Choreography Month? Maybe?

Remember National Choreography Month? Yeah, that used to be a much bigger thing around here.

 

I didn't participate in 2024, despite using Nachmo 2023 to create Sottovoce. This year, I just didn't have any ideas. Even through the rest of this year, following Nachmo, I just... didn't have any ideas. Or at least, not anything that felt ready to actively develop. Lots of things were simmering on the back burner, but nothing was ready. Plus, there were also those two theatre musical productions I choreographed that kind of took my time and energy away from choreographing original works. It was a nice stopgap -- it kept the creative juices flowing and got me some in-studio, live experience (as well as some connections and filled some résumé slots), but I miss working with some of my favourite music instead of having the music all picked for me.

So here are a couple of contenders for Nachmo 2025.

1. Stop Time

This has been in the works for... probably since I finished Sottovoce. The music is basically set, and I have a story arc sketched out. It's mostly music from the 2008-2010 era, and the story is an alternative reality version of the car accident I was in in 2010 (so, the exact same car accident, but with a different outcome). In other words... I have literally everything in place for this except actual dance steps. Which, you know, is kind of the whole point of choreographing things.

 

2. Three Voices

This is a more recent idea that I got from watching oscilloscope videos of SID chip music on YouTube (as one does). The SID chip, for those who don't know, is the sound chip for the Commodore 64 computer, and it had three voices (instrument tracks), plus a noise track. With these three voices, some composers rose up to make incredible sounding music, mostly as video game soundtracks. And I want to have three tap dancers, each following one of the SID chip voices in the music.

I also want to try this with all three dances doing exactly the same choreography as above... but a capella. I think it would be a fun experiment to see how closely it resembles the actual song, especially over three percussion lines with only dynamics and shading to shape the sound.

3. Smaller

This is a project that I've been wanting to do since at least 2021, when my memory issues started. I've wanted to do a show about memory loss since then, but could never quite figure out how to structure it. For a long time I thought I might use the music of Gavin Luke for this, but I could never find the right fit. It felt too modern-y, and the world has enough modern dance in it.

I'm embarrassed to say it took months between me discovering vapourwave and me realising it's the perfect vehicle for a concept like this. This project is off the back burner again since I made that musical connection, and right now this is the one I'm hyperfocusing on.

So that's where my dance brain is at right now. I'm wanting to stretch out and make bigger projects. Since making Sottovoce, the one-song-and-done pieces feel too small. Don't get me wrong, I still plan on developing some of those into dance films, but I'm feeling a pull to creating 'shows,' things with... maybe not a plot, per se, but some level of narrative or dramatic arc.

Creative Residency Plans (Or: The 2025 Goalpost)

I've been laid off my day job.

 

Since my body (and my mental health) can't handle the rigours of fast food, I will not be going back, even temporarily.

My employers anticipate they will call me back in late March/early April. This gives me just over three months to sit at home and think about life, for the first time since I graduated college.

I have a couple of side hustle ideas. Neither of them will likely replace a full-time income, but if they work out, they'll at least slow the financial bleeding.

That said, this is now a glorious opportunity to work on all those creative projects I keep saying I don't have time for. I've been thinking about my goals for 2025, and I want to front-load the year either hitting those goals or at least getting myself well set up to hit them later in the year (keeping in mind that the summer months from Hell in this town are usually pretty uninspired and dormant seasons for me).

I am trying to frame this as an artistic residency sponsored by God. (And for the record, God may work through other people or through my own efforts.)

So without further ado, here are the goals for 2025!

DANCE

- At least attempt teaching two (or more) dance sessions.

- Make two dance videos this year.

I made this goal in 2023 and got it. Made the same goal in 2024 and didn't even manage one.

- Create a long-form dance work.

The plan is to use Nachmo/National Choreography Month for this (post with more details forthcoming).

- Submit to at least two dance/choreography festivals.

Notice I said 'submit,' not 'appear in.' While obviously I would love to actually present work, I can only control how many festivals I apply to, not how many actually present my work. I always consciously choose goals that I personally can control -- that way if they don't happen, it's on me, and I'm not driving myself crazy trying to check off two 'presentations,' when that facet is out of my control. I want to focus on doing the work and showing up every day and leaving everything I can't control to God. If I submit to two festivals, I will have done my due diligence, and whether or not my work is accepted, I will consider myself happy with the fact that I put my name out there.

- Secure a practice studio.

I have two potential options at the moment. I really just need to gather my courage and send a couple of emails.

WRITING

- Write some short stories/poetry to submit.

Could be tricky, as I have been in a writing dry spell for YEARS at this point.

- Finish the current Kyrie rewrite.

 

 

PERSONAL GROWTH

 

- Go for a walk (or some kind of exercise) at least three times a week.

This is a goal my husband and I have set together.

 

- Become more comfortable with using that Instant Pot that has been sitting on the shelf literally since our wedding.

This is another goal for both my husband and I.

- Read more.

I've got probably like 70 books in my Kobo wish list, and even a few that I've already purchased that I haven't read yet. I got a Kobo gift card for Christmas, so time to put it to use (as soon as I figure out which Michael Card book I want).

I did make this goal last year and read about six books, which is definitely more than I've read since graduating college.

- More Bible reading and prayer.

I made this goal last year as well and I managed to be fairly consistent until about August.

FINANCIAL

- Save at least $500 for a house.

- Get in contact with at least two people about selling my crocheted items.

- Run at least two dance class sessions.

- Promote my Ko-fi page on social media somewhere at least once a month.

- Apply to at least one job per week.

The hardest thing here will be finding jobs to apply to that 1. are within like 200 km of where I live, 2. pay enough money to cover gas for my vehicle at the bare minimum, 3. won't re-injure my back or my ankle, and 4. won't make me want to drive off a cliff.

It's still early in the pre-New Year week, so I might still tweak these. But this is at least my starting point, and since I'm already off work, I guess the creative residency starts now.

Film, Musicals, And Teaching -- A Performing Arts Update

I suppose I should do an update about the thing that drove me to start this blog in the first place -- the arts. Specifically, dance and writing.

