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Joe and I had a fabulous time dancing in Ashland again last night! Things went much more smoothly than before, as we worked it on the floor both together and separately.
If I am still going to parallel such experiences with movies about dancing, last night’s events would have comprised the lovely montage midway through where the female lead finally begins to show signs of significant improvement! Joe commented that I was “at least twice as good as last time,” (adding that I seemed to have gotten over my nagging neuroses about the beat) and a stranger walked up and complimented my moves! No matter that at first I thought he was asking me to dance and so responded, “Sure! I’d love . . .” and then, “. . . er, thank you!” So much for suave.
Anyway, what I actually intended to write about was seeing This is It with my pops this evening. After the most glorious of Sundays–packed full of lounging around in front of the fire first with a cup o’ joe (no pun), next a guitar and eventually a blanket as I cat-napped, followed by the most peaceful venture to Shastice park with Savannah–Dad offered to take me out for a brewski and dinner at the Goat and then to see the recent tribute to Michael Jackson.
I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of trying to write sensitively and eloquently about the film. So, I’ll try to settle back to my heart point at Four, where our tragic and remarkable musical hero M.J. almost certainly lived, and just let it flow. . .
Although I was running on very few hours of sleep, I was mesmerized by the movie as Dad (watching for his second time) said I would be. With my current passion for dance, what I found catching my eye consistently were technicalities like Michael’s impeccable turns. The way that man could spin on a dime and come back to the exact same millimeter of space in a second is astounding. I aspire to do the same!
I might say that the breadth of his talent–in addition to its excellence–is what I find most profound about the King of Pop. Watching the movie we get a chance to observe all the other incredibly gifted people who worked alongside him, but their expertise appears limited while Michael’s spreads as wide as the stage he shines on.
Of course, so does the air of tragedy that surrounds him; and an instability I sensed in his character that had nothing to do with the gory details gnashed on by the media. I just felt nervous that Michael might crack each time a request was made of him, despite that he never responded anyway but respectfully.
It all makes me want to hold him, cradle him like the little Earth Girl tenderly does the last flower. I wonder who the last person to do so, to really touch Michael Jackson, could have been? Did the composer of Human Nature ever receive any real human nurture?
My heart also breaks for everyone involved in the production of what would have been a pinnacle tour, for all the performers who opened the film weeping tears of joy for the opportunity to dance with the living legend.
I suppose that is the mess of life that any good Four will tell you is necessary in order to appreciate the beauty.
I appreciate the beauty of all that Michael Jackson created during his time on this earth–even if he did name one of his children Prince Michael II, a.k.a “Blanket!”
In honor of Michael Jackson, God bless you all.
Halloween turned out to be great fun, of course–although I did end up sneaking away to the privacy of my parents’ home to avoid the trick or treaters I wasn’t prepared for.
At around 8 o’clock my friend Natalie came over to curl my hair and help me take the final step into becoming Curly Top (no one recognized me in anyway and one person’s response to my ‘costume’ was, “You just look like a cuter version of Tessa.” Way to go, me!). Two hours, many ringlets and a cardboard lollypop later, Space Cat and Curly Top exited the premises. Destination: the Wayside Bar and Grill.
At the Wayside I enjoyed one Maker’s Mark whiskey on the rocks (Natalie’s choice) and a good six shimmying songs on the dance floor. I’ve noticed that salsa seems to flavor all my steps these days. I’d probably sway my hips all over the place even to electronica. But despite my ability to tune out leering goblins and other less creatively dressed men and to season hip hop with salsa, the party was not the fun filled environment I had been hoping for.
So, I ventured on to a party at the Coopers. The Coopers are a family of about eight children. Sophie, Chloe, CeeCee, Will, younger boy whose name I can’t remember–that’s five and I know I’m forgetting a few . . . Anyway, they’re a very eclectic and conscious crowd with an amazing old house right downtown (and directly across the street from Berryvale, as a matter of fact); and their party was the talk of the town.
