Art for Art's Sake? Yes, please.

Today, SOMArts posted this:

"The language of economics is the logic of government: if the cultural sector does not speak in these terms it will suffer." - Claire Donovan. Do you think the value of arts and cultural programming is beyond measurement?

 It included a link to Claire Donovan's article "Art for art's sake?" on the Department of Culture, Media, and Sport. I read the article, and then reread SOMArts post.

This is my response:

Simply put, yes.

It is hard for me to even begin thinking differently about the answer to this question because of the significant role arts and culture have played and continue to play in my life and its development. It literally save me; it pulled me from the edge of suicide when I was in high school.

Sure, one could create some complicated algorithm that would extrapolate the economic value of saving my life at the age of 16. The algorithm would have to include complex formulas that would put an economic value on the deeds of my life over the last 20 years. Some of those deeds would be a positive value; some negative.

It would also need to account for the ripple effect of those deeds and their impact on society. Again, some would have a positive value; some negative. This piece of the equation would be cumbersome as some of the negative-valued deeds might result in positive-value ripples, and vice versa.

The equation would need to also take into account the amplification of those ripples over time. There would also need to be a part of the equation that factors in the economic impact of the quality of my life, which is beyond a simple equation of earnings/wages and would have to monetize personal fulfillment. There would need to be a portion of the algorithm that deals with potential economic impact of more years lived, too.

This algorithm only deals with economic impact, which in this day and age seems to be the only measurement that matters.

I am sure it could be done, but the more important question is why? Why reinforce the dominant, capitalistic mind-set of the "value" of arts and culture especially in an age when "value" and "return on investment" is only viewed through a short-term lens? Why not create an entirely new narrative and narratives, ones that actually honor and *value* the myriad ways in which art and culture impact lives, communities, histories? And not just the dominant, privileged lives.

I am reminded of the Supervisorial Candidate Arts Forum at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts sponsored by the San Francisco Arts Commission, Grants for the Arts, and others. Arts and culture were basically lumped into two categories: arts/culture as revenue generator/creator and arts/culture education. Rarely did those two perspectives meet, and yet there is a dynamic interplay between both. It was all "develop this cultural corridor", "make us a destination", "let's educate the youth".

A topic not even addressed was the role of arts and culture as problem solver to societal issues, ways in which arts and culture help foster perspective shift and critical thought. Also not addressed was how to leverage this role/view of arts and culture to find solutions to things like gentrification, affordable housing, education reform, budget problems.

To me, focusing solely on the economic impact is *why* policy makers cannot even see the larger impact arts and culture make. Lumping all of these impacts into the moniker "arts education" minimizes our understanding of its much deeper and longer lasting impacts. Especially given that education is continually being cut, and even more so now that arts education is seen mostly as superficial.

I am also reminded of a forum I attended at Southern Exposure last December (or at least I believe it was last December) on the Occupy movement. At one point, we broke into small groups. There was a former employee of the San Francisco Arts Commission in my group. I posed the question, "Never have I seen the San Francisco Arts Commission Board actually use arts and culture practices to address issues brought up through their department (i.e. budget cuts, organizational restructuring, etc.). It is all reports and charts. If the people who help guide and set arts and culture policy for the city of San Francisco cannot even see how arts and culture can be used to help them solve their own budgetary problems, what hope do we have of any other city department (or state or federal department for that matter) valuing arts and culture, especially economically?"

The person who previously had worked for the Arts Commission concurred and even stated that that is why s/he left working for the department.

To me, this all stems from only looking at the economic valuation of arts and culture, which is driven by a capitalistic system where growth is only ever measured by money. We conflate value for values. This is damaging, and it is ultimately what has lead to a very strong and dominant narrative of austerity,

which reinforces economic impact at the expense of everything else. It is a vicious cycle.


The only way out of this singular narrative is to continue creating, distributing, and valuing the multiple narratives of arts and cultures impact, to not reduce the conversation into a single topic and short sound bites. It is about the cultivation of critical thought, which has been lost in an age of rapid reaction of 140 characters.

It can be done. We can change the narrative. It will take time. And, ultimately, it will take a lot of courage and faith, which are the essence of arts and culture.

Openings

I read this tonight (5/31/12) at "The Bloom, a summer reading series of Bay Area writers" produced by 14 Black Poppies and Tara Dorabji, which is hosted at Progressive Grounds (Mission location). Tara had selected the theme, Openings. I decided to write something new.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing and performing it.

The next The Bloom is Thursday, June 21st from 7pm to 9pm at Progressive Grounds. The theme is "In the Mist", will feature Miriam Casey, Tara Dorabji, Monica Esperitu, and Chuy Haugen Mendeola, and will be hosted by Margaret Bacon Schulze.

****
It opened. Right there in front of me. It opened. I would like to say it surprised me, but I was expecting it. So I wasn’t surprised, per se. I was more awed that it actually happened. I thought the incantation, the one given to me as I prowled the alleys littered with sexual desperation, wouldn’t actually work. I mean, who expects to find real magic at 4am on a Tuesday? I did, though, and it was whispered to me by a guy whose toenails curved and whose breath smelled of Steel Reserve. When I paused in front of him unaware he was sleeping at my feet, he grabbed my ankle. Now, that surprised me. In my shock, I fell. My head then next to his he whispered the incantation to me. Concluding,, “Only say this if you wish to fall again.”

I forgot him and the incantation when I picked myself up and turned my back to him. The memory only came back as a result of the letter I got from the Employment Development Department saying I had run out of all of my allocated benefits.

Two years of unemployment, of too-many-to-count applications and rejections, of missed payments and collections’ calls, of ignored healthcare spiraling into emergency visits, of counting change for McDonald’s valued meals, of apologetic responses to friends invitations. Two years of sinking, of falling, of spiraling downward. I thought there was no where lower to go. Then, I got EDD’s letter.

