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Art, insight, Writing

That Guy

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Over the years, I take to notebook and write humor or sketch comedy, in order to process my observations and emotional pains.  I have been constantly reaffirmed in repetitive mental cycles, and actions; especially when it comes to my ability to try and function in a relationship.

I have the type of mind that fixates on certain things that make me uncomfortable.  The more I fixate, the further I want to run away from the fixation.  A very  Dolittlian “push-me-pull-you” situation.  

People are funny like that, and I am no exception.  So, to humor you, through my dysfunction, I bring you this short sketch that I wrote sixteen years ago.  I think it’s funny because, I still struggle (almost two decades later) with the same intimacy emotional issue, I was dealing with then.

Silly Human, when will you learn?

And now, I present you with “That Guy.”

 

That Guy

Lisa and Brian are set up by their mutual friend, Megan.  Lisa and Megan are on the phone, “pre-date.”

Lisa:  Megan, he sounds really great!  It sounds like we have a lot of the same interests, and I totally trust your judgement in the looks department.

Megan: Oh, you are just going to fall in love with him!  I’m sure of it!  So, where are you two going for dinner?

Lisa:  I didn’t tell you?  Ohmygosh… we both LOVE the same restaurant, Luigi’s!  So, that choice was a no brainer.

Megan:  Oh, you are going to have the best date!  I am so excited for you!  It looks like it’s getting around that time, I should let you go get ready.

Lisa: Good idea!  Talk to you later?

Megan: Yes!  Call me as soon as you get in!

Brian is at Lisa’s door at 5:30, on the dot.  Flowers in hand, he looks very presentable and gentleman-like.

(door-bell)

Lisa:  (opens door) Hey, you must be Brian!

Brian: (speaks at the same time)  Hey, I am Brian!  (they giggle) I brought you these.

Lisa: Tigerlillies!  Those are my favorite flower!  How did you know?

Brian: I guessed.

Lisa:  Let me put these in water, and then we can go.  Megan told me quite a bit about you Brian, I think we are going to have a wonderful time!

(In the car, driving to dinner)

Brian: Yeah, me too.  Wow, we really do have a lot in common.

Lisa:  It’s awesome that you love snorkeling, too!

Now we focus on Lisa’s internal dialog.

Lisa:  Oh man, Megan was right!  We do get along great… and he is SO CUTE!

Brian:  I am planning a group trip in August…

Brian switches to a new lane, and neglects to turn his signal off.  Lisa notices quickly but doesn’t say anything.

Lisa: Okay, he just switched lanes, and his signal is still on…. it doesn’t look like he is going to go over any further.  I wonder why he doesn’t notice his signal is still blinking.  Hmmm, maybe it’s just because he talking to me right now.  Or maybe he is just really focused on the road and our conversation… he must not hear that annoying click-click sound.  It’s cool, though, right?  I mean it’s probably to early to tell, but what if he is THE ONE?  He has so much ambition, and energy…

Brian: So have you ever been the Cayman Islands?

Lisa: No, but good snorkeling, huh?

Brian: Oh just beautiful!  I also love to go to….

Lisa: It’s STILL going.  Click-Click, Click-CLICK.  How could anyone ignore that?  He must be distracted.  Even though he is driving, he is looking at me a lot… and smiling.  I should just tell him it’s on.  It’s not a big deal.

Lisa: Hey, Brian, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but your signal is on.

Brian: Oh, hey, would you look at that.  So I am pretty excited for Luigi’s.  (turns off the signal.)

Lisa: Me too.  It’s been a while since I was there last.

Lisa: I really can’t believe out of all the restaurants in the area, that we love the same one.  He really is pretty great.

Brian proceeds to make another turn, his signal stays on.

Brian:  Have you ever had the Luigi’s Special?

Lisa: No, I usually stick to the lasagnas… what is it?

Brian:  It’s a sampler pasta dish.

Lisa:  This guy is really not in-tune with his signals.  He has a great personality, good looks; but he is THAT GUY!  I hate THAT GUY, especially when I am behind him in traffic.  THAT GUY who ignores that his blinker just keeps blinking, even though he isn’t changing lanes, or making a turn.  CLICK-CLICK, CLICK-CLICK. …. Maybe I am over reacting. Am I over reacting?

Lisa is becoming visibly aggitated.

Lisa: Brian, can you please turn off your turn signal?

Brian:  I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize it was on again.

Brian makes yet another turn, signal is on, the car is silent but for the CLICK-CLICKING.

Lisa:  Is he deaf?  I can’t believe this is happening the entire way on a 15 minute car ride… IT’S STILL GOING.  What if he never turns it off?  Constant click-clicking.  Imagine our future family road trips across America, state after state, highway after byway, lane change after lane change: those blinkers slowly blinking until 

Lisa:  (blurts out loud)  I don’t think we should see each other any more!

Brian: Excuse me, but what?

Lisa: I think you should just take me home.

Brian: But I thought we were having a good time. I thought we were getting along?

Lisa: We were.  I was was… Listen, I think you are  really nice guy… but you are also “THAT GUY.”

Brian: What do you mean, “THAT GUY”?

Lisa is visibly flustered, and starting to react with panic.

