Thursday, August 27, 2009

WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE?


No one ever asks a med student, "So what are you going to do with your life?"

...because obviously, the answer is, be a Doctor. (All you nerds who leave a comment and get specific here, i.e. surgeon, nurse, etc. you know what I mean.)

Why should the answer be any different for an artist? If you create art, then you'll be an artist. If you want to be a teacher, you will teach. If you want to be a lawyer, you will go to school, you will be a lawyer. For some reason when it comes to a profession that has a shaky monetary value, at best, or lacks an outline- it makes people nervous. It makes people question your sanity, or scoff, or treat you like a child- like you're irresponsible and naive. You're the joke. Then comes the onslaught of questions...."So, what's your backup plan? What if it doesn't work out? How does your family feel about this? Well, don't you want health care (yes is the answer, Obama-make some shit happen please)?? Are you on drugs?" etc. etc.

I've never done anything because I felt like I "had to." And it's worked. It's served me well, because I've followed my own truth. MINE. Not yours, the one that works for me.

Choosing to follow a passion that doesn't have a safety net, or a ladder to climb doesn't mean it's impossible- it simply means you'll find a way to make it work, or you'll give up. There is no grey area. And how you define "making it work" is up to you. Maybe you aren't Coldplay, or Yo Yo Ma, or fucking Michael Phelps but you're doing it- in some way, in some medium. You're doing it because you were MADE TO. You'll learn to scrap, to be resourceful and clever. To cover all the outlets, to dig and connect. You will fall and you'll dust yourself off. You'll tap dance in bumble bee costumes for cash? You will be laughed at, you will be jeered, you will be doubtful and you will then lick the wounds, and walk a bit taller.

My back up plan? I don't have a fucking back up plan, because when you things get hard, which they always do-in any profession, that "back up plan" BECOMES the plan. It's a cowardly way of giving up. Of surrendering under the pressure of other peoples ideals and expectations of your life.

What if it doesn't work out? Here's my answer to that question; IT HAS TO. And, it is. What I am doing is working, because anything else that I would chose to do wouldn't serve me.

I do believe, the Universe (aliens, God, Allah, whatever you choose to call "it") will not make you do what you have no talent for, as long as you're willing to continue under the belief that your talents exist for a reason, to be used.

I'm not rolling around naked (because I presume I would do this in a lot of cash) in money with a glass of Veuve in my hand in St. Tropez. My "tour" schedule doesn't include stadiums and big paychecks, it's more like drink tickets and homeless people showers in truck stops and bribes with kitchen staff for a free quesadilla. Because that's at least SOMETHING. FOR NOW. And even if it's 7 years from now, I may not be as "reckless" i.e. broke, but I'll teach. I'll play. I'll edit. I'll continue to live under the precedent that I will do what I know.

Treat your desires, your dreams, the thing that makes you tick, or talk a million miles a minute because you're so excited about it- like it's your full time job and it will be.


I am a writer, so I write. I am a musician, so I play. I am a multifaceted, sparkly mother fucker with a shitload of desires that ALL desire to be fulfilled, so I will fulfill them.


TELL ME: "YOU ARE ___________ SO YOU ____________"


Yo, you bloggies in Seattle, Portland, Vancouver? Come see, meet me, buy me a beer, propose to me, etc and my band here! We're doing it, the best we can :)





Sunday, August 23, 2009

I want the REAL SHIT.


All we're really trying to do is connect.

To see if someone cares. We tweet. We blog, we upload and update. Then we refresh- does anyone "like" that thought? Does anyone care, at all?

If the core purpose wasn't so that we'd make a connection with people, we'd keep it private. We'd scrawl it in a notebook, or a sticky note and let it go. We wouldn't give a damn enough to let people know we were wearing fucking sequined leggings, but we want to believe that people actually give a fuck. Do we?

Sometimes, I wish there was an obvious 3D way to prove we're actually making a connection. Besides feelings- which to be brutal aren't always reciprocated. So we go on chatting and blabbing as so-and-so dreams up what they're having for dinner as you slit your heart open on your sleeve and they Twitter, "Mexican food or PBJ?"

