Every single time that I try to write, I sit down. I start something. I have a fabulous idea. I have a purpose. I quote something that inspires me. Then I become pathetic. I am hiding something. I am afraid. Something in my head won't allow my heart to move through these little fingers of mine.

I am suffocating.
I am choking.
I am drowning.

And of course all of that is a metaphor, for the fact that I lost my father, right?
I mean, that's what it comes down to I suppose.

I ache for the deep Pacific ocean. For its salty mystery.
For fish and for legitimate love.

I long for a 1970s mustache and green shag carpet.
I long for Volkswagons without seatbelts, and for sandcastles.

I ache for high tide and rip tide and red tide and tiny bodies tumbling around under water,
and buckets full of sand crabs.

I feel those rocks beneath my bare feet.
Scraped knees.

I was always searching for something.
I could never climb high enough,
or dive deep enough into the chaos.

Where is my patio...?

Tonight I am missing a patio.

Patio, to me, means family. You see, with a patio you can all come together. At a coffee shop, a bar, a house by the beach, an apartment in the village. A patio is a space for people to love and to be loved.

I need a patio right now.

21 years since Bess was taken from us.

2 weeks until we go to trial to seek justice for Milanca and Xavi being taken from us.

The amount of ache in my heart is so heavy that only a strong, full patio could support it.

Everyone should read this. Everyone. It's that good.

Follow this link to see Lindy West BREAK IT DOWN.


Thank you for writing and posting this. Seriously.

Class War

I've often wondered what it would be like to just go to the doctor when you were sick. Or to just buy new clothes when the ones you have no longer fit properly. Or to not look at price tags. To pay bills on time, every month. Without having to choose carefully between one thing or another. To have unlimited access to education and knowledge.

People have that. Many of my friends have that. I think it's great. I'm happy for them.

Yet I question a system that allows so many to never know that sense of security.
A system that sets so many up to fail.
A system that is inherently hierarchical and unbalanced.

There is no reason, not one, that people should want for things that are abundant.

That's why I'm an anarchist.
There is something better than this.

It's compassionate and kind.
It's egalitarian and it's possible.

I want so much for people to open their eyes.

Bad Days

I've been working on trying to keep things in perspective. Today for example, was not the best, but when I think about it... even my really bad day at work is someone else's dream day.

I woke up warm, safe, loved, healthy, and employed. I played with my internet phone on my convenient commute, learned new things, interacted with intelligent, kind people, and came home to a son that amazes me every day. We struggle less if we understand and empathize with the struggles of all. I believe that this way of thinking is key to living as a functioning anarchist in a capitalist nightmare.

Be understanding and humble.
Be sympathetic and kind.
Understand and recognize your privilege.
Work hard, HARD, every day, to better yourself and the world around you.
Fight, passionately, for what you believe to be right and good.
Don't get tricked into falling in line or giving up your values.
Hug people.
Cry openly.
Open up.
Reach out.
Sing out loud, even when people are listening, even when they aren't.
Give, everything you can, especially your heart.

So how was my day...? Well it wasn't all that bad in the grand scheme of things.
And tonight my son gave me a big hug and kiss goodnight.
And tomorrow is another day.

Be fucking brave, in everything you do. Even the little things.

Ancient History

When I was about 12 years old, give or take, my family took me on a little weekend "vacation" to a place called June Lake. We were to stay in the lake house of a coworker friend of my step monster.

I remember very little of that trip, however what I do remember is very significant in the shaping of my young identity and as such, I will never forget it.

My step monster was an interesting character (I'm being generous here.) In general he was a racist, sexist, abusive asshole, however he was also oddly into the arts. Looking back, dude was probably just very sad and closeted. I mean really, a racist, sexist, TAP DANCER from Wyoming who hated women but LOVED MUSICAL THEATRE? Yeah. Ouch.

Anyway, at the time he had been a bartender for a musical dinner theatre company (no really, as I write this out, I'm getting it,) and this house we were to stay at was owned by some of his performer friends from work.

