2022 Goals Retrospective

I feel more satisfied about 2022 than I have about any year since 2018. I would not yet say I'm in top form yet, but I'm closer than I was.

This year, I...

- choreographed 24 pieces. My goal for 2022 was 14. I literally doubled my output from 2021.

- got 35k into revising Kyrie. The thing I'm most glad about here is how not-overwhelmed I feel about it. For eight years, I would try to revise this novel but my brain would go into nuclear-meltdown mode within literally ten minutes. This year I spent three months making a timeline, then started rewriting entirely from scratch. And we're still going.

- made a Ko-fi page for artistic income... and got my first donation.

- wrote my first poem since before my cousin died in early 2015.

- took an online tap class in which I learned some historical repertoire AND took a summer dance intensive.

- did live improv tap dance for the first time ever and loved it.

- wrote a 50k novel in November.

- performed in two theatre shows.

- got my first paid acting gig.

In many ways, I feel like I didn't do much of anything this year. These were all small changes that (aside from the dance classes) took maybe twenty minutes out of my day, but that was the point. I knew I didn't yet have the mental strength to overhaul my entire life, so I dedicated myself to shoehorning artmaking into my days as they already were, just enough so that I wouldn't lose my skills. It really doesn't feel like I've done much, but I look at this list of things I accomplished in just 365 days and I'm surprised at how big some of these things really are. A full novel? A paid gig? 35k into a project that stymied me for nearly a decade? Twenty-four pieces -- over an hour and a half -- of choreography? At least half of the things I accomplished here were not on my original list of goals for 2022, and all of the rest -- save NaNoWriMo -- were achieved in ways or to an extent I very much had not expected.

All I hope for is for this to double again in 2023. I would be completely happy with that.

In Memoriam: Armond Morales (1932-2022)

 I only found out yesterday that Armond Morales of the Imperials passed away on the 5th at age ninety.

Armond Morales' deep bass is a thread that has run through my entire life. I am by no means an Imperials aficionado, but my dad is. One of my earliest childhood memories is of my dad playing the Imperials' Big God (the only song I'm aware of in which Morales actually sang more than one solo line) so loudly that the dust literally fell from the ceiling.

My dad loved that song and he loved the band that made it. Albums like Let The Wind Blow (1985), Sail On (1980), Stir It Up (1992), One More Song For You (1979), ...This Year's Model (1987), and of course Big God (1991), were all in heavy rotation on my dad's hi-fi system when I was a child. ...This Year's Model comes up often on this blog as it has become one of my favourite albums too (the opening track is absolutely killer). My mother once told me a story from their dating years when Dad took her to an Imperials concert and during a medley proceeded to predict every song before it started. My mom thought he was psychic. She later learned that the exact same medley had been released on their 1990 album Love's Still Changing Hearts and my dad had it memorised word-for-word.

The Imperials have been a large part of the soundtrack of our family's life. For Armond Morales to be gone is truly the end of an era, both for the Christian music industry and for our family. The great tragedy is that nobody who listens to Christian music today realises what they have lost.

Morales managed the Imperials from the 1950s until 2017. Most bands don't even last a quarter of that time, let alone with the same manager. Even Bob Hartman's rock giant Petra is several decades behind such a milestone. The Imperials put out one solid, catchy album after another, year after year after year, from the Elvis era till the years of Hillsong's radio dominance. They shifted with the musical styles enough to sound current, but not enough to sound dated today. They navigated lead vocal changes with ease and grace and always managed to bring four-part harmonies about simple faith into whatever era they found themselves in. They were always, unfailingly, the Imperials, but they never sounded 'old,' like many gospel quartets do today. They gently guided old fundamental Christians into the current sound by staying unflinchingly true to their faith roots and as a result are a big part of why there even is such a thing as 'Christian radio' today.

Armond Morales was a quiet giant in the history of Christian music. We would do well to reflect on what he achieved and what mantle he has left behind for us, the faith-based artists of today.

New Professional

 Last night, I officially signed the contract for my first-ever paid acting gig.

It's such a surreal feeling. It's an honourarium (plus transportation costs) for a small local show, but it's still a paid gig. This is exactly the thing I was striving so hard for between 2018 and 2020; the thing that literally every performing arts authority at college said I would never be good enough for.

I have officially exceeded their expectations of me. And I'm only going to go farther.

This wasn't a fluke either. I have worked with this director before (as an ensemble/nonverbal character actor), so he knew exactly what I'm like to work with -- and still hired me. (This was something that my college professor was VERY clear on -- that nobody would want to work with me because I 'don't take direction well/am too stubborn.') Not only did this director hire me, he gave me a character with lines. I would also like to point out that I did not audition for this role -- I was personally invited by the director to be a part of this production.

This show is a production associated with a MAJOR annual summer production that is known internationally (that I've also been in twice now). It's a smaller show that they've never done before, but it's well-known that the venue wants to make this production an annual one as well. The show is already completely sold out.

So I guess if being paid for my work makes me a professional (I know it's attitude more than money that makes one professional, but it seems nobody outside the industry knows that), then that means I am OFFICIALLY a professional actress.

And everybody who said I couldn't do this was -- as I suspected -- extremely wrong.

NaNoWriMo - Day 15

I'm really surprised how much I'm struggling with the novel this year. The setting, the genre, and the theme are all things I'm really passionate about, but I'm just lacking spark this year. I worked on the first, so I wasn't able to get the big head start that I usually do and that's come back to bite me in the butt. If I'm lucky, I'm closing one day ahead. I know most people would rejoice at even a one-day lead, but I've finished by this point multiple times in the past.

My plot feels slow. I didn't know what was going to happen when MMC got outside of the oxygen dome, but I wasn't too worried about it -- I figured my pantsing brain would just figure it out like it usually does. I've been here almost a week now and it just... hasn't. I spent three days with two characters in a circular theological argument that bored even me but multiplied the word count. I've even cited lengthy passages of Scripture (in said theological argument). I need to figure out what the next big plot point is, and I need to get my character there, emotionally. But I sit down to write and my brain just gives me static. I don't even feel despair about it, just apathy. There's just nothing in my brain, and it makes me sad. I had thought that doing little to no art for the better part of two years would have given my brain time to replenish its imaginative stores, but apparently this is not the case.

Anyway, I'd better get back to poking away at the story. Hopefully this blows over as Week Two wraps up and we head into Week Three.

Current word count: 26,340.

National Novel Writing Month 2022 Teaser

Yes, dear readers, it is that time of year again. National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo) is only six days away.

This year's idea came to me backstage during the one and only theatre production I did this year. I was literally in the wings waiting for my cue when suddenly the main character's name, the world, the setting, and the plotline all popped into my head fully formed. I've been doing this long enough to know this was it. I went onstage, did my scene, and then came backstage and wrote down as much as I could in my journal before my next entrance.

And then, like I usually do, I ignored it for the next four months. (Otherwise I'll write it and have nothing for NaNoWriMo.)

I am really excited about this one. I knew before I even got this idea that I wanted to do a science fiction story, but I could never have manufactured this one by brainstorming. Sometimes brainstorming works, but more often I find my best ideas are just 'given' to me and all I have to do is write them down. Those are the moments that make all the mockery and ridicule for pursuing this craft worth it.

This idea took my recently-developed love of modern-day parables and mixed it perfectly with the outer space setting I wanted -- so perfectly that this book literally could not work set anywhere else. The whole plot hinges on this setting. And it fits right in with all my rants about Evangelicals. I have not been this excited for NaNoWriMo in literally almost a decade.

It all starts next Tuesday.

If you want to write your own, check out nanowrimo.org for details and to sign up. It's 50,000 words in 30 days (or 1,667 words per day), and not one word needs to be 'handed in' or 'graded.'  Nobody will see it unless you want them to. This is purely writing for the sake of writing. No pressure (other than the 30-day deadline).

A Way To Support Me

You may notice a new button along the right side of the blog, just underneath my bio.

