Stole It From the Cat
I live like a grin. Mischeviously enjoying the sparkle in my eye as I deliver yet another line to make me laugh.
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I live like a grin. Mischeviously enjoying the sparkle in my eye as I deliver yet another line to make me laugh.
I want to be old. Old and wrinkly and wearing off colored, slouching socks, shirts that are either way too big or slightly too small and carry a smile on me like I know a secret. I want to walk around like a chapter book for children and flirt with everyone every chance I get. I want to wear lipstick that bleeds over my lips and eye shadow that gets caught in the creases of my eyes in colors only crazy people might wear. I want to make up stories, exaggerate everything and tell lies just to get caught in them. I want to argue with people just because and I want to complain about everything but my aches and pains. I want to remember the times I cared about everything too much and about no one enough. I want to think back on the times I should have taken a chance. I want to think about lost love, the one that got away and the one I wish let go. I want to think about time spent in the wrong places. And then I want to warn the young kids not to do what I did and then roll my eyes at them when I know they didn't listen. I want to dance one beat behind because my body can't do what my mind says and I want to throw my hands up in the air and wiggle my bum knowing it and not caring one bit. I want to judge someone just because I have the experience to know better. I want to wish them well and mean it. I want to hug people when I first meet them because I won't be sure if I'll see them again. I want to ask as many questions as I can so I can learn everything about every person every time we meet. And I want to be OK with what I've become because being old will be just like it is now.
I lost my disc today. I saw it sail into the water, in the most opposite direction of where I wanted it to go. I watched the water swallow it, quickly and with authority. I had to search for it as the lake took and hid it. When I finally spotted it, it was far enough away from the shore that even if I had a hero with me to retrieve it, it would have been out of reach. As it disappeared I thought, maybe I can sit on the side of the hill and wait for the ripples to send it to me? I wanted to sit there, and wait. But the hill was too empty. And the emptiness felt like heart ache. Then the disc sank. And even if I waited, it wouldn't have come. I looked for a stick. I thought if I could just jostle it and make it move toward me, I could have it back again. But it was still too far away. So I took off my shoes and waited on the edge of the water with dread. Little fish swam by, looking up at me in wonder. I stared back with dismay. I put my feet in the water. It was warm. I placed my foot on a rock and it was covered with mud and slime and ick. It made me squeal as the bottom of the lake squished up between my toes. OH! Each step pushed more and more of it around me, the muck curling its way into every little crevice. Each step took me into deeper into the lake’s goo, gobbling my feet, my ankles, my balance. My disc was a tantalizing few more feet away. A beautiful, happy neon green in a puddle of green murkiness. It lay there, confident of rescue, waiting patiently for me to set it free. I took my stick and I pushed it about until I finally hooked a branch on the little ledge and angled it out of the weeds that had it ensnared. I snatched it up and squealed in triumphed and waded back, as quickly as mud would allow, to the shore.
I sat there and waited for a minute. I let the sun dry my feet. I shook the lake off and watched the fish swim away, happy that the disturbance was over. I was my own hero today. I saved the disc, all by myself. But a part of me wishes I was still waiting on the hill.
I experienced a startling discovery last night. I'm not nearly as cute, funny, or young as I think I am. If right now you're thinking, "uh, duh." you should slowly back away from the computer and stop reading this post. Because my hate may burn you. But if you're someone who gets to hear (and you know who you are), "do you know how cute I am?" often, keep reading. By the way if you were wondering, the obligatory answer of course is, "soooo cute!"
Alright, so I have an over inflated sense of my hilarity and a healthy belief in my relative good lookingness. I mean, when I purse my lips while looking in the mirror and cock my head just so and tuck in a bit or two this way and that, I'm fucking gorgeous. Smoldering hot, even. Pictures might not reveal it nor will a camera of any kind actually capture it, but trust me, it's there. Besides, I hang out at the International House of Pancakes frequently enough to know there are some freakin' ugly folks out there. Or maybe I should call them beauty disabled. Attractively challenged? Regardless, up until now, I thought I was dealt a strong hand. Maybe not the winning hand, but a hand that would keep me in the game. Now I'm beginning to come to terms with the fact that I might not be so cute after all. First sign, when asked how you look, your friend responds by telling you your outfit looks like “you” and can’t explain what “you” means.