I spent the afternoon pacing around my studio apartment inventorying everything of value: the thousands of cds collected over decades, the Dolce and Gabbana suit bought as a birthday present whim, the ceramic bust of Einstein, the Cuisinart given as an X-mas gift, the six-year-old computer that sometimes won’t even turn on, the $50 gift card to Best Buy. Even if it all sold for a reasonable price, it still wouldn’t be enough to pay rent.

“Late as usual,” I thought to myself. Then, I laid down on the couch and took a nap.

As I slept, I dreamt.

I was again prowling the alley swimming from too much tequila and flying from one too many joints. A man wearing only leather suspenders attached to 501s and police boots whistled. A hobbling pigeon with a broken wing and deformed feet pecked at invisible crumbs. I saw a movement in the doorway of an abandoned fire station certain it was some sexual predator only to find out it was another decrepit pigeon. Many people slept in doorways and in the shadows behind the streetlights. I halted, couldn’t decide where to go, wanted just to stand in shadow. It was then I felt the hand on my ankle. I startled and fell.

I woke before the old man could again whisper his incantation sweating, needing a shower, feeling as if the bottom was falling beneath me. I walked to my closet of a bathroom, turned on the shower, and waited for the how water to flow freely as I stared at myself in the mirror. I was crying. Again. It seems I cry almost every time I look at my reflection. How can I be 36 and still unemployed? How can I not pay my bills? How did I end up as this pitiful person who keeps sinking?

The reflection of memories stared back at me from the mirror. Misery just loves memories. There was my boss handing me my final check with a simple, “you know, it’s just business. And…business is slow right now.” There was the patronizing unemployment councilor shaming me for accepting benefits. There was my mother tall, hair black from youth sobbing behind the water heater as she said, “you are why I cry.” There was the priest whose familiar lips whispered sins and absolutions.

And with each reflection I slipped a little deeper.

Without bathing, I turned off the shower. I needed to leave my bathroom, to stop staring at the past. Then, my belly grumbled. There was no food in my fridge or cupboards. This I knew. The loose change had all been spent.

Having no glasses in the bathroom, I went to the kitchenette, grabbed a glass, filled it to overflowing. Messily, I gulped two glasses and filled a third. Still my belly grumbled. I needed another nap.

I turned around ready to walk the ten steps from my kitchenette to my couch as the incantation as if of its own volition escaped my lips. CRACK! Then, my lips called it forth again this time as loud as a thunder clap. CRACK!

The hole opened right there in front of me. A perfect circle, edges smooth, no debris to be found. Just a hole, a perfectly circular hole. It made me dizzy. I fell as foretold.

I am here on the other side, and I cannot see back into my past life. It is dark here, but it is not the darkness of despair or misery. It is not the hopelessness of falling. It is the darkness of the unknown, the uncharted, the undiscovered. It is terrifying. Yes, it is.

It is the freedom of surrender.

Ex Libris De Corpus/Books of the Body

 
Ex Libris De Corpus is a multi-year journey to ink Jason from neck to toe using illustrations inspired by his dark fables and fairy tales and inked by tattooist and native San Franciscan Oliver Wong. Obsessed with immolation and transfiguration, Jason obscures the line between dreams and reality in all of his tales. In fact, in most of them, the main character either dies or transcends as in all of nature.

Now, Jason is partnering with Oliver and local artists and photographers to ink these tales on his body and capture the transformation from normal 30-something former Minnesotan suburbanite into a modern day "Illustrated Man" where each tattoo tells a story. Using fiction, illustration, tattooing, performance, photography, and social media to tell the complete tale, Ex Libris De Corpus seeks to blur the boundaries between permanence and impermanence.

Ultimately, Jason will die, and after his death his cremated ashes will spread down the Mississippi (from the land of his birth) across the Pacific (from the land of his home) dissolving into nothingness and returning to the greater cycle. And only shadows and reflections will remain in memories, photos, books, and (hopefully) galleries.

The Tale of Amar

Once there was an old, gray Mutt with a large bushy white mustache and black feet named Amar. Amar was floating on a boat made of reeds on a sea of charcoal and ash. He magically appeared there one Friday afternoon after eating some black and white mushrooms that had bright red hairs growing out of its cap. They tasted like the earth and smelled like the morning dew.

He found the mushrooms on the side of the road after roaming in mourning for almost a week. You see, Amar had lost his companion Tally, a runt of a Raccoon, a week ago Thursday night, and he was now the last Animal on earth.

Any other day, Amar would not have eaten those mushrooms, but today he was grief stricken and desperate, so he ate them hoping to forget. Still, as he swallowed he could only think of Tally: the way he clamored up fences, the way he smiled when eating, the way he always had a tale to tell.

Full and exhausted, Amar slept. He woke up floating on the ash and charcoal sea with dreams like white dandelion seeds carried by a breeze dancing above his head. He could not be bothered by those dreams because he knew none of them could come true for his biggest dream was the return of Animals and his most pressing dream was to bring Tally back to life. Dreaming was hopeless; it meant the impossible. He preferred to sleep.

And, sleep he did. The gentle rocking of the charcoal waves lulled Amar into a deep black slumber. As he rocked in his reed boat, his left paw fell over the side and touched the ash sea. His black slumber erupted with memories of the First Animals.

Diona and Mirwais were the First Animals from which all else were created. Diona was an elephantine ant with a large, extended abdomen, and Mirwais was a monstrous onyx jackal whose head was larger than the Sphinx. Diona and Mirwais roamed the earth as it still formed. Magma did not burn them; nitrogen did not freeze them. They were great and more powerful than god, but gods they were not. The were, simply, the First Animals.

With each step they took, mass solidified beneath their feet. They wandered in complete silence until the earth was a large desolate rock. Nothing grew on its surface and its atmosphere was inhospitable to anything or anyone one other than Diona and Mirwais.

Upon seeing the desolation, Diona sighed and created the First Wind. It traveled the world picking up loose debris and dust, the tiny particles not forged in the footprints of the Animals. The debris and dust assaulted the earth forming high mountains and deep canyons.

