I was saddened to hear of yesterday’s execution of Saddam. As an American it fills me with shame. I don’t like the fact that we’re waving our ignorant machismo aggressive killing power in everyone’s face.
I don’t like 24-hour coverage on the news of his death. Where’s the coverage on the following atrocities:
US Military Deaths (Iraq): 2,997
US Military Wounded (Iraq): 22,235
Iraqi Civilian Deaths (Minimum): 52,139
Excess Iraqi Deaths: 655,000
(Source: michaelmoore.com)
For a great visual representation of these numbers go here:
http://www.michaelmoore.com/takeaction/deaths.php
here:
http://www.michaelmoore.com/takeaction/wounded.php
and here:
http://www.michaelmoore.com/takeaction/iraqi_deaths.php
To all the naysayers, I urge you, “Don’t be afraid of the truth.”
It’s painful, I know, but we cannot continue to deny who and what we are. We have to accept our history. We have to accept our present and we have to ask ourselves, “Haven’t we evolved pass this?”
I don’t like living in a country that invents wars for profit. I don’t like being part of the global corporate empire. I don’t like living in one of the top technologically advanced countries, yet none of it matters when we can’t even hold valid elections. I mean, really, could it be any more ironic that we’re the ones trying to ‘spread democracy’?
Along with ensuring secure elections (sorry Diebold) how about tossing out for-profit Health Care and for-profit Continuing Education?
How about instead of spending billions on death and destruction, we educate ourselves? How about setting up a system that guarantees health care for everyone (even infants and the elderly!)?
How about following Presidential hopeful Dennis Kucinich’s lead and establishing a Department of Peace? (Please, I beg of you, check out: www.kucinich.us)
What if the US federal government decided to play with the other boys and girls and sign onto the Kyoto Protocol? Hell, then they could even play with the 353 mayors representing 54 million Americans that have taken Seattle Mayor Greg Nickels lead and agreed to take local action to help reduce global warming. (cityofseattle.gov/mayor/climate)
How about reigning in the pharmaceutical industry, the auto industry and mega-agribusiness and implementing more holistic health care and mass transit across the board? What if all Americans had affordable access to healthy organic food?
I made a pact with myself when I decided to start blogging that I wouldn’t be overtly angry politically. I know that I have a tendency to wear my political frustrations on my sleeve and my intent is to communicate, not turn people off with my rants.
I know that it’s easier to look the other way.
I know it feels better to inform less and consume more.
But I’ve decided that I have to continuously work towards finding a way to communicate effectively and inspire others to take an active interest.
Yesterday an ice shelf the size of Manhattan (41 square miles) broke off of an island in the Canadian Arctic.
Where is this news story? Not in the mainstream news media, that’s for damn sure.
Good thing Saddam was executed on the very same day. Funny how coincidences like that occur, isn’t it? The death of a politically decapitated and non-threatening ex-leader far exceeds the importance of undeniable evidence that global warming is in full effect.
It’s such a great show and we’ve all got the best seats. We watch as the pot of chaos boils over: climate change, war, corporate greed, and the battle over diminishing resources.
We haven’t seen anything yet.
Wait until the weather patterns lock up. Wait until the major ice caps start melting and flood the planet.
We’re fools if we think evolution isn’t going to force us into harmony.
Unfortunately the oligarchy is going to fight and resist as hard and long as they possibly can.
The clock is ticking boys, so go ahead: scavenge as much as you possibly can.
Thing is, you haven’t got much time left. The wheels of a major shift in the collective consciousness are a spinning and not even your power can match it.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Everything in its Right Place (thanks, Thom)
Last night while working on our sale options proposal down at Zeitgeist, I found myself sitting between a speechwriter for Rudy Giuliani and a genius who spent seven years working on his dissertation on raising the collective consciousness.
This is why I love living here.
LA. all I ever heard anyone talking about was the Industry. In Orlando it was the service industry. However, in L.A.’s defense our world was the Industry, that’s why we were there, so it is likely that my perceptions were tuned into such frequencies. Last year we traveled to LA to celebrate Christmas with friends and the day after, hung over as hell, we were dining at our old favorite breakfast café in West Hollywood. Everyone was talking film: auditions, pitches, agents, you name it.
Heads throbbing, hands quivering, I couldn’t help but to laugh in astonishment. “I had forgotten how Industry LA is.”
“More coffee, please.”
And in Orlando’s defense, we did meet some amazing people there, people who’ve had an incredible influence on my life.
But, on a whole, I’ve gotta say, Seattle home. Capitol Hill, our neighborhood, is becoming increasingly gentrified. And it’s full of hipster fashionistas, which gets more and more old the older I become.
Our new passion is Pioneer Square. Old brick buildings and streets, bountiful galleries and independent shops and cafes, blocks from downtown and the market, and an older, intellectual crowd. It seems to be where the working artists are living. It feels like our thirties.
At times I find myself intimidated by those who surround me. Most people around me are well educated, make more money, are well traveled, are living their lives in progressive manners.
But isn’t that the point? Isn’t it better to surround ourselves with people who challenge our intellect? Isn’t it better to involve ourselves in stimulating conversation, even if we feel as though we are the weakest link?
I’m proud of where I’m at at 28. It’s been a rocky journey, filled with ups and downs. But I knew I wanted to challenge myself in this life. I knew I wanted to leave a conservative upbringing for a more progressive lifestyle. I knew that as much as I crave security, that I was nowhere near living a life of conformity.
It’s not easy living against the grain. Most people don’t understand or support my actions, my choices. But that’s okay. We’re all on our own paths of self-realization.
Last night at Zeitgeist, the speechwriter picked up right away on the fact that I could hold my own within the context of a political conversation.
The PhD Consciousness genius didn’t need to verbally confirm that he could tell that I was on a conscious path of awakening.
The three of us shared space for over an hour discussing US International policy and laying bets as to if enough Americans will wake up before its too late.
Communication is man’s greatest gift. What gets me excited about living is the idea that, as humans, we’re just on the very brink of starting to really utilize our abilities to communicate effectively. At least, that’s my opinion.
I desire to be part of the team that leads the pack. Again, I can’t see exactly what shape this realm takes, but every day I try to focus my attention in that direction with hopes that it will become increasingly illuminated.
And, as you know from earlier postings, I practice this manifestation process, if you will, with projects that are more tangibly available.
Speaking of which, today I am finishing up the Sales Option Sheet and compiling research on our Target Production Companies and Networks. I aim to have the entire pitch package completed by the week’s end. Next Tuesday we incorporate. Then I spend the first two weeks of January writing and rehearsing the verbal pitch, along with any additional research that I feel is necessary.
Mid-January we go out to our first buyer.
Yesterday my mind-body suggested that I return to a fast (after having already laid claim to the fact that I would not re-enter an all-out fast). Perhaps I was pre-denying a request that I knew was on the horizon. Truth be told, I was doing really well on the fast; mentally and physically. My body really got into it. I was tired by the time I started to ramp out and I do think it was wise to come up for a refresher, but I’m really craving a return to it now.
I’ll give it a few days and see I still feel the same, but I suspect that I will. I’d like to do another 14 days, but this time drink a lot more water and incorporate chanting and yoga daily. My intuition tells me that this is precisely what I need to help prepare and balance me for delivering a wonderfully, positively charged pitch.
This time, I can see myself in this place of light presenting this project in the way that is true to my power. I’m ready to go to this place.
In the meantime, I have to deal with a lot of clean up. Ten months worth of giving up leaves quite the nasty ring around the old toilet bowl. Again, though, I’m managing with an entirely different approach. I’m removing the fear and approaching with a peaceful perspective and creating a space of resolution.
I understand that these things are cropping up as obstacles and challenging me as I step into a place of power.
This time they’re not going to beat me.
This is why I love living here.
LA. all I ever heard anyone talking about was the Industry. In Orlando it was the service industry. However, in L.A.’s defense our world was the Industry, that’s why we were there, so it is likely that my perceptions were tuned into such frequencies. Last year we traveled to LA to celebrate Christmas with friends and the day after, hung over as hell, we were dining at our old favorite breakfast café in West Hollywood. Everyone was talking film: auditions, pitches, agents, you name it.
Heads throbbing, hands quivering, I couldn’t help but to laugh in astonishment. “I had forgotten how Industry LA is.”
“More coffee, please.”
And in Orlando’s defense, we did meet some amazing people there, people who’ve had an incredible influence on my life.
But, on a whole, I’ve gotta say, Seattle home. Capitol Hill, our neighborhood, is becoming increasingly gentrified. And it’s full of hipster fashionistas, which gets more and more old the older I become.
Our new passion is Pioneer Square. Old brick buildings and streets, bountiful galleries and independent shops and cafes, blocks from downtown and the market, and an older, intellectual crowd. It seems to be where the working artists are living. It feels like our thirties.
At times I find myself intimidated by those who surround me. Most people around me are well educated, make more money, are well traveled, are living their lives in progressive manners.
But isn’t that the point? Isn’t it better to surround ourselves with people who challenge our intellect? Isn’t it better to involve ourselves in stimulating conversation, even if we feel as though we are the weakest link?
I’m proud of where I’m at at 28. It’s been a rocky journey, filled with ups and downs. But I knew I wanted to challenge myself in this life. I knew I wanted to leave a conservative upbringing for a more progressive lifestyle. I knew that as much as I crave security, that I was nowhere near living a life of conformity.
It’s not easy living against the grain. Most people don’t understand or support my actions, my choices. But that’s okay. We’re all on our own paths of self-realization.
Last night at Zeitgeist, the speechwriter picked up right away on the fact that I could hold my own within the context of a political conversation.
The PhD Consciousness genius didn’t need to verbally confirm that he could tell that I was on a conscious path of awakening.
The three of us shared space for over an hour discussing US International policy and laying bets as to if enough Americans will wake up before its too late.
Communication is man’s greatest gift. What gets me excited about living is the idea that, as humans, we’re just on the very brink of starting to really utilize our abilities to communicate effectively. At least, that’s my opinion.
I desire to be part of the team that leads the pack. Again, I can’t see exactly what shape this realm takes, but every day I try to focus my attention in that direction with hopes that it will become increasingly illuminated.
And, as you know from earlier postings, I practice this manifestation process, if you will, with projects that are more tangibly available.
Speaking of which, today I am finishing up the Sales Option Sheet and compiling research on our Target Production Companies and Networks. I aim to have the entire pitch package completed by the week’s end. Next Tuesday we incorporate. Then I spend the first two weeks of January writing and rehearsing the verbal pitch, along with any additional research that I feel is necessary.
Mid-January we go out to our first buyer.
Yesterday my mind-body suggested that I return to a fast (after having already laid claim to the fact that I would not re-enter an all-out fast). Perhaps I was pre-denying a request that I knew was on the horizon. Truth be told, I was doing really well on the fast; mentally and physically. My body really got into it. I was tired by the time I started to ramp out and I do think it was wise to come up for a refresher, but I’m really craving a return to it now.
I’ll give it a few days and see I still feel the same, but I suspect that I will. I’d like to do another 14 days, but this time drink a lot more water and incorporate chanting and yoga daily. My intuition tells me that this is precisely what I need to help prepare and balance me for delivering a wonderfully, positively charged pitch.
This time, I can see myself in this place of light presenting this project in the way that is true to my power. I’m ready to go to this place.
In the meantime, I have to deal with a lot of clean up. Ten months worth of giving up leaves quite the nasty ring around the old toilet bowl. Again, though, I’m managing with an entirely different approach. I’m removing the fear and approaching with a peaceful perspective and creating a space of resolution.
I understand that these things are cropping up as obstacles and challenging me as I step into a place of power.
This time they’re not going to beat me.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Buckle Down, Girl
Christmas was full of simplicity and beauty this year. Mother nature blessed us and served up one of Seattle’s signature bright sunny days. The air was crisp and cool, the piercing blue sky above, and not a drop of rain to be found.
