One Life

Yeah, just one. I believe you get one chance in this life.

This makes it tuff. On so many levels tuff. I'm already kinda selfish in some way. No kids, no one to consider when making life-changing decisions. Just me. Me and God.

Sometimes God makes it more tuff. It's hard to be killer selfish when God whispers in your ear, "Are you sure about that?"

He knows me. Knows that I have this painstaking heart for people, humanity, justice and to be that voice for the unthinkable. There are certain unthinkable crimes in this world that crush my heart. Crimes most people don't think to exist.

Is the road starting to fork? Maybe. The first steps into 2014 will reveal this.

I can choose to stay in this world, the "film" world (Production). Climb, tirelessly, from job to job. Raking hours away, pushing aside my unsettled heart that knows it needs more. That my thirst will never be fully quenched here. I'm losing peace. Inner peace. Soul peace.

I'll still write. Just no sets.

It's not about fun anymore.

Shit.

I'm still waiting for a Civilian position to open with the Toronto Police Service, feels like it's taking forever, been waiting since the summer. My heart is for people, community safety. This is what I hope to do: Take classes at the Toronto Police College, work my way into Missing Persons...Research, who knows? Leave the door open to whatever.

There's this one area of interest I have. I've told a few friends about it. They ask, "Aren't you afraid to get into something like that? Sounds scary"

I'm rarely afraid of evil people. I only fear what evil people continue to get away with.

So... More reading to do in the New Year. Yeah, I think that's what I'll do. It feels right. Lots of research. Maybe a conference.

The bread and butter may be small, to start, but I have to stay true to what feels right.

See what I mean...ONE LIFE.

Not Human

I'm set dressing, handling some props, and with each day learning more and more what I can take, and what I cannot.

side note: I don't feel human when I'm not writing.

I think some people are wondering my age...kinda funny. Happens all the time. Most of time they're off the mark by 10 years, which explains so much. But I drop a few hints, a few years this or that happened. Eyebrows arch, another number hits the brain. I remain silent.

Funny.

But this set dressing/props thing. I have to see it through till the end. My mind isn't made up about how I feel, which is more telling than anything else. I know I need consistency, I know that much. And this world is far from consistent.

Day 7

Lots of legs and hands on set, scattered order, sometimes disorder. Words fly, communication failure in moments, tension builds, a light breaks, missed lines, clean up carnage, knee caps bloody. The set is Hot. "Don't just stand there" "Quiet on set!"

Day 7 Over

I have more to go. Met some wonderful people, amazing people. Some not so amazing. Such is life. Meh.

side note: Boys definitely live in an alternate universe. A Man Channel few women are tuned into to. When you catch a clear reception, you have to lean back, wondering if you heard correctly ...seriously, did I just hear that?

In the days after more will be clear. I'll have a pocket of time to write. Nestle in Starbucks, live the dream. Cast biting words aside. Have drinks with friends, maybe ice cream with new friends, and be human once again.

Bloody Knuckles

Freak, frack, give me a fucking break, are you serious, shut up, get me the hell outta here, never wanna see your ugly mug again!

That's the pain of trying over and over again. The internal dialogue while sipping tea. Thoughts no one knows you're speaking, cause on the outside civility is name of the game and most acceptable. We all know this.

When you're keeping it real, or trying to at least, the line of civility gets smudged away from the constant drag of your knees crawling, begging to find salvation.

Is the pain worth it?

I'm still trying to sort that answer out. Trying while maintaining a sliver of dignity and pride. Staying true feels damn lonely. Only a few accept when you're being truly authentic. The ugly authentic. The kind that only close friends know exist, while the rest of the world thinks you've lost all your marbles, ignorant or killer selfish.

24/7 Decency is a handsome mask. It's okay to be ugly - sometimes.

And for the longest while, months upon months stitched together, all I could feel was ugly. I tried, and succeeded most days to keep it civil, sane and true. But within the darkest of spaces, where the civil world dissolves like rice paper, within fragments lasting within seconds - ugly thoughts compounded.

Doors slammed, roads shook, reality choked, as I deliberately erased faces from eternal memory. All for survival. I was on the edge, parched from thirst, the beating of acid rain hitting my brain. The clouds clinging, merciless - I was fighting several wars at once: Body, Soul and Mind.

I belong here. No there. Maybe nowhere. This constant state of wander butchering every fruitful idea and morsel of creativity I thought I had. It was slipping, all of it, between my fingers.

And just as the last rumble brought me to my knees, where falling down and never getting up felt right, a hand reached down, a soft voice called, and a gentle breeze comforted my cheek.

side note: a few days ago I dreamed I was making my bed. The image was so clear, I knew it was significant.

Maybe...