The Path of the Dragonfly

This was one of the gifts I received the first year I went to Burning Man. It was just a simple plastic necklace of a dragonfly, but it’s meaning came to be so much more.

Its genesis was from an unfortunate accident the year before. The road leading to and from the Black Rock Desert is a simple two-lane highway. There is no fencing for much of the route so it is common for animals such as cows and rabbits to be in the road. Combine this with the limited sight due to hills and curves along with 70-90 mph gusts of wind and you have a recipe for disaster. In 2004 a Department of Public Works (DPW) volunteer, whose playa name was Dragonfly, flipped her vehicle while on route from Burning Man to the Texas Renaissance Festival. She was swerving to avoid hitting a rabbit.

Dragonfly’s parents had always heard about Burning Man. They had been told countless stories and seen more than enough photographs to understand what it was about. A place where art is as plentiful as advertising and the community spirit that allows for spontaneity to flow like water over the desert. The difficulty was spending two weeks going from their seaside home in Florida to spend one week in the hot, dry, and occasional cold extremes of the Nevada desert. Burners were Dragonfly’s second family and the playa was home to her. They knew this already, but were surprised by how many people they had never heard of or only seen in photos called, email, or came to the funeral to express their condolences. The DPW informed her parents that part of the design of the Temple would be a poster sized inlay of a dragonfly. For those that were not able to pay their respects in person it would be a more than fitting way to say goodbye.

As the summer approached they decided that it would be fitting to do the same and finally see what all the fuss was about. Their motor home was parked next to the spot of dirt my fellow campmates had staked out. The DPW had constructed an awning and windbreak along the front of the motor home. They also checked on them throughout the day. For the unfamiliar the Burning Man Department of Public Works are perhaps the most closed social circle within the community. Along with being the most self-righteous, arrogant, and rude. The fact that they were taking the time to check on a newbie, a stranger to Burning Man is to be considered VIP status. As confirmation of this her parents were given the honor of starting the Temple Burn on Sunday night. Dragonfly’s Dad showed as the torch used as a match on Monday morning.

One of the things Dragonfly was always showing them were the gifts she received out there, usually necklaces. One part commerce and another part courtesy, gifting is a part of Burning Man. Since there was no telling how of the 35-40,000 people who go to Burning Man ever year knew Dragonfly they ordered these simple necklaces in bulk from Oriental Trading Company. At the time I received it I was in a job I knew would ultimately go nowhere while I continued to wander the country as a sales management nomad. At that time Dragonfly's life was freer than I could imagine. To some people spending half the year camped in either the Nevada desert or a forest in Central Texas may seem nuts. To me it seemed like paradise. It still does.

That simple plastic necklace was and still is my favorite gift. It became a symbol for following your own path. From that point on every time I saw a dragonfly it was a reminder of that credo. That path might not be a straight line and you might go back to same place more than once, but you will get there while everyone else stares in amazement at much ground you have covered.

Over the course of the next two years I took steps towards following the path I wanted as opposed to the one someone else put me on. My job had served the function of getting me out of Pasadena and to see as much of the country as possible. That sidetrack had grown stale as I remember what I really wanted out of life. Unfortunately some change takes a little time. For people like myself with a varying degree of patience it was hard not to just walk away. Anytime I would feel that urge my hand would go to that little dragonfly around my neck. This talisman was a reminder that day-to-day issues of meetings, deadlines, and reports did not matter. These things are the sideshow, the distraction, from life, not life itself.

It seemed fitting that on the day I was officially leaving my working world in New York for the academic world in Stockton, Ca it would break. That moment was the sharp turn left while everyone else was going right. It was something that had happened plenty of times while chasing dragonflies. The night before the dragonfly sat intact on my nightstand with the necklace coiled around its wings and tail. That morning the tail had inexplicably been broken off. Gluing it back together crossed my mind, but it didn’t seem right. My belief is that it was Dragonfly herself giving a sign that I was finally on the right path again.

This Is Kid's Music?

While thumbing around my music service last night for new releases I came across Medeski, Martin, and Wood's Let's Go Everywhere. My familiarity with the band was limited to knowing they were more interesting then Phish, but still hard to classify. Kind of jazz. Kind of folk. With a little bit of rock. Really popular with the Hipster and NPR set. The main thought that popped into my mind each time I heard of them was them sounded more like a law firm than a band.

