Look me in the eye,

Look me in the eye and tell me we aren't the same. That we aren't all the same. Your eyes are brown or hazel or grey or turn colours in the Fall or on cloudy days. Your eyelashes are darker or your skin is lighter. You're blind and colour blind and cross-eyed and near-sighted. But aren't we the same? We hear barking and think, "Dog!", and hate waking up on Monday morning, and think the smell of fresh baked cookies is Heavenly, and get songs stuck in our heads.



I've never walked in your shoes or been to your family dinner, but I know how hard it is some days. How difficult happiness is. How wonderful and extraordinary it can be. I know what hurts, and what pleases, and how hot sand can be. Can you look at me or any other individual and not feel connected to them? Not feel a natural bond and need to protect them and feel compassion? Empathy. Sympathy. Guilt. Responsibility. The bubble I thrive inside, my personal thoughts and experiences, they're not so different from yours. I too felt pressure. I know how scary it is to exist on your own. Once your protective figures throw you into the world and expect independence... as well as obedience. How hard you clung to your idols and role models and that individual who made you feel safe from the world. How it felt when that person abandoned you. Rejected you. Betrayed you. Never really cared.



That day it all came true, it could have been me. When he or she proposed and you felt as if your lungs would never recover, you lost all breath. I knew that ecstasy. I felt it when I heard the news. Or was it in the obituaries? Perhaps murder. Even suicide. I drew that last breath alongside you and my throat bled as we screamed. Just as the first breath of Earth's air in a newborn and how you looked into this alien's eyes. My heart sunk and reawakened each uncertain moment. That hand that held yours as you endured your trials. You swore and your god was there. I was overhead watching you embrace your translucent hallucination of hope. That night I dreamed a wish for you, something that will remain forever mine.



Those days we shared without ever knowing. When we blushed in horror at the bra shop, popped our first zit that left a scar next to the one you got from scratching your chicken pox, peeling your tattoo, having a breast removed, reduced, added, sized. The C-section you swore you'd never do over until 18 months later when you created life and watched a life fade in the same room.

Here is the lesson, here is the moral. Here we stop the judgments we have been fed and trained and forced. It's the restart, rebirth and if no one else, I will be the one to give it to you. Look Us in the eye and see yourself. Whatever you want to be.

What I hate more...

What do I hate more than women who make me feel ugly? Women who make my mom feel ugly.

When my mother asks me, "Does she look the same age as me?" or tells me, "I need to lose weight." "I want to look like ____." I feel bad. I feel bad for myself, I feel bad for her, and I feel bad for society. We are living in a world where a woman can enter college at 16, graduate medical school,  graduate law school, have 3 children who grow up to be successful, and yet still look another woman and still think, "I'm not as good as her."  There is something sick in the air. Something putrid.

Yet, this is what life has given us and what we accept. Even the most charmingly dorky, compassionate, and intelligent women of the world feel overpowered by their desire to fit the mold of "attractive", of "skinny enough", of "fashionable". They may not even care deep down, but to feel feminine and empowered, this is what it takes.

No number of feminist butch women can outnumber those who make women feel useless and terrible on a daily basis. Talk big all you want, women still go about their lives waxing, and tanning, and comparing, and feeling a genuine sense of worthlessness. Of course, they then cover up these feelings by calling out others on their lack of "ooh la la!", and so the cycle continues.

When I look at my mom, I see her blue eyes, her rosy cheeks, her normal sized nose, her mom-on-the-run outfit, and that inspires me. Everything about her is evidence of a successful woman. She may not be perfect at parenting and may not have the neatest work desk and may not always have the answer, but she is the woman every girl should dream to be. She may not dress like Elizabeth Taylor, look like Audrey Hepburn, dance like Benonyoncee (Okay, I don't know how to spell her name. Is that even a name??), or sing like Mariah Carey, but she is so much better. SO MUCH BETTER. Not just as a mom, either. As a human, as a supermodel, as a teacher, as a role model...

Alas, no matter how many times I say this, no matter how many times you read this, every single one of us will continue beating ourselves up for not being born to the right parents, not saying the right thing, and not looking like every other freakin' plastic, miserable, stupid pop star wannabe.

I am not writing this to make my mom feel good and continue paying my bills. I'm not even writing this to convince anyone or point fingers. I just thought it had to be put out there and said and maybe someone will take a moment to consider what I've written. Maybe something will change in one person.

