Conscious Graffiti.

I’m in an interesting place, these days. It’s called Tucson. I’ve been here since my return from my trip to Europe, so that means, since mid-June. It is now late September.

Time is an interesting son of a perra.  I haven’t written in this blog since the end of July and during that time, my thoughts and opinions have changed about this place. They’ve ebbed, they’ve flowed, they’ve soared and they’ve dipped. They’ve been a bitch.

I’ve been new-age meditating a lot lately. What I mean by that, is, at night, I find something about The Law of Attraction, or Chakras or even astral projection on YouTube on my phone and I put myself into position. I strap on my seat belt (ie, blankie) and rest my head in a cushy pillow and I listen to words that float out of my glowing phone, into the darkness and into my head. The empowering, meditative words worm into my ear canal and travel through my brain like old-timey settlers, like travelers to a new land, and poke around for a place to camp out for awhile. I relax and I allow my subconscious to be their guide and I check out.

I think this has been working. I feel…different. I feel…like something has been rattled in my head, like some fossilized rocks have been kicked around and have unearthed some bright green, iridescent beautiful butterflies. These happy flitter-flutters are now knocking around excitedly, running into the walls of my head and then resting behind my eyes, like they landed great box seats at a Laker’s play off game.

These butterflies are drinkin’ beer, high-fivin’ one another and having a grand time watching my life play out before them. It seems to be entertaining. It seems to be competitive. It seems to …well, I was going to say, mean something, but does it?

I was in box seats at a game recently. Phoenix Mercury Game with my family. I enjoyed myself. Drank beers. High-fived. Screamed for the home team. Now, weeks later, post-game, has that experienced changed my life? Did it mean something?

I’m in AZ to write, to help get myself to a better place by finishing a part two of a book that I intend to have sell and make me loads of money. Many loads more than I have right now. But what happens after the book is done? What do I go back to, or forwards to? In June, I d-e-s-per-ate-ly wanted to get back to Europe. In August, I truly wanted to get back to LA. It’s September. I don’t know what the hell I should do. I’ve actually met some interesting artists here thanks to the Tucson Fringe Festival, where I moderated a panel I created. I found some cowboy boots at Goodwill. I’ve discovered there’s an underlying charm here. It’s like how when you leave Brooklyn, you think Silver Lake in LA is kinda sorta like it…? Well, Tucson, downtown Tucson, is kinda sorta almost like Silver Lake, but not. People care about conservationism, buying locally, going green, good food, Arizona sports and maybe shoes. People take their time to do things. Like talk to you. Not at you. They look you in the eye and not around you to see who is seated next to or walking behind you. And you do the same. You listen. You share. You experience. And you wear your cute boots with that skirt instead of the cute stilettos. It’s kinda sorta like…a life.

I’m a writer. And the longer I stay here, in this place called Tucson, the closer I get to knowing that. Yes, I’m an actor; yes, I’m a producer and yes I can direct (I don’t want the Law of Attraction police to deny me these opportunities just yet.) So, this “Writer Revelation” is cool and all, but there’s something nagging me and it’s sorta like the graffiti I found in Berlin. There was so much graffiti, especially compared to Prague, that I had a hard time concentrating. Had a hard time seeing the city of Berlin for what it truly was.

I know I’m a good writer. I know this. But life…damn it…the graffiti. There’s still the scribble scrabble graffiti all over me that shows I’m 43 (soon to be 44) with no kids, no boyfriend, no real home of my own, no steady income…a lot of “no’s”, that like graffiti can be gifts, art, if looked at a certain way. With your head tilted to the side. With one eye closed. After a glass of wine.

I’m hoping those kicked-up butterflies, those green beautiful guys with the super-power ability to have fun and watch life with glee and drink a cold beer will flutter out of the Sky Box, come down to court and throw me an assist. To rearrange the graffiti and show me that I do mean something, just by being.