May is more than just a month.

Things I'm Learning

2011-11-08T11:07:00.000-08:00

Gherkins, despite their hilarious name, are not amusing. They are disgusting.

Star Wars is a little bit cooler than I ever gave it credit for being.

My best attributes at this point in my life are being "pretty funny" and "up on current events".

Googling "classy turbans" is a remarkably bad idea.

Patti Smith is actually kind of great.

Profundity is a rather un-profound word.

2011-09-28T00:14:00.000-07:00

i have been upheaved

2011-08-20T23:24:00.000-07:00

no address

a few shoes

jewelry?

my books are all somewhere else.

it seems as if almost all of my people are lost.

missing you and you and you and them.

no plans

too many dreams

a few goals

hoping that this is what the early 20s are supposed to be about.

2011-07-29T22:16:00.000-07:00

"it really says [a lot] [nothing] about you"

2011-05-25T01:15:00.000-07:00

Once, at a gallery party in the city, an artist was drawing blindfolded portraits. His subject would sit in a stool, the artist, blindfolded, would feel his hand around the scalp of the seated person, and draw what he felt. The finished portraits were taped to the walls around him. I had mine done, as did the people I attended the party with. Afterwards, as we looked at the interpretations of ourselves, we projected many things onto them. I identified the bunched up peaks as indicative of the way I think in bursts, and have trouble expressing those things as quickly as I think them. Another person's portrait was immediately identifiable to everyone who knew him because of the steady progression of shapes that "reflected his stable personality."

The artist didn't even touch my entire head. Just the back left corner. Blindfolded. While drinking, and chatting with me and his assistant. He shook my hand and seemed to hear my name with an intensity that made me take him seriously. And that, coupled with the fact that he was in a designated hallway mini-gallery space at Yerba Buena was the reason I looked so closely at my portrait, and read so much into what those squiggly lines really meant.

2011-05-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Rose Royce's 'Car Wash' was playing in the grocery store and every single person was singing along under their breath. Like really, every single one.

Mad Rush

2011-05-13T19:01:00.000-07:00

I am someday going to create something that makes the world feel the way I do when I hear this:

Also, I would like to marry Philip Glass.

2011-04-29T18:41:00.000-07:00

Untitled from May Barbree on Vimeo.

RIP Gin

2011-04-20T20:07:00.000-07:00

You were a good fish.

Your 10-year-old owner took exemplary care of you.

She gave you a Japanese name.

That also happened to be the name of an alcoholic beverage.

And then she went on vacation and her nanny was charged with your care.

And the nanny did everything that was written

so carefully in ten-year-old scrawl.

But you died.

So the nanny is kind of pissed.

And unreasonably sad.

But the nanny is capable of seeing the humor in it all.

Your untimely death.

The way you were flushed away

(while the nanny accidentally shed a few tears)

and then came floating back up.

Fuck.

That part was a little unnerving.

Did you have to do that?

The nanny had to flush you twice.

And then go pee.

But she used the other bathroom.

2011-04-09T23:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Everything,

Thanks for soft, beautiful evenings. And thanks for fleeting euphoria. And chocolate. Thanks for veggie burgers and old friends and new friends and good interactions and The New Yorker.

Today I watched a butterfly land on a first grader's arm. While she was telling me a fantastic story about birds. All while I was processing a dance performance I attended last night. It was lovely to have so much movement and lightness in my atmosphere. I want to be the presence that brings that kind of swift, gentle, powerful, fluttering into people's lives.

My heart has been doing some pretty wonderful flittering lately. And I've been telling people about it. Instead of just being quietly excited to see someone and staying calm and composed while my body internally mini-explodes, I've been letting that joy out. I've been letting everything out. The first grader's (of butterfly landing fame) younger sister observed her father and I chatting today, and said "You guys are falling in love." I absolutely was not, nor was he, and the statement was horribly awkward, but, while I was not falling in love with him, I was feeling my heart swell with gratitude for the day, for the family, for sunshine and yogurt and awesome parenting and beautiful homes. Love was being projected, she was just wrong about where.

That is all.

2011-03-28T21:34:00.000-07:00

anchovy, 2000

2011-03-22T19:56:00.000-07:00

...or, Negotiating

All I wanted was to create a lego-constructed land where things were tall and flowery and ridiculous. A land in which the absurd reigned over all else. Weapon-free and peaceful, with animals and humans from each epically lego time period mingling in a copacetic fashion.

At least I got some ridiculous.

Time Exists.

2011-03-14T20:51:00.000-07:00

In 20 years I am going to be able to say "20 years ago..." and be talking about right now. I won't be talking about when I was an infant, but rather another part of my adult life. "20 years ago" is going to be SO DIFFERENT when I say it then than from when I say it now. Probably it always will be, but I think this is the most dramatic jump. 0-20. Huge. Not that I'm saying "20 years ago..." about much now. But oh man, when I'm in my 40s. Crazy.

2011-03-12T23:47:00.000-08:00

Dear Everything,

Tonight I did not fall in love. But so much love poured out of me that I might as well have. I got to hug and visit and laugh and remember. And watch beautiful movement by beautiful bodies recreating a time that was full of the biggest, deepest, most overwhelming kind of love.

So I write to thank you. For forming the vibrating stings of connection that brought me to where I was this evening. I am already treasuring all of it. Thanks for my new hair, the best people, that sweet lace shirt, cowboy boots, ODC, the boy who served me at Starbucks, and BART. With each of those items come the 3000 things connected to them for which I am also thankful.

If it's not too much to ask, Everything....keep it coming?

Thanks,

People

2011-03-12T01:59:00.000-08:00

Today I put a child's clothes on upside-down.

Meaning he did a handstand while I tugged off his pajamas and manipulated clean clothing onto his upturned body. After 30 minutes of negotiation and 5 minute warnings and the offering of infinite strategies of how to get his clothes changed, upside-down is the method we decided upon. It was rather impressive, if I do say so myself.

Moments like those show me just how completely unprepared I am to raise my own children. I don't know that I want to go through that dressing process ever again. Much less every single time he spills on his shirt, or realizes that he isn't wearing the good pants with deep pockets, or has to take a bath. This is just one of the many situations in which I find myself on equal ground with a 5 year old. Logic says that I should have the upper hand; I'm physically larger, possess more knowledge on the majority of worldly topics, have more life experience, and have been putting clothing on my body, and probably the bodies of others, for quadruple-plus his lifespan. Logic fails. As I know it well should.

What reigns, instead, is reality. A child is a person. Children are not diminutive versions of people, but full-fledged human beings. Human beings with their own agendas and circadian rhythms and opinions and preferences. I do know this. And love it. As a ballet and preschool teacher, nanny, babysitter, eldest sibling and cousin, and general "kid person," I have a firm belief in the view of the child as capable, intelligent, creative, and complete. This is one of those backward concepts that is more difficult to grasp in theory than in practice. When, for instance, the only way to get a kid dressed is to turn him upside down, he is very obviously not some mini-version of an adult that I have the privilege of shaping in my likeness. But when I am dreaming of my future adopted family of rainbow children (that live with my common-law husband and me on our magical 12 acres of forest that is somehow also right around the corner from San Francisco's Nob Hill, whom we have raised completely organically with zero-waste and who have never seen television and are all certified prodigies in something wonderful or another...) it is difficult to keep that perspective.

Children are people. Adults are people. Semi-adults who care for children are people. Right now, this person is remarkably happy providing thoughtful care to other people's children.

Some Completely Self-Absorbed Notes I Felt the Urge to Jot Down and Share (?)

2011-02-13T08:51:00.000-08:00

All of my dreams have been about dancing lately.

I have recently been feeling love, of the non-romantic variety, in huge volumes.

I miss required reading.

But I have been doing large quantities of recreational reading, which is fantastic.

Sometimes I gush. Especially in thank you notes.

Fried eggs over-hard are the shit.

My new mantra, or decision-making tool, is 'What would James Franco do?'

I am currently working on two ballet pieces about birds. Predictable.

New

2010-12-31T19:07:00.000-08:00

My resolution for 2011 is to be heard. And to make noises that matter.

2010 was a lot of losing and finding and changing and learning and forgetting and remembering myself. Huge things happened, and I happened right along with them. But I got pretty caught up in my own happenings, and am finding myself to be a little lost. I haven't been forming opinions, speaking my mind, or asserting myself much at all. So here it comes. Here I come.

Bits

2010-11-17T23:49:00.000-08:00

A few days ago somebody asked me how old I was. I got totally flustered and answered, "43". I am not 43. Not even close.

My horoscope is often a day behind. Recently I missed a shuttle to get to work, and then got lost driving around looking for an entrance to a parking lot that evening. The next day the predictions for "You, dear Virgo..." were all about avoiding transportation and traveling, because it would bring me "nothing but extreme frustration." That happens all the time. (The day late part...usually I am capable of getting around in a parking lot.)

Eggplant is a berry!

Yesterday I was thinking about how I couldn't find my earring, then I held out my hand and the earring fell into it. From nowhere.

The "Maintenance Required" light is on in my car, but there is no maintenance that is required.

Human beings share 60% of our genes with bananas. And bananas can get sunburnt.

Hey. You.

2010-11-09T08:10:00.000-08:00

Thanks for reading.

2010-10-30T00:46:00.000-07:00

Life is everything all at once. I am experiencing the best and the worst and the mediocre. All of them. Right now. Things are huge and tiny and medium. The same and different. Devastating and exhilarating and boring. Beautiful and ugly and average. Every possible contradiction. You get the point.

I'm doing a lot of processing and deciding and growing and evolving and planning. And quite a lot of run-on sentence writing.

SOME THINGS I CURRENTLY LOVE:

>my preschoolers. I can feel my heart swelling sometimes when I watch them negotiate or get their jackets on or hug each other. And every time they reach for my hand to hold.

>holding hands. With anyone. I so, so love holding hands.

>the smell of cloves.

>teaching ballet.

>Dave Eggers. I've always been a fan, and read most of his stuff. But I just finished his collection of short stories, How We Are Hungry and it was great.

>candles.

I love songs with whistling.

2010-10-03T21:04:00.000-07:00

sort of joking about telepathy

2010-09-24T22:25:00.000-07:00

Lately, I pretend. A pretending reminiscent of the days I used to climb up the outside of my house and nestle into a cozy, just-my-10-year-old-sized nook against the chimney. Those days I would pretend that I was a spy, or an anthropologist. I would pack a bag full of journals and pens and something bizarre to eat (sometimes unshelled walnuts, other times lemons or raw green beans, once a bag of brown sugar) and binoculars, and sit. I would make up these elaborate situations in which one of my favorite people needed my help, and I was able to telepathically know where and how and make it to them in the nick of time.

