Grown Ups Don’t Tell

Words mama and daddy never say…

Little girl, no one cares what you get. Awards in a box. Degrees in a drawer. The boss man, the next door neighbor, the postman, ain’t no one going to care about what you’ve done, what you’ll do. The self is what’s on their mind. 

Miracles. God’s intervention. But no one likes to talk about the non-miracles. The times when God’s head seems turned away. Doesn’t it say just as much when a God chooses not to act? Inaction has powerful revelations, too. Ask the bodies of dead Jews, gypsies, gays, of women called witches and burned at stakes…Why didn’t God CHOOSE to act, to create a miracle when whole worlds seemed to cry out, to ask for God to come down from on high. And after all these years, the history, the atrocities, it isn’t enough to say God is a mysterious being, can’t go understanding the incomprehensible…then don’t be giving credit for the good if you can’t give credit for the bad.

Lives are webs woven of experience and lies, and to find anything of real truth is a difficult, but deeply cherished thing.

This is a world of the Lost. Life didn’t go their way. And they fill up on tv, internet, drugs, and drink to make it better. To feel a lot of nothin’. When you find solace in one of these things, don’t be fearful, find a new way, get out, run, curse what everyone else has become. 

These are things that go unsaid. Don’t know why. Had I known this a bit younger, how different things would have gone. No use in crying, it can’t be undone. Just keep an eye to the future, weave it how I see fit. And in my pocket the fading words of Isadora…”You were once wild here. Don’t Let them tame you.”

Elevator Conversations

Riding in an elevator with strangers has proven fruitful conditions for some of the most awkward social interactions and conversations I’ve ever had. The first came during the first week of moving in. I had a shopping buggy stuffed with my burnt orange comforter, cream yellow sheets, and pillows and found myself riding in an elevator with a young woman. I’m prone to laughing at random, sometimes it’s about a current something at that moment, but often my mind spontaneously decides to recall an experience or a statement that sends me into laughter. Anywhere from a short giggle to a full, robust laugh. As the elevator started, I thought about how odd it was to be pushing my oversized comforter and sheets in a tiny grocery buggy let alone riding up an elevator with it. I laughed gently, and the woman looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, “Case of the sillies?” with a bit of a skewed tone. So, I told her why I was laughing, but I suppose I was more amused because she didn’t think it as funny. I realize that when I have a random bought of laughter that most people are either insecure or narcissistic enough to think it’s about them, and really, it’s almost to the point that I’m willing to voice that observation to them and remind them how ridiculous they are for being either or both, especially with a stranger. Really, so close.

The next strange encounter came when I was on the elevator with an attractive man, sweaty from exercising, and just so delicious for my eyes. I was elated to learn we’re on the same floor, granted I’ve never run into him since. During the brief ride up, we said some barely audible ‘hello’es and not even halfway up, my flip flop breaks. Damn, cheap Old Navy shoes. The door opens, I think he waits for me to go first since I’m a woman, and I just smile and motion for him to go ahead because I surely don’t want this hot piece to see me attempt to walk on a broken flip flop before saying screw it, and walking barefoot to my door. Having no other shoes in the apartment, I had to make an unplanned trip to my dad’s, but first, had to figure out how to McGiver my flops. No duck tape. No scotch tape. No super glue. No puddy. So, I find myself using band aids to secure the strap, which lasted long enough to get to the elevator, the first floor, and almost out the second set of double doors before breaking again. 

Another awkward conversation came began at the entrance doors when I opened a door for a middle aged man carrying several grocery bags. He said, “Don’t worry, I handle big loads all the time.” I nodded and pushed the button for the elevator, thinking maybe I should have considered a detour to the cafe/market to evade this elevator ride coupling. Once again he reiterates his previous statement, “I’m used to carrying heavy things all the time. This is a light load today. But I carry heavier a good bit.” I’m starting to think this is an odd come on, like he’s using ‘heavy things’ as a secret metaphor for his capability to handle a non-skinny woman, i.e. me. Then I picture him hoisting me up against a wall, and briefly imagine how strange that encounter would be…or would it? Dammit, Priscilla, gross, stop it. And I shake the image out of my head. He says he just got back from the gym, goes every day. “Oh, I remember the gym,” I laugh.  Luckily, the door opens, and I say, “Be sure to take some ibuprofen for inflammation.” He gawks, “Only natural stuff. Ginger for starters…” and then he starts listing off a list of natural supplements as the door shuts. Oh my freakin’ god, why do I say anything. 

