Sweatpants and Swimming in a Sea of Double Standards: Clare and Juan Pablo

11 Feb

Hello.

Quickie on Clare and Juan Pablo.  Wow, Clare was on the precipice of whoredom, wasn’t she. She asked him to sneak out and swim in the ocean. Bad, bad.

Juan Pablo said he went along with swimming in the ocean with her because he did not want to hurt her feelings.  Then, he was like, “I don’t feel so good about that.” She covered her face in shame.

What?

Wondering: why is swimming in the ocean with someone at 4am any more daddy nasty than tongue kissing 4 women , oops “girls”, in one night.  Skype me and let me know, JP.

But then, she didn’t “bolt.” Then they talked and she put on sweatpants and then got the rose.

So that’s pretty much this episode.

Woody, Dylan Farrow

6 Feb

I named my first cat after Woody Allen. Cat’s name was Woody. Yes, this post is about pussy. Pleasure. Psychoanalysis. Problems.

I say often, “I come from a family straight out of a Woody Allen movie.” And note to self, might want to switch that up moving forward.  But it’s true: neurosis in the blood, spirals of self obsession, and Joan Didion nailed it in her 1979 Letter from Manhattan when she writes about Woody.

And then, this too:

“Woody Allen often tells interviewers that his original title for Annie Hall was “Anhedonia,” which is a psychoanalytic term meaning the inability to experience pleasure. “

Everybody’s talking about An Open Letter From Dylan Farrow.

Pleasure. Psychoanalysis. Problems.

Girls.

Of course Lena Dunham and Ann Friedman believe Dylan.

Girl’s girls. Women. Men. Men can believe Woody is wrought with sickness. This can be a gender neutral support of Dylan. I don’t need to spool through a litany of legal. Hashtag Woody Allen on twitter is trending, whatever.

He married his daughter. Moved from father to lover. It’s in his blood, the addict, the narcissist. It’s all about him. For him to insert himself into. His movies, his children.

Wikipedia says:

Narcissism is a term that originated with Narcissus in Greek mythology who fell in love with his own image reflected in a pool of water. Currently it is used to describe the pursuit of gratification from vanity, or egotistic admiration of one’s own physical or mental attributes, that derive from arrogant pride. 

I read her words, and for days after, and I could not get the images out of my head. Heartbreaking transgression. So descriptive, so interior, do the nay-sayers think she got with a strategic marketing group to brainstorm the following:

“I didn’t like it when he would stick his thumb in my mouth. I didn’t like it when I had to get in bed with him under the sheets when he was in his underwear. I didn’t like it when he would place his head in my naked lap and breathe in and breathe out. ”

When I think about Dylan I think about Clinton saying, That woman. 

Monica Lewinski had an affair with the President. She chose to have a cigar stuck inside her and she got off and he got off and then everyone got off. Monica chose. And then, was splayed. And ever since, she vanished. She was silenced. She is silent. And somehow, during all of this, people hated Hillary.  Somehow, public sentiment towards the Hilz and Monica was so negative, while for Bill, not so much.

It’s different here. Sort of.

Dylan did not have an affair with her Dad. Dylan was a child in an unsafe home, and it just so happens her father has power in Hollywood, almost like a President.

Dylan tells us. She is not going to be silent anymore. I stand by and believe Dylan Farrow.

Not so sorry, Slate . The evidence?

An addict’s tracks. Track record. Sex-addict. If you find and fuck one daughter I wholeheartedly believe that you’ve pointed yourself towards another daughter to Play it Again Sam.

The Bachelorette – What We Can Learn from Emily Maynard, A Class Act

4 Jul

The Bachelorette. The show is like cotton candy. Fluffy and pink. Super sugary.

You are left at the end of each episode a bit empty, and wanting more.

A perfect product.

I stand by my first critique of the show, which is how the producers set it up with the highly sexualized tuck in at bedtime, and the horse riding, et al.

But my hat is off to Emily Maynard. When I think about all the young gals watching, I truly do think that Emily Maynard is an excellent role model.

She really has charmed me, has taught me, and has chosen excellent guys as her last 3. She, by her beingness, has set the tone for the show, how the guys treat her, and how she is depicted by the editors and the show itself. She is on par with Ali Fedotowsky, perhaps even exceeding her. The similarities of Ali and Emily are clear: witty, wise, authentic, classy, level-headed, vulnerable, and sassy awesome gals!

What We can Learn from Emily Maynard:

1. She knows what she wants.

She has made it clear from the get-go that she is seeking a lifetime partner and provider for herself and her daughter. Period. She has also made it clear that she is looking for a loving and playful relationship. She said at the top of a list of characteristics she is seeking is: laughter.

2. She teaches others how to treat her – She won’t put up with any BS.

When Kalon said that her daughter is essentially “baggage” – she found out and called him out on it, and told him to go. She didn’t go all back woods West Virgina  on him, as she had said she wanted to.  She pointedly asked him if he had anything to say for himself, and he didn’t really, and so she just told him to go.

Then she was indeed a bit dazzled by Ryan’s (disgusting) “charm” but recognized that she felt unsafe with him – particularly due to a collection of red flag ridiculous comments from him such as him referencing her as a trophy wife, and saying if they are  married and she puts on a few pounds he just might not love on her as much  or something to that effect.

When he said he wanted a trophy  wife – she had called him out on it, saying,

“Well, trophies don’t speak back.”

 What she was saying in her Southern accent was:

Oh, so you want a submissive silent beauty, huh?

Well, that ain’t me. 

And so off he and his massive ego went crying in that little black limo.