Verbal communication can't be "saved" or archived, it just has to exist- and then we forget it. And then, when we've started relying so much on virtual connecting the 3D stuff ends up getting harder. We're scrolling through proof on our iPhone (or what have you) that "people are out there understanding us" while we're in a room full of tangible beings, with audible voices and body heat.

One-way head nodding conversations while we miss the connection completely is making me feel empty. Assurance through comments, emails, and people throwing Super Poked sheep at you is all lovely- but while we're trying to connect, are we missing out on the tactile connection? Has our security in relating to people/things/life boiled down to whether it exists on a web page or not?

I want 3D.

I want the equivalent of "like buttons" when I'm engaging with the people I know. I want actual flowers not pixelated ones. I want a postcard that has fingerprints and smudges, imperfect handwriting and doodled smiley faces with a random postage of a Disney character, or your state flower. I want an invite on stationary with shiny pieces of confetti and an rsvp card to scribble "accept +1." I want a real toast, with clinking glasses and splashes of red wine on napkins and tablecloths, instead of a virtual margarita.

I want to flip through the jacket of a CD and feel the gloss of the paper while I read "thank yous" to people I don't know, instead of reading iTunes reviews from faceless user names.
I want to know what your voice sounds like. I want to hear inflection and stumbling when you attempt to find "the perfect word."

I don't want to be texted "I love you" I want to hear it. Being the trend instead of creating the Trending Topic. I want to listen. I want to smell, make, taste the recipe instead of comment on it. I want my ears to ring from the high note of a belly laugh. I want eye contact and big bear hugs, instead of multitasking and hurried taps on the back. I want to connect equally, with as much depth, to the people breathing my same air and standing in front of me, as I do to the ones reading this.

There's a beautiful and magical way in which we can make a connection with virtual (no pun intended) strangers, simply by putting out our words. Our images and ideas. The connection isn't any less valuable.........in fact, its priceless and I'm stupidly grateful that I have it, especially when my 3D world feels, lonely. Or empty.

......but what happens the we're all so caught up virtually that we neglect what's solid right in front of us?



3D.....OR 2D? What do you want?







Friday, August 21, 2009

Being passive agressive makes you like a DOUCHE.


Communication; the imparting or interchange of thoughts, opinions, or information by speech, writing, or signs. WHY IS THIS SO HARD TO UNDERSTAND?

NOTE: The definition does not say, "to passively communicate by acting like a TOTAL DOUCHE, in every possible form and make my life uncomfortable."

Just to be clear.

I've never had a hard time telling people how I feel. I feel the emotion, and I relay the information. I know the moment the emotion happens, I know WHY and I know HOW it's affected me. What happens to people that they completely tune out those feelings?

Feel. Think. Speak. Connect. Four actions that can either make a relationship/friendship/any damn ship, flourish or wilt, rapidly.

When we're children the platform unto which we're allowed to communicate it a VITAL one, if there isn't one, you're basically fucked. And so are your children. Were your parents the kind that didn't approve of "extreme" emotion, either good or bad? Was communicating such a "non-option" that you just STOPPED?

I don't understand when we people don't feel SAFE to feel differently, to argue opinions, to have moments of irrationality. To be EVEN. STEADY. Calculated. PASSIVE. Are all emotions that frankly, aren't HUMAN, they aren't feeling in "real time."

When we interact with people we have to ALLOW them to feel. and to feel DIFFERENTLY. To feel the highs, the lows, the frustration, anxiety- and allow them to vocalize it, so they can worth through, rather than bottle the emotion so deep that by the time they blow, they don't even know the reason.

I don't do passive aggressive. I think it makes you look like a pansy bitch child. Own your emotions, own your thoughts and don't be fucking afraid to express them. The people that love you will respect your more for it.

We're people, with the most incredible rainbow of feeling-and an innumerable amount of words that we can use to EXPRESS them. Take people for where they are, it's ok if you are feeling frustrated, neglected, shitty, or lost- but speak up...don't wreak more havoc on your life by letting emotions that would pass normally, become an issue because you can't allow the progression to happen.


SAY WHAT YOU MEAN. If you haven't done it EVER BEFORE, start now.


DO YOU SAY WHAT YOU MEAN?




Tuesday, August 18, 2009

I don't hate anything, except Sheryl Crow and suede.


Writing letters to body parts isn't conventional, but neither am I.

