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Posts Tagged ‘inspiration’

Today I stomped the ground in careless play, noticed the reverb of hollow from below. Pounding above a bomb shelter, a tunnel, a tomb? Above all in absent awareness…

…Calling for a dig exceeds my jurisdiction but if I had the power, the earth would be pocketed in curiosity, and restored rapidly in vigilant remorse, for better or for worse.

I recall clearly as a child, a teacher telling class that the Native Americans we so romantically studied lived where our houses were. My house. A top ancient secrets. Those powerful beings who understood the tangibility of seasons, ran through crisp, blue corn fields, made with callused fingers- beads of dried piñon berries, lived nobly herding flocks, believing in coyote medicine…

I had the presence of mind to know that their reign extended beyond the small stretches of my yard. Most likely to at least the perimeter of my block, or ”la manzana”, as my pops called it. I came home that day to scour the ground and blacken my baby nails in dreamy hopes of turquoise treasures, dulled arrowhead, bird bones. Nothing ever came of these missions. Time would give way to something shiny, some tinsel or so, leading my excavation, my excursion- to press on in whispered hope.

bow arrow

During the time of year where the leaves find themselves tossing in tiny tornadoes, and the cold makes scarlet our cheeks, I will be greeted by the painfully beautiful scent of burning cedar. Instantly I transport to the vast expanse of my time living on the rez with the Dinéh people, an event that was lead by the hand of my earlier fascination and curiosity.

I breathe in and hold.

Smoke, providing a background where images dance and bob. Broken relics of poetry and dry dirt. Old woman of long braid and woven skirt. Counting sheep. Snapping sage brush. Being followed by a pack of loyal, rag tag dogs with each step. Awaking before dawn with purpose to ensure warmth by lighting the fire…
With that smell I am carried, and not a moment too soon.
I am living simply. I am living at peace. I am living with full intention. The red earth stretches for days and I revel in wonder about what tales are beneath.

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Oh to be at the helm of our own thoughts… Take a moment to picture where you might be if you exercised more control. Just a sec.

Tremendous power lies within us- often dormant, as we let the reigns slack in the name of trivial pursuits,  and also because it’s far easier and more immediately gratifying to be subject to whims outside of ourselves.

It’s been a reoccurring theme in my life lately- that of discipline. I am picking up on patterns of the hard-to-swallow-but-it’s-for-my-own-good variety. And all the antidote that is needed is that of ddddddiscipline. I can hardly even write it.

A coworker of mine showed my the video below called “The Marshmallow Project” which is catalytic for this here tiny entry. Basically the premise is that those who exercise their minds (and it literally is a work out- training our brain to be strong) and maintain control, have an advantage and live a more sound, steady life. I suppose it is obvious, but there are ground breaking developments in teaching techniques now that involve cultivating patience and restrain in students on an intrinsic level. Studies were conducted in the same of vien of this video in Stanford, where the subjects were followed loosely for 20 years, with results that showed that the children who were not in control of themselves and acted mostly on impulse were the ones who wind up addicts, unsuccessful, or just making unfavorable life choices. The very watered down version, but you get it.

So here’s the video, a song on discipline, and maybe a timely reminder that the world is your peach and the sense of urgency is an illusion, and that we got this.

*believe*

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There I was- flipping through a ragged, time-worn, cardboard box at my parent’s house. I gingerly sifted through yellowed and thinned pages, in my own time capsule, revisiting a fair amount of the two dimensional art of my youth. They kept so many of my creations. Occasionally I’ll wonder the purpose of keeping a diary other than to get the immediacy of pressures off my chest because I hardly think that there will be a day where I am driven to revisit all of my petty boy-riddled qualms of old. It seems, at least, that that’s the most of what my journal entries have seen over the years. But this- this was different. This was ART! Encapsulated. I understood the inability to dispose of it. Such richness. I totally had an eye for fashion and have apparently been designing clothes since I could pen myself a plausible idea. Lots of drawings were comprising sleep overs; quite likely an influence from every little girl’s treasured book Madeline. They were very big fun though. Yet another reason I’m glad to have the XX chromosome thing in place. Another common topic was of little girls puking. Yup- you read it right. Little girls puking. I was no stranger to belly aches- especially in the car (lo siento, padres) so I guess I just wanted to spread the love or at least normalize it so everyone got sick all the time too. Oh, yeah and kids are weird, sooo go figure.  BuT- the most common theme in my drawings? Homeless children.