And though this isn’t an ‘elevator’ conversation, it still occurred in my apartment complex. I stop by the the market aka well stocked convenience store to purchase a cheeseburger and a soda. As I wait, the clerk asks if she can ask me a questions. Sure, I suppose. I’ve only seen her one other time before this to order a hot dog that ended up being cold. This leads to a ten minute diatribe of her helping out her boyfriend’s cousin, a recovering drug addict, who moved in with them but refuses to pay for rent though she’s on the lease. Somehow this then turns into her living all the way out in past Ravanell, doesn’t make jack squat at the market, has threatened to quit but they won’t give her raise, and how in two year’s she’s helped them turn the market from a filthy, piss poor stop to a clean, organized place of business. “Who do you think suggested the slurpie machine, or the baked goods, or these snack stands?” Really…like seriously…you’re priding yourself on a freakin’ slurpie machine? Oh, jesus, is my cheeseburger ready…

I find it odd that dozens of seconds in an elevator ride can produce some of the strangest conversations, but perhaps that brief space and time of the ride reveals people as they are, no frills or facades, just the raw…and for once, I wish they’d keep it to themselves. Unless, I up the ante on awkward, and do a photo series of people in the elevator…haha, oh then no one would ever talk to me in that place.

Krishnamurti: On Fear

While on holiday, I took along several books, but only managed to break open Krishnamurti’s book On Fear. The book is filled with excerpts from talks and Krishnamurti’s journal entries on the topic of fear. It’s a small read, but I still haven’t finished it. But I did want to post some excerpts that I found poignant. Likely there will be a near future post where I take what I’ve read and apply it to my own personal fears, breaking them down to notice the full extent of their nature, though really all fears are just fear regardless of the manifestations they undertake. 

 

Page 15

So there is in our life this constant state of comparison, competition, and the everlasting struggle to be somebody – or to be nobody, which is the same thing. This, I feel, is the root of all fear, because it breeds envy, jealousy, hatred. Where there is hatred there is obviously no love, and fear is generated more and more.

Page 40

But a word brings fear or pleasure into being through association and remembrance. We are slaves to words and to exasmine anything fully, to look, we must be free of the word. If I’m a Hindu and a Brahmin, a Catholic, a Protestant, an Anglican, or a Presbyterian, to look I have to be free of that word, with all its associations, and that’s extraordinarily difficult. The difficulty disappears when we are passionately inquiring, examining. 

Page 43

Fear ceases only when there is direct contact…To die means that you have to die every day, not just twenty years from now. You die every day to everything that you know, except technologically. You die to the image of your wife; you die every day to the pleasure you have, to the pains, the memories, the experiences. Otherwise you can’t come into contact with them. If you do die to them all, fear comes to an end and there is a renewal. 

Page 45

You know fear is also used to civilize man. Religions throughout the world have used fear as a means of controlling man. Have they not? They say that if you do not do certain things in this life, you will pay for it in the next life. Though all religions preach love, though they preach brotherhood, though they talk about the unity of man, they all subtly, or very brutally, grossly, maintain this sense of fear.

Page 47

Most of us are very conservative. You know what that word means, you know what it is to conserve? To hold, to guard. Most of us want to remain respectable and so we want to do the right thing, we want to follow the right conduct, which, if you go into it very deeply, you will see is an indication of fear. Why not make a mistake, why not find out? But the man who is afraid is always thinking ‘I must do the right thing, I must look respectable, I must not let the public think what I am or not’. Such a man is really, fundamentally, basically, afraid.

Page 48 

But the difficulty is: when there is fear, we do not create. A person who is afraid can never find truth or God. Behind all our worships, all our images, all our rituals, there is fear and, therefore, your gods are not gods, they are stones. 

Page 59

Fear and love cannot exist together. In this country there is no love. There is devotion, reverence, but no love. Devotion to your guru, to your gods, to your ideals, is self-worship. It is self-worship because you have created your guru, your ideals, your gods; you have created them, thought has created them, your grandfather has, and you accept this because it satisfies you, it gives you comfort. So what you are devoted to is yourself. Swallow that pill and live with it! 

