Theda pen 3 cont.

“I could make all sorts of excuses, like I’ve been doing gigs reading and performing with the band, like Pruitt Igoe is recording a new album, like I’ve been prepping tax records for myself and Puna Press, like I’ve been working a lot, like Puna Press is preparing to go to the WonderCon in San Francisco and that entails making new product(prints and note cards), but the truth is I lost my incentive when the deadline was blown. Once the trip to New York was upon me the urgency was removed. My aunt, the client for the art, was in no hurry and that set the slow ball in motion.

But now time has come to do art for a show this summer with West Coast Drawing at the Oceanside Museum of Art. It is good to have the pressure on again.”

Theda

©ted washington 2010

Mud

there is the absurd question of semantics
left
to wrestle with
limbs so lifeless
heavy tree branches
gnarly natural monsters
difficult wrestling
left

absurd to wrestle with the question of what is left
there
nude or naked in the muddied interpretations
of ideologies, communist/democratic/polka

dotted/
never powerful enough
to make a difference
bruised/battered/left to
lose form
or strengthen
or be difficult to distinguish
from any other abstraction

whereever you are
the world loves ideas because
the world is mostly mud
up to my eyebrows in mud
until there is no difference
between them and us
between skin and sin
between right and
left

it is a question of the powerful enough
an old man carries groceries
too heavy to lift without help
without help
a burden
or a purpose
or just groceries
perhaps a ripe avocado
two tomatoes, sliced swiss cheese
blueberries, on sale, a pear, mud

baggage a worn heart drags along
alone with the question

claw at the shadows of the puppets
squint with precision at illusion
piss in the pool of shared imagination
belittle fools who would believe
in a world of words
that mean something more

the world is mud
you will get dirty here
you will be burdened
you will be bruised
you will
hide your shadow self in whatever
is easy to

kill/cleanse/murder/help

there is the absurd question of semantics left

wrestle the lifeless, heart dragging,
polkadotted mud left
there is the effort
to mean something more
or mean something less
to answer in absurd ways
or complete silence

talk yourself out of it

©ola hadi 2010
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Colorful Days

So I’m getting pretty used to not having a life…what with working a full time job M-F (and many Saturday school Saturdays) and taking three classes…I have time to hang Wednesday night (which I have designated my swim night and therefore sacred) and Friday night (open to whereever the most magnetic forces pull). Saturdays are apparently Pisces birthday party nights…and Sundays I just study the hell out of the day.

That was my plan this Sunday. I got up bright and early and drove out to Clairemont to get out of the hood and hang out with my friend Kennie. We went to a random spot called Tea N More which delivered more than I hoped for. A little boba shop that reminded me of my boba-berkeley days, it had carpet and bomb asian food…and it was furious with studious activity. I did not expect that for clairemont drive…after a few hours and two orders of dumplings, kennie had to finish a report at home, and I had to continue to nerd out, so I dropped her off with the mission of returning home to persevere with the reading left to do.

I made the rounds at all my usual cafes, but my neighborhood is bursting with overintellectual hipsters and cafe-rats…there really wasn’t a place to sit at my 3 usual spots…so I called my friend Pauly who just moved back to San Diego from his self-imposed exile in the mountains. He’s been at me to come to the coffeeshops in Little Italy, but seeing as how I prefer walking everywhere and there are a minimum of four coffeeshops on my block it has been a contentious issue of who should visit whose coffeeshop. Today, I would travel. I picked him up and we took a 30 minute detour to go to see the grand opening celebration of an awesome Mexican art shop. We were late (a given, I was with Paul afterall). The owners were gracious despite our tardiness and sweetly offered us delicious churros. We proceeded to chomp them down as we marveled at all of the treasures of Mexican comic book coasters. I bought a margarita glass with color & textures I liked. I am also posting rad art I thought was super interesting below. The place is called Casa Artlexia on 2419 Kettner Blvd.

The rest of my day was studying at Twiggs with a nightcap at Lancer’s discussing the disgusting goings-on in sweet home San Diego…my friend Maki, a grad student in history at UCSD, gave me all the latest updates…with this coming week sure to hold more protests against racism at UCSD… and a possible demonstration against the new round of PINK SLIPs for Sweetwater teachers 2010, I’m not sure what protest shirt I’ll be wearing on which day…pink or black…but I’m bound to be colorful! It does bother me though when art has to say the things that aren’t being brought up in a pre-existing dialogue….the economy is bad, but we should never cut in education…and we should have leaders in education who will cultivate an atmosphere of respect across collectives….the more I study history though, the more I learn that leadership is much rarer than I expected…

I’m drawn back into a world of puffins, munchkins I used to teach with Marin Day Schools at San Francisco City Hall. The biggest lesson I had to teach them was not to pull on the little girls’ ponytails or hit. I was a broken record of “Don’t push…say ‘No!’ Use your words.’” A constant admonishment that violence, action, would not get you very far if you couldn’t express yourself through words, hold a dialogue (consider mutual concerns and shared solutions). This is the credo of toddler teachers everywhere I would venture to say. It’s this lesson that mature adults stlll grapple with.

