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road ready

You ever have one of those days that grabs you by the heels and pulls you out of bed?

Yeah, that's the day I'm having. We'll all be lucky if I manage to stay focused long enough to get this post written.

Just savin' lives

After last week's rather discouraging news, this week brings some of a different variety. I got a call on Tuesday confirming that I've been accepted into the Fall training session for therapeutic riding instructors in Connecticut.

This has initiated a flurry of activity in the remaining weeks before I leave. As I write, my car is in the shop getting a new catalytic convertor; I've called the vet to ready Keeper the Dog to road trip with me; and I've arranged for some Franciscan priests to come for dinner. You know, the usual big trip checklist.

So, theoretically, CPR certification card in hand, I'll be hitting the road in a couple weeks, motoring miles that on some continents would take me through several countries.

[Pause for the making of several zillion phone calls.]

[Another pause for a nap]

Good news: my car is out of surgery and ready to come home. Prepare yourselves for pics from the road...

OneArmGirl

dream, dream, dream

This goes out to the dreamers.

On Monday I received a long-awaited reply from the second literary agent whom I'd queried for Confessions of a One-Armed Girl. She regretfully informed me that she was unable to take me on as a client at this time. I expected this, but because there's always that chance that this is the one, it was a letdown nonetheless.

But the hardest to take were her critiques to my manuscript, which to her credit, she'd actually taken the time to give. Too much back story, she said, and not a clear story arc. What little air was left in my balloon of hope quickly deflated.

Concurrently this week, I am awaiting reply from an East Coast therapeutic riding instructor training school. I applied to their Fall certification session, which was not unlike the process of putting a book proposal together. Apparently, the older you get, the more paperwork life requires.

While at aerial practice last night, I received an encouraging message from Admissions that, though final decisions have yet to be made, indicated I was looking good.

Perhaps that's what gave me the extra oomph to get through class. Near the end, I was working on a one-handed straddle up, pulling my legs up and over my head. More advanced aerialists stood around brainstorming adaptive techniques.

"You're going to do this," they said. "Don't you see the difference in your strength and ability since you first started coming?" Jo asked incredulously. Sometimes it takes other people to see yourself.

Driving home, muscles tripping on endorphins, I considered the difficulty of dreams. It's not just all the work that goes into getting where you want to go; it's the exhaustion of not knowing if you'll ever get there at all. It's emotional wear and tear.

Will my book ever get published? I wonder, as I berate myself for lost motivation and belief.

This morning while perusing Amazon instead of working on my post, I stumble on a novel written by a local writer who is probably eight years my junior. And though I want the book to be horrible, the plot intrigues me. But mostly I'm jealous of her success, and immediately assume she's much more focused and diligent in her career, that she probably doesn't drink sodas or watch The Colbert Report. I think she surely gets up each morning in the muse for writing, stories pouring out unhindered by dishes that need washing and a dog that needs walking.

But the truth is, following your dreams doesn't always look like that. Sometimes it looks more like a pitt stop on the dream raceway, recovering from the wear and tear. Sometimes you have to toss the manuscript and start over. I don't know if it's that bad, but I could sure use a good editor, someone to help put an arc in my story. Or maybe I need a different agent. Dreams often require some tweaking. But if they're real, and you stick close to the source, you can't give up. Dreams won't let you.

Today, I think I'll start with some journaling. Then I'll probably have to wash the dishes.

OneArmGirl

   

close encounters of the one arm kind

Chewy the Chihuahua's owner said there was a young man called Robin who was a regular at the dog park. He had dreads and one arm, she said. So when a young tattooed man with long blond dreads and one arm arrived at dusk, I knew it was he.

I steeled myself for an encounter. I may have mentioned the awkwardness for me of chance meetings with one-armed strangers, particularly if they have a Finneas lookalike. Suddenly there's an elephant in the room or, in this case, a much smaller, though similarly obvious abnormality. Part of me wants to step right up and say, "Hey, what are the odds, we both have one tiny arm!" And part of me wants to run and climb into the nearest linen closet.

Depending on where my chicken wing twin is on the spectrum of self-acceptance, the outcome of our meeting may vary drastically. But usually, no doubt because we are both acutely aware of curious bystanders, any sort of scene is kept to a minimum. At most, we may share a furtive smile and nearly imperceptible nod, like you'd expect from the leading cowboy in a Western.