Page 71

Thought is responsible for fear; also, thought is responsible for pleasure. One has had a happy experience; thought thinks about it and wants it perpetuated. When that is not possible there is a resistance, anger, despair, and fear. So thought is responsible for fear as well as pleasure, isn’t it? This is not a verbal conclusion; this is not a formula for avoiding fear. That is, where there is pleasure there is pain and fear perpetuated by thought; pleasure goes with pain, the two are indivisible. 

Page 76

What brings this division between you, your wife or your husband, and your children? Division is disorder. Muslim and Hindu, Jew and Arab, Communism, totalitarianism, and freedom. These opposites are the essence of disorder. So what brings about disorder in our relationships, with the most intimate and the not so intimate? Have you ever thought about it?

Page 84

Fear itself, not the various forms of fear. See how we break up fear. That’s part of our tradition, to bring about a fragmentation of fear, and therefore be concerned with only one type of fear. Not with the whole tree of fear, but a particular branch, or a particular leaf of it. The whole nature, the structure, the quality of fear – in observing that very closely, in the very watching there is the revelation of the causation – not you analyzing to find out the cause but the very watching showing the causation, which is time and thought. 

Page 85

So thought and time are the central factors of fear. Thought is not separate from time. They are one. These are the facts. This is the causation of fear. It is a fact – not an idea, not an abstraction – that thought and time is the cause of fear. It is singular. 

Page 86

The self-interest in our life is the cause of fear.

Herstory

I’ll keep this brief…go vote.  

Ok, I should elaborate more. There’s a photography contest called Name Your Dream Assignment, which seems to be legit. And the award is more than any photographer could ask for, $50,000 to pursue your dream project. The top 20 with the most votes will go on to a final judging by professionals, where the winner will be chosen. No matter who is awarded the prize in the end, I hope the images captured and the journey trekked will be a compelling visual narrative for all communities. Below is the link to my idea, but I also suggest perusing others as you can vote for multiple people (just not more than once for the same idea). 

Herstory

Insider vs Outsider

In Religious Studies, fieldwork is an expected practice, and when introduced to approaching fieldwork, it is quickly taught the potential dilemma that will arise: Insider vs Outsider. 

Insider is the person or group being studied. The outsider is the scholar. Being an outsider causes limitations both needed and impeding when conducting fieldwork. As an outsider, one automatically has a different understanding of anything seen or spoken by the group because that scholar comes in with personal biases, constructs from his or her society, and sometimes, paradigms of the academic world that only permit certain interpretations or theories to be published or accepted in the mainstream. The easiest example would be when Catholic priests would go into indigenous tribes around the world. They interpreted that group’s rituals through the scope of understanding within Christian teachings and beliefs. Therefore, a ritual to a particular deity would likely be interpreted as heretical, demonic, and so on because the point-of-view of the priest was constructed by different societal structures and religious beliefs. However, the ‘outsider’ status is necessity because it maintains enough metaphorical distance that the scholar can still analyze and critique the group’s beliefs and practices. (Note: critique isn’t meant in the negative sense)

But, this still creates a predicament. An outsider will remain too distant, too ignorant of the group’s practices, if there isn’t some stepping over into ‘insider’ domain. To know the language and comprehend through the contextual meaning the people do, to live with the people, to not only witness ritual but perhaps participate in it and all the while, attempting to suspend enough of one’s own beliefs long enough to make the leap to understand someone different. But this too can be problematic because where does a scholar draw the line between insider and outsider? When does too much of one or the other corrupt or jeopardize the research? And there really doesn’t seem to be a conclusive answer.

I’m bringing this up because I’m facing the same ‘Insider vs Outsider’ dilemma in my photography. Perhaps not to the same extent. But today served as an example of how I teeter on that border, never wanting to fully commit to one or the other. I attended a candlelight vigil to commemorate 50 years of Tibetans’ plight, to remember those tortured and murdered, to vocalize the atrocities committed by China, to ask with our hearts for peace. Immediately, I stand out with my camera not being the tiny point-and-shoot. I always explain I’m a freelance photographer because I’m not hired on with any publication nor do my images ever get published unless an image from an event is needed and it just happens no other photographer working for a publication went (I usually leave this part out). But I notice the skepticism that comes as well; I’m not necessarily trusted. And anyone has reason to be skeptical, and after all, I prefer people practice good hermeneutics even if it revolves around me. 

