-”This is for all them girls who have ever been made to feel ugly by an even uglier man”. – Violet

 I told a man to go fuck himself today; it was after he looked me deep in my eyes and whispered those sweet sweet words. It was after we made love. It was after he revoked the meaning of every meaningful thing he had ever revealed to me. It was after he draped a cloak around his secret vulnerability and reacted like the coward who fires his gun before the bear begins to charge; it was after he looked me deep in my eyes and whispered those nasty, nasty words. Ya’ll know what I mean, no matter the actual content it was the way he said it; I mean, he said a million things and acted a hundred colorful ways but I absorbed only the base line of his poisonous message and it went something like this: “boom boom, I don’t want you in my life, boom boom, I don’t want you in my life, boom boom…”. I felt it. It hurt. I felt ugly. I felt small. I felt like runnin’ and divin’ into the coldest water to freeze the growth of sensitivity and pain, but I didn’t. I just swallowed and smiled and said, “its alright boy. You are the last brother from the tribe of indifferent men that I will ever dance with. I can say a proper goodbye now. Thank you for the challenge mister, now go fuck yourself”.

 This is gon’ be my new way, I think, makin’ it my bus’ness to know where those men come from, and tellin’ ‘em how I truly feel. Ain’t like I’m doing nothin’ wrong, I mean I ain’t hurtin’ nobody really. It ain’t my problem if he takes it personally, right? I’m just livin’ my life is all, and he should know better anyhow. Its like, what do you think is gon’ happen when you wear your selfish expectations as openly as your troubled grin? I ain’t here to please nobody! I ain’t layin’ down the right to bear myself, no way am I gon’ spread my legs kindly so he can have a taste of true power. I ain’t givin’ nothin’ to nobody that ain’t already pourin’ freely from the flow of things; why force myself further? Ain’t enough you’ve got that girl between your legs you wanna sew her up after you done, you wanna brand your name like a pretty little scar that she’ll forever wear as a reminder that she’s a missin’ a piece of her heart to you.

 I’ve been had and I’ve been a means to an end for many a mischievous man but I say enough! They made me, ya know, as a girl comin’ up in this world, tricked by every fake kiss and every false prophecy spoken from the filthy grave of his soiled dreams; I believed that love was when your name felt safe in the mouth of a well-respected man. Uh, uh, no way; and now I’ve paid my dues and I have been God-honored with the authority to love nobody but myself, and if the mosquitoes want a taste of my blood then let them have it; they’ll prick the skin of another man soon, and that will be my victory when the shaft of his cock is swollen with regret of having behaved a devil’s fool; guilt itches, my friend. Itch it long and good, watch how it changes you, I’ll wear a rosy dress to celebrate the rise and fall of your oozing fantasies, ha! I’ll bite harder than any alligator I swear, I’m tired of resting in the swamps next to other second-hand ladies; through rouge and globs of lip paint they slur from too many sips of moonshine while the moonlight shines on their tears that the water beast dries with his yellow eyes.

 I ain’t one them girls who jus’ wanna man, ya hear? I ain’t wanna sit ’round, and sip tea and talk about fancy things with lace, and whisper lyrics and batter my eyes and smell nice things and have nice things: I ain’t lookin’ for nothing from you: not acceptance nor approval, not a warm blanket or a humble bed, not a compliment or a dare, not nothin’ you can do to change me slightly, not no way for you to keep me comin’ round cause I dance to the beat of distant drums, harmonic gifts of direction granted by higher things, higher than the way you feel when you see me smile that smile that ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, not no more; I’m stronger than I seem, grace is not weak but tender like a mother lion with her cubs. Don’t you know boy? When spirits are suppressed, when they are confined, ya see, they revolt to any extreme; the spirit knows only how to be itself and it will do so under any condition, under any circumstance, whether you speak its language or not it will rise within and swell like the tides of the sea when the full moon calls. It’s like, you can take a person and you can train them and mold them and teach them how you want them to be, you can tell them that some things jus’ ain’t right and others are plain wrong, but it ain’t no use; you only gonna make a murderer, or a liar, or a rapist, or a drunk; stiflin’ energies morph and manifest in unwholesome ways when left to rot on the shelves of a restricted heart.

 So, boy, I release myself from the bonds that have held me down; turns out they were of my own makin’; but ya’ll can’t convince me to stitch them again. No way, I have a voice as strong as a million angry bees and though my soul is lyin’ on the side of a road a ruby stone in my chest has been graciously restored. So again, i”ll say it with mighty conviction, those sweet sweet words I’ll whisper in your ear; “go fuck yourself”.

Working hard and playing hard, does not necessarily mean you have a good balance. It means you’re going to die really young…

I haven’t decided if it was worth it yet…

10:41pmRasham

wow friend! crazy stuff, but very real, and very honest. I know exactly what you mean…

10:42pmFriend

haha. Here’s something you can investigate: why is it that teachers are usually either a). overweight b). alcoholics, or c). both?

write me an article asap ;x

10:42pmRasham

hahaha i’ll get right on it

I met a nurse who said the SAME THING

its something about providing SERVICE for others that leaves a person feeling as though there is a void, because their contributions usually go unaccounted for or are under appreciated in our modern society, so they self medicate

i guess, maybe…speaking from my waitress experiences

RASHAM WRITES…

I met a nurse once, though she was not a nurse on the day we encountered; she was just another human being, on this earth, asking all the same questions.  She was vulnerable, wells of water were apparent in her big green eyes as she vaguely asked her audience for acceptance and understanding. She was in pain, spiritually spent, emotionally exhausted; having given so much in terms of care for others she had neglected her own well being, and she was at her end, a skeleton of a beautiful woman, asking for help.

