writer

“The world is but a canvas to the imagination.”
~ Henry David Thoreau

“Is that my imagination?… Can I believe in that?… Because I don’t want to create something in my life that’s not real.”
~Me

What is “real” anyway? And what is…not real? Fantasy? Make believe. Hokey pokey? Flim-flam, paddy-wack, and Cracker Jack?

Remember me? Let me introduce myself. I’m the woman with the wild-ass imagination.

“Is that just my imagination?” I used to say that to myself at least twenty times a day. Now it’s down to maybe twice a week, and it makes me laugh every time I think it.

Where the hell do I think the things in my life are first created? Uh, somebody’s imagination…hello?…

My iPhone was the brainchild of Mr. Jobs.

My relationship with my husband started in my imagination and then became more tangible with a list I made of suitable qualities for the man of my dreams.

My house was the bright idea of some developer way back in 1936 when the nearby studios decided they needed housing for all of the workers in the growing movie industry.

The design of my car probably woke some German guy up in the middle of the night who was tasked with thinking up an elegant station wagon design. Well done, Gunnar!

Germs were an unfathomable idea just before the turn of the 20th century. Imagine. Invisible living organisms that can invade your body and make you sick. Well, that’s right out of science fiction!
Who’s sick and twisted imagination thought of THAT?

And what about science fiction? Our present existence would look like something out of science fiction to someone from a century ago. Bluetooth? WiFi? Electric cars? Microwave ovens? Smart phones and personal computers! Oh my!

All of those started in some smart person’s imagination. Because that’s what smart people daydream about. Life changing smart stuff.

Me? I use my imagination to scare myself to death on a regular basis.
Most always at three in the morning. I can vividly imagine and talk my rattled, sleep deprived little mind into a myriad of catastrophes that make me sweaty and weepy. My hall-of-famers are; a motorcycle crash either with me on the back or without, an Armageddon type unavoidable meteor strike, a Trump presidency, or publically failing at something that means the world to me…while naked.

Those become so real in my imagination that I never even bother to step back and question them. They become my virtual reality. Because here comes the science: Your body doesn’t know if it’s real or imagined. What?

But what about all the good stuff? Writing a script? Big money? Wild success? A movie??
Oh, don’t tease me you rascally imagination! Could those things really happen? Are those real?

What a ding-dong I can be! Honestly! If I played you guys the dialogue in my head you’d laugh your asses off it’s so ridiculous…but…wait a minute…I’d venture to guess, so is yours!

What are you unwilling to believe because it seems too good to be true? Why can’t the really good stuff, the far-reaching stirrings that lie deep inside our hearts come true? Why do we poo-poo those? Why aren’t those REAL?

They can be. All we have to do is believe in them as much as we do those awful scenarios that keep us awake at night.

Someone once said: If you can imagine it—you’re most of the way there.

You’ll be happy to know—I’m on this! I’m working on it day and night. I’ve decided to unleash my imagination and let it run rampant (only in a good way) with my life. I’m thinking of keeping a journal about my journey into this new radical reality because I have it on good authority that this next stretch is about to get super juicy!

Wanna come with me?

Carry on,
xox

YEARS from Bartholomäus Traubeck on Vimeo.

This is what it sounds like when you put tree rings on a record player.

This is an excerpt from the record Years, created by Bartholomäus Traubeck, which features seven recordings from different Austrian trees including Oak, Maple, Walnut, and Beech. What you are hearing is an Ash tree’s year ring data. Every tree sounds vastly unique due to varying characteristics of the rings, such as strength, thickness and rate of growth.

Keep in mind that the tree rings are being translated into the language of music, rather than sounding musical in and of themselves. Traubeck’s one-of-a-kind record player uses a PlayStation Eye Camera and a stepper motor attached to its control arm. It relays the data to a computer with a program called Ableton Live. What you end up with is an incredible piano track and in the case of the Ash, a very eerie one.

Hats off to Traubeck for coming up with the ingenious method to turn a simple slice of wood into a beautiful unique arrangement. It makes you wonder what types of music other parts of nature would play.

I LOVE this so much and for so many reasons that they are almost too numerous to mention, but here are just two of them.

We have a ginormous Ash tree in our front yard and for once I am not exaggerating when I say ginormous. According to our arborist (yes, we have an arborist, when you are entrusted with the custodianship of one of Mother Nature’s wonders, you call in the specialists), it one of, if not THE largest tree in Studio City. As the saying goes “I got a little house with my tree”.

