Making A Life or Making A Living

So I’m attempting to educate myself on the Non-Profit Industrial Complex (NPIC), since I seem to have a job that eats my soul and at the same time keeps me connected to what’s important in this world. 

When I got to my job, I was inspired by the supportive activist environment, the commitment to learning and expanding an analysis of the world, and the opportunities I was afforded in being connected with radical thinkers and big hearted community organizers.  While this spirit and memory still lives with me in my work, I am finding it harder to sustain my work (and sanity unfortunately) because I am responsible for keeping this spirit alive.  Any being an individual trying to keep a collective consciousness vivid – is a challenge.

And lately, as economic crises come 5 a week, I am wondering how out of touch with my instincts I am.  I am wrapped in the drama – of my accountability to the communities I am serving as a “professional”, to the funding game I have to play that prioritizes everyon’e opinons but mine, and grappling with feeling underappreciated for all my hard work and egotistical for wanting/needed to feel appreciated.  Damn!

So how do you make a living from social justice work and still hold high standards for civic involvement outside of the 60-hour work week?  I hope I am moving closer to that balance…

Long Walk

So I was browsing through my journal and found a poem, an actual POEM, that I forgot existed.  I figured it’s more real than a lot of the drama I mull over in this blog.  So here goes:

You were critiquing the fake-ness of our world, so I wanted to offer you something real.

Only,  I couldn’t find anything real to give you.

You opened your mouth, and your words warmed my heart.  On that walk of destiny.

A path I had been on so many times before without paying attention

But your words demanded my respect.

Not because you are acclaimed by academia,

Not because you’re a ghetto superstar,

Not because you’re fine – and it’s late night.

But because your words articulated years of my frustrated and tongue-tied sighs.

They simply captured the complexities of me.

I didn’t have to choose who I wanted to be.  Who I wanted you to meet.

Didn’t wonder if I wasn’t black enough.  Or masculine enough.

I feared your judgement because you understood me.  You exposed all my chaos.

Falling in love with a conversation.

That rush of dopamine you get from the excitement of finding a kindred spirit.

It was a rare moment.  To get out of my own way and ignore the neurosis.

Calmed by just being with you.

I didn’t understand how being a Black Queer Man could be a revlutionary act until I met you

And I felt joy, and wonder, and harmony, and potential.

Two unique souls bound by a common thread.

Seamless in our navigation through comical man made boxes.

Transcending our titles

No need to explain, justify, defend, adapt.

Had we walked under the stars any sooner I might not have been ready.

Nascent yet optimistic  in the art of self love,

Only recently having committed to valuing myself like I deserve,

It felt fresh to love you  for who you are

And just to walk.

Macro vs. Micro

So it’s been a while since I wrote anything, and I apologize to both of my fervent readers.   I am inclined to think that my not writing is a good sign.  I have been trying to live life more than just analyze it – and apparently it’s keeping my ass busy! But what’s been underlying my thoughts a lot lately is how to separate a bad day from a bad mood.   How to separate the bullshit of people in the moment, from my overall love of people.  How to be constantly vigilant of the inequalities inherent in our daily lives, and still be able to find joy and laughter in moments.  Is it possible?  I think so.

I am for the most part a positive, optimistic,  and understanding person.  But sometimes I get so steeped in moods that it turns the situations around me miserable.  I think it’s fine to have some of both, but I am attempting to remain more centered.  Apparently I haven’t found yoga or pilates yet.  And don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to be any kind of neo spiritual hippie.   But I have noticed my potential for healing and enlightenment.  And it comes to me through others.

I know we’re all interconnected, but there is something to be said for projecting onto others.   I just used to think that projection was a negative thing.  And while it definitely can cause its fair share of drama – projecting works equally as well in the positive realm.  I’m in at least 3 situations I do not have any immediate escape from.  And I refuse to play the victim, because I choose to remain in those situations.  My job.  My relationship.  My family.  Three parts of me that are critical to my identity – but don’t make me who I am.   Things lately have not been easy, but they have definitely been rewarding.  And instead of being positive with people when I’m happy and sour with people when I’m feeling down – I am trying to invest in all my loved ones no matter what; but without expectations and within realistic boundaries for myself.

