A Reminder - About People

We are meant to love. We are built for it. We need it. A simple enough concept, but not always remembered.

Finding people's faults, making them worse than you - it accomplishes a purpose. It gives you a connection with someone else, something to talk about, agree upon. It can be satisfying to make a connection by ignoring another. But it  is also this ordeal to overcome. When you see them you have to avoid them and be aggravated with them. So much energy and thinking wasted upon separating yourself from the person.

One day though, one day that person will be standing in a different light. Something for some reason will make their vulnerabilities appear.  Then you will see that they are looking for the same things you are. They want to be validated. To know they are decent people. To be seen, truly truly seen. And when you take the time to see them. To meet them in their vulnerable place, THAT  is satisfying. Satiating. Living. Because you've created a similarity with another person. You've understood again that you are not the only person struggling through ambiguity to clarify how you want to come across. You are taking time to understand someone you previously misunderstood and thus someone will do the same. We get more than one chance to be the people we truly are. There are screw ups but there are also recoveries.

We all want compassion. We all must give compassion.

Snapshots Not Yet Seen

Pick me up by the laces of my suede-bottomed floor-scuffed oxfords and fly me to a room full of brassy, nutmeg flavored music.

Please.

Lead me to a meadow where my bare feet dance in the grass that is lush and smells lush and feels lush and is lush. Cotton against my skin and a breeze in the strands of my hair.

Please.

Place me on the Washington mall and let me walk in heels that meet the pavement to create that solid clack that rings of independence and success.

Please.

Show me a wood-planked farm house with chipping paint on acres of land where I can use my hands to plant and collect eggs and learn the earth. Where my feet in yellow rain boots will splash in puddles.

Please.

Find me finally in slippers in a home, remnants left by small handprints on the walls, a room of books and a room of windows. A home where warmth grows exponentially and generations gather continually.

Please.

It's in the Passion

Lesson 2: The secret's in the passion. 

There is so much dedication in a room full of lindy hoppers. Yes you can take lessons from a few different people in the same state where you grew up and become a good dancer. Perhaps even the best in your venue. But to become a name that is frequently compared to the likes of Frankie Manning around the world you must let your dancing shoes take you around the world. Live from a suitcase and with a traveling gypsy troupe in suspenders and oxfords. And then when you've made it to the top, you teach hours of workshops all over the world. With your travelling gypsy troupe. And you smile the whole time and dance with the person who just learned to triple step yesterday.

And your passion for the art is so big that you are also a musician so you can simply be an extension of the music when you dance. And you become a historian; a keeper of knowledge about the time period when your art form was born and about the people who so lovingly sent out into the world.

Because your passion is so big you have to soak in every aspect of it and then drizzle it upon all those who come close to you.

At least thats what I felt every time I was around Sky and Frida or Sharon and Juan or any other person who had built their life around swing outs and Charleston and Susy Qs. They had obviously worked hard to get where they were and were so willing to share that dedication and passion with so many others.

And it just started me thinking, "Ah, that's it! It's the passion!" To live life fully and dynamically and joyously there must be passion. Whether it be a single passion or several, a simple passion or complex.

So that's it. The secret is in the passion.

Some Lindy Lessons

I expected to better my technique and learn new moves from the 3 day workshop so quainlty referred to as Camp Jitterbug that takes place annually on Memorial Day weekend. Brush up on the technical aspects of the dance. What I learned most about, though, was its history and its wonderful atmosphere.

So, my next few posts will be dedicated to a few lessons from lindy as displayed by the fashions and talents I witnessed. They will come in installments, because, well, it's just more fun that way.

Lesson 1: Marilyn Monroe is still alive. 

Well, not literally, but her essence is living in Sharon, a famous lindy lady from Australia. And really the point from this is we carry history in actions, in our passions. Lindy hop took its first triple steps in the late 30s, and yet here we are in 2011, dancing our hearts out. We are keeping the lives of people such as Norma Miller, who was in the original landmark lindy video below, valid and purpose-filled by both modernizing the dance and recreating the classics.

These two videos really illustrate that. This scene from the movie Hellzapoppin' helped kickstart the lindy buzz around the world. And in the 2000s its importance and display of talent have not been forgotten. 

Original Hellzapoppin

Jitterbug Hellzapoppin: Start at 2:56

Land of Lindy

It was more than just the dancing. 

And the dancing would have been enough.

But it was also the shoes and the hair and the clothes.

The smiles, laughs, passions.

Because of all those things, it was historical.

A weekend to be stored in the archives of my life and returned to often and fondly.

My weekend in the Land of Lindy. 