I drew and drew and drew this topic in so very many capacities all throughout my growing up. Kids behind dumpsters, kids under bridges, under awnings, on corners, in the snow, with a dog, kids alone with signs, kids with parents, kids with questionable chaperone. Some of them were even throwing-up too…  A clear memory that I have is asking my mother why we couldn’t just take someone home with us. I thought if everyone in the city took somebody home the homelessness problem would be solved. Grown ups are so dense! Come on people, don’t you see?? And this of course was NYC circa 1980-1990’s, when the mental asylum Bellevue, was shut down and emptied onto the streets of Manhattan. I had vivid fantasies of setting up the extra room for our(?) homeless person and coming into the bathroom while they were obligingly in the shower, handing them a bag courteously,  and taking their smelly clothes in exchange for new, clean ones. Problems solved! Even as a 5 year old I guess I knew that one of the larger deterrents to my Adopt-A-Homeless-Person program was the stank factor. Needless to say this never manifested.

Many years later I would wind up tutoring homeless kids for a while. It was such a tremendous experience with so much variety that I couldn’t surmise it with one quick descriptive word. Ok- intense.  If I must. Bear with me- I’m building my “fretting for the homeless portfolio”.

I tried to tackle the problem from several different angles throughout the last ten years plus. At one point I worked diligently on an idea that I thought was rather brilliant. It stemmed from talking to people living on the streets that seemed unmotivated to find work. After all, it’s hard enough to find something when you’re clean and showered, let alone educated. My idea was to hook up seasonal farm work opportunities to homeless shelters, and have houses of worship do their good deeds by providing ride shares to the people. Flawlessish? I called so many freakin’ farms that did not appreciate the thought of a bunch of hobos smashing their berries or sleeping in their corn or whatever. Did everyone on the other end of the line read Grapes of Wrath? Sheesh. And to boot, I couldn’t find any churches, synagogues or mosques to do the driving. Foiled.

My fascination with homeless (housing disabled?) waxed and grew and on the side I kept a notebook full of years worth of spontaneous interviews with street dwelling folk. I wanted their stories. Badly. Occasionally I would set out with the intention of conducting the interviews, sometimes I would see someone too interesting pass up. (I told you- my curiosity might just be the death of me some day. Please play “Blaze of Glory” at my funeral. I’m not kidding. I’m working up to earning it but no, I’m not trying to die anytime soon.) I had a long list of questions and my spiel was to go up and ask if they were hungry and I could buy them some lunch or a cup of coffee in exchange for some question answering. The notebook, I regret to say, is sadly long gone, lost to the same sea that claims matching socks, sunglasses,  and bus transfers, but some of the questions that I had in there went something like this:

*Where did you grow up?  * What was your family like?  * When did you start living on the streets?  *Is it scary?  * Do you get assistance?  * Do you want to live in a house/ apt some day? * Drug related questions. * Saftey related questions * Adventure related inquiry * Favorite stories?…

This is a small sampling. The questions were very subject to change, depending on the person I was asking and their openness and willingness to divulge, naturally.

I’ll tell you though, boy have I heard some shit!