Until then, at least there will be t-shirts and art and other means….

Enjoy the awesome dark goat and cute creature below!

©ola hadi 2010

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Gerunding Happiness

MY FAVORITE PARTS ABOUT BEING ALIVE TODAY

signing up for a pool membership that scans my hand and makes me feel like I’m on The Jetsons

fantasizing about long swims that start with a shock of cold water and slowly warm up to become meditative

questioning whether empathy is more continuity or change, some internal ability to empathize that’s fully developed by the time we are five - or capable of emerging after transformative experiences that make us re-form our self-concepts

considering the spectrum of choices that neither the saintly nor the evil think they have but that are always an option

getting a voicemail from Jessica about which Lonely Planet book to buy for our trip to Europe!

listening to a dream one of my students had where he was reminiscing about Pokemon and childhood

eating junior mints gifted to me by Galit at the end of a long day that started at 6 am and won’t finish after my blogging break. they were her second to last box and I was politely refusing but she is so generous…

It’s the simple things, and it’s the complex. It’s okay if there is a large absence, because there is a great presence to get wrapped up in while it’s possible, while I have the ability to just keep swimming, go to Europe, depend on friends, keep working even when I’m beyond exhausted. There are always options and fun fantasies, active verbs and even better gerunds …

for every missing voicemail, I’ve got mail-voices missing me

there is an incremental bettering, a snowballing of goodness to believe in when beliefs need band-aids.

one just has to choose to continue to be actively their best selves or transform into a better soul…there is always a choice involved.

but what are the values that help you choose? according to my professor who studied rescuers of holocaust victims, the less highly evolved have values that are self-centered…the more remarkable are centered in themselves (know who they are)…and I guess the rest of us try to maintain a space in the middle of our universe of self and universe of obligation

“the larger the group, the easier it is to do nothing-
the larger the group, the easier it is to do something”
it’s different levels of involvement
it’s a mind set of empathy
of being responsible
responsible for feeling
responsible for your own happiness
responsible for the happiness of the other
it’s I-it thinking
or us-them
until it’s a broad definition
of who deserves our love
who we will do something for

©ola hadi 2010

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Stalker

A song is stalking me. About a week ago I was all kleenex and madness…and I asked my roommate Jason to play a song, any song… I was just so desperate for a distraction, something to get my mind off of things…and of all the possible permutations in the endless playlists one could rummage through, he chose Bon Iver. I couldn’t believe it. What fucking luck. If you are a romantic, you remember the first song that ever played the first time you realized you might be falling in love.

I immediately told him to turn it off.

My stalker is persistent. Tonight, I went to see a friend of mine read a short story at UCSD’s “Dime Stories.” I was really looking forward to it because I would also get to catch up with a few poetry friends from my days at drunk poets society- Dave Proulx and Ian Anderson (and by chance, Alex Bosworth, who would win first place and a toy gun that night for a story on Osama Bin Laden as an unwanted guest called “The Binster”). However, I hadn’t been to UCSD since Persian New Year of last year. It was a really romantic night that year….

I made it through a hallway of memories in the Price Center. Incredible how different things had been in the same building just months ago. We finally found the Loft. Happy I had made it through the worst, I waited for Ian to open the door, and just as I stepped my foot through the doorway…what the hell begins to play in perfect syncopation with my foot, heart, jaw-dropping…

Bon Fucking Iver. Seriously? What luck.

So, I give up universe. Cheers to my constant reminders! I raise my Russian Imperial and toast to skinny love….

***

Come on skinny love just last the year
Pour a little salt we were never here
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer

I tell my love to wreck it all
Cut out all the ropes and let me fall
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Right in this moment this order’s tall

and I told you to be patient
and I told you to be fine
and I told you to be balanced
and I told you to be kind
and in the morning I’ll be with you
but it will be a different “kind”
and I’ll be holding all the tickets
and you’ll be owning all the fines

Come on skinny love what happened here
Suckle on my hope in lite brassiere
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Sullen load is full; so slow on the split

and I told you to be patient
and I told you to be fine
and I told you to be balanced
and I told you to be kind
and now all your love is wasted?
and then who the hell was I?
and now I’m breaking at the britches
and at the end of all your lines

Who will love you?
Who will fight?
Who will fall far behind?