It’s a challenge, because sometimes you want to go all out for people.  But other times you want shit to do with them.  This is an unhealthy balance, because no matter what situation or mindset you’re in – there is always someone who can either open a window of opportunity and someone who can drag you down.  And both exist all the time, everywhere.  Mostly because they are in their own situations and mindsets when they encounter you.   And you might be one of those two people for them.  So I am trying to be the “opportunity guy”.   This is easy when I’m in a positive mood, but it’s healing when I’m in a negative mood.  And now that I’ve found that out, I’m obligated to live it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still a sarcastic and selfish asshole.  But it’s a lot more in check that it used to be.   This is how it works:  everytime I feel in a sour mood, or would like a little support – i send out a message to friends or loved ones giving them the support I need.  It might sound backwards, but it works.   For example, if I am feeling insecure about work – dumb and incapable – i would give some shot outs to friends that praise their brilliance, and remind them that they are destined for greatness.    It might seem simple, but the impact of transforming your thinking from one of need to one of giving has some powerful effects.  It doesn’t make payday come sooner, or your partner magically understand your point of view – but it builds the support base you need to get through truly tough times.

This is a groundbreaking concept for me; someone who used to have tons of names in his cell phone, but no one he felt he could call when times were tough.  Either because I never bothered to keep up with folks, or because I was afraid that the only time we spoke was when I had a problem.  Or even worse – because I would avoid people I thought were needy and would only want advice or support (talk about projecting?).   But lately,  and with the help of being a Sagittarius trapped in monogamy, I have come to realize the value of investing in friendships.  I have disproven my own hypothesis:  being selfless with friends does not drain you of the energy you need to take care of yourself.  Giving always gives back to you – and exponentially.

And having a friend base is what makes it possible to accept the Macros of life without sacrificing the joy of our Micros.  I am a Black, Gay man and racism and homophobia aren’t going anywhere.   But I can still embrace my sexuality and ethnicity on a daily basis and find beauty in the struggle.  I am figuring out the Non Profit Industrial Complex, and bound by funding dilemnas and beauracracies – but I can still enjoy the successes of work and learn what I need to know to have a lasting impact.

I realize now that these contradictions are necessary.  I can’t put my friends, my family, or my life on hold until that day when I have worked hard enough to eliminate my mountains.  My mountains aren’t going away.  But I can give selflessly and genuinely of myself as I climb that mountain.  And I can help others climing similar mountains clear a path of their own.

CQ vs. The Gym

I don’t want to be too witty and self-revealing here, because my main goal is to use this writing to catch my lazy ass.   And I don’t want this to be a self-pitying “I’m fat” type of thing, either.  I just really need to get my ass to the gym for real.  Not because I want to look good in a swimsuit this summer – okay I definitely want to look good in a swimsuit this summer – but that’s not why I have to go to the gym.  Nor is it because I think the world is ending soon and I want to look good when it does.  Or because I’m creeping up on 28 and a high school 10 year reunion this season.   I don’t have to go to the gym because you can see the pounds of “I live with my boyfriend” flab, or because I can feel my shirts fitting tightly (and not in a good way).  I simply need to go to the gym so I won’t shoot anyone.  That’s not so bad.

When life is like a pressure cooker, physical release is good.  And I masturbate way too much as it is.  I’ve tried a few new routes this year so far with moderate success:  Balboa swing class was decent.  Snowboarding has been fun, but my tailbone is happy it only lasts a season. Until some major dance gets underway I need some physical outlets, and I’ve already exhausted the list of reasons why.

So I’m just gonna have to get off my ass and do it.  And as the days, and the weeks, and the months pass by I can look at this post to remind me.  Or maybe it will make me avoid my computer and the internet altogether?  Either way,putting it into words will bring something about…

Peter Pan

Apparently growing up means saying yes to shit because it will give you the inside shit that will help you succeed in your current shit where it seems like you just can’t get your shit together.  Shit.

2009 has been triumphant so far, and it’s only the beginning of February.  I’m in need of a formal and extended vacation.  But at the same time, I guess it’s exciting to face new responsibilities and challenges, because my boredom was causing me to make some bad choices.

But developing new programs?  Applying for hefty volunteer posts in local politics and activism, and managing to not only hold on to – but blossom – in the first relationship I’ve decided to take seriously?  Who is this wonder-prick?

