Cocaine is a Hell of a Drug

I have read several sources that claim being in love is like being high on cocaine.  For weeks I couldn't sleep more than 6 hours, I was hardly eating and every waking moment took me down with thoughts of him.  I couldn't focus on work, or anything else.  For a while all I could do was write and run.  After an extra dose of cocaine, you start to want more, and more, and more... I became a junkie.  My drug dealer started to notice that I was becoming a fiend, and he started to dole out the source in a calculated and safer manner.  But a junkie can't just ween off without facing the problem on one's own.  I freaked out, I got itchy, jumpy and super sensitive over everything.  I have to wonder, is controlled, well-dosed out servings the best way to proceed?  Let's be honest, an addict can't just have one drink and call it quits for the week.  I am a junkie of all kinds of vices, and even though the years have given me wisdom and manageable self-control, this is a new kind of drug; and I like it a lot.  

His amazing love is my cocaine, but he is not responsible for being my dealer.  He couldn't possibly be that sinister.  No, this addiction is my cross to bear alone and as in any comedown, one must bear the shame of behaviors this junkie has displayed.  This past year has been a long road of comedowns, and have taught me that sobriety is grounding, peaceful and ultimately so much healthier.  I don't know if I can taste the cocaine in small doses and find a way to have self-control to let it go when it's time, but this is an ultimate exercise in self awareness.  I have never had a love like this before, and I think I am meant to finally learn those nagging old lessons; to really draw healthy boundaries and practice great self love.  I've easily lost myself in someone else before, and as any addiction, it doesn't end well.  You lose friends, it isolates you from the people you love outside the relationship and you end up alone and lost when it ends.  

This is not my first rodeo with addiction, but with everything, healthy living is a practice and not easily learned overnight.  I like to think I try to make every life challenge a learning and growing experience; using deep self examination and allowing it to carve out a better me.  There is indeed a lot of heartbreak in the world, but I have to work at not allowing that to always be my narrative.  Pain, suffering, grief and addiction are indeed a part of my story; but I think this new found and glorious love is here to remind and show me that life is also incredibly beautiful, caring and trustworthy.  It's time for me to write that story too.  

The Deep End

There is this moment, when you meet someone, after dating them for a little while, that you know in your heart you want this person to continue being a part of your life.  Once your heart sinks a little, and you get butterflies knowing you'll be seeing them soon, you're a fucking goner.  As their character unfolds, and doesn't disappoint, every waking moment begins to take you hostage by thoughts of them.  I've been bit, bit by the arrow, and I've been bit hard.  Sure, this person still has flaws; and one is not so naive as to ignore them completely.   A wise older married couple once told me, marriage is a compromise; you just have to decide what you're willing to live with, and what you can't live without.  

Even though I've been a tough old broad, independent since age 17 and spent many years alone, I've always known that I would one day find the amazing and grounding relationship I need, deserve and want.  I am admittedly, a hardcore romantic; a deeply emotional and hard-loving woman.  I fall fast, I fall hard and usually, by the 6 month mark, I know in my heart if this is going to work out.  The honeymoon is always great, but as is the case in almost all of my past relationships, I usually ignored that strong intuition of knowing it's time to turn around and go the other way.  Maybe I do this because I've already invested so much, but I think it's mostly because I never learned to trust myself.  I made a promise, after giving another four years to a decidedly obvious bad decision, I would trust myself without a doubt the next time around until I land where it's great; not good... great.  

Let's be honest, falling in love is actually desperately agonizing.  It's full of anxiety, insecurity and unknowing.  So why then, should this seemingly wonderful feeling, at the same time be so completely painful?  It's the prospect of hope.  Hope is the killer of all assuredness.  One only hopes this is the last time you have to go seeking, to start over getting to know someone, building trust and finding a deeper connection.  By a certain age, you become exhausted, jaded and gun-shy.  At this point, I pretty much gave up looking and decided to settle on just being the best me, date myself and invest in my dream future as a single.  Although it is scary as fuck to think of the prospect of me building some sort of homestead on a remote piece of land off-grid, I have the courage to try.  The beautiful and most exhilarating yet scary thing, is meeting someone with the same goal.  That killer hope, could really burn my heart if this seemingly perfect life-mate doesn't pan out.  Who the hell is going to build my earthship if it isn't he?  

