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Magic
surreal, hidden, intimate, familiar, evident, tender,
explosive
a giggle, a blade of grass, an idea shared between friends, an inspiration, a knowing look, a warm hug, a
secret desire
curious, explorative, engaging, charming, beguiling, marvelous
secretly
beyond an idea, into a dream, within a hope, under a spell, lost in wonder, immersed in fantasy,
weaving
hypnotizing, captivating, dreamy, bewitching, alluring, mystical
spells
I found my tribe in a little gay bar in Arizona. First, I didn't know there were gay bars in Arizona, but more importantly, I didn't know I had a tribe.
I met up with a team from a content management consulting agency and found that conversations about how to manage workflow, content, standards, localization, and transformation is actually something people talk about. For hours even. And I enjoyed it. No, I loved it. We discussed process, strategy, long term solutions and short term gains, the need to know your requirements and the need to get a roadmap clear. We agreed that you can't stop people from innovating or improving their immediate work space, but you can give them a vision by which to make better decisions. We laughed about poor implementation and commiserated over good intentions and bad deployment.
I don't know when it happened, this little spark of inspiration, this something to talk about, this energy forged by words and ideas - but I want to wrap myself around it like an exotic dancer on her pole - seductively roll around it and say, 'fuck yeah'. I mean, I don't know if exotic dancers say, 'fuck yeah' but if I were one, i might. So yeah. Yeah! In fact, Fuck yeah!
So where do my people go? Where do I find these conversations? How do I continue on with the force that is what I know and what I have yet to learn? How do I spread the word, the Good Word, all the freakin' words to get other people knowing it's time to know something? Um. I haven't gotten to that part yet. But I'm working on it. Fuck yeah, I'm working on it good.
I don’t want to be a garden gnome. Or any gnome for that matter.
Here’s the thing. I was raised in a middle class family with one dedicated, loving, and torturous older brother, an impeccably fair minded though sadly, hypocritically, and potentially depressingly, alcoholic bordering on rageaholic (damn you, rageahol!) father, and a loving-to-a-fault (also known as co-dependent) mother. I had (some) friends and some traumatic stories surrounding pee in my pants and potential lesbian love affairs I could share but who doesn’t have that story? And I even had adventures – though most seem upstaged by a trip down a railroad track with Gordie, Chris, Vern, and Teddy and that crazy pie-eating contest where everyone vomits like a fire hose…no wait. That’s not my life.
The truth is, I never wanted for too much - other than a VHS video player and CASSETTE system in the Ford Granada I had to drive. I mean, really Dad? Did you think Beta and 8-Track were IT? Now that I think about it. That Granada was a serious social killer for me too. Almost anything else would have been better - though I think the Pinto was my other option. Fuck. It's all becoming clear why I had a terrible dating life and paid for far too much therapy. OK, that’s it, back to the point….
The story of the gnome is this. My father is a gnome. A little stony faced man in a matching pantsuit, cone shaped hat and peculiar mischievous expression on his face staring out at the world from the haven that is his yard killing the grass beneath his feet. He’s even the same height as a gnome. But besides it all, my father is a good man. (Besides it all. What a weird expression. Basically I just said, aside from EVERYTHING about him, he’s OK.) And while that’s almost true, he really is a man full of good intentions and a desire to uphold integrity. He just happens to drink himself into a stupid raging paranoia from time to time. Which come to think of it, might be why he kills the grass.
See, my father has always been a voice of doubt in my head. I think while trying to instill me with a cautious, safety and security minded approach to life, his words were interpreted into a fear and a doubt that keeps me hesitating long enough not to take chances. The irony of course is that he’s done well for himself, and taken his chances – in fact, BIG chances. Chances I am anxious to even think 30 years after the outcome is known. But see, that’s when he was younger. WAY younger, like, you know, my age. Now he sees his job as protecting me from myself and my wayward thinking and perhaps more importantly, preventing me from making the mistakes he can see clearly in foresight. (Experience has its benefits, of course.)
I realize this must feel like the point of parenting for parents. Or most parents. Some parents? Probably for good parents. At least caring parents. Shit. I don’t know. I’m not a parent. I am a perpetual child. All I know is that whenever I think that way – too much with my fear and not enough with anything else, I feel like a gnome.
So in my commitment to my very good friend Jonah Otis and to myself, I’ve vowed not to succumb to the dastardly voice in my head and become an insidious little man lurking on the lawn of some poor homeowner only to be lifted up years later to reveal nothing but dead grass. Instead, I’m gonna keep moving and growing. Besides, I wouldn’t make a good gnome, I look terrible in pantsuits.
some days i just wake up with an angst that waves itself proudly up the flagpole of my life. it whips and floats on the air of my inquisitive need to figure shit out and then figure it out again until it slips over me link a mink coat all soft, plush, and cozy - until i realize i'm standing naked beneath it at a PETA convention. that's when i hang onto it like a nice bad habit, like something that makes me realize it's time to take my 15 minute break - repeatedly, throughout the day - only to find i smell funny and my teeth are yellow.
