It's the 10th Anniversary of my 29th birthday
Will I get what I want this year?
Will all that's come to me these 39 years
Fill the pocket occupied by seeming need?
Will I be who I want this year?
Will all that I've done and seen and been
Grow to more whole than the pile of dried seeds?
----------------------------------------------------
My birthday enters Singing Autumn
Summer lingers
Green goes golden
Morning later
Evening sooner
Atonal rondos of
Neighborhood children now
Quiet, occasional
Indoors they worry through
Pages of stories and
Memorization of
Tables and scribbles
Tables and scribbles
28 August 2006
Writing Intentionally
Perhaps if I had written more before now there would be fewer thoughts swirling in my head, thus making writing a simpler task. For me, the most difficult part of writing is choosing a topic. Before that the most difficult part is the discipline it takes to regularly write. It's easy to lay in bed and think about future chapters of a non-existent book. It's difficult to stop and record those ideas somewhere. And - in a moment - the ideas are gone. Sure they're replaced by new ones the next time I'm doing some repetetive task, or avoiding thinking about bills or something. Grandiosity = thinking I could write a book when so far the only writing samples are pages and pages of decades of self-indulgent journalling. Someday maybe I'll go through them and pick out the good parts - throw the bad writing away.
Then again, the minute I take the time and discipline to sit and type or write or work out a new song or pursue some creative task, I have something to work with. It's the starting that's hard for me. Getting started.
Once, near the end of a relationship, I went to do laundry, having saved up six or seven loads. I dragged all the laundry baskets into my car and drove to the nearest clean laundrymat. There's a tiny, run-down place near my house, but it always looks seedy to me. And there's no comfortable seating. I'd rather pay more and go to the big, shiny, clean place, farther away. They even have televisions hanging from the ceiling, each one showing something different, playing quietly, with subtitles that can be read in spite of the machine-song.
Having a few hours of free time while the washing-robot worked I wrote songs about my strained relationship. I wrote three songs which all "worked". The words were already waiting for me to write them down. My constant spiraling thoughts about love and not-love had already organized themselves into something useful. My songs told the truth about my commitment, my shifting attention... intention. We broke up the following month.
I just need to write, create opportunities to write, have the intention to write and follow that with action. Blah, blah, blah. How many times have I thought and said and written this exact thing? Maybe I'm feeling more committed because another birthday is around the bend. I'll be one year away from another decade next week. 39 years old. But that's a topic for another time.
Later.
Then again, the minute I take the time and discipline to sit and type or write or work out a new song or pursue some creative task, I have something to work with. It's the starting that's hard for me. Getting started.
Once, near the end of a relationship, I went to do laundry, having saved up six or seven loads. I dragged all the laundry baskets into my car and drove to the nearest clean laundrymat. There's a tiny, run-down place near my house, but it always looks seedy to me. And there's no comfortable seating. I'd rather pay more and go to the big, shiny, clean place, farther away. They even have televisions hanging from the ceiling, each one showing something different, playing quietly, with subtitles that can be read in spite of the machine-song.
Having a few hours of free time while the washing-robot worked I wrote songs about my strained relationship. I wrote three songs which all "worked". The words were already waiting for me to write them down. My constant spiraling thoughts about love and not-love had already organized themselves into something useful. My songs told the truth about my commitment, my shifting attention... intention. We broke up the following month.
I just need to write, create opportunities to write, have the intention to write and follow that with action. Blah, blah, blah. How many times have I thought and said and written this exact thing? Maybe I'm feeling more committed because another birthday is around the bend. I'll be one year away from another decade next week. 39 years old. But that's a topic for another time.
Later.
23 August 2006
Conscious Rambling
Conscience
Consequence
Consciousness
Countinence
Coincidence
Concurrence
Continuance
Consecration
Condemnation
Conflagration
Consideration
Contemplation
Consolation
Consequence
Consciousness
Countinence
Coincidence
Concurrence
Continuance
Consecration
Condemnation
Conflagration
Consideration
Contemplation
Consolation
Hump Day
It's Wednesday. Tomorrow is my Friday since I only work four days per week. The ten hour days are long, but the three day weekend makes it all worthwhile.