Anyhow, I am an avid appreciator of the Ash tree and now, thanks to this video, to the beautiful songs that are hidden inside.

But I have to tell you, I knew MINE had a beautiful voice right about year one after living under his (if you meet him, he’s has a very masculine, protector energy kind of guy), gigantic canopy that covers nearly 3/4 of my entire house.

One night, being Southern California and all, there was a pretty substantial earthquake. When I say substantial I mean only a couple of things fell over, the power was still on, and it only woke up one of my two cats. I was single at the time so I threw on a robe and some flip flops and surveyed the place for damage. It was my first time as an actual homeowner (as a renter I just went back to sleep and counted on the cats to wake me up if there was a gas leak), so there was a lot of checking pilot lights and looking for new cracks in my quaint little 1936 bungalow.

All was well. Except for the fact that someone was whining a plaintive, high-pitched sigh. Think squeaky old screen door.

When I realised it wasn’t me, I followed the sound outside, half expecting to discover a neighbour’s dog cowering in the driveway. Instead, I found my neighbour himself, Steve, clad in some hastily pulled on shorts (they were inside out), an old Stanford t-shirt and a bad case of bed head. We met under the tree.

“You okay?” he asked, being the gallant neighbor dude sent over by his wife to check on the single woman next door, who was obviously scared shit-less, whining like a little girl.
“Yeah. You guys?”
We were both looking around for the origin of THAT SOUND.
“You hear that?” we asked each other in unison.
“Is that?” I whispered as I walked closer to the tree.
“No…”, he replied with mediocre conviction.
“Shit”, he said in a bewildered tone as we both stood with or hands resting on the behemoth’s trunk.

“It’s the tree!” we both exclaimed in unison again (we needed to take this act on the road), our eyes dilated with amazement. He jumped back and shook his hands as if fifty million volts of electricity had coursed through him. I think I saw the hair on his head stand up even taller.

The majestic Ash tree reverberated, and then, like a giant shiver it transferred the vibrations to our hands, accompanied by that melancholy sigh as it settled back down and into the very space it has been occupying for just shy of two-hundred years. Just like a pro. Just like it has done after so many other earthquakes for years and years before me or my house were even a whisper into someone’s imagination.

It was too much for poor sleepy Steve to fathom. Seeing that I had no intention of letting go of my tree anytime soon, he quickly excused himself and went back to bed. I’m sure he never told another soul that he heard a tree sighing after an earthquake.

But I have—and now you all know.
They make sounds. They whine, and they sigh, and they laugh in a brisk wind.
And sometimes…they even play piano.

Carry on,
xox

https://vimeo.com/traubeck/years

Things are moving extremely fast these days as we continue going through our cycles of cleansing, purging, and re-birth. Right? I mean, I can’t be the only one out here who has been re-inventing herself for the past few years, decades, millennia.

One of my dear friends remarked just the other day, “I’ve changed so much recently, I don’t even know who I am! It’s like someone shook the snow globe I live inside of and everything is falling around me differently”

I agree! We barely resemble our former selves and life can be so freakin’ confusing in the midst of a snow globe shake-up.

Yet, sometimes, no, make that always—we should always ask ourselves the hard questions.

Who are we REALLY? Are we the persona we carefully construct on social media?
Am I the happy-go-lucky, upbeat, person who people meet for the first time—or the whining pile of insecurities I show to a handful of close friends who have earned that (privilege?) by sticking around?

I can be all of those people. But who am I at my core? Because that core personality makes most of my life decisions. It colors the way I handle difficult situations. It choreographs my re-birth. It does, don’t argue, it’s science!

To get my bearings when I’m feeling uncertain about who is running my show, I try not to make any sudden moves (those are always a mistake. It’s better to let the dust or snow settle), and I don’t let the peanut gallery define me (because they will be oh, so, willing to do that for us).

What I do is I take a look around at my life. What clues is it showing me? How has the person that lives deep inside me done so far? You know what? I can tell by how I feel.

Do I feel happy with some great people around me? Is there something on the horizon to look forward to, a relationship, a trip or a creative project? Or am I in a constant state of anger or anxiety, mad at the world? Lost in the endless 24/7 bad-news cycle, feeling depressed and alone?