OK, so if cute were all attitude, I'd be a supermodel. I mean, I have attitude. I have lots of that. But I'm guessing it has less to do with 'tude and more to do with symmetry, big eyes, a penchant for vomiting after eating and a drug addiction or two. Oh, and The Walk. If there's one thing I learned on America's Next Top Model, it's the walk has to be fierce to sell it. At last count, I'm definitely missing at least 4 of the top 5 things that would make me sexy. I'll let you decide which one.
And then there's hilarity. I think I have to come to terms with the idea that if no one else laughs, it just might not be funny. I mean sure. I can double over with mirth at the fact that it just, you know, sounds funny. For example, last night someone suggested a plastic rubber bit looked like a womb innard. I mean, she said womb innard. That's funny! Who says 'womb innard'? Ever? But blank stares might be an indication that all isn't so humorous after all and that what I see as uproarious might not be so universal. Sure I can sit here and think to myself, "dude. you just don't get it." But at the end of the day, if I'm laughing by myself, am I really laughing?
Finally, I'm old. Fuck. When did that happen? This is truly a surprise. I was shocked, like most, when 32 had me sliding down the wall and body parts in various places got stuck up or down in ways I couldn't imagine. But it was last night that drove it home. After a night out among a throng of 20-somethings, I now know that I'm old. Watching children, yes, kids, gyrating to songs mixed with the formative songs of my youth in a new, hip and oh-so-urban way proves it. Suggesting I "do the Molly Ringwald" and receiving uncomprehending looks, also a sure sign. Being the oldest person in the room and looked at as a potential MILF, totally disturbing. Even more disturbing? Hoping and wanting to be acknowledged at least as a MILF even if I don’t have children. Waiting for the night to end just so I can get home and pet my dogs and stop yelling, "woo" at the top of my lungs... all signs of old.
I'm beginning to realize that I've been making my friends an accomplice to my delusion and that might not be such a good thing, after all. So if I ask you, "how cute am I?" or "am I hilarious or what?" and I'm not, for the love of God, let me know. Help me see the reality of my world and put me in my place. Really, you'll be doing us all a favor.
I've decided there are two types of people in the world, the roadie and the rock star. The roadie takes time to collect the gear. Be it music equipment, running shoes, computer gadgets, craft materials, paints.... whatever. They stock up on the stuff that will make whatever project they hope to embark on, great. These are the people who think about doing.
Then there's the rock star or members of the band. These are the people that actually write and play the songs. They run in their new shoes, the paint on canvas, they build with their materials, and beadazzle where ever possible. These are the people who do.
I have spent a lot of time in my life dreaming of being the rock star, but collecting the gear like the roadie and I think it's time to start playing the music.
Don't be a coward. Be generous.
All my most sensitive parts are exposed and I think I'm getting an emotional rash. And here I am, laying out my thoughts and revealing myself on this page and becoming enraged at the vulnerability. I think someone is making me do this and when I find her, I'm punching her straight in the vagina. I'm like a volcano, gurgling with irritation, excessive sensitivity, emotional overload, and a dash of rage. Some people call this PMS. I call it today.
I know something's up when I tear up because each girl in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants learns something formative from their ordeal. Oh. And cuz I keep eating everything in my path. But that's not the point. The point is, I have issues and I am tenaciously holding onto them for the day and tomorrow I will, or may, start over. What I don't need is this:
1. Sarcastic remarks about my sensitivity.
2. Cryptic comments about our relationship or my level of effort around the house.
3. Indifferent responses or half-hearted interactions.
4. A casual pat on the ass in an effort to playfully remind me of your affection.
5. AT&T commercials or any movie where the world is saved at the end.
What I do need is this:
1. Sarcastic remarks about other people's sensitivity.
2. Cryptic comments that I will understand but other people are perplexed by..
3. You to pay attention. Seriously. Focus. Focu-u-us.
4. Let's just leave the ass alone right now.
5. To watch ass kicking or to kick someone's ass - one or the other. Yes, I realize this is ass. But it's not my ass.
Right, I know. I have issues. It's already been stated. I'm working on it. Alright?
