Dandelion

 I wish it didn't hurt so much

to pull out my roots.

Like I'm a dandelion (Have you ever tried to pull out a dandelion?)

with a taproot so deep you can

never find the bottom. Eventually, you just have to

SNAP!

that root.

And leave it in the ground.

And hurt.

Where that taproot broke.

Until the little cottony seeds I let fly

find soil,

put down a root or two, and

grow back somewhere else.

A Deep, Mid-afternoon Thought about Art

I'm sitting in my dad's easy-chair, slowly falling asleep at 3 in the afternoon and I'm having this amazing epiphany about visual art.

Many people make the argument that neither this...

Nor this...

...is art. Some people even go as far as to say that this abomination... 

[Thomas Kinkade was here. I removed the photo so I won't get sued.]

...is the only REAL kind of art.

This argument, as far as I am concerned, is as fallacious as claiming that the only REAL kind of communication is that which is verbal. This is, of course, ridiculous. Most communication is non-verbal. Some say 70%, others 90... Regardless of the actual percentage, what experts and (even marginally intelligent people) all seem to agree on is that some large percentage of our communication is done without the employ of phonemes, words, sentences, paragraphs, and really long, boring speeches.

My sudden thought, as I nod off at 3 in the afternoon, is that non-objective art (such as the Mondrian and the Pollock pictured above) is like non-verbal communication. Non-verbal communication is the communication of emotion, of feeling, of the sometimes deeper meaning behind words. (The Kinkade, using this same metaphor, is so "verbal" it makes my eyeballs sting.) John Singer Sargent, in this gem...


...is communicating the placidity of the lighting of Chinese lanterns by two little girls on a midsummer's eve. He does this by actually PAINTING said girls. Likewise, this painting...

[another painting was here, but I removed it so as not to get sued. And because I didn't have the artist's permission.]

...though lacking anything truly representational*, besides little swirlies, communicates the same placidity to me in textures and colors.

 Non-representational representation. Non-verbal communication. Is either less valid than their more representational/verbal counterparts?

"But what do Jackson Pollock's crazy drips of paint even MEAN?" You may ask. I don't know. Does it matter? Art, like any communication, is a two-way process anyway; meaning is created by both the artist and the viewer. And since, in some cases, it is impossible to know the artist's intended meaning, the only thing left to do is decide for ourselves what art means. To me, Jackson Pollock's work looks like it was done, if not angrily, at least passionately. I picture him standing over an enormous canvas furiously flinging each brushful of paint. "But, he could have been totally calm while painting" It doesn't matter, because what I see is Passion.

This Deep Thought was important to me because I have heretofore been largely unmoved by modern, non-objective art. I didn't really consider the point of it. But now I want to see it all. I want to see, and attempt to understand, the artists' "non-verbal" communication. Is Mondrian communicating Boredom? Conformity? Simplicity? If so, he is doing a first-rate job.

I do not consider words to be the only valid form of communication. So, why would I limit my understanding of art to only that which is representational?

Now, back to my nap.


*I use "representational" here to indicate visual art that portrays recognizable objects.

Limbo

Sorry it has been so long. I have resisted posting anything for the last little while, not because there isn't anything to say, but because my emotions have been so up and down, there hasn't been anything worthwhile to say. I have started many a blog post bent on self-revelation and the egocentric ravings of a frightened girl in transition. I can't post any of that. Ultimately, it doesn't mean anything in. All the insecurities I feel about leaving the place of my birth--perhaps forever--my friends, my job... The insecurity is real, but it doesn't matter in the long term. A new place will come to feel like home. I will meet new friends--not to replace existing friends, but to add to them. I will get a new job, and I will probably love it.

Oh, did I forget to mention? We're moving to Las Vegas in less than a month. Yes, you read correctly. Nevada. In June, which, while not quite as infernally hot as July, I think we can all agree that the difference between 105 and 110 degrees is irrelevant. It's all hot.

In the meantime, we have had to move out of our lovely apartment and into my parents' basement until we make the big move. I'm not going to be disingenuous and talk about how hard it is, blah blah blah... because I love it. I love it, because we are eating well, we are living with less (almost all of our earthly possessions are packed into a storage unit), and we are spending valuable time with family. I also love it because it is temporary.

I have also been writing more. I'm writing a novel that has been in progress since I started with one scene over ten years ago. It's hard not to think I will forever remain amonst the ranks of The Unpublished. But when I let the odds get me down I just remember that J.K. Rowling wrote the beginning of Harry Potter on a napkin in a coffee shop. Besides, my end-goal is not fame and fortune--though that would be nice--but to write a complete, cohesive story.

In other news, I received my first job rejection the other day via post-card. It said I was not selected to interview for the position I applied for. Oh well. At least I know that they received the application in the first place. Plus, the box next to "You did not meet the minimum qualifications" on the postcard was not checked, so I know that I can get a similar job. It was probably very competitive and they didn't want to interview someone from out of state. But I'm moving to Nevada, people! ISN'T IT ENOUGH THAT I WILL BE LIVING IN YOUR GODFORSAKEN STATE IN LESS THAN A MONTH? Le sigh. I just finished filling out another application and will be mailing that in today. So we press on.

Astor Piazzolla

It's time to introduce you to one of my favorite artists. Astor Piazzolla was born in Argentina in 1921, and was a composer in the musical style of "Nuevo Tango." Basically he took traditional tango and incorporated classical and jazz styles into it. (You know I'm getting all of this from Wikipedia, right?!) All I care about is how absolutely, deliciously seductive this music is! Don't believe me? Here, let me just embed this little video for you...

There. Now, light a candle, close your eyes and let your laptop sing you a forlorn love song.