[“skinny love” lyrics]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ssdgFoHLwnk

©ola hadi 2010

night before valentine’s/bad breakup poetry

“That last half an hour of studying was fucking pointless.”

I kept rereading about crimes against humanity and missing the subtle differences between various definitions and switching back and forth so frequently between that and writing really terrible breakup poety that at one point I was confused about what I was looking at, notes or confused scribblings about bipolar love.

I went home and greeted my roommate with the aforementioned realization in quotations then opened a box of girl scout cookies my best friend’s daughter had given me. Those Samoas-good stuff.

I should call P back. I already blew him off for Little Italy earlier today and he’s not the type of friend to let me wallow in self-pity. Plus, having issues with bipolar love himself, he gets what kind of animal I’m dealing with. His opinion was that I deliver an ultimatum to man up or bust- which was a bust. His opinion also is that I get the hell out of the house, and he’s not the type to insist. And he was insisting as I was busy evading until my phone died at the cafe. Tonight a bunch of his friends are going to 4th and B for some Mardi Gras madness. I just can’t party two days in a row like I once could. And Nunu’s last night with some drunk girl making out in the corner then yelling “hold your cooter” was somehow not inspiring.

Well, I definitely can’t get any more studying done. I’ve been trying since 7 this morning…granted I took a nap and met up with a friend in between but I’ve done enough to dissipate the guilt that any fellow overachiever would feel on a long weekend.

Alternatively, I’ve made a list of “happy hobbies” that should get me through this (like I don’t have enough already). Writing was not on the list since it’s a given. But ping pong, line-dancing, and making new friends were just a few of the dazzling 21 options-not to mention making glitter cards for holidays and special events!

I don’t want to dress up to go downtown and I don’t want to stay here and eat girl scout galletas! So I guess I better get out there and play some ping pong.

Otherwise I end up creating poemas that are too raw, and probably inappropriate, like this:

bipolar love, by ola hadi, 2.13.10

You don’t exist
the person that wrote poetry
the person that sucked my toes
during wild and ecstatic
mindblowing experiences
who pressed his palm warmly on
my forehead to ease headaches
is the source of all my heartache

non-existent appendages haunt me
Memories
of You gulfing down sandwiches at Cafe Cream
or holding my hand as we read at Twiggs
are crumbs of what they could have been
need be tempered with boycotts
of any coffee from Cafe Calabria
(of any haunted place/city college class/future us)
because a bitter taste masks what was
like cheap perfume
destroys any scents of truth
leaves me utterly
confused

because You were better than this
because I am better than this
and the You I knew
doesn’t deserve equating
with your present lack of existence
so I will be disassociating
the love You were
from the hurt
neither of us deserve
I will try not to suffer-
I will not suffer
I will Want this to be over
because it already is
for the you You are now

were You a mixed up kid or
hot air I mistook for “it”?
a cold wind blowing through
leaving love
frigid?

I prefer to think “it” was real
(as if You were two different people)
the feelings we felt
the warmth of your fingers
(and of my toes)
but I have to let go
of the crumbs of love

You no longer exist.

(so why am I writing this?)

©ola hadi 2010

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Purpose of Life

I just wrote a long blog about the purpose of life, at the repeated requests of a friend, and alas, the internet gods have destroyed it…I have no idea where it went.

I was pretty happy with the original, and I have no time to rewrite it completely so this will be the purpose of life to the point blog.

First off, I have a book with many poems that explore themes like this called “Moon & Metaphor.” You can buy it for only $10 on punapress.com or check it out at the downtown San Diego library. One poem called “letter to a christian friend” deals with this specific topic.

That said, new experiences constantly reshape our personal perspective on this topic. Also, having the wisdom and humility to listen to others’ perspectives also change our views. If I was to elaborate my current personal sentiments (in a to the point blog) I would break it down into a few simple points.

1. Fear/Courage is the limiting factor of life. I listened to an audiobook by Po Bronson a few months ago called “What is the purpose of life?” in which fear prevented many people from reaching their ideal lives. In a wonderful film by Mike Ramsdell, initially titled “Anatomy of Hate,” he includes quotes from Ernest Becker who also argues that we are all motivated heavily by our unconscious fear of death.

