Waiting

I waited for the sky to open and rain down fire on my head.

It didn't happen.

I waited for the floor to crack beneath my feet and swallow me whole, never to return.

It didn't happen.

I waited for angels to sing me to sleep.

I stayed awake.

I let him love me and pretended I loved him, waited to start loving him.

It didn't happen.

I stood in a chasm and called out my name, expecting an echo.

It came.

I swam into the ocean and waited to drown.

The tide pulled me back to shore.

I waited to stop waiting.

..

...

.....

........

It didn't happen.

Identity

For my Dance and Media class this semester, I have to design a completely independent final project on any theme I want.  After one of the most amazing dreams I've ever had, I decided to comment on identity
In my dream I was a choreographer for my college's dance department, and I was auditioning for a piece to the song "Brothers on a Hotel Bed" by Death Cab for Cutie (Listen here).  I've always loved this song, so it's no surprise that my subconscious was choreographing to it already.  I remember about 20% of what the choreography was, believe it or not, and shortly after I watched the group of men  (it was all men for some reason) auditioning, it fast forwarded to the actual performance.  I had apparently been working with someone who liked to add elements of surprise to it, and in the front of the stage, an old gentleman sat on a park bench smiling, whispering to the audience about his childhood.  He looked like he was homeless, his hair was long and dirty, he was unshaven, but he looked warm and friendly.  Somewhere in the background were about six or seven young women dancing in wedding dresses, and then in the far stage right side of the stage was a group of twenty to thirty young men in a triangle doing some really beautiful choreography that I had apparently done.  I was really moved by the whole image.

When I woke up, i spent about ten minutes musing on what my dream had just given me.  I've dreamed about performing before, and I had dreamed impossible choreography as well, but this was all so clear.  I meditated on it all day and it evolved into a commentary on identity.  The line of the song I remember the most is the opening line: "You may tire of me as our December sun is setting/Cause I'm not who I used to be." it continues talking about trying to escape the body one is currently in.
We're bombarded daily with images of what our bodies should look like, who we should be modeling after, what men or women we should idolize if we want to be successful, and I think it's all bullshit.  My idea is to take my good friend "M" (what I'll call her for privacy) and sit down with her to talk about how she perceives identity.  I want to give her some choreography and then let her go with it, move free, and then move restricted.  I want images of her wearing a paper bag over her head with a big black question mark drawn in the middle.  I want to put this paper bag over other people's heads and then record them removing it to show that identity is universal and we should own whatever identity we want.
I'm very lucky to have M's participation in this.  She's an incredibly strong dancer, and a physically strong athlete (she bench pressed me last semester.  I weigh a little over 100lbs, she could have done more).  She dances en pointe, has crazy extensions, and is all-around beautiful.  I have wanted to work with her for awhile now, and I really hope that this project turns out well.

Say Anything Else

(The following is a short story based on a dream I had a few nights ago.)

He’s trying so hard not to laugh, his hands clasped behind his head, his bare chest exposed to the summer sun, the trail of dark hair from his navel disappearing into his jeans.  His abdomen rises and falls with each shot of air from his lips.  I’m squirming, my sunburned neck angrily telling me to put some sunscreen on, my skin hot for more reasons than one.  Cool bursts of breath tell me to slow down, take it easy, it’s ok, but I don’t know how to stop.  My clothes are sticking to my body, the sweat pooling in the dimples of my back, seeping into the crevice of my shirt.  The button of my shirt is stuck on my earring and is tugging at the flesh, threatening to tear. 

Hey, shh, calm down, he says, sitting up to face me.  His cold hands fiddle with the tangled apparatus and after a minute, I’m free.  I tell him thanks.  He shrugs and lies back in the grass.  I flop down on top of him, my palms resting on his shoulders.   There are words inside my mouth that want to come out.  I want to tell him that he hurt me, that it isn’t ok that I’m lying where I am right now, that he doesn’t have a right to be such an ass, doesn’t have a right to have me falling for him again. 

Today

Just got Adele's new album, "21." I've been a huge fan since the day I heard "Chasing Pavements" and with the arrival of her new album, I'm loving it.  Currently,  I'm listening to "Hiding my heart away"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VXJg-ldWSU
It's a beautiful song, which basically describes my love life.  Unfortunately.
It's kind of how I'm feeling after the past few days' events.

Broski

Why the hell do I bother dressing up? The wrong guys always end up falling for me. I'd much rather date someone outside my social circle to avoid complications. Can't I have guy friends who don't want to make out with me? Should I try to be the most unattractive person so that they won't start liking me?

I sometimes wish I was less interesting and less attractive. Less sexually appealing, too. I don't mind he flirting, its just that they are usually flirting with four or five other girls at the same time. I'm never the only one they're attracted to. That's what hurts. The fact that I'm a nice piece of ass and only that. Stop flirting with me because it isn't going to get you anywhere.

I like the friendship, I like the attention, but I would prefer you reserve your affection for the girls you want who will actually reciprocate it.

Validation

Here's a question for my few bizarre readers: What is beauty?  There are stories and magazines and hundreds of different definitions of beauty!  Well...all of them involve something along the lines of "aesthetically pleasing"  So who are we to judge if a girl wants to glue the legs of a fly to her eyelids?  I think it's horrificly awesome.

Yes, this is the actual picture.

Anyway

To all of the girls out there (this is actually for ONE girl I know who has serious self-esteem problems...) How many times a day do you think women classified as "beautiful" hear compliments from someone of the opposite gender?  Well...just as frequently as those who do not label themselves as beautiful.  

My friend, why are you complaining about the fact that you've gained weight (it's college, your foot is injured, you're wearing a gimp boot) and that no guys are calling you beautiful (even though you hear it from your chicky-friends constantly), so therefore you're not beautiful and you want to justify this feeling by becoming bulimic?  Please, friend, do not go down that road.  And listen to me when I tell you this...

I hear males say I'm pretty, beautiful, attractive, etc. JUST AS MUCH AS YOU.  

Why do you need validation for your beauty? Waiting for someone to tell you how beautiful you are takes years.  Men generally do not have the balls to confess their feelings to you.  Just like girls don't have the tits to confess to the guy they are attracted to (or to tell a guy who's attracted to them to lay off...)

Listen when I say this: Validation of beauty is NOTHING if you have no confidence.  The more confident you are, the more you will enjoy yourself, and even more...those guys might just grace you with the word you crave. (But honestly, it's just a word, and waiting for it isn't going to get you anywhere)