Casper Was A Punk

He (why was Casper a "he" anyway? It's not as if he had any organs to differentiate his sex, right?) had no cause to existing as a fathom of one's imagination, he just hovers around, poking at whatever insecurities might exist when the lights are all turned out. Some thread of our existence quests for identifying the ghosts, I think. To have a tangible thought to assign our fears to maybe. Or that we can generate hypertension in lieu of contending with the real change agents of character.
Change agents are really the masquerading "Casper's" - the chubby, rounded, smiling and floating fear-driven punk that's invading individual progress. The flip side of this though is that the little apparition is as transparent as breath in wintertime.

Take the change agents, the ghosts, the fears as a tool, ... and there in lies real growth. Too afraid of being presented with what's on the other side of Door Number 1...or 2...or...it is typical; comfortable to stay with what we know. In that however, everything else additionally stays the same. A comfortable numbness might show face at this stage, often accompanied by depression, psychotropic medication and eventually, the withering of our core, until we're so mechanical that we don't challenge any longer. The Casper's of the psyche won't give any indication that blunt survival (if you can title it that..."survival") is the end goal of initiating fear, but it is. Those who don't challenge, don't pose a problem. Or as an attorney once presented to me, "just take your sour grapes and go home"; a "don't question my authority!" expected of the masses.
Getting back to the immensity of change agents, or as I like to see them, the would-be life altering accelerant to potential power. We each have several opportunities throughout life to acknowledge and accept our challenges and venture on into the unknown, flashlight or not. With each step of intention into that unknown we gain strength and a clearer perspective. Not to be paralyzed by those little storm troopers of ignorance, we should recognize those threads of opportunity, rise to the occasion and swallow hard the idea that your life will never, ever be the same. But you must, must...must, be willing to do the work, put in the time, make the changes that unfold to you, wake up...and breathe. Recognize that the only thing that will stall the process, the awakening, the movement; the only thing that will inhibit growth, or halt awareness is fear. Fear that the recipe might not produce a delicacy, or fear that the end product will render us with less than our start. Fright of a hundred cognitive "what if" scenarios for every small percentage of change we're called to do. And why?

Because Casper is a punk!

Mental

She came to suggest it was a manifestation of the mind.

That's the only way she would be able to validate everything that had gone down over five years. How uniformly the pieces lined up too, when she uttered the words: "only in my head". To herself of course, there were very tangible issues occurring succinctly with those that played in her psyche. They were different though; the tangible ones. They were the ones that had places, times, patterns and cut far deeper than the reasoning assigned by apologies. They scarred over but were picked at by the mental pick-lock kit and they'd even heal if only she'd stop tonguing the thoughts; the blame.


Between what she could see and feel and that w3hich she could not, she hovered. Determined not to role play the victim any longer gave a fierce blow of freedom and power, but also engaged the mental minions of doubt and fear to engage the wheels of uncertainty. And yet - she recalled how determination had led her to this very place where she now beckoned it to taker her from. Faulty wiring, maybe. She did allow for enough time to pass until deciding upon the cognitive reproach after all. If there was something else that might explain all this, then maybe it would venture to be heard before running off. Yes? Yes? No.

In her mind's eye she could see that charred treasure map that was the layout of her life. The destination always being happiness was fraught with heartache and hardship when she backed up her game piece from the space it resided. She'd gone too far ahead on the board before paying the jailer or having that audit done. And quite simply; that was not allowed.

Mental; it was all mental.

You Don't Know What You're Doing

Language:

That illusive pet that we each engage in the morning; that irritating reminder that we sometimes don’t measure up, language is the vehicle for all thought, action and intention.
I often wear my heart on my sleeve, I'm entirely too sensitive at times and succumb to bouts of depression when I'm not cognizant of where my head is at. I take more than my share of things personally and as if they’re at attack on my heart. I often can’t explain what I'm thinking because there simply seems to be too many words and one, in particular…that I’m thinking of as the main descriptor.

On many occasions this is a “flaw” so-to-speak of the Type-A personalities and often, one of the most difficult issues to compete with. I’ve sat countless hours in therapeutic seminars and stress-relief classes where I’ve felt the need to correct the speaker or have inserted my own set of verbiage in order to clear the air for the way I could feel my mind processing what I was hearing. This…Is not a good thing.

