I went to a poetry reading at Cafe Mayapan, in El Paso Texas.

A poetry scene exists here. But I’ve been slunking around the city, caught still in emotional hangover after another emotional hangover. Honestly, once I feel I am about to thin out the troubles… other troubles appear.

I know that there is poetry to be had and heard in this city.

I went to festivities at the Library where the community celebrated availability.

I know that there is space to add my voice.

I am well aware that El Paso BWOMS, Barbed Wire Open Mic Series, hosts an open mic at a bar, really only a 30 minute stroll from my home. They do this every other Tuesday.

I know.

I know.

And somehow, but also as always, I find myself frozen.

Staring at a blank page with accumulating ideas, first passively suggesting it be allowed to claim that space… and then becoming tempest, dragging its hefty self along the curvature of my skull, scampering with temperment against a parietal plate that to my understanding took no damage on impact.

Honestly, if my poetry lived in zygomatic space I would understand the panicked frustration and pain. That part of my skull is numb and buzzy all the time.

But to be so hard headed, that I still struggle to write?

I know I am not so hard headed, because I attended a class with Greenfield and I was fine. I was writing. I was not so brain injured that I could not write. I was brain injured in a way that my Voice had changed but I was still writing.

I think, to a strongly settled understanding, that I liked New Naomi’s voice better. By far.

I did something foolish. After a successful semester of writing, I did the most foolish thing.

I put myself to work. I set aside my beloved things, always with the promise to dedicate my spare time to hold beloved things. Time and again, I have busied myself. It’s not the first time I have done this to myself.

I did this in college. If I wasn’t taking a creative writing course, I wasn’t writing. I was stressing about failing my single science class requirement… for the third time. Or organizing a non-profit fundraiser. Or monologuing about vaginal orgasms on a stage (also in a fundraising capacity, btw).

I did this after college. I didn’t land a job in education and rather than write… I drowned my frustration in Abita, Dark and Stormy’s and dancing in the streets.

Not that it was a bad way of dealing with things… But for crying out loud, I could have been writing. I could have been writing in New Orleans! I could have been writing down to the bottom of a bottle, with at least the beginnings of wine inspired creative frustration. And I could have whittled at them in the morning over chicory laced coffee.

The discovery that New Naomi had a more loved poetry Voice than Old Naomi *should* have set me straight. *Should* have set my direction.

The fact that I wasn’t working yet, and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of a brain injured life, *should* have given me all of the flags I needed to tell myself, “Don’t pick anything up. Don’t. Hold only Beloved Things. For now at least, just hold Beloved Things.”

They’d been waiting, you see.

Instead I resumed wearing the yoke of guilt, the English Major harness of panic…

WHAT AM I EVEN GOING TO DO WITH THIS DEGREE?!?! NOTHING??? I need to work. And if education work, poetry work, creative work, community work is not in your path... it doesn't matter. GET. TO. WORK.

But I could have made an abode in my brain for my poetry. I could have set myself a routine of daily, or at least weekly, visitation to attend to Beloved Things.

In any case, I went to a poetry reading tonight.

And of course, I’m inspired.

Because honestly--

I have a supportive partner that doesn’t want me grabbing just any job if it’s going to make me unhappy. So, months into my move, I still haven’t found placement. I have time to do the things that bring me joy.

I stuck with, for the most part, my Rosh Hashanah resolution to study more Torah.

And I have the typical NYE resolution to shed the depression weight.

As well as challenging myself to figure out my space as a yoga teacher.

Also… you know… get that drivers license.

Aside from all that… I am inspired. To make my writing a habit. To spend time with a Beloved that I know will have me… if I could just fucking sit still.

So delayed reaction New Years Even resolution.

Write more.

Dive into that pile of Old Naomi poetry that you know New Naomi wants to edit.

Go to a coffee shop, turn your phone off, and fuck around with some writing prompts.

Go to a bar, TURN. YOUR. PHONE. OFF, read an issue of Poetry Foundation and then scribble on each poem what you liked, what you hated and which style you’re gonna try to bite. Discover that some styles can’t be bitten, they’re already what you’re doing.

And fucking work on more Papel Picado designs.

For fucks sake.

A huge thank you to Yaccaira Salvatierra, Marisol Baca, Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, and Vanessa Angélica Villarreal.