This was our first year together when we didn’t exchange gifts, not even a card went out, not to anyone. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say it just didn’t seem to matter this year. Maybe we had been through too much and trying to put significance behind gifts and cards just didn’t add up.
And something really interesting happened. I ended up feeling like I was surrounded by abundance, swimming in it even.
Nobody around, no commercialism-hype and yet everything felt full.
We didn’t end up doing a whole lot over the course of the three-day weekend: a handful of projects around the house and building. Adam had a pretty major breakthrough on one of our past screenplays. It’s been on the market for most of 2006 without any major bites and he unlocked some back-story ‘contexty’ goodness that will really help add sustenance.
One night his fingers got moving on the laptop as he was inserting notes into the script and it was so good to hear the apartment fill with the sounds of his keystrokes.
Outside of that, though, not a whole lot of work happened over the weekend. I barely touched the show, although I did dream about it here and there. I didn’t read and update Modern Wreckage either.
Modern Wreckage is our baby, our first feature. It’s a good little low budget indie: small cast, small set, good characters and dialogue. But there is an element that runs the entirety of the story that reeks of an amateur.
The unfortunate thing about it is it reads like a first feature.
And we’ve worked that project to death. It’s the story we taught ourselves structure with. There’s a big part of me that wants to just let it go, let it sit on the shelf and rest in peace.
But this nagging voice inside tells me that if I would just take one more pass at it and replace that one freshman element, it would sell and I could truly set those characters free.
I think I’ll read it tonight and take a look at it. It’s been a long time since I’ve even read it.
However, before playing with my filmic narratives, I’ve got far bigger fish to fry.
This morning the rain returned.
As if God was saying, “Snap to it boys and girls, time to get back to the grind.”
I’m full, really full. My round belly swollen, replacing its ‘pro-juice’ flattened predecessor. I’m feeling a little sluggish, but I equate it to the literal fact that my body is back to digesting again.
I’m excited about the work ahead of me. It’s a lot, a huge under-taking and when the package itself is ready, I’ll be walking it into a space that I’ve never gone before.
It’s a great end to this year and a great beginning to the next.
I aim to slim things down consumption-wise again for the next few weeks as I plow through the trenches. I was working really well that way; my mind and body both responded well. I’m not talking a return to the full fast, but I think I’ll keep a juice a day in the mix and surround that by yogurt, fruits and veggies, and fresh bread, salads and soups.
Yoga and chanting have got to find their ways into the mix. That’s the one key ingredient that I have to, have to, incorporate. I need positive stress-management to support me through this.
This one sells. This one sells.
This one sells because this time I’m not believing in anything less.
I’m actually finding it challenging because I can see this one going so much so that my mind wants to place my reality in a post-sale place, exploring all of the new exciting possibilities that exist there. And I have to reign myself back in.
There are a lot of steps to cover between here and there and it’s all about buckling down and continuing to plow forward.
Each step forward is a bridge to the next.
Now, time to get back to the drawing board. I’ve got a lot of ‘filling in the blanks’ ahead of me.
Lead the way trusty chalk.
This was our first year together when we didn’t exchange gifts, not even a card went out, not to anyone. I don’t know how to explain it other than to say it just didn’t seem to matter this year. Maybe we had been through too much and trying to put significance behind gifts and cards just didn’t add up.
And something really interesting happened. I ended up feeling like I was surrounded by abundance, swimming in it even.
Nobody around, no commercialism-hype and yet everything felt full.
We didn’t end up doing a whole lot over the course of the three-day weekend: a handful of projects around the house and building. Adam had a pretty major breakthrough on one of our past screenplays. It’s been on the market for most of 2006 without any major bites and he unlocked some back-story ‘contexty’ goodness that will really help add sustenance.
One night his fingers got moving on the laptop as he was inserting notes into the script and it was so good to hear the apartment fill with the sounds of his keystrokes.
Outside of that, though, not a whole lot of work happened over the weekend. I barely touched the show, although I did dream about it here and there. I didn’t read and update Modern Wreckage either.
Modern Wreckage is our baby, our first feature. It’s a good little low budget indie: small cast, small set, good characters and dialogue. But there is an element that runs the entirety of the story that reeks of an amateur.
The unfortunate thing about it is it reads like a first feature.
And we’ve worked that project to death. It’s the story we taught ourselves structure with. There’s a big part of me that wants to just let it go, let it sit on the shelf and rest in peace.
But this nagging voice inside tells me that if I would just take one more pass at it and replace that one freshman element, it would sell and I could truly set those characters free.
I think I’ll read it tonight and take a look at it. It’s been a long time since I’ve even read it.
However, before playing with my filmic narratives, I’ve got far bigger fish to fry.
This morning the rain returned.
As if God was saying, “Snap to it boys and girls, time to get back to the grind.”
I’m full, really full. My round belly swollen, replacing its ‘pro-juice’ flattened predecessor. I’m feeling a little sluggish, but I equate it to the literal fact that my body is back to digesting again.
I’m excited about the work ahead of me. It’s a lot, a huge under-taking and when the package itself is ready, I’ll be walking it into a space that I’ve never gone before.
It’s a great end to this year and a great beginning to the next.
I aim to slim things down consumption-wise again for the next few weeks as I plow through the trenches. I was working really well that way; my mind and body both responded well. I’m not talking a return to the full fast, but I think I’ll keep a juice a day in the mix and surround that by yogurt, fruits and veggies, and fresh bread, salads and soups.
Yoga and chanting have got to find their ways into the mix. That’s the one key ingredient that I have to, have to, incorporate. I need positive stress-management to support me through this.
This one sells. This one sells.
This one sells because this time I’m not believing in anything less.
I’m actually finding it challenging because I can see this one going so much so that my mind wants to place my reality in a post-sale place, exploring all of the new exciting possibilities that exist there. And I have to reign myself back in.
There are a lot of steps to cover between here and there and it’s all about buckling down and continuing to plow forward.
Each step forward is a bridge to the next.
Now, time to get back to the drawing board. I’ve got a lot of ‘filling in the blanks’ ahead of me.
Lead the way trusty chalk.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Our Third Anniversary in Seattle
It was bound to happen.
It was only a matter of time.
I was kidding myself to think that I could avoid the unavoidable.
Tonight, on Christmas Eve, it happened. I broke my ramp-out to have a Christmas cookie. In my defense it was a fresh wheat germ cookie. This is thee best cookie to be found in town. So mind-bendingly good, it’s a little twisted.
It is possible that I might’ve also had a cup of a certain black caffeinated beverage that shall remain nameless with said cookie.
It’s Christmas Eve. I mean, come on. Really. Thirteen, fourteen hours isn’t gonna make that much of a difference.
We’re now entering year four in Seattle, and I still find myself amazed at all the good food we have access to: local bakeries, local organic dairy farmers, fresh fish, lots and lots of organic produce and a plethora of vegetarian friendly groceries and restaurants. Farmers markets. Amazing coffee. Local breweries. Dive bars that serve up cheap beer and no attitude.
On top of that, we don’t need a car.
We have mountains to the west and mountains to the east. We have water.
We have a lot of green space.
We have volcanoes and earthquakes. (This is a pro on my list. I like the charge of nature-based elemental uncertainties.)
We’re a progressive city that flashes a lot of independence but plays big with the corporations.
We’re very, very close to Canada.
We came to Seattle to be artists, to live as artists. Something I’ve learned in my hopscotching across the country is that geography doesn’t matter. You can create from anywhere. You can be in bliss anywhere. You can be miserable beyond belief anywhere.
And I will match your ying and raise your yang with this little diddy: geography makes all the difference.
I remember when we visited four years ago to attend a film festival. We immediately tapped into the crisp vitality of the energy. “This feels like home.”
That wasn’t my first time in Seattle. In fact I had lived here before, briefly. Both times, I was running. At 18, I was just running away whereas at 25 I was running towards something. I’ve always had a desire to tackle growth and my intuition told me that Seattle had a lot to teach me.
So far it hasn’t let me down.
All new places have that initial romanticism to them. It usually wears off once familiarity and routine take their hold.
Somehow, Seattle avoids this. It continues to impress me with its contrast: the continuous dark, rainy days that echo perseverance occasionally to be broken up like a morning last week where the sky was such a beautiful vibrant bluish-silver and the mountains were a powdery puffy ornament.
Layer on top of that tall city skyscrapers, bustling development. Then there’s the arts: used books stores, indie theatres (we have three within walking distance plus two megaplexes), museums, galleries, local art work on display nearly everywhere you turn.
The people all smattered and swirling together in this increasingly tight urban living space: the races, the sexes, the suits, the artists, the wanna-be artists, the yuppies, the hipsters, the homeless, the tweakers and everyone in between.
Walking, working, traveling, living, day in and day out side by side.
I don’t know how to explain it any other way then to say that, as a home base, Seattle feels like it will continue to gingerly nudge me along, keeping me on the path towards the person that I wish to become.
Weather or not this personal evolution would be happening regardless of where I was geographically located, I’ll never know. Again, it all matters and nothing matters. I feel like I have all the answers. I know nothing. I want it all. I have no desires.
A lot of my ‘pro-Seattle’ content feels repetitive. Those of you reading this have likely heard it before. But what can I say? We worked hard to find a place that felt like home: a place where we could be comfortable in our skin.
We found the place and it’s everything we want it to be.
Now comes the settling into the skin.
And there, finally, comes the ‘a-ha’ moment. (I was beginning to question its appearance in tonight’s lineup.)
For me, Seattle has set up all the physical, environmental elements that I desire.
“No more excuses, you’ve got all you asked for. Isn’t it beautiful?
Now. Become who you said you were gonna become if you could only just get here.”
It was only a matter of time.
I was kidding myself to think that I could avoid the unavoidable.
Tonight, on Christmas Eve, it happened. I broke my ramp-out to have a Christmas cookie. In my defense it was a fresh wheat germ cookie. This is thee best cookie to be found in town. So mind-bendingly good, it’s a little twisted.
It is possible that I might’ve also had a cup of a certain black caffeinated beverage that shall remain nameless with said cookie.
It’s Christmas Eve. I mean, come on. Really. Thirteen, fourteen hours isn’t gonna make that much of a difference.
We’re now entering year four in Seattle, and I still find myself amazed at all the good food we have access to: local bakeries, local organic dairy farmers, fresh fish, lots and lots of organic produce and a plethora of vegetarian friendly groceries and restaurants. Farmers markets. Amazing coffee. Local breweries. Dive bars that serve up cheap beer and no attitude.
On top of that, we don’t need a car.
We have mountains to the west and mountains to the east. We have water.
We have a lot of green space.
We have volcanoes and earthquakes. (This is a pro on my list. I like the charge of nature-based elemental uncertainties.)
We’re a progressive city that flashes a lot of independence but plays big with the corporations.
We’re very, very close to Canada.
We came to Seattle to be artists, to live as artists. Something I’ve learned in my hopscotching across the country is that geography doesn’t matter. You can create from anywhere. You can be in bliss anywhere. You can be miserable beyond belief anywhere.
And I will match your ying and raise your yang with this little diddy: geography makes all the difference.
I remember when we visited four years ago to attend a film festival. We immediately tapped into the crisp vitality of the energy. “This feels like home.”
That wasn’t my first time in Seattle. In fact I had lived here before, briefly. Both times, I was running. At 18, I was just running away whereas at 25 I was running towards something. I’ve always had a desire to tackle growth and my intuition told me that Seattle had a lot to teach me.
So far it hasn’t let me down.
All new places have that initial romanticism to them. It usually wears off once familiarity and routine take their hold.
Somehow, Seattle avoids this. It continues to impress me with its contrast: the continuous dark, rainy days that echo perseverance occasionally to be broken up like a morning last week where the sky was such a beautiful vibrant bluish-silver and the mountains were a powdery puffy ornament.