I’ve been both of those and believe you me, I prefer the first one. But getting there can be a struggle. (Especially if the core you is moody and depressed).

Not sure who you really are at your core? Ask yourself these questions:

Am I lover or a hater? (I immediately yelled LOVER! Then I flipped off the guy next to me in traffic on the 101 Fwy.—so I may need to take a closer look at that).

Am I a peacemaker or a fighter? (Fighters are always fighting someone. The government, their landlord, insurance, family).

Do I appreciate or condemn? (This person can walk into a beautiful room and all they can see is the tiny scratch on the floor. Know anybody like that?)

Do I see possibility or failure? (I am an eternal optimist with an inner asshole/naysayer at my core …good to know).

Do I criticize or encourage? (You can tell by what’s coming back your way. Compliments or nasty critiques?)

Am I hopeful or hopeless?

Do I look forward to the future or live in the past? (People who live in the past feel that their best days are behind them. What kind of future does that make for them?)

Is life (the planet), improving or falling to shit?

Do you live in a benevolent or malevolent Universe? This is a BIG one! Man O man! It will color your beliefs about life. We all know the person who thinks that the world is a horrible place that is out to get them. Is that you?? Look at your life!

These are simple questions but they can really help you get to the bottom of who is running your life. Can you trust that part of you to make the big leap? To turn things around? Or will it betray your trust by being too fearful, pessimist or critical to be of any help?

First, you have to become aware of it, then you can change it.
When my asshole/naysayer starts to dictate the rules I tell it to fuck off. “I don’t need your help here!” I’ll say, “You’ve made some pretty bad decisions in the past that were all based on fear. I don’t trust you with my re-birth! Hit the road, Jack!” But he never leaves for good so I’m content to let him sit and watch. Quietly.

I hope this helps you. It’s one of those great tools that can come in so handy in the middle of a snow globe shake-up. I  made a lot of the same mistakes over and over again until I took the time to see what my core beliefs were, who was running the show, and most of all—could they be trusted with this precious new endeavor?

Carry On,
xox

It was heavier than I had imagined, and it left little bits of…something…all over the front of me, as a lovely parting gift.

“There.” I said after I dropped it down and kicked it into place. A brand new doormat large enough for the double front doors of the house rental project I’m working on.

As per my instructions: No flowers, no bright colors, nothing cutesy, everything completely inoffensive.
Just a simple tan-colored mat made of choir with a thin border and the word WELCOME in black. Not even a dark sinister black. A hue of medium blackish. A happy black, if you will.

“Oh my Gawd, I love everything!” she squealed.
We were near the end of this hellacious project and one of the principles had just finished a self-guided tour of the place.

With such a limited budget the transformation was nothing short of amazing.

You could say it was alchemy. I’d call it a miracle. Right up there with turning water into wine, straw into gold, Bruce into Caitlyn.

“Oh, except that. I don’t like that at all.” All the gushing had stopped dead.
I turned my head to see what she was pointing and glaring at. Her response was definitive and whatever it was — Had. To. Go.

It was the freakin’ doormat.

“I hate when they say welcome.” she pronounced. “Take it back and get a plain one. No WELCOME.” and with that she went back inside and the gushing resumed.

It never occurred to me that the word WELCOME on a front doormat could elicit such a strong reaction.

Interesting…

“You’re right…you’re right.” I replied, struggling to pick up the mat and carry it back to the truck, thinking of my own bright blue front door mat that says HELLO in friendly white cursive.

Feeling rejected, the ginormous WELCOME mat put up a struggle going back to the truck and I was out of breath.
“They should start a line of doormats that read GO AWAY or DON’T BOTHER ME or GET OUT OF HERE. Someone is missing out on a fortune.” I gasped.

I figured I was far enough away that she couldn’t hear me, but from inside I heard laughter. “I’d buy those.” I heard her say.

Huh.

You Are Not Welcome.

The insight hit me like a bolt of lightning.

Maybe you can tell a lot about a person by their front door mat.

Some people, this woman included, do not lay out the welcome mat.
Not ever.
Not to their home, their feelings, or the story or their life.

They are private and guarded and I get it.
Obviously, that is a land I do not inhabit — but I read her loud and clear.

From where she stands WELCOME in friendly black letters — is a dirty word.

