My Dancing Heels will Feel the Love

(Soundtrack: "Darling I Do" by Lucy Schwartz and Landon Pigg.)
December 9th on my calendar has a highlighter trim.  It marks fourteen months since the night David sang "Heaven's Light" and I kissed him at his front door.  The first sweet kiss of my life, but not the last.

Recently we've strayed away from having dates, real dates, when we go somewhere, do something special.  Like married folk, I guess, we've fallen into a routine: pick up a Little Ceasar's pizza, go home, watch a movie, kiss, hold, David plays and we sing, dance, and just hang out.

But today David asked me what I'd like to do for our next month-a-versary.  My eyes swept over the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling.  "Why don't we eat at Panera Bread?" was my first suggestion.

Then, I felt the warm sensation, the desire to dance, melt over me.

We dance every so often on our regular days together and I wanted it to be more special, befitting the celebration of fourteen months.  I wanted to go on more dates.  To do special things together like we used to.

Baking an apple  Picnicking at our fountain.  Leaving encouraging notes at the library.  The Terrible Movie Marathon.  Finding the best smelling candle at Hallmark Gift Shop.  Our air hockey match.  (Which I lost, but not for lack of spirit.)

In my Facebook notes I have plans for dates never done.  Spend a day in the park, pretending to be an elderly couple, costumes and everything.  Make caramel corn.  Play on a swing set in the moonlight.  Yell funny things from the top of tall buildings.

What hinders the special time couples spend together? Is it only becoming complacent? Does time sap away our enthusiasm for such things? It seems that time wears down the greatest delights in life.  Going on dates and making love become things for which a couple must learn to make time.

Bill Cosby says in Cosbyology: Essays and Observations from the Doctor of Comedy that there are certain loving acts you do for your loved one at the beginning of the relationship that somewhere along the way you stop doing.  It's not because you don't want to do it, he says.  Or because you can't do it.  You just don't anymore.

Maybe this isn't bad.  Maybe it's just life.  However, David and I are young.  Our relationship is a fledgling.  And I am greedy.  For my fourteenth months spent with David, I want to dance and I want it to be special.

So.  We're going to drive to random places, find a nice floor, envelope one other, and dance to music he murmurs in my ear.  And I'll sing back... when I'm not kissing him.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  You make me happy when skies are gray.  You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.  They won't take my sunshine away."

Silly Youtube! ... OMG Cat

I'm sorry, but I must pause the poetry, songs, and gentle reminiscence to interject something silly.

Have you seen OMG Cat? This is one of the only times I'll use the term LOL.

I know it's simple.  I know it's repetitive... but I laugh every time I see these videos!

My favorites are:

Orchestra Fail

Kitten with Tiny Hat

Ninja Cat

Meets Chuck Norris

The Ground Never Quite Touches the Sky... But We Try

This song began in Paint.  I've been reading two blogs, The Olive Library and 101 Bird Tales, and was inspired towards some cute art.  When swiping the canvas with green and blue for ground and sky, I realized that I couldn't make the sky meet the grass without ruining the quaint blades left by the paintbrush.  I titled the painting "the ground never quite touches the sky."

David saw the picture and wanted it for his album cover. 

The song is about a little boy who can't smile normally, never quite sure what his face looks like.  The little boy is, of course, based on David, who has Asperger's Syndrome.  He ends up baring his teeth like a little animal, which prevents him from making friends at school and invites their animosity.  It's the first draft, so be nice.

"The Ground Never Quite Touches the Sky"
Half-Hearted Elephant

There is a boy who doesn't quite know how to smile.  He practices in the mirror when he brushes his teeth, wearing the newspaper crown him mom cut for him because the scissors are mean to his fingers.  His mouth is a little castle and he is the king.  They explain that smiling is showing your teeth.  In the bathroom he brushes them until they bleed.  Orange spit in the trashcan.  He bares and he bears on the playground where he can't make friends.  And his two sisters knock on the door.  Their iron is burning.  His cheeks balloon, his gums gleam.  He bites his lip and bites his lip in the schoolyard where he can't make friends.  The mechanics of smiling are elusive again.  The white flags of friendship don't look like a grin.  He doesn't know why he can't get it right just like the ground never quite touches the sky.  But we try.  But we try.  But we try.  But we try and we try.  But we try.  But we try.  But we try.  We try and try.

