I never realized I had fans until I attended the Powermorphicon this summer. It was wonderful to know that people enjoyed my work and found me inspiring. It was what I had always wished for...celebrity.
Beware what you wish for, it might just come true. Trying to keep real in the glamour of fan-dom is an impossibility. Wonderful people saying wonderful things about wonderful me! My signature a coveted and treasured item! Flash, flash, pictures with me a must have! My opinion solicited and prized! Exclamation point, exclamation point!!!
Acclaim is addictive. At first, it draws you in with warm, fuzzy feelings of self-worth. Maybe what I do is really valuable. As time goes on and more fan-love is poured on you, self-worth morphs into self-importance. Self-value is a given. Entitlement steps forward and says that not only do you deserve this acclaim, it is your God-given right. After all, I am me am I not.......
On the third day of the Power Rangers convention, I had an epiphany. I realized that although I love my fans, I need to reside in the real world. I could too easily become a monster with too much fan-love. Just as I don't drink to excess, I can't over-indulge in acclaim because, like I'm a mean drunk, I have the potential to be a mean ego-maniac.
I've decided that Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes is about all the fame I can handle. As an actor, I know I'm not truly stable. Acting has always been an outlet for dealing with my personal issues. Acclaim distracts me from my "loose screws." I can handle that for about fifteen minutes. But the issues don't disappear. More than fifteen minutes of fame and they just get buried under the self-importance and eventually they will burst out in some unhealthy way. They will escape, God help us all. Mayhem! Binge eating, burst of temper, tantrums.
To be truthful, I always dreamed of being famous...great roles, awards, celebrity. The reality in Hollywood is that for an older, large-size woman that dream comes in small doses. I love that people remember me from Power Rangers. They so generously gave me my superlative fifteen minutes of fame. My reality, however, is that I have had a small acting career. I've had the great pleasure of doing most of the things I wanted to do, just not to the level I had hoped. But I love my real career--teaching. I love being a real teacher and I'm grateful to the Power Rangers fans who recognized the teacher in me before I recognized it myself.
Fame is a great place to visit, but I don't want to live there. I am happy that my students push my buttons, burst my ego-balloon, and remind me that I'm just another human being. They don't let me get too big for my britches. They keep me real and I like being real.
However, Power Rangers fans...I love you dearly and I'll be back for another fifteen minutes when I feel I can handle it.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Elsie
Elsie, my biological mother, is a woman of passions. In her youth, she practiced her passion in falling in love and, believe me, she had no problem finding willing partners for the practice. Elsie was not classically beautiful, but she was charismatic. In the vernacular of the day, she was stacked. Five foot eight in her stocking feet, she liked to wear three inch heels. Needless to say, she was an amazon.
When she walked into a room, every man in it wanted to meet her. Not that that necessarily brought her happiness. Married seven times to five different men, she was always looking for the Maxwell House ideal marriage...good to the last drop. Unfortunately, the men she chose were more the instant decafe version...good when you can't find the real thing.
Outside of my last stepfather, Elsie says my dad was the only good man she married. How she and my father ever got together is a mystery that I can't solve. They were a confluence of opposites. Elsie was a party girl. My dad a homebody. My dad had low libido, Elsie was hot to trot. Elsie didn't love him. I don't know if he loved her. Both had wills of iron and were unwilling to compromise. Why they got married...well, your guess is as good as mine, but I'm glad they did.
Elsie's passions carried her from Oklahoma to California and back again. A dust bowl Okie, her family moved to Watts back when it was still a white community. She lived on the wrong side of the track with a mother who also partnered with more than one man. She ran away at 13 and never went home again. Not a wonder she was always in search of a home and with her generation, that meant marriage. She let her passion carry her back to Oklahoma with a man who broke her heart not once, but twice. But Inola, Oklahoma, became Elsie's passion and brought her final love match. Elsie's final marriage to Curt Boyd took because Curt was the real deal, a good man who understood her.
