The Tree of Tenere

A good friend of mine just told me a story about how her daughter is being bullied by a group of girls, and mainly one leader who is feeding misinformation and slander against her to the rest (Sound familiar? No no no let's not get political here). I know how strong her parents are, so I'm not worried that she's being taught various ways to deal with it. Her mom and I clashed for years getting a theater company off the ground, arguing for hours about artistic integrity and every single nut and bolt behind productions. You name it - scheduling, artwork, casting, programs - we argued about it until the fight was eventually spent and we realized that we were always fighting for the same things. I forget the actual moment we figured it out, but her presence lifted me to do some incredible things before I left it altogether. Her husband was also a great sounding board and practical thinker; I can see why they're such a good match and why they're amazing parents. 

I don't know who really has it worse, the kids who are bullied today or the kids who were bullied back when I was in school. While the kids are overwhelmed with social media and now have to learn from home, I distinctly remember the dread I dealt with going to school every day. Were they going to make fun of how I walked? My looks? Were they going to steal something from me when I wasn't looking again? At recess or P.E., was a ball going to be thrown at me or worse, during football, soccer, or other games, was I going to be blindsided by a ball, an elbow, or a trip? It was easier to make me flinch before the years my father put me in pop warner football. 

Playing for the Burbank Vikings only raised my pain tolerance, removing the flinch, but it didn't prevent me from being a target. It got me in the habit of counting my bruises in the bathtub after a game, and not being afraid of hitting people back. I think I may have thrown some Waterboy rage at a few people I tackled, even at a young age, but that just changed the nature of how I dealt with the bullies at my catholic grade school, where the nuns tried to scare us into behaving because God was watching us. He sure wasn't watching when I was being cornered by the group of bullies or when I started trading punches to the face. The very last fight I got into with them was eighth grade, when after school, one of the guys kept following me and pushing me into reacting, until I stopped, set my feet, and brought a punch from what felt like the southern atmosphere up to his mouth, raking the inside of his lips against his braces. He held his mouth and stood there, shocked, and I walked away. Not ten minutes later, his little brother rode up to me on his mongoose bike and said he heard I got a busted up mouth. I turned around, smiled, and said "Not me, but you might want to check up on your brother, though." He raced off, and I was never bothered again. 

When it came to graduation from that school, I stopped caring because I never felt supported by them, nor did I feel safe. I had two best friends, a first kiss with a girl I was infatuated with in 3rd grade, another puppy love for the rest of my time there, and that's all I wanted. I distracted my parents from graduation and skipped it.  I remember that we were working in the backyard, waist deep in a project where we had work gloves and tools everywhere, and my dad asked me when the ceremony was. I told him it was about two hours ago. He felt terrible, and called my mom outside, but I told them it was really okay. I didn't need to see anyone again, especially the guys who would love to take one last swipe at me. 

Imagine 6 years of people telling you that you're ugly, you do stupid things, that your existence was just a stain in their eyes. It was relentless, and I went into high school believing it. I had few close friendships in high school, and there was a lot of distraction, but my development was marinated in the soup of judgement. It was in college when I started to understand the long term effects it had on me, first attending classes with the younger brother of one of the original bullies, then surviving an abusive relationship where I just could not figure out which way was up. When the relationship ended I was finally broken, and it took roughly 2-3 years to even glance at the pieces and begin to put things together. 

Studying acting became my master class in human behavior, especially considering it was the Meisner technique, which didn't provide for people faking their way through scenes. I studied directing, watched them as real people navigating scenes, and immersed myself in that world intensely for a little over a decade. It was truly the only place where I felt alive, where truth mattered, where anything could happen and once the show was over, the slate was erased and you could start again another day. You could relive life, complete with a soundtrack and a whole room of people watching you, living with you, and then you had one last time to do it and make it count. What a gift! Hundreds of performances, maybe thousands, and it never got old for me. It changed how I saw people in real life, and on one hand, it built a vocation for watching out for people who were similarly marginalized, mostly artists. On the other hand, it also put me in the place of recognizing some abusive people I'd cross paths with, who didn't worry about the collateral damage around them, or the people they hurt. 

It dawned on me; Some people grow up but don't grow out of the habit of bending other people to their will. Other people learn how to bully over time. So little is done to check off that behavior on a base social level, because people are often either good at reading it immediately and then walking away, or they, like me at so many points in my life, just assume they're right and adjust our own behavior accordingly. Sometimes we even fill in the blanks: They're totally right to act this way. I am not good enough to be treated well by them. Of course they reward other people with compliments while at the same time love to point out all of my flaws. They know me. They see me. Who cares if my heart is in the right place? 

Sometimes I wonder how I dealt with it for so long. Maybe I didn't know I could walk away. Maybe I needed to react but realized that every single reaction was prelabeled and already denied the oxygen needed to spark. In some cases, I just blocked and hid from the people online, and that became the easy fix if I knew they were hostile. Others,  I held onto for want of the good moments as long as I could, and then, when I just couldn't take it any more, I left definitively and changed as a result. Sometimes I just couldn't walk away, since we were bound by a workplace. Each time. I used that energy, that push away, to invest in myself and become a better person, and when I figured out how, I used the energy to invest in people around me. 

If I'm being completely honest, I'm not happy about things I feel like I've missed out on, but I absolutely would not trade who I am now if given the chance to go back, do it all over again, and maybe be just like everyone else. If anything, I have had to lean harder into my sense of self to compensate for the price tag stuck on my skin. I've had to trust my likes and dislikes, my presence in the moment, my expressiveness, and learn to keep myself company. I've learned to visit envy but not make it a companion, and to exercise a daily count of my blessings and qualities. I've allowed myself to believe that the things I do will leave behind a marked difference in the world without so much self awareness, in that those things were never about me. I've had to pick up the torch of love my parents had for me and take it with me wherever I go. 

The bullies from grade school are all scattered or dead, the ones from adulthood still honing their craft, I'm assuming. If the future holds something different for me, I am still out here in the middle of nowhere, roots deep in the soil and ready for it. 

I think my friend's daughter is going to be fine. She's brilliant, sensitive, resilient, and has a lot of support. My friend was pregnant with her when we worked on my musical together. If all of those hours of me playing guitar to her connected us in any way, I hope it gives her some strength and clarity. 

I think we're both going to be okay. 

Vita Post Mortem

Head on my pillow, eyes to my ceiling, I return to thoughts about my parents and the days after they crossed over. I think I’m reflecting on it now because I woke up to a phone call from my sister this morning about the election, and it felt similar. These were tears of joy; the ones four years and two weeks ago were desperate. I know that I've written about my dad multiple times, in social media, in this blog, in emails and messages to friends, but I haven't really written about the whole experience.

Back in October of 2016, we had some warning about my dad, three days or so of his health changing again, but clearly the end was somewhere near. I had always imagined I would fall to the ground or throw something breakable, but I was denied an immediate reaction because I had to keep my sister focused on driving safely over the phone when the day came. Her phone had died overnight and she woke up and plugged it in. Almost immediately she saw the messages asking her to come to see our dad right away, but it was too late. He was alive when she left the house, gone by the time she got there. 

