When You Fall

If you glance a thought the other way
and turn a pretty head,
you find that you can't move at all
for fear of doom and death.

When the fear has passed away
you see it's quite contrived;
a shackle that you've self-imposed
to keep you by your side.

If the leash is loosed and thrown
to Hell and far away,
you might just find a freer man
who's turned from night to day.

And when the day turns dark with dusk
and lingers after hours,
you find your thoughts have shifted back
from sweet to bitter-sour.

Once again, the shackles loom
and close upon your feet,
the key quite close, within your grasp,
the gold a searing heat.

And when you choose to let it go,
and throw the metal off,
you choose instead to face your grace
and spurn, point, laugh and scoff.

No freer man of 23
would wish for freedom changed,
but lasting long is not his song
and with it he is hanged.

A Quick Overview of Wikipedia Linking

Starting with "Army Ants", the thread searches went as follows:

Search: "Army Ants"--->Convergent Evolution--->Assassin Spiders--->Dorsal Fins--->Icthyosaur--->Journey to the Center of the Earth--->Doctor Emmett Brown--->Mad Scientist--->Evil Genius--->Darth Vader--->David Prowse--->A Clockwork Orange--->Nadsat--->Ludovico Technique--->Blanka--->Raúl Juliá--->Don Quixote

All links were made from the immediate previous page.

Seeds of Compassion

I had the privilege of seeing the Dalai Lama and a panel of other distinguished guests.

The most interesting aspect of today's talks was the equal weight carried by each member of the panel:

Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Episcopal Archbishop of South Africa,
Dr. Rob Bell, Mars Hill Bible Church, Grandville, Michigan,
Sister Joan Chittister, Benedictine Catholic nun,
Jasmit Singh Kochar, a Sikh representative,
Dr. Ingrid Mattson, President of the Islamic Society of North America,
Rabbi David Rosen, Chairman of the International Jewish Committee on Inter religious Consultations,
Pravrajika Vrajaprana, a Vendanta nun,
Moderator: Roshi Joan Halifax, Zen Buddhist Master.

While the Daila Lama and Desmond Tutu were the perceived powerhouses of the discussion, I was extraordinarily impressed with Sister Jaon Chittister and Rabbi David Rosen. While the Daila Lama and Archbishop Tutu gave reflective, humorous, insightful and introspective reflection to the questions, Sister Joan and Rabbi Rosen communicated their thoughts in a very structured, thought-out and firm manner. The differences in their discourse may have been a result of the audience's perception of Tutu and the Dalai Lama as men of higher authority and their celebrity status. However, every panel member gave astounding answers.

What I took away were the Dalai's comments on religion. I have to paraphrase until I can get transcripts of the discussion today:

"I think all religions mean [the] same thing. (Points to Archbishop Tutu) You wear outfit, I wear robes, does not matter. Essence is still the same. I truly believe this."

I was raised Methodist but became an atheist during my time abroad at International School in the Netherlands. My mother, who was a devout Christian all her life, went through a similar transformation around that time. We shared our experience with each other and came to the same conclusion - even though we did not believe in a Divine Creator, we felt that the message of Christianity, and all religion, was to establish community and spread a message of love and compassion.

Being a part of Tuesday's panel at the University of Washington and seeing this idea reflected in a stadium full of people, re-iterated by the spiritual leaders who dedicated their time and love to these events, re-affirms my faith in humanity in such an incredible way.

It is difficult to express how a Sikh, a Rabbi, an Archbishop, a priest, a Catholic nun, a female follower of Islam, and a Vendata nun can successfully encapsulate one message under the arches of their individual philosophies.

Please see http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXmdKWVirUA for an introductory course, led by the Dalai Lama, on the Four Noble Truths.

The Performing Bug

I think every performer should take a break. Maybe just once, or, preferably, every two or three shows.

If you don't have a life to live, and experiences to draw on, you have nothing to give on a stage - or what you give will feel stale, or empty.

Get out and enjoy life every once in a while, and out of the bright lights.

Haruki Murakami

This is one of the most beautiful things I have ever read. Ask yourself if you've forgotten how to see beauty.

--Taken from http://www.mat.upm.es/~jcm/murakami-perfect.html--

On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

[Otras Vidas]

Downtown Seattle

Will you look about? Open your eyes!
The city gleams gold in rainy light,
dazzling like donuts dunked in heavy cream,
and polka-dotted with rainbow sprinkles!

Carry on, upon the cement, skipping around the cracks
that cleave like spiderwebs upon your backbone!
Revel in your little-boy lust, the wanderlust that sets you
flying with dusty gravel in your wake!

Shame the land you run on, too scared to keep it's own pace,
turning it's paltry 1,000 mph, sea salt and crusty wind
scouring the pores of your face clean, washing you clean,
the dirt and grime of years of life dissolved to a beautiful, blank canvas;

Paint your expression as manic delight, flowering teeth
gleaming white, as steam rises delicately from your open mouth,
shouting challenges at seagulls who dare defy gravity while your own legs
churn up the earth like iron-pumping pistons!