For the last twenty years or more, since Curt's passing due to Alzheimer's Disease, Elsie has lived off and on by herself. During the off time, my half-sister, Cythnia, the daughter of Elsie's forties, lived in argumentative co-existence. Elsie cared for Bailey, Cythnia's daughter, during her early years, and provided the "milk and cookies" during Bailey's school days. It wasn't an easy existence for two strong-willed, passionate, dramatic and self-involved women.
Oh by the way, did I say that self-involvement is the family curse? I fight it everyday.
When Cynthia finally moved out after one argument too many, Elsie crafted a deal that let her stay in her home--some five miles outside Inola, a one-horse rural community--on her own. Elsie loves that home where she has lived for the last more than forty years of her life.
Recently, Elsie, who is now 92 years old, went to the hospital with congestive pulmonary disorder. She was on the verge of pneumonia and I despaired that she would go from the hospital to a nursing home. Elsie would hate it. As she told me last summer, she doesn't like old people. One has to agree that years don't make a person old. Even at 92, Elsie's not old. Elsie loves her independence. A nursing home and the loss of her independence would be a death sentence I'm afraid. I was so worried because I was powerless to do anything.
I'm glad to say, Elsie's home again. She's a little frailer, but still passionate...even about her eventual passing. Elsie says she's ready to go, but obviously God isn't ready for her. She has lived a good life she says. And I would have to agree with her.
My daughter posted some picture on Sunday that show Elsie sitting in her chair looking just like I left her in July when I visited. I had spoken with her the day before the pictures were taken and she was sounding like her old self. I'm so grateful to all those who care for her in her daily life. They allow her to continue to live her passionate life.
I didn't grow up with Elsie and that's a story for another time. But over the years, I have grown to appreciate Elsie's passion. She has lived life...I mean really lived it. If Elsie has regrets, it's not for things she didn't try. I wish I could say the same. Elsie has grabbed life with both hands and wrung every last drop from it. Now that's living.
At 92, I don't know how many more years Elsie has left, but I pray that every single moment may continue to be filled with passion.
When she walked into a room, every man in it wanted to meet her. Not that that necessarily brought her happiness. Married seven times to five different men, she was always looking for the Maxwell House ideal marriage...good to the last drop. Unfortunately, the men she chose were more the instant decafe version...good when you can't find the real thing.
Outside of my last stepfather, Elsie says my dad was the only good man she married. How she and my father ever got together is a mystery that I can't solve. They were a confluence of opposites. Elsie was a party girl. My dad a homebody. My dad had low libido, Elsie was hot to trot. Elsie didn't love him. I don't know if he loved her. Both had wills of iron and were unwilling to compromise. Why they got married...well, your guess is as good as mine, but I'm glad they did.
Elsie's passions carried her from Oklahoma to California and back again. A dust bowl Okie, her family moved to Watts back when it was still a white community. She lived on the wrong side of the track with a mother who also partnered with more than one man. She ran away at 13 and never went home again. Not a wonder she was always in search of a home and with her generation, that meant marriage. She let her passion carry her back to Oklahoma with a man who broke her heart not once, but twice. But Inola, Oklahoma, became Elsie's passion and brought her final love match. Elsie's final marriage to Curt Boyd took because Curt was the real deal, a good man who understood her.
For the last twenty years or more, since Curt's passing due to Alzheimer's Disease, Elsie has lived off and on by herself. During the off time, my half-sister, Cythnia, the daughter of Elsie's forties, lived in argumentative co-existence. Elsie cared for Bailey, Cythnia's daughter, during her early years, and provided the "milk and cookies" during Bailey's school days. It wasn't an easy existence for two strong-willed, passionate, dramatic and self-involved women.
Oh by the way, did I say that self-involvement is the family curse? I fight it everyday.
When Cynthia finally moved out after one argument too many, Elsie crafted a deal that let her stay in her home--some five miles outside Inola, a one-horse rural community--on her own. Elsie loves that home where she has lived for the last more than forty years of her life.
Recently, Elsie, who is now 92 years old, went to the hospital with congestive pulmonary disorder. She was on the verge of pneumonia and I despaired that she would go from the hospital to a nursing home. Elsie would hate it. As she told me last summer, she doesn't like old people. One has to agree that years don't make a person old. Even at 92, Elsie's not old. Elsie loves her independence. A nursing home and the loss of her independence would be a death sentence I'm afraid. I was so worried because I was powerless to do anything.
