a color party

a dear dear friend of mine celebrated her birthday this year by inviting a few of her good girl friends over for a night of color and cupcakes {and since i made them they were also colorful cupcakes}. we spent a good part of the night hunkered down throughout the living room making a color collage of our choice {i was red, of course}.

here is a little bit of the fun.








the collages:

crossing 520

this bridge has a special place in my memory as it featured prominently
in a dream of mine from several years ago.

in the dream the water lashed out at us as we crossed an empty highway
on foot. sneaker waves attacking us from the sides trying to pull us in.

in the dream we made it safely to the other side in a strange fast
forward fashion that only happens in sleep no matter how fast we think
time is flying.

but, in real life, we didn't make it and the bodies of what could have
been were carried to their watery death not long after the dream came
to me.

the experience as a whole, meant to be written out in a song, has so
far only come to me as a chorus:

sneaker waves won't let me be
a collision course in eucatastrophe
sweep me up and lock me in
hold me down and keep me thin

and for some reason, the photo evokes a dreamlike quality that brings
it all back.

a yoga practice begins...

i joined a studio on monday, which, as the quirk of my eyebrows you can't see suggests, is still a bit of an emotional commitment that scares me. it's a dedicated practice to my mind and body that comes with this dollar sign that makes me nervous. the first two months are reasonable because they lure you in like drug dealers with 2 months for $99 then hit you with $120 a month on the other side of the addiction.

and for some reason the dollar sign couples with these vague threats to my ego so i almost turned around two or three times on my way to the studio that first day.

my ego, the sly dog, is very comfortable in its position of power and it knows it cannot possibly stay the same with yoga. it threw up all these things in my way and then some more for good measure.

what if i can't afford it on the other side?
why don't i just stick with the Y {which i'm not going to at all right now for yoga or otherwise for a variety of reasons which the ego very well knows}? it's so much cheaper, you can swim or do cardio or weights?
what if....
what about...

all these pretty lame excuses flew at me left and right but i plowed on and made it there that day, and then next, and then again tonight.

and the practice, in a group of focused and dedicated students, is light years away from what i got from the Y and is more motivating and more of a challenge both physically and spiritually than i could ever find there. and, the heaviness of spirit that has been buzzing in my ears has started to fade and i don't even care any more if tomorrow is sunny or not.


oh, and one last thing. the first night after i joined, kept near-awake and hovering just below consciousness a lot because of my {strangely} sore joints, i had a dream that i could lean out over my leg, comfortably hold on to my feet and then lay my chest flat onto my thigh and hug it to me.

at this point, this can only happen in a dream, but man, it would be nice to be bendy like that.

bottle neck

so, the next post down is the most recent cause of sporadic posts here. whenever i have a post that is bigger than the time and energy i have to give to it, well, things just plug up until i can get the most important one out.

this one, in particular, i've been meaning to write since january 11th when my dad headed back to home to europe. and, i was pleased and honored to learn that some of you have even come to the blog specifically looking for the conclusion of the story of my father's visit. so, here it is and it's cost me about 2 hours of precious sleep, but it's worth it and i can finally draw a thick black sharpie line through the words dad blog on my most recent to do list.

thanks for being patient, and thanks for reading.

{and in case you missed the first two installments of this story, here and here they are}

and away we go.

{part three, written in six parts}

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there came a point in my father's trip
when the cracks began to appear

nothing major, mind you
just hairline evidence
of disapproval and criticism

but somehow
this time was different
no gaps began to show
no gulfs to slip into and disappear

because

i realized the words ran along a familiar theme
her voice one i recognized all too well
and somehow
i stopped being impressed with what she had to say

so we carried on

and the things i once called the flaws of my father
integrated themselves back into the tapestry of his being
adding color and dimension i have no right to judge.

