Berries and Sugar

All the jars in all the galaxies.
all the words in all the damn world.
the girlies in all of the spaces and places.
Jam.
In a damn jam jam.
And not at all, not even a bit.
Writing to write and speaking to speak,
to be spoken to and of and with.
A dang sticky weirdo in a dang sticky world.
Testing the limits of pectin and sugars,
introducing atypical ingredients and fresh variables.
Like resurrecting forgotten fruits with a delicate, healing touch.
Out here makin' pies. Makin' jams and jellies and jams.
And just when I fear a sweet tooth might get the best
I'm reacquainted with feeling rebuffed and angry.
Feeling scared and angry and isolating.
Know it well now, I do.
Are you rebuffed? Shall one withdraw?
No answers that ever really are answers.
No promises. No masters, nor gods.
Only berries and sugar and that too-often-bitter lemon.

Little Things and What-have-you-nots

38 entries in 2011 and 66 in 2018. The years in between ranged from 1-25, as if I need another reminder of the ways my spirit gets set ablaze and ripped asunder from the breaking of affections and chains and years together. Lights and incites.

As if there weren't a million other even little things that inspire me, daily. That set me on course, that cause me to spout sonnets. And it does seem that writing keeps my focus, causes me to encapsulate and reflect on moments. To more or less eloquently synthesize and capture aspects of what makes it tick, what gives it meaning, what agitates and invites me. Towards growth and newness and insightful[ness] or what-have-you-nots.

Picking up tricks and trends of the trade along this winding way. You're eloquent and well spoken, they've said. Mama used to say how good I was at writing and maybe I am, maybe it's true. She said many things, but that feels instructive and directive. This chance meeting of souls seems to enforce it, likewise. And I'm sensing lately new words and alternative phrases and creative approaches to description. Set ablaze, smoldering in a way.

irritated as I am enthralled

I wonder what a word cloud of my most commonly used phrases might contain. Reading even just a few passages I know it's of love. Ugh. Blasted L. Which however close or far always seems limiting. That women come to define themselves. By others. By bending. And many others do nothing of the sort. Make it their business to be distant. Too cool to be cuddly and cooing. The priority is work and the priority is surfing or being stuck. And the truth is, that's ok. It's ok as ok as ok. As I am here and you are there. The distance from here to there has often felt immense and expansive. Between me and so many, chasing affections and molding and morphing away from the Alex Mack that I am. I did something recently, I set a boundary and time for myself. If it causes displeasure and distance, well then. Oh well. Well. I did well. And I woke to find smiles. Growth is an odd thing, hard to gauge. But I recognize it most when reflecting in the moment in how I react. I never would have been this wise and collected before, I know that, I think. Like a cucumber, like a delicious fucking salad I consumed like mad just last night. I like doors and soft lights and plants and gushy eyes.

And am I the one who drags myself off the bottom of the sea, who's appalled at what I see? That ghost woman I came to be. It's my distance and degradation that draws some in, like a crash from which you cannot tear your glance away. Perhaps something to covet, no? But those damn gushy eyes, they get me nearly each and every damn time. As irritated as I am enthralled. Already prepped for a downfall at any moment, preparing to find things that can't be ignored. Red flags or orange flags and the green ones, all the same. Then what, then what. What to do with it, where to go and move. And sure going with that flow, going with it and with it and onward and away. The flow is the flow is the flow. Aches that once seemed to have all but dissipated reveal themselves present and to be accounted for. Listen, listen in. Listen some more. I don't like what you're telling me, but I listen, still. The cruelty and the beauty, wrapped tightly up in one. Learn to see it as more or less par. Jealously and insecurity and pondering and joys and those happy sad tears. All of those and them there. Opening up and reminding me that it's possible, it exists. I'm a resilient, brilliant motha. I am light.

The Season of the Leo: Burn it Down or Let it Grow Us?

Until the last few years I scarcely paid attention to astrology aside from reading an occasional newspaper horoscope and thinking “meh, ok” or “that doesn’t seem like me at all” with indifference.

Then I started my current job and early on my coworkers were discussing their signs and characteristics and their “rising” and other confusing terms. My coworker asked what my sign was. “Leo,” I told them. They seemed taken aback. “Reeeally?”they responded. “Interesssting.”

I didn’t know what that meant. Was I atypical, was I failing as a Leo? Whatever that meant. I was amused and curious. They offered to do a birth chart. What the hell is that? I asked. “Give me your date of birth, time, and location .” “Can I ballpark the time? I’m not sure,” I said. “Abbbbsolutely not, it must be exact.”

Turns out I’m not just a Leo. I’m a Leo rising, Virgo moon. 4 of my birth chart signs are in Leo. “Damn, you’re fiery. You’re a low key Leo.” Ok. I still didn’t understand what anything meant or why my interest was piqued, but it was. Fuck it, why not? I downloaded the @costarastrology app to teach me more.

Since then its been an ever evolving process of learning and curiosity and humor. Sure, it’s not scientific. But is it fun and community-building and connective, just because? Hell yeah.

And for all the stigma and woo woo write-offs about it, I’ve enjoyed it all. And find myself paying attention when I meet people, when I go on dates, and in thinking back on previous interactions. 

And you know the thing about astrology? It’s written off as bogus, unfounded. In my short experience it also seems to hold stronger importance for women, millennials, and especially queer and POC folks. But why? And isn’t it ironic it’s so often viewed as less legit? A tradition that perhaps gives hope and levity and explanation to a mad world that sure as hell ain’t fair. Would that be the case were it a tradition strongly upheld in, say, white male culture? If it was a sport, if it was a religion. I wonder, I do wonder.

