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“So what inspires you?” Silent fidgeting as the audience struggles to fill the empty void at the reading. Typical answers: things no one talks about, my culture, the stories of my grandmother, comic books, etc, etc. Me? I’m inspired by pictures of my throat when it was invaded by mathematically perfect spherical colonies of bacteria.

I was born in a generation that watched the flesh of my country scar and people dive hundreds of stories, screaming, charred skin, seared mouth, and from somewhere hearing: do we have a list? Angered and pained, I supported Congress to war. Seven years, 4,000 soldier bodies, and a thousands of dollars lost on a depreciated economy, I’m regretting that decision. I sat on the pinhole of a gun in slum raids at three o’clock in the afternoon, and in the cockpit watching bombs fall to a mushroom in a part of the world that I thought were only markers of my parent’s generation. After we won the war, we’d leave, right? But war is never that simple and I wonder what was I cheering for on the tv? Say mister, is that an extended cab, 12 cylinder engine SUV?

Or how about the financial uncertainty since the fifth grade that there would no Medicare/Social Security funds for me? Nothing better than a 15 minute surgery that costs me two months paycheck even with insurance. Welcome to the land of the free and watch your step, don’t want to get injured and fall financial uncertainty or foreclosure with medical bills. But those with money aren’t really affected, right?

Do you want me to say the fairness of affirmative action? No, that ended the year I applied to law school. Watching the lawyer across the way living in a one bedroom to pay quarter million school loans to get a job that pays a teacher’s salary just didn’t equate. So this artist/teacher wonders why one job should be more prized than another while society complains on issues of crime, child endangerment, etc.? You get exactly what you pay for returned with the respect that you give it. Were we better off trying to balance a situation of inequality or asking a child to be responsible even if they couldn’t get all those extras tutorials and experiences on the other side of the tracks? Or was that just a band aid for a bigger issue of inequality that no one has dared to touch?

So, is it any wonder if I choose something that can be proven, logical, and needs no translation to inspire me? I am part of Generation Bacterium. I am Googlized, idealized, generalized and egocentrically privileged to hide in the world I want…just look at my avatar. I am part of a generation of extreme information and inverted emotional disposition; just check my blog or Facebook to keep up and don’t forget to show comment love. I am the generation that has watched documentaries of thousands starving in third world countries since 1986 fed by the UN except now, there are no more crops. I wish it would be about survival, but that would be standing on those that live on hands and knees. I watch for haphazard encounters, like worms on vermiculated wood, looking for the few to change the world for the world’s sake and not to benefit their pocket.

As for the I never get political argument, I would, but it would be a two headed dog in a New York avenue looking for some time to kill.

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I’m in the Citizen’s Gymnasium behind the baseball stadium quietly looking up from the epicenter. The matted floor hosts about 400 people in the five sections of competitions. There are about 1500 people walking in and out of the front doors, through the narrow hallways of noisy anticipation. I couldn’t sleep that night. The wakeup call was at five, to leave at seven and arrive at eight. To my right, the honorary section holds about 50 founders and professors along with police academy personnel and military. Underneath, the special five foot wreaths adorn the 15 foot-long trophy section. The elements and light are filtered through cloth and banners. I’m in love with the room full of different colors, variations and expressions of both conformity and individuality in a uniform. That corner belongs to the white stripes, this one is the only uniform in red, and of the four gyms that chose white, one etches the students name on the back, the other has red lettering and the rest are black. My mouth is dry but I resist, knowing anticipation can overwhelm any stomach.

I step away from the competitive vibe to observe. How did I get here in front of hundreds of years of tradition and interpretation? How was I so lucky to see high leaps past a barricade of 15 people, kicks 12 feet high softly landing into kneeling position that bow for grace and humility? How was I so blessed, an immigrant from la Alameda where my grandma and I crossed the city’s black water canals to reach the market every day, to witnessing/participating in a tradition and power hundreds of years old living and breathing? How did I get here on the blue tatami floor looking up, breathing in, screaming out, following my dreams at 30, exploring life?

