perfect hugs

There's this beautiful moment when you hug someone, just the right way, and it feels like your hearts connect. A perfect warmth blooms in that connection. A sudden peace, warmth, and safety.

I think my favorite hugs (aside from the classic loved ones, of course) are those with strangers, and it happens unexpectedly, and it's wholly heart-warming and completely innocent in its perfect connection. And for one moment you feel as if you could - more than that you want - to hold, this stranger, forever.

And then you back away, almost shy and embarrassed, at the deepness you felt briefly for someone you barely know.

Challenges of a choice-abundant society: a Ted Talk and my thoughts.

http://www.ted.com/talks/barry_schwartz_on_the_paradox_of_choice?awesm=on.ted.com_a0JT2&utm_content=awesm-inlinelinkcreator&utm_campaign=null&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_medium=on.ted.com-facebook-share#t-278908

(I apologize, I could not get the talk to embed directly here in my blog, but the link above is to the talk
Barry Schwartz: The paradox of choice.)

An excellent talk highlighting the challenges of a choice-abundant society. I've believed this for years, as this concept first punched me in the face when it was suddenly time to decide what career I was supposed to pick.

Overwhelmed by option I swirled in a chaotic torrent of angst and confusion. Still, to this day, (aside from my passion for music), I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up. Every time I start to think about schooling and what to take to have professional value, my eyes twitch and go wibbly as the many courses, careers and directions batter my senses. Before I know it, I've shut down and go back to my day job. I could be anything, and so I am nothing.

I've felt this way over a myriad of things in my life and and observed this in the people around me.

Then I experienced something new. After my accident I found myself saying to people that although it was one of the greatest traumas of my life, for the first time in as long as I could remember I felt I had purpose. Direction. I had no choice but to fight for recovery. I had one path, no other. And it was oddly, (even though painfully), deeply satisfying.

Schwartz highlights that experience through his talk, and I really appreciate the smaller details he also touches on as well - like his anecdote about the soccer game and the phone. This abundance of choice, even in the smallest of measures, is affecting our psychology in a negative way.

Again, I experienced this when one day I lost my phone and for one week I was without an alternative. And for one week I felt peace. I could no longer constantly check facebook; even the desire was erased simply because there was no option to do so. I was no longer curious if someone messaged me while I was out. I needed not worry if someone was trying to get a hold of me because what could I do anyway? And I enjoyed the scenery of the world, because I had no nagging thought in the back of my mind to bury my head into my phone to double check that random (and likely unimportant) thing through the internet.

The decrease in stress was physically palpable.

Now, I'm not certain what the solution to this is. Unfortunately in the talk he provides no real solution. Simply 'lowering ones expectations' is definitely a task much easier said than done. And changing the world of marketing is a bit of a mighty task. But I believe that if we could make a change, if we could reduce choice and options to a more reasonable level, there would be a massive change in levels of happiness on a grand scale.

I wonder what we could do...?

Food for thought, anyway.

a starved artist - to those who have felt the block

A starved artist; ironically one who cannot get out of inside themselves what fills them up so completely. Stuffed to the brim they have to expel in a constipated need for release. And stubborn thought blocks. Astringent is the cat piss disgust for the lack of an incapacitating, revelating, urge creating, tempest elating,   BUrst… of …  …nothing. These words still lack the meaning of my creating and every intention that arises, falls..  .. and it’s hard to catch breath. The sudden sensation of emptiness oxymoronically surges, as if walls are reverberating and everything’s spacing, and there is nothing left to touch because.. A starved artist… bursting with need and yet full of emptying.. emptying.. nothing. There is no cessation to this sensation, this raw nerve expulsion of temptational transaction. .. I’m left limp in subtraction. Is wisdom blind in this abstraction? ...I am hungry with greedy need.

stale air

The air in the office grows stale. And with my heart pattering up in my chest I feel my legs twitch subconsciously towards the door. The calm practical letters on paper are no longer pacifying my burgeoning need. Like constant whispers itching to be heard, the wind blows in through the door teasing my senses with the scents of possibility. My hair swirls, pulling me, but I am latched to the table beneath the weight of this responsibility.

I want to eat ALL the food.

Kinda having one of those moments where I'd like to be as fat as freaking possible. I want to eat ALL the food.

This is when my taste buds starts negotiating with my brain..

"Listen, I know we're not EXACTLY hungry. But, we DO need to eat. And, well, you haven't eaten in hours right? So lets think this through. We SHOULD eat now. I mean, we don't want to pass out from hunger, do we? And, c'mon, what's the harrrrrm in indulging just a little?

Okay. Okay, okay I know. We did indulge yesterday. But, really, that was only a little. Just a touch, really. And, we can always start tomorrow; that 'proper' diet you keep nagging about? We already did it for a week. So obviously we're capable of committing. Let's start that again tomorrow. But tonight, let's relaxx. Last time, I promise.

And you know I'm absolutely certain of the scientific proof that if you shove as much crap into you in a short a time as possible, only a tiny amount actually affects your body. The rest gets pooped out, right? The body simply can't absorb that much. It's fact. Of course it's fact. So, if we're gonna do it - eat something delicious - we should do it now. Especially since this is the last time and all. Last chance.

So, you see? It's so clear. We need food; it's been a few hours. And since we've already indulged a little, it's better to just finish up the trend because we won't even absorb it if we happen to accidentally overindulge just a squidgum more. AND!!!! .. And, we'll start our proper eating habits tomorrow! Right!? We WILL!

See?? Such a winning scenario. C'mon.... pick up that phone..... order that delivery... c'monnnnn... you know it's the right choice."

***

And all the while your body is nodding along with the air-headed precision of a stoned and starved orphan and conveniently decides NOT to pipe in with any comments about how quality over quantity will make a huge difference in all scenarios presented. Ie, you'd feel a shit-ton better if you just ate something healthy and delicious.

Goddamn taste buds and body.

...

...

....

Fuck, I think I've just convinced myself to order delivery.

stumble

I stumbled and scraped my knee. In a brief moment of vulnerability and need, I called out, but I did not use my voice. And so I was quietly surprised when no hand reached out to stable me. No warmth of human touch. It made me stumble twice, really. How silly. Fortunately it is just a scratch. Small and likely more self perceived as something at all significant. But a fresh sting may blossom bright in a quick moment before it fades imperceptibly back into the shroud of faded memory. Here I blush... and put band aids on. Chin up. Only one person saw me fall. Time, now, to convince myself I don't care. How silly, this. I still have not spoken, have I?

e.e. cummings

it is so long since my heart has been with yours

shut by our mingling arms through
a darkness where new lights begin and
increase,
since your mind has walked into
my kiss as a stranger
into the streets and colours of a town—

that i have perhaps forgotten
how,always(from
these hurrying crudities
of blood and flesh)Love
coins His most gradual gesture,

and whittles life to eternity

—after which our separating selves become museums
filled with skilfully stuffed memories

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