"No. Love is hiding who you really are at all times; even when you're sleeping . . . by wearing makeup to bed and going downstairs to Burger King to poop and hiding alcohol in perfume bottles."
God, I love 30 Rock.
gnite.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Monday, February 23, 2009
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Love will be the death of me
So as part of the 'dump, recycle, and a little saving' plan, I began tackling my basement this week. I got home from my vacation (more details and pictures later), had a snack, and immediately went downstairs and started to take out box upon box, bag after bag of all my junk I've collected over the years. For those that know me, you know I can be somewhat of a pack rat...
So I went through our gigantic storage room in the basement of my parents' house, and I removed every single thing that belonged to me and put as much as I could fit on my living room floor. I'm working in sections; I have that much stuff.
I've been sorting the shit into many different categories:
1. recyclable electronics
2. Memories I absolutely have to save
3. Greeting cards/Encouraging Notes
4. To sell at garage sale
5. Give to Jenny, Emma, Matt, or Jeff
6. Paper products
7. VHS tapes
8. Stuff I can use in my new apartment
9. Boxes
10. Magazines
11. Diaries/Scrapbooks/Journals
12. Things to mail to Lisa Gibes
13. Trash
I have a bunch of info on what to do with all the junk that doesn't sell at my garage sale, thanks to my new favorite publication: Women's Health Magazine. Check out this article for ideas on what to do with all your useless shit in a more environmentally-friendly fashion or if you just want to be a good person---like donating your prom dresses to less-fortunate girls in Chicago.
Well, I went into this process very optimistic.
I did NOT expect the event to be so heavy.
As in emotionally overwhelming or mentally exhausting.
Some of the things I found were:
Letters from my old gal pals at Saint Anne when I transferred schools, notes and cards and fire-ups (ahahaha) from my old cheerleading coach, hand-made Valentine cards from my Nana and Papa (who just passed away this February), my very worn dual VHS of the original Mary Poppins and Wizard of Oz taped by my Papa, tons of highly-scored math tests from my favorite high-school teacher Ms. Schoenherr, a scrapbook with famous Florida postcards from Emily Groesbeck, St. Anne sausage festival ride bracelets, beanie babies, pogs, my old barbies with hand-sewn clothing, Polly Pocket houses, mini trapper-keeper planners in teal, magenta, and baby-blue, old and worn ballet shoes, my pointe shoes, pieces of recital costumes, little mementos from every fucking event in my childhood (seriously, I kept the weirdest things), tons of planners/organizers, old Delia magazines with pages tabbed (the clothes from the magazine now in my 'to sell' pile), the beginning of the fiction book I was going to write about a girl living in an orphanage, my favorite leopard-skin mini backpack I got from my Grandma Judy, my pink Minnie Mouse wallet from Disney World, lists of songs I need to download, inside jokes that me and Lisa Gibes had about basically everything including a pool ball and a 6-foot banner we made in 7th grade, my ACT and AP scores, letters from colleges, a huge print of my Mom's senior picture from the 1970s, my driver's permit, artwork with smart-ass notes on the side (like 100% with 10 extra brown-nose points) from my favorite high-school art teacher Mr. Fisher, countless cartoons, doodles and poetry I did during class usually, and my personal favorite: a note from my Dad that was all folded and smelled vintage-y already-- which I couldn't believe. It was jotted in green marker and proper grammar, and it read,
"Katie and Brian: I love you. I'm sorry I'm so protective of the time I have with you. Sometimes I let my missing you get in the way. I'm trying to do better. I'm always available for you. I hope we can learn to listen to one another. -Dad"
At this point, Regina Spektor's "Bartender" was playing in the background, as I sat Indian-style on my living room floor alone in my house except for my cats, and the lyrics "love will be the death of me" seemed to echo through the empty house. As the refrain repeated, I just sat there and cried. I smelled the note a little, still not believing it already smelled old. And I thought about how I had told my Dad I would clean out my stuff at their house this weekend too. And then a wave of inspiration came over me, and in a moment I was standing. My dance teacher had been telling us the best dancers can improv at any time, and can use music to tell a story, and that we should always be practicing this important skill. As she said, "You know, the first 7 auditions on So You Think You Can Dance were all improv-no choreography at all. They just watched you move." So I turned the song up, put it on repeat, and danced an entire story out as hard as my muscles would let me at 11:00 at night. I danced about 3 different stories, sometimes just closing my eyes and letting the music guide my movement like we used to do in movement class with Sherrie Barr. Dancing to "Bartender" is perfect because of the way Regina switches up the pacing and how strong certain lyrics are compared to other ones she almost whispers out. It's perfect to experiment with time and space with your body to it. And that I did. I just danced. As silly as that sounds to you non-artist people reading this, this is the kind of thing I used to do when I was a kid: I constantly used art as an outlet for my feelings and vulnerability, and it was usually singing, writing, and dancing. So, I get to be that kid again, and surrounded by all my childhood memorabilia, I just engulfed myself in 'love will be the death of me' and it was, for lack of better words: fucking amazing. Every time I lifted my leg into some variation of a grand battement with a flexed foot, I pretended I was that amazing modern dancer I've always emulated. By the end of the last set I was dancing with warm tears just rolling down my cheeks, but I was smiling. Talk about cathartic.