My ears listen desperately for my name, filtering words because I don’t want to let my master down, get lost or attract attention…as if the only foreign, brown female in a bright orange gi could be overlooked. So, I try to remain anonymous: always quiet, while communication comes to me in the most efficient way possible and the past speaks to me. Every country I’ve been to, I have a teacher and a community of friends. Though it was not easy to find a martial arts teacher that would invest their time in me or work outside their language, I have found many. Yes, they all share a love of the arts, for the skill, endurance and peace it brings into their life, but from my perspective they share many more qualities. They share a nobility and faith in the arts and themselves to want to see everyone excel. My sensei in Houston is a cancer survivor, adamant to keeping the dojo in the community and one of his students is blind. They have great poise and goofy smiles that never brag or boast but welcome everyone open hearted. My sensei in Colombia has traveled the world with his art and is the sole traditional jujitsu dojo in a city of 2 million people. But most of all, they share a great sense of justice and accountability to their physical world and community of the martial arts. My kwanjamin in Korea named his gym bright light to let everyone know it was a place of honesty and principles. Nobility, faith, poise, honesty, justice and accountability, are traits that I have earned and refined from years in the arts because of my teachers. They are people who talk to me and help me see my self worth by making me better. People who go past the monetary rewards to give me self-confidence, challenges, and pride in my accomplishments. People who don’t misjudge character going beyond a five foot brown female but an individual that can. I’m aware of them, myself, and who and what I represent every where I go.

The competitions begin. I sit in line asking my breath to relax all the muscles in my body and release any competitive hesitations or fears. I won fourth place. Its a great start to next year’s gold medal.

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She’s never quiet when anything is terrible but she takes true sadness when she can’t comfort pain. Going from EM nurse to project manager and hacker around the world, she’s lived her life to the fullest. Her bright green eyes, she says are German, against her African brown hair, look so beautiful. Today, she is dictating my exercise routine and I sit quietly and listen. Tomorrow, she will have 7 pound tumor taken from inside her viscera in a 5 hour surgery. One of many in the year to come. Sometimes, I feel like I came half way across the world to hold this woman’s hand. She reads my thoughts and says, “Because you needed a mother. No one knows what life has in stored for us.” Today is the celebration of La Virgen de Guadalupe and I miss hearing the taclas of the dried calabashes in church halls. The entry in my diary is short:

I’m wrapping my words around a wound that hasn’t bled yet
Dripping the rags like prayers to reach you
Hoping to be like marmalade yellow on lemon:
there even when you can’t see me

Far from here, my two friends have/are visited/visiting the operating table. I rely on textbook knowledge to ease popping static emotions on telephone –It’s just a body. It can heal. We’re just Lego parts on operating table. I just want you to think about how happy you’ll be afterwards.

Sometimes, living far away feels like wrapping a tree
Each revolution an onhmed color
and the smell of burnt camphor that I lay on the Virgin’s feet
Exhaled in each breath
fractally sculpting this pacific blue that will
travel the world and darkness to be there,
hoping so very much to be there,
like the single tree wrapped in rags in this sunset room…
Breathing and glorifying God,
Saying, “Everything will be okay,” in the mantra of your name.

“If there’s trouble, sometimes all us freaks have is each other.” –Abe, Hellboy

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Bang, bang. Shutters rolled closed, people dropped, and…there she was. Except it’s there they were: the Adidas three feet from awry angled foot and a skull that slowly seeped blood on subfusc pavement floor. The 100 pound rickshaw of disassembled boxes untouched by passer bys who gawked at the stiff body, head full of gray hair, planked coldly on the side. What no one saw was the topographical implosion, body from inside the cab over pretty windshield or the bullet hole it failed to dodge. Bang, bang, intent travels at 896ms reaching way before your 3/10ths of a second cognitive deduction reacts and…there you are.

So take heed of who you keep as friends. It only takes 12 seconds to imprint upon memory things that most likely shouldn’t be done and consequences can be felt for years or far more detrimental. Stay with those who smile in sincere connections to remember that you are a complex individual made to be that way since the day of conception miraculously contained in a pulpy skull bigger than the rest of your body. On the first week, cells of your body were only interested in giving you a head and a tail but by the fourth week of your life you sought light. Light to develop, see and feel, and keep searching until the day you die.

