Thanks For the Giving.

At every Thanksgiving, we stand up and state what it is we're thankful for. Everyone says "I'm thankful for my family, my friends, my life..." or some seriously dry and slightly revamped head-rehearsed version of the prayer.  0'This year it came to me and I said "I'm thankful for art, and experience." Everyone was silent and I blurted out "And fashion!!! Lets not forget that, dear God lets not forget fashion!" and everyone laughed.

God forbid we forget fashion! Please no!!! They might laugh, but to me, fashion is how I sense the world.  You'd never know it, but how people style themselves says everything about them.  The brands they buy, the way they wear their clothes and how they walk says more than they ever will and before they ever will (in most cases, there's always that one weirdo, the someone dressed as nothing.) Fashion has taught me of the past and where we are in it's repeating. It tells of where we have yet to go.  

So thank God for fashion, because there are so many other silly things I could be thankful for, but fashion has a lot of beautiful places left to go.  It still has a revolution ahead. Fashion for the people! Not just the fashion people, all the people.

Maybe I'm delusional, I've been told as such plenty of times.  Delusions by their nature are so very near dreams.  The veil between them is paper thin and ripping at the seams.  And this delusion is so very real.  The people in them are beautiful.  If this is a delusion, please leave me here.  Once I read a story about a girl from Kansas who traveled to another world, she made friends and went on a glorious adventure. No one says she was delusional or dreaming of grandeur.  She was just a girl on an adventure.

The Prayer

I never thought this day would come.  The day when the reckless choices I made haunt me.  I think the difference is that now I know they were reckless.  The stupid things I did just to feel good or for the money haunt my dreams, and I see them everywhere.  I'm always looking for someone to make them go away, but that person is me.  I wish to God that somehow I could help build a world where no one ever has to make that decision or feel like that's all they're worth.

Dear Universal Mind, God of Gods, hearts of hearts.  Everything that is, was and ever shall be.  I'm putting these words out there, not knowing who might see them.  Please just give me a chance to spend the rest of my life doing good for humanity.  I've lived for myself and I've only grown older as a result.  I'm no more wiser or farther in life than when I started, the world scares me.  It needs help and love so much.  I'm only one life, but I'd give it if it made this world better.  I have nothing, I am nothing, except one dream, one vision and one goal.  Please let me use that goal to spread love and kindness.  I don't want money or fame, I just want to understand this world we live in, and to make it better.  Help me find a way.

Inspiredly Uninspired

Funny, I feel inspired on the big things in life, but the little details befuddle me.  Like I need to take things backwards "Here's the big picture, and here's where you fit, this space in the big picture is yours to fill, it's your safe place."  Trouble is I don't think I ever really felt safe enough to just let go.  No ones ever really given me that space, and now I don't know how to take it or make it mine.  If I let go who's going catch me? Where will I be after the fall? Does it matter? What's wrong with falling, tumbling gliding through the nothing between somethings? They say something's got to give, does nothing do all the taking? So I'm nothing and you're something. I'll give you my hand, you can take my heart and my whole life too. Love I've fallen up and the ground is fading quickly. I've taken my plans and all my demands, I surrender just take over. Mind melts over keys and subtle things but the truth is still the same.  Its taken me years to feel this sane. I'd play the blame game but that's all over, its all dead, playing victim is like a broken four leaf clover. Now I'm inspired yet uninspired.  Ensnared by a thought multiplied by the times I thunk it in the dark, fueled by what was then a broken heart, is now an artists' heart.

ART IS T. T is anything you need it to be. Therapy, thighs muscular with work. Toes to stand on. Time that heals all wounds.

Artist. 

Moving off/on-Flip the Switch

Awhile ago I thought I'd brag to my family when I "made it."  Now that I've done the things I set out to do this year, I feel less like bragging and more like doing the rest of the things I want to get done.  What's the point in bragging when there's always something better to just do?

This Christmas they'll be here, and all I know is its time to just move on.  Live and let live. The space in my head that they're occupying is needed for other things.  Funny, that summer all I did was think of them.  

Today I think what I want from life is bigger than they thought and think of me, and that's fine.  It's bigger than I think of myself, but I'll grow into it.

Back to writing this play.  I wonder what Andrew Lloyd Webber does for inspiration...

Strange Dreams/Delusions Run Amok

On Thursday I decided that I would write a play.  I didn't know that the decision would come with increasingly strange dreams, like every strange thing in my head decided to try and find a space to be seen.

Cellphones with heart beats... How weird.  The thumpity-thump thump in something that's dead.  Your heartbeat in your hand.

Clothes that repair themselves and you.

I wonder what she'd call this delusion...

Dior Brown

My right foot hurts.  Not a hurt like its been used and abused, but a hurt like things are working differently now.  My toes used to overlap but not so much anymore.

My body hurts like that too.  Like its become used to being used in so many different ways.  Muscles that lay dormant now find a reason for an ache or a pain.  I can bend myself and look like some strange doll pulled naked from a toy box, contorted by the pressure of too many bodies.

Complex is this feeling we call hurt.  It comes in different forms.  A tinge, a stab, a dull achy pulse.  But then there's more.  There's regret.  I used to feel that, for mistakes made, times past.  But regret is just another kind of hurt.  I wish I could say I regret the way her eyes made me feel.  Her cute giggle, the rouge on her lips.  I'd regret the way her accent curved around my name, but it made me feel good.  The way she said she'd draw me better, and the numbers she gave.  I'd regret them, but she's too beautiful for regret.  The milky Dior brown of her skin, I'd regret it, but she's too beautiful for such an ugly feeling.  Dior brown, what a colour for fashion.

Complex

"Rich and over active imagination." she says. Tap, tap, tap.  Pen tapping as usual.

You'd think it was a curse the way the words crept out of her mouth. Tap, tap, tap. Pen tapping almost like a metronome, tapping out the diagnoses that litter my ingrate mind.  I'd be more thankful for the diagnoses but they're useless to me.  Tap, tap, tap.  Pen tapping like a pick, clearing the earth away from an idea buried deep in the soil of my over-diagnosed brain.

"Messiah complex." Tap, tap, tap.  That's gotta be a joke.  Unbalanced I'd agree to, we're all a little weird.  There's nothing messiah like about me. "You'd wonder if people read their Bibles carefully."  What's the point? As carefully as they're read they're just as easily re-written.  He'd said those words and they struck me rather odd. The heaviness in them for such a seemingly light subject.  I wonder if he's always so prolific.  Staring at him I thought the world had gone topsy-turvy, maybe its always been and I'd never noticed.

Tap, tap, tap. "Here's a prescription for something to even your moods, you'll feel better." Tap, tap, tap. Session over, grandeur deluded.