I'm going through the five stages of What The Fuck. It goes like this:
Stage 1: You're fucking kidding me. Right? I mean, you have to be kidding me.
Stage 2: You're fucking kidding me. You had better be fucking kidding me.
Stage 3: You're fucking kidding me. I mean, if you're kidding with me, I'll not kick your ass.
Stage 4: What the fuck - ever.
Stage 5: Fuck
It's just one of those days...
God, I hate that feeling. That, “what am I supposed to do now?” feeling. It’s the one that comes right after you know you have nothing left to say but you have so much left to share. I hate the awkward space in between.
Things are much simpler when you can define it and encapsulate it with a definitive, “this is the nature of it” making it recognizable, familiar and clear.
Uncertainty, sucks.
I am terrible with a tether on my spontaneity. I want to share something funny. Right this second. Something that’s laugh out loudable and so worthy of repeating. I don’t want to wait and I don’t want to censor myself and I don’t want to think about if it’s OK. I just want to hit send and wait for a guaranteed reply.
Why can’t things be easy? And uncomplicated? Where the fuck is that line, anyway?
Ooh, I’m impatient! I hate waiting for a redefinition. That takes time. That means things change and melt away. I hate melting. Things get runny when they melt. Runny things are messy.
So keep things clean. Prevent runny. Yes! That’s a good idea. Clean, simple, less than runny. That’s good. And that’s what I’ll do. I’ll hold the line and bring out the thesaurus and find a new word.
Everyone is looking for the Big Idea. Maybe it’s that thing to sell on a late night infomercial peddling something nobody realized they needed but everyone buys anyway. Because some of us want that million dollar, quick hit, make my money and retire thing to come our way (as long as it comes to us while sitting in front of our TV.) Some of us want that Greatest Love of All. Not the insane Whitney Houston version or the kind monopolized by the children of our future, but that, Disney, yes it can be real if you let it be real kind of blow my heart apart with this amazingly good thing Love. And we want to be a princess and we want the prince to ride up on a white horse…
But here’s an idea, pursuing the Big Idea means taking a risk, gambling on your dream, and changing the world you live in. And so, the Big Idea has become inconvenient. And how can it not be when it requires action. It requires us to do something. It requires us to think beyond what we know and into the realm of what can be. Acting on the Big Idea means well, acting on something. I mean, really doing something. Not just thinking about doing something and how cool it would be if you did it. Acting means work, chance, vulnerability, and risk.
If you want the Big Idea, you have to wonder. You have to explore. You have to try something. You have to stop being the roadie and start being the star. Get a piece of paper and a pen. Write something down. Get a guitar and strum it. Kick a ball. Build a website. Kiss someone you want to love and see what happens.
The Big Idea doesn’t have to be too big. It can fit in all sorts of spaces. It can be as simple as a note jotted down in a moment of inspiration or a new invention that makes life easier (for those other people who don’t want to get off the sofa.) But for you, Idea Explorer, it means jump roping over a string of ideas, skipping your plans over the river of innovation, and sending electricity through your brainstorm.
I’m personally tired of being a victim to my laziness and my good intentions. I’m tired of hearing myself think, “yeah, but…” I’m done wasting time not doing stuff. Thomas Jefferson said, “Do you want to know who you are? Don't ask. Act! Action will delineate and define you.” And damn it if George Lucas got something right (no, definitely not Episode 1-3) when he had Yoda say, “do or do not, there is no try”. It’s so fucking simple, it’s almost ridiculous. I mean, you just have to do it. You just have to pick yourself up and exercise your imagination – and work it out and push it, until you find that Big Idea and you can hold it up for a long time without getting tired.
