© 2010 lefron

Planning for A Paradox

I’m coming to another fork in the road; yet another roadblock in my life has been demolished, and I have the opportunity to pave my own path. Days countdown to the pinnacle moment of release (which by the way is both torturous and tantalizing); the steady climb to the summit is now grueling and tiresome. I feel like dropping my backpack, kicking my feet, pausing for air and maybe sitting down and eating my sandwich (turkey, honey mustard, lettuce, provolone, & avocado on Dave’s Killer Bread). But I’m dragging my feet, lifting them with an effort that is both forced and desired, pushing gravel and dust behind me as the decent gets steeper. I can see where the trees are clearing; I can sense the air getting thinner. I can almost eat my sandwich.

Everyone keeps asking me, “What’s your plan?” Well fuck I dunno. Get another job as a waitress so I have some source of income while I fish for acting jobs from a pool I don’t even have access or directions to? (Seriously finding a legit acting job is like sneaking into a VIP party. (Which, I have stealthfully done)).  I guess I’ll talk to my old acting teacher and get his advice? Search on craigslist for random gigs? Rely on improv to expose me as a star and get scouted by Meryl Streep’s manager and never again have to go on an audition? Honestly, I don’t have a plan.

To plan or not to plan. That has ALWAYS been ze qvestion. While I adore (slash find completely erotic) making plans that involve anal-compulsive list making down to the time and location of both preparation and execution of my plans, I also find bliss in jumping with my eyes closed. I suppose the balance is healthy-yes-and that finding freedom in structure is a method of sanity (but then again, I’m not that sane), but I still struggle with a plan in the scheme of things; what’s my life plan, my Big Daddy 5 Year Plan, my future plan…but really why on earth would I want to pre-plan my future? I can’t assume I’ll be the same person 10 years from now that I am now—hell I’m a butt-ton different now than I was 10 minutes ago. (This is why I don’t do anything more than spell-check my posts, because literally minutes after I write them I’m like wait a second I don’t really think that, I’ve changed my mind!) Although the cool thing is when I go back and read them, there are definite constants in my thought pattern, which is somewhat of a relief because it means deep down I really do have a personality. Regardless our invariable traits, we (excluding babies) are absolutely FOOLISH to believe we can know who we’ll be down the road.

Why do we put so much pressure on planning the future, when we don’t even plan the present?

I claim to/yearn to live in the moment; take risks/do stupid shit/meet new people/not worry about the consequences (I RARELY think about consequences). I’m okay with consequences—without consequences I’d have no actions; I’d be living a cookie cutter life (and my cookies would be stupid stars and gingerbread men (which while adorable at Christmas are not as fun as cutting your own shapes and making phallic-shaped cookies)). I want to make cookies that are different every Christmas. Not only that, I want to make my cookies for different people. I want to make them with different batter. I want to make them in different states and countries and planets. And I can’t plan but HAVE to plan that shit.   I have to be able to afford the dough, I have to own an oven (and for that matter a kitchen to put it in), I have to get the hookup with NASA to make them on Mars—no, Pluto. Pluto is still a Planet (if they had a format for fonts that made the letters look like they were sizzling that’s how I would have formatted that sentence.) In essence, or a sense, (same meaning, pronounced differently, fuck you English language) I have to have a plan in order to live spontaneously.

But my plans for the future can’t be planned—I plan on being an actress, I plan on travelling the world, and I plan on finding people I can love unconditionally. You Cannot Plan That Shit. You can create business plans and education plans and gold-digging plans on a fucking chart but you can’t plan the unknown. I don’t know how I’ll get there or how long it will take me; I trust that if I’m meant to do it then whatever planless plan I make will lead me somewhere fruitful and fulfilling. For whatever reason, I don’t really give a fuck where I end up, because if my energy and passion is focused on where I will be, I’ll never be able to devote myself to where I am.

My father always said, “Be here now.” (It sounds SO cool to say “my father always said.” I feel like an Italian mobster.) So here I am. About to reach the summit of this climb, and my focus is not on the next mountain or even the descent. My eyes are open, and I’m soaking in the view. I’m in tune with my breathing, and I’m sending some serious hypnotic energy to my legs in order to keep moving. I will reach the peak; that’s inevitable. What’s not a guarantee is how I choose to experience the journey up, or rather whether I choose to experience it at all. I’m not planning on how to get there because no matter how perfect a course I lay out for myself, there will be distractions, there will be side routes I’ll want to take, there will be detours and rest stops and temptations, and I don’t want to deprive myself of those opportunities. When I reach the summit, when I am at the top of the world (or so I’ll feel) and I look out at the view and see how small I am and how miniscule my plans seem in comparison to the vast opportunity the world has to offer me, I’ll know that the only thing I planned for my hike was that I’d reach the top. And while I know eventually I’ll have to make my descent, I am going to sit down, expose my senses, and enjoy my fucking sandwich.

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