Whoa! 6 weeks ago I took a step back from Office-Monkeying around on a computer all day, and took a canvassing job getting people signed up for renewable electricity. Hence, I disappeared from the blog-o-sphere for a while. "What have I been up to?" You might ask.
Well here are 15 things that I have done over the past 6 weeks.
1. Learned how to ride a real-live Portland road bike, hipster style. Learning new things is great and it challenges you to grow. It should also probably not be done while intoxicated and wearing high heels. Although it seems like that's the most common way...
2. Took up a whole afternoon having a complete meltdown/existential crisis/emotional outpouring over the hopelessness of the human condition and the pointless struggles of the masses after talking to people in Gresham about renewable energy. And then I drank 60 ounces of beer and learned how to ride a road bike. I think there's a lesson in there somewhere. I think it's that beer is great.
3. Worked in sales, and thought a lot about Billy Loman.
4. Had a wonderful Food Revolution Picnic celebrating the bounty of real food that the Northwest has to offer. Feasted with 18 beautiful human beings.
5. Got paid to act. (Whhuuuhhhhh???)
6. Hung out with two sixteen-year-old girls and realized the extent of my un-cool-ness.
7. Took two mini-solo-roadtrips.
8. Got paid to act AGAIN. (For serious?)
9. Went on Portland's World Naked Bike Ride, WHICH WAS 0% AWKWARD, I promise. I swear I don't care how old you are, no matter what your body looks like, it is the most awesome and liberating experience ever, and it has nothing to do with anything sexual. Quit being so perv-y and weird about it, America. Feel that wind beneath your...wings.
10. Got a surprise hang-out with one of my best friends who surprise-visited Portland from Texas.
11. Put together an improv show to entertain a-dozen-and-a-half activists/hippies/mothers/anarchists/badasses at the Occupy Portland Food and Garden Team fundraiser. Made topical jokes about corn and unicorns. Watched Liz and Eleanor compete in X-TREME composting.
12. Applied for 10 zillion part-time jobs.
13. Lost a dear friend and mentor to Lou Gherig's disease. We will sing him to Heaven this weekend. Love you, Doyle.
14. Rejoined the proud ranks of Portland Fitbody Boot Camp. Did some pushups. Ate some chicken salad. Felt good about it.
15. Got paid to act, again. (This is not real life. Or is it...)
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
Brain Soup
I just held my poor friend Britt captive as I went on a
15-minute rant about how a young adult Sci-Fi novel changed my entire
perception of the universe. Yes, I read
it when I was age 11-14. Yes, “Ender’s Game” and the accompanying series is
totally geared towards 12-year-old boys. Yes, it is to this day the coolest series
I’ve ever read. Those who know me well
understand that, deep down, I am actually a twelve-year-old awkward nerdy white
boy. I only recently figured out how to
dress like a girl, and that ability is definitely still shaky. ((I am currently wearing a camo sports bra
and an orange plaid flannel shirt, accessorized with a hideous lime green
rubber watch from Walgreen’s. The look
is really pulled together by a total of about three square centimeters of
chipped dinosaur-blue nail polish spread between a few of my fingernails. HOT.))
Anyway. In the course
of this rant, I made a bunch of connections regarding how this intellectual
obsession with this Sci-Fi series has morphed over the past 10 years or
so. It started with the concept which subtly
powers the Ender series: Energy bridges are created between sentient beings in
the universe, and what would happen if a self-aware being inexplicably
manifested in the network of energy that connects all sentient things. (WooWoo!!) For a while this concept turned into a
somewhat odd understanding of Catholicism in my Catholic-school-saturated high
school brain, but then it morphed into a long obsession with the nature of
human consciousness, which climaxed during college when I was simultaneously
taking a reading course on Artificial Intelligence, an Intro to Psychology
course, and the nursing course in Human Physiology. At the time I even wrote an article for the
school paper about a theory called Quantum Consciousness which sounded titillatingly
close to explaining the science behind the Ender series. At some point in this journey I also became
obsessed with the idea of auras, particularly the way that Pamala Oslie, a
California-based clairvoyant, perceives people’s auric energy. Add into that mix “Womb Wisdom: Rediscovering
the Ancient and Forgotten Powers of the Feminine,” my most recent fascination
with astrological charts, my ongoing lifelong desire to attend every single
religious service that exists, my fascination (and lack of any hard knowledge
of) advanced physics, and a whole lot of Eastern philosophy, and you have what
my Grandpa would call a Grade-A Hippie Nutjob.
I guess it’s all just part of being in your 20’s and trying
to figure out what you believe and how the world works, so it’s nothing
particularly unique. But honestly, I’m
totally convinced that it is all connected somehow, and I sincerely hope that
this discovery process never ends. What
if science, religion, and new age hippie-thoughts are all just three pathways
leading to the same common revelation about existence? How awesome would that be? It just seems to make the most sense to me
that the most elegant solution is something simple, like E=mc2, that would blow
open a whole new world of thought possibilities by creating a common thread
through which we can understand the universe.
At this point, all of these concepts (energy bridges, sci-fi worlds,
quantum physics, human auras, astrology, Buddhism, Catholicism, Atheism, womb
wisdom, neurology, the human brain) have amalgamated into a big, crazy, slushy
soup in my brain, and they are almost indistinguishable. It's a tasty-ass soup though, and I can’t get enough of it.
What crazy ideas are hopping around in your brain? I am always totally game to discuss. Let’s talk.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Home sweet hole-in-the-wall
Oh, apartment how I love thee, my loyal studio,
the window well above thee, the dive bar down below.
Your window well is covered, so cleverly stopping all light
from entering the windows with frames as black as night.
I love the boldly checkered floor
which signifies with ease
Five feet of kitchen by the door
with everything I need.
I love your brave little patch of carpet meant to signify
that this is the "bedroom" upon which the ikea pad should lie.
I love the camaraderie with which my clothes and heater share the closet,
and the covert way the hamper waits under the keyboard for a deposit.
On a Sunday morning in my little room I happily awaken
to take a refreshing shower above the wafting smell of bacon
...Which comes to me from the dive bar kitchen twenty feet below.
Oh little apartment with no ventilation, how I love you so.
This poem would be incomplete without my gratitude
to the dive bar owners who let me steal their Wifi without attitude.
And also to my friendly neighbors who brighten up my days
with their witty banter and sarcastic humor as we go our hipster ways.
I'll always remember my time spent here
in one-hundred-and-fifty square feet.