Turns out Let's Go Everywhere is MMW's greatly anticipated children's album. If such a side project, basically the result of watching their kids play together, sounds so good then I am looking forward to digging into the rest of their catalog. The hooks these guys lay down, combined with vocals turns from friends and the kids themselves gives the album a loosely structured groove.

One of the best tracks is "Pirates Don't Take Baths" with lyrical duties being covered by Tim Ingham. The opener "Let's Go Everywhere" also features Ingham's deep-throated baritone on the microphone. He sounds like the cool Uncle who shows up to tell a few stories and sing a few tunes with the band. John Lurie, founding member of the Lounge Lizards, stops by spinning a story of growth and individuality on the memorizing "The Squalb."

What makes the listener feel as if they had been plucked down in band's studio are the band member's children. They pop up throughout the album reminding you who Let's Go Everywhere is actually for while adding to the private session ambiance. Some of the best tracks featuring their accompaniment are "Where's the Music" and "All Around the Kitchen." On the former the band pumps out a mid tempo jazz-funk groove and without warning stops. Before I could check what was wrong the children ask "Where's the music," prompting the band to churn out a few more bars. On the latter track you can guess what type of instrument the kids choose to pick up.

Let's Go Everywhere is the perfect antidote for the rainy, gray days that have descended upon many areas this winter. Once the clouds blow back to reveal the glorious sky again this album would also be excellent for a sunny day too.

Dr. King's Legacy

Most of my travels are cases of inadequate planning meeting reality. The upside of this unfortunate trait is that the side diversions are usually just as interesting. My visit to the National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis was one such case. The original plan was to visit the museum on my way from New York to Houston. After a stop in Birmingham at the start of my day I arrived in Memphis around 2:00. Plenty of time to find the museum, which is housed within the Lorraine Motel on whose balcony Dr. Martin Luther King was gunned down.

I stumbled upon the Memphis Tourist Information Center on the banks of the Mississippi and found a brochure for the NCRM. The map showed it was close in proximity to downtown. There was also something else noted next to the map: Closed On Tuesdays. 'What day is this,' I wondered. The problem with traveling is that you do lose track of days. Checking my cell for the answer stopped my trot just a bit – it was Tuesday.

Once a destination is in my mind I am rarely deterred. In keeping with this philosophy I headed to the Lorraine Hotel. For what I did not really know, but I felt it was necessary to view the space where one of the greatest Americans of the 20^th Century was taken from us dealing the Civil Rights Movement its greatest blow.

When I pulled into the parking lot next to the hotel I noticed a sign on the corner across the street with the word "Boycott" in large red letters. Since the museum was closed I decided to see what the protest was about. There were two other signs that came into clearer focus as I approached. One was emblazed with the phrase: Stop Worshipping the Past, Start Living the Dream. The other one was a counter noting that the protest had been going on for 18 years, 306 days. Holding the signs up was a makeshift shelter complete with a folding table and couch jutting out to form an L along the corner.

Bundled up in a hooded jacket sat a thin black woman. A handheld transistor radio was next to her mainly because her ear was currently occupied with her cell phone. As I stepped up to the table she pointed to the articles that had been laid out. The woman in the articles was the same woman seated before me talking on her cell phone: Jacqueline Smith. Most were short feature pieces with a few cover stories from local and regional publications. The one she specifically pointed to was from USA Today from 1989. Under the plastic sheet protecting it she had highlighted a few passages to give visitors a brief synopsis of the protest.

It seems the hotel, condemned in 1982, had become "a haven for drug addicts, prostitution, and the homeless." A few years later developers began the process of converting the condemned property into a museum as a tribute to Dr. King and the Civil Rights Movement. Unfortunately this would involve the forced eviction of the squatters who had taken a foothold in the abandoned building. From the room Smith occupied in the Lorraine Hotel she had been quietly protesting the impending evictions and what she felt was a misuse of the property. Once she had been forcibly removed from the hotel she continued her protest on the sidewalk across the street where she has been ever since.