I've always been a little bit of a hussy, not going to lie. I wanted to feel loved, even if I knew it was meaningless. Sometimes even especially if I knew it was meaningless.

(Mom, if you read this, please understand that I am taking liberties with artistic freedom here and my memory is just as bad as yours so this is as much fiction as it is memoir.)

That being said... there was a boy at this weekend long lake house get away. He was dreamy. He was dreamy in every way and I never forgot it. He sang to me. He sang to me Mr. Sandman, by the Chordettes. He sang to me Earth Angel, by The Penguins. We hid away from the other kids to talk about poetry and love and music. He was 16. He was a few years older than me, but oh we had so much in common and had so much fun. Just talking though. He never made a move. Now that I think of it... he was a 16 yr old boy who sang THE CHORDETTES to me and never made a move. Yup.

Well, kiddo, I still think you are dreamy, wherever you are. I am still waiting for the man or woman who will sing to me that I am "peaches and cream" and all of that.

I think sometimes that being an anarchist requires that you look deep into your own history and explore where you come from, and how your own biases have influenced the way that you look at the world.

I think that being an anarchist requires that you let go in ways that make you at least a little bit uncomfortable.

Big change doesn't come effortlessly. It comes with pain and suffering and agitation. You have to scratch at the skin a bit, get a little dirty, you have to see things for what they are, not for what they want you to see them as.

That 16 yr old boy, he showed me that I was desirable in a way that wasn't sexual. That was really special to me. I have never and will never forget it. I felt wanted, without feeling like an object.

What is tragic about this story... is that I don't think that I have felt that since. So here's to you, kid from my past, you rocked it. I hope that you are out there somewhere enjoying the hell out of this life <3

Recently I had a most unfortunate experience in which someone refused to recognize their privilege and straight up got angry with me about it. There is so much wrong with this.

So I thought I would share with the class a little lesson in recognizing privilege...

Every time you think to yourself "I have to do... xyz," think instead, "Why is it that I get to do xyz and others will never have that opportunity?" Do this, even if the thing you are doing sucks.


It works with everything, big and small. I will share a couple examples:

"I have to do the dishes, I hate doing the dishes." Becomes... Well, I am grateful for being in a space in my life that allows me to have a sink, in an apartment, and food to eat, which dirties up my dishes. I am privileged to live in this space and have these dirty dishes. I think I'll just do them and be thankful, even though it sucks.

"My job doesn't pay me enough." Becomes... Thank goodness I have a job, when so many others do not. I am privileged to have this job, even though sometimes it sucks.


Recognizing privilege isn't a bad thing, it's a necessary thing. It keeps you in check and allows you to be a kind, more compassionate person who doesn't take things for granted and is willing and able to see that others may not have access to the same things that you do. Do that. It's good for you. You're welcome.

Failed Attempts

Hi. I was supposed to write here. At least once a week, and I'm thinking I've failed.

It's okay. I've been going through some stuff. I had a boyfriend for a minute, but it turns out I'm not cut out for that kind of thing. Every few years I give it a shot, but the result is always quite upsetting for everyone involved.

You see, I'm already a mom, and I seem to attract people that want a mom, but I am not willing to be a mom to anyone that isn't my son. So there you go.

My son however, is amazing and continues to impress me with his awesomeness every single day.

Yesterday I spent time with a good number of people that I genuinely love. Love the hell out of them. It reminded me how important our friends are.

Spend time with the people that rock your world. As often as you can. Wrap yourself up in them, it's important.

Liminal Space

I worked for a long time today (yesterday?) I worked at two of our locations... my office in the fancy part of town and the clinical location. In between those two places is the official downtown part of SF. So after my meeting at the clinical location I started to walk back to my office. That means I went from the financial district, through the tenderloin, and then back down past the government buildings, and then decided that I would just get on BART and go home.

I think that liminal space is essential. The in between. The parts that are working hard to become, maybe someday, the other parts. The parts that aren't always recognized. I love those parts.

