What's Left in the Embers

Don't mind that title, I've been listening to the new Modest Mouse album, Strangers to Ourselves, recently and it's putting me in a 'make up cool-sounding sentences' mood. Even so, the album title lends itself to writing out what's new with me.

(You'll also have to pardon the months I was AWOL. I spent this Spring touring a show across the state, clowning and speaking ASL for 111 sweet performances. Sometimes four(!!)-show days. Cah-raziness. I loved it and I miss it. I miss using 100 percent of my faculties every day. I miss problem-solving when the inevitable hurdle rears up--considering the three months of travel. Anyway--I find during tour times it's really tough for me to split my focus. Now, when it's all said and done, I'm like a kite tied up to a laundromat. I fly high when the wind blows, otherwise I sit there like in a colorful rumple, watching people file in and out.)

 ANYHOO, for the first time in my life, I'm feeling like I straight-up have no clue who I am. After a talk with my spiritual advisor/yoda/life coach/Mom, I came to realize that so much of my reality has been my 'narrative', that I'm now in the process of sorting the truths from the stories. Granted, that's sort of my perpetual state, but this one's different (I swear..!) Deep down, I know I spend a lot of time husslin' for acceptance/love/respect because it supports this story that I am inherently powerless.

Whaaaat? Sheeeeit.

What I mean by that is, the story I told myself about my folks divorce, the stories I told myself to get through those long days waiting waiting waiting, the stories I told myself to soften the blow of my mistakes (which, if you think you've got no power, only serve as evidence to support the claim) were all constructed based on the most profound 'story' I had--a story I wrote when I was five years old.  Which...I mean, yeah. Of course I felt powerless at 5. I couldn't even drive. I couldn't even buy pants without the help of a grown-up! I mean, I'd need SOMEone to tell me whether my toddlin' butt looked fly.

Y'see, the point I'm getting at here is, what's the use of living by a past you created before you even truly met the world? Before you even met yourself? I mean hell, it served me to some degree--that's why I kept it up. It's really easy to deal with mistakes, missteps, and failures when they're beyond your purview. Then, when you like what's going on, you can chalk it up to just being especially lucky. Or special. Or unique in some capacity. I paid for that. I paid for letting "fate" take my hand and lead me about. I paid for it in empty successes that I had no control over, I paid for it in fearing any tasks I deemed insurmountable, because whether I gave my all or gave a scrap, the outcome was beyond me.

And now, realizing that I've spent a lifetime reacting...denigrating stubbornness because it was for stupid people who refused to give up when they met with failure (I mean, didn't they know it makes no difference what they do?) And realizing that this is not, in fact, The Perpetual And Unchanging Nature Of The World, but a security blanket I've carried since I was old enough to need one. Realizing that nobody has laid out a life for me, not even the people I've accused of doing so. Realizing these things--and letting them be okay--and letting them go...

I don't know, you guys. It's left me kind of a blank slate. A blank excited slate, because I fully expected to burn down this house and find nothing left standing. Who the hell knew that the house was a fortress--and after the fire--what's left in the embers is me?

Love on! Rock on! Kick ass!

-Dak