Big Girls in Indie Dress

(For our listening pleasure, Peggy Sue, formerly, Peggy Sue and the Pirates, begins the soundtrack for this post.)

Shopping depresses me.  In the dressing room mirror, I always look pastier, doughier, and misshapen.  My deep belly button becomes a sucking black hole over which the cloth of my shirt/dress stretches.  It appears to be dressing a doughnut.

David likes my doughnuts, those flabby pouches of flesh and fat.  No matter the chins and cottage cheese that makes up me, he sings beautiful, beautiful.  And that's why he doesn't understand how tragic the shortage of plus size indie clothing is!

Crimes of Indie Clothing:

Manufacturers comprehend just how many big girls love indie clothing

Plus size models for indie clothing are not actually plus sized

I know it requires many inches of material, but $200 for a skirt is outrageous!

The number of thin girls dressed in indie clothing.  Making us want it.  Cruel joke.

(Interlude by Laura Marling.)

However, as I type, I am wearing an outfit I just bought for only 7 dollars!

The key, big girls who love indie clothing, is Goodwill, ribbons, imagination, and a sewing machine.  I didn't need the sewing machine this time, but I have a couple projects in mind for the future.

I found and gorgeous lavender skirt - a pixie skirt, fun to twirl in! I already owned a white blouse with lace trimming at the bottom.  I bought light gold flats and dove gray leggings.  The leggings were footed, which wouldn't go with the flats, but I took scissors and opened the seam at the toes.  Yay!

David and I have a date tomorrow.  Gigglepies and longkiss cookies... He's excited to see my outfit.  His exact text message was:

"GAH! [Buying a skirt is] a huge deal! That's my favorite thing on you! I can't wait to see my beautiful panda!"

"Panda" is his pet name for me, by the way.

(Now we switch to Lucy Rose.)

Want to see his Christmas present to me? I asked for a pretty dress.  This is what we found.  It's from a very nice, if not small, website of indie clothes for big girls, B&Lu.

Dear Santa,

This is Emily in America.  Please use your influence to augment the production of plus size indie, vintage, and artsy clothing! I especially like dresses, skirts, and blouses; cute floral prints; pearls; lace; and ribbons.

Sincerely,
A big girl who loves indie dress

Surprise Paper Bag

Lately, my mirror looks different.  That is, of course, because I look different.  I feel different and differently.

It's cheesy, but I'll say it.  I am that brave, after all.  And certainly that much of a softie.  I began metamorphosing about 15 months ago.

I saw a boyish bright face through the window of a car pulling up to me.  Amid the shadow and light polka dots provided by the overhanging tree.  On the way to a movie theatre out of town, out of the places I usually found myself.

But that's just it.  The places I were, I couldn't find myself.  I was a paper bag marked Surprise! stapled, taped, on the shelf of a 25 cent store.  Marked girl with a lackadaisical ribbon, but even that was debatable.  What's it cost to break inside? What would I find? Would I be a cheap squirt gun or a dolly with lopsided eyes?

Shy he found beautiful and loneliness and hiddeness, too.  Disney couldn't write a sweeter love story nor Austen one more true.  Our first date he held me, he held me the first day of my life.  And kissed my hair, his kisses kitty cat soft.  His lips warm as sugar cream pie.

The little girl in daddy's T-shirt and boys jeans stood gazing at the Surprise paper bag.  A yo-yo, a paddle ball, a penny whistle she'd lose in the sandbox.  What was she? And the sad part: she didn't know and she was twenty-one.

She'd been kissed but she never kissed, been caught but never caught, raised but never raised, told but she never told, loved, maybe, but never loved.

"Me either, me either."

Glow-in-the-dark stars.

"You're beautiful and I love you."

Pearl studded hair bow.

"You're you and I want to be with you."

Gold foil glittering glue

"It's all in there and I want to be in there, too."

And a pinwheel made of spoons.

I pulled out something new little by little and stashed the rest away, there's time to wait while I play with these few things.  I write stories at bedtime, drink cherry soda in the meantime, and learn not to hold it in when I want to kiss him.