There is one that stands out above the rest though. I was interviewing this guy, a mid forty’s man originally from an upper-middle class home in the suburbs of NJ. Born to religious parents. Happy childhood. Good relationships with brothers and sisters. He liked partying a little too much and got turned on to heroin. He’d always been the rebel in the family; the black sheep. He’d been living on the streets of several states for well over two decades by the time I met him. He seemed happy to tell his story. He seemed so sound. Peaceful. I asked him if he wanted to be off of the streets and his response was, and I remember it so clearly: “Man, you people feel bad for us out here, but we feel bad for you! Most of us don’t want those responsibilities that you have. There’s too much to do. A house, a car, bills, paperwork. Responsibilities. They are overwhelming. Yeah, it can be dangerous, but we don’t want what you got. I believe in God. And out here- ain’t nothing between me and God.

Take that in.

The concept of the interviews originated not just to satisfy my own forever’s-worth of curiosity. It was to serve as a bridge. Long ago I recognized people’s limited abilities to care for something/ someone at a distance. We tend to favor what and who we know. Throw another sad sap’s face into the world and if the public at large doesn’t recognize it, it’s easier to walk on by. Walk by a face on the street of someone who was in your past, who you know in a more intimate way- perhaps a friend’s father, an old neighbor, a former student, and things change. There is a sense of ownership and most of us have a built in mechanism to care for those we know. I felt that if we had people’s stories and could actually personalize them, find them relatable, then people would have more compassion and vested interest in getting people help that wanted and needed it.

So I ran off to get a sharpie and some name tags. What’s she doing now? I had a new experiment in mind. If we bore name tags there would be a missing piece of the lacking reliability solved. Like “Oh! Your name is Joey? That was my grandpa’s, name and he was really influential in my life. I love guys named Joey.” Etc. So on the name tags went the name, because knowing someone’s name is personal and pretty undeniably humanizing. Then three random things. 1. Favorite band 2. A place I’ve traveled 3. What I love. Really, it could’ve been anything. The objective was to show the public the humanity of people, as it’s so easily dismissed or ignored in our world where people are so overstimulated and walled.

I resolved to wear a name tag for a week straight to see the effects and how people might approach me and how it would change dynamics. I had visions of grandeur!

Well, I’m embarrassed to say that I wound up getting irritated with the receptivity, especially considering that I was fresh out of a multi-year relationship and going out a lot and was on one, so having my name on blast was putting me out there to a general crowd that I didn’t want all up in my business. I tried to maintain it throughout the day time instead, but I was working in a school and it wasn’t the right place either. Eventually I lost interest because my life style at the time didn’t lend itself to the particular vision I had hoped for.

Do know that I have not given up on my idea of being a liaison/catalyst for bridging the worlds. I actually still quite fancy the idea of name tag personification. Perhaps I will conduct this experiment in more refined ways and pick my project back up again. Like only do it in certain areas of the city while doing specific activities. And get some new hobos on board…?

I will do it! I’ll do it for the people sitting under awnings tonight, getting splashed by the cold rain. And I’ll do it for that little, barfy, concerned drawer me inside.

Back on the grind, baby.

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Mom told me never

trust a man in a trench coat-

bunch of pervs out there

*****

Because every day

I see you outside, first thing.

Neighbor, get a life

*****

I pee way more than

the average person or

is 30 normal?

*****

My best friend’s brothers

tortured him when he was young-

hair clippings in pants

*****

What an unlucky

incarnation to be a

dung beetle. no thanks

*****

*****

I might have sex with

my iphone if there was an

app that could please me

*****

I am a poet

I know it. Don’t question me

obvs. you’re just jealous

*****

Whenever it’s hot

outside- I am so thankful

that I don’t have balls

*****

Inconvenience is

dandruff with a preference for

wearing mostly black

*****

I am not alone

in painting just the toes that

show through my peeps-shoes

*****

*****

I’d rather not go

if it means that I have to

see your stupid face

*****

You could be so cute,

so here’s a razor; a gift!

bye bye to mustache

*****

When riding bikes it

is ill advised to blow

a snot rocket up wind

*****

Little kids are cute

but made of germs and rubber

fall and sneeze often

*****

His shoes smelled like sex.