It was right then that the entire project began to make sense.
All white, beige and taupe.
No color.
Nothing with any personality.
Key word: Utilitarian.

Nothing offends, nothing makes an impression — it is a blank slate.

You know what? She’s right. It’s a rental.
Don’t leave anything of yourself behind. No clues to who you might be or what you like.
A brightly colored pillow may belie whimsy, a choice of art might show your taste.

Don’t give yourself away to strangers and for Godsakes — no Welcome mats.

Oh well, to each his own.
Carry on,
xox

Do you have an aversion to the word WELCOME? Are you that private and guarded? Talk to me.

Thank you, ancient Chinese woman who is taking an eternity to cross the street.

There is no doubt in my mind that you will celebrate your 102nd birthday in the crosswalk—while we all watch and wait.

I’m tempted to buy a cake and balloons—but I’m pretty sure your resolve to get to the other side of the street is such that you wouldn’t even notice, and I don’t want an entire uneaten cake sitting around my house taunting me.

You see, I’m in a big, hairy hurry today and you have forced me to slow down, no, make that stop, and cool my jets.

You’ve probably saved my life. Maybe there was a car accident up ahead with my name on it—so thank you.

No, really.
I want to scream at you in Chinese or nudge you with my car, after all, it’s been over seven minutes and you’re not even half-way across—but I too possess feet that barely walk anymore—a conscience—and I want to go to heaven when I die—where I will wait for you—because you’ll still be crossing this fucking street!

A man tried to help you and you waved him off, so I’ve turned off my engine—we all have. We’re treating this like a train crossing.

But really, thank you oh ancient one, for giving me hope that I will still be getting around and holding up traffic at rush hour (that term is a cruel joke) when I am your age. I can only aspire.

By the way, where are you headed? Where did you come from? What’s your story? Why are you walking? What—no Uber for you?

And seriously, you have the tiniest feet I’ve ever seen on someone over six months old.
How do they hold you up? And I’m not sure about the little black Mary Jane’s over white socks.
They look like doll shoes. As a matter of fact the more I look at them the more certain I am that there is a barefoot doll lurking somewhere in Chinatown.

I would have chosen something more…sensible. Perhaps a cross-trainer. I’m just sayin’.

Here’s the thing, with all this time on my hands I’ve had a chance to look you over, after all I’m the first car at the crosswalk and you’ve been crossing in front of me for the better part of, well, a damn long time!

奶奶 Nǎinai (That’s grandma in Chinese, I had time to google it).
I like your pointy hat. Although a straw Chinese hat borders on cliché and would not have been MY first choice, I like how it ties under your chin with a red string and shades your entire face. I can see that you go for substance over style. Classics only, no fads for you. Good job.

And Oh My God, can we talk about that face for a minute?
It is the color of latte (which reminds me, I haven’t had my coffee yet—fasting blood test) and is so wizened that it appears that your lines have lines, tributaries that traverse your entire face from the corners of your eyes to your chin. (I can’t see the rest—your pointy hat is in the way).

Okay then, gauging from your progress so far, (sitting through four light changes), I’ll have plenty of time to finish this post AND check my emails.

I typically don’t check them while I’m driving, but I can see them flash across the screen when they come in—and of course two that I’ve been waiting days to see, have shown up at the moment I’m least able to reply.

Six hours at the computer—nothing.

Get in the car—every email I’ve ever needed to read, all the answers to all of my questions bling into my awareness—while I’m fucking driving and my hands are tied! (Sorry, remember I haven’t had my coffee and I’m a pint low on blood.)

So thank you ancient Chinese Nǎinai, I’m all caught up now.

I have also finished my taxes, filed a broken nail, plucked my eyebrows in the rearview mirror, and cleaned out my wallet.

Well, look at that! It seems that you are suddenly finished, (you took that curb like a champ)… and I already miss you.

Thank you for all of your life lessons today. You have taught me so much!

You slowed me down. You showed me you can live a perfectly lovely life at another speed besides TURBO.

You attempted to teach me patience, empathy, and compassion. (You were successful on two out of three.)

You showed me what wise, ripe, old age can look like. And power. You showed me you have the power to stop traffic.

You schooled me in the millinery arts.

And you made me fall just a little bit in love with you.

