That story/every adaptation of it makes me cry-without fail-on every encounter.  It’s like being hit by a Poignant Throwing Star. It just comes at me with Truth and Warming-of-the-Heart on every side. It happens so fast. And before I know it. . . BOOM. It’s lodged in there, and it gets to me. I am a weepy mess before those kids fly past the First Star to the Right.

Peter Pan is the fast train to Cry Town because it is a Double-Edged sword of Sad.

Peter is happy being a boy, but we know he is missing the joys of adulthood: family, relationships, renting a car, the satisfaction of knowing you ordered and paid for (and can now eat) a delivered pizza, all on your own. He will never know what it’s like to get older. To learn more. To strengthen and weaken, to overcome new obstacles.

And Wendy? She leaves Peter behind. And childhood. No more pirates and face paint. No more food fights or mermaids. No more endless strings of carefree days. Like the boys of Neverland, in her own way, part of her is lost.

for the first time in years, I am starting a job. It is part-time. But it in my field. That, and some other circumstances lining up just so, are allowing me to [at the same time] move back out of my folks’ house and in to my own place. I suppose it can be as true for blessing as it is for hardship: when it rains, it pours.

Tonight, it hit me. I am thrilled about this new set of responsibilities (and opportunities to grow and become more ‘myself’). But I am also scared to death. It is the first time in a while I have felt like I don’t know what to expect, like people are counting on me, like now-more than ever-I am going to have to fend for myself. And there is joy in that, in continuing to ‘grow up’. There is exhilaration and freedom there. But there is also fear and mourning.

In a matter of days, my whole outlook seems like it has been turned upside down. My college life, my teenage years, and the days of never having to worry about a good dinner [since mom is cooking] seemed so far away. Like another life. The past is an age away. The present is uncertain. And the future I spent so many years hoping, praying and searching for finally seems to be around the corner. The jarring part is, even at close range, I have no idea what it looks like.

Perhaps the biggest irony of growing up is that I am afraid to do it. Here I am, trembling on a new threshold, anxious in every way. And all the time, the child in me is strong and defiant. She tosses her hair, puffs out her chest. She taps her toes impatiently and scoffs at my cowardice, as if to say “What’s your problem? It’s only an adventure.”

It is probably safe to assume that people like me-with the attention span of a hummingbird, and an equally overdeveloped guilt complex-should not focus too much time or energy on resolutions for the new year [or on how I may have dismally failed to keep the ones from years prior].

But now the Mayans are going all Televangelist on me and telling me it’s going to rain blood and explode badness at the end of 2012. That means I need to set at least one goal I can feel good about. You know, just in case I get thrown down some kind of Doom Pyramid. [To be fair, the Mayans were a little intense. They probably looked forward to that sort of thing.]

S0. If things are going to get a little Kubrick by the end of next year, I might as well take every opportunity to Carpe Year, as it were. Don’t fret. I don’t plan to throw responsibility to the wind and give over to Bacchanalia. And I don’t mean to pull a Thoreau, quit paying taxes, and become a forest dweller. I just need to continually engage in pursuits that make me feel whole and happy, while I have the chance.

My resolution for the year? Be creative. I mean, embody the term; redefine it if I have to. . . it is high time to push my creativity to the limit. Challenge it. Grow it. Do whatever it takes to more fully participate in it.

Because, along with being in Sacred space, being in creative space gives me peace and joy. It makes me feel like I am more fully myself. It shows me new parts of myself. It humbles me and makes me proud. It gives me crystalline awareness of the human and the Divine.

While taking part in a collage night a few weeks ago, my friends and I adopted a new rule: The answer is Yes. Should I give FDR giraffe legs? Yes. Should I place the words “The Strangest” across an American flag? Absolutely. Should I give Baby Buddha robotic hands? Of course you should.

When it comes to Being Creative, if I ask myself “Should I try this?”, I am starting to understand the answer should be yes. [I'm not saying that every single impulse has to be indulged and obeyed, or that every endeavor will be successful. There's just no reason I should limit myself in an area where everyone is meant to drop the limits.]

How is this goal going to be quantified? I’m not sure. But the nice thing about having a resolution completely based in creativity is that my approach can be, too.