I stumbled across this article that elaborated on how astrology has become like religion to us millennial folks, especially in light of decreasing religiosity.

The article said: “Young people have grown up contending with a major recession, climate change and a more general awareness of seeing a political and economic system that many feel hasn’t benefited them, Nicholas said, so it’s not surprising that they’re pushing back against those systems at the same time they’re exploring nontraditional religious beliefs and finding ways to integrate it all.
Nicholas was raised Jewish and still practices the tradition of honoring the new moon, which she brings into her astrology practice — what she calls “a way of being ritualistic that isn’t dogmatic, isn’t sexism, doesn’t have this history of empirical violence.”

“I think that it’s a yearning to return to something. There’s a rejection of things that don’t work,” Nicholas said. “Socialism isn’t new, and astrology definitely isn’t new, and earthly spirituality or living in accordance with the earth’s rituals isn’t new, it’s ancient. I think we’re yearning for something that technology cannot give us, that capitalism cannot give us.”

So that’s something. Something to think about and reflect on. As we critique what’s considered legitimate or worthy. Maybe it’s something, like anything else, that could bring us even a bit closer to one another.

It certainly has for me and my team. We’re a compilation of a Leo (me!), thee ever astrology-knowledgeable Pisces, the curiously skeptic Gemini, the deeply loving Cancer, and the sternly feeling Capricorn. That’s us, all one small and together community, in more ways than one.

So it’s now that I must tell you, this week started Leo season (MY time, biiiitches). I had to look it up, but it allegedly entails the ushering in of energy, passion, and self-expression. That’s pretty rad. But also, it’s mercury retrograde...so...
Just love one another, maybe. Remain curious and open, maybe. Examine power structures and who has the power to define what and when and how, maybe. Remain ready to giggle, maybe. And just say fuck, life is wild and explosive. Cause maybe, just maybe, it’s written in the stars.

And then again, astrology could be just as racist and sexist as America itself. So maybe those damn millennials have it right to find guidance but not take it too seriously after all. Examine and question everything. Anarchy and shit. Fuck everything, let's burn this fucker doooown. Aren't we all just star stuff anyway, Mr. Sagan?

7/17/2019

Question: What vocation would you have if time and cost was no limitation?

Thoughts: FUCK BREAD

Songs on rotation:
India Arie 
Jamila Woods
P.S. Thank the goddesses for black women.

Anarchy and Carly Rae

Previous conceptions of romantic love now feel oddly distant and somewhat sickening. And not because I'm practicing polyamory for the first time in my life and am somehow enlightened or better for it. Rather that it has challenged me to redefine love in ways that are not rooted in ownership, possessiveness, in losing oneself, in giving up on communication. I'm learning the art of expressing needs without fear of losing something that's not mine. In fact, I find I've become more fearful of losing myself to an inauthentic relationship. Anarchy. Relationship Anarchy and the like. Maybe it is for me, maybe it is for you. Uprooting expectations and norms and fables. At least questioning, fixing shit that is long [ever-so-sometimes] broken.

And I still get lost in a Carly Rae bop, like anyone.

A Diagnosis. An Acknowledgment. A Commitment.

F34.1 Persistent depressive disorder, with intermittent major depressive episodes, with current episode. Childhood. Chronic. Depression is nothing new to me, but something about having this read out loud to me by my psychologist was equal parts affirming, upsetting, and grounding. I realize that in spite of how long I've been working on wellness and constant improvement that I carry around a lot of internalized mental health stigma and shame. That others have it way worse and I don't have a right to flounder. Often I don't give myself credit for how far I've come and the emotional weight I consistently carry. My struggle more recently has been walking the line of radical acceptance (vs tearing oneself to shreds) whilst practicing self-accountability and progress. A diagnosis isn't everything, but it certainly gives one a jumping off point and better understanding of possible ways to battle that which ails you.
I'm very fortunate to have access to continuous health care (though I was on a waiting list for a year and a half for this provider); to have found an irreplaceable support group that has served as a family and has helped me regain a sense of leadership and value; to have wonderful family and friends; and to be in a work place that allows me to fit in and serve as I can. I'm very lucky, I know this. And yet, there remains a struggle in learning to live well with a mental health (which IS health, btw) diagnosis and the realities of what that looks like, even a decade plus out of consciously and actively dealing with it. This is compounded by general anxiety, persistent migraines, and sleep apnea. I've known highs and low lows, I've known suicidal thoughts and extreme hopelessness, I've known light and love and coming back to myself and rediscovering hope and a desire to remain in this plane of existence. To be alive. Is to struggle, is to love, is to question, is to find support and validation and comfort however we can. I'm truly grateful for the days that feel easier and more carefree, which are comparatively often few and far in between- those days give me insight into what it might be like to live without a continuous presence of heavy emotions and buried pains and challenges of basic existence many never have to reconcile with or question. These struggles have brought me to grit and resilience, to perspective and consideration, to empathy and kindness, and for that it's hard to feel much regret or anger these days. And yet, it's heavy. As is life. I hope that whatever your individual struggles are that you find a loving home, emotionally and physically. That you find comfort and resolve and hope. At least in our struggles, we're together in that, too. I see you, dear friend, I see you. Until the next time we meet again, wellness and very best wishes to you for getting through this life. One moment and struggle and breath at a time. And at least in this moment I can give myself a pat on the back, a tight hug, and acknowledgement that I'm alive and kicking. You're doing it, Alex. You're doing it. And what you're doing is quite alright. Just keep swimming.