There is always a way...

I found salvation in a well-lit hookah bar in Adam's Morgan,
Practiced the art of sacrificing my loneliness into smoke rings,
Escaped a night of staking facebook profiles of acquaintances that will never be part of my life,
In search of a stranger who might change my life,
Like the man playing guitar by the entrance to the Metro:
The great minds of my generation,
I hear their voices in the poetry of past generations,
Escaping the curse of all generations

And I wasn't alone.
Not with a bag full of volumes from used book stores and libraries crossed over my heart,
Not with the words of Ginsberg and Bradbury open on my lap.
Not with the lyrical romance of rhythm in my mind,
There's a mosaic on the roof of my skull,
There is a community in the scribbles of my notebook.

Though the news spoke of murder and institutionalized racism,
Though the art on the walls was probably illegal, and definitely unsigned,
And a one-line poem in black ink on the bridge
Waged peace on the violent: "Shoot cops, not dogs".
I felt hope,
Not the kind that manifests itself in lonely tears,
But the kind that screams.

No one has veto power over my life,
There is always a way to look in their eyes and change their minds.
There is always a way to dodge their barrels and act directly,
There's always a way to build love from tragedy,
You are never alone, there's always someone else in the crowd
Fighting.

(First draft, and I'm not even sure this is a poem, but it's worth sharing.)

No Self

Buddhism has been on my mind a lot lately. I'd been curious about it for a long time, and finally studied it in my East Asia Religions class. Two Buddhist concepts that have been on my mind a lot are transience and no-self.  Transience is the concept of impermanence, that nothing ever stays the way it is now.  No-self is the concept that there is no single thing that makes you yourself.  Imagine, for instance, a chair. A chair is made of many smaller parts, so what makes it a chair? There is no single part that makes it a chair. Rather, we recognize this combination of parts (none of which are a chair on their own) as a chair.

"He knows no one shines forever. They change with the weather." - On The Arrow, AFI

One Buddhist meditation is to imagine oneself at five years old, now, and at sixty years old. Is there anything in common between these three people?  The three have completely different thoughts, perspectives, priorities, ideas, voice, appearance, and they are not even made up of the same physical matter. There's no single thread tying the three together.   Thus, there's nothing that makes us us. There is no self.

"You want something that's constant, and I only wanted to be me. But watch, even the stars above, things that seem still are still changing." - Still, Ben Folds

I have always been a terribly nostalgic person. I've always missed moments of the past, missed the people I used to be close to and the places I got to know. What I miss more than anything else is the way I felt in those moments. Looking back, you can never feel that way again. Especially love.  I like to say that once you've loved someone, you will love them forever. That's a complete and utter lie. While some people from my past still bring up feelings within me, I've forgotten many of them. Even the very important ones, such as my first kiss, my first love, my first boyfriend no longer make me swoon. It's amazing that someone who changed my life so much and made me feel so many emotions has now disappeared completely into the fog of my memories. I know that someday this will happen with the present. Perhaps that's even scarier than the thought of this moment never happening again or the prospect of missing someone. It's terrifying to think that there might be a time when I will no longer miss today, when this moment will be so far off, that I won't even know how to miss it. I will literally be a different person than I am today.

"And the waves crashing around me, the sand slips out to see.  And the winds that blow remind me of what has been and what can never be." - The Lighthouse's Tale, Nickel Creek

As I pack up, I think about how this has been the most life-changing year since freshman year of highschool.  This year, I also had the most significant romantic encounter since I was fourteen.  I am grateful for the ways I've changed, and I know the things I've learned will stay with me for the rest of my life.  Still, it sometimes shocks me to look back a year and think about how different I was then.  This really hit me on 420; a year ago, that would have been all that I ever wanted: marijuana was a huge part of my life, and pot culture was filled with hope and community. I've grown distant from this, and it was strange to walk through Norlin Quad, knowing how happy I should be, how happy I would have been, but, really, I didn't care. I am a completely different person than I once was, and the things that fill me with joy now are not the same as the things that filled me with joy then.  Looking around was like looking at the person I used to be from the outside. I am someone else now.

 Rate of Change
 I'm running out of Fridays.
Of course, they'll never be gone
Completely. But Fridays now
Are the Fridays of my life.

Recycle bins fill with beer cans
Flattened by the perpendicular force
Of name-brand sneakers
On the feet of drunk friends.

Gutters collect the butts and filters
Of Newports, Blacks, Camels, and PTs.
Puffs of smoke dissintegrate
And disappear into memories.

My memory is overflowing
With today. The present
Will soon be left behind
And I'll be searching again.

Soon I will scream and laugh
Making more memories to share
And to lose. Soon this and that
Will be the past and time will be fresh.

But I am scared. Not of vodka
Or of ashes, but that I'll sit
Someday alone and I will miss
The rum and chronic of today.