I made a vow somewhere that I would write. Not much, but that I would do it. So that's all you get now.

That we are all living in some kind of liminal space. That maybe the only real space is the liminal.

We are all in between, on our way to becoming one thing or another. Let's embrace that. It's important.

Broken

It's something that we all are, at least a little bit.

It happens to some of us really early on, and others not until later. I'm starting to believe though, that by at least your mid thirties, something about you is going to be a little broken. And that's ok. It really is. It makes you more human, more compassionate, more understanding, and more interesting.

I feel like in order to really exist, in the most complete way, you have to have known both absolute joy and absolute desperation. You have to have known pain and to have suffered, at least a little bit, in order to experience true empathy. And I think that empathy is essential.

We are all we have you guys. Us, you and me. The friends, family, colleagues, and even the strangers. The randoms on the street. This is what we have. So why not just embrace it? In all of its broken glory. Help each other and be fucking good to each other.

It seems so simple.


My son turned 14 an hour and a half ago, in his eyes, though truth be told I think that more accurately he turns 14 in about 5 hours. I was never the kind of mom that remembered the exact time. I was too tired. I don't think that makes me a bad person. I know what's important and it isn't the time of day that he was born, it is rather that he was born at all, and that I let him fall hard into my heart. He has stayed there for a long time and I can't see him going anywhere anytime soon. He thinks he's halfway out the door. On his way to being a full blown grown up.

But he still tells me that he loves me. Often. Without fear and without being forced. He says it at random, while running back and forth from his den of video games to the kitchen or the bathroom or a friend's house. He is the best part of me, made whole and alive and separate all at once. He is the best part of a broken me. And as a human, he will have broken parts too, and likely does already. I have space for all of him always, love for him always, even the broken him, the grown up him, the him that needs me less and less all the time.

I guess I break more as I write this. And that's ok too. In the morning I will make blueberry pancakes and he will open his presents and then he will play video games with his friends and I will be a shadow. Then for dinner we will make veggie sushi together because it's his favorite and that's that. Another day, another year, my heart always growing so that he will fit.

We adapt. We grow. We have to.

Leopard print

It's like this pseudo jungle. I built it for myself out of one night stands and failed attempts at being exceptional. I've noticed that I must be doing this wrong because I hit enter to try to get line breaks and it all just looks like one big chuck of writing when I post it. I fail at some things in life. I think we all do, but I'm willing to admit it. I think many are not able to do that. Like for example, this one space after the end of a sentence thing is hard for me and even though I know that I should be doing something else to make my line breaks show up, I will probably just keep doing it this way. I will probably end up with two spaces after each sentence end that I intended to be a line break. Or maybe not. Who knows. It's after 3am and I should probably be sleeping, but since I don't have to work I am totally unconcerned about that fact. So I will sleep in. Most of the day probably and that's totally acceptable to me. My son is a teenager now so he is also still awake, because he doesn't have school in the morning so why should I impose some bullshit sleep time on him? I do hate to be a hypocrite. So he is up and I am up and we will both sleep in and then when I go back to work and he goes back to school we will both shut it down at normal people hours. I have discovered, as a parent, that treating him like a human being has been the most effective way to get him to also treat me as a human being. He's a kind person. It's lovely to watch. I said I was going to write here at least once a week. This is what you get for tonight. I just hit "preview" and there were no line breaks, and not even the two space thing happened. I have to learn how to make that happen. No one reads large blocks of text anymore. Twitter dumbed everyone down to just a few lines. I get it.

