The Optimistic Realist and John

A Reminder - About People

2011-08-17T10:56:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-12T16:26:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-11T00:02:00.000-07:00

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

2011-06-07T00:49:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-31T23:42:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-22T14:40:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-04T22:21:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-04-19T00:09:00.000-07:00

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

2011-04-11T23:52:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-18T00:11:00.000-07:00

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

2011-03-02T15:32:00.000-08:00

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

2011-03-02T15:18:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-21T17:12:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-10T00:30:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-03T13:11:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-26T10:28:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-13T01:28:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-11-17T21:49:00.000-08:00

W
   O r


   D


   s .

Like w i n d.

Felt rather than seen

Yes you read them. You write them. But in those forms they are only odd shapes.

It is the meaning that whips around you.

Tangles your hair.

Bends people perceptions predicaments

Meaning you feel.

And try to

And try to hold.

And you are frustrated because it won't slow down.

And it buffets you.

So you try to

fight.

Do not fight.

STAND.

Spread your arms.

close your eyes

Let the meaning penetrate.

Soft Soft Soft

2010-10-15T02:03:00.000-07:00

Soft soft soft guitar strings strummed by such familiar fingers. In that mirror she looking at her eyes full of respect and admiration. She and she and she criss cross applesauce on the fraying college perfect carpet completely comfortable. Not one of them is touching the other but I can feel the constant connectivity between each. I cherish the moment so full of humility gratitude love. Decadent decadent decadent.

Thank you thank you silently I whisper in my head for reminding me of the power of human interaction. All day I touch touch touch but never really feel like I feel the intangible strings of relationships. You may not know it but you and you and you help to hold me together.

I fold up these little moments you create and put them in my pocket to pull out and feel the creases on a rainy day. And maybe maybe maybe one day side by side I will lay them. Maybe tape I will find that will hold them - or string to weave them - all together into a portrait of life created by portraitures of individuals.

Then I will fold fold fold it all back up into words and tie those words into a story and create a book full of my faith in people.

The Cornelia Quest for the Bow Tie Ensemble

2010-10-05T11:31:00.000-07:00

Now for a departure from the theme of my last few posts. I would like to share with you all a fun little project I am starting.

I found this bow tie in a quaint consignment shop called The Storm Cellar. Looking at it I wished for a brief moment that I were a man who could put together a snappy outfit to match the bow tie. Once that brief moment of foolishness passed (for I quite enjoy my femininity) I realized I did not need to be a man. Why not reconstruct a traditionally masculine style into a uniquely female fashion?

So I bought it. And now it is my little project. One I believe Cornelia would be proud of (if you do not know who Cornelia is, please refer to the novel Love Walked In). Therefore I dub it:

The Cornelia Quest for the Bow Tie Ensemble. Cornelia Quest for short.

Little by little I will create the perfect swing dancing outfit based upon this bow tie, and I will record all of the findings here. The goal is that this will not only be a chronicle of how the ensemble is pieced together, but of how my dance experience is expanding. Dancing has found a place in the center of my life, and I fully expect it to stay there. Once the outfit is completed perhaps its premiere appearance will be in my first lindy competition. Or perhaps it will be another night at my favorite venue. Either way it will find its way to the dance floor.

So here begins the Cornelia Quest with a photograph of the swing-fashion inspiring bow tie:

Photo courtesy of Julia Vigen

Bigger Than My Body (Is That Too Much?)

2010-10-04T21:18:00.000-07:00

I sit there. Staring at a screen. And have to pull my fingers away. Because I am sitting still but inside I am swaying. Swaying outside of the lines of my etched profile. Bigger than my body.

In these moments I would like to go lie in a meadow, let my body press into the grass. Allow my swaying to continue until I swirl outside of my body and spread out, a giant map of the constellations of life as I know it. Become part of something that is bigger than my body.

I say things like this and feel that maybe I am too much. Like the world may look at my words and say

"Look at her, trying too hard to be profound. Making life into a mixture of metaphors when it is really all straight lines and angles."

Meet me and you would find I am capable of speaking literally. You would find that I worry about passing tests that I fret over my hair that I gossip about boys that I live like other college women. I cannot deny my material existence. It is a large part of who I am.

But I also feel so acutely. And I know that I write about this quite often but it is a phenomenon I have to try and make understandable with words. I cannot deny that I spend a large amount of time in a space that is suspended between the tangible earth and the world of intangible experiences. It is a large part of who I am.

I do not want to assume I am the only person who feels so much that at times it is difficult to keep my feet firmly planted on real soil. In fact I think that is why I sometimes share these thoughts with people, to find who else out there is living in metaphors.

