squatathon win

So, at the gym I've been doing squats like mad. Mainly because I want to have a killer tush. And although I'm still far from reaching that goal, I discovered something unexpected today. I squatted right down to where I was balancing on the balls of my feet and my bum was basically resting right above my heels.

And then I stood back up.

This, for the last 5 1/2+ years, is a movement I could NOT do (at all, ever) without help, either by bracing myself and pulling myself up on something, or giving up entirely and trying to stand up a different way.

I keep randomly doing it to make sure I'm not dreaming lol.

Go bloody squats go. Whether or not I get my dream tush.. I'm gonna call this one a major effin win.

WOO!

The uniqueness of a home

Do you ever wonder what someones home looks like?

I think about that, as I arrange or rearrange the things in my place. That when someone comes over they'll go, "Huh, so this is what it looks like in Kristina's inner world."

And admittedly, I contemplate your world, too. Not in a judgmental way, but with a subtle curiosity that I like being sated. I like seeing how people create their space. I like knowing who's intent on keeping things perfectly clean or who doesn't give a fuck about the clutter. (Or that common combination thereof - 'Oh, pardon the mess! Really, now... I don't live like this! I swear.' - When we all do. Pardon the few.)

I like noticing the art on your walls. What you've chosen and the reasons you chose it. Or even the lack of...

I love the definition we consciously or subconsciously physically portray. Some of us set up our home to be shown to others and some of us make it uniquely personal, as if no one would ever see. Most of us, I suspect, make a hodge-podge of both. Or perhaps don't even bother. They don't have the want or the time.

So, it can be a special thing, no? Being invited into a home. Invited into where most people consider it their 'sacred' space. Maybe I'm stepping off the existential platform here, but I think a persons home, in its entirety, contains a unique sort of art. Whether or not they put serious effort into the creation of that physical home, it is where they live. It is HOW they live. It is quite likely, and with honesty, the physical manifestation of a persons life.

I find that fascinating.

I enjoy being allowed to see that canvas of you...

How do you live, I wonder?

...

I'm never getting invited into anyone's home ever again am I?

the strangeness in my mind

The dreamscape blurred, and a strange unearthly music rose in the recesses of her mind. It seemed to come all at once from within her and yet from the glowing field she found herself in. Soft trees framed the edges of the long grass she stood in, and everything moved. Everything shimmered.

She shook her head to clear her vision, but the movement was slow, sluggish and fluid. She lifted her hand to cup her forehead in confusion and was amazed to watch a light trail left behind it. Every move she made left a fading light trail.

She paused, and took a breath, trying not to move. Where was she?

Another breath, and the music rose with it. She tingled. It felt good. She closed her eyes and again took a breath in, but this time letting the confusion slip from her, allowing the music to caress her, feeling it slip up her spine and spread through her limbs. She held the breath at its height for a moment, waiting, feeling it burn in her heart, before slowly releasing it through semi parted lips.

I must be dreaming...

She opened her eyes again and this time almost laughed, joy bubbling up through her at the vision of everything so magical. She began to move, and this time revelled in the liquid movement. There was a pulse in the music sounding around and through her, a beat that thudded in her body with a rhythmic sincerity that moved her instincts, rather than her thought.

She realized that was it, that there was no need for thought here. There was only a connection with sensation that surpassed reason.

She was happy.

And she let the music take her.

I am an artist.

I love being an artist. Honestly, I do. 

As an artist you have ups and downs. You battle with being "emo", or too sensitive. You hurt easily and you feel the deepest joys with a fervor that surpasses reason. You battle with the feeling of being an utter weirdo and wonder if you're legitimately crazy. But you delve into the passion of creation like no other. You tap into that ether that every human longs to connect to. And you express it.

Vulnerably. 
Ecstatically.  
Worriedly.  
Intensely. 

You share that piece of yourself that so many people secretly, or even openly, wish to, too. There's a magic in being an artist. A torrential connection to oneself and others that is constantly in flux and yet more solid than the strongest will. You allow yourself to feel. And better yet, to find the power to record that feeling. In my mind, there is nothing as special as that.

Of being weird.
Sensitive.
Consumed.
Overwhelmed.

And constantly craving to give more. There is unique beauty in being an artist. And drawing on that vulnerability. Finding a level of creativity that can touch another persons soul, and connect with it. A natural high that legitimizes existence.

Am I being too intense?

Probably.