Mirwais overjoyed by the frenzy of formation laughed boisterously. His laughter morphed into a wild tempest. Blue-gray clouds soon blanketed the earth. Then, lightning lit up the entire sky, which bore thunder. It was the First Music of the world, and it made Diona and Mirwais dance.

As they danced, vast deserts and wide valleys formed. The earth was finally beginning to take shape the way we know it today. Still water and life and language were missing.

Diona and Mirwais danced for what seemed like centuries until they were finally so tired they tumbled to the ground and fell asleep. And they dreamt the First Dream.

Diona was not just an Ant; she was the keeper of all things on and beneath the Earth. Her extended abdomen undulated as if something grew inside her. She was a radiant bronze, glowing like a sun and just as hot. Everything she touched melted until she found herself in the exact center of the Earth.

Mirwais was more than a Jackal; he was the gatekeeper of the borderland between the heavens and Earth. His obsidian fur sparkled like a galaxy. He grew and grew and grew until he completely surrounded the Earth creating the night sky.

Mirwais and Diona had not known loneliness for they had always been together. Now that they were apart it caused the First Sorrow.

The Jackal cried until all his life fell to the Earth as rain. The inconsolable Ant, driven to madness by the separation,  tore open her abdomen. Out poured the Second Animals.

The death in their Dream was not a dream. Rather it was their transfiguration, and it became the First Memory.

Amar witnessed it all as he slept in his reed boat, his paw lightly skimming the ash sea. As he slept, he, too, cried. The death of Tally was but an echo of the First Sorrow. It overwhelmed his entire body, and his paw in response slipped deeper into the ash sea.

Another memory flooded Amar.

Mira was a Second Animal, and she looked like a Great Panda except tufts of bright red fur grew between her claws. The tufts looked almost like paintbrushes -- some coming to a fine point and others flat and wide.

She spent most of her days quietly chewing bamboo observing the world around her. Mira loved the way the sun, wind, and bamboo brought the forest to life through light and shadow. She loved their dance.

Sometimes, when the wind blew from the east, she heard echoes of the First Memory. She heard it not in words but as the tickling of her bright red tufts. The breeze caught inbetween her toes, and she found herself lifting her front paws to the air. Then, as if someone else took hold, she painted the air and watched the story of Diona and Mirwais unfold before he.

A longing grew deep inside Mira that mirrored the First Sorrow. She wanted a companion. She no longer wanted to be alone.

One late afternoon when the sun was about to kiss the horizon, the air grew bitter cold and the earth warmed beneath Mira's paws. And while Mira knew she needed to endlessly chew bamboo for her body demanded its daily nourishment, all she wanted was to hibernate, to curl up in a cave and let winter pass.

The sun went to sleep and the first star appeared. It twinkled bright red the same as the tufts on her paws, and it called to her. She followed it all night across a wide, turbulent river and up a perilous precipice until she was on top of a mountain covered in hard, crisp snow.

Mira had never climbed the mountain though she had seen it many times on the Northern horizon. Now that she was on top she forgot the bright red star and looked out over the valley below. She could barely make out her bamboo home in the distance, and she felt a longing for her homeland sprout.  She watched the sun rise turning the black sky a deep violet, then navy then ultramarine and periwinkle until finally the sun was high in the azure sky.

Mira hadn't noticed her weariness and hunger mushroom as she followed the bright red star, but in the crispness of day it was impossible to ignore. Her belly rumbled and her eyes itched. There was no bamboo on the top of the mountain, and she hadn't the strength to climb back down. So she set off to find a place to sleep.

She wandered all day finding nothing. In fact, Mira had tried laying down in the snow, but as she closed her eyes waiting for the final slumber the wind visited her bright red tufts and jostled her awake.

The sun set bringing an even more bitter cold and a more desolate darkness. Mire was no longer weary; she was frantic and desperate. Her head turned furiously hoping to catch a glimpse of the bright red star of some other hope. That is when she noticed a flicker in the north. She ran and ran and ran towards that flicker until she buckled from the weight of her laborious breathing. The cold enwrapped her and turned her bones to ice. As she lifted her head for what she thought was surely her last breath, she saw a glowing cave in front of her.

With every last ounce of life, she crawled into the cave. A fire and bamboo greeted her. Grateful she ate. Then, she slept.

In her dreams, the Ant and the Jackal visited Mira. They showed her in minute detail every moment of their creation and death. What once had been whispers carried on the wind and afterimages painted in the air was now solid and clear. And the First Sorrow, which had only been but a mirror, was now physical and real.

When she woke, the fire still glowed. She watched the shadows dance on the walls, and she longed like she had never before longed for the dance of bamboo, sun, and wind. It was then that Mira knew the bamboo forest was her companion, and she also knew she would never see it again. This was the Second Sorrow.

The fire died leaving behind soot and charcoal and one tiny wisp of smoke. The wisp tickled Mira's bright red tufts and pulled her to the entrance of the cave. There in front of her was a large pool of water, and she knew exactly what to do.

Mire mixed the water and soot making the First Paint. She used her bright red tufts as the brushes she knew they were and painted the walls of the cave with images of the First Memory and the First Sorrow. When all the walls were covered and she had no more life left to give, Mira curled up in the center of the cave and welcomed her final sleep. Thus, from Mira was the First Language born carrying with it all the beauty of the Second Sorrow.

The sorrows poured form Amar's eyes and formed as a pool in his reed boat. The pool lapped Amar's back paws and woke him. He did not remember where he was or how he got there. He could only think about Mirwais and Diona and Mira. Images and emotions whorled inside him making him dizzy and the rocking of the reed boat was no longer lulling; it was nauseating.

It made him sleepy, sleepier than he was before. Amar collapsed over the side of the boat and his front paws fell deep into the ash and charcoal sea. His bushy white mustache skimmed its surface.

Another memory engulfed hum as flames consume gasoline. This time it was not of some distant history. It was of Tally.

Tally traversed a glowing white field of snow towards a looming mountain range in the South as if called by it. His diminutive frame made it seem as if he was floating instead of walking. He didn't even leave any footprints.

