"Stop being good at everything!"

Being a jack-of-all-trades has its perks. I pick up anything I put my hand to rather quickly. Steep learning curves are much less stressful to me than most people. I test well, I have a great memory, and I've got a vast amount of experience in an array of subjects people are often surprised by. I've tried many things... sometimes twice. I feel my knowledge of the world is pretty vast, even if I tend to feel like I know less and less as I learn more and more. That's wisdom for ya.

The down side, in my experience, is that polymaths have a sense of restlessness that follows us where ever we go. We are all about progress, possibility, growth, creativity and finding inspiration in mastering new skills and pursuing new endeavors. For that reason, although we can adapt to almost any situation, we tend to get bored once we've hit a certain level of mastery with a subject, and move on to something new. There's a certain lack of longevity with things that I've experienced, as I tend to want to learn about everything as soon as it piques my interest. I get easily distracted by different things as my mood strikes me. In some ways one could say I am incredibly flexible, with a willingness to change to the next thing if the air seems right. However, seen another way one could also say I'm simply non-committal.

For example - I don't have a degree. This is in part because when I was younger college wasn't presented as being a real possibility for me. Once I realized I could have made that choice (OMG is that what adulthood is all about?), I had a job that made going to school full time impossible. Going into debt on a subject I was actually interested in seemed silly, given that most people I knew who had a degree in film or theater or music or photography work in jobs that have nothing to do with their degree's subject matter, and those who do are usually teachers (not that there is anything wrong with teaching - kudos to teachers - you are wonderful human beings). I've had several bouts of thinking maybe I could teach, but I end up disillusioned by (again) the cost of the education I have to complete in order to take on a career whose salary will likely ensure I'm paying off student loans for the rest of my life. Meh.

On top of this is the thought that if I wanted to go back to school full time I would have to quit my job, and take a job at night making likely a lot less than I'm currently making. I did that once, and although I quite liked working in hospitality and service most of the time, I also found that I'm quite weak-willed when it comes to not staying up until dawn with friends having deep philosophical discussions (and booze of course), and then sleeping all day. Not so conducive to being in class in the morning.

It's a cyclical battle with me, as all things I care for seem to be. I find myself struggling to figure out a path that involves doing something I love that also does something for the world, but doesn't have the requirement of going to school for it. It's proven fruitless so far. I'd love to get more involved in working on films or in music production or event production, or any kind of production really (as long as it has to do with something creative). Thus far I've found the work to be intermittent and certainly not enough to keep paying all of the bills I have each month.

I'm a bit at a loss with how to get where I want to go. Given I don't have a degree it's ever more difficult to jump into anything new that pays the bills, because it seems to be a requirement at most places I would want to go. All of the creative endeavors I tend to get involved with are non-paying (or basically stipend based), and done out of love. But I really want to break through that barrier and start working with something I'm truly passionate about. I learn so quickly, and I work incredibly efficiently, and I really am good at pretty much everything I attempt. I feel most of the time like that fact is wasted on things I don't care about (or is cut short by things like work visas). Some have said that it's my perspective that needs adjusting, and I really should be able to find that love in anything I am doing, and maybe that's true... but the fact of the matter is: I haven't found it yet, even though I make a point of looking every single day.

It's useless being good at everything when you can't seem to figure out how to use it to your advantage financially. There's got to be a way to make what I love life-sustaining.

Pale September

Pixie Elijah?

It's always an unusual state of affairs when I find myself in a funk, but this funk is an old wound sort. You'd think after 18 years this funk would be an old familiar friend in some sort of re-assuring way that love endures despite all odds. The anniversary of Elijah drowning in the bay looms heavily on my horizon - a storm cloud of sadness that threatens to pour forth into my world with the same biblical proportions as ever before. Sometimes I try to think of something to say about the situation, and more often than not words fail me. I miss him... as terribly as I did the day I found out he was gone. It's a hole in my heart that can never be mended - a puzzle that can never be finished. He'll always be that little girlish 14-year old that made me giggle when I watched The Professional, because Natalie Portman looked so much like him.