My little oasis where my head is clear
and my heart in comfort beats.
the window well above thee, the dive bar down below.
Your window well is covered, so cleverly stopping all light
from entering the windows with frames as black as night.
I love the boldly checkered floor
which signifies with ease
Five feet of kitchen by the door
with everything I need.
I love your brave little patch of carpet meant to signify
that this is the "bedroom" upon which the ikea pad should lie.
I love the camaraderie with which my clothes and heater share the closet,
and the covert way the hamper waits under the keyboard for a deposit.
On a Sunday morning in my little room I happily awaken
to take a refreshing shower above the wafting smell of bacon
...Which comes to me from the dive bar kitchen twenty feet below.
Oh little apartment with no ventilation, how I love you so.
This poem would be incomplete without my gratitude
to the dive bar owners who let me steal their Wifi without attitude.
And also to my friendly neighbors who brighten up my days
with their witty banter and sarcastic humor as we go our hipster ways.
I'll always remember my time spent here
in one-hundred-and-fifty square feet.
My little oasis where my head is clear
and my heart in comfort beats.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Office monkey retaliation
I started this blog as a creative outlet to ease my mind while I was trapped behind a desk, which is not my natural habitat. I owe many thanks to y'all for sticking with me throughout the tangents that I tend to wander down. Today, I want to get back to my roots.
Back in February, I declared that my office monkey days were over. ...I spoke too soon. After 6 weeks of traveling and auditioning and whatnot, I landed back in my new baby-sized studio apartment and within a week was back to my old office monkey tricks to get rent money. This time around the office madness set in with a vengeance almost immediately.
I work for a nonprofit. I was initially very excited about that. The NELA Center for Student Success runs a program that mentors underserved high school students through the college application process. Here's the thing, though. The center is a subsidiary of NELA, a nonprofit student loan guarantor, which is a subsidiary of USA Funds, which is a nonprofit with a generalized mission statement about helping people pay for college. All of these things are "affiliates" of Sallie Mae.
What it boils down to is this: The people at the NELA Center are working to get kids into college who are at a disadvantage. But every single decision, action, or thought that these people have regarding the work they are doing with these kids has to make it all the way up this massive chain of corporate command and back down again before anything can actually be done. And the further things go up the corporate chain, the less anyone knows about the actual work being done on the ground floor. There are only two employees at the Center--One to run the Center, and one to run statistics and numbers on everything being done here to report back to Corporate that the Center is "efficient" in helping people. The worst part is my sneaking suspicion that all of these nonprofits are actually only tax write-offs for some fat cat at Sallie Mae. I'm just real tired of Corporate America, I'm bummed to realize how insidious it is even in the nonprofit world, and I'm frustrated to witness how corporate busy work is utterly crippling for actually getting anything done.
Maybe it was this office madness that drove me to plug in to the Occupy movement this last weekend. As some of you know, I've been intrigued by Occupy ever since it started, but somewhat cautious and skeptical. So when I heard about the 99% "Spring Training" being held all across the country last week, I decided to go hear about Occupy from the horse's mouth, if you will.
What I found out is that we are on the same page: All the political and economic power in this country is concentrated in a tiny group of people that operates well above our heads. Mega-corporations run our food system, our housing market, our financial system, the military-industrial complex, and global manufacturing, and they tend to pour enough money into our Legislature to shape government policy in a really gross way to their own advantage. They have all the same rights as individual human beings but none of the sense of personal responsibility.
My major qualm with Occupy was that it was a protest without a list of demands. I was annoyed because I could tell they were pissed about something but they didn't seem to know what they actually wanted. Now, I think the problem is so deeply engrained in the fabric of our society that it's too early in the movement to have a specific list of demands. Could you even imagine an America without foreign oil and high fructose corn syrup? Or massive personal debt? Or looming environmental catastrophe? Or invasive, poorly-justified wars in foreign countries? What would that even look like? If you are protesting the construction of a dirty coal plant, and I am protesting government subsidies of Monsanto corn crops, and she is protesting cuts in public education, and he is protesting for labor rights, then we are all essentially protesting against the same system. Occupy has pulled back, regrouped, and is training people to take effective non-violent direct action on grassroots issues that they care about. Rosa Parks style. It's a long-term, big-picture vision of how to take back this country bit by bit, and I think I'm ready to say that I am the 99%.
Back in February, I declared that my office monkey days were over. ...I spoke too soon. After 6 weeks of traveling and auditioning and whatnot, I landed back in my new baby-sized studio apartment and within a week was back to my old office monkey tricks to get rent money. This time around the office madness set in with a vengeance almost immediately.
I work for a nonprofit. I was initially very excited about that. The NELA Center for Student Success runs a program that mentors underserved high school students through the college application process. Here's the thing, though. The center is a subsidiary of NELA, a nonprofit student loan guarantor, which is a subsidiary of USA Funds, which is a nonprofit with a generalized mission statement about helping people pay for college. All of these things are "affiliates" of Sallie Mae.
What it boils down to is this: The people at the NELA Center are working to get kids into college who are at a disadvantage. But every single decision, action, or thought that these people have regarding the work they are doing with these kids has to make it all the way up this massive chain of corporate command and back down again before anything can actually be done. And the further things go up the corporate chain, the less anyone knows about the actual work being done on the ground floor. There are only two employees at the Center--One to run the Center, and one to run statistics and numbers on everything being done here to report back to Corporate that the Center is "efficient" in helping people. The worst part is my sneaking suspicion that all of these nonprofits are actually only tax write-offs for some fat cat at Sallie Mae. I'm just real tired of Corporate America, I'm bummed to realize how insidious it is even in the nonprofit world, and I'm frustrated to witness how corporate busy work is utterly crippling for actually getting anything done.
Maybe it was this office madness that drove me to plug in to the Occupy movement this last weekend. As some of you know, I've been intrigued by Occupy ever since it started, but somewhat cautious and skeptical. So when I heard about the 99% "Spring Training" being held all across the country last week, I decided to go hear about Occupy from the horse's mouth, if you will.
What I found out is that we are on the same page: All the political and economic power in this country is concentrated in a tiny group of people that operates well above our heads. Mega-corporations run our food system, our housing market, our financial system, the military-industrial complex, and global manufacturing, and they tend to pour enough money into our Legislature to shape government policy in a really gross way to their own advantage. They have all the same rights as individual human beings but none of the sense of personal responsibility.