I'm an artist.

touch skin..
and the feeling sinks
.. deeper..
lips part..
you know how..
when breath can't be contained,
yet is held
fragile
and light
between those soft millimeters of restrained,
yearning.. anticipation..
..So touch..
please..
touch....
and let nerves
neurons
fire
muscles creak.. quietly leaning..
tugging
pulling..
greedily needing..
quietly pleading
.. infinitesimal movements
imperceptible conclusions..
and that touch..
please...
the heart lurches
...
I need...
your
touch.

A Blessed Unrest - a quote for artists

"There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. ... No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others."

- Martha Graham

Never devalue an artist

There is a legend that Picasso was in a park when a woman approached him and asked him to draw a portrait of her. Picasso agreed and quickly sketched her. After handing the sketch to her, she was pleased with the likeness  and asked how much she owed him.

Picasso replied, "5,000."

The woman sputtered, "But, it took you only five minutes!"

"No, madam," replied Picasso. "It took me all my life."


**Although I do not know the validity of the origin of this story, the message behind it remains pure and true. An artists work takes devotion and years of practice and development. Respect what they do. It is not one nights work you watch at a show. It is not one week, month, or year of writing you read. Or only one click of a shutter you see in a photograph. It is their whole life dedicated to bettering themselves and their craft to produce something so beautiful that it seems effortless, but in fact, took countless days of tears, fears, rejections, bouts of laughter, joy and success to find.

It takes us all our lives.

Rebirth and Change - my blue baby and I

There's been a lot of posts and pictures going around the net about Easter and how, at its roots, it's about rebirth and change. Now I'm not exactly religious, and it's not often that a religious holiday actually reflects scenarios in my life, but today I'm finding the symbolism here at my fingertips.

For those of you who need a refresher, I have a C4 spinal cord injury. Luckily I came through with relatively little nerve damage. To save you the long sob story, I will only mention what is relevant for this post. My left hand is half numb and slow to move and react. For a singer songwriter whose main instrument had always been a guitar, this was a death sentence.

However, over the years, I have fought through - with the help of some amazing friends - to continue on my journey of music. I have been teaching myself piano, (who needs a complicated bass line?), and have some wonderful bandmates and friends who have been playing accompaniment for me.

But... I have always ached for and missed my guitar. There was something grounded, rooted, and strengthening about playing and singing along with it. It gave me an overwhelming sense of... home. No matter where I was or what was happening in life, I'd pick up my blue baby, (that is my guitar), and suddenly be transported to a nirvanic place of contentment.

I realize this might sound like a dose of melodramatic stinky cheese, but it's the truth.

It was a lost love I simply could not get over.

Over the course of the last week I have steeled my emotional nerves, and tried picking up the guitar again. I say it that way because I have found it shockingly painful to pick up a passion that I used to find so easy, so effortless, so comfortable and beautiful, to find only discordant screeches, clicks and buzzes come out to attack my heart and ears.

I would try, cry, and fail.

But this time... it was different.

This is not to say I didn't still make a lot of mistakes. That my fingers have somehow miraculously returned to their pre-injury state like some sort of god-given miracle. What changed, was me.

Instead of attempting the songs I used to play, I tried something new. I tried something simpler, but equally as beautiful - and it worked. Then, amazingly, as the music swelled in my ears and I returned 'home' to sing with my guitar, a miracle did happen: it became easier. Without thinking, without trying, my fingers began to find their way on their own. The pathways from my brain, down through to my numb fingers, found that the road block in my neck seemed to have disappeared. Or, perhaps, by just letting my body do what it knows how to do, it found a new route. Not perfectly, of course. Not yet, and truthfully, it will never be. But I felt a heart thumping jolt of hope that perhaps in time more pathways could be found. Perhaps more improvement was on the horizon, and more songs could be found - as long as I didn't try to cling to my old guitar playing self.

But most importantly - I could play.

It was crazy - I did feel like the old me, but revised. New. A simple thought coursed its way through my mind: Of course you can't play the same as you did before. You're different now, so play differently. Choose songs differently.

It's funny how these things seem so obvious once you say them. How incredibly "d'uh!" you feel once it clicks in. But I think we all know that sometime its hard to listen through the fog of pain. Sometimes we can't listen even when someone tells it to our face. But however and whenever an epiphany hits, it feels glorious.

So I suppose this weekend does symbolize a rebirth and change for me. A rebirth of how I play guitar, and a change in my acceptance of my abilities. And funnily enough, this rebirth and change brought me back home.

It's neat when that happens. Incredible, really. And I just find the coincidence of this discovery on this particular weekend, regardless of my religious affiliation, somehow romantic and beautiful.

Now, if you'll excuse me.. I need to get back to re-growing my calluses ;p

and this harmony

Drinking in melody with greed..