Jury's still out on the Patreon page, but for now I'm trying to bridge the gap with Ko-fi. Ko-fi has the option of one-time donations rather than monthly contributions (although it can be set up that way too), which lowers the pressure on potential supporters and the initial commitment level. I know as well as anybody how tight things are financially and how hard it is to commit to a monthly pledge in the current financial climate. I currently have the minimum donation set to $3, although you can certainly contribute more if you like.

Right now I have a financial goal of $500 on the site. That's how much money it will take to get me back into dance training one hour a week this fall. I've been off for two years and rebuilding my mental/emotional health for a third. I feel I'm at a point in my mental health/burnout recovery where I can -- and perhaps should -- go back into the studio and start training my body again. Unfortunately, gas prices do not agree and neither does my paycheque. My paycheque only covers bills and rent. It does not cover fun things or mental health things like dance, books, and music. Heck, sometimes it barely covers food and rarely covers gas (I walk to work and try very hard not to have to go anywhere else -- not even to the library to read books for free).

Ko-fi is going to be my artistic income. My 'real' job is going to take care of the bills, but my plan is for Ko-fi to fund what I really want to do (rather than trying to raise enough through Ko-fi to cover my living expenses AND my artistic work).

Right now, my goals are mainly going to be training-based -- classes and intensives. As I get my dance legs back under me, I'll start posting more film-related goals (costumes, dancers, sets, light design), and once I finish this Kyrie rewrite (over one-third done and still going!), there'll be a goal to raise the money to pay an editor. But the vast majority of the money from the Ko-fi will be going into my dance training/education/development, and all of it will be going to my artistic work in general.

If you can contribute even $3 (the price of a coffee -- and I should know, I work in the industry), that would help so much. Even if you can't spare three bucks, share the link with your arts-loving friends. I deeply appreciate any and all help.

Thank you.

Filmmaker's Block

 I've had a dance film in pre-production for the better part of seven years now.

It's a duet, and the person I had originally wanted to do the duet part is dead -- that's how long I've sat on this. The person currently cast for the role is actually the third person I've contacted about this.

Everything is in place -- costumes are ready, storyboarding is done, we've been rehearsing... but I just can't pull the trigger on filming this piece. It needs to be shot outdoors in the summertime, and the window for that is closing fast.

It's not like I haven't done this before. I've produced two 'official' dance films, at least two 'rehearsal performance' films, and a sizeable handful of live performance videos. This shouldn't be that hard.

But this is a duet.

All the other videos are either solo or feature my siblings. This is the first one that features somebody that's not a blood relative of mine. We've worked together on other projects and she always brings competence and enthusiasm, yet I'm so intimidated about having somebody else perform my choreography. This has been my dream for literally decades. So why am I freezing now?

As much as I would like to blame college, I don't think they're on the hook for this one -- at least not entirely. They were extremely, conspicuously silent on any and all dance films I've posted so far (and I made the bulk of them while a student there, so they definitely knew about them), which, I suppose, is better than the 'you'll never be good enough/you're not trying hard enough/you're making yourself fail' BS that they usually drummed into my brain every single day.

In many ways, I see this as my last chance. I'm terrified that she won't like performing in it, but I'm also terrified that my husband won't support the travel I'm going to need to undertake to shoot the duet scenes, terrified that my in-laws are going to use this as one more reason to abuse me and manipulate my husband into lecturing me for several hours on end on a work night, terrified that my inexperience in film editing will make this look like trash and me like a wannabe who will never be, terrified that all the people who have given up on me (so, basically everyone) aren't going to respond -- at all.

There's so much to lose. There's so much to lose. And if I lose this time, I'm not convinced I have enough support around me to get back up again. If I lose this time, I'm scared there may not ever be a next time.

I have no community around me -- either in dance or in my location. I feel like I'm naked in the desert with a target on my back, surrounded by the guns of people who claimed they loved me. One wrong move and I'm gone. If this was a solo video, it would be one thing. But I don't want to drag this other dancer down with me too.

Bandwagon, Month Eleven

For the first time in my life, I have filled up a notebook.

I have owned quite literally hundreds (if not thousands) of notebooks over the years. Most of them sit blank in an apple box in my parents' basement. The rest are scattered on bookshelves, on desks, in closets, in boxes, on average one-quarter to one-third full. There's always a new notebook that's more portable, more pages, easier to write in, prettier, less full of dated or irrelevent information... there was always a reason to get a new notebook, despite the dozens sitting at home in pristine condition.

When I got on the bullet journal bandwagon late last September in a desperate attempt to reclaim my mind from the black hole of isolation and depression, I expected more than anybody else did that I'd ditch it after a couple of months.

Yesterday, I started on the last page.

I don't know what to do now. Do you thank it for its service somehow? Do you say goodbye? Do you just pretend it's just another page and carry on into the next book as if nothing's happened? Do you write some kind of epilogue summing up this particular period of your life? What do you do at the end of a notebook or journal?

I generally do about a page a day, so today is almost certainly the final day with this pink Leuchtturm that's been within arm's reach for almost a year now. It holds my page count tracker from last NaNoWriMo as well as the hastily-written sketch for this year's plot (scribbled 'backstage' in the desert sand of an outdoor amphitheatre while I waited for my cue during my most recent show). It holds notes on several dance film projects in various stages of blockage (mostly because I am TERRIFIED to talk to people -- any people, even professionally -- since my last remaining friends absolutely ditched me at the end of November after telling me they'd always be there for me).

I will definitely be referring to this journal in the coming months as I try to bring at least some of these projects to completion, so (as my husband always says), it's not 'goodbye' so much as it is 'see you later.' But our relationship is definitely changing, and it does make me a little sad.

Thank you for being my friend and companion, even when nobody else would, even on the days I didn't want to make it out alive. I shall remember you always with fondness and gratitude.

A Friend Restored

Anybody who's still alive from the olden days of this blog may remember me referencing Lila, my Neo 2 portable word processor.

Lila died after a brief illness in June 2019 -- the day I met my husband, actually. And while some depressingly poetic souls might try to turn this into a 'death to the old to make way for the new' story, I disagree. Lila was my friend. I couldn't bring Brittney or M back, but maybe, one day, I could bring Lila back.

She languished in my closet for three years as I waited for the day. My brother gave me his own Neo 2 that he wasn't using (a slightly newer model who I affectionately if somewhat awkwardly called 'Lila 2'). Lila 2 suffered an even more brief but similar illness in November 2021 and died on Day 17 of NaNoWriMo. Luckily I was far enough ahead by then to absorb the blow of not writing an extra thousand words during my lunch break, but I did feel the loss deeply.

As the world begins to open up again and I begin to travel more for performance training and opportunities, I miss being able to whip out that little device on the bus or in a guest bedroom between classes or rehearsals.

Months ago, when I was bemoaning the loss of the Lila twins in a Discord group, somebody sent me a link to a tutorial for changing the little button cell battery. Suddenly there was hope. The symptoms they both showed during their illnesses could very easily be explained by a dying backup battery, and both units were old enough to conceivably have this issue. (I had also been hyperfixating on The 8-Bit Guy's restoration videos during most of the pandemic and wanted very much to try doing a simple repair of an electronic device simply because it looked so satisfying.)

There was nothing to lose. Both machines were unusable in their current state anyway. I bought two CR2032 batteries, popped out the AAs and cracked open Lila 2.

The hardest part was getting the old battery out. All the objects with skinny pointy ends in the entire house seemed to be made of metal and the last thing I wanted to do was short out the motherboard for good, as fixing that is definitely beyond my abilities. After trying my fingers, wooden knitting needles, and the hard end of a shoelace, I finally cut a fuzzy end off of a Q-tip and that did it (no, we don't have toothpicks in the house).

The next hardest part was getting twelve very small and fiddly screws back in. I spent six years in construction and screws don't scare me, but one was a particularly stubborn little thing and I had to enlist my husband's help in the end.

