Doubt taps me on the shoulder and whispers in my ear that I’m a fool for thinking things can really be different. “Look at your past experiences. Look at all the failures. What makes you think things are going to be any different this time around?”
When I was younger and less ‘experienced’ with the results of my actions, I followed my beliefs easier. If there was something I wanted, I went after it. I literally couldn’t see the fear or doubt reflected from those around me. I just didn’t see it, because all I could see was what I believed I was about to create for myself.
The things I thought I wanted changed and I interpreted the shifting of my desires as failures of my original goals. But, in fact, in hindsight, I’ve always achieved everything I wanted to try. It’s just that the destinations that I thought would be final opened new doors, leading me in new directions.
With the studying I’ve been doing lately on the relationships between belief and experience, I’ve come to realize that one of my stronger beliefs is that this life is going to be one that’s full of struggle. The artist’s path is one of hardship. This belief has, as all beliefs do, manifested itself into fruition quite successfully.
Another one of my core beliefs that I’ve suckled from quite hungrily for the past couple years is that this physical plane itself is one of suffering. I took solace in this belief, feeling it enabled me reason for my own personal misery. “I’m getting the full experience of this level.”
Time and time again I’ve completed full circle examples, repeated patterns of pain, loss, heart ache, let downs. Cycles birthing cycles birthing cycles. Only I believed that my experiences were cementing my beliefs. Gathering up pebbles of misery to build a mound of proof in my basket of belief.
And then my higher-self taps my other shoulder and says, “Do you remember what it’s like to play?” The channel of my internal playlist flickers to recognition, the one that believes anything is possible. It looks like laughter. It looks like smiles. It looks like coloring and writing and making music. It looks like sharing myself with others. It looks like being the source of my very own present moment. It looks like living.
And I realize that if I’m going to be able to be a successful communicator, a successful artist, a successful creator, than I have to lead by example. I have to live by example. I have to first create my life of living as a pure creative channel; full of bliss and bounty.
And the only thing I have to do in order to create this space for myself is to believe in it. Creating this place in my mind and believing in it (100%; this place allows for no grey areas) will lead to its utmost manifestation on the physical plane. It’s not that I no longer believe that this physical plane isn’t one of suffering. It’s just that I’ve been reminded that my (our) primary goal is to continually try to create a better experience on whatever level I’m (we’re) on.
This is what believing looks like,
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Lessons from New Orleans
I was blessed with the opportunity to pick up a shoot in New Orleans a couple of weeks ago; my first time. Although I was a little disappointed that I didn’t have a previous basis for comparison, I was looking forward to having my first experience with the city in its post-Katrina element.
Planted in the center of the French Quarter, I didn’t anticipate that I would see a whole lot of ‘damage’. After all, the media’s been reporting that the French Quarter is basically up and running. Good as new.
The first night I ambled my way down Bourbon Street. Me and my stellar sense of direction: I didn’t realize that I was on Bourbon Street, and was baffled as to why everyone was drinking smoothies at 11:00PM. “I didn’t realize New Orleans was such a smoothie mecca.” Ahhh,, I’m on Bourbon Street. Those aren’t smoothies! (This inner gullibility has yet to run its course. Me thinks it’s with me for the long haul.)
Anyhow, I don’t have much of a relationship with blues music. I don’t like it. I don’t dislike it. I simply haven’t listened to that much. And I have no idea the name of the place; some little whole in the wall (my favorites), but the vibrations, the feel, the eloquent wavelengths that were pouring out of this place literally drew me in like a magnet. I had no intentions of drinking, but ended up at the bar so that I could hang around for the next set.
I ended up alongside a demolition crew from Atlanta and Alabama. “Yup. Back home, the KKK still marches in our Christmas parade,” laughed the thin, weathered Alabamian. “That’s why I don’t live there anymore.”
“Good for you,” I replied.
Their workday starts at 4:30am and every day they tear down people’s houses. That day had been a particularly hard one on the crew. The house belonged to an African American WWII vet. He came back to the house to watch the demolition; showed the crew his battle wounds, the scars that patterned his body. He held onto a few pictures that he had managed to salvage. And he stood in what used to be his front yard and cried for four hours while his house was laid to rest.
“Now the thing for you to understand is that this man was not just cryin’ for hisself or for his house. This man was crying for this country,” the crew leader explained as his dark brown eyes disappeared into the straw that he twisted through his drink.
And the blues band strummed in for the start of set number three. My call time was a mere five hours away, but I was nowhere near ready to leave.
The shoot itself was moderately busy. I was able to get out for a couple more snippets. I managed a walk down to Café Du Monde for a beignet and a café au lait. Yummy. I observed a lot of empty restaurants, empty bars, empty shops. Every other block or so I’d stumble across a storefront covered by a bright neon sign declaring “another victim of Katrina”. How are these people making a living I kept wondering?
I saw a lot of sadness in New Orleans, but I saw a lot more perseverance. From the tarot readers perched out on their folding chairs to the artists selling their work on the streets. These people can really teach me something about acceptance.
Heading back to the hotel, I encountered another blues group. This one was much younger and they were singing in the streets. Worn, tired, and hungry, they poured out not anger and frustration, but amazingly beautiful performance art.
Damn. These kids have got it right.
Thank you, New Orleans.
Planted in the center of the French Quarter, I didn’t anticipate that I would see a whole lot of ‘damage’. After all, the media’s been reporting that the French Quarter is basically up and running. Good as new.