This year marks 18 years since that day I collapsed on his father's living room floor in sobs of disbelief. It's an age he never reached, though I had. He would have turned 32 last month... and the difference in our ages would have long been unimportant if it had ever shifted from the kinship we shared into something more. I always entertained the idea of us being romantically involved at some point later in life. I loved him completely. I wanted to protect him and allow him to protect me. I wanted us to teach one another. He was more like a little bird I was caring for who I knew someday would probably break my heart. I had no idea it would turn out to be with his passing. He was impulsive - an instigator, a prankster, a true fae-spirit. He would at once be wise beyond his years and then the next moment obviously a young teen boy. He loved being mistaken for a girl, and he believed in whatever he wanted to believe with no thought to what the world had to say about it. I admired that about him. I wanted to retain that within my own heart as I felt the strengthening hand of a society telling me I had to fall in line. Sometimes I think I have done so because of his absence from my life. It still pains me that I never told him I loved him, even if I know he knew. He told me once, on the phone. It was the most adorably awkward moment I've experienced in life, that accidental 'I love you.' I wrote about it in my journal.

It's good to write... I feel like there should be a point to it all, but I suppose the point is release. The image here always reminded me of Elijah - it's a Brian Froud sketch, but somehow it's always been him for me. The little pixie he was, and maybe still is somewhere out there. There are experiences I've had since he's gone that are hard to explain but keep me connected to him. Some of you know the stories. Some of you were there. I know people tell you loss like this gets better with time, but I don't really agree with that 100%. Some loss never heals - the tidal wave of phantom pain always seems to return at some point on an unending cycle. I may have a year or two where it's not as sharp... but this year it's intense. This year for some reason I find myself welling up with tears when I think of him. This year I cry to my sweet partner, who happens to be the same age Elijah would have been and similar to him in more ways than I am usually willing to admit, and he is graciously comforting and tender. I seem to find shreds of Elijah within everyone I love.... and this is no exception.

I'll be glad when this week has passed. I know that the flood will come again, as it always does. It's a pain that I'm used to, yet it always fittingly comes with the feeling that I'm drowning. I know people generally see me as the happy, optimistic, silly person I am... but sometimes I get a comment about a sadness in me. If you find yourself wondering, now you know - this is a big source of that sorrow.

I miss you, my sweet prince. <3

Trust Your Struggle

Driving to work this morning, I found myself pondering the current state of affairs in my world. I tend to think of myself as the embodiment of hopeful progress most of the time, but also get a bit beaten down by the system here and there. My world is filled with people who I love and want to support in being their most awesome selves, because I know we all can be with some genuine support and effort. It got me to thinking - What exactly is my struggle? Where do I find that I falter? Where do I get push-back? Where do I feel I fail most frequently? What's going on in my world right now that illustrates these things?

It always comes down to patience and listening for me. It's the place I am the hardest on myself, and it's the place that I feel I am the worst at. My OKC profile even says something about this topic that, if you've ever seen me in a truly "there's nothing you can do" situation, you will know is accurate. It says:

"When patience is the only option, I have it in spades, but hold no virtues when it's not."

I am the calm in the eye of the storm when there is nothing to be done, but if there is a possibility of averting things - of growth, change, transformation... AH! Mow the lawn! I'm not having it with waiting. I get restless - I want it NOW, dammit. Why wait? Time is of the essence! There are times when this actually works out in favor of the potential I see, but many times... like with my current circumstances, I find it alienates me from the progress I can almost taste. When I really think about it, it seems to have a tendency of making people who aren't on the Stefi-Progress-Train feel inadequate and inferior - especially if they don't have faith in the future I swear is just around the corner.

That is where my deficiency in listening shows it's face. It's like flint and a spark - once the patience drops, add a spark of not listening, and suddenly there is a blazing fire of failure because I'm not actually hearing what is going on. I'm so caught up in what I want to happen that I stop paying attention to the needs of those around me who don't have the manic fearlessness that I seem to possess. It's maddening, because it creates a downward spiral of everything we all at the heart want totally falling apart. I get frustrated, and then I listen even less, because frustration is the result of this double-edged sword of impatience and lack of listening, and then it's tears and tantrums and feeling worthless and hiding from the world.

