Creativity: The David O. Selznick Theory

GWTW Publicity:  Leigh, Gable, Mitchell, Selznick, De Havilland

David O. Selznick.  Producer in “old” Hollywood.  Said to have added the middle initial for flourish and musicality.  In many ways, the master mind behind 1939’s groundbreaking Gone with the Wind (GWTW).

He was also a man who got invested in the seemingly unimportant details like lace trim on petticoats and pantolettes.  Items that didn’t particularly matter to a movie audience.  One of the actresses playing Scarlett’s sisters recounted a story in the documentary about making GWTW.  She basically pulled Mr. Selznick aside and told him he was wasting a ton of money and time including this level of workmanship on their costumes.  In almost any shot, no one would even know it was there.

“You’ll know it’s there,” he reportedly said.  “Now finish getting fitted.”

Mammy helping Scarlett dress

The creative mind knows more than it shows.  There is always a backstage we don’t get to see from the audience.  The producer believes in nuance that is layered.  Ready to be peeled away if the right moment comes (i.e. a telling scene between Scarlett and Mammy).

I was chatting with a coworker the other day, and she also happens to believe writing is important to sanity.  Editing, we agreed, is both the bane and blessing of every writer.  Sometimes we edit even before the words make it onto the page.  Hours of research may yield only a paragraph.  We may know the full case history of every character before we ever introduce them to someone else.  I’d call it all a calculated risk.

It’s like sewing lace on an antebellum petticoat, the whole time asking yourself if anyone will ever even know.  The labor?  The love?

It’s an intimate process, but it must be done.

Somewhere out there, someone is asking “why?”  Because if you’re going to commit to this act of creativity, you have to COMMIT.  You have to pull a Selznick and have your characters wear fine lace undergarments while you schedule a huge fire.

Yes, a fire.

First of all, you have to schedule a fire is because you have to clear the way for new production.  In GWTW, there’s a huge sequence around the burning of Atlanta.  In the 1930s, however, CG was not as sophisticated as we’ve grown accustomed to.  Based on the lace anecdote, you shouldn’t be surprised when I tell you that Selznick wasn’t going to be fine and dandy with some miniatures being burned or an artistic rendering of faux flames at work.  Instead, the solution was burning down sets of previous films, creating nearly 2 hours of footage for the famous scenes.

That was different twist on “out with the old and in with the new.”  Or as (arguably) Faulkner said, “Kill your darlings.”  No previous labor should stand so powerful in your mental landscape that you can’t set fire to it for the sake of building something new.  As one of my mentors would say, “cling loosely” to those darlings.

A word of warning however:  don’t expect to get off scot-free.  You may lose something in setting fire to the old stuff.  That little fire stunt cost the GWTW project roughly $25k.  And residents in surrounding areas were calling the fire department in genuine worry; they didn’t know it was a planned burn.  In essence, stripping away the old doesn’t come without a price or misunderstanding bystanders.

The second reason for that enormous fire is as a backdrop for new action.  A beneficial corollary of burning down old movie sets was that Selznick’s crew could then build new sets for the rest of the film.

Consider it Gestalt in action.  The fire and lace interludes become a part of the producer.  If nothing else, it is added to his repertoire as something completed in the past and therefore possible in the future.  Even better, it leads his imagination toward a blank slate.  A freshly installed playground for …

Matte paintings.  Interior sets on GWTW didn’t have ceilings; they were all matte paintings.  This allowed Selznick to propagate the embarrassingly elegant (to Margaret Mitchell) vibe.  He was going for visual extremes.  Realism wasn’t a priority unless he wanted it to be.  What producer would claim any different?

Tenuous, step-by-step on the wire is the life of a producer.  Let's get real:  creator.  By most accounts, Selznick never flourished again quite like he did in the furnace of GWTW.  If we’re honest, we can only guess why.  It doesn’t matter though.  Most of those subsequent films are inconsequential to the average person.  And so I will leave you with one thought:  if you were only remembered for one thing you did, would that be enough?

Think about it.

Selznick with Leigh at the Academy Awards

If Food for the Stomach, Why Not the Mind? (Asking One of the Dead Greek Guys)

Let me ask you a question.  If you knew your oatmeal was laced with arsenic, would you continue to eat it?  That may seem too loaded a question, so let me put this to you a different way.  If you found out kale was actually as unhealthful as high fructose corn syrup, do you think people would continue to eat it as we do now?

If we really thought about it, the logical next step would be to discontinue eating it.

Now look at the same topic again from a different vantage point.  When someone repeatedly drinks too much, they’re said to be addicted.  This carries the threat of bad health and death from complications.  The same goes for smoking.  The same goes for any behavior that can be dubbed addictive.  These are widely accepted precepts.

Next I’ll turn your attention to the idea of entertainment.  Music.  Books.  Games.  Movies.  These are meant to engineer “fun.”  They facilitate “escapism.”  And me—well, I’m a creative type who loves to encourage my imagination.  Imagination is how I get those deep thoughts churning for the writing I love so well.  I’ve got a doctor’s excuse, right?  And if this escapism is actually killing my soul?

Oh, we’re not supposed to think in terms like that.  We must keep things light, fluffy, and as full of substance as cotton candy.  But cotton candy rots our teeth, which are designed to slice through meat and break down vegetables.  I’m probably getting too esoteric, so I’ll break it down in blunt terms.

Think of a time when you watched a movie right before going to bed and had a dream with some of the same ingredients as the movie.  (For me, a recent example was dreaming about being operated on after a House marathon.)  The escapism lingered in my mind.  It affected me even after the fun was over.

People ask me all the time:  “Why no R-rated movies?”  “Why don’t you listen to secular music?”  And you know, sometimes, I don’t feel like I have a solid reason.  Recently, however, my resolve was renewed.