And with good reason. The Coopers had held a decorating party on Thursday evening during which what was most likely a den area had been transformed into a strobe-lit, cobwebed cocktail lounge. When I arrived, a group of people stood chatting out in the cool autumn air and absorbing the glow of the fire from the pit nearby. Inside, a bar, snack tables and couches framed a dance floor pulsating with the beats of one of two hired DJs. I was first greeted with the festive scene, then by the shocked faces of three old friends.
I don’t fully understand the charade, but whenever a certain group of friends from high school and I reunite, there is a whole lot of show and surprise. Then, of course, the hugging. Oh. And for the record, these are male friends.
After allowing an appropriate period of time for reconciliation, I worked my way onto the dance floor and slid right into the groove. The boys danced along with and without me. Everyone seemed to be having a smashing good time.
I stayed until just before 3 a.m., when one friend, Clifford asked for a ride home. Seeing his tired eyes and watching him wilt before me, I gave Cliff the ride gladly, grateful for a chance to put my most recent EnneaThought for the Day into action: Today, try this recommendation: If you develop your great capacity to care about others, you will never go far wrong—in fact, you will do a great deal of good in life.
On our way to his house, the topic of music came up. “Do you play the guitar?” Cliff asked me.
“Yeah! I can actually say now that, yes, I do.” I smiled.
“Me too!” said Cliff with enthusiasm. He proceeded to tell me about a song he had written for his mom for Mother’s Day, then asked if I wanted to come inside and hear it.
For any of you who are thinking, “There she is again in the middle of the night with a strange man who is about to get her all alone inside his empty house!” (or bus, as the case may be), it wasn’t like that. I promise.
We went inside and he shared his song and I shared my songs and he shared another one and I shared my blog. And it was there that I got the idea for this post, which it has taken all this time to really get to . . . :
I’ve been noticing that the more I open up my gifts to the world–music, writing, laughter, love–the more other people respond by opening theirs. In the past year I have been privileged enough to hear numerous original songs–some debuts to the audience of one, see countless works of original art, be danced all across smooth floors and be graced by conversation after conversation steeped in original thought.
People are so cool when you open up and get to know them. And I think it’s in doing both–the opening and the getting . . . –that the true riches spill forth.
Blessings and Thank You’s all around. Peace, ya’ll.
Deep breath.
I think everything good starts and ends and exists within a breath.
“As long as you’re breathing, there is more right with you than wrong.”
That’s a quote from the guided meditation c.d. that accompanies The Mindful Way Through Depression: Freeing Yourself from Chronic Unhappiness, a book co-authored by John Kabat Zinn and others.
I found both the book and c.d. hugely helpful last June when I was fresh off of antidepressants and struggling a bit with franticness and fear. Listening to the c.d. is good when all you want to do is lie in the fetal position. You can still breath there, and that’s all we ever absolutely need to do.
Of the two of us, my brother bears the bigger burden of depression. I can pinpoint a few years of my life when I experienced prolonged phases of despair, but it hasn’t been my norm. Ty has had to work a lot harder for happy.
I didn’t expect to write about this today . . . you never know what might come up while you’re breathing . . .
We spoke today and he told me this weekend was one of the hardest he has ever experienced. He’s doing better though, taking good care of himself in every way he knows how.
As for the rest of us, the many, many people who love and have been touched by Tyler. . . I think the best we can do is send an outpouring of love his way and stay attentive to timing. It’s a big temptation to jump right in and try to be Ms. Fixit right away. Especially as an ET2, I often feel like I have the perfect suggestion for anyone hurting. Sometimes I’m on the right track and what I have to say might be of great benefit; but unless the moment is right, I promise you that perfect suggestion will fall on deaf ears.
As Ty told me about all the steps he’s been taking to stay strong–no caffeine, no alcohol, exercise consistently, meditate daily, and others–I did feel compelled to remind him go easy on himself when he skips a morning meditation or misses a dose of fish oil. I wrote a little bit about my experience of overdoing in an early post, Human Doings, inspired by talking with my brother the same day.
The post begins with a poem; the first line of which is, “You don’t have to be good.”
