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.

Lost Notes From Spain - My last day.

I've reached my last day in Spain. I am ready to come home. Whatever my reasons for coming here, I am leaving with a sense of contentment and of completion.

I didn't realize how bad it was. Before I left I was... Pain. I couldn't stop hurting and I didn't know why. I didn't even fully recognize that I was suffering. But I was sitting on the train yesterday and I did notice something; the absence of that pain. It was if it had manifest itself as this coiled copper ball of energy, electrically snapping at the bit with my silent anguish. But this tightly wound expression of what I had been living with daily was no longer inside me, no longer sapping my strength and personality.

I glanced at the table in front of me - as the sun streamed in, the lanscape shooting past while I jostled gently in my seat with the movement of the train - and I saw it there, in the middle of the table, flickering weakly.

I laughed softly to myself, intrigued by the mental image I had conjured, and thought, I think I may just 'forget' you there.

For the rest of that train ride I had a secret smile continuously playing across my lips. I truly felt lighter, and for the first time in many months, years even, I felt genuinely happy; right down to my core.

It took an entire month away. Filled with a hodgepodge mess of confusion, happiness, loneliness and fatigue. I felt fear, moments of peace and discovery, joy, and yet an overwhelming sense of being lost. But somehow I got what I came for - two day's before the end of my trip, cut right to the wire - but I got it. And it has all been worth it. I picked up something new here, something glowing and bright, and I think I'll place it where that pain used to be, tucked up safely inside, and take it home with me.

It is time to go home.

05.18.11
Madrid, Spain.

Lost Notes From Spain - set to reflection

The sun is hot, pouring down. I lay languidly amidst the rays, soaking it in. Granada. I whisper softly to myself. España.

I've been fortunate on this trip to meet a myriad of amazing people. Goofs, free spirits, lost souls, the rule bound and people simply set to discover. I love this. The continual catch and release of personal experience; the gossamer touch of individual perspective.

Today I lay on the balcony of a friend I may have made for life. A distant sister soul found thousands of miles from home. She studies quietly on the other side of the sunny balcony, a comfortable silence easily achieved.

I am set to reflection. Why do we travel? To find ourselves, find beauty.. love.. Why do we do what we do? Travel, work, play.. on a continual quest for fulfillment, gladness, gratification, peace, pleasure, repletion, satisfaction, serenity... A thesaurus of aspiration. We crave an abstinence from confusion and discontent. Like a game of hide and seek we smuggle ourselves away from dissatisfaction. However we chose to do so.

I find through world travel a constant wonderment at the highlighted flood of desire and need. Here it is heightened. Brightened. I watch people needing to discover, to experience, to find themselves. I am them, too.

I have it inked into my skin. Right below the scar on the back of my neck that symbolizes my brush with death. Life.


08.05.11
Granada, Spain.

El Perro y el Hippy

My breath was coming out in short pumps and gasps. One foot in front of the other, I limped and wobbled my way, bound and determined.

Just think, Kristina, I breathily whispered to myself. Think what you'll be able to say. You walked 4 hours in the Alhambra and climbed a freaking mountain in one day. With, Kristina, I continued to murmur to myself, with a spinal cord injury. Just think.. just imagine what the photo's could look like. You can beat this sunset. You can get there in time.. Push.

I absently swung my Canon 50D camera around to a more comfortable position and continued my personal cheerleading, You can do this...

Hearing a voice clear I looked up from my focused stare down with my wayward feet and suddenly realized my motivational whispering wasn't quite as inaudible as I imagined it to be. People were looking, peering at me curiously. 'Loco touristica.' and a shake of the head.

I giggled silently and continued panting my way up the extensive stretch of long steps that pass for streets in the Albayzin quarter of Granada, Spain. Set on a mountainside the walkways are wide and meant only for foot traffic. Gradual steps press upwards relentlessly to the height of the hills. Tourist style tea houses, shops, and tapa's bars line the beginning of your climb, but eventually melt away to houses and local places to eat or drink. Beautiful, and completely charming, but, I'll admit, a touch challenging for a woman with gait, stability, and fatigue issues.

Still, I pressed on stubbornly.

Incredibly, more than once during my strenuous ascent, I was stopped by a concerned citizen. 'Tu es bien?', Are you okay?

I love the Spanish!

Seeing my labored breathing and awkward gate I was often stopped to see if I was all right. One gentleman even took my arm and walked me for a ways. After letting me go he sagely advised me the best way to reach the top was to dance my way, and with a flourish and a bow, which left me grinning from ear to ear, he actually danced his way back down the street of steps.

I love this place.

Caught unaware and distracted with my determined walk and chance encounters, the end was suddenly in sight, or rather, ear shot. The rhythmic pulse of distant djembe drums throbbed in the air, invisibly tugging me on. Practically bursting out of the end of a closely walled walkway I saw the edge of the square I had been so obstinate about reaching. Glancing up at the sky I grinned happily. The sun had not yet set. I made it.

Almost laughing I awkwardly climbed the last few steps and entered the square, lit brilliantly in the late sunlight. Dancing, singing and lounging people were lit afire by the last vestiges of the sun. I entered a hippy heaven, complete with an abundance of puppies and pooches running free and playing with each other and their owners. Soaking it in I looked peacefully to my left, and saw the gentle slope of the city leading to a view of the Alhambra on another hill of its own. The massive palace constructed during the mid 14th century by the Moorish rulers of old glowed majestically in the dying light. Drawing my gaze back to the square my senses were assaulted by the gypsy-like celebration that happened every night. Poi spinners, jugglers, guitarists, percussionists and a surprising number of canines all joined the evening and shared their voice, their talent, their moment, with each other. This was just life here for them.