I put the AAs back in and tried to power it on. The screen remained blank. My heart dipped a little, but I plugged it into the computer, whereupon the screen lit up and asked if I had changed the internal battery. I pressed Y and it told me to press Enter to restart. I did, and within seconds it appeared to be ready. Of course everything had been wiped, as I had expected. When Lila 2 started showing symptoms of the same illness that had taken her predecessor, I had backed her up immediately (unfortunately I had not been so proactive the first time around, but I have come to terms with the fact that everything on the original Lila is now irretrievable). After a few minutes, I unplugged it from the computer and tried again to power it on.

Nothing.

I began to panic slightly more. The entire point of having a portable word processor is so that I don't have to carry my laptop around. It's no use to me if it only works when connected.

But in the spirit of trying everything, I raided my husband's remote-battery stash for more AAs and tried again to power it on.

It worked.

I almost screamed. I typed a few sentences, turned it off and then on again, typed some more, ran into the room where my husband was live-streaming and danced excitedly by his desk until he looked at Lila 2's screen.

One down... one to go.

Lila the original is in a bit rougher shape. I had a sibling dump a Tim Horton's frozen lemonade into her keyboard many years ago. Her motherboard seemed unaffected, however, quite a few of the keys stuck, especially on cold days. Not only that, the Caps Lock key came off right around the time of her death. I remember saving both the key and the scissor mechanism, but I've moved three times since then and could not begin to tell you where that key and the mechanism are now. Could I still use the button without a proper key? Yes -- the plunger's still there -- but if I'm going to restore her, I would like to restore her to her former glory.

I'm just happy knowing it's possible and that I have one of my buddies back with me for November. I already have a plot that I'm very excited about, and I feel much better knowing I'll be able to write on the go both during the event and in the pseudo-planning time leading up to it.

For once in my life -- a friend died and it wasn't permanent.

29

 29 things I've learned about myself:

1. At age twelve I theorised that my brain and my ears processed spoken words more slowly than other people and this was why I could never keep up with conversations. Over ten years later I learned that that's a real thing (called auditory processing disorder) and I have it.

2. I find writing novels much, MUCH easier than writing short stories. In fact, the more condensed the medium, the more I struggle with it.

3. I do my best artistic work either as a passenger in a vehicle or alone in a darkened room between 11pm and 2am.

4. At age seven I decided I wanted to be a choreographer. I didn't even know what the name for it was yet, but I knew I wanted to make dances. In the twenty-two years since then, nobody has been able to convince me otherwise. (In other words: if you're on a mission to talk me out of it... just give up. Save yourself the hassle.)

5. I still accidentally tell people I can't read music even though I totally can. I just couldn't for so long that I forget that I've learned now.

6. I would rather live in -40 year-round than plus 24 or higher for more than two days. This opinion becomes stronger every day. I become completely nonfunctional if the temperature is over 23 degrees.

7. I am very passionate about art, specifically integrity within art. If you don't like it, leave; because I'm not dialling it back.

8. Eating chicken can be an okay (rather than terrifying) experience, but ONLY if my husband prepares it.

9. By age four, I had chosen what would be my favourite potato chip flavour for apparently the rest of my life. And I am very much a snob about different brands.

10. I love '80s keyboards. The more '80s keyboards/synths a song has, the more likely I am to like it.

11. The people who call me 'stubborn' are generally the people who are mad that I'm not putty in their hands. (After years of having my identity shaped for me by people in authority, I'm forging my own and I don't take requests from just anybody.)

12. My favourite books are Perelandra by C.S. Lewis and Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy Sayers. Both books are art in every sense of the word and have inspired some of my own works.

13. I have been loyal to Papermate pens since my early teens. I also very much prefer having capped pens rather than clicker pens (I like the weight of the cap on the end while I'm writing).

14. I hate cooking. I would literally rather starve than cook. There is literally nothing I even remotely like about being in the kitchen for any length of time.

15. I really don't enjoy food/eating. I don't understand it when people talk about food as a source of pleasure. To me, eating is a necessary evil that takes up valuable time and energy that I could be devoting to my art.

16. I think and talk about death a lot. I don't see this as morbid or wrong. It's simply a part of existence and I don't understand why people avoid the topic so much. It's the one thing all of humankind has in common. Death is something that touches us all sooner or later, and it's been a huge part of my life so far. It's shaped who I am as a person and as an artist. To ignore it is to ignore what makes me who I am.

17. I HATE toxic positivity. It's a form of gaslighting... which is manipulation... which is abuse.

18. I also hate sleeping. Just lie there unconscious and unmoving for eight hours? What a colossal waste of time. Do you know how much art I could get done in eight hours? Sleep feels useless and dumb to me. This is also why I never take naps, no matter how tired I am.

19. I really wish I could draw. I mean, I can draw okay. But I can never think of anything to draw.

20. I am honest to a fault. About EVERYTHING. If you don't like it/can't handle it, get out of my life. And I mean that.

21. I never expected to live this long, let alone get married. And I'm not quite sure what to do with myself now. I never prepared for this.

22. If I could pick an age to be stuck at, it would probably be age nineteen. I was dancing almost full-time, choreographing for my friend's dance team, gainfully employed at a flexible well-paying job that I really enjoyed, on good terms with my church at the time... there was literally nothing wrong with my life when I was nineteen.

23. The first time I ever remember hearing about Jesus was when I 'accidentally' read Mark's account of Jesus raising Jairus' daughter from the dead when I was about four or five. I had heard of Jesus in Sunday School, but I'd never heard of Him doing anything like that in the Sunday School lessons. Maybe this was why I got so angry and felt so betrayed when my young cousin died... and was not raised back to life.

24. I wanted to be a dancer before I even knew what it was called. I have no memory of seeing a dance performance and thinking, 'I want to do that.' We had no TV and my parents never went to the theatre. I don't know how I knew dance existed. But I wanted it so badly I begged my parents for lessons for over a year before they relented. I point to this internal 'knowing' as one of the signs that this is my calling.

25. Sunset/dusk/night have always been my favourite times of day. That's when all the inspiration is born.

26. I feel alive when I'm near trees, in the country with emerald-green grass and pink and orange sunsets.

27. If you overplay a song -- no matter how good it is or how much I like it -- I will hate that song for the rest of my life. This is the reason I absolutely despise Bohemian Rhapsody. I do not care how clever or well-sung or well-crafted it is. I have heard it approximately eight million times in my life and nobody should ever have to listen to ANYTHING that many times. I loathe that song. Same goes for the Frozen soundtrack.

28. To me, 'luxury' is having a fireplace in your house. Even (especially?) if it's a gas fireplace.

29. I see myself as a joyful, positive person overall. My journals are consistently filled with joy, ideas, possibilities, and hope. Maybe that's why it hurts SO deeply when people rail against me for being 'too negative.'

Semi-Annual Update

Thought I'd do an update on my goals for 2022. The National Choreography Month update is here, but for the rest, read on.

- 14 dances in 12 months.

Just finished the fourteenth dance yesterday, 1 July. My subgoal of this was to choreograph at least sixteen counts every single day this year. So far the streak is unbroken -- yesterday brought it up to 182 days. I'm currently trying to decide what song to do next. I still plan on choreographing sixteen or more counts every day this year, and now my motivation is to see just how much choreography I can do in a year at that pace. Sixteen counts is a challenge (but not an insurmountable one) for choreographing tap dance, and it's a breeze for a moderate-tempo ballet piece. I seem to be alternating between choreographing ballet and tap, which is keeping the challenge level up but also balancing it with some-lower brainpower times. I think (hope) it's keeping me from burning out. At least, it seems to be working so far.

- Publish the Patreon.

I had a launch date set and everything. I had even cleared it with my husband's caseworker, which I thought was going to be the worst part. And suddenly I wondered if I was ready... if I could justify asking people for money for something I have not properly done in years, if I could make it worth their money. I am now focusing on re-building who I am as a producer and artist, strengthening my work so they can feel confident that I and my work are things worth investing in, especially with the cost of living as high as it is.