Layer on top of that tall city skyscrapers, bustling development. Then there’s the arts: used books stores, indie theatres (we have three within walking distance plus two megaplexes), museums, galleries, local art work on display nearly everywhere you turn.
The people all smattered and swirling together in this increasingly tight urban living space: the races, the sexes, the suits, the artists, the wanna-be artists, the yuppies, the hipsters, the homeless, the tweakers and everyone in between.
Walking, working, traveling, living, day in and day out side by side.
I don’t know how to explain it any other way then to say that, as a home base, Seattle feels like it will continue to gingerly nudge me along, keeping me on the path towards the person that I wish to become.
Weather or not this personal evolution would be happening regardless of where I was geographically located, I’ll never know. Again, it all matters and nothing matters. I feel like I have all the answers. I know nothing. I want it all. I have no desires.
A lot of my ‘pro-Seattle’ content feels repetitive. Those of you reading this have likely heard it before. But what can I say? We worked hard to find a place that felt like home: a place where we could be comfortable in our skin.
We found the place and it’s everything we want it to be.
Now comes the settling into the skin.
And there, finally, comes the ‘a-ha’ moment. (I was beginning to question its appearance in tonight’s lineup.)
For me, Seattle has set up all the physical, environmental elements that I desire.
“No more excuses, you’ve got all you asked for. Isn’t it beautiful?
Now. Become who you said you were gonna become if you could only just get here.”
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Persevering with Progress
I had another extremely productive day yesterday with the show. I was able to successfully integrate the new formatting changes that I thought were going to present some major issues.
And it fits together so much better now.
Then at the night’s closing while standing in the shower, in a flash, I was told the answer to a problem that’s been road-blocking me for several weeks. I simply heard the solution calmly spoken in my mind.
This whole not trying to force things is really working for me. In the past when it came to new projects, all the seemingly insurmountable obstacles would overwhelm me. I would get angry and my anger would block any smooth, forward progress.
This time I’m simply acknowledging everything that has to be solved: I created their very own little document so that I’m sure not to forget them, and this way I’m not carrying them around in my brain constantly. I’m not having to stare them in the eye every minute of every day, constantly thwarting my attention from their nagging.
“Yes, I see you. Yes, I know you’re huge. No I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about you yet.”
Then I work on the things that I do know how to solve. I develop them. I write them. I edit them.
I progress.
And then, somehow, the next step is illuminated. Or a solution is handed to me.
This takes effort. Every day the panic knocks, taps me on the shoulder. Every day doubt, my most reliable companion, tries to bring me down again.
Every day the negative chaotic elements that are circling all around me hiss and spit, swipe and claw, bare their white, gleaming fangs.
And every day I shake it off. This time, I don’t give in. I don’t give up. I shake it off and I try to create something brighter.
Every day the negative chaotic energy transforms into swirling positive energy: the kind of energy that makes a person glow, the kind of energy that lights up a room.
The kind of energy that turns beliefs into reality.
The real beauty in this formula is that I’m maintaining my consistency with it. I’m remaining persistent. This is huge.
Again in the past, I’ve flocked to positive streaks, be it creative endeavors or new spiritual tools gained, like a moth to the light. I’m incredibly intense for brief interludes and then I fade out. I lose my interest in the light and fly back into the darkness.
But a person can only fly alone in the dark for so long before she starts to wonder what it would be like to live in the light for fragments of time that are longer than just coming up for air.
Committing to living in the light takes an extreme effort on my part (as it does for everyone).
But I know now that the stakes are quite high. There’s no longer any room in my life for the pendulum to rock as powerfully back and forth as it has. I have to work daily with my energy. It’s just like any pattern: the more I do it, the easier it becomes.
And the key this time is to not drop it.
No more dropping it.
And it fits together so much better now.
Then at the night’s closing while standing in the shower, in a flash, I was told the answer to a problem that’s been road-blocking me for several weeks. I simply heard the solution calmly spoken in my mind.
This whole not trying to force things is really working for me. In the past when it came to new projects, all the seemingly insurmountable obstacles would overwhelm me. I would get angry and my anger would block any smooth, forward progress.
This time I’m simply acknowledging everything that has to be solved: I created their very own little document so that I’m sure not to forget them, and this way I’m not carrying them around in my brain constantly. I’m not having to stare them in the eye every minute of every day, constantly thwarting my attention from their nagging.
“Yes, I see you. Yes, I know you’re huge. No I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about you yet.”
Then I work on the things that I do know how to solve. I develop them. I write them. I edit them.
I progress.
And then, somehow, the next step is illuminated. Or a solution is handed to me.
This takes effort. Every day the panic knocks, taps me on the shoulder. Every day doubt, my most reliable companion, tries to bring me down again.
Every day the negative chaotic elements that are circling all around me hiss and spit, swipe and claw, bare their white, gleaming fangs.
And every day I shake it off. This time, I don’t give in. I don’t give up. I shake it off and I try to create something brighter.
Every day the negative chaotic energy transforms into swirling positive energy: the kind of energy that makes a person glow, the kind of energy that lights up a room.
The kind of energy that turns beliefs into reality.
The real beauty in this formula is that I’m maintaining my consistency with it. I’m remaining persistent. This is huge.
Again in the past, I’ve flocked to positive streaks, be it creative endeavors or new spiritual tools gained, like a moth to the light. I’m incredibly intense for brief interludes and then I fade out. I lose my interest in the light and fly back into the darkness.
But a person can only fly alone in the dark for so long before she starts to wonder what it would be like to live in the light for fragments of time that are longer than just coming up for air.
Committing to living in the light takes an extreme effort on my part (as it does for everyone).
But I know now that the stakes are quite high. There’s no longer any room in my life for the pendulum to rock as powerfully back and forth as it has. I have to work daily with my energy. It’s just like any pattern: the more I do it, the easier it becomes.
And the key this time is to not drop it.
No more dropping it.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Herbal Tea & Dead Debris
Well, today is Day Nine of the fast, and I’ve gotta say, it’s going really well. My desire for food has yet to return which has me a little concerned. Usually on a fast, I go in waves of craving food so deeply. Walking the neighborhood I peer longingly at patrons of various restaurants as they sumptuously bite into their meals. Grocery stores? Forget it, pure torture.
This time I’m getting mild flashes of hunger late at night, but no cravings. I’ve even been able to continue grocery shopping for Adam without batting an eyelash.
And I can’t help but wonder, “Will I ever be truly hungry again?”
Last night was the first night I felt worn out from the fast. I had done a lot of physical labor throughout the day and was a cranky goose by the end of it.
Today I did even more laborious tasks and I feel fine. It’s funny; they say that you’re supposed to keep things to a minimal while fasting, but I went in reverse this time. All of this physical and mental energy has just been pouring out of me.
I’m supposed to start ramping out on Friday if I want to be able to eat for Christmas. My body, my instinct, is telling me not to stop. I only have two more days left! Honestly, I feel like I could easily go until the end of the year. But I don’t want to push my luck. Better to bow out with a good 14-day fast, then push it and try for longer. And I don’t want to do that to Adam either. We’re already alone for Christmas this year. I don’t want him to have to eat alone, too.
Onto brighter things, literally, part of my aforementioned labor has been bringing light back to Bel Baines, the apartment complex that Adam and I manage. It began a couple of days ago when I replaced a burnt out bulb. That led to a lighting inventory and I was horrified to discover that a majority of the building’s lights were burnt out. (I ended up replacing 17 light fixtures in total.)
“In celebration of the winter solstice, I’m bringing light back to Bel Baines,” I jokingly thought. Although, throughout the process which ended up taking two days and two trips to the hardware store, I couldn’t help but to see that I was literally bringing light back into my living space.
I also washed the coverings of the light fixtures. Some of them had so much dead debris inside that barely any light shown through. (Metaphor me this, metaphor me that.)
Today I did a monster sweep of the exterior and hauled a nasty box spring that has been rotting alongside the front of the building for months now.
I’ve been trying to paint over graffiti for a couple weeks now, but the temperature is continuously too cold for the paint to dry.
Apartment managing. I don’t mind it, really. I like doing little projects around the place and there couldn’t be a better time for us to have a break in rent.
Plus, physical labor is a huge part of my writing equation. Cleaning, maintenance, any basic project that’s left-brained, task-oriented. It ramps me up. It gets me into problem solving, creative-inducing mode. Shooting video with Front Row worked really well in this context for both Adam and I. Something about the easiness of it, the repetition, it filled the left-brain and sparked the right.
And it worked again today. Tonight, working on the show, I was able to smoothly identify my next steps and literally, in a flash, I had a major break through: something to incorporate into the formatting that I hadn’t seen before.
I guess I’ll bookend this little nugget with a return to the fast.
One thing I have confirmed in the past nine days is that I don’t like herbal teas. I try. I know they’re better for me than their caffeinated counter-parts. But they’re gross. One of them tastes like body odor smells, leaving me with the after-taste of vomit.
Miss food? Nah.
Miss coffee?
Christmas morning, baby, I’ve got a date with my love, my muddy black, pupil-widening delicatessen.
This time I’m getting mild flashes of hunger late at night, but no cravings. I’ve even been able to continue grocery shopping for Adam without batting an eyelash.
And I can’t help but wonder, “Will I ever be truly hungry again?”
Last night was the first night I felt worn out from the fast. I had done a lot of physical labor throughout the day and was a cranky goose by the end of it.
Today I did even more laborious tasks and I feel fine. It’s funny; they say that you’re supposed to keep things to a minimal while fasting, but I went in reverse this time. All of this physical and mental energy has just been pouring out of me.
I’m supposed to start ramping out on Friday if I want to be able to eat for Christmas. My body, my instinct, is telling me not to stop. I only have two more days left! Honestly, I feel like I could easily go until the end of the year. But I don’t want to push my luck. Better to bow out with a good 14-day fast, then push it and try for longer. And I don’t want to do that to Adam either. We’re already alone for Christmas this year. I don’t want him to have to eat alone, too.
Onto brighter things, literally, part of my aforementioned labor has been bringing light back to Bel Baines, the apartment complex that Adam and I manage. It began a couple of days ago when I replaced a burnt out bulb. That led to a lighting inventory and I was horrified to discover that a majority of the building’s lights were burnt out. (I ended up replacing 17 light fixtures in total.)
“In celebration of the winter solstice, I’m bringing light back to Bel Baines,” I jokingly thought. Although, throughout the process which ended up taking two days and two trips to the hardware store, I couldn’t help but to see that I was literally bringing light back into my living space.
I also washed the coverings of the light fixtures. Some of them had so much dead debris inside that barely any light shown through. (Metaphor me this, metaphor me that.)
Today I did a monster sweep of the exterior and hauled a nasty box spring that has been rotting alongside the front of the building for months now.
I’ve been trying to paint over graffiti for a couple weeks now, but the temperature is continuously too cold for the paint to dry.
Apartment managing. I don’t mind it, really. I like doing little projects around the place and there couldn’t be a better time for us to have a break in rent.
Plus, physical labor is a huge part of my writing equation. Cleaning, maintenance, any basic project that’s left-brained, task-oriented. It ramps me up. It gets me into problem solving, creative-inducing mode. Shooting video with Front Row worked really well in this context for both Adam and I. Something about the easiness of it, the repetition, it filled the left-brain and sparked the right.
And it worked again today. Tonight, working on the show, I was able to smoothly identify my next steps and literally, in a flash, I had a major break through: something to incorporate into the formatting that I hadn’t seen before.
I guess I’ll bookend this little nugget with a return to the fast.
One thing I have confirmed in the past nine days is that I don’t like herbal teas. I try. I know they’re better for me than their caffeinated counter-parts. But they’re gross. One of them tastes like body odor smells, leaving me with the after-taste of vomit.
Miss food? Nah.
Miss coffee?