Lisa: You know… you know… “THAT GUY”!  THAT GUY  WHO DOESN’T TURN OFF HIS TURN SIGNAL AFTER HE CHANGES LANES-GUY.  I MEAN, EVEN NOW, YOUR SIGNAL IS ON!

Brian:  I’m sorry, I had no idea it was such a big deal.  I mean, sure every now and again I forget to turn it off… but really, you don’t even want to finish the date?  I promise, I will be more aware of the signal.  I won’t do it again.

Brian proceeds to make another lane change while talking… yet again leaving the signal on.  Lisa waits, her patience obviously slipping away.  She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, staring obviously at the offending turn signal knob.

Lisa:  Here we go again… even after he promises he wouldn’t let it go like that.  Is he fucking with my head right now?  Is this some stupid test?

Lisa waits, she sighs loudly, her face wrought in disgust.  She sighs again.

Lisa:  You are doing it, AGAIN.  See, I told you.  You are “THAT GUY”!

Brian:  What?!?  No!  That’s not fair.. you didn’t give me any time.

Lisa: (getting dramatic now) There was an ample thirty seconds, there… half a minute!  It only takes a second to turn it off.   I really need you just to pull over right now… You know, Brian, this really pains me.  You really do seem like a wonderful, sweet, attractive man.  However, I really can’t handle being in a car with THAT GUY who won’t take a second to make sure his turn signal is off, when he isn’t turning or changing lanes.  If there is one thing in the world that REALLY gets my goat, it’s THAT GUY.  So please, just pull over and put me out of misery.  Right now I need the stability that my transportation will not blink, or CLICK-CLICK unless it is turning or changing lanes, or pulled over with the hazards on…. and it appears to me that right now, Public Transportation holds that stability for me.  Good-bye.

Lisa gets out of the car and walks to a near by Bus Station.  Brian looks at a loss.

Brian:  Okay???

Lisa gets home and rings Megan up on the phone.

Megan: Hey, what’s up?  It’s early, what are you doing home?

Lisa: It didn’t work out.  The date started out nice enough…

Megan:  But…?

Lisa:  But he is THAT GUY who never turns his signal off after changing lanes.

Megan: Oh, Lisa!  I am so sorry!  I didn’t know…

Lisa:  I know!  Why does it seem like all the GOOD ONES are either married, gay, or THAT GUY?

In 2005, Lisa learned she has a condition called Misophonia, that causes her to be triggered into agitation by certain sounds.  She is currently an active member of Misophonics Anonymous.  In 2012 she launched the worlds first dating site geared toward pairing Misophonic people together, who suffer with compatible triggers.  A passionate en-devour, built in hope of helping others find intimacy as they cope with their sensitive condition.   A year later she met Dan, a 34 year old Misophonic engineer from Indiana.  He developed a turn signal system that automatically shuts off immediately after a turn or a lane change.    Lisa and Dan, love to road trip across America, and they are expecting their first child in February 2017.  Lisa says, she hopes her children are born without the burden of Misophonia, but if they are, she will love them anyway and help them with the hurdles the condition imposes.  

 

 

 

Art, Writing

Harsh Reality

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Life is not like the movies.

Even if you dye your hair pink and feel death permeating from the beach, where you look at crab shells masticated by sand mites; and you pause to reflect on the symmetry of the sunset.

It may remind you of some movie where the heroine shouts about her love to the sky, and moments later her lover appears.  This looks, so much like that scene.

But even if I yelled, right now; no one would show up, and the only people who would hear me would be the family, over yonder, taking part in a clam bake.

Even at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter how the setting sun reflects off the ocean.

I am the movie, I am the cinematography, I am the director… and it appears the cast and scenes seem to have a mind of their own.

We will each internally edit the scene according to our disposition and desire to keep certain elements sacred.

Later, we will screen our selective memories on those most close or dear… Hoping to satiate some neglected space in the Soul.

 

 

Art, insight, Writing

An Open Letter To All the People Who Wonder Why I Shy Away From Intimacy

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Dear Loved Ones,  those I continually shy away from emotionally and physically.  To those I have run away from, and have run away from me;

I apologize that at times I can’t seem to escape the nauseating feeling that builds in me when I come into contact with physical intimacy; whether it be between parents and children or lovers and friends.  I find it hard to watch; to stomach the outward affection people are able to show toward one another.  I don’t quite understand it, but I crave it.

I find myself caught in a steady state of loneliness, confusion and hopelessness, that I will never be able to “feel” and express “feeling” like others seem so comfortable doing.  Something in my second nature has atrophied.  Will I ever be able to truly share and savor those aspects of emotional camaraderie, that should come with love and intimacy?  The seemingly one thing, keeping me chained to isolation caught in stagnant aspects of my emotional world.

I often cringe away from physical touch, as a completely unconscious response; I find myself jump in surprise when touched affectionately.  I find this to be upsetting for both parties.  This leaves me further feeling untouchable, misunderstood and lonelier, still.

This is not a matter of not wanting to be touched at all, but rather, I do remember that I like to be touched.  The ability to be touched starts in my brain.  I don’t just go around touching people, and people certainly don’t just go around touching me.  I have spent more of my life being untouched, than touched.   I don’t have normal daily excretions of Oxytocin.  I get a good hug in, every few months.  Seasonal hugging.  In my mind, I think, if I could just surrender, then I know I would want to be held forever.  But, for some reason that cognitive dissonance sets in and I can not surrender.