The first night I ambled my way down Bourbon Street. Me and my stellar sense of direction: I didn’t realize that I was on Bourbon Street, and was baffled as to why everyone was drinking smoothies at 11:00PM. “I didn’t realize New Orleans was such a smoothie mecca.” Ahhh,, I’m on Bourbon Street. Those aren’t smoothies! (This inner gullibility has yet to run its course. Me thinks it’s with me for the long haul.)
Anyhow, I don’t have much of a relationship with blues music. I don’t like it. I don’t dislike it. I simply haven’t listened to that much. And I have no idea the name of the place; some little whole in the wall (my favorites), but the vibrations, the feel, the eloquent wavelengths that were pouring out of this place literally drew me in like a magnet. I had no intentions of drinking, but ended up at the bar so that I could hang around for the next set.
I ended up alongside a demolition crew from Atlanta and Alabama. “Yup. Back home, the KKK still marches in our Christmas parade,” laughed the thin, weathered Alabamian. “That’s why I don’t live there anymore.”
“Good for you,” I replied.
Their workday starts at 4:30am and every day they tear down people’s houses. That day had been a particularly hard one on the crew. The house belonged to an African American WWII vet. He came back to the house to watch the demolition; showed the crew his battle wounds, the scars that patterned his body. He held onto a few pictures that he had managed to salvage. And he stood in what used to be his front yard and cried for four hours while his house was laid to rest.
“Now the thing for you to understand is that this man was not just cryin’ for hisself or for his house. This man was crying for this country,” the crew leader explained as his dark brown eyes disappeared into the straw that he twisted through his drink.
And the blues band strummed in for the start of set number three. My call time was a mere five hours away, but I was nowhere near ready to leave.
The shoot itself was moderately busy. I was able to get out for a couple more snippets. I managed a walk down to Café Du Monde for a beignet and a café au lait. Yummy. I observed a lot of empty restaurants, empty bars, empty shops. Every other block or so I’d stumble across a storefront covered by a bright neon sign declaring “another victim of Katrina”. How are these people making a living I kept wondering?
I saw a lot of sadness in New Orleans, but I saw a lot more perseverance. From the tarot readers perched out on their folding chairs to the artists selling their work on the streets. These people can really teach me something about acceptance.
Heading back to the hotel, I encountered another blues group. This one was much younger and they were singing in the streets. Worn, tired, and hungry, they poured out not anger and frustration, but amazingly beautiful performance art.
Damn. These kids have got it right.
Thank you, New Orleans.
The Clouds are Calling Me
One thing this freelance gig has done for me over the years is to implant a great love of travel. Certainly, I’ve always been one to get off on new spaces. But, man, there’s just something about getting above the clouds that feels like home. Leg one of today’s travel hosted a range of ultra white billoughy puffs. Leg two was the golden hour. Mmhhm. Sunsets above the clouds are the best. Purples and oranges nuzzling away at another day’s passing.
Something about the expansiveness of the sky has a soothing effect on my mind. Almost as though my perception feels closer to my higher self, I feel like I’m able to be more comfortable in wider ranges of perspective. (Makes sense, right? Being on the ground feels, well, feels more grounded.)
And for those of you keeping score, as much as I like to think of myself as a grounded individual (and I can be in certain arenas) I’ve always played at the top of my game with my head in the clouds!
I’m at a crossroads now, and have been resisting the movement through it to the furthest possible extent, wherein I have to blend my head-in-the-clouds possibility reality with the grounded reality. And I think I’ve been going at it in the wrong way (trying to bring the grounded to the sky instead of bringing the magic, the creative power, the bliss down to the grounded level).
That’s why the success has, on many occasions, just ever so slightly slipped through my grasp. (Of course, this all depends on how one defines success.) I can see so clearly that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, right now. And I don’t want to turn away,
I realized something quite profound today. I realized that the whole me isn’t dying. I realized that the parts of me that are dying are the parts that can no longer be a part of me in order for me to grow and evolve in the way that I chose before my birth. Thus far, it has been my experience to grieve this process, to grieve for my loss. And I’ve been hanging on to the grieving portion because I’ve been afraid to let go.
But the fear is dissipating. And a new, fresh hunger is emerging. This expanded consciousness is demanding a much grander participation in all arenas, really.
As much as I love to observe, to contemplate, to analyze, the passivity of it all has grown extremely uncomfortable. The results-oriented side of me has grown restless. The extrovert, bludgeoned and bloodied, is still asking to re-emerge, but in a more humbled state.
And I’m working on opening up my arenas of possibility when it comes to communicative opportunities. For so long I operated on such a narrow path as to what was creatively acceptable. And I’m learning not to judge the path or the projects that literally fall in my lap. Any outward exertion is pure experience, is something greater than what was here before.
Everything is a bridge to the next step.
Reading over some more Avatar stuff today, I was reminded of two very important things:
1. Our beliefs determine our experience (not the other way around). Careful now, boys and girls, this can get mind-bending. This also brings personal responsibility to a whole new level.
2. Our present is our source. The present is our real-“time”, stream lining truth. The past is only created in thought forms from the present (as is any ideas, notions, fantasies, fears, etc. about the future).
I can’t deny this ‘new-agey’ side of me any longer. Perception, consciousness, reality, sanity, unity, solidarity, self-awareness, cosmic consciousness, godhead, the relationships we have with our higher selves, it’s where my interest has always been this time around.