Back to Life through Sound

It is sad to me that my hero will never know what he has done for me. I wish he knew. I wish when he reached the end of his time, in some part of his mind, there was a tiny memory of the moment he discovered he saved me. I wish I could tell him how his life and artistry woke me up and rekindled my passion for existence.

It would be fine with me if he didn't care. I don't need to feel special or loved by him, I just want him to know that he affected me just like millions of other people. I am not the first to feel this way, nor will I be the last, but I was one of those people. Out of the clusters and clouds of trendsetters in their glassless eyewear, I stood amongst those sorts and unashamedly, I screamed. I screamed in a way I never scream otherwise, with a happier affect than I have ever exposed to even my closest loved ones.

I cried when I heard those words and saw what could only described as metaphysical birth of something one cannot touch, but only can feel. I wish my hero knew that feeling- or maybe he does. He doesn't know how I experience it, though. I wish he could feel MY skin tighten to my bones and the ache of my smile and eyebrows raised.  The cramps in my calves as I stand on my tip toes because the front row is never enough. It's not the same as being as close to the microphone as his cuff links.

He should know how proud I was. How I didn't give in when the other kids, the other adults, my peers laughed at my devotion. As they called me weird and crazy. How I defended him and told them why he mattered, why his words meant so much, why he will not be forgotten. Why he should not be forgotten.

I will never forget the first time he inspired me and woke me from my internal defeat. Nor will I forget the movement of my hips as I escaped my end and discovered my redemption. He brought me back from the half dead; the half gone.

I walked through his hoops of wise words. Ones he threw into the universe with intricacies of data, etched into the youthful public minds. I escaped through the back door of the "norm" and I saw what he could reveal to me. What sheets he could pull away from a sacred child, and I learned. I listened. I explored. I need him to know how I have tried. My every attempt to keep up with his message, his prophecy, his dreams. I was always there taking notes and hoping through some osmosis, I too could flee the moment and create my own... something. I too can create poetry from the words others dare not say. On the other hand, I can laugh at chaos and open my life. mind. world. eyes to it.

He has pieced together this mind in infancy and raised it into a glowing being. The person I needed to be today. Someone that the world could not go on without. I only wish. I just wish my hero knew.

I'm in the Closet.

Let me tell ya’ll a story ‘bout survival and finding hope where hope no longer lives. Gather ‘round, chitlins. Some of ya’ll might not believe this story, some of ya’ll might be afeared. Ain’t no use in either, honeychild, life is a wild ride. Every day is something new to face.

When did it all start? Ah, yes….

I done emailed my landlady on this here computer machine, and I told her, I done said I plan to move into school dorms at the end of the month. Yeah, yeah, sure, I had I told her I would be living here until January, but cross my heart and hope to die, she said to let her know by the 25^th of the month if I had gone and had a change of mind. Which I did, baby. I sure did.

Well, she wunnit havin’ it. Nuh uh. Let me tell you somethin’… that Israel girl tells me moving out is unacceptable and she right up demands I pay rent. Matter of fact, since I went and said I wanted to leave, she demanded I pay that very same day. Honey, I do not have that sort of money just lying around!

It was then I realize, if she catches me home, who knows what awful things she’d do to me! God have mercy on my soul. This little Jew decided then, there ain’t no way I’m getting into a big something something because of all this drama. So I went and I shut the lights and turned off the fan. Let me tell you, you ain’t never smelt the smell of fear like I smelled that fateful night. I never packed my things so fast. I wunnit used to running away.  I don’t believe in fear, but that night the Devil was on my trail. I swear it as far as I can throw it.

Every time I tried to make my escape, my door would loudly bang, I couldn’t make a run for it just yet. The time was not right. Besides, them 60 lbs of luggage were a backbreaker going down 3 flights of stairs. I knew I’d have to stay the night and fight another fight for survival.

That night was the worst of my life. Every noise, every voice, I felt myself quivering from big toe to the hair on my head. I was a nervous wreck and I knew I was in trouble if I made a noise. I did what I had to do to survive, feasting on dead roaches and relieving myself in a corner. I ain’t never gonna be the same. Didn’t get me a wink of sleep.

That’s why I planned on the computer machine to get away when my captors were at work. My hero would come by in his car today while
they’z at work. I still heard the white man in the kitchen at 10 AM, though. Clinking dishes and silverware. Just clinking carelessly, awaiting to hear just a single cough or blink from me. For now, I just wait, not knowing what my future holds; or if I’ll even have a future.