So keep looking. Find the big idea – make it so big and so beautiful and so complex that you’re confounded, confused, and crazy over trying to get it – but keep looking – because that really is the big idea.
I've never overly romanticized unrequited love and I've never been addicted to heartache. Heartache well, hurts. And no one likes to hurt. But there's something to be said for that soft, tender throbbing in the middle of your chest and there's a respect it deserves, because as hard as it is to feel, heartache reminds us that we're feeling something.
Of course, there are so many reasons to guard your heart. There's pain and fear and uncertainty. There's the discomfort of discovery, the doubt and embarrassment that comes with a desire to be accepted, and the terror of standing on stage for an audience that might hate your performance. There's also the loss of something beautiful, and touching, and comfortable, and inspiring, exhilarating, amazing.... That someone who’s offered to be a witness to your crazy life, proving there's more to your life than just you. Safeguarding your heart keeps you safe from the pain of loss or gain that can define you and change you and ruin you (if you let it).
We are lucky that love can grow in us before we're afraid to let it. That our mother's know how to hold us and guide us and remind us and our father's know how to teach us, and scold us, and mold us - they help us create those bonds that keep us connected to others. Even as we pass through and from each other's lives.
Most of us forget how strong we are, really. We anticipate the pain of love lost long before we feel love itself. And we let that anticipation, that possible outcome, guide us and rule us in our present. Ironically, we live in a future that keeps us safe from hurt and hurting all at the same time. We covet the luxury of preemptive pain where we can control it, hurting right now, my way, instead of being subjected to it on terms of its own. We feel the hurt way out there - in the realm of possible. But thinking so far ahead, we feel it all the same. So instead of trusting we can handle it if it happens and therefore enjoy the present without that pesky, looming inevitability, we choose never to love at all, in a perfect ruse of strength.
It’s true. Heartache will hurt. But heartache is a reminder. It's a way for life to tell you that you have this gift of feeling - a gift of connecting with something and someone deeply enough that it can affect you - a gift for trusting yourself and someone else to take care of your love. A gift for allowing something to grow in you, form you. Heartache is something precious. It fortifies our memories and makes sacred our risk.
So embrace it. Every chance you get. Forget caution, forget safeguarding. Forget the right thing. And please, oh please, forget fear. If you feel something, be generous with your heart and share it with wild abandon. Love big - roll the dice, let it ride on your favorite number or any number. Cuz sometimes, something happens that makes your heart race and your reason flee and makes you do things that you would never do. Sometimes you get the chance to live your daydreams and walk into possibility and make it be. When that happens, when that rare moment happens, you should listen to your heart. Let it talk to you - and make yourself listen. Cuz that, well, that doesn't happen every day.
Originally written 11/2002
Sometimes, when I look into the future and dance through the possibilities of what may be for my life, I see you as my partner for everything I might do or become. I see you sharing my experiences of happiness and pain, joy and grief, wonder and awe. I see myself calling on you first for each achievement and each heartache.
Sometimes, before I go to bed I imagine myself tucking in our children. They giggle as I nuzzle into their necks and breathe in their sweet innocence. They laugh with their entire soul and I can feel their happiness touch mine... and I know they are happy because we are happy.
Sometimes, when I'm holding you at night and I'm fitting perfectly in your arms I imagine sleeping in our house where the southern stars are just outside our window. Our night was spent sitting on our porch, just wondering at the ways of life. And we laugh as we recall memories and tell stories.
Sometimes when we're snuggling on the sofa, watching a movie, I imagine what it would be like to lay there with you, ten years from now. I wonder if the way your arms feel around me will still feel as safe and loving and true.
Sometimes I worry. Maybe this is all temporary? Maybe this will end. Maybe my heart will get broken. Maybe I will be hurt. Maybe this is too hard. Maybe we can't do it! Maybe we will forget how to work on things or how to love each other or how to appreciate the world we are building. Maybe we will wallow in the past or fear the future and never live in the here and now. Maybe we will make choices that we can never take back.
