What Goes Up Must Feel Down

Sometimes I wonder if any of this is even possible--if the mountain I've placed before myself will always be a mountain, or if I'll ever feel like I've climbed something of any great import. I think of the long and sinewy road that snakes its way through my past and all the discarded projects that I've left scattered by the roadside along the way. I think of all the things I did and didn't mean to say, all the botched auditions, half finished jokes, music video concepts, festivals which came and went with unrealized potential meetings, reviewers, producers, agents in the audience. I think of all the unused ukulele lessons, which now live right next to my unused Groupons, and I wonder--is any of this, any of this, even possible?

The opportunity cost of being alive is overwhelming. I have a knee that pops every morning alongside the arches of my feet from performing nightly in drag queen heels. I read stories of performers, comedians in particular, who recount years they spent doing nothing but comedy, losing friends and lovers along the way. I think of friends that I have lost, and wonder why I haven't lost more, like a lackluster anorexic who wants desperately to be skinny but somehow can't shake the need to eat. I come so close to destroying myself in my art, measuring out my days in coffee spoons of joke writing in between auditions in the city, running lines on the train for any commute farther than four stops, saving money by buying iced tea at Dunkin Donuts, where any size is $.99. Seriously, any size. Like a giant fucking iced tea is $.99. And they have flavors. Unsweetened! Booking shows, seeing shows and strategic socialization at night, I can go weeks with ne'er ye an unplanned moment to relax, but it never feels like enough. I should be more focused, I should be more tallented, I shouldn't drink as much as I do, I should be more disciplined, I should have gone to conservatory, I should have submitted a book proposal to that writing agent who approached me after a show nearly six months ago instead of burrying it at the bottom of a to do list bloated with such tasks as "organize apartment,"  "fix costumes," and "buy a thank you presant for Shelly." (Seriously, girl. I've been looking for months, but I can't seem to find the perfect little something that casually shows you how much I care.)

I went to my intuitive energy reader this week. I try to go to her about once a year, but I carry a fear in me that seeing her so infrequently isn't enough--that I can't open my spirit guides enough, follow her directions enough, shop at Stick Stone and Bone enough, so I avoid it as much as I can. She told me to work more with mantras, which sounded like a great idea to me.

I got out the ol notebook on the train ride home today when my brain was satiated with lyrics and lines I am supposed to already have committed to memory, and I wrote:

My voice is enough. With love and ease, I will succeed. My voice is enough. With love and ease, I will succeed. My voice is enough. With love and ease, I will succeed. My voice is enough. With love and ease, I will succeed. My voice is enough. With love and ease, I will succeed.

A blog, even a short blog, after a period of not blogging, is enough. You, the reader, just you reading this... is enough.

P.S. Do you think that was enough times for the mantra? Maybe I should have written it more times.