So now, the twenty or so of us that have gathered and waited (without honking by the way), for you to cross the street, we have to race away and try to make up the time we’ve lost.

But I’m going to think of you today, traveling at your glacial pace, and wonder how you are and if you ever made it to your destination.

Who am I kidding? I will be waiting for you in heaven!

Carry on,
xox

In the beginning of her book “Eat Pray Love”, Liz Gilbert finds herself in the middle of something she has no control over which is causing her a great deal of angst, worry, anxiety, and despair. In her case, a contested divorce. It has come to the place where it has the potential to consume yet another year of her life by tying her up in court, not to mention wasting every dime of their money on legal fees.

Are you guys with me? Anxiety? Despair? Loss of control? Can you relate?

She feels hopeless and out of control and while on a drive through Kansas with a friend, she expresses her desire to write a Petition to God, you know, to inject some Divine Intervention into a situation which seems beyond repair.

Once she drafts a copy in the car, she and her amazing and very willing friend, add imaginary (energetic), signatures at the bottom. “My parents both signed it!” her friend exclaims. “So did mine! And so did my grandparents!” Liz replies. “St Francis of Assisi just signed it!” her friend yells excitedly, pounding the steering wheel for emphasis; and the exercise continues for well over an hour raising Liz’s spirits and bolstering her resolve.

Later, still in the passenger seat of the car, she grabs a quick nap and is awakened by her ringing phone. “You’ll never guess”, her attorney from New York exclaims without even saying hello, “He just signed the papers!”

God, I love that scene! Because I love magic, and I believe in the Physics of Quests, clues, and signs, and our right to Petition God or the Universe to take the wheel on our behalf, and so it dawned on me that I should write my own Petition, regarding my own crazy brave,crazy, brave, batshit crazy endeavour, and send it to my tiny inner circle—my tribe—so I did last night.

“Just like in the book I’d love it if you could sign it energetically (or literally) and send it out to others in the aether, living or dead, and let me know who we’ve got working on this.
I’ll put mine at the bottom.

I love you all more than words can express.
xoxJ”

And all day the names of the signatories have been pouring in!
Lucille Ball, Charlie Chaplin, Jackie Kennedy, The Obama’s…
Even the Pope signed it! What??!!

I wasn’t going to share it but then I realised that you guys are my tribe too! Below is what I wrote so you can use it as a template for your own Petition.

Then, I had what I thought was a great idea! I wanted to offer YOU this: If you want to write a short sentence in the comments about something that needs some energetic surrendering—start your own Pettition—I (we) will add our names and the names of others to it and up that juju factor.

How about it? Wanna try it? What do you have to lose?

I love you all more than words can express!
Carry on,
xox

Dear God, Universe, Nora, Nixon and All,
It is now time for you to intervene and facilitate the making of this “darling” screenplay into a movie. I humbly and respectfully acknowledge that I haven’t the faintest idea of what comes next or how to make this happen, and I am well aware of the fact that if I attempt to meddle in matters this far outside my paygrade, well, let’s just say ‘I’ll fuck it up’.

I realize that you may have more pressing things on your agendas like Chinese and North Korean diplomacy, Syria, finding a great karaoke song and looking for other ways to demystify death, and that helping me to ‘mind my own business’ seems like an insurmountable challenge, but we’ve come this far and worked so well together—that I beseech you to try.

Please attract only those to this project who are lifted by its message. Let it easily find its way to the best and the brightest. May the making of the movie be surrounded by as much love, light, fun and magic as the writing of the screenplay has been and may those that lay eyes on it see beyond what was written on the page. May it live to touch hearts and soothe souls.

Thank you for your kind consideration,
Respectfully,
Janet Bertolus

Picasso
Diane Sawyer
Mike Nicols
James Cameron
Elizabeth Gilbert
Oprah
Gayle King
My dad
Tom Hanks
Rob Bell
Erma Bombeck
Dear Abby
Clark Gable
Eva Gardner
Frank Sinatra
Andy Williams
Bob Fosse
Hemingway
Mark Twain
Martha Stewart
Mama Cass
Stevie Nicks
Joni Mitchell
Cameron Crowe
Ron Howard
Bryan Lorde
Rob Lowe
Prince

I was practicing resistance on Saturday morning, like the kid at the piano who is twisted sideways on the bench, one hand practicing their scales while the rest of their body searches for something better to do.