It's funny because you'd think that making this distinction would make it easier to avoid it. Not so much. It gets harder, the more heightened it becomes, to stop the trainwreck that is nearly certain. But I'm working on it. I have a tendency of scaring new people. They don't know yet that things with me come in waves. The sea is my thing, and it always has been. I'm cyclical like the tide.

So if you're one of those people who's been impacted by my struggle, just know that it will pass, because eventually I get back to trusting myself. My intentions are always good, because it's just who I am... a little chaotic good maybe? At times I'm simply distracted or looking too closely or maybe even too much at the big picture and not enough at the details. I'll get there, and I am doing my best to listen to what you need for that to happen, I just fuck it up sometimes. Bear with me. I trust my struggle, though I really want to take it out back and put some Office Space-style smackdown on it.

Who Is It You're Listening To?

It's been coming up a lot in my world lately. Conversations about that little voice. You know the one - it's the one that tells you that you are incompetent, doomed to failure, a terrible person, worthless. We all have it. We all listen to it sometimes, and allow it to shade our perspectives. We become defeated and resigned to what that voice says about us. We take it is truth, because we've had it with us our whole lives. We think that voice is who we really are. But the question I always come back to is....

If that little voice is me, who the hell is the person listening to it?

There's an old concept of the angel and devil on our shoulders. "Conscience." It shows up in cartoons, shows, movies, comics. We give in to the temptation offered up by the little devil, and the self-righteous angel tut-tuts us for falling prey to their scheming. Even in this concept, those voices aren't us. Who are they? Where do they come from? How do we choose which one to listen to without feeling like we are failures when we choose what we know is the poorer of the two choices? Hell, sometimes the 'bad' choice is a whole lot of fun. I choose that one a lot, knowing full well that the outcome may be less than stellar. It's always worth it if I learn something, I tell myself. I almost always do.

When I was 17 I hated nearly everything about myself - or at least what I understood, since I felt like a complete moron most of the time. I was naive and gullible. I wasn't quick-witted (I'm still not), and I felt like a gangly, nerdy, stupid, ugly creature in a big cruel world full of opportunistic people, liars, cheats, and all-encompassing fuckery. I knew for a 'fact' nobody loved me. How could they? I certainly didn't love myself, so what person in their right mind would feel anything like that for the hideous monster I was.

I had a new friend... well, I call him my first love. We hadn't known each other long at that point, but 22 years later we are still friends. He's a great guy (Hi, David). He had a habit of always telling me how amazing and beautiful I was. I told myself I hated it, because it was bullshit, but I was still drawn to him, because maybe he meant it. He seemed sincere, and I wanted it to be true. But given how gullible I was, there had to be a point where the other boot would fall. How the hell could he think I was beautiful or interesting or smart? I knew better. My little voice told me - I was dumb. I was worthless. I was so gullible. He'd just end up hurting me in the end, and then I'd be ashamed and embarrassed for trusting him. Given how much I hated myself I was drawn to that possibility as well. I just knew I was right, so why not take another opportunity to prove it?

One day amidst his cooing over how lovely I was I broke down in tears about how it didn't matter what he thought of me. I knew the truth. I heard it in my mind every day. His response will stick with me forever. He got very serious, stood up, took my hand, marched me into the bathroom, and stood behind me with his hands on my shoulders. I struggled, face down, tears falling. I couldn't even look at myself, let alone in front of another person, without making a face of distaste and disappointment. "Look in the mirror. Do you see that girl there? She is beautiful. She's also smart, funny, and simply amazing, and guess what - she's you. Don't ever talk down about yourself again. It's not who you are. You are incredible, Stefani. And if anyone ever says otherwise, fuck them. What the hell do they know?"

