The Rebirth of Haiti?

It's quite clear that Haiti has a lot of healing to do. Once it becomes stable after last month's horrific earthquake, the crumbling nation's situation still faces the Haitian people. It's not going away when CNN stops covering it.

It's popular to wonder what will become of Haiti? What will they do? The situation is currently pretty grim--the nerve center of the already devastated country has been paralyzed--it is basically without infrastructure, government, and not to mention a huge chunk of its population. People are asking where the relief efforts are centered and where is all that money we donated going? I can't say for sure the answers to those questions, but I can pose a fairly common sense theory on how to start the country out on the right foot, perhaps in a way it hasn't known in a very long time.

I look at this country as a beautiful opportunity to start over. With a lot of help, these people can start over. First of all we must ask ourselves what does Haiti need above all else? Relief efforts aside, the country is in dire need of food, even the hospitals haven't had clean water in years, and the atrocious standard of poverty they live in requires jobs and a way to keep the economy flowing. Am I mistaken or is Haiti not a tropical island? If you approach it as the building of any new community, one of the first things you do is plant seeds that will provide a bounty later. For a tropical nation Haiti is obscenely barren, and that has its reasons, but it doesn't need to go on forever. I understand that Haiti's history is extremely political and rife with pain due to multiple colonizations by France, Spain, and America. A large part of the landscape has been stripped of its resources, and geographically, Haiti's rainfall is largely redirected to its infinitely more successful counterpart, the Dominican Republic. But truthfully, everyone needs to start healing from the past and look forward, look to the present, to make smart decisions about how to start succeeding. Why don't we start by planting trees? The lack of trees in Haiti is a huge part of what makes life so difficult. Their indigenous woods have been plundered, leaving the construction of homes and buildings up to concrete, which we all know is not very durable in an earthquake. With trees the severity of hurricanes and earthquakes would diminish and rainfall would increase. This all without mentioning the amount of food that can be produced. Tropical trees are a glorious way to start feeding Haitian people again without relying on any imports, aside from the trees themselves. Every family should have a dozen avocados, coconuts, bananas, papayas, and mangos. Trees are the lifeblood of humanity--they're not just for treehuggers! I'm aware that there already is a tree-planting organization, Christian of course (they seem to be the only ones to really get organized!), called Fast Growing Trees (www.fast-growing-trees.com). This gives me hope; we need a lot more like them.

I've seen conflicting records of Haiti's rainfall, but it appears to be enough to catch, however much it is. The state of Haiti's water supply is hugely responsible for its alarming average life expectancy of just 49 years. More infants and mothers die during childbirth than in any other country. More children die before the age of 5 than any other country. Humans cannot exist without clean water. But where does water come from? Certainly not the faucet. It comes from the sky. They need a sophisticated water catchment system. All it takes is a huge container, some pipes, and some prayers for rain. Hippie communities in Hawaii can figure this out--can the rest of the world? It would take a small system of organization to get water catchments built all over the country, if not in everyone's backyard.

Like I said, these ideas are fairly common sense, but the bigger question may be "who's going to be in charge of it?" Haiti's government has a long history of corruption, as most colonized nations do. The UN is almost completely useless, and a few too many industrialized nations have had their grubby paws in this not-so-much-honey pot for far too long. Instead, a collective of organizations who care need to step up, a communal and effective system. It's going to take money and resources, but not that much. President Obama just released his plan for this year's budget of $3.8 trillion. Do we all realize how much a trillion dollars is? Not to mention three of them? There is clearly more than enough money on this planet to attract to the cause. In just a couple weeks' time the American people raised millions of dollars just in relief aid alone. If it were all planned out, I would be very interested to know how much it would cost to start a consistent system of transporting seeds, trees, building resources, and educators to Haiti to successfully start this project.

If Haiti cannot stand on its own, others must stand up for support. That's just the way it is. Imagine the livelihoods and sense of purpose that could be created by doling out daily jobs to Haiti's people. Educate the masses in sustainable development, and I have no doubt they would be infinitely grateful for the opportunity. Once they all know how to plant and maintain the vegetation, assign them sections of town. Get them connected and working their land again. There is the speculation that the resentment Haiti feels after hundreds of years of slavery and exploitation will be a deterrent in getting these people to "do what we say," but that bullshit needs to go once and for all. I couldn't agree more, the industrialized world is a corrupt, sinister, robotic corporation that has done a lot of evil. But organizations and individuals that care are not their megalomaniac governments. People do not get anywhere or grow by harboring hostility and resentment. It is our responsibility to remind Haiti of what it is, who they are, and what they are truly capable of. No golf courses or resorts for rich white people involved!