I searched for similarities; we were both Pisces, emotional sentient creatures of the zodiac. We both worked in the field of service, she a nurse, I a waitress. And then there was my friend, a teacher, who unknowingly inspired me to investigate the maladies of service work.

Could there be a common thread which linked our lifestyles to our self destructive afflictions?

If so, what is it about the field of service that leaves some of its employees empty, devastated, and desperate for relief?

The industry of service is enormous; everyone contributes something to society, in some way or another. But there are those special avenues of direct service, personal service, hands on service, where the provider of service is totally committed to the receiver of service, and must withstand and adhere to all and every request, suggestion, criticism, judgment, and review. A nurse, a teacher, a food and beverage employee; all common manifestations of slave symbolism, in which the provider of service is completely at the whim of the receiver, sacrificing self for the satisfaction of the receiver. Of course, monetary retribution is paid as collateral for such service, and the nurse, teacher, and food and beverage employee need not choose to work in such a self-sacrificial field of employment.

But the nurse still drinks, the waitress still inhales cocaine, the teacher still overeats.

It requires a certain personality to perform such civil duties; usually those with a heart well enough to constantly provide for others choose to do so, acting in accordance with a natural desire to help, heal, aid, teach, give, nurture, and care. Offering service is a beautiful act, evoking spirituality and humanity in the giver. The act of serving is typically very personal and very private; one who engages in this field is extremely aware of his or her potentials and capacity for love and forgiveness, and takes pride in her abilities to achieve satisfaction in patrons, pupils, and patients.

She asks nothing in return; yet here in lies the danger of such a relationship.

Service should be appreciated, in any capacity, in any tone, however big or small that which was performed amounted. But it often isn’t; it seems as though our society has us all spoiled rotten, and we connect with individuals long enough to receive something from them, not even bothering to know their names, believing that that which we achieved or gained was OWED TO US, THAT IT WAS DESERVED, THAT IT WAS OUR RIGHT BY NATURE OF US HAVING BEEN BORN, and we forget that from whom we collected was actually just another human being, and our lack of acknowledgement and gratitude has left them a little more shallow, a little more empty.

With that shallowness and emptiness a void is born, and thus a natural necessity to fill that void, and an irrational desire to complete that void with temporary mental lapses, or a rush of blood to the head, or a sacrificial moment of feel-good pleasure followed by guilt, and thus more shallowness, and even more emptiness…These voids are something of which we have all felt at one point or another, whether it be a lost love, or a disgruntled neighbor which catalyzed its abysmal expansion. Why then, do we inflict the same fate upon others?

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive”, you say. But it is sensitivity which attracts them to the job, it is sensitivity which makes them perfect for such channels of labor; it is because they are sensitive, because they are empathetic, and care enough for the health, well being, and satisfaction of mankind to tend to its domestic needs forty plus hours a week.

It is because we are insensitive which makes us neglect, forget, and underestimate the value of the service offered by men and women alike. We often abuse those performing service, devaluing their lives on behalf of their willingness to obey and oblige, becoming short and nasty in conversation, and unwilling to compromise. We become master, they the slave.

We love this relationship; we seek it, contacting customer service and hysterically venting our frustrations and anger upon a complete stranger, or undermining a waiter’s integrity for not having put a straw in a soda. We approach these circumstances with a mind that we are right, and we will benefit, and we will prosper, and we will win; like bullies we take advantage of the roles of these givers, and capitalize on their contractual inability to tell us to ‘fuck off’, pushing them until they give us what our egos feverishly crave; power, and control.

But service isn’t expendable; it is an evolutionary luxury we sadly take for granted.

Providers of service are valuable; more so than any other contribution to the race of man, for without these beings, we would be isolated from the simplicity of our biological design; we are all human, and need one another to learn, grow, heal, and prosper; in these modern avenues of service we are reminded obviously of the importance of unconditional care and the value of intimacy and contact.

And they are just people, have we lost sight of that fact?

We have become desensitized by globalism, advertisement, and capitalism. This is a typical side effect of a fascist system of society, where people become the logos and images of the corporation for which they work; business takes the place of human interest, and within this system people lose their individuality and uniqueness, often made to speak in repetition, dress in repetition, and behave in repetition. The person of service becomes commercial, faithful to the employer’s standards of uniformity and sameness. We no longer respond to the person wearing the uniform; we respond to the ideals represented by the uniform; not by the McDonalds employee, but by the ‘happy meal’ and golden arches, and not by the Steakhouse waitress, but by the jingle on the radio and the advertised promise of a free steak represented by her clichéd ensemble. Sadly, as the Big Business epidemic continues to grow and the margin of employment options begins to lack variety, more and more of us will be forced to work as minions of corporate ideals and religion, learning a tradition of self sacrifice for the sake of the larger entity, coercing us into conformity, all of us the same.

