These are confusing times. Anything is possible. Anything.
Yesterday, I went downtown early in the morning with my ally, Brian, who has been commissioned to film the process of two murals being painted. Brian flies drones and sells his aerial photography services to anyone who needs them. I went with him to scope out the site, meet the muralist and film the boom lift being set up.
Downtown Greensboro is nice in the early morning before all of the hullabaloo of the day begins. I guess almost any place is nice during that time, when the world has not yet swung into full motion. It is conducive to a peaceful, contemplative state of mind. I wandered about taking photos of emptiness and quiet.
A car pulled up and three people emerged. I looked for the muralist. Brian had the impression, for some reason, that the muralist is from China. I observed a white man, a black man and a brown girl. There was no overtly Chinese-looking person. The young girl approached me with a large smile and introduced herself. She was the most exotic looking of the three and I looked for indications that she might be from China. I decided looks cannot be trusted and she must be the muralist. The fact that she looked no older than 12 made me doubt this belief and I considered simply saying, "Are you the muralist," but thought that would be rude. Instead, I waited for the information to present itself as information often will.
Let us focus on this state for a moment. For a second, I believed that a girl, age12, had been commissioned to paint two gigantic and prominently located murals in Greensboro. That reality existed in my brain. This experience can be attributed to a state of magical thinking: a moment in which anything is possible. There are no fixed definitions of anything. There are no imposed boundaries or beliefs. In the world of magical thinking, there is absolute freedom and expansiveness.
To experience such freedom even for a second is such a blissful thing. This passes quickly, for the constraints of the world are quickly imposed upon us. There isn't much room for magical thinking in the hullabaloo.
As such, it was determined that the white man is the muralist. The information regarding the muralist being from China did not reveal itself. Nor did I seek clarification.
The importance of this missive is to define that moment in which all possibilities are equally viable. A clown can be president. A boddhisatva can be a dishwasher. Friends can become enemies. Enemies can become friends. Truth can overcome lies. Justice can be delivered. People can have enough to eat. Healthcare can be available to everyone. The power that was put into the hands of the wealthy can be taken from them. We can live in solidarity with one another. We can care for each other. There is such freedom, such expansion in these thoughts. Let us focus our attention there. We must silence the inner editor and actively put our attention into that space of any and all possibilities. And someday, a 12-year-old girl with exotic eyes and brown skin will paint a gigantic mural in a prominent location in your town.
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label freedom. Show all posts
Friday, August 4, 2017
Thursday, August 4, 2016
The Daughter of a Child
While I do not consider myself a hippie per se, I feel comfortable in their company. I grew up at a time when the original hippie movement began and flourished. I cannot help but feel there is a hippie element in my psyche: a being who rejects the status quo, who seeks peace and social justice for all, who is concerned about the well being of our Earth Mother, a person who embraces creativity and wants to live life in a celebratory manner. At least that's my definition of hippiedom.
I arrived at Floydfest on a Friday afternoon after a terrible emotional meltdown the night before which prevented me from getting much sleep. I nearly talked myself out of going. But I knew that once I got on the road, everything would be better. I would experience a degree of freedom from the thoughts which plague me, thoughts which hold my growth in check, thoughts of self loathing and fear. And indeed, as I drove away from Greensboro and into the country listening to music that lifted my spirits, I began to feel in sync with my Self.
This was to be my first year participating in Floydfest as a living statue and Floydfest's first year accepting buskers. No one knew what to expect. I went into it hoping to make up the costs accrued going there but attempting to have no expectations whatsoever.
Upon my arrival at the festival grounds, I began to feel that knot of uncertainty in my gut. I showed the gatekeepers my credentials and was directed to the staff parking and camping area. The plan was to pitch a tent on Friday and then hook up with my Ally on Saturday. He would be driving his phenomenal 1973 GMC RV to a campground nearby in which I would sleep comfortably. I parked on a crazy steep hillside which only an all terrain vehicle could traverse. It hurt my thighs to climb this hill. It hurt my thighs to go down this hill.
I wandered over to the staff camping area surrounding a small pond. Tents were pitched tightly against one another around the entire perimeter. Space was available on a steep hill. This did not seem appealing to me. I abandoned my search for a campsite and decided to explore the festival grounds to get a sense of the layout and the vibe.
Let me here emphasize how hilly Floydfest's grounds are. From the staff parking lot to the festival entrance, I walked a gradual incline which sharply increased, leveled out again right outside of the entrance, sharply increased again just past the entrance, then decreased to another gradual incline before leveling out to become somewhat flat. I estimate the distance from parking to flatland to be half a mile. But I'm no judge of distance. Particularly when walking up hills.
I was immediately overwhelmed by the volume of people and sound and the intensity of smells. Yes, patchouli. Of course. But also sandalwood, spicy foods, wood smoke and woods. I walked the entire breadth of the festival and felt overloaded with sights and sounds. The air seemed thick and hot and hard to breathe. So I made my way back across to the entrance and from there proceeded to my car. I felt dizzy, literally feeling as if I was losing my footing with each step. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was a flatlander trying to adjust to hills. But when I reached my car I had to sit still, drink water, eat an apple to recover and once again feel somewhat grounded.
I needed to pitch my tent before dark so I decided to do so in the parking area itself. I found a space that was enclosed by cars which no one would be able to access with their vehicle. I am not the camping sort. This was the first time in my life I'd ever set up a tent by myself. I had to call my Ally for direction once. But eventually I had erected a structure that looked like it would protect me from the elements. Sort of.
It began to rain. Rather than test the tent, I sat in my car, ate a little food and readied myself for another excursion to the festival grounds. Nahko and Medicine for the People were going to play later and I wanted to catch their set. I decided not to try and busk, rather to acclimate myself fully to the festival.
It was getting dark by this time and the crowd was growing in size and rambunctiousness. I noticed a vendor who sold stainless steel mugs that you could refill as many times as you like with sodas that had no caffeine and were made with cane sugar. I purchased one and filled it with root beer. The cold, sweet frothiness was like manna from Heaven to me. It fueled me. It empowered me to go forth and stand among the masses waiting to see Nahko.
