Ignorance or Bliss?

Sometimes I wonder if it’s helpful to pay attention.  To care about the underlying needs or ideas behind people’s behavior.   All it seems to give me is grief.

I’ll admit that it’s sad to realize that I’ve gone this long without paying genuine attention to my surroundings.  But have you seen my surroundings?  You wouldn’t pay attention either.  It seems like not paying attention would get me more money, better friends, and a satisfying relationship.   It seems like not paying attention would allow me to blend in with colleagues and acheive just as much

It sucks to want to feel progressive and be surrounded by backwards-ass thinking.    I’ve been trying to read more seriously  lately, to really follow the news, to keep an informed opinion, and not stay in my tunnel.  But it seems that I’m too far ahead of the stupid people curve, but just far enough behind the iPhone brainiacs to find a home.  I can hold my own in a conversation, sure.  But it always seems like the 3 cool stats I memorize a week are never useful at the parties I’m going to.  

Am I going to the wrong parties or amd I learning the wrong facts?   From cultural awareness, to cultural competence, to cultural humility – I am trying to assert myself in the world just as I am realizing that I do not know as much as I thought I did about it.  And I think that’s the exciting part of the journey; realizing that I am on one.  It allows me to find strength and comfort in my struggle. 

But as I learn to connect the past to the present, my actions to the actions of others, my choices, my secrets, my relationships, my dedication, my follow through, my integrity, my purpose, my worth, my intentions, my people – it all makes sense.   And I realize I always knew what I know, I just didn’t know it until I wanted to learn.  Something is being shaped.  My character and presence and potential is actualizing as I learn about the world.  Because for once, I can make an educated guess about where I fit into it.   And from there I can assess what I need to do, what I want to do, and what I can envision as a future.

I just want to be able to bring empowerment out of the house with me beyond my job scope.  There was a time when people did the work that many people in the Social Service sector do for free.  But now economics and cultures of scarcity make it “less beneficial” to involve yourself in social change.  I do belive people should be rewarded for their efforts, but we are facing an uphill battle on so many fronts, that watiting is not a feasible option.  What good is that knowledge if I don’t contribute to my community and share it?   Community organizers are facilitators and support systems.  Translators and orators being stories from the past to shape the course of the future.

I can’t wait until I feel I’ve “gotten smart enough” to pay attention.    Hopefully, I’ll always be smarter tomorrow than I was yesterday.

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…

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.

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

I love you. Here’s a ring. And chlamydia

The ring in question...

Apparently there is some gruesome test one has to take to prove himself capable (and crazy) enough to be my boyfriend. My new official “boyfriend” was put to that test in the last week – again.

I finally decided to meet my partner half way – and offer monogamy. Something I have a horrible track record with, but realize that if I want to build a stable foundation with him for once – I should try. So the current shift in my thinking is on how to transform monogamy in my mind from being a trap, into being a choice. Because I can list a hundred reasons why I want an open relationship. But I can also list a hundred things our relationship gives me that no other one does. The deciding factor is that there are two hearts on the line. One that is willing to love and accept, and one that wants to see what it feels like to reciprocate.

So to honor the fact that I wanted to explore new turf and dimensions of my relationship ability, I went ring shopping. For someone who is relatively new to internet purchases, this was a HUGE deal. Not only was I being all “mature” by letting my big brain win this time, I was going to get physical proof. So i checked out the sites, decided against the cliche of a ring with a “subtle” rainbow, and settled on a pretty classy titanium ring. I got the approval from his friends – and sealed the deal with engraved initials and everything.

The next week I fluttered about – blabbing to every friend who would hear me and simultaneously trying to keep it a secret from him, regardless of how intune his suspicions were from his friends getting ring measurements for me…

When I got to work Friday, it had arrived. Me not being one to wear “bling” or to have a “man”, I was doubly juiced about life. I debated for a while whether to give the ring with some elaborate gesture in a throwback to the great romances of yester-year…but settled on something more simple. I did, after all, fear commitment. And he does, after all, desire commitment. I wanted to make sure this gesture came across as a bold and loving move on my part to demonstrate my willingness to commit to him, but not as the gesture.

Over an awesome meal of Salmon and accessories (which proves how he deserves the ring yet again, since I was too tired and pissed from work to cook), prior to our gym run – I asked how he felt about monogamy. I knew full well that he was in tune with how I felt about monogamy, but wanted to have a little fun. I told him what I had been thinking; that though I wanted an open relationship, I was considering how a couple had to build trust and respect before they felt safe enough to venture…and that was a nice side effect of monogamy. And I asked how he would feel if I chose to become monogamous until we both felt comfortable enough to try otherwise? Then I popped out the rings and let him know that was what I was choosing to do.

