For God so loved the game that he played it.
That’s all I have to say about that. I only wish Clown Head were still here in the game and not logged out.
For God so loved the game that he played it.
That’s all I have to say about that. I only wish Clown Head were still here in the game and not logged out.
How, why, normal?
Who says what’s?
Mine’s as mine as my foot size.
Defined, solidified by National Geographic
Boxes and shelves of people who almost must exist, sort of, because there are pictures
They sorta exist
You know, to be in here, to strike me
Look at that!
So I can dig in the boxes for the most shocking naked, huge, wrinkly, big bright feathery, tiny, adorable or sinking bony.
Curious dark friendly eyes slanting behind skins and furs
Naked painted long breasted moms
All that stuff on their heads taller is than they are
why would anyone move like that?
And in public.
Measuring the world with my foot.
Is everyone, every single believer, having an intimate personal relationship with the same person Big Polygamy?
presence is electric-electricity
it charges your phone
it’s you-and it’s you when you notice
you plug into your own
flip a switch with your attention
inner solar power connects
it goes super nova
as you fall in love
your football team won
I think The original was better:
I’m just want to name, own, describe, and get what I do.
I’m pretty clear who I am.
My gifts are part magic part audacity, part art
Lots of ever kind of composition, strings of intuition, mostly listening, while taking things apart.
Mostly, I just pay a fresh attention, wonder, do research and thought experiments, maybe try a few things, cuz I really do wonder about that, then wonder aloud. Tweak my own perspective if something’s really stuck. Mostly, my client winnies out then names what’s going on. She comes up with answers , then figures out how to see it, feel, think and act. While I just sit there and wonder.
I sit there openly wondering about one thing and another. While also in Wonder and jaw dropping amazement as mere becomes super.
So, you think shifting that this way will cut out the friction over there?
Why can’t I see how that’s working then?
Oh, so you say you just needed a cog there, then, yeah I totally see how that works.
But that’s not the magic.
I guess I market their ideas dreams and themselves to them.
So by the time it’s done, they own it, made it, believe in it. They believe in themselves are right in the middle of their purpose.
I think I sorta allow people to reinvent themselves, their relationships, goals, purpose, system, then I market what I see to them.
They buy themselves and walk away rich.
I think the hardest thing for me is to admit that this is so easy and joyful for me that I’d get on buses just to sit next to someone to see one small part of a life turn around, a brightness, a bounce, a stunned or contemplative look, maybe an aura of joy, before one of us reaches our stop. An addictive time sensitive game. I wouldn’t do it in pursuit of just a smile. Smiles are like snow flakes. Unless my victim hasn’t smiled in a decade. Then, they’ll be smiling when they step off the bus. That would be a win.
The other, and more terribly hard thing for me about thing is the awkwardness of charging of people for a gift that feels kinda magical cuz describing how it’s done in unimaginable and duplicating it is dead.
Also, what if I commit to help, and gasp! charge, and then the genie that actually does all the work doesn’t show up!?
I fear. No, dread and deal dead having to do the same thing every day. I know there’s no magic or future for me in attempting rote magic production. Yet, for some irrational reason I can’t stop feeling it’s to be my fate if I dare put my name out there to get paid for this.
I have this fear of ending up like the farmer’s daughter. The one who got locked in a cellar after her father boasted that she could spin straw into gold. She gets locked up and cornered into weaving more straw into gold, every night. Suck might happen to me too, till I end up promising my soul and my firstborn to to Rumplestilskin. Letting people who are counting on me down is just as terrifying.
I guess when you live in a magical world you have fairytale fears. And just because it doesn’t exist, doesn’t mean I don’t keep backing away from some invisible thing in my imagination.
I need someone like me to help me out. I’m dang good at helping folks kick imaginary shit they’ve been backing away from’s ass.
Where am I when I need me?
And why I adore dialogue with you on here.
Your insight is dramatically helpful in the monumental process that is a story teller turnings shame into vulnerability.
Your points give a clear much needed out for when us writers doubt what we are really doing.
We need this way out of our maze of fear and lies we believe feel and react to. Believing I’m exposing my friends makes me feel defensive and small like a weasel. I often suspect myself of something that makes me just like a
Writing a good story is big work.
It’s heavy lifting to process reality into an uplifting story that makes sense and creates meaning and change.
Figuring out how we got out of a tricky spot and how and why we succeeded who and what where the problems and what we learned worked or works is an art. Sharing it is brave.
Finding a way out of lives that won’t bring joy or flow properly no matter what you do or hide is priceless.