My major qualm with Occupy was that it was a protest without a list of demands. I was annoyed because I could tell they were pissed about something but they didn't seem to know what they actually wanted. Now, I think the problem is so deeply engrained in the fabric of our society that it's too early in the movement to have a specific list of demands. Could you even imagine an America without foreign oil and high fructose corn syrup? Or massive personal debt? Or looming environmental catastrophe? Or invasive, poorly-justified wars in foreign countries? What would that even look like? If you are protesting the construction of a dirty coal plant, and I am protesting government subsidies of Monsanto corn crops, and she is protesting cuts in public education, and he is protesting for labor rights, then we are all essentially protesting against the same system. Occupy has pulled back, regrouped, and is training people to take effective non-violent direct action on grassroots issues that they care about. Rosa Parks style. It's a long-term, big-picture vision of how to take back this country bit by bit, and I think I'm ready to say that I am the 99%.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
An argument for being an artist
In the current cycle of my Temp-Odyssey, I am the Admin at the NELA Center, a nonprofit that mentors low-income, minority, and first-generation college students through the college application process. It can be really cool to witness caring, stable mentors help confused teenagers navigate this unfamiliar territory, but I really find my ears perking up when a kid comes through the center with dreams of being an actor or a filmmaker or some kind of artist. I tend to squirm during the "That's a bad idea" and "Maybe you should do something more practical" talk until I have the opportunity to jump in and try to be the voice of un-reason in encouraging kids that yes, that is something you can do with your life.
Why do I feel the need to butt in? Well, I am admittedly biased because I'm in the arts. But there seems to be an impression, mostly amongst people who don't consider themselves to be in the arts, that becoming an artist is like knocking on the door of a castle and saying you'd like to be a Princess, please.** As if it's like a divine ordination that you are either born with or not. Because of this weirdly universal idea, poor, nervous parents everywhere have visions of their emaciated children knocking on doors of snotty agents with knees knocking and trembling outstretched headshot, saying, "Ec-ec-excuse me sir I wanna be an ac-ac-actor" before doors get slammed in their faces. They then wander aimlessly through the gutters doing drugs with Bohemian characters until they wake up as a 40-year-old busboy or heroin addict, still insistent that they are an "actor." These poor hopeless souls flock to big cities by the hundreds with the vain hope of meeting Johnny Depp's agent and instantly making millions of dollars and that is the only path possible when your kid says he wants to be an "actor." What parent wouldn't be worried? Especially if the whole point of pursuing higher education is to improve your chances at a successful future.
Rest easy, worried parents. I would like to hereby state that this image is false. I am like, obnoxiously practical, and yet I am an artist and I don't starve. In fact, there are literally infinite ways of supporting yourself and living your life as an artist. Personally, I use my B.A. (read as Bachelor of Arts or Bad-Assery) to land various office jobs--an acting challenge in and of itself. One of my mentors once told me that a key to being an actor is having the self-respect and confidence to say "I'm an actor," no matter what your job is that you are doing to pay the bills for now. It's acknowledging what you can do to survive within society (Data entry, Teaching preschool, Accounting) while keeping your creativity and sense of self intact--empowering yourself to inhabit your own unique perspective. This not only forces you to find a creative outlet, it opens you up to discover like-minded people and infinite potential projects. When you start doing truly creative, adventurous, awesome work, people will come see it, and you might just wake up one morning and see that, bit by bit, you have turned the statement "I am an artist" into a 24/7 gig. The first step is to stay alive and engage yourself creatively. You don't have to make $10 million a year to be an "actor."
So am I making feature films and making out with Brad Pitt? Incidentally, no, and I'm cool with that. Angelina and the pack of children would probably dismember me anyway. Do I spend way more time typing things into Excel spreadsheets than Brad Pitt does? Yes, and it kind of sucks. But it's just for right now, and I'm not worried about getting stuck here. I also do a ton of projects with the rest of my time, I have an agent who sends me out for stuff, and I occasionally get paid for artistic things, too. On a practical level, I would like to state for the record that there is an entire Arts industry in this country, made up of a wide array of artistic work. Hollywood stars are not the only people making money as actors. Every commercial you see, every instructional film you've watched at work, and every print ad you've ever seen paid countless of creative professionals.
One last thing. A career in the arts is not an easy path, and I don't encourage every hormonal 16-year-old who comes in to NELA to go full bore down this path like it's a straight and simple. Everyone finds something different that works for them--that delicate balance between being financially soluble and not wanting to strangle yourself with your keyboard cord. I know actors who are also chiropractors, accountants, managers, teachers, professors, musicians, and....full-time actors. I know artists who work gig to gig and ones with year-round contracts. I think that's the thing that scares people off from a bold-faced pursuit of being an artist: The career path is not clear, it's not laid out in front of you, and it takes perseverance. It's also totally possible.
**Of course, there are those that were born Princesses.... Sammi.
Why do I feel the need to butt in? Well, I am admittedly biased because I'm in the arts. But there seems to be an impression, mostly amongst people who don't consider themselves to be in the arts, that becoming an artist is like knocking on the door of a castle and saying you'd like to be a Princess, please.** As if it's like a divine ordination that you are either born with or not. Because of this weirdly universal idea, poor, nervous parents everywhere have visions of their emaciated children knocking on doors of snotty agents with knees knocking and trembling outstretched headshot, saying, "Ec-ec-excuse me sir I wanna be an ac-ac-actor" before doors get slammed in their faces. They then wander aimlessly through the gutters doing drugs with Bohemian characters until they wake up as a 40-year-old busboy or heroin addict, still insistent that they are an "actor." These poor hopeless souls flock to big cities by the hundreds with the vain hope of meeting Johnny Depp's agent and instantly making millions of dollars and that is the only path possible when your kid says he wants to be an "actor." What parent wouldn't be worried? Especially if the whole point of pursuing higher education is to improve your chances at a successful future.
Rest easy, worried parents. I would like to hereby state that this image is false. I am like, obnoxiously practical, and yet I am an artist and I don't starve. In fact, there are literally infinite ways of supporting yourself and living your life as an artist. Personally, I use my B.A. (read as Bachelor of Arts or Bad-Assery) to land various office jobs--an acting challenge in and of itself. One of my mentors once told me that a key to being an actor is having the self-respect and confidence to say "I'm an actor," no matter what your job is that you are doing to pay the bills for now. It's acknowledging what you can do to survive within society (Data entry, Teaching preschool, Accounting) while keeping your creativity and sense of self intact--empowering yourself to inhabit your own unique perspective. This not only forces you to find a creative outlet, it opens you up to discover like-minded people and infinite potential projects. When you start doing truly creative, adventurous, awesome work, people will come see it, and you might just wake up one morning and see that, bit by bit, you have turned the statement "I am an artist" into a 24/7 gig. The first step is to stay alive and engage yourself creatively. You don't have to make $10 million a year to be an "actor."
