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Being Frankenstein

Posted in Creativity, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on November 22nd, 2010 by Johannah

I’m a student of the drums. When I was first learning to open and close the high hat, I jokingly called my left leg “Frankenstein” because of how heavy and clumsy it felt when I tried to make that foot respond. I knew what I wanted it to do, but it didn’t know how to react promptly or gracefully. It came in at the wrong time and moved sloppily. It had no musical vocabulary. All it knew, at that point, were two actions: “move” and “be still.”

By now, my left foot does a little better, although, indeed, its vocabulary remains quite limited compared to experienced drummers. However, a certain degree of technique has integrated into my brain, enough that you might even say that my left foot is now capable of a certain musicality.

The fumbling stage was not “wrong” or “bad.” In fact, it was necessary in order to get to the point where I am now. You have to make the big, sloppy movements before you can make the graceful, refined ones. You have to get in over your head before you can learn to swim.

This transition may happen gradually or may occur as a sudden epiphany: the brain suddenly fuses critical connections and you have a “Eureka” moment. The left foot suddenly can keep time pretty well. It comes in at the right moment, keeps the high hat open for just the right number of seconds, and closes it with precision. Wow. What happened? Or maybe it takes a little longer than that; you practice opening and closing first before trying the technique in an actual song. Either way, it is the transition from thinking into being, from thought into consciousness, from effort into effortlessness, that allows you to play well.

It is the same, of course, with writing. You need to learn the technique, but if that transition doesn’t happen, that ineffable shift into a higher understanding, from effort into instinct, you cannot access true creativity; you can’t sufficiently lose your boundaries between you and your medium, whether it’s language or painting or mathematics. What I mean here is the way that after years of driving, you become one body with the car on your way to and from work, enough that you can’t remember one detail of the trip once you’ve arrived; when I create jewelry, the pliers become an extension of my hands. You become an aspect of the medium and something bigger moves you and it together.

This is the state of genius, and it is available to everyone. Just choose a medium.

But, just as much as we all want to attain this kind of transcendent creative state, everyone has to be Frankenstein before they can be Einstein. You must be a beginner before you can be brilliant, which is why there is so much honor in starting anything new, in putting your hands in the dirt and planting a new seed. As you learn to write, it is critical to know that ignorance is a critical stage of genius. If you resist the “not-knowing” part, if you are fearful of the role of student, if you think it will make you less to expose your lack of expertise, then, in fact, you will remain in ignorance. So, don’t be afraid. Just get in there and get your hands dirty, you budding geniuses, you.

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Going Deeper

Posted in Creativity, Jewelry Making, Spirituality, Writing on October 4th, 2010 by Johannah

I’ve always been a little bit uncomfortable answering the question “What is good writing?” Sure, it’s easy to cite technique: freshness of language, specific sensory detail, and the like. But, of course, it’s more than that. My first college writing teacher called this “plumbing the depths.” It’s something a little harder to define, one of those things you only know when you see it. As a writing teacher, however, it seems like my duty to attempt a definition, or, at the very least, to explore a little further.

So here goes:

Good writing goes to a place that’s deeper than our conventional and conditioned responses. First, it sets aside language from everyday conversation, the same way that theater puts human behavior up on a stage. You can see a blank, white page a kind of spotlight.

That done, good writing says something authentic; it’s not something that someone or the greater culture has told you to say. It’s not something you automatically know is going to garner approval. It’s not something you say because it’s customary or habitual. Something authentic comes from a deep, personal place, although the subject matter need not be particularly intimate. Using words as signposts, it points to what is beyond language or even thought. You know a piece of writing has done this when you feel an internal sense of “yes,” as if it were confirming of something you always knew but had never seen expressed quite so.

Because this universe wants variety, good writing is fresh, unique, a little risky. It uses the medium of language in a novel way—bending words to new uses, combining them in new ways, delighting in experiments with sound, rhythm, and flow. It is this newness, this authenticity that takes us, as readers, to that powerful, wordless place, that spiritual place. Why? Familiarity breeds blindness. Our brains ignore that which it has seen or heard over and over again. Those of you who have done professional proofreading know what I’m talking about—you have to un-learn the habituation that makes you ignore the extra period at the end of the sentence, or the repeated “the” somewhere in the middle. Similarly, the painting hanging in your living room may be lovely, but it likely no longer elicits the excitement you felt when you first hung it there. Therefore, what we need to get to this powerful, wordless place is the unfamiliar, the striking, the unusual.