Poets Metamorph into Songwriters, but I'm not a Poet...

My David is a lovely guitarist! His music has the charm of shooting stars and picnics on candy striped quilts, clean sheets, still a little damp and warm from the dryer... of a music box inside a teddy bear.  Melodious, sweet, atmospheric... Embellishments are his talent.  And fingerpicking (with his Aspie hands, ^^).  And he sprinkles harmonics through his songs.  Little Tinkerbells, I call them... He wants to compose for films.

For composing he'll use his name, but he also wants to write the sort of songs that have lyrics.  For that band, he's called Half-Hearted Elephant.

That's where I come in.  I want to write lyrics for his songs!  Little scared-of-meter, frightened-by-scansion me.  In these vast fields I feel like such a little bird.  But, maybe, the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs.
But if ever there was a genre of songs for which I could possibly write lyrics, David plays it! Hyperliterate.  A style that concentrates on words without the "convention" of chouruses and lala's, nana's, or oh oh oh's.

John K. Samson, Emmy the Great, Colin Meloy, Ben Gibbard, to name a few, are hyperliterate artists...

I'm twitterpated with the idea of songwriting now.  If David and I wrote a song together... it would be an intimacy of our talents.  An intimacy worth being brave for for.

David told me, "Pick a subject and start writing the words and I'll write the music to it."

Motherhood.  Wifehood.  I'll write about my shyness toward it, my nervousness, and swallow confidence in my ability to be a good wife and mother.

Now on to gathering images and clips to use in the construction:

the dogeared pages of my diary

your cheeks resemble the pennies I rubbed with ketchup to shine

staple kitty's on every lamp post, fence, and tree

sing Beatles songs to our baby, don't forget to let her into your heart

origami wedding gowns made from sheetmusic

hope you didn't fall in love with Mary Poppins

never trusted fireflies to spell out words in the skies

I found love in you like small planes find love in the angeltread


Ah! Even if I fail, I'm having so much fun! I love collecting images! And David loves to compose music.  We can do this if we love it, right?

Love, Emily, pushing Publish Post...

Down on Deer in the Headlights St.

D is the side street that takes me home.  D, and nothing else.  Family member to, of course, E, F, C, B, and A.

This house used to be my Pa and Meemaw's.  Meemaw still owns it, but has graciously allowed us to nest here.  The house should be in a movie; it's painted green, square, surrounded by holly hocks, which I used to eat as a child, lily of the valleys, peonies, hibiscus, hen and chicks, clematis, tulips, lily trees, lemon mint, which I love to roll in my hands, and lilacs; there is a dilapidated shed with a black raspberry patch; green onions grow by a bolder.  Chain link fence.  Carpeted front porch.

David and I lay a quilt out and picnic, cloudgaze, and joke about taking a silver Sharpie to the green street sign and renaming D St.

Dinosaur St.
Danger St.
Ditsy St.
Doofus St.
Die Hard St.
Deoxyribonucleic acid St.
Darling St.
Daisy St.
Dukes of Hazard St.
Duh St.
Ding-Dong the Witch is Dead St.
Dig It St.
Dance St.
Dodo the Hobbit St.
Dingo St.
Deaf St.
Denno Coil St.
Digital Camera St.
Dorky Do St.
Depp St.
Dwight Shrute St.
D.A.R.E. St.
Disgusting St.
Deal or No Deal St.
Doodle St.
Darling, I Do St.

And we just sing, doo doo do do d-do d-do doo! Doo doo do do d-do d-do doo! Doo doo do do d-do d-do dooooo! (Duet Don't miss it!)

Rejoice, I will Say it as Many Times as I Want to, Rejoice!

A very happy evening for me!

Mom told me when I got in the van after work that I'd had a phone call.  I never get calls.  Being a good girl, I won't lie, I was irritated - I wanted to talk to David.  I'd been missing his calls all day and fate's dirty finger was playing with the last straw in my box.

It was an editor, though! (Good thing I remembered to say "this is she.") My short story "The Legs Come Off Easily" has been selected for publication! And by A Capella Zoo, a magazine I respect!

This is the first magical realist story I've gotten published.  It feels so good to be in my genre... Sigh.

So celebrate this great end to a trying day with me!

