New Moon

Today is the last New Moon of 2008.
The last New Moon of the last seven years.
The last chance to start a lunar cycle before the New Year.

And this timely stretch of warm weather makes opportunities seem infinite.

So, a wish...

May the mistakes of the past propel the success of the future.

And, a few predictions...

Within this coming year:
- I will start a new career path that I will stick with for awhile
- I will have at least one piece of mine featured in a professional publication
- I will move into a spacious new dwelling but stay within Evanston
- I will be in the company of friends I haven't known in forever
- I will be with a woman who makes me happy

Finally, a request...

May 2009 find you hungrily fighting for that which you truly want, a crusade for your heart's desire.

Om Namaha Shivaya
Om Mani Padme Hung

Salutations to that which you are capable of being.
The jewel is in the lotus

Thank you for still reading
We will see each other soon

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Now playing: Bad Religion - Stranger Than Fiction

What Do You Want?

Been wanting to ask this all year.

I do my thing, you sit quietly and lurk. Rarely do you say anything, unless provoked. Sometimes I am very deliberate, sometimes not. Either way, you stay silent. But you keep coming back.

So what is it?
What works?
What doesn't?
Is it spellbinding?
Or a train wreck?
Am I an attention whore?
Or do I make sense?
What would you like from me?
What can I do for you?

I like to think doing this is the best way I can express myself, and
I'd appreciate getting to know you better.


I will tell you what I want:

I want someone to champion me.

Sketchpad Afterword: Caveat

This is written for those who should read it.


What I have put down for the past seven years of my life thus far is nowhere near a finished product. Many great stories, not even hinted at, were skipped over for the sake of time and progress. Emotion was the main engine that drove the memories and the writing, which made things exciting if not incredibly inconsistent. I write with an audience in mind. I always have, even when I started my first diary 20 years ago. I always figured that if I left this incredibly personal book somewhere (which I have) and some random passerby picked it up and read it (which they have), they should at least have some good, entertaining writing to muse about, something I myself would like to look through. Books like Go Ask Alice by Anonymous and The Basketball Diaries by Jim Carroll, Naked by David Sedaris and Stranger Than Fiction by Chuck Palahniuk, were very influential to me, books that were captivating, unflinching, and true. And spoken from the author's own voice. If they weren't afraid to live life iconoclastically and tell about it, why can't we?

That being said, it feels very natural to have a blog. Being as unfettered with my language as I am and as comfortable with sharing as I can be, the ability to post my life on such a public bulletin board is too enticing an opportunity to pass up. But, blogs ain't diaries. They can act as such, with similar security devices and the free reign to explore anything, but not the way I use them. This isn't just some forgotten book left in a routinely visited area. Nor is it a highly lauded tome one can easily pass by at the book store or library. This is an open forum held aloft for the world to view, and I have done little to keep myself inaccessible on the Internet. I am hardly the most happening dude on the block, but I do know how to turn a dull, flat idea into something more legendary. And I am rarely the only person involved in the stories I write, and oftimes not the one most affected. I have gone through great pains and put much time and effort into ensuring that what I write is as honest and as all-encompassing as I can remember. Even so, that don't make it the truth. I am reminded of a great, wise bumper sticker which read, "Opinions are like assholes. Everybody's got one, and they all stink." I am also reminded of the small amount of vastly silent yet strongly supportive readers who do stop by, some of whom the stories do affect, and the few of those who let me know how much (which they do).

This seven-year experiment is completed. As proud as I am of sticking with the whole damn thing, it's left me this challenge of making sense of what it was I just went through. Might be better off figuring out which chicken spawned the first egg, or vice versa. Still, it's rewarding to write about and it's a better use of my time than any number of bad habits I could easily fall into. I still have all my journals, even the ones from before the experiment, even the one from 20 years ago. But I rarely open any of them, including the seven dayplanners covered with copiously scribbled notes. Maybe for fact-checking purposes, but never for reminiscing. I find there's little need. All of it still resides inside me right here right now, every day there's some stimulus that will spark off a flurry of memories and emotions, unearthed and hurtling from left field, tinting the colors of the world I pass through. They can't be stopped or changed; they can only be helped along their path. The past cannot be relived, the future has yet to be experienced. All we have is Now. Now is one of the most real things you have, for it never leaves you. But Now never stays the same. Today's Now feels so different from last year's Now, from yesterday's Now. And next year's Now, tomorrow's Now, next moment's Now relies on what you do with right now's Now.
And it is this Now through which I filter my stories.
They will morph and flex through every tinkering, and eventually will be hastily abandoned into something considered, "finished." May take months, may take years. And everything I've done and have yet to do will continue to bend and mold them into shape. Such is the process I've bequeathed to myself. So, as you scroll through these words and find something familiar, something askew, something bald-faced wrong, know one thing:
This Now is not the final Now.


Thank you for reading.
I hope you understand a little better.


And now, on to the rewrites...

Seventh Chakra: Sketchpad

XD

I can't help but laugh.

Or cry.

Opposite sides of the same coin, aren't they?

Last year I got a fortune cookie fortune: "A good laugh and a good cry both clear the mind."

Amen to that.


2008. 2 and 8, the numbers of relationships and godhead, respectfully. 2 + 8 = a perfect 10. Or you can revert it back to a 1, the very beginning. 10 - 7 chakras = 3, the magic number. 2 is also the cube root of 8, bringing up another 3. 8 - 2 = 6, the number of foresight. 8 / 2 = 4, the number of love. And 8 x 2 = 16; subtract the 1 from the 6 and get the experimental 5, or add them and it leads us back to the divine 7.
If you look hard enough, you can find that everything connects to everything.


I surrendered.
I submitted.
The whole year.
Everything I knew was a riddle which answered itself.
So I let it be.
I stopped trying.
I dropped everything.
Writing, reading, acting, loving, working, doing, meditating, caring, voting.
You name it.
I didn't do it.
A leaf on the wind, I was.
God created the Earth in six days
And rested on the Seventh,
Right?
This year was my Sunday, 52 weeks of holiday.
Ooh, I was full of myself this year.
So monarch-like.
I found an archetype I fit quite well:
I am the Absent Companion, I am The One Who Got Away
I am Something You Can Never Have
I enjoyed my own company.
More than the company of others.
And I pissed everyone off.
I didn't talk.
I never responded.
I spoke bitterly about them.
And I wrecked rooms.
To the last teacup.
And sometimes, I really meant it.
You can't completely blame me.
You helped me do it.
All your praise, your love, your attention, your returned visits and multiple texts, your long periods of silence, your thinly-veiled coded messages, your showy displays of aggression, your imitation of me, your deliberate absence, your Google searches, your obvious lies.
Your letting me get away with all this shit.
It's like Heisenberg.
Except just a simple thought in my direction altered my power.
If anything went wrong this year,
You're vested in for at least half.
Don't forget that.

Last year I had one night which made my whole entire year. The Girl, the one I divorced, she met someone else throughout all this, became engaged, and got married. Had been trying for a while to regain contact, drop the hatchet, and just be her friend again. Across The Universe allowed for that. The movie is totally her, and we set up an evening to see it together. To be there in that theater, watching this ultracool film, eating a box of Pocky, sitting next to the person who sent me on this 7-year road, not an adversary but an equal, well, my Third and Fourth chakras were twinkling that night. This year, 'twas all Hallowe'en. After years of trying and failing, I finally hit a live screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. A dozen friends from work and wherever tore up the Music Box Theater with hundreds of others, toilet paper streaming everywhere, screaming "Asshole!" and "Slut!" a million times, paper plates whizzing by your ears, a mostly-all-female cast re-enacting everything on stage, and I kissed my virginity away and got the certificate to prove it.
If you haven't ever, do. 33 years of tradition put into this, and the story of your night will make jaws hit the floor.

You all now know about Melissa. The Deaf Girl. Such a supernova. Yesterday she was here, now, who knows? And I was the one who let go. Why? Why do I let such an amazing person slip through my fingers? Was it the story she told me? Not at all. Is it the fact that I'm a complete idiot? I won't deny that.
Then what? What is your eminent reason, Kevin?
Here's an epilogue for you.
We hung out one more time after she told me her story. She was cute, plain and demure, a green dress and comfortable shoes. I was grungy and unkempt. We spent the evening playing card games: Go Fish, Crazy Eights. Two grown adults caught up in children's games, getting stuck in simple gambits, knowing each other's complete hand. It was so ludicrous we couldn't stop laughing. She said she wanted to keep hanging out like this. That she wanted me to be her friend, that friends last longer. And those words hit like a landmine. I fell in love with her. Right from the start. And I bit my tongue for months trying to get to know her first. And for all that, the best I can hope to achieve is to be her friend. Hell no. It's a trap. It's not enough for me. I'd rather she hated me than I stall out at being a friend.
Hence, the stories I wrote.
Which I know she's read.
Multiple times.
And I know she's nearing completion of her second book of poetry.
And that she's going to Hawaii next year
As an Eco-Tour guide
On a cruise composed primarily of Deaf staff and vacationers.
Any way you slice that...
Still the coolest thing on two legs.