Personally, before going into an event, I determine an ethical or etiquette code to follow, with allowable adjustments depending on how things unfold. When it comes to religious events, I’m especially cautious. I refrain from photographing during prayers, moments of silence, and usually will consult someone about any particular restrictions I may not be aware of. An example is when I photographed a Native American Pow Wow, there’s no photography permitted during the opening ceremony and dance, and I would not have known had I not talked with the organizers; so, though I usually advocate “do and ask forgiveness later,” I don’t in the case of religious and spiritual events because if bonds of trust are so quickly tainted, that group will never want me to attend another event nor will I meet people who can help connect me deeper into that world.

As the event began, people circled around a small table with candles and an area with a mic where several speakers stood nearby. I stayed to the sidelines with the group, but maintained a front position. The crowd was small, an intimate gathering, so I decided to choose a spot wisely based on the setup and not move too much, perhaps only kneeling or small shifts to the side because I didn’t want to distract. When they prayed, I put down my camera, when there was a ten minute moment of silence, my camera was off; when they handed out candles after the opening speeches, I took one and did my best to not let my flame die (it did twice, eek). My behavior leaned a bit more towards the ‘insider,’ but due to respect, my background in Religious Studies, and my personal history and interactions with those in Dharamsala. 

There was another photographer there, obviously professional with his long lens and hood cover, which it was overcast so I wasn’t sure why he even bothered with a hood cover, but I digress. He moved around constantly. He didn’t take a candle and actually stepped away for several minutes during the moment of silence. And all this isn’t really that bad, but what did irk me was during the group prayers, he walked into the middle of the circle on several occasions to photograph the table of candles. And I’m just sort of looking at him, wondering if he realizes how obnoxious he’s being by stepping into the empty center enveloped by a crowd and getting right in front of the speakers while they’re reciting prayers aloud? It was just sort of tacky. Tacky because that was a particular image he could have gotten at another time. It’s a shot that requires a closeup, macro frame, but it wasn’t the type of image I’d even consider being obnoxious for. When people started accepting candles, I stood to the side to photograph the more ‘intimate’ images I wanted, but I didn’t push people aside or interrupt a poignant moment. He was a complete ‘outsider,’ perceiving the situation from a standpoint of photographer only. What shots do I need? When the opportunity comes to get those shots, take it. Find different angles. And so on. 

I understand his thought process as a photographer. But I also understood the purpose of the event, the type of gathering it was, and indeed, I sacrificed some good shots because of my choice to behave a certain way. 

In my short time as a photographer, I’ve learned two things very quickly. The first, a lot of people say they’re a photographer. I have never met so many photographers in my life until I became one. Seriously. And the second involves photographers’ etiquette. Many people I meet who aren’t photographers usually have a story about an obnoxious photographer they’ve encountered whether it’s been at an event, a friend’s wedding, their own wedding, etc. I’ve taken those stories a bit to heart, knowing I don’t want to be that type of photographer. The more that I can make myself ‘unseen’ though clearly visible, the better. And that ability to be ‘unseen’ in plain sight is possible when many variables are weighed and varying strategies and techniques are used to make me insignificant in a person’s or group’s awareness within that moment. And in truth, I find that to be the key in capturing a moment. It doesn’t always work out like I want, and I don’t always get the photographs I want, but this method has given me enough good/great images that I consider it effective.

So, the dilemma of ‘Insider vs Outsider’ now finds itself in my photographic ventures. I keep wondering when Religious Studies will stop popping up in each facet of my life, but it is a steadfast thing. Granted, one could say my personal scope is merely biased based on the constructs of my field of study…and I couldn’t say that’d be wrong.

Photograph of the Week

 

Photographed is the Venerable Geshe Dakpa Topgyal during a candlelight vigil to commemorate 50 years of Tibetans’ plight for freedom and human rights. The ceremony took place at Colonial Lake in Downtown Charleston. A small gathering that was intimate and poignant. Lovely simple. Just words, prayers, dixie cup candle abodes, and silence, remembrance and love projected to the world.