(I did call David, directly afterwards.  He says I get kisses tomorrow, ^v^)

When No Words Come

Those difficult moments of emotion.  No one doubts the power, science, and genius of words except in these moments. We stumble foolishly.  "I'm confused, just so confused."  We say the same thing over and over.  And never say anything at all.  Mean slips through our fingers.

When our throats clog.  When our tongue capsizes.  When our vocal cords go taunt and all sounds are snuffed out.

In those times we often find that holding hands, touching a shoulder or a cheek, kissing a brow, brushing noses provide salvation.  It saves us where words have failed us.

Those times are difficult for a writer.  What do we say when we know there's nothing we can say?

This is why eulogies are so taxing.  And why we are painfully helpless when trying to explain why we love our beloved.  This is why all new mothers can do cry.

Aghh! Excruciating!

As writers, we feel compelled to pin these glorious moments to the page, because they are life and we have committed ourselves to capturing life.  What can we do, though, to capture such incomprehensible moments? Each writer much face this; we can't just shelve the subject.  It's an additional Everest to the Everest of surviving wordless moments.

There are only so many ways of saying your characters as speechless.  That they've reached a moment when living feels like suffocating.  The reader can plainly see that you are the speechless one.  Sometimes readers can be merciless.

We fiction writers must learn from our poet brothers.  They've been endeavoring to do this for centuries.  And many succeed.  (Show-offs.)

Study poetry.  Learn to capture the emotions for which we have no words by manipulating image and sounds, rhythm! Work the words, dig in as with clay, with feeling.  Shout! Drive! Never think big enough.  Go for the superlative.  Awesome, in no small words.  Grip! Clench, you! Write until your veins burst in splendor like beating wings.

When you've written until it hurts, you may have succeeded.

Alas, Poor Kodak! I knew her well...

God's blessed me with four younger siblings.  And last week the youngest of these blessings whisked away to Florida with a pal of his, toting my digital camera.

You know where I'm going with this.

Yes, alas, the poor dear was eaten by a Floridian movie theatre... My little brother's word that he would not lose my camera was not mighty enough to protect it.

I really miss my camera.

I took many pictures of my David, encircled by grass and sun.  Singing, you are my sunshine, my only sunshine! while actual sunlight crowned his head, making his brown hair amber.  These pictures will be framed and pasted in photo albums with the intent (not only that I will look at them) but that our children will see their daddy and mommy back when we first fell in love.

Along with the photos, I have videos taken on our dates! They usually include a chase scene.  David loves to play tag.

I hope our children will be interested in fingering through these albums and watching the videos.  David's family keeps home videos and views them from time to time.  My family was never like that.  Holidays and birthdays aren't momentous occasions to us, either.  So... I guess I worry about how excited our children will be with such things.

But, their daddy's very enthusiastic.  I'm excited to see such avidity in them.  Vivacious children are cute, ^^


My lovely David:

Do You Have a Letter for Me?

I don't talk much.  My mom is very social; she's an extrovert.  I'm an introvert.  It worked out very well for me when I was a child.

I didn't have to speak, she took care of that.  And there was always somebody there to talk to; my dad was a pastor, knew everybody in town, or at least it felt that way.  So, mom, my four younger siblings, and I were pressed with significant social expectations.  We were a display, cardboard cut-offs surrounding Dad's pulpit, evidence to his image.

Very difficult for a shy, quiet child.

But, mom saved me.  She would talk and I'd be free to daydream and write stories in my hair, draw pictures in the candles.  Didn't have to listen, even.

Ten years later... I enroll in college and suddenly people are looking at me - directly at me - expecting me to speak.  Not just speak, because, of course, you have to have something to say in college.  Something from within you and contributes to the world.

College was a great, great challenge.  Rewarding, and I'm grateful for it! Now I'm out in the "real world" - no, I can't use quotation marks even - the real world, and I must speak.  I speak for myself.  I build for myself through my words.  That's the way it is in life.

The only one I want to talk to.  Want.  Desire.  Look forward to talking to is my future husband, David. (And my mom.  But, I'm used to her presence.  David is from the outside.  Outside myself and my home.)

