I pray that you shine deep and bright.
Though clouds will cross your path and rains might weigh you down
I pray for your clarity
That your confidence and crystal clear sense of purpose
lets your beauty and warmth spread to all who look to you.

I pray for your steadfast spirit
As you change daily
from dawn to dusk
moving from a sunrise orange to satiny midnight blue.
I pray that you honor your transitions
As fundamental parts of the cycles that create each day.

I pray for your infinite depth and wisdom.
I pray that your continue to reveal wonders
To those that seek you for council,
Look to you for answers,
Wish upon your collection of stars.
I pray that you can find the strength to hold
Their wishes
That you might guide others
And share a glimpse of the expansive galaxy
and your stunning strength.

I pray that we on earth do what is right to support you.
That we do not fill your volumes with poison and smoke
Weighing you down and clouding your vision.
No, sky.
I pray that we do all that is in our power to support you
To tend to you, to care for you, to be attentive to your needs
To live our lives with your well-being in mind
Because it is also our well-being,
because we will also be supporting ourselves.

My prayer to the sky is one of awe and gratitude.
In you infinite character
you inspire me to reach for infinity.
I love you.

NB:

The Space Traveller is trying (somewhat in vain) to apply for grad school. 7 days until the GRE, and 13 until all the applications are due.

If I manage to make it through this mess, I promise lots of brilliant posts–on everything from Philly to philanthropy.

Stay tuned and pray for my soul.

I turned 22 on the 18th. And while I spent most of my birthday weekend in bed with a fever, I had time to come up with 18 things that are salient to me right now. And by 18 things, I mean two thesis sentences and 16 supporting points in song lyrics.

1. On (/for) my birthday, I got a museum job. Not an internship. A real museum job. In a contemporary art museum. Halle-fuckin-lujah.

2. A discussion with my 8th grade teacher this weekend confirms: Today, I am essentially a taller, smarter, better-looking version of myself at 13.

3. “All you need is positivity. Colors of the world-Spice up your life! Every boy and every girl-Spice up your life! People of the world-Spice up your life! Aaaaaaah”—Spice Girls
4. “I’m bringing sexy back”—Justin Timberlake
5. “This is fucked up. Fucked up.” —artist unknown
6. “Hey hey you you! I could be your girlfriend!…Hell yeah! I’m the mother fuckin princess!” —Avril Lavigne
7. “No one on the corner have a swagga like us.” —M.I.A
8. “Wish you’d bring back the man I knew, who was good to me…I can’t eat, I can’t sleep anymore. Waiting for love to walk through the door. I wish I didn’t miss you anymore.” —Angie Stone
9. “Get a tan? I’m already black. Rich, I’m already that.” —50 Cent
10. It’s ME bitches!” —Swizz Beatz
11. “All my girls stand in a circle and clap your hands, this is for you. Ups and downs, highs and lows, and no matter what you see me through…LOLOLOLOLOVE LOLOLO”—Ashlee Simpson
12. “If God is a DJ, life is the dance floor, love is the rhythm, you are the music” —P!nk
13. “I got a headache and its not a tumor.” —Ludacris
14. “We take one step at a time. There’s no need to rush. It’s like learning to fly, or falling in love. It’s gonna happen, when it’s meant to happen—and we find the reasons why, one step at a time.” —Jordin Sparks
15. “See how the booty shakes? Like an earthquake. There is no escape when I shake in your face.” —Missy Elliott
16. “Let’s go dance tonight! Fuck guys. Let’s just stand in a circle around our shoes and pocket books and let’s just dancsse.” —Dane Cook
17. “I said, in these shoes? I don’t think so.” —Kirsty MacColl
18. “It don’t matter if you’re black or white”—Michael Jackson

We’ve been dancing to this song in class lately…and now it’s stuck in my head. Analysis/connections to follow.