Dear stomach,

Yes, I'm talking to you- I know you're afraid I'm going to say something cruel because I talk shit to you constantly. Like it's my job. You're my verbal punching bag. So stop shielding yourself, I'm not going to hit you. This isn't easy, coming from one proud bitch but, I would like to apologize.

Today in yoga when I saw you sneak up and roll over my waistband, I was not happy. Not in the least. You made me look terribly bad in Triangle Pose, you made me less present. You insisted on being an attention stealer. You were testy when someone asked how my "gut" felt and you wouldn't give me an answer and that gave me more reason to curse at you. I've been angry....

But, what I really want to say is; I don't hate you.

Every time I see you, I say mean things. I tell you that you're ugly, that you're fat, that you "need work." I pinch you. Pinching just isn't nice, I learned that lesson long ago after second grade detention which requires scrawling out my actions and apology multiple times on a chalk board (that's not just in movies folks). I know better than to pinch. I also know better than to stick my tongue out at children, but I do that too.....I digress.....

Every time I say something terrible to you, you start believing it. My mind starts believing it and when you're there, working hard, digesting and hiding nicely under my Spanx like a good girl, I turn around and scream "please jiggle less when I'm having sex. THANKS." It's venom, pure venom that I send to you.

I don't hate you, because you house my inconsiderate food combinations, a pot of coffee, Thai food and grapefruits, and never complain like a little bitch who needs to take Tums. I'm sorry for starving you. For telling you, "you'll never go out in public if you don't tighten up" when you've kindly housed my fire, my instinct, and the results of foolish drinking habits and late night Taco Bell.

You're the future home of my hypothetical child. You get along nicely with my kidneys and uterus, you don't fight or try to get them kicked out. You play nice.

I realized today that the things I can't stand about my body are the things I curse at. The things that my eyes ferociously scower. They're the parts that I look at FIRST when my I see my reflection and where almost instantly, I send floods of hateful energy.

That energy BECOMES something. It becomes solid form. Or TRUTH.

I've created the things I hate by hating them in the first place, without reason.

The more I focus on hating my stomach the more "nothing" becomes "something" and all the more reason to continue hating. It's one bitchy cycle. I don't really hate my body. I don't really hate where I'm living, or my feeble bank account. I don't even dislike intensely half of the things I complain about, but by complaining I give myself reason to hate.

Happiness, is my own creation- so I will be happy with my stomach. And my life. At least until tomorrow when I return to being a walking contradiction, cause fuck- sometimes it's OK to throw a "I hate (fill in the blank)" tantrum.



Do you "HATE" anything? AND WHY?



Sunday, August 16, 2009

My Mantra is: LOVE kicks FEAR in the ASS.


I'm making rules for myself.

Rule #1- Harness your "crazy" before she speaks. She is irrational.

Rule #2- No more talking about his ex-girlfriend- or mentioning that I have weird dreams that he leaves me for her, and has a stash of portraits she paints of him. Yeah, dreams are fuckin' weird.

Rule #3-No more wedding talk. Because that's just fucking scary to dudes.

Rule #4- ease up on the dairy. Eating blocks of cheese isn't normal.

Sometimes, my filter is just OFF. And by sometimes, I mean 99.9% of the time. Sometimes, I just want to ask absurd and creepily personal questions without thinking how it may come off to the person I'm asking. Like, "did her tongue feel as soft as mine?" Or some shit along those lines, that's really unnecessary.

And I realized this- when I'm being totally fucking absurd- it's really just because I'm afraid. I'm afraid he won't love me anymore. I'm afraid he thinks about her. I'm afraid maybe he doesn't want to marry me. I'm afraid that I'll have to feel heartbreak again. I'm afraid that I've already said too much scary shit that I won't be able to regain my confident demeanor.

I'm afraid that maybe he doesn't desire me the way he used to. That he abhors my taste in pop music so much that he can't bare the thought that I can be such a pop tart. Or that he wishes I was more intellectual, that I didn't love the Kardashians, hip hop culture and tabloids. That basically, he wishes I was more like her. And that I'd start an Etsy shop, throw away my television and talk a little fucking softer.