But most of the time, when I'm playing in my imagination and wondering about all the times we'll share I see you with a smile on your face. Sometimes, it's the look of concentration that makes your tongue poke out. Sometimes it's the way your eyebrows pull together to prove you're working something out. But mostly, I see you persevering. I see you struggling and trying and loving the world as best you can. I see you laughing and crying and frustrated. I see you scared and courageous and able to share your spirit. I see you coaching baseball and waving our little runner in. I see you worried about your daughter. I see you extending your help towards our neighbors. I see you working on projects. I see you practicing on you....
Perhaps it's dangerous for me to have so much hope for all this. But there's something driving this hope that's bigger than the fears and bigger than the doubts and bigger than the past and bigger than the mere moments that call up my questions. It's a desire to have this life that I imagine and to share it with you...
This is to the guy who passed gas in my cube today. If you were there, you know who you are. And you know what? since I was there, I know who you are too. Just for future reference, you always want more than two people in a place if you're going to do that and try and pretend it wasn't you.
I've never been simple. Some people, they are simple. Or they seem simple. I don't mean that "not quite bright" way either. I just mean, they know how not to complicate things. That's never been my way.
I'm not sure if people are just born one way or another - like left handed or blue eyed. Or if I'm a result of my environment. I'm sure it's both. Right? It being either one or the other seems incomplete somehow. Or not big enough or small enough or enough enough.
Sometimes, I imagine complicated is sexy. You know, mysterious, and unpredictable and intriguing. Or maybe it's layered with depth. Thoughtful, provocative, explorative, challenging.
I think it's much better to consider that to the alternative. Who wants to be defined as heavy (in any capacity) or heady, or overly cerebral. Who likes to hear, "you think too much" or "you just need to relax"? or, "damn, you're paranoid and intense." Uh, not that I've ever heard that.....
This wanting to know more thing, it's not so bad really. I'd rather know more and find out what is IN there or OUT there or UP with that. I'd rather find my tribe. My tribe of discoverers and the conversationally fearless. I'd rather reveal to the hunters of knowledge and share with the truth seekers. I'd rather learn something new, be challenged by a good idea, be inspired by creativity, impressed with vulnerability....
Maybe it is simple. I find depth sexy. I find truth sexy. I find self discovery, revelation, and epiphanies sexy. I find finding the words to say it all so very, very sexy.
You know, the benefits far outweigh the criticisms. But the need to explain it. The why of it, or the need of it.... I'm still learning that part. Maybe accepting this part of me - this part that's been called "dark" and "brooding" and the "side of you I just can't love" - is just part of my discovery, my revelation, my epiphany. Maybe it is simple. Maybe it's very simple after all.
Today I learned that whatever happens in Vegas, doesn't actually stay in Vegas. In fact, it comes out of my faucet in Phoenix - and apparently, as if that image wasn't bad enough, after being "recycled" 29 times. That means, not only does it get, well, infected, with whatever happens in Vegas, it gets infected by 29 different sources in Vegas.
I also learned that dogs really do eat your homework. I come home from the gym to find the 150 page document I've been reading strewn all over the back yard like a snow flurry in the middle of summer. It's the only thing taken too - the garbage is perfectly in tact and his favorite entry rug/chew toy is right where we left it. So what was so special about this book? The binder clips I used to snap it closed? The last 20 pages I had left to read? Maybe he was just trying to get a better understanding of building web applications.
Actually, I'm not sure what I "learned" here other than finding out I'm more likely to get kidney stones, I am in a state where arsenic exposure is the highest in all 50 states and a paper pasted lawn isn't easy to clean up - but for some reason, it brings me to the random unexpected discoveries that life has to offer.
Like the other day, I drove by a cardiology center and saw a nurse smoking. I watched a guy get off the bus with a bag of golf clubs. I watched a guy go head over heels on his bike, roll over on the sidewalk, get up, get back on his bike and continue on like nothing happened.