Peregrinas, you inspired me to travel to a place, revist a space,  that I already knew I had to go.

“Get out of your head.”

Full disclosure, you have every opportunity to read this as me being “too sensitive” or “not seeing it from the other side.”
In fact, I am sensitive. I can be very sensitive. Primarily because I’m not being loaned a lot of help in the department of others trying to see it from my side.

I see you!

I don’t know why you won’t see me.

And you can look at it as me “playing the brain injury card” too. Go right ahead.

But I’ll let you in on something.

It is my card to play! It is actually MY ONLY HAND. Deck after deck of life, I am issued from the same cards as you. Only I have to see mine through TBI eyes. I do have to protect myself. I do have to educate you. And I do know that I’m not going to win.

It’s not a disadvantage. It’s not a disability. Not in my eyes. But you can’t see what I see. You don’t take time to slow down and think in my direction.
And that’s the burn.

I have to look through TBI eyes and then mindfully divide my mind to see it through your eyes too.
So that simple adage, tossed at me so frequently, “Get out of your head.” comes off as disregarding, inconsiderate, and sometimes a little mean.

I’m in my head so I don’t emotionally tailspin on you. I’m in my head so I can gauge the timeline of when I last ate and when I’ll need to eat again because TBI Hangry comes in two flavors-- checked out and on the verge of tears OR Bitchzilla (who will start crying once she eats). I’m in my head checking terrain so I can pre-negotiate with my hip, knee and ankle on where we need to go and how we’re going to get there. Safely if you don’t mind.

So when I straight up talk about my TBI and my physical injuries, share that information with anyone and everyone, I do it not to be obnoxious, lazy or to get out of something. I do it to protect myself.
My foot cannot reach past my ankle in Vrkasana  without me having a wall near by. I’m a funny little tree that keeps my hands in Pranamasana. I respect my body, knowing that balance actions send my ankles and right knee into a fire lick of pain. On a scale of 1 to 10, at least a solid and very distracting 3-4. If I don’t pay attention and negotiate that down, I might fail to find a deeper pain and hurt myself. Taking right foot up to the pose my hips don’t “square” quite the way you “expect”. That would be because my right hip was once dislocated and cracked and I was given a limited run with PT. I am, on a near hourly basis, negotiating to keep it from over extending, hyper extending, relying on the muscle memory of what it used to be able to do. It likes to SPLAY. Fall all out. Which would be fine, but then my leg goes cold, my toes tingle and I know I’ve found myself in some trouble.

I can, however, use Yin butterfly pose or bring myself to Restorative supported bound angle pose. I have control to chose the depth and time to find the right support. Better yet, more time to feel the sensation of the pose, adjust if needed, challenge if able (and those are always my best days!) and to top it off, my muscles, fascia, tendons, bones… and soul… all have time to communicate with each other and talk about where it is I can be now.

It’s fucking bliss.

Tell me to get out of my head when being in my head is what can bring me this.

And forgetting to be in my head will absolutely injure me.

Absolutely, this may limit my ability to find my voice as a teacher. I have been vocal in trying to advocate for myself. Recently I asked for insight on readings that I might pursue. I think it was mistaken as me trying to find my Voice in books.

It was not. It was me trying to research further into the mindset of the teachers and students of the studio so that I may shift my thought process.

I know I can talk too much. I find everything important and I’ve never really had support in refining Value in the words I use.

My school of thought, what works for New Naomi, is to have too much and bring it down to just enough. I just need friendly advice with finding what vibes with me and works for everyone else.
I have, on my journey into earning and using my RYT, been faced with the more commonly accepted school of thought, “Memorize and Recite.”

Problematic. My memory isn’t that great, unless I have Cornerstones. I teach Utkatasana as finding a seat at a child’s tea party. I can’t imagine anyone over doing it with their knees (because they would fall down at the party and how embarrassing would that be!) I prefer Parivrtta Utkatasana as a lead with the heart and not a janky elbow pull over knee action. Because that potentially, depending on how quickly you are moving and how your knees and shoulder blades feel about the situation… will have you closing up your chest, collapsing your lungs, and compressing your organs. You’ve just destroyed benefits. Not entirely true. You’re still on your feet! Great job!