Tally never paused. He did not stop to take in the marvels of the snow-covered land. He did not stop when he wolves howled their hunger nearby. He did not stop when the cold bit his toes and nose causing them to crack. Tally had a singular focus of which nothing could distract: the mountain.

The sun set and rose six times, and still Tally pressed onward never eating and never sleeping until finally the steep cliffs rose before him. Then, Tally flew. He flew with the speed of the wind up the mountain. At the top, a cave greeted him. 

He quietly and quickly entered the cave.

In the middle of the cave grew the most glorious mushrooms. They were black and white with bright red hairs that looked like the bristles of a sable paint brush grew out of its cap. And they emanated the most glorious warming bronze light, which illuminated and brought to life the paintings that decorated the cave walls. Tally was mesmerized.

Before him unfolded the tale of the First Animals and the First Sorrow. Never before had he witnessed the power of the First Language, and it now made all words seem inconsequential and insignificant. It was as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes and he could finally see the world as it is not as it is perceived.

He immediately wanted to share this experience with his companion, Amar. But Amar was a whole world away. Tally knew he could never describe this beauty, this sorrow. It could only be lived.

Then, as if a chorus rode on the wind and rose from the mushrooms, a song filled the cave.

Tally born of the morning dew
the First Memory is shared with you
for as one of the last of our kind
you must preserve it for all time.
We wish not to fade from history.
Thus, take with you the First Memory.

Tally gathered the mushrooms and held them tight to his chest. The bronze light faded and so too did the First Memory.

Suddenly, Tally was surrounded by a blackness that was more than just the absence of light. It was a tangible blackness that gripped his heart and cause the deepest sorrow he had ever known. In that despair, he whispered, "Amar, where are you?"

The wind heard his whisper and rushed to his aid. It lifted Tally and carried him back to his home. There it laid him down, and Tally slept.

The next morning, Tally was covered in dew still holding the mushrooms close to his chest. He recalled a dream about a mountain and a cave covered in magnificent paintings. There was a story to share, he remembered, a story that must be told, but the details were all so fuzzy.

Groggy and still clutching the mushrooms, he rose. He rushed off to find Amar careless of the world around him. As he crossed a busy street, a silver car struck him dead. His limp body tumbled over itself until it was on the side of the road. His arms still clung to the mushroom, which now were covered by his corpse.

"Noooo!!!" Screamed Amar and he shook himself awake. Gone was the reed boat and charcoal and ash sea. Gone were the dreams dancing like white dandelion seeds on the gentle breeze. Gone was Tally. There was only Amar laying on the side of the road. 

Bright red mushroom spores covered Amar's black paws and looked like a galaxy. As the spores whirled like dervishes each memory that had visited Amar as a dream replayed itself. Mirwais and Diona. Mira. Tally. Over and over and over again. Amar wept.

It was thus that the Third Sorrow was born.

When Amar had shed his final tear, he finally understood who he was. He was the avatar of the First Animals and the herald of the First Memory.

Amar to this day wanders the Earth telling the tales of "Diona and Mirwas", of "Mira and the Cave", of "Tally and the Mushrooms" to anyone who will listen. In fact, he shared it with me on the night of the full moon in December 2011. I found a black and white mushroom capped with fine bright red hairs growing in my backyard. It called to be eaten, and eat it I did.

I fell asleep and witnessed the First Memory unfold. The next morning I woke covered in dew.

And this...? This is but my humble attempt to put into words, which are so inadequate, the Tale of Amar.

This Place of Red Bricks and Aging Mortar

     
This piece is inspired by two things. First, I am working with OutLook Theater Project on exploring the intersection of faith and the queer community with a (hopeful) partner in San Jose. This is project is inspiring me to explore the edges of darkness: a space where light finds itself trapped. To me, it is in these spaces in particular where one witnesses the true power of faith. 

The second thing that inspired this was the passing of my friend Ted. Now, it is kind of misnomer to say Ted was a friend. Rather, he was an acquaintance. But upon his passing, something changed. I'm not quite sure what, but his death and the fuzzy details surrounding his murder in Juarez, Mexico, made me think of him differently and dearly. Ted was a writer, conflicted, in agony, and loved. It is clear he was loved so very, very much. I'm not quite sure he new exactly how much. He was funny that way. He always loved the exaggeration, desperation, and creation of stories. That was his life. And many times it was not the life that others saw of him. There was a beautiful and tragic disconnect between his world and ours. 

So...this story is to faith, queers, and Ted. Long live the exaggeration, desperation, and creation of stories. 

****
It came to me like a dream comes to you in the daylight: hazy, askew, and intangible. The longing that I felt for what had been lost so long ago drained as quickly as pasta water through a colander. I was left only with that longing clinging desperately to self. The majority wasn't there any more, and what remained was integral to perfectly cooked farfalle. It was that explosion of salt and liquid as you bit into it that I loved. I never wanted it to go away fearful that when it did nothing would be left but the residue of my memory.

I happened upon this place -- this building with its red brick from centuries ago held together by crumbling mortar lazily applied -- as I wandered the streets at three in the morning. The stained glass broken cut my hand as I crawled through St. James the Less high on hopeful hallucinations of more saints and sinners. I don't know what compelled me to relieve myself at the abandoned shrine to Madonna the Blue. It felt good to just let go. I did so again in a corner with St. Peter staring emotionlessly at me from above with his slightly condemning expression only a repressed artist could conjure.

This place -- this place of religion and history and collected memories and whispers -- spoke not in a language understood. I knew it spoke only by the tickle in my lungs as I inhaled from the bottle of poppers I keep in my breast pocket whenever I need a rush. The brain cells died, and I was closer to this god, a god I never wanted to be close to. I knew this god well. It visited me as a specter of childhood and phobia constantly preying on my need for trust. I trust only that which I ingest or inhale. Communion was always metaphysical.

