The Universe Speaks

I had actually meant to do this thing yesterday, but through my own stupidity, I somehow managed to loose an entire hours worth of writing (and the subsequent soul searching that had gone along with it) by simply clicking the wrong button.

That'll teach me not to save long, thought-inducing posts as drafts, during the writing.

Right then. On with it, shall we?

I turned 30 a few weeks ago. I actually had a really great time and was surprised to find that the world didn't end - well, my world at least. I will admit to being mildly self-absorbed at times. Despite being inexorably pulled towards what I was convinced was going to be the worst day of my life EVER, and dreading the dawn of said day ... it was actually pretty painless. I had been of the mind that I would be weeping myself senseless at having reached this milestone birthday. For the few days leading up to it, I felt as if I had been dragging a giant boulder around my neck, and was nearly paralyzed with the weight of it. But, my world didn't end, and for that I am grateful.

In fact, I feel as if my world as opened up and that the Universe has been speaking to me. Here I am, 30 years old and still dreaming of that "dream job." But, here's the thing. Writing is my dream job. All my life I've wanted to write. I was that kid in school who loved history papers (but not the required research), English essays and assignments ... anything that allowed me to use words to explain, describe, argue, demonstrate and illustrate. I love words. I love really strange words like cantankerous, flibbertigibbet, and nefarious. Ever since I was a little kid, I had wanted to be a writer - or at the very very least knew that I wanted to be involved in writing. Of course, when you are between the ages of eight and ten and you fill out an aptitude-esq booklet that gauges whether you have a knack for writing and it comes back weeks later in the mail and you read it and go "holy shit, I do!!" you have to wonder how much of that feeling is real honesty on the behalf of the Unseen Entity that really made you believe you could be a writer, and how much of it was just a quick scam to get some fast cash from you're parents. But then, the Universe does you a solid and a local magazine asks you to submit a couple of book reviews, and you feel pretty effing amazing about yourself.

But what sensible human being bases their life ambition on the awesome, dream-affirming moments you have as an eight year old. Apparently, some of the happiest people on the planet have known what they wanted to do since they were kids. But, the problem is ... is that we can't stay eight years old forever, and it's so hard to maintain the dreams and illusions and innocence we had when we were that young. We still believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, the gold at the end of the rainbow, the moon was made of green cheese, and there was no such thing as too much ice cream.

That last one I am still a believer in though, thankfully. I think it's an unshakable truth of the universe.

We grow up. Inevitably. Life demands so much from us, in that unrelenting and selfish way. We finish grade school, get an education from some upstanding college or university, and are expected along the way to get "real jobs" and figure out who we are as individuals. Meanwhile, there are the more practical problems of paying rent and bills, building and maintaining relationships, and all of our efforts seem to be localized at just trying to get both ends to meet; to keep our heads above water. Life never really wants to wait. For anything. It makes constant demands. So where, and when, and how, in the pursuit of meeting these demands are we supposed to figure out just who the hell we are and just what the hell do we wanna be "when we grow up." Even now, at 30 I still have to seriously wonder whether or not that I'm a grown up. Society has dictated that I am, but I certainly don't feel like one. I stay up later than I should, eat too much food that's bad for me, and - on occasion - make incredibly terrible choices. Surely, no responsible and well put together adult suffers from this affliction, do they? To those adults I say this ..."You're doing it wrong."

Life may not wait, but there comes a point when we have to make it wait. It isn't going anywhere, and more often than not, all our days sort've all blend in together and it becomes hard to tell one day from the other. The days I remember the best, are days that I've written something, or been inspired by a video or a song, or a conversation or a dream.

The internet has been very good to me lately, along with the Universe. Some very wonderful and very inspiring videos have been viewed on my laptop screen and I can't help but visualize the great mouth of the Universe wide open and screaming right in my ear. The first of these videos was this one, by the lovely, amazing Amanda Palmer. It's from her keynote address earlier this year in Boston, shortly after the Boston Marathon bombings and it's called (more or less)"Connecting The Dots." The address is beautiful. And it is here that I think the Universe is telling me to make.Life.wait. And write.

This little space that I have here, is my own digital creative space, and the second I hit the button to "publish" .. is really a much less cool version of me running wildly about the place, banging on doors and asking you to read something that I just wrote. Instead of getting the middle finger, there would be doors slamming in my face. So whether it be the romantic version that Amanda envisions, or me standing upon my doorstep saying "Come look at what I just wrote!" I am asking you to be a part of this with me. It's very scary, embarking on this. At some point, we all want validation and that's what has held me back for so long- the dreaded thought of "What if I'm really not that good?!" Now, granted there are almost always people who will tell you that you're good at something - close friends, family, partners. But it's really kind of their job to tell you that you really are good at something. If you can't get support from those closest to you, then we are really and truly fucked, as a group. Getting validation on the internet is so hard when you have to compete with things like cat videos on YouTube - you watch them, admit it! And of all the blogs that are out there (and a lot of them are really good) surely mine ... this tiny little space that you've only stumbled upon because I led you down the path, or at the very least gave you vague directions on how to get here ... doesn't measure up. Does it? Quite frankly, I don't really know. So, i content myself by checking (almost obsessively) the stats that Blogger keeps track of for me. And while I can pretty much guess at who all my readers are, I am grateful to you nonetheless. The fact that my pageviews continue to rise is proof that I'm doing something right.

What that something is, I have no idea.

The other video that crossed my path, was from Neil Gaiman and his address to a graduating Univeristy class full of Arts degree students which has recently been turned in to a neat little book called Make Good Art.

And even though I can watch this video endlessly for free, I'm going to buy the book. It's available on Amazon.ca, which makes me happy.

So, despite the fact that I am haunted by self doubt that I really am good at this whole writing shtick, and I envision The Fraud Police almost constantly, I can't help but think that maybe ... just maybe,if I invite them in and offer them some wine that they will change their minds, tell me it's okay to make it up as I go along because I'll be okay, and that if I'm not scared shitless a time or two, just do what Frankie says and relax ... being scared must mean you're doing it right.

So, dear friends, writers, comrades, dreamers, believers, dancers, artists, blog aficionados, readers, souls and brothers in arms ...

The door is open. Please, come in. Invite your friends. Bring wine or beer or your beverage of choice. Break bread and commune with me.