More to come on the people who were almost too good to be true,
and the clothes combined with movement combined with passion
that made them that way. 

Cornelia Quest Part 2

So the quest has been moving slowly, but it is moving! I found these wonderful shoes in a small boutique in Long Beach, California. A little Italian woman owned the store, and when I told her I was looking for shoes to dance in, she said, "Oh, come over here. This is good floor to practice on. Practice your dancing in the shoes." And she gave me a bit of a discount, so naturally I could not resist. Cornelia would have loved her. 

The suspenders have less of a story. They were at Good Will and I figured it never hurts to have suspenders. While the outfit is far from complete, the shoes and suspenders will likely be appearing Memorial Day weekend at the wonderful Camp Jitterbug. Cornelia will be dancing the weekend away with us. 

A Few Steps Back

Take a few steps back.

Take a few steps back and you will see the whole person.

You meet a person and find her qualities enjoyable. Or you are told he is related to you. Or she is a co-worker. So you are pulled together with a special form of magnetism. Day to day you are face to face. Working or playing or loving. And for a time it is wonderful. All pleasantries and the excitement of discovering new things.

But then the closeness rubs. The proximity makes annoyances vivid. Highlights the differences. The ways in which you are not the same, can never be the same. And judgment is planted and grows and grows until all that is visible is the difference. The ways in which the other person does not live properly because she does not live like you.

So you have to take a few steps back.

Take a few steps back and see the story behind that person.

Each life is developed by different characters, punctuated with different scenes, hiccuped by different plot twists. When you first meet each other you give the exposition, the background information that makes you intriguing to each other to begin with. But with closeness comes an ability to forget the background. And to forget all of the qualities you held in such esteem in that other person because they were qualities that you did not have. That you want to develop for yourself.

Sentiment is perhaps one of the largest taboos of humanity. How often do you take an hour to sit down with your closest friends and tell them why they are your closest friends? Such a sharing of a sentiment is acceptable between young couples, but elicits uncomfortable chuckles when suggested amid other types of relationships.

But the spilling of sentiment is important. And not just so your friends know why you value them, but so you can hear why each person values each other. There may be things you love about a friend that the friction of proximity has rubbed away. With the simple reminding from someone else's sentiment you are able to take a step back. To see the whole person.

We form relationships. We are workers and friends and lovers and sons and daughters and mothers and fathers. But we are also individuals. And perhaps one of the truest ironies of life is that it takes stepping back, taking in the whole picture, to see the individual.

Because I Can't Let a Walk Just be a Walk...

In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life


Sometimes I question music, the value of it. We drop money at the feet of people who stand and coax sounds out of strings and vocal chords. It can seem superfluous. Unnecessary in a world made by laborers, activists, innovators.

But then I hear words like the ones above - on a walk - in the refreshing cold - with no other sound. John said we are bigger than our bodies give us credit for and Mumford says life exists in love. And I know this, inherently, it is imprinted on my heart. Because there are days, weeks, when the structure of school and work become confining. When I want to free myself - do nothing more than find a field and walk through it and dance in it and open open open. I have not found that physical place yet but music helps me escape a bit.

This afternoon I walked on a path, one foot in front of the other, past average houses and cars and people. But Mumford awoke my soul, allowed me to feel my real life, if even for a moment. The life that is so much bigger than my body; the life that is anxious, anxious to cover the world. To invest more and more love into the places I know I will go but have not yet reached.

That is what I learned today. Or relearned. When you feel too confined in your body, when your life is calling to you, answer it, if only quietly. Let music carry you away or find what other release you can. Just do not ignore it. Do not confine your life and love to bones and skin.

A Small Digital Note to the Tangible World

Ah blog, oh blog. I have been absent for a bit. I believe I am experiencing an over stimulation of digital accessories. I am an old soul you know. A soul made of paper and ink and jazz and texture. My body, however, is here, in a world so generously graced with glowing screens in varying sizes. They are amazing, that is for sure. I am a sucker for a good, overly-dramatic Facebook status, and blogs are wonderful things to follow - though I perhaps follow a particular few too closely, and Twitter hooked me by its little birdy feet as well. Through these new social outlets I am told I will increase my marketability, because what employer does not want someone who speaks Tweet? So I cannot and will not discredit them, I am depending upon them for my future. I will not sell my soul to them though. In order to fill the space behind that incessant blinking cursor I must allow myself to escape to the physical world occasionally. Remember what a pen feels like between my fingers. And I encourage that we all do this. Appreciate the opportunity and connectivity that technology has provided without forgetting about the tangible mediums. Books. Journals. Face to face conversations.