This whole being wickedly, bananas, in LOVE is scary, because sometimes I just flash to the thought of not having him in my life and I lose my breathe. The thought is so intensely terrifying to me that it feels like someone slugged me in the stomach, or told me I was allergic to cake and couldn't eat it anymore. Or that Britney Spears was dead. Which would be sad as shit, I love her. Don't judge me.

When we're afraid, we hold tighter. We cling. We grip until our knuckles are so white and our hands are so tired that we simply can't hang on anymore.

I cling to the moments when I feel purely loved, when he's tracing my eyebrows with his fingertips and I'm defenseless, peaceful and trusting in his arms. I cling to the look on his face when I'm wearing my new dress, and I decided to put on a bra, for once. I cling to the grip of his hand when I walk with him and to the curve of his lower back when he holds me.

I cling because those moments make my life happy....and I'm crippled with fear of the things that could take them from me, i.e. my crazy. someone else. him not wanting "forever" with me. And maybe some weird allergy from an antibiotic, or a poisonous spider. Or something.

....but just like anything, when we're grasping, like squeezing a bar of soap, the thing will slip away. I certainly don't want to cause the destruction of something so unbroken and whole, like us. So I have to stop.

SO, MY MANTRA IS TO BE UNAFRAID.

To risk the hurt, because we can overcome the emptiness of a broken heart but even a vivid imagination couldn't replace the experience of LOVE.

To know that when I cling to a moment, I'm not trusting that there will be another equally as moving, perfect moment together.

To believe his words, without waiting for the shoe to drop. If I look up long enough, and keep staring, just waiting, eventually I'll will something into existence. Maybe not a shoe. But something. Repeat: thoughts. are. things.

To face FEAR in the face, even if it's a 400lb bully with halitosis and steel toed boots.

When the fear is gone, we jump. We dive. We make the landing, we take the chance. We learn a lesson, we try oysters. Or dancing in public. Or that new whacked out position. Or cranberry lipstick. When the fear is gone is when the good stuff happens.

Nothing extraordinary has ever happened when fear was the motivation.

So baby, I won't be afraid. And I'll stop pointing out my color palette for our "someday" wedding whenever I see the color amber. Or eggplant.




What's YOUR MANTRA????






Wednesday, August 12, 2009

I'm commitment CHALLENGED.


Commitment is scary.

Even committing to calling commitment scary, scares me. Is it scary? Or should I commit to another equally intense and daunting adjective? hm.

I just saw Julie & Julia (if you haven't seen it, you should AND, I'd like to know your thoughts) as a blogger, I was obviously inspired. Inspired by the fact that this whole blog world really DOES have the power to change your life, in ways beyond your imagination and also inspired by the COMMITMENT. Blogging is like signing a lease, an unofficial agreement- that you will work through and share your life- you will commit to a community and to your MIND and that you will give it a platform to release it's mind-y thoughts on. And in turn, you'll lessen your crazy by becoming your own personal therapist through each blog post and you will possibly, just maybe, put yourself in the position to have something fucking GREAT happen to you. I.E. Julie Powell. She committed. She committed to her beef bourguignon and her blogspot and BAM she's got a damn movie.

When we DECIDE TO COMMIT we aren't allowed to have the option of quiting. Committing is when you're tested by "free will" but you push through anyway- mind over matter. Which is precisely why it stresses me out to the point of breaking into hives. Oh yes, I'm suddenly itching just thinking about it. Even my earlobes itch.

Commitment and I are like Victoria Beckham and smiling. They just don't fit.

I use pencils with sufficient erasers and words like, "maybe", or "I'm pretty sure I can make it...." simply because I want to KNOW that I have the option of changing my mind. That I have the option of canceling if I decide that I want to give myself an at-home pedicure and eat pickles instead.

I have always been a strong believer in "IF IT DOESN'T MAKE YOU HAPPY, DON'T DO IT." which sometimes, is just a fucking cop out. Because sometimes, if you don't work through it, when whatever it is seems excruciating and impossible- you'll never know that you COULD, even at the worst moments, suck it up, put on your big girl panties and make fucking lemon merigue pie out of rotten lemons.

If you quit before you try hard enough you'll never get a movie. Or a book. Or a promotion. Or a well deserved tap on the back. Or a cheesy "congrats" card from your Aunt Millie.
....and mostly, you'll never get the glory of telling yourself that you stuck it out. You followed through all the way until the goal was met, and you got there wearing pumps. Or- at least I would.....and they'd be metallic.