With the whole “baggage” comment by Kalon, she was hurt by Arie in particular, because she felt a special connection with him, and thought that he would have had her back, and would have told her and/or said something/confronted Kalon. She told him this directly, that she is looking for a man who has her back, and by doing so she taught him that there are consequences for not standing by your woman. The next few episodes we see Ari kind of having a come-to-God revelation he just might lose the woman he is falling in love with if he does not man up  and protect her and stand by her, choosing the woman over the fear of speaking up and disrupting harmony and potentially losing the boys. Hoes before bros, yo.

3.  She takes up space by being self-assured and charming – She does not lead with her sexuality.

I’m still traumatized by last season when that little gal got on Ben’s lap and tried to seduce him. OMG. And as I’ve  noted, Courtney really did  do seduction right – and I love her for it. But we see the damage in her, by her leading with pure sex.

Emily is the antithesis – and I think of all of the other Bachelorettes, she has really shown America not how a women sexually seduces a man, or leads with insecurity and craves male validation such as Ashley Hebert,  but how a woman incites love in the male heart.

She does this by knowing she is worth everything she wants.

She does this by knowing she is valuable, loveable, special, feminine, and fabulous.

She waits and watches their actions.

She checks in with herself to see how she feels when she is around them.

She contemplates – does he have the capacity to make me and Ricki happy?

This knowingness is reflected in her behavior towards herself, and also in the confidence and kindness she expresses towards the guys.

Underbelly, Ananda: Bliss is Another, and Another – Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters’ Transgressions

2 Jul

Ford Theatre, Los Angeles. June 24, 2012

Gorgeous Day, Gorgeous Friend.

We sat in the sun and spoke of manifestation as businesswomen, as spiritual seekers, of men and of dating.

Anticipation. We’re gonna hear something awesome.

 

A fierce Marianne Williamson came on stage and she had leopard print heels on. She had a tight-fitting black skirt, and was wearing a tailored white blazer, wearing a tailored white blazer the way only Angelenos do right.

She for sure came East from the Westside, thinking she made a turn on Cahuenga, a Return to Love towards this amphitheatre, to announce Swami Kriyananda AKA  J. Donald Walters- but I find it concerning, after I googled his name after the event.

There was reason to. The second thing I see is that this bad ass spiritual woman with so much truth, she was here for product endorsement, AKA J. Donald Walters.

Then a bunch of popsicle people came on stage. In the program it stated that they were here to perform a song called Memories, their name: The Joy Singers. They were dressed in gowns in popsicle color, folks  super pasty-faced and earnest, in golden-yellow, purple, teal gowns, making a half circle, a rainbow brite boomerang of song.

There was a very large image on a very large placard on stage – not of the highly revered book Autobiography of a Yogi – 

an autobiography written by Paramahansa Yogananda in 1946 but of  Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters’ new book, Paramhansa Yogananda: A Biography by Swami Kriyananda, where he chronicles living with and studying with Paramahansa Yogananda.  

I know, that’s  a lot  of info there. Paragraphs with multi-syllable words make me glaze over, too.

Essentially there is a true spiritual teacher Paramahansa Yogananda above,

and then a guy who followed him –  Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters:

a guy who I am positive had his own very true and real spiritual awakening, and then because of who he is, well, some other stuff went down as well.

That other stuff, he did not talk about during this event, which was essentially his book launch ho-down, but that stuff, this is what all that internets research was for and what I’ve pieced together here.

Oh those summer pops, they sang of  beautiful fountains and light of the heavens  in an alienating way that only church-harmony can achieve, and the J. Donald Walters told a story where he wast at a garden party in Beverly Hills where there were many celebrities, and Paramahansa Yogananda broke it down and spoke on Yoga and the Divine.

Yes, we learned were here to see and hear Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters speak to his absolution, when we came seeking our own transcendence, or at least an inspiring day out under the white light of sun LA.

Picture perfect.

And then, it’s a representative who is here from the Office of  Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa’s Office, and the representative is now on stage.

Politics and spirituality, how rad!

And she said, this here is a Certificate for You, (Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters), For All of Your Work, a Framed Letter of Acknowledgement from The Mayor of Los Angeles. For everything  you do. 

I looked at the gorgeous trees behind the rag-tag gang on this collision course  of an outdoor stage and there was pine and brush, unhindered, swaying, wild and natural, full of yes full of unhindered truth of the universal divine, which has or requires no SKU, no certification from the Mayor of Los Angeles, no product endorsement Maryanne W.

Writing this blog is hard sometimes. In terms of the mainstream- I need to get HBO go so I can watch Girls and write about something that sounds interesting and awesome to write about, inspiring. BTW if you have any books or films you’d like me to review, let me know.

Ok, so then all of a sudden,  Swami Kriyananda AKA J. Donald Walters  announces some guy called Jon Parsons. He looks like Rodney Dangerfield by way of Breaking Bad. The shit’s just a bit rumpled.

And I knew Christopher Guest was just about to come out on set, I mean stage, to re-direct this scene, try some more improv or something to get the arc of the story just right, because all of a sudden, out of the blue,

he’s saying….see, here, see I am Ananda’s lawyer, and see, I’ve been with this group now for ’bout 17 years, and see, even when I didn’t think I’d be able to fight and win against the sex scandal, the sex case, the sex charges, well, I did, and we won, and I’ve now, I’ve now got a book, and it’s for sale there on the table and it’s called, it’s called: A Fight For Religious Freedom.

…um, sex scandal?

Ok.

So in 1920 Paramahansa Yogananda founded the Self-Realization Fellowship and in 1925 he established in LA the international headquarters for SRF. In 1962  J. Donald Walters, was pushed out of the Los Angeles-based fellowship and in 1968, he established a new community, Ananda, in the Sierra Nevada foothills town of Nevada City, Calif.