What followed was three days of me being lost in a dizzy fog, not eating and crying in fits, and watching the final two movies in the Harry Potter series. The sadness of saying goodbye to those characters somehow mixed in with the displacement of having lost my dad. I eventually went back to work to encounter mixed reactions. Most offered condolences. One offered a cheap shot at a part of my job that he covered. Another expressed concern but started digging and asking questions in an attempt to get me to break down. The girl I was into at the time had ghosted me for two weeks (she often disappeared on my birthday) contacted me and wanted to go get coffee; as we sat outside, she was perpetually glued to her phone and not concerned about me. In the silence, I sorted through my feelings and started to break down in public, and she, not looking up from her phone, put one hand on my back. It felt gross, so I stuffed that shit back inside and finished our coffee session. All this happened the weekend some friends took me out drinking for my birthday and had conspired to get me heavily drunk (which was a problem that year because I had dealt with four other deaths), and I ended up being violently ill for half the weekend. When I returned to work, I received some space and emotional support, but nobody helped me with the workload during an unusually busy time, and I ended up working 36 straight days, at least 25 of which were 12 hour days. 

That was the experience with dad, and my mom was in the bed next to his at their assisted living home, but thanks to Alzheimer’s, she didn’t know anything had happened. He died on October 15th, at 10:15am. That’s right: 10:15 on 10/15

My mother was a slow fade and once again we got some warning, but this time we had time with her, if only a few hours. It was early on Sunday, November 3rd, and I was on the phone with my two sisters in the room with her. She was unresponsive but we all talked to her, telling her we loved her. My oldest sister wasn’t saying anything that made sense, and I kept asking for descriptions of how she looked, what she was doing. A significant moment came when my middle sister was able to say what she never thought she would have the strength to say: she said “You’ve done enough. It’s okay to go. We’ll be fine. You can go be with dad.” We didn’t know what she was holding on for, but it finally felt necessary to give her permission to go. 

It wasn’t until my older sister had to leave to get a sweater and her meds that my mom had changed. Slow, quiet breathing became 2-3 sips of air at a time, which became more shallow, and then it stopped. I will never forget hearing my sister come close to the phone, which was sitting on my mom’s chest, and she said “hold on, I think she’s gone. I think this is it.” She talked to the nurse in the room, who listened with a stethoscope for a heartbeat, and she said it was very faint. A moment later it stopped. A quiet moment at the end of a long life. 

I was sitting at the edge of my couch and realized I was holding my breath. My sister said she had to hang up so she could call our other sister. As soon as we hung up, I can’t even describe to you how hard I cried. I just surrendered to it, convulsing, catching my breath, grabbing a couch pillow and letting out a noise that I never allowed myself to make when dad died. It felt like I was pushing the emotion out of me but it was bottomless, a break in a dam. I was at once an adult dealing with grief and a child overwhelmed with abandonment. As soon as I could stand and balance I washed my face in the bathroom and got the call back from my sister. We talked for another few hours and then had to move on. 

I was dizzy and unbalanced as I staggered over to Burger King, because I hadn’t eaten that day, and the only thing that kept me intact and functioning was my favorite podcast, Never Not Funny. I will never forget that dizzy , floating feeling. I’ll never forget sitting quietly in my apartment, spending the rest of the week going through old family photos. A little over a month later, we put her ashes with my dad, and the two were reunited. 

I protected myself this time from people who would try to take advantage or would cause me harm. Three and a half months later, the pandemic shut everything down. 

I still talk to them and remember random details, the sound of my mom’s breathing when she would take a mid-day nap, my dad’s rough hands, my mom’s handwriting, my dad’s snoring, which scared his roommates in Atlanta when he worked for Delta airlines. 

I look at family photos now and see a long history represented in moments with huge gaps in memory between them. It erases any sense of envy for anyone else’s life  and raises the bar for things that upset me. All of this also really puts my life in perspective - what’s in my past and what’s in my future - but more so it defines who I was when I was a kid, who I was as a young adult, who I was when my parents were alive, and who I am now. 

I know they’re still with me. I haven’t dreamed about them since then and wish every morning that I had, but I don’t feel alone. The worst thing ever was feeling completely isolated in the company of others, and I haven’t put myself in that situation again. I feel stronger for it, and acknowledge this perspective as a gift from my parents. 

I hope they are together, enjoying a second honeymoon and occasionally tuning into the story of our lives. I want to give them a good story, and a good ending before I see them again.

Waypoint

(blowing some dust off this thing) 

Writing about myself was a habit I loved, the only place in my life where I could indulge in what I was feeling, confront my doubts and suspicions, and generally let my brain wander in a space that I carved out for a couple of decades, first with an angry and confused catharsis, then a slow examination of my life. What was the most telling part of the whole experience? It wasn't what I wrote or when I wrote - I was honing talents the whole time - it was when I decided to stop. Life intervened. Work or career ambitions, relationships that informed me that my thoughts, feelings, and emotions had no value, all kept me away from the words on the page. One in particular said that she didn't just want to be a character in my story. Playwriting was a sneaky way of sorting through things. When that stopped and I had a new career, I had precious little time to invest back in myself. 

I was 17 when I first grabbed a stack of college rule paper to dump my confusion into words. I'm 53 now. High school and some college is behind me. Careers in both live theater and entertainment production at Universal Studios are behind me. Both parents are dead, and I'm a few years into a rebirth that involved investing in people and back on my health, and now, in the midst of a pandemic, I'm looking for work and am embracing an independence that filled the void where I once wanted to be in a good relationship, part of something that maybe my parents always wanted for me. I've had so many experiences with relationships attempting to wreck everything on the way out, that I've learned to love the freedom and independence of loving myself and keeping living small and manageable. I just might be one of the few people who has embraced quarantine and am going to come out of it healthier and happier. 

That's the plan, anyway. I know I'm ambitious. Many guys my age - at least the ones I graduated high school with - are beginning to settle down with their families and homes, planning retirement and a life of leisure. Let the waistline relax a little, maybe watch the hairline lean back on a scalpy recliner. It sounds great, I'm sure, but I traded all of that for a creative life where I've been able to do a lot of crazy things. Moment after moment I've had to pinch myself into the present and ask myself how in the world I arrived here; the milestones are scattered across the years and I'm so grateful for all of it. I have to believe that this is a life well spent; I don't live with regret and have been able to reinvent myself at crucial places in my life. I've been able to balance against hardship with love from artists, and given more weight to the positive. I don't know how I've been able to endure some of the stuff I've been through. But I am happy. And I am unaffected. Maybe I'm wiser for all of it. 

My parents set a new precedent for me. My friends, the artists, loved me when someone, anyone, told me otherwise. And I am doing anything BUT slowing down and heading towards any final chapters of my life. Being a single, autonomous individual who has just been given a new blank canvas to work from, I'm grateful for what and who I am. 