The thing is, you can’t try to get to this wordless place. All you can do is learn good technique and then sit down and start hammering boards together. Don’t try to be a prophet; just do the work. Don’t sit down to write with the intention of going beyond words. In fact, you must be deeply connected to words, to the writing itself, in order to create something that transcends the page.

This paradox has been fascinating me lately: the way we, as physical beings, must go deeply into the physical in order to transcend into the spiritual. This is true of writing, as well as anything else. This is why art exists. But this experience is not just for artists. Anything done with a certain intensity and presence can do this, including washing the dishes or unclogging a drain or running or car racing or breathing.

So, writing is just another mode of conscious presence. You get into that mode by learning technique, by knowing it almost on the level of instinct—the punctuation, the sentence structure, the powerful verbs, the economy of language. You learn technique so that you can forget technique—and through this process, you become fully present in the act of writing.

And this is the process whereby you become a “good” writer. Really, your only goal is to be a damn good sign maker. You’re just learning to point more and more precisely in the direction of something bigger, the place that is no-place. You’re just recording a thought that leads to no-thought. Wasn’t it Einstein who said that genius is nothing more than keeping your finger steady and knowing where the party’s at? Okay, maybe not in quite those words…

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Writing Without Concern for Results

Posted in Uncategorized on September 12th, 2010 by Johannah

Whether it’s archery or football or writing, you are most powerful when you act without concern for results. This is just another way of saying “Abandon hope.”

It is a kind of paradox, isn’t it? When we are extremely concerned with results, especially with winning, performance suffers. When you are engaged in competition–a poetry slam, a football game, an eating contest, a drag race, writing for submission for publication– the trick is to drop your concern with winning, with outcome. This is the surest way to perform at full power.

Try to detach from–to stop caring about–what happens when you’re done writing. This poem uses the metaphor of archery to explain it–

The Need To Win

When an archer is shooting for nothing
He has all his skill.
If he shoots for a brass buckle
He is already nervous.
If he shoots for a prize of gold
He goes blind
Or sees two targets–
He is out of his mind!

His skill has not changed. But the prize
Divides him. He cares.
He thinks more of winning
Than of shooting–
And the need to win
Drains him of power.

–Chuang Tzu (~300 B.C.), translated by Thomas Merton

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Abandon Hope

Posted in Creativity, Jewelry Making, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on August 28th, 2010 by Johannah

I have a theory about why so often the first words that come up when we sit down to write are a kind of “engine revving,” a section of text that we end up tossing out in favor of the more “meaty” material we generate when our creative engine is a little more “warmed up.”

It’s because we’re not the ones who are writing that stuff. That is, those words do not come from our authentic creative selves, but from a more superficial, contracted source, a source that has a certain agenda, that is not willing to be open to the creative process. I’m talking about the ego, the part of us that thinks too much, that plans, that expects specific results.

There are a million reasons anyone might sit down to write. Maybe it’s part of our morning routine. Maybe we want to write the great American novel and win the esteem and/or envy of our peers. Maybe we love the feeling of being in the creative flow. Maybe we have a school or work assignment. Whatever the reason, you simply cannot create fresh, compelling, authentic writing if you have any reason for doing so.

Generally, when we first sit down to write (sculpt, paint, cook, snip, style, decorate), we have expectations, and therefore are in a somewhat contracted state. We are not quite ready, perhaps, to hand over control to the creative process, to humble ourselves to it, to become its tool. But that’s OK; We use that initial writing period to transition from an egoic state into one (hopefully) of pure presence and creativity. Gradually, we let go our ideas about and reasons for doing what we’re doing.

This is why we must be patient with ourselves and, through practice, learn how to open to this creative state willingly, but not forcefully. The moment we get frustrated with our inability to connect to the creative flow, we snap back into thinking and expectation. We again have reasons for writing, and then we cannot enter the stream.

As Pema Chodron says, “Abandon hope.” Abandon your hopes of being a good writer and just write. Abandon your hopes of writing a good story or poem or essay and just write. Abandon your hopes of crafting gorgeous earrings or sculpting a perfect replica of Mount Rushmore or whipping up the perfect omelet. Just bend wire. Just form clay. Just beat eggs. Just hang curtains. Just apply color. Just create. Lose yourself. Perhaps more to the point, forget yourself—your name, your face, your past and future.