The pretending I have been engaging in most recently is similar in that I spend a lot of time with it. But mostly I pretend to not be exhausted. Or to be excited. And sane, and in control of my life. This pretending is different because it is not just a way for a weird kid to entertain her lonely self. It is an attempt to become what I am pretending. At 10, I had no illusions about actually being telepathically connected to anyone, or that I was doing anything other than scratching my elbows climbing up brick walls. Now I do. Have illusions of telepathy and saving people. And that I can work and love and support and be healthy and interesting and helpful and a good person. All at the same time. I truly believe that if I pretend hard enough, and believe hard enough, I can do all of those things. Plus communicate telepathically. It has been pretty effective so far, so I'm going to keep at it.

bad people go to the library too

2010-09-17T21:14:00.000-07:00

I moved a few months ago. To a different county and city, making a new library card a necessity. I filled out the form, brought in my mail as proof of address, and checked out some books. New cardholders are only allowed to check out two items their first time, in order to "make sure you are a good person that isn't going to steal from the library". I was a little offended, as in, of course I'm a good person...I'm pretty sure only good people go to the library. Then I received a reminder email providing the due date and location at which I should return my books. Again, I was a little offended. As if I don't know that the date is stamped on the back of my book, and I clearly know where to return it, I did check it out.

They were due two days ago.

maybe not.

2010-09-08T23:29:00.000-07:00

"May, the glass doesn't always have to be half full."

"I think sometimes you want things to be good, so you find a way to make them seem that way."

"Sometimes being positive about something that is this negative is like lying."

definitely not.

(i shall continue keeping the faith)

if only because: i have a pen pal

my friend and I are committed to communicating only in haiku form

the sky has been blowing my mind lately

ee cummings lived and wrote

preschoolers are a gigantic part of my daily life

glue still feels like boogers when rubbed between 2 fingers

my Aunt K uses lots of tape

falafel

on and ever onward

2010-08-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

Just love everything. And everyone. Bless and love and hold and treasure it all. Love what you do and who you are and where you live and how you interact with people and where you came from and where you're going and how you feel. Love the things that are terrible and horrible and painful and shitty for how good they make everything else look in comparison. Love the fog and love the sun. Love being confused and scared, and love being sure of the few things you are SURE about. Love changing and change. Love the way you hate everything, only to love it later. Love that capacity for opposition in yourself. Love the people who are supposed to love you, but can't seem to. Love that everything is a death, and that everything is a birth. Love that everything has happened before. Love waiting and being scared and crying and dying and living and singing and dancing. Love dancing the most.

Walking Around

Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

For The Anniversary Of My Death

W.S. Merwin

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

Petals

Amy Lowell

Life is a stream
On which we strew
Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
The end lost in dream,
They float past our view,
We only watch their glad, early start.
Freighted with hope,
Crimsoned with joy,
We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
Their widening scope,
Their distant employ,
We never shall know. And the stream as it flows
Sweeps them away,
Each one is gone
Ever beyond into infinite ways.
We alone stay
While years hurry on,
The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

The Times They Are a-Changin'

2010-08-15T21:41:00.000-07:00

Things that I don't notice until they are different:

The way door handles turn.

Ceiling heights.

My weight.

The way people say my name.

The location of toilet paper holders.

Keyboard key sizes.

Water temperature.

A List of Facts:

2010-07-29T21:47:00.000-07:00

There is no logical reason to still have in my possession, a year after the wedding, a green bridesmaid dress that has red wine spilled all down the front of it.

Masking Tape is not the same as Painter's Tape.

The edges of tin cans are sharp.

Preschooler art is the best art.

This is the song of the summer:

Transitions are difficult. Really difficult.

If you are a man, and you play the upright bass, I will fall in love with you.

These women are absolutely amazing: Empowered Birth Doulas

My fish knows his name. And lets me pet him.

West Oakland is the place to be.

I'm moving.

Homes as Museums

2010-07-25T23:58:00.000-07:00

My intention for this post was to expand upon a comment I left at the blog of Cassy Lee. Instead, I will encourage you to click on her name and join in her campaign to create wonder.

Shake

2010-07-15T01:49:00.000-07:00

**

Nothing, absolutely NOTHING, does for me what dancing does. I feel whole. And strong. And healthy. And free. All because I went out with some friends and danced to some sweet soul sounds for a few hours. It wasn't a dance class, I wasn't trying to impress anyone, I was just dancing. And singing, and movin' to the groovin'. I went from being totally stuck and stiff and sick and sad, always rappin' 'bout the same old thing, to so much rhythm, grace and debonair. This is what I know how to do. When I don't know how to do anything else. I know how to move your body all around, just shake. Thats the way you do it--Shake, Shake, Shake it baby. Shake it like a bowl of soup. Let your body loop de loop. Put your hands on your hip. Come on and let your backbone slip. Move your body like your hip. And just shake.

**
This is not me out last night. I am shaking it, but with children, which is a whole different kind of wonderful.

Pretty

2010-07-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

Some days are hard. No matter how long one spends outside, how much poetry is read, how many chores get done, sometimes, it is just a little tricky to be a human.

Some things make it a little easier. Pretty lights hung on a wall, preschool art, and the new playlist from Big Red Robot; these things are shifting my energy tonight.

And tea. And phone calls from wondrous people . And beans cooking in the crockpot. And Bartholomew, my fish. And The Moth. And new candles. And chocolate chip cookies.

I pulled out all the stops this evening. Hope your night is splendid.

Some Mary Oliver? Yes, please.

2010-07-04T17:59:00.000-07:00

A Summer Day

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

I like it when:

2010-06-23T20:26:00.000-07:00

I re-meet someone I have known for years. Someone I have known only in the "Hello, how are you?" sense, and then all of a sudden we are standing outside the place from which we know each other and talking for hours. Or after six semesters together we finally have a real conversation. Or befriending a store clerk after buying coffee from him for what seems like forever. Those overdue encounters that make me feel as if maybe we had to simmer awhile before we could discover how well our flavors mixed.

I can rap the entire Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme without getting flustered and tongue-tied.

there are plants to be watered and a cat to be fed.

a child can be sung to sleep.

there is sunshine.

people's houses smell like them. I am a sniffer. The first thing I am conscious of when entering a new place is the smell. I love how distinct and personal, and often unintentional scents tend to be. My second family growing up all smelled like the mother's perfume, and when I left their house, so did I. My Nana's house smelled like cigarette smoke and newspapers (a frightening combination). My dorm room smelled like egg noodles for the first month I lived there. So did my roommates. An old friend used to smell like saffron and dry beans, and then all of a sudden he didn't. I couldn't figure out why, until I realized that he had been doing his laundry at the laundromat, instead of taking it home to his mom. My house changes smells, but it is hard for me to tell unless I have been away. I love re-establishing my scent--that feeling the day I come home and don't smell anything is a comfort.

the silverware drawer is exactly where you would expect it to be.

I am heard.

things aren't harder than they have to be.

my people are happy. "My people" is an intentionally sweeping term.

I can dance.

you buy gas right before the price goes up. Victory.

there are mistakes in movies. Like when an actress has one glove on in one shot, and two in the next, then one in the following. Or different hair styles. Or the computer screensaver has changed.

I'm reading. Also, baking.

Otis Redding is playing.

they forgot the exclamation points

2010-06-18T18:05:00.000-07:00

Congratulations. You have graduated.‏
From: SF State Office of Undergraduate Admissions
Sent: Fri 6/18/10 6:03 PM
To: May B---- Barbree

Dear May Barbree:

Congratulations.

The final review of your Spring 2010 application for graduation has been completed and you have met all the requirements for your multiple degrees.

...

Congratulations from the staff and faculty of San Francisco State University on the successful completion of your degree programs.

Sincerely,

Office of Undergraduate Admissions
San Francisco State University

overheard in the classroom today:

2010-06-08T23:07:00.000-07:00

"I can't rest my body, I just think my brain is going to fall out!"

2010-05-29T16:29:00.000-07:00

One Thursday night, my freshman year of college, I was dancing in a crowded club. Some stranger and I were dancing practically back to back, and we kept hitting each other. My instinctual response was to simply continue dancing, letting some weird girl's butt rub all over me. I did. For a few songs, until one of my friends called me a doormat for not asking her to stop. I was feeling churlish, and resented that I had been so easily pegged, so I hitched my hips forward, and then thrust them back. Hard. I did this several times, sending the girl and her invasive dance moves flying into her friends. Mature, I know. But then, and this is the part that shifted my perception enough to lead to this story, the girl did the coolest thing. She turned around, extended her hand to shake, and said. "Hi, I'm Camile. Are we OK with the space here?" I was floored. This girl called me out, put me in my place, and made me feel like a child, but with such class. I immediately apologized, introduced myself, and stopped being an asshole.

I've carried this lesson with me and adjusted it to be added into my larger-scale world view. Were I a better writer, this would be the place I would insert an eloquent metaphor about life being a dance floor--but I lack the motivation to make it anything but unfortunately cliche. That aside, in the last few years I have been engaging in this practice of giving a little of myself to people or places or organizations that I am feeling some animosity towards. It has had mixed results.

My roommate freshman year and I were an interesting match. We were so different that we either got along famously or quietly despised each other for weeks at a time. We were in one of those despicable periods when I went grocery shopping one day. I was seething about her hair on the carpet or her constant advice, or something equally ridiculous, and I was trying to find a way to get out of that place. I wasn't mature enough yet (see opening example) to talk it out with her, and she wasn't whatever enough yet to even get that I was pissed. So I bought her some of her favorite cereal. A tiny gesture that immediately shifted us out of that shitty place.

Once in class my professor made me cry in front my 15 classmates. I asked a question, and she answered in a way that did not actually answer my question at all, so I asked it in a different way. She walked over to my desk and leaned into my face and said, verbatim, her initial answer and then flew off into a stream of insults. So I cried, and she walked out of the room. This class had a lot of outside work required to produce a show, so I made sure that I picked up any slack. I organized and produced the written program, designed and set up the backdrop and set pieces, organized the reception, and presented her with flowers.

I wrote this once in my journal: I don't know if I just really enjoy being a martyr, or if I like the sense of superiority I get from going above and beyond for people who have fallen short for me. I definitely have a deep psychological need to please people, but don't necessarily think that it is always a bad thing. But sometimes, I need to reign it in.

Last semester, I auditioned for a company/show and didn't get in. I felt slighted, and sad and embarrassed and wrote a little about it here. The show came around, and I volunteered to do concessions. Concessions for a show I thought I should have been in, supporting an organization I half-belonged to, to raise money for events that I was unable to participate in. I hated myself for every second of the 17+ hours I put into it. I felt pitiful and pathetic the entire time, and the experience made me rethink my motivations for doing good deeds.

But now I have new motivation. I have been in an interesting place where I have needed help. Lots of help, and the people who should be there for me haven't been. But some have. Three beautiful, wonderful, words-cannot-even-come-close-to-accurately-describing-them women have helped. I am lucky. So, so lucky. And grateful beyond belief. I don't know entirely why they are doing what they are, besides that they are just fantastic human beings.