 

Right now, I'm actually choreographing my second full musical. This one has a much larger cast (50 people), so I finally get to do big group numbers, like I've wanted to do ever since I first started making up dances in my head in the early 2000s.

 

There's a certain level of fear that comes with choreographing for a group that big in real life. You simply are not going to please everybody. In a group that large is that the gamut of dance experience/ability is quite wide. This is further complicated by the fact that the show is double-cast... and they double-cast all the best dancers. Which means I can't rely on them, as they will only be in half the shows.

 

My husband and I were also in a short film, which was shot this past month, with a tentative release date of next spring. This was our first time on a real film set. It is very different from live theatre, and it does move a lot slower, but the other cast and the crew were all great people, and we had a great time. It's surreal to actually put a real film credit on my résumé after 24 years of almost-exclusively live performance credits.

 

Both of us also just finished up a live show this week, and I have a readthrough on Monday.

I'm also still working in the theatre industry (on the front end), and that has helped my mental health and peace of mind SO much... knowing that my career and my dreams are no longer completely out of alignment. The only wrinkle is that once this theatre's Christmas show wraps, I will be laid off until the end of March, when the 2025 season starts up. I have a very part-time/casual substitute dance teaching gig, but it will be once a month, if that.

As for my own choreography, I have a film in mind that I want to make and I've already cast the dancer for it, but I just have to carve out some time to actually finish choreographing the piece. This is a piece very much made for the dancer and her abilities (that is to say... way too complicated for my own abilities). I am considering having this piece be the first to bear the name of the dance company that I want to start.

There are some teaching opportunities that I am thinking about pursuing, and I have gotten wind of a potential dance space where I could rehearse pieces (lots of things still need to fall into place for that to work out though).

And still I am afraid. I'm afraid that I'll mess it all up somehow. It was so much easier to create when I was the only one taking the fall if it was terrible. But if I start actually choreographing for other people and start making bigger works, then other people's names and reputations are also on the line. It's so easy to look at myself, at my neurodivergence, and think that I have nothing whatsoever to offer this neurotypical world, and how dare I rope other people into this who could have better chances with a neurotypical creative, who has all her emotions in order and a more consistent stream of motivation and is not constantly sidetracked by worrying about money (because for some dumb reason we have to eat food, which costs money, to survive).

November Without NaNoWriMo

We're four days into NaNo-less November. And honestly... I don't miss it.

 

I don't feel as if I'm missing anything. Without M, and with the pressures of married life, it had become a chore anyway.

At this point, I think it will be a good long time before I do a writing month challenge again. I probably will at some point in my life (because I'm completely incapable of finishing a rough draft without the pressure of a 30-day deadline), but I'm guessing that time is years into the future.

This isn't the first time since 2008 that I've sat November out. The first was in 2017, when I replaced NaNoWriMo with a dance-every-day challenge, and the second was in 2020, when I wrote 10k of a sequel to 2253 in less than a week before my brain just shut down completely and I could barely spell my own name. But this is the first time I have planned to not do the event well in advance AND not replaced it with some other challenge.

And... it honestly feels like I have an extra month in the year. I keep thinking Christmas is in like three weeks, because usually that's what happens -- I jump from 31 October to countdown-to-Christmas, with no sense of proper reality in between. Not doing NaNoWriMo has given me an extra four weeks to plan and buy Christmas gifts, to work on other creative projects that got pushed to the side during the unfathomable heat of summer. This year, I'm still in the midst of choreographing Grease for a fairly large theatre company and having this extra time available to work on that will be invaluable.

Although I do plan to work on Kyrie this month, I am expecting no more progress on it than I would any other month of the year. I have placed next to zero writing expectations on myself this month, and I am completely okay with that.

No judgment to those who are participating this year. Best of luck to you all, and enjoy the ride.

(silence)

As I mentioned in my previous post, lately I've been into smooth jazz. As in, instrumental music.

Up till this summer, I strongly disliked instrumental music. Where was the story? Where were the opinions? Where were the thoughts and the observations? One of the reasons I love Daniel Amos/Terry Scott Taylor SO much is because every lyric is a gemstone reflecting back at you a universe of observations, feelings, and experiences. I have always related to the written word, and that extended to the type of music I listened to.

But lately, good lyrics are losing their pull. I've been listening to a lot of synth/vapour/climate/retro-wave, and I've found myself actively skipping the songs with lyrics (I keep telling myself it's because I don't like the singers' voices, but I'm not sure I believe that). At the same time, my own love for and ability to communicate in the written word seems to be going downhill.

I think it started after I was banned from posting on Facebook by my in-laws (thus effectively murdering me in front of my primary audience), but that was in 2021 and the loss of the written word really only accelerated in the past year or so. Words suddenly don't mean anything to me anymore. Is it because I've believed and then been hurt by the words of one too many people? Is this part of my memory loss? Is this a normal part of aging? (Am I old enough to be 'aging?') Is this simple lack of energy from having every scrap of my soul siphoned out of me day in and day out at the fast food job as things happened too quickly to think... and my ability to think atrophied as a result?

I miss sitting by windows and looking out at trees and letting my mind wander and coming back with cool little intellectual trinkets. Sure, I'm still doing creative things, but without the written word, I feel like an imposter, like some mute alien took over my body and I don't recognise it anymore.

I'm not me without writing, just as I am not me without dance. I don't know who this other person is who is living in my body now, but I don't like her. She is not me. She's some namby-pamby watered-down butt-kissing wimp who has bought into all the things I used to rail against. The 9-to-5 job? She doesn't feel safe without it. The discipline of dance? She has put on an extra 30 pounds because she doesn't move around anymore. The contingency plans for every aspect of life? She melts my brain down trying to set them up, even though I know trusting God was so much easier (foolhardy, maybe, but at least my brain wasn't being eaten by acid every second of every day worrying about every possible potential problem the future might bring). The adventurous spirit that led her all over western Canada and created so many wonderful memories? She's pretending she's been buried alive in some hole in the ground where Satan cooks hot dogs in the summer heat.

I'm not sure how to banish this imposter living in my skin and get me back.

Reflections On Stories From The Incandescent Years

I miss this place and I want to write something here, but I'm not sure what.

