Running To Stand Still
http://www.phetasy.com/articles/253/1/Running-To-Stand-Still/Page1.html
Bridget Phetasy
By Bridget Phetasy
Published on 09.08.11
“Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of your mind.”
~Jack Kerouac
It’s 1:00AM. I can’t sleep. I toss and turn. My thoughts race around and around in circles of self-loathing, worry and fear, like a dog chasing its tail. If my mind is going to spin like this, I at least want to be moving while it does. I need the rubber to hit the road and get some traction.
By 2:00AM I obey my gut and make the last-minute decision to get out of my own way. I turn off my phone. I don’t tell a soul that I am leaving or where I am heading. I sneak out as dawn breaks. I am on the road by 6:00AM, restlessly heading North on the 5, leaving the urban sprawl behind me, watching the legions of obedient ants congest the opposing pipelines on their daily commute to their respective mind-numbing, soul-sucking exercise in survival. A simultaneous guilt-ridden sense of panic and relief hits me: Panic that I don’t have a job--relief that I’m not one of them.
What’s it all for???
I am over the Grapevine by 7:00AM. Mile by mile, my stomach and mind continue to uncoil from the terrible knot they have worked themselves into. Joshua Tree blasting, I patiently observe the spinning thoughts spin. I’ve got nothing else better to do although the process is anything but pleasant. My self-talk at the moment goes something like this:
What am I doing with my life? I hate LA, I can’t be there any more. No, I don’t hate LA, I just feel frustrated, discouraged and disillusioned. This town feels like a prison. Am I going to spend another four years trying to sell a show, or “make it” or…what the Hell am I even trying to do???
What’s it all for???
More oppressive than the 100-degree heat are my thoughts. They make me feel so claustrophobic, I need the windows open. The use of AC is pointless. My sweat evaporates as soon as the perspiration hits my skin. The sun scorches the breadbasket. Everything seems to bow to its power: the cows, the farmers, even the sunflowers lower their heads in submission as the thermometer climbs steadily upwards. Meanwhile I bow to my exercise in self-flagellation. It goes on and on. Hour upon hour. Mile upon mile. I want to scream.
Who am I? What’s the point of this grind? Do I even know any more? I’m 32. I have no kids. No mortgage. No debt. No degree. No job. Not even so much as a boyfriend. Nothing. On paper, I am a giant, unfocused loser. Paul says I should focus on screenwriting. Ted says I should focus on stand up. Patrick says, “A gig is a gig” and I should just be grateful to be working—even if I feel undermined and treated poorly. What do I have to show for any of this? What good have I been to my fellow humans? What good am I to myself? I hate myself. Honestly, I’ve always hated myself. I’m useless. I’m lazy. I’m unsuccessful. My shoulder has been injured since May and it’s never going to get better. I’m never going to be able to do yoga again. I’m ugly. I’m past my prime and too old to really make something of this life…
What’s it all for????
I realize if the gerbil stays on this wheel I am going to lose it. The road has taught me many lessons, but probably the most important was the many different areas of consciousness we can place our attention. Over the years, during long drives, I became very familiar with all of these different points of awareness and out of sheer boredom and/or survival--I began playing with them. So, I leave the gerbil wheel, enter the labyrinth and start to move my point-of-consciousness around.
I always begin with imagining a point right above the crown of my head. I call her The Hawk. She’s got the bird’s-eye-view on the situation and is able to see much farther and much clearer than the extraordinarily limited perspective from inside my thoughts. Immediately I feel a sense of calm. I fly around. First I focus outside of my body, to the environment and note what my five senses are taking in: light, sound, music, temperature, landscape, smell…noon, harsh light, farms, sweltering heat, U2, manure...
From my external environment, I fly to the internal. What is my body saying? My pains and pleasures? I’m hot, hungry, drowsy, my shoulder hurts… Then I check in with my self-talk (see above—as we know, at the moment, it’s not pretty). I quickly leave the constant, self-deprecating internal diatribe and fly to my feelings, past and present. Feelings don’t lie. Ever. They are the language of the soul. I’m anxious, frustrated, heart-broken but something else is starting to emerge, although I can’t put my finger on it. Next I enter my imagination where I daydream, create, fantasize. This is my happy place. I linger here fabricating characters, plot lines and dialogue for different projects I am working out. Taking note of my feelings when I am just thinking about writing, I observe peace, enthusiasm, hope. Finally, I return to the Hawk. My God’s-eye-view. There is a sense of perspective, smallness, infinite humor and light.
It takes me 600 miles at 85 mph practicing this exercise before finally and suddenly, the chatter stops, exhausted. Right at this moment, I come around the bend and directly in front of me is beautiful, powerful, magnetic Mt. Shasta. Relief washes over me. I snap out of what feels like a 5-month trance and suddenly, Soul has some room to breathe. More importantly, Soul has some space to speak. What Soul wants, Soul gets. As I've mentioned many, many times before, for me ignoring the call of Soul--that nagging voice of my deepest truth--means a certain kind of living death I have no interest in.
After months of agony, I feel like my Self again. Now comes the hard part: trusting Her.
“Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of your mind.”
~Jack Kerouac
August 16, 2011
“Write what you want bottomless from the bottom of your mind.”
~Jack Kerouac
~Jack Kerouac
It’s 1:00AM. I can’t sleep. I toss and turn. My thoughts race around and around in circles of self-loathing, worry and fear, like a dog chasing its tail. If my mind is going to spin like this, I at least want to be moving while it does. I need the rubber to hit the road and get some traction.
By 2:00AM I obey my gut and make the last-minute decision to get out of my own way. I turn off my phone. I don’t tell a soul that I am leaving or where I am heading. I sneak out as dawn breaks. I am on the road by 6:00AM, restlessly heading North on the 5, leaving the urban sprawl behind me, watching the legions of obedient ants congest the opposing pipelines on their daily commute to their respective mind-numbing, soul-sucking exercise in survival. A simultaneous guilt-ridden sense of panic and relief hits me: Panic that I don’t have a job--relief that I’m not one of them.
What’s it all for???
I am over the Grapevine by 7:00AM. Mile by mile, my stomach and mind continue to uncoil from the terrible knot they have worked themselves into. Joshua Tree blasting, I patiently observe the spinning thoughts spin. I’ve got nothing else better to do although the process is anything but pleasant. My self-talk at the moment goes something like this:
What am I doing with my life? I hate LA, I can’t be there any more. No, I don’t hate LA, I just feel frustrated, discouraged and disillusioned. This town feels like a prison. Am I going to spend another four years trying to sell a show, or “make it” or…what the Hell am I even trying to do???
What’s it all for???
More oppressive than the 100-degree heat are my thoughts. They make me feel so claustrophobic, I need the windows open. The use of AC is pointless. My sweat evaporates as soon as the perspiration hits my skin. The sun scorches the breadbasket. Everything seems to bow to its power: the cows, the farmers, even the sunflowers lower their heads in submission as the thermometer climbs steadily upwards. Meanwhile I bow to my exercise in self-flagellation. It goes on and on. Hour upon hour. Mile upon mile. I want to scream.
Who am I? What’s the point of this grind? Do I even know any more? I’m 32. I have no kids. No mortgage. No debt. No degree. No job. Not even so much as a boyfriend. Nothing. On paper, I am a giant, unfocused loser. Paul says I should focus on screenwriting. Ted says I should focus on stand up. Patrick says, “A gig is a gig” and I should just be grateful to be working—even if I feel undermined and treated poorly. What do I have to show for any of this? What good have I been to my fellow humans? What good am I to myself? I hate myself. Honestly, I’ve always hated myself. I’m useless. I’m lazy. I’m unsuccessful. My shoulder has been injured since May and it’s never going to get better. I’m never going to be able to do yoga again. I’m ugly. I’m past my prime and too old to really make something of this life…
What’s it all for????
I realize if the gerbil stays on this wheel I am going to lose it. The road has taught me many lessons, but probably the most important was the many different areas of consciousness we can place our attention. Over the years, during long drives, I became very familiar with all of these different points of awareness and out of sheer boredom and/or survival--I began playing with them. So, I leave the gerbil wheel, enter the labyrinth and start to move my point-of-consciousness around.
I always begin with imagining a point right above the crown of my head. I call her The Hawk. She’s got the bird’s-eye-view on the situation and is able to see much farther and much clearer than the extraordinarily limited perspective from inside my thoughts. Immediately I feel a sense of calm. I fly around. First I focus outside of my body, to the environment and note what my five senses are taking in: light, sound, music, temperature, landscape, smell…noon, harsh light, farms, sweltering heat, U2, manure...
From my external environment, I fly to the internal. What is my body saying? My pains and pleasures? I’m hot, hungry, drowsy, my shoulder hurts… Then I check in with my self-talk (see above—as we know, at the moment, it’s not pretty). I quickly leave the constant, self-deprecating internal diatribe and fly to my feelings, past and present. Feelings don’t lie. Ever. They are the language of the soul. I’m anxious, frustrated, heart-broken but something else is starting to emerge, although I can’t put my finger on it. Next I enter my imagination where I daydream, create, fantasize. This is my happy place. I linger here fabricating characters, plot lines and dialogue for different projects I am working out. Taking note of my feelings when I am just thinking about writing, I observe peace, enthusiasm, hope. Finally, I return to the Hawk. My God’s-eye-view. There is a sense of perspective, smallness, infinite humor and light.
It takes me 600 miles at 85 mph practicing this exercise before finally and suddenly, the chatter stops, exhausted. Right at this moment, I come around the bend and directly in front of me is beautiful, powerful, magnetic Mt. Shasta. Relief washes over me. I snap out of what feels like a 5-month trance and suddenly, Soul has some room to breathe. More importantly, Soul has some space to speak. What Soul wants, Soul gets. As I've mentioned many, many times before, for me ignoring the call of Soul--that nagging voice of my deepest truth--means a certain kind of living death I have no interest in.
After months of agony, I feel like my Self again. Now comes the hard part: trusting Her.