Workout Diary: Day 30

I've been going to the gym three times a week for almost exactly a month now, and it's time for a progress report. I don't hate cardio anymore (tho I do hate running, and probably always will). I can curl thirty pounds (up from 25) without any help from Travis. Every part of me is getting stronger, harder. I'm pretty much the only one who can see it yet, but I can definitely feel it.

My appetite, not just for food in general but for HEALTHY food, has increased markedly. Today, I actually made myself a sandwich. When was the last time I did that? Probably a year ago. But today, I made myself a sandwich on healthy bread with healthy ingredients, plenty of avocado, and I scarfed that sucker. Yes, I did. And I didn't even workout today! Have I gained any weight? ...Not exactly. But I definitely haven't lost any, which is what I was afraid of in the first place.

I love resistance training. I never thought I would find a form of exercise that I so look forward to doing, even on my days off--like today, where I am still so tired I actually had to take a nap. (horrors.) I'm excited to move to a place that is warm even during the winter months. I think this will help me stay motivated to keep going.

I love the idea that I--little, "fragile" me--can be strong. Can be toned. Can have this lovely, muscular body. Skinny doesn't cut it for me. I find "skinny" totally unsatisfying. It's not enough. Do I want to be slender? Well, yes. But more important to me is to look, and feel, strong. This (mostly) isn't for vanity's sake. It's because--as I mentioned--I hit bottom and the only way to go was up. Well, I'm at that euphoric stage of Up where my progress is made in leaps and bounds. Yes, I know I will plateau at some point. Though, seriously, I don't think that or Hell or high water, or really anything could stop me now. World, look out!

From East of Eden...

...So I don't forget, because this book was thick and contained a lot of truth. This was one of the truthier bits, I thought.

"In uncertainty I am certain that underneath their topmost layers of frailty men want to be good and want to be loved. Indeed, most of their vices are attempted short cuts to love. When a man comes to die, no matter what his talents and influence and genius, if he dies unloved his life must be a failure to him and his dying a cold horror. It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live that our death brings no pleasure to the world.

We have only one story. All novels, all poetry, are built on the neverending contest in ourselves of good and evil. And it occurs to me that evil must constantly respawn, while good, while virtue, is immortal. Vice has always a new fresh young face, while virtue is venerable as nothing else in this world."


Timshel.

"Thou mayest."

You have a choice.


--John Steinbeck

Workout Diary: Day One

I am the only girl in the gym in baggy pants. The ONLY one. I feel disoriented by the jungle of machinery I have no clue how to work. I'm like the fat kid who's come to the gym for the first time, and he's super out of shape and huffing and puffing on the elliptical after only a few minutes. Only, I'm not the fat kid. I'm the skinny kid with bad posture. I'm drowning in my clothes. And I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
---
I am underweight. Let's just put that right out there. I know it. Don't point it out. Don't tell me to eat more. Stop wrapping your fingers around my freakishly thin wrists. No, I'm not anorexic. I'm not bulemic. I'm simply underweight the way many people are overweight. This may sound strange to you, but I struggle gaining weight probably as much as some people struggle losing it. I know it's different, because the mass media glorifies skinny girls and tiny arms and thin legs. I understand that. But I am here to tell you that I struggle too, and it's hard, and sometimes it really sucks.

I have been very slowly but steadily losing weight over the past six months. I've been tracking the loss and doing what I can to compensate for it: trying to eat more, healthier, fattier, proteinier foods. I drink whole milk. I eat avocados. I carry a tin of nuts around with me to snack on, and I choke down Luna bars when I can stand them. Still, my eating habits could be better. I could snack less on empty stuff. I could eat more vegetables. Less sugar. More whole grains. There is room for improvement here.

Most discouragingly, I've tried to start exercising regularly over the past six months, but it seems like every time I try to get into a routine, I get sick. Then I lose ground. And it is SO hard to start at zero again and again and again. Travis has invited me to come to the gym with him periodically, and I always have some excuse. Usually it's legitimate: I don't have enough energy; I have a headache; I haven't eaten well enough. So, he goes and I end up at home, sedentary.

Travis invited me to go to the gym again today. I tried to put him off with the usual excuses--and I truly wasn't feeling all that great. But I stop myself halfway through and, with tears dangerously close to the surface, say, "Honey, I just feel like I'm wasting away! I don't know what to do." Part of the reason I find it hard to exercise is that it is hard for me to get enough caloric intake each day because I can only eat so much at a time (and seriously. I do NOT have time to each six little meals a day.) "You just have to work through it," he said. It's hard at first.
 ---
I go run on the elliptical for twenty minutes so that he and his buddies can do their heavy lifting without me hanging around, hands awkwardly in baggy pants pockets.

I hate cardio. I hate the idea of all those precious calories being wasted on running. I know that's probably the wrong way to think about it, but I cannot afford to lose more weight. I CANNOT LOSE MORE WEIGHT. But the elliptical feels okay, so I keep it up till my thighs burn.

After that, Travis helps me curl 25 pounds. That is about five pounds more than I am comfortable with, but I am able to do it. My impotent arms shake but I manage to squeak out three sets. Then I use ten pounds in each hand to work shoulders. Then triceps with one of those rope-pull things. I give myself a break in between each set. When I feel my muscles stop recovering, I know the workout is over for me. That moment comes pathetically soon.

I am a dancer. WAS a dancer. I used to be in peak physical condition. How diminished I have become. My goal is to tone my body back to what is could be, and has been: strong. But I need a lot of support. I need a lot of optimism, because right now I am scared and weak and small.

I am so thankful I have Travis to help me do this.