I don’t want you to be good, Ty. I just want you to be.
* * *
One of my favorite feel-better-even-while-you-cry songs came on as I typed this post, right after Billy Joel’s “Sadness and Euphoria” and in time with me typing the words, “you never know what might come up while you’re breathing.” It’s “Heart of Life” by John Mayer and it goes like this (<—–click there to listen, Mom!):
I hate to see you cry,
lying there in that position.
There are things you need to hear,
so turn off your tears and listen:
Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around.
No, it won’t all go away, it should.
But I know the heart of life is good.
I dedicate this post to you, brother. And even though John Mayer says, “turn off your tears,” I say, just keep being you, however you may be. We’ll love you no matter what that looks like. Love and hugs, your Seester.
27 October 2009; 9 p.m.
Helloo-oo everybody. I am without internet again. It’s bazaar how much it affects my blogging when I know you all won’t be reading my post within minutes. For all my talk yesterday about writing for myself, I sure derive a lot of inspiration from the prospect of posting the latest happenings for the world to see immediately. Something to do with instant gratification, I guess.
This evening’s latest is that I’ve stayed up well past the witching hour for the last four consecutive nights and my eyes are burning from lack of sleep. My mind is also moving muchhh slowwwer, so I can only hope this post will be coherent (there’s the upside to no internet! I’ll get to proof and post this tomorrow when I can think straight again).
I’ve only had this little sleep and stayed this positive a few other times in my life. One in particular comes to mind. It’s also relevant to my doings as of late, because it involves salsa dancing and sultry latin men 
At the ripe young age of 18, my dad gifted me with an opportunity to go to Cozumel, a small and spectacular island just a boat ride away from Cancun. He came along, as did Mom for the second portion of our ten day trip; and my fabulous friend Nichole met us there as well. Not your typical 18 year old circumstance for letting loose in Mexico, but I still managed to have a smashing good time . . .
We stayed at a small bed & breakfast (or is it “cama y desayuna”. . .) located closer to the center of town than the majority of touristed hotels on the main strip. The personality of the American woman running the B&B left something to be desired, but beyond that, Amigos was a perfect accommodation for us: comfortable, practical and magical.
People living in Mexico don’t necessarily place much emphasis on curb appeal, but often what you find once you’re off the streets is a pleasant surprise. Amigos B&B is no exception. Entering the luscious grounds requires unlocking an enormous squeaking gate with a clumsy key. Once within the courtyard, the sweet scent of hibiscus fills the air, and fresh mangos, papayas and starfruit color the soft, moist ground. We ate these fresh fruits each morning for breakfast when, no matter how early we rose, the humidity already covered the skin like a warm washcloth.
After breakfast, most days we would spent hours snorkeling in some of the clearest, bluest, most colorfully populated waters in the world. We even went for a recreational scuba dive, “recreational” being an option for anyone not scuba certified that wants to sink just up to 50 feet below the smooth surface of the sea. But whilst the mornings and afternoons were lusciously relaxing, it was the nights in Cozumel I ended up living for.
There are two clubs, Carlos & Charlie’s and Senor Frog’s, on the oceanfront of Cozumel that cater directly to people coming in off of cruise ships, These chain establishments are as unoriginal as the premise they operate on: to give mostly American tourists the time of their lives while leaving them under the impression they are truly experiencing Mexico. Yet even as I am turning my nose up at them, I was beyond delighted by repeated opportunities to jive in a crowd of, yes, tourists, but also local foxes prowling the dance floors.
I’ll tell you that it didn’t take much of being bumped and grinded by stumbling vacationers to realize that engaging the foxy locals was the better way to have a good time. These men had moves, patience and an affinity for American women.
On the second night out with Nichole, one particular fox caught my eye, then my hand. He wasn’t particularly a physical Don Juan, but he was a real live Latin dancer with the patience to lead me and teach me the subtleties of the dance. “No, no, no” Antonio would scold with his chin tipped down and his eyes trained on mine, “You must use your salsa eyes!” Then, with a toss of his bleach highlighted blond hair we’d be off again.
