For the past three days in a row my mom and I have frequented the local Megaplex, smuggling in our contraband sodas and snacks, standing in line, resolved to spend the holiday break soaking up a series of cinematic blockbusters.
Usually, I plan to arrive at a movie precisely on time, not so early that I end up sitting in a empty theater waiting for the screen to alight and not so late that I miss the coming attractions (I confess to loving them as they appeal to my slightly ADD sensibilities)
My mom, however, enjoys arriving early…very early, early enough to give me plenty of opportunity to observe native Connecticut High Schoolers in their natural habitat. The result was a veritable parade of Abercrombie mini skirts, Ugg boots, polar fleece, straight hair and glittery lip-gloss. Needless to say, I found myself out of place.
I spent the majority of my high school years shuttling myself back and forth between Northfield Mount Hermon and the barn, with occasional stops at my mom and dad’s respective residences. Sitting in the Branford movie theater, watching high schoolers do what I presume “normal” teenagers do, I found myself wondering: had my family and I stayed in Connecticut so many years ago, rather than move to New Hampshire, would I myself have been a typical teenager? Would the Saturday nights I spent cooling out horses have been replaced by straightening my hair, applying glittery eye shadow and scheming a “coincidental” bump into my crush at the seven o’clock movie?
I don’t really mean to paint my teenage self as abnormal, I wasn’t, nor was I an inordinate nerd. But I also wasn’t one of the crowd. I didn’t date in high school, nor did I spend any measure of time online, on AIM, at the mall and so forth. I read a lot, worked hard and took AP courses. But mostly, I rode. I suppose some people’s mall is another’s barn…and such is a matter of one’s nature, not their location. So although it seems that every high school student in Branford Connecticut is out and contributing to the sexual tension existent at the theater on any given Saturday, there are also kids at the local barn, hot walking their best friend after an evening of training, or seated around a circular table at Game World, painting their pieces and preparing for battle…or even curled up in the classics section at the local Barnes and Noble, spending long hours reading ahead just because they feel like it. In my younger years, I was pretty embarrassed by my nerdy sensibilities. But upon surveying the social scene of typical high school life with older, wiser eyes, I find the knowledge of dissimilarity refreshing. In a world supplied endlessly with jean mini skirts, cell phones and hair straighteners, all of which have been branded normal and desirable, a little variation is refreshing.

For My Dad~

In a moment
Her layers are stripped away and she faces his stroke stricken form.
She, fearful and frantic-
A shrieking skin surrounding a body

From an outsider’s stance
This is life-
And there is no time to waste

Sirens are muted
Shrieking ceased
Life is afloat in a sea of happenstance
A hysterical twist of too little time
And nobody gives a damn about misplaced brake pads

“How is your heart”, you ask me,
And I wonder, how is yours?
Peaceful warriors, you and I,
Living our lives by the contents of our collective hearts

And the shrieking, stroking, pounding pulse of this life.

I soaked last night in a good tub,
Joni Mitchell singing For Free,
And I, looking out the window at a white light lit Christmas tree,
Standing alone in somebody else’s yard.

It was there, amongst the suds and in between bubbles,
That I found myself changed,
Felt myself fully a well-timed woman,
Something I had never been before.

And it came to me then,
Amongst the suds, and in between bars, thighs, and folded skin,
Where I could find my ever-elusive heart.

Before I knew, I had looked for it there, in the tub,
As one searches for a lost bar of soap,
Finding it, only to feel it slip through my fingers.
Elusive heart.
Amongst soap suds.
And Joni Mitchell’s songs.

Perhaps,
It is not so lost as I had thought it.

This morning came earlier than I had anticipated, ushered in by the familiar clack of a dog’s toenails against the hardwood floor and the cold, attic air upon my nose and ears. With a rainy drizzle steadily dripping along outside my bedroom window, the circumstances were ideal for sleep long into the early afternoon hours.

I recall being a little girl and waking up in the middle of the night, sick to my stomach and scared. Clad in a little blue nightgown and clutching a stuffed animal, I would totter into my parent’s room awakening their sleeping lumps with an apologetic whine for help. This morning, it was my mother who approached my slumbering self with news of unease.

Where her stomach had been quite upset the day before, today the situation had worsened and she had received orders from her doctor to visit our local emergency room. “It must have been the almonds I ate” she theorized as I maneuvered her Prius onto 1-95 towards the shoreline emergency center, memories of a more menacing sickness brewing in both our minds.

About seven hours later, after an all to familiar foray into the world of MRIs, Morphine, EKGs, Catscans, and waiting rooms, here I sit, processing it all. My mom’s border collie, Spin-o is asking me to take him out for a walk, a lengthy one at that as he has waited so patiently all day long.

I am no stranger to responsibility…nor should I be, I am twenty years old and every day more of a woman of heart and mind than ever before. I have seen my share of hospitals, of heartache and of victory and have taken it all in stride. Yet, sometimes I feel like I am once again a timid, nightgown clad, little girl, looking for someone to hold her hand, and whisper reassuringly, that it’s all going to be ok.

Sex and the City~

My radiant roommate and I went and sat in the basement of bobst (you know, in one of those little private rooms) for almost four hours today. After a short stop at Upstein for chick fil a salads, we returned home. Since then, I have been stapled to my desk, studying law and society, natural science, language and society, and my aim buddy list. I am going mad and it's a Saturday night.
Somebody get me a cocktail.

Here I am, lying on my bed (which this year stands several feet off the ground) watching Seabiscut and attempting to conclude this paper on controversies amongst women within the first and second waves of feminism. Of course, I can’t. I am so absorbed in the movie that my soul aches more and more with each passing scene.

Sometimes I think my heart may break with want of my Ham, yearning for the familiar feeling of swinging my leg up over a horse’s back, settling back into my saddle, its seat imprinted to my butt and legs, a perfect fit and silence but for the measured breaths of my horse beneath me and the beating of my own heart. There is only a little more than a week left before I am free of finals and homeward bound, but in this moment, a week feels like forever.

Home is where you find yourself more complete than anywhere else. For me, I am more myself on the back of a horse than anywhere else in this wide world. As an artist draws her brush against canvas, moving paint over paper in fluid waves, I have been moved to move in union with another animal. Each movement, an expression of unified intention.

I am ready to go home.

Cold blue steel…
And silence, save for the measurement of your shotty breaths;
In and out, your voiceless calls for love against the ticking of a black handed clock.

I find myself standing in an empty space filled with folding metal chairs and sharp edged desks.
Thinking of a strangled blue blanket that always leaves you shivering.