I read a book that has been lauded for about 20 years; it’s currently enjoying success on a cable mini-series.  It was so highly touted that I thought I’d give the author a shot.  Being an 800-page epic, I knew it would keep me occupied for a while.  The first 200 pages were slow going, but things got intriguing after that.  Then, I started noticing something:  the negative, bad events in the story lingered in my mind like a trauma that happened to me.  Scenes echoed in my head like the words of a top-40 song in department stores.  It felt like everywhere I turned my thoughts led back to that same garbage.

I felt like I needed to spring-clean my mind.

Some ask, why no R-rated movies?  Because I can’t unsee what I’ve seen.  Because I can’t put my brain in a bath and Calgon-away the memories of something that injures my humanity.  Because I have been down that road before, and I know it doesn’t lead anywhere good.  Scattered from beginning to the end of the Bible, I read that the faithful will see God’s face…  I want that.

Some ask, why no secular music?  Because words have power.  Words I say and words I hear.  If Mark Twain could live a month on a good compliment and I’m charged with speaking life to people around me, I can’t intentionally pour a deadly poison in someone’s ear.  Because the ear tests words the way the tongue tastes food (Job 12:11).

Some say, why not continue if you have already begun?  Because I will not continue to eat arsenic-laced oatmeal.  No, I cannot put my mind in a bath and receive a convenient case of amnesia.  But Jesus can cleanse me (i.e. Luke 17).  When I call His name and ask Him to wash away the filth I invited into my mind, my mouth, my life, He washes me.  Just like He did with the lepers along the road.  He says the word, and it’s done.

“Go.  The opposite direction you were going before.”

When I get whirled around and disoriented.  When I start walking on the old road on purpose.  He meets me and says, “Go.  The opposite direction you were going before" (i.e. Prov. 24:16).

Name, Rank & Serial Number

Kids have the greatest knack for being literal, causing you to question how you communicate, explain, teach.  A couple of the absolutely brilliant boys I mentor heard me say a phrase one night, and all of a sudden, I was explaining something so much bigger than just the literal –and they were getting it.

The phrase was “name, rank, and serial number.”

For someone like me who grew up with ex-military around, the meaning is  as innate as the verb to be.  Not so for these 10-year-olds.  They have lived their years in San Francisco, probably with little exposure to military speak.  How to explain it then…?

I didn’t want to talk to them about Guantanamo Bay or ISIS/ISIL/Islamic State.  I didn’t want to talk in more terms they wouldn’t understand.  I didn’t want this to be a moment when their curious eyes glazed over because the boring adult couldn’t teach them.--  Oh, I knew what I didn’t want.

Deep breath.  And the briefest call to God as I dove in.

“Name, rank, and serial number?  It’s like when you’re a soldier and the enemy catches you.  Sometimes they want to find out stuff, so they ask you a bunch of questions.  But you’ve been trained to say the same thing over and over:  name, rank, and serial number.

“So if Satan comes and asks, ‘who do you think you are? You’re nobody,” you can say, ‘I’m M--.  I’m a son of the Most High God, and He has a plan for my life.’”  I turned to look at the other boy.  “And you can say, ‘I’m J--.  I’m a son of the Creator of everything that ever was.  He made me in His image, and I’ve been chosen to show you who He is.’”

Even as I write this, it seems like a lot for a kid to comprehend.  But in reality, they can handle more spiritual meat than we give them credit for.  These growing guys got it.  The conversations we’ve had since then show that they get it.  So regardless of whether someone tells them they’re not cool or not good enough or whatever, they’re learning that because God’s word is always true, they don’t have to worry about the lies.  They’re memorizing their identity in Christ.  They’re letting Him etch it into their hearts and memories.  Each day, they’re learning what it means to know who they are.

I could do with a little refresher myself sometimes.  “I am Valonna, daughter of the King, Who brought me out of misery to bring me into joy” (Deut. 6:23).

Cliffwalking

The piece you're about to read is one I wrote about a year and a half ago.  I was going through a ton of change, heading to a new level in God.  Giving Him things I’d held very tightly.  God had me taking prayer walks through different parts of the city.  On one particular walk, I knew the destination at the beginning, but partway through, I felt like God was telling me to take a detour.  It didn’t make sense to me, but I figured, “hey, I’m following God, so I might as well follow Him this way too.  What’ve I got to lose?”  So I made the turn, and it quickly became apparent that I was actually going to get to my destination sooner than the previous route would have got me there.  In my spirit, I could hear God telling me, “See?  You’re worried that the detour is taking you farther away, but it’s actually bringing you closer to where I want you to go.”

That conversation inspired this, which I read at a Coffeehouse Fundraiser for the 2014 Philippines Mission Trip.

*     *     *

You’re so very near me.

We’re standing beside a precipice, so close to the edge, I think one deep breath might send me flying.  The deep breath before the dive…

You look at me with protective pride and say, “My daughter.”

You look at me with jealous fervor, “My bride.”

You whisper to me, “My protégée.”

Here I stand, emboldened by awe.  My God, my All in All.

You look at me, and I remember who I am, who I want to be.  When I look in Your eyes, there’s an ache in me that only sinks deeper as I draw closer.

You hold Your arms wide to hug me tight to Your side.  You hold Your arms wide to keep the world at bay:  “Nothing will snatch you from Me,” You say.

You clutch my hand and gently… insistently… pull me along this path I can barely see.  I ask you over and over where we’re going.

            It’s when I’m quiet I can hear you say like a lover, “Trust Me.”

It’s then You stand behind me, so close I can feel Your lungs expand with each breath.  You cover my eyes with Your hands.  I can feel Your right foot move forward, so I step with my right leg.  Not too far, partly because Your grip on me is firm, and partly because I don’t want to lose contact with You.

            “I trust You.”

I can hardly hear myself say it.  Again, with more fortitude.  “I trust You.”

Off to the side, I think I hear something.  What is it?  Some attacker?  A harmless animal?  I turn my head toward the sound, but Your fingers guide me back to center.  There’s a din up ahead, and fear of that sound makes me bristle, but You’re still right there.