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Part of my secret for building this amazing COVID-free bubble is that I never stop learning, and am still curious. Here are some lessons of varying value, off the top of the dome:

• Repetition is key, routine is king.
• When you miss someone from your past and consider finding them again, you have to understand that you're missing who they were when you last knew them. You have no idea who they are now.
• Everything ends. It's the only way your life can get out of the way for the next thing to come. It helps if you can find a moment to look around and say "this will end someday." It's surprising how you'll revisit that moment when the time comes. 
• You are allowed to react truthfully, sans logic. You shouldn't hold on to that emotion without an effort to really understand what's going on.
• Everyone has a choice to treat you well when they have the opportunity. Any excuse to the contrary will not work both ways if they come around later. 
• A grudge is heavy and takes up space in your inventory (for you gamers out there). Indifference is a kind of meditative result of moving on, and filling your life with purpose. It takes exercise and practice to understand a peaceful way of letting things be independent of your dated reaction. 
• Lists are awesome.

I think...I hope that I can get back into this habit. There's still a lot to unpack, and I also have a book to write, but if I can strike when inspiration floats by, I think I can continue evolving here. Why I didn't at least write when my mom died last year is a mystery. I'm a little more self-aware now. 

The pandemic has wiped away temporary plans like a whiteboard, and arrested momentum everywhere. In so many ways the playing field has been overturned, everyone scrambling to test their resourcefulness and will. It sounds like a perfect time to get reacquainted. 

Talking to Myself Again

Either my thoughts have been short because my attention span is not what it used to be, or thanks to the modern marvels of social media or wild opposing commitments, life for everyone is a constant dance of distraction. Everyone is average and bland unless you're carrying a lot more than you're meant to; You have to overachieve to stand out, and it never, ever feels like you're doing it right. I hope that resonates with someone. 

In the span of a life unexamined, you never discover satisfaction unless you're rich, I can only assume. I don't know if my dad ever felt like he did enough. I know that I feel like I didn't do enough for him. Have I written about this yet? Here, I mean. No? Oh. Here's my Facebook post from October 15, 2016: 

I never could have prepared myself for this day, even though everything we were seeing gave us signs that the end was near. I said the words "He's gone" a hundred times in my mind, but hearing them hurt like nothing else I've ever experienced. He was my hero, my work ethic, my passion for doing things right, my pride and my consolation when everything else didn't work out. And it didn't sometimes. And he was there. And he taught all of us to do the same for each other. I could try anything I wanted to try because he had my back. It didn't matter if he was doing something else; If I needed him, he dropped everything and was right there for me. Yesterday I was an adult with aging parents. Today I'm a little boy who lost his dad. Dad, I hope you stay with me and guide me, I hope that you still have my back and are there for me when I need you, to celebrate the amazing things ahead and to give me some peace when things go wrong. I'm happy you didn't suffer, and that all of your burdens have been lifted. Since you passed in your sleep, I'll say what I said every time we slept under the same roof or talked to each other on the phone before bedtime. Good night, old buddy. I love you.

To this day, I don't know how I was able to put that much in perspective. I was numbed, mortally wounded, robbed of simple things like eating, breathing, any kind of basic human functioning. I didn't really have anyone. I hadn't heard from my best friend in weeks. My family was in Miami. I was alone and lost in a world that just didn't matter any more, because I had visited death so many times previously in the previous ten calendar months:

• In early January the doctors told us my mother would not survive the weekend, or even the day. This was it. She somehow survived. Thanks, doctors. 
• On Valentine's Day my kitty was euthanized after 18 years of giving me someone to come home to. I was absolutely heartbroken but tried to move on. 
• In May, we lost Marchan, a beautiful singer-songwriter I brought into the program and championed as much as I could. She was only 23. I was a pallbearer at her funeral and was, over time, affected deeply in ways I couldn't have predicted. 
• Then came the losses of JD at Hard Rock, another tragic loss of a young man. I was surrounded by the whole Hard Rock family grieving the loss and then in the midst of his family, who impressed on me this crazy idea that you could be out and about in the world only days after losing a loved one. I didn't know how they could do it. We paid tribute to him. They cried and celebrated his life. His parents danced. 
• And then there was Perry, who shared a love of music and the a cappella movement with me. We shared links with each other on social media. We talked about how far Pentatonix had come. He was always so appreciative of things other people would consider boring and routine. I never knew how bad his fight with Cancer was. 

All that was left was for me to survive the year and watch my parents' slow decline towards a horizon that seemingly never came closer. Suddenly, a week after our birthdays and a month after his 60th wedding anniversary with my mom, Friday the 14th of October tricked us into a millionth opportunity to say goodbye. At 10:15am on Saturday, October 15th, he released this body that had betrayed him and floated away. I still don't know how to say that my father died without the afterthought that there needs to be something certain accompanying it. There's no flavor, no direct emotion. There's no visible scar or bruise to poke to remind myself that a pillar of my existence is missing. I reach into the darkness and he's not there. 

Neither his cremation nor death certificates were as hard to receive and process as was the simple act of holding the small black box with his ashes inside. For all of his experience, his travels and adventures, his pursuit of my mother and quest to bring the family to America, the sum of his life experience ultimately added up to a small bag of white/grey ashes with his name printed on a label. Is that what we're all headed towards? I asked every photo I saw of him that question. 

Dad, if there's an afterlife, I have a few questions:

Do you have any regrets?

Was it all worth it, even the moments when we were angry at each other? 

What about that time we drove up the coast to see the space shuttle launch? Was that as good a memory for you as it was for me? 

When it was too difficult to shave or groom yourself, and we teamed up to clean you up and took care of you...did you appreciate those moments the way we did? 

In your last moments, were you ready to go? 

I'm going to be asking these questions, I suppose, until the day I die. And so goes the loss of a parent, someone who knew you were coming, prepared for the beginning of your life, kept you from hurting yourself while you learned how to walk, dressed you, fed you, fixed your broken heart with food, company, or just a simple reminder that if all else fails, you could come home and be loved regardless. The tragedy redefines family and scatters us to the wind. We have two addicts who aren't capable of those parental miracle cures. With mom's Alzheimers, there's nowhere to turn. The innocence and safety of childhood is two dimensional and filtered, shelved with old movies you love to watch and recite lines from. 

That's my return to this journal, if only for a moment. It's taken me a long time to articulate it, but it occurred to me that these are stories people can't listen to, at least conversationally. I will find some other way to continue to talk about it, because it occurs to me that the end is not a bag of ashes or a certificate. 

The part of the story that goes on is me. 

Oceans

I have had this entry in me for, I don't know, what feels like lifetimes, skipping evolutionary stages and seasons. What I have written in the meantime has either stayed in the shadows of draft or just fell short of the whole feeling. Maybe it just took me this long to be able to articulate it. Life has changed, and I don't know what to make of it. 

“It is strange to be known so universally and yet to be so lonely.”
~ Albert Einstein

I live this current life in between worlds, crossing the corridors from heart to heart in as much of a straight path as I can find, still seeking purpose and a place to be. I'm still an outsider, a passing ship, a lighthouse, carrying the spotlight of potential that others give me. And I wonder, what have I done so far? What have I brought to the table? How much fight do I still have in me? And who do I look to when I begin to doubt, when I'm running out of energy...when I am done? 

This is why it's been so difficult to write for such a long time. Things have happened so quickly it's been nearly impossible to slow down enough to let anything sink in. Life has been a steadily rising orchestra, a swelling of every instrument that absolutely no one else can hear, a maddening sound compounded by a handful of people who flood in negativity and advice to fix my imperfections. Somehow tonight I had a moment where I needed a familiar voice, in a safe place nobody could touch. Maybe my soul needs a little decluttering. 

