Imagine that you just had an encounter with your boss who has made a hasty judgment about you.  For example, she accuses of purposefully disregarding her order; but in reality you acted with initiative to give a fuller or more expansive answer and/or analysis to a problem.  She continues to say or do something that you feel is unjustified. You are reluctant to defend yourself knowing perhaps you’d be digging a deeper hole for yourself.  (This reminds me of a quote I saw on someone’s desk – “Don’t argue with a fool”.)

 Later, a friend who is aware of your explosive relationship with your boss meets with you.  In politeness and care he asks, “How are you?”, and you say, “I’m alright” when in your heart you’re hurt and angry and want to pour it all out.  Eventually the truth does spill over in the course of the conversation.

 That is a classic situation of words behaving as a mask.  We put on the masks to save ourselves and the receiver.  We want to save each other from the truth.  I don’t know why this happens so often that it seems like it’s a conditioned knee jerk reaction.

 In my Imagined Life classes my mentor Faline has encouraged her students to “Look well into the words.”  Discover the world behind the words.  As writers we purposefully choose the words that is put on paper.  I look back to the poem “Trippin’ Across The Bay” and can reword a few bars to be more succinct and precise in what I want to express.  When is it ever done?  We have all probably revisited an old piece of writing, and our point of view has probably shifted since the point in time that the thought and feelings were captured till eternity in that printed form.

 The ARE has one of the largest if not the largest collection of metaphysical writings in its library.  I was so overwhelmed with the books I came across in one place and time.  The book, “C.G. Jung and Hermann Hesse: A Record of Two Friendships”  by Michael Serrano, describes a conversation between the author and Herman Hesse.  The topic was the message of the poem “The Raised Finger” written byHesse. 

  “Words are really a mask, ” said Hesse. “They rarely express the true meaning; in fact they tend to hide it.”  excerpt from C.G. Jung and Hermann Hesse: A Record of Two Friendships.

 In the story telling realm the most dynamic situations is when the hero says something and does opposite of what they say.  Our human nature is to reveal ourselves in our display of actions and artistry, and not in our words.  Words do get in the way, because they are open to interpretation based on the filters a person is subject to.

 It is more telling to witness the hero tells his lover, “I love you,” before shoots his beloved.  If you have not read the short story by Thomas Mann called “Tobias Mindernickel”, it is such a fascinating read.  It depicts the Freudian concept of “Reaction Formation and Displacement”. 

The hero Tobias mistreats an adopted dog, Esau.  In final scene after Tobias had already broken Esau physically (after dropping him from a window) after Esau had disobeyed and escaped.  Tobias says to Esau, “You see, you are my only…my only…..”

Clay Sisman, an educator wrote:  “He never finishes the sentence. What was he going to say? What would he say that?”

The typical symptoms of Reaction Formation are:

• behaving the opposite of how one feels
• saying things that are opposite to what one believes

The typical symptoms of displacement are:

• anger and hostility toward someone or something that is not the cause of the anger
• a temporary inability to control of one’s rational thinking ability
• a temporary inability to control of one’s behaviors, typically striking out physically from anger
• a temporary inability to discuss things calmly and rationally

(Source:  Cybersisman.)

 Rounding back to the You-Boss situation.  The words of the boss who accused you of insubordination is likely masking her feelings of insecurity and fear of losing control.

 We are a fascinating species.  Our minds are wild with distractions and a wild mind begets unpredictable actions that betray the true nature of what lives in our hearts.  Thus I conclude the second series of “The Art of the Heart.”

 Thank you.

This week’s theme for my blogs is the collection of gold and gems that comes from an open heart hitting the open roads.  Welcome to the philosophy and practice of Art of the Heart.  Be it a joyful heart treading lightly on verdant footpaths or a lonely heart that is wound in the ribbons of past lives it is a practice of doing it for the love of it.

Part One – Onley in Virginia

Have you been to Onley, Virginia?  I stopped there overnight last week on my road trip to Virginia Beach to catch a band in the Mayhem Festival.

I walked into the hospice thrift store near Onley, a town with a small population (496 residents reported in the year 2000, household count of 223 and the size of 0.8 square miles) I was so happy and surprised to find a biographical book called “Footprints: The Life and Work of Wayne Shorter “.  In addition, there was a Michael Franks CD “Sleeping Gypsy” which has the jazz-samba song “Antonio’s Song” (dedicated to Antonio Carlos Jobim.)