And I totally get that most yogi are way past my elementary approach. But there are so many people that think they’ll never yoga again, can’t do yoga because they aren’t that flexible, won’t do yoga because their belly is too big, breasts are too large (no, I hear you, Balasana is child’s pose because as children we have nothing to get in the way of lining our chest along our thighs), some might have a have a janky bone they broke years ago and it’s never been the same since. My personal “Never Yoga Again,” I can’t move as fast as they tell me I should.

Shit. I am currently of the belief that if you do not have some time in the pose to breathe with, speak with yourself about where you are and where you can absolutely take yourself from here… well then what the fuck.

SWITCH.

I may find myself with a limited student demographic. I get that.
What I don’t get, what I struggle with, is not being able to find an ally in my community to help me refine my Voice. I’m told I’ll never find it unless I have practice.
But at this point I can’t even have a conversation with colleagues, without them forgetting everything I’ve said and correcting my hip in tree pose thus inviting my hip to splay or trying to straighten my leg and knee in Supta Padangusthasana causing a hyper extension knee lock.
I don’t know y’all. I might have a floating kneecap. So when I keep it bent, leave it alone. Or ask if you can move it.

Because I’m pretty sure we covered that in YTT, right?

I follow along with your flows, overworking a hip and soaking it in salt that night. I do it because I want to participate in listening to you, having you see students and bodies take your instruction.
So when I ask you to take Crescent pose, stepping your left leg back and bringing a bend to your right front knee *breathe* on your next exhale bring arms forward and straight with palms facing sky *breathe* on your next inhale drag your right hand across the length of your chest, across your heart and drawn back into Warrior Two *breathe*

It kinda hurts when I see you dropping yourself into Reverse Warrior before I even instruct you. Also that was the end of the segment and I wasn’t even gonna.
Your comments on my instruction… I was thinking too much, talking too much, and that part about the hand drawn over the heart was not necessary.
Well it might be if I’m teaching a Gentle or Basics class. And that’s fair, I forgot I was in a class focused on Vinyasa sequencing. *breathe*

How am I supposed to find my voice in this din?

This is why I never found voice in my RYT.

Which is not entirely true. I found my Yin voice in my program. Though I was a little crushed when my teacher would not allow me to adjust him, and the entire class listening to his laboring huffing breath. That hurt.

But I passed.

Yin isn’t for everyone.
But it is for me.

For a girl who most like to tell, “Get out of your head.” I mean… I can sit in an hour and half of Yin without twitching. It took me months to figure out how to get there. But I’m here now. Just not living in a city that is Yin savvy. Bummer.

I want to  evolve a new Voice and maybe teach Basics and Gentle. I just worry about doing that when I don’t feel like I have allies and I don’t even know which books to read to figure out a common ground, talking point and get the conversation started on how to maybe make some.

It’s lonely.

Loved what I DID, Owning what I'll DO

Who am I, as an employee?

A hard worker with open availability.
Presented with an opportunity to help others I am more than happy to help, taking on more hours or splitting my shifts or taking on close-opens or working when others find themselves personally (not professionally) unavailable. Sometimes I do this even at the expense of a timeline with personal projects on my own itinerary.

I am looking to learn, but I get frustrated when others have no passion to teach me.

Just the same, I’ve learned a lot. Maybe not as fast as I should, maybe not all that I should, maybe not in the expected timeline. But I’m willing to learn. I feel that to leave a student discouraged and isolated is not only unprofessional, but also demonstrates a severe personal flaw that one should seriously look at repairing.

I don’t talk about others behind their back.

I keep my judgments to myself. I do get discouraged when others can not pay the same courtesy. I may voice out concerns and comments in vague generalizations. This is not only to protect myself. I do this to protect others. I do not believe in sabotaging others in an effort to self serve, self gratify, or self promote. I certainly do not talk in a negative manner about others-- because they have different experience than I. They have different personal and professional resumes.

I feel professional development can be a joint effort. If I have the drive and I am struggling, professionally it is the obligation of others to help me identify the kink in my work. This will alleviate the likelihood of poor performance. Coincidentally this also promotes job satisfaction and success in general.

In fact, it might even provide job excellence. If everyone digs in to try. Really try.

I show up on time. And if I show up late I apologize, because my reliance on public transportation is a flaw. But certainly if it has become a problem I will begin to take an earlier bus and arrive at work half an hour ahead of schedule.