Gotta finish up the story about Tchotchke. Although there's not much left to say. Last time she directly communicated with me was an e-mail from early May last year, where she promised to send an update but never followed up. She did do well, however, to ignore my attempts to say hi. Then there was the errant text message on New Year's Day this year that might've been her, but also might've been some random 773 number. And then, nothing. Except, maybe, the occasional second-hand rumor. Word on the street is, she's gone back to church and met a new guy with a familiar moniker, gotten engaged, and, according to a recent Mary Schmich article in the Chicago Tribune, just recently tied the knot. All in less time than our whole relationship together.
Got a hell of a track record, don't I?
Ladies, take note: Dating me will only greatly improve your life in the aftermath of our break-up.
Congratulations, Tchotchke. Best of luck.
Have you been pooping?

I was loudly celibate this year. Perhaps too much so. Nothing was happening no matter how hard I tried, so I gave in to it. Makes everything pretty easy, I'll tell you. When I go to a party, I know exactly how the evening will end up. Less pressure, less worry, I can just sit back and be myself. Sure, there's frustration, but that's why I write. And smoke up so often. Problem is, it gets to be too easy. Just when you think no one's interested, people start slamming you over the head with signals. But, since I'm not on the market, I miss every offer. And the confusion between me and everyone reached epic proportions. In hindsight, I tossed aside gorgeous women from all walks of life, and more than a handful of men. And, honestly, I'm the worst person at reading sexual signals. I tried to explain it to an acquaintance of mine thusly: Imagine horniness as a starving predator stalking some meek, innocent prey. The prey is cornered, helpless, and the predator slashes with its claw, rendering the prey stunned but alive, an easy target. Staring at the trembling prey, drool pouring from its mouth, the predator suddenly finds itself motionless, paralyzed. A quandry hits its head: Do I feed on the prey and satisfy my desire, or do I nurse this poor creature, whom I hurt, back to health? Both of them forever standing there, never moving, neither one able to make a decision either way.
And I lasted two years thinking like this.
Sort of.
Not quite.
One brief pass at dinner Monday night, a grand mal epiphany on Election Day, and I'm afraid I'm not as innocent as I loudly proclaimed.

Children of a Lesser God was the pinnacle of my acting career to date. If you didn't see it, it's really a shame. Rarely was I off-stage, and since I was the lead and the main translator for the audience, I had to memorize both my lines and the lead actress' lines, which is easily a good 3/4 of the script. In two languages. A DVD of the show exists somewhere, but I haven't seen it. In fact, I'm one of the few people involved with the production who never saw my performance. I have no personal basis on how my performance was, except for how I was feeling the time of the show. The rehearsal almost literally tore me apart. Working full-time and exploring the depths of a character whose interactions with the Deaf are so antiquated it makes my brain hurt, the whole preparation process ate at me for the way I behave with my brothers. I really began to hate myself hard-core. And the cast knew it. I couldn't hide in that theater. Because it was my second show there that season, and because I had worked with many of the Deaf actors before, I felt the whole room change as soon as I walked into it. If I was light and bouncy, everyone could have a good time. If I was tired and bitchy, no one would be able to relax. After that I was called back in by Chicago Overcoat to shoot some 2nd unit scenes. Nothing special, dressed up as Policeman #3, but I got to drive a cop car in a couple scenes. Talked my way into a chorus role in The Full Monty at the same Oak Park theater, but with Jennifer and her family coming back home from Texas, I opted out to play uncle and godfather. Nothing else was lined up, and I was surrendering to the whim of whatever, so I pretty much remain retired from show business. No performances, no auditions, no desire. In search of something new for myself this summer, I discovered a guitar in the basement of our condo. Brian had bought one years ago to teach himself to play by vibration, and there it sat collecting dust. After getting hooked on Guitar Hero at a friend's house and no game console of my own to practice on, I asked him if I could tinker around on it. Nine years of violin and an ear for music got me up and running pretty quick, and with the help of some piano books from yesteryear, I learned a couple songs from REM's Automatic for the People. Played everywhere: Held impromptu concerts outside of work during my lunch break, or I'd just pull up for a couple hours on my day off. Got about a dozen chords down and a good handful of recognizable tunes. Didn't bring any of it to my Open Mic Night this past May, though. 'Twas all my writing, with a couple other featured performers, to a relatively empty room. Still, I had to know it could be done. Since then, it's all been writing. This chakra project, plus some spur-of-the-moment pieces scattered here and there. People may look at their favorite novel and think it must flow so easily out of the author, that the book practically writes itself. But, if you've ever written a paper for school you know how agonizing and time-consuming it can be to put out even a simple 5-page thesis. Every spare moment I'm not working or cleaning or sleeping, I have to devote to writing. Right now I'm at one of my weekend jobs writing this in-between handling customers. If I don't, nothing will come of this. And this thing I got coming out of me may be just the thing that saves me. So, for that alone, it takes precedent above all other forms of leisure time.

The biggest problem with Self-Actualization is that it's lonely at the top. Anything, everything you see before you has just given up its secrets and lays there like a road map, a nursery rhyme, a bowl of after-dinner mints. One step short of omnipotence, it is. Problem is, the view you have is strictly a singularity. To you it is crystal clear, but all others see is a pitch dark blackness, an enigma sucking all meaning into complete nothingness. It's easier to explain string theory than it is to tell people the truth of what's going on. And even when it's laid out so even a 4-year old can digest it, there's no guarantee anyone will believe it. This is the strange nexus where faith and belief intertwine. One must believe in one's self that what they know is right, and one must have faith that other people will accept and fall into line. Until then, the burden lies completely with one's self, sitting tight all solipsistic, hoping that illumination will finally spread out. And really, it's very funny the place you find yourself when that light hits you. Strange loop hierarchies, fractal patterns in the course of life, a snake eating its own tail, all of it converging into a superdense point and erupting in a flash of belly laughter. After changing careers from Psychology to Theater to Coffee to Fashion Retail and back, I find myself working two customer service jobs well below my education, working too damn hard and earning a fraction of previous salaries, the lion's share of which goes straight to bills and loans. People look at me and, if they don't know me, see a struggling student still wet behind the ears, and if they do know me, they shake their heads day after day wondering what the hell I'm doing still slinging coffee when they know I can do more. After years of working so hard to get out of the shadow of my parents' home and searching for my own voice, starting in a basement apartment in Iowa and going to my parent's basement, a Canadian hostel, a West End Vancouver tenement, a hip Chicago apartment, and a suburban golf course condo, I find myself back at the start. I recently moved to Evanston, a city which speaks to me whenever I went to visit. I live in a garden apartment oddly reminiscent of the basement of Buck and Nettie's in Goosetown, that unknown neighborhood in Iowa City, that basement where The Girl and I divorced so many years ago. It's bomb shelter-riffic, sorta like camping indoors all year round. But it all works. And it's all mine. And it's the perfect place to sit and plot out the next couple years of my life. Because, if there's one lesson I learned time and time again throughout this whole journey, it's how to rebuild myself into something stronger when the world around me has crumbled away.

But where to go from here... Seven is the number of chakras in the subtle body, located within the Being itself. Some texts speak of an eighth chakra hovering about a foot above the top of the crown, the first connection with the Spiritual Other, the godhead. Others speak of dividing the body into 12 or 16 chakras, each having specific vibrations of their own. Then there's the aforementioned mystical MerKaBa, which describes six chakras located around outside the body and can actually initiate out-of-body experiences or time travel. Does the story end here and now, or will year 8 and 9 bring upon necessary changes?


Well, we can't answer that now, can we? ;)


The seventh chakra is purple, regal, and sits at the crown of the head, that flat part at the back of your skull where the hair spirals out. It controls death, regeneration, release, transformation, self-actualization. Its energy can be controlled by Fluoride, Quartz, Diamond. Once the go pieces saturate the board, there can only be one outcome between Being and Every Other Being. The game is over, each being learning new things about themselves and the other. The only thing left to do is to shake hands in good sportsmanship and clean up. Being and Every Other Being will meet again, their lives marked by this initial encounter, and strategies will be different, communication will alter, emotions will flux, the self will reflect change, desire will wax and wane, and competition will start anew. In the meantime, enjoy the cleanup and aftermath. Have yourself a nice dinner, drink an expensive bottle of wine, share in some excellent stories, and take the rest of the week off. After all you've gone through, you deserve it. Celebrate the journey, learn your mistakes, and rest up. Because, sooner then you'll ever know, the game starts all over again. And no matter how much you think you know, you know nothing of what's next.

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Now playing: Pearl Jam - Life Wasted

Sixth Chakra: Sketchpad

2007 was, perhaps, the most closely documented year online and, in my opinion, my most successful year of the group. After the crap ending of last year a lot of my priorities changed concerning my future. Acting was pretty much out of the picture. I was dealing with the separation from Tchotchke and attempted to get myself out of corporate coffee and into a career more suited to my abilities and education. Talked to anyone and everyone about getting a better job. Searched heavily in the healthcare field, as is where most of my professional experience lies, but no one was biting. Almost scored a position at Highland Park Hospital, almost. Didn't matter, though, 'cause HP came calling later when a chance encounter and an overheard conversation led me to becoming Executive Assistant to the Store Manager of the Highland Park Saks Fifth Avenue. Felt really remorseful about losing Tchotchke and very bolstered by the new position, so much so that I made an impassionate plea to get her back and was shut out. This led to a snot-nosed teary-eyed semi-breakdown in my kitchen while trying to cook a grilled cheese sandwich. Couldn't go through another break-up like I did the last one, with years of self destruction and pain, so, for a rare moment in my life, I sought out help and started up therapy. Once a week I'd meet with this social worker, suit jacket slumped on the sofa, and cry in my tie for an hour talking about how much I missed her and what I thought she thought of me. And it helped. For a little. Since I'd been through this before, I was making great progress, if only for the fact that I had someone else to listen to me bitch and moan. But I was writing, too, and that was getting the demons out as well. And then everyone was reading it, not just Little Miss Social Worker. So our hour got longer and the stories got less about Tchotchke and more about me. And I'm shelling out money for this? Decided writing was more fruitful and less costly, so I ended it.

