Chills in the sand

Speaking of making art and inspiration as I have been,  I couldn't begin to guess how many times I have watched this video over the last year or so.  I even watched it again this morning.  If you haven't seen it yet, you really, really should.

This woman uses only her fingers, sand, music, and light to tell a beautiful, heartwrenching story.  Every time I watch it, I get chills and am left dumbfounded and awe-inspired.

This. Is. Art.

Wall with a view

Have you ever gotten a chill while listening to a particular song or piece of music, or while watching the end of a perfectly devastating movie, or reading the last few pages of a tragically beautiful book?

I always wonder what that is - what receptor in my brain is sending that message to my body to respond with such a physical manifestation of my emotions.  It's almost like the emotional receptors get overloaded and shift, sending a ripple of feelings down to my toes.  I often wish I could stop time just before it happens, so I could catch whatever the brain is saying and put it into words.  Because sometimes people in my life give me that same reaction, and I'd really like to be able to tell them, out loud, just how they make me feel.  In words.  In a way that actually captures the shockwaves of emotion they just caused.

Word Art

I've been thinking a lot about why I make art - theater, specifically.  And, were I to create a  "manifesto" or statement of why I make art and what that creative process should look like, what would I say?  I decided to write a few thoughts down.  Look out, world - I have a "Draft Manifesto In Progress"!  Okay, so that sounds disappointingly unthreatening.  But just wait.  I'm ready to conquer the universe.  Er...someday.

Turtle says

Slow and steady wins the race, right?

Patience is not something I innately have.  I'm really, really bad at it.  But I do love turtles, and I suppose it's a lesson I can learn from a turtle.  Sometimes, I guess I just need a reminder.  Like this video.

There's a turtle.  Her name is Myrtle.  And this woman is actually pretty impressive.  Plus, did I mention the turtle?

Warning: This song may get stuck in your head for days if you watch the video.  Click below only if you need a constant (and quite annoying) reminder:

Laissez les bons temps rouler

I got married in New Orleans.  I never planned on falling in love a second time - with the city itself.  Prior to the wedding, I had never been there, and prior to Hurricane Katrina, I'll admit that I never thought much about it.  Now, I'm thinking about making it home.

New Orleans is one of the world's greatest treasures - and the most magical place I've ever been.  She has a heartbeat and energy all her own.  If you were to ask me what's so amazing and wonderful about the city, I would tell you to go visit.  Now.  Often.  Always.  Because I don't think it's something that anyone could ever put into words entirely.  Maybe I can try, but I seriously doubt I'll do her justice.

Those poor Peeps

Whatever holiday (if any) you celebrate this time of year, here are a couple of fun links to videos for the holiday weekend:

1) Peep wars (Caution: Graphic microwave simulation.):  Exploding Peep Videos

2) The Colbert Report: Easter Under Attack

Enjoy!  I think I'll be exploding Peeps all day.  Oh, boy.  Someone get me out of the house...

Time out

I'm grounded.  No, really.  For the past several days, I've allowed myself only to go to work and come back, and to run a few small errands here and there, or take a quick trip out for dinner with friends.  Being that's it's a holiday weekend, this has left me with a lot of down time in my apartment.  Like, A LOT.

A few things to note:  My apartment is small.  Yeah, yeah.  I live in New York.  Of course it's small.  But, seriously...like really small.  As in, I could probably brush my teeth, wash the dishes and cook an omelet all at the same time (Well, you know...if I had a few extra arms.  But I would totally be able to reach everything.).  And we don't have a TV (Yay for Hulu and Netflix!).  And it rained almost all day today.  Also, and perhaps most importantly, I have not sat still for this long since I was laid up after a surgery a few years ago.  That was three weeks.  Of nothing.  I think the Twin Peaks box set saved my life.

Seamless

When I ran cross country in high school, the league championship race was always at a place called Green Lane Park in Montgomery County, Pennsylvania.  The course had this huge hill at the two-mile mark.  At least, it seemed huge at the time and everyone griped about it.  I think it even had a nickname, but I'd be hard-pressed to remember it.  Given what I know now about training and hills, I'm curious how big it actually was - or how difficult.  But, in any case, it was a hill, and it was two-thirds of the way into the race.

On that hill was where my first-ever sports injury was confirmed, at least, confirmed for me mentally (the x-rays later gave definitive proof).  It was also the first time outside of ballet that I learned a little something about pushing myself - and about when to stop.