Of the employees of corporate giants we believe they belong to a bigger cause and that they are protected by the emblems they wear; we may even treat them as though they lack human qualities in the same manner a corporation lacks human qualities; appearing more ominous, resilient, and static; ill-favored  candidates for normal sentiments and sympathy.

That we are not encouraged to be common with our fellows is a symptom of our state of spiritual deterioration. It is because we are all so spiritually sick and disconnected that we respond to one another with such insensitivity and lack of remorse.

We are not monsters, but we have become conditioned to expect more from others than we do from ourselves, often because we are tempted by offers and good deals, television commercials and advertisements, all feeding our insatiable desire for more, more, and more, at a cheap price requiring little or no effort on our part. We are a ‘where’s mine’ generation, self-seeking and self-righteous. When we prosper, we enjoy the riches all for ourselves. When we fall short, we blame the world and everyone within. “Fuck this” and “fuck that”; the mantra of wisdom for the average rebel, also the short-hand excuse behind every act deemed inconsiderate, rude, disrespectful, and mean. At what cost are we going to allow this disease to flourish, this illness which takes a decent man and through instances of negative confrontations with his spiritually sickened fellows becomes ill with hatred and malcontent, to the point where he believes he has suffered a huge injustice at all the hands of the entire world?

It isn’t the fault of the world; we are not victims. We are members of a race of animals, all trying to perpetuate the art of survival. Perhaps upon awakening to the truth that NONE OF US INDIVIDUALLY ARE THE MOST IMPORTANT THING ALIVE we can begin to see the dangerous potentials of our rotting ignorance. We may even be apt to end it to the best of our abilities, learning to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and never taking a single gesture of service for granted.

But this is an issue much larger than routine courtesy and everyday etiquette. Once upon a time one power hungry man thought that if he could dumb another man down, he could make him work for his interests; the American dream was born.

Though I am the most likely participant in a match of America-bashing, the purpose of this essay was to acknowledge our service staff employees around the world. I will never forget that woman, and I dedicate this to her, and to all employees of service; nurses, teachers, food staff, and caretakers; who because of their trustworthy demeanor and a natural desire to provide must eat our bullshit everyday.

The East Bay prides itself on cultural and ethnic diversity, and racial discrimination is widely unaccepted. How is that I find myself a minority in a majority of minorities? Why was my pseudo-Anglo presence on this number 57 bus so startling that the driver assumed I had made a careless mistake?

Arriving at Eastmont Transit Center in the heart of East Oakland, the truth is no longer deniable: our cities are still racially divided, and are encouraged to be so. Minorities are offered section 8 and affordable housing within certain politically drawn boundaries, forming communities which are so neglected by civic patrol and service units they have become danger zones, boasting degradation and crime, drugs and gun wars. Public education is a disgrace, with cemented playgrounds and portable classrooms, significantly smaller and fewer in number than the encompassing graveyards and liquor stores. Public parks are littered and unkempt, as if the soil and the life spawned from the estuaries and ponds are as devalued as the members of society surviving within the forbidden land. Within the imaginary walls of east Oakland is a lurking enemy; the stereotypes associated with East Oakland are beginning to haunt me, and I quiver as I begin to accept the possibility that perhaps this isn’t a place I should be exploring. I take a moment and glance towards the hills, where mansions rest beautifully upon the golden hillsides, windows catching the last rays of the departing sun, sparkling as if to show off their extravagant construct. Money seems to flow upwards from the California Coastline, leaving the valley bleak and impoverished, perpetuating the human struggle to survive injustice and suffer on behalf of the inequalities of political representation.

And just as I have a thought to retreat to the embrace of my suburban dwelling, I see a mother pushing her small child who is sleeping comfortably in his stroller.  Despite the despair and isolation of this land, East Oakland is a place she knows as home, and that this child will forever call his hometown. I write about East Oakland not in rejection of its population, or in a manner of disgust and repudiation. I write about East Oakland because I want to tell the world that it is not a living horror fest featuring crack heads and gun slinging high schoolers. Perhaps these elements do exist in East Oakland, as they exist in other parts of the world. The Bay Area is advertised as one of many diversity epicenters of the United States, and it baffles me that such a blatant disregard for equality goes unnoticed and undocumented. Segregation is continuously practiced within the Minority Mecca of the world; the racial divide is very obvious, and very sad.

YOU SAY YOU WANT A REVOLUTION…

Our beachfronts are littered with armies of plastic byproducts, resting amongst the decaying carcasses of black feathered birds and mutilated sharks. How odd and yet slightly comedic that on this day I should find a battered American flag buried beneath bottle tops and cigarette butts, visible to only those who are searching for a moment of understanding in an otherwise unforgivable circumstance. America the beautiful is swarmed by herds of an invading threat: ignorance sold individually in separate, plastic containers.