2. We all have an immortality complex. In that same film that I saw yesterday, I think it was Ernest Becker again who said that the reality of life is harsh (think Buddha’s philosophy on life being suffering). We are extremely unimportant beings. Culture helps solve the problem of our consciousness of death by making us feel important/strong. For others this function is fulfilled through status symbols, or even the legacy of their own children. Ideologies that build a sense of importance are also magnets for people with unmet immortality complex needs. We sometimes fulfull this need by demonizing other groups (in the film they quote Jung’s ideas on the shadow self that is projected onto others). The point is we have deep tendencies to form groups that make us feel more than animal. Groups/identies that give us meaning. Our attachments to groups and ideas are a way to feel less animal, more important.

3. Perspective comes from connection and simultaneous detachment. The detachment part I ripped off of the Buddha, no doubt about it. But there’s something potent about managing to stay connected to the “other” and others while not buying in completely to their ideologies and attaching to their group formations. I discuss this in my poetry often. To be detached is difficult. In fact, I seldom find myself ruminating as much on the purpose of life when I am in passionate love. But when I am alone, oh it’s an endless set of questions about existence, about purpose. Because love is the alternative to hate, to culture, to status….either you make yourself important by belittling others or you acknowledge your relative unimportance together…and that is important. Does that still play into the immortality complex? Perhaps. How do you connect (a survival tactic) and still stay detached? Hell if I know. Chant, meditate, relate, challenge the constructed narrative with your own story?

I am halfway through my own life if I am lucky. If I am lucky I have a good 30 more years to live. Isn’t it enough to breathe deeply? No, we squander the possibility of happy lives, Sam Keen says. Do we “get busy straightening out the karmic wheel?” Shall we kneel and pray? Shall we chant?

As I said in ‘letter to a christian friend,” my Prime Purpose is to be alive. To experience this simple life fully. A full experience of the harsh reality of being, of suffering, and of escaping from time to time into beautiful ideas, or if I’m lucky enough, into feelings of love that are (or aren’t) immortal.

***
after writing this and reflecting on it, I wanted to elaborate on one point, and that is the we are all unimportant point. It seems like no contradiction to me to make that claim, then say we are all important. I can’t articulate why as of yet. However, I have a strong sense of the worthwhileness of my own self, while realizing that my ego should not lead my life. I have a feeling this is why I am able to detach, why I don’t need to talk shit about others, why I feel secure in my relative unimportance. Perhaps what I am saying is that my own confidence, my own inherent feelings of importance allow me to dismiss the external forces that give importance to my life. They still affect me, when in Rome still applies. But it does not hold my heart or life. So we are all unimportant, and yet we are all important and this is no contradiction. If I believe I am already a worthwhile being, I stop grasping at attachments to things to give me that sense of importance.

©ola hadi 2010

Soon Come

“The first Pruitt Igoe performance of the year!”

22-flyer-2

Please

Ola Hadi, September 25, 2009


Please,

I.

I begged you
to take an hour
and go down the street
instead of to a war zone to escape
your inner battle
for me
for you
for your worried mother
to see someone who can help you
see you though this low valley
that’s got you going in unpredictable
directions, self medicating,
and aiming cut-throat questions of what is it
that makes you feel

nothing

II.

it begged the question
don’t you miss
holding hands at the cafe
reading together and feeling together
on the same page?
don’t you wish
we could take a walk through Balboa Park
and stop at the Rueben H. Fleet
watch an IMAX movie in light-hearted dark
giggle at the scope
of the universe
and surround our senses
with powerful stimulants
pleasurable perspective?

I want to take you biking,
hiking and apple pie slicing
rock climbing
traveling through Europe
all throughout our lives

I want to see what you look like
at pivotal moments
at your peak and self-satisfied
at your best
and at your worst
but to be honest,
I just want to see you
mostly smiling

dearest friend
he who iced my mosquito bites
he who helped me move
and gifted me with a blue helmet
and the food of the gods
lent me his motorcycle gloves and
drove down in the rain
to spend time with me
only to wake up a few hours later
never complaining
he who took espanol in the summer
and danced with me during our breaks
won’t you do this one last thing

won’t you please-
for you?
for me?

don’t you miss
harmonizing our energies?
even outside of mind-blowing passionate-ness
the “God you look amazing”-ness
the “we are the perfect match”
and all the other comments
where you attested to
what the real he who is you knows-
who once told me boldly- that we
are the best for
each other

even if we refrain
from acknowledging the deep waters
of feeling
of sensation
of physical fulfilment
special to you and me

even if we tried to explain
it in the drab clothes of cognition
and of pure platonic friendship
you and I would still add up to
a powerful aggregate
a syncretic song
that he who wishes to sing
will always find
if he’s listening
would fill
the half-empty cups
we’ll come across

III.