Procrastinating.
Dragging my feet.
Lolly gagging.
Diddly doinking as it’s known in our family.

I should have been tweaking a song that’s been giving me shit in our musical, downloading my screenplay onto a flash drive and then making my way to FedEx to print up the masterpiece, or unloading the dishwasher—but instead, I got sucked into my phone.

Not by Instagram; not even by Facebook.
This day I was swallowed up by the contacts in my cell phone to be exact.

I could say I was purging.
Yeah, that’s it—I was doing a little bit of purging. Except purging a little bit is an oxymoron.

Truth be told, I was looking around. Wasting time. Searching for one thing when I noticed another.

What is this?  I have over seven hundred contacts and I can’t for the life of me remember who the hell many, many of these people are!

For one split second on a random Tuesday, they must have meant something to me because there they are—living in my phone. But honestly, even with the hints I left myself (because I know how lame I can be), like Aaron—Washer Repair in the W’s, or Clifford and for his last name—Sandy’s deadbeat boyfriend. You guys, I haven’t the foggiest idea who Sandy is and for the past fifteen years a man named Raphael has fixed my washing machine.

He also sleeps in my bed, rubs my feet, and makes me coffee in the mornings so I figure he trumps Aaron in more ways than one.

Delete! Delete! Goodbye, Clifford! Adios Aaron!

That was fun!

And it was then that a tangent was born and I got on it and rode that sucker for over an hour!

One of the things that surprised me the most was the fact that there were so many dead people haunting my phone.
Is that a side effect of aging? Please tell me it’s not. I’d rather think that I have a group of extremely unlucky individuals as friends. Careless people who overindulge in the hedonistic pleasures of life or forget to look for falling pianos and such.

Nope. There were actual friends who I’ve known and loved who are gone too soon. Like Vinnie, whose list of emails and six different telephone numbers was like a sucker-punch to the gut.

And then some I just wish were dead. Like the two dozen lawyers and legal firms from back in the days when if you weren’t suing me—you were on the short list.

Because of the “cloud” and the fact that it never forgets a thing, I also had the contact info for a bunch of celebrities who used to shop in my store. The store that’s been closed for seven years. I hesitated in deleting these, you know because celebrities living in my phone made me cool and all, but the fact that most of that information had probably been changed a thousand times by now convinced me of its diminished cool factor—so out it went.

Delete, delete, delete.

Oh, sorry Gayle Zappa, you were an amazing woman and a great customer, but you’re the most useless of contacts: the dead celebrity.

There were five Patty’s.
Patty—with the neck. I suppose I wrote that to distinguish her from the other four Patty’s whose heads sit directly on their shoulders.

Patty S.—Oh, good, that clears THAT up.

Patty, Antique Mall—Which is a place I worked back in 1988.

Patty with a 310 number.

Patty with an 818 number.

I wracked my brain, I did. I actually sat for many minutes and I could not for the life of me remember ANY of these Patty’s. Not a one.
I suppose I could have called each one and asked them if we were close—but I didn’t. I was busy purging.

Delete, delete, delete.

Here is more useless information that was chewing up all of my storage capacity (and my Saturday):

The name, address and phone numbers of every landlord I’ve had since I was twenty.

Bandmates from the days when I was in “New Age” bands around LA. When “New Age” was a thing. This was the early 80’s, people.

Guys I went to acting class with, (I only know this because it says ACTING CLASS after their names), whose numbers I had so we could “run scenes” together. My guess is that most of them live in Orange County and are pretty close to retiring from some big corporate job right about now.

The numbers of every doctor, Gynecologist, dentist, acupuncturist, masseuse, Vet, chiropractor, and nail salon I’ve ever used.

The number for One Hour Photo. Yes, the magical place where you could get your film developed at the lightning speed of one hour! What?
Can you imagine?

All of my favorite restaurants, many of which have been closed for decades. (Rita Flora).

Jewelry contacts. You guessed it. Many who are retired… or dead.

Lessons learned? Were there any? Hell yeah!
1) The first one being, sometimes procrastinating (and purging), can be a good thing! And woman, for the love of God, you need to go through your contacts at least once a decade! (I’m now down to 238!).

2) Celebrities will give you their contact information ONLY if they want something from you. BUT… there is a small window of time where it is accurate. After that it self-destructs or you have to print it—and eat it.