I have been thinking on this for a while. And the glimpses of freedom and joy I have felt while immersing myself in creative projects is something I had to make a bigger part of my life.

I have basked in the love of my friends and family long enough to know that you guys will not only support me and hold me accountable, but that many of you will jump on the bandwagon [which undoubtedly resembles the bus from Magical Mystery Tour] and join me in my foray.

And knowing how talented so many of you are, and how much you inspire me, we seem to be well on our way.

Look out 2012. Look out Mayans. We’re painting this town red. Or blue. Or decoupaging it. Whatever. We’re making it beautiful and sparkly and awesome. And in that way, we are claiming it. We are promising to make it new.

In fact, many such hands have been laid on me. Many earnest prayers and supplications have been offered on my behalf. Many concerned glances have been cast my way. I have been approached [and often 'prayed over'] in churches, in college dorms, passing through downtown, in cafes and in parking lots; most often by complete strangers. To put it another way, many well-meaning, kind people have spent a lot of their time making things kind of awkward for me.

Late Wednesday night, a trio from a well-known religious organization here in town approached me, asking if they could pray for my healing. I conceded that, yes, they’d be welcome to pray for my much-needed spiritual healing. But I pretty much stopped there.

This sparked a 20 minute dialogue about healing, complete with an emphatic “I just don’t agree with that” from the young man who said he had the gift. I don’t think I have made another person that uncomfortable in a long time.

To sum it up, they were baffled. I don’t want to be healed? What gives? I am-after all-a Christian who believes God can do anything He chooses. I believe He can give us “life, and abundantly so” (John 10:10). So, why not ask Him if He can throw in a patched-up brain and a working set of legs?

I’ll tell you why not.

The problem I have with faith-healing is not the faith. I have been given that gift, by Grace and the example of others.

The problem I have with faith-healing is not the healing. I certainly believe healing and other ‘big’ miracles are possible.  Scripture, and stories from the lives of the Saints, have many examples of people seeking-and receiving-relief from their intense sufferings through Jesus.

Of course, these people sought and called out to Jesus in despair, identifying and owning a need for healing. Jesus not only had the compassion and the ability to heal them, but the respect for their free will and their dignity to ask them “Do you want to get well?” (John 5:6)

I would appreciate being asked the same question when it comes to my own circumstances. [Before I emphatically answer "No, thank you."]

The first [most selfish] reason I decline prayers for physical healing is that I like my life the way it is , and would not want my circumstances to be drastically altered [other than with a job and a place of my own; in that area I admit, I remain discontent]. Without having a disability, it is very unlikely that I would have the friends I have, the passions I have, the same quirky sense of social awareness, or my startling and dark sense of humor; all of which I am deeply grateful for.

I would not look how I look, say the things I say, or think how I think. I would draw different conclusions about challenges. I would learn different lessons. I would have completely different talents, weaknesses, and strengths. I would not be who I am. I am not being some kind of martyr. I just enjoy things the way they are.

And even if I was physically healed: who’s to say I would continue to rely on God and others in the way that my circumstances teach me? Remember the healing of the 10 lepers? Only one returned to thank Jesus for changing his life. Who’s to say that I would remember to lean on God, if I was delivered from my physical and emotional distresses? Not to mention to suffer is to truly live a Christian life. We all have crosses to bear. We all have thorns in our flesh. Some you can see, some you can’t.

Honestly, I find the whole insistence that I be physically healed bizarre. It seems to completely disregard both my spiritual needs and my strengths. Or worse, it equates how I am doing on the inside with how I am doing on the outside. This is completely illogical and dangerous for how we relate to one another. If everyone was treated this way, many of my friends with typical bodies and appearances would never be prayed for, and might never be healed or delivered from suffering. God forbid.

So, consider this my Public Service Announcement. There is a healing I need. [It's the same kind we all need]. I need the kind that comes with forgiveness, with peace, and with Communion with God. I need the healing that can be experienced in the love of a friend, or the beauty of Creation. And, that we might all receive this healing, I humbly ask for and offer prayers.

The rest of it, I can do without.

I assumed it was another great review of their hilarious new movie. After all, it has gotten a stellar reception, and has had myself and many of my peers laughing till we cried.