And harmony caresses me with every living memory.

I feel ripe with cliche.. and I don't give a fuck.

It's that hunger

-       you know it?

I think it's the only way I can describe it.

I know you've felt it.

Deep..

greedy..

needy..

ubiquitously loud.

I lose sanity. The need to touch and release.

I live in truth where lies pull strength.

Here I fight wild eyed and intent, writhing against this binding.

I am too feral. Every muscle aches. Fears. Pulls. Needs..

Nerves ache. Magnetic force screams. For.

something rougher. More calloused.

The grip is intense and the bass is loud. The unbending pressure, and we feel ourselves drip and flip and lose ourselves 
blissfully

And you tell me this isn’t real?

I live in this lie like some caged cat. Prowling at the edges of insanity.

I know you see my eyes and they frighten you.

I frighten you.

I frighten myself.

I blink.

I breathe.
I drink in melody with greed.

And this harmony..

calls me.

The intentions of a wordsmith.

A sudden call to anger. The heart tightens and fingers curl imperceptibly. Minute muscles of the face tense in reaction. Disgust. Realization hits like ice, past carefully placed blinders and drenching the warm bandages time was trying to hide pain with. Cold and sharp, it shone - it bled; How... long. How long a lie can actually last. When said from sickly sweet lips and practiced eyes. How long a lie can last, in the name of love. Disgrace. The heart drops... such disgrace. Traces of spittle left on beauty. The dry and cracked vestiges of a continued assault belying truth to those who would see it. There, where intention alone supplies a slippery handhold for one clinging to sanity. Flimsy; The intentions of a wordsmith. Action is left behind along with reality. Thickly woven lies. How long...? Only the entirety of a declaration.  This not beauty. This is bullshit.

Dear Artist

Dear Artist,

The world needs you to keep feeling. You may find as I do, that your life is consumed by extreme happiness, extreme loneliness, extreme sadness. And although at times these extremes can be crippling, they are also the very reason your art is appreciated. People want to feel, and you do.

Feel hungry, feel broken, feel wrong, feel love, feel loss. And if ANYONE tells you that you are too emotional.

Tell them to live in a world without art.

- Keenan Lawlor

short story - The Song

Her fingers lightly brushed the keys on the piano, sometimes pressing, sometimes not. Aimless and distracted she let the soft discordant sounds swirl and settle, waiting for... what? The right sound? The right moment...

Suddenly memories swirled out of the brief lull of quietness her mind indulged in, and the scattered notes of the piano began to coalesce into harmony and rhythm. Without thinking melody poured from her lips. The memories, like ink, emerged to write themselves into lyrics. The song was born and she felt herself give in to it. Grasping for a pen she scratched out the creation, aware, like so many times it had happened before, that the gossamer thought could burst and shatter before becoming something permanent.

But there, she had it. And methodically began to play it again and again, etching something ethereal - just a thought, just a sound, something intangible and brief in time - into something rooted. Fixed into psyche and onto paper.

I wonder what he would think if he could hear this, she thought almost emotionlessly to herself, as if the tempest of music she just spilled forth briefly drained her of the feeling. For the moment, it was outside of her. Ridiculous, that I would write to share, but can’t share it with the muse.

The spell broke, and she looked up, suddenly aware of the present; the sound of the cars passing outside her window, the hum of the fridge as its motor kicked in. Someone outside in the hall closed a door and turned the key, locking it. Soft padded footsteps faded from hearing as they walked away, keys jingling faintly.

Her hands went to her face and she rubbed it between soft palms as an exhale of breath huffed out of her.

I could post it online. He might see it there, she thought to herself. 

Shaking her head she laughed softly, her head dropping to the side.

Right, that’s not at all obvious.

She leaned back, Do I care?

Her eyes drew back to the words written on the messily stacked pile of papers that perched precariously on one edge of the digital piano, an old torn off sketch book cover masquerading as a clip-board.

Reaching forward she lightly she brushed the surface of the paper with outstretched fingertips.

God, I’m such an idiot. She whispered quietly to herself. How can I still miss this? Knowledge. Emotion. What a bitter fight until the end.

Clapping her hands on her thighs she stood up, the finality of the sound loud and abrupt. Despite the depressive state the song emerged from, she felt a sense of completion and gratitude, a strength that always seemed to emerge when she wrote. She switched off the piano and the amp it was connected to, and walked away.

my birthday present

If you know anything about Vancouverites, it's that we love our hockey. From the slightly disinterested to the band-wagoners to the full fledged adrenaline pumped Canuck loonies, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone here who doesn't have at least some sort of passing interest in the hard-hitting, fast paced, team orientated sport.

