Whispers Rivers Hearts and Mist

Imagine a roomful of the same person. One person repeated over and over again, all looking alike but bearing different opinions. Now imagine them all whispering at the same time, and that's what it's like. But denser than that, the whispers are dense so that what was already hard to hear is now smashed too close together.

And then there are subtitles, subtitles of the whispers, but they're dense too, typed words overlapping so only those that can stay on the outside are occasionally visible.

All of these whispers and words are moving around each other, curving this way and that, filling every space, a swelling river of too much thought that can at times also resemble the chaos of a New York stock market floor.

There is one voice in charge. The one that sits above it all, watching, controlling, deciding which whispers are allowed to be heard aloud. The one that is logic. Respectable but at times condescending.

One other voice is also louder than a whisper. It is thin, transparent sunset colors, and it spreads over everything like a mist. This voice, it is the loudest. Loud and gentle. It always knows the truth, always wants what is right; it has a direct line to the heart.

Now take all of that, the dense whisper/word river, the boss, the gently loud voice, and condense them until they are brain-sized and there is your picture. Your picture of the constantly-active entity that is my mind.

The sunset mist voice, that one is my favorite. That one is really me. I'd like to drain the river, and just keep the mist, because then I would always be sure, wouldn't waste time trying to forward the whisper river searching for sense. Yes, yes the mist is the loudest voice, but it does not always win. Whispers have tremendous power when they join together, when they overlap in my head, a million different versions of my voice. They are distracting, and sometimes try to entangle my heart. Nothing more would they love then to have it, steal it away from the mist, hide it in their depths. So I can't feel it anymore.

My mist though, my mist won't let it happen. Sometimes the whispers can drown it out, make it dimmer. But it is pervasive. It is strong. It is gentle. It is persistent. It won't let go. I may not always be able to hear it, but I know it won't let go because my heart won't let go either. They love each other. My heart and my mist.

1 + 1 = 2

I am an independent woman. Some would even say a feminist, though that is a word with connotations I would rather not have attached to my name. I love my romantic movies, but I generally do not expect all of the cinematography to turn into my life. I know I am young. I know there are experiences beyond love and relationships. I have friends. I have hobbies. Yet here I find myself, fighting with a surprisingly persistent desire to find another 1 I can add to my 1 to make a beautiful 2. It is a place I try to avoid, and at times I succeed at doing so, but inevitably I look away for a moment only to return my attention just as I step back into this narrow place. And this bothers me. Instead of feeling like a strong individual, I feel weak. A silly little dependent girl. So I have spent a good amount of time trying to become more focused on other aspects of my life. Generally this works, but has also made me realize we have to want it that bad, love I mean. Otherwise prior experience would keep us away.

Let's say you are in high school. Bobby from across the street wants to be your boyfriend, and you let him. Bobby's a hunk, and plus, you've always wanted a boyfriend. You date for a while, find out he is a nice guy, the two of you have fun together, and then (for the average person anyways) one of the two following scenarios occurs. Either your interest (in true finicky teenage fashion) begins to fade, or his does. Both scenarios result in some form of pain for you, either that which belongs to heartbreak, or that which belongs to breaking a heart. Imprints are made in your emotional fabric no matter which role you played, and for a while, you swear off boys. You're "in repair". Soon though (which in high school time probably means next week) you meet Dave. And there you are again, wanting. The fabric that held that imprinted pain is very forgiving. You forget it all, blinded by the wanting.

It is in our heart's ability to forget, or willingness to risk, that I find hope. For if we were not meant to find love, the other 1 in our equation, then our hearts would not be so resilient. Our emotions so forgetful. So, let's shake hands Want. Let's come to an agreement. I will allow you to hang around, but I reserve the right to ignore you, to find better ways to spend my time. When I eventually stumble upon a promising 1, only then, will I acknowledge you. Deal? I think so.

A Note on Music (Pun Intended)

Ah music, music, music. There is too much to say really. If I were a musical prodigy by the name of August I wouldn't have to say anything. Instead I could merely wrap all of the inadequate words up into harmonies and melodies that taste much more delectable to the ear. Since my name is in fact not August however I must stick to writing, attempting to string words together so they may resemble notes at least part of the time.