I never had anyone stand up for me like that. I certainly never stuck up for myself that way. The only time someone would tell me things like that was when they wanted something from me, but he didn't seem to want anything outside of spending time with me and making me laugh, as well as making me feel beautiful. For some reason I trusted him over the voices in my head. I'd always defined myself by people's opinions of me - by the voice's opinion of me... but hey, here was a person who asked nothing of me but to simply love myself and see myself as beautiful, because he did. This time when that voice yelled in my head, I chose to listen to my friend instead. The self-worth stuff didn't disappear immediately - it took time, but it was a spark of possibility that somehow stuck with me. I started to feel angry whenever that voice spoke up. What the hell did that voice know? Who the hell is that voice anyway? I started to rebel against that little voice. Every time it told me I couldn't, I would offer up a big 'fuck you' and master whatever it said I would fail at. Whenever fear hit me, I would beat it down and kick ass at whatever I was afraid of. After a time something magical began to happen... I stopped listening to it altogether. Sure, sometimes it would get the better of me, but the more I ignored the voice, the quieter it got overall.

So... if you're not the little voice in your head... who are you? The answer is: Whoever the hell you choose to be. And who you choose to be is not static - it's malleable, fluid and strong. The less power you give that voice, the more power you give your vision of who you want to be. Listen to the voices that tell you that you are fabulous, and if they aren't in your head, start listening to the ones who are outside of it that tell you how incredible you are. Ask yourself: What am I passionate about? What lights me up? What inspires me? What makes me laugh like nothing else? And then... Do that! Be choosy about how you spend your energy, and who/what you give focus to, and if it starts to feel toxic or bad, then find something else, because you know what - you have that power. You can do what you want, and nobody is the boss of you except you and the actions you take to define who you are and what really matters to you. You're amazing, and deep down, when that voice shuts the fuck up, you know it. And so does that little voice, which is why it's trying so hard to tear you down.

I don't think a lot of people had someone in their lives like I had... And I'm lucky to have had it at such a young age. I'm grateful to that every single day. It's who I want to be for the people I love... and you are many. You're amazing. Trust someone who knows... Way better than those little fuckwits on your shoulders.

Just Let Me Breathe

en·nui /änˈwē/ noun: a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.

I've always self-identified with what is commonly known as the goth community. Even the times when I was a manic candy raver, the goth community has always been home to me. I've been called a 'bubbly goth,' which is quite endearing. I imagine myself as Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls... in black with some crazy colored hair. I bet there's an image of that online. Now I miss my pigtails.

Ennui has been a word I've identified with for a long time. It's distinct from boredom for me. I can be comfortable in ennui, but boredom makes me restless. It's like zen-ennui (zennui?): acceptance of listlessness. It comes and goes on some infinite loop, but nearly always returns after a turn of feeling excited about something. Psychologists would probably say I'm on the manic-depressive spectrum somewhere with a lean toward mania more often than depression. There's a dance of possibility and probability that happens in my mind when I think about the future of humanity, and maybe that has something to do with it. Some people get angry, some entitled, some really depressed. I just get... listless and dissatisfied. It's not so much a negative feeling though - it's just a sense of... yeah, c'est la vie. Maybe we're going to annihilate ourselves... *shrug. Ok. There's a sense of melancholy sometimes, but normally that has to do with a feeling of personal failure in the task of changing the world for the better. I try not to think of myself in terms of success and failure in a world that is so hyper-focused on it. Changing the world is a pretty big goal for someone who doesn't tend to be goal-oriented beyond finishing tasks, connecting with people, continuous learning, and seeing the world. When you really think about it maybe it's unreasonable and unrealistic. According to some that's the point of having a big goal - creating it as reality even in the face of great seemingly-insurmountable obstacles.

Then I start thinking about the concept of being able to create your state of being afresh as you wish. I feel like a fraud when I try to do that, because I'm not really letting it go most of the time; I'm just pretending it's not there and eventually it goes away. Fake-it-til-you-make-it style. The funny thing is, there are a lot of really excellent things happening in my world right now, and somehow the ennui still sneaks in like a ninja and the excitement about potential is muted. And I think... "Am I the only one who feels like this sometimes... randomly? For no real reason other than the world is fucked up, and I'm not really sure if I want to save the human race anyway." And that... That right there... is the rub. I'm not really sure if I really want to. Every so often I think the apocalypse would be pretty exciting. Not such a bubbly thought that one. But I don't feel moralistic about it... it's just there. As a possibility. And I'm weirdly ok with it.