"Cause I'm clearing up this wreckage Lord, and there's more than You've ever seen before. So if you have something to say, say it to me now."
~ Glen Hansard

She sits next to me. Coldplay plays softly in the background. 

C: Well, hello stranger. 

S: You're still here. 

C: I never went anywhere. 

I don't say anything for a moment. The two of us look around, then she follows my gaze up at the stars. 

C: What do you miss most? 

S: Having everyone together. Dinner at the family table. My mother's hands. My dad's laugh. 

C: It sucks growing up at any age. 

S: We lost all of that so quickly. And there went my armor. I couldn't even make them proud of my accomplishments any more. 

C: Does that mean...do you think it's meaningless now? Do you feel like what you do doesn't matter? 

S: I don't know. I do have people in my life who think I should do less of it, or are indifferent. I have critics and people who think they can do what I do. 

C: Well, the closer the critics are to you, the more quickly you should get rid of them. Unless you're otherwise committed to them, you don't need that shit in your life. And duh, of course you're going to have critics or armchair quarterbacks. You make it look easier than it actually is. They don't know what you do, otherwise they wouldn't be saying that. 

S: I guess. 

C: But I get it. You're exhausted. And that negativity is sticky, so sometimes you feel it long after those people have shut the door. Am I right?

S: Yeah, what am I, dumb and fickle? Does anybody let that stuff go easily? 

C: Nobody I know. That's why I say you're exhausted. 

S: And I feel disconnected. 

C: Because your heart has no home. 

S: Because I've carried myself for so long, and I don't know what the measure is of my life the past few years. 

C: I wish you could see yourself the way others see you. You sound defeated but you're not. I think - you want to know what I think? 

S: Is this the bottom line? The diagnosis? 

C: You've tried to convince yourself, maybe to fit in, maybe to not allow yourself to feel things, that you're normal and an ordinary person. It seems like you want things to be simpler so much that you're willing to forget the past.

S: The past wasn't easy. And maybe...well, maybe I do want to fit in. 

C: You do. What you don't do is blend in. That is just who you are and you should know there is no way to fix that. 

S: It looks so easy for other people. I'm at an age where I feel so different from everyone. 

C: You know, there are 20 year olds, 30 year olds...people staring at 40 who feel exactly the same way. And even for those people you say have it easy...well, you're kind of assuming the same way people who want your job think it's easy. But this, by the way, this conversation, this entry...this is just a catharsis. Get all of this out of your head and heart so you can fill it again. 

S: I feel whiny.

C: No, you're learning how to talk again. This was necessary. 

Well, I still don't know how necessary this is, but if this opens the door again and I can navigate the depths to find my heart and my voice, it's worth the trip. It's worth revisiting, allowing myself to get lost, to drown a little, to go where the current takes me. 

“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me), It’s always our self we find in the sea.” 
~ e.e. Cummings

For now

I don't know where it comes from, whether it has roots in an early failed relationship, or it's just dumped in our DNA, that we will always fight ourselves and change around us to the point that we keep things that don't work. Broken. A clock that tells the correct time twice a day. That pair of pants with the gaping tear from the inseam to your crotch that you will never, ever fix or wear again. People who have outlived their interest in you but not your usefulness to them. It's not so much a collection as it is you becoming sticky and heavier as a result of all the toasters, socks, pairs of sat-on glasses, and emotional collateral damage that you keep with you to remind yourself that you're...

...well, hang on. You're not anything but human, in all honesty. The first thing you can't say is that you're not worthy of happiness. That's just dumb. Yep, it's your first thought, but...okay, have the thought then get over it. Everyone deserves happiness. It is free, after all. It's just easier to chase down when you're not rattling with junk and dropping broken crap everywhere. The second thing you can't say is that true love or happiness doesn't exist. Try reading damnyouautocorrect for five minutes with a frown on your face. You can't do it. Also, try laying next to a purring cat or walk towards a dog wagging its tail so fast at the sight of you it's whole hind quarter is doing a doggy salsa (I just added a soundtrack to that in your mind - you're welcome). It all exists, and is there for the taking with a huge sign on it that reads "FREE - please take as much as you need."

But still we doubt. And still we hang on to clutter, standing at that place in the woods where two roads diverged, staring down both paths, not moving. The clock ticks, we get older, and all that remains broken hasn't miraculously fixed itself. Broke stays broke. Living things grow. That's kind of how it works. We ignore it. "SOMEDAY this waffle iron will come in handy," we think. "Someday I'll co-exist." Someday all of this will make sense. But "someday" is just a terrible tease of a prize we keep pushing out towards the horizon, causing us to chase after the sun forever. When that someday actually comes, it catches us so off guard that we don't even recognize it, acknowledge it, or even give it any value. It came and went. And we think that "someday our time will come," when it's either happening right now or it already passed us by. Tragic.

So how do you let go of that sentimental, sticky clutter that was never fashionable to wear or carry in the first place? How do you NOT let everything around you - at least the things you're paying attention to - define you? Let's face it; The things that are making you anxious just might be invisible to everyone else (including the clutter). My only answer for years was work, and more work. As long as I was busy, I didn't notice anything else. That doesn't work any more. The work I'm busy with is fighting back.

This only changes the view of the whole thing from the middle of the mosh pit to a fisheye overview of the entire picture, and no pin saying "You belong here."
So I ask myself now: Is what I'm doing meaningful? Am I making a difference? Is any of it important or unique, or am I completely replaceable?

Do I belong?

I have worked with people who became irrelevant, who got lost deep in the machine and ended up a stripped gear spinning wildly independent of it all. And they became clutter in a place without sentimentality. So...in the wake of this...and wow, I never quite realized how much these people have served as a warning to me....as I sort all of this out, I need to find out what's fueling the fire, and not just starting it. What starts the fire most of the time nowadays is trying to do the right thing. It's making the most use of the things I can do and try to do the greater good. And by greater good, I don't mean making one person look or feel good. By greater good...I need to reach and help more people. I have wide base of entertainment in me and am standing in shallow waters. I think I know what I need to do.

We cannot become what we need to be by remaining what we are. It just might be time to say goodbye to an amazing and random collection of things that don't work any more.

Two Different Places

A friend of mine just told me that the heart and the mind exist independently of each other, and I agree...a little. In my crazy life, my heart and mind are in an eternal mosh pit, elbowing each other in the neck and insulting their mothers. I used to blame my acting training. I think that even the interest to act is a side effect of being me. Maybe my creative life is the only thing that keeps me sane. Maybe.

Right now, I feel crazy. Yes, first entry in a longer time than I care to measure, and I feel like I'm completely out of my element. Why? Is it because I haven't written in a long time and may be rusty? Is it because I'm halfway between being in love and seeing my career really take off? I'm constantly torn and stretched thin between where I need to be engaged and creative. A relationship? Completely foreign to me yet totally and overwhelmingly intriguing. Potential advancement at work? It's right there for me to grab. Creative fulfillment outside of work? It sits in the hands of the fickle creative community, but still I persevere.

