Sunday, November 29, 2009

Kaleidoscope Effect.

I have a reoccurring experience--I watch the world through a one-sided window. I watch the Other Side. I sit in a small room--everything is dark and out of focus. Vivid and focused are the things I see beyond the window--out of my little box. I watch things move. There are people--I think they're people. They speak words and sometimes I understand these sounds. These people--I can watch them for days and days. Each movement is painted in expression and emotion and thought. I wonder if I look like them. If I live like them. If they can see me behind my window. I can make the scene in front of my window change too. I can create anything I want and put it out into the Other Side. I can make my private world come to life on the Other Side--things they can only see in their dreams. I wonder what Reality means. It's a word I don't fully

understand-it's so limiting. So contained and forced and false. I've come to realize there are two of what is defined as "me"--two of "me". One is here, right now, in this broken-focused, dim tunnel, dim box. Sometimes I close my eyes and then I am in the Other Side. I become movement, and emotion, and thought. I become unaware. I become people. In which state am I free? In which state am I a prisoner of my own nature? Sometimes I meet others when i'm in the Other Side--other's who, like me, have a dimly lit, out of focus box. A window. A blurred sense of the ridiculous meaning of Reality.


I see in montages. A gritty stack of fast flipping scenes that run through my head like an old film strip. I covet that pale light that reveals the face each passing moment--en

abling sight. Look steady out at the Other Side and watch that same light kiss the surface of every thing. Sight--proof of Reality #1. Then, if I were to continue on with proofs--sound, smell, touch, emotions…but even still--all unverifiable. I decide. You decide for you. Which is it. The Other Side--the moment, the movement: the chaos un-separate from our immediate sense of Reality. Maybe it will be the the little box--removed and observant, and still: Reality always questionable. In either state of self, the mind is never truly free of our own doubts, judgments, observations, emotions.


I'm in an old barn.

The structure, neglected, is slowly settling itself back into the earth--decaying naturally, despite it's manmade birth. The walls and beams and glass windows are blanketed in golden, dusty earth. The light breaks through, softly, and leaves warm lacings where thick shadows cannot stifle it. Instead, the darkness feeds off the shadowed corners,

impatiently awaiting the sun to retire. I stand in the midst of all this--choosing the sun's lacings to the heavy embrace of the shadows. Out the windows--the flicker of a filmstrip being projected--the sky becomes the screen and a slideshow begins. The pictures, also covered in golden dust, flash continuously. I watch. There's a drum beat at every flicker--it's deep and round and sounds like the breath of Earth. The dust begins to settle on my skin--it's cool and salty, but warms with the nimble work of the light. The film moves faster across the windows--the images expand across to the walls now. Faster--and the pictures, translucent, dance across ever surface, overlapping and now moving, spinning around me, moving to the floor, to the celling. The barn begins to become translucent with them--fading into what is now a dusk-set sky. The ground, slowly evaporates--the colors of the earth blurring up like paint strokes, fading into the ever darkening sky. Around me, I notice the dust has weaved an intricate, thin veil which is draped over an invisible sphere around me. The images, more like short film clips--now just a steady stream of overlapping motion--of faces and places new and old, recognizable and not. The ground is gone, all for the small patch supporting my body. It is now a deep, dark blue and everything set against this sky is iridescent--silver and wispy, including the images. The drum beat becomes a brilliant, crystal chime--elegant and not sharp. The dust veil is becoming thicker. It's rapidly enclosing me--obscuring my view of the images and of the silver wisps and of the deep blue expanse. The veil has completely enclosed me and I realize I am suspend in a silver nothingness. It's bright. I am nothing but a bright light--my hands, my feet, my entire existence: nothing but a bright, silver light. Pardon my abrupt ending--but I think I'll remain in this silver webbed space for awhile. Have a pleasant day.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

2 bags of apple spice, 2 bags of mulling spice, some sugar--will calm you down.