I've been scrolling Facebook for two hours and am mostly writing this in an attempt to get myself to just stop and do something productive. Supper is in the oven already, but the dishes haven't been done in three days. I had dental surgery yesterday and they told me not to exercise, but what else is there to do?

I want to listen to music, but I want to buy more, as I'm getting bored with the variety I have (which sounds ridiculous even as I type that; I have over five thousand songs in my iTunes, which apparently equals over fifteen days).

Recently I've gotten into vapourwave, specifically climatewave (which is to say I've gotten into early '90s smooth jazz). It's the only thing besides dance that calms (or at least drowns out) the scream of static coursing through my brain every second of every day. That music transports me to when I was a child and everything was predictable and safe -- Mom was always in the kitchen making supper around 5pm, Dad would spin records well into the evening and then put on an instrumental CD for us after we were tucked in for the night, Grandma always had cartoons and 'coffee and cookies' for us whenever we went to visit, and we'd watch Grandpa slice apples in his chair with his little paring knife against his thumb while he watched the news. Church was on Sundays, and we'd go to Kosmos or Zambelli's afterwards. Incandescent light still cast a warm glow over everything (maybe the phasing out of incandescent has contributed to the phasing out of human warmth and connection). We were poor, but we were comfortable. We lived out on the exposed fields of the vast prairie, but we were safe.

When they say 'music is my drug,' maybe this is what they mean. I have always felt more comfortable thinking about the past than the future, but now I'm using the music of the past to actively block out the present. The present is filled with angry people and the AI takeover and 'we're moving forward with another candidate' emails and fluorescent lights and grey fast food restaurants and my brain screaming but not in words and the persistent feeling of time moving too fast. If black holes really do slow down time, somebody should install one by the moon so we can all catch our breath once in a while.

Maybe then I could see the stories again.

I used to write mundane little stories here, whole blog posts about computers crashing and construction delays and moments with friends. Stories that took maybe five minutes to live through, and would have been forgotten in a few weeks if I hadn't put them here.

That's what life is, isn't it? A thousand tiny stories that make up who we are.

My parents, though not artists, are both born storytellers. My dad is the unofficial keeper of the generational stories, the ones that he heard at his grandfather's knee and has passed on to us (and all the neighbours). I got my comedic timing from my mom, who has a one-liner for every occasion. Buying gas while running errands can become a hilarious encounter by the time she gets back home to tell us about it. To not be able to see the stories in my life the way I used to feels like losing myself as a person. Have I lost the stories because my memory doesn't work? or does my memory not work anymore because I lost the stories?

Maybe all I have to do is re-cultivate my eye for story. The only thing is I'm not sure how to do that.

A Quick Overview Of My Slow Return To Theatre

Last fall, I opened Instagram for the first time in probably a month, and saw an audition for a theatre about a forty-minute drive away that I didn't even remember following. I auditioned, I got a role, I had an amazing time.

 

Then a local dance teacher I've become friendly with gave me name to a local theatre production looking for a choreographer. They hired me, and I got to choreograph my first-ever full musical. It was a huge leap out of my comfort zone, but I felt so fulfilled and happy.

 

Then I got a job working behind the scenes in the theatre industry, which gave my body (and my bank account) the healing it so desperately needed. With my days in fast food (hopefully) behind me, I actually had enough energy to think, to daydream, to remember who I used to be before making a double double wrong felt like the end of the world.

 

Right before that job ended, I saw another theatre looking for a choreographer. This one was significantly farther away, but I had worked with them before and loved the environment and production they created. I emailed them and they were interested -- interested enough to agree to pay for my travel expenses.

At the same time, I had just interviewed for a similar behind-the-scenes day job at a different theatre. They work closely with the theatre I had been working at, and someone from there asked me to apply. I did, and got interviewed within three days.

Then I heard essentially nothing for a full week.

On the final day of the first job contract, I still officially had no job, despite the manager at the new theatre all but telling me they were going to hire me at the interview, despite two glowing references from people who worked at the new theatre, despite four good references from elsewhere.

The audition date for the potential choreography gig came and went. I had still not accepted, though I desperately wanted to. I was waiting for the job to be confirmed.

But finally, I could wait no longer. Rehearsals for the theatre show had already started, and I could not bear to leave them hanging. I emailed and told them I accepted the terms... despite not knowing where my next paycheque was coming from.

 

Less than an hour later, I finally received an email from the second theatre, offering me the job. I think that timing was not a coincidence.

 

Years ago, before college, before everyone died, before the world broke me, before the pandemic decimated live performance, I believed God had called me to dance, and I was determined to trust Him even when it didn't make sense.

 

And last Friday, for the first time since 2013, I think I did that.

Staring Down The Barrel Of The Unemployment Gun

Sorry I haven't posted much lately.

 

It's so odd... I look around and I can see the colours and I am happy, happier than I've been since before I graduated college. I can see the life around me, and I can see a faint, distant glow of opportunity.

 

But at the same time... I feel more than ever before the word 'failure' whispering through my mind. I follow through on so few of my grandiose plans. I'm too shy to collaborate with anybody in a meaningful way. I can't hold down a job for a significant amount of time without either my mental health or physical health (or both) collapsing is some spectacular way. I can't even keep up with the housework, let alone be present for my husband... and forget having time to do anything that makes me happy (but doesn't make me money).

For years now, my singular goal and only glimmer of hope was the possibility of working enough to save enough money to move to a place with more theatre opportunities. (Everyone says 'just make your own opportunities where you are!' but none of them have to deal with a brain that straight-up refuses to do anything unless there are boatloads of accolades at every second of the proceedings.) As we move solidly into our thirties, it is becoming apparent that we may never escape this (quite literal) hole in the ground. Despite my best efforts and my extreme mental and physical sacrifices, we may still wind up dying here in this open grave in this forgotten corner of the province.

My current work contract ends on 13 September and it has been made very clear that they have no other positions available (and I've seen enough of the inner workings of the organization to know that this is true). I am less than a month away from losing our only household income. And yet I can't bear the thought of going to work anymore. I want to retire. I am barely into my thirties and I want to retire. I'm just so spent. I have so little left to give anybody anymore, and I think the people who read my résumé can feel that somehow through the pages of dance and fast food and not much else.