I may not be a falling on my face, die-hard, hockey junkie, but I do love my boys in blue and green.

So I had a work meeting about three weeks ago - on my birthday, lucky me - and after it was finished I sat in the parking lot of Safeway making calls and trying to organize some things. Then suddenly I saw my good buddy Mike whom I hadn't seen in ages walking out of the store.

I whipped out my phone and called him up yelping at him to stay put because I was comin' in for a hug. And as I walked towards him he say's to me "... and you wouldn't believe who is sitting in the Mercedes parked beside me. I think it's one of the Sedin's."

(Don't know the Canucks? Suffice it to say, the Sedin's rock the casbah.)

Oh ya, by the way... This little Canuck Monkey just happened to be sporting her teams t-shirt that day. Love when coincidences collide.

I have to admit I was a little distracted during my convo with my friend - sorry, Mike! - because my eyes were constantly straying to the black SUV, trying to peer in past the reflections on the wind shield to see if one of the best players on our team actually was just chillin out in the parking lot of a grocery store.

After we finished up our conversation I gave my friend a good squeeze and wandered back to my car, still a little unsure.

As I sat there in my vehicle about to tweet that 'I THINK one of the Sedin's is in the parking lot with me,' I realized what a shy goof I was being and entirely ignoring on of my life's philosophies;

You live once, so do it.

Sooooo I found the only pen I could find in my car, sheepishly slinked back up to the Mercedes and knocked lightly on the window.

The handsome man inside smiled and opened up the door. He kneeewwwwww it was coming. C'mon.. Girl stands in front of his car for five minutes in a 'Nucks tee and DOESN'T show up with a pen? I would have had to have been a complete nutter butter not to have.

And sure enough, it was definitely a tall red-headed hockey pro.

I giggled nervously and said "Hiii.. I um.. HAVE to ask.. I mean.. I'm wearing the t-shirt!"

He laughed and said in his light Swedish accent that it was no problem at all.

I turned around and he tried to sign the back of my shirt. Note to you all, ball point pens SUCK on t-shirts.

I asked him if it was working and he apologized and said, "No, not at all."

So I said, "Oh.. I guess you have to sign my chest."

"Ookay!" he say's.

(hahaha..)

Okay, Maybe I'm adding the emphasis out of bias, I don't know :p But he certainly didn't decline.

Annnnd there you have it. I got me #33, the captain of our team,  Mr Henrik Sedin's john hancock scrolled across the only writable surface of my t-shirt. (Which just happened to be covering one of the softer sides of the female form. How unfortunate.)

Happy Birthday to me!!!

teeheehee

Homebound for 12 months and counting

I’ve been homebound for 12 months and counting, and the ache to travel is steadily worsening. I’ve thought constantly about my love for photography and writing, and how exquisitely those marry with my passion for travel. A veritable orgy of combined pleasure. I genuinely hope one day I can make my living - no matter how pitiful, or plentiful, it may be - off of this trifecta obsession.

Unfortunately, as it happens to us all once in a while, I am currently chained to my homeland with financial shackles. And though I wrench and pull and whimper and cry, I must yield to their unwavering strength of reality. For the moment, I am stuck here. But this does not stop me, as it would not stop any hungering traveler. The cogs are turning and the wicked glint of percolating thought is twinkling in my eye. Something will happen soon, I assure you. And maybe I will be able to find those elusive dollar bills along my way. Tricky little buggers though they are, I do need me my good eats and the occasional roof over my head.

In the meanwhile I must still get my travel fix. And so I have decided to try and re-start up my travel blog here, regardless of the pathetic and troublesome lack of actual travel. I can still write about my home city – which, all biases aside, (ya right), – is a lovely place to visit and definitely worth writing about, and I can research, investigate, and create my opinions and thoughts on other places in the world.

Now, if this doesn't end up happening, (god that pesky mutiny of mundane boredom), I will probably still write a bunch of random crap. Just for the sake of feeling the words drift from my thoughts through my fingertips. It's such a satisfying feeling, and I will pop the cork from that wine bottle and drink from it as it should be.

Salud, Na zdorovie, Yamas, Salute, and Cheers.

Daddy's Advice

When I was sad as a little girl my dad used to kiss me on my nose before bed and tell me everything would look brighter in the morning. It helped me sleep because I found myself looking forward to waking up. I had unconditional trust in my Father. The sentiment and metaphor were simple and sweet, but the amazing thing....was that it worked. Things were brighter. And refreshed and invigorated I took on the world with a renewed vigor. I love you, Dad.