Angsty Existential Jumbled Thoughts

At times, often times, I feel my emotions are too large to contain, yet too nebulous to be productive because my thoughts and words are too small.

I have a desire to convey the truth, the reality about myself in the hope that by expressing a truth about myself I will achieve and commune with something universal. That I will, in even the most minuscule and fleeting of connections, align with Ralph Waldo Emerson and John Keats and reach something poetic and significant. Something that is true for forever, and so it is worth knowing and sharing because it will intrinsically speak to all of humanity, past and present, and meet and fulfill the entire ideal of canonization. I know, is there anything, really, that speaks to all of humanity? Really? Let's hope there is, and assume it's possible for someone alive today to connect with it.

Yet. Yet, I too often feel that my fear about making too little income, about living in the life I made for myself, trapped in a place of capitalization and bills and feelings of guilt for living beneath my potential,  for trying to reach and live for God, but in believing that in my own effort I defeat myself because the instruction is to release and let go, so that effort is self-defeating (?) but not? To surrender my own control in my life, and to trust, to have faith that a greater power will care for me, for my daily needs and for my greater destiny. The fear is stifling, but not?

But it is hard. It feels deeply antithetical to attempt to detach myself from my own ends. I feel the need to try, but feel sluggish and barred down by a laziness fueled by the worst parts of myself. How can I, could I, overcome these erupted-of-the-self negative qualities, like the tumor inside the frog in Pan's Labyrinth, without exuding extreme effort? How can I be the best I can be without controlling my behavior, without pushing myself? This is not letting go.

Why, one might ask, is it worth letting go at all then? The concept of surrender is mirrored in many philosophies. The mighty Om of Hinduism, right? Om, I have a twinkie. Om, I do not have a twinkie. Detachment, do your dharma (your duty) and nothing more or less, let go of desire either way, and through this you will find contentment. In the Bible, surrendering to God and the grace he provides through Jesus is the only way receive eternal life, accepting that it is the holy sacrifice that makes anything, including you, good, and it is a difficult concept to accept. How can I be good without doing anything? Especially when I'm told there's no way I'm intrinsically good, not all the way through. If I'm not good, they how am I worth anything? Thanks God, I appreciate the sentiment of grace, but I don't want to be a pity-case. Especially in contemporary America - your worth is determined primarily by what you accomplish, whether that's in the work force and how much money you make, or by how many random acts of kindness you get through. Not to suggest that any of this is not significant, it's just that we shouldn't, and it's difficult not to, place our identity there. Again, how to let go?

How to be happy in the face of the unknown, in the company of littling masses, to have faith without it acting as the opium for the masses meaning me? Because faith is only a tiny bit about you, if you believe it.

And in the meantime, Here I Am. Sitting, unwashed, literally far from home, trying to create my life, which is the culmination of daily experiences, behaviors and decisions. Hoping I will rise from the daily drum of the unintellectual, again feeling guilty for feeling so unsatisfied knowing full-well there are millions out there in far worse positions, who don't have even the luxury of existential strife because the difficulties of each day are preoccupying and overwhelming. Quit your complaining, girl.

I know I can't see the expanse while standing, being in it. Telling myself it is important to be here, present in order to go there and climb the alpine path. Depending on hope, but worrying if I lean too heavily on hope, I may cease working in my daily life where the energy required to achieve - is alive, in the only place it is available - Here And Now. Worrying I will be let down, by myself.

Wanting to think, and dream, and to be better, but afraid of fallowing and failing along the journey.

I suspect the answer, as the answer almost always is, in my opinion, is something like existing in the adage, "All things in moderation." Embracing a duality that does not fight, but combines together, each side reinforcing the other. But perhaps that is life? Or mine, at least. Determining, little by little, that process of balancing one's daily physical life, needs, and even slothful inclinations, one's sins, with what Western literature and philosophy called ... the pursuit of Truth, Beauty, and Love?
And I know, I have been taught and believe in the truth of a higher power, a being who will provide and on whom you can depend. But, always but, it is frightening, it is risky to trust. A wise person told me that this very struggle, to let go and depend, is one of the most powerful forces in the universe.

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Reality check: I do pay my bills, I do need to shower, and all things considered, I'm fine.
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Rebecca Kean Moved. Again.

A while back I bought a ton of on-sale ground meat. I cooked it and froze the lot. My roommate at the time said that sounded smart and the meat smelled great. I replied somberly, "Hopefully it freezes okay." As if this were a major concern, and I didn't want to get my hopes up in case of disappointment. ... It's hamburger meat.

I realized, I was sort of doing this for everything. Adopting an attitude of, "It's okay if things don't turn out, because I was never really hoping for it in the first place. Feh. I don't care." Not realizing that in this general outlook on life, "things" meant how my life here in LA might turn out, whether I quit my job because I felt underemployed, whether I would move back to Missouri because I couldn't stand the loneliness, and I would worry about feeling like a big fat failure - later. All of which are things about which I do care and hope, as I should. Fear can falsely convince one to shrink inside his own life.

Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote nine books discussing the course of her young life. Between the 7th and 8th books, Laura omitted certain sad events including the birth of and death of her younger brother who died at nine months, and the course of the Scarlet Fever that caused her sister, Mary, to lose her sight and go blind. Not to compare my struggles to those of a pioneer woman, but well, sometimes we don't like to dwell on what is uncomfortable, do we.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=85k12-MOkJA&feature=autoplay&list=PL8B7A6BD0FEEA8ABB&playnext=4

Anyway. I moved. My former roommate and I, the woman who's an accountant for Cancer research, well, we reached a mutual agreement that I should kindly vacate the premises. We like one another, but our living habits are different enough that sharing the same space, while doable, created stress for both of us. Of course, once we had that conversation, everything became far more relaxed around the house, and I was still moving out.