So, that's how my unraveling and unpacking project is going. It's.....going.
I'll be updating soon about my adventures to the Traverse City wineries this week.
Like that one time I didn't have enough room in my closet anymore, and Maggie
stood there with me making me throw away EVERYTHING---at the time I was in college and still wearing clothes from 8th grade.
So I went through our gigantic storage room in the basement of my parents' house, and I removed every single thing that belonged to me and put as much as I could fit on my living room floor. I'm working in sections; I have that much stuff.
I've been sorting the shit into many different categories:
1. recyclable electronics
2. Memories I absolutely have to save
3. Greeting cards/Encouraging Notes
4. To sell at garage sale
5. Give to Jenny, Emma, Matt, or Jeff
6. Paper products
7. VHS tapes
8. Stuff I can use in my new apartment
9. Boxes
10. Magazines
11. Diaries/Scrapbooks/Journals
12. Things to mail to Lisa Gibes
13. Trash
I have a bunch of info on what to do with all the junk that doesn't sell at my garage sale, thanks to my new favorite publication: Women's Health Magazine. Check out this article for ideas on what to do with all your useless shit in a more environmentally-friendly fashion or if you just want to be a good person---like donating your prom dresses to less-fortunate girls in Chicago.
Well, I went into this process very optimistic.
I did NOT expect the event to be so heavy.
As in emotionally overwhelming or mentally exhausting.
Some of the things I found were:
Letters from my old gal pals at Saint Anne when I transferred schools, notes and cards and fire-ups (ahahaha) from my old cheerleading coach, hand-made Valentine cards from my Nana and Papa (who just passed away this February), my very worn dual VHS of the original Mary Poppins and Wizard of Oz taped by my Papa, tons of highly-scored math tests from my favorite high-school teacher Ms. Schoenherr, a scrapbook with famous Florida postcards from Emily Groesbeck, St. Anne sausage festival ride bracelets, beanie babies, pogs, my old barbies with hand-sewn clothing, Polly Pocket houses, mini trapper-keeper planners in teal, magenta, and baby-blue, old and worn ballet shoes, my pointe shoes, pieces of recital costumes, little mementos from every fucking event in my childhood (seriously, I kept the weirdest things), tons of planners/organizers, old Delia magazines with pages tabbed (the clothes from the magazine now in my 'to sell' pile), the beginning of the fiction book I was going to write about a girl living in an orphanage, my favorite leopard-skin mini backpack I got from my Grandma Judy, my pink Minnie Mouse wallet from Disney World, lists of songs I need to download, inside jokes that me and Lisa Gibes had about basically everything including a pool ball and a 6-foot banner we made in 7th grade, my ACT and AP scores, letters from colleges, a huge print of my Mom's senior picture from the 1970s, my driver's permit, artwork with smart-ass notes on the side (like 100% with 10 extra brown-nose points) from my favorite high-school art teacher Mr. Fisher, countless cartoons, doodles and poetry I did during class usually, and my personal favorite: a note from my Dad that was all folded and smelled vintage-y already-- which I couldn't believe. It was jotted in green marker and proper grammar, and it read,
"Katie and Brian: I love you. I'm sorry I'm so protective of the time I have with you. Sometimes I let my missing you get in the way. I'm trying to do better. I'm always available for you. I hope we can learn to listen to one another. -Dad"
At this point, Regina Spektor's "Bartender" was playing in the background, as I sat Indian-style on my living room floor alone in my house except for my cats, and the lyrics "love will be the death of me" seemed to echo through the empty house. As the refrain repeated, I just sat there and cried. I smelled the note a little, still not believing it already smelled old. And I thought about how I had told my Dad I would clean out my stuff at their house this weekend too. And then a wave of inspiration came over me, and in a moment I was standing. My dance teacher had been telling us the best dancers can improv at any time, and can use music to tell a story, and that we should always be practicing this important skill. As she said, "You know, the first 7 auditions on So You Think You Can Dance were all improv-no choreography at all. They just watched you move." So I turned the song up, put it on repeat, and danced an entire story out as hard as my muscles would let me at 11:00 at night. I danced about 3 different stories, sometimes just closing my eyes and letting the music guide my movement like we used to do in movement class with Sherrie Barr. Dancing to "Bartender" is perfect because of the way Regina switches up the pacing and how strong certain lyrics are compared to other ones she almost whispers out. It's perfect to experiment with time and space with your body to it. And that I did. I just danced. As silly as that sounds to you non-artist people reading this, this is the kind of thing I used to do when I was a kid: I constantly used art as an outlet for my feelings and vulnerability, and it was usually singing, writing, and dancing. So, I get to be that kid again, and surrounded by all my childhood memorabilia, I just engulfed myself in 'love will be the death of me' and it was, for lack of better words: fucking amazing. Every time I lifted my leg into some variation of a grand battement with a flexed foot, I pretended I was that amazing modern dancer I've always emulated. By the end of the last set I was dancing with warm tears just rolling down my cheeks, but I was smiling. Talk about cathartic.
So, that's how my unraveling and unpacking project is going. It's.....going.
I'll be updating soon about my adventures to the Traverse City wineries this week.
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