There I laid splayed like a sacrifice on the marble alar to gods renamed. There I was staring at the crucifix suspended by rusted chains ready to break from time and neglect. There I was readying and steadying myself for it. The breath held in place by hand on chest and belt choking neck, I came: a spasm; then paroxysm; then nothing. There was no wetness or relief or joy or guilt. There was only that longing. Then that residue. Finally, always finally, nothing.

He watched from the shadows fearful that his desperate eyes would be recognized as desperation. He was like the neighborhood feral cat: always fed and loved, always ravishingly hungry and distrustful, always conflicted. I saw him only by reflected light off of bared teeth. They were all silver. Or steel. Or maybe lead. He was one of those creatures left in alleys after society has used them. He can only be seen out of corners of eyes; can only be heard though manic whispers. Yet he is there -- will always be there -- even when his body transcends this world. He is captured by our fear.

I know him intimately even though we've yet to speak or acknowledge each other's existence here in this place that once was refuge for the faithful and now is home to the wandering. I know him because we are one. He is who I have become. I am who I was. I crawled through St. James the Less over a week ago. I've laid on this marble altar ever since fasting as a saint fasts: fed by devotion and inflated ego. I've counted the creaks and the sirens and the rattling of doors by others who are too chicken shit to give themselves to St. James the Less. These sporadic rhythms and bursts of melody lull my racing mind. It's as if as times creeps forward and the less I move acceleration occurs. The distance between crescendos physically increases and mentally decreases. It is then he appeared as a flicker of a candle extinguished over twenty years ago when this place of unanswered prayers closed its doors. I want him.

He's an animal, a monster, something others divert eyes from. The scabs on his hands from gashes deep and uncleaned bubble and ooze its semi-liquid puss. His hair is oily and unkept tangled like tumbleweed. He is more than these fearful appearances and pungent smells but mostly others only recognize in him the things they hate about their selves. He amplifies their insecurities. He manifests their fears. It is the lump on his shoulder that terrifies me.

Saints and sinners be damned. All of them be damned. I am lost here, and I hate their stares and constant need for forgiveness. I've never received mine. I never will. I am here because I am lost, trapped, isolated by choice and fate and god's will. I want that crucifix to finally become unhinged. I want time to do its duty and age. I want that hunched man in the shadows to stop staring mindlessly at as he fiddles with the remnants of some dead thing stuck on a decades old trap. I want to be free, something not yet experienced. I want the release of self that comes from passage. I want union with the unknown. Mostly, I just want him to leave and he won't.

The siren blared again this time louder as if it was at the front door. It must have been. I felt the flicker of warmth first as if the summer sun cut through fog and gently dried the earth. He laughed. He just laughed and rocked. He was mesmerizing, and I too laugh and rock. I now was him or more likely he is me. Time and flames collide. I feel my shoulder and there it grows. It is to be the only thing that will survive this desperate destruction. I know it immediately. I claw and scrape as only someone can do right before death. Then blackness, an electric pulse through my chest, the smell of carbon, and an impression of solitude.

I was no longer. He is gone. This place of red bricks and aging mortar only a shell. Gods and saints and sinners die.

 I am here still. I know I am. You can find me as a vanishing thought or a tickle in the lungs as you inhale your poppers. You can visit me often and frequently. I beg you too. I ask only that you not divert your eyes. Look at me. For you are only looking at your self. You won't like what you see. No one does. But that is the point:

we all are hunchbacks lurking in shadows waiting to be seen.

God's Consequence

Once upon a time God had no home. There was no place she could go to rest her feet. There was no warm fire in the fireplace. There was no fluffy bed covered in heavy wool blankets. There was no kitchen in which to make a meal. God had been evicted, and now she roamed uncomfortably throughout the universe, but mostly across the Earth. She liked it here even though it was humans that evicted her.

God long ago had lived in luxury. Although she never really loved luxury because it always came at a cost. When she was at her richest -- placed on an altar or on a shrine or in a temple -- she was mistaken for a man. God didn't really want to correct her worshipers (she was just happy to have worshipers at all), so she kept her mouth shut and being God grew a bushy big white beard to reinforce her masculine wisdom. People seemed to like her this way. At least they did for a little while.

Then, like most children, people's fancies changed, and soon God was kicked out of all the homes she had across all the Earth. That was 26 years, 7 weeks, 14 days, five hours, three minutes and 19 seconds ago. But she wasn't counting. She could tell just by looking at the sky. She was God, remember, and as God she created the sky to be her watch. Now, she regretted that decision. Imagine never being able to escape your alarm clock!

God was growing lonely and bored, which is not quite so good of a thing for anyone let alone God. In fact, it was her boredom that caused the dinosaurs to disappear. She didn't like how simple the dinosaurs were despite their giant stature. So, she created a giant ball and threw it at the Earth hoping to start all over again. The ball did explode when it hit the earth, and it did kill the dinosaurs, but, alas, if didn't kill everything and so she had a big mess to clean up afterwords, which she didn't clean up very well. In fact, her lack of cleanliness is why oil and coal pollute. But that's another story for another day.

This particular day was cold, extremely cold, the kind of cold where nothing you do gets you warm. Every place in the world has these kinds of days even the hottest of places. It is more a quality of the air than an actual temperature. Somehow, the air cuts through all the skin and veins and muscles and bites bones. It was biting God's bones, and she was becoming increasingly angry.

"How dare the wind that I created bite my bones. I wish it would stop," she whispered under her breath from the inside of a cave in which she happened to be squatting. She had no idea why she whispered other than she had become fearful of her words because they always came to be. She thought if she whispered instead of spoke if they did come to be than at least it would only be a whisper. But even her whispers had unintended consequences. She was God and therefore was Truth.

The wind heard God's whispers, and suddenly it was a warm breeze, the kind of which you can only find in places with humidity like the jungle or while laying on a beach on the Mediterranean in the middle of summer. Only, God was in that cave which was on top of a snow-capped mountain outside Turpan, China, and it was January.

