Stories and Starlight

aspiration (n.) |   steadfast longing for a higher goal, earnest desire for something above one. I. there's a screen in front of me, a keyboard under my fingers, a tune in my ears, but it's not enough to bring me out of my head. there's tomorrow in front of me,  and today's passing before my eyes, but no song in my heart, no words for my pen, no exit for my emotion. it sits and swells inside, bringing tears that threaten to spill over my smile. I don't know what to do about tomorrow, I don't know what to do about myself. II. I told you I didn't want to be just another face in the crowd. you said I would be just that unless I changed, and I don't want just that: I want to be more, to do more, to live more -- but all I do is feel  more, and the feelings bring me  down  into  myself. III. feelings are supposed to be liberating, but instead it seems they're limiting they consume me, like a river with nowhere to run they build until they pool, but never ...

friday, june 18 - saturday, june 26, 2021 --|--|--|-- || the highlights what happened that stood out This the first week I can remember in a long time when I've felt such a wide range of emotions, and I get the feeling it won't be the last.  iCon 2021 was a rollercoaster, but nevertheless a blast. One of my struggles was learning to be adaptable and working without a clear plan of what was coming next. I like to plan ahead and be prepared for possible outcomes, so I struggle a lot with  So, a little overview list: - a genuine sense of camaraderie - competing in my final tournament at the iCon 2021 International Championship - making it to showcase with our Much Ado About Nothing  OrAd and winning FIRST PLACE!! - working with the 15-18 year old student track - intern photo and video shoots - spontaneous dance parties - becoming well-acquainted with the hallway mirror, in which many selfies were taken - wildflower crowns - a really cute hat I got while exploring the neighbo...

In January, roads and journeys began and came to an end. Namely, I turned eighteen (the end of "childhood") and began Prospective Internship. I also saw some new opportunities for my acting journey. I met a professional actor, we connected, questions and advice were exchanged, and the chance of more acting training in the future was brought up. ( I feel such hope for the future I just know I've got to be on the right path, I thought.) In February, my heart was broken. For someone with no real experience in romantic relationships, I'd been struggling with my feelings for a while. That month, I wrestled with the growing realization that my romantic feelings and my real-life goals and convictions didn't align. That month, reality also slapped me in the face, and it stung. ( I hate this. But at least I know it'll serve as fuel for my poetry,  I sighed.) In March, my to-do list was filled to the seams. I had the unique experience of getting to teach a class about ...

I tried to write about love, but   everything I want to express has already been written. (a shelf weighed down by vinyl records, decades of lyricisms for love and heartbreak.) I forced myself to write about love, but  I can't remember what I saw in you the first time -- I don't even know if I want you anymore.  (a case file with faded photographs, all proof too dated and aged for the detective.) I started to write about love, but  it strained my thoughts and muddled my feelings too much to try. (a never-ending book, an unsolvable puzzle, pages and pieces scattered over the floor.) I wanted to write about love -- about you --  but (a smudged page, gray marks from words I tried to take back.)   at least I know I tried.

It was silent storytelling: words and noise traded for music and movement among the soft swishing of skirts, tapping of feet and a solid scuff-marked stage underneath. All tethers of reality, identity thrown off no names, but feelings and faces half in a dream no worries, but wild forgetting within practiced routine no time, but the infinite now --  spotlighted: fragile and strong, safe and free. **** author's note(s):  As a child (wow, it feels really strange to say that), I was a ballet dancer for six years: I started when I was three and stopped at age nine.  This was originally written in 2020

I. It was dinner time when I wrote him a note. Pulled out a pen and covered one, two  sky-colored sticky notes front and back with neatly printed marks. You’re a great friend to have. Stay in touch. Phrase it as a fact, write it as an order. Finally finding the courage in my quick-beating heart to  be upfront, straightforward --  a heady rush of newfound strength. To approach, but not to ask if he feels the same, and never to know what might happen if he did. (Cover it all up in friendship terms,  can’t let on,  can’t let go.) II. Sometimes he’ll give a smile, sometimes hey, how are you. Sometimes a hug. Sometimes not even a pale blue glance. Scan the room, find him, anticipation rising... and I feel the drop, the b     u         m              p                ...

hello . it's been awkward. six hours and thousands of miles but not a word was said to  bridge the gap, only a sprinkling of laughter: crumbly plastery filling,  forced lightness, because we can't seem to accept the darkness:  that cramped pretense we put up instead, a poor protection for what should be spoken, but hangs out to dry on the fine line of silence,  waiting, perhaps, for when we turn and (actually) say  hello. it's been tiring. three years and thousands of conversations but hardly a word was said to  bridge the gap, only a sprinkling of outings: flimsy sugary filling, like melting ice cream, because we can't seem to have a full meal, that duty called "quality time" by convention ,  hiding the longing for something substantial but giving in to habit just one more time, waiting, perhaps, for when we try to (really) say hello. it's been difficult. one childhood and thousands of memories but not a word I've said to bridge the gap, only a scrapb...

Every film in this post was something I watched during the fall of 2020. I talked about the first four in another post , but I pasted the reviews here anyway because I wanted to have a complete list of everything I watched and wrote about.

Yes, I am aware that it's no longer October or November. Or 2020, for that matter. But I re-discovered this post, drowning in my sea of unfinished blogpost drafts, and decided it had some good thoughts that deserved publication. They're just... four months late.

why couldn't it be me? every time I remember, there's a hollow in my heart and no one knows how deep it goes: not because my heart is empty but because I'm so full of desire someone's out there in a place I want to be in a role I want to play but I'm the one who prayed I'm the one who crafted the dream I'm the one who read the books and wrote character studies I'm the one who ran deep into my own ambition and all I have left are saltwater tears and a heart overfull,  over years of dreaming and nowhere to go with it. why am I here? what happened to the promises? and maybe I'm in denial, but what do I have to grieve? maybe losing these dreams is like losing lives; except these lives never existed outside of me,  so maybe a part of me is lost too. what a puzzle grief is; what a puzzle I am. worlds collide behind my eyelids  but the world outside my window leaves much to wish for, and desperation drifts into the mix. how much longer do I have to wait? Yo...

Belated stream-of-consciousness birthday post! It's a mix of what I wrote in my journal, what I posted on Instagram that day, and some other thoughts to pull it all together. Italicized lines are from the song " Crossing a Bridge " from the Anastasia  Broadway musical. I've messed around with this writing style before, although I don't think I've ever published anything like it. It was very enjoyable -- that is, once I figured out where I was going with it.