I show up in dress code, because my appearance is not only a representation of the company I work for, but it also represents my preparedness for work and answering questions to satisfaction, presenting myself as a leader in my company.

I show up ready to work. Things you will not hear from me.
I just don’t want to be here today. Because where else would you want to be today, a day in which you were scheduled to work?
I wish I were at home with my child/dog/husband/boyfriend/cat/crochet/WHATEVER. Because I feel that if your outside, personal commitments are so heavy that you cannot part from them during your scheduled time to work, to perform… perhaps you should not have accepted your position.

I don’t think I’m going to make it through my shift today. Because I feel if that is how you felt at least two hours before your shift, you should have notified you manager so other arrangements could have been made.

As an employee I feel that I am paid to not only behave but perform in a certain way. I will, when given guidance, do my absolute BEST to behave and perform at that level.

That said, I know that there is ABSOLUTELY an opportunity to ALWAYS IMPROVE.

I believe in DOING WHAT IS RIGHT. When offered a position I expect that I was promoted because I was a good fit, an ideal candidate, and that I have presented a disposition in which management believes that I am not only moldable but also a foundational component to the advancement of our company and its values.

I will do my best to educate myself so that I may tailor and emphasise the experience of my guest, giving them an opportunity to be WOW-ed and encouraged to return not only to my store, but to our company.

As an employee my primary drive is to work with others, so that we may share responsibility in have a WINNING attitude… TOGETHER we are absolutely designed to bring success not only to ourselves but to our brand.

I LOVE working. I OWN that work is not just a paycheck. I find more than monetary satisfaction in my job. I am certainly appreciative of my pay. However, my most motivational element is that my job provides development and opportunity. It is not in my objective to abandon this ship to find better pay, or “easier” work. Once I have accepted a position I will stay with this position and do my very best. Unless otherwise, professionally, notified I will continue to do said work.

What I am I NOT an ex-employee?

Angry. I’m not angry.

I am not going to trash talk my employer. When asked by those in my life, my personal realm, the details of my termination… I will absolutely be frank in regards to the way in which I was treated. Especially if that treatment plays a hand in my eventual termination. Especially if I can make note in which I was treated differently from others, or that my actions, when shared by others, did NOT result in termination for them. These sort of observations, I feel, are SIGNIFICANT notes to share with those in my personal life, as well as with human resources.

As an ex-employee I am absolutely interested in speaking to human resources.
I hope that these sort of observations are noted...in hopes that others are, professionally, not left to feel the same. Let alone, not left to find themselves as suddenly unemployed as I.

What I am, as an ex-employee?

So. Very. Surprised.

And hurt.

Professionally left without any means to provide for a personal life in which I felt I could afford given my position-- This is a lifestyle in which I only adopted because I felt I was given a promotion based on my performance and with the expectation that my team meant to support me in my continued success.

As it turns out… they were not interested in that success.

I find this detail… discouraging. Disheartening. Frustrating. So disappointing.

Ultimately, I find it unprofessional.

But I find myself to afraid to say these things… As if I am betraying those that I worked with.


What am I, as an ex-employee?

I feel that I was left in no other position… but to feel BETRAYED.

Thoughts that have been permeating in my head for a few days now. Sharing.

On David Bowie

A few people are hating on the Mourning David Bowie on social media. “You didn’t know him? How can you mourn someone you don’t know!” 

Ahem. David Bowie was never ONE person. And for some of us he was The One, the one that made us feel a musical love so deep, that we became a little at peace with ourselves, even if everything was all turmoil and broken world… there was a stillness and peace within because it had been said and it wasn’t all in our own heads. Someone else said it. So then it became real. 
I’m not crazy. I am not crazy. There’s something in the wavelengths of Heathen that makes me feel like I am not crazy. There’s something more than I’m Afraid of Americans. There’s something else rattling around… and I’m not crazy because I can hear it now. There’s more of it. For a few breathing moments, I’m not afraid. It just is. There is no undoing it. It is here. I’m aware. Now… what can I do about it. Now that I know I’m not crazy. 

Bowie was always himself. At any degree of evolution he could share that self. He was always himSELVES. And yeah, absolutely, he wasn’t actually “David Bowie” either. He was David Robert Jones. And David Robert Jones was himself too, with the people who loved him. 