But then, I have always been stupidly optimistic.

Of course, this article wasn’t about how Kermit and friends have, yet again, made a new generation of people fall in love with their goofy humor, sense of friendship to everyone,  and zany songs.

Why would it be about something like that? Who would read such illogical spouting? Who could support such fallacies?

It was about something much more grave. Much more serious. Much more pressing.

Yep, you guessed it: the Muppets are Communists.

Wait a second. Sharing. Swedish Chef. You sure they're not Socialists?

Fox News commentators were up in arms about the Muppets last week, because they’re picking on Oil. That’s right, the claim was that-since the villain in the movie is an oil baron whose name happens to be Tex Richman [snicker, snicker]- the Muppets are sending kids the wrong messages. The kind that are “anti-corporate”, or worse, “attacking the oil industry”.

I’m sorry. I had no idea kids wanted or needed pro-oil, pro-corporate messages. Since they’re children, I thought they would be begging to go to the new Muppet movie so they can see Kermit sing and dance and play and have fun with his friends. But they’re kids. So they obviously don’t know what they’re missing.

And if the writers of this movie threw in a few little jokes, that is to be expected. This movie is, after all, a comedy. It is not an instructional video, a newscast, or-as the Fox crowd seems to think- a license to suspend  basic common sense and reasoning skills.

I think  it’s clear that Eric Bolling and Dan Gainor just need a giant, corporate-sized, oil-filled hug.

I mean, let’s face it: when watching the Muppets’ new movie, the average kid is going to say “Fart shoes! Awesome!” not “Sorry, Mom and Dad. I just figured out you’re the 1%. I’m pitching a tent in the yard from here on out.”

Like any well-written family comedy, the jokes in The Muppets that are written to entertain the adults will be there until the kids in the audience get old enough to appreciate them [or, as the case may be, freak out about them in completely irrational ways on a national news broadcast].

Although you could agree that the Muppets’ insistence on sharing the spotlight, celebrating differences, and being full of joy and exuberance might be decidedly anti-corporate, no one declares any such sentiment in this film. In fact, Kermit lives in a huge house in Hollywood, and Miss Piggy works for Vogue in Paris. Gonzo also runs his own very successful plumbing business.

As far as I can see, the Muppets have spent their time apart taking as much advantage as they can of social and economic opportunities, just like every other hard-working American.

And no one in the movie bashes oil. Get a grip, Fox News. Besides, everybody knows the Muppets have driven cars since 1979, when Kermit ditched his bike for Fozzie’s Studebaker for their cross-country jaunt in the Muppet Movie. Add in the Electric Mayhem’s bus, and the huge car they share in their current film, and it’s clear the gang is doing their part to show that massive, faceless oil conglomerates are people, too.

The folks at Fox are right about one thing, though. Kermit and the Muppets have been successfully sending messages to children for years. Messages like “Keep believing, keep pretending” and “It’s not easy being green. . . [but] I’m green, it’ll do fine, it’s beautiful and I think it’s what I want to be”.

Use your imagination, be faithful and hopeful, and be happy with you as you are. You read that right. These are the kinds of subversive messages I heard from the Kermit and the Muppets throughout my entire childhood. And as recent as  a couple of weeks ago, when I strolled out of the theatre humming along with a giant grin on my face, gladder to be alive than I had been in weeks, I knew it. Those adorable, loving Muppets had gotten me again.

They had sent me another message!

Life’s a happy song?! I don’t believe this.

What’s wrong with you people-er-creatures?

I can’t believe you actually expect me to take that with me through life. But let’s leave me and my desperate need for basic reassurance out of this.

You’re telling me that you want to wave that kind of message around in the faces of children? You want them to hear over and over that everything will be okay, you can do it, and you’re not alone?!

Be my guest.

Each and every one of you knows that I am a red-blooded American. [O-Negative, actually. I know. I have very versatile platelets. One of my myriad talents.] And because I am so American, I am also rather Unemployed. Recently, I decided to (wo)man up and reach out to someone who could do something about it. Someone with real pull, real clout, real Americanosity.