People help people. Not being able to say no is something I have really been struggling with. I've been feeling like I need to change that about myself, and maybe I do. Maybe I need to change the part where I feel badly about giving my time and my attention to people or causes that need it. And definitely the part that does nice things for people just because they have been less than good to me. This is probably just a step in my own evolution, but I think it is an important one, and documenting it will serve as a reminder of how, these few weeks, I have been filled with gratitude.

Last Friday

2010-05-17T11:32:00.000-07:00

Happy May!

2010-05-08T12:51:00.001-07:00

In celebration of the month of my name, an ode to the month of my birth.
Because it is all about me.

Typical

2010-05-06T22:56:00.000-07:00

I am spending my final weeks of college stressing out about performing this:

And I don't think that I would have it any other way.

skills

2010-04-29T22:54:00.000-07:00

He told me that the best compliment I could give him would be that he was a good lover.
"Well how would I know?" I asked, never having been loved, in any sense, by him.
"Don't women have ways of knowing these things? Isn't there something that you sense in us, even without actually touching or kissing, that clues you in to our skills in the sack?"

He actually said "skills in the sack".

I paused.
"You are not a good lover."

important words

2010-04-27T07:18:00.000-07:00

as defined by Merriam-Webster

spon·ta·ne·ous
Pronunciation: \spän-ˈtā-nē-əs\
Function: adjective
Etymology: Late Latin spontaneus, from Latin sponte of one's free will, voluntarily
Date: 1653
1 : proceeding from natural feeling or native tendency without external constraint  2 : arising from a momentary impulse  3 : controlled and directed internally : self-acting  4 : produced without being planted or without human labor : indigenous  5 : developing or occurring without apparent external influence, force, cause, or treatment  6 : not apparently contrived or manipulated : natural

nat·u·ral
Pronunciation: \ˈna-chə-rəl, ˈnach-rəl\
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French naturel, from Latin naturalis of nature, from natura nature
Date: 14th century
1 : based on an inherent sense of right and wrong  2 a : being in accordance with or determined by nature b : having or constituting a classification based on features existing in nature  3 a (1) : begotten as distinguished from adopted; also : legitimate (2) : being a relation by actual consanguinity as distinguished from adoption b :illegitimate child>  4 : having an essential relation with someone or something : following from the nature of the one in question  5 : implanted or being as if implanted by nature : seemingly inborn  6 : of or relating to nature as an object of study and research  7 : having a specified character by nature  8 a : occurring in conformity with the ordinary course of nature : not marvelous or supernatural b :formulated by human reason alone rather than revelation c : having a normal or usual character  9 : possessing or exhibiting the higher qualities (as kindliness and affection) of human nature  10 a : growing without human care; also : not cultivated b : existing in or produced by nature : not artificial c : relating to or being natural food  11 a : being in a state of nature without spiritual enlightenment : unregenerate b : living in or as if in a state of nature untouched by the influences of civilization and society  12 a : having a physical or real existence as contrasted with one that is spiritual, intellectual, or fictitious b : of, relating to, or operating in the physical as opposed to the spiritual world  13 a : closely resembling an original : true to nature b : marked by easy simplicity and freedom from artificiality, affectation, or constraint c : having a form or appearance found in nature  14 a : having neither flats nor sharps b : being neither sharp nor flat c : having the pitch modified by the natural sign  15 : of an off-white or beige color

rare
Pronunciation: \ˈrer\
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): rar·er; rar·est
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin rarus
Date: 14th century
1 : marked by wide separation of component particles : thin  2 a : marked by unusual quality, merit, or appeal : distinctive b : superlative or extreme of its kind  3 : seldom occurring or found : uncommon

mir·a·cle
Pronunciation: \ˈmir-i-kəl\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin miraculum, from Latin, a wonder, marvel, from mirari to wonder at
Date: 12th century
1 : an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs  2 : an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment  3 Christian Science : a divinely natural phenomenon experienced humanly as the fulfillment of spiritual law

healthy
Pronunciation: \ˈhel-thē also ˈhelt-\
Function: adjective
Inflected Form(s): health·i·er; health·i·est
Date: 1552
1 : enjoying health and vigor of body, mind, or spirit : well  2 : evincing health healthy complexion>  3 : conducive to health  4 a : prosperous, flourishing b : not small or feeble : considerable

another attempt at actualization

2010-04-25T21:50:00.000-07:00

(please notice, and be impressed by, the alliterative title of this post)

Nothing hurts, and every cell is a healthy one. Vitality and vigor and strength and wellness abound. The sun shines, and the breeze blows. It's a day where energy is moving steadily forward, not swirling, and not stagnant, but just flowing. Everyone you smile at smiles back. There are birds and bees and dogs and ladybugs. Things are comfortable, but exciting, and you are not afraid of anything. After months of the same bad dream, you wake up from a beautiful one about flying. In that dream you were flying, people were singing, people were dancing, and it was all for you. All to celebrate the end of that bad dream.

Grow

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

Nothing matters. And everything matters. People die of cancer over decades, and people drown in the ocean in minutes. Babies are born, babies aren't born. Cars crash. Trains, buses, planes, boats crash. But they carry people over great spaces while sitting on chairs in the air. Fire burns and cleanses, destroys and regenerates. Where you park your car matters little in the grand scheme or your day, of your life--unless that place is also the place where the tree falls. You make friends and loves, and then forget. Or move. Or graduate. Or get Alzheimer's. Flowers sprout, then grow, then die. So do people. So will I. Growing is key. You can hear a song once, and it changes you, but the next time you hear it, it means nothing. You can know, but your circumstances can change so much that you think you don't know. You can be so sure. So sure, but actually be wrong. Anyone has, within them, the capacity to be happy or sad or angry or jubilant or jealous or confused, or frustrated or nervous, or hungry. And everyone has been all of those things. But not everyone can see and understand them in others. Some people make it all the way through convoluted, stream of consciousness, strange paragraphs, and some people don't. I don't know if it matters.

Alphabetized Adjectives

2010-04-13T23:55:00.000-07:00

AblazeBumpy

CrazedDark

EndangeredFucked

GratefulHarried

InsomniacJaded

KnottedLonging

MacabreNurtured

OverwhelmedPetulant

QuixoticRestless

StressedTedious

UnkeptVagabond

WorriedXenophobic

YearningZen

live

2010-04-08T22:52:00.000-07:00

I can't throw away dead flowers. I'm in a place, currently, where I feel intensely connected to anything and everything that is remotely alive. Or once was alive. Or was ever connected to something alive. It is, I'll admit, a little bit insane.

I'm having a difficult time throwing away orange peels. And squashing bugs. And eating meat. Even shaving my legs. And then there are the flowers. My bedside table is filling up with dead lilies, daffodils, sweet pea blossoms, and lavender. I felt guilty picking them, great about enjoying them, and now horrible about the fact that they have died. So they stay, silently drooping and shriveling, smelling lightly of sweet decay, on my bedside table.

A song that I do not understand, but that is speaking to something in me

2010-03-31T20:02:00.000-07:00

in memoriam

2010-03-21T18:51:00.000-07:00

Shirley Eleanor Nash

Shirley Eleanor Nash, 93, died peacefully Thursday, March 11, 2010, at the Garden House in Morro Bay, her hand held, being told she was loved, her favorite Andres Segovia album was playing in the background, and her room was filled with flowers and cards from friends, family and the Marines. She will be deeply missed. Born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada in 1916, Shirley, came to Pasadena, Calif., as a child with her parents, Herbert Howgate Nash, an administrator at Cal Tech and Christina Eleanor Nash, a nursing volunteer. Shirley was the first of three children. In high school, she won recognition as a classical ballet dancer performing at the Rose Bowl, El Capitan, the Pantages, the Greek Theater and in movies with stars Margaret O''Sullivan, Fred MacMurry, the Marx Brothers and a flop starring Fibber McGee and Molly. After high school, she enrolled at Pasadena City College. In 1940, yearning to see the world, she quit school, sold her car and bought a steamship ticket to China. As the only American, her fellow passengers were Japanese diplomats being ordered home and German army officers recalled to Berlin. Shirley told how the atmosphere was very tense with the two groups barely polite to one another. Arriving in Shanghai, she worked as a daily newspaper reporter in the city guarded by Japanese tanks and barbed wire barricades. In November 1941, she boarded the last ship out of China before the war. A sister ship, with all her belongings, was blown up in the Philippines. While in China she meet a "China Marine" from the 4th Regiment of the Marine Corps, whom she married after World War II. Shirley returned home, joined the Marines, attended boot camp at New York''s Hunter College, then Quartermaster School at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Shirley scored the highest ever, to that date, on the Officer Candidate School test and became a first lieutenant, served as the disbursing officer in the transport department stationed in Washington, D.C. She traveled across the United States over 40 times on Marine Corps business. Upon leaving the Marines after WWII, she married Edward Ellery Kash, who had been captured by the Japanese, survived the Bataan Death march and spent most of the war in a Japanese prison camp. They lived in New York until divorcing, and then Shirley moved to Mexico City. They had one child, Pandora Noel Nash. In the 1950s, Shirley attended Whittier College on the GI Bill received a Bachelors and Masters with highest honors and worked as a college professor at Chaffey College for 25 years where she founded and headed the Interior Design department and taught architectural history. She utilized her dance and theater expertise at Chaffey, producing and choreographing numerous musicals including South Pacific, Oklahoma and Finian''s Rainbow. Every summer was spent traveling the world''s most unusual places. Shirley was the first white woman to explore Dutch Guiana''s Suriname River, and she did it in a dugout canoe just 5 years after locals stopped practicing cannibalism. She taught school in St. Thomas and St. Croix during the 1960''s and tromped through mosquito-infested jungles to photograph ruins in Uxmal, ChichÃ©n Itza, MÃ©rida and Palenque decades before they became popular tourist destinations. Shirley became a scholar specializing in California''s estancia and adobe architectural history of the 18th and 19th centuries. She was part of a team of historians that catalogued many of the 19th century homes in southern California. Noted as feisty and finding ways to get things done, she once applied to Hearst Castle for permission to do on-site research of its architecture and interiors, but was declined. She then applied for a job as a guide and was hired, which allowed her to do her research and get paid too. She was married to Dwight Mossman, a southern California businessman, for 25 years. She was active in the National Trust for Historic Preservation, California Historic Society, Southern California Historic Society, Los Angeles Cultural Heritage Foundation, the Society of Architectural Historians, the Pasadena Historical Society, Ontario Historic Landmarks Society, Historical Society of Pomona Valley, the American Society of Interior Designers and the Retired Officers Association. An art lover, Shirley was an award-winning photographer, a skilled carver, weaver, mosaic artist and a basket maker using traditional Native American materials. Shirley moved to Los Osos in 1998. She became a Charter member of the Marine Corps League, Detachment 680 and helped in the early planning stages of the San Luis Obispo County Veterans Museum and the Toys for Tots campaigns. In 2007, she was awarded the Detachment''s Challenge Coin, a special recognition medallion, presented by the Commandant for her service to the League. Shirley is survived by daughter, Pandora Nash-Karner of Los Osos; grandson Eriel Shayne Nash of Los Osos; numerous cousins, nieces and nephews from King City, Oakland, Davis, and Etna, Calif., Bellevue and Olympia, Wash., Sidney, British Columbia; and Taipei, Taiwan. She was preceded in death by brother James H. Nash, M.D. of San Luis Obispo; and sister Phyllis Nash Barren of Bellevue, Wash. A gathering of family and friends will be held in early summer officiated by Richard Carsel and attended to by the Marine Corps League. Donations can be made to Hospice Partners of the Central Coast, 277 South Street, San Luis Obispo, CA 93401. "Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, champagne in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming ''˜WOO HOO'' what a ride!" That was how Shirley Nash lived her life. Tim Haley, of the Marine Corps League wrote, "Rest assured Shirley reported in to her final duty station standing tall and looking sharp and took her place among the formation of Marines. Mission accomplished Lt. Nash, well done. Semper Fidelis."