The tie-in of ennui & the goth community always comes back to music. Times like this I am moved to listen to my Dark Hearts playlist (or of late also Gabriel's Gothulhu playlist) and allow myself to feel whatever it is to feel about the state of things and the future that could be. How do you choose to want redemption for the human race when sometimes you don't?

"Disintegration" by The Cure starts playing in my single earbud while I compile data for the sales team at my work... I love this song. Persephone was a well-chosen myth for me to fall in love with when I was 6 years old. I enjoy my time in the Underworld just as much as I enjoy my time in the rainbow-filled Overground.

Could also be I'm sick, and missing fun things to do while still managing to do things that aren't necessarily fun out of necessity. That would certainly create a cataclysmic desire for the world. Just gonna breathe through this... or try to, stupid sinuses. *sniff

The Foolish Magician?

It's fascinating reading all the random articles written about Landmark found online - I am a sponge for all of it. For those who don't know yet, I am in the middle of the Introduction Leaders Program, and it’s been pretty remarkable in the effect it’s had on my approach to communication.

I love hearing opinions, thoughts, anecdotes, arguments for/against Landmark’s business/programs. Got a thought? Bring it. Everything from "It can change the world" to "It's a scam." It's all part of the experience of being involved in something that is striving to be successful, regardless of what that success looks like. There's always the chance of being misled in every endeavor; in everything we put our hearts in. The question for me has always been "Is this worth the risk of looking like an idiot? Is this big enough for why I am here?"

The editorials I've read have a strong focus on things that this experience hasn't been for me, and perhaps that is because they are about a company that has continued to grow and shift and take on more people who have an eye for a better world for everyone – a goal of connection and community on a grand scale. I have no idea. Many writers are solely focused on the sales aspect of it, or how altruistic Landmark's motives are/are not. For me, it's about a possibility of something greater for the human race. There's no altruism in that for me - I absolutely have a stake in that game, because it means a better life for me! But not without a better life for you as well.

So... Maybe Landmark is a sham. Maybe the guy who started it all and/or the company has a sordid past. Maybe I will or even do look like a fool for continuing to study with Landmark. But ya know... What I'm out for is worth playing a fool for. Maybe the end result isn't that I stay with Landmark - maybe it's a stepping stone to something else... Maybe I'm a fool to continue to think I have any power to change the world we live in, but I don't care. It's what I really want, and what I've wanted since before I was able to really figure out anything beyond "something is really weird about the world we live in, and I don't like it." As Billy Joel wrote: "I have been a fool for lesser things." It's about time I potentially play the fool for something that has a possibility of impacting life on a global scale. In the end I may find out that actually.... I am The Magician.

"But what if it turns out that you were a fool? Well, fool is probably not down very far from where you are if you're worried about it." – Werner Erhard

Disclaimer: The views expressed on this blog post are my personal views and are not the views of Landmark.

What I was working on last fall....

Are you?

I'm currently in a leadership program. Part of the program is really learning about what a terrible listener I am. There's no emotion there - I have historically been a pretty terrible listener. I listen from the perspective of how it fits into my experience, which means most of the time I'm not hearing the person who's speaking. I'm hearing myself. I'm hearing my relatedness. I'm hearing some spin on what the person is sharing. It's natural, I suppose. But it means I forget things like names, places, and details of experiences people share. I forget who I was talking to when I go to relate a story to someone else. I forget about the impact I have on the person I'm communicating with - in every sense.

This came up in a way last night that I cannot express without feeling incredibly embarrassed. The vague way of saying what happened is that I got lazy, and was called out on it. Given the idea that there are times when I impact nobody but myself (which is totally bullshit, because we always have an impact even if we don't see it), I let things slide. I don't take care of myself the way I should, and then when the universe throws something unexpected my way, I am confused as to why it doesn't go as well as I'd hoped. Or maybe it does go well externally, but this is only because I'm so caught up in my head that the underlying tones of what someone is trying to tell me in a gentle way are completely over it - that is until they put it in plain words.