"Ah....that is so much better. Now, I shall not be cold," God said thankful that she was no longer cold and completely unaware of what that meant for the humans on the Earth. "I don't think I've slept since I was kicked out of the Basilica of St. Peter 26 years, 7 weeks, 14 days, five hours, five minutes and 33 seconds ago. I think it is time for a nap!" (You see, the Basilica of St. Peter was the absolute last place God was kicked out and that was the result of the Pope finally losing his faith after the church's bank accounts ran dry.)

Like I said, God was Truth, which made her words facts, so upon uttering the word "nap" God grew incredibly sleepy and fell into a black dreamless sleep that lasted 10 years, 41 weeks, two days, seven hours, 22 minutes and 58 seconds.

God awoke refreshed and rested and sweating profusely. It was no longer warm. It was blistering hot. It was so hot in fact that had she not been God the heat from the stone would have blistered her body.

It was also awfully sunny. It was the kind of sunny that makes your eyes squint and gives you a headache, and as God slowly made her way out of the sweltering cave, she loudly cursed the sun for its existence and for giving her a throbbing headache. Immediately, the sun vanished and all became pitch black.

Outside in the darkness, God fumbled. Her long sleep made her joints, muscles and limbs sore and clumsy. It was exactly like the pins and needles of a foot falling asleep only it ran through her entire body. And God's eyes still had not quite adjusted from the black of sleep to the blazing sun to the pitch black of a sunless sky. Everything was fuzzy, so it should come as no surprise that even God herself fell.

God fell from the cave, which was at the tippy top of the mountain and which had previously been covered in a glacier,  all the way down to the formerly lush valley that once was home to a farmer and her husband. The farmer and her husband were no longer living. They had perished shortly after God fell asleep. You see, the warm breeze never let up because God never commanded it to let up. Instead, it blew and blew and blew and in its constant blowing melted the glacier on the top of the mountain which in turn created a great flood in the valley. The farmer and her husband drowned in the flood, but right before the flood overtook their farm they built a very small boat out of reeds that grew in a nearby river and put their only child, Bao, in it. Thus, Bao was saved from the flood.

Now, I need to take a minute a tell you about Bao. Bao was less than a year old when she was placed in the small reed boat, and her parents were incredibly superstitious. They had still believed in God even though everyone else did not. In fact, unknown to God herself, their faith was the only reason God found that cave on the mountain in the first place. When Bao's parents placed her in the reed boat, they said a prayer to God and asked God, which they called Him, to watch over their innocent daughter.

Whether it was a miracle or luck or there was some other force at work doesn't matter nor will we ever know. What matters is that Bao survived, and she was now the last person on the Earth. She also, up until three minutes ago, believed in God for while she never knew her parents their prayer lived in her.

But like all prayers, the further we get from them the less real they become, so on Bao's tenth birthday, which was exactly three minutes ago, her faith faltered, and she stopped believing in God. Thus, God woke from her nap.

...which brings me to the present.

God fell from the cave all the way to to the valley below. She landed like a God: right-side up. Her landing loudly echoed through the valley that was now a very hard, dry, hot desert.

Bao heard the echo from her home beyond the valley. The never ending warm breeze had pushed Bao from the land of her birth years ago. She was now living deep in the Earth in one of the only spots that was cool enough for humans. She survived by eating bugs and mosses that grew in dark corners. Having never tasted xiao long bao (her namesake), she did not know how wonderful food could taste. Instead, food was simply something to stop your belly from grumbling.

With the sun now gone, the Earth cooled slightly making it possible for Bao to leave her underground home for the first time in at least four years. Only she didn't know this, at least not yet. Instead, she heard the loud thud echoing and became fearful. It had been too long since she had heard anything of that magnitude. With the constantly warm breeze, the world had grown almost completely silent except for the scurrying of bugs, which now overtook the entire world. Bao didn't even know that the sun had disappeared because she was that far underground.

Well, the thud continued to echo, and it started to make the stone tremble. It was almost like a beautiful song. Only, Bao did not know music and so she did not know what a song was. But, still it was beautiful, and its beauty compelled Bao to leave her home.

In the desert valley, God just sat there trying to get her bearings and hoping that the pins and needles shooting through her limbs would go away. Something seemed different about the valley, but she could not yet place it. The Earth itself seemed harder than she remembered, and she could no smell the berries for which the valley was famous. Suddenly, she grew insatiably thirsty, and all she wanted  was a refreshing drink from the clear river she remembered flowed just beyond the valley. Her eyes still had not adjusted from the back and forth from darkness to light back to darkness, so she had to guess which direction the river might be, which she deemed was to her right. Thirsty and somewhat blind, she set out for the river.

Bao emerged from her home underneath the Earth and for the first time really saw the world. Her eyes long ago had adjusted to the pitch black and as a result she was able to see the Earth. She never knew the world of her parents, and so she never knew that it once was covered in green and all the colors of the rainbow. Now, the Earth was all a pale, pale yellowish-brown. The sun and the warmth faded everything everywhere, but now with the sun gone everything was different shades of blue. It was the most beautiful thing Bao had ever seen, and she cried.

As I said earlier, the whole world was almost completely silent except for the scurrying of insects and the echoing thud, so Bao's cries also echoed and were carried on the warm breeze. Together -- the cries, the scurrying and the thud -- made music. This music was heard by God and she paused momentarily. As the music filled her body, her eyes cleared and she saw for the first time how changed the Earth was, and she was horrified.

"I've done this," God shrieked and it immediately stopped the music.

Bao heard the voice off in the distance and hope swelled inside her. "I am not the only one on this land!" is what she thought, but not knowing language it sounded like "Ahhhhh...gghhh..rrr...faaaa..."

Bao's primitive language rose from her belly out her mouth and into the stratosphere. The warm breeze picked it up and carried it to God, and God immediately had this thought, "I am not the only one on this land!" And then, "Where is that voice?"

God being God did her magic and suddenly appeared before Bao as if in response to God's own question.

"Hello," God said to Bao, but Bao did not understand God. Bao had never spoken to anyone and did not know the conventions of conversation. She did not know that it was proper to kneel before God nor did she know that you should at least bow your head in deference. Bao did not know that touching God was unacceptable, so when she reached out to touch God's face happy that another being was roaming this Earth, she was dumbstruck when her hand was slapped away by God.