Ananda – meaning, perfect bliss. 

And according to the LA Times, in 1998, a jury found J. Donald Walters liable for “constructive fraud” and “intentional infliction of emotional distress” in a civil case brought by a former Ananda member.

A few minutes later Swami Kriyananda AKA  J. Donald Walters he was expounding on some kind of spiritual jazz and he straight up told us he got LASIK surgery for his eyes, and so now his vision is 20/20.

Totally, surgery can really fix stuff.

Now. There’s a site, and it’s called Ananda Wareness Network.

And that event back in 1998 – well, verbaitum: a jury found in the civil case brought by a former Ananda member, Anne-Marie Bertolucci, who said that Kriyananda, while claiming to be a celibate swami, had engaged in sexual misconduct. The jury also found Ananda liable for failing to control its leader’s behavior. During the trial, seven other women also testified that Kriyananda had abused them.


SUPERIOR COURT OF THE STATE OF CALIFORNIA IN AND FOR THE COUNTY OF SAN MATEO
ANNE-MARIE BERTOLUCCI, Plaintiff, vs.
ANANDA CHURCH OF SELF REALIZATION, a California not-for-profit corporation; CRYSTAL CLARITY PUBLISHING, a California corporation; DANNY LEVIN, individually and ) as an employee of CRYSTAL CLARITY PUBLISHING and/or ANANDA CHURCH OF SELF REALIZATION; DONALD J. WALTERS, individually, and an employee of ANANDA CHURCH OF SELF REALIZATION and CRYSTAL CLARITY PUBLISHING; DOES 1 to 50; 

Woman 1:

13. After several months of giving “Swami” massages, including full body massages, he requested that both I and XXXXX give him a massage at the same time. Until this point, I had given him ordinary massages with no sexual nuances whatsoever. This time, however, it changed. The “Swami” was downstairs in the bedroom on the floor. As I massaged the “Swami’s” neck, to my great surprise. XXXXX began to sexually stimulate his penis, from erection to ejaculation. 

Woman 2: 

12. He offered me a ride from the farm to Ayodhya. I gladly took it, viewing personal time with him as a positive to the spiritual regeneration of my soul. During the ride, he asked me to come down to his house. I went, he asked me to give him a back rub,  in his upper room in the dome part of his house. I did gladly, although I felt very shy, and uneasy, never having been so physically close to him before. He asked me to straddle his back in order to access his shoulders properly. In a few moments he asked me to take off my clothes, as they were irritating his skin, while I gave him the backrub. I was extremely surprised, but, he said some things which assure me, making me feel that he was a pure channel of God and that I had no cause for uneasiness. I took off my clothes, and he then had me resume the back rub.

I didn’t read through the other 5 accounts, no reason to.

I told a friend about the event, and it’s true, he’s right, this is nothing new. From here we can swing on over to the Catholic Church, and then make a pit stop at Penn State.

The verdict of the case:  Walters was judged to have misrepresented himself as a monk, and to have caused Bertolucci emotional trauma, and was ordered to pay $285,000 in compensatory damages, and another $1 million in punitive damages. (On appeal, the punitive damages were reduced to $400,000.) A sexual harassment claim was dismissed before the case went to the jury.

People gather. They come to pray, they come to play. Seeking in a group, a group seeking. A sneak peeking.

Leaders and followers. Number one. Popsicles for everyone.

We didn’t know what we were getting into by going to the event. Expressions: A wounded man, a wounded organization. Before, after.

People they want to connect.  And then there is that lumbering. The lumbering that comes, when people are needing healing, healing from being so open.

So open to something other than themselves, themselves, looking outward, and up, up to those who have failed in every way to be trustworthy, worthy of that hand over of power, hands all over by those who have succeeded in getting their own base needs met.

The expense of quest: spiritual, sport.

Honestly, it has taken me a while to write this blog because I found the whole event really heartbreaking.

The un-oblique PR stunt energy of it all, the Mayor of LA’s presence (How is it approproate for a award from the mayor to be there? How was that arrangement made?), the questions now I have about  Maryanne Willaimson now and her relationship to the Ananda organization, and dollars – the dollars that are always assumed as the antidote.

From J. Donald Walters’ to Dr. Emmett L. ‘Doc’ Brown in Back to the Future,

Flux Capacitor, Williamson, Villaraigosa turning that clock back now with a Hollywood reference.

Hollywood pastiche, pastiche what a word, pistachio, what a nut, and God, God bless you.

It’s that open window of belief–

how it gets so heavily taxed.

It’s that open window of belief–

how it gets so heavily taxed.

Un-innocuous money -like it has any bearing,
restorative powers

a return of the innocence, back

trying and

everything here just another SoCal cliché.

On Speech: On Coming – The Vagina / The Feminist

19 Jun

The ACLU summed it up perfectly:

In a place of government, in the middle of our country, a woman’s voice, a politician, a State Representative Lisa Brown, of the State of Michigan, was silenced by House Republicans because she said the word “vagina” on the floor. Vagina on the floor.

She was making a speech against a bill that would restrict abortions. The next day, House Republicans would not let her speak her opinion on a school employee retirement bill. It was retaliation.

Here is the video:

This is what she said to close her speech on abortion:

“Finally, Mr. Speaker, I’m flattered that you’re all so interested in my vagina, but ‘no’ means ‘no.'” 

This is what he said:

“What she said was offensive,” said Rep. Mike Callton, R-Nashville. “It was so offensive, I don’t even want to say it in front of women. I would not say that in mixed company.”