I'm glad to say, Elsie's home again. She's a little frailer, but still passionate...even about her eventual passing. Elsie says she's ready to go, but obviously God isn't ready for her. She has lived a good life she says. And I would have to agree with her.
My daughter posted some picture on Sunday that show Elsie sitting in her chair looking just like I left her in July when I visited. I had spoken with her the day before the pictures were taken and she was sounding like her old self. I'm so grateful to all those who care for her in her daily life. They allow her to continue to live her passionate life.
I didn't grow up with Elsie and that's a story for another time. But over the years, I have grown to appreciate Elsie's passion. She has lived life...I mean really lived it. If Elsie has regrets, it's not for things she didn't try. I wish I could say the same. Elsie has grabbed life with both hands and wrung every last drop from it. Now that's living.
At 92, I don't know how many more years Elsie has left, but I pray that every single moment may continue to be filled with passion.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
What's the matter with kids today!
I've probably titled this entry wrong because, truth be told, there isn't really much wrong with kids today that wasn't wrong "back in the day." Kids today have more decisions to make; the world is a much more complicated place. But they have the same motivations--desire for acceptance, need for love, lack of common sense. In reality, kids today still need guidance, someone to help them see the consequences of their actions, someone to remind them of their good qualities as the rest of the world tries to bring them down.
However, like most adults, there are days when I just want to shout what's the matter with kids today. At 62, I guess should expect a day or two of aggravation. When you teach teenagers, you need patience...sometimes more than you have to give. Today was one such day.
Teaching kids in the summer is like trying to catch a greased pig. The classrooms are hot, the sun is shining, everyone wants to be at the beach--including me. Thank God I teach the arts. If I was teaching math or history or English, I'd be crazy. At least in my classes, we can let loose and have some fun. Even that is not enough sometimes to keep the kids focused and learning. Sometimes you have to just keep order. I hate being a disciplinarian. I prefer being a leader to my students, but in summer I am more the former than the later.
My only consolation is that summer always passes. Fall comes on and the kids begin to settle in to more normal behavior when their "summer-funning" friends have to return to their classrooms.
Yeah, folks it's August. The dog days of summer and, like my students, I'm tired of school and wanting to play. What's wrong with kids today? Same thing that's wrong with me. Summer ennui.
However, like most adults, there are days when I just want to shout what's the matter with kids today. At 62, I guess should expect a day or two of aggravation. When you teach teenagers, you need patience...sometimes more than you have to give. Today was one such day.
Teaching kids in the summer is like trying to catch a greased pig. The classrooms are hot, the sun is shining, everyone wants to be at the beach--including me. Thank God I teach the arts. If I was teaching math or history or English, I'd be crazy. At least in my classes, we can let loose and have some fun. Even that is not enough sometimes to keep the kids focused and learning. Sometimes you have to just keep order. I hate being a disciplinarian. I prefer being a leader to my students, but in summer I am more the former than the later.
My only consolation is that summer always passes. Fall comes on and the kids begin to settle in to more normal behavior when their "summer-funning" friends have to return to their classrooms.
Yeah, folks it's August. The dog days of summer and, like my students, I'm tired of school and wanting to play. What's wrong with kids today? Same thing that's wrong with me. Summer ennui.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
On Growing Old
Lately, I've been feeling very old. Now my good friend Lorrie would say I've said that for more than fifteen year, ever since we met. But it used to be that I said I was old to get people say, "Oh, no! You're young." Now I really feel old.
Part of that is because I recently applied for two jobs that I would have been perfect for and I didn't even get an interview. That has never happened to me before. I always got an interview when I applied for jobs in my younger years. This time, I think my age had something to do with it. I know, age is not supposed to be a factor in job applications, but people can look at your birthday and subtract. And I'm sure they would think that I wouldn't be around for the long haul because I am approaching retirement age.