Bare foot on a blue tiled floor, cold and incrusted with soap scum memories of
You, lonely and faceless.

Resurrection~

Today, when riffling beneath my bed in search of a certain pair of winter snow boots, I came across one of my most treasured possessions; a neglected tool whose weather-beaten body has served as a medium through which I express myself.
I first purchased my Canon A-1 mechanical camera in high school, a time in my life when the darkroom served as a sanctuary, offering refuge from the stormy twist and tangle that was my life.
With college came the distraction of friends and classes to an extent that somewhat elbowed out my photographic pursuits. For the past year in particular I have been excavating other areas of my life and have left my camera lying dormant, collecting dust beneath my bed, replaced by its spiffier and speedier digital counterpart.
Given the somewhat revelatory nature of the past few days, it seems only fitting that today I finally took my camera out from beneath my bed and separated it from the wealth of dust that had gathered about its carrying case. The Canon's body felt like an old friend in my hands, and I smiled at the familiarity its sturdy mechanics struck beneath my fingers. In that moment I recalled why the sensual and graceful nature of a mechanical device, despite being slower to produce than its digital counterparts, is timeless and to be treasured. There is something grounding in the nature of an instrument whose form represents the fitting together of interlocking parts through a process of manual assembly; a means of construction that is increasingly rare in this world of superfluous speed. Our fast paced world brands a mechanical approach to just about anything “out dated” and “sluggish”…I wonder if such is why I value it so. Perhaps I am craving constancy, a metered way of moving through life. I drive a standard transmission, shoot a mechanical camera, watch old movies, ride a horse…yet I live in a city considered to be one of the most hectic urban jungles. Indeed, I find peace in solidity, in cause and effect, in the weight of my camera, and the mechanics of cogs, each piece fitting together with fluidity. Perhaps the old balances out the new and the sturdiness I favor in certain areas of my life allows the inconsistency of others.
My appreciation of mechanics and manmade devices must be, in part, hereditary. I think of my grandfather, a great sportsman and a manufacturer of firearms; I picture him holding in his small hands weaponized works of art, guns of finished wood and inlaid hand tooled silver, each piece representative of one individual’s dedication and devotion to the instrument he was building. I then think of my father and his life long love of the automobile, his understanding of the way each piece of an engine unites and connects to motivate motion. Or my mother, the artist whose pastels painted fingers can trace form over paper, weaving women’s bodies into existence with ease, how the reins fit into my hands, interlaced with my fingers ability to subtly signal…I could go on and on, in short, my family finds ourselves in manual, palpable forms. Our hands and our touch, interacting with other physical forms yields emotion and inspires us to explore.

Inspiration is created by connection; this afternoon, holding my heavy bodied camera, feeling its parts move beneath the surface of its metallic exterior as I advanced the film or clicked past stops on the way to a fitting aperture, I felt as if I held a little part of myself, a part of my potential not yet recognized and a unifying actor along my ever winding way to self knowledge.

Turn a cartwheel,
Feet over hands over feet.
Turn the world upside down.

The shaking of my perception,
Changed the way I looked at life,
And low the life I looked at changed,

Correlating into a continual cartwheel,
Tumbling through tumult,
Cycling through calm,
Lacing life together,
Feet over hands over feet.

At times it seems that if I don’t write, my core will burst in a silent explosion contained within a white-washed face and vacant expression. Inside me, tension builds into a boiling blister in want of a voice, whose instrument of burst is my pen, my keyboard and the freedom they allow me.
Yet, in light of my aforementioned recent bout of writer’s block, I find myself worried that a lack of literary fluidity will take a toll on my sense of balance. As a result, I am much less concerned by the fact that any writings I have produce of late have been rambling. If sprawling sentences and disconnected discourse is what it takes to get words out and onto the page, so be it.
Thus, for the meantime, tight thesis papers shall be sacrificed for erratic sixty-second sketches drawn by my mind’s eye and thinly sewn into a scattered semblance of my state of mind.

Out the window of a second floor Silver center lecture hall I watch and old man sitting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, his navy blue crewneck clashes against the deadened yellow leaves left littered about, piled up against green trash bins, and gathered about the legs of benches. My navy sweatered subject holds his balding head in his hands, leaning forward and to his side, body propped upon the bench’s armrest. I wonder if he is cold – his picture is so pleasing from my place in this college classroom so far removed and I must remind myself of my own freedom, the fact that, should I so desire, I could leave this class to sit beside my balding man, whiling away long hours amongst carelessly discarded coffee cups, squirrels, and pigeons, all within a frame of falling yellow leaves.

Of Choice, Passion, and Potential Sacrifice~

Home for any reason automatically means Ham. When given the opportunity to spend any time whatsoever in the country, I immediately prioritize the visitation of my dearest friend, a horse named Ham who just so happens to be my soul mate. Not once have I returned home to see him that I have not proclaimed my intentions to take a break from city life, move out to the country and once again, throw myself into horses with complete abandon.

My high school years were so horse crazy that I basically sacrificed all semblance of a social life in order to train with complete focus. It may not have been the most balanced of approaches but it certainly served a purpose and allowed Ham and I to achieve our greatest goals. Yet as with most intense undertakings, I experienced a bit of burn out which led me to place NYU at the top of my desired colleges list. It was one of the best decisions I have made to date as my beloved New York City has enabled me to open my conception of self above and beyond that of a self contained and single minded barn rat.

Three years down the road, still loving NYU yet missing Ham and my horse girl identity, I find myself at a crossroads. Two proverbial paths stretch out before me, one in the direction of horses, New England weather, my little blue car, long days at horse shows, and giving riding lessons. Down the other way I see myself embraced by Manhattan, walking fast and full of life, finding excitement around each corner. In my heart, I wish I could do both and wonder how such a dualistic scheme could be implemented. I cannot be in two places at the same time and to try and split my time evenly would surely result in a reverberating fragmentation throughout all areas of my life. Yesterday a dear friend said to me, “I know what I am doing, but not where I am going”; I recall thinking that, with purpose, location does not matter and will surely fall into place. As of now, however, it seems that, location does in a way dictate what it is I will be doing…and I wonder which path I will chose to wander, knowing that is it implausible to travel down diverging roads at the same time. Will choice automatically mean sacrifice?

Lately I have had such writer’s block. The only words that I can seem to produce in any synchronistic fashion, are through poetry, a medium I admit to being a bit unsure of. My inability to feel inspired by any essays that I begin is perhaps rooted in confusion…lately I don’t seem to know where to focus my attention.