I am trying to harness my energy in positive directions.  I was just so used to being optimistic out of despair, poverty, and cynicism – that I forgot to have faith in what I fantasized about.  Apparently. when you put a little faith into fantasies they turn into attainable goals and dreams.

A good friend of mine taught me the beauty of affirmations.  I just never internalized the lesson until put in the pressure cooker, determined to make diamonds.    In the face of increased work loads without increased pay, the conflicts of having to love my family, and the internal brain vs. libido fight -  I have managed to dance more than ever before, take up snowboarding, and start my application processes for graduate school.  Maybe I’m Obama-ized.  I just think I am tired of longing for the things I want as I sit full of potential.   It’s go time.

Unfortunately as you show initiative and drive, more responsibilities come your way.  But I’m okay with living hard – as long as I play hard too.  So I’ll take those swing classes with my boyfriend, and go to church despite the homophobia, and make the effort of commuting to salvage relationships with my family.    It’s a different feeling to engage with life rather than comment on it as it passes you by.    And it’s unfair to have an analysis of this world, to really appreciate its beauties and suffer through its tragedies – and not contribute what you can to it.    I’ve spent too much time in awe of go-getters, watching quietly from the sidelines with better ideas and more compassion.   If what makes me shine is helping those around me shine – then it’s all of our time to shine.

Hippie?  Or Revolutionary?  Either is better than lazy stoner.

A Picture vs. 1,000 Words

So I feel bad for not closing out the 2008 with some witty blog post about life.  God knows I had a lot of material.  But two things happened.  First of all, I decided to start saving the Emo stuff for my personal journal (you’re welcome).  And secondly, Greg got me a camera for my birthday – and I am obsessed with not sucking at taking pictures (which for some reason, I do).

But how dare I leave you, my imaginary blog reader, out in the cold?  With no insight as to how I spend my mediocre days?  For shame.  So here are a few of my recent attempts at the depths of photo journalism…

So why the obsession with photographs?  Probably because Greg is practically a pro – with his super human lens, ultimate camera, and middle of nowhere upbringing.   Now everything feels like a competition.  Running the lake? Let me grab the camera.  Going out to dinner?  Let me grab the camera.  BART commute to work?  Not without my camera!  Even though it’s bright green, and I have to replace the batteries every few days, this camera makes me feel like a somebody…or at least a cool tourist.

I’m just not so sure I’m enjoying my gift as much as I’m trying to earn my boyfriend’s approval with it.  But then again, his other gift to me was the chef’s companion for the kitchen.  So I guess I have to spend a little bit of time stressing about my cooking skills, too.

Double Your Standards, Double Your Fun

I believe at this point, I have already admitted at least a dozen times that I am not good at relationships.  Not just the romantic kind either.  Family, friendships, acquaintances – you name it.   So I am not sure whose bright idea it was to move in with my boyfriend.  And I don’t know whose bright idea it was to make him agree to it.

Don’t get me wrong, things could be a lot worse.  Overall, we are both genuinely caring and considerate – necessary traits for two strong willed peeps to share a small one bedroom apartment.   But what I never planned on was discovering what a petty and random bitch I can be.   And how like no one else, I can put the ASS in passive aggressive.   All those little things that you never have the chance to notice when you’re living in your own worlds – how much time you chat online, how often you don’t do laundry, where cum towels go, how smelly bad bowel movements are – are now in your daily realm.  And both of you learn just what you signed up for.  What have I learned?

I am now pissed off when I go into my kitchen.  Not because it’s messy, but because a greater chef has things in it I’m not sure how to use or pronounce.  I beam about my ability to cook and be a healthy bachelor – but now I’m the fast food and lazy minded of a pair.  My turkey burgers and stir fry dishes do not compare to the red curry shrimp or the breakfast quiches.  I used to secretly admire that at least I had more book smarts than my boyfriend, but realized recently that it depends on the type of book you’re referring to.  The amount of cookbooks that now occupy the newly bought extra target super shelf for kitchen related things is intimidating.  I opened one supposedly written by Pam Anderson (until now I did not consider that a common name), to find no hillarious pictures of clevage inbetween glazed cornish hens; but smal type text with recipe after confusing recipe.

When I gave him the card key LONG before he moved in, I felt proud for taking a step.  Now I regret it because every time we approach the door I pull out my old fashioned key only to be outraced by the swipe of his wallet where the key is strategically placed.   Take the card key back, you say?  I don’t mind having a key type key – I just like opening my door.