David Bowie was himself for me, because I loved David Bowie. 

And a person on the planet that has enough courage to share selves, love on multiple levels, never let creativity tap out of the game… that man, that human, that existence…. it should be mourned. You can’t social media shame me because I mourn a man I didn’t know. 

He lives in my ears, traveled to my heart, admired Seu Jorge for transferring and translating vibrations that touched on new levels (I’m listening now)… I mourn that the world lost that vibration, that artistic energy, that honesty, a person that had the ability to heart clench your spaces that you thought were long forgotten, too afraid, too ignored to ever feel again. 

And suddenly, those spaces… drenched in living emotion. 

So. Yes. I mourn. 

On “Don’t be that guy.” 

Seriously. Don’t be. 

Did my best to take myself on a date, at my favorite brewery, just down the street. Took a Poets & Writers magazine with me, with every intention of sitting with a pint and reading, exploring, inspiring myself to get some more writing done. Even… *gasp* write enough to start submitting. Avi (and Jon too) when they speak to me occasionally ask, “Have you been writing? What have you been writing?” 
Because both of those gorgeous idiots know how badly I need to be writing and how gloriously different I am when I get to write. 

Anyway, I was going to give myself a basic start, to get back in the game. 

But then Drunk-o-McGee, sitting next to me, wants to start talking. Then gives the, “So you like poetry! I have a poem I like.” Then making you read a poem on their phone. And it was a good poem. I read John Milton and nodded, like a proper English Major should. “It’s a good favorite to have.” 

But then, don’t be that guy, that gets all fussy because I’m the kinda girl that gets poetry but doesn’t get all weepy at On His Deceased Wife. “Aren’t you sad?! It’s a wonderful poem!” 

Go home, dude, yer drunk! “Um. It’s just not my jam.” 

Martin Espada makes me weepy and chest thrusty. Sylvia Plath makes me I’m looking at you squinty cat eyed. Chaucer makes me horny. Carrie Murphy makes me happy and feministy. Walt Whitman makes me throb. Aaron McCollough makes me feel breath. Anne Waldman makes me feel very zen but also with a kick of angst. Richard Greenfield makes me feel smarmy. And A. Van Jordan makes me feel brainy. 

Your pick up an English Major in a brewery poet is going to be John fucking Milton? 
Fuck off. Don’t be that God damn guy. At least try to feed me some Pablo Neruda or something. You want to flirt me with me? GIVE ME SOMETHING TO FUCKING EAT. 

No, thank you, I do NOT want you to buy me a fucking drink. I’m going home. 

On wearing emotions. 

Do your best to not wear your emotions. People around you will get very distracted and read a version of yourself that is a fiction. This will make your reality very… very… very complicated. Tiring. Lonely. 

And honestly, it would be ideal if people weren’t so brain scattered that they think they have understanding of you on lock, just because they read your emotions. Because you’re a lot more than the emotions that have over powered you. 

So much more. But the more you try to “correct” them, the more they think you’re being “defensive” or “combative.” 

They’ve read what they read. No going back. 

Just breathe. 

Drink your beer and breathe, babe.

Safer.

Sometimes people do things to damage their own reality.

And then they ask you to participate in living in *their* reality. The one they have built with their mistakes.
It doesn’t make you unforgiving or hurtful for telling them, “No. I do not want to live there.”
But it is hurtful of them to ASK for you to live there.

Especially when you take special care to try to help them move back into a shared reality.
When you tell them it is forgiven… but they are, stuck in their faux reality, unable to forgive themselves. They are so angry. The anger fills them up to capacity and they begin to serve it up to you. EXPECT you to happily accept that serving and eat it up.

But what they have offered… it is venom. If you accept it you will find yourself catatonicaly lost in *their* reality. You will find yourself apologizing for the wrongs you have done that are a pure fabrication. A history from a reality that you never lived.

Hey. Maybe I’ve been binge watching too much Fringe.

Or maybe… I have been quietly working on removing the venom.

It was both.

