So I was just sitting in the tub, taking a soak reflecting on the State of Me. Without fail every time I take a bath I find that it's sort of like a sweat lodge--minus the hallucinations. I rely on mushrooms for that. But seriously, I often find the hot water is not only soothing, but it's often revelatory.
Some people like Reiki, some meditate, tarot cards, practice yoga, participate in drum circles--it's all good. Me? I like to waste gallons of water, burn energy to heat the water, take a bottle of toxic Palmolive dish soap and squeeze it like a frat boy pissing in an alley after a kegger into the water, to make bubbles. I sip on a little Jesus juice, and listen to strange music. Gypsy Kings. And a lot of Christopher Cross. Chuck Mangione and Sinead O'Connor's attempt at reggae. I like to choose music playlists, that reflects variety (no matter how good or bad the selections), because my thoughts are often all over the place. And if you have a sad thought, trust me, you do NOT want to be listening to Adagio For Strings.
After the first two minutes of the soak, I reach for my glass of Jesus juice, and I think "Man this is the life! I mean it couldn't get better than this." Then my scurvy companion (better known as my brain) decides to get in the tub with me. "Hey Nic. Awesome that we're relaxing. Just gonna slide in here. Yeah, we are absolutely releasing endorphins. All these bubbles! You're taking an active role in your mental health. Speaking of active, remember the other day while working out your foot was bothering you? What if that's a tumor and not a bunion? On your foot. You should really consider getting a pedicure. You've got run away slave feet right now. We should eat that bag of candy corn from Halloween. Lets get on Twitter. No! Lets spread rumors about yourself on Facebook. Man this water is getting cold. Hey you've got the belly, why not become a belly dancer? Why not dance at a hookah bar? Is it hooker or hoo-kah? John Lee Hooker. TJ Hooker. You know, if you add vodka to Kefir, it's totally healthy. You know we missed the deadline for the Sundance Playwright Lab right? Yep, due tomorrow. So glad you let me, let you miss that. But don't worry kid. You've got a lot of irons in the fire. You've started many projects and partnerships and I'm here to make sure you don't see them through. Uh oh. You're kicking the water. Here love, drink more. Wouldn't it be nice to go to Wally World and ride roller coasters? Beverly D'Angelo. Now there's a classy broad. You could be the black screen version of her y'know? More Jesus juice please. So back to what I was saying, you'll be just fine. You'll wait until the 11th hour to start the work, and then won't be able to deliver. And you can always blame it on poverty. Or you can say you were at a Occupy protest. Yeah--that's fucking noble. No one will fuck with you for not getting a draft done, if you tell them that's where you were. OR you could say you were serving on some high profile jury duty. You told plenty of people you served on the Rod Blagojevich trial, and it got you out of a lot speeding tickets, paying tithes at church, attending baby showers. OOoooh my god! Babies. You should have one. YOUR vagina will be damned, but it will be worth it! Baby. Baby. Everyone has one. You don't have to raise it. Just, have it. Baby jam. Jammm. Ohhh jammmm. OOoph someone is texting us. I'm gonna go see who it is. Text messages are fantastic distractions. I'll be back..."
Wanna know why my brain goes off like that? It just occurred to me, that I feel like I've lost my ambition. I've lost that drive to succeed. I feel like I'm caught in survival. I know I've harped on this before, but it's my fucking blog and I can go 'round the round about if I want to! I have a beautiful life. I thank God for it all the time. But I can't give praise, without reflection. And that's where it gets messy. When I look back to my younger self, I laugh but I also get a little sad. I called and visited with family. I use to eat salads. Returned phone calls. I was punctual. I read books. I read the goddamned New York Times every day! I worked 2 and 3 jobs! I sent out postcards, and headshots all the time. And now, the thought of sending a casting director a headshot and resume literally makes me want to dry heave. It's like, that dirty little word NO didn't exist in my head. And now? I'm caught in this paradigm and I'm scraping at the mold to get to the goods. I feel like I'm dating a girl that constantly gives me a soft hard on.
Yes, that's it. The state of me is a soft hard on.
I haven't given up, but I am experiencing a moment of weakness.
The past few months have been wonderful with my travels and preparing for upcoming projects.
But honestly guys, sometimes I just feel a little queasy.
I love that I'm not perfect. I like to think of myself as a misleader of youth! An ambassador for all things burlesque. A weird black chick who enjoys graphic comics, Dr. Who and demands proper stemware. Honestly, don't pour my whiskey in a pilsner glass you uncouth degenerate.
There are days I'm absoultely sure of who I am--then there are other days where I keep wanting to press the restart button. I know I'm not Kafka, but I do want to make an indelible mark with my words--and actions. So I'm doing my best to work through the angst, by typing my thoughts--
"Hey Nic! Sorry I left for so long. I think you took some St. Johns Wort and it made me a little dormant. Nice try. Where were we?"
Well my brain is back. And now I have to feed her, or else she's going to take over. But it won't be with booze. I'm going to do some reading, and then actually get some sleep. And when I awake, I can thank the gods for yesterday. Because there will never be another day like it.
Thanks for listening darling. I do hope you win the battle of the soft hard on in this game we call Life.
ciao for now,
DO NO LISTEN TO THIS SONG IF YOU ARE SAD OR LIKE WILLEM DAFOE
BUT TOTALLY LISTEN TO THIS SONG JUST CUZZ. JUST FOR SCUZZ