It expresses itself (easiest) through the visual elements. Thus far, through painting mostly. But the attraction to photography and, obviously, film is always calling. And lately, music has been really nagging at me. I miss the discipline, and the intimate bond that forms with an instrument.
And, of course, writing has been my biggest attraction. Like a moth to a fluorescent porch light, I will keep coming back until the one day where the contact with the light source results in nirvana.
Film is still my greatest love: the merging of the written and visual arts. I believe that it will continue to be my ultimate creative goal, but in the meantime, I want to start allowing for the birth and development of everything else.
Everything is a bridge to the next step.
And I mean, really, one can only collect so many charred moth corpses.
I wish to actively pursue this path. I will heal myself and become healthy again.
I will cultivate success on the communicative path. And I’m going to take steps forward even though the path in not fully lit, knowing that illumination will follow.
Illumination will follow.
Is that not the definition of faith?
Something about the expansiveness of the sky has a soothing effect on my mind. Almost as though my perception feels closer to my higher self, I feel like I’m able to be more comfortable in wider ranges of perspective. (Makes sense, right? Being on the ground feels, well, feels more grounded.)
And for those of you keeping score, as much as I like to think of myself as a grounded individual (and I can be in certain arenas) I’ve always played at the top of my game with my head in the clouds!
I’m at a crossroads now, and have been resisting the movement through it to the furthest possible extent, wherein I have to blend my head-in-the-clouds possibility reality with the grounded reality. And I think I’ve been going at it in the wrong way (trying to bring the grounded to the sky instead of bringing the magic, the creative power, the bliss down to the grounded level).
That’s why the success has, on many occasions, just ever so slightly slipped through my grasp. (Of course, this all depends on how one defines success.) I can see so clearly that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, right now. And I don’t want to turn away,
I realized something quite profound today. I realized that the whole me isn’t dying. I realized that the parts of me that are dying are the parts that can no longer be a part of me in order for me to grow and evolve in the way that I chose before my birth. Thus far, it has been my experience to grieve this process, to grieve for my loss. And I’ve been hanging on to the grieving portion because I’ve been afraid to let go.
But the fear is dissipating. And a new, fresh hunger is emerging. This expanded consciousness is demanding a much grander participation in all arenas, really.
As much as I love to observe, to contemplate, to analyze, the passivity of it all has grown extremely uncomfortable. The results-oriented side of me has grown restless. The extrovert, bludgeoned and bloodied, is still asking to re-emerge, but in a more humbled state.
And I’m working on opening up my arenas of possibility when it comes to communicative opportunities. For so long I operated on such a narrow path as to what was creatively acceptable. And I’m learning not to judge the path or the projects that literally fall in my lap. Any outward exertion is pure experience, is something greater than what was here before.
Everything is a bridge to the next step.
Reading over some more Avatar stuff today, I was reminded of two very important things:
1. Our beliefs determine our experience (not the other way around). Careful now, boys and girls, this can get mind-bending. This also brings personal responsibility to a whole new level.
2. Our present is our source. The present is our real-“time”, stream lining truth. The past is only created in thought forms from the present (as is any ideas, notions, fantasies, fears, etc. about the future).
I can’t deny this ‘new-agey’ side of me any longer. Perception, consciousness, reality, sanity, unity, solidarity, self-awareness, cosmic consciousness, godhead, the relationships we have with our higher selves, it’s where my interest has always been this time around.
It expresses itself (easiest) through the visual elements. Thus far, through painting mostly. But the attraction to photography and, obviously, film is always calling. And lately, music has been really nagging at me. I miss the discipline, and the intimate bond that forms with an instrument.
And, of course, writing has been my biggest attraction. Like a moth to a fluorescent porch light, I will keep coming back until the one day where the contact with the light source results in nirvana.
Film is still my greatest love: the merging of the written and visual arts. I believe that it will continue to be my ultimate creative goal, but in the meantime, I want to start allowing for the birth and development of everything else.
Everything is a bridge to the next step.
And I mean, really, one can only collect so many charred moth corpses.
I wish to actively pursue this path. I will heal myself and become healthy again.
I will cultivate success on the communicative path. And I’m going to take steps forward even though the path in not fully lit, knowing that illumination will follow.
Illumination will follow.
Is that not the definition of faith?
Dodging the Pendulum
I’ve got to eek a little bit out for Christ’s sake. It’s 6:20 in the evening and the best I have to show for the day’s accomplishments are a freshly shaven body.
You see this is the year that everything stopped fitting for me. Do you understand? Everything stopped fitting. Shoes, clothes, hair, everything became uncomfortable. Everything grew dirtier, the grays became more gray. I know most of this probably sounds totally foreign to most people. I know I wouldn’t understand it have I not been struggling to live through it. (Struggling against living through it would describe my actions better.)
Somewhere, somehow after having a pretty decent end of the year in 2005, 2006 something (everything) inside of me decided it didn’t wanna play anymore. And I stopped trying. I gave up. I caved in. I got tired of fighting and surrendered to slumber. And slumber I have. Hiding under the warm, dark covers I find the closest thing to comfort. But it’s temporary and it hurts me later on when another hour, another day, another month has passed.
And now I’m even weaker than I was before.
This life has been one of self-punishment. I’ve got a strong inner-saboteur that the masochist in me gets along with very well. Truth is for as long as I can remember I’ve felt like a complete outsider this time ‘round. Always observing what others have and praying that the Universe will care for me while I flounder and flap around on the wet pavement like a fish out of sea.