Nothing to Say

2010-03-11T17:58:00.000-08:00

Or too much.

Nothing appropriate to say.

A List, because this is what I do.

2010-03-03T06:56:00.000-08:00

Things I have been pondering:

The earth can be tipped of its axis?

babies

beeswax

ballet

Sherwood Anderson's Hands

turnout, tendu, plie, etc.

ice cream

chocolate covered almonds

art

childhood

acorns

depression as a motivation

optimism

love, romantic and otherwise

symmetry

strike

school

peace corps

2010-02-24T20:31:00.001-08:00

A Story

2010-02-12T23:08:00.000-08:00

About a day where everything was right.

She woke up at the end of the dream. The end of a beautiful, perfect dream about floating and love and flower buds. Just the right amount of light was shining through the window to make her feel pretty. As she sat up, her body felt whole and limber and ready. Ready to brush her teeth and get dressed and eat breakfast and leave the house on time and be a courteous driver and attentive, cheerful, graceful and helpful all day. So she did.

Then she came home, and instead of wasting hours getting lost in the internet, she cooked dinner and created art and read a book and did yoga. Her journal entry for that day recounted deep conversations with good people. Maybe a drawing or two of the flowers she picked to set on her bedside table. And the story about how she met the love of her life. She and he speak on the phone, and then she goes to sleep.

If you build it, they will come?

Mind over matter?

The Secret?

Actualization?

here goes.

Thanks

2010-02-08T20:16:00.000-08:00

I am a big believer in "thank you". I thank people for holding the door for me, for handling my purchases, for complimenting me, for gifts, for favors--the normal things. But sometimes I am so grateful that I think I over-thank. As I left physical therapy today I believe that I said "Thank you so much!" at least 6 times on my way out the door. I find myself giving gushing, 2 minute speeches of thanks to people who let me merge into their lane, people who definitely can't hear me. I sometimes use thank you as an introduction, as in "I'm May, and I first want to thank you so much for teaching this class. I'm really looking forward to learning from you. Thank you." A little excessive.

I'm not sure why I do this. Maybe it is to fill uncomfortable silences. Maybe because I have a limited vocabulary but like talking to people, and I know that everyone understands and appreciates a good thanking. But I think, actually, that I am trying to make up for all of the entitlement in the world. I say thank you for all of the other people that don't. It sounds pretentious and pseudo-heroic, and maybe it is. But I appreciate being appreciated, and assume that others do to.

Thanks.

To the Uncomfortable 12ish Year-old Girl I Sat Across From at Java Beach this morning:

2010-02-07T14:54:00.000-08:00

Dear U12Y-oG,

I know you think everything is weird and strange right now. Your friends are all interested in gossip and hooking up and "OMG (fill in age-completely-inappropriate risqué remark)", and you just want to read and talk about what would happen if flagpoles were shorter--how people would get whipped in the face by the American flag all the time, and how would they feel about it then?
You are mildly interested in boys and the possibility of meeting a special one, but it doesn't consume your every waking moment. You feel awkward and ugly and disconnected. It's lonely. Most likely, the only people you genuinely enjoy talking to are significantly older than you are. Which is embarrassing. Especially since, even then, when you don't have to discuss your boobs or mascara, you do have to seem interesting enough for them to listen. Or pathetic enough for them to feel sorry for you. And even if you are interesting and pathetic, you really want to just talk about those flagpoles, and maybe that idea for a story about a tree stump.

I hope you don't mind me making these assumptions about you, U12Y-oG. It's just that we have a lot in common. This isn't going to be one of those inspirational, ugly duckling, secret-to-happiness letters. It's simply a note to let you know that you aren't the only one of your kind. I can't say that a lot changes by the time you are 21; that you feel any less awkward or disconnected, but I can say that you start to like yourself more. And that is not nothing.

Here is a loose outline of how the next 10 years will go:

13-High school--it totally blows, but there are 2 or 3 people you will meet that don't understand you but like you anyway.

14-16-You'll find a tiny niche, still be lonely, but feel good at something.

17-Hope emerges, you'll graduate, find an adventure, be totally scared, but hungry. You will despise everything you know, and yearn for your big moment of self actualization.

18-19-College won't be what you expect, but you will learn so, so much. You will realize how much you underestimated yourself, and how capable you are.

20-This won't be your best year. Things will be hard, but you will find solace in school, books, music, your old hobbies, and your job. You will over-schedule yourself to avoid dealing with how little you enjoy big, drunken parties and being irresponsible.

21-All of the loose ends from 20 will start to form a giant knot. It makes you feel secure, until something huge and life-shaking happens. You will get through the shaking by using all of the skills you didn't even realize you had cultivated in the last 9 years. Your quirks will finally start to make you interesting, but you won't quite know what to do with that yet. It is an uncertain time, but you will feel strangely collected and confident.

Things will always seem to be different for you. You might always be a little uncomfortable. But you will be OK. You will learn to just love what you love, and let yourself be who you are. It is hard to get over wanting to whittle yourself into someone else. Hard to never fit in, even when you kind of do. Hard to push yourself into that incredibly vulnerable place beyond your own imagination and books. But you can always come back there. Always. You just shouldn't live there.

I wish you the absolute best, U12Y-oG. I don't know you, and never will, but I hope our spirits meet one day and compare notes.

Yours,

May

After All

2010-02-03T21:44:00.000-08:00

The world is feeling so small lately. Not the claustrophobic, overwhelming kind of small, but the lovely, coincidental, cozy size. The connections that have been forming from person to person, experience to experience are being exposed right now, in the last two days. It is thrilling. I ran into someone I traveled to Australia with six years ago and haven't seen since. Two friends that I know from completely different contexts know each other. My physical therapist invited me out for drinks. A friend of my new roommate sits next to me in class. I watched a new friendship blossom over the difficulty of a turned out tendu. I'm starting to feel out a place for myself in the universe.

2010-01-17T02:11:00.001-08:00

Dreaming

2010-01-03T11:28:00.001-08:00

I've been dreaming about dancing. More specifically, doing a tour jeté. A huge, beautiful one that elicits gasps from everyone who witnesses it. A perfectly executed tour jeté that causes my teacher to say, "Well May, I really didn't think you were ever going to be able to do that again." And then I go about living my life the way I have planned it in my waking moments, dancing for fun and my health, but not in any situation where the quality of my tour jeté matters even a little bit.

I've also been dreaming about rock climbing and running and kickboxing and playing soccer and tightrope walking.

Restaurant moment

2009-12-20T21:02:00.000-08:00

My mom and brother came to visit me in the city. This never, ever happens. Never have I had the opportunity to show off my savvy city living skills to my immediate family. They drive me back and forth, help me move, take quick drives around my neighborhood while looking for parking, use my bathroom, but don't visit. But they did. Last January. I'm not sure why, they were on their way somewhere, but they actually slept in my home and asked me to take them somewhere cool for dinner! This was my one chance to share my new lifestyle and neighborhood. We went to my roommate's favorite chinese place. We used chopsticks, looked out the window, talked about nothing. It wasn't that awesome, until I heard through the inevitable small-town grapevine how delicious May's chinese place was, and how everyone I know from this town wants to now come visit me in the city and experience my chinese place. Chinese place chinese place chinese place.

Trip

2009-12-20T20:47:00.001-08:00

I was walking up some stairs over the summer. They were outdoors, and situated in a way that the first flight kept me hidden from the throngs of schoolchildren watching me walk up them, but the second flight left me fully exposed. So I gracefully skip up the first flight, carrying a huge tray of punch in plastic glasses, and as I got more confident I began to allow the natural bounce in my step to push me cheerfully, and more quickly, up the last flight. It was, if you know me at all, bound to happen, and the minute I saw the stairs and the punch I knew it would, and it did. In absolute slow motion. I got to the last two steps, and prepared for my customary hop up to the summit. My knees bent, I lifted up my foot, the normal mechanics of going up stairs were all happening--until they weren't. My foot caught on the step, I lurched forward, the tray flew out of my hands, spattering the presenter with red punch and the 25 plastic cups it would have been served in, and I face-planted. Like, enough to scrape my palms. While wearing a dress. The kids, to their credit, were silent for about a millisecond before they started that screaming laughter that haunted my 2nd-12th grade nightmares. It was slapstick, can't-even-make-it-up funny. My best trip of 2009.

Best Of

2009-12-16T17:41:00.000-08:00

I read a lot of blogs. And I've been looking for a quiet way to start connecting with other bloggers. I also get a lot of satisfaction and enjoyment out of making lists. So, because life has been really great about giving me things I need at exactly the right moment lately, I discovered this:

I'm getting a late start, but I have quite a lot of free time on my hands, so my plan is to catch up quickly.

Here goes.

The Two Biggest Compliments I've Gotten All Week:

2009-12-10T16:39:00.000-08:00

"Yeah, you have quite a lot of external rotation in your hip joints."

"Your music had words? Did it?"

I don't know what I'm going to do when 70% of my conversations are not about dance.

2009-12-09T15:45:00.000-08:00

Anxious Albert and other alliterations

2009-12-01T14:16:00.000-08:00

Anxious Albert is one of the many facets of my personality that comes to prominence when there is some sort of impending event looming in my near future. Albert enjoys making my body shake at the slightest exertion. He likes to make it impossible for me to articulate anything verbally. But mostly, he gives me intense stomachaches. It sometimes takes me a few days to understand that Anxious Albert has taken over, but this time I knew the moment he did. I was writing a list of things to get done before I have knee surgery next week. When I got to about the 11th item, Albert kicked in with his quivering fingers and uncontrollable stammer. And three days later he has teamed up with Sobbing Silvia, Super Shitty Steve, Asshole Andy, and Bertha the Bummer. They make quite a team.

A Little Haiku For You

2009-11-28T23:21:00.000-08:00

texting is tricky

because sarcasm always

looks like an asshole

everybody sucks

on coughdrops and various

aspects of being

I really missed you.

