A Dream....

Your smell still graces my fingers as I walk down this amber road. I reach in my purse to pull out the pink cream-pop gloss you so loved to lick off my eager lips last night. The sun catches the fly away hairs on my head and gleams golden in the early morning hours and a smile embraces my face and I can’t help but giggle a little bit. No one is around to catch the giddy motion in my step. It’s all mine to take in as I walk home. Cutting through the park, I look down and notice my blistered heel where the black pump made its mark as we danced. Unnoticed until now, because your eyes were all I could see. The air smells of mothers cooking eggs for their children and lights turn on like dominoes down this corridor of urban homes. Never have my senses been so keen as today, here and now this beautiful October morning.

An energy from my navel to my throat spins me into my building. I don’t remember how I got there, only that I was sitting at the kitchen table, nibbling on a juicy apple my mother had brought me yesterday. I glanced down at the passersby and ate it down to the core, letting its juice play on the skin of my chin. I slipped off my black dress and knew today and the next were going to be different. That somehow, between last week and this very moment, I had finally found myself and had really begun to experience every moment in real time; the cool canvas against my newly shaved thigh as I curl up on the couch to read my latest novel. The rough pages that slip through my fingers as I turn each page. The smell of black ink wafting up my nose as I appreciate all that is written and ever will be. The warm ceramic mug that holds the deep rich warmth I swallow for clarity and how the cream swirls like storm clouds.

It’s been too long since I’ve had something real; something tangible. Under no pretense of infallibility. A real sense that this too, could be lost. Could be gone forever if I don’t treat it carefully. The excitement is almost too much to handle. I lay on my bed, ready to sleep the morning away and the phone rings. It’s him.

I thought we killed it.

Spandex, that is. I saw an individual wearing shiny spandex shorts today. On an open sidewalk, in public, in broad daylight. I actually crinkled my little nose as I watched her walk. Not only was she wearing spandex, but they were turquoise in color accompanied by a navy blue tank and to top off this little tasty morsel of an outfit, hiking boots...with socks and a backpack. The gal thought she had it going on. Not meaning any judgment, but I thought the cosmos did away with shiny Spandex in 1988. I mean, I know this little revival of '80's garb is now considered "retro" but spandex is now under the guise of undergarments that hold unmentionables in or smooths out rolls and the like. Not open to the general society for viewing pleasure. Here is what Wiki says about Spandex.

Spandex or elastane is a synthetic fiber known for its exceptional elasticity. It is stronger and more durable than rubber, its major non-synthetic competitor. It was invented in 1959 by DuPont chemist Joseph Shivers. When first introduced it revolutionized many areas of the clothing industry. Spandex fibers are produced in four different ways including melt extrusion, reaction spinning, solution dry spinning, and solution wet spinning. All of these methods include the initial step of reacting monomers to produce a prepolymer. Once the prepolymer is formed it is reacted further in various ways and drawn out to produce a long fiber. The solution dry spinning method is used to produce over 90% of the world's spandex fibers.

Sounds like a painful process. I can just imagine the evolution of this fake fiber. Since 1959, fashion has taken many turns and comes back on itself like an ugly fungus. I even fell victim to the spandex craze. I wore pink, and I do mean bubblegum pink spandex shorts, outside and jogged in them. Keep in mind I was at the tender age of 16; certainly not in any frame of mind to be held responsible for that. I remember tanning my body with this lotion that practically turned me orange, went jogging later that day and realized, about 10 years later that I must have looked like an idiot. Not to mention that I'm not a skinny girl and only about 1% of the population could get away with wearing spandex without scaring the general public. It produces bulges and dimples in places we'd rather forget and makes you sweat and smell like a strange mixture of plastic and body odor. Not attractive by any means. The days of Xanadu skating is over. We need to move on and keep spandex hidden in the dark recesses of our mind, or in actual sportswear.

It's been a while.

So, my sister and I were talking the other day and I was telling her about this guy I've been seeing. I mentioned that he was in a band and that he was messing around with my daughter's guitar the other evening and I said it sounded very pretty and how I could have listened for hours...then...heaved a big sigh. My sister, darling, darling sister, just rolled her eyes and shook her head like she had all the wisdom in world and said, "Christy, you are a sentimentalist." I said, "No, I'm a hopeless romantic." She informed me that the two are indeed very different. So that provoked a challenge and off to the computer I go to do some research on the two elusive words I no longer really know the meaning of. Here is what I found.