Some have a little chuckle for these moments, it is a loving chuckle, one that says,

"Oh Alyssa, there she goes again, how sweet."

And I love them for this. Appreciate them. But recognize that they don't really believe that the sensations I describe are so achingly real.

Some just look confused. Or rather annoyed. I would assume this is because they think I am trying to sound impressive, philosophical, wise, but perhaps there are other reasons. I bare no resentment towards these people, I only wish that we could make ourselves more transparent to each other.

One day I expect that someone will see me in a state of over-sensation, a moment when I am so tangibly bigger than my body, and this person will not see my still profile, but instead the part of me that is swaying. This person will take my hand and lead me to a field far away from city lights and right next to star lights. Then this person will lie down there with me, because this person will need the grass too.

And I think this person will be a man. And I think this will be what love feels like for us. And I think I will marry him.

(And I am afraid this is too much to expect.)

Life: Filling in the Lines

2010-09-19T23:55:00.000-07:00

Trace my outline in the dust of the moon and I will fill it with stories of my life thus far.

Starting at my feet with the adventures of childhood. The budding of an easily triggered imagination. My stumble into writing.

Move upwards and the stories are more people orientated. A different story for each of the people who became the molding hands of that part of me. These stories, however, are a bit more sporadic. They do not fill in consecutive space. Certain portions around the heart, for instance, are written with stars in circling patterns, but those patterns border large holes of night sky waiting to be filled by experiences not yet written.

Often in the moments when I think I have properly accounted for all of the empty spaces, one emerges in a place I had not before noticed. Watching stars fill in a previously empty piece of night sky is a particularly satiating feeling, but there is something riveting about discovering an unanticipated emptiness. Because, you see, it doesn't mean I have another obstacle to climb before I can finish filling in the lines. Rather it means I have stepped into some else's perspective of life and found myself wanting. I have opened up another door of understanding.

Write with stars, anticipate night sky, rejoice in unknown: in this way my identity is created.

In this way I learn about myself little by little. In this way I become more equipped to learn about life outside of my moon dust.

One day I will etch in the last story. I will be complete. And it will be the end of my life. No, not the end, the completion. Perhaps it seems like a tremendous irony to spend your whole life working towards completion, only to leave the physical world once you do, but I do not see the irony.

If you live without creating stories you are not living. If you live without curiosity you are not living. Once you have experienced enough to solidify yourself, you no longer need solid ground beneath your feet. You are freed from the gravity of life. You are all moon dust. Maybe even the beginnings of a new outline.

Spilling of Thoughts, An Abstract If You Will

2010-08-23T23:00:00.000-07:00

I've been absent for a while and I hate that. I miss the writing and I have so much to say. But I am having a hard time finding order for those thoughts. There seems to be an overall discovery lurking in the depths of my mind, but I cannot quite name it, and I'd never get anything on the screen if I tried. Therefore I will just release thoughts at random, create an abstract if you will.

Moonlight is my favorite kind. The sky is so dense tonight. Dense and clear and so so open. And the moon is so perfectly placed within it. As if it were a round sticker, lovingly pressed upon a vast stretch of satin canvas. Once pressed there light was released. But light hardly seems like the right word. It is...more delicate, and yet more present than normal light. I feel I could collect it in my hand, gently brush it up and create individual beams, or let it flow from my fingers over the earth, or simply spread it over myself so I may soak it in and become a purer form of myself. How I would love to bath in the moonlight (I will find a better term for it, I will).

Here I am, in the same geographical location but different internal place. Before I said my heart was unfolded, and I still believe that, but I think there is more to it. I think I am meeting my deeper self. By deeper I do not mean more profound. I mean more enveloped, more protected. Enveloped and protected because it is my honest self and therefore more fragile. In truth, I believe it is my soul. If I could find another word I would use it. We have kicked around the word soul. Crammed it, stretched it, and contorted it into different definitions and social truths that have left it hollow. So try and strip the word from itself and merely focus on what I am describing:

A less physical me. Instead of flesh and blood she is created from the weaving of love. She is complete truth. There is no second guessing anything. She is grounded, sure of herself, and sure of others. Omniscient almost. Not necessarily in the sense that she actually knows all, but understands the individuality of each person, the good of each person. As I said before though, she is fragile, not quite world-proof. Which is why the physical me is necessary. And why I am far from perfect. Is that how you imagine a soul? Or is that merely my definition?

Ah see I think I have found sequence in this abstract. My soul is made of moonlight. At least I feel filled with moonlight, and so that is the term I will use instead of soul.