Didn't end Corporate Coffee, though. Was kicking my ass seven days a week, Saks Monday through Friday, Coffee Saturday and Sunday. The "weekend" was from 5pm Friday night, when I ended Saks, to 2pm Saturday afternoon, when Coffee started. Coffee actually became a joy. It was automatic and the only stage I had, so I played with it as much as I could. Ooh, and I hated Mondays. Closed Sunday night and Monday was nothing but payroll. The cosmetic ladies and sales associates knew to keep their distance and speak cautiously. Y'know, I've had some experience doing clerical work, but I had little idea what I was doing in that clothing store. And even less interest in doing so. But I made it look damn good. And I must've been doing something right, 'cause they invested a lot in me. Even allowed me to make a business trip. It's a very sexy feeling, stepping out of a limo at the airport, a well-dressed professional young man, bag of high-fashion merchandise, reading an oft-talked-about modern classic of American fiction, waiting for the flight to Chicago.
You would think.
Couldn't close a deal to save my life, so to speak. Went on many dates, but they remained dates. I didn't... I couldn't. And I don't know why. Well, I sorta know why. I just left Tchotchke, a relationship unbalanced. I'm totally not ready to give balance to another relationship, and I don't want to put anyone else through the pain of a breakup. I need to put myself together before I attach with someone else. Something like that. It made sense at one point. So I didn't. And I couldn't.
When I wasn't working I maximized my relaxation time, very often doing nothing. When the weather was warm I sat on my roof and chatted with Buddha, oriented myself with the world, contemplating my surroundings. The sky erupted into brilliant lightning storms that summer. The only days off I had I had to schedule months in advance, and they were usually for flights. I flew more this single year than the previous three years combined. In Detroit I steamrolled years of work experience into a day and raised the public appreciation for Saks Fifth Avenue staff. In New Orleans I traded tour stories with a band at Jazz Fest and tricked a whole beer tent into thinking I was an Aussie from Scotland. Texas was a roadie gig helping Sis move, the moving truck breaking down on the way and just making the flight back within hours. It all got to be too much, really. I gained a new appreciation for fashion but I couldn't get behind my product. $500 for a sweater? Plus I'm dealing with the North Shore on two fronts, clothing and coffee. The higher the price, the louder they bellow. I don't wear the clothes, I wouldn't shop there, and I'm not happy with where the path leads: 70-hour workweeks and "fabulously" high blood pressures. I'm working three full-time positions and being paid chicken feed. And they're grooming me for more of this. I can't. I have to leave before I get in deeper. Five months after I started, I did.

And the most amazing thing happened. I cut out all auditions except for Blue Man Group this year. Really wanted to ride on the coattails of last year's baby steps. Practiced for months beforehand, drumming my arms numb. Got rubbed out right at the start. Wanted to pack it all up until I got a call about a callback audition for a little theater in Oak Park I auditioned for the previous year for the Buddy Holly Story. This play they were hyping was brand-new. My absolute last day at Saks Fifth Avenue I drove from the Far North suburbs through the city to the west suburbs to spend a couple minutes doing a monkey dance for someone. And they bit. 'Course I was one of two guys young enough with an open schedule to fit the parts, but accepted I was. And it paid, too. And the rest of the season with the theater held a lot of promise as well. But, if you've been reading all this so far, you know this already.

Spiritually I was reaching a major crossroads, the mixing of conscious and subconsicous. Things were falling into place very well for me. My altar was modest but proud. My meditation was sporadic but fulfilling. And my journal was filling up right quick one page at a time. But I know this path I'm on. And I know what's supposed to happen next year. Seventh Chakra: Death and release. The end of the road. I'd been at this for so long I felt totally immersed in it. But, this path sorta made me so removed from many people I knew, especially my family. They're strongly Roman Catholic, as I was raised, and they've invited me back to church dozens of times for multiple reasons. I had left the church years ago, mostly due to ennui and frustration with the dogma, and taken myself upon this path as a way to soothe my depression. Some things changed inside me, some didn't. Was what I was doing the right thing? I didn't know. The only way I knew to be sure was to stop what I was doing and go back to what once was. You only understand half of the effect someone or something important to you is when you're connected to them. The other half comes when you don't have them anymore, when you have to deal with the hole they left in you. So I took out everything Buddhist in my life: My malas, my altar, my Buddha rubber duckie in the bathroom. Went back to church a couple times. Was even asked to be an altar boy right around Christmas. Long story, tell you later. My view of Jesus Christ changed from a kind, sweet man who taught wisdom and kept his friends close to a bloody tortured soul nailed to two pieces of wood. And I saw people flooding buildings every week to kneel at his feet. Was this inviting enough for me to come back? Not really. So I left the year sorta floating tetherlessly, a leaf on the wind.

There's so much more to write. Search the archives or check out the zoomshare website to catch up. I see no need to regurgitate more of this now. And this coming year makes me laugh so hard I feel compelled to start in on it. Though I will leave you with this: One should never read Henry Miller while exercising at the gym. Those who don't understand just scratch their heads, but those who do cast the most discerning glares. Skeevish perverted fun.

The sixth chakra is indigo, mysterious, and is located at the forehead, the Third Eye. It directly correlates with the location of the pineal gland, an organ which, like its cousin the pituitary gland, controls hormone balance and, unlike the latter, is said to be connected with paranormal and parapsychological ability. The sixth chakra controls foresight, imagination, problem-solving. Its energy can be channelled by Lapis Lazuli. Now that Being and Every Other Being are communicating with each other, every message they transmit sparks another message in the other. Even absence of message transmit a spark, if the two beings are connected. Both beings are pieces on a go board. If one moves here, the other cannot, and their next move dictates how the rest of the game goes. That's all this is; just a game. And like all games, every one comes to an end.

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Now playing: Fall Out Boy - The Carpal Tunnel of Love

Fifth Chakra: Sketchpad

2006 was, hands down, the most challenging year of the septumvirate. I always consider myself to be less an instigator than an alleviator in a relationship, but this year I felt encouraged to become more vocal. I have plans and goals, and instead of always pushing mine aside to make way for others, as is my wont, I decided to stand steadfast. My plans are just as valid as yours, and I plan to go ahead with them regardless. Not only does it take a lot of teeth-grinding and hand-wringing to have me stand my ground, it takes much more to endure the frowns and harsh tones of others when I defy them. But, that's under normal circumstances. This year the teeth-grinding and hand-wringing were replaced with a clear mind and a stomach full of molten lead. God, it about murdered me.

This year was, perhaps, the most realistic in terms of my acting career. True pounding the pavement, true juggling of artistic dreams and keeping my bread-and-butter. In other words, my track record went down the tubes. Chicago is a great market for a beginning actor because there are so many projects going on at any time which don't require unions or agents to hook up with. I started marketing myself hardcore, talking to old friends who were well-established in the Chicago theater scene, sending out PR packets to anyone and everyone, Finally landed a legitimate agent, but I was already scheduling about three auditions a week for myself at that point anyway. Striking out, striking out, striking out: I realize an actor has to learn to love the audition process, but rejection never ends being a tough pill to swallow. Did score some paying gigs, but it was just too amazing how every time I collected a paycheck my car suffered some malady which cost EXACTLY the same amount of money. A lot of my energy was spent working on an original script with three other friends, our own foray into life in a coffee house. A script of this still exists somewhere. My greatest failure was a drop-of-a-hat cattle call for Blue Man Group which got me a callback just based on my week-old self-taught drumming skills. My experience with those last two projects made me rethink my whole dedication to this acting thing. I know I'm good, people tell me I'm good, so why do I run myself ragged grasping at straws for a small role in someone else's monkey show? I got my own monkey show which is better than theirs, and I deserve to put my energy towards myself. So, after months and months and dozens of failed attempts, I decided to cease all that crap and focus more on my own talents and strengths. I wanted to be creative for my own sake, never someone else's.

Tchotchke and I become more honest with each other this year. With her help and encouragement, I was the cleanest and most sober than I can ever remember being. A couple seasons of no cigarettes, no weed, no alcohol, I even stopped drinking coffee for a few weeks. Boy, did I get argumentative. We took multiple breaks from each other, no contact, a few days here, a week or so there. Things got really hit-or-miss. She knew how talented I was but she didn't approve of the artistic collaboration with friends, seeing it as a waste of time, and eventually she became a wedge which help split apart everything. Her career was taking off and flourishing, and grad school brought on more promise, so when was I gonna buckle down and find a more secure place with my profession? I may be a great guy, but where was my future going? I could never give an answer which held much weight. Why? Because, with what I wanted to do, even I didn't know. At this point, the little things took over. Every little thing that irked me, that got under my skin and became unbearable, that I looked the other way from because I knew she was so much better than that, it all added up. After two years of this, I knew that nothing I could do would change her, and I didn't want to regret the whole relationship. I motioned to break things off in late September. We still saw each other for previously-made commitments and some social things. Our last time together was December 26. Boxing Day, Dana's going-away party at CJ's. She was radiant, straigtened hair, sharp grey skirt, black heels. She was the most classically beautiful girl I ever dated, and one of the best friends I ever had the pleasure of knowing. She had many reasons to question my loyalty and fidelity, but I never once cheated on her, and that's one thing I can take from all of this with a clear conscience. I loved her, but I didn't love her as much as she loved me, and there's no justice in a relationship based upon that.
Dear God, even necessary breakups suck.