It’s pussy, Rep. Mike Callton’s saying, shut-up, it’s pussythat’s what it is, in non mixed company, lady.

And you’re, you’re a feminist a really really bad word, lady, for saying vagina, I mean how offensive can you get. 

Whateves. We get it, cowboy. Hi-dee-HO.

Yup, ho, he’s saying, that’s another one, lady, take the cotton out of your ears and put them in your mouth, and, well, your you know what when you got to, and just sit down and sit tight, you mam, you, and your vagina, while we figure out what we’re gonna do with it. 

Ok. And of course a wonderful retort happened today. On the steps of the capital tonight – Rep. Lisa Brown, with playwright Eve Ensler in toe, and over 3000 others attending – yes in mixed company read from Ensler’s The Vagina Monologues. 

I have two copies of The Vagina Monologues, one of which is signed by Eve Ensler, from back in the day. That book gave voice to women. Women speaking about their vaginas. The book gave me alot of hope and inspiration.

Bless you, bless your vagina, she wrote.

And if you remember, just a few weeks back, some guy decided to stop dating me because he found the word feminist offensive.  He noted to me that in fact he saw no need for feminism, alluding to the fact that things are all quite easy and all between everyone.

To align one’s self with the vagina, does that mean one is a feminist?

Vaginas – it’s all based around coming. Coming out of. Coming to. Just cumming. Western culture, global: from sea to shining….

Vagina. See:

come

come   [kuhm]  verb, came, come, com·ing, noun

verb (used without object)
1.
to approach or move toward a particular person or place: Come here. Don’t come any closer!
2.
to arrive by movement or in the course of progress: The train from Boston is coming.
3.
to approach or arrive in time, in succession, etc.: Christmas comes once a year. I’ll come to your question next.
4.
to move into view; appear.
5.
to extend; reach: The dress comes to her knees.
6.
to take place; occur; happen: Success comes to those who strive.
7.
to occur at a certain point, position, etc.: Tuesday comes after Monday. Her aria comes in the third act.
8.
to be available, produced, offered, etc.: Toothpaste comes in a tube.
9.
to occur to the mind: The idea just came to me.
10.
to befall: They promised no harm would come to us.
11.
to issue; emanate; be derived: Peaches come from trees. Good results do not come from careless work.
12.
to arrive or appear as a result: This comes of carelessness.
13.
to enter or be brought into a specified state or condition: to come into popular use.
14.
to do or manage; fare: She’s coming along well with her work.
15.
to enter into being or existence; be born: The baby came at dawn.
16.
to have been a resident or to be a native of (usually followed by from ): She comes from Florida.
17.
to become: His shoes came untied.
18.
to seem to become: His fears made the menacing statues come alive. The work will come easy with a little practice.
19.
(used in the imperative to call attention or to express impatience, anger, remonstrance, etc.): Come, that will do!
20.
to germinate, as grain.
21.
Informal . to have an orgasm.

I did a quick google search for “celebrity” and “panty” – and saw some amazing websites on shots of celebrity vagina, celebrity’s coming and going from one celebrity event to another, with their Gucci and Rodarte, their bodyguards, and their vaginas in toe, FYI.

And, I, like yourself, came out of a vagina. Yes, indeed. Germinate.

Coming. I remember when Madonna’s Like A Virgin  album came out. I remember asking my Mom, what is a virgin?  I remember looking at old Penthouse magazines from a friend’s father’s stash, when I was quite young. Oh yes, THAT, is a vagina. Those gals, in the pictures, yeah they were coming.

Coming from. I remember being disgusted, repulsed, by the word myself as a young girl. VA-GINE-A. It made me so disgusted. I hated the word. Precursor. Yes, I thought it to be offensive, too.  No, but not like saying the word penis. No, that did not make me disgusted at all. In the slightest. Wonder where those differing perspectives came from, maybe came out of Michigan, for example.

Came. When the time came, my mother got me an amazing book Period: A Girl’s Guide. Had the whole  Free To Be You And Me aesthetic going on. Gals being awesome, gals watering plants, making things, kicking around town, all on their periods and all, and rocking their awesome bad ass selves, zooming into womanhood. What a gift. Get it for your girl. She’s gonna need it.

The shocking thing 2012, is that a woman was punished and not allowed to speak, in America, in a house of government, she was punished for speaking a word that describes the female anatomy and thus not allowed to speak again, in a house of government, because she used such a word. We need not only Feminists but men who do not identify as feminists to take notice of this, yes such an offensive and unabashed reveal of misogyny.

Bless you, bless your vagina, she wrote.

God bless America, and God bless all the vaginas.

My Barbarian, My Barometer – McDonald’s: A Spiritual Shift with Smoothies + Salads in the Sky

11 Jun

Looking upwards into the sky, I see green and purple.

McDonald’s: my barbarian, and my barometer. McDonald’s. The more the berrier.

Think we’re just on our way to heaven on earth.

The more the berrier, ’tis true. The other day I was at the dog park. Some hipster gal was running after her dog – said Goji, goji, come here, Goji!

She straight-up named her dog after that berry. Cutest sign of the times; chasing after those free radicals.

And it is quite merry that McDonald’s is selling smoothies. This means that the Apocalypse has already happened, and we’re all going to be awesome and optimal at $2.99.

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 
On what wings dare he aspire? 
What the hand dare sieze the fire? – W.Blake

So skyward, I see Salad and I see Smoothies. Green and purple. Green and purple, like a bruise, something McDonald’s is known for, behind the scenes that is. Bruised flesh carnations on a bun.

Now something else, flowering. Very real. Of course they are jumping in on the green parade. Of course they are going to make dough with the greens. But I think something other, something gorgeous is going on.