Everyone knows about the wall around my heart, and some even believe that they themselves, are enough to beat it down.  No one wants to break it down together, and I am not just going to give hammers out, willy-nilly, with out at least being able to supervise the progress.

The ability for me to start to surrender,will always be, when I feel a foundation of trust. I need to know that I won’t be left to the wolves again, by this obvious distraction that exists within my brain spaces.  I don’t need extra isolation, I can provide that plenty on my own.  I don’t need harsh emotional critics, I have that covered as well.

I would be happy enough with compassion and understanding.

 

 

Photography courtesy of Pat Kight.

 

 

 

Art, insight, Writing

Contimplations on Flow- Sacred Water

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angel

Contimplations on Flow- Sacred Water.

I am re-sharing this older piece of writing because we need to pay attention to our water… it is our life force.

Art, insight, Writing

When Words Signal the End

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When suffering from depression, or mental illness; it can be very hard to live in domestic partnerships.  This is especially true, when the partner of the sufferer, has no interest in gaining coping skills to off set some of the dramatic emotional upheavals that are bound to occur.

We don’t plan our depressions; it can take years and years of self awareness to pin point all the potential triggers, as often times they tend to be more subconscious programs.  Dates, places, and phrases can, and often times, will set off a new bout of despair.

When the despair hits, it leads to an overwhelming feeling of being misunderstood, and alienated.  These feelings amplify self criticism; making the already annoying self critical response clock in off the charts.  A pervasive weight of ” I can do nothing right.” and “It’s all my fault.”

The thoughts and feelings that you may have had on “good days” now are second guessed and reduced to illusion.  That voice of illusion, says “No one really loves you.  No one ever will.”

It’s hard not to feel crazy when logic and emotion collide in the confusion of depression.

This is a piece I wrote while in a domestic partnership, that led me to spending a night in jail for domestic violence.  I started attending drug, alcohol, and domestic abuse classes for court.

Many times through the 7 months that I attended, I asked my partner to come with me; as I felt they were sharing a lot of useful information.  I also thought it would put  us on the same page, so that we could move forward, together.

However, he was not interested in those classes; which said to me, he didn’t really care about Us.  It broke my heart, and inevitably we split up.  For years, I wondered, “what if?  What if he was invested in my desire to get better? ”

I have since had to move on from that, and accept where I am, and who I am today.  I know that not just any one can handle the unforeseen upsets of the future.  It will require strength, patience, and cooperation.

When Words Signal the End.

This frustration builds. This love, a lie. And I am burning for more than this disappointment.

I am yearning for more than this fear of abandonment.

Alone with these thoughts and feeling, despite the activity around me; this soul is closed. All the doors are closed.

We can’t communicate. You say my reality isn’t valid.

It really isn’t yours to judge, but you do; constantly.

You blame me for being some fucked up artist.

It isn’t that, at all.

Can’t you see, sometimes we are both wrong.

No. You control. You blame. Nothing changes.

You bribe the master, waiving possibilities in my face. Nothing is ever manifest; it finds itself as watered down truths, dripping lies from your lips.

I am down, because you keep me there.

I am mad, because you show you care, in the most fucked up ways.

Days later, you apologize; so we keep riding the storm.

Love borne Hate. Emancipation is evident. All of this too late.

I am debating my hate; trying to hold my love, but I am drowning.

It’s astounding to watch from the wings, as I take swings at your face.

Wasting time, like it’s easy to buy; when really it’s hard to replace.

I want for you to show me something real; but the wheel of life turns and this heart burns with heartache.

Love is a dish best served cold, old and mouldy upon a paper plate. Swarming with fly larvae,

It isn’t tangible; it causes vertigo as my brain starts to go south.

My mouth a cesspool of verbs and curving words; they slice like a knife, through this paper flesh.

Should I regret this venture?

It’s too late, this path paved with good intentions, gone awry.

The repetitive question; Why, why, why me?

Why this mess? Why?

I confess; I am the mess. I am the beast with talon feet. I am the rage and the endless sadness. The builder of madness and tears that never seem to dry.

I try, but you call me the catalyst… The baddest bitch, you know.

Blow by blow your words knock me down, and add to the scowling.

Sweet inner child caught in the frowning, forgetting recollections; the brief reflections of innocence.

I am just an artist, with nothing to show; but a hole in my head where I’ve let these words go.

Writing

The Abyss of the Mind

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I started writing this for Mental Health day in May, however in the depths of my doldrums, words were hard to capture.  Recently I have had some conversations with friends of mine, who are also in the midst of depressive episodes in their lives, for various reasons.  And in knowing that, I feel less alone; their vulnerability and willingness  to talk about it has strengthened our friendships while broadening my perceptions of what it is that we are experiencing.

If you or someone you know is suffering from depression, please feel free to reach out to me.  I would like to create a public dialog about these experiences and offer emotional support.  Many people going through  depression have a hard time talking about it, and often expend much of their energy trying to pretend that they are okay.  Some of us are very good at hiding how much internal turmoil we are actually facing.  Please feel free to comment and share your story and if you have found any healthy coping mechanisms that have given you some relief.  If you are feeling suicidal please find help, or  call The National Suicide Prevention Line at 1-800-273-8255, which can connect you to local resources.

