Odd Were K-pop dream

 Gideon's Dreams Part, Whatever.

In this week's adventure, I was working for a zoo and a group of Komodo dragons escaped. Myself and a group of people dressed like the hunter guy from the first Jurassic Park movie take to the surrounding jungle to get them back. (Yes, the zoo was apparently in the middle of a jungle.)

We take a large river boat that resembles a theme park attraction and come to a meadow that leads to an abandoned city. Busted out, crumbling brick buildings with broken windows as far as the eye can see. And in the distance, running off, are our komodo dragons.

So we gear up with tranq guns and take off on foot to catch them. But they're faster than us and soon lose us. We keep trekking through the abandoned city in search of our quarry where we come upon a building where we realize they've congregated.

Only, they're talking.

When we peak into the building, we realize that the komodo dragons have met up with other komodo dragons. Only now, they've transformed into K Pop stars, and are talking angrily of their oppression at the hands of the zoo keepers. 

One of us bumps into something on the side of the building and they know we're there.

So the group of rebellious were-K Pop stars run around the building and chase after us. 

We run, firing back tranq darts at the angry K Pop stars. K Pop stars with poisonous teeth and claws that can run faster than a normal person.

I get cornered somewhere near the boat and tackled to the ground when I wake up in the still of the night, swearing never to eat whatever I did before bed again...

No one wants your art

 No one cares about your art. No one wants to hear what you have to say. Nobody is waiting for your next work to hit the public…

...Do you still want to do it anyway?

Good.

Because that’s what it was all about in the first place. Before the views, and the likes, and the awards and the money, before any outside influences made you question what you do, you did it because you were drawn to it. Because the medium spoke to you, and you spoke through it. Because it brought you joy and wonder and reminded you that magic was real. 

Because it brings you a sense of completion in an otherwise uncertain and chaotic world. 

And maybe someone, somewhere told you they liked what you did. That it touched them, moved them, helped them, made them feel something. And you smiled. Like you’re smiling right now, remembering it. And maybe nobody told you. No one said how you made them feel, or that they liked what you did. Either because they got busy, or distracted, or had to leave the event. Or maybe they just felt awkward or scared to approach you, because what you do meant a lot to them and they didn’t want to ruin the experience by being brushed aside when they approached you. (Not saying you were going to, but we tend to psyche ourselves out at times when approaching someone we admire.)

Maybe your work reminded them of a lost art of their own. Of something that brought them joy and completion. And maybe after seeing your work, they picked up that pen or that brush or those dance shoes for the first time in years, and flourished them with a renewed smile that cast away layers of insecure frowns.

Maybe it just touched one person. Maybe it just touched me. Maybe it just touched you.

But isn’t that what it’s all about in the first place? Isn’t that what makes it all worth it?

So what if ‘nobody’ cares? It was never about them in the first place. 

Keep making the world a brighter place as only you can. Because I care. And because you care. And because the world would be a little duller without your unique brand of wonderful in it.

Regret

 Matt Murdock: "I'd take that back if I could."

Sister Maggie: "If God allowed that, there'd be no future. Just people endlessly re-mending the past."

This bit of dialogue shook me. I, like most people, have chunks of my past I wish I might have done differently. I've mapped it out in my head at times, how I could change things, knowing what I know now.

This line of thinking can leave us feeling trapped however, that we are constantly looking back on what you didn't do right, or what evils were done to us. And we might have every reason to do so. There's no harm in mourning, it helps us move on.

But that second part is key. Moving on. Moving forward.

We take what we learn from our mistakes, from our past injuries, from the mistakes of those around us, and if we can find the focus and the wisdom, we will make different choices and be better tomorrow than we were yesterday.

But in that one line, Sister Maggie jarred these endless reflections and what ifs inside me with the idea of this endless loop of trying to fix things only to have other things go wrong that I did not foresee. Then going back to mend or change those. Then seeing other ways, new ways I could change what's already happened.

But I'd never be moving forward. Just like I am when I dwell in the past.

