Today is like most Sundays. I wake up grudgingly, wanting not to face my reality. Wanting to live among my kaleidoscope dreaming and be at peace within my imagination. My legs swing over the edge of my mattress and away from nurturing sheets and plant sadly on the small bits of laundry I have yet to do. Another chore. Another neglected duty. It seems like I would rather mope about the things I need to do than do them. This is also the case for the things I want to do.
I have a full case of paintballs near my gearbag, as well as an open invitation to play with former pro players and do so for free. I have a caddy full of brushes and paints and a number of canvases and wooden planks to create images with. I have a large binder full of sketches and written ideas and dialog and character concepts and a computer I bought for the purpose of writing and editing. Everything is there but me. I am someplace else, hiding away amidst the rubble of the life I've lives and the skins I've shed. Hiding away because this is yet another change and the most painfully recognized change of my life. I am finally being me, finally becoming myself and that fear comes out a womb of anger and sadness and resentment that I had to discover this person, at such a late age. That I had to be locked up in a spiritual sarcophagus because ME wasn't needed by people, that I wasn't important. I was tricked into this admonishment. As tearful as I am that I am a disenspirited body while my fragile real me is hiding from the world I was in and partially created, I am happy that I am at least healing enough to have the courage to bring myself about, and thankful that I have had the help in getting here.
A cup of coffee warms away the fogs of war in my mind and body. For as routine feeling as this Sunday morning has been, it has a new tagalong. A new sensation with it; a wonderful stray emotion that thought it would try me out. An emotion that should never be homeless, but maybe this emotion was mine and ran away because I neglected it, and like a loyal companion came back when tail wagging, loving as ever and not only forgiving but accepting. The wagging tail of Hope.
It has a strange way of making things seem achievable. Hope has a way of making you smile when things seem desolate. Hope is the little puppy that never ages, that never dies, and never stops loving you. So today on my unkept patio I was inspired to do something, and this blog was the first thing. I had to write about this, because it wasn't expected, and it was so pleasant to wake to Hope at my bedside rather than will it and wish it to return to me after half the day has gone, just to get me through the rest of the day.
I have all these tools and blessings, these gifts and they sit alone in overgrown foliage, dusted with neglect and dirty but like all blessing still pristine if given the proper cleaning and use. The only thing missing from these tools doing their job is the mechanic to bring about their potential, and that is me. The real me. These tools are mine, custom made for my talents and waiting for me.
Now maybe Hope can help Me get the courage and trust to return from hiding and be the glorious, complete person I was born to be. To be the best person I can, and with Hope and these tools that I've never lost but need to hone, to be guiltlessly happy.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Breakfast nooks
The best thing of working the job I have is the amount of time I have to be able to daydream. I can spend hours of my day set adrift on memories or captivated by my imagination, but I can do nothing but jot down sloppy hasty notes and sketches.
I always window shop my life. I dream about how things would be if they were exactly how I had always envisioned them, how I would be and how my life would be down to the daily routine I had. Some details have changed throughout the years, but a few principle players have always been in tis story aside from myself and my romanticism; children and a wife.
Each day I imagine, in my perfect life, before any other finicky detail, I start my day by waking my sleeping wife with a kiss, and open my door to see my two kids (or three? this detail changes a lot) running down the hardwood floors, slipping with their little white-socked pajama feet at a full sprint to me. I wrap my arms around all of them and smile, telling them what i just told their mother,
Good morning, I love you so much!
The rest of the life I always thought I'd have involves running through my extensive country property with my dog, following that with a short swim. I'd go inside to the smell of breakfast and crayons as my wife busily gets our kids homework and supplies into their Dora the Explora and Yu-Gi-Oh backpacks. I walk to the sunlit breakfast nook with a steaming cup of coffee and watch adoringly at this daily routine that I'm sure so many people take for granted. My wife would catch my eyes and give that smile that means "I'm glad you love this as much as I do, but for the love of god I'd be even more glad if you'd help me find their shoes" and pull her tangled morning hair, beautiful hair away from her eyes as she reaches down to kiss them all before shooing them to where I sat to do the same.
