It's right there. I'm on the verge yet again. The precipice of my subconscious looms before me like a giant grouper's gaping maw--yawning wide in an attempt to engulf its prey. I'm supposed to see something, at least that's what this vision leads me into.
The prey, me, fears the unknown within the depths. Me, I, Jason would prefer the succor of escapism, and a predetermined life sentence of mind numbing work and entertainment. This illusion offered to the masses; neat, polished, and perfect.
I want to rest easy, enveloped in the sweet saccharin goodness of what Hulu, Xbox, and the local cannabis dispensary has to offer. I exist on the fringe secretly lusting after the status quo, for wealth and a life of ease, yet ever so defiant of 'the system'.
I used to think my biggest fear rested in my potential for greatness. Now it centers somewhere around the idea that I was delusional in thinking so. I've come to terms with the possibility that this constant gnawing, this deep seated fear actually stems from my potential for normalcy. Perhaps my motives have been misguided. Perhaps having a stable living situation, and finding a niche I can carve out for myself is a lot more gratifying than I thought it was.
My ability to rest in the moments and be rapt of this amazing life and all the possibilities has waned. Now, when I find myself drifting into what could be it is often abruptly objected with thoughts of ‘reality’. The sheer vastness of my dried up sense of creativity washes over me as I’m reminded of what little I have, and what little I’ve built.
I don’t mind mentioning that I’m scared of having used up all my creative juice, my magic. I’ve tangled the lines in an inexplicable knot and am stuck here with this ball of madness. This type of thinking leaves me faced with a lifetime of pretending, with pretend smiles, and pretend jobs, and pretend activities, and pretend relationships. There’s a point to all of this isn’t there? What am I missing?
I think about what makes me happy, and after I follow the rabbit down the hole of fortune, fame, and success I arrive back at my tired self with one simple thought in my mind. It's people. Who are these people around me, and why in the hell are they still here? Soon I realize that my very best moments are shared with them; family, friends, and animals alike.
Entering my 40’s I find myself feeling squeezed out of the big picture, out of the dream and back to reality. Here and now I am humbled by my present surroundings. This is where I’ve chosen to be. These people who surround me have chosen me, and I them. I notice what I have and my heart fills with gratitude. Yes, I have food, shelter, clothing, but most importantly; I’m not alone! It does amaze me at times that I think I’m such a horrible person. Especially when I see who chooses to be close to me. In light of them I've come to the realization that I must not be too terrible!
These are my heroes. These amazing people are amazing not in their outward appearance, not in their stock portfolios, they aren't accepting any keys to the city, or saving a drowning babies. Not one of them has ever caught a falling busload of innocent school children from careening off of a cliff and set it gently back on the pavement. No they haven’t done anything too extraordinary in that way.
These people are my heroes because they have found their groove in all this mess. They may not always have their shit together, I know we aren’t perfect. But, I am impressed with their integrity and compassion for each other. I am impressed by their ability to care for one another and to bite the bullet and do what’s best for the greater good when they may not want to.
They are a scrappy bunch; they’re smart and hard working. These are the type of folks you come across every day, everywhere, and unless you know them you would never know just how inherently great they are. These are the people closest to me. They resonate with the qualities I most admire. They are my teachers, every one of them from young to old. They cherish things like honesty, loyalty, reliability, hard work, independence, generosity, humility, and forgiveness.
These are my friends and family -- life’s gift to me. These are my guides to set me straight and help me navigate when the waters are rough. They help me to be a better person without ever trying. Yes, my life is messy. But, as I grow older I’m noticing the clues, mostly the mirrors in those around me. I must say that I am rather impressed.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Friday, June 18, 2010
Venice Beach: Breaking it down 1
Another job had ended. Sitting motionless on my bed staring at something on the television, I tried to ignore the gnawing feeling in my stomach.
"This wasn't the plan at all. I'm living the wrong life. This isn't where I should be."
Immobilized by fear I faced the prospect of looking for more work, and I feared the best I could do was to smash walls, and cut out old pipes for twenty-five dollars an hour. Maybe go back to bartending, or another office job in the entertainment industry. No, maybe go back to school and finish a degree in something; after all isn't that what we're told is the key to success? There are even statistics to prove it.
I needed to end this now, or I would never be able to live with myself. So I walked into the den and sat next to Mom. It was May of 2006 and I was thirty-four years old. This current stay at the folk’s house in Monterey had been one of several in my adult life. So often, I had come home with my tail between my legs needing to recoup. I vowed this would be the last. (Not so!) All I wanted to do was get my buddy Mat, hop in my Toyota Corolla, buy some art supplies--and hit the road.