Music

I realized something about myself this week. I have a sudden need for silence. Well, not sudden, I just haven’t noticed it all these months. I come home from work, and I am so agitated that I want to be isolated and hear no words, no movement, even the soft shuffle of feet walking down the hall irks me. 

I tried to find the source of this, how I can reach such an elevated state of noise irritation that I want no sound. I’m primarily an auditory learner, and working in an open office has disadvantages for a person like me. I can hear chatting, paper shuffling, stapler dropping, fax machine dialing, and so on up to ten feet away. My ears so sensitive to the slightest wave of sound. So, not realizing, this affects my concentration, like a subtle antagonist. And if my stress level is further elevated, it just amplifies all this. I asked to be removed from people. It was seriously considered, even though my need for isolation and quiet seemed somewhat a concern, but in the end, it was decided others would interpret it wrong. They’d think me favored for having my own space rather than realizing it was helping ensure my sanity and letting me work in peace. 

This week, we also had annual evaluations, which went quite well for me. I had no worries about the caliber of my workmanship and professional ethics and neither did my bosses. But the one area of concern I knew would come up is my assertiveness…well not exactly. Basically, I take the initiative to handle problems, to fix them, and I make people aware of what went wrong in the process hoping they’ll learn from the mistakes and manage to not commit the same missteps in the future. However, a year and half later, this hasn’t been effective. People still make the same errors, sometimes maliciously, and then I’m held accountable for making sure we receive payment. I’m the first to be yelled out when something reaches over 30 days old. I’m tired of being the only one held accountable for something I have no involvement in until the end. So, for those that maliciously go against the process or don’t have proper authorization, I will recommend they be written up. Evidently, this is outside my bounds aka I offended egos. Was e-mailed by someone that he is a professional and shouldn’t receive an email like that. My response, “As professionals, I have the expectation that everyone will do their job correctly. It isn’t fair for someone to be paid when missteps are preventing the business from being paid.” And of course I assuaged ruffled feathers by stating my intention wasn’t to offend, but that people are abusing the privilege to use certain accounts. Anyway, this sort of thing was brought up in the evaluation. That I should go through more of a bureaucratic  process. My argument was that process is in no way efficient or guarantees a suitable results i.e. resolving the situation as quickly as possible. And that’s precisely how I dissect a problem. What information do I need to gather to properly understand what went wrong, what is needed to fix this? Who do I need to absolutely involve to get this done? Will their help assist in rectifying this problem or impede it? Is it quicker to do it myself? And so on. Because of this, I have clean schedules, my accounts are in good standing, and I’ve managed to fix aged problems that had been over a year old. And now I’m being told it’s not my job to fix them, that management should handle those that aren’t following the process and enforce the rules, and I honestly yelled, “Bullshit.” This started quite a dispute, yelling, crying, fighting about what he was saying versus what has actually occurred. How conceptually that was fine but in execution always fails and the burden is on me to fix it. I’m told we can’t change people; so, I should stop trying to. And I’m wondering if that’s the case, why bother asking me to change? So, in the end, an actually great evaluation took a horrid turn. When I felt we had reached a stopping point, I just walked out. 

They told me life isn’t fair. That they never thought they’d be in this business all these years. That they had other intentions and dreams. I just looked at them, and I said, “Twenty years from now, I don’t want to be saying the things you are now.” And I could see the cold shiver that went down the spines. 

So, my problem is I care too much. And I decided I’ll make the effort to comply to the bureaucratic process. I’ll go through the “chain of command” and will do nothing to personally resolve a situation even if I can fix it in a matter of minutes. My job is to find the problems, gather info, and make people “aware” so that they can fix it. And if stuff ages, fine, let it sit on that schedule for as long as needed. And I’ll just say, I followed your process, which works so much better than the one I was using. 

Anyway, since my disenchantment has reached new levels I didn’t think possible, my new tactic is to just do my job (or to the point I can now without stepping outside my bounds) and pushing out everything around me. I’ve managed to do this quite well with the help of my Ipod, which I hadn’t used since purchasing it over a month ago. I just crank it up, and do my work. I don’t pick up the phone unless I feel it’s necessary, I don’t chat with anyone unless they won’t leave from behind my shoulder, and I basically just ignore everything around me. Make notes of people’s mistakes and make the necessary copies and e-mails backing up my finds. However this isn’t helping my jadedness or cynicism for the work place. 