Then she and I would kiss and make love in the shower, sharing an understanding, a passionate symbiosis between and premeditated longing that we both knew exclusively would occur as soon as we went about our professional lives. Would she have a job, would she not? In my ideal life that decision would be one she made out of choice not necessity. I'd work and make more than enough to support my family. It's true that when daydreaming or dreaming you associate the faces of people you've met or more frequently, know, to the roles of characters in your dreams. My wife has obviously had many faces, as I've grown and my relationships and fantasies have changed, but her energy has always been constant. The love that radiates from her.
My job would be that of a Renaissance Man, doing all the things I have passion for and working tirelessly at becoming adept and recognized in all. From painting, to writing novels and scripts, to directing and producing films to taking photographs and working with preservation. The idea of money has never come up, only comfort. A nice stone and wood house in the mountains laced around with trees, built into the architecture of the landscape and within a short bike ride to a lake. My ideal life is successful by the joy of the people I share it with and the joy of doing the things I was gifted with, not of how many things I had or how absurdly wealthy I was. In my life I'd be wealthy and successful by most standards, but my pride would be in my family, friends, and the work I did, not the monetary compensation for my creativity.
And I close this daydream by clocking out my time sheet, and trying to stay composed at least until I can get onto the highway. I could have had my dream earlier, but I wasn't taught so many things, and taught so many things wrong. I didn't even have an idea of who I was and that I even mattered until very recently. I can still make it happen, and I will. That thought while I drive home helps drive away those helplessly sad tears.
I always window shop my life. I dream about how things would be if they were exactly how I had always envisioned them, how I would be and how my life would be down to the daily routine I had. Some details have changed throughout the years, but a few principle players have always been in tis story aside from myself and my romanticism; children and a wife.
Each day I imagine, in my perfect life, before any other finicky detail, I start my day by waking my sleeping wife with a kiss, and open my door to see my two kids (or three? this detail changes a lot) running down the hardwood floors, slipping with their little white-socked pajama feet at a full sprint to me. I wrap my arms around all of them and smile, telling them what i just told their mother,
Good morning, I love you so much!
The rest of the life I always thought I'd have involves running through my extensive country property with my dog, following that with a short swim. I'd go inside to the smell of breakfast and crayons as my wife busily gets our kids homework and supplies into their Dora the Explora and Yu-Gi-Oh backpacks. I walk to the sunlit breakfast nook with a steaming cup of coffee and watch adoringly at this daily routine that I'm sure so many people take for granted. My wife would catch my eyes and give that smile that means "I'm glad you love this as much as I do, but for the love of god I'd be even more glad if you'd help me find their shoes" and pull her tangled morning hair, beautiful hair away from her eyes as she reaches down to kiss them all before shooing them to where I sat to do the same.
Then she and I would kiss and make love in the shower, sharing an understanding, a passionate symbiosis between and premeditated longing that we both knew exclusively would occur as soon as we went about our professional lives. Would she have a job, would she not? In my ideal life that decision would be one she made out of choice not necessity. I'd work and make more than enough to support my family. It's true that when daydreaming or dreaming you associate the faces of people you've met or more frequently, know, to the roles of characters in your dreams. My wife has obviously had many faces, as I've grown and my relationships and fantasies have changed, but her energy has always been constant. The love that radiates from her.
My job would be that of a Renaissance Man, doing all the things I have passion for and working tirelessly at becoming adept and recognized in all. From painting, to writing novels and scripts, to directing and producing films to taking photographs and working with preservation. The idea of money has never come up, only comfort. A nice stone and wood house in the mountains laced around with trees, built into the architecture of the landscape and within a short bike ride to a lake. My ideal life is successful by the joy of the people I share it with and the joy of doing the things I was gifted with, not of how many things I had or how absurdly wealthy I was. In my life I'd be wealthy and successful by most standards, but my pride would be in my family, friends, and the work I did, not the monetary compensation for my creativity.
And I close this daydream by clocking out my time sheet, and trying to stay composed at least until I can get onto the highway. I could have had my dream earlier, but I wasn't taught so many things, and taught so many things wrong. I didn't even have an idea of who I was and that I even mattered until very recently. I can still make it happen, and I will. That thought while I drive home helps drive away those helplessly sad tears.
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