So, as they say, tread lightly; eyes wide open, protect yourself, don't give it all away too fast, etc. etc. blah blah.  It's true, being broken causes you to build walls, to shield yourself from risk and daring to dream.  As a dreamer, a lover and a fighter; I'll stick with Hemingway: "The best way to trust someone, is to trust them".  So here I go...head first.  

Oakland

Oakland is a town rich with history; black history; rife with stories of bygone eras, rough and glorious. Growing up in the Bay Area, Oakland was only a place my dad worked late at night from the early 80's until today. I remember harried stories of the crack days and beautiful Chinese restaurant owners who sent home pastries. Oakland was never on my radar until my best friends paved the wild west and claimed it was fantastic. So I made the move, and what I bring is 8 years of hard fought loyalty. I am a die hard A's fan, a Baggy's/Queer/Lake/West/Kaiser Employed/Soldier Death Sibling Survivor/Bike Party/Neighborhood Beautification Project Loving Oakland Woman. Sometimes I feel like the Carrie Bradshaw of my apartment building, I will never leave until my "Big" chance comes along. Oakland, your stray cats, Bermuda Triangle, progressive communities, idealistic city council and bizarre Mayor make me love you. You have been the backdrop for my life. The "pot" for my roots to grow. You have created the perfect scene for a life of color, creativity and challenge. I have seen Chicago, Madison, LA, New York, Miami and DC, and nothing compares to your micro-climate 70 degree weather, Brooklyn Ave and perfectly climbable native Grand Oak Trees. There are three things I respect more than anything: Billie Holiday, The Truth, and Oakland. Billie will always feel like home, the truth will wrap you in Freedom and Oakland, the perfect backdrop for it all. 

The Human Behind the Work

If you are fortunate enough to have a job, or even as lucky to have a career or long term commitment with your employer, then this post is for you.  

I have been with my company for over 8 years.  I didn't set out to have this career, rather nepotism and a winning personality landed me here.  I kid of course; but really I am very lucky to have this opportunity.  I am also fortunate enough to enjoy most of the work that I do; that is, the actual tasks, not the industry really, or the daily politics that is office life.  I like to think I'm good at what I do and that my work is valuable.  Yet, after 8 bumpy years I find myself staring out the window that is potentially a life long path of more of the same.  As some of my other writings might indicate, I suffer from depression from time to time and the whole daily grind of dragging oneself out of bed to sit in an office box finds me panicky and unable to find motivation.  Despite many attempts at reforming the work world (i.e., ROWE - results oriented work environment) I believe there is still this element of presenteeism that you cannot escape.  

I have believed that at times I could rule the world from my bed in my jammies.  If you've seen the first Sex and the City movie, you'll remember Samantha and Miranda negotiating Carrie's apt. buyback and personal business dealings from a cell phone, in a bathing suit, from a Mexican beach resort.  It's true.  You probably could rule the world from the comfort of wherever you want to be.  Regardless of my personal bedtime accomplishments, I find myself facing the old presentee predicament.  Rather, it's a predicament of my soul.  

I had a boss once that was tough, genuinely sweet and caring, and someone who would fight for you if you worked hard.  She was only beginning to mentor me and help me find a path to a promotion, when the office politics got the best of her.  She and the company parted ways after 27 years of service.  I only realized after she was gone, how much I needed her.  

As winter is fast approaching, I find myself deep in a funk that begs me to question every single moment of life.  I think we all have negative voices that we battle, but I am so often mired by the self sabotage that I don't realize how abusive I am to myself.  This morning a truly horrifying inner voice shook me up.  What the hell am I saying to myself??  This is the sort of thing a deeply disturbed alcoholic and violently abusive husband would say to his wife in a Lifetime movie.  I really have to be nicer to myself.  No wonder I'm depressed.  

Looking for a soft shoulder in my mind, I remembered my old boss.  She wasn't the smartest person in the room, and frankly; she was very technically challenged, which is weird in a tech heavy department.  How did she get so far if she seemingly had no skills?  She was genuinely nice to people.  After all, the work comes from human beings.  There are people behind all of the mundane tasks.  There are families, lives, feelings and struggles behind every desk.  At the end of the day, little tasks and projects will eventually get done, but they won't, if you as an employee are feeling like a robot.  We cannot thrive this way and work in our little boxes like mechanical creatures.  At the root of presenteeism, is the human face.  Kindness and understanding that this other human being needs something from you so they can do something for someone else, because we're all just struggling in this life day by day is easily a forgotten element of the work life.  

And just like that, I think I can feel human again.  It's these other people that we sometimes forget we need to help keep us grounded in our daily grind.  