often, i'm just blindsided by it. i can be walking down the street, innocently self-absorbed in my own thoughts about me when suddenly i've tripped on the crack that is my discontent and scrape my knee on an ever present quest to define myself. and that definition is so fucking elusive. it's like a guy dressed in a sandwich board who keeps turning around every time i'm about to read his message or some detour that has the first sign telling you there's a detour and no supporting signs to tell you where to go. i keep thinking if i try one more thing or read one more book or get one more job, i'll find it and everything will feel right. like it's supposed to. like it's meant to be.
my angst is some part misinformation (thanks a fucking lot, Disney) a dash of insecurity, a supernova of desire, a waterfall of doubt, a forest of hope (where clear cutting is prohibited) and raging, insatiable need to find my point in all this. and yeah, maybe it is all about the journey and the point is in the path and the pebbles in the shoe is just part of being on a path full of those irritating little rocks in the first place and maybe some day i'm going to wake up and say, "hey, this is cool. i'm glad it's all working out this way", but today, well today is just not that day.
I've recently had a colonic and I think I'm finally ready to talk about it.
See, the ass is taboo. At least in my circles. I guess there's a lot of ass play in the world though, right or there wouldn't be as many toys for it. But I digress. There's obviously a human fascination with the back door. Fart and poop jokes are old favorites and tend to be the sure hit. I know the bowel habits of more people than you might expect and more people than I'd like to admit that tell me about their penchant for checking to make sure everything comes out OK. Then again, I'm conversationally fearless so I probably asked. But imagine my surprise when I got to the hydrotherapist's office (uh, also know as the bum cleaner) and finally found someone to whom I could speak candidly about the comings and goings of my insides.
And while she was lubing up and inserting the speculum (look it up already, I don't have to share everything with you, do I?) I was causally carrying on poop conversation with my girl, Frances. The tube in place and the water flowing, I'm still chatting away about my frequency and consistency of my crap. Suddenly I'm gripped with this amazingly strong cramping sensation that makes me feel like I'm about to blow shit straight out of my nose. And I'm riveted by the process. I'm completely mesmerized with the little tube that displays all the "matter" exiting my body. And other than the fact that I'm completely aware that this matter is actually my poo, it's almost pretty. OK, maybe not pretty, but definitely cool. And it doesn't stop. The shit literally keeps flowing. More than 45 minutes later, when I'm convinced there can be nothing left, my intestines have one last hurrah and send a flurry of caca straight to the sewer. Hallelujah, I'm clean!
On my way home, I shifted around in my seat to see if I could feel the recent violation at all - and not a thing. Everything is fine down there. My tummy, while a bit tender, feels lighter and my energy level is up. I can't believe it, but the shit's been weighing me down and I'm back up again. Oh yeah!
It's true. I'm a believer. There aren't many places in this world you can unabashedly talk about your feces, but when you find that place, you've got to go back. So don't be afraid of the taboo. Seriously, you've got to try this.
I have a crush. A huge, painful, glorious crush. It's a passion greater than I could have known and it fuels me daily. It comes in the form of a young kid tossing a ball into the air, or an old man skipping down the sidewalk. I find it in the guy who went overboard with the Beadazzler and the woman who self consciously checks herself in the window as she passes by a store. I'm wrapping myself around this desire as it moves through me, around me, and into me. I'm in love with the world, every day. The passion, the hurt, the disappointment and the joy, in this, the best affair I've ever had.
Here's what I've learned today - that you're never too old to find your balance while walking on a curb and if you make yourself available, someone will pass you the ball.
On the quest to lose the 20 pounds that I somehow found without looking (why doesn't that happen for more interesting thing like men or money?) I decided to take my first fitness class. It was Turbo Kickboxing or TKB for those in the know or with a penchant for acronyms. It was literally an exercise in exaggerating my lack of coordination. And I'm pretty sure that the people taking the class are still waiting to try out for the Solid Gold Dance Troupe. Sure, it was my first class and it's bound to get better as I actually learn the steps and find some rhythm (one of those things I'd also like to suddenly find). Though I have to say, I feel more likely to end up on an episode of Where Are They Now featuring all the girls who did NOT make the cut for Solid Gold.
Anyway, dancing poorly is not my topic for the night. My topic tonight is practice. I decided to take this class tonight not because I thought watching myself awkwardly following unfamiliar steps in 9 foot, wall-to-wall mirrors would be fun, but because I wanted to try something I knew I had to practice to get better. I've avoided too many things in my life that I wouldn't be good at from the beginning. I adeptly maneuvered past the uncomfortable act of getting to know something (or someone in many cases) and stayed happily within the realm of things I knew. Which, as you can imagine, isn't a whole lot of stuff. But it does consist mostly of talking to people, judging people, and writing stuff. But even writing stuff has its limits. I don't like rewriting so I don't like writing the first draft - see it prevents me from having to rewrite. It's a genius system if you think about it.
But now things are different. I came to the AZ to make changes - but it wasn't a change of place I needed as much as a change in me. I need to write things and I need to try new things and I need to embrace awkward whole heartedly, try things I suck at, and most importantly practice discovering me.