Becoming aware of my moonlight allows me to become more aware of other people's moonlight. Sharing moonlight is wonderfully fulfilling.

Perhaps this is nonsensical, but it is what I needed to express, so I can not apologize for it.

Embracing Transition

2010-07-05T23:09:00.000-07:00

I am in transition. In the middle of change. Straddling two lives. One being the familiar, simple, family-and-friend centered nest of a life I have known for 18 years. The second being the unknown, complex, independent life I will know for an undetermined amount of time. Until I hit another transition.

People fear this place I am in, transition. A speaker I heard once said that it is not change that we dread, but the getting there. The middle portion. If we were able to jump from our current patch of grass to the different shade of green waiting on the opposite bank without having to struggle through the river, we wouldn't mind the new scenery. So at times people will wander through transition with their eyes close, in order to perhaps miss the struggle. I have come to discover that is an ignorant way to approach transition.

Here I am, standing. Grounded. Solid. Aware of my position, yet not attached, because I know it is transient. While I am standing here I see behind me a transparency of myself. Dim but existent she is there, transferring past knowledge along, giving me a lifeline of familiarity as I inch into alien territory. This awareness of the past would not be so enlightening if not for the transparency also standing in front of me. Dim not as a result of fading, but instead, emerging. Because I have taken one step out of my nested life I can see further in front of me. Little by little that transparency will become more solid. The transitional period will end when I find a new definition of comfort.

But until then, I am living with a three dimensional perspective. Foresight and hindsight are sharpened at once, since I have not yet fully detached or attached to one life. My eyes are open wide. I am learning from a fresh, raw, vulnerable place. When one learns from such a place, one can't help but be molded, rearranged.

Transition is not to be feared, but embraced.

The Evolution of the Wallflower

2010-06-06T17:26:00.000-07:00

The first form: Wallflower.

They tremble and sweat and sigh because the flower may deny. They resent the power of denial.

Choice is the real power; from it movement and skill and advancement are acquired.

The flower is rooted; it is stationary and limited and short-lived.

Denial is the only power, and that is power's weakest form.

Choice doesn't belong to the flower.

So We gave the flower shapely legs. Movement came but looked too good.

It swayed and bounced and tempted will-powerless eyes.

Which of course was the flower's fault.

So they exchanged roots for vultur-I'm sorry, I mean- vulnerability.

It was an easy exchange, just required adding fear to movement.

So now the flower can move but not freely.

Always with a companion.

Always with caution.

Always with fear.

ENOUGH, said the flower, ENOUGH

Pride grew instead of petals. Initiative blossomed. And gardens full of support rather than Evel.

They were taken off guard by the change.

An acknowledgement of equality began.

Pride cannot defeat all obstacles however. The world is still unfair. For flowers -

but for bees as well.

Flowers, let us not cultivate reason for doubt or contempt or mockery.

Let us be strong and level-headed and sagacious.

No wilting to solicit pity. To use as an excuse.

Let us live as we know how to live. Without fear. With just love.

Let us deserve, perpetuate, and create equality. Selflessly.

Time's Only Post

2010-05-10T22:50:00.000-07:00

Time, time, time. I will only dedicate one post to you. Only one. And here it is:

As large-brained, opposable-thumbed, up-right walking mammals we naturally have quite the curiosity, and since the moment we came into existence Time has been one of the largest probers of our curiosities. Time is consistent. It passes no more quickly today than it did 10 million yesterdays ago. It never feels different. It doesn't stretch or bend (unless perhaps you consult certain scientists, but I will leave such ponderings to sharper minds). Naturally we have told stories and written songs and made movies about it. In fact, one of my favorites by John (if you can believe I have a favorite) pleads with an all-powerful conductor to "stop this train", because you see, he wants "to get off and go home again". I can relate, perhaps now especially, considering my train has taken me away from home.

Though I know time can't be passing faster now than it was when I was 10 (playing the prince once again for my forever-princess blond haired, blue-eyed sister) I would swear my life that as soon as I turned 16 it sped up exponentially. This belief reveals a terrible weakness in my way of living. There are some days, most notably those of some consequence (holiday, birthday, and so on) when I wake up knowing it will end soon. All day I carry around that knowledge, and it tends to drain color out of all aspects of the scenery. Usually I am a person who likes to add color, so when I see myself having this affect on myself and the life around me, it makes me want to slap myself around a bit. Or slap Time around a bit. And this is what I have decided.