Idly I wondered if other locals turned their nose up at this congregation of clearly new age mentality. Within walking distance (my walking distance!) there was another section of the city with wide boulevards and expensive shops. The contrast and closeness of these wildly different mentalities tickled at my curiosity. But I wanted to live in the here and now, so letting that thought slip innocuously back into the recesses of my mind - unimportant in comparison to my need to experience what I'd worked so hard to see - I swung my camera up, and began to photograph. Some noticed, some didn't. A few felt the rush of having an audience and immediately began showing off. I didn't mind.

Eventually I let my lens drop and just breathed. I wasn't photographing very well and my battery was dying. Distracted and quite fatigued from my long day I ached to simply exist in this one moment, this physical manifestation of the reason I travel. This was an experience so simple yet so heart warming in it's newness and easy beauty that peace and contentment coursed through my tired limbs. So I sat, with a goofy contended grin on my face, and bathed it all in.

You made it, Kristina. I smiled gently to myself. You knew you could.

And so I did.

Granada, Spain.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

The Poison of Text-based Messaging

I am no saint. I text. Though mainly I do it because everyone else does. You can't force someone to meet with you, or pick up the phone. But I hate it. I really do. And hate is a strong word I passionately apply to my feelings towards this abhorrent phenomenon of communication.

I want to write a paper on how our reliance on texting is creating a psychological rift in our social demeanors. It's the same epidemic that preservatives in our food have caused. Because the problem isn’t clear and obvious it is slowly ruining our psyche like those preservatives have ruined our gastrointestinal systems. One day we woke up and realized that the reason we all have such problems with our stomachs is because we've been slowly poisoning ourselves; just as we'll realize one strong reason why we have such issues communicating with each other is because we've slowly trained ourselves out of human contact and relations.

I think we're letting the importance of physically present communication fall by the wayside. "But I'm at work." "But I just have something quick to say." "But it's just easier." These are convenient excuses, but I believe, simply blinders that help us ignore the quiet killer. Patches of 'quick and easy' versus 'quality and health'. It's the McDonalds cheeseburger of communication. We've been moving steadfast into the realm of realizing how bad and unhealthy that kind of food is for our bodies. We need to recognize what unhealthy communication is doing to our minds and our emotional connections.

I watched a study that researchers made on infants. This study was actually about the linguistic learning curve in humans, and how it dramatically decreases after only a few short years. It also discusses a critical learning point between 8 and 10 months wherein an infant will learn specific sounds related to their particular language, and after that period the infant is no longer able to process the distinctions in other language’s sounds that are different to it's own.

What I found interesting, though, and as relates to the current issue, is that during this study researchers decided to see if it would make a difference if the child would learn equally as well from having a human teacher, as compared to a television, or simple auditory stimulation.

The children learned absolutely nothing from the television or recordings. It required human contact and interaction for them to acquire the skills.

No, we are not infants. But I believe that this highlights the importance of verbal, visual, and physical contact. It is ingrained in our psyche. We need this contact; straight from the instincts of birth.

I have been back from my trip to Europe for only 2 weeks and I already feel a serious decline in my state of happiness. I keep finding myself wishing I were there, chatting with people over breakfast, having coffee with new friends, going to dinner with people. And therein lay the obvious connection. Now that I am in Vancouver my main form of communication is back to text based messaging. It's just too difficult to get a hold of my friends and too easy to text. My physical contact with people has declined 10 fold, and so has my level of joy.

I'm sick and tired of eating McCrappy text messages. I honestly believe it's an epidemic of our human connectivity and that this is directly tied in to our level of happiness. I believe a strong reason for the general malaise many of us feel is directly linked with our addiction to text based messaging. I know from personal experience that if I am upset about something and ‘talk it out’ through text, I am left distinctly less satisfied than if I were to have a verbal or physical conversation. And there have been one too many instances in the past years as texting became more and more common, of a long drawn out text miscommunication, (who am I kidding; fight), that upset me to no end, only to be resolved and deflated within minutes on the phone or conversation in person. And more often than not, even if the argument was still worked out over text, that lingering itch of dissatisfaction would linger.

For the most part, we are social creatures. We crave, desire, and need social acceptance. Our basic psychology demands communication between each other. But, like eating McDonalds instead of a healthy meal, we are poisoning ourselves. Sure, we may not always be able to eat perfectly, and likewise communicate healthy, but we should put in a sincere and motivated effort to achieve the highest level of health. Physically, psychologically, and emotionally.


Patricia Kuhl: The linguistic genius of babies - http://www.ted.com/talks/patricia_kuhl_the_linguistic_genius_of_babies.html
Image 1 pulled from: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Texting.jpg
Image 2 pulled from: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/mobile-phones/7612663/Teenagers-prefer-texting-to-talking.html


**I also realize a large reason we text as much as we do, is because it is cheaper than minutes on the phone. I feel this should change. This world is driven by money, and in a tight economy such as we have now, every penny counts. I believe if using minutes to call someone were cheaper than texting, it could make a huge difference.***