So am I making feature films and making out with Brad Pitt? Incidentally, no, and I'm cool with that. Angelina and the pack of children would probably dismember me anyway. Do I spend way more time typing things into Excel spreadsheets than Brad Pitt does? Yes, and it kind of sucks. But it's just for right now, and I'm not worried about getting stuck here. I also do a ton of projects with the rest of my time, I have an agent who sends me out for stuff, and I occasionally get paid for artistic things, too. On a practical level, I would like to state for the record that there is an entire Arts industry in this country, made up of a wide array of artistic work. Hollywood stars are not the only people making money as actors. Every commercial you see, every instructional film you've watched at work, and every print ad you've ever seen paid countless of creative professionals.
One last thing. A career in the arts is not an easy path, and I don't encourage every hormonal 16-year-old who comes in to NELA to go full bore down this path like it's a straight and simple. Everyone finds something different that works for them--that delicate balance between being financially soluble and not wanting to strangle yourself with your keyboard cord. I know actors who are also chiropractors, accountants, managers, teachers, professors, musicians, and....full-time actors. I know artists who work gig to gig and ones with year-round contracts. I think that's the thing that scares people off from a bold-faced pursuit of being an artist: The career path is not clear, it's not laid out in front of you, and it takes perseverance. It's also totally possible.
**Of course, there are those that were born Princesses.... Sammi.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
A very Danielle Easter
I woke up on Monday morning with no idea that it was Monday morning, and after a brief period of confusion was quite tickled at how I had come to be on a bright orange couch underneath a quilt homemade by someone else's Mom amidst party wreckage and dog fur.
The story of my Easter began a few days earlier in a series of texts/calls with my sister in Seattle:
"What are you doing for Easter?"
"I don't know. Driving up to see you in Seattle? ....Naw I don't have the cash to go up there for the whole weekend. Maybe we can meet halfway for brunch."
"What's halfway?"
"Centralia? I know they have an authentic Mexican resaurant. Would they do brunch?"
Sunday morning brought us together in the wholesome and family-friendly town of Olympia, Washington at a fish house on the pier. It was a gorgeous, idyllic Easter morning leisurely munching on fruit, wandering the farmer's market, people-watching the happy families with dopey dogs and fat babies, window-shopping boutiques and sipping coffee. We hugged goodbye and I continued to wander the waterfront for a while making friendly Easter phone calls to family before heading back to Portland. Don't worry, the whole situation unravels from here.
As I turned the key in the ignition I registered the immediate task at hand. My "Low Fuel" blinker had started up just before I rolled into Olympia, so I figured I had just enough gas to make it to the gas station. I took my exact route back to the freeway without seeing any gas stations, so instead of wandering around and getting lost I just hopped back on the freeway with the intention of pulling over at the last exit, where I remembered there was gas. Of course, before I can reach the last exit, I feel the uncontrollable slowing of the car and look down to see my RPMs plummeting quickly as my hungry little car sputters off to sleep. With a sigh of defeat, I manage to coast along the shoulder pretty close to the next exit, where I see a couple gas stations.
I sit for a moment in my car kicking myself. This is not the first time this has happened. Dammit, Danielle. Okay, let's do this thing. As I trek up the shoulder of the freeway I flashback to the groggy state in which I chose my outfit that morning. Even though I wasn't going to Church, my inner Catholic guilt had forced me to put on a wholesome white A-line skirt and a pink shirt, complete with flats and a cardigan, as if dressing like an innocent 8-year-old would make up for me being a heathen. I looked ridiculous wandering up the side of I-5. Like an Easter Hooker. On the walk back to the car I convinced myself that the strange looks darting at me through every passing windshield were actually stares of jealousy at the gas station Choco Taco that I was so clearly enjoying. ("Yeah, Fools! When was the last time you treated yourself to a Choco Taco? I'd be jealous of me too!")
So by the time I was crossing the border back into Oregon, I was overjoyed to receive a text from my magnificent friend Leslie: "What are you doing? I need a dinner date." After recuperating at her apartment, the two of us enjoyed a nutritious Easter dinner of LOTS OF BEER at the Lucky Labrador with her dog Cleo in tow. By the time the Lucky Lab closed we couldn't fathom abandoning Cleo to go to a real bar, so we walked to the friendly neighborhood sketchy convenience store. Needless to say, for Easter dessert we each killed a 40oz of Steel Reserve and split a package of vegetarian chicken nuggets. In my mind, this is how my Easter ended:
"Oh man! Sorry Leslie, I must've fallen asleep. I'll get out of your hair before it's tomorrow."
"It's already tomorrow. It's like 6:00 a.m."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah dude you destroyed that 40. You passed out like ten minutes into Drive."
"Oh yeah we were gonna watch Drive! Well sorry, dude. Thanks for the quilt."
"No problem. I've been up for two hours watching PBS."
"Awesome."
.....Awesome.
The story of my Easter began a few days earlier in a series of texts/calls with my sister in Seattle:
"What are you doing for Easter?"
"I don't know. Driving up to see you in Seattle? ....Naw I don't have the cash to go up there for the whole weekend. Maybe we can meet halfway for brunch."
"What's halfway?"
"Centralia? I know they have an authentic Mexican resaurant. Would they do brunch?"
Sunday morning brought us together in the wholesome and family-friendly town of Olympia, Washington at a fish house on the pier. It was a gorgeous, idyllic Easter morning leisurely munching on fruit, wandering the farmer's market, people-watching the happy families with dopey dogs and fat babies, window-shopping boutiques and sipping coffee. We hugged goodbye and I continued to wander the waterfront for a while making friendly Easter phone calls to family before heading back to Portland. Don't worry, the whole situation unravels from here.
As I turned the key in the ignition I registered the immediate task at hand. My "Low Fuel" blinker had started up just before I rolled into Olympia, so I figured I had just enough gas to make it to the gas station. I took my exact route back to the freeway without seeing any gas stations, so instead of wandering around and getting lost I just hopped back on the freeway with the intention of pulling over at the last exit, where I remembered there was gas. Of course, before I can reach the last exit, I feel the uncontrollable slowing of the car and look down to see my RPMs plummeting quickly as my hungry little car sputters off to sleep. With a sigh of defeat, I manage to coast along the shoulder pretty close to the next exit, where I see a couple gas stations.