I just want to lay down and close my eyes and never open them again. I don't have the mental or physical strength to gut my way through yet another 3-to-5-year job hunt. There are no more reserves. There are no more second winds. There is no more pushing through. I want to, but I can't. There quite literally is nothing left.

But I can't, because if I don't have an income, we will end up on the street.

Things I Did At Thirty

I never thought I'd make it to thirty. And then when I did get to my thirtieth birthday, I mostly felt washed-up and useless.

If you are coming up an thirty and are feeling the same way, let me tell you that your life is NOT over yet.

After my thirtieth birthday, I...

- Choreographed my first full musical production.

- Submitted a dance film to a major film festival.

- Finally made a sorely-needed career change.

- Made yet another dance film -- my favourite so far.

- Auditioned for four things -- the most since the pandemic, and impressive when you consider the real lack of art in my general area. Was offered a role for two of them.

- Got into a different show without an audition.

- Almost finished rewriting the first half of my novel for the second time.

- Got two crochet commissions.

- Started streaming.

- Started drawing (mostly pencil crayons).

- Injured my back to the point where I could not walk... and then rehabilitated it to the point where I can dance again.

- Acquired three more houseplants (that have survived. There was also a lavender tree that died a very dramatic death almost immediately after purchase).

Sun Rising

Yesterday was my last-ever fast food shift.

 

It doesn't feel real yet. There's still a part of me that expects to have to get up at 5.45am on Tuesday morning, because I have, every Tuesday, for nearly four years now.

I have a new job, in the theatre industry. I'm not on stage (or even backstage), but it's still theatre-adjacent, and it may very well be the closest I'll ever get to a sustainable career in the arts. I get to sit down on the job now -- that's a novelty. In fast food there literally is no sitting. There's barely even just-standing. You're always doing something, carrying something, stocking something, cleaning something, and you're always moving at full speed. Do that for 40 hours a week and... well, let's just say that my body hurt more after one fast food shift then it EVER hurt after any of the long weeks of dance rehearsals over my 20+ year dance career. The theatre is also paying me more to sit on a chair at a desk than fast food ever paid me to run myself absolutely ragged every single day.

I had been looking to switch careers for several years already. I was burnt out of fast food by June 2022, but held on to the job because I know now how hard it is to get a job in this economy... especially for somebody with a brain as broken as mine. I didn't want to leave until I knew I had something lined up. That didn't happen for almost two years.

After a year and a half of unsuccessful job-hunting, I injured my back pretty severely, and I'm pretty sure the restaurant only put up with my ever-increasing need for time off because even though I could hardly walk, I was still their fastest worker. (My doctor forbade me from doing any kitchen duties, and they had to schedule three people to take my place there. Prior to my injury, I worked the kitchen alone every morning.)

That back injury was a blessing in disguise.

When I finally got a doctor's note to cut my hours (which in itself was an adventure for another post), that finally left me with enough time (and more importantly, enough energy) to actually job hunt, and to actually follow up on leads and applications. And after two years, as we stared down the barrel of homelessness due to lack of income, I finally got a job -- an upgrade in nearly every way, in an industry and at an organization I liked and believed in.

As I walked home yesterday from my final fast food shift, I had sort-of-accidentally started playing Connie Scott's Forever Young album. And as I trudged through the final blocks of that final walk home, these words lilted over a bed of gentle keys into my ears...

You that are weary and in need of rest

You that are brokenhearted and oppressed

You shall find comfort here...

 

There'll be an ending to the twilight zone

There'll be a sunrise like you've never known

Morning will soon be here...

 

(from The Coming Dawn)

 

The sun is indeed rising. I can breathe for the first time since I was in Mary Poppins (July 2018). Maybe this is what hope feels like.

For years I was in a stupor -- get up, trudge to work, give everything I had, my soul, my spirit, for pennies with which to pay the growing bills, trudge home, stare at the wall in a fruitless attempt to find the energy to live, go to bed, dream of every possible horror life had to offer (if I even dreamt at all), then do it all again. I moved slowly, in a fog. The world around me was grey and cold and hard.

And now I'm waking up.

Nine Years / Yesterday

Nine years ago my cousin, age nine, drew her final tortured breaths into burning lungs.

 

This year marks the epicentre. She has now been gone as long as she was here.

 

It was about 9.45pm, with the last gasps of a golden sunlight running lazily across the wooden floor when my mother hung up the phone and made the pronouncement of death to me.

 

My cousin left us on the coattails of the sun as it dipped away from us into space. Every year as the days lengthen, so does my dread... more daylight to carry my loved ones away.

It still feels as if I'm sitting there on that chair in my parents' dining room. It's been nine years of sitting on that chair.

I've graduated college. I've gotten married. I've moved multiple times. I've rewritten a literal novel. I'm still sitting in that chair at my parents' house. I'm still seeing the golden sunlight take my cousin away. I can still see her face on the Skype call the last time I saw her at Easter -- you know, the holiday where we celebrate Jesus' resurrection and talk about how He conquered death.

She had two weeks of breaths left in her and none of us knew. My uncle, who had been diagnosed with terminal cancer eight months before and had already outlived his prognosis by Valentine's Day, had another four years of breaths in his lungs. Yet somehow this lively, spirited little girl running around only had two weeks of air left and none of us knew.

More Of The Dream

I guess I can now officially announce that I am choreographing my first-ever theatre musical!

This is a HUGE step, one that I was starting to think I would never get to take. This is a major milestone on my journey to fulfilling my lifelong dream.

I've done a couple of 'assistant choreographer' things, but this is the first one that is both 1. all mine (not 'assistant' or 'guest'), and 2. not also performed by me, myself, and I.

I remember being seventeen and my parents, my extended family, and my church despairing when I told them I wanted to be a choreographer. How they told me it was a pipe dream and I would be wasting my life and should just get a 'real job' (side note: the real job is trying to kill me. It has destroyed my body more in three years than dance EVER did in all twenty years put together). How hard I had to fight to get anybody (including performing arts profs) to take me seriously. How everybody thought I was too stiff and graceless (and don't forget stubborn and stupid) to be a dancer and would never amount to anything in the performing arts.