These treasure finds put a twist on the expression  – ” Onley” in Virginia.

I dedicate this poem to the lovely persons I met in Onley.  I’m thinking of you Jay, Laura and the staff and members of the East Shore YMCA; and finally there’s thee owner/manager of the motel where I stayed.  He got out of the quiet of his mosquito-netting tent.  He told me that it was just 3 days ago that he and his wife sold everything they owned to buy  and run a motel in Onley so that they can escape the noise of Norfolk.   I was heading towards Virginia Beach/Norfolk area to go to listen to the heavy metal sounds of “All Shall Perish” in the Mayhem Festival.

But the real purpose of the trip was to see the ARE (Association for Research and Enlightment) which was founded by Edgar Cayce.  That story will be in a later installment of the series.

Thank you.

“What’s your story about?”

This is a question asked of everyone in my writing class every week, and every week I struggle for a definitive answer. It’s hard for me to stick to one theme, because my story is about everything when I fold in all the subtexts like the ribbons of vanilla and chocolate in a marble cake. But if I had to choose one theme then I would say, “My story is about forgiveness.”

In closing my blogging week my last question is “What does forgiveness look like?”

Forgiveness looks like a long hard road of letting go. Forgiveness feels like letting out a breath that I’ve held for too long. I gasp and realize I could’ve let go and sucked in fresh air with more oxygen and more life.

I think it’s a process for me and it usually begins with how deeply I’m wounded. I remember a day when someone very special to me said, “You’re taking this too hard.” I was devastated thinking of the the day when he wouldn’t hold me in that special place in his heart anymore.

I’m guilty of paying lip service on many occasions when I tell somebody, “I forgive you,” or “That’s okay”, because forgiveness does not come easily to me. As I get more experience I learn that in accepting “bad news” or an event is really about how I relate to it/the subject/the situation. Some things are just really hard to accept, and I hope for the gift of grace to grant me the power to forgive through and through.

Well, till next time around. I’ve enjoyed sharing these questions with you.

Thanks for reading.

Analyn

What is rage?

 Rage is when I’ve been ignored and I’m standing waiting to be heard.  Rage is when I’ve been forgotten, and I’m still waiting to be attended to.  Rage is when I’ve had enough. 

 There’s the story of Rosa Parks who defied the segregation laws of Alabama by refusing to give her seat to a white man.  She said that she was not tired, not anymore tired than usual after a day’s work.  She said that she was tired of giving in.

 This is a 4:39 minute video of the story of Rosa Parks as told by a 5 year old girl named Rio:  http://childwild.com/2010/03/11/the-rosa-parks-story-as-told-by-my-kid/

 Rage is when I’ve ignored my soul.  My power comes from my connection to my soul by listening to it and acting on the voice from within.  As artists struggling to do art and still be able to be self-sufficient financially this is a moment-to-moment challenge.  

 Maybe some of you are familiar with that feeling of wishing that we were writing, producing and growing creatively in theater all the time instead of working at a job to do the art.  The joy in not feeling the pinch to spend on paper and pen, or laptop and electricity that powers that tool; to enjoy the hours alone at a coffee shop watching, absorbing, translating, and writing, and doing it all over again.

 After a long day of working at the job I feel robbed of my soul, because I haven’t nurtured it with what it craves.  The only way I compensate it is with making connections with people I work with beyond the actual work at hand; or I attach a meaning to that paycheck.  The most effective way of combating this feeling is doing my work soulfully – really putting care into the product I produce or the service I provide.

 The personal microcosm of my rage seeps in ways that violate myself like I’ll eat too much sugar, indulge in alcohol, not exercise, tell myself I’m not worthy of this art – some really dreadful put downs which only makes the situation worse.  I can relate to fluidly to Thomas Moore’s explanation of rage when the soul’s voice is repressed.

 “If we don not claim the soul’s power on our own behalf, we become its victims.  We suffer our emotions rather than feel them working for us.  We hold our thoughts and passions inward, disconnecting them from life, and then they stir up trouble witin, making us feel profoundly unsettled or, it seems, turning into illness.” – Thomas Moore from “Care of the Soul” HarperCollins Publication

 So everyday I’ve been practicing just trying to be silent before I go to work and write down stream of consciousness pages.  I do my best to put down tracks or building steam of subtexts that I can write something to show myself (and maybe to someone) for validation that I have been working on my art.

