This Might Surprise You But…
WRITING PROMPT: Write about something in your life that might surprise people. How do I know what’s going to surprise anybody else? I was surprised to learn, at age 10, that Santa Claus wasn’t real, and neither was indestructible parental trust. I was surprised to learn that evolution and gravity and germs are still just theories. I was surprised to learn that our government has signed treaties not to use weather modification technology which supposedly doesn’t even exist yet. How dutifully responsible of them. I was surprised at my 18th birthday party. I was surprised when the nursing home I used to work at had a bomb threat called in. I was even more surprised to learn, after trying to help a 90 year old woman out of bed, that it was just a drill. I was surprised to learn that people earnestly believe the US two party system gives them real choices. Do any of those things surprise you? How do I know? So how can I know if my measly little traumas and triggers, or set backs that get bigger will surprise you? How do I know if my film festival laurels or screenplay awards will surprise you? They certainly surprised me. And I was even more surprised to learn that none of them came with cash prizes. Though I suppose I shouldn’t have been. Would it surprise you to know I’m bashful? Everyone just assigns me the role of extravert because I can hold my own at dinner parties. But what nobody sees is the hot bath, fat doobie, and 1/2 season of crap TV I need just to patch myself up after a social gathering when the plastic smile sometimes seems to melt into my face, burning me and hardening that way. You can be entertaining and an introvert. You can nail a punch line, understand sarcasm, be handy with a zinger and still be shy. You can dish it but not like to take it, despite whatever stupid limerick you were taught about heat and the kitchen as a kid. It just so happens I like the kitchen but I don’t want it to to be hot in there so I’ve installed Central AC, metaphorically speaking. I can’t actually afford central AC, I’m an artist, and a student for Pete’s sake. But no I cannot take the heat, and no I will not leave the kitchen. Thank you. Would it surprise you to know I fear my own shame and I’m ashamed of my fear? Life coaches don’t have those right? They’ve supposedly taken the cure and seem so secure But I just let my imposter syndrome run me through like a skewer Until my thoughts have gone tumbling down into the sewer Sure that I’ve seen it all and there is nothing newer Would it surprise you to know that I’ve been a thief? Or a drug addict? Or a user, a liar or a cheat? Because I have. But would it surprise you to know this cheat has also been a benefactor, a lover, a forgiver, a giver, a hugger, a kisser, a friend, a coach, a healer, an artist, a dreamer, a child, and a fellow human. You’ve been all those things too. Don’t act so surprised.
I’m the Main Character and I’m Comfortable with that.
WRITING PROMPT: Write about a moment the main character feels awkward, out of place or uncomfortable. You are the main character of your life. And I am the main character of mine. Even if you are a wounded people pleasing kiss ass like me who feels very comfortable in the sidekick role you are the main character nonetheless. It just happens to be in a show where the main character is a wounded people pleasing kiss ass, but he, she or they is still the lead. The starring role. Inside the world of a world-class sidekick. Now that we’ve established who the main character is. Yes we have established it, for you it’s you and for me it’s me, couldn’t be clearer. So it’s firmly established. You and/or me is the main character. Or whoever else too, from their perspective. So, now, as the main character I wrack my brain for an out of place, awkward and uncomfortable moment. The flood gates open and I find myself instead in a sea of out of place moments, bopped around by the awkwardness and overwhelmingly uncomfortable, searching around for a moment I felt in place, a buoy in the storm where I felt comfortable, and like a good fit. That’s the unicorn. The moments of belonging, like precious gems hidden in the rock cliffs of a life lived on the edge of comfort, sometimes over that edge, always edgy. The moments of belonging don’t seem to belong to me. Instead I belong to them, owned by them, covered, protected, nurtured by them. I don’t just belong, I am absorbed, enveloped by an energetic acceptance that comes only when I allow it, for it never stops pushing its way toward me except for my refusal to allow it. I am actually in a sea of belonging, but my emotions tell me I am out to sea, that I cannot see, that the only grade I’ll get is a C, or god forbid a C-, the polite nod of pathetic pity from a teacher who didn’t have the heart to fail you. Well, failure is just feedback in the land of those who accept themselves. And a C- is a badge of honor for those who eschew social status for self-exploration. And a moment of feeling out of place is the realization of a lifetime lived out of sync. And that, my good friends, ends right this very moment.
