Normal Gets You Nowhere by Kelly Cutrone (ereader for android .txt) 📕

district and definitely keeps the employees of Starbucks afloat. But it’s no longer enough to just have a job. Doing good is not the exclusive responsibility of cute nonprofit vegan kids. We all have to have a HEART:

Health: If you’re going to die young like Jimi or Janis, you’re only temporarily helpful to the world. We have a genetic responsibility to live longer than the previous generation.

Earth: Protect and be connected to this earth. In other words, have your feet on the ground and your ears to the sound. I’m talking about recycling. Water. Power. Government. Safety. Violence. Neighborhoods.

Art: There is a calling and demand for beauty, even in the ugliest places. Art is a need of civilization. Bringing beauty into a place full of pain and suffering is compassionate and productive.

Revolution: Transform through action. Fight for truth like you fuck: with passion, commitment, blindness, and openheartedness.

Truth: Act when every one of your cells is saying yes. To me, there’s no point in fighting unless you feel called. There are many injustices that I’m just not called to fight against. Who do I feel called to fight for? Young women and gay men. Everyone has different talents, but we’re all called to fight for something. We’re like a Divine football team: God made quarterbacks, linemen, safeties. So you better fucking take your position.

In our twenties, our time is mostly taken up with getting a job, finding an apartment, paying the rent, dealing with four roommates, finding someone to have sex with, partying, and then realizing, Oh my God, I have to get up and go to work again? In this period of your life, you may be very self-indulgent; I was. When I first moved to New York, I wasn’t the most compassionate or well-informed person. I was consumed with having a wild time and thought mostly about myself. Thinking about Kelly was actually a pretty full-time job, between late nights out in clubs in the East Village and long mornings recovering, so I’d be ready to do it all over again. I got caught up in the video game we’re all brainwashed into playing, consumed with chasing a nice apartment and a hot guy and a fancy wedding and more money and power. But none of that made me feel good, and it still doesn’t. So eventually, I learned to use my time differently, and better.

Amma says that there are two kinds of poverty. One is caused by lack of love, and the other is caused by lack of money. She teaches that if we can cure the first, the second will not exist. To that end, she’s directed her devotees to be mindful of homeless people in their own communities. Let’s face it. Americans are always talking about disasters in other countries, but we have the highest rate of violence against women and children in the Western world and sixteen thousand homeless kids in New York City alone! Where are they? Why don’t we see them? Are their moms selling them for crack? Are they being kept as massage slaves in some cramped storefront in Manhattan?

Kelly from the Bloque

Last year, inspired by Amma and the example of Eleanor, I was moved to become more proactive in my own neighborhood. In fact, I even made up a new name for myself; Kelly from the Block (or Bloque). I’d often ordered extra meals at dinner to give away to the homeless on the walk home, but now I started making this a more regular thing. There is a man who lives in a stairwell around the corner from me. One night, walking back to my apartment with my daughter and her father, all of us incredibly well fed, I popped my head into the stairwell. “Hi, I’m your neighbor,” I said. “I’m wondering, is there anything that you need?” The man was about sixty-eight years old and kind of out of it. He grabbed me and said, “Yeah baby! I need a kiss from you!”

Okay, so sometimes people aren’t ready to accept your help at the exact moment you’re ready to give it. In New York, people get used to being on their own and not accepting help, since in this big, rich city, there often seems to be so little compassion available. I told the man I couldn’t kiss him, but that I’d be happy to help him find a shelter or get him some food. He said no—that he was okay. (Three months later I told this story to Amma herself; she laughed hysterically. I think she sees the beauty and humor in everything.)

I didn’t stop trying, though. Everyone sleeping on the streets of New York is someone’s child, and once I started to reject the idea that I’m just supposed to mind my own business while people suffer, I became unable to walk by anyone in need without stopping. This can be tricky in downtown Manhattan, because the “haves” and the “have-nots” tend to sport similar looks (I guess deconstruction and devastation sometimes go hand in hand).

One day, leaving the SoHo Grand Hotel with my trainer, I locked eyes with a man who was either a cool artist or a homeless person. What I noticed first was that his eyes were on fire. I watched as he glanced over toward the garbage cans—he was possibly hungry, but also discreet and elegant. Then I saw him pause in front of a gallery window to look at some art. I realized he was reading the reviews in the window, as if determined to stay connected to this earth and its culture. I bolted toward him. My trainer, who was just thrilled to see me in a full-on cardio sprint, followed close behind. When we caught up to the man, he turned around, and I saw that he was not only beautiful, but powerful. He didn’t look homeless; he looked like Adrian Brody’s uncle!

It was obvious he hadn’t yet crossed over into the realm of “here, but not there”—the place