Christmas morning, baby, I’ve got a date with my love, my muddy black, pupil-widening delicatessen.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Climbing Past the Christmas Lights
Thursday night, Seattle experienced severe weather. Violent, torrential winds and heavy, pounding rain overtook the city. Qwest field, playing host to the Seahawks/49ers game, flooded. Several streets, homes and businesses flooded. Major interstates and bridges shut down. Tens of thousands of customers lost power.
I sat inside my warm apartment and watched as the bamboo stalks just off my porch arched under duress, a purring wide-eyed kitty in my lap.
Friday morning I emerged and made my way down to Pioneer Square to prepare for a Saturday conference call. The city felt tired, beaten and worn. “I understand.” And en route, it happened: the majestic Olympics were visible, stoic and full of grace. A spark of light and beauty, a brighter day. I felt a glimmering spasm of desire. Appetite!
At Zeitgeist (my current favorite coffeehouse) I reviewed the project and made some notes on issues I wanted to address.
I made a ‘to do’ list of things that I wanted to complete before the end of the year.
I made a ‘to manifest’ list for things that I will create into my reality for 2007. (The 2007 list was far more ‘fun and exciting’ than the 2006 one might I add.)
Arriving back home, Adam was exhausted from a long week at work. I went out for an evening walk and was amazed to find much of our neighborhood still without power. Blocks upon blocks of total darkness, silence. Far in the distance I spotted a sea of colorful Christmas lights.
A light at the end of the tunnel.
There was something peaceful, something comforting, about walking by myself through the darkness. Arriving at the Christmas light display, I stood and marveled in its beauty.
This morning’s call lasted a little under an hour. It was good, productive, positive. The project continues to blossom, each day sprouting new branches that carry us into un-chartered areas of possibility. New problems to solve. Having conquered the level that we were at, we rise and discover a whole new, higher, level.
Things we hadn’t thought of before are suddenly illuminated.
This is why I love creating.
Our partner in the project comments, “You know, I’m experiencing such highs with this project, times where I’m believing in it so much, and then I look at all the unanswered milestones we have to solve and I get panic attacks. Well, not panic attacks, but I panic.”
I laugh (knowingly) and reply, “The pendulum swings back and forth.”
I explain that the way I’m approaching this is that I know there are greater milestones out there that we will encounter and have to overcome. But I am moving forward in every way that I can with confidence that the answers will present themselves when we need them to.
So far it’s working.
So far we’re tentatively aiming at a mid-January pitch to our first potential buyer. (We’re extremely confident that he’ll buy.)
And I realize that ever since I decided that this time I was ready to fully believe in this project (in our ability to sell it)(in myself), it’s becoming real. I realize that this experiment is really fun. The fear, somehow, isn’t so bad.
And I think how much more comfortable it is for me to experiment in the fictional world than it is in my reality life. “But look,” I counter. “The two are merging.”
The two are merging.
I stopped fighting. I stopped being angry. The fear is dissipating.
My inner artist smiles.
Higher Self smiles.
I smile.
The two are merging.
Now comes the management of the merging of the two. The next thirty days I’m going to be fully immersed in this project. The kind of fully immersed where I can no longer differentiate between what’s on the page or what’s in my head.
How does a ‘things to complete before the end of the year’ list compete with that?
Damn lists. To think I was only recently giving you praise.
Tonight we tried to treat ourselves to “Babel”, but missed it. We failed to account for all the extra holiday human traffic. Back in Capitol Hill, we ventured a few blocks north. Sure enough, the power was still out for several blocks.
We walked together, peacefully, through the darkness and in the distance we spotted a sea of colorful lights.
Our light at the end of the tunnel.
It’s been a long couple of weeks (within this long year), and the incline will only grow steeper before we’re allowed to reach the peak. I’m tired. We’re tired.
But, man does it feel good to be climbing again.
I sat inside my warm apartment and watched as the bamboo stalks just off my porch arched under duress, a purring wide-eyed kitty in my lap.
Friday morning I emerged and made my way down to Pioneer Square to prepare for a Saturday conference call. The city felt tired, beaten and worn. “I understand.” And en route, it happened: the majestic Olympics were visible, stoic and full of grace. A spark of light and beauty, a brighter day. I felt a glimmering spasm of desire. Appetite!
At Zeitgeist (my current favorite coffeehouse) I reviewed the project and made some notes on issues I wanted to address.
I made a ‘to do’ list of things that I wanted to complete before the end of the year.
I made a ‘to manifest’ list for things that I will create into my reality for 2007. (The 2007 list was far more ‘fun and exciting’ than the 2006 one might I add.)
Arriving back home, Adam was exhausted from a long week at work. I went out for an evening walk and was amazed to find much of our neighborhood still without power. Blocks upon blocks of total darkness, silence. Far in the distance I spotted a sea of colorful Christmas lights.
A light at the end of the tunnel.
There was something peaceful, something comforting, about walking by myself through the darkness. Arriving at the Christmas light display, I stood and marveled in its beauty.
This morning’s call lasted a little under an hour. It was good, productive, positive. The project continues to blossom, each day sprouting new branches that carry us into un-chartered areas of possibility. New problems to solve. Having conquered the level that we were at, we rise and discover a whole new, higher, level.
Things we hadn’t thought of before are suddenly illuminated.
This is why I love creating.
Our partner in the project comments, “You know, I’m experiencing such highs with this project, times where I’m believing in it so much, and then I look at all the unanswered milestones we have to solve and I get panic attacks. Well, not panic attacks, but I panic.”
I laugh (knowingly) and reply, “The pendulum swings back and forth.”
I explain that the way I’m approaching this is that I know there are greater milestones out there that we will encounter and have to overcome. But I am moving forward in every way that I can with confidence that the answers will present themselves when we need them to.
So far it’s working.
So far we’re tentatively aiming at a mid-January pitch to our first potential buyer. (We’re extremely confident that he’ll buy.)
And I realize that ever since I decided that this time I was ready to fully believe in this project (in our ability to sell it)(in myself), it’s becoming real. I realize that this experiment is really fun. The fear, somehow, isn’t so bad.
And I think how much more comfortable it is for me to experiment in the fictional world than it is in my reality life. “But look,” I counter. “The two are merging.”
The two are merging.
I stopped fighting. I stopped being angry. The fear is dissipating.
My inner artist smiles.
Higher Self smiles.
I smile.
The two are merging.
Now comes the management of the merging of the two. The next thirty days I’m going to be fully immersed in this project. The kind of fully immersed where I can no longer differentiate between what’s on the page or what’s in my head.
How does a ‘things to complete before the end of the year’ list compete with that?
Damn lists. To think I was only recently giving you praise.
Tonight we tried to treat ourselves to “Babel”, but missed it. We failed to account for all the extra holiday human traffic. Back in Capitol Hill, we ventured a few blocks north. Sure enough, the power was still out for several blocks.
We walked together, peacefully, through the darkness and in the distance we spotted a sea of colorful lights.
Our light at the end of the tunnel.
It’s been a long couple of weeks (within this long year), and the incline will only grow steeper before we’re allowed to reach the peak. I’m tired. We’re tired.
But, man does it feel good to be climbing again.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Fasting & the Gift of Appetite
Ah, the fast. The gift to myself that I love to hate. I discovered fasting in early 2005. Looking back, I can’t quite recall where that initial seedling of interest sprang from, but spring it did.
Our first fast was the May-June period of 2005. May-June because there was little to no freelance work during that time of the year. Which is good, because doing things that are physically and mentally demanding can prove to be rather challenging while on a fast. Makes sense right?
I also thought it would be a great way to save money. I was wrong. To clarify we were juice fasting, although we did water fast for a couple days in the middle. If you’re serious about cleansing your body, it is imperative to use all organic ingredients. Otherwise, you’re literally trying to cleanse with pesticides. And although this may work on your bathroom floor, I don’t recommend in on your physical body.
Three times a day, the Breville juicer and I danced our dance. I really enjoy the process of juicing. I wash and chop my ingredients, turn on the machine and then I transform solids into liquids.
No pasteurization, no preservatives, just fresh, clean, pure, organic juice. I was intrigued to learn that when you make juice fresh, a layer of foam forms at the top. Who knew juice had foam?
So good.
That first fast, we mixed it up and tried a handful of juices. I’m a mono-juicer now though, a Carrot-Apple girl (occasionally adding some fresh ginger).
By the way, making fresh organic juice at home has forever turned me off of store-bought pasteurized juice. It’s a falsity that anything good is to be found in it. I now view store-bought juice in the same light as soda. Really. It’s all just empty consumption (or worse than empty). The one exception to this rule is the Odwalla (or Naked) Green Machine. That stuff is like candy to me (weird, I know).
This means I drink less juice on the whole, but I justify it by the fact that the little juice I do consume is at least juice and not pasteurized high fructose corn syrup junk.
So why fast? The surface answer is for the physical body. Our bodies get backed up. We feed and we feed and we feed ourselves and our bodies can’t keep up. As Americans, especially, we consume way more than we need to. Every day. Fasting halts this process and allows our bodies to start chipping away at all the back up. (I could go into great, gruesome, detail here, but I’ll spare you the literal description.)
The detoxification that ensues can vary, depending on the amount of toxins you regularly consume. I am a caffeine addict and I drink alcohol. This equates to a splitting near-migraine status headache for the first 48 to 60 hours. When we did our May-June 2005 fast, Adam was doing okay until we entered a 48 hour water fast (centered within the juice fast). He got violently ill, was throwing up, dry heaving. It’s amazing to see a person’s body trying to purge when its taken in so little. Literally, his bodying was purging years worth of toxins.
I swore I would never fast while living in Capitol Hill again. We’re surrounded by an insane amount of restaurants. Particularly hard in the summers when they open their doors and windows and the smells linger with every step.
Hmm, so far I’m not selling you on fasting, am I?
Aside from the physical purifying reasons, fasting is a great mental/emotional and spiritual cleanser as well. For starters it requires great will power. It’s a very ‘against the grain’ type of thing to do. Nearly all outside feedback I receive while fasting is, “You’re crazy. It’s not healthy. I could never do it.” So, it proves to be a good lesson in following your inner voice regardless of what everyone else says: a real test in perseverance.
Secondly, I’m big fan of perspective. Fasting takes away all of the things I’m used to. It takes away the routine of eating. It makes me appreciate all of the great food stuff that I have easy access to. It simplifies things.
Thirdly, fasting has a way of lifting the veil from something that I didn’t know was hidden.
During my first fast I was amazed to discover that it wasn’t the hunger that bothered me (the hunger crests and passes usually by day four). Rather I missed the reward of food. Make it through a tough day? Accomplish something that you’ve been putting off? Have dinner at your favorite Sushi place. Grab a short soy vanilla latte from Vivace and stroll through the neighborhood.
I realized how partnered work and consumption are for me. Especially when it comes to caffeine. Coffee, the (legal) drug love-of-my-life. Whether writing from home, or more often than not, at a coffeehouse, coffee is an integral part of the equation.
It was a real eye-opener to acknowledge how much of my day I spent thinking about consumption.
And this year I lost my appetite for everything. My body has been begging me for this fast since spring time, and I have denied myself out of lack of will. I tried a handful of times to enter one and kept giving up a day or two in. A couple of times, I didn’t even make it through the first day.
This time I was able to slide right into it though. My local co-op market even had a wicked sale on all of the ingredients I needed, so I bought in bulk and saved a ton.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for this time, but I know I had to stop saying “no” to my body. It has something that it needs the strength to work on healing and it needs me to stop shoveling food in it so that it has the time and space to do so.
I think, secretly, I’m hoping to regain my appetite from this. Having lost it this year, my eating habits have been pretty shotty and irregular. This has led to me forcing myself to eat on more times than I’ve admitted and to, almost always, eating when I’m not hungry.