Ponytails

I don't know. This title probably doesn't mean anything. I took a walk around the city today during work. I noticed all these little things. Things that people probably don't usually notice, or at least I don't imagine that they notice them. Like when the wind is blowing a little bit, the leaves on the ground move around like they are slithering, like they are crawling, like they are making a great escape, like they are trying not to be stepped on. Some of them though? They seem more like they ARE trying to be stepped on. Little suicidal leaves with a death wish. Maybe they know that the world is supposed to end tomorrow. Or maybe they are among those who instead think that tomorrow marks the beginning of a shift in consciousness. We won't ever know. Not until someone discovers a way to speak to leaves, and to understand their language and intentions. Then it was wine o'clock. In the office. One of the execs is leaving. I'm trying to start using only one space after each sentence. It's difficult. We get so trained to do things a certain way, so conditioned to do the right thing (or at least what we believe to be the right thing.) Shifting is hard. And I feel like there is a lot of shifting going on. In my own life, in my son's life. In the lives of my friends, my family, my colleagues. We are constantly re-imagining ourselves and the world around us. I have a weird fascination with ponytails. The way that we can get so attached to something as bizarre as the hair that grows out of our skulls. Dead already by the time we see it. Yet we keep it there, wash it, and touch it, and take really good care of it. Most of the time. Yet we so rarely take care of each other. We should take better care of each other.

Don't bother me, I'm writing.

A friend of mine commented the other day to just write one thing every day, even if it's just a sentence. So in light of that, I am writing one thing here. It's more than one sentence, because how can one only write just one sentence? I want for us to be more real, more authentic in our interactions with one another. Not like, me & you as some anonymous reader (as though anyone reads this!) Rather, us, as humans. Let's hug more. Talk about our feelings more. Share more, and touch each others' motivation for existing. Let's do that.

3-4 Hours per night

Dear people of the internet, Every night I say to myself, and often I say it to whomever I am chatting/talking/hanging out with... "I ABSOLUTELY HAVE to get to bed before 2am." This is usually around 10 or 11pm. Then I isolate, get in my head, and start writing something, or reading something, or doing something completely useless on the internets. Then, before I know it, it's almost 2am again. 3-4 hours of sleep per night. That's what I usually function on. Usually I take extra long naps on the weekends to make up for it, but lately I haven't been able to do that because of the THINGS and STUFF that I've been doing. 3-4 hours of sleep. It's not much. Not enough, that's for sure. And so, here we are, and it is exactly 1:25am as I write this. I will get maybe 3-4 hours of sleep tonight. The thing is... it's sort of ok. Because I'm happy. I really am. It's strange. Happiness. It's a bizarre concept. I'm learning to work with it. To welcome it. To appreciate it for what it is. No judgement.

I suppose this is a space for writing

Writing. It's this thing that I once did for fun. Then I did it for school. Recently I've been doing a bit of it for work. What's missing is the fun part. When I started writing here I was all excited, hopeful, ready for anything! I am now working in mental health. I don't even do the really hard work with people, just research, and it's exhausting, I have to say. We are working on a couple of projects now that will attempt to bring better, more person-centered care to those who have literally been left in the gutter to rot. That however, is not why I'm here. I'm here to talk about writing. About how important it is to use your words. My son is about to turn 14. How insane is that? He asked me what he could possibly get me for xmas and I said "dude, write something for me." Simple! And it should be simple. Words bring us together, allow us to understand little pieces of one another that would otherwise go unnoticed. It's important that we see those glimpses. It's imperative. We need one another. Let's do this man.

Working mama...

So the opening night of this exhibit of the history of the agency I work for is tomorrow night. This means that I will be working well into the evening. No complaints though! I can't wait to see the exhibit and I'm sure it will be super awesome. This week has been total insanity (like every other work week) and I just get so excited about working for such a neat place.

Our big event Tuesday went really, super well and there were only 4 of us that made it happen. It was a far bigger success than any of us planned on it being and the feedback we got was amazing. Even though I play a very small, insignificant role in what my division is doing, just being a part of it and really feeling appreciated for the role I do play is really rewarding.