It’s lonely on the inside looking out at all the smiling faces, lingering in places of joy. And in this solemn slumber I am left to wonder why it seems so easy for others to get on emotionally in positivity. Wonder what it is about me that feels so lost and out of love, despite the deep set knowing that my life is nothing but good.

See, I am not struggling from hunger, or left out in the cold to wonder where I will sleep; in fact my life feels pretty safe and secure, but this obscure stranger lurks there. This shadow that doesn’t seem to care much for my better welfare. It clouds my good ideas, and glosses over memories, twisting how I perceive the past, present and future. And that is no way to live.

In my darkest hours I have sat in contemplation at the meaningless anticipation that slowly burns inside me, for a day I have yet to see, one where I will be free of this depressive malady. Melancholy has been my mantra for too long, it’s the silently sung anthem of my attitude as of late.

And it doesn’t suit me very well. Some days it’s hell trying to smile and pretend that this mental pressure isn’t there, and that I have no cares in the world. It’s been the discussion at the tip of my tongue for too long, and suppression has started swelling, and it’s going to bust through it’s shell of deception.

Deniable, the Debbie Downer, no one wants to invite her to the party where she will largely bring others down. And despite it all I know my own ability to raise the vibration but lately it’s hard to rise to the occasion as I sit in this procrasterbationary cycle.

There is a roadblock in my view, and it skews my ability to see where my path leads, and what it means to me. I feel that at 34 I should have made more progress instead of this arrested development. There is massive pressure in the potential, and I level myself by staying away from making too many decisions. Each task of the day leaves me in wanting, each choice to make more over baring than the last.

In this depression, I want to be taken care of . I don’t want to care for others, and yet that is an unavoidable reality. There is no one to swaddle me, and hold me silently, for a moment of peace and feeling connection.

And isn’t that exactly what depression is? A feeling of isolation so pervasive that it effects one down to their core. It feels incredibly unreliable. I try to put words to it, but I find it unexplainable. I know it’s a type of depression that drugs will not fix, and therapy is no match for; realizing I just want more connection, but I can’t seem to move forward and make that happen. Feet bound in concrete, frozen from make a move toward any one direction. My synapsis on some sort of delay. Thinking today is the day, still nothing happens and I find myself waiting on tomorrow.

Education is my distraction. Information is my drug. And the more I learn about the world, the more I feel torn between throwing myself headlong into humanity; and hiding out away from reality. The push-me-pull-you of a person with sensitive strength, confused on how to assert her existence within this existence. Missed opportunities because nothing seems to light my fire. The foundation of excuses.

The fuel of my youth; a desire to be seen as acceptably intelligent, bound for successes undreamed of yet,  if only I could leave the small perimeter of my home. When I finally left, I felt I was on some sort of path, but with each pursuit I would follow, there was still a hollow in my heart; a dissonance with my purpose.

Materialism didn’t suit me, so some may see me as living life like a vagabond. The only purpose I’ve held onto, is the service of humanity… but where is the service to me? I swim in a sea of information, I drown on all the options, cast out into the depths of indecision.

I can’t seem to find a conclusion, on what actually TO DO. And in this place, I miss experiences of love, laughter and adventure. Three things I adore. Somehow I always answer “no.”

“Yes” is it’s own foreign language, I can’t wrap my mouth around it.

My heart wants to know this foreign language, but my mind won’t record it.

No regrets, but I bet if I knew then, what I know now, maybe I wouldn’t feel this depression like an extremity. An extension of me I can’t seem to detach. Feeling like I know too much; I see too much, I feel too much. Overwhelmed and shut down.  Emotionally paralyzed; my body can’t metabolize all this stimulation that bombards me in silence. A personal crisis, I tell myself will not last forever. Nothing lasts forever.

Cheyenne, Writing

Four Miles, For Miles.

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My thighs were sticking together.

I am sure a rash was happening.

The friction of skin upon skin, creating a burn like Sin.

Being in one of the most social of lady places; the bathroom, I queried another female patron.

“Do you have any powder, by chance?”

Answering the question with an action, she pulled a large zip-loc bag out of her purse.

“I need just enough to dry out my lack of thigh gap.” I respond with more dryness than my pasty but saturated Vaginal neighbors.

“Ohhh, hunny.. this aint’t talc… It’s coke.”

Immediately, I imagine the options of relief.

“Too expensive for my needs, but I bet the numbing sensation is worth it;” imagining the potential, I add ” I need four miles worth of ‘numb’ dryness.”

She queries, “Four miles?”

I am pretty sure at this point she is already coked out and her brain is having a hard time equivocating.

“Yeah… four miles home. I think by cab that is about fifteen bucks… and that just seems too much to me, for this podunk town….. too much, even though, I… Even though I am having this issue.” At this point I am attempting to handle the pain with a smile… I am a liar, and this shit hurts.

Eyebrows cocked, head tilted, she questions, ” An issue?”

“A woman’s issue…”

She looks incredulous for a moment until a spark of understanding, spreads over her already tightened facial muscles.

“OOOoooohhh, Auntie Flo!”

I see she is now slightly softened by compassion and understanding.

“Uhmm… No.” I can’t help but pause, acknowledging that if that WAS the case, it would be the least of my concerns; and that is why God made toilet paper.