We should do this more often.

I’ll be seeing you.

You are one of the

strangest people I’ve ever

met in my whole life.

in which I attempt to recount a particularly vivid dream

2009-11-23T19:52:00.000-08:00

I'm walking, but not on the ground. There is a protective covering over everything, everyone, that allows me to see things but not touch them. I compare it to a how my orthodontist described sealants I had on my molars when I was 12: "I can see what is going on there, and I think I can get to it, but when I try I bump up against a sort of invisible force field. Made out of resin." I try to touch and smell and taste and even hear things, but everything is clouded and muffled because of this strange coating. I first try to enjoy it; bumping into everything, screaming, spilling paint all over silky white dresses and couches. I draw funny faces on top of every frown and write notes on windows. But the novelty quickly wears off and I end up scribbling on everything in frustration. I start slamming myself and large objects against buildings and this huge statue of a pigeon, but I can't break anything. I feel myself running and running, trying to find a break in the cover, just a tiny space that will let me crawl into it. My plan is to get in and then work the cover gently off from the inside out. I am anticipating that it will be like getting out from under one of those roll-out pool covers. Suctioned to the water, to me as I come up out of the water, almost suffocating, binding, seemingly never-ending. But I know that I could get it off, if I could just get under it somehow.

Because if everyone else jumped off a bridge, I probably would too,

2009-11-19T21:19:00.000-08:00

a list of things I am grateful for:

the friends I have made this semester

avocados

physical therapy

my job

the color yellow

Devendra Banhart

glue sticks

peppermint bark

upcoming family time

the roommate

the ability to walk quickly

pilates

flannel sheets

health insurance

my apartment

heating

chocolate

I love Dallas Clayton because of gems like this:

2009-11-11T18:28:00.000-08:00

See more beauties at his website.

2009-11-09T21:42:00.001-08:00

Pity Party

2009-11-09T19:51:00.000-08:00

I've been doing a lot of writing and journaling and note-taking lately. Because that is what you do when you can't dance, but are enrolled in 5 dance classes. You take notes. And write about dances you should be doing. And write in your journal every night about how much your life sucks now that you can't really go up stairs, much less dance. That is the long, pathetic version of why I haven't blogged in approximately 300 years.

The bright side of this is, I am getting really good at watching dance. I'm developing an eye for technique and a sense of how to teach it. I'm also learning about how to be graceful in my devastation, and not cry every single time I want to. And tell people how much better I am getting, even though, to be honest, I have absolutely no idea what is going on in there. I have been told several different things, then had the most severe of those recanted, and have now been waiting for a week to hear what is actually going on. So I'm learning how to be patient also. These are important life lessons.

I'm also learning about all of the other ways to creatively express myself. I've been sketching and painting and writing and singing and making collages and coming up with brilliant curriculum for my preschoolers and expanding my vocabulary and folding my laundry in exciting new ways. Good things are coming out of this. I know that this is all happening for a reason, and I am beyond anxious to find out what it is.

Damn

2009-10-11T15:18:00.001-07:00

(image)

I'm out of commission for a while.

2009-09-26T10:18:00.000-07:00

Being Quiet

2009-09-13T00:34:00.001-07:00

From birth to about 10 I was painfully shy. Silent, read alone at recess, hide behind my mom, didn't have very many friends shy. Then I shifted into an extreme extrovert. I wore crazy clothes, yelled all of the time, met people, talked and talked and talked, danced around everywhere I went and just basically put it all out there for the world to see. People always commented on how I had "come out of my shell" or "really blossomed". But now, as I find myself shifting back towards introversion, I wonder how far out of hiding I really was.

I am not, by any means, as shy as I once was. But I am also not nearly as loud and self-disclosing as I was either. I am finding it more difficult to really talk about myself and what I want out of life and even what I am passionate about. I feel like everything is right on the surface. All of the things that are supposed to be resonating deep inside are just vibrating all over the place. When I am asked to talk about what I want to do with my life I get nervous. When people ask me what I love about dance my limbs kind of tremble and my palms get sweaty. If I'm asked about my work with kids I often get teary eyed.

I think that I know what I want to do. I am being pulled in a slightly different direction, but I am confident that I will still be somewhere meaningful, so I know it isn't insecurity that evokes these physical reactions. I just get so overcome sometimes.

I'm having trouble articulating this even now, by myself. I'll have to keep trying.

Rejection

2009-08-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

You know how there are those people for whom things just happen? The people who walk up just in time to catch the bus, who find money, who look for an apartment and find a good one their first try. I'm kind of like that. Things just generally aren't as hard for me as they seem to be for other people. That said, I do check bus schedules frequently and plan my day accordingly, I look around when I walk and see things, and plan to look at four apartments in one try, increasing the odds of finding one dramatically. So yes, things are easy, but I do work to make them that way.

But sometimes that isn't enough. Sometimes I'm simply not good enough. Even if I try my hardest. Even if I want it so much it hurts. Even if I planned the last few years of my life around it. I just wasn't good enough. The minute I walked in I knew it. I knew that almost everyone in the room was better than I was, that everyone deserved it more. But then I got called back for a second try. So I thought, maybe they see how much I want this, maybe I'm better than I think. I wasn't, I'm not. And that is life.

It stings. I'm embarrassed. And I want to quit. That is also life. The angry part of me wants to prove them wrong, and that will motivate me to work harder. The insecure part of me knows they are right and that I will never be good enough. The realistic part of me knows that that was my only chance, so it doesn't really matter if I am ever good enough. The optimistic part of me knows that this will eventually make me a stronger, more actualized person. The co-dependent, people-pleasing part of me just wants to be graceful when I have to face up to this for the next eight months. And the self preserving part of me is telling all of the other parts to cool it, because I am a pretty spectacular human being.

So just because I feel like I have been putting a whole lot of SUCK into the universe lately, is a list of things I know I am good at:

reading

spotting sea glass on the beach

braiding hair

deciphering not-quite-developed toddler speech

remembering to take my vitamins

face painting fireworks and T-rex teeth

hugging

grand jete

layering

CatchPhrase

sigh.

Figure out what book this is and read it.

2009-08-23T23:53:00.000-07:00

Inside Out Day

2009-08-16T20:49:00.000-07:00

What if there were an extra day to every week? Not an extra day to party, sleep, work, or do any normal things. But a day to be inside out. After Sunday there would be this 24 hour period where people just walked around with all their inside junk on the outside. Not their organs and tissue, but the stuff people hold deep inside, like loves and fears and experiences. I don't think anyone would be conscious, it would be like a sleepwalking day. People would just wander around, bumping into each other, feeling everyone else's insides. And they would remember it, like a deja vu sort of remember. Come Monday, when a woman felt like being totally rude to her neighbor, her subconscious would remember that yesterday, when she bumped into that neighbor while they were both inside out, he felt a little tender and bruised. Then she might give him a hug, wondering why her subconscious is making her do this. But she will be so accustomed to having her subconscious be spot-on about how people are feeling that she just goes with it.

Sometimes I think I dream like this. Like once, I had a dream about a woman a really admire but don't know especially well from my hometown. She is a super confident woman in real life, but in my dream we were at this movie premiere and she was feeling totally insecure about the way she looked, and I was encouraging her. It was bizarre in many, many ways. I woke up feeling confused and anxious about how she was doing. I tried to subtly ask people from home about her, and nothing turned up. Then a few weeks later I went home and was at a party with one of her close friends, and she told a story about how the woman in my dream was getting a colonoscopy and had an embarrassing run-in with a nurse and it all fell together. I love that I sometimes feel totally tuned into the consciousnesses of people I love, but am grateful that I am not completely perceptive, because there is absolutely no way I ever want to dream about a colonoscopy.

If there were an inside out day this sort of thing could happen all of the time. To everyone. Everyone would have a day to be totally expressive and receptive. It would be like our collective consciousness was exposed and accessible and safe. As people bumped into each other they would pass along information from people they had each bumped into. So the whole world would know the effects of war on a person, personally. The whole world would know the joy of having a baby, of winning the lottery, of swimming in the ocean. And while we wouldn't have the experiences, we would have a little seed of each in our subconscious, making everyone a little more aware and a little more compassionate.

Nine to Five

2009-08-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

I just finished a month of working 9-5, Monday-Friday. It made me realize that being a college student is an insanely beautiful thing. I get to schedule my life however I want to, spend my time learning about new things, things I am interested in, I eat when I'm hungry and sleep when I'm tired. Sort of.

I also just received a significantly larger than normal paycheck. Which makes me realize that having a full time job is an insanely beautiful thing. I don't have to worry about two classes I need to take being scheduled at the same time, I spend my time doing something I love, and I have money.

I guess this is how I'm supposed to feel. Torn between the freedom of college and the not being supported by my parents anymore part of real life. I'm starting my last year of undergrad, about to have a big ol' birthday, and am feeling older than I should. I am already plagued by this sense of not having enough time to do everything I want to. Which is silly, because I have been spending my time waiting until I was old enough/done with school/had enough money to do all of those things. And really, to be honest, I have no idea what any of those things are. I just know that they exist, and that I want to do them.

knock knock

2009-08-13T18:39:00.000-07:00

"May. Excuse me, May. May. May! MMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!"

"Wow. Yes?"

"Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"Oh wait, I mean, ummm.....oh! Oh yeah! Why did the chicken cross the playground?

"Why?

"To get to the other slide!"

This morning the moon stopped traffic.

2009-08-10T08:26:00.000-07:00

I took pictures with the camera on my phone, through the windshield, but I will not share them because they do absolutely no justice to the beauty of a full harvest moon setting over the mountains at 6 in the morning. Especially after a friend and family filled weekend in the sunshine. Visiting with a ton of people I love and miss. And the sun. It was glorious.

Because I haven't made a nonsensical list recently:

Things I loved about this weekend that I wouldn't love (nearly as much) if I experienced them all of the time:

90+ degree weather

fraternizing at the spring cottage

eating BBQ'd meat

driving back to the city early in the morning

Things I loved about this weekend that I would love just as much if I experienced them all of the time:

new cousins

fruit salad

butter

my old friends

late night catch-up sessions

singing in the car

my striped sweater

my family

On Crying

2009-07-26T21:46:00.000-07:00

When I haven't cried for a while I get the giggles. The uncontrollable, inappropriate, laugh-until-I-cry kind of giggles. It usually takes a few days for me to realize what is happening. I'll be going about my business, doing nothing out of the ordinary, when I will see or hear something mildly amusing and find it so unbelievably hilarious that I laugh so hard I turn red, bend over, actually slap my knee, and then have to catch my breath. The second time this happens to me I'm a goner. On top that whole mess, tears stream down my face and I get strange looks. These are the days I try to tell a story and laugh before I even get to the funny part. Where telling a joke is out of the question because I will never, ever get to the punch-line. When I get to this point I know I had better get home and watch that episode of Grey's where the kid gets a pencil stuck in his eye, Stepmom, Life is Beautiful, Beaches, and then read Walk Two Moons ASAP. When I finally do cry (hopefully when intentionally triggered, not to some stranger on the bus on my way home...) the release is such a relief. I realize how much pressure was built up behind my eyes, how tight my shoulders were drawn, and how hard I was clenching my jaw. I am usually so exhausted that I can't move. It feels good.