I walked to the opposite end of the festival grounds to the stage where Nahko would play. The vast number of people present was astonishing. They were listening to the band playing prior to Nahko and when it ended, the gigantic horde flowed from the stage area towards me. People were walking directly towards me. That is to say, no one had any sense that I was present. I had to avoid bumping into virtually everyone. I have never experienced this phenomenon. It was as if all sense of personal space had vanished. I marveled at this while dodging bodies. As soon as I was in an open area, I could breathe freely.
I moved to what I thought was a comfortable distance from the stage with a handful of others to wait. The band set up and ran sound check. Gradually, more people packed themselves in around me. My comfort capacity had been reached. Yet the crowd continued to grow. Before long, I was packed in the middle of a sea of bodies, all exuberant with expectation. Different smoke-able substances were lit around me. I stood still, trying to figure out what to do with my arms, which suddenly seemed to be in the way. I tried to maintain balance, which became hard once the band began to play. Everyone around me was jumping, dipping, swaying, pumping their fists. It was too much movement for an unbalanced equilibrium to endure. I remained in my position for the duration of two songs before deciding I needed to somehow negotiate my way out of the crowd.
Let me again say that all the bodies were tightly packed together. In order for me to make room for my body to pass between others, I had to slowly step forward and say, "I'm sorry. Pardon me. Excuse me please. I'm trying to get out." As I edged my way through the people, each person, I kid you not, each person rubbed my back or lightly scratched it with the tips of their fingernails, scratched my head, tickled my neck. This informal intimacy took me aback and internally I bucked and brayed against the Love being offered by these lovely people. I felt embarrassed for no fathomable reason. But I had to admit, the kind touches felt good.
Once I broke free from the crowd I slowly walked to the back of it, savoring Nahko's message of Love and Indigenous Empowerment. I watched children dance with abandon on a small stage illuminated by two torches. It became a tribal ceremony of sorts. I was entranced for a while but grew too tired to remain. So I hiked back to the staff parking, to my tent.
A bit of rain had seeped into the entrance. I flung my sleeping bag across an inflatable mattress that was only partially inflated. I cared less about blowing it up than I did about laying down on it. I flipped the dampest side of my pillow over and slid into the sleeping bag. It was then that I noticed how great an incline I was on. My sleeping bag started sliding down the tent, towards my feet. I laughed to myself at the silliness of this predicament. I experimented with different positions in order to limit my sliding. I managed to become slightly still, at which point the obstacle to my sleep became the sounds from the festival. The music was broadcast away from the festival grounds and to my ears on loud speakers. In this way, I was able to take in the last of Nahko's set. But before his set ended, another band began on another stage, the two musics co-mingling.
The cacophonous roar, the not quite inflated mattress, the sleeping bag sliding every time I moved, and the monumentally bright spot light that lit up the parking lot for late travelers - all kept me awake until around midnight. At last, sweet sleep enveloped me. Like a cool rain quenching a parched earth, I felt relief. Until the fireworks started.
I woke to an explosion directly overhead. And then another. And another. It took a moment to realize that these noises could be attributed to a fireworks display. Which was, again, directly overhead. How do I know this? Because the debris from the explosions fell onto my tent. So there I was, awake again at 1:30 a.m, wondering whether my tent would melt. I swore a bunch of swear words. And even though I was exhausted beyond description and my nerves were on edge, I knew in the back of my brain that this would be a funny story eventually.
When the fireworks stopped, I tried to make myself comfortable again. But the music seemed much louder and much more agitating. I wasn't sure what band was playing but I found their sound to be grating on my last nerves. And the constant shifting of body positions from agitation just caused the sleeping bag to slide uncontrollably. I was completely fed up at this point and got in my car where I could at least muffle the sound a little. Unfortunately, the monumentally bright spot light now shone directly into my eyes. I blocked my windows with whatever items I had handy in the car: a towel, a t-shirt and so on. I reclined my seat and tossed and turned the rest of the night away.
At 4:30 a.m. I very nearly packed up and drove home. I was wide awake and miserable. I had to pee and didn't want to climb down the steep hill to the port-o-potty. I lay there marveling at the level of commitment festival attendees had for partying, wondering where and how I could pee, wondering if I should just leave, realizing I had to stay otherwise I would hate myself. Eventually I got out of my car and peed, though I will not tell you where and how. I climbed back in with a renewed commitment to stay and eventually dozed off a few times.
The sun came up and I packed up the tent and prepared for my day ahead. A man who was clearly strung out on something approached me and started a conversation. At first, I was resistant and tried to brush him off. This mean part of my being wanted to be judgmental. But I relaxed and allowed the conversation to go where it would. This man was harmless. The exchange was fine.
I slowly negotiated the hills and bumps and holes and rocks to the festival grounds in search of coffee. I found it. With a long line of people waiting for it. I sighed and proceeded to the back of the line. I engaged in conversation with the woman immediately in front of me, which made the wait time seem minuscule. I bought a coffee and migrated over to a small group of musicians playing Neil Young's "Helpless." The woman who had conversed with me in line told me that they do this every year at the festival: get together in the mornings and play. Their rendition was sweet, gentle, comforting. I sat on the ground soaking it up.
It was one of those beautiful days that one can only experience in the mountains where the sky seems more vibrantly blue. And closer. The air cool, the sun hot. I savored the moment with gratitude. I conversed with yet another person and marveled at how easy it was to talk with people up there. Effortless. No games. No agendas. No gossip. No negativity. Just relating to each other as people.
This. Yes. I had endured the night for this.
I strolled around to see what was happening and how many people were around after such a late night of revelry. Again, the level of commitment these folks have for partying is impressive. It was not quite noon and already people were merry-making.
I left to meet my Ally at the campground where I would stay that night. It was fabulously quiet: surrounded by trees and rolling hills covered with Queen Anne's lace. The thought of sleeping there after a day of busking delighted me to no end. We both returned to the festival and I suited up to begin my day of busking.
For those of you who do not know me, I perform as a living statue for tips. I paint myself gold from head to toe, don a pair of paper wings and hold a small bowl of glitter. I stand perfectly still on a "pedestal" and wait for tips. When people deposit something (preferably cash) into my bucket, I merely look into their eyes and sprinkle glitter on their heads. Then I resume my statue form of stillness.