I'm doing that by forging on with producing the dance film I want to do this summer. I am also currently performing in an internationally-known show, so I've been doing promotional posts for that on my social media, reminding people that I am back and I am still doing this.

I'm also praying a lot about this. My dad and I had a long talk when I last visited my parents about God's timing, and this has been a big factor in my decision to hold off on this for now. I'm not convinced I'm in God's timing if I publish the Patreon now. It may still work out, but perhaps not as well as if I wait -- however counterintuitively -- for Him. It's hard... I haven't listened to God in close to eight years, and I'm not sure I remember what He sounds like. I'm not quite sure if I'll know His voice when I hear it. I'm hoping He has somebody (who doesn't know I already have this set up) literally tell me I should publish a Patreon, otherwise I'm not sure I'll catch on.

- Take some dance classes.

In January, a well-known figure in the tap dance world (who I auditioned for an age ago and follow on Instagram) contacted me saying she was running a rep class right at my level and would I be interested? She was willing to work out a payment plan. So I got to participate in the class -- learned so much about both myself and the art form -- and have already registered and started paying for another class session with her (takes place later this summer). I would still love to audition for the ballet company in the closest city for the 2022-23 season, but the fees are quite high (I would use Patreon to cover this, but see the discussion above about God's timing).

- Make at least two dance films.

This was supposed to be done by the end of last month, but I chickened out. After the projected film date had passed, I contacted the dancer and asked if she was even still interested. She was, so I sent her the choreography and she's currently rehearsing it. My job is to develop my character's costume, buy a fill light, and pick a shoot day/location. I have a couple ideas for the second one, but I'm trying to really focus on this one first.

- Do a live performance of my choreography, somehow/somewhere.

This is kind of on the back burner for now. I would busk at the farmer's market, but that currently runs the same days as the show I'm in for the next month.

- Actually (re)learn some of my pieces. Make a rep-building schedule and stick to it.

Struggling with this one yet again, for the same reason. It's just not fun to re-learn old pieces (says ADHD). Haven't figured out how to make it fun yet. I've relearned Emotional Tourist and half of two other pieces in spite of myself though.

- Busk at the farmer's market.

See above. I NEED to learn rep for this to happen, but I just... can't. It's so frustrating.

- Do at least one theatre show.

I guess you already know how that one's going. This is my first full show since February 2020. It's been rough but mostly due to administrative issues. The actors are great, and the show itself presents beautifully. I'm proud to have my name attached to it.

- Continue posting on this blog.

A little disappointed here, but not overly. The lack of posting here is because I'm putting in so much work on choreography, performance, and writing. At least that time wasn't spent scrolling social media.

- Do NaNoWriMo again.

We'll see come November. I'd still like to do this. I'm thinking of some kind of space story, but I haven't figured one out yet. There's one in my 'story ideas' file, but I'm not sure that's the one I want to do yet.

- Publish a short story.

This is way on the back burner for now.

- Write a short story in German.

Also on the back burner. Still learning German, but I've taken the pressure of writing a story with it off myself for now.

- Actually finish a Kyrie revision.

Believe it or not, this might actually be the year. I am some 10k words deep into this thing (the farthest I have ever gotten), and have managed to put in at least a couple sentences of work almost every day since 30 April. Having a timeline of events have helped infinitely. (Also watching a good friend of mine publish her own book and wanting to have that experience is a good motivator right now too.)

- Be more intentional about reading the Bible and praying.

Currently in a dry spell here, but this was going decently well. I've found that walking to work is a good time for praying, so at least I pray a little on the days that I work. Still haven't figured something out for my days off though.

- Pick up an instrument.

Back burner. Mostly pending money.

- Save up a $1000 emergency fund.

Not quite halfway there.

- Make myself a sweater.

I think this might be a winter project. It's so hot here in the summers that the absolute last thing I want is a heavy sweater on my lap while I work on it.

- Make birthday presents for my siblings.

I am three siblings behind. One is in progress. One I have an idea for. And one I have no idea what to get her.

Overall, I'm proud of where I am, especially in terms of the daily choreography streak and the Kyrie revision. I'm happy with how I've prioritised this list -- there's nothing on the back burner that I regret putting there. Once this Kyrie draft is finished, I'll pull something off the back burner (maybe publishing a short story?) to replace it while I wait for beta reader feedback. That'll be a while yet. I am intentionally moving slowly with the rewrite so I don't fall into the 'quantity over quality' trap and have to rewrite the thing again.

Also, I think while writing this post I may have picked my next song to choreograph. Let the streak continue!

Vulnerability

In years past, I was known for my bluntness and honesty, in all situations, 'socially acceptable' or not. This kept the weird neurotypicals at arms' length and brought the neurodiverse people who actually tell you exactly what they're thinking into my circle.

Then I went to college.

A common theme among my directors and professors was vulnerability. "You need to be more vulnerable." "You need to be more open." I couldn't understand what they were on about. I asked them so many times to define, to explain, to give an example of what they meant, but none of them could. The main one would smile sardonically and say, "I think you already know." But I didn't. How could I be vulnerable? In all my brutal honesty, what had I missed? What was I hiding that they didn't already know?

And the other day while doing the dishes it hit me.

They wanted me to be honest.

But there was a fatal flaw in their logic -- they assumed I was not already being honest. This was why I could not understand what they wanted -- I was already doing it, but they wouldn't recognise that and instead kept telling me I was wrong. The fact that they could never once explain to me over the course of five years what I was missing/doing wrong should have tipped me off that I was not actually doing anything wrong. But I knew I was inexperienced and I was trying to trust their 'experience.'

I went through an obscene amount of emotional pain in college. The death count alone from those years of my life exceeds the death toll of friends of people twice my age. I drew on that heavily for my first character -- Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden. The child loses both parents and the only home she's ever known to cholera. Surely she's haunted and grieving when she first arrives in England. I think this is what made my performance of that show so great. I could relate to the emotions of the character. And yet, I remember the director telling me that the character (at the beginning) needed to be 'happier.' He gave no reason for this. I ignored him, of course... even then, my acting instincts kicked in to save the show from his incompetence. While that's not the way I should have gone about it, he was also at fault for not being willing to acknowledge the emotional states of all the characters at all points of the show. He used this incident as proof that I was 'too stubborn' and 'refusing to be vulnerable' and ultimately used it to justify actively preventing me from getting my diploma.

To him, 'vulnerable' meant 'happy.' To me, 'vulnerable' means 'honest -- no matter what.'

To be happy at the exclusion of all other emotions -- no matter how valid -- is to skip over at minimum half of the human experience. To be vulnerable is to be honest about every emotion, not just happiness.

I maintain that I am more vulnerable every single day of my life than he perhaps has ever been at any point of his.

Honesty

3 April 2022, 5.37pm; 2 May 2022, 7.53pm.

I've always been a brutally honest person. This is probably one of the most obvious manifestations of my ADHD/autism and is definitely the neurodiverse trait that loses me the most friends/potential friends. I say exactly what I mean, not the social nicety beat-around-the-bush say-the-opposite-of-what-you-actually-mean code for what I mean.

This means, as someone with depression and an encyclopedia's worth of tragic backstory, I am VERY open and honest about depression and emotional pain. This led to my ex-church telling me God couldn't love me (this after telling me for eighteen years of my life that 'honesty is the best policy?' Make it make sense), as well as my program director deliberately sabotaging my Bachelor's degree -- I was 'too negative,' therefore he in his infinite wisdom decided I, as a deeply wounded and actively grieving person, was not worthy of holding a postsecondary degree and did everything in his power to make it so. While he did underestimate my stubbornness and sheer force of will, I would be lying if I said that he didn't erode my confidence.