-- from my journal, 04.24.09

I've completely rethought my political perspective.  I've gone 180 on issues such as undocumented immigrants, affirmative action, racism, and colorblind ideology. I've begun identifying strongly as a feminist, and this has become a major part of myself and my identity.  I've also began exploring other forms of marginalization, oppression, and privilege that exist in our society.  I read Peggy McIntosh's "Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack" - like, really read it - and began to acknowledge my own privilege. I've also become familiar with standpoint theory, which is such a simple, common-sense concept, but it has completely altered how I perceive academic literature, and changed how I participate in discussions about marginalized groups that I am not a part of, especially if members of that group are present in the discussion.  Most significantly, I've completely restructured my perspective on what gender and sex is.  I've become sensitive to the gendering of children, biological essentialism, gendered spaces, cissexism, cissupremacy, and how fucking transphobic this fucking world is, and I've overcome more internalized cissexism that I ever thought was possible or necessary (it is very very necessary).  I can't seem to go ten minutes without thinking how patriarchy and sexism pervade our society by creating hetero- and cis-normativity and homophobia and transphobia.  My priorities have also changed significantly, with marijuana dropping off the radar completely, replaced with a dedication to combat oppression, specifically sexism and cissexism.  I've also become even more passionate about and involved in things that concerned me a year ago, such as gay rights.  I've come out three times as three different identities, and begun actively exploring myself, labels, and the way society impacts how I see myself.


So that's where I am at the moment. I'll be somebody else tomorrow, and in an hour. As scary as change is, I have no choice but to embrace it. And embrace it, I will.

Drugs

Third post of the day, but I promise it's the last, and I promise this is the last time I'll ever do this. After re-reading my old poetry, though, I'm eager to talk about my past.

From July 08 to May 09, drugs played a major role in my life. I had the right personality for drug culture: I was intelligent enough to do it right, curious enough to try new things, rebellious enough to enjoy associating with something deviant, lonely enough to long for a community, rich enough to afford it, and "deep" enough to use it to my full advantage. What more, my body and mind reacted very well to everything I did, so it didn't cause me problems in any aspects of my life, like it did for others. In fact, thanks to marijuana, I grew a lot closer to my sister, and my grades went up for the first time in my life.

That period has passed by, and I have changed a lot, but I still look very highly at the experiences I once had. At the moment, I could almost see myself never doing a drug beyond hookah and beer again in my life, and I would not only be ok with that, I would be happy, and not even care. Still, I don't think I could ever look negatively at the amazing powers of mind-altering substances. Drugs, especially marijuana, have made me the person who I am today, and I wouldn't be the same without those experiences.

Here are some poems I wrote about drugs:

There’s a strange and deep dimension,
If you go there you’ll see
What it’s like to be in line
For the end of humanity.

There’s a nothing filled with nothing,
And it’s moving towards you
Taking everything it passes
Into darkness so pure.

When it’s near, try to run,
But already it’s too late,
And your soul slips in the darkness,
You think death must be your fate.

Then another comes along
Calmly settles down inside
And you wake up where you started
In the same dim light.

Everything remained the same
All these people never changed,
But you know and you can feel it:
Something here is very strange.

For you’ve never met these people,
Though you know them in your mind,
And you’ve never been a human,
What you were, you’ll never find.

So get used here to this world,
Take in everything it’s got,
Everything you do is different,
Don’t let any moment rot.

And when you look at the stars,
Know you’ve been to them before,
And you know the world is smaller,
Then in scientific lore.
-- 08.08.2008; this poem is about my first salvia trip

Split a 40, Smoke a Bowl
We live in a world where bongs become legend,
Stories we won't forget.
We all know the name of everyone's piece
Days we'll never regret.
We met you tripping and rolling and high
While loud music played;
We quickly became buddies for life
Before it got late.
At the light rail station we found a friend:
Hit his perfect joint.
We smoked in the city on stoner hill:
A name that we coined.
At home we fixed a drink for your mom
In roaring laughter.
At the house, we played a game of fooseball
And packed a bowl after.
At noon, in a Jeep, we sped on highways:
A hundred we'd go.
At dusk, we hid beneath those on-ramps:
Time passed us by slow.
A circle, always together, many halves
Of an infinite whole
And just when we though the moment was over
We smoked another bowl.

Dedicated to every stoner in the mile high city.
Thank you for being part of my life.

-- Spring.2009; There's no better place to be a stoner than in Colorado, methinks.

Let this always reign true:
Every morning I kiss you.
Feel your warm breath inside
As I prepare for the ride.

It's a cruel, cruel world in which we live.
Bombs go off and children weep.
Deep inside me someone pleas
"Break these bonds and give us peace."

Corporations bathe our minds
In regurgitated slime
As we hide in daylight
From the creatures of the night.

But I get by with a smile.
Blend right in, forget the time.
I know you're in my heart
Even while we're apart.

Here, no one'd understand
Why we're walking hand in hand.
They say you're an abomination,
But they've never been in love.

I wish we could run away.
I'd make love to you all day.
--  01.14.09; "Got to Get You Into My Life" is The Beatles' ode to marijuana: this is mine.

