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Experimenting with new mediums lately…videos will follow when youtube decides to stop acting like napster in my parent’s living room circa 1999.

Deep thoughts…

To becoming as a figment of the future in the tense of today’s tomorrow, and nevertheless, yesterday whose name I shall not mention. I am blogging today because recently, I had a revival on facebook, and I really effected the friends I had in my bubble by sharing the nature of personalization on the internet. Without hyperlinking to another page, let me hold your attention for a while. Lo que hay es como tu quires…entonces I think I may have been too generous, but I don’t give it further thought. It’s ingrained in my blood yea? Why else would I have a body like mine?!?!?! Soooooo, Cassandra!

New England Spring

The word came to me again

and I could recall those summer nights

they felt cool

we’re part of the 2k2 generation you know

we shared dreams

and scerets

danced by the moonlight

and flirted with the fire

I had to wait a single moment

as to not get lost

and remember where I was

I had to grab the little girl inside

even though no one protected her

when she was younger

we had to proceed,

and alone unto where we

had already been

we passed

till we

arrived

at destiny.

Rose-tinted.

Incenst burn,

as did the white sage,

Sometime the console flickered,

and you would wonder

how long a  relic could be preserved for.

Kudo’s to the owner,

for what to we own if you go down through the other side,

you get to Australia.

Hence upon whereafter,

I arrived at the bitter

truth of January 16, 2012

a month where we imagined

that the Spring could emerge

from the unseasonably warm weather,

and we could be reunited

with Kings and Queens

of past beings alike

and dance upon eternity

upon a Winter’s afternoon

in New England.

 

 

 

The Holiday Season

Seasons Greetings, 

I had to update my work blog, because it’s the holiday season and I have always been where I am… I have some more paintings to add to my blog. I am currently spending the majority of my days asking questions that may yield no truth or a 1,000. 

Blessed are those who appreciate what is around them. 

Amen, 

So Cassandra…

A source of inspiration…

“Buddhism teaches that the lotus flower grows in muddy water. What this means is that our supremely noble lives continue to shine even amid the harshest of life’s realities. Just like the pure white lotus flower that blooms unsoiled by the mud.

Having gone through what you have, there is pain and suffering in others’ hearts that only you can notice. Having suffered what you have, there is true love and affection that only you can find. There are definitely people out there who need you. If you give up on yourself, it is only you who will lose.

Nothing, no matter what happens, can change your inherent worth. Please have courage. Please tell yourself that you are not going to let this ordeal defeat you.

Those who have suffered the most, those who have experienced the greatest sadness, have a right to become the happiest of all. What should the purpose of our Buddhist practice be, if the most miserable could not become happy? The tears you have shed cleanse your life and make it shine.

To live with this conviction and keep moving ever forward is the spirit of Buddhism. It is also the essence of life.

You may not want to tell someone else about your pain and anguish, but I strongly recommend that you consult with someone- even just one person- whom you trust and whose confidentiality you can rely on. You should not suffer all by yourself.

The Daishonin states, “Chanting Nam-Myoho-Renge-Kyo means to enter the palace of one’s own life” (Gosho Zenshu, p.787). The precious palace of life is nothing other than the life-state of the Buddha. Even an atomic bomb cannot destroy this inner palace. Please use life’s painful experience to open up this palace of happiness within your life.”

~Daisaku Ikeda
The World Tribune, February 25, 2000

From a Whole Perspective.

I am not sure how to give a proper introduction to this blog post. Let me start with the fact that I did some testing before I got here. I once had a conversation with a dear friend of mind about no experiment being done that was not at some expense of the one administering the test. Recently I’ve been listening to the TED talks from a Professor who wrote her thesis on Vulnerability. Having a breakdown, many of her friends said, “Oooo, I wouldn’t want to be her therapist,” and I laughed out loud because I could really relate to the difficulties of finding a therapist who can match my tenacity.

This leads me to this post. I recently had a friend who sent me a blog post about a journalist who, “needed” to have sex at gunpoint to relieve her PTSD. Now, this is such a blanket statement compared to the complexities of the human mind as it processes trauma. What was her prior feeling to guns and fantasies? Was her erotic mind even taken into the picture or was the treatment just addressing her professional self as a voyeur? What was her childhood like?

I am listening to some Latin music, the lyrics are strong, and I have to be in this moment because writing about trauma can be some what of a task to me, and I must do something that grounds me in the process. If not, I get lost in the other moment and we will have to leave childhood for the experts now. It’s been a long time since I have blogged but I have given life a lot of thought and countenance.

In summation the universe, in it’s entirety, is extremely abundant at the moment we decide to live in accordance to it’s pulse, and we learn how to breathe, together.

Peace.

A Letter to You

I enjoy, but sometimes I enjoy posting other pieces of brilliant work. Here is a beautiful example…

A Letter to You
YASMIN MOGAHED
JUNE 22, 2010 12:01 AM

It’s hard to explain the freedom. It’s so deep and so real. Looking through the confusion, the empty boxes and hollow images, I saw you – Dunya. You place veil after veil over my eyes. Trying to win me, deceive me, enslave me to your lies. When the truth is you couldn’t give me even a drop of water when I stood at your door begging. I was on my knees before you, desperate for you to fill me.

