Dream a dream

Does it make me weak in spirit that I am defeated by a lack of culturally accepted employment?
My beloved said to me yesterday, "Stop telling people you are unemployed. You are a writer who is working on a novel and freelance opportunities."
Sometimes it is the simplest statements that change my entire perspective.
And so I woke up this morning, drove to Lawrence to attend a Zen ceremony which I reached too late to participate in and thus found myself in an underground coffee shop doodling on tables and wondering if the afternoon job interview I have will go well. I should be working on my book. I will. I will. The biggest obstacle is still my own fear of failure, of loving something so hard and wanting something so much that the material success has nothing to do with it but ensuring that every detail is included does...what are the repercussions of forgetting a single eyelash, a chip in the paint on the park bench, the dimness of a bar bathroom light bulb? Only a writer wonders these things.

People call me brave. They say "I want your life. I would've never driven across the country alone, much less afforded to live in California." You'd be surprised what you can accomplish when there's nothing left to look at in your rear view mirror. I didn't go to California to be brave or extraordinary or even to escape. I went to California to fall apart. To lock myself away in a 12x12 studio apartment and spent nights on end writing out everything I didn't have the courage to say in the face of people I loved too much to hurt.
Traveling isn't brave. Relocating isn't brave. Forgiveness is brave.

A few nights ago Rachel read the prologue and first chapter of my book. I don't know what I expected in regards to a reaction. When Ryan first heard my prologue his jaw dropped. I'd compiled a year of writing into 10 pages in the 6 weeks we didn't speak to one another. Ten pages is an eternity when every syllable possesses the ability to change or end a life. His hoots and hollers of "hallelujah" and "holy shit" were the reactions I've come to expect from one writer to another, specifically when the work is astounding; and I know the work is astounding. It is my soul turned inside out for the word to touch and taste and dissect. Rachel, however, stopped breathing a little bit....then took a very deep breath, one after the other until tears began to flow. The synopsis of her reaction was that she had no idea.
I do not blame her for being unaware of what California felt like in its most despairing moments, or for not really understanding why I abandoned Kansas. No one really knew, including me, and it is still an abstract concept that I am deciphering...like a philosophy or an acid trip or a coma. Despite how alone and miserable I was for majority of my time there, California still feels magical, like the inside of a fort tent or the idea of a unicorn. Berkeley in particular will always hold a very dear place in my heart, as will City Lights Books and Jack Kerouac Alley, and the women I loved there and the moment I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time with Ryan and Johanna by my sides...exactly as it should have been.

I have returned to Kansas, moved into a home as beautiful as New Mexico at sunrise...a house, a home I don't have to sacrifice in a year's time when the lease is up, a home that I can attach to. A place I can paint and stain the hardwood and put the Bukowski's on the shelf and know they are safe. I have moved in with my love, lover, partner-- a reliable, dependable, supportive, nurturing anomaly of a human being who leaves no room in my heart for anyone else. She has been my forever since our first interaction and now that emotion has become reality. I am happy. I am safe. I am loved. I am home.

So what then of this book? What then of paying bills? I keep asking the Universe just that..."how is it that you want me to pay my bills?" And I hear nothing. Just the silence of my own indecision. Just the clockwork motor of my fear ticking, racing me from point A to point B like a wind-up toy. Until I stand still and am appreciative of this talent, of this very apparent purpose, the peace of mind to work as I so choose will not come. So what then of this car? Of these credit cards and utilities and student loan repayments? What about those? I pull three oracle cards...they say "Let it go," "Focus on your passion's priorities" and the final card, "Write." So here I am...doing what Ryan always tells me to do....telling the truth. If I were to watch my car get repossessed, let my credit fall to shit and live my life on cash earned only when I feel inclined to participate on Capitalism...it sounds like a dream, like a life too good to be true, and significantly too good for me. This entire experience feels too good for me.Perhaps that's what it all boils down to- I've set the bar high enough for other people to fail but not high enough to risk personal failure. It's time to raise my bar, take a hold of my life and let go of the fear. I want for nothing. I have everything I need and I truly need very little. A life without money as the main focus and purpose, a life with only literature and writing and desert wandering...and love, an abundance of love....a dream forming into a reality piece by piece.