It surprises me at times that people do not notice me. They walk right past me as if I am actually a statue. When I move, they are shocked. This makes the acquisition of monies a bit more challenging. At Floydfest, more people than usual did not notice me - a person dressed up as a statue, being still on a box, awaiting their interaction. At times like this, I simply start indiscriminately slinging glitter. And this generates the desire in many people to come up to me and "get glittered." "Glitter me!" they'll say. "Oh! Give me some, too!" I play along with this. I look at it as passing out free samples of my work in the hopes that someone will eventually pay me. And this tends to happen.
I became the Glitter Goddess of Floydfest. I became an attraction. I had repeat visitors. I had a man who was slightly enamored with me. At one point he approached me and said, "Now I know you aren't supposed to talk, but don't you sometimes have the urge to converse with someone?" I just shrugged my shoulders, shook my head "no," and sprinkled him with glitter. He laughed heartily and told me I was wonderful.
For the first time in my busking career, a little boy acted as if he would steal my money. It was an odd occurrence, this kid peering into my tip bucket, looking up at me, reaching his hand into the bucket, pulling it out and looking up at me again. The money, not my presence, was of more value to him. This created a weird sensation in my psyche. A momentary sadness.
I had a lot of requests for healing. A lot of requests for prayers. Several requests for hugs. A lot of people told me I was awesome. A lot of people said, "I love you."
Can you imagine? In no other job have I received this sort of praise, admiration and sheer love!
When I took my dinner breaks, I removed my make-up, wings and wig but left my costume on. It's awkward usually for me to reveal my statue's identity. But here, it was less so. People cocked their heads as they looked at me, trying to connect this pink face with the golden one. One little girl, who had been scared of my statue, looked at me, and I said, "See? I'm just a person!" She cracked an uncertain smile. One woman approached me and said, "My son loves you! He talked about you all last night." A teenager looked at me stunned and said, "I thought you were a real statue! Man! You're good!"
The best gift of all, the very best one, came from a little girl whose face was painted to be a rainbow tiger face. She wore a long tie-dyed dress and two braids in her brown hair. As I was packing up at the end of my busking on Sunday, still wearing my wings and make-up, the little girl's mother came up to me while the girl stood several steps back. The mother told me how much I had touched her heart. She said, "My daughter, my little girl, she told me you are her daughter." The woman now had tears in her eyes. "My little girl said that. You are her daughter."
These words triggered the memory of a girl's voice that I heard while standing on my box: "Look, Mommy! There's my daughter! Yes! She is! She is my daughter!" These words were dismissed along with the flood of other words that entered my hearing sphere during the day. I looked at the little girl, realizing it had been her. Talking about me. I broke the rule of all living statues everywhere and spoke.
"Are you my mother?!" I asked. The little girl nodded her head confidently. I went over to her, knelt down and hugged her. "Thank-you, Mother!" I said. The girl smiled and gave her mother an I-told-you-so look. Not a sassy, disrespectful I-told-you-so look. Rather, a See-mom?-Magic-is-real! I-told-you-so-look. The mother thanked me and we hugged. I waved good-bye to my Mother. And I packed up my box.
A heavy rain descended, soaking me through and through. My wings, still attached, drooped down. They will need to be re-made. I threw my gear into the car, changed clothes out in the open, and walked around the festival grounds one last time with my Ally.
Floydfest's lights at night are so pretty. There are so many colors, shapes and textures. One truly feels as if magic abides. I absorbed as much of this happy magic as I possibly could before leaving. Upon leaving, I felt satisfied. As if I had done what I'd come to do. Make money, sure. But it was something else. I needed to regenerate Love in my heart. I needed a break from internetland and all the negativity emitted via social media. I needed nature. I needed immediate contact with people. I needed to put Love out into the world, one person at a time, one handful of glitter at a time. I needed to feel as if I had contributed one tiny bit of healing to our collective psyche. And remarkably, with one silly costume and a bunch of glitter, I feel I was able to do this.
It is an odd measure of success, this feeling of walking in step with myself, spreading whatever Love and Light I can muster. In the material world, I have no position of authority, nor any esteemed title with a powerful organization. I make enough money to live the life I care to live. My measure of success is not linked to money. And since money is so important to a lot of people, I used to beat myself up about my skewed nature. But now, I understand. I know the source of this misplaced definition of accomplishment: I am the daughter of a child. A rainbow tiger-faced girl.
I am grateful.
Floydfest is full of hippies. It is a four day-long music festival in the mountains of Virginia. The musical styles represented range from bluegrass to funk, creole to boogie-woogie, often crossing over to jam band territory. It is a children friendly event which programs a variety of activities and performances specifically for them. There are wide open fields in which people toss Frisbees or juggling sticks, bang on various drums, scale a climbing wall or relax in hammocks. There are dream catchers as tall as a building to which one fastens a scrap of fabric with a message of Love that they've written on it.
This was to be my first year participating in Floydfest as a living statue and Floydfest's first year accepting buskers. No one knew what to expect. I went into it hoping to make up the costs accrued going there but attempting to have no expectations whatsoever.
Upon my arrival at the festival grounds, I began to feel that knot of uncertainty in my gut. I showed the gatekeepers my credentials and was directed to the staff parking and camping area. The plan was to pitch a tent on Friday and then hook up with my Ally on Saturday. He would be driving his phenomenal 1973 GMC RV to a campground nearby in which I would sleep comfortably. I parked on a crazy steep hillside which only an all terrain vehicle could traverse. It hurt my thighs to climb this hill. It hurt my thighs to go down this hill.
I wandered over to the staff camping area surrounding a small pond. Tents were pitched tightly against one another around the entire perimeter. Space was available on a steep hill. This did not seem appealing to me. I abandoned my search for a campsite and decided to explore the festival grounds to get a sense of the layout and the vibe.
Let me here emphasize how hilly Floydfest's grounds are. From the staff parking lot to the festival entrance, I walked a gradual incline which sharply increased, leveled out again right outside of the entrance, sharply increased again just past the entrance, then decreased to another gradual incline before leveling out to become somewhat flat. I estimate the distance from parking to flatland to be half a mile. But I'm no judge of distance. Particularly when walking up hills.