I couldn't sleep. I kicked and turned around my bed, disheveling my blankets and perturbing my cat, who showed his annoyance by swatting at my hair with every position change. I got a text from my mom near 2 a.m. telling me goodnight--a random but perfectly timed gesture. She recommend I make cider tea to help me sleep: "two bags of apple spice, two bags of mulling spice, some sugar-- will calm you down." And so the blogging commenced in an attempt to ease my running thoughts into submission.

The Other Morning.

I was heading to Bottega Louie to grab a coffee and a black current macaroon. when I spotted a man jogging along 7th street--he was chasing God. Literally. "I can't keep up! Wait up!" he'd shout. Then, "God! Lemme talk with you a second!" Not such a very strange sight for downtown--I mean between Birdman and Lady Opera (two of my personal favorite homeless characters), nothing surprises me too much. He stopped running and I ended up next to him as I awaited the crosswalk. "I can't--can't catch him" he said to no one in particular-- "Just wanna talk..." Well, I really didn't have time for what I was about to do--but that's exactly why I did it. And I turned and asked if he'd grab some coffee with me. Perhaps a bit taken aback, he took a deep breath and thoughtfully replied, "Thank you ma'am, but I'm busy--see?" And he pointed up in the sky towards nothing. I nodded, the light changed, and we crossed the street. The man began to jog again, yelling at the sky. I named him Forrest Gump.

Forrest Gump didn't open my eyes to anything astonishing. He didn't change or challenge my opinions, didn't teach me a significant life lesson. But he stayed on my mind. I then began to see how such a small event actually did make a significant impact on me and how any moment, big or small, is a chance to make an impact on someone or something. Now, Forrest Gump wasn't trying and I think that made it all the more powerful. Perhaps, one day, I will try chasing sound, or energy, or something--see where it takes me. See if I catch it. I hope Forrest Gump caught up to God. I think maybe he had something important to say.

"You've Got To Hide Your Love Away"
(Eddie Vedder version)

Here I stand head in hand
Turn my face to the wall
If she's gone I can't go on
Feelin' two-foot small

Everywhere people stare
Each and every day
I can see them laugh at me
And I hear them say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

How can I even try
I can never win
Hearing them, seeing them
In the state I'm in

How could she say to me
Love will find a way
Gather round all you clowns
Let me hear you say

Hey you've got to hide your love away
Hey you've got to hide your love away

Sunday, August 9, 2009

Downtown Dearest: Stop Pissing On My Ally Door Entrance.

Let's catch you up, yes?  

1.) I moved to downtown Los Angeles (where before I was in a suburban, quaint neighborhood called the Miracle Mile District).

There's so much to say about living downtown--it is another world all together.  I could write pages alone on the types of people I've met--so many young artists swarming the lofts and we all look at each other, strangers all of us, like we know some big secret.  It's like we were all drawn here by some giant wizard and we're about to take part in an enormous electric daisy carnival-esque rave of life. Y
Yeah, maybe it sounds a bit out there, I know, I think so too but the kids downtown would not!  It's a beautiful thing.  

And maybe it is a giant secret because the city--it's shitty looking.  Skid Row is two blocks and a skip left of my building.  There are druggies, screaming homeless bickering and urinating bums on every corner and in every ally.  Rats the size of my cat scamper back and forth from the overflowing dumpsters piled with the worst smelling trash I've ever come across in my life.  Urine and feces decorate the streets more commonly than I'd like to acknowledge.  You take a shower, step outside, and you're covered in dirt.  I am scared for my life after 9 PM--if I want to walk down a few blocks to Seven-Eleven--I cannot alone.  Most people cannot, actually.  English magazines are very difficult to find and speaking english in general is rather a lost cause.  One way streets are a bitch....So what is the "secret" we young people are all excited about?  We don't know!  That's what's so awesome!  I guess we all wonder what the hell we're doing down here...but upon exploring, we've found there is an entire playground expecting us!  Trendy, painfully posh clubs, lounges and restaurants have begun to rise out of the most atrocious abandoned buildings.  During the day--these old, boarded up, dingy spaces are dormant but come nightfall a red rope sneaks into position and a queue of Chanel purses, Jimmy Choo stilettos and Chloe skirts with Prada overcoats forms in the shadows of the flickering street lamps--one red rope after another and further into the night the streets, usually filled with bums are fill-
ed with dashing couples straight out of a 1920's movie about Speakeasy's and flappers.  And then, if the artist types don't feel like dressing up--it's unneeded anyway since every loft
 building is flooded with Loft parties and young hippsters hanging off the fire escapes, floating music, waving cigarets and lounging from roof top pool to roof top pool.  