"How dare you!" God yelled. "You should never touch God!" And as with all God's words they are made manifest, so Bao's hands were quickly no more.

"What just happened," thought Bao, which escaped her lips as "Llllaaa...ttttrrrr..kkkii."

And God thought, "What just happened?" and then said, "I'm sorry." Although God did not give Bao her hands back.

Bao became fearful of God. She knew the being that stood in front of her -- the one who still had a bushy, big white beard and whose eyes looked like galaxies -- was not like her, and somewhere deep in her memory, the kind of memory that is locked in a tiny space behind the heart and to the right of our left armpit, she remembered the prayer of her parents. At once, she found words.

These words started erasing her fear until finally all fear had vanished and was instead replaced with a boldness she had never known.

"Your apology is not needed," said Bao without pause, "for you are God, and you do as you see fit. I am but a lowly human, and in a previous life I would have worshiped at your feet. But, alas, that life is not mine, and I see no need for prayers or worship."

God was struck by these words and the memory of home filled her with longing and remorse. She wanted her worshipers back. She wanted more than anything to just go home and be served. But all those homes were now gone and it was in large part her fault. She fell to her knees and started shedding great tears of despair.

"There is noting more pitiful than seeing God cry," Boa said. "While I have longed for a companion all these years, I have no need for one who cries for the consequences of their decisions."

And Bao feeling absolutely nothing for God turned her back on God and set off for her home under the Earth.

God just stared at Bao as she left. God wanted to stop her, to make Bao turn around and worship her, and she knew all she needed to do was utter those words, but only silence and nostalgia filled God. She was unable to speak.

As Bao was walking away, she said, " I do wish to thank you God for one thing. Thank you for giving me beauty. I had never heard a song, and I had never known there were so many shades of blue. I will never forget this and while I may never have need for you again, whenever I come across something of beauty I shall remember you."

And within moments, Bao vanished from God's sight, and God was once again alone and without a home.

And so God spent the rest of her days unmoved and silent waiting for a prayer to bring her back to life. Only, it never came for Bao was the last human and she passed away at the age of 47 underneath the Earth.

And as for Bao? She lived her remaining 37 years with a smile upon her face for while she never saw anything as beautiful as the millions of blues or heard anything as beautiful as that song, she was thankful that she was not God.

Do Not Read These Trivial Meanderings

These thoughts that manifest externally as if the sun has plucked them from the creases of my brain and planted them as some bird of prey, bright orange the same color as the bitter mood of yesterday's discomfort, turn. This is too much for me -- the days spent wandering, the racing of possibility. I yearn for the days of blank computer screens with fingers madly typing with nothing but an order to compose. Then, it emerges -- forever emerging -- almost like an archeologist exhuming their fist dinosaur bone, a feeling of discovery yet to be achieved.

A story, possibly about a boy whose own father has left him to be found somewhere among the redwoods -- the only place the boy has called home -- is threatened. It is being torn down like all great trees are, turned into planks and pulp. He digs his way to its roots and plant himself like so many seeds. He's never found. He is killed mindlessly as trees uprooted pierce his heart. Blood spills consecrating this future mall. Haunted, it closes only months later. The boy is left to wander empty hallways more hallow and dispirited than his dead redwoods.

Or is it meant to be something other than a ghost story? Is it meant to be fact uninterpreted and unbiased? Then, these trees are not sacred. Rather they are just trees like so many other things alive that can never speak for itself, know no heart beat, and therefore are just that: things devoid of emotion or feeling. They are just things to be consumed and any thought otherwise is strictly editorial. If it weren't for its sacrifice, I couldn't even write this in my notebook of empty paper. So even as I scribble I am hypocritical. I am western.

I am nearing the end of his tale, and all I do is weep. Facts are sorrow. They never tell the story I need to hear, and simile is a language corrupted by extremism. The sun did not pick my brain, and my bitterness is not orange. Words escape ability to communicate. So why are you reading this frippery? What hope do you have at understanding my significance?

That isn't necessary. The boy is but a circumstance just like the Soviet soldier holding a baby raising his sword to the motherland crushing the swastika. I am fearful that it will run away and find another home; I want it to be mine. I want to own and hold it and destroy it if the fancy strikes me like the passing whim of the child who plucks wings off the dragonfly or captures the firefly until its light goes out. Innocence breeds cruelty. I wonder what that baby will grow up to be.

Again you continue reading. I continue typing at this blank screen imagining you as you stare and eyes dart confused that I am speaking directly to you. It makes you uncomfortable. I can tell even if I will never watch you read. Writers don't speak to readers. They speak of themselves as if they are as important as the moon is to the tides. We are not. You are important. It is your interpretation that compels me to create the boy in the first place' it is why the Soviets built the statue. I am merely a conduit between existential imaginings and adventitious judgment. You judge me. You must judge me. Otherwise it is just a baby in his arms and a crushed symbol beneath his feet.

So what is the meaning of this? How are you synthesizing the possibility? There is so much underneath, between, amongst, above that goes unnoticed, that is still hidden in the blankness. I have only carved out one small undefinable thing; it too has no emotion or feeling. Should it be consumed? Do you claw and scrape and tear it? But it is on your screen and therefore is as intangible as the symbol. Destroying it means destroying a thing of yours. There is beauty. There is meaning. Where does it reside in you? What have you gutted?

The boy lurks. He has grown and is now a man. He is that Soviet soldier who once was the baby in his arms. The woman who weeps -- a whole manicured lawn separating them -- turns away. She cannot watch like you do. Her bravery is compassion despite the razed redwoods. She will not witness the mall. Will you? Will you visit the ghost of her son/spouse/brother/lover/father? Will you let the memory and imagination haunt your hallowed shell? I think not. It is why you read versus type at this blank screen. Does that discomfit you?