Therefore tonight I will post this small post in order to keep up with the digital world, and then write in a more tangible way in order to keep my connection to the real world. Perhaps in some ironic way this new approach will simultaneously make me a more productive blogger and truer to my old soul. I appreciate all well wishes in this endeavor. Bon soir!

Tales from Sun-Toasted California: Part 1; Parking Lot Exodus

I recently took a trip to California with good friends and met many captivating characters along the way. They are too vivid, too colorful to remain cooped up in my mind, so I will illustrate them in my blog. And here is part 1:


Parking Lot Exodus

"Meters, meters, meters!"

Volleyballs create a ripple of small sand explosions as they fall in holes where lightly-toasted arms stretched seconds ago. The hourly parking lot exodus has begun.

Sharleen's sharp eye - so accustomed to following white leather flying through the air - first noticed the white jeep driving through the lot. It was her rallying cry that summoned the other forces. She led them to the lot, snatching a small tin container of quarters from her bag without even aiming. The young, tone ones always fell instep behind her first, with those who were trying to recreate their young, tone years close behind.

"I've got yours Jack, stay put," Sharleen yells without turning her head or losing stride. Jack had barely reached the blue rope that marked the edge of the court. He blamed the wind blowing through his white hair for his delay, but did not argue with Sharleen's order.

Fred and the two Washingtonians remained on the court with Jack and other car-less Sunday beach-volleyball stars.

"She has a parking pass, she doesn't need all those quarters," Fred told the untoasted foreigners. "She brings 'em every week anyways." His words were aimed at them, but his fond smile and gaze followed the cropped dark hair bobbing away from him.

Finding the Concrete in Abstracts

I actually finished this week's assignment early! The point of this exercise was to take an abstract idea (jealousy, loneliness, love, joy, laziness) and describe it in concrete terms. We weren't supposed to mention the abstract at all, so hopefully the idea comes across.

Dione glided between the perilous book towers with her softly bent arms hovering just above her hips.  Occasionally the tip of one of her pianist fingers dusted a leathery book cover and she would pause, lift the book from its Grecian structure, and examine the title. Theo watched through a hole framed by Salinger and Steinback and his breathing slowed to a pace matching the dust particles floating in and out of rays of sun.

She opened the front cover and her eyes skipped across the page, making an impressive show of actual reading. The steadiness of her movements and the picking up of the books were mere attempts to counteract the heart running amok in her temple of coolness. Though she didn’t know which shelf he wandered behind, Dione was sure she felt the power of those miniature oceans Theo called eyes upon her. It was difficult to avoid swaying in their currents, and Dione never swayed. 

Setting down the book she continued her gliding in the direction of the shelves, stirring up aromas of freshly-opened book, day-old coffee, and newly-fallen rain as she went. Her arms now were straight by her sides, making it easier to clench and unclench her sweating palm around a handful of her cotton dress. Instead of watching well structured sentences conjure up an imaginary man, she longed to watch lines melt into sweet puddles in the landscape of Theo’s face. Just as she paused in between the shelves of Dickens and Orwell she felt ink-stained fingers perch on her shoulder. She turned slowly, found those miniature oceans, and for the first time gave way to the undertow. 

Beginnings

We're getting closer and closer to finishing our first short-short story (3-5 pages)...scary! Last week's exercise was about beginnings, so here is the potential beginning for my short-short. Still not sure how I feel about it. 


The silk, with its faint champagne shimmer, had clung to her body as naturally as her skin when she stepped into the gown two hours ago. A single strap clasped perfectly to her shoulder, giving way to a ripple of fabric that hugged her upper body, pooled perfectly around her hips, and cascaded to the ground. Now it was all too tight. A constant awareness of prying eyes straightened her spine and caused her shoulder blades to throw themselves at one another. That heavy sound, the one full of energy but lacking in depth, pulled at the silk. She fidgeted around in her seat, trying to pull back, to regain her comfort. Once she brushed elbows with the man to her left; he turned and winked at her. She sat on her hands to avoid splashing the rest of her champagne in his face. The seat to her right had a tangible emptiness. Looking at the untouched food, fork and knife laying haphazardly across the prime rib, where they were almost put to use, she sighed slowly.

“Ah, you must be the newbie’s wife, huh? Welcome to the circus darlin’,” Senator John Smith number 49 said as he passed by, his evening gown-donning accessory draped over his arm.

The newbie’s wife. When did she become that foreign creature? 

The Trio

Here is an exercise about scene...I had to convey these people's emotions for each other entirely through body language. Can you guess what they are?