The larger microcosm of rage is the violence of political wars.  I need not say more than this because you’ve seen it and heard of it.  There are people actively listening and doing to change the balance to be more respectful of everyone.  It is easier to give in to feeling hopeless and ineffective and distract ourselves with entertainment and/or hiding behind a job.  I am so grateful for having the opportunity to communicate to you with this writing.  And it’s after hours from my daily grind at the office.

 A change in one heart can create a ripple effect that creates massive changes in society and history.  When Rosa Parks died the former president Bill Clinton spoke at her funeral:

, I was reminded of what Abraham Lincoln said when he was introduced to Harriet Beecher Stowe, the author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. He said, “So this is the little lady who started the great war.” This time, Rosa’s war was fought by Martin Luther King’s rules—civil disobedience, peaceful resistance—but a war, nonetheless, for one America in which the law of the land means the same thing for everybody… That great civil rights song that Nina Simone did so well: “I wish I knew how it would feel to be free, I wish I could break all the chains holding me, I wish I could fly like a bird in the sky.” The end says, “I wish that you knew how it feels to be me. Then you’d see and agree that everyone should be free.” Now that our friend, Rosa Parks, has gone on to her just reward, now that she has gone home and left us behind, let us never forget that in that simple act and a lifetime of grace and dignity, she showed us every single day what it means to be free. She made us see and agree that everyone should be free. God bless you, Rosa. God bless you.” – President Bill Clinton on Nov. 2nd, 2005 in Detroit, Michigan

The Civil Rights movement in the US has shed a lot of blood and tears, though the original act was a simple defiance to stop giving in.  A woman remained seated in her chair.  When I look at other civil rights movements happening now it has mostly been a non-violent action of just words and not giving in.  It would be inaccurate to say that there has not been any non-violent actions against the established norm and these have been called acts of terrorism. 

 It’s vital to own every part of ourselves, and the shadows that we repress finds escape in unpredictable ways.  Accepting every part of ourselves also allows for a wider acceptance of others because we can see ourselves in the other.  It just takes imagination and self-love.  The rage is a signal of what we’re not paying attention to.

What is the face of fear?  The loss of personal freedom.  The loss of power.  The loss of control.  There are rational fears and irrational ones. 

 Yesterday and today my fear has been mounting because of the news I read about the Supreme Court’s ruling that gave police officers increased power to enter the homes of citizens without a warrant.  

“the Court upheld the warrantless search of a Kentucky man’s apartment after police smelled marijuana and feared those inside were destroying evidence. Writing for the majority, Justice Samuel Alito wrote that citizens are not required to grant police officers permission to enter their homes after hearing a knock, but if there is no response and the officers hear noise that suggests evidence is being destroyed, they are justified in breaking in.” – Source:  Demorcracy Now!

 My first experience with power was within the dynamics of my family.  There is the natural law of the adult’s  power over a child.  There is the  mother’s active or passive neglect or attention to the health and welfare of her baby.  I have vivid memories of being told “No.” or “Stay.”  (Kinda like a dog now that I think of it.)  As I got older I got exposed to the dynamics of rivalry between siblings over territory (what are we going to watch?  MTV or sports?  Who gets the window? I always got back seat middle because I have two elder siblings.) Finally, I cut a path towards financial independence after getting an education and working for many years at a job, and I am finally in the “driver’s seat” or the illusion of it. 

I have this fear that the little plot of personal freedom that I have is getting smaller when I hear disturbing news about the policy making of governments at all levels and in the work place.  The face of fear is not knowing when, where, and how I will be prevented from exercising free will.

 True story.  I’m not embarrassed or shy to share this because I use it as an example of how the fear of loss of self-control manifests in the behavior to control others.  Three weeks ago on a Friday morning I cheerfully brought a tray of pastries to work.  “Happy Friday!” is a common greeting at the office, and a signal of the upcoming weekend when we are free to do what we want with our own time. 