A friend came over the other evening, and noticed how clean my place looked.  Her surprise saddened me, as I now had to face the fact that I am a relative slob.  Now that I have started to pay attention, my boyfriend has risen the bar on chipping in.   This is a lazy person’s nightmare.  I used to think I ran a pretty tight or at least snug ship.  But now I can see that I ran a loose ship.  Not even a ship, an inflatable summer vacation toy boat.   Now there is a vacuum in the house, always a dish being cooked in and cleaned, new cabinets for stoner organizing tasks that last for hours, and at least bi weekly runs to the garbage and recycling area.

I know I should stop my bitching and appreciate the upgrade in living, but my ego and independence are taking a hit.  I’ve always been able to be loving, compassionate, uplifting, honest, patient, and all that jazz.  But one thing I seem to be allergic to is selflessness.

I am an adventurer, a roamer, a free spirit.   But I am also vulnerable, lonely, and hardening.  I am trying a different take on relationships – one where I don’t run all the time and start integrating my life more.  Practicing being the same me with my family as I am with my man as I am at my work.  But it’s hard to unsplit your personality.  It’s like I rented an apartment but am still staying in the closet, unsure of what to do with this newfound freedom.  So I search for the freedom that I’m used to – casual sex, secrets, drugs, and denial. Not that all of that’s bad, but I can feel myself slipping away.  And this step of moving in together, my latest in a series of jabs at maturing and letting someone in – really in, keeps throwing everything I’ve let myself become back in my face.

So the Sagitarrius in me rebels – longing for the freedom it knew.  And I take it out on the poor one bedroom apartment and the hubby.   Mad at how long he spends online – more because he makes friends in chat as opposed to my just looking for sex.  Pissed that he pushes me to go to the gym, when really I want it.   Upset that a healthy and creative dinner is prepared when i get home from work, because i wanted to cook and complain about it instead.   I get bitter about all the crazy and wild encounters I’m missing, when the best sex partner I’ve ever had is living under the same roof.

Somehow the walls are closing in on me, but I know this is just a stubborn and scared reaction to a whole new world of freedoms opening themselves to me.  We just have to get a bigger apartment.

Couch Potato

So I’m not sure if it’s the self medication, the abundance of stress, the boyfriend move in, but I can’t seem to get off this couch for the life of me.   You don’t understand how ridiculous this really is.  The amount of time I spend daydreaming about life while I ride BART all over the Bay Area for work.  How I come home and want so bad just to let loose.  But I open a beer.  I pack a bowl.  I put on a DVD.  And I plop.  And I remain plopped until it’s time to daydream on BART again.

I think I might be in a co-dependent relationship wih my couch.  And this i not a comfortable couch.   I got this couch on craigslist in 2005 from some hillbilly in Santa Rosa when I moved into my overpriced fancy apartment with my equally broke roommate.   We were excited to have a couch – until we remembered that we were two meaty people.   We would sit and it would not be a welcoming, gentle plunge into a supple and supporting interior.  You would fall fast until your body hit a board that would support you.  Then you would sink in slightly – a sensation you could mistake for comfort, but that was really the couch’s way of trapping your lazy ass enough to ensure a failed escape.

So when you consider the disdain I have for this $20, stained plaid, oversize couch covered heap – why did I move it with me?  And better yet, why has it survived the last 2 years unscathed?  Perhaps because I can stand on the sturdy armrests and stretch and perform Cirque de So Gay.  Perhaps because it puts the style back in doggystyle.  Maybe even because my spine has already caved to its shape.   Either way, I wash my oversized couch cover religiously, tuck in the excess fat folds, and plop two hearty pillows on top of it and beam with pride.  As long as I don’t get into any fights with my boyfriend and have to spend the night on it I should be okay.

funny stuff is too hard!

So here I am, ripe to write because I’m in one of those Emo moods. You know the moods, where you feel all witty and cliche and like the world needs to benefit from the beauty of your home-brewed sorrow and shit. Why is it that whenever I’m in these spaces I have urges to write more, but I can never get the fun stuff down onto paper?