Nichole was considerably less enthralled by the scene (apparently, her idea of a good time isn’t dancing in conga lines past men pouring diluted margarita from jugs into open mouths night after night); but my faithful friend still escorted me to Senor Frog’s every single night of her trip. Only once did she fail to follow one my fancies, much to my father’s dismay. After leaving the club at 2 a.m. Nichole returned to the B&B and I opted to ride away with Antonio on his scooter (Dad wasn’t dismayed until 4 a.m. when I eventually returned home). I ended up all alone with Antonio in the painted school bus where he lived, smoking Mexican marijuana and listening to him serenade me on the guitar with his own rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”
I suppose I was lucky nothing terrible happened–especially considering that after spending further benign evenings with seemingly respectful Antonio, he eventually revealed his intention to experience the ease of an American girl like me and yet never really pushed his agenda. But risque as I suppose it all was, I also consider myself incredibly lucky to have had such an experience to enhance and color me and my life; and I don’t regret it! On the night Nichole chose to return to the hotel and I declared I was going off into the wind with my Antonio, I felt like I was on to something. Even though I realized the risks involved to some extent, I wasn’t scared sitting in that strange old bus with a lanky Latino strumming his guitar and trying in vain to help me relax into the rhythm of a coffee can drum he placed in front of me. I was exhilarated!
Alright, maybe you wise ones are thinking I made a series of crazy, stupid decisions (probably because my frontal lobe wasn’t developed. We can use this excuse for at least another 13 months) and should be counting my blessings. I am, honestly! Just for a broader set of reasons. . .
Anyway, the premise of this post was to share a story about staying up even when my physical condition should well have been down which is only be possible because at such times I am led, and fed, by something greater. Man can not live by bread alone!
And as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think woman can live on only dancing, either. I had better get this body to sleep! Buenas noches.
It has come to my attention that having a focused intention for my blog would behoove us all greatly. Today I’d like to write about just that.
I’ll start at the beginning (even if to say so is redundant). My initial inspiration for starting a blog was both special and rather unoriginal. I decided to treat myself to the luxury of a matinée one late summer afternoon. So I took a quiet walk down to Mt Shasta Cinemas and bought myself a ticket for Julie and Julia.
For the most part, I enjoyed the movie; but there was also this whiney little voice inside of me (probably my ET4 heart point, otherwise known as a “soul child”) that was actually quite jealous of Julie and Julia alike. “Why should Julie get to do what she loves and then have a book published and a bit fat feature film made starring Meryl Streep?” it demanded. “When will I be loved?”
Lurking there, just behind the jealousy and whinging, was also sadness and a feeling of disconnect from my own path. It had been more than a year since graduating from Naropa, yet still I was “transitioning and integrating” (my words, spoken so many times) and not feeling like I had made any real progress. Somehow, watching Julie and Julia up on that screen touched this tender area of my being and as the credits rolled at the end of the film, I stayed in my seat and wept. (I’m laughing now. I knew there was a reason I named this blog Carry Kleenex, Carry On).
As I walked home, the urge to create a blog of my own crept up inside of me and gradually grew. What’s amazing is that it didn’t dwindle. I wrote my first blog within a week of seeing the movie and the love affair hasn’t fizzled yet. Yes, it’s only been a month, but a month is a long time to do something consistently, first of all, and secondly, I’ve heard that it takes 30 days to establish any habit, good or bad. Given that, consider Cocoa (:acronym CKCO shortened and cute-end) established!
When I actually sat down to write my first post, it all seemed to flow naturally. I came up with the topic and title relatively easily, thanks to a little help from my mom. I even think my initial intention was fairly clear from the start, with the original subtitle: An attempt to redirect my musings to an audience that’s interested. (I’ve since altered that heading slightly, changing “attempt” to “intent” because of the importance I believe the concept of intention to bear; I’ll elaborate on both in a minute).