“No?” She repeats, but with a sense of fear… like maybe I will tell her I just found breast cancer, or one of my ovarian cysts just escaped.

“No. I have heinous thigh sweat, and…uhm… massive chaffing.” I don’t know why I am so ashamed of saying this in front of a person carrying enough cocaine to be indicted on a felony, but it is how I respond, nonetheless.

“oh. OH. OooooOOHHHHhhh!” Images percolate in her mind and her eyes get big. I like that she seems to REALLY “get it”.

“Yeah…”

“Oh, hunny… that’s rough!”

Without losing a beat… I say,

“No, it’s RAW!”

I have pulled her into coke induced empathy, and she nods knowingly. “Yeah… whew, them’s the pits.”

On a roll, I say “More like the crevasses.”

Still feeling a bit desperate and despondent about returning to the bar,  I ask ” So, do you have anything else in that big, magic bag that might help me?”

She begins the notorious “Puffy Purse Scavenger Hunt.” Digging deep in its depths for something significant or (in her mind) useful.

” Uhm, well, how about…Preparation H? err… uh.. Advil?”

By the looks of it, she has a whole different set of ‘women’s issues’; the pain, numbing my verbal filter, causes me to outwardly express as much.

I am disappointed AND defeated, but she is quick to respond, “Damn straight! I do! And I don’t leave my house ill prepared.”

God Jeebus, she must be a Virgo… I know what she is talking about, because USUALLY, I AM that lady (minus large zip-lock bags filled with illegal substances).

Agitated with my observations, I add in a whisper of “apparently…” with far too much judgement and sarcasm.

An awkward silence ensues, and I find this to be prime time to exit stage left. Besides, she doesn’t have what I need, anyway.

Betcha if I needed a safety pin, there would be one floating around in there.

Maybe, just maybe, this is my fault.

Maybe, if I was at a family restaurant, instead of this dark bar,  I would have better luck with my needs.

Maybe under other circumstances I could find a nice overweight and sympathetic mother… with a small baby, and an overstuffed baby bag.

And I would ask for her help… and she would reach deep into that well stocked baby bag of hers, and pull out just ONE of ten travel size baby powder bottles; and she would hand it over with loving care, and say “Keep it. You know you’re going to need a reapplication some where down the road.”

And she would wink at me, maybe even squeeze my hand or my shoulder and I would feel safe, protected and loved.

I would respond with a smile and a humble “Thank you”; thinking my good Karma must be returning in the form of self preservation, and I would walk home properly powdered.

Instead of looking for a family restaurant, with a responsible mother carrying a plentiful baby bag; I walked back into the bar intent on the only legal numbing I know… whiskey.

They know me here and the bartender asks if I will take another double Jameson on the rocks. I say “yes and add on a pint of Fat Tire.”

My favorite short order Cook sits to my right, and says “I’ve got those, put ’em on my tab.”

“Oh you don’t have to do that… I’ve got it.” I respond with a shyness.

“Nah, you gave that warm knit hat that you made, to my friend who was sick… and that hat kept her head and ears warm all winter.”

I can’t argue with such kind logic, and thank him for the drinks.

My good Karma is not in fact going to self preservation right now; or maybe it is, it’s just my momentary perspective…. I do need these drinks right now, if only to distract my brain from the chub rub forming on my inner thighs.

“Well, thanks again. I really appreciate it.”

And I do appreciate it as I slip out the back door to the patio; to go think some more about perspective.

The Zen Buddhists say to “judge nothing.” To see all as life, without duality.

So I adopt this perspective for the moment and take a long swig of whiskey. I hold it in my mouth for a while, letting the alcohol drench all of my taste buds. Slowly, I swallow it’s gentle burn down my throat.

I let the alcohol sit in my mouth like a tincture; letting the medicinal properties seep into the porous membrane of my mouth, allowing the liquid to cross the blood brain barrier and stimulate an exquisite release of dopamine.

Anyone observing may think I am contemplating the “swallow.” Wondering why my process is less smooth and desperate as their own, as they urgently suckle the heads of bottles containing weak watery beer. They drink it like they need water, like a hungry baby at the nipple.

I am outside, and no one is here. No one to watch or judge.

The air is thick with humidity and the clouds compound into a thick grayness above; growing heavy with precipitation, the thunder begins to take over.

I smile at the age old vision of God and his army of angels rolling bowling balls down an infinite bowling lane. Each roll of thunder, a ball. Each strike of lightening, the strike of all ten pins. After some time, it begins to hail. Perhaps this is a sign of a Heavenly game of 300, and the hail is celestial confetti falling to Earths floor.

The hoots and hollers,  vibrating clouds, reverberate the cheers of a job well done. The Heavenly Team has won the League Championship.

Unbeknownst to them, we sit below like ants; watching as our flowers are beat free of their petals and our cars become dented with new geography.

A few people now have gathered beneath the rain shelter. We chat about the weather, avoiding conversations that dig much deeper. It’s okay… I didn’t come for more than distraction from my physical malady; which I have almost successfully mastered, until I again remind myself of the impending four miles.  Four Miles… for miles.

 

I take the last drink of whiskey, and chew on a couple of ice cubes as I stand to take my first apprehensive steps toward home.