The two nails in the coffin came from my now in-laws and one of my bridesmaids. In-law has decided to take offense with EVERYTHING I say. And I do mean everything. Anything I post online, handwrite, or say out loud is fair game. No matter what I say, they WILL find something 'wrong' with it. And their definition of 'wrong' is very different from the rest of the world's definition of 'wrong.' Oh, but they're never criticising... they're "only trying to help" and it's not their fault if I'm "too stubborn to let people help" me. If the definition of 'help' now means 'set fire to the Titanic on the way down,' then yes, they're doing a bang-up job.

The second one was someone who I thought was a very good friend. So much so that not only was she one of my bridesmaids in my very small wedding, my husband and I donated a fair amount of money to help with her medical expenses less than six months ago. Less than two months later, she blocked me with the excuse, 'my mental health is too fragile to deal with your problems.' So much for her assertion that she was always going to be there for me and that it was 'okay not to be okay.'

So I hid. I cut contact with literally everybody except my husband, my parents, my siblings, and one (1) friend. I essentially stopped using social media, and I kept work conversations strictly work-related. If nobody wanted to hear from the real me, they weren't going to. I even stopped talking to my in-laws except when absolutely necessary. It took almost thirty years, but I had finally gotten the message. I -- the true, authentic, real me -- was NOT wanted. Anywhere.

This worked for six months. I even stopped talking to the people who I hadn't actively cut off unless they talked to me first. I was just so tired of being rejected and guilt-tripped and bullied and abused just for being honest about myself and my experiences. I could feel my soul shriveling and dying, and I was quite literally praying every single day that God would just kill me. If I couldn't be honest, I didn't want to live anymore. I was actually dismayed when I realised that my sudden spells of vertigo were actually a concussion, not a malignant brain tumour as I had hoped.

Then it came out during an argument that I had been keeping how bad my mental health was from my husband. He was so upset he didn't speak to me for three days (as if that was going to make me want to die any less). Under threat of divorce, I promised that I would be honest, but warned him it wouldn't be pretty. He was so upset he agreed.

At this same time, I was actively working on an outline for Kyrie so I could maybe finally properly rewrite it. The ENTIRE plot of this story hinges on the main character's ruthless honesty. Turns out it's really hard to write about a brutally honest character when you can't be brutally honest yourself.

Then, I had the opportunity to sit in a zoom class with Dianne Walker -- the Dianne Walker, the Ella Fitzgerald of tap dance. And near the end she spent TWENTY MINUTES emphasizing how important it is for the tap dancer (really, the artist in general) to be honest, brutally honest, even if that's not the happiest place in the world.

When that class ended, I sat there and wrote in my journal for half an hour about how angry I was that I had let so many people beat the honesty -- beat the artist -- out of me. How angry I was at my in-laws especially for trying to run my thought life (funny how the 1984-style conspiracy theorists are the ones who are most concerned with controlling how people word things and how people are 'allowed' to think). Here is an excerpt from my initial reaction:

I spent five years of my life having the honesty gaslighted, shamed, and manipulated out of me at a ‘Christian’ performing arts college, of all places (after all, aren’t Christians supposed to be honest? isn’t art supposed to be honest?). My spirit suffered beyond what words can convey. It led to an eating disorder and a very troubled marriage. All I wanted was to die. If I could not be honest, then there was no other alternative. To live is to be honest. To share life with people is to be honest. All I ever wanted was to be honest and to share my life with honest people, in a spirit of giving, receiving, accomplishment, and growth. I knew as a young teen that honesty was paramount in art, but I let [college program director] and [church deacon] and [in-law] beat it out of me with their manipulation and vile, vicious words.

I used to say great art was beautiful, but now I say that great art is honest. My greatest art has come from honesty — not pain, specifically (though sometimes that is what I must be honest about), but honesty.

Sehnsucht, One More Time, Joy And Suffering, Kyrie, and, in a burgeoning way, Emotional Tourist all came from a raw and honest place and THOSE are my greatest accomplishments.

My creative output slowed not long after Brittney and my cousin died, and stopped entirely after M died. I thought it was the fact that they died that stopped the creativity, but now that I think about it, it wasn't the deaths themselves, it was how much I was bullied for openly grieving about their deaths that stopped it.

It's funny how people get so offended about grief. Not 'uncomfortable,' downright OFFENDED. I have had my career, my academic future, my friendships, and my marriage threatened by people who couldn't handle my honesty -- even if that includes honesty about grief or my mental illness. I don't understand that, because the very nature of honesty means you are honest at all times. 'Selective honesty' is not honesty -- that's manipulation.

Enough of that. I want to be an artist again. I want to live again, and to live is to be honest.

Return... To What?

Yesterday was my first live performance since February 2020 -- twenty-seven months ago. It was my first performance as a married woman, the first since my ADHD diagnosis, and the first performance where I didn't know a single person in either the show or the audience.

This was a curated show for National Tap Dance Day, and my class learned our entire piece over Zoom specifically for this show. I didn't meet a single one of my classmates till the day of.

I also had nobody come to see it. My family and my best friend couldn't afford the gas money (who could, really?), my in-laws were camping, and my husband stayed home as a precaution because of his health issues. I didn't have a single person the audience to greet me after the show.

This turned out to be a good thing, as it was far from the triumphant return to the stage that I hoped it would be. Dress rehearsal went well... too well. I tried to push the apprehension out of my mind, but when I pushed the apprehension away, I apparently also pushed away all memory of the second half of the dance. It was an absolute train wreck. It probably sounded like one too. I skipped huge chunks of sounds all while trying desperately to make it at least LOOK like I was doing the same thing as my classmates.

I know it's been a long time, but watching how well everyone else was doing in dress rehearsal after the same two-year interruption that I experienced made me feel even more like a has-been who really never was. I had thought -- or maybe hoped in vain -- that the long sabbatical would refresh my mind and my muscles. Apparently this was not the case. And I don't know how to come back.

So much has changed-- not just in the world, in me. I don't know who I am anymore. I was thrust so quickly into this identity that I never expected -- a wife -- in a time where not a single speck of the rest of my life was 'normal.' I had no anchor on which to build my new identity, so I cobbled together some scraps ('ADHD,' 'forgetful,' and my so-called 'friends' supplied the ever-popular 'too negative') the best I could. I tried to return to the old one -- to 'dancer' -- and my brain said 'no matches found.'

I don't know what to do. Do I try to get it back? I want to. But how?

If

It's now seven years since my cousin's sudden death. This is the first year that I haven't been a complete basket case the month of the anniversary.

That's not to say I've forgotten. In fact, the opposite. Her death has sunk so deeply into the fibres of my muscles and the neural pathways of my brain that in many ways, it's simply a part of my body now. The way I walk now would not be the same way I would walk at this age if had she not died that day. There is no separating me from that night because to take everything that her death affected out of me with some magic vacuum would inevitably take away sinews, bone, and blood. The very shape of my heart -- my blood-pumping organ -- would be altered.

I'm not saying that's a good thing. I'm simply saying that that experience and me -- the person I am at the core of my being -- are inseparable. Even if my mind forgets one day, my body never will. Every cell of the past seven years has been built on that night.

What if she had not died that day?

With every passing day it becomes harder to imagine. I no longer remember what it was like to not feel that hollow ache of loss. I can't fathom what my faith would be like had my prayers for her life been answered. Perhaps I never would have turned my back. Perhaps I would still pray regularly. Perhaps I would still have friends and those in authority at college would not have given up on me. Perhaps my marriage would be better. Perhaps my in-laws would think I was nicer. Perhaps I would still be the inspiration I had wanted to be.

If she had lived... if she had lived, I wouldn't be so bitter and apathetic and numb now. People who tell you bitterness is a choice have not gone through the hell of loss, and if they have, they're lying. Bitterness is inevitable when everyone you love dies, when the few who live turn their backs on you after promising they would be there for you no matter what. Sure, the Bible says 'rejoice,' but even Jesus screamed on the cross, 'why have You forsaken me?'