The other part of my feeling old is that as I look at my life I realize that there are more years behind me than ahead of me. Even though the women in my family live long lives, I've been around for almost sixty-two years and I can really look forward to only about thirty more, if I live as long as my mother and grandmother. There were so many things I wanted to do and now there is less time to do them in.
Now thirty years is nothing to sneeze at. Thirty years is a long time. But we live in a society that reveres youth. It will be harder to accomplish the things I had hoped to do because it will be harder to be taken seriously. Add in the fact that age takes it toll on our bodies and stamina and doing some of the things I want to do may not be possible.
I don't regret getting older. In fact, I am more content at this age than I ever was in my youth. I just wish I had pursued my goals earlier. I guess reviewing your life can bring a melancholy...the regret of the road not traveled. I don't regret my life. I'd just like to have left a little bigger footprint in the sand.
Part of that is because I recently applied for two jobs that I would have been perfect for and I didn't even get an interview. That has never happened to me before. I always got an interview when I applied for jobs in my younger years. This time, I think my age had something to do with it. I know, age is not supposed to be a factor in job applications, but people can look at your birthday and subtract. And I'm sure they would think that I wouldn't be around for the long haul because I am approaching retirement age.
The other part of my feeling old is that as I look at my life I realize that there are more years behind me than ahead of me. Even though the women in my family live long lives, I've been around for almost sixty-two years and I can really look forward to only about thirty more, if I live as long as my mother and grandmother. There were so many things I wanted to do and now there is less time to do them in.
Now thirty years is nothing to sneeze at. Thirty years is a long time. But we live in a society that reveres youth. It will be harder to accomplish the things I had hoped to do because it will be harder to be taken seriously. Add in the fact that age takes it toll on our bodies and stamina and doing some of the things I want to do may not be possible.
I don't regret getting older. In fact, I am more content at this age than I ever was in my youth. I just wish I had pursued my goals earlier. I guess reviewing your life can bring a melancholy...the regret of the road not traveled. I don't regret my life. I'd just like to have left a little bigger footprint in the sand.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Dreaming
I've been thinking alot about dreams lately, about how they begin, how they morph, how they change. I've always been a dreamer. I'm not sure whether that is a virtue or a sin. I've chased dreams and they have alluded me. I have accomplished dreams and found them unfulfilling. I've lived dreams and been punished for it.
I don't know if I've ever gotten a dream and been satisfied with it. And that is the crux of my problem. I'm not sure I would know a dream fulfilled if it stared me in the face.
Now that is a sin!
You have to feel deserving of accomplished dreams in order to see them fulfilled...I believe. And I've never felt truly deserving. I have felt like I could have worked harder, been better, less...less what I don't know. Just different I guess.
I want to pursue my dreams. I want to get there and know I have. I want to perceive my dream fulfilled. I want to glory in the joy of a dream well done. I want, I want, I want.
There you have it...I want. The next installment...what do I want?
Monday, February 22, 2010
Ms. Appleby Lives
Ms. Appleby has recently come back into my life. She was my first professional acting job in Los Angeles. I didn't always love her, but, especially now, she has become very precious to me. Ms. Appleby taught me the business. I met some great people on the set and learned how to act in front of a camera. I fell in love with film and television. Ms. Appleby opened that door.
Beyond the work, Ms. Appleby has introduced me to some very generous people who have given me the gift of an interest in my character. They have sent me messages saying that I have had some little impact on their lives. They tell me that I encouraged their interest in education; that I was the kind of teacher they would like to have. It is, for me, a little bit of immortality to be remembered.
My career has not been as successful as I would have liked. To be honest, I act now more as a sideline than with any real hope of a full-time career. Sometimes our dreams are bigger than our ability to accomplish them. My dreams, however, have been fulfilled to a certain degree. I have my union cards. I've been on successful prime time television. I was a part of Powers Rangers' first season which went to the top with a bullet. I've gotten to do work that I love. And I'll continue, God willing, to do this thing that gives me so much bliss as long as I'm physically able.