This Thanksgiving season, I am so thankful for the kind generosity my old boss gave me.  She is a great example of how we can all be great employees, nay, humans, through empathy.  Although some people can be devious, manipulative and difficult to work with, every one of us has our own personal back story, and it takes a greater strength to bear that in mind than to join in the ranks of politicking and power play.  As long as I can empathize with the lovely souls I've shared 8 great years with, I think I can keep going for maybe another decade or so.  Here's hoping I'm that lucky.  

Soundtrack of a Lifetime

Music is such a crazy thing.  I recently downloaded my entire iTunes library to my phone.  A lot of that music I downloaded about 3 years ago; a time when my life changed dramatically.  Trolling through some of these songs that I haven't heard since then, has given me a sad sort of longing.

The year I turned 30 I became a new woman; not only within my body and soul, but within my spirit.  I had been mourning the death of my brother and the split of my parents simultaneously.  So, for the two years leading up to my 30th, you could say I experienced a pretty intense Saturn's Return.  Coming into that year I was introduced to a LOT of new music and I spent a lot of time building that library.  I started a new chapter with a group of friends that I suspect I will retain for a long time, but after the initial crazy good times, things have calmed down.  A lot.

I guess you could call this a rebuilding year.  It's good to reflect on the good times, the bad, and the lessons it all teaches us.  The past 5 years has shown me how death, divorce, friendship, relationships and heartbreak can embed itself into the music you play as the soundtrack.  Revisiting these soundtracks is like visiting a grave.  Those times, those feelings... are moments of the past and are essentially dead, yet living in the music.

It's hard not to live in the past.  But ultimately, you'll end up in your own grave if you don't pull yourself out.   It's hard not to feel like there are gaping holes going forward.  The truth is, there are.  People have come and gone, the party is over, and you're left feeling a little empty.  But these gaping holes present a purpose; an opportunity.  A lesson learned to fill your life with better, lasting people and experiences.

A Conversation About Womyn Cycling

Right around the time my dad was my age now, he started riding a mountain bike with a work bud.  He eventually quit smoking too which I attribute to the hills and technical riding he needed the extra lung boost for.  At first my brothers and I thought the spandex shorts were a hilarious display of "shit my dad does", but as the years rolled on, he kept rolling too.  He eventually caved and became a "roadie" and started entering organized rides and races.  Some 20 years later he is at the peak of shape and conquering the Death Ride, and training for double centuries. 

When I was a kid, I had a bike like any other kid.  It had a banana seat, ribbons and a cool pink paint job.  One day the boys in the neighborhood caked mud on my banana seat while I was playing inside and it dried and hardened in the summer sun.  It was the first of many messages I received that girls are to be teased and my bike would be the tool of that message.  My dad was a great advocate for cycling and gathered us all on family bike rides on many weekends along the canal trails in my home town.  I always wanted to be as fast as him, but it seemed like my fear of safety would always get in the way.  

Fast forward years later I started dating an avid cyclist.  I hadn't ridden a bike since those early teen years on the trails and my dude inspired me to get back on the saddle.  My dad was gracious enough to hand down one of his older road bikes, and I began the love affair again.  I fixed the bike up to fit my body better, adjusted some of the accessories and I was in business.  I am so proud of my bike that I decided to name her Betsy despite the fact it's a man's bike (much to my father's chagrin).  

My boyfriend was an advanced rider, as was my dad at this point so my riding consisted mostly of long flat trips around the Oakland perimeter and of course the social organized rides like Bike Party.  Eventually, my dude wanted me to go on more advanced rides and pushed me to ride up from my neighborhood to Skyline Blvd.  which is famously steep and long.  About half way up, I bonked and had an emotional breakdown.  Looking back I'm really proud of how far I went up, but after that ride, I had a hard time trusting my ex to gauge my level of ability.  He stopped asking me to go on longer rides and he went out with his friends that were more advanced instead.  I'm not blaming him for my lack of follow through, but it does beg the question of womyn in cycling, in a world dominated by men.  