Now I am not in PR, and I would never subject myself to type of protest Smith is doing, but pointing out that specific article was not a smart move. Perhaps she felt it was due to the national recognition USA Today has. Maybe it was also the conciseness of the article, something they are famous for. Whatever her reasons using that article made her seem like a drug addicted homeless prostitute who is angry about being evicted from a condemned building where she was living rent-free. This is not exactly the first opinion I wanted and I knew there was more. There are two sides to every story, so surely this would make sense and when I walked away Smith would not appear to be crazy and stubborn.

"So, what's the uh . . . situation," I asked.

By now she had ended her phone call and had moved her attention to listening to the game. "I am protesting the National Civil Rights Museum," she responded without removing the radio pressed against her ear.

This surprised me. A crack house has been turned into a preservation of Dr. King's legacy. It seemed almost perfect. I was so confused that the only word that escaped my lips was "Why?"

"Because it is not a proper tribute to the memory of Dr. Martin Luther King." She stopped there never removing the radio from her ear.

"What would be a more fitting tribute?"

"A homeless shelter, a job center, a public health clinic, something to benefit the community." Her response was so pre-planned as if there was no thought given to it at all. While she did have a point I knew from experience that community outreach was a huge part of even the smallest non-profits. A museum dedicated to Civil Rights and Martin Luther King could not be any different. It was hard for me to fathom that this was a bad thing for Blacks and the community of Memphis as a whole.

"Have you talked to the museum about what you feel would be a better tribute?"

"No, I don't want to talk to them."

"You have never tried to talk with them?"

"No, never." I found this to be kind of odd and at odds with the movement Dr. King spearhead. While it is true that civil disobedience through the form of protest was a huge part of the Civil Rights Movement attempting to speak with the authorities was also part of it. The main difference between then and now is that communicating with them wouldn't involve dogs, angry mobs, or water cannons.

Next logical question: "What would satisfy you? What would end your protest?"

"Closing the museum and turning into something that benefits the community." The cost of opening the National Civil Rights Museum from acquisition of the property all the way through conversion and refurbishing was $9.4 million. Unless someone bombed the building until it collapsed, which is more of a tactic proposed by the Black Panthers, there was no way this would happen. A wave of regret passed over me as I wondered if she was really prepared to stay out here until she was too weak to withstand the elements and had to be carried away or died. There was no way she would ever be satisfied; especially if she had no intention of ever working with the museum to initiate the changes she wants.

Still I pressed on. "I don't understand how this doesn't benefit the community."

"It doesn't add anything to this community. All it does is bring tourists in. It's simply gentrification."

The two did not seem to relate to her original reason for protesting and most normal people wouldn't have problem with them. Tourism is something city leaders strive for to increase revenue into the city, into the community. In countless studies gentrification has been shown to increase property values, lower the crime rate, and improve the performance of schools. The downside to both of these is higher rents, more people, and an increase in traffic. Normally when I asked someone to explain themselves they tend to make more sense as we go along. Unfortunately none of this seemed to actually tie into the reason she originally started her protest - that the museum was not in line with Dr. King's dream. As a matter of fact they seemed to be in line with it – a greater stake in the country at large, improvement in schools, less crime, more opportunities overall.

Again I pressed on, hopefully getting closer to the truth. "So are you protesting gentrification or the museum?"

She put down the radio and leaned over to point at the weekly with her on the cover. "You know what gentrification is-"

"Yes, I know what gentrification and I can even spell it. I just don't understand what that has to do with King's legacy."

"If you visit my website," she began.

'Good Lord, you have got to be kidding me,' I thought. Here was a representative of the enemy, the Great White Devil, standing in front of her genuinely asking for a clear explanation and she is trying to blow me off by referring me to a website. Fortunately, at least I think so, she continued.

"Then you'll see a clearer explanation of what happened. But before the museum opened you could find affordable housing all over this area. It has changed drastically since then."

"But Jackie what you're talking about has nothing to do with the Civil Rights Movement."

"And why is that?" Finally, I had actually gotten here attention.

"Well, for example earlier today I was in Birmingham talking to a homeless man that was part of the Civil Rights Movement and he-"

"You were where?"

"Birmingham. In Alabama"

She appeared extremely suspicious of me then. "What were you doing in Birmingham?"