Time is a culprit, but we give him that power. By thinking about him, singing about him, trying to stop him. My best days occur when I have no concept of time. Chronology is not needed to tell the stories of those days. The happenings, smiles, and colors that filled them creates the story and wraps it in a gorgeously glittering present. Time is going to pass. It is inevitable. It is common and ugly knowledge that has no place in our lives. So let us throw it out. BanishT it. And thus we strip all power from Time and return it to its rightful owner, Life.

"Don't stop this train, don't for a minute change the place you're in."

A Note on Music Part II

2010-05-10T22:17:00.000-07:00

Music is my first love for so many reasons. One of the most prominent, however, is probably because it helps me write. It can be difficult to unroll these feelings into simple black and white and text. When sitting in a quiet room they often are too raw. Emotions won't readily form themselves into words because they are not fluid enough. Comfort is found in my heart and mind, they know they are safe in those locations, and don't want to leave.

Music liquefies them.

It is a bit Pied Piper-esque really, but with a bit more voluntary behavior. These thoughts and ideas that were once so afraid to leave the place in which they were conceived melt a little. Swirl around together, become a shining stream of words that can smoothly flow onto the screen. Even in those moments I feel least inclined to write a particularly talented song can begin the melting, thus creating the need to release the now fluid sentiments. Such instances are truly cherished, including this one. Tonight's song culprit is "I Won't" by Colbie Caillat.

A Fragmented Story

2010-04-16T20:44:00.001-07:00

Here is a fragmented story I wrote when I was on a walk the other day. You will notice it follows some common themes with my other posts, but I wanted to share it with you all anyways.

She walked there. To the bridge. Then the bench. By the river. Physically she was moving through the real world, the one other people see and live in alongside her. Music helped everything match her heart's world though, which is equally as real, just slightly more vivid. More open. The breeze is felt but tasted as well. Water flows and ripples but creates colors as well. People walking past her are regular people, but stories trail along behind them as well. Each person living out their own novel that she can read parts of thanks to just a little music.

Life isn't like the movies but movies are like life. With just a little background music and a little opening of our hearts we will catch beautiful qualities in our lives that are more stunning than movie moments for the pure reason that they are tangible. Palatable.

So she walked there, and sat on the bench, and just was. Sometimes when you are feeling so deeply, it is necessary to just be. Then all of the extra feelings get to unwind and spread out. Float around a bit. Breath. And then she can to.

Anyways, she was sitting there, and he was passing. He said her name and she turned. She smiled and waved him over, grinning of the movie-quality of the moment.

"Whoever is making my move just went completely giddy," she thought. Or maybe they knew already? Placed her there on purpose, even though the walk had been her idea. How does it work, circumstance? Is it really planned by someone? Is it magic? Should it just be left alone, no questions asked? Let's go with that one for now.

So he sat down there, next to her. Funny how he chose that particular spot because the golden dust in that column of sun fell perfectly across his face, ending at his hand on his well-wardrobed knee. As she was pondering this he was pondering as well, about circumstance. About his good fortune in walking this way today because he had just been on a walk himself. Feeling all open, all unfolded. And he was thinking about her being unfolded, because he knew she was. In fact, that was what had drawn him to her, their matching unfolded hearts.

"I see you," he said in place of "hello".

At the same time the same portions of each of their hearts folded up ever so slightly. And they smiled.

There is a possibility this will be continued in the future...

Horton as a Moment

2010-04-16T20:04:00.000-07:00

A moment should be a fleck. Or a speck perhaps. A little floating molecule of dust very similar to the home of some creatures known as Whos. I believe Horton found them? Well that is a slight digression, but my point remains that a moment should be a speck. SHOULD. What a funny word.

Because you see, a moment is not always a speck. In fact, many times it is much more in both size and weight. It can be more like Horton. A giant elephant that climbs on to your shoulders and sits there. You do not want to carry him around, after all he is merely one moment. Undoubtedly others have already forgotten about his existence, and yet there he is, sitting on your shoulders, making you hunched over. And the thing is you let him sit there. You carry him around because you are unwilling to stop thinking about him. Stop pondering that moment in which you acquired him, when something that should have been insignificant occured and suddenly became the most significant thing in existence. There is that word again, SHOULD.

So how do we take the extra weight away? Reduce it back its proper smallish size? Perspective is always an option. Compare your Horton to past happenings, and perhaps next to their size he will shrink. Compare him to the rest of your life, to the future, the bigger picture, and perhaps you'll be able to laugh him off.