Part II:

The day came and it was time for the escape. Mama A was on Skype all jumpy just as I was. We was anxiously awaitin’ my fate. I was at my computer when I heard that dreaded noise. A thud on the door. Now, I heard many thuds in my day, but this one held the wrath of Satan. Boy, I tell you. I up and grabbed my computer and dashed right into the closet. That there closet was as small as, well, a closet. Tiny as the dickens, but I fit my entire body in, except my toes stuck out a little. She walked away from the door. I felt relief, but weren’t taking no chances by leaving the closet, so I held in most of my breaths, took the pain, and dealt with my arms losing blood. Where was that dang hero of mine with his car? He weren’t nowhere to be heard from! So, not a woman for letting no man and no woman hold me back, I came out of the closet. I listened real close-like to the door. When it went silent, I made my flee. I grabbed my guitar, my backpack, my 60 lb luggage, my 20 lb luggage, and I jolted down the three flights of stairs. I swore any second they’d stop me and Krav Manga me in the face, but ain’t you know it, I got free. I whistled for a cab and it came near, all I said was, “Take me to the University, boy, take me home.” He looked at me funny and said, “What?” So, I clarified and asked him how much it would cost. Best 50 shekels ever spent, I tell you. Who would have thought freedom would come in the shape of a burly Israeli man and his little white taxi? Sure, I left behind my razor, but what I didn’t leave behind was my dignity! ‘Cept when she knocked the second time and I peed myself a little. I kept most of it, though.

Now here I am in the dorm room. Alone. Air conditioner on.
Just back from the mall with a beer. Life ain’t never been sweeter. Lordy, let me tell you, life is good.

Why you Should make him a Sandwich *This will offend you*

This is a list I dreamt about. Upon sharing it with a fellow scholar of advanced intellect and sophistication, he suggested that I post the list, along with images from the 50s and thereabouts that I felt fitting. I am easily influenced, so why not?

Reason #5:

Cardio! It may seem minor, but even just those 10 extra minutes off the couch will do your body some real good. We all know how hubby likes a slim wife, after all.


Reason #4:

Power! He may like to feel like he's in control, but she who decides what goes into his meal controls what matters. Show him who's boss!





Reason #3:

While you're at it, make yourself a sandwich too! Or even better, make yourself a salad. Remember: Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

Reason #2:

Know your way around. You know how in war there's a home base advantage? Same goes for the kitchen. Every woman should know her kitchen like the back of her man's hand.



The final reason to make him a sandwich?

Reason #1:

Because he asked you once and he shouldn't have to ask you again!

If there's one thing I've learned...

Throughout my travels, it's that I do not travel well. Sure, I'll sign up for the major trek and I'll do it, so that's pretty impressive... however, getting me there and the first week or two... or three... or several months are misery. As my mother once said and I quote often to explain my mentality, "Most people get hungry and they're grumpy. You get hungry and you're a pit of despair."

This applies to hunger, travel, socializing, and... life. I don't deal well with things. Particularly new things. I'm kind of autistic in that way. Is that an adjective one may use non-offensively? To be fair, my anxiety is an offshoot of autism, so it's kind of true. As in, I am HIGHLY reactive. I get a sensory overload quite easily. Too much clothing in the clothing store! AH! Too many plans this week! AH! This did not go as planned! AHHHH!! Yeah, that's another thing, I don't deal well with last minute changes. If someone says we'll meet at a certain time, if they're late, or even if I am late due to unforeseen circumstances, I die. I straight up just die. Fortunately, I come back to life, but the death part is overwhelming and anxiety-provoking in itself.

This is not the direction I was planning on taking this bloggy thingermadoo, but I always seem to turn things, whether it be a travel log or a romantic venture, into over-intellectualized existential crises.  Anywho, sensory overload (or overlord, as I almost typed), what is this you speak of? You being me. Me being me. Well, it means I take in everything I see, feel, think, do, smell, and hear in a way that makes my head cry. It even goes as far as how I feel about things. I obsess, I overthink, I care too much. Fortunately, this is balanced out a bit by my lack of attention span. This, however, may sound like me saying I'm too good of a person that not even the tremendous capacity of the human mind can handle it, but that's certainly not what I mean. What that means is that I take things and people to heart. Let me simplify: I have the feels big time, yo. However, in a little twist of events, it's so overpowering, that in order to cope, my mind practically shuts those feels down. As in, I know before a big trip that I am crazy nervous and excited. I'm not a robot, as it appears sometimes. I am maddeningly emotional and sensitive. However, if I constantly spouted those feelings out and cried or screamed in joy all the time, someone would slice open my throat. In order to fix this, my body has decided to turn me into the person who's like, "Oh- the 4 month trip to the Middle East? Yeah. That'll be coolstuffandthingswhatever."