Unfortunately Untitled Poem

I was surprised
at all the things that
did not surprise me
in Hawaii.

The mountains,
so obviously wise
usher valley streams,
cold and pure,
into the ocean.
Yes, yes.
The fact that there are fruits borne of aliens,
rollenia
soursop
jackfruit,
sticky swollen mangos littering the June streets,
wet and muddy pig trails drawing treasure maps
to waterfalls--

It’s like I’d seen them all before.

But I had never seen anything
like Belly Acres,
land with leaves bigger than children,
happy people
working the dirt
living in wooden cabins
painted reds and oily blues only an artist can find,
chipped white murals yellowed
from admiring stares over 30 years.
At sunset shiny people
gather in the communal kitchen
sweaty and hungry,
skin hot and ripened brown,
and lazily offer
scoops of power food,
prepared with the secret of how to cook it.
I was jealous I was not a very good cook.
A true fairy, younger than me
led us around by her chocolate chip
hair and carried a blue
bottle of water,
purified with Love.

This was like a dream I’d forgotten.

Then at Cinderland,
20 people who did not work
but sang songs, read books,
dreamed about when the world will
turn inside out,
and shared everything.
Who did not mind the cold water
or having nowhere to go
but the kitchen, thankful
and quiet
against the roar of the rain,
the air thick and sleepy.
And who hovered,
no matter how sunny outside,
like flies around the fire pit
hungry for each other,
rolling endless American Spirit cigarettes from
red packages, blue packages, one time black.
Who reflectively drummed the heavy rhythms
of the kids’ feet
and drank wine in warm pools
at midnight.
Who met God
amongst waves,
and lovers
around flames.
Who chanted, danced, cooked--
set the table--
planted, picked, prayed.
Sometimes the garden gave way
Sometimes it did not.
Sometimes there were cherry tomatoes
and green leaves for lunch,
but always too many hot peppers,
thick bushes of fire red, orange, and yellow.
Always morning papaya,
for they fruit young
and often.
Bananas, avocados, and coconuts
were gathered on Fridays,
for they were work.
Who, naughty and laughing,
hunted private lands
for vibrant fruits to feed the family.

The Abundance Abounds!

I just wanted to write a quick thing in celebration of all the abundance that's been springing forth lately! It's amazing how switching to a relentless vibration of abundance has truly transformed my situation, just in the last couple weeks.

I have already successfully attracted over $1000 from freelance writing jobs since the new year began. That's insane! I've been enjoying the work tremendously as well, as it keeps me busy and revitalizes me, filling me with a new sense of purpose. Mike is also attracting money just about every day through his endeavors, resulting in weekly checks. Aaaand, drum roll please, the situation with Terrence Sanders is finally over. Last week I was extremely pleased to receive an apologetic email from him--simple, straightforward, and all I could hope for--along with the $100 check a few days later. I can't say I was too surprised because I knew I had opened a flood gate of energy when I wrote my exposé of him. Those few days before I'd received the email, I honestly had released all attachment to actually receiving the money. The only thing that mattered was that I had fulfilled my responsibility of using my words to spread the truth. Three days later, there's the check. That's a little more than a coincidence, don't you think?

I recently signed up for the WIC program (Women, Infants, and Children), which somewhat eases my grocery bills with a set of monthly coupon checks. To those who are unfamiliar with the program, it is a federal and state-funded nutrition program which provides vouchers for specific foods (bread, milk, cheese, peanut butter, produce, etc.) to pregnant and nursing mothers as well as families with young children. The vouchers only add up to like $50 a month, but it's something. I got twice the food the other day for half the price. The program emphasizes nutritious foods (I was pleased to learn you can only buy whole wheat or whole grain bread), which I believe makes it far more effective at securing a fairly nutrient-rich diet than just handing out food stamps, which are utilized far too often for Oreos and ice cream. Point being: I am abundant in good food!

These are just a couple examples of the influx of abundance that has come into our lives in such a short time, and I like to reiterate to everyone, including myself, my feelings of gratitude. That's what's making it all happen, after all, switching my gears to appreciating the abundance instead of focusing on the pain of what I don't have.