If comparison doesn't work, I suggest a meeting with yourself. To meet up with myself, I usually take a walk, alone except for my music of course. Cannot be without music. On those walks I look at myself face to face, and have a little mental discussion (as in a discussion that occurs in my mind, not one that is mental in nature, though having a conversation with oneself probably does sound a bit nutty...it is necessary I promise). I go over the moment, outline all the reasons I am allowing it to crouch on my shoulders. Once I've done that, I toss the outline, allow it to blow away in the wind, and instead keep an outline of all the ways I can avoid a similar moment in the future. So then I have taken an elephant sized moment and not only reduced it into a speck, but learned something from it as well. It is a self-empowering feeling. When it works. And seeing as I am not perfect, it can't always work. Sometimes Horton climbs down for a while, and then hops back on. But either way, it is a start. And eventually, he will go away. He was only a moment after all.

Fortress of People

2010-04-14T21:42:00.000-07:00

People. Oh people, people, people. I learn from you. I become frustrated because of you. Joyous. Lovesick. Excited. So many different things we cause each other to feel. Sometimes we hate each other. Feel like we could be so much better off in the comfy place that is our imagination, where perfect things happen. But then we remember we need each other. Sometimes that imagination which can be so comfy can also be suffocating. Instead of helping us remember who we are, it makes us forget, gets us lost in a maze of too many thoughts. And in those instances we need someone to reinstate us into reality. Those of us who have such a person are lucky. Tremendously lucky.

So we build a fortress of people around us. Family comes first. For some that will mean blood relatives, that support that was built-in for us when we came into the world. But there are others who have less conventional families. Friends or mentors who have filled in the gaping holes left in the spaces where their built-in support was never built. Those sorts of families are just as real as those who share our blood. After that layer there is a layer of friends, comrades. Next, the lovers (though over time one lover is likely move into the family circle). We spend time creating this fortress. We make ourselves vulnerable to build it, because to build a solid fortress we have to be connected to the walls around us. How do we connect? By handing out little pieces of ourselves, very gently. That is why this fortress takes time, building trust is a meticulous process. Once it is gained however, we hand that person a little morsel of us that they can add to their hearts. In doing so we create a mortar unlike any other.

And yet some of the people leave still. After all that time. After we've let them become part of us. They just go away. And we have to decide what to do with that vacant spot. Maybe they weren't there long, what do we do then? Fill the vacancy right away? Do we mourn the loss? Do we work on forgetting them? Pretend they were never there?

No.

No, that cannot be right.

We have to leave the space. Yes, final decision, the space must remain. At least for a little while.

Why? Because it reminds us of that person, and maybe we don't want to remember the person right now, but some portion of our time with them has taught us something. Obviously, because there is a visible hole there. That person left an imprint, and we might as well use it for future reference. Maybe one day someone will fill that space and stay forever. Or maybe it will remain empty forever because it needs to be a constant reminder of everything we learned from that person, even if they were not there long. We opened up to them, we folded them into our fortress, so we must have learned something. And it is good to know our histories. No, it is good to feel our histories.

That way we know which things are good to repeat. And which aren't.

No Excuses

2010-03-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

I watched a movie recently that I still ponder on occasion. "Remember Me" was the title. It will not be a particularly remembered movie, and it has its fair share of critics. On the surface it is a rather tragic movie. Tragic death, tragic love, tragic childhood. Also Robert Pattinson plays the lead character, and his involvement with Twilight discredits his acting skills in the eyes of some.

But you must set these things aside when you watch this movie. Oh, and if anyone has told you how it ends, set that aside as well. Try your best to go into it liberated from preconceived notions and pre-knowledge. Then you will find, as I did, that the movie is truth. It is about real life. It is honest about death. It is many truths rolled into a beautifully shot film. And no matter how tragic, it has a beautiful message that aches a little because it is so irrevocably unavoidable.

To find the message you have to let go a little. Try not to analyze every tragic look that lasts too long or question the acting. Allow yourself to meet the characters, to learn them, walk with them. They are imperfect like real people. Allow yourself to feel the pain, love, hope, anger, and loss. By doing so you will realize how real the story is, how plausible. I am positive there are a group of connected people who have experienced the story "Remember Me" as their real lives. Once you have reached that point, when the story becomes real, you will see the message.

We must live by loving openly, especially amongst tragedy.

Humans use tragedy as an excuse to stop loving, but we have it all backwards. It is because tragedy exists that we must love without reservations. There are too many unknowns in life, too many imperfections. Really, the only thing we can do right, maybe even perfectly, is to live through loving.

Me and My Stupid Mouth will be the Yin to your Yang

2010-03-24T14:05:00.001-07:00

My stupid mouth. It doesn't get me in trouble. It just can't say what I would like it to say at times.