 A woman in the office who is heavy and has been on a strict diet was in the kitchen making her protein shake.  Her diet requires every morsel of food to be measured and meted out at precise times.  In the past she’s complained about the mealy texture of the shake, and almost everyday the conversation with her is about her diet.  This particular morning she confronted me with a question, “Why do you do that?”  I was dumbfounded by the question.  “Do what?”, I asked.  “Why do you bring in those pastries?”  My response, “I like to share.”  “You know you’re contributing to peoples’ bad health by bringing those in,” she quipped.  I said, “Uh… there’s free will.  People can choose to eat it if they want to.”  “Yeah, but why do it?” she persisted.  “Free will.  Choices.  It’s the spice of life,” I parried lightly.  “No, really, why do you do it?” she asked again.  I went back to my first answer realizing this was a dead end conversation, “Because I like to share.”

 She made the choice to go on the diet (good for her) but the rest of the office does not have to suffer because of her personal choice.  The activist in me decided and acted.  I brought treats for the office everyday during following week. I offered two choices:  fruits or pastries/cookies.  At the end of the day the fruit was left over on kitchen table.  People chose what they want to eat.

 I understand that it is my co-worker’s fear of not having control over her urges that made her want to control me.  But I refuse to buckle to pressure (“You know you’re contributing to people’s bad health…”)  This illogical reasoning is like George W. Bush’s argument, “If you quit drugs you join the fight against terrorism.” (A quote from the movie “American Drug War” by Kevin Booth.)  What the former president said is a blanket statement that puts drugs and terrorism under one tent, and that is not rational reasoning.  With the numerous over-the-counter drugs that can be “cooked-up” then should the pharmaceutical companies producing these drugs be lumped in with terrorist?

 What is the face of fear? When someone believes they have the right to exercise control over my ability to choose.  Are we really born free? I sometimes wonder.  There has been courageous people in history who has fought to maintain the spirit of freedom by exposing lies and telling the truth.  Truth can have an unsavory look and taste, and it can also be beautiful and uplifiting.  As writers joining other artists we participate in the fight against terrorism by the power of our art that gives insight into our nature. 

 The first song I learned on the guitar was “Redemption Song” by Bob Marley.  It has a verse that says, “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery.  None but ourselves can free our minds.”

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJHgMD1S0bg

Today, the first day of my blogging week, I’m going to tackle the first of a list of questions I’ve been mulling over.  And I’d love your feedback what ideas you come up with on the questions.

 First Question:  What is the nature of dying?

 A reverence for life where people acknowledge the fragility of living; and the solemn observance of a life lived as in the rituals of burying the dead.

 In exploring the nature of dying and death I wander to the topic of the soul.  I have been reading two books on the topic:  “Modern Man in Search of a Soul” by C.G. Jung and “Care of the Soul” by Thomas Moore.  The latter is easier reading and digestion, and so I’ve delved deeper into that one.

 What I’ve learned is that the depth of soul comes from suffering.  (This is not something T. Moore stated, but my own absorption of the book.)  We all suffer, and this experience helps us maintain our humanity and connectedness to each other.  So my instinctive response to the question of “What does death look like?” with “A reverence for life”, I imagined that when we see others suffer then how can we not experience compassion to stop the suffering.

 Ok, I’m going to dare throwing fuel into the fire by going this way.  There were different reactions to the assassination of Osama Bin Laden.  The major news networks televised the celebratory mood of the people in major cities, especially in New York City.  I asked a few people I knew about their reactions, and the responses were:  “I’m glad.” And “It’s a relief.”

 I stop to wonder.  Is the world a safer place with this one person’s death?

 Because this is not the forum for political discussions I won’t venture further into that topic.  But I will continue with a quote from Steve Earle (musician, actor, author and activist.) He recently completed a new album titled, “I’ll Never Get Out of this World Alive”, and also a novel by the same name.  This is the quote from an interview with Amy Goodman:  “Making Art in America is a Political Statement in Itself”.

 When I sat with that thought and watched the interview I decided that it’s not enough to sit by and watch death and destruction while I live comfortably in my safe bubble.  What am I here to do? I ask myself.  (It’s the same question I ask of myself when I’m at the pool with the intention of getting some exercise.  Will I be content to just paddle around, and “just show up”.  There are many days when I feel like that with my good intentions of writing and taking care of my heart:  “Just show up.”  Maybe some magic will happen.  I’ve been praying for a bolt of genius to hit me, but it’s really just hard work and slogging for every bit of meaningful words that impacts me and somebody else from the inside out.)