Charles leads the trio in, per usual, catching his reflection in the mirror behind the register before striding straight to his favorite seat. Something about the ceiling to floor display of wine glasses behind the bar always captivated him. Janet is only a few steps behind, her eyes on Charles to see where he’ll sit, as if it would be anywhere else. She takes the seat to the right of him, and subtly scuffles it to the left. Marcus always lags a bit. The revolving door still proves difficult for him to navigate. After attempting to help Janet into her seat, he takes the mahogany chair to her right. They all give slight smiles and nods to one another, as if to acknowledge the impeccable location of the table.

When Charles sits not a single one of his vertebrae comes close to brushing the back of his chair. He moves his head side to side ever so slightly, watching as the wine glasses make a mosaic of his symmetrical features. Occasionally the brush of Janet’s fingers on his forearm startles him and breaks his gaze from the glasses, but it never stays away long. Marcus sits across from Charles, creating the perfect antithesis to his posture. He is tall like Charles, but his body is more river than oak tree. The most solid thing about him is the hand he keeps on the table to provide the stability he needs to balance on the back two legs of his chair. The other lanky limbs spill over the chair, which is turned at a slight angle towards Janet. During their conversation he has the habit of tapping his left, green converse shoe on the leg of her chair. She doesn’t seem to notice. 

Running

You'll have to bear with me on this week's class exercise a bit. We had to play with different points of view (which there are a million, if not 8 of, by the way) while rewriting the same scene. There is a redundancy to this exercise, so I wasn't even going to post it, but it proved a little more interesting than I thought.

I tried to keep the same scene while changing perspective, but in most cases the story ended up shifting a bit. That got me thinking of that oh-so-over-stated idea of putting yourself in someone else's shoes, taking a moment to see from someone else's perspective. It is a truth so accepted it is often ignored. That's what makes this exercise so interesting. It gives concrete evidence that the same story, the same situation, can look and feel different when looked at with different points of view. And while our points of view may appear almost identical at times, the slight difference in perspective can become a large difference in story.

Just something to think about.

(One last thing...if you want explanations of each point of view, either email me, or check out Josip Novakovich's book, Fiction Writer's Workshop. Great stuff.)

First Person POV:

           

Correct me if I’m wrong, but most people I see running for exercise wear athletic sweats of some kind. Me, I run in my suit and tie after work, or in my jeans and t-shirt on weekends. Nevertheless my neighbors have started patting me on the back for my sudden interest in my health. “What inspired you to take up running?” they ask. Apparently the 8-year-old bolting away in front of me does not attract their attention. If they noticed him, they would also notice my face, which I imagine carries less athletic determination than parental frustration. Why did I take up running? Because my son did. Unfortunately he is not running toward anything, just away from me.

Second-Person POV:

            

You know why it started, the sudden running away. She had been sick for over a year. The ambulance came in April and took her for months. You watched her come home once, you saw the relief in her footsteps. Then another ambulance came. Months later you saw her come home again. This time you saw the inevitable in the rolling wheels that carried her frail body into the house. Ambulances and sickness are now replaced with running. Every day you see that boy run away from his father. In the grocery store he narrowly misses your cart as he darts by, and his father is close behind. After church he brushes by you, and his father is a little farther behind. At school he knocks over a few chairs, and his father is in the distance. You see the running 

and you ask no questions. 

Third-Person Omniscient POV:

           

As he bolted away from his father for the third time that day the boy started feeling the effects of fatigue. His father, following closely behind, could see it, could feel it. He hoped it meant his son’s new hobby would soon end. It didn’t. The boy was not trying to add to his father’s problems. Emotions just hit him all at once; confusion, sadness, anger – and then he had to run. Really, his father understood. When the grief came rolling over him, however, he had the option of pouring a glass, or two, or five.        

Third-Person Limited Subjective:

           

Exhaustion consumed the father. An exhaustion of the tear ducts, of the mind, of the spirit, and more recently, an exhaustion of the legs. Really, the change in behavior didn’t surprise him. An 8-year-old loses his mother and change is inevitable. He just wished the change involved less running.

Third-Person Limited Objective:

            

The man behind Charlie was dragging. Each step seemed to melt into the ground, making it harder for him to pull his foot back up and continue forward. There seemed to be a cinder block on each of his shoulders, causing them to fall sharply. Charlie stopped his running suddenly and turned back to look at the man. When the man caught up, he got on his knees in front of Charlie, putting him at eye-level with the boy.

           “Charlie,” the man said in heaved breaths, “why do you keep running?”

           Charlie stared at him.

            “You know I love you right?” the man heaved again. Regaining his breath seemed like a difficult process.

            Charlie nodded, looked at his shoes.

            “Do you want to talk about, about her? I can do that. I am ready.”

