My fingers are brushes, my toes are fonts, my tongue delivers content, and my ears hear what is sizzling. The brain in between the ears, behind the eyes, that coordinates my words and images, is very busy. We are all recording instruments. Our memories may not always be accurate but they have great capacity to cram details both essential and unnecessary into our minds for use later. We each are artists creating our life. Few are given the time to compose, to meditate and conceive that which direction they most want to go. Other’s directives become too loud and the unique individualized voice within is silenced as it steps into line, regimented, attempting to perform adequately to accomplish that which we’ve been told is necessary for success, to earn love, to become something worthwhile.

I don’t know how much longer I will live, so I must say my piece now, then detach and trust knowing, that I had a vision, my own direction inspired by another, but completely carried out by me. I had lots of help. Many heard my focus and asked if they could assist, contribute, connect. It’s been a journey into the night. There have been moments of so much darkness I couldn’t see the light, much less trust morning would come again. Yet, in retrospect, morning always arrived. I soon realized that every distinct moment in that sphere of my life, however uncomfortable, taught me much I wasn’t hearing from any text book, any college class, any boss or recruiter or religious teacher. No matter how different my experience from that I heard about in the movies or on the small tube, no matter how uncomfortable I was, I knew I was learning, growing, evolving, and that something important was happening in me.

While warming water just now on the stove, I saw the tiny brass heart frame with fragments from my very first business card. Lisa Guest. Writer. Woman. Muse. I forgot that in those early years I considered myself a muse. I expected such expertise from myself, such immediate success, but the truth was I’d stepped off the escalator and was floating between floors. There wasn’t much definition according to external discernment. There wasn’t a ruler to measure how far I’d come or how much more I had to go. In fact, I wasn’t even sure in which direction I was walking. I just knew every day I had to put one foot in front of the other or I’d never get out of bed. Sometimes I didn’t want to get out of bed. Some years I felt I could live my entire life in the bed. If the personal, the intimate was so unbelievably engrossing, and the external professional power suit was so binding and degrading of self and soul, it seemed no question worth asking why choose the latter over the former.

But then the question of survival enters the picture, as it always does. How does one feed the stomach when one focused on lower organs to the exclusion of other more thought provoking energy centers? There was such disregard for sex and sexuality, sex workers, sex addiction, the need to merge and fuse was only a few notches up but for most, anything naked was sexual or artistic, not necessarily both or high minded but almost always common, something every bum had the ability to do and be. It wasn’t respected in higher communities, and yet those higher-minded ones paid exorbitant prices to go to the theater to watch passion found solely in one’s intimate moments, turned into music, dance, song and award winning bliss.