If she had lived, I could be the happy person that everyone wants me to be. I wouldn't carry all this pain around with me, in the very marrow of my iron-stripped bones. No amount of counselling or therapy, no matter how specialised, will ever be able to suck her death out of the cells of my body. You could wipe my brain clean like a brand new hard drive, but my muscles will remember. My joints will remember. My heart will remember. My brain may not be able to tell you who, but my body will know that someone is dead who wasn't supposed to be. You can tell me it was her time all you want, but you're wrong. It's never time for a nine-year-old to die.

You can tell me it was Satan all you want... but God is sovereign even over Satan and He did nothing. Just let him waltz in and take her like a five-cent candy in the bowl at the bank. As if she was nothing and meant nothing. As if he (and I'm not sure if I mean God or Satan) thought we weren't going to notice.

If she hadn't died, I would never think of God like this.

Maybe this is what God meant when He said He would harden Pharoah's heart. I wish I could come back. I wish none of this had happened and I could love God again; I really do. I miss those days when everything was so clear. Difficult, but clear.

If she hadn't died, things would have been so much different... so much better. I could have been the person I should have been. I can't anymore. I can act like I am, but I'm not that wonderful person at my core anymore. And I wonder why I was spared when letting me live and her die only served to turn me into this emotional black hole.

Writing, Escape, and Control

Originally written 24 December 2021, 2.53am.

I started writing very young.

I took to the written word extremely quickly as a child. I was reading competently at age four and by the time I was eight I was attempting to write books of my own. I was constantly narrating the world in my mind as I watched events unfold, narrating as if I was narrating a book. Sometimes, it turned out, I was (though surprisingly few events in my novels have stemmed from real-life events).

When I was a young (and later an older) teenager, I holed up in my room, hiding from my mother's absolutely unpredictable rages and the awful words about any and all my minuscule failures rushing out of her mouth like swords to my battered soul, writing, on looseleaf, on scraps of schoolwork, on typewriters, on my beside table, on anything I could get my hands on. Writing and listening to music became the only two ways to drown out the horrible sounds of my later childhood and early teen years.

When I wrote, the world in my head dampened the sounds of the world where nobody cared and nobody listened. The aural effect of music filled in the gaps that writing couldn't. I stayed up late into the night and filled the silence with music -- music for enjoyment rather than to smother the awfulness -- and spun out dozens of alternate universes from a curious coalition of my brain and my fingers. At age fourteen I completed my first novel draft, and some seventeen more have followed suit since then.

I joined Facebook, then started this blog. My writing, heretofore a closely guarded secret, expanded onto platforms that people could read. The blog especially was a very raw and vulnerable place for me. Facebook, however, gave me a platform to hone skills I was weak on, such as succinctness (remember the 430-character limit?) and clarity. I had a moderately good run as a pseudo-comedy writer who simply spun everyday events into decently funny one-liners. As I aged and my mental health worsened and I started losing friends to depression, I slipped almost unconsciously into a storyteller/advocate style of writing. I told my own story with unflinching starkness, in hopes that the friends and family who read my vignettes would better understand and be better equipped to help their friends and family with depression. There are so many misconceptions surrounding mental illness in general and depression in particular, and I, as a writer on the inside of both, had a unique perspective -- and I thought maybe a sort of obligation -- to bring to the people. The act of writing about my experiences had the side benefit of helped me to clarify them and even to bring some modicum of healing to my now even-more-shipwrecked soul.

Then I met my husband. Or, more accurately, my in-laws.

Of course they were nice at first. They're still decently nice now, however, many wars were had on the topic of my Facebook posts.

To this day, I'm not sure what their issue is. There is a history of depression in the family, so it wasn't like they didn't understand. But essentially they forbade me from posting on Facebook. Not one single post about mental health was allowed. Not one iota of honesty about myself and my life was allowed. I fought this, tooth and nail. There were many screaming matches, and the wedding was nearly called off multiple times because I could not understand how they could say that they wanted me in their family, yet they wanted to chop off one of the very things that made me ME. Without writing, without honesty, I would not be the same person. That seemed to be exactly what they wanted.

Eventually, I gave in. I was just so tired of the screaming matches. I went back to writing on this blog (luckily I hadn't gotten to the point of telling them of its existence yet) because it was once again the only place I would write whatever I wanted to and not be torn to shreds for the next 4-5 business days.

In some ways, I regret that. I regret letting them control me like this. My husband is great, but his family is an absolutely impossible battlefield of land mines -- sorry, I mean unwritten expectations. The blog is a valuable outlet, but not writing as much as I used to makes me feel like I'm only half of a human being -- and a primarily-dead half-human being at that. I was finally beginning to come into myself as a communicator, and they casually stripped 25 years of writing, of ME, away from me like they were putting groceries away after running errands.

For as long as I can remember, crafting the written word has been a part of my life. And all it took were some overbearing in-laws to strip me of one of the three (3) things that has ever consistently brought me comfort over the course of this life filled with an almost-comical and certainly-unbelievable amount of death and misfortune.

They wonder now why I don't trust them. Why I don't talk. Why I come off as so rude, distant, and angry all the time. Nobody ever stops to think that that's what happens when you take away one of somebody's only coping mechanisms.

Pain And Choice

8 April 2022, 6.47pm.

I've lived my entire life being cut off by friends and relatives who tell me I'm 'too negative.'

Let's make a list of the things that make me 'negative,' shall we?

- 15ish years of childhood emotional abuse and manipulation by somebody in my household.

- 2004: only childhood friend moved two countries away and did not keep in touch.

- 5ish years of bullying and emotional abuse in junior/high school -- from Christians.

- 2009: first suicide attempt.

- 2014: aunt and uncle ugly-divorce.

- 2015: second aunt and uncle ugly-divorce.

- 2015: best friend dies. Found out through Facebook five days later. Unable to go to funeral due to distance and short notice.

- 2015: nine-year-old cousin dies.

- 2015: entire extended family implodes over some stupid financial dispute and aunt and uncle's divorce.

- 2016: grandfather dies. I was the only grandchild who didn't get to say goodbye.

- 2016: church gaslights and backstabs me.

- 2016: entire church leadership board tells me God can't love me because I'm 'too negative' and because I'm an artist.

- 2016: college best friend ghosts me. When asked, said I'm 'too personal' (whatever that even means).

- 2016: strung along and then ghosted by a guy I really liked.

- 2017: all my friends stop talking to me. Literally every single one of them.

- 2017: second suicide attempt.

- 2017: very good friend attempts suicide and is hospitalised for some time. All while I get told I'm being 'too needy' and 'too negative' when I share my struggle with similar things.

- 2018: strung along and dumped by a man.

- 2018: best dance friend dies suddenly.

- 2015-2019: bullied by EVERYONE at college for being 'too negative' over all these deaths (current tally: four in two years, plus extended family dissolving and church abuse concurrently).

- 2018: college program director who I admired and respected told me I wasn't trying hard enough despite knowing I was practicing 10 hours every DAY (60 unpaid hours training, tuition, and experience PER WEEK. For five years).

- 2019: eating disorder develops, third suicide attempt.

- 2018-19: voice teacher verbally abusing and gaslighting me because I improve so slowly.

- 2015-2020: unsuccessful job hunt. Applied to literally THOUSANDS of jobs across three provinces. Landed maybe three interviews and zero jobs.

- 2019: moved to a new city, landed a part-time job, was sexually harassed and stalked by my supervisor.

- 2020: two good friends die literally within 24 hours of each other.

- 2020: finally landed a job I loved. Lasted 30 days. Then Pandemic shut it down.

- 2020: in-laws refused to let me plan my own wedding; even resorting to screaming matches when I tried to insist on anything that I, the literal bride, wanted. Also they publicly dragged my father's name through the mud in an attempt to get their way (my father is probably the most honourable human being to walk the earth, next to Jesus).

- 2020: fourth suicide attempt.