            You are undeterred.

            I am locked into step with You.

            We are stepping forward.

“Oh, God, what’s going on?  I need to see where I’m going.”

“No, you don’t.  Trust Me.”

Something inside me starts to resist You.  Why can’t I see?  I have a right!  How can I show others the way if I don’t know how to describe the landmarks?  Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m prying Your fingers away from my eyelids.  I NEED to see what’s up ahead.

Just as one eye gets a peek, I hear Your voice in my ear.  There’s something there…in Your voice… like You’re more determined for me to make it than I am.  Your voice:  it’s not loud, but it’s so… strong.

            It makes me pause.

            “This is the way.  Walk in it.”

This is the way?  Something like a wave of certainty floods through me, and I’m suddenly so anchored in You, the edge of this cliff no longer taunts me.

How can I deny You?  I know how You see me.  You see worth in me when no one including me sees any.  You call me Wanted when I am rejected and forgotten.  No, to You, I am Wanted.

Walk in it?  The fear barking all around me grows quiet at Your command.  When we stand this close, there is nothing that can drown out Your words.

How can I deny You?  You love me and call me Loved when I KNOW  I am unlovely.

You, who teach me when I am dull and confused.  You tuck me next to You and explain mysteries.  To You, I am Confidante.

How could I deny You Your heart’s desire?  To walk with me on this perilously narrow trail, too insignificant to be called a road…

            …

            “If this is the way, I will walk in it.”

Hope Rising

This poem was featured in an multimedia art gallery for the 2013 Christmas Celebration at Glad Tidings Church.

Deep night

On a voyage just begun.

She looks down at her baby’s face…

A journey to a new town for a labor she’d never expected.

Strangers all around them:  nameless shepherds and anonymous nobles.

They were here to worship her Son.

She couldn’t have imagined this night.

She sensed there was more to unfold.

It would explode like a star in the sky

                                                           Tomorrow?

                                                                              Years from now?

She could only wonder, and so she

                                        Treasured

                                                                               these things in her heart.

* * *

She walked toward the garden

Clutching spices in her hands.

She fought the heaviness,

The sickening numbness that engulfed her heart.

She still couldn’t believe He was gone.

She didn’t know that His eyes were trained on her approach.

How He loved her, this frail human in His repairing grasp.

His eyes warmed as He thought how she would

Live and

               Love and

                               Speak of His heart to others.

She stumbled closer to the tomb,

And He remembered how He’d

                                   Treasured

                                                                           them all

             —all the unlovely and unlovable ones—

      as He stumbled under that cumbersome cross.

It wasn’t on the pain He focused

—that was only a fickle torment.

No, He lingered on the plans His Father had for their future.

He

    Treasured

                          those plans as though they were for Him.

She looked up into His face and gasped, seeing a stranger.

She didn’t know Him yet.

But then, the world had only begun to know Him. 

Hope had risen like a beacon star in the night sky.

What Does My Worship Look Like?

What does my worship look like?

It has to look like more than a mere song and dance.  “I will not offer to God that which costs me nothing.”  It costs me girlish ignorance.  It costs my abdicating a task.  Instead, I find myself getting dusty, sweaty, and climbing scary heights.  I give up service, not because I’m scheduled to do it but because someone else needs it.

God, You want worship from a willing heart, one that counts the cost at the outset but doesn’t meditate on it every step of the way.  So, God, help me give to You something I have that You want.

A heart willing to die for You.

Is that so foreign then?

We say we’re dying for water or chocolate or fill-in-the-blank.  Sometimes we even say we’d die for You.  A death that is entirely too figurative for Your liking.  You’re looking for a heart that feels like it’s dying if I don’t aim to please You.  Maybe that’s the key.  It’s doesn’t matter as much what the target of the arrow is as where I stand when I shoot it.

Do I stand on a plain of thorny discontent?  Worship is pleasing God.  “Grumble, grumble, murmur” almost guarantees missing the target.

“Here is my heart.  It hurt to pull it from my chest, but here it is, God” means He smiles.

He accepts.

He meets.

He exults.

He gives me His heart in turn.

I will not offer to God that which costs me nothing.  Joyfully, I will delight in giving Him my heart.

Reflection: In the Mirror

Maybe none of you have these moments, but I do...

The ones where you look in the mirror and see something completely different and separate from reality...

Since the beginning of the year, I've lost about 2 sizes, which isn't a huge amount.  The more remarkable part for me is that I still sometimes look at my reflection in shock.  I'll put on a tried and true shirt, look at my reflection and exclaim, "What happened?"  There's real consternation there.  I think I enjoy the idea of "shrinking."  I even have goals in the back of my mind of shrinking further.  But truly, there's a disconnect somewhere.

I think it happens a lot for us girls, where we get accustomed to being overweight or of sub-optimal beauty, and we look for that in the mirror.  When we see something else staring back at us, we're surprised.  Even if it's good.  Even if it's real.  It reminds me of what a dear friend astutely said once:  "Someday, someone's going to tell you who you are, and you won't be shocked . . . ."

So I got a bit of money for my birthday, with strict instructions to buy myself some new clothes that don't fall off.  To Goodwill I went with my astute friend, shopping for new jeans and maybe a top or two.  I took 2 pairs of jeans into the fitting room, and seriously doubted my eyes when it didn't look like my butt was sagging.  The pants looked good.

What?

Friend confirmed the jeans were winners.  Now to search out shirts . . .  and again I enter the fitting room, expecting lackluster or even bad results.  But no, Friend assures me both options are great.  "It doesn't make me look dumpy?"  I ask.  "No," she answers with an eye roll.