How did he do that? Had me

grossly confounded

*****

 

*****

A more respectful

way to say it would be “Bros

before Does!” I’m good.

*****

Mr. Face Tattoo

“upstanding citizen”

holy commitment

*****

Penny for your thoughts

I’d surely get a nickel

ignorance is bliss

*****

Feel the magic beat

Shake what your mama gave ya

don’t step on no toes!

*****

Just cause we made out

doesn’t mean I like you. Blame

it on the whiskey

*****

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It’s been 11 entire years since that fated day in September. That terrifying day- where it is easy to remember a stillness void of calm, and a heartbeat’s pounding of anticipation’s unknown. Each of us remember where we were that day… What we were doing… Some of us remember where we were standing when we heard… And then there were those of us that saw.

That particular year I was pulling a stint in Colorado, tucked away from the crumbling buildings and smoldering remnants where my family and friends were. Where I called home. Where I grew up. Despite being far, there were no safety guarantees for anyone. There was no escaping the eeriness that had  thickly and unwelcomingly lay down upon the country. Creating this incomparable muteness, removing flights from the air, and instilling a fear that we as a whole had yet to experience.

My mother worked in midtown Manhattan. My father, in L.I., but had a job interview scheduled at the towers for the following day (the difference a day makes!). My other family and friends in and close to the city, and the people we knew working at the towers… it was terrible. No one was reachable. The lines were all down. We didn’t know who was alive and allright and we didn’t know how wide spread it was going to get. It was the most dreamy-doom feeling that I had ever experienced. It was all too large to understand. And that was just me- the abridged, clipped version of that day, a person who had not experienced it 1st hand.

Today’s post is a story of a friend of mine, Cheryl, who did experience it 1st hand. Her story has a silver, no- a golden lining. Not everyone was so lucky. I’m glad that she could tell her tale. It’s a very worthy read. It is insightful, raw and real (with even a touch of sass!), and gives us another reason to give thanks.

—————————————-

It was September 11, 2001. It was my first day of work after college. I was so excited. I didn’t sleep at all the night before. I kissed Ezra (my 4 year old roommate) goodbye and got a thumbs up from Mike and Aubrey along with a “you can do it” smile. I left the house in Jersey City about 8:00 am which I NEVER do as I normally can sleep till noon. I took a cab to Journal Square Path Station and started walking down into the building. I remember it seemed really empty which surprised me because we were smack in the middle of rush hour. Everyone there seemed engaged in heavy conversation and I noticed a lot of people were leaving as I was heading in. Huh?? I asked a worker standing outside what was going on and he said a small private plane hit the WTC. I asked if the trains were still running and he said “yes ma’am” so I headed in and got on the next train hoping to wind up on 14th & 6th near where my new job as a sound engineer was.

The next little bit I completely blacked out about and remembered just a few years ago.

So the train departed. I was oblivious to what I had heard earlier and was focusing on my skirt which was way too short and my heels which were way too high. Those that know me know that I never dress that way at all so I had to make sure everything was looking good when I got off (FYI if you are a sound engineer I would not recommend wearing heels and skirt to work). To those not familiar with the Path Train, it leaves from NJ to NY and stays above ground until it hits the Hudson (Pavonia/Newport) and then it goes back underground, through the tunnel and stops at WTC, Christopher Street and then 14th (I think). Right as we approached the tunnel I noticed smoke billowing out from one of the towers and at that split moment, when I looked up, I saw another plane hit the other tower, and then my train went underground heading straight for it.