On all levels (physical, mental/emotional, spiritual), I think I’m searching for appetite. Hoping somehow I can regain the gift of appetite, the desire to be alive and to be a part of something. I’ve been getting flickers of it recently like a candle’s wick that’s trying to hold its flame, but the dead weight keeps pulling at my ankles, tugging and begging for me to come down, just a little lower, just a little longer.
I can’t go any lower. I can’t go any longer. This has to end.
Isn’t it ironic that in order to try and re-stimulate appetite, we must first go in the opposite direction? There’s a lesson hidden in that message, I’m sure of it.
I started the fast on Monday, December 11th. My goal is to be ramping out (reintegrating the body to solids) by the end of next week. As timing would have it, this would have me ready to re-enter a ‘normal’ diet on Christmas Day.
So while everyone’s busy stuffing themselves with holiday cheer, I’m going in the other direction. I can’t explain it any other way than to say, “This is what I need. I can’t put it off any longer.”
It really doesn’t feel at all like Christmas this year. Maybe its part of growing older, but I don’t think so. We’re not in a purchasing place (not that my definition of Christmas equates with commercial consumption) and we’re really so worn out that we have very little of ourselves to offer anyone. That is what Christmas is to me, sharing laugher and love, not miniscule gifts or cards with empty greetings.
So to all of my family and friends, know that this holiday season, this winter solstice, I am working hard towards giving myself back the gift of appetite. This is the greatest gift I can think of to give myself and to give any and all of you.
Our first fast was the May-June period of 2005. May-June because there was little to no freelance work during that time of the year. Which is good, because doing things that are physically and mentally demanding can prove to be rather challenging while on a fast. Makes sense right?
I also thought it would be a great way to save money. I was wrong. To clarify we were juice fasting, although we did water fast for a couple days in the middle. If you’re serious about cleansing your body, it is imperative to use all organic ingredients. Otherwise, you’re literally trying to cleanse with pesticides. And although this may work on your bathroom floor, I don’t recommend in on your physical body.
Three times a day, the Breville juicer and I danced our dance. I really enjoy the process of juicing. I wash and chop my ingredients, turn on the machine and then I transform solids into liquids.
No pasteurization, no preservatives, just fresh, clean, pure, organic juice. I was intrigued to learn that when you make juice fresh, a layer of foam forms at the top. Who knew juice had foam?
So good.
That first fast, we mixed it up and tried a handful of juices. I’m a mono-juicer now though, a Carrot-Apple girl (occasionally adding some fresh ginger).
By the way, making fresh organic juice at home has forever turned me off of store-bought pasteurized juice. It’s a falsity that anything good is to be found in it. I now view store-bought juice in the same light as soda. Really. It’s all just empty consumption (or worse than empty). The one exception to this rule is the Odwalla (or Naked) Green Machine. That stuff is like candy to me (weird, I know).
This means I drink less juice on the whole, but I justify it by the fact that the little juice I do consume is at least juice and not pasteurized high fructose corn syrup junk.
So why fast? The surface answer is for the physical body. Our bodies get backed up. We feed and we feed and we feed ourselves and our bodies can’t keep up. As Americans, especially, we consume way more than we need to. Every day. Fasting halts this process and allows our bodies to start chipping away at all the back up. (I could go into great, gruesome, detail here, but I’ll spare you the literal description.)
The detoxification that ensues can vary, depending on the amount of toxins you regularly consume. I am a caffeine addict and I drink alcohol. This equates to a splitting near-migraine status headache for the first 48 to 60 hours. When we did our May-June 2005 fast, Adam was doing okay until we entered a 48 hour water fast (centered within the juice fast). He got violently ill, was throwing up, dry heaving. It’s amazing to see a person’s body trying to purge when its taken in so little. Literally, his bodying was purging years worth of toxins.
I swore I would never fast while living in Capitol Hill again. We’re surrounded by an insane amount of restaurants. Particularly hard in the summers when they open their doors and windows and the smells linger with every step.
Hmm, so far I’m not selling you on fasting, am I?
Aside from the physical purifying reasons, fasting is a great mental/emotional and spiritual cleanser as well. For starters it requires great will power. It’s a very ‘against the grain’ type of thing to do. Nearly all outside feedback I receive while fasting is, “You’re crazy. It’s not healthy. I could never do it.” So, it proves to be a good lesson in following your inner voice regardless of what everyone else says: a real test in perseverance.
Secondly, I’m big fan of perspective. Fasting takes away all of the things I’m used to. It takes away the routine of eating. It makes me appreciate all of the great food stuff that I have easy access to. It simplifies things.
Thirdly, fasting has a way of lifting the veil from something that I didn’t know was hidden.
During my first fast I was amazed to discover that it wasn’t the hunger that bothered me (the hunger crests and passes usually by day four). Rather I missed the reward of food. Make it through a tough day? Accomplish something that you’ve been putting off? Have dinner at your favorite Sushi place. Grab a short soy vanilla latte from Vivace and stroll through the neighborhood.
I realized how partnered work and consumption are for me. Especially when it comes to caffeine. Coffee, the (legal) drug love-of-my-life. Whether writing from home, or more often than not, at a coffeehouse, coffee is an integral part of the equation.
It was a real eye-opener to acknowledge how much of my day I spent thinking about consumption.
And this year I lost my appetite for everything. My body has been begging me for this fast since spring time, and I have denied myself out of lack of will. I tried a handful of times to enter one and kept giving up a day or two in. A couple of times, I didn’t even make it through the first day.
This time I was able to slide right into it though. My local co-op market even had a wicked sale on all of the ingredients I needed, so I bought in bulk and saved a ton.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for this time, but I know I had to stop saying “no” to my body. It has something that it needs the strength to work on healing and it needs me to stop shoveling food in it so that it has the time and space to do so.
I think, secretly, I’m hoping to regain my appetite from this. Having lost it this year, my eating habits have been pretty shotty and irregular. This has led to me forcing myself to eat on more times than I’ve admitted and to, almost always, eating when I’m not hungry.
On all levels (physical, mental/emotional, spiritual), I think I’m searching for appetite. Hoping somehow I can regain the gift of appetite, the desire to be alive and to be a part of something. I’ve been getting flickers of it recently like a candle’s wick that’s trying to hold its flame, but the dead weight keeps pulling at my ankles, tugging and begging for me to come down, just a little lower, just a little longer.
I can’t go any lower. I can’t go any longer. This has to end.
Isn’t it ironic that in order to try and re-stimulate appetite, we must first go in the opposite direction? There’s a lesson hidden in that message, I’m sure of it.
I started the fast on Monday, December 11th. My goal is to be ramping out (reintegrating the body to solids) by the end of next week. As timing would have it, this would have me ready to re-enter a ‘normal’ diet on Christmas Day.
So while everyone’s busy stuffing themselves with holiday cheer, I’m going in the other direction. I can’t explain it any other way than to say, “This is what I need. I can’t put it off any longer.”
It really doesn’t feel at all like Christmas this year. Maybe its part of growing older, but I don’t think so. We’re not in a purchasing place (not that my definition of Christmas equates with commercial consumption) and we’re really so worn out that we have very little of ourselves to offer anyone. That is what Christmas is to me, sharing laugher and love, not miniscule gifts or cards with empty greetings.
So to all of my family and friends, know that this holiday season, this winter solstice, I am working hard towards giving myself back the gift of appetite. This is the greatest gift I can think of to give myself and to give any and all of you.
Friday, December 8, 2006
Buzz Off Vultures
Okay, so this blogging is beginning to become a bit of an addiction. There are far worse addictions to have, mind you. In fact ‘addictions’ have already found their place in line on the blog list.
I’m going to have to find a way to manage my blogging. As you recall, I started as a means to get me writing again. But now, blogging always seems more appealing than completing anything with a deadline attached to it. I know. Blogs can be the reward: a little slice of company at the end of the day, just me and the clicking of the keys.
This blog-reward system will promptly be implemented tomorrow. Today I blog first because today I need to rant.
Today I got a ticket for jaywalking.
The first thing you need to understand is that everyone jaywalks. It’s an overcrowded city. We’re busting at the seams and our transportation options are limited and failing.
I’ve been fully ‘ped’ for 18 months now, having signed off cars for good in July of 2005. No more financing something that loses value everyday, no more insuring a piece of metal when I can’t even afford to insure my own health, no more surprise repairs that pop up at the most inconvenient of times, no more car accidents. Oh yea, and no more gas. The whole gas gouging phase totally flew over my head. For once, I couldn’t relate to the ass-raping that virtually all of my car-dependent friends and family were struggling through. Getting rid of the auto lifestyle was one of the best things I ever did.
I’m fortunate enough to live in a city that allows me that option. Everything I need I can walk to. If I ever have the desire to hit the suburbs (Target is, on occasion the only thing I miss, and honestly, I can find socks and underwear elsewhere) there’s Flexcar. If you don’t know what Flexcar is, I urge you to check them out (www.flexcar.com).
I’ve always loved walking, so its no surprise that I turned into a ped. As a ped commuter, you learn the shortcuts, the routes that have the less-grueling inclines. You learn how to flow with all of the competing traffic (peds battle the cars, cars hate the peds and the bicyclists hate everyone). And everyone, everyone, jaywalks. If the lights red and there’s nothing coming from cross-traffic, you walk. Common knowledge.
I’ve been working out of the apartment lately. I used to be able to work from home easier, but that hasn’t been the case lately. Part of it is that working in public forces me to be on display.
“I can’t just sit here for hours, I need to look like I’m doing something. Damn, guess I’d better work.”
So every morning since I decided to start living again, it’s the same routine. Wake up. Shake off all the fear and anger and self-loathing. Forgive myself. Put myself in a positive place, create spaces for the present and the future that are creative, healthy, bountiful.
To the laymen, or the stubborn, it sounds campy. It sounds like after-school program cognitive therapy bullshit.
But it isn’t.
It works. Our minds are our most powerful tools. And we spend too much time thinking that we can’t strengthen and shape them the way we do other parts of our bodies.
So. I’m at my bliss point of the day, ready to get working. En route to a coffee house, I escort my elderly neighbor to the bus station. She’s old and dying. Her eyesight is bad, her heart is bad, her back is bad. She only has the use of one hand, the other one simply decided it was done, it didn’t want to function anymore. She doesn’t sleep at night from all the meds she’s on, all the speed she’s on to help with the depression of dying alone. She’s the sweetest thing.
I hit the bank. I hit the post office. I’m running later than I intended. I hit the intersection of Broadway and Denny. The light is red. No cross traffic in either direction. I proceed as do several others.
My second heel hasn’t fully touched the curb on the opposite corner before two cops on bikes stop me. One quickly moves to another ped. The officer asks for my i.d. He asks if its current. I tell him yes. (It is not.) He informs me that he stopped me because he’s trying to protect me and I walked when the blinking sign read, “Don’t walk.”
“Oh. I must’ve been looking at the mountains. They get me every time.”
The mountains are snowcapped and stunning on clear days. I feel a strange comradery with the Olympics, like somehow they’re here to protect me. (Apparently not today.)
He’s scribbling away on a pad and I assume he’s issuing me a warning. Several passersby stop to watch me and my fellow ped. You can tell their curiosity is piqued. “They don’t look like tweekers.”
From his pad, I get the green copy. White is his. Yellow goes to the city. What I thought was a warning turned out to be a $46.00 citation. Forty-six dollars. Holy shit. I can’t afford this right now.
He rides off and a group of students that had been watching ask me what the ticket is for. “Forty-six dollars. Jaywalking. Careful boys and girls, the city’s sniffing out extra revenue.” Everybody’s sympathetic.
“We were walking right behind you. But they didn’t stop us. They stopped you,” one student offered.
“Guess it’s my lucky day.”
“No. You look like you could afford to pay it. We’re just some poor ass students. But he looked at you and figured you could take the hit.”
He figured wrong. Just because I’m carrying a briefcase and wearing all black doesn’t mean I have anymore money in my pocket than then next guy.
