Beth Mann's Open Salon Blog

The Positivity Police and the Good Weather Glee Club

Wed, 2 May 2012 09:05:51 -0400

The Good Weather Glee Club

The Good Weather Glee Club: I can't stand this rain. It's supposed to be 85 degrees tomorrow and sunny. Can't wait.

Me: Hmm...it's March. I find those temperatures disconcerting this early.

The Good Weather Glee Club: Really?? I LOVE it.

Me: Do you wanna marry it?

The Good Weather Glee Club: What?

Me: Nothing.

And I walk away, wondering why the world is so damn fanatical about "nice" weather. It's almost cult-like, how people treat a sunny day. Yes, Virginia, there are clouds, rain, snow...sometimes even sleet. Hell, hail! It's neither good or bad; it just is.

Radio Announcer: It's another beauuuuutiful day today out there, folks. Looks like we'll hit 80 degrees, if we're lucky! So you better get outside and enjoy the sunny day because it's sunny and sunny is good and I'm positive because I love the sunny weather. Back to you, Joan. Sunshine!

Dark, rainy days always offered me the luxury of doing nothing guilt-free. It's suddenly alright to roll into fetal and mindlessly zone. Besides, clouds are amazing natural works of art. Strong winds possess a haunting sound that stir the soul. A storm rolling in makes me believe in dark powers. (Yes, dark powers - the scary ones that are mean and wild..and dark.)

The Positivity Police

The Positivity Police: How are you today, Beth?

Me: Pretty irritable today. And rife with existential angst. You?

The Positivity Police: Oh...well, I'm not that. I'm good. I'm better than good. I'm great. I'm delirious from feeling the best I've ever felt.

Me: Well, happy days for you, Mary Poppins!

The Positivity Police: Excuse me?

Me: Nothing.

And why is negativity so frowned upon? I mean, you'd have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to feel negative in this day and age.

A quick recap of our dire condition:

Our environment is pretty much ruined. The corporate interests have taken over and barring a revolution, they'll screw us toward an untimely death. And we're too gluttonous and lazy to do anything about it, except watch it happen from our beige couches.

And come on...what about relationships? Can people get anymore lame? After decades worth of TV and Internet hypnosis, we're emotional vegetables. Go ahead, just try to get your needs met by the zombies banging around out there. Flatliners, the whole lot of us.

But it's more than just the slow, torturous downward spiral of our civilization and the slow deterioration of our ability to relate; it's this positivity contest we seem to be caught up in. As if we're all trying to prove to each other how we'd never be caught dead with any of those nasty, ugly emotions.

The Positivity Police: But don't you understand, Beth? When you feel negatively, you bring more negativity into your life. What you put out into the world comes back to you.

Me: Ah, I see you've read that piece of New Age bullshit called The Secret.

The Positivity Police: Yes and it's sooo true. When I radiate positivity, only positive things happen.

Me: Sounds terribly simplistic. Do you believe in flying purple unicorns too?

The Positivity Police: What?

Me: Nothing.

Ah yes, The Secret. When you're negative, you're a walking misfortune magnet. Cancer? Your fault. Car hit you? You and your bad thoughts! Dog peed on your leg? You asked for it.

Interestingly, that kind of dogma doesn't sound that different than many types of religious rhetoric, where you desperately try to eschew dirty thoughts from your mind in an attempt to be pure. Can't do it? Burn, baby, baby. It's emotional propaganda and just plain annoying.

Quick Quiz:

Do we really want to think nothing but positive thoughts?

Do we have little to no capacity for the dark side of life, and if so, why?

Could we be trying too hard to be positive as a defense for the tremendous amount of fear and pain we carry?

Can we ever feel proud of feeling shitty?

Could we be so chronically depressed as a culture because we're constantly feeling the need to feel upbeat even when we're not?

Can we sit with ours or others' negative feelings without the perpetual need to fix it?

Negative emotions, just like "bad" weather, serve a purpose. Anger can propel you out of a bad situation and into something new and healthier. Jealously can remind you of the deep vulnerability you feel when you love somebody. ("I don't get jealous!" Oh yes, you do. Or you've denied yourself the opportunity to, for fear of weakness. Or you don't really care what your partner does, which is a whole other problem.) Sadness and grief...what feels better than a good cry?