And like the traveler in Pilgrim's Progress, I felt this huge weight roll from on top of me. I suddenly felt free of all of those endless looks backwards, because that's not my life. That's not my future.

My destiny lies before me, using the lessons of the past to forge something greater to come. And it is that for all of you.

That burden of the mistakes and hurts of yesterday do not have to be this endless dwelling place where we become mired in the what ifs, the "If I'd only done this", and I say this being one of the worst offenders.

Hopefully this realization, and this thought that this loop of regret and change of the past, seeing it for the endless circle going no where that it is. Hopefully this takes some weight off your chest too.

How to get a Wrestler All the Way Over

Superstars like the Macho Man, Hulk Hogan, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Shawn Michaels, The Rock, and the Undertaker were all amazing showmen. They had larger than life personas that really drew us in. (Something that is also lacking currently, but that’s another story.) But it wasn’t just who they were, it’s who the beat.
When Hulk Hogan defeated Andre the Giant at Wrestlemania 3, that catapulted Hogan from star to legend. Shawn Michaels famous ladder match with Razor Ramon, coupled with his amazing feuds with Kevin Nash and Brett Hart. Stone Cold becoming the fan favorite during his feud with Brett Hart, where he was supposed to be the heel, and the company getting out of the way and letting it happen gave way to Stone Cold mania. That and the fact that in his heyday Steve Austin would fight literally EVERYBODY. And the Undertaker became the legend, the phenom because of his incredible prowess, his massive physique, his commanding presence and the TRAIL OF BODIES HE LEFT IN HIS WAKE.
Casket matches. Inferno matches. Hell in the Cell matches. But it wasn’t just because he was feuding with the fan favorite of the week. He was fighting other legends. Shawn Michaels, Hulk Hogan, Kane, Brett Hart, Kevin Nash, Ric Flair, the list goes on and on. But these victories had to mean something. Those legends got their status by the immense number of great matches they had, with opponents they defeated. And that brings us to the sad reality of creating legends and superstars in wrestling.
Someone has to lost. And to make a real superstar? Lots of people have to lose. Lots of matches need to be won to really create a star. Stars have to lose to other stars to create a superstar. And something momentous needs to happen to create a legend.
This means jobbers, midcarders, etc.
And with the current company model of “every WWE wrestler is a superstar” you’ve really just created an entire roster of midcarders.
Am I saying these wrestling aren’t great? No. Am I saying these wrestlers don’t deserve accolades? Not at all. But you can’t have a superstar when everyone is a superstar. That’s just not how it works.
Even by the mid-90s when their rival WCW was amassing an impressively large roster, WWF/WWE had trimmed down theirs to a very lean roster. (I remember several years when being Tag Team Champions means you beat the one or two other active tag teams still employed by the WWE.)
But even as Vince trimmed down the roster, you already had established superstars by then like Shawn Michaels, Brett Hart, Undertaker and others. Then Vince would use older stars (sometimes in awful ways) to boost his young and upcoming stars. (I think here of the incredibly terrible way Vince tore down the Legion of Doom to boost the New Age Outlaws.) And even then, you still had a lot of midcarders like Gangrel, Midion, Mabel, the members of the “gangs” of DOA, Los Boricuas, and everyone in the Nation of Domination that wasn’t Dwayne Johnson. So the superstars of that era would run around causing mayhem, beating up all the midcarders, so that when the superstars went toe to toe, it was a BIG DEAL. It meant something. Status was on the line, legacy. These are things a title match just can’t replace. A battle between John Cena and Dwayne Johnson was its own main event, no title involved.
Now, Vince still needs to hire an acting coach to really help his male wrestlers develop their personas. (I pick on the guys because the ladies are killing it right now. Charlotte Flair, Ronda Rousey, Becky Lynch, Asuka. They’re doing it right already.) So yes, the wrestlers need to come up with personas that speak to the crowd. But they also need to distinguish themselves from the crowd. The formula has already been laid out for us.
But it’s not a quick fix. Vince can’t just bring Shawn Michaels and Kane back in to lose a few quick matches to catapult a new ‘superstar’. This will need to be built up over the course of a year or more. There need to be a handful of wrestlers that have the charisma (I’m sorry Roman Reigns, I really like you, you’re just not “the guy.”), the presence, and the free reign to wreck the shop from week to week so they are standing on top of a pile of human rubble. So that the next superstar that does the same has something to lose when these two juggernauts collide. That’s how you create superstars. That’s how you create champions that have a legacy. That’s how a wrestler gets ‘all the way over’.