“Notice how all the drunk, methed-out tweekers never get stopped for jaywalking,” another offers.
On my way to Pioneer Square I count the number of cars that run red lights, the number of cars that snake their ways through the crosswalks that I have the right of way for, the number of cars that almost hit me. I count the number of people that jaywalk diagonally. For the record, this never helps the situation.
I rewind and replay, rewind and replay. I kick myself in the ass. “Man, I didn’t even fight him on it.” I could’ve asked for a warning. I didn’t even try to fight it. Maybe I should’ve told him that it had been 48 hours since I last thought of killing myself and now I have to start from zero again.
“Stop being so dramatic. And don’t be ugly. He’s just doing his job. And technically, you did jaywalk.” I didn’t fight it because I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of fighting everyone and everything.
I think of how the cop said he was doing this for my protection and my mind skips back to an image a month or so ago: a messy accident in the neighborhood. A ped got hit in the middle of the crosswalk. By the time we passed it, all that was left was a stray, widowed tennis shoe, mangled in the middle of the street.
If I may offer the city a word of advice: it’s not the peds that are the problem. We know how to navigate the streets. The trouble is all of the bottle-necked cars racing to make their way through the next yellow light.
My winding walk downtown leads me past the homeless addicts, passed out in doorway crevices. I am reminded that I have absolutely nothing to be upset about. I shake it off, little by little, and notice that an overwhelming majority of the people I pass are serving up a generous supply of smiles.
“How do they know I need their smiles today?”
I remove myself from the sting of the surface value. “What is the underlying message from this?,” I ponder.
Three simple answers arise.
Watch where you’re going. Be wary of what you’re walking into.
Don’t force things. Be patient, there’s no need to rush.
And last, but never least.
Watch out for the vultures that are circling overhead.
I’m going to have to find a way to manage my blogging. As you recall, I started as a means to get me writing again. But now, blogging always seems more appealing than completing anything with a deadline attached to it. I know. Blogs can be the reward: a little slice of company at the end of the day, just me and the clicking of the keys.
This blog-reward system will promptly be implemented tomorrow. Today I blog first because today I need to rant.
Today I got a ticket for jaywalking.
The first thing you need to understand is that everyone jaywalks. It’s an overcrowded city. We’re busting at the seams and our transportation options are limited and failing.
I’ve been fully ‘ped’ for 18 months now, having signed off cars for good in July of 2005. No more financing something that loses value everyday, no more insuring a piece of metal when I can’t even afford to insure my own health, no more surprise repairs that pop up at the most inconvenient of times, no more car accidents. Oh yea, and no more gas. The whole gas gouging phase totally flew over my head. For once, I couldn’t relate to the ass-raping that virtually all of my car-dependent friends and family were struggling through. Getting rid of the auto lifestyle was one of the best things I ever did.
I’m fortunate enough to live in a city that allows me that option. Everything I need I can walk to. If I ever have the desire to hit the suburbs (Target is, on occasion the only thing I miss, and honestly, I can find socks and underwear elsewhere) there’s Flexcar. If you don’t know what Flexcar is, I urge you to check them out (www.flexcar.com).
I’ve always loved walking, so its no surprise that I turned into a ped. As a ped commuter, you learn the shortcuts, the routes that have the less-grueling inclines. You learn how to flow with all of the competing traffic (peds battle the cars, cars hate the peds and the bicyclists hate everyone). And everyone, everyone, jaywalks. If the lights red and there’s nothing coming from cross-traffic, you walk. Common knowledge.
I’ve been working out of the apartment lately. I used to be able to work from home easier, but that hasn’t been the case lately. Part of it is that working in public forces me to be on display.
“I can’t just sit here for hours, I need to look like I’m doing something. Damn, guess I’d better work.”
So every morning since I decided to start living again, it’s the same routine. Wake up. Shake off all the fear and anger and self-loathing. Forgive myself. Put myself in a positive place, create spaces for the present and the future that are creative, healthy, bountiful.
To the laymen, or the stubborn, it sounds campy. It sounds like after-school program cognitive therapy bullshit.
But it isn’t.
It works. Our minds are our most powerful tools. And we spend too much time thinking that we can’t strengthen and shape them the way we do other parts of our bodies.
So. I’m at my bliss point of the day, ready to get working. En route to a coffee house, I escort my elderly neighbor to the bus station. She’s old and dying. Her eyesight is bad, her heart is bad, her back is bad. She only has the use of one hand, the other one simply decided it was done, it didn’t want to function anymore. She doesn’t sleep at night from all the meds she’s on, all the speed she’s on to help with the depression of dying alone. She’s the sweetest thing.
I hit the bank. I hit the post office. I’m running later than I intended. I hit the intersection of Broadway and Denny. The light is red. No cross traffic in either direction. I proceed as do several others.
My second heel hasn’t fully touched the curb on the opposite corner before two cops on bikes stop me. One quickly moves to another ped. The officer asks for my i.d. He asks if its current. I tell him yes. (It is not.) He informs me that he stopped me because he’s trying to protect me and I walked when the blinking sign read, “Don’t walk.”
“Oh. I must’ve been looking at the mountains. They get me every time.”
The mountains are snowcapped and stunning on clear days. I feel a strange comradery with the Olympics, like somehow they’re here to protect me. (Apparently not today.)
He’s scribbling away on a pad and I assume he’s issuing me a warning. Several passersby stop to watch me and my fellow ped. You can tell their curiosity is piqued. “They don’t look like tweekers.”
From his pad, I get the green copy. White is his. Yellow goes to the city. What I thought was a warning turned out to be a $46.00 citation. Forty-six dollars. Holy shit. I can’t afford this right now.
He rides off and a group of students that had been watching ask me what the ticket is for. “Forty-six dollars. Jaywalking. Careful boys and girls, the city’s sniffing out extra revenue.” Everybody’s sympathetic.
“We were walking right behind you. But they didn’t stop us. They stopped you,” one student offered.
“Guess it’s my lucky day.”
“No. You look like you could afford to pay it. We’re just some poor ass students. But he looked at you and figured you could take the hit.”
He figured wrong. Just because I’m carrying a briefcase and wearing all black doesn’t mean I have anymore money in my pocket than then next guy.
“Notice how all the drunk, methed-out tweekers never get stopped for jaywalking,” another offers.
On my way to Pioneer Square I count the number of cars that run red lights, the number of cars that snake their ways through the crosswalks that I have the right of way for, the number of cars that almost hit me. I count the number of people that jaywalk diagonally. For the record, this never helps the situation.
I rewind and replay, rewind and replay. I kick myself in the ass. “Man, I didn’t even fight him on it.” I could’ve asked for a warning. I didn’t even try to fight it. Maybe I should’ve told him that it had been 48 hours since I last thought of killing myself and now I have to start from zero again.
“Stop being so dramatic. And don’t be ugly. He’s just doing his job. And technically, you did jaywalk.” I didn’t fight it because I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of fighting everyone and everything.
I think of how the cop said he was doing this for my protection and my mind skips back to an image a month or so ago: a messy accident in the neighborhood. A ped got hit in the middle of the crosswalk. By the time we passed it, all that was left was a stray, widowed tennis shoe, mangled in the middle of the street.
If I may offer the city a word of advice: it’s not the peds that are the problem. We know how to navigate the streets. The trouble is all of the bottle-necked cars racing to make their way through the next yellow light.
My winding walk downtown leads me past the homeless addicts, passed out in doorway crevices. I am reminded that I have absolutely nothing to be upset about. I shake it off, little by little, and notice that an overwhelming majority of the people I pass are serving up a generous supply of smiles.
“How do they know I need their smiles today?”
I remove myself from the sting of the surface value. “What is the underlying message from this?,” I ponder.
Three simple answers arise.
Watch where you’re going. Be wary of what you’re walking into.
Don’t force things. Be patient, there’s no need to rush.
And last, but never least.
Watch out for the vultures that are circling overhead.
Thursday, December 7, 2006
Happy Birthday
December 7th. Today is Adam’s birthday.
Last year he got a beautiful new blue acoustic guitar for his birthday. Last year was his big 3-0, the gateway into adulthood. That guitar has been a godsend. His old guitar, bless its heart, couldn’t cough out another chord if it wanted to. But the new blue one fills the apartment with its warm, melancholy hues.
Last year we flew into Las Vegas on his birthday. To most people, this sounds exciting, like a treat even. People intentionally go there to vacation. But we are not mostpeople.
For those of you that know me well, you know that I took this testament to the extreme, tattooing across my forearm ‘mostpeople are a dying race’. The sentence is a part of a larger expression: “most people prefer blindness but mostpeople are a dying race”.
This bold representation about the upcoming age of enlightenment, the grand awakening of humankind inspired me greatly and so I put it on my body in hopes of invoking inquires from strangers. It back-fired. Sure a few people got it for its pure intention and I was able to share a handful of intimate understanding connections with people who were merely strangers before discussing the meaning of the tattoo.
But mostly, I felt it isolated me even more from others.
I realized that instead of bringing me a feeling of power, I felt shame. I realized that I put it on my body more so as a slap in the face to everyone who wasn’t ‘as awakened’ as I. Instead of invoking a sense of unity, I was literally saying, “This is where I am and you are not.” I realized I was being an egotistical asshole instead of an inviting being of light.
I covered up the tattoo.
So let me rephrase. Although most people may think of a Las Vegas birthday as a damn good time, we do not share that belief with most people. Never mind the fact that we were there to shoot what felt like the millionth ballroom dance competition. But let’s face it, Las Vegas is the white-trash tourist destination. Filled with insurmountable clouds of cigarette smoke, never-ending sing-song chimes from the slot machines, and a plethora of all you can eat meaty-meatster buffets, Las Vegas just isn’t our cup of tea.
To top it off, due to an organizational snafu, our regular room at the Luxor was unavailable and we ended up in a nasty, scary, down-and-dirty dive across the strip. Ugh.
We met up that night with an old friend of Adam’s: a beautiful girl, another Cancer. (Poor guy. The last thing he needs in his life is another female Cancer. Technically, though, if we’re being linear, I’m the other Cancer. She precedes me.)
Anyway, she couldn’t get a sitter, so we ended up at a shitty bar at some casino that had a ‘kid play’ center. Not quite how I envisioned celebrating his entrance into adulthood.
We ended up having a pretty damn good time, though. Drank way too much. (“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!” And let’s not forget, “Vegas, baby!” I could go the whole rest of my life and never having to hear either of those two sayings again would make me the happiest girl. To clarify: we did not on that night, nor have we ever, slur-yelled either of these phrases. Rather, my disgust for them comes from the countless time I have heard them.)
The drinking way too much led to me being an insecure baby and running my insecure baby mouth off. (Note: Saying you’re totally able to be in an openly loving relationship and living that existence are two totally different things. I’m growing up, though, and getting better with the concept of sharing in general.)
We showed up the next morning for the start of a twenty-hour shoot still drunk.
“Look on the bright side. At least we’re not hung over.”
This is what I do with birthdays. I use them as reference points, ear-marked pages in the chapters of the novels of our lives. Where were you last year at this time? How have you grown in the course of this year? (We’re always growing. Even when things seem stagnant, even when the wheels of our personal transportational devices seem to be rotating in reverse, we are growing. )
But birthdays share a greater importance. Literally they are the day that we chose to enter our current incarnation. The time, place and conditions we’re born into greatly impact and shape our life experience.
Birthdays are a time to love yourself and appreciate yourself for agreeing to take on the challenges, the lessons, the evolutionary course that you agree to with your Higher Self.
A time to smile and pay homage to the fact that, “I’m still here.” It may not always be comfortable, it may not always be pleasurable, but it sure is one hell of a ride.
I haven’t got anything special planned to celebrate 31. Sure I could place blame on the lack of funds, but it’s not like that’s a new factor in our entertainment equation. Truth be told, I don’t know what to do.