But I’m noticing I have an inclination towards certain tracks, and I’ll replay them over and over and over. 

Johnny Cash’s “Hurt”

The Weepies “No one knows me at all,” “Living in Twilight,” and “Slow Pony Home”

Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor  

Alkaline Trio “This Could be Love”

Udit Narayan “Dhadak Dhadak”

Billy Bragg & Wilco “Over Yonder in the Minor Key” 

I’m not sure what this eclectic collage of music says about my mindset. A mixture of folk, Indian, alternative, and classical. But in the several days I’ve tried this, it has helped me maintain a lower stress level at work. However, this hasn’t eased the concern of what my need for silence (silence from people around me) and isolation really means, or to what grave extent I’m being effected by my work environment that these two things have even become an insatiable need to just do my job.

In the Land of Shiva: Part XIII

We rose with the sun in search of the holiest site in Sikhism. And I relished the plush green carpet beneath my feet, the Western showers, hot water pouring down, a four star hotel for the same price as a Motel 8 room in the States. It was luxury.

Not the same can be said for the taxi driver we reserved for the weekend. I discovered his bed was the backseat of the taxi, likely a quick face and ear wash with cold water in a bathroom nearby. He packed no change of clothes, np overnight bag for our two day journey, only his thinning button up shirt, pants, and a Punjabi music cassette that we’d listen to for over 5 hours that weekend. I thought it odd to memorize excerpts of a song in a language I didn’t speak, words whose meaning I failed to grasp. 

He left us in a parking lot. Melancholy buildings loomed around, Indian men’s eyes stared at these six Western women huddled together, whispering concerns, debating direction to step. The driver just waived for us to walk away, and hesitantly, we complied. But after five minutes, the same decrepit structures and eyes with different faces remained. It felt like post war Europe invaded with immigrants, and we panicked, racing back to the lot. Taxi and driver gone. Shit. Abandoned in Amritsar. 

We decided to retrace our steps thinking perhaps we didn’t go far enough. But nothing fit, nothing made sense. We were in search of a building of gold, but we were encompassed by forgotten structures, their facades faded and subdued. It would be like finding Eden within the bounds of a wasteland. 

After a ten minute walk and rounding a corner, we came to see this was indeed the case. Red and silver streamers glimmered in the morning light, a party at the edge of disaster. An immaculate structure encircled the Golden Temple, a threshold to be crossed, separating sacred from profane. 

Beneath a tent, we slipped off our shoes and handed them over in exchange for a chip. Within the tiled ground were basins of water. Slowly walking through, washing my feet of impurities so as not to taint holy ground. As I climbed the steps, a sliver of gold began to appear. At the top, all was revealed, a temple of gold that almost seemed to be floating on water. How the rising sun warmed its walls with light, causing it to radiate. 

At the sight of it, Haylee cried. Others wanted a moment of silent meditation. And I was in a state of horrific concern. Never would I share my thoughts at that precise moment with them, even with Jaye, nor with another when I returned home in the weeks to come. Before me was a building that invoked awe. That awoke the numinous and compelled people to to their knees, to prayer, to tears. But inside me, before that great temple, was a terrifying silence, a void of emotive fervor. So scared was I of this absent emotion that I almost broke down and wept. And the source of my tears would have been misinterpreted drastically.

The hallow state I felt then haunted me for so long after that day. I thought myself soul sick. How could a student of religions, so passionate about this discourse, feel nothing before one of the greatest temples in the world? And how could others that knew nothing of Sikhism, little of this temple, of its significance to Sikhs, could be struck so powerfully just at the sight of its walls? I evaded ruminating on this for months, fearing what I may unearth about myself in the process. I blamed it on the sickness waking from dormancy in my belly, the nausea and pepto chewables I ate like candy. Yes, it was illness, dehydration, a sick state of being that ruined my encounter with the Golden Temple. I knew this to be a lie, but I willed myself to believe it until the day I realized what had happened to me that day. A revelation that came almost an entire year later.