This morning, the thought occurred to me that there is a power given to language depending on the context, form and tone of the message; mostly tone. When handed an insult say, it becomes insulting depending on the way that we perceive our own self image. If someone were to call a name that has no meaning in our mental dictionary that word would then cease to have any power. On the other hand if someone insulted our ability to be a “good” person, a “great mom”, or the way that we look – reacting as if an insult is in a sense, to say that we have agreed with enough of the statement to feel powerless against it. That we additionally think we’re not “as good” a person as we should be/could be, that we’re not a “great” mom, that we are: ‘ugly, stupid, ignorant, etc.’ enough so, that hearing the statement from someone else is as if they’re exposing our vulnerabilities to everyone…and how dare they!

It’s probably the reasoning behind why I have such a difficult time developing a resume. Whomever played with the chemistry set for making a ME must have eye-balled the recipe and put in way too much idealism because I find it very difficult to fib about having the ability to do things or be something that I don’t feel 100% about doing or being. You know, cutting and pasting in all those action words and power phrases for grabbing the attention of a perspective employer: managed, detailed, organized, lead, prioritized, supervised, and so forth. It never seems to measure up to enough of a description for my real abilities and always lacks in what I'm intending to present as a one-page descriptor of my self. And while we’re on the subject, who ever said that resumes should only be one page? I’ve read enough of the self-help resume starter kits for creating something fabulous to know that it should be original and spectacular like an action thriller movie trailer, but yet be in compliance with margin settings, highlighted name and contact information, font size and be in Times New Roman style. Dumb. Whenever I get to step 4 of the “create your own masterpiece resume”, I indefinitely quit because my urge is rather to scrap steps 1 through 4 and start over with a poster board, some finger paints and a medley of candid pictures, a sharpie marker, those shape-cutting scissors and a glue stick. I’d fill little comic bubbles with quotations from past employers and coworkers and then sum it all up with a highlighted statement (in much larger font) from someone prestigious that I’d cunningly convinced to speak as to my abilities and standards. None of it would be a lie, so I wouldn’t be stumbling over what to write where and how to phrase the statements, yet stay in the lines of what constitutes a proper representation of me. And it would be catchy, brightly colored and give the reader a face to identify with a quirky, glittery past because of all my candid shots.

Back to the original message however, language is the problem. It’s the drive and the road block – and how much of a conundrum that something can exist two-fold like that. The root cause of all internal battling, at least on my count it is.

“You don’t know what you’re doing…”

“Yes I do! No, actually I don’t. Wait. What did you say? What am I doing? I know! I know what to do!”

From the perspective that language is a mirror being held to our faces, or more appropriately, that insulting language is a mirror – that it can enable us to identify our problem areas…well, that’s much more pleasing that it being a constraint restraint to our delicate psyche. It’s like being a student rather than everyone else always being our jailor. So the next time I catch a phrase of “you don’t know what you’re doing…” I can mentally respond with the: “You know what? No. I don’t. Gotta work on that.” And then go about whatever it was that I didn’t know I was doing. Inevitably, it all works out in the end anyway, so vehicle or not, language is the voice-over for life. Heh. And to think that all I wanted to know what why resumes have to be limited to one page?

Breathing: The Temporary Depletion of Oxygen

It really came as no surprise that my mind once again tricked me into thinking the idealism I harbor was capable of overcompensating for the realism that exists. 

There are times when I feel as if I am a spectator to my own life, and how odd a feeling to be routing from the bleachers…for myself.  The parameters of human magnificence again I suppose.  I'm that rat in the maze of legal blunders. Right turn; left turn then a circle-‘round, then *Bam*…I run smack-dab into a petition, or a summons, continuing litigation and most certainly, notice of charge for a $50 phone conversation that I don’t recall having. 

When I read, I come across the bravest of statements to take charge, take control and become accustomed to the good things happening when you’re able to drop the negativity at the door and welcome the breadth of change with open arms.  On certain days, this rainbow outlook is more difficult to maintain than others.  Today = certain day.  Why is that?  The circle evolution of everything; it’s everywhere.  It’s like the quote: “The more things change, the more they stay the same” we somehow become accustomed to change that’s really not. The flipside of this, of course is that we could choose to be the change.  Where in essence, we’re the ones making the change.  I question if this is always a safe thing to do; probably not.  I remember pushing pretty hard a number of years ago in order to make something happen – something that I thought I was in desperate need of having happen and when all was said and done  -- well, here  I am, longing to get out.