A lot of hurtful things are being said. I know I have said some pretty hurtful things in private. I have been my own type of angry these days. So angry that I’ve asked-- What did I do in a past life, that I must deserve this? What did I do to piss God off this much? How can they be this cruel, careless, mean, manipulative… stupid? I am so angry. And hurt. I have been self enclosing most of this anger. There is one person that is catching the brunt of this frustration. It’s not his job. He doesn’t love me. If I keep this up, he may never will.

In truth, I think, even if none of this ever happened… he wouldn’t have loved me anyway. I do not believe he ever will. I don’t know if that is self-inflicted doubt or the truth. I have my own realities to suss out. I’m not inviting anyone into my reality. I wish others would do the same.

The most hurtful thing being said?

I will never make my mother a grandmother.

That lashed out insult, shared in public, keeps swimming in my head.

I am currently waving an “I am never having children” flag. It is a new flag, that does not belong in my hands.

My high school sweetheart and I talked about kids. In a passive, unreal sort of dimension. It was a “someday” hypothesis. Our first daughter would be named Valkyrie. Our first son-- William, for William Gibson. We had our own set of priorities. In the end, our eventual pregnancy was very poorly timed. We were too young. Too far apart. Too unprepared. In an aftermath we spent years trying to make our teenage love Grow Up. It never did. When it was over… we appreciated that there were no casualties.

I had other pregnancies after that. One with a young man that was already struggling to see his first and only daughter with more frequency. I was not one to make things worse for him. One with a man… we had a great chemistry… and he fed that classic line, “It’s not a good time now. We can do this later.” Years later I am told he is married with a family and for a while I resented that quite a bit. Eventually I learned to be happy for him. Because he did have great… lot of things. And I’m glad someone finally figured how to work with that.

I perhaps scared away a Great Love by running my mouth about a commitment timeline that he hadn’t even started to think about. “When we have kids….” is the sort of statement that you should only make when your other is prepared.

And there was the humiliating Jeremiah and his drunken, violent breath in my neck. “I’m going to put a baby in you.”

Oh God. Anything but that.

And that’s when… I started to think. I don’t want children. I can’t trust a person to not screw it up. I can’t trust myself to not screw it up.

I watched as others started to screw it up. It is pretty easy to screw it up.
Screw your kids up.
Place your reality over theirs and make them eat it. Make them live in it.
Sometimes children are forced into living in a reality. And the adults are so drawn up in their world that they forget… it is CHANGEABLE.

Me asking for change is an abomination. It makes me A Total CUNT.

No. I can’t have kids. What if I screw it up? Worse. If I have kids their lives will be in a shared world, shared reality. They will live in a better place. And it will make them a target for the venom that I have been sussing out of my system. My children would be in the vipers path.

That isn’t fair to my Littles. The Littles in my life. The Littles I could have had.

It isn’t fair to me. But I am an adult. Fair is a fragment. The definition is shiftable. It is not fair that I have been made so uncomfortable that I no longer want something I always wanted. But it isn’t a matter of failed justice. It’s my reality to live. I’m not hurting anyone with this reality. And the greatest thing about saying, “I’m never having children.” is that I never have to invite anyone into that reality. Not having children is a single occupancy reality. And eventually, I feel I will settle into it quite well. I have to.

I’m not the kind of girl. No one has an urgency to be with me. Certainly no urgency to have more of something similar around.

For 20 years I have been fed a venom that has me pretty convinced… there is something wrong with me. I don't deserve to be happy. If I am happy it is because I am a heartless cunt that never helped anyone. If I am happy it must be at the cost of someone else. Twenty years of that abuse... and I'm convinced.

Also...In the historic timeline of my lovelife, they have all discovered there is nothing special about me.

I am with someone that finds nothing special about me. On his end our relationship is calm and polite. If it weren’t for my damn bucking about it would be perfectly mundane. Or maybe just perfect. I don’t know.

I can’t stop bucking.

And I should. I’m nothing special.

It is down right Zen.

And it’s safer this way.

Marvel Mic Drop

How is "Taylor Swift's 'Bad Blood' Video Is the Anti-Avengers"?

Listen, I enjoy Taylor swift, just about a bunch of truck tons. Now. She's adorable. But also, she has become strong in her Feminist Flag waving without looking TOO adorable. She has become an educated Feminist. One that has chosen to fight on a side that, ironically, is still struggling through the growing pains of being born after Second Wave Feminism. Honestly, I think we'll be on a fifth wave of feminism before we get all of that... BAD BLOOD (ahem, had to be done) resolved and/or buried.

