The Daily Write: The Plan (July 17, 2012. 12 minutes of mostly raw writing)

The Plan

I was going to list every memory I've been meaning to write about, including the ones that pop into my head at oh dark thirty when the cows are still sleeping and the grass is only just beginning to gather dew. The roosters, on the other hand, are wide awake, about to torture the world when it would rather be sleeping, or making memory lists.

I feel compelled to write it all down before I forget or lose my mind, or get so lost in my memories I dismiss the present. I'm a Jew like that. There are many ways I'm not a Jew. Well, actually, not many at all. Except for that little matter of bloodlines. A paternalistic religion except for the mother thing. Annoying when it all comes down to me through the fathers, "on both sides" my inner child reminds me.

I have done these things, although they weren't part of the plan:

-Rebirthing
-est
-The Experience
-Intensive Journal Writing
-Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain
-Volunteering in Werner Erhard's kitchen (est again)
-The 6 day (more est)
-Peace walks with Tibetan monks
-Skin modification
-Contact Improv
-Performance Art
-Solo performance
-Self-revealing writing
-Naked street performance
-Anti-war protesting

I've had the following things read:
-My palms
-My handwriting
-My cards
-My aura
-My eyeballs
-My knees
-My astrological chart
-My Mayan astrological chart
-My Chinese astrological chart
-My past lives
-My numerology

I like to say I'm a believer. I believe in everything. I believe that what you believe may come to pass for a time when you die, until we all revert to the sameness. Sameness sounds banal. Purgatoryish. Purgatory sounds like living in moderation. Living in moderation makes me have difficulty breathing. I'm an extremist who likes boundaries. I'm a risk taker who needs safety.

Let's be honest. The plan was to grow up to be famous. A singer. A beauty. A dancer. An actress. A model. Being short, fat and loud mouthed somehow never quite fit in with the plan but that didn't stop me from believing. I'm going to be 47 next month. When do you give up on your dreams? Is there a certain age when you throw in the towel and admit defeat?

My favorite humorists are Louis C.K., Margaret Cho and Shalom Auslander. I like to laugh. But you know, I sort of like to cry too. It's a release. I've had less release the older I become. Does this mean all the stress is building up inside me like an unfurled tsunami? Am I going to die young(ish) because I didn't get famous, didn't let it out, didn't resolve, or god forbid (if you believe in that sort of thing), didn't follow The Plan?