And if you looked closely, you could have seen me thrashing in that green river, flailing arms and legs in water way deeper than you would have ever guessed.
The seams split today. It's been too much, too much weight and I've been pacing through it all, talking my way through it and fighting the good fight. Today, I found bottom and everything above me was endless and impossible. Everything...
Weight of work I can no longer stand, of new work that gives me a pedestal and microphone and asks me to lead and please and sit under a spotlight when all I want to do is hide, weight of a girl I care about and foolishly got messy with, weight of a script and its need of a fix and the calls and the waiting and the expectations -- enough to snap backs. If I've been evading or escaping up until this point, today it overpowered and powered through and when it came, all I could do was stop, find a spot on my thankfully recently vaccummed carpets and let it happen...
Drawing on limited but sufficient experience, I've found it's best to let these things happen from the ground looking up, eyes on a white, calming ceiling. My ceiling also has bumps, ridges -- kind of giving it this soothing illusion of comfort and warmth. Very nice. It's best to keep the body unrestricted - so make sure to steer clear of furniture and obstruction. If you're a thrasher and/or a twister and/or a writher, always, always remember to protect your knees, shins and elbows at all times. Also, everything should be done in the nude or somewhere in the vicinity of - so important if you want to shape the experience into a motif, say, like...rebirth. Sometimes a ceiling fan can help -- simply pick a blade and follow the revolutions. That's what I did today. In other instances, music can be a good choice, a strong choice for the collection phase of what could only be described as a breakdown.
And that's where I was today, right around 11 in the AM. Pretty amazing shit.
Last night, I picked up and hour of sleep before heading off to teach a spin class before re-breaking ground on K&V. And all the work today was inventory, checking in, standing still, not moving not moving not moving, and intentions and motivations. And every bit of it is breaking and re-setting bones and it hurts and it cripples...
But I'm keeping my promise, just like the raw fucking tattoo on my wrist asks of me. Sure as hell kept it today. Sure as hell. Bloody fucking suffering.
But I made it through. Because I push. And in my experience, that's also how these things work, like shedding skin or going through an acid bath. An out with the old kind of thing, and usually there's a pot of gold on the other end. I'm not there yet, not quite -- but I certainly am at the moment listening to and fucking rocking Pat Benetar on these headphones. No doubt about it.
...
So you know that scene in Magnolia where the frogs stop falling from the sky and all of the terrible and heavy shit that's been happening kind of comes to a stop? And then the sun comes out? Wait, let me see if I can find it...okay, it's not anywhere, fuck it. That's what the back end of this is like if you go through it right...right being that you let go of your composure, you let it slip away knowing that maybe, just maybe...it might come back.
So I went back out into the world with a bag of fuck-itz in my pocket. I powered through K&V's shit, ready now to feel progress again. I went across town and picked up a new job, probably and maybe easily the most coveted in town for someone in my business. After that, I drove across town to the old job, marched my 30 star cards (received over a period of time for guest love) and I said I'll take my 300 dollars and oh, by the way, here's my 2 weeks notice, in my hyper-spastic handwriting with a P.S - "I'll miss this place -- apologies this is written by hand, someday I might grow up."
...
I crossed my manager on the way out - and let me make something clear...the place was the poison, not the people...so there will be sting in walking away, not lingering, but still...
So I pulled him aside to tell him I was gonna be shorting him, that I was leaving, that I needed a shake up, that it would be more money and less hours, that it was kind of a no brainer. He got it. And it was smiles and handshakes and threatening punches to the face and abdomen when he kind of shifted things with this forewarning of sincerity before stopping, asking...why are you so tortured?
All I could do was stutter. And I think I smiled, and laughed through it, dodging the question because I didn't even know how to begin to answer it, or if I even understood...
But I was driving home around 6, and letting the day soak through as the sun was drifting down and the question kept echoing in my head. And I just let it echo, didn't bother to cut it off with an answer or even a response, and for the next 20 minutes it was my constant and occupying thought. I didn't care, and the possibility of its truth wasn't unsettling, but comforting - like laying on my carpet, staring into the ceiling - a nice and pretty bow on top of this ripping and awe bleeding Monday.