- 2021: finally got into therapy, therapist told me I wasn't trying hard enough and that I was too stubborn and too sad.

- 2022: three good friends ghosted me. The only one to respond to my request for clarification said I was 'too much' for her.

- Present day: constantly screamed at by customers, gaslighted and lectured by my in-laws for existing, and told by people who are supposed to love me how stupid I am. Am saddled by unexpected debt in the thousands, rising cost of rent, and gas prices so high that I literally cannot afford to drive to my job, let alone visit my family several hours' drive away. I am not making enough at my full-time job to pay the bills and the debt.

I didn't choose any of this. Not one single thing on this list was something I chose or even had any say in.

You know where all of this pain went?

Nowhere.

It's all still there inside me. It does not shrink. It does not dissolve. It does not go away. Nearly thirty years of intolerable pain still teems in my soul, just below the surface. There are only distractions, never relief. And even distractions wear thin.

We are told to reach out when we are going through tough times. So that's what I did. But it turned out -- every single time -- that the amount and intensity of pain I was carrying exceeded the willingness of the people around me to help me.

Oh, they try to frame it as a them problem while subtly blaming me... 'you're too negative' is the honest version that some have been ballsy enough to actually say, but more often the phrase is more like 'I'm just in a fragile place right now and need to cut down on sources of stress in my life' or sometimes they just ghost me.

99% percent of these people -- ninety-nine percent -- had told me WITHIN THE PREVIOUS TWELVE MONTHS that it was okay not to be okay and that they would be there for me. And without fail, every single one of them has either outright abandoned me or severely distanced themselves from me.

Do you really think that this insane amount of pain is a choice? If you can't bear even the smallest amount of pain that I show you, how on earth do you expect me to bear the full weight of it by myself? Do you think I'm superhuman? News flash -- I'm not. Why do you think I reach out so relentlessly? Why do you think I put so much of it on others? Because I can't carry this anymore.

When this pain finally, mercifully kills me, know this -- not a single one of you do-gooders 'did the best you could.' You didn't do a damn thing. You left me to shoulder all this pain alone. You knew the pain I was in, and you left me alone to be crushed to death under the weight of it.

I did not choose any of this. And you lot only added to the burden.

Ten Years At The Edge

On 10 April 2012, I completed my first piece of choreography.

I had been choreographing in fits and starts for probably about a year and a half before that, and I had been seeing the dancers in my head since around 2001.

I've told the story on this blog about the catalyst that finally got a piece done. I had only just discovered Benesh Movement Notation as a tool for writing down the dances flooding my mind when I overheard my mother mocking my dream to my dad. The rage I felt fueled me to see through the task I set before myself -- namely, to complete choreography to the song Sing Your Freedom by White Heart. I hadn't put much thought into my song choice, but as I think back on it, that was probably a very fitting launchpad. After years of quietly bristling under my mother's authoritarian rule over my words, thoughts, attitude, and activities, I finally had the courage to do something that I wanted to do. She thought I was stupid, but I did it anyway. I still remember the thrill of realising I only had two more sets of eight to go, and then finishing the piece less than an hour later. I emerged that night with a fully-notated Benesh score (which I still have) and a renewed fire and passion for choreography which has yet to be snuffed out by the 'well-meaning advice' of those who claim to care about me.

Over the past ten years, I have been able to perform my choreography both on stage and on film. I've choreographed for musical theatre productions, fundraisers, talent shows, competitions, and short films. I had a piece place first in its category in (virtual) competition in summer 2020. I have been able to at least somewhat distill the pain of three MAJOR personal losses into highly emotional and touching dances that are highly praised by viewers. And to this day, whenever I hear music, I see dancers. They are my companions on long drives and late nights.

I write choreography not because I want to, but because I HAVE to. It's an almost irresistible impulse. There is no balance in the world if I'm not choreographing.

Ten years' worth of choreography -- some 1200 pages, set to roughly seven hours' worth of music.

While some of this has been scanned into the computer, put on backup drives, and (rarely) reprinted, every single thing I create starts out handwritten. Every single mark on these notation scores was drawn by hand (and probably erased and re-drawn at least three times).

Over the course of ten years, I've choreographed 116 pieces, which doesn't sound too impressive until you factor in the five-year performing arts degree and two years of that also independently working toward a musical theatre career (since the college sure wasn't interested in getting me actual experience let alone work in the field they were supposed to be training me for). I've also been working a legit full-time job for the past year and a half. In 2021 alone I choreographed twelve pieces -- all while working full time. This was something I never thought was possible (see also all my rants from 2012-13 about how I would never work a 9-to-5. And, technically, I'm still not, so 2012 me was right as well as stubborn). This year my goal is fourteen pieces this year, and I'm already over halfway there in less than four months. I am on pace for a 50-piece year -- in other words, to almost double my ten-year output by the end of 2023. And I'm working a 'real job' full time. All you who said it couldn't be done -- guess what, I'm doing it. Don't ever underestimate me.

I fully intend to expand my accomplishments in the relatively near future. Since I now have plenty of choreography to work with, it's time to get it seen (well, more regularly). I have at least two full-length shows planned for within the next five years, and I want to start busking this year. I also have a couple of dance films in active pre-production.

Do I wish I was farther along, doing bigger things, nicer films, larger shows, touring more? Yes. And I'd be lying if I said that didn't make me sad and frustrated sometimes. But I didn't quit. Despite all the detractors, I didn't quit.

We're still only at the edge of the dream, folks. There's so much more to come.

Sheeple

Two weeks ago my husband tested positive for COVID-19.

This meant I couldn't hug or kiss him or five days. But I'm grateful that it was only five days, and not a lifetime -- because the vaccine gave him a much higher chance of survival. I'm grateful he got COVID now, after he and I were double vaccinated, and not before, when it could have legitimately killed both of us.

It was terrifying seeing how sick he got, and I don't want to know how bad it could have been had he not been vaccinated. I wasn't feeling well either (but tested negative at first -- tested positive five days later), but he was truly in bad shape... and that was with the vaccine. I firmly believe that had he not been vaccinated, he would have died, and I would never get to hug or kiss him ever again. Five days is a long time, but a lifetime is even longer.

Call me a sheeple all you want, but the love of my life is alive today because of the vaccine. I and my crappy asthmatic lungs are alive because of the vaccine. My husband is alive and we still get to spend the rest of our lives together. If that makes me a sheeple, then I'm a sheeple. No regrets.

Music Day - Emotional Tourist

This is another one of those 'I can't believe I haven't featured this song' posts.

I got a CD with this song on it sent to me by an acquaintance in a fan group for obscure '80s music, while I was in college. It didn't take at first. I have already featured the one song that immediately stood out to me (here), but the rest of it was a slow burn. Despite this, I somehow kept returning to the album in the summer of 2018, and then, two days before M died, I randomly picked this song to warm up to one at my dance practice and choreographed almost the entire thing in two days. Something about the song grabbed my soul and dragged me along for the ride.

I'm just realising now as I think about it that this song probably got me through M's death. I was still at college, where I had already been emotionally abused for grieving after losing Brittney. I knew nobody was going to believe that one person could be unlucky enough to lose two 22-year-old friends within three years of each other. I knew I was going to be mocked and shamed for even talking about the fact that my very good friend had died.

I'm not good at stuffing feelings away. If I do, they become rage -- at everything. But I was completely immersed in an environment where there was nowhere to go. The only -- and I do mean the only -- refuge I had was dance. M died right when I was just coming off of the choreography high from this song, and I hyperfixated on both the song and the dance for it for the next year. It became my warmup dance for every practice, and I practiced every day. I've used it at dance auditions and submitted it to multiple competitions. It's probably the most personal dance I've ever choreographed.

Now for the actual song (hey, it only took me three paragraphs of personal ramblings before I remembered the point of this post instead of five...).