Here I am, lead choreographer for a musical theatre production.

Are there other, bigger steps further down the path that I want to take? Absolutely. But this is an important one, and this is one that not one person was convinced I would ever take.

Years ago, back when I was only just beginning to admit to myself that I felt a calling to be a choreographer, I named my Instagram account 'dancer by grace.' I saw myself as a dancer who was called and equipped by God's grace. And there are many stories (many of which are on this very blog) of God's provision along the way. I have not paid out-of-pocket for tap shoes since my first-ever pair in 2012. God led people to gift me the money for all the shoes since then. That's just one example.

They say that the foolish things of the world would shame the wise. I guess I am one of those foolish things.

The Drafts Of Yester-Decade

Recently I went way back into my blog drafts folder... and I mean way back. I often scroll back about 2-3 years, but this time I went all the way back to the very beginning, to the first couple of posts I wrote back in 2010 and never published... probably for the first time since I wrote them.

There was a lot of little stories of my life written there that I had forgotten about. And in a way those made me sad. I knew I was a brighter, happier person then, but reading these posts has put into sharp contrast just how much Brittney's and my cousin's deaths destroyed who I used to be... and who I wanted to be.

I still miss that person.

The other day I contacted an old college friend who I haven't spoken to since 2020, when I was banned by my in-laws from anything I used to do or to be. I've been getting tired of being locked in the prison of my own mind, and I'm starting to rebel. I've volunteered for a local theatre. I'm starting to listen to music again. I'm starting to text people back. I'm starting to read the Bible and watch church services again.

I want my life back.

That may never happen. In September, I sustained a back injury at work, and seven months later, it is causing more issues than it did the week it first happened.

I have not yet brought up the subject of future dance endeavours with my physiotherapist. They know I have a history of dance, but they haven't asked for details, and I haven't mentioned it. I haven't needed to -- there are still no dance opportunities here anyway.

I am a different person now than I was fourteen years ago, but I'm not convinced it's a good thing. Perhaps I made some decisions that looked stupid -- but honestly, I made those decisions from a place of deep trust, and I never felt more free and 'whole' than I did back when I was living out on a limb every day of my life.

The freedom and joy in those old posts are palpable, even after sitting on a dusty server somewhere for well over a decade. I have not felt that since before my uncle left my aunt in January 2015. I was 21 years old.

All these tragedies I never asked for ate up all the best years of my life. My body was a well-oiled machine, and my mind was sharp and quick. But it was all wasted as I spent those years drowning in an endless ocean of grief. Now the grief has dulled, but both my body and my mind are no longer what they were. I wasted all of that potential, all those years... on something that wasn't even my fault and was completely beyond my control. It's so unfair. It's so unfair.

I'll never be able to get those years back.

My Lack Of Social Skills Screws Me Over Yet Again

I'm stuck on Kyrie again, so I'm writing about it here because somehow writing stuff on my blog helps me process things (even more than writing them in my literal journal sometimes).

To recap: in February/March, I redid the entire timeline for Act I. I added subplots, I moved stuff around, I added quite a few scenes. (I am largely happy with Act II as-is, but Act I was... awful. I had trouble slogging through it during re-reading, and I wrote it.)

This weekend I finally made some real progress on the thing for the first time in ages. I wrote three whole scenes, which amounted to just over five thousand words of (hopefully) new and improved storytelling.

But now we are in a scene where multiple characters (as in more than three) have to socialise, and I am freezing up.

Before I was diagnosed with ADHD, this wouldn't have been a problem. I would probably have just made something up and assumed that was exactly how people socialise. But now -- after years of merely feeling vaguely out of place in social situations while trying to convince myself it was probably nothing -- I know that my brain is broken and that I am Not Like Other People.

This means I Do Not Know how Other People actually socialise.

At this moment, this scene feels like the literal scariest thing I will ever write. It's still early in the book, so readers might not be invested and willing to forgive mistakes yet. But here is where any semblance of normalcy will end, where my inability to be a Normal Person will be revealed in all its cringy starkness. This feels like no matter what I do, all the neurotypicals (you know, the people who can focus on reading books for any length of time) will feel all the awkwardness and feel immediately that this is not a 'normal' situation, and it's off-putting, and that I am not Like Them and am no longer worth their time, energy, or attention. Just like in real life.

Can I tell myself I will revise it later? Sure, but I won't believe myself. This is the second rewrite, and I know if I suck at writing this social situation now, odds are good that I'm still going to suck at it in a years' time.

I don't know to get through this. Even if I go work on something else first, at some point I am GOING to have to write this scene.

Music Day - She

Picture this.

North American Christian culture, 2003. At this time it was still a very common belief that video games of any kind were spawn of Satan himself. VeggieTales' Jonah movie was the only film that millions of Christian children had seen in theatres because all the others were demonic in some way (Harry Potter had magic, Star Wars had magic, The Lord of the Rings was simply 'too scary'...), and were you really a Christian if you didn't listen to Adventures In Odyssey every weeknight at seven o'clock?

Into this culture came a group of three women who found instant popularity with pre-teen girls with their inspiring, poppy, uplifting (in every sense of the word) melodies. Behind trendy, pop art album covers in bright purples, whites, yellows, and oranges, they sang catchy, bright songs with slick production. Were you really a Christian girl if you didn't have a ZOEgirl album in your CD wallet?

In 2003, ZOEgirl dropped their best -- sorry, third studio album, Different Kind Of Free. The pop sound had matured along with their listeners -- now solidly into their mid-teens -- and the record took on an acoustic R&B vibe (probably influenced by BeBe and CeCe Winans, Nicole C. Mullen, and Out Of Eden, who were all big names on Christian radio at the time). Even the bright colours of ZOEgirl's previous offerings were muted, with a palette of blues and greys decorating the album.

DKOF still offered uplifting, poppy lyrics in the first half of the album. The album kicked off with their trademark energetic songs of dedication to God. This is a simple goal, but difficult to execute well. Executing these well had always been ZOEgirl's strength.