And I have been taken care of. Blessed many times over by money and love. Much of which I probably haven’t deserved. Much of which has been running out for some time now.
So I get that the reason that everything stopped fitting for me on the physical plane is because I haven’t allowed myself to start working on things higher up the ladder. My spiritual plane, my mental/emotional plane. I’m resisting. You see I made a pact with myself that this life I was gonna dive deep. I wanted to observe, explore: this life was to be one of great personal evolution for me.
So what’s the hold up?
It’s not for lack of knowledge, tools, or support. I’ve met some amazing people that have provided me with great insight. And depending on perspective, there isn’t a hold up at all. I am seeing, living, breathing through things I never before imagined. This IS extreme growth; it’s just not as comfortable as I’d imagined it to be.
Thus far it’s been a rather solitary existence. It’s like I’ve been waiting for something before I’m willing to share myself with others. What is it that I’m so afraid of? Am I afraid of what people will see in me? Afraid of the pieces of myself that I will see in them? I’ve got to overcome this, and soon. It’s debilitating. It’s suffocating. It’s killing me.
Every day all I want is to find the answer. I think I’m looking too hard, but don’t want to stop looking when I feel like all I’ve gained from the time spent searching is loss.
I thought I would be in a better place by now. I thought my career would’ve had a substantial foundation by now. I thought I’d be managing my debt better by now. I thought I’d be keeping up with the Jones’ better by now. (I thought I would’ve accepted and embraced the notion that it’s not at all about keeping up with the Jones’ by now.) I thought I’d have a healthier marriage by now. I yearned to have surrounded myself with more friends by now.
I want to be a better person. Now.
What I’m facing here is my ultimate meeting with faith: faith in myself, this Universe, this level. You see, I thought I had it, and I did have a relatively strong portion of it. But the doubt(s) that were lurking beneath the surface swelled and swelled and I allowed them to swoosh me out to sea.
I’m a good person with a huge, loving heart. I’m smart, dedicated and loyal. I have a work ethic that knows no limits. When I allow these elements of myself to freefall, it’s a beautiful thing. Then for reasons I have yet to fully define, I build a dam.
A mentor, a dear friend of mine paid me a compliment recently. (It came under the preface of, “I’m not one who hands out many compliments.”) He said, “Jenna, I’ve watched you very closely over the years and when you’re on, I – am - in - awe of you. There’s nothing you can’t accomplish. But when you go off, you go way off.”
And it’s true. This pendulum swings back and forth, back and forth. I’ve taken it much further this time. The pendulum entered the darkness and stopped. Suspended. Choked.
How do I convince myself that everything’s going to be okay when I ache all over? My body feels weak and I am ill. I’ve suffered extensive hair loss and some internal functions have begun to shut down. (A shame we only start really paying attention to breakdowns once they are to the level of physical manifestation.) I try to mask my discomfort, but see it reflected in those around me. Instead of exuding glowing white energy, I become an energy vampire. And the cycle repeats.
I’ve been examining choice lately. The fear that’s been poisoning this reality has been based around the ‘fact’ that I feel as though my thoughts, words, actions get high-jacked. At times I feel as though my body is only along for the ride. There have been several instances this year when I have literally blurted out the realization, “I’m fucking crazy.”
“I’ve gone crazy.” So this is what insanity feels like.
Truth is, though, we choose. We decide. I spun out because somewhere, on some level, I chose to. And I know myself well enough to know I like a good challenge. I mean for Christ’s sake, I’ve spent the past few years trying to sell independent art house scripts to Hollywood. I’ve been trying to push socio-political revolution through Hollywood. Obviously, I get off on overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles! (For those of you keeping score at home, the options we have had, the serious interest we have obtained has been from the international film community.)
To review, playing rock-paper-scissors with my higher-self out there in the ether circa 1977, I throw some dice on the craps table and say, “How about a communicator, an artist, writer, painter. Toss in some serious security issues. And plant me in the middle of the biggest fascist capitalist regime you can find. Higher-self grunts, chuckles and replies, “Ah, you’re good.”
One of my spiritual advisors nailed it when he brought to the surface the reminder that this was going to be a very difficult life for me. “You’re incredibly open and sensitive. Like a sponge, you absorb the pain of those around you, those of the world. And the world is going to go through a very difficult period.”
I try to place my anger on the ugly elements that infiltrate my consciousness. BushCo, voter fraud, the death of Habeas Corpus, war, genocide, for profit health care, poor public education, lack of access to affordable (or FREE) continuing education, global warming, global dominance………….
But what I am really angry at is myself. I am angry for deciding to experience such a no-holds-barred, blindingly naked view of the harsh realities of reality. I’m angry with myself for wishing back the ignorance. And I’m angry because I now realize that although ignorance is bliss, true bliss is to be found by learning how to adapt and emit pure love and happiness despite the dissolution of the ignorance.
I’m angry with myself for not managing my awakening better.
I can do better than this.
I have to try.
I have to try.
You see this is the year that everything stopped fitting for me. Do you understand? Everything stopped fitting. Shoes, clothes, hair, everything became uncomfortable. Everything grew dirtier, the grays became more gray. I know most of this probably sounds totally foreign to most people. I know I wouldn’t understand it have I not been struggling to live through it. (Struggling against living through it would describe my actions better.)
