mango tequilas under bitten moons

Just came in from a wonderful night with Roger and Kristine. We’ve been talking about this triple date thing for a long time and it has finally come to fruition. We had an amazing time, and not just because tequila was involved. We ate at Chango’s, this Cuban/Mexican upper scale $18 mango ribs typa spot. It was probably one of the best burittos I’ve had in a while. I also had a mango martini, which I’ve never had before. Swiftly becoming my favorite drink and hopefully not my newest craving. Roger, Kristine and I are a great threesome. We have really fantastic conversations that make me feel really energized about things, and life in general. When we’re talking about something interesting, all of our eyes light up, and when that happens, it’s like our lives are somehow lighting up too. We talked about the illusion of objectivity, the dichotomy of a fictional character such as Hannibal Lechter, and cubist art.

I’m feeling really good about things right now, everything except for my writing. I’m single again, and I know I made the right decision. Rene and I have kept our distance from each other, though we’ve talked and text messaged. His texts have been filled with affection and deep yearning. He says he has dreamed of me. I’ve stopped dreaming of him. I landed two jobs last week and I know that I’ll be fine for the time being. One with poets and writers—I’ll be teaching a creative writing course to senior citizens. I went to the site today to meet the directors of the organization…all very nice people. It was in the Bronx…way up there. Like the last stop on the 1 train typa shit. Anyways, I liked being there and my head is swirling with ideas on what types of activities to do with the seniors when I finally get them in my clutches come april 6. Then, later on in the afternoon, I went to the site of the second job that I got at the harlem children’s aide society. I’m a program coordinator for the bridge program, which is basically working with 12-14 year olds. I’ll be planning activities for them to help them broaden their scope on this world, sharpen their critical thinking skills and their artistic skills. It’s a really great position because I can make it kind of idiosyncratic. I can essentially do what I want. I have a budget and I can take them to museums, bring in guest speakers, whatever. Plus, i’m really interested in this age group and I’m really blessed that I’ll be working with them, college students and senior citizens all at the same time.

Like I said, the only thing is my writing. I just don’t know what’s happening. My body, my intellect, my spirit is a stirring pot. things are happening inside of me. Things are shifting, evolving, breaking out of themselves, morphing, doing all of these hurtful and wonderful things, but the pen can’t seem to capture any of it. And because I haven’t written anything that I’ve been happy with for a while, I’m placing too much pressure on the poem that is taking its time to come out right now. This poem about the Venus hotentot has been churning in me for months now. Now, its beginning to simmer and boil but I’m placing too much pressure on it to be good, because I want this poem to save me in ways that I may not really need to be saved. Damn, does that make any sense? We want to be saved from the art of failure, from the fear of talent loss. And if I write a good poem right now, I’ll be saved from the time being. How can a poem live itself out, and be itself under such pressure? I know this intellectually, but I’m still doing it. And, on top of that, I’m menstruating and I have this red ribbon pact that I really want to fulfill. So, what I really have to do is just chill out and let the poem ooze out as slowly and painfully as it needs to.

Menstruation is such a beautiful thing. This time around in particular, I’ve been so in tuned and so in love with everything about it. Yesterday, I felt so in much in my body, it was unreal. Because of that slow, often painful churn in my stomach, instead of popping a pill to alleviate the pain, obliterate it, I crawled inside of the pain, went to the source. As a result, even though I was in several public places (subway, bar 13’s poetry reading), I was completely and utterly in my body and loving it. Something that I could have gotten rid of became a source of empowerment. This is one of those things that I can never teach my daughter, or anybody. It’s something that I’ve learned to do and am glad for it. The power of changing your mind is as easy as it is amazing. Like every other girl, I used to think menstruation was disgusting. The ruby elixir on your pad, the smell unlike any other in the world, that torturous churn. Like Lucille Clifton says, “clots like you wouldn’t believe.” Now, all of that which I found ugly is now so unequivocally beautiful. All I did was change my mind. There’s a power in that that we often disregard. Really, more difficult in theory than it is in practice.