I was immediately overwhelmed by the volume of people and sound and the intensity of smells. Yes, patchouli. Of course. But also sandalwood, spicy foods, wood smoke and woods. I walked the entire breadth of the festival and felt overloaded with sights and sounds. The air seemed thick and hot and hard to breathe. So I made my way back across to the entrance and from there proceeded to my car. I felt dizzy, literally feeling as if I was losing my footing with each step. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Maybe it was a flatlander trying to adjust to hills. But when I reached my car I had to sit still, drink water, eat an apple to recover and once again feel somewhat grounded.
I needed to pitch my tent before dark so I decided to do so in the parking area itself. I found a space that was enclosed by cars which no one would be able to access with their vehicle. I am not the camping sort. This was the first time in my life I'd ever set up a tent by myself. I had to call my Ally for direction once. But eventually I had erected a structure that looked like it would protect me from the elements. Sort of.
It began to rain. Rather than test the tent, I sat in my car, ate a little food and readied myself for another excursion to the festival grounds. Nahko and Medicine for the People were going to play later and I wanted to catch their set. I decided not to try and busk, rather to acclimate myself fully to the festival.
It was getting dark by this time and the crowd was growing in size and rambunctiousness. I noticed a vendor who sold stainless steel mugs that you could refill as many times as you like with sodas that had no caffeine and were made with cane sugar. I purchased one and filled it with root beer. The cold, sweet frothiness was like manna from Heaven to me. It fueled me. It empowered me to go forth and stand among the masses waiting to see Nahko.
I walked to the opposite end of the festival grounds to the stage where Nahko would play. The vast number of people present was astonishing. They were listening to the band playing prior to Nahko and when it ended, the gigantic horde flowed from the stage area towards me. People were walking directly towards me. That is to say, no one had any sense that I was present. I had to avoid bumping into virtually everyone. I have never experienced this phenomenon. It was as if all sense of personal space had vanished. I marveled at this while dodging bodies. As soon as I was in an open area, I could breathe freely.
I moved to what I thought was a comfortable distance from the stage with a handful of others to wait. The band set up and ran sound check. Gradually, more people packed themselves in around me. My comfort capacity had been reached. Yet the crowd continued to grow. Before long, I was packed in the middle of a sea of bodies, all exuberant with expectation. Different smoke-able substances were lit around me. I stood still, trying to figure out what to do with my arms, which suddenly seemed to be in the way. I tried to maintain balance, which became hard once the band began to play. Everyone around me was jumping, dipping, swaying, pumping their fists. It was too much movement for an unbalanced equilibrium to endure. I remained in my position for the duration of two songs before deciding I needed to somehow negotiate my way out of the crowd.
Let me again say that all the bodies were tightly packed together. In order for me to make room for my body to pass between others, I had to slowly step forward and say, "I'm sorry. Pardon me. Excuse me please. I'm trying to get out." As I edged my way through the people, each person, I kid you not, each person rubbed my back or lightly scratched it with the tips of their fingernails, scratched my head, tickled my neck. This informal intimacy took me aback and internally I bucked and brayed against the Love being offered by these lovely people. I felt embarrassed for no fathomable reason. But I had to admit, the kind touches felt good.
Once I broke free from the crowd I slowly walked to the back of it, savoring Nahko's message of Love and Indigenous Empowerment. I watched children dance with abandon on a small stage illuminated by two torches. It became a tribal ceremony of sorts. I was entranced for a while but grew too tired to remain. So I hiked back to the staff parking, to my tent.
A bit of rain had seeped into the entrance. I flung my sleeping bag across an inflatable mattress that was only partially inflated. I cared less about blowing it up than I did about laying down on it. I flipped the dampest side of my pillow over and slid into the sleeping bag. It was then that I noticed how great an incline I was on. My sleeping bag started sliding down the tent, towards my feet. I laughed to myself at the silliness of this predicament. I experimented with different positions in order to limit my sliding. I managed to become slightly still, at which point the obstacle to my sleep became the sounds from the festival. The music was broadcast away from the festival grounds and to my ears on loud speakers. In this way, I was able to take in the last of Nahko's set. But before his set ended, another band began on another stage, the two musics co-mingling.
The cacophonous roar, the not quite inflated mattress, the sleeping bag sliding every time I moved, and the monumentally bright spot light that lit up the parking lot for late travelers - all kept me awake until around midnight. At last, sweet sleep enveloped me. Like a cool rain quenching a parched earth, I felt relief. Until the fireworks started.
I woke to an explosion directly overhead. And then another. And another. It took a moment to realize that these noises could be attributed to a fireworks display. Which was, again, directly overhead. How do I know this? Because the debris from the explosions fell onto my tent. So there I was, awake again at 1:30 a.m, wondering whether my tent would melt. I swore a bunch of swear words. And even though I was exhausted beyond description and my nerves were on edge, I knew in the back of my brain that this would be a funny story eventually.
When the fireworks stopped, I tried to make myself comfortable again. But the music seemed much louder and much more agitating. I wasn't sure what band was playing but I found their sound to be grating on my last nerves. And the constant shifting of body positions from agitation just caused the sleeping bag to slide uncontrollably. I was completely fed up at this point and got in my car where I could at least muffle the sound a little. Unfortunately, the monumentally bright spot light now shone directly into my eyes. I blocked my windows with whatever items I had handy in the car: a towel, a t-shirt and so on. I reclined my seat and tossed and turned the rest of the night away.
At 4:30 a.m. I very nearly packed up and drove home. I was wide awake and miserable. I had to pee and didn't want to climb down the steep hill to the port-o-potty. I lay there marveling at the level of commitment festival attendees had for partying, wondering where and how I could pee, wondering if I should just leave, realizing I had to stay otherwise I would hate myself. Eventually I got out of my car and peed, though I will not tell you where and how. I climbed back in with a renewed commitment to stay and eventually dozed off a few times.
The sun came up and I packed up the tent and prepared for my day ahead. A man who was clearly strung out on something approached me and started a conversation. At first, I was resistant and tried to brush him off. This mean part of my being wanted to be judgmental. But I relaxed and allowed the conversation to go where it would. This man was harmless. The exchange was fine.