Foiled again by ye olde self-image.  I went into that fitting room expecting to see a girl who didn't fit the clothes.  Yeah, the old self is supposedly dying.  Daily.  But I really think this thing gets resurrected daily--if not momentarily.  In short, I'm losing weight, but I'm keeping it on the inside.  Might as well keep only funhouse mirrors around, for all the good real ones do me.

How utterly ridiculous.  Counter-intuitive.  Counter-productive.  Counter to reality.  Someone (another astute person in my life) asked once, "Isn't it wonderful when our experience aligns with reality?"  Wouldn't it be great if the girl in the mirror were the same girl we saw there?  It's still something on the horizon, and it is my hope that your self gets reflected on the outside, undistorted.

I remember (from my brother's tutelage) in the DC universe that Bizarro is the distorted clone of Superman.  His skin is gray, and his "S" emblem is backwards.  He uses Tarzan English, and he's usually depicted as more than a little dense.  He is Superman's less than mirror image.  You name it, Bizarro is less than the epitome that Superman represents. . . .  This should be sounding familliar to you.  Don't take the metaphor too far, but sometimes we see ourselves as Bizarro when our loved ones see Superman.  We are our own worst critics, right?

Booooooooooo.

Now for a startling maneuver:   we look in the mirror, saying, "I am beautiful.  I am lovely" (If a Man Answers, 1962).  Shocking, I know.  We might start to believe it.  Our blind spots might shift from their current locations.  We might see loveliness even in bad lighting and unflattering angles.  It's just shocking enough to turn our reflected world on its ear.  And that's really all we're trying to do:  make our reflections match reality.

Remember

Remember.

The chorus word God tells His people.  Remember who He is and what He's done.  Remember who they are in relation to and because of Him.

Um, me too.

I stand convinced I've been struggling with my identity so much for so long becuase I forget.  That also lines up with what God told me last fall:  Don't keep finding out who you are only to forget again.

I run around forfeiting my territory and my rightful claims on God's promises.  As a result, I go grasping for any facsimile that looks good at the time.  I'm left weak, bitter, adrift.  No wonder James 1:5-8 cuts me like a knife.  It's meant to.

No wonder I feel abandoned.  I've haven't been left; I've left.  That's the crux of the issue.  I run over every parcel of land, screaming, "God's left me.  He's failed me."  The fact is, I've deserted the place He prepared for me, where there is shade from the sun and cool water to drink.  If His embrace is my shield (Genesis 15:1), I've left His embrace over and over.

Then I get attacked.

When I leave Him, peace leaves me.  I'm open season for old attacks:  rejection, anger, pride, doubt.  Wow.  I don't know that I've ever seen it this starkly before, sans altar experience.  I've somewhat identified parallels between my relationship with God and Gomer's with Hosea.  Ouch.

Create in me a clean heart, Oh God,
And renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from Thy presense, Oh Lord,
And take not Thy holy spirit from me.
Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation,
And renew a right spirit within me.

"When the pattern is right, the glory will fall." --Joe Oden

God, I want a new pattern.

Taken from a prayer written on 27 March 2011.

Classified: Personal

Ever go people watching and make up an entire backstory for someone?  One random Friday night, my friend and I went to a restaurant in the city and had such fun watching the waitor and apparent manager of a restaurant, we created an entire story for them.

Daniel:

Loves fishing, making pottery, going to art galleries, playing checkers on weekends with grandpa.
Rides vintage clunkery Vespa.
Co-owns biz because he loves Theresa.
Afraid of color (wears black all the time).
French derivation; immigrated young, so he has a little bit of accent.
Secret talent: juggling.
Great laugh, self-deprecating.
Impatient but always running late.
Careless with money.
Quit smoking 2 yrs ago.
Horrible dancer.

Theresa:

Loves to read, jazz, old movies, bittersweet chocolate, hot pink roses.
Bicycles everywhere.
Hates pants.
Has eyebrows done every 2 weeks.
Hates the color green; used to be CPA.
Lets emotions get bottled up inside.
Looks forward to tutoring students every Monday afternoon.
Never wears sandals (child ballerina, has neglected feet since).
More than social drinker but has decreased frequency and quantity.
Secret talent: macarena.
Adores her cat, Charlie; she volunteers at humane society.

"The names have been changed to protect my fiction."

Question of Identity (Cardboard, Vol. 2)

If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people. -Virginia Woolf

All too often, we try to pigeonhole someone we've just met based on first impressions or a handful of interactions.  Yet we feel we ourselves are more complex, that we deserve more credit than this.  Unconsciously, we propogate the simplicity though, saying "i'm an accountant" or "i'm a mother" or something else on a list.  We have aided and abetted the misnomer. . . .

Once upon a time, God was chillin' in a burning bush when Moses asked, "Who are You?"  God didn't toss out a job title or a family role; He didn't even really name Himself.  He gave Moses an answer far more complex:  "I am who I am. . . . I AM has sent you" (Exodus 3).

Perhaps I took the movie The Ten Commandments too much to heart.  When I was in elementary school, my teachers gave creative writing assignments with apparently simple questions like "who are you?"  With truly obnoxious glee I would turn to someone and say, "I am Valonna; I am me."  As far as I was concerned, that was answer enough, but I knew the teachers wanted more, so I provided paragraph upon paragraph of information.  Information that could have been applied to any other elementary-aged kid.  To read these juvenile descriptions was not to meet me.  They briefed someone on my hobbies, but didn't show them who I was.

In some cultures (some Native American ones for instance), parents don't name their children for days, months, even years.  Their reasoning is this:  when the baby is born, they do not know this new person, what they like/dislike, how they interact with the world, what feats they will accomplish.  The parents in these societies watch and wait to name the children, and when that name is revealed or earned, it means much more to answer the question, "who are you?" with a name.  The person has their history tied up inside the sounds of their name.  They give their name, and they give a portion of their identity.

But it's still not who they are.

Who are you that is not merely a name, a job title, a family role?  Who are you besides introvert or extravert, ethnicity or religion?  Who are you beyond your height, eye color, and other vital statistics?  Where are you coming from, and where does that have you headed?  What experiences have been so much built into you that they are you?