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insight, Writing

The Observational Adventure

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Remember the great writers of the most recently retired generation. The Kerouac and Thompson era. Those journalist trippers taking to the road, ( and not always the high one) making a story as they went along. The intricate weavers of an American subculture. Remnants of their lives describe eternal youth and the adventure of virility few in this day and age can experience without some hinderance. Even those books were riddled with hurdles and nay-sayers, but these writers weren’t necessarily writing with the mindset of being the voice of their generation. Instead, these creative minds were merely taking time to observe the human condition from a new perspective; brilliantly commenting on the social climate. They are the record keepers, the traveling linage of pioneers ready for change and personal breakthrough.

The karmic struggle of a writer, is to conveying a worthwhile message. Anyone can write, but few can write well enough to captivate audiences for years to come. Those literary artists stepped beyond the front stoop and took a bounding leap into the unknown. These are the characters found to be the most inspirational.

Who will be the next great writer of my generation? Who will take the open road exposing eyes to things unseen, and yet there all along. Which one will stand up with vigor and enthusiasm for the new paradigm, a master of words and action? Why will masses follow along the journey, what will make it profound and worth recommending to a friend? What is it, as a growing society, that we still need to learn and assimilate? Who is worthy of such a task? Could it be a woman?

Few know author, Joyce Johnson. She wrote the memoir “Minor Characters,” a journey of her evolution as a writer and her love affair with Jack Kerouac. Joyce, was indeed, a minor character in the underground life of some of the most recognized writers of that time. She was amoungst one of the few women allowed into the inner sanctum of those well known beatniks, Burroughs and Ginsburg. Her accounts of the time she spent learning, loving, and living in the shadows is poinant and captivating. “Minor Characters,” brings to mind the question as to how; with her writing skills, keen observation, and warrior spirit, she remained overlooked as a complimentary commentary on the day and age. Perhaps we have been so caught up in the taboo stories of fierce and flagrant men; as is common in American culture, that those softer voices have been drowned out. Just as the admired men of her time were openly defiant to the social norm, tagging along the ranks was Joyce. In a time when women were expected to get married, stay home and have babies, Joyce was expanding her mind and sexuality. Her involvement with Kerouac never turned into marriage, and though he was 12 years her senior, he highly respected her as a writer and confidant. Still, few recognize her impact on Kerouac’s musings… truely a minor character.

I took the leap into the unknown some 10 years ago now. I have traveled the open road, and talked with strangers. I have stayed in the homes of people met merely hours ago, only because it seemed like a good idea at the time. I have observed the bizarre and beautiful array of life bleeding behind closed doors. Empathy is more prevalent in my life due to scenes so heart-wrenching and real, no script could do them justice. Trickles of poetry and sketch have formed from the surreal nature of observational participation. What is it I am destined to convey?

I have been treated with love and disgust, invaded and ignored. The path has been dirty but rewarding. Perhaps the only rewards are stories. Maybe it is the ability to slip into the personal lives of others. To walk, invited into all the swells of struggle that humans desire to share, and yet feel too ashamed or isolated by, to know how to. I have been there in one way or another. Crying with strangers, sleeping with soul mates, laughing at nature, embracing the sunset. The fabric of our lives is a quilt work of words and experience, a colorful co-creation in a constant state of evolution. Each of us, without knowing, are active in our participation. The blessings of momentary meetings, the rush of brilliance shown through Truth. You may not know it, and you may never realize the silent impact you can have on a writer. I could write poems about a certain strangers’ smile. Those things may never be published, the muse may never know they were influential… and yet, words however private spill forth like a fountain of expression. A writer’s “full release.” Just as life force spills forth from every man until his death, words worth writing fill the page of eager hands. Some times in life are less inspirational than others, and still it is only a sign that the wellspring is in the process of change and revitalization.

I am on the adventure, you are each adding to the journey, the goal is unseen. The struggle is to learn how to really LIVE a life of expression and integrity. Each interaction bring to light a new concept or facet of totality and unity within our humanity. May the words of sages and wise women be a spark into the flame of greater creativity in each mortal soul. Eagerly we await a greater acceptance of our bond as humans, our Universal Minds and Hearts. Each time you read words of inspiration, contemplation, revelation and resonance, heed the message, though mass produced, it was written specifically for you at that time. There is no time in Truth, and Truth is timeless. May your soul recognize your journey no matter what time it is.

insight, Writing

Where Are Our Heros?

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Who do you look up to?  Why?  What endearing or respectful qualities does this person carry, worthy of being a hero?  Do you, yourself also harness these qualities, or do you envy them and worship them in others, whilst not embracing them into yourself?

Let me tell you about my Hero.

Now I am not a religious person.  I do not buy into secular doctrine presented through Churches or religious organization.  I have spent some hours in the bible, and at Bible College.  I have continued my research into spirituality and faith through my own accord and intuition.

My hero is whatever the embodiment of Christ Consciousness is.  And let me tell you, he ain’t no hippie dippy Jesus.

Take a moment to check out this video, to see Christ Consciousness in action.

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Notice these guys and their sense of humor regarding all the useless trends out there.  AND then notice the authentic looks of surprise and humility of the participants in Making Homeless People Smile, WORLDWIDE.

This video makes me cry every time, because it is genuine.  And it mentally takes me back to a time in my life when I was 19.

I was attending Manhattan Christian College in Manhattan, Kansas.  Just a Podunk school of about 500 students directly across from Kansas State University campus.