I didn't stop that day.  Nor had I stopped at the countless practices leading up to that point when I knew something was wrong.  When I reached the middle of that hill and I felt something give in my leg - the same thing that had been nagging me for weeks - when my body said, "Stop", I said, "Fuck you."  I went.  My coach was there telling me to keep going, and so was the competitor inside my head.

Knot It

Lately, I can't seem to focus on anything that doesn't have to do with my foot or with running or with this potential move or my mother's surgery for more than five minutes at a time.  You should see me at my day job.  I'm irritable and cranky, and I can't even proofread a bio or a proposal without at least once finding myself wandering into a daydream full of "what if's" and "maybe I should's".

And I'm starting to falter a bit.  My proofreading and editing are off - I'm missing commas and typos and mistakes that under any other circumstances would make me jump out of my skin or want to throttle the writer and say, "Seriously?  Seriously, THAT's a sentence? Where the hell is the subject?" (I don't ever REALLY do that, of course, but oh, so many times I want to.)  Even with my own writing, I must go back to these posts nearly five times a day looking for errors.  Usually, I find at least one.

My days are spent with very short, only somewhat-focused bursts of productive energy, punctuated by much longer spans of discombobulated and often confused internet searches and web-browsing.  Which is saying something, because corporate headquarters blocks every other website I try to view.  It takes some serious effort to be unproductive at my job.

Raindrops in my coffee

So, this morning, I was a Muppet.  Not a bad thing to be, by any means.  I love Muppets.  In fact, anyone who doesn't love Muppets probably doesn't have a soul.  I'm  not kidding.  Those puppets can bring a sense of humor to just about anything - and I think we could all learn a thing or two from them. 

This morning I sat out on my fire escape drinking my coffee and watching the cars fly down Hamilton Avenue.  I watched them until the headlights that flickered off the billboards on the highway gradually went out, and the sun revealed a new, overcast day in the gritty Brooklyn neighborhood where I live.  I was feeling pretty overwhelmed and not at all ready for the world to wake up with me.  I wanted the whole city to stay asleep so that I could continue to turn cartwheels in my head for a few more hours. 

Let's express our feelings on the subject

And then there are days...well, there are days I feel like this:

And a little like this:

Sometimes it takes a puppet to say it best.  Thank you, Jim Henson.  Today I'm a Muppet.  I wonder what my name would be?

Sculpting dreams out of paper clips

Remember when we were little and our parents told us we could be anything we wanted when we grew up?  At least, I know mine did. And even with limited means, they really did do their best to make that possible and true.

I wanted to be a dancer.  And I did it...well, for a while.  While I still consider myself a dancer, I realized early enough that if I actually wanted to have food and a place to live, I sadly would need a "survival job".

Sigh, the Survival Job.  That's the thing I do for half my waking hours, sometimes more, to pay the bills.  The dull, mundane, soul-crushing office work.  The corporate culture, wherein I laugh at the CEO's jokes, even when they're not funny and sometimes just plain wrong, and say things like, "Let's circle back and get that offlsite scheduled when you're back from Japan."  Or, "In EC&D, all of our coaches are certified in the MBTI, CDP, and EQ-I, and they specialize in M&A."  Wha?  Do I actually say that stuff daily?  Yes.  Yes, I do.

The morning after

Dedicated to all those who ran the Boston Marathon yesterday:

I'll take the water pail

So, I think I'm pulling myself out of the lottery for the New York City Marathon 2011 today.  "Gasp!  But WHY?  Oh, no, are you injured?"  Well, that sort of reaction is part of it.  And, it has nothing to do with an injury.

I also won't run the Boston Marathon again unless someone pays me; even then, I'm not really sure.  I only ran it in the first place after several years of people asking me why I HADN'T run it, since I qualified over and over.  I ran it to shut people up, mostly.

I won't run Chicago, or London, or Berlin...well, okay, maybe Berlin.  I miss the time I spent in that city immensely.  But, in general, no more "super marathons".  I'm over it. 

Private School Mouse

I think I have a touch of claustrophobia.  When I was little and we played hide-and-seek, every time I tried hiding under the bed (because, really, no one EVER looks under the bed), I would get so freaked out - like sweaty palms, heart pounding, and a crushing fear that somehow I wouldn't be able to get out - that I had to find a new spot.