Don't get me wrong: I do believe in the power of positive thinking. I believe that you can (sometimes) make wishes come true by envisioning, requesting, chanting, praying, screaming, drawing a picture of it...all of that mumbo jumbo. But I also allow space for the other side of life, which possesses its own dark, regal strength and beauty.

Weather and emotions don't always need a happy face stamped on it.

_{Besides, I'm a little creepy and hollow anyway!}

The Guest House by Rumi

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Cannabis College Crackdown and Other New World Orders

Tue, 3 Apr 2012 20:04:19 -0400

Originally written for Freedom is Green.

On Tuesday, I woke up to find that the Supreme Court of the United States ruled by a 5-to-4 vote that officials may strip-search people arrested for any offense, however minor, before admitting them to jails even if the officials have no reason to suspect the presence of contraband.

Now, I'm no Constitutional know-it-all by any stretch of the imagination, but I seem to recall something called, oh what is it...yes, that's right: The Fourth Amendment, which goes a little something like this:

The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

Interesting. The HIGHEST COURT IN THE LAND just rolled back the Fourth Amendment...because it can.

But then again, that pesky Constitution as well as laws that the public has resoundingly voted in favor of don't seem to stop public officials from doing whatever the hell they want anymore.

Take a look at Oaksterdam College, which the DEA and IRS raided on Monday, shutting down the cannabis industry trade school while carrying out a federal search warrant.

And guess what? They don't have to explain what they're doing to anyone because all of the paperwork is "under seal" other than to confirm that it's part of a (insert sarcastic laughter) "ongoing joint investigation."

Now, Oakland doesn't have a lot of money. But it does have a lot of crime. Which coincidentally occurred during this needless raid. In a different part of the city, seven people at Oikos Christian University were lined up and gunned down by a former student.

We will probably never know whether the limited police force raiding a successful trade school could have actually fought real crime only miles away. (You know, do that "life saving" thing that we pay them to do.)

Richard Lee, who runs the well-established "cannabis college", was detained then released. His home was raided by agents with guns drawn (because this wheelchair bound activist is such a threat. Where's your raid on Wall Street?), according to Dale Sky Jones, chancellor of Oaksterdam. Four marijuana nursery workers were detained at Oaksterdam. No arrests were made.

Don Duncan of Americans for Safe Access writes:

This is a grave injustice against local patients and a slap in the face for a city that has led the state in sensible regulations for medical cannabis. Americans for Safe Access (ASA) helped to mobilize protesters this morning and is working to frame this story in the media right now. We wish we did not need an Emergency Response Campaign but today's events show that we still do.

So whose to blame for all of this needless militaristic force that descended upon a legitimate trade college going about their business?

_{From left, U.S. Attorney Benjamin Wagner (Eastern District), U.S. Attorney Laura Duffy (Southern District), U.S. Attorney Melinda Haag (Northern District) and U.S. Attorney Andre Birotte (Central District)}

These four attorneys stated in October that they would aggressively prosecute many marijuana dispensaries as profit-making criminal enterprises. Staying true to their word, three dispensaries in San Francisco, one in Marin County and 50 in Sacramento have closed under pressure, in addition to about 150 others throughout the state of California.

This team of legal vigilantes have made it their mission to defy their constituents' wishes under the guise of "protecting the children", whose schools may be too close to dispensaries. (Note: The "protecting the children" defense is almost always a cloak for politically motivated agendas.)

"Its a total waste of federal resources," Stephanie Tucker, spokesperson for the San Francisco medical cannabis task force, told The Huffington Post. "They're attacking a peaceful, regulated community, and it's wasting money. Shame on them."

Indeed shame on them. And shame on all of the legislators who have taken it upon themselves to rewrite The Constitution and hoist their own self-created political agenda upon a public that voted them into office.

God bless America...it's going to need all the help it can get.

Thank you to Jahan Marcu and Chris Goldstein (whom I met at Open Salon!) from Freedom is Green.

When you Look at Me that Way

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 21:03:28 -0400

When you look at me like that, I don't know what to do. It's too stimulating, too exciting.

For such a shy man, it's such a bold act, the way you stare. Audacious. It makes me admire you. It makes me think you're a surprise. And I like surprises.