I was two years into living in my apartment downtown, a three-bedroom flat in the Ukranian Village. This was my old neighborhood: The first house I grew up in was literally around the corner, my mom used to work overnights at nearby St. Mary's of Nazareth Hospital, and the building I lived in was owned by my grandparents. My aunt and uncle used to be up in that third-floor flat, and I remember being a kid playing in those same rooms with my cousins, the rooms I now occupied with my girlfriend and roommates. The living room was nice and spacious, a darkwood hutch built into the wall made for a classy touch, and the room was left relatively vacant, a perfect space for rehearsal and working out monologues. The sunporch was my favorite room, outfitted with a scrapped clawfoot bathtub left over from renovation. Perfect for those Jim Morrison moments. I fixed up the whole room with colored running lights, lava lamps, and posters for a groovy hang-out space, the first thing you see as you come up the main staircase. It reeked of my childhood and bolstered my future, but something happened that Fall. Tim's girlfriend was living with both my brothers in my parents' condo close to the family house. She had a hard time that October with the memory of her late brother's passing, and she did something desperate. Luckily, it failed, but that incident mixed with stories of hostile altercations in the past warranted my parents to restructure the household, with her sent to a care facility and him moving back in with my parents. Brian was living by himself, and it was a wild card as to who would occupy the other rooms. My parents invited me to move into the condo, to be a support for Brian and to block off any unexpected move-ins. I left a good deal in Chicago to come back into the fold. The condo is not without any modern charms, but it's not me. I figured I was doing them a favor, my parents and my uncle/landlord, whose relationship with I felt I was endangering every time we met at family functions by throwing business into the mix. Part of the hard line I drew for myself two years prior was that I would never move back into my parents' house again, and this was as close a jump back as I was willing to make.

At this point in my meditation I had a pretty strong blueprint of my ritual. I had procured a VHS copy of Lama Surya Das, an American-born Buddhist monk, performing and explaining aspects of Dzogchen Buddhist Meditation, and I adorned it with little personal interests of my own. One major aspect of Dzogchen meditation is to keep eyes and ears, all senses open while breathing through the motions, a challenging feat for anyone to try. The Lama, in all his enlightened enthusiasm and Wisconsin-bred flatlandery, still solidified a strong foundation in me, a routine I memorized back to front: Incense, chimes, calling the spirits, grounding one's self, chanting "aa", grounding, "Sky-gazing", grounding, chanting "om mani padme hung", closing the circle, bowing to the Buddha inside yourself. Sometimes I would skip sky-gazing and insert a techinque I learned called "rebreathing", which incorporated sacred geometry in the body, exterior chakras, creating a MerKaBa, and twenty short breaths. Sound way out there? Yeah, still is to me, but it helped. At the end of each session I would chant out "Om Namaha Shivaya", which translates out to "Salutations to that which I am capable of being." and during that, I would envision where I wanted to be, a solitary figure on a stage, floodlit face, stool, single microphone, and a full house in front of me. Moving back to the suburbs brought me back to my most favored of Sunday walk retreats, the River Trails woods. I've explored every inch of the inside of those woods on my own: The bramble patches, the clearings where people bunked for however long in secrecy, the protected prairie reserves. Picked up all the rubbish I could find, including spend alcohol bottles, used condoms, and appliances exploded with firecrackers. And this year the blue element was made by making knots out of blue hemp and tying them as beads. That, and I found some lapis lazuli looking beads to make a compliment mala for the year.

Other exciting stuff happened this year. I was the official mascot for Irish Fest in Milwaukee for a two-hour shift. Me and Tchotchke trolloped all around the fairgrounds entertaining drunks and children, and I even got goosed by some unknown. Translated two rock concerts for Deaf attendees: Styx and Foreigner at Northerly Island in Chicago, and Def Leppard and Journey at the Marcus Amphitheatre in Milwaukee. Lost my car during the process, but how awesome to command a crowd of that level, even taking attention away from the bands. After Tchotchke and I separated in September, I waited three months until I tried to play rebound. Her name was Christine. She was a customer. We had a night of drinks and billiards in Andersonville and then back to my place. The next morning she sat around drinking coffee while I packed up the Chicago apartment and listened to NPR. That was December 22. That was the last time I was with a woman, last time I was with anyone. I didn't come.

The fifth chakra is blue, bubbly, and located at the throat, the larynx. It controls communication, personal expression, experimentation, and is the first major step in the direct relationship between the Being and Every Other Being. After the Being recognizes that it and Every Other Being share the same journey to get to their present situation, it will compare and contrast all the ways the two are alike. Feeling a need to explain itself, the Being has to relay information to Every Other Being. About itself, its wants and needs, its desires and opinions, how the Being sees the world. And Every Other Being will accept and reciprocate. Or not. How it reciprocates and the to-and-fro between the Beings begins with infinite possibilities but quickly whittles down to a finite set of parameters, much like a game of go.

Brilliant Ultimatium

When I move I move slow. Couple boxes at a time. Been lucky enough to have places cool enough to let me do so. Less stress over deadlines and rental vehicles.

Because of such, Year Five is taking longer than imagined. Too much real life to do. The writing isn't compelling me enough to sit down and let it pour out. To quote Kevin Smith, "I don't get writer's block, I get writer's laze."*


In the meantime...


I've been struck with this wonderful idea for a project. It's not so much a storyline or a plot as it is a foundation or launching pad for any kind of genre. Sorta like an environmental MacGuffin.
It hinges on current events.
It comes into fruition early next year.
It has everything to do with the Government.
It has nothing to do with the oncoming election.
It can attach to most any developing storyline to add further depth and suspense.
It must be jumped upon immediately.
It affects everyone in the country.
And there ain't one damn chakra anywhere near it.


It's screaming for a pitch session. A couple of people sitting 'round a room bouncing ideas off of it to see what sticks.
I don't want to spill more beans until the time is right, but I need a handful of bright, energetic, talented, dedicated people to share bullshit with.


Which is why I'm asking you.


Wha'dya say?
I can't ignore it, so I have to nurture it.
It's a real good idea.
Honest Injun.
Wanna get in on the ground floor of a really great journey?


Please somebody respond in e-mail. You'll be glad you did.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quotations:

*: Smith, Kevin, An Evening With Kevin Smith 2: Evening Harder, Disc 1: Toronto, Sony Pictures, 2006

Fourth Chakra: Sketchpad

The fourth chakra is green, verdant, and located at the chest, the sternum. It controls love and empathy, charity and catharsis, fraternity and belonging, jealousy and contempt. Its energy can be controlled by the stones Jade, Rose Quartz, and Malachite. After the being accepts that, even with all its faults and benefits, it is a complete and whole entity, it looks out into the rest of the world and sees Every Other Being. Every Other Being, like the first being, has gone through the exact same struggle: Primal creation to passion to contentment, and must be respected as much as the first being respects itself, no matter how much Every Other Being might differ from first being in appearance, personality, or disposition.

A parable was created this year to help in explaining the Fourth Chakra process:

1. One Fires, They All Fire: The Fourth Chakra operates like cardiac muscle. Unlike smooth muscle, which is basically just tubular sphincters used to transport fluid and whatever down a corridor, and although very similar to striated muscle, which contains protein striations which attach to each other and push and pull against each other to manipulate bones and extrabodily matter, the striations in cardiac muscle go in-between muscle cells so that the striations of one cell connect to every other cell in the heart. When electrical impulses transfer from the SA node to the AV node, the spark hits one cardiac muscle cell and sets off a chain reaction to the others like a ping-pong ball in a mousetrap factory. This synchronized display of strength generates the energy needed for the heart to pump blood throughout the entire body through miles of vascular tubing. In other words, when your Fourth Chakra is open, the love you feel for the world goes out to everyone in the world. You cannot hold back because of one person or group of people. It doesn't work that way. Even the most despicable, odious person who maligned you the the worst way possible deserves your time and attention and love. You love one, you love all. Or you love none.

I'm supposed to be writing about Tchotchke, the girl who permeates most of the second half of this journey. I'm supposed to be writing about the many trips we had this year, road trips and flights, Arizona and St. Louis, and oh so many to her alma mater in Milwaukee. Supposed to be waxing nostalgic about our Tuesday Date Nights in the Glen, appetizers and a Six Pack, sneaking candy into the movies for the double features at the Wilmette Theater, cooking "Zucch-anoes" for me, and dinner at Culver's every chance we could. Supposed to be writing about her battle with endometriosis, going to support groups together, my reaction after her decisive laparotomy, and her, bandaged and recovering, sitting front row at one of my shows. Writing about the epic arguments, the phone calls three, four, five, six times a day, the constant fact-checking behind every decision I made, her intense reactionary temper and fabled Irish drinking skills. About family gatherings, her golden impression upon my huge family, her small, intimate holiday affairs, her genuine interest into the world of the Deaf, and what to do when the vegetarian has to carve the Thanksgiving turkey. And too much more to give her complete justice on paper.
But I'm not ready to do that right now.