I think your points do something to help bring my personal imagination out of the bone yard. A place where I feel like I’m betraying and hurting rather than helping. Hurting isn’t my nature. So I feel paralyzed. So, I fight back.
tabloid producer and accuse myself mercilessly. So I figure the whole world is gonna see me like what I am, some Rita Skeeter, that horrid witch reporter for The Daily Prophet let’s her magical green feather pen stretch butcher and molest the truth about Harry Potter and his friends without a spark of conscience. She’s one of my least favorite fictional characters, ever. So, I’m ready and on the offensive and the defensive, when just like Rita Skeeter, I make this crap up about myself. Then, like the annoying Wizarding community I go and believe the whole thing.
So, then I’m defensive as heck.
I am not like Rita Skeeter!
While I am the only one in this “conversation”.
Only trouble: I wonder if all great writers must have this stupid “conversation” and find a way to end it every time and move forward.
You’re list did something lots of books on writing I’ve read didn’t do.
I’m not sure what it is, but I feel a little bit quenched. In a good way. : )
All the best writers write about what they know with a terrific purpose that’s got nothing to do with exposing their friends. For me, its It’s about helping myself. My friends are part of my life, and lots of what I learned is from my not-so -friendlies. What else is there to write about? How else than to tell my own experience of myself and how my friend’s and family’s crap has affected them and me and the rest of us?
But “Who do you think you are to judge you big meany!?” Still needs to be dealt with regularly. It’s gotta be dealt with. I have to do it. And I have to do it regularly, the way some other professionals have to build up their confidence regularly.
I believe the majority of great story tellers, have to do this. And your words are helping me now. And maybe, it’ll never get as bad as Rita without me knowing where the attack is coming from again.
I wonder if my inner critic identified with a sensationalist tabloid producer. I feel aversion to. I don’t know anything about tabloid writers, and don’t consider them great, or story tellers.
I guess I feel like they are infections. When we are not immune the rest of us wonder if we are also being paid to be contagious pernicious judgey gossips with no right to feel good about our calling.
Huh. I just realized something.
I guess I haven’t figured this out. I don’t know any sensationalist gossip writers at all. Not one person I know thinks I’m that way either.
I just realized. Me trying to avoid being that way is ludicrous. I spin in that cycle rather than just realizing I am not that way. Huh.
There’s really nothing to talk about.
Note: May get permission to use the points that sparked this. Gotta post my response there first and see if I am nuts after all.
It’s that “resume” part of jobbing I wanna elbow the hell aside, punch out then tear past whooping.
I feel myself speed out of the stupor of conformity into the real, whatever it really is.
The thought of that octupussy pandora’s trap makes my skin crawl. That squirmy zombie octopus has a super power possessing shadow side.
It’s designing dangerous and only alive in the insidious way of all deadly systems are alive.
It’s, it’s not natural.
It’s not actually alive. And it’s not part of the beauty of the ocean. It’s a monster.
It’s the sweet lost ghosts of distant past I grew out of. Memories. Fantoms meant to predict the future. When they don’t.
It’s the past with it’s claws dug into my future’s neck. It pins down what’s alive and chokes it into zombie hood.
Thee looming boredom of repeating the past hurts my soul’s teeth like scraping them slowly all the way down that familiar chalkboard.
Designing my own restrictions trying to do again what I did well before takes me back to being naughty.
“No go pick me a willow to spank you with.”
You are supposed to be choosing the stinging green willow branch to whip red marks onto the backs of your bare legs.
This ends as it begins. Like writing a resume.
I’d rather go put on some stipper shoes.
How do you get invited back?
Here’s a skill that works for every one every time.
Well, every time unless you talk 90 and listen 10. In that case there’s nothing can save you.
Wanna know how to get invited back if you also know how to listen?
Want lots of people to notice when you show up?
Here’s how: Bring The Salsa!
Not just any old salsa. The Salsa. Don’t even think I’m talking about any random you snatch up on the way last minute to not show up empty handed. Not this or that restaurant recipe works real magic.
Whatever jar of chunky tomato matter off the shelf, even a gourmet brand, your thinking of has no relation to this discussion.
Most homemade salsas aren’t secret weapons either.
This here is the secret weapon.
This and a bag of chips will have people calling ahead to see if you’ve arrived yet.
It’s not expensive. It’s love.
It’s also simple.
After years of getting asked: How do make that amazing salsa you brought? And me telling, showing, and writing it on scraps or on napkins or note paper or texting it. I also wrote it in cards as a gift, and shared it with guests. I finally wrote it down again. This time after texting it for the fifth time to one of my nieces. She urgenly requests it when she needs to make a splash. I finally just wrote it out and snapped a picture to send out as needed. Just this morning. For good.
Cuz last night Rachel, that’s my niece, requested it and I sent the tips and secrets to her in seven texts. ”Remember to not add water!” kind of texts.
