staying reflective in the crisis

i notice a pattern on this blog. the pattern is a write a lot of my angst out of writing. i'm glad their is a record of my shadow side with writing, because my journey is not all flying unicorns and chocolate buttercups. something happened to me at work yesterday that uncovered another one of my shadows. shadow is another way to say learning edge, growth edge, quirk or, let's break it down, straight up weakness. a crisis happened at work, and i failed to share with my co-worker what i truly felt about the situation. instead, i let her worry become my worry and cloud my feelings. i became reactionary instead of reflective. as i reflect on the incident, i can name my feelings and the despair i felt in the moment. i felt alone and unsupported by my co-worker throughout the shift and i was not able to express this to her. instead, i kept silent. my survival tendencies have shaped me to be "keep calm" during times of high tension. this happened in my family when emotions were out of control and ready to punch-someone-in-the-face. in those instances of family violence, i remained silent. unable to name my feelings because i am embedded in the despair of the moment. so i swallow my words, and ignore my heart. numbed by the moment i freeze my feelings. only to resume later, and discover the soil where the emotional seeds fell. i am at a loss of what to do, do i go back and remind the co-worker of the situation. do ignore what happened and be better next time? i don't know.

creative tension

i feel stuck between the tension of creating and laziness. i don't think this is uncommon for many artist. but i've gotten quite the case lately. i've ignored my desire to write, to fotograph, to create. i asked my friend to help me write a movie script and he said, "i'm not feeling creative right now" i felt sad. he named a reality for himself that i did not want to name for myself. i have aspirations but my follow through is incredibly inconsistent.

i consider teaching to be an art. but setting aside time to work on my art regularly is radically different than teaching my young people how to take pictures or how to write. i also need to be embedded in my own practice. today, i dwell on reflecting not only what i can do, but how i can do it. my coach and i have been working on creating a plan for the future. she's suggested i create a step by step plan. i will. ahora. now. time. do. did. ciao.

volare

volar sin lunadas
le canta a la luna
que tiene en especial la luna?
le banaron el cuerpo
mas la luna no pudo sostener el poder
del Salvador
y por eso la luz se murio.
el dia que se murio la luz
nadie le canto
el dia que el resusito
el cielo quedo mudo
con un nuevo respeto

13 year anniversary

it was 13 years ago when i became rebellious. i experienced a true teenage rebellion and weed was not my drug of choice. writing was. i was so ashamed of my addiction, i hid it from so many. not feeling worthy to call myself a writer, because i was not affirmed with an A. so i secretly kept at my craft only practicing when english papers were due. or when i attended and wrote in the occasional poetry class. i did not, however, stop fantasizing of my dream of becoming a writer or a poet. especially when i attended the youth poetry slams that san francisco made trendy. i have since become a writer. i am still far from good. even farther from great. two moons removed from prolific. i'm okay with that. i am closer to being ready to die trying. i have started by teaching. someone once told me try doing something else, and if you can't live without it, you'll return to it. it, for me, has been writing. i've tried to be someone else, do something else. and when i read "bad writing" mine especially, i get pissed. and i want to be better. i just got feedback from a teacher, "you have to be clear and precise" "people out there get pissed when you waste their time" with "bad writing" said she. well, once i got passed the shell shock of truthness, i allowed reality to do its work. i let the words sink in and grip my ego. i thrusted myself into the messiness of this work and the long road ahead. thank God for my insistence. for the gift of my insistence. until i see the books that lie within on that self. i will die trying. and so there i went to the house of writing. and there a met on paper many writers, authors of more than 30 books what?? and i saw the cost of a class $200 dollars for six weeks. and i began to think of a master plan.

jazz scholar

is there really order in the chaos?
do humans only say so to be right?
is our need to make meaning that embedded?
is it necessary to identify the order?
just be
be
free form
form
be
free
my feet can keep up with the messiness
my hips follow its syncopation
my head rests in the dizziness
i don't have a tv
but i do
have
jazz

the re-surface

there has been a shift in these last four months. a problem that has evidently stopped the flow of  words: i am happy. there is a second factor, without asking for it, i received the gift of healing from depression. i have not been depressed in three months. apparently my writing is not use to this inner joy because i've been dreaming in poetry. and when it comes time to commit my words to paper, silence surfaces, giving me little with which to work. so here i am a happy 25 year old woman with a lingering hardness that is blocking my words. that won't let my heart be released. the absence of words and tight-locked air keep my spirit tangled like mushy seaweed and a dead jellyfish. so i've got to swim to release my spirit. write so that my words won't only be sad. won't only be light in my darkness. in the birth of new light, and revealing truths, unravel from the trumpet like dizzy g. to confuse. to make sense. to make meaning.  

writing, writer, escritora, author, autora

for a long time, i have refused to identify as a writer. i know great writers, and i shy away from clumping myself with the likes of these. something happened this weekend, that has (to my current knowledge) never happened before. i had "writer's block." for three days. i've never experienced an absence of words. words are in me, flowing and billowing like smoke in a volcano. they bubble through me, they always come. usually in disorganized, non-systematic patterns, but words have followed me and ooze out of me. what has been hard to do is find time to sit and write. expelling my words onto paper is my ultimate challenge. i am drawn to writers, some i have as friends, some i meet in passing, and most have discussed experiences with "writer's block."because i could not relate to having a blockage to the golden passage of words,  i couldn't believe myself to be an authentic writer (and what does that even mean?). still, i negated the calling to write and self-identify. having experienced a blank, which i have come to terms: totally normal. i wish to induct myself to the writers hall of fame. for the secret, closeted, ain't-tryna-claim-that-don't-put-me-on-the-spot writer's around the world. here is to us. and cheers to writer's block. it mean's we're human, it reveals our finitude, and this weekend i was reminded i am not invincible.