What Is The Meaning Of This?
WRITING PROMPT: Everything you write must be a question, in the form of a question, or a request. What have I always wondered about? Do I want to know about the nature of reality? Or the secret meaning of life? Is there even a secret meaning or is there really just vast impersonal permission to do whatever I want save for the obtrusive intervention of government and other people? If there was a secret meaning, and it was for some god-forsaken reason shared with me, would I be able to understand it? Know how to implement it? What would be my responsibility then? Would I be required to share it? Or live by it? Would it change my purpose, knowing this meaningful secret to life? What if there is no secret meaning? What if there is no meaning really other than meanings I decide about with the brain and the cocktail of chemicals mixing around in there? And did I even decide which chemicals would be produced? Did I decide which synapses would fire together? Or are those things just happening in an invisible but inescapable chain of cause and effect and they are deciding me? Is the idea of decision at all a total illusion? Is free will an ego-centric mind delusion and I’m just a coincidental collision of molecules that happens to be able to ask complex questions? But are they meaningful questions? Do these questions matter? And who decides if they matter? Certainly I’m not the decider, am I? In some Hindu culture they claim we are all God, don’t they? And in Yoga they say the divine inside each of us is made of the same shit, right? So is it possible I am both the decider and the decision? Is it possible the idea of decision and decider as separate entities is the delusion, like the idea of a flower being able to thrive without a bee? We see the bee and the flower as separate entities, but are they? Or do the bee and the flower arise together, intrinsically linked, an eternal response to each other? Is it like that with us, the decider and the decisions we are making? What do I do now with all this new wondering that seems to have me floundering? Does all this pondering just keep my mind thundering; drawing me savagely nearer to blundering or gently closer to surrendering? What do you think?
The Sweaty Warmth of Skin & Sun (A Sensory Piece)
WRITING PROMPT: Describe the most vivid texture you’ve ever touched or felt. I can’t decide between the thin sheet of warm sunshine on my sweaty skin post marathon or the warm sweaty skin of 35 year old male lover muscles after a hot shower. Both generate heat. Both knock me off my feet, but in different ways. One touches me during the daytime and one slides in at night. One of these textures comes from a million miles away And one snuggles right up and holds me tight. One of these sensations can cause a burning on my skin And the other one causes burning too, but that’s a fire deep within The sun that hits cold wet skin feels like an immersion, a comforting, an invisible electric blanket on a cool spring day when all you want to do is rest in the muscle-y arms of your lover and watch the sunset one last time as you trade one feeling of warmth for the other. The warmth on my skin giving way to warm skin.
Ordinary Beauty
WRITING PROMPT: Describe something ordinary in a way that captures its beauty. One of the most ordinary things I can think of that is also generally not quickly linked to beauty is garbage. Specifically garbage trucks. And more specifically garbage day. And if I’m going to be down right particular about it, I’m talking about the entire Swiss watch of an apparatus called the local sanitation department that connects to the ganglion of other sanitation departments creating a national sanitation department brain that somehow, for all it’s handling of, management of and sorting of garbage single-handedly does a most pristine, fabulous, and nothing short of extraordinary job of keeping our streets, towns, cities, states and entire sprawling nation clean, and well, for the most part pretty dang beautiful. Garbage men with beautiful hearts doing a job that requires beautiful discipline to create the result of beautiful neighborhoods. This happens repeatedly. Systematically. Consistently. Without failure in a way so dependable and regular it takes on the hue of a sunrise. And indeed in most places on most mornings it happens before dawn or as the day dawns, a literal beauty truck secreting away our ugliness before the day breaks and we are forced to look at our waste and trash and gratuitous choices. But the sanitation system scrubs my conscience clean along with my streets. And I am grateful. Like Garbage Island in the pacific ocean, all of the trash in my brain has been localized in one spot, ready to be cleaned up, dissolved or hauled off when I’m ready. Until then the sanitation department, looking at our grotesque societal underbelly week after week without judgement, without faltering, is a true, steady and unshakable thing of beauty indeed. Don’t ever talk trash about your sanitation department. That’s a sure fire way to get yourself kicked to the curb.