I am a pacifist in many ways. I have strong beliefs and people around me generally can insinuate what they are, but I am not loud about them. When someone starts spewing to me what is absolute fact to them, telling me why their idea of right is the rightest version, I do not choose to get in their face about why they are wrong. Some would say that is wrong. That I am a doormat, pliable, changable. I would not agree. There are generally two reasons I choose to remain silent, and neither of them involve weakness of values.

One: Arguing will only make the situation uglier.

If we have both acknowledged that our opinions differ, then we have had a highly civilized conversation. If we both keep spewing the same slightly rephrased reasons over and over we will end up in an ugly, hostile place. And that is not necessary, that is avoidable, if we can just agree to disagree. So if I know a person who is argumentative, defensive, needs to be right, I am going to let them be. The world needs its louder people too. In the meantime I will remain my silent, nodding self, because if I match their attitude, our relationship won't last long. Neither one of us would win. The only winner would be the argument, and why should we let such a transparent entity dictate our lives?

Two: When in the Argument Ring clear articulation of my opinion is usually not in my corner.

There are times when defending oneself or an important belief is necessary. I am not going to deny an important value of mine just because someone is louder. Here in lies a problem, however. My stupid mouth cannot quite form the exact phrase I would like it to. Why? Because I do not want to rebuttal in an uninformed manner. I do not want to appear condescending. When the response is born in my mind, it is flawless. Words are formed and arranged so they illustrate perfectly what my heart is feeling. Unfortunately there is some sort of reverse filter between my mind and my mouth that keeps all decent phrasing locked up while nonsensical, raw words slither out. And that also takes us to an ugly, hostile place. I am working on this problem, always working on it, and hopefully one day it will cease to exist. Wishful thinking is glorious is it not?

Regardless, however, I am going to remain rather silent. I am going to be the yin to your yang. I value relationships and do not see the point in adding greatly to the world's noise. There will be times when I will speak up, times when I will gently rebuttal, and when I do so you will know the issue carries great weight in my heart. Hopefully my stupid mouth will cooperate for such occasions.

Perhaps we can work on that together, eh John?

Wonderland

2010-03-05T02:24:00.001-08:00

My mind is open now. It opened today. If you are worrying about all of my open organs, please don't. Sometimes they need a little air. And in my past experiences my mind doesn't stay open for nearly as long as my heart will. Which is why I must write about this opening now, quickly and briefly, before all of the pristine truths find an exit through my ears and fly away.

Pristine truth one is that I am a dreamer. A dreamer and a doer. And yes, it is possible to be both. I have big plans for the world. Correction, big plans for a world, perhaps only mine, perhaps yours, perhaps ours. But there are plans and someone has made plans for me as well. One day I will see them both side by side.

Pristine truth two is that I am a lover. A lover of people, of discovery, of art, of music, of peace, of worlds, of love. I am a lover of love. As such a lover I am meant to spread love, both alone and one day with someone who is a lover of people who are lovers of love.

Too many loves? That can never be true.

Pristine truth three is that life is possible. The life you picture in your head, that painting your heart has painted for you, it is possible. No exceptions. No "yes it would be nice if life were like this BUT..." You make it impossible by giving it a BUT. I make it impossible by giving it a BUT. Live life today, here, now, and most of all, open. Live life openly. You can do that, and when you do, life is possible.

Wonderland is possible; do not forget about yours.

Alice Part Two: Keep Wandering

2010-03-02T00:02:00.000-08:00

My heart is open and feeling the tug of love that already exists, but is also open and feeling the tantalizing potential of love that will exist. Alice often feels a vibration similar to that of a recently strummed guitar string, and it sings "good love is on the way". The acuteness of feeling doesn't tell her when or how or who but the potential is there. It seems there is a special place in the open envelope, with a specific shape, depth, that someone will fit into perfectly. Only then will my heart fold back up, when there is someone in there to keep Alice with my face company. Someone who will understand her. They will be folded up side by side and that will mark another shifting moment in my life, just as this opening has done. One day my heart may open again, he may need to walk away, but the shifting that occurred will remain crucial to the constant creation of planet Me.

And finally, my heart has opened and is yearning to follow passion. This last feeling creates the most wonder in Alice's land. In its open state my heart can awaken Alice to new opportunities of passion. These, these are bright. These are tangible. These are numerous.

And these inspire much:

Firstly, creation: They inspire the creation of musical words which turn into lyrical sentences and eventually whole compositions of my thoughts.