Somewhere, somehow after having a pretty decent end of the year in 2005, 2006 something (everything) inside of me decided it didn’t wanna play anymore. And I stopped trying. I gave up. I caved in. I got tired of fighting and surrendered to slumber. And slumber I have. Hiding under the warm, dark covers I find the closest thing to comfort. But it’s temporary and it hurts me later on when another hour, another day, another month has passed.
And now I’m even weaker than I was before.
This life has been one of self-punishment. I’ve got a strong inner-saboteur that the masochist in me gets along with very well. Truth is for as long as I can remember I’ve felt like a complete outsider this time ‘round. Always observing what others have and praying that the Universe will care for me while I flounder and flap around on the wet pavement like a fish out of sea.
And I have been taken care of. Blessed many times over by money and love. Much of which I probably haven’t deserved. Much of which has been running out for some time now.
So I get that the reason that everything stopped fitting for me on the physical plane is because I haven’t allowed myself to start working on things higher up the ladder. My spiritual plane, my mental/emotional plane. I’m resisting. You see I made a pact with myself that this life I was gonna dive deep. I wanted to observe, explore: this life was to be one of great personal evolution for me.
So what’s the hold up?
It’s not for lack of knowledge, tools, or support. I’ve met some amazing people that have provided me with great insight. And depending on perspective, there isn’t a hold up at all. I am seeing, living, breathing through things I never before imagined. This IS extreme growth; it’s just not as comfortable as I’d imagined it to be.
Thus far it’s been a rather solitary existence. It’s like I’ve been waiting for something before I’m willing to share myself with others. What is it that I’m so afraid of? Am I afraid of what people will see in me? Afraid of the pieces of myself that I will see in them? I’ve got to overcome this, and soon. It’s debilitating. It’s suffocating. It’s killing me.
Every day all I want is to find the answer. I think I’m looking too hard, but don’t want to stop looking when I feel like all I’ve gained from the time spent searching is loss.
I thought I would be in a better place by now. I thought my career would’ve had a substantial foundation by now. I thought I’d be managing my debt better by now. I thought I’d be keeping up with the Jones’ better by now. (I thought I would’ve accepted and embraced the notion that it’s not at all about keeping up with the Jones’ by now.) I thought I’d have a healthier marriage by now. I yearned to have surrounded myself with more friends by now.
I want to be a better person. Now.
What I’m facing here is my ultimate meeting with faith: faith in myself, this Universe, this level. You see, I thought I had it, and I did have a relatively strong portion of it. But the doubt(s) that were lurking beneath the surface swelled and swelled and I allowed them to swoosh me out to sea.
I’m a good person with a huge, loving heart. I’m smart, dedicated and loyal. I have a work ethic that knows no limits. When I allow these elements of myself to freefall, it’s a beautiful thing. Then for reasons I have yet to fully define, I build a dam.
A mentor, a dear friend of mine paid me a compliment recently. (It came under the preface of, “I’m not one who hands out many compliments.”) He said, “Jenna, I’ve watched you very closely over the years and when you’re on, I – am - in - awe of you. There’s nothing you can’t accomplish. But when you go off, you go way off.”
And it’s true. This pendulum swings back and forth, back and forth. I’ve taken it much further this time. The pendulum entered the darkness and stopped. Suspended. Choked.
How do I convince myself that everything’s going to be okay when I ache all over? My body feels weak and I am ill. I’ve suffered extensive hair loss and some internal functions have begun to shut down. (A shame we only start really paying attention to breakdowns once they are to the level of physical manifestation.) I try to mask my discomfort, but see it reflected in those around me. Instead of exuding glowing white energy, I become an energy vampire. And the cycle repeats.
I’ve been examining choice lately. The fear that’s been poisoning this reality has been based around the ‘fact’ that I feel as though my thoughts, words, actions get high-jacked. At times I feel as though my body is only along for the ride. There have been several instances this year when I have literally blurted out the realization, “I’m fucking crazy.”
“I’ve gone crazy.” So this is what insanity feels like.
Truth is, though, we choose. We decide. I spun out because somewhere, on some level, I chose to. And I know myself well enough to know I like a good challenge. I mean for Christ’s sake, I’ve spent the past few years trying to sell independent art house scripts to Hollywood. I’ve been trying to push socio-political revolution through Hollywood. Obviously, I get off on overcoming seemingly insurmountable obstacles! (For those of you keeping score at home, the options we have had, the serious interest we have obtained has been from the international film community.)
To review, playing rock-paper-scissors with my higher-self out there in the ether circa 1977, I throw some dice on the craps table and say, “How about a communicator, an artist, writer, painter. Toss in some serious security issues. And plant me in the middle of the biggest fascist capitalist regime you can find. Higher-self grunts, chuckles and replies, “Ah, you’re good.”
One of my spiritual advisors nailed it when he brought to the surface the reminder that this was going to be a very difficult life for me. “You’re incredibly open and sensitive. Like a sponge, you absorb the pain of those around you, those of the world. And the world is going to go through a very difficult period.”
I try to place my anger on the ugly elements that infiltrate my consciousness. BushCo, voter fraud, the death of Habeas Corpus, war, genocide, for profit health care, poor public education, lack of access to affordable (or FREE) continuing education, global warming, global dominance………….
But what I am really angry at is myself. I am angry for deciding to experience such a no-holds-barred, blindingly naked view of the harsh realities of reality. I’m angry with myself for wishing back the ignorance. And I’m angry because I now realize that although ignorance is bliss, true bliss is to be found by learning how to adapt and emit pure love and happiness despite the dissolution of the ignorance.