I beg you: continue your reading, even this trivial meandering. You made it, and I am desperate for your attentiveness. Don't let me become the boy; I promise I will make you her. She is so much more powerful. She is that blossoming bird of prey picked by the sun from the crevices of our collective acumen. She is orange, green, white, pink, sharp lines, and prickly points. Become her. Embrace the compassionate bravery of turned away glances.

Are you still reading? Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away. Turn away.

Turn away.

"Reach out, touch a hand, make a friend if you can"

I love The Staples Singers. I remember listening to "Respect Yourself" many times as a young adult. It was on compilations of soul and/or gospel songs like Black Power: Music of a Revolution. It was a song that inspired me to think differently and find hope.

I was introduced to Mavis Staples, one of the siblings in The Staple Singers, thanks to my husband. He brought home her album "We'll Never Turn Back" when it came out almost four years ago. I fell head over heals in love with her deep soulful voice and her messages of struggle, unity, and spirit.

As a result of my love affair with Mavis Staples, I went out and found old The Staples Singers albums. I had to have more of their songs and soul. I found and played their compilation album, The Best of the Staples Singers, over and over and over again until all the songs started blending together and I started to internalize their joy, sadness, and courage.

The Staples Singers were/are definitely an inspiration to me. I want to exude their same determination, casualness, perseverance, and compassion they did/do. Their music, while religious and spiritual, is more than just gospel and Christian. It is a way of life, a way of seeing the world that transcends spirit and is rooted deeply in personal experience and culture. If I can embody just a sliver of what they exude rooted in my own personal experience and culture, than I will have done my job.

I still listen to The Staples Singers and Mavis Staples religiously. I have to listen to them at least twice a month. And I still find hope and deeper meaning in their songs. They still bring me to a place that beyond the singular self.

Today, as I was again listening to them, their song "Touch a Hand, Make a Friend" really hit me. The lyrics:

Can't you feel it in your bones.
A change is coming on
from every walk of life
people are seein' the light.

Can't you feel it in your heart, now.
A new thing is takin' shape
Reach out, touch a hand, y'all.
Make a friend if you can.

Hey, I heard about you from my friend.
Ain't it time you come on in?
Live the united way.
Why don't you join us today?

Seem to call forth in the most prescient way (the lyrics were written in 1973) what is happening around the world right now. We are seeing people coming together in unprecedented numbers peacefully (and sometimes not so peacefully) all over the world. We are witnessing a remarkable change. And while at times it may be frightening and scary and uncomfortable, it is ultimately hopeful. It is happening because we are reaching out, touching hands, and making friends.

It is my dream that I contribute to this much larger change in the world through what I do best: cuisine, conversation, camaraderie, and artistry. And I welcome you to "come on in" to both my life and my home. Who knows, you may even make a friend.

Lost and Still

I was lost. It was as if I was floating in space with nothing tangible around me and the sun, moon, and earth blotted out by my inability to comprehend. I normally find comfort there. I like the feeling of non-attachment and distance. It helps me see and experience things others miss. This week, I just wanted to sink back to earth and feel solid rock. I'm tired.

Nothing extraordinary happened. Nothing inconsequential happened. Nothing really happened at all. That's what started it all: I didn't want nothing. At least at that moment. I just wanted a little motivation and some inspiration. I just wanted movement.

The trouble with waiting is that it truly is a tragic beast. Once the seed of want roots itself it is hard to see what is right in front of you. I had inspiration everywhere. It was there in the films by women I found this week that told tales of gratitude and dalliances with sheep and beetles eating hearts. It was on the bus in an overheard conversation of amazing boundaries being drawn by a young woman with her ex-lover. It was in a speech by Chrystos about shedding colonizer thinking, not being boxed by identity, and strength in struggle that is not self-less. It was everywhere around me all the time.

So too was motivation. Resumes were submitted. Meetings were attended. Conversations were had.

Still I was lost. Still I felt like my apartment looked: disheveled by contractors who were putting in a new window and drywall thanks to a leaking ceiling and wall. I just wanted to put it all back and ignore the water on the floor. At least on the surface it would look tidy.

This lostness crept into my cooking all week long. I made disastrous meals that didn't satiate taste. I tried my hand at an apple crumble and misplaced my mind when I poured in an extra half cup of milk. I still threw it in the oven hoping for a miracle. I took one bite, and no miracle was found.

On and on the week pressed as I, still lost, felt knots in my back and anxiety on my heart. I stressed over the meal to be shared on Sunday. I still hadn't found my inspiration and without it the food would never transform into cuisine.

Then, I stopped. I stopped looking and decided to observe.

I found myself in North Beach at a meeting with a coaching client. He sat across from me with the tools I brought between us. I shared youth development strategies, approaches and philosophies. I was doing my "job" not my role. As I was finishing up, I asked one final question, "Anything else?" He asked for help on one particular challenge. I was immediately unstuck. I listened and reflected and listened some more. Only then did I share a possible solution.

Our 30 minute session turned out to be an hour and a half. Not one of those moments was missed. Not once did I feel lost.

I set out from North Beach and meandered through Chinatown. A growing hunger begged feeding, but not any meal would do. I peeked in restaurants and perused menus. I had a vague feeling for noodles, but I didn't want chow mein.

I found myself peering in the window of Hon's Wun-tun House Ltd. of California. Not a single white person inside, I opened the door and took a seat at the counter. I placed an order for Sichuan noodles; five minutes later it came. I slurped up the fine angel hair thing noodles with the spicy shredded pork on top. As I looked up, I saw it: homemade wide noodles -- $2.50/pound.

It was exactly what I was searching for. I bought three pounds.

I'm now sitting in Portsmouth Square with Cantonese being spoken all around me and my fingers numbing. A tour group is in front of me trying dim sum treats. I am still except for the movement of my hand scribbling across this page. I am at peace.

I know I will find myself lost again. I know anxiety will course through veins and muscles will knot. I know that I cannot silence all of my wants. I just need to remember this moment -- the one where I became still.

I have two more days until my shared meal. Keeping still while wandering is how I'm going to make it there. I know magic will happen if I let go. And it will be called braised garlic greens with homemade noodles.