The MOST difficult lesson to grasp is the act of being patient for one thing while staying busy with others. Where will my success and heart finally land? There's no definitive answer. I have absolutely NO flipping clue where I will be one year from now. One month ago, I felt unappreciated, determined to spend 90% of my time working and the other 10% sleeping, and hopeful to change my life in small increments. Today, it's as if I put on someone else's life for a trial run and it feels like I'm suddenly wearing big boy pants now. My job right now is to get busy doing and not spend any time wondering. For once in my life - the first time in decades - I know what I want and who I want it with, but am faced with the dilemma of that person not knowing it yet. Maybe this means I'm the only one who sees it. I don't know. I just don't know.

And you would think, at this ripe old age, that I would have some stuff figured out. Okay, yes I do, but there is always a blind spot. There will always be a blind spot, where the questions hang like dim light bulbs, with no switch or string to pull. They're supposed to be unanswered. Yes, they're also supposed to nag at my core for being unanswered. Wait. Be patient. That is the only instruction. Something will surely come.

Except...that's an inevitability, right? If you do nothing, something will come. If you do something, something will come. If you get busy doing something else, something will come while you're distracted.

Clearly I'm overthinking this.

And the answer will be, in hindsight, super simple.

Clearly the heart and mind are separated by language, by music, by logic, and I'm somewhere lost in the woods. I look forward to the moment when I figure it all out.

In My Life

You stand alone at the beginning of each day, and the life you choose is all around you. You push off into automation, repeating the same steps as the day before, and pretty soon, you will convince yourself that this is the way things should be, for better or worse.

I tend to fall into these patterns, but I spent the summer of 2002 with change thrust upon me. I was laid off by a company I never totally felt at home in, and spent that year finding odd temp jobs, writing plays and spending more time in the theater, and generally doing a lot of spring cleaning on my whole life. I met a girl whom I spent time with, and some of that time was spent talking, some of it riding a wave of emotion, and some of it on a silent cloud of affection. The friendship bloomed in spring and summer and then faded in fall, and in the years since, I never lost hope that I would see her again. I even talked about her this week. It came two years and two months too late.

I have been agonizing over her suicide for days now, not able to function emotionally except for a profound sadness and emptiness. Even the anger over the circumstances that led her there is fleeting. I had hope. Hope was severed and abandoned. The lingering and very raw pain comes directly from the thread of love that still stretches from our last moment together. I sit here, helpless, with nowhere to tie it off to. I will never have the opportunity to feel her arms around me, to play with her hair, or hear her voice. No, it can't be true that she's gone. It just doesn't make sense that she no longer breathes, that her ashes have been scattered...that she simply does not exist any more. It's not possible.

She's gone. She's gone. I even say that in an attempt to imply that she has merely moved on to another place, but while that may be true, there's nothing I can do at this point to tell her how much I love her. There's nothing I can do to save her life. She slipped away the very second we released that last hug and kiss at the airport.

B: You saved moments of my life. You have to know you did that much.

I look around, and she's not in any of the familiar places. Not on my couch, not standing in front of my movie collection for a movie we're going to watch while we eat.

B: And I didn't slip away. I moved on, and moved on again, but I never forgot you.

Crazy as it might seem, I paced my apartment at night when I should have been sleeping and talked out loud to her, as if she could hear me .

B: I did hear you, and I need you to know that I feel your love now as much as I did then.

S: Then why didn't you come to me when you needed someone? Why was the only way out to end it all?

B: It's hard to say. I guess, sometimes as you journey through life, you get into some dense places that are so loud, that's all you can pay attention to. You...lose sight of shore...and the most persistent things become the most consistent, if that makes sense.

S: You knew you could always come back. Did I do anything that pushed you away?

B: No! No, not at all...I felt guilty sometimes because I felt like I always had so much to deal with, and I didn't want to dump it all on you. I know I overwhelmed you the last time we talked.

S: Yeah...sure, a little...but that's not a one-way ticket out of my life. I'm angry with you for not remembering to check in.

B: I'm sorry. I guess I was just more used to rejection and would not be able to take it if I really needed you and you, like so many others, would turn me away. I had great memories of you and didn't want to take anything away from that.

S: Did I ever give you any indication that I -

B: No, you didn't! I kind of expected it from everyone, though. If you only knew what I had to face....

S: I read some of it. The rest, your mother told me.

B: I don't want you to be angry with me. You have every right to be, but I don't want you to hold on to that.

S: It's not. Mostly, it's...I don't know how to describe it. It's a feeling of something that will never heal. The void will never be filled.

B: It'll get easier. This is very new news to you.

S: I can't reconcile it. I don't know what to do with it. I don't know where to put this.

B: Just sort through it and put things away. You'll see that the good things outnumber the bad. Do you remember our Thai food dinner? What movie did we see?

S: The one where you wore the...what was it, a bright yellow dress?

B: Yeah, that one. I think the movie was animated, and that you saw it once before.

S: I can't remember. I was distracted the whole time because you were so...I don't want to say that you were just happy, but you were actually radiating happiness. It might have been how bright your dress was.

B: I was really happy. Do you remember how I held onto your arm when we walked to and from the theater?

S: Yeah. I always thought we'd eventually come back to moments like that.

B: We didn't, and that's okay, you know. The important thing is that we had moments like that. Do you know how many truly relaxed and happy moments I had after that?

S: I'm going to guess there weren't many.

B: No, not like that. I had friends after that and felt love again, but what I did with you was unique to you, and that stayed with me.

S: So that's where it stays? I have to let go and let it be a memory?

B: Listen. This string of love that you talk about, the feelings that you can't put anywhere...you don't connect it to the next time you see me, because that won't happen for years. Hold on to it. And when you get restless or weak, let it go, and you'll see that I'm holding onto that same string from where I am. I may not be able to take my body with me where I am, but what I do take with me is the love. You, my friend, are shining it my way like a lighthouse, so how could I NOT notice and feel it? It's with me, right now.

All we have left are words, and simple gestures inspired by the experience of having known and loved someone. A great poet named David Harkins wrote:

"You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.
You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.
Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.
You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.
You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.
You can cry and close your mind,
be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want:
smile, open your eyes, love and go on."

You stand alone at the end of each day, and the life you chose is all around you. You think about your decisions, the lives you touched and whether or not you made the day count. If you allowed yourself to be present and cherished every moment, if you dared to love with all your heart and celebrated being alive, you can remind yourself that this is the way things should be.

I'll see you again someday, my friend.

Seis de Mayo

Holidays are often misinterpreted. I get pinched for not wearing green for St. Patty's day and enjoy telling the huffiest of pinchers that I'm not Irish, and neither was St. Patrick. Mexican independence day is actually September 16th. Jesus was actually born sometime in June. Holidays exist more in the present than the past. Valentine's Day. Lovers. Sillyness. 

People are often misinterpreted, for that matter. The people who complain the loudest are often listened to, taken for face value, adn then eventually forgotten or avoided. The quietest peopl eoften do not defend themselves, and therefore allow themselves to seem guilty. A lot of people talk about what they want, but act on what they crave. Where does the truth lie in any of this? 