I’m reading David Sedaris’ “When You’re Engulfed in Flames”. And while it’s hilarious, I think to myself, “I can write funnier stories than that”. I mean, with all the crazies I know, the situations I find myself in at work, my sloppy attempts at a relationship, and my unique brand of neurosis – there is a lot of ammo for a good story. But I only seem to pick up the pen (or the laptop) when I’m sulking. Boo.

I’m sorry that you have to take my word for it that I’m a funny person, I really am, but funny people are often lazy. And I don’t wanna blame it on pot or on the fact that I’m overworked and stretched too thin – but then I don’t have any other excuses, so those will have to work for now. But if I wasn’t a pothead or overworked, here are a few of the moments i would have captured for my increasingly depressing blog:

The “Male Erotic Massage” class the boy and I took. This could have been advertised more accurately as “Middle Aged Women talking about Cocks”. The BF and I were the only males there – and consequently, the only ones who chortled every time the teacher (a middle aged women with a retainer. A retainer!) would tell us how these moves had been tested all over America. After learning the 8 basic strokes and 8 “intense” strokes – he and I were convinced that there was a whole market here we could break into for money. I have a few strokes of my own that have been tried all over America. The only thing left to do is name them.

Or what about the adventures of LGBT Meditation? Whoever put this group of hippies together was really something. Unfortunately, I like the crowd and fit in. So that was a little hard to swallow. But mild Buddhism and sitting my hyper ass down in one spot for a few moments has actually been helpful, so I won’t dog the chanters that hard.

Then you have the adventures of the CQ that tried to go back to church, like maybe God had changed her mind about gay sex. Turns out you can’t tell because the church members are too busy telling you how they feel about it.

There’s even the tales of monogamy mayhem – like the weekend the BF went away, and I spent every waking moment cyber-flirting, feeling guilty about it, jacking off, getting high, and repeating the process. By the time he got home and sex was actually going to happen – my dick wouldn’t work for the life of me and I had rug burn on my head. I’m sure he was happy to see me, too.

There are a ton of glorious details to these stories. Details that I’m sure David Sedaris and his funny little notebook would capture, and embellish in Pulitzer worthy ways. But as for me, when the funny and ridiculous happens – I’m too busy enjoying the fact that something funny and ridiculous is happening. Two joints later, and it’s just a memory. Give it a week and it’s a scene in my subconscious from a movie I might have seen. These stories might live on in a parallel universe – one where I am not a lazy ass and might actually venture to write something down. But in this universe, they are only ammo I use to convince myself that I am funny. And I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.

Public Transportation, Private Problems

I’m a broke person. A broke person who can not afford tickets. I’m a busy person. A busy person who can not spend time writing and proving appeals. But the one day I drive my car to a BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station to park, I received two tickets. The problem was that both were unfounded. So I appealed them only to have them upheld with no explanation or justification. So as I pay the $200 worth of tickets and processing fees (icing on the cake) – I find myself furious. Mostly because that is how much I would spend on almost a month’s worth of groceries….

So I did what any pissed off and oppressed blogger would do. I sent them an e mail:

To the BART Citation and Customer Service Team,

I believe that your process for citation appeals and review is unfair and inconsiderate of your patrons. As a person who is forced to ride BART on a regular basis, I spend a great deal of my income on high priced tickets already. The one day I parked at BART and followed ill-posted signs about how to pay for parking, I received two tickets. One for expired registration (which was not actually expired – and doesn’t seem like BART’s place to assess) and one for failing to purchase a parking ticket – which I indeed did. I sent proof of both of these facts with a very considerate letter of appeal, only to receive an impersonal response stating that my citations were upheld – with no reasoning or explanation.

The fact that I must pay in order to request an appeal just points to BART’s acceptance of a policy that takes advantage of the situation and abuses its power. I do not have the time or resources to combat this, and can safely assume that is no matter for you – because BART’s monopoly ensures that I will have to continue riding BART to and from my workplace despite how negligent and unfairly I was treated.

There is no recourse for me to take, nothing to ease my mind, no customer service to value my expensive contributions to your system that took advantage of me. So I have to settle for sending an e mail that will probably be laughed at and ignored in your offices, and to pay your ridiculous fee (with additional processing charges) – in the hopes that karma gives you exactly what you deserve.

But for a young person working at a youth non profit agency surviving on crumbs, I do still cling to the fact that regardless of whether or not you want to hear my voice – it still exists.

Unwilingly yours,

Carnelius Quinn