When I first got Betsy, it took me months to research various parts and accessories I could change to make the ride a more comfortable fit.  I read books and articles and online resources to help me understand why my arms hurt so much and why I felt like I wasn't "one" with the bike.  Despite the bike being a man's frame, there are also issues of clothing and for me, style.  As a womyn, I refused to put on any spandex or gut clinging material just because that's what people wear.  I went to bike expos, and shops and perused boutique online designers for womyn inspired alternative cycling gear.  There's just nothing out there that appealed to my aesthetic and also provided function; and was affordable.  The great thing about cycling though, is you don't actually have to have special fabrics or gear to just get on it and ride.  I've made do with some old Derby skorts and a custom made saddle bag to carry my lock and wallet.  I even made my own custom made plarn crochet backpack with a specially designed strap to buckle above my breasts so I could carry a load ergonomically and comfortably.  

But this all points towards a larger conversation that we seem to keep having.  Men can just throw a lock in the back pocket, wallet in the front, keys on your belt loop and go.  I don't like to leave the house without my list of safety net items:  Helmet, jacket with zipper pockets for easy access to cell phone and money (the saddle bag is a pain to get in and out of easily), riding gloves because despite the months of effort to affix the correct angled stem the geometry of the top tube is still too long for my shorter arms so my palms kill about 10 mins in, and of course some kind of leggings or a skirt/dress that won't get caught in the bike chain.  This can be exhaustive when just trying to get out and ride.  I never leave without ensuring I have a spare tube, pump and patch kit either.  The bike is certainly a great way to be self sufficient, but I'm especially conservative when it comes to be a GIRL and self sufficient.  I would never want to get caught with a flat somewhere in West Oakland on my own with no tools or supplies to fix it myself.  That would be completely irresponsible.  But I talk to men all the time who never brings tools or anything along.  More than once at bike party I've had to help someone fix a flat who didn't have any tools and it's just irritating.  Without "roadside" assistance, you wouldn't expect another car to just stop and help you fix a flat or even give you a new tire would you?

I stumbled upon this article where three womyn from different cycling cities weighed in about advocacy of cycling and being female riders.  There are more events and groups out there creating awareness for this disparity in gender and cycling.  The truth is, I still want to be as fast as my dad, and climb that mountain one day, but it feels as though there is a larger hurdle to get over before I can even get out of the house.  This article starts part of the conversation, about womyn needing to feel safe and comfortable on the road.  It has certainly been a huge topic of conversation in my own mind.  At this point, I'm slightly gun shy about getting back out there.  I am a safe and still aggressive urban rider.  I am not scared of cars or traffic or pot holes.  I can hold my own and I have confidence on my steed.  The problem lies in simply being comfortable on the bike.   

So, the trick is now, to shake off those set backs... the mud seats and the bonk inducing boyfriend and to ride on anyway.  Womyn will only gain more traction and advocacy by riding more themselves.  

Musings of a girl ex-raver

Back in 1998 I went to college.  I met a guy who introduced me to Bjork in the most inspirational way.  He also introduced me to electronic music he had procured from his home town in San Diego.  I was living in Humboldt at the time, eating shrooms and being a stupid hooligan in the woods and on the beach.  It was some of the best times of my life.  This experience also set forth a path in motion that would influence my life until this very moment. 

After I left that humble place, I returned to my home in the Bay Area and set out to find my own electronic scene.  I got a job at Tower Records to procure more music and to have a job that allowed me to express myself through my new found style of multi-colored dreads and rave gear.  I wore big pants, candy jewelry, listened to anything on Moonshine Records and smoked insane amounts of weed.  I was onto something.  

I met a few friends at the store that were inclined to take me to my first party.  It was at a warehouse in Oakland and incidentally, out of all the parties I went to thereafter, I never returned to that venue... or so I believe.  The night ended pretty early in the morning and I found myself, dancing with all of my might to what would be a new love: House Music.  The DJ was in a wheelchair and he sent us off with the final song of "You don't know me" by Armand Van Helden.  My heart was soaring into the sky; I had tears in my eyes and I was in heaven.  This would be the first of maybe 3 occasions that I would experience total euphoria. I was definitely onto something.  

I started to get more involved in the underground rave scene and I made lots of friends.  I built a good crew of folks that I would party with and some not so great characters sprinkled within too.  The party scene in those days was a lot of trance raves, tons of ecstacy and PLUR.  (Peace Unity Love Respect).  We felt like we were the modern day hippies.  We wore colorful costumes, tons of plastic beaded jewelry bracelets that we would trade when we met new friends.  I started to get pretty familiar with the scene.  Sometimes I even took a chance, went to a venue on a whim by myself, and found a party there without knowing about it ahead of time.  I danced for hours every weekend; sometimes hitting up 2 parties on Friday and Saturday.  I was becoming a pro.  