...Downtown is too cool for me.  

My loft is too cool for me.  I'd post pictures...or I will soon but I can't find my stupid camera cord right now--I'm living in an excessively large industrial space...out of poorly marked, sporadically packed boxes that are scattered throughout three floors.  It's tough to be on time in the mornings when your underwear is in one box, your socks are in another box the floor below, your shoes are back upstairs in a bag somewhere and then your shorts are in one of four boxes marked "pants" all the way on the first floor.  

Alright--so this first blog is to kick of a series of blogs titled "Dear Downtown: (blank)" where I'll be documenting how the move is going or writing up any unusual adventures.  

Two to look for next: 
"Downtown Dearest:' The Heist'"
"Downtown Dearest: Flying Couches and Sweating Bears"

Final note--Marjorie came to stay with me in my new place!  We went to a movie at the Grove and dinner and she stayed the night and we went to Disneyland the next day before I sadly took her back to her parent's home so she can return to SanFran today.  One year.  She graduates in one year and then I'll have a roommate to share in these adventures!  

When you're alone
And life is making you lonely,
You can always go downtown
When you've got worries,
All the noise and the hurry
Seems to help, I know, downtown
Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city
Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty
How can you lose?
The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares and go
Downtown, things'll be great when you're
Downtown, no finer place for sure,
Downtown, everything's waiting for you
Don't hang around
And let your problems surround you
There are movie shows downtown
Maybe you know
Some little places to go to
Where they never close downtown
Just listen to the rhythm of a gentle bossanova
You'll be dancing with 'em too before the night is over
Happy again
The lights are much brighter there
You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares and go
Downtown where all the lights are bright,
Downtown, waiting for you tonight,
Downtown, you're gonna be alright now
(Downtown downtown)
And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you
Someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to
Guide them along
So, maybe I'll see you there
We can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares and go
Downtown, things'll be great when you're
Downtown, don't wait a minute more,
Downtown, everything's waiting for you
Downtown (downtown) downtown (downtown)
Downtown (downtown) downtown (downtown)
(repeat and fade out)


Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Here's To Tree Analogies.

Trees.  Such a perfect analogy for life.  Unoriginal, perhaps, but when something is just that good--it's hard to respond uniquely.  And a tree analogy is right on.  

Just the smallest, most insignificant seed--its' fate is so unstable.  A simple shift of wind could destroy or spare it's future.  

So few actually make it, actually find bearable conditions to begin its' long climb upwards.  And that little seed, with the proper surroundings and elements attending unknowingly to the little seed's success, sprouts!  It bursts with the most beautiful, pure form of will!  Those little roots grip, desperately, to the foundation of its' new home--completely ignorant of of the exclusive challenges of the environment it now faces.

Passionate as the last breath of life is the seedling in its' effort to break through Earth--taste the first ray of freedom.  And so much chaos it awaits!  Will it recieve love and attention?  Will it be paved over, ignored and forgotten?  Will it die, cold, from lack of sun?  Will its' growth be constrained or stunt by the local projects?  Will it be able to serve its' purpose...or will it not matter at all?  