I try to maintain eye contact with you for as long as possible. But it's so hard. Your stare is intense, overt, sexual. I can only take so much of that laser-focused attention before bashfully averting my eyes. I want to stare back at you longer because I know, I know, it's like fucking you.

Do you like it when I look away? Do you realize the effect your eyes have on me and relish in the power? I submit to you when I look away. I surrender. Do you like that?

I can't help but wonder how this electricity between us would translate sexually. I'm sure you wonder the same thing. (We wonder a lot about having sex with one another, I have a feeling.)

Until then, the pressure continues to build.

Perhaps that tension will become too much to take? This attraction needs to manifest itself physically, doesn't it? Its a protracted tease and I feel myself getting weak, dire for more. Or so frustrated, I could scream.

But we can't. We can't follow through on it, for a number of reasons.

And sometimes I think I'm okay with that. Because the feeling in those fleeting seconds, when our eyes meet, is almost beyond sex. It's human electricity. High voltage. A very magical, deeply sexual sensation that stops my breath.

Thank you for that. Thank you for looking my way.

Lowlifes and HotSprings

Thu, 8 Mar 2012 10:03:54 -0500

A final blow to the head and he was out cold, face down, glistening drool seeping from his cracked, nicotine-stained lips. And I was the one who did it. I warned him that I would. That I could. But he didn't listen. He should have.

When we arrived at the hot springs in the Nevada desert, we were dusty and tired. My friend Amanda, her teenage daughter and I had planned this 6-hour road trip months ago. Recovering from a particularly hard break-up, I was emotionally vacant, like a burnt-out building. This hot spring was to be my rebirth, my scalding baptism.

When we completed the mile-long trek to the hot spring, I dropped by backpack and gasped with joy. What beauty. Several sizable hot springs, all adjoining. A majestic view overlooking a green valley. Yes! This will do the trick. It has to.

There were a few others who had made the journey, but no matter. Of course, I wanted the springs entirely to my friends and myself, but I knew that others needed their spiritual cleansing too. We'd share in the experience together.

My friend and her daughter quickly undressed and made their way into the magical waters. I took my time, drinking in the ritual to its fullest. I undressed and with each article of clothing I dropped, I felt as if I was letting go of another "drag me down" element in my life.

When I finally placed my foot in the hot liquid, I felt instantly changed, as if the magic flew through my foot and up my naked body. As I submerged, it was all I could do not to cry. The goodness hurt my poor, aching heart. I closed my eyes and let the healing begin.

Then I heard him. A gruff, asthmatic laugh.

I opened my eyes and saw a man on the other side of the pool, staring at me in that unwanted, lascivious way. No, no...not this now. Please, God, not this now.

I returned his stare aggressively, as if to say, "Stop. Leave me the fuck alone." But he wouldn't be dissuaded. I couldn't let him ruin this for me. Closing my eyes again, I tried desperately to block him out but every time I'd open them, his eyes burned my flesh.

"Can you stop staring at me?"

"What?"

"I said stop staring at me."

"Fuck you. I'll look at what I want."

I looked over at my friend and her daughter. Their look of relaxation had quickly turned into concern.

"It's just rude and I'm trying to relax."

"That's your problem."

"She's got a hot body, man. I can't help it," he jokingly tells his friend.

What a scrawny fuck of a man. Yellowed teeth, broken face, greasy hair, glossy red eyes. I could smell the stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze emanating from the steam and drifting my way. I approximated his size so I could make my decision. He was at least an inch or two smaller than me.

I'm a woman who fights. I studied martial arts for years and have sparred men considerably bigger than me. This guy was an easy take-down, especially because he was drunk. For years, I've argued with men (predominantly) who insist that a woman can never beat a man in any physical altercation. Well, I have. But obviously, many factors come into play.

The most pressing concern is size. If a man is much bigger than me, then yes, there's a good chance he'll beat me. (Or honestly, I'd get out of the situation before I'd allow that to happen. One good disarming hit and I'd run.) But if a man is my size or smaller, then the odds shift. I stand a chance. After years of fighting in competitions, I stand a better chance.

But it's not just size; it's mindset. If someone is really angry, for instance, and you are not, you could be at a serious disadvantage, regardless of the size. They have the force of their rage coming at you and you're not at their pitch level of volatility yet.

In the same breath, if you're a practiced fighter, calm serves you. A relaxed, focused fighter can always beat an angry one, who tends to be wild and sloppy.