As we rolled into the WTC station, there was complete and utter chaos. People were banging on the doors to get in, and the conductor made an announcement that we would not be stopping and that he would be taking us straight to Penn Station. Wait. What? We’re not stopping? I looked around and realized for the first time since I got on that train that I was the only one in there. The people outside were begging for me to open the doors. They were pleading for me to help them. I started screaming to stop the train “PLEASE STOP!!!” but we didn’t’, we just rolled passed them. They were running alongside banging on the car! I think I went into shock and complete fear as they tried to pry open the doors. And then blackness. We were out of the station and heading to 34th Street. I was crying. I was scared. I could hear rumbling and screaming. When I got out I was so confused. It was quiet. Like really, really quiet. Scary quiet. Like from the movie Legend quiet. Everyone was just standing with their mouths gaped open or their hands to cover it… and when I turned around I could see both towers were on fire, smoking. Smoldering. This was real? Shit. Shit!!. Fuck. What do I do??. Where do I go?? Someone help me! Wait. Get a grip! Calm down. Take a breath. Breathe. Ok, you’re breathing. Now run!

I didn’t know where to go or what to do so I just ran to my new office/music studio on 16th and 8th and when I got there everyone was just staring out the large window that had the ideal view of the devastation. Within those moments, the first tower came crashing down and everyone screamed and gasped and cried…we all went to the roof and watched the 2nd tower plummet soon thereafter… everyone started running out of our building, I was knocked down because I was wearing those dumb heels and that stupid short skirt. Ugh! I got up and left the building with everyone else. I remember I had to pee like there was no tomorrow, but all the shops were closed. No one would even let me in let alone come to the doors in fear of riots. I couldn’t blame them, but man, I had to go.

I remember wishing someone was there to tell us what to do and where to go and what was happening….I mean, there wasn’t a cop anywhere. I then stood on a long line to use the payphones to call home, (you know this is an old story when there’s a pay phone involved), but by the time I got up to use it, the landline was dead. No one even had a working cell phone. A Verizon guy told us the phone lines were down because the antenna was at the top of the WTC, he had a small radio and he said that there were bombs reportedly in the subways and on the bridges, so to stand clear and get the hell out of there.

I walked up 6th ave. and that’s where I saw the mass exodus of people heading uptown. The fire trucks and ambulances were covered in soot along with a lot of the people. I was scared. Really, really, really scared. I remembered my dad’s friend had an office right where I was standing so I wrang up and he let me in. My dad’s friend assured me everything was just fine and that he had an inside scoop that there were boats coming to get us off the island (Sounds like Hunger Games, I know). I used the bathroom and then the alarms started going off so we all had to evacuate. I stepped back outside onto the sidewalk and noticed that the slow exodus soon turned into a running mob!! So I started running too. Damn these heels!!! I ran about 20 blocks and stopped. I began walking backwards so I could watch what was happening as well as continue moving away. Then, I bumped into this guy and all his papers went flying up in the air. Poof! As I began apologizing and helping him pick them up, I realized I knew him. He was a friend from school that I had just graduated with. We had hung out on graduation day. We hugged. He said he was gonna walk over the Brooklyn Bridge. I tried to convince him to come back to N.J. because all the bridges were closed. He didn’t care, he had to get home. Before we departed, I had asked if he remembered James from our class. He was the only one I could even think of that would have James contact info. I had a big crush on him since school ended, but I couldn’t seem to find any contact info anywhere not even on the internet. And with a name like James Doe, a black guy from Brooklyn, it was nearly impossible. David was like “Yeah, he actually called me the other day looking for your contact info, that’s so weird.” I was shocked. I gave him my email and phone number and said “Please, when you make it home call me and also please pass my info along to him.” And he did. (Yes, I was giving out my phone number to get a date during a terrorist attack, sigh, only me).

I began walking up to like 90th street or wherever so I could get myself on one of those boats heading home. After I got there they were like, “no, sorry they are leaving from 14th street”. Fuck!. Are you serious??? So then I walked all the way back to 14th street. My legs were tired. I had already ditched my shoes and I had sores on my thighs from the walking. Eventually I snuck in line and got on a cruise ship headed for Jersey. The entire ride was silent. When I got there, Aub, Mike and Ez were already there to take me home. I don’t think I said anything to anyone until we got to the house and then I just lost it. I tried to compose myself so Ezra wouldn’t be scared but I couldn’t. He came in my room, smiled, sat next to me and put his head on my lap. I moved over to the window and just sat there, and then he came over and hugged me and we both sat there together, watching the towers burn to the ground.