I am certain many individuals can relate to this poor way of coping. After all, it would be nice and healthy to turn on some sort of emotional faucet once in a while, right? Maybe the ability is inside us all and we just need to believe and let the emotions free!

Yeah, I get that line a lot. People seem to think I hold back my emotions because I fear vulnerability. You too? You hear that all the time also? Wow, we should be best buddies or something! Sure, this may be part  of the defense mechanism. Like I said earlier, it's risky to constantly let everyone know how you feel and think... BUT I don't think this is entirely the case. As a matter of fact, I know it isn't. I'm happy to tell people about much of my dark past (cue bats and witches and junk). I just won't necessarily go into the emotional aspect. Obviously if I cried in a dark corner, I wasn't Cheerful Charlie, but that's for you to infer, not for me to go into a whole rant about. "And then I felt like my sadness was just a big crumpled piece of looseleaf paper. I just wanted to chuck it into the trash can. Chuck it! I want to CHUCK IT! DO YOU HEAR ME!?"

Here's what I say: My rule is that I am allowed to be as terrified and sad and angry in my private time as I need to be. I won't be mad at myself for it or embarrassed, I'll just let it happen. At the end of the day, though, I have to go forward with the plan. Of course, in small print it says, "Unless it's really not worth it." Indeed, I'm also allowed to back out of it. The idea is just trying. Sometimes things end up being intolerable, of course. Even if I think I am ready for something, it doesn't mean my mind is. I have to respect that. This can get tricky, too. Sometimes you can't just walk out of a situation or say, "I'm getting off this ride now." Sometimes... maybe (????) it's good to put yourself in a new, scary situation that you can't escape. Maybe it'll be awful and horrible, but I do recommend it is something temporary. Even if it's 4 months. Those 4 months will end and I'll either fail out of school and go home crying like a true failure or maybe I'll excel and adjust and want to come back right away. Admittedly, these are two extremes, and neither are likely to happen... That too is in the fine print. I'll just keep the cheerful, positive voice. Yay! Everything will work out and all your dreams will come true and unicorns will pop out of your eye sockets!

In your eyes...

There are few times in my life when I become spiritual. Whatever that means. As a matter of fact, I don't know that I've ever felt there was a bigger, better reason for the way of the world. I may have hoped it, I may have wished it, but I never saw any signs, any memories, any times in my life when the world plotted a path for me or taught me something through metaphysics or astronomy. Nor has a tree ever given me wisdom conspired from the hundreds of years prior. However,  I will say, on my latest exploration abroad, something quite mind blowing occurred.

It happened after a short chain of events. At first I experienced something some would consider dark, horrific, and traumatizing. Something, I unfortunately, have come to see as what life brings to me for some reason. I won't go into specifics, but it was just not good. Around the same day, the next, I believe, I went to the cruise ship's headlining act. He was a country singer, but he mostly did folk music covers. In my depths of despair, I sat through his show and lip synched the songs in a sorrowful and dejected manner. The musician kept catching my eye and smiling. I assumed this was because I was the only one in the room who wasn't wearing Depends and Poligrip. While I cannot say the music made the events less harmful, they did make the situation more bearable.

I started going to his shows every opportunity I got. Each time, my confidence and ability to dance and sing along becoming more visible. The musician continued to smile at me and play towards me. Until, finally, after about a week or a week and a half, I ran into the musician outside one of his shows. He came to me with a smile and said, "I don't believe I've learned your name." He held out his hand and I gave him mine. He didn't let go, he just gripped it. I told him my name and he responded with, "What. a. BEAUTIFUL name. Fits for such a beautiful girl." He told me little details about himself, the one that stood out to me was that he had 17 Great Danes. My curiosity was peaked.