I’ve struggled for what seems like an eternity to make sense of my earthbound existence, and I have yet to come to a satisfying conclusion. However I have formed what I believe to be a hypothesis worth mentioning in the least:

Modern American society is an intricate construct of a poor and struggling people, aimed at the achievement of short term pleasure and false senses of fulfillment and gratification. It is encouraged to be maintained as such on behalf of two known theories of truth:

1. that a large society of individuals is best maintained when the individuals themselves are isolated, being that unity amongst individuals is made almost impossible to achieve

2. that in addition to being isolated, the individual must also be maintained in an infinite realm of ignorance regarding the truth of his own existence, and thus the individual mind should be sculpted from an early age in government funded educational institutions which are designed to stunt the individual’s natural creative resources, and guide the individual as he grows into an inevitable process of absorption into the mediocrity of his surrounding environment without a mind capable of revoking or questioning his authorities.

I began writing this in response to the despicable amount of plastic responsible for most all of the waste on the shoreline of my home community. In pondering the why’s and how’s and from where’s which flooded my thoughts regarding the waste, I was led by my own consciousness into an abyss of confrontational and uncomfortable truth: in order to arrive at an end in thoughtful understanding of the problem of plastic pollution that currently haunts our health and livelihood, as well as the health and wellbeing of all organic life with whom we share this earth, I would have to start from the beginning, indeed, from the birth of European civilization. And what an undertaking that would be, although not impossible, as Jared Diamond has proven in his magnificent published works. I am not interested in launching my investigation from such a mark. I could just as easily beg you to believe me when I say that the most honest display of human parasitic behavior initially presents itself most clearly in history with the early European growth of civilization, where populations of people flourished in response to booming agriculture and consequent industrial revolutions. Where there is power, there is destruction at whatever cost in order to preserve and maintain that power, and history shows this to be true over and over again, and over and over again we see the suffering of ‘inferior’ populations of individuals and the environment caused by the development and instantiation of the concept ‘private property’, the ideal of wealth, and the misconstrued definition of the phrase ‘pursuit of happiness’.

Following the preservation of these aspects of humanity since their introduction, we find ourselves victims of our own blind obedience to the ever increasing demand for conformity, living in the materialistic mindset that the road to better living is made of plastic and lined with kiosks operated by corporate influence and money machines. Man’s potential to exhaust all his energies and resources in order that he may someday in the future hold in his hands the final result of his soul destructive and evolutionary disruptive patterns of behavior is greater than need be said. These patterns of behavior are deeply engrained in the fiber of the individual’s being, fortified by constant fear and the threat of humiliation and disrespect. Our modern world thus resembles an assembly line, where individuals are born as they are, and molded and constructed with consistency a key priority, punishing those who attempt to flee the monochromatic parade of identical methods of thought, and keeping the rest of the population in order by means of fear of punishment. Modern societies breed individuals, drill these individuals on the subjects of compliance and boundaries of action (via lessons plans of right and wrong), offer but an introductory course in moral responsibility and compassion (the bare minimum required to function as a productive member of society), and reward them for their cooperation with low, low prices and tickets to next week’s ball game.

Private property, wealth, and the pursuit of happiness: these abstract concepts form the base of our social construct, though we may be unaware of it.  We are informally promised that when we play by the rules in this game of life, when we are ‘good’, when we work hard at our jobs and pay our taxes and subscribe to the cable company and pray to our gods that these abstract concepts will somehow manifest into tangible forms of possession that will nourish our souls and warm our hearts.

But why? I believe there are two factors that describe the necessity for a world constructed as such:

1. for the politically powerful to maintain control of large populations of individuals, and

2. to promise the wealth to the wealthy.

What would happen if we no longer, as a collective entity, cared to drive our vehicles? If it didn’t matter to us what shoes we wore, or if fast food became suddenly repulsive? If everyone were to turn off their televisions and communicate effectively with one another? If, so to speak, everyone ‘woke up’, wrestled up from beneath the layers of fear, and learned the truth of their country’s operations and management, of the network within which they were intimately related, a small program in the larger scheme, mindlessly feeding the creator by continuing productivity? What would happen? Our society might fail, it might not. But herein lays the dilemma: is it possible to achieve a level of mass awareness?

Unfortunately, in order to undermine the actuality of our modern day society, a revolution of massive proportions would be necessary, and I am sad to say that the possibility of a revolt in our time no longer exists: the collective whole has built itself a magnificent web of protection and preservation, and beyond that, and most importantly, majority society is so unknowingly bound by fear that the idea of radical change is distasteful. You see, people like their ‘things’; they like that they can work an honest job, drive an honest car, attend honest meetings, and drink beer with their fellows. They like commiserating, caring for their personal wardrobes, shopping at bargain stores, enjoying dinner at a restaurant, smoking American brand cigarettes: although modern day society has its roots in spoiled values and egoistic ideals, it bears the fruit of ‘freedom’ ripe for the picking, a minimal reward disguised as a seductive well-deserved right to claim American citizenship, wherein the individual feels in debt to his country, continuing to sponsor and support its cause.

We have freedom, to a certain extent: we have the freedom to buy, freedom to sell, freedom to choose in which capacity we will best function in order to maximize profit, which is to be paid to the beast that rests easily in its golden castle adorned with rubies and gems.

The beast I speak of is the core of the web of power, those who sit at the head of the control panel and determine the course destined to be traveled by the collective whole of individuals within its boundaries. The beast I speak of is the class of peoples who act only within the extent of their personal self interest, and who guide certain aspects of civilized society in such a way as to increase and preserve their power and wealth. They are often unknown, hiding behind friendly marketing schemes and state emblems, carefully manipulated productions boasting colorful displays of patriotism and valor, or fancy language featuring religious references, to name a few. The beast I speak of, though seemingly a ghostly apparition of the paranoid conspiracy theorist’s mind, is very, very real, and very much kept alive by an all American diet of brainwashed citizenry, national and international productivity, and loyal consumerism.