I slowly negotiated the hills and bumps and holes and rocks to the festival grounds in search of coffee. I found it. With a long line of people waiting for it. I sighed and proceeded to the back of the line. I engaged in conversation with the woman immediately in front of me, which made the wait time seem minuscule. I bought a coffee and migrated over to a small group of musicians playing Neil Young's "Helpless." The woman who had conversed with me in line told me that they do this every year at the festival: get together in the mornings and play. Their rendition was sweet, gentle, comforting. I sat on the ground soaking it up.
It was one of those beautiful days that one can only experience in the mountains where the sky seems more vibrantly blue. And closer. The air cool, the sun hot. I savored the moment with gratitude. I conversed with yet another person and marveled at how easy it was to talk with people up there. Effortless. No games. No agendas. No gossip. No negativity. Just relating to each other as people.
This. Yes. I had endured the night for this.
I strolled around to see what was happening and how many people were around after such a late night of revelry. Again, the level of commitment these folks have for partying is impressive. It was not quite noon and already people were merry-making.
I left to meet my Ally at the campground where I would stay that night. It was fabulously quiet: surrounded by trees and rolling hills covered with Queen Anne's lace. The thought of sleeping there after a day of busking delighted me to no end. We both returned to the festival and I suited up to begin my day of busking.
For those of you who do not know me, I perform as a living statue for tips. I paint myself gold from head to toe, don a pair of paper wings and hold a small bowl of glitter. I stand perfectly still on a "pedestal" and wait for tips. When people deposit something (preferably cash) into my bucket, I merely look into their eyes and sprinkle glitter on their heads. Then I resume my statue form of stillness.
It surprises me at times that people do not notice me. They walk right past me as if I am actually a statue. When I move, they are shocked. This makes the acquisition of monies a bit more challenging. At Floydfest, more people than usual did not notice me - a person dressed up as a statue, being still on a box, awaiting their interaction. At times like this, I simply start indiscriminately slinging glitter. And this generates the desire in many people to come up to me and "get glittered." "Glitter me!" they'll say. "Oh! Give me some, too!" I play along with this. I look at it as passing out free samples of my work in the hopes that someone will eventually pay me. And this tends to happen.
I became the Glitter Goddess of Floydfest. I became an attraction. I had repeat visitors. I had a man who was slightly enamored with me. At one point he approached me and said, "Now I know you aren't supposed to talk, but don't you sometimes have the urge to converse with someone?" I just shrugged my shoulders, shook my head "no," and sprinkled him with glitter. He laughed heartily and told me I was wonderful.
For the first time in my busking career, a little boy acted as if he would steal my money. It was an odd occurrence, this kid peering into my tip bucket, looking up at me, reaching his hand into the bucket, pulling it out and looking up at me again. The money, not my presence, was of more value to him. This created a weird sensation in my psyche. A momentary sadness.
I had a lot of requests for healing. A lot of requests for prayers. Several requests for hugs. A lot of people told me I was awesome. A lot of people said, "I love you."
Can you imagine? In no other job have I received this sort of praise, admiration and sheer love!
When I took my dinner breaks, I removed my make-up, wings and wig but left my costume on. It's awkward usually for me to reveal my statue's identity. But here, it was less so. People cocked their heads as they looked at me, trying to connect this pink face with the golden one. One little girl, who had been scared of my statue, looked at me, and I said, "See? I'm just a person!" She cracked an uncertain smile. One woman approached me and said, "My son loves you! He talked about you all last night." A teenager looked at me stunned and said, "I thought you were a real statue! Man! You're good!"
The best gift of all, the very best one, came from a little girl whose face was painted to be a rainbow tiger face. She wore a long tie-dyed dress and two braids in her brown hair. As I was packing up at the end of my busking on Sunday, still wearing my wings and make-up, the little girl's mother came up to me while the girl stood several steps back. The mother told me how much I had touched her heart. She said, "My daughter, my little girl, she told me you are her daughter." The woman now had tears in her eyes. "My little girl said that. You are her daughter."
These words triggered the memory of a girl's voice that I heard while standing on my box: "Look, Mommy! There's my daughter! Yes! She is! She is my daughter!" These words were dismissed along with the flood of other words that entered my hearing sphere during the day. I looked at the little girl, realizing it had been her. Talking about me. I broke the rule of all living statues everywhere and spoke.
"Are you my mother?!" I asked. The little girl nodded her head confidently. I went over to her, knelt down and hugged her. "Thank-you, Mother!" I said. The girl smiled and gave her mother an I-told-you-so look. Not a sassy, disrespectful I-told-you-so look. Rather, a See-mom?-Magic-is-real! I-told-you-so-look. The mother thanked me and we hugged. I waved good-bye to my Mother. And I packed up my box.
A heavy rain descended, soaking me through and through. My wings, still attached, drooped down. They will need to be re-made. I threw my gear into the car, changed clothes out in the open, and walked around the festival grounds one last time with my Ally.
Floydfest's lights at night are so pretty. There are so many colors, shapes and textures. One truly feels as if magic abides. I absorbed as much of this happy magic as I possibly could before leaving. Upon leaving, I felt satisfied. As if I had done what I'd come to do. Make money, sure. But it was something else. I needed to regenerate Love in my heart. I needed a break from internetland and all the negativity emitted via social media. I needed nature. I needed immediate contact with people. I needed to put Love out into the world, one person at a time, one handful of glitter at a time. I needed to feel as if I had contributed one tiny bit of healing to our collective psyche. And remarkably, with one silly costume and a bunch of glitter, I feel I was able to do this.
It is an odd measure of success, this feeling of walking in step with myself, spreading whatever Love and Light I can muster. In the material world, I have no position of authority, nor any esteemed title with a powerful organization. I make enough money to live the life I care to live. My measure of success is not linked to money. And since money is so important to a lot of people, I used to beat myself up about my skewed nature. But now, I understand. I know the source of this misplaced definition of accomplishment: I am the daughter of a child. A rainbow tiger-faced girl.