More days went on, and even though we now were familiar with one another, I did not think much of it. We did not speak again, we didn't even wave 'hello'. That is, until the very last night of the trip. After a night of one particularly "friendly" older gentleman dancing with me and making jokes about kissing my neck, I made an excuse to excuse myself and then, when I saw he was gone, I snuck back into the area where the musician had been performing and I sat. I was hoping he would stop to chat, but it was rather late, he was rather inebriated, and he was already chatting with another family. He had thrown my name into one of the songs earlier, but I am certain this was just a crowd pleasing technique.

Still, I waited. I jumped each time someone walked past, thinking it could be the "friendly" man, but he was preoccupied by waiting at the bar until I was to return. Which I was not going to do (I think it best to be kind to people you will be spending 10 days on a ship with. Until the very last night, of course.) The waiting turned into an hour wait. This would not be a big deal, but I was growing more nervous, it was getting later, and I had to leave the ship early the next morning. Not to mention, I knew my grandmother would go off on me if I got back to the room too late.

After sneaking a peek every few minutes to see if the musician would notice my presence, I hear, "Mind if I finish my beer with you?"

I look up with a smile and there is the big Southern boy all dressed in black and looking down at me. I tell him it would be my pleasure, inserting some sort of less-than-clever witticism. He sat down next to me and asked me, "What do you want to do with your life?" Without hesitation I told him I was studying music therapy. That wasn't exactly an answer to his question, but it was the best I could come up with off the bat and I don't think I had a better answer within me.

At this, he went off on a tangent. He had a website idea and kept mentioning this fancy name he came up for a physical therapy plus music therapy plus massage therapy sort of deal. It wasn't the most original or genius idea, but it was definitely impressive how confidently he shared and how much he came up with in the moment. The whole time he spoke, he maintained eye contact and looked at me with such intensity and genuine concern, that I couldn't stop looking into his eyes and focusing on each word (something I am utterly horrible at). When he finished with the idea, I nodded that it was a great idea. Fortunately, he didn't stop speaking long enough for me to worry about what worthwhile response I should give.

He then stood up and searched everywhere for a pen and paper to give me his personal contact information. He assured me repeatedly that it was not his business or agent, but his personal email and phone number. He wrote in silver marker. I said, "Wow. I love that marker!" He then handed it to me with a wink and followed with something which would normally totally creep me out, but it didn't feel wrong when he spoke it. He said, "I've been watching you for 10 days. Whenever you were within 10 feet of me, I knew. You radiate. You are a special lady."

I have been told I am special many a'times. Not because I am special, but because guys know girls want to hear it. I can't say why this felt different, but it felt like the words were glowing and in bold font. I took it to heart, which I never do. Anyways, he tells me about his wife and his life and then he tells me if I ever want to move to Nashville, he can hook me up with housing and a job. He then gives me one last really good eye stare and stands to pack up his things. "Need me to walk you anywhere to avoid bad old men?" He jokes. I normally wouldn't accept such an offer, but I both wanted to feel safe that night and quite honestly, I wanted to have a few last minutes with this fellow. At this point I should clarify, there was nothing uncomfortable or sexual or even remotely flirty about the conversation we had. This man is 60 years old and his genuine concern is what led to our friendship. At no point did I feel he was making advances or attempting to woo me. As a matter of fact, once we safely arrived on my floor, he asked if my room was near the end of the corridor. I told him it was midway, so he looked me in the eye, shook my hand, held it tight for a moment that felt like an hour, and said, "This won't be the last time I see you." and walked away.

SO... a couple days after I got home, as I picked up the book I had been reading throughout the trip; some depressing memoir in which a child dies or is killed each chapter (it was about Haiti), a paper slips out. The paper is the musician's contact information written in silver marker. At seeing it, his eyes flash in mind and throughout the day, I cannot escape them. They are the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg (Great Gatsby reference) to me. I decided to send him a message and I explain what had just occurred. I can't say his response was particularly spectacular or profound, but he let me know he would be texting me when he got back into the states. Whenever that will be. He was sure to include, "You're a special lady."

Was this a spiritual encounter? Oh, I don't know. Probably nothing in the stars about it... but so help me if it wasn't precisely what I needed during the trip. Each night when the other young people would come to collect me and have me come up to the lounge to dance to hip hop and pop and R&B, I would reject them and stay where I felt wanted and safe. If not for the musician, my sadness would have been overwhelming, this I know for sure. I can't thank God or fate, I can only thank the musician and his music.