 It’s getting harder to just stand by and not only for the selfish reasons that one day all THIS will catch up with you and me and we live at the fringes of what’s happening out there.  But the bigger part of it is I do care.  I feel something is array about the way of the world, and how can I make it better I wonder.

 The immediate answer is to work on my art.  My art is my heart, and I have to make a statement in my own unique way about what I see and feel, and not care about what others say or think.  My intention is not to hurt, but to make peace.

 What does death look like?  The esoteric answer is that it is the death of the self – the ego.  In the face of dying the “fevered ego” (a la Bill Hicks) then compassion for another being is born. 

 Down to the nitty-gritty of everyday reality I am reminded of an acquaintance who has been begging me for attention.  She just wears her sorrow on her sleeves and it’s painful to be around her, because I’m afraid I would get drawn into her vortex of sorrow.  Her pain is so visceral that my instinct is to push back.  Once I did invite her for a drink.  After one drink she pulled out a thorn stuck deep into her heart.  She confessed that she had been sexually abused by her father. 

 This was not exactly the way I wanted to initiate getting to know her better, but there is was lying on the table– a writhing doll with pins and needles.  I felt the blood dripping on the floor and my shoes sticking to the ground.  I wanted to escape the rawness.  I wasn’t prepared for this.  My mind judged, ‘She is clingy.”  I’m not the person to help ease the weight of this pain, but I also wanted to help her somehow, maybe with a seed of an idea that it’s possible to step out of her box and to try to imagine a different way to accept the events in her life. 

 Suffering does build our souls.  It makes us grow and expand – literally like growing pains – it hurts physically, but we can’t be on Gerber and Pablum all our lives.  It awakens us to awareness of other planes and possibilities; to reach out – above and below – that allows for depth like the roots and branches of a tree.  (I love old trees – the gnarly knots and bulging roots of an old tree.  I put my hands on its trunk and my ear to its veins and feel the pulse of the earth and beings living on it.) 

 Going back to the assassination of someone deemed as a terrorist, I think of ancient Greek mythology – Zeus, Poseidon and Hades.  The three brothers who rule the realms of the sky, the sea, and the underworld. I entertain idea that all three represent elements in our soul, and these gods tumble and fight for control of our psyche.  What turns a person into a terrorist?  It strikes me now that I could extend more compassion to the woman and withhold my judgments. 

 There are cases that are black and white: Crazy, alien and out of touch with humanity.  But then again haven’t we all experienced a certain madness personally and as a collective?  What’s really going on beneath the surface of what I’m seeing and being told and fed?  I really want to know.  I trust that this curiousity is in the realm of the seeing eye and the feeling heart of an artist. 

We are co-creators in this plane of reality.  As participants in life like the threads in the loom of a carpet we impact and influence the design and feel of the carpet that decorate the walls and floors which is left after the last breath.  How can we revere a life lived?  What legacy do we want to leave behind?

Isn’t it fun to live vicariously through a fictional character?  But isn’t it more bizarre to think of the human capacity to create and create experiences?

Living vicariously through a fictional character is what story telling is about.  Enlivening the imagination and motivating the spirit to go out-of-bounds with the external reality of our physical plane.  I’m curious about the production and fascination of movies that imbues human characters by animation, and allowing for ultra-human capabilities.  My first memory of super hero movies the featured computer animation was “The Mask”. 

 This image exaggerates the love felt by the hero shown as an oversized heart beating out of his shirt.

A lot of people were thrilled by “Avatar” too.  I was personally surprised that it won the Best Picture in 2010.  The movie seemed to be a collage of story lines from “Star Wars”, “Thunderdome”, “Water World”, plus other storylines and it was packaged with computer enhanced technology. 

Movie has always been a “bigger than life” experience in the beginning because it was literally projecting a story on a big screen.  But with the heavy competition for seducing a more sophisticated and pocket-rich audience the movies has had to compete with virtual reality entertainment:  from games to social networks (like chat lines) then movie makers have had to produce story telling to an ultra-reality edge.  But once the after the credits have rolled by and the people have mozy’ed down the aisle into their parked cars and have made their way literally and figuratively into their enclosed compartments – reality sets in.