Now we can finally renew our car registration (for an exorbitant price) and buy a new muffler (it needs one desperately). Thank you, Universe! Keep it coming!

WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA STEAL DIS PHRASE?

It's been the most glorious week for New Orleans fans everywhere. Even Mike, who's trapped in the frigid-don't-know-nuttin-bout-no-spice-north, can't stop watching videos of secondlines on Bourbon St. and wishing he were back in his hometown to celebrate this inaugural moment in history: the Saints are headed to the Superbowl. Of course everyone knows that by now, but no one knows it better than New Orleanians. Since 1967 Saints fans have loved and honored their football team--for rich or for richer, through injuries and in health, through wins and through losses (many, many losses), as long as they all shall live. But this year the Saints and their fans are joyously experiencing something they've never experienced before: a seemingly divine and unstoppable success.

And the mantric chant that has accompanied both that success and preceding failures has been preciously linked to the New Orleans Saints and their fans since...forever, it seems: "WHO DAT SAY DEY GONNA BEAT DEM SAINTS? WHO DAT? WHO DAT?!" Though history may have some absolute reality on when the phrase originated and when the Saints took it on, it is now inextricably integrated into New Orleans culture. But in the last few days the corporate cyborg that is the NFL has had something to say about that, resulting in a tense custody battle.

The NFL recently claims to have "patented" the rights to 'Who Dat' and have subsequently countered local New Orleans novelty shops for selling clothing and other merchandise which displays the legendary phrase or even the iconic fleur-de-lys symbol. They've begun issuing cease and desist orders to small business owners all over the city. However, the acquisition of these rights have not really gone through yet, especially since the Saints do already own two fleur-de-lys design registrations, and it's not just the NFL that's trying to claim rights to the phrase. Indeed there already is a WhoDat?, Inc., founded by Sal and Steve Monistere, who recorded the famous chant in 1983 and have been marketing it, quietly, ever since. Personally, I do not believe the fleur-de-lys itself can be bought by anyone, since it has ancient origins and is utilized all over the world.

What pisses me off, and obviously New Orleanians as well, is that this has been theirs for so long. The Saints have been theirs, even when they were the 'Aints' for so long. And now that the team is a renowned success, everybody wants a part of them. Everyone wants to jump on the Superbowl bandwagon and make a quick buck (like commercial whore Peyton Manning who does Oreo ads--you are so going down next weekend!). But New Orleans does not care about that. The city just vibrates an enormous sense of pride, no matter what happens. Saints fans don't run for the hills because of a terrible season, they run back faster the next year! They don't go to sleep during a game and "find out the score in the morning" (ahem, *cough* Patriots fans)! Local shops have always sold Who Dat merchandise because Saints fans buy them, wear them proudly, and deserve them. And for a city that's just getting back on its feet, the economic advantages of producing and buying locally are obvious. I like to think that even if the Saints weren't associated with the NFL, whatever hinky backyard football team out there with New Orleans jerseys would be embraced and passionately supported by the city. But the big truck/Bud beer/badass military-sponsored NFL has not hesitated in trying to exploit New Orleans for all it's worth. For a corporation whose annual profits exceed $300 billion, that's just plain shitty to try to take something so precious from a city that's already lost so much. But let's be reminded it is a corporation, not a person. Despite what the Supreme Court just ruled, corporations are not people and do not serve humane interests.

I say, for now, that New Orleans shop owners do not legally need to adhere to the corporate bullying that has already begun. There has been an impressive uproar in the Who Dat Nation in opposition to this ludicrous development, and Sal and Steve Monistere have been speaking up for their trademark as well. New Orleans does not keep quiet and does not bow down to Expensive Suits just because they come in with their White-Man-Conquering-You-Now attitude. The simple truth is that 'Who Dat' is not the NFL's to authorize one way or another, and if the city of New Orleans has anything to say about it, which it does, it never, EVER will be.