Now I only attended MCC for a semester.  I left with a 0.0 GPA, because I stopped going to classes in order to fulfill what I felt to be actual work from the level of Christ Consciousness.

It started out as a birthday trip to Kansas City, Missouri.  I had a bunch of birthday money, and my new best friend, Natasha, in tow.  We hoped to get into an 18 and over club.  We hoped to push the boundary on this new level of perceived freedom, being away from home for the first time.  Pushing boundaries.

I rented a hotel room, we called a cab… and we went into the city for fun.

The night never really panned out as we planned.  Early into the evening we were kidnapped by our cab driver… who was from foreign country.  And maybe things got a little weird because we were pretending to be something we weren’t… we were playing roles in this new city.

We never made it to a club.  We did however walk around town on this Friday night… and I saw something I had never really seen before…lots and lots of homeless people, and lots and lots of young drunk student types.  And in this situation of newness, I was witness to yet another thing I was not prepared to see.  Those young drunk students, being incredibly mean, rude, disrespectful and inhumane to the homeless population.

I was shocked and disgusted.  I had my own experiences with bullying, but this was like watching some sort of sick torture.

Students purposely spilling soda on sitting homeless beggars.  One young (I hesitate to use the word man) maliciously kicked a homeless vet’s hat, which was sitting on the ground full of change.  The snickering fools walking off as the Vet scrambled across the sidewalk to gather his lost money.

In that moment, some thing flickered inside of me, and in a warm rush it is as though I stepped aside in my own body, and the Spirit of something Bigger came into my heart.  It was as though my consciousness had blacked out, and been replaced by the voice and Spirit of Christ.

First thing I knew was, these people need to eat.  They need some food.  I have money.  There is a pizza shop.  I can feed them.

So I walk up to a pizza shop window called By The Slice.  The guy behind the window is named Jude.  Hey Jude.

With confidence, I ask Jude for two large pizzas.

“We don’t sell whole pies here.  We only sell by the slice.”

“Well, I am gonna need two whole pizzas.”

“It’s going to be pretty expensive.”

“I don’t really care, there are some homeless people out here that need to eat.  I need two pizza’s and a large Mountain Dew.”

Jude smiles, while shaking his head.  He tells me it will be a couple minutes before the next pie is out, and he proceeds to ring me up for $91.11.  Damn most expensive pizza’s I have ever paid for.  But whatever, it was birthday money… and what was I going to do?  Probably buy an over priced t-shirt from Ambercrombie, just because it says “Wyoming” across the front?  Yeah, probably.  An Ambercrombie shirt is about as useful as planking.

While all this is happening, Natasha is in the run around of my journey while following what ever this Celestial Whim was.

I got the pizzas and walked back to the two Vet’s  who had their change kicked around.  I stood above them with the boxes of pizza.

“Would you like some pizza?”  I ask.  I am confronted with looks of horror and skepticism.

“Don’t tease us.”  One responds.

“I am not teasing.  Would you like some pizza?”  I open the box and one of the men pulls a piece out, and hands it to the fellow next to him, and shuts the lid to the box.

“You can take more than that… you can take as much as you want.”  I open the box again, and let them take out two pieces each.

The man who had not yet said anything now looks at me with tears in his eyes, and asks “Are you mad at me?”

And in this moment, I know he is not talking to ME, but to the Spirit within me in that moment.  That warm Spirit which was taking over, while I stepped aside and outside above myself, watched and listened as the words “No, I am not mad at you…I love you.”  pour from my lips.  Something I, myself, would NOT have said.  He begins to cry.

I connected with this man’s eyes. I saw his soul and he saw my sacred heart.  I continued down the road, looking for the desolate hovering in corners.  I shared what I have to give.  Few people asked for money, which I did not give, because the goal was to make sure people were fed and monetary charity is not my style.

This all happened in September of 1999.  I had only been at school a few weeks… but this trip changed my life, and it changed me.   School to learn who Christ was, no longer seemed like the real way to experience what that love and compassion are.  I felt stifled living in a bubble of people who tout a title called Christian… but would only actually do service in community a couple times of year.  Helping people seemed like it should be a daily exercise in spiritual growth and development.

The college had some strict rules on leaving campus.  So I lied, and told them I was signing out on the weekend to visit family.  Really I was renting hotel rooms on credit, and using the money I made at the Christian radio station I worked at, to buy bread, peanut butter and jelly; bags of chips, juice boxes, cookies and packages of granola, plastic sammie bags, brown paper lunch sacks and napkins.

Then I would drive it all to Kansas City, and stay for the weekend walking around alone down town, looking for people to feed.  I never felt like I was in any risk of danger, because I was certain whatever was working through me is INVINCIBLE!   It was a huge practice in sacrifice and faith.  It has been from that point on in life that I knew I was to live in Service to Humanity.

I probably took six trips to KC that semester.  One of the excursions a young man, about my age was curious as to what I was doing and why.  And it created the most beautiful dialog, because to him, it made sense.  And in that moment of it making sense, he wanted to give everything he had in order to help.

“Should I give them my money?” He asked.

“I don’t give money.  I will buy something for some one if they express need, however.  I think that charity through money is like trying to build a garden without getting your hands dirty.  It is easy to just give some one some money, and then they go off and buy beer or drugs… you just send them off on their way.  But when you feed a person, or take them to buy something they need, then you are actually participating in service.  You are sharing soul space.”