Disturbia, in no particular order:

1. Disturbed Sleep
I’ve been having bad dreams lately. I wake up in a contorted knot of tensed muscle, bedding, and throbbing headaches. I’ve had some really upsetting interactions with a past love and while I managed to stop crying in my waking hours, it continues to consume the landscape of my dreams–There he yells at me and ignores me. He hits me and demeans me. So I wake up feeling sick about things that never fully happened and things I can’t talk to him about. I hope this disturbia leaves me soon…

2. Dancing, Disturbed
I want to make a dance about mental illness. There is so much rich material for this…and it would be very compelling because I think everybody has had a moment of feeling a massive disconnect between their mind, their soul, and their body. Dancing is also very psychological, despite being extremely physically demanding. I’d like to play with that. If only I actually choreographed dances…

My dancing has also been disturbed of late– by my knee. I think it’s a recurrence of patellar tendinitis from a streak of really intense rehearsals and training last weekend. It’s being unresponsive to ice, and I’m hoping that taking a long weekend off from dance with help it recover.

3. Rihanna
Is ridiculously good looking.* She is disturbingly attractive–it’s almost startling, those piercing green eyes set off against her black hair and golden brown skin. Also, I want her haircut. I really respect her willingness to cut off her lengthy locks when so much of black women pop stars’ sex appeal comes from their volumes of long straight or ringleted hair…Then again, anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis knows I have a weakness for women with short hair. So sexy.

4. Media Studies Mini Moment-Disturbia
How did mental illness get conflated with people of color, BDSM, and lots of black eyeshadow? While this music video is visually stunning–I’m curious about the choices Rihanna/the director made in representing a disturbed mind state. Namely, that mental distress is visually equated with physical “freakishness”. And by “freakishness,” that is anything outside of the white norm–be it race, sexuality, or abilty. All of these parties stand in the space of the music video as visual markers of “disturbia”–they are each represented as somehow disturbed, deformed, or perverted.

5. The US Economy aka Disturbia
Is anybody else seriously disturbed by the state of economy? Banks are failing, foreclosures are as common as as junk mail in your inbox, and there are too few jobs, most with rapidly srinking salaries. Suburbia is quickly sliding into Disturbia. I’m trying to get stable enough so that I can put my financial head down and try to weather an increasingly bleak future. Don’t even get me started on what might happen if the Republicans win the election this fall. I’m not the only one with this foreboding future on my mind-Eve Ensler weighs in on Palin.

I was talking to one of my mentors yesterday and it was the strangest thing to hear… She basically said, “Yes. Job hunting is completely demeaning and demoralizing. And you will get rejected again and again and again. But you have to know that your are qualified, and that your are looking for a very specific thing that has to be available and then you have to be the right match.” Great. I’m signing myself up to be un/under-employed and demoralized on a daily basis. hmph.