I sit for a moment in my car kicking myself. This is not the first time this has happened. Dammit, Danielle. Okay, let's do this thing. As I trek up the shoulder of the freeway I flashback to the groggy state in which I chose my outfit that morning. Even though I wasn't going to Church, my inner Catholic guilt had forced me to put on a wholesome white A-line skirt and a pink shirt, complete with flats and a cardigan, as if dressing like an innocent 8-year-old would make up for me being a heathen. I looked ridiculous wandering up the side of I-5. Like an Easter Hooker. On the walk back to the car I convinced myself that the strange looks darting at me through every passing windshield were actually stares of jealousy at the gas station Choco Taco that I was so clearly enjoying. ("Yeah, Fools! When was the last time you treated yourself to a Choco Taco? I'd be jealous of me too!")
So by the time I was crossing the border back into Oregon, I was overjoyed to receive a text from my magnificent friend Leslie: "What are you doing? I need a dinner date." After recuperating at her apartment, the two of us enjoyed a nutritious Easter dinner of LOTS OF BEER at the Lucky Labrador with her dog Cleo in tow. By the time the Lucky Lab closed we couldn't fathom abandoning Cleo to go to a real bar, so we walked to the friendly neighborhood sketchy convenience store. Needless to say, for Easter dessert we each killed a 40oz of Steel Reserve and split a package of vegetarian chicken nuggets. In my mind, this is how my Easter ended:
"Oh man! Sorry Leslie, I must've fallen asleep. I'll get out of your hair before it's tomorrow."
"It's already tomorrow. It's like 6:00 a.m."
"What? Really?"
"Yeah dude you destroyed that 40. You passed out like ten minutes into Drive."
"Oh yeah we were gonna watch Drive! Well sorry, dude. Thanks for the quilt."
"No problem. I've been up for two hours watching PBS."
"Awesome."
.....Awesome.
Friday, March 30, 2012
COURAGE
"Now I'm not scared
of a song
or the states,
or the stages.
I'm not scared.
I've got friends,
took my call,
came courageous.
Now I feel like I am home."
of a song
or the states,
or the stages.
I'm not scared.
I've got friends,
took my call,
came courageous.
Now I feel like I am home."
Holy shit this song is incredible. What an amazing point to be at in your life.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Don't read this. Just go eat that entire cake.
Okay. So there's this thing, maybe not all people have it but I think a lot of people do, where the best possible way of getting you to do something is by saying not to do it.
Here's an example:
"Danielle, tie your shoes."
"No man, whatever, it's fine. Oh look! Swings!"
**Danielle runs towards swingset, trips on shoelaces, and permanently scars both knees.**
Or maybe:
"Danielle, don't eat that entire cake. You're gonna get sick."
"Psht! I love cake. I'll be fine."
It's not like I don't normally tie my shoes, or like I always eat lots of cake. It's the presence of the warning that invites me to do it. I should also admit that this is not something I did a while ago and like, outgrew. These examples are recent. Ummmm..shutup. Don't judge.
Anyway, here is my conundrum of the day. I wish that taking care of your body (being healthy, eating healthy food, excercising) didn't feel so damn good. It makes it much less fun to follow my natural urge to misbehave. As soon as the little angel on my shoulder says, "Danielle, you're going to work out more and eat better. You'll feel great!" The little sonuvabitch on the other shoulder says, "It's a rule! Break it! It will be so fun! Hooray mischeif!"
Again, cut to the scene from Matilda. But I'll be damned if an hour later, or a day later, or a week later, I don't feel like shit! But then when I listen to the little angel, I almost always feel better. Stupid angel. Anyway, for future inspiration to be good to your body, please feel free to reference this blog.
Here's an example:
"Danielle, tie your shoes."
"No man, whatever, it's fine. Oh look! Swings!"
**Danielle runs towards swingset, trips on shoelaces, and permanently scars both knees.**
Or maybe:
"Danielle, don't eat that entire cake. You're gonna get sick."
"Psht! I love cake. I'll be fine."
It's not like I don't normally tie my shoes, or like I always eat lots of cake. It's the presence of the warning that invites me to do it. I should also admit that this is not something I did a while ago and like, outgrew. These examples are recent. Ummmm..shutup. Don't judge.
Anyway, here is my conundrum of the day. I wish that taking care of your body (being healthy, eating healthy food, excercising) didn't feel so damn good. It makes it much less fun to follow my natural urge to misbehave. As soon as the little angel on my shoulder says, "Danielle, you're going to work out more and eat better. You'll feel great!" The little sonuvabitch on the other shoulder says, "It's a rule! Break it! It will be so fun! Hooray mischeif!"
Again, cut to the scene from Matilda. But I'll be damned if an hour later, or a day later, or a week later, I don't feel like shit! But then when I listen to the little angel, I almost always feel better. Stupid angel. Anyway, for future inspiration to be good to your body, please feel free to reference this blog.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
I'LL BE BACK.
Last night, I was sitting in my apartment after final dress rehearsal for One Dancing (<<shameless self-promotion) with a cup o’ tea and a book, and in mid-sentence I stopped in my tracks and stared at a point on my wall for a solid two minutes.
Earlier in the day I was taking breaks at work to empty my soul-writhing-frustration by writing stream-of-consciousness-rants in between hours of data entry while staring out at a steely-gray-icy-rainy-day and daydreaming about being in sunny Los Angeles doing nothing but acting and training for the next three years. I yearned for August 27th and the sunshine and University of Southern California.
But then that night, staring dumbfounded at my wall in my cozy apartment, I had the overwhelming realization that I am moving away from Portland in a few months, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. And it kind of broke my heart. I fucking love this city. I love the people, I love the culture, I love the mindset, I love the consciousness, I love the connection with the countryside and the earth and the food and the outdoors, I love the beer, I love the coffee, I love the forward thinking. For all its little quirks and the little ways that Portland nurtures its residents throughout the 9 months/year of rain, For all of the countercultures and counter-countercultures and small ways that Portland resists the tide of American foibles, For all its hypocrisies and contradictions and passions and hipsterdoms. I fucking love this city.