Maybe this sounds like a tall order, but writing is an amazing portal into the present moment—maybe even a state of inner peace. But don’t write in order to attain inner peace. Just write.

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Work with Your Mind, Not Leather

Posted in Creativity, Spirituality, Writing on August 24th, 2010 by Johannah

How is writing a way to work with the mind, to withdraw the impulse to control the world and instead to turn inward to our real point of power?

“Pema Chodron: This Lousy World

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Easy Effort -or- Worry and Other Creative Drains

Posted in Creativity, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Uncategorized, Writing on August 17th, 2010 by Johannah

Worry does not prevent Aunt Sue from criticizing your cooking at Thanksgiving dinner. It does not heal your dog’s itchy spot. It will not make your boss nicer, and it will not get you a man. Guaranteed.

No doctor ever prescribed worry (hopefully) to cure your warts or improve your cholesterol. Doesn’t work.

Here’s what worry will do: It will make you conservative, creatively speaking. It will make you stick to dry land. It will make you safe and uptight and boring. If it goes on and on like that, possibly you will cause yourself so much suffering that you will drink too much, watch too much tv, eat too many potato chips, or shoot heroin. It will make you want to be numb, and so you will find something that does that, whether it’s overeating or undereating or overdrinking or overworking or undersleeping or whatever. You will do too much of something or too little of something else.

When you are numb, you are not creative. Being creative means living richly and bravely, of feeling and experiencing and allowing instead of suppressing. Even if you don’t use some misguided coping mechanism, worry is emotionally and creatively paralyzing. Sure, maybe propelled by the energy of fear alone, you can force yourself to finish that report or project, but then, you are creating from the energy of constriction and resistance and suffering, whereas true creative energy is characterized by ease and joy.

That’s not to say that true creativity does not involve effort. However, it is joyful effort—easy effort. It is not Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill. It is not paddling upstream. No force is applied. It is humane—kind, even.

This is how you will recognize true creativity—it involves no fear. It never tries to coerce you into doing anything you don’t want to. It knows enough to not even try to hammer a square peg into a round hole. Duh. It is fun. When you are creative, you salivate. You are turned on. You are peaceful, relaxed, surrendered.

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Spam: Zen

Posted in Creativity, Humor, Self-Expression, Spirituality on June 4th, 2010 by Johannah

No, Best Buy, I am not embarrassed by my cell phone. Please do not contact me further with your attempts to assail my sense of self.

Don’t you know that I am invisible to your assaults? I say “invisible” rather than “impervious” because the latter implies a certain solidity, like a Great Wall of Me. Don’t you know that the lighter your sense of self, the more invincible you are? Don’t you know that the lighter your defenses, the stronger you are? A wall can be shot full of holes. A gun can backfire. An attack dog can be poisoned. A self is subject to sticks and stones and name-calling. These things–great walls and selves and the like–their very existences–imply the potential for injury and a need for defense.

Dear Best Buy, there aren’t enough cool phones in the world to make up for one single human ego. And the solution is not to be decidedly uncool in protest, to pointedly celebrate that old, scratched last-generation device you are contracted to until December. Dedication to your own alienation is just as solid and heavy and vulnerable to assault as its alternative.

So, Best Buy, I know that you dedicate time and effort and money to shoring up your identity. I know you believe this is the path to success. You want to know who you are. You want everyone to know who you are. You want to be recognized, and yes, loved, even though you’re not really sure exactly why.

But, dear, dear Best Buy, this will not make you happy. Simply be invisible. Be not there. Once you are gone, no one can hurt you, and there is nothing you need. This is the only way you will ever be able to help anyone, whatever your are selling. You will only ever be relevant if you go beyond “cool” and “uncool.” Only when you are not here can you actually be present.

So, my sweet, well-intentioned Best Buy, dematerialize. Dissolve. Evaporate.

On second thought, ask me again if I’m living with an embarrassing phone. It makes no difference.

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When It Gets Too Hard, Just Give Up

Posted in Creativity, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Writing on May 16th, 2010 by Johannah

…and while you’re at it, lower your expectations.

