death and I made peace a while back, but I never really thought about the specifics.

I used to think that I didn’t want a funeral. All those people crying in black seemed stupid. Why make such a fuss over the inevitable? Then I realized after I’m dead it’s really not about me anymore. Perhaps it never was. Nonetheless, I have a couple favors to ask. First things first, you’ve got this dead body on your hands. What now?

Do you know how much effort I’ve gone through to eat organically? The last thing I want you to do is stuff me full of preservatives and stick me in one of those plush $6,000 vacuum sealed coffins. Save your money and buy yourself something pretty. What do I care? I’m dead, remember?

Instead please recycle. Salvage what organs you can and give them to someone who can use them. As for the rest of me donate my body to science so that I can contribute to the betterment of mankind. Or find a natural burial graveyard where they bury you in a simple pine box and plant a tree over your grave. I hear they put a little stone marker with a GPS chip so you can find the grave amongst the forest, and they reuse the plots every 50 years or so. I like the idea of being food for something green.

I know it means closed casket. Get a picture or a hologram or something. I don’t want your last image of me to be like one of those creepy wax museum things.

Regarding the funeral…

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I have the best friends anyone could ask for. Someone was always there to help me pick up the pieces of my life. In return I hope I was able to touch your life in a meaningful way, and maybe I was able to help you discover what makes you feel most alive. If we know death is coming like a train that’s lost its breaks, I’d like to take a page out of Morrie’s book (Check out Tuesdays with Morrie, it’s not the best book ever, but it’s a short and thoughtful read) and have a “Living Funeral.” That way I get to hear all those nice things you were planning on saying.

If for some reason I can’t make it, I’d like to say, “I don’t want you to mourn my death, I want you to celebrate my life,” and “Don’t be sad. I had a wonderful time here with you,” but that would be unfair. It is sad to lose someone you cared about. It’s ok to cry or not to cry. It’s ok to feel numb, confused, or even kind of glad. Everyone is affected differently and at different times. I remember when my friend Bobie passed; it didn’t hit me until I had to break the news to someone else.

The funeral is about you not me. Wear whatever makes you feel comfortable. I never was one for conformity. Don’t just stand around awkwardly thinking, “What do you say at these things.” Talk to each other, comfort one another, and swap hilarious and embarrassing stories. I’m all about bringing people together. Maybe you’ll rediscover an old friend, or just maybe my death could be the birth of a new friendship.

In lieu of the flowers, (which by the way are probably picked by an undocumented immigrant working in horrific conditions) could someone please set something up so that people could donate to a youth empowerment fund? Thanks. That’d be super.

Some time after things have settled down, a month, a year, on my birthday or whatever’s convenient for you…this is how I’d like you to pay your last respects.

1. I love food, and I would love it if my friends and family could sit down for a bigass potluck. I want you all to bring the dishes that make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Then I want you to eat, drink, and be merry. I think that sharing food is one of the most important things you can do.

2. Throw a bigass party. I don’t care of you’re all old geezers I want you to party like we did in the good old days. Pick your poison, I don’t care if you stay sober or get fucked up, I want you to party. I want you to get reckless. I want you to dance.

3. I always thought visiting graves was a strange practice. If you wish to feel close, it makes more sense to visit a place where you were close. So if you ever find yourself feeling alone go (perhaps mentally) to a place where we shared good times. It could be old posse house, Eastgate pool, Merry Ann’s diner, or Allerton Park. Put on that movie/song we always played, write me a letter, or just talk. I’m sure in some sense I’ll be listening.

4. Be as kind to yourself as you were to me. I know I didn’t always deserve it. Relish in being alive. Be as completely present as you can whether you’re working, walking, eating, running, making love, or just kickin it, because where ever you go…there you are.

Much love,
Emily

P.S. I don’t care how long it’s been or why we stopped talking. I’m not dead yet so hit me up.

Bridging the Language Gap

If you were afraid I fell of the face of the earth, fear not. I’m currently in Montreal. My grandfather is in the hospital, but good news is today is a better day then yesterday. It isn’t the first time someone in the family has been sick, however it is the first time that I have been old/mature enough to lend a hand. While my uncle is in the hospital with my grandfather, I’m at home with my grandma hanging out, helping out around the house, and in the garden. (We planted some beans all neat in a row. It was stupid cute.) My chief responsibility is and doing what I love best…cooking up a storm.