“What do you wanna do for your birthday this year?”
“I dunno.”
“Yea. I dunno either.”
It’s like this year kept gripping us around the neck and slamming us repeatedly into the wall. Harder. Harder. Harder. Each time the shit-eating grin that says, “Thank you, sir, I’d like another” fades a little bit more.
What exactly was being beaten out of us?
Who’s hands were those around our necks?
My gut replies, “They were your own hands. You were beating the anger out of yourselves.”
Finally, the grip was releases. We slowly slither our way down the wall. Collapsing on the floor, everything feels – hollow. Empty.
What the hell happened? Where am I? Who am I? Who are you? All these things I thought I had answers for have somehow evaporated.
Have I evaporated?
To be perfectly honest, having survived the past year seems like celebration enough.
So, alas, I have no tangible gift to offer you. I can’t even figure out where to bring you for dinner.
But know that this night, in honor of the 31st year of your existence in this life, on this level, that I love you. I am so grateful to be walking through this maze with you by my side. And I’m learning what it is to love and to be loved. I wish you the best in this next year of your life and I vow to do whatever I can to help aide you in your journey, for as long as I am welcomed by your side.
Happy Birthday, sweetheart.
Last year he got a beautiful new blue acoustic guitar for his birthday. Last year was his big 3-0, the gateway into adulthood. That guitar has been a godsend. His old guitar, bless its heart, couldn’t cough out another chord if it wanted to. But the new blue one fills the apartment with its warm, melancholy hues.
Last year we flew into Las Vegas on his birthday. To most people, this sounds exciting, like a treat even. People intentionally go there to vacation. But we are not mostpeople.
For those of you that know me well, you know that I took this testament to the extreme, tattooing across my forearm ‘mostpeople are a dying race’. The sentence is a part of a larger expression: “most people prefer blindness but mostpeople are a dying race”.
This bold representation about the upcoming age of enlightenment, the grand awakening of humankind inspired me greatly and so I put it on my body in hopes of invoking inquires from strangers. It back-fired. Sure a few people got it for its pure intention and I was able to share a handful of intimate understanding connections with people who were merely strangers before discussing the meaning of the tattoo.
But mostly, I felt it isolated me even more from others.
I realized that instead of bringing me a feeling of power, I felt shame. I realized that I put it on my body more so as a slap in the face to everyone who wasn’t ‘as awakened’ as I. Instead of invoking a sense of unity, I was literally saying, “This is where I am and you are not.” I realized I was being an egotistical asshole instead of an inviting being of light.
I covered up the tattoo.
So let me rephrase. Although most people may think of a Las Vegas birthday as a damn good time, we do not share that belief with most people. Never mind the fact that we were there to shoot what felt like the millionth ballroom dance competition. But let’s face it, Las Vegas is the white-trash tourist destination. Filled with insurmountable clouds of cigarette smoke, never-ending sing-song chimes from the slot machines, and a plethora of all you can eat meaty-meatster buffets, Las Vegas just isn’t our cup of tea.
To top it off, due to an organizational snafu, our regular room at the Luxor was unavailable and we ended up in a nasty, scary, down-and-dirty dive across the strip. Ugh.
We met up that night with an old friend of Adam’s: a beautiful girl, another Cancer. (Poor guy. The last thing he needs in his life is another female Cancer. Technically, though, if we’re being linear, I’m the other Cancer. She precedes me.)
Anyway, she couldn’t get a sitter, so we ended up at a shitty bar at some casino that had a ‘kid play’ center. Not quite how I envisioned celebrating his entrance into adulthood.
We ended up having a pretty damn good time, though. Drank way too much. (“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!” And let’s not forget, “Vegas, baby!” I could go the whole rest of my life and never having to hear either of those two sayings again would make me the happiest girl. To clarify: we did not on that night, nor have we ever, slur-yelled either of these phrases. Rather, my disgust for them comes from the countless time I have heard them.)
The drinking way too much led to me being an insecure baby and running my insecure baby mouth off. (Note: Saying you’re totally able to be in an openly loving relationship and living that existence are two totally different things. I’m growing up, though, and getting better with the concept of sharing in general.)
We showed up the next morning for the start of a twenty-hour shoot still drunk.
“Look on the bright side. At least we’re not hung over.”
This is what I do with birthdays. I use them as reference points, ear-marked pages in the chapters of the novels of our lives. Where were you last year at this time? How have you grown in the course of this year? (We’re always growing. Even when things seem stagnant, even when the wheels of our personal transportational devices seem to be rotating in reverse, we are growing. )
But birthdays share a greater importance. Literally they are the day that we chose to enter our current incarnation. The time, place and conditions we’re born into greatly impact and shape our life experience.
Birthdays are a time to love yourself and appreciate yourself for agreeing to take on the challenges, the lessons, the evolutionary course that you agree to with your Higher Self.
A time to smile and pay homage to the fact that, “I’m still here.” It may not always be comfortable, it may not always be pleasurable, but it sure is one hell of a ride.
I haven’t got anything special planned to celebrate 31. Sure I could place blame on the lack of funds, but it’s not like that’s a new factor in our entertainment equation. Truth be told, I don’t know what to do.
“What do you wanna do for your birthday this year?”
“I dunno.”
“Yea. I dunno either.”
It’s like this year kept gripping us around the neck and slamming us repeatedly into the wall. Harder. Harder. Harder. Each time the shit-eating grin that says, “Thank you, sir, I’d like another” fades a little bit more.
What exactly was being beaten out of us?
Who’s hands were those around our necks?
My gut replies, “They were your own hands. You were beating the anger out of yourselves.”
Finally, the grip was releases. We slowly slither our way down the wall. Collapsing on the floor, everything feels – hollow. Empty.
What the hell happened? Where am I? Who am I? Who are you? All these things I thought I had answers for have somehow evaporated.
Have I evaporated?
To be perfectly honest, having survived the past year seems like celebration enough.
So, alas, I have no tangible gift to offer you. I can’t even figure out where to bring you for dinner.
But know that this night, in honor of the 31st year of your existence in this life, on this level, that I love you. I am so grateful to be walking through this maze with you by my side. And I’m learning what it is to love and to be loved. I wish you the best in this next year of your life and I vow to do whatever I can to help aide you in your journey, for as long as I am welcomed by your side.
Happy Birthday, sweetheart.
The Blog List
I couldn’t help but to laugh at myself when I realized that a flicker of excitement flashed through my body at the revelation that I need to create a blog list. You know. Items that I’d like to blog about that I may forget wanting to blog about if I don’t put them on a list.
Ah, lists. Continually infatuating me with their alluringly reliable format.
I like lists. I always have. I must embarrassingly admit that I am one of those people who truly enjoys going to Office Depot. I really, really find happiness within the process of organizing information, categorizing thoughts. (This allows me the freedom to paint with words.)
I think I’m finally beginning to understand how my left-brain acts as a support system for the right. Organizing information in a literal manner and storing it in a tangible ‘thought box’ (not to be confused with ‘lock box’) allows me to then explore that space (and its contents) in new and invigorating ways.
As a communicator, I like gathering different wavelengths of data, shaking them up like a snow globe and then sitting back and watching as the fragments float back down to Earth. Gliding across the skating rink, paintbrush in hand, I retrieve the shattered fragments and begin to piece them back together. New wavelengths emerge, similar in content, but dancing to a slightly different cadence.
And sometimes while swimming within the brush-strokes, I forget exactly what it is that I am painting.
Lists serve as my guides, my maps. Reminders that, although I may not know my final destination, somewhere along the road Higher Self told me I want to be exploring ‘this way’.
Note to self: maybe I should create a list about figuring out how to survive or how to fit it or how to…..
No, I like the blog list better.
I have no idea if these blogs will lead to anything more or anything less. But intuition kept tapping me on the shoulder until I finally responded.
Paintbrush clamped between my teeth, it feels good to be skating again. The words kick up at my heels as I sail across the ice. Gathering speed and strength, my legs pump harder.
Higher Self smiles from above watching as I repeatedly skate figure-eights across the rink of this plane.
Ah, lists. Continually infatuating me with their alluringly reliable format.
I like lists. I always have. I must embarrassingly admit that I am one of those people who truly enjoys going to Office Depot. I really, really find happiness within the process of organizing information, categorizing thoughts. (This allows me the freedom to paint with words.)
I think I’m finally beginning to understand how my left-brain acts as a support system for the right. Organizing information in a literal manner and storing it in a tangible ‘thought box’ (not to be confused with ‘lock box’) allows me to then explore that space (and its contents) in new and invigorating ways.
As a communicator, I like gathering different wavelengths of data, shaking them up like a snow globe and then sitting back and watching as the fragments float back down to Earth. Gliding across the skating rink, paintbrush in hand, I retrieve the shattered fragments and begin to piece them back together. New wavelengths emerge, similar in content, but dancing to a slightly different cadence.
And sometimes while swimming within the brush-strokes, I forget exactly what it is that I am painting.
Lists serve as my guides, my maps. Reminders that, although I may not know my final destination, somewhere along the road Higher Self told me I want to be exploring ‘this way’.
Note to self: maybe I should create a list about figuring out how to survive or how to fit it or how to…..
No, I like the blog list better.
I have no idea if these blogs will lead to anything more or anything less. But intuition kept tapping me on the shoulder until I finally responded.
Paintbrush clamped between my teeth, it feels good to be skating again. The words kick up at my heels as I sail across the ice. Gathering speed and strength, my legs pump harder.
Higher Self smiles from above watching as I repeatedly skate figure-eights across the rink of this plane.
A History Lesson
Time to tackle a subject other than self-analysis. Time to start taking some of the nagging fragments that interrupt me throughout my daily attempts at finding the next step, and forming them into something more than thoughts that weave in and out, intertwining and twisting throughout the flaps of my brain. You’re still with me, I hope.
Good. Let’s talk history.
I’ve tried a couple of times to read Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History of the United States.” It’s one of those books that I feel ashamed of for having not yet read. “A person of my progressive belief system needs to have this book in my catalog,” I keep telling myself. But time and time again, it finds itself in the ever-growing pile beside my bed.
I get angry. I get pissed off and I drop it.
It’s no grand secret that Americans, on the whole, aren’t exactly beacons of bountiful knowledge when it comes to history. American history, world history, doesn’t matter. We don’t know a whole helluva lot about any of it really.
Here are a few of my observations and beliefs as to why this is the case.
First off is the way history is taught (at least in the public school systems). It’s all date-based and memorization. When things occurred. All of the intestines, the gooey, savory innards get skimmed over. Why did this event happen? Who exactly was involved (in all arenas)? What was going on in other parts of the city, country, international community that could’ve influenced this event? What was the outcome? What could’ve prevented this? What could be done to prevent this in the future?
What’s missing from history is story.
The same holds true for geography. It’s all memorization: color-coded maps and flash-card tactics to pass the next exam. History and geography should be taught together. Give some context to the lessons. Give me format. Give me subtext. Give me plot points and climaxes. Give me sustenance to fill the hunger that numbers don’t satisfy.
As a storyteller, I can see where one might wag a finger at me, declaring bias. But we all love story. And the lines between fact and fiction are often more blurred than we are truly willing to embrace. (Although this can be a very dangerous concept, it excites me. I get off on it. But again, fiction is my playground.)
Secondly, I believe that the powers that be don’t want us to know our true history. (Keep ‘em ignorant and purchasing.) This is what attracted me to “A People’s History” in the first place. I had memorized Victories Version of American History. (Maybe that’s why it never stuck for me! Maybe I never absorbed and stored the school-taught version of American History because I didn’t believe it.)
Something about Zinn’s historical representation feels more real. Zinn tells history from the perspective of the people who were on the losing side of this country’s growing pains: hence, the people’s history. Our history. Intuition hums a warm room tone, “Warmer. You’re getting warmer.”