All of which I have written thus far is by no means scientific evidence in support of a concrete theory of truth. It too, is a theory of truth, and as theories go it is incomplete and flawed in many respects. I do believe, however, that most of what I have expressed is as close to the truth regarding American modern society as it gets, and there are numerous other literary resources authored by accredited intellectuals that have in them similar underlying tones and concepts. In fact, to most individuals with whom I have had the privilege to become acquainted, these views are quite common and agreed upon.

I write based solely on my informal research and education learned by merely participating as a functioning member of modern American society.

My father is a materialist, expressing emotion through the giving and revoking of expensive tangible objects, satisfying the natural human instinct to provide for oneself the comforts necessary for happiness and fulfillment through the private ownership of material goods, big and small. My father offered me the best advice he could, repeating to me what I have discovered to be the tireless middle/low class American dream: go to school, get a good job, buy a house, start a family. Ahh indeed this advice is so appropriately linked to the grand scheme: the American design for living: create an individual, program that individual through institutionalized mandatory education, plug the individual into the workforce, have that individual become tied to the system through contracts of debt, and then repeat the cycle over again.

As I sit on the AC Transit, my worst fears for the fate of humanity are realized in thought: people operating like machines, without an ounce of creativity or awareness, completely self consumed, behaving in accordance with their false beliefs, no spark of wisdom or intellect, just pure nonsense: individuals who are nothing more than producers and consumers, whose lives are unknowingly devoted to the care of the beast.

“There must be something more”, I tell myself. Those spoken words are a reassuring wave of comfort, a hand that pulls me from the grave within which I have been resting. What is that something more? I have nearly exhausted all possible hypotheses through an extensive experiment of trial and error. I believed once that engaging in a revolt against the system to which I belonged was the road to enlightenment. It wasn’t. Many hours spent alone within the confines of a cell, and a white padded cubicle, and an institution designed for the treatment of mental disease are the societal consequences of my rebellious behavior. However degrading, lonely, spiritually devastating these real experiences proved to be, they are perhaps to what I owe my relentless inquiry into the nature of existence. Having been stripped of ‘freedom’, self-will, and all material possessions in those isolated instances of incarceration and institutionalization, I had only myself and my thoughts. For some, this would have led to an endless rampage of anger and thus further civil intervention. For others it would have meant a permanent installation of irrevocable nightmarish fear and subsequent submission to the demands of daily life. For me, it spawned a euphoric understanding of myself in relation to my environment. I survived, and was better for it.”

Of course, that which induced those divine moments of self realization was not divine in essence: I lived for a long time in a haze of alcohol induced consciousness and drug influenced interactions. Chemically altering my perceptions, I thought, would transcend me far away from the misery of modern living and down a sacred path studded with anointed truth and principles for a Zen existence. Of course, as such stories go, that path revealed itself at first as a mystical and adventurous alternative to the mundane and ordinary, but as I continued the stars began to slowly dim against an increasingly cold dark sky, and as the end drew upon me, a soft whisper of a permanent and absolute escape from it all was the only voice to be heard. No, this wasn’t it either.

Alcohol and drugs is a peculiar facet of our environment. People like getting high…but why? It is no wonder why alcohol is encouraged as a recreational outlet by the ‘beast’ and his corporate minions: it is not only taxable, but it has the incredible property of turning gloom into glee, of uniting the poor souls in song and spirit, however temporary and subtle; it is a magic wand gladly consumed to avoid facing oneself honestly and nakedly. For most its a form of reward, that the individual has successfully completed yet another work week and in accordance with the repetition of his schedule allows himself to ‘unwind and relax’ by ironically squandering his individuality, so that come Monday the reality of another workweek is made sweeter by the forbearing knowledge of the inevitable drunk weekend. Perhaps people drink and drug to destroy that internal spark of universal creativity that exists within us all but which is sadly neglected by the standards of our society, a phenomenon that causes wounds that are only temporarily mended by the use of drugs and alcohol. Maybe its to quiet that feeling of hopelessness one may experience when the spiritual void expanding in every fiber of his molecular being begins to cause him bouts of self pity and regret. Or perhaps one consumes drugs and alcohol in a self destructive protest of his sickening environment and the dying world around him, which brings him to his knees like a child crying to the man in the moon.

Whatever the reason for drink and drug may be, I had attempted to utilize these substances as tools in the desperate attempt to make sense of my existence, truly desiring a life of personal discovery, which led to the eventual painstaking abandonment of all outward expectations and of all earthly obsessions, including the abuse of poisonous consumables. The individuals who choose the path of discovery rather than the one of complacency are typically those social rejects and misfits, sometimes the perfectly lost and sensitive beings who decide consciously or unconsciously to devote their lives to the search of truth in spite of western societal standards of success and growth, that they may discover happiness in its most pure and basic incarnation in a realm of colorful creativity.