Sentimental:

1. Expressive of or appealing to sentiment, esp. the tender emotions and feelings, as love, pity, or nostalgia: a sentimental song. (Yes, I admit it, I'm a nostalgic) 2. Weakly emotional; mawkishly susceptible or tender. (Weakly emotional? Mawkish? I take personal offense to that. Being sentimental, true, usually only offers complete and utter disappointment, but weak I am not.) Synonyms: Romantic (Aha!), tender (truly I am), nostalgic (yes, a lot and usually with some great mint chocolate chip ice cream), maudlin (That deserves a button) bathetic. Romantic: 1. Ardent, passionate, fervent. (If I am not, then I am not human) 2. Fanciful, impractical, unrealistic, romantic ideas. (I do tend to be unrealistic, but false hope is better than no hope at all) 3. Imbued with or dominated by idealism, a desire for adventure, chivalry, etc. (I am certainly not dominated by idealism, nor adventure because I am a creature of habit and chivalry is for the man in my opinion. I should be the effect of chivalry) 4. Characterized by a preoccupation with love or by the idealizing of love or one's beloved (I tend to be preoccupied by finding love, but it doesn't dominate my days and nights; Once it does, again, mint choco-chip ice-cream usually follows). So based on my findings, I would have to conclude that the two have just as many similarities as differences. However, if I must be put in a box and be labeled and shipped off, then I am a Sentimentalist because I am not: Extravagant, exaggerated, wild, fantastic, improbable nor unreal-as the "people" who define synonyms for Romantic say. What comes to mind is, what do I know anymore about love? I know that I've been divorced twice all before turning 34. I'm a single mother. I've been physically and emotionally abused by both ex-husbands. I've dated many people, dated even married men of which I am not proud of. I've been hurt so badly that I felt my heart was going to literally come out of my chest from such pain. I give myself whole and intensely to those I love. I have poor body image...yet I am a great person with a lot to offer. So what if I get sentimental about the little things? That's what life is all about. I have to hold onto whatever morsel of good I can get my possessive little hands on. Since I was 14, I wanted a husband, children, a house and to live with creativity and compassion. How is it that I've moved away from that goal so drastically? I'm now "seeing" someone, (whatever that means anymore), and don't know what it is I'm supposed to do. I'm just being me and that will have to do. I'm tired of being self-conscious and always wondering and guessing. I was told recently that this society is making it impossible to be romantic. I have to heartily disagree. We make it what we want to. Why should we follow society? There are plenty of romance out there. Sure, it may not come in a nice little neat and perfect package, but it IS out there. I don't want to be the reason someone lives for that is unhealthy. I want to be missed. I want to be needed. I want to be cared for. I want to be included. I want to share happiness. If that makes me a sentimentalist/hopeless romantic, than I'll live longer for it. Is my sister right? Maybe. I for one, am going to grab all I can and hope that I am worth holding on to.

The Bead Store

Last night, I took my daughter to voice lessons in Capital Hill. So as it would have it, I had an hour to loiter around the shops and look at all the weird people and have all the weird people look at me because apparently I looked too normal for the norm. Anyhow, up comes the bead store. I love, love, love, love, little shiny, sparkley things. I knit, so spending money on beads is no big. So I lounge through the small store, waiting for something to karmically reel me in. Finally I see it. A string of beads, the Amazonite stone. I must have it. I must, I must I must. So I then spend the next hour putting together "the look" "the feel" of the wearable art that I must own and wear with pleasure. Here is what I found on the Amazonite stone. No wonder it drew me in. So last night during the first episode of Battlestar Gallactica, I made the necklace and inserted my own style and it's gorgeous. I shall bask.

Folklore, Legend, and Healing Properties:

Enhances creative expression, aligns astral bodies, unity with life. Improves self worth. Amazonite is considered a soothing stone that offers confidence and works on the throat chakra. It is called the "hope stone" because it inspires confidence and hope. One source says it is useful to activate lazy teenagers.