I am grateful.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Moral Pontifications Regarding Babies and Monies
I sat in the cafe area of Planet Care yesterday eating my dinner: a banana, an apple and some peanut butter. I've run out of money again. I rely heavily on peanut butter and bananas for my sustenance at times like this. It is unfortunate and ironic that I work in a supermarket filled with healthy foods that I cannot afford. Sometimes I laugh at the irony. Sometimes my ire is too great for laughter.
As I looked out the window of the cafe area of Planet Care, I noticed a pregnant woman and a man, presumably the person who impregnated her, get out of their car and walk across the parking lot to the doors of Planet Care. I had an immediate sensation of revulsion in my gut upon seeing this pregnant couple. I examined this revulsion and found myself thinking, "Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age?!"
Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age.
Suddenly, the realization hit me: I have allowed the cannibalistic mentality of society to consume my thought process. I have, to a degree, lost hope that our world will improve. I have temporarily become That Person Whom I Abhor at any sort of family or social gathering: the Pessimist. The Nihilist. The one who focuses on the destruction of the planet's natural resources, the monopolization of our food supply, the corporate takeover of our government, the unwillingness of the NRA to be reasonable, the vast number of people who are blatantly angry and aggressive who contribute further destruction through their anger and aggression. I have grown angry. And I am contributing to the destruction of the world around me through this anger.
My thoughts have been cycling around the topic of money to the point of obsession. How can I make more? What job can I see myself doing that would pay enough to comfortably sustain me? I've invested money in therapy so that I can overcome the obstacles to my own growth....so that I can get a job that is more in alignment with who I am and what I am, a job that pays me a living wage. I have taken money out of my food supply and put into a professional counselor for this reason.
The stunning realization is that there is nothing wrong with me. I am merely trying to conform to a world whose principles I reject. I have worth, despite the fact that I earn substandard wages. When I have time to write or paint or play music, I am aware of my place in this world. Everything makes sense. When I put time and energy into the pursuit of money (job-hunting), I feel like I've raped myself.
The thing that has become abundantly clear is the need to create a new world for myself. A world of freedom. A friend once told me that we are all slaves to money. Whether you have it or whether you don't, your existence is ruled by money. My goal is to emancipate myself from this mental slavery. My goal is to spend more time enjoying my life by doing the things that I find rewarding and less time chasing money. It is an attitudinal shift. Not a financial one.
While it can be argued that one needs money to do the things that one enjoys, I will argue that one can find a way to do the things one enjoys without money. For example, I was painting with The Greensboro Mural Project one Saturday and a man pulled over in his car and offered free paint. Free paint?! How can that be?! He's a painting contractor. He has a lot of left-over paint from jobs he's done. Rather than take all this to the recycling center, he would like to give it to people who could use it! Imagine that! Free paint from someone who was just going to throw it away!
There is a facebook group called "Friends Swapping Stuff" where people will post the need to get rid of certain items and the need to acquire certain items. Sometimes it works like this: someone will announce that they have a couch they no longer need. They would like to have garden tools. So someone with garden tools approaches them about swapping for their couch. Or, someone who needs the couch finds someone with garden tools and gives that person something that he or she needs and then swaps the tools for the couch. Sometimes people offer things for giveaway and do not ask for anything in return. I got a piano this way. The only thing I had to do was move it.
I want to believe in a world where money doesn't rule. I want to utilize resourcefulness and cooperation rather than fear and competition. While I recognize that money-making will be a part of my existence, I do not want my existence to be defined by money-making. Rather, I want my existence to be defined by the sheer joy of living as manifested through creative acts.
I went on a job interview recently in which I was asked what I would like to see myself doing in a job scenario. I immediately said I'd like to write.
"What else?" he asked.
"I'd like to utilize my networking and promotional skills."
"What else?"
"I'd like to work with the public."
"What else?"
"I'd like to....."
I started to zone out here. What was he asking me exactly? How was I supposed to answer? I was really trying to avoid saying things like "I want to paint vaginas all over Greensboro. I want to make mask and puppet theatre pieces in the park downtown. I want to bring Carl Sandburg's "Rootabaga Stories" to life. I want to be in an all girl cowpunk band that writes and performs silly songs. I want to make movies." I knew if I said these things, I wouldn't get the job. But those are the things I really want to do. So I edited my answers. There was a time when I did not do this.
I had an interview once in which I was blatantly honest. I did not get the job. But I was on top of the world at the end of it. Happy beyond measure. Because I'd told the truth.
To lie to myself and others is to diminish the life force inside of me. Creativity is my Truth. I vow, therefore, to only speak the Truth and nothing but the Truth.
As I looked out the window of the cafe area of Planet Care, I noticed a pregnant woman and a man, presumably the person who impregnated her, get out of their car and walk across the parking lot to the doors of Planet Care. I had an immediate sensation of revulsion in my gut upon seeing this pregnant couple. I examined this revulsion and found myself thinking, "Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age?!"
Why would anyone want to have a baby in this day and age.
Suddenly, the realization hit me: I have allowed the cannibalistic mentality of society to consume my thought process. I have, to a degree, lost hope that our world will improve. I have temporarily become That Person Whom I Abhor at any sort of family or social gathering: the Pessimist. The Nihilist. The one who focuses on the destruction of the planet's natural resources, the monopolization of our food supply, the corporate takeover of our government, the unwillingness of the NRA to be reasonable, the vast number of people who are blatantly angry and aggressive who contribute further destruction through their anger and aggression. I have grown angry. And I am contributing to the destruction of the world around me through this anger.
My thoughts have been cycling around the topic of money to the point of obsession. How can I make more? What job can I see myself doing that would pay enough to comfortably sustain me? I've invested money in therapy so that I can overcome the obstacles to my own growth....so that I can get a job that is more in alignment with who I am and what I am, a job that pays me a living wage. I have taken money out of my food supply and put into a professional counselor for this reason.
The stunning realization is that there is nothing wrong with me. I am merely trying to conform to a world whose principles I reject. I have worth, despite the fact that I earn substandard wages. When I have time to write or paint or play music, I am aware of my place in this world. Everything makes sense. When I put time and energy into the pursuit of money (job-hunting), I feel like I've raped myself.
