You Just Have to Start

I have to take my own Advice.

And just:

Start.

Because the Opposite of "Start"
is not "End"
It's "Stew"
It's "Not Start"
It's "Stuck"
It's "Fuckity Fuck"
It's "Holee Fucking Shit"
It's "Okay"

No: "Okay" - is an Opposite to "Start"

I would dare to say that "Okay" is LIT AF.

I would dare to say that "Okay" is AWESOME.

I would happily accept "OKAY"

If I tell myself "OKAY" I am headed to making a small list somewhere.

I'm doing something.

And that something

is something as miraculous as: writing an e-mail

which then leads to washing a dish

which then leads to sending a text

which then leads to printing that thing

which then leads to laying back down.

BUT THEN.

Something else happens.

And then I believe in someone again.

And I can throw out a piece of mail.

And I can throw out a pile of mail.

And that's what compassion looks like.

This is what being an Artist looks like.

I can write for 17 hours without taking a break, without eating a meal, without needing to, because I am so in the zone.

But the simplest of tasks feel: absolutely daunting.

Mail is Terrifying. I HATE MAIL. I HATE IT.

THIS IS WHY I LOVE BLOGGING.

IT IS SO ACTIVATING.

I WRITE.
I POST.
AND THEN I CAN DO AN ERRAND.
LIKE THROW OUT THIS PILE OF MAIL THAT IS SITTING ON MY PRINTER.
AND I FEEL SO FUCKING EPIC.
UNSTOPPABLE.
AND I CAN GO TO REHEARSAL.
AND I CAN CHANNEL A CHARACTER.
AND I CAN DO WHAT I WAS PUT ON EARTH TO DO.
FEEL EMPATHY.
HOLD SPACE.
ARTICULATE BEAUTY AND RAGE WITHIN SECONDS OF EACH OTHER.
AND DO IT FOR 17 HOURS.
I'M JUST BURNT OUT ON SELLING MYSELF.
BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO SELL MYSELF.
THAT'S A HORRIBLE FEELING.

I wrote to the legendary Dawn Orlando of Funkadelic Music Studios after she wrote back to me on Patreon. I honestly regard her as a House Mother. addendum: Times Square once sparked ptsd brain fog, it still does: however: this also sets up the pre-cursor for a compassionate system for someone to hold hands with. I seek a soft room to sing in that can hold my ptsd brain fog and it is possible. Even in Times Square: Brain Fog is my Magic Fog. Dear God, Please Make it Possible for Me to Make Art Safely with this Soft Magical Brain of Mine."

I write a very special email next to do a very special thing that is very special to my heart...I just have to push past that Brain Wall Thing. The worst thing is: I hear: "no." The best thing is: I hear: "yes, please." And...I get to do this thing...that is really good for my brain, for Shovels' brain. And for other peoples' brains. And...things feel...silly...and cute...And...I get to...Age Out into my Eighties getting to have done this thing that makes me feel really really cute about this thing that happened...a whole bunch of times...hopefully...That's the Barometer. I am going to take a Prescribed Clonazepam now.

I love you, Feelings.

I love you, Queer Magic.

I love the people who patched me up and who let me patch them up. I love the Swirl Up that is Possible with the Heart.

If you're here, you may have seen my work on stage or on screen or in the streets. If you're here, you may have seen my work on stage or on screen or in the streets. You can Join My Underground Corner on Patreon or be Guided by Your Dope North Star.