Reflections on Writing

 I sat there in the cold morning. A faint mist crept along my back yard. Its fingers tickling at the edge of my porch, but never venturing further as if there were some barrier between the mist and the treated wood. Treated wood, no longer simply the growth from the earth it once was. Maybe that made it unnatural now and thus forever apart from the elemental world from which it came.

 Yet as my fingers wrapped around the warmth of my coffee mug, I saw the longing there. The soft caress of a lover's fingers, mist gliding across wood like the lithe hand of a master pianist across the edges of my makeshift barrier between my home, my fortress and the wild earth beyond. Those tinkling digits toying with a lover it could never have. I took a sip and smiled at the overturning coal this image stoked in the back of my mind.

 “I know the feeling old friend,” I said to just me, the porch, the mist, and my cat. She stared at me in that curious, judgmental way that only felines, dear friends and significant others are truly capable of. Its that look that seems to be in awe of your simplicity and simultaneously wondering when you're going to learn from your errant ways.

 “Alright, alright, I'll get back to work,” I tease. But I know she cares not for what I do. Her interest in the squirrel currently offending her territory is of far greater interest to her than the simple clicking that comes from my office each day. I'm sure she finds what I do incredibly boring. That much time spent in one place is entirely wasted if it does not involve napping. I'm not entirely certain that she's wrong.

 So I leave my little sphinx to stalk the backyard and remind the local vermin whose domain this truly is while I retreat to mine. The domain of the office worker, the entrepreneur (when they aren't busy making online videos to mentor the masses on glories they have yet to achieve), and the writer. The writer, of course, being the lowest of the three. What we do is a hobby, unless we're one of those magical creatures like Neil Gaiman, Stephen King or J.K. Rowling who managed to weave straw into gold early on in their careers. The rest of us are odd creatures with a habit of skulking in a room alone for hours at a time, accomplishing nothing and studying a variety of topics online that likely has us on an F.B.I. watch list.

 I switch out my coffee mug for a fizzy energy soda. It was one of those nights. I listen to the tiny couples clink against inside of the can, creating some cadence that I might be able to discern were I more musically inclined. The atonal melody continues while I carve a hex into the wood of the desk and sacrifice a live chicken to conjure the spirits of creative writing. True creative writing, not the mind numbing “writing prompts” of college essays.

 Write about a time when you were really happy. 

 Or:

 A small boy's toy boat is washed down the river. 

 Or:

 She tried to forget me, but I knew she never would.

 I shudder and toss the third one back to the discard pile with the lyrics of washed up Emo singers and rapists to the trash bin where they both belong. The second one is only interesting if there's a man eating clown at the end of the stream, and I think somebody's already done that. And the first one, really? Happy? Could we be any more generic?

 I toss the book into the same waste paper basket as the Emo careers of countless douche bags from the early 2000's and lament that the chicken blood has gone cold and the muses aren't coming. I've got feathers all over my office for nothing and my wife is going to be less than thrilled when she finds this. One of those judging looks described earlier is the best I could hope for. That and I think the chicken's wings still have to be flapping while the incantation is made to summon the divine power of story conjuring. This chicken isn't flapping anywhere, unless I were to charge a few hundred volts through it. Or is it a few thousand? I'm not sure where the cut off point is between dancing undead chicken and poultry-geist flambee.

 I stare briefly at the wall socket, the image of the pop-n-lock undead chicken dance amusing me far more than it should, and I cast all the mystical implements aside, take a sip from the beat boxing soda can and resume my story. I lament that it doesn't involve undead chickens or the love child of morning fog and a sentient back porch that has suffered decades of suburban caucasity and now warns the world of the impending croc and polo shirt wearing Armageddon foretold by the grizzled, ancient charcoal grill. But perhaps the next one might.