At first I was a little worried about the language barrier. I believe my grandmother and I share a combined vocabulary of 30 phrases.

Her English includes: Hello. Bye- Bye. No. Ok. Thank you. Doctor. TV. Cartoon. Pizza. Chocolate. Shopping. Good Night.

My Chinese: Hello. How are you? Yes. No. I don’t understand. You want? You eat? Enough? This one? No thanks, I’m full. Rice. Oatmeal. Bread. Vegetable. Water. Tea. Spicy. Hot. Shower. Play. Friend. I’m going out. I’m going to sleep. No he didn’t come home yet.

I recently learned, “my stomach hurts, you’re crazy! and that’s stupid.”

Apparently these are all the phrases you need to communicate. The rest of the message can be conveyed with a combination of pointing, miming, showing, and laughing.

posting here for the moment

haiti blog

The Night is My Mistress

so what are you doing up at this hour?
chillin?
its what 7am there almost?

yeah
i was writing
the night is my mistress

up from the night before?


the day is my wife..always nagging at me
telling me i forgot to do the dishes

but Night...we dance and play til the day breaks
and the ball and chain returns

Addiction 2

Nichole

Whore this is what youre good for.
She works her 12 steps.

Today we’ll discuss model minorities in the media
I learn the six step.

Ms. Campbell’s Third Grade Class.
We met in the gifted program.

The arbys sandwich is on fire.
She’s doesn’t stop the microwave.
Pap she screams.
Arms flailing.
Waiting to be saved.

With his combs lined up all in a row.
Did I ever tell you about that time in the navy?
Again with the rhubarb pie.
It was so hard to watch him die.

You always gave me hope.
You never gave up.

But I did.
I waited by my phone.
Waiting for Shelia or Stacy to call and tell me you’re dead.

Frank tried to kill me once.
No wait it was twice.

I’m gonna make it look like an accident, He said.
Nodding off I watched him watch me.
He waited 4 hours for me to die

Bored he drove her to her yawning grave
Her eyes were dry

Why arent you crying
Ive had enough of living.
Im ready for dying.
Then youll live to suffer another day.

Thats how she got away.

Another meeting
Its like sitting in church
With a crack head at the pulpit
And I feel like im at home.
Creative, beautiful, nonjudgmental,
open free generous,
kind, survivors,
explorers of the spirit,
Afraid but introspective
When they’re recovering
Aren’t we all recovering?

For us.
One is too many,
A thousand is never enough
You don’t choose to be an addict.
You choose your addiction.
My addiction?
Addicts.

Addiction 1

I was on my way to Charleston, when I realized I didn't know for sure where the meeting would be. I tried calling the director to no avail. I took the first exit into Arcola, a quaint little Amish town. I drove around a bit until I found a beautiful tree flowering and parked beside an old red bricked church.

As I sat inside my car, wishing something decent would play on the radio I decided to get to work. Time to call my muse.

Shelia it's Emily. Nichole changed numbers again.

"Oh Hi, yeah yeah you ready? Her number is 412..."

As I scrawled her number down on a crumpled animal cruelty pamphlet, I thought this last number lasted only 3 months. Who's she running from now?

I can still remember the smell of freshly cut grass, chlorine, and sunscreen that marked our summers. Foxwood Eastgate swim team was our world. We would swim for hours until I was as dark as the mixed girls, and Nichole was as red as a lobster. Then we'd bring our towels out to the crumbling black top, and bask in the warmth listening to Blink 182. Drinking Kool-aid and ordering pizza for the third time and having the same delivery guy. We'd play mermaids, sharks and minnows, Egyptian Ratscrew, and Jail Break.

Fast forward. 30 days clean and it's cold outside she tells me. She tells me about being dope sick on a park bench and realizing she can't do it anymore. She's doing better she tells me. She needs help, and by help she means money, and I know it's a hustle. I tell her I can't. Not this time, but in the end I give in. I appease my conscience screaming "you're just enabling her" by sending her a gift card. I should know better, but how can I turn my back?