            A tear rolled off of Charlie’s shoe and the cement below absorbed it. He looked up, into the man’s eyes, and hugged him.

            “I hurt daddy. I hurt,” he whispered. 

Third-Person Limited Flexible:

            

He ran after his son for the third time that day and wondered how much longer he could keep it up, the running. The methodic “thud, thud, thud” of his dress shoes on the pavement spun him into a reverie of the last month. It had been a month of chasing. Chasing away his nightmares and chasing after his son. 

Third-Person Objective:

A small boy sprinted down the street. Close behind followed a man whose tie was loosened and hair was frazzled. The boy started slowing down as a he came upon an ice cream shop. Finally reaching a complete stop, he gazed through the window. By this time the man had caught up with him. He got on his knees and grabbed the boy’s hand. Slowly, the boy turned to face the man. With his small, finger-paint-stained hand he wiped a tear off of the man’s cheek. 

(Last thing, really, I promise this time...these characters are part of a story I am working on right now. So if you're curious, there will be more.) 

A Small Stage in a Town with a Backbone of Labor

A brief disclaimer: Currently I am in a short story class in which we are focusing on developing the different parts of fiction. Each week we do an exercise on a different element, and I've decided I will post a few of them in my blog as well. This first one is an example of setting.

Sun shines on the cobblestone road as it strolls past the too-trendy-for-this-town coffee shop on the corner. A sharp turn to the left and cobblestone meets asphalt abruptly – history only pays for so much after all. Sparkling lights in trees entice pedestrians to storefronts that promise quaint nick-knack shops but offer hardware stores. Where the lights end the warm, bitter smell and the truth begin. The smell is hops. The truth is agriculture. Neither can hide behind twinkling lights and the faint aroma of coffee. This is a town with a backbone of labor. It is evident here, on Main Street, because of the warehouses. On the other side of town suburbs grow out of orchards. It is evident there, because of the magazine-clipped houses that are the product of fruit plucked by immigrants and money made by family businesses.

In the heart of town neither extreme is so evident. Quaint houses of blue and red and green do exist on streets by the names of Chestnut and Lincoln; remnants of a time when neighbors worked side-by-side and spoke face-to-face. Schools made dingy with time still stand tall, alternately spilling students in colors of green and white, red and blue, orange and black from their halls.

Inside the school whose spillage was red and blue there is a stage. Deep but short, chipping but well-loved. Half a decade ago a 13-year-old girl stood upon its black surface staring at the robust red velvet curtain to her right, rather than the bald smiling director to her front. To her left the pianist sat, fingers perched on the keys of the upright piano on wheels, waiting for the girl’s nod indicating she was ready to begin. With a deep breath she was ready to look forward, but over the director’s head. She tried to avoid the window-turned-mirror on the sound and lighting booth at the back of the theater that usually feels overcrowded at 300 people; though she was feeling that twenty were a bit too many. Finally she decided to focus on the empty seats that were taken from a dying movie theater and gifted to a growing high school theater. They were old and ordinary and smelled faintly of popcorn. She found the combination comforting. Her neck muscles relaxed enough to her allow to nod while staring straight forward. Notes of the piece she had selected started streaming from the piano. One more deep breath and she allowed her robust voice to accompany the fluid chords. The director found the combination comforting. 

Novelty

I wonder if you know you are characters in my story. The one I am constantly mentally writing as I go from experience to experience in my life. You may sit there and feel like a solid set of molecules and other science-type-jargon but I see you sketched and textured in a light that is more novel.

"Hey, crazy lady," you may say, "you don't even know my name. We haven't even exchanged words."

Ah, but I merely said you were characters, I did not specify your role. You make up the rich setting, but by no means is that of less importance than the drivers of plot in my story. See, you add color to the places I have been and I will go. You are flat but in a crucial way.

There are times, however, when your look so intrigues me, your action so entices me, that I must physically write your story as I imagine it. This is done out of respect and the belief that no person is too ordinary for the novels.

So now, because I am such a lover of stories, I have to ask you question. Would you put me in yours? Do you create poetry around the way my scarf loosly hangs from my pale neck? Perhaps I am too presumptuous.  It is just that I would love for a moment to be sketched into the more ethereal and less flesh-and-bones person I sometimes feel I am. A character in your novel. Do I exist in that manner? May I?

In the Arena

In the arena

You stand-

You hear

First foreboding gasps of a gale

In the arena 

You sweat-

You know

Gales are ran with or suffered in

In the arena

You stay-

You feel

Rawness in the earth below you

In the arena

You smile-

You draw

Strength from the surrounding unseen.