For the last few years, I sorta rolled my eyes when people gushed about Tulum. Now I’ve been there twice in two months. Just something about that place. Two weekends ago I was there swimming in a cave. This weekend I’m doing laundry, driving in traffic, and holding space for sick family members. Life is funny like that. The balance of yay and meh. But back to the cave. It was an underground river system called a cenote. A sacred place. Turns out cenotes are sink holes circling the crater created by the meteor that killed the dinosaurs. And because this was an exquisitely curated gathering, we reached the end of the cenote to find a guy playing a sitar surrounded by red candles. A. Freakin. Sitar. This was a “peak experience” to say the least. How do we then integrate back to our normal lives, with its obligations, rules, and general unsexiness? I used to start planning my next escape, asap. Now I’m finding balance in the obligations and rules. Finding sexy in little pleasures like hot coffee, fresh laundry, and good rest. I think perhaps that’s how we become warriors. Finding contentment no matter where we are, because at least it means we’re alive.
Shot and edited on an iPhone at @our_habitas. “Man in Nature” by Alan Watts.
You know what they say, “it’s the journey, not the destination” // the ultimate modern cliché. // I’m supposed to be all zen and believe it, but hey – I’m human. I’m goal oriented. Sometimes the journey is really fucking annoying. And after all, who are “they?”
When I was younger I just wanted to party. Now I want to keep my car clean, and my teeth, and my room. // Do volunteer work, be a better daughter, less of a jerk.
(sunglasses emoji sheepish emoji lightning bolt emoji)
What about those of us who don’t wax poetic? Who can’t bemoan the journey OR the destination? // They progress little by little, they have no choice. // Their goal is less than Bali, fame, Rolls Royce. They don’t move mountains, or even move a rock. // Their goal is just the right to breathe, to speak, even just to walk.
To you I say – you inspire me. To get up day after day, when progress is so minute, Facing yourself like that means you’re a true warrior. More than all the medals, “followers” or loot. So is it the journey or the destination? I don’t know and I don’t care.
(shrugging emoji rolling eyes emoji sleeping emoji)
I’m writing poetry, up late at night. // I journeyed to this destination, and it feels pretty alright. // I’ve got air in my lungs. Cheap wine and good weed. Old friends and new lovers. What more could I need?
So this is interesting. Fast forward a few months from my last post, and the script is not only written, but I shot the first 25 minutes and have a teaser, rough cut, a production company, fancy producers, and press. A thousand tales of challenges and overcoming obstacles to get here, but cool to know that in just a few months, you really can make your dreams a reality.
Here’s the article: http://theemeraldmagazine.com/2017/01/pot-fiction
And here’s our poster:
Writing is rewriting. And so writing is how I’m spending this Labor Day. The familiar excited / daunted feeling of taking a script I’ve “perfected” for a year and tearing it all apart. Looking at it from new angles. Allowing all possibilities. Realizing it wasn’t quite working because I hadn’t quite hit upon the truth of the story yet. The story that wants to be told is actually much bigger than me and my desire to express myself.
“The writer’s role is to menace the public’s conscience. He must have a position, a point of view. He must see the arts as a vehicle of social criticism and he must focus on the issues of his time. It has forever been thus: So long as men write what they think, then all of the other freedoms — all of them — may remain intact. And it is then that writing becomes a weapon of truth, an article of faith, an act of courage.” — Rod Serling, creator of The Twilight Zone
#cannabiscommunity #legalizeit 👊
I haven’t posted much of me and my grandma lately, honestly because it’s been pretty tough since we moved her into a home. We know it’s the right thing for her, but it’s hard watching her struggle with having her whole environment change. Her lack of independence. We still do goofy things, like take selfies when I tuck her in on Sunday nights, but she’s not as sharp as she was just a few months ago. To anyone who’s experienced a loved one having Alzheimer’s, or being moved into a home, my heart goes out to you. Its a very emotional process. Even though I know she’s not comprehending as much as she used to, when I tell her she’s my favorite-almost-101 year-old, from the twinkle in her eye I know she understands completely. Because love is the language that lasts forever.
Lately, I feel grumpy. It’s July, which means days are long and hot. Pool parties. The beach. Short shorts. Blah fucking blah. In other words, a constant reminder that despite my best intentions, somewhere along the line I sold out and became an adult.
I feel nostalgia for the summer of my youth so heavy I can’t breathe. Growing up in the tiny ranch town of Gardnerville, Nevada meant summers were like a country music video on repeat. Especially the sweet spot between ages fifteen and seventeen, when we were old enough to drive but too young to go anywhere.
The launch of summer was Carson Valley Days, the town parade and carnival at Lampe Park. Everyone came and everyone rode the same five rides we’d been riding since we were kids. We spent summer days at Lake Tahoe and summer nights at the river. Cheap beer was usually involved. We rode in the back of pickup trucks, driving too fast down county lanes, nothing but the stars above and our uncertain futures ahead.
The lack of options is what created the bliss. Gardnerville had one movie theater and lots of empty Earth. Social life meant seeing the same movie for the fifth time, or circling up around a bonfire in the desert or the woods, drinking our parents’ purloined liquor and blasting Country Grammar (I know I just seriously dated myself, but Nelly’s debut album was really tight).
I marvel at how we found these bonfire spots. Before Waze, before texting. I guess we called each other on land lines and wrote down the directions?
I could devote an entire book to growing up Gardnerville, and I still might. But for now the last thing I’ll mention here is the scent — summer nights in the ‘Ville are the aroma of hay fields, fresh unpolluted oxygen, cows, wholesome American dreams. I know I’m waxing poetic, we always look back on our youth with a rose-colored lens.
But no matter how many cities I visit, or fancy Hollywood events I attend, nothing feels as great as being seventeen on a summer night, surrounded by my gang of friends, parked at the river, singing Garth Brooks into the night.