About 1.3 million people tune in to Stephen’s nightly broadcast, with an untold number of online viewers, and Social Media fans. He has hosted massive rallies, petitioned to have space stations named for him [successfully, though they reneged], and has encouraged thousands to give money to his equal-parts-successful-and-ambiguous Colbert Super Pac.

The other day, as part of his Blitzkrieg on Grinchitude, Stephen offered to pay a Santa who was fired from his longtime general store holiday job for wages he would lose this year, as his own personal effort to save Christmas.

Light. Bulb.

If Stephen prides himself on being a Job Creator, why can’t he create a job for me?

I think he can. In fact, I know he can.  So in my next video blog, I plan to call Stephen, his Super Pac, and his job-creating-skills as a member of the 1% to task. And I need your help. In order for the video to reach Stephen, I will need lots of social media support, lots of sharing and passing around of the letter and video blog.  I will need every loudmouth you know to share, re-post and retweet until it crosses his desk. And by desk, I mean Smartphone screen.

This is your mission. I am counting on you, America.

And on the viral nature of the Internet.

More to come SOON.

I am not going to bore you with details about my day-to-day, other than to say it remains relatively unchanged, and I am doing what I can to press forward and make the best of it.

I am not going to write anything about Plymouth Rock metaphorically landing on any particular person, group, cause, or sentiment.

I am not going to post recipes. God knows you could have guessed that.

This is all I came here to do:

Refresh/replay as needed.

Love you all.

And not just because I stayed in, ate cherry pie a la mode, and spent time with my favorite Bird Lady. I also had a series of fascinating conversations [somewhat simultaneously; insert begrudging sense of appreciation for the immediacy of modern technology]. All of them were focused-one way or another- on creativity, art, and how we as people-beings express ourselves with them.

"The basis of art is truth, both in matter and in mode."

At one point, Chris-who had called me looking to collaborate on a project-said, “I knew you were an artist, so I figured we should.”

“What kind of thing did you have in mind?” I asked him. I was flattered, but confused. He forgot to call me a blogger. He had just said I was an artist, and I had this odd compulsion to clear the air as a result.

But as we were talking, I remembered. I write songs often. I paint occasionally. I draw in little notebooks. I even sing, when the opportunity [a gracious audience full of gentle souls I probably know very well] presents itself.

And I thought about Patti Smith for the first time in a while.

"When I was younger, I felt it was my duty to wake people up. I thought poetry was asleep. I thought rock n' roll was asleep."

At any given time, she has been a writer, a singer, a model, a photographer, an actress, a songwriter, a visual artist [painting, drawing, collage], and a poet: probably all at the same time. She has the right idea. She is an artist. Art is her medium.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that- in an effort to explain my quirks in a concise fashion-I had been cheating myself. Limits are for the professionals and mathematicians. They are not for me to impose on my own creativity or desire to learn.

So, I guess what I’m saying is. I’m not “just a blogger” anymore than someone who paints is “just a painter”. We are all artists.

So, do what you love. Find something new. Try everything. Learn from it all. Enjoy all the parts of who you are.

See the guy over there on the sidewalk, just behind that chap in the white? That’s Paul Cole. He is now 92-years-old, is still living in England, and has never listened to Abbey Road. When asked about the day this picture was taken, Cole said he thought the pack of guys repeatedly crossing the road was “just a bunch of  kooks”. As the article below explains,  he does know about the Beatles, and has heard a few of their songs. He “simply prefers classical music”.

I have to state the obvious: I just love this story. Not only do I find Paul Cole and his simplicity endearing, the whole thing makes me think about things [and not just things like how you could go your entire life without listening to musical genius the likes of Abbey Road].

It reminds me to pay attention. Because I never know who might cross my path, where I might be able to go, or what I might be able to do when I get there.

It reminds me to be present. I might not have to do some big, incredible thing to be remembered. I may just be able to sit where I am and be who I am. In fact, most of the time, I think that’s the whole idea.

And it reminds me I need perspective.  It’s all in how you look at it. Whether it’s others, my experience, or my self, how I choose to see things really does color my experience.

I may be a kook, or I may be rock n’ roll.

