I don’t know if McDonald’s still uses Grimace but it was hard not to love a giant triangular purple thing with a voice like Barney on pot. It would be great if the person playing Grimace turned out to be Mitt Romney’s illegitimate hermaphrodite sibling. In which case I can see how a person like that would see an audition posting for ‘large angular androgynous violet bulemic adult-child creature possibly from outerspace or genetically risen up out of the fecal sample of wooly mammoths’ and be the first in line. All I wanted to do is hug Grimace when I saw it. Or him. I’m still a bit tired and goofy as the energy field around the earth starts to go a little ‘ballistically crystular’ and sleeping is a suggestion by my body, not really much of a guarantee. Though I am catching up on it.
Like most artists, there’s always a gnawing little dissatisfaction with what’s right here and that’s not too Zen but at times, especially in the rusty man paradigms that litter society it’s good to be like a hungry lawnmower and move forward; I was talking to my dear friend last night about how, over the nine years in New York how I’ve had several opportunities to sell my scripts or my self for money and the freedom from the day jobs that soak up hours I really could use for healthier activities. And then, when something happens that doesn’t feel quite right I hang on to what I create and the ship sails the harbor and I struggle with self doubt and that quiet, pure Inner Sanctum Heart, that’s what I call that pure pulsar from the epicenter of the soul where the universe waits to start again in each of us, rests for a moment and I wonder if I am stubborn or afraid or something self sabotaging. Maybe a little of each or maybe nothing of it and I’m stronger, more certain and more clear about what I want and I realize it is faith, a real test of faith in seeing through what I imagine no matter what twirls around my head, babbles in my ear, distracts my palate from the pulsar sending out those purity rivers. I took a class a little while ago and the first ten minutes I got that feeling of a fish out of water and when the teacher, whom I’d know for about one hour, after reading my writing exercise, said something to the effect of ‘Oh, that’s like not you at all’ that’s when I should have bopped down to their registration office and said, ‘Hey, I remind this person of their ex-boyfriend or someone that killed their cat. I need my money back.’ Classes these days for me seem a waste; I just seem to remind teachers of something or someone they don’t want to face or handle. It’s happened before. It gets a bit frustrating when you’re looking for support. I’ve gone through some real zingers over the years. Everyone’s had a teacher where you go, ‘wow, you should be assembling barbed wire in a factory or refereeing cock fighting in Puerto Rico or writing sarcastic Hallmark cards, not working with human beings.’ The world operates at about 80% bullshit, I’d say. That’s probably low ball based on Occupy Wall Street hopefully shaving some of that down. Given all my jobs in corporate America over the last fifteen years, 80%’s a good number. Pure bullshit. Scarcity swirls.