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my mom gets an email for every blog post i write and several of these she has forwarded to my dad. but he's also discovered how to click from the email to my actual blog and has been reading through the almost 500 posts. {tangents: 1. now, i'm quite proud of him for this because he's rather overwhelmed by computers. and 2. i find it sweet when i start to talk about the idea of traveling to iceland with my friend sahra, and he knows exactly who she is a la my blog}

naturally, he's developed quite a curiosity about this band called radiohead, so on the drive home christmas eve i put on thom's cymbal rush as his first taste.

silence in the back, broken by a simple and sincere "this is nice."

and as the song closes and i switch to another disc for an actual radiohead song, he thinks i'm going to a new artist entirely and says "don't change it, more of this radiohead..."

yes. hell, yes.

i need to make him a mix.

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we had a date, just the two of us, and i think it's the first we've had in my 27 years as his daughter. despite a slightly later start than some, we did pretty well for being new at it.

the night began with the world's best eggplant french fries, a lavender soda, and more stories about his youth and my oma {grandma in dutch} in one sitting than i have ever heard before.

and that was merely the beginning.

next he took me to the 9th. beethoven's glorious symphony that culminates in a bass-carried opening that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

ode to joy

a commonplace concept and melody, lessened by careless reproductions. so when it's brought to its original {read: live} form and you can actually feel the familiar tune resonating from the strings of six or seven basses the genius of it stands out so simply and heart-achingly. joy cannot be more tangible than the feeling of listening to them live.

the double bass. a massive instrument mostly dedicated to the atmospheric plucking and notes that ride far below the melodies and harmonies. so when they started the opening measures after waiting over an hour for this finale...

well,

it was just perfect.

so perfect i had to see it again a few nights later with a dear friend, and my dad was the reason i got to see it then, too. the nudge. the reminder. the ticket. and so i had it not once but twice and it was glorious, each time in its own way. the first for my dad's presence, his slight hand gestures when the music got intense and overall our shared joy of music {i finally realize how i get my emotional sensitivity to music from my dad}, and the second for the closeness of two women friends and my cute little black dress that made its debut that night and both for the music. for the music. for the music. you just can't replace a live orchestra.

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there was one part of that night, though, that feels separate from the rest.
two moments, really, that stand up and out
resting away from the other memories
not letting me gloss over them in satisfaction and warmth

the first was a moment during intermission

we were meandering through the crowd
navigating floor after floor in our thwarted attempts to find coffee and tea
i could sense he was getting flustered by the third time we were disappointed in our search
and as we turned to enter the crowd once more, he took my arm confessing in this vulnerable and honest voice how much all the people unnerved him.

and somehow without consulting me, the part of me determined-to-maintain-at-all-costs-the-illusion-of-control stepped up, took over, and smoothly adjusted my body to gesture onward, break contact and force him forward and alone into the crowd with me following collectedly behind.

and,
i can't seem to forget that subtle moment of violence.

no, i don't use the word lightly though perhaps as a form of frustrated self-punishment.
i am unflinchingly disappointed in myself that i couldn't just meet my father at that place of helplessness. acknowledge him. somehow empathize. not even reply necessarily, but just continue forward softly, his arm linked with mine
instead of slamming the door on his face.

and not only that, but i did it again perhaps an hour later.



god, this next one breaks my heart to just think of it.


it's the moment we've all been waiting for
the entire concert hall
that magical moment the basses open up and deliver us the melody of ode to joy
unfortunately it's also when they timed vents to dump their dry air right across our faces
and my dad, recently recovering from being sick, starts to cough

well, not actually cough, but a sputtering attempt at concealing a cough to minimize the disruption of The Highlight for our nearest neighbors. but it's still fairly obvious to all in a four seat radius that something is sounding besides the instruments on stage.
and to make it worse, he can't seem to stop.

at first i wasn't sure if perhaps he had just started sobbing, but when i realize what's going on, i am at a loss for what to do. my mind isn't on the music anymore and i can no longer feel the resonace of the strings in my heart or body as i worry about the sidelong glances from a few seats to my right and fervently wish i could do something, anything, to make it stop for his sake, mine and our neighbors.