To me this whole movie was really an example of COMMITTING TO WHAT YOU LOVE.
Because even when you love something, it isn't going to be easy......
You know what's easy? Quitting. Quitting is easy because it comes with no rewards, no bonus, no fucking cherry on top, just a brief sigh of relief until the next thing, that will ALSO be too tough at some point.

Commitment is scary because it's a promise you make to yourself to continue. And there's no better reward than that we receive from the fruits of our own fortitude.



ARE YOU AFRAID OF COMMITTING???










Monday, August 10, 2009

SEX is as POETIC as a damn Maya Angelou poem.


"Everyone can be poetic about sex...."
Says My Love, as he rants about how slam poetry needs to be less about sex and more about life. Talking about sex brashly loses its appeal/shock value/originality after a time, is his argument.

Which got me thinking. We're poetic about sex because it's the only thing that taps into a private part of ourselves. It's the only thing that's "sacred." The thing we choose to share with someone, that if we hadn't made the choice would be undiscovered. It's the only thing we're taught to keep private, like it's a "bad" secret.

Talking about sex may not be unique, but the experience you have IS. It's the only thing that's vastly different from person to person, couple to couple. Sex is the one thing that where there's a variable and that's whoever you're with, where you are, how much pizza you've eaten pre-sex, etc.

AND the truth is; sex is poetic because it's beautiful.

It's beautiful in all forms. Even when it's fumbling, awkward, and contrived. Which at the beginning, is usually how it is.

I've been thinking a lot about how repressed we are sexually in America and it cuts me deeply to the core that we'd teach so many people that something SO NATURAL, something as natural as breathing, as the need to be fed, as the desire to hug your Mother, or tell your best friend you love them, that NATURAL quality is morphed. It's taboo. It's "sinful." It's inappropriate. It's "rocking the boat." It's the "we don't talk about that" or "God wouldn't approve." And frankly, the idea that this beautiful, PURE thing is wrong- is the thing that's wrong. Teaching someone that what's natural is actually sinful makes the beauty of it warped.

I understand if your religious beliefs differ from mine......but for me, the thought that you aren't able to touch, to run your fingers up someones back and watch as they develop goosebumps is tragically sad to me. The fact you aren't allowed to feel the anticipation as you clutch onto a new body, new shoulders and new weight. Or that the person you LOVE is "untouchable" until there's a wedding band and a signed piece of paper....that fact, makes me sad.

It doesn't make the love any LESS real if it isn't yet approved by God through law.

You learn through sexual experiences that our bodies, our desires, our needs are all different. You learn what you LIKE. You learn about the power of someone breathing gently on the nape of your neck, you learn what your definition of "soft" and "hard" actually means. And you eventually learn that with your life partner, but meanwhile, 27 years, 30 years, 24 years, whatever the number, you're missing out sexual GROWTH. On experience. On the beauty in those morning-afters where you have to learn to handle yourself with grace as you do the walk of shame into a Starbucks for a pick me up blueberry scone.

Sex IS POETIC. But for many people they're too afraid to express it. They're afraid to express that the thought of the person they love makes them clench their thighs and bite their lip. That the only pure moment they've ever had was when they lay in bed under the density of their love and felt the definition of BLISS. That they could picture every freckle and patch of hair because they were the definition of present the moment he/she pulled you in.

Sex is poetic because it's messy and raw. It's heartbeats and limbs. Mushy and bones. It's an experience that even words aren't worthy enough to define it.



HOW DO YOU FEEL ABOUT SEX???



Also, vote for my Tweet "Yoga. Because I'm one Zen son of a bitch." to become a Threadless shirt! http://thrdl.es/~/m5R


Friday, August 7, 2009

FROM YOUR LAME BLOGGER WHO'S BEEN M.I.A.

My life is crazy.

Like attracts like right?

A few updates before I write you a regular blog later this weekend; I've been in L.A. my former "home" for a few years for the finale of So You Think You Can Dance. As many of you know my Mom's dance student, Kayla- made the top four! We were so proud, obviously and had to come support! I went to my beautiful Momma and good friend Travis Wall who you may know from the show- if you follow all that biz.


