A small note about consciousness.

Ummkayy... it just feels wayyyy too fucking trivial to post my Shambhala blog while thousands scream so hard into the desert across the world. Sitting here in my happy little zebra print corner, tucked full of Nature's Path organic oatmeal, listening to carefully plucked pieces of the seventies... trying to decide when I've seen enough through the little magic screen on my lap. Such a precious princess. And everything through the angled window; the access to which I now suddenly notice I've been taking for granted.

I've turned the sub back onto the sound system that used to thump alongside my Ari Gold moments in Dollhouse's pink office. Usually I turn it off at night so the baby upstairs can sleep. Side note: I have this feeling that if I ever have a baby, she'll NEED bass waves to sleep. We'll have to put her across the house from the turntables so they can hit her properly. Dream.

That ol' inner conflict wails around inside me about social consciousness... you know. Hiphop, events, speech, existence. Usually the conflict doesn't get much air time. I start feeling around the darkness and then decide I don't like it. How bout we light it up with glitter and lasers and music instead? Yayyyy. It normally takes me about 5 minutes to reach this decision. Another convenient camouflage of the last little fibers of insecurity I feel around my profession; trying to fit them all into the solution somehow. It's like stuffing a headdress into a parachute bag.

What can I say? I'm a good time girl. A weapon of mass distraction. It's just what I'm best at. Or so voices tell me.

Back to the conflict. See? Distraction. I'm good at it ;) SO how conscious is conscious "enough"? Do I have to strip to stop the war or can I just be entertaining? Is escapism really senseless, or is escapism senseless just in excess?

I would argue the second on both counts. The thing is that when I hit the party, straight-up, I don't want anyone's morals shoved down my throat along with my pill and whiskey shot. I deal with everyone else's opinions all day, my whole life. And really - it's not like when I open my make-up case I suddenly forget that I'm alive.

I think that for me, sometimes I just want to be around people who know there's more to a person than what she presents in a pretty pink blog. That there's more to a person than a measure of one's met expectations. That there's also richness, thought patterns, feelings, contributions, reactions... sensitivity to pain and hunger. You know, like, humanity and stuff. Those basic universal aspects that make us just like everyone, everywhere.

And then I want to catch the eye of someone on the dance floor and acknowledge that the two of us are busy having one of those moments of freedom... physically, mentally, creatively... and that we are so so so so lucky. We are So. Fucking. Lucky.

I am so lucky.

It's not much to know I guess. But I'm conscious of it.