I Forgot to Dream

I am coming back to a couple of words: terminal uniqueness. I believe I have been wallowing in the squalid soup of that concept for as long as I can remember. Is it the precious bubble of the superficial town in which I live? The crystallized air of Southern California perfection that keeps most of us trapped in this Now I've Got It! sort of delusional dream of motion and meaning? The last two days have found me shoveling out a swamp of forgotten problems and using my calculator to add up days, weeks, months, years since certain businesses and ways of life and living existed in this place, as my work, and daily racing up and down the main drag of our city.  For instance . . . there was this coffeehouse where pretty much everyone hung out-back before the selfish ones sabotaged our newspaper-the suits and the junkies threw down together and laptops had not stolen our brains and our ability to communicate face-to-face and all sorts of nonsense and festivities and COMMUNITY took place there-the good and the bad.  There were these fabric stores-one of which was NATURAL and BRILLIANT and full of wonderful fabrics that kept us busy and a fireball of a brainiac woman owner with the gift of fine conversation and it too was a gathering place. There were bookstores-corporate yes-but DAMN, no matter how low or lonely you were feeling you could wander and look at a decent magazine or two and undoubtedly meet up with friends and spend a bit of time CONNECTING. Now that I am a woman of a certain age and that age has tipped me over into oftentimes invisibility-a shadow of my former self whatever in the hell that means some might say-I am looking at Bastille Day and one of my favorite claims to fame Me and France! and that certain age becoming even more certain and WOW.  What a long way I have come, from the plains of Nebraska and leaving home before I could squeak really, and living on the streets of Chicago and surviving, and hitchhiking across America and joining a cult, and herding goats, and working in a commercial bakery-a couple of them-and traveling traveling traveling gypsy style, having and raising the LOVES OF MY LIFE, and teaching, and working in theatres and wasn't it all supposed to add up to something definitive and sustaining? Yet I am standing on the threshold of certain indecision. New York? New Orleans? Portland? Woodstock? Nashville? Why oh why oh why would I ever leave PARADISE you are wondering no doubt as my own terminally unique self thinks as I sit here at command central, 17 plus years of art, costumes, and writing surrounding me-the sounds of crickets and the train way, way off joining me in my silence, dogs quietly panting just under my desk, the stars just visible through the trees surrounding my front windows-and perhaps it is all of the people I have listened to in the past year.  They have come into my life from NY and LA and points south and even Europe. Their stories are interesting, their lives are lively, and a window opens in my safe little cage that brings in some fresh air and new experiences and adventure. I do not want to spend the next decade of my life in fancy yoga clothes attempting once again to bully or forget my ego into submission with the mind numbing but I know it is good for me like fish oil meditation and all things buddha and zen. I forgot to forge a pension, I don't even really know what a 401 entails, and I honestly have a shoebox of saved money. Not under my bed in case you had designs.  With all the stubborn immaturity I can gather, I think I would rather bake a batch of vegan brownies at close to midnight, and eat as many as I want, and research places to move until my fingers go numb, and count up my dimes and dollars to see if they add up to gas money enough to  move me somewhere, anywhere before I simply fade away.  Time to strike out in my seven league boots I think and no sleepy Northern California towns for me. I have been in a beautiful weather coma for about as long as I can stand it I think.  Give me bookstores. Fabric stores. Vegan everythings. Music at night. With people as old as me. Give me crowds on the streets with small and interesting stores and many art galleries and museums.  Buildings of all kinds. People of all kinds. And purpose. Something really, really worthwhile to do, to build, to teach, to learn, to share to the best of my ability. You have been listening to me whine for a couple of years now. I did not have the money for therapy. I do not take any sort of drugs.  So I have been struggling along, trying to craft a life, trying to create art, trying to support myself.  I have walked the MILES in this town with no inheritance, no wealthy partner, and no trust fund-trying, trying, trying to make something happen, make a name and a place for myself, come out from under my terminal uniqueness and just live for gawds sake. I listened to Brene Browns talk on vulnerability once more this morning and here is what I have to say to her: vulnerability is HARD. It is damn risky. The tremendous support she has in her life, a loving husband, enough money to live and afford therapy and travel-she is smart and inspiring and pretty damn fortunate. Finding a path, speaking your mind, living an honest and daring life, is pretty awesomely scary when you are attempting to figure it out on your own. And I have UNLIMITED RESPECT for people I know, and ones I read about, who have managed to do this without all of the whining that accompanies my seeking. But it is daring whining. In all sincerity? I work as hard as I whine. I am not asking for or desiring a violin. I think, honestly, that somewhere along the line, somewhere in the middle of that train track where I have derailed momentarily, I simply forgot to dream.  I let fear and despair and shame grab my soul.  Tonight, with a head full of ideas, a journal full of figuring, and a room lit with a tiny candle of inspiration, I dared to write down a dream. An idea which I believe will become reality. A plan that I think just might break me out of this mire of frustration, indecision, and overwhelming feeling of complete OH MY GOODNESS DOES ANYTHING MATTER? thinking. Everything matters. Nothing matters.  I am always thankful to be alive, I am always grateful to be still in the game, and I am mostly full of love for my readers of these late night caffeine and chocolate infused running like a river jabberwocky moments. You keep it real for me-your terminally unique bohemian queen who just might spend the rest of this night dreaming. LOVE ALWAYS!!