Dear Lord it had never been so quiet. But he stared at it and smiled and slid the ring…as far down his finger as it would go. I hadn’t planned on this glitch, since I got measurements from a friend (who I will kill coincidentally, in the near future). But there it was – my stunted gesture. I was proud at my ability to calm the panic rising inside me: was it a sign?

But then Monday came, and I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize. A number from a trick who would prove my boyfriend right about his open relationship fears. A sex partner had contracted chlamydia, and thought me and my other partners should get tested. Fuck.

Mortified that this would be our first discussion as gaylyweds, I rode the BART home in silence. I had spent the rest of my workday planning a doctor’s visit for the following morning, so I could at least look proactive and semi-responsible when I got dumped.

But he handled it extremely well. Besides a few minutes worth of “I knew it would happen”, and “that’s to be expected in an open relationship”, he hugged me and thanked me for being honest and responsible about it. I waited for more to come, but it didn’t. Really? Had we come this far as a couple? Were we finally at that plateau where we could have something like this enter our realm, and decompose it and keep on moving? Apparently.

But little did I know this first triumph would be followed by my first slap in the face that love means embracing the other person as a whole…flaws and all. What flaws? He didn’t like the ring I gave him, and told me so.

Seems random, I know. But this came up the same night as the chlamydia scandal. Before we even got to the gym. I have a habit of reading random articles online. He saw me online and was curious about the re-make policy for the ring (which can be considered great…he was eager to wear it, right?) After we had checked the policies…he asked what other rings they had. “What’s the matter?”, I asked jokingly. “You don’t like the one I got?”

Pause. Pause. Pause. “It’s not that, it’s just I don’t want to mess it up or scratch it.”

Sure.

“You can’t change your design – I got us matching ones. It was symbolic. I went through hell to choose a design.” At least I was being honest. He didn’t know how much giving him this ring had meant to me…and what it’s wrong size and ugliness to him was ding to my neurosis.

It could have stopped there, but I made a total “chick” move. And I don’t mean chick in a sexist way. I mean chick in the chick-en, just say what you mean and don’t be passive aggressive way.

(As I’m finishing on the laptop) “So, do you want to pick out another ring before I send the order?”

I wasn’t aware that you should never ask questions for which there is only one right answer. Because people won’t get it right.

Pause. Pause. Pause. “No, I -”

“It’s too late to say no.”, I interrupt. That silence was answer enough.

“I’ll keep the ring I have, because you gave it to me, and it’s special.” , he says. He apparently didn’t realize that all this sounded like to me was bullshit.

What to do? I couldn’t possibly blow up in his face about a ring when he had handled the chlamydia thing so well. I was stuck. I wanted to be mad, but this was too many events in one sitting. We had gone from newlyweds to silver anniversary in one foul swoop.

So I said nothing. And got ready for the gym (perhaps a little loudly). And worked out extra hard on different machines than he did to prove how much better I was, and sat in the sauna and sweat it out. The whole while realizing that the bigger picture was more important. He wanted a ring from me. But he was an honest person, and wanted to take advantage of the remake opportunity to get something more his style. Had I relied too much on the friends? Was I being a diva? Of course. But didn’t he know me by now?

In either case, my ring looks and fits fabulous – and I love wearing it. The Chlamydia results came back negative, and though we had to scarf down horse pill antibiotics just in case (along with full blood work for the complete STI/HIV package) – at least we’re on the same testing cycle now. I suppose I’ll order his new ring soon – and eat a slice of humble pie. At least that way when I blow up at him over the next random thing…I can feel a little bit better about it.

Bust A Move

I can’t convince me to believe in myself as an artist. But I’m surrounded by less talented people who make better money.

Over the course of my life I have used several performance verbs to describe how I spend my time: act, sing, write, dance, direct – none of them having stuck around for a career. And yet I cling desperately to my sealed university parchment – underwhelming in its thoughtlessness “BA in Sociology Drama”. I had to go through two majors – tuition and all – but apparently I was not worth the investment of two degrees; or at least one that distinguished my two specialties rather than one odd field of Social Science performance that confuses people.

And it turns out I confused so many people, myself included, that I am indeed in some odd performance and social science realm – one where benefits and salaries are never guaranteed, competition is fierce, and you’re expected to go above and beyond for less than nothing. But that’s not what grinds my gears. I am at peace with giving myself for something I believe in. I just think somewhere along the line I got stuck giving and never getting anything in return.