I am a person who analyzes life and my own behavior on a regular basis. While I find such a quality endearing, it’s easy for me to make the leap and realize that such is not likely the case for every person I encounter. But, I thought, there must be somebody out there who would enjoy and perhaps even benefit from hearing my thoughts on life. So I decided to share them, realizing I might also get some of that particular energy out of my system and into an environment where it would at least have the potential to thrive.
My hope was not so much to entertain or enlighten as to simply offer my thoughts and myself and allow them the chance to be received. I also realized, on some level, that by writing things down I would have an opportunity to get to know Tessa better. I don’t know if it sounds weird that I needed to get to know me, but I honestly did and I do . . .
The point is that, yes, I am writing this blog for people to read it; but my primary intention remains to stay focused on Spirit, both mine and the great one and to see what pours forth. This becomes increasingly challenging as hits to the site and comments on it increase–and not just comments, but comments, filled with integrity and heart. Seeing such things makes it really tempting to try and lure more loveliness into the light, but I realize that the reason this whole process is actually working at all is because I’m not doing it for anyone else. I think that’s an important thing to remember for anyone following a passion, that if you’re not doing it to fulfill you, you probably won’t be fulfilled.
In any case, the reason I changed the word “attempt” to “intent” was to further focus the direction of this offering of mine. I believe in the power of the spoken (or in this case, written) word and I felt that by using the word “attempt,” I was weakening my . . . I hesitate to say “resolve” because to me that feels rigid and closed. So, I was weakening the strength of my . . . well, intention to make a genuine and positive change in my life and to pursue a passion.
Writing daily and opening myself wider than I have been to a even broader range of observation has truly enhanced my life and increased my happiness. The birth of this blog was a genuinely “beautiful dawn.”
I encourage you to listen to the sweet and profound song entitled as such and to pay attention to the lyrics as you do so. I’ve been playing it on my guitar and singing along, and it brings me joy that I want to share. I hope you’ll be inspired.
Learning how to cry is the hardest part
There’s only one way to mend a broken heart.
~Beautiful Dawn, The Wailin Jenny’s
Well. It is 10:50 p.m., yesterday was another late night and I have yet to blog, even though I had one glorious hour after another of weekend freedom to do it in. Instead, I danced, napped, made lots of music and even bickered with Joseph Villaseñor a bit. I’d say it was a Sunday well spent!
Last night, Joe and I drove to Ashland for an initial suss-out of the salsa scene. We departed from Shasta a bit early to grab a bite and ease our way into town. An hour later, I passed up not one but all three of the Ashland exists and didn’t notice until we reached Medford, a city I can say little about other than that it has a shopping mall, a Costco and it’s close to Ashland . . .
I grumbled to myself for a moment as we pulled off the freeway, then shrugged it off to synchronicity. “There, we’ll take the old highway back to Ashland and maybe we’ll see something good.”
We drove along discussing musical tastes and listening styles, and Joe’s sexy surfer friend Mario. A raccoon hobbled across the highway and I squealed with delight. In the four weeks that Joe and I have been driving to and from dancing I’ve seen a raccoon, a fox, a bear and two shooting stars. At first I was sure these events were synchronistic, too. Now I wonder if it might have anything to do with the fact that I’m rarely out after dark otherwise.
Soon we were passing a dusty old building bearing the sign, “Roscos BBQ: Soul Food!” I read it out loud and Joe responded, “Wanna go there for an appetizer and a beer?”
We flipped a roundabout U-turn and parked behind the deteriorating building. Getting out of the car, I noticed the flashing lights and bumping base coming from inside. “Woah, Roscos is hoppin’! This night is getting better all the time.”
After finding ourselves sandwiched between crowded tables and a side door we mistook for the front, Joe and I eventually made our way successfully into the restaurant. Men and women covered the counters, tables and floor. Faces turned toward us for a once over, then went back to continue conversations. A wailing Linda Lovelace and band egged on a bobbing bee-bopping dance crowd. Joe and I both share a love for randomness, spontaneity, and varied experience, so we made the decision relatively quickly to stay and embrace whatever else Roscos BBQ would have to offer.