He calls me all through the day and I always want to talk to him longer.  (He hates the phone... tries to get off in order to rest his dear, fragile heart.)  I feel guilty for always tugging at him, making him talk to me.  But - the great miracle! - he wants to talk to me, too.

Mr. Postman, do you have a letter for me? Mr. Postman, do you have a letter... for me -

What is this? The shy girl ponders, ponders, her thoughts the weight of raindrops on her lips.  What is this, lovely? What is it about you that makes me want to hear your voice? That makes me want to hear my voice, answering you, belonging with you?

from my own true love...

Oh, lovely.  Oh, joy.  My loves for you draw out my voice like the cold draws my breath.  Panting in winter holds the same pull.  My boy in musical highs and lows.  I speak to you and our sounds run down the canvas and leave a delicious stain.

I don't need to be free from you.  I do not need to daydream without you.

(lost at sea?)

Name: Emily, Obsession: List Making, Surrender? Never!!!

My name is Emily and I think I have a gathering addiction, also called data-vacuuming, entertaining research, and list-making.

Let me give you an idea of what I mean.

I research upcoming anime in Japan.  I look up every song of every artist my boyfriend likes on Youtube and Pandora.  I spent hours doing this.  Hours.  Houuuuuuuuuurs.

I recently began working at the movie theatre and realized I've watched precious few movies, even though I absolutely love films! So, I trip over this site called Listal that allows users to make lists of movies they want to see, movies with great kiss scenes, movies of certain actors, ranked from best to worst.  That was last week.

I have amassed 326 movies that I want to see as wells as 430 movies I've watched with a Top Rated list of 326.  And it is exhilarating!

I love finding quirky, indie, sweet, and vivid movies! I typed all the titles down in a Word document and it's 4 pages, with two columns on each page.  Along with this title gathering, I check my library catalog for them, and pull up them on Plugged In, to ensure I won't be surprised by things I don't want to see.

All the time listening to "Rhythm of Love" by The Plain White T's.

I already know I'm crazy, so don't waste Comment space to tell me.  Instead, divulge some good film titles and a little something abou yourself so we can be friends.

So... Wanna a peek? 'K!

Movies I want to See:

Haven't Been Released:
It’s Kind of a Funny Story
Never Let me Go
Somewhere
FrICTION
Flipped
You Will Meet a Tall, Dark Stranger
Tiny Furniture
Nowhere Boy

Released:
Towelhead
King of California
Amelie
The Royal Tennenbaums
Everything's Illuminated
Audrey and Einstein
I Heart Huckabees
Lost in Translation
The Squid and the Whale
Gigantic
The Science of Sleep
Yuki and Nina
You can see the rest of my list at Listal.  My username is hugabubable.

See you there, ; )

Neither Crayon nor Diary nor Blog...

Way back, I thought having a diary would make me write.  Back further, I thought having a crayon would make me draw.  But it didn't.  Not even a pink leather-bound diary with gold embossed carnations.  Not even the coveted salt-water taffy blue crayon.

I never out-grew this delusion.  It's like an embarrassing pink bunny suit that grows in perfect approximation with my skin and bones.  I thought that having a blog would make me write.

Bzzt! Wrong.

Fellow writers, especially ye young, nothing can force you to write.  Not even burgeoning inspiration.  Writing is a physical action.  And a voluntary one at that.  Not a reflex.  Not a heartbeat.  Not a breath.

You may have oodles of inspiration, images, similes, characters, plot, description, all the clippings, glue, glitter and origami flowers - but it can all clog, roll up in a ball, and hardened if you do not pick up a pen, press it to the paper, and move it like you learned in Kindergarten.

Writing is a craft, it's a commitment, it's an exercise.  You work, you exert, you sweat.  It's move it or lose it.  Condition yourself.  Don't count on it to be easy or you'll drown.

Write.  Review.  Edit.

Only you can build your writing muscle.

I Suck at NaNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo...

A good idea.  A good practice.  Yet against the advice given me by my wise writing prof.

Sort of, anyway.

You see, November is the national month for trying to bleed 50,000 words toward a novel.  If you can do it, you get to showcase your lovely - messy, yet complete - novel on the NaNoWriMo website.

I signed up to do this on the 2nd (already a day behind) endeavoring to write a novel I've had trapped in that butterfly net brain of mine.  We'll All Collapse Like Stars is its title.  I sifted through my files, edited the first chapter, and inputted my word count.  585.