Don't get me wrong, I am STOKED to start grad school and I've known in my gut for a long time that I've got to go get more acting training, go to a different city, yada yada yada. I am also head over heels in love with the program I'm about to start at USC. But I've spent the last 5 years of my life here and I only get a few more months of Portland lovin'!!
So after the initial panic I started making a list of things I’ve gotta do before I leave. Here are a few:
· See all my Portland homies
· Ride my bike more
· Read all the books on my bookshelf and then buy more at Powell’s
· Enjoy the forests/trees/Forest Park/The Gorge
· See lots of Portland art
And now, dear friends, I open it up to you! What are some quintessential Portland things I MUST do before leaving this city?? (Besides you know, the obvious things that all of your out-of-town friends make you do when they first come here.)
Oh. And mark my words. I’LL BE BACK.**
**Bonus points if you heard Schwarzenegger’s voice in your head when you read that. Extra bonus points if you saw a little video of his voice coming out of my mouth.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Controversial things. From 2005.
Aight. So I haven’t
gotten political in a while…and I’m feeling the urge. I recently watched “Why We Fight,” a
documentary which won the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Film Festival in
2005. It somehow was gifted into my
small DVD collection like four moves ago when it was abandoned by a former housemate,
and after surviving so many moves I finally decided to watch it. It's kind of out of date now, but actually not really.
The film was inspired by President Eisenhower’s farewell
address in 1961. Featuring commentary by
John McCain, Gore Vidal, Richard Perle, and some seriously high-up former
Pentagon and CIA officials, it examines the relationship between the primary forces
that move the American (and consequently world) economy and the forces which
influence us to go to war. It is with surprising
frankness that people like McCain admit that Eisenhower’s 1961 warning about a
military-industrial complex growing to run the economy and the government has
come alarming true. Read as >> A
small class of movers and shakers run an economy and government based on oil
and war, the ultimate recipe for limitless consumption and therefore limitless
profit. Genius.
My favorite moment of the film is a Cheney moment. So Cheney has inextricable and complex ties
to Halliburton, right? He used to run the company but claims that when he
became VP he cut all ties and never spoke, dreamt, or thought of it again. And Halliburton is an “oilfield services”
company that dabbles in arms and all kinds of lucrative wartime
industries. So my favorite moment is
when John McCain says point blank that if there is evidence that Cheney acted
inappropriately in the whole Halliburton mess, there ought to be a full scale
public investigation. Immediately after
he says this, his office phone rings and there is a bit of confusion as his
assistant comes in, interrupting the documentary interview, to say that Vice
President Cheney is on the phone. OH
SNAP! Cheney has a sixth sense for when he’s getting exposed… Ewww
grrrooooossssss.
Anyway, here is an example of some of the history that the
film talks about, as retold by myself with no Wikipedia cheating and plenty of
personal commentary along the way. So enjoy
the unerring exactness of my knowledge, and go rent the movie. It’s only like
90 minutes.
In 1953 the Prime Minister of Iran gets pissed that Great
Britain is ripping him off on oil. Great
Britain comes to the US with this annoying problem, so Prez Eisenhower declares
Prime Minister Mosadegh a Communist (woo Cold War!) and sets the CIA to
overthrowing him. After Mosadegh is
gone, this douchebag Shah takes over and creates an awful oppressive regime
which Iran tries within 20 years to overthrow cause it sucks so much. The leader of the Iranian revolution, Ayatollah
Khomeini**, absolutely HATES the United States, and is pretty vocal about this,
saying some pretty violent things. I
mean, he might be pissed because it was our involvement that put the douchebag
Shah in charge, just sayin’. Anyway, the
US then props up Saddam Hussein over in Iraq, who begins a war with Iran, and
eventually we need to directly supply him with weapons so that he’ll win. Yay Iraq! Good job Saddam! But then in 1990 Saddam invades Kuwait, which
freaks us out because now it looks like he might invade Saudi Arabia. And Saudi Arabia is where there is the #1 most
oil in all of the world. We then send
troops to Saudi Arabia to defend it against Iraq, which incidentally ends up
pissing off a guy named Osama bin Laden.
Okay so now it is the early 2000s and we get worried about losing Iraq
too (which has the #2 most oil
in the world, incidentally), since we are now fighting Iraq in Saudi Arabia so the government starts to prep the American
public to get behind an overthrow of Saddam Hussein. Ultimately, we end up fabricating the war in
Iraq as retaliation to 9/11, dropping bombs on people who had nothing to do
with that awful attack. In the process
we create a blanket “War on Terror” which acts as a convenient license to drop bombs on anyone whom we can
claim doesn’t like us, or who doesn’t have our best interest in mind. Which at this point is like, a lot of
people.
Ah, the tangled webs we weave.
**I totally Wikipedia-cheated to figure out how to spell his
name. Sorry ‘bout it.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Hipster Mordor
Last night, as I walked the two blocks from a warehouse/rehearsal/performance space which used to be the artisan lightbulb factory from that episode of Portlandia to my studio apartment conveniently located directly above a dive bar, a shwanky hipster bar, and a bar/coffee shop, something occurred to me.
I HAVE REACHED THE HEART, THE PEAK, THE BLACK HOLE, OF HIPSTERDOM.
NooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHH
Sweet God. Insidiously, bit by bit, thrift store by thrift store, food cart by food cart, unpaid artistic project by project, I have reached the center of the tornado.
I don't know how to take this. If Portlandia were to follow me for a week they'd have enough ammo to roast Portland hipsterdom like a Fourth of July barbecue. They'd be guaranteed ten more seasons of hipster satire. For God's sake I'm a vegetarian actor who treats the coffeeshop/bar as my living room. There, I have job hunted, watched Conan the Barbarian, debated politics, gotten drunk, talked for hours about art, and manicly paced and smoked cigarettes outside the front door. And I'm blogging about it!! NOOOOOOO!!!!
Maybe by admitting that I have a problem I'm taking the first step towards recovery. No more locally owned restaurants that cater to vegans and "locavores," no more apartments furnished by Ikea and thrift stores, no more scanning craigslist for temp gigs at farmer's markets, no more french press coffee, no more PBR and Kraft mac n' cheese.
...But I like all those things. Oh well. At least I'm out of the closet now. Anyone wanna find a happy hour where we drink out of mason jars?
I HAVE REACHED THE HEART, THE PEAK, THE BLACK HOLE, OF HIPSTERDOM.
NooooooooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHHHH
Sweet God. Insidiously, bit by bit, thrift store by thrift store, food cart by food cart, unpaid artistic project by project, I have reached the center of the tornado.
I don't know how to take this. If Portlandia were to follow me for a week they'd have enough ammo to roast Portland hipsterdom like a Fourth of July barbecue. They'd be guaranteed ten more seasons of hipster satire. For God's sake I'm a vegetarian actor who treats the coffeeshop/bar as my living room. There, I have job hunted, watched Conan the Barbarian, debated politics, gotten drunk, talked for hours about art, and manicly paced and smoked cigarettes outside the front door. And I'm blogging about it!! NOOOOOOO!!!!
The worst part of all is the ultimate giveaway that I am in fact a hipster:
I refuse to admit that I'm a hipster.
What have I become???
Maybe by admitting that I have a problem I'm taking the first step towards recovery. No more locally owned restaurants that cater to vegans and "locavores," no more apartments furnished by Ikea and thrift stores, no more scanning craigslist for temp gigs at farmer's markets, no more french press coffee, no more PBR and Kraft mac n' cheese.
...But I like all those things. Oh well. At least I'm out of the closet now. Anyone wanna find a happy hour where we drink out of mason jars?
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Surfing USA
For the past few weeks I have felt like I'm on a free fall through turbulence.
A month ago, as Liz and I sludged through rusty water, giggling at Moe as she splashed in doggy joy through the indoor lakes, we got to talking about moving. There was the first move we shared together (also with Moe) when the Uhaul broke down in the middle of the intersection and I had to maneuver a powerless truck out of the road. There was the move that involved a month or two of covertly crashing on a friend's couch and smuggling the dog. Then we started counting and realized that for me, I've moved every 2-4 months since I graduated from college.
I pondered my gypsy-esque lifestyle, and now that I am somewhat nestled in to a new place a month later, I'm realizing that I've been sucked into a time-lapse of the last nine months, and the end to my migrant habits is pretty far off. That is to say, the speed of my moving has increased. I stayed in NYC for two weeks, plopped down in Portland for three days, stayed in Colorado for one week, went to Seattle for a day, now I'm in Portland for three days, LA for four days, Portland for three days, LA again for three days, and then theoretically back in Portland for 2-4 months. And then God only knows where I'll be. Anywhere from sea to shining sea in this country, with a vague possibility of being gone altogether from this continent.
I guess this makes sense given the fact that you create your own reality and this lifestyle kind of mimics the way my brain works--jumping around with little long-term planning. But damn. I have reached the point where it is wearying. Long story short, today I wanted to blog about maintaining calm in the middle of the storm. Or...having a sense of home no matter what. Not that I am particularly great at it, by any means.
But here are some love-nuggets for you to savor:
A month ago, as Liz and I sludged through rusty water, giggling at Moe as she splashed in doggy joy through the indoor lakes, we got to talking about moving. There was the first move we shared together (also with Moe) when the Uhaul broke down in the middle of the intersection and I had to maneuver a powerless truck out of the road. There was the move that involved a month or two of covertly crashing on a friend's couch and smuggling the dog. Then we started counting and realized that for me, I've moved every 2-4 months since I graduated from college.
I pondered my gypsy-esque lifestyle, and now that I am somewhat nestled in to a new place a month later, I'm realizing that I've been sucked into a time-lapse of the last nine months, and the end to my migrant habits is pretty far off. That is to say, the speed of my moving has increased. I stayed in NYC for two weeks, plopped down in Portland for three days, stayed in Colorado for one week, went to Seattle for a day, now I'm in Portland for three days, LA for four days, Portland for three days, LA again for three days, and then theoretically back in Portland for 2-4 months. And then God only knows where I'll be. Anywhere from sea to shining sea in this country, with a vague possibility of being gone altogether from this continent.
I guess this makes sense given the fact that you create your own reality and this lifestyle kind of mimics the way my brain works--jumping around with little long-term planning. But damn. I have reached the point where it is wearying. Long story short, today I wanted to blog about maintaining calm in the middle of the storm. Or...having a sense of home no matter what. Not that I am particularly great at it, by any means.
But here are some love-nuggets for you to savor:
Music.
An instantaneous way to ground your mood in whatever way you need.
Network.
When traveling is less like traveling and more like friend-hopping it is way more fun and definitely helps you stay centered.
Alcohol.
In the words of Eleanor: "Sorry 'bout it." It's guaranteed to relax you and put you right at home.
Exercise.
Okay this may seem contrary to the last one, and I also have to admit I'm not great at it. Weirdly, this is more difficult to procure than alcohol when you're on the road, but I think it helps move traveling energy through your body. Hippie moment! Also, it's good for you.
Art.
Duhhh. There really is only one way to digest and make sense of the human experience, especially when you are experiencing a great deal of change. Creating/absorbing art. That's what I think.
Monday, February 6, 2012
On to the next one
Hey! In all of the madness of my sudden move and trip to New York, I did not officially announce: I AM AN OFFICE MONKEY NO MORE!! My temp position with Banfield was completed right before I left for New York, so I bid a fond farewell to my new Banfield friends and an enthusiastic farewell to six months of Human Resources cubicle living. No more data entry, no more OSHA logs, no more 8-5, no more slow waltz towards insanity. And no more peanut butter M&M theft.
And now, I can say that I have completed round one of grad school auditions! After two weeks of monologues and 16-bar songs I have seven schools up in the air, I am still homeless and jobless, I am still on the road, and there is more ahead. In that spirit, please enjoy this song, as it has been my JAM for the past few days. On to the next one.
And now, I can say that I have completed round one of grad school auditions! After two weeks of monologues and 16-bar songs I have seven schools up in the air, I am still homeless and jobless, I am still on the road, and there is more ahead. In that spirit, please enjoy this song, as it has been my JAM for the past few days. On to the next one.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
A love note to my friends. Thank you.
I am sitting next to a window looking out over Queens, with
a view of the Manhattan skyline peaking through the windows to my right, my
best friend reading in her adjoining bedroom, and my dear friend and fellow
auditioner-for-grad-schools on the couch next to an adorable purring
kitten. Our other kind and wonderful
host is at an exclusive happy hour event at a place with a dress code, and just invited us out to a gourmet 24-hour diner a block away. I’m not quite sure what life I am living
right now, but I like it. I swear to God
this is really happening.
