We're all going to die.

So be nice.

Grounded...

...like a 16-year-old girl who stole a pack of her mom's Larks and smoked them in her house while her parents were out, even after said parents had extracted a no-more-smoking promise from her. And her best girlfriend, who'd stolen a pack of Kents from her dad, joined her. And, being stupid teenaged girls, they didn't think to empty the ashtray before the parents returned. Which might not have been much of a mistake -- the Lark-smoking mom could easily have left several brown-filtered butts behind -- but the butts of the white-filtered Kents told the tale.

And when the parents returned to their lovely New Jersey home to find the evidence, the dad was so mad he got back in his Jeep and drove to Connecticut, called his wife, the mom, and had his daughter grounded and her private phone disconnected. Plus a month's worth of dishwashing.

Which is not why I am grounded this weekend -- I've been home all week with a nasty cold that has devolved into a nastier brochitis -- but when X used the term to describe my condition tonight, it conjured fond memories of being a bad girl.

What do I get for being a good girl?

Last night,

I dreamed
it had taken off
without me.

I ran down the route
it had rolled,
felt the heat of exhaust,
raised a hand
against the fumes.

Dizzy, disappointed.
Angry at my arrogant
procrastination.
I wasted it
waiting for muses, for
the manifestation
of liquid thoughts.

I awakened to the
roar of buses and
rattle of jackhammers
and knew I still
had time.

I still have time.

"We lie the loudest when we lie to ourselves." -Eric Hoffer

The torch is so heavy.
Hard to hold high without help,
with a single arm that needs to join its partner in other work.

A strong love weakens without reciprocation,
in spite of will,
despite depth and breadth.
Respite is called for when the struggle is futile.

Lay it down so you can rest.
Lay it down so you can receive with both hands.
Lay it down so you can see your own light.
Lay it down so you can lift your heart.
Lay it down so you can hold your own.
Lay it down so you can
lay it down.

Xtract frm ths wht u wll.

Last year this time (give or take half an hour), I celebrated personal birthday traditions in a ZanTales blog post...those traditions that live in the past (Beatles' "Birthday" morning dances), and those I still enjoyed, counted on, looked forward to (The Midnight Call from X, The "Thanks for Having Me" Talk with Mom, The "Girls' Night Out" Dinner with Shanna).

The Midnight Call didn't come this year. Things got in the way, I guess. Other Things. Unrelated Things. More Important Things. Things that Change Things.

Ah, whatever; I'll have another birthday next year this time...at least, that's the plan. And if there's still an X, and a midnight, perhaps there'll be a call. Unless there are Other Unrelated More Important Changed Things.

Friday, there came a FedEx gift from Linda. Sunday, Kate and I celebrated over tea and nibbles. Tuesday, a Buddha's Belly lunch with friend Don and a pre-birthday call from friend Patrick. Later today, there'll be lunchtime paws and claws with Hej. And the dinner with Shanna. And my Lamberts have something in mind for Saturday.

Why should I care about dashed X-pectations when there's all this birthday love around me?

Perhaps because X marks a whole other spot.

The drunk and disorderly piss me off.

I need to sleep, and they won't shut up.

As viewed from my loft, this is Los Angeles' own Skid Row, where the ranting and screaming of the inebriated and crackheaded bounces off the brick and concrete and glass and echoes up into my little corner of Fabulous Downtown LA.

"The degree to which we're sidetracked or confused is the degree to which we suffer." -Everyday Zen

I am suffering today. Out of confusion and being sidetracked. Wham-bam.

A dear friend has been unexpectedly (and, I think, undeservedly) dismissive of my customary (and, I thought, valued) service, and no explanation is forthcoming. Only silence in the wake of the question.

And this confusion-based suffering has sidetracked me from my work, by triggering that well-oiled mechanism of mine that spews dozens of assorted complex answers to a question only one person (and that ain't me) can accurately (and, I hope, simply) address, so the suffering effect is doubled.

Does having said it out loud mitigate the feelings of confusion and resultant sadness? Ever so slightly. A nice yoga class with a lot of breathing will help me let go. These are the actions I can take to soothe my soul. The only things in my control.

But truth from the source is the most effective salve.

Enjoy.

Last night, I attended a stimulating salon of writers, producers, directors, musicians and other creative beings for which "A Call to Character: Living an Ethical Life" was the topic. During the lively discourse, my decidedly imperfect life flashed before my eyes, and I thought, "Omigod, I don't belong here."

But, as the collective conversation continued, I relaxed as each of our human imperfections revealed themselves in (some, not so) subtle ways. The list of shining traits that define character cannot be accessed by everyone in every moment of every day. We all struggle to find and manifest core values: respect, honesty, compassion, responsibility, fairness, cooperation, perseversence, tolerance, etc...as much with ourselves (more of a challenge?) as with others. In fact, the way we treat ourselves subconsciously instructs others in their treatment of us -- much more succinctly than the way we treat others. Self-respect -- or lack thereof -- sets a vibrant, indelible example. But if we make an effort to be conscious -- to stay awake for our thoughts and feelings, especially before we act on them -- the rewards will gratify in immeasurable ways.

Any sincere effort to improve our character is bound to bring a welcome, if not permanent, peace into our hearts.

And maybe a little joy.