Ms. Appleby reminds me that I am foremost an actor among all the other things I do. It is for this reason that I have renamed my blog. Ms. Appleby was a wise old broad, she was the original wise nobody. She had to be. She taught anything the school asked her to--English, Science, History. You name it, she taught it. She dealt with Bulk and Skull and those other pesky morphing teens. She may not have been a pretty girl, but she was warm and caring and had a commitment to her mission--the education of her students.
So, Ms. Appleby, thank you. I dedicate this blog to you and hope that some of your wisdom will creep into these musings of mine. We'll keep to the high road, remembering that we are both educators. May our students always learn something from us.
Beyond the work, Ms. Appleby has introduced me to some very generous people who have given me the gift of an interest in my character. They have sent me messages saying that I have had some little impact on their lives. They tell me that I encouraged their interest in education; that I was the kind of teacher they would like to have. It is, for me, a little bit of immortality to be remembered.
My career has not been as successful as I would have liked. To be honest, I act now more as a sideline than with any real hope of a full-time career. Sometimes our dreams are bigger than our ability to accomplish them. My dreams, however, have been fulfilled to a certain degree. I have my union cards. I've been on successful prime time television. I was a part of Powers Rangers' first season which went to the top with a bullet. I've gotten to do work that I love. And I'll continue, God willing, to do this thing that gives me so much bliss as long as I'm physically able.
Ms. Appleby reminds me that I am foremost an actor among all the other things I do. It is for this reason that I have renamed my blog. Ms. Appleby was a wise old broad, she was the original wise nobody. She had to be. She taught anything the school asked her to--English, Science, History. You name it, she taught it. She dealt with Bulk and Skull and those other pesky morphing teens. She may not have been a pretty girl, but she was warm and caring and had a commitment to her mission--the education of her students.
So, Ms. Appleby, thank you. I dedicate this blog to you and hope that some of your wisdom will creep into these musings of mine. We'll keep to the high road, remembering that we are both educators. May our students always learn something from us.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Love and Other Strangers
I went to see Valentine's Day today. I love Garry Marshall movies. They sing to my romantic heart. I believe in movie romance--happily ever after and love conquers all. Of course, in a Garry Marshall movie, the right people always get together, which is not always certain in real life. I walked out of the theatre today wanting to fall in love. Thank you Garry Marshall.
Trouble is that I'm not good at romantic love. I'm a great friend, a good parent, a passable mentor, those loves require only opening my heart. In these loving relationships, you can protect some part of yourself. For romantic love one needs to be totally vulnerable--sex sees to that. Friends can trod on your heart and bruise it. A lover can actually break it. Been there, done that.
I think my problem is that I've never been able to do recreational sex. You know the kind I mean--where everyone knows from the beginning that there is no attachment, only physical attraction. Recreational sex requires body confidence. As a fat girl, I've never had that. No one gets to see my avoirdupois by chance. I don't believe even my mother has seen me naked since I was old enough to dress myself. At any rate, I have to know that the person I'm undressing with loves me before I take my clothes off. But recreational sex allows you to become less attached to and more comfortable with the act, which takes some of the pressure off falling in love.
Okay that's glib. I guess the reality is a little more complicated. Beyond body inhibitions, I'm old fashioned about sex. I believe that it is the natural extension of a loving relationship. Sex for me is not just a recreational activity. It's a commitment from one loving heart to another. And that's where movie romance lets you down.
Movies almost never show the morning after you have sex for the first time. They almost never explore the anxiety, the questioning. Was it good for him? Will he respect me? Will he call me again? Did he hate my body? Blah, blah, blah. All that sixteen year old stuff that creeps in no matter how old you are. Movies don't talk about the hard work that it takes to maintain relationships. They don't teach you how to argue, how to compromise, how to overcome problems. Movie romances rarely have problems and if they do, they solve them in one hour and thirty minutes give or take a few minutes. Real life should be so easy!
I was in love once. I expected the romantic comedy my soul longed for. Instead, I got a screwball comedy that left no one laughing and me crying. I don't wish I hadn't experienced it. It did have some positive points, but it soured me for ever having another romance. I'm not a good man picker and, at 61, I'm probably beyond the romancing age.
But I still love romantic movies. I still cry when the boy and girl get together. I still believe in love and I still believe love can last. As long as my heart continues to beat, I will be a hopeful romantic loving the idea of being in love.
