the troll inside of me

sometimes when i look over at my hot sweet loving boyfriend, i can feel like i'm an imposter --looking out from a pair of bloodshot eyes and a troll body with scales all over my skin and warts covering my head, rolls of sausage fat tumbling out of my clothes, limping along next to him, drool and snot sliding out of every orifice.

 sometimes, though, i catch myself. i have a moment of clarity. i dont do positive affirmations that place me as the sexy sleek chic super spindly supermodel that giggles and little hearts float above her soft full locks of flowing hair that rests gently on her size C cupped breasts that gently yet pertly hang above her rock hard abs holding her tight ass and perfectly shaped muscular legs and petite heels, pedicured toes, entire frame --slightly hovering over the earth.

i dont go there. anymore. i dont even try.
whenever i do, i fail.
it just aint me.
and maybe aint any other body.

instead, now, the best i can hope for as i catch myself looking from those scaly features, gills for lungs and horns growing from my wrinkly brow --instead, i place myself as i am: 5'7" 130 lbs, thin brown hair that shines in the sun, little curly grey strands poking out, a smile that lights up my big brown eyes. my mother's bohemian nose to compliment my father's thin lips. perky B cup chest and a 34 year old butt (if you're under 30 reading this, enjoy it while you can). i see the thin frame with a funny little tiny belly, that wont budge no matter how many crunches i crunch or marathons i run. straight white teeth with an overbite and a fair complexion dotted by an outbreak of zits scattering my neck --subtle but there.

i glance at her in the mirror and smile. huh, she's pretty...

i smile, too, at the troll beast. she's become good company. and i've found that she's not going anywhere. she doesn't have to, not until she's ready.

Clowns in Nepal

Bouffons

On the fringe

Im doing a play for the San Francisco Fringe Festival. It's called Bend the Rules, Eat the Head. The play is doing me, is more like it. I have no idea whats up and whats down. I guess that's sort of the point when you put up a piece of theatre. I want to be the best. I want to win all the prizes and cash. And the irony here is that I'm writing this story about an eighty year old woman who has very little consciousness around this thing, this thing of wanting to be the best. I'm writing this as an homage to this voice, this parasite, this daimon, this brilliance, this whatever you want to call it, that bends the rules and eats the head, that owns all of it. Im writing this to her. So it makes sense why I would lose my mind in the process. And it makes sense why I would lose my shit in the process. And it makes sense that I would make the people fall asleep or look on in horror. I must continue to ask myself the question, why am i doing this? Why? For what end? Is the process, in and of itself ever enough? Can it be enough, right now? This journey has been FULL of meaning. Can this journey be one of service? Can I serve and inspire others to walk with courage? Can I ask that that be my calling? Yes.

We don't choose this stuff, my friends. It chooses us.

dont worry, its just love.

dude.
love conquers all.
and if our collective human mind fails to understand this,
love will conquer that too.

loves eternal conquest might not look very pretty to the human mind.
it might look a little like global warming, or perpetual war, or rape and incest.
but its just love violently manifesting in physical form.
calling us to wake up and see.

don't worry.
its just love.

Time is such a bitch

Jason's 32nd birthday is coming up in two days.

I always feel compelled to write a blog post around this time. Call it ritual.
Grief can be processed through ritual. I can buy that. I'lll sign my name under that. A repetitious action to acknowledge and honor loss allows the energy that feels displaced, it allows the energy a place to land and move through.

If he were alive this week, I'd call him. I'd wish him Happy Birthday.
I'd be excited for him to help me with the documentary screenings I've got going.
He'd love that film.
He loves that film.
Verb tenses are such a bitch.
If time is a constructed notion.
He loves that film.

It's time for bed. Regardless of anybody's social construction.

More on that here.