I am fully aware, by the entire species who let me know at every breath since I arrived on this planet, I may just appear to be a normal woman, but what I am not, EVER, to any degree, is logical.
No shit, Sherlock.
Thanks for the update.
These are the answers I want to flippantly give, to people who have just arrived in my story, not knowing they aren’t helping me uncover the mysteries of the Universe at this point, seeing as I feel exhausted on the journey.
Frodo may have had to carry the ring to keep it from that creepy slimy thing, only from the help of Sam, which Divorcee will love my terrible “Lord of the Rings” analogies, usually illogically quoted.
What I have done since arriving as an alien capturing this body and living in it as a host, is make decisions the only way I know how.
I move through the world on my own, like the air sign I am, feeling, breathing, beating to the rhythms of pure energy that can not be seen, heard, or felt. Try explaining that one to the Hobbits, which now I think of, may be better equipped to understand.
I almost threw my printer out the window the other day.
It probably wasn’t plugged in.
I write and write, my journals fill boxes since I was a teeny thing, my body always leaves and I arrive when I write, on the treadmill or aware suddenly as if awakened from a deep nightmare, that I am in fact, DRIVING, for God’s sake, and to slam my foot down on the pedal, always relieved I didn’t kill a van and end up on Oprah for murdering innocent people while I was coming up with the perfect words to describe Mr. CNN, a character I had just hung out with.
I use symbols and numbers, believe in angels and UFOs if they can help me find HWY 285, for sure I need all the help i can get.
And so, I save all types of airy crazy illogical things, in special drawers, feathers, rocks, notes, hilarious coincidences I know are not, but for the masses, pretend.
I hate to pretend but sometimes it is worth it, so when Thelma asked for my Business and Vision plan for our year, I cringed.
I reluctantly and nervously went and retrieved a Mandala I had saved once, a flower I had spent unusual time and energy on, passionately spending time and thought for every color, perfectly sharpened bright pencils, knowing it had significant meaning for me, but not sure why.
I believe I became hypnotized in the process, as Divorcee says I always do, my artistic drive channels when I am passionately creating or avoiding, which for me, is both, all the time.
In my mind, I could see this flower, the symbol of my vision to come, a morphing of big concepts that formed from a tiny center growing through lines of time and experience to take me to my dream, a place only destiny could hold.
I can see it, this destiny, since I was a small girl, making money hustling adults out of painted pieces of wood.
I let them give me the price, all cute and adorable, aware adults gave more than I asked for, the big coins were best, that the dollar with the five on it was awesome, a thing I knew cause Mrs. Shirley was hesitant, looking for the ones, unable to find one.
I kept it in a special drawer since it had made her squirm to give it, so certainly it was a sign my wood was painted perfectly.
“Who buys painted wood?” I wondered, amazed at the fact being less than 3 feet tall came with such power.
I can feel it, in the hairs on my arms, the pumping of my heart beat, the way I spin when something inside SCREAMS to go this way or that way, a nail on the chalkboard announcing a person of importance present, all the logical people busily making lists.
I wanted to put it up and let it speak for itself, but for me, used to living on Planet Earth, knows the way of its people, and so, I muttered that this was just a symbol I wanted, that I was coming up with concrete ideas and goals to write around, above, and below it.
“What?” I felt like my skin melted and had suddenly exposed my true nature, that she was about to reach for a big machine and blast me with green slime, proving even to me, that I was Alien, and perhaps, I would be relieved.
She opened her mouth, shut it, opened it, and instead as if to change her mind, went to her bag, opened it calmly, grabbed a book and tossed it at me.
“Like this?” she asked.
In front of me, in a real book was my flower, in the same colors and form exactly, the title was called no other than, “The Creative Entrepreneur.”
I don’t think I still believe it, reading it and rereading it, carrying it everywhere I go, a reminder that someone just saw me, the real me, and said not only are you okay, but your a fucking millionaire, a creative, and here is how to go be one.
I think it has become my Bible, my strength and fuel when asked why I don’t want to learn after not knowing how to get to a house with a GPS repeatedly, and so, I hold it close, thrilled, amazed, grateful, humbled.
Thelma, both creative and logical wondered at this, an amazing gift she has, a book she had searched and searched to find, bought years before, uncertain as to why she couldn’t begin, her most logical conclusion being that she had not found the perfect journal.
“What if in the world of logic, there is another way that people learn, one that cannot be measured and so it has not been really understood? What if I were to document your process with the book, the mandala, and research the way you learn and create as we go down this path so that we can use it to teach other Creatives how to tap into their own success?”
At that moment, my Spirit felt as if it had just eaten White Chocolate Reeses Cups for the first time, so richly wonderful and satisfied but wanting more, all at the same time. Visions of me taking tests with 4 bubble holes to shade in answers that would determine if I were going to college, my stomach in knots, my head sweating, throat closing.
The logical people always finished those damn things so quickly, irritated and waiting outside of class, kidding with me I took forever, my eyes could barely close at night from fear of failing and so I studied and memorized and pushed, my gifts never quite good enough.
What if, somewhere, another person could see me open my own closed and heartbroken flower, a mandala is said to be the symbol of wholeness, the person attracted to it is searching to be an individual while growing with the very workings of nature, patterns and rhythms proven by Carl Jung. Mandalas enable the mind to enter a meditative state, working out issues through subconscious thoughts and repeating circles, dealing with real obstacles by choosing colors, releasing blocks the conscious mind is unaware of. What if this has not all been in vain?
What if she is right? What if I need her to voice to logic through research and determination what I want to say and shout but turn away from, my own heart broken failures prove they are right and I am wrong, a research my heart can’t stand to bleed for.
What if they can’t help not knowing what they are as much as me, a cycle “starving artists” no longer need, drugs and disorders are not given to people of logic, which by the way, if I had my way, anyone who organizes manuals from before 2005 and files them in order and in perfect labels needs meds.
That would be Divorcee, my complete logical half, and thank God, or I would have lost Lola in the mall by now.
Or what if I just release me, the real me, to the world, not to afraid to be wounded but free to fly, the brilliant worthy genius artist, air, returning to myself, to nature, to art, to destiny.
I think I might be afraid, persecuted, resisted, teased, but what if, just what if, I am believed?
It looks like I need some wood, some paint, and Thelma, because I got work to do.
Important work so when you logical people ask and I reply that I am coloring and stenciling in the meaning of ADD, a hoax drug companies have used to entrap and destroy the very thing that brought them great joy in art but named it a disease, just nod, smile, reach for your planner and write it down.
I need references to free my people, so take out a #2 pencil, a bubbly test, do not look around and cheat.
Know that something is being restored, and thank you for the logic, a mind map I know is as completely whole as I am, that I only respect and hope to make it proud, and when I roll in the dough, the big money that came through avenues that were told impossible and illogical, I will just repeat Lola and say,
Just to prove a point, what logical sane human being lives likes this?
Only a flower who needs words, colors, patterns and doors where windows go, art where closet doors go.
Here is my room, the “Happy Wall” where everyone visits, must write a happy thought, or visit the “Shadow Wall” which is behind the bed, for all fears and hurtful comments are shed, the door is removed, and no curtains are needed.
For the logical ones, here is the proof 🙂