Dear Sir,
Thank you so kindly for using my strategically placed staging equipment as your own personal coat and hat rack. I apologize that 250 people watched me asked you to remove said items during my stage change. I hope I have not caused you too much embarrassment.
Sincerely,
Your Trusty Stage Manager
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Sorry
Today I decided I am only here to disappoint you.
I have nothing of interest to say and surely won't make you laugh aloud.
The ticks on visits to my blog have strangely been increasing. Once and while I have someone that admits to being a reader. Even when I hear that, I don't really assume a 'regular reader' or certainly not 'an everyday checker'.
But somehow... I average 5-10 hits a day and I haven't posted anything for three weeks. The math suggests I could have disappointed 210 people with no new material, or I suppose one really rabid fan, you freak.
The point is ... I wonder if you've all scared me into writer's block. Either that or I really have nothing going on right now... ha. But in case it IS writer's block. Nervous to write aloud. I am decidedly writing the most boring blog entry ever. Just to get it out there and over with.
There was one nugget of a writing idea I had but never moved on. I'll tell you my moment.
I forget how to be a girl sometimes. Obviously, my line of work aids the forgetfulness. The lack of emotion doesn't help. And when I had short hair, the grooming process wasn't particularly lady-like in length or prep or primp.
Now I have hair again. It's weird to have hair and I tend to forget what it means to possess it in abundance. Apparently, hair gets knotted sometimes, and maybe once and a while needs a brush to untangle the mess. I forgot about how much hair we lose in the shower and the number of ways to get loose strands off your fingers. I wish I didn't have to remember how much it sucks to have one strand of hair fall between your cleavage.
So I wake up one morning, take a shower ... plaster the loose strands of hair on the tile wall. I have nothing but time this particular morning, so I thought I would actually do my hair. I dig out the blow dryer and the flat iron - yeah, a no-holds-barred type of day.
I had already dressed and donned the necklace I am making an effort to wear every day (a task in and of itself for this self-proclaimed failure of a woman). I pop back into the bathroom to commence on the speedy drying process.
I end up burning my neck from the jewelry/dryer combo. This was something I was never taught as a woman. Who knew wearing something metal around your neck would heat to a burning degree by forced air. Jewelry last I guess. I certainly was never taught that. It's amazing that I'm still learning womanly lessons everyday.
So that nugget led my mind to the idea of writing about the "womanly lessons we never get taught". It bounced around in my brain for a bit... and then I realized:
I don't have the credentials to write that story.
I have nothing of interest to say and surely won't make you laugh aloud.
The ticks on visits to my blog have strangely been increasing. Once and while I have someone that admits to being a reader. Even when I hear that, I don't really assume a 'regular reader' or certainly not 'an everyday checker'.
But somehow... I average 5-10 hits a day and I haven't posted anything for three weeks. The math suggests I could have disappointed 210 people with no new material, or I suppose one really rabid fan, you freak.
The point is ... I wonder if you've all scared me into writer's block. Either that or I really have nothing going on right now... ha. But in case it IS writer's block. Nervous to write aloud. I am decidedly writing the most boring blog entry ever. Just to get it out there and over with.
There was one nugget of a writing idea I had but never moved on. I'll tell you my moment.
I forget how to be a girl sometimes. Obviously, my line of work aids the forgetfulness. The lack of emotion doesn't help. And when I had short hair, the grooming process wasn't particularly lady-like in length or prep or primp.
Now I have hair again. It's weird to have hair and I tend to forget what it means to possess it in abundance. Apparently, hair gets knotted sometimes, and maybe once and a while needs a brush to untangle the mess. I forgot about how much hair we lose in the shower and the number of ways to get loose strands off your fingers. I wish I didn't have to remember how much it sucks to have one strand of hair fall between your cleavage.
So I wake up one morning, take a shower ... plaster the loose strands of hair on the tile wall. I have nothing but time this particular morning, so I thought I would actually do my hair. I dig out the blow dryer and the flat iron - yeah, a no-holds-barred type of day.
I had already dressed and donned the necklace I am making an effort to wear every day (a task in and of itself for this self-proclaimed failure of a woman). I pop back into the bathroom to commence on the speedy drying process.
I end up burning my neck from the jewelry/dryer combo. This was something I was never taught as a woman. Who knew wearing something metal around your neck would heat to a burning degree by forced air. Jewelry last I guess. I certainly was never taught that. It's amazing that I'm still learning womanly lessons everyday.
So that nugget led my mind to the idea of writing about the "womanly lessons we never get taught". It bounced around in my brain for a bit... and then I realized:
I don't have the credentials to write that story.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
ART!!!
I think I am finally comfortable enough to claim this beast DONE!!!!