And through the years, each season the seedling, now a tree, grows and expands in complexity--forever reaching to push the skies further, the refine its' shape and add the the foundation of its' core.  The tree becomes strong, becomes wise--out smarting power-lines, paved side walks and unnecessary "trims".  It heals--but only from pain that could damage...but it keeps in bold memory the carvings of lovers in its' trunk--having endured the pain to understand its' love.  

The old tree sheds its' leaves, it's annually collected lessons, to make room for fresh and new life--always keeping things exciting, this old tree.  Perhaps it will bare fruit, or nuts, or flowers--in any case, it will inevitably make an impact in whatever it bares, on some even very small level.  

When the tree has met it's time, has seen life, lived, appreciated, and contributed to it--the old tree will release the last of its' life's work, and slowly decay back into the earth of which it came.  One can only hope for such a peaceful, serene end.  

We take life for granted.  No, I see some of you shaking your head in disagreement, but we do.  And it's very difficult not to.  There is so much involved with living.  It is so...difficult.  We will never truly appreciate it perhaps--and for those of you who truly do appreciate it, I am honestly sorry for what you must have lived through to get there.  Ignorance can be bliss, yes, but in a way, I am envious of those who can clearly see all of life's splendors, even knowing the pain the preceded it.  

Bon Iver.  Re: Stacks.  
(Musician.  Song.--look into it, very much worth doing so.)

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Childishly Sophisticated Easter Day

Easter is amongst my favorite holidays--Thanksgiving being the top favorite. But Easter has always been special in my home. You see, I have the most incredible mother who made sure every Easter morning was magical, and a hard-working father who made that possible. Really, Easter hasn’t changed too much since I was little and it went as such:

First one awake, unfortunately, since it only made me have to wait longer for Whitney, Mom and Dad to wake-up. I’d sneak down the stairs and peak at the living room couch--two white baskets were skillfully placed on either side of the couch, both overflowing with candy, chocolate, presents and Easter bunnies. I’d smile in delight as if it were the biggest surprise every time. If I were really daring, I’d tip-toe up to my basket and gently dig around, feeling the packages. Next, I’d try to get a head start on the egg hunt. Being the younger sister, I was always a few steps behind Whitney--who managed to win every single egg hunt (and the year I finally won was the last year we ever had one, psh, go firgure). Nearly two hundred plastic eggs, filled with coins or candy, were hidden on the first and second floor of the house. While peeping for eggs, I’d try to pull together some game plan (which, upon the race, I’d forget or toss-out anyway…but pretending to be an “egg-spy private eye” was always a fun Easter game of mine). In the middle of my peep session, I’d eventually hear my parents stirring upstairs. Before bolting back upstairs to my bedroom, I’d pocket a chocolate egg from my basket. Once back in my room, I’d eagerly await for Dad to yell up to Whitney and I: “Girls! Happy Easter! Breakfast!” Ah. It’s time. I’d pop the chocolate egg in my mouth, rub my eyes to make them look a little red, and head down stairs like I was non the wiser.
And there, on the couch, the most wonderful, glorious Easter surprise.: my family.

Now that I live away from home, my Easter’s are a bit different--but that same sense of excitement from my memory is still with me, even when my family is else-where. This Easter, I planned a picnic, followed by a grand adventure. I started cooking for the picnic the day before and goodness did I make quite the feast if I do say so myself. And no worries, naturally, I took pictures of everything. The menu is as follows: ( goes "as follows" as soon as I upload the pictures...hang in there. Let's continue on for now.)

And what about the grand adventure you ask? Well--Michael, myself and a few incoming friends sat down with the Goonies themselves and raided a pirate ship. Sure, we were technically in a living room, but surround sound does wonders for an imagination and I’m going to stick with my story: I was definitely there WITH the Goonies.