The question lies in trying to rise above it all. Holidays? You should always celebrate the spirit of a good idea. People? Each person should be listened to and understood from where they stand, not where they tell you they are in relation to everyone else. Is there room for error? Huge. Spacious. I'm trying to rise above it all, but I do have distinct feelings about why a friend's butt thinks more about me than she does (she accidentally calls my cell phone once or twice a week but never actually calls me). I get pulled into dramatic black holes of confrontation way too easily (because I'm a Libra and always try to right an imbalance? Who knows.) I'm also shamelessly used to being alone, so given a chance to feel wrong in a group of people or right alone, I have a knee-jerk reaction. Give me a guitar, notebook, or camera, and I've got company for dinner, drinks at a bar, or conversation before a movie. I wish it was as simple as some of my friends put it when they want so much for me. Unfiltered, I love people and the connections we make. In reality, the people who don't like me don't just leave it at that, they're busy with the pointlessly important work of getting everyone else on board.

What gets lost in all of this, in all of the likes, comments, gossip, jealousy, and even the believability when I think a group of people or situation has been poisoned by misdirection, is the simplicity still at the heart of it. That's something to bank in your mind. Whatever you create, be it an honest intention towards someone, a song, a book, or even a thoughtful email, there is a simple truth behind it. No amount of snark or doubt can take anything away from it, and if it doesn't fit, there is a place somewhere that it does. 

C: Wow, that sounded forceful. 

S: Ooh, what brought this on?

C: What brought what on? My reaction?

S: No, you. You just popped up. 

C: I thought I'd break in before you started playing a Sousa march and hoisting a huge flag behind you.

S: Was I going in that direction? I don't think so. I wanted to say something about independence. 

C: Yeah, yeah, I know you're proud, but listen. The prevailing message from your friends this year is NOT that you should be celebrating your independence alone. You should share that with someone. 

S: I - 

C: No no no no. Don't make the face. Don't do the fake acknowledgement - 

S: It's not fake! I get it...and yeah, I agree. 

C: But....

S: But what? 

C: Remember reading what "But" stands for? Behold the Underlying Truth. What's the deal? Why don't you just let it happen? 

S: The question isn't why, really. It's who. And how. 

C: Great. One waitress. 

S: Ha ha - no. That's cute. 

C: I brought it up for a reason. 

S: Ugh. I give up. I don't know, really. When I'm just interested, person to person, it goes nowhere. For the most part, it's exhausting, you know? 

C: Waitress? 

S: Oh my god! That was a moment in time, then everything blew up and she became friends with...I can't compete with the poison. One person hates me. She gets others to agree that I'm not a good person. They avoid me. What can I do? Be hurt? 

C: Well, yeah, it's hurtful. And I'm saying that it's hurtful to believe it, not so much that it's true. Your awkwardness might have inspired them to avoid you. 

S: I just don't know what to do sometimes. It's too complicated. People are complicated.

C: Build some robots, then. Be a cat guy. 

S: Both viable solutions.

C:What was it you said earlier? All you need is a guitar, a notebook, and a camera? 

S: That's not my desert island answer, but...you know what - come to think of it, it might be my desert island answer. I would need extra strings...maybe a few notebooks. 

C: Who are you creating for? I mean, what is the point of this whole creative life if you haven't given it to anyone? 

S: Damn. You got me. 

I am often misinterpreted. I try to portray an image of happiness, genuinely interested in people and, of course, fighting for everyone else's right to be creative too. I write stories that have deep, active meaning, and then forget why I needed to write them. I shoot photos with a longing for that moment in my gut, and then once they're posted I leave them alone. I sing, I act, and after lacerating self-exposure, all boundaries are dropped. I test my faith in the outside world, and back I run to the creative. I never talk about what I want, or what I should be celebrating. 

Maybe it's not a matter of rising above. It could be that other people cannot define me, that my sense of self can and should override every rule. I'll try again. The number of people on Earth is currently 6,819,418,658 (and counting). I think...I can safely say that the odds are working in my favor. 

Stand

I've been here before, sitting alone with a grab bag of feelings spread out along a spectrum of color between absolute resolution and complete defeat. I opened my mouth. I had just finished speaking with passion about what's right and what's wrong, using only my past and the precious spot on the ground I stood on. I spoke, not for myself, but for people who were at that very moment struggling, hustling to find creative freedom. Who was I to represent them? What vote elected me to be an obstacle? All I can tell you is that I saw a void of conscience so wide that we may not recover from it. No, every time you kill an artist's heart, you take away from the world as a whole. 


No, this wasn't the first time I put myself in this situation.


Sometime during the waning years at Playhouse I was sitting on a chair downstage center speaking to a house full of actors. It was difficult to get the words out, to even take the breath required to make a sound. We were about an hour or so away from opening the doors to the audience, and I called everyone involved in the day's productions, crew included, into the theater. This was to be the first of two speeches that weekend, and there I sat, a moment before word one, with a roomful of eyes on me. 


Deep breath. Eye contact. I never thought I'd be here. It went something like this. 


"All of you know, as you can see in the schedule, that this one act workshop is essentially over and done. You're the last people, the ones who are going to close this series out. Now, this wasn't a decision from the top, it came from me. What we ran into was a conflict of priorities in the schedule, and you were going to be given the basement. You would only be scheduled for matinees, and I thought you deserved better. I cancelled the series rather than cheapen it. All of you know my philosophy behind this; There is not a single actor here who represents the best we have to offer. All of you, by virtue of your dedication and talent, represent the standard for what we learn here. I believe in the standard. I don't believe in the best."


"Because this is coming to an end, I needed come here and apologize for losing the workshop, for losing the theater company for you. I'm sorry. I failed you."


This is where my emotions started winning the battle of restraint. 


"There was something I should have done to preserve this for you, something I didn't do or know how to do to save this series. I lost this opportunity for you. I need you to know that I'm still here and fighting for you. If you need a director, I'm in, no questions asked. If you can't find a play you believe in, I'll write one for you. All of you deserve a chance, and I lost this one."


The second time I delivered the speech, it wasn't any easier. The actors were overwhelmingly supportive and immediately responsive. They knew that for ten years, this was my entire life. I had work, I had Playhouse. Lower on the list of priorities was sleep, friends, romance, even my own projects. I felt I was only meeting them in the middle; They stayed with me through rehearsals that ended at 2am on a weeknight. They endured my pages of notes after performances. Their moments of truth and honesty on stage validated all of my sacrifices, more so than any accolades, and I never doubted my dedication to them.


I eventually left the program, totally foreshadowed by the moment I stood in Studio Two and realized that "...this will all go away. It's important now, but someday this will be a memory." A handful of productions later, it all went away and my life was redefined. 


I never stopped loving the artist, though. The very second we make the connection, the unspeakable knowledge that we are communicating on a whole other level, they become part of a family I owe loyalty to...and feel responsible for. I crave the sight and experience of someone growing as an artist, the light bulb that goes off when they learn something new or the discovery of having expressed something that defied explanation just a moment before. I love the process of searching, of dissatisfaction with everything that has been done before. I admire the hunger. I know the lonely struggle to find an audience.


And when someone is set up to fail, when even the odds are needlessly stacked against them, something alarming stirs up inside me. I sat for a moment after the talk, and I collected myself. I was coming down from 80% passion and 20% logic, and I sat because I was dizzy...or maybe a little lost...but I was right. What I inherited, however, was a heightened awareness that left unguarded, artists will be forgotten. That should never happen. Talent needs to be celebrated. 


