you don't have to be meryl streep

Lights, camera...perfection!

There's a blazing Virgo disposition designing this woman, I'm referring to myself. So, I pretty much like to cruise through life at a more detail-oriented speed, to say the very least. As for my celestial jalopy with a set of wheels that keep on turning, I prefer to be in the driver seat at all times. I like to be in control, so if life really is a highway, then I'm definitely going my way too. And while on the road heading toward some unmarked destiny while driving much too fast and going my way, I violently collide with "mac trucks" as karma bites me in my ass for being such a control freak. I then watch my whole life flash before my eyes as though a near-death experience has just occurred, as though I'm a film star in an amazing near-death scene! On that note, maybe I'm a drama queen too, or maybe I'm just another actress acting like I'm "in control".

Flashing. Flashing. Flashing back...

I've been completely devoured by a very loud longing for perfection all my life. I was raised to live by the "decree of excellence", and though this statute, this order to be "great", was fully contradicted by its inventor, my mother, excellence was still always commanded, instructed and expected of me. Though, such demands taught me nothing. I learned from an underlying feeling of failure instead. I learned from the hypocrisy that shouted at me and the theatrics of inconsistency that confused me as I slowly, but surely discovered insecurities in all their hiding places. Thus, defeat was my influence, not excellence...and not perfection. Perfection became my mission: Operation Paradigm. And, such an undertaking has been quite the mission impossible, I might add. How does one obtain such? To be PERFECT has compelled my chronic-cosmic quirks to invade me like a crusade. I feel like a gladiator. I feel like a woman who dances with wolves. Anyways, it's exhausting. I can be so incredibly distracted by every little detail, every meager problem, every single solution, every unattainable answer and the need to perfect all that is and all that ever was, that in turn, I'm practically left for dead sweltering in a self-induced oven heat, perspiring as though I've been abandoned in the desert on a mid-July afternoon. Stressed is the word, and when I say I've been left for "dead", I mean an idealism has drained me completely of energy and life, and on that death note, pushing daisies never felt so ordinary. There's something about 'death' that just seems very ordinary to me, and I'm not exactly referring to the soul's departure from the body either. I actually deem that phenomenon to be the utmost ultimate sphinx, the one-and-only conversation with no real paper trail, and though a mind f*** quandary it may be, "death" does promise us a miracle, maybe somewhere on 34th Street. For, what is an after life, or another life for that matter, without it? The enormity of the "death" factor, or better yet, the "God" factor, is like an all-inclusive thesis statement so bold and infringing it's practically imposed an apocalypse among us, and yet it's actually our reserved seat on an underground railway, a trolly that takes us so deep we actually get beyond our own grave. Our graves are dug because death is assured, but our lives are not, and this makes living so extraordinary. I don't think we live just because we were born either, nothing comes that easy. I think we have to be born to live, no matter how long the duration. We're each given a specific amount of time and our time is everything, it's our chance to do something beautiful, something daring, something to be remembered by someone else. Some of us live very short lives, for others, very long, but to persevere in our every breath incomparably and wholeheartedly is to be the animate undercurrent in the river that runs through it, the river that runs through us, the river of resolve and boundless solutions. But, to desist the surge of love and it's constant, rapid flow is to drown in the idle of a dam. And damned we are by our own barriers as death becomes her...and him, and me, and you. To live or not to live is the question. It's also the answer, an answer that depends completely on our ability or inability to forgive, to love and to dream, for our every effort exonerates our every ounce of corruption. Tragedy longs to transcend us to a new and improved level, to a new beginning per say - possibly some other new beginning's end. And like every great story and every great film, The End is always the inevitable. And like every great playwright, we write the show. The most world renowned dramatist is noted for having once compellingly exclaimed:

"Love all, trust few and do wrong to none."

Do wrong to none in your every performance and you'll get to know your character better. We can alleviate ourselves from all theses heart-wrenching dramas we've written and directed, our heartaches included. Thank God for comedies, those we've produced as well, and oh how laughter can heal. We've scripted our entire lives and we've done it with our every thought. So, may we always remember to give thanks to ourselves when giving our acceptance speeches, for we are the artist eclectically in charge. We're the director behind the "lens". We're the stage designer too. All life is a stage...and as for casting, well that's a no-brainer, we're the star. Duh. And for a legion of centuries now we've all wanted to play the the part of the hero; me, you, Christian Bale, Hercules...but often our character fails to develop enough in our story to reach these envied heroic heights, so our drama is just another morbidly depressing tear-jearker. Who needs a hero when you can write a remarkably upsetting love story that lacks a hero? Anyways, it's our love story that won us "Best Picture", not our "hero". It's our love story that won us everything. So, the Oscar goes to....everyone! 'Cause in love's hopelessly romantic and deranged saga, we've all got our roles mastered by now. We've played the victim, we've played the villain. We've even played the victim villain. But, have we played the hero?