I’m angry with myself for not managing my awakening better.
I can do better than this.
I have to try.
I have to try.
Time to Stop Observing & Start Participating
A very dear friend of mine told me that there are three things we need in order to survive:
1. The air that we breathe.
2. The food and water that we consume.
3. Experience.
Without the continual consumption of these three main components we are only bystanders on this merry-go-round. Observers of our own lives passing us by.
2006. This is the year that everything stopped. Or is it the year that everything’s starting? Fuck, I can’t tell. It’s been one of those periods (more than a comma for those of you following Bush’s eloquent analogies) where somewhere, somehow, everything that I was firmly holding onto, EVERYTHING, I dropped. Let go of. Released. Surrendered. And I don’t know why. And I don’t know how. But holy shit am I suspended, free-falling into, and throughout, a level of consciousness that I swore I was ready for.
And I find myself, arms swinging, grabbing, reaching, stretching, rapping on the Consciousness Customer Service Counter asking for, not a full refund, but perhaps maybe, just maybe, we could slow things down a bit.
Writing. Ah, yes, writing. That’s something I know. That’s something I can hold onto.
This is something I have to come back to.
Hello. And welcome to my very first blog. Mhhm. I can feel your excitement. Knees quivering. That slight sweat forming that you know will pass in fourteen, fifteen seconds.
So, for those of you that are close to me, those of you that I’ve actually let peek inside, some of this may resemble familiar territory. (My fingers kept trying to type terrortory. Likely no slip. High five BushCo, you’re literally on the tips of everyone’s fingers. Trouble is its all surface. The fear only goes skin deep for most of us. And most of us are waiting, just waiting, for you to try and go deeper. Please, go deeper.)
I’m side stepping. Of course, I’m sidestepping. This whole fucking year has been a sidestep. God has this been an awful fucking gut wrenchingly painful year. I can’t scream about it anymore. I can’t reach out to the open air anymore. I can’t push anyone else away. 2006 has been a rough-fucking-year.
I hate even years. I flourish in the odds, but the evens really stick it to me. Stab. Slice. Beat. Grind. Rip. Penetrate. Bleed. I’ve always been polar-opposites with the evens, and not in the good way. Hurry 2007, a girl can only dog paddle for so-freaking-long. Not to mention that the remaining comrades stopped treading a long time ago. Just me, barely kicking. Just me, not quite swimming.
Just me. Alone in a crowd.
I know I’ve already asked a lot. But, alas it wouldn’t quite be me if I didn’t ask for a little more. I need you to bear with me. The first while of this is going to be the dark, black poison. The darkness that’s infiltrated my entire world for the past 10 months. It’s gotta come out. It’s gotta go somewhere. I sure as hell can’t hide it anymore and I can’t analyze it anymore. So read it, don’t read it. I don’t care. I just have to start letting it out. I’m suffocating myself and, truth is, I’m not ready to stop breathing. Not just yet.
I’d like to promise the following blogs will be shorter in nature, but it’s me. I’m infatuated with words. (Insight: I need to work on brevity.) I’m tired of brevity. The scripts get brevity; this place is mine. Don’t get me wrong: I get off on editing other people’s stuff, but stand on guard around my own winding branches.
Fucking Seattle. This city kills me. It lures you in with its enticingly piercing blue summer skies (you’ve never disappeared like you do in a Seattle summer sky; very humbling), the way the mountains become purple against the pungent orange sunsets and then BLAM! Seven to eight weeks straight of no sun, NO LIGHT, no ‘come up for some air’ relief from the solid, steady rain. As if the city is teasing you, luring you, slurring the words, “You think you know depression? I’ll show you depression.” Sure it’s cool, it’s alter-native for the first couple two, three weeks. The fourth week you start feeling like you haven’t been dry in months. Week five brings more Interpol, Failure and Godspeed into the mix. Week six you skip the coffee and go straight for the red wine. Week seven is when you feel the first gunshot fire two blocks away at 2:17 in the morning.
And I know. I’ve finally found my home.
Minnesota. How the motherly hell was I born into Minnesota? Don’t get me wrong. I know we choose all of this. I know. But damn, what kind of a (uber-progressive, mind you) masochist chooses MN for the first 18? This is not to say that I don’t cherish (some) of my family members, and that I didn’t have amazing friends. But damn.
Then we’ll add a splash of Orlando; whisk up a little dash of LA. Sick to your stomach yet? You will be soon.
Fact of the matter is I’m 28 (like that means anything, it’s only numbers). I thought I could manage at a pseudo-mildly mannered artisan level. I’ve co-authored four screenplays, two of which have been optioned. I paint, but have never shown anything. I bought a bass guitar three, eek – four years ago, that I have yet to teach myself to play.
I’m resisting. I’m holding back.
At 28 I’ve realized that I’ve been holding back my whole life. Observing over participating.
Observing over participating.
And I realize. This is the life of acceptance. This is the life that I have to stop running. But I like running. I like new places. I’m a home-body natured Cancerian who loves, loves, loves to travel. I’m a security freak artist. I came to a crossroads wherein I had let go of one or the other. I let go of the security, and I let go of a little (majority) of the sanity in the process. So why hold back now? What’s the purpose in hiding any further? What’s left to fear? Ah, there she is. Fear. Nice of you to join us. Ya big tease, waiting till word 996 to join us. Ah, but you were present nonetheless, hiding beneath the surface, like ya do.
