Click, click, PAUSE

At home, I no longer have cable television. I am keeping up with the few shows I already enjoyed from last season through web sites like Hulu and Channel 131. However, tonight I am not at home. Tonight I am dog-sitting and I have access to Direct TV, and I was flipping through the channels when I stumbled across the new SyFy (science fiction) channel and saw this:

Oh my. Hello, Richard.

This show — Legend of the Seeker — is based off of Terry Goodkind’s Sword of Truth series… a fantasy book series that finished off after eleven tomes. My high school boyfriend got me hooked, but Mr. Goodkind couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with my voracious fantasy appetite. Once the ex and I split, I started devouring books by female authors after discovering that they tended to focus on a smaller cast of characters overall, and I could immerse myself in the story as if I was living it instead of simply watching the story unfold.

Hearing the names spoken out loud — Richard. Kahlan. — I was immediately transported back in time, bundling up against the frigid 60 degrees that the ex kept his thermostat set at. Lying on my stomach on the bed, reading, with his cat lying on my back, purring. There was one major difference between reading the story of Wizard’s First Rule and watching it unfold…

Hello, Richard’s abs. I don’t think we’ve met…

Playing with fire

A while back, my friend Sarah S-E sent me a call for entries for an art exhibit called GLOW. A seasonal exhibit hosted by Annmarie Garden in Solomons, Md., GLOW was requesting “a variety of works including neon, fiber optics, LED, luminous substances, light graffiti, projections and other electrical or digital manifestations.” 2D works that “experiment with light or create the illusion of glowing, flashing or pulsating light” were also welcome as submissions.

Excited by the prospect of entering an appropriate photograph to be considered by the curator, I immediately stole Sarah’s husband. (Oh yes, I did!)

Keith shares my enthusiasm for photography and a similar overcrowded schedule. Whereas I’m working, pet-sitting and trying to rehab my shoulder in the pool, Keith is working, teaching and taking a class. I thought the GLOW call for entries would be an opportune time for us to collaborate, combining creativity with technical expertise.

We met over lunch at the Coffee Quarter and started brainstorming different ways to experiment with light and to photograph it, and walked away with a scrap paper full of possibilities and a list of materials needed. We met after dark one evening, setting up a rough studio out of found-objects in his backyard. Keith had his Nikon D90 mounted on a tripod and set up to work with a remote control, to eliminate the interference of our hand-shake during the session.

One of our experiments was to play with the idea of literally lighting a light bulb; to showcase the visual contradiction of seeing a light bulb lit in an unexpected way. The idea was to set it aflame, essentially stripping a light bulb from its known utilitarian purpose and elevating the object itself to art.

  

A measure of experimentation was called for in order to discover a flammable substance that would coat the light bulb in flames, and in the end we achieved success by using gel fuel. The resulting images showcased beautiful blue, green and pink lights, reminiscent of the aurora borealis.

What we found interesting, however, was an emerging visual contradiction. Blue is typically observed as a cool color, but in terms of heat, a blue flame burns at a temperature of about 1,995 degrees Celsius. It is, in fact, hotter than a yellow or red flame even through the human mind associates these colors with warmth and heat.

Keith and I also explored other creative ideas as well over the course of two nights, and ended up submitting the above three photographs — En Fuego 1, 2 and 3 – plus another image entitled Flaming Flamenco by the call for entries due date of October 2.

On October 6 I received an e-mail from Melissa Langley, the Exhibits Curator at Annmarie Garden, letting us know that our work, Flaming Flamenco, was accepted for the exhibit! I am very happy that this image was chosen, as it was probably the best example of Keith and I combining our respective talents.

Keith and I have made a pact not to share the accepted work with our friends and family via our blogs until after the Artists’ Reception on December 6. However, GLOW will be  open for both daytime and nighttime viewing from November 24, 2009 through February 14, 2010. The goal of the show is to “create a dramatic exhibit experience appropriate for all ages that sets the Arts Building aglow for the winter season.”

I hope that you are able to visit Annmarie Garden and see it GLOW!

Last call

I went to bed early last night, the effort required to stay awake once I started the movie was too much for my heavy eyelids. I set my alarms, heedless of the holiday or the forthcoming time change and crawled in between recently laundered white sheets. It took a while to maneuver around the pain that resides in my shoulder like a rent-controlled monster unwilling to vacate. I can hardly believe I’m already heading to bed, I thought as my eyelashes grazed the pillowcase. Miss Kitty parked her shoulder against my ribcage, and I fell asleep with a tiny, contented rumble reaching through the blankets to comfort my skin.

I awoke around 1:30 in the morning, confused by steady drumming of rain on the street and roof. What would cause me to stir from such a perfect slumber, I wondered. Then I heard them — the voices of the new neighbors carrying through the double-paned window in the hall and vibrating my eardrums with that perfect pitch that can’t be ignored.

Drunks laughing. Girls shrieking, exclaiming too loudly over things they won’t remember in the morning. Guys bellowing across the backyard, using baritone voices to break through the soprano chorus of alcohol, cigarettes and cell phones.

Climbing out of bed, I peered out the window in the stairwell and watched them all, huddled underneath of the umbrella of an outdoor patio set, standing up straight so their backsides wouldn’t drown in the rain. I wondered how cacophonous they must seem to their immediate neighbors. I looked for signs that the level of volume pouring through the privacy fence would soon be abated — a fight? A skirmish? An accident? No, they were simply still in bar-mode, their voices trying to carry over a now imaginary background noise of imported music and chatter, liquor and proximity.

