The filming of the television show, Who Wants to Be A Super Hero last week was intense. I can't talk about it contractually, in public media, unless I prefer a $100,000 breech. Which I don't. My details will be cryptic at best.

Reality television is brainwashing at its finest, to which I submitted readily and entirely. You see, all my years of compulsive travel have taught me that to appreciate a place, person or situation fully, you must not confuse your identity with theirs. And all my years of magickal study have taught me that the mind is a tool solely for making maps and playing cosmic connect-the-dots - a strong mind is not one that resists change, but rather restructures the current reality map according to the geography, and then just as easily brainwashes out into the next landscape when needed. I feel like my experience being filmed 24 hours a day for this television show was a full experience based on my ability to quickly brainwash into the situation and yet remain unattached to that identity for effective brainwashing out.

So as soon as I was free from Super Hero status (c'mon, does it really end?), I flew my ass down to New Mexico to not-identify and submit to another outrageous reality - the high desert.

In the past two days I have hung out on the Disney movie set of Wild Hogs starring John Travolta, have taken classes at the Bantu African Drumming and Dance Camp and have scouted the Santa Fe Farmer's Market, the largest in the state, for local in-season fare, only to have my raw foodist fears confirmed: nothing grows without rain.

It's hard to breathe here and even harder to sleep. Seems the lack of oxygen speeds up the heart and makes it almost impossible to reach resting rate, even for this athlete, at nite. But sleep deprivation brings an odd patience and calm to my otherwise hyperconscious life. All day I look forward to the setting desert sun, its clouds like glowing sugar cookies fresh from the oven, and the surreal two-dimensionally lit landscape like flats on the set of a musical theatre stage.

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You know, I spend twenty hours/day "working". But honestly, not in exchange for money. I take dance class, I rehearse with my company, I search the casting services, I email the perfect headshot and the highly experienced resume, get chiropractic adjustments, deep tissue massages, and religiously do physical therapy BEFORE getting injured.

Not to be injured again. Only slow growth for the body. Slow and consistent growth for the body.

All that is what I call "work".

In my free time I am often the oldest dancer on the drum-n-bass infused club floor and the most relentless. I am an event to witness on the dance floor. I know it because I am witnessing me in the event. I am watching too. Oh, my gosh.

In my free time I go to the club and I audit acting classes and I wash, arrange, pay attention to, fondle raw produce. Mostly fruit. Often avocados.

Oh, my coconut.

So the way I see it, I can't tell the difference between work and free time. I am either retired ... or am happily never going to.

This is what I call karma.

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What interests me is the difference between garbage and not garbage. Is it the barrier of a petroleum based plastic bag soon twisted and twist tied, never to be considered again.

Someone considers it.

Just because it is progress doesn't mean it is advancement. That happens a lot with a species so focused on evolving. A verb. Evolving is a verb.

And just because we made up a word like garbage doesn't mean we have to keep using it even when it obviously doesn't work. It doesn't do what words are supposed to do and facilitate communication through clarity of intention. So definite, such a science - such a fallible science.

Let's throw away the word garbage and just call it a chipped tea mug, a somewhat thin front tire, cigarette butts and junk mail. And instead of calling it "a dump", let's call it Earth. That crazy thing we live on that snickers at the idea of state lines and property fences and mortgages and door locks and shoes. Oh, how they keep those feet from ... the...

Earth. It is Earth and those are plastic grocery bags. I am burring plastic grocery bags full of empty lighters, zip lock baggies and coffee cups in the Earth.

You don't have to look, but that is what is happening. You don't have to care, but the Earth does and whether I like it or not, since I am gravitationally drawn to her, I have a direct relationship with her and I know that this stuffing of objects down her throat is wrong. I asked her. I said, "what can I put in you?" She said 'nothing. oh, please do not put anything in me. except maybe organic food scraps. oh, please nothing else AT ALL."

I hear her voice when I throw something into the petroleum based plastic container inside the plastic bag.

But I am evolving. I can hear this relationship easier and easier and earlier and earlier. I now hear her voice as I pick up the item off the shelf. I hear her voice in my habits. I listen to her voice and pay attention and she sings to me softly right through the soles of my feet.

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You know, I do normal things too. Like today. Today was a normal day for me. I didn't make any money. I woke up at 10am. I drank some rejuvelac, answered a few emails, made a few phone calls, jumped into some unexciting clothes and a comfortable pair of tennies, and went to the carpet store where the floorman, after hearing what I wanted it for, gave me padding for free.

Wow, what a great day.

I got to the dance studio very early and with scissors, duct tape, power drill, tire rubber and carpet padding, began constructing my new and improved stilts. Which again, great people made for me. Movie industry crew. The best of the best with wood and tools. And soon, all seven other company members arrived, and I enjoyed making eye contact and smiling with - most of them hugging, some kissing too, just greeting these people I honestly enjoy being with.

And we finalized choreography to our featured piece in the upcoming opera concert. We are defining avant garde on stage again. This must be done live and I deserve to be in front of three thousand well-dressed people. I love the way the slap their hands or yell to show how much they appreciate you. People give you carpet padding and make stilts for you and send you a rose backstage. Because they want you to keep dancing.

People sometimes are ready to grow and don't know in which direction. Other people know what to do and just can't get started. We rehearsed for five hours and each company member, paid not a dime for the 13 hours of rehearsal and minimally for the television shoot. We're here because we must. We just must do this Thing. I love people who must do the Thing.

Then we came down off the stilts - shirts sweaty whet and I made it to my rooftop to scry sunset and water the parched house plants. I made banana ice cream real quick in the Champion juicer with cacao beens fresh from my trip to Dominica recently. Ate it with a wooden spoon.

I got in Punkass the waste vegetable mobile and drove thirty miles out of Hollwood to a drum and bass party I heard about, knew no one at, seems at least four years older than the rest of the young people there and discovered DJ Jayvon a confouding mix of all the best ingredients. I was out of control. Oh, that drum and bass music.

I tired myself out, bought a $5 CD and left alone to enoy a clear highway drive back to Hollywood specifically. I'm gonna try to get some sunshine on my skin tomorrow. Sunday I have a photoshoot with Jack Dagger and then the last company rehearsal before our first run with orchestra and Taiko drums.

I hope something better than I can image happens to me happening to me this year. Something better than I can imaging is happening to me this year.

I hope there is warm sunshine tomorrow. I'm going to go take a hot bath. I'm going to sleep until I'm rested in a king sized bed alone. I'm going to post this writing without reading it.

Typical day.

I do normal things too.

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