I suppose the time has arisen for me to make an attempt at forging a summarizing closure to a body of work that I have yet to classify.
This is not to say that I couldn’t continue forging onward (as I’m guessing you’ve grasped at this point), but I feel your batting, drooping eyelids. I know. I understand. Our attention spans are no longer meant for such long bouts on the ole treadmill of thought.
In the past few years I’ve learned the following:
I love Seattle. It kills me at times but never fails to win me over in its beauty. I’ve never seen more people sharing laughter over coffee, never seen more people openly crying in the streets. (Never seen more people openly shitting in the streets, for that matter. Coincidence? I think not.)
I love, love, love the energy of NYC and Hawaii. How does one love both? One just does. Period. (Again, I bypass the comma.) I wish to one day spend more lengthy moments in time in both places.
We’re all connected and we’re all alone. When it comes down to base, fundamental elements, we are responsible for our own health, be it physical, mental/emotional, or spiritual. We can share our lives with loved ones, but we have to take care of ourselves. NOBODY else will do this for us (and nobody should). Question is, do you care enough to care for yourself? And the answer is: you can’t care for others (well) unless you care for yourself first. And that sucks. Because what I do is care for others. I could give a shit less about caring for myself………………………Other people first, then me.
Aha. The breakdown.
Life never stops hurling lessons in our direction. Once we choose to commit to a life of awareness, there’s no turning back. There is no, “Sorry, I decided I’d rather be ignorant.” Too bad, too late. You’ve got insight now. Whattaya gonna do with it?
And the answer is: something. I have to do something with it. I can’t hide behind this any longer. Before I was ever able to form a single word of literate conversation in this life, I knew that my purpose this time around was as a vessel of communication. Simple as black and white.
But I’ve resisted. I’ve held back, because I’ve never had the path as comfortably illuminated as I’d like. I like foundation. I like plans, goals, deadlines, visual representations of anything, really. Which makes this socialist artisan revolutionary path that I can’t deny, I can’t shut out, I can’t withhold any longer a real fucking pain in my ass!
And I’ve got to accept it. I really, really can’t deny it any more. No more hiding behind the left-brainy production coordinating safety net lines. I’ve got to commit. Even if I can’t see what the path looks like ten feet ahead, I’ve got to take the next nine steps in faith that the tenth will become illuminated.
And there I am: 1572 words. I’ll try and be less in the blogs to come, but likely more will leak out between the seams.
By the way, I’m finding it hard to believe that I’m putting all of this out ‘there’, but then again, to be honest, I’m finding all of this hard to believe. And why not put it all out there if all of this is nothing more than a manifestation of my own beliefs?
Upside down and all around. Upside down and all around.
Observe, sure. Participate? You’ve got to.
(By the way; ending word count 1666. How appropriate. Bastardly word count.)
1. The air that we breathe.
2. The food and water that we consume.
3. Experience.
Without the continual consumption of these three main components we are only bystanders on this merry-go-round. Observers of our own lives passing us by.
2006. This is the year that everything stopped. Or is it the year that everything’s starting? Fuck, I can’t tell. It’s been one of those periods (more than a comma for those of you following Bush’s eloquent analogies) where somewhere, somehow, everything that I was firmly holding onto, EVERYTHING, I dropped. Let go of. Released. Surrendered. And I don’t know why. And I don’t know how. But holy shit am I suspended, free-falling into, and throughout, a level of consciousness that I swore I was ready for.
And I find myself, arms swinging, grabbing, reaching, stretching, rapping on the Consciousness Customer Service Counter asking for, not a full refund, but perhaps maybe, just maybe, we could slow things down a bit.
Writing. Ah, yes, writing. That’s something I know. That’s something I can hold onto.
This is something I have to come back to.
Hello. And welcome to my very first blog. Mhhm. I can feel your excitement. Knees quivering. That slight sweat forming that you know will pass in fourteen, fifteen seconds.
So, for those of you that are close to me, those of you that I’ve actually let peek inside, some of this may resemble familiar territory. (My fingers kept trying to type terrortory. Likely no slip. High five BushCo, you’re literally on the tips of everyone’s fingers. Trouble is its all surface. The fear only goes skin deep for most of us. And most of us are waiting, just waiting, for you to try and go deeper. Please, go deeper.)
I’m side stepping. Of course, I’m sidestepping. This whole fucking year has been a sidestep. God has this been an awful fucking gut wrenchingly painful year. I can’t scream about it anymore. I can’t reach out to the open air anymore. I can’t push anyone else away. 2006 has been a rough-fucking-year.
I hate even years. I flourish in the odds, but the evens really stick it to me. Stab. Slice. Beat. Grind. Rip. Penetrate. Bleed. I’ve always been polar-opposites with the evens, and not in the good way. Hurry 2007, a girl can only dog paddle for so-freaking-long. Not to mention that the remaining comrades stopped treading a long time ago. Just me, barely kicking. Just me, not quite swimming.
Just me. Alone in a crowd.
I know I’ve already asked a lot. But, alas it wouldn’t quite be me if I didn’t ask for a little more. I need you to bear with me. The first while of this is going to be the dark, black poison. The darkness that’s infiltrated my entire world for the past 10 months. It’s gotta come out. It’s gotta go somewhere. I sure as hell can’t hide it anymore and I can’t analyze it anymore. So read it, don’t read it. I don’t care. I just have to start letting it out. I’m suffocating myself and, truth is, I’m not ready to stop breathing. Not just yet.