Success and Skill: An Irregular Ratio

 Success and skill.

An irregular Ratio.

This is a topic that has weighed on my soul time and again. And one that I believe is off overlooked or marginalized in our "hustle= success" culture.

It may hurt some feelings as well.

But I'm just going to go ahead and say it.

Skill does not equal success.

For every A List actor that is lauded in magazines and websites, there is an actor even better doing community theatre or little independent films you've never even heard of.

For every best selling author, there are writers whose sonatas to the soul will make your heart reverberate in ways you never knew possible.

For every Grammy award winner and multi platinum album, there's a musician at your local college or bar whose performances will have you dancing in your seat or bring tears to your eyes.

So what is the take away?

Well, first. Always take time to explore the little side alleys of the arts and entertainment community for little gems that could change your life. And please be patrons to these amazing people.

But more importantly, if you are one of these artists. If you're work brings you clarity, or solace, or joy, keep creating.

Your bank account is not a measure of your worth.

Your number of followers does not dictate your ability to move the human spirit.

Sometimes.... It's just luck.

And does that mean that the rest of us not making millions off our work should hang it up and give in?

Resoundingly no.

There's an old saying that the forests would be silent if only the very best birds sang.

That's not even what I'm saying here.

What I'm saying is, your perspective, your performance, your work will touch the world in ways you'll never know.

And I'm not saying this out of pure theory.

I've seen it. Heard it. Read it.

For instance, at the Cleveland Playhouse in the early 2000s, I saw a play called The May. (At least I believe that was it's name now. It's been ages.)

I remember the cast being uneven and the person playing the husband doing all sorts of "acting stuff" that I found nearly unbearable.

But what I took away from the show was the woman who played the daughter.

Her performance was simple and honest and captivating. And it was one of those performances that made me think "I want to make an audience feel like that."

I worked with a colleague long ago named Bill Davis. (Sorry man. I'm calling you out. 🤣)

His performances in college made me downright envious. I remember watching him from the wings of shows we did together and thinking "I want to be like him when I get better at this."

I'm by no means famous. I'm grateful for every moment I've had on stage and screen. But those two actors, one who's name I don't even know, and both who you'll likely never see, pushed me to want to be more. And hopefully helped me to better entertain others in my own career.

I've read short stories online that have leave me haunted or spell bound. 

I've heard musicians in college who's work brought tears to my eyes. (In a good way. 😁😂)

So what I'm saying is, don't quit. Don't stop. Your work adds to the beautiful tapestry of the human experience. And this world would be less without your work in it.

Life Will Beat You to Your Knees

 Nothing hits harder than life. Life will beat you to your knees and keep you there if you let it.

A line from one of my favorite movies but no less true.

So many of us push through life in a crucible of our own failings, missed chances, and narrow losses.

But if you've ever watched certain stories unfold there's a place where the hero is defeated many times before and suddenly they find the strength to overcome an obstacle that destroyed them in the past. And they Wonder at this new-found strength.

Because what they didn't realize is that they were facing much greater challenges then the obstacle they were looking at all along. The other thing they don't realize is that for all the immense strength they showed in defeating that opponent or overcoming that mountain they are actually far stronger than any of that.

Because the scars and the hurt and the pain and the discouragement and everything else that told them to stop and turn around and give up pushed against them like a hurricane of white-hot blistering sand. 

And in those periods of the unimaginable cruelty of life they would have traded anything in the world to get away from that pain. But digging down to not just survive but to overcome they became something more than they ever thought possible.

And so too will you. The defeats of the past are not your legacy. The moments that your knees buckled because it hurt too much to stand doesn't mean that you can't run again.

Because you've been training your whole life to unlock the hidden Force within you and you never even knew it. So go forth my friend I know but the greatness of the Gods and of your every dream and desire dwells within you.

 And all you have to do is unleash it and believe.

#rocky #Rockybalboa #inspiration #gideonhodge #life #lifeishard #hustle #chasethedream #dontgiveup