“Have you ever had anyone be mad at you for not giving them money?”

“Yes.  And I don’t care.  If they get mad they obviously didn’t want what I have to offer.  I can’t offer everything to everybody, but I can share what I do have and try to share it wisely.”

“That makes a lot of sense.”  And when he walked away, I felt certain his heart had been stirred.

Over the years my service has changed shape and form.  But it is the lesson of Christ Consciousness and the Righteous power that we have through harnessing It, which can create a landslide of change in fairly short period of time.

If you believe you live a life of righteous service, and yet you have never felt the Infinite Power of True Selfless Love… you have been living in a delusion, and perhaps you should step outside of your comfort zone for a while.  There is nothing wrong with Humility and there is nothing wrong with getting dirty every once in a while.  Selfless service is rarely a neat and tidy procedure; but I guarantee that afterward you will feel lighter and with a new sense of strength and purpose.

Art, insight, Writing

Reasons Active Un-involvement Is Better Than Activism

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Are you the type of person who gets upset and fired up about injustice in the world?

Are you the type of person who will join a cause in order to put your hands in the pot of injustice; in order to stir the contents, and hope the stew comes out better than when you first involved yourself?

Do you throw yourself head first into “causes” which seem to only de-evolve and leave you with a bruised head and ego?

Then maybe you should take a step back and look at so called “activism.”

Activism is in direct relation to Polarity. Activism rarely has any real solutions… rather it is a vehicle for sharing information and through that information polarizing people by bringing smaller groups together, and isolating others through conflict.

Do I believe in Human Rights and Free Will? Yes.
Do I believe Activist groups are really looking out for the greater good? Not really.

Their intentions may seem spotless, but the fact is that they are creating a sort of black hole when it really comes to change.

Maybe you will say… “what about all those people in Egypt who are rioting… don’t you think that is activism?”

Well no, I don’t… I actually see it as Active Un-Involvement.

People who are willing to say “fuck going to work, fuck going to the store, fuck this system! We are gonna rally in the streets and stop the machine by stopping participation with the expectations of our keepers.” That is active un-involvement.

The first reason this is better than activism, is because the only real way to beat any system, is to remove yourself from it. To live life as is right by your heart vs what the mainstream says.

The solution is not to start an “anti” campaign. Anti-campaigns only create more conflict by saying “this thing over here is bad.” By creating an anti-campaign you are actually still participating with the thing you do not agree with. You are not pulling yourself from participation with the other side.

A person can yell against GMO’s all day… but if they are still buying their food from a big chain grocery store… they are in direct conflict of their message.

Proof is in action, not activism. Hate GMO’s? Boycott the grocery store, build a green house and start tending your vegetables.

Invite people to eat them, or to buy starts off you…. That is Active Un-involvement, which offers a non violent active solution to an idea or system your head and heart do not agree with.

I would have to say that sincere “anti- car” cyclists are the most Active in Un-Involvement as it gets… They ride their bikes everywhere. In highly congested areas they get where they need to be faster… their calves are usually really nice, and they have found a very productive solution to staying away from the oil industry. I once had a friend like this who had ” Fuck Cars” tattooed across her calves… so while she was speeding through traffic, the drivers of cars could see her point, very clearly.

Active Un-Involvement is a way for a person to REALLY live their Truth. If you don’t agree with something, don’t buy into it. Don’t give it your energy… instead redirect your energy into the solution.

Activism, like I said, is really great for the dissemination of information… but rarely does it go much further.

Think about how much money has gone into “finding a cure for cancer,” when we have had several all along. People have been fed a placebo idea, that it is some how wrong to question alternatives and fall out of line with corrupt ideals.

People who actively un-involve themselves are free thinkers. They do not rely on a group to tell them what is right or wrong… rather they take all the information into account and think for themselves. These same people are usually very tired of falling into rank when it comes to ideas they don’t agree with, and instead of fighting back… they just drop out and create the circumstances they would like to see.

Now maybe you are reading all this, and you disagree. You think things are just fine the way they are. Or maybe you consider yourself to be an activist and this is just down right sacrilege…

Are you going to start an “anti Madge Midgely” blog? Are you going to funnel your energy into telling me I am wrong? Or are you going just blow off this article as bullshit and go right back to your campaign? Most likely you will simmer over it for a minute and move on, maybe even start your own blog about activism. And that is okay… that is your first recognition that you are capable of active un-involvement.

We don’t have to bash anyone, or any thing. We just have to educate people and allow them to think for themselves with the solution that they CAN DO ANYTHING they put their mind to, and the best way to be active is to just go and do it and see what happens.

We each choose to actively un-involve ourselves in many ways through out life… whether it is the conscious effort to not be involved in gossip, or whether it is a boycott on the Nestle’ Corp. We choose where we want to put our energy.

If you feel a massive amount of conflict in your life… look at how many mental “anti campaigns” you have running through your program. Shut them off. Redirect your mental energy into seeing why things exist the way they do, figure out what works and what doesn’t. Figure out what brings you most piece of mind and heart. Follow that, and start being active with your True Self and not the bi-polar conflict of belief without real action. Educate yourselves on Many Points of View… and then discern the Truth.

dove