I find my one-armed comrades are generally introverted. The one exception that comes to mind is my friend Andy from England, who has no qualms about his three affected limbs and, if there isn't a handicap accessible restroom, will jump on the back of his nearest burly friend and ride off to the loo like a knight into battle. Needless to say, he likes the attention.

As I mentioned, it was getting dark at the dog park, so it was rather unlikely that Robin would notice me at all. But in an effort to become more like Andy, I waited for Robin to walk by, trying to act casually interested in Keeper the dog. I think he must have noticed, but Robin barely glanced at me as he strolled on, very much intent on the task at hand--cleaning up dog poop that less conscientious owners had left strewn about the park. He barely looked up from the ground, in fact.

It was most anticlimactic. But I was a little relieved. That is, until I got to my car and found I'd locked the keys (along with my purse and phone) inside. It might have been the perfect opportunity to introduce myself to Robin, but I'm an introvert, so guess who walked home with her dog in the dark.

OneArmGirl       

délier

And now, the much-anticipated, long-awaited OneArmGirl aerial debut...

We called the piece Délier, meaning To Untie in French. The music, ironically, is Mas de lo Mismo (or More of the Same) by Tanghetto. This is a rehearsal recording.

Enjoy.

Traditional pre-show mirror shot

click here

three-legged chihuahua on the 4th of july

A happy 4th of July to all...well, all citizens of the United States. To the rest of my readers around this great globe, a very happy Thursday...unless it's already Friday...Oh, never mind.

In the mood for change, I almost bought a car last week. This week, I cavorted with Little Gen to paint one of the kitchen walls orange. But this has only wet our appetite for wall color. The bathroom is well under way, and Little Gen's room is next.

Keeper the dog took a victory lap around the park today when we met up with Chewy the three-legged chihuahua. This after she'd been running along side my bike for the better part of a half hour. She tried to play with Chewy, but he was not particularly in the mood to do more running (or walking, for that matter) than was necessary. Can't say I blame him.

Later today, I plan to join a pool party. I'm bringing the watermelon. I'm going to chop it all myself...or maybe I'll wait till I get there and let someone else do it.

If you know me, then you know I'm not particularly patriotic, but this country is vast, varied and beautiful, and I love it like one can only love one's own home.

I don't think freedom is a right, but I'm enjoying the privilege of having the money to buy paint, any color I want.

To that I'll raise a tiny flag with my tiny arm.

OneArmGirl

got the blues

I think I have the blues.

I have all the classic symptoms: roving apathy, sudden spurts of teariness, a certain craving for music born of the south, the grandfather of rock n' roll. You know, the Blues.

I took the old turntable out of our stereo set, hoping someone could revive it to working order. Next stop: the vinyl store.

This morning, after tossing the Starbucks cup from yesterday in the trash ventricle outside of Starbucks, I purchased a collection of female vocalists called Songs of the Siren. Laying back on my couch, listening to Brandi Carlisle croon I'll Still Be There only feeds my blues, but I like it. I did not know that Carlisle moved to Tennessee to make a career in music and worked as a barista, until she moved back home to Brooklyn and actually got her break.

Maybe following our dreams looks a lot like sitting and waiting, or walking down a lot of dead ends. I've been asked about my book a lot recently, which gets me asking myself about it––why I'm not working on revision, not querying more agents, not pounding the pavement for a publisher.

But it's hard to motivate the blues. They cannot be hurried. Instead, they slow you, inviting the weary to pick up their feet and take a ride on the music.

Little Gen and I recently went to the movie theater (mostly to get out of the heat) to see a film called Frances Ha. Frances is a starving modern dance artist, trying to live her dreams in a city kind to artists, but not the poor kind. If you are an artist, your soul will feed on this film. Shot in black and white, it emotes the stark realities of following your heart. But in the end, due mostly to her determined optimism, Frances figures it out.

Taking to my morning writing pages, I find myself wishing I were a singer instead of a writer. It seems like a much more healing profession. Or, maybe, I muse, my writing just needs to be more like singing, abiding by certain rules, but free to go where it will, riding the momentum of emotion.

So, I guess I'm just gonna ride these blues out. Who knows where they might take me.

OneArmGirl