I think that is a sufficient overview of the many facets of disturbia on/in my mind. As always, more to come.

~~~

*I’m sure LCV will agree with me.

This isn’t a complete thought, just the beginning of a conversation I want to have.

Yesterday evening, I was finishing up my afro-brazilian dance rehearsal, running through our Frevo piece a few more times before our performance tomorrow. There were a couple of people on the side watching, mostly people hanging out after the capoeira workshops that preceded our rehearsal. Also mostly men. I was tired and sweaty from the exertion of two very high energy dances, and so I wasn’t going to pay much attention to the casual audience. It didn’t help that this practice was our dress rehearsal, and we are wearing the most ridiculous costumes ever. Picture neon clown costume stripes, Brazilian bikini wear, and lots of midriffs showing. Yeah.

So I’m running through the dance, trying to measure out the little energy I have left, when I turn around and catch a glimpse of a short-haired capoeirista watching us/me. Only a glimpse, and not even enough to distinguish all of her features clearly, but my attitude towards rehearsal shifted drastically. Now I was putting on a show. I slipped into that kind of dancing that is decidedly eye-catching, that embodies the music down to the tiniest detail and flourish. Watch me, my hips said.

As I finished a run-through and walked back towards my starting position (and the capoeirista), I told myself to make eye contact and smile. I looked at the floor instead. Another missed opportunity thanks to my bashfulness. But I did finish up rehearsal dancing my best. When I completed the final run-through, I looked back for her–but she was gone. I hoped she had been watching me.

I changed out of my yellow leggings and back into my own much-more-flattering slouchy black jazz pants. I was still sticky though, so I decided to just wear my sports bra and leave my shirt off. This is something I normally won’t do, because it tends to attract a kind of attention from men that I don’t want, but I figured that in the long trip from the parking lot to my car and my car to my apartment, I was at low risk of seeing anyone.

This proved true for the first 10 minutes of my drive home…until I had to walk the half block from my car to my house. There were a few people walking to and from parties or gatherings. I saw a couple of twenty-something guys across the way. I walked with purpose and silently prayed they wouldn’t say anything.

Jesus doesn’t always answer prayers.

“Hey mamacita! Come over here! Oww! Damn! Look at that ass!”

I ignored them and kept walking, pretending not to hear them, but already feeling the burning sensation of their words in my ears. Why am I always treated like a fucking piece of meat by straight men? I hated them for talking to me, for paying attention to me when I did not invite their stares, their cat-calls, their appraisal of, and desire for, my body.

I walked into the safety of my apartment and tried to shake off their words, their penetrating gaze. It happens, and I continue to hope that one day, it won’t bother me. But today, another thought crossed my mind:

Here I am, here is the body I have, here is the way I present myself. Me, and more specifically, my body, has long been something that men lust after, yell at, hit on. But I don’t want their attention. Right now, I want women’s attention. I want women to approach me (politely, of course) and take an interest in me.

So how can I make that happen? I there a way to attract the right kind of attention? Be sexy and appealing in a way that seems wrong to straight men, but so right to that lovely chocolate brown lady across the room? Or is there at least a way to tell when I’m getting attention from women, so that I can calmly filter out the unwanted attention from men?

Space Traveler, I may be—but seasoned flirt, I am not. All input, thoughts, and waxing philosophic on attraction and the right kind of attention grabbing are greatly welcomed and encouraged.

If I had continued my relationship, in a few days (depending on the counting) it would have been our three year anniversary.

Everything in my life at the moment falls into three powerfully distinct, but intermingling emotions.

Loss

Love

the Unknown

Now before you all desert on me because this sounds like the beginning of a trashy romance novel/memoir, hang in. I promise there will be some substance here–though the writing is a bit flowery and romantic.

1) Loss

I flew home this weekend. Though I was only really home for a day. My family drove up to my aunt’s winery for a mini family reunion. The winery is a place strongly associated with growing up: The red dirt coats everything and I have moved from being covered in it to planning my outfits so my shoes don’t get ruined by it. The vines, gardens, trees rustle and filter the sunlight, casting dappled shadows on my skin as I stare up at the canopy of walnut trees that have steadily grown over the years to shade the patio. The wine flows like water and I have always judged myself and my maturity in comparison to the older cousins who drink with such ease and naturalness. I had two glasses of the new rose on saturday, and for the first time, at almost 22, I felt like I was actually supposed to be holding the wine glass.