In the past, students have come to me, agonizing, “This scene just isn’t working, and I’ve been working on it for weeks,” or, “This is exhausting. It feels like a constant struggle,” or, “I don’t even like this poem any more. It’s driving me crazy.” This disturbs them to the point that they question their writing abilities, their intelligence, even the value of anything they’ve ever done. (Yes, really—and how often have you yourself “spun off” like this?)

My advice, good teacher that I am, is: “Honey, just give up.”

What?!!!? Wait a second, Johannah, isn’t hard work always rewarded with success? What about the idea that if you put your mind to something, nothing can stop you? You know, no pain no gain, and nose to the grindstone, and all that?

Sweetie pies, my dear, sweet loves, that’s just not the way it works. Somebody’s been lying to you.

Let me explain: creativity requires openness. Painters must start with blank canvases, muralists with blank walls. Sure, you can re-use a canvas or paint over a wall, but first, you have to white out everything that has come before. You have to start with nothing, void, emptiness. Before you have an idea, you must have no idea. Before you begin, you must stop.

Before you have an idea, you must have no idea. Before you begin, you must stop.

 

My favorite verse of Bob Dylan’s “I’ll Keep it With Mine” goes: “The train leaves at half past ten/but it will be back in the same old spot again./The conductor, he’s still stuck on the line./And if I can save you any time,/come on, give it to me; I’ll keep it with mine.”

The benefit of staying on the same line is always knowing what comes next: Skaneateles, then Albany, then New York City. Security. But, poor conductor, he’s stuck. He’s bored out of his skull. He’s about ready to jump from the caboose into the Hudson River. Poor guy’s getting nowhere, day after day after day.

So, Mr. Conductor, change your route. Switch tracks. Head out West or get off at the next station. The thing is, when you switch, you may think you know the route based on the maps, but you had no idea you’d pass by so many back porches and swing sets. You didn’t know the river would be so low or Chicago really would be so windy. Maybe you know the general direction, but still, you don’t know where you’re going. And when you get off the train altogether, you don’t even have a vehicle anymore. You don’t know where you’re going or how you’re going to get there. Damn. It’s just you and your conductor’s hat and overalls in the middle of a crowded station and no idea where you’re going to stay the night.

But this is where the greatest creative possibilities dwell: in the sacred “I don’t know,” the great “What the hell,” the divine nothingness—yes—the void.

When you’re writing, maybe you get attached to the little successes of your story or poem—the great description or scene or metaphor that gives you a feeling of victory—or past pieces that you or others have deemed successful. When you have amassed this kind of small treasury, sometimes you want to circle the wagons. You desperately hold on to what you think has value.

The problem is, when your wagons are circled, nothing new can come in. You can’t make friends. And maybe you need friends, because you’re out of food, and trading a little bit of that treasure would feed you, and then you wouldn’t be so lightheaded and cranky all the time. You’d be able to stand up again and move forward. And really, what’s the value of a pile of gold when you’re starving to death?

It can be easy to allow expectations of how your poem or story or book will play out to stifle your creative flow. Feelings of struggle or frustration often signify a need to let go, to get off the train, to renounce your vehicle, to trade your overalls for a cute little skirt and a pair of heels, or a pair of leather pants and an electric guitar. Or just take it all off and wander around naked. Whatever.

Feelings of struggle or frustration often signify a need to let go, to get off the train, to renounce your vehicle, to trade your overalls for a cute little skirt and a pair of heels.

 

That’s not to say that writing isn’t work or that it’s bad to work hard. But when you’re trying to force something to happen to the point that it’s driving you mad, when you keep going back to the same dry well hoping for water, or you keep trying to exit the room straight through the drywall, sometimes you just have to give up and take the door. Or, if you’ve been trying the door and it’s locked, indeed, hack through the drywall. Jump out the window and shimmy down the drainpipe.

Do whatever you need to do to reconnect with a sense of inspiration. Inspired work is, indeed, work—It’s not slavery. You do it because you want to, not out of a sense of obligation to the way you’ve done things in the past or the way you think things must happen in the future. You don’t do it out of fear of what will happen if you stop doing it. Inspired work doesn’t make you question your talents or your very value as a writer or as a human being.

Follow your energy—What excites you? Go there. Do that.