3) Some people’s info NEVER changes. Forty-years later EVERYTHING is the same, and other folks info is obsolete by the time you finish entering it.

4) Be on the lookout for those neck-less Patty’s and if you see them—ask them to call me.

Carry on,
xox

What’s the oldest contact you have in your phone right now?

Transformation tourism

“I bought the diet book, but ate my usual foods.”

“I filled the prescription, but didn’t take the meds.”

“I took the course… well, I watched the videos… but I didn’t do the exercises in writing.”

Merely looking at something almost never causes change. Tourism is fun but rarely transformative.

If it was easy, you would have already achieved the change you seek.

Change comes from new habits, from acting as if, from experiencing the inevitable discomfort of becoming.

Seth Godin

SETH GODIN is the author of 18 books that have been bestsellers around the world and have been translated into more than 35 languages. He writes about the post-industrial revolution, the way ideas spread, marketing, quitting, leadership and most of all, changing everything. You might be familiar with his books Linchpin, Tribes, The Dip and Purple Cow.

His newest book, “What To Do When It’s Your Turn”, is already a bestseller.

sethgodin.com

“Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us.  Between the two stands Resistance”
~Steven Pressfield “The War of Art.” 

“The War of Art” is one of my all-time favorite books on creation, life, love and well… what else is there?

In my humble opinion, it should be a textbook in every school, on every hotel nightstand, next to the Bible, and reduced to liquid form and added to the water supply.

Beyond what the title implies, this book is not strictly written for artists and writers.

As you’ll glean from the list below, Resistance isn’t particular about which endeavors it sabotages. The only thing they have in common is our desire to become fully realized. Whether that be through artistic pursuits, the Paleo diet, Fab Ab Boot camp, that non-profit you want to start or marrying Skipper.

Up until Steven set us straight, we thought we were all just dumbass, procrastinating losers.

Nope, that’s just Resistance talking smack and taking the wheel, leaving us eating its dust and only dreaming about our unlived lives.
It will always stand in the way of our growth.
It’s a law; like gravity. That explains sooooooooooo much.

Assbite.

But…what I know for SURE….Resistance only has the power WE give it. 

“The following is a list, in no particular order, of those activities that most commonly elicit Resistance:

1) The pursuit of any calling in writing, painting, music, film, dance, or any creative art, however marginal or unconventional.

2) The launching of any entrepreneurial venture or enterprise, for profit or otherwise.

3) Any diet or health regimen.

4) Any program of spiritual advancement.

5) Any activity whose aim is tighter abdominals.

6) Any course or program designed to overcome an unwholesome habit or addiction.

7) Education of every kind.

8) Any act of political, moral, or ethical courage, including the decision to change for the better some unworthy pattern of thought or conduct in ourselves.

9) The undertaking of any enterprise or endeavor whose aim is to help others.

10) Any act that entails commitment of the heart. The decision to get married, to have a child, to weather a rocky patch in a relationship.

11) The taking of any principled stand in the face of adversity.

In other words, any act that rejects immediate gratification in favor of long-term growth, health, or integrity. Or, expressed another way, any act that derives from our higher nature instead of our lower.

Any of these will elicit Resistance.

Excerpt From: Steven Pressfield & Shawn Coyne. “The War of Art.” Visionary Press, 2012. iBooks.
This material may be protected by copyright.

I’d LOVE it if you’d tell me:
What beautiful thing has Resistance been talking you out of doing?
Do you agree that we have two lives, the one we live and the unlived life?

MuchO loveO
Xox

Once upon a time I took score too soon.
I was convinced that my life as I knew it was over. Which it was, but not in the sucky way I thought.

I told you guys back at the start of this year how a past love from thirty years ago had contacted me, wanting to reconnect. I also told you how squirmy it made me on account of—he quite literally broke. my. heart!

At the time of our breakup, it seemed as if he’d dumped me right out of the blue, with no rhyme or reason; and it took me five long and torturous (for those around me), years to get over him.

My days consisted of wanton displays of reminiscing, whining, moaning and crying, all of which demonstrated a complete absence of any self-respect or common sense. The cry-fests were of such unending duration that I was single-handedly responsible for the uptick in Kleenex stock at the time.
You’re welcome Proctor and Gamble.