I have, for the moment, an unanswerable struggle. I have the feeling that this leads towards something important, but am I the person to do anything about it? Who am I to represent the creative community? 


As always, if nobody else claims the spot, can I remain quiet and be satisfied with the outcome? I think you know the answer. 

Your Drug of Choice

Whether you are a person who is addicted to something or you're someone who has checked out of living and leads a dependable, predictable life, the question of what motivates you is something to consider. We get caught in our patterns and are attracted to certain things in our lives, all in the name of...what the hell are we feeding? What are we running away from? I think about this stuff as my niece sits in rehab, deconstructing her life and her addictions, while at the same time I know people who seem to slip through life without a care (or interest). I've written many times about moving through a life that feels like a mosh pit, and I get lost...and I stop to look back sometimes and wonder where and how time just slipped by. I can totally understand how people want to numb themselves, either temporarily or permanently. I get it.

I can feel myself getting away from patterns again, from choosing to be around just about anybody to not feel lonely or forgotten. I found myself mired in dysfunctional situations, caught in moments of clarity where I wonder "what are these people doing and why isn't anyone saying anything about it?" "Why does it feel...unjust and completely false?" Why don't I just step away for a moment and see if anyone notices? Circle one hardly blinked, with my contributions quickly being replaced by another person. Whatever I did in that circle was for a long time copied and repeated with more money. Circle two filed me in the "whatever happened to" files. Circle three is highly suspicious of my distance, thinking it's purposeful and damaging.

I watch shows about addicts and I understand that pain that they're trying to mask. I can taste the sharpness of directly touching it, and know that it's seeded, rooted towards how I react to everything. From being teased and harassed mercilessly through five of my eight grade school years through the traumatizing experience of falling in love for the first time and then falling from that height, I know I have to work hard on understanding some things about myself and the world I'm in. I haven't turned towards drugs or alcohol, nor do I take medication for depression, but this doesn't mean that I don't understand the rationale behind Andrew Koenig selling everything he owned, flying up to Canada, and hanging himself from a tree in a park he loved. I totally get the peaceful, morbid poetry behind it. In a world of endless possibilities, he was exhausted of the options that just didn't make sense any more. He stepped away and saw with a quiet clarity what he had to do. I struggled with understanding it when I heard the news. I wanted to reach out to someone who might need it. And then I realized that nobody I know has a void to fill. I attempted to come back to creativity, but because it's tainted at the moment with obligation and a difficulty that keeps ratcheting up, I'm not inspired to take any risks or feel my way through it.

None of this means that I have nowhere to turn. I still have family, with whom I can find moments of forgetting everything else in the world. I have a couple of people I can completely surrender to, if need be. I think I have a pretty good reputation at work, which can be overwhelming and unpredictable. I also keep myself busy - at the moment, too busy - which keeps me moving from one point to the next. I just have to manage these quiet moments.

What would help get rid of that grade school experience that makes me extra sensitive to people picking sides, talking about me, trying to sabotage every step I take? The only way it started to subside in grade school was when it became physical, but I was still talking about it in college. What would open my heart back up after being traumatized by the aftermath of my first real love, and being told that I "have a lot to offer a lot of people, but not enough for one person"? I can finally admit it changed me and left me with heavy, heavy baggage. It's a tremendous burden to believe that you can't be loved, that you can't trust, that somehow you don't deserve it...that this experience...somehow compounded and confirmed the first. It's all too easy to attach new experiences to that meaning, to make everything fit and to feel like the only reason people need me is to provide a service. It's a culinary disaster of the heart, a combination of emotional flavors that don't go together. The fact that months go by between journal entries makes me wonder if I keep replanting the seeds that feed on and destroy hope.

Just over a year ago, my family and I were at a backyard get-together, and Alfonso, who was in his 90s, locked into me and demanded my attention. "El Maestro", as I called him, began with one question: "How old are you?" Normally, he was a little difficult to understand and spoke only about South American politics, but this time it was about me. "How old are you?" At the time, I was 41. He asked if I was in a relationship or had a family of my own, maybe some kids. I told him no, that there wasn't even one girl I was serious about. He said that I reminded him of his brother. His brother was a workaholic, perpetually young until he got older, and then suddenly he got to his 70s and 80s and began to have health problems. He had nobody to take care of him, no woman by his side, no children to help their dad or talk to the doctors like my sisters do for my parents. He had only Alfonso, but Maestro was the older brother, and had health issues of his own. His brother died alone, without a legacy.

He lived a long life, and died alone.

Alfonso looked at me and made me promise I would try. Of course, he didn't know what kind of life I had, he just had the mental snapshot of me with my parents, my sister, and my niece's kids. He didn't talk politics that visit. This was all he wanted to say, and I couldn't forget it. I came home in January, and wanted to try. The first few times, it didn't feel right. I had two Valentine's Day dates that, in theory, sounds like I'm a player to everyone who hears that much, but in reality was me providing a service to others and deserving nothing for myself. I tried again, spending a weekend with an old friend that turned sterile and awkward. Everywhere I turned, I ran into someone who was holding out for a better thing and constantly looked past or through me. I stepped away, listened to the castrated version of my name - "Stewie," which vaguely takes away any importance of who I am - and eventually work started pulling more and more of my attention.

Alfonso died a few weeks ago. I'm now 42.

I am a little less than a week away from finishing a major project, and then I have to consider what I want my life to be. The first thing that occurs to me is that I'm going to retire from doing this kind of creative project. The second thing that comes to mind is that I tend to consume junk food versions of real interactions between people. I need to know the difference and to trust my doubts when they nag at me over time. The most important thing is that I don't lose hope, that it's not too late. It's not my fault that a whole group of guys didn't let me get through a day of grade school without persecution or humiliation, so I never feel comfortable being associated with a group of people unless I can stand apart somehow. It's not my fault that I was loved once, abandoned, and had to watch her with other guys...and that everything since has come with a guarantee that nothing would come of it. It wasn't me. It wasn't about me, though I've lived with the shame of...somehow representing it...of making all of them right.

My niece had the seizure, and for reasons unknown to me, she asked for help and ended up in rehab. Andrew Koenig, whom I've never met, but I know people he knows, never asked for help, and died. Alfonso, in his wisdom, stopped me and knew I needed help. What would I do to wean myself from the addiction to denial? I need to really look at the people who believe in me the most...Andrea, Vivian, Ninette, to name a few...and find hope in the fact that these people are here, now...and they could tell someone a story about who I am that is in direct contrast to what has come before. What they believe, I should understand better than I understand the numbness and loneliness of my past.

I should begin to try, anyway, because the world is filled with circles and none of them are complete. Looking for them should be my new addiction.

A Strong Word

I haven't written in months, and it might as well be years or even another lifetime. This is the equivalent of having my wings clipped, and I have not sung a song in my gilded cage. I may finally be embracing the idea of adulthood. No, wait. I may be abandoning my childhood. Either way, what I haven't said is that part of the reason I haven't written is that I'm a hated man. It's an active, poisonous sense of dislike hidden behind a face of indifference, and it wishes to see the end of me. You can tell me that it's too extreme a thing to exist between two people, but other people see it exists, too. Do I reciprocate the feeling? I don't think I know how.