Pathetic, At Best

We already know the things we cannot trust in life: politicians, the news, reality TV, Radiohead to play a public concert in the US anytime soon...but now our employers? As I sit contemplating whether or not it is at all sophisticated to smear the good name of a renowned local entrepreneur, I am immediately inspired by MSNBC's Keith Olbermann's recent attacks on Massachusetts Senator-Elect Scott Brown, which describe him as a "homophobic, racist, reactionary...supporter of violence against women..." you know the rest. And that was merely on speculation! Well, I've decided, yes, it is a good idea to publicly broadcast my perspective on this man, who has personally and professionally wronged me, and who may potentially screw someone else over. Terrence Sanders, editor of a local New Orleans publication, ArtVoices magazine, has proven to me over the last five months that he does not know the meaning of respect for or communication with his employees. I can only imagine how often this happens to freelancers, and I'd like to shed some light on my experience, which I hope will prompt freelancers everywhere to secure their professional approach.

This all started last June, way back in 2009, when I went to an art opening in a gallery-laden district of downtown New Orleans. It was a small gathering with some very interesting work and copious amounts of free vodka. It was there that I met Terrence Sanders, a sort of "big cheese" in the New Orleans art world as the editor of the successful and respected ArtVoices magazine. After a few drinks I was feeling pretty confident and quite aware of my empty wallet, so I approached him about a writing job. I told him I could write about anything; though confident in my writing skills I was honestly a bit apprehensive about the technical aspects of the fashion and art world! After some chit-chat he got my phone number and said he would call me. When our conversation ended I left him alone so as to not annoy him, though I hung around so he would at least remember who I was after waking up with a vodka hangover. Later on in the evening as he chatted up my friend Colleen in a side room, who was also there in hopes of acquiring some sort of work (or just working it, I'm not sure), I sat down on the bright white couch and joined the two of them, followed by my boyfriend, Mike. We were all a bit tipsy and Terrence was standing over the three of us, a looming figure in whom I saw the potential to get my foot in the door. A thrill at the time! I don't remember much of what undoubted bullshit was said, but I do remember this from Terrence's mouth: "I didn't go to college...I had to build what I wanted from scratch...the two main keys to success are do good work and don't fuck anybody over!" Those ironic words would reverberate in my head with sardonic laughter in the ensuing months.

Imagine my delight when just a week later he texted me with an assignment for his new magazine, Turnstile. A pre-assignment, I suppose it was: "What is Fashion?" I sort of scoffed, but once I got to writing it flowed quite naturally, and I reevaluated my confidence. I could do this. I could write about fashion, even though I had long since stopped caring about much of the superficiality of it. I would write for an established magazine. After I sent the short paragraph he requested, he emailed another assignment: an open editorial. Again, once I finished this assignment, he didn't mention it again and didn't say what he would do with it. But finally, he assigned an actual job: an interview with a local photographer. Yes! I'd never done an interview before, not since some Student Council thing in middle school, but I immediately got to work on formulating questions. I was dead set on doing an impressive job. It finally occurred to me to inquire about payment, as Terrence had not said anything, but this was a real assignment now to be published, so I'd better find out, right? After an awkward delay, Terrence got back to me that I would be paid $100.

When I met the photographer, Mark, for our interview at an uptown coffeeshop, it all went wonderfully. I tried not to let off that this was my first professional job, though that fact simmered beneath the surface. I brought my video camera for accuracy, and we got to talking comfortably. He was a very nice guy, and I really wanted to bring to light the literal darkness in his photography. I didn't know how many times he'd been interviewed, if at all, but I had a strong desire to showcase who he was as an artist. I understood that that was my responsibility as the writer, not to just ask questions and document the answers. Later on at home I edited the interview down from 6000 to 1000 words. It was painstaking, but I was extremely satisfied at the end. I sent it to Terrence cheerily and did not even receive word that he'd received the file until I asked him for confirmation.

A few weeks later, at the end of August, I participated in a fashion show for a local designer, which was amazing. I caught up with Mark outside who immediately commended me for my work, which had been sent to him for accuracy. He said I actually "got him." That was an incredible reward. Using only 1/6 of what he'd said, I could have made him sound like a real boner. I was elated that he appreciated my portrayal of him, which I assumed to be quite rare in the media.

After a bit more time I was wondering about the payment, so I contacted Terrence. He wrote back that he does not pay his employees until the week of publication, and that would not be until the second or third week of September. I was broke and sort of upset that he had not mentioned this stipulation at the beginning, but what could I do? I put it out of my mind until September.