Heartbreak

I don't usually post twice in one day, but I re-read my old poetry, and I really would like to share some of it, as well as some of my past.

The older I've grown, the less and less I cried, to the extent that sometimes, I think it's unhealthy. Although many failed relationships have caused me tears, I haven't experienced true heartbreak since my first heartbreak following the end of my first relationship early sophomore year. That's a good thing, I think.

Heartbreak is a lot like grieving. I had made a logical decision - one of the most logical and best decisions I ever made - to end a relationship that meant a lot to me, knowing it would plunge me into pain. I didn't deal well with it, either, immediately moving on into an involvement with one of the worst guys I had ever met. I learned what it's like to love someone, but not be able to be with them, and I had never felt sadder. Here are some poems I wrote at the time:

Broken hearts
Bleeding palms
On the earth
Where we once loved

Still confused
Who you are
Who am I
What is us?

There were days
I questioned meaning
There were nights
I loved my life

To move on
It takes some bleeding
And believing
Love is far
-- 10.2006

My teacher looks me in the eye,
She’s asking me if I’m alright.
Why do you ask me, oh why?
Homework is stained with tears I cried.

These stains of salt, and drying blood:
Reminders of an ancient love.
So many tears I’ve shed in sorrow.
And even more I’ll shed tomorrow.

You took my heart, and raised it high
I looked at it with bloodshot eye.
And then I threw and crashed it down
I watched it shatter on the ground.

But somehow I do not regret
I learned a lesson in the end.
But it is life, I know it’s tough.
It’s what you get for being in love.

Could you forgive me for that year?
Forget we ever were a pair?
We’d built a friendship, new and true.
Pretending I don’t still love you.
-- 02.13.2007

Relapse

I have a history of adjustment depression, and I feared college would cause me to relapse. To tell you the truth, it didn't. Last time I suffered from a long-term episode of depression, not only had I just moved, but I was also going through a major heartbreak, and I still lived with my family. Living away from home has definitely made adjusting to college easier than any adjustments in the past, and my self image has been better this last semester than ever before in my life. I love my family, but I had long been ready to live on my own.

While overall my mood has been positive, I have had a few relapses, at nights, alone in my dorm. Sometime in November, I had my worst episode of self-harm since February 13, 2007. Still, that was the only one, and I tend to relapse into cutting about once or twice a year, so it's not so bad.

This break has not treated me well. Boredom is the worst, because it only leads to more boredom. My motivation has plummeted, and so has my mood. All my life, I've hated break, because, somehow, being away from school has always tortured me, and this break is no exception (though Thanksgiving break was). I would definitely consider this a relapse, but I'm optimistic enough to know that I'll get over it soon enough, I'm going back HOME on Friday, and tomorrow, I'm hoping I'll go skiing, which I know will help my mood.

I know writing would help, but I don't have the motivation to do so - I haven't written in weeks! Maybe I'll make myself write, maybe tomorrow. Instead, I re-read my old poetry just now. I wrote the best poems when I was at my worst, here's one that particularly struck a chord:

Butterkinves flashing screaming attention
plastic erasers paperclips bark
safety scissor’s new purpose mirrors childhood lost
after hallways and lockers and muffling cries
the closet door locks for the deadliest chore
red pen dances: art not on paper
but nothing a three dollar wristband can’t fix
behind the smiles and tears the make-up and blood
lies a heart that has never been bruised
selfishly wishing blood for his pleasure
designer panties plead tear me apart
the clock strikes a new day, she prays Good Night
-- 03.02.2007

The end is approaching.

Her mind is young.
Her dreams are vast.
Carelessly, she hums
And sometimes dances
Believing in love,
In changing the world.

But the end of time
Is steadily watching.

She starts at the beginning,
Begins at the start.
Wisely she prepares
And builds a solid foundation,
Her head held high
Through every toil.

But the end of time
Is at her side.
His arm grazes hers,
And she takes his hand.

Moving boldly ahead.
Obstacles are commonplace.
The world refuses to change.
She bites her lip.
They refuse to listen,
But there must be away.

And the end of time
Has embraced her.
He holds her close
And whispers secrets in her ear.
His arms keep her warm
As his breath trickles down her neck.

Even her greatest efforts
Are futile. Nothing changes.
Victories are quickly forgotten.
Trouble still festers over the land.
Tears fade her bright eyes,
Hope begins to vanish.

Now the end of time
Kisses her soft lips.
His slippery tongue enjoys her.
He nibbles her sensitive neck,
Intimately stroking her body,
Sighing and moaning,
As she begins to gasp.
She opens up, giving in.

Her dreams are lost in the past.
She never cries nor laughs:
She's been sad for much too long.
She silences her daughter's hopes
And heartlessly watches
As the world begins to plummet.

For the end of time
Is now inside her.
Like an evil serpent,
He slithers to her heart
And tears it out.
He is inside us all:
In our selfish desires
And paralyzing fears
Deflowering our inner child
So he can bring the world to an end.