Deep breath.  (Did you know that there's an actual technique to proper breathing?  Yeah, who knew? )  Apparently, I've been screwing up the breathing pattern and thereby, losing vital amounts of oxygen in the process.  Guess that explains why some days go bye in a zinger and others are mellow atonement's of the exercise of inhale/exhale.   Either way, there's purpose in them there walls and here I've been with my pick-ax, fumigating mask and galoshes, hoping that it'll all collapse before I do.  Take another step toward the purpose of creating the life I see and have faith.   That's where the context of it all lies.  


Okay -- for the sake of life as I know it,  I'll work on my breathing patterns and this exhausting exercise in futility.  I'll be certain to say my prayers at the dinner table and before bed....and when I brush my teeth in the morning and at work....oh, and during my breaks, and when I'm weeding the garden and when I'm in the bathroom....


You get the point. 

The Evolution of Fireworks

My thoughts remain somewhat obtuse this morning. They’re circling a vast theme of characters, references and time frames in the process of marrying young and divorcing early – of beginning a family and dropping dreams – somewhere among the process of becoming I’ve concluded that this really needs to materialize to a book. The raw materials are mined and lying atop the mine field, wanting for harvest. I'm just not sure how to place them all into a congruent timeline of events.




I return to the whole “If I were to paint a picture of my mind’s eye” explanation where that picture would be something of a woman jumping through the universe, attempting to collect the sparkly remnants of a firecracker; a big one! Drawn to the colors and the glittery essence of the big *Ka-boom!*, that woman would be spastically grasping at the air and pulling in the memories of such an explosion, never before seen by her and hopefully, never to be seen again. She would know that it holds relevance and meaning, but how does one encapsulate meaning into an interesting tale of deliverance? It has to have enough substance to engage the reader and keep them interested. It would have to pack a punch, yet not offend too entirely much. It would have to consist of just the right amount of tenderness, affection, loss and dismay – but with enough understanding to make a play for the heart strings of everyone who could identify and God knows there’s a bunch of them.

(Photo courtesy of W. Post: 2010)

And then there’s the timeline. Do I take it back to the early-birth-quack-social-worker-from-Stone-Ridge timeline that she thought she was professional enough to give an opinion on, but which she failed miserably? Or just start at day one of “Once Upon a Time: The Uncut Version”? Heh. The uncut version could sometimes be recalled as more of a mini-series or marital encyclopedia of what not to do when betrothed. Purposeful though; I do believe that it was all purposeful.

Well, until my firework thoughts calm enough to rub the particles out of my eyes and tackle this project head-on, I’ll put out there to ask that you stay-tuned. This is going to evolve, I can tell!

Be Not...

There is a bit of simple serenity when jaunting through the woods after a summer rain.  Behind me, trails the dog; nose feverishly smelling for a trail that may lead to some grand find...and my son.  He's seven and as such, has a capacity for language that I don't quite recall having at such an age.  It may be that the synapses are firing much more quickly than his gum-filled mouth has time to speak, or that he's simply a spontaneous conversationalist.  As it was, we trod in our flip-flops with but one, small hand trowel and the want to find a native plant that might suit our myriad of gardens in the manicured landscape of a back yard. 
The hound happened to sniff out a plethora of deer droppings and skittered away whenever a branch would snap, or a leaf would rustle and my son only seemed to find every poison ivy plant that exists this side of the reservoir.  Nevertheless, it was serene.  Imagining a time when the worries of parenthood and adulthood might be behind me, I figured that there is cause to stop and take in the space around.  As much as the days take up the time for working, the evenings following supper time are somewhat of a lost art form.  Although it did work to our advantage that dinner came earlier tonight, rather than the usual 8pm time frame that we have to work with.
Lovey and I spoke of instituting the much-sought-after summer delight of "Sunday Sundaes" again.  A wonderful idea brought on by none other than Grandma -- Sunday sundaes are just that...a call to all family members to Grandma and Grandpas on Sunday afternoon, armed with a sundae topping of choice.  Grandma supplies the ice cream and among eight siblings and significant others, we cover the gooey, chocolatey, nutty goodness (whipped cream too!).  So, after the search for greenery I'm thinking that there must be the priority of making up for lack of Sunday sundaes and make the times for jaunting ~ flip flops, or not.