I told her I was in the process of relocating from Brooklyn to Houston and decided to visit two of the flashpoints of the Civil Rights Movement. That morning I stopped into downtown Birmingham to visit the 16^th Street Church, site of the 1963 bombings that killed four black girls. It is considered by many to be one of the main turning points in the Civil Rights Movement, the moment when public sympathies started to turn in favor of the protestor's. The church is still standing and was undergoing a renovation when I arrived. The area has been transformed into the Birmingham Civil Rights District. Across the street from the church is the Civil Rights Institute. Kelly Ingram Park, once the site of civil protests met by violence from the local authorities, is the Freedom Walk complete with monuments to the grim images of the Birmingham during the protests. Among the sculptures of attacking dogs, water cannons, and protesters behind bars were pockets of the Birmingham's homeless community. Nary a white face among them, it was a depressing reminder of how much further the movement needed to go.

At one corner of the park a statue of Martin Luther King faced the church. The marble sculpture was erected in 1986, almost two decades after his death. Times may heal all wounds, but resentment can stifle the process for decades if not a lifetime. That plaza is as much a testament to that reality as to the advances in equality that it ushered in. As I was getting lost in this reflection a voice called about to me.

"Young man, you're welcome to join us."

The invite came from a tall, lean black man in a North Carolina Panthers jacket. He was at the other end of the park with two women pointing in various directions with the cane he was walking with. Juan had been part of the protests and was leading an informal tour. He pointed out which businesses had been bombed and where the police set up the water cannons. He described the segregationist parades through the town square; men, women, and children filled with such hatred that violent confrontations were as routine as crossing the street. Juan was also quick to point out the positive changes the demonstrations brought, such basic human dignity. "Back then if I was talking to two white ladies like yourselves I would have been arrested."

After the tour I asked Juan if he felt the changes that had occurred were substantial enough. I gave Hurricane Katrina, prevalence of gang violence, and inadequacies in education as examples of the ongoing problems. Educational and economic equality were problems that the Civil Rights Movement sought to overcome, but have progressed only so far. Juan said something that surprised me a little bit, that the current problems had more to do with the division among the black community then outright racism from whites. "I would much rather be arrested by a white officer than a black one because he will actually treat me with more respect." It ends up being the difference between dark skinned verses light skinned and those who got out of the Jim Crow ghettos and those who have not. Before ending up on the streets Juan said he was one of those who did get out. "The funny thing is that even though now I am here on the streets with these folks, when they find out my background they think I'm acting like I'm better than them. Even though I'm in the same situation they're in." He gestured to the 16^th Street Church, "Darker toned folks like myself aren't welcome in there. That's a church for light skinned blacks. Always was and always will be." This interracial racism along with lack of opportunities has one theory to the dramatic rise in gang violence since the halt of the Civil Rights Movement. "The problem with gang violence is there's no face to confront. Someone gets shot and the churches do a prayer vigil. But no one comes forward to offer a tip to the police and a few weeks later someone else is shot."

"So what do you think is the best way to change things," I asked.

"Education," he stated simply.

All of this weighed heavily upon my mind as I drove the six hours from Birmingham to Memphis. The concept of one group hating the other because of their appearance is nothing new, it is as old as the first tribes of man wandering through Europe, but race relations in the Southern States made it easier to present it with a southern accent. One of the most effective ways to bring about a more equitable society is integration. The challenge is accomplishing this without forcing people to do so, which brings us to the socioeconomic buzzword of the new millennium: gentrification. Which in turn brings us back to Jacqueline Smith.

I quickly told her the theory that had evolved through the day: that education is key to improving your life, the main philosophy behind Dr. King's dream. One of the ways to improve education in economically depressed areas is gentrification, so in essence she was protesting "the very thing (the museum) to would led to helping the community. I refrained from telling her that I thought the real reason she was protesting was bitterness from being evicted and that this, combined with blinding pride, is what is really driving her to persist in this endeavor when most sane people would have stopped a long time ago. I didn't but I am sure she registered my slight contempt because she thanked me for stopping by, but she needed "to get back to this game."

As I drove out of Memphis I thought about Martin Luther King, Juan, Malcolm X, the Black Panthers, Jacqueline Smith, and the movement that seemed to die away between the then and now. Dr. King's legacy is slowly fading into a mythic past where such stories are treated by the current generation as annoying, outdated tales that have no relevance today. Even hip-hop has transformed from an outlet for social and political expression to showcase for monetary and sexual indulgence. When Dr. King was alive the pimp was a social outcast, a blight on black society. Now being considered a pimp is a badge of honor. More people are concerned with who killed Biggie Smalls and Tupac than whether the government was responsible for the assignations of King, Malcolm X, and Black Panther leader Fred Hampton. This Dr. King's legacy: the leisure of future generations to focus on things that do not matter.