This entry however is not so much to practice my musical words, but rather to speak of music. The glorious Sun who is lounging in the sky today (he has missed his blue bed, I can tell) called for an accompaniment of Citizen Cope on my walk to class. As much as I love music, I do not often choose to walk around campus with the iPod plugged in for fear of missing the fascinating sounds which float through a university naturally. Today I decided Citizen Cope was worth the loss. And they were, oh how they were.

The magical thing about iPods is they create a world for you. Those around you think you are taking in the same scenery as they are, walking through the same places as they are, but you know you are not, and that's half the magic. The other half is what you are seeing. Here's a picture:

I half smile as I myself inadvertently begin walking in step with the beat of "Somehow". Looking up from my teal shoes which match the sound of the note Citizen just hit to five boys walking in front of me. Do they know they just swayed in perfect time with the rhythm swimming through my ears? Do they know who giddy it made me? And the Sun (because he is in on my little game) laughs in wonder with me as he reflects off that pool of water at the exact climax of the song, making the intensity even more palatable. And even after the ear buds reluctantly leave my ears, the magic continues, because my musically led 10 minute walk made all little movements, changes, anomalies incredibly visible, and that is a visibility that should last at least for the remainder of the day.

So to all you dear, poor souls who do not often surround yourself with the beauty of intricately woven sounds, I urge you to reconsider. Have your sunny day accompanied and tell me what you see.

A Holy Grail of Novels

Who knew that beauty, love, comfort could be so acutely felt while merely sitting in bed? It is a simple combination that creates those feelings too, one comprised of a lyrically written novel and music that is so well orchestrated it makes a novel. Reading, you see, has in the past been a magical pastime for me. Give me a few impeccably written first sentences and I'm sold, lost in book land, and pity the person who tries to pull me out. Unfortunately my quest for such a magical, well-weaved story had been fruitless for much too long. I say 'had been' for the obvious reason that I was lately blessed with Holy Grail of novels. Others may read the same novel and find that statement a gross hyperbole, but I do not mean to insinuate that it is a universal Holy Grail, only the Holy Grail of my personal book expedition.

And how does one kn ow they have found their Holy Grail? There are a few tell-tale signs which I will now illustrate for you with my own experience.

After reading the first few lines I was already drifting between them, until I was surrounded by all of the eloquent phrases, floating above the characters and sometimes even inside their minds, watching, feeling, and hearing every aspect of their lives. It is wondrous what a single, beautifully constructed sentence has the power of doing. Of course I was helped into novel-land by the equally well-constructed song that was playing nonchalantly in the background. The lyrics took on a life of their own, reaching out a hand to me so I may step between the lines of the novel without tripping. It was then I really knew this book was the one. I loved the author for writing in a way that matches the swirling patterns that fly around in my mind. I loved my music for so perfectly accompanying my journey into a different world. Though I am not even half way through this jewel of a novel I can already imagine the sense of loss I will feel once the words run out. John's song Comfortable will be in perfect use to me then, perfectly painting a picture of my feelings. "Our love was comfortable and so broken in," I'll say, rather pathetically, as I put the book on my shelf, staring at it one last time before I turn to my quest of an equally love-beauty-comfort-creating novel.

Golden Globe

A golden globe, I would love to have a golden globe. Actually, I suppose it wouldn't start golden, probably translucent instead, just waiting to be filled so it may glow. Who knows what golden-hued, warm moments you may place inside it, but I know what would fill mine to capacity. They often occur right before sleep carries me away, these most inspired moments. Golden, really, is the only way to describe them because they fill me with pure happiness, real optimism, motivation, passion...life, I just feel the hope and wonder of life. Nothing can stop the little me in my brain at those moments. She is dancing around, accomplishing, creating, inspiring. She is without fear and ready to conquer all. A glorious moment, and yet sadly, it often is only a moment. In the morning she has been hidden once again by her oppressors, the evil Fatigue and SelfDoubt. Here is where the globe would play its part. I pluck that strand of optimism, motivation, in all of its glowing glory, and place it inside the globe for a rainy day. A mental rainy day.