When I was telling my friend Kim (you all remember Kim. She’s the no shit-taker Janet whisperer), the story back in January, I remembered, for the first time in like, forever—this little tidbit.

This nugget of wtf.

This slight of hand that destiny dealt me.

It should have always been the prequel to this tale of woe. The appetizer, the trailer of coming attractions, but it never was, because I forgot about it. Until this year.

Late one hot summer night in 1986, I got off the phone with my luvah boy-toy after what could be described as a three-hour nasty-chat that sizzled the telephone lines between Long Beach, where he was attending college, and LA, where I was busy robbing cradles.

After finishing my post virtual-sex cigarette, I fell asleep ten times less horny and fifty times happier than earlier that night.
He was the love of my life…or so I thought.
Deep into my sexy, sweaty, summer stupor, I had a dream. It was as vivid as real life; only way more interesting.

I was walking barefoot into a cave, running my hands along its cold, smooth, stone walls, feeling the powdery sand between my toes as I ventured further and further into its pitch-blackness. It was cool and dry and I can still smell the mustiness that filled my senses as I  inhaled deeply. Even though I’m not a fan of dark cave walks in real life; at the time I felt more curious than anything else.

Suddenly, there was a male presence ahead of me dressed in a black robe with a hood that obscured his face. Again, in real life that is the universal sign for ‘run for your life’, but inside of this dream instead of being afraid I started a conversation, you know like you do with black hooded figures in pitch dark caves.

It’s not like our lips moved, well, maybe his did but it was so dark I couldn’t see them and besides, it was a dream, so we communicated telepathically. I started by asking him who he was and he immediately broke the ice with an ultimatum.

“This is not the direction your life is meant to go. This relationship must end.”

“Whoa there big hooded fella” I replied, appalled by his rude opening line. “That will NOT be happening!”

“He is not the one for you, this is not where your life is headed, let him go and move on.”

“I don’t remember asking you for advice, this is none of your black capey business.”

“This must end. Now”,  He demanded.

“No!” I could feel myself getting emotional as I argued back.

The tone of his thought/voice was firm and unwavering. There would be no compromise. I started to cry.

“But.. I love him.”

“This is not the life you are meant to live. The relationship must end.”

As he said that, I began to sob, and before I knew it this large hooded figure reached out and pulled me in for a hug.

I kid you not.

The moment we made contact I felt an amazing rush of incredible love and I knew EVERYTHING.

I mean EVERYTHING.

Who killed J.R., why we are here, the reason for it all, the cure for cancer, the names of all the planets in our galaxy and every baby that will ever be born on Earth. EVERYTHING.

I remember thinking for one split second remember this and omg it is all so easy.

When he let go of me I knew in my kishkes that my life had been changed forever, but I didn’t remember anything else.

“Show me your face” I begged.
“Not now”
“Then when?”

It was everything I could do not to reach up and pull the hood down but I was suddenly distracted by a telephone ringing in the distance. I turned around and started to run to answer it. As I raced out of the cave and back toward the light and the sound of the ringing, I remember glancing over my shoulder to see if he was still there—but he was gone.

I opened my eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the blinds and my telephone ringing loudly on the floor just where I’d left it the night before.

“Hello?” I croaked, my mouth so void of saliva that my lips were sticking to my teeth.

Silence. Then, “Hey baby…we have to talk”. And right then and there he told me he didn’t want to see me anymore. I pleaded for a reason, something I did wrong, something I could do to change his mind, but he was adamant. Just like that, we were over.

“That hooded dude did a Jedi-mind trick on your boy!”, Kim exclaimed at the end of my story.
“Really? You don’t see it? It’s as plain as day!”,  she snort-laughed seeing the gobsmacked expression on my face.

Why hadn’t I ever thought of that?!

“OMG! He still can’t explain why he left you, hence all the regrets and looking back”,  she howled.

She’s right. The dream provided me some warning for the impending 180 my life was about to take, but the Universe took the wheel and forgot to share its plans with my friend.

In the middle of it all, I took score.
Note to self: Don’t take score in the middle.

I was convinced my life was over when it was only just beginning.

In response to my extreme dumb-shittery during our time together, his departure facilitated a life-long spiritual practice . I went on a journey of self-discovery, saw the world, and started eating meat again, just not in that order.

And beware of black-hooded telepaths who hang out in caves giving hugs—for they may speak the truth.

Carry on,
xox