Five days before leaving the exquisite city of Portland, my
roommate and I came home after a particularly rainy week to a flooded
apartment. So while salvaging my stuff
and scrambling to move out before a month-long trip, I was also preparing for MFA
Acting school auditions, rehearsing scenes for ACTF, opening and closing a
staged reading, doing curtain speeches and pouring Ninkasi beer for Theatre Vertigo, wrapping up my temp job at Banfield, and trying not to lose my mind. Oh yeah, and picking up my poor
roommate from the hospital when she unexpectedly broke her ankle.
But now, tucked into a little oasis in Queens with wonderful
people I love and nothing to do but the work I love best—act—for a month, I can’t
help but feel like everything has happened exactly as it was supposed to. ...Except maybe for my dear roomie's ankle... :( I have no job, no home, I’m unattached, and
I now have nothing in my life but total freedom, big dreams, and incredible friends. Friends who give me all the tequila I need
and a place to crash when my apartment floods, friends who rally at the last
minute to help me move and store my stuff when my landlord falls through,
friends who welcome me with open arms and home-cooked meals when I fly across
the country like a woman fleeing a burning building. Friends who believe in me and support me no
matter what. Unlikely friends who make a
“Flat Stanley” so I can take pictures with them in New York. Oh yeah, and amazing parents who help me out in small, key ways from 400 miles away.
This past week has been a beautiful reminder that every
cloud truly does have a silver lining. I
lost a few things, but I was given a deep gratitude for the wonderful support
network I have, and an absolutely clean and fresh start after six months of
corporate drudgery and intense preparation for this next month of my life.
I am brand new. Ready to write the next chapter.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
A crime exposed
For the past six months, I have regularly engaged in an act of espionage and theft against a fellow coworker. But in light of the impending end of my employment at Banfield, and in the spirit of the New Year, I am going to come clean.
I have nothing against this coworker on a personal level. He is a remarkably sweet, amiable, man. At the risk of making a sweeping statement, most Mormons are! And practically the entire senior management of Banfield is Mormon! I like Mormons. Anyone who’s lived in a Mormon-dominated region will likely agree that no group is, as a whole, more polite, pleasant, and full of smiles. And who better to be in charge of a large company with 1000’s of employees than an intimate club of very pleasant people??
But this isn’t about Mormons! This is about a large glass pumpkin that sits on the desk of a member of this kindly elite. This large glass pumpkin contains a constant supply (we’re talking like 3 pounds) of Peanut Butter M&M's, which everyone knows were crafted in ancient times on Mount Olympus along with the Nectar of the Gods, the recipe for which was stolen by the god Mars in the form of a mountain goat and passed down through the generations to Mr. Mars, who would then start a candy company and mass-produce them, thereby making Americans obese and helpless under the blissfully torturous mind-control of peanut butter and chocolate in a candy shell. Then, of course, Mars would go on to buy out the entire American pet food industry and a Portland-based pet hospital. Obviously.
But this isn’t about Mars and his master plan! This is about the deft and devious way I have looped around the office on casual strolls, glancing casually into the fish-bowl offices of the executives, counting down the doors until I would see the glorious, crack-cocaine-filled pumpkin of mystical wonder glowing like a beacon of seduction to my salivating mouth. On an ideal thieving day, the cheerfully nondescript Keeper of the Pumpkin would be miraculously absent from his desk, and the door would be invitingly ajar. My heart beating with joy, I would then stride confidently and quickly into the office, swiftly lift the stem of the pumpkin, and scoop out a handful of the colorful guts. Before the generous Filler of the Pumpkin of Joy could return or anyone could notice that I was a mere peon, I strode casually back out of the office and back onto my loop around the building, the tiny nuggets of peanut butter and chocolate safely cradled in my loving hand, where they would not melt, but rather wait to melt their transcendent bliss on my tongue.
But this isn’t about the delicious prize of my theft! It’s about the vacantly perky man who dutifully keeps a giant glass pumpkin on his desk filled with solid teardrops of ambrosia. In my twisted criminal mind, I never once considered befriending this generous soul so that I might broach his office with casual small talk while nonchalantly nibbling away at the heaven-filled pumpkin. I don’t even know his name! And it’s written on his office window! Somehow, it was not only the siren song of Peanut Butter M&M's that lured me onto these treacherous missions. It was the thrill of the theft. I was the closeted Wynona Ryder of office thievery.
…Well. I am closeted no more.
....I am also not quitting.... Just try and stop me. That shit is delicious.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Whycan’tIdoeverythingalwaysallofthetime?
I am sitting quietly at my desk but in my mind I am running down the street
I am screaming at the top of my lungs I am dancing like a wild thing in the streets I am singing in a 200 ft tall cathedral I am singing in the shower I am singing at the Met I am singing in the grand canyon I am kicking up my feet I am calmly occupying warrior pose I am painting my fingernails lime green, grey, beige, red, gold, emerald I am cutting my hair I am dying it purple
I have a mohawk I am ten feet tall I am two feet tall I have a quiet beige simplicity I am feasting on mountains and mountains of luxurious dishes I am wasted I am running
I am running through this building and toppling cubicle walls I am running through this building and through my body with a warm embrace I am infusing everyone I see with all of the love and acceptance and hope and confidence and faith that can pour from deep deep deep inside of me
I am laughing until I pee I am crying until I run out of tears I am exalting.
I am screaming at the top of my lungs I am dancing like a wild thing in the streets I am singing in a 200 ft tall cathedral I am singing in the shower I am singing at the Met I am singing in the grand canyon I am kicking up my feet I am calmly occupying warrior pose I am painting my fingernails lime green, grey, beige, red, gold, emerald I am cutting my hair I am dying it purple
I have a mohawk I am ten feet tall I am two feet tall I have a quiet beige simplicity I am feasting on mountains and mountains of luxurious dishes I am wasted I am running
I am running through this building and toppling cubicle walls I am running through this building and through my body with a warm embrace I am infusing everyone I see with all of the love and acceptance and hope and confidence and faith that can pour from deep deep deep inside of me
I am laughing until I pee I am crying until I run out of tears I am exalting.
I am sitting quietly at my desk.
My typing creates quiet percussive cacophony of music in my 5 foot domain.
My awkward company Christmas card and Mars brand Snoopy look at me in muted expectation.
The spaceman on my water bottle grooves to the funk of a space jam from another world.
My car keys sit enticingly on their peace-sign-carabiner (a gift from my father) begging me to run for it.
...
I am sitting quietly at my desk.
...
I am sitting quietly at my desk.
...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)