Energy is moving in my world, and with so much action comes hesitation and some fear. There are times when I am so sure of who I am and others when I feel at a complete loss as to the true nature of my character. At these times I genuinely wonder if I am the same person on the outside as within? It seems that people look at me without seeing me whatsoever. Perhaps I am completely binary and only truly myself when alone and free to be bare, ugly, sloppy, tired, and strange. Or perhaps everyone feels this way?

Dear wind,
Slip me over your shoulder and carry me.
Hold me like a hammock.
Cradle and cook for me.

I’ll put my hands in your hair at the nape of your neck,
And smile in your ear.

What does it mean to be vulnerable?

Stripped of all armor I walk naked to the street.
Fully permeable.

Pliable.
Like a dollop of paint in want of a brush.
Like soup in want of a spoon.

If you swallow me whole, you may spit me out.
If I tumble into light, will I find my entirety,
Or will I discover my downfall?

New York City, for its metamorphic nature is also quite dependable. Like an old friend, there are certain things about this city that are never going to change. For instance, no matter what, when it rains, the city streets will transform into a sea of black umbrellas. Taxi cabs will become impossible to find, and people will scramble about frantically, pushing, shoving and inadvertently stabbing one another with their umbrellas. It is a fact of the city, and something that can be depended on.

Similarly, there are people in this city who are fixtures of certain places so much so that they become representative in one’s mind of their specific hangout and by extension, of the city as a whole. Case in point: there is a woman who whiles away every day in the Starbucks on Astor place. There she sits, soaking up the sunlight, and applying excessive amounts of bright pink blush. I can always expect to see her there, surrounded by suitcases and newspapers, plastering on her color. She is a strange and somewhat sad character, one that fits well with the quirky and creepy aura of the neighborhood surrounding St. Marks Place. She is old, effusive, frightening and harmless, all at once…and she is just like New York.

Sanctuary
"Wherever we are content, that is our home.
There is no greater curse than the lack of contentment.
Do not open your heart to the grim silent one, guard your tongue before the garrulous fool.
When a man finds no peace within himself it is useless to seek it elsewhere. "
~ L. A. Rouchefoliocauld

I have found that difficult and intense emotions oftentimes manifest as a general overwhelmed feeling and a suffocation of sorts. This happened today and I found myself flying uptown on the number four train, moving full chat boogie up Fifth Avenue, bobbing and weaving in and out of the mass of humanity, their shopping bags and umbrellas making my movements listless, like wading through water.
Almost there, I was telling myself, almost there.
And then, I arrived. My feet hit the familiar stone steps and I walked in a diagonal line upwards, grasping the big door handle, and pulling myself into sanctuary.

Saint Patrick’s Cathedral has stood like a sigh of relief on Fifth Avenue for over a hundred years, existing today just beneath the superficial veil created by cigarette smoke and Feraud furs. Once inside there is grand stillness…except at Christmas time of course when it is just as much of a madhouse inside the chapel walls as out on the street. But on any old day, much like this past afternoon, it is relatively quiet, a steady, candle lit quiet, like a deep breath in or like shutting your eyes. There is always a pew to sit in, always a candle to be lit.This Cathedral, a sanctified spot, is seemingly out of place nestled in between Saks Fifth Ave and Cartier, places that in my mind represent symbolic capitals of decadence and surrealism. But then again, when you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change and I can imagine that those grand old stores are themselves places for peace for many people.

Following my midterm today and after the second day in a row running on too little sleep and too much caffeine, I had something that I rarely achieve but often lust after…

The perfect nap.

From 5:45 to 7:45 I slept, cuddled amongst my sheets and with the velvety caress of my green velour comforter whispering against my cheek. Light from the setting sun peeked at me in streaks through the blinds, throwing warm kisses across my pillow.
Someone had cranked the heat and a luxurious laze had settled throughout the entire apartment. I awoke slowly, turning over and slipping back into sleep a few times before actually opening my eyes. When I finally pulled open the blinds it was to a night sky and my own nap creased face reflected in the windowpane.

"Booya Skidaddi",
Thoughts of my Dad:

When your summer days come tumbling down
And you find yourself alone
Then you can come back and be with me
Just close your eyes and I'll be there
Listen to the sound
Of this old heart beating for you
~Neil Young

I have never liked the phrase, “daddy’s little girl”, despite the extent to which it has been used to describe me in relation to my father. We are, in a nutshell, incredibly close…but our relationship is one of respect and equality, one in which I have never felt small, there is far too much love for that.

When I think of my daddy, I picture him in his office, a room which has fit in different houses over the years (most memorably, an old chicken coop), but where he can oftentimes be found sitting in the world’s oldest three wheeled desk chair amongst piles of papers.

In this moment, my mind drifts back to the February of my freshman year of high school. Spring break loomed on the horizon and ominously so, as it had been a long, cold winter full of awkward transition. On this particular evening I padded up the stairs to my dad’s office, hearing the creak of his chair as he wheeled around to face my approaching footsteps. With a glint in his eye he asked, “hey sport, what do you think about driving to Ohio?”
A week later, one unlicensed high schooler, one well intentioned dad, one beloved golden dog and one Volvo station wagon set off on an adventure to Cleveland, a quest whose completion would yield a competent automobile operator (me) and our arrival at the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame.

You know, sometimes, I don’t know why,
But this old town just seems so hopeless
I aint really sure, but it seems I remember the good times
Were just a little bit more in focus ~Tom Petty

A few years later, when I was visiting colleges, my dad and I took several similar trips into the woods of upstate New York, Pennsylvania, and California, creating adventures littered with countless Red Roof Inns, campus tour guides (and our shotty impressions of them), Bob Evans pancake houses, Tom Petty albums, and conversations that I will forever hold in my heart.

So where am I going with all this? I don’t quite know.
I do know that I am supposed to be studying for a midterm but can’t seem to focus upon doing so until I get this down on paper.
For some time now, certain things have been hard for my dad and I…and to be quite honest, that is an understatement. For whatever reason, a beautiful gift has been wrapped up in years of hardship, devistation and extreme feelings of loss. How often have I felt my father’s inner struggle deeply within my own heart, heard him ask for the answer, wondering why the fathers of his daughter’s friends are so different, why his path seems so far from normal.
To those questions I will answer this:
We are not normal, my dad and I. In fact, we are quite out there. But by God we will choose to see our difference as a gift. My daddy, from the moment I came into this world, has been my soul mate, my life guide, my angel.
And I am his.
I could not ask for more.

I just want to thank you for all of the things you've done
I'm thinkin about you,
Just want to send my love
I send my best to you that's my messge of love
For all the things you did, I can never thank you enough
~Neil Young

As I write this, my eyes drift up from the page, falling upon the photographs that are pasted to my desk. There in one in particular in which I sit upon my dad’s shoulders. He is holding me up, keeping me balanced. I would like to think that in a way, despite being a little girl, in that moment, I was doing the same for him.

Tomorrow morning my dad will embark on a new adventure, one he takes on with some trepidation, some sadness, and some fear. Recently having done the same thing in my own life, I understand his feelings. Our paths are intertwined so that his adventure feeds into mine and mine feeds into his. I am not there to see him off, to drive into the day with him as I have in the past, or to sit with him and talk about it face to face when he comes home at night. It almost doesn’t matter though, I’ll be there with him all day just like he is here with me. It sounds so incredibly cornball, but it’s the honest truth.
And that’s all I have to say about that. Guess I'll let Mr. Seger take us home:

Well those drifters’ days are past me now
I've got so much more to think about
Deadlines and commitments
What to leave in, what to leave out
Against the wind
I'm still runnin' against the wind
Well, I'm older now and still runnin'
Against the wind
~Bob Seger

In Praise of My Mommy:

Life is so funny; how we grow and evolve…it sounds so hoidy but change is really the only constant thing in this world and often one of the most difficult things to wrap our minds around. My relationship with my mom has changed in accordance with the aforementioned universal law, yet it was until just recently that I realized that maybe it hasn’t changed as much as I had previously posited.
When I was a little girl, my mom and I would walk into town from our beautiful yellow house at 201 Water Street. Along the way, we would pass by the various and assorted flower beds which lined the picketed yards of many of our neighbors. There was one house in particular whose fences were lined with an assortment of tulips as bright and blossoming my six year old self. My mom would bend down, cup the blossom of a tulip in her palm and pretend that it was speaking, saying beautiful and encouraging things to me, and prompting me to giggle out a response. Even though I knew it was my mom who was doing the speaking, I truly believed in the flower’s voice.

To me, my mother a vehicle through which beauty blossomed. I would watch her make art, piecing together panes of glass, or effortlessly guiding fluid and unpredictable water-colors with but a wisp of brush. She approached nature as art and art was her nature. From her I came to understand and expect the limitless possibility that creativity entails.

Yet there was a time when creativity waned, when tulips blossoms clammed up and crammed shut, when nothing seemed to flow. Was it a lack of creativity? A shift of focus from the natural to the force and pain that is a purely man made construction? I cannot be completely sure. I do know that for some time my mother lost herself and disappeared…without her, I did the same.

But not for us a wintry end, the sun is shining again and the tulips are in bloom, my mommy will coax them into connection, and I will respond again with smiles, with laughter, and even, perhaps, with tears of joy.

Oklahoma, Ok? Feeling Far Away from the Arena I Love:

It is a strange thing to come to terms with the fact that things are so seemingly an intrinsic part of your being continue on without you. This New York Saturday night, cold, blustery and quite uninviting, I am sitting at my dear old desk watching a live streaming of the final night of competition at the Grand National and World Championship Morgan Horse Show in Oklahoma City. How can I not be there? It is almost easier to feel as though it has ceased to exist, been put on hold because my ability to attend has been temporarily suspended. My trainer is jogging by, vying for the world title she wants with all her heart and I am not on the rail offering words of encouragement. Rather, I am saying those helpful things and they are going unheard. It’s a surreal experience to say the least and I have to be ok with it.

It seems so long ago that I was last there but in many ways, the familiarity of the Oklahoma state fairgrounds, the sweet smelling bark mulch, the cold mornings and warm afternoons, is as near to my heart as if I were there yesterday. And yet, for all my words of woe and feelings of exclusion, when I do return, I will find the people and horses quite unchanged. As with all good things, there is a fluxuation and a fluidity to the Morgan horse show industry. Young stars, both equine and human are brought in, not to replace the old ones, but to challenge them. It’s a beautiful thing really, but surely a struggle to let go of, for as I watch the miniaturized form of my trainer Judy jog across my computer screen aboard one of my favorite friends, I wish so fully that I were there in person to cheer her on.

The Bare Necessities~

Spending the weekend at home is always a chance for me to excavate certain artifacts of my childhood. This particular evening, I set about to unearth the long neglected assortment of Disney videocassette tapes from my childhood years. As I knelt down beside the basket in which these movies have sat for years, as I handled the familiar boxes and revisited the colorful depictions that grace their weathered and dated covers, I was flooded with memories of years gone by.

In many ways it feels like a lifetime ago but the memories are becoming more distinct these days and I can now recall a time when, clad in a little flowered nightgown I scrambled frantically on my hands and knees, overflowing with enthusiasm and anticipatory bliss, across the Oriental rug and towards the base of an enormous Christmas tree. Fondling each gift, I searched for the ones I wanted most and knew I would get, checking each package until I felt the familiar contour that instantly betrayed the contents. In that moment, breathing a sigh of relief, assured that my hopes would not be disappointed, that Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast, or whatever classic that particular year yielded, would be mine. The same system was easily applied to the process of ascertaining which gifts held beneath their brightly papered exteriors, the latest Barbie doll, whose addition to my already abundant arsenal of Mattel branded maidens would surely make for the opening up of new worlds of play.

Oftentimes, when I was particularly lucky that is, the areas of Disney and Barbie would intersect, and I would find myself the proud owner of the highly coveted, Sleeping Beauty Barbie, a lovely rendition of Princess Aurora whose eyelids would magically shut, to be opened only by the application of warm water. Sadly, and for some reason that remains a mystery to this day, the princess’s eyes become permanently affixed in their closed position and no amount of warmth could pry them open from eternal slumber. Perhaps she really did need a prince.

So often do I yearn to return to those years of my childhood, to once again don my flowered nightgowns, be tucked into bed and read to, to lose my teeth, beg to bring lunchables to school in place of left over lasagna, to watch Disney movies and scurry off afterwards to dress myself up as Princess Jasmine, to shamelessly await Christmas day, and to blatantly check each present before its time to be opened had arrived. I am not disillusioned enough to think that the past was as idyllic as I often portray it to have been. But it certainly is fun to remember it as such.

Same Ol’ Saturday Night:

After a particularly New Yorkish afternoon of coffee, Bloomingdale’s, and strolling hand in hand with my mommy, I found myself without plans and without much inspiration as to what constituted a hopping Saturday night this weekend around. Resigning to spending a quiet night with myself, I settled for a sushi / movie date with one of my favorite people...myself. I ventured out, intent upon seeing some feel-good romantic comedy, the kind with two irresistable leading characters, both with adorable haircuts and fabulous on screen chemistry. Well, imagine my surprise when The Devil Wears Prada turned up sold out and I found myself wandering over to the 12th street cinema on Second Ave, the same theater from which I had dejectedly dismissed myself after being boons waggled into seeing Eternal, a lesbian/vampire flick masquerading as an artistic think piece.

Having read a stellar review in the Times earlier today, I was happy to settle for the documentary Man Push Cart, a genre of film that I happen to adore, especially when on date with a woman as ingaged in post-viewing discussion and analysis as I myself am.

I adore taking myself to the movies, putting my jacket across my lap, my feet up on the arm rest of the chair before me, and enjoying the snacks I smuggled in along with a thermos of honey lemon tea. Man Push Cart turned out to be fabulous…however, an uplifting documentary it was not and I left the theater in a depressed state, feeling myself the emotional equivalent to Ahmed, the film's star, a Pakistani owner/operator of one, eventually stolen coffee cart stationed on 34th street.

I oftentimes avoid movies that will seemingly put me in a “funk” but this time, I sat back and let the weird feelings wash over me. The film made me feel lonely, purposeless and simultaneously grateful for my place in this city and this world. The contradictory nature of my emotions was confusing and resulted in a numbed, empty feeling.

When I got home I hopped into the shower, letting the water run extra hot, hoping it would elicit some feeling whilst it turned my skin lobster red. Out of the steam and into my pjs I went, padding into my room to find upon my desk a single yellow rose, my favorite flower, a beautiful gesture from my beautiful roommate. There it was, I felt something…I felt love.

An hour later, I am centered and contented to sit with the lingering despondent sentiments. The memory of Ahmed and his stolen coffee cart is almost gone, replaced with hot water, tomato and basil on a mini bagel from Trader Joe’s, and Sex and the City Season 2 on dvd.

This evening, whilst engrossed in a particularly challenging session of my hip-hop dance class[1], my fellow classmates and I were hastily interrupted by a harried Palladium gym keeper who spastically sputtered at us to evacuate the building poste haste.

Out I trotted, clad only in a tank top and sweatpants, and saddened by the fact that I was breaking one of my personal rules of stylistic responsibility…namely, to never exit the building in which I reside clad in sweatpants that are not of designer make.
Despite aforementioned upset, I emerged onto the street, along with the rest of Palladium, all of us wondering exactly what had caused our immediate expulsion from our beloved building.
Just as I was begining to feel cold and worried, my good fortune brought out onto Thirteenth Street my radiant roommate.

Reunited, we quickly deduced that the aforementioned “to do” was the result of a large chunk of steel that had fallen from a crane in our “backyard” (third avenue) landing on a taxi cab and squashing it. Thank the Lordy nobody was seriously injured but the debacle has left us with one rather unstable crane now threatening collapse.

Not knowing how long we would be out in the cold (and today really was quite cold) Richa and I decided to make the most of our evacuated hours and promptly resolved to do what any self respecting New York women would do in such a situation. That’s right, we persevered despite my unfortunate attire, the various blockaded streets, and the freezing cold and set out for our neighborhood nail salon.
An hour and a half later, with tips tinted pink and velvet red respectively (I shall leave it to the reader to wonder who chose the bottle labeled “bubblegum” and who picked “red wine”) we emerged onto the street.
I about blew a gasket when we found ourselves unable still to enter our home. Again, Richa and I did what us Manhattan mavens do in the face of adversity; we went to coffee.
When we were finally allowed back into our humble abode, we collapsed, exhausted after hours of upset and evacuation drama.
The crane still stands, five hours later, and the inhabitants of coral towers are homeless still, sleeping on cots in our basement. Outside my window are various and sundry fire trucks, police cars and what looks like official vehicles with reels of wire and ladder affixed to their backsides.
And here I sit, tapping away on my dilapidated keyboard, grateful for my cozy bedroom, my roommate and my pretty pink fingertips…in case you couldn’t guess that the pink ones were mine.

[1] Yes, I take hip hop dance because I am a fabulous and oh so cool skinny white chick

New York City today is crisp and autumnal, without much sun but with a beautiful blue sky and a breeze that beckons Fall forward to show himself fully. People are wearing sweaters now and campus is littered with cups of Orens as opposed to the iced filled, whipped cream topped concoctions that were the norm but a few weeks back.
I awoke this morning to an array of emails and missed calls, and found myself rushing through the beautiful breeze, late to class and with a cloud filled mind. All through my courses today, concerns and questions congregated and churned about within my head, creating confusion and fear.

On my walk home up Broadway, I was motoring along, still turning thoughts over and over, and feeling disconnected from my physical self; as if I was mostly made up of thought, and simply going through the motions to get myself to where I physically needed to be. I had chosen to feature Gwen Stefani on my ipod for the day and her hectic, fast paced beat was thumping around in the background of my brain as I mentally jumped around from one concern to the next. My pace was rushed for no reason, and the faster I went the more I saw my surroundings as spinning me around, shaking me up, and throwing me off balance. I thundered along, dodging briefcases and construction workers, virtually flying past the window of Jay nails where forty something year old women watch the world go by whilst they sit beneath ultra violet nail polish driers.

Onward I charged approaching Grace Church and almost passing it by…that is until, from behind the entangled and intertwined issues that were cluttering up my mind, came a clear voice, telling me to turn around.
I ignored it.
That is until it spoke again, and I found myself, turned her around, and turned off the ipod.
I entered the church, still feeling like someone outside of my self. In place of my pink sneakers, were my favorite pair of pumps and they sounded disruptive and discordant, clacking towards my favorite pew amidst silence and prayer.

It never ceases to amaze me how that chapel can be so quiet and still when just out side the doors, beyond its walls, the whole city is spinning. Why is it so hard to sit and take peace? To slow down, or stop; seemingly simple acts, and ones that now, after years of living in the fast lane, I am learning how to do. Sitting today, in my pew, I took five minutes peace and in doing so, shaped the rest of my afternoon. The street that I walked out onto was the same that I had sought refuge from, but the way I looked at it had changed.

In Washington Square Park these days, at the foot of Garibaldi’s statue and across from the fountain, there is oftentimes a set up where a smiling man sits, slapping casually on a bongo drum. Out before him are spread about a dozen brightly colored hoola hoops, there for whomever may feel inspired throughout the day. On this particular crisp and chilly afternoon I walked out of the library and towards Fifth Avenue, crossing the park and listening to Neil Young on my ipod. In the air was the distinct and unique wisp of breeze that signals the onset of autumn. As I passed the bongo drummer by I noticed that, for the most part, his hoola hoops lay unused, rings of color against a gray and dying day. There was one hoop however, that was in use, and this one by a very willing participant. Her bouncy blonde curls blowing in the late afternoon breeze, a little girl was hoola-ing ecstatically, giggling as she moved to the drumbeat. In that moment, still walking along on my way, against the backdrop of my college campus and the sound of Neil’s Harvest Moon floating up into my ears, I saw myself in her smile.

Fellow blogger and one of my favorite women in this wide world, the lovely Lady J Colozzi, recently wrote of reclaiming her inner child in so beautiful a fashion (see: http://borderhopping.blogspot.com/) that I felt inspired to do the same.

My life is littered with photographs of myself and my family in our happiest times, the years before dislocation, divorce, and financial strife. For a long time I have shied away from looking at these images. Yet, for some reason, at this moment in my life, I find myself ready to weed away the overgrown and overprotective shell that I have made for myself. Oftentimes, I can almost see myself from outside of my own skin, a contained woman, pulled together and tied up neatly in a little bow. As I face my past, I find myself loosening up and reconnecting with that little girl who is my inner child.
And boy have I missed her.

For years, I have kept her bottled away without even knowing it. Where is she I would wonder? Where is that sparkly little gal who dances across the scenes of my childhood photos? She is on her way, fighting her way up from beneath years of maturity and containment, joyously hacking away the barriers that time and tumult have created.
Blonde and curly, messy, dancing constantly, jumping with arms outstretched, always hoping to fly, and oftentimes reduced to fits of giggles for no apparent reason.

Evidence of her arrival may be found in a pair of pink sneakers that I wear practically everywhere I go. Shoes have always been an avenue through which I express myself, and this pair is no exception. It feels to me, that with these pale pink and playful little lace ups, my inner Allie is shining through with a twinkling little wink and a promise to appear more and more in the future…I am so glad she is back.

I would like to take some time to discuss the idea of length of rein, a subject that is oftentimes debated, usually oversimplified, and extremely pertinant to the art of equitation.

Once in a while, we see riders guiding their equine partners with the aid of little or no rein at all. This is oftentimes a great thing for, as I have previously stated, the horse should be carried by the rider's leg, lifted underneath itself if you will. That being said, there is a fine line between too short and too long of a rein, all dependent of course upon the individual rider's skill set and the horse that they are riding. Although a long rein is oftentimes a sign of a well balanced individual and a rider who is lifting their partner's ribcage with the use of their calf muscles, too slack of a snaffle or curb can also be a sign of inexperience and a lack of understanding for the way in which our reins function. The reins are not, as is predominantly assumed, a steering device. A rider who is in commune with their horse, guides him more by shifting body weight between the inside and outside stirrups than by steering the horse from the right to the left in a similar style to a trucker, maneuvering their tractor trailer.

Regardless of rein length, a rider is at her best when sitting in the middle of her horse, elbows at her side and shoulers back. I never cease to find connections between the art of equitation and the properties of alignment taught in hatha yoga.
Hundreds of thousands of years ago, human beings were physically structured in a manner closer to that of the horse. One particularly pertinent similarity between early human Hominids and the Hippidion Equus is the existence of a tail. For horses, this attribute obviously remains, and as for us humans, well, we have a tail bone. It is that very tailbone that is the root of equitation, for it is in dropping our seat and "sitting deep" if you will, that we riders stabilize a connection to our horses, via our core center of balance. Once we're balanced, the rest easily falls into place, given proper guidance of course. Our balance must come from our seat, not our hands and not, by extension, our reins. Through our seat, we also find a source of steerage that is often assumed to come from the reins. By shifting weight in between the respective seat bones, the rider sends signals to their partners regarding direction and the support needed for the shift of weight needed to corner or change direction in a well balanced fashion.

Getting back to my original point here, when a riders reins are too long, it gives them little chance to be well balanced throughout the rest of their body. How can one correctly drop their tail bone and lift their upper body when their elbows are extending out behind them? And of course, should the reins get too long, a rider's hands will naturally rise up towards their shoulders, causing the elbows to sprawl out. This makes sense as, should the reins get long and the riders hands travel towards their stomach, they will inevitably hit a barrier (the person's body). The longer the reins, and the more "jacked up" the rider's elbows become, the less control they will have.
In other cases of excessiely long reins, the riders hands travel back towards their (not to sound crude) crotch. When this happens, the rider's upper body falls forward in compensation. The result is, again, a lack of balance on the rider's part, which contributes to a lack of balance on their partner's part. The end result is excessive speed and lack of organization.

This essay has been rather long winded, and I fear that I could write even more. It can actually be quite challenging to keep one's reins properly shortened. Horses, especially the great ones, are seldom easy to ride, and have a tendency to try and take advantage of their rider's limited strength by leaning against the rein pressure in an attempt to gain a slackened rein, and therefore, more control. To remedy all this, I suggest a simple mechanical study of the cause and effect understanding of equitation as outlined above. It is amazing the difference that a simple shift of consciousness to one's own body as working in conjunction with their horse rather than as a seperate entity can make. Start practicing yoga and then looking for connections between your practice and your riding...start taking time before each ride to center yourself in the saddle, visualizing the core line that runs down your center, connecting your shoulders to your seat bone, to your heels, and most importantly, to your horse.

I spent this past evening in the company of my dad and my dog, two of my favorite beings. It had already been a great day as I woke bright and early to catch an 8am train to New Haven for a horse show. My dad met me at the station with my car and together we went to the show, where Ham is being riden by a young girl as part of the financial agreement I have arranged in connection with his keep. Suffice it to say the day was spent around those whom I love the most.
This evening, dad and I shucked corn and watched a Bonnie Raitt concert on VH1. Later, I was standing in the kitchen slicing fruit when dad came in from the porch, asking me to come outside and look at something.

I stepped out onto the front porch wearing my slippers. The night air had that first hint of fall in it and the sky was overflowing with stars to an extent that I have never before seen. Despite my inadequate footwear, out we walked, me, dad, and our dog Bindi into a field of freshly cut hay. I hoisted myself up on a big round bale and lay there on my back, staring up.

The milky way was fully visable and streached across the sky, seemingly close enough to touch. From across the field came the voices of two hoot owls, calling to one another.
The front field at my father's house is cut by Mr. Adams, an old farmer who lives in a mobile home down the road. Unlike most hay farmers, Mr. Adams comes to collect his hay but once a year, I think because he believes that a seldom mowed field yields greener hay. Perhaps he is right, because the bale i lay upon, moist from the morning's rain shower, smelled fresh and sweet.

The night was perfect and was experienced with equal intensity by my different senses. I would like to say that starring up at the endless night sky, I felt insignificant...but it was somewhat the opposite. I felt connected and limitless. There was no longer a clear deliniation between my physical self and that seemingly endless void created by the New Hampshire night. Just as Siddhartha sat beneath the bodhi tree, observing himself as connected to nature, discovering the universal truth that all is one, I lay upon a big round hay bale, and came to the same conclusion.

It strikes me as quite odd that I am oftentimes asked about marriage. That’s right, I am increasingly asked questions concerning any plans for matrimony in the near future.
This strikes me as odd, not only because I am a mere twenty years of age and am a single and fabulous woman, but because never have the bonds of holy wedlock crossed my mind as something to undertake before the age of thirty…if at all.
I guess my question is, what’s the big rush? Yes, marriage does serve as more than a mere title in our society, and has done so throughout history. There are benefits that go along with a marriage license that are certainly helpful to have around. But in this modern day world, where independence and equality are increasingly available, shouldn’t marriage serve as a beautiful addition to an already flourishing relationship? It simply accentuates what is already there, and what should have been built over time, over a long period of time. I can’t imagine marrying anyone with whom I have not lived, or at least spent quite a few years of my life with. I also can’t grasp how people can enter into a contract with another person having not yet fully developed essential components of their character. Send me to Europe, Asia, the Moon… then ask me about marriage.

Recently I have been studying the latest collection of writings by Dr. Wayne Dyer in which he focuses on Inspiration, theorizing that each individual has an area of life to which they are called, and within which, they are in complete connection to their Source energy.
In tandem with Dr. Dyer’s theories, I would like to share a beautiful thing that happened today:

Following a wonderful hour spent in central park with my current novel of choice (Gone With the Wind) I was leisurely strolling back downtown via Fifth Avenue. It was right by Bergdorfs that my phone rang, alerting me to the call of one of my favorite people in this world.
She was calling with beautiful news; she has been inspired.
I heard in her voice a clarity and centeredness that had never before been present. It is obvious that she has found her calling, the Universe sent it to her and she was present enough to hear it.
It is often the case that inspiration frees up an individual’s energy, allowing them to see clearly the path they must pursue in order to manifest their destiny. Inspired souls perceive exactly who and what will enable the process that they have been stirred to undertake, as well as who will be a hindrance. As my friend spoke to me, it was clear that she understands who will be unnecessary along her path, whereas in the past, such as not been so clear. In accordance with inspiration, my beautiful friend discovered that people or things that once seemed needed are in reality, illusions.
What really put the icing on the whole inspired cake for me was when my girl told me that this revelation came to her at two a.m., a time of day which I have often felt the clearest connection to my Source. Rumi theorized that between the hours of two and four a.m. we are indeed, closest to our origin. As he wrote so many years ago, “the morning breezes have secrets to tell us, do not go back to sleep, do not go back to sleep.”

Likewise, as the great Indian teacher Patanjali once said, “ when you are inspired…dormant forces, faculties, and talents become alive, and you discover yourself to be a greater person by far than you every dreamed yourself to be”

Recently I have been reading the work of Carlos Castenada and Dr. Wayne Dyer, two teachers whose writings speak to the existence of an energetic Source. Dyer's work in particular ties into the ancient philosophy of the Tao, set down by Lao Tzu in the sixth century B.C.
Be it a bit nerdy, but in conjunction with my reading of late, my mind naturally drifts to a connection between these philosophies and Star Wars, and the meaning of the Force. In the words of Obi Wan, "the force is what gives a Jedi his power. It's an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together."
Likewise and in an extreme nutshell, the Tao refers to the spiritual law which governs this world in which we all exist. Call it God, a Higher Power, the Universe, Spirit, whatever, it's an energetic field through which we flow, a Spirit that governs the natural world and determines our place within it.

Just say, for example, that I am a Jedi knight. Much like Carlos Castaneda's "sorcerers", I live in commune with the force which flows through us all and I do so to such an extent that I can channel it towards an object of my choosing, precisely because I understand that these very objects are themselves illusions.
It is as a Jedi that I approach my life, seeing every event and every actor as having arrived exactly when they have been ordained to. To me, difficulty is as much a gift as is ease and there is beauty in everything that crosses my path, be it as fun and adorable as an Ewok or as intense and threatening as Lord Vader himself. It is in conjunction with this mindset that I am able to choose between the paths of darkness and light, hatred and love, anger and forgiveness and in doing so find that, even those people or event which seem difficult and threatening are actually beautiful lessons which exist to strengthen my connection with the force.

As a Jedi, I know that I am not alone. Teachers from my past, others who are in touch with the force, be they Obi Wan, Yoda, or Mrs. Gargulo from the second grade, will be with me always. My friends, be they Han, Chewy and Leia or Richa, Kahle and Ari, are beside me. They may not understand my Jedi ways nor may they operate in conjunction with the force in a similar way as I, but that is not their job and I know that. What matters is not the extent to which our mastery or understanding of the force matches up but that we love and support one another, regardless of our ability to understand each other.

Jedi have partners be they droids, Wookies, or, in my case, Ham. The force is strong with my partner Ham just as it is with me. Because our powers are in communion, we share a relationship in which words are not necessary.My Jedi powers enable me to anticipate incoming shots and to counter balance their negative energy with the use of my lightsaber and the use of intuition developed by meditation and intense training.

"To regard the fundamental as the essence, to regard things as coarse, to regard accumulation as deficiency, and to dwell quietly alone with the spiritual and the intelligent -- herein lie the techniques of Tao of the ancients." -Chuang Tzu

My thoughts today have been very much centered upon gendered notions of our sexuality...How we are expected to perform sexually and how those expectations present a double standard of sorts; an impossible ideal if you will.
Sex is arguably the purest form of human connection. Why then is it so often an experience during which participating members are on very different pages? We are expected to have an inherent understanding of what the other person needs to feel good...But because every individual is just that, an unique being with a unique set of needs, satisfying your partner without a discussion of what they personally find pleasing, is impossible.
These impossible ideals exist all over the place it seems. Take the Virgin Mary for example...This representation of the perfect woman is in fact, a biological mother and a virgin all at once...Humanly possible? Not really.
The people we see sprawled across the pages of Vogue are another example...Stylish? Perhaps, but thanks to computer technology, these ideals of femininity are also impossible. Images of beauty have been cut and cropped to such an extent that if they somehow manifested off the page and into the "real world", they'd cease to exist; their anatomical dimensions are impossible for a person to simultaneously possess and remain alive.

I am off on a tangent here, but what I am getting at is the presence and power of ideals in our lives and the impossibility of so many of them.
Ideals create expectations that, in my experience, serve to dull down otherwise interesting and mutually fulfilling events. Some would say that certain situations are instinctual and therefore do not need discussion. Maybe I just talk too much, but call me crazy, I would rather have an interesting conversation with someone about what turns them on, than fumble around in the dark trying to figure it out on my own. It's the expectation that we should somehow just know that makes situations uncomfortable or results in hook ups during which you find yourself daydreaming about the hot pocket you could be toasting, wondering how quickly you can leave without seeming rude, or guessing as to if you've gone "idle" on AIM yet...
But then, in the words of my exceedingly wise friend, lady J, " it is thru the mishing and mashing with other individual 'human mysteries' that we begin to truly understand our own."

when I was a little kiddo, there was little I loved more than Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. I had the lunchbox with matching thermos, the velcro sneakers, and dressed up as April for three Halloweens in a row. Recently, my lovely roommate informed me that my beloved turtles would soon be returning to the silver screen. I excitedly googled their impending feature film, expecting to see Donatello, Michalangelo, Rafael, and Leonardo as I fondly recall them, with goofy characteristics, sturdy statures, and lime green skin color. Much to my dismay however, I find the upcoming turtles quite changed. Gone are the lovable, somewhat cuddly guys of yesteryear. Their replacements are far too skinny...And apparently on steroids...(http://www.imagi.com.hk/movie/web/tmntm.htm)

What I find most troubling about this "mutation" of the classic turtle's physiques into hyper perfected and svelte renditions of their former selves, is that it is not the only example of such distortion within the world of cartoons.
Classics such as "Looney Tunes" and "Scooby Doo Where are You?" were once found on several channels on any given morning, primed and ready to keep company millions of pj clad kiddos munching their morning bowls of lucky charms. What could be better than a rousing episode of "Hair Raising Hare"...or "What a Knight for a Fright"...especially when paired with a scrumptiously sugary bowl of milk and cereal...

Yet today such is not available. You can have your lucky charms, but not the charming comedic characters that served as the perfect compliments to such sugary goodness. In place of our beloved Looney Tunes is now a show called "Loonatics", a half hour cartoon in which shadows of Daffy and Bug's former selves save the world with precision, intensity, and edgy spandex superhero outfits (http://kidswb.warnerbros.com/web/stuff/stuff_display.jsp?id=LON)

Heaven forbid one should want to see an original episode of Scooby Doo Where are You...or even a Scooby Movie. Today we can find only "What's New Scooby Doo", a catchier version of the sheepish and endearing great dane's adventures.

Call me old fashioned, but I miss my mornings spent snuggled in and happily building what are now my childhood memories. Saturday mornings on the couch, completely absorbed in episodes perfected by Tex Avery or Chuck Jones yielded hours of laughter and love...time well spent. What a shame. And what a statement about our culture...always needing to be bigger, better, more streamlined, more masculinized. Indeed, a crying shame.

http://looneytunes.warnerbros.com/web/toons/toons_classics.jsp?check=1&id=toons_classics_bunkerhillbunny&adsite=site%3Dlooneytunes.com

I wanted to elaborate on my last point about hind end usage by tying it into a discussion of the role of the rider in supporting their partner's correct movement.
As I mentioned last time, a horse's hind end acts as their motor, driving them forward and allowing them to extend their front legs outwards (as is the case with dressage or hunter horses) or allowing those with more forward set shoulders to roll their front legs upwards (as is the case with fine harness or saddle horses)

It is the job of the rider to facilitate their equine partner to the best of their ability. This job requires finesse and attention to detail. As a general rule I have observed that the more advanced the equine athlete, the more subtle and delicate their handlers must be. Most people seem to approach the task of riding as a separate style from that taught as "correct" equitation. Yet equitation is the art of horsemanship and is therefore designed for optimal support of the horse. This is particularly the case in regards to the animal's "motor" (their back-ends)

A rider who is facilitating their horse's anatomy allows their partner to move in the best way possible. Oftentimes we see riders with their heels forced down to the extent that their legs become shoved out in front of themselves. The rider's legs should in fact be positioned in a way that allows them to lift the horse's ribcage, especially when riding around corners where the animal's weight must naturally shift to keep it well balanced. A rider who is lifting their horse's ribcage is allowing it to raise up in it's middle back, thereby dropping it's rear end, thereby stepping underneath itself, thereby being able to reach forwards, be it in an upward or extended manner.

How the Hind Legs Support a Well Balanced Equine Athlete, a brief Synopsis:

A horse's back end is oftentimes referred to as the motor of the animal. It is not uncommon to hear horse people using the phrases, "driving from behind" or "stepping underneath himself" to depict an animal who is using their hind legs in a correct fashion. Put as simply as possible, when a horse is using their back end in the most efficient fashion, they are somewhat squatting, stepping underneath themselves with their hind legs. When such is the case, the animal's backside is lowered, necessitating their front end to raise up. When this happens, the result is an increase not only in motion (be it length or height of stride) but also an increase in the cadence of the gait.

Tonight, over pinot grigio with one of my favorite people in this wide world, the topic of relationships arose. While we spoke of our respective experiences, I posited that in order to successfully interact with another person in a loving and sexually satisfying fashion, one must first and foremost love themselves; we must be the partners to ourselves that we hope to find in another. In other words, it's impossible to give yourself fully to another person if you don't already care for, and admire yourself.
In this day and age, we don't need a partner...We can survive on our own. That certainly does not mean, however, that we don't desire the company of another person both physically and emotionally, only that we don't need it...it's therefore important that we are happy within our own skins, that we know how to be alone and be happy as such.
However, my dear friend disagreed with me. He countered my point by saying that, in his experience, the success of a relationship is in no way connected to the extent to which its respective participants love their own selves.

I stick to my guns.

The other day, I was sitting on the Q train. Sitting in the window across from me was my own reflection. To my left and right were other people, all looking across the way, seeing their own selves staring back.
After having acknowledged myself, I returned to my own thoughts, other thoughts...Whatever they may have been.
You know that feeling...when you really like someone...when it's just starting out and you have reason to be excited and they float into your thoughts. That moment...you feel a jumping rush of happiness solely because they exist.
Anyways, it's a beautiful feeling, and that afternoon, sitting on the subway, meandering through my own thoughts, I felt that same sudden rush!
It made me grin and settle into myself, feeling that savory satisfaction that comes with a significant other...And then I remembered...There is nobody in my life right now that in any way fits that description.
So then what does that mean?
Sitting there, wondering, I concluded that it meant one or both of the following things:
That emotion was elicited by my feelings towards myself. Either that or my feelings towards my life...or both.