Holiday’s can be wonderful. They can just as easily suck, too. Some people will say they are unnecessary; a highly bankable production for Hallmark and Churches. And true, they tend to become an exhibition of gross affluence, or a cruel reminder of lack there of. But, as I am sure everyone has heard at some point in their lives--it comes down to realizing the people in your life who you love, and celebrating that love. A holiday is a good time to assess a few things: what is important in your life? What makes you happy, and what can you do to help those you love also be happy? The cool thing about having a holiday to figure those answer out is that after the holiday, you can continue putting that love to use. If you don’t quite manage to answer them--well, it’s never too late to show love to people as if it were Christmas, or Easter, or Thanksgiving.
Personally, I did not talk to my sister like I should have on Easter, so this week--I have to catch up on some holiday cheer-spreading.
All in all, a wonderful Easter. I hope yours was just as happy.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Banjo Scene

You're right, I know--I haven't blogged for a good while.  Let me start with Saturday night.

I love music.  And many different types--they all make me feel a little bit different, all pull at separate memories or all surface new emotions.  But I'm not well into the "music scene".  You know, those underground, dark and damp hole-in-the-wall clubs where indie bands and artists alike come to preform to a relatively small, appreciative audience of care-free, anti-pop cultured, independent types that stand in the crowd with their arms crossed, shoulders slightly forward and head moving ever so cooly to the beat.  No, I'm not well into the music scene.  But I have had a many of friend who were/are.  And I've made a rather harsh assessment about such a setting--those free-spirited individuals all look, stand, talk and act exactly the same.  Many scene-kids I meet are extremely closed-minded as well.  Anything mainstream--trash.  Anything known--crap.  And yet, they strive to be at the top of "trendy" in the most alternative sense of the word.  Band guys are also some of the most insecure men I have ever met--yet the whole "I don't give anything what people think" image is practically tattooed in bold letters across their emaciated faces.  A crowd of people scoffing at "social-trend-followers" because they are not exactly like them--ironic?  

So, that was my pre-rant.  My story is more positive.  I actually went to one of these hole-in-the-wall places I "lightly" described above.  As familiar as the surrounding was, the people were actually quite unique to my previous experiences.  Instead of rebellious, darkly clad teens running amuck, the audience was comprised of stiffly casual, Banana Republic-styled adults holding wine and conversing in practical semi-circles.  What did I fall into?  CNN's version of Wonderland.  Then theses two really tatted, pierced, over-reaching "rockers" took their places in the open space where the mic's and lights were set.  A cheer.  A pause, they reach down into two black cases and pull out: Banjos.  Electric banjos. And soon the room transforms...I begin to notice little things.  The woman in front of me in the black petty coat and turtle-neck, I noticed, was wearing lime green converse.  The man next to me had a neat pony-tail, which was promptly untied by a women's caressing hands.  The couple a few tables up, hardly cordial moments before, was making out so fervently, air was deemed unnecessary.  What I am getting at is that, I sat in a room of people whom I was judging because of their un-individual, boring, and stiff appearances...exactly the same type of judgments that irks me made by "scene-kids".  And also, haven't I been judging the scenesters too?  I mean, at the end of the day, what makes a person unique or "individual" (I seem to be stuck on that word) is not how different you can dress, how rare your favorite band is, or how trendy your slave-free, silk-screened t-shirt is...I mean, even if you LIVE to be just like that person or look just like this person--you never escape you.  Who are we to judge one person, then another, when what are we really judging on?  What about ourselves?  How unoriginal is judging.  Lame.  I'm more creative than that.  I can think of something different to focus my thoughts too.  
Those two men played the banjo like there was no tomorrow.  They rocked the crammed room, loosened inhibitions, and completely mocked every stereo-type of rock-stars--talented an witty.At the end of the night, judgments had passed, and fundamentally what was left was a room of people, that, for a few short moments, were able to connect with each other on a completely un-materialistic, uncritical, level because two men were able to break from the standards of "socially acceptable", and in turn, inspired an entire room to finally become individuals!  The transformation was a miracle.  When music can do that to an audience...good or bad music, it's worth an notable mention, at least some judgmentally-schooled blog.  