Nature's Graff
Acrylic & Oil Pen on 18" x 24" Canvas
M. Phelps Feb'10
Monday, February 1, 2010
Written in the stars
I've never been a good sleeper. It doesn't surprise me when I wake in the middle of the night. The tip of my nose feels frosty. I bet I could see my breath if my eyes would open. The dark around me is coming into focus. As much as the dark can, at least. The black opens ups to the stars. I can pick out the Big Dipper. The rest of the constellations are lost to me. Some shine brighter than others. But the snakes and frogs glow dimly...
I wish this story involved a sleeping bag and the balls to brave the winter in my new down mummy bag. Nay, she says. I'm in my childhood bedroom.
This house has an amazing way of changing while remaining the same. The walls are lavender. The furniture weird. This isn't my room. But that is my ceiling.
My mother couldn't bare to unstick all that I had stuck to my ceiling in my formative years. Glow in the dark stars in every shape, size and semblance. Every outer space needs amphibian life. A dozen or so glow mid suspension. I mean, really, what's Ursa Major without a neighboring snake?
Now, I wake in the same bedroom a different person. But my life is written in these stars.
My middle school years - my corduroys were big, my t-shirts long, and my hair shaggy. Us girls would find a reason to hit the concrete playground a few blocks over to gawk at the skater boys. One of which was a Florida transfer. Yeah, skater/surfer boy = immediate on/off crushing for the next few years of my life. All that ever came of it was one very intense night of passionate hand holding, but he was the one that started with the stars...
They were already in place. I'm sure I showed him their awesome power under the black light. When black lights were the coolest and I didn't realize how unattractive my teeth looked in front of a hot guy. I don't remember how the conversation started but I remember how it ended. He told me he was my lucky star. He took out the sharpie that every proper skater carries, mounted my blow-up chair and etched a B into one of the stars. His initial.
Over the next few years, most of the stars were lettered.
Middle of the night memories.
Some of these letters were shooting stars. People that burned bright and fierce. They left me ooOOoooing and Awwwwing, following their path with my outreached arm, but ultimately were swallowed by the darkness. My shooting stars hang heavy on my heart. Lost only to the ways of childhood friendships. Still, I wouldn't consider erasing their initial. They earned that spot at that moment in my life.
I have a North star. One that has been there no matter what direction my life has taken.
I've got stars that glow dimly over the years, but constantly. Reliable in nature and easy to find.
Then I have people that are left here. Stuck in the stars. Their memories. Their person. Stopped the day that I moved away from this ceiling. These stars aren't subject to time and change and life... these are the stars that are kept burning by feeling alone. That my heart won't change and doesn't want to.
It's hard to look up at this ceiling. I miss these people. I miss that sentiment. There are so many stories in these stars. But it's pretty cool to have a midnight space age rendezvous every time I come home... if only I still had that black light.
I wish this story involved a sleeping bag and the balls to brave the winter in my new down mummy bag. Nay, she says. I'm in my childhood bedroom.
This house has an amazing way of changing while remaining the same. The walls are lavender. The furniture weird. This isn't my room. But that is my ceiling.
My mother couldn't bare to unstick all that I had stuck to my ceiling in my formative years. Glow in the dark stars in every shape, size and semblance. Every outer space needs amphibian life. A dozen or so glow mid suspension. I mean, really, what's Ursa Major without a neighboring snake?
Now, I wake in the same bedroom a different person. But my life is written in these stars.
My middle school years - my corduroys were big, my t-shirts long, and my hair shaggy. Us girls would find a reason to hit the concrete playground a few blocks over to gawk at the skater boys. One of which was a Florida transfer. Yeah, skater/surfer boy = immediate on/off crushing for the next few years of my life. All that ever came of it was one very intense night of passionate hand holding, but he was the one that started with the stars...
They were already in place. I'm sure I showed him their awesome power under the black light. When black lights were the coolest and I didn't realize how unattractive my teeth looked in front of a hot guy. I don't remember how the conversation started but I remember how it ended. He told me he was my lucky star. He took out the sharpie that every proper skater carries, mounted my blow-up chair and etched a B into one of the stars. His initial.
Over the next few years, most of the stars were lettered.
Middle of the night memories.
Some of these letters were shooting stars. People that burned bright and fierce. They left me ooOOoooing and Awwwwing, following their path with my outreached arm, but ultimately were swallowed by the darkness. My shooting stars hang heavy on my heart. Lost only to the ways of childhood friendships. Still, I wouldn't consider erasing their initial. They earned that spot at that moment in my life.
I have a North star. One that has been there no matter what direction my life has taken.
I've got stars that glow dimly over the years, but constantly. Reliable in nature and easy to find.
Then I have people that are left here. Stuck in the stars. Their memories. Their person. Stopped the day that I moved away from this ceiling. These stars aren't subject to time and change and life... these are the stars that are kept burning by feeling alone. That my heart won't change and doesn't want to.
It's hard to look up at this ceiling. I miss these people. I miss that sentiment. There are so many stories in these stars. But it's pretty cool to have a midnight space age rendezvous every time I come home... if only I still had that black light.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)