Less Planning, More Action, One Shoe Donation, And Seen On the Griffith Park Trail.

I'm a hustler, baby. I just want you to know...

So the world has bred its hustlers. The world grows up and gets itself going in a hurry. Faster than a New York minute. I wonder if there's a West Coast equivalent. Slower than a... San Diego minute? Hmmm. Not quite the same.

I was born a planner - I plan for the future, I make To Do Lists, I like to write things down and keep track; stay organized. These days I try not to overplan my weekends, I have a loose idea of the things I need to do, the things I want to do, and the things I could do for the first time. All usually include the decision to take the time to relax. I fight back against my urge to make a To Do List and let the day flow instead.

Thus far the past few weekends have been filled with activity, all of which I did not pencil in on a rigorously filled itinerary.

I know. I surprise myself sometimes, too.

I'm lying in bed. My arms are sore. My quads, calves, and abs are all sore. To the point where laughter hurts. Over the weekend I had a boot camp-style workout with my friend and faced quite the challenge. I definitely underestimated the subsequent inflammation of muscles that soon followed.

Sometimes you cannot just rush the creative process. Would any of Picasso's masterpieces been just as excellent if he had painted under duress or with unabashed haste?

One Shoe Donation.
I realized tonight, as I pulled my car into the garage and grabbed my belongings from the trunk, that I had donated a bag of clothes this morning which included one shoe. One shoe.

I immediately flashback to an episode of Seinfeld (that show is applicable to a plethora of life experiences, btw) where Elaine has a stellar business idea of selling muffin tops. She partners up with a colleague and advises that you have to bake the whole muffin, and then cut off the stumps, the stumps end up in large plastic bags which then go on to be donated to the needy. The staff at the homeless shelter she goes to is indignant, insulted. (Who does she think they are, animals?)

I wonder what sentiment washed over the staff of the thrift store when I donated my bag of belongings today. I am curious if I donate the other shoe, if it will be reunited with its counterpart.

Seen On The Griffith Park Trail.
I have continued my weekend runs at Griffith Park. Take that, you doubting naysayers!

Last week, there was a group of four people and five dogs walking along the trail. All different kinds of dogs - chihuahua, bulldog, lab, St. Bernard. No one was talking, and none of the dogs were barking - they were all just happily walking along the trail on a particularly sunny day - tails were wagging and contentment was emanating.
I smiled to myself and wondered if the four dog owners got together weekly and made it a regular appointment - dog play dates where they walk their dogs together. Adorable.

Today, there was a couple - maybe in their late 30s - walking from their cars from the parking lot. They stopped by picnic tables and some trees, as I continued jogging along a trail nearby. I am pounding the dirt path and when I look up, the couple is kissing under the tree. The man is holding the woman, as if to hold her a little longer, and suddenly I feel like an intruder, imposing on this intimate moment. No one else is around - I am, seemingly, the only one jogging along this section at this particular point in time. Yup - just a regular ol' couple, makin' out - but then, giving it some thought, it was rather endearing. It's this stolen moment, when no one else was around, when they thought no one was looking (well- except me, of course).

Ah, romance.

Sleep, Dark Chocolate, & Music.

Sleep.
I lovelovelove my bed. Yep. I tripled up on that.

Beds=comfort.
Beds=rest.
Beds, thus, entail a form of escape - the R&Rs, peace, security of getting enveloped in something physically while getting enveloped mentally. Taking a trip to the almighty Dream Land.

Maybe I should change the colors at the desk in my apartment. Something that'll help me stay awake, think freely, keep my eyes open to as many things as possible. I wonder what the ideal writing space is for most writers. I wonder where Tina Fey sits, if she faces a window overlooking some gorgeous view of Manhattan while she whips up her creative genius.

It's 9:30 p.m. and I'm ready to hit the hay.

There's a box of See's candies' dark chocolates sitting on the counter of my kitchen. I finally redeemed a gift card I received last Christmas. I also have a bowl of dark chocolates, a bar of chocolate, and some fruit. The bowl started out as a fruit bowl. But events have transpired such that the contents are no longer what they once were. Because now, sometimes, many times, anytime, dark chocolate=love.

