Monthly Archives: April 2011

Te be Art

My friend Elizabeth Blue, who I will call one of the forefathers of Oliarights put this quote on her blog:

“You wouldn’t have the desire if you didn’t have the ability to achieve it.”  Ralph Waldo Emerson

If you have desire, than you must have ability.  I wrote a piece for my writing class.  I did not think I had it in me to write fifteen pages but I had the desire.  The ability came out of the blue, surprising even me.  It makes me believe in this quote.

The reason why this is “quote”, and not some sentence on a piece of paper lost in time, is because people are still having the hardest time with the concept.  We cannot believe that we are capable of doing what we truly desire.  We settle, we justify, we excuse, we second guess, we complace, we procrastinate.  Ones in a while we meet a person with fire in their eyes, the person who is doing that which he desires.

When I was writing those fifteen pages, I walked around with that fire.  I was seeing symbols everywhere, signs, magic, memories.  I was mouthing them while I walked, scribbling notes on napkins and the backs of receipts.  Inspiration is where I need to be.  If I were to say what I desire, that would be it.  It cannot be attached to something physical like being a writer or director or a designer.  That is for the birds, an English friend said ones.  The form of expression or your title is just another “Golden Calf” (false idol, that will bring you down if you start to worship it).   That is still some outer bullshit to get attached to.  To go for that would not make sense.

It is against my religion to worship false idols: Fame, Money, Power.

In order to stay pure, I have to align myself with a virtue, something unchangeable and inner.  Truth, Freedom, Justice, Love, Honesty, Courage, Search for Knowledge, Wisdom, Diligence, Humility, Patience, Strength, Hope and Faith.

I desire to be inspired and to inspire through self-expression that is my art.  Whatever my art becomes.

Wow, Olia, you are jumping off the deep end here, I hear a voice say.

I am doing a cannon ball.

I danced to this song with Isaiah today.


Cat in the bag

10:02 pm

The rain was coming and going all day.  It was muggy and the sky grew light and dark.  I woke up feeling rested and famished.  I wanted to eat the world.  I went down stairs and devoured a bagel, it was not enough so I ate another half.  I have not been so hungry in long time.  Suddenly for no visible reason, I felt myself grow insecure.  What am I doing with my life?  That question comes up for me so much.  No matter how great I am doing in something, I get that question.  The question is debilitating.  The real question is am I good enough?  The pain is the answer, it is always no.  On other days I can count my blessings but the inner weather changes without a warning.

All I want is validation, I thought.  I just want for someone to call me and tell me that what I am doing is good.  I want them to say you are good, keep doing what you are doing, but that would not help today.   All I want is to feel good again, to be inspired.  I paced around getting ready for work, I did my therapy noises.  Screaming on the bed, letting the feeling pour out, calling them out one by one and feeling them.  Still gray, I walked out the house.

At the same time, the neighbors next door were leaving their stoop.  We made small talk about the flowers I planted in the front yard.  She told me that it does not have enough sun for what I planted.  I am hoping that I prove her wrong. The butterfly garden mix of seeds looked powerful in the little paper package.  I was forced to smile at them, it is involuntary when I am around strangers.  I feel impolite if I do not smile during a conversation taking place outside my own home.  Everybody thinks I am so happy all the time.  My family knows that it’s not true.  Smiling for me is like blinking for other people.  No one blinks because they are happy.

But something changed after that smiley discourse about nothing.  My mood.  I was fine.

Am I good enough?  For what, I laugh at the question now.  My favorite mother-in-law asked tonight, “When will you know that you are a writer?”  “Good question,” I said.  When I write my novel, or my show, or my movie or my blog?  When I write, period.  When I know I am good enough.  Good enough for what?  To be read.  To be liked.  To be admired.  To be loved?

I thought about it longer.  I know I am a writer when I change the world with my words.  It could just be one person who feels deeply from my words.  Who is inspired to be themselves deeper and stronger.  It is not a selfless act, what I get from it is magnified.  I am the one who is digging up everyday of this life.  My writing teacher called us “blind cats trying to get out of the bag.”  It changed my world instantly.  I don’t feel so bad anymore for feeling like a blind cat in the bag today.  Thank you.  I did not know it was common knowledge.  I thought everyone is happy on rainy days.

10:55 pm

Dear Readers

3:04 pm
I have been busy writing and editing for my class.  My piece is due tomorrow night, tick tak.