It's now the 8th, my computer tells me, and I have not. written. a. single. word.

Of the novel, that is.

I have written a short story, a couple chapters of a novella I'm working on (What Broken Jars Hold, a modern Christian fairy tale), part of a novel review.  I've edited different short stories.  Written more words than just 585! ... But not for Collapse.

And why? Because my writing professor taught me to work on multiple projects at the same time.  You should always have something else developing in another niche of your brain, in another section of your notebook, in another Microsoft Word file.

1) If you run dry on one project, you might have fuel for a different one
2) When editing, you should set aside a project for a week or two - don't even think about it - then put it back on the table
3) Working on different stories keeps the creativity blooming, and the craftmaking sharpened

But, this NaNoWriMo thing...

One novel.  One month.  50,000 words.  Maybe I'm just not that kind of writer.

Depressing.

Pressing Publish Post... now.

Never Write a Story on Your Blog, No, No, No!

Didn't know if you writers out there were aware, but, a literary magazine often will not accept a story that's been published on a blog, be it Blogger, Word Press, Facebook Notes, Myspace, personal or not.

I had to go through and delete all my stories - complete or otherwise - that I was planning on publishing...

Because I can get in trouble if I submit a story, claiming it to be unpublished, and they find remnants of it on the Internet.

Sharing wisdom.

My Year in Lists, the first instance

Yesterday celebrated my forth weekend working at Mounds Mall 10... I've been a shaky stocker at confessions and a crummy cash registarist in the box office for a month now.  I think my psyche is putting up a tripwire on me no matter what my task is.

I'm naturally neurotic anyway, worry about making mistakes, make mistakes, try harder, make mistakes, try to calm down, make mistakes, work faster, work slower, make mistakes.

Okay, I'll wipe my tears away.

So, my boyfriend is an all-out music nut.  He's a musician who plans to go pro "when he grows up."  Before I met him, I listened to "The Gummy Bear Song," "Numa Numa" (known in Moldova as "Dragostea din tei"), and "Hollaback Girl" ... How do you make an emoticon skull?

So, he redeemed by poor butt.  Now I listen to real music like Emmy the Great, The Weakerthans, (see my profile; I just spent an hour adding artists)... Why am I telling you this? Where's the list?

Actually, I'll answer those in one sentence: I've been listening to Los Campesinos who have this song "My Year in Lists." Since I (heart) lists and metaphors, similes, vivid, specific details, and the like, I decided to start spinning my blogspot globe with a list of things from the movie theatre:

mixing up drinks - forgetting which is Dr. Pepper and which is Pepsi

lying on my bed at night, sick on coconut oil

getting pelted by popcorn shooting from the popper (strangely comforting)

melting ice in the sink with hot water

making drinks nobody asked for

using an employee pass to see Social Network - score!!!

Kids Tray with Skittles - easiest thing to fill

unscrewing pop fountain spouts - most difficult task

brown paper bags and mini cups for mall employees

20+ teenagers, without IDs, trying to get into an R-rated movie

20+ teenagers, without IDs, trying to get into an R-rated movie with one ID-toting "friend"

writing a short story in cell phone texts

my butter stained uniform

going to the bathroom just to rest my legs

hearing a movie through the bathroom wall

peeling off my socks in the mall hallway after hours

customers wanting to buy an entire salt container

who was that famous writer who worked at a movie theatre?

not recognizing the son of the mall owners

paid in change

a broom half my height

the left mate of my only black shoes losing its rubber bottom

Anderson University mug filled with Wild Cherry Pepsi

free bread sticks from Tony at Tony's Pizza

snapping lids on Icee cups

10 foot cardboard set-up of Megamind and Metro Man with raised eyebrows

making a four-page list of movies I want to see when I began working there


List-making is a great exercise for writers.  Every so often, grab a memo pad and jot down sights, sounds, colors of crayons, different kinds of dispensers, new dinosaur names, band names, stuff outside your window, I like, I hate, I love, I'm on the fence about, movies that should be made, books that should be burned, lists I should make in the future...

This is Emily, aspiring writer, pushing Publish Post... now-