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Perhaps a Title Will Come To Me September 28, 2011

Posted by frostwolftfirerose in Uncategorized.
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Do others feel it?  That there seems to be a ramping up of energy that leads to a liftoff of some sort?  I am here in my little witchy cottage, and I careen through all sorts of emotions, not the least of which is Forgot Everything’s All Right (FEAR).  See, I will be able to pay October’s rent, and that’s about it.  I have food because I’ve been stocking up and I have a neighbor and a food pantry, and hopefully will be getting the food stamps in order, but I don’t have money to pay for the Nat Grid bill, the credit card, the cellphone when all these start to come due and paying.  I trust I will be able to manifest all this, but I don’t honestly know at the perspective of today, September 28, 2011.

The Work of this God is to be a joyful, wealthy, healthy, creative, solvent, abstinent, sober, lucky shaman by the river.  A playwright and screenwriter.  A counselor, a healer, a joybringer, a celebrant in all manner of life.  A forest creature in many ways as well, seeing as Pines and Oaks and Cedars are sturdy allies in my journey.  And what I see for myself is that future, which is coming on line.  But I have always sensed this gap, and I’m at the gap now.

I’m about to “jump and trust the net will appear.”

And in order to get to that place, I need to jump and be OK with the possibility that the net is not there at all, and that I will fall and fall and fall, until I land hopefully on my head and reunite with God Herself.

The journey of this past year since I ankled my legal gig has been one of coming to terms with the terminal diagnosis.  Do I have cancer? An inoperable tumor? Or maybe one of those terribly tragic diseases of slow wasting of which there is no cure.  Yes, indeed.

I am a playwright.

There you have it.  I am a playwright, and I have a difficulty in reaching audiences, and it’s partly built into me, and I’m trying to work with it, after having worked against my resistances all this time, and you know what?  I see that this life has quite a high overhead, and that for many a year that overhead took the form of ignoring or sabotaging my work.  And today I’m not doing that, but in so making the approach of putting my writing right behind my recovery, I’m also opening to the possible truth that there is no road here for me, that I’m coming to a place where the bridge is out.  But the end of this movie is not “he turns back to begin again, forced back to the vEmpire with tail between his legs.”

If it’s not Indiana Jones, it will be Thelma and Louise.  I must press forward.  If I’m not meant to be a playwright who gets audiences, and writing is acting is directing is living my life (eating, sleeping, shitting, pissing, having sex, putting a roof over my head), then not writing is not acting is not directing is not living my life is not eating, is not sleeping is not shitting is not pissing is not having sex is not putting a roof over my head.

Not writing for me: Is not existing.  And I would rather do that without the burden of having to attend to a body that would only be for cuntwork in cubicle hell working with vampires with J.D. degrees.  Been there done that, rather be dead.

My new prayer for the days is that my Godself comes into my body and is present within me.  To be radiantly self-possessed, to have all my points clean and clear.  Acceptance is the answer to all of my problems.

What other shingles can I put up to declare independence from The Man?  My recovery comes first, and my writing comes first after that, and everything else must support the two of them.

Anyone need their chart done?  Writing help?  Typing?  A dinner companion–on your dime?  I’m a cheap date and lots of fun.  Perhaps we can read some of my scripts together.  It could be delightful.  It’s time we all start to acknowledge that we need each other.

And people do need me, I know they do.  The question is, will they wake up to this fact before it’s time for me to go?

If worse comes to worst, there’s North Dakota, where my Mother and brother live.  I hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does, it’s meant to be.  In the meantime, I have returned to a script I started years ago.

It’s my rehabilitation of The Tempest, with a Mexican sorceress (Persefoni del Cielo) who was banished from the corporatocracy 17 years previous.  It’s set on December 20, 2012, the night before the end of the Mayan Calendar in an out-of-the-way convent turned into pagan amusement park in Seagull Junction, North Dakota.  And it’s called Ambergris Mysteries, which is the name of the theme park.  Instead of a boat and a storm, it’s a train and a blizzard, and the king is a CEO of a company called Alonzo Prosper, Inc.  And Miranda/Ferdinand are now Randolfo/Ferdinand.  (There has to be a gay angle in it somewhere, why not the budding young lovers who will boldly enter a transitional phase out of the vEmpire?)  Basically I’m trying to remove the colonialism in the play and replace it with a re-embrace of the natural world.

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