Current Feminism is the lonely, confused Brand New Baby... meanwhile Second Wave is the petulant middle child still grumbling about arguments that really ought to be long forgotten so the family can move onto more pressing matters. Like the new family member (my generation, and the one coming up) in Feminism that is confusedly content to say, "I WOULDN'T CALL MYSELF A FEMINIST." Or, "No, I love men. I can't be a feminist." Or, "Oh...I think we're all equal now."

Sure, kid, if I were born into the family with a petulant middle child like Second Wave I would do my very best to let EVERYONE know that I'm NOT like the fitting and fussy sister that has actually given our family a intensely undeserved reputation. Good job Taylor. For having fun with your reclamation. Feminist. If we can get a few more baby birds to launch like that... The family Feminist might actually survive.

But that said-- are we still going on about Nat in The Avengers? Are Femi-brats still haranguing Joss about his choices as a writer?

The Black Widow does NOT get the Feminist Friendly/Buffy Summers Whedonverse Edit.
Nat is a Faith. She's all torn up and damaged, has made some decisions that in retrospect... has left blood in her ledger. She's a spy and she's broken her conditioning which means her life is pretty much helter skelter. Joining the Avengers is her balance in her bast. Not a place for any Famibrat to go about, without consent, penetrating what it is that Natasha Romanoff, as a character, "needs." A conditioned spy stays conditioned. Stays oblivious to emotion. Orders are followed. Commands are obeyed. Without conditioning Nat gets to... think about love. And miserably children.

Pro-choice card! Her CHOICE was taken away. It wasn't important at the time (because conditioning) but now that her brain is her own... it's something she can only think about. How can you, as a feminist, argue that her sterilization is anti-feminist? Shouldn't we champion and educate that compulsory sterilization still happens on this planet. To people that aren't spys! THAT SUCKS. Did YOU know that? Let's talk about that.

As a feminist I get to say, "I don't want children." And people are super sad hat for me. "You'll change your mind! Children are the best. Everyone needs to have one!!!" Pro-choice card, again, you're right, I might eventually decide that I do want children and Femibrats will get sad hat about that. You can't win.

Neither can Nat. And neither can Joss. He used Nat's spy instigated sterilization the same way in which Tracy Bond had to die to build a better 007. So yeah, women get the writing shake down of some pretty terrible stuff. Feminist card... men too! The writing manipulation happens, it just happens on a different frequency.

I've had abortions. Bad timing. But if I found out that I could no longer have children. That I no longer had the choice to change my mind? I... would... be... DEVASTATED. Nat's devastation isn't anti-feminist. It's pro-humanist.

Do you even Marvel, bruh?

And yea, Nat has Smurfette Syndrome... but what exactly is Joss supposed to do about that? There isn't an abundance of female, Marvel Heavy Hitters in the Avengers. The roll call for the Avengers is long and full... but not a lot of movie worthy characters to be had.
After the third time is a charm luck with The Hulk, Marvel can't roll our with She-Hulk. Too much Hulk. Smash. Same could be said about Spiderwoman. Sue Storm (v. 1, Jessica Alba I love you, but Sue Storm, you were not!) is getting a reboot (fingers crossed!!!) Can't roll out Wasp because Ant-man.

We did get Scarlet Witch. And she was dark and twisty too. Her brother had to see her on a razor edge of chaos to become the hero and she had to loose her hero brother to get off the razor and become a hero herself.

That's fucking good writing. Joss and his team did in a few scenes what took Marvel comics... as long as it's always taken them... issues... months... alternate universes... arcs... years.

Femibrats... um... "girls" have been excluded from the Boys Comic Book Club for decades. Could you not fit and fuss about it in a way in which it makes it harder for me and other women, our daughters and nieces, our friends to break the glass ceiling in our local comic shops? We have some serious footing right now and we're gonna get there. But we can't climb if you, by pushing, are try to "help." You're not helping.

Buffy Summers had an abortion, y'all.  If we can champion her choice, if Joss can set his balls on the block to give her that choice... then we can champion the softer side of Natasha, her want for children and Joss' recognition that Nat now wants more and can't have it. As of today, that's a #feminist struggle that we're still fighting for.