I hate running in large groups because it feels like the walls are closing in on me - don't ask me why I've decided to run marathons with 50,000 other people.  I'm a glutton for punishment, I suppose. The same could probably be said for my decision to live in NYC, given the size of my apartment.

Even being in the corps de ballet was a struggle - my own private hell, really.  Thirty or more dancers, performing the exact same choreography, with identical precision, acting as one unit, within inches of one another.  It made me want to scream and run into the wings.

Talk to your toes, Scarecrow

It's an interesting feeling when I know my body is talking to me.  Sometimes, it's also a challenge to listen.

There are the obvious times, like when my body tells me it's hungry or full, sleepy or wide awake, hot or cold.  Those times, it's usually pretty easy to listen.  Grabbing a snack or throwing on an extra sweater is really no big deal and kind of automatic.

The physical human form has a language all its own.  And not one that's always audible.  One of the things my Russian mentor taught me was to "talk to your toes", which really applied to the whole body and all of its parts.  No, seriously, ALL of them.  Each joint, tendon, muscle, and ligament - down to the baby toes and the webbing between the fingers.  "Talking" to them didn't just mean sitting down and saying, "Hey, look guys, what's the deal?  Why are you sore?"  Though, trust me, that's part of it.  Communicating with the body is more of a warm-up that just goes on all the time. 

There was an exercise we used to do in Russia called "Gladiators".  Like the show American Gladiators from the late 80s/early 90s.  Remember how they used a thumbs up or down to show if the guy lived or died?  Well, do that with your toes.  The big toe is the thumb.  See if you can make them all listen - it's not as easy as it sounds.  The thing is, it should be.

If you don't have anything nice to say, go to Candy Mountain

This is one of those mornings when I woke up with absolutely nothing on my mind to write about.  Nothing that comes out in real words, anyway.  I may still be halfway in my dreams, because right now I'm thinking in moving pictures.

I have this foot injury - Achilles, really.  It has decided that this morning would be a good time to flare up.  In fact, it's warning me to back the hell off.  It's making me pretty cranky.

So, since I'm a little surly and still in dreamland, here is a video for the morning.  It's hilarious.  And creepy.  And completely pointless.  And if you haven't seen it yet, well...you should.  If only because it will start your day with a laugh.  Plus, they're unicorns.  No, I don't do drugs.

Warning: You will never get this four minutes of your life back.

New York State of Mindfuck

New Yorkers are afraid of absolutely everything.  No, really.  Before I lived in NYC, I never would have imagined that statement to be true.  But think about it.  Here we are, in what is considered by many to be "the greatest city in the world" and the "center of the universe".  We have everything we could possibly want, and millions of things I never knew existed - many of which really shouldn't (a three-story Olive Garden in Times Square for one; though, I may just be traumatized from working there).  We have theater and restaurants and the financial district and the five boroughs - each of which could be its own city.  On a daily commute, I ride the subway next to people from no less than five different countries.  Anything that can be bought in a store can be delivered right to my apartment - for a price.  There are 24-hour...well, everything's.  Bars are open until 4am, but many never actually close.  I could go on for hours.

The fear I'm talking about isn't one of terrorism, though the footprint of 9/11 remains on everyone's chest and will for some time.  It's not of gang violence or attacks on the subway or even a stock market crash, though saying that we keep those things in the back of our minds every day is true - we have to.  And we would be stupid not to.

The truth is, New Yorkers aren't afraid of other people so much as we're afraid of ourselves.  We're afraid we can't hack it - that we're not good enough and that we'll fail.  Because if there's one thing you can say about New York, it's a competitor all its own.  It lives and breathes and tries to kick your ass, daily.  Many times, it wins.  If you've ever run a marathon, New York is like "The Wall".  Just when you think you're almost done, you get a nice, swift gut punch to remind you that you still have a ways to go.

Spare a square, not the roll

I am a big proponent of gratitude.  Not just having it, but showing it, too.  I can't help it.  It's been ingrained in me since before I can remember - probably in the womb sometime.  It's pretty simple, really.  If someone does something nice for me, whether or not I expect it, I thank them.  If someone helps me out when I need it, whether I ask them to or not, I let them know I appreciate it.  We're not talking rocket science here.