What I see now is a glimpse of clarity that only the stab of perpetual disappointment could carve. And I sit here surrounded by your henchmen, your army of liars sent to keep me in chains. But I won’t be your prisoner anymore. I will no longer be that little girl lying awake at night thinking of you. I am no longer that heartbroken child wasting her tears on you. My unrequited love can no longer break me. You won’t break me. I won’t bend to your glitter and false promises. I am no longer that faithful subject standing before your false throne. My tears are no longer yours to have. And my heart is no longer your sanctuary.

You can’t live here anymore.

I’ve traveled a long way to come here. Sometimes there were deserts where all I needed was a single drop of water that you couldn’t give. Sometimes storms, where all I needed was a flicker of light to guide my path. But I asked you again and again for what you could not give. For all you have is pomp, boasting and chattel of deception. And so I found myself again and again in deserts without water, in darkness without light. But I am no longer your slave for there was a man who came to liberate me from this. A man who came to liberate me from this slavery to the slave, and bring me to the slavery of the Lord of the slave.

http://www.suhaibwebb.com/personaldvlpt/purification-heart/a-letter-to-you/

Since the Yankees haven’t gotten it together, I figure I would write a blog post.

I am listening to – I absolutely love this song, and it put me in the mood to post.

Recently, I have had mixed feelings about blogging. Some bloggers have asked me to blog for free when I can see by their website there a fully functioning operation company and will just in turn exposed me to their “target market,” …

I don’t need a corporate intermediary in the way of getting to know people my age, thank you very much.

I am also waiting for the Yankee to post a World Series.

<3

A body in pain.

How does one grieve?
How can we measure the moments lost in one person’s life?

I thought of this question and it had come up many times in my time spent with friends, family, and passerbys…and there was never a concrete result, just a bunch of ideas bouncing off of each other.

3 months of Stepping into the UNKNOWN
.by Nicole McManus on Tuesday, April 19, 2011 at 11:52pm.

Going to college was not discussed.

It was not expected.

No one had ever been in my family.

I secretly didn’t like to read either.

When people say what kind of family do you come from??

I say a hard working family of independent women.

Over the past 3 months, I have been soul searching, looking for my identity.

My grandpa was a milk man, he took after his father.

My grandpa says people loved the milk man. He remembers peddling milk with his father.

I asked, “what does peddling milk mean exactly, I’m trying to get a visual?

Is it like a Fed Ex truck?”

My grandma said, “yes..”

It was only after a few minutes that I realized that there was a horse and buggy involved..

Are you kidding me?????!

My grandpa loved these days. He was his fathers helper.

My grandma says, “the horse knew the route.”

She said, “On New Years Eve my great grandpa would have one too many and the horse would bring him home. Everyone would invite him in for a drink to celebrate the end of the year.”

My grandma retired working from the government as a legal secretary and raised 3 kids.

When my dad was born, they gave my grandpa the option to keep my dad or my grandma during the delivery.

I am not sure what he choose..They booth survived.

My grandma and grandpa worked very hard on fixing up the house in East Syracuse that had an outhouse.. they installed a bathroom. They settled in Plainville where they have been for 51 years.

At grandmas the house door is always open. All are welcome. There is always a home cooked meal.

My dad was a custodian-supervisor. My mom was a bus driver and union president.

I remember my mom telling coach Blinstrub she could see me as a CEO in a Board room.

(Back then, I didn’t know what a CEO was, and I don’t even think my mom did either.)

I come from. Compassionate. Average. Simple. Hard Working. Loving. people…

What my mom meant is my daughter is 6’1 if you are willing to play mom for the next 4 years have at it.

When I was in High School I was recruited.

I would be excited for the mail to come.

There would be letters from colleges I could not even pronounce.

On the weekends I would travel and play basketball.

At the tournaments we played in there would be college scouts.

I always put my best foot forward.

I played hard, had fun.

I came from a broken home.

My dad slept in his truck at tournaments that were hours away just to see me play.

After the tournaments I would receive letters from colleges recruiting me.

I guess I might go to college thought.

Where should I go??

I put all the letters I received into a notebook, with plastic coverings and analyzed them.

It was the most amazing feeling in the world to see a letter with my name on it come in the mail.

Someone wanted me.

They respected my abilities.

I would get my game on,

I would put it all on the court,

The coach that picks me I will make proud I thought.

College coaches would call my house.

I wouldn’t know what to say.

They wanted me to play for them.

It would be sooo intimidating.

I didn’t know what I wanted to be.

I just wanted to play basketball.

I would listen to what anyone had to say.

I would smile on the phone.

I was taught to respect everyone.

After 3 months of soul searching,

My mother never gave up on me.