So, in conclusion, sometimes, the bravest and most powerful thing you can do is be a quitter—remembering that sometimes, the only shift that needs to happen is in your head, and I don’t mean brain surgery, babies.

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Life, Death, and Zombies

Posted in Creativity, Humor, Self-Expression, Writing on April 12th, 2010 by Johannah

As it moves into more personal territory, I’ve been considering moving my blog to another location, someplace separate from my professional web site. I’ve been wondering whether, if I reveal too much of myself, my blog will somehow seem “unprofessional” and reflect poorly on the rest of my site.

And then I thought, “Hogwash.”

Why do I equate the personal with lack of “seriousness”? Why have I been attempting to compartmentalize myself in this way? I’ve been thinking about it this way: There is “Johannah Racz, person,” and, somewhere nearby, “Johannah Racz, professional.” They have different wardrobes, postures. One laughs a lot. The other furrows her brow. This is not only a false distinction, but also a recipe for suffering. Any effort to postpone or suppress ourselves, the natural expression of who we truly are and what we want, creates a sense of stress, struggle, and ultimately, misery. The self wants to be free and will fight to get out, no matter how or how often you bind it in duct tape and lock it in a closet. (“Just for today, then I’ll let you out… this weekend, when I take that vacation, when I retire…”) But the authentic self is a master of escape and will eventually emerge, angrily, at the most inconvenient time possible, out of breath, hair a tangled mess, fists clenched—during a dinner party, in an important meeting, in traffic.

This is why we have a lot to learn from zombies. They are completely upfront about who they are and what they want. It’s clear from their gray, wizened countenances and their slow but relentless pursuit of the living. They hunger for live flesh and don’t mind propagating their own kind while they’re at it. They make no apologies. There is no façade of civility or attempt to conform to conventions, real or imagined. They are not trying to be witty or impressive. They do not dress for the occasion.

Of course, there are drawbacks to being a zombie. They are dead, and lack self-awareness and compassion. Whatever personality they once had is submerged by the tyranny of need and death. Therefore, no one wants to be a zombie. In fact, perhaps, culturally, the zombie symbolizes a general fear of our unchecked impulses, of hunger. It’s as if, as a culture, we think that if we allow ourselves to be guided by our authentic selves, our inner voices, that we will become disfigured and horrific, that our need will become all consuming, voracious, deadly.

However, don’t we all wish we could go after what we truly want, to be ourselves in all situations in life—in work, in leisure, in love, in bed—to express exactly who we are, relentlessly and uninhibitedly, in every part of our lives? Don’t we all wish that we could get up and keep going, even if we are rejected, insulted, pushed around? Don’t we all want to be impervious to bullets? Don’t we all wish to be rid of the fear of death and zombies?

Thank God for creative writing and all of the arts, which (generally) consider the personal legitimate, relevant, valuable. And the more personal you are willing to get, the better. The more brave and uninhibited you are about revealing yourself, the greater the chances that you’ll create something fresh and compelling. The more you let others’ judgments (real or imagined) roll off of you, the more satisfied you will be in the writing process. The more you forget the audience (real or imagined) and allow your own creative impulse to guide you, the more authentic your voice will be. The more you tell the truth—the whole truth—the more powerful you are as an artist and as a person.

The time of the slick, unflappable, serious, impersonal, “in control” professional is over. Real power, real success lies in being who you are, all the time. No more self sacrifice. When you don’t hide anything, you have nothing to hide. This doesn’t mean that you must reveal your entire life story in every encounter you have, but simply that you act in accordance with what feels right—eat when you’re hungry, drink when you’re thirsty, sleep when you’re tired. Say what you want to say. When you want to leave the room, go. When you want to express gratitude, do so. Make a joke when you feel like it. Work hard until it stops feeling good. And then, stop.

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The Upside of Your Downfall

Posted in Creativity, Humor, Self-Expression, Spirituality, Writing on February 23rd, 2010 by Johannah

I am coming to realize that most people, at least most people who wish to learn something in this life, come to a critical point in which all that they knew falls away; the veil lifts and they are left to face, alone, who they are and what they really want. I’m talking about divorces, job losses, major illness. I’m talking about jail and about hitting rock bottom lying on the floor one night with a drink in one hand, the phone in the other, and a pile of crumpled kleenex on your chest. I’m talking about breakups, broken friendships, betrayals. I’m talking about death. I’m talking about not one of these things, but many, hitting at the same time. You might call it total life devastation, or, more positively, a complete revolution. You could call it a major life lesson. You could call it hell. Or, this revolution may happen with no external event at all; the luckier ones are able to identify things in their lives that need changing before the universe bludgeons them and then kicks them when they try to get up again.