 We are entrenched in our own dramas.  And working through our moments is often harder than watching the hero overcome their own trials and go through their transformation.  Our heroes are the archetypes that live in us, and we seek out to identify with characters that make us feel alive.

  “I don’t believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.  

 “A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself”

 – Joseph Campbell

Go to this link for a lot more from this great thinker.  

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/j/joseph_campbell.html#ixzz1F203bA5v

 Without going to the movies think of these special moments, and wonder… how amazing, how bizarre, and how delicate life is:

And the secret is if we can pull ourselves out of our internal spiral is to be curious.  Just be curious like a child and relive those moments of wonder.  Going back to story, I try to be conscious of the stuff between the beginning and the ending:  What made my hero go on this quest and put himself/herself in jeopardy in search of that thing.

 Every ending of a journey is the beginning of another.  We are our own heroes each day we awaken and create a new day of wonder and wander.  Go out there and get lost for a bit and see where you end up.  It’s not that scary of a world despite what the news say. 

Live to tell the story.

– Analyn Revilla

“Story is a collection of meanings. Nothing is random” – Al Watt.

The following day after my writing workshop with Al, I sat at an outdoor cafe across from an auto-body shop. Emblazoned in bold yellow letters I read: “We meet people by accident.”

If I learned anything from my philosophy class then by inductive reasoning then accidents are not random. Life is not random; it is a colleetion of meanings. What is the meaning of life? One answer I’ve come up with is that story telling is a method of healing. Sharing stories is more than making connections with others about our similarities, but the process of telling story and absorbing the art form (as a play, book, dance, painting, music, graffitti) is also the opportunity to resonate the truths within us.

There were random events in my 3-day weekend that I’ve decided to string together in a meaningful way beginning with Friday night when I gathered things that have become a clutter in my life. I got a box and stuffed it full of things I didn’t have much use for anymore: CDs, clothes, wine glasses, a vase – things that use to carry meaning for me, but their memories have faded, and/or the meaning was too painful to keep around – so I’m letting them go.

I was reminded of when my siblings and I had tried to “clean out” my parents’ apartment after my father passed away. The apartment, in my eyes, was littered with things that have collected dust, and/or were forgotten in a corner behind something else. When this thing was brought out into the light, “Hey what about this? Can we get rid of it?” I had cried out to my mother, she would howl, “NO!!! That’s…” and I’d forgotten what meaning or symbolism she had attached to this suddenly-precious material object. That thing held meaning for her. The whole apartment was a collection of chapters of a novel and its sequels.

The next day, Saturday, in my writing workshop I’m confronted with stories belabored by hopeful writers telling of wounds and intrigues. Al’s method of teaching is to awaken the unconscious of its collection of random memories and bringing them forward to the conscious mind and framing them around a structure. I left class with the mantra: “Story is a collection of meanings. Nothing is random”.

Sunday morning, I brought my collection of “unwanted meanings” to the thrift store. I browsed through the titles of books at the back and by accident found a book by Caroline Myss called “Why People Don’t Heal And How They Can Heal”. (I’m a quarter of the way through the book now.) In my process of shedding a layer of dead things I was healing with letting go. Whenever I’m going through a catharsis like this I also try to be consicous of how it is reflected in my art. If I’m humble enough I can see reflections of where ART illuminates LIFE. (I’ve been rewriting the scene of a dying man who has accepted his death, but an aspect of his reality is his family is not yet ready to let him go.) Thus as it is with healing, we’re probably not yet ready to let go of our illnesses.

In her practice of energy medicine Caroline Myss states that “your biography becomes your biology” meaning that our beliefs manifests in our cells and can alter our DNA accordingly.

“As terrifying as disease is, it is also an invitation to enter into the nature of mystery. Our lives are made up of a scries of mysteries that we are meant to explore but that are meant to remain unsolved. We are meant to live with the questions we have about our lives, even use them as companions, and allow them to lead us into the deepest recesses of our nature, wherein we discover the Sacred. I hope that this book will help you find new ways of framing the meaning of illness and other life challenges and help you move deeper into your mysteries and further along your personal path toward spiritual mastery.” – Caroline Myss, “Why People Don’t Heal And How They Can”. I can see how there are many aspiring writers who want to share their stories because the process of getting it down is therapy. But it’s not whole until it has come alive in its true form: a published novel, a staged play, or recorded music. Ah… I think I should switch to drawing or painting, because it might be easier for me to express the story in an image with lines and light, then framing the picture and putting it up. This writing thing (aka healing) is damn hard. Why would anyone want to do it? That would mean change, which leads to growth, which is then expansion – and POP! goes the balloon; or it can fly away, way up in the sky – free like a bird.