This starts out as what could be called a 'cheerful goodbye song.' It's upbeat with a lighthearted musical tone, even as the lyrics are contemplative and a little somber. One would never really notice unless they read them or really paid attention, given Scott's bright, energetic delivery, the beautifully interwoven guitar work, and the big drums.

Don't say the words goodbye, love

You'll break my heart in two

Rain clouds would fill the skies, love

And all because of you...

Such poetry. But in the very next breath we get a very different perspective.

Put me down as a lonesome traveler

Write me off as a minor character

I move, I leave no traces

Just a wave in a sea of faces...

The chorus solidifies the 'wandering heartbreaker' theme. Or, as one might put it, 'emotional tourist.' There's a melancholy tone here, but only if you're listening very closely.

In the second verse, Scott deftly transitions from the language of physical tourism to emotional tourism and continues to explore the theme of an emotional tourist -- always restless, never staying in one place -- by stealing a page from Daniel Amos' lyric sleeve for their ¡Alarma! album. Warzones, TV news, hungry children on the streets -- our protagonist sees them all within seconds, a rapid fire assault on both his consciousness and emotions. My heart feels as big as the ocean / My God, these are dangerous times...

How many times have I used that (first) phrase? I wrote an entire blog post about it years ago, how my heart felt like it was holding all the emotions of all the people in the world and how it felt like it was either going to explode, crush me, or strangle me.

This time, the chorus sounds weary. And in the bridge, we really see the compassion fatigue setting in... thank God I can change the channel.

The third chorus sounds sarcastic, aggressive, filled with pain. The protagonist has, for better or worse, claimed the title 'emotional tourist' as a defense to keep his battered soul from hurting anymore. The poem concludes with our protagonist repeatedly and desperately shouting thank God I can change the channel, as if saying it louder and more often will make all the problems in the world go away.

And I can relate.

In these hyperpoliticised COVID days, I think we can all relate.

Title: Emotional Tourist

Artist: Steve Scott

Album: Lost Horizons (I think? Steve Scott's music release history is very confusing)

Year: 1988 (maybe? see above)

iTunes here; YouTube here.

I'm just an emotional tourist

Call this a harlequin romance

So sad we couldn't make the connection

Call us victims of circumstance

Too bad we couldn't get it together

Put it down to a change in the weather

Someone said that there's nothing to fear except fear itself

Hey, I wish you were here...

Novel Update

And it's not even November.

Last month I made a timeline of events for Kyrie as I remembered it. However, I vaguely remembered deep questions/conversations about art being rather important to the story. I couldn't for the life of me remember these questions, so I went back to the original rough draft to find them so I could insert them into the timeline.

I haven't read the original unedited NaNoWriMo rough draft since probably 2018, if not before. I had read it many times before then, however, and since I tend to memorise things in writing easily, I thought I basically had it down pat.

I was shocked, then, to find that the story sketched out on the timeline and the story I was reading were two completely different stories.

The one in my timeline was about a seasoned performer, a cynic hardened by years of experience and a litany of tragedies. The one in the binder holding the printed rough draft was about a humble, gifted, passionate creature naught more than a child. If the main character was based on me, the rough draft is me in 2013, before everything happened, and the timeline is me now. And they are two very different people.

The problem is -- I like the rough draft better.

The literal only thing I dislike about it is the amount of exposition. And even then, I sort of feel like it fits the narrative voice of the character. It can't be because I'm attached to it -- I had completely forgotten many major scenes in the rough draft. Maybe this is why I've been having SO much trouble revising it -- because my soul knew that what I was coming up with was garbage in comparison to the original.

So now what? I can't possibly expect to publish a literal rough draft with a couple of dabs of paint here and there -- can I?

I really don't know where to go from here. Do I stop the rewrite altogether? Do I scrap the rewrite? If so, what do I replace it with? Is the rough draft really that good?

Have I mentioned I really, really hate novel revision?

Fade

Originally written 13 February 2022, 12.31pm.

As I near the tenth anniversary of my first completed piece of choreography, I've finally overcome my mental block (college trauma?) enough to choreograph a large group again.

I took a couple of choreography courses last year that, while helpful, kind of freaked me out as I saw only too clearly how big the gap was between the ideal and my actual output. I let those simmer and continued doing solos. I hate choreographing solos and I always have, but in college, when I was trying so desperately to prove myself to literally every director and teacher in the province because none of them could be bothered to see the potential in me, I resorted to solos because they were quick to create, easy to learn, and easy to film. I put out an astonishing amount of solo dance videos because I felt this invisible whip on my back to prove myself, to show that I was, in fact, dedicated and a hard worker (things that I was consistently told throughout college that I was not). Posting myself dancing new choreography every 2-3 days with the difficulty level increasing exponentially each time seemed to be the only way to show anybody that I was actually trying (those words still threaten to take me to a very dark place even as I type them). I got good at choreographing solos as a result, but I missed the complexity, attention to detail, and the sheer elation that goes into choreographing a big group number.

I've since been banned from social media by my in-laws because I'm not happy enough (and yes, I told them about the 'unfollow' button. They figured banning me, a grown adult, from expressing herself was easier and made more sense), so in many ways, I've reverted back to that seventeen-year-old notating reams of pages by hand alone in her bedroom where nobody ever saw some of the brilliant things she came up with because they could not possibly have cared less and she knew it. This has given me time to focus in on unattainably big groups again. After all, if nobody's going to see it, why not lean into the impossibility?

This is actually bringing some level of comfort. At the time that I was choreographing big groups, before college, I had a whole list of songs I loved that I wanted to choreograph to that I simply never got around to. And now I'm revisiting that list.

Frequent readers of this blog (are there even any left or are they all dead?) know that the bigger the song, the more I like it. I love songs filled up with harmonies and '80s keyboards and big drums and deep, big feelings. Songs with one solo (usually mediocre) singer and an acoustic guitar about one's boyfriend are so small and boring. I like songs that take up space, sonically and emotionally. These songs are also usually suited to choreography that also is big and takes up space -- like big group numbers. Many of my very favourite songs in the world either are group numbers I've already choreographed or they've been languishing in the 'big numbers' queue for a very long time.

And currently I'm working on one that in my mind, ranks right up there with Daniel Amos' Sanctuary as 1. one of the best songs of all time, full stop, and 2. one of the first songs I ever wanted to choreograph to.

I've come back to this one off and on over the years, threw out some ideas, dreamscraped, scribbled bits of notation on envelopes and receipts, couldn't find the theme, threw it out, and repeated the whole process several times. Last year it started to really arrest my attention, but I still couldn't find the vibe of the choreography. I knew it was jazz dance, but I couldn't see anything beyond that.

Then one day while biking, I realised that this was going to be an arm-led piece.

I hate arms. They've always been my weak spot as a dancer, and that shows in my choreography. Many times I leave the upper staves of my notation blank or just fill in standard classwork arms because I hate choreographing them so much and spend as little time as possible thinking about them. My choreography is typically very footwork-heavy because my brain just doesn't think in arms. But this time, that was the exact realisation that snapped the piece into focus. I choreographed a four-minute twelve-dancer piece in a week and a half because I focused on the arms rather than the legs.

This is the first large-group piece since Nachmo 2020, and before that the last one was 2016. The 2020 one was tap, which is a very different animal since it's less about formations and lines and more about rhythm and musicality. 2016 was the last soft-shoe large-group dance I've written. That's almost six years ago now. I don't remember much of the 2020 one because my college-trauma-induced memory loss wiped out that period of my life, but the 2016 one is a four and a half minute piece for sixteen people and I choreographed it start-to-finish in eight hours. And I loved every single second of it. There's a level of satisfaction that comes with creating a large group piece that simply does not exist in choreographing solos or duets.

This project brought me so much joy. I was actually sad when I finished it. Of course there was that rush of accomplishment, but I miss the joy of figuring it out. Maybe it's because I know I'm not likely to ever see it performed in real life, so my time with that piece is essentially done for the rest of my life.

At least I can still listen to the song and see it all in my head.