Secondly, observation: They open my eyes. So much is beautiful. That man over there, he is a famous painting, of Van Gogh's I believe. Sun. Oh sun, sun, sun. You leave behind such a glorious golden dust.

Lastly, opportunity: They turn me towards opportunity. The opportunity to be a people's person, a learner of people, a helper of people. And then there is the opportunity of exploration through absorbing new knowledge, through travel. Lest I forget the opportunity of the unknown, which of course, is the most abundant, the most exhilirating, and creates the most wonder for dear Alice.

Stay wide-eyed Alice. Keep wandering. Keep feeling. I am learning much from your Wonderland and my open heart.

Alice Part One: Wide Eyed

2010-02-20T00:55:00.000-08:00

My heart is laying open. One day it went all unfolded, and there was a little Alice in there; a little Alice with my face. She's peering out, in that pituresque delicate way she has: bent at the waist making a clean 45 degree angle, arms stretched out behind her and levatating a little above her back, head turning 0h-so-smoothly from one direction to the next, golden swirls of hair swaying with the fluid movement, her eyes wide. For they have to be really, to take in this Wonderland, they must be wide open. My heart had been hugging her, keeping her in a safe place where surprises were limited and familiar feelings abundant. And then, one day, it stopped hugging. She slowly became aware of the muscle pulling away, gradually peeling, opening. Until there she was, standing in the middle of the red mass, exposed, vulnerable, and wide eyed.

Here is where the Alice analogy differs from the original story however because this Wonderland is not mushroom and Mad Hatter filled. No acid was involved in its creation. No, this is just a Wonderland of an acuteness of feeling. My heart is opened and seems to be waiting for something, something it can fold back up around. In the meantime its little Alice feels everything vividly.

Love for my family, for instance. When at home, I knew I loved them. It was always there, the backdrop of my day to day life. Now however, it is as though a line from my open heart has flown to them, connecting to them, making the love this tangible, tugging thing. And this is not bad, aching sometimes because the increased acuteness of this love comes with an increased acuteness of missing, but still it is not bad. I am humbled by its strenght. Alice looks with wonder at this thin line that can withstand such force without snapping. Through her wonder I discover a new understanding of family, and thus the dynamics of love. Some people feel stuck to their families. I am not stuck. I create the connection to them, I nurture it, I need it. It is a connection that answers questions for me and creates them, pulls, stretches, changes.

It is L O V E .

This post is about to become a novel, so to save your eyes the other vivid feelings will be described in future installments. :)

"Shhhh," I say, "just dance".

2010-02-19T00:18:00.000-08:00

Do you dance? Because you should. Any kind. Any where. All the time. I forget that sometimes, how much we need to dance, and thank my lucky stars for the days that remind me. Like this one for instance.

When I say you should dance, what I really mean is you should let go, loosen up, open up, and just move. Pick your style, any style. Each one is capable of positively changing your mood in some way or another. Ballet reminds me how to make strength beauty. Swing reminds me how to genuinely laugh, smile. Waltzing transforms me into Victorian age nobility. And modern, well modern is my epitome of dance. If you do not agree, that is ok, choose your own epitome, let me have mine. With the fluid, raw movements I release energy and gain it back all it once. I become independent and connect to the breath of the world. I fall in love.

"That's really nice for you" you say. "But you're a dancer, and I am obviously not, so I am not going to go dance. Nope, not me" you say. Do not walk away just yet. Because you can dance. Shh, shh, stop protesting and listen for a moment. Take my hand, yes, right now please. Ok, now we are going to go dance. Let's start with swing and I'll show you how you can dance without knowing any of the moves.

So here we are, at the edge of the dance floor.

"Look at all those people. They are so talented. I have no idea what they are doing, but they are talented. And I am not, let's leave" you say.

"Shhh" I say.

Step #1: STOP. Stop worrying and obsessing and doubting and thinking. That is right, stop thinking. Dancing requires feeling, not thinking.

"But..." you say.

"Shhhhh!" I say. You roll your eyes.

Step #2: Now that you've stopped thinking, you can feel the music. You heard it when you walked in, when you were thinking, but now you feel it right? You do, I can tell, look, your hips are swaying.

"Wow that's weird" you say.

"Shhh!" I say, "If you pay too much attention to them they'll stop. No thinking. Only feeling."

Step #3: Now you are smiling. Now you are ready to dance. Not because you want to. You have to. Your body won't let you do anything else. So I show you the basic: step, step, rock step. And now you are pulling me onto the floor. We are swinging and laughing and dancing. We are dancing.