You have to understand, underground parties were UNDERGROUND.  You only found out about the next party by being at the first one.  Kids would stand outside and pass out fliers.  You looked for logos like "SKILLZ" or "Harmony".  These were the promoters putting on the best events with the best dj's.  Sometimes you heard about something smaller and you had to meet in exclusive locations to get directions the night of.  There was one occasion I went to an outdoor party in Santa Cruz in the middle of nowhere.  In times like those, when you thought you were close, you slowed the car, turned off the music, and rolled down your windows to try and find the "thump" in the distance.  We found the party but we were quickly discovered by authorities and meant to be searched.  It was the closest I ever came to getting arrested (at that point in my life) and luckily I was clean and allowed to go free.  I went to another larger campout party once with a few friends and it also turned bust Saturday morning.  I'll never forget how angry, grumpy and dead we all were.  I stuck to the city venues after that.  This was also my first lesson in trying to get outside friends involved in the scene.  They couldn't hang.  

To this day, I feel as though those years taught me how to survive the nightlife, and in general, life.  What to bring, what not to bring, what to wear, etc.  These might seem trivial, but if you are a seeker of dance music, you know not to bring a loaded purse and stupid fuck me heels.  I was an athlete with the right gear.  Most importantly, it taught me what attitude to bring.  Energy is contagious and if you bring a bad one, it's a bummer night.  I would learn that lesson over and over again and on one occasion, another person's energy would turn my night around.  He later turned out to be a good friend who I partied with on a new level.  After I progressed from the underground scene, I became pretty good at navigating legit events and getting to know the upper echelon of SF party kids and promoters.   

My friends always knew where to find me... at the front of the DJ booth.  I was that girl, in the front, egging the DJ on.  To me it was a relationship.  You the DJ, give me the goods and I will pump you, and everyone else up like no one's business. You can count on me, if I can count on you.  I started to follow certain DJ's that understood this relationship.  A lot of folks who played legit clubs were less inclined to speak this language, and as I got older and went to more legit parties, I found it hard to experience those same feelings I had in the beginning.  Once in a while though, I hit gold.  Partying was a full time job, and it took a lot of effort to find the legit events.  

As with every job, eventually the business goes bust.  As the years progressed, the scene became blown up.  The media focused a lot on the drug use and deaths and the danger of it all.  Permits were no longer issued and warehouses went empty.  I partied hard for nearly 7 years and it took it's toll.  Unfortunately also, my friends and I went in different directions musically and I no longer had a crew to party with at the events I wanted to go to.  

Today I still dig for music, events, venues, promoters that are in tune with my age and soul.  House music is still my first love, but it's getting increasingly hard to find original and interesting music.  I love all kinds of electronic music now and I've taught myself to have a pretty discerning ear.  The sad thing is, the full time job part still stands, and I already have one of those.  I rely a lot on friends to find new artists and with the development of technology, music no longer lives in huge warehouses, but in my headphones.  I miss those old days like nothing else.  I miss having a crew of dance friends and a community that is juiced with positivity on the dancefloor.  

I might be getting older, but I'm still that same euphoric girl inside just looking to the DJ to save my life.  The community I danced and partied with some 14 years ago have also gotten older, more grown up and a lot more jaded.  We aren't these carefree and selfless kids anymore willing to hug and share with any stranger.  We've become parents, stressed out professionals and responsible adults.  There are still a few parties out there dedicated to the veterans that offer a nice Sunday picnic style dance-a-thon but the attitude and vibe is so different.  No one wants to see a washed up mid-thirties lady high on molly on a Sunday afternoon.  I guess one doesn't have to be washed up.  But the truth lies in this moment where you have to decide where you're going and lament where you've been.  Sure, I can still go out and dance, plenty of people do.  But it's not that easy anymore.  I am a music snob now, and most of the shit DJ's are presenting is pretty lame.  It will never be the same all around, though if I get lucky, maybe once or twice a year I can get a night back.  

It has always been about the music, first and foremost, but the way a good beat can bring a room of hyped up dancing kids together is unreal.  I can still get the good music for myself, but what's the point if you can't share it with a roomful of sweaty amazing friends?  I miss those old friends more than anything lately.  Austin Hammons, I owe you a debt of gratitude for showing me the way.  Chris Carcia and Tiffanie Arvold; thank you so much for taking me in and always having the most amazing positive vibe.  

I am such a lucky soul for having had those experiences.  The journey continues.  Next Stop: Burning Man.  Finally.