“Hatred paralyses life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it.”
~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

I was shocked when I saw that Maya Angelou used the term "hater". If feels so juvenile to me and almost dehumanizes the person. It's dismissive, and yet, while I focus on this for the moment, please know that I have a lot of the right kind of love in my life. I know I share bonds with people that defy description. I'm crazy about them and totally feed off this mutual connection we have. There's love between us without question; Not a single move or word questioned, intangibles understood as if they were a private language between us. I've had a few "what the fuck are you doing?" moments with strangers...and let's face it...I know who they are because the real people in my life fill moments with truth.

In this case and only this instance can I mention names. If I ever look in the mirror and can't recognize myself, I know Vivian will remind me. If I sell out, give up, or surrender to a false definition, Andrea will grab me and set me straight. If I reach the end of reason and begin to let go, I can call Wes and open my eyes. These people are my history, along with new names both within reach and thousands of miles away. From their inspiration, I sit here to fight and write.

"We hate some persons because we do not know them; and will not know them because we hate them."
~ Charles Caleb Colton

I know what you're thinking. Okay, maybe not actually what you're thinking. You might say that you can't please everybody, and odds are that I might not be liked by everyone. That's fairly logical and easy to accept. It's slightly cliche, but there's truth in it. Like I said before, this is an active hatred. I've seen emails. I've heard stories. I've faced the neverending criticism and walk into the storm every day knowing that lightning can strike at any given moment. Do I feed it? I avoid it at all costs. Do I meet the mask of indifference with my own? I know the truth, and at times it completely deflates me because I haven't provoked it. It seethes and needs to be the only thing in existence. The love in my life is the starry night sky, and the hate is the huge sucking black hole looming nearby. That's exactly how it feels.

Cat tells me it's a matter of perception. I constantly see it, so it has to exist. When I forget about it, it resurfaces and reminds me that it's still waiting for me to trip, to fail, to be exposed and open. Jesus, that sounds abusive. I still slip into it, though I'm much better off than last year when this hatred was in my face and almost fanatical about making me unhinge and expose myself.

"The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."
~ Elie Wiesel

Thanks to Playhouse training, I feel everything (to some extent) and my curiosity prevents me from straying towards indifference. I've held my feelings and thoughts about this for a long time, and felt ready to finally talk about it. It's an insult, really, to those gorgeous stars in the sky. What's going to happen will happen, and I have some say in that. I can't, especially now, be what you want me to be, unless you accept me as I am or support who I want to be. It just can't work any other way.

Falling Sideways

I sit on this hill and I listen.

I listen to traffic, people floating snark in the air, and loud obnoxious music, and I push it away. I wait, and listen for wind. I smell the air and listen for rain. And then I give up. I surrender to it all and listen to my own breathing. She speaks.

C: Ohh, there's that feeling again.

S: I'm debating it.

C: What's the argument?

S: How much of it is necessary...or just my stupid perception...or actually valid. I indulge feeling everything because it feeds my writing, but on the other hand, at the same time there are some things I can fix or reconcile...which is what a healthy person would do.

C: Do we really need to define "healthy" or "normal"? You know, you don't need to make a stand and declare that you're different. The sad truth of it is, everyone is different.

S: But you know what? Hold on to that thought for a second. (pause) Listen, I don't work hard to create a mystique about myself. I'm not a puzzle to be solved by anyone. That's not my spine. I'll tell you something - I am used to going at it alone, and I don't need anyone's approval or validation. I create projects for me and hopefully I've broken down the guts of what I want to do in a way that makes sense to people so I can still collaborate with others, but it's my dream. It's my way of life.

C: That was a little unexpected.

S: In some instances, I say way too much and face the consequences. To myself, I don't say things until I can vent here.

C: What does it feel like?

S: What, the...wow, I really did get worked up there for a second.

C: What does it feel like when you - what did you call it - "indulge" the feeling?

S: It sinks. It starts moving down slowly with...a realization that...you've been rejected again...and right when you begin to shake it off and pick yourself up, you choose instead to let the moment confirm your worst fears, and then you face the truth about yourself. Do I really suck? Am I really not...I don't know how to finish that. I have to answer it, and then I move on.

C: It sounds masochistic. Why put yourself through it?

S: I like to believe that there's an abundance of feeling and color all around us, and most people walk past it like it's old and irrelevant...but all of it is alive and screaming for attention. I just do it naturally because it's about what's really happening in the present moment.

C: Yeah, but...if the end result takes a toll on you, is it a good thing?

S: Until I found a natural perpetual well of reassurance, yeah. This life is self-generated and self-motivated. I made decisions in the past - mistakes, really - that got me here, but in all honesty, I just don't have the same resources I used to have.

C: A matter of perception. Do you remember the girl from a few years ago and what ultimately spelled the recurring end to the relationship? She felt she didn't deserve what you had to give, but at the same time she inspired so much in you. You also never bluntly offered the real thing to her. It was always implied.

S: Yeah, so?

C: If you had to learn one thing from the experience, why did you have to take the concept of not deserving something? It's just...completely idiotic. Why did I give you that speech the other day?

S: God, everything would be easy if we were just talking about writing music or putting together a photo mosaic for charity. If all of it was left up to my own devices and invention, it's a no brainer. I just have to know that this is what I want, and then I make it happen. It's not so true when it comes to people.

C: Did you know you wanted...?

S: Yeah.

C: Why didn't you say it?

S: That works in movies, not in real life. It's perceived as being creepy in real life.

C: Is that what you really think?

S: Yeah. (pause) How's that for straightforward?

C: The statement is, but the thought process behind it is skewed. Just once, take a chance, okay? Be blunt and in as few words as possible, ask for it. Go down in flames.

S: I'll think about it.

C: That means...

S: That means I'll think about it.

And I listen to the cloud of thoughts that rolls in my mind, the very same one that keeps me up at night. The clock ticks, the wind blows, and the music plays a love song for no one.

How do I make sense of it all?

MONDAY morning update.

S: You know what? You're full of shit.

C: Huh? What? You're the one who -

S: "Take a chance. Be bold. Go up in flames." It's a load of crap. You know where that gets you?

C: Tell me. Oh, and before you do, get a good look at my deadpan expression.

S: Do you remember the "I can't match your level of honesty" theme that repeats? I'm telling you, there are friends I have that totally get it and don't use that as a starting gun for a windsprint to anywhere-else-but-here. I was talking to a friend last night -

C: I don't meant to cut you off, but...well, wait. Yes, I need to cut you off. Does it make sense to you when I say that being blunt and expressive like that is actually doing you a favor?

S: I'm not sure.

C: Listen. If people flip out and have a reaction - or non-reaction - to you, then they're saving you time. They...are...saving...you...time and effort, right?

S: Okay....

C: Then don't waste your time being someone else for the sake of anyone's sensitivity or needs. You are who you are, and you've learned your lessons in the past when it comes to that compromise. I know you have. Those people who "get you" can't afford to be overlooked. Wake up to that, and know that sometimes, you have to say what's on your mind and crack open politeness or small talk to get to what's really inside. Most of the time it won't be for you. Every now and then, though.

S: Point taken.

The clock ticks, the wind blows, and blah blah blah blah. It's time to step out of the mud and reconnect.