Short story!

I was an awful poster last year. I somehone got tangled in a web of self-doubt feelings combine with MAJOR laziness, so I didn´t write anything. I did end up writing a short story for a contest @ shrinktalk.net. Of course I didn’t win because a) it was lame and b) it was lame. I wrote it in about 30 minutes so I couldn’t do much editing or giving any interesting dimention and twist to the story.

I’m going to post it. I’m horrible with titles and I was in a hurry, so it is untitled. I forgot to add to the blogger not to put my name, but oh well.

Here it goes.

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A wave of relief filled Summer´s heart as she carefully caressed her cello. She looks at her picture on the desk with shock and disbelief; she’s no longer that girl in the picture. Her life turned 180 degree after that single episode two summers ago. She can’t make sense how a single event can chained her perpetually. Dullness, slowness, and obsession took over her mind, drifting her away from her precious cello.

This afternoon is not like any other, for the first time in two years she knew exactly what to do. She decided she’s going to accept the invitation as a soloist during the fall Bach festival, but as an especial request she’s going to play her own piece at the end of the concert. Summer is determined to perform the most prominent concert of her life. The uniqueness of this constitutes of small fragments of her life. Until this afternoon it didn’t have an ending, but now she knows how it must end. It should express her freedom and now she knows how and what to color.

Music for Summer is visual; she can see all sorts of colors and play with them. Every color in her piece is tied to memories. They are as bright as her mother tenderness to as dark as her hollow self. She’s painting a picture with her cello, but nobody knows what she’s painting unless they know fairly well the contrast from pain and joy. Her cello becomes her only window to the outside world, too bad she didn’t seek it earlier.

Summer worked diligently over 9 months for this especial concert, but aside from this, she decided to leave everything in order. She finally organizes a reunion with family and friends- people she loves, that for some reason she hid herself from. They were surprised, but please to finally see her up close. She knew how unfair she was to them and felt guilty over the time lost, but life is short and time is time. No one can go back in time; however, she knows she wouldn’t act differently.

Two summers ago she was a different person, but how on earth can she rescue old Summer? She needs her. She wants her. Is she dead? She knows the answer, but she can’t let her go. Perhaps if her memory was erased her pain will eventually go away and she’ll be back. If only there was such thing as a selective memory remover, then her problems would finally cease.

A silky, long, midnight blue dress, little makeup, a pearl necklace, and her typical ponytail will do the trick tonight. She’s not interested to be seeing, but mostly to be heard. If she could only hide herself with the cello everything would be perfect. She plays the classical pieces by Bach- Nothing she never played before. To her surprised she truly enjoyed playing them. Pleasure became unknown to her as the stranger took over her mind.

A small break comes before her piece. She’s extremely nervous and excited, but there’s something more; she feels her blood burning with passion. This was the greatest loss she suffered when the stranger took over. Now she knows that she’s finally getting a hold of herself. She’s going to play it flawlessly. It is all she ever wanted. As Summer starts playing her final pieces, her souls gets back into her body, finally meeting old Summer.  She is finally alive and thoughts about beautiful things that she has in her life starts to creep in. Sadly she concludes about her unforgivable choice of letting one life event ruin her life. Regrets fills her soul and a sea of tears start to roll down her cheeks.  It is the first time she cried. She was unable to cry after that event. There´s is something to it tonight.

The concert is over and she´s drowning in unexpected joy. Summer can’t really make sense out of this miracle; she wants to live. Sadly, it is too late, as she swallowed several pills of rat poison before the concert. It won’t kill her instantly and all she needs to do is waiting for the tender touch of death to invade her being. In the meantime, she chooses to spend her time wisely deeply lost in her memories.

 

Death is the cruelest teacher

 Hate= fear + anger

At least it is the definition I heard that suits me.  This is exactly how I feel about death, regardless of the scientific knowledge I gained over the years.  Aside from death, I don´t hate anything or anyone else.  I am aware that someday I´m going to die and I came to terms with it, but I´m afraid of a loved one dying. However, as a self-centered child, I was concerned with myself.

Going back to my not-so-out-of-the-ordinary childhood, I was tragically unable to come to terms with growing up, growing old, and death. To accentuate my death trauma, I had the luck of having someone enlighten me about the decomposing process.  As the imaginative child I was (and the adult I am) I would picture my lifeless body, full of warms eating my flesh. Not a cool image.

As a 5 year old I was puzzle with my new discover; I didn´t understand the twisted reason behind it. My family is mostly catholic and I attended a catholic school, so most of the answers to my questions were religion based such as “Well… there’s heaven and God wants you to return to heaven were we could meet and be all happy” and then came the scary if-and only if- “You behave well during this lifetime” and I would conclude that I wouldn’t allow to be in heaven because I couldn’t help misbehaving.