]]> http://beth2285.wordpress.com/2011/10/08/just-a-bunch-of-kooks/feed/ 3 Beth http://beth2285.wordpress.com/2011/09/29/love-the-one-youre-with/ http://beth2285.wordpress.com/2011/09/29/love-the-one-youre-with/#comments Thu, 29 Sep 2011 21:16:47 +0000 Beth http://beth2285.wordpress.com/?p=784 Continue reading →]]> You’ve heard the song, right? The one from nineteen-seventy-whenever?

“If you can’t be with the one you love,

Honey, love the one you’re with. . .”

I realize that when taken at face value, that isn’t exactly a flattering thought for you or “the on you’re with”. But why interpret a song correctly when you can spin it in a way that perfectly aligns with your own points?

Lately, I’ve been reading [or hearing] those words differently. I realized the other day that-until someone falls out of the sky and into a stable, mutually edifying relationship with me-I’m the one I’m with.

In terms of the people in my life, I’m the only certainty I’ve got.  And I’ll be with me no matter what else or who else comes along. So for me to love me is important.

This marvelous picture came from a blog post sent to me by a friend today as we were discussing what it means to love oneself.  Just look at that. That smile is on the face of someone who understands that concept. [In typical fashion, another child has taught me an invaluable lesson.]

Of course to love oneself is not to be selfish, to forsake others, or to overindulge. To love yourself is to recognize your own value, and to take care of yourself accordingly; to love yourself is to treat yourself as you should be treated.

To borrow a thought from my spiritual framework: to “be yourself” means you carry a spark of the Divine that no one else does, and that every human being is a singular part of his Creation. So, for us to love ourselves is to live and make decisions for ourselves in a way that recognizes that.

And whether or not you factor in the supernatural, it is still true that each person is a completely unique bit of the human race.

Like any artist, I know I will always live with being my own worst critic. And I know life and the people in it will make sure my plate is never in want of Humble Pie. So there’s nothing wrong with reminding myself occasionally that I am all-around rad.

And so are you.

And in his forthcoming novel, MINUTEMEN, he is making a huge mess.

May is an independent author in the throes of quarterlife from Panama City, Florida. Since earning his B.A. in English and Creative Writing from the University of West Florida in 2010, he has focused his energies on satire and the Southern avant-garde. May loves the South, and has a keen interest in Southern Mythologies. [Have any of you Flannery O' Connor fans started taking notes yet?]

illustration, "The Cotton Brothers Barn"

His first novel, MEGABELT,  [Energion Publications, Pensacola] is a satirical narrative memoir about a young boy growing up in the Bible Belt. May says MINUTEMEN is “quite a departure from that style. It’s still very comical in its own right, but I like to call it a ‘satirical thriller’.”

Want a Synopsis? MINUTEMEN follows four disgruntled dudes: Thom, John, Nate and Ezra; each reeling from the collapse of his relationship, right into the center of a colossal mess. When the Gulf Oil Crisis ensues, B Nocturne, a Madame and club owner, convinces the young men to manage her quickly-growing network of illicit activity–a result of her scheme to capitalize on the oil cleanup effort.

Once Madame B has the boys where she wants them, a series of subsequent oil spills occurs, causing the the hazwopers to come swarming her headquarters, the Moss Head Motel. The Motel fast becomes the epicenter for the biggest, ongoing nightly bizarre of illegal recreation the Gulf town of Indian River has ever seen.

As his “MINUTEMEN in a Minute” videos indicate, May has launched a Kickstarter campaign to raise money to offset publishing costs for MINUTEMEN. And the clock is ticking. With just under a week to raise a chunk of change, YOU can save the day for an independent release, and be a significant part of its coming to fruition. . . if you fancy. [Not to mention your contribution will earn some most excellent swag; more details can be found on the Kickstarter page].

May is starting his own publishing company called Eucatastrophe Press, with plans for MINUTEMEN to be its flagship title.

Fingers crossed.

Nick’s first book, MEGABELT, can be purchased through his Amazon page [In paperback and for Kindle. Fancy.] 

Nick has a blog called Song of Salmon. [And we all know how cool bloggers are. Duh.]

Nick is also alive and kickin’ in the Social Stratosphere, and can be found on Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube.