Nostalgia

Loss of Innocence

August 30, 2023

I often think about writing, yet the amount I produce is far less. At what point does the sacrifice of work and the duties of being a mother outweigh the fragility of the soul’s needs? Things are not bad or sad here, although some thoughts compel me to write beyond my own excuses why I shouldn’t. How many loads of laundry waiting are the cost of a diary entry?

‘Loss of Innocence’ by Josie Rivas. A postcard given to me about eight years ago in 2015.

I will tell you I am a maximalist with a slight bad habit of minimalism. Perhaps the reality is I am just bad at committing to one or the other. I am talking about aesthetics and art here. A little, big art affair of the mind and heart. My goal is to cover my walls as much as possible with art. Art that fulfills me in one way or another. That’s the maximalism. When I was little, was there much of even a slight inch of wall allowed behind all the treasures on my wall? At that time, ripped from magazines, ragged edges, taped and placed. A collage of my mind and values wallpapering my bedroom.

When you are an adult, you can expand the art to many more walls. Except, you have to consider the aesthetics of what your guests would want to lay eyes on. Or, if you are like me, and film at home, what the algorithms will get moody over and deem unacceptable. Sorry, Vargas pin-up girls, you get shoved in a box for now until I can figure out where to place you in my crowded bedroom. The stronger the death grip of censorship becomes on social media, the more eagerly I look to art for comfort. I remember a time when my ignorance was at full force, and before more legal changes trickled down insidiously from the control of social media giants and banking systems.

And do you ever get a damn bug in your head, seemingly out of nowhere and you can’t shake it out? Tonight mine is about a postcard. I used to collect postcards, then friends would give me them. I have kept most of them, even throughout my minimalist bad habits. They deserve to cover a wall at some point, I am not ready for that yet though. This postcard is secretively in plain sight, carelessly sharing a magnet with a health pamphlet on the side of my fridge.

Nobody notices it. The front is adorned with all the usual suspects, alphabet magnets, little drawings, a mommy calendar, phrase magnets, and a few random other cute magnets. This postcard, sits above the health pamphlet, yet is shielded partially by a burrito recipe printed out months ago under its own magnet. I forget about it often, until once in awhile, there it is. There she is. I notice her. I notice myself.

My secret postcard in plain sight holds great emotion to it, I cherish it, despite it having ambivalent meaning to me. Given to me by a then bestie, the kind of bestie that is maybe a bit too close. A sisterhood that is both toxic love and forever-by-your-side there for you. The postcard goes beyond her though, I think a lot about the meaning of this postcard. A longing for a loss nothing to do with her, then a loss that is to do with her, while a loss of the future that has not happened and is unknown. An everlasting grief encapsulated in a piece of art.

That’s just it, that is what art is. Visual queues to evoke emotions with the deeply set associations. I can’t tell you what or why my associations are, before I even knew what the painting meant, it got to me. I think to myself, when did I lose my innocence? I can tell you some memories, certain events I lost some. Is it a bunch of events, or is it one profound event that you lose your innocence?

I think even if you have lost more innocence than you meant to or had innocence stolen from you before you were ready, I think it is possible to gain fragments of it back. I feel art can help you save parts of yourself you thought were lost.

As written to me from my friend at the time:

I’ve been keeping this particular postcard for…3 years? I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. That would be you! I have moved perhaps 6 or 7 times and met so many people, but none have warranted that ‘occasion’. You’re a special person and I want *you* to have this. I got it from an art gallery opening…there was a piece Josie Rivas had that was interactive. He got everyone to write on this piece when they believed their innocence was lost. It was called ‘innocence lost’ actually, I think. Anyhow. Onto the next step. Awesomeness found. <3 you

Home

Dance

May 4, 2023

MANY DANCERS ARE INTROVERTS. OUR COMMUNICATION IS WITHOUT WORDS.

TO DANCE IS,


TO HEAL.
TO FEEL FREE.
TO HAVE FUN.
TO FEEL ALIVE.
TO EXPERIMENT.
TO WORK HARD.
TO BRING ART TO LIFE.
TO CONTINUALLY GROW.
TO TRANSFORM EMOTIONS.
TO ENTER A MAGICAL WORLD.
TO TURN CHAOS INTO BEAUTY.
TO FEEL PRESENT AND ABSENT.
TO CONNECT WHILE VULNERABLE.
TO EXPRESS YOUR INNERMOST WORLD.
TO BE EMOTIONAL WITHOUT JUDGMENT.

In reformer Pilates, my favourite instructor had asked me before if I was a dancer because of my movements. Most of my adolescence and adulthood I have been asked that from people. Today, there were two new moves she was teaching us, I became too scared to do them. They triggered me, reminding me of movements I used to do multiple times a day in dance training.

She came to me after the class to check in on me, she said to me how I move so well on the reformer, that I am able to do those movements, but I looked so defeated. I did feel defeated. I told her I was too much in my head after breaking my ankle and having surgery almost two years ago. That I was scared. She understood.

I came home and I cried for a long while, the kind of grief sobbing of something or someone dying. But then, I danced.

There is a commitment and accountability that needs to be met. Much important as keeping my little guy thriving, keeping the online work consistent, keeping the home clean. Some priority must be given to what my core identity is, to dance. To be a mother, while also show the resilience, the grit, and the flow of movement to my little guy.

Why is it so easy to neglect the soul when it keeps us alive?

If you haven’t already, I hope you find what brings you that charge of life force.

Home

2023 is Easy to Write

January 26, 2023

Have you ever moved, and after looking at your new address you can remember the postal code (or I suppose zip code for some of you) immediately? This is how I feel on writing 2023. The 20s had a rough start to them, now didn’t they? Worldwide union in sickly experience. I feel guilty loving the Plague Inc. game for many years now. I first found it about 12 years ago I believe. It literally has not changed aside from adding different levels like zombie take over, planet of the apes, and so on. Anyways, we are not here to talk about those last couple of years.

What is there to say then? A lot of domestic thoughts. I am in bliss, aside from an ear pain that has decided to rule my week and oh have I ever let it rule. I don’t remember having ear pain like this before. It wakes me up in the middle of the night, and of all the weeks! I had such plans for this week. Such is life. I think often how many years people have survived without the aide of medicine or internet searching. It truly is remarkable how long we have survived, who has survived, and what they experienced. Perhaps we are soft now, or perhaps we just have more time to focus on other things that advance us even further I suppose. Being in pain really is tiresome, and takes up a lot of time and focus. It really isn’t surprising the average life expectancy was around 30-40 for a lot of human history. I don’t think I would have survived that long. Perhaps that is why some people still believe you are so OLD at 30 because, frankly, before you were near your deathbed. A very outdated, but once accurate thought. It takes people a long time to adjust to updated cultural shifts, or so I once learned in a cultural psychology class.

Moving on, Mr. baby is sick, again. I have come to assume he will be attending daycare 50% of the time, due to them sending him home/him being sick. That’s fun. Anytime I coo to others about Mr. baby, I slip in the predicaments and frustrations of the day care situation. They nod, and have a resounding, YES. They understand, going through it as well. A pharmacist, a dental hygienist, a grocery clerk, my family doctor (which is rare to have here in Canada). I complain to everyone about it just to see how many others experience it, frankly. It’s like this well known piece of information I was very ignorant to, until I was in the parental circle of daycare attendees. I was homeschooled until high school, never experienced daycare either. I am learning as I go, oh I am learning deeply, very much so. I have a lot more to say on the whole social construct of this, but this isn’t intended to be a ranting post.

Next, being able to attend the gym finally after four years. FOUR years. Not intentional, circumstantial. How is it time flies faster than the little hummingbird. Sans the ear ache, I have been going regularly, enjoying the faux social interactions, and being forced out of my home. It is way too easy for me to stay home, forget I did not leave, and still find more tasks to do at home. It is a domestic hell level I am very comfy in. With the gym I can fuss over what resistance levels I should do on the bicycle for best efficiency. The best fit exercises for a mesomorph, ponder over my water intake, and track my progress of various statistics. When I became pregnant a few years ago my biggest goal was to make my life as benign, “boring”, and as domestic as possible. So far, so good. The opposite of what my life had been for many years.

I have not written my goals, ideals, and so on yet for the year. There is no rush, but am feeling the hunger to get something down on paper. Before, you know, it’s December again. I looked over a post I made last year and was pleasantly surprised, much of what I had forgotten I intended to do, I actually did do. Because January and February are so mind-numbingly slow in this industry, I suppose it is a good time to do it now. My assumption is everyone got their Christmas credit card bill in January. Then the hot reminder of taxes is fast approaching. Ah, but then, Spring skirts and dresses erase all memories of those worries. I was never a big Christmas person until this last Christmas. Now I am already looking forward to Christmas again. I shoved my fake snow frosted pink Christmas tree into Mr. Baby’s room. Perhaps it will stay there all year. Why not? I told a close friend of mine this and she said she had done the same with her son when he was younger. Then, as Christmas approached, out dragged the Christmas tree from his room. Ta-Dah! I am starting to think you can only get away with this for so many years before the kid polices you on properly letting them decorate a fresh tree or something yearly. I shall let you know.

This is where I leave you today as my ear is hurting a lot and I am going to have a bath.

Xoxo
Chloe

Home