And so I stand on this waterfront, appalled at the catastrophic amount of plastic reminders strewn before me, reminders of the millions of people forever committed to vacant patterns of existence, reminders of the degradation of the human spirit which wanders the elaborate highways of the modern era, and reminders of all that is damaged and lost in the preservation of the American dream.

And in this bath of sadness and helplessness I soak, allowing the muddy waters to coat the vibrancy inherent in every man and woman who believes even for a moment that he can change the fate of humanity. Change the fate of humanity…and it is on this strand of thought that perhaps one of life’s most valuable teaching’s can be learned, simply and honestly: perhaps our society has become so incredibly obsessed with the material, so deeply misguided from the natural and harmonious design for living created by forces much greater than the wealthiest man. Even though we live in a place in time where productivity is valued over creativity, where the individual in order to achieve individuality must deny the sugar coated fruits born of the American ideologies and forever filter all that passes through his senses, even though a walk through a crowded metropolitan street reeks of foul odors and toxic waste, an odorous ode to the industrial empire, even so…the individual nonetheless retains within him that special aspect of his being which connects him to his natural world. It is this special aspect that allows the individual to form entirely unique relationships with all else that lives and breathes around him. We invite animals of differing types as members of our family, we are fascinated at the wildlife at the zoo, we attend to gardens and landscapes, and we quiet our mouths and our minds as a bird soars majestically over our heads. However, the most undeniable display of the sacred characteristic of every human being is an honest desire to escape the static chaos of modern societal rituals and find a place where the pace is as gradual as the rising of the sun and where no evidence of human settlement seems invading or disruptive to the balance which bleeds a soft melody into the eyes and ears of those spiritually awakened to the point of experience. A warm candlelit bath, a walk on the delicate sand illuminated by the reflection of the moon dancing on the water, scaling the cliffside of a magnificent mountain, quiet conversation beneath the grandeur of a twinkling sky: all activities that the individual, in an effort to name the energy vibrating through the channels of his body whilst engaging, might call heaven.

This particular connect between the individual and the external is ever so important in these modern times of environmental and moral need. Indeed, a mass revolution is unlikely to headline the evening news, and the American beast is ever too healthy to retire. However, the persistent efforts of selfless advocates and activists, committed individuals and ordinary comrades who have not their own interest at heart, but that of the collective greater good, are what bring the issues of global distress out from the archives and into the mainstream flow of information exchange, sparking the births of many organized coalitions directed at education and positive progressive change.  Acting with the knowledge of the history of real forces which have driven the modern state to these devastating circumstances, or simply acting in harmony with the basic laws of existence, these individuals offer aid when and where needed without any expectation of monetary or verbal praise or profit.  Truly we have entered a period in this chapter of our current existence characterized by tones of global awareness and an undeniable need for change. Even those who prowl the avenues at dusk in name brand shoes and electronic jewelry are not blind to the armies of sidewalk trash they must conquer in order to reach their destination, and now a day at the beach seems more accurately described as a visit to the museum of the byproducts of American imperialism, featuring the sea life graveyard and the exhibit of poisonous plastic products, sponsored in part by corporate expansion and funded by a history of neglect and ignorance. The finest technology and most recent scientific discoveries may not be able to reverse the effects of global pollution, specifically the problem of plastic, and American Big Business seems to have no primary interest in yielding their waste production in favor of typically more expensive but earth friendly alternatives. But not all hope is lost, as people begin to emerge from their cocoons dressed as warriors and voiced like true leaders, intent upon ending the cycle of negligence and passivism once and for all.

And it is here where the muddy waters of the bath of pitiful indulgence are washed away, and the vibrancy and enthusiasm is returned, as I take a moment to watch the girl, a garbage picker in one hand and a pail in the other, the tan of her skin glowing through the holes in her denim overalls, the youthfulness of her face barely visible beneath the bill of her ball cap, first picking up one piece of garbage ,and then another, a beautiful representation of the human potential to make a difference in one small corner of the world. I too bend my spine so that hands may greet the earth, and rid this beachfront of at first one piece of plastic, and I realize that change truly is possible however insignificant it may seem; it begins with the simple action manufactured on behalf of the ever so popular dream of a clean inhabitable earth, a dream in which every human operates under the philosophy that we should pay retribution to the universe that spawned us all.

I was his lost little treasure, completely submissive and willing. I would wait for him in places bustling with sounds of laughter and life, bathed in the light of the moon, wondering when he was going to approach, and for how long he had been watching from the disguise of shade and shadow. And when he would appear and violate the boundaries of clothing draped over my virgin skin, his creeping touch like gentle intrusions, I would quiver and hear nothing over the thundering of my own heart.

It was a strange union of man and woman, or maybe not as strange as it was strangely comfortable. It seemed familiar from the beginning; that I was carefree in his wrath of power, that I had nothing to be but to be his, to belong to him in every way, a beautiful and precious object of his every desire. An object, yes; but an object to be protected and coveted, to be taught and disciplined, valued and loved.