So, I finally wrote the whole thing clearly after lots of practice and lots of crumpled paper. I also got to use my new fountain pen for something special.
I just texted a shot of this, finally. This written-down-for-the-first-time salsa recipe, to my sister Sasha. She’s one who let’s me know when and where she’s gonna be and reminds me how much she loves my salsa and how she hopes…Every time she visits from LA.
And no, she can’t get salsa this amazing at even the best Mexican restaurant. What’s worse, she thinks this particular salsa is an enigma and only I can work it out.
A minute after I send her this recipe she responds:
”Is that how you make the best salsa in the world?”
Yep. That’s how I do it.
Sasha isn’t a bad cook herself.
But with this magic salsa, God is in the details. So is good taste.
Follow the directions. Without substituting garlic salt or canned tomatoes as unless you’re good with seeing your friends eyes glaze over. The universal sign of broken dreams. If you can’t get fresh ingredients delivered, just say your you didn’t hide it well enough and your other friends, kids, siblings found it. They will be incensed and feel cheated, but they’ll understand. Careful to blame it on characters they’re not likely to meet socially like the dog, no Santa, it can get awkward when they call out your presumably innocent roommate for ruining that one party.
Do it right.
Then stand back and watch your friends crowd around the dip bowls and all conversation go silent till the salsa runs out.
And “Where’s the Salsa?” replaces conversation.
Is there any more of this guac?” becomes the topic. It leads to serous inquiries. Don’t be alarmed by the determined expressions of the those inquiring into where that salsa came from. Be ready when inquiries lead back to you.
Remember you’re not responsible for all the people who didn’t get some. How they feel when everyone who got some won’t stop bragging isn’t your fault.
Bragging about the best damn salsa they ever tasted, and too bad for you it’s gone, is a natural human reaction to being on the winning side.
All you can do is promise to double the recipe next time.
See. That’s it. Next time. You’re in.
The word speeds fast. You’ll be asked around so you can pick and choose.
This magic only works made fresh.
If you can pull this off and all is going smooth and your ready to up your game Upgrade your salsa.
For just a few dollars more you can turn the Best Salsa in the World to the best Guacamole in the Word.
All it takes is two or three ripe Hass Avocados cubed or smashed and lightly folded into some or all of the salsa.
The effects though blow every ones’ taste buds. So save it for when you really want the attention.
Be advised though. Once you upgrade prepared to stay upgraded. Or people will start wondering if you really do love them after all.
Tomatoes can be blackened and peppers blackened and peeled and in advance and refrigerated for up to three days.
Garlic paste and especially avocado only happen fresh.
This salsa makes unknown numbers of people show up to parties who otherwise wouldn’t. It starts conversation, facilitates connection and keeps friends coming together. So it keeps friendships growing and community strong.
Friends will call to ask if there’s still guacamole.
No? We’ll see you time then.
That’s just one of the risks of a community run on your salsa.
The advantages though are immense.
Hence this is my contribution to world peace.
It can not be mass produced.
Only you can bring it. Fresh for your friends.
Next people will try bottling friendship.
This recipe’s also linked up like network marketing.
Every time you bring salsa or guacamole joy to your friends I score.
I accumulate them karmic points off your efforts. I’m sure they are added up somewhere.
So get out there roast, peel, smash smoosh and serve up some happiness-with chips.
Make me rich!
Oh, and world peace and all that too…
My cracked crumbling heart that’s been delapidated and falling to pieces for two decades. It’s about my kids.
Their father permanently spirited my two oldest daughters away to Mexico. They were two and four. So, they didn’t get to have a mother.
My youngest daughter is with me, but she’s with out her father or sisters.
That was after my baby son died. So, he’s okay. But I was never quite.
And here I was year after year trying to compensate for all the love, attention and things, this, my one kid left, has been missing out on. While at the same time, I’ve consistently missed my exiled daughters. Then, of course, there’s that ache where a baby is suppose to be. That doesn’t improve matters.
It’s twenty years later. My two Mexico girls grew up. Without me.
We got in touch, after all these years. They are okay. However, they’re totally convinced that I abandoned them. So, all the abandonment, loneliness, and other miseries they suffered are totally my fault. Every bit of it. I won’t go into just how totally innocent their father is right now.
For my part. Rather than helping this, my one kid left, to focus on growing strong, overcoming, and going after what she needs and and doesn’t have, I focused on protecting her. So, I am pretty responsible for some of the stuff she blames me for.
So, right now, only my son isn’t pissed at me for Mother’s Day.
Now that I recognize my same-old-crap behavior patterns from my shitty-old-relationship, I notice that my kids are on the same direct course to where I’ve been.
It’s terrifying to witness.
Do I regret my life?
They probably won’t regret theirs either.
So why not just be happy?