According to the Gestalt Theory, the whole is more than the sum of its parts.  Do you think maybe there is some essense that makes you you and no one else?  You are more than you think you are.  Are you so busy trying to tell people who you are that you forget that extra little piece?  Do your descriptions easily apply to any other person in your demographic set?

Or maybe you're waiting to know who you're dealing with before you reveal who you are.  Wearing a mask in the meantime.  It's comforting to wait in the wings until you know how the play is going, plotting out the perfect moment to make your entrance.  Once we know the players, we decide who we are.  Which begs the question:  if you decide who you are based on who you're with, how do you know who you are?

Evey Hammond: Who are you?
V: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what and what I am is a man in a mask.
Evey Hammond: Well I can see that.
V: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation I'm merely remarking upon the paradox of asking a masked man who he is.
Evey Hammond: Oh. Right.
V: But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona.

In Perfection

Perfectionism is the mother of all things unfinished.

George Lucas is quoted as saying that films are never finished, merely abandoned--an echo of Beethoven's thoughts on composing music.  I cannot speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself and a handful of beautiful people mired in their own plans when I say this:  failing to complete is the very devil in us.

Fear of completion
Fear of failure
Fear of success
Fear of imperfection
Fear of judgement

They all lead to the same thing:  the failure to act.  The goal is not just unmet; it is unmade.  As sure a sign of juvenility as an unmade bed.  But you see we still have to lie in that bed, whether we made it this morning or not.  Rather than always trying and sometimes failing, we have decided never to try and always succeed at failing.

Counterproductive.  Yet the cycle continues.

Perfection does not exist on Earth.  But do we really want it?  Greta Garbo's face is said to have been aesthetically perfect; all the measurements and symmetry were there.  She is seldom called one of the greatest faces of all time, however.  That is more often affixed to the likes of the enigmatic Mona Lisa, whose eyes are too close together and whose mouth is too small.  Her face fascinates us, draws us closer, until she's in danger of fading in the blitzing flashes of tourist cameras.

So, instead of trying to ward off horrible writing, fearing imperfection in my blog posts, I offer this one up.  Virtually slapdash, a literary crime of passion.  The passion for words is what drives me on when the perfectionistic fears swell.  Passion is what began this affair, and I can't let thoughts of failure squelch it.

Brainiactivity

It has been said that I only appreciate the intellectual side of life.  It is true that I luxuriate in the brainy parts of the universe around me, but I wanted to clear the air.  Yes, silliness and I are on friendly terms.

Exhibit A:  I like to text ridiculous slang to the person three feet from me when speaking is more expedient.  It is not unusual to find "wassup?" in my text history.

Exhibit B:  Especially when I know the person calling me, I will frequently answer with "yo!"  And yes, I still sometimes greet my mother with "yo, yo, Ma!"

Exhibit C:  I have a very good Tuscan Raider impression.  No one who is purely intellectual will pride themselves on an impersonation of a Star Wars character in Star Wars:  Episode IV:  A New Hope.  That is called geeking out.

Exhibit D:  Sometimes leaning against my friend is all I need.

Exhibit E:  I like to laugh convulsively with little to no provocation.  Sometimes I have an accomplice, but not always.  The word "asparagus" once set me off for 5 minutes.  There was a documented recording, but I believe that laptop has since been wiped clean.

Exhibit F:  Endless pleasure abounds from my own twist on 2 Timothy 4:20:  "I left Trophimus sick in my lettuce."  Something tells me my friends' laughter is borne of toleration rather than amusement.

Exhibit G:  The fact that I list movies like The Time of Their Lives (1946) and The Pink Panther (2006) as favorites should speak for itself.  By that same token, quotes like "buy you a soda after the game" hardly call for Mensa and yet are hilarious to me.

Exhibit H:  Roller coasters make me squeal with delight.

Exhibit I:  Nature takes my breath away.  The ocean, clouds, butterflies lighting on pansies, rainbows, and the storms that lead to them.  They're all more than the human mind can find words to encompass them.

Exhibit J:  It's a happy point of curiosity that when something falls between two people, that both bend to pick it up, and will frequently bump heads or hands in the process.  There's almost always an apology.  Why is that?

I hope these examples clarify the situation.  However, I reserve the right to revisit the subject should any rebuttals arise.  Until that time, you might say the defense rests.

Eleanor and Cardboard

"Do one thing everyday that scares you." -Eleanor Roosevelt

I was having dinner at a friend's house, and I saw the quote on a refrigerator magnet.  What would happen if you did do one thing everyday that scared you?  What would happen if you did something even once a week?  We both agreed that soon you would either be afraid of nothing . . . or dead.

So avoiding death, and consequently ruling out skydiving without a parachute, how do you pursue this?  What does it mean for you?  A million common fears probably come to mind.  Public speaking, flying, clowns, snakes, dancing when someone else is in the room.  Anyone cringing yet?  Eating alone in a restaurant, voicing an opinion, getting a tattoo, lacking a boyfriend/girlfriend, spiders, cutting/coloring your hair.  How about now?  Revealing a secret talent or skill, relinquishing control, heights, vanilla ice cream and peanut butter.  Getting the picture?

Where snakes are an unusual texture to one person, and peanut butter is a natural complement for vanilla ice cream to another, the same individuals face serious hurdles with dancing and solo-restaurant-going.  In those pursuits, the person suddenly suffers bouts of anxiety.  Maybe, just maybe, fear of failure is the prime motivator in what scares us, and the rest of the time our fears are rooted in the unknown.

Because as we're all aware, the known universe does not extend beyond ourselves, and when we don't meet our expectations of success, that universe self-destructs.--Oh, wait, that's just our misconceptions evaporating.