I had a few MAJOR epiphanies while I was here, while at a part with my former agency- I realized, "WHY, for so long did I feel the desire to be like these people????.....Why did I allow myself to feel so incredibly horrible, unappreciated, ugly, fat, insecure, etc. etc. for so long?? When here I am today, feeling like the most beautiful spirit in the room."

it was so apparent how much I've grown and such a reminder that I'm EXACTLY where I need to be in my life.

I FELT HAPPY. Genuinely. For probably the first time since being in L.A.

SO, while I HAVEN'T been blogging I've been going this;

EATING CRUMBS CUPCAKES! Guess which one......
IMPULSE SHOPPING............

DOING FANCY FINALE THINGS........ yay confetti!

AND OBVIOUSLY, CELEBRATING with miss Kayla.

Tomorrow, I will return home and for once, with no regret. Without feeling as though I need to be here. So my new life now, THANK YOU. Thank you for making me feel like I belong with you.

....more blogging later.


Saturday, August 1, 2009

I Think I CAN, I think I can.......


I'm competitive as fuck.

....AND, I've started taking yoga religiously- yoga+wildly competitive psychopath= potential death.

We're standing in sha-ka-da-sa-na-cha-ta-nooga-choo-choo, my knees are shaking, my thighs are sore from yesterdays yoga, and there's sweat dripping off my eyelashes, forming a beautiful little puddle on my collarbones....Miss Zen Yoga Teacher says (who I'm certain judges me for wearing mascara to class, waterproof of course), "BREATHE INTO THAT SPACE, LET YOUR BREATHE BE THE BUFFER BETWEEN YOUR THOUGHTS, NOW- sink deeper into your posture."

Oh hell no. So, I sink deeper. The chick next to me- sinks ever DEEPER...... we're about to have a YOGA-OFF. Bring it, eye contact is made, I sink to the depths of what looks like a tube of Tiger Balm to come later. If there's someone better in the room, I'll stand RIGHT. NEXT. TO. THEM. If you can kick higher, I'll bust my teeth out by kicking my face. If you sing better, I'll lock myself in a bathroom for ten hours until I can sing a fucking aria in 8 octaves.

If I think I can't, I will.

..... Because when someone told me, "your mind gives up before your body does" I took it as gospel and feel like a week-ass if I give in to my tearing muscle pain, or my doubt.

I'm so competitive, if you told me to balance on my eyelashes, I'd find a fucking way.

You say potato, I say po-TA-to and potato in 27 different languages and variations. Because, I'm a nut job.

Which, yes, I get that doesn't make me very zen, and which yes- defeats the whole "rid yourself of ego" idea and surrender into your practice. But let's face it, I'm only Zen when I'm by myself, I'm listening to indie-chick music and I'm drinking wine. Which, I think is also defined by the word, "buzzed."

So, as I surrendered my thoughts; up dog, down dog, tree pose, pretzel vagina, etc. etc. I realized it really doesn't matter what anyone else is doing, it's not that I care if you're BETTER, it's that I care if I'm not MY BEST. Which frankly, I don't think has a ceiling to it.

Self, is all defined by choices; I choose how fit I am because I choose to exercise and eat healthy. I choose to at least be GOOD at the things I suck balls at because I like proving to myself that I CAN. I've chosen to take responsibility for how far I go in my success, my body, my dreams, because I'm the only one who gets to define what all of that means.

I've never felt bad for the victim mentality. And, I usually only feel bad for myself for about a moment, I cry at myself in the mirror and throw things- then, I CHECK MYSELF and move on. The victim will stay the victim. If life is constantly hard for you, you're expecting it to be. If you're never the best, you're not seeking what you WOULD be the best at, or you're not deciding to be YOUR BEST.

When I'm in yoga, the other people are really just an example to push myself with- and when I am the best in class, my mantra is to surrender; to surrender fear, doubt, limitation, and to move through the tightness, the nagging little voice and to move through it head on, with fierce determination.

I'm competitive, because I LIKE the challenge. AND, because life is too fucking short to not be able to kick your legs over your head. ;) Namaste.



DO YOU USUALLY BELIEVE YOU CAN, OR YOU CAN'T?





 
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