I'm sitting in my apartment, grinding out a few story ideas - actually getting some writing done this evening, albeit the time devoted may be little, and the energy level with which it is done may be low, after a long day of work and people and pounding on a treadmill and running errands and cleaning up after dinner.

I close my eyes. I play a bit of Bach. A solo cello suite No. 1 in G Major. It is a sweet sound.

In conclusion, sleep=love. Dark chocolate=love. And music=love.

Maybe I should focus on surrounding myself with these elements that I love, eh?

Rough Days, Lobster, and Being Uncomfortably Comfortable.

Today was, in fact, a rough day.
Rough around the edges. A day when the universe isn't so sweet to you, gives you the cold shoulder, or maybe even the kiss of death. All come at you like a slap in the face - unforeseen, abrupt, a sharp pain.

A low cloud hangs overhead. I try to stay positive and focus on the upcoming summer months, then wince at the weather forecast. It's been a rather chilly spring in Los Angeles, everyone keeps saying to each other. Ahh, but the universe challenges your disposition, tests your patience, and claws at your resilience.

Give me a moment - I am still recovering.

Lobster.
I am thinking about things I shouldn't be thinking about - namely, a big mama red Maine lobster with a side of buttah. I think it must be at least 2 or 3 years since I've had lobster. It is indulgent, perhaps gluttonous, reserved for special occasions when you have something to celebrate. In other words, it would not be eaten during times of famine.

So maybe it's not the lobster that I want - it's what the lobster represents.

No - I still want the lobster. (Photo: http://www.yelp.com/biz_photos/h8u6jVCQhDeGUwkBpC7kqw?select=S1e43fiC6jq4UnXhvUxB7A)

Uncomfortably Comfortable.
Back it up! Backing out of my comfort zone. Again. I realized the other day that I don't like getting too comfortable - in most situations. In a relationship, in a professional setting, in a friendship, in a city. I like to be challenged and I like taking risks. The only place I like to be comfortable is my own bed. And maybe a friend's couch. No - I take that back - friend's couches mean that I have to leave my cushy position and eventually go home. So - back to my bed. I don't like getting comfortable anywhere else.

No wonder I can sleep like a bear.

LOTW[lines-of-the-week]
This posting's LOTW come from Modern Family - they may be dated, but I am catching up on my TV these days.

Manny, about Tango class: "If you don't sweat, you're not doing it right."

Security officer at the airport: Ma'am, you seem to know a lot about sneaking contraband onto a plane.
Gloria: Yeah. I'm Colombian.

Dear Paulo Coelho...Write Back! HAGS?

So I wrote a letter to Paulo Coelho.

In it, I detailed my account of the past several months, the soul-searching, the God-fearing, the toil and the emotional rollercoasters and plateaus of questioning your purpose and wondering how all the things in life have led you here.

He did not write me back. Not that I expected much. (But I had to at least give it a shot!) Here is the response I received:

Dear Melissa,
Thank you for your kind message. Concerning your inquiry, we thank you for your interest in Mr. Paulo Coelho and would like to inform you that due to scheduled appointments the writer is not able to answer personally.
If you wish, you may visit the author's internet page (http://www.paulocoelho.com.br/engl/index.html) where readers exchange their thoughts on Mr. Paulo Coelho's books, and this might help you find the answers you are looking for.
Sincerely,
Bettina Dungs
www.paulocoelho.com.br

First question that comes to mind: Who is Bettina Dungs? Does she know Paulo Coelho? Has she met him? Has she even read his books? What kind of name is Bettina? Or Dungs? Is that Brazilian? Sigh.

All things aside, I wonder if the writer gets inquiries from completely strangers so much that he casts them aside because he is, in fact, only a writer. He does not know me, does not know my family, my history, my personality. So no, Mr. Paulo Coelho, I don't need your input or your highly esteemed opinion on these matters of my life-altering decisions. I suppose I was looking to find and take them into consideration mainly for your thoughts regarding following a passion to work creatively.

But it's alright if you don't answer, because at least God knows me. I guess I just wanted some feedback, from one writer to another. Also, has anyone ever told you that you look a little like Pablo Picasso?  Must be the baldheadedness of creative minds.