Sometimes I cry when I'm not sad. In fact, the emotion that most elicits tears in me is frustration. This kind does not feel good. When I start to cry I get more frustrated. And then people feel it is appropriate to ask me if it is "that time of the month." If, by "that time," those individuals are referring to the time of the month when they thought it would be a good idea to interrupt me only to repeat what I have just said as it were their own idea, then ridicule me for not thinking of it first, and then ask me what I have to say on the subject then cut me off when I finally formed words to defend myself, then yes--IT EVIDENTLY IS THAT TIME OF THE MONTH. It must be a habit of theirs to berate and belittle people approximately every 28 days. Unless, of course, they were referring to the cyclical nature of my hormones that allows me to someday carry a child inside my body. In which case, it is absolutely none of their business.

That said, tears of frustration sting like no other kind, whether they are the result of my reproductive process or not.There is no release in frustration-induced tears. They just suck. I feel like a three year old, thumb-sucking, inarticulate lump. And there is no graceful way to handle them. You can't act mysteriously emotional, or pretend something horrible just happened, or even claim that there is something in your eye. You just have to own up to the fact that the interaction that just occurred was beyond your emotional capabilities. I hoped that I would grow out of this one, and I have, to some degree, but I'm afraid there will always be personalities that bring out the thumb-sucker inside of me.

There are of course, tears of joy and sadness, regret, anger, pain, grief, pride, relief, love, heartbreak--each being an entirely different crying experience. All are healthy, all are necessary, but all are crying.

Extermigator

2009-07-22T00:11:00.000-07:00

This is an unfinished claymation. Here is the story:

Quail has an infestation of some sort of small black bug. What you see is her house. Notice the paper towel carpeting, slip-covered puffy chair, and lampshade. Quail created the painting on the wall herself, and doesn't feel the least bit silly having her own art hanging in her home. The bugs entered the house through a small crack in the molding around her back door. The bugs are not in the frame, but they looked something like small balls of black clay. Actually, they looked exactly like small balls of black clay. They are not in the frame because the Extermigator (in the red hat) has already exterminated them. He is an alligator. The moment captured above is Quail going in for a kiss after exclaiming "My hero!" What follows is the inevitable love of a quail with a small balls of black clay problem and the Extermigator who solves it.

For my good friends K.C. and C.B.

Things

2009-07-13T21:07:00.001-07:00

Paper

2009-07-07T19:57:00.000-07:00

I love it. Really and truly and purely. In all forms. It is difficult for me to throw it away. I save my receipts, post-its, index cards with bus directions, shopping lists, packaging, all of it. I have a journal that I glue found paper in. I buy stationery much more often than I use it, I save old newspapers, class flyers...I even get a sort of twisted enjoyment from paper cuts (once the stinging subsides) because paper is then literally in my blood, passing through my brain and heart.

I love making art out of all of this paper, and I think that the urge to do so must be the reason I save it. But I struggle with the concept of art. And the concept that people who make art are artists. I don't consider myself an artist, but I love to create. I get a deep satisfaction from making beautiful things that I don't get from anything else. But I am terrified of sharing those beautiful things. I think that the part of "art" that I struggle with most is the judgement that inevitably comes with sharing what I have made. When I am brave enough to give away a hand-made creation I get nervous. I am always proud of it, and genuine in my desire to share it, but anxiety ALWAYS causes me to question myself. It isn't as if I am making collages as gifts, just a handmade card or a gift-wrapped package with a paper bow on top. I wonder if it is arrogant to think that the person I am giving it to would rather have something I made than a normal card or wrapping paper. If they think that it is childish to give handmade cards, or if they just think what I made is ugly. All of that has been true at various times, but much more often people love it. Or at least appreciate it. And that makes me uncomfortable too. So I'm in a sort of quandary.

But this was supposed to be about paper, not my conundrums with creative expression. So I will share a little of what I am doing here, where I know people will see it--so I feel brave, but I don't have to know what they think of it--so I don't scare myself too much. I just started working on paper folding techniques. Today I made this crane:

(I need some practice.)

An example of paper hoarding:

A paper flower chain that used to be Trader Joe's bags:

My bulletin board with magazine pages:

My calendar:

Alphabet

2009-06-24T20:27:00.000-07:00

26 things I love, each beginning with a different letter. alphabetized.

Avocados

Bricks

Clapping to the beat

Daffodils

Earnestness

Feta

Gardens

Haiku

Iced chai

Jabberwocky

Kaleidoscopes

Libraries

Mas Que Nada

Namby-Pamby

Octopus tentacles

Pas de chat

Quiet

Ribbon

Stretching

Thank you notes

Ukuleles and Unicycles. equally

Vanilla extract in pancakes

Wine

Xylophone music

Yoga

Zippers

Things that make me nostalgic for small town living:

2009-06-23T14:06:00.001-07:00

jaywalking

rollerblades

best friends

hammocks

sidewalk chalk

grocery stores

ferris wheels

band concerts

police officers

garlic scented playground balls

sprinklers

mexican restaurants

quilts

I've been doing some judging lately.

2009-06-18T22:31:00.001-07:00

I started dancing in a new environment this week and, as with any new situation, I am meeting new people. New people in a physical, sweaty, exposed, set-to-music environment. It is fantastic. I love the instructor, there are some immensely talented dancers from whom I am learning, the space is beautiful, and the classes are cheap. That said, there are some characters in my class. The delightful, invigorating kind of characters as well as the draining, dismal kind.

Taking a dance class is a risk. It involves combining musicality, coordination, flexibility, expression and strength in front of a room full of strangers. There is no faking it, and the whole room knows exactly how well you dance. Then there are the unwritten rules of classroom etiquette that add to the stress of performing in front of a group. I recognize this. I know that if I had not been dancing for as long as I have in the places that I have, I would be completely overwhelmed by all of it. That is why I have not been judging people for this reason. I judge people who lack common sense. Who are rude. Who smell bad.

And I feel badly about it. I really do. But I think that in order to overcome these biases and stop judging people I really know nothing about, I need to examine why I feel the way I do, and what it is about these people that evokes such a strong sense of indignant agitation in me.

First are the people that vocalize every complaint they have about their fellow dancers. The woman who screams out the counts when her line starts too early. The girl who asks people to move forward into the next line when she doesn't have enough space in the spot she chose for herself in the back at the beginning of class. The people who raise their hands and volunteer unsolicited corrections.

I know that these people irritate me because I am jealous of them. Pure and simple. Maybe not of their exact actions, but of their ability to speak up for what they need. I am the kind of dancer who, especially in a new setting, will squeeze into the corner and move smaller to accommodate the rest of the class. The person who will dodge people in her way instead of asking them to move. I hate being a martyr dancer, and I think martyr is not the correct word, but it does feel like sometimes I sacrifice the integrity of my movement, not to mention my safety, because I don't have the confidence to speak up.

Hygiene is another issue I have with some of my fellow dancers. I understand that antiperspirant has aluminum in it, and that you don't want that on your body. Of course. But there are some fantastic natural deodorants that will keep you from subjecting the rest of the room to your odor. Even just rubbing baking soda under your arms at night will do the trick. Or, gasp, bathing! That way, even when sweating does inevitably occur, it will be clean sweat, not the sweat that you sweat yesterday that dried and is re-occurring many times over. There are showers in the facility, so no excuses there.

I know that I judge these people because they stink. I know that they have access to at least one shower, so I judge them to be inconsiderate slobs with unrefined senses of smell. Or so arrogant that they believe that their body odor isn't offensive. It's harsh. I know. And there are probably hundreds of circumstances where being smelly is a person's only option. I used to go to soccer for 2 hours and then go straight to ballet. I was smelly. But I worked it out with a combination of baby wipes, sinks, deodorant, and clean clothes. So maybe people are coming straight from some sort of vigorous activity. Or maybe they only have one pair of dance pants. Or maybe they just worked all night in a recycled shoe factory (where it is both hot and smells like stale feet?). Who knows. I should be more understanding. I will be more understanding.

Something I have observed without passing judgement on is the handling of body hair by various women in my classes. Personally, I really dislike my body hair. I don't like the way it looks or the way it feels. I don't like it so much that I even shave my arms. I know that to some extent this comes from society, but to be totally real, I don't think that society tells me that hair rubbing on things and getting caught places is uncomfortable. I think that is just me. This appears to not be so for a significant portion of the women I'm dancing with. There are hairy legs, pits, upper lips...everything. I admire the statements about beauty and society this makes. I really do. I have tried a few times to not shave, but I felt legitimately uncomfortable. I wish that I had the freedom and inhibitions necessary to not shave. Even if I still chose to remove my body hair, I wish I were free enough with myself to not care.

I get irritated with people when I am envious of them in some way. The people dancing for the first time ever annoy me with their courage, the talkers irk me with their confidence, and the smelly, hairy people bother me with their disregard for social norms. So I will be braver, assert myself more, and spend less time thinking about how people perceive me. I will keep identifying what it is that bothers me about people, and look within myself for the reasons.

Lofty goals. Each with a decidedly un-lofty basis.

wishing

2009-06-14T19:39:00.000-07:00

I've never really been one for wishing on stars, on birthday candles, in fountains, on necklace clasps that have fallen to my chest, on wishbones, eyelashes, or any other fleeting wish-making opportunity. It's not that I don't want to, but when the time comes I always get flustered and panicky, and usually wish for something all-encompassing like happiness or success. Obviously I do wish to be happy and successful, but there are so many other things that I also wish for. I feel like I have wasted years of wishes on things that I didn't truly want. I want to wish the kind of unattainable wishes that are nothing short of magical when they do come true.

There have been a few instances where my wishing has been so fierce that I think it got me what I wanted. One was playing the role of Clara in the Nutcracker. This coveted lead role had never been played by anyone in my town. I auditioned with the intent of being a ballerina doll or, if I was lucky, the lead chef. But then I overheard some dance moms talking about how exciting it was that the director was considering casting a Clara from King City that year (I was in 8th grade). I knew I would be considered, and since I had already auditioned, the only thing I could do was wish. I remember going home that night and plucking my eyebrows. With every hair that I ripped out (and there were a lot...almost unibrow status) I whispered "Clara". It was like some bizarre, sacrificial twist on wishing on fallen eyelashes. I had a birthday in the time between auditions and casting, and you can bet that that was one candle blow that did not get wasted on some wishy-washy 'happiness' wish. I remember writing 'Clara' over and over again in what I thought was the most beautiful handwriting ever written. I would send telepathic messages to my ballet teacher "May should be Clara, May should be Clara". It would be safe to say that the 2 weeks between auditions and finding out that I would indeed be playing Clara in the Nutcracker contained some of the most powerful wishes I have ever wished. And I was Clara. An overwhelmed, delighted, not the proudest moment of my life Clara, but Clara nonetheless.