By the end of the third week of September, I had not only received no word from Terrence but had recently discovered I was pregnant, and my boyfriend and I had decided to move out of Louisiana and up north to reconnect with my friends. I was sick with fetus, sick of the heat, and sick of being broke! I inquired to Terrence about my check and informed him that I was moving out of state and would like to receive payment before that happens so as to make it less sticky for everyone. He updated me that publication had been pushed back until the first week of October, and he does not make exceptions. I started to see the interesting loophole he'd created for himself. Well, we already had our plane tickets, and I was melting, so we took a leap of faith and left.

This went on for three more months. Every month I would have to email him, wondering why the deadline had passed and I had not received my check or any notification, and he would push back the issue release another month. But eventually he knew he couldn't stave me off much longer and began promising me that he was sending it: "You'll have your check by next week," "I'm sending it out this week," "you'll have it by the end of the month." By the time December rolled around and I was still empty-handed, I started to get cranky. Despite my growing frustration I did not want that to come off in our correspondence. I scrutinized my word choices meticulously, careful not to appear angry, crazy, or just plain rude, but I held true to the main points to be addressed: Why did he promise to send the checks when he knew he did not intend to? Why doesn't he just send the check so I will get off his back? A hundred dollars is a delightful trip to the grocery store for a pregnant woman--I want my money! Why won't he communicate with me clearly and tell me what's really going on? However professionally I worded my emails, however, he shot back that I should be ashamed of myself for disrespecting him, such an important man, and for having the "audacity" to come to him with my "problems." My problem was his behavior, so yes, I most certainly came to him with that complaint. His true colors were shining through, loud and clear.

I finally contacted Mark about the magazine, if he knew anything about the publication, since I could never find any information about Turnstile online. I had no evidence of its existence at all. He responded that he had seen the layout, but indeed the launch of the magazine had been pushed back to January. I thanked him for the confirmation, but then it dawned on me that this was the launch of Turnstile--no wonder I could never find anything about it! I wrote to Terrence and asked him why he had never just explicitly told me that this was the first issue. I even conceded and admitted humbly that I understood how the launch of a new magazine could get pushed back. Why hadn't he told me? But now there was no reason to delay, the issue was coming out, and I would definitely get paid.

He responded, by now late in December, that he claimed to have sent me the check two weeks earlier. Confused and once again suspicious, I reported that I'd never received it, so we agreed it must have been "lost in the mail." I had no reason to believe him, but I implored him to cancel the check and send me another. After a couple weeks of going back and forth about who's going to pay the $30 cancellation fee, I conceded and said I would pay for it if he sent me the receipt for the canceled check, along with the issue of the magazine. The least he could do is send me the work I did in exchange for all this crap! He surprisingly responded that he would pay the fee and I would have my check by the end of the week of January 18, if only this would end. I received no word that he had sent the check, and of course no check by Friday, so I sent another inquiring email. He did not respond. Downright angry, I emailed him again, this time threatening to expose his distasteful business practices if he did not actually send the check this time. This is honestly the first time I have threatened him with public disclosure, and apparently he did not appreciate it. He wrote me back quickly--allow me to quote him accurately: "I don't know why I even entertain you but your threats are pathetic to even think anyone cares what you have to say anyway is evn more pathetic. Who are you and what have you done to even compare yourself to me. As I said before your checks in the mail and get a life. I'm not sending you your pathetic $100 because you're threatening me I'm sending it to get your negative energy off of me. I will register your address with SPAM so there will be no further correspondence. I can't believe I even hired you after you begged me to write an article which is mediocre at best. Good luck with all your future endeavors you're going to need it. Best Regards"

No, I am not pathetic. And the work I did for him was superb. What's pathetic is not paying a pregnant woman a measly $100 that she earned, simply because she asks questions. I will not just roll over as he tries to screw me. Eww. The important thing is that he is the employer, a dastardly one at that, and for me to have to badger him for even a response or some notice on the status of due compensation is unacceptable. Furthermore, for him to insult me for pursuing my rights in the matter is completely repugnant and unethical.

Perhaps no one does care what I say, but there's nothing more pleasing to me in this moment than making some attempt to let others know what really goes on behind some pseudo-philanthropic doors. All freelancers must be very clear in their expectations of payment and treatment by their employers. This editor's disrespect is unwarranted, his arrogance unparalleled. What have I done to "compare myself to him?" Dear God, I hope nothing comes close!

If I Ran a Rehab...