I had a month, according to the government, to find a new address. I met with several people. Highlights include the apartment with the guy who, while he kept the place very clean, decorated it with tattoo art. A busty, scantily clad woman with ink-shaded cleavage adorned the living-room wall. Then there was the woman who was very nice, owned two cats, an out-of-tune baby-grand piano, and a small cottage about fifteen minutes from my work. Sounds perfect. Then we met. When I commented on how I liked the white walls and the openness it created in the space, she said it helped combat depression. She explained how she was an unemployed artist, just out of a fifteen-year relationship, depressed, and a recovering compulsive-eater. But it would probably be okay for me to eat whatever I wanted. The last roommate had food and she, the landlord, would see the wrappers and it didn't really bother her, so it should be fine. She offered me hot tea in a mason jar. She let me hold it with oven-mitts so I wouldn't burn my fingers because she didn't have mugs or teacups.

Fortunately, I had previously met with a nice guy named Randy. We met for about an hour at the B&N at The Grove (a souped up and even prettier version of the Kansas City Plaza). I later went on to mis-judge his house because as I was exiting after I viewed it, I tripped down the front steps and sprained my ankle but-good. When I had to find a new place asap, I got over it. Now this is my new home, and I like it. I have two roommates, Randy and Rocki (a girl). They're both aspiring actors and friendly, caring people. And they don't care if the dishes sit in the sink overnight.

Little bit of Rebecca Kean's LA and Life Now

Update: I did indeed move out of the house of recovering addicts. And I did this less than a week after the previous post. Once they drank all my milk, I ski-daddled.

I am now living in room inside a woman's house. My housemate is a very clean, very nice person who works for cancer-research. I rent a room inside her house for $750 a month including utilities. This is pretty good for LA.

I am far more central to LA now than I was before, though I do miss the smell of flowers. Sometimes when I'm working I can smell the ocean, but it's more of a weak stench.

Things of the past week:

I saw a white SUV with a pocket of bullet holes in its side non-chalantly left turn in front of me while I was driving to work. ("It's the Fratelli's!!!!")

I met a man who genuinely, "Yes dear'd" his wife. "Honey, did you ----?" And he, in a monotone, slightly nasal, and attempting to be patient tone, responded, "Yes, dear." And then he made a face at me that clearly said, "She's nuts, but what can I do, I married her." And then the wife, once she's finished doting over her 30-year-old daughter, faces me and makes the face. The, smile and squinch your eyes closed for a moment as if to say, "I know you probably think I'm a little silly, and I am slightly embarrassed about it, but I do it out of love, and for the most part I'm oblivious," face. They were cute.

In other news, my work days have been sprinkled with flirtation. 

A woman told I have a, "Shapely body for a, what's your name?"

"Rebecca."

"A shapely-body for a Rebecca! Hoo-wee!" She wore all black and lots of sequins, and her voice had a natural gravel to it, and she knew how to shake it.

Her friend clarified, "For a white girl. I tell it like it is. You shapely for a white girl!"

Then, before they left, the first woman kind of patted me on the side of my hip, the top most part of my thigh and said, "You are solid!"

Later that night, a man told informed me, excuse the language,
"You have sexy-ass lips! I'm sorry, to just say it like that, but-"

And I laughed, of course, and turned to help his aunt finish her recording. He later told me his name was "DaMon" with the emphasis over the "mawn," and asked for my number. When I told him no, he asked, "Why you do me like that, girl?"

Rebecca Kean is Not an Addict

"Drug or substance of choice?"

"None."

"Are you sober?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been in recovery?"

"I'm not in recovery."

"But you're sober?"

"Yes."

"How long have you been sober?"

"Forever."

"Forever?"

"Yup."

This is an excerpt of my first face-to-face conversation with the House Manager of the half-way house where I am currently staying because it is (!) 500 bucks a month including utilities, which is pretty good anywhere outside the Midwest, as I understand it.

For those of you who don't know, I spent the last two and a half days driving to LA from Kansas City. My job moved and told me I could either move with it or find a new one. They offered me more money, and told me I could choose from Connecticut, New Jersey, Las Vegas, or LA. Adventuresome as I am, I decided to Go West, Young Man.

So far I've met (names changed for safety purposes) Pammy, the House Manager. I suspect she may have been a formerly non-sober tenant herself, but now her vices are only smoking and a kind but suspecting demeanor. I suppose that happens when you live with people who lie to you.

I also met Sandy. "Hi, I'm Sandy," she said with a sleepy smile. She told me it was cool here because it's chill. Two hours later she looks at me with the same smile and says, "Hi, I'm Sandy."

Except the bathrooms, none of the doors lock, and there is a curfew. No kidding. 11pm on weeknights, 1am on weekends. "But I'm a cool manager; you just call or text me and let me know, and you can stay out till 3 if you need to."

There are 23 people staying in the house right, now including me. Chores and kitchenware are communal. It's funny because while it sounds a lot like a college dorm, the reality is more like everyone pretends to live in apartments where everyone just happens to share a kitchen, bathroom, and the front door - no one carries individual keys. And if you happen to meet in the passageway (living room), fine, but that's no reason to bond.

For the most part, the people on the street seem nice enough, though a few gave me funny looks, probably because I'm a young, white, girl walking about around like it's normal. However, the neighborhood is full of families, mostly Hispanic. When I first arrived, a soccer practice was under-way across the street. Around the corner there is a laundromat, a couple clothing stores, a moneylender, and a fresh market plus bakery selling all kinds of Latin-originated sweet rolls. The lettuce was really well priced and so fresh I had to clean off the residual dirt. And as I walk down the sidewalk, averting my eyes from the boys, the LA air smells like flowers.

Also, I plan on moving in about two weeks.