On my way to the bathroom I nabbed us the one empty booth in the place, setting Joe’s jacket on top of the table. On my way out, I saw no jacket, no Joe and a strange man sitting there instead. Joe materialized out of the crowd moments later, rescuing me from a state of minor confusion, and explained that there was a waiting list. “But we can join these guys if we want to.”
One of the “guys” Joe pointed to had “Hey baby’d” me as I lay Joe’s jacket on the unavailable table, but his face seemed friendly and his intentions benign. Plus, the chance to break bread with four 200 plus pound black men in the middle of Jackson County is not one to be had every day! So, we took our seats.
“Where you all from?” Man #1 asked us. When we returned the question, inquiring if they were from the area, he shook his head in mock disgust and responded “Heck no! Don’t you two watch football?” Then led us into a charade about the four of them being a mix of NFL coaches and stars. Joe and I continued to banter with our new friends until a steaming plate of ribs, baked beans and coleslaw arrived. I’ve always said I could be a vegetarian as long as I could still eat pork ribs and these tender, juicy sauce smothered ones only made me want to strengthen my stance.
We also struck up a rapport with our waitress, Leilani, who gave me her phone number in case I ever wanted to dance hula with her. Joe and I ended up explaining the dynamic of our dance-partner relationship, and as we left Leilani eyed him with her hand by her ear in a hang ten position–otherwise known as a sign for “Call me!”
Upon arriving at Tabu, Joe and I discussed the other bit of information Leilani shared with us: “I know the bouncer there, J.P.! Tell him Leilani says hi and maybe he’ll let you in for free.”
“You have to do it.” Said Joe. “I’m not good at schmoozing.”
I’m not either, but with a, “Hi J.P.! Leilani asked us to tell you she says hello,” and a smile, J.P. skirted the question of a cover and asked us only for I.D.
Inside, things were a smidge anticlimactic, I’m afraid. I had a startling realization hit home: the majority of scenes in the dance movies I love are of the dancers practicing and making mistakes–not dancing effortlessly around in one another’s arms.
So, rather than have an evening like I’d envisioned as Tessa, dancing queen of the club, I was basically Jennifer Gray in the beginning of Dirty Dancing, when she walks into the dusky nightclub and bumps around on the dance floor with Patrick after declaring, “I carried a watermelon!”
But, as is my usual way of settling the dust, I tell myself there will always be other nights. Besides, I do believe they’re all perfect in their own right anyhow.
A day to remember, in reverse:
I’m currently propped up in bed wearing a seafoam green flannel nightshirt with monkey’s all over it that my mother sewed for me. Zoe, the feistier of my two cats, is resting sweetly atop my outstretched legs. I’m drinking red wine and just finished relishing a delicious dark chocolate covered macadamia nut straight from Hawaii (hand-delivered to me by Carl and Kathy). In the background, Pink’s “Please Don’t Leave Me” is on repeat; it’s been stuck in my head since I worked out at Curves (“For Women”) earlier this evening.
I started going to Curves when I was 16 and still in high school. I remember being so impressed and happy with the program that I wanted to write articles in favor of it. These days I’m not so enthusiastic about it–although I suppose I am about just about everything else. Actually, as I hopped around on one of the Curves recovery boards today a gal whose seen me there a time or two before said, “Geez, you have too much energy all the time!” Thankfully I’ve learned, sort of, not to take things like that too personally. . .
Prior to going to Curves, I visited with my new friend Coreena at the SAC gallery. She relieved me at 1 p.m. as the coop member on duty for the afternoon and I came back around 4 to help her finish up the day. Together we looked at photos of her family’s holiday hideaway, “Hikers Rest,” on the big island of Hawaii. Corree had a c.d. playing in the background, “Have you heard of Rob Sexsmith?” she asked me.
“No. He’s good?” I replied.
“Oh, yeah! Plus he has ‘sex’ in his name.”
“And smith! As in ‘wordsmith.’”
“Or ‘locksmith. . .’”