There is energy in fruits and berries, God-given, high vibration. If McDonalds is linking arms with this thread, it does not matter if the greens and berries are organic or not. The connection, the linkage, the amount of people reached with messaging coming out of old McDonald’s mouth, McDonald’s speaking in a tongue touched by nature’s jewels and leaves, this particular reach is as massive and impactful as a man who is African-American in the white house. Massive shifts. This movement in itself is organic, meaning – it has come at a time when other things are moving their plates around as well.

Looking upwards. We’ve seen kaleidoscope slivers, half moons, refracted and reflected sun, solar eclipse, we’ve seen Venus passing in front of the sun, I mean Julie handed me those goggles and I actually saw with my two eyes the planet Venus, and more and more we’ve been looking skyward, the masses born again in 2010 with Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love, sealed with a digitally distributed kiss by Julia Roberts. Julia Roberts who for some reason I get confused with Cindy Crawford, her, yeah she’s the one whose got that Marilyn mole – yes her mole looks about the size of the planet Venus.

Eat Pray Love. It’s all up there on the McDonald’s billboard. Such a far cry India, from the consciousness in Pretty Woman. It’s quite a trajectory. Beef to salad, Pretty Woman to Eat Pray Love, people you never knew knew God are talking about God on Facebook. And we’re all experiencing some sort of telepathy – this is what texting is preparing us for. But more on that later.

This is a shadow of the solar eclypse.

The Venus transit kindof looks like Cindy Crawford’s mole.

Trigger Imprint: Birthing Illumine, Drive-Ins + Feminist Pictures

30 May

I.

Movies, life situation: it’s a durational arc.

Trigger.  The picture.

Someone had said, the word Feminist -it really triggers me – He had said, I mean is this something new you are doing or is this you all along.

This is his truth, a reveal. This is his highest Good: this is what he can offer.

And I have no interest in changing, converting a fixed sign. But I can do receive, receive and communion.

I see things in circles, a consistent back-stitch. Looping back, and moving forward again. Weaving the self in.

The answer is both. It’s who I was, and I am. My words are the core of me. Take it or no.

Heated is not hard, we can discuss. We can also talk quietly, getting-to-know. Even in disagreement, we can hold calm space. Does not have to be heated, it’s just a transmission. And you did put some coolant in before we took off for soul food, so we should be good.

On the phone, I had said, I want to see your face when you say it, what do you mean exactly?

I had said it is not a war, my connect with Feminism, it is an assessment of systems. There are things in place. Yeah, in the picture. This is what I see.

Prism.

Of all the books to reach for, he located

on my case by his own cue,

the RE-Search Anthology Angry Women 

pulled it out

and didn’t say a thing. I might have begun the conversation then, but we were busy sharing music, then, and he had said,  you have a nice voice. 

I showed him how to do an exquisite corpse, but it got all fucked up. Drawings on opposite sides of the paper. Gravely funny, but I’ll miss becoming friends.

II.

There was road and he was driving, and yes my battery was down,

and I was down with it, when he was talking about his vision:

– gonna do art again, he said, and I joked, maybe you’ll play the flute!  He had called me out, saying, see I was open in telling you something and you teased me. I did, but it was kind play. I was in on the tip, feeling supportive, way to the top, friendly high note yeah, and I’m human with my words, meaning.

Meaning, mean is not my arrow. So, shoot me.

III.

This blog has been a God send. This blog, yes, a new coming to writing. A return. A life line. Yes, a birthing. The response has been amazing. Men and women have emailed me, fb me, even called me saying they connect. Not a bitallion, but a river; a sweet stream. Yes, it is about transmission, about the connect. Yes, there is strong language.

Helene Cixous, Coming to Writing:

All I can say is that this “coming” to language is a fusion, a flowing into fusion; if there is an “intervention” on my part, it’s a sort of “position,” of activity – passive, as if I were inciting myself: “Let yourself go, let the writing flow, let yourself steep; bathe, relax, become the river, let everything go, open up, unwind, open the floodgates, let yourself roll…”

A practice of the greatest passivity. At once a vocation and a technique.

The mode of passivity is our way – really an active way – of getting to know things by letting ourselves be known by them.

You don’t seek to master. To demonstrate, explain, grasp. And then to lock away in a strongbox. To pocket a part of the riches of the world…

IV.

Oh snap, and I’m birthing hieroglyphics.

Double trigger. Yes, consider it dually.

Like attracts like, they are vibrationally twinned. Angry Woman, yeah, and ask her to drive you, submissive. Bros b/f hoes, but that’s none of my business.

Their dual echo, palpable, pointed:

dissecting, distant, a very very harsh lens.

Both of them, same, and yes I see your beauty. But so different from the others- they who have given to and received me face value, and words are included.

After a panic, monkey on my back. Something about a picker, gonna get to that later, for sure. And he’s way mixed signals, red bullet, friends are saying, dodge. Cuz, the first thing he noticed, he pointed to my timer. What he saw, yeah boy it was dirty, yeah boy and it needs cleaning.

Clocked is not my need, can’t you count me in. Can you be curious, can you be kind. Cuz u get more bees w/ honey, in sweetness there is safety. The first sign of control, here he’s got a pointer. Here are the problems: yes he’ll want to change her. That corner there, by Jesus, the feng-shui is way off. This is the truth of it, this is what he will offer.

Sure, a slow boat to China is Good Orderly Direction. And my messy human beingness, sure, it already

laid the crater.

Curious Georgie, to myself, a kind hearted laugh: oh baby, that’s what you get for jumping on the bed.

V.