then he turns to me and makes his transgression worse by speaking! and saying in a clipped but at the same time way-too-loud-in-the-symphony-silence that it's the air. and even though what he was clearly asking for was a little sympathy and to share the load of his embarrassment and discomfort, all i can do is give him a look and shush him.

and that's when it happened again, the door making contact with his face and my hand hardly knowing how it went from being outstretched to that authoritative gesture that effectively closed the space between us.

and the irony of it all is that the very next day i found a cough drop patiently waiting at the bottom of my purse.

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the night before my father left we all gathered at my sister's house for dinner
i can't remember what we ate, but dessert was this fabulous chocolate that, in one of those small acts of symmetry, i just found and purchased for the first time tonight. some chi chi brand of spicy chocolate that heats up your mouth oh so delicately. yum.

but i digress.
back to the last night.

i remember being tired.
i remember spending too much of the night wading through the files on my old computer--i wanted to send it back to europe with my dad so he could become acquainted with macs, albeit an antiquated one.
i remember my dad pulling out his little ipod nano and admitting not knowing how to operate it {despite the cheat sheet my mom had carefully written out for him which was lying next to the ipod}. so we sat down at the kitchen table and i clearly showed him the one trick he needs: pressing the menu button as many times as necessary whenever he's lost until he recognizes the screen. the light bulb went on above his head and then it was time to go.
i remember the feeling in my stomach as he walked us out to the car.
and i remember clearly thinking i didn't want to say goodbye.
and finally, i still remember, the feeling that for the first time i was saying goodbye to a friend, and not just my dad.

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prologue:

and he still calls rather regularly. often on those nights when he can't sleep. and we talk if i'm able to answer or he leaves these charmingly addressed voicemails when i can't {hi tania, it's your dad...."as though i wouldn't recognize him" i think each time with a smile}

and when i said i was going to travel abroad this year, he asked if austria would be on the agenda. and i think it might just have to be.

fin. for now.

currently listening to: devotchka - how it ends on repeat for the past hour and a half. and dad, since i know mom will forward this post to you, you should go listen to the song by clicking ---> here <--- and pressing play on the little video window that pops up.

for sahra pt 2 {aka sunny day shoes}

for sahra

cages {redux}

so, a comment left about the first cages post {here} received a comment from a friend across the pond which finally got a response tonight. and i thought the dialogue warranted it's own post so here we are {and, i hope the connection between the posts and comments are clear}:

marcus said...

"...my life is absorbed by this trash and yet i get so much enjoyment out of it.."

Made me smile, TB is the perfect example of enjoyable trash. And sometimes that's OK, at least we don't watch X Factor ;)

There's only two things I've ever watched on TV, with any commitment - Actually, unlike you I own one, but don't use it, both shows are from TV but watched on DVD - Sopranos and Dexter.

TB is certainly 'sillier' than these, but y'know... The way my weeks have been going, silly is good. I feel a bit like I do after junk food though, buzzing but wandering what real food tastes like... And as it's an Alan Ball creation, it's a shame it wasn't a little grittier, darker (I know it's about vampires and monsters and blood! But it's a very teenage girl type of 'dark' IMO).

Anyways, hope the recovery is quick... And if you want something to make you think/throw the remote at the telly/the mouse at the computer, at least start by Googling John From Cincinnati - clever, weird, deep... Possibly ;)

and my response to him is:

okay, so two months late, but here's my response to your lovely comment, marcus:

there is a particular quality to this trash that sucks me in and makes me feel like that ugly worthless teenager i somewhere deep still cling to on bad days.