There has been some intense, desperate wishing at the darkest parts of my short life, but that wishing proved futile. Once someone is dead, they are dead, and once something has happened, it has happened, and once a note is read, you know what it says. Wishing doesn't change any of that.

Another kind of wish that didn't come true were the ones that weren't supposed to. I am so, so glad that my wishes for my own pre-teen television show, blonde hair, being best friends with Olsen twins, and to be kidnapped by friendly jewel thieves and then returned after 6 months never came true. I am grateful that my wishes to be kissed did not come true sooner than they did, and that my undying wish for straight hair was left unfulfilled. I'm glad that my wasted 'happiness' wishes were the ones that ultimately did come to fruition.

As for right now, I have many wishes.

Many are materialistic:

a polaroid camera

a typewriter

saddle shoes

legwarmers

a wind-up alarm clock

Some are superficial:

clear skin

a haircut

15 less lbs.

Some are far-fetched:

to write a novel

to be a professional dancer

to be a pastry chef

Some a little closer-fetched:

be a teacher

be a doula

graduate with honors

have kids

But the most important, and what I will be "wasting" my wishes on:

fall in love

stay healthy

continued happiness

From Lewis Carroll to Lettuce

2009-06-08T17:38:00.000-07:00

I currently have a lot of free time on my hands. A LOT. This is something that I am embracing whole-heartedly. I am getting all of those "someday I should"s done, reading, cleaning, organizing, resting, catching up on the life I used to have before the semester from hell rushed in, depriving me of any semblance of a life. As a chronic over-scheduler, my open time slots are usually filled with sleep and mindless activities like facebook and sudoku. That said, I have also been letting my mind wander and taking the time to document it. Not exactly mindless, but not productive either. But interesting nonetheless. My process is simple: I start with a single topic, usually something I'm reading, and then write down the first thing that comes to mind then the first thing that the result triggers, and so on. Mostly I've been doing it on public transportation, or when I can't sleep at night because I have done absolutely nothing all day. Here is an excerpt of one I finished on my way back from grocery shopping:

the walrus and the carpenter: because I am re-reading Through the Looking Glass. This was the catalyst.

i am the walrus: walrus, easy-peasy, totally logical.

beetle juice: because I Am the Walrus is a Beatles song...

edward scissorhands: Tim Burton is the common thread

winona ryder: was in Edward Scissorhands

shoplifting: something I will forever associate with poor Winona

sunglasses: once my friend Katie stole sunglasses from Kohl's by accident because they were on her head

little richard: wore sunglasses to Lou Rawls' funeral because he couldn't blink after extensive plastic surgery. It sort of stuck with me.

rubber duckie: sung most famously (to me anyway) by Little Richard on Sesame Street

my friend W.H. from high school: had a large collection of rubber duckies

volleyball: W.H. played volleyball

con and mad: are my best friends with whom I share a particularly terrible volleyball experience

minnesota twins: Con and Mad are twins

pinstripes: the Minnesota Twins' uniforms have pinstripes (my father and brother hate it when I watch sports with them because I mostly like to know things like "Why do so many baseball teams have striped uniforms? Name all of the teams with pinstripes.")

suits: pinstripes. suits. pinstripes. suits. It is pure logic.

corporate america: synonymous with suits and evil

Wal-Mart: evil

high school AP US history: my teacher was a Wal-Mart worshiper.

civil war reenactment: US history

bagpipes: another history teacher played the bagpipes at our civil war reenactment in 8th grade. And wore a kilt.

amazing grace: He only knew one song.

wretch: "who saved a wretch like me"

barf: wretch sounds like retch

australia: I had food poisoning on the entire 20-something hour flight

crocodile: there are crocs in Australia

albino: the albino crocodile at the Academy of Sciences. It is actually an alligator, and his name is Claude.

bunnicula: this one is beyond reason, even to me. possibly because on the cover of the book, Bunnicula is white and has red-rimmed eyes, and there was a girl in elementary school who I was told was albino and she was white and had red-rimmed eyes? Or maybe not.

lettuce: Bunnicula sucked the juice out of vegetables, and lettuce is a vegetable

And then it hit me. All at once.

2009-06-03T23:22:00.000-07:00

(Not that you read this, but if you did--I totally know how to spell neighbors. That is a B/H combo letter. Don't judge me.)

And I made a card and envelope. If I were a better photographer with a better camera, you would think they were more beautiful. Alas:

nada

2009-06-03T18:50:00.000-07:00

I have nothing to say. Because I am young and inexperienced, have lived all of two places where millions of people have already lived, am going to a school where thousands of people also go, have hobbies that countless other people enjoy, am doing things that have been done countless times before. Nothing I could possibly say would be unique to my experience, because my experience has been had, many times over. I guess the part of my experience that is not currently unique is me.

I hardly ever feel this way, and it's humbling. I know that tomorrow, or even in half an hour when I go for a walk and see some weird shadow that I am the only person in the world ever to see, I will feel like I have something to offer. But sometimes exploring and thinking and writing and talking and experiencing fall short, and I am left with all of these stories that people have already written, all of these works of art that have already been created, all of this choreography that has already been performed, all of this music that has already been heard, and all of these run-on, stream of consciousness sentences that have already been typed.

So I guess I am looking for inspiration. Something I am very rarely without. Usually, all I have to do is meet somebody new, see something beautiful, hear something nostalgic, or even just wake up in the morning. I used to watch this:

or this:

but I think I have been spending too much time on the internet and in my apartment.

So I am going to go inspire myself.

12

2009-06-01T21:04:00.000-07:00

Page 12, line 12 of 12 books around me at the moment:

Fortinbras stared at the door that opened into Mrs. Murry's laboratory, which was in the old stone dairy right off the kitchen. 1

"But I wouldn't eat none, George." 2

Pain is the real thing, it does not have to press hard to persuade him of that, it does not have to press at all, merely to send a flash or two; after which he settles for the confusion, the bad dreams. 3

Can we say for sure that he had a wife? grieving Shanda asked, touching hand to heart. 4

An hour has passed and now I'm curious about the business of the police officer in the parking lot. 5

It is the beauty of small areas of order--a large yard, a group of trees, three similar dormitories, a circle of old houses--living together in contentious harmony. 6

Save for Jewel's legs they are like two figures carved for a tableau savage in the sun. 7

This flashes back to the conversation with his grandfather immediately upon his return from Rome. 8

A pox o' your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog! 9

Sarah had that stance, legs firmly planted, hands on hips, and the stubborn set of her jaw. 10

She seemed to be trying to recollect herself, as if she did not know where she was or what she had to do. 11

She beamed a smile at me. 12

1234 5678 9 101112

I wish you could smell my house right now.

2009-05-30T11:58:00.001-07:00

Because I went to the farmers market.

I bought some fruit--and juiced it. Delicious.

I also bought some Sweat Pea blossoms--indescribable.

And then I brewed some tea to stain some clothespins.

And cleaned.

And made some toast.

'Tis delightful.

Today was small.

2009-05-29T18:25:00.000-07:00

The Proust Questionnaire

2009-05-28T18:27:00.000-07:00

Different versions of the Proust Questionnaire have been floating around my existence for as long as I can remember. One of my first memories of actually reading was finding a hardcover version of The Proust Questionnaire in my grandfather's garbage. I think I was 6 or 7, so I had no idea who Proust, or any of the famous people who answered the questions in it were. I just remember being HORRIFIED that some famous photographer had used the word BREASTS. I wonder if, at 6 or 7 years old, I turned to the blank questionnaire in the back and seen if my grandfather or his wife had answered it. And if I did, I wish I remembered what it said. Most likely though, I put it down as soon as I saw the word "breasts". I never was very daring.

Then, at whatever age I started watching Inside the Actors Studio (I think I was about 10) I discovered James Lipton's version of Bernard Pivot's adaptation of the Proust Questionnaire. This one was radical in that Lipton actually ASKED HIS GUESTS THEIR FAVORITE CURSE WORD! It was always bleeped out, and I could never decipher what the actual word was, but if my parents were nearby, I always changed the channel (that is if I hadn't already changed it at the "What turns you on?" question).

And ever since I started reading Vanity Fair, the back page has been my favorite. With people ranging from Margaret Atwood to Alec Baldwin, I am always delighted to learn these obscure pieces of information about people I will never meet. It is even better if I have never heard of the person. Then I get to figure them out based on the questionnaire and then compare my findings to their actual public identity. I only get to do this on the rare occasion that I have no idea who the person is, eg: Helen Gurley Brown? Part of the disappointment of growing up, I guess.

I wish that people were required to answer some version of the Proust Questionnaire every few years. Maybe it wouldn't have to be required, but I think people should. How often does the average person check in with themselves? To answer a series of questions for self-reflection, not to be published in a magazine, or displayed on an internet profile for the world to see, just to check in with what it is that you really love and are scared of and are proud of would be so beneficial. I think that if people acted on the true answers to these questions, they would be happier.

Contemplate life. Happiness. Pride. Fear. Misery. Literature. Relationships. Art. Career. Beauty. Nature. Talent. Everything.

Find the questionnaire here.

Vanity Fair version here.

Inside the Actors Studio version here.

Favorite People

2009-05-26T16:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I dream about having a party where I invite all of my favorite people. This would be all of the people that I admire, both openly and in secret. Every person that I have ever wanted to tell "Thanks, you inspire me", or "I want to be just like you when I am your age" or "You are so impressive to me that I want to spend all of my time with you" or even, "You saved my life a little". A giant party where all of these people came together would be so spectacular and special.

The guest list would range from relatives to teachers to friends to old babysitters to almost-strangers. A lot of the people wouldn't be surprised to be invited, but a lot would. I think that the best part of the whole party would be mailing the invitations and getting RSVPs. For an individual that I have been loving or admiring or modeling myself after from a quiet distance to get an invitation that names them as one of my favorite people, even if they don't attend the party, would be so freeing.

There is definitely potential for people getting totally creeped-out. That is probably why I have never done it. I think that I would, personally, be thrilled to receive something, no matter how out-of-the-blue, that lets me know how much I have meant to someone. But I have various insecurities that may or may not make me a little too eager for recognition. A more self-actualized person may find said invitation slightly bizarre. Also, for the party to be as beautiful as I envision, I wouldn't be able to invite people who might think they should be invited. This is another reason I have never done it. Maybe a good compromise would be to just mail out invitations for a theoretical party. And by theoretically inviting these people, I still get to tell them that they are my favorite, but an actual event will not take place, so theoretically, no feelings will be hurt. The creep-out potential is, however, still present.