A semi-opaque stone that was used extensively by the Egyptians it is called the stone of courage and is said to be named after the Amazon women warriors. Some archaeological evidence suggests that the Amazonians were a matriarchal society during the Bronze Age.

Another legend says the name Amazonite comes from the belief that it was found in the Amazon river.

Just Found This..

I think this is something all of us should read. I'm going out to get it and let you know what I think. I've been waiting for something like this to come along.

Excerpt: 'Against Happiness'

by Eric G. Wilson

Conclusion

The gene pool — before and beyond time — froths and sloshes. What flops up onto the temporal shores is a matter of chance, a product of the waves' whims. At some point this teeming reservoir of DNA spumes forth a saturnine gene, a double helix destined to produce melancholy dispositions. From this instant onward what we know as human history begins: that striving, seemingly endless, toward an ungraspable perfection, that tragic effort to reach what exceeds the grasp, to fail magnificently. This gene, this melancholy gene, has proved the code for innovation. It has produced over the centuries our resplendent towers, yearning heavenward. It has created our great epics, god-hungry. It has concocted our memorable symphonies, as tumultuously beautiful as the first ocean. Without this sorrowful genome, these sublimities would have remained in the netherworld of nonexistence. Indeed, without this genetic information, sullen and ambitious, what we see as culture in general, that empyreal realm of straining ideas, might have never arisen from the mere quest for survival, from simple killing and eating.

We can picture this in the primitive world. While the healthy bodies of the tribe were out mindlessly hacking beasts or other humans, the melancholy soul remained behind brooding in a cave or under a tree. There he imagined new structures, oval and amber, or fresh verbal rhythms, sacred summonings, or songs superior to even those of the birds. Envisioning these things, and more, this melancholy malingerer became just as useful for his culture as did the hunters and the gatherers for theirs. He pushed his world ahead. He moved it forward. He dwelled always in the insecure realm of the avant-garde.

This primitive visionary was the first of many such avant-garde melancholics. Of course not all innovators are melancholy, and not all melancholy souls are innovative. However, the scientifically proved relationship between genius and depression, between gloom and greatness suggests that the majority of our cultural innovators, ranging from the ancient dreamer in the bush to the more recent Dadaist in the city, have grounded their originality in the melancholy mood. We can of course by now understand why.

Melancholia pushes against the easy "either/or" of the status quo. It thrives in unexplored middle ground between oppositions, in the "both/and." It fosters fresh insights into relationships between oppositions, especially that great polarity life and death. It encourages new ways of conceiving and naming the mysterious connections between antinomies. It returns us to innocence, to irony, that ability, temporary, to play in potential without being constrained to the actual. Such respites from causality refresh our relationship to the world, grant us beautiful vistas, energize our hearts and our minds.

Indeed, the world is much of the time boring, controlled as it is by staid habits. It seems overly familiar, tired, repetitious. Then along comes what Keats calls the melancholy fit, and suddenly the planet again turns interesting. The veil of familiarity falls away. There before us flare bracing possibilities. We are called to forge untested links to our environments. We are summoned to be creative.

Given these virtues of melancholia, why are thousands of psychiatrists and psychologists attempting to "cure" depression as if it were a terrible disease? Obviously, those suffering severe depression, suicidal and bordering on psychosis, require serious medications. But what of those millions of people who possess mild to moderate depression? Should these potential visionaries also be asked to eradicate their melancholia with the help of a pill? Should these possible innovators relinquish what might well be their greatest muse, their demons giving birth to angels?

Right now, if the statistics are correct, about 15 percent of Americans are not happy. Soon, perhaps, with the help of psychopharmaceuticals, we shall have no more unhappy people in our country. Melancholics will become unknown.

This would be an unparalleled tragedy, equivalent in scope to the annihilation of the sperm whale or the golden eagle. With no more melancholics, we would live in a world in which everyone simply accepted the status quo, in which everyone would simply be content with the given. This would constitute a dystopia of ubiquitous placid grins, a nightmare worthy of Philip K. Dick, a police state of Pollyannas, a flatland that offers nothing new under the sun. Why are we pushing toward such a hellish condition?