I will be back on Wednesday.

I love your support.

the Ghost

2:23 pm

Sometimes I am lost for meaning.  It is easy to go to writing.  Then I can explore the inner and not worry about the outer.  i like to be a ghost floating high above my body.  My body that gets tired and stressed.  My body that yearns to be elsewhere where it is not.  My body that demands to be complimented and appreciated.  The ghost does not need any of that.  The ghost does not want sugar or a treat.  The ghost wants to fly and float in the ether.  Starring at the life bellow, exploring its complexity and its simplicity.  To marvel and to write poetry.

If love is the answer than what is truth.

I saw the movie “and Justice for all” a long time ago.  It had an impact.  It is about injustice, of course.  Injustice of the system, injustice of those who work within it.  Injustice of what is done to those who demand justice.

I started reading a book recommended to me, about writing.  The author said that the good writers are usually murdered by the critics before they even get to become anything.  They are sensitive souls.  The writers that become something are usually egotistical pushy survivors.  That did not sound just.

“Have you been half asleep and have your heard voices.  I’ve heard them calling my name…. I’ve heard them too many times to ignore them, it’s something that I am s’posed to be.” – The Muppets, pure brilliance

8:07 pm


I preach fearlessness to people.  I find, it is a part of my mission.  My friends have always commented on my lack of fear and I say, “thank you.”  Sometime the definitions that your friends give you are better than what you are.  I am filled with fear.  I fear now to write my piece for my writing class.  It is just a class and I am supposed to learn from it but I fear it instead.  In order to cope with it I have started and stopped many times.  Each time, with inspiration and ending with self-doubt.  It is all one great metaphor.  The whole thing, the illusion of life, the matrix, the box, the Universe, whatever I call it at different times in life.  The six weeks of this class are the condensed version.  It is just a class.  The first day of class we were told of our assignment.  To write a piece so that it would be critiqued by everyone, with compassion, of course.

I came to bed that night and told my husband.  “Great,” he said turning in bed, “now you are going to be stressed about writing.”  Oh shit.  Is he being a grumpy unsupportive asshole or does he just know me better.  My friends would say, “You can do it.  You are a great writer”

Writing is my go to.  Writing is my salvation.  Writing became the meaning and the means of my thirty-third year resurrection.  What have I done?  Why did I hang it out there to be stomped on while it is just a leafling.  Oh pity me.  How can anyone say anything is wrong with my piece now?  They will know how fragile my ego is.  But even that is a lie.  I am merely exploring one side of the faceted self.  If I were to look else where, I would see a Mother Mary like figure, or an Esther, or a Hester Prynne.  I am all those women characters that I’ve ever encountered.  I can relate to all.  Instead I choose to fixate on this one facet of fear.  Is this my manipulation of the world or is this the internal struggle revealed?  Is anyone served by my spewing except for me?

I was in Peru on a spiritual journey with my ex-boyfriend.  The journey was led by my therapist and his partner.  His partner Robert, has started the whole therapy, which was a spiritual practice using breath, movement and sound.  The only problem was that he channeled it down from Gabriel, the Arch Angel.  Some people turned away when they heard this.  Some took it in with full hearts.  I was somewhere in between.  I listened to the message but killed the messenger in my mind.  It was a big pill to swallow and I could not force it down.  I took in the therapy, I grew, I learned.  I became a strong character, one that I was becoming proud of.  One who is slowly manifesting her life’s destiny instead of being a victim to it all.  On this trip, I was confronted with the endless channeled Gabriel lectures.  How can something that helped me grow so much look so phony.

I raised my hand.  “I don’t believe that you are channeling Gabriel,” tears from the day’s agony of wanting to say it, but being afraid, still on my face, “I think you are Robert and Robert does not think that he is enough to have such a powerful message, so you are using Gabriel for attention.” I still can’t believe I said that.  The thirty people on my trip dropped their jaws.  Robert or Gabriel turned to me and said, ” You are free to believe what you choose, dear one.”

Since then, I did not care who he was.  I am free to believe whatever I choose.

After the channeling that night, people came to me with wide eyes.  It was like, I was some sort of hero of the Peru trip.  No one dared to say what I said, but most of them were thinking it.  I just did not want to pretend that I was open-minded.  To pretend that I am open-minded was worse than pretending that I am a Wall Street banker.

4:36 pm