I have a little bit of experience in divulging gratitude and admiration. My freshman year of college, in a class for future teachers, my professor required us to write a note of thanks to some former teachers. Then in a holistic health class we had to thank someone in our lives in person. These exercises were just an excuse to fulfill this secret "Favorite People Party" dream. There were mixed results. Some of my former teachers wrote heartfelt notes back, some were sarcastic but appreciative, and I didn't hear back from a few. The in-person thanking was an experience that was beautiful and special and wonderful, but one that I don't know if I could repeat.

And then recently, I received a message from a friend who is moving away. We haven't had any real contact in years, but he was reflecting on people in his life. I was touched that he included me in his reflections, and surprised and honored to learn how he felt about our interactions. The whole experience was happy and good and pure and honest and so very brave. Someday I will be that courageous.

Until then, I'll give some thought to letters. Some nice, genuine, nothing like a suicide note letters. And I'll keep planning the band that would play, the dancing that would occur, the flowers that would be everywhere, the color of the tablecloths, the handmade favors, the toasts to everyone, the tears, the hugs, the love that would all be at this theoretical party. And making lists of invites in my journals:

summer oh nine

2009-05-21T22:16:00.000-07:00

Some goals for the summer:

Listen to every Beatles, Dylan, and Otis Redding song a minimum of 5 times.

Create something beautiful every day. Use it or gift it, and document it.

Make a significant dent in my "Books to Read Before I Die" list.

Add some more books to "Books to Read Before I Die" list.

Collect an entire pasta sauce jar of special ocean rocks.

Collect some regular ocean rocks and paint them.

Design and construct some pretty new clothes.

Make my lucky acorn into a necklace.

Watch not a single minute of TV.

Outgrow my nose piercing.

Take 50 dance classes.

Ride my bike.

Have some picnics.

Swim regularly.

Write.

See art.

Learn to whistle.

Grow herbs.

Put some sidewalk chalk to good use.

Use up my bubbles.

Go to the beach daily.

I am declaring May 29th to be the beginning of my summer. It is going to happen. (It being every single thing on the list.) I'm excited.

One Love

2009-05-20T15:10:00.000-07:00

All Nighter

2009-05-20T00:42:00.000-07:00

Finals are kicking my ass. Like actually punching me in the mouth, pushing me down, and then kicking me in the butt. Hard. The kind of ass-kicking that not only really hurts, but is also totally humiliating.

I don't even have any classes that I am worried about. I have one final for a class that I love and read all of the material plus optional reading, and have an A in already; and one for a class where the actual test is no big deal, but the incredibly large portfolio that is due at the same time is stressing me out. So much so that I am spending all of my time working on it...(minus this)

No real need for the dramatic metaphor, right?

And yet, I have been wandering around in my pajama shirt and jeans, with a bag full of crap I need for Thursday, not today. I looked for my phone for a good 15 minutes, only to realize that I was talking on it. I decided I should scrub the shower while I was in it this morning, forgetting that I had alloted myself a specific amount of time to get ready and not miss the bus. (I missed the bus--but the shower looks glorious.)

I think it is the general anxiety of ending a semester, starting a summer, thinking I can relax but knowing I can't...the whole mish-mash of contradictory feelings. One thing that I have gained from working with children is an appreciation of how difficult transitions are. The transparency of a child struggling with the transition of home to school, asleep to awake, 3 1/2 years old to 4, preschool to kindergarten, even orange socks to blue socks, puts into perspective how challenging it is to switch gears. As adults, I think we feel as if we have to have it all together 100% of the time, let nothing faze us, and roll with the punches. But transitions are hard. It is important to recognize that and, at least for me, let myself feel overwhelmed and scared for a minute. Pretending otherwise is the opposite of helpful.

So that is why I am letting myself take a break and talk (or write) it out a little bit. Why I am not ashamed to post this, a true-life account of what I have really been doing for the last 20 minutes:

From top left, clockwise: 1.The geology assignment I am ignoring. 2.Itunes, playing my song of the moment. 3.Facebook-I know, I know...it really is pathetic. 4.Etsy browse by color--the most fun you'll ever have onli...never mind.

Sunday

2009-05-17T10:30:00.000-07:00

A list of reasons I love Sunday:

Waking up to this.

Blasting this instead of TV.

Going out to get a paper specifically for this guy.

Checking this first thing.

Going here in the early morning, and then here for coffee.

Listening to this while making these with a new ...

Taking this out the car window on a long drive:

Finding this and watching it 700 times.

Never Have I Ever

2009-05-14T23:29:00.000-07:00

...been so discouraged by 9 minutes of television. Well really, as much as I hate to admit it, it was more like 2 hours and 9 minutes. I don't generally watch tv, and this is why. George joined the army and then got hit by a bus on Grey's Anatomy, and he and Izzie both appear to be dead at the end of the episode. Bailey is getting divorced and not taking her fellowship. It all just went to hell. This is why I don't watch TV. But I am capable of separating reality from the soap opera (literally) that is Grey's Anatomy. Really, I am.

BUT THEN I thought it would be a good idea to watch the news. Worst idea I've had all day. California is in huge financial trouble, people are getting beat up on MUNI, and celebrities are still farting around doing what they do. I actually cried. Although I was pretty tore up about George and Izzie...

What a crazy, scary, confusing time to be alive. Most days I am able to appreciate how lucky I am, how happy I am, how joyful life has the capacity to be. But at 11:40 on a Thursday night, with a paper due tomorrow and a day that has been full of goodbyes and hugs and ends, I'm having a little trouble.

It is times like these that I turn to my old friend e.e. Cummings:

may my heart always be open to little

birds who are the secrets of living

whatever they sing is better than to know

and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry

and fearless and thirsty and supple

and even if it's sunday may i be wrong

for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully

and love yourself so more than truly

there's never been quite such a fool who could fail

pulling all the sky over him with one smile

and if that doesn't do the trick:

if i

or anybody don't

know where it her his

my next meal's coming from

i say to hell with that

that doesn't matter (and if

he she it or everybody gets a

bellyful without

lifting my finger i say to hell

with that i

say that doesn't matter) but

if somebody

or you are beautiful or

deep or generous what

i say is

whistle that

sing that yell that spell

that out big ( bigger than cosmic

rays war earthquakes famine or the ex

prince of whoses diving into

a whatses to rescue miss nobody's

probably handbag) because i say that's not

swell (get me)babe not (understand me) lousy

kid that's something else my sweet (i feel that's

true)

I don't have cancer, I didn't get hit by a bus, I still have a job, I ride probably the most mellow MUNI route ever, I have beautiful friends, wonderful family, I have a month of the summer to dedicate to dancing, and pretty much only dancing, I have a home, I have food, I am alive.

Questions

2009-05-13T20:36:00.000-07:00

I often encounter people who are so intriguing that I find myself wanting to know every detail of their lives. Every ounce of personal information they share, I absorb. I am one of those people that will remember where a professor lives or if they have children, even if they only mention it once, in passing. The kind of person who knows the name and occupation and age and drink preference of the person sitting next to me before we say a word to each other, just from their conversations with the people around us. Or that a person is scared of snakes and birthday candles because they wrote it in some online survey 2 years ago.

It is not as if I try to know these things. I don't have some weird memorization ritual that I go through for every person I have ever met. And I really do have a perfectly full life that is not lived through the tidbits of information I pick up. I just like people. And I remember things about them. Probably right in the part of my brain where math formulas and state capitals are supposed to live. Luckily for my social interactions, I have learned how to not mention that I actually already know that your sister has six toes, because you mentioned it to the salesperson last month when we were sandal shopping. This is easier for everyone because I don't look like a creepy stalker, and the person I am talking to isn't uncomfortable, but it does make me feel like a lot of my interactions are a little false. I chalk it up to living in an age of over-sharing, but under connecting. Because really, if I know your top 5 favorite baby names and most recent MRI results, shouldn't I also know a little about your hopes and dreams?

But it's not all about what I do know. There are instances where I see a person that I will never see again, or a person that I see every day but never in a situation where conversation would be appropriate, and have a burning question that I can barely contain. Sometimes the question itself is entirely inappropriate. I carry a journal that I usually write these in, and sometimes I make up answers. It is an excellent start to a character analysis before writing a story. But I thought I would share some of these questions because maybe you have some that are similar. Or maybe you know the answer. Or maybe, just maybe, you ARE this person, and you can answer it next time I see you. Here goes:

For the man I used to walk past on my way to school every day last year:

Why do you litter?

For the kid who knocked on my door and used my bathroom today:

Why didn't you shut the bathroom door?

For my next-door neighbors:

How many shoes can 4 people actually have?

For the really nice woman at Cafe Rosso with short, curly hair:

Why do you always leave that one piece straight?

For the man that was reading Angels and Demons on the bus on Monday:

Do you know that we can all see you masturbating?

For the man I bought the Street Sheet from today:

Is one of these poems yours?

For the sweaty kid at ODC:

Did something horrible happen, or did you actually shave off one of your eyebrows?

For my tap teacher:

Do you like men or women?

For the Muni 18 driver Tuesday evenings:

Why are you so sad?

I wonder what would come of me actually asking these.

You know you have a great job when:

2009-05-12T18:27:00.001-07:00

-You leave in a better mood than you arrived in.

-You get hugged approximately 25 times in 6 hours.

-Dancing and singing are encouraged.

-You get to hear things like "My poop looks like steak!" on a regular basis.

-Bubbles are involved.

I love my job. It is incredibly rewarding and I am learning so much about children, learning, teaching, and human beings in general. And while a lot of what I do is play-based, a lot of what I do is integral to the development of the 3-5 year olds I care for. What might seem like a simple game of freeze dance teaches large motor skills, body awareness, rule-following, group interaction, and tons of other life skills. So it irks me when I tell people that I am a preschool TA and inevitably get the "Oh, that must be fun" response. It is fun. But it is also incredibly important.

At a recent staff meeting, we were given some quotations about how employees' images of children influence our program. One that particularly struck me was from Pablo Casals, Spanish cellist, conductor, and composer:

Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe, a moment that never was before and will never be again. And what do we teach our children in school? We teach them that two and two make four, and that Paris is the capital of France. When will we also teach them what they are? We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are unique. In all the world there is no other child exactly like you. In the millions of years that have passed there has never been a child like you. And look at your body--what a wonder it is! Your legs, your arms, your cunning fingers, the way you move! You may be a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel.

I have certainly met children who have been told this a lot. Maybe too much. But they are rare. This is something that everyone should hear and believe and embrace.

If you live in my neighborhood

2009-05-11T22:46:00.000-07:00

You will be seeing many, many of these around:

My license and debit card were being mailed to me, and they never showed up. After going through the process of getting a new card and id, a yellow envelope showed up at my parent's house addressed to me. My driver license and debit card were inside! Some kind soul found them in the 7-11 parking lot down the street from my house. There was no return address on the envelope, so I had to get a little creative in how I could thank them. Hopefully it wasn't some one-time 7-11 shopper, but a returning customer who will be back in the next few days. I love that people will at least be seeing the signs and thinking of the good samaritan. I sure am.