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Donut Club and Simple Pleasures

I'm not a party person.  I mean, don't get me wrong, I'll clarify--I am not a club person.  And, I know what some of you are thinking: "Analeigh is only is she getting in--" I'll just stop your thought there.  I live in L.A.  I'm a girl.  Age doesn't usually matter past those facts.  I have been fortunate to have a good number of club-going friends that tend to merely flash the bouncer an innocent grin and 'pop' I'm past the rope and past the lines.   I have been attending "trendy" clubs since I turned 17.  My friends in high school were not going to these places with me, but you see I was a show skater at this time and the cast in my ice-shows were all above 21.  I would go out with them.  

Okay, now to point out a few important things:

1.  I do not drink alcohol (and my reasons will come in another blog someday).  I go to meet friends.  I go to get my grove on.
2. I have never and will never do club drugs.  Ugh, how unattractive and stupid.
3. I don't dress up to these things.  I am the ONE girl in line in jean cut-offs, "The Who" t-shirt and my converse.  I work it as if I were in a mini-dress and heels.  

So where is this all going?  Well, it just gives a bit of background to the rant/story I am about to share with you.

Saturday.  DJ Kascade at the Vangaurd in Hollywood.  Group of people invited me to tag along and I don't get out much so, you know, I got pretty worked up and excited--sweaty, ash-tray smelling, over-styled strangers that come up to my chin, grinding vulgarly into me while rollin' on E and desperately yelling for glow sticks--oh yes, I was stoked.  No, but actually--it was the chance to hang out with friends.  I lack friends in Los Angeles, so any chance to meet new ones is a chance I jump on.  But alas--when the club promoter that had arranged for my safe entrance into the club met us out in front, we skipped the lines and I thought all was golden.  Until, that is, the bouncer pulled the red rope, blocking my entry.  
"It's a C note to get you in"  The greasy little bouncer bowed his head my direction.
"A hundred bucks?  Seriously dude?"  I retorted, confused (not too confused...I mean, I am trying to get into a club...illegally.  But not to DO anything illegal!).  The club promoter was pulling me one way, the bouncer the other, meanwhile he refused to let Michael past unless he coughed up another 50$ and the whole thing was just getting ridiculous.  I pulled my arms away from groping hands (by this time I managed to be on the club side of the red rope, but Michael was still on the street side) tripped ungracefully back over the red stupid rope, glared down the bouncer, regained my dignity, grabbed Michael and flipped my hair as I walked away from the crowd.  

I thought I'd be all tough about it.  But truth was, I was upset--I had looked forward to hanging out with a group of girls, a group of friends--even if I'm younger then them.  It's someone(s).  Clearly seeing I was upset, Michael stopped at Donut-Time, one of those always delectable, never too sanitary but conveniently open hole-in-the-wall ma-pa places.  We got eight donuts.  Glazed buttermilk is now my new favorite.  Oh, pure heaven.  We watched Ratatouille and I fell asleep slightly eased.  

Lesson of the weekend?  Honestly, I don't really have one.  don't pay 100$ to get into a club.  Eat comfort food instead.  I guess--appreciate the little things.  Life does not have to be filled with fancy clothes, trendy night clubs and expensive novelties--hell, expensive necessities!  It's the stuff that falls between "planning" and "impressing" that actually becomes living.  When things don't work out how you imagined, whatever else happens instead is just as much a miracle.  Sometimes--I have trouble believing that...but at the end of the day--no one can affect how we perceive the world.  It is our own.  We see the world entirely unique from the next person.  We see it how we want to.  It's a stretch, but let it sit with you...But--that's just how I see my world, and like I said, everyone is different.  Thank some all-powerful force for that.  