Really it’s better for the folks at the helm that our knowledge of World History is fuzzy around the edges, too. I mean if more Americans had an inkling of familiarity about what happens to Empires that grow too powerful, too greedy, to grand. If more Americans had a greater relationship with the families of fascism, I can’t help but to wonder.
Could things be different? Would it be possible to stop this train wreck of a corporate-capitalist implosion before it fully manifests? Or does it have to happen?
How much longer until we stop living through the same painful lessons?
Part of me wants it to happen. Maybe it’s the whole ‘destruction breeds creation’ process that’s got me salivating for the big fall. Or maybe I just want to see them suffer, squirm, kick and bleed through the nose like the selfish, heartless, gutless pigs that they are.
(And for those of you keeping score, you can clearly see I’ve still got a long way to go on this path of enlightenment.)
And perhaps, then, I’ve answered my own question. The same painful lessons will continue to recreate themselves until all of humanity is willing to release the desire to see our enemies suffer. We must evolve to the state of being wherein we no longer seek revenge on those who have wronged us. Until that day blissfully arrives:
History repeats itself. Cycles repeat themselves.
And I can see how my anger at the process of acquiring the true knowledge of my country’s history is related to the anger I have towards myself. Like a layering of concentric circles, exposure to the truth requires acceptance of the truth. Just as I must accept myself, I must accept the true factual atrocities that, not only decorate, but are the foundation of this country.
As Americans, we all must do this. We all have to make this commitment, take this responsibility. We have to. If we want to move forward, if we want to be a better country, if we want the respect, support and cooperation from the international community, if we want to survive, we have to.
So, whattaya say, fellow Americans?
Are you willing to step up to the plate and commit to self-discipline? Stop running. Stop making excuses. Educate one’s self. Accept our history. Accept our current, ripping at the seams, swirling down the drain non-sustainable state of disarray?
Are you willingly to actively participate in the collective creation of a brighter community?
I acknowledge it’s a tall order to fill. But isn’t it the preferred path to total devastation?
Won’t it be interesting to see which outcome happens first?
Good. Let’s talk history.
I’ve tried a couple of times to read Howard Zinn’s “A People’s History of the United States.” It’s one of those books that I feel ashamed of for having not yet read. “A person of my progressive belief system needs to have this book in my catalog,” I keep telling myself. But time and time again, it finds itself in the ever-growing pile beside my bed.
I get angry. I get pissed off and I drop it.
It’s no grand secret that Americans, on the whole, aren’t exactly beacons of bountiful knowledge when it comes to history. American history, world history, doesn’t matter. We don’t know a whole helluva lot about any of it really.
Here are a few of my observations and beliefs as to why this is the case.
First off is the way history is taught (at least in the public school systems). It’s all date-based and memorization. When things occurred. All of the intestines, the gooey, savory innards get skimmed over. Why did this event happen? Who exactly was involved (in all arenas)? What was going on in other parts of the city, country, international community that could’ve influenced this event? What was the outcome? What could’ve prevented this? What could be done to prevent this in the future?
What’s missing from history is story.
The same holds true for geography. It’s all memorization: color-coded maps and flash-card tactics to pass the next exam. History and geography should be taught together. Give some context to the lessons. Give me format. Give me subtext. Give me plot points and climaxes. Give me sustenance to fill the hunger that numbers don’t satisfy.
As a storyteller, I can see where one might wag a finger at me, declaring bias. But we all love story. And the lines between fact and fiction are often more blurred than we are truly willing to embrace. (Although this can be a very dangerous concept, it excites me. I get off on it. But again, fiction is my playground.)
Secondly, I believe that the powers that be don’t want us to know our true history. (Keep ‘em ignorant and purchasing.) This is what attracted me to “A People’s History” in the first place. I had memorized Victories Version of American History. (Maybe that’s why it never stuck for me! Maybe I never absorbed and stored the school-taught version of American History because I didn’t believe it.)
Something about Zinn’s historical representation feels more real. Zinn tells history from the perspective of the people who were on the losing side of this country’s growing pains: hence, the people’s history. Our history. Intuition hums a warm room tone, “Warmer. You’re getting warmer.”
Really it’s better for the folks at the helm that our knowledge of World History is fuzzy around the edges, too. I mean if more Americans had an inkling of familiarity about what happens to Empires that grow too powerful, too greedy, to grand. If more Americans had a greater relationship with the families of fascism, I can’t help but to wonder.
Could things be different? Would it be possible to stop this train wreck of a corporate-capitalist implosion before it fully manifests? Or does it have to happen?
How much longer until we stop living through the same painful lessons?
Part of me wants it to happen. Maybe it’s the whole ‘destruction breeds creation’ process that’s got me salivating for the big fall. Or maybe I just want to see them suffer, squirm, kick and bleed through the nose like the selfish, heartless, gutless pigs that they are.
(And for those of you keeping score, you can clearly see I’ve still got a long way to go on this path of enlightenment.)
And perhaps, then, I’ve answered my own question. The same painful lessons will continue to recreate themselves until all of humanity is willing to release the desire to see our enemies suffer. We must evolve to the state of being wherein we no longer seek revenge on those who have wronged us. Until that day blissfully arrives:
History repeats itself. Cycles repeat themselves.
And I can see how my anger at the process of acquiring the true knowledge of my country’s history is related to the anger I have towards myself. Like a layering of concentric circles, exposure to the truth requires acceptance of the truth. Just as I must accept myself, I must accept the true factual atrocities that, not only decorate, but are the foundation of this country.
As Americans, we all must do this. We all have to make this commitment, take this responsibility. We have to. If we want to move forward, if we want to be a better country, if we want the respect, support and cooperation from the international community, if we want to survive, we have to.
So, whattaya say, fellow Americans?
Are you willing to step up to the plate and commit to self-discipline? Stop running. Stop making excuses. Educate one’s self. Accept our history. Accept our current, ripping at the seams, swirling down the drain non-sustainable state of disarray?
Are you willingly to actively participate in the collective creation of a brighter community?
I acknowledge it’s a tall order to fill. But isn’t it the preferred path to total devastation?
Won’t it be interesting to see which outcome happens first?
Saturday, December 2, 2006
The Art of Conforming to Myself
I’m not sure what to write about today, but I feel like I need to get something out before I continue working on the show.
Ah yes, the show. There’s a new show concept in the making. Something with a strong foundation, something with legs, something that already fully exists in real life (as does the audience). All that’s missing is the capturing, the packaging, the presentation.
I feel like the majority of our family members, and perhaps some of our friends, are eagerly awaiting the day that we give up on our artistic pursuits. Throw in the towel once and for all. “Conform. Grow up. Get your head out of the clouds. Join the ‘real world’.” (I have a special fondness for this last one. It’s such a common saying, but so utterly abstract. My real world is different from your real world is different from everybody else’s real world. We’re all living in our own versions of reality.)
I spent the better part of this year exploring what my life ‘could be like’ if I stopped pursuing an artist’s path in this life. I tried to place myself in other career possibilities, tried to imagine what I would go back to school for. What kept surfacing were other artistic desires. And the more I tried to shut them out, the sicker I became. The more I shut off any belief in the outward manifestation of my creations, the less I wanted to live.
And everything, everything, stopped.
I’m extremely hard on myself, always have been. But this year has been extremely hard on those who love me, too. I’ve pushed a lot of people away through this process of conforming to myself, through this journey of denying myself, through this process of revealing myself to myself. Countless times, I turned to others for help, to ease my pain, to give me answers. There was some alleviation, but my appetite for aide was too ravenous and it became increasingly unfair to those I was seeking relief from, to those I was draining. So I closed more doors, and I sat with myself.
Of course, nobody can every truly ease your darkest hour.
In their defense I can understand where they’re coming from. They love us. They want us to be happy. They want us to cover all of our basic needs. They want us to prosper. But it isn’t the artistic path that is preventing these thing from happening. It was our own inability to truly believe in ourselves as successful artists that was tripping the circuit.
It’s not the art that’s causing me pain; it’s my resistance, my hesitance, my fear.
For the record, it’s not the easiest lesson to digest: the fact that my own uncertainties are what’s put the penetrating break-through in limbo. By mid-summer I had solved the equation right before the answer was written on every blackboard in the classroom of my mind. “Oh, God. What if the only thing holding our projects back is the fact that we don’t fully believe they’re worth it?”
Worth. Value. Substance.
It was easier at first to place the focus of the belief on the projects. But it was only a matter of time before I realized that all I had to do in order to see the full imagery was to replace the word ‘project’ with ‘myself’.
Son of a bitch.
Higher-self chuckles through the clouds of a recent snowy hail storm and says, “You asked for it. You drew up the contract. Remember?”
Yeah, I remember.
So, battered, beaten (self-inflicted) and worn, I emerge from my cavernous hibernation. I start writing again and the Universe rewards me by dropping another project in my lap. I’m wounded and full of discomfort, but find the alleviation through creation.
So I graciously accept the challenge of the new project. It grows, it develops. It gains momentum and interest.
Higher-self inquires, “Now, are you ready to believe?”
Ah yes, the show. There’s a new show concept in the making. Something with a strong foundation, something with legs, something that already fully exists in real life (as does the audience). All that’s missing is the capturing, the packaging, the presentation.
I feel like the majority of our family members, and perhaps some of our friends, are eagerly awaiting the day that we give up on our artistic pursuits. Throw in the towel once and for all. “Conform. Grow up. Get your head out of the clouds. Join the ‘real world’.” (I have a special fondness for this last one. It’s such a common saying, but so utterly abstract. My real world is different from your real world is different from everybody else’s real world. We’re all living in our own versions of reality.)
I spent the better part of this year exploring what my life ‘could be like’ if I stopped pursuing an artist’s path in this life. I tried to place myself in other career possibilities, tried to imagine what I would go back to school for. What kept surfacing were other artistic desires. And the more I tried to shut them out, the sicker I became. The more I shut off any belief in the outward manifestation of my creations, the less I wanted to live.
And everything, everything, stopped.
I’m extremely hard on myself, always have been. But this year has been extremely hard on those who love me, too. I’ve pushed a lot of people away through this process of conforming to myself, through this journey of denying myself, through this process of revealing myself to myself. Countless times, I turned to others for help, to ease my pain, to give me answers. There was some alleviation, but my appetite for aide was too ravenous and it became increasingly unfair to those I was seeking relief from, to those I was draining. So I closed more doors, and I sat with myself.
Of course, nobody can every truly ease your darkest hour.
In their defense I can understand where they’re coming from. They love us. They want us to be happy. They want us to cover all of our basic needs. They want us to prosper. But it isn’t the artistic path that is preventing these thing from happening. It was our own inability to truly believe in ourselves as successful artists that was tripping the circuit.
It’s not the art that’s causing me pain; it’s my resistance, my hesitance, my fear.
For the record, it’s not the easiest lesson to digest: the fact that my own uncertainties are what’s put the penetrating break-through in limbo. By mid-summer I had solved the equation right before the answer was written on every blackboard in the classroom of my mind. “Oh, God. What if the only thing holding our projects back is the fact that we don’t fully believe they’re worth it?”
Worth. Value. Substance.
It was easier at first to place the focus of the belief on the projects. But it was only a matter of time before I realized that all I had to do in order to see the full imagery was to replace the word ‘project’ with ‘myself’.
Son of a bitch.
Higher-self chuckles through the clouds of a recent snowy hail storm and says, “You asked for it. You drew up the contract. Remember?”
Yeah, I remember.
So, battered, beaten (self-inflicted) and worn, I emerge from my cavernous hibernation. I start writing again and the Universe rewards me by dropping another project in my lap. I’m wounded and full of discomfort, but find the alleviation through creation.
So I graciously accept the challenge of the new project. It grows, it develops. It gains momentum and interest.
Higher-self inquires, “Now, are you ready to believe?”
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