Truly, I have nothing to say at the moment. My mind contains black and white static-fuzz, probably because I've been sitting in front of a dual computer monitor for 6 hours straight and I need to go outdoors for a few minutes. Get some oxygen into my blood.
I want this blog to change my life. I want to write meaningful things - not just self-indulgent drivel. I hope you'll indulge me while I work up to the intellectually brilliant output I hope will emerge.... It may take some outpouring of sludge before that occurs. My ego wants to make its mark on the world. My lazier self doesn't want to work very hard, though.
Really, in most areas of my life I want to do whatever is the equivalent to winning hundreds of millions of dollars in Powerball. Minimal effort, maximum return. Where the hell is my trust fund? This is known as a sense of entitlement. It's hard being poor and still retaining this desire for... well... a lot.
Next lifetime perhaps.
The Myth of Ur, Plato's Republic (introduced to me by Jim, who I won't discuss herein) illustrates the idea that we each had an opportunity to choose this life we're living. However, before we became embodied we were made to forget the fact that we'd selected this particular existence.
In that scheme, I assume that I was previously a really, really, ridiculously good looking supermodel with outlandish wealth and countless friends, not to mention infallible self-esteem. Everything I tried turned out as I hoped; and though life was pleasant it was not much of a challenge. At the end of this time of ease and joy I devised a plan to learn more through my next life journey. Thus, this.
I sometimes imagine that in my next life I would like to be a fluffy, well-tempered, smart, beloved pet dog or cat. The downside of choosing to be a dog or a cat is that I'm not sure that a dog or a cat wishes to be something else. I think that's a purely human trait - the dreaming of being OTHER. So... in that scenario, I would forever remain a pet.
I mean, from my perspective right now, being a pet forever and ever, over and over again, doesn't sound appealing. Being a pet for one lifetime, as sort of a rest period, would be nice. But I don't get to choose for the next several lifetimes. Just the upcoming one, right? So, if a dog always wants to be a dog and a cat always wants to be a cat, I'd be stuck.
On the other hand, if I were a dog or a cat, and I was happy being a dog or a cat, and I didn't have the cognitive ability to imagine myself otherwise, would it matter that in my current awareness being a house-pet forever doesn't sound like the perfect answer? After this life I will, assuming things go the way of Ur, have a completely different consciousness - maybe one that thinks being a pet mammal forever is really the way to exist joyfully. Do pets achieve enlightenment?
My dog enjoys the same games and the same petting day after day. Or does he? Maybe he longs for fancier foods and agility training and canine massage, but has no means by which to express these wishes. Ugh. One more vat of worry and guilt. How conscious is my dog?
Maybe he does want to be something else in his next life, but he arrives at the opportunity with only "Woof!" He's destined to be a fluffy-dog over and over again simply for lack of communicative ability. Maybe he doesn't know he wants to be something else, but if he were given one day to be human he'd understand his options better. How conscious is my dog? How awake are you and I?
You have to think these things through. Choices have consequences.
Truly, I have nothing to say at the moment. My mind contains black and white static-fuzz, probably because I've been sitting in front of a dual computer monitor for 6 hours straight and I need to go outdoors for a few minutes. Get some oxygen into my blood.
I want this blog to change my life. I want to write meaningful things - not just self-indulgent drivel. I hope you'll indulge me while I work up to the intellectually brilliant output I hope will emerge.... It may take some outpouring of sludge before that occurs. My ego wants to make its mark on the world. My lazier self doesn't want to work very hard, though.
Really, in most areas of my life I want to do whatever is the equivalent to winning hundreds of millions of dollars in Powerball. Minimal effort, maximum return. Where the hell is my trust fund? This is known as a sense of entitlement. It's hard being poor and still retaining this desire for... well... a lot.
Next lifetime perhaps.
The Myth of Ur, Plato's Republic (introduced to me by Jim, who I won't discuss herein) illustrates the idea that we each had an opportunity to choose this life we're living. However, before we became embodied we were made to forget the fact that we'd selected this particular existence.
