Ty Jones is my personal Oprah.

She sits in the back of the Jewish Board Family and Children's Mental Health Services office, in a room full of play dough and colorful toys. She comes out in her lovely curls, all brown and blond, to find me in the waiting room. Her voice is like the crooning of rabbits over verdant pastures. I could fall asleep, smiling to her voice mail greeting.

"You're 45 minutes late," she tells me, calmly, with the milk of kindness flowing from her big curly hair.

Even her reprimand has the fuzzy quality of a cloud.

But the Jewish Board is no fancy shrink's office. There's no white noise machine flowing ever-so-intrusively over soft couches and European travel magazines. There's no recall-your-childhood chair, reeking of indulgence and aromatheraphy, into which you may absorb yourself. There's only the heavy-accented lady in the front who is fed up with her job, ready to grunt and collect your medical card, and if you're not ready for her, she'll let you know her mind: that she is waiting, has been, is still.

"Articulate your words. What did you say? When was your appointment? Speak up. I can't hear you."

All at once like a fusillade.

I wonder if she's like that to everyone, or only to me. I figure she may be a bit confused, and a little taken aback, by my blatant non-semitism.

Unlike the receptionist, Ty never pulls the gun at me. She asks me gently how I'm doing, shows me to my chair by the colorful playdough and crayons, asks me if I've been writing a lot lately, if I've made any new works of music, if my moods are okay. Yes, dear. My moods, dear.

And when I tell her I am doubtful of this pop star thing, because I feel like I'm living in a land of lollipops and squid-drops, because I'm writing bullshit all day, and not getting my short stories finished - the ones I intended, because I can't get the chords to match the lyrics, because I'm frustrated - she tells me:

"You have to let yourself be comfortable with your unique creative process. You have to give yourself permission to be you."

Thank you, Madame Oprah!

So today, while I try to look at myself objectively in all my wasted efforts - my wasted time, my creative procrastination, my boustrophedonic self-indulgence, my utter irresponsibility. Where my mind's jolting frenzy, the madness of words, and all my fuzzy intentions, which are turned suddenly sour with guilt and reality - Here, in the eye of this hurricane, I try to breathe a whiff of Ty's cloudy curls, cultivate calm, and call this my creative process.

I am who I am, and this is what I need to create. Create what?

Freedom. Authenticity. Permission to sin and be ugly, and to turn that honesty into beauty.

Oh, let's call this whole silly game off. Let's take all these labels, and toss them in the dump, like a bunch of alphabet blocks and lego people. I am free. I am free. I am free. Close my eyes and flap my arms like a second grader on Field Day. I am free. Free for what?

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I imagine a naked website, and me, self-respecting, telling people my thoughts.

"In this industry of misogyny, rap lyrics, and ass and tits - it's up to us ladies to claim our bodies for ourselves.

My nakedness is my potency. You can't take away what I give to you in generosity. My body is my art. My body is my own. And I am fully conscious of my womanhood, my power right now."

That is what I'd tell them on the David Letterman show.

I would sing songs like:

"I'm an immigrant, baby. I'm an immigrant, oh yeah."

And

"Ladies pick up your thick thighs, goddess bellies...love what you love, and let yourself be."

And

"Angelina sits on her doorstep, not so much an angel anymore."

I would sing songs on tracks I created myself, dancing dances I choreographed myself. Songs that would rock the sex. Cuz I'm not afraid of sex. I'm all sex, baby. Sex and deep thoughts. Oh yes. And I would pop and lock and pirouette on TV.

A grotesquely loud entrance. Just an entrance. Just the doorway to my voice.

Yes, fantasies. So close to reality. I can almost touch it. Right? No. Pure fantasy.

I have the connections. I have the talent. I have one year to kick this shit off. I believe in me.

Thank you, Ty, for calling this a creative process, and not a stark madness, like Virgina Woolf or Britney. This is me, and I know no one else like me.

And if this bullshit is what it takes to get to gold, then I'm ready to hit the outhouse, and dig away. Please excuse my incontinence.


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I don't want to be one of those artists that exploits his or her own life. That's disgusting. Not truly creative, right? I want to transcend myself, eventually. But so far, my life has been my masterpiece. I've tried to live each moment to the rawest principle, the most urgent joy. And that is more art than the expression of it.

We are in a quick cult of porn memoirs and you tube videos. Who has time for fiction? Say your statement and get on with it, lady!

I need to hit the scene in a splash of Asian sapphires. Listen to my scandal.

But I must not forget: the talent and dedication to truth that must lie beneath the hype and plastic, waiting for the right time to emerge. The human dignity.