I begged you

don’t you miss…
(me?)

won’t you please
take an hour
and go down the street
to see someone
who can help you
see?

and awaited your response
a silence
so deafening
the clock did not exist

till you dis-miss-ed
(me!)
“I miss rivers.”

IV.

I don’t blame you for missing rivers
they are a part of who you are
and you are beautiful, peaceful at times,
turbulent at others, on a journey
it reminds me of the story of the Buddha
and the ferryman

I don’t want you to change every part
of you in some self-destructive toss
of the baby with the bathwater
just mature
just accept the river that you are
and see the beauty in your own heart

put one foot in front of the other
and walk down the street
and take an hour
to see someone who can help you
see

put yourself in my shoes
to understand what your words do
yes, if the shoe was on the other foot
and you asked me
so sincerely, with so much love,

and I answered with
“I miss the beach.”

Who’d miss the point?

V.

My point is
that you can’t even see
your face in my shiniest shoes
you completely ignore
what I’m saying to you.

maybe you are not ready
to hear
so you choose instead
to miss rivers

there is a deep body of feeling
between us
you are just trying to keep your
head above water
need some air
but I like it here
I would also like it by the river
because I like
the water everywhere
it feels good
once you decide to swim
you won’t feel like you’re drowning
there’s some lesson here
if you listen

I don’t need to be homeless in Venice beach
to get it
I don’t need any more trials and tribulations
to relate to ordinary people
but I once did
I understand your struggle

as Siddhartha said
many people have to change
a great deal
and wear all sorts of clothes

maybe, you are one of those
my friend?

it is your life, it is your body of water,
it is your body on earth, I am just some body
who loves you

who wants to see you
mostly smiling

who sees that the change
is already in you
you are not imperfect
or evolving along a path
to perfection
you are already perfect

the river laughs
there exists already
a very great happiness
but perhaps you must
prepare your soul
to hear
to see your face in the river
to have the river
be your teacher

I will sit by the bank of the deep water
and wait for you.

©ola hadi 2010

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“A Celebration of Toys and the Art of Play” — Michael Klam at the San Diego Museum of Art, Sunday, Feb. 21

I’m proud of this one (because it has been so much fun) and looking forward to performing as part of SDMA’s Joaquin Torres-Garcia’s wood abstractions (including his Aladdin toys) exhibit. I’ve written a series of poems as a teacher, father, and little boy in a grown man’s body. The poetry is in dialogue with Torres-Garcia’s ideas about toys, games and play as an essential way for children to learn and create. It’s a different and more mature (?) side of my work. All ages. 3 pm, LOCATION 
San Diego Museum of Art 
1450 El Prado 
Balboa Park 
San Diego, California, PHONE 
(619) 232-7931, Web Site: http://www.sdmart.org/

PRUITT IGOE 02/22

“Warning you in advance.”

22-flyer

©ted washington 2010

“it’s a novel, of course it’s a long story.”

Both my last blog and this one have featured Ted Washington and Shabda Alexa Sanchez. They reappear in inspirational blogging part 2….

Tonight I went to a Local Authors shmooze fest at the Downtown local library of San Diego. It was really nice of our local librarians to put on, complete with a medal, snackage, AND I got my picture taken…although I did not meet the Mayor. The librarians were supernice people. Of course every librarian I’ve ever met has been a sweetheart, most people who are fond of books are fond of sharing that passion with people…it’s been the case since my days growing up in I.B. when I would have to bicycle to the library and feel like a rebel by keeping things way past the due date….That said, this event was a little overwhelming. Strawberries dippable in chocolate=yes. One of the youngest authors there, writing in a genre few people take seriously=awkward. Super out of practice in making small talk=sigh.

Seriously, I was pretty much still in the womb compared to everyone else. It’s a little intimidating. It was also really exciting, people came up to me and they’d already heard about my book. They had seen it and were intrigued. That was a great feeling. It’s also incredible to know words you wrote are available for the city you grew up in’s local library. I can’t wait for the day it’s actually checked out.

Still, mingling takes a lot out of me these days. Don’t get me wrong, I’m an outgoing person for being a poet…but shmoozing is not my style. I was good at bartending in the sense that I could get people to tell me their deepest fears and most desired dreams within minutes…I can connect one on one with people really well. But the elbow to elbow shmooze is odious. You have people coming up to you, and you have no idea what their agenda is. Are they interested in me? Are they interested in my book? Are they trying to get me to read at their next event? Are they trying to get me to buy their book? Sign their guestbook on their internet site? Size me up? You never know….

