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.)