Many times I'd had high expectations of myself and not been able to deliver. Like when you were 10 and absolutely knew you could make a pair of wings out of an old bed sheet and six feet of half-inch wooden doweling. Splayed akimbo twelve feet below, sucking wind and the dog frantically licking your face, you realize the error of your thinking. "The dowels were too short!"
Time and time again I would embark on a new life, with a new fantasy only to meet failure. What was getting in the way?
Me.
I had been told my whole life that I could do anything I wanted to, but they were all out of instruction books. I believed this myth. I had met a few people who were able to manifest whatever they wanted. I so desperately wanted that. I had always felt like I had a purpose, that I was to do great things and everyone else but me knew about it and was keeping the ingredients a secret. Excuse after excuse, constantly reaching what could very well have been the ninety-nine yard line and throwing up my arms with a self defeatist attitude, I had driven myself to the brink.
This time was different, because I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Not in terms of material wealth or possessions (I was usually broke, and lived out of a duffle bag full of stuff.) but in terms of sanity. For some folks, towing the line is their thing. They're good at it. It's their place. Not me. No fucking way. To ME that was facing a prison sentence without any guarantees of ever seeing the light of day again. I loved life too much. I loved hanging out too much. I loved late mornings, and no alarm clock.
You see: I have been a baker, a repo-man, a bicycle sales person, a cashier, a beach boy, a chef's assistant, a painter, a tank mechanic, an Alaskan fisherman, a water damage restoration technician, a business owner, and a slew of other things. The results always were the same: Every time I procured new employment I was grateful to have work in the beginning. Kneading the dough, using a reciprocating saw with precision, shaking the martini only slightly, talking with William Shatner's agent about rates for voice-over work, talking with Jill from Alabama about how her Christmas package from Harry & David was three days late, hauling gear onto the deck of a Salmon fishing vessel off the coast of Baranof Island in Alaska, or driving the tow truck back to the yard with the night's delivery--I always found pleasure in the moments. But, when I looked at the big picture, doing this same thing every day for the next rest of my young life, my heart would palpitate, my palms would sweat, and I would find a way to flee the job, or in some way sabotage the whole works.
I've always told myself, "There has to be a better way!" and dammit all to hell if I don't find it!
So that day I spoke to my parents about what I was feeling, and explained to them how much I loved them. I expressed my never ending gratitude for having them in my life, and that I needed to be living life on my own terms. I told them that it was better to live under no roof rather than someone else's and in no way did this have anything to do with them, or the way they lived there lives, and ran the household. Mom, of course was a bit worried, but remained supportive as always. Pops, the ever loving profit gave a poignant, "Do what you gotta do Jase."
And so . . . several days later I had the Vox-mobile packed; a little cash in the bank account and headed south for Los Angeles to find Mat. We were gonna have a great summer!
"This wasn't the plan at all. I'm living the wrong life. This isn't where I should be."
Immobilized by fear I faced the prospect of looking for more work, and I feared the best I could do was to smash walls, and cut out old pipes for twenty-five dollars an hour. Maybe go back to bartending, or another office job in the entertainment industry. No, maybe go back to school and finish a degree in something; after all isn't that what we're told is the key to success? There are even statistics to prove it.
I needed to end this now, or I would never be able to live with myself. So I walked into the den and sat next to Mom. It was May of 2006 and I was thirty-four years old. This current stay at the folk’s house in Monterey had been one of several in my adult life. So often, I had come home with my tail between my legs needing to recoup. I vowed this would be the last. (Not so!) All I wanted to do was get my buddy Mat, hop in my Toyota Corolla, buy some art supplies--and hit the road.
Many times I'd had high expectations of myself and not been able to deliver. Like when you were 10 and absolutely knew you could make a pair of wings out of an old bed sheet and six feet of half-inch wooden doweling. Splayed akimbo twelve feet below, sucking wind and the dog frantically licking your face, you realize the error of your thinking. "The dowels were too short!"
Time and time again I would embark on a new life, with a new fantasy only to meet failure. What was getting in the way?
Me.
I had been told my whole life that I could do anything I wanted to, but they were all out of instruction books. I believed this myth. I had met a few people who were able to manifest whatever they wanted. I so desperately wanted that. I had always felt like I had a purpose, that I was to do great things and everyone else but me knew about it and was keeping the ingredients a secret. Excuse after excuse, constantly reaching what could very well have been the ninety-nine yard line and throwing up my arms with a self defeatist attitude, I had driven myself to the brink.
This time was different, because I had nothing to lose and everything to gain. Not in terms of material wealth or possessions (I was usually broke, and lived out of a duffle bag full of stuff.) but in terms of sanity. For some folks, towing the line is their thing. They're good at it. It's their place. Not me. No fucking way. To ME that was facing a prison sentence without any guarantees of ever seeing the light of day again. I loved life too much. I loved hanging out too much. I loved late mornings, and no alarm clock.