– Analyn Revilla

The Huffington Post story was headlined, “NASA Discovers New Life:  Arsenic Bacteria With DNA Completely Alien From What We Know”

The words “completely alien” are incendiary, because anything alien is really degrees of differences in colors, or shades of grey.  After reading that story that NASA has discovered a new life form that is “unlike any other living lifeform on the planet – from the simplest plant to the most complex mammal”, I felt a great sense of hope.  I am not alone.  I am not just a black sheep after all.  This newly discovered lifeform survives off arsenic, known to be  toxic to all other life forms.  GFAJ-1 (a microbe that is a member of a common group of bacteria, the Gammaproteobacteria).

When I was a kid I loved eating the apple cores my mom threw out whenever she made pie.  Later on I learned that apple seeds and other stone pitted fruits (peach, nectarine and plum) have naturally occurring arsenic.  I still chew on the pit till it splits open and exposes its soft almond-tasting seed.   

This story brings to mind my Halloween costume.  I was Poison Fairy.  The idea of the costume literally was a bulb that turned on a half hour before going to work.  The incentive to dress up was a $100 VISA gift certificate.   The fun of it was to come up with an idea that would cost me nothing more than resourcefulness and imagination.  (The night before I had the idea of going as Woody Allen’s character in the movie Sleeper, but I couldn’t find a pair of “IRS” type glasses at the thrift store.  That costume would be fun to put together for next year.)

That morning I also had to make an emergency trip to the vet to havedog’s floppy ears drained of blood.  She had hematoma.  After a haranguing experience with a cab company I got home in time to shower.  “Hmmm… what to wear? what to wear?” I pondered as I shampooed and scrubbed away.  This meditative moment gave birth to nada.

I flung open my closet door and saw a sea of black clothes:  black t-shirts from rock concerts, black jeans, black or dark blue motorcycle gear.  I push to the back and saw this sparkly green ball gown.  “Oh this…”  I meant to tear it apart and use the material for curtains.  I pulled it out into the light.

Possibilities:  I have a shiny strappy silver high-heels and shimmery sequined purse.  I can go as a princess.  Nah… ho hum boring.  Then out of the blue a flash:  “Poison Fairy!”  I have a bottle of “Poison” (a la Christian Dior) and vase full of Thistle thorn flowers.  I slapped on some thick make up and got dressed. 

The gown was at a yard sale from a young English gal who was leaving LA to go home.  When I told her about my plan for the dress her pretty face fell to a sad expression, “Oh… Maybe you could try to tear it at the seams so it doesn’t ruin the dress, in case you decide to put it back together again.  I meant to wear it to a party as a fun thing, but there was never an occasion.”  I bought the dress for $2 and it hung once (intact in its form) against the window pane.  But after I got some proper sheers it got stuffed at the back of the closet.)  Now I wish I would’ve kept that woman’s email.  (Claire was her name.)  She would’ve been happy to know that the dress did find an occasion to go to.

At the costume judging event, I threatened to poison the judges if I didn’t win with a big squirt of “Poison”.  (We all know that a squirt of any perfume is enough to give almost anyone a headache.)  A stem of thistle served as my scepter.  (I even researched on the net if there is such a thing as Poison Fairy and indeed there was.)  How did my ancient brain come up with this idea?  I marvel at our imaginative capacity if when we allow ourselves to play and daydream.

As Poison Fairy I was 1^st runner up to Benjamin Franklin.  During the final judging I was dismissed by one of the judges.  She said she’s been poked with enough needles and poisoned with enough drugs from her radiation and chemo therapies that my ploy to “kill ‘em all if I didn’t win” did not scare her.