It feels natural when we are together; I feel strangely empowered by having been stripped of power; that my most instinctual desires are realized as I practice acceptance of what I truly am; a woman, a receiver of man, a weaker creation in need of a guardian. No longer do I feel the need to challenge authority, or fight in an attempt to match his masculine strength. I am not plagued with feminist ideals of equality and sexuality because I cannot deny his inherent dominance, which extends beyond the realm of choice, but is within the boundaries of admission. The intuitive cravings of human nature are fed on behalf of such self sacrifice, and suddenly the fluidity of red wine bears a striking resemblance to the consistency of blood, and I am secretly ravenous and raging with a need to survive my primordial essence, as all impediments placed upon me by the demands of civilized norms vanishes in light of him. I am on my knees before him, even as I stand a mortal witness amidst the grave circumstance in the kitchen of this establishment, my eyes gleaming as I subconsciously experience the suppressed fantasies of my feminine soul; guide me, Jude, and I will forever be yours.

And as his statuesque presence absolves even the slightest fragments of my insecurities, I am at peace. Although his calm is like a threatening mist forewarning of erotically demanding acts of ultimate surrender to come, I know that it is from all else that I possess fear, and so long as I maintain my position beneath the rule of his autocratic sanctuary, I will live an eternity as a blissful servant to the virtues of this remarkable man. He has my heart so long as I possess the strength to lower my eyes in recognition of his role as master in my so called life.

His ambitious nature is manifested aggressively within the context of the bedroom, in which I am happily his with whom to experiment and pleasurably abuse. It is freeing; no harm would ever come to me, nothing could ever be taken from me, as to Jude, I have already willingly offered myself unconditionally. It was a matter of compliance to that oath I had already agreed to obey; I was never to be a victim of anyone again.

And with this simple acceptance of powerlessness comes great relief and inevitable gratitude. Only when I have acknowledged that I no longer possess power of control can I be free to express my creative capacities. I feel safe enough within the boundaries of my relationship with Jude to venture through life as a fiercely brave child of the world, and learn all that I may in an attempt to strengthen my heart and fulfill my potentials; luxuries afforded for me by simply saying ‘yes’ to the man who made a grand proposition. “Give me control”, he said assertively, “and I shall show you happiness”.

We left the restaurant that night and navigated the solitude of the streets of Denver on a warm August night. My hand in his, he said nothing as we journeyed from someplace public to the lonely space of his sixth floor apartment. He didn’t know this, but even as he subtly guided my movements throughout the evening in such a way as to have me almost naked before him now, I felt cuddled; the warmth of the summer air lingered upon my skin and was complimented by the tender way in which he cared for me, despite his seemingly distant and cold manner. I truly admired this man, and there wasn’t anything that would keep me from believing in our untraditional affair of love conquers all standards of gender equivalence.

“Darling, you know I would never keep you waiting, and I would sooner die than cross you”, I said shyly, as I purposefully teased him in the slow removal of my undergarments.

“Good girl”, he responded in a soft whisper, and he held his gaze sternly for a moment, and then turned and walked away, leaving me safe but alone in the confines of his personal space, to wonder about what adventure we would the two of us next engage.

In the modern black and white display of furniture and art in his lavish abode, I succumbed to fatigue and lay down to rest upon the bed. I could vaguely hear sounds echoing throughout the barren halls of his bachelor kingdom; first the soothing tones of an unknown elixir filling a crystal glass, and then the deep rumble of steps as he made his way from kitchen to couch. The television began to echo sounds of late night programming, and I closed my eyes as I accepted the invitation to retire from service for the remainder of the evening.

I awoke easily to find myself in his arms; his pale skin clashing with the golden tones of mine; the soft light from the candles in the bathroom displayed the two of us entwined in the midnight atmosphere. Without moving my head I raised my eyes to meet his and understood that which was never spoken; he held me firmly and as I began to tremble and coward before his growing presence, he reached to cradle my chin so that it was impossible for me to turn away. His lips boldly met mine, and in a moment it seemed as though all the life had been taken from me and replaced by some alien energy which was stimulating and exciting, the both of us becoming heated with passion and anticipation. He rose upwards in a consistent poetic motion, moving beyond the bedroom and into the vanity bathroom, where a warm bath laced with the fragrant scent of freshly soaked rose petals awaited. I obediently followed behind him and entered the pool of water to meet him in a romantic scene of fairytale essence. As I slid my back against the porcelain bearing of the tub, he took a seat in front of me so that his back was pressed against my tender breasts, and I expressed my love and adoration for Jude with every sweeping stroke of my fingertips, which caressed the moist skin of his bare backside. I was his, and his for whom to care, and I cared for him now while he melted into me, his larger than life appeal fading blissfully into a beautiful display of innocent compassion. “Thank you”, he said. I always remembered those two words of gratitude he had confessed to me that evening, and recalled the importance of that simple declaration whenever I began to question the philosophies which survived our relationship. Like slave and master we were, but in the most harmonious way, the pair of us deeply understanding that the one could not survive without the other, and because of that fact, a nurturing attitude developed and was always adhered and forever recognized in the most intimate of moments. In response I had said nothing, but bent forwards to kiss the sweet drops of bath water from his neck. In the silky residue of lavender oil lingering in swirls around us I had written the words “I love you” with the tip of my forefinger, though they were hardly visible except in my mind. I wanted him to know, but I didn’t wish to disturb the nature of our togetherness. I thought it was better that I could feel and express such fondness obscurely, knowing that the words would soon dissipate into the lagoon of sexual perfection we had created.