Saturday, March 14, 2009

Slow as Motion

It's grey out.  woke up on my couch.  closed the windows.  opened the windows. turned on the heater. put on my sweatpants. put on boy's t-shirt.  stumbled to coffee-maker. opened refrigerator instead. sigh. not hungry. grabbed rice and chicken for my dog. laughed at her medical-cone. put gym clothes on. had some almonds. walked to gym. forgot sneakers...ugh. slipped on a grease spot. ouch. cursed. 

it's still grey out.  

put my ipod on. ran in place. sweat. breathed. sweat. "I made you some homemade granola". ate some homemade granola. still not hungry. walked home. stumbled up stairs and to my coffee-maker. sighed. turned and put granola in my pantry. heard my dog whine. found her cone-head stuck between the table and the couch. laughed. laughed. I laughed. "Music", I thought, "I want to play piano". played. "write", I thought, "I want to write". Wrote. 


...I'm going. I go.  I go to a theme-park. I am going, going to a theme-park.  Studios.  Universal Studios.  

I'll write later.  I left. 


The theme park mused my thoughts.  But now I am home.  Surrounded by my loss.  And I am sad.  

Wednesday, March 11, 2009

Observation 1: The Cheery Way to Wake

Cheerios are just an amazing creation.  Sure, cereal is good all around but Cheerios are like the Rolls Royce of breakfast cereals: classic, simple, and nutritional.  And how about that cute yellow box that just immediately brings you back to childhood.  A bowl of Cheerios has multiple levels of satisfaction.  Some cereals get soggy, or the milk has a funny after-taste because the strawberry flavoring that was actually foreign chemicals only tastes like strawberry on the cereal, and others turn the milk a murky brown and no one likes a dirty milk mustache.  But Cheerios--ah, defies all of that.  Add milk, fresh blueberries, Cheerios, and a lil' Splenda or sugar for some sweetness and you are good to go--the blueberries are tart and soft, the Cheerios stay crunchy and the milk is perfectly sweet to top it off.  Bravo and encore my O-shaped little friends.  

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Dream Weaver.

I am fortunate enough in my life to be able to dream.  I can be whatever I want to be.  Yes.  Nearly.  And my mind, my imagination can take me about anywhere--my dreams are limitless.  Most young American's are familiar with this mindset--endless imaginations but what about the more common places on earth where people can't be whatever they want to be.  The concept of "possibility" of "goals" and "aspirations" well, they just do not exist.  How very...very difficult to relate to.  So lucky, are we, to not be able to relate.  So fortunate that we cannot imagine boundaries in our sleep or elsewhere.  So.  Realizing how incredibly rare a dream is--I thought I'd start my little blogging project with my most recent...

I landed in Italy.  Peak tourist season, hardly a true Italian to be seen.  Instead, many children and mothers and fathers and elders and stray men and clusters of giggling ladies and all were outfitted as if they were torn right from the pages of an antique paper-doll book from the early 1900's.   Infact, the only tangible sign that I was in Italy at all were the ancient and gaudy stone architectures that leaned menacingly over the cobble stone square where all these paper-doll tourist bustled. 
 That's when i noticed the tents--blood red, heavy canvas tents stained with black ash and soot from the city and they were scattered about the square--five of them maybe.  I walked passed one that emitted a warm, welcoming yellow glow from it's open curtain.  I walked passed another, darker tent with closed curtains but I could smell something icy, and decaying as I neared.  So curious and almost grotesque was the smell that it became more alluring than even the previous tent.  
I continued deeper into the square.  I spotted a small gathering and moved in to catch a glimpse of what it surrounded.  A small, stout man in vibrant rags and a dull red nose was pulling flowers from a women's hat.  An onlooking young man snickered.  The small clown whipped around to face the leer and as he did he grew and transformed into an enormous, vicious, hideous clown creature with fangs and claws and blood drenched lips.  I gasped, but the crowd cheered.  

...and I will finish my dream perhaps tonight.  Until then, I hope this entertains at least a slight bit.