This year was my most successful as a professional actor. Six auditions, four gigs, two of them paid, and one allowed me to travel. First was an improv show through Second City. I hesitate to mention it was through the Training Center, as most people stop caring after they hear that. At audition we had one scene where we reacted to a run-over cat, and dear me, someone had to play the cat, right? Damn skippy! Second, a horror movie shot out of Milwaukee. One of the few gigs I knew I had nailed right from the audition. The commute was purgatory, shooting schedule worse than hell, but I had my first feature film under my belt less than two years out of school, and I was proud. There was that fruity little insect parade for some small theater downtown, but that's not really worth regurgitating, at least not in great detail. Third was a script my then-roommate wrote and self-produced. I don't get many leading roles and was damn happy to oblige, yet I yearned for something edgier than a story straight out of DC's Elseworlds universe. Held a summer internship with a monologue festival where I got to work with Frank Caliendo's girlfriend, hold the keys for the old ComedySportz theater, and had my bike stolen. Fourth and finally was a three-month, nine-state, ten-thousand mile excursion through the Midwest playing Huckleberry Finn for grade schools everywhere. My childhood dream of doing vaudeville was finally coming true, slowly and painfully, one dank rural elementary school basement after another.

This is the year I started on-line journaling. I hate the word "blog"; prefer to call it my "website", as if the term alone gave it more credentials. Created one for Uncle Freddy as well. Wrote, recorded, edited, and produced three episodes of the radio show this year alone, including one completely on tour from hotel rooms, just because I could. Used the open forum of the website to start burying the hatchet with the girl I divorced three years earlier, and she responded in kind. All of this stuff, the original writings and audio clips, still exist online and are easy enough to find. My dayplanner writings get very ornate and condensed. I record all 175 shows on the road, with individual snippets about each. My Sunday pilgrimages in Humboldt Park, although sweet and picturesque, with a brisk walk through the PR barrio, pale in comparison to everywhere else I've trekked. I pick up a string of jadelike beads in Sedona and construct my own 4th chakra mala along with the developing patchwork stalwart, but being on the road and low on funds gets me experimenting with different materials, wire and hemp twine, for Year Five.

----------------
Now playing: The Killers - All These Things That I've Done

Can't talk right now...

Moving.

Evanston.

October 1.

Lots of crap to transport.

Yeeee.

Eulogy: Everything Must Go

You will leave unfinished business.


This is one of the hardest lessons you will have to accept.


Plans will be left undone. People will be left hanging.

You will not meet expectations.

Accept this:
At one point in your life,
the end,
the people who cared about you most,
who put up with you through everything,
will wish you could have done just a little bit more.
More oomph.
More wow.
They saw so much light in you,
but now you can't give enough.
No matter how much you've done,
they want to see what you can do
tomorrow.
Disappointing.
Disillusioning.
Sad.
Nothing is ever enough.
You give and give
and they remain insatiable.
Makes it seem not worth your time
to do anything.
You're not happy
And they'll never be happy.
Besides,
you do less damage
when you do nothing.
If you don't affect anything,
you can't make it worse.
You can remain
impartial
a benchmark
an oasis
Someone people come to
for comparison
measurement
comfort
It's not a bad existence.

But
A life without effect equals a life inert.
No friction, no movement, no noise.
In the grand microcosm of you,
all your greatest accomplishments
resonate
only within the shell of yourself.
Resigned to the will
of others' perception.
You are solely
what they make of you.
And sometimes they get the message wrong.
You say, "I love you."
They read, "Olive loaf."
And you wonder why that happened.
Impartial, nonjudgmental
becomes
Unfair, self-imprisoned
Crossed wires blocking all,
straining out the meaning
and killing this link between us.
With a life like this,
who needs to live?
The last page in our books
all read the same.
Might as well go peacefully
and without struggle.

Until
the miscommunication gets edgy
peevish
a boil.
Not only do they misread,
they spit back
the same thing
they swore they got from you.
And it stings.
You've lost who you are,
and they don't know you.
As hermetically sealed
as you are,
it's enough to make you implode
Outward.
They cannot take this from you.
You are someone.
You stand for something
honest and vibrant
hard-fought, resounding
worthy of someone's time
for all time.
They better damn well get the story right
and enough with the bloody spitback.

So
with every faculty at your disposal
with any ability you can conjure
with whatever method you still have left
you must
build those bridges
unsnap those gates
break through those walls
even on the brink of extinction.
You were made in the image
of Divine Inspiration
and your name must not be taken
in vain.
Tell the world.
Show them all.
Rouse up their ires with your
flippant stylistics
extensive verbosity
and a smile that leaves 'em simmerin'.
And although
the countdown keeps tickin',
the deadline approaches,
and total system failure is imminent,
to make sure you and I
see eye to eye,
I will continue to make plans,
agree to meet up,
and shatter your mind with my cause
well after I've worn out my welcome
even though every step
takes me closer to the void.


At the end of it all,

even in the face of losing everything,


you must have unfinished business.


'Tis the only way to truly live.


----------------
Now playing: Muse - Sing for Absolution

Third Chakra: Sketchpad

2004. I returned home from Vancouver back to my parents' basement. Again. Sorta had to. Ran out of money 9 months in and had to radio home for more. Cashed in my 401k from Iowa, too. Flat broke. Drew a hard line for myself. From here on out, there's just some things I wouldn't do. I can't always end up like this. Once I leave, I have to be gone. I can't get as sick as I was last year, again, either. I wasn't gonna stick around here long. It was up, up, and gone.

Last year's caper should've put me in jail. A cop stop early in the year should've kept me there. Cosmically driven story: Workouts equalled Randhurst equalled reunion equalled Our Town equalled absinthe equalled contraband. Squeaked out cleaner than expected. Met the girl who broke my dry spell through all that. A calendar year to the day, and a Full Moon to boot. In fact, this was my most promiscuous chakra. Only three women, but the quality of sex was par excellance. Two were Wiccan feminists, two were Irish princesses, two were professional intellectuals, two were S&M fethishists. That summer was the teenage rebellion I never had. First started working for corporate coffee. Broke my own rule about relationships at work. What started as an easy catch and a playful fling became the start of a 2-year testament to romantic endurance and a taste of a more privileged life.

Actingwise I was just starting out. Film fans found each other over coffee and American Prophet was born. Rolling Thunder at Roosevelt University. Mid-year I moved downtown and was itching to get my feet wet. An essay by David Mamet and good friends gone by gave birth to Uncle Freddy. Lent my voice to the Mad Hatter and my magic hands to the menorah. Shopping for headshots and searching the web for publicity. None of this stuff pays, just a labor of love.

Spiritually I was all over the map. Spent half of New Years' Eve at an OTO gnostic ceremony. Later I experienced a Wiccan New Moon. A brief stint at Trader Joe's taught me Kai-zen. Actually attended a nearby Buddhist center, an attempt at organized religion. Vancouver infected me with the knowledge of Sacred Geometry. Along with my patchwork mala, I wear a yellow jade one from the Buddhist Temple. My incense, my Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva pendant, my cosmic radio, all remnants of Richmond pilgrimages.

Paris occurred this year. I can't come up with enough flowery words to lavish upon this experience. Most awesomest tour guide ever-est. "Where do you want to go today?" And she took my hand and we went. I'm cogitating verbs in my head while she walks right up and starts conversations. She knows the hidden spots, little cafes and the right times to do when. Something got stolen from the Louvre while we were there, but 'twasn't La Giaconda. Dirty Sanchez on TV and francais-chinois cuisine. The sewer system, carriage ride at Versailles, and Naked and A Sartori in Paris at Shakespeare's. Got myself lost on my Sunday Morning excursion, and she was so wonderful to return to. My sparkly lighter got confiscated on our layover at Georgia. Couldn't replicate that experience with anyone else, ever. Thank you, Tchotchke.

There's lots more for this year, but I'm impatient to get this one out.

The third chakra is yellow, sunny, and located at the solar plexus, the diaphragm. It controls breathing and relaxation, happiness and contentment, center and balance. Its energy can be controlled by the stone Citrine. After the being has considered the consequences of its actions, it must accept its capabilities and shortcomings and learn to see itself as complete and whole. It must harness tolerance, patience, and steady nurturing in order to support the potential which lies inside.


----------------
Now playing: Better Than Ezra - A Lifetime

Commercial Break

And now for something completely different...

It's been said that there are words in the English language for which there are no rhymes:

Purple
Orange
Oriole


Poppycock.
I have stumbled across the rhyme for "oriole".
However, it's not the most couth of words.
It is a compound word, and each component is acceptable on its' own.
But put them together and Parent Groups form committees to ban it.

So,
for the sake of tact,
I have hidden the word between the quotation marks below.
To view,
highlight the space between with your cursor.

But don't say I didn't warn you.

"gloryhole"

With regards to George Bernard Shaw.

Second Chakra: Sketchpad

2003. The year in Vancouver. After filling out forms, applying for loans, and getting my audition tape sent in, they accepted me for September 2002. Had no funding, no place to go, never been there yet, so I got it postponed to until January 2003. I had gone through many hair changes last year: Bald, bleached, red, black, shaven all crazily. Got frisked a lot at the airport. Stayed my first couple weeks in a hostel, two blocks from the school, in the worst postal code in Canada. Touched down December 27, right after Boxing Day.