At the doors of the temple, sound changes. No longer can the ears distinguish between sounds. All there is is a series of voices, prayers, a chorus of bodies without a conductor to guide them. Men and women stand with eyes closed, hands pressed together all the while their mouths move. No room for air between brother and sister, feel the sweat of another, their breath upon your back. And the deeper inside the abyss of bodies, the sound rises, the mind hears nothing but hundreds of voices in indecipherable tongues and all that I can see is the center, the reason for bowed heads, and prostrations, tears and prayers. Roped off is three men and the sacred text, the eternal prophet of the Sikhs, the Guru Granth Sahib. 

Standing but several feet away, I am pushed, jostled, shoved away by pilgrims earnestly reaching towards the sacred heart of their being. Rupees are being tossed in, crumpled bills, meager coin change. Dozens on their knees, arms stretched towards men who hold folded orange fabric. These are blessed, to be worn by men upon their brow, but only if the right number of rupees fall to the ground. So many palms open, waiting to be filled. 

I am entranced. Paralyzed by so much before me. My eyes attempt to take it all in, I want to remember it all. And the voices make it difficult to focus. I see the intricate craftsmanship of its underbelly, vivid paints on all its walls, blues, oranges, whites, and the reflected light from its gold walls cascades inside. I cannot move, cannot dismiss these prostrating bodies, their prayers, the smell of their skin, the reading of scripture, too much in this place lives, too much to segregate in the mind. And then I feel my sickness rising, the heat of too many bodies causing my body to concede. Now I pray a silent prayer, “Don’t throw up in their sacred space. Do not throw up in their sacred space.” 

And I’m chanting this over and over in my head. Trying to inch my way towards the closest open space, a bit of air and perhaps I’ll be okay. And then I feel a quick slap across my head, then another. I turn to find an old woman, hair white and face pruned, berating me in Hindi. She slaps the side of my head again, and I jerk away from her, think her mad. But then she smacks her own head, and I realize my grave error. In the midst of my fixation and illness, my headscarf had slipped off, exposing my dark brown hair, a naked head before something so holy. I am horrified, and quickly adjust my scarf, tuck back my hair. All the while I’m apologizing in a language no one around me knows. Long ago was I separated from the others, now alone to face my gaffe. I’m inching away, giving a half bow, the only Hindi word I can think of is Namaste, no use in this context. But I think myself forgiven, for she laughed at me, then went back to her prayer. I managed not to vomit on sacred ground, but brandishing an uncovered head just may trump illness.

The experience and exertion of the morning had drained my energy. I was so tired that all I yearned for was the small cot and window air conditioning that awaited me back at the hotel. My belly and soul were soured, and I just wanted to retreat back to seclusion.

A year later, I once again confronted the void I felt at the sight of the temple. It was an issue I kept analyzing for months, wondering the extent of the illness in my soul. But one day, I realized why it had been such. In Religious Studies, it is said that one sees religion one of two ways: from the top down or from the bottom up. Those focused on the top are usually fixated with god(s), philosophy, abstractions, manifestations of the sacred, symbols, and so on. But those that start at the bottom likely never raise their head enough to even see the sky. The bottom is the people. The focus on the ritual, the internalizing of beliefs, the manifestation of religion in thoughts, speech, action, the union of spirituality and religion with a person, a community, a people.

Since the day I devoted myself to the study of religions, I have been a practitioner of from the bottom up. It is within the lives and stories of the people that I seek religion and spirituality, abstractions do little to entice and engage me, as is the same with gods and philosophy. I felt nothing at the sight of the temple, but was greatly overwhelmed within its walls, engulfed by hundreds of devotees. I sought to etch into my mind the images of praying, prostrating, puja, the smells, all I touched, the sensuality and spirituality that saturated that space.  It took so long for me to see, to realize, what truly invoked me, but the day that I finally understood this gave me insight I had lacked even into my own being.

Opposition to Prop 8

I almost stayed home. At my computer, editing away, I had already grown tired. Up early, two shoots complete, I just wanted to relax until Klash that evening. But something in me wrenched. Get up. Go. Take the camera. And I fought it with poor excuse. Then the mind turns on me with such scathing words to the self. Fake! Words and no action! What are your reasons? A quick look at the clock, fifteen minutes until gathering at Liberty Square, I grab my camera naked without its bag, and hop into the car to drive Downtown.