#avengersasemble

Just paid the deposit on Yoga Certification course at downtown desert yoga.

I've come up with a lot of ideas on what it is that I want to Be When I Grow up as Brain Boggled New Naomi. Some ideas washed out because I'm not the student/degree carrying person that I used to be. I tried at getting my Grant Writing Certification. On line course work was manageable once we were running the basics. But when fine-tuning details started, when I had a question and replies didn't come until a few days later, when personal family tragedy became too distracting... I washed out. I've learned how to forgive myself. I learned enough to set my own course on grant writing.  

Working to be mindful around the onslaught of anger that came with the discovery that I have changed as a student, that I need more attention... took some time... is still taking some time. I'm not going to say that I will, out of the gate, begin teaching yoga. I won't be playing that card. Refining my knowledge in this field is for me. To help me suss out the stuff that's still left undone.   Eventually, of course, I would like to teach yoga, very specifically to those with Traumatic Brain Injuries. Many yoga studios and instructors are doing fantastic work on helping our Veterans deal with their PTSD and TBI. I admire that.

But I also feel voiceless. Because my TBI is not attached to something socially/politically tangible... I feel a little left out. I kinda need yoga guidance too! It isn't often you see a class directed for those who have TBI. Just TBI. TBI and PTSD are often taglined-- TBI and PTSD associated with SERVICE. I'm just some kid, that was walking down the street and got smacked by a car. I'm not special. My TBI isn't special. "You look fine." Oh yeah, because my recovery is totally visible! The Invisible Injury stays Invisible sometimes. I am appreciative that service men and women with TBI are no longer AS Invisible (there is still a lot of work to do!) They served our country, served its citizens, served us and they should never be invisible.  

My injury is still invisible.

And let's be honest there truly is enough Feeling Left Out/Invisibility charged into TBI life. Yoga has become important to me because much of its benefits can dismiss that sensation. It's hard to feel left out when it's only you on that mat. It can be terrifying at first.

It is just you on this mat. You're not sure if you're doing this right. You're looking around, breath irregular, looking to see if your body is positioned like all the other people in the room, like the person on the video, like the book illustration says. Is this even working? Does this even matter? I'm wasting my time? Maybe I should be... anywhere but here. Maybe I should get up, get off this mat, and get back to bed, have another coffee, check my Facebook.   

But, babe, it is just YOU on this mat. And sometimes, breakthrough. In the form of an instructor witnessing your struggle and sitting next to you, assuring you that you are doing this right, that no you don't look like the person next to you, that you're a little new and eventually you're body will shape and bend in only the way your own body can and there isn't a rush to fold yourself in half and it's totally ok because not everyone can do that but in trying you find your platform of what you CAN do and what feels right. In the form of you watching that video and realizing that tension, in fact, is releasing from your calves and while you don't look like the person in the video you actually are starting to feel pretty good, right there in your bound up calves. In the form of looking at that book and reading the caption under the yoga position, Vrksasana, whatever that means, Tree Pose, oh... this is silly... oh, I can just start off with my foot above my ankle... oh, well that's ok, I can do that... and then eventually discovering that you can trust yourself to stand on one leg, with your arms over your head even with your eyes closed and NOT fall down.   

Because it is just YOU on this mat. No one can tell you what to do. No one can make you feel left out. Because it's just you. And for a little while it feels good to be just you.   

If you are brain boggled, or has a replaced hip, or a bruised tail bone, or ringing ears, or a big stupid headache that won't go away... if you is skinny, or old, or wide, or young... if you isn't worried bout that jelly roll at your belly, or if you has a day in which you ARE worried... it's your day, your mat and it's just you for twenty minutes, and hour, fell asleep in Corpse Pose, maybe two hours.   It stops being terrifying to be alone. You learn to step off that mat and feel less alone. Even when people are trying to leave you out... you're kinda just a two minute tree pose away from being Alone on your mat and ok with that because being Alone and Lonliness are two entirely different things.   

I have invisibility days. You know what I do with those? Banana or Crescent Moon Pose. When my sides are splitting with electric stretch it doesn't matter if no one else can see me. I can see myself.   

So, the immediate direction is not to become a teacher but to first teach myself and in that learn to share with others. I can't help anyone until I get Me done first.