And though it was nice to spend time with my extended family members, I spent a lot of the weekend sitting with my face to the sun, reflecting on what it means to be part of a family, and how one day I might have a family to bring here to the winery. My reveries were exacerbated by the slew of babies/children running around–the next generation of cousins and grandchildren. My (2nd?) cousin Sophia (who is the most delightful, angelic little child) asked me, “who are you? did my daddy invite you?” I told her that I was her cousin and that we had met before, but she probably didn’t remember, and that her daddy sort of invited us. She then sat on my lap, gave me a hug, and asked me to blow bubbles with her. I obliged.

But back to the loss. The loss was knowing for the first time that I was an adult in my family, that I was included in the adult conversations, and allowed to do the adult things. I wasn’t here to run off with the other kids and look for pennies hidden in the red dirt. There were other children for that now.

The rest of the weekend (and really this whole past week) I felt acutely the mixed emotion of loss.

While visiting my college, I walked by the cottage I lived in the last year of undergrad. I missed my housemates/bffs, and knowing that I would come home to eat popsicles and lay in front of the fan talking with them about Foucault and High School Musical. I sat and watched first years and their parents awkwardly walk through the campus, always in the same way: the mom with her purse minding the kid and trying to be supportive, the kid nervous and trying to mitigate the urge to panic and the desire to be on their own, and the dad, overbearing, asserting his plans to tour the campus despite having no clue where he is.  I felt the loss of being an undergrad student and the specific sense of life and personhood it entails.

While I was at home, I felt the loss of home. My mother is stressed out and at odds with a house full of males with whom she struggles constantly. It is a good day if no one argues and they all can pretend no one else exists. I want to be there to make it better, but know that I can’t, and that even if I could–it will still never be that idyllic, quirky but loving family I remember. I drive down my street and feel a pang of loss for my neighbors whose son was murdered a few months ago–he was not even 20. There are more cars. There are more bodies. The ice cream man still drives the same old ice cream truck, but he is wearing a Bluetooth now. Where am I? I am in my house, but I think I lost my home.

I flew back to San Diego this evening. While I waited at baggage claim for my ride, I did what I do best–people watched. I watched cars pull in and out, people toss bags into car trunks, warm reunions and anxious drivers waiting to spot their loved ones. Then I saw a guy get out of his car in the middle of the road, oblivious to traffic, and kiss his girlfriend/spouse. Another pang of loss…Normally, I’m not a fan of pda, but I understood that kiss. Coming home to my lover is one of the most vivid memories I posses. It is the mix of being away, forgetting a little bit all the super-specific details of their face and the feel of their body wrapped in yours, the electric tingle of a kiss. Knowing that somebody is waiting for you, and missed you, and loves you so very much.

I felt this loss today.

2) Love

I am filled with love right now. Perhaps this is why I am not incapacitated by the amount of loss I am experiencing. In the past, I would have grasped for those things lost, desperately tried to hold onto them. But recently, I am okay with letting them go. And instead, I am filled with a profound sense of love for all that I have lost, and all the I have.

I love dancing. I love going to my hip-hop class everyday. I love feeling my body become strong and defined again. I love feeling powerful. I love knowing that I am tenacious and capable and that my momma raised my to be successful. I love that I am by myself in San Diego, that I am making decisions about what I want to do, what I’m going to be, and who I’m going to do it with. I love that I can embrace being queer, being smart, being “tall and fucking gorgeous” (as js frequently reminds me), being brown, being engaged in the world and other people. I love meeting people and remembering their names. I love going new places and challenging myself to move outside my comfort zone. I love succeeding.

I love my friends.

I love my style.

I love my Mac and Skype.

I love my super-hero haircut and my three inch heels.

I can’t explain it. But I love everything right now. Not in a superficial way, but in a deep appreciation for the things I have, the things I have been given and the sheer luck that I have been blessed with such inspiring and amazing people who have filled, and continue to fill my life with joy and with more love.

3) The Unknown

Is the third thing. I don’t know what I’m doing next week. I don’t have a plan for next month. I don’t have the full time job I was expecting. Maybe I will be in Chicago. Or maybe LA. Of perhaps I’ll stay here in San Diego.

For the first time in my life, I have no f*cking clue. Earlier this summer, this ate away at me, undermining my confidence as I failed to control the million and one factors decidedly out of my control. But then, I ran out of energy to fret about everything, and I had to start living in this strange place called Limbo Land. I had to start having faith. Because I can only hear from so many people that everything is going to be fine, and that everything is going to work out brilliantly for me–before I had to start actually believing them. And so I sit here on my bed (the last night on this one, I move to a new one tomorrow) as a welcome host to the emotion of the Unknown.