What’s poison to some is medicine for others.  I truly believe this.  Many people in our society is conditioned to believe that the traditional medicine manufactured by pharmaceutical companies that synthesizes the real thing can’t imagine to try something different prescribed by the doctors.  However, it’s sometimes not until someone is at the threshold of death that they might consider an alternative source of cure.   Pharmaceutical giants have acquired massive tracts of the Amazon Basin. There are in-depth considerations for citizens of this planet to find out the motives for this act.  (Too much to get into in this blog, and the seriousness of which takes the lightness away from my intention.  I need to lighten up!!) 

Thank you NASA!  My tax dollars are finally being put to good use for my own purpose.  Thanks for finding my family.  In the Huffington Post article the agency stated that with the discovery of the new life form “will impact the search for evidence of extraterrestrial life.”  (i.e. – there is a greater possibility that there is more of my kin out there and on this planet too.)  I’ll be making plans to drop in on family this coming holiday break.  I love arsenic opium-poppy cakes. 

And the moral of the story is… a whole apple a day keeps the imagination at play!

(Here’s a link to the Huffington Post article:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/12/02/nasa-new-life-arsenic-bacteria_n_791094.html)

December 1^st, 2010 is rent day and I wrote my last rent check for this year.  Seeing the date with the passing of the Thanksgiving holiday weekend and beginning the preparations for December festivities and more time off, I reflected upon the events of the past year. 

On my desk is a picture I took of a special tree in Vancouver that I saw everyday for three years.  One day the tree looked different.  Its limbs were decorated with an assortment of clocks and watches.  It reminded me of the Pink Floyd’s song, “Time”:  the shrill of the alarm bell then the chimes and ticking seconds… “Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day…Fritter and wastes the hours in an offhand way.”

This picture is a reminder of how I fritter away the minutes in an hour; how readily I take for granted that the sun comes up and around everyday bringing in a new day, a new week and a new year.  During the reprieve from the routine of working in the office and doing chores to maintain life, I finally acted on a project I’ve been considering for sometime.  I started my “dream board”/”vision board”.

A dream board is a collage of images and phrases/words that represents a visual map of your goals and dreams.  Sunday, I sat on the living room floor, and it was a patchwork of pictures, captions and words I had cut out from magazines and other periodicals.   I started late in the afternoon and thought I’d be finished by the time I got to bed.   That was 3 days ago, and I’ve been up early yesterday and today putting together my dream board.  It’s not as simple a task as I had thought.  Once I got my heart and imagination into it I was immersed in more possibilities than I originally started out with; and also further introspection and clarity on what it is I really want to create.

I don’t have nearly enough pictures to express my dreams, and I’m still collecting catalogues, and I have asked the mailroom guy at the office to recycle the old magazines my way.  As I flip through pages of advertising, articles and cartoons of magazines I’ve developed a keener sense of screening what magazines best reflect who I think I am and where I want to be.  An hour intended for collecting pictures is not enough.  I am building, taking down, re-shaping and molding my dream board.

This morning I woke up at 1 o’clock in the morning, put on some coffee and thought of putting an hour into the dream board.  By the time I’ve exhausted my resources of pictures and my being it was already 5 o’clock and the phone alarm goes off in a half hour.  I set it forward to 7:30.  I rested and felt elated.  My half-sleep state brought up more rich images.  I got up again and got through my day with surprisingly little fatigue and I look forward to going back to building more layers to my dream board.

I love the work.  It engages every fiber of my being down to my core and provokes me to poke the smoking embers of the fire within to a flame.  When the flame is exhausted I know I will be empty like that feeling after a long 8 hour hike – summiting and coming down.  Ah…I did it and how much I saw and learned.   

I created a dream board for a character I was playing in one of my acting classes.  It was shortcut way of getting to know this imaginary character.  The exercise opened up images, in a visceral sense, the dreams, fears, hope, joy sorrows and inspirations of that human being that was a part of me too.  It really stretched and strengthened the “empathetic heart”.

The dream board communicates the words and thoughts of our visions, and it’s an effective tool for planting the seeds of change in our subconscious.  By the way, I put the picture of that tree with the clocks and watches in the middle of my dream board.

In closing I want to quote a visionary…

“Carefully watch your thoughts, for they become your words. Manage and watch your words, for they will become your actions. Consider and judge your actions, for they have become your habits. Acknowledge and watch your habits, for they shall become your values. Understand and embrace your values, for they become your destiny.”

Mahatma Gandhi