It's funny how many things there are to see if you look. Things that prove how precious and outrageous and ridiculous life can be. Last month I watched some guy who bedazzled everything he wore with a fancy purple and pink light catching sequence of sheer heaven cross the street in his 3-wheel bike. He had a basket in the back carrying a sign that said, "What?" and at least 4 statuettes of dinosaurs.
Years ago, in well, the many years I spent in college, I would walk by a particular house on my way to and from school. One day, I saw this woman, stroking her pregnant belly, standing framed in the front room window. A few months later, I walked by and saw a crib in the side of the room, the woman raising her child into her arms. Perhaps a year after that, I saw the child sitting in front of the window, playing with her toys, her mother in the background staring out the window....and yet a few months later, the mother standing there in the window, pregnant again.....how cool these snapshots of their family!
I wish I could slow my life down. I think I miss too many of these moments because I'm too busy looking for something else. Or maybe I wish I could sit in one place long enough to let these things pass by me. Does life like this happen when you stay still? Or maybe I should just take off on an adventure of my own and become someone else's story to tell....
If I were a cat, this is what I'd do with my nine lives:
I'd be an explorer or an archeologist. I'd sail around the world and dig things up and tell really cool stories about everything I've found. I would skip from port to port and make new friends and learn new languages and I would smile on every continent in the world.
I'd be a porn star. I'd moan and groan and writhe - and orgasm on command! I'd be super sexy with really big, fake boobs and I would pout and reveal my curvaceous bum in every photo op I could.
I'd be a lesbian so I could date my really cute Personal Trainer. And we'd play softball and go to Indigo Girl concerts and talk about each other and all our friends and why they aren't as cool or mature or enlightened as we are.
I'd be a Peace Corps volunteer. I'd teach in a small village some where, where the children run around half naked and giggle at the games I show them or the way I try and speak their language. I would build small huts and I would look at the window of my little house and wonder about the simple beauty that surrounds me.
I'd be an actor. I'd make people laugh and cry and think. They would cheer and applaud and cry for more! And the world would think I'm so interesting they'd want to read about me in tabloid magazines. I'd develop a really trendy addiction and become an anorexic. Then I would recover and write a book about it that inspires the world and ends up on Oprah's Book of the Month Club.
I'd be a rock star. I would jump up and down on stage and I would run around in my bare feet. Every once in a while I would scream out a Whoooo! until the crowd would go wild. I'd go back to my dressing room and drink too much and smoke too much and brood about the loneliness of my life and then write a really cool song about it that they sing on American Idol.
I'd be a quarterback. I'd run around on the field and make really cool moves. I'd dodge and weave and make the game winning touchdown at the last minute. I'd win the Super bowl and the team would carry me on their shoulders and I'd get confetti stuck in my hair. All the reporters would want to talk to me, but I'd run over to the sideline and give the game winning football to a random kid - waiting around to see the huge smile on his face.
I'd be a politician. I'd practice my rhetoric on the masses and make people see why things could be good. I'd believe in idealism and I would convince others to believe in it too. I'd make changes and I'd disappoint 1/3 of my constituents and then wonder why I ever got into politics - until that one thing I did that made a difference. I would see why it was good and my heart would be full.
I'd be a veterinarian. I would fix the animals and help them bring babies into the world. I'd bring them to places where they could make people oooh and ahhh and coo, too. Then I'd learn how to talk to them on an island of my very own.
Hmmmm... I guess I need to decide what to do with the one I have.
I sing every day. Sometimes I sing REALLY loudly, like the rock star I have shackled up inside my soul. Some days it's me and Mr. Blue and I make him understand why I really am there to stay with him. Other days you'll find me asking Georgia, Why at the top of my lungs. And often you'll see me shake it while I'm Chasing Rainbows or happily Jump, Jive, AND Wailing. I do a rendition of Risky Business that would make Katie jealous and I have floors cleaner than the Pine Sol lady. I shimmy, I shake, I jiggle, giggle, and man oh man, do I rock.
And some days I hum. I let the music take me to the edge and I linger there, enjoying the vibration, the gentle brush of the rhythm on my lips. Sometimes a note will escape me and I wonder if anyone knows the tune. I say Good Morning Heartache while I surf the Landslide of my moment. And I wonder, if this is the day someone will start singing with me.