Luckily in this case I've met someone who does just that. He doesn't mince words with me, and he doesn't sugar coat things. It's jarring. I struggle against it because I'm so used to getting my way. I'm so used to things being easy because I've surrounded myself with circumstances that I feel are under my control. As soon as they are not, I ditch. It's a pattern in my life since before I even knew there was an option. Given this new state of affairs, I've become crystal clear that it's a pattern that won't serve me if what I'm up to is something bigger than myself.

I went home from hanging out with said new character in my world and threw a narcissistic tantrum about 'meeting my match' as a friend said. How dare he call me out even if he was totally right, and I had nobody to blame but myself? I felt out of my league intellectually. I hated it... and was completely turned on by it. I realized in that moment that if what I was up to was everything I said it was, this was exactly the kind of people I wanted to surround myself with. People who intimidate me because they are up to bigger things and are willing to be authentic with me about the impact I have on them. I looked around my house as though for the first time, and realized a little girl would feel incredibly comfortable there. The color, the things, the whimsy. My inner child was alive and well, and all this time I'd made it wrong to be a 'grown up.' Being a grown up meant an end to fun. It meant being serious. It meant having to work hard for something that had no promise of working out. It meant not running away as soon as I thought I would fail. Having just read an article about Peter Pan syndrome / SF as Neverland, I was awestruck by finding that there I was... Peter Pan. Mother eff.

I awoke today with a new introspection. I'm an incredibly gifted communicator, but it's quite one-sided and self-serving. It's time to knock that off. It's time to really get with being a listener; with supporting someone without feeling a need to control them. It's time to just hear people from where they are, and to recognize how I affect that space. This isn't limited to to one person - I want this to resonate throughout my spectrum of experience with people. I have no idea what the impact will be in how the universe responds to me, but I believe that it is a mirror for whatever vibration I'm emitting. This isn't a realization that started last night... it just finally, like a key fitting into a lock.... *click. So far in this new found processing, I've gotten really clear on some behavior patterns I need to let go of. I've also had the incredible fortune of connecting with a few people (both within the program, and obviously outside of it) who I feel inspired by; people who makes me want to pay closer attention. I like it.

Starting From One

Today is the first full workday that I'm not on Facebook. It's only been 2 hours, and already my urge to post something has been palpable. I feel a need to connect, to write, to express random thoughts that occur to me. As this happens, I find myself pondering where that stems from - what need there is for me to connect with my social circle. Is it truly a narcissistic wish to be admired? To be thought of kindly? As smart? As clever? I think we all have those feelings, but I have a tendency to simply act out in ways that will soothe the need for acceptance by my peers. People often refer to it as courage, but it's never felt as such to me. It's always struck me as somewhat more akin to getting 'a fix.' The fix is in the connection to some degree - the being heard, but it's also simply found, for me, in the act of writing.

I realize that social media, in its own way, fulfills the very niche that writing in a journal always has held for me. It's the reason I've kept a journal since I was 12 years old. I have pages upon pages of rants and venting; mania and depression; dreams and tragedies. It's what writing is for me - a place to cleanse my mind. Through writing, I purge myself of thoughts/feelings that overwhelm or distract from tasks at hand - the past and the future collide and are swept clean from a mind trying so desperately to remain present.

Were someone to base their entire view of me on my writing, they may well conclude that I suffer from all forms of psychological malady including but not limited to OCD, Manic Depression, and perhaps even Multiple Personalities. The cathartic exercise of writing soothes the aspects of my obsessive tendencies, and often keeps me from acting out in ways that I would likely regret upon reflection. I'm a firecracker, and my spontaneous nature does indeed lead to many adventures... but it's also somewhat reckless and has a tendency to get me in trouble. Writing keeps my feet on the ground, so to speak, before I am carried off my some tsunami of feelings and what ifs.