An Open Letter To My Ex's

Lately I’ve been thinking about you. Don’t be alarmed. You won’t receive any surprise phone calls, emails, letters, cards, flowers, or visits. The desire to reestablish contact with you faded and disappeared long ago. Trust me on that. No, this exercise, or exorcism depending on how you look at it, is to examine my present by reflecting on my past.

“Size doesn’t matter,” was a phrase you used during one of our more gentle exchanges. This is such a kind philosophy that I’m extending it to our physical and romantic relationship. No matter how long or how short you felt our time together was it had an effect on me.

Emotions have a certain energy, which leaves imprints on the mind - mental mirages that reflect the most potent of sensory images. Snapshots triggered by random smells, snippets of songs, or the flickering images from illuminated screens. However potent they may be, memories have a funny way of playing tricks on the mind.

One lesson I learned from you was to be honest, so here is a hard truth about the majority of my memories about us: they are mainly sexual in nature. My recollection of all those long talks over a few glasses of wine is rather fuzzy. What we did to each other after the third or fourth glass is as vivid as if it happened yesterday. At times these are still frames caught in my minds eye, but they scream with the intensity of the experience.

Other memories that are burned into my cortex are far from pleasant. Every slammed door, every admission of infidelity, and almost every argument play louder and stronger than any of the more pleasing thoughts. Moving slideshows of pain, regret, and anger. They are as fresh as if they happened yesterday.

A casual conversation turns to tears after I say, “I don’t want to get married and I don’t think I ever will.” Coming over at nine in the morning so you can basically ask, “What is wrong with you?” Then promptly walking out the door when all I delivered for an answer was a blank stare. “If she’s coming to see you,” you proclaimed naked and glowing with sweat after our final bout, “then I don’t want to see you again.” At which point I gathered up my clothes and walked out of your door again. The tears, anger, and retribution every time I confessed to cheating on you. As I put my clothes on for the absolute final time: “I guess this is the hard part.”

I am sorry and regret every wrong I did to you. Each time I lied and cheated. Every time I hid my emotions behind a sarcastic remark or joke, afraid to tell you the real truth. The numerous times I pretended to care so I could get what I wanted, whether it was sex or just a short respite from the torrent of words that were forced on me. There were so many things I did wrong. The smart ones, the women who knew what I was like and what would happen if they stayed, left before they ended up getting to close.

Here is the silver lining in this eternally unsent letter: I wanted to thank you. Our time together gave me a different perspective on life. From you I gained valuable lessons about people, situations, and how to deal with them. After our relationship I moved one step closer to the respect, intimacy, and communication needed to sustain a life-long love affair. Not that I ever felt I really had a problem with this, but reflection is the heart of change. You were right; size doesn’t matter because even the smallest gestures will eventually multiple into momentous changes.

The Birth of Your Daily Distraction

A friend of mine broke her arm while bouldering at an indoor climbing center. The doctor's recommendation was surgery and rehabilitation for six months up to a year. The month leading up to and after the surgery she was to limit her movements to only what was necessary.

"How am I going to keep myself distracted from this for that long?" she whined. This was - correction - is someone who travels three to six months out of the year. We met at Burning Man if that gives you a clearer picture. For someone like that, and I consider myself to be in that category of constant seeker, being housebound, even if it is for a very legitimate reason, was a hard assignment to swallow.

So I came up with a bit of a remedy. "Tell you what I'll do. I will send you something to distract yourself everyday." The amount of time the distraction would cause and the quality were not guaranteed, just the promise of everyday. With that promise Daily Distractions was born.

After a month of shooting her daily emails of my favorite sites or things I had come across I started posting similar items on my MySpace blog. For a true Creative though there are only so many times you can post videos, articles, and weblinks before you feel the need to fully utilize such an outlet. More original content is wanted I wanted up there.

That was my resolution for the coming year and this new or alternative home on blogger.com seems like the perfect transition.