Monday, August 23, 2010
Why do I dance?
Why do I dance? Because it is a challenge. Because I will never be perfect at it. It is the unexpected that keeps drawing me back to it. The questions, the ambiguity. It is the power of the creative process. It demands so much of you, but you are so deeply intertwined that unraveling a part of yourself would cause your spirit to wither.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Window Views
Iowa City, Iowa. Apartment.
A busy street with large American cars rushing by. College students walking by at all hours.
Johnston, Iowa. Bedroom.
A dense tangle of trees that expands into a forest. A broken garden swing, a grill, and a deck with a table, chairs, and umbrella. A family seated around the table. Birds, deer, turkeys.
Leiden, Holland. Room.
A brick wall with a vine, bushes, and trees that are a haven for seagulls. A large expanse of sky, and the smell of the sea that rides the breeze.
Rome, Italy. Window in the Capitoline Museum.
Intense sun beats down on the sand colored domes of an ancient city.
New York City. Room on the upper west side.
A drab brick high rise stands four feet from the window. A pigeon sits on the air conditioner unit. Glimpses of sunlight shine on the filthy pavement below.
A busy street with large American cars rushing by. College students walking by at all hours.
Johnston, Iowa. Bedroom.
A dense tangle of trees that expands into a forest. A broken garden swing, a grill, and a deck with a table, chairs, and umbrella. A family seated around the table. Birds, deer, turkeys.
Leiden, Holland. Room.
A brick wall with a vine, bushes, and trees that are a haven for seagulls. A large expanse of sky, and the smell of the sea that rides the breeze.
Rome, Italy. Window in the Capitoline Museum.
Intense sun beats down on the sand colored domes of an ancient city.
New York City. Room on the upper west side.
A drab brick high rise stands four feet from the window. A pigeon sits on the air conditioner unit. Glimpses of sunlight shine on the filthy pavement below.
Back to...
Written en route to the states, July 21st
I will soon be back in the land of friendly, confident, gum-chewing, PB&J eating, pony-tailed people. Where the portions are large and the cars larger. Where the customer is number one, and there is water waiting for you on the table at a restaurant. Of patriotic, proud people who race form one appointment to the next.
To Iowa, where the heat is stifling, the corn is ripe, and the farmer's market is in peak season. Where the ice-cream shop is the place to be on a Friday night, and where there are competitions for growing the largest squash or most beautiful tomato. Where the highway extends through rolling hills and small towns. Where the people are quick to smile, and quick to offer you a hand. To spacious Midwestern homes with mailboxes lining the street. Where deer threaten cars and mosquitoes are a menace.
To home, where there are baked goods always in the kitchen, coffee brewing, and the smell of pork chops emanates from the backyard grill. Where I can step outside and go for a hike, and where owls lull you to sleep. Where the night sky is littered with stars. Where biking is out of the question, because there are no shoulders or sidewalks. Where books line the shelves, beckoning to be read.
To my family who is a treasure. To discussions at dinner, cooking together, and chats around the bonfire. To late night astronomy lessons, and hikes in the woods.
Home.
I will soon be back in the land of friendly, confident, gum-chewing, PB&J eating, pony-tailed people. Where the portions are large and the cars larger. Where the customer is number one, and there is water waiting for you on the table at a restaurant. Of patriotic, proud people who race form one appointment to the next.
To Iowa, where the heat is stifling, the corn is ripe, and the farmer's market is in peak season. Where the ice-cream shop is the place to be on a Friday night, and where there are competitions for growing the largest squash or most beautiful tomato. Where the highway extends through rolling hills and small towns. Where the people are quick to smile, and quick to offer you a hand. To spacious Midwestern homes with mailboxes lining the street. Where deer threaten cars and mosquitoes are a menace.
To home, where there are baked goods always in the kitchen, coffee brewing, and the smell of pork chops emanates from the backyard grill. Where I can step outside and go for a hike, and where owls lull you to sleep. Where the night sky is littered with stars. Where biking is out of the question, because there are no shoulders or sidewalks. Where books line the shelves, beckoning to be read.
To my family who is a treasure. To discussions at dinner, cooking together, and chats around the bonfire. To late night astronomy lessons, and hikes in the woods.
Home.
Excerpt
An excerpt from my journal, written as I flew from Holland back to the States:
"Leiden is over. I've tried to extend my stay as long as possible. I love the city, but not for the place or culture as much as the people I met who made it so special. I will miss the sunshine in my room in the mornings, waking up to the sound of seagulls, biking around, and drinking coffee on canal-side cafes..."
"Leiden is over. I've tried to extend my stay as long as possible. I love the city, but not for the place or culture as much as the people I met who made it so special. I will miss the sunshine in my room in the mornings, waking up to the sound of seagulls, biking around, and drinking coffee on canal-side cafes..."
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