It feels weird to type that kind of thing. I'm in such a different space than I've ever been before. This job is really important to me, not just because I have a regular paycheck, but because I totally believe in what is being done here and it's so different than what I'm used to feeling about a job. Today I was asked to write an article about one of the programs that we have been running - our simulated evaluations (part of which was recently discussed and filmed for a short clip on PBS) and I feel like this is another opportunity for me to show them what I am capable of. I am being paid to write an article about something that will be published! It's like I'm a little baby journalist!

I still do mundane things like order food and sometimes make coffee and copies, but it's in a fun "event planner" way instead of an "office bitch" kind of way. The difference is really significant for someone that has been "office bitch" before.

Ok. I have to find something to wear for tomorrow, oh and sleep more than 5 hours. Meep.

Times are changing man...

Well I just realized that it's been quite some time since I let my four avid followers know what was up in the life of Nico. So here's the scoop:

You all know that I graduated in May, moved, sent my son to DC, and was horribly unemployed for months on end with not an interview in sight. Things were looking mighty gloomy.

Well in December that all changed. I somehow was able to land a job in the research division of the most amazing non-profit social service agency in San Francisco and have since been caught up in a whirlwind of busy work days, long commutes to the city, and the most fulfilling job I've ever had. I'm thrilled! I'm about to finish my first month and I have to tell you - anyone that says you can't get a job with a BA in anthropology is WRONG! That or I'm the luckiest girl ever. My degree is completely relevant to my new job and it's so exciting to be a cog in a machine that is working to do good things. Everyone I work for and with is lovely and kind and passionate about the work being done at the agency. It makes getting up early a little easier to do. I don't want to name any names, but the place I am working for has been around since the late 1800s and is quite possibly one of the first social service agencies in SF. I adore what I do, I adore what the company does, and I couldn't be happier with the way things turned out.

So a big huge THANK YOU!!! to everyone that helped me get here, both emotionally and financially. Since I work for a non-profit social service agency, the money isn't the best, but being able to go to work and be proud of what I do is more than enough compensation for that.

So there you have it! I am well, the kiddo is well. Things are good :)

Oh the bay...

The bay area that is, Berkeley in particular. I LOVE IT. I do. I have made some super amazing friends, the kind that make you feel good about just being alive, just by being near them. The kind you want to sort of rub up against so that you can get a little of what they have. The kind that light up rooms.

I went to a little dinner party tonight that was thrown by a couple of them. Dasan and I just dig them! And while the people are awesome, even the walk to the BART station was lovely... the whole neighborhood smelled like the most wonderful flowers. And even the BART ride was awesome! We looked out at the lights of the houses and the moon and the stars and both Dasan and I were just talking about how much we like it here. How it just feels good to be here.

I never thought I could love a place that didn't have a beach, but I guess I was wrong.


My mom always said that I used to tell her when I was like 2 years old that I wanted to dye my hair black and run away to San Francisco, turns out the whole time I needed to bleach my hair blonde and run away to Berkeley.

Just try to love the life around you...

I have been sick.
Dasan has returned from DC.

I want to fill in all the details, but most of it's just heard through the grapevine anyway.

Truth be told, I need to write more. I used to write every single day - good stuff too. At some point I lost my teenage/early 20's angst and got all wrapped up in being a mom and a student and an employee and all that and I lost one of the things that I loved, that I was good at, that made me always feel better and more connected to who I AM.

Maybe what I wrote was sad or nostalgic or depressing or hopeful, but it was MINE, for me, and it worked. I would watch some dramatic indy film or listen to some sad song for hours and then I would sob and sob and get it all OUT.

I think that's why I've been sick. Those feelings are poison. Better poison on a page than in my space.

So that's my goal. I'm going to get a new notebook, oh yes that's write, I'm talking about actual paper and pen, and I am going to fill it up.

Sleeplessness...

When I was still in community college I took a creative writing class. Our final was to turn in a chapbook.

In mine, the dedication was a Vonnegut quote.

It read: "A purpose in human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved."

It was from his book, The Sirens of Titan.

I think I want that as one of my next tattoos. I already have one Vonnegut tattoo, but in this case I think getting a second would be just fine.