Believe It Or Not…
Believe it or not there is no such thing as solidity The concept of matter has almost no validity When the quantum investigator looks at atoms she finds mostly empty space sparsely dotted by electrons and protons, which, if you zoom into those are also mostly empty space. Mere sparks, made of quarks. The studiers of such things are starting to think solid matter is really a matter of perception Based on how we perceive We experience a world we each conceive Based on what the mass of grey matter between our ears decides to believe But what if it has been deceived? About anything? Or everything? Then how would I know if I know what I know or if I know nothing because maybe there is nothing to know, or maybe there is nothing, like if nothing is solid then there really is no thing out there. No things at all anywhere. Or are we all just one thing, in which case the idea of being solid or not would suddenly become irrelevant And if we are all one thing then it seems logical that nothing could be considered irreverent Because it’s all being done by agreement In this matterless life that’s made of space but feels hard as cement A strange paradoxical existence I admire and simultaneously lament I don’t know how to be alive Because nobody’s taught me Everybody’s forgotten Or nobody ever knew how.Or perhaps there is now “how” to it after all. There is just being. Just what is in this very moment is also the mastery of that very same moment. It can never be improved upon because it will never return again. But if another like it comes I can be more ready, more alert, more prepared to handle it with grace, all this circumstance that’s made up of mostly space. I’ll look it in the face But like a psychedelic fractal void of intimidating color it doesn’t blink as this geometrical gaze stares unflinchingly back at me, penetrating me. I want to say it is becoming me, but just at the moment I realize how absurd that sounds I also realize something else. Of course it not becoming me, that is absurd for it has always been me, and there is nothing but me in existence in all the world. Not “me” as is Brian, but me as the consciousness that connects Brian with everything else. “me” as in the empty space that science has figured out how it works or what to call it, so it is ineptly called simply “the field”. I am the field, and I feel it fully. There is nothing to learn, there is nothing to be, there is nothing to achieve because there really is no thing at all. And so I just start laughing.
If My Favorite Mood Were A Type of Food What Would Be The Recipe to Make The Perfect Batch Every Time?
I suppose the main ingredient, like the base, the flour would be a belief in my inner power. Without that I can’t make anything at all. Have you tried making bread without flour, the enterprise is dour, and the mood becomes sour. So once I’ve measured out my six cups of inner power I’d need to add some water….the ingredient that can transform inner power into something bankable like dough. So the water is my imagination, that makes my power kneadable, and malleable. When imagination and inner power are mixed together you can beat it down and it retains its shape. You can break it apart it but it just transforms into the raw ingredients for biscuits instead of loafs. You can’t make imagination and power useless. Even without anything else involved it came become flat bread. So once I have the perfect combination of imagination and inner power, my water and my flour its time to get clear on what I’m making, so that my imagined desire can start baking. Perhaps I need yeast if I’m trying to rise to the occasion Perhaps I need salt if I’m trying to enhance a situation Perhaps I need herbs if I’m looking to spice things up Or some cheese sauce to fill my cup. Or some strawberry jam if I’m trying to create more sweetness Or just a warm, secure oven to bring my vision to completeness The recipes I could make are infinite in number I could make a salad of emotions, or use only cucumber The trick is to find pleasure in the various combinations To be a world class chef learning to bake with skill So that when life brings its inevitable tribulations We are eating what we choose, and are bellies always full.
WRITING PROMPT: I Wish I Had (blank) Yesterday!