Maybe our "hero" was just that deep breath we took when we felt like we were dying. Maybe our "hero" was just our own will power, our willingness to let it all go. Maybe our "hero" was just that prayer we uttered while we cried all night. Maybe it was the hope we turned to after our pain buried us alive, making perfect seem so imperfect. We become so imperfect, we're breathtaking. And the award goes to...you, and me, and everyone with a pulse.

Who needs a "perfect" picture when you have a Best Picture? Who needs a hero when your own character can rescue you?

My character: A woman who casually parish's a little more each day as she's strangled by the squeezing grip of uncertainty, difficulty and sadness. And though, not an anarchist, she does often squander herself to a tussle with meltdowns, and while subdued by the stagnation caused, she startles herself in a prayer. She prays, she prays for the convolution in her head to become wisdom. Her logic's been questioned, overthrown and abolished, her reasons too. So, she prays and she prays, and she notices her thoughts spin less as she mentally outlines the figure of an eight. She remembers a guru...

"Infinity is within you."

She repeats it like a mantra as she realizes she's consented to a multitude of chaotic, but beautiful lives here on Earth, and for reasons beyond her own. She does live a beautiful life, regardless, though she's still not sure why she was born. She's trying to figure it out. Her deepest longing is know why she wakes up everyday. So, like a pill she swallows her pride and she meditates. Then of course, she hops in her car and loses her temper in traffic. She's no saint, she's a pretty typical human person. But, "typical" is just the tip of the iceberg, and there's not an iceberg in the whole world that can sink her ship. She's evermore curios and she wonders constantly. She wonders if she's insane. And while forcing herself to doubt it, she wonders if she's brilliant. Her uncertainty kicks her like a horse as she notably ponders on the very long-winded fight, a fight she's struggled to rectify, a fight to survive the pain endured in love's battle, a battle at bay - a battle of bonkers. For what feels like a lifetime, and for those prior, though not remembered, she's combated a spiritual revolt and fought back the way of her adversaries. A mirror she is to her every rival. She's won and she's lost and she doesn't care anymore. It's not about winning and losing, she reminds herself, it's about living and learning, and she rides off like John Wayne into the sunset on her dark horse. Love is a sunset, the night will fall says her sorrow. Love is a sunrise, the light will shine again says her hope. Love is a battlefield, with no promises and no demands says Pat Benatar. Love is walking in fields of gold, says Sting, and in her fields of gold, she's confronted by grief, provoked is truce, but resisted is her heart, for the warfare of love is a passage of arms. So, her fields of gold are merely fields of barley, but while passing through the provisions of grain, she's lead to a gateway, and re-opened is her heart. She learns to live again.

She lives again...and again, and again. She yields to courage and she yields to God as her vigorous need for impeccability steps down from its thrown, a thrown where she once succumbed herself in a bow and affliction. The demanding imposition cripples as she abdicates herself and screams in a whisper; "God please help me. I am nothing without you."

And there you have it. That's the star of my show, and the show must go on! Now back to one. Rolling rolling!

As for the script, I've been "re-writting" some forthcoming scenes. I'm noticing my life get more and more whacky and ironic as I get closer and closer to being a little old lady, God willing. I've taken on a more comedic approach in my demeanor. I've been directing myself onto a new stage, so-to-speak. A musician once said to me... "If you can't control everything, why control anything?" Profound, I thought. Her statement resonates with me still, and signifies the renunciation of all personal motive and self-assurance, as well as suggests an undeniable capacity to accept our self for who we are, what we are and where we are, and to do the same for others as well, and with compassion.

Re-capping:

What I am (on a very long day) is over-stressed, that's been stated. I over-analyze everything and everything's potential for improvement until I'm satisfied with a coke and a smile, as well as a throbbing headache. Satisfaction can make for quite a migraine. Who I am is concerned as I spectate flaws like a hawk and relish in my emphasis on perfection. I've observed myself produce a crushing pressure on myself every day to make a difference in my life, and in the lives of others, and such a pressure squooshes me like a bug as it pushes me to do better, to feel better, and to be better. The side effect is wisdom greatly challenged by emotion. I feel like I've been shoved to the edge of the world where there's nothing left, and there's nothing left to lose. I feel like Neil Armstrong while I bounce in space, and Houston...we'll always have a problem. I've been launched in a body, mind, spirit shuttle to the edge of a dream where I can dance on the moon if I want to, though I hitch a white flag as I smile for the camera. I notice myself yearning to break free from an Armageddon in my mind, the head-trips and confusion, both which I've invented. I'm getting to know my character more and more. Self-discovery is bliss wherever you are, you don't have to be on the moon, you don't have to be on a red carpet either. You can find yourself right here were you are...where you are your hero.

Nothing's perfect...that's what makes your story so beautiful, and it's your painfully upsetting love story that makes you breathless.

And the Oscar goes to...you. You don't have to be Meryl Streep.

Love & Light,

Anne-Marie

P.S. I love Meryl Streep.