I’m a curious person, so I left Ted and Shabda to mingle. Hell, I was here- and these were San Diego’s authors…I damn well better meet a few, afterall it’s not everyday you publish your first book and get to mingle with writers. And I did. I met really interesting people. A professor who wrote about experiencing God in everyday life. A Somalian woman who wrote about the lives of five nomads. A man with one of those voice projecting machines who wrote a novel about finding yourself, whose wife was passionately regaling us with age-discrimination stories. A man who wrote about internet dating as the new solitaire game. A PhD in psychology who wrote separate books about anger management for men and women. I met influential writers who are the behind the scenes khans of San Diego’s writing scene. The judges of up and coming books….

My favorite exchange at the event was when my friend Shabda asked a man about his book:
Shabda: “So, are you an author?”
Zach: “Yes.”
Shabda: “What’s your book about?”
Zach:”It’s a long story.”
(Pause)
Judy: “It’s a novel, of course it’s a long story.”

Poor Ted couldn’t keep them back with a stick when the writers realized he was both an artist AND a publisher. Yup. At one point, I got street cred for hanging out with him. I also got street cred for hanging out with who he looked like. Some guy came up to me and asked me, “So you’re friends with Quincy (Troupe)?”

Me: “You mean Ted Washington.”

Other guy: “Oh, yeah, Ted, that’s what I meant.” awkward.

On our way leaving the library, Ted convinces Shabda and I to grab a beer at a local bar. It was killer. Really cool venue that looked like a dump from the outside. He orders a Heinekin for him and two Alagash Whites for us. Good beer, good company, good music. I start to tell them both about my latest obsession with watching Spanish news and TV in my efforts to hablo por real. I was telling them about a Spanish news report about this British sculptor who does microscopic art, and how he (paraphrasing) only fully realizes what he’s accomplished when he sees/hears people’s reactions to his work. I told Ted that he must feel like that, being recently named a “Mover & Shaker of SD” and having people fight over doing paintings about him. Ted says, “You know Puna Press is doing really great things (he’s being humble). The way I see it, most people are in the water. Most people are just trying to float. And we’re… swimming.”

Shabda looks at me and excitedly says, “That’s like you Ola, you’re a swimmer. Everyone else was so old, and look at how young you are and you’re already published and doing all these things and making things happen.”

Her words made me stop…and just assess for a second, to evaluate, so to speak, and think…. Hell yeah. Here I am with two people I admire and respect, who I see as strong, creative forces…and they’re looking at me, and my writing, the same way.

That’s one of the greatest things about my best friend by the way, she really is my biggest fan. That’s how she introduced herself tonight, as my biggest fan. There’s never any hesitation in her voice when she tells people about how good my poetry is. She’s fully confident that my writing is great, and it’s a big deal to earn the appreciation of people whose opinions matter. As I was dropping her off later, she says, “Thank you for sharing this big accomplishment with me Ola, this is a big deal and I’m glad I can be a part of it.” She makes it sink in-that feeling when someone looks at you and you’re not sure how you are doing…and someone else is sure….so sure, it makes you feel like there is no other way to look at it.

It made me feel like the sculptor of miscroscopic art. It made me realize, wow, I have done a lot so far. I am swimming. I might still have to sputter salt-water here and there, but I’m swimming. And here are two inspiring people who believe in my writing, who inspire me to continue to write. And tonight I met so many more sources of inspiration. San Diego is filled with writers to get to know and read. I feel really lucky to be a part of that.

Sometimes between work and school I feel very one-dimensional. Like all I do is read and read and read, teach, and read and write. It’s nice to stop sometimes and feel like I am doing something magical. My writing is not being written off. There are a few people who love to blog about my poems to their friends, who email them to family because they think it’s cool, and there are a few people who know the cover of my book before I’ve even shaken their hands. Sure, my “estilo” is not for everyone. Not everyone appreciates microscopic art. So what? It’s still rad when a few people do.

It’s a cool moment in my life. I’m pleased I have at least two inspirational friends to share it with.

