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27 July 2007

The Roses of Victory...Or the Smell of De-feet

My current situation has me thinking a lot about success and failure and fear; fear of success for which there is no roadmap; or failure that is public, humiliating and makes one look foolish for having tried at all. I'm alright by the way, safely ensconced with friends in beautiful Trinity County. Getting better, getting stronger and thinking about next steps.
I've always felt there was glory in Attempt. Something beautiful and even sacred in the process of inspiration and bringing an idea into reality. But I've always held my hand . . . attempted, but without really risking enough to either succeed or fail completely. So many dreams deferred, but none ridden into the dust of defeat or soaring on the wings of victory; but always that bizarre purgatory of . . . almost or . . . eventually.
Next steps, geographically at any rate will most probably see me in Holland before the year is out, either temporarily or permanently. What next for Maya/de Bergerac . . . the kid herself? Well, if you know your cinema history that last sentence was a bit of a hint. What should be my next goal?

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm tired of whiny whimper-y half-keistered failure. The ones that make it hard put for anyone to blame me for the situation, even if they can't fully comprehend the circumstances. I'm also sick of half-stepped victory, the ones where I execute a 'unique' idea 'wisely' (French, for a watering down brilliant inspiration) and get part of what I want, but not the whole enchilada. I still look like an 'eccentric' to my more straight-laced friends without having felt either the cleansing burn of an idea going up in flames or the vindication of victory.

So for my next number, I've decided on a new motto. If I fail . . . fail spectacularly.
He-hee, the very thought makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. What a thrill. My entire life has felt like a high-wire act attempting to balance my own nature against the desire to act, and be seen to act, wisely. My natural wish to get out and do something astonishing has always been tempered by a wish to blend; which, um . . . I never have, but 'hope springs' . . you know. The rational I think was that as long as I acted wisely and was seen to do so, how ever 'out there' the plan I'd been working on seemed to others, I would always have a safety net when I really needed it. It's in the unspoken family contract.
Now I say, what the hay.

24 July 2007

The Roses of Victory. . .Or the Smell of De Feet?

My current situation has me thinking a lot about success and failure and fear; fear of success for which there is no roadmap; or failure that is public, humiliating and makes one look foolish for having tried at all. I'm alright by the way, safely ensconced with friends in beautiful Trinity County. Getting better, getting stronger and thinking about next steps.

I've always felt there was glory in Attempt. Something beautiful and even sacred in the process of inspiration and bringing an idea into reality. But I've always held my hand . . . attempted, but without really risking enough to either succeed or fail completely. So many dreams deferred, but none ridden into the dust of defeat or soaring on the wings of victory; but always that bizarre purgatory of . . . almost or . . . eventually.

Next steps, geographically at any rate will most probably see me in Holland before the year is out, either temporarily or permanently. What next for Maya/de Bergerac . . . the kid herself? Well, if you know your cinema history that last sentence was a bit of a hint. What should be my next goal?

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm tired of whiny whimper-y half-keistered failure. The ones that make it hard put for anyone to blame me for the situation, even if they can't fully comprehend the circumstances. I'm also sick of half-stepped victory, the ones where I execute a 'unique' idea 'wisely' (French, for a watering down brilliant inspiration) and get part of what I want, but not the whole enchilada. I still look like an 'eccentric' to my more straight-laced friends without having felt either the cleansing burn of an idea going up in flames or the vindication of victory.

So for my next number, I've decided on a new motto. If I fail . . . fail spectacularly.

He-hee, the very thought makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. What a thrill. My entire life has felt like a high-wire act attempting to balance my own nature against the desire to act, and be seen to act, wisely. My natural wish to get out and do something astonishing has always been tempered by a wish to blend; which, um . . . I never have, but 'hope springs' . . you know. The rational I think was that as long as I acted wisely and was seen to do so, how ever 'out there' the plan I'd been working on seemed to others, I would always have a safety net when I really needed it. It's in the unspoken family contract.

Now I say, what the hay.