This whole year will center around the Tarot. Since the Tarot has been so integral in connecting the many facets of this spiritual journey, it acts as an exceptional storytelling tool. I did countless readings this year, simply by sitting in the lunchroom at school and placing on the deck on the table as I ate my food. People would line up. Good thing to bring to bars, too. Free drinks, to say the least. To start off, I will do a Tarot card reading for the whole audience. The rest of the year can be told as a Tarot card reading on its own.

Card formation:
Celtic Cross
Cards used:
The Hermit, 9 of Swords, The Tower, 8 of Wands, The Fool, 7 of Cups, Lust, 4 of Discs, Princess of Swords, The Sun

Present = 4 of Discs: Everything I used to build myself up also eventually walled me in, or walled me out. Vancouver meant ultimate freedom, a new life half a world away. But I was stuck to make big decisions and go through everything all alone. My first apartment locked me out on my balcony, and the harsh junky environment surrounding it kept me cooped up inside my comfy Fight Club filing cabinet. So proud to be a legitimate working actor, but I couldn't watch any of my work without cringing. "Drop the American" fits in here, too.

Significator = The Tower: I was awash in spiritual visitations this year. Started off New Year's Day when I took my first ever tab of acid in a Gastown pub. Meditation got so involved that my body got in the throes of what I can only call Tantric Orgasms. Spring Break had a bad trip or two, one was so intense it was panic-attack scary. Then there was the gram of shrooms in a cup of tea which permeated throughout the week and gave me a new way of reading scripts. As I switched apartments I found out the shelf I had used as my altar had been used by a previous tenant as a Ouija board. Sundays I would walk to Chinatown and stroll in the Sun Yat-sen gardens, or pilgrimage to Richmond and take in the whole of the Buddhist Temple. Sacrifices, oracles, sitting for 15 minutes meditating on a rock in the middle of the lagoon. Malas get broken and the beads are collected and reconfigured into a whole new mala, telling its own story.

Past = The Fool: Cliche beginning. Started at Square One last year, not really knowing shit about these chakras, this whole process. It can also pertain to the fact that I haven't really had much formal acting training. A few classes here and there, the year of improv, but mostly just doing shows and messing around in everyday life. And the yearning, aching, unstoppable desire. Now my talents were to be directly challenged by actual working actors, trained staff, and a slew of drama majors. The school's a whole learning laboratory, at least that's what it's best for. And emotions spill out of the walls.

Future = 7 of Cups: Decriminalization of marijuana changes everything. I can count on one hand the number of days I was sober that year. I was a regular to the pot district and an easy mark for street people selling wares. Great story about one on roller skates and a steering wheel who sold me two bags. New Amsterdam Open Mics, Cannabis Day, remnants from the many breeder competitions, the silver door on Hastings Street. There's also the early trips to the Beer store before curfew or picking up six packs at the pub. Shenanigans and Hooters. I worked on a scene from Leaving Las Vegas by taking the script to a bar and matching Nicolas Cage per drink. So strung out, so cooped in, stuck inside. And the piece de resistance, the caper on the last flight home that would make Reservoir Dogs blush.

Conscious Thought = Princess of Swords: As court cards go, the Princess is the most vivacious. Impulse is her game, and she wields her power at moment's notice. Think Paris Hilton with a bazooka. Swords represent intellectual energy, thoughts, ideas, theories. Since I can get so stuck inside my head I tried to focus on acting on my basest thoughts instead of taking time to dissect and debate them. Led to some great adventures and many really stupid mistakes. What happens when you're 100% behind half-formed ideas?

Subconscious Thought = 8 of Wands: My brain's going everywhere. What with the constant supply of psychotropics and endless conscious awakening, my thoughts gain the capacity to hit nth-degree extremes. If I died at home alone, no one would know until the stench hit them. I'm so good I don't need this school, I could just jump on the many film sets here and run away with them. Maybe I could marry someone and become a citizen. I'm writing with my left hand at times, getting creepily sculpturelike with my prose. Everything has to move, to shift, to change. Have motion. Except me. I need to stay still.

How You See The World = The Hermit: Everyday I wake up it's a thrill just to be in Canada. It's so exciting it becomes sufficient. I don't need much else to be elated. I want it to never end but I know it's fleeting. So I don't venture out much. When I do I don't interfere much. And I make sure people don't interfere much with me. It's inevitable, of course, that people are let in. But they don't get everything. And if they do, rarely. It's a year in transit, and I'm a tourist with an expiration date. So hard to keep people at bay when you get ripe, though.

How the World Sees You = Lust: It's a cursory feeling when your dick gets groped in the hallway at school and you turn around to find a guy winking back at you. At parties people would sidle up past one another to make time for me. Every Tarot reading became like speed-dating. Raised a fat kid, I never got used to that. But I only had sex with two people that year: One a girl from the hostel, the other my bestest Canadian friend. And nothing after March. Had pussy inches from my face and still I did not succumb. Everyone knew me as an intense actor, though. Was chosen for a live scene where I played a dental patient who was driven to orgasm during a check-up. After the standing ovation my instructor pulled me aside saying, "I knew to tell them to give it to you! I knew you'd go all the way with it!"

Hopes and Fears = 9 of Swords: What's the worst that could happen? You're dropped in a foreign country, all of your belongings in bags you carry, surrounded by shit, piss, junkies, hookers, attempting to legitimatize your passion to yourself and the world, unable to get a legal job for additional income, balancing your life between your artistic education and your addictive personality, fighting inherent magnetism with strict isolation, and you fought tooth and nail for all of this. What's the worst that could happen?

Ultimate Goal = The Sun: Yellow light pierces the holes and floods the empty crevices. In an instant the haze becomes illuminated and begins to mist aside. Jagged peaks needle golden and slope down merging with smooth, frictionless plains. Every sort of texture and shape live in between. But no nook or cranny remains sheathed. Even the deepest, darkest, dankest holes fill to the brim with shimmering brilliance. This is what thou hath wrought. Take a look. Take it in. And smile, damn it. Smile at your creation.

I graduated the Acting program with honours. At the grad ceremony I interpreted the entire proceedings for my brothers. Never have I sweat so hard than at the terminal right before we boarded the plane home. We touched down days before Christmas. I always wanted to write a book with these stories titled, "I Never Saw Boxing Day".

The second chakra is orange, located in the lower abdominal area by the kidneys. It is represented by a circle inside an upside equilateral triangle, the Female triangle in Sacred Geometry, all encased in a circle surrounded by lotus petals. It controls passion, desire, sex and lust, creation and reproduction. After clawing for a foothold for anything and everything with the First Chakra, the being starts to understand its methods of acquisition and learns the good and bad consequences. But consequences are arbitrary; it's the chase that's most fascinating. Its energy can be channeled by the stones Carnelian, Alexandrite, and Tiger's-eye. In order to progress from this chakra, the being must consider the consequences of its actions and take responsibility for itself.

----------------
Now playing: Squeeze - Another Nail in My Heart

First Chakra: Sketchpad

This isn't said monologue. I'm having major issues delving into this material, especially in a manner which pleases me. When I write I tend to form and edit in my head before I get it out on paper. This allows for perfect phrasing and form, but it's hell with getting projects done in a timely manner. Many get abandoned. So, for the sake of progress, I'm just gonna run through events of the first year just to get the pieces out so I can put them together later.

2002. Months earlier I moved back to Chicago from Iowa. I was at the start of a massive breakup, a feeling akin to what I could only describe as a divorce. Tail tucked between my legs, I moved back into my parents' basement. Very depressed, very self-destructive. Was already knee-deep into a healthy drinking bender. My main goal for that period was getting myself to Vancouver for school. Acting or writing, acting or writing? Was working two jobs, saving money, and jumping through all the hoops needed for study abroad. Nobody wanted me to go, not from my family. "Why Canada? Why can't you learn acting here? It's so far away by yourself..." Had to fight for my actions against a lot of people, people I thought would be proud and excited for my big decision. In the meantime my desire to perform was so powerful that I took up free improv classes through the Chicago Reader to sate my appetite. Learned Meisner, Hagen, all under the tutelage of a Second City legend. Bar Louie afterwards; driving back to suburbia from the Gold Coast, that late at night, as drunk as I was... it's a miracle no one was killed. Then the Second City classes at the Metropolis in Arlington Heights. Head off to Harry's afterwards for drinks and whatever. Fuckin' Tuesday Night! Again, it's amazing my police record isn't longer after my 2am driving hijinks getting home. Did get to perform on Wells street. Jelly on Saturday nights in the Skybox and class shows on the e.t.c. stage. Saw Rachel Dratch's handwriting on the set backstage. The energy of that room is unbelievable.

Body modification occurred heavily this year. I started out with three piercings: left lobe, right cartilage, left nipple. I ended with five piercings, a tattoo, and scars. Lots of scars. I began cutting as a way to curb the drinking. That, plus some masculine macho thing about battle wounds and healing. Nothing life-threatening. All incisions were thin scratches made at the shoulder. Why else would I consider a shoulder tattoo? But the end of the year brought big things that would later prove to never be covered up. One piercing was meant to be a symbolic end, the other a self-imposed dare, the one piercing I never thought I'd ever do. Thing is, all actions were made under months of research and inquiry. Learned all about tribal art and talked to many people who had had stuff done before. Foolhardy decisions made under as erudite and controlled an environment as personally possible.