Imagine a documentary as narrated by an alien from the galaxy of Andromeda:

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Earth, where humans consciously and unconsciously place themselves and all others inside cardboard boxes.  They put the lid on the box but don't seal it with so much force as scotch tape, poke a few air holes in the top to provide some token ventilation, and call it good.  Never mind the fact that cardboard smells atrocious as soon as the rain comes.  Never mind the fact that they can break cardboard down easily enough.  No, they squat in their little cardboard boxes, afraid to step, crawl, jump out and do the little thing that scares them.  Because smelly as it is in there, it's home, and it's known.  'I know this universe,' they say to themselves, as they peek through the airholes at their fellow prisoners.

"Occasionally, they grow curious or jealous of others' cardboard prisons and abandon their original domicile in search of larger, more commodious confines.  Only to find the stench is only slightly altered by the higher quality corrugation. . . .  Back they trudge to their boxes, toting a sandwich board enscribed with their failure.  It reads, 'Attempted to break free of Box Theory.  Panic and fear administered in high dosage.  All systems equalizing.'

"Back they go.  Lid slides back into place.  They are home.  They are defined by closing themselves into what they will not do, will not try, and consequently will not fail.  They are not afraid because they are where they know they're known.  They are comfortable again, and others are theoretically comfortable with them here where they are known.  Others are not scared, and supposedly neither are they. . . ."

What then is this thrumming beat in our chests, this constricting sickness to our stomachs?  It is the curiosity that won't go away, no matter how much fear and panic is administered.  It is the desire to dance like nobody's watching, sing like nobody's listening, speak like nobody's judging.  It is the desire to be who we're meant to be, who we want to be.  In short, it is the desire to do the thing that scares us.

Ladies and gentlemen, we may step out of the box.  The lid was removed some time ago.  The damp boxes will collapse and self-destruct without you to support them from the inside.  Come on, you can do it.  Get the tattoo if it's what you really want it.  Cut your hair; 99% of the time it grows back.  Let go of the reins for a moment.  Don't be afraid to be alone.  Maybe enjoy a flavor you haven't tried yet.

Do the thing that scares you.

Balancing Act

Life's not fair, and life's not easy.  And do you want to know why?  Because it's all a balancing act.

Standing on stable ground versus juggling on a highwire.
Ambition versus aggression.
Enjoying food versus overindulging.
Turning the other cheek versus being a doormat.
Frugal versus spendthrift.
Being a leader versus being a despot.

Where to fall on the extremist spectrum?  Or perhaps to settle in the extreme edges on a spectrum of mediocrity?  How do I achieve balance in myself as people around me strive to achieve their own?  How do we balance each other, equalize one another?

Tact versus little white lies.
Healthy confidence versus inflated ego.
Letting people live their own lives versus standing by while their lives derail.
Fundamentalist versus noncommittalist.
Cautious versus killjoy.

I took a theatre arts class once called simply "Movement."  One of the warm-up exercises we did at the beginning of each session was a deceptively simple one.  Stand with feet and legs pressed close together, arms down at your sides.  Now, rise up on your tiptoes, as high as you can go.  Don't waver; stay steady.  When Mark the professor walks through the ranks of his students and softly nudges the small of your back, don't lose your balance.  Don't step forward or raise your arms.  Make the most imperceptible shift in balance so that you can maintain the stance indefinitely.  We could never predict when we'd put our heels back on the floor.

Impetuous versus carpe diem.
Curiosity versus nosiness.
Assuaging curiosity versus TMI.
Living versus existing.

First Class Mail

Dear Self-Esteem,

It's been too long since we've had a long heart to heart.  Our chats lately have been relegated to something between "why, hello" and "buck up, will ya?"  You'll probably agree this is sadly deficient, and I confess the blame is all mine.  I've been ignoring your phone calls, not responding to your texts and emails, ditching plans with you whenever Pity Party dropped by unannounced.  I've been a really bad friend, and I couldn't fault you if you never wanted to talk to me again.

But I hope it doesn't come to that.

You see, one of the things that initially attracted me to you was how you made me feel good about myself, even when everybody else was razzing me, telling me how I didn't measure up.  When you and I were hanging out all the time, what Pity Party or Self-Loathing told me didn't count for much.  I knew my friend was there backing me up when those one-note sirens sang in my ear.  The discord they struck up inside me set my stomach roiling, but you always soothed me.

So where did things go wrong, you ask?

I wish I could tell you, Self-Esteem, I really do.  All of a sudden, it seemed like Pity Party and Self-Loathing were everywhere.  Commercials, conversations with other friends, the mirror.  And they had a new friend:  Not Good Enough.  They formed a triumverate like all high schools seem to have of the cool girls.  You know the ones.  A super-tight clique that is glossy and beautiful and impossible ever to be a part of.  But I wanted to be a part of it.  So badly.  And sometimes they'd pretend they wanted me.  They'd trick me into some stupid prank or dare, I'd go along because I wanted to be cool too, then they'd laugh at me when I fell flat on my face.

By then, you'd all but disappeared.  How could you do anything else?  I had no time for good friends when I was spending all my energy on those three.  Now when we pass each other, I still feel a little glow from your effervescence, but it quickly fades when I meet up with PP, SL, and NGE for coffee.  And I don't mean to talk bad about them, but they make me feel so guilty if I even look your way.  I really think they might be out to wreck more than just our friendship; I think they're out to wreck me.

So I guess that brings me to the point in writing this letter.  I don't want to be a stranger to you.  You're too great a friend, too faithful an ally, too fun a co-conspirator for me to give up without a fight.  We've got too many memories together not to make more of them, right?  Like I said earlier, I've made a real muck of things.  I'm truly sorry for not being a better friend to you, not listening more attentively to what you have to say.  I wonder if you could see yourself giving me another chance, maybe slowly building up to being best friends again.  I don't know what else to say, except, will you please hang out with me?

Love,
Any Woman

P.S.  I've enclosed a list of things I'd love to discuss with you over coffee.