But halfway through the album, the subject matter takes a wildly different turn. The electronic bass, staccato rhythm, and lower vocal register of Wait was the only warning the listeners got of the shift. It was skillfully subtle -- I doubt most people realised what Wait was about, as the topic of suicidal ideation was absolutely never touched in churches at the time -- but to those of us who knew, we knew. Those of us who already felt the cold tentacles of depression tightening around our souls and minds knew that song was for us.

In an artistic move both bizarre (given the subject matter) and necessary (given the parents of the target audience), the next song was perhaps the breeziest and most carefree song of ZOEgirl's entire career. Feel Alright was a stylistic, if less manic, throwback to Upside Down from their first album. It was also the song I skipped over the most (despite loving Upside Down when it first come out), because it was the least relatable and the least intellectually stimulating. But they had to put it there, because the following song was a doozy.

She was a slow burner for me. My best friend at the time, a year older than me and a pastor's daughter to boot, caught the significance of it immediately, but she had no way of expressing to me what she saw in her life and in the song. I found the song too slow and boring and brushed it off as album filler. But as our ways parted and I saw the absolute worst the evangelical church had to offer in the wake of my calling and my cousin's death, I began to see what she had seen... enough that when I found Daniel Amos' brilliant album Doppelgänger in 2013, I 'got it' immediately: the church of North America was extremely broken. In Doppelgänger, I could see the indictment of the church in the lyrics clearly. But ten years had passed by then, and I had forgotten about that soft little ZOEgirl song which had sharp teeth.

The other day, out of nowhere, my brain started feeding me lyrics: She's alone / Caught up in the undertow / Where it takes her no-one knows...

I started listening, and the rest of the lyrics arose from my dusty memories from over half my lifetime ago. Then I dug the track out of the bottom of my iTunes and listened to it for real.

What a ballsy song.

To release a song not only about teenage sex and pregnancy out of wedlock, but to also use that song to point the finger directly at the failings of the church on an album specifically targeted to young teenage girls would have been CCM PR suicide if not handled with kid gloves. So they tucked it in one of the 'filler' slots (it's track eight out of eleven), mellowed down the music so it wouldn't attract immediate attention, and trusted God would open the ears of those who needed to hear. My guess is that most listeners, like me, assumed it was a typical 'don't have sex before marriage' song (yes, those are a thing in CCM), and completely failed to see that they weren't placing the blame on the girl, but on the church that didn't have compassion on her.

She went to them for help

But blindly they cast the first stone

They could have taken her in

But instead they left her on her own

All alone...

And it worked. No feathers were ruffled, DKOF is still regarded as their best album, and ZOEgirl made another successful album before calling it quits.

I just... I am in awe if the finesse they needed to pull this off, especially at that time, and it worked. Nowadays critique on Christian culture in Christian music is more common (and still sorely needed), but at that time for a Christian band to make a song blaming the church instead of the girl was revolutionary. It was countercultural. It could have ended their careers. They could have been excommunicated from the church for a song like that, but they did it anyway. They hid a scathing critique in plain sight for those of us who needed the warning the most and they lived to tell the tale. And those teenagers in 2003 are now the ones calling out the hypocrisy of the evangelicals.

Maybe that's why I can never quite let this group go. I've always chalked it up to nostalgia (which is definitely a factor in my enduring love for them), but the more I listen with my jaded adult ears, the more I realise there was more to this little pop-vocal group than any of us realised.

Morning

I've never been a morning person. Even as a baby, my mother recounts stories of her staying up with me deep into the night -- not because I was crying, but because I was simply awake and wanted someone to play with. I was homeschooled and usually managed to push my wake-up time to ten or even eleven o'clock. College and work have both taught me how to get up early, but on my days off I've settled into a pattern of waking up at about nine... or, still early enough in the morning to actually call it morning.

And... it's not as bad as I used to think it was.

Mornings (on my days off) are peaceful. The cool light of morning is different from all other daylight, and it reminds me of the open skies and rolling fields of my childhood home (as well as that early-morning drive to dance classes). The desert heat is not yet at full force, so it's actually possible to breathe the air with little effort. My husband and I eat a calm, simple homemade breakfast -- sometimes eggs and hash browns, sometimes toast with jam.

I find myself most inspired to write in this light, with the music of decades gone by filling my ears.

After spending the morning and early afternoon on my creative projects, I have enough energy to do some household chores (I try to split these up over my days off, partly to conserve my very-limited mental energy and focus, and partly to lessen the strain on my injured back), and with those done early, I can actually focus on being with my husband for the latter part of the day rather than trying to cram creativity, housework, and relationship all into the precious few hours between supper and bedtime.

My desk has become my creative workspace. Recently I acquired a Croton plant and moved it along with the other two plants onto the 'shelf' above my desk. They won't be able to stay there through the summer, as two of them are desert plants and will very much NOT appreciate the air conditioning unit we put in this room at exactly their height, but for now, they are here above my head while I work, and they are reminding me of the colours and greenery of my childhood home (as opposed to the washed-out browns of this desert landscape). Our apartment doesn't get a lot of natural light, but the morning light seems to cover them well.

This desk is my morning sanctuary, whispering to me of a pink room (now blue, and my sister's instead of mine) that once cocooned me and let me fly quietly on the wings of creativity.

This morning is one of those mornings, and for just a fleeting hour or so, I am happy.

Tickling The Ivories

I recently bought myself a piano keyboard with some Christmas money.

I hadn't touched a piano in years -- not since I left Saskatchewan in 2019. I had taken piano lessons in both the first and last years of my degree, but since I had come into the program essentially without an instrument and since the program director was an opera singer, I had by default become a voice major. The worst and most detested voice major in the program, mind you, but a voice major nonetheless.

What I had really wanted to learn was piano. But I didn't advocate for myself -- I felt embarrassed that I couldn't even read music and here I wanted to be in the music program. At least in voice you could fake it without reading music. You should be better than this was the thought that constantly dogged everything I did -- dance, voice, piano, anything.

I took eight years' worth of music theory in the space of two. I learned enough piano to play my own melody lines in practice and to sight read new choir pieces. The rare time I attempted to play something on the piano in its own right, I noticed the peace that settled over my soul as I watched my fingers work out a recognisable -- and not unpleasant -- tune. But then the voices of everybody I knew would come back in my brain, shrieking and strident: you should be better than this.