At work, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I’m really good at it. In love I can’t choose which side has greener grass – so I live in an eternal flux of co-dependent loneliness. I am getting better at dealing with my family, but only because I’m getting better at self medicating. And the only outlets that get me through lately are dancing, writing, and reading. But when do I have time to do that? That’s where I get pissed off. There seems to be no time in my life anymore to pursue what makes me happy.

When I work my ass to the bone, and can’t afford a $12 Capoiera Class, I have to ask – where does my money go? I was “making it” just as well when I was waiting tables at Bubba Gump’s and washing plastic for Jamba Juice. And now I’m a manager at an increasingly panicked non-profit, supervising and supporting dam near everyone, prostituting the agency for money from anyone, while trying to thrust morale and momentum into an unknown future displaying only that my hours will soon be cut.

When I come home I want to dance. Thank GOD for Carnaval – at least I got to shake my stuff in the streets. Unfortunately, the middle school girls who were a large portion of our contingent were afraid of the half naked chubby bald man with the crazy skirt, breasts bigger and hairier than theirs, and metallic body paint. Fitting how the two skinny guys whose idea it was to go “topless” flake out. So it’s me and the girls dancing. I could have drummed like the other guys…but I wanted to dance. So I did. And if nothing else, the rehearsals worked me out, and I learned the moves quick enough to help a few rhythmically-challenged girls get it together. I won’t be joining the crew for PRIDE, however, because I do not want to be stuck with the little girl crew on the day where all the hotties are naked and celebrating. I’ll have to get my dance on at the stages…

During those dance classes, and in the streets of the parade I felt so light and free. As much as I love theatre, I do not think I am a great actor. Decent writer, yes. Great scene director, for sure. Techie? Not really. My acting resume is saad, and there is not one performance space I’ve worked in that hasn’t been school-related. And that does not make me feel too cast-able.

As far as writing, now that I’m Captain Save-a-Non-Profit…I do not have as much time; or choose to rest my writing muscles outside of work. This sucks I know, as is apparent by the rusty and whiney tones of my recent blogs. I wanna write about life and all the obnoxious lessons I’m learning lately, but self medicate so much that I just wanna sleep when not living through the stress.

Then there is dance, or any opportunity someone gives me to bang a sexy drum. That seems to be when I feel most alive. Other than sex, camping, good friends and food that is.

Let’s see – if I had to break down my current dance history to pretend I had the least bit right to claim proficiency, what would that look like:

Exaltation Youth Choir. We were Kirk Franklin-esque and choreographed our concert and competition pieces. Half step team, half soul train…some moves were great, and a welcome relief from a revival sermon.

Middle School and High School Dances…I won’t pretend I was good at any of these, but I have rhythm and I tried.

Big Sister. I would always swear to hate her, but loved dancing with her when she was left to care for me…which was often. Now we’re as close as ever, and all we need is a living room and a CD player. She also gets credit for introducing me to an eclectic music taste and trying new sounds.

Musicals. If you didn’t know I was gay yet, there you go. I had to ease on down the road in ‘The Wiz’, do the funky chicken in ‘Oklahoma’, embrace an awkward waltz in ‘Street Scene’, scoot out a British line dance in ‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood’, and absorb some minimal stylistic movement and combat skills for ‘Julius Caesar’ and ‘Romeo & Juliet’. If nothing else, these experiences got me to think about connecting emotion and movement to build pictures.

Dance classes at SFSU. This is when I finally decided to try something. 2 units a semester of a physical fun class to make sure I didn’t nerd out 100%. I took two semesters of African Haitian (which showed me just how inflexible I was and began to wake my spine up). It was in African Haitian that I was introduced to drums, loas, mambos, a dance rooted in community and culture, and some sense of feeling filled. I also took a semester of Modern Jazz, which was…eh.

Loco Bloco. Awesome troupe housed in San Francisco that welcomed me into their contingent for Carnaval 2007 and 2008. It is here that I re-find drums and the dances of my ancestors which both relieve all the tensions that entrap me in my daily grind.

Hip Hop @ The White Horse. Who knew my random side job as a barback would pay off? With Thursday night Hip hop classes, and smaller clienntel – I often find myself on the dance floor grooving away my worries and being the happiest guy cleaning glasses you ever met.

So that’s the story of me and dance, and I know I want more of it. But I can’t seem to find a creative way to fit dancing into my life. Sometimes I feel stuck in my situation, but know I am choosing to fight a particular battle right now. I just want to get more aligned with my spirit, so I can sustain the fight. That’s the part of me I feel suffering, and is affecting my balance and presence in all areas of my life. I am taking baby steps, but not the stylish leaps and bounds I should be.

I really do have to find a creative and accessible way to bust a move.