Two years ago, I sat at my desk in my basement office, a zombie in my dungeon, absorbed in work. You know how it goes; you’ve heard this from so many people before–but, I’m telling you, it’s true–I had my house, my car, my husband, my children, my education, my own business. I had a computer with a super-fast quad-core processor, which supposedly allowed it to do a zillion things at once. I had two flat screens so I could monitor my email at all times and still have room to work. And I was a hard worker. I would push myself for hours–not eating, not drinking, not getting up, not taking a break–because I was responsible, responsible, responsible for it all, and because I wanted to be good at what I did, the best; I wanted to please people, and I was supposed to be happy, because, after all, I had all those things I had thought I needed. My checklist was complete.

But the spirit is far, far more powerful than the stupid, cowardly ego, which makes lists of things and has expectations and wants to be anywhere, anywhere, but in the present moment, fully awake. So, one day, sitting there, working, working, working, I stopped typing and looked at my hands, poised over the keys, and wondered what the hell I was doing. Suddenly, I remembered who I really was. I thought of how I used to be creative and a little crazy, a little weird, a little unpredictable, a little wild. My body used to be strong and flexible and sensual. I used to climb on top of the speakers at a cheesy club and dance to 80s music. I used to bleach my hair an unnatural shade of blond. In meetings, I would arrange objects in front of me that I declared magical: a length of rope, a plastic Buddha, a star-spangled pencil. I used to make experimental films. I used to write experimental poetry. I used to eat falafel and samosas and knishes. I used to travel to Spain and Siberia and Estonia. I used to be brilliant. I used to figure out the one topic that was being avoided in any conversation and make some bizarre joke about it, just to derail boredom and predictability of the situation, and because I was more than a little mischievous.

But did I, at that moment, at my desk, hands hovering over the keyboard, consciously do anything to change things? No, not really. But there was nothing I could do to stop the changes from coming, from the situation from righting itself. My spirit did something. It’s called burnout. The essential part of me got stubborn. It staged a work slowdown…still, I pushed myself. It took more and more effort to work at the pace I used to. The harder I pushed myself, the more my spirit dug in. I became more and more exhausted, more miserable, until I just couldn’t do it anymore. The things that were not right in my life became obvious, unavoidable. I had to give in and let go–I had to be free.

Remember that scene from Lolita–not really a scene, more like a non-scene, but either way, a pivotal point where Humbert Humbert finally gets what he’s wanted, and when finally, his wish, his tortured desire, comes true, he coyly omits any detail? I’m going to pull that little parlor trick here. Let’s put it this way: I freed myself. I’ll give it to you metaphorically: picture a convertible speeding over a cliff, a full-throated scream, a butter knife jammed into a wall socket, the blast of a 50 caliber handgun (yeah, you heard me). Imagine a kitten basking in the sun, a freshly sharpened pencil, a vat of hot oil, a doll’s severed head, the last drop of milk swirling inside a steaming cup of coffee. I was again crazy, weird, unpredictable, brilliant. And so was life. The veil lifted and everything that was keeping me prisoner fell away. I had the keys to the cell and I was getting the hell out of there.

I was elated, thrilled, ecstatic. I was miserable, panicked, desperately lonely. It was uncertain and electrifying and terrifying and profound and delicious and heart wrenching. It still is. I am awake.

And I’m writing. I’m writing more than I have in years–creatively, freely, authentically writing about myself, my own experience, what I know to be true. I don’t need to impose some schedule or routine to make sure that I’m writing, because I’ve again connected with the impulses that made me choose to be a writer in the first place, when I would lock myself in my room and write and write and write without purpose, without goal, without concern for who would or would not read it or how it was going to turn out, without really knowing what I was doing. I was–I am–writing like that again.

So, don’t fear your own downfall. It may be the very key to your creativity. You can survive anything. Whatever needs to leave your life, whatever new things need to come in, let them. Be one of the luckier ones and make changes early, before the universe gets rough with you. Or maybe you like it rough.


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