(On Reverse)

These are topics you used to promote conversations on:
posture
silly expressions
curiosity
eyelashes
passionate
childish glee with food
serenity
knees
geekosity
adventurous
observant
fingers
social butterfly

Notes on a Rainbow

Timeline:

April - August 2009:  God makes a series of surprising promises to me, confirmed by multiple sources including the Bible and my discipler.

April 2009 - present:  I struggle with my impatience to receive these awesome prizes . . . er, promises at their appointed time.

(If you don't believe in God or promises from Him, don't feel excluded.  I hope that you read this and glean value from it.)

A thank-you note I've drafted to God any number of times since April:

Dear God,

Thank you very much for the lovely promise you sent me.  I look forward to using it daily, as I have gradually become aware of what a great idea it is You have for me.  I'm excited for the opportunities this holds and the adventures it implies.  Especially appreciated was the double rainbow (of course You know how much we both love rainbows) You sent me in November as a reminder You don't make offhanded offers.  My one request is that You speed this whole process up.  After all, this whole plan of Yours is brilliant; I just want to make sure I get to those promises soon so I can enjoy them do Your will.

Grace and Peace direct from You,
Valonna

The response from God any time I stop to listen:

Dearest Valonna,

Beloved Daughter, I am pleased that you like My gift so much.  When I see your excitement and hear your anticipation, I am filled with pride to call you Mine.  Never for a moment doubt the pleasure I receive when you appreciate even the smallest gift.  Do not be impatient though, My love.  Think of this promise as a rainbow, and don't focus on the pot of gold at the end.  Stop for a moment and really look at the rainbow.  Drink in its beauty.  Luxuriate in its nuances as one color flows to the next.  The gold is a reward, but it is not the only thing of value, and I must caution you:  you won't receive it if you don't follow Me to the end (it's far too dangerous to go without Me).  So again, I ask you to savor this promise and be at peace.  I will not lead you astray, and I promise not to take too long.

Your Loving Father,
God (AKA Abba, YHWH, etc.)

Well, crap, He's gone and called me out with one of my favorite "objects" in nature.  And sure enough, I do like the look of rainbows more than a pot of gold, and He knows that.  But shh, don't tell the leprechauns; they show their foul tempers when you impugn their hoards.

So . . . look at the rainbow.  Stare at the pretty colors.  Watch the rainbow . . .  and basically ignore the pot of gold for now.

Bob, Nora, and Ella

I know this may come as a shock to some, but I love to watch babies and little kids experience the world.  They are blatantly curious; they don't bother to hide when they're investigating--unless you've already told them not to investigate something.  I love their guilelessness (Wow, that word looks ugly; let's say lack of guile instead.).  Regardless of word choice though, children are such charming sleuths.

One day I was riding the bus home from running some errands, and there was a man sitting in the seat diagonally in front of me.  His ears were gauged and pierced, and he had a short mohawk.  The sunlight glinted on his blond armhair and accentuated his tatoo sleeves.  His expression could at best be termed neutral, though some might have dubbed it scary.  I'm going to name this man Bob . . . because I can.

A few stops later, a youngish mother boarded, carrying her daughter in one arm, cell phone held to her ear with the other.  The conversation didn't sound fun for the mother; she was venting to the person on the other end of the line.  Most everyone on the bus heard her words too, as she took her seat in front of me, across the aisle from Bob.  I'm going to name the mother Nora and the little girl Ella, just because I want to.

It didn't take long for Nora to make a negative impression on practically everyone present.  She was vocal about how jerky the ride was, how crowded it was, etc.  Ella, however, seemed pretty unphased.  She was busy checking out Bob.  Full-on staring.  Well, she was about 16 months old, and she hadn't caught on to the anti-staring policy yet.  While Nora seemed oblivious to everything except her phone, Ella was perfectly happy to go exploring while held in the confines of her mother's arms.  So she reached out and touched the hair on Bob's arm, big round eyes trained on his face to see his reaction.

Bob appeared pretty detached from the scene to this point.  He was a well-seasoned passenger, but when Mr. Neutral Expression turned to look at Ella, he was wearing the most beatific smile.  She didn't smile back though.  Instead, she retrieved her hand to her mother's supporting arm in preparation for her next mission.  This time, she reached out and rested the full length of her chubby hand on Bob's tattooed arm.  His expression was no different this time:  smile directed right into Ella's beautiful brown eyes.

Ella was delighted.

But Nora was still preoccupied with haranguing the bus driver and tossing out diatribes against everyone she knew.

Within a few more stops, it was time for Nora and Ella to disembark.  Ella was contentedly silent the entire ride, but Nora cursed the driver even as she marched off the bus.  And it made me sad.  Does she realize what her daughter sees and hears?  Does she spend time in the night planning her daughter's life?  How long before Ella adopts a similar attitude and aborts her current demeanor?  How long do we have with the guileless investigator before she potentially transforms into a fault-finder?

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good-bye . . .

With 2009 coming to a close, I couldn't resist listing a few developments and surprises that caught me this year.

• Went to Tahoe and intentionally spent the weekend in the motel room (next time I'll snowboard), January.
• While ice skating, I took a fall that caused someone to come up to my friend and say, "Wow, that was quite a fall."  Considering the left side of my back hurt for 2 months, I'd have to agree. February.
• Received a prophetic dream, April 21.
• Bible college.  Got that message in May.
• Began a love affair with the beach and walking in the surf.  First official date:  Memorial Day.
• Visited my hometown for the first time in 3 years, along with a first-ever visit to my dad's grave, June.
• Fired for the first time.  When it happened, I texted practically everyone I knew--joyfully.  July 13th.
• Modeled.  Me:  Miss Camera Shy?  Shocking!  August.
• Stopped fighting the idea of becoming a missionary, August.
• Sold/gave away every movie I own, September.
• My bag with my wallet and journal inside it was stolen.  I was most traumatized about the journal.  September.
• 90-block prayer walk to and from the beach with a good friend, October.
• Different prophetic dream confirmed by Christmas gift.  When I opened the package, I couldn't help laughing and thinking, "Really, God?"  December 30th.