She has agreed to let me fly<3<3

I have learned no matter what-

You have to ACCEPT

The hand your dealt and create your own

IDENTITY.

.

Excuse me, pero yo no soy Gringa.

Salsa con Papa

Ahhh, “color”. The age old race debate…

Given the freedom of religion, interfaith marriages are on the rise in addition to the mixing of races, a topic that I remember caused a lot of friction with my Father when I was caught sneaking down the street from my Uncle’s house in L.A. to watch movies and cuddle up with a neighbor, who was tall, beautiful, and Black. I was told that races don’t mix, being 17 at the time, I remember asking myself…what business was this of my family and what tensions had this raised. What privilege has the color of my skin given me when I was always forced to oppress the budding Latino woman inside, later assigning that role to my own oppression led my fear or never being accepted as Puerto Rican or White. Growing up in a patriarchal household, and my parents being in a middle of an ugly divorce at the time, I could not access the wisdom of my Mother on this one…who later called the comment tragic.

Race, ethnicity, cultural identity has always been, for lack of better words the greatest mind fuck. During the 90′s, and the gifted programs that enriched my creativity I clearly remember a session on diversity. There were Black people, Brown, Yellow, White….yet none of these colors matched my own, less my expansive spirit and cultural ties to Puerto Rican and Spanish culture that were nearly kept as a secret in efforts to wipe me of culture, extended family, and fully immerse the young girl I was into American Culture. I began to resent the American dream really quick, an attitude that I believe became more self destructive than an agency of change when I could not understand what I was denied in order to gain a better experience and shot at life. The worst part is realizing in my 20′s, how I had adapted this attitude and began to lead my own oppression. It is difficult to understand these expectations as a child, isolated in the states, when you rarely can see where your parents are coming from because they are working ridiculous hours to maintain the outrageously expensive lifestyle of raising a child in the suburbs of the best public school systems.

My parents gifted me with a love of learning and study. We never owned a house, and I remember having a play date as a young child where my classmate walked in and said, “Oh, you didn’t seem like the apartment type.” I was conscious of classicist views at a very young age. Because I was articulate, wise, and didn’t wear hoop earrings no one could understand the diversity of my background growing up in affluent communities, including me. Looking back, now I can understand why I struggled with the, “Am I adopted?” question a lot. I didn’t feel White enough to be White…skiiing and snowboarding were a foreign concept and I preferred to be near the water.

There was a time where my Father called me White. This confused me to no end, and I think that he did this on purpose just to mess with my head, and force me to figure all this out on my own. That was the culture, you go do it, and then when I get old, you take care of me….I didn’t come on the Mayflower or through Ellis Island, my parents came on a plane from Puerto Rico, and my Mother left her Father’s house in a small town in Puerto Rico to live with my Father. The only culture I identified with was with MTV, and when reality set in, this did not suffice. I felt empty and could not even speak Spanish well. While my Mother wanted to speak English to me in the house, my Father did not want me to listen to what “those people said,” and by those people down there, he meant my own flesh and blood. This happens a lot to Puerto Ricans in America, and I have only hear such from other families and stories – when you come here, it’s to get an education and forget the rest. However, I felt a longing for things I could not name and found that I was a bit different from my peers and with that realized I had what I was seeking all along, I just did not have the language and I was not seeking the access of family knowledge, another consequence of being brought up as a child of 90′s, wanting everything right now, right away…I was blind by own arrogance.

I remember the days of iconic Salsa legend, Celia Cruz passed away, no one in my Social Studies class knew who she was. We didn’t study Latin America, and got a very one-sided version of the Spanish American War that focused on America’s land acquisition. When asked what color I was, I said, “Peach, because I’m light, fuzzy, and always red in the cheeks. When I began asking questions and connecting with my Mother as a young woman, I realized we had French ancestry and also a myriad of religions that shifted in Spain due to the inquisition and immigration. I began to find reasons for things that I found weird, but in reality were a part of my history. I began to chip away at this perfect student, raised in America, isolated and realized that I was part of a greater tradition, which was humanity. I don’t even think I looked at my own life with the compassion I was seeking to understand the fragments and gaps in time. I was not raised in one place, doing one thing, I am many.

Let me break it down this way – a butterfly can not retreat to it’s caccoon. I can not be tied down to one label, and during those moments…I feel a rising madness, to which I respond with, “I’m not bi-polar, I’m bi-cultural.” Of course being in Massachusetts with repeated snow storms will make me feel nuts, when I still feel my ancestors who resided by beaches, mountains, in Southern France, and in small coastal towns in Spain. While my American accent does throw many off (I have been told that I speak like a stoned valley girl at time, or conversely an educated therapist), I do speak Spanish (and I’m learning to play with verbs more) and can cook a mean plate of rice and beans and dance like everybody’s watching. I do believe and see a rise of the bi-cultural and multi-cultural people all across America…and still am seeking a way to address those who tell me I am not Puerto Rican just because I was born in New York City and talk a certain way….this still makes my blood boil.

With love,
the Sleepy Boricua