The thing that has become abundantly clear is the need to create a new world for myself. A world of freedom. A friend once told me that we are all slaves to money. Whether you have it or whether you don't, your existence is ruled by money. My goal is to emancipate myself from this mental slavery. My goal is to spend more time enjoying my life by doing the things that I find rewarding and less time chasing money. It is an attitudinal shift. Not a financial one.
While it can be argued that one needs money to do the things that one enjoys, I will argue that one can find a way to do the things one enjoys without money. For example, I was painting with The Greensboro Mural Project one Saturday and a man pulled over in his car and offered free paint. Free paint?! How can that be?! He's a painting contractor. He has a lot of left-over paint from jobs he's done. Rather than take all this to the recycling center, he would like to give it to people who could use it! Imagine that! Free paint from someone who was just going to throw it away!
There is a facebook group called "Friends Swapping Stuff" where people will post the need to get rid of certain items and the need to acquire certain items. Sometimes it works like this: someone will announce that they have a couch they no longer need. They would like to have garden tools. So someone with garden tools approaches them about swapping for their couch. Or, someone who needs the couch finds someone with garden tools and gives that person something that he or she needs and then swaps the tools for the couch. Sometimes people offer things for giveaway and do not ask for anything in return. I got a piano this way. The only thing I had to do was move it.
I want to believe in a world where money doesn't rule. I want to utilize resourcefulness and cooperation rather than fear and competition. While I recognize that money-making will be a part of my existence, I do not want my existence to be defined by money-making. Rather, I want my existence to be defined by the sheer joy of living as manifested through creative acts.
I went on a job interview recently in which I was asked what I would like to see myself doing in a job scenario. I immediately said I'd like to write.
"What else?" he asked.
"I'd like to utilize my networking and promotional skills."
"What else?"
"I'd like to work with the public."
"What else?"
"I'd like to....."
I started to zone out here. What was he asking me exactly? How was I supposed to answer? I was really trying to avoid saying things like "I want to paint vaginas all over Greensboro. I want to make mask and puppet theatre pieces in the park downtown. I want to bring Carl Sandburg's "Rootabaga Stories" to life. I want to be in an all girl cowpunk band that writes and performs silly songs. I want to make movies." I knew if I said these things, I wouldn't get the job. But those are the things I really want to do. So I edited my answers. There was a time when I did not do this.
I had an interview once in which I was blatantly honest. I did not get the job. But I was on top of the world at the end of it. Happy beyond measure. Because I'd told the truth.
To lie to myself and others is to diminish the life force inside of me. Creativity is my Truth. I vow, therefore, to only speak the Truth and nothing but the Truth.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Of Monsters and Money
I had a bad dream last night: a dream with terrible monsters. It's rare for me to have bad dreams and even rarer to have monster dreams. Needless to say, this rare phenomenon gave me cause to ponder the meaning inherent in the work of my subconscious.
I was with a team of investigators exploring a derelict old house. Our hope was solve a series of strange disappearances which had yielded remnants of human tissue but no substantial body parts. Foul play was definitely at work. And a grave sense of evil loomed over this ramshackle structure.
We wandered about the house finding residues of human blood and tissue. We collected samples of everything we found. But when we entered a room that was covered in gore, we stood paralyzed, wondering where to begin.
It soon became apparent that a supernatural force much greater than a mere mortal was running rampant - yet contained in a single house. Once a human entered this house, she was at the mercy of this force. This force - whatever it was - threatened not only to extinguish the life of any human in its presence, but to consume her soul. Thus, this person would be completely obliterated with no trace of her existence remaining.
The monsters that manifested in my dream had human form. But they were grotesque and hideous exaggerations of humans. They were zombie-like: mindless eating machines.
The Grunt monsters were the most immediately threatening as they were the ones responsible for actually killing the humans. But they had no reasoning faculties. So it was easy to confuse them. Once befuddled, they became ineffectual.
The middle and upper management teams plotted their evil take-over of all things good and pure, but were interrupted when the Grunts were stymied. It became necessary to motivate the Grunts anew. Overseeing this massive cluster fuck was the CEO / Deity monster, who lost patience and reminded his workers that the goal was complete devastation, loss and despair. Total annihilation.
In a moment of clarity, I realized that I was in a dream and I could change the course of my fate. I could, for example, conjure the power of flight. This awareness propelled me to climb onto a cement window frame and prepare to leap into the void and soar to freedom and safety. But as I perched on the window frame, I prevented myself from doing this. It was as if I had decided that total annihilation was my lot in life and I must accept that grim reality.
In trying to piece together some semblance of meaning to this bizarre dream, I wondered today whether a fear of death might be at the root of it all. Not my own death. I am actually not afraid of dying. I am, however, afraid of losing the presence of loved ones.
I cannot comprehend death. I cannot accept that the life of a beloved will one day cease and all evidence of their existence will remain in objects. But the quality of that being - their essence - will forever be removed from my experience.
For example, I have been thinking of Lee Wallace a lot lately. He is quite ill with pulmonary fibrosis. And there is nothing to do, apparently. Lee will die as the result of this illness. This awareness creates a great deal of distress at the core of my being. I met Lee just this year and have become incredibly fond of his unique manifestation on this planet. I selfishly wish to benefit from his presence for a while.
I am afraid of Lee Wallace's death. Because it would mean a cessation of his expression. His Voice - the manifestation of his Creativity - will be extinguished. Material artifacts reminding us of his Creativity will remain. But the experience of running into Lee at random places, conversing with him about nothing in particular and listening to him play guitar will be no more. This is inconceivable. It is just wrong.
I have a fear that all Truth, Beauty, Freedom and Love will ultimately be snuffed out by all the ills of the world. The ugliness, prejudice, pestilence and fear of this material world perpetually threaten the fragile beauty of the Creative World. Monsters annihilating Humans.
On a different level, it is curious that the hierarchy of monsters in my dream parallels the hierarchy at Planet Care. This begs the question, "Am I annihilating my soul by working at Planet Care? And am I resigned to this fate, unwilling or even unable to change my it?"