Vices also played heavily. Drinking, blah blah blah... It's amazing how when you talk one language you automatically attract people who speak in kind. New substances, odd places. Inappropriate places. Not back-of-Volkswagen inappropriate; on-the-job inappropriate. Taking major advantage of the fact that I worked many overnights. And that I worked with the Deaf. Lots of guilt involved as well, detoxing and retoxing. There was this one time at work when I was celebrating a month of sobriety. Didn't consider the hearing woman sleeping in the next room while I was vomiting. She disavowed knowledge. Apparently I can't.

Sex and relationships were askew this year. Ended up dating two girls at the same time, both Geminis, both of whom I worked with and did shows with. Same job, same shows, all three of us. One of them was beloved by my brother, the other was the first time I got laid in my parents' house. Outside of that rigamarole I spent a lot of time learning about myself. Lots of porn, lube, toys, self-exploration. Wanted to prepare myself for more adventurous times. Most of the year, though, I was aloof in this area. Between the blow I was dealt in leaving my whole life in Iowa and the fact I knew I'd be leaving for Canada eventually made me stick mostly to myself during this time. Plus I was dealing horribly with the break-up and shame of living at home.

Spirituality was in its infancy and journaling was in full-spread production. I was juggling three journals: Dayplanner for chronicling everyday events, Meditation to record my progress, and another for everyday thoughts and issues. Because of my rapid descent into vices I was keeping tallies of different habits: Whether I drank or not, smoked or not, how many cigarettes per day. I was also paying more attention to my dreams and recording any kind of details I could remember from the night before. I was, however, just starting to compile my altar and rituals. Taoism and Buddhism sat prominently with my mindset, but numerology and astrology fit strongly into the structure. Tarot cards, Qabalah, and spellcasting became more influential to me due to a friend who did a Tarot reading for me at work one evening. He used a Crowley Thoth deck, and I fell right into it. I found a how-to book at Border's about Buddhist prayer rosaries - malas - and made myself three, one carnelian, one sandalwood, and one tiger's-eye. But so difficult to find time to sit and focus on breathing. Lucky to make it 5-15 minutes in one sitting. I began taking Sunday walks in the park district woods nearby, a habit I would carry through the seven years. Most of my supplies: Candles, incense, stones, books, chimes; they all came from Iowa. Everything was stored in a steamer trunk meant for easy transportability.

The first chakra is red, located at the root of the spine, the anus. It controls pure primal energy: Eating, sleeping, fighting, fucking, the basest of instincts. It is represented by a snake coiled around an egg, the male Kundalini power as dictated by the Hindu religion. Its energy can be guided by the minerals Garnet, Bloodstone, Hematitie, Petrified Wood. It is considered a more masculine energy source because it is so close to the testes on men, whereas the second chakra, the passion chakra which rules over the reproductive organs, is considered more female due to its proximity to the ovaries on the female.

Abstract

Originally this was planned to be a manifesto which, although quite cool to conceptualize and write, really doesn't fit the purpose of it. This isn't a declaration of beliefs, this is a statement of purpose.

Let me begin at the end.

For the past few years I have been having trouble relating socially. It has become so comfortable to stay solipsistic and distant that the situation is routine and preferable. Which isn't to say that I haven't craved human contact. So on the many occasions when I've been asked to go out my brain tends to hit overdrive. How do I act? What do I say? How do I present myself? When I am with people I can only imagine the impression they take in from me: Male, white, 30 years old, intelligent, witty, talented, highly energetic, broad aspirations, and very easy on the eyes. Yet works a menial job well below his education, abandoned his artistic dreams for little reason, appears bogged down with familial obligations, and, especially as of late, has done nothing to improve any of this.
This is an image of conflict. Two equally strong opposing forces, refusing to find any common ground. If this is what I am left with when I look myself over, what fraction of this is projected across when I am with someone else?
This was running through my mind one night about a month ago when I was recounting a recent time at work when I had asked a girl for whom I had a crush on to go out. She refused. I was bothered. My intentions were purely familiar, but I felt grossly misread. Unfair, unjust, I thought. Who I am before you is a shell of who I truly am. My story is grand and sprawling, covering three countries, full of epic iconic triumphs and heinous personal tragedies. And I am currently at the tail end of a near-decade-long spiritual journey, the most dedicated feat I have ever undertaken. Things, ideas, changes are still settling, still yet to be fully understood. It's all too much to keep inside my head. But it's right here, on the precipice of everything. And it refuses to go away.
So how do I project all this potential energy across, as well?
I looked at my dresser mirror. And I saw the girl. And I figured I just had to start from the beginning. How does it all start?
Seven years ago.
Seven chakras.
One chakra per calendar year.
And as I started I immediately stopped.
And I dropped to the floor.
And I stayed there in that spot for a good 10 minutes.
When I moved again I went to my altar and grabbed my meditation journal. I wrote one more entry. Then I tore out the rest of the blank pages. They were burned a week later.
Without opening the altar I thought about the books inside.
Seven academic dayplanners.
Each filled with meticulous notes, daily observations, symbols, vice tallies, dream recountings, emotional landmarks.
Without searching out any notebook I thought about every project I started in that time.
Radio plays, script ideas, stage shows, story topics, unfinished poetry, letters never sent.
Without opening my laptop I thought about my blog.
Every dramatic story, every open confession, every pointed comment meant to stand as true communication.
It's all fodder.
It's all usable.
It's already written.
And delivered in a nice, neat, numerologically-sound structural package.
All I have to do is put the pieces together.

This is my life's ambition: Over the past seven years I have undergone a complete transformation. The journey has been long and mostly alone, and I see the world in a vastly different array of colors. And the best way I know how to share this story is to make a production out of it. I am proposing a series of monologues, one for each chakra, written in the energy of that chakra, incorporating the events of each specific year. I envision a sparse set but a multimedia extravaganza, complete with music, lights, pictures, text, visual language. And I've prepared companion material, stories and audio tracks to accentuate and enhance the experience. It all must be accounted for and it all must be told, not only as an artistic goal but also a personal necessity. The point I have reached requires that I freely and easily present these topics on a daily basis else my social development become forever stunted. As drastic and unnecessary as these measures might appear, I consider it critical to back myself into a corner and invoke a challenge or else I will find any other way to avoid the task. It must be done. It shall be done.
It is so written.

Swinging Either Way

"...so she told you she thinks she's a lesbian!"

Am I that transparent?

"Ha! You have no idea!"



I'm sitting in a coffee shop next to someone I haven't seen for awhile. She and I used to have a thing. Long time ago. We're over it.
She looked me up. Asked for my help.
We make a date.
Business is business, but first things first:
How are you?
She doesn't want to speak first. Go figure.
I'm having a rather laid-back summer. Plus I got nothing to hide from her.
So there.
She's too attentive. Quiet, clicking. Lots of silly stupid grins. A few I wasn't expecting.
"I love the way you talk."
"Shut up."
She can't stop smiling.
"Why do you do that?"
"Because I know you."
You know nothing.
;)



"So what's going on with this chick?"
No clue.
"Aw. Why not?"
Can't handle it anymore.
"Can't handle what?"
Her.
"Can't handle her?"
I can handle her.
"So?"
Just fell too hard too fast.
"...so?"
I can't explain it.
"Try."
I don't want to get in her way.
"What does that mean?"
She's going through a lot right now.
"Ohhh... the whole insecure with herself thing?"
Not just that. She just left a big relationship.
"So what?"
She apparently wants to play the field.
"You think you know what she wants."
Her actions tell me what she wants.
"And it's not you, right?"
She ain't movin' too fast on me.
"What if she did?"
What?
"What if she flat out attacked you?"
She hasn't.
"What if she did?"
I don't know.
"Picture it. Happening right now."
Well...
"Yes..."
I'd love it.
"Mmmm..."
But...
"Yes?"
How would she do it?
"...you never know."
I don't think I would.
Ha.
You never do, Kevin.
"That's the bigger problem here."
Got something bigger.
"Oh?"
That thing she did.
"The lesbian thing?"
Yeah. I'm torn on it.
"How so?"
It hurt.
"Duh."
But it's so hot thinking about her like that."
"..."
What's that look for?

you all think the same.

so whatcha gonna do?

nnn-nnnn

good answer

what would you do?

if i knew i wouldn't be here

right

what have you done?

nothing

how long?

long enough

i wouldn't say that

i would

youre having too much fun with this
why not its a game isnt it

what do you mean
this or that

love or sex
you two or us
whats going on here

Well?







Fuck'er.





"That's your answer?"



Yeah.


"Why fuck'er?"





'Cause that way you're both miserable and good and fucked.

Good seeing you like this.
Perhaps another time?
"I love the way you talk."
Shut up.

Fin.

Smitten to Hell

I snapped a picture of her self-portrait during one of my visits. Crashed on her couch after a party at her place. Didn't necessarily want to stay the night there, least of all on the couch, but I had too much of everything and wasn't gonna sleep in my car again. And she treated me like a perfect guest the whole night: Sheet, blanket, pillow, glass of water, the whole schmear. Woke up on my own terms, well before her, and quick snapped a picture with my phone of her fiery face adorned on canvas. Shortly after she came out to join me, cup of coffee already in hand. She had someplace to go but she wasn't kicking me out. She also brought a camera with her to the coffee table, but she never used it while I was still there. At 11am we both left together to go our separate ways: Me to find food before my matinee and her to wherever.
Damn right I stared at her picture all the way to the theater.
It was all I could do to contain myself. Not everyone knew about her, but those who were privy to the info found themselves gushed upon. It had been literally years since I found one woman for whom I lost all my shit.
And I can't stop it. I really wish I could. Past handful of relationships I got quite good at control.