I’d like to promise the following blogs will be shorter in nature, but it’s me. I’m infatuated with words. (Insight: I need to work on brevity.) I’m tired of brevity. The scripts get brevity; this place is mine. Don’t get me wrong: I get off on editing other people’s stuff, but stand on guard around my own winding branches.
Fucking Seattle. This city kills me. It lures you in with its enticingly piercing blue summer skies (you’ve never disappeared like you do in a Seattle summer sky; very humbling), the way the mountains become purple against the pungent orange sunsets and then BLAM! Seven to eight weeks straight of no sun, NO LIGHT, no ‘come up for some air’ relief from the solid, steady rain. As if the city is teasing you, luring you, slurring the words, “You think you know depression? I’ll show you depression.” Sure it’s cool, it’s alter-native for the first couple two, three weeks. The fourth week you start feeling like you haven’t been dry in months. Week five brings more Interpol, Failure and Godspeed into the mix. Week six you skip the coffee and go straight for the red wine. Week seven is when you feel the first gunshot fire two blocks away at 2:17 in the morning.
And I know. I’ve finally found my home.
Minnesota. How the motherly hell was I born into Minnesota? Don’t get me wrong. I know we choose all of this. I know. But damn, what kind of a (uber-progressive, mind you) masochist chooses MN for the first 18? This is not to say that I don’t cherish (some) of my family members, and that I didn’t have amazing friends. But damn.
Then we’ll add a splash of Orlando; whisk up a little dash of LA. Sick to your stomach yet? You will be soon.
Fact of the matter is I’m 28 (like that means anything, it’s only numbers). I thought I could manage at a pseudo-mildly mannered artisan level. I’ve co-authored four screenplays, two of which have been optioned. I paint, but have never shown anything. I bought a bass guitar three, eek – four years ago, that I have yet to teach myself to play.
I’m resisting. I’m holding back.
At 28 I’ve realized that I’ve been holding back my whole life. Observing over participating.
Observing over participating.
And I realize. This is the life of acceptance. This is the life that I have to stop running. But I like running. I like new places. I’m a home-body natured Cancerian who loves, loves, loves to travel. I’m a security freak artist. I came to a crossroads wherein I had let go of one or the other. I let go of the security, and I let go of a little (majority) of the sanity in the process. So why hold back now? What’s the purpose in hiding any further? What’s left to fear? Ah, there she is. Fear. Nice of you to join us. Ya big tease, waiting till word 996 to join us. Ah, but you were present nonetheless, hiding beneath the surface, like ya do.
I suppose the time has arisen for me to make an attempt at forging a summarizing closure to a body of work that I have yet to classify.
This is not to say that I couldn’t continue forging onward (as I’m guessing you’ve grasped at this point), but I feel your batting, drooping eyelids. I know. I understand. Our attention spans are no longer meant for such long bouts on the ole treadmill of thought.
In the past few years I’ve learned the following:
I love Seattle. It kills me at times but never fails to win me over in its beauty. I’ve never seen more people sharing laughter over coffee, never seen more people openly crying in the streets. (Never seen more people openly shitting in the streets, for that matter. Coincidence? I think not.)
I love, love, love the energy of NYC and Hawaii. How does one love both? One just does. Period. (Again, I bypass the comma.) I wish to one day spend more lengthy moments in time in both places.
We’re all connected and we’re all alone. When it comes down to base, fundamental elements, we are responsible for our own health, be it physical, mental/emotional, or spiritual. We can share our lives with loved ones, but we have to take care of ourselves. NOBODY else will do this for us (and nobody should). Question is, do you care enough to care for yourself? And the answer is: you can’t care for others (well) unless you care for yourself first. And that sucks. Because what I do is care for others. I could give a shit less about caring for myself………………………Other people first, then me.
Aha. The breakdown.
Life never stops hurling lessons in our direction. Once we choose to commit to a life of awareness, there’s no turning back. There is no, “Sorry, I decided I’d rather be ignorant.” Too bad, too late. You’ve got insight now. Whattaya gonna do with it?
And the answer is: something. I have to do something with it. I can’t hide behind this any longer. Before I was ever able to form a single word of literate conversation in this life, I knew that my purpose this time around was as a vessel of communication. Simple as black and white.
But I’ve resisted. I’ve held back, because I’ve never had the path as comfortably illuminated as I’d like. I like foundation. I like plans, goals, deadlines, visual representations of anything, really. Which makes this socialist artisan revolutionary path that I can’t deny, I can’t shut out, I can’t withhold any longer a real fucking pain in my ass!
And I’ve got to accept it. I really, really can’t deny it any more. No more hiding behind the left-brainy production coordinating safety net lines. I’ve got to commit. Even if I can’t see what the path looks like ten feet ahead, I’ve got to take the next nine steps in faith that the tenth will become illuminated.
And there I am: 1572 words. I’ll try and be less in the blogs to come, but likely more will leak out between the seams.
By the way, I’m finding it hard to believe that I’m putting all of this out ‘there’, but then again, to be honest, I’m finding all of this hard to believe. And why not put it all out there if all of this is nothing more than a manifestation of my own beliefs?
Upside down and all around. Upside down and all around.
Observe, sure. Participate? You’ve got to.
(By the way; ending word count 1666. How appropriate. Bastardly word count.)
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