Overtake the receding waves, spurred by Luna's pull,
thrust your arms into her white foam and pull up the hair of her soil,
lanky and green between your grasping, infant fingers,
laden with weighty strands of the ocean's inky depths,

Bury your face in the mirror surface, break the calm smoothness of glass,
shattering it's shards like seventy mirrors in seventy halls thrown to the floor
by every angry owner's king. Become the ruling body, adorn your head with sand,
and flow outward with the water to every corner of the bright, golden city.

Cold Cereal and Hot Coffee

My body hates me.

Getting up at 4:30 a.m. is no way for me to start a day. Of course, going to bed at 10:30 p.m. after homemade calzone, salad and several glasses of wine is no way to turn in. Thank God for singing Journey in the shower, or else I wouldn't have had any fun.

I've decided to get myself full-time on the acting track. I'll quit my job in a couple of months, after saving an assload of money and getting some backup plans in gear. Another break from theater is what I need to get my life in order again. Acting, modeling, music and yoga need to be my goals. I've never let myself be completely consumed by my passion. I've been a weekend warrior too long, and need to give it a shot.

My hat's off to you, destiny. Here's a shot of milk and raisin bran for the occasion *slurp*.

Ten Tenants

1) Let whatever happens happen, whenever it happens. Then deal with it.
2) Cynicism is a buffer for the pain of being hurt, not an excuse to cut yourself off.
3) Make the best of a situation without letting circumstances compromise your standards.
4) Soar to great heights, but remember to land. And please, hit the ground with both feet running.
5) Go out of your way to meet new people and have new experiences.
6) Family should never dictate who you are; rather, they should be the ones who accept you regardless of who you become.
7) Defy everything once, to see what needs to be continuously fought.
8) Your clothes are your skin. They are one of the first things to creat an instantaneous impression by which you will be judged.
9) Go with the flow. Blend in when you need to, stand out when you can.
10) You are enough.

Everyone's Favorite Subject...(Tuesday, June 19th, 2007)

...other people.

Funny that now that I'm free to do whatever I wish, I see other people as nothing more than expressions of desire, greed, lust, or excessive needs. Can't determine how much of this is being caused by my own sense of elitism or if I'm just now allowing reality to sink it.

I think it's funny how two closely connected people can lose what they have over these expressions. I think it's difficult when lust becomes entwined with intimacy. Problem is, I think many people believe lust negates anything else involved with said intimacy, when in fact lust born of intimacy is the best, most fantastic, true and gentle manifestation of sexual desire on the planet.

I can't help but hate you. Thank you for just being another woman who destroyed a wonderful thing in my life. I hope I don't meet many more of you, but with each encounter I begin to suspect the integrity of people is the most subject to change. I'm not letting you get off easy. You've gotten that too often from others in your life and it's about damn time someone held you accountable.

Not that it will make any difference, since you don't talk. Fuck you.

*Sigh* I'm just rambling on like the troubled graduate I am. :D Don't think that diminishes the intensity of what I'm saying in the slightest.

Where Do Dreams Go When They Die?

...and what happens to the ones that were never born?

One-Way Schizophrenic

It's so hard
to write about crying
when all you can think about
is baby seals dying,

your lyrics are messy
'cause you're making them dressy
instead of admitting
you're writing about crying.

Come out and say it
and then we can talk.
Until you do that
I'll continually balk.

I Am Online and You Can't See Meeee!

I am an anonymous user,
and although you might think me a loser,
remember that I am unlinked,
an island of thought in an Ethernet sink.

Tied to no webpage, nameless and scent-less,
nothing to find me, Face-less and Space-less,
friend-less and careless, blog-press of idleness,
strengthless and stabled by words in the darkness.

I Am Troilus

You know why my room's so clean?
It's 'cause I spend all my time in it.

Not alone in a house - alone in a cube of flat planes.
Six shining surfaces surrounding silver sightlines.

I live in my head, in my attic, and pretend it's full of fun.
No people, no animals, nothing but my dusty personals locked behind the door.

Books and games, some decades old, adorn crusty boxes,
strewn in loose collections 'cross the creaky floor.

A roll of the dice produces pangs of memory, easy and blue, happy and hard.
But the games ended long ago, and I stopped winning when I was five.

Momma used to say, "If music can drag you up and keep you down,
then don' listen to the bad and the sad."

Daddy used to say, "Son, if a woman can make you live, remember she can kill you too,"
like some Frankenstein mad scientist with their finger on the red button.

But I beat them all to the punch years ago.
I know my own punchline, and that ruins the joke:

Wed Queen Mab and fly, like the green fairy, away forever.

Siren Wailing

I hate hearing you laugh.
IT's fake.
HE doesn't want you.
STOP trying so hard.
NOT everything he says is hilarious.
IF it is, you're ruining the joke.
DON'T make humor about puddles and mudbaths.
FUNNY is common.
CHUCKLES are common.
HAVING someone make you laugh is truly rare.
KEEP it that way, and stop messing up the show for everyone else.