I think I have only taken the train once since that day. I insist on ALWAYS wearing comfortable shoes and clothing when I go to the city, even at the expense of my friends who I constantly embarrass when I show up to a high class venue in Nike’s.

I tell this story as I remember it. To add a few things, James did call me 2 days later. We went on our first date a week later. I was in love big time, and today we say is our 11th Anniversary. We now have a beautiful almost 10 year old daughter, Sasha, the love of my life whom I would go through a thousand other terrorist attacks for just to be with her.

Thanks for listening,

Cheryl

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In one swift motion I set to emancipate the cavalcade of ideas that splintered the air whenever you were released from the weathered barracks of my mind.

I had actively intended on to burying the idea of you.

It was the irresistibility of flirting with disaster when I wrang your number just to hear your name, having nothing to say.

Irony is comedic only in time, where once it sliced.

The question hung: does purging happen in Purgatory, or do thoughts become mute? Paused. I wondered truly.

It was being somewhere on the cusp between “me” and “us” and I was caught holding thin hopes in one hand that we would withstand, and shielding my eyes from even picturing your image with the other.

Duality- a hard iceberg to straddle. Icy waters splash and are no friend, and it’s no fun to slide and fall when you’re all by yourself and not laughing. And there is nobody to pick you up, brush you off, warm you.

The wieght of one steam engine is what it took to pull you out of myself. But like ripping a  weed out at the base, disregarding the roots, your face returned, reliably.

Your face. A smooth pallet of yesterday. A memory of the fruit that never fell from the tree. And an understanding of how delicious I’de thought it could be.

Luckily there is time- the magic magnet- pulls heavy metals from blood. Gravel from cuts. Heals wounds, though occasionally trapping debris.

When you come to me now I don’t tremble anymore, but that doesn’t make me steady. You can’t expect to be let in and must know now that you will never know me. Count that. I am tied up in the back for safe keeping. Your embraces last too long, and you’re too small for this song, and the vacancy bulbs are all burnt.

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The inception of any fantastical idea is a considerably fair cause for celebration, if not immediate action. In fact, I believe every first should be celebrated in one way or another. Minor victories. Like say you decide last minute to conduct some interviews on a test group, and have some particularly suiting and saucy curiosities to work with, and you are bold enough to make up who you work for in order to support your strange desires. Pill Box, is the moniker that was freshly devised; the moniker that represents a faux-blog. It will somehow serve the public, eliciting the info that only bullshit artists can possibly get! My good friend and I (pictured below in our official hats) set out to the public to conduct random, wayward interviews. This experience was the warmer. This is just the beginning. The aforementioned blog exists not, but will be moonlighting under this here (lovely! (ahem)) Pigeon Heart Ponderings business. Verrrry exciting.

It is amazing what the written word does. Writing “Press” on a piece of scrap paper and safety-pinning it to trucker hats can (and did!) grant surprising credibility.

Every summer we have the Soap Box Derby races here in Portland, Oregon. Everyone hangs out on this dormant volcano, drinking and enjoying the amazing, crazy, and often ridiculous creations that teams of people unite over to make and zip down hill on. The rest of us go for the beer, views, hilarity, shock, aw, and sunny days with friends and strangers. It’s a fantastic scene with some wild and creative folks. What better place to ask questions? I just don’t know.

So what up with the questions, girl? I heard that. Let me premise that I was feeling frisky when I thought up what I was going to be asking. I thought, in that moment, that there’s probably lots of freaky people that would do this type of event, so might as well ask them sexy stuff. I also figured there oughtta be some rebels up in there so might as well milk it. Right? Who’s been in handcuffs, party people?