©ola hadi 2010

new delusions :)

I went to a concert the other day…while I was there my friend Ted was showing my friend Shabda and I a book called “The Case for God.” I’m used to reading Dawkins but I admit to human ignorance enough to not be an athiest. I am borderline. Shabda is a recent convert to Roman Catholic Christianity. While I have some issues with RCC, I feel like it’s made her a deeper, better person than she already is. Ted’s pretty anti-religion usually so I was surprised by the choice in reading material… we had a little conversation about the book and then about happiness….it took my brain down an interesting path and I think that invited the music of the rest of the week….later that night I unvelied my newest delusion to my best friend Shabda…and now I get to unveil it in writing:

The sound of Buddhist chanting is familiar at my house. It’s usually coming from the Buddhist temple next door. One day I went inside that temple and after poking around awkwardly, took off my shoes. I cautiously walked up stairs and was quickly absorbed into chanting and kneeling. Having grown up Muslim, I was a little weary of the shrine towards the front, but I appreciated the chorus of devotion all around me and the openness to share.

However, last night the Buddhist chanting was coming from me. In Japanese.

Okay, well it was really mostly coming from my roommate Jason (who speaks Japanese really fast) but I was doing my best to sync my energy…

Earlier, my roommate Jason and I had a long, deep conversation (one of my favorite things to have). We usually don’t have time for these things considering we’re both usually studying but school hasn’t fully started this semester yet.

He’s half-American and half-Japanese, and a Japanese Buddhist. We talked about the history of Buddhism, American vs. Japanese Budddhism, and Buddhist beliefs. We talked about the interesting differences between people like us, bicultural people, and pure Americans. There are certain things that we grew up with that have become who we are at our core. While it’s easy for us to relate to Americans, it takes pretty special Americans to be able to relate to us. For instance, he and I grew up okay with constant criticism, it didn’t damage us-just made us self-critical and constantly hoping to improve (deep looking). Whereas many Americans see this as a weakness, and instead of looking deeply at what they can improve…they are quick to fix the superficial (i.e. Heidi Montag).

I’ve been attracted to Buddhism for a long time. Not the religiousy, ritual, deifying Buddha stuff…but the core beliefs. The philosophies behind some of the teachings just make sense. Jason told my about the mystic law, which when he broke it down, sounded a lot like believing in cause and effect. That makes sense! As one of the oldest philosophies on earth, it should. But so do some things in Islam and Christianity.

One thing I love about Buddhism is the idea that you should try to be in the middle. When I was in my younger twenties I didn’t investigate Buddhism although I was attracted to it because I didn’t want to be in the middle. I consider myself passionate. I thought I would rather be extremely happy and then extremely sad than be in the center. That sounded boring. But after a few years of extremes, the center sounds pretty nice. I’ve experienced the extremes, I know how exciting they can be, I’m ready to experience peace. Moreover, the extremes never last…in that sense there is an element of illusion to them…and lastly, too much of even a good extreme can just be unhealthy…which brings me to Dolores.

When I was 16, I think, I was going on a fieldtrip and getting ready to board the bus when my now-friend then-program-supervisor-adult-person, Dolores, answered a question in an interesting way. I don’t remember the exact conversation but it went something like me asking her why she had become so Christian…she told me that she once used to be very stressed out about some problems in her life, and when she finally learned to give that stress to God, everything became better. It took a huge weight off of her shoulders. She made it sound healthy and glorious enough to make the memory stick.

My new philosophy reminds me of her in the feeling of “load-off” that it gives me. I have decided to adopt the delusion that everything will work out. I refuse to clarify to myself what that exactly means yet. But I find it to compare well with the Christian faith that things happen for a reason. It will also help keep me centered in a Buddhist way from getting too sad and just trusting that the universe will rebalance. I know it sounds delusional, but I think all faith is. And yet sometimes it works. And it most definitely can be healthier.

There are a few of you who will say this will prevent me from making active choices to improve poor situations. I will just be happy with whatever then right? Sort of. I will still make the best choices I can, I will still try to improve myself and life…but I just won’t let it get me in a hellish-headspace.

I think that’s what faith does. I think that’s what chanting can do. It keeps your head-space clear. It keeps you healthy. It gives you a feeling of well-being….and I guess we need that feeling to think straight and make the best choices. Which brings me back to my debate with Shabs about happiness…whether happiness is really an emotion or a part of your head-space…I’ll save that for another blog though :)

©ola hadi 2010

Portrait by Deanne Sabeck

“This is the portrait in the ‘Movers and Shakers’ exhibit. It was created by Deanne Sabeck. The image is photography with cast light refracted through glass. We shot it on a sunny day in her backyard. We tried lots of things and I am pleased with the results. Especially since I was in the buff for the shoot and only Deanne knows what the other shots display. Scary, like this guy here.”