Growing up in the professional ballet world, I learned on day one that part of ballet class etiquette is thanking the teacher after class.  The way to do this is to wait in line (you know you've really made it when you're the first in that line), and when your turn comes, you take the teacher's hand, curtsy with your head bowed, and say "thank you".  Now, keep in mind, this is the same teacher who over the course of the last few hours has taken away your snacks, thwapped your feet with a wooden cane if you misstepped, told you that you'd never become a dancer, and screamed at you multiply to "smile!", even as your entire body felt like it'd been through a woodchipper.  So why "thank you" and not "go to hell and die"?  Because, a valuable thing I learned about ballet is that, however harsh, if the teacher yells at you, that means you're worth their time.  That means they want you to succeed and they are going to try to make you better - whatever fucked up way in which that manifests itself.  Ballet is about perfection, after all.

Pug Overlord vs. Saxophonist

I started a blog because I needed to write - all the time - often about the most ridiculous shit.  I guess somehow all the stuff in my head needed somewhere to go.  Somewhere that wasn't back down my throat and into my stomach to sit for days making me nauseous.  So I started a blog to write it all down.  Or vomit words.  Or at least annoy the vast internet instead of my husband, friends and colleagues involuntarily.

At first I thought I'd have a theme - you're supposed to have a theme, right?  On a blog?  But then, themes remind me too much of bridal showers and baby showers and all those other showers that should be eliminated from the face of our society forever.  Because everyone hates them.  Like, with a passion.  Because they are the most moronic events known to man. 

So, no theme. To be honest, more often than not, I wake up and the only thing I have on my mind to write down is no more complicated than, "I like ponies" or "Coffee is good". 

So I started to think about all the things I wouldn't write about.  Politics, for example.  If I get started on the current state of our nation politically, economically, socially...this blog would contain nothing but four-letter words.

Stereotypically "female" stuff is another one.  I often wish I could be more girly or feminine, but the truth is, I hate weddings and big dresses and shoes and shopping and, above all, the color pink.  Mom and Dad, are you reading this?  I really don't like pink.  No, seriously.  No more pink, okay? 

Sports stats is also a waste of time.  I can write about a game or a race or a match, but, seriously?  Because so-and-so has such-and-such an average and has performed at such-and-such a level against so-and-so and what's-his-face, his odds of winning are blah-dee-blah.  Really? Um...that's a person.  And a person has good days and bad days and those numbers really tell you jack shit.

But it's a blog, right?  I can say whatever I want.  So why am I worried about all the things I can't say?  At some point I just have to start with something. I suppose this is the something.  Maybe I'm more worried that I don't have anything to say.  Though, I'll admit to at times finding myself quite fascinating.  I'm a runner, dancer, and artist - all selfish breeds, so I guess it makes sense.  I'm a headcase and the first to admit it.   Perhaps people will find that amusing.  As I sit here writing, I'm making Muppet noises every time I make a typing mistake.  Actually.  We're talking Swedish Chef caliber noises.

I could write about interesting things that happen on a daily basis - I live in New York, after all.  On Saturday, on a wander in Prospect Park, my husband and I stumbled upon a saxophonist in the woods, just underneath a bridge area where the echo was exaggerated.  He was playing long, lamenting jazz strains.  And the notes reverberated up out of the woods and into the park, and started to play tag with the kids all the way over in the baseball fields.  And it made me want to cry.  Something so tiny and beautiful and seemingly intimate.  He was sharing that with us.  With me.  Specifically.

I have a blind dog who is also deaf and half-paralyzed from a stroke.  She walks in circles.  Her name is Gabby.  She's a pug, so she'll eat anything not nailed down - and a few things that are.  The older she's gotten, the more she's become our overlord here at the apartment.  I'm convinced I should invite people to come have their minds read by Gabby the Great - so invincible and ridiculous is she.  Surely she must be a soothsayer.  Most precious of all things to Gabby is her "POD", aka a round, poofy, leopard-print dog bed.  It's like her throne.  Recently, I took it to the laundromat to get it cleaned, and there was no end of shrieking about its absence.  And if you've never heard a pug shriek, think about the sound a two-year-old makes when you take away her/his favorite toy, and combine that with a couple of mating cats.  That's about right.  It's completely fucking insane.  And hilarious.  And very oddly human.  Sometimes I think we're all a little more like Gabby than we readily admit.

So maybe this blog is a cross between the saxophonist and Mrs. Gabby.  Intimate, sad, and at times beautiful, with some sheer, baseline hilarity on the side. 

I don't know yet.  I like ponies.