I hope if anything that my month away from Facebook will provide a return to that writing, but perhaps with a greater clarity and focus that is somewhat less narcissistic. I don't know why, but writing about my experience always seems natural to me, albeit a bit myopic. Facebook took away my connection to Livejournal and Blogger, and I've often lamented of missing that outlet, yet there I sit day in and day out on Facebook accomplishing nothing save being a politically correct stalker. The conversations shared on LJ were richer in hindsight, but that may be nostalgia more than anything. Nostalgia tends toward a sweetness that reality can't seem to capture most times. But maybe they really are richer when someone writes from the heart, versus spitting random thoughts onto the page to gain likes. I may opt to try my hand back in this arena again, not for commentary, per se, but because without having that purging in some form, I fear I may go even more insane.

Dream: "It's a Trap"

Image by xoxoVendetta on DeviantArt.

I awoke this morning from a vivid dream. I was breathless and afraid, and the memory was so clear I could swear it had happened yesterday. A cat lay softly purring under my arm. The world was right again. This is the story of my dream:

I was working in a suburban area of South San Jose - a very similar girl to who I was in my early 20's. My office was on the 3rd floor of this office complex. I worked there with 2 other people, but I'm not entirely certain what I did. I'd realized at some point on my drive over that my boyfriend had left his cell phone in my car, so I was walking into the building with both in hand.

On the street outside there was an RV-looking truck with some people milling about. Over the side of the truck was a yellow sign with bright red block letters that read "It's a Trap!" They'd been here for a few days now, and as far as I could tell it was a game to promote some guy's artwork. You'd spin a wheel, and whatever it landed on you could either answer a question about it or walk away. If you chose to answer and got it right, you won a piece of art. If you got it wrong, you were taken into the truck and when you exited you were painted up like a clown. I'd thought about checking it out, but it seemed like the questions must be really difficult because most people left painted up like clowns. For some reason today I was especially curious, and being that I was early to work, I decided to check it out.

The guy outside the truck was young and attractive - probably in his early thirties. He reminded me of someone famous, but I couldn't place who it was. Light brown hair and a killer smile. The kind of guy that could draw in girls like me. He struck up typical conversation you'd hear at a carnival where you might try to toss a ring over a bottle or knock some milk jugs off a pedestal. He was smooth, and I found myself laughing along with him and the cute clown-painted girl beside him. She was petite and reminded me of a cupcake in her pink ensemble.

I stacked the phones in my left hand and spun the wheel with my right. I don't recall what it landed on, but I recall the question being one that could have several answers. I smirked and said "So THIS is what you mean by 'It's a trap.'" The clown girl giggled, and the hawker asked me for my final answer in his best TV Game Show Host tone. I expected it to be wrong, but he clapped his hands together and said "Ding ding, winner! Please step inside to claim your prize!"

Climbing the pair of steps into the RV, I realized it had been converted into a studio of sorts. There were still a few windows you could see the street through toward the front, but the back walls were mostly covered and it smelled of cigarette smoke. There were shelves lining the sidewalls about halfway to the front of the vehicle, and a chair in the enter with some sort of bucket of dingy water next to it. The shelves were covered with paints, clown makeup, rags covered in various paint colors, wigs, polka-dotted fabrics, tulle - all the things one would expect to be transformed into a clown. It also contained several canvases with various portraits of clowns painted on them, all of them female and sad-looking.

A man with buzz-cut grey hair sat on a stool to the left of the chair smoking a cigarette. He must have been in his mid-40's. His need to shave made him look even more like someone who actually worked at a carnival. He smiled at me, and asked me to sit in the chair, pulling the stool closer and grabbing a box from the shelves. I sat down and he began painting my face. It took me a beat, but I finally said "I thought only those who get it wrong were painted like clowns." He chuckled and said, "Honey, that's part of the game - you all get painted like clowns." Suddenly it made sense to me why so many people came out looking like they escaped from the circus. "The difference is, as the winner you get to have a portrait done of you afterward. But we've gotta go to my studio because I'm out of canvases.

