The Road to Self-discovery

Traveling allows us to know ourselves intimately. While it is often true that it is "the journey that matters, not the destination", in my case, the destination had had a profound influence on not only the lens with which I view the world, but more fundamentally, it has enhanced the mirror by which I examine myself.
In the spring of 2007 my sister and her family were living in central London. just around the corner from Abbey Road, one of the world's most photographed spots. With great anticipation and enormous expectation, I made my way to the land of the Beatles.However enchanting it felt to be walking in those famous footsteps along that famous spider crossing, true enlightenment would not embrace me until we went to Amsterdam. While Seeing Abbey Road and Abbey Road studios was thrilling, my time in Amsterdam offered up heartbreak.
There were millions of places to go in the Dutch city, but with severe time constraints my sister and I plucked a few choices from the guidebook and paddled our way, via canals, to our various destinations. My heart soared as I explored the Van Gogh Museum with its numerous treasures. I found myself in the hectic anguished self-portraits as well as the passionately vivid landscapes. What would existence be without art? What would my existence be without the art of Van Gogh?
Following the Van Gogh Museum we decided to visit Anne Frank's house, the annex that gave birth to her world famous diaries. Climbing those narrow stairs into the small apartment, where a young girl's dreams were born then murdered, broke my heart. As I absorbed the details of what remained and contemplated the greater tragedy, my eyes stopped on the wall that was adjacent to her bed. Once carefully pasted, now protected by plexiglass, were cut outs of Jean Harlow, Shirley Temple, and several other Hollywood stars of the era. Anne Frank was the average teenage girl subjected to horrific experiences. Van Gogh had shown me the universality of joy;Anne Frank taught me the commonality of sorrow.
Leaving Amsterdam was like leaving home having beentaught a little more about my own humanity, I know I can always return to the destination that strengthened who I am.

My reflections on the death of MJ: a writing sample.

In the life and death of Michael Jackson one can see the commonality between the various social and economic classes in America. In reflecting back upon his achievements, a natural occurence when someone leaves this life, the ways in which he helped shape the modern social landscape are undeniable.
Being a child of the 80's, I clearly remember the first picture I tacked to by bedroom wall was that of Michael Jackson. A replica of the album, Thriller. When considering my background and the time period, not to mention the neighborhood I grew up in, the significance of what that photo hanging on my wall meant is profound. I didn't truly undertsand this until Michael's death. An African-American male fully crossing racial divides, teaching us thatit doesn't "matter if you're black or white."
Michael Jackson's life seemed to be defined by his secret lonelines, his drive to achieve perfection in a quest to be loved and understood. As a child in the Jackson 5, when he sang,"Ben," your heart would break for him; and it broke again with' "Man in the Mirror." Michael Jackson's music expressed those hidden struggles we all share: the need to be accepted and to accept ourselves.

Hiding in plain sight

"A woman, especially if she has the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can." So says Jane Austen. What sweet irony that a highly ironic observation made 200 years ago remains ingrained in the social psyche of a more modern time. What is it about intelligent and opinionated females that acts as nails on our collective chalkboard? And why are our representatives for the modern woman either classified as harpies or modern medusas? Can't a woman stand out amongst her peers without the ridicule of the group think tank? Perhaps it is the lack of diversity on display that frustrates me and so I wonder: can we embrace a spectrum of women that represent different viewpoints as opposed to the notion put forth by NGOs such as the National Organization of Women that we all must carry the line and believe as they do in order to properly represent our sex? Are our only options for role models Hillary Clinton or Anne Coulter? I would love to see more so of us embrace the brains we have been given and dance comfortably, for all the world to see, to the beat of our own drummers. To fling social expectations to the wind and cease to hide in plain sight.

Little Dorrit and loving it!

And so I return to the blogosohere having been waylaid by the hills and valleys of life over the past 2 months. But alas I have accomplished much for one with no required grindstone to be ever pressing her nose against. As the reality of throwing myself back into school dances closer and closer I have decided the lump of oatmeal I call my brain requires a bit of structure as well as mental exertion in preparation for the great return. That is how I decided to read, "Little Dorrit," by Mr Dickens. Usually, my great big lump of grey matter will enjoy the theatrical represenations offered by Masterpiece Theater and then proclaim "Oh how I love Dickens!" What a master illusionist I have allowed my brain to become in melding literature and theatrical to blur into one, thus having absorbed the movie believeing myself to have truly experienced Dickens. Catching myself in this illogical paradigm I have put aside the carrot and stick for later consumption and have decided to read the novel before allowing myself to watch the PBS series. And I must say thus far I have not missed the carrot.

Stagnant moss collects no stones

Here I am: verdant moss clinging desperately to it's rock. Perhaps the rock will shake itself off and roll away, trampling the moss that rested so comfortably upon it. What will it do next? To what or whom shall it cling in order to grow? In the instability of today's world it becomes an ever growing notion that the rock upon which we sustain ourselves can instantaneously crumble beneath us. I had a great job not many months ago. Excited about my new position and enjoying the people I worked with, plans began to solidify in my mind for all the things the future held. Without any warning, the rock upon which I based my physical nourishment became as sand. Leaving this moss to the mercy of it's environment.
Perhaps, the moss should reconsider it's predetermined interactions with it's natural host and see itself in a different light. Why is it that the rolling stone gathers no moss? Upon consideration the stagnant moss gathers no stones, but rests upon it's one host...waiting.

My Inner Cat Lady

It may seem an odd thing to confess from an admitted cat non-enthusiast, but I have recently become aware of a growing tendency to embrace my inner cat lady. While the melancholy Hamlet queried, "To be, or not to be..." I find myself reflecting upon this spinster's dilemma: who or what will keep me company as my years increase. The cliche notion is for a woman in my station, a female bachelor, if- you- will, to begin the collecting of small furry creatures to fill a void left by the afore mentioned single status. (By the by when will someone introduce an equivalent female word to bachelor that doesn't connote desperation and shame? And don't try to swindle me with the suggestion of bachelorette. Seriously.) My philosophical quandary, while not of Hamlet's soulful proportions, is such that my mind battles between rejecting all notions of collecting any animals around me as surrogate children and family and embracing my self-proclaimed eccentricity and becoming the proud owner of a reptile room. But who will feed the little darlings their squirming victims? Knowing my incapacity to kill a spider crawling across my floor I woefully admit: not me. And so I must ask myself of my future, if I dare: to own or not to own. The only certainty my path holds is that I will never be an actual cat lady.

Does this make me look fat?

As per my modus operandi I am awake in the not so wee small hours. Cable holds little to offer. How many hours can one expound upon the delights of Jessica Simpson's miracle cure for acne, or the inumerable charms of a follicley challenged club for the insecure? Enter Gregory Peck. Yes please. Does it matter which classic it is? In this case it's one of my favorites, Gentleman's Agreement. The female lead can not fathom being considered an anti-semite. Here's a little hint if you require outside confirmation that you are not an anti-semite, racist, sexist, or just plain idiot's delight you may have your answer. In a post-modern United Nation's culture we magnetically crave the validation of external opinions to define who we are as human beings. What we see in the mirror each day holds little value as we slave to reflect back what we see on the television, in the movies, magazines, and all the other billion dollar industries thriving on our insecurities.I, myself, will consider it a victory when I no longer feel the need to ask: Do I look fat in this?