~~~

I listened to our song tonight, and thought of the three years we won’t be celebrating together, but that I will be celebrating nonetheless. Because I am so proud of him, of us, and especially myself.  And I smile with the hope of all the amazing things yet to come…

she is lithe, like a panther
and has the intensity in her eyes to match
they twinkle with amber fire
she looks me in the eye
it sets me on fire
every time
i am inspired
by her singular power

she is powerful,
but not because she is aggressive,
but because she is strong in her own magnificence
she is exquisitely detailed:
from her tattoos to her tailored suit
because she can rock them both.

she can move.
she can run and jump
she can fight and win, though she never has to
she can press her body against mine and flow, snake, roll as one

she is superbly erotic

she has short dark hair
or perhaps long–but it is pulled back so it doesn’t interfere with her capoeira
she is undeniably feminine, but assertively masculine
because her presentation defies categories
sliding liquid between the stuffy precut places
like her hands slide down my back
and around me
holding me down
holding it down

the world is wrapped around her finger
her presence demands a singular attention
but her sights are only for me

and when she is just with me,
the toughness of her exterior appearance softens into a focused, passionate, yet peaceful center
she yields, gracing me with a touch gentle and soft
she is patient yet dedicated
to exploring me
and i her

she is comfortable
on weekends we both wake up and
every once is a while decide to do nothing
but enjoy being sexy in our pajamas
cuz she is
and i am
little bits of skin play hide and seek amongst the draped cotton
her skin is delicious brown
light latte, cinnamon spice, rich deep chocolate,
depending on the sun and the season
which only sets off all the more the blood-red glow of her full, soft lips
and the warmth that radiates from her defined muscles, her gently curved hips

we both know that the world asks us to present as forceful
but together, the force is organic
it is of being mutually compelled
by each other
to each other
to experience the energy of our entirety

to challenge each other
because she is relentlessly smart,
and unforgivably intelligent
we laugh because there’s
only ever five degrees of separation between
my puma
sneaks
and
michel
foucault

she is made for me
and i for her
compliments to
a perfect pairing

we walk together
footsteps in sync,
or in diverse harmony

we dance together
because
damn
how could i not want to dance with her?

we think together
develop ideas
push each other to extend our minds
to extend our practice
to extend our passion
into new places, new levels

and together
we are transcendent
energy,
perfected.

I’m not a poet.
I don’t take this form.
I have no rhyme no reason

But here I am out of my element
on his behalf
the half he didn’t ask for
the half he wanted, required more

a more I didn’t have
amore I lost
amore
amore, love

I want to find that closeness again.
Those parallel moments where we matched.
Perfectly.
Preciously.

But instead I’m out of whack.
My verse is clunky.
As are my words to him.

Words used to flow so easily
Fill my world with ecstasy
Make me feel infinity.

But now they’re not about me.

He wants nothing to do with me.

And that’s fine.
He deserves space.
He deserves time.

But…

But (he says get) out.

I have no place there anymore.
I bother.
I bore.

It’s not that I’m mad because he’s thinking of another
Or that I’m afraid he won’t recover

It’s just that I still miss him
And if I saw him, I would run up and kiss him

Because even though I think I am better apart
He still owns half my heart

I miss his jokes
I miss his smile
I miss his care
I miss his love
I miss his brilliance
I miss his resilience
I miss his touch

This is hurting way too much

How long do I have to wait?
Can I get an ETA?
An approximate date?

To be close to you again
Can we try again as friends?

You have me out of my element
Trying to reach you

But here I don’t belong
So I’ll just move along
Try to fill the (____) by dancing to our song

And wait for you to see
That you mean everything to me

This is worse poetry,
on his behalf

Panic attacks are for babies.

I’m doing much better than I was a few weeks ago–so thanks for hanging in.

Not that you had any choice.

I won’t be writing that much in the next two weeks, as my energy is going toward job searching etc, but I’ll try to keep up with little thoughts here and there.

Meanwhile–reader’s poll!

1. Where should the Space Traveler live?
a) Los Angeles
b) San Francisco
c) Philadelphia
d) Seattle
e) New York

2. What should the Space Traveler do in the next year or two?
a) apply/go to grad school (masters)
b) apply/go to grad school (PhD)
c) intern. again.
d) find work in a museum in obscure and/or obnoxiously expensive location (i.e detroit, brooklyn)
e) work for Oprah/consumer magazine

*i’m not white, but this made me wonder…

3. And that second job on the side?
a) cardio teacher
b) model
c) pretty bartender
d) pretty restaurant hostess
e) jewelry maker

4. The always fun…F*ck-this-shit-wildcard choice
a) advertise on Craigslist for wealthy benefactor to support my non-profit glamour lifestyle
b) run away to Ghana and live with relatives
c) stay in San Diego and slowly become a surfer or creepy-tan white woman
d) move to Vegas and become high profile call girl
e) move home, work for mom, and eventually take over mother’s business

Thanks for playing kids. Seriously now. Vote.

Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line.

The Space Traveler is busy fending off unwanted panic attacks….

She will be back writing asap! Please stay tuned.