How glad I am for my blunt truthed mind. To be a part of a day, of a march, of a moment with those strangers who were really just my close friends in guise. Even without introduction, is each not still my brother, my sister, my friend, a reflection of me? And how potent it was.

“Gay, straight, black or white, we deserve equal rights…” and we march. Signs held high, a Southern born snake flag that boasts Don’t Tread on Me. We march. Young, experienced, white, black, male, female, straight, gay. This is my brother. This is my sister. This is my friend. This is my lover. In their eyes I see ALL. How can I not but love?

And we march. Horns honking in agreement. Slurs declaring us godless people. Some get out of passenger seats and join us. These are the voices of the unrested, of the diligent, of the hopeful. Open your eyes and ears. Hear our words. Extend an empathetical thought to try and understand. It’s quite simple. One sign said it all…The Gay Agenda: 1. Equality 2. See item one.

This is America rising. Rise up before it’s too late.

The End of Samson

So troubled, his mind, his urges. Just when it is all so well, it crumbles. I was afraid when he said he was home, left a no good town two hours away. My questions weren’t answered, always in piecemeal with him. A puzzle pieced story that takes days to get, extract from him the more he becomes at ease. I thought perhaps this time it wasn’t so bad.

Thursday night, I’ve painted with light, and I’m having a lite meal at a Mexican restaurant when he calls. Two days since I have heard from him, since I saw his face though I’ve called. Relapses scare me. It’s so easy for him to slip quick on that deep slope. I say meet me at the house in an hour. Ten minutes late, and he’s upset with me, why can’t I be on time?! Since when has it mattered? How about all the times he’s never showed up, never called, gotten lost in China doll’s house on the Phosphate? And he’s upset about my punctuality? We bicker, this is odd, what strange things for friends to argue about. I leave the room, sit at my computer, and wait, but nothing. He says I’m acting as a child, and I say how much older is he by not returning my calls for two days because I had upset him earlier in the week. I don’t understand the beginnings of this fight.

He didn’t start the job, I should have known then where those two days had gone to, but I didn’t push him. I was accused of thinking the worst happens. He leaves.

The next morning, at my cubicle, sleepy eyed and barely coherent, I received an automated call about a suspicious transaction on one of my credit cards. And then I knew. What he had done. Why he picked a fight so he’d have reason to leave.

Fool. Such a fool. A card that I don’t even keep on my person, and he knew. I called home and asked for the abandoned wallet of cards to be looked through. It was the only one gone. Samson, what has become of you?

I called him. Voicemail. I called his mother. She said he wasn’t home, that he came in the night before for a quick shower before leaving, before my house, no sight of him since. He has fallen again. Relapse. What house of ills does he slumber in now?

In all the years, the struggles, never has he trespassed against me like this. I’ve picked him up in the early morning hours, his eyes bloodshot, veins laced, shooing away crack whores and making threats to call police if he didn’t come with me. I’ve climbed through a window, bruised my body, in order to take him to rehab only to be told he didn’t feel up to going that day.  I have fed his belly and opened my pocket during each attempt at rehabilitation. So why steal from me? The person who has exceeded the bounds of loyal and love for him all this time.

I called again. Voicemail. This is what he would later hear: “Did you not think Chase would call me? Did you not think I’d ask someone to look in the wallet? I never want to see you again. I never want to talk to you again. You no longer exist.”

The end of Samson in my life. Ten years of friendship severed, all for a ten dollar fill up at a Kangaroo gas station.

It doesn’t matter the meager amount. It’s about trust, respect. Such sacred elements of any relationship. To break them is like desacralizing sacred ground. I am loyal until the end, and he has brought the end to fruition.

After I hung up, I cried, standing deep into the car lot so as not to be found, hiding between Silverados. Betrayal. Such a pain in my heart. Samson, you have slaughtered this friendship, its death on your hands.

Sleep on these thoughts. Hear my words. You don’t exist to me anymore. I want it to echo in your conscious, you don’t exist. Let it break your heart like you have mine. Let its ruin plague your mind. Forget me like I will forever desire to forget you.