In that scheme, I assume that I was previously a really, really, ridiculously good looking supermodel with outlandish wealth and countless friends, not to mention infallible self-esteem. Everything I tried turned out as I hoped; and though life was pleasant it was not much of a challenge. At the end of this time of ease and joy I devised a plan to learn more through my next life journey. Thus, this.
I sometimes imagine that in my next life I would like to be a fluffy, well-tempered, smart, beloved pet dog or cat. The downside of choosing to be a dog or a cat is that I'm not sure that a dog or a cat wishes to be something else. I think that's a purely human trait - the dreaming of being OTHER. So... in that scenario, I would forever remain a pet.
I mean, from my perspective right now, being a pet forever and ever, over and over again, doesn't sound appealing. Being a pet for one lifetime, as sort of a rest period, would be nice. But I don't get to choose for the next several lifetimes. Just the upcoming one, right? So, if a dog always wants to be a dog and a cat always wants to be a cat, I'd be stuck.
On the other hand, if I were a dog or a cat, and I was happy being a dog or a cat, and I didn't have the cognitive ability to imagine myself otherwise, would it matter that in my current awareness being a house-pet forever doesn't sound like the perfect answer? After this life I will, assuming things go the way of Ur, have a completely different consciousness - maybe one that thinks being a pet mammal forever is really the way to exist joyfully. Do pets achieve enlightenment?
My dog enjoys the same games and the same petting day after day. Or does he? Maybe he longs for fancier foods and agility training and canine massage, but has no means by which to express these wishes. Ugh. One more vat of worry and guilt. How conscious is my dog?
Maybe he does want to be something else in his next life, but he arrives at the opportunity with only "Woof!" He's destined to be a fluffy-dog over and over again simply for lack of communicative ability. Maybe he doesn't know he wants to be something else, but if he were given one day to be human he'd understand his options better. How conscious is my dog? How awake are you and I?
You have to think these things through. Choices have consequences.
22 August 2006
Birth... School... Work... Death
Here I sit at my desk at work at 7:54pm, waiting for the last 6 minutes of this part of my day to pass. Next I drive to a rehearsal for a scene I'm doing at the request of a friend. The drive will take 20 minutes or so and I will arrive around 8:25 to rehearse a 5-minute scene for more than an hour, most likely. How could it take over an hour to do a 5-minute scene, you might ask? Because we drag our heels through every twist and turn of phrase in this poorly written drivel which we actors agreed to do. Next time I'll read the script first, I think. The script of this scene makes me sometimes visualize shooting myself in the face.
7:56. I'm a fast typist.
I wouldn't hold the gun in my mouth. I'd shoot diagonally through one cheek sort of up and back, towards the back of my skull. I think then I'd hit major areas of the brain, ensuring avoidance of vegetablism. No - not vegetarianism - vegetablism - vegetativism - living-void. I do not desire to be a zucchini, thank you.
At least if I were in a coma or otherwise vegetative state I would hope that someone would come in and do my hair. Beauty school students should be allowed to practice on coma patients instead of those plastic heads. It would make for more interesting tv shots when the coma patients' spouses try to pull the plug. Poor Terri Schiavo. Her hair looked awful!
8:00 pm.
Gotta go.
M
7:56. I'm a fast typist.
I wouldn't hold the gun in my mouth. I'd shoot diagonally through one cheek sort of up and back, towards the back of my skull. I think then I'd hit major areas of the brain, ensuring avoidance of vegetablism. No - not vegetarianism - vegetablism - vegetativism - living-void. I do not desire to be a zucchini, thank you.
At least if I were in a coma or otherwise vegetative state I would hope that someone would come in and do my hair. Beauty school students should be allowed to practice on coma patients instead of those plastic heads. It would make for more interesting tv shots when the coma patients' spouses try to pull the plug. Poor Terri Schiavo. Her hair looked awful!
8:00 pm.
Gotta go.
M
19 August 2006
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