Ho Hum

In other news, my building is on fire.

On Consistency

I just rebruised a former bruise (thus the "re") by running into the exact same bedpost at the exact same angle while in the exact same crusty-eyed morning haze as accounted for the first offense.

Consistency? Just one of the many services I offer...

29 vs. 31

My life in song.

My life in muther fucking song!

http://gawker.com/5913901/what-a-difference-two-years-make-being-29-versus-being-31-perfectly-summed-up-in-song

The Cure

However far away, I will always love you.

However long I stay, I will always love you.

Whatever words I say, I will always love you.

I will always love you...

I continue to be sideswiped by the passage of time. Said by many to heal all wounds, I fear I may be the exception to this rule. Next month marks the 5 year anniversary of my sister's death. This month marks the 3 year anniversary of my grandmother's. I can still hear both of their voices in my head...

I feel left behind.

Time is winning this damned race. And you KNOW how I hate to lose.

This time last year I was living in a city I loathed, a year of school left, just out of a terrible relationship and just starting a new job. Today, none of this is true. And I have no idea what or when or how any of this happened.

I have gained friends, lost lovers, shot movies, forced decisions, and made mistakes. I also like to think I've made strides.

"I can't rain all the time." You told me that in 2006.

But no matter where I go, no matter the distance time puts between us...I will always love you. However long I stay, I will always love you. Whatever words I say, I will always love you.

Madison, Wanda Jean, Joe, David, Richard...I will always love you.

Success

Just received this from a 12 year old student I taught last year.

Though her words are most certainly a gift, the greater blessing she has bestowed upon me today is the reminder of MY true definition of success: positively impacting another life.

Lately I have been consumed with work and school and relationships yadda, yadda, yadda. But it's all noise.

Thank YOU, Rebecca (Becca Bee) for cutting through the clutter.

"Erin Greer

You are one of the most incredible women I know, You are successful and talented, And you are loved my many. You are beautiful and sweet, And your are an amazing person. Don’t ever forget how incredible you are Ms. Erin!

 Love, Rebecca

Thanks fo0r always sending me opportunities to follow my dreams, You are a true friend. Thank you for being there!"

Pieces

There comes a point when not even Guatemala can save you.

I think I may have reached that point.

The Buddhists will tell you that turmoil is inside...that we often look to the external contributing factors to explain our struggles when, in truth, the roots of those struggles lie in jealousy, fear and inadequacy--all of which lurk right here inside of lil' ol' you and me.

I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to put that down on e-paper. I'm pretty sure I don't care.

See, I'm here to say the things all of you think but most of you are too proud or too afraid to utter. (It's likely bad form to call one's readership a bunch of pussies. Again, not caring so much right now.)

Yesterday, I lamented those aspects of my life that have put me under considerable strain--no job, relationship woes, fear, fear, feary, fear, fear, fear. But the thing is, I've HAD a job before. I was still stressed. The stresses were just different. I've HAD a relationship before. I was still stressed. The stresses were just different. I've HAD fear, fear, feary, fear, fear, fear before and (you guessed it!) I got a couple of piercings and jumped out of a plane.

Knowing that is all well and good...but what do I do now?

As I have no pressing desire for more piercings and I've already plummeted toward earth at astonishing speeds, I'm not sure what to do from here. I've read the books. I've seen the therapists. And, as much as they want to tell me the issue is with my wardrobe...I'm pretty sure the issue lies somewhere else.

Peace has to come from the mind. But mine's in pieces.

Guatemala!

If I do not get this job, I am joining the Peace Corps.

If I join the Peace Corps, I am going to Guatemala.

And this begins my newest catchphrase: Guatemala.

When someone pisses you off on the interstate: "Guatemala!" When something doesn't go your way: "Guatemala!" When the blood from your stumped toe draws circling great white sharks which you would punch in the face if your arms weren't already cordoned behind your back and your SCUBA tank is running out of compressed air: "GUATEMALA!GUATEMALA!GUATEMALA!"

Why?

Because Guatemala is the place you go when you just can't take it anymore.

Dense and thick and possibly full of guerillas, Guatemala is the answer to all of life's little "I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take this anymore!" moments.

And in my average day, these occur approximately once every 3.4 hours.

So the next time life hands you a heaping handfull of F*CK THIS!, just sit back, relax, and scream "Guatemala!" at the top of your lungs. Because if life in a first-world nation blows, then speaking broken Kaqchikel and flaling your arms in a third-world nation has to be better.

Bitches, I'm packin' my bags.

To Mombi!

Audiences worldwide judged Mombi harshly for stealing the heads of beautiful women and wearing them at will to coordinate her various outfits.

As I age, I am certain that poor woman was just profoundly misunderstood.

Jagged Little Pill

I can't be that for you.

I'm so sorry, but I can't.

I can't be held accountable

For your expectations

...

Are those not your own?

...

Beck and call girl?

No

The girl in your head?

She's not me.

You gave her my face.