There was a highway and rough sawdust low-grade terrain,

and then an amazing drive-in movie theatre. 4 screens at once, all around us in his car. It wasn’t a date not exactly, or clearly.

At the snack bar he said, not together, no Mam, separate, for me it’s just these nachos. She’s bargain basement, I’m making an effort, to make that clear.  

There was a round kid standing outside his family’s own car, and his papa handed him a chicken wing right through the window.

Hunger. Chickens. Movies they are wings. Thanks, Easter Bunny. Bok! Bok! 

Kid was standing there in dusty dusk and just kicking a ball around waiting for the screen to light up, so he could get inside the car.

Screen, and to get inside.

Inside, driving, later, I said, to connect, to get real: so on Feminism, yeah, did you read my blog, and he said, yes I jack off to your blog. 

(beat)

Do it gently, then.

Gent, be gentle with it.

Gentle.

To give, and to receive.  

Yes, totally, in concert, repeating:  (She:) See I was open in telling you something and you teased me; (He:) And I came all over it. Here’s a napkin for your face. (LOLZZZ!).

Yes, Cixous: …of getting to know things by letting ourselves be known by them.

And so, the opportunity to witness an eclipse face to face. Birthing illumine. But I’m getting ahead of myself. And ahead of myself, I didn’t make time to respond because I knew he was joking. And truth – it is in joking.

Fin, goes the movie.

Showing his max capacity; what he’s willing to give me.  I had hoped that mean was not your arrow.  

And no, dude that wad, please don’t shoot it like that. 

VI.

Double trigger. Truth.

Blockbuster feature.

And on the screen was The Dictator.

The scene that stuck with me was when the guy got his cell phone stuck in a pregnant woman’s uterus who was about to give birth. That was interesting. Also, when he said, oh it’s a girl, so where is the trash can. Also, when he missed one hole and stuck his hand in another. Oh, and when the umbilical cord was not cut and he was pulling the baby from her, while still attached. I think the guys who made the film call that satire or funny.

Nothing was off-limits, even 9/11, even our government, so in some eyes this is fine. Not beating around the bush and all.

Thought about that kid in his parent’s car. What is he thinking when he sees something like that?

Snack bar, cherry coke, second bag of popcorn. 

VII.

Out there at night, there is this empty vast space that Southern California holds, and it always gets me, gets at me, even when the Santa Anna’s are all tucked in, and not tugging at us with their weight.

Their weight of what, yeah of wind. Santa Anna spooling through acres, spooling through even that empty slit, the LA River.

Yeah- spooling through me and my windmill. We all want harbor, in particular seasons. Thank you for the intercontinental trips, the movies, and, yes for brief lessons.

Suddenly, vast;  Somehow I  felt empty. Somehow with distance on the phone, I felt you were more present.

Out there it was strange to see that image of a defiled pregnant woman, poked and pulled and suspended in a screen at a drive-in City of Industry,

the hover over separate cars, stuffy in the car nasty-ass nacho cheese wiz smell and damn did he smell good– this shit it’s fogged up now, making it fog up, making it like

time to turn down the windows and head back, yeah telling stories get-to-know-you, stories making pictures in mind, keep-in-mind, note-to-self.

Mine the mind, keeping pictures. So much worry over anger, oh that black tar.

Nothing’s off-limits.

She’s so over anger ever had he asked her

– but he had pointed, and pointed few words, from his own ground only, and really just the top soil. I’m confident he goes deep, because that’s what drew me to him.

Yeah, it reminded me of a scene in Maxine Hong Kingston’s book Woman Warrior, really it did, when the protagonist is birthing out in some wide open field, that’s all I remember, and she is there and she’s birthing by herself and with baby,

using gravity as guide,

and I’ll have to pull that book down and read it over again, to tell you

to tell you what it told me.

The Bachelorette – Episode 1 – Pink – It’s Off Color, The Whole Bit – horses included.

22 May

Whatcha doing middle America, in the OC, in Cherrycreek, Colorado? ABC’s all up in it, gonna neigh out an old tail, I mean tale.

Cul de sac, leaf blowers, Forever 21. Tomorrow,

it’s Satori, I mean Sephora:

I’ll be  a diamand in the rough mirrored by the mirror,

gonna be taught by the masters -give me a smokey eye just like Kim K.

At the gym I”m in, sweet Juicy sweats. And under
Victoria’s Secret undies. And if I”m a young girl there’s a Victoria’s Secret line just for me- it’s called Pink.

Pink, yeah, just like me, in more ways than one if you know what I mean.

Wonder what the conversation was like up in Victoria’s Secret Corporate on that one.

It’s off color, pink, in that context, no?

Off color, it’s a haze, haze of the 7 deadly sins, ABC7 oh those dwarfs, and glass slippage.

Cinder-elle, I wish you well, yo. Gots to huff and puff and blow dat old house down, ABC.

Southern belle Emily Maynard is the new Bachelorette, and I like her well enough. She has a very tragic story, and she has a lovely young daughter. Kudos to the show to have a single mom on the show. That’s about it.

Daughter in the glare now, mom. Problematic. Concern.

The opening was quite sinister, hysterical, and that’s where I stopped watching. Tried to find a YT video to grab but this for now:  http://abc.go.com/watch/the-bachelorette/SH5556990/VD55201748/week-1

The opening sequence in a house in the Carolinas. We’re voyers through the door, and we see mom and daughter: copies, duplicate. And they’re gonna go nite nite now. Amazingly sexually charged, but not in a good way. Gonna tuck you in now, gonna tuck me in too.

Watching, we’re all watching: bed, bed sheets, and blankets. Barren (house) with a book. The girls gonna get their sleep on. Just turn the….page.

So, we read her, and we’re watching. All alone in a big big house.