When I left Saskatchewan in 2019, I was so tired of hearing that voice that I abandoned singing entirely. I celebrated my final day in the practice room, before my last show there. I would never have to set foot in those rooms again. I would never have anybody give me a failing grade on the voice God gave me ever again.

My piano skills died with it. Due to the absolutely insane schedule that school demands performance (read: voice) majors keep, the only time I really got to play piano was when I was learning a new song for my voice lessons. With my voice lessons firmly and definitely behind me, I also no longer played piano.

For a while, I forgot that I had ever known how to play. The pandemic came and took all the theatre opportunities away, so I lost my ability to sight-read music as well. I remembered the hellish hours of voice training during college, but the fleeting seconds of piano were lost.

This past Christmas, my husband offered to buy me a piano keyboard and showed me the one he had in mind. It looked great, but it was more money than I knew he could afford to spend on me and talked him out of it. But then a relative of his gave us both a not-insubstantial amount of money. Despite my pleas to put mine in our savings account for a house, my husband insisted his relative would have wanted us to spend it on something fun.

I have never in my life possessed a sum of money more than $20 with no option to spend it on the practical things of life. I sat on that money for literal months as I tried to think of something 'fun' to buy. I thought of a bass guitar -- something I had wanted to learn for years. But reading reviews on beginner basses overwhelmed me, and I wondered if I was really going to have the energy to learn a new instrument with my few remaining scraps of energy at the end of each day.

But then I remembered the piano keyboard my husband had shown me months earlier. I had some piano experience. I wouldn't be learning a whole new instrument from scratch. And I knew my husband would approve since it had been his idea in the first place.

So I ordered it, it arrived, and my mother and sister (an advanced pianist) sent me some sheet music my sister was no longer using. I found a copy of Michael W. Smith's Great Is The Lord is the pages they sent, and while that's not my favourite worship song or even my favourite MWS song, the memories of listening to it on my dad's vinyl copy drove me to pick that one.

The first week was mostly a rude awakening of just how much music theory I had forgotten. I spent days just trying to remember how key signatures worked (my theory books were all at my parents' house), and it took about as long to remember the notes of the bass clef (the treble clef was more hardwired into my soprano brain, but even that had taken a hit). But it began to come back to me, and I even began to develop some smoothness, then to play both hands together through some parts of the song.

And every time I sat down at that keyboard to run through the song, I felt a brush of... peace? maybe even joy? tickle my shoulders. It was so soft that I didn't even notice it at first. But after a few weeks, I realised it was the same feeling I get when I dance. That same peace, that calm, that assurance that all is right with the world, if only for a moment. And I began to remember having that same feeling the few times I played piano in its own right at college. Practicing voice had only ever been a source of stress and fear and frustration. Playing piano had been so lovely and calming that I had avoided it because it was 'wasting my time...' if I wasn't in a state of maximum stress while doing it, it probably was because I was using it to procrastinate on doing something useful... right?

But now, nobody is grading me on my voice or my piano skills, so I'm continuing to practice piano and relish the peace it brings me. I still don't have a space to dance in (and at the moment, I also do not have a healthy back to dance with), but at least I have this, this one modicum of peace in a world that feels increasingly and heavily against me. I'm only sad that it took me this long to realise that piano is what I should have been pursuing all along.

Set Apart - The Silverwind Album Nobody Talks About

21 June 2021, 12.39pm.

Today I'm going to show a little love to the bastard Silverwind album.

I'll be honest... I hated this album when I first heard it. Hated it. I had been a Silverwind fangirl for several years by that point, and fourteen-year-old me wanted nothing more than to be the next Betsy Hernandez. Her voice is still my favourite female voice ever, in any genre, bar none.

When I plunked Set Apart (1986) onto the turntable and heard thick alto harmonies coming through the speakers, I felt betrayed. It was like I'd been punched in the gut. It took me over five years to realise that actually, the hyped-up '80s tracks and the sweet, calming harmonies that balanced them were really quite good. Had the voice been Betsy Hernandez's, this would have instantly become my favourite album of all time, but the shock of the very different voices made this album a slow burner. And, from what I can gather online in all my music-nerd groups, I was not the only one who felt this way.

Certainly, the trio that replaced Hernandez, Banov, and Gramling were very talented singers who blended beautifully, but the change in sound was so sudden and drastic that it was hard to look past the change to the album itself, or even the strengths of the singers that replaced the original three. It's no surprise that despite the beauty of the songwriting, the harmonies, and the instrumentation, this was the last album to bear the Silverwind name -- the change was simply too great to overcome in one album, and in the music business, one album is all it takes to sink you as a recording act. The producers tried to soften the blow by having Betsy Hernandez sing guest vocals on two of the songs, but it was too little, too late.

And yet... this album is a banger. It was ahead of its time while keeping one foot firmly planted in the gentle Maranatha keyboard/string machine sound a CCM audience would be looking for. In fact, the production and arranging was so cutting edge for the time that if you were to play me this album for the first time with no background information and ask me what year it was from, I would guess 1989. The saxophone sounds, the woodwind-esque keyboards, the synth stings, the occasional squarewave bass, the very electric guitar -- all these were motifs that were not yet mainstream in 1986. The opening track (I'm Forever Yours) may have the biggest drums in CCM this side of Mylon LeFevre and Broken Heart's Crack The Sky. In fact, the drums are a huge part of the entire record -- even the mellow songs. Just listen to Heart Of Love and tell me you can't see that song in front of a live audience of thousands having the absolute time of their lives.

Lyrically, this is still very much a Silverwind album. Simple, honest lyrics of childlike wonder and heartfelt praise still abound here. Most of the songs were still written by the Hernandez and Hernandez husband/wife team -- in fact the clarity and quality of the lyrics here takes a marked leap. This album is full of striking lyrical gems, such as But once you've seen the sun, there isn't anyone / Who is able to persuade you it's not there... (I Believe In You), or  No manufactured fake or forgery / No counterfeit could make a fool of me / I've found a love so real / A power I can feel... (Heart Of Love -- this bit is just so fun to sing), or God's heart was broken to make me my own... (Crystal Heart) or They say you're wise as you grow older / But all I know is I've grown colder... (First Love).