I will not be plastic. I will never be plastic.

looking back...

although summer 2005 was cool, and it was explosive to meet Brian Foo, i actually liked the first part (before Brian/Amelia/Calvin adventures) far better than the second part. i liked being alone, having my morning rituals, my running and biking, my going to classes, my focusing on doing well, my sunny days in central park, my well-balanced life and CENTERED goals, my volunteering, my sweet new friendships...

all of that was much better than the chaos that ensued.

i don't like the late night stuff much. i'm such a morning person...

but looking back over the course of our relationship, i realize that we only remember the trips, the drama, the highlights. we weren't really living in the reality of each others' presence, day-to-day. i was suffocating and completely off-track during my whole relationship with him.

i've learned finally, like alex once said: that it is far better to have a steady, content life, than to be wildly happy or sad. i love to be content; i'm pretty content now.

i act like a dramatic girl when i'm with others, but by myself, i'm usually really chill, and enjoy more than anything, my relaxed routines.

after seeing Brian at the dj frosty freeze memorial last night, and then parting our separate ways on the subway, i realized how lovely it is to leave him. it felt pretty satisfying, actually, to say goodbye. i'm pretty glad to be out of this mess, and starting anew.

even though just this morning, i was working on a video compilation of my photos and footage from montreal with Brian, and creating a mix CD for him, and feeling a little nostalgic and melancholy, even diligently designing and setting up appointments to get a tattoo with his name in Chinese (forever strong) over my heart...but when i got back from class and the gym, i was no longer motivated to reminisce. i wanted to make music, create, get lost in my own projects.

just like that. i'm over him. and it feels great.

i feel like my life is my own again, and this is exactly what i needed. i owe it to bfoo for recognizing this reality, and being strong and firm about maintaining this. cuz i sure as hell can't. but it's definitely the right decision.

Surrender to the change,
My dance instructor Safi told me, as I trembled beneath him, and struggled to hold out my arms for the 15th minute of our warmup.

Pain is an illusion.
Breathe through the pain.
Do not resist the pain.
Accept the pain.

From here, there is only positivity. I have been over-dramatic and lamenting these broken pieces. Last night was an outpouring. I sat in the middle of the street on 38th at 3:00AM, feeling utterly alone, abandoned, broken without him. I quit my job. I threw a great big tantrum, and I called him and called him and called him. No matter what I try, I can't seem to give up gracefully. I am who I am.

But let me remember this, so that I will not falter so again. Shattered, I let the aching consume me, and lost sight of the big picture. In the big scheme of things, this is not so important, I am not so important...there is so much suffering in this world, and I am childish to focus on my own petty hurts. I must reconnect with the people who love and believe in me, and the causes I love and believe in.

I will let go of him.
It is not an act of will, rather it is an act of surrender.

Surrender to the change.

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But the problem is:

If I wanted to forget him, I could forget him so easily. Like I did  with all my other ex's, I move on instantaneously, without a moment of regret, everything blocked out in an instant with the excitement of a new romance. But with him, I want to hold on. I want to use this pain to motivate me to be a better person. Because if I don't consciously change, then I will never grow, and things will always be the same, and I will never have love, because I can never hold love. And for that reason, I must stay attuned to this pain. So that I can internalize it, learn from it, truly transform under its burning.

I must not let myself let go.

(That is what hurts. I can easily find a new romance. I have three lined up already, toys. I am fickle and free with my affection, but not with my love. God, it would be so easy if I could just let go, curse him, forget about him. But I have to respect this relationship with a decent transition time. Holding on means being patient. Well, I am absolutely NOT a patient person; I make all my dreams come true, instantaneously, I am a doer, I am not a waiter, I am not slow and steady like he wants me to be. THIS IS WHAT KILLS ME.)

If I let go, I will forget him, and learn nothing, just as to release my muscles and stretch my arms would be to lose the point of the exercise. Another refrain in a tired song to repeat and repeat again ad infinitum. And with repetition, habits build into deadly patterns, creating the greater pain of trapped and numbing life - I can not submit to that.

This is a moment of strengthening. I must make myself remember.

I was the one to break us up, but he was the one to hold me to my decision. I would have wavered, like we've done so many times before.

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Think positively:

Surrender to the change.

I can splash that white flag with fantastic colors. There is so much to create. I am ready for a world of difference, to pour myself into my passions: artistically, politically. To share a sweet, nurturing apartment with my soul sister Alba. To refocus all my energies on what is right, and cut out all the unnecessary things. To be a better writer, composer, singer, dancer, activist, and more importantly than all of this: a stronger, more caring, and better balanced woman.


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"There is no future. There is no past. We live each moment as our last." Everything vanished in a dream; our Eden was disillusionment. You can't keep me teased on a leash, believing that these tales could be, if I change, if we try again years from now. No. You can't say that and leave me kneeling in your dust. This is it. Good bye means no tomorrow, no path of repentence, no other way. Breaking up means never again. Never again.

Some day these lessons will help me nurture another man, and bring him happiness that with you I never can.


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PEACE.