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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.