"Look at that guy over there, at the edge of the dance floor," I say, "he's watching you. He's telling that girl to look at you, at how good you are, and now he is telling her he can't be that good. 'I can't dance' he says." You smile, and keep dancing. When this song is over, you will go tell him he can dance. And he will.

See? See how easy that was? You fell a little in love with it didn't you? So dance people. Let us all dance. On the dance floor yes, but also outside, down the hallway, in our rooms, in fields of daisies.

What is my idea of the perfect world? One that dances.

My Heart Gasped

2010-02-16T00:46:00.000-08:00

John took me by surprise today. The old iPod was on shuffle, I left the room, walked back into the Edge of Desire and my heart gasped. Yes I have read the recent news about JM himself. I read Rolling Stone's latest article about him. I have too much opinion about the way we talk about him or any other "rock star's" life, but that will require its own post. So again I ask you to disassociate the man with the music. It was the music that made my heart gasp.

Why? Why a gasp? Because as I walked down the hall my head was a-whirling and my heart a-spinning with its usual activity, but today a little more emotion was helping it all along. I had forgotten my music was still on, and it has also been a while since I have just listened to John, so his magical abilities were in the far back of my mind. While my mind was a little surprised when I opened the door to music, what really got my heart a-gasping was the way the song was exactly the extension of its pent up emotions. The lyrics, melodic highs and lows, met my heart at its pent up place, held on, and then pulled it around the room, stretching it out, letting it breath, all of this as I merely stood in the doorway. And the thing is, I hadn't even gone to him for help. I hadn't gone looking for the perfect song remedy, in fact, I didn't even realize I needed a remedy. But there John was, with the perfect song choice, just waiting to sweep my heart off her feet, letting her relax for a moment even though she wasn't aware she needed relaxing.

Am I describing music or my ideal man? Not sure. You tell me.

FAITH

2010-02-07T01:30:00.000-08:00

ME. Two little letters but they fill my body. And the world hurts. It hurts everyday. But that is all I can see sometimes. ME. And I want to be filled with something else. WORLD maybe. Or PEOPLE. Or LOVE. What? What should fill that space instead? Because I know it shouldn't be ME.

Mother Theresa. People quote her, are inspired by her, try to walk her path. She is a saint, or should be. But do you know there are those who try to unearth black spots on what appears to be her untarnished soul? "She stopped feeling God" they say. "She felt lonely and unsure" they say. On and on. Why? Why do that? Movements were created by that single aging woman. Compassion spread from her hands to much of the world. At least one person changed their beliefs, habits, attitudes because of her holy hands. So let her be perfect. We know she wasn't. If we are educated people we know perfection isn't impossible. Our minds have a defense mechanism for such thinking however. Though we know that truth we believe in a contradictory truth as well, the one that tells us some people can reach perfection. And why do we allow ourselves to believe the second truth? Because if a real person is perfect, than perfection is attainable, something to work for. So we try harder to be better. Better family members, better lovers, better citizens of the world, better people. We can only work towards that which we believe is attainable. It is contradictory thinking that George Orwell might call doublethink. I call it faith.

Ah-ha. FAITH. Now that is it. That is what should feel the space, because it encompasses each of the other options. To cleanse the body of ME one must first have faith in SELF.

Faith that the SELF is aware of the WORLD that so graciously gives it a place to exist. With awareness comes the ability to see where sacrifices can be made to repay the WORLD's recycling kindness.

Faith that the SELF is compassionate, can see PEOPLE, not their physical presence, but the stories that make the physical presence possible.

Faith that the SELF can LOVE selflessly; without inhibitions but with earnestness, without lies but with patience.

For any of these FAITHs to be possible a much larger one must exist first, and you have heard this before. A FAITH in an entity more self-important than any being of flesh and bones; God. Do I have solid evidence to believe in such an entity? Such a creation of wind and dust and water?

No. Just word of mouth.

Just a book.

Just a feeling.

But I do not want solid evidence. There is too much solid in the world. Solid is necessary but also suffocating. I want mystery. A feeling to chase, to explore, to wander in. Without it, where am I? Stuck with ME. Consumed with ME. With no sense of OTHER. No sense of GOOD. Nothing to work towards. No reason to be better. No reason to connect.

I want to connect. I want to understand OTHER, share with OTHER, support and be supported by OTHER. So I work everyday to let FAITH replace ME. No, not replace. Become.

FAITH is becoming ME.

Whispers Rivers Hearts and Mist

2010-01-26T00:10:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-20T22:53:00.000-08:00

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)

2010-01-20T12:54:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-18T11:58:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-18T00:15:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-12T00:08:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-06T12:33:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-04T23:32:00.000-08:00

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