I don’t know what I wish I had yesterday Sometimes I just wish I had yesterday back Or last year, or my 30’s, or my entire broken childhood And sometimes I don’t want any of that back at all. I’d rather look forward, stand tall And not waste my energy on trying to recall But avoiding the past can cause our passion engine to sieze unto our life is stalled The past is part of who we are, and it’s never truly that far away, So even though it’s yesterday It colors today, in every way, What we say How or even if we play If we see things vibrant, or rosy, or dank, dark and grey If we forgive or try to make others pay If we mediate or if we pray I wish I had clarity yesterday I wish I had courage yesterday I wish I had pizza yesterday, I wait I did that. I wish I had trusted myself And taken my dreams and passions back off the shelf They say if wishes and buts were clusters of nuts we’d all have a bowl of granola Which just goes to show ya That wishing and resisting Is like fishing and insisting on certain outcomes And when they don’t happen we shake our fists at the sky screaming “how come?” But who is supposed to answer that for us? Is that God listening, or the sunshine, or the universe, or source energy or aliens, angels, or space monkeys In the absence of a response from above we become junkies Looking for the next dogma or ideology to become flunkies Because belonging to a group gives us the illusion of certainty Or sureness, or rightness, or safety I’m not saying there is no God. I’m asking how we get to know God. Do we need to be on our knees, or read tea leaves, or aim to please? Or can we go within, to our deep core, our inner knowing at our center, And find, unexpectedly that’s where we can enter Into the mystery of life, a divine relationship with our own broken selves is where healing cascades from and where it returns to. So yeah, I wish I had understood all that yesterday. But the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, they say, and the second best time is now. So I wish I had a sapling and soil yesterday, so today I could plant my tree.
Creating An Ideal Future
The idea of an ideal future appeals to me greatly. Ideal in the sense that is the best one possible. Who doesn’t want the best thing possible. Its probable to say perhaps everyone wants the best of all possibilities But what happens when possibilities seems to be drowned out by inevidibilities Like government control Or heart disease Or a heavy far too humid breeze Or a mandated hiring freeze Is disaster inevitable or is the way to circumvent it possible, but ineffable? Ideal futures are ideally the new present moments. In creating a future a paradox emerges because the only time we have available to create this future with is the present. The now moment. But the now moment, at first glance, seems anything but ideal. I deal with back pain You deal with mourning and loss The globe deals with war and weather and our intractable failure to finally come together 100 years ago we had a new deal Now they want to give us a green new deal So I don’t know what we do from here, I don’t know how to deal, how to feel, how to break the seal on my fear and Start creating that ideal future that I say I hold so dear How do we ideally open to new ideas when there is Such weight to our human disaster And suffering always comes after And seems to be coming faster and faster Our problems won’t be solved with a back room deal or getting an unconstitutional act repealed Its going to have something more to do with figuring out how to get healed, and then when you are strong picking up your shield So you can walk, protected onto the battle field And with nerves steeled and the truth revealed You show others how to put down their weapons How to break free from their deceptions And then, taking a deep breath, you we invite ourselves to a banquet, a feast, a new kind of grand reception. I’d rather have a party than a war. Ideally, that could be our future, because that would be a really good deal.
If My Worst Fears Came True It Would Mean…?
From a writing prompt: If my worst fears came true it would mean I’m 67, alone, dying, impoverished, publicly humiliated, and universally scorned. And it would be pervasive. You’d be risking your reputation just to come visit me. There would be wholly unflattering dick picks of me online that somehow make me look smaller than is humanly possible. That’s my story anyway, and I’m sticking to it. I’d be ridiculed for my fetishes, which would of course all have been made public decades ago, but unlike the changing news cycle these stories stick around like the gum under elementary school desks, still hanging there decades later, covered in spit and barely decaying. Hardened. Stale. Forgotten. But at the same time nobody has forgotten. Someone somewhere has been keeping a meticulous list of my failures and timids, my betrayals and regrets and cataloging them by category. And reminding everyone. So even though I am forgotten, not one single one of my mistakes ever is. They are immortalized, judged as the worst of the worst, until my bubble burst and I had that public meltdown. You know the one where I ran naked on antipsychotic meds through the town square. That’s where the unflattering dick pics came from. I’d have a shred of hope that some experimental cure was going to help me live past the end of my 67th year only to find out my ungrateful adoptive children who don’t even exist yet were playing a prank on me. For fun. Because they are a failure too and I raised monsters. There is no cure. Never was. I have a week to live. Maybe days or hours. The kids don’t know or care. The nurses are mean. The help is unhelpful and cruelest joke of all is that I…I…