i know i've been ranting and raving for days on how mad i am at thom yorke for composing a song for the most recent twilight film when he's so vocal about his morals, etc, but really, all that foot stomping and fist shaking on my part is just because those movies scare me and i haven't seen either. they terrify and attract me in the same way fashion magazines push and pull me. i look at the movie posters and i see this carefully constructed reality consisting of beautiful people--flawless from their airbrushed faces to the designer clad feet--and there is this overlapping message of desire that is just screaming at me how unlike them i am, either the characters or the actors they've chosen to portray them.

and that makes me feel worthless.

or rather, it's just an opportunity for all of my insecurities as a person and as an aspiring film actor to parade around with trumpets and tubas and announce their presence in my psyche.

so, i'm afraid of those movies and stories like twilight and true blood that pull me in so much i lose a bit or even a lot of myself to the story. and it's a common response i have to all the adventure stories i submerge myself be it a vampire story or a kids book.

and also sad I'M not in a movie thom yorke is writing a song for.

sheesh. so that's the embarrassing truth about it.

and, i do appreciate your encouragement, marcus, and recognize the need and times to relax and zone out and just be absorbed, but i hope that i can find things that are somehow nathania affirming, like a good book in a bath or a lovely walk or an evening spent writing emails or blogging or plunking around on the keyboard, not stories that spit me out on the other side as a piece of un-confident goop.

currently listening to: thom yorke - hearing damage {the song from the most recent twilight film that i had to have a friend email me because i didn't want to buy the album and have the faces of the actor stare out at me from the cover of the cd case}

end of the day

trapdoors

how can i possibly spend an hour searching for something i know isn't there?
neither by google nor facebook or even, in desperation, bing do i find you.
the problem is, i don't have a name, at least not the right one
so the wrong is the only one i know how to enter
wrong
wrong
and wrong again.

so when will i stop looking for the wrong thing and just wait for the right one tiptoe up and knock on my door?
when will i possibly learn to act on the belief i deserve what i ask for?

in the meantime the years are spanned by thick dreams and i can't shake the distaste of seeing you again.

i cling to the hopeful note that i also dream of the lengthy elves of iceland and see the shifting bodies in the crowd take a shape i can't quite interpret.

more returned postcards

so, the other postcard {it's twin was sent here} landed on the far side of this continent and was returned to me with thanks through this photograph. it radiates warmth and makes the joy of sending out postcards an experience that is shared. often, i send them out and never hear a word or peep in reply and i often wonder, was the address obscured and it is doomed to live out its days in some post office purgatory? {what do they do with the mail that cannot be properly received i wonder?} or did it arrive a little battered, but telling its own stories of a journey through hands and machines and airplanes and more machines and more hands on the other side only to arrive on someone's bad day?

anyway, the point is that as much giddy-kick-my-heels-up-happy it makes me to send a postcard, in the past it's been a little bit of a lonely hobby. but now, when i see for a fact that it's not only been received, but has been appreciated since the moment its colors were spotted amongst the bills and fliers in my friend's mailboxes.

and, and AND, i even have started receiving postcards. i don't have an image of the galapagos sunset and brown ink that arrived in my box just a few days ago, but i tell you it was pure magic to my day. so i guess this is just one big thanks to all the sunshine that has been coming back my way.



currently listening to: a radiohead mix i made for a family i met at work who had radiohead playing when i came back in to the room to show them their photos. it turns out they are big fans but only have the studio albums and none of the fun songs i've discovered here and there over the years. that whole exchange really made my day yesterday. truly. :)

a change of plans

i'm more than a little bummed that our trip to portland got canceled
that minute, but the flipside is that i have a whole day to myself
tomorrow for the first time in months.

and i don't care that the groundhog ruled we get another six weeks
because it sure feels like spring.

small hands

it was a lazy gesture
the outline of his hand followed by my pointer finger
until suddenly it's my younger hand
holding still and expectant
while a fellow student traced the outside of my hand on construction
paper
and though the turkey has long been forgotten
the quiet pleasure of those pencil lines
on young flesh are stored in me
somewhere
or everywhere.

Pardon the brevity of words, but this was sent from my iPhone.

a stairway sun