I was practical and I was scared of going to hell, so I learned a new skill; avoiding thinking about painful or scary subjects. I suppressed those thoughts as much as I can, especially the ones about my parents or loved ones dying. I suck when it comes to “Goodbyes”.

This new “skill” is far from being an asset. I don’t confront painful situations; I suppress thoughts and feelings. Running away isn´t the answer and I have so many lessons to learn before I die.  Death, despite of all the hate I have towards is, is the greatest teacher. You learn to value those you love and profoundly respect live. I´m completely Pro-life and I am a firmly believer that no one has the right to rob someone´s life. It is something that can´t be undone.

I´m still the same scared and fragile 5 year old running away from pain. I´m gifted at running away. However, when a family member passes away, I have no where to run to. I have to be there and face it. This is the point when I break into tiny pieces.

 

zombie reaching out

What does it take to be a writer? I am sure that everyone has something interest/meaningful to say, but what makes the difference?

For starters, tastes and preferences is one key factor. Most people I know are more comfortable telling a story, expressing feelings, or sharing anything else talking rather than writing. I personally prefer to write because I’m not good at talking. You could certainty hear me saying the most bizarre and superficial things because I have a hard time constructing coherent sentences. I’m best with imagery; I can form pictures easily in my mind, but when it comes to words, I stumble. Aside from taste and preferences, one could easily conclude that essential tools such as knowing the mechanics of writing are obviously key to becoming a successful writer. Taking into account that these elements are essential, however there´s one important piece missing; courage to expose ourselves.

We should keep in mind that writing is an art as well, just like ballet, painting, or playing an instrument. It is used for multiple purposes such as informative and there is no doubt that it is an essential part of our communication, but it is still an art, except in case of scientific writing or something of that sort.

As a chorus student, I recall my professor saying that the most successful artists are those who are not afraid to let their inner feelings out. Whenever I choose to engage in an artistic activity, I am aware that I am risking the exposure my soul by letting my inner feelings loose freely. I´ve been to countless classical music concerts, ballet performances (of course!), theater performances, etc. and I can honestly say that the ones that really “hits” me are those that I can connect with emotionally. The best performances are those where artists submerge themselves so much into the piece, which all sorts of sentiments come to the surface.

It’s a tough call to be any sort of artist because while we are out there exposing ourselves, we become vulnerable as well. It might be one of the reasons why a rejection or an awful critic is so painful to some artists. Not everyone is willing to reach those deep levels of vulnerability.

In my particular case, I have issues with vulnerability. I like to pretend to be soulless creatures unable to feel, especially pain. It turns out that this neurotic individual (points out to me) is simply scared to feel. In reality I’m fragile and extremely sensitive, but also a coward. I know I do ballet, play violin, and I used to sing, but I focus on the technical parts rather than giving myself the opportunity to express my emotions. My point with this endless ramble is: I want to stop fearing to get hurt. I believe that my fear of getting hurt is leading me to this zombie-like lifestyle. I know that I´ll get hurt at some point, but I know that this is part of like, just like death is. I don´t know how to do to accomplish such daunting task. If anyone has a suggestion, you are more than welcome to do so.

 

Ballet, oh, ballet….

I´m a masochist in every sense of the word; I have a passion for ballet. The training in itself could be pretty painful (especially while stretching and point) yet, there’s something about that pain that makes come back to it.  I love feel how my body molds to ballet as the years pass by, the sweat, lack of social life, fake smile I use while I try to make my movements seem effortless…  I enjoy all that. I can’t picture my life without doing ballet.

Today I decided not attend my ballet class due to a minor injury on my left foot. I feel so empty and lonely, not to mention that I have a tremendous need of endorphins…. 

I don’t think I could ever manage to accurately describe how addictive ballet can be… It’s just like smoking or taking any sort of illicit drug; you never have enough of it.

I hope I didn’t offend any dancers out there, but try to think of a time you had to take some time off, how did you feel?

It’s dangerous, in a way, to spend so much time on one thing.

 

Yikes.

Neurosis: The best word I can use to describe the thought process behind starting this blog.

I’m not quite sure- No, let’s be honest, I’m completely clueless (as usual) what I intend to do by creating this blog. There´s one thing I know for sure: I am craving to write. 

 I know I’m not making any sense, but I relate to “oh, the places you’ll go” by Dr. Seuss.  The same way we can travel (for those of us who read to keep our sanity) while reading a book, I’m hoping to explore different areas of my life using this blog as a portal.

This is a LAME first entry for a blog, but again, neurosis is what brought me here in the first place.