An Exercise in 2nd Person Narrative

Yesterday, you came by and were gentle, serene, almost peaceful in a manner and style of some sort of spiritual leader, a yogi to be more precise. You strolled to the door, no motorized transportation present, and gently knocked. Your knock was almost unnoticeable. It was indistinguishable from all of the clatter and noise from the street construction outside. You knocked again. This time slightly more forceful but acutely aware not to be too forceful because that would go against your very nature.

You waited patiently at the door knowing that someone was there on the other side waiting to welcome you and possibly share a meal. You weren't bothered by any of the noise of distraction or waiting. You were just there at the door quietly knocking.

Your mind never wandered father than "How many knocks have I done?" You had no anticipation of what was next and were completely still in a moment stretching it beyond its normal constrained limits. You were not human. You were not caught by the hustle and bustle of the ever quickening world. You paid no heed to time. Really, you couldn't have been human.

You were there with your slight fist keeping your own time and rhythm against everything else that was taking place. Knock. Two. Three. Four. Five Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Knock. Two. Three. Four. ... Twelve. Knock. ... Knock. ... Knock. ...

It is no wonder that you never knew what was next. You were trapped. You were there but you were not aware. You were at once completely present and utterly detached. You were that lone person who assumes all else will bend to your time and temperament. You believe your reality to the point of blindness.

You were knocking on that white aluminum door gently keeping pace. ... Knock. Two. Three. ... Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Knock. ... Knock. Two. ... Knock. ... Knock. ...

And when the door opened, all that remained was a rhythm that distorted the harmony that once was. And you? You were gone. And I was alone.

Losing my personal narrative

I am trying to figure out what the story is I want to tell since my hours were significantly reduced off on June 30, 2009. So much has happened since then and so many learnings have been revealed to me that I find it difficult to find a way to express myself. All the hard work and long hours from March to June 2009 have taken away from me my communication center. I can't find the words of my personal narrative.

They, the words that is, are with me as I gently stroll through Golden Gate Park's AIDS Memorial or lay on my bed waiting for a nap or stay up with the youth on the last night of the Adobe Youth Voices Summit or wander the Des Moines Art Museum, but the moment I sit down with pen to paper they are gone. It is as if I am in a field of fireflies and my words are the tiny lights sparkling among the grasses. The moment I capture them in my glass Mason jar, they no longer carry with them the same brilliance or luster or magic. Sure, I can shake the jar and they spark for a moment, but they are not the same as their free and unrestrained brethren. They are not spontaneous or rhythmical or organic.

I am even having difficulties finding what comes next; what this paragraph should even be about. Should I write about the power of story to express complexity and voice? Should I write about the shift to more authentic and true shared leadership within the Youth Worker: Collective? Should I write about finally finding my fictional world maybe at the expense of personal narrative? Should I write about the slowing of my life and my resistence to quickening its pace? Should I...? The list is so long and overwhelming that I cannot choose, nor can I find a means to narrow.

In the past, this would have led me to not picking up a pen or opening a notebook. I would have let the overwhelmingness whiddle awy at my identity as a writer. I would have stared at the page and hoped words would write themselves. I would have turned on the television and watched People's Court.

Now, I find myself pushing through and not worrying about what actually comes out. I start with recording my wanderings and opening up to observations. I take my thoughts and fictionalize them into parables. I let my distractions guide me to the page. I still worry about cohesion and flow and grammar and spelling, but I do not let that interfere with the process of creating because I know a story is still waiting to be told.

Maybe the story here is that regularity and a slowing of the pace and the release of control to flow can and does bring change. Maybe it is that I no longer worry about a preconceived notion of a writer, adn therefore can claim it even when nothing makes sense. Maybe it is that I have many stories to tell and yet not all will be told. Maybe it is is nothing at all. All and more are possibilities.

As I sit here on a bench among the many dirt paths of Golden Gate Park, I smell the musty, humid forest air; I hear the whistling of a passerby mix with the panting of dog, the dongs of birds, the buzzing of insects, and the shuffling of feet against the sandy dirt and fallen leaves; I see the shifting of light as the sun passes in and out of the marine fog; I feel the rubber ridges of the pen in my hand and the dull itch of old mosquito bites. And I know that i am more present and aware then I have been in a long time. This brings me calm and peace. And maybe, just maybe that is the story that has just been told.

An Open Letter to Michael Lane

I am at the Des Moines Art Festival helping my best friend Michael with the Interactive Art Station. They have two projects: a "cray-pa-your-own square" of a mural of the city's skyline and a "create your own" skyline silhouette. The Festival is just kicking off today after many months of planning and hard work.

I am honored I get to see my friend at work. You can tell a lot about a person when you sit back and watch. Michael is one of those rare kinds that knows how to achieve a vision, something that lives outside of himself. He has that unique skill set of seeing the whole and the component parts. It is this skill I most admire and respect.

I'm not sure if he knows exactly how much I have learned from him over the years. He has seen me through a lot in the 12 plus years of friendship. He has showed me that hard work pays off, politics are inevitable, and compassion is sometimes wanting to tell someone to fuck off but instead saying "thank you".

What I am observing today reinforces all of this. Michael is nothing if not neurotic. He cares, like me, what people think of him. He obsesses, like me, about the impact of even the tiniest of actions. Earlier today he worried that the direction of the tables (should they run north to south or east to west) might not be the direction his colleague wants them to run. Some may view this as petty or ridiculous even. I completely understand him. I understand that something as simple as the direction of a table has significance. It creates mood, traffic flow, and can either support or hinder an activity. I understand that this decision not only impacts the participants, but the simple decision can impact the relationship between colleagues. It can make or break a friendship. And I appreciate deeply the fact that Michael understands this too.

Before the Festival started, we took a stroll through Des Moines. He showed me the Sol LeWitt paintings he helped paint. He showed the the Tara Donovan instillation he helped construct. He talked lovingly about one particular section of Tara's plastic cup rolling landscape he was responsible for and as such he fussed and fussed to make it perfect. He showed me parts of his life and how it has and continues to intersect the live of others, especially artists. And I am reminded of his humility, leadership, and grace.

Michael has an intrinsic sense of community and connectedness and is rooted in knowing how and when to step up and step back. He makes no claims that the art of Sol LeWitt or Tara Donovan or the mural being created are his. And yet he is a crucial factor in their existence. He picked up the brush and actually painted the Sol LeWitt. He placed the plastic cups one-by-one on the floor to create Tara's landscape. He helped create the system that empowers the community to "paint" a square of the mural. If he had not picked up that brush, placed that cup, or systemetized the mural, they certainly would still have been done. But he did do it. He contributed to their creation and in doing so he left his mark.

Now what matters is the narrative he tells about his involvement. His narrative rarely continues an "I". He understands and has internalized the true nature of community: we.

I am sitting here on the sidelines just watching and transcribing what I see. I hope I have an ounce of his humilty. I hope others learn from his presence. I know that if we all practiced a little less "I" and a little more "we" we would transform this world.

Thanks Michael for this important lesson.