I could have taken him. In my mind, when I go back in time, I do. I ask him to step outside of the pool. I put on my clothes and kick his ass resoundingly. He lie face-down in a puddle of his own blood and spit while I grab my friends and leave.

But I can't go back. And that's not what I did. Instead I got up and went to an adjacent pool and fumed instead of "cleansed." And the rest of the trip was slightly tainted by this man's need to dominate me with visual harassment.

I hope that little runt of a methhead is dead, rotting in a worm-ridden cardboard box somewhere. I hope no one shed a tear for him. I hope that men everywhere realize that unwanted stares can feel as invasive as an unwanted touch. I hope my friend's daughter, in the future, sees a woman check a man like that so thoroughly that she vows to never tolerate such harassment.

This wasn't some horny lowlife, but a violent man. Those stares weren't sexual; they were an act of dominance and aggression. He spit on my spirit during a time when I desperately needed the world to envelop and comfort me. And of course, this kind of thing goes on all the time. A sick man's desire to invade trumps a woman's need for peace of mind. And it's a spiritual crime, one that can't be undone, ever.

In my mind, I still go back to those hot springs and hurt that man. Badly. Oh, you did the right thing, everyone says. Fuck the right thing. I still live with that experience. I should have kicked his ass or died trying.

There was no justice that day. There was no baptism.

That was the Best Funeral Ever!

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 18:02:55 -0500

Man, I was hungover on Saturday. I went surfing with my friend in the a.m. but after I came home and took a hot shower, I was done, kaput.

So when I saw that Whitney Houston's funeral would be viewable online, I thought, "Perfect, Beth Mann. You have a plan. You could stand some church anyway, you big loser." So I smoked a little weed (to stave off the mild nausea I was experiencing) and curled up under my purple furry blanket with a cup of chamomile tea.

And boy, was I happy I did. It was the best damn funeral ever! It wasn't splashy or fancy. Just the opposite. Sure, it was star-studded but it paled in comparison to the simple grandeur of the New Hope Baptist Church and its congregation. We were invited into a special house in Newark and it was a privilege.

And the choir. So sweet. The most magical element for me. They started out so simply, so quietly. You could barely hear them at first. Then an instrument would join in. And another. Then a few more voices. Soon, they were just blowing the roof off the joint.

Just loving on these women. And so would Whitney. She was one of them, after all. (This video gives you only a little indication. It was a joyous crescendo of spirit and voice that evolved over 20 minutes):

Below, Donnie McClurkin sings Stand with the choir (as requested by Houston's family). One of my favorite pieces of the service. Listen to what it grows into toward the end. Some serious gospel.

And all in Newark. Poor Newark. A depressing and depressed city. Crime-ridden, rundown, burnt-out and tired. It's a hurtin' town that could stand some love and attention. I felt extra proud that we had a chance to see their community working together, in mourning and in celebration.

Go Newark!

Go New Jersey!

Then I heated up a frozen double stuffed baked potato I found in the freezer and a slice of white pizza from God knows when and went back to church with Whitney.

I've had a lifelong "eh" relationship with Kevin Costner. (I've always found him a little boring) but boy, he really delivered at Whitney's funeral. He was just so gentle and human. (I don't think he was acting.)

I couldn't listen to Stevie Wonder; I'm sorry but his voice is not a voice I like. Even a minute or two of listening aggravated my throbbing headache so I took an aspirin then hit the kitchen once again, where I ate the remaining tortilla chips at the bottom of a bag, praying for a ginger ale to appear.

R. Kelly....I don't know what to say there. He gives a kind of crazy performance. He's really affected. But somehow it kinda works anyway. And I give him credit for just dangling his spiritual balls out there. (Will I be punished for that? Oh yeah, God gets my jokes.)

The closing of the funeral was hard. To hear her voice suddenly, it was hard. Then the collective gasp when the coffin is raised up high, as if to say, "Please be careful with her."

Overall I genuinely appreciated the splendor and simplicity of the service. It was real and effective, not a bullshit media circus. Newark trumped Hollywood. Right on. It was a good thing amidst a sad story. And everyone seemed extra regular. We were all at church together for close to four hours. We listened. We felt as one.

Afterward, I went for a walk on the beach and talked to God a little. It had been a while. Even raised my hand to the skies at some point.