“Wordsmith” by Deanne Sabeck

Wordsmith by Deanne Sabeck

©ted washington 2010

3 For $300

For Immediate Release

January 24, 2010

Contact: Michael Klam

(619) 957-3264 cell

(619) 236-0011 office

mkklam@gmail.com

www.sandiego-art.org

Poetry & Art Series: 3 for $300 Poetry & Art Slam at Museum of the Living Artist quarterly event

San Diego, CA – Wednesday, February 17 at 7:00 p.m. is the next Three for $300 Poetry & Art Slam in the Museum of the Living Artist.

3 for $300 Slam (http://sandiego-art.org/), a poetry/prose/visual art combination slam for writers, artists and performers, is a poetry/prose competition with a slight twist:

Performers who bring and show visual art connected in some way to their poetry/prose will earn extra points.  Performers may also use (and are encouraged to use) artwork hanging in the museum’s current exhibit. Simply pick a painting, and it will be displayed front and center for the audience while you read.  Each written piece performed or read must be under three minutes and ten seconds. Winners take home $150 (1st Place), $100 (2nd Place) and $50 (3rd Place).

What is Poetry Slam?  Here is the official word from Poetry Slam, Inc.: “A poetry slam is a competitive event in which poets perform their work and are judged by members of the audience. Typically, the host or another organizer selects the judges, who are instructed to give numerical scores (on a zero to 10 or one to 10 scale) based on the poets’ content and performance.”

The Poetry & Art Series (established in the summer of 2001) in the Museum of the Living Artist is itself both a unique show and a unique venue. Poets and audiences gather amongst the paintings to witness a live collaboration between writers and visual artists.

Poetry & Art, the San Diego Art Institute’s quarterly museum series, gives regional artists an opportunity to express themselves in a variety of forms and styles. Audiences hear poetry and prose in dialogue with painting, photography, sculpture, music and dance. Any featured guests serve not only as entertainment but also as inspiration for developing artists. The free speech event reveals the diversity and importance of the region’s artists.

Poetry & Art DJ, Gill S.O.T.U., will provide R&B, funk, soul, and there is a new art exhibit on display at every show.

So bring poems and paintings on Wednesday, Feb. 17, and step up to the mic. Or simply come to enjoy the performances. The show starts at 6:30 p.m. For more information, contact Michael Klam at (619) 957-3264 or call the museum directly, Kerstin Robers at (619) 236-0011.  E-mail: mkklam@gmail.com. Visit: www.punapress.com and sandiego-art.org/.

Poetry & Art Series since 2001 Poetry & Art takes place in the 10,000-square-foot San Diego Art Institute at Balboa Park and includes music and snacks. The event is open to the public and audience members can participate or simply enjoy the show. Cost is $5. Open mic signups start at 6:30 p.m., and the event runs 6:30 to 9:30 p.m.

For press photos, to set up interviews or more information, contact Michael Klam, (619) 957-3264 cell, (619) 236-0011 office or mkklam@gmail.com.

WHAT: Poetry & Art 3 for $300 Slam

DATE: Wednesday, Feb. 17, 2010

TIME: 6:30-9:30 p.m.; slam signups at 6:30 p.m.

LOCATION: The Museum of the Living Artist

1439 El Prado, Balboa Park

COST: $5, members free, wine and snacks

General Information

The San Diego Art Institute’s Museum of the Living Artist features a new exhibition of works by talented Southern California regional artists every four to six weeks in this specially designed 10,000-square-foot, state-of-the-art gallery space. The San Diego Art Institute is dedicated to the advancement of the visual arts through outreach, education and exhibition. The institute’s mission is to maintain a center for emerging artists and the visual arts in San Diego.

Movers and Shakers

“Being recognized as part of the San Diego artists’ community is awesome, but does that mean I have to stop, and smell the roses?

Hell no!

Brave the weather and step out.”


Movers and Shakers information


©ted washington 2010

Poetry Ruckus

ruckus3

Art Show Opens in New Jersey

“The Center for the Visual Arts of New Jersey’s 24th International Juried Exhibition is an awesome collection of art. The art is fantastic, strong work all around, the venue is beautiful, and the people were nice. In fact I plan to do some things with some of the artists I met at the opening.”

The Opening Night


©ted washington 2010

Trees in the City II

“Wandered about in Central Park on a winter morning. Very peaceful.”

Trees in the City

©ted washington 2010

Trees in the City

“I love visiting the Apple. Spent a lot of my youth here but I do not know if I could live here. Too many people.”

Trees in the City

©ted washington 2010