Whilst watching the latest episodes of "Celebrity Rehab" on VH1 I've become inspired to comment. I know this is reality TV, which is usually anything but, but it's triggered the over-analytical health nut in me.

There are several things just strange about this recovery center Dr. Drew runs. Mike Starr, one of the sort-of celebrity patients receiving treatment there, is obviously having some problems. Physically, he's going through a harrowing detox from heroin, methadone, and cocaine. That sucks to begin with. Dr. Drew encourages the physical detox to transpire completely before the heavy psychological treatment comes in, which is agreeably wise because who wants to talk about his head when it's pounding and screaming and the body is likewise incomparably pissed off? But a major problem Mike is having alongside his physical torment is a resentment and agitation at the TV cameras. Granted, he signed on for this and probably contractually agreed (and perhaps was paid?) to be broadcast during one of the more horrific experiences of his life. That was his initial decision, but now he's stuck and detoxing and really angry. He expresses this through a mixture of verbal aggression and antisocial behavior, just pacing the grounds unresponsively with headphones.

What I wonder is what else could he be doing to take his mind off of his agony? Is there an exercise room? Maybe just running on a treadmill or lifting weights would release some of the pain and stagnant energy in his system. It really looks like he needs to just move his body. It's clear he's trying to do this by the constant walking and pacing. Of course we all know exercise, getting the blood pumping, increases endorphins and therefore feelings of well-being. Another thing is: he's a musician. He was the bassist for the band Alice in Chains until he was kicked out for his disruptive drug use (guess they didn't kick out frontman Lane Staley because he died from heroin!). Maybe Mike would like to play his damn bass. He has mentioned a few times on camera that he wants to get clean so he can perhaps join another band. Maybe he needs a push to just pick up his instrument again and see what it has to tell him. Seems like a productive suggestion for spending this awful time.

Instead of encouraging constructive behavior in Mike, Dr. Drew and the staff continue to simply express concern over his aggression, surround him obnoxiously, try to force engagement, and consider sending him to a psychiatric hospital. What the hell, this is REHAB! That's what happens. Of course people get angry. People get sick. The cameras showed Mike throwing up in the middle of the night, as ya do when you're completely withdrawing from opiates, and showcased the ensuing madness the morning after. Dr. Drew's assistant, Shelly (I don't know what her title is), discovers the vomit and is totally disgusted. She begins by spraying copious amounts of air freshener into the room (yes, let's spray synthetic chemicals into the air and trigger more nausea), then continues to act like a college girl whose roommate is passed out and has puked on herself. Like this is the first puke she's ever cleaned up. She carries on getting grossed out and complains about how grossed out she is. If Mike weren't so apathetic and scathing, he might be embarrassed by the incident. That's a nice feeling to generate in the recovering patients. But really, doesn't this "celebrity rehab" have orderlies? Cleaning staff? Lower rung staff members paid to clean up the accidents that inevitably happen when the body experiences utter turmoil?

But here's where it gets sticky. When Shelly conducts a sort of NA meeting, she begins by introducing herself as Shelly, an alcoholic. An addict. This is how she identifies herself. She then asks another patient if he is an addict and he wholeheartedly agrees. She then gets to Mike and asks, "are you powerless?" He complies. She seems satisfied. She asks the same question to Heidi, the methed out Madam. She also acquiesces that she "cannot stop" and "does whatever she wants." The first questions I would have asked any of these people are "Have you ever truly wanted and tried to quit abusing drugs?" and "How do you see yourself? Where does your power lie?" I suppose one of the main credos in chemical dependency rehabilitation is the admittance of addiction, admitting the problem, and then aiming to fix it. While I agree that you must recognize there is overwhelming negativity attached to the destructive behavior, I do not agree that addicts must continue to be addicts all their lives. "Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic." This affirms the undesired behavior and identifies the individual as the addiction, an inescapable fact, ignoring the fact that they do still have power, it is just directed toward the drug use. How much attention is given to empowering those things that could make them well? This is why I believe so many rehab programs simply do not work. People come in believing they are not addicted, though they may physically appear that way, and come out of rehab conditioned to think that that is EXACTLY what they are. Like there is nothing in their lives more important than focusing on that lingering addiction. Then when they are confronted with substances again, they let themselves fall prey because that is what they are: mere prey to the demons. I wholeheartedly believe people can change if they choose to, and there is always something more positive to affirm than that which they are trying to escape.