Now I have to clean up your mess.

I can't be that for you.

I'm sorry, but I can't.

Tele-doom

I am terrified by the sound of my telephone.

Every time it rings, I know that this is it. This is the call I have been dreading. This is the call where I receive confirmation of my most recent greatest fear.

"I'm sorry, Miss Greer, but we've decided to go with another candidate."

For the first time in my life, I really, really want this job I interviewed for. In the past, I have wanted a job, and the job in front of me would "do." I've always interviewed well. Apparently, when I actually really want a position, I interview poorly.

When questions are posed, I get all stammer-y. Knowing I am making a buffalo's ass out of myself, I attempt insta-verbal correct, which results in an incessant stream of spoken nonsense, digging my initial hole ever deeper until it becomes an insurmountable abyss.

She said the call would come this week.

Please, dearsweetbabyelephants, make this call a good one. Make my interviewer fond of buffalo asses. Or, at least fond of abyss scaling!

C'mon team elephants!

FAT

This morning I woke up feeling fat and crabby.

Due on set at noon, I grudgingly took the dog out and then consumed my breakfast--Coke, cereal bar, 3 packs of fruit snacks.

It's no wonder I've gained 10 pounds.

I tugged my shirt over my head. This top fit me once. Now I am busting out of it. Given the choice, I'd wear something else, but this is what the director wanted for today.

It's raining, so my hair looks like shit. My face is broken out. Damn this tight shirt! I can't even fucking breathe!

Nothing on the radio pleases me, so I drive in silence to set, where I am to play one of the many doppalgangers of the lead character.

I go inside.

The other doppelgangers are all there.

And all blonde.

And beautiful.

Fuck. My. Life.

I sit quietly among the bombshells, listening as they discuss what projects they are working on, what roles they've played and "the challenges of the industry." I stifle my yawns. Generic chatter. Generic beauty. I've wantonly stumbled into the fucking Stepford Wives.

But one of the masses catches my interest.

She looks like the others, but she is not.

There is something in the way she moves. I can just tell.

This one has a timidness, a shyness.

She is tugging at her shirt. She is wearing stripes. (We all are.)

She complains that horizontal stripes make her look fat. (She doesn't). Another girl explains that the stripes are to represent imprisonment. (They do.)

Hours pass as hours do, and by this time I have spoken at length with, oh, let's call her Sarah. Sarah and I discuss our body image issues. Sarah and I discuss the aspects of herself she hates. Sarah and I discuss how shy she used to be, how she is really coming out of her shell, how she wants to dye her hair, or--better yet!--cut some bangs. Do I think it will look okay if she gets bangs?

Sarah and I are both anticipating lunchtime. Fox Bros. BBQ! Yum! She and I will have an eating contest. I am certain I can out eat this lovely damsel, but, to her credit, Sarah piles a hefty portion on her styrofoam plate. Diet and tight shirt be damned, I neither back down from a plate of barbecue nor a challenge!

While I scarf mine with a zeal usually reserved only for Coke, fruit snacks and Bejeweled, Sarah excuses herself to the bathroom.

Where she throws up.

I can hear her.

...

Sarah is wrapped, but stays on set. It is time for my scene. I am to be auditioning for a role that the lead covets. As I give my audition, the lead watches, peeking through a curtain in the waiting room. The monologue is long, poignant--about a painting of an angel that contemplates, in the moment, the prospect of having to turn away from humanity, leaving it to its own devices, to fight the greater war.

I ask the director how he wants my audition played.

He says "nervous."

I played Sarah.

It was flawless. Perfect.

Monologue

It's like that dream you have when you forget the words and, panicking, freeze.

Moments...

The nervous laughter...

In the dream there's always a spotlight--to shine, shadowless, on your inadequacy--

To blacken the faces of the masses of judges.

Courage brought you here. But ineptitude is a more consummate reflector.

Coin in the Trevi

If I admit that I really want it...

If I tell you that I do...

If I make this time the first time...

Will You make my wish come true?

Soul Sertraline

I don't think my therapist likes me.

I think this may be a problem.

My suspicions began several weeks ago, when she informed me that the reason I have not yet found my soulmate is because I dress too provocatively. I reached full-blown paranoia today when she insinuated that my sexuality was the problem.

Couple these personal attacks with her inability to remember what we covered the week before, or the homework she has assigned me, or who is who in my life...and I think we can say that everything (aside from who I am or am not boning, of course) is low on her priority list.

In some ways, I suppose I should be flattered. I've never had someone--outside of my grandmother--so interested in the *apparently* revolving door that is my bedroom. Overwhelmingly though, I am put off. Rather than addressing MY issues, I feel that every trip to her couch is, instead, an opportunity for her to hurl her insecurities at my stilettos and sundresses.

I like the way I look. And I consider myself to be someone who, with a few exceptions, holds herself to high standards. I'm not a partier. Nada drugs. Nada affairs. Usually in bed by 11... But it seems some people just can't be satisfied until you live your life their way.

