Funny thing, as I was typing the title to this blog, I first wrote My Lie instead of My Life. Wow, I just did it again! What is that supposed to mean? As of late, I keep thinking to myself, “This can’t possibly be my life.” This is a thought that pops into my head, every once in a while, throughout my entire adulthood, something happens, that brings me to the brink where I have to wonder, like the Talking Heads song, how did I get here?
I just finished writing a letter to a high school friend of mine who asked if I have ever written anything of length, like a novel or a screenplay? No. Well, I tried, once to finish the screenplay I began writing for a class at Columbia College. You know, the one I never finished, even though the teacher gave me the summer to work on it? Yeah, that one. At the time, I really thought I was all that, that I had the talent to become a successful film maker/editor/screenplay writer and special effects makeup artist. I had plans, I thought I was the shit and then, my mom died and my ability to be creative, along with her. Or so, that is what I like to tell myself. I think the reality is, I didn’t have it in me to begin with.
How did I become so much less than I had hoped to be? The truth is, I probably would not have made it in Hollywood, I don’t have what it takes, I’m not driven, to do most anything really. I’m good at a lot of things, but I do not excel at any one thing and I believe that is what it takes to “make it”. I lack the drive, the passion, the intensity to be great at anything. I’ve been called a repressed artist, but the reality is, I’m more of a Sallieri, not an Amadeus. I have been damned with the ability to see greatness in others, but not to possess it for myself. No matter, really, because it has been my limited experience to note that those who are truly “great” tend to be insane as well. I choose sanity.
Between that and the fact that I bore easily, I do not feel that a book or screenplay is in me. I lack the ability to build full, fleshed out characters, background stories, all the little details that make a story great. I’m more of an attention deficit writer, what are the facts, what do I need to know, and let’s get on with it already. I’m always surprised when I am told that I have the patience of a saint, not really. I think I’m more tolerant than patient. I keep hoping that someone/something will change, that this situation can’t possibly be real and when I find out that it is, I finally let go and move on…next!
I’m beginning to believe that life is a series of illusions. What is real, remains to be seen, if that is even possible. I took a nap today and I had a dream. In this dream, I was trying to take care of something in the basement. My mom was sitting/laying on the sofa, the one we had when I was a kid. She looked like she did near the end of her life, short, pixie haircut, gray, but maybe not as unhealthy as she did at that time. My dad was sitting at his desk. He looked large and robust, like he did in his 70’s and he was wearing his glasses and that dark maroon cardigan I always liked of his too.
I told them that there was something wrong in the basement. I headed down the stairs, but even though all the lights were on, I froze on the stairs and ran back up to my dad. I clung to him like a koala bear and told him how scared I was. I pointed to the back porch and there stood my deceased brother. He looked older, and I believe he was wearing a vertically striped sweater and white slacks. He was standing like he was in that photo we have of him when he was stationed in California, standing on a brick wall with the desert in the background. I kept pointing to him, asking my dad, “Can’t you see him?”
Dad didn’t seem to be able to. I kept pointing, holding onto my dad for dear life. My brother seemed to be swelling, pulsating in and out until he turned into a giant meatball. Yes, a giant meatball! I left my dad and went to sit with my mom. I asked her if she could see it, the throbbing meatball that was on the back porch. As I was trying to say it, I fought back my laughter, I couldn’t believe what I was trying to say to her. I had a hard time speaking, like someone who had suffered a stroke. I think I may have been talking in my sleep, speaking out loud and that’s why I couldn’t speak properly.
I’m not certain, but the meatball may have exploded. I can’t remember much more right now, any of the details of the conversation with my parents, but I know that I was very scared of the basement and they thought I was being silly. I could see my brother and the giant meatball, but they could not. Why?
I woke up thinking, “It’s this house, something about this house.” I’ve always been very attached to this house and I have had numerous dreams about the basement being some sort of portal, that there is a whole other world beyond the pantry door. Maybe, just maybe mind you, this is a symbol of the whole other world that awaits me if I find the strength to stop lying to myself. Maybe, I do have what it takes to do something other than retail management, but what that is, remains to be seen. Like I said, I’m good at a lot of things, but not great at any one thing. I’m not driven to do anything to perfection, not really. What would I do, if I found the courage to make it down the basement stairs, through the other world that lies beyond the pantry door and come out the other side? Maybe, I’d be met by an exploding giant meatball, but would that be so bad? It might actually, be pretty tasty.
#thelieswechoosetolivewith
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