As I sit in my cramped dorm room, procrastinating because I just can't write that paper I listen. That's how it goes, she talks and I listen because the trials and tribulations of my day life don't even register once she's done.

"You see what had happened was...I woke up and some dude was on top of me trying to take my pants off. I threw the mother fucker off of me but then he grabbed me real hard and slammed me up on a wall and he pistol whipped me."

He what?! Are you ok?

"He fucking decked me an hard. I got away though so it's cool. What's been up with you? I haven't heard from you in a minute."

I can't believe how matter of fact she is about all of this. I try to keep my composure.

Yeah just been busy with school shit. Trying to write a paper on Representations of the Model Minority in Modern Media, got class early tomorrow.

"I don't know how you do it. It sounds so hard."

My life sounds hard? As I sit in my warm bed, with my tuition and rent paid for, where I work Sundays as a diner waitress for spending money. My life sounds hard? My biggest problems are that my boyfriend forgot to call me back and I got a B on my last exam.

Another few years pass. I'm a graduate. She's a mother.

"Hello? Yeah I'm on my way to my mums."

I just got off the phone with her. I need a favor.

"I need 2 ketchups and ranch...No no you're right I said that backwards gimme 2 Ranch and Ketchup. Oh and an M&M milkshake."

I hear her laugh and it's infectious as she chats it up with the teller. She sounds just like her mum. Sorry she tells me, she's a regular.

"Yeah what's up what do you need?"

I'm gonna try and perform this spoken word piece on Thursday. The topic is addiction so I thought I'd call an expert. I just don't know what voice to use.

"Well hunny you've been witness to a lot of addiction in your life. I think it means more when you tell it from the heart."

I was thinking I could do it about my love affair with addicts. Even if I meet someone years before they pick up the first one. It's not even like I'm introducing them to drug culture, but almost everyone I get close to becomes an addict.

"You have this desire to fix what's broken-"

-'Savior's Complex' I know...

"No it's not just that. It's like you want to heal a broken soul."


I try to let that one sink in, then I realize its gold and quickly write it down.

"So you want to know what I think when I hear the word addiction?"

Sure we can start there.

"Pain. Agony. Powerlessness. Evil. Pain. Lonely. Hell on Earth. Numb. That's what addiction is Numb."

If it's so terrible why do you always go back?

"Because its Beautiful...yeah Beautiful. Its compelling. It becomes everything. It consumes me it takes me. It strips you of everything your worth. It strips you of everyone you love."

"And usually everything you own," she adds with a laugh.

Perfectionism and Procrastination

Something that I've been struggling with is my perfectionism and procrastination. Every day I think of a few things that I would like to share with you all, but I don't feel confident that I have the time or energy to produce something as polished as I would like. Instead I don't write it out, I don't sit down, and I don't challenge myself. I've decided to give myself to permission to be imperfect. I feel as this has a number of benefits. It shifts my focus from the product to the process, I give myself greater freedom to explore, it allows me practice more and more often, and *hopefully* you all will gain something from the experience as well.

Here it is, some of the work here will be the result of endless revisions and some of it will spill forth unedited from my overly active mind. Please appreciate both for what they are.

Mending Magic

I would have known this years ago, so I thought I would share.

I went to a free sale the other day and I was talking to one of the women there about giving things a second lease on life. I'm a pack rat and I have a tendency to lug around tons of ridiculously heavy things for no good reason. As a result I destroy tons of amazing bags. Sometimes I try to mend them only to have the seams tear again and again. The answer? Dental floss.

The simplicity of this solution is brilliant. Floss is incredibly strong, resists fraying, I have some on hand, and I can sharpie it to whatever color it needs to be.

Muffin Top

So free in my form,

Relishing in my skin,

In my domesticity and defiance,

I’d do my dishes in the nude.

I’d have more to work with,

If you could get rid of that padding on your hips,

He says.

I laugh.

I’ve had these since I was twelve.

Disease of distortion I thought myself immune.

Never did I think I’d succumb.

To this insidious insanity.