And it is true that sometimes a whole day covers me in the glowing, golden dust of unadulterated happiness. A day when the sun remembers to shine and I remember to smile and people remember they need each other. So just as I plucked the golden moment strand I would collect this golden day dust and sprinkle it into the globe as well.

There are other times as well when drops of gold rain in the form of love. Maybe it was my parents who started the rain, or a look from my brother, or a call from my sister, or a hug from a friend. Whatever instigates the rain, it always leaves me stronger than before, with an incredible sense of invincibleness, unlike that which any superhero may claim to experience. Of course that rain too must be mixed into the globe.

And the globe would follow me, glowing. Bobbing just behind my right shoulder, glowing and waiting. For that mental rainy day, when everything is running short; my patience, my strength, my motivation, my love. On those days I would merely reach behind me, draw from the bowl a fragment of gold, and that would stop the rain. Those golden feelings would never be so easily forgotten, left behind. Instead, they would remain at my fingertips. How beautiful that would be.

Shaking More Fairy Out of the Tale

Several years ago I came to terms with the simple reality that I've watched too many fairy tales. Well, really, watching them isn't the problem; the problem is expecting magic to be so uncomplicated. See, there's a little OR for you. I still believe that forms of magic exist in reality, but I know they do not occur so easily. Cinderella would have a little girl believe one dance is a rock solid foundation for a successful marriage. While first encounters can make a person begin the precarious fall into love, but marriage needs more than dancing. Or how about an adult fairy tale, like The Ugly Truth. There's a movie that would have a single woman believe the sexy, testosterone-pumped man will reveal his inner sensitivity when he finds out who she really is, when he sees into her heart and not her cleavage. Men are capable of sensitivity and love, but having a particularly anti-emotional man around you long enough for the two of you to really get to know each other is a difficult maneuver. Those and many like them are the flaws in both types of fairy tales I've been at terms with, but unfortunately recent events have shaken more fairy out of those tales.

Say you find the guy who really falls for you; the one who notices all your little quirks and loves you more for it, just like in the fairy tales; who not only listens to you but remembers what you say, just like in the fairy tales; the one who goes out of the way to tell you just how amazing you are, just like in the fairy tales; the one who truly irrevocably loves you. What happens if you don't love him? If you see him, appreciate him, care about him, but just know you don't love him? Where is that complication Walt Disney? Because, you see, this situation, it has its own kind of hurt, different than just not finding love. It kills that person to see you, love you, and know you don't love them, just as much as it kills you to see that person, know he loves you, and not be able to love him back. For the person who has only been on the loving side of that transaction it may seem insensitive to say the unwilling receiver experiences any pain, but they do. If they are a good person, they do. It is the pain of knowing you are hurting someone you care about, and not being able to make it better in any way, make it stop. You want to love them as much as they love you, return all of that sweetness you are receiving, but you know it is worse to lie. The exchange of half a heart for a whole heart is not an equal exchange.

So where is the OR in this scenario? In a little movie called (500) Days of Summer. Watch it, please watch it, but I'll give you the moral now. Love, it exists, but if someone you love cannot exchange it with theirs, your world does not have to end. Yes, for a while it will feel that way, and that is reasonable, but the truth is, if they don't love you they are not your final destination. They are merely one of the bridges that are helping you get there.

Optimistic Realism Says the Heart of Life is Good

I started referring to myself as an optimistic realist a few years ago, when I realized I wasn't always quite the optimistic ball of sunshine I had come to think I was. In that moment I was also completely aware that I was far from a pessimist, pessimism is no fun. And what does it help really? Constantly doubting outcomes, limiting yourself, finding the bad...who benefits? Not you or the people around you who can smell your pessimism like second-hand smoke, and trust me, it is as lethal.

There I was, my optimism defeated and yet pessimism still safely at bay. I was disappointed in finding that I was once again straying from the Jo March persona I always attributed to myself. Little Women is a movie I have watched multiple times a year since my finger-painting days, and while I always imagined myself as Jo, others liked to call me the Meg, including my high school drama teacher who cast me as Meg in the play itself. My heart is as free and ambitious as the former Miss March, but my oldest-sibling mentality brain kept me acting as the more cautious and realistic Meg. And that's what I realized that day, that though my Jo personality was not visible to all, it did exist in cooperation with my Meg personality, thus making me optimistic and realistic at the same time. And for me, it is safer, which, unfortunately, is something I do crave.