The first noteworthy interview was with Brian Taylor of “Los Locos Bambaderos”

1. Is this your first derby? “Yes, my 1st!”

2. What’s the inspiration behind your soap box mobile? “The Deviants challenged us. They said they would smoke us. They never even showed up, so we already win by default.”

3. What else inspires you? “Good times.”

4. Who is the hottest contestant here? “The Lone Shark.”

5. If you had to pick a soap box to have sex in which would it be? “The bath tub.” This was the most common answer. Mind you, there were both a hot tub and a bath tub soap box car. The only shot I have of it is behind this crazy fish box car thang.

 

6. Where’s the craziest place you ever knocked boots? “On a picnic table. In the park. In the middle of the day.” Oww!

7. Have you ever been busted for anything? “Never.” ((Snicker))

8. Are you high right now? “I wish.”

9. Aren’t you afraid of the Mt. Tabor Mangler?! “No.” * This question cracked me up because it was absolutely fictitious; we just wanted to see the responses. I gotta say that pretty much everyone seemed unfazed and unconcerned.

10. If you had to pick a political figure to compete in this race against who would it be and why? Without skipping a beat he says: “Palin. Because she would lose and I would cream her ass!” Zing!

Next contestant interview: Erin of The Mile High Club. Check her out above with the press! This woman is actually in the Mile High Club. I had to shake her hand. That is pretty damn crafty. Unfortunately we didn’t get a flic of her ride, but check out what she had to say:

1. “This is my 5th year at the Soap Box Derby races. Every  year I do a different car. I do it with my friends and it is a lot of fun because usually we a re really busy in the summer. This is our down time.”

2. “I’m inspired to take time out for creativity, and also the fact that this is a non profit event.”

3. Sexiest contestants? “The Beauticians.”                                                            Boy do I wish I had a better picture! They were getting perms for crying out loud!

4. “I would choose to have sex in the Thomas the Tank soap box car for the irony of it.” A photo is hardly necessary. This replica was pretty spot-on.

5. She was not high.

6. Totally unperturbed by the Mount Tabor Mangler.

7. Would chose to race “Benjamin Franklin because his box car would inevitably be a pretty sweet invention. He would also probably have a really cool costume.” Ha!

Many interviewees had similar responses when it came to inspiration: women and substances. Several contenders were racing for their 1st time, others their 2nd, and some their 5th. Most people have a record, likely involving “youthful indiscretion”. Not one person feared the Mount Tabor Mangler.

There were lots of other incredible mobile creations. This was just intended to share the derby with you and wet your whistles for the good things to come.

So if you fantasize about asking public opinion, but just lack the platform- we’ve gotcha covered. Speak out here to me and if it sounds fun it may very likely be included it in one of our days out, talking with townies… Let’s share the dream! -Making the most out of hitting the streets-

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Many of our inexplicable urges are primal and connect us to our intrinsic past. A lot of how we operate comes from a deep, ancestrally patterned response system. We act out of habit and it is a habit set if not by ourselves, by our heredity. These actions are set in us for reasons of survival. Many of these things that we respond to have been watered down at this point, and no longer serve the same purposes as earlier times, yet we are left with trace urges that might wiggle and dance out from under thumb when asking why. What we see now as doing for simple fun and/ or pleasure just might be telling of where we came from. “What does she mean?” Let me explain with some supportive examples~

Numba 1: game hunting. Obviously we come from a lineage of hunter gatherers. Men went out to pasture, forest, and plain to bring home the bacon. Hunting was a necessity and provided our sustenance. These days we can bargain hunt for our meats and other fleshy things in the long isles of the grocery store. Most bros I know never even shot an animal… Well, maybe rats with bb guns, but that’s straying from the point. The need to have ill aim, be able to stalk prey (animals, fellas, come on), skin beasts, etc. has silently slipped by as a skill. Right? Right. However, men still have this urge to kill kill kill with out the real need in modern society to do so (purely for sport) and take it out on little Bambis’ of the world, often discarding the meat and saving… the head? Hmm. Something got lost in translation, no? You see- and people still have that innate urge for hunting, despite it’s existence of being a necessity (over all) long gone.