Unsettling,

Unfamiliar,

Unwarranted.

I’ve got to get out of this business.

Klein

Can an artist patent infinite space?

Disembodied brains,

impregnated by paint.

Here to offer a window

into the boundlessness of form.

A sullied tool blooms into raw inspiration.

Absorbing the void,

coral casts a spattering a spores.

Folds and fissures bring us freedom.

IKB

Jackson

As I allow Pollock to splatter across my senses,

Low rumbles are followed by a cacophony of lies.

The light dances off pasty white globules,

and for a monochromatic moment,

I pause.

Before diving deeply into the pastels of sunset.

There just a touch of cobalt.

Suddenly forest greens breathe with the sharpness of pine,

awakening my senses,

as I listen to the casual commands of apathetic authorities.

Now bursts of yellow force me to....

blink blink their brightness away,

as suns are born.

Ruddy orange leaves the palate of my eyes,

dry and parched.

Interrupted by the desperate plea of,

"We must be quiet and dignified."

I the drift into the darkness.

The curving criss-crossing paths,

like shadowed alley ways,

leading me down a maze,

of young beat boxers dressed in sweater vests,

Mary janes follow,

tights worn knee high.

Just a drizzling of french vanilla,

and the chaos is complete.

Ill at Caspa

Trapped in an unfamiliar silence,

result of my own mistakes.

Lights glow as the tracks throb harder,

I can't keep up the pace.

Accustomed to the pounding in my head,

distortion meets confusion.
Lethargy rules my limbs and I assume my post.

Wallflower on unfertile grounds beneath Clark's concrete.

Hearty slices of dubstep topped with a generous side of calypso.

Intermittent pulses capturing bodies in unlikely poses.

Beside a woman scorned,

now more beautiful despite her thorns.

A body riddled with tats screaming defiance,

yet her body notes her reliance on the cliches of our time.

No time to spare I take in padded walls,

grateful for their ambient orange glow.

Below tiny lightning bugs lie frozen where their shells were cast,

wingless and abandoned,

While others dance on tongues of rolling souls.

Its a mating dance for some,

Ears perk to the sound of sodomy,

wondering about the sound of Azlan resting on my thighs.

An opportunity to listen to watch,

as i painfully swallow my inability to share.

A touch of cold.

An intellectual crush marred by static.

Chopin's melodies dance.
Shit gets gnarly I'm informed. Heavy tones follow.

Talk of climbing mountains,

over the sound of Serengeti plains.

Language Lust

Image via Wikipedia

This is the beginning. A very good place to start. I've been telling myself, daily, that I must learn to write.

"Every Artist was first an amateur"- Ralph Waldo Emerson...so here goes.

Today I became addicted to spoken word.

16 years old in the heart of New Orleans, just six months after Katrina, I had the opportunity to bear witness to someone baring her heart, soul, triumphs, and tribulations to a small room of strangers. We had stumbled upon a small bar off the beaten path. Away from the crowded clubs with 2o dollar drinks we found a space transformed not by laser lights and a thumping bass, but by the rhythm of a single woman's voice. I found her command of language tantalizing, her insight into the struggle of daily grind enlightening, and most of all her performance was captivating.

Now, nearing 22 I've been looking for a medium to tell the stories that I feel must be told. By trade I'm an educator, but no one likes to be lectured but those who already know. How do we get people to listen, not just with their heads but with their hearts. I can write essay after essay on the "The Domestication of Femininity and the Rise of the Middle Class," but who would read it? Here I am 5am on a Friday night...er Saturday morning not reading essays, but unable to sleep because I'm chewing through video after video of spoken word. Maybe this is it.

I'm excited to go see Organic Flow and Saul Williams, spoken word extraordinaire on Saturday March 27, because its going to be insane, empowering, and proceeds go to Rock for Kids. This badass show, "A Night of Sight and Sound" is being put on by Lethal Poetry and their goal is to bring non-profits, for-profits, and artists together. I hatched a nearly identical plan when my friend told me to quit my job and start a nonprofit (which I proceeded to do thanks jake!). I'm working on an initiative to create a social business, a microfinance music mashup and it seems my people need to talk to their people.