It was then I heard a door close. The chair I was seated in was facing the back of the truck, so all I knew was the door closing was behind me. The engine started up and the truck was moving. "It's not very far, and we'll have you back before anyone realizes you're gone," the voice oozing charm called from the front of the RV. Something in me wanted to protest, but his voice eased my fear. I gripped the two phones tighter in my hand and ran through a list of what to do if this went horribly wrong. Everyone outside surely would notice that the truck was gone and I'd never left it. Surely, when I wasn't at work on time someone would ask around.

The grey-haired man continued to draw on my face, and I waited, feeling the bumps in the road as we picked up speed. We were on a freeway, I had no doubt. The painter was smiling slightly, but something about his smile made me uneasy. "You're a masterpiece," he mused as he painted my eyebrow. "It's so rare I get to paint someone I actually enjoy painting." I bit my lip. Something was wrong here. But there were three of them. How could I get out of this situation?

I heard an extremely low-flying airplane overhead and realized we were near the airport. We exited the freeway, and as the painter stepped over to find some item on the shelf, I craned my head around to look out the window. We were on a road paralleling the freeway with the airport on our right. "Would you like a drink?" the painter asked. I shook my head, and he produced a can of Coca Cola, unopened. I realized my nervousness was making me quite thirsty, so I changed my mind and took the can. It was a sealed container, so it couldn't be bad, right? I opened it and drank. The soda was refreshing, although a little flat. The man came back and continued painting my other eyebrow.

The truck came to a stop, and he smiled at me. I'd started to feel a bit less stressed out as he led me out of the truck into the daylight. We stood sandwiched between the airport and the freeway. There was an olive green door built into the side of a hill that reminded me of a bunker. The charming man stepped toward me "Wow, you do make a lovely clown," he preened, and turned to the grey-haired man. "The truck needs gas, so I'm gonna do that while you get set up." He hopped back into the driver's seat as the cupcake clown took me gently by the arm and led me toward the bunker door. Panic surged within me, and yet it was blunted by another feeling - an odd sense of destiny unfolding soothed my fears. The artist followed us inside as the younger man backed up the truck. I glanced back and he smiled at me - an odd smile that made me think of my cat.

The olive green door was left slightly ajar as we stepped into the first room of the bunker. It looked much like the interior of the RV had looked. Canvases and shelves covered in paints and clown attire. "Wait here a second while I prep the studio," the pink clown said as she released my arm and stepped through another door into an adjoining room. The grey-haired man followed her. I could hear murmured conversation between them, but couldn't make out what they were saying. My head was feeling a bit dreamlike, as I thought to myself that I should text my boyfriend, immediately realizing that would be useless since I had his phone with me. GPS coordinates came to mind. How could I figure that out and send it to someone? I opened my phone and began texting my best friend, but my fingers were useless and I couldn't get out the words correctly.

I found myself gazing absently at one of the clown portraits. The girl's face was so sad and despondent. She looked serene and yet... absent. A wave of realization washed over me and left my entire body covered in sweat. The girl in that portrait was dead. Whatever was making me feel dreamlike vanished in a heartbeat. Thoughts came in a flutter - could they have punctured the soda can to drug me? If so, it was only going to get worse in a hurry. I looked back for a moment to verify conversation was still happening in the other room, and clumsily walked as quietly as possible to the door that led outside. The moment I'd passed the threshold I broke into a run toward the freeway. Someone would stop. They had to stop. I looked down at myself and realized at some point in the truck there'd be discussion of a costume, and I'd half-undressed myself. I was wearing a bra and panties and nothing else. When had that happened? I couldn't recall as I tripped and hit the dirt in the grassy field between the doorway and the freeway. I managed to keep the phones tightly in my grasp, though I'd forgotten all about them.

Getting to my feet, I heard a yell from behind me, and realized the artist was at the doorway. He was chasing me onto the freeway. The world was spinning. I ran again, and stopped at the side of the freeway waving my arms. Somehow I still had the sense to not run into traffic. Cars were flying by as I waved my arms again - my head felt darkness coming - head-rush from standing and running too quickly after hitting the ground. I looked back and saw death coming toward me... stalking slowly, like my cat. "It's a trap," I thought to myself and laughed, cell phones falling from my hand. Darkness swirled through me, enveloping the world and I woke up.