Emerging from the bath we then engaged in a visceral performance, physically displaying raw emotion as we danced to the sounds of pleasure moans and melodious breathing. At times his body swallowed mine, and I disappeared beneath his massive frame though comfortably experiencing a plethora of orgasmic energies. At times his hand was wrapped around my neck, a form of intimacy which was symbolic of my lesser position within the realm of our sexual ideal; I was at his mercy, and it was from the deepest bond of trust that he was able to perform such an act, though I was well aware that at any moment he could suffocate the very life from me. The commitment we had made to one another accounted for this solemn covenant of absolute faith in our partnership; I was to surrender myself before him and allow him to lead me into a world unknown. Just as a vampire takes his victim gently from the sphere of life into the realm of the dead, Jude took me from a woman of stature and poise to the one before him now, helpless and subdued under the firm grasp of his muscular arms. I was able to transcend all mortal thoughts as I allowed myself to be swept away into the placid calm of sensual divinity. When he was satisfied he collapsed besides me, and we once again found ourselves interlaced amongst the tangled sheets of his bed. I fell asleep that evening content, with a smile on my flushed face.

The next morning I awoke to find myself alone with penetrating rays of morning light, the scent of fresh brewed coffee permeating the air of his apartment. It was eight am, and Jude was in his office conducting business of sorts; in what avenue of affairs I never bothered to know; it was of little use for me to understand the nature of his work related interactions. I had adopted the habit of squandering any inclination which would possess me to verbally inquire of what we were going to be experiencing that day, where we would be going, and how I should dress for the occasion. Jude always guided me in choosing the only decision; all that was needed from my end was quiet compliance. I wrapped a robe around my naked body and wandered into the kitchen. I prepared a cup of coffee for Jude and served it to him in his office, after hesitating at the door, waiting for permission to advance. He reached his hand up the length of my dress and fondled me for a brief moment, then refocused his attention onto the screen of the computer console. I departed so as to begin my daily duties, which included fixing the bed in which we had made love only hours before. When I had finished with the chores, I sought personal refuge in the seclusion of the bathroom. Alone, I dropped the robe and examined myself in the mirror, noticing the faint hints of violet and blue coloring the length of my neck, a territorial indication of my belonging to Jude. A smile escaped the corner of my mouth; the presence of the bruises filled me with intense pride; the temporary swellings were indicative of the eccentric duo in which I belonged, and I wanted them to be a part of my wardrobe as much as Jude wanted his painful manifestation of dominance visible.

As I stood before the mirror, the bathroom door opened and Jude entered behind me. I wasn’t startled, nor did I turn around in acknowledgement of his sudden appearance. He approached and looked at me from our reflection in the glass, noticing that which had me radiating with excitement.

“I own you”, he said, as he caressed the contusions just beneath the curve of my ear. He slipped by me and undressed, entering the shower. I stood undisturbed, until the opening of the shower door interrupted the serenity of my thoughts. It was an invitation to join him in the rain of fresh water, and I obediently slipped in through the crack, and we laughed together at things irrelevant and silly as we cleansed ourselves of our soils and sins.

To Be Continued….

(From ‘Love and Furlough’)

When driving our vehicles, there is no greater crime committed against us than being cut off. It makes us feel as though we are invisible, as if a physical impediment is placed upon our right to progress; our right of way. Some of us become hostile, activating the annoying voice of our car horns to profess to the other driver the act of injustice which has been so wrongfully accomplished. Some of us seek revenge, operating our machines in an aggressive manner so as to make the original prosecutor feel threatened. And some of us shrink within the walls of our mobile cage, silently cursing the offender, but offering to let the matter slide easily into that deep abyss of our minds, joining other decayed memories rotting in the coffin entitled ‘awkward confrontations with assholes’.

There is no standard protocol dictating reactionary measures for traffic incidents of this sort. But I think we can all agree that being victimized in a classic case of roadway cut-off is an overall unpleasant experience.

In fact, we are taught the social importance of respecting personal space as our very first lessons in school. Standing in line for chocolate milk, all the little tykes are encouraged to practice discipline and patience, and are rewarded with gold stars for good behavior. This medieval practice of praising positive behavior by offering positive feedback educates little people about the significance of adhering to this social convention, and also teaches children to acknowledge the presence of their fellow little friends. In other words, we as children are taught that if you cut in line, play time will be cut in half.

As an adult, the conversational equivalent of cutting in the chocolate milk line is being cut off mid-speech. And, like the vehicular version of interruption, it is a serious violation of the principles under which every individual operates, that sacred code which says that every person be granted the freedom of expression and progression, and that that freedom be unrestricted and honored.

Nobody likes the playground bully, and the over aggressive drivers on the road are as equally unpopular. The habitual interrupter takes a seat amongst these social rebels, having in common that one characteristic which binds them: impudence. Once a man comes between a woman and her train of thought, the relationship is soured.  Bachelor blue eyes was funny, smart, and had a decent set of morals, but he came between me and my train of thought, and instead of continuing where I left off, I candidly said my peremptory goodbyes. After all, it takes courage to volunteer conversation on a date with someone with whom the potential of a future together is entertained. So ladies: be cautioned, be assertive, and unafraid; if you find yourself consistently cut off, stand up for your right of way, and move in another direction.