I’ve asked them to be quiet before. To remember that there are families around them trying to sleep, people who need to get up and be productive in the morning. They blamed it on the dog, who at the time wasn’t even barking his head off at imaginary foes invading his still-new territory. They shouted apologies into my window, and then cackled loudly about how funny it was to be told to quiet down.

So this night, awakened from what should have been a perfect, long night of sleep, I didn’t hesitate. I dialed the county Sheriff’s Office, and within four minutes a police car had pulled up to the curb outside of the clamorous townhouse. The sheriff’s deputy approached the gate in the backyard fence, and requested permission to enter. The drunk girl whose voice carries the loudest began to mock and taunt, throwing out f-bombs like free distribution leaflets to clubs with promotional happy hours or wet t-shirt contests.

The officer entered the property flashlight forward, and the girl’s name-calling soon turned into lame apologies and half-baked explanations, a torrential flood of drunken forgiveness which only stopped once the officer turned to leave. The discordant tones emanating from the backyard continued for a few more minutes as the excitement from the moment wore off and guests claimed cups, packs of cigarettes and lighters from underneath the umbrella and stepped inside, behind closed doors.

I returned to my bed, listening to the sounds of the rain splashing in the street and on the roof. I settled into the position that was most comfortable for my aching shoulder, and rubbed my fingers across the neck and shoulders of the cat who resumed her reclined position next to my ribcage. Hearing no more disturbance to my night I closed my eyes, perfectly at peace with having to make the last call.

Change of heart

My OCD kicked into high-gear this morning, and I’ve stayed in my PJs and attacked my house with gusto. Those greasy knobs on the stove? Soaked and scrubbed. Those loads of laundry in various stages of progress? Progressing and getting put away. The nightstand drawer that becomes a catch-all for much randomness? Emptied and organized.

And in that nightstand drawer I found a journal. A pretty wire-bound, lined notebook with only two pages having been touched by a fine point blue pen. The first page was something I wrote for my high school boyfriend, the relationship I kept through my first three years of college. The second page was something he wrote to me. Reading these words today, I’m struck by how different my life is. How much more cynical I am about relationships and love; more realistic about happiness and forever.

Eleven years. It was such a long time ago.

******************************

More than words our song is harmony itself. A gentle network of notes and life, quietly turning through the air and kissing our ears. It hums in the depths of our minds, a minute echo of the raging feelings that soar about our hearts and souls, and lighting our eyes with joy and love. We are one; we sing it; we rejoice in it daily as our thoughts touch in misty splendor. Fields of flowers spring up before our path yet we do not trample a petal, so light are our hearts. Instead in the breeze of our joy and laughter they sway. We hold the right to all of the happiness in the world between our hearts. We are eternal, we are bliss, we race through life hand-in-hand and laugh as the moonlight caresses us. We sing our song, airy as the wind itself and let it float towards the sky. Birds catch its notes only as nature could; that rippling, twisting, flowing music of love. As we go silent standing amidst the flowers untrampled, moonlight wrapping us in sil’vry glow… we listen as the world sings our chorus and ride the wind around us. In each other’s arms amidst our heart-song we stand knowing nothing but each other. We know nothing but love.

Knockaround knights

During the Jousting Tournament at the Maryland Renaissance Festival, armored knights on horseback held wooden lances and galloped toward one another, trying to earn points by either hitting the other knight squarely on the chest or by knocking them off their horse. After several passes back and forth, the knight pulls his horse next to a page standing on a box, and the page helps the knight out of his chest plate and helmet.

Solace

I’ve been standing by, watching as the sobs wracked her frame and she caved in on herself as if attempting to disappear into her own lap, to comfort herself within the confines of her own being. I’ve been holding her in my arms and telling her, “I know…” and “It will be alright…”, all the while thinking, “What do I know? What do I remember of pain like this, of feeling like I have been shattered into a thousand pieces?”

(Why does the heart hurt the most?)

Of course, I’ve been there. But those memories have been tempered by time and words, space and hindsight. What solace can there be in my company right now? How can I help assuage such a profound grief if I can’t remember what I needed, when?

“I love you, and you deserve the best,” I encouraged, my hand laid gently on her leg, my thumb a steady metronome of comfort. “You must know that you do deserve to have it.”

Everything, I wanted to say. You deserve everything you could ever dream of or desire. Everything you will ever give, you deserve to have returned to you and then some. You are worth what you crave, exactly what you fear you are not worth having because you have yet to truly experience receiving it.

(You deserved better.)

You don’t understand how this happened. You don’t know how to put yourself back together, how to get through a day without feeling like you’ve lost all of your air… You forget what it feels like not to be sad, to feel guilty, to want to scream out in anger. You solve it all by collapsing into your bed, by burying your face into the neck of a furry friend, by holding on to someone you love until you remember how to breathe.

(I remember this pain.)

I love you! My heart remembers and swells in empathy, and as I hold you I encourage it to beat strongly, to pulse true. I will it to set a cadence loud enough for your heart to hear — a steady reminder of breath, of life, of love.

“I know…” I whisper into your hair. “It will be alright…”