Trouble is that I'm not good at romantic love. I'm a great friend, a good parent, a passable mentor, those loves require only opening my heart. In these loving relationships, you can protect some part of yourself. For romantic love one needs to be totally vulnerable--sex sees to that. Friends can trod on your heart and bruise it. A lover can actually break it. Been there, done that.
I think my problem is that I've never been able to do recreational sex. You know the kind I mean--where everyone knows from the beginning that there is no attachment, only physical attraction. Recreational sex requires body confidence. As a fat girl, I've never had that. No one gets to see my avoirdupois by chance. I don't believe even my mother has seen me naked since I was old enough to dress myself. At any rate, I have to know that the person I'm undressing with loves me before I take my clothes off. But recreational sex allows you to become less attached to and more comfortable with the act, which takes some of the pressure off falling in love.
Okay that's glib. I guess the reality is a little more complicated. Beyond body inhibitions, I'm old fashioned about sex. I believe that it is the natural extension of a loving relationship. Sex for me is not just a recreational activity. It's a commitment from one loving heart to another. And that's where movie romance lets you down.
Movies almost never show the morning after you have sex for the first time. They almost never explore the anxiety, the questioning. Was it good for him? Will he respect me? Will he call me again? Did he hate my body? Blah, blah, blah. All that sixteen year old stuff that creeps in no matter how old you are. Movies don't talk about the hard work that it takes to maintain relationships. They don't teach you how to argue, how to compromise, how to overcome problems. Movie romances rarely have problems and if they do, they solve them in one hour and thirty minutes give or take a few minutes. Real life should be so easy!
I was in love once. I expected the romantic comedy my soul longed for. Instead, I got a screwball comedy that left no one laughing and me crying. I don't wish I hadn't experienced it. It did have some positive points, but it soured me for ever having another romance. I'm not a good man picker and, at 61, I'm probably beyond the romancing age.
But I still love romantic movies. I still cry when the boy and girl get together. I still believe in love and I still believe love can last. As long as my heart continues to beat, I will be a hopeful romantic loving the idea of being in love.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Green-Eyed Monster
Surfing the net, I discovered that someone who used to be my friend is doing well. I am fighting to bless their success and be grateful for what I learned from them, but I find myself needing to pick up my sword and shield to fight that great green monster--jealousy.
I find myself judging my life by the standard of someone who never valued what I valued. We always had different paths, different dreams, different criteria for assessing success. Money was their standard. I wanted to follow my heart. They wanted me to follow the money. Contentment was my standard of success. And, to be truthful, most of the time I am content. But money is a great thing. I'd love to have more. Mostly, I'd like to have enough to be generous and to travel. But I have not been blessed with money. I have accomplishment--an education, respect, friends. Sometimes that doesn't feel like enough. What if they were right and I was wrong?
The J dragon rears its ugly head and combat begins. Inside the battle rages. I strive for the high ground, positive self-talk, but years of berating my choices, my lifestyle, push me into a corner. I pray, I meditate, I practice my affirmations, but the wiley green monster peeks around the corner and sticks out its tongue. I try to put it out of my mind, and fire streaks out of its mouth and sears my resolve.
I suppose we all have our never ending wars. Mine come at my own invitation. My self-confidence is a fragile thing and like a kid with a skinned knee, I pick at it never allowing self-esteem to really heal and become strong. I keep trying. Maybe by the time I'm 90, I'll succeed.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Reading the Signals
There have been times that I have stayed at the party too long. Times when it has been obvious to everyone and everything but me that I needed to make a change in some significant part of my life. It has been at those times that failing to read the signals, I've had my butt kicked by the universe forcing me to make the change. It wasn't as gentle as it would have been had I made the change willingly. In fact, every time it's been extraordinarily painful. You see the universe wants one to learn the lesson in the quickest way possible. Too bad I'm a slow learner.