Lisa D'Amato is an example of this. The former "America's Next Top Model" contestant and self-proclaimed party girl does not see herself as an addict until the good doctor tells her she is one. There is a conversation between herself and Heidi where she says she never turns down drugs, though she has in the past, but "what the fuck, why not [do them]?" Heidi seems shocked that she "can't say no." Well, she's a young model in southern California who loves to party. Go figure. In Hollywood, it's not news to anyone that drugs are extremely accessible to a person such as herself. The status associated with being given expensive drugs would go to anyone's head. It doesn't seem hard to acclimate to that lifestyle if that's what you live in. But just because she never turns down cocaine doesn't mean she needs to go to rehab, that means cocaine is a fun drug for people who are into talking nonsense and dancing with other famous people. I did the same thing when I was 18 (minus the celebrities). My first year out of high school, out from under my mother's watch, for a time I took to snorting coke daily. I never turned it down either because those 25 minutes of f-u-n were too tempting to pass up. Basically, if you regularly do coke, you do not turn it down. But after about four months I was over it, over the physical desperation and awkward nights up by myself with a tiny white bag, over the exhaustion, and over the drainage in my wallet. I chose to pursue a different hobby, and now look at me: I'm about to have a baby and cherish green salads and knitting.

It seems like these people are just waiting for someone or something else to take responsibility for them. "I'm powerless, I'm an addict, I can't help it." Maybe being a celebrity with a drug problem is different from my experience. Maybe enduring significant childhood abuse makes it more difficult to choose well-being for oneself. But who hasn't experienced some sort of abuse? We are abused every day by our families, our governments, our neighbors, and ultimately ourselves.

If I ran a rehab, I would not designate addiction to anyone. I would designate wellness to all, and aim above everything else for that, whether that be through physical comfort, psychological support, or spiritual wholeness. Rehabilitation should be about affirming the positive, affirming wellness, affirming that which the person wants to be. If that person still wants to be an addict and vibrates that desire, it is so. If the person truly wants to be well, support must be available to provide that person with the tools necessary to achieve wellness. That means getting rid of the idea of permanent addiction, eternal weakness, not writing it across their forehead so they never forget it and sending them hopefully on their way.

Round and Round

Well, what an abundant day yesterday is! I attracted some money through a quick gig, which completely reenergized me. If only for three hours, I had a purpose! I checked our Craigslist's email Sunday night and found a response from a woman needing a story typed. Easy as pie. I called her straightaway and arranged to meet her in Boston the next day (Monday) at 2:00 to pick up the photocopied story. She just needed it typed and emailed to her so she would have it in her computer, as she is a writer, yet a slow typist, and is including the story in...come to think of it, I never asked. And she even bought me a hot chocolate near the T station. Damn. But she paid me first thing and trusted me to send her the story by Wednesday. By 5:00 I was emailing her the finished product. She says she'll recommend me to any friends who need help as well. Awww swell!

Anywho, I got a life-saving $45 out of the deal, which not only paid our car insurance in the nick of time but also got us a quick trip to the grocery store. That little boost gave us both a shot of confidence and faith. I am so grateful for the opportunity to eat and drive another day! I could do that 1000 times, and looky there, I'd have $45,000. Not so hard.

A short while after my last post on Sunday night (before the job email) I really started to lose it, and my eyes burned red from the constant flow of tears. Mike really didn't know what to do, so I hobbled upstairs where Mom and Peter were eating dinner. I just stood there silently for a moment and stumbled into the kitchen. Mom asked if I was feeling well and followed me. It took me a couple minutes to regain composure. When I'm falling apart sometimes just being in the presence of my mom allows me to completely let go emotionally. We talked it through, my feelings of utter purposelessness and boredom ripping me apart. But it's more than just boredom, I explained it to Mike as if the Universe has forgotten us down here in this cave, and I have no idea where to go to be seen anymore. She was completely supportive and made suggestions I agreed with. It was a refreshing, necessary conversation. Maybe I just needed to connect with my mother after feeling so much disconnect. Maybe the first step in reminding the Universe to see me was reminding my mom.

And one last tidbit: I've made a penny off this blog, too! Mike loves to check stats, and he noticed I have successfully earned one cent from the Google ads on the side there. I honestly hadn't even noticed them, but I guess someone reading did. Thanks a lot! Keep it up!

Short but sweet. See ya later.