Specimen 2: Buffets. Yes- let’s examine this one fattys’! I kid. This is actually viewable as a relative to the first example, just in different clothing. But again, this is a post on breaking down what we are subconsciously drawn to do in the name of survival. I have noticed time and time again how people will eat faster when there is excess food in front of them. Instead of taking time with what is currently on the plate, they rush through their 1st plate so that they don’t miss out because others ate faster/ more and there are no seconds, though had they taken their time on the first plate they may realize that they were not hungry anymore. That question is disregarded and/ or ignored. So what’s my theory on how this relates to old patterns of survival? This is totally connected to scarcity mentality. During the hunter gatherer day, dependent on the season, it was often feast or famine for peeps. When food was abundant, it was wise to eat what was available, as there were no fridges or storage. People ate what they had while they had it. It was not sensible to abstain from eating because there was no guarantee that abundance would be part of tomorrow. In today’s culture (generally speaking (apart from famine stricken lands)) food is plentiful. The urge to eat and eat till we’re immobile stems from what I am saying. You feeling me?

3rd: Let’s address… Playerrrrs. Alright, I think this is connected to the urge to procreate. I’m not saying that most promiscuous people want to make bunches of babies per-say, but I am saying that the urge to screw as many people as possible stems from the assurance of the tribe continuing. If your sleeping with just one person, there are only so many children they can provide. Knockin boots with several people at once ensures a small gaggle of minis’. People wanted to do it (obvs because it feels fabulous and) to keep the blood line strong and to have extra hands to help raise the roof or whatever they needed. It’s like hunting for sport, people. The chief of tribes would have several wives. They were big biz. Importante. Their ancestry must be continued. Players might just be thinking that they are super important and need to spread seed so that their babies would be popping out a plenty. Think big ego and king of domain mentality.

Possible supporting theories: Making our hair big… Guilty! Or at least I certainly was. Yeah, I sported a wave. And it was taller than yours. And your sisters’. Yup. Lotsa people want to have thick, big ol’ hair. Proof? Weaves, wigs, extensions, hair thickening treatments, teasing, blow outs, hair spray… Maybe this is connected to wanting to appear larger to seem intimidating to predators. ??  I mean, genrally speaking, some crazy chick looks more intimidating to me when she’s got big hair then someone who has short, straight hair. Kinda. I don’t know- it’s a stretch. But just think about it.

But then there are questions… Residual things that don’t make sense.

For example, what is with the urge to talk to people that don’t speak the same language as yourself in an increasingly loud voice? Like if you get to the point where your are shouting you might break the barrier of misunderstanding and they will be suddenly capable of telling you exactly where the bathroom is.

And here’s another. I’ve been trying to wrap my head around this one, and maybe you can help me… What is the deal with the whole appeal of the chase and challenge? The being wanted so bad when you are unavailable or disinterested. The wanting of someone when they do not show clear signs of reciprocity. It is so powerful on both ends. I have seen it now in full circle and got temporarily swept by the force of it. It’s so powerful and something that we all fall victim to, so I am thinking that there has to be a bigger reason for this phenomena. What is the biological basis for the intrigue of the chase and challenge? Is there some larger picture that it fits into to protect us from something? Because I cannot see it, if so. What’s your philosophy? Why do we so often want what we can’t have?

And one left over for the dogs: Spinning around and around in circles before laying down. Even when they are trying to lay on hard wood or carpet… This goes back to when they would have to lay down in tall grasses, they would flatten them down and make a tiny nest-like place to slumber.

Ah, there are so many more for us though, but there’s my jumping point. Do you have any glaring ones?

So much to think about.

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I went to Lovetown and all I got was this lousy song. (;

 

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