You see: I have been a baker, a repo-man, a bicycle sales person, a cashier, a beach boy, a chef's assistant, a painter, a tank mechanic, an Alaskan fisherman, a water damage restoration technician, a business owner, and a slew of other things. The results always were the same: Every time I procured new employment I was grateful to have work in the beginning. Kneading the dough, using a reciprocating saw with precision, shaking the martini only slightly, talking with William Shatner's agent about rates for voice-over work, talking with Jill from Alabama about how her Christmas package from Harry & David was three days late, hauling gear onto the deck of a Salmon fishing vessel off the coast of Baranof Island in Alaska, or driving the tow truck back to the yard with the night's delivery--I always found pleasure in the moments. But, when I looked at the big picture, doing this same thing every day for the next rest of my young life, my heart would palpitate, my palms would sweat, and I would find a way to flee the job, or in some way sabotage the whole works.
I've always told myself, "There has to be a better way!" and dammit all to hell if I don't find it!
So that day I spoke to my parents about what I was feeling, and explained to them how much I loved them. I expressed my never ending gratitude for having them in my life, and that I needed to be living life on my own terms. I told them that it was better to live under no roof rather than someone else's and in no way did this have anything to do with them, or the way they lived there lives, and ran the household. Mom, of course was a bit worried, but remained supportive as always. Pops, the ever loving profit gave a poignant, "Do what you gotta do Jase."
And so . . . several days later I had the Vox-mobile packed; a little cash in the bank account and headed south for Los Angeles to find Mat. We were gonna have a great summer!
Monday, June 8, 2009
not my fault
Chasing after rings
badges for things
what we really want are wings
escape from needy dreams and gradual flings
severing roots of the mind's dirty bindings
noting nothing as a result of our fleshy findings
badges for things
what we really want are wings
escape from needy dreams and gradual flings
severing roots of the mind's dirty bindings
noting nothing as a result of our fleshy findings
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Venice Sunset
sunset closing
dawn's night posing
break again to nowhere's end
shifting shades of muted glory
give night's reign
and another day's waned...
...'till dawn peaks in
on our midnight story
alight
a new
we begin again.
dawn's night posing
break again to nowhere's end
shifting shades of muted glory
give night's reign
and another day's waned...
...'till dawn peaks in
on our midnight story
alight
a new
we begin again.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Fear And Loathing In Pukalani (Falling from Grace)
Rain drops hit the roof. Echoing, into my mind pulsing.
. . .hasn't called.
Pacing, cleaning, smoking, jerking off to the insanities; incessant whispers of doom.
Mild panic loves to feed on caffenated synapses mildy overwrought with self loathing.
Doubt creeps like a black cat stalking a soul .
Faith is all one needs to dig out of the hole.
Cease! Desist! . . .the drawing of conclusions derived from delusions.
She loves you.
But she hates her self and that is deadly.
Love myself, and brace for whatever comes my way.
Prepare to face it and embrace. . .
Please, Dude just this once.
A Little Grace
. . .hasn't called.
Pacing, cleaning, smoking, jerking off to the insanities; incessant whispers of doom.
Mild panic loves to feed on caffenated synapses mildy overwrought with self loathing.
Doubt creeps like a black cat stalking a soul .
Faith is all one needs to dig out of the hole.
Cease! Desist! . . .the drawing of conclusions derived from delusions.
She loves you.
But she hates her self and that is deadly.
Love myself, and brace for whatever comes my way.
Prepare to face it and embrace. . .
Please, Dude just this once.
A Little Grace
Reciprocity
Reciprocity?
desultory persona circomvoluted
gravitate towards oblivion
anyway to make the picture clearer
just one more layer off the glass onion
mercurious and shifty they bleed nearer
a glimmer, a glimpse
sophistries and glitz?
wiser to the wearer
no longer a pawn
excitement and red
now provoke a yawn
I see my likeness-with acuminate exactness
but my blood engine resounds-with sentimental value
When can I not throw the stones in the pool?
When to relinquish the dubiosity of malcontent?
Is belief in something in the wake of precocity so preposterous?
desultory persona circomvoluted
gravitate towards oblivion
anyway to make the picture clearer
just one more layer off the glass onion
mercurious and shifty they bleed nearer
a glimmer, a glimpse
sophistries and glitz?
wiser to the wearer
no longer a pawn
excitement and red
now provoke a yawn
I see my likeness-with acuminate exactness
but my blood engine resounds-with sentimental value
When can I not throw the stones in the pool?
When to relinquish the dubiosity of malcontent?
Is belief in something in the wake of precocity so preposterous?
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