It isn't that I don't want to learn. It's just that I'm afraid. I've lived on the edge so long, I'm afraid if I let go of my tight hold on the scraps of grass I'm clasping I'll tumble into the abyss that lurks just below my wiggling toes. I know I can fly, that's a given. I've done it before. But my old friend, fear, tells me that those transcendent airborne moments were flukes, one of a kind miracles that can't be replicated. So I cling to the edge--the job that just isn't right anymore, the relationship that doesn't seem to work, the image of myself that doesn't quite represent the real me. I pray that things will even out, I'll feel good about everything once again. But guess what? It never does and I never do.
I fear that I will be out of a job, alone, broke, without resources, without a clue about how to live. I fear that I will be on the street, a poor example of humanity, worthless. I know better, but fear's loud voice fills my head with it's echoing condemnation of who I am and my lack of "real" success. I let fear jam the intuitional signals that tell me it's time to pack up and go home. The party's over. I let fear keep me from embracing change.
But when it's time to change, it's time to change. It's useless to believe that the party is going to go on forever. Change is a vital imperative. Without change, we become complacent, routine, stagnant. I don't want to become the scum upon the pond, but oh how I wish change was easier.
So here I sit writing these words, hearing the party shutting down behind me. I know it's time to go, but I don't know where I'm going. I'm scared, but I don't want to be kicked in the butt again. Fear's had too much to drink. Maybe I'll get it a cab, and as the designated driver of my life, I'll take myself home and read the signals along the way.
It isn't that I don't want to learn. It's just that I'm afraid. I've lived on the edge so long, I'm afraid if I let go of my tight hold on the scraps of grass I'm clasping I'll tumble into the abyss that lurks just below my wiggling toes. I know I can fly, that's a given. I've done it before. But my old friend, fear, tells me that those transcendent airborne moments were flukes, one of a kind miracles that can't be replicated. So I cling to the edge--the job that just isn't right anymore, the relationship that doesn't seem to work, the image of myself that doesn't quite represent the real me. I pray that things will even out, I'll feel good about everything once again. But guess what? It never does and I never do.
I fear that I will be out of a job, alone, broke, without resources, without a clue about how to live. I fear that I will be on the street, a poor example of humanity, worthless. I know better, but fear's loud voice fills my head with it's echoing condemnation of who I am and my lack of "real" success. I let fear jam the intuitional signals that tell me it's time to pack up and go home. The party's over. I let fear keep me from embracing change.
But when it's time to change, it's time to change. It's useless to believe that the party is going to go on forever. Change is a vital imperative. Without change, we become complacent, routine, stagnant. I don't want to become the scum upon the pond, but oh how I wish change was easier.
So here I sit writing these words, hearing the party shutting down behind me. I know it's time to go, but I don't know where I'm going. I'm scared, but I don't want to be kicked in the butt again. Fear's had too much to drink. Maybe I'll get it a cab, and as the designated driver of my life, I'll take myself home and read the signals along the way.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Nothing Revisited
I've been wanting to post, meaning to post, hoping to post, and I've got nothing to post. What is it about the blank page that freezes the brain, clogs the thought process and makes an otherwise intelligent woman an idiot? You've got me, but here I sit, an idiot with a keyboard typing who knows what that no one will read but me.
Sometimes, you've just got to babble even if just to yourself. The hope is that somewhere in the babble, some sense, something intelligible will come out, sort of like the chimps with the typewriters coming up with Shakespeare. Okay, well maybe that's too hopeful. Unlike the chimps, I don't have large blocks of time to just type nothing in the hopes of something meaningful arriving on the screen. But maybe, just maybe if I keep typing I'll get a clue to some profound wisdom or at least a hint about who I used to think I wanted to be.
I've spent so much time trying to figure out what I wanted to be when I grow up, somehow I grew past the time I was supposed to accomplish whatever that was. Does that even make sense? Oh well, I've never been accused of making much sense.
The reality is, as some wise somebody once said, life is what happens while you're busy making plans. So here I am grown up, still trying to figure it out and babbling into the ether. Talk, talk, talk, blah, blah, blah, type, type, type. Life goes on and tomorrow the alarm clock will ring. I'll roll out of bed to face another day. I'll be confronted with an empty page and I'll babble again. Oh Cheetah, where are you when I need you?
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