Thank you for joining me on an abridged tour of "That'll never happen" and "Let me tell you what happened" and "Whoa!  What just happened?"  This may not be the most poetic reading ever, but I believe it's important to see where you've come from and where you're headed.

Sometimes you see your future begins in the past.

Hugs: A Call to Arms

Here's to kamikaze hugs.  To hugs from women who go find you the last piece of cheesecake.  And hugs from women who've never been told they're prodigiously awesome.  Here's to hugs from women who squeeze the breath from you as they comfort you--as if their lives depend on that embrace.  Here's to women who hug with no premeditation, no guile, no agenda.  Here's to hugs from women who know the hug is not fully appreciated when they give it.  To hugs that crack the taut facade of a woman in control, that leave her shaking and clinging to the person cradling her.  Here's to hugs from women we haven't seen in so very long, and hugs from women we saw earlier today.

Here's to hugs that come in a "thank you" or a "you're welcome" or a "you rock."  Here's to hugs that involve no touch, but a helping hand in tough moments.  When someone drops everything to come be with you when you've been fired (and feel jubilant about it), or friends who leave the party early and bring you cupcakes when you're crying and don't know why.  Here's to hugs in the form of silly jokes to distract you from your problems, since you can't change circumstances anyway.  Here's to hugs that come with truths difficult to accept about ourselves.

Here's to embracing our own ability to affirm life in others.  Here's to making that our mission.  Applauding someone's success with no thought of "why not me?" or "when's my turn?"  Giving someone a "you rock" without expecting a "you too" in return.  Here's to genuinely complimenting someone you loathe.  Looking for new things to compliment in everyone, and telling them to their face--and even behind their backs.

Here's to seeing, acknowledging, and reveling in our own worth.  Here's to dropping our baggage long enough to give and receive hugs.  If we could really know how awe-inspiring we truly are, the angels would weep and Satan would turn tail and furiously run back to Sheol.  And we wouldn't miss him.  Praise God for creating us in His image.  Here's to embracing this truth:  you are not an accident.  Repeat after me:  You are not a creationary afterthought.  Your existence is on purpose for a purpose.

Here's to hugging that to our hearts.  Let's live up to it, and live it up.  When we embrace who we really are, we go forth as originally intended.  Inhaling and exhaling life with every breath.  Then, as we hug someone else--whichever form we use--they are encouraged to embrace that same spirit of life.  This is not a call to wrap your arms indiscriminately around every person you meet.  Rather, it is a call to arms.  You know that love we so desperately wish was shown to us?  It will never be borne if we don't give birth to it ourselves.

Here's to giving away a bit of yourself.  Here's to running toward someone and lifting them off the ground in a hug (kamikaze hugs).  Here's to hugging as though your life depends on it.  Here's to encouraging that person you can't stand.  Here's to looking in the mirror in the morning and not judging yourself but thinking, "I am the only one who can be me."

Way with Words

1) To many who know me, I am renowned for loving words and using some pretty obscure ones.  Yay!

2) To a fairly small number, I am also known for being positively oblivious to male attention. . . .  Yay?

Allow me to unite the two characteristics in one tale:

Once upon a time, I worked in a fairly prestigious department store's lingerie department, specializing in fitting women for bras.  During the post-holiday-rush of January, I began talking to a man whose daughter my coworker was helping.  It was dead; I had nothing more pressing to do.  Somehow, we started talking about dictionaries.  For some, this would appear a strange conversation, but remember point #1.  Eventually, I shared my views on the hierarchy of English dictionaries (unabridged OED, Webster's 2nd International (out of print), Webster's 3rd International).  He asked me to write down my suggestions, and I used my business card to do so, adding a few extras.

I am a nerd.  I am aware of this.

Time passed, and I thought no more of that day.  Then, one Saturday in April, I came back from my lunch break to find a call holding for me.  "Hello, Valonna, this is Mike X.  You might not remember me, but I was in your store a while back with my daughter."  Okay . . .  "Your card's been following me around . . ."  It grew legs and walked?  " . . . and I wanted to ask you a few questions about these suggestions."

"Okay, how can I help you?"

I won't bore you with the details of how I waxed poetic on Samuel Johnson's definition of "bustle," but I do remember thinking, This guy sure is interested in dictionary comparisons.  We finished, and he was very grateful for my time, saying, "Well, thanks for taking time out of your day at work, and I'm not at work, but I understand, and thank you. . . ."

After hanging up, I went to talk to my coworker about how cool it was that someone called me back to ask advice about dictionaries, recounted the whole conversation.  She smiled.  "What I like about you is how sweet you are."  Eh?  I was just sharing information.  It's what I do.

I told that story several times over, to some of my best girlfriends.  Then, when I told my roommate, she burst into laughter and said, "Valonna, he was interested in you!"  Huh, what?  But he was talking about dictionaries.  She told me not all men are direct, told me to ask any of my guy friends what they thought of this scenario.  So a few days later, I was hanging with one of my best buddies, and before I even got to the halfway point in my story, his face said it all.  But just in case I was still lost, he summed it up with one embarrassing observation, "I know of only one other person who's more naive than you."  Yay . . . ?

My mom's told me multiple times that I am my father's daughter, referring to the fact that he was never aware women ever looked at him with any interest.  Oblivious as can be, I am his female counterpart.  And I really can't see how it's beneficial except to keep the ego in check.  But I can say it came in handy:  a few of my friends were talking about how one of them had been hit on while riding MUNI, and one person asked, "What about you?  Do men try to pick you up on the bus?"

"Well, funny you should ask.  I can't answer that question, but I do have a funny story."