The answer is simple: fear. Most hide behind the smile because they are afraid of facing the world's complexity, its vagueness, its terrible beauties. If they stay safely ensconced behind their painted grins, then they won't have to encounter the insecurities attendant upon dwelling in possibility, those anxious moments when one doesn't know this from that, when one could suddenly become almost anything at all. Even though this anxiety, usually over death, is in the end exhilarating, a call to be creative, it is in the beginning rather horrifying, a feeling of hovering in an unpredictable abyss. Most immediately flee from this situation. They try to lose themselves in the laughing masses, hoping the anxiety will never again visit them. They don inauthenticity as a mask, a disguise protecting them from the abyss.

To foster a society of total happiness is to concoct a culture of fear. Do we really want to give away our courage for mere mirth? Are we ready to relinquish our most essential hearts for a good night's sleep, a season of contentment? We must ignore the seductions of our blissed-out culture and somehow hold to our sadness. We must find a way, difficult though it is, to be who we are, sullenness and all.

Suffering the gloom, inevitable as breath, we must further accept this fact that the world hates: we are forever incomplete, but fragments of some ungraspable whole. Our unfinished natures — we are never pure actualities but always vague potentials — make life a constant struggle, a bout with the persistent unknown. But this extension into the abyss is also our salvation. To be but a fragment is always to strive for something beyond oneself, something transcendent — an unexplored possibility, an unmapped avenue. This striving is always an act of freedom, of choosing one road instead of another. Though this labor is arduous — it requires constant attention to our mysterious and shifting interiors — it is also ecstatic, an almost infinite sounding of the exquisite riddles of Being.

To be against happiness, to avert contentment, is to be close to joy, to embrace ecstasy. Incompleteness is the call to life. Fragmentation is freedom. The exhilaration of never knowing anything fully is that you can perpetually imagine sublimities beyond reason. On the margins of the known is the agile edge of existence. This is the elation of circumference. This is the rapture, burning slow, of finishing a book that can never be completed, a flawed and conflicted text, vexed as twilight.

Excerpted from Against Happiness by Eric G. Wilson. Copyright © 2008 by Eric G. Wilson. Published in January 2008 by Sarah Crichton Books, a division of Farrar, Straus and Giroux, LLC. All rights reserved.

Manhattan

It’s been a while since my last log-in, but if I got nothin’ to say, I got nothin’ to say. So now, I have something to say.

I’ve never given Woody Allen the time of day. Let a lone a few hours of my precious Sunday evening. But my sister convinced me that I needed to watch one of his movies before I make any harsh judgments on his character. At this time of year, it’s easy for me to begin dwelling on a few things about my life, love (or the lack thereof) and things I need to accomplish for the New Year.

We watched Manhattan drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade and eating ice-cream in waffle cones. (Good times) It had to be one of the best movies I’ve ever seen about love and relationships. I’ve actually had dialogue like that at times in my life! He is the master of conversation. A film that transcends time and culture and I learned yet a few more things about those difficult things called relationships.

I take back all those bad things I’ve said about Woody Allen, and forget that he married his adopted daughter and now, I have to see all of his movies.

Fairy Fun

I am a great lover of all things Faery. Folklore, art, religion and rituals. My favorite artists are Terri Windling, Neil Gaiman, Wendy and Brian Froud and of course the Cecilia Barker art. I came across this fun thing where you can find out what your faery name is and also what your vampire name is.

My fairy name is Thorn Hailfilter
She is a protector of the lonely.
She lives in brambles and blackberry bushes.
She is only seen on midsummer's eve.
She wears purple and green like berries and leaves. She has cheery turquoise wings like a butterfly.

Rather lovely, don't you think? I think it fits me just fine. I'm embarking on reading a collection of stories edited by Terri Windling called The Fairy Reel: Tales from the Twilight Realm. Then I will embark on another book by her called "The Greenman." Should make for fascinating reading. Remember, don't step into a circle of mushrooms, the faeries will grab you and you will be lost forever. (I actually saw a mushroom circle once. It's a treat because of the rarity of them. You usually only find half circles of mushrooms :)

My vampire name is....rather ominously

The Great Archives determine you to have gone by the identity: Sultana of The Ghastly
Known in some parts of the world as: Scourge of The Crows
The Great Archives Record: Intelligent, knowing, wise and shrewd. This winged one was cast from the firmament.


Go on, you know you want to! Just click on the link and click the fairy tab and then the vampire tab.

www.emmadavies.net