As to the quality of the voices -- the harmonies are still catchy and dare I say addicting. They're just different, and once you get past that, they're truly enjoyable. Silverwind has often been called the 'Christian ABBA' due to the soaring harmonies, and that nickname is still relevant even with the personnel change. Even this is actually a step up from the previous album, By His Spirit. BHS relied heavily on Hernandez, with the other two members singing lead on only one song each (though to be fair, who wouldn't give in to the temptation to feature such an angelic voice so much?). In Set Apart, vocal duties are pretty much divided equally between the women, even within individual songs, and one hears some lovely male solos on Side B (First Love is a beautifully emotional performance). Older Silverwind relegated the harmonies largely to choruses, but Set Apart Silverwind used them everywhere, and it made their swan song truly shine. If you hold out through the initial style shock until the penultimate track (I Believe In You), you'll be rewarded with a strong and powerfully-sung glimpse of classic Silverwind.

It was really context that sunk this album. If it hadn't been released under the Silverwind name, with all of the sonic and vocal expectations that came with that name, I daresay this album would have blown up. This was the most rocking female-led album in mainstream CCM at the time (Leslie Phillips' magnum opus The Turning was not yet released, and Margaret Becker wouldn't make her debut for another year), and definitely the hardest-hitting worship record to date (Petra's Petra Praise... The Rock Cries Out was still three years away). Yet it remains the only album of Silverwind's catalogue that has never seen a CD release and consistently gets either hated on or not mentioned at all among fans of the group.

It's really a shame that this record didn't have a better chance at life. It's a really strong album in almost every respect, and I'm glad I stuck with it long enough to see that. I encourage you to do the same.

You can listen to it on YouTube here.

Brain Dump/Goal Update

Really lacking motivation, as usual. I keep trying to power through it, but I'm running out of reasons why I should be powering through. I'm trying to tell myself it's because I've been sick all month (had COVID immediately after Christmas, and now have long COVID symptoms so yay for that), but I know that I wouldn't be any more motivated if I wasn't sick. How on earth did I ever manage to focus long enough to get a Bachelor's degree?

So I thought I'd write a blog post, since nothing else is working. Maybe blogging about my problems will help me find the solution.

There's a scriptwriting contest nearby that closes on the 30th, and I'm trying to write something for it, if only to get my name out there (but hey, getting it produced would be a nice bonus). I came up with a theme, but it's supposed to be a one-act play. I've never even watched a one-act play in all my years of theatre, let alone written one. When you Google what a one-act play consists of, you get WILDLY different answers. Like literal opposite-ends-of-the-spectrum answers. So I just picked one and am hoping it's right. Self-doubt is not a great companion to have in a situation like this. I have no real pretensions of winning but -- man, wouldn't it be great if I did? It would look amazing in my portfolio.

I wanted to be writing articles and getting to a point where I would write an article draft one day and then editing older ones the next and repeat. I haven't written (or edited) a single thing in at least two weeks, despite really only working half-days due to ALL of the health issues. I just have absolutely no motivation and absolutely no ideas. How do I think I'm going to do this full-time when this happens all the time? It's so frustrating. I'm the only person in this household able-bodied enough to work (or at least I was before my back injury in September), and that's slipping away from me fast. I have always wanted to be self-employed and here's my chance and I'm just... doing nothing. I'm so frustrated with myself. Everyone else can do this. Why can't I? I know, I know, it's the ADHD. But that makes it worse. This only reinforces the idea that I am a dysfunctional human being and I'm too broken to bother being fixed. It's hard to want to try when you just feel so broken and forgotten.

I've submitted two pieces -- one to a magazine, and one to a flash fiction publication -- and haven't heard anything back. The magazine said it could be 9-12 months (yes, months), and the flash fiction should be announced in the next week or two. I have a half-decent draft I wanted to send to an online culture publisher, but I can't seem to pull the trigger on it. I'm so terrified they'll think my idea is stupid.

I have a vague idea of what needs to happen in Kyrie to fix the very-bad pacing issues in Act I, but I haven't figured out how to actually implement that... it's just a vague idea in my head at this point, but to actually write it into scenes? Pffft. No clue. No idea what those scenes would look like.

I've done some fine art -- mostly pencil crayon, actually, and I've almost finished a piece in marker. Those are fun and they've turned out decent. My main problem here is lack of ideas. I usually think in words (writer) and feelings (dancer), not easily-drawable images. The images I do think of are WAY above my skill level and I know it would just be an exercise in frustration to even try.

I haven't even touched dance. Not one dance thing. I want to make a trailer for Sottovoce so I can submit it to MDFF, but I just... can't, somehow. I want to type up the choreography so far for my (hopefully) next tap dance film to see where I'm at and what's left to choreograph, but again, I just... can't. I'm afraid I'll struggle with memorizing as much as I did with Inside Of You -- it turned out all right, but I've GOT to stop going into filming knowing literally none of the choreography. It just makes shooting take a thousand times longer and it makes editing so much harder than it needs to be. I dread starting memorization. I really do. I think me not typing up this choreography is me trying to avoid starting memorization -- which, of course, will make the problem even worse because then I'll have less time to memorise. I know this. I've always known this. But I can't seem to just DO it.

The one goal I've actually made a good start on is the reading. I've finished one book and read another cover-to-cover last night (it was a beta read, actually, and it was SO good. Will probably be talking about that book here a good bit when it's released -- the author accidentally hit all my special interests and it was really well-crafted).

Rehearsals for my show are going well so far. The cast seem friendly, but it's hard for this broken human to initiate conversations with them. They're a good group, and there's always laughter at rehearsal. It's also really nice to go on long drives again (it's a forty-minute drive one way -- about what I used to do four days a week for dance before I got married).

I still don't have any motivation or ideas (well, maybe one, but it's a baby idea and it needs to incubate a little bit), but it did feel nice to actually type for a while and have my thoughts organized like this.

If you've made it this far, thanks for reading.