And then there are the days I let the music play in my head. I might tap might foot, or shake my head. I might even turn a shoulder or two when you're not looking. Those are my days. My secret music days when it's just me and words and my heart all scrambled up in a feeling of wonder, sadness, discontent, fury, pain, love and desire.
Today. Well, today I'm singing. So listen real hard. I’m sure you’ll hear it.
I've recently been violated by The Man and he didn't buy me dinner, spoke only of himself and never called the next day. I'm finding that, with a certainty, I don't want to be pushed around, held down, or wrestled with and I have no ambition or desire to see the glass ceiling much more, break through it. In fact, if anything, I've uncovered a desire to BECOME The Man and start my own business where I'm in charge, I have final say, and I can decide whose potential to ignore. That's right, instead of grappling with the powers over me, I've decided to let my frustration propel me to a position where I can boss someone ELSE around and exert my influence and power over well, over everything, cuz man, I'm The Man.
It was a startling realization, really. I came back to the life I had known not 4 months ago - a life of back-to-back meetings, fast paced walking around the office, convivial smiles in between anxious exchanges, and urgent hellos. And instead of feeling the exhilaration that once fueled me, I found I was exhausted at the prospect of another session intended to convince someone or cajole someone or drive an idea or concept like Sisyphus up the hill.....
I was beat down with indifference and ultimately, betrayed by my own idealism – hoping, wishing, and silently demanding I get recognized for being worthy of something, having some contribution to make, or having some potential to tap into. And now I’m saying fuck it, in a monument to resignation that will thrust me into a whole new plane of speculation, something new, something that, God and my big-fat-analytical-head willing, will inspire and drive me into a whole new diatribe.
I need a cause. Some kind of cause. Any kind of cause. I'm so anxious for something to fight for I'm tempted to move to small town that's banned dancing and convince the city council and the local preacher to let me have a prom. Seriously. I need something bigger than me, bigger than my thoughts about me, and more important than a delivery date or project meeting at Any Company.com. I need a big problem to solve or an intricate situation to unravel or maybe a great evil to slay. I need something before I start making things up. Maybe I need a picture of an exotic island and a brain tumor. Maybe I need to a near death experience (note, NEAR death - preferably without the painful consequences) and a revelation so huge that it makes me throw caution to the wind and pack my bags, take all my belongings, or at least one bag, a bedroll and a lute, and sail around the world. Maybe I can just get Lost - find an island and spend the rest of time finding the true meaning to life – or the meaning of some damn show where nothing really happens but it’s always interesting anyway.
Or maybe I can skip all that adventure, fighting The Man, almost dying business and just find that perfect, badass soundtrack for my life. Maybe that's it. I need some timeless series of groovin', underground, touching, booty-shakin' numbers that inspire nostalgia and make me remember all the good things in life, remind me when to shake things up, when to cry, when to be angry, when to take a stand...
I don't know why it has to be so hard - this legendary inspiration-and-passion-win-the-day situation shouldn't be so elusive. Epic adventures happen all the time! How many times has the world banned together to save the planet from an alien invasion? Or a small group is made responsible for keeping Evil from taking over the world? Or planes crash into something I’d like to call Purgatory as a mystery about its intent is unraveled. All I want is to join the team. The Team that's appointed the responsibility of universal salvation or revelation. Is that to much to ask?
OK, I'm sure there are some people out there who are thinking, "You need to make the adventure! You need to make your own team!" and you know what I say to you? Shut the hell up. As much as I'd love to believe that I'm the Master of my Own Destiny, I'm convinced that one quarter of the adventure is you being ready to make it, another quarter is being identified by the casting director as someone who would be a good part of the team, some part of it is that you're least likely to die in the first third of the story, and the rest is pure, stupid, unabashed good (or bad, depending on your point of view) luck.
All I'm saving is I want a team, a band of merry men, a nemesis and Big Bad and I want to Save The Day. Is that really too much to ask for?