Maybe the seasons
The colors change in the valley skies

Dave Grohl's voice coming through the gym speakers. I love this song.

We see each other once in a while, every two weeks or so. Usually me going to see her, but twice she came up by me. Once was for my Open Mic Night. Translated all my pieces just for her at last minute. It sucked. The words matched, but there was little life to the stories. Another time she came to hang out at my place. Eventful visit, too. My parents showed up. They never show up. My Dad opened the door and her dog ran up to meet him. They came to collect a rack of TV tables and end up being introduced to a girl and an animal in my house. But, cool chick that she is, she made everything seamless. And I left candy on her doorstep. On her birthday. Never heard my car comin'.
Everything else?
It's all rote.
Drive Down, Meet, Chill, Catch Up, Pet Dog, Hang Out, Smoke Cigarette Outside, Chat, Pet Dog Again, Smoke Another Cigarette, Eat Something, Gather Stuff, Walk Together to Door, Hug, Leave.
Nothing tops Our First Night Together.
But I keep hoping it does.

Until one time...

She told me a story. A scandalous story. Something she couldn't share with anyone at work. They all talk. Something she could only tell a good friend. Like you, Kevin. You're a good listener and you seem trustworthy.
"But I don't know if it's right telling you."
If you feel like sharing, share away.
"Okay."
"So I met this one couple, guy and a girl, they've been together for awhile, and they're really cool and we've been hanging out together and really hitting it off with each other, and they're both really great, the guy's cool but the girl and I have really been connecting and we've been hanging out a lot more and, well,........"

I've heard this story before. A myriad of times. It's nothing new or scandalous.
But all of a sudden her hair and her eyes are less vibrant.
And the ghosts of the past seep through the farmhouse walls.
"Is it awkward that I told you this?"
...yeah, it's a little awkward.
"Oh. I think I know why, but tell me, why?"
And I told her why.


I go to the gym a lot more now. Yoga classes when I can make them. Totally making eyes with this one redhead at the juice bar. Yeah, she's catchin' me. Even though I look scrubby. Every day on the elliptical. If she could just catch me playing guitar. Four weeks in and I'm alright. Yeah. Not too shabby.
Hey now, don't make a sound
Say, have you heard the news today?
I love this song.

sigh


Melissa.


To Be Concluded...

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Now playing: Foo Fighters - Long Road To Ruin

Our First Night Together

Mid-February. Halfway through the run.
We were at intermission one Saturday night when Gina stops me while crossing through the dressing rooms to grab a smoke.
"Is that the girl from the bar?"
"Excuse me?"
"That girl you were talking to in the bar that one night. Isn't she in the front row?"
I rub the bridge of my nose. My glasses sit untouched with my street clothes.
"I really wouldn't know."
She escapes back through the girl's dressing room. Her face bursts as she reappears a minute or two later.
"It's her!"
Seriously? Crap, don't tell me that. I can't focus the whole second act. I can see her, blue striped shellback coat sitting Stage Right, front row, aisle. Can't miss the hair, the glasses. Dear God, what does she think? Am I selling it? I'm doing everything with a Deaf chick on stage, the whole gamut of a relationship. Does it look real? Did I look hot? Can't concentrate. What's that saying? "Know your lines and don't bump into the furniture." Yeah, that's all I got.
The Lobby after the show. I've grown to detest it. The smothering, the rigamarole. If no one I know shows up I'll sneak out a side door, I detest it so much sometimes. But I can't sneak out. I gotta talk to her. I know she'll be there.
I've been envisioning this moment. I knew I'd see her again. Been planning my move. So totally gonna ask her out. Smoothest motherfucker you ever did see.
"Hey, babe, you were the hottest thing in the bar that night. Wanna go grab a beer?"
That was, honest-to-God, the line I was gonna use.
Brian, Tim, and Amber all came to see the show that night, all of them very congratulatory. Redhead's there with a friend. I make introductions all around. Friend excuses herself to leave, I excuse myself from my brothers to grab a smoke outside with the girl.
Say it! Use the line, goddamnit!
But it's so bad! It'll never work!
You gotta! You'll never get a chance like this again!
No... Wait, shut up. Let me think of something...
During a break in the conversation I just blurt it out.
"Doing anything tonight?"
No.
"Would you like to get a drink?"
Sure. Where?
"Just down the road somewhere."
Fine. Let me run home to take care of my dog. I'll meet you there.
This is all too much. As I re-enter the theater Brian can tell from my face that I'll be late tonight coming home. Tim doesn't quite grasp the whole situation but Amber smiles brightly enough for two and pulls him along, leading a couple steps ahead. I don't know where to go so I set my sights on the most recognizable bar on the strip and text her to meet me there. In the half hour I'm sitting there on my own, with the way I'm feeling, I could pick up any girl at the bar there.
And then she walks in.
And from here on out I'm lost in whatever she has to say.
I'm not the chatty one in a couple. I tend to be the sounding board, the release valve. But this girl ain't saying anything and I have to pull the conversation along between us. Her list of accomplishments reads like Lisa Simpson mixed with Ernest Hemingway. Rugby player, were you really a rugby player? Already published a book of her own poetry. Using fancy vocabulary words like "epicurean" and "synesthesia". A huge music fan, she can match me per nuance on many a modern rock band. Two people sitting alone in a crowded bar, not speaking a word, getting to know each other. Sharing things only we would know. Everyone else stealing glances.
Hers is a story I haven't experienced before, in many ways the exact opposite of mine. She recently became completely Deaf, within the past few years. Her parents are Deaf, which is how she learned to sign. She knew she and her brother would eventually become Deaf as well, and due to an operation she lost all her hearing. Her eventual fate implanted a deep sense of urgency in her. Chill, reserved irises do little to project the kinetics of her, the nitroglycerin nature of her will. Life is fleeting, intangible, and must be jumped upon before it fades.
My mind sucks all this up like a blood cell swimming in ethanol.
Then takes a double when she mentions presently breaking up with her boyfriend of three years.
What did you think of the show?
"I thought it was great. You did an amazing job, I was very impressed. But I have to admit, the first night I met you at the bar I didn't think your signing was that good."
Well, I have to admit, I was a little stoned that evening at the bar.
"Really?"
A sharp look, carried towards the exit behind her, then slid back with a smile.
Really?
"No expectations."
"No expectations" was my middle name.
In the car I try to follow her but Hermann's droning roar makes me drive slow this time of morning. She's texting me directions one wrong turn after I need them. But we get there. And it's quaint, a colonial-style village farmhouse. As if Donna Reed moved to Green Acres and rescaled the house for a 4 ft. family. She rents the whole first floor.
I break out what little wares I have. And all of a sudden the signing goes wild. People standing around me would have had their faces slapped. She just sits on the other side of the loveseat facing me, one elbow bent and propping her head up, eyes registering somewhere between awe and drool.
All the artwork in the place is original, her own. A fiery red-and-yellow self-portrait. Fuzzy Mediterranean frescoes. And this green-faced Messiah, very like a Marley blacklight poster, sitting in the prominence.
Who's that?
She chuckles brightly.
That's Adam Duritz. She has a sort of thing for Counting Crows.
Understatement.
At this point she regales to me a story that officialy makes her the coolest thing on two legs.
Whenever Counting Crows would play Rochester she had to sit first row every show. Had to. But even that wasn't close enough. So she devised a plan to get as close as possible. The next time they played she called the arena holding the gig.
"Hi, I'm a free-lance interpreter and I understand some Deaf customers have bought tickets to see Counting Crows. Could you tell me where I can park my car?"
The toughest part was finding people who could sign to play the customers. Which wasn't that hard.
At the arena the night of the gig: Parking was free, backstage pass sat waiting, friends got great seats at a rock concert, and she stood in skin-tight leather pants, 10 feet from Adam, signing every word coming off his lips.
She repeated this.
Multiple times.
One time actually catching Adam and Ed Kowalcyk from Live in a pick-up basketball game. Adam saw her, flashed a cursory glance her way. She had gotten very close. And he knew. She stopped after that.
Coolest thing on two legs.
It's getting early now. Really early. "No expectations" means no expectations. So,... nothing's happening. Right?
So I have to go home.
Right?
I don't want to crash here. That's a poor first impression. Besides, I'm so lost now. I would do anything she says. The most epochal person I have met in forever, and I'm a foot away from her. I'm soft and mushy, a puddle of wet diary pages in her living room. But I don't want to crash here. That's a poor first impression.
She asks if I'm okay to drive home.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Where's the door?"
Her text messages don't help in reverse. I've nodea wheremat. By the zoo, somewhere. Fuck, Hermann's loud. Waking the neighbors driving like this. Someone's gonna call. I can't get another ticket. Cannot. Shit, where the fuck am I? Driving around, fucking map... someone's gonna spot me. No, can't do it.
Hermann pulls over into a Dunkin' Donuts parking lot.
Just gonna relax until safe to drive. Daylight or so.
Can't keep the motor running. Cop might pull up.
Holy living fuck, this winter's fucking cold.

To Be Continued


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Now playing: Counting Crows - Einstein on the Beach (for an Eggman)