Jump cut to momma in the mirror, she says do I look like a princess, yes yes mommy you do. And…scene.

Then it, the horse, it was riding my Hulu,

and inside the screen momma’s she’s a riding, TV producers said yes Emily ride that horse, and it way sent me, way over the arch, the church bells were ringing, I knew it was all going to be ok, it better be ok, because the sunset it’s close, so close,

so close at hand, ring finger is the point her,

the point here, ring finger to be exact.

Hand. The manufacture is almost not worth a note. But how many watch not being a witness?

It bleeds in, the story, the wish, wish fulfillment, tiny hearts, all across the Americas and her export,

wishing to ride it blonde, bareback and that horse; so pretty in pink, isn’t she, TV.

Off color, the whole bit,

hail to the horse neigh neigh and nite nite. Enough.

Get the Rack on the Racks – Man Made Image- Time Magazine Madly Milks the Mamma

12 May

Time Magazine, oh yes you milked it with your man made image. Get the mother’s rack on the racks, we’re gonna make millions this Mother’s Day!

Here’s the bouquet: a prompting, hard-core; a provocation, jizz.

The question posed is: Are You Mom Enough?

*See painting at bottom of blog for a comparison*

Some folks are up there in a Time Warner building in Rock-A-Feller Center thinking about print.

Thinking about mothers and money and how to make it. Yeah, about how to make it, yes, the money.

Oh, I”m just running to Fed Ex my Mother’s Day card back to Telle-hussie, FL – BRB guys to continue this Mother’s Day Cover convo, and I just got to say, I think we’re headed in the right direction…

Really Love the leading question, Are You Mom Enough…..just like I loved your mother last night.

I sure was dad enough for that, boy, let me tell you. Heh heh.

Yeah- we get it, man, we got your mothered selves splayed.

Great concept, team. Job well done.

Hey – listen, men, it’s all going to be ok. Your wounds can be well heeled I mean healed well in therapy.

This image, this magazine, the cover, the text.

–Is that child really wearing camouflaged army pants? So freaking brilliant. Another great art director lives.We see the text referring to other articles on the upper right hand corner – “God of Cricket”- and then on the upper left hand corner “The French Rejection”….yes, in life there are no accidents.–

‪Voilà.‬

This image, text included, has everything we totter on, up, or against: The Child and his War Pants, The Boy Child’s Gaze and his Intonation: What, you want some of this? Well, of course we do. We want all of it. God, war, and the mother’s body.

Everyone, and it’s all going to be ok. Attachment Parenting Gal, just get back to bed now with your husband and your son and leave the photo studio now, like pronto. Life will never be the same. Promise. It’s digital.

And again, the question posed here is: Are You Mom Enough? Pardon moi, but who is doing the asking?

The Blonde with The Breasts, They Are Lacking, So Small They Are: Are You Mom Enough with your Boy-Chest?

OR is it:

Look At Me With A Direct Address To the Lens, Are You Mom Enough, Because This is How I Talk To All My LadY Friends, With One Boob Sticking Out And Posing A Snotty Question Like This One.

Again,

Great concept, team. Job well done.

Heh heh.

So obviously male, the construction. And it is aged, as in dated. This is not from guys I know. All up in Rock-A Feller Center in a room with a white board and all white men 60+ and attending. Get a mom that’s into this attachment parenting crap, but the “kicker” will be we’ll give her small tits. Yeah, that’s a good one. Gonna tie into the tagline…..real nicely.

***

People, the breast, it is natural. And it is for all three: woman, man, and child.

And the breast milk, it is God given, it is nurturance, liquid form.

And the building of child – it’s a fluid transmission: attraction, union, yes – mount to chasm, sperm to egg, milk to mouth.

It is double bonded, it is about bonding -yes – all of this is about bonding.

***

So repressed, us not the French

so us this cover is, yes

so very, very, American.

So forsaken. Life, the life of us, life of a child, life of women and the man who is absent here. All forsaken. Ripped apart here in this image. Everyone is so solo here, when what we are talking about is: closeness. Indeed, attachment.

And breastfeeding is the closest thing to the healthiest thing. By it’s nature – an uncontroversy.

Irrelevant how long it takes to feed and to ween. Private matters for our little private in his war pants.

***

But, baby, breastfeeding, it is animal, extreme B, they are saying,

And I’ve got to make,

make a living.

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FOOTNOTERANT

Here is an image I found online which represents the idea of attachment parenting much better – in 1630 a painting by Pieter de Grebber…..Mother and Child. See how circular is this feeding, the bodies are really touching. There is a feeling of closeness and peace.

VS.

…. Familial Objects. Camera Ready.

Here we see a young woman who looks like she was in my AP English class in High School, she looks like a “blogger” (guys we’re going for the modern woman here don’t forget), she looks UES, she looks West Side, she looks like she just moved to Williamsburg from Ames and she’s on the L train with her new skinny jeans gonna get off at 14th st + get a burrito at Chipolte, and she’s skinny, and she has looks, and she looks like she’s been set up ?can you be so unawares? yeah no really, and her son he is sucking her very small breast (that’s so sexy) and he’s standing on a baby wooden chair dating back to the 50’s (heh heh yeah I remember when I sat in one of those chairs as a boy myself )(everyone don’t worry -he’s an old guy, gonna die off soon), and the kid—————– man, he’s tall, yeah, tall like a Big Boy, and I get this magazine for the articles, really and on the Today Show Jamie Lynne Grumet, 26, said as her three-year-old son Aaron sat on her lap, that the firestorm around the magazine cover went beyond her expectations.