I let Coree look through the clothes of mine the local consignment store had just rejected. “They didn’t take this!?” She asked, bewildered, as she tried on a pale blue corduroy jacket. The jacket was a hand-me-down from a Bostonian friend of mine, seasonally appropriate, cute and in good condition. I couldn’t see the problem either, but to each their own.
Shopping at Trading Places became a favorite pastime this summer while my big brother Tyler and Allison were in town planning their wedding. Neither my new sister-in-law Alli nor I are big shoppers, but somehow we created one fabulously fun experience after another at the little store. No doubt it was largely the influence of TLC’s What Not to Wear. Passing comments like, “Stacey and Clinton would NOT approve” back and forth resulted in each trip becoming highly entertaining. It also made it easier to provide–and receive–honest opinions about potentially poor choices in clothing.
I like to think Alli, Stacey and Clinton would all approve of what I came out with today: a gray Daisy Fuentes sweater-dress, a melon cardigan and a pair of black ballet flats, all for $17.50–and I didn’t pay a penny because I had $26 credit for clothing I brought in previously! Consignment, I tell you, is the shit! Please pardon my Français.
Prior to shopping came work at the gallery, and just before that I met for a most inspirational cup of coffee with a longtime family friend, Nathan. Being at similar places in life, we discussed the pros and cons and proper timing of grad school, travel, and just enjoying our little hometown. I tried to refrain from imparting any unprecedented wisdom to him, but Nathan seemed to welcome it. So I shared how when I finally slowed down and began to be present in my parents’ house in this teeny town of Mt. Shasta, life came to meet me, instead of the other way around. I explained that when I finally stopped “should-ing” all over myself, my passions just burbled up to the surface. It’s beautiful, really, and I wish the same for everybody . . .
As our morning together drew to a close, Nathan and I suddenly touched upon an idea to collaborate with many of the other motivated, creative and inspirational young people in town. Now, it looks like all the lovelies I’ve been spending time with–Coree, Joe, Nikolas, Royce, Nathan, and others–may all get to come together and create something beautiful.
Time will tell; and so will I. Stay tuned.
Uh oh. Only 20 minutes to write this time. In 22 I need to eat dinner, then jet out the door to my new-w-w JOB! Which I am officially hired for, by the way. Tonight I’m on for four some hours of register training with Sean. Phew.
I’m squeezing in this blog post because I was asked if I forgot to blog last night. I was just that touched that I decided to alter my plan to fully recharge my battery and only half refuel for the sake of keeping ya’ll informed (well, Mom informed. She’s the one who asked :} ). So now I’m lying on my back in the ever so elegant “legs up the wall” position, typing with Mom’s laptop perched atop my belly, leaning against my thighs. Now that’s what I call dedication!
Dad is cooking spaghetti in the background. Probably, since he’s rushing around to get it done while I still have time to eat it, I should be helping. Or at least keeping him company with some pleasant chitchat. But after a day of training my replacement at the gallery and a night of being trained ahead of me, I feel I must eek out my energy wisely.
And again I find myself worrying that I’m going to bore my reader by going on about the same topics. How to reconcile this dilemma? Anyone?
Oh well, here I go about dancing again: I found a restaurant an hour and fifteen minutes away that has a Salsa band and dancing on Saturday nights! I used to drive an hour every weekend for church; now instead I’m off in high heels to wiggle in the dark to Latin beats . . . and I somehow don’t think God would mind. You see, when I dance I truly connect to deeper parts of my being and to the Divine, and that’s about the point, in’t it?
Joseph Villaseñor and I will be going to Tabú, the blessed restaurant, together this weekend. Last Saturday we had a rather in depth conversation about the nature of our relationship (status: dance partners in crime). We discussed jealousy, commitment and the potential that having a basically platonic yet spicy partnership could have for our fun on the floor. I also promised Joe there would be little danger of me getting mad at anything he might do–other than leave me sitting in the wings at Tabú if the ratio of male to female dancers turns out to be typical. My hopes are set higher!
He and I concluded with a promise to maintain direct and open lines of communication; and I’d say that’s a good policy to apply to all relationships, be they muy picante or not.
