Lion and Lyin'

I had a substitute gym teacher from one of the Eastern Bloc countries in elementary school. One time she accused me of popping all the trench balls. (I didn't.) When I told her I didn't do it, she bellowed, in her Olga accent:

"Don't LAAAAH to me!"

I responded:

"I'm not LAAAAAHing to you!"

And the crowd went wild.

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March came in like a lion and pretty much stayed that way.

That's the lion.

And then there's the lyin'.

My brain spent most of March lyin' to my heart about some writing I was doing about matters of the heart.

OR my head was telling my heart some painful truths.

Painful truths are not lies.

But how can you tell them apart?

For my part, I did not exactly wage war with the lion. Rather than baring my claws, I bared my pen, putting it to paper faithfully each night as I sat next to my fire, cat in lap, glass in hand, and fuzzy slippers on feet. 

Whether or not the gesture resulted in brilliant ideas and acrobatic prose, it really was a wonderful way to spend the nights of my least favorite month of the year. Therein lies the reason that lion did not lie to me. I enjoyed the process nevertheless! Take that cowardly lion! 

Doing war my with myself will get me nowhere. I think I could teach my brain some manners when it comes to offering criticism and my heart to not take such criticisms to heart. And I could teach myself how to trust both voices.

This time, I let my head lead me, and I think I did the right thing. I didn't abandon the play, but I did put it on hold. I think somewhere in the 50 or 60 odd pages I've written, I do have some gems. They need to be polished up and presented in a proper setting, but a lot of the work is done. I've excavated them, and that's half the battle.

I am an artist with a few tricks up my sleeve, thankfully, or rather I should say, some artists in my pocket. I am bringing a brilliant performer to IndyFringe this year instead of presenting my I'm-not-yet-satisfied-with-this piece instead. Already I can feel that it was meant to be this way. He has been waiting for an exact opportunity such I have offered, and in the two brief conversations I've had with him, I realize that just being in his presence will be a far bigger blessing to me than presenting a new play of my own. 

I am relieved to have more time to incubate my original idea and to have some free time. I have a new book to write and one back from editing. I have a birthday weekend up coming and want to go camping somewhere. I have a garden to plant, a back yard to decorate, a kitchen to update, miles to run, bike trails to tour, books to read, concerts to attend, events to host, and weekend road trips to enjoy. 

And a year from now, I might have the script that was meant to be. If not, I know I will have spent countless pleasurable hours sifting and polishing, feet propped up next to a roaring fire. Let the lion roar, but don't LAAAH to me!

Aristarch vs. Artist

Writing down those things I know to be true in my heart are getting stuck somewhere between my brain and my fingers.

Feeling those things I know to be true in my heart are feeling kind of false.

Understanding those things I know to be true in my heart are feeling kind of useless to anyone who doesn't live in my brain.

I guess my brain doesn't trust my heart.

This is bad for a body.


Langston said it best.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet? Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load. Or does it explode?