Hand On My Shoulder, I See Dead People: GIs in Afghanistan Posing with Corpses

20 Apr

“As objects of contemplation, images of the atrocious can answer to several different needs. To steel oneself against weakness. To make oneself more numb. To acknowledge the existence of the incorrigible. ”
Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others

PLAYING WITH DOLLS. Los Angeles – 4/19/2012

I’ll never forget seeing the stacking. The pyramid of people. Man on man, all aces, the sadist’s cards, and we all fall down.

All told, Abu Ghraib is old news.

Then again, what news is new when it comes to war. Variations on a theme.

Some people do the dying, some people do the killing, and some are stuck in between. Stuck in a stack. Stack of parts: of people and their remains, of photos and the roles we play.

Yesterday I read in The New York Times that the LA Times published some photos of GI’s in Afghanistan. The GI’s? They been posing for photos with dead people. And the US officials? They be asking the LA Times not to publish the photographs. So give them a hand for publishing the photos. Yeah, give the LA Times a hand – dead hand on the shoulder. Give them a pat on the back with a dead hand. Give it to them, since they gave it to us.

Oh and the soldiers? Come on man, they just messing around with their newfound dead dolls. Army’s 82nd Airborne Division in the house. Afghanistan. 82nd Airborne’s Fourth Brigade Combat Team from Fort Bragg, N.C. Can’t anyone lighten up around here? Jesus. We’re just playing around.

LATimes

War has it’s own version of the carnivalesque. All fool’s day. Puppet playing. Here, the actors become directors, the pawns become kings. And here is the snapshot of trauma: A solider looks to the side smiling. In the background is a dead man. Someone ‘s put the dead man’s hand on this soldier’s shoulder. And someone took a photograph.

It’s a pinched smile. Yeah, something’s pinched a nerve.

We’ll take a photo and we’ll post it on FB! We were here. See, this is when we were at war and I stayed alive and my friend, I killed him. But it’s all good, he’s got his hand on my shoulder. Yeah, he’s got my back. Get it?!

That’s not exactly what happened. These guys are paratroopers. They were told to find the remains and get fingerprints of an insurgent suicide bomber. They totally found their Disneyland destination in the middle of hell. And hell, they decided to grab a photo with Mickey, or whatever his fucking name was.

A souvenir of sorts.

The evidence of living, and yes of dying. In a temporal space; interiors. To me, this photograph maps the topography of spirit gone wrong. Spirit done gone. Spirit is dead, man. Nothing’s here but a machine.

The lens: both witness and buffer. This is real, I am here, I am not here, I am here-not-here. And everyone in the room is saying: this is so fucked up, actually, this is hilarious. Dude, get your camera, yeah and grab his arm. War is so fucking Godforsaken, it’s funny. Are you to tell me that anything is holy here, because, look, I don’t feel a thing.

Yes, Sontag: to steel, to make numb. Yes, to essentially mock the system of war and it’s outcome – that being, Death. Yeah, do it like that. Now hold still!

I look at the photograph, I notice the soldier’s smile lines. Smile lines – probably got them back in the day, before all this, being over here, before reality changed. When I look at the photograph, it reminds me of South Park. Something about Kenny. How shamelessness is how you get a reality TV show and millions in the bank. How everything is up for grabs, yeah like a dead man’s hand.

When I look at the photo, the first phrase that came to my mind was: I see Dead People. Wherever that came from, it came. Came from one lexicon or another, but I never even watched that movie in the first place. I go to YouTube to just watch the clip from The Sixth Sense, going over the lines.

Cole Sear: I see dead people.
Malcolm Crowe: In your dreams?
[Cole shakes his head no]
Malcolm Crowe: While you’re awake?
[Cole nods]
Malcolm Crowe: Dead people like, in graves? In coffins?
Cole Sear: Walking around like regular people. They don’t see each other. They only see what they want to see. They don’t know they’re dead.
Malcolm Crowe: How often do you see them?
Cole Sear: All the time. They’re everywhere.

Trauma, it’s an altered reality, where all the players, paratroopers and suicide bombers have death in common, in different stages, yes in the theatre of war. They only see what they want to see. They don’t know they’re dead. The dead man’s dead, he doesn’t know shit. But he might be better off than everyone out of the bunch. Living dead can be the worst.

Sontag writes, “Photographs objectify: they turn an event or a person into something that can be possessed. And photographs are a species of alchemy, for all that they are proved as a transparent account of reality.” This photograph is an overlay, it’s an expression. At face value, it’s an expression of ownership, soldiers dominate the dead and in turn the war, by making light of it. In the dollhouse, bringing light to the dark. To own that shit. The art directed moment – hand on a back- an attempt to express supremacy over circumstances. It’s clear that movement towards dominance is always rooted in fear. We’re all wrecked. Whatev.

War requires shut down, it’s trauma. The spolier is that Bruce Willis has been dead all along. Just a ghost.

The whole thing is real-not-real. Spirit is long gone. We’re past a Memento mori drive-by: “Remember your mortality” “Remember you must die” “Remember you will die.” Death to all, done deal.

And I’d say that everyone’s a victim, and no one’s a victim. This depends on our make up. How we metabolize and respond to events. We make choices to join in- spectator, actor, author. What preceded the photograph? What happened after? Count the cospectators, count the ghouls.

Yes this act is morally wrong, indecent, has trumped the rules of war. Yes. But that is not the first thing I see.

The thing I see in total is a document of trauma. I see a failed attempt at dead soldier and his dead soldier pals using a dead man like a doll for comfort. I see some guys with a camera working to transmute what they all got, the fucking pain of it all. The war churned the pot. The debasement of each soldier’s spirit is intact. A death mashup of varying degrees.

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