Adios, mis amores!
New blog goal: To get my writing time down to 30 minutes or less for nights when I’m either exhausted or in danger of it in the morning.
Start time tonight? 9:46 p.m. Bedtime last night? 3:45 a.m. Blog time remaining? 29 minutes and counting. . .
Last night was dance night again, hallelujah! In celebration (and recovery) today, I suggested to Mom that we rent either the original Dirty Dancing, the remake: Havana Nights, or Shall We Dance.
She and I walked to the video store, Mom in a t-shirt and me decked out for snow in a hat, sweatshirt and wrist-warmers. We oohed and ahhed at the turning leaves; golds and yellows, pinks and reds and brilliant oranges. We tried collectively to remember what it is that affects the vibrancy of the colors each fall and got as far as “I think it has something to do with an early frost. . .”
With Savannah in tow we passed by Berryvale’s glass doors. “You might be working there soon!” said Mom. Royce waved from inside.
Shortly thereafter we entered Couch Critics (otherwise known as “Potatoes”) to a chorus of barking dogs leaping against the inside of a white truck parked out front. Mom whispered to me, “There’s that smell in here again! Patchouli and body odor and weeds!” I told her she would like today’s previous blog.
Perusing the selection, of the movies I’d mentioned we came across “Shall We Dance” first; but with one look at Richard Gere’s smirk and silver hair and then J-Lo (no further explanation necessary) we put it down and moved quickly on to rent Havana Nights.
Although the film was mediocre as anticipated (contrary to the review on the cover, it did not hold a battery-operated candle to the original), we had fun ogling the young Latino lead, Javier; and I got lost in a daydream of the next time I will get to go dancing again.
The only drawback is that now, after watching Javier and Katie jive and gyrate amidst clumps of sweaty Cubanos, my stakes for ultimate dancing satisfaction are getting higher. Rick and Peggy’s Open Floor dance classes are splendid, sure, but how can they compare to that Cubano calor? (translation: heat).
I guess for now, at the ripe young age of 23 and fresh out of recovery (from heartbreak, that is), hormones are ruling the scene and I’m liking the looks of that Dirty Dancing. Now, if only I can find myself a partner with passion, moves, and a back like Patrick Swayze (bless his soul!), I’ll be on my own way to Heaven.
It’s 10:14 and I even had time to edit! Thank you and good night.
It’s a Thursday night and for some reason it feels to me like Saturday. I’m eating a plain corn tortilla and thinking about The Omnivore’s Dilemma. Oh, don’t make fun of my false Saturdays; I was planning to go line dancing, yes line dancing, at the Black Butte Saloon. Rumor had it that there would be an instructor to prepare us for the honky-tonkin’ band, but alas not tonight. So I opted for home instead. There will be plenty of time for dancing when we actually hit Saturday.
Doesn’t the paragraph feel like complete post in and of itself? Maybe I ought to just stop there. . . plus I’m falling asleep again. . . The past few days have taken their toll and slumber calls me.
Two hours later
. . . yet time passes and I’m still awake. Life lately has been much too rich to let rest. It feels like a carousel of lovely horses going endlessly, effortlessly round and round. Finding the perfection in each moment seems only a matter of jumping on the right horse, syncing up with the timing of the twirl.
I spent the last hour numbing the tips of the fingers on my left hand playing the guitar. I couldn’t get the rhythm of the song and so I played it again and again, rode one horse around and around. The rhythm came easily then, but I couldn’t add the syncopated melody of the lyric.
Finally, it occurred to me to dance. I thought of the most beautiful guitar playing I’ve witnessed in my life, and I mimicked that motion of a woman merging with her instrument, melting into her gifts.
With body swaying, hair sweeping my face and the darkness of the room cradling me gently, I glided into the space of the song.
I didn’t want to leave that place. I never want to stop playing. I want to keep making music just the way I want to keep writing, the way I want to keep dancing.
Oh, thank you, thank you that I am beginning to find myself within life’s cocoon.
Thank you.