Never let anyone tell you that you aren’t a complicated because it’s in these contradictions that humanity finds meaning. Where killing a dog is repulsive, yet we’ll take arms for our country. Where even if the physical makes us sweat, we postpone for the emotional foregoing immediate rewards for long term happiness, like exchanging gold pieces for beautiful color pallets in luminescent paint.

Learn everything you can until the age of 25. You are born with 1 million brain cells running a marathon to make connections, group and regroup. Then spend the next 10 years wondering where it all went but not really caring while you’re riding the red corvette with a license plate that says…Dr.

Never forget that you are special. What else can my five foot temporary presence tell you that you haven’t heard somewhere else? You are special.
You are special.
You are special.
Even if I loose my voice in perfectly pronouncing your name, I’m hoping that by you hearing it enough, you’ll rebuild new pathways and eliminate the old. Temper your emotions into fine blown crystal refragmenting and distributing pure colored light in all directions. Remember those words on days when the memories you willed to death resuscitate and make you cry. Remember the faces of those that helped you when you smile.

Remember, you are special.

~~~~*l*~~~~
Check out Saul Williams’ official website and the series on the brain by the Annenberg Foundation. As I listened to the poetry and the videos, I went back and rewrote the piece with an audience in mind. I made a home visit during my first year of teaching only to realize that it would be me, in the coaching seat using the small 8 hours of the day, and her against the world. I think about her.

On the Blogosphere: A BIG CONGRATULATIONS to my friend Gunfighter, who is now a paid artist! Go by and contribute to Yvonne Russell’s Writer’s Cafe…is it okay to use comments without citation or permission? This is a cool article via Mr. Carvin on Learning.now, on how one teacher using only web apps can make 50 different presentations. Last, one of my favorite websites for traveling, Global Incidents. Tells you everything that’s going on in the world…personally, I like seeing the response time.

Those who educate children well are more to be honored than parents, for these gave only life, those the art of living well. –Aristotle

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Emotions run high in the room
From the labyrinth of creation
to the product of sensation–
I’ve been here before
It’s such a beautiful natural high
Toast to the friends and faces
A kiss, a glance from a new stranger,
…an inspiration: was there ever an old stranger?..

The presence of love in saturation
The room’s a jade green dagger
Trimming eyes from all the virulent matter;
It’s only the front that counts
–So good to see you, glad you could come–
Blissful ignorance, happily embraced!

My pertinacity monkey glues me to the scene
like mid day drivers to a train wrecked dream
I have a headache from cheap wine and cigarettes
It’s the same pack of gold for the past two months
I’ll soon discard because it’s going bad

The cynicism of the situation amuses me
I ran the day before so I can take deeper drag
I’ll run the day after,
So I can reach purgatory in the temple of my mind
It’s all a matter of experiences,
It’s all a matter of creation that makes me think
what coerces people into one?
Why is the monetary value of creation so low,
and ceding to temptation so high?

“Love needs a transfusion, let’s shoot it full of wine; fishing for a good time starts with throwing in your line.” –Tom Waits, “New Coat of Paint”…from my friend’s opening night of “Even the Sun Cried.” I just found my old Neil, Cash, and Dylan cd’s so you might get a respite from Waits…maybe.

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I found him today. I took him out and examined him, caressed him and held him. Wondering the whole time why it wasn’t brittle and sore, so perfectly pampered in my pink pajama shorts. It was no one else but his, like a soldier’s insignia and a Picasso’s fingerprint. I wondered if it was happy to see me and how soft my fingers’ skin felt on it. I pressed the gray stolen fabric softened shirt to my face, wanting so very badly to see him. Why had it kamikaze into my world and how did it feel having survived 14 days of solitary only to be discovered by my emotional weighted eye? I don’t think it got the memo that it’s no longer a spy in this volatile land of mine. I wished it were an omen. Doesn’t the game feel so lame; everyone and everything is easy to blame. It’s always the same stranger just a different name. Ain’t you tired of traveling? Flying solo, sing songing, it will come around tomorrow? One more notch on your wall for your birthday one more on mine for spring solstice and what will it all mean? One more female on the verge of a nervous breakdown; the cartoon said they are all that way. I blew the hair off and vacuumed it, tossed the shirt, all the while singing happy birthday to him, keep on recovery to me. Love is as wishy washy as me, funny though, never thought faith would be stronger than sin.

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