Knowing this actually makes me feel a little more healthy. It takes a good deal of self actualization to feel comfortable in one's own skin. And if my comfort makes someone else uncomfortable...well, that's something they can take up with their therapist.

Shrug

You said, "But I'm not anybody from your past."

I said, "I know. But I am."

Questionable Felts

About a year ago I took a position teaching literacy at children's learning center. Here, the children spent hours a day learning skills to better help them read and understand text. To teach at this center, employees had to attend a two-week training regimen (40 hour work weeks) to learn the various teaching techniques of the program.

There were a lot of colored rocks and questionable pieces of felt...but one of the teachings I really latched onto was the concept of "air writing." In this process, students were instructed to write each letter in a chosen word in the air with their pointer finger. The letters had to be written in front of the student's face so he or she could "see" them. At first, I thought this was hogwash.

But I've been air writing ever since.

Today, while walking the dog, I was thinking of something or other and realized I had no idea how to spell whatever mystery of the universe I was attempting to solve. As if by reflex, I began to air write the word.

This mundane moment became a powerful one for me (I am apparently prophetic today.)

At its base, air writing operates on the principle of visualization. Frankly, if you can see it, you can spell it. We do this when we picture words in our minds. This is why we can look at words and say "that doesn't look right," even without spellcheck.

This got me to thinking about the process of visualization. Obviously, it works on spelling tests. Learning center students almost always reported higher grades and better standardized testing scores after completing the program. But how much more so can this concept be applied to life? And what might the extracurricular tests be? Personally, would I ace them?

Prior to the learning center, I had never air written a word in my life. The process looks goofy, and, as we all know, I need no further help in that department. Still, after two weeks of training and a summer of implementation, I find myself air writing every time I have difficulty spelling a word. If I applied this principle--say visualization on my dreams, hopes and goals for example--how might the practice of visualizing first change my day to day operations? And would those changes, no matter how small, then work to create the larger changes I hope to achieve?

How would I go about drilling positive visualizations into my head to the point that they are second-nature like air writing and Coke A Cola/fruit snack cravings?

Studies show that, over time, proper therapy literally changes the way in which the brain operates. With due diligence, the areas of the brain responsible for the initial reaction to a stimulas can be altered. It's "mind over matter" as evidenced by CATscan.

If, therefore, the mind has the ability to alter its operations (with hours of practice) is the mind not then a muscle to be toned and sculpted as one sees fit? And, if that is truly the case, then how can visualization play a role?

Much like the Americas, this "discovery" is not a new one. Every successful propagandist to have ever lived realized the power of repeated messages, especially those associated with image. I hear that's even what "The Secret" is about (I haven't read it and you can't make me!)

But despite its long past, this concept is a new one for me to ponder. I may be young, but in so many aspects I am "set in my ways." I often look at myself and want to change, but either believe I can't or that I simply don't know how. But today, when I caught myself air writing, it suddenly became clear to me that even I can change. Even I can alter the state of my mind to steer my thoughts in a way most beneficial to me and to my future.

And apparently all it takes is 80 hours, questionable felts and a plethora of colored rocks.

I Am

First let me say, "Thank you for teaching my heart to feel again." Then let me say, "I hope you get mauled by a wombat."

Sick of my heart being treated like a proverbial punching bag, I resorted to hermitude and writing cliches to preserve what was left of my wounded blood organ. Recently I put it out there a little. Again. Which, for me, is ALWAYS a mistake.

There are amazing folks out there. But I consistently hurl myself, hand grenade style, at the baddies. Much like one would expect, the situation always blows up. The shrapnel scars.

Recently, I had an assignment to write a list of all of my positive qualities. I began this list with "I am:" and then proceeded to write a dozen or so of the personal traits I both possess and value. But before I made said list, I was struck by the simple way I started my list.

I. Am.

In English, the simplest expression of a state of being. Literally, "to be." It's the first subject/verb combo we ever learn.

I should have ceased my list there. "To be" is all I really needed, because "to be" is, really, enough. In being--in my very existence--I am enough.

In to Torah, when Moses asked G_d His name, Yaweh answered "I Am That I Am." (Which, let's be honest, is an infuriating answer. A "my name is Pete" would have been much easier.) But, as G_d is as notoriously difficult as Moses is whiny, one must admit there is more truth and depth in the answer, "I Am."

It is the simplest, most straight forward version of expression of presence. "To be" is the essence and the necessary beginning of all things post. One is nothing without first being something. This sounds so resolutely simple, yet we forget it all the time.

Those who are profoundly hurting--those who seek suicide, for example--do so because they seek to cease to be. They seek an end. "I Am" is a continuum.

We do not exist in a vacuum. So long as we continue to be, we also continue to be worthy. This simple fact is most difficult to remember when someone treats you as if you are not a worthwhile investment. But that person, no matter their emotional importance, is not the majority shareholder. I am. And as long as I continue to be, I will continue to invest in me.