I frequently become frustrated with my life as a Grunt. I feel the need to free myself from the confines of the corporate artifice - not that anything is wrong with the corporate artifice. It can exist within the walls of the derelict old house. I would just rather soar into the fresh air and daylight of expression, allowing the manifestation of my own Voice and my innate, yet dormant, Leader.
But if I were to fly, where would I go? How would I make money? How can I justify leaping into the void when there are bills to pay and health insurance to be kept? I cannot answer these questions. And so, I step back into the house of carnage and accept my fate. Total annihilation. The stifling of my creative voice.
I suppose this dream may have been created out of the dread of an imminent customer service training class at Planet Care.
Periodically, the Grunts of Planet Care are expected to attend Planet Care pep rallies in which they are praised for a job well done and encouraged to do their jobs even better. One such rally is fast approaching. In a few days I will attend a mandatory two hour-long customer service training session. During this session I expect to be taught how to better serve the public. I expect to be taught how to be cordial, welcoming, helpful, and most of all, how to sell more products. Because the bottom line is this: by giving good customer service, we will increase sales.
I will subject myself to the stultifying effects of corporate jargon and attempt to escape alive and unscathed, soul intact. Yet as I sit for two hours, aware of the erosion of my mind, it will be difficult for me to avoid thinking of monsters that want to annihilate me. And me, perched on a window frame, free to fly away, but choosing not to.
I was with a team of investigators exploring a derelict old house. Our hope was solve a series of strange disappearances which had yielded remnants of human tissue but no substantial body parts. Foul play was definitely at work. And a grave sense of evil loomed over this ramshackle structure.
We wandered about the house finding residues of human blood and tissue. We collected samples of everything we found. But when we entered a room that was covered in gore, we stood paralyzed, wondering where to begin.
It soon became apparent that a supernatural force much greater than a mere mortal was running rampant - yet contained in a single house. Once a human entered this house, she was at the mercy of this force. This force - whatever it was - threatened not only to extinguish the life of any human in its presence, but to consume her soul. Thus, this person would be completely obliterated with no trace of her existence remaining.
The monsters that manifested in my dream had human form. But they were grotesque and hideous exaggerations of humans. They were zombie-like: mindless eating machines.
The monsters were organized into different strata, creating a monster hierarchy. Labor was divided into The Grunts, who mindlessly ran amok maiming and mangling humans. Then there were The Overlords: the monster supervisors. There were a couple of tiers of supervisors, kind of like middle management and upper management. Then there was the big CEO monster who was slightly deified by the middle and upper management monsters.
The Grunt monsters were the most immediately threatening as they were the ones responsible for actually killing the humans. But they had no reasoning faculties. So it was easy to confuse them. Once befuddled, they became ineffectual.
The middle and upper management teams plotted their evil take-over of all things good and pure, but were interrupted when the Grunts were stymied. It became necessary to motivate the Grunts anew. Overseeing this massive cluster fuck was the CEO / Deity monster, who lost patience and reminded his workers that the goal was complete devastation, loss and despair. Total annihilation.
In a moment of clarity, I realized that I was in a dream and I could change the course of my fate. I could, for example, conjure the power of flight. This awareness propelled me to climb onto a cement window frame and prepare to leap into the void and soar to freedom and safety. But as I perched on the window frame, I prevented myself from doing this. It was as if I had decided that total annihilation was my lot in life and I must accept that grim reality.
In trying to piece together some semblance of meaning to this bizarre dream, I wondered today whether a fear of death might be at the root of it all. Not my own death. I am actually not afraid of dying. I am, however, afraid of losing the presence of loved ones.
I cannot comprehend death. I cannot accept that the life of a beloved will one day cease and all evidence of their existence will remain in objects. But the quality of that being - their essence - will forever be removed from my experience.
For example, I have been thinking of Lee Wallace a lot lately. He is quite ill with pulmonary fibrosis. And there is nothing to do, apparently. Lee will die as the result of this illness. This awareness creates a great deal of distress at the core of my being. I met Lee just this year and have become incredibly fond of his unique manifestation on this planet. I selfishly wish to benefit from his presence for a while.
I am afraid of Lee Wallace's death. Because it would mean a cessation of his expression. His Voice - the manifestation of his Creativity - will be extinguished. Material artifacts reminding us of his Creativity will remain. But the experience of running into Lee at random places, conversing with him about nothing in particular and listening to him play guitar will be no more. This is inconceivable. It is just wrong.
I have a fear that all Truth, Beauty, Freedom and Love will ultimately be snuffed out by all the ills of the world. The ugliness, prejudice, pestilence and fear of this material world perpetually threaten the fragile beauty of the Creative World. Monsters annihilating Humans.
On a different level, it is curious that the hierarchy of monsters in my dream parallels the hierarchy at Planet Care. This begs the question, "Am I annihilating my soul by working at Planet Care? And am I resigned to this fate, unwilling or even unable to change my it?"
I frequently become frustrated with my life as a Grunt. I feel the need to free myself from the confines of the corporate artifice - not that anything is wrong with the corporate artifice. It can exist within the walls of the derelict old house. I would just rather soar into the fresh air and daylight of expression, allowing the manifestation of my own Voice and my innate, yet dormant, Leader.
But if I were to fly, where would I go? How would I make money? How can I justify leaping into the void when there are bills to pay and health insurance to be kept? I cannot answer these questions. And so, I step back into the house of carnage and accept my fate. Total annihilation. The stifling of my creative voice.
I suppose this dream may have been created out of the dread of an imminent customer service training class at Planet Care.
Periodically, the Grunts of Planet Care are expected to attend Planet Care pep rallies in which they are praised for a job well done and encouraged to do their jobs even better. One such rally is fast approaching. In a few days I will attend a mandatory two hour-long customer service training session. During this session I expect to be taught how to better serve the public. I expect to be taught how to be cordial, welcoming, helpful, and most of all, how to sell more products. Because the bottom line is this: by giving good customer service, we will increase sales.
I will subject myself to the stultifying effects of corporate jargon and attempt to escape alive and unscathed, soul intact. Yet as I sit for two hours, aware of the erosion of my mind, it will be difficult for me to avoid thinking of monsters that want to annihilate me. And me, perched on a window frame, free to fly away, but choosing not to.
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