Here is a simple definition of my mindset: an optimist would say life is always good, and I (with a little help from John) say the HEART of life is good. War happens, cancer happens, poverty happens, heartbreak happens, and yet where a pessimist may take that and say life isn't worth living, an optimistic realist says that life is hard, but at the root of everything, deep in every person, there is a capacity for good. Because you see, peace also happens, miracle cures happen, wealthiness happens, love happens. You cannot ignore the bad but even more so you cannot ignore the good.

And that's how I try to live my life, avoiding ignorance but having faith.

A Little Shaky, but John Mayer Awaits

I am a little shaky here. My heart seems to be thumping a little faster than its normal rate. And why? All because I'm setting up an electronic journal? Silly, I know. The whole world is doing it. Six-year-old granddaughters and their 100-year-old grandmothers. Still, I am a pen and paper kind of gal, and usually rather possessive about my writing. Mine are the only eyes that have crossed the pages of the decoupaged journal which hides in perfect cliched fashion under my bed. Still, this is something I've told myself I'd do for a while now, start a blog I mean, so here I am. And I'll warn you now, I'm a little long winded. I promise to work on that, but for the moment I need the comfort of many words, so please bear with me.

You see, I was a reporter all through high school. I'm not talking for the high school newspaper either, no no, it was a teen section of our local newspaper that I wrote for, a privilege I often took for granted. A month or two after graduating I started to feel this tightness whose source I couldn't quite identify. I felt constricted all of a sudden, less free than I had been, and that seemed odd. One day, as I was driving in my car, being swept up in the magic that is John Mayer's music, it hit me. I wanted to write about that moment, to share that moment with anyone, the general public, and I couldn't. My ability to publish was gone, and now it's back again. Not in the tangible form I'd prefer, but back nonetheless.

The Optimistic Realist (or The OR if you'd prefer) is now my forum to publish tid bits of news without deadlines and more imbued with my own opinion. Optimistic realism (a conundrum though it might seem) and John Mayer will be the basic themes. Please, music conisseurs, do not stop reading at this point because you find John too main stream, too pop, too tabloid. He is not a theme here because I find him sexy or idolize his habits. I am not a follower of tabloids so I don't know what his social life is like, but what I do know is that I connect to his music like nothing else. So that's what I'm going to talk about here: his music and how it relates to so many aspects of my life. And I'll call him John not because I dare to assume or suggest we are on a first name basis, but because that is how familiar I am with his music. The man and the music are two separate entities, and I am more concerned with the music. So if, on the off chance the man ever stumbles upon this, I hope to make his acquaintance merely to talk about the melodies and lyrics he has so intricately wound together, not to ask about what ever girl he may or may not be dating at the time.

Let this be a place where we can all share opinions, express feelings, use the power of voice. Some days I may write in prose and others in poetry, the point is merely that I let my whirling thoughts out through my typing fingers, because they need to roam. Therefore, should you be so moved to comment, please do, in what ever form your heart and mind may desire. I will be honest, the internet scares me, well, actually, our dependence upon the internet scares me, yet for the moment I am remaining open minded because it does do a tremendous thing: connect people. And people, you see, are my real interest. We are a fascinating species, and we really truly need each other. We do. And we need to be heard. And we need to listen. So, let us be connected by the internet, but let us also remember the importance of face to face conversations, physical contact. Ironic to make that request in a blog, but it is my plan to use this not as a place to hide from the real world, but rather to document the real world. A place to document my passions and desires so that not only I can see them, but others can as well, others can hold me accountable, make me pursue. Because once all of these fantasies are not safely